“ they are. ”      it’s a grunt, low and condescending. idiots. there’s a distinct pout to versus’ lips as he leans on table’s edge, near a few piles of books and a globe that’s honestly just decoration at this point - outdated.

              bother him?

shoulders hike up a little higher and he hides between them // gaze drops to lines of mosaic scrawling in the tabletop.  “ uhh. nah. it’s a lil weird, isn’t it? i mean. ”  to them. apparently. dammit, now he’s making his dad uncomf- well, maybe.  nails tick against wood // another set of fingers rubs at his nose.      “ i dunno what they’re thinking. ” never does. bit of a sore spot, that, but. he’s ( thankfully ) got better company to keep. still, he’s enough experience by now to know this much, and an aghast glance is sent ( up, up, up ):

           “ actually, they tend to just get more dogged over time.       they don’t let up on juicy shit like this easily. ”