[He's unfamiliar with the idiom, but contextual clues have been remarkably helpful in discerning how to navigate these conversations. Flint withdraws at the outset of that handshake, and refolds his arms. This man, a fucking cacophony. He wasn't wrong to think it. He changes directions faster than a fickle headwind.
Now, what the fuck is chocolate? His jaw ticks off to one side. The word cake is identifiable, certainly, though what he has in mind when he thinks of it is drastically different to the manner in which it's evolved over the centuries. Flint has no tolerance for sugar, and the fact that everything seems to be all but saturated in it has lead to his diet in Quarantine being rather sparse and mostly meat and vegetables. The size of a modern chicken is damn near startling by comparison. Bread, however, and all associated forms of it have proven too far outside his realm of taste for him to even attempt it now.]
no subject
Now, what the fuck is chocolate? His jaw ticks off to one side. The word cake is identifiable, certainly, though what he has in mind when he thinks of it is drastically different to the manner in which it's evolved over the centuries. Flint has no tolerance for sugar, and the fact that everything seems to be all but saturated in it has lead to his diet in Quarantine being rather sparse and mostly meat and vegetables. The size of a modern chicken is damn near startling by comparison. Bread, however, and all associated forms of it have proven too far outside his realm of taste for him to even attempt it now.]
Whiskey. Generally.