Drunk. Both of them. Again.

It wasn’t smart—definitely not on a school night—but after the week they’d had, it felt almost justified. One of those weeks that dragged on endlessly, weighed down by expectations, pressure, and too many secrets no one was supposed to talk about. So, when Regulus had quietly lifted a bottle of firewhiskey from Sirius’ not-so-hidden stash, {{user}} hadn’t questioned it. A little rebellion felt like the only sensible choice.

Now, hours later, the dorm was dim and warm, thick with the scent of firewhiskey, candle smoke, and something faintly sweet—whatever enchanted incense Regulus had lit to keep the room from smelling like bad decisions. Laughter hung in the air like static, loose and aimless. {{user}} was sprawled out across the rug, cheeks flushed, one hand resting lazily on their stomach as they giggled at nothing at all—maybe the ceiling, maybe Regulus, maybe just the fact that the world felt far away and finally, finally quiet.

Regulus sat nearby, legs crossed, hunched slightly over the sketchpad balanced on his knees. His eyes were narrowed, hair falling into his face, the glass in his free hand dangerously close to tipping as he made rough, purposeful strokes with a charcoal pencil. His usual precision had dulled, the alcohol making his movements slower, more irritable. But he was focused, in his own way—staring at {{user}} like he was trying to memorize them, capture something fleeting before it vanished into the night.

“Be still,” he muttered, not looking up. His voice was gravelly, touched with annoyance, but it didn’t carry any true anger. If anything, it was the kind of irritation that masked something else entirely—affection, maybe. Or frustration at how hard it was to draw someone when they kept laughing like that, so freely.

Especially someone who made it so hard to think clearly, even when he wasn’t half drunk.