[Eridanus' attention turns, only for a moment, to the glasses as Lucius pours them. He plucks up the one closest to him by its delicate stem, and raises the rim to his nose. Knowing the man beside him, there must be some trick to the drink for him to mention such a vague difference. He swirls the dark liquid, aerating it within its bulbous house and inhaling the aroma as he does.]
I think you are quite right. Some citrus notes, with a hint of earthinessโcheap is not a word I would use liberally, but it certainly doesn't smell of a well-aged wine. [It's a playful prod, eluding at a slight lift in demeanor from his prior despondency; but when Lucius joins him, the way he inches closer and settles a hand on his thigh still speaks of a melancholy-borne dependence.
His ears perk unconsciously as he feels those padded fingertips slide across the skin of his nape, tangling themselves with the hair that was loosened there. Shame floods his cheeks with color at the way the sensation tickles up his spine, and he knows he shouldn't feel excited by such a touchโyet, his ears peel back and lay flat against his head. As if to distract himself, Eridanus suddenly takes a generous sip of his drink.
Room-temperature liquid tingles his tongue, and he immediately understands the difference. There is something added to it, like the pink fuck they shared at the party. Eridanus' mind wanders back to that night, how wonderful it had been, and then the fallout thereafter. It's unspoken, but he appreciates the change in subject when Lucius provides it. His gaze is side-cast and curious, though he doesn't pry, seeing as the moments Lucius shares details about himself are so few and in a way, special.]
It's ironic. The last war I fought used the city I trained in as an apprentice as its base. It was odd walking those cobblestone streets, imbued with ward-magic, and stepping into bars I hadn't drank at in centuries. All my old friends were long dead, yet after all those years, the table we would always sit at still had the knife-carvings I had drunkenly made when I was a boy. [As if retracing them from memory, his fingers draw swirling patterns against Lucius' thigh.]
no subject
I think you are quite right. Some citrus notes, with a hint of earthinessโcheap is not a word I would use liberally, but it certainly doesn't smell of a well-aged wine. [It's a playful prod, eluding at a slight lift in demeanor from his prior despondency; but when Lucius joins him, the way he inches closer and settles a hand on his thigh still speaks of a melancholy-borne dependence.
His ears perk unconsciously as he feels those padded fingertips slide across the skin of his nape, tangling themselves with the hair that was loosened there. Shame floods his cheeks with color at the way the sensation tickles up his spine, and he knows he shouldn't feel excited by such a touchโyet, his ears peel back and lay flat against his head. As if to distract himself, Eridanus suddenly takes a generous sip of his drink.
Room-temperature liquid tingles his tongue, and he immediately understands the difference. There is something added to it, like the pink fuck they shared at the party. Eridanus' mind wanders back to that night, how wonderful it had been, and then the fallout thereafter. It's unspoken, but he appreciates the change in subject when Lucius provides it. His gaze is side-cast and curious, though he doesn't pry, seeing as the moments Lucius shares details about himself are so few and in a way, special.]
It's ironic. The last war I fought used the city I trained in as an apprentice as its base. It was odd walking those cobblestone streets, imbued with ward-magic, and stepping into bars I hadn't drank at in centuries. All my old friends were long dead, yet after all those years, the table we would always sit at still had the knife-carvings I had drunkenly made when I was a boy. [As if retracing them from memory, his fingers draw swirling patterns against Lucius' thigh.]