[ Men of good taste? Ryo almost laughs, the sound catching itself in his throat. It comes up like a breath instead, clipped and almost cold. Ryo's got lots of questions about who would consider him to have anything approaching taste that's even socially acceptable, but he's learning that there's plenty like him here. For better or for worse. Men like Ryo only considered justice and the small pocket of the universe he could hold in his palms. The way to get there was only a means to an end. It didn't matter what it took.
But, still, the stiffness in Ryo's shoulders starts to thaw. There's a momentary pause, where he seems to make a decision as he ashes what remains of his cigarette. He pulls a classic drop and ground, the sole of his borrowed boot scraping out the last embers of the cherry in a way both casual and satisfying. ]
I'm not sure who has good taste anymore, [ Ryo says, something small and unnameable rounding out the prior edge. It isn't as though Ryo cared too much about others as a singular unit most of the time, but there's something about being so far from home that makes the humanity in him drag its greedy fingers through each and every interaction, hungry for scraps of something that resembled dark hair and dark eyes, a familiar pair of sneakers smudging gore all over his late father's dashboard. He reaches out to accept the bottle, a glimmer of a "thanks" caught at the softened corners of his mouth. It isn't vocalized, but it's there in the way he inclines his head, eyes settling on John in a way that seems more approachable than a few minutes ago. ]
It was a period of revolution and revolt, [ he picks up after a moment, filling in a little more once the gin is securely in his grip. His fingers blindly pull out the stop, a testament to how many times he's done this. ] They weren't the first to be angry about it, but this one wasn't allowed to sit on the shelves for long. [ It's been a long time since Ryo's bothered with much outside plain vodka and wine. It was easy stuff, quicker to grab and consider later. Both gave him a different low and the complaints weren't as prominent when he decided to share it. He takes a slow swig, palming the cork in his opposite hand. His voice comes up raspy and raw on the other side of it, but not as much as one would expect from someone who looks like him: ] The government banned it.
[ He extends both the stopper and the bottle back to John with no preamble, figuring it better he keep the bit instead of him pocketing it. ] It's your turn to pick, [ he half-hums. ]
no subject
But, still, the stiffness in Ryo's shoulders starts to thaw. There's a momentary pause, where he seems to make a decision as he ashes what remains of his cigarette. He pulls a classic drop and ground, the sole of his borrowed boot scraping out the last embers of the cherry in a way both casual and satisfying. ]
I'm not sure who has good taste anymore, [ Ryo says, something small and unnameable rounding out the prior edge. It isn't as though Ryo cared too much about others as a singular unit most of the time, but there's something about being so far from home that makes the humanity in him drag its greedy fingers through each and every interaction, hungry for scraps of something that resembled dark hair and dark eyes, a familiar pair of sneakers smudging gore all over his late father's dashboard. He reaches out to accept the bottle, a glimmer of a "thanks" caught at the softened corners of his mouth. It isn't vocalized, but it's there in the way he inclines his head, eyes settling on John in a way that seems more approachable than a few minutes ago. ]
It was a period of revolution and revolt, [ he picks up after a moment, filling in a little more once the gin is securely in his grip. His fingers blindly pull out the stop, a testament to how many times he's done this. ] They weren't the first to be angry about it, but this one wasn't allowed to sit on the shelves for long. [ It's been a long time since Ryo's bothered with much outside plain vodka and wine. It was easy stuff, quicker to grab and consider later. Both gave him a different low and the complaints weren't as prominent when he decided to share it. He takes a slow swig, palming the cork in his opposite hand. His voice comes up raspy and raw on the other side of it, but not as much as one would expect from someone who looks like him: ] The government banned it.
[ He extends both the stopper and the bottle back to John with no preamble, figuring it better he keep the bit instead of him pocketing it. ] It's your turn to pick, [ he half-hums. ]
[ Give him another song, John. ]