The ginger sat nervously in the middle of his apartment, able to feel the floor below. He fidgeted with his hands, making several glances around. It was empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. So bland and empty.

Just yesterday it was different. It was so weird. So off. Pico didn't know what he was supposed to feel about it. Was he supposed to be glad it was clean? He didn't feel glad. He felt far from it. Why did he feel so out of place, now? Was... he not clean?

How long had it been since he showered since he showered? Did he even eat last night? Why wouldn't his leg stop shaking? He didn't want it to shake. It was annoying. Why was he so irritated by a clean room? Why was it so small? No, it felt too big. Why was his apartment bigger than he remembered? Was he growing smaller? He already wasn't that tall. Was it morning already? He forgot to sleep. He never forgot to sleep.

Pico had begun to back himself against a wall, shuffling. He felt sick. In a hurry, he got up, leaving the apartment and slamming the door behind him. He decided he just needed a cigarette or something. He didn't even smoke one yesterday.

The sun was too bright, he decided. Even so, he went to his usual spot, against a wall, lighting his cigarette. He sighed, watching people walk past. He was beginning to get a headache. His throat clenched up - he must have been getting sick.

"Hic..."

Pico didn't cry all too often. He wasn't one to have pent up emotions, however his usual response to things was to get angry. That was why he scowled so often, at least.

Right now? He didn't know why. I wiped his eyes, trembling. He didn't cry often, so why now? What was so bad? He just couldn't wrap his head around it. He clenched his fist, before jumping at the feeling of his cigarette burning his palm. He dropped it, before stomping on it in both tears and rage.

"Fuck!" He yelled, resting his head on his head and gripped at his own hair. He felt like a mess. He body wasn't functioning properly and he couldn't figure out why. He had completely given up, about to go back to his apartment, before remembering he left on the first place because he couldn't handle the state of it.

The state of it...was that why he was so upset? The sudden day change that caused him to be able to walk and breathe fresh air? Why was he complaining?

He was unintentionally pacing back and forth, contemplating whether or not he returned, when suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder.

"Pico?"

In a sudden reflex, Pico swung his arm around. Except all he did was tire himself out faster. He saw Keith and his girlfriend. Her name was Molly, right? Pico couldn't remember, he didn't care. He was too far in his state.

"Hey, what's up?" Keith asked with pure worry, before noticing Pico's hand. "Shit, do you need water? Bandages or something?"

Pico physically couldn't respond. Even if he could, he couldn't think of a single thing to say. He was panicked. He just kept crying angry tears, tense. In a sudden moment, Keith hugged him. Pico felt himself grip his shirt without hesitation, longing for the touch. Molly joined, causing him to feel even more closed in. Closed in a much safer way.

Pico stopped trembling as much, his shoulders relaxing. Molly had let go, but Pico didn't let go of Keith. It reminded him of the coffee shop, and he couldn't tell why. The headache stayed, but he stopped crying.

Keith pat his back, letting go. "Did something happen after I left?" he asked in a gentle tone. Pico cleared his throat, as painful as it felt.

"...not really." His voice was hushed. Raspy. "...I- I just... I don't know."

"That's okay. You're lucky we found you, though..."

"...Yeah." Pico hadn't paid attention to the convenience until now. The convenience of both Molly and Keith appearing when he needed someone. It was scary, almost. "I am."

But... he wasn't complaining.