"It's 3 O'clock in the morning and I'm sad."

In hindsight, this was a horrible decision from the get-go. A cruel punchline the moment the alcohol touched his lips. From all the other bad choices he's made that found a perfect alignment to lead up to this royal debacle, you'd think the warning sirens would have blared louder for him to hear. Nope. Not only is he deaf to the chortles of bad irony, but it would have been far too easy. When has anything ever been that easy? Among the short shopping list of things he knew, he knew for a fact that nothing ever came easy for him. Cynicism talking full volume again, he's sure. But better to be pessimistic with pleasant surprises than optimistic and have a leaning tower of disappointments come crashing down on you. Isn't that a compelling argument? He thought so. Yet, despite all the excuses on the tip of his tongue, ready to be fired off like a large, loose glass canon, he had nobody to blame but himself for the narrow path he took. Depression is one thing, but actions are a completely different beast. One that he had always had trouble fighting. Yes, this is his kafkaesque story. Or maybe that would be giving him far more credit than he deserves. Because there is nothing less graceful than showing up on your best friend's porch drunken and puffy-eyed at three in the morning.

"James?" Daniel squinted through the fog of exhaust. He looked disheveled and rightfully so. Any normal human being would be in bed at this hour. Unfortunately for Daniel, James isn't normal. For as long as they have been friends, he never was. For a moment, Daniel looks as though he has a hard time registering his eyesight. The tired haze quickly lifted however when he gets a proper gander at his evenly trashed friend, swaying to stay still on his creaky porch. James figured he must be looking like a proper hot mess because of this reaction, but does little to correct it. He can't possibly find it in him to care and this makes him hate himself just a tiny bit more.

He wants Daniel to slam the door in his face, to get angry with him, maybe throw a fit and chide him, but it doesn't come. Daniel is too nice, far nicer than what James deserves as far as he's concerned. He steps to the side, clearing the doorway to welcome James inside, but there's hesitation to James. His legs won't move. Somehow, even swimming through the ocean of intoxication, guilt has him rooted. With practiced ease, Daniel grabs his wrist with delicate patience and guides him inside. This wasn't his first rodeo with a very drunk James after all and by now this was their biweekly ritual. Their horrible form of normalcy. To the gut-wrenching detail. James hates it.

Daniel's small one-bedroom home is warm. Fuzzyingly so, or maybe it's the alcohol. Either way, there is a welcoming comfort to it. In a way, it's just like Daniel.

You could learn a lot about a person by the contents of their home. With Daniel, it's no exception but granted, a little bit different. To the orderly fashion of all the lined superhero-themed nick-knacks to the mismatched colored sofas would normally suggest Daniel is wild at heart. A youthful kid trapped in a twenty-seven-year-old body. This is what a first glance would tell you. What it told Daniel's first date at least. James had remembered the embarrassment that came with Daniel's story. When he told in such mortification to James how bad it had gone the moment she pointed out how interesting it was that the bright lime green sofa didn't match the mustard-colored lounging chair. How Daniel didn't want to be painted as some tortured hipster cliche. James could never understand why it was so hard for Daniel to admit that he was color blind, why that was the only reason his furniture never really matched to begin with. It didn't seem like much of a crutch if anything it gave Daniel a quirky, fun charm. Or was it heartless to find it somewhat endearing that Daniel would accidentally wear color combinations that no real soul would dare ever wear? That it was warmingly hilarious that his friend had sworn up and down that he will drag him along the next time he goes furniture shopping.

Probably.

James, not wanting to give his friend further grief, doesn't put up much of a fuss when Daniel guides him to that very same ugly lime green couch he swore up and down he'd change the moment he has financially stabilized himself. He plops down onto it like he's done so many times before and lets himself marinate in self-disgust. Why does he keep doing it? Chasing a high that can only be obtained in such a self-degrading way. That was one thing but dragging one of the few people that matters to him into it was another. Before James could further sink into the depths of his aggravation, he feels the cool plastic of the cup that Daniel pushes into his hands. Upon taking a long drink without question, James realizes it's water and gratefully drains the cup.

"You stopped taking your medication, didn't you?" The question has a slow, gentle inflection in it. Like Daniel is trudging carefully, toeing his way around broken glass with caution. As much as James wants to be mad at the correct assumption, he knew he had no right to be. Daniel was just trying to lay out the situation for proper analysis.

James inhaled slowly, he hates the way it quivers in his throat, the way it rattled between his teeth and how it tasted on his tongue. Like bile. He doesn't trust his words to be sturdy, but he mumbled out anyways, "I-I was alright for a few days. I was normal-"

"You never were abnormal to begin with, James." Daniel cuts him off and it's stern. But it's also caring. "Medication or not, you are just as normal as the next person."

This was something Daniel needed to hear. He closed his eyes and nodded carefully. His mind clouding with the realization that he's suddenly tired. Exhaust hung over his shoulders in a gradual, suffocating weight. He barely hears Daniel over his heavy thoughts, "Look, man.. I'm not expecting you to instantaneously get better. It takes work. Just.. Get some rest here. In the morning we'll talk. Deal?"

That sounded like a good plan. James nodded again, pushing off his sneakers with a few lazy swipes of his hands and he adjusts himself to curl along the length of the couch. He feels like a guilty child, standing in his parent's doorway with vomit on his shirt and tears on his cheeks. He wanted to apologize, but the heaviness in his eyes had carried him off into slumber.