I can be a handful
The day was half gone by the time he rolled out of bed that afternoon, his feet clenching at the cold floorboards’ touch and a shudder running through his body as he sloppily tugged at the light sheet from his bed to pull over himself in a hasty wrap. He could feel his hair, matted and pressed in all sorts of different directions, covering his dark chocolate eyes. And those eyes- they burned as sunlight streamed in through open curtains, insulting him with the reality of the time.
Oh, he was so very late.
Atreus wasted no time trading the sheet for clothes, choosing comfort over fashion for just this one day; a loose tan shirt (the ties at his chest open, of course), red vest, tight slacks, and then, of course, his favorite lace-up boots. And just like that, he ran a hand through his hair and pulled on the darkest pair of sunglasses he could find, and stepped out into the busy streets of Faline with his notebook tucked under his arm and pen in his pocket.
His head- oh how it pounded, a cruel reminder of too much wine consumed and too much money lost at the tables the night before. But it hadn't been all bad; he had managed to pluck the latest drama off of the lips of the ever so charming Lord Zaven, with the help of a little liquid courage and his delicate promises. It was delightful how much they admitted to when they were led to believe that secrets would remain between the sheets.
And oh how promising those secrets were; rumors were already spreading of Lord Basileios not only having been found to have magic once again (shadow magic, at that!), but he killed an innocent man, too? And in the streets of Mead-- what was he doing wandering so far from home, pray tell, but Zaven didn't know, and by that point, the wine was working a little too well.
Such information almost made the hangover worth it. Now, if he could find the right people to share it with…
His breath hissed as another streak of pain stabbed at his temple, and he brought his hand to his face with a groan, pushing up his oversized sunglasses so that he could pinch the bridge of his nose and breathe. And slowly, the pain dulled, and he fixed the glasses upon his nose before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a peppermint. He popped it onto his tongue with a defeated sigh, his eyes fluttering as the mint cooled his throat and, ever so slowly, settled his stomach.
His boots clicked against the cobblestone as he cut a corner through an alleyway, his gait hastened and chin held high despite the absolute misery he was feeling, for he would not let the street urchins see his weakness past the haphazard wardrobe he had put together. In fact, his gaze swept a small group of men leaning against a doorway, their eyes locking for only a brief moment before he gave a little huff and turned away, tightening his grip on his notebook.
His place of rendezvous for the day was only a block away, now, and he could not wait to sit down and scribble out notes of yet another meeting. Perhaps he could will one of those handsome thugs to rob him, leaving him bruised in the alleyway, giving him a reason to not press through those doors and sit on those cushioned chairs. Father wouldn't appreciate the excuse of a hangover, but he would deem a robbery excusable, wouldn't he?
Well, it was all silly musings, anyways. Atreus wouldn't appreciate his pretty face blemished.