Mateo
Welcoming the other man closer as he leans in, Mateo's posture remains as open and relaxed as ever, his thoughts pulsing and dancing with what ifs and maybes made all the more vibrant by the crimson sparks of snapdragon still crackling though his veins. "A secret?" he echoes, his accent wrapping around the word, his mind unfurling like a late-blooming bud with curiosity and interest. And whilst Mateo is much more used to hearing the term daddy as an illicit moan than a slur, his eyebrows do raise, cheeks dimpling with a wicked smile.
"Your papa is my sister's good captain?" Tilting his head - and he can see the resemblance now if he looks hard enough, able to attribute Vesper's handsome face to good genes rather than sheer dumb luck - he lets out a musical laugh and willingly offers his glass for a refill. And whilst he does think the spray of freckles on the demigod's nose have moved a little since he first glanced at them, Mateo is happy to put that down to booze and drugs; he can't be certain enough to question it, either way.
And so, taking a fresh sip of his drink and setting the glass down right beside Vesper's, he's barely on his barstool any more as he leans in closer still. At the other man's question, he can't help but respond, first and foremost, with a soft breath of laughter, and even as he considers his response, his mind fills with Stormbreak's winding, cobbled streets, the scents of flowers and honey and spices, the sound of laughter and soft conversation in a variety of accents and dialects.
"It is almost like Torchline," he says slowly, the landscape of his thoughts turning to silk and music, to frosty, silent mornings and giggling on street corners at the dead of night, "...except it feels older, I suppose you might say? Torchline is a party. Stormbreak is a banquet. Does that make sense?"
"Your papa is my sister's good captain?" Tilting his head - and he can see the resemblance now if he looks hard enough, able to attribute Vesper's handsome face to good genes rather than sheer dumb luck - he lets out a musical laugh and willingly offers his glass for a refill. And whilst he does think the spray of freckles on the demigod's nose have moved a little since he first glanced at them, Mateo is happy to put that down to booze and drugs; he can't be certain enough to question it, either way.
And so, taking a fresh sip of his drink and setting the glass down right beside Vesper's, he's barely on his barstool any more as he leans in closer still. At the other man's question, he can't help but respond, first and foremost, with a soft breath of laughter, and even as he considers his response, his mind fills with Stormbreak's winding, cobbled streets, the scents of flowers and honey and spices, the sound of laughter and soft conversation in a variety of accents and dialects.
"It is almost like Torchline," he says slowly, the landscape of his thoughts turning to silk and music, to frosty, silent mornings and giggling on street corners at the dead of night, "...except it feels older, I suppose you might say? Torchline is a party. Stormbreak is a banquet. Does that make sense?"
I'm a scholar and a gentleman
And I don't usually fall when I try to stand
And I don't usually fall when I try to stand
