gotham russian tea room; loren & jules
Jules grew up somewhere green. The coast curved like verdant hugs on water made of liquid teal, and the caps were white and crashed on sand that was the brine yellow of the tea shop. A quiet life, and no opulence to be had, and he lived in a rectory and slept beneath idols. The tea shop was the opposite, and Jules stood at the entrance and thought of things left beyond his shoulder. Things that blinked neon and sang loudly. Las Vegas and New York, and this was his final certainty that he'd left home.
Home had naught like this.
Home, he was the thing that people looked to with open looks and queries twittering in their eyes. Boy? Girl? Boy? Girl? Gotham was gargoyles and shades of granite made into wings. It was tea shops, gold and gleaming, tucked beneath the crumbling facades. Here, no one looked.
It had been a dreadfully long time since Loren. Since boys lost in a a wood and blood spilled that had been in overkill. He'd nearly forgotten, and now he remembered. Amid this yellow and brilliance, his memory swelled like those caps off Swansea.
He stepped in. Looked about. Saw his past there, with a girl made of auburn.
Jules wore black, sneakers without sock, and a smile as he approached the table. A year older and not very different at all, he pulled out the chair and sat, prim, legs together, and a voice that still sounded like it was made for hymns. "What did you order?"