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“I think my soul gave up and transcended the mortal plane.”
Daichi lets out a whoosh of a chuckle, but even then it sounds almost intrusively loud in the stifling peace that is the ungodly hour of 2:38AM on Sunday night. His eyes flicker up to the small window in the corner of his laptop screen, and he immediately has to choke back another laugh. All he can see of Suga are a few tufts of hair – he’s definitely face planted into his Astronomy text, the poor soul – but it wasn’t particularly difficult for Daichi to imagine just how haggard Suga must look. Bags are probably forming under Suga’s eyes, as they were wont to do against the telling paleness of his skin, and plus, if Daichi looks closely enough, it almost looks like the few tufts of ashy-blonde hair that he can see are wilting like the plant Bokuto had gotten for Daichi’s birthday.
(He’d tried to throw it out on numerous occasions because Bokuto what kind of shit present is this, but his roommate had cried fat ugly tears and called him a murderer and ‘how could you do that to Bobby, Sawamura? How could you?!’ So on his windowsill it stays, albeit a little dehydrated.)
Daichi snaps once to get Suga’s attention, and Suga lifts his head off his desk dismally – oh, there were those eye bags, just as expected – before dropping it back down with a resounding thunk. “Come on Suga, get up,” he encourages, putting his own pencil down. “How much do you have left, anyways?”
Suga offers a rumbling groan in response, and the tufts of hair rotate and flop over miserably as Suga presumably rolls over onto his cheek. “Two chapters and three practice exams.”
Daichi winces in sympathy. He himself is actually much closer to finishing – he’s working through some assignment questions for International Trade which aren’t technically due, not yet, but he isn’t against keeping Suga company through Skype during his midterm exams. He’d have to do the questions sooner or later anyways, he tells himself, and that’s that.
“I mean, that’s kind of close?” Daichi tries, though it sounds weak even to himself. He’d reprimand anyone else for leaving so much to the last minute, but this is Suga, and well, Suga always pulls through somehow. He’s learned after years of friendship it’s best to just buoy him with some encouragement.
“Daichi,” Suga scolds, and Daichi imagines that small familiar grin that curls the tips of Suga’s lips. “We both know that’s not true, but thanks.”
Daichi snorts. “I try.”
“Appreciated,” Suga says dryly.
They lapse into silence again. If he really tries, he can catch the sound of his best friend’s light breathing through the connection, but Daichi forces himself to glance back down at his equations even when Suga lifts his head, his face once again visible on the corner of Daichi’s screen. Autarky prices and production functions, he reminds himself forcefully, except what on earth was an autarky price again, and why the fuck are there more letters than there are numbers in this equation?
He manages for about thirty seconds before he glances at his screen again. He groans. “Suga.”
The tufts of hair are back again, and Suga doesn’t bother to lift his head when he whines back, “Daichiiiii.”
“Study, Suga, you’ll be glad in the morning,” he cajoles. “Weren’t you going to go drinking with Oikawa afterwards? Just – look forward to that or something.”
Daichi gets a disgruntled mmmmraaaagh and Suga pushes himself up to peer into the camera. They lock eyes briefly. “Yeah, you’re right,” Suga murmurs, his words a little muddled in his bleariness, and Daichi has to remember to breathe.
Then Suga plops his head back on his desk.
“Really, Suga?” Daichi says, exasperated.
(He feels a grin tugging at his mouth though, because sleep-deprived Suga is always inadvertently hilarious.)
Suga mhms at him, then mumbles, “Wake me up in five.”
“Oh, c’mon, Suga –” When Suga proves to be completely unresponsive – whether he’s actually dead to the world or just actively and quite stubbornly avoiding his responsibilities – Daichi just shakes his head, though not before glancing at the time. He’d wake him at 3:00, he decides. Fifteen minutes can’t possibly hurt.
Instead of returning to his problem set though, Daichi pulls up the Skype window, the video call filling out the screen. He just wants to make sure his friend looks okay, he tells himself, since he hadn’t seen Suga in person in a while, even if all he can see on his screen is a head of ash-blonde hair.
He leans back in his seat. It’s times like this that he remembers just how much he misses his best friend. Late nights with Suga aren’t particularly out of the norm; after all, they’d spent several nights in high school together, trying to prevent their mutual deliria over unbelievable English terms and passing out on Daichi’s table on more than one occasion. It’s still different though, to only see and hear Suga through the crackling Skype connection. He’s still infinitely grateful that they’re still able to talk and hang out in some form, but it just isn’t the same, without the brush of Suga’s shoulders against his and the soft lingering note of Suga’s breathy laugh as it hung in the nighttime silence.
Suga shifts slightly and the strands of hair slide with the movement. Daichi smiles fondly at the screen. What he’d give to be able to see him.
“Bro, that’s mad gay.”
Daichi jolts so hard he nearly upends his mug of cold tea.
“What the fuck – Kuroo!” he hisses, hastily muting the call. He turns back to glare at his other roommate – who’s equal parts obnoxious as Bokuto, amazingly – and Kuroo, who’s leaning against his doorframe, all lanky smugness and atrocious bedhead, wiggles his fingers cheerily at him.
“Yes, that’s me,” Kuroo drawls like the smarmy ass that he is. His grin is as shit-eating as ever. “I see you’re being productive.”
Daichi feels the tips of his ears burn. “Oh shut up,” he snaps, and gestures weakly at the calculator that’s lying, abandoned, on his desk. “I – homework. See.”
Kuroo sniggers. “Yeah, yeah,” he snorts, and he pushes off from the doorframe, probably to head towards their kitchen. “Go the fuck to sleep Sawamura, whenever you’re done pining over a grainy video call.”
“I am not,” Daichi grumbles, though at this point it’s mostly to himself, since Kuroo’s already off, his chortles echoing down the hallway. He’s really not.
Really.