[TXT] It's yer birthday today, aye?
[TXT] Going to keep this short and minimally awkward...
[ There is a notable delay between messages, as well as a good five minutes of him showing as typing, stopping, and then typing again. ]
[TXT] Ah'm a bastard who didnae get ye anythin', nae surprise.
[TXT] But...
[TXT] Ah could get a hotel room set up.
[TXT] If ye would take bein' spoiled as a good enough gift...?
[TXT] Also, want tae. O' course.
[TXT] Dinnae have anythin' else, really. Nae quite sure even in ideas what ah could get ye or do.
[TXT] It's yer birthday. Yer choice.
[TXT] Y/N?
[TXT] Also. Clarifying it's always yer choice. In the sense it's necessary we are both sayin' aye.
[TXT] Because it's...
[TXT] listen, would ye accept a birthday fuck or nae
-> They sit in their desk chair with one leg bent up close to their chest and the other dangling loose, heel dragged against the carpeted floor of their apartment dwelling when they shift it just enough to get the leverage to unfurl themselves from their cramped up position of pen-in-mouth and bookmark between their fingers while reading. The light up of their phone screen is the only thing that pulls their focus away for even a moment, not because Lyric was overly attached to their phone, but because those who possessed their number were exceptionally few and those who would message them so late in the evening even fewer still.
Which meant it could only be one person.
-> They want to say that opening with his desire to prevent things from being awkward did, in fact, make things more awkward. Neither of them were particularly graceful in this dance---though all the factors were right ( the mutual consent of both parties, a certain amount of bodily chemistry, a familiarity with each other that prevented upsetting boundary pushing or potentially hazardous miscommunication, to name a few ) they could never seem to shake themselves free of the awkwardness of a first invitation. Though Lyric has never declined, and Anderson has never recinded, each act as though they are a moment away from the whole thing collapsing like a card house. Maybe they wish it would. Maybe they both hope something irrevocably awful would happen because neither of them can bear the weight of a single thing in their lives that did not constantly martyr and dissect them until they were so weary they could not so much as lift their heads. Maybe they hope something bad will happen, because something always does, and they're just waiting for what feels inevitable.
[SMS]: you're not obligated to get me a birthday gift because we know each other.
-> They think he's projecting in some way, if not about himself then about someone else. Did it matter, a present? Was it important? Lyric put their life on the line every day and he worries about a birthday gift? They imagine him opening and closing his hands, empty and anxious, facing them but his eyes turned away. When he sometimes found them working in the library late at night by the light of a single lamp and a full moon, he hovered as if trying to usher them to bed without saying anything. When he blooms flowers that repel demons from stifling a laugh at a ridiculous, poor joke, they think he is a gentle man who has been through hell. They think he deserves to be loved equally as gently. ( they think he deserves better than Alucard, and better than them to warm his bed. )
I don't think I could take being spoiled by you they want to say, Being treated too gently might scatter me to pieces. But they don't say that---how could they? The thought of crying in front of him for any reason closes up their throat. ( not to imply Anderson was not careful down to the finest detail; Lyric had certainly come away sore or with a vague ache in a muscle they forgot they had some handful of times, but they had never hurt intentionally ) They're sure he means it well. Somewhere nice---maybe a little fancy, where they leave little chocolates on the pillows and have hotel breakfasts, though Lyric rarely stays that long. They had a habit of being the first to rush away; it was a very minor point of contention with Anderson, who desired the comfort of physical contact after all was said and done, and Lyric had to heel themselves to keep from leaving in a hurry of shower and clothes and cigarette smoke. ( it felt wrong somewhere in their lungs. anxious. they didn't know how to allow themselves to be held or to hold someone else when they couldn't hide behind something. maybe they were afraid he would notice something he didn't like after all. )
[SMS]: you wanna spoil me now, huh?
[SMS]: I'm not a pretty call boy, you know. there's not a discount for being too nice to me.
-> They're no better about avoiding the question, are they? Tiptoeing around it like they hadn't passively made up their mind when he chose to ask. ( they weren't doing anything else. the psychological and physical benefits of occasionally undergoing sexual release were positive ones. it comforted Anderson to have a partner who he knew rather than a stranger, which Lyric tells themselves is none of their business and yet they still list it as a benefit. he was aesthetically attractive and good at it in a way that's almost embarrassing to think about. another benefit. )
[SMS]: sure. I'm not busy.
[SMS]: don't twist yourself up about getting a real fancy place. just somewhere normal is fine.
[SMS]: but if you wanna dress up nicely I won't turn it down. you almost never wear anything but your Iscariot garb, so I'd take that as a treat.
