[ the problem with pretending to be nonchalant is that it very rarely works. the plain evidence of one’s stay may be easy to fix, but the more subtle ons are near impossible to change once they’ve settled.
for one: the quality of the air. aemond is all too used to the scent of smoke, having grown up surrounded by candles and incense and dragonfire. volcanic ash, when he visits dragonstone; the plain ash and smoke of the sept, lights ever burning. and the distinct scent of sweat, difficult to air out in the cold; the weather leadens it, weighs it into the very floor.
aemond knows as soon as he enters that nick has spent enough time in the room to smell no different from the rest of the space. call it a dragon’s instinct. ]
[ the kneejerk response comes as easily as breathing — a little too quickly, probably, but even as he says it nick can already tell that the excuse is going down like a lead balloon. aemond has that perceptive sort of a look to him that makes nick feel intensely observed, and he doesn't last more than a moment or two before he shrugs and adjusts his posture in the cozy, comfy arm chair that nick has made his home in. ]
A little while. So you said you wanted to smoke?
[ there's unfortunately no smoke lingering in the air for nick to demonstrate the way that he's been using gentle magic to usher the plumes out into the cold air, but he gestures out at the already open window all the same. ]
[ it's not for a lack of interest, but a pointed lack of need. he didn't want to be calmed, before; anger is the province of feeling that aemond knows best, to dull the sharpness of it was a step into foreign territory too far. he's calmer now, he thinks, but restless. nicholas promised this burning would help, that the smoke might ease some of his tension if he breathes it in.
like fumes, he supposes, or burning herbs for cleansing. might be that it's a plant yet unknown to them back in westeros; he sees the appeal, and now that he's on more grounded feeling, he wants to give it a try.
aemond walks over to the window and shuts it to keep the damnable cold out, then knocks nicholas's knee a little with his own. move, he directs without speaking. he's in the more comfortable seat in the room. ]
[ nick grumbles a bit, but it's more a sound made out of obligation than anything else, because he gets up out of the chair almost as soon as aemond makes the effort to usher nick out of the chair. it's hardly all that much of a bother, nick just perches up on the arm of it instead for the time being. ]
Don't like, freak out if you hate it. Just tell me, I'll sober you up.
[ quietly he suspects that there's very little that aemond doesn't bring a great intensity to, but nick hopes for both their sakes that the weed can maybe mellow that out a little. but, he asks to be shown so nick focuses on that for now. they're in a nice little case this time instead of a clear bag, but the result is still the same. joint lit, inhale, hold, exhale. the smoke has nowhere to go with the window closed, and lingers in the air instead. ]
You want a go?
[ he asks the question, joint offered out, smoke still furling out of his nostrils as he speaks. ]
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no subject
for one: the quality of the air. aemond is all too used to the scent of smoke, having grown up surrounded by candles and incense and dragonfire. volcanic ash, when he visits dragonstone; the plain ash and smoke of the sept, lights ever burning. and the distinct scent of sweat, difficult to air out in the cold; the weather leadens it, weighs it into the very floor.
aemond knows as soon as he enters that nick has spent enough time in the room to smell no different from the rest of the space. call it a dragon’s instinct. ]
How long have you been in here?
no subject
[ the kneejerk response comes as easily as breathing — a little too quickly, probably, but even as he says it nick can already tell that the excuse is going down like a lead balloon. aemond has that perceptive sort of a look to him that makes nick feel intensely observed, and he doesn't last more than a moment or two before he shrugs and adjusts his posture in the cozy, comfy arm chair that nick has made his home in. ]
A little while. So you said you wanted to smoke?
[ there's unfortunately no smoke lingering in the air for nick to demonstrate the way that he's been using gentle magic to usher the plumes out into the cold air, but he gestures out at the already open window all the same. ]
no subject
[ it's not for a lack of interest, but a pointed lack of need. he didn't want to be calmed, before; anger is the province of feeling that aemond knows best, to dull the sharpness of it was a step into foreign territory too far. he's calmer now, he thinks, but restless. nicholas promised this burning would help, that the smoke might ease some of his tension if he breathes it in.
like fumes, he supposes, or burning herbs for cleansing. might be that it's a plant yet unknown to them back in westeros; he sees the appeal, and now that he's on more grounded feeling, he wants to give it a try.
aemond walks over to the window and shuts it to keep the damnable cold out, then knocks nicholas's knee a little with his own. move, he directs without speaking. he's in the more comfortable seat in the room. ]
Show me.
no subject
Don't like, freak out if you hate it. Just tell me, I'll sober you up.
[ quietly he suspects that there's very little that aemond doesn't bring a great intensity to, but nick hopes for both their sakes that the weed can maybe mellow that out a little. but, he asks to be shown so nick focuses on that for now. they're in a nice little case this time instead of a clear bag, but the result is still the same. joint lit, inhale, hold, exhale. the smoke has nowhere to go with the window closed, and lingers in the air instead. ]
You want a go?
[ he asks the question, joint offered out, smoke still furling out of his nostrils as he speaks. ]