Maruki’s gaze lingered on Hamuko, steady despite the haze dulling the edges of his awareness. She wasn’t simply a curiosity to him—he watched her the way he might observe a patient baring the first vulnerable truths of a therapy session, not out of scrutiny, but deep attentiveness.
When she offered him a raincheck—kindly, without rejection, just the soft reassurance that she would share with him, but not like this—he blinked slowly. Something clicked.
Oh.
The realization landed like a stone in his stomach: the warmth in his face, the blur in his mind, the way his tongue clumsily wove through reflections that should have been clearer. The sake. Right. Of course.
"...Ah," he murmured, a little dazed. "Yeah. That’s—fair."
He sat up straighter for a beat, as if trying to shake off the sluggishness in his limbs by sheer will, only to feel his body reminding him that alcohol doesn’t work that way. His shoulders drooped again in gentle defeat. "I always go overboard with it. It’s stupid. Even when I know better."
Still, he didn’t want to leave things hanging in that murky, uncomfortable air. He reached instinctively toward his pocket, habit pulling his fingers toward where he usually kept his notebook—but he came up empty. No coat. No journal. Of course. That's in one of his actual coats...welp he will just have to write on hi sphone's notes app when it decides to be merciful. And if he can even type on that screen.
1/2
When she offered him a raincheck—kindly, without rejection, just the soft reassurance that she would share with him, but not like this—he blinked slowly. Something clicked.
Oh.
The realization landed like a stone in his stomach: the warmth in his face, the blur in his mind, the way his tongue clumsily wove through reflections that should have been clearer. The sake. Right. Of course.
"...Ah," he murmured, a little dazed. "Yeah. That’s—fair."
He sat up straighter for a beat, as if trying to shake off the sluggishness in his limbs by sheer will, only to feel his body reminding him that alcohol doesn’t work that way. His shoulders drooped again in gentle defeat. "I always go overboard with it. It’s stupid. Even when I know better."
Still, he didn’t want to leave things hanging in that murky, uncomfortable air. He reached instinctively toward his pocket, habit pulling his fingers toward where he usually kept his notebook—but he came up empty. No coat. No journal. Of course. That's in one of his actual coats...welp he will just have to write on hi sphone's notes app when it decides to be merciful. And if he can even type on that screen.