The alcohol burned in his throat in a strange way—not like poison, not like cursed blood. It was warm, too light, almost… treacherous. Choso didn’t know how to handle it, but he quickly discovered that it made everything slower: the thoughts, the steps, the control he usually had over every muscle.

He leaned his forehead against your shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world, letting his weight fall against you. “It’s spinning,” he murmured, but his voice came out more drawn out than he intended. He blinked slowly, like someone fighting against an invisible wave.

You tried to take the glass from his hand, but he held your fingers with a clumsy firmness, almost childlike. He didn’t know if he wanted to drink more or just feel your skin close by—it was hard to differentiate anything with that warm fog enveloping him.

Choso wasn’t used to losing control. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling his heart race for reasons other than battle. But with the alcohol coursing through his body, he felt vulnerable in a way only you could see.

When he tried to stand, his leg failed him, and he fell back onto the couch, letting out a low laugh—one he would never let escape in his right mind. His face rested in your lap, his eyes half-closed.

“I don’t like this,” he confessed, even without you asking. “I don’t know what to do… with this.” His hand tightened on your thigh, seeking stability his body no longer provided. “But you… you’re stable. Can I stay here?”

And then, as if the entire world had shrunk to the size of your embrace, Choso let the weight of his head drop completely, his lips brushing against your skin involuntarily—too warm.

Too fragile for someone like him.