For the love of God, this was why he didn't want to come back to America and suffer all her "nationalistic traditions"—drinking rotten beer, scoping women with assets that rivaled those of Barbie, swallowing grease, and whatever the hell Neanderthals did. It was here at this time, chugging his liquor, that he wondered why the hell a bill was taking so long to prepare, why the hell he was feeling so agitated at all of this raucous he experienced everyday in New York. His thoughts soon gravitated towards the extreme, and there was no helping it.
He should never have transferred out of Oxford, never have sold his penthouse in London, never have applied for a long-term visa, never have stepped out of the airport.
Never have given into this idiot who looked at him with confusion at its alpha stage.
"Shaun? Hey?"
Never.
"Shaun?"
"What?" he snapped, downing his fourth bottle. Just how weak was their stash? He was pretty sure a squirrel could finish off two and still hype around. "What do you want?"
"You okay, man?"
"Okay?"
"Yeah." Desmond rubbed at his chin, what Shaun noticed to be a habit he brought around in times of awkwardness, and sighed, his fingers toying with a french-fry. He took a sip of his Coke before he gestured over to poor Kadar, who seemed to want to blend into the counter. "Like I said: I'm sorry about all this. I'm eating really quickly, so—"
"It's fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"Miles, I said that I'm fine. I just want the bill to be here."
" … Alright. But—"
Shaun quirked an eyebrow when his shirt was tugged, turning around to address whatever nonsensical problem there was with his current life. No sooner did he gesture for Kadar to hand him another beer was something hot pressed against his lips, something salty and familiar, and before he knew it, his mouth strayed and took it without his mind's consent. He shook his head and rest his gaze on the other as he got ready to admonish the hell out of him—whatever he put into his mouth, he nearly forgot due to his exasperation. However, just as he was about to make his sarcasm be the first stone cast, he stopped in his plans and readjusted his frames, his set beer left unopened.
Bound (1/3) of [5/?]
He should never have transferred out of Oxford, never have sold his penthouse in London, never have applied for a long-term visa, never have stepped out of the airport.
Never have given into this idiot who looked at him with confusion at its alpha stage.
"Shaun? Hey?"
Never.
"Shaun?"
"What?" he snapped, downing his fourth bottle. Just how weak was their stash? He was pretty sure a squirrel could finish off two and still hype around. "What do you want?"
"You okay, man?"
"Okay?"
"Yeah." Desmond rubbed at his chin, what Shaun noticed to be a habit he brought around in times of awkwardness, and sighed, his fingers toying with a french-fry. He took a sip of his Coke before he gestured over to poor Kadar, who seemed to want to blend into the counter. "Like I said: I'm sorry about all this. I'm eating really quickly, so—"
"It's fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"Miles, I said that I'm fine. I just want the bill to be here."
" … Alright. But—"
Shaun quirked an eyebrow when his shirt was tugged, turning around to address whatever nonsensical problem there was with his current life. No sooner did he gesture for Kadar to hand him another beer was something hot pressed against his lips, something salty and familiar, and before he knew it, his mouth strayed and took it without his mind's consent. He shook his head and rest his gaze on the other as he got ready to admonish the hell out of him—whatever he put into his mouth, he nearly forgot due to his exasperation. However, just as he was about to make his sarcasm be the first stone cast, he stopped in his plans and readjusted his frames, his set beer left unopened.