A heavy fog hangs in the air, lingering just above the pavement. It's enough to cover Zitao's shoes and hide his steps, the faint glow of a buzzing bar sign his only beacon in the otherwise dark night. There's a bustle of people despite the late hour, going this way and that, because New York never sleeps. His breath wreaks of alcohol and the cigarette in his fingers is unlit; his eyes are dull and his head stays down.

He makes it to the end of the block and leans against the corner of the pawn shop, shrugging closer into his hoodie like it's going to keep his heat inside. Patting at his jean pockets, he finds his lighter and wriggles it out, lights up, and inhales a few years of his life; they burn going down and sit in his stomach to rot.

Nicotine mixes thickly with the faint taste of gin and tonic at the back of his throat and it makes him a little nauseous. The alcohol and dreams that slosh in his stomach threaten to come back up and he has to grit his teeth, smoke unfurling between them in a mess of white tendrils. Zitao can't even remember why he's here or what he was originally drinking away, but perhaps that's the point and he guess he should pat himself on the back for success.

Somewhere between the end of his cigarette and the halfway mark, he tosses it, letting it sizzle silently on the damp sidewalk, hidden in the mist if not for the faint, glowing embers. Reaching up, he pushes back red bangs, dark at the roots, and rolls his shoulders. It's time to get going, to head home, wherever that is. He's just wasting time standing around empty bars and stores long void of people; even the New York stragglers are starting to look more and more homeless and less and less trustable.

his chapped lips, he turns to hobble off the edge of the sidewalk and into the dark recess of a side street. Towards the end, a streetlamp tries to flicker, giving out a loud buzz that digs into Zitao's senses and begins a weak, pounding headache at the base of his brain, twisting his nerves into a tangled mess. 

Three quarters of the way home, between 9th and Jackson, his phone vibrates angrily from his back pocket and he pulls it out to check the message. The screen is bright and harsh but the colors are somehow muted in the mist.

m out of paprs. bring sum home. thx

Without much more than a faint grimace, Zitao pockets his phone and makes a stop at 7/11 on his way home. With a Big Gulp, some hot Cheetos, and a pack of TOP tobacco papers, he finally climbs the stairs towards his tiny apartment. The lift still has the same "Out of Order" sign on it that's been there since he moved in.

Fiddling with his keys, he unlocks the front door and pushes it with his shoulder until a sickening scrape tells him it's open and he manages to wriggle it enough that he can slip inside. Pushing it shut again, he locks the deadbolt and slides on the chain, turning to drop his plastic bag on the floor in front of the couch. When he turns to hang up his jacket, he hears the tell tale crinkle of plastic and Cheetos bags.

Not even looking at his roommate, Zitao crouches down to work his shoes off, setting them somewhat neatly against the wall and heading down the hall towards the bathroom. Flipping on the dingy light, he squeezes into the small space and does his best to rub the mirror clean with his sleeve before inspecting his bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks. Splashing himself with water after a few moments, he doesn't bother with the hand towel, takes a piss, and wanders back out to the living room.

Sehun's got his back to the couch, already three blunts in, rolled and sitting neatly on his knobby knee, and Zitao vaguely files the fact that his shorts have several holes in them away in his mental cabinet before sitting down beside him.

"Turn the TV down; it's too loud..." Sehun mumbles, tone annoyed, and Zitao just looks at the blank screen of the TV. He does nothing, and Sehun gives him a look before picking up the battery-less remote and pushing the power button uselessly. "You smell drunk."

"I am drunk," Zitao slurs out bluntly, shoulders slumping as he reaches for some Cheetos, the over-processed burn a nice distraction from the disgusting smell ruminating beside him as Sehun lights up.

"Why?" Sehun questions, taking a long drag, holding it in, before blowing it out in Zitao's general direction, earning a low growl of annoyance from the redhead. Sehun makes no point of acknowledgement, merely taking the Big Gulp and sipping at it. Zitao glowers at the red Cheetos dust his lips leave behind.

"I don't remember," Zitao continues quietly, looking back at the TV. "Change the channel. I hate the news." Sehun grunts, irritated, and picks up his remote again, pointlessly pushing buttons until he seems satisfied and dropping it between them again.

When Sehun's blunt is almost gone, Zitao reaches over to snatch it from his fingers and finish it off. Sehun gasps, pupils blown, and pinches his shoulder roughly. "Ask first!"

Zitao bares his teeth as a response, snubbing out the spent joint in an overloaded ashtray and slumping back against the couch til his neck is following the curve of the cushions. Sehun lights up another, moving his third joint far away from Zitao and after a second thought, moves the Cheetos as well. 

Zitao closes his eyes, too tired to care, thoughts and THC and booze all swirling in his head so quickly that even if he tried, he couldn't provide anything even close to coherent.

They stay in relative silence like that, until Zitao's nearly asleep and Sehun's all out of weed; the Big Gulp's only ice anymore and the Cheetos are reduced to crumbs. Sehun, hunched over slightly, turns his head a little to peer at Zitao through faded rainbow locks, rather unfocused. 

It's like this he admires him best; when Zitao's features are less sharp and more soft and he isn't whining or ing or nagging. When Zitao's almost asleep but not quite and he looks almost serene -- peaceful. It's like the Zitao from three years prior is still reality and not a myth. It's like he's got a steady job, a happy smile, and a bright future. 

But it's only right before he falls asleep completely, because when Zitao is actually asleep, he's all frowns and creased brows and quickened breath. Dark eye circles and gaunt cheeks.

Sehun rolls his head to his shoulder slightly and leans; leans until he can gently plop against Zitao's side, and the other jerks in surprise so quickly that his head knocks hard into Sehun's. With a hiss, Zitao reaches up to rub at the spot, and Sehun merely snickers, low and amused.

"...Turn off the TV. We need to sleep." His words are thick with pre-sleep and he's already nursing the beginnings of a headache, rolling away from Sehun and pushing himself to his feet. The loss of warmth brings a slow frown to the younger boy's mouth, and he watches Zitao disappear down the hallway. Turning back to the TV, Sehun stares blankly at the black screen before pushing the button on his empty remote again and leaving all the trash and papers on the floor.

Zitao strips to his briefs and crawls onto the tiny, rickety mattress that lays smushed in the middle of the floor, piles of clean clothes and dirty clothes respectively in the corner, as well as an empty pizza box and more than a respectful number of cheap wine bottles towards the end. Empty cartons of cigarettes litter Zitao's side of the bed. Kicking them out of the way, he slides beneath the thin sheet and curls up on his side, dizzy and too hot and way too drunk to try to turn off the light.

Sehun catches the switch for him instead when he follows the other in, climbing into the bed and laying on his other side, back to Zitao's back. The darkness is enough to hide everything, and for a deluded minute or two, Sehun pretends their world hasn't turned to . He pretends Zitao is doing the same.

Sleep takes them both, dreams convoluted and substance induced, but despite it all, they still wake up tangled in each other like every morning before and every morning to come.