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Chapter Text

It is, in Suga’s esteemed opinion, a frankly horrible idea. Takeda has clearly taken one too many volleyballs to the face. Tokyo training camp in the dead of winter? If Tsukishima manages to survive an entire week of Bokuto and Kuroo without murdering one or both of them, it’ll be nothing short of a Christmas miracle.

(That, as it turns out, ends up being the least of their problems.)

*

“Looks like snow,” Daichi says as they’re leaving Sukugawa. Suga peers around Asahi to look. Sure enough, the first few flakes are drifting down from a sickly grey sky. It’ll be a flurry soon.

“Hope we make it to Tokyo okay,” Asahi says nervously.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Suga tells him. “It’s probably too warm for it to settle anyway.” Twenty minutes later, the world is white, and Suga thinks that they’re lucky he isn’t planning on a career in meteorology.

“Huh,” Daichi says. He swipes a hand through the mist on the window. “Guess it’s a good thing we don’t play soccer. Oh, stop being such a worrywart,” he adds at Asahi’s fretful look. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

We die, Suga thinks. “We die,” Asahi says.

“No one’s going to die,” Daichi says determinedly. “That’s an order. Anyone does, I’ll kick their ass.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Suga says, laughing. Even Asahi manages to scrounge up a smile.

*

The snow blanketing the parking lot at Nekoma is ankle-deep. Naturally, Hinata, Nishinoya and Tanaka immediately begin making excited squawking noises, and only Daichi’s stony stare keeps them from re-enacting Battle Royale with snowballs.

“Ahh,” Kuroo sniffs dramatically, brushing away a fake tear. “Our last ever training camp as high schoolers. It’s so emotional. Don’t you think so, Sawamura-kun?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Daichi lies, smiling. Sometimes Suga wants to slap him upside the head and tell him that captains are allowed to have feelings and crap as well.

(He settles for shoving a handful of snow down the back of Daichi’s shirt, and runs.)

*

There are three certainties in life: death, taxes, and Karasuno getting their collective ass handed to them at training camp. On their third lap of flying falls, Hinata (probably busy watching some uber awesome thing one of the other teams’ spikers is doing) manages, in a movement that may be suggestive of hitherto-undiscovered contortionism skills, to kick Suga in the ribs. Hard.

“OhmygodSugasanI’msosorryareyouokaaay?” he wails, and promptly prostrates himself over Suga.

“Peachy,” Suga wheezes, flashing a thumbs-up. The impact feels like it’s jarred loose every tooth in his skull and possibly also his spleen, but there’s no need to make Hinata feel worse. Even if it wouldn’t be completely unwarranted.

“I’ll get a heat pack,” Kiyoko says. While she’s gone, Ukai hitches up Suga’s shirt and gently feels for broken ribs.

“Nothing feels broken,” he tells Suga eventually. “Could be bruised. You’ll be sore for a while, at any rate. The heat will help. Now take a deep breath for me.” Suga obliges, wincing a little. Ukai makes him do it three more times before he’s satisfied. “Okay then, let’s get you up.”

Kiyoko comes back with the heat pack, cheeks pink from the cold. Ukai takes it from her, cracks it, and gives it to Suga to hold against his ribs. “Think I can sit out on the next lap of flying falls?” Suga jokes. Ukai frowns, and Suga knows what he’s about to say before he says it.

“No flying falls, and no volleyball either,” Coach says sternly. When Suga opens his mouth to protest, he adds, “Last thing I need is your parents calling up to yell at me because I let you play with busted ribs.”

Suga’s throat closes up a little, but Ukai does look genuinely sympathetic, and Hinata seems to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown already, so he just closes his mouth, nods quietly, and lets Asahi and Daichi haul him carefully to his feet.

“I’m so sorry, Suga-san,” Hinata says mournfully as they pass him.

Suga makes himself smile and say, “It’s all right,” even though it isn’t, really.

“Coach, is it okay if we take a break for a bit?” Daichi asks.

Ukai nods. “Yeah, of course.”

Daichi turns back to Suga. “Come on,” he says quietly, and leads Suga outside. The snow is still falling steadily, huge drifts forming under the windows. Suga instinctively takes a deep breath of the crisp cold air, then coughs. He spends the next few minutes doubled over with one arm around his chest and Daichi and Asahi holding him up while he makes a valiant effort to not die.

“Should I get Coach?” Asahi asks, once the pain eases back enough that Suga no longer feels like he’s on the brink of death.

“No,” Suga gasps, making a concentrated effort to take short, shallow breaths so as not to aggravate the knives between his ribs. He straightens, leaning heavily on Daichi. “I’m okay.”

“You are not,” Daichi retorts, but his eyes are wide and full of worry. Asahi’s too. Suga would go so far as to say they look a little frantic, which is just unacceptable on every level.

So he grins, still a little breathless, and says, “Seriously, I’m just sore. I’ll be fine, as long as I don’t laugh, or yawn. Or, you know, breathe.”

It works. Asahi huffs a little laugh, and Daichi rolls his eyes and says sarcastically, “Yeah, that’s a great plan, Suga.”

“I’m glad you finally acknowledge my genius.” Suga beams at them, by now feeling only a few steps away from being human again. He pats Daichi’s arm. “Come on. It’s cold.”

*

Night comes down and the snowfall picks up, whipping at their exposed hands and faces as they struggle back to the classrooms through thigh-high drifts. When they make it, damp and shivering, the adults bully them into the showers, with strict orders to put on warm dry clothes before dinner. Suga turns the water to scalding and stands under the spray for a long time, trying to shake out the chill that’s settled behind his aching ribs.

“Suga?” Daichi calls through the door. “For your sake, I hope you’re jerking off in there, because if you’re dead I will punch you.”

Suga laughs, then groans. “Thanks for the concern, Captain,” he replies.

“Concern, what? You’re such a baby. Come back when you’re coughing up blood, then I’ll consider it.”

“Your sympathy, too, is much appreciated.” Reluctantly, Suga shuts off the water, shivering as all the warmth he managed to steal back deserts him on the spot. The towel he brought is a huge fluffy monster, and he wraps it around his shoulders like a blanket, pulling it tight across his body. When he steps out of the stall, Daichi’s eyebrows skitter up on his forehead, and he says, “Seriously, though, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Suga replies, and he might have got away with it, too, if not for his treacherous chattering teeth. He turns away and pulls on his pyjama bottoms and an oversized t-shirt.

“You look flushed.”

“It’s just from the shower.” Only partial credit for partial honesty, but Suga won’t let himself be the cause of that little furrow between Daichi’s eyebrows, either. “I think I’m coming down with something,” he relents, when the I-will-kill-you-with-my-pinkie-but-I-am-also-wounded-by-your-lack-of-trust stare Daichi levels at him becomes painful. It’s a strange cocktail, in this case topped off with a dash of I-am-the-captain-and-I-need-to-fix-this-but-I-can’t-and-so-my-brain-is-imploding-because-I-have-a-guilt-complex. Daichi really is hopeless, sometimes. “Guess it’s a good thing Coach is making me sit out, after all.”

Daichi softens. “Yeah. You should take it easy. You’re no good to anyone worn out.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Suga replies with a fond smile. Daichi will be the death of him, honestly.

*

At dinner, Suga nurses his beef curry like it’s something precious, relishing the warmth it spreads through his icy bones. Meanwhile, Hinata, obviously still caught in the throes of guilt, hovers around him. “Suga-san, do you need anything? Water? Would you like me to get you some more food? Are your ribs okay? Should I get a heat pack? Ice?”

“Hinata,” Suga says sternly, after about five minutes of this. “Sit.” Hinata sits. “Eat.” Hinata hesitates, but then his stomach grumbles. He shoves a spoonful of curry into his mouth. Even with his cheeks bulging out, he manages to look like a dog that’s peed on the carpet. Suga sighs. “I’m not angry.”

Hinata looks up at him, eyes wide and miserable. “But--”

“Daichi,” Suga says, cutting him off. “How does the saying go?”

Daichi props his chin on his hand, hiding a smile behind his fingers. “I believe you’re looking for, ‘Accidents happen’.”

“That’s the one.” Suga turns back to Hinata and pats him lightly on the head. “Okay?”

Hinata pouts at his food for a moment, considering, then perks up. “Okay,” he says, only a little reluctant.

“Great,” Suga says. “I’m glad that’s settled. Oh.” He holds out his glass to Hinata, beaming. “But I wouldn’t say no to more water.”

*

When he’s halfway into his bowl, Yaku drops down beside him on the bench. “Hey, Suga-kun. You look like shit.”

“Oh, hi, Yakkun,” Suga replies. “It’s good to see you too. I’m great, thanks for asking.” He wonders what it says about his friendship with Yaku that he’s not even sure if he’s being sarcastic anymore.

Yaku rolls his eyes with a grin; then his expression folds into one of concern. “Seriously, are you okay? You don’t look so good. That was a pretty hard hit you took this afternoon.”

“I’ll survive. Probably.”

“Do you need me to scare the shit out of Hinata on your behalf? Because I can do that.”

“He’s served his punishment,” Suga says airily. When Yaku keeps frowning at him, he relents, holds up his water glass and says, “He got me a refill.”

Yaku shakes his head. “You’re way too soft on those kids.”

“You sound like an old man,” Suga says, laughing.

“Oh, I am,” Yaku says grimly. “On the inside. Lev has aged my soul. It’s only a matter of time before I start yelling at the first years to get off my lawn.”

Across the room, Lev bellows, “YAKU-SAN!” in a voice that would wake the dead, waving excitedly. Suga and Yaku both wince.

“You’d better go back before he brings the roof down,” Suga tells Yaku, who doesn’t hear him because he’s too busy bellowing back, “SHUT THE FUCK UP, LEV! I’M TALKING TO SUGA! AND DON’T YELL! YOU’RE NOT AN APE!”

When Lev subsides, pouting, Yaku turns back to Suga. “I guess I should get over there,” he sighs, like it’s some great trial. Suga wonders who he thinks he’s fooling. Yaku stands, and taps Suga lightly on the shoulder. “Feel better, though. And if you need anything, just yell.”

“Or not, as the case may be,” Suga says sagely. “I’m not an ape, after all.”

Yaku laughs. “Fuck you, Suga-kun,” he says happily, then leaves.

*

That night, Suga pilfers a hoodie from Asahi's bag. "You look great," Asahi says, laughing, when Suga jams it over his head. Suga has to roll the sleeves up four times to flip him off. Then the three of them shove their futons together in a corner, a little apart from the chaos in the centre of the room, and raise up a hastily-built nest of blankets and pillows. They crawl into it, Suga in the middle and Asahi and Daichi on either side of him, and are asleep almost instantly.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Nishinoya wakes Suga, Daichi and Asahi at some ungodly hour by belly-flopping across them (though Suga is grateful to note that he takes great pains to avoid Suga’s aching ribs). “We’re having a snowball fight! Karasuno versus Nekoma versus Fukurodani. We’re totally gonna kick their asses. C’mon, let’s gooo!”

Daichi, curled in pain around his solar plexus, grinds out, “Screw that. Third years versus everyone else, and you’re all dead.”

Nishinoya gulps.

The slaughter that follows is so effortless that it’s almost embarrassing, really. It’s worth the vicious chewing-out the coaches give them while the managers flutter around pouring everyone hot tea. Suga, flushed with cold and victory, runny-nosed and breathless, tugs his blanket tighter around himself as he laughs at the miserable defeat on the first and second years’ faces. Daichi sips at his tea with the air of a particularly self-satisfied cat.

“How does the saying go, again?” he muses loudly, words loud enough to carry across the room to Nishinoya, who is sitting slumped with his head in his hands.

“Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it?” Asahi suggests, ruffling his hair to knock loose the melting snowflakes.

“Mm, close.”

“I believe you’re looking for, ‘Don’t start fights you can’t win,’” Suga supplies, then sneezes. The sound apparently acts like some kind of homing beacon, because Ukai immediately materialises out of nowhere to loom over him, surprisingly menacing in his apron and kerchief with wooden spoon in hand.

“Sugawara,” he growls. Suga holds his hands up in supplication.

“It’s just a cold, Coach. I’ll be fine.”

“Hmph.” Ukai sniffs and plants his hands on his hips, looking unconvinced. “Drink your tea,” he barks eventually, and stomps away to yell at Nishinoya.

*

As the day wears on and the snowdrifts pile higher, Suga begins to find himself wishing he hadn’t spoken so quickly. The headache and runny nose he’s managed to keep at bay, mostly by chugging Night Nurse like water, but the cold knot that settled behind his ribs yesterday is unfurling, spreading icy tendrils through his chest until it hurts just to breathe. Yesterday Ukai’s order to sit out stung, but today he’s perfectly happy to huddle in Asahi’s hoodie and watch from the sidelines.

And, for all the others joke about Suga being the team mom, he discovers that all it takes is looking pathetic and sniffing occasionally to bring out the entire team’s collective inner mother hen. Which is odd. Ennoshita encouraging him to drink juice, he can handle. That’s fine. Normal, even. Kinoshita brings him energy bars and oranges; Narita offers him a scarf to keep him warm; Yamaguchi suggests various home remedies to clear his stuffy nose. Suga is touched by their thoughtfulness, but not surprised. And then Tanaka tries to check his temperature. Nishinoya digs out a bottle of vitamins from… somewhere…, grinds them into powder and tries to sprinkle them on Suga’s lunch. It’s when Tsukishima wordlessly materialises with a can of ginger ale and sets it down on the bench next to him that Suga begins to wonder in earnest if the fever is making him delirious.

“What are you doing,” Daichi says when he comes over to the bench to find Suga with the back of one hand pressed to his own forehead and the back of the other pressed to Kiyoko’s, who endures it with a perfected look of long-suffering.

“Tanaka and Nishinoya are fussing,” she tells Daichi. “It’s weirding Sugawara out.”

“It is,” Suga agrees. “Tsukishima, too. Am I warm?”

Kiyoko sighs and slips free of him, then gently lays her soft cool hand on his brow. “Hmm, a little,” she says eventually. “Not too bad. You should drink lots of water to make sure it doesn’t get worse.”

“Yes, Mom,” Suga replies, grinning. She swats at him with a small smile and goes to talk to Yachi.

Daichi watches her go, then turns to Suga. “How do you feel?”

Suga holds out his hand, palm-up. “700 yen.”

Daichi blinks. “Come again?”

“It’s my new rule,” Suga explains. “Every time someone asks me that question, they have to give me 700 yen. By the time we go home I’ll have enough to buy a new house.”

Daichi’s eyes roll so far back in his head that Suga is tempted to ask if it really is empty in there. He resists, barely. “It must be such an ordeal, having people be worried about you,” Daichi says.

“What happened to, ‘Come back when you’re coughing up blood’?”

“It was a metaphor. Metaphorically coughing up blood. Besides, I’m the captain. It’s my job to worry.” And Daichi knows that all too well, Suga thinks. He sighs.

“I suppose I’ll let you off the hook, then,” he says benevolently. “If it’s your job.”

“I’m touched by your generosity,” Daichi deadpans. “No, really, I’m crying on the inside.”

“As well you should be.” Across the room, Ukai claps his hands and calls everyone back. Suga turns Daichi around by the arm and gives him a small shove. “Now get back out there, Captain, and kick some ass on my behalf.”

“I always do,” Daichi replies with a grin.

*

By mid-afternoon, the snow is blizzarding and the wind is rattling the windows in their frames. It all feels very apocalyptic, Suga thinks. He huddles down in Asahi’s hoodie.

And then the lights go out.

“Ah, well, that’s ominous,” Kuroo drawls into the sudden startled silence. Someone laughs nervously. Without the artificial yellow glare of the lights, the snow-grey sky outside casts a blanket of darkness over the room. Suddenly, a pinprick of white light appears. Suga’s first, unfiltered thought is that they’ve been visited by a snow demon, but then the light waves around and he realises it’s just the flashlight on someone’s phone. (Then he wonders how feverish he must be for a snow demon to have been his first thought, because seriously, what?)

Ambitious as they might be, even Karasuno, Nekoma and Fukurodani draw the line at playing in the dark, so everyone pulls on jackets and hats and heads back to the classroom building, following the narrow path Ukai and Naoi swept clear that morning. The wind whips at them, turning exposed skin pink and raw. Suga puts one foot in front of the other and thinks longingly of his futon (and, even more longingly, of his bed at home).

Someone digs out some camping lanterns and flashlights from somewhere. Noya insists on setting up what he calls “a ghost story circle”, a flashlight held under his chin. Asahi quails slightly.

“Well, you guys have fun with that,” Suga says abruptly, climbing stiffly to his feet. “Asahi, can you make yourself useful? I want to find a supply closet to sleep in for a while.” Asahi nods, doing his best not to be too obviously relieved. Suga finds with some alarm that he can’t even muster the energy to make fun of him right now.

“You okay?” Daichi asks.

Suga waves a hand at him. “Yeah. Just tired. Stay, it’s fine.”

“Okay,” Daichi says. He sounds uncertain, but he stays where he is.

Working under strict orders, Asahi rolls up Suga’s futon and blankets and hauls them into his arms, along with Suga’s overnight bag. His biceps bulge and it’s all very impressive, though Suga’s too tired to really appreciate it. “I’ll man the flashlight,” he says instead, and leads Asahi out of the room. They peer into a series of dark, deserted classrooms before finally finding a snug-looking storage closet piled high with stacks of yellowing papers. “This’ll do,” Suga declares. “What time is it?”

Asahi points the flashlight at his watch. “A little after three.”

“Bleghh,” Suga replies eloquently, and crawls under the blankets anyway. “I hate everything,” he grumbles into the pillow. Asahi laughs softly. “Don’t mock my suffering.”

“I’m not, I’m not,” Asahi says, but he’s totally still laughing. “Hey, scooch over.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Suga says as Asahi squeezes in next to him, though without much conviction. Asahi is like a big warm pillow with arms. It’s nice. Although his hair is in Suga’s mouth, which is just gross.

“I don’t mind,” Asahi says. “Besides, I’m not a big fan of horror stories.”

“You don’t say.”

Asahi laughs again. It’s a wholesome sound. Just listening to it makes Suga feel a little better. “Shut up.”

“I think there’s a book in my bag,” Suga says. “If you want to read.”

“The flashlight won’t bother you?”

“Nah.” Suga yawns wide. “You know I sleep like the dead.”

“No arguments there,” Asahi says. Suga hears him rummage through the bag; then he settles and silence falls, save for the soft fwip of turning pages. Suga breathes out slowly, cradling his sore ribs and sticky lungs, and closes his eyes.

*

When he wakes up, Asahi is halfway through the book, and Suga feels like death warmed over. “I feel like death warmed over,” he croaks. Asahi puts the book down and sits up.

“You okay?” Suga doesn’t have the breath to explain the 700-yen rule, so he just flails vaguely in miserable frustration. Asahi smooths a gentle hand over Suga’s sweaty forehead. “You’re really warm,” he says anxiously. “Suga, you’re really, really warm.”

“I’m cold,” Suga says plaintively. Asahi rips the blanket off, and he sobs, curling in on himself to ward off the ice fingers clawing at him.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” Asahi murmurs. “We need to get the fever down.” He seems to waver for a moment, then, rather unexpectedly, says, “Fuck this,” and scoops Suga up in his arms, swooning-maiden style. Suga feels deceived, because despite what romantic movies would have had him believe, it’s not pleasant at all. It’s actually kind of uncomfortable. He’s hyper-aware of every little jolt, constantly convinced Asahi’s on the verge of dumping him on his ass. Not that he doesn’t have faith in Asahi’s biceps, but still.

“Y’have good biceps,” Suga mumbles into Asahi’s shirt. Asahi laughs, small and scared, the sound rumbling against Suga’s cheek.

“Thanks, I think.”

“Where’re we goin’?”

“I told you, we need to get your fever down.” Suga’s all for that, until he realises that it entails Asahi sitting him down on the cold damp tiles of a shower stall and setting the cold water on blast.

“No,” he says, when he works it out. “Asahi, no, please, no--” Then the water hits him, and he can’t think any more, because it hurts. He only realises he’s crying because the tears are warm on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Asahi keeps saying. Suga wants to tell him that if he’s really sorry, he should turn the fucking water off, but he’s shaking too much. Asahi’s soaking wet too, hair plastered to his face, shivering in the icy spray. Suga reaches out a desperate hand, curling his fingers in the front of Asahi’s sodden shirt, and Asahi’s face crumples a little. He eases himself down next to Suga, and then Suga finds himself carefully wrapped up in Asahi’s arms. Suga shivers and cries, and Asahi just holds on. They stay there like that until Takeda finds them.

Chapter Text

Takeda has come a long way, Suga thinks through the fever-haze. He still remembers the time when Hinata let himself get beaned by one of Asahi’s terrifying straight-spikes--how Takeda had been a frantic mess, and Ukai had to calm him down. Now he’s all gentle efficiency and firm kindness as he hustles both Suga and Asahi towards the empty nurse’s office. There, he has Suga strip out of his soaked, freezing clothes and change into pyjamas that he seems to have miracled out of thin air, and Suga’s hands are shaking so hard that Asahi has to step in and help him, which is just icing on the shit cake; then Takeda ushers him into one of the beds and tugs the starchy blanket up to his chin. “You should get out of those clothes too, Azumane-kun,” he frets.

“I’m okay,” Asahi says. He’d be more convincing if his teeth weren’t doing their best impression of castanets.

“D-d-d-do you w-want hyp-p-pothermia?” Suga manages. “B-because that’s how you g-get hhhypothermia.” It was a good one, he thinks mournfully, but the full body shivers he’s got going on kind of ruined the impact. He suspects he might still be feverish. Even so, Asahi obediently strips, towels off his hair, changes into yet another pair of miracle pyjamas and crawls in next to Suga, who gloms on to him. “Warmmmm.”

“That’s the opposite of a good thing,” Asahi says. Then Takeda is there with a thermometer saying, “Open,” and it’s the exact same tone Suga’s dad uses when Suga is sick and apparently, wow, he’s developed some kind of Pavlovian response, because he opens his mouth like a baby bird and Takeda sticks the thermometer under his tongue. When it beeps, Takeda points his flashlight at the tiny display screen and he frowns.

“38.6. That’s still much higher than I’d like, though I’d say Azumane-kun did the right thing getting it down.”

“Don’t look so smug,” Suga grumbles at Asahi, who rolls his eyes.

“You have no idea how hard I’m fighting the urge to say ‘I told you so’.”

Suga sticks his tongue out, but he does admittedly feel a lot less like he’s on the verge of death, so there isn’t too much heat behind it. Takeda, in the way of one well-used to tuning out stupid bickering, just pats Suga’s knee through the blanket and says, “I think you should stay here tonight, Sugawara-kun. It’ll be a lot calmer than the classroom, that’s for sure. Would you like me to fetch Sawamura-kun?”

It’s astounding, Suga thinks, that Takeda knows them all so well.

*

Daichi, being Daichi, is worried. And Daichi, also being Daichi, is doing his best to pretend he’s not worried, because he suffers from a chronic case of what Suga mentally refers to as “hero syndrome” (one of these days he’s going to slip up and say that out loud, and it’s going to end in blood and Asahi crying, probably), wherein he is not allowed to show any kind of vulnerability, because he is the captain and thus must be the Strong One. He truly is the second-most ridiculous human being Suga has ever encountered, directly behind Asahi.

“How do you feel?” Daichi asks, settling himself cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “And no, I’m not giving you any money. You dramatically collapsed. I’m revoking your right to bitch about people worrying about you.” His nose wrinkles. “That sentence could have been better constructed.”

“Spoilsport,” Suga says. He’s currently using Asahi as a pillow. A pillow with a sixpack. It’s rather glorious. “And I didn’t ‘dramatically collapse’, thank you. I had a fever, Asahi carried me to the bathroom in his manly arms, and then he dumped me under freezing water like a fucking asshole.”

“Well, I am so sorry for trying to keep you alive,” Asahi says. “Next time I’ll be sure to just leave you on the floor to die. You’re welcome, by the way.” It’s galling, honestly, how much of a sarcastic little shit he turns into around the two of them. Kids these days, Suga thinks fondly. (He will take those six months he has on Daichi and Asahi and milk them, thankyouverymuch.)

Although he does admittedly feel a little bad. Because he remembers Asahi holding him under the water, even though he didn’t have to, and pretending not to be scared, when everyone knows Asahi is the biggest wimp in the galaxy. So, with such sincerity that it makes his heart hurt a little, Suga says, “Thank you.”

Asahi beams in reply, while Daichi promptly starts making gooey eyes at the touching emotional scene before him. Ridiculous. Both of them. Suga blinks hard. He’s not going to start crying. He’s not going to turn this into a teary, huggy, Hallmark movie moment. He’s not.

Okay, yeah, he totally is.

“I hate you both,” Suga says as Daichi and Asahi smush him between them. The effect of his words is rather lost by virtue of them being mumbled into Daichi’s shoulder. He sniffles. “I would like to make it known that I’m not crying right now.”

“I know,” Daichi and Asahi say in unison, sounding like they don’t believe it for a second.

Yep, ridiculous.

Chapter Text

All in all, aside from the chest pain, fever, shivering, headache, exhaustion and general stickiness that comes with being sick, it’s not that bad (Suga just thanks whatever deities are out there that he’s not coughing, because with the current state of his ribs, that would sincerely suck). While Ukai sets everyone else to shovelling snow (“It’s character building!” he barks. “Just because you can’t play volleyball doesn’t mean you get to slack off!”), Suga gets to lounge around like a duchess in some European romance novel on her chaise longue, being waited on hand and foot. In theory, at least. In practice, it mostly involves him, Daichi and Asahi watching DVDs on some shitty laptop someone dug out of storage. It runs Windows 95. Suga wonders if this is what hell looks like.

The only really glaring problem is that since everything--phone lines, cell reception, internet--is down because of the blizzard, he can’t let his dad know. Maybe that’s a good thing, if it saves his dad from worrying. Still, Suga thinks, with the part of his brain that’s still eleven years old, it would be nice to hear his voice. Hear him say that everything’s okay. At any rate, he burrows under his blankets and tries to tell himself, there’s nothing to be done for it now, so it’s no good thinking about it. He tries.

It seems, though, that in the meantime Takeda and Ukai have decided, either together or independently (and he’s not sure which idea is more terrifying, honestly), to become Suga’s substitute parents. Daichi and Asahi have already taken over the other beds in the infirmary, but Takeda drags his futon in and insists on sleeping in the room with them later, so that he’ll be there if Suga needs anything in the night; and Ukai spends the morning in the kitchen, cooking and bottling litres of a suspicious-looking tea that he claims is his mother’s unbeatable cold remedy, then marches in at lunchtime and looms over Suga with threatening concern until he’s chugged an entire flask of the stuff. It’s touching, in a slightly surreal, fever-hazy sort of way.

This might be okay, Suga thinks. Not pleasant, but okay. Then fate decides to prove him wrong, violently.

It happens in the early afternoon, while Suga’s on the way back from the bathroom. One moment, he’s fine, or as close to it as he’s going to get right now; the next, the world goes blurry and starts sliding sideways, and when Suga blinks to clear it, he finds himself on the floor, slumped against the wall in a half-sitting position. Everyone’s at lunch; the corridors are empty, and he doesn’t have enough of a voice to yell for help.

He considers, briefly, just curling up here until someone comes along and trips over him, then manages to realise, even though his brain is in the process of turning into stew, that that would probably be a very bad idea. Not least because it would probably lead to Coach and Daichi yelling at him, and his head hurts. So with a wheezy sigh, Suga plants one hand against the wall and struggles to his feet, legs wobbling dangerously under him.

When Suga is struggling with something, his dad likes to quote Laozi. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. He’s not sure his dad ever meant it this literally, though. And it does feel like he’s walked a thousand miles by the time he reaches the cafeteria and staggers through the doors. Daichi has always had some kind of bizarre Suga-sense, and it’s just as effective as ever, because his head pops up as soon as Suga comes in, even though there’s no way he heard him over the hubbub of voices.

“Sugawara-kun?” Takeda asks, half-standing from his seat, eyes wide and liquid with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t feel too good,” Suga admits, then crumples to the ground. And while, yes, everything is terrible, and that look on Daichi’s face is something he never wants to see again, the tiny, melodramatic, fever-addled part of him that lives in his lizard brain does relish a little in the chaos that follows. Just a little.

Then he’s unconscious, and he doesn’t care much about anything.

*

Suga wakes up in the infirmary to the sound of soft voices and wheezy, laboured breathing. His entire body feels like it’s been run through a wood chipper then put back together with Superglue. After a moment, he realises the voices are Sensei and Coach, speaking quietly in the hallway, and the source of the wheezy breathing is, in fact, him.

“...call an ambulance,” Sensei is saying quietly, “but there’s no cell signal and the landlines are down because of the blizzard.” He pauses, exhales shakily, then adds, “I’m worried that if he doesn’t get to a hospital soon…”

“Yeah,” Coach replies quietly. “I know.”

Oh, Suga thinks. They’re worried he’s going to die here, at training camp, because of a stupid chest infection, that’s his own stupid fault, really, because he knows you’re supposed to breathe through rib injuries, and this is going to be the most undignified and stupid death in the history of humankind, and he really really wants his dad, and--

He realises, belatedly, that there are tears on his cheeks, and he’s making some kind of weird snuffly keening sound, and, oh, also? He can’t fucking breathe.

“Sugawara-kun,” Takeda says suddenly, much closer, and when did he get here? “Shh, shh, it’s all right. Here, why don’t you lie on your side? It’ll help your breathing.” He and Coach roll Suga over with gentle hands, and then Coach steps away while Takeda brushes the hair off Suga’s sweaty forehead. “Just rest, all right?” he says, quiet but firm. “You’ll be fine.”

He steps out of view; Suga hears him and Ukai retreat back out to the hallway, and then Ukai grits out, “Screw this. We can’t just sit around and watch him suffocate. I’m going to get help.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” Takeda says, though in a tone of voice that indicates he knows Ukai has already made up his mind, and agrees with him. “You should wrap up warm. I’ll go make some coffee.”

“Thanks, Sensei.”

They’re not making any sense, Suga thinks. Where does Coach think he’s going to find help? No one here has a medical degree. He lets out a whistling sigh and lets his eyes slip closed, too tired to think about it.

*

The next time he wakes up, his mother is standing over him, dabbing at his forehead with a cool cloth, features thrown into sharp relief by the harsh light of the camping lantern on the nightstand. Daichi and Asahi are on either side of her, and that doesn’t make any sense, Suga thinks sluggishly; his mother died before he ever even met them.

“Mom?” he mumbles, and doesn’t understand why Asahi buries his face in his hands.

His mother smiles tremulously. “You’ll be okay,” she says, sounding like she’s about to cry. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Suga blinks, eyelids heavy. “‘Kay,” he slurs, because if his mother came back from the dead just to say that, it must be important. “C’n y’stay? Just… ‘til I fall asleep.”

Tears spill down his mother’s cheeks. “Of course,” she says, and takes his hand and doesn’t let go.

*

After that, the world fractures into snapshots, fragments of time.

Daichi and Asahi sitting by his bedside, fingers laced together, leaning on each other’s shoulders as they doze.

Hinata crying, hands fisted in the blanket, blubbering apologies.

Yachi singing a lullaby.

Takeda, cupping his face, saying, just a little longer, you’re so brave, just hold on.

Everyone tells him to hold on, so he does.

Then, when what could be seconds or hours or years have passed, Ukai bursts into the room, yanks off his ski mask, and gasps, “Helicopter’s outside,” and Takeda bursts into tears. Don’t cry, Suga wants to say, but he doesn’t have the breath for it. Then there are people, and voices, and it’s too much, so he just closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

Chapter Text

Consciousness comes back to him in increments. Sound filters in first: a ticking clock, steady and rhythmic as a heartbeat; the low, distant rumble of a voice over a loudspeaker; soft snoring. Then smell: disinfectant, starchy sheets. Hospital.

Suga takes a deep breath (oh, he can do that again, how nice) and opens his eyes.

The ceiling tiles are white, and lit with the golden glow of midday sunlight. He rolls his head to the right and finds his dad curled up on a rickety folding cot, fast asleep; then he looks to the left to see Daichi and Asahi jammed awkwardly together in a vinyl recliner, in a position that looks extremely uncomfortable but apparently wasn’t enough so to stop them from falling asleep. Daichi is the source of the snoring. This is not surprising.

Suga reaches out with an arm that feels like it’s full of Jell-O and slaps weakly at Daichi’s leg. Daichi grunts. Suga slaps again, and this time Daichi jerks upright. His bedhead is spectacular. “You look like hammered crap,” Suga tries to say, but his throat is apparently gunning for the Oscar for “Best Impression of the Sahara”, and the words come out sounding more like ehehgekehek.

“Shut the fuck up,” Daichi says, leaning over to grab a bottle of water and a straw off the nightstand. He tries to get up, but he’s pinned between the armrest and Asahi’s abs (and honestly, Suga can think of worse places to be), so he just flails ineffectively for a moment, then sighs, unwraps the straw, drops it in the bottle and stretches his arm out to hand it over.

Suga, praise be, manages to drink without getting water everywhere. He gives the water back, clears his throat experimentally, then tries again. “You look like hammered crap,” he croaks. (Success!)

Daichi raises an eyebrow. “Rich, coming from the guy who just spent two days with a tube down his throat.”

“Really?” Suga asks. He considers a moment. “Did it look all dramatic, like in the movies?”

Daichi’s other eyebrow climbs up to join the first. “I’m pretty sure you were drooling.”

Suga sticks his tongue out at him. Daichi rolls his eyes, and they both pretend he’s not tearing up. The emotional declarations of love will come later. It’s how they roll. “What happened?” Suga asks instead.

“Depends.” Daichi frowns a little. “What do you remember?”

Suga deems it prudent not to mention the whole part where he hallucinated his dead mother (and fuck, that was Kiyoko, wasn’t it? Fuuuck), so he says, “Uhh, Coach and Sensei were there. Something about a... helicopter?”

Daichi nods. “Yeah,” he says tiredly, and god, he really does looks wrecked.  “Turns out you had pneumonia. Both lungs.” He shakes his head a little, and there’s something fond about it, despite the bags under his eyes. “You really don’t do things halfway, do you?”

“Damn straight,” Suga replies, and waves finger guns at him. Daichi gives him one of those shiny-eyed, homicidally affectionate looks in response.

“Remind me why I was worried about you dying, you fuck?”

“Because I’m amazing,” Suga replies, scoffing like it’s obvious (which, hello, it is ).

Daichi settles his chin on his palm, and Suga knows he’s hiding a grin behind his fingers. “Yeah, in your dreams, Sugawara.”

“So?” Suga asks, patting the bedspread impatiently. “What happened? Double pneumonia, all very dramatic, and then?”

“There was no cell signal and the phone lines were dead, so Coach hiked to the hospital to get help.”

Suga’s hand stills. “He hiked ?” he repeats incredulously.

“Fifteen miles in a blizzard. School board’s talking about giving him a medal,” and yes, Suga think, give Ukai a medal, give him all the medals, holy shit, God, seriously, Coach . Warmth blossoms in his chest. He resolves to buy Ukai a six-pack of the best beer he can afford. Daichi quirks a grin. “Everyone’s calling him a hero.”

“A superhero,” Suga agrees.

“Yeah, well.” Daichi shifts around, trying to get comfortable (or as comfortable as it’s possible to be with all six-foot-one and 165 pounds of Asahi sprawled all over him like a noodly octopus. Which, Suga can say from experience, is actually surprisingly comfortable). “You know what Coach is like. He keeps saying,” and here he drops his voice to a gruff growl, “‘It was nothing special, an idiot could have done it, it’s my job to look after these dumbass kids anyway, and by the way, I want a fucking raise’,” and it’s so perfect an imitation of Ukai that Suga throws his head back and laughs loud enough to startle Asahi awake.