[ He was marooned on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean before he came here, so being trapped in a future where everyone he knows is probably gone is something of a lateral move. Nate can feel himself drifting into that distracted listlessness again and fights it with a thin excuse for a smile. ]
Yeah.
[ He's fucking lonely. Judging by their current surroundings it seems like Stephen knows the sensation intimately. Nate lifts his beaker in a mock toast. ]
[ There's a shift. Stephen quiets, seeking out evidence, and finds it in the raise of a makeshift glass and the unconvincing tilt of a smile. ]
... To coping mechanisms.
[ Three small words and a beaker raised in turn. A greater concession to struggle than any other he's given in— nine months.
He drains his glass. Wonders if he's ever put any real thought into what his coping mechanisms are, the liquor burning a path down his throat aside. But of course, he's standing in the basement of the product of them: a business pulled out of nowhere, a "home" without personality or comfort, all of his resources poured back into the bar so that others might be better supported. No time to dwell. Less room for guilt.
The empty glass in his hand and the company it's shared with is an admission of its own, one that takes him slightly by surprise. It shows the first sprouting shoots of a willingness, however infrequent, to allow himself a little break for air. ]
And to limitless supply.
[ Which is to say he's pouring himself another, bottle lifted in question. Top up? ]
Edited (this thread was Some Time ago and even this correction is incorrect but I'm too lazy to run the numbers bye) 2020-04-19 22:18 (UTC)
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no subject
Well, we both made it out. [ ... ] Maybe a little too far out.
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Yeah.
[ He's fucking lonely. Judging by their current surroundings it seems like Stephen knows the sensation intimately. Nate lifts his beaker in a mock toast. ]
To coping mechanisms?
no subject
... To coping mechanisms.
[ Three small words and a beaker raised in turn. A greater concession to struggle than any other he's given in— nine months.
He drains his glass. Wonders if he's ever put any real thought into what his coping mechanisms are, the liquor burning a path down his throat aside. But of course, he's standing in the basement of the product of them: a business pulled out of nowhere, a "home" without personality or comfort, all of his resources poured back into the bar so that others might be better supported. No time to dwell. Less room for guilt.
The empty glass in his hand and the company it's shared with is an admission of its own, one that takes him slightly by surprise. It shows the first sprouting shoots of a willingness, however infrequent, to allow himself a little break for air. ]
And to limitless supply.
[ Which is to say he's pouring himself another, bottle lifted in question. Top up? ]