The tall glass of California Grey Herbal Iced Tea (an ill-considered spend, in hindsight) grew warmer by the second, drawing heat from the insipid bowl of soggy, soup-absorbed noodles that sat next to it.

You meticulously studied the floppy-haired man’s stance who’d been ignoring the inviting spread for God knows how long. Shoulders shrivelled into a painful crouch, a familiar bloodlust in his engorged eyes, a half eaten banana hanging from his mouth, as he gaped at the screen of his brand new plasma TV. He wore the concentration of students feverishly preparing for their CSATs in the last minute. Emphatic ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and screams and yodels of victory (or defeat, you couldn’t tell) fell from his lips sporadically. 

You knocked on the door. The resultant sound of which could have very well travelled a few square feet to his large ears but they were hermetically sealed by a noise cancelling device. Slumping into the bed barely inches from him, you flicked the back of his neck with your fingers. Still, nothing. Although physically present in your Seoul apartment, Baekhyun was mentally somewhere in the distant spiritual realm of Runeterra. 

A weary sigh left your lips as you mindlessly stared at the bizarre pixels running riot -  severing limbs, galloping, killing, dying, and ever so often, spontaneously combusting. A couple of inches south, an animal patterned tablecloth draped the insufficiently sized desk upon which the soundbar was propped - you made a mental note to change everything about the unsightly setting. The tablecloth, the desk, and the beige slip-on footwear peeking from underneath it.  A stray strand of hair, wandering aimlessly on the spic and span floor caught your eye. 

Smiling, you dashed out of the room.

Powering the vacuum cleaner to ‘Max’, you waltzed back in, following rhythmic counts of 1-2-3, 1-2-3 right in front of the television screen.

“Yah, yahhhh, YAHHH”, he panicked, swinging side to side on the bed in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of the screen, “what are you doing!?”

“Cleaning up after you”, you said ruefully.

“WHAT?”

“CLEANING UP AFTER YOU!”

His console and his face hit the bed in a violent crash. By the looks of it, his Fighter Mr. Malphite had met his fateful demise.

“IMMA!” he cried and an innocent pillow bore the brunt of his wrath.

“Did you just call your girlfriend a….punk?” Resting the vacuum cleaner on the wall, you sat down on the edge of the bed in a dramatic slow motion.

He crawled towards you to wrap your mock-dejected frame in