Re: log: dylan & max
Her question spurred a sound from Dylan that resembled a laugh. Hitched breath that could have predicted a cough, mouth momentarily obscured by the curved end of his fist, and then dropped to reveal a tight, joyless smile while he considered how to explain or if it was worth it to relive what he'd spent the last couple weeks paving over. Dylan wouldn't forget those years spent elsewhere, and he didn't think that he really wanted to. Because what was the point of living through something if it could just be forgotten? He thought that the point was, if you lived through something, and you learned from it, then that incident could be considered good in some kind of zen spectrum, grand universe bullshit.
Telling himself that almost made it easier. He'd been eyeing the bartender's wall of bottles. Colors on a palette; amber, clear, and even some blue curacao or razzmatazz shit in the corner. But, recovering from that borderline-sullen chuckle, sobered by the touch of her hand, he shifted in his seat to look at Max. "Not tonight, okay?" He was beginning to realize that it might not be the best thing to talk about when he was drunk, and he was fastly approaching drunk. He'd built up a rushed and poorly crafted desensitivity to those memories, and he was still building. He didn't need to fuck all of that up in one night because of some shots.
But instead of explaining that (because weakness wasn't hot by Max standards, he was pretty sure), Dylan focused on the Ella news. "Gone before you came back then? Did you ask anyone close to her if they knew for sure?"