I know, like... why are we even here when we could be ditching this whole thing to raid a convenience store? (maybe he's mansplaining chips, but his mouth won't stop moving. at this rate, anything is liable to spill out, excited by someone who actually wants him there and wants to hear what he has to say.

it's his turn to listen, however, and jonas considers himself good at that.

noctis' life sounds sheltered—rich family? well-known in their community, maybe—and full of expectation. it doesn't raise any flags; the eighteen-year-old, oblivious, props his cheek up on his hand and manages a little shrug. he's helpless to the mood, rocking a little on his elbows so that his arm presses repeatedly against his friend's.)

It's not my first time. My parents didn't care that I drank—I mean, they did in their own way, but they had a lot going on that mattered more.

This is probably weird to say, Noctis, but we're nowhere near home. You're not gonna disappoint me if you get trashed and puke on your own shoes in public. So, it's an option now, right? We can kinda do whatever we want, (jonas suggests innocently, despite the last cycle of jostling noctis ending in a deep lean.

he means to reach over noctis for the opposite side of the blanket, wanting to playfully yank it over him and roll him into a warm cocoon, then bludgeon him, perhaps, with the sitting pillows nearby. unfortunately, sudden and overwhelming vertigo forces the heel of his palm to slip against soft material, and with no firm grip anywhere, jonas' arm crashes down hard onto his friend's stomach.)