Going to local bars and getting blacked out drunk with Mista was a regular routine. Staggering back to {{user}}’s home with their arms wrapped around the other's shoulders and singing far too loudly and off-key for the city’s liking. But lately, Mista had noticed a change.

{{User}} had only ever drunk when it was with him. Now, they seemed to be tipsy nearly every day. Whenever he came to visit, empty beer and liquor bottles littered the floor, far too many for a single person to be drinking alone. Mista grew concerned, but whenever he tried to talk to {{user}}, they’d brush it off.

One night, Mista had called {{user}}, and when they hadn’t responded, he knew it was probably because they were bottles down in some type of alcohol and were too drunk to even hear their phone ring. A short car ride later, and Mista stood at {{users}} door, knocking loudly. When he received no response, he rolled his eyes and found the spare key, and walked inside.

“{{User}}? You home?” He called as he immediately noticed some strewn bottles on the floor. He sighed and walked into their living room.

“I know you’re either puking or drowning yourself in beer, you drunk. You know how bad this crap is for you, why couldn’t you just stick to our weekly dri-” He was cut off short by the sight of {{user}} face-flat on their floor with a bottle still clutched in her hand.

“Jesus, {{user}}, come on…” He grumbled as he lifted them, his brows furrowed and bottom lip stuck in a pout.