Samuel felt that he was doing Gene a service by listening, but he was strangely relieved by hearing the story as well. It was a lot like his life (except replace the violent, disapproving father with a negligent, disapproving one) and he understood. Perhaps that was why this process was so cathartic.
"Never mind, I\'ll get it for you," Samuel breathed a laugh and he was gone and back before Gene even registered an objection. He\'d asked the tender to fill the glass this time, because he\'d noticed how forlornly Gene had looked at it when he\'d finished the last lot and the cost was negligent to him.
When he set it down before his mortal companion and slid back into his stool, he smiled and set both elbows on the table, except he supported his jaw on his right hand. His head was slightly tilted, causing hair to fall in his eyes once more and him to sweep it out even as he spoke.
"Your elixir, sir. Please, continue your tale." His eyes were kind and encouraging.
Their discussion about Gene\'s family didn\'t have much farther to travel - Sam learned that he\'d had no siblings and realised just how significant the sacrifice the guy\'s mother had made was - and then, somehow, it became Samuel\'s turn.
If anybody had walked by, it might almost have sounded like a discussion on history, with Sam discussing the political rounds his father embarked on, the carriage rides he\'d had, the slaves he\'d loved. He set the scene historically first, then focussed on his own inferiority complex when comparing himself to his golden older brother, the man who could do no wrong, who could win votes for his father just by smiling, and seduce virtuous ingenues with just one kiss.
God, he\'d been sickening. Growing up in their home had been competitive from birth, it had seemed, and Samuel had always failed. Never good looking enough, never eloquent enough, never outgoing enough, his father ridiculed him as his only form of motivation and his mother criticised, telling him that if he just tried harder, he\'d do better at things. Failure had become his vice and his defense by the time he was ten and when they eventually just accepted that he would always be inept, things were marginally less stressful.
His discussion diverged from personal stories to describing the types of people he\'d spied on as he got older after that - for it felt as if they\'d flogged the \'family\' horse to death and back - and Gene was able to join in once more, contributing heartily to their combined Tales of the Hypocritical South. Speaking of clergymen who preached to their congregation of faith and abstinence on Sunday and then snuck into whorehouses Monday, housewives that presented the perfect home to their friends but took sly sips of sherry when they thought no-one was looking, married men with children who grew more than a little flustered when the farmboys came in from a long day\'s work, shirtless and sweating and suddenly met in barns after a few meaningful looks... all of it seemed hilarious to the pair, suddenly, yet only one of them was drunk.
When the proprietor began to look at them a little funny (after one particularly funny story had cause an outburst of laughter), Sam realised that time had swallowed them whole and that it might well be time to cash their chips in while they were ahead. So to speak.
"Hey," he said to Gene, his voice husky as he leaned in and down towards his companion, hoping the mortal would put his face nice and close to his so he wouldn\'t have to speak too loudly, "I think we might be outstaying our welcome here a little. You want to go somewhere else?" As he spoke, his gaze was suddenly focussed most intently on Gene\'s mouth, yet he was pretty sure he\'d got most of that out of his system, after connecting on a much deeper level with the guy.
Sadly not, though, for as he rested his chin on his folded forearms in order to gaze up at the mortal from glinting blue eyes, he was thinking the most ungentlemanly thoughts he\'d contemplated in a long while.
