Rain sags against the railing. He tucks himself in and laces back up, deft finger movements performed without looking.

“Leon,” he says softly. Tenderly. “I see it now. You’re like me. You have poetry in your soul.”

Leon is still kneeling, and Rain reaches out tentatively. The backs of his fingers brush Leon’s cheek and begin tracing the line of his jaw.

“I know you,” he murmurs. “I see you.”

How does it feel to really be seen?

Leon jerks his head away and gets to his feet. “Jesus Christ, kid,” he says. “It was just a blowjob.”

For a moment Rain stands in open-mouthed silence. His expression tumbles slowly from hope to confusion, confusion to bewilderment, bewilderment to pain.

It would be heartbreaking, if Leon cared.

“But you, you, you – you wanted poetry, you – ” He tries to reach out again.

Leon takes a step back. One of his shirt buttons has somehow come undone, and he closes it up again.

“Yeah. I thought you’d get off on it.” He raises an eyebrow, shrugs a shoulder. “You writers are like that – you love the sound of your own voices.” He flicks a glance at Rain’s crotch and smirks. “Seems like it worked.”

Rain’s eyebrows come together. His lips compress into a straight thin line. “I guess that’s it, then.”

“Guess so,” Leon says to Rain for the second time that night. “Go find someone else to fuck. It’s supposed to be a party.”

He doesn’t look at Rain’s face as he walks away.

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