"He likes you," Octavius said, both sounding and feeling absurdly pleased with the symmetry of the situation. "He's very choosy. Actually," his eyebrows drew together in a frown, "he likes Charlie the best." His tone grew dejected as he considered that. "I don't understand it m'self, but…" he turned to the side, and noticed for the first time he was talking to empty air. "Nora?" He started the herculean effort of raising himself with his elbow when he felt something take a firm grip around one of his ankles and give it a good yank. "I don't—oof!"
He knocked his wrist against a chair leg in his initial flail, then an elbow. "Ow," he muttered, just when his head thumped against a table leg. "Ow! Nora—!"
By the time his liquor-addled brain was able to formulate the specifics of what he wanted to call her, he'd cleared the table cloth (and gotten a mouthful of it in his sputterings) and winced at the comparatively bright light that illuminated the rest of the room, as in, the portion not included under the table.
Raising himself to a sitting position with his knees up (a position he was certain he only managed because a table leg was his support), he squinted one eye at his unlaced shoe and took in the mis-matching socks. Octavius would ordinarily call that a daily occurrence, but he knew today it was a symptom of a confused and angry head. Not a drunk one, though, that had started only a few hours ago. He was quite certain. At the moment, it really felt as if he'd never been sober in his life, so he was not a very good judge.
"Thanks. For—" he waved one hand vaguely behind them at the space under the table,"and for talking to me," he mumbled only a little gloomily, staring hard at Nora's ankles.
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