Myr felt his ears heat up, angling his face just enough to hide his eyes behind shaggy bangs, determined to find something interesting on Pol’s shoes so he wouldn’t have to look back up. He tried not to wince when the older man’s wandering hand found one of the nastier bruises left by their last encounter—not willing to admit that the whole side was taped up due to a cracked rib. That had been a bad day, and Myr…
Was having a few problems with the whole ‘thinking’ thing, what with the proximity between Pol’s mouth and a particularly dark hickey that had been left over from the last time the older man’s hot breath had graced that particular patch of skin. Myrddin quickly stepped back, hands shooting up to catch Pollux by the elbows in case he wobbled. “Ah…I-I’ll live,” he finally managed to reply, pretending there’d been no hitch in his breath as his tongue tripped over his words. “C’mon, y’prick. Even if y’did manage it—bloody impossible miracle it might be, though I’m fair certain a lucky bastard like you’d manage it anyways and all—but supposin’ y’did find your way ‘ome with your ‘ead, m’sure your dear brother remembered t’lock th’door ‘afore ‘e left.” And Myrddin knew the chances of Pollux finding his key and being coordinated enough to unlock a door while inebriated was probably even less likely to happen than Pol getting making back. That settled it. Myr was going to, somehow, get the drunk stork twin up to his apartment where he could keep him safe for the night and make sure to text stork twin the second that he didn’t have to worry about finding his brother in the gutter somewhere a week later.
Pollux smiled a lazy smile at Myrddin. Eyes half lidded, he pressed against Myr. “Jesus boy, ya need ta slow down what you’re sayin’ your fockin accent is killer on my drunk ears.” Pol slurred out. He was pretty sure he got what the other had said it just took much longer to process the information than normal.
Myr was acting strange. Well maybe he was…Pol couldn’t really tell, if he had given up on his speech he was too far gone to really rely on his own self. He leaned more against Myr hoping that he would help. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been that drunk.
“Take me away you crazy basterd,” He laughed again holding one of Myrs hands and leaning against that arm for support. He couldn’t even remember walking all the way over here. How had he made it? With Myrddin there now he couldn’t walk on his own. He thought it funny how you make yourself capable until you can get another person to help and all that goes to shit.
Myr huffed a bit, one hand gripping Pol's elbow a bit tighter while the other decided to interlock their fingers without his express consent. (Denial wasn't just a river in Egypt) Pushing that bit of thought to the back of his mind along with the occasional sharp reminder his cracked rib liked to give him that yes it was STILL there thankyoukindly, Myrddin carefully began to steer the very drunk Pol into the building--which was a lot harder than one would think. Myr blamed it on the stork-twin's frustratingly lanky form--though the placement of Pol's stork-legs and his apparent goal to press himself as close as possible may have had something to do with it as well. "You must be fockin' 'ammered," he snarked as he maneuvered the other man--through sheer stubborn determination and great difficulty--up the stairs to his small flat. "Coz as I recall it, YOU'RE the daft arsehole, an' me mum 'n dad were married when they 'ad me."
