[ She doesn't answer that question, too lost in the churn of her thoughts and the rabbiting of her heart. She carries it along with the water bottle and plastic-wrapped pastry in her hands, still avoiding Choso's eyes even as she approaches. She looks up only a foot or two from the chair and staggers backward immediately, narrowly escaping his large, furled hand held out for her cheek.
All of her blood rushes to her face. Her heart beats up into her throat. She looks at Choso's earnest expression, the genuine worry in his droopy eyes. On his head, the paper cocktail umbrella is still sprouting from one pigtail. The other pigtail is even looser after being pushed up against the elevator wall.
A heartstring gets pulled—not for the first time since they've met.
This. Is just like what happens in her (trashy) romance novels.
Someone reaches for the other person's face and says that they look feverish, when on the inside, they're just trying to stifle their feelings. Marcille has done her fair share of daydreaming of these moments, inserting shoujo-like facsimiles of herself with blurry visions of her One True Love. Now it's happening to her in real life. Choso is doing it without even realizing it.
Her head jerks away, her gaze fixing on a corner of the ceiling. ]
I-I'm fine! Why? Do I look sick? I didn't even notice! I feel completely normal!
[ Her voice is wobbly. She thrusts out the water bottle and pastry to him. ]
[ When she ducks away, Choso cannot help but think of the cat colonies back in Tokyo, of the way the calico with the bent ear would slip away with a fluid grace just like Marcille's here now. Thinks of everything the others told to him, so when she whips away and affixes her eyes elsewhere, he bows his head in kind drops his gaze to her hands as he lets his own big paw drop to receive the offerings instead. He holds the pastry like it's made of paper, pinched between two awkward fingers while his other hand envelopes the bottle in time to promptly forget about it, balanced on his knee like a funny little prize. ]
Yhou look red ash a beet. Maybe you need a chhhair, too.
[ It doesn't help that he stares, that even if he's trying not to needle her with the laser focus of his attention, his eyes still dart and flit and look too much, seek too much at any one time. Fascinated with the shade of red that's painting her cheeks, Choso ends up staring right at her again despite himself. ]
[ Being stared at by Choso is like being targeted by a ray of sunlight—Marcille can't meet it directly, but she can feel it beaming onto her cheek, well-meaning if overwhelming. ]
Maybe I shouldn't...
[ Why is she lying. She's not doing anything else here. She finally lowers her head, her gaze darting from his eyes to his pigtails.
He's like a big, bumbling dog. Her instinct to take care of him overwhelms her instinct to run.
She sighs through her nose. ]
I will. Hold on one second...
[ She reaches, presses her fingertips on his head, and uses her other hand to carefully pluck the umbrella from his pigtail. ]
[ in that tiny moment when it seems like marcille might not stay, choso’s expression falls just so; his brows pinch together faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging so slightly downward with his lower lip jutting just a little further out to make a pout of his face. it’s not a lot, but it’s enough to be noticeable when his expression goes and brightens up again only a second later when she huffs and agrees to stay.
a big, bumbling dog indeed.
rather like said dog, the effort it takes him to be Still and Unmoving when her fingers find his head is so immense as to be physically palpable; it’s in the tap of his feet, shoes clunking together while his fingers flutter around his snack and drink; it’s in the way his muscles tense, holding the whole of him in tightly-controlled stillness as he feels the tiny bright umbrella in his pigtail get lifted free of its scruffy prison at last. ]
Yoru and I had some drinksh. Sheveral. Many. A number I cannot recall.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
All of her blood rushes to her face. Her heart beats up into her throat. She looks at Choso's earnest expression, the genuine worry in his droopy eyes. On his head, the paper cocktail umbrella is still sprouting from one pigtail. The other pigtail is even looser after being pushed up against the elevator wall.
A heartstring gets pulled—not for the first time since they've met.
This. Is just like what happens in her (trashy) romance novels.
Someone reaches for the other person's face and says that they look feverish, when on the inside, they're just trying to stifle their feelings. Marcille has done her fair share of daydreaming of these moments, inserting shoujo-like facsimiles of herself with blurry visions of her One True Love. Now it's happening to her in real life. Choso is doing it without even realizing it.
Her head jerks away, her gaze fixing on a corner of the ceiling. ]
I-I'm fine! Why? Do I look sick? I didn't even notice! I feel completely normal!
[ Her voice is wobbly. She thrusts out the water bottle and pastry to him. ]
H-Here!
no subject
Yhou look red ash a beet. Maybe you need a chhhair, too.
[ It doesn't help that he stares, that even if he's trying not to needle her with the laser focus of his attention, his eyes still dart and flit and look too much, seek too much at any one time. Fascinated with the shade of red that's painting her cheeks, Choso ends up staring right at her again despite himself. ]
Thank yhou. Join me?
no subject
Maybe I shouldn't...
[ Why is she lying. She's not doing anything else here. She finally lowers her head, her gaze darting from his eyes to his pigtails.
He's like a big, bumbling dog. Her instinct to take care of him overwhelms her instinct to run.
She sighs through her nose. ]
I will. Hold on one second...
[ She reaches, presses her fingertips on his head, and uses her other hand to carefully pluck the umbrella from his pigtail. ]
How did this even get here?
no subject
a big, bumbling dog indeed.
rather like said dog, the effort it takes him to be Still and Unmoving when her fingers find his head is so immense as to be physically palpable; it’s in the tap of his feet, shoes clunking together while his fingers flutter around his snack and drink; it’s in the way his muscles tense, holding the whole of him in tightly-controlled stillness as he feels the tiny bright umbrella in his pigtail get lifted free of its scruffy prison at last. ]
Yoru and I had some drinksh. Sheveral. Many. A number I cannot recall.
no subject
Yoru? I've heard her name before... She's one of the Outsiders here, right?
I guess you weren't technically alone when you were drinking... That makes me feel better, at least.