[ As if can taste Fabius' thoughts on the overlong, over-sensitized tongue that drifts between his lips, Lucius laughs as his brother turns. He would have been more surprised to hear him object to the suggestion, except perhaps as a biasing of the results of this test.

Lucius reaches for the beaker again, and the frustrating way his fingertips have been wholly encased in enamel doesn't even touch him in the moment. He can feel the glass on the lengths of his fingers, against his palm, and he nearly thinks the powder within the tube buzzes at the nearness of his touch. Another breathy chuckle passes through his fangs, and he finds himself tumbling back to recline against the cold slab with more carelessness than languor.

There is the sharp strike of metal against the back of his skull—but rather than piercing pain, the sensation that lances through his scalp and the bone beneath is one of pleasure. Now, the sound that parts his teeth is a sigh, and by the time Fabius turns, Lucius is dragging the hard, flat bottoms of his hooves against dirty metal, the meeting of their textures vibrating up the bones of his ankles. ]

You don't need to ask to know the answer to that. [ He holds the beaker above him, and the pinkish color within seems abruptly very sharp to Lucius' eyes. Again, he swishes it, watching those dust-fine granules shift with the movement, and his dexterity doesn't seem diminished much by his high, either. ] You just want me to say as much so I can't be upset when I stop breathing!

[ He tilts his head against the slab so he can shoot a grin Fabius' way. ]