Re: Gatsby: Preston/Saint
Saint thought more than he spoke. They were mutable in the same way that he was, like watercolor over damp paper. What surface thoughts there were scudded gently over deliberate quiet; Saint thought of the sunshine, and the warmth. He thought (without alarm, but some surprise) that Preston's handshake was daring, given what Preston himself had said about contact but his fingers were dry and cool as they slid against Preston's palm and he thought about it as it was rather than what it could be. Like most men who sought meaning without intending to seek it out and those that could afford (or managed anyway) to travel, there had been a lot of time spent on sand that fringed indigo-tinted water. Places where calm was taken apart at the seams, turned inside out and made to fit rather than the body finding pieces of it in daily life. Saint was as deliberate about being calm as he was detached in thinking.
He made a sweeping assessment with the critical eye of a photographer and enjoyed doing it. He thought the surroundings and the manner of dress suited Preston, he thought the breeze pleasant and the day warm. He was beginning to wonder if he'd made enough effort to imitate the dress of the day but dismissed this with a lazy stroke of thought like brush over paper obliterating intent: no one was passing frequently enough to much bother.
"Does it hurt?" This thought was new: with it came a look of concern. He had thought perhaps it was like being swarmed at, with noise turned very high but somehow Saint had not put that together with pain. He kept his hands loose at his sides, the ambulatory pace slow but the length of leg that both of them possessed ate up distance very quickly. The something cool featured briefly in the rippled surface of Saint's thoughts.
"I'd ask. If you missed New York. But this place," Saint rolled a shoulder in something like a shrug and smiled. "Suits you."