Three hours is three years when you can't sleep. Your body pulls you towards things you're not allowed to want; cigarettes and boys down the hall. I fling the covers off the bed and decide that I can at least smoke. I have a balcony and an abundance of tobacco.

The cold early morning air dances over my skin, drying the sweat on my collarbones from the heat of the bedroom. I pad over to the railing and press my arms against it, even colder than the morning.

I hate it, I hate smoking, but as it curls from the butt and into the misty air like it belongs, I find watching it calms me down. Plus, rollups are always better then pre-rolled in a box; making it myself feels like I've achieved something.

The view is spectacular; I'm flying above Los Angeles like I'm a fucking kite, or perhaps hovering like a hawk that's found the mouse nestled in the field below. I'm in the part between light and dark, where the street lights aren't yellow anymore but they haven't flickered off. The sky isn't black anymore but it isn't blue yet either. A very bruised purple maybe.

It's not silent though; I've learnt Los Angeles will never be truly silent.

A light flickers on in the room next door, the balcony next to mine shining yellow. I look back to the alarm clock with its red numbers on the bedside table as it reads 4AM.

Why is Demitri awake at this time?

---

I don't even have to knock on the door, it's already open a crack, a line of yellow light spilling into the dimly lit hallway. I can hear rustling and banging and movement of all sorts. I step inside and wish I hadn't; there's shit everywhere.

Demitri has begun moving the fucking furniture, furniture that, not only doesn't need to be moved, but that shouldn't be moved. Lamps that were fixed into the walls have been unscrewed and poorly fitted into other places, wires hanging and dangling.

His bed's mattress is up against the wall, and Demitri himself is dicking about with the bed sheets, doing God knows what with it, maybe cleaning them in a weird way. The duvet cover hangs over the balcony rail now since I last saw it, and Demitri is bobbing his head to music that I can't hear.

When he turns to face me, he smiles and raises his arms.

"Scottie!"

"Demi, you're back." He reaches me and wraps his arm around my neck, getting me in a headlock.

"Aww, I didn't scare ya, did I mate?" He rubs his knuckles against the crown of my head. "Fucking hell, I love you. Have I told you that?"

"You have." I wrestle out of his grip, assessing the chaos around me. "You having a spring clean...at 4AM?"

He nods. "It was needed. You should have seen it, it was fucking with me. I changed it up a bit and already I can breathe better." For emphasis, he takes in a big gulp of air and ushers me to do the same. I do as I'm told.

"Can you feel that?" His accent is thick. If fans could hear it, they'd be fawning over themselves.

"Yeah, sure." Demi puts his hands on his hips, surveying the room like a completed piece of art, before his eyes rest on me.

"I'm ...ahh...sorry, about earlier."

"Earlier?"

"The interview with that orange twat."

"Oh, right. Yeah, don't worry about it."

"I wasn't feeling well, you understand."

I do and I don't. Even now, mess and just things around us in the places they're not supposed to be, I don't think I can begin to understand him. If my phone is still going off (and I know it is because it's been lighting up all night), then Demitri's must be insane.

"I...don't really remember it though. I had to find Candice, get her to explain to me. As much as it's annoying having my sister hanging around all the time, it's sure helpful."

And here she is again, Candice, the name fills me with uneasy air, with a fuzzy head. She's here and she doesn't even have to physically be here. She's down the hall, with him.

I grind my teeth.

"I have to go to bed, mate." I smile, he smiles back. "You might wanna keep it down though."

"Course." He nods, and before I've even left, he's back to his version of tidying.