He shuts the door behind them, his own smile relaxed, easy, laid back, definitely not nervous, because Jeff's a pro.
(He is nervous, and he's definitely not a pro when he, like, actually likes someone. It always turns him stupid. He hates getting crushes. Everything's simpler when he just doesn't give a shit about whether or not he's going to see the other person again. But he's a pro at pushing aside his nerves, at seeming cool and confident, because in the end, this is all just another performance, and he's good at performing and--)
Jeff very nearly fumbles in catching the Red Bull, but by a small miracle, he manages not to drop it. "Revenge," he repeats, drawing the word out in an amused drawl. "Why would anyone want revenge? I'm a fucking angel." He flashes Tim a grin, then heads to his collection of bottles, none of them full, and none of them empty. It's like he never finishes one before acquiring the next. Jeff's fingers hover over them as he decides what to pick. "And nah, I wasn't doing anything." He waves the Red Bull at one of his guitars. "Just fucking around a little, you know, practicing."
He grabs a bottle of tequila that's got a couple shots left in it, and makes the very short trip back to the couch. He flops down, his legs draped over the other arm, looking up at Tim from his vantage point on the lumpy couch cushion. He holds the tequila up as an offering, like a gentleman.
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(He is nervous, and he's definitely not a pro when he, like, actually likes someone. It always turns him stupid. He hates getting crushes. Everything's simpler when he just doesn't give a shit about whether or not he's going to see the other person again. But he's a pro at pushing aside his nerves, at seeming cool and confident, because in the end, this is all just another performance, and he's good at performing and--)
Jeff very nearly fumbles in catching the Red Bull, but by a small miracle, he manages not to drop it. "Revenge," he repeats, drawing the word out in an amused drawl. "Why would anyone want revenge? I'm a fucking angel." He flashes Tim a grin, then heads to his collection of bottles, none of them full, and none of them empty. It's like he never finishes one before acquiring the next. Jeff's fingers hover over them as he decides what to pick. "And nah, I wasn't doing anything." He waves the Red Bull at one of his guitars. "Just fucking around a little, you know, practicing."
He grabs a bottle of tequila that's got a couple shots left in it, and makes the very short trip back to the couch. He flops down, his legs draped over the other arm, looking up at Tim from his vantage point on the lumpy couch cushion. He holds the tequila up as an offering, like a gentleman.
"You look good, dude." Suuuuuper casual.