#Rhys is already rambly and WOW does the alcohol amplify it 😂

[howthesleeplesswander]

another random starter for @jackdup bc Rhysie demanded a silly, fluffy thread to let him love on his sweetheart 🥺💖

“...and then, if you can believe it—y-you know what she says to me?” Rhys’s slurred voice echoed in the vastness of his office. What had started as an evening chat with Timothy had led to more drinks than he could handle with any amount of grace, hence the tirade that was still going strong after ten minutes. He gestured wildly as he paced in front of the plush armchair where Tim had settled. 

“She looks me right in the eyes and says, ‘With all due respect’—and like, okay, listen Brenda, I-I wasn’t born yesterday, first of all, we alllll know what that saying actually means, so ya’ know? I don’t really care what stupidness you follow it with; that’s already a biiiig strike towards me not caring! A-anyway—then she says, ‘With all due respect’—” and this time Rhys mimicked a higher pitched, haughty tone reminiscent of the software developer from the morning's infuriating meeting, “—‘You must have the coding skills of a brain-dead bandit if you don’t understand how big this project is. How have you even made it this far in life with such a tiny, smooth brain?'” He was definitely paraphrasing now, but he’d blame the booze for that. 

Rhys threw his arms wide, and his eyes rolled so hard that he almost tipped backwards. “I was a Hyperion programmer for years! You think I don’t know how much work it takes to implement something like that? I mean, I dealt with plenty of programming overhauls for the Loader Bots, and you know how many more of those there are than janitorial bots in HQ?"

Here he paused briefly, squinting into middle-distance as if actually attempting to count in his head. "I-I mean…I dunno exactly, I have spreadsheets n' shit for that, but like—it’s gotta be millions, at least! A butt-load, is what I’m saying! One one-thousandth of that is hardly a big ask, but nooo, Brenda was all like—”

But before he could continue his barely-coherent rant, the world lurched around him when he spun on his heel. Rhys tripped over himself and stumbled directly into Timmy’s chair—and while he miraculously caught himself before hitting the floor, he still fell halfway on top of Timothy in a flurry of flailing limbs. By the time his head stopped spinning enough to process which way was up again, he was awkwardly perched semi-on Timmy’s knee and semi-on the armrest. One hand clung to the back of the chair like a lifeline.

“Haaa—whoo, wow, alright, Iiii am…way too drunk right now.” And he was supposed to be the big, cool, head-honcho-of-Atlas. Rhys laughed at himself, free-spirited and floaty. “Whyyy did you let me get so drunk?? I have an earnings call at ass-o’-clock in the morning, you’re the woooorst.” And yet he buried his face in the crook of Timmy's neck and nuzzled him affectionately, so how effective was his whining, really?