Normally he would have some kind of classic rejoinder to toss up like a shield, but the advice is solid and he only needs to take a moment and think about it before he accepts as much and follows the directions.
When he tears the napkin, it shreds along the length for several more feet, leaving a python-long paper shard hanging from the holder. Weird. So not like he expected. But he crouches to sop up his mess, the bottom of his shoes squeaking unpleasantly against the floor. At least here in the Horizon he appears as himself, wearing familiar fabrics in colors that suit him. If not for the obvious exclusion of umbrella, he would look almost at home in the convenient aisles.
"Logic's not been my strong suit lately," he says, lowly. The Horizon doesn't show the still-healing wounds, but it seems helpless against Blake's mental state, unable to paint over the lingering upset. Since returning from the pit he's had some help with his mood, but in the quiet and sleepless hours it's hard not to find himself drawn back into that damp nightmare surrounded by blood and altars and insanity.
When he goes to stand, he bumps the back of his head against the counter's edge on his way up. Oof. It isn't a hard hit, but he's rubbing at the spot on his way up to find the trash.
"Sorry. Uh." He's turning the other way now, looking around for a place he can wash his hands. "How— Uh. How much for the coffee?" Blake's got both hands up like a surgeon trying to stay clean; he is, in fact, trying not to get any coffee and floor juice on himself. So fussy.
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When he tears the napkin, it shreds along the length for several more feet, leaving a python-long paper shard hanging from the holder. Weird. So not like he expected. But he crouches to sop up his mess, the bottom of his shoes squeaking unpleasantly against the floor. At least here in the Horizon he appears as himself, wearing familiar fabrics in colors that suit him. If not for the obvious exclusion of umbrella, he would look almost at home in the convenient aisles.
"Logic's not been my strong suit lately," he says, lowly. The Horizon doesn't show the still-healing wounds, but it seems helpless against Blake's mental state, unable to paint over the lingering upset. Since returning from the pit he's had some help with his mood, but in the quiet and sleepless hours it's hard not to find himself drawn back into that damp nightmare surrounded by blood and altars and insanity.
When he goes to stand, he bumps the back of his head against the counter's edge on his way up. Oof. It isn't a hard hit, but he's rubbing at the spot on his way up to find the trash.
"Sorry. Uh." He's turning the other way now, looking around for a place he can wash his hands. "How— Uh. How much for the coffee?" Blake's got both hands up like a surgeon trying to stay clean; he is, in fact, trying not to get any coffee and floor juice on himself. So fussy.