looking up until he’d fully clocked who’s voice it was. his pencil hit the counter and he smiled sheepishly, as if he was caught slacking, despite having no work to do.]
h—hey big q! doin’- doin’ work! important things, like papers, you know how it is.
[ the pencil in his hand twirled against where his thumb joined his palm, graphite tapping the counter when he hummed some of the songs wilbur played for him. something along the lines of “saline solution”, he forgot most of the lyrics, but the chords were still fresh. +
maybe humming it brought the boy some sense of comfort—one thing he and wilbur could agree on, one thing they could do without arguing—but he didn’t think too far into it.
all he knew it that it was catchy, and it was stuck in his head.]
mm— [he started, a drawl, not yet +
@wingedcasino
[ pale, nimble fingers tap incessantly against blackstone, a foot continuing the same metronome against the floor. blond hair drooped downwards, eyes fixated on a piece of paper, small doodles of what seems to be family across a blank page.
tommy, sitting at the desk right outside of the las nevadas gate, was doing his job.
the job, of which, comprised mostly of waiting. and wait he was, dropping the pencil against the counter with a bored groan.
it was something to do, and he loved the usefulness feeling +