[Elijah certainly isn't going to complain about not having a mixer to go with the vodka. He lets Ronan disappear into the kitchen to get the glasses- mostly so that he has a moment to try and pull himself back together. He finds a place to toss his coat, drags a hand down his face. It's probably a good thing he isn't racing tonight, if he's honest. But he doesn't know how to say that, so he doesn't.
Instead he just settles across from Ronan as he sets out the glasses and opens the bottle.
When the other boy mentions what he said before, shrugging his shoulders as he looks at him. He expects him to make some sort of joke about it. Because it's ridiculous, isn't it? But Ronan isn't laughing. He isn't saying anything. Just leaving the quiet there for Elijah to fill, and so he takes a breath and tries to figure out how to say it.
He doesn't know that he expects the other boy to believe him. But he's reckless, and between the hurt and the alcohol and just the weight of fucking everything he's careless enough to try.]
My dreams don't always stay in my dreams. I'm sort of-- I don't know. Like a bridge or something?
[In so far as he could be said to be good at this, he was good at the practical part. Dimitri could have explained it, but if Dimitri was here he wouldn't have to. So after stumbling over his next few words, he makes a sound of frustration, and steals one of the glasses; swords seem a bit over-dramatic right now.
It looks almost like slight of hand. Elijah shifts the glass between his hands a couple times, and when he sets the glass on the table, it isn't empty, but amber like whiskey. Normally it's to take the edge off his injuries, but it's not a bad drink in a pinch. Alcohol, but like what he thought that was when he was younger: sunsets and open fields, heat that warms all the way down.
But more than that, it tastes like a dream.
There's a thrill to it, not just the magic, but doing it like this. Doing it where someone can see. His green eyes are almost too bright, and he slides the glass to the other boy across the table, his heart racing in his chest. He doesn't say anything about it, because what the fuck does he say?]
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Instead he just settles across from Ronan as he sets out the glasses and opens the bottle.
When the other boy mentions what he said before, shrugging his shoulders as he looks at him. He expects him to make some sort of joke about it. Because it's ridiculous, isn't it? But Ronan isn't laughing. He isn't saying anything. Just leaving the quiet there for Elijah to fill, and so he takes a breath and tries to figure out how to say it.
He doesn't know that he expects the other boy to believe him. But he's reckless, and between the hurt and the alcohol and just the weight of fucking everything he's careless enough to try.]
My dreams don't always stay in my dreams. I'm sort of-- I don't know. Like a bridge or something?
[In so far as he could be said to be good at this, he was good at the practical part. Dimitri could have explained it, but if Dimitri was here he wouldn't have to. So after stumbling over his next few words, he makes a sound of frustration, and steals one of the glasses; swords seem a bit over-dramatic right now.
It looks almost like slight of hand. Elijah shifts the glass between his hands a couple times, and when he sets the glass on the table, it isn't empty, but amber like whiskey. Normally it's to take the edge off his injuries, but it's not a bad drink in a pinch. Alcohol, but like what he thought that was when he was younger: sunsets and open fields, heat that warms all the way down.
But more than that, it tastes like a dream.
There's a thrill to it, not just the magic, but doing it like this. Doing it where someone can see. His green eyes are almost too bright, and he slides the glass to the other boy across the table, his heart racing in his chest. He doesn't say anything about it, because what the fuck does he say?]