spaghetti metaphor, ig | soft-closed(?)

[pathlit]

WHO: Abby, Jayce & Viktor (& peanut gallery if applicable?)
WHAT: Noodle nerd orchestrates friendly competition between meatball nerds
WHEN: After castaways, before expo, evening-ish
WHERE: Staffed dining area, Gallows
NOTES: How it started;

"My arm's still tingling," complains Jayce, if in a rather woebegone way, as he sets down two mugs of tea beside their meals and seats himself next to Viktor in the dining hall. It's dinner time for most, but breakfast for this particular pair thanks to losing track of the time while fine-tuning their main exhibition project. When he'd asked for coffee, the kitchen staff had shot him such a look of disapproval (that might have also had to do with the state of his hair, wherein flashes of blue and green occasionally dispersed from the tips like static electricity) that Jayce had meekly retracted his request and opted for the more socially acceptable tea at-this-time instead.

This pins-and-needle side-effect of indulging in the foolish curiosity of 'what will happen if I touch my anchor to this lyrium-based contraption of glass-and-other-things?' prior to their descent to the dining hall comes at the heels of a nearly resolved sunburn of moderate unpleasantness, of which Viktor has likely heard a whine or two since his return (see: rescue) from a(nother) mission gone wrong. He's still undecided on how he feels about Viktor's complete lack of awareness of the situation until they'd been brought back. On one hand, that is extremely like him. On the other, ouch.

What is no longer ouch is wearing a shirt, so -- small victories.

Comments

[armd]

Recovering, she finds a spot for her elbow on the table, mimicking Jayce's open-palmed readiness. She doesn't take his hand just yet. Viktor being here to watch is quite weird but hasn't this entire thing been already. No backing out now.

"We should probably start with a friendly warm-up," is a suggestion that is both good-natured and kinda bolshie. "Before you wanna go betting anything."

[pathlit]

Their current situation isn't the weirdest of his benign shenanigans; there are a plethora of odd (and oddly endearing) encounters one naturally discovers when interacting with a good-natured and wholly sheltered daughter of one's upper-class patron who very much wishes to break through her shell.

In comparison, this is just a bit of good, if unexpected, fun.

"Fair enough," he says, nearly grinning. There is no further discharge of arcane energy when their hands clasp, no unfair advantage in a sneaky spark. The silent comparison of Abby to Vi isn't unmerited, he soon finds, because Abby isn't just talk. Their first round concludes with a final grunt as he pins her arm down to the table, expression creased with effort.

He releases her hand, and with it, an airy little chuckle, almost relieved. "Best of three?" he asks, massaging his hand because ow.

[grindset]

It's maybe a little weird—arguably it would be weirder if they were entirely alone—but Viktor makes a very casual audience, at least. He counts them down with bread in his hand and observes through placid chewing, only slowing in those long hanging seconds before an arm is pinned at last... and it's Abby. She'll come back at him with a little fire in her belly, he thinks.

Sedately, off a sidelong look at Jayce's hands, "Are you sure?"

[armd]

Does she wanna be the girl who interrupts his dinner just to wreck him at arm-wrestling? Yeah. She kinda does. But she quickly realises that she's gonna need to try harder than she is; Jayce is strong, and he's already got her arm too far down.

Valiantly she fights back, and he still wins.

It surprises her slightly. Fuck. Well, okay.

"Yeah," she breathes, seemingly energised by the loss, propping her elbow back up. She wiggles her fingers at him. "I'm good. Holy shit. What do you bench?"

[pathlit]

"Not enough," he laughs, positioning his elbow back onto the table. "Do you have a setup here?"

An easy enough assumption that she might given the question.

Their second round ends with Jayce trembling against the inevitable descent of defeat. A thin sheen of sweat coats his skin; his teeth are gritted and his brows pushed together as he strains to turn the tide, but 'tis a futile effort. When his arm meets the table, he exhales noisily and stretches his hand on release, leaning backwards with a tired smile.

"Not that I'm throwing the towel in yet, but I'm sort of glad we didn't bet anything."

And he'll be doubly glad soon enough, because after he barely manages to win the third round, Abby absolutely pummels him with a decisive victory in the fourth. At that point, his entire upper body, not just his arm, is humming with the pleasant ache of strenuous activity; his face is flushed and his hairline is damp with sweat, but his lips crack with a faint smile, impressed.

Massaging his flexors, he shakes his head and says, "Think I'm-- yeah, I'm gonna yield. Wouldn't want to face you in a fight."

[grindset]

Out of sportsmanlike respect—and there are very few opportunities to accuse him of sport-related behaviour—Viktor has little commentary to offer while they're in the thick of it. By the fourth and final round, he's simply leaning on his arm, knuckles at his cheek, and toggling looks between various points of interest. Anyone looking from a distance could easily mistake this posture for boredom, which it is not—not in the least.

That he happens to be licking what's left of his dinner from his teeth, on the other hand, is purely a coincidence of timing. It's not a sex thing, as Abby had so tactfully inquired—truly, it isn't—but there is and has been a measurable imbalance in the quality of his attention.

"Yielding at a draw? That's chivalrous of you."

His gaze darts to Abby. What does she think of that?