It's a good thing that he doesn't ask to dance, since he's drunk enough for Glynda to decline outright and who knows that sort of scene that might cause? The way he slurs her name, the excess of satisfaction in his expression, and the flourish in his gesture are all already enough to earn him an arched brow. She doubts it's a complete flip - whatever his flaws, Ozymandias does not strike her as the sort to get this drunk - but similarly doubts that this is solely the result of liquid courage.
But she doesn't have much time to focus on that, because she doesn't have much time to focus on anything except keeping the two of them upright. He's in no condition to walk a straight line and she's not quite sober enough to easily guide someone who totters with every step. They don't make it more than a few feet before she gives up and steps closer, slipping her arm through his and pressing their shoulders together. She tucks a stray strand of hair away as she does; her hairstyle tonight, a pair of asymmetrical braids wound into a loose bun, is both more complicated and less tidy than usual, and the silver chain clipped onto the style does nothing to hold anything in place.
"Do you usually go to parties to give history lessons?" Her tone is sarcastic, but edging towards amused despite herself. Belatedly, she reaches over with her free hand to try to snag that last cup of punch from him. She doesn't want him any drunker than he already is, and she definitely doesn't want him to spill it on her; her dress is a pale cream color that would stain in an instant.
"I am a history lesson," he says, a little less quietly than is advisable, given that they are still thronged by several dozen intoxicated teenagers. It comes out all amusement and very little bitterness, which is a nice side-effect of being astonishingly drunk. All the bitterness is very far away. He's put a nice, fuzzy sort of wall between it and him. It can't get to him here.
She snags the cup of punch, and it takes him several moments to realize it's no longer in his hand. Ozpin inspects her, and the stolen cup in her hand, for entirely too long a beat before he huffs a little laugh and leans more heavily upon her shoulder. He tips his head towards hers, so that his perpetually messy hair brushes her braids.
"I am going to insist upon better drinks, next time." It is very unclear what 'next time' he is picturing, but he looks very confident about it. "Beacon Academy," and he says it with such pride it's certainly not just-Ozpin behind the emotion, "is the best in the world. We can manage a better-- a selection of proper spirits."
He looks entirely ready to launch into an impassioned speech on just what the teenagers of Beacon should be drinking. If she doesn't stop him, she'll be subjected to an enthusiastic review of Remnant's wines and whiskeys, with all the experience of the King and all the clumsy eagerness of Ozpin. He is certainly Ozpin in the way he leans against her, happy and inelegant-- two things Ozymandias never seems to be.
Oz inspects her and Glynda stares right back, fearless as ever. She even makes a point of setting the drink aside on an unoccupied table as they pass, though by then Oz has given up and gone back to leaning on her. It's concerning that he's so drunk in the first place, and she knows the good cheer won't last once morning comes, but in some ways it's a relief to see him so thoroughly relaxed. Even if he's not just-Ozpin, even if there are clear shades of Ozymandias blurring in, surely it's fine to let him have this much for just an evening.
Still, he's making very loud commentary on subjects a student simply shouldn't know about. Glynda lets him talk, but she still hurries to usher him into the much emptier hallway outside the dance hall. It's quieter out here and his voice will carry more, but there are fewer people to hear.
"I'm sure the other students will appreciate the subtle notes of aged whiskey once it's been dumped into a bowl of fruit juice and soda." Surely Ozpin, even as drunk as he already is, sees the flaw in his plan. Still, the sharp edges of sarcasm have largely faded from her voice by now, replaced with more amusement and a relaxed sort of contentedness. She'd been a little aggravated by the prospect of escorting him away at first, but he's been so pleasant and cooperative it's all but impossible to hold on to that annoyance. "Now, do you think you can make it to you dorm, or do we need to find you a bench, first?"
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But she doesn't have much time to focus on that, because she doesn't have much time to focus on anything except keeping the two of them upright. He's in no condition to walk a straight line and she's not quite sober enough to easily guide someone who totters with every step. They don't make it more than a few feet before she gives up and steps closer, slipping her arm through his and pressing their shoulders together. She tucks a stray strand of hair away as she does; her hairstyle tonight, a pair of asymmetrical braids wound into a loose bun, is both more complicated and less tidy than usual, and the silver chain clipped onto the style does nothing to hold anything in place.
"Do you usually go to parties to give history lessons?" Her tone is sarcastic, but edging towards amused despite herself. Belatedly, she reaches over with her free hand to try to snag that last cup of punch from him. She doesn't want him any drunker than he already is, and she definitely doesn't want him to spill it on her; her dress is a pale cream color that would stain in an instant.
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She snags the cup of punch, and it takes him several moments to realize it's no longer in his hand. Ozpin inspects her, and the stolen cup in her hand, for entirely too long a beat before he huffs a little laugh and leans more heavily upon her shoulder. He tips his head towards hers, so that his perpetually messy hair brushes her braids.
"I am going to insist upon better drinks, next time." It is very unclear what 'next time' he is picturing, but he looks very confident about it. "Beacon Academy," and he says it with such pride it's certainly not just-Ozpin behind the emotion, "is the best in the world. We can manage a better-- a selection of proper spirits."
He looks entirely ready to launch into an impassioned speech on just what the teenagers of Beacon should be drinking. If she doesn't stop him, she'll be subjected to an enthusiastic review of Remnant's wines and whiskeys, with all the experience of the King and all the clumsy eagerness of Ozpin. He is certainly Ozpin in the way he leans against her, happy and inelegant-- two things Ozymandias never seems to be.
no subject
Still, he's making very loud commentary on subjects a student simply shouldn't know about. Glynda lets him talk, but she still hurries to usher him into the much emptier hallway outside the dance hall. It's quieter out here and his voice will carry more, but there are fewer people to hear.
"I'm sure the other students will appreciate the subtle notes of aged whiskey once it's been dumped into a bowl of fruit juice and soda." Surely Ozpin, even as drunk as he already is, sees the flaw in his plan. Still, the sharp edges of sarcasm have largely faded from her voice by now, replaced with more amusement and a relaxed sort of contentedness. She'd been a little aggravated by the prospect of escorting him away at first, but he's been so pleasant and cooperative it's all but impossible to hold on to that annoyance. "Now, do you think you can make it to you dorm, or do we need to find you a bench, first?"