It’s this time of night, on one of these crazy nights that flutter in halfway through shows and sleep and sometimes, Zitao doesn’t know what to make of things. Zitao never knows these nights like some of the others do, he spends his minutes with eyes wide shut and fingernails carving small notches into the post beside his bed.

Tonight he sits in the kitchen, curling his lips over unfamiliar syllables that he has to learn, to survive in this place. It’s hard, but he tries as much as he can. The light dims a little, and footsteps approach, making him glance up.

He hears the lock on the door click open quietly, and Jongin stumbles in, looking worse for wear. All shuffled up, a victim to the night that’s come and gone. 

Zitao says cautiously, “Jongin,” and Jongin’s head snaps up towards him. “What happened to you?”

"Nothing," murmurs Jongin, and it’s then Zitao notices the slight slur in his words, and he knows that Jongin’s been drowning himself in his thoughts, the words of others, the alcohol that sloshes from bottles into his mouth. "Don’t ask."

"Still will," says Zitao, and he slips off the stool he’s been sitting on, and goes to give Jongin a hand. "Come on, don’t fall asleep here, manager-ge will kill you."

Jongin barks out a harsh laugh, and the sound echoes through the empty space. “Wouldn’t that be better, though.”

"Wouldn’t what be better?" asks Zitao, afraid of what the answer will be anyway. He worries, everyone knows, he worries over everyone, everything. And Jongin is younger than him, and often Zitao wishes Jongin would stop pretending to be so much older than he actually is.

Jongin slumps back against the sofa that Zitao sits him in, and says, “Dying.”

"Okay," says Zitao, "you’re being absolutely stupid right now, Kim Jongin. You really shouldn’t say stuff like that."

"And why not?" Jongin’s eyes are narrowed. "Why, Zitao?"

"Because who am I going to look after if you’re gone," whispers Zitao, and Jongin closes his mouth, looking at Zitao with a strange expression on his face. "Everyone watches out for me, but who watches out for you?"

Jongin’s words are parched and still. “Joonmyun. Kyungsoo. Wu Fan.”

"Do they know you keep slipping out like this? Do they know you’ve started drinking? Do they know you sleep at four in the morning and wake up an hour later?"

"The real question is," breathes Jongin, "how do you know?"

Zitao bites his lip. “I told you already. I watch out for you.”

"Why?" whispers Jongin, and his eyes fall shut. "Why me?"

The words get stuck in Zitao’s throat halfway up, and it’s supposed to be because I think of you as more than a brother, Jongin, because I like you and everything about you and I never want to see you change like this, Jongin, because you don’t love you but I do, Jongin, but instead, Zitao just says numbly, “I care.”

"I don’t," says Jongin, and he rolls over on his side, facing away from Zitao. "Go to sleep, Zitao."

Zitao retreats, leaving Jongin to the sofa, and presses his palms back against soft paper and ink stains, just wanting to forget the night, wanting to return to the morning, wanting to curl up and count the scars in his bedpost but he can’t.

In the morning, Jongin no longer seems intoxicated, but neither is Zitao, not anymore. He brushes past the younger boy on the way to the door and doesn’t turn back to look. 

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