hamelinic | tfln meme

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."

"Oh."

She lets him shift away, keeping her arms around him and looking up to watch. He doesn't seem dangerously wobbly so she takes a step back, gently pulling away.

"So is the problem no work at all, or no work that's fulfilling?"

"That's fulfilling."

She knows him far too well, clearly, to hit the right question straight off the bat. He finds he doesn't overly mind, somehow.

"D'you know how little it takes t' rattle off pop nonsense?"

"I can only imagine." Maybe it's a lot like rattling off two column inches about funding cuts to the fire department and no more rescued kittens from trees. But this is not about her, even if the idea of the exercise of passion and talent for something one can tell is clearly beneath one's capabilities is more or less the same.

"But I do know it's not what you want to be doing. It's not what feeds your soul."

"'s not."

Maybe he ought to be working on the opera with his free time. Maybe that would be better than drinking himself into a stupor.

Maybe. "Bath?"

She's had more or less the same thought, that working on something that means something to him would be a better use of his energy than his commissions.

"Yes. Let's get you in there, come on."

She gently steers him into the bathroom, having him perch on the edge of the tub. She settles beside him, leaning in to start the water running to heat up.

"Your agent can't help you find better things to do besides the pop stuff you don't like?"

Sitting works. Sitting works quite well. It's a bit of a struggle getting to his shoes to start working off, but he's balancing well enough.

"He's got... this completely ridiculous idea that I like making money."

Her hand moves to his knee without hesitating; it's instinct, reaching out to steady him. She hums, a sort of oh, I see without actually using those words.

"If I were a cynical kind of person I guess I'd point out there's money for him too, there. But I'm not. Maybe he just doesn't want to have to feed you himself."

She holds her other hand out, letting the water flow over it as it starts to get hotter. "So what if..." She pauses. Shrugs slightly. "What if you made a little less money, and spent more time on something that actually was meaningful to you? Like your own work?"

Like his opera.

Shoes off, thanks in part to the steadying hand on his knee. Shirt next, although that comes with much more of a fuss.

"My own work?"

And for a moment, he's clearly confused about it. For a moment, there's enough alcohol addling his brain that he can't both get off his shirt and remember his opera.

"Your own work."

She takes his shirt, setting it out of the way. He has been drinking for hours, maybe it really hasn't occurred to him.

"Your opera, Cynric. What if you devoted some more of your time to that instead of all this other stuff that obviously doesn't make you happy?"

...huh. Right. That.

He sways thoughtfully for a moment, finding his balance again while marshaling his mind.

"...I need money. 've got a girlfriend."

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