[ If he were going to throw up Childe has half a mind to do it all over Diluc's front just to be spiteful. The agony in his throat eases up in degrees, shifting from the angry burn in his esophagus to something warm and pleasant and buzzing in his stomach that spreads along all his nerve endings to the tips of his fingers.
He can't remember the last time he's been drunk before. Certainly not now, because his tolerance is much better than one might think despite his stature and the last time he'd imbibed so heavily. He was Snezhnayan and fire-water was as much a staple of his homelife as his mother's borscht was. It was one of the better ways to warm up when out in the dead of winter, after all, and it was something he'd grown up with and had even taken pride in.
It's only the dimness of the room that has his senses dulled, the lack of sleep he's had over the past few days that makes his movements sluggish and heavy. Lifting his head, he's surprised at how warm and hot his face feels but it's probably from all the blood rushing to it, he thinks, from where he'd been hunched over it up until now.
Turning to Diluc, he - stares. At the way the uniform hugs his waist, the broad shoulders of his back, the way his hair's tied up just enough to expose the nape of his neck tantalizingly, like a particularly juicy piece of fruit just waiting for someone to bite into it. His mouth waters, his pupils dilate a little. He's not drunk, surely. Buzzed maybe, but not drunk.
He's not drunk, he thinks, over and over and over again even as he's reaching out to catch Diluc's wrist, less a means to balance himself and more just because he wants to. His lashes dip, framing the warm, slightly glazed look in his eyes. He's absolutely not drunk. ]
no subject
He can't remember the last time he's been drunk before. Certainly not now, because his tolerance is much better than one might think despite his stature and the last time he'd imbibed so heavily. He was Snezhnayan and fire-water was as much a staple of his homelife as his mother's borscht was. It was one of the better ways to warm up when out in the dead of winter, after all, and it was something he'd grown up with and had even taken pride in.
It's only the dimness of the room that has his senses dulled, the lack of sleep he's had over the past few days that makes his movements sluggish and heavy. Lifting his head, he's surprised at how warm and hot his face feels but it's probably from all the blood rushing to it, he thinks, from where he'd been hunched over it up until now.
Turning to Diluc, he - stares. At the way the uniform hugs his waist, the broad shoulders of his back, the way his hair's tied up just enough to expose the nape of his neck tantalizingly, like a particularly juicy piece of fruit just waiting for someone to bite into it. His mouth waters, his pupils dilate a little. He's not drunk, surely. Buzzed maybe, but not drunk.
He's not drunk, he thinks, over and over and over again even as he's reaching out to catch Diluc's wrist, less a means to balance himself and more just because he wants to. His lashes dip, framing the warm, slightly glazed look in his eyes. He's absolutely not drunk. ]
Hey.