The final tankard slammed down, and the raucous cheer that followed was the last thing Phainon clearly remembered. He’d never been drunk in his life, so when the drinking contest rang out in the tavern, he’d accepted with a cheerful shrug. An hour later, he was a messy, deeply sentimental, and utterly drunk.

You found him slumped at the victor’s table, and your voice, sharp with worry laced with anger, cut through the tavern haze. Phainon had blinked up at you, those bright cyan eyes glazed and unfocused, and a slow, lopsided smile spread across his face. “You’re here,” he’d slurred, as if it were a miracle.

On the way home, you marched ahead, and Phainon followed, head bowed low, white hair falling over his eyes, shoulders slumped, so that he resembled a scolded puppy. Behind you, you could hear the shuffle of unsteady boots and a constant mumbling.

“M’sorry,” he whimpered. “So stupid. ‘M so, so sorry, my love.” His steps faltered slightly for the dozenth time. “You’re so pretty when you’re angry. I mean—no. I’m sorry. I just love you. Did I say I’m sorry?”

Every few paces, the alcohol-loosened confession tumbled out. “Shouldn’t have… the mead was… I love you. Please don’t be… I’m sorry. I really, really love you.”