[ Geoffrey was still torn over whether he liked this new friend or not, because really - a friend who would deprive a drunk man beer is no friend at all - but then maybe Ray really likes his upholstery. He can't really resent it too much, after all he may have lost his memory or his mind, and the addition of more alcohol to an already traumatized brain might simply be too much for it to handle.
So he doesn't sulk too much; maybe it's for the best. And the shower is very good.
He rubs his hair dry - it's messier than usual and the towel-rumpling doesn't help - then makes his way over to the couch to recover the assigned clothes. Good clothes. T-shirt, sweatpants, underwear. The shirt is even in his size, which only proves to deepen his suspicions about the nature of their relationship. But as he's yanking the boxers up (and having difficulty getting them over his hips as the towel slips to the floor because wow, surprise, they're a little tight across the middle and he never saw that coming) Ray says something about...
Chamomile tea? Jesus Christ. What's he trying to do, kill him? Chamomile tea? Where was his coffee? His nice, black coffee, bitter and unctuous and possibly bad for his continued mental health? The smell of coffee seemed to fill the entire apartment, but there'd be none of it for him. No coffee for Geoffrey. This was hell. He'd died and gone to hell.
He pulled up the sweatpants unhappily, then slumped down on the couch beside Ray just as the other man did the same. He sat forward where Ray sat back, his mussed hair still dripping water, his borrowed shirt clinging wet to the broad space between his shoulder blades. He smelled of Ray's shower lotion and nothing else--which was fortunate because ew ponds.
Geoffrey stared into the chamomile tea like a shark was going to jump out of it and attack him. This...this was not a drink. This was flower flavored water. It was medicine. Mouthwash. A disgusting potion invented by a hippy thousands of years before hippies were a thing. The very idea that in an era of coffee and beer such a drink might continue to exist was an affront to civilisation.
He leant down closer to the tea and sniffed it, hovering over the surface with his eyes crossed, then carefully he reached out and pushed it away, sitting back, looking at Ray grimly. He could try to look apologetic - he could - but he didn't. ]
Thank you but no thank you. I can't drink that. I wouldn't. Not even if you paid me. No indeed, especially not if you paid me.
no subject
So he doesn't sulk too much; maybe it's for the best. And the shower is very good.
He rubs his hair dry - it's messier than usual and the towel-rumpling doesn't help - then makes his way over to the couch to recover the assigned clothes. Good clothes. T-shirt, sweatpants, underwear. The shirt is even in his size, which only proves to deepen his suspicions about the nature of their relationship. But as he's yanking the boxers up (and having difficulty getting them over his hips as the towel slips to the floor because wow, surprise, they're a little tight across the middle and he never saw that coming) Ray says something about...
Chamomile tea? Jesus Christ. What's he trying to do, kill him? Chamomile tea? Where was his coffee? His nice, black coffee, bitter and unctuous and possibly bad for his continued mental health? The smell of coffee seemed to fill the entire apartment, but there'd be none of it for him. No coffee for Geoffrey. This was hell. He'd died and gone to hell.
He pulled up the sweatpants unhappily, then slumped down on the couch beside Ray just as the other man did the same. He sat forward where Ray sat back, his mussed hair still dripping water, his borrowed shirt clinging wet to the broad space between his shoulder blades. He smelled of Ray's shower lotion and nothing else--which was fortunate because ew ponds.
Geoffrey stared into the chamomile tea like a shark was going to jump out of it and attack him. This...this was not a drink. This was flower flavored water. It was medicine. Mouthwash. A disgusting potion invented by a hippy thousands of years before hippies were a thing. The very idea that in an era of coffee and beer such a drink might continue to exist was an affront to civilisation.
He leant down closer to the tea and sniffed it, hovering over the surface with his eyes crossed, then carefully he reached out and pushed it away, sitting back, looking at Ray grimly. He could try to look apologetic - he could - but he didn't. ]
Thank you but no thank you. I can't drink that. I wouldn't. Not even if you paid me. No indeed, especially not if you paid me.