It seems like he's always coming in here in his pajamas.
One barefoot sex mage enters, dressed (indeed) in his old sushi boxers and CAFFEINE: fictional tour 2025 band t-shirt. Matt's hair is messier than usual, and he looks like he hasn't slept
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"No good at all."
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"Uh," he says.
Insomnia? Reading?
Tea?
"Which, what?"
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He drums the fingers of his other hand against the wood again, and looks blithely untroubled as a feisty kitten pounces from the other side of the bar and bats a paw at him.
"You've no rum in there, aye? Not good."
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"Well," he says.
"I normally wouldn't be averse, but-- wait. Actually. Rum might help me sleep."
There's something medically unsound about this, he knows.
He'll have to check the internet tomorrow.
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"Lass, you heard the boy--"
A bottle of rum appears, delighting the kitten, which begins to chase its tail in circles around the bottle.
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"That cat is adorable."
Maybe it makes him less manly to admit it, but manliness has never exactly been Matt's defining trait. Plus he thinks Hat Guy is wearing eyeliner. He reaches for the bottle and uncaps it, pouring out into his mug.
"At least," he notes with a yawn, "it'll probably get cool enough to drink."
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"Never not too warm to drink what's meant to be drunk or in the way of making a man drunk saving when it's not rum what's the drink to be drinking, savvy?"
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"... I am probably not savvy," he admits.
"But if you go slow I could try to diagram."
(In the meantime, he blows on him rummed tea and takes a sip.
Perfection.
Terrible, bad-idea perfection.)
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"All the time, in fact."
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It may, or may not, be strictly because of the rum.
"Is that," he says, before he can stop himself.
"Because it's what she said?"
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