“Do you know how absurd you sound?” He stares at the man for a long time, looking with his dark eyes over the rim of said teacup. The air between them is both flat and electric, wavelengths dancing invisibly… but oh, Sitron can feel them. It both irritates and intrigues him, with his hair tugged back into a loose ponytail and cascading black over his shoulders and back.
“Once one burns something, it cannot be undone. I should know that better than anyone.” And he sips his tea, weighing the possibilities about this unheard-of food. “Personally, I have never come across it. Tofu sounds unpleasant. I hope I never need to try it, especially in the context you’ve just said it.” But he feels like Omijacha is trying to compliment him, suspiciously, and so he offers him the very faintest of mouth-twitches.
“I hadn’t asked you to turn a duck into a horse , Egg, really.” Om sits back, picking at a loose string hanging from the button of his shirt. He wants a cigarette. He wants to walk away from the mistake probably burning a hole through the plastic coffin it’s wrapped in and feed his addictions. “ I thought we could circle around it,” he gives a low sigh, misses the dark veil of a glance in his direction and with folded legs he leans forward to pick at the gold imprinted on the rim of his own tea-cup. “--or I carelessly had a certain ..approximation,” his glance upward is sweeping, When’s the last time -- the prince wonders, that he’s simply looked at someone without the taste of hot coals on his tongue?
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