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

[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?