<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>Trying!<br/><br/>Marc didn't see a superior man. He saw an old friend wrapped in a security threat.<br/><br/>Almost as soon as he absorbed the impact of Ramon's appearance, he clocked every accessory adorning the custom-tailored suit, made easier the more the distance closed. Cufflinks were hard to gauge from afar, after all. Then again, he didn't have to scrutinize when he knew the man who wore them--despite how long it had been, certain traits persisted across a lifetime, and from an early age, Ramon had an affinity for fashion, only now, instead of being the boy on food stamps, he was a divorce lawyer who won cases for celebrities. Marc had done the research. On everyone who had mattered to him.<br/><br/>Surely Ramon had developed the wits to keep himself safe while walking around in thousands of dollars--surely--but working in security developed in Marc a professional cynicism. For a brief moment, his attention drifted from him to the others in the cafe. A woman had just returned her eyes to their sockets before whispering to the other two ladies accompanying her. A man, dressed in a casual button-down, frowned. The MacBook user, well, if she noticed, she didn't care.<br/><br/>If anything, he suddenly felt like he was working again. The only difference was that he often wore a suit, too, which leveled his appearance with the principal's. Now he was just the "Mexican" talking to Moneybags. Shit, Ramon even smelled expensive.<br/><br/>And yet, at the same time, they were middle-aged men momentarily transported back in time. Even as breathy as it was, they stood too closely for Marc not to hear the vocalized humor. A smile crept on his own face, a little pleased with himself to elicit such a response, for the short time it lasted. It was as if Ramon rebooted himself, and when the man spoke, Marc was reminded of a peacock, because he understood why Ramon had responded in Spanish. The humor bled into his eyes more. It was something he should be careful about, maybe, but it was a temperament that had allowed him to hold onto some semblance of sanity over the years.<br/><br/>It beat getting jealous over Ramon being a better speaker, or Ramon showing up ten minutes late, but, despite how he wanted to mend what he had helped to destroy, complaining would have handed the man a win that he wasn't keen to give. Marc acted like he didn't mind, instead focusing on the fact that Ramon had showed up at all. His old friend dismissed the handshake. It was a mole hill he wasn't willing to die on, so Marc let his hand slip inside his jeans pocket, at least for now, something that felt more relaxing than letting it dangle at his side.<br/><br/>It was a move he was somewhat appreciative of, because Ramon's spiel felt like a knife through the ribs. Marc stopped his muscles from stiffening at the implications, to correct the mistake hopefully before it would be noticed. Why'd Ramon have to go and do that, suggest it was something that it wasn't? So what if he had wanted to patch things? It didn't have to be because of any of those possibilities. The reunion had presented the opportunity. A man could have multiple motivations. He focused on the way his old friend looked at him, although the mention of coffee prompted Marc to glance over his shoulder at the table where his iced tea sat. It would be fine for the time being.<br/><br/>"Ramon," he began, his attention returning to the man. He thickened the Spanish pronunciation to fulfill his remaining promise. Of the two, it was the more genuine; his trills never had been great. He smiled, too, a small one. "I want to talk to you. It's been twenty years. I know breaking the silence now raises eyebrows, but think about it: you're over there in the Big Orange catching sun, I'm over here in the Big Apple freezing my<em>juevos</em>off every winter. It's like a fruity spinoff of a<em>West Side Story</em>. Now that we're in the same town and I'm not busy being a meat shield, I want to reconnect." There was no denying that this would sound corny. He briefly had to pause to keep a grin from breaking out across his face: "<em>Extraño mi amiguito.</em>" It was a calculated risk, saying he missed his little friend. It used to be what he called Ramon when they were boys, before calling another boy any kind of -ito might have looked strange. Partly it had been to tease him about his height, but it hadn't made the word any less genuine back then. "I have to ask: you got taller, didn't you?"<br/><br/>Provided he hadn't screwed this up, he would wait for Ramon to take a step toward the counter. He figured most of the control would have to lie with him.