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The MANKAI Company dorm is quiet at four in the morning. Itaru finds this to be true tonight, but he also knows from experience, a testament to his bad sleep schedule. He should be headed to bed, though, now that he’s finally reached his day six goal in the GYF event. He’s losing a lot of sleep this week, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before.
He’s doing his best to be quiet as he pads down the hallway, bound for the kitchen to grab a drink and maybe a few mouthfuls of leftover rice. When the door to room 101 clicks open as he passes it, he jumps, sincerely not expecting anyone else to be up at this hour. It’s even more surprising that the head that pokes out is not Citron, who Itaru saw online in GYF an hour ago, but Sakuya, his hair tousled cutely as if he just rolled out of bed.
His eyes are alert, though, not gummed shut with sleep as if he’d just woken up—Itaru’s seen his troupe leader just waking up enough times to know what that looks like. Sakuya’s face looks tired, the corners of his mouth sagging downward uncharacteristically. He meets Itaru’s eyes and fixes his expression quickly, hitching a smile onto his face. “Itaru-san,” he whispers, mindful of the hour. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”
“Don’t remind me,” Itaru deadpans, keeping his voice down as well. If Sakuya’s respectful, Itaru should be too. “Why are you up?”
Sakuya shrugs one pajama-covered shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says, as the smile slips off his face.
Itaru doesn’t want to ask, partly because it’s four in the morning and his ability to have any sort of emotional discussion has long deserted him, and partly because he doesn’t really think Sakuya will tell him. He does know one thing he can do, though. He reaches for Sakuya, holding his arms open, and Sakuya doesn’t even laugh or say anything before shuffling forward into them. Itaru wraps his arms around Sakuya, and Sakuya returns the embrace, butting his forehead mutely against Itaru’s chest. Itaru is reminded not for the first time of how small his leader is, his shoulders not as broad as Masumi’s, his arms not as strong as Tsuzuru’s. And yet to be close to Sakuya is to be infused with strength again.
“We’re both charging, aren’t we,” Itaru murmurs, fighting a yawn. He feels Sakuya laugh and nod against his chest.
Before Itaru can start to get sleepy like this, Sakuya pulls away, scrubbing his hand over his face with new sleepiness. Itaru can’t help but ruffle Sakuya’s hair, turning it into an even worse mess. “Don’t stay up too much later,” he warns. “I’m a bad example, you know.”
Sakuya laughs again, leaning into Itaru’s touch. “I’ll go right to sleep, I promise!”
“Well, do your best.” Reluctantly, Itaru takes his hands back. “I’m gonna get a snack and then go to bed. You want anything?”
“I’m all right. I’ll go to the bathroom, I think.”
“Sounds good.” Itaru holds out his hand for a fistbump, and Sakuya knocks their knuckles together, fighting another laugh. Then they part ways, Sakuya for the bathroom and Itaru for the kitchen.
He finds no rice in the fridge, and the water from the sink tastes slightly metallic, but somehow he feels warm enough to put himself to bed with only this much of a snack.
With the rest of Spring Troupe (save Masumi, who had disappeared as soon as the train arrived) settling at the front of the bullet train car, Itaru makes a beeline for a seat towards the back, already slipping his headphones and Switch out of his bag. All he wants is some peace and quiet, so he can veg out and hopefully relax a little. It’s been a long final day of a long regional tour, and he needs to not talk to another human for at least twenty-four hours, probably more. Obviously that isn’t going to happen, but the back of the train car should be quiet enough to grab a few hours of peace.
It’s only when he reaches the last row of seats that he discovers he’s not the only one thinking this way. There’s a familiar figure slumped in the aisle seat of the row Itaru had his eyes on, a familiar figure with messy black hair with blond streaks and an eye mask strapped onto his face that suggests he plans to nap the entire train ride back to Veludo Way.
Of course Masumi would claim the aisle seat on an already crowded train car and leave the window seat open, forcing anyone looking for a last minute seat to climb over his stupid long legs. Masumi, who always needs to have an eye on the director (and the rest of the troupe), but who wants to be seen by others as little as possible. In a way, it’s similar to Itaru’s own motives, which is super annoying.
At least Itaru knows the guy he’s about to sit next to. Not that that’ll give him any leverage in getting Masumi to let him past to the window seat, but it’s something.
“Masumi, move your legs,” he complains, punctuating his urgency by tapping Masumi’s leg with his Switch case.
There’s no reaction.
It’s possible that Masumi is already asleep, but Itaru does not care about waking him up. He thwacks Masumi’s leg again with the case. “Oi. Masumi.” If anyone at work could see him now, they’d be surprised—or maybe they’d expect Itaru to act like this with a sibling. Ugh, thinking of Masumi as his sibling is extra gross. “Masumi. Come on.”
Masumi’s face doesn’t move, and Itaru can’t see his eyes under the eye mask, but at last, Masumi curls his legs tighter against the seat, giving Itaru an extra two inches of room to pass by.
“Great, so helpful,” Itaru mutters. This is probably all he’ll get, though, so he makes the most of it, shuffling past Masumi to get to the window seat. He settles in, thankfully ditching the real world as soon as his headphones are in. He boots up Moondew Valley on his Switch, preparing for a long train ride full of grinding he’s been putting off doing. The familiar notes of the OST play through his headphones, washing the tension of the day from his body. Sectioned off at the window like this, it’s like his own private corner. Masumi isn’t even looking at him anyway.
The train starts to move, and Itaru sinks into the game. That is, until he feels a sudden weight thunk onto his shoulder, totally ruining his immersion. Tugging his headphones off of his ears, he looks up from the screen, ready to scold whoever interrupted him, but what he sees is a messy head of black hair with blond streaks.
It’s Masumi, who seems to have tipped sideways in his sleep, and is now breathing slowly with his head tucked onto Itaru’s shoulder.
Itaru’s first impulse is to snap a picture and use it to tease Masumi later. But his phone is low on battery and charging in his bag, and something else gives him pause: Masumi’s not usually touchy like this. As much as the sight of Masumi makes Itaru want to noogie him at all times, he’s also a kid with a lot of unresolved shit going on, and maybe Itaru shouldn’t be so quick to scare him off if he’s decided to be cuddly.
Of course, all of that is probably giving Masumi more credit than he deserves. The guy is clearly fast asleep, so him leaning his head on Itaru is probably a coincidence, nothing more.
Still, though...
Itaru takes a chance, and leans carefully into Masumi, giving Masumi more surface area on his shoulder to lay on. He pops his headphones back on, but bumps the volume down a few notches, enough that he’d be able to hear if Masumi said something. Masumi doesn’t wake, though, and after a moment he nestles closer to Itaru, his head now fully resting on Itaru’s shoulder, his breathing the same unchanged, steady rhythm of deep sleep.
Masumi’s heavy, and the awkward position Itaru’s sitting in now to accommodate this is starting to make his back hurt. But somehow, Itaru’s reluctant to move.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the dark loading screen of his Switch, and realizes he’s smiling.
Itaru stares up at his ceiling, too exhausted to move.
It’s been like this ever since he woke up, maybe twenty minutes ago. He’s not sure of the time, only that he’s been napping on and off all day, and there’s no daylight coming in through the window, leaving the room dark. Yesterday he left work early because he was having dizzy spells, and by the time he got home he was running a fever. And now, it feels like every part of his body hurts in a new way. If he could just fall asleep again and speedrun this illness, that would be ideal, but his body seems determined to be awake right now.
There’s a knock on the door. Probably one of the busybodies in his troupe checking on him, or (if he’s lucky) Omi or the director with offerings of tea or snacks. Itaru isn’t hungry in the slightest, but he’ll accept anything in liquid form right now.
He opens his mouth and tries to say something like, Who is it, but all that comes out is, “Grhgrgrh.” Great!
On the other side of the door, he hears Tsuzuru’s voice mumble, “Jeez...” (Itaru was right!) The doorknob turns and the door opens, leaking bright light from the hallway for just a moment before Tsuzuru shuts it.
Itaru can’t see very well up here, what with being horizontal and lifted several feet into the air via lofted bed. Tsuzuru could be doing anything down there, although Itaru trusts him at least enough to assume he’s not fucking with Itaru’s stuff. Still, though, Itaru doesn’t particularly enjoy the idea of Tsuzuru existing unsupervised in Itaru’s space. That, and Itaru has been laying in bed for a while, and some attention would be nice.
“Tsuzuru,” Itaru croaks. This time his mouth works, sparing him further embarrassment, not that he hasn’t embarrassed himself probably dozens of times in front of Tsuzuru already.
There’s some shuffling footsteps from below, moving closer to Itaru, and then the ladder of the bed creaks as Tsuzuru makes his slow ascent. When his head and torso pop up at the foot of Itaru’s bed, Itaru spots the reason for Tsuzuru’s caution; he’s carrying a mug (Itaru was right again!) that Itaru would probably be able to smell if his nose fucking worked right now. Tsuzuru squints around at the bed, looking for a place to put the mug. “Can you sit up?” he asks.
That’s a great question. Itaru hasn’t tried in a while, so he gives it the old college try. His back protests, his head spins, and his arms shake with the effort, but he manages to work another pillow under his head to prop himself up a little better. He can probably drink tea like this, so he waves Tsuzuru closer.
Tsuzuru gives him a skeptical look that loses some of its strength to the darkness that obscures his features. But he obediently settles himself down at the foot of the bed and holds out the tea to Itaru. “It’s hot, so don’t spill it,” he says.
“Ugh,” Itaru says. He blows on the liquid, which makes his throat hurt, so he coughs, which doesn’t help at all. Cautiously, he takes a sip of the tea, and finds it’s not a flavor he recognizes. Not ginger or mint or something he’d expect when sick, the flavor is closer to chai or something spicy. Maybe senpai or Citron had a hand in brewing it, he thinks, tipping the mug further back. The warm liquid is soothing on his throat, and he has to sit up further to make sure it doesn’t dribble down his chin.
“You really like it, huh,” Tsuzuru says. Itaru lowers the mug from his face to find it practically empty. He drank the whole thing, he realizes. “You must have been pretty dehydrated,” Tsuzuru adds, holding out his hand to take the mug back. “I can ask Citron-san to make you more.”
So it was Citron. Itaru misses him suddenly, after having laid in bed soaking in his own germs for an unknown number of hours. Being sick is kind of lonely. He stares at Tsuzuru’s outstretched hand, and then grabs it with his own, using what little strength he has to tug Tsuzuru closer to him.
“Itaru-san!” Tsuzuru yelps, nearly tilting forward into Itaru’s lap. He throws his other arm out to steady himself, and frowns across the bed at Itaru. “Be careful!”
“Come put your hand on my forehead,” Itaru whines. Ah, his throat feels much better after drinking so much tea. He’ll have to ask Citron what’s in it once he’s back on his feet.
“Are you this sort of character when you’re sick?” Tsuzuru asks, a faint smile on his lips. He seems more in favor of the idea, though, which means Itaru’s embarrassed himself just that much, but he doesn’t have the energy to care. Tsuzuru scoots forward and reaches out to press his palm to Itaru’s forehead. His palm isn’t particularly cold, but Itaru feels way too warm, and the skin-to-skin contact is a blessing. His eyes slide shut, and he breathes out a shaky sigh. Just this much touch is doing a lot for him, which is really shameful. If anyone can deal with this shameful sight, though, it’s Spring’s resident big brother type.
He only registers that he’s getting sleepy when he feels Tsuzuru’s fingers twitch, and he can’t muster up the strength to ask him to stay. All he can do is lay there and breathe, and eventually Tsuzuru’s hand smoothes into his hair, pushing his sweaty bangs back from his forehead, and Itaru drifts off to sleep, surrounded by warmth.
Spring rehearsal feels like it’s been dragging on for hours. Itaru knows the actual length of time, because he’s been checking his phone as often as he can get away with, but his body seems to be interpreting minutes as hours, or perhaps as ten-pound weights, all stacking on top of him and weighing him down. His muscles ache, his head throbs, his throat hurts, and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep.
But he committed to MANKAI Company, and Spring has rehearsal tonight, so he’s here, slogging through it.
“Let’s take a five minute break,” Izumi calls, merciful, or maybe it’s a coincidence and she’s unaware of Itaru’s many struggles. Itaru slumps down against the wall, his arms limp in his lap. Five minutes might be enough to recover a little stamina. The shortest short rest.
“Where is my wiiiife,” he mumbles.
“Itaru,” Citron laughs. He was across the room for an etude when they paused rehearsal, but he wanders over to Itaru now, his water bottle in hand. “You look like spit.”
“I think you mean, like shit,” Itaru says. He makes grabby hands at Citron, making Citron laugh again.
“Itaru, don’t be so down on yourself.”
“But I do feel like shit.” The grabby hands are doing nothing, so Itaru expends a few HP to reach for Citron’s flowy pants leg and tug on it. “Sit with me.”
This does the trick; Citron eases himself onto the floor and sits cross-legged next to Itaru, who immediately starts attaching himself to Citron. Both Itaru’s arms go around Citron’s waist, and he mushes his face into Citron’s shoulder, exhaling a long breath. Citron’s warm and smells good, and he gives a pleased hum as Itaru makes himself at home against him. “Oh? My Itaru device is charging~”
“Battery’s too low,” Itaru mumbles.
“I’m a lightning speed charger,” Citron insists. He shifts himself in Itaru’s grip, freeing his arms so he can wrap them around Itaru and hold him tight. Itaru puffs out a breath, nestling himself closer. “3%... 4% charged,” Citron updates. Itaru can tell he’s smiling by the sound of his voice.
“Itaru-san?” It’s Izumi, sounding concerned. “Do you feel unwell? We can end rehearsal early...”
God, that’s tempting. Itaru did make a commitment to Spring Troupe, so he should stay for that; on the other hand, this is his family, who accepts him as he is, and probably wouldn’t want him to push himself as much as he is right now. He clears his throat. “How much longer are we staying,” he says into Citron’s shoulder.
“What?” Izumi asks.
“He said he’d love to end rehearsal here,” Citron says. Itaru does his best to elbow Citron’s side, but it comes out only as a faint nudge, and Citron just laughs at him.
“That’s not what it sounded like,” Izumi says.
“Is Itaru-san okay,” Tsuzuru says, joining the conversation from across the practice room.
“He’s charging,” Citron says. “Now at 6%!”
“That’s not real,” Tsuzuru complains, apparently forced to tsukkomi at all times.
Itaru peels his face off of Citron’s shoulder and looks blearily up at the director. “Ten more minutes. Then I go to bed.”
Izumi smiles down at him, and then makes a note on the clipboard she’s holding. “Sure thing. Please try to charge to at least 10% in the last few minutes of break!”
“I’ll make sure of that,” Citron says, and he hugs Itaru tighter, moving one hand up to play with Itaru’s hair. Itaru wants to make some comeback, like That’s asking a lot, director, but he melts into Citron’s hand instead, and stays that way for the next two minutes, until Izumi calls them all back to rehearse again. When Citron untangles himself from Itaru’s grasp, Itaru finds he has enough energy to get to his feet without feeling lightheaded.
Citron really wasn’t kidding about being lightning speed.
At nearly midnight on a Thursday night, the station platform is empty, dimly lit by the glow of vending machines and flickering station lights. The last person Itaru saw was a drunk salaryman stumbling onto the train to Ikebukuro, and that was ten minutes ago. It’s lucky that they haven’t missed the last homebound train of the night, but at this hour the trains run less and less frequently; the marquee tells them matter-of-factly that their train won’t arrive for another six minutes. This, at least, is an improvement from the eighteen minutes they were greeted with when they arrived at the station.
After being stuck at work doing OT, staying six hours longer than Itaru expected when he left that morning (which might as well have been years ago), his energy reserves are depleted. It’s taking all his strength to remain upright, his feet aching down in his dress shoes as he stands lifelessly on the platform. Next to him, Chikage’s hands are stuffed into his coat pockets, and his jaw is tense with exhaustion. Itaru wants to pull out his phone and use up his LP, or strike up a conversation with Chikage, just familiar banter to keep himself sane, but he can’t muster up the energy. His fingers and tongue are totally numb. All he can do is stare at the marquee, the neon block letters assuring him that a train will arrive eventually.
He chances another look at Chikage’s face, and finds Chikage watching him out of the corner of his eye. When Chikage notices he’s been caught, the corner of his mouth twitches up; it’s probably the closest he’ll get to a smile right now. Fair, considering Itaru doesn’t think he could manage a proper smile himself even if he tried.
Now he’s been staring at Chikage for too long to pass it off, even though Chikage was staring first. He earns a raised eyebrow from Chikage, then a questioning look. Itaru’s too tired to explain himself, so he just shrugs. Chikage doesn’t seem fazed; he’s been roommates with Itaru long enough that his reactions to any weird behavior from Itaru have tapered off into distant judgmental looks and nothing more. That’s usually reserved for Itaru’s gaming habits, but it extends to things like this too.
It’s a weird liminal space they find themselves in now, an hour when neither of them should be out in public (yes, Chikage too), and yet that’s where they find themselves. Maybe that’s what gives Itaru the courage.
The distance between himself and Chikage is small enough that he crosses it in one step forward, and he buries his face in Chikage’s chest before Chikage can protest or move away, slipping his arms around Chikage’s middle, loose enough that Chikage can reject him if he wants to. Itaru doesn’t know if he will.
He hears Chikage give an amused huff, sounding too tired to come up with a real retort. Itaru doesn’t expect the strong arms he feels curl around him. Chikage holds him with caution, his muscles tense enough that Itaru knows he’s holding back. Idiot; it’s not like he’ll crush Itaru... Or maybe it’s not about that. There’s a lot that goes on in Chikage’s head that Itaru can’t figure out, even when he’s not half-numb from exhaustion. Another day, or maybe when he’s laying in bed tonight, he’ll think really hard about what’s currently happening. Right now, though, he turns his face so he can breathe, pressing his cheek against Chikage’s chest. He can almost hear Chikage’s heartbeat, incontrovertible proof that he’s human just like Itaru.
They stay like that, holding each other, until the platform lights start flashing and their train whooshes into the station, making their jackets ripple with the force of the wind. Only then does Itaru take a step back, smoothing his jacket down and picking up his bag from the ground. Chikage is doing the same, his expression carefully blank. Itaru wonders if Chikage was making some sort of face when they were hugging. He doesn’t quite have the energy to ask, but he does notice he has more energy than before.
Their train opens its doors and they pile into the car, which is almost empty at this hour. Itaru makes a beeline for the nearest seat, and Chikage sits beside him, folding his legs curtly. It’ll be at least half an hour before they have to get off the train, so Itaru takes advantage of his apparent HP refill to use up some of his refilled social game stamina. It’s weird that someone as emotionally constipated as Chikage could refill Itaru’s HP, but it definitely happened.
HP... Hug points? That’s actually too embarrassing a thought even when the only person who has to hear it is Itaru himself. At least mind-reading doesn’t seem to be part of Chikage’s arsenal. Itaru sneaks a look back at Chikage, only to find Chikage watching him again. This time Itaru raises his eyebrows.
Chikage gives him a faint smile, the most genuine expression Itaru’s seen on him all week, and then turns to look out the window at the dark city all around them.