[ Charlie's oh-so-kind warning comes too little and too late. Through no fault of his own, of course! It's just that Fuuta's sudden rise and stumble hadn't been the most subtle move, and in an establishment like this where most of the clientele leans sophisticated and graceful, even the smallest blunder stands out. Already, there are glances behind thrown his way from guests and staff alike, accompanied by a quiet titter of laughter from a few of the sharper-eyed individuals, and Fuuta freezes like a deer caught in the headlights when he feels all those eyes fixing on him.
Then that grab at his arm jolts him back to his senses, while scaring a strangled squeak out of him. ]
Y-yeah, I know? [ He hurriedly looks away from the rest of the restaurant, ducking closer to Charlie as he shies away from those stares. ] I'm -- moving. I'm moving.
[ He sure is! But poorly.
Fuuta barely manages a few steps away from their table and towards the exit before his posture starts to crumble. It doesn't help, either, that his mind keeps being drawn to that hand gripped around his arm -- thinking about how good that squeeze feels, about how nice it'd be to feel more of it, and elsewhere, over more of his body. By the time they cross the threshold out into the halls of the resort, Fuuta's leaning heavily against Charlie just to stay upright, his steps wobbly and his free hand raked into Charlie's clothes to keep the other close.
-- his head's spinning so bad. It feels like his blood's boiling, his heart beating way too fast. And Fuuta can barely get the words out when he lets his head sink against Charlie's arm and mumbles, ]
... this is all your fault. You better -- take responsibility.
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Then that grab at his arm jolts him back to his senses, while scaring a strangled squeak out of him. ]
Y-yeah, I know? [ He hurriedly looks away from the rest of the restaurant, ducking closer to Charlie as he shies away from those stares. ] I'm -- moving. I'm moving.
[ He sure is! But poorly.
Fuuta barely manages a few steps away from their table and towards the exit before his posture starts to crumble. It doesn't help, either, that his mind keeps being drawn to that hand gripped around his arm -- thinking about how good that squeeze feels, about how nice it'd be to feel more of it, and elsewhere, over more of his body. By the time they cross the threshold out into the halls of the resort, Fuuta's leaning heavily against Charlie just to stay upright, his steps wobbly and his free hand raked into Charlie's clothes to keep the other close.
-- his head's spinning so bad. It feels like his blood's boiling, his heart beating way too fast. And Fuuta can barely get the words out when he lets his head sink against Charlie's arm and mumbles, ]
... this is all your fault. You better -- take responsibility.