[ Something about the way Clive says that makes Sleipnir wonder if the man before him doesn't have the confidence to enjoy himself... He's curious and wonders how this could be, but will let it go for the time being.
When Mythos uses his name for the second time it registers much closer to the foreground of his mind. He likes the way it sounds. Well, of course Sleipnir does, he already admitted to enjoying his voice, so of course his name would- Hm. Still, it's cute, and he's a glad to have done something for him others had not. Sleipnir raises his glass to Clive's appreciation and takes a sip.
The reverie of Barnabas is a bittersweet one which both kisses and stings Sleipnir's core. Upon blinking he mentally emerges from it, eyes raising up to meet Clive's. Pain. Suffering. What he has spoken is reflected in his savior's eyes and not for the first time Sleipnir wonders what dances beneath the other's skin. What secrets lie buried beneath blood and bone.
The pain is there again- or is it still?- when Clive's eyes snap back during Sleipnir's stumbling monologue. The alcohol drives a strange urge to hold the man cupped in his hands, shelter him from the wind like a guttering candle. Weird indeed, because Lord Rosfield is not four inches tall and thusly would not fit as such.
His mind lingers on the thought, aided by the man having tilted away from him and Sleipnir feels the candle's warmth being taken with it. The metaphor trips a little when he thinks about how the man seems to be dousing the fire in alcohol- wouldn't that stoke the flame?- when he finally finishes his shot, denies the bartender, and rejoins with Sleipnir once more.
Instinctually Sleipnir thought to respond with how the other is Mythos, their savior, and how of course he deserves it by virtue of this alone... But the man asks what he has done to deserve it. Which is a very different thing. So, instead Sleipnir leans back, body still facing him, and runs his eyes over Clive's face, studying him quietly a moment.
Sleipnir's expression is very concentrated and absent-mindedly he runs his tongue over his teeth while his mouth is closed, contemplating the other, weighing thoughts and directions to take this. He slides his glass of wine to the side and drums his fingers once, twice on the bar top while maintaining eye contact.
Then he looks away as he reaches out to pry the shot glass from under Clive's hand, motions for the bartender to fill it for him instead, and downs it. Then he tosses back a second one and slides the glass back to the bartender. Through all of this Sleipnir has kept his body tilted facing Clive and now his gaze returns there as well. He licks his lips, presses them together, then speaks. ]
... One does not need to do something to earn being cared for, Clive Rosfield. It is something that should be given freely. [ Sleipnir waits a beat for this to sink in, then continues before Clive can interject. ] That people in your life have denied you such for so long... I find myself rather angry with them over it.
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When Mythos uses his name for the second time it registers much closer to the foreground of his mind. He likes the way it sounds. Well, of course Sleipnir does, he already admitted to enjoying his voice, so of course his name would- Hm. Still, it's cute, and he's a glad to have done something for him others had not. Sleipnir raises his glass to Clive's appreciation and takes a sip.
The reverie of Barnabas is a bittersweet one which both kisses and stings Sleipnir's core. Upon blinking he mentally emerges from it, eyes raising up to meet Clive's. Pain. Suffering. What he has spoken is reflected in his savior's eyes and not for the first time Sleipnir wonders what dances beneath the other's skin. What secrets lie buried beneath blood and bone.
The pain is there again- or is it still?- when Clive's eyes snap back during Sleipnir's stumbling monologue. The alcohol drives a strange urge to hold the man cupped in his hands, shelter him from the wind like a guttering candle. Weird indeed, because Lord Rosfield is not four inches tall and thusly would not fit as such.
His mind lingers on the thought, aided by the man having tilted away from him and Sleipnir feels the candle's warmth being taken with it. The metaphor trips a little when he thinks about how the man seems to be dousing the fire in alcohol- wouldn't that stoke the flame?- when he finally finishes his shot, denies the bartender, and rejoins with Sleipnir once more.
Instinctually Sleipnir thought to respond with how the other is Mythos, their savior, and how of course he deserves it by virtue of this alone... But the man asks what he has done to deserve it. Which is a very different thing. So, instead Sleipnir leans back, body still facing him, and runs his eyes over Clive's face, studying him quietly a moment.
Sleipnir's expression is very concentrated and absent-mindedly he runs his tongue over his teeth while his mouth is closed, contemplating the other, weighing thoughts and directions to take this. He slides his glass of wine to the side and drums his fingers once, twice on the bar top while maintaining eye contact.
Then he looks away as he reaches out to pry the shot glass from under Clive's hand, motions for the bartender to fill it for him instead, and downs it. Then he tosses back a second one and slides the glass back to the bartender. Through all of this Sleipnir has kept his body tilted facing Clive and now his gaze returns there as well. He licks his lips, presses them together, then speaks. ]
... One does not need to do something to earn being cared for, Clive Rosfield. It is something that should be given freely. [ Sleipnir waits a beat for this to sink in, then continues before Clive can interject. ] That people in your life have denied you such for so long... I find myself rather angry with them over it.