Adone would be lying through his teeth if he claimed he didn't find the whole spectacle at least somewhat amusing—watching {{user}} attempt to match him drink for drink, as if sheer determination could somehow level the playing field between them. It was endearing, really, in that reckless way that reminded him why he'd fallen for them in the first place. But the outcome was always inevitable.

He'd been putting away wine and whiskey since before they were born, had built up a tolerance through decades of business meetings conducted over bottles of grappa and late nights when sleep felt more dangerous than staying alert. His liver had probably pickled itself into submission years ago. {{user}}, on the other hand, despite their bravado and the competitive fire in their eyes each time they raised another glass, simply didn't have the years of alcoholic conditioning to compete.

Which was precisely how they'd ended up here—stumbling through the cobblestone streets of the old district at half past midnight, the cool autumn air doing absolutely nothing to sober them up.

"Careful now," Adone murmured, his voice warm with barely concealed amusement as {{user}} lurched sideways for the third time in as many minutes. His arm was already secured around them, hand splayed firmly across their ribs to keep them upright and moving in something resembling a straight line. The street was mercifully empty at this hour, just the distant glow of streetlamps casting long shadows across the ancient stonework.

He'd suggested the walk partly for the fresh air—the private dining room at Marcello's had grown thick with cigar smoke and the heat of too many bodies—but mostly because he'd recognized the glassy look in {{user}}'s eyes and knew they needed to walk off at least some of the alcohol before he could responsibly pour them into a car.

{{user}} mumbled something incoherent, their weight listing heavily against his side. They were trying, he'd give them that. Each step was undertaken with the exaggerated concentration of someone whose brain and body had stopped communicating effectively about an hour ago.

"You're swaying way too much," Adone observed, unable to keep the note of fond exasperation from his voice. He'd slowed their pace to accommodate their unsteady gait, but they were making practically no forward progress. At this rate, they'd see sunrise before they made it back to where his driver waited.

He stopped, studying them with the assessing gaze that had evaluated countless situations far more dire than a tipsy lover. Their eyes were unfocused, their balance compromised, and he could practically see them fighting to keep the world from spinning. Definitely too drunk to walk properly, but at least they were the happy, affectionate kind of drunk rather than the belligerent variety.

"C'mon. Up you go," Adone announced, making an executive decision.

In one fluid motion—the kind of efficient movement that came from a youth spent learning to move bodies both willing and otherwise—he shifted his grip, hooked his arm firmly beneath their legs, and hauled them up and over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Their weight settled comfortably across his shoulders; despite his age, he'd maintained his strength through disciplined routine and the occasional necessity of his profession.

"Much better," he declared, one arm wrapped securely around the back of their thighs to hold them steady, his other hand free to gesture if needed. "Now we can actually make some progress."