Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Satoru wakes up with the start of a headache behind his eyes, which is never a great sign for how the day is going to go. Not that he really slept, spending the few hours that he was lying in bed tossing and turning, occasionally slipping into semi-consciousness only to be jerked out of it when his usual nightmares began to crawl in. He isn’t a person who sleeps much anyways, but the recent recurrence of his old nightmares hasn’t been helping.

So he wakes up, and thinks, great. Another day of trying to stay focused on his classes and training while struggling to keep his eyes open against the drum of pain battering the inside of his head. Maybe it’ll fade away if he keeps quiet and doesn’t exert too much energy throughout the day.

The headache does not get better as the day progresses. His classes are dry and boring as usual, Yaga lecturing about some irrelevant historical topic that Satoru couldn't care less about on a good day. Suguru, as usual, diligently takes notes, but at least Shoko seems to reflect Satoru’s disinterest as she vaguely gazes at the corner of the blackboard, one finger absently curling a lock of hair around her index finger, notebook sitting forgotten in front of her.

Satoru sits at the desk between the two, sunk low in his chair with half-lidded eyes as he tries to ignore the rays of bright sunlight that stream into the classroom, reflecting off any surface they can find to bounce back at Satoru. He jams his sunglasses higher on the bridge of his nose, wearing them having become something of a habit with his recent increase in capacity to see cursed energy. The input that the Six Eyes grants him has quickly becoming more overwhelming than beneficial without some physical barrier.

Even with his sunglasses, there's little he can do to mitigate the brightness that seems to target him from every direction, further worsening what has now become a full-on migraine. So he sits still in his seat, feeling like his brain is slowly being turned into cotton fluff the longer Yaga talks. If anyone notices the uncharacteristic lack of sarcastic comments from Satoru today, they don’t mention it.

Of course this is one of those days where Yaga has the brilliant idea of extending their training session longer than usual, pairing Satoru with Suguru for hand-to-hand combat practice that lasts from after their lunch break until the sun hangs low in the sky and the shadows of the trees grow longer by the minute. By the end of it, Satoru is ready to fall over into the grass, something Suguru seems to have picked up on, eyeing Satoru carefully as the two make their way back to the dorms. Whatever. At this point, Satoru doesn’t care whether Suguru thinks he’s weak, not after several hours of barely blocking dozens of perfectly targeted attacks and trying not to stumble over his own feet as he fights to focus on anything other than the tidal waves of pain crashing in his head. He doesn’t think Suguru particularly likes him anyways, now that they’ve been classmates for a few months and it’s become clear that they're destined to be perfect rivals.

The walk back through the dorm building to their separate rooms is silent, their footsteps on the old wooden floors the only sounds echoing off the walls. As they approach the door to Satoru’s bedroom, with Suguru’s just past it, Satoru barely has the mental strength to think to himself that he should probably shower, but he really can’t put in the effort to do anything other than collapse on his bed and lie in darkness for a while. As he reaches out to touch his door handle, he realises Suguru has stopped just behind him, instead of continuing on to his own room.

“Are you…okay?” He sounds hesitant, as if he isn’t really sure what to say.

Satoru looks up from where his hand is reaching out, fighting to keep his eyes open as he turns slightly to where Suguru is standing. “Yeah? I’m fine.”

“Are you…sure? You just look like you’re…going to fall over or something.”

He’s right of course, Satoru wants nothing more than to be horizontal at the moment, but why does he care how Satoru feels right now? When has he ever cared? They’ve never been openly hostile to each other, but they’ve also never been more than classmates, who don’t bother with talking about anything other than school or training or petty arguments about who ate all the chips in the kitchen. (The shared kitchen, Satoru argued. If you don’t want other people to eat your food then don’t put it somewhere that they could get to it.)

“I’m fine.” Satoru repeats, turning the knob to his door and stepping inside, back turned away again from where Suguru stands and stares with his brow slightly furrowed. He closes his door and makes the few steps across the room to his bed, falling into it before thinking that he should have pulled the curtains closed. Whatever. The lights are off, so it’s at least darker than everywhere else he’s been throughout the day. He shuts his eyes and lets out a breath, his head feeling as though it’s going to explode.

He doesn’t notice the silence that hangs on the other side of his door for a few long moments before Suguru moves away, down the hall to his own room.

When Satoru’s eyes open again, the room is pitch-dark. He isn’t sure how long he’s been lying there, but as he slowly comes to he realises that he’s still in his school uniform and…shit. His head is still throbbing. Groaning slightly, he draws a hand up to his face, dragging it across his forehead as if that will push the pain back within itself. He can feel the slick of sweat on his skin, sunglasses still on his face. Unwilling to devote even a little effort to what feels like an exhausting ordeal of pulling off the metal frames, he drags himself up into a sitting position. His stomach turns, the nausea induced by his migraine mixing with what he realises is hunger from eating precisely nothing all day. Did he even drink water? Other than a few sips from during his training with Suguru, he can’t remember.

He sighs again, and resolves himself to stand and make his way to the kitchen to see if he can find anything to eat, his hunger an utter contrast to his lack of an appetite. He sways slightly on his feet, the transition to being vertical doing nothing to hold back the waves of pain that radiate from inside his skull. But now he’s standing, and he knows that if he doesn’t at least force some food and water down his throat, he won’t be in any better of a condition tomorrow.

With slow, teetering steps, he leaves his room and makes his way down to the hall towards the kitchen. The rooms he passes are silent. He hasn’t checked the time, but going off the darkness that was outside his window, it must be late into the night by now, probably after Shoko and Suguru have eaten dinner and likely gone to bed.

The kitchen is silent too, and blissfully dark. Satoru doesn’t bother with turning the lights on, his Six-Eyes enhanced vision enough to find his way around the furniture and countertops of the small space even with his eyes closed. He finds a cup and holds it under the faucet with a slightly trembling hand. As it fills, he realises how weak his hand feels, and his legs, and his entire body. The thought of preparing a meal, even a microwave cup of ramen, suddenly seems absolutely overwhelming.

Shutting off the faucet, he turns away and starts towards the small couch pushed up against one wall of the kitchen. He barely holds onto the cup of water long enough to set it down on the low coffee table before his legs give out and he collapses onto the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes as the pain behind them swells, washing over him as he slips back into unconsciousness.