I continue to have no idea what the fuck you're talking about.
[ But it's finally enough for him to stop being distracted. A book snaps shut. He considers the other circumstances where he's had no idea what the fuck people were talking about. ]
You've got a brother, of whom I've never heard, who sounds just like you, but with an extremely vague northeastern accent. This is what I'm meant to believe.
[Don't look at him while he's recovering from being wrong, it's worse than unnoticed bed-hair. On the other hand, that looks like a little gap he can squeeze into, so:]
[ The pause is longer than completely socially acceptable. Long enough for him to finish reading a page, to be precise, while also weighing whether or not Ander liquor is worth this. ]
['Socially acceptable'—ha ha, good one. Would it annoy Kostos to know Lea is still talking to his brother at this point? Better not mention that part, just in case.]
And in a minute he'll still be procrastinating unlocking the door, incorrectly believing he'll be able to get through what he's working on before he interrupts it further. But he'll be pretty prompt about getting up to open it once Leander arrives—opening it, and blocking it, hand extended for the bottle. It's a toll. ]
[The door opens, and there he is, still with his wavy hair and his vaguely crooked nose, his eyelashes and everything, shoulder on the doorframe. He lifts the bottle by its neck, and its dark belly bulges below his fingers, wearing the label like a girdle. It's definitely from the Anderfels; if Kostos wanted to charge cover, he should've asked for money.
The bottle comes near, stops short of delivery: still close enough to grab. Leander smiles, laceration-thin.
(If the door shuts in his face again, says that smile, he'll knock it down on principle before he leaves.)]
But the door doesn't shut. Yet. Kostos also doesn't move. He's busy, first with taking the bottle using a firm gimme tug and then with opening it. The door's future may depend on what it smells like.
[Lea releases the bottle readily, after a hint of resistance. Its contents probably smell fine, unless a) the Chamberlain has taken to passive-aggressive beverage gestures, or b) someone with a very weird craving requested it specifically. Fingers crossed he didn't steal the salted black liquorice of liquors.]
Well, he vigorously instructed me to do a few unpleasant things, called me a prick, and, strangely, accused me of not knowing you at all. Which is true, I suppose. But we're going to remedy that, aren't we?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Kind of. Mostly he likes to make other people sound like idiots out of boredom. ]
But I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about.
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If that was your idea of flirting, you need to reevaluate.
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[ But it's finally enough for him to stop being distracted. A book snaps shut. He considers the other circumstances where he's had no idea what the fuck people were talking about. ]
Did you meet my brother?
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[Do you think I'm stupid is rarely a wise question to ask out loud, but perhaps it comes across unspoken.]
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[ Annoyed, now: ]
Maker. We do not even look that much alike. I know how to use a razor.
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[ And, helpfully: ]
We're twins.
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[ he's very trustworthy!! ]
send him a message. [ The book thunks open again. ] You can come here and watch me not say anything while you do it.
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[Don't look at him while he's recovering from being wrong, it's worse than unnoticed bed-hair. On the other hand, that looks like a little gap he can squeeze into, so:]
I'll come by afterward.
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[ He's reading again. He doesn't care!! Enjoy Nikos. ]
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Well, he's angry. Don't tell me you're busy now, I don't care, I'm bringing liquor regardless.
[Therefore: tell him where he should be going.]
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[He casually swiped it from the visitor catering cart on his way past.]
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I'm in the office.
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Lovely. Be there in a minute, then.
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[ That means "fine."
And in a minute he'll still be procrastinating unlocking the door, incorrectly believing he'll be able to get through what he's working on before he interrupts it further. But he'll be pretty prompt about getting up to open it once Leander arrives—opening it, and blocking it, hand extended for the bottle. It's a toll. ]
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The bottle comes near, stops short of delivery: still close enough to grab. Leander smiles, laceration-thin.
(If the door shuts in his face again, says that smile, he'll knock it down on principle before he leaves.)]
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But the door doesn't shut. Yet. Kostos also doesn't move. He's busy, first with taking the bottle using a firm gimme tug and then with opening it. The door's future may depend on what it smells like.
In the meantime— ]
How angry was he?
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Well, he vigorously instructed me to do a few unpleasant things, called me a prick, and, strangely, accused me of not knowing you at all. Which is true, I suppose. But we're going to remedy that, aren't we?