[ Is this his version of drunkenness?? He may have missed a period, but he did manage to bust out "supervision", "overestimated", and "tolerance" without a hitch, which frankly she finds a little sus. Sus of what, she does not know yet.
But, whatever. If he is bothering to ask for help, then he must really need it. She will dutifully do for Eustace what she would for any of her youthful, overexcited, unhinged partygirl friends of tender drinking age. ]
[ Not pictured: the number of attempts it took him to correctly spell those three words. ]
The bar
[ Which bar?? Please give him two minutes to scrunch his face as he looks around him for some kind of recognizable landmark, and then another minute to slowly type out the following. ]
next to the [ ... ] big pink dick statue [ That's new. ]
[ She doesn't know how familiar he is with texting acronyms, but it can be something for him to puzzle over as she makes the trek over.
As she leaves the house, a couple of dogs decide they want to slip out and join her for the field trip. Thus, Eustace will find that the first harbinger of Ema's arrival is a pair of pups (choose your poison) bumrushing him, with Ema herself following at a more normal pace. ]
[ OMW? One meticulous woman? Open my window? Operation Man Walked-home??
He spends too long mulling over the mysterious trio of letters as he sits on the curb before just resolving to ask Lottie about it later, which is right about when his field of vision is filled with eight legs and two slobbery tongues. The alcohol still buzzing through his veins means he is not shy about lavishing attention upon Marie and Albert despite being out in public, and he barely spares the two-footed person following behind them a second glance.
[ She was prepared to find him sloppily stumbling over some trash can or passed out ass-up on the side of the street, as the hammered are wont to do, and she planned to be accordingly disgruntled and head-shaky over the poor state of him. What she finds instead is Eustace openly doting on the dogs. It's a surprisingly warm scene, where he's involved, but what's more surprising is the ease with which her mild annoyance melts into a soft buzz of fondness.
Not that that will stop her from bending over him to pinch the very tips of his ears and give them a little upward tug. ]
Hey. You.
[ You would think she would have gotten around to addressing him by his actual name by now, but no. ]
[ What kind of greeting is that to give to your inebriated housemate currently ignoring you in favor of a handful of tiny dogs? The right one, that's what.
He looks up, eye(s) blinking as her face swims into his vision. It's stupid, how seeing her in person suddenly sets him at peace, as though he hadn't just spent the better part of two hours slowly drinking his misery away. (Or maybe that's the alcohol talking.) ]
[ And now the mild annoyance is back. She crouches down purely so that she can pinch his cheeks as punishment. ]
Don't "mm?" me. You're the one who called me here.
[ That said, she hasn't seen him drunk before, and she is a little surprised that he let himself get this out of it. Maybe he got involved in something dumb like a drinking contest or a haywire island effect? ]
[ He is not so far gone as to let this mild physical abuse pass without comment and he frowns. ]
I don't party. [ Sometimes he will deign to attend a party (noun) but certainly he does not party (verb). ] I just wanted a drink.
[ And sometimes one drink becomes three. It's no big deal.
The alcohol may not have made him any chattier than usual but it has lowered his inhibitions in other ways. Both hands lift up to take hold of hers, gently pulling her hands away so his poor cheeks can get a break. The weather is cool as always and her hands are pleasantly warm in his, and instead of letting go right away he tugs on them instead. ]
Help me up.
[ May as well get started on the walk home unless she really wants to loiter out in front of a bar all night. ]
[ She?? Hello??? Her bothersome cheek-pinching was supposed to be answered with annoyance, not soft hand-holding. Congratulations, it's a kick in the knees to whatever Ema was about to say, the words jamming stupidly in her throat.
If it were nearly anyone else suddenly grabbing her hands, she would be quick to shoot them an odd look or glare, and then probably thwap them with a whole bag of Snackoos or a mystery test tube from her science bag. But since it is Eustace, he gets a flash of suppressed panic followed by a firework burst of red rapidly overtaking her face. Why??? There is something wrong with her, but also him. The only issue is that he has inebriation to excuse him, and she does not.
She's valiantly struggling not to make any kind of eye contact with him or think about how very warm and gentle his hands are, choosing instead to urgently look at that trash can to the left or that giant penis statue to the right, when he says something and pulls at her hands. It takes a moment for her brain to catch up. ]
Um. Yes. Alright.
[ If her brain were really actually caught up, it would consider the folly of trying to pull up a man the better part of twice her weight. What happens instead is that she immediately decides to give it the good old college try, if only to grant reason to them (god) gently holding hands. She firms up her grip and straightens. ]
Okay! One, two—!
[ She tries to pull him up!! Assuming that he will be little to no help, she puts her whole back into it. ]
[ Ema will be pleased to know that he is too drunk to notice how red her face instantly becomes, still too fixated on the feel of her hands in his to pay attention to anything else.
Somehow, the lone brain cell occupying space in his mind wrongly assumes that the slight tug of his hands will be met with the same tug back from hers. She is half his size after all, and the likelihood of her actually dragging him up all by herself is slim to none. This assumption is immediately dashed to pieces when he does his best to meet her halfway, despite the heavy anchor of inebriation slowing him down. Instead of a smooth upward rise he stumbles, balance upended, the full force of Ema's efforts enough to send him lurching forward.
Only years of training save them both from ending up in a heap on the concrete, sharp reflexes kicking in at the last second. He finally lets go of (one of) her hands, arm snaking out to grab her by the waist and yank her towards him in an attempt to revert their previous forward momentum. It works, barely, and they stumble-sway back into a sense of equilibrium.
Standing like this, with his arm wrapped around her, he notices three things. One: she smells nice, a mix of her usual clean scent and warm brown sugar. (The latter from her constant snacking habits, probably.) Two: her body slots in nicely against his, the top of her head tucking in neatly under his chin. (Technically he'd noticed this before, but it'd been a side thought and pushed out by other, more important thoughts.) Three: his heart is pounding strangely fast and loud in his chest. (Isn't alcohol supposed to be a depressant...?) He does not notice the fourth thing, which is that Marie and Albert have started barking excitedly in approval. Very 101 Dalmations of them, to be quite honest.
His brain, already slowed from all the alcohol, stutters momentarily to a stop. ]
Hm.
[ Hm?? He's really 2/2 in the useless replies department tonight. At least he has the good sense to peel himself away and let go of her waist before she punches him in the face or knees him in the crotch or even both at the same time. The good thing about all the alcohol sloshing about is that once his brain boots up again, he doesn't (over)think anything, skipping straight ahead to the important bits as he peers down at her. ]
Sorry. [ For nearly slamming her head into the ground and giving her a concussion. ] You okay?
[ Notably, he does not let go of her other hand. ]
[ She really should have seen this coming. When he lurches up toward her and collision appears imminent, she lifts her arms to attempt to catch him, however futile that effort would be. She could at least try to redirect his fall so that he isn't faceplanting or completely squishing her — but that line of thought swiftly becomes moot, because he seems to gather up the final dregs of his motor skills so that he can snatch her to him, and they somehow manage to wobble upright together.
There are some godforsaken seconds in which they are just standing there in newly settled silence. One of her hands is still in his, the rest of her crushed against him, her ear pressed tightly enough against his chest to make out the secret frantic beating of his heart. That last detail is enough to distract her from the fact that he smells like booze, the dirty ground, and probably dogs and metal. It's an important detail not just because it feels hideously intimate, but because his heartbeat is unusually hard and quick, even for a drunk person. Pay no attention to the fact that her own heart is also drumming up a storm at the moment; he's the person of interest here.
The dogs start barking happily and then Eustace hms, breaking into her distracted thoughts. Naturally (if belatedly), he releases her, and naturally (if a tad slowly), she steps back from him. Except that one hand of his is still clinging to hers, and it clearly has no plans on letting go.
And that's... okay? It's mortifying and even a little dangerous, like they're setting foot on some rickety bridge, but if her choices now are to keep her hand in his or pull away, then she simply doesn't have the willpower to pull away.
After a second's pause, her fingers close in and around his, comfortably holding his hand back. ]
[ God, what is she, a stuttering teenager??... Actually, she probably would have handled this better as a teen. They've already done so much worse, there is absolutely no reason why she should feel funny about holding his hand, of all things. She still can't manage to make eye contact and her face looks like it's fresh out of the oven, but she will forge ahead like this because she must. ]
Peachy. Just... be careful, please.
[ She angles them toward home and takes a step, tugging him along like everything is perfectly normal and she is not continuing to hold his hand(!!). She's merely assisting an impaired person, this is fine. ]
[ With distance comes a slight slowing of his heartbeat and a strange sense of loss, though he doesn't have the time (or the brainpower) to analyze exactly why he feels this way before she's tugging him forward and maneuvering them both into movement again.
He lags behind her half a step as they make for home, usual precise movements blunted into something more leisurely and indolent by all the booze. His steps are largely straight, if slow, his concentration split fifty-fifty between making sure he doesn't stub his toes over a dip in the road and the still-pleasing sensation of Ema's hand in his. The sober him of two hours ago would have been in overdrive right now, picking apart every fleeting emotion and stashing the results away for thorough review at a later date. The drunk him of now is more than happy to simply go with flow, as it were.
Ema's internal landscape maybe be a tumultous whirlwind of confused emotions but for once, Eustace feels strangely at peace. (Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, he will look back at the memory of tonight and resolve to never drink in excess again.) ]
I'm always careful. [ What a pile of lies. ] I called you here, didn't I?
[ He could have tried to stumble home alone only to end up in a ditch somewhere instead. Be grateful, Ema!! ]
[ She watches him closely, trying to gauge how much he's had to drink. He's upright and walking in a mostly straight line, which is promising even if he's going at the speed of molasses. She's a fast walker by nature, but she finds that she doesn't mind the glacial pace (yet). It's rare to see him so completely relaxed, and it's even, dare she think it, kind of cute. It will be less cute if he trips and eats shit, but for now she'll indulge in the sight of him sleepily trudging along, her furrowed brow unfurling slowly as the adrenaline fades and the more familiar and mundane experience of walking home with Eustace begins to preside.
She is, of course, still holding his hand, and his soft grip feels equal parts pleasant distraction and hot potato. Talking is good, though. Talking is a handy distraction from the distraction. ]
... You did. And I appreciate that you did.
[ Given their conversation following his death, she'll take any call for assistance from him as a sign of improvement. Even if it's for something as small as dragging his drunk ass home. ]
I didn't mind coming here, but why didn't you call Siegfried or Lucio? They seem better equipped to help.
[ Given that Siegfried is a musclehead, Lucio is... something, and Ema is but a small and humble basement dweller. If Eustace were to pass out, Ema would be rolling him home. ]
[ It's really incredible(y embarrassing) how quickly the answer jumps to the forefront of his mind with perfect clarity: Because I wanted to see you.
A stupid answer, based in emotion rather than reason, and one that makes less sense the longer he thinks about it. Out of everyone on this island, Ema is by and far the person he sees the most on a daily basis. Even if she's usually squirreled away in the basement and he's out prowling the island for new and unusual disturbances, that doesn't change the fact that they live in the same house and are separated only by a couple of walls more often than not. But he can't deny that he'd been happy to see her show up (after the dogs, of course), or that he's happy now to indulge in something so simple as a walk home with her.
His steps slow (more) and then stop, brows pinched together as he shuts out the world to roll this uncomfortable realization around in his head. But it's futile to try and dig out the root cause, cognitive processes still too hamstrung by all the alcohol, and in the end all he gets for his efforts is the beginning of a headache—and the looming silence of a question he still hasn't answered.
He settles for a half-truth instead. ]
It was the least out of your way.
[ In that her starting and ending points lined up the best with his. Siegfried lives in some house on the beach and Lucio lives....actually he has no idea where Lucio lives, now that he thinks about it, but probably not anywhere nearby.
He starts walking again, more briskly than before. Ema better pray the sidewalk is smooth sailing from here all the way to home. ]
I would have called one of them if you'd been busy.
[ But would he have been as happy to see either of them? Probably not. ]
[ Eustace's answer is perfectly logical and unsuspicious. What's much stranger is how he slows to a stop so that Ema is forced to stop with him and look up at him with concern, and then how he suddenly speeds up out of nowhere like he's running (walking briskly) from something. If Ema deciding to hold his hand was an act of tenuous acceptance before, it's a conscious effort now as she's made to pick up the pace to match him. ]
What are you so worked up about?
[ She asks this lightly, more of a rhetorical question than anything, because even if he is drunk, expecting Eustace to answer all questions is still asking for disappointment.
As she comes to match his stride more comfortably, her hand rests more naturally in his and she settles a little closer, so that their forearms bump together. ]
I also thought the three of you might be used to dealing with each other drunk. Since you all knew each other from [she waves her free hand] before.
[ That's what people do on ships, right? Drink a lot?? She figures airships are more or less the same. ]
[ One of these observations is easier to answer than the other. ]
We never spent much time together before this.
[ An airship of the Grandcypher's size needs a matching large crew to man it, and even if they hadn't already gravitated towards their own social circles long before joining up, none of them are exactly models for indolence and respite. Siegfried had Feendrache to worry about, he had a neverending list of Society assignments to complete, and Lucio.... His steps slow a smidge again, a stray thought drifting across his mind. ]
I also don't know if Lucio can get drunk.
[ Because Lucio is....something. Certainly not human, though what exactly he is Eustace has no idea.
Now that they've settled into an even pace again, he becomes (even more) aware of the brush of their arms against each other and the proximity of her body to his. It had been booze-fueled impulse that led him to grab hold of her hands in the first place, but it's something else entirely that keeps their hands linked together. By now, the worst of his earlier giddiness has faded, leaving behind a familiar sense of contemplation. His fingers tighten around hers, the touchpoint a comfort as he grapples with the myriad thoughts swirling around his head. What is he so worked up about? Too many things. ]
It's been six months. [ Half a year. ] Even I need a break.
[ From the island's insane machinations is the implied but unsaid continuation. ]
[ She falls silent at his simple admission, which would be common sense from anyone else but which feels unexpectedly vulnerable from him. Has it only been six months? It feels like it's been a lifetime since she's experienced the lively bustle of a city or sat down to eat something new without wondering how it might hijack her mind or body. It's been long enough that even the basement lab has ceased to sate her; endless research yielding few answers has been a poor substitute for the adventurous, result-driven science she's actually passionate about.
So she can relate to the need for a temporary escape. Perhaps especially in his case. She would've been satisfied (in a manner) still living in a beat-up apartment and doing the bare minumum to get by if it meant sticking it to the Augur. Eustace has worked harder to play by the island's twisted rules, prepared more, made more of an effort to survive. It's a wonder that he's never complained at her, or tried to kick her out, or asked for anything in return.
With a slow turning of her heart, she's reminded of her sister. Lana and Eustace are very different people, but Ema can recognize when holding someone out at arm's length isn't the same as a lack of caring — when someone has had to be strong for so long that the walls they put up become difficult to scale on both sides. With Lana, it was the death of her ethics that changed her; with Eustace, Ema can only assume it was the death of his entire youth.
There's not much she can do about it, plainly. By now, it must just be how Eustace is. But without realizing it, somewhere along the way, she's hugged his hand against her stomach and closed her other hand over it, giving it a gentle squeeze. It's an unthinking gesture, her eyes elsewhere, her hands living out a habit of restlessness. ]
You're allowed to take more breaks. You don't always have to be so... alone.
Edited (don't look at me it's nothing) 2021-03-04 05:11 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
text; thanks nano for breaking up my wall of thirst
[ Hi Ema, this is your [checks watch] 8 pm drunk dial. ]
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No?
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OK. What do you need?
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I overestimated my [ alcohol ] tolerance
[ As evidenced by the fact that he forgot to add a period onto the end of his sentence. ]
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But, whatever. If he is bothering to ask for help, then he must really need it. She will dutifully do for Eustace what she would for any of her youthful, overexcited, unhinged partygirl friends of tender drinking age. ]
Fine. Location, please.
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The bar
[ Which bar?? Please give him two minutes to scrunch his face as he looks around him for some kind of recognizable landmark, and then another minute to slowly type out the following. ]
next to the [ ... ] big pink dick statue [ That's new. ]
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[ just making sure ]
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Right. I suppose I asked for that.
OMW
[ She doesn't know how familiar he is with texting acronyms, but it can be something for him to puzzle over as she makes the trek over.
As she leaves the house, a couple of dogs decide they want to slip out and join her for the field trip. Thus, Eustace will find that the first harbinger of Ema's arrival is a pair of pups (choose your poison) bumrushing him, with Ema herself following at a more normal pace. ]
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He spends too long mulling over the mysterious trio of letters as he sits on the curb before just resolving to ask Lottie about it later, which is right about when his field of vision is filled with eight legs and two slobbery tongues. The alcohol still buzzing through his veins means he is not shy about lavishing attention upon Marie and Albert despite being out in public, and he barely spares the two-footed person following behind them a second glance.
Sorry Ema, you will just have to wait. ]
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Not that that will stop her from bending over him to pinch the very tips of his ears and give them a little upward tug. ]
Hey. You.
[ You would think she would have gotten around to addressing him by his actual name by now, but no. ]
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He looks up, eye(s) blinking as her face swims into his vision. It's stupid, how seeing her in person suddenly sets him at peace, as though he hadn't just spent the better part of two hours slowly drinking his misery away. (Or maybe that's the alcohol talking.) ]
Mm?
[ That's it, that's all he's got. ]
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Don't "mm?" me. You're the one who called me here.
[ That said, she hasn't seen him drunk before, and she is a little surprised that he let himself get this out of it. Maybe he got involved in something dumb like a drinking contest or a haywire island effect? ]
What happened? Partied too hard?
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I don't party. [ Sometimes he will deign to attend a party (noun) but certainly he does not party (verb). ] I just wanted a drink.
[ And sometimes one drink becomes three. It's no big deal.
The alcohol may not have made him any chattier than usual but it has lowered his inhibitions in other ways. Both hands lift up to take hold of hers, gently pulling her hands away so his poor cheeks can get a break. The weather is cool as always and her hands are pleasantly warm in his, and instead of letting go right away he tugs on them instead. ]
Help me up.
[ May as well get started on the walk home unless she really wants to loiter out in front of a bar all night. ]
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If it were nearly anyone else suddenly grabbing her hands, she would be quick to shoot them an odd look or glare, and then probably thwap them with a whole bag of Snackoos or a mystery test tube from her science bag. But since it is Eustace, he gets a flash of suppressed panic followed by a firework burst of red rapidly overtaking her face. Why??? There is something wrong with her, but also him. The only issue is that he has inebriation to excuse him, and she does not.
She's valiantly struggling not to make any kind of eye contact with him or think about how very warm and gentle his hands are, choosing instead to urgently look at that trash can to the left or that giant penis statue to the right, when he says something and pulls at her hands. It takes a moment for her brain to catch up. ]
Um. Yes. Alright.
[ If her brain were really actually caught up, it would consider the folly of trying to pull up a man the better part of twice her weight. What happens instead is that she immediately decides to give it the good old college try, if only to grant reason to them (god) gently holding hands. She firms up her grip and straightens. ]
Okay! One, two—!
[ She tries to pull him up!! Assuming that he will be little to no help, she puts her whole back into it. ]
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Somehow, the lone brain cell occupying space in his mind wrongly assumes that the slight tug of his hands will be met with the same tug back from hers. She is half his size after all, and the likelihood of her actually dragging him up all by herself is slim to none. This assumption is immediately dashed to pieces when he does his best to meet her halfway, despite the heavy anchor of inebriation slowing him down. Instead of a smooth upward rise he stumbles, balance upended, the full force of Ema's efforts enough to send him lurching forward.
Only years of training save them both from ending up in a heap on the concrete, sharp reflexes kicking in at the last second. He finally lets go of (one of) her hands, arm snaking out to grab her by the waist and yank her towards him in an attempt to revert their previous forward momentum. It works, barely, and they stumble-sway back into a sense of equilibrium.
Standing like this, with his arm wrapped around her, he notices three things. One: she smells nice, a mix of her usual clean scent and warm brown sugar. (The latter from her constant snacking habits, probably.) Two: her body slots in nicely against his, the top of her head tucking in neatly under his chin. (Technically he'd noticed this before, but it'd been a side thought and pushed out by other, more important thoughts.) Three: his heart is pounding strangely fast and loud in his chest. (Isn't alcohol supposed to be a depressant...?) He does not notice the fourth thing, which is that Marie and Albert have started barking excitedly in approval. Very 101 Dalmations of them, to be quite honest.
His brain, already slowed from all the alcohol, stutters momentarily to a stop. ]
Hm.
[ Hm?? He's really 2/2 in the useless replies department tonight. At least he has the good sense to peel himself away and let go of her waist before she punches him in the face or knees him in the crotch or even both at the same time. The good thing about all the alcohol sloshing about is that once his brain boots up again, he doesn't (over)think anything, skipping straight ahead to the important bits as he peers down at her. ]
Sorry. [ For nearly slamming her head into the ground and giving her a concussion. ] You okay?
[ Notably, he does not let go of her other hand. ]
1/2
There are some godforsaken seconds in which they are just standing there in newly settled silence. One of her hands is still in his, the rest of her crushed against him, her ear pressed tightly enough against his chest to make out the secret frantic beating of his heart. That last detail is enough to distract her from the fact that he smells like booze, the dirty ground, and probably dogs and metal. It's an important detail not just because it feels hideously intimate, but because his heartbeat is unusually hard and quick, even for a drunk person. Pay no attention to the fact that her own heart is also drumming up a storm at the moment; he's the person of interest here.
The dogs start barking happily and then Eustace hms, breaking into her distracted thoughts. Naturally (if belatedly), he releases her, and naturally (if a tad slowly), she steps back from him. Except that one hand of his is still clinging to hers, and it clearly has no plans on letting go.
And that's... okay? It's mortifying and even a little dangerous, like they're setting foot on some rickety bridge, but if her choices now are to keep her hand in his or pull away, then she simply doesn't have the willpower to pull away.
After a second's pause, her fingers close in and around his, comfortably holding his hand back. ]
2/2
Peachy. Just... be careful, please.
[ She angles them toward home and takes a step, tugging him along like everything is perfectly normal and she is not continuing to hold his hand(!!). She's merely assisting an impaired person, this is fine. ]
Let's see how you walk.
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He lags behind her half a step as they make for home, usual precise movements blunted into something more leisurely and indolent by all the booze. His steps are largely straight, if slow, his concentration split fifty-fifty between making sure he doesn't stub his toes over a dip in the road and the still-pleasing sensation of Ema's hand in his. The sober him of two hours ago would have been in overdrive right now, picking apart every fleeting emotion and stashing the results away for thorough review at a later date. The drunk him of now is more than happy to simply go with flow, as it were.
Ema's internal landscape maybe be a tumultous whirlwind of confused emotions but for once, Eustace feels strangely at peace. (Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, he will look back at the memory of tonight and resolve to never drink in excess again.) ]
I'm always careful. [ What a pile of lies. ] I called you here, didn't I?
[ He could have tried to stumble home alone only to end up in a ditch somewhere instead. Be grateful, Ema!! ]
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She is, of course, still holding his hand, and his soft grip feels equal parts pleasant distraction and hot potato. Talking is good, though. Talking is a handy distraction from the distraction. ]
... You did. And I appreciate that you did.
[ Given their conversation following his death, she'll take any call for assistance from him as a sign of improvement. Even if it's for something as small as dragging his drunk ass home. ]
I didn't mind coming here, but why didn't you call Siegfried or Lucio? They seem better equipped to help.
[ Given that Siegfried is a musclehead, Lucio is... something, and Ema is but a small and humble basement dweller. If Eustace were to pass out, Ema would be rolling him home. ]
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A stupid answer, based in emotion rather than reason, and one that makes less sense the longer he thinks about it. Out of everyone on this island, Ema is by and far the person he sees the most on a daily basis. Even if she's usually squirreled away in the basement and he's out prowling the island for new and unusual disturbances, that doesn't change the fact that they live in the same house and are separated only by a couple of walls more often than not. But he can't deny that he'd been happy to see her show up (after the dogs, of course), or that he's happy now to indulge in something so simple as a walk home with her.
His steps slow (more) and then stop, brows pinched together as he shuts out the world to roll this uncomfortable realization around in his head. But it's futile to try and dig out the root cause, cognitive processes still too hamstrung by all the alcohol, and in the end all he gets for his efforts is the beginning of a headache—and the looming silence of a question he still hasn't answered.
He settles for a half-truth instead. ]
It was the least out of your way.
[ In that her starting and ending points lined up the best with his. Siegfried lives in some house on the beach and Lucio lives....actually he has no idea where Lucio lives, now that he thinks about it, but probably not anywhere nearby.
He starts walking again, more briskly than before. Ema better pray the sidewalk is smooth sailing from here all the way to home. ]
I would have called one of them if you'd been busy.
[ But would he have been as happy to see either of them? Probably not. ]
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What are you so worked up about?
[ She asks this lightly, more of a rhetorical question than anything, because even if he is drunk, expecting Eustace to answer all questions is still asking for disappointment.
As she comes to match his stride more comfortably, her hand rests more naturally in his and she settles a little closer, so that their forearms bump together. ]
I also thought the three of you might be used to dealing with each other drunk. Since you all knew each other from [she waves her free hand] before.
[ That's what people do on ships, right? Drink a lot?? She figures airships are more or less the same. ]
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We never spent much time together before this.
[ An airship of the Grandcypher's size needs a matching large crew to man it, and even if they hadn't already gravitated towards their own social circles long before joining up, none of them are exactly models for indolence and respite. Siegfried had Feendrache to worry about, he had a neverending list of Society assignments to complete, and Lucio.... His steps slow a smidge again, a stray thought drifting across his mind. ]
I also don't know if Lucio can get drunk.
[ Because Lucio is....something. Certainly not human, though what exactly he is Eustace has no idea.
Now that they've settled into an even pace again, he becomes (even more) aware of the brush of their arms against each other and the proximity of her body to his. It had been booze-fueled impulse that led him to grab hold of her hands in the first place, but it's something else entirely that keeps their hands linked together. By now, the worst of his earlier giddiness has faded, leaving behind a familiar sense of contemplation. His fingers tighten around hers, the touchpoint a comfort as he grapples with the myriad thoughts swirling around his head. What is he so worked up about? Too many things. ]
It's been six months. [ Half a year. ] Even I need a break.
[ From the island's insane machinations is the implied but unsaid continuation. ]
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So she can relate to the need for a temporary escape. Perhaps especially in his case. She would've been satisfied (in a manner) still living in a beat-up apartment and doing the bare minumum to get by if it meant sticking it to the Augur. Eustace has worked harder to play by the island's twisted rules, prepared more, made more of an effort to survive. It's a wonder that he's never complained at her, or tried to kick her out, or asked for anything in return.
With a slow turning of her heart, she's reminded of her sister. Lana and Eustace are very different people, but Ema can recognize when holding someone out at arm's length isn't the same as a lack of caring — when someone has had to be strong for so long that the walls they put up become difficult to scale on both sides. With Lana, it was the death of her ethics that changed her; with Eustace, Ema can only assume it was the death of his entire youth.
There's not much she can do about it, plainly. By now, it must just be how Eustace is. But without realizing it, somewhere along the way, she's hugged his hand against her stomach and closed her other hand over it, giving it a gentle squeeze. It's an unthinking gesture, her eyes elsewhere, her hands living out a habit of restlessness. ]
You're allowed to take more breaks. You don't always have to be so... alone.
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sorry for the manhandling
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