[ The compliments abound, and Sen raises the glass to his mouth again just as I'm not interested cuts through the bar like -
A knife.
Like the clouds parting, like the shaft of pure sunlight piercing through.
Like the final horn blown on judgement day.
He's not breathing. He thinks he felt or saw or sensed Andi falter (does she know, too) (does she know Rin is always interested in compliments?) (Rin is always interested in the stroking of their vanity. Is she wondering what could be more diverting for Rin than a compliment, a standing fucking ovation from an admirer?) (Sen's not wondering at all.)
Swallowing reflexively, he lowers his glass and strains to hear (he doesn't have to strain to hear; Rin's voice carries across the bar and across time and space, a clear and distant-polite dismissal. A delivery of lines and the decisive ending of a scene.)
Sen darts a look at Andi (did you fucking hear that?) and then scrambles to his knees to peer - eyes and forehead and flash of unkept hair - over the bar, startling a patron into a sharp What the FUCK -.
Sen pulls a consternated face at them (shhh!) and peers around them to see that Mr. I'll melt all your troubles away (gross) (how utterly trite) (he'd like to make loud retching sounds and might just, next time) is not bad-looking, as exploitative, cheaply complimentary fuckwits go.
Rin isn't having it today. Rin is -
Looking around at the bar quite a lot?
He ducks back down quickly and slumps against the icebox.
They're looking for him. He told them where he was and they're looking for him, and they're not going to be deterred by a pretty face with pretty words, and Sen is grinning at nothing.
He's not wondering why. He thinks there's a reason he can't quite bring himself to touch, to examine, something that had to do with how they smiled at him the day he came home. (His heart crawls into his throat and settles there, pounding out its demand.) How close they've kept to him, how much focus they've fixed on him. (Those fucking - flutters in his stomach are back.)
Sen rests a hand on his midsection and huffs a breath. ]
Andi, Andi, Andi - what on earth did you put in that drink?
[ Andi stops again and glances his way, brows raised, waiting. Okay, what's the punchline. He rolls his head against the cool metal, turning daft eyes and a dafter grin on her. ]
Got fucking butterflies, me.
[ Andi rolls her eyes, but he thinks he catches sight of a smile shadowing her mouth. "I'm working, Mr. Wilkes." ]
And fine work you do. The paragon of bartending: observant and ever-ready with a drink - the right drink for the right occasion, no less. Bourbon for the broken-hearted, Manhattans for the startled and suspicious. An untold catalogue of cocktails for every conceivable circumstance. What would one such as yourself recommend, I wonder, to a man who has succumbed to a case of effervescent delight?
[ She's trying to ignore him, trying to reassure Manhattan on the other side of the bar that he's just a friend of the owner, it's really all right - but the question proves intrusive enough for her to stagger in her comments and laugh a little.
And then clamp her mouth shut against the laugh and raise her eyes heavenward.
"I think I'd cut you off." ]
Ooh - interesting tactic. Most would say 'champagne'. That's what Manhattan thinks, isn't it, Manhattan? Don't say anything, I hear the wheels turning in your beautiful head. Me, personally? Something mellow. Amaretto. A smooth Malbec. Are they looking this way, Andi?
[ "Mr. Wilkes, I swear to god."
His grin broadens and he draws his knees in. Some of the effervescence escapes as a low near-giggle. ]
Me, too. Me, too. Whichever god you like.
[ And, raising his voice a little: ]
Sorry for the startle, Manhattan. This is where they keep the ladders and men they use for reaching things on the top shelf.
[ An ice cube pings the side of his head. Stop talking to the customers, freak.
no subject
A knife.
Like the clouds parting, like the shaft of pure sunlight piercing through.
Like the final horn blown on judgement day.
He's not breathing. He thinks he felt or saw or sensed Andi falter (does she know, too) (does she know Rin is always interested in compliments?) (Rin is always interested in the stroking of their vanity. Is she wondering what could be more diverting for Rin than a compliment, a standing fucking ovation from an admirer?) (Sen's not wondering at all.)
Swallowing reflexively, he lowers his glass and strains to hear (he doesn't have to strain to hear; Rin's voice carries across the bar and across time and space, a clear and distant-polite dismissal. A delivery of lines and the decisive ending of a scene.)
Sen darts a look at Andi (did you fucking hear that?) and then scrambles to his knees to peer - eyes and forehead and flash of unkept hair - over the bar, startling a patron into a sharp What the FUCK -.
Sen pulls a consternated face at them (shhh!) and peers around them to see that Mr. I'll melt all your troubles away (gross) (how utterly trite) (he'd like to make loud retching sounds and might just, next time) is not bad-looking, as exploitative, cheaply complimentary fuckwits go.
Rin isn't having it today. Rin is -
Looking around at the bar quite a lot?
He ducks back down quickly and slumps against the icebox.
They're looking for him. He told them where he was and they're looking for him, and they're not going to be deterred by a pretty face with pretty words, and Sen is grinning at nothing.
He's not wondering why. He thinks there's a reason he can't quite bring himself to touch, to examine, something that had to do with how they smiled at him the day he came home. (His heart crawls into his throat and settles there, pounding out its demand.) How close they've kept to him, how much focus they've fixed on him. (Those fucking - flutters in his stomach are back.)
Sen rests a hand on his midsection and huffs a breath. ]
Andi, Andi, Andi - what on earth did you put in that drink?
[ Andi stops again and glances his way, brows raised, waiting. Okay, what's the punchline. He rolls his head against the cool metal, turning daft eyes and a dafter grin on her. ]
Got fucking butterflies, me.
[ Andi rolls her eyes, but he thinks he catches sight of a smile shadowing her mouth. "I'm working, Mr. Wilkes." ]
And fine work you do. The paragon of bartending: observant and ever-ready with a drink - the right drink for the right occasion, no less. Bourbon for the broken-hearted, Manhattans for the startled and suspicious. An untold catalogue of cocktails for every conceivable circumstance. What would one such as yourself recommend, I wonder, to a man who has succumbed to a case of effervescent delight?
[ She's trying to ignore him, trying to reassure Manhattan on the other side of the bar that he's just a friend of the owner, it's really all right - but the question proves intrusive enough for her to stagger in her comments and laugh a little.
And then clamp her mouth shut against the laugh and raise her eyes heavenward.
"I think I'd cut you off." ]
Ooh - interesting tactic. Most would say 'champagne'. That's what Manhattan thinks, isn't it, Manhattan? Don't say anything, I hear the wheels turning in your beautiful head. Me, personally? Something mellow. Amaretto. A smooth Malbec. Are they looking this way, Andi?
[ "Mr. Wilkes, I swear to god."
His grin broadens and he draws his knees in. Some of the effervescence escapes as a low near-giggle. ]
Me, too. Me, too. Whichever god you like.
[ And, raising his voice a little: ]
Sorry for the startle, Manhattan. This is where they keep the ladders and men they use for reaching things on the top shelf.
[ An ice cube pings the side of his head. Stop talking to the customers, freak.
He's laughing too blithely to mind at all. ]