>Ready to mingleThank God that Madrigal moves on from the topic swiftly, and thank God for the drink, which begins to round out the sharp corners almost as soon as you've got it down. Which is not to say you find it necessary to survive a party, even a party you yourself proposed. That would be preposterous. You are merely getting in the appropriate spirit, emphasis on 'spirit,' and you— you— well, you do force your empty cup into Richard's face and request a refill, but it's for insurance. One drink might not work on you, on account of your unusual vigor (as well as several straight months of evening bargoing)!
The second goes down much the same as the first, and you have half a mind to go in for a third before Richard, hatefully, shakes his head. "Everything in moderation, Charlie."
You can't even declare him a hypocrite, because he's still nursing his first. Damn it. You dive into the cake instead and discover it to be oily and flavor-light, if sweet. Earl cuts a huge square for himself and dips a corner into his cup. "What?" he says, at your look. "It's like a sponge!"
Madrigal initially abstains from cake, but after a little while ventures over and cuts herself a sliver. She gnaws it. "Geez, this cake is shit."
"It was a rush job," Richard says warmly. "I find wine tends to help with such situations."
Background music: https://youtu.be/P1EG__jgefAFor you it's liquor, but it's the same idea: your shoulders loosen, your back slackens, and your thoughts unravel themselves into a pink heap. Richard drifts out of focus. Most things drift out of focus. The time passes sweetly, but flavor-light, with a kind of unspoken compact to avoid the Ellery in the room: eventually Madrigal is able to go 30 seconds without glancing back at him. Earl, at home among criminals, spins tales of his "night job," and you chime in reluctantly after he prompts you about the heist. (Madrigal is unsurprised— maybe Branwen caught her up to speed?)
After wrapping that up, you posit questions about his— what is it— blood magyck? Earl laughs it off: call it drugs, he says. What can he say?, he says. It's a living! No, he's never turned into a giant worm, why do you ask?
Madrigal seems to think that you're proposing ridiculous hypotheticals, and proposes some ridiculous hypotheticals of her own. <span class="mu-i">What if you were... would you rather... if you had to fuck one of them, what would you...</span> You pay each the deepest concentration you can muster, which is not very much, and none at all for anything bawdy. Richard answers everything with real seriousness and about a paragraph of logical justifications, which seems to amuse both Earl and Madrigal. And on and on it goes, and you recline inside the moment and are able to enjoy it.
>[+2 ID: 12/14](1/2)
