Tim's entrance into the kitchen might be comedic, if he were someone capable of recognizing humor in such things: hair still stuck up on end, wet towel trailing behind him, bare feet still thawing from their contact with the rain-chilled pavement, his expression settled into a dull, blank sort of confusion in which his mind simply refuses to put the pieces together properly.
Brian has now started to hum as he rips open the plastic packaging within and starts to tip the pizza rolls out onto the tray. One of them cracks sharply when it slides across the tray and lands on the floor, and Brian is swift to scoop it up and replace it with its fellows, having decided the five second rule still applies.
"Mhm?" he says, now studying the stove with an attentiveness it doesn't wholly deserve.
"What, uh...what the hell're you doing?"
Brian apparently decides that trying to figure out how to work the oven at 1AM is too much, and starts rummaging through the cupboards in search of a plate.
"Making pizza rolls."
"Uh-huh," says Tim, mechanically. "Uh. Why?"
Brian shrugs as he transfers pizza rolls from tray to plate and proceeds to slide the entire lot of them into the microwave.
"'Cause I'm wired, and you're wired, and I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"
Tim glances from the microwave, humming as it begins its arduous, ill-advised task in heating a mess of frozen pizza rolls, to Brian, who's now replacing the tray as though he didn't just dump a bunch of ancient pizza rolls across its burnt-brown surface, and then down to the floor. His feet are still freezing, and his hair is still wet. The rainwater still soaks his shirt into clinging to the curve of his shoulders.
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Tim's entrance into the kitchen might be comedic, if he were someone capable of recognizing humor in such things: hair still stuck up on end, wet towel trailing behind him, bare feet still thawing from their contact with the rain-chilled pavement, his expression settled into a dull, blank sort of confusion in which his mind simply refuses to put the pieces together properly.
Brian has now started to hum as he rips open the plastic packaging within and starts to tip the pizza rolls out onto the tray. One of them cracks sharply when it slides across the tray and lands on the floor, and Brian is swift to scoop it up and replace it with its fellows, having decided the five second rule still applies.
"Mhm?" he says, now studying the stove with an attentiveness it doesn't wholly deserve.
"What, uh...what the hell're you doing?"
Brian apparently decides that trying to figure out how to work the oven at 1AM is too much, and starts rummaging through the cupboards in search of a plate.
"Making pizza rolls."
"Uh-huh," says Tim, mechanically. "Uh. Why?"
Brian shrugs as he transfers pizza rolls from tray to plate and proceeds to slide the entire lot of them into the microwave.
"'Cause I'm wired, and you're wired, and I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"
Tim glances from the microwave, humming as it begins its arduous, ill-advised task in heating a mess of frozen pizza rolls, to Brian, who's now replacing the tray as though he didn't just dump a bunch of ancient pizza rolls across its burnt-brown surface, and then down to the floor. His feet are still freezing, and his hair is still wet. The rainwater still soaks his shirt into clinging to the curve of his shoulders.
"...yeah," says Tim. "Okay."
He guesses he's pretty hungry after all.