So you don't touch Weathersby, now. This did not sit well with Blake. There was one thing about not having permission to touch, and that was okay. But the whole, 'nobody touches it, ever' was somehow against whatever compulsive neurosis Blake had. Paranoia which had already been mounting turned into unjustified hostility. Still, it looked like Stovaa was getting something out of this, and Blake wanted to befriend the man. He kept his piece too himself for once as he glanced over at the barrista sitting on his lap. She didn't seem to ashamed of the situation. Blake had to admit, Stovaa was such a rugged-yet-gentle looking creature that the artist himself would've liked to cuddle up against the man when he was feeling vulnerable.
Snapping back to the situation at hand, Blake made sure to examine Weathersby with a careful eye. He needed to know how or why touching this man was a bad idea. How could he trick Weathersby into touching him? Butlers like dusting off people's shoulders, didn't they?
"I say, Weathersvane." He took the shot in the dark approach, "Dust off my shoulders, if you don't mind. My arms are terribly sore from dancing and painting in the club earlier, otherwise I'd do it myself."
Snapping back to the situation at hand, Blake made sure to examine Weathersby with a careful eye. He needed to know how or why touching this man was a bad idea. How could he trick Weathersby into touching him? Butlers like dusting off people's shoulders, didn't they?
"I say, Weathersvane." He took the shot in the dark approach, "Dust off my shoulders, if you don't mind. My arms are terribly sore from dancing and painting in the club earlier, otherwise I'd do it myself."