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Felix finds that his chaise lounge doesn't really suit the rest of his living room. It's too Victorian, covered in a deep, blood red satin that should complement the cream and gold tones in an elegant pop of color, but instead it just seems out of place. The chaise's ornate trim is gorgeous, having been what drew Felix in to buy it in the first place, swirls that mimic leaves and vines delicately carved into the dark oak wood. Unfortunately, it's too dark, and it contrasts the lighter tones of his blonde birch floor in a way Felix finds distasteful. It doesn't help that he keeps the lights in his apartment dim, only lighting the chandelier (if one could even call it that, it's so modern it's practically just a vertical fluorescent light) when he has guests over, so you never even see the wood detailing. What a waste.
It's comfortable, though, he thinks, swirling his glass. He's not drunk, not even close - This is Sprite with a maraschino cherry added as if dropping one in and drinking it out of a snifter means he isn't sitting on his ass drinking soda at eleven pm on a Thursday night. He looks up at the sound of a sour note interrupting his contempt for his own interior design failures. Luka is here, seated on the couch, tuning his guitar. Luka is something that shouldn't match Felix's interior, yet does anyway. That bothers some part of him, somewhere.
Luka is, objectively speaking, ugly. This is something Felix is acutely aware of. He's long and awkward in a way that a teenager would be, all elbows and limbs, despite being a grown man. His face is thin and angular, with an overbite that makes his fangs poke out from behind his wide set of lips. He's starting to develop scales on his sides and back, which Felix has noticed but he doesn't think Luka has. If he has, then he's been very good at hiding how he feels about it. He has these constant, dark eyebags and chronic acne that he just cannot resist picking at until his face is full of holes. This is all to say that Felix finds Luka incredibly handsome.
Felix ogles him for a moment before he speaks, “I hate this chair.” It isn't true, he loves his vintage 1987 Victorian style chaise lounge. He hates how it looks in his living room, however, and maybe that's the same thing as hating it.
He watches as Luka processes what he says, then looks up. “You could get a new one,” he offers.
Felix blinks. His grip on the glass tightens, and his eyes narrow a bit. Motherfucker. He taps his index against the glass four times before he speaks again, “But it's comfortable.”
Luka looks at the chair Felix is in (and not at Felix), strumming his guitar thoughtfully. “I guess you could get something just like it. The same one in a different color, maybe.”
He could do something like that. Well, he couldn't, this chair is almost forty years old at this point and judging by the craftsmanship, not many were made. But he could do something like that. He imagines taking an axe and chopping the thing into a million tiny splinters. Then he imagines setting it on fire. He imagines paying someone to make the exact same chaise but suited to his tastes, in ivory this time. He imagines how the result would never satisfy him or anyone else, that it wouldn't be as comfortable as the first, upholstered too tightly and stuffed to a terrible firmness that would never be as easy to sit in. Anyone who'd ever seen the first would tell him how they preferred the old one, why would you get the same thing but less comfortable? They'd be right, of course. Kagami used to like sitting here, he thinks, and he misses his red chaise already.
Felix downs the rest of his Sprite, leaving the cherry. He doesn't even like cherries. He reaches out as if to set the glass on an end table, and when he finds no surface there he lets it go anyway. Luka jumps as the glass hits the ground and shatters, sending shards sliding across the floor. Maybe Felix will move this chaise to the bedroom and get a settee for this spot instead.