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The clock glowed 2:17 a.m. in garish blue digits. Claude Clawmark had been in the middle of a dream—something nonsensical about a supermarket imploding into a void, aisles collapsing into black—and he might’ve remembered it if he hadn’t been yanked out of it by a shriek that rattled the thin peace of their shared apartment.
“Fuck—oh my god—Jett went A main!—”
Claude blinked his eyes open. Stared blankly at the ceiling, watching the fan spin slow and mocking.
From across the room came the faint static of Leo’s mic, the frantic click-clack of mechanical keys, and the occasional thump of a knee hitting the desk.
Claude groaned, rolled onto his side, and flung one bare arm across his face. “You said you were getting off after one more match two games ago,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “You’re waking up your boyfriend, Leo.”
Then a shout from the other side of the room: “We're not boyfriends—”
Claude smiled, eyes still closed. “So you admit you woke me up.”
A pause followed. A very guilty, very suspiciously silent pause before a voice, sheepish and low spoke,“…Sorry.”
He cracked one eye open and stared at the ceiling. He could already feel the mild ache in his calves from yesterday’s run and the promise of more mileage tomorrow. Or today. Whatever, time doesn't exist at 2:17 in the goddamn morning. He stretched his arm overhead, listening to the clatter of Leo’s keyboard and the faintest audio bleed from his headset.
“’m gonna unplug your PC,” Claude threatened weakly, yawning and still half asleep.
“You wouldn’t,” Leo said, suddenly appearing at the edge of his bed, hair crushed flat from his headset, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like some gremlin version of a street racer. “You wouldn’t destroy our income like that. Think of the sponsorships!”
Claude peeled his other eye open, giving him a slow, unimpressed look. “Think of my sleep schedule.”
Leo had the gall to grin. “You love me.”
Claude responded by hurling a pillow at his head. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
Leo didn’t even flinch. “You tellin’ me that every night now, or is this just insomnia talk?”
Claude stared at him, deadpan. “I’m going to strangle you.”
“Not if I dodge. Like Jett. Watch this—”
Claude grabbed the other pillow. “Try me.”
Claude didn’t dream.
He rarely did, which made the mornings blur into his night-shift brain. When he did dream, it was usually stress-induced—missed deadlines, awkward performance mishaps, or his old middle school teacher turning into a Valorant agent and critiquing his aim.
But this morning, Claude woke up warm. Too warm, which, to be clear, was Leo’s fault. Claude blinked, crust in his lashes, lips dry. He turned his head just a little, and there he was.
Kuga Leo, sprawled in his chair with one sock on and two blankets draped over him in an attempt to mimic “a proper night’s rest."
Claude exhaled through his nose. His limbs ached, not in a bad way, but his morning routine was already 17 minutes behind and he didn't have the time to worry about a slight inconvenience. He sat up and ran a hand through his ponytail, tugging it loose, green ribbon flopping into his lap.
“You snore like you’re fighting demons,” he murmured toward the chair.
There was no response as Leo stayed very still. Claude narrowed his eyes. Suspiciously still.
He padded across the room in quiet steps, stretching a little as he passed their shared drawer—glimpsed at the clock.
10:08. Which meant Leo went to bed at… 4? 5?
Claude squatted beside the chair, arms folded on the armrest. “Leo.” His voice was low and a bit raspy from sleep, a half-growl. Soft, but warning in a way that always left Leo feeling a little funny, though he'd really prefer not to focus on that right now.
Leo exhaled loudly. “I’m not dead.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Claude poked his cheek. “Did you seriously fall asleep streaming?”
Leo opened one eye, letting his gaze settle on the messy bedhead Claude's currently sporting. Dull red, still unfocused, but his lips curled into a faint smile. “Nah. I closed the stream first... I think. Maybe. I might’ve closed the game instead, but that counts, right?”
Claude leaned in, not intentionally, but it happened and Leo thinks about how good Claude seems to smell. Don't they use the same body wash? “You woke me up, you know. I was having a peaceful eight-hour journey through dreamland and you queued ranked at fucking 2 a.m.”
“Dude, I swear, that wasn't me.”
Claude tilted his head. His white hair shimmered slightly in the morning light. “Then whose voice was screaming ‘let’s fucking go’ in my ear?”
“Okay but to be fair, I did ace that round.”
Claude stared at him.
”…While yelling ‘plant me daddy’ into the mic.”
Leo laughed, curling into himself under the blankets like he could escape his own sins. “I have no memory of that.”
“Well I do.” Claude stood up and stretched his arms above his head, shirt riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of pale, lean muscle. His sleep shirt was oversized and creased, hanging loose off one shoulder. He didn’t notice, or at least pretended not to.
Leo noticed.
He noticed way too much, actually.
Like how Claude’s voice sounded raspier in the mornings, yet still had that softness to it when he was especially tired. Or the slight stubble he’d missed shaving. Or how he smelled faintly like—
Leo rubbed his eyes aggressively.
Claude didn’t seem to notice the silence, too busy shuffling to the fridge. He pulled out a Diet Coke and cracked it open with the kind of reverence most people reserved for holy scripture. “Breakfast of champions.”
“It’s literally 10 am in morning.”
“And? I’m hydrating.”
“That’s not hyd—”
Claude handed him a second can without looking. Leo stared at it, took it, cracked it open and muttered, “You’re such a bad influence.”
“You woke me up. I’m reclaiming moral high ground, and I also need the caffeine.”
They drank quietly, basking in the comfortable silence. The kitchen light buzzed slightly. The early sun washed the walls with warm gold, and it should’ve felt too mundane, but it didn’t.
Leo leaned against the counter, eyes following Claude’s movements like it was muscle memory. The way he reached for the blender, shoved some powder in, casually tossed a banana (he never ate them, only blended them—“texture trauma,” he claimed), and hit blend with one knuckle.
It was so stupid. So domestic. So—
“You comin' with me?” Claude asked.
Leo blinked. “Where?”
“Gym. You said you were trying to get buff.”
Leo opened his mouth to protest, wanting to argue how he must've been hearing things and how Leo would never put himself through such torture before he saw Claude tilt his head slightly, soft eyes narrowing slightly in that way that made it look like he was flirting, even when he wasn’t. Or maybe he was. With Claude, he could never tell.
“…Fine. But if I collapse halfway you better carry me.”
Claude raised an eyebrow. “Bridal style?”
“Fuck no. Piggyback.”
Claude grinned. “Deal.”
Leo felt like something in his chest shifted. Just a little, barely noticeable, but definitely there. Like a new patch of warmth settling in, warmer than the sun shining through their window.
Claude’s mornings were usually sacred.
8 AM: wake up.
8:03 AM: bathroom.
8:15 AM: breakfast.
8:30 AM: jog or weights, depending on leg day.
9:15 AM: shower.
10:00 AM: sit through comp sci lecture pretending he hadn’t already read half the syllabus out of boredom.
But today? He woke up horizontal and disoriented, face half-smushed against a grey hoodie, which—by the way—he did not own. Not until now, apparently.
Claude slowly blinked up at the ceiling, then at the hoodie sleeve. “…Is this Bleach merch?”
“Uh huh,” came the voice from the kitchen. “Limited edition, was like eighty bucks.”
Claude sat up, wincing slightly at the ache around his waist. “You’re letting me drool on an eighty dollar hoodie?”
Leo glanced over his shoulder, unbothered. “Well, I was wearing it last night, but someone woke up, stomped over half-naked like a zombie, and stole it."
“I was asleep! And I was gonna run this morning. You ruined my schedule.” Claude argued, dragging himself upright and wiping at his cheek.
“Then get out there, track star,” Leo said, sliding a cup of instant coffee across the table. “Your hair’s already halfway to aerodynamic.”
Claude tugged at the green bow holding his ponytail. “Rude.”
They sat across from each other in a silence only broken by the occasional clink of glass cups or the distant sound of someone's stream in the background. Leo slurped his coffee like a man not embarrassed by anything. Claude sipped his coffee with the air of someone definitely trying to forget that he’d stood in his room last night—shirtless, groggy, and half-conscious—complaining about his last lecture and awful professor while leaning against Leo’s gaming chair.
“You gonna clip that?” Claude asked eventually.
Leo looked up, lazy grin curling one corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to?”
“No,” Claude said. “God. No.”
But Leo’s smirk only grew. Fuck.
10:23 AM
Claude’s laptop screen glowed an uncomfortable beige under the lecture hall lights. Professor Matsuda was mid-tangent about legacy architecture, and Claude was halfway through an aggressively annotated slide when his phone buzzed in his lap.
leo:
u alive?
im in class
guy next to me is watching vinland saga w subs on
on 1.25x speed
why r men
Claude snorted.
claude:
lmaoo
what class r u in. don’t you have linguistics today
why are you texting ME
leo:
yeah. it’s boring. everything is in IPA. they made us do tongue twisters
“she sells sea shells” but ur graded
anyway u looked hot this morning
Claude’s eyes bugged out so hard his screen nearly tilted. What the fuck was Leo saying.
claude:
?????
leo:
?
leo:
;)
Claude, flustered, shut his phone and glared at the front of the lecture hall as if sheer willpower would cancel class.
12:03 PM
Claude exited the building with his gym bag over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped, (it was Leo’s hoodie still, and it still smelled faintly of cheap convenience store body wash—their body wash.) Leo was already waiting at the corner, earbuds in, face half-lit by his phone screen.
Claude tapped the side of Leo’s head with one finger, peaking over at Leo's screen. “Tell me you didn’t tweet it.”
Leo pulled an earbud out. “Didn’t tweet. Just sent it to Shu.”
“You’re awful,” Claude muttered, but the smile was already there—lurking.
“Oh?” Leo raised a brow. “Gonna kick my ass later?”
Claude’s magenta-to-aquamarine eyes glinted. “Nah. I’m gonna steal your hoodie rotation.”
Leo blinked, then he grinned. A stupid thing really, but Claude couldn't help but feel his heart beating just a little faster.
“Okay,” he said, easily. “But only if I get to wear yours in return.”
Claude opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Leo bumped their shoulders together as they walked, casual, but warm.
“You’re such a fucking menace,” Claude murmured.
“I’m just a guy?” Leo teased.
Claude rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away.
10:17 AM — Tuesday
Claude’s phone buzzed from inside the oversized hoodie sleeve he had stuffed his hand into. He cracked one eye open from where he was half-dozing against his laptop screen, the monotone droning of Professor Kenzaki about “binary trees” doing less to stimulate his neurons than Leo’s 3 a.m. screeching last night.
leo:
u ever just walk into ur 10am lecture and forget u exist
claude:
u ever try to get 8 hours of sleep and ur flatmate decides to recreate pearl harbor with his keyboard?
leo:
it was icebox.
and it was a CRUCIAL round ok
i clutched with a shorty ur welcome
claude:
ur welcome for what. the ear damage?
i had dreams about u defusing a spike on my spine
leo:
u WISH i was on ur spine rn ;)
Claude choked on his own spit.
“Mr. Clawmark?” Professor Kenzaki narrowed his eyes from the front of the lecture hall. “Is there something amusing about pointer allocation?”
“No, sir,” Claude said smoothly, pressing his knuckles to his lips to suppress the chaos in his throat. “Just… shorting out from joy.”
Professor Kenzaki stared at him for a second longer before turning back to the board.
claude:
fuck u
blocked.
leo:
u are literally smiling rn
can’t lie to me babygirl i know u
Claude absolutely was smiling, the traitorous corners of his mouth curved up like they were wired there. He exhaled slowly and resumed clicking through his lecture notes. It wasn’t like Leo didn’t flirt constantly, but some messages hit way harder when Claude was sleep-deprived, running on vending machine Diet Coke, and still sore from morning cardio.
His legs ached. His heart... well.
claude:
i’m picking up lunch after this
u want anything or u still living on ramen and spite
leo:
do u even have to ask
the usual pls
ily
Claude blinked.
claude:
“ily” ??
what if i said it back u freak
leo:
then i’d die happy.
also can u get me that red bean bun too
pls :3
Claude stared at the message for a beat too long. He looked down at his phone, then at his open terminal window full of Python code and half-finished logic loops.
He really should’ve been more productive today. But Leo was infectious, like a disease. A sexy, infuriating, red-eyed plague.
11:43 AM
Claude juggled a coffee in one hand and a paper bag of Leo’s favorite red bean buns and sandwich combo in the other. His gym bag was still slung over one shoulder, and his laces were untied, but he was moving on pure roommate duty now.
The courtyard buzzed with students filtering in and out of classes. Claude caught sight of Leo walking toward him from the humanities building, earbuds tangled in his shirt collar, a spring in his step that screamed “I wrote three paragraphs of a paper in the last ten minutes.”
“Yo,” Leo called out, waving a little as he jogged up, grinning like a menace. “You got the bun?”
Claude held the paper bag up. “You say that like I’ve ever forgotten your fucking bean pastry.”
Leo practically bounced. “I knew you loved me.”
Claude rolled his eyes and handed the bag over. “Yeah, yeah. I love feeding my dependents.”
“Shut up.” Leo looked up at him with the softest smirk. “You’re cute when you’re mean.”
Claude’s brain hiccupped.
Leo didn’t stop walking, just started eating as they strolled across the quad. But Claude’s feet stuttered for half a second longer, watching the way Leo’s hair caught in the wind, the way his cheeks puffed slightly when he chewed.
Fuck.
7:03 PM
Leo was squatting in front of the mini rice cooker like it was a bomb he needed to defuse, except he looked far too pleased with himself for someone whose cooking expertise consisted of microwaved take-out and convenience store ramen.
Claude, now freshly showered, hair slightly damp and loosely tied again, leaned against the doorway with a towel still slung around his neck.
“Tell me why the rice smells like soap,” Claude said.
Leo glanced over his shoulder. “It does not.”
“It does. I can smell it from here. What the fuck did you put in it?”
“Water and rice. And love.” Leo stood, shrugging. “That last part’s free.”
Claude stared at him. “You cleaned the rice pot with dish soap and didn’t rinse it, didn’t you.”
Leo made a face like he had been personally attacked. “I rinsed it… a bit.”
Claude sighed. “You’re not feeding me poisoned rice, Leo. Not when I'm training for a marathon that's in like, six weeks.”
“You can survive a little Dawn Ultra,” Leo muttered, and then: “Wait, did you say your marathon? You mean ours.”
Claude raised an eyebrow. “Since when were you in on this?”
“Since I downloaded that pedometer app.” Leo tapped his phone and showed him. “I hit 5,320 steps today, I’m basically a god now.”
Claude looked at him, deadpan. “You also screamed into your mic for two fucking hours last night and woke me up mid-REM cycle.”
“That was a clutch. You would’ve done the same if you pulled a 1v4 with a Marshal and 3 HP left.”
Claude couldn’t help the grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, yeah. I’d have screamed louder, honestly.”
Leo blinked. “Oh?”
Claude turned away too fast, pretending to check something on the stove that didn’t need checking. “Shut up.”
10:18 PM
Claude was lying across the beanbag in their living room, typing lazily on his laptop. His glasses were slipping a little down his nose, and he had earbuds half in, half out—listening to a YouTube video about neural networks while absentmindedly messaging a game dev server.
Leo, meanwhile, was flopped face-first on the couch in sweats and a sweater he definitely didn’t own (Claude’s, obviously), phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling Twitter. He kicked Claude’s shin lightly.
“What?”
“You think we’re weird?” Leo mumbled, voice muffled against the pillow.
Claude didn’t look up. “I think you’re weird.”
“No, like—us. Like, we live together, stream together, eat together—”
“—almost fucking die together thanks to your cooking,” Claude added.
Leo kicked him again.
Claude snorted and pushed Leo’s foot off his leg. “No, I don’t think we’re weird. I think we’re just…” He trailed off, words fuzzy in his throat. “comfortable.”
A moment passed. Then Leo said, “Yeah. Sure.”
Claude looked over.
Leo was looking at him too, expression unreadable, phone screen dim now in his lap. His legs were bent at the knees, feet kicking the air lazily, but his eyes were soft. And there was something there, under the silence. Not heavy. Just there, lingering.
Claude shifted a bit in his beanbag. “I saw what you tweeted earlier.”
Leo blinked. “Which one?”
“The one about being ‘so bored i might kiss someone for the plot.’”
“Oh.” Leo paused. “I was bored.”
Claude leaned his head against the beanbag. “You could’ve kissed me, y’know.”
Leo’s eyes flicked up.
Then, very slowly, he grinned. “You wanna kiss for the plot, Claude?”
Claude rolled his eyes. “No. I want to kiss because I’ve had a crush on your dumbass for months and I’m getting real fucking tired of pretending I don’t stare at your lips every time you eat that red bean bun.”
The air stood still.
Leo blinked, once. His breath caught somewhere in his throat. Claude didn’t look away, but his fingers tightened, knuckles paling just slightly. Something unspoken cracked open between them, quiet and heavy and waiting—like if either of them breathed too hard, it might shatter.
Then Leo sat up so fast he nearly kneed the table. “Shit, okay, whoa. You’re not joking.”
“I am never joking about red bean buns,” Claude deadpanned, placing his laptop to the side.
“Say it again.”
“I like you, Leo.”
Leo’s face broke into a wide grin. “That’s crazy. I like you too.”
And that was that. They didn’t kiss right away. Claude looked at him, and Leo looked right back. It wasn’t electric, not in a shocking way—it was warm. Familiar. Like finally finding the last missing piece of a puzzle that’s already perfect.
Leo leaned back down on the couch, still smiling like a bastard. “I’m gonna fucking scream about this later.”
Claude chuckled. “You’d better.”
11:52 PM
claude:
ur snoring again
leo:
its called breathing aggressively
claude:
come breathe on me then
leo:
dont tempt me
Claude looked over the top edge of his phone at Leo’s bed.
Leo was already watching him.
“Get over here,” Claude mumbled.
Leo rolled out of bed without hesitation, sweater still swallowing him whole.
They didn’t cuddle, not really. But Leo curled up against Claude’s side like he’d done it a hundred times before, and Claude let him—arms folded behind his head like it was nothing. And if their knees brushed under the blanket, or if Leo's hand was resting near Claude's hip, and Claude's thigh was warm under his, and they stayed like that until sunrise—well. That wasn't cuddling. Obviously.
The room was dark.
The glow from their devices faded.
Neither of them could sleep, but for once, they didn’t mind.