[attr="class","spiral"]"Oh?"

Now he gets it. The mere mention of the word 'fairy' puts one and one together. "Ah. Guess you don't keep up then?" It's always refreshing to find someone that doesn't know anything about him. It gives him a hint of mystery, something to keep up wraps. It feels anonymous. Which, concaves his smile inwardly, playful but not enough so to spoil his badly kept secrets.

It's she's interested, she'll find out.

They all do.

"I'm pretty basic, unless you're into Kanto Sake. They stock some here because I order it enough. Otherwise, I'm good for vodka. Wells too, since I don't taste it." The bartender ignores their conversation until he's called upon, lazily trying to hide his phone as he checks the time and his messages in an otherwise dead bar.

When prompted for a serious answer, he merely shrugs. Doesn't know, doesn't care. Something will definitely kill him before the cancer. And if it doesn't? He'll live forever.

[attr="class","spiral"]“Then I guess you’re in for a treat.” Another puff interrupts the space between them, filtered from a bitter smile that regrets a choice made much too hastily. The origin of the pink stream rests on the bridge of his lower lip, leaving his hands free to gesture at attendant.

“Sake bombs, Hoongie Light.”

Two raised fingers go up, a clear sign that he intends to keep up tonight’s trend of spotting their rounds. Their request is answered with a set of ceramic and glass wear, the much smaller o-choko neatly stacked atop each other while the rocks glass are slid just short of their reach. Warming the sake takes the longest, evident in the way their beer is given from a small fridge underneath the bar’s sink.

A short trip into the back by their attendant resurfaces him with a ceramic flask. Visible steam blushes from the cylinders funnel like top, situated between them. Without hesitation nor regard for the hot sake’s conductive heat, he tips off each ceramic shot. The beer follows, rising to the occasion, and sitting at the same height of the o-choko pressed against it. Rather than pour hers, he sets it toward her closer arm.

“Sake masks the shit taste of beer. Beer adds a bubbly little refreshment to the sake.” When they blend the two, the concoction turns a shade lighter until it becomes truly translucent. That kind of amber matches her eyes and Fernando’s caught staring, breaking out into a sneer when his own glass comes up.

“To another week done.”

[attr="class","spiral"]The sound of the constant downpour doesn’t do the rain justice. Neither do the puddles Silph track in once he breaches the door.

A quick jimmy of his umbrella sheds most of the water onto the already damp floor. With no real spot designated to hold his parcel, Fernando leaves it near the door in a bid to keep himself from drooling what’s left of Lilycove’s runoff.

“Whisky Sour and cut the shit Hartigan.”

It’s a preemptive order laced with an announcement that the Councilman is not in good spirits. Spotting him day drinking is a rare occurrence, always brought on by a proverbial snap during a shit work day.

His seldom used ‘lunch break’ always puts him in a better mood. At least that’s how others read his otherwise nonchalant silence, misinterpreting the hidden buzz that boils in the pit of his stomach.

A vibrant orange mix makes up his second meal of the day. Despite it’s flavor, Fernando kills it like water. There’s no pleasure to be found in inhaling it.

Yet he insists.

[attr="class","spiral"]“Dogshit, actually.”

Fernando does not talk business outside League halls, much less in the seedy wretches of Kaleidoscope. Snippets, mentioned in brevity, may slip through the cracks but he evades further advances byway of incredibly vague answers. It’s a habit Hartigan has picked up on, and those with the courage to chitchat with the Council member learn it soon enough.

“Shit, you got any Pinnap beer?” The intention becomes obvious. Fernando prefers drinks with flavor over style. The distinction in smell still reeks of alcohol but it holds a better scent than outright liquor. He won’t deny his midday debauchery but he at least attempts to put in an effort of hiding it.

“So,” his head turns. “How about you? You live here?”

His own visits have been too infrequent to confirm for himself. However, every since day one, every time he’s visited, he’s seen her. The Solrock is too hard to miss.

[attr="class","spiral"]“Hm.”

He can’t come up with a witty retort on the spot so he doesn’t. Sometimes, silence proves more articulate than premature words. Everything he has to say lies beyond the sardonic teeth of popping open the can of refrigerated ale.

In typical fashion, Fernando drinks to parch a thirst, to feel the buzz all at once, rather than approach with moderation. Only after it sets in does he taper himself into a decent pace. But until then, he’s a glutton for punishment.

“Almost like people are multifaceted.” He greets her efforts with his own derision. It crumples like the aluminum in his hand.

Fernando orders another, this time with a pair of shots. Tequila, wells, dressed with a line of salt and slice of Lum.

Hartigan knows better than to play a part in this and set them between the two. It’s within Fernando’s reach but the message is obvious.

Drink up or shut up.

[attr="class","spiral"] "I missed you."

It's drier than his throat after hours of conference calls that eventually break him into yelling. Fernando holds himself quite well, temper checked by his own apathy to the incompetence he's grown accustomed to, but it rising like the tide, periodically and seasonal.

His neck notches back as he follows the motions, grimacing as he licks the rim with haste. The salt doesn't kill the burn but it serves an acceptable distraction, much like this excursion. When he bites down on the fruit, the way it bursts clears his throat of his earlier discomfort.

"Take a guess."