Alastor was not a man who enjoyed spectacle—especially not this kind. Two men, in public, and in polite company no less… it was hardly acceptable, even in a room already thick with music and drink. So yes, he was earning a few curious looks.

That tended to happen when someone was quite literally draped across his lap.

You were drunk—very drunk—your weight leaning into him without shame or awareness. When the glances lingered too long or someone dared to ask, Alastor merely smiled and waved it off with practiced ease.

“He’s had a bit too much to drink,” he’d say lightly, as though that explained everything. And at a party like this, it usually did.

Still, he made a mental note to have a word with you in the morning. A firm one.

For now, he allowed it. His own drink rested untouched on the side table beside him as you remained where you were, warm and unsteady and entirely too comfortable. He did not push you away, nor did he encourage you—he simply endured it, posture immaculate, expression politely neutral.

“Clingy thing,” Alastor murmured under his breath, his tone deliberately disapproving.

He knew perfectly well that if he asked, you’d move. He also knew you were far too drunk to be wandering the party on your own. And so, for the time being, he stayed where he was—patient, composed, and very much in control—while you slept off your poor decisions against him.