"Not a fucking chance," Kira answers easily, pushing aside a fear that is distant, still. He could very likely take the ride, and return to this point: he isn't going to die tonight. He just--doesn't feel like it. Didn't feel like swimming, has only managed to lose his shoes and jacket and unbutton his shirt. His sleeves are pushed up, showing the outlines of tattoos started on his birthday, left until he pulls together time and funds.
No reason to save it; no reason not to do whatever he wants with this body while it's whole.
Why he eschew drunk swimming, he doesn't know. It isn't like he's not drinking, propped on a poolside chair with his own bottle of champagne and someone's pack of cigarettes. Ty clearly wants to do something with the night, and Kira rolls his head against the texture of the cushion behind it.
"Let's find out what the girls are doing. Come on." He has to roll himself over, careful of a lit cigarette, to find his footing on the tile.
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No reason to save it; no reason not to do whatever he wants with this body while it's whole.
Why he eschew drunk swimming, he doesn't know. It isn't like he's not drinking, propped on a poolside chair with his own bottle of champagne and someone's pack of cigarettes. Ty clearly wants to do something with the night, and Kira rolls his head against the texture of the cushion behind it.
"Let's find out what the girls are doing. Come on." He has to roll himself over, careful of a lit cigarette, to find his footing on the tile.