( if it'd ever been a question (it wasn't), the reality confirms it: lottie's drunk. it's there in her unsteadiness, the way that she holds to him as she lowers herself down to pick up her phone. (not drunk enough, he notes, not to be disproportionately panicked about it, like she doesn't have it insured, like she hasn't got everything backed up to the cloud or whatever it is apple uses—.)
he's sober, almost painfully so in comparison, but between the way she grips at his arms and the way he's pleased — happy — in spite of himself to see her, any criticism he might have had dies a death between brain and mouth. he reaches out for her phone before she does, part thanks to his longer reach, part thanks to aforementioned sobriety, part thanks to the fact that lottie doesn't have a third hand and both of hers are still gripping him.
he crouches, weight resting on the balls of his feet with practised ease as his fingers curl around her phone, as he draws it towards him. a quick, cursory glance, one that says he's not actually all that interested in whether it's damaged, it's more to see who's messaging her, and then he keeps it held as he pries her fingers from his arms, holds her left hand in his left her hand, her right in his, her phone wedged in between. )
[ Her world spins and shakes, legs wobbling in comparison to Marc's steady stance. Her nails dig into his sleeves to ease the vague panic of falling, forgetting about the phone because Marc is a step ahead β he has it in his hands and relief falls at her feet. Colors her cheeks a pleasant, almost hot to the touch, pink.
He's real and alive and holding her hands, phone wedged between but she's not paying it much attention (if she did, she'd see the texts from Esther, the ones from Meg urging her to reply to Esther because it's getting awkward without her there).
People are complaining about the random ass couple crouching in the middle of the sidewalk but Lottie doesn't care. It feels like they're sharing a secret down here, with her achy knees and his rough (warm) hands on her. She stares at him, smiling, a little dopey. Quiet. Wondering if she can get him to carry her inside the bar and wondering when it was last he put chapstick on. And thenβ ]
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he's sober, almost painfully so in comparison, but between the way she grips at his arms and the way he's pleased — happy — in spite of himself to see her, any criticism he might have had dies a death between brain and mouth. he reaches out for her phone before she does, part thanks to his longer reach, part thanks to aforementioned sobriety, part thanks to the fact that lottie doesn't have a third hand and both of hers are still gripping him.
he crouches, weight resting on the balls of his feet with practised ease as his fingers curl around her phone, as he draws it towards him. a quick, cursory glance, one that says he's not actually all that interested in whether it's damaged, it's more to see who's messaging her, and then he keeps it held as he pries her fingers from his arms, holds her left hand in his left her hand, her right in his, her phone wedged in between. )
I'm real.
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He's real and alive and holding her hands, phone wedged between but she's not paying it much attention (if she did, she'd see the texts from Esther, the ones from Meg urging her to reply to Esther because it's getting awkward without her there).
People are complaining about the random ass couple crouching in the middle of the sidewalk but Lottie doesn't care. It feels like they're sharing a secret down here, with her achy knees and his rough (warm) hands on her. She stares at him, smiling, a little dopey. Quiet. Wondering if she can get him to carry her inside the bar and wondering when it was last he put chapstick on. And thenβ ]
..What's Marc's favorite color??