<div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/79/Dotley-Ramon-01.jpg)</div><strong>Character:</strong>Ramon de la Rosa (http://Character Sheet URL)<br/><strong>Date and Time:</strong>July 20th || 10amish<br/><strong>Where:</strong>Helene’s Cafe<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Marc<br/><strong>Open/Close:</strong>Open-ish/Closed-ish — Ask First<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>Tailored Suit & Expensive Accessories<br/><strong>Content Warning:</strong>Gay Power Moves<br/><br/>Ramon dressed for battle.<br/><br/>Not real fists-and-knuckles with bared teeth fight, lord forbid. Ramon had grown up and thus grown out of physical confrontations ages ago. His style of battle matured with his age, namely by becoming about...well,<em>style</em>. Ramon didn’t dress to impress people — he dressed to depress them. It felt incredible to be the best dressed person in the entire room and when you looked good you became good.<br/><br/>That sort of power was transformative. And intoxicating.<br/><br/>He always traveled with his best. It didn’t matter if it was a weekend getaway to San Diego or a much deserved holiday back in New York City. Or even a long avoided and overdue trip back to his hometown. He dressed in his best. Handcrafted Italian leather loafers. The pink Parisian silk tie with a perfectly matched pocket square. One of his favorite two-piece suits, custom made and tailored from ankle to shoulder. Diamond encrusted cuff-links. His hair styled just so. Shoes polished to shine. Cologne spritzed on and hands moisturized. Ramon looked good and he knew it. He dressed too good for the little cozy and quaint cafe he ended up at. Maybe too good for all of West Harper, though that might have just been his inner snob and narcissist banding together. Though, that didn’t necessarily make it untrue.<br/><br/>Ramon arrived ten minutes late. Fashionably late for a fashionable man.<br/><br/>He'd told Marc not to be late, but Ramon didn't apply that rule to himself. Why would he? It wasn't court. It was a social call. Or close enough to one. Something inside of him, maybe the last little leftover bite of him that was still a hurt teenage boy, railed against the idea of deigning to be<em>social</em>with Marc Morales. All of the possible people in West Harper, why was Marc the first one to show up in his inbox?<br/><br/>Alright, maybe he’d dressed up more for war than battle. Ramon could admit that much to himself. He might have still had a pinky hold on a grudge over everything that happened with Marc. They’d parted ways on less than friendly terms. Harsh, horrible words had been exchanged. Fists had flown multiple times and in various directions. Some biting may or may not have occurred. The years had turned the exact details of the memory hazy, but the bitter feeling remained in the well of Ramon’s heart.<br/><br/>A bitterness that was almost entirely forgotten once he laid eyes on Marc for the first time in over twenty years and heard him spectacularly fail to say<em>hola</em>correctly. Just as he’d promised. Ramon couldn’t stop himself. As bad as that bad memory of Marc was, he had far more good memories of Marc than bad. His lips parted and he released a sudden puff of air, a breath he failed to realize he’d been holding, that sounded suspiciously close to a guffaw.<br/><br/>Oh, no. No, he wouldn’t be sweetened that easily.<br/><br/>Ramon closed his eyes for a moment and took in a new breath of air. The next time he exhaled it was a proper sigh. Better. Marc might have been trying to play nice, but Ramon wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “¡Cuánto tiempo sin verte, Marc!”<br/><br/><em>Long time, no see</em>. Ramon said those specific words for a specific purpose. Because they were true and because he wanted to throw his perfectly trilled R in Marc’s face. He opened his eyes and stared straight at Marc. Almost straight on. Marc was taller than him. Only a few inches, but still — god damn him. Marc had always been taller, an unfairness that Ramon’s late growth spurt after graduation hadn’t remedied. Never mind it.<br/><br/>“Look, before we get into this whole reunion-chit-chat-thing I need to make one thing very clear to you,” Ramon began. He held up one of his hands, palm out and fingers flat, to pause Marc’s offered hand. It wasn’t a refusal. Not technically. Ramon kept his hand up. He just wasn’t going to shake Marc’s hand unless this offer of...whatever was a genuine one. “If this is some trite step nine out of twelve bullshit or part of a torrid quarter-life crisis breakdown, then I’m not interested and I refuse to participate. Go to therapy and deal with your issues. I’ve done it and trust me it does pay off if you put in the work.”<br/><br/>Ramon’s attorney face was firmly on and his attorney's voice kicked into overdrive. No further negotiation. Last deal on the table. Though, Ramon couldn’t hide the way his eyes softened as he looked at Marc. They truly had been such good friends as boys. The good outnumbered the bad.<br/><br/>“But if this is real — fine then,” Ramon said with a curt nod and flip of his wrist, gesturing toward one of the open tables. “You may buy me a cup of coffee.”