#feb 7 2023 is when you replied to this LMAOOOO

[piraticalwit]

"It's not ice cream I'm after, shoulders." The answer is an easy volley, a casual and instinctual toss of a confession, and the Irishman grins as he does his best to imagine the expression now painting its way across the other man's face. There more than likely isn't one. Guy's probably perched against a wall somewhere, unflappable and as unperturbed as always.. immune to a particularly stubborn rockstar's attempts at cracking that stalwart exterior.

Smug fucking bastard.

Killian waits for what is sure to be a far wittier retort, momentarily losing himself in the reflection that waits behind a mirror bathed in far too much lighting. One hand reaches upwards, tugs futilely at a dark strand of hair that has been forever trapped by the unspoken superpower of high-tier hairspray. He watches, almost fascinated, as the stranger behind the polished glass does the same. There's a darkness in that man's gaze, some glimpse of a shadow that far exceeds exhaustion... and the musician is fairly certain he saw the same scream in someone's eyes during a documentary once. Some late night telly special about a woman who had been buried alive, found only when nearby rescue efforts saw her hand emerge from the rubble and dirt. Killian furrows his brows, traces his fingers along the edge of his jaw, allowing them to linger over that sharp prick of two day old stubble that he'd fought tooth and nail for... he wonders if the Killian Jones in that world behind the mirror has the courage to dig himself free, wonders if somewhere there exists a version of himself that would have bloody balked at selling his soul for fame.

Music, that had been all he wanted... but he got isolation and idiots for companions instead.

The Irishman blinks as if breaking a spell, weight shifting until he's half standing and ringed fingers searching for a towel or rag with the inefficiency of the truly desperate. A man like Killian Jones won't ask for help, it's not in his vocabulary... but still he hopes that Guy hears the plea behind a carefully controlled tone. "Come on, mate .. rockstars vanish all the time, yeah?"

He's in his third hour of listening to the wardrobe lady drone on about how to choose the right fabrics for the right figures and situations, his brain swimming with the knowledge that cotton is never appropriate for stage performances and despite its lack of popularity rayon is a wonder material for most theatrical shows and plays, trapped as he is in his position outside the door to Killian's dressing room. He's a captive audience, unable to flee from the source of his torment, just waiting for his quarry to emerge from the chamber to which he'd been sequestered so many hours ago that Guy can barely remember what event they are even preparing for.

It's a blessing of enormous proportions when his phone begins to buzz in his pocket, the familiar chirping ringtone giving him an excuse to gently extricate himself from Charlene's company for a few moments, a grin already curving his lips when he sees the familiar name flash across the screen.

Princess.

His joke is lame, both of them knowing it's neither the time nor place for such things, but Killian's response more than makes up for the way his own humor had fallen flat, the Gaelic rolling off his tongue like honey and pouring down the older man's spine, drawing a shiver along with it. His understanding of the language is still very new and as yet untested, but these words he has heard before, and they touch a place somewhere in the vicinity of his chest that leaves a lingering ache behind that is far from unpleasant. His smile softens, his gaze shifting down to study the floor beneath his feet as he turns away from his audience to gain as much privacy as possible without abandoning his post, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck...which has grown inexplicably warmer.

"I miss you too." His words are spoken on little more than a whisper, though he's certain that Killian can hear the emotion in them despite their low tone. "Yellow, is it? Pictures or it didn't happen."

The plea for an escape plan isn't unexpected - it's rarely a social gathering or media event if the Irishman didn't send up a distress beacon requesting immediate extraction from the combat zone, but Guy knew it was mostly for show - the few times it had been a real emergency, he'd known almost before Killian, watchful eyes and experienced instincts serving them both well to keep the younger man safe from harm.

Tonight, however? Killian was simply bored.

"Be a good little rock god and we'll get ice cream on the way home."