[at least the crisis is over. he still wants to do anything with Irahl, desperately--but he's already got him closer than he's ever been. their knees have been touching for a while. he has beautiful eyes. he's drunk and slow and soaking in the kind of quiet attention he'd normally kill for.

he can see his throat scales, now, peeking up from the edge of his scarf. Robin goes back to picking pointlessly at the fabric, quietly marveling.]

You're just... [he doesn't know how to say it, but that doesn't stop his drunk brain from picking whatever word makes it to his tongue first.] ...Beautiful. And you're stupid and funny and I want you to just... Have me however it makes you happy.

[he drops his hand. that was probably incomprehensible. he's already forgetting what he said.]

No one does that around here, you know? No one's happy. I hate it.