-pours salt in his tea-
theres a slow careful inhale. if reiji had thought he hadn’t seen, then camus thinks the other must be going senile with age or the like. he doesn’t touch his tea, doesn’t even look at the abomination that reiji turned his tea into when he wasn’t fully aware of it. instead he slowly turns his head towards the other, eyes narrowing with a knowing glare before he picks up his tea and dumps it into the nearest sink.
what a waste of perfectly good tea.










