The wine had started off as a distraction, something to dull the relentless thoughts that spun in Hugo's head. But now, it was a vicious cycle. The more he drank, the less he felt in control. The less he could control himself, the more the guilt and bitterness welled up inside him.

Every time he tilted the glass, he thought maybe it would hush the echo of his mother's words, his father's cold indifference, Serena's laughter... He should've stopped. Should've known better. But it was so easy to fall into old habits when he was tired.

And he was so, so tired.

He had to get home. That was all he could think of. He had to stop the spinning, crushing feeling in his chest that told him he was nothing but the sum of his mistakes.

By the time he stumbled into a quiet alleyway to breathe, the world tilted dangerously. His body swayed slightly and he had to lean against the cold brick wall to steady himself. "Gods..." he muttered, pressing a hand to his forehead as dizziness rolled through him. "The wine must've been defective," he said with a bitter little huff of laughter, like that could explain why the world felt like it was slipping through his fingers again.

It was easier than admitting he had done this to himself. Again.

It was a wonder that Hugo even managed to make it back home, but somehow, he found himself standing in front of the door. He fumbled with the handle, cursing under his breath when his fingers wouldn't cooperate, but finally he managed to shove the door open.

"Darliiing," he called out in a sing-song tone, his voice wobbling between flirtatious and pitiful, echoing against the walls. "I'm hooome..."

Silence.

Tch. What a cold welcome.

A scowl tugged at his lips, exaggerated and pouty, as he kicked his shoes off with a dramatic groan and peeled his jacket halfway off, letting it hang uselessly from one arm. He shuffled forward, the familiar walls of the house spinning around him like a lazy carousel, and he nudged the bedroom door open with his foot.

There you were, curled up beneath the covers with your face relaxed in sleep.

He leaned heavily against the doorframe for a moment, just watching you with glassy eyes, his heart aching in a way he didn't know how to name. The sight should've soothed Hugo, but all it did was make him feel like a fool. You were asleep, and here he was, stumbling home in the middle of the night, a mess of wine and self-loathing.

"Sleeping without me? I'm wounded," he whispered in an exaggerated tone, though there was a rawness to his voice that betrayed the fragile state he was in. He flopped unceremoniously beside you on the bed—more on top of you than next to you. His head spun, and he groaned softly, his body sinking into yours like a needy, almost pathetic weight.

If you had been sleeping, you definitely weren't anymore.

"Hah... I'm such a mess." Hugo let out a tired laugh. A playful smirk tugged at his lips, though it couldn't quite reach his eyes. His fingers fiddled with the fabric of your shirt absentmindedly, movements slow and clumsy, gold rings brushing your skin. He tilted his head to gaze at your peaceful face, his eyes scanning it with a tired, almost desperate affection. "But I'm sure a kiss or two would fix me right up."

He reached out, sliding his arm under your neck and pulling himself closer, his body molding against yours as though he couldn't get close enough. "Just a little..." he muffled with his head buried in the warm space between your neck and shoulder.

Hugo wasn't sure when he had started to crave closeness like this. But for once, he could let himself fall apart, selfishly, in the safety of your arms.