Archive of Our Own ^beta

Duel Academy’s medical equipment was oddly quiet; that much had never changed in Syrus’s time here. He knew it was all high-grade, expensive—only the best for the world’s most prestigious dueling institution—and probably designed to be unobtrusive for the patients’ sakes, but it just made him nervous. How was he supposed to tell good signs from bad without the telltale beep-ing he expected from a heart monitor?

Speaking of the heart monitor, what were those other things it was tracking? There were no labels, no text on the screen, only two numbers separated into side-by-side boxes below what he assumed had to be the heartbeat readout.

The tubes compounded his anxiety. Six total spread across the chest and attached to the skin seemingly by suction cups. He wasn’t quite clear on what purpose they served.

Finally, there was the oxygen mask. Altogether it made for a sorry sight.

It helped to remind himself that all of this meant Hassleberry and Jim were recovering—they would be okay. When the two of them were brought in in the aftermath of their duel, mysteriously bled dry of their energy as Jaden and Axel had been before them but in remarkably worse shape, it took all he had not to throw up out of worry as Ms. Fontaine assessed the damage. Thinking back to it dredged up a similar feeling. And sitting in the infirmary room with his resting friends, it was all he could do to not think about it.

At the very least, he was thankful for the lack of conscious witnesses to his turmoil. Vacating his head of these troubling thoughts wasn’t so easy in practice, thanks in large part to the other matter on his mind. That he was able to stave off the horror of being perceived by insisting to the others he could manage keeping watch over Hassleberry and Jim on his own offered a shred of comfort.

But what a tiny shred it was.

He sighed at his hopelessness; he had nothing to do here but sit and get in his own head, and so he found himself in one of the infirmary chairs, seated near Hassleberry’s bedside with his back to him, twiddling his thumbs and doing just that. His eyes were fixed on the floor, staring absently as his fingers occupied themselves with the hem of his Ra Yellow jacket.

He had been right to distrust Professor Viper and his survival duels and bio-bands. The knowledge was upsetting. Stewing on it made him feel sick. The two of them could have been badly hurt.

They were lucky, Syrus thought, that the worst of their symptoms could be mitigated with rest alone. Even so, looking up at all the medical equipment was...chilling, acting as a reminder of everything worse they could have come away with.

And then, there was that other matter: the one which—beyond all else—kept him facing the door and unmoving, having to concentrate on every breath and unable to rid his features of their mortified glow. God, he thought, this morning’s Syrus had been awfully bold, knowing what awaited him here and nonetheless happy to volunteer his late afternoon away. Bolder still, he’d come here with nothing to hold his attention off of the problem.

It all came back to the tubes. If not for them, this wouldn’t be so hard.

If not for them, maybe he might have retained the handle he thought he had on his crush on the snoring second-year behind him.

The need for the tubes—whatever that was—and the need to keep them unobstructed once they’d been wired up to his friends, meant the two of them had to be stripped of the clothes on their upper bodies, and that the blankets laid over them could only go about as high as their stomachs.

He couldn’t just leave. He knew how he’d feel, waking to the bleak atmosphere of an infirmary room without a familiar face in sight. So, he settled on beating himself over the head with the question, how could he ever think this wasn’t a bad idea? He could only stand to look at Hassleberry for a second before a hyper sense of self-awareness set in and he felt as though he was gawking.

It was easiest to sit and suffer—for a while, anyway. That is, until even repeatedly berating himself got old and no longer helped the time inch along. Soon enough, he gave up on the effort to get Hassleberry out of his head. Just as he had each day since the start of the new school year, he began to contemplate their...thing.

There had certainly been a paradigm shift, one he could feel in every interaction. Putting words to the development in their friendship took but a moment of consideration; after their tag duel in Domino City, they’d come into a sort of harmony.

Sure, as long as there was fun to be had in the way he could so easily get a rise out of Hassleberry, and vice versa, the friction would remain.

He wouldn’t want it any other way.

But there was something to be said for the clarity he discovered, in that culmination of all the times they clashed and the experiences they shared and the moments they had.

At long last, their chicken game of lighting sparks beneath each other’s feet had spiraled out of control, sweeping them both up in an inferno that neither could ever hope to contain. Its flames were a scorching cleanse on the charade which left Syrus with only an undeniable revelation.

He was in love.

The pull had always been there. Everything Hassleberry embodied was so far removed from what he saw in himself and it captivated him. He seemed entirely sure of where he stood with the world, radiating an air of such confidence and unshakable drive and honest bravery that Syrus couldn’t tell which was stronger between his admiration and his envy.

He’d tasted that brand of bravery on the day he earned his place in Ra Yellow. For the first time in his life, he got to stand on his own merits and caught a glimpse of his worth divorced from what Zane and the rest of the world had ever made him believe.

It was all thanks to Hassleberry that he’d even tried.

Every following day spent in his company presented Syrus with an exhilarating challenge to match his new rival’s strength of spirit. Even their routine rounds of butting heads over Jaden—which were never totally one-hundred percent about Jaden to begin with—soon broke down into a contest of being over the top and pressing buttons and testing the waters with one another, seldom going so far as to seek out a serious breaking point but always striving to hold each other’s attention. His presence alone became a push to do better, to be unafraid and never back down—to do good by the kind of person Hassleberry made him see that he could be. And the wall Syrus envisioned between what they’d shaped into their own take on close friendship and something more inevitably crumbled at his feet.

The first time he’d thought about Hassleberry in that capacity was when the doll spirit—Alice, he remembered—showed up at their dorm.

No; that wasn’t right. After all, calling what he felt when his eyes met Hassleberry’s for the last time in their tag duel by any name lesser than enthrallment would be a poor lie.

Rather...watching Hassleberry and Alice together made him come to terms with his thoughts. He recalled the night well, able now to pinpoint when it hit him that the reverberating pang in his chest was jealousy.

Having come out in his prep school years and having only known Alice a number of hours he could count on one hand, it didn’t take him long to put together who he was jealous of.

The whole affair presented Syrus with an overwhelming view into the way Hassleberry loved: open, wholehearted, warm.

And, same as every other facet of his being, he was so, so shameless.

Syrus realized that he yearned to be at the center of that shameless love.

The train of thought to unravel him that night had set out as harmless; it was kinda cute, how unapologetically corny Hassleberry turned out to be when he got wrapped up in someone.

Without pause, his brain kept rolling.

Hassleberry was cute. In general. Those dorky little peace signs he was always throwing...alongside his earnest smiles that showed off those few extra pairs of pointed teeth on either side of his canines...and those gentle creases beneath his verdant hazel eyes, the way they intensified and became so prominent when his features were accompanied by one of his signature bubbly laughs...

...

He was attracted to Hassleberry.

He supposed he had been for a while.

He supposed, maybe even from the start.

...

Syrus fell asleep that night weighing his options.

Either he could act on his feelings—God, feelings for Hassleberry—or he could fight them, push them back down and desperately try to keep this from rippling out and changing everything.

But he couldn’t, and ripple it did.

Nothing from then on came without the existence of an underlying hidden meaning to worry about letting Hassleberry on to. He could hardly maintain eye contact or hold up a conversation with the guy without silently grilling himself the whole time for anything even remotely indicative of the way his heart crammed itself into his throat. It was torture, but better than the alternative, the worst-case scenario his mind played out for him every day as a reminder of why he chose to carry on.

He resolved never to position himself for that kind of rejection. He wouldn’t be the one to cross that line. He wouldn’t be the one to bring it all crashing down around them.

For the most part, that thinking worked.

Until it didn’t.

That day came only a few weeks later—when he and Jaden indulged Hassleberry in wasting the afternoon fishing for a dinner they never ate. He’d been doing well up to that point, all things considered. Steeling his nerve against the very person who inspired it got exhausting, fast. Still, if the effort meant their friendship stayed intact, he would dig deep for the strength to manage.

Then, Hassleberry caught him off-guard. It was stupid, and wholly unfair, but worse, he should have seen it coming.

“—and you’re looking like a green-haired fried shrimp right about now!”

“Aah-! Not funny, Hassleberry!!”

The words themselves were innocent enough, none in the realm of atypical territory for him and Hassleberry at the time. What he hadn’t counted on was Hassleberry suddenly leaning in, cutting the already-minuscule distance between them in half, and with that look on his face.

He was accustomed to the way Hassleberry’s eyes...changed, sometimes. He witnessed it daily. Watching it happen mere inches from him, however, and directed at him...

He’d never noticed before, but the instant before they narrowed into ones not unlike his ace monster’s, Hassleberry’s pupils dilated massively.

It was mesmerizing and heart-stopping, and on top of the laughter which burst from Hassleberry in that same moment it was just too much, and Syrus had nowhere to go but back against the cliff behind them. Reaching up to stop Hassleberry from coming any closer was all he could do.

The plan had been a gentle shove, a push on the arm and a snappy remark.

His traitorous impulse instead drew his hand to the cool skin of Hassleberry’s cheek, and the words died on his tongue.

The world came to a halt save for Hassleberry’s surprised exhale ghosting across his face. His eyes returned to normal—his playful grin softened—but the two of them remained frozen in place.

The trance was broken another second later when Jaden chimed in to vent his boredom, giving Syrus the jump-start he needed to pull away from Hassleberry.

It wasn’t by any means the first of their little touches. There had been the hug after Jaden’s third duel versus Aster Phoenix, a hand on a shoulder during Jaden and Rose’s duel, another hug in the Kaibaland cyberspace—but this was different. Those hadn’t melted his brain into a puddle and left him locking eyes with Hassleberry and forgetting how to form a sentence. Those didn’t take the stabbing weight of his own pining and double down on the heartache of being unable to challenge his circumstances.

There were subsequent touches between them, after that, but each of the big two that came to mind was a strange case—a result of more immediate concerns at hand.

The first followed his duel with Zane.

That one, he didn’t even remember; all he had there was the fact that someone carried him to the infirmary, Jaden’s insistence that he ask Hassleberry about that, and Hassleberry’s transparent unwillingness to answer on the principle of it not being a big deal as long as Syrus got better.

Between the constant physical pain caused by his electric burns from Zane’s shock devices, the nauseating panic surrounding any thought so much as nearing the ordeal with his brother, and the exertion put into keeping up with his best friends’ energetic chatter in the state he was in—as grateful as he was for the hours they spent in the infirmary with him, keeping his misery at bay—it was just easier to leave that topic there. He needn’t hear the answer, not with the cheeky smile Jaden had plastered on his face during the exchange.

And the second of those trickier incidents took place just days ago, when Hassleberry saved his life.

Hassleberry was incredibly strong. The stunt he pulled in order to rescue Aster, during Jaden’s showdown against Sartorius, made his might as apparent as Syrus would ever need in order to have the notion drilled into his head. However, he’d thought that display was the end of it—an impossible feat, and yet he stood and bore witness to Hassleberry’s character defiance of impossibility; it was amazing, he was amazing, but what more could there be to one person’s strength? Syrus couldn’t imagine an answer to that question. Even Hassleberry’s mysterious ‘dino-DNA,’ and the power he drew from it, had to have a limit somewhere.

At least, he used to think so.

After the events of the other night, he was no longer sold on that assumption. In truth, Syrus was now convinced that the universe just bent its laws on a whim at Hassleberry’s command.

He had Jesse to thank, too—catching all of his dead weight with one arm, while clinging to Hassleberry’s grip with the other, in the position he wound up in and coming away without, bare minimum, a dislocated shoulder, was nothing short of a miracle. But Hassleberry, who stared down the Light of Destruction and laughed in the face of fate, possessed something that could surpass miracles: his determination. He had kept them both from plummeting, his only support the small tree at his feet which took the full brunt of the combined weight of himself, Jesse, and Syrus, and barely sounded strained when he called out to Jaden and let him know that the latter was A-OK. Even when Hassleberry was pulling him back up to solid ground, he never stopped to gather a second wind, never had to pause and adjust to relieve tension in his legs and arms. The only hint he let escape of any fatigue at all was a grunt just before he’d smiled and breathed out, “I’ve got you, half-pint.”

Syrus had asked while Hassleberry and Jesse untied him minutes later, just before Axel and Jaden collapsed before the three of them, how he’d done it.

Not in so few words, which he would argue was understandable for what he’d just gone through, and he’d mostly only opened his mouth and wondered aloud the foremost question on his mind to busy his thoughts with something other than this year’s first brush with death. He wasn’t sure what kind of response he’d expected—a shrug, for Hassleberry to play it off and say he didn’t really know and vaguely offer his dino-DNA as an excuse, maybe, or spout off a perfectly legitimate explanation of adrenaline kicking in in a life-or-death situation.

Of course, Syrus got neither.

He tentatively brought his left hand to his abdomen and momentarily rested it in the same spot where Hassleberry’s had stopped, following his question.

“You know I’d never let you down, Syrus,” had been Hassleberry’s reply. Being addressed with his first name struck him hard; Hassleberry rarely used it. For him to do so altered the gravity backing his words, made them suddenly...raw. But more than that, there was his cadence—the soft and sure tone his voice carried which was so unlike him, that he only took on (with Syrus, anyhow), when he wished to extend an olive branch and bridge an emotional gap, to initiate a heart-to-heart. It was the third-ever time he permitted Syrus to hear him so laid bare, putting himself on the line to coax Syrus into opening up to him because they both knew he wouldn’t risk meeting Hassleberry in the middle if he was the only one standing vulnerable before the other: the first was during Syrus’s stint in the infirmary, when Hassleberry, alone for a few hours with Syrus and out of the loop on his and Zane’s history, asked to be filled in, leading to an in-depth talk about their respective lives before Duel Academy that went well into evening. The second came just the other morning—on the day of his confrontation with Axel—as Professor Viper’s introduction of his bio-bands neared its end and Syrus spun out in silence on fearful doubts about the man’s intentions, and Hassleberry gave him a grounding nudge and asked in that same low, inviting tone, “hey, soldier, what’s the deal with the long face?” Then, he waited patiently while Syrus put words to his unease, and Syrus could feel his eyes on him the whole time, like he was really listening, forming a serious response in his head, until Chazz inserted himself into the conversation. Syrus regretted that they never returned to the topic, after that. Hassleberry tried to bring it up once more after the assembly, out in front of the school when they had a moment alone together. However, for a reason he couldn’t quite explain to himself in the present, by then he just couldn’t bring himself to give in to Hassleberry’s concern again.

Syrus wished he’d let him try and assuage his fears.

He was one-hundred percent sure that Hassleberry would have had them settle the matter of his faltering self-confidence with a duel—a test for the two of them to measure their growth, together.

He realized, after hanging on to the idea for a moment more, that a duel would have resulted in having their energy drained by their bio-bands, and decided perhaps it wasn’t all bad, that he’d backed away from Hassleberry’s attempt to help.

Still, the initial thought was nice. He could imagine it now, an opportunity for each to remind the other that neither of them would be allowed to slack off and fall behind in the competition that spanned their relationship, masquerading as a no-stakes bout between friends.

Or, it would start that way, he thought suddenly. What else would come of a friendly game between the two of them but a quick decline into petty jabs and juvenile remarks, made purely for the sake of disrupting each other’s judgment?

He exhaled a quiet chuckle through his nose; that was exactly how it would have happened—a back-and-forth that tapped into the very foundation of their bond, every laugh drawn out and reaction earned a mutual nod to what would never change.

He thought, maybe something like that was just what he needed—not necessarily a duel against Hassleberry, specifically, but...to let him in, with whatever solution he’d cook up for Syrus’s latest spell of rattled morale, to let him know his efforts were appreciated, truly, and lose himself in the thrill of having Hassleberry’s undivided attention.

To shove into some corner of his mind the self that told him Hassleberry was so dedicated to all of his friends.

...

A tender smile had come to his face; that was fine.

So was the sickly sweet feeling that raced through him.

Those came and went and were pretty standard for his daydreaming about Hassleberry—about the two of them together without another soul in the world.

But the smile and its warmth refused to fade, and that was when he realized the depth of the mess he was in.

Get a grip, Sy, he thought with an inward groan. Ok, breathe.

He breathed in.

...

Stop thinking about him. It’s that easy.

...

He breathed out.

...

Oh, who am I kidding?

He gave up.

This is a disaster, was the acknowledgement he resigned himself to at the end of his fruitless breathing exercise.

He wondered what to do. Going around in circles with Hassleberry for the rest of time, while not the worst personal hell he could think of, was far from ideal.

There was only one thing left.

I have to say something, he concluded.

He owed it to himself to say something.

He asked himself, what’s the worst that can happen? If Hassleberry didn’t reciprocate his feelings, what then?

He knew him. Better than he knew most people. He sat on that fact, letting it bring some much-needed order to his thoughts.

He asked himself again, what would happen?

There was honesty in putting himself out there. Hassleberry valued honesty; he would respect the prerequisite courage behind a confession between friends. He would know that mustering such courage didn’t come easily to Syrus.

His feelings wouldn’t cost him Hassleberry’s friendship.

There—one thing he allowed himself to be sure of.

It wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Once the dust settled, they would be fine.

He would be fine.

He took a few more breaths, each expelling a little bit of dread from the pit in his stomach until the weight of impending doom was gone from his body.

He would tell Hassleberry how he felt, and he’d be fine. He just had to pick a time and place.

Maybe...

He frowned. It’d almost be better if he didn’t plan it, he thought, to minimize the chance he’d psych himself out just before the big moment. He would do it when the time came—just... not now, not today, he decided then. Even if Hassleberry woke up while he was there, it wouldn’t sit right with him, dumping the burden of his feelings on his recovering friend.

And, besides...he could never dream of being able to work up the words here, in the open infirmary where anyone could walk in at any time, where Jim slept on the other side of the room with the possibility of waking at any moment, where he and Hassleberry were still very much half-dressed...Syrus felt entirely too exposed just thinking about trying it. With a partial game plan now in mind, though, his anxiety began to subside.

However, it left him idle, so when his thoughts began to drift towards another hypothetical, he let it happen.

How would things change, if it turned out that Hassleberry felt but a flicker of the same chemistry?

If he wanted to give things a shot?

He toyed with the idea for a minute. He supposed...things wouldn’t actually be all that different than now. He liked the way they acted towards each other in their day-to-day, though it occurred to him that shedding the pretense of a rivalry could be...

Fun.

It would be fun, and it would be nice—to drop all the bullshit and be an item with Hassleberry, the two of them fumbling their way through what he knew would be the first real relationship either of them ever had, awkward and unsure and... vulnerable.

He was safe, being vulnerable with Hassleberry. His experience in trusting himself to let his guard down for him, time and time again, and always coming out okay, better than okay, was a testament to that. Being able and welcome to do so more often was a warming concept.

He liked the idea of getting to see more of Hassleberry’s own vulnerability, too—of having a tender tone of voice reserved specially for soft moments alone and only for him, of Hassleberry taking his hand and lacing their fingers together, or linking arms with him while they walked side-by-side, and pulling him in close—

He stopped himself there, afraid his brain would short out from the sudden surge of heat his fantasies sent blooming across his face.

His waning brain cells caught up with him and he thought with a chastising grumble, smart. Didn’t need to be able to talk to him like a normal person if he wakes up, or anything.

He sighed again. As long as he was here, there would be no getting Hassleberry off his mind. The least Syrus could do with that truth was be productive about it, instead of uselessly swooning over hypotheticals.

This shouldn’t be that hard, he reassured himself, just think, Sy.

Couples went on dates. If they became a couple, they had to have a first date.

He hung on the word, couple, felt his heart flutter once more at the concept, but quickly shook his head free of the distraction; this was a good place to start, and the next logical step was to brainstorm first date scenarios befitting him and Hassleberry.

He ran through his knowledge of Hassleberry and quizzed himself, what kind of stuff does he like?

There was dueling—the obvious choice, which he scratched off the list in his head soon after it came to him. They’d be unlikely to find a good time and place to duel that wouldn’t attract spectators, defeating the purpose of making it the activity for something as significant as the first date. It needed to be personal, between the two of them and no one else if he could help it.

What else does he do for fun?

... Oh! Duh.

There were Hassleberry’s morning runs—the laps he’d do around the campus nearly every day, starting just before dawn broke over Duel Academy Island and returning to Slifer Red well after sunrise.

Syrus recalled that the exercise had proved grueling for Jaden and almost unbearable for himself, in stark contrast with Hassleberry for whom the routine was standard, the one time they had joined the latter. But, once Hassleberry gave in to his and Jaden’s unending whining and agreed to slow down for them, he had to admit he’d had a good time. And Hassleberry invited him to tag along again, after that, so Syrus could at least gather that he had fun, too.

He hadn’t taken him up on that offer, yet.

He decided, it was time to.

He believed he remembered Hassleberry’s favored route; if they left early enough, earlier than he knew Hassleberry usually did, he could carve out some time for them to stop and take a break somewhere, and talk.

The cliffs near the Ra dorm were one option. The unobstructed view of the island sunrise as the backdrop for a moment of peaceful togetherness seemed promising, though Syrus worried for how close it would put them to the dorm at the same time other students would be waking and starting the day.

The harbor would be more secluded, he thought, almost perfectly so, but they wouldn’t reach it until they neared the end of their run, if they went on Hassleberry’s route.

He would let Hassleberry choose, when they got there.

If they got there, he corrected himself.

Too much hinged on factors out of his control, and were he and Hassleberry anywhere else and not limited in the activities they could do together by the confines of their island locale, several hours of rigorous exercise would never have made it to the table, as far as things he was eager to do on a first date went.

As long as it was with Hassleberry, though, Syrus knew he could be swayed into going along with just about anything.

He could even stomach—no, enjoy—waking at the crack of dawn to jump straight into a long-distance run, if it put him at Hassleberry’s side.

O.K., maybe not at his side. On his heels, perhaps.

He’d be lucky to keep up even that well. Hassleberry was no slouch when it came to fitness, and Syrus comfortably sat somewhere towards the polar opposite.

He also lacked Hassleberry’s penchant for showing off; the world was his proving ground. Not out of any ill want to instill inferiority in those around him, Syrus knew, but if he could put on display his sharp discipline or natural grit or any one of his many capabilities, Hassleberry had a talent for turning any situation, no matter how ordinarily mundane, into an opportunity to make a spectacle of himself.

The part of his brain that had earlier chided Syrus for fantasizing forced him to wonder if that was the truth, or simply an excuse for his crush as to why looking away from Hassleberry was so hard.

The rest of him replied by recognizing that the two were not mutually exclusive.

On one hand, he was a sucker for the way Hassleberry could puff himself up on bravado—so seemingly unearned until one got to know him—and stand ready to follow through every time, without fail.

He’s such a dork, Syrus would be the first to declare, always, but there was something irrefutable in the starry gleam brought to his eyes and the swell of hope which washed like a tidal wave through his chest at the sight of Hassleberry in his element: Syrus couldn’t get enough of him. Hassleberry was...cool, in a word, and Syrus was weak for it, in three.

On the other hand, Hassleberry did absolutely, definitely, and blatantly, love to show off, taking great pride in earning smiles and praise from his onlookers, even if the only eyes on him were himself and Jaden’s.

Even if it were just his.

He could picture it now—Hassleberry keeping up those antics in the little paradise he was so far making a relationship with him out to be.

He’d spend a not-insignificant portion of their run only doing enough to one-up Syrus’s pace, so he could tease and encourage him and spur him on, occasionally racing on ahead at full speed and breaking out some other quick exercise while Syrus caught up.

He’d spend another chunk of it thinking of absurd ways to push himself, just to go, Truesdale, watch this, and wait with bated breath for Syrus’s reactions.

He’d involve Syrus in his on-the-spot, self-issued challenges, too, no doubt.

The two of them would stop somewhere, maybe, for just a minute—or a few, so Syrus could put on a bad performance of faux objections as if he wasn’t already on board just imagining the scenario he’d presented himself with—and...Hassleberry would hoist him up, and take him for a piggy-back ride.

Then, he would continue running as though the weight of another person on his back and in his arms made no difference to him at all, just because he could.

It was all so over-the-top, but it was Hassleberry. And if such was how things played out—with every facet of their relationship turned on its head and each guarded, hidden meaning unmasked so that he and Hassleberry were finally and unmistakably in the place they were always meant to be—Syrus couldn’t complain.

They would have their first date, spend the early morning alone together, make each other laugh the same as always, and in tandem discover a newfound joy in stumbling over each other, to no end, as a softer sense of familiarity took form.

Or something like that.

And then they would make their way back to the dorm and fall into their new routine.

It was all well and good, imagining some conversation they’d be in the middle of as they approached the steps leading to Slifer Red’s second floor, put on hold so that he could turn and express a hurried albeit heartfelt sentiment regarding his enjoyment of their time together, before Hassleberry could try the same.

But he gave himself a nudge in the direction of realism; he might be able to get the drop on him that way, but surely not for long. He and Hassleberry lived and breathed a perpetual cycle of combative excitement and ruffled feathers.

There was not a precautionary measure in the world which could save him.

He would say his piece, follow up with something to the effect of looking forward to next time—simple enough.

And then Hassleberry would latch on to his key words and not let go, all the while lighting up with an on-brand, self-satisfied grin.

“Next time, huh, Private?”

And then, Hassleberry would move closer.

Syrus would scramble, all snarky retorts he might normally pick from to throw out lost in the rush, and let him.

“I mean—only if you want...! Uh, to do this, again—or, or something else,” he‘d say, wading unceremoniously through the sludge that would become of his brain as their ever-present magnetic pull would draw them in further still, “or, if you...don’t want to, that’s—“

He would dare to look up for the first time since his previous sudden admission, cutting himself off when his voice began to shake under the weight of the ultimatum before them, hoping to find in looking to Hassleberry some semblance of the same anxiety, the same fear of the risk they’d taken blowing up in their faces, looking back at him and just as unsure as he was of an answer to the question, what now?

Hassleberry would greet him with a smile, the gentle curl of his lips laden with empathy for Syrus’s floundering but just a little smug for the knowledge that he was the one to cause it.

He would reply with resolute sincerity, his body just shy of breaching the last of the space between them, his face dangerously close to Syrus’s, “oh, I want to.”

And he would have that look in his eyes in the instant the words left him.

And Syrus would find himself compelled to chase after it.

He would take hold of Hassleberry’s arm with his left hand, ball the fabric of his shirt in a loose fist with his right, and stand up on his toes and close the gap.

And he would lean in.

And Hassleberry would be ready for him.

And he would close his eyes.

And at the last second, he would think to part his shaking lips by just a hair.

And then—

With a start, Syrus opened his eyes.

When had he closed them?

As he laid a hand where his heart pounded at his chest, he dismissed the pointless question in favor of a web of much heavier ones:

Did he want to kiss Hassleberry?

Would Hassleberry want to kiss him back?

What if Hassleberry wanted to kiss him?

It would be his first kiss.

And what would that feel like—sharing his first kiss with Tyranno Hassleberry?

His window to untangle any of it was cut short by a knock at the door.

Syrus looked up as it opened, its two metal sheets sliding apart to reveal the East Academy transfer student—Adrian, whom so far he knew little about, aside from the inescapable global reach of his family name.

His eyes were cast down at a stack of envelopes in his hand, white and edged with a gold trim. As he stepped into the room, he used his thumb to split the one on top from the rest, and lifted his gaze.

Syrus became suddenly aware of the expression he must have had on his face, all too telling of the bliss-induced stupor which he’d been caught in. He tried and miserably failed to compose himself in a matter of nanoseconds: he sat up straight, threw his clenched fists into his lap, and combed his mind in search of an explanation for the stranger standing across from him.

But no words would come out. None would so much as form in his throat.

Thankfully, Adrian began to speak.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a nonchalant smile, his voice neutral and not betraying even a hint of curiosity, “Syrus, right? My apologies for the intrusion.”

“Oh—that’s okay,” Syrus croaked back, too overcome with relief over Adrian’s choice to ignore the look on his face to manage anything more in that first go at opening his mouth.

The second attempt was better. “Yeah, I’m Syrus,” he answered, after allowing himself a second to settle down, “need something?”

And before Adrian could answer, he thought to tack on, “ah, if you’re looking for Jaden, I think he’s probably down at Slifer Red right now,” because it wouldn’t surprise him at all to hear of Jaden picking a fight with a brand new rich kid—at least, less so than someone like Adrian Gecko seeking himself out for...any reason, really.

“Thank you, but I am here to give you this,” Adrian told him as he crossed the room, stopping when he was close enough to hold out the top envelope from the stack in his hands. When Syrus reached out and took it, reading his name printed on the back with ‘Obelisk Blue’ beneath it in a smaller font, he continued. “It is an invitation to the party I am throwing tomorrow night at the Obelisk dorm,” he said.

Syrus looked back up at him. “Oh—at the Blue dorm? Well, I appreciate it, but I’m...sorta, not in Obelisk Blue anymore,” he explained, but Adrian quickly replied.

“That is my mistake. I did not know you had opted to move down to Ra Yellow until after the envelopes were printed. But that is not a problem—the Ra students are invited, too

“Be sure to bring your deck and your duel disk,” he went on, “you will need them. And no need to RSVP; my family has spared no expense and there will be plenty of food and drink for everyone.”

Syrus nodded when Adrian paused and allowed him a little breathing room, squeezing in the words, “O.K., got it,” before the latter spoke again.

“Now, I should get going. I am hand-delivering every invitation and still have a ways to go even after these ones,” he said, with a gentle flick of his wrist to bring Syrus’s attention briefly back to the rest of the envelopes.

Syrus glanced down at them, at the one in his own hands, then back at Adrian. “Right,” he gave another nod and widened his polite smile, following it up with, “well, thanks, Adrian—I’ll see if I can make it. Ah, it was nice meeting you!”

“You too, Syrus,” Adrian said, then turned to leave.

However, he stopped in the doorway, and turned back.

He crossed his arms and added, with a smirk that one could hear more than see, “your boyfriend there is a Ra Yellow, too, right?”

And, just like that, Syrus reverted to complete disarray. He sputtered, without thought,

“Yes—w-wait—uh! No! Ah...what I’m trying to say, is—yes, yes, Ra Yellow. But...! He—he’s not my boyfriend!”

This time, Adrian was the one to give the other a small nod, entirely unconvinced by Syrus’s way with words. “Sure,” he said, and let him get away with the screaming truth wedged in between the lines. “I hope he makes a quick recovery, and to see you both at the party.”

Adrian did leave, after that. As the door closed behind him, Syrus sank back in his chair, the next minute a long struggle to not let his head explode.

When the room fell still, he grit his teeth and turned to face Hassleberry, gingerly shifting his upper half to the right to see if he was still asleep.

He appeared to be. The sight of him was the same as before, when Syrus had first arrived.

He hadn’t heard any of it—neither Adrian’s question nor Syrus’s string of answers.

But Syrus had to be sure.

He called out beneath his unsteady breath,

“Hassleberry?”

No response—nothing at all.

It seemed he was in the clear.

He turned back, at last chancing relief with a closemouthed sigh.

Having been given something new to occupy himself with, he began to pick at the red wax seal of the envelope with his thumbnail, figuring he could read through the invitation inside at least a couple times before getting bored.

But just as the seal gave in, there came a tap from behind him—a weak touch at his left shoulder which tore a yelp from him and made him jump so hard that he nearly fell out of his seat.

There followed a gasp, and after that a small series of coughs, but not from him.

He dropped the envelope amidst the sudden chaos, but let it go and whirled around to face the source—Hassleberry, whose wobbling arm was still outstretched in his direction.

He pulled it back in and cleared his throat, even swallowed in vain to help his voice come out easier, but every sound he made was dry and cracked, and he was laughing, and despite all his sleep, he looked so, so exhausted, so when he finally managed the words, “hah...sorry, Truesdale,” they took the form of a labored whisper.

As soon as Syrus remembered to breathe, he laughed, too, unable to conceal the relief that crashed down on him. “No, it’s...it’s fine, Hassleberry—sorry for jumping like that,” he said, “but, jeez...would it have killed you to say something, first?”

Behind his oxygen mask, Hassleberry offered a guilty smile which was hard to make out—his way of conveying in his current state that both of them knew Syrus was just a little serious, but less so than he was glad to see his friend awake.

He seemed barely there, lying adrift in a haze of medication and receding slumber. It was so unlike him, a pitiful sight in and of itself, and yet, watching his eyes fall on him, dreamily drinking him in as though he was Hassleberry’s sole tether to reality, brought a word racing back to Syrus: cute.

He was staring again.

He glanced down at the floor. “So,” he started, the words coming easier the longer he dodged eye contact, “how are you feeling? Need anything?”

Hassleberry began to move his right hand to the oxygen mask. When he got there, he pulled to lift it from his face, but then froze—as if holding up the mask and trying to speak at the same time would scatter what small pieces of himself he was holding together. He soon gave up, looking to Syrus in unspoken request as he laid his arm down.

Syrus took another breath and reached over to take the mask. However, he found himself forced by the change in distance to look away once he’d lifted it.

Hassleberry moved. “Hmm...you first, pipsqueak,” he murmured, and Syrus sensed him fixing onto the hot flush on his cheeks as the wheels began to turn.

He raised his arm, the left one this time, pushing it upwards, but relented again to the weakness in his body long before the back of his hand could reach Syrus’s forehead.

“You feeling sick, or something?” he asked, draping his arm over the edge of the mattress.

“I’m fine,” Syrus told him, and as he continued his bluff, he looked right at him in the hopes of proving it, “just...working through the mini heart attack you gave me—that’s all.”

He wasn’t sure Hassleberry believed him.

So he tried to get the two of them back on track while he could still get away with it. “Really, Hassleberry—do you need anything?”

”Nah, I’m all right,” Hassleberry replied without a moment of deliberation.

He did give pause soon after—to break eye contact in a rare display of uncertainty before he asked, “say, though, how long you plan on sticking around?”

Syrus, too, looked away, stopping to think; what were his plans after this?

He answered in a spoken chain of thoughts, “umm, I dunno. I have to finish my homework at some point, and then...don’t get me wrong—I don’t think it’s smart to duel until we know what’s up with the bio-bands, but in the meantime I should probably still get out there and at least pretend to look for an opponent...

“But, don’t worry,” he added, “someone else’ll come by to check on you—Jay said he would, I think. Why?”

For a moment, it seemed as if Hassleberry wasn’t going to respond. It was only when Syrus opened his mouth again to pile on something else, anything else to keep the conversation going, that he did.

“Well, I was wondering if you would, er, stay and keep me company a while longer.”

Syrus’s gaze snapped back into place at the word, stay; it landed on the frown Hassleberry wore, glued to it as he choked out the second half of his response.

He could swear he saw a tinge of red on his cheeks—dusted across his complexion so faintly that were he not so close, he would have missed it—but in a blink, it was gone, its substitute a sober smile that emanated identical tension.

Hassleberry said, “it’s no big deal, if you‘d rather get back to your own thing.”

Syrus objected, “Hassleberry—“

But he continued, laughing a hollow chuckle as forced for Syrus’s sake as his smile.

“Course, ain’t much I can think of that’s more fun than sitting here with me, so, heh, it’s your loss.”

Syrus knew what he was trying to do. He had his own inane, indirect half-solutions saved for the times his comfort zone was yanked out from under him, his own ways of desperately padding a situation and bracing for its outcome.

Hassleberry liked to crack self-deprecating jokes.

It didn’t happen often, not to Hassleberry—not to someone who so firmly and truly believed in his power to best his fears.

That only made it harder to watch.

Syrus didn’t know how to help except to look away, guilt trickling in and pooling in his head for not having done so sooner.

He hoped, at least, that doing that much would give Hassleberry some ease, in case words could not.

He said, “there’s...gotta be better company than me around: uh, what about Jaden? Or, maybe Blair or Alexis?” And as he rattled off names, his free hand took its old place at the end of his jacket, beginning its idle fidgeting anew. “They’re all probably leagues ahead of me in the bedside manner department,” he muttered after; ‘self-deprecation as a coping mechanism’ was rich, coming from him.

“All that may be true,” Hassleberry started, moving his head in a half-nod that gently jostled his oxygen mask in Syrus’s hand.

“Ah—hey!” Syrus exclaimed. He shot over a glare, one of their little looks which only played at having been hurt, with an embrace of affectionate teasing that mirrored the other’s mocking tone.

Once more, Hassleberry laughed, playing in turn as his smile went lax and finally genuine. He stated, voice now low and truthful and devoid of sarcasm, “—but, you’re the one I wanna pass the time with, ‘til I’m back on my feet.”

Syrus opened his mouth to ask, why?

But Hassleberry’s smile tensed up again.

It begged of him, don’t make me answer something like that.

Not yet.

So he stopped.

The single syllable burned in his throat, threatening to leap from his open mouth until he clamped it shut. He expelled the dead question with his next breath, and felt his features soften as it left him.

“All right,” he said, instead. “I’ll stay.”

The air between them remained charged, tight and suffocating, despite his answer—until Hassleberry lit up upon hearing it. And Syrus, released from the grasp of the sentiment they’d been narrowly skirting around, grinned back, and chirped, “but I hope you know you’re now officially stuck with me!”

“Appreciate it, Private,” was Hassleberry’s contended reply.

His voice was sounding a lot better, Syrus now had the chance to notice. It still lacked the peppy flair that made it so uniquely him, but it was clearer, stronger than just minutes ago and so teetering on the edge of normal that Syrus decided, he probably wouldn’t need to stay so close in order to hear him anymore.

He fixed Hassleberry’s oxygen mask and pulled his hand away, setting his arm down in his lap as he asked, “is that okay like that?”

Hassleberry said, “yeah, that’s fine.” And to his relief, Syrus understood, even through the mask, so he leaned back in his seat. He shifted around, trying to find a more comfortable position that would allow him to stay facing the bed. Hassleberry briefly watched in silence, then gave a sigh and told him, “you know, you can...turn your chair and face me; I won’t bite.”

Syrus, having no good reason not to turn the damn chair, went with it. He scooted an inch closer, too—just so Hassleberry wouldn’t have to stretch as far if he needed to reach him again. As he adjusted, he saw Adrian’s invitation where it had landed on the floor. He stopped to grab the envelope and set it in his lap, hands ready to open it the rest of the way. But first, he wanted to check on Hassleberry.

He had his eyes closed. He pushed out a deep breath, relaxing into the mattress like he would soon doze off, back to sleep. Good, Syrus thought, you look like you could use it.

He opened the envelope and removed the invitation—a pamphlet with matching gold trim—and at the sound of the paper rustling against his hands, Hassleberry opened his eyes and looked over, asking, “whatcha got there?”

“Oh, it’s from that East Academy guy: Adrian,” Syrus replied, “he’s having some kind of party at the Blue dorm tomorrow, and I guess he’s hand-delivering all the invites; he, uh, came by with mine while you were sleeping.

“You just missed him, too,” he said as he unfolded the invitation. Absently, he propped his elbows up on the bed to spread out and read it, but caught himself and backed off, muttering a quick, “sorry,” under his breath.

“Go ahead. I don’t care,” Hassleberry dismissed his apology with a shrug, then cut back to the invitation once Syrus repositioned himself, “so, what’s it say?”

Only the middle panel on the front of the pamphlet contained any text, the others adorned with either the gold borders or stamped-on Gecko corporation logos. Of what little there was to read, Syrus skipped over the baseline formalities and what they already knew, reading aloud when he found something he didn’t, “um...there’s gonna be some kind of elimination-style tournament for the Obelisks and Ras, called a ‘Duel for Jewels.’ I guess that’s gonna be the main event. Doesn’t really say anything else about it, though, besides the name. And then...’a feast specially prepared and flown in by the Gecko Family,’ and...I already told you the rest, so that’s pretty much it.”

“Really? All that fancy paper just for that?” Hassleberry scoffed.

“I know—seems kinda wasteful,” Syrus nodded, saying as he folded the invitation, “but a party sounds fun, and I bet the tournament will be interesting.”

“Hmm. That’s just for the Blues and Yellows, though, right? The sarge won’t like that.”

“If any Slifers are even invited to the party,” Syrus frowned. He doubted that was the case, the longer he thought about it. “Oh,” he noted, “he’ll hate that—missing out on a tournament and free billionaire food?“

“Well, maybe not,” Hassleberry mused.

Syrus looked up from toying with the invitation and the envelope. “What do you mean?”

Hassleberry said as he moved his left arm, lifting it up from the edge of the bed to lay it on his stomach, “easy; sneak out some of that food for him and the tournament part won’t sting so much.”

“You don’t think they’ll have a problem with that?”

Hassleberry pointed a glance to the invitation. “Who’s gonna stop you? You were invited.“

“I mean, yeah, I guess you’re right, but...I don’t know, it’d be weird. To just leave, when I’m supposed to be in the tournament. It’d be better if I had someone to make a distraction, or something,” Syrus grumbled.

And a light went on.

“Oh!” he said again, excited, “you could come—I mean, if you’re up for it, uh—Adrian said you’re invited, when he was here. He didn’t bring an invitation for you or anything, I don’t know, he...probably wasn’t sure how you were doing. But, that’s what he said, since you’re in Ra. That my invite extends to you, too.”

He was tired, running on the fumes of his anxieties throughout recent days. He felt his filter getting away from him as he rambled on. Still, he kept talking.

“So, if Ms. Fontaine says it’s okay for you to be up, you could...be my plus-one?” he offered. And immediately after, he looked away and added, “but—only if you’re gonna help me, ‘cause I’m not gonna be able to get food for Jay on my own.”

He griped to himself, convincing. But he worried what he might let slip, were he to go on any longer without hearing something from Hassleberry, anything to break up the busy noise in his head, and so he sat—waiting for it.

After a paralyzing few seconds of silence, Hassleberry answered happily, “it’s a date.”

...

Time stopped. The one remaining half-baked train of thought that circled his mind combusted on its track.

Helpless, his body could only meet this sudden collapse of his headspace with a hitch in his breath.

Then, he looked up at Hassleberry, and the world resumed its orbit.

He was beaming like he’d said nothing unusual, like he was oblivious to the micro-crisis he’d caused just now.

He let go of his breath.

He returned the smile.

And he parroted back, “right—a date,” as he tried to calm himself down; Hassleberry would be the death of him.

Soon, if this kept up.

He needed to clear the air before then. He needed to revise his plan.

He decided, if all went well—if Hassleberry’s recovery went as expected—he would do it in the days following tomorrow night’s party.

There, he thought: no deadline. No getting stranded. No pumping himself up for one critical moment only to miss the timing.

Just a timeframe.

He could work with that.

Hassleberry remarked, “you look like you’re feeling better. Glad you’re not sick, or nothing, Private.”

Syrus nodded. “Heh, yeah,” he said, conceding to Hassleberry’s persistent observation now that he was too conscious to fool on the point of his moods. “I just...I guess I just don’t really like it in here. Gives me the creeps.

“And...” he paused, putting his heart on his sleeve and glancing away for just long enough to hiccup, “I was really worried about you. Guys. You and Jim. After that duel.”

He made himself take a breath, before trying to get back on-message. “I do feel a lot better, knowing you’re okay,” he admitted, thinking aloud, “...I think I needed this.”

The look in Hassleberry’s eyes prompted him to go on, but before he could ask, Syrus felt a big yawn quickly bubble its way through him, soon letting it out with an audible breath.

With it left yet another puff of his energy. His eyes watered as they squeezed shut. He pushed his glasses up above them, rubbing the exhaustion off on his sleeve.

He heard Hassleberry chuckle. Fabric shifted against itself. When he opened his eyes again, there was a pillow being offered to him.

“Here.”

“Huh? What’s that for?” he asked.

Hassleberry said, “if you need some shut-eye on account of being here for so long, far be it from me to keep you up. May as well just take a nap now while you wait for whoever’s supposed to be coming along next, ‘stead of walking all the way back to the Red barracks as tired as you look.”

It was tempting. The long walk back wouldn’t be fun; he didn’t feel like making the trek just to crash when he got in.

The chair would be hell on his back, trying to sleep in it. On the other hand, the Slifer bunk that would be his alternative wasn’t much better.

And there was something else to consider: this gesture, coming from Hassleberry. It meant something. Accepting it would mean something. Accepting it would be messy.

But then, Syrus was nothing if not messy.

“O.K.,” he eventually smiled, taking the pillow. “Thanks.”

He turned to figure out how he would position it against the back of his chair, and frowned. It had no arms—nothing to keep the pillow from falling on the ground if he moved in his sleep.

Hassleberry interrupted, “let me see that for a sec, Truesdale.” Curious, Syrus handed it back to him.

He moved from the center of the bed to his right, laying the pillow down against his side and giving it a couple gentle pats as he said to Syrus, “try this.”

He felt his expression go blank as the words set in. He blinked: once. Twice, as the life drained out of his face. He found himself petrified, too scared of shattering the fragile quiet between them to do so much as duck his gaze.

Going along with it would be so, so stupid—of the reasons why, the least being that there was no way this was really happening. Yet he refused to move, even to pinch himself out of this surreal standstill.

Hassleberry gave a stiff laugh to do the job for him. “Now, what’s that look for?” he asked, next pointing out, “I know, I know—you’re gonna whine about how I smell, or what have you—but for all your complaining, you’ve been hanging around me an awful lot since we got back, so I really doubt it’s that bad.”

He added, trailing off after venting in a dramatic huff, “and, listen, I don’t want it on me if you go and collapse on the way back to headquarters., so...”

It hit Syrus all at once; this was ridiculous. Hassleberry was right. Obviously, the only thing bothering him was his reaction. He’d blown this way out of proportion. He had to have.

He took a breath, calmed down, and gave in.

“O.K., fine—just...stop looking at me like that.”

Hassleberry smiled.

And Syrus thought to himself, the way Hassleberry insisted on fretting over him was endearing and all, but, God—it could almost make a guy think he was the one stuck in the hospital.

But it was sweet, so he let it slide.

He looked down at the pillow, debating for a minute how he was going to do this.

No matter what, he’d be lucky not to wake up in neck or back pain. He just had to accept that.

There were also...implications, to every position he could possibly choose. Sure, the first step was easy; he’d lay his arms down, folded on the pillow like a cradle for his head. But what way to face?

Forward was out of the question. It would put him facing Hassleberry’s ribs, probably close enough to breathe on his skin. He put the thought out of his head as quickly as it came, telling himself, opening that can of worms right now was just about the dumbest thing he could do.

There were two other options. Between facing left or right, neither was particularly worse than the other. However, he tended to sleep on his left side, and figured he might as well make himself as physically comfortable as he could, if he was really going to go through with this.

Right it was.

Before he moved to lay down, he looked at Hassleberry. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

He thought to ask if he wanted his blanket pulled up, but stopped, reasoning that surely Hassleberry would have said something already. He didn’t want to manufacture an issue out of it, so he decided it was better to leave it alone.

Hassleberry replied, “nah, I’m about as okay as I can be, all things considered.”

Content with his answer, Syrus nodded to accept it and leaned in until his body came to rest on the pillow. At the same time, Hassleberry shifted around his form to make the space accommodate them both, once more slinging the arm nearest to Syrus over the edge of the bed. He let it go slack there, and the two of them settled in.

Sure enough, Syrus felt his back disagree with the position—though, thankfully not as sorely as he’d anticipated.

He reminded himself, still beats the Slifer beds.

However, that did little in the way of comfort; there wasn’t nearly as much room between him and Hassleberry as he’d wanted to believe.

His mass of hair brushed up against Hassleberry, and there was no way to give him or himself any breathing room.

He asked, his voice unable to break through the suspense in the air, the words falling from him strained and unintentionally hushed, “is this okay?”

It was all he could manage.

Hassleberry was quiet for a second. Then another.

Syrus thought that he may have gone back to sleep.

He began to lift his head to check, but as soon as his weight shifted to his arms, Hassleberry answered him.

“Not like I’m ticklish, or anything. I’m fine,” he said.

Syrus bit his lip and replied with a short, “hm,” as he let go of his weight.

He needed better confirmation than that. He needed Hassleberry to give him more, anything to ease his guilt over his feelings.

He needed it to be real.

He was bitter, getting so choked up over him and not being able to hide from it.

He grumbled at Hassleberry, “that’s not what I meant.”

There was another lull, shorter this time, before Hassleberry replied. He gave his own hum, soft and oddly comforting and sounding...almost amused.

He said, “we’ve shared a bunk before, haven’t we? This ain’t all that different.”

Syrus thought, of course it’s different.

No matter what time, or times, he was talking about, this was different from all of them.

He was lying through his teeth, to help him feel better; Hassleberry wasn’t an oblivious guy. Syrus knew he’d picked up on the unrest around them. He almost voiced that thought, too—wanting so badly to call his bluff just to see what would follow—but in the end, held back. He knew what would follow: a conversation neither of them were ready for. Getting into it would force them to confront it.

He was willing to let it go.

Hassleberry had other plans.

At first, he opened his mouth only to reiterate to him, “this is fine.”

Then, he began to ramble.

“Ain’t like we haven’t seen this much of each other in the locker room, before, either,” he said, “so—you combine those and it makes the same as now.”

He yawned, breathing out a slow sigh as Syrus processed what he’d said.

It didn’t even begin to work like that, he wanted to retort—and tell him he wasn’t about to unpack all the reasons why, give him crap and indulge in the kind of joking around that always seemed to cool the atmosphere between them.

But before he could, Hassleberry carried on in his infinite wisdom, “and come to think of it, it’s getting kinda cold in here, so, since you freeze over so easy, small as you are, and my dino-DNA doesn’t exactly help my own body heat situation, this is for the best. Tactically, and all, I mean. You know, for both our sakes.

“Well, best short of—“ he began to muse, but cut himself off and stammered out, “ah, forget it.”

Syrus lifted his head. He caught Hassleberry’s expression, unreadable, focused on him. As soon as their eyes met, he looked away, and closed his.

Knowing he would regret it, Syrus asked him, “okay, I wanna hear this, short of what?”

He muttered a couple words to himself under his breath, too quiet for Syrus to make sense of the sounds, and replied, “don’t pay me any mind, Truesdale. Just...talking nonsense.“

Displeased, Syrus pouted at him. Without even looking, Hassleberry told him, “hey, quit it with the face.”

Syrus insisted, “say what you were gonna before.”

Hassleberry stayed quiet and tried to ignore him.

So, Syrus continued to bug him.

“Hassleberry,” he groaned. “Hassleberry.

“You know I won’t let you sleep until you tell me.”

With a weary breath, Hassleberry opened his eyes, returning Syrus’s stare. “All right, I believe you,” he surrendered, and said, “I’ll say it if it’ll make you knock it off.”

And despite the jabs, when Syrus laughed and flashed an impish grin for his trouble, it earned a smile back from him.

He fell silent, watching Hassleberry expectantly.

The smile began to fade as he formed his words, speaking casually as though they made up facts detached from his feelings. “Well—uh, still tactically speaking, of course, the ideal thing’d be how we did when I moved into our headquarters, last year.”

He meant those first few nights, when it was the four of them—Jaden, Chazz, and themselves—to just three bunks.

No one was eager to sleep on the floor; someone had to make room.

Chazz wanted no part of it.

Jaden kicked in his sleep.

And sticking the extra body with the smallest guy in the room made the most sense, anyway.

Syrus asked, giving in to the routine inclination to antagonize him, “oh, you mean when you took up my whole bed and I couldn’t wake up without you on top of me?”

“At ease!” Hassleberry objected, “I seem to remember getting up late for my morning runs more than once on account of someone wrapping himself around me during the night and refusing to let go.”

They were both right: Hassleberry tended to sprawl out. Syrus tended to gravitate to the center of the bed, no matter where he initially lay. And they both tended to seek out the comfort of the other source of life beside them.

Whenever it happened, that one of them would wake glued to the other, they wouldn’t wake each other up. They wouldn’t talk about it. Not a word.

Nothing.

At that point in...whatever it was they had, it was flat-out easier to pretend it wasn’t happening.

And then Chazz addressed it for them, on the day he moved out.

They wouldn’t have to share, anymore.

But bitchier than that. In the way Chazz said things, sometimes. Not mean-spirited, per se, but lying in some adjacent realm along with everything else he would say to friends.

It was only an offhand comment, Syrus remembered, some observation laced with his usual spite that he probably didn’t give a second thought.

Still, they had to acknowledge it.

But it was okay.

It was fine, in Syrus’s mind, because at the time, there weren’t really any prominent feelings behind any of it. None of it meant anything.

So, it just stayed something they didn’t talk about. And that was okay, too.

It was okay, even though, once in a while, Syrus caught himself thinking about it.

Overall, in the moment and on its own in this kind of lighthearted manner, it wasn’t uncomfortable to bring up.

Syrus was quiet while he reminisced. Hassleberry didn’t say anything else, either.

A thought came to him. He said it plainly, and without consideration, “the bed’s not big enough.”

Hassleberry asked, “...pardon?”

Syrus repeated, “the bed—it’s not big enough. And all those tubes would probably get in the way, too.”

Hassleberry snickered.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

He aimed a grin at him, but still didn’t say anything.

Syrus asked again.

“What? What do you want?!”

And on the second try, he countered with a question of his own.

“You saying those’re the only things keeping you from climbing in here and curling up with me?”

In an instant, Syrus jolted upright, jerking back and defensively throwing his hands up as he protested at length, “w—wait a second! I didn’t—it’s a hypothetical!! And you started it—you...you‘re the one who brought up last year!”

And the whole time, Hassleberry laughed at him.

He crossed his arms, looking down at the floor and adding bitterly, “God. Curling up with you...you can’t just...

“...say stuff like that,” he gagged as he fidgeted in his seat.

The laughter died down, but he could still feel that grin on him, so he refused to look up.

“Well, why not?” Hassleberry asked, his voice lively and luring and as inciting as ever. Then, he said, a little less so, “it’s not like I’d mind, if you miss sleeping together.

“Er—what I mean is...I’d understand, being that you’re such a restless sleeper, and all.”

Touch-starved.

Syrus was touch-starved.

One of his worst symptoms was its impact on his sleep. Falling asleep, and staying that way, was hard. Neither reliably worked out, and even when they did, he often found himself waking to feel like the universe had chewed him up and spit him out.

A weighted blanket helped; he brought one to the Academy with him. The pressure granted some relief, but on most nights, it still wasn’t enough to completely suppress the insomnia.

Having Hassleberry next to him, though, seemed to make it all go away. His morning moods were vastly improved. He wouldn’t wake in the middle of the night. And he would never forget the peace he felt when—

...

When he would stir in the morning, to the two of them tangled together.

That is, until the realization would set in that they were tangled together, and he would have to pry himself away.

Hassleberry knew the first half—so did Chazz and Jaden, as a result of living together for so long— and had probably long pieced together the second, and this was his gentle, roundabout approach to leaning on his concern.

Syrus thought to chide him for his choice of words, there, but as soon as he forced himself to look over, he blurted out, “you wish!”

When it earned a sheepish laugh from Hassleberry, the sound pushed him to break eye contact again. He quickly added as he looked away, “you don’t have to worry about that—about my sleep, or anything. Especially not right now.”

Hassleberry challenged him with a sigh. “All right—tell me, then, Truesdale. How’s your sleep, these days?”

“It’s...well, not ideal, yet, but...”

And when he stopped to consider a real answer, Hassleberry retorted, “then I’ll worry all I please.”

He had a soft smile on his face, when Syrus looked up again. He couldn’t help but return it.

And maybe it was just something about letting all the bullshit fall away, like he’d imagined, and sharing this kind of look in only each other’s company—minus Jim and Shirley, who both still slept soundly on the other side of the room—but despite the fever pitch his emotions had reached just moments ago, once more he was beginning to feel relaxed, even sleepy.

He started to move back onto the pillow.

“Well, look at that,” Hassleberry said, “finally worn yourself out with all your fussing.” And there was an unsaid, as usual, in there, too. “How’s about we both get some shut-eye?

“Although...hm,” he mused before Syrus could reply, “it’s been a while—didn’t you say someone was supposed to come relieve you, by now?”

Syrus nodded. “Yeah—Jaden. He probably forgot it was his turn next.”

“Wonder if he’s hanging out with Jesse,” Hassleberry suggested, to which Syrus asked with a knowing smile,

“Who else?”

And he shrugged. “Guess it ain’t that surprising he’s a no-show, in that case. Oh, well.”

He had a point, though; it was getting late. Syrus unfolded his arms, pushing himself off the bed as he slowly stood up.

He told Hassleberry, “I should go, before it gets dark. I don’t like leaving you and Jim by yourselves, without someone else here, but I really, really need to crash.

“Um—but, Ms. Fontaine will be back in the morning. And—me too! First thing, I’ll come check on you,” he added, all too blatantly pointed in conjunction with the warm, flustered smile he put on.

But Hassleberry didn’t call him on it. He lay there with a vacant stare; he looked thoroughly exhausted. So, Syrus said, “O.K, uh, goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and turned to leave.

He didn’t get far. Before he could really go anywhere, there was a hand at the back of his own—just a brush of fingers against his skin, enough to send a debilitating chill coursing through him, stopping him in his tracks.

His head snapped in its direction as Hassleberry drew his hand back, once more letting escape a hasty plea,

“Wait.”

Alarmed, he asked, “is something wrong?”

Hassleberry started, “sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Er—no, nothing’s...wrong. I just...”

He stopped. Syrus thought, he looked like he was struggling to find the words to say. He wouldn’t make eye contact, either.

Though unsure of what to make of it, Syrus took a stab at what he wanted.

“I can stay the night, if you want me to.”

He still wouldn’t look him in the eye, still wouldn’t be upfront with him, but he flushed, and Syrus knew he hit the nail on the head.

He said, “aw, I can’t ask you to do that. Forget it.”

So, Syrus did the rational thing.

He sat down, replying cheekily, “I did say you were stuck with me.”

His body would hate him for it, come morning, but the melted smile Hassleberry gave him as he uttered a low thank-you?

That was worth it. So worth it.

Hassleberry shifted again, back to where he was before he’d ever reached for Syrus’s hand. He seemed content, now.

Syrus, on the other hand, was getting worked up over the prospect of spending the night at his side. He’d thought he was ill-prepared for the originally-planned short nap. It crossed almost every line he could think of.

But then, he reminded himself, as Hassleberry had said: you’ve literally shared a bed with him, Sy. You spent multiple nights with him in that ratty old tent. You’ve taken naps together, before.

Nights, plural.

Naps, plural.

O.K. This is okay.

And, anyway, they were both tired already; he’d be asleep before he knew it. And all the ramifications of this could be a problem for tomorrow’s Syrus.

For now, that sounded good.

He took a breath, decided he would try to move on, and said, “I’m gonna go turn off the lights, unless you want them on.”

Hassleberry nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Once more, Syrus stood up. On his way to the light switch, he looked over at Jim—still sleeping. Shirley, curled up beneath his bed, hadn’t stirred, either.

Hopeful that they would both sleep through the night, he continued to the other end of the room, cracking the door open before killing the lights.

The thin line of light that flooded in from the hallway was enough to let him find his way back to his seat at Hassleberry’s bedside.

He asked one more time, “do you need anything else?”

Hassleberry reassured him, “I’m all right.”

Syrus went to prop himself up on his pillow again, not planning to get back up until morning. He stopped, though, realizing when he reached up for his glasses that he didn’t have their case with him.

No problem. He would just leave them on the nightstand—wasn’t like Hassleberry was using it.

He shifted to do so, and when he turned back, he caught Hassleberry staring at him, that same rich, intoxicated smile on his face.

It looked...felt...loving.

He stayed like that even after their eyes met, until Syrus nervously asked, feeling a hot glow come over him, “uh—huh, what’s up?”

That seemed to snap him out of it, whatever he’d been thinking of. He shook off the trance, quickly excusing himself by answering, “oh, nothing—I’ll tell you later.”

He tilted his head back so he could lie flat and look up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath as his eyes fell half-closed.

And Syrus laid his head down and weakly grasped at the pillowcase, trying to quash the nauseating, fluttering sensation that tailed his own airflow.

They lay quietly for a minute, no sound between them save their own breathing.

But he still wasn’t quite at peace. There came that bitter feeling again. He couldn’t believe it—without half his usual energy, Hassleberry was still able to get to him so easily. It was stupid. This whole thing was stupid, and there was Hassleberry, seemingly taking it all in stride.

He couldn’t let him get the last word in. It would only be fair to give him something to ruminate on, for once.

After his next long exhale, he tried to ask, “Hassleberry?”

But his heart skipped at the thought of daring to go through with it, so when he uttered his name, it came out as little more than a whisper.

Without moving, Hassleberry responded, “hm?”

He braced himself, closing his eyes—as if that were going to help—and said, “those aren’t the only reasons.”

Hassleberry asked, “‘scuse me?”

He took another breath. He wrenched an explanation from his jumbled thoughts and mixed emotions, and pushed out a reply. “There’s...another reason—more reasons—why I won’t—mm, can’t...”

He paused, helplessly swallowing against the lump in his throat before finishing his sentence.

“...curl up with you, like before. More than the bed, and the tubes.”

He didn’t know what kind of response to expect. For an agonizing stretch of time, there wasn’t any.

Shit. Shit.

He began to bury his face into his pillow, begging the universe to let it swallow him.

Finally, Hassleberry said something. “Is that so?” he asked, in that voice that always came paired with an obnoxious grin.

With it pointing his way, all he could manage in turn was a defeated, “yes.”

Hassleberry gave another of his understanding hums and asked him, “care to elaborate, little man?”

And, God. Of all the names Hassleberry had for him, little man got him every time. He said it so honeyed and so leaning into his blithe Southern lilt that it was like tens of their little moments packed into just two words and swung right at him with all the reckless abandon that Hassleberry could muster. And he knew it. He absolutely knew exactly what he was doing, and Syrus couldn’t tell which was worse: that fact, or that he still took the bait.

He said, “no,” and it came out a meek whine. He felt...pathetic. Though he wasn’t quite there yet, he sounded on the verge of crying, and he wouldn’t blame Hassleberry if he already thought he was.

Trying to make himself feel better, trying to keep Hassleberry from thinking that, he pulled his voice down from the ledge it had perched on. He added, imitating Hassleberry’s unfair composure and hoping it would work, “I’ll tell you later.”

It yielded a dry chuckle from Hassleberry, who then slung his arm over Syrus’s shoulders. He gave him a couple of gentle pats, and then Syrus felt his weight sink on to his back, staying there when he did not shrug it off.

He just let it happen. Hassleberry’s arm around him felt so comfortable—so right; he could get used to this.

Hassleberry said, “touché, Sy.

“Guess we’ve got a lot to discuss, once I’ve got my strength back.”

Syrus nodded. He echoed with a little smile that he couldn’t hold back, “I guess so.”

And Hassleberry told him, “I’m looking forward to it.”

And at the state of things, Syrus hesitated, but eventually replied, “me too, Hassleberry.”

And after that, they didn’t say anything else.

Soon, Syrus fell asleep.

He woke some time later, well-rested and pleasantly having gone the whole time uninterrupted by his insomnia. But the first thing he really took in was the pain; his butt was sore, his back was sore, and his neck was very sore. Turning his head back and forth against his pillow alleviated some of the stiff aching in the latter. Stretching his legs out under the bed and shifting his lower half brought some amount of temporary ease to the former.

His back, though, could wait. It didn’t hurt that much, comparatively, and, besides—

Hassleberry’s arm was still wrapped around him.

He couldn’t bring himself to let go of that, yet. For as sore as his body was, he was at peace, and he was content. He wanted to keep it that way as long as he could, before he’d have to get back to the world outside the infirmary room.

Or before he’d have to worry about what the next week or so would mean for the two of them.

He sat there a while longer, until his twisted body began to hurt again, demanding that he get up and give it a good, proper stretch.

This was as good a time as any, he figured; surely, it had to be morning by now. He thought, he ought to get up soon, anyway.

So, he lifted his head, slowly and trying to keep Hassleberry’s arm from rolling off his back so as to not disturb him.

But when he looked over at him as he sat up, Hassleberry was looking back.

He stopped, frozen in place by the widening smile being cast up at him.

There was something different about that smile, after last night—something different in the way Hassleberry looked at him.

And he liked it. He really liked it. But, jeez. It was too early to be thinking about feelings.

He asked, face lighting up with a self-conscious flush, “huh? How long have you been awake?”

Hassleberry’s thumb moved slowly against his shoulder blade and rubbed up and down for a couple motions, further complicating Syrus’s wavering will to leave their bubble—and to top it off, he didn’t answer his question.

“Good morning to you, too, half-pint.”