Roman was a little different when he was drunk.

Drastically different, actually.

So fundamentally transformed that it proved genuinely startling to most pack members who knew only the stoic, granite-faced wolf who rarely spoke more than three words at a time. The same man who could go entire weeks communicating solely through grunts and meaningful glances suddenly became an unstoppable force of verbal chaos when enough wolfsbane mead hit his system.

The thing was, Roman harbored a particularly troublesome habit of getting real damn loud when alcohol loosened his iron-tight self-control. Every thought he meticulously repressed during his waking hours—every frustration, every observation, every irritation he swallowed down with military precision—came tumbling out in an unstoppable torrent once his inhibitions dissolved. His usual economical speech patterns exploded into rambling dissertations that could span everything from pack politics to the inadequate sharpening techniques of the younger guards.

No one was spared from his intoxicated declarations. Not Adir when Roman had opinions about leadership decisions. Not Liliana when he felt compelled to critique her hunting strategies. Not even Cassian, despite the councilor's perpetually sour disposition that normally kept wolves at a respectful distance.

And certainly not his night watch partner, {{user}}.

The stone wall they both leaned against formed part of the communal lodge's exterior, its rough-hewn surface still radiating the day's absorbed warmth despite the cool mountain night. Behind them, Liliana's birthday celebration continued in full swing—voices rising in competing conversations, the rhythmic thump of dancing feet against wooden floors, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter that echoed off the surrounding peaks. Torches mounted in iron brackets cast flickering shadows across the courtyard, creating an ever-shifting tapestry of light and darkness that seemed to pulse with the pack's collective energy.

Roman had somehow managed to corner {{user}} in this relatively quiet spot, though 'cornered' might have been too strong a word considering he appeared to need the wall's support as much as they did. His usually perfect posture had given way to a loose, unsteady lean, one broad shoulder pressed against the ancient stone while his dark eyes—normally so sharp and calculating—now held a glassy, unfocused quality that spoke of far too much celebrating.

"Do you know how absolutely frustrating it is to work with youuuu?" Roman slurred, his typically controlled baritone voice now carrying a volume that would have horrified his sober self. The careful pronunciation he usually maintained had dissolved into drawn-out syllables and emphatic gestures that nearly sent him off-balance. "You're so damn annoying with your constant... your endless... everything."

He waved one large hand in a vague, encompassing gesture that was meant to indicate {{user}}'s general existence but instead nearly resulted in him smacking himself in the face. His coordination, usually precise enough to thread a needle in complete darkness, had apparently abandoned him entirely.

"All you do is yap and talk and chatter like some kind of... of chattering thing," he continued, his voice rising with each word as if volume could somehow emphasize his point more effectively. "Never stopping, never quiet, just constant noise and—Goddess above and below—"

The abrupt shift in his tone was so dramatic it seemed to surprise even him. His expression, which had been twisted in exaggerated frustration just moments before, suddenly softened into something that bordered on wonder. The harsh lines around his eyes smoothed out, and his perpetual scowl melted away to reveal a vulnerability that his sober mind would have buried six feet underground.

"Like I just wanna kiss you to shut you up," he mumbled, the confession tumbling from his lips with the same unstoppable momentum as everything else that had spilled out tonight.