The bottle drags at the table it's on, a scuffed offer that Will only wastes a moment wincing about before he reaches for it. The only reason he pours just a few fingers of whiskey back into his glass is the sense of not wanting to overuse Rust's things. If Will were drinking his own alcohol with Rust present, he'd be in serious risk of draining the bottle, one angrily fearful swallow at a time.

Surprising Rust is always a mutual sensation, and not because Rust bleeds over into Will. It's just not easy to unbalance him in that way, leaving Will always very aware of when it happens. Will's face just pinches into a wordless scoff, sipping at his whiskey only a little slower while Rust talks.

And says his own version of a 'yes'. "Well as it happens, I'm not too fond of my own impression on this subject." There's a moment, a fluttering palpitation of his heart, where the whiskey wants to burn right back up his throat. Nausea clenches his stomach and Will hunches forward, elbows on thighs, folded almost in half in the plastic-coated lawn chair.

"I'm not in the mood for flattering airbrushed stories about Bonded pairs." Will sips at his whiskey, only barely more controlled than he was when he downed his first glass, grip uncertain. "I want someone to be fucking honest about what that sort of shit could mean." Despite the swears, despite the electricity up and down his arms, Will's voice is even.

"That's why I came here."