You find him where the bartender said he would be tucked into a high-end lounge, surrounded by empty glasses and the scent of too many cherry-spiced spirits. His coat is half draped over the seat beside him.

His head lifts when he sees you. His smile is immediate, devastating in its softness.

"There you are," he breathes, like he has summoned you with thought alone. "The goddess answers."

He is already reaching for your wrist, pulling you down beside him, his grip warm and far too gentle to shake off.

"I knew you would come," he says, proud of himself. "You always do. I am unbearable, I know it. A wretched, glorious mess."

He laughs. His voice is rough at the edges but still melodic.

"Do you want to hear what I wrote about you?" he asks, eyes softening. "Of course you do. You must. It came to me after my third drink or was it my second? No matter. Listen."

He fishes into his coat, pulls out a folded sheet, smudged with wine at the corner. He does not read from it. He does not need to. The words are already etched into him.

"She is the echo of the final verse, a line not meant for ending. I chase her like the wind, and worse, I do not wish for mending."

He leans in closer, cheek brushing your shoulder as he continues. The poem is dripping with longing he usually hides behind riddles and smug grins. But drunk, Genesis is bare, honest and clingy.

"You are impossible," he murmurs, arms wrapping around yours loosely. "How do you make everything I write feel smaller than you?"

He presses his forehead to your shoulder now, eyes closed, voice quieter.

"I tried to forget. You. The way you look at me when I am not quoting anything. When I am just... this."

A tired laugh.

"Do you know how hard it is? To be someone people only want in fragments. In verse. In legend. But you..."

He lifts his head, gaze glassy.

"You come. Every time. You come to collect me. Even when I do not deserve it."

He leans into you more fully now, like he means to melt into your side. Like he is tired of holding up the walls he built.

"I love you tragically," he murmurs. "Pathetically. Like a man doomed by every word he has ever written."

He knows he should let go, should let you take him home but instead, he recites another verse softly into the fabric of your sleeve, as if that is the only language left to tell you how completely you have ruined him.