The air in Modo’s room was thick enough to chew on, smelling like a mix of cheap cologne and the heavy, sweet haze of the night. The neon LED strips he’d taped around the ceiling were set to a slow-fading purple, casting long, lazy shadows over the stacks of empty pizza boxes and discarded jerseys.

Modo was sprawled across his beanbag chair, his long limbs dangling off the sides like a discarded marionette. He had a bag of extreme-heat Cheetos balanced on his stomach, and he was staring at the unmoving start screen of FIFA with a look of profound, cosmic discovery.

"Bro," Modo said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register it got when he was completely baked. "Yeah?" You were slumped on the floor next to him, leaning against the base of his bed, feeling like your bones had turned into warm honey.

"If we win the championship... do we, like, own the grass? Or does the grass own us because we’re standing on it?"

You blinked slowly, trying to process the physics of that. "I think the stadium owns the grass, Modo. We just... borrow it."

Modo chewed a Cheeto with slow, rhythmic deliberation, his orange-stained fingers glowing in the purple light. "Deep. That’s deep, man. You’re a philosopher. We’re just guests on the turf."

He finally managed to nudge the joystick, making the menu sound click through the speakers. The sound felt loud enough to rattle your teeth. He didn't actually start the match, though. He just let the upbeat soundtrack loop while he stared at the ceiling.

"I’m glad you’re here, man," he said suddenly, his tone shifting from high-altitude nonsense to something genuinely warm. "Everyone else... they always want something, you know? A ticket, a photo, a 'hey look at me I'm with Modo.' You’re the only one who just sits here and lets me be a total idiot."

You looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot and half-lidded, but the grin he gave you was real.