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Warlock has cold hands.
The dance on the dance floor is entertaining, his companion moves with elegance worthy of someone of his status. Sometimes he spins in circles, sometimes he raises his hat and courts him with light steps. Tim can't help but feel his heart grow heavier, not that that's exactly meant in a bad way.
He's never been one to gravitate toward gentlemen, truth be told.
His fingers are slender and elegant. He feels that if he squeezes too hard, he could break them at any moment. He feels he is fragile under his hands, as if a breeze could carry him away at any moment. It makes him feel heavy.
But it's not a bad weight.
It makes him feel heavy, full, perfect.
Warlock spins around on himself, and lands on his hand, his slender waist fitting into his palm, the curve of his back is art and he has to inhale deeply to keep from saying something idiotic.
Deep down, he always wondered what it would be like to get home where someone was waiting for him. He always thought that would be what he had always wanted for his end, a comfortable life, with someone waiting for him, longing for him. He is not that kind of person.
Warlock has cold hands.
An adventurous, aggressive spirit, he does not take empty orders and is indomitable, like a raging beast. But when he holds his hand as if it were the world to him, he feels anchored to earth, fifth dimension, maybe something similar. What nonsense.
"You look gone." Warlock's voice sounds low in comparison to the band, his neutral face the complete opposite of the intermittent worry in his voice, he seems torn between caring or not caring about him. It's ironic, no one would think so. "What disturbs you, Tim?"
What doesn't disturb him, to tell you the truth.
"You're always so cold, like the snow around us." He whispers, doubts he'll hear it. But by the way his hands tense slightly, you can tell he did.
He lets out a soft chant, echoing from his throat, he doesn't hear it, but he can see it. The boy looks down, momentarily focused on his dancing feet. Then, he stops and Tim's heart stops for just a second.
His gaze fades to the background, he can't follow it, a little too afraid to guess what's on his mind, how silly, he's never been able to do that.
Surprisingly, there is no mumbled word, and to make it worse, the boy looks up. His violet eyes penetrate his soul, he looks curious, underneath all those pessimistic layers of broken loves. In the end, he softens, sighs, and finally rests his cheek against her chest.
He's short, and the tailored suit he has on only makes him look smaller than he really is. The left side of the silver glasses he's wearing dig into the fabric of his chest, it doesn't hurt.
"Have you ever thought about getting married?"
The world stops, or maybe it's supposed to, but it doesn't. He glances nervously down, watching the boy look to the back, where a dark-haired young woman holds the president's hand lovingly, they look deeply in love as they dance in the center of the dance floor.
He can't think of Warlock like this, for some reason. It hurts.
"No. Not really." Yes.
"You're lying." He replies, almost instantly. He still doesn't look him in the face, knows he's looking at the newlyweds, knows that maybe, in some universe, he's wishing he was him and someone else. "I always see you almost shining when we talk about romance."
Touché.
He doesn't comment again, slow dancing to his beat. And it's not until the boy sighs and breaks away that he mediates again.
"It's strange to think that you chose me as your companion when there are so many beautiful women." Is that a glimmer of insecurity coming from him? What inappropriate timing.
Silence.
"Whatever." He says, finally smoothing down the black suit he's wearing. He arches his eyebrows and gives him that artificial smile that looks more like something mechanical than anything else, unsettling. "This is a celebration, I see no reason to be in any other mode than celebrating."
He takes him by the arm and, instinctively, his hand rests on the young man's waist. He looks at him one last time, perhaps he is the admirer of the beautiful, spectator of the sunset.
"Let's go give our congratulations to the bride and groom.