[ Michael doesn't get the joke, but he laughs as if he does, only somewhat unconvincingly. He scratches the back of his neck and watches Cobain for any signs of agitation, but again, she mostly just seems... suspicious, shaking the tip of her tail but ultimately leaving him alone. Tate brings him his beer and Michael takes it with both hands, grateful that Tate uncapped it for him. He wouldn't have known how to, himself.
He drinks from his bottle and almost chokes, the bubbles getting stuck up his nose after taking too big of a swig. He sets the bottle against the table as he coughs, nose running a little, his eyes watering, and if Tate offers him any help or looks of concern, Michael will hastily wave them away. He rubs his eye on the back of his hand and gets over it, cheeks red. It's only beer, but he's basically four years old. ]
Crap - sorry. I haven't...
[ He doesn't finish his sentence. He shakes his head and tries again, taking another drink and managing to keep it down this time, but he's so fucking embarrassed. He doesn't look at Tate, only busies himself with the work he's doing, falling quiet so he doesn't say anything stupid enough to make Tate's impression of him any worse. ]
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He drinks from his bottle and almost chokes, the bubbles getting stuck up his nose after taking too big of a swig. He sets the bottle against the table as he coughs, nose running a little, his eyes watering, and if Tate offers him any help or looks of concern, Michael will hastily wave them away. He rubs his eye on the back of his hand and gets over it, cheeks red. It's only beer, but he's basically four years old. ]
Crap - sorry. I haven't...
[ He doesn't finish his sentence. He shakes his head and tries again, taking another drink and managing to keep it down this time, but he's so fucking embarrassed. He doesn't look at Tate, only busies himself with the work he's doing, falling quiet so he doesn't say anything stupid enough to make Tate's impression of him any worse. ]