<div class="floatright">(https://i.imgur.com/C9Ew7MS.jpg)</div><strong>Character:</strong>Marc Morales (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=324741.msg15581723#msg15581723)<br/><strong>Date and Time:</strong>Monday, July 20th, ~10:00am<br/><strong>Where:</strong>Helene's Cafe<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Ramon<br/><strong>Open/Close:</strong>Ask first?<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>A plain, soft green tee (https://www.bellacanvas.com/bella/product/large/300100081_3.jpg); dark wash jeans; sneakers; and an analog wristwatch<br/><strong>Content Warning:</strong>Reconnecting<br/><br/>Speaking to Ramon, at this moment, was like peeling away a layer. Marc watched the man's face, witnessed the melting of the attorney front to reveal a semblance of the boy he used to call a friend. There was a magic to the moment, and he didn't toss that word around lightly. As much as he used the Spanish words to chip away at the crack Ramon had revealed during their greeting, he felt a release in his chest, like a key unlocking a door he had been, until now, only vaguely aware of. He couldn't let go of the cynicism, not completely. It was hammered into him by this point in his life, and he suspected there would still be defenses, and bumps, but Ramon returned the sentiment, and Marc could breathe easier.<br/><br/>They stepped to the counter. Marc was sliding his card back into his wallet when Ramon retorted the comment on his height. Some things didn't change. Marc felt the smile in his cheekbones. Returning his wallet to his jeans pocket, his attention was on Ramon again. He saw the extended finger, knew it was going to be just a playful poke, but as skin touched skin, he felt the Marc of High School Past come back to haunt him, the sudden self-consciousness like a gnat in his brain. It was strange, because the innocence of the action didn't compare to the open flirtations he received from a few men in New York.<br/><br/>But he couldn't dwell on it now. He willed away the stiffness in his muscles, somewhat thankful for the barista's reappearance, or else Ramon's comment might have hung between them seconds too long to be comfortable. "Being transformed into a killing machine paid off," Marc replied once Ramon had his drink in hand. A lopsided smirk swept across his face as he lifted his arm and flexed. Showing off typically wasn't his style, and even now the bravado was lowkey, but he felt an itch to move more than just his feet. Those did their own thing, carrying him back to the table.<br/><br/>Getting Ramon to sit down with him was only one hurdle. That was the way he saw it, but there was a naturalness to the situation now, and a strangeness. They weren't boys anymore, dreaming about a future that once seemed far off. They were middle-aged men, with jobs and bills, and maybe a different set of concerns over their physical development. At least Ramon started the conversation off easy. What else did he hate about New York? "The smell," Marc said without losing a beat. He grimaced for effect, as if catching a whiff of the garbage and piss, but the humor persisted in his eyes. He reached for his iced tea. "And how the city makes masochists out of people: every aspect of living there is like being in a sardine can; I burn through money paying for a place with three other people; the attitudes are horrible." The rim of the cup neared his lips. "But I can't picture living anywhere else. There's a constant motion. It takes resilience and alertness to survive. I like that. I can't believe you wanted to leave." A mild sarcasm carried the last line. He let it hang in the space between them as he took a sip.