vestments: (Default)
𝙢𝙠, magical girl batman. ([personal profile] vestments) wrote in [community profile] diademlogs 2025-06-16 06:05 pm (UTC)

( there's familiarity in the sound amos makes — marc's own laugh would be none too dissimilar, the awkward result of disuse and infrequency, and though he doesn't quite reciprocate, there is a hum of acknowledgement that edges towards amusement. )

There'll be some once the ice melts. ( it's a wry murmur, the verbal equivalent of a shrug as he meets amos's gaze and amos explains the very imprecise way he'd managed to get served something that wasn't what marc'd ended up with.

what he thinks but doesn't say, then, is: luck of the draw. he'd disagree, too, that FRUITY SHIT isn't that bad — marc's never had much of a sweet tooth, never particularly cared for artificial flavours, and he can guess what a discomfortingly blue drink might taste like, but that'd been on earth, where they're not. (probably. marc's still not entirely convinced that this is all real and as it seems.)

in the beat of silence between them, marc's attention flits back to thomas just in time to catch the way that the umbrellas get thrown on the ground. where amos thinks huh, marc inhales a sharp breath that sounds as if it's the precursor to a sigh that doesn't come. maybe, he thinks, he should've tried his luck with the grill outside, and he tilts his head towards amos, mouth parting in a small 'o' as if he's about to remark as much, but he's stopped short by the nudge of the glass and the complaining of the bartop.

he pauses, expression momentarily blank and uncomprehending, then—. ah. realisation is swift and blatant, and he reaches out to slide the glass the rest of the way towards him. it sticks a little on the damp wood and threatens to spill, while marc's brows knit quizzically, the unasked question of 'what, you gonna ask for another one?' sitting in his features.

a small, perhaps surprisingly delicate sip precipitates a scrunch of his nose. comparatively, it's not terrible, but it's — well, it's not good. drinkable's about the kindest thing anyone could say, but as far as these things go, drinkable's fine.

that doesn't stop him from levelling his gaze at amos as he places the glass back down, a dull thunk bookending the movement rather than a clink. his mouth thins — more of a smothering of a (not)smile than anything else, and— )
I don't know what'll make you feel worse in the morning: the sugar or the booze.

( is it that sweet, or is marc just fucking with him? REMAINS TO BE SEEN. )

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