Re: Gatsby: Preston/Saint
The stillness was unearthly. It was not exactly sleepy, not dull through oppressive heat or a lack of anything but an expectation of something beyond that could be waited for. It was quietly verdant and Saint left the pocket seam alone, having unraveled it almost entirely as his head tilted to take in the whole view. Silence slid like silk between them and the road and Saint rotated on his heel back toward the way they had come, head craned to look up and sideways, as if he could take a photograph simply with memory.
"I can see why you might like it," he said now, as he looked toward the bungalow, keen eyes noting both the warp of rotting wood and the clean white of the paintwork. He didn't picture Preston in any particular place, memory put him at odds with any environment filled with people but he thought this one fitted Preston exactly or at least well enough that perhaps some of the wire-wound tension would have undone itself.
The screen door did not shriek the way it might have if Saint had lived there, and his first thought was that for all Preston might wish to go furniture shopping, it was more domestic than he'd managed in months in Marvel. There was still a mattress instead of a bed in the backroom of the small apartment he was still living in. He noted the dishes, and he twisted back to look beyond the screen door, before it swung closed and shut them in with the shade and the deliberate cool of a well-built place.
"I still don't have any," he said easily, both hands returning to his pockets now, and an almost-smile on his face, both sheepish at the admission and pleased that Preston had found himself a place so very Preston. "I have a couch now. I'll get a table next."