[It's a nice, quiet enough evening in the dressingroom. And Tyki is taking advantage of the blissful peace. He's wandering down hallways, looking at clocks and watches, out far past when he'd usually be resting. And everything is well enough, until he comes across a radio that's been left out. Some lovely little classical music station, playing all
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[flinching and kind of just standing to the side, watching.]
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He simply stands for a moment, arm still outstretched towards the destruction, breathing hard.]
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...Never was a fan of Vivaldi.
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Go get drunk. Really smashed. It's excellent. [not that he expects Tyki not to know this.]
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I plan to. Until I can't think anymore. Can't walk. Don't care about the time. He'll have to come and get me in the morning, he'll be angry at me. But I can't help it, I'm going to drink until I'm sick.
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Oh. It'll be good for you. [contemplates for a moment.] Unless he starts hitting you, and then it won't.
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...Maybe. At least I'd end up back home. Even if I'm not awake for it. [Thinks hard on this. Or as hard as he can, other issues are a bit more heavily weighing in his mind.] ...I don't think he's the type.
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[sighs.] If he is treat him like the radio.
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...I could, but he'd fight back. And it'd all end up like it was years ago.
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Then stick with hoping you were right about "not the type".
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That's the general idea. It'll be bad for both of us if it ends up like 'old times'.
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