Re: [Mean Eyed Cat: Atticus & Sue]
His eyes lingered on the mark at Atticus' neck, what he presumed to be a tattoo. Something kind of made his nose twitch a little, but he was just this side of buzzed and attention to detail wasn't exactly his forte. Mostly he just registered it on a level of 'kind of hot, at least it's not a tribal tattoo or a chinese symbol.' Neither would have been a disqualifier, but he needed to be in the mood for douchebag. He was not feeling easy, smooth, or patient with the world at large. He was having a little bit of a craving, and it might widen the acceptable pool to a fucking lake, but he still needed to gear himself up for a certain kind of fucker.
But like, he hadn't been wrong. The guy was cute, and he could sit next to him any time. His eyes had slanted sideways as the guy started talking, from nose to mouth and then back to black mark. He was thinking stuff about tongues, it wasn't relevant.
He wrinkled his nose and came back to the conversation. Not on the market? He was honestly a little crestfallen. "Ah, fuck." But he bounced back, as he was wont to do. "You only get to decide if it's not like, an objective truth." He swept a hand over himself, a display, a Vanna White 'here-it-is.' His face said, Duh.
"I fucking blow at pool," he whined, sliding down off the barstool. He wasn't tall, but he probably wasn't a boy, though he definitely carried himself like an eighteen-year-old with a chip on his shoulder, and was one, in a manner of speaking. He had the kind of face that made age hard to fix. "Who should I hit on, brothers?" He grinned. He was back in the game. Somehow he had found another shot of whiskey - where had it come from? - and he sipped it instead of knocking it back, sliding sideways toward the pool table. He took off the fucking atrocious jacket he was wearing and found a spot for it on an empty table. "Gimme," he said, gesturing toward himself, demanding a pool cue.