[Lars continues to just kind of glumly chill, not even half way through his cigarette (he honestly smokes them pretty slowly, because they're still new to him and he's a delicate flower), his arms kind of just vaguely dangling outward, elbows resting on his knees. The smoke trails aimlessly and lazily from the cigarette, the thin wisps getting carried off by the breeze. It stings his eyes when the wind comes his way.
Sadie isn't immediately recognized from a distance, especially since Lars has his back to her. But she creeps on his peripheral, which eventually causes him to twist his back to look behind himself, squinting with suspicion—it takes a moment for it to dawn on him that it's Sadie, and Lars wishes he could... literally run... But of course, that's ridiculous. He notices she's on the phone, which shifts his gears from panic to an abstract sort of jealousy; Sadie lives with her mom, so why would she have a talk with her while going for a walk near the beach?
It's of course completely irrational to just assume it's Ronaldo, but accusatory inventions of jealousy, while often silly, are not always wrong. Besides, Ronaldo's been a goddamn shadow, lately—or at least, that's how it feels. Lars feels like he's seen him collectively in the last month more than he's seen him around in the last half year, since... you know. Ronaldo doesn't really go out.
He rolls his eyes, stubbornly turning back towards the ocean, just posture rigid and uncomfortable as he takes a petty drag from his cigarette. As Sadie lowers the phone, appropriately in his vicinity to talk to him, Lars tenses even more, his bony shoulders hunched.]
Trying to relax, [he growls passive-aggressively, strongly indicating that Sadie might not be conducive to that sort of thing, smoke billowing from his nostrils. Lars's face is hot with embarrassment, but he's also too willful to cover his own ass while caught in the act.] What're you doing?
no subject
Sadie isn't immediately recognized from a distance, especially since Lars has his back to her. But she creeps on his peripheral, which eventually causes him to twist his back to look behind himself, squinting with suspicion—it takes a moment for it to dawn on him that it's Sadie, and Lars wishes he could... literally run... But of course, that's ridiculous. He notices she's on the phone, which shifts his gears from panic to an abstract sort of jealousy; Sadie lives with her mom, so why would she have a talk with her while going for a walk near the beach?
It's of course completely irrational to just assume it's Ronaldo, but accusatory inventions of jealousy, while often silly, are not always wrong. Besides, Ronaldo's been a goddamn shadow, lately—or at least, that's how it feels. Lars feels like he's seen him collectively in the last month more than he's seen him around in the last half year, since... you know. Ronaldo doesn't really go out.
He rolls his eyes, stubbornly turning back towards the ocean, just posture rigid and uncomfortable as he takes a petty drag from his cigarette. As Sadie lowers the phone, appropriately in his vicinity to talk to him, Lars tenses even more, his bony shoulders hunched.]
Trying to relax, [he growls passive-aggressively, strongly indicating that Sadie might not be conducive to that sort of thing, smoke billowing from his nostrils. Lars's face is hot with embarrassment, but he's also too willful to cover his own ass while caught in the act.] What're you doing?