Your sixteenth birthday falls on a Saturday, which is unbelievably amazing, and your parents let you go out with your friends for it instead of having a stupid party in the house. This is, however, the limit to the greatness of your evening.

When you finally get yourself back home and sitting on the edge of your bed, you're more focused on your spins than you are on your running eye makeup. Because, seriously, fuck boys. Fuck them.

You've lost track of how much time has gone by when you realize someone is at the door. For a second, you panic: your parents would absolutely murder you if they knew you'd been drinking. But your vision reorients and you see Krishna's short figure hovering there, uncertainty written all over his body language as he leans against the door frame. You slump back down, making a small noise of discomfort. Because your eyes are closed, you only know that he has joined you on the bed when you feel the mattress dip. That Krishna doesn't say anything for a long moment is, you are able to note even through the haze of your misery, kind of a first. Has he told Baba and Aai? You can't be sure.

"I made you something," he says finally.

You open your eyes and painstakingly turn your head to face him. He is holding what appears to be a thin book. You hadn't noticed it when you saw him at the door.

"For your birthday," he continues. "It's a comic book! I know you don't really like comics but I made Beckham your sidekick. Oh – cos you're the superhero, like." He lies down alongside you, wriggling just slightly to get comfortable in a way that makes you wince against nausea. A pause. "Are you drunk?"

He's curious, but mainly he's concerned. Neither of you is used to seeing drunk people considering your family's abstience from alcohol, more or less. You find yourself suddenly sorry for making him see you like this, but more than that you're still feeling sorry for yourself. (Seriously. Fuck boys. And alcohol, for that matter.)

He takes in your silence and then rolls over onto his stomach to look down at you more properly. "You don't have to read it right now," he says softly. "I'll leave it here for you." Pause. "Are you okay?"

The way he's positioned makes him the only thing filling your vision, and you feel a surge of fondness for him. Or nausea. It's hard to pick out anything from the nausea. "Love sucks," you say muzzily. "Remember that, okay? People'll just tell you they like you and then run off with the first bitch in a low cut top who smiles in their direction." Belatedly, you realize you're pointing a finger in his face.

"George Dunphy is an idiot," Krishna proclaims after another beat. "He definitely ate too much paste in Year 2. I think he still eats paste, actually." At your reflexive huff of laughter, he grins, but the expression only lasts a moment before it gives way to concern again. "Are you okay?" He hedges for a second. "I think... Leela, I think I should get Aai."

He says this with a certain kind of resoluteness – the kind of false confidence that makes your chest squeeze. You're crying again. You wipe at your nose with the back of your hand.

"Leela," he says, wrenched this time.

"You should get Aai," you manage to say.

He gets her after linking your hands together briefly. The next morning, you sit on the couch with him and fight through your killer first hangover to read through the comic book he drew for you.