[for Zelda and Eugene]

[whatdiesinside]

On Thursday morning, he'd wandered upstairs to wash her off his skin and get a cup of coffee for the walk home, lingered overlong under the spray of water and got caught loitering in the kitchen waiting for the pot to finish.  If she'd seemed more torn up over it, he might've dug in, laughed and walked away--but her calm gaze unbalanced him, pulled

Comments

[hylianqueen]

"None of my private tutors ever had a say in whether I came and went," Zelda replied, shielding her hair from the rain. It still got wet, bending and curling into a mass of waves instead of the normal straight and she didn't terribly mind; it was just hair, and it could be different tomorrow.

"I hate the rain. I've had my fill of reading in the compound and I want something more interesting to do. I thought you might be able to help me there, if you were willing."

They hadn't really made arrangements one way or the other, from her recollection, but she did remember his invitation.

[whatdiesinside]

He huffs a laugh, at the way she's bold enough to walk all the way out here in the rain, but the clear invitation is airy and polite. Something about the way she speaks, the way she carries herself even in this weather makes him want to look down and see if her feet even touch the fucking ground.

It's almost disappointing, seeing the mud on her shoes. "Think I'd be a fuckin' idiot to turn you down," he says, and it doesn't sound pretty but it's a similar tone: he's not too attached to the idea. "You want something to drink?"

[hylianqueen]

"I wouldn't turn it down," Zelda said, shrugging one shoulder. She had drunk wine before, on occasion, but she'd never actually drank just to get drunk. Still, in this place, who would even care to judge her? Likely nobody, if she were honest.

"Do you have wine or something different? I've only ever had wine before."

[whatdiesinside]

"It's all the same to me." Tastes shitty enough to almost have a taste, in his mouth, burns going down and gets him drunk. He hadn't planned to drink today, much less with company, but it's a good enough idea that he doesn't let on he'd meant something like a glass of water.

Glancing back at the door, he doesn't think he'd want fucking water either. Wine's not the kind of thing he drinks often, but after the party in July, he hadn't been picky about what he took during the clean-up. "Red or white," he asks, nervous hands stuffed in their pockets and a smirk making a halfhearted pull at his mouth: like he's sophisticated enough to give a shit.