[ He corrects in a slow and easy drawl, to the tune of I know, pathetic right? He follows that with both of his shots knocked back in a single painful swig, getting it over with. The faster it's in him the faster he'll be a little numb, and... frankly, on an empty stomach with the amount of blood he's lost, two shots of strong piss tequila are likely to kick like a fucking mule. The taste does, too, and when he pulls the glass away it's with an unabashedly disgusted expression. It's one of those things where you've got so many memories puking something up it's almost hard to swallow without triggering a Pavlovian response. It only lingers for a couple of seconds, and then it settles hotly somewhere in his chest. Jesus Patron Christ, he wishes he had the ability to create limes, at least.
Just 'cause he makes it doesn't mean he likes it. It works in a pinch, but he's more of the craft beer persuasion. Probably a surprise to nobody.
He talks in a way that suggests he's got no qualms sharing details about his personal life. It isn't a confession, he doesn't have any particular agenda. No shame, no concern that Mace will judge him about it. Just a layer of awareness at how absurd he'd been, his own shortcomings. His amusement in hindsight. ]
We just did this-- well, I just did this thing where... You ever make up somebody in your head? Like, you meet them and you get a first impression, and then you make the best possible version of that impression? Well, I did that with him, and then we did that whole flirting around the subject hovering in each other's atmosphere having too many inside jokes but nobody making a move thing. The chase, or whatever.
[ Because it's those beginning stages of relationships Ian can do. He's comfortable with those, he revels in them. Reading body language, picking up subtle clues - either that the person he's interested in is giving out deliberately, or the unconscious signals they don't even know about themselves. It's like a challenge, or a puzzle, and it's loaded to the brim with flirting. Practically his calling.
It's when things get real that he backs out. When either the idealistic pedestal he builds for them comes crumbling down - such as the case with this college interest, or worse - when they're exactly who he thought they were and he feels himself starting to get invested. Starts to notice that if they stopped coming around, if they left, it's about the point where it would start to hurt.
He rips off the band-aid, or... gently soaks the band-aid until it gets wet and falls off on its own, if you can stomach the metaphor.
The glass gets set over onto the nightstand. He cards his hair back again. ]
But anyway, that's my personal anecdote. Gimme a story about yourself, your highness.
[ Prince Charming. Kind of hard to dismiss that particular brand as an aggrandized opinion on Ian's part, not considering every single fucking thing he's done since they woke up here. ]
no subject
[ He corrects in a slow and easy drawl, to the tune of I know, pathetic right? He follows that with both of his shots knocked back in a single painful swig, getting it over with. The faster it's in him the faster he'll be a little numb, and... frankly, on an empty stomach with the amount of blood he's lost, two shots of strong piss tequila are likely to kick like a fucking mule. The taste does, too, and when he pulls the glass away it's with an unabashedly disgusted expression. It's one of those things where you've got so many memories puking something up it's almost hard to swallow without triggering a Pavlovian response. It only lingers for a couple of seconds, and then it settles hotly somewhere in his chest. Jesus Patron Christ, he wishes he had the ability to create limes, at least.
Just 'cause he makes it doesn't mean he likes it. It works in a pinch, but he's more of the craft beer persuasion. Probably a surprise to nobody.
He talks in a way that suggests he's got no qualms sharing details about his personal life. It isn't a confession, he doesn't have any particular agenda. No shame, no concern that Mace will judge him about it. Just a layer of awareness at how absurd he'd been, his own shortcomings. His amusement in hindsight. ]
We just did this-- well, I just did this thing where... You ever make up somebody in your head? Like, you meet them and you get a first impression, and then you make the best possible version of that impression? Well, I did that with him, and then we did that whole flirting around the subject hovering in each other's atmosphere having too many inside jokes but nobody making a move thing. The chase, or whatever.
[ Because it's those beginning stages of relationships Ian can do. He's comfortable with those, he revels in them. Reading body language, picking up subtle clues - either that the person he's interested in is giving out deliberately, or the unconscious signals they don't even know about themselves. It's like a challenge, or a puzzle, and it's loaded to the brim with flirting. Practically his calling.
It's when things get real that he backs out. When either the idealistic pedestal he builds for them comes crumbling down - such as the case with this college interest, or worse - when they're exactly who he thought they were and he feels himself starting to get invested. Starts to notice that if they stopped coming around, if they left, it's about the point where it would start to hurt.
He rips off the band-aid, or... gently soaks the band-aid until it gets wet and falls off on its own, if you can stomach the metaphor.
The glass gets set over onto the nightstand. He cards his hair back again. ]
But anyway, that's my personal anecdote. Gimme a story about yourself, your highness.
[ Prince Charming. Kind of hard to dismiss that particular brand as an aggrandized opinion on Ian's part, not considering every single fucking thing he's done since they woke up here. ]