The wooden chair, stained green like nearly every other object in the Mansion, creaks in protest as Crowbar settles himself onto it's thin cushion. It's an unintentional reminder of how he has let his body change over the past months, but he pays it little mind. The chiseled angularity of his face has given away to a puffy softness that hints at the beginnings of a double-chin. Running down the center of his coat is a trio of buttons, and from them extend a series of tightly-drawn wrinkles as the fabric struggles to contain the rounded paunch threatening to spill over his waistband. His fingers have lost their spindly daintiness, and his limbs have grown doughy to the touch. Crowbar won't deny that he's done a bit of accidental gaining, but he's not the only one in the Felt to carry a little extra, so it doesn't bother him.
Besides, given the circumstances, it's entirely worth it.
There is a groan as the double doors at the back end of the dining hall are flung open, and then a woody thump as they swing shut. The left corner of Crowbar's mouth twitches into a half-grin, and he patiently folds his hands over his gut. This is a ritual he's used to, and has yet to tire of.
Crowbar waits, listening to the approaching footsteps, quiet when muffled by the thick carpet, and then, lets his grin become a full smile when the bulky figure of Sawbuck appears by his side. The enormous man is carrying a silver platter, its contents concealed by a round, silvery cover. He sets it down in front of Crowbar, and before Sawbuck can say a word, Crowbar grabs him by the front of his suit and draws him downward for a kiss.
Their romance is always quiet and calculating, if not somewhat reserved. But that's why it works so well for them. People say opposites attract, but Crowbar and Sawbuck know such is not always the case. They're both rather quiet men – Crowbar out of steely reservation, Sawbuck out of kind shyness – thus, they know how to appease each other. Quiet guys tend to enjoy quiet activities, so it's no surprise that Sawbuck will smile when Crowbar takes him for a stroll in the park, enjoying their mutual silence in comfort; and it's no surprise that Sawbuck will make Crowbar's favorite dishes, always in grand quantities, just for him. Sure, Sawbuck makes food for everyone in the Felt – prior to his status as a gangster, he worked as a chef, and he continues to pursue his old profession, albeit now as an exceptionally passionate hobby – but only for Crowbar does he create personal specialties.
Crowbar releases his hold on his lover's shirt and lets Sawbuck pull away. Diverting his attention to the dish, Crowbar removes the cover to have his senses caressed by the sweet yet savory aroma of a honey-glazed roast. Hunger pangs lace through his stomach and his shoulders tense in anticipation as he prepares to tear into the glistening mound of meat, but he stops himself short. He can't bear to be rude to his lover, even accidentally.
"Would you," he picks up his silver fork and flicks it towards the roast, his eyes on Sawbuck, who has taken the seat across from him, "like to share it with me?"
Sawbuck shakes his head in the negative. "No thank you." He offers Crowbar a wide smile. "It's yours, I've already eaten this evening."
Crowbar was expecting such an answer, as he is well aware that Sawbuck frequently dines in solitude, but he feels as if it is his obligation to ask such things. Nothing worse than being impolite to a lover.
Crowbar lets the corner of his mouth twitch upward again. His subtle way of grinning. "Alright, then." He lifts his fork and knife, then carves a large slab off of the roast and slides it onto his plate. "If you change your mind, feel free to take whatever you'd like from it."
He knows Sawbuck won't change his mind, but he says this with honesty. Despite how his appetite has grown since they've become lovers, Crowbar isn't the type to be greedy.
Crowbar takes his knife, slices into his piece of meat, and brings a dribbling cut of it to his mouth. It's delectable, as he was expecting, but it seems Sawbuck manages to out-do himself every time he cooks. Perhaps it's Crowbar's perception being clouded by love, or perhaps it's something more, but, regardless, he loves the sweetness of the glaze as it touches his tongue, accompanied by the meat's naturally salty flavor.
He continues working away at that one cut, slicing, chewing, and swallowing in a manner that would appear mechanic if not for how he visibly pauses with each bite to quietly savor the flavor. He'll probably enjoy his next meal with Sawbuck even more, but for now, this is the best he's ever had. It's delightful, and, though his mannerisms remain clean and polite, Crowbar realizes he's devouring it at a pace that would be embarrassing before any other audience. He doesn't mind if Sawbuck sees him gluttonize an entire roast, but suddenly, the though of all the other Felt being present surfaces in his mind, and he almost laughs when he envisions their shocked expressions at witnessing their leader's voracious appetite.
When Crowbar is done with his entire first cut of meat, Sawbuck momentarily stops him from going for seconds by holding up a bottle of red wine and a duo of crystal glasses.
"Would you care for a drink?" He asks this brightly, his green eyes smiling perhaps even more than his mouth.
Crowbar raises his eyebrows, quite pleased at the prospect of having wine. "I would love one."
When Sawbuck is done pouring Crowbar's share of the crimson liquid, Crowbar lifts the glass up by its stem and takes a delicate sip. The deliciously bitter liquid settles pleasantly in his stuffed belly, the warmth radiating outward from his core. As much as he likes the liquid fire of hard liquor, nothing rivals the mellow heat of wine.
Crowbar returns to eating, steadily working away at the roast while taking an occasional sip of wine. He begins to feel tight in his middle, his round belly growing ever rounder as it is filled with food, and eventually, he finds he must unbutton his coat and fly to keep the buttons from popping. Crowbar can't say he minds, however, as he cares more about consuming the food and wine than he does about his clothes.
At length, after long moments of uninterrupted gorging, Crowbar finds himself bloated to capacity, so he reclines back in his seat, sated and pleasantly stuffed. He dabs his lips with a cloth napkin, then folds both hands over his engorged stomach. He wasn't able to finish the entire roast, but he is pleased that he has come quite close. He has, however, finished his wine, and his whole body feels flushed and heated. He wants nothing more than to curl up and nap.
Crowbar rises from his seat, stifling a moan as the contents of his stomach shift with his position. He isn't sure if he likes the sudden onset of this tight, almost painful, sensation or not.
Impossibly fast for a man of his size, Sawbuck is at Crowbar's side before the smaller man can even blink. "Whoa, easy, Crowbar." His thick arms slide beneath Crowbar's, keeping him upright. "Let me help you."
If it were any other person, Crowbar would have told them to piss off, that he could go at it alone, but this is Sawbuck, so he can't. It's impossible for him to protest when he unabashedly adores the other man's touch. "Alright, alright, you can help me." He tries to sound annoyed, but he can't mask his amusement.
The windowsills on the dining hall windows are more like glorified couches than they are windowsills. Elevated a foot off the ground, they are cushioned comfortably and designed with relaxation in mind. Positioned to face the city, one can view the entirety of its glittering skyline from the windows. And Crowbar, he's a sucker for a pretty skyline.
Sawbuck takes a seat so that the side of his body is parallel to the window and his back is against the wall. Moving gingerly so to not upset his packed stomach, Crowbar slips out of his coat and untucks his shirt before sitting in front of Sawbuck. Crowbar lounges back against Sawbuck like a lazy tom cat, using his lover's huge stomach like a pillow.
Crowbar briefly runs his hands down the swell of his own belly, feeling satisfied with himself. "That was splendid." He takes one of Sawbuck's meaty hands in his own, and gives it a light kiss. "Thank you."
Sawbuck responds to the kiss by running his fingers along Crowbar's soft cheeks. "It was my pleasure." He laughs, a sound that is alarmingly lilting and musical coming from a man so large. "Always the best for you, my friend."
Crowbar mumbles something in the affirmative, and leans in to the fingers that continually caress his face. It feels good, and they both have little need to keep talking, so they just sit there, letting a comfortable silence settle between them.
Pillowed against Sawbuck's girth and with a belly stuffed with warm food, Crowbar slowly falls asleep with his eyes glued to the jagged city skyline. The last thing he feels before he completely nods off is the loving touch of Sawbuck's gentle fingers against his face.