[A short nod, equally not giving the Eighth's garbage mouth any actual importance. He'd called them a few things himself and settled on "consistent," which is not a compliment, and they aren't here now, besides. He doubts he will ever see the adept of the Eighth, his rude little mouth, or his unfortunate cavalier ever again. The rest of the House, at large, can go screw.
This moment, here, is for Viktor - the nebulous edges of what's simply the alcohol making him feel warm and pleasant and comfortable blend so completely into feeling all of those things without its help. Funny to think that a silly romance-slash-heist-slash-action novel has done this, but Palamedes isn't fool enough to discount Viktor. That it's specifically Viktor sitting here and not someone else — for one thing, the silly novel would have been different.]
I didn't have help the first time, [he offers, with a grateful softness.] All this might have taken me ages on my own.
[Which - quality remains to be seen, but having another mind is the point. Viktor says thank you, and he smiles, and Palamedes' fingers twitch. He recalls with perfect clarity even now the monotony and loneliness of spending weeks into months isolated, with only a stupid romance novel and a pencil for company. Call it that memory, call it the alcohol, call it Viktor's smile close enough to touch — an amalgam of any of those draws Palamedes in, twitchy fingers brushing Viktor's arm, then his elbow, then his shoulder in a manner of moments, tugging him into an earnest hug.
He's grateful, and unabashed, and swimming in just enough liquor that his carefully sorted compartments can spill into the forefront unbidden and he can get a little messy. This, of course, is messy. Ahem.]
Thank you, [he says somewhere in the vicinity of Viktor's ear, hi,] I'm telling you, you're good. I might even say gifted.
me writing this tag: and in the bg, the school janitor off shift saw everything
This moment, here, is for Viktor - the nebulous edges of what's simply the alcohol making him feel warm and pleasant and comfortable blend so completely into feeling all of those things without its help. Funny to think that a silly romance-slash-heist-slash-action novel has done this, but Palamedes isn't fool enough to discount Viktor. That it's specifically Viktor sitting here and not someone else — for one thing, the silly novel would have been different.]
I didn't have help the first time, [he offers, with a grateful softness.] All this might have taken me ages on my own.
[Which - quality remains to be seen, but having another mind is the point. Viktor says thank you, and he smiles, and Palamedes' fingers twitch. He recalls with perfect clarity even now the monotony and loneliness of spending weeks into months isolated, with only a stupid romance novel and a pencil for company. Call it that memory, call it the alcohol, call it Viktor's smile close enough to touch — an amalgam of any of those draws Palamedes in, twitchy fingers brushing Viktor's arm, then his elbow, then his shoulder in a manner of moments, tugging him into an earnest hug.
He's grateful, and unabashed, and swimming in just enough liquor that his carefully sorted compartments can spill into the forefront unbidden and he can get a little messy. This, of course, is messy. Ahem.]
Thank you, [he says somewhere in the vicinity of Viktor's ear, hi,] I'm telling you, you're good. I might even say gifted.