The first week is always easy. It’s the mantra Jongdae keeps repeating in his head, as he goes to engineering and math classes that don’t assign homework and only talk about their expectations for the semester. It’s syllabus week, Jongdae reminds himself, of course it’s easy. He runs into Kyungsoo more often than he thought he would, since their classes are mostly in the same buildings, but Jongdae rarely sees Minseok anymore unless it’s at their apartment. Alice tends to hang around them a lot, leaning on Kyungsoo and being impressed by every little engineering thing he does. At first Jongdae thought it annoyed his introverted friend, but then he began to notice Kyungsoo’s quiet pride whenever his soulmate complimented him and realized that Kyungsoo was only pretending to be huffy, but meant nothing beneath his bluster. It made Jongdae miss Liyin, just a bit, but mostly the way she would lean her head on his shoulder as he did his math homework, oohing whenever he finished a particularly complicated problem. Singleness was still a struggle.

Every once in a while, Jongdae’s thoughts wandered to Yixing, usually when a flustered looking art student rushed by carrying a portfolio so big that it bounced off the ground as they ran. He wondered how the artist was doing. Was Yixing painting more? Did he have an exhibition coming up again? Did Yixing miss him? At one point Jongdae even googled him, realizing that Yixing was much more famous than he had thought. He’d spent a little over two hours hopping down different rabbit holes that night, flipping from one article to the next, admiring the work Yixing had done that was posted online, and feeling jealous whenever he read a post from a fan that had met Yixing in person. He fought the urge to reply to them, saying “You think getting to shake his hand is so great? I’ve been to McDonald’s with Yixing. I even have his number. I could text him any time I want.” His phone burned a hole in his pocket, the text from Yixing he’d received over the summer growing larger and more terrifying every day, each added hour adding another stone to the wall keeping him from reaching out to Yixing again.

It had been weird, receiving that text after so many months of silence. When he’d first read it he’d been angry, bitter that Yixing seemed to assume that he could drop off the face of the earth and completely ignore Jongdae, then randomly text him again and pick up their friendship like nothing had ever happened. But over time as Jongdae became lonelier and his anger towards Yixing faded, he only felt regret. Yixing, regardless of his reasons for playing ghost, had been a good friend. He’d had his back when Kris threatened his grade. He’d taught him how to cook ethnic Chinese food. He’d hung out on the nights that Jongdae didn’t want to do anything other than play Mario Kart and stuff his face with chips, playing Mario Kart right along with him and bringing ice cream over just in case the chips weren’t unhealthy enough.

Jongdae had liked spending time with Yixing almost as much as he’d liked his time with Liyin, but now that Liyin was gone Jongdae felt Yixing’s absence more keenly than he’d imagined possible. It was true, he did have Yixing’s number. He had been to McDonald’s with him. But it was a lie for Jongdae to say he could text Yixing whenever he wanted. It had been too long between them for Jongdae to reach out that easily and pretend like they’d never stopped talking at all; he was to hurt from being ignored and too confused by Yixing’s simple “hey.”

Once, in the second week of school Jongdae asked Kris about Yixing.

“How’s he doing?” he’d mumbled, forming the words around a bite of sandwich as he leaned against Kris while they lazily watched another episode of How I Met Your Mother. Their bro nights had moved to Jongdae’s apartment ever since summer ended and Yixing moved in with Kris.

Kris shoved him away and reached out to lower the volume. “First off, close your mouth when you chew. I can see your food and it’s disgusting. Second, who are you talking about?”

Jongdae finished chewing, swallowed, took a sip of his coke, wiped his mouth and then asked again. “Yixing. How’s he doing?”

“Yixing?” Kris frowned at his pastrami. “I didn’t think you guys were still talking.”

Jongdae grimaced. “We’re not.” He pulled a pickle out from between the turkey and swiss on his sandwich and tossed it across the room, barely missing the trash can. The pickle slid down the wall, leaving behind a shimmering trail of green tinged slime. Jongdae cringed. Minseok would nag his ear off for that later. “That’s kind of why I asked. I mean, I can’t really call us friends anymore, but I really liked hanging out with him. Honestly, I miss it. I just don’t really know how to get in contact with him anymore.”

“Oh,” Kris hmmed a bit, bobbing his neck a bit as he finished chewing. “Well,” he answered, taking a sip of orange soda, “He’s okay. Busy you know, since he’s an art student. Plus he’s got a few commissions he needs to complete in the next few months. He’s working a part-time job somewhere too, not quite sure where. He wouldn’t tell me.” Kris laughed a bit, a nervous tense kind of laugh, “I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this, but honestly, Yixing’s exhausted. But he keeps on working and painting and going to school as if he’s perfectly fine. I don’t know what to do. I’m worried about him.”

Jongdae frowned, “Why shouldn’t you tell me that?”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you?” Kris asked, turning his head to make eye contact, “You and Yixing aren’t really friends anymore.”

“But that doesn’t mean—”

“Look,” Kris cut him off. “It’s not like it’s against the rules or anything for me to talk about Yixing, but at the same time, what good will it do? Even if he’s having a hard time you can’t help him. What difference does knowing or not knowing make then, if you won’t even talk to him?”

Jongdae groaned, slamming his hand down on the carpet beside him. “I don’t know.” His voice lowered to a mutter. “I don’t know.”

Ten minutes later the episode playing ended. Jongdae left shortly after. Kris watched him go, his back hunched against the cold, clearly hurt, and felt like .

Something was wrong. It was the very first thing Yixing noticed, stepping through the front door of the apartment to find Yifan strewn across the floor, empty beer bottles stacked tall to look like a glass Christmas tree at his feet. In his hand, he clutched a bottle of tequila, barely started, that he appeared to be drinking straight. For a moment, Yixing wondered if he should ask Yifan what was going on, but the thought quickly disappeared in favor of a better idea. He disappeared into the kitchen, exchanging his shoes for slippers as he went. It took a moment of rummaging through drawers and poking about in the pantry, but eventually Yixing found what he was looking for—a lime. The salt was easy, sitting on the counter where it always was. Yixing grabbed both and went back to the living room to join his drunk brother.

“That can’t be good straight.” Yixing commented, placing down a slice of lime and the salt shaker. “Want to do a few traditional shots with me?”

It took a few seconds, but Yifan eventually let his head roll back and to the side, making eye-contact. He looked at the lime, then back at Yixing, then back at the lime. “You’re a real bro,” he remarked, reaching out to take the salt and lime off the table.

Yixing tutted. “Aren’t you going to pour me a drink first?” He stared pointedly at the empty shot glass by Yifan’s elbow.

Yifan looked up at him, water pooling in his eyes, his lip trembling dangerously and his hands clenched tight. “But why’re you getting drunk Xing? You don’t need to get drunk?” He straightened up, his pointer finger swaying in the air. He nailed Yixing with a red-eyed stare, leaning forward to stab him with the finger he’d been waving around. “Don’t drink,” he commanded. “Drinking is bad for you.”

Yixing snorted. “Not very convincing words from the man who’s made a sculpture out of empty beer bottles Yifan. Come on,” he wheedled, reaching past Yifan to grab the glass on the table and pouring his own shot, “you have to at least let me catch up to you a little bit.”

Yifan didn’t respond, and Yixing didn’t push. Instead he drained his shot glass, refilled it, drained it again, then refilled it for a third time. Tequila burned like hell and Yixing hated it, but he hated watching Yifan drink alone even more. Yifan reached for the bottle, and after a split-second hesitation Yixing handed it over, watching as his older brother wrapped his fingers around the slim glass bottle, pouring a shot with concentration Yixing usually only saw when he was working on of his sculptures. He picked up the salt shaker, unscrewed the cap and poured salt into his palm. He gave half the salt to Yixing, gesturing for him to eat it before up his own handful. Yixing followed suit and both downed their shots. Yifan bit the only lime slice. Yixing winced.

They sat like that for a while, occasionally taking shots, mostly just listening to the tinny voices of John Bellion and Troye Sivan playing through the speaker on Yixing’s phone. Sometimes Yifan sang along, his voice louder than necessary and horribly off tune. He was too drunk to know. Yixing was drunk enough not to care. At some point, they put away the tequila, over two-thirds of the bottle gone between them, and Supernatural. They only watched the show when they were drunk, hopping around the room to fight off pretend monsters. Yifan played Dean and Yixing, Sam. Together, they defeated a demon. Then they rested—the tv dark in front of them—both panting hard.