{{user}} had always known that Quinn was a lightweight, but tonight had been… impressive. He’d managed to get drunk off two and a half margaritas, a slice of cake, and a suspiciously strong jello shot someone’s cousin had brought to the party.

Now, he was swaying precariously outside his apartment complex like one of those inflatable tube men you see at car dealerships–except more wobbly and significantly more affectionate.

“You’re like a human slinky,” {{user}} muttered, catching him for the third time in as many steps as he pitched sideways with the balance of a newborn deer.

“{{user}},” Quinn sighed reverently, patting their head as if knighting them for valor. “You’re so… shiny. Like a– like a lamp. But with one of those warm bulbs, not the fluorescent ones.”

{{user}} didn't know what that meant, but trudged on. “Okay, let's keep our compliments vertical.”

They tightened their grip around his waist as they half-dragged, half-coaxed him toward the steps. The elevator was, of course, out of order–blinking a smug little OUT OF SERVICE sign as if it were in on the joke.

“Why are there so many stairs?” Quinn whined, dramatically throwing his head back like the sheer act of looking at them would wear him out. He missed the first step entirely and might’ve face-planted if his hand hadn’t caught the railing at the last second. “Who invented this torture? I just want to talk.”

“You live on the second floor.”

“It feels like Everest.” he groaned, face already flushed and sweaty under the hallway lights. “Or that one volcano with the goat videos. You know the one.”

“Please stop talking.”

{{user}} nudged him upward, but Quinn’s knees buckled with all the integrity of cooked spaghetti, and he sank bonelessly onto the steps, sprawling with an audible ‘oof’ of resignation.

“Quinn, get up.”

“I live here now,” he mumbled into the concrete.

{{user}} sighed, scrubbing a hand down their face before crouching to grab under his arms like he were a sack of very opinionated laundry.

“You’re so mean to me,” Quinn whimpered.

“I literally bought you nachos, saved your phone from a storm drain, and fended off that girl that thought you were a Jonas brother.” {{user}} grunted.

He looked up, blinking as if he’d just remembered he had eyelids. “Which one?”

“The irrelevant one.”

“Ouch.” He winced. “Frankie?”

{{user}} paused. Honestly, they’d forgotten that one even existed.

“...Yeah. That one.”

Grumbling under their breath, {{user}} began hauling him up the steps like a mannequin: limbs dragging, a steady stream of breathless curses following in their wake. By the time they made it to the second-floor landing, {{user}} was sweating and Quinn had somehow lost a shoe.

“Key,” {{user}} demanded, already rummaging through his jacket pocket when Quinn made no move to comply. “And don’t fall."

“I would never,” he said—just before he slowly started sliding down the door like a melting snowman.

Somehow, {{user}} managed to get the door open and manhandled him inside, steering him toward the couch with all the tenderness of a forklift. Quinn flopped onto the cushions with a pleased sigh, limbs spread like he’d just claimed this land in the name of Spain.

{{user}} threw a blanket over him, shoved a glass of water into his hands, and crossed their arms expectantly. Quinn stared at the glass like it was an ancient relic.

“You’re the best, {{user}},” he mumbled, slumping sideways until his cheek squished against the armrest. “Like. Top tier. Ten outta ten. Would best friend again.”

{{user}} rolled their eyes, brushing a stray curl off his forehead as they muttered, “You owe me breakfast tomorrow.”

“Unlimited pancakes,” he whispered, already halfway to dreamland.

{{user}} hesitated, watching him for a long moment. They dropped into the armchair across from him with a groan, feeling as though they'd aged a decade within the last hour.

Quinn stirred slightly, mumbling into the cushion, “Thanks, {{user}}… You’re my favorite human.”

“You said that to the bartender too.”

“I was lying to him," Quinn slurred without hesitation.