( it's funny how you can run into someone by chance more than once. one encounter leading into another, then another—it's all he really has in regards to one (1) Crowley Von Vampire, anyway. no cell number, no knowing where he lives, anything like that. not.... that he'd be weird about it or call him; he's not aching, longing, waiting with baited breath. there's curiosity there and a magneticlike attraction, but Aoba's not the kind to be grossly hung up over someone just 'cause their dick is great. nah, it's... their last parting didn't have a sense of finality to it like the first—there was talk of next time.
even without a way to get in touch, Aoba feels like it'll happen, too. is that normal? or maybe that thought's a joke when half of the equation is a supposed 800 year old vampire that probably doesn't know how to tweet.
buuuut he's not really thinking about it. waiting's a game he's been familiar with since he was a kid, stretches of years and still going, having patience when it feels like he'll never see them again anyway. it's fine. there are other things to be worried over like work and managing his emotionally dysfunctional friends.
and not when he's out late at night when the sun doesn't even touch the sky, walking through nondescript streets and not really paying mind to people that pass. weaving, expertly like the age of tech kid he is, while messing around on his coil. lights flash, neon bar signs and other conveniently located things such as love hotels and restaurants. less crowded places like alleys and hole in the wall hangouts. there's no paying any mind to men that try to catch his eye as he passes or the raucous laughter spilling out past open doorways.
when he finally does look up he thinks he spots—something familiar, maybe. a shadow, a silhouette, and the way he follows after is equally as thoughtless as the ease in which he dodged couples holding hands and confused tourists not knowing exactly where they were or which way they were supposed to go. )
...!
( hurrying his steps and reaching out, his fingers only brush the side of the man's arm—is it...? )
Crowley?
( why he hurried, he's not even really sure, cheeks flushed from the quickened pace he took and clothes a little disheveled. but... he'd wanted to say hi, at least. )
spoilers all dick is good dick
even without a way to get in touch, Aoba feels like it'll happen, too. is that normal? or maybe that thought's a joke when half of the equation is a supposed 800 year old vampire that probably doesn't know how to tweet.
buuuut he's not really thinking about it. waiting's a game he's been familiar with since he was a kid, stretches of years and still going, having patience when it feels like he'll never see them again anyway. it's fine. there are other things to be worried over like work and managing his emotionally dysfunctional friends.
and not when he's out late at night when the sun doesn't even touch the sky, walking through nondescript streets and not really paying mind to people that pass. weaving, expertly like the age of tech kid he is, while messing around on his coil. lights flash, neon bar signs and other conveniently located things such as love hotels and restaurants. less crowded places like alleys and hole in the wall hangouts. there's no paying any mind to men that try to catch his eye as he passes or the raucous laughter spilling out past open doorways.
when he finally does look up he thinks he spots—something familiar, maybe. a shadow, a silhouette, and the way he follows after is equally as thoughtless as the ease in which he dodged couples holding hands and confused tourists not knowing exactly where they were or which way they were supposed to go. )
...!
( hurrying his steps and reaching out, his fingers only brush the side of the man's arm—is it...? )
Crowley?
( why he hurried, he's not even really sure, cheeks flushed from the quickened pace he took and clothes a little disheveled. but... he'd wanted to say hi, at least. )