( the interjection earns a glance, appraising and with a momentary widening of eyes punctuated by a knitting of brows that suggests marc thinks amos has a point and that, up until amos spoke, he hadn't considered the likelihood of it. a breath of a pause, then, as marc's gaze swings back round to thomas, and he holds up a hand as if to say hey, wait—.
unfortunately, thomas doesn't quite catch the gesture, back turned to both marc and amos as he's cheerfully distracted-slash-concentrating on the (apparently very lost) art of drink making. once, more recently than he'd care to admit, marc had been asked that if whiskey was steven's preferred drink of choice, if rum was jake's, where did that leave marc spector? he'd admitted, with less reluctance than he'd expected of himself, that his choice was vodka — ice cold, perfect for hot weather, whilst managing to strike a cord of nostalgia for chicago winters and his parents.
that's not why he doesn't opt for it now — the truth of it's simpler than that, and it's 'neat vodka needs to be good vodka' coupled with 'and if it's not, you already need to be drunk', and given what he's been served and what thomas offers as the replacement — luckily thomas has not provided actual rocks (thank god—) — but the glass is full to the brim with ice instead, spilling over onto the wood of the counter as the glass is slid inelegantly towards marc.
he inhales a breath, fingertips pressing against the cold of the glass before he spares amos another glance, this one sidelong, before his gaze drops to the blue of his drink. he doesn't quite smile, but there's a thin, quick quirk of his lips, and a dry, ) Yours looks better than mine.
What did you ask for to get something—. ( a flicker of a glance towards thomas. it may be difficult to describe marc as nice, per se, but he doesn't aim to be impolite.
so, instead of saying 'drinkable', he gestures vaguely and loosely with a hand. )
no subject
unfortunately, thomas doesn't quite catch the gesture, back turned to both marc and amos as he's cheerfully distracted-slash-concentrating on the (apparently very lost) art of drink making. once, more recently than he'd care to admit, marc had been asked that if whiskey was steven's preferred drink of choice, if rum was jake's, where did that leave marc spector? he'd admitted, with less reluctance than he'd expected of himself, that his choice was vodka — ice cold, perfect for hot weather, whilst managing to strike a cord of nostalgia for chicago winters and his parents.
that's not why he doesn't opt for it now — the truth of it's simpler than that, and it's 'neat vodka needs to be good vodka' coupled with 'and if it's not, you already need to be drunk', and given what he's been served and what thomas offers as the replacement — luckily thomas has not provided actual rocks (thank god—) — but the glass is full to the brim with ice instead, spilling over onto the wood of the counter as the glass is slid inelegantly towards marc.
he inhales a breath, fingertips pressing against the cold of the glass before he spares amos another glance, this one sidelong, before his gaze drops to the blue of his drink. he doesn't quite smile, but there's a thin, quick quirk of his lips, and a dry, ) Yours looks better than mine.
What did you ask for to get something—. ( a flicker of a glance towards thomas. it may be difficult to describe marc as nice, per se, but he doesn't aim to be impolite.
so, instead of saying 'drinkable', he gestures vaguely and loosely with a hand. )