( ““always.”” can he hear the quotation marks in archie’s glance? they’re at blaring volume, proceeded by raising his eyebrows incredulously. he doesn’t mean to. he has less of a filter right now than he does normally ( and the one he walks around with on the daily isn’t anything anything to write home about ). which isn’t to say that archie thinks so little of reggie, more like he accepts the good with the bad. he sees him for who he is.
...for the most part.
at this exact moment, he isn’t seeing much outside the wet patch of beer on reggie’s chin. he knows he should look down, question the hand placement and the finger under denim. what’s going on there? how is that an accident? any number of things, really. his body ignores his brain ( don’t worry, that’s not uncommon ) and he anchors his hand that had been scrambling in the air on his shoulder, steadying himself.
or like, that’s what it’s supposed to be for?
it drifts across the spread of his shoulder, ghosts up his neck, across his jaw. he’s perplexed by his own hand. he should. say something? he counts on reggie’s hands being presently full—too preoccupied to stop him—from setting the pad of his thumb down under the swell of his bottom lip. he’s wiping the spill away. clearly. tracing the bow of his mouth, that's just— well, that's. it's a bad plan. a terrible idea. he sees that now, quite vividly, when he stops staring down and looks up. right, right, right. eyes are up here. mhm. )
Sorry, ( he pushes out quietly, coincidentally without looking remorseful. ) It was my fault. I figured I should clean it up.
no subject
...for the most part.
at this exact moment, he isn’t seeing much outside the wet patch of beer on reggie’s chin. he knows he should look down, question the hand placement and the finger under denim. what’s going on there? how is that an accident? any number of things, really. his body ignores his brain ( don’t worry, that’s not uncommon ) and he anchors his hand that had been scrambling in the air on his shoulder, steadying himself.
or like, that’s what it’s supposed to be for?
it drifts across the spread of his shoulder, ghosts up his neck, across his jaw. he’s perplexed by his own hand. he should. say something? he counts on reggie’s hands being presently full—too preoccupied to stop him—from setting the pad of his thumb down under the swell of his bottom lip. he’s wiping the spill away. clearly. tracing the bow of his mouth, that's just— well, that's. it's a bad plan. a terrible idea. he sees that now, quite vividly, when he stops staring down and looks up. right, right, right. eyes are up here. mhm. )
Sorry, ( he pushes out quietly, coincidentally without looking remorseful. ) It was my fault. I figured I should clean it up.