Re: log: welcome home - adrian and dietre
Too focused on Adrian to notice much else around him, it took a moment for Dietre to become aware that his little inner wish had been granted. The old charm of the house hadn’t been ruined by walls torn down in the name of ‘open-concept’, the wood trim was not buried under a mask of paint. The rooms might be a bit lacking when it came to decor at the moment, but already the place exuded a sense of life that was sorely missing from Dietre’s tiny house at the carnival. The house Damian and Misha gave him had the sterile look of a magazine advertisement, stylish, pretty, but cold and hollow.
Sieglinde was in a heaven of head scratches and attention, eyes shutting in bliss, tail drumming against the floor. Dietre was comforted to see that her behavior during Daniel’s visit was an anomaly rather than a new norm. She had seemed almost afraid of the man. Adrian, on the other hand, appeared to be wholeheartedly approved of, and if Sieglinde approved, then Dietre felt that he could follow suit. He even smiled ever so faintly, for who could help it when seeing such a happy dog?
“...I don’t mind sparse. A bed is really all I need.” He almost mentioned his accomodations at Quiet Home, but stopped himself. He didn’t know how much Misha told Adrian, and doubted very much that most people would be at ease at the thought of their new roommate being a former mental patient at an insane asylum. They’d be even less enthused at the reason why he had been sent there, no doubt, so perhaps it’d be better to gloss over all of that for now…
An invitation to dinner. Dietre blinked in surprise. “Oh. Um… Yes-- Yes, please. Thank you…” Meals had been a problem when living on his own, he’d never learned to cook and without a schedule set by others eating somehow always slipped his mind. He lost weight since his release and was on the verge of becoming far too thin for his tall height, but maybe that would change now that he had someone to ask if he was hungry once in a while.
“I’ll pay for groceries,” he offered suddenly, feeling awkward as he leaned his suitcase against a wall, brows furrowed anxiously. “Misha said he would pay my rent, but-- I must put in for something, and… You can buy whatever you like, I’m not picky.” Without a leash or suitcase handle to hold on to, Dietre’s hands found each other, slim pianist’s fingers tangling as he wrung them.