The blur obscuring the other man's face takes on a tone of red, red, red, and Neil's laughing. Howls until his sides hurt, and he's doubled over on the counter, slapping his hand down against the granite. He does not cease his sounds even when he notes clenched fists and teeth from the other, even as his prone body stretches its lips out in a goofy smile.

The act finally stops at a question. Spoken by a voice entirely too familiar to properly place. Neil pauses to glance at the blur.

Was-- "--that you?"

His counterpart shrugs, the movements stiff as a board. He's still very pissed, it seems. Not me. Maybe yours? he gives, tone reeking of hate.

Neil cannot help the eyebrow raise as he peers at the other man over the wine glass. "My better half?" A pause. He's-- "--too busy killing himself over me."

That's funny. He hadn't meant to say that.