My head pounded under the heavy music as I stumbled through the crowd. Between spending the entirety of last night in a haze of booze and sex and squeezing in more vodka in the evening to wade off the potential hangover before hitting the bar, I was dead on my feet. The impending hangover that I was supposed to be slapped with tomorrow came in early, which would work wonderfully in knocking me out for the night.

I dragged myself to the exit and would've tasted the sultry air looming outside if my eyes hadn't snagged onto the lone body sitting on one of the tables in the corner. Normally, I would've walked right out; drunk patrons weren't my problem, but I knew that mop of hair.

My feet acted before I did and brought me closer. He lifted his head, and my suspicions proved right.

Syama rubbed a hand over his face and lifted the empty tumbler to his lips, frowning when he realised there was nothing in it. I watched as he raised a hand, four fingers jutting out from his fist. He had a don't-come-near-me aura around him that I didn't know he possessed. His eyelids drooped as he pushed away the tumbler and fell face forward on the table.

I waited for someone to come for him. He wouldn't reach home in this state, hell, he probably couldn't stand up with the way his head kept lolling from side to side.

When a server dressed in nothing but a jockstrap and a mesh crop top arrived, bearing four more shots, I didn't bother hiding in the shadows for longer.

I slapped a twenty on the table, and Syama's unfocused eyes shot up. They widened at the sight of me, his mouth turning into an O, but then the fog in his head cleared up, and all it left behind was disappointment.

I took a seat in front of him while he rubbed his eyes.

Sliding one of the shots to my side, I brought it to my lips and finished it in one go, instantly regretting the burn going down my oesophagus.

Gin shooters? Seriously dude?

I stuffed the lemon wedge in my mouth to chase away the taste. This was what I got for trying to be a better person. Why do I even try?

"That's mine," Syama slurred.

"I paid for it."

"Didn't fucking ask you to."

"Consider it an act of charity."

He grunted and tossed back a shot, his face scrunching at the bitterness, but he didn't go for the lemon.

"Do you have someone with you?" I asked.

"Shiven won't leave me alone," he mumbled, head facing down with his floppy hair covering whatever little I could see of his face.

If he had someone with him, then my job here was done. He'd get home safely, and I didn't need it weighing in on my conscience.

He's not your problem, Neil.

"He just won't stop calling," Syama continued, and my momentary relief started to recede. "I even blocked him. But he keeps calling." He shrugged animatedly, his shoulders reaching all the way up to his ears and dropping. "I don't know how."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"He's not here with you?"

"Huh?" Syama squinted, bracing an arm on the table to lean forward. "Why would he be here? I'm hiding from him."

Now, it was my turn to rub at my face. "There must be someone you can—"

Struggling to keep his head up, he asked, "You want to know why I keep bothering you?"

More than anything, but right now, I needed to figure out a way to get him home. "Syama, listen—

"You keep calling me that." He swiped his arm across the table, jostling the shot glasses. I pushed the remaining two away from him, but he just pulled them right back, swatting my hand in the process. "And then you expect me to stay away from you."

I stifled my scream. This man was not my problem. I should just get up and leave and never think about him again. How he got himself here, he could get himself out the same way.

"I lost Niam because of my father, and then, he just fucked off with no fucking warning."

The second half of whatever he was saying made no sense to me. It was the gin talking. Or he was delirious by default. That would explain him constantly sticking to me. "Why don't you call this Shiven dude?"

"Maybe if he'd died the first time, I'd still have Niam."

"Look, why don't you call this Shiven guy and tell him all this? He clearly cares about you if he's not leaving you alone. I'm pretty sure you guys can work it out." And leave me out of this fuckfest. The last thing I needed was to start making parallels between his situation and mine. The throbbing in my head continued to make my existence hell, and this drunk idiot was adding to it.

"I like how you're so abrasive," he said. "That's why I like your company. You say what's on your mind. I have no one. And the ones I do, they're just paid to care..." he trailed off, his eyes stuck somewhere above me. "They tell me what I want to hear, but I can't tell them what they want to hear."

"I'm not the person you should be telling all this to."

"I didn't call you to sit here!" he shouted and swayed on his seat before catching himself. "You came on your own. You paid for my shots. Now, you're going to sit there and listen to what I say." He blinked, steeling himself for whatever next was about to spill from his mouth. "I wish my father died earlier so I could keep the love of my life," he confessed in barely a whisper.

I sighed. This was not how I was supposed to spend my Saturday night. Not with a sad man whose pain ran deeper than I'd thought and, for some reason, had himself convinced that I could help him through it.

"Hey, I'll get you an Uber and..." The words died in my mouth as I witnessed him toss the remaining two shots back to back. I made my displeasure very well known on my face. He grinned my way, and I didn't stop his head as it thumped the table.

Even if I slapped him awake, he wasn't about to get home. Not in this state. He would most likely get mugged and dumped at the curb.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, pushing my fucking headache to the back of my head. I'd deal with that later. I could call an Uber, ride with Syama and then ride back to my place.

My plan failed when after the many slaps and shakes I'd doled out on him didn't get a coherent response.

I cursed this night, my life and Syama's existence for making me deal with this.

I have no one.

Syama's sad, hushed voice echoed in my head. He didn't have me either. We were strangers, even though I knew exactly what he felt. Our hearts had landed us in this position, and I couldn't stop from turning myself inside out until I was unrecognizable to even myself. Syama didn't need to follow in my footsteps, if he wanted to find a way to make peace, then whatever destruction he wanted to expose himself to had to stop right now.

"C'mon, let's go." I hefted him up from the seat.

He wasn't heavy by any means, but with the added weight of my headache, I buckled under him as I half-carried him to our waiting Uber.

When we finally reached my apartment, the elevator chose that exact moment to act up. By the time I got Syama up the five floors and to my place, I was positive my heart was about to cave in.

He fell on my bed, and I grabbed my chest, praying to a God I hadn't spoken to for years that I didn't end this perfect night with a heart attack.

Rubbing my chest, the only logical thing to do now was take an Aspirin—or ten—and crash on the couch. My studio was as big as a glorified shoe box. It had one large room, an attached kitchenette and a cupboard for a restroom. I was living on an intern's wage and in LA, affording even this alone was an achievement. But I was done with roommates, so I wasn't in a proper position to complain.

Syama's phone rang, and I rolled him to his back, patting his pockets to get his phone out. I wiggled it from his front pocket, and before I could make a decision to answer or not, Syama rolled over and spilt his guts on my floor.

Since this night was going so magnificently well, I just thanked the universe that he puked on my floor and not on my mattress.

I dropped his phone on the bed beside him and brought out the cleaning supplies. After wiping down the floor, the acidity effectively killing my olfactory senses, I took a shower to chase away the sex, booze and vomit stench I was emanating.

With how tired I was, sleep should've been an automatic response. It wasn't. I tossed and turned on the worn-out couch, forcing my brain to not think about Beck. Or Syama. Or whoever this Niam guy was.

All the booze swimming in my system did not function to its required potential. Neither did the quick fuck in the bar restroom.

Grabbing the almost empty Jameson I had left on the coffee table from earlier in the evening, I took a nice long swig, emptying the bottle.

The phone rang again. I ignored it, but then it vibrated. Once. Twice. And it continued to do so till my brain addled and I was about to explode.

I snatched the phone and answered it. "Hello?"

"Sam," a cutting voice demanded through the line.

"No, I'm his..." Jesus, what even was I? I could've just said friend and ended my misery, but— "I found him passed out in a bar. He was pretty hammered, so I brought him to my place to sleep it off."

I heard a sigh. Maybe I was half-dead because, for some reason, I classified that sigh as sad and felt bad for whoever this stranger was on the other end.

"How bad is it?" the stranger asked.

"Bad enough that he didn't hold back even though I tried to get him to slow down."

Another sigh. "Give me your address, I'll come pick him up."

That should've brought me some relief since I wouldn't have to deal with Syama in the morning, and I would get my bed back for the night. But I had an inkling Syama wouldn't be quite happy with the outcome. Not that it was any of my business.

"Is this Shiven?" I asked, despite every cell in my body telling me to stop getting myself further involved in this shit.

The rustling from his end came to a standstill. "How do you know my name?"

"Syama mentioned it?"

"Sya—Do you know Sammy?"

"Not well enough."

"But enough that he mentioned me."

What was that supposed to mean? "It was just a drunk rumbling. Okay, forget I said anything. Here's my address—"

"No!" he shouted, then in a softer tone said, "Can you take care of him?"

"What?" I hissed. "Dude, you just said you would pick him up!"

"I know, I know, but I'm the last person Sam wants to see."

I exhaled a shaky breath. "What do you want me to do with him?"

"He needs someone," Shiven said. "Take care of him. Please."

"I'm not a—" The line went dead, and I almost hurled his phone at the wall.

The ache in my chest magnified as Syama snored.

I'd let him sleep for the night. In the morning, I'd show him the door, and we'd be back to strangers.

~

I didn't sleep the entire night. Not with Syama in my bed and Shiven's words bouncing around in my head. When the sun rose and the brightness put a dampener on my failed attempts, I stopped trying.

Syama was already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, and had the comforter wrapped around his shoulders.

"Sorry," he said the moment he laid his red-rimmed eyes on me. His hair was a mess, his cheeks were sunken in, and his lips were chapped to the point of cracking. All in all, this beauty looked like someone ran a truck over him. And then ran it again.

"Get your shit together and get out," I said, not giving him another look. The faster he was out, the sooner I could get to my routine. The usual self-loathing, followed by meeting deadlines, completing assignments, and begging my teammates to get started on our shared project.

Syama let out a feeble okay that was filled with so much anguish, I wanted to bury myself sixteen feet under and die there.

When I exited the bathroom, I found my bed dressed with new sheets. Syama stood at the centre of the room, fiddling with his vomit-stained t-shirt.

"I'll... I'll go now," he said and dragged himself to the door. "I won't trouble you again. Sorry."

I have no one.

Neither did I.

I wasn't right for Syamantak. Not in any shape or form. I wasn't in a position to help anyone, especially not someone who was as broken as me. I had promised myself I wouldn't lean against another person ever again. I needed to know how to live alone. It was the only option I had.

"Wait," I said.

Syama turned around and regarded me with his once-bright eyes. I grabbed the first shirt I could find in my meagre closet and handed it to him.

"Don't want you stinking up the street."

Syama stared at it for a while and then at me. He looked closely, like searching for a tell that could convince him that this was all a prank, and I was a kick away from showing him the street.

When he was satisfied that I came in peace, he pulled his tee and slid on the shirt I held out for him. It was a size bigger than what he would wear, especially around the shoulders, but it was passable.

We stood there in silence, each waiting for the other to break the awkwardness. I volunteered.

"Don't be like me, Syama." I didn't shy off when he shot his piercing gaze right into my soul. And for a moment, I had to admit, it felt good that someone could see past all my walls. "Get some help."

If Syama wanted to keep his distance, he had a funny way of showing it. He sat in my spot every day in the sandwich parlour. Some days we sat in silence, minding our own thoughts, other times, we joked around and exchanged tiny tidbits about our lives.

Eventually, we passed the initial stage of friendliness, and our conversations moved past taking digs at each other. He told me about Niam and what had happened. To say I was shook would be an understatement. This man had been through hell and back, and he was still standing to fight another day. Brave was too modest a word to describe him.

He didn't mind sharing his story, and if he expected me to share mine and Beck's story, he didn't show it. It wasn't mine alone, and I wouldn't risk outing Beck to anyone. Even if I didn't mention his name, it still was too much for a third-person to be let into.

Things unfolded naturally between us, and soon our interactions weren't confined to just a sandwich parlour. Later on, our discussions didn't carry our pasts at all.

Syama was more a friend to me than I was to him, and I overcompensated it by going to whatever happy hour events the company he worked for held. I wasn't too surprised when he said he was a software engineer. He was Indian, after all. As long as there were free drinks and him to keep me company, I was content being his plus one.

He tried his best to keep me from continuing my streak of opening myself to anyone who wanted a taste, going so far as to even plan out activities to keep our weekends occupied. But I could have him for only so many days. He had his own life to keep on track.

Slowly, I found parts of my old self returning. Parts I had thought would never see the light of day again.

I still ruined my body in more ways than one. More than what was physiologically and psychologically healthy. But I needed something to keep me from tearing my hair out every time I was left to my thoughts. Some things in me could never be fixed. And I was in no hurry to get them fixed either.

Syama's friendship ended up being the life vest I needed. He had gotten it wrong. I didn't need a friend. I specifically needed Syamantak.