hamelinic | tfln meme

Further demonstrations of perfection. She's just absolutely made of perfect. He'll tell her in a minute, when he's done gulping carefully at the water.

Or maybe he'll just hum at her. That might be more where he's at.

She can't quite divine the exact meaning of his hum. But the sound is generally happy and/or approving; she'll take it. It's not a protest or a noise of distress. Forward momentum, surely.

Her thumb rubs a little circle near his elbow. She's patient, she'll wait until he's had enough water and enough time since his last drink to be able to walk well enough.

"I am..." and another swallow of water "...going t' preemptively apologize for falling asleep on you."

Possibly while still in the tub.

That was clearly not the anticipated end to that sentence, not the way she lets out a slightly startled (but amused all the same) laugh.

"Do try to make it up the stairs? I'm not sure I could carry you up if you fall asleep at the bottom. Beyond that I can't complain. You put up with me not being able to undo my own coat. And singing terrible songs from movies, or we could even go back to mistaken texts about unsavory subjects. I can hardly protest you falling asleep on me."

What about him making a scene in a quiet little bar? Because he's got his own bark of a laugh to let out, but then he's got to gesture to the whole damn world to share.

"I'm dating a saint."

And everyone needs to know.

"Oh, good grief." That's as much aimed at him as it is the table off in one corner, whose occupants break into a smattering of applause.

"Careful. They'll make weird relics out of my fingers when I die, if you keep telling people that."

Now, see, that table. That table knows what's up. He's got enough coordination to bow in their direction before needing to cling to her again.

"Morbid," he tsks, doing his best to be properly steady on his feet. "'s go home, then."

She hums her agreement as she gets his arm settled around her shoulders, leaning into him a bit to help hold him up. "Totally morbid. My people are good at that." Catholics and their odd rituals.

"But yes, let's get you home. Come on. " As always, those two words are less a direction and more a prompt that they're about to start moving. She steers him slowly toward the door, patient, letting him show her how much holding up he'll need.

"I like home."

He likes the fact that they both say 'home' about the same place, no matter how often he slinks back to the apartment he's still paying rent on to visit his instruments. That's what's actually got him grinning as he smacks a pleased kiss against her cheek.

"I like you."

"Well. That works out nicely, seeing as I like you, too."

And she likes hearing him say home, likes understanding that they are talking about the same place. And the same idea, the two of them there together.

There's a bit of maneuvering to get them both out the door and into the sidewalk. It's not far, just a couple of blocks, and they'll be home.

"I like having you home with me."

At least he's a dancer. It makes him somewhat lighter on his feet than many entirely sluggish drunks.

It also means that getting out the door is absolutely going to turn into a bit of a spin, but that's hardly the worst fate in the world.

"Let's keep it up, then."

He's certainly lighter on his feet than any drunks he's helped up to their front door. She vaguely remember needing to be held up rather firmly as he guided her up the stairs once.

She holds on a little tighter all the same as he spins them, just in case. But he seems all right. She tugs gently, resettling him against her side.

"You've got yourself a deal."

Good. Absolutely good. Absolutely good that they're making this deal--absolutely good that he's getting settled back in against her again where he can press another sloppy kiss against her cheek.

"Holding you to it. Not forgetting."

In the steel trap, in spite of the drunkneness.

"Good, because I'm not forgetting, either."

He may be drunk and they may be out in the middle of the sidewalk just past the neighborhood bar, on their way home, but this is important. Just because it may have started as a tease, in jest, doesn't make it untrue.

"It's your home too." Her arm tightens around him. "Our home. I want you there."

"Our home."

It tastes right on his lips. Yes, he's sloshed into a state of being unable to get himself there properly, but that's only got him in a place where it's easier to admit what's true.

That it's not her apartment. Not really. It's theirs, and that's a good thing.

"Exactly."

For all that it's a lovely feeling to have, it's even better to hear him say it. To know that he understands. For it to sound and feel so right falling from his lips, to both of them.

Though for all that it feels right, there's part of her starting to feel it's less about her apartment, a specific physical place, and more about him simply being there with her. It's enough to make her wonder sometimes if home could wind up being where he is.

For now, though, it's their apartment, and they're approaching the building's front door. She pulls his arm tighter around her shoulders, her other hand fishing around in her coat pocket for her keys. "Can you manage the stairs or do you need a minute?"

Physical places have never particularly stuck for him. People used to, although it had been less and less so, recently. The exceptions were notable.

Rachel had become the most notable exception ages ago, at this point. He had absolutely no regrets about it.

Even less so while intoxicated--although, to be fair, part of that was his regret of other things. Like the swimming in his head. "...give me a beat."

Counting off up the stairs would help him hit each step. Don't question, Rachel.

"...Okay."

The stairs come in sets of eight, and she dutifully counts them off as they ascend. One flight to get to the first floor, then a pair each, with a short landing after the first set of eight, to get to each successive floor. Eleven measures, perhaps, with a breath between, or eleven lines of a song.

"...six, seven, eight," and their door is the one nearest the stairs, a couple of strides and then the jingle of her keys, the metallic snap of the lock turning over. A shove of the door with him in tow, and they're both inside.

"Straight to that bath? Or do you need a minute?"

His head bobs dutifully along. His feet don't stumble more than a little, the automaticity of dance training keeping him moving without much need for the assistance of his bleary mind.

The real swaying comes when they reach the right landing--when he's got to wait for the door to be opened, when he's being dragged along into the apartment. There's much less of a rhythm to that. It throws his balance.

And it means he'll be clinging tightly to her for a moment in an attempt to reorient once they're in. Purely for rebalancing. "...yes."

"I've got you."

Because that yes, she decides, when coupled with the way he stops and clings to her, means he needs a moment. She draws him close, circling his waist with her arms and letting him lean into her. One hand starts rubbing soothing little circles on his back.

"There's no rush. Let me know when you're okay to move again."

He's never been certain why his manager has long called him an overgrown cat. Rachel might be able to explain it to him, from the way he nuzzles contentedly against her neck, half purring as his arms pull tighter around her. It's not at all unlike a lion flopping up onto its trainer's shoulders for a brief cuddle.

Thankfully, nipping at her neck is just with the nibbling flat teeth of a drunk human being, not the rough latching jaws of a savanna predator.

"Spoiled."

"For anyone else? Completely. See what you've done."

No, she knows what he meant, that he's the one being spoiled right now. She doesn't need to tell him she understands, and that she further doesn't mind doing it, not when he can clearly tell he's being indulged.

She lets out a pleased little hum at his teeth in her neck. She doesn't move, not wanting to upset his efforts to re-orient. She's been there, she knows how little it takes to set the room spinning and your head straight into misery.

"I'm not asking because I'm going to judge or disapprove of the answer." More circles low on his back, her hand warm over the fabric of his shirt. "I only want to know so I have a better idea about recovery time. How much did you have to drink?"

Being allowed to get oriented in their slightly-spin-y apartment is definitely spoiling. He's dead certain of it.

He's also fairly certain that the best way to answer her question is honestly and with complete candor. "Yes."

...no, wait. That's not right. That's not right at all.

"Noon?"

Better.

...noon. And she didn't leave work terribly early, it wasn't all that much before five. Dear, oh dear. Lots of water, then, when he's ready. A bath and sleep, definitely sleep.

But first they can stand here as long as he needs to. They'll get nowhere if she goes steering him around the apartment and he gets dizzy.

"You were really that bored while I was at work?" She shifts a little closer, careful not to jar him, coaxing his head down to her shoulder.

That earns a bit of an exhausted huff as he shifts to start untangling--start moving toward a bath. Warm and seated would be useful.

"...I need work."

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