Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first time it happens, they're drunk.

They mooch a ride back to their dorm from a girl one year above them who has sandy hair and eyes like a glacial lake, smells of strawberries, and laughs at every single one of Tetsurou’s jokes, even when the punchline lands way flat.

As much as this pisses Daishou off (“You’re not fucking funny, why does she think you’re funny?”), he still slinks into the car right after Tetsurou, grumbling incoherently. The girl—Alisa, Tetsurou thinks her name is—takes one look at Daishou’s sweaty, flushed face, and immediately goes around to her trunk to produce a bucket, labeled with PUKE!!! on the side in bright pink sharpie.

“Here,” she says kindly. “Use this.”

“‘M not,” Daishou snaps—even as he carefully brackets the proffered bucket between his knees. He then closes his eyes and takes in a really deep, really shuddery breath. Tetsurou scoots closer to the window. “Not gonna puke.”

All it takes is a slightly too-sharp right turn.

Alisa is way too nice to say I told you. Tetsurou is, unfortunately, too wasted, and also too focused on keeping his own bile down.

The second the car comes to a smooth stop at the curb, he’s stumbling out of it. 

Daishou follows, but his knees promptly buckle in. He goes splat against the side of the car, and then Alisa's slipping out too—smiling, still, despite the whole situation, having to take care of two shit-faced first years because she was one of the few people left at the party both sober and in possession of a car.

“All right, let's get you both inside,” she asserts, and grabs them both by their elbows with a strength Tetsurou would’ve fallen in love with if he weren’t fighting for his life.

She hauls them inside and into the elevator, presses the button for the fourth floor upon Tetsurou’s instruction.

It's a short walk down a narrow hallway to Tetsurou’s single. Alisa doesn't step inside, but she does hand each of them a small bottled water and instructs them to go to bed, immediately.

It gets blurry after Alisa leaves. All Tetsurou knows is the aftertaste of puked-up Kirin, the ridges of spine beneath his palm as Daishou takes his turn dry-heaving into the Puke Bucket Alisa left them with.

The coolness of the floor against his burning face as he finally, finally sinks into sleep.

When consciousness bleeds back into him in the form of a percussion ensemble bouncing off the walls of his skull, it takes him an embarrassingly long minute to realize that he never made it to his bed.

He turns his head, just slightly—

Toes. Peeking out from under the comforter. Not his. 

A tuft of dark hair peeking out at the other end of the bed. Also not his.

Oh my fucking god, Tetsurou thinks drowsily, which is about the extent of the panic he can muster. It’s just—his limbs are so heavy, his lashes unbearably sticky with sleep.

He falls right back asleep.

The next time he wakes up, his head is throbbing again and his bed is empty, but there’s a sticky note on the headboard:

Cleaned AND returned the bucket, thank me later fuckface

—Daishou

Tetsurou stares at his rumpled sheets. Stares back at the note.

“What the fuck,” he whispers.

—

It starts with unforgiving, razor-sharp smiles and V-neck sweaters dripping with dining hall coffee.

It’s going like this:

The second Tetsurou sees Daishou breeze past the windows of the boba shop he works at, alarm bells go ringing. He would’ve high-tailed it to the kitchen, except he’s in the middle of taking an order, customer-service smile outshining every pendant light in the joint.

His mouth stays resolutely split into a warm beam. Even as he watches Daishou slip through the door and into the back of the line, foregoing the one functioning kiosk altogether. Even when Daishou finally reaches him, teeth flashing in the afternoon light like a warning.

“Hey,” he simpers.

Tetsurou fixes his hair under his cap, never breaking eye contact. “Hey. What can I get you?”

“Mm…” Daishou hums and squints up at the menu behind Tetsurou, as if he doesn’t order the same drink every goddamn time. Tetsurou’s already putting the order in—regular-sized matcha milk tea, light ice, 50% sugar, brown sugar jelly—“I’ll get a taro. Regular, light ice, mango popping boba.”

Tetsurou blinks up from the screen. “What?”

Daishou’s grin grows. “I’ll get. A taro,” he repeats. “Regular. Light—”

“No, I got that part,” Tetsurou snaps—quietly. He leans in a little closer, really fighting to keep the smile on his face now. “Just. Why are you getting Oikawa’s order?”

“Can’t a man want some boba on a Friday afternoon?” Daishou snorts. He only looks away to pull his wallet out, and after the payment’s made, he blinks very meaningfully into Tetsurou’s face and says, “He doesn't have time to come by today, but he wants me to tell you he’s having a party tonight. A small, chill gathering, in his exact words.”

“No,” Tetsurou says immediately.

“Yes,” Daishou counters. “It’s happening, and you will be there.”

“No, I won’t.” Tetsurou shifts his gaze over Daishou’s shoulder. “Good afternoon! What can I get you guys?”

Daishou moves aside, but he doesn’t look at all deterred, which is equal parts annoying and terrifying.

I’LL SEE YOU, he mouths, slinking away to the other end of the counter to wait for his order. BITCH.

Tetsurou doesn’t dignify that with a response.

—

At 10 PM, it’s going like this:

Tetsurou sits on the floor, back to Oikawa’s bed, and tries not to grimace as he watches Daishou knock back his third shot of the night.

“Jesus,” he quips when Daishou keels over at the taste, immediately handing his glass off to Bokuto, who laughs and coos and ruffles his hair. “Don't drink so much. You know what happened last time.”

Last time, meaning the time they had gotten so drunk they couldn't tell left from right, had to be driven home by a pretty girl, puked their guts out, and then passed out in Tetsurou’s dorm.

(Tetsurou still wonders, sometimes, how Daishou got to the bed before he did.)

Daishou waves a dismissive hand, scowling.

“I won’t,” he insists, like his cheeks aren't already splotched pink, like he isn't leaning half his body weight against Oikawa’s desk chair because he can't sit up straight. “God. You're such a mom sometimes, Kuroo.”

Tetsurou feels his jaw jump, but there’s really no point in arguing further. It'll just make things awkward and tense, ruin the perfectly good vibe they have going on in here—Oikawa, Iwaizumi, and a handful of their closest friends sitting on the floor of their shared dorm and passing around cheap alcohol.

So, instead of continuing to nag like a mom, Tetsurou pulls out his phone. “Heads up, anyone?”

It's nearing one AM when Tetsurou decides to call it a night, stomach aching from being doubled over in ab-building cackling for so long.

He scrubs away at the tears caught in his eyelashes—holy shit, they’re so bad at charades—and announces, “Okay, I have to get back. I have to be up at seven.”

“It’s Saturday,” Oikawa points out, appalled.

“Maybe he goes for a run,” Iwaizumi says. “Maybe he’s healthy like that. Maybe he doesn't hit snooze a million times and end up waking up a whole two hours later—”

“I have to meet up with my group for a project,” Tetsurou clarifies.

Iwaizumi pulls the same face as Oikawa.

“Fuck, dude,” Hanamaki says emphatically.

Tetsurou huffs a laugh, reaching for the pile of jackets next to him.

“Wait,” cuts a voice through the hushed, buzzy murmurs of nonsensical conversation, right as Tetsurou’s about to step out the door.

Tetsurou turns, convinced he's having auditory hallucinations despite not having touched a single drop of alcohol tonight.

But, no, it really is Daishou talking to him. He's peering up at Tetsurou, eyes glossy, mouth parted around his next words.

Something tugs at Tetsurou’s gut. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down, hard, until Daishou finally sits upright, rocking slightly as he does.

“Comin’,” he mutters. “Hold up—”

“What?” Sugawara whines. “You're leaving too?”

Daishou struggles to stand, only getting to his feet with Bokuto’s help. Slipping his jacket on is another process, too, and then he's finally teetering his way over to Tetsurou.

“Let's go,” he demands—like he's the one who's been waiting.

Tetsurou rolls his eyes, but he lets Daishou link their arms together in an incredibly rare display of vulnerability. He’s not a total asshole, and he and Daishou live in the same dorm anyway, one floor apart. If Daishou wants to stay glued to his side for balance for a ten minute walk through campus, then so be it. He’ll be the one living with the worst hangover clarity in the world tomorrow morning anyway.

That is, if he even remembers.

“Bye, you guys,” Oikawa calls out. “Get home safe!”

He sounds incredibly sweet in a way Tetsurou does not like. But he can't even turn around to ask about it because then Daishou’s tugging them forward—“Kuroo, I'm tired, let's go.”— and Tetsurou’s stumbling after him into the hallway.

“Bye!” Oikawa sing-songs again.

Tetsurou just barely manages to flip him off before the door clicks shut.

“God, I hate him,” Tetsurou mutters halfheartedly.

“Hm?”

Tetsurou shakes his head even though Daishou can’t see him. “Nothing. Oh, watch out for that ste—shit!”

The trek back is silent, for the most part. Daishou isn’t nearly as drunk as he was last time, but he's still holding Tetsurou’s arm like it's a lifeline as they shuffle into the elevator together, and Tetsurou only presses the button for the fourth floor and not also the fifth because, remember, he’s not a total asshole. He would genuinely rather walk into traffic than leave Daishou—or anyone, for that matter—alone without making sure he gets cleaned up and hydrated first.

“Okay,” he says as he sits Daishou down on his bed. “Wait right here.”

Daishou shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “Nooo. I'm gonna jump out the window.”

“Oh!” Tetsurou smiles brightly and squeezes Daishou’s shoulders even tighter. “Well, that’s fantastic! Be my guest, I've been waiting.”

Daishou wriggles out of Tetsurou’s grip, grimacing, and flops backwards. He only sits up again when Tetsurou threatens to dump water all over him, blinking with drowsy anger even as he lets Tetsurou tip his head back and fit the edge of the mug to his lips.

Eventually, though, he’s had enough. He bats at Tetsurou’s wrist, weakly, lashes fluttering in protest, throat ceasing to bob.

Like a baby, Tetsurou thinks, downing the rest of the water himself. He could pinch Daishou’s overinflated cheeks auntie-style right now, and Daishou wouldn’t even be able to fight back. Wouldn't have the coordination, the speed.

It's tempting. Extremely, terribly so. But Tetsurou is a stronger man. 

And a tired one. The sooner he washes his mug, the sooner he can come back and get his much-needed five hours of shut-eye for the busy day ahead.

He comes back from their dorm's shared kitchen in the span of five—barely five minutes.

Why is that important to know?

Because Daishou is now fully curled up on his side in Tetsurou’s bed, elbow under his head and fist tucked under his chin. And even after Tetsurou pokes him, then kicks him, then, as a dead last resort, pries his fist open to lick a careful stripe up his palm—

He doesn't even stir.

Tetsurou gapes, aghast, which does nothing to change the fact that Daishou fucking Suguru is fast asleep—in his bed. 

Again!

“There’s no fucking way,” Tetsurou says out loud, which also does nothing to change the fact.

His brain, reduced to mostly sleep-deprived mush at this point, cycles through exactly two viable solutions: either he relegates himself to the floor once again (in his own goddamn dorm, for crying out loud), or…

He stares at the fraction of a space between Daishou’s back and the wall.

He thinks about how a twin-XL bed is, in no way, shape, or form, made for two adult men.

He hears the sound of Daishou snuffling, feels his heart zipping around his chest the way it always does when he’s this bone-tired and desperate to sleep—

Fuck it, he thinks, and goes.

He worms his way into the space, until his back is pressed all up against Daishou’s, until the heel of Daishou's foot bumps up into his ankle.

It should be uncomfortable. He can feel it in his bones every time Daishou takes a breath. His nose keeps grazing over a bumpy patch of wall. This is by the far the weirdest situation, to date, that he's consciously put himself into.

But the human body is chock-full of surprises, as Tetsurou’s been made aware of so many times during his pre-med journey. He's out within seconds, eyes drooping to the lullaby of Daishou’s snuffling, and it's the fastest he's fallen asleep all week.

He rises hours later, grainy-eyed and yawning and—

Alone. 

As he fumbles blindly for his phone to check the time, he's made very aware of the cold draft against his back that wasn't there before.

6:47 AM.

“Goddamn,” Tetsurou croaks out loud. Daishou moved quick.

He looks around for another sticky note after he’s pulled on a hoodie and jeans and shoved all the papers he needs into his backpack, but doesn’t find one this time. Daishou had left without so much as a trace—maybe hadn’t even been here in the first place. Maybe Tetsurou imagined everything that happened after he left Oikawa’s place. Phantom on his arm, water in a World's Best Dad mug for one.

(He realizes while waiting for the elevator that he doesn't have his phone with him—of all things?—and his heart plummets straight to his ass. He jogs all the way back down the hallway, shoves his way inside his room again. Sees his phone almost instantly on his bed still, where he had left it after getting up.

And it hits him as he reaches over to swipe it up—notes of a crisp body wash that isn’t his.

Huh.

Tetsurou’s mouth quirks with a grin, incredulous.

Not so traceless after all.)

—

There's a knock at Tetsurou's door.

Tetsurou emerges from his quarter-asleep state of slumber, startled.

Great, he thinks, now you're hearing things too. 

Because, look—his track record of sleep hasn’t been that great lately. Between interviews for internships, covering one too many shifts for his coworkers, and all his exams falling just days within each other, he’s been staying up until three or four more often than not. And even if he does get into bed at a reasonable time, he sleeps in winks and wakes up somehow even more exhausted and irritated than he thought possible.

All his friends have been telling him he looks terrible (slash lovingly, slash concerned). They tell him to lay off the energy drinks, as if he’s Kenma and his blood is made of pure Red Bull and Yunker. They insist that he’s doing too much, but how could it be too much if it’s what everyone’s doing? 

“Dude,” Kenma had said over their usual Facetime session yesterday, peering dubiously into the camera and wrinkling his nose in a rare display of genuine worry. “Are you—well?” 

Tetsurou nodded. He didn’t mention that for the past ten minutes, he’d been seeing a second Kenma floating in and out of his vision.

But now it turns out that he’s not only seeing things—he’s also hearing them. And he’s so tired. And all he wants to do is fucking sleep, but here he is, eyes closed, and instead of darkness there’s a fence, his forty-second sheep leaping gracefully over and out of sight.

Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four—

Another knock. Louder, more insistent.

Tetsurou rolls out of bed, blanket and all, trudges across the room, and flings it wide open.

“Hey,” says Daishou.

Tetsurou closes the door.

Or, attempts to. Daishou worms his long, spidery fingers in with startling preparedness, and Tetsurou is torn between slamming the door on Daishou’s hand or giving Daishou the grace of explaining what business he has being at Tetsurou’s door at two in the morning.

Tetsurou chooses peace. 

He opens the door just a sliver wider, squints through it, and says, “You have the wrong room.”

Daishou blinks. “What? No, I know where you live. Look, can we just—can we do this inside? These guys down the hallway—I think they're drunk, but they're pointing at me and laughing.”

“Incredible.” Tetsurou is so absolutely bamboozled. He hasn’t seen Daishou in weeks. Hasn’t seen much of anyone, really, unless he bumps into them at the library or the dining hall, so what the fuck is Daishou doing here? “Give them a cookie for me.”

“Kuroo.”

“Daishou.”

“Ku—roo.”

Tetsurou’s eyelids are losing a very half-assed battle against gravity. He tips his head against the doorframe and groans, “No, I can’t. I have class at eight. You can fuck with me another day, I promise, but—”

“Kuroo,” Daishou tries again, and this one’s different. On the verge of a whine, a little hysterical, desperation coloring the edges of Tetsurou’s name in a way Tetsurou has never heard before.

It has him standing straighter, cracking his eyes open with tremendous effort.

Daishou stares back at him, plaintive. Even though Tetsurou can only see a fraction of his face, he looks just as drowsy and miserable as Tetsurou feels, and if he keeps worrying his bottom lip with his teeth like that, it's going to bleed. 

Tetsurou looses a long, winding breath. What did he have to lose, anyway? The sleep he was never going to get in the first place?

“Fine,” he says, snappier than he means to. Shame colors his cheeks instantly, even if Daishou doesn’t look like he cares, or even registered his tone. “Get in.”

—

So.

There Daishou stands. Middle of his room, two-oh-seven in the morning, clad in Spiderman pajama pants and a white tee, hair sticking up at six different angles, socked foot tap, tap, tapping away at the floor in distress.

“I had a nightmare,” he reveals gruffly. “Can’t sleep.”

“A nightmare,” Tetsurou echoes.

Daishou’s mouth twists.

Tetsurou presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. When he looks up again, Daishou’s still frowning, but his gaze is downcast, almost sheepish, like he’s just now starting to regret every single one of his decisions in life that led him to this moment.

It's a rare look on him. There's a faint red in his cheeks, evident even in the dim light of the lamp Tetsurou switched on, and it’s cute.

It's.

What?

Tetsurou shakes his head to dispel the fog of sleep-not-sleep settling in.

Then, he swallows against the achy dryness in his throat and reaches for the water bottle on his dresser.

“You came to my room because you had a nightmare and can't go back to sleep,” he summarizes after taking a giant swig.

“Yeah,” Daishou agrees. He at least has the decency to sound a little sheepish, too.

Tetsurou caps the bottle. “I don't get it.”

Daishou tilts his head, exactly like a puppy would. “You…just explained it to me.”

“No, I mean—why here? We're not—we don't. I haven't seen you in ages.”

Not since the last time you fell asleep in my bed, Tetsurou almost adds, but manages to keep the words on his tongue instead. It doesn't feel right to bring it up—not like this, anyway, when Daishou already looks the most on edge Tetsurou’s ever seen him.

“Oh,” Daishou says. He scratches the bridge of his wrinkled nose. “Well…none of my friends live in this dorm. And none of them are close by enough for me to just walk over. Even just taking the stairs one floor down was too much work, really.”

“Wooooow. So I’m the last resort,” Tetsurou deadpans. 

Daishou’s mouth twists again, this time with a grin. “Yeah, pretty much.” 

It's not, though. There’s something else he’s not saying. Tetsurou can tell, from months and months of careful observation that stemmed from his insatiable need to know everything about everyone.

(Especially about the people who’ve fascinated him since the day they met, a corner turned too fast, coffee gone flying, the sharpest, greenest eyes he’d ever seen.)

Tetsurou can tell—from the flickering, far-away look in Daishou’s eyes just before they tear away to peer out the window instead. Fingers curling defensively into his t-shirt, into the spaces of his ribs.

Tetsurou wonders what he dreamed about.

“I'm assuming,” he begins dryly, even as his neck prickles at what's about to come out of his mouth and his throat goes dry all over again, “that you didn’t come here to tell me about your nightmare.”

“Ew,” Daishou’s saying before he even finishes. “God, no.”

“You say ew, but you came here to sleep.”

Daishou audibly shuts his mouth. Satisfaction blooms in Tetsurou’s gut, seeps into every tired bone.

“Yeah,” he simpers. “That's what I thought.”

“Shut up,” Daishou mutters, but he’s even redder now, and his voice breaks like a prepubescent teenage boy's.

Tetsurou rolls his eyes. “Sounds like you really wanna take the floor, huh?”

“Kuroo!”

But when Tetsurou crawls into bed (his twin-XL bed, in case you forgot), crowding himself against the wall, Daishou only waits half a beat before following suit, flipping up the corner of the comforter and slithering right under. 

The only sound Tetsurou hears for the next thirty seconds is his own galloping heartbeat.

Then, Daishou shifts. In doing so, his foot—stripped of his socks, which are now neatly deposited by the foot of Tetsurou’s bed—bumps into Tetsurou’s calf, and Tetsurou jerks so hard he slams his elbow into the wall.

“Fuck!” Tetsurou spits.

“Jesus, Kuroo,” Daishou says, sounding more amused than concerned. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite you.”

“With incisors as sharp as yours?” Tetsurou scoffs, weighing the pros and cons of tossing himself out the window. You’re on the fourth floor and you’ll probably die is the only pro popping up on his mental whiteboard. The con list remains squeaky clean. “Yeah, you better not.”

Another beat of silence. Two beats.

Daishou shifts again. “You know. I’ve been hearing some things. About you.”

“What things? That I’m smart, kind, and have a fat ass?” Tetsurou muffles a jaw-cracking yawn into his fist. “Thanks, but I heard it all first.”

Daishou kicks him for real this time. Tetsurou winces, even though it didn’t actually hurt.

“No, stupid,” Daishou sneers. “Bad things. You're doing bad.”

Tetsurou goes stiff. “Who did you hear that from?” 

Daishou's teeth shine in the moonlight spilling in through the blinds. “Hiroo,” he drawls.

Ah. Hiroo Kouji. Fellow biochem major and Daishou’s friend from high school, the second of which Tetsurou didn’t know about until Daishou caught them in the library studying for an exam together.

Hiroo, unlike Daishou, was probably the chillest person on the planet. He painted his nails whatever color his little sister wanted, sat with Tetsurou in the library until three in the morning in the week leading up to an exam, and liked making fun of Daishou just as much as Tetsurou did. He was funny like that, all dry jabs and quiet snipes in the back of the classroom. Smart, too, but you wouldn’t guess it considering how he treated his lectures and discussions like extended group nap times.

It's coming back to Tetsurou now, seeing the sparks of concern on Hiroo’s usually impassive face whenever he zombie-trudged into lecture. Promising Hiroo he was fine and promptly looking up at the slides so he wouldn't have to see the disbelief on Hiroo's face. Finding a Snickers bar in his backpack that he certainly hadn’t put there himself after class.

“Oh.” Tetsurou flushes and scratches his neck. “Yeah. Well. He’s lying.”

“Hiroo's a lot of things,” Daishou says. “Including a liar.” That gets a startled laugh out of Tetsurou. “But I'm looking at you right now, and it's rough.”

Tetsurou chances a glance sideways. Daishou’s staring up at the ceiling.

“You're not looking at me though.”

A pause, so long Tetsurou thinks Daishou’s actually fallen asleep on him.

So when Daishou suddenly rolls onto his side, very much awake, Tetsurou yelps.

It's the single most embarrassing noise he could've made in this moment, and Daishou lets him know by sniggering at it, hand flying up to cover his mouth.

“Yeah,” he chortles. He shoves himself up on his elbow, and his gaze roves all over Tetsurou’s face—spends a particularly long time at Tetsurou’s bruised and hollow under-eyes. Tetsurou tries not to squirm. “Still shit, sweetheart. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Don't call me that.”

Daishou’s eyes curve, almost sweetly. “What, sweetheart? I think pet names should be the least of your concerns right now.”

Tetsurou closes his own eyes. It's too much. Daishou is so close to him, and he's so deprived of sleep, and they're both so unbearably sober this time. If he opens his eyes, he'll do something stupid, like count every single one of Daishou’s long, dark eyelashes, or wonder where the little white scar on the bridge of Daishou’s nose came from.

A sigh leaves Daishou’s mouth, fanning over Tetsurou’s face. 

“If you tell anyone about this,” he starts in a low voice. “And I mean anyone, even that guy Kozume—”

“Kenma,” Tetsurou corrects, eyes still closed.

“I’ll kill you. For real.”

“As opposed to fakely?” 

Fingers thread into his hair, curling around the back of his head and yanking him forward. 

Tetsurou’s eyes fly open. All he sees is collarbone and shirt.

He instinctively tries to move away, grabbing Daishou’s shoulder for leverage, but the hand holds him right where he is.

“What,” he wheezes, taking in a lungful of fresh laundry and trees, “oh my fucking god?! Are you seriously going to kill—”

“Shut up,” Daishou murmurs. “I’m going to try something, and you’re going to like it.”

“That sounds like a—” Tetsurou’s breath catches in his throat, hard, at the sudden gentle scrape of fingernails against the base of his skull. Ohhh. 

“A threat,” he finishes weakly.

Daishou moves his other hand to the top of Tetsurou’s head, sinking fingers into hair Tetsurou hasn’t washed in almost a week. It has to be so oily and disgusting, but Daishou starts massaging into it anyway, slow and methodical, picking up knotted strands and easing his way through them with a familiarity that makes Tetsurou’s spine tingle.

The silence that follows is sticky, slow. 

Warm.

It drips from the ceiling into Tetsurou’s comforter, his sheets, through his skin and into his bones, replacing the awful, cold buzzing that had been occupying them for weeks on end.

“Wow,” Tetsurou mumbles, bumping his head up against Daishou’s hand without meaning to. “Jesus Christ. This has to—has to be black magic or something.”

“Nah,” Daishou says after a moment. It sounds like he just swallowed a laugh. “Just what my grandma used to do when I was little and couldn't fall asleep.”

“Nightmares?” Tetsurou yawns. His fingers curl into a loose fist, centimeters from Daishou’s chest. He's dreaming, he's sure—except, to be dreaming, he has to be asleep, and when's the last time he'd slept long enough to dream? “Your grandma sounds a—maaaazing.”

“Yeah,” Daishou whispers. It sounds like there's something else caught in his throat now. “She was.”

Tetsurou winces sluggishly. His eyes flutter shut at the knuckles kneading his neck.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers back. He goes to lift his head up, suddenly struck with an urge to see the look on Daishou’s face right now.

But Daishou, in this very particular moment, is far stronger. 

So, tucked under the covers with Daishou’s fingers dutifully untangling his hair, Tetsurou finally loses the battle to sleep he had never wanted to be fighting in the first place.

—

He misses his eight AM.

And his nine AM.

—

It’s almost ten when Tetsurou wakes up. Sun pours in through the blinds in bright, golden rays, someone distantly down the hallway yells out an expletive, and Daishou breathes soundly and steadily next to him.

That’s new.

Tetsurou spends a moment just staring, intrigued by this development. Half of Daishou’s sleeping face is lit by the sun, making the shadows of his lashes extend way past pink cheekbones. He’s pouting a little bit, bottom lip shiny with drool, and it's beyond bizarre to see him like this, his usually perfect hair so messed up, every sharp edge of his face completely rounded and relaxed.

And they’re not cuddling, not by a long shot, but Daishou’s knee is wedged in between both of Tetsurou’s own, and Daishou’s wrist is a dead weight on the side of Tetsurou’s neck.

Tetsurou clears his throat.

Daishou sniffles. Draws his eyebrows together.

Cracks open his left eye first, then his right.

“Morning,” Tetsurou rumbles. His voice cracks between the syllables, horribly, and he tries not to wince. “I missed class. You probably did too.”

Daishou blinks at him, once, twice, three times, long and slow.

“Wha’,” he croaks faintly.

“It’s ten,” Tetsurou elaborates. “I don’t know if you have somewhere to be, but—”

Daishou rockets off the bed, nearly face-planting onto the floor.

“Shit,” he spits. “Shit—”

Tetsurou sits up, ignoring the way his head protests at the sudden change in elevation. 

“My dresser,” he says as he watches the frantic way Daishou’s whipping his head around the room. He pulls the comforter up to his chin, feeling way too exposed all of a sudden. “You left your card there.”

Daishou swipes it up in a flash and mutters a soulless thanks before he slides on his slippers, almost tripping, again, in the process.

Then, hair sticking out in double the amount of directions as last night (this morning?) and pajama pants still rolled up to his knees, he bolts.

The door slams shut. Tetsurou stares at it for a long, long time.

—

“I think Daishou’s ghosting me,” Tetsurou announces.

Hiroo looks up from his notebook, where he’s been doodling unnervingly realistic llamas into the margins instead of working on the practice problems up on the board.

“You talk to Daishou?” he asks.

“What?” Tetsurou asks back. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“No, I mean, like—” Hiroo twirls his pencil. “Enough to know that he’s straight up ghosting you? And not just ignoring you for fun because he thinks you’re annoying?”

Tetsurou’s lips thin into a flat line. 

“You do the same thing,” Hiroo reminds. “I’ve watched you leave his texts on read in real-time.”

“That’s because he’s only ever asking for free boba,” Tetsurou informs, rolling his eyes so hard it hurts. “Anyway, yes. He's straight up ghosting me. I saw him in the common room this morning, and he practically ran as soon as we made eye contact. He never runs—he always has shit to say.”

“True,” Hiroo contributes.

“He hasn't been to any parties recently,” Tetsurou adds, raising a second finger. “Which, okay, fine. But he hasn't even read a single one of my texts asking if he's coming.”

Hiroo slurps noisily at his coffee.

Tetsurou squints.

“As I was walking over to him at the dining hall, he immediately put his phone to his ear and picked all his dishes up. Even though he still had half a bowl of beef stew left.”

“Definitely a fake call,” Hiroo says sagely.

Tetsurou heaves a sigh.

“I just want to know,” he says, “if it's just me he's ignoring, or if it's everyone.”

“Did you do something to make him ignore you?”

Hiroo slides his drink over as he asks. Tetsurou takes a begrudging sip, pretending to think as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

But it’s not like he can tell Hiroo of all people that the reason he’s being so blatantly avoided is because Daishou’s embarrassed. Because he caught Daishou drooling inches away from his face exactly two weeks ago. Because Daishou hadn’t managed to hightail it out of the dorm before Tetsurou woke up, like he’d so artfully done before.

“No,” Tetsurou scoffs finally, pushing Hiroo’s drink back. He leans back in his seat as the grad student steps back up to the front of the room, looking for hands to pick on so they can go over the problems together. “Why in the world would I do that?”

“Why would you, indeed,” Hiroo drones.

—

Tetsurou scrolls through the texts, vein in his forehead near-bulging at the 100:0 ratio of blue messages to gray. He tosses his sheets into the washing machine. He stares out the window at exactly two PM on Friday and watches Daishou sashay into the café right across from his boba establishment. Watches him emerge fifteen minutes later with sunglasses low on his nose, nursing a matcha latte.

Tetsurou rings up the next order, smiling as sweet as his mouth feels sour.

Two can play at this game, he thinks. Mark my fucking words.

—

It’s not hard to find out when Daishou’s finished with classes for the day. Tetsurou texts Bokuto, who happily divulges the information and doesn’t ask questions like Oikawa's nosy ass would've.

So, Tuesday evening, 6:28 PM, instead of writing up his lab report or studying quizlets for anatomy, he's spending his time sitting cross-legged in front of Daishou’s door.

Watching. Waiting.

Every time the elevator dings, Tetsurou’s head snaps up, only to hang back down in disappointment. He knows Daishou’s going to be here soon. His class ended at six, he doesn’t have any meetings, and the business school is a 22-minute bus ride away. 

Tetsurou’s rolled the ball perfectly—Daishou just has to do his part and let all the pins fall.

In the meantime, he responds to all 36 of his sister's vodka-induced text messages about how much she loves her boyfriend—all variations of describe his ass with one more adjective and im cutting all contact. He replies to a lengthy email from his lab manager about the project they've just started working on. He has an entire phone call with his mom, covering all the bases before she can get to them. Yes, I'm eating three meals every day. Yes, Kenma's doing well. Yes, my classes are fine. No, I don't currently want to kill myself.

Then, he opens up Subway Surfers and sets himself to finally breaking the record Yaku had set over a year ago.

Approximately five seconds into attempting this feat, a shadow falls over him, looming.

“What are you doing.”

Harumi crashes into a train. Tetsurou looks up.

“Oh,” he greets cheerily. “Hey!”

Daishou stares back down, mouth pressed into a tight, unamused line. In the sickly yellow light of the hallway, his skin looks paler than usual, and abnormally waxy.

“You're in my way,” Daishou grinds out—not quite a snap, but edges fraying on one.

Tetsurou turns off his phone and staggers to his feet, slow enough to make Daishou’s eye twitch. Then he steps to the side and watches Daishou the entire time it takes him to unlock the door and shoulder his way in.

“Wow,” Tetsurou whistles. “Looks like someone's in a good mood.”

“Shut the fuck up, Kuroo,” Daishou returns sharply, out of view.

But instead of slamming the door shut, he's left it open—a sliver, a fraction of a sliver open, but Tetsurou is nothing if not an opportunist.

He darts inside.

Daishou’s at his desk, fiddling with a paperweight. Without even turning around, he asks, “So, are you gonna tell me why you're being such a creep?”

“You call this creepy?” Tetsurou scans the row of tiny plants along the windowsill—huh, he had never pegged Daishou as a plant dad—and huffs through his nostrils. “Well, it’s the only way I knew I would get to see you. Since, you know.” SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT THE FUCK UP, his brain yells through a megaphone. He ignores it. “You’re avoiding me.”

The paperweight drops to the desk with a sickening thud. “What?”

Tetsurou toes the door shut behind him. “Don't ‘what’ me. You've literally been going out of your way to not see or speak to me. And frankly, I think that's just uncalled for.”

“I'm not—” Daishou turns around, face splotched an angry red. Or maybe an embarrassed red. “What?” he repeats. “You sound crazy.”

Tetsurou takes one giant step to the left.

Daishou opens his mouth, already glaring. “Don't—”

Tetsurou plops down on Daishou’s bed. 

“Fuck you,” Daishou mutters. He rubs at the space between his eyebrows, glare going even darker. “And why the fuck would I be avoiding you?”

“I might have an idea,” Tetsurou chirps, only to get swallowed up by Daishou’s louder, “I’ve just been busy. I barely have time for my friends, much less annoying people like you.”

Tetsurou stretches his mouth into a sunny grin. He looks at Daishou’s fingers, flexing agitatedly at Daishou’s sides, and he thinks about how those very fingers have been in his hair. Pressed into his neck. Curled into his sheets.

“Well, that’s mean,” he says. “All things considered.”

“What does that mean?” Daishou demands.

Tetsurou revels in the defensive, awkward half-octave rise of Daishou’s pitch. “You know, I’ve been wondering,” he starts casually, heart tap-dancing not-so-casually against his ribs. “Do you have nightmares often? Hiroo told me the other day that you guys love staying up to watch horror movies on the weekends. Maybe you should cut down on that.”

Daishou doesn’t just stiffen. He goes rigid. Three shades paler, if possible. Eyes so huge they’re threatening to fall right out of their sockets.

“Just a thought,” Tetsurou adds.

“Shut up,” Daishou spits—familiar words, but the look on his face isn’t. It’s not just anger, and it’s not just embarrassment. There’s something else in there, a flickering, raw kind of hurt. 

But how can that make sense? He’s the one who’s been avoiding Tetsurou like the plague, going so far as to forego his usual Friday afternoon bubble tea. He’s the one who shot out of that bed like a bullet, like sharing such a space with Tetsurou was only okay if he was able to pretend like nothing happened. 

Tetsurou’s stomach folds in on itself. A slow caving-in that pushes all the breath right out of him, in one painful go.

“Daishou—”

Daishou crosses his arms over his chest, lips curling. He won’t even look at Tetsurou when he snaps, “No. Get out.”

That’s not fair, Tetsurou wants to protest, but Daishou’s already turning away from him again. The conversation—whatever useless exchange of words they’ve just had for the past two and a half minutes—is over.

Tetsurou gets up. Trudges to the door.

Lingers for just a moment, like Daishou will suddenly have a change of heart and ask Tetsurou to sit back down so they can talk about it. Because, clearly, there were things to talk about. ‘Why’s Tetsurou wanted answers to.

But Daishou just picks up his backpack and pulls out his desk chair.

Tetsurou leaves, ears ringing, chest hot and tight. If he closes the door a little harder than he needs to, that’s between him, God, and the poor, lanky boy shuffling down the hallway with a towel slung over his shoulder and bottle of a shampoo he nearly drops at the sound of the slam.

Should’ve just kept working on the stupid lab report.

—

Tetsurou and Daishou don’t fight.

Bold, eyebrow-raising statement, Tetsurou’s sure. But it’s true. 

They bicker, constantly. Make cutting jabs, snarky little quips. Daishou blocks him one day, and unblocks him the next to ask if he can please please please bring bubble tea to the library after ur shift PLEASE my brain needs it. Tetsurou sends him a zoomed-in picture of Bokuto’s nostrils in response and gets blocked, again, two hours later.

There's bickering, and then there's this:

For the first time in a decade, Daishou shows up to a party. He slips into Sugawara and Sawamura’s dorm at 10 PM, bottle of wine tucked into his side, and gets applause like he’s some kind of movie star. He's dressed like one, too, effortlessly cool in his washed jeans and leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head even though it's pitch black out.

He smiles, all slow and shark-like, and daps up everyone in the room.

Everyone but Tetsurou.

He moves from Bokuto to Iwaizumi in the span of a heartbeat, laughing at something Bokuto said that Tetsurou doesn’t hear over his pulse hammering away in his ears.

“What was that?” Bokuto whispers when Daishou’s moved further away, over to Oikawa. He gapes at Tetsurou, eyes big and disgustingly golden. “You—he didn’t even—”

Tetsurou snags a nori shio chip out of the bag in Bokuto’s lap and shoves it between Bokuto’s teeth.

Daishou ends up sitting on the other side of the room, on the corner of Sawamura’s bed. On another day, Tetsurou wouldn’t have even noticed the distance, much less clocked it as something odd. But today, with his thigh all pressed up against Bokuto’s, Iwaizumi’s arm stretched out behind his head, it's all he sees. Daishou, choosing to sit the absolute furthest away from Tetsurou he can.

Tetsurou tries to focus on something, anything else. The warmth of the dorm. The low hum of conversation. The crinkling family-sized bags of snacks whenever someone goes for a bite.

Because there's bickering, and then there's this:

Tetsurou catches Daishou looking exactly once. Iwaizumi's in the middle of very impassioned rant on why people need to stop making movies that are three hours long (“Okay, but Interstellar,” Oikawa puts forth, to which Iwaizumi immediately says, “Fuck Interstellar.”) when Tetsurou lets his gaze wander—higher, to the right—

Daishou blinks. 

Looks away in the very next second, lips curling with just the faintest hint of a frown. 

Tetsurou downs the rest of his chuhai in one go. He chokes, embarrassingly, on the last dregs of it—doubles over coughing to Oikawa and Bokuto's shrill, alarmed yelps and Iwaizumi clapping his back with the force of someone trying to whack his kidneys out for black market harvesting.

“I,” he shudders when he’s done, wiping calmly at the dribble of spit at the corner of his mouth and straightening, “have to go to the bathroom. Excuse me.”

He makes a graceful exit, but not for the bathroom. 

Instead, he heads down to the first floor, then traipses outside. He sits down on a metal bench and takes in one, two, three deep breaths, none of which even remotely quell the heat in his chest.

Everything is so stupid. Daishou’s so stupid. Tetsurou won't ever understand how his stupid, slimy snake brain operates.

He returns after exactly three minutes.

“You good?” Bokuto asks as he shuffles back to his spot.

“Yeah,” Tetsurou assures, squeezing the fingers Bokuto splays out over his thigh. He glances around the room, instantly noticing a distinct lack of stupid, slimy snake. “Where—”

“He went to the bathroom too,” Yaku informs, eyes narrowing. “Like, right after you. You didn't see him?”

Tetsurou’s heart jumps. Like, actually, fully takes a leap in his chest and almost ends up in his throat. 

“Guess I piss quick,” is one of two intelligent responses he can come up with.

The other is did he do that on purpose?

Yaku laughs loudly. “Okay. Prove it.”

“Oh.” Tetsurou reaches for a handful of chips. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Don't piss in my dorm,” Sawamura says, a note of alarm in his voice like Tetsurou’s actually going to whip his dick out, set a stopwatch, and start emptying his bladder.

Tetsurou can't tell what's funnier—the real panic in Sawamura’s face, or how genuinely gutted Yaku looks at Sawamura’s demand—but the entire room is cracking up, bursting into tinny, obnoxious peels of laughter.

They're still laughing when Daishou comes back. Tetsurou notices him before he's even fully stepped inside, and he stares.

Hard.

Because Daishou had wanted to meet him in the bathroom, right? He had wanted to talk—whether it was to snap at Tetsurou again, or apologize (ha—only in Tetsurou’s wildest dreams). What other explanation could there be?

But Daishou doesn’t even spare him a glance. He picks his way back to his spot, silent the whole way through.

Sugawara and Sawamura exchange eerily similar looks.

“Hey.” Sugawara pokes Daishou’s arm. “Is everything okay?”

Daishou reaches over to the windowsill for his drink. Takes the slowest sip of it Tetsurou’s ever seen.

“Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p’ extra loud.

Tetsurou snorts.

All the eyes in the room shift to him. 

(Not Daishou’s, though.)

“Sorry,” Tetsurou coughs, but the edge in his voice is apparent even to himself. He waves a hand around like he can physically dispel the whole situation, resolutely ignoring Bokuto’s fiery, golden eyes branding the side of his head. “Go on. I, for one, think Interstellar is peak cinema.”

“THANK YOU,” Oikawa cries. “See, Iwa-chan—”

The conversation picks right back up where it left off. Bokuto leans over, lips nearly brushing over Tetsurou’s ear—

“You’re so not slick,” he murmurs.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tetsurou murmurs back.

—

“That is literally the cutest thing I have ever seen.”

Kenma looks at the egg in his hand, tilting it this way and that.

“Thanks,” he says finally. “That’s only because Shouyou drew freckles on it.”

Tetsurou stops scrolling through lecture slides to gasp and lean forward, making the huge, knowing eyes he knows Kenma hates.

Sure enough, Kenma's already scrunching up his nose and shoving his laptop further away from himself.

“Hinata drew the freckles?” Tetsurou coos. “When did you guys see each other?”

“He came down this weekend,” Kenma says, rolling his eyes a full 360 degrees, but his ears are unmistakably, adorably pink. “He was visiting family, but he stopped by my place for a day. So I told him about the egg baby, and of course he was all like, wahhh, gwahhh, I wanna see, so I was like, sure, here. And now we—I have an egg baby named after Yamaguchi Tadashi.”

“Yama…” Tetsurou squints at him. “Yamaguchi. Isn't that the guy who threatened to shave my eyebrows off in my sleep if I called Tsukki ‘Tsukki’ again?”

Kenma grins, canines sharp.

Tetsurou leans back in his desk chair with a long, low whistle. “Wow. I don't know how to feel about that. Actually,” he straightens back up, “I do. Elated. Because you and Hinata are raising the cutest little egg baby in existence together. You guys are parents!”

Kenma crimsons. “No, we're not. He doesn’t even live here.”

“Long-distance exists,” Tetsurou shoots back easily.

“For parenting a newborn?”

“He named your baby.” Tetsurou raises a finger. “He gave it freckles.” Another finger. “He's probably asked for pictures a dozen times since he left.”

Kenma flips his middle finger up, still crimson. It's as good a confirmation as anything.

“He helped me make the bassinet for it,” he mutters after a moment. He's playing with the cuff of his hoodie now, the way he always does when he’s getting shy. Tetsurou has to fight with every molecule in his body to not go AWW!!! out loud. “Then he insisted we go on a walk with it around the neighborhood, and that I could list it as an activity I did with it.”

“With him,” Tetsurou corrects gleefully. “The baby,” he clarifies at Kenma's mystified glare. “It’s a him. Don’t disrespect your child like that.”

“Don't be stupid,” Kenma retorts, but it's weak. Like a kitten ramming into your leg and stumbling back at their own attack, dazed.

Love looks good on you, Tetsurou wants to say, except Kenma would actually, genuinely hop on the next train to get here and strangle him with his bare hands and somehow get away with it, too.

He sweeps up his aloe vera drink from across his desk instead. “How long did you say the project is again?”

“A week.” Kenma makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “It’s annoying, though. We have to meet up with our partners—our real ones,” he adds at Tetsurou’s eyebrow wiggle, “at least once outside of class so both of us can take responsibility for the egg at the same time. Or whatever. I don't—”

He’s interrupted by three sharp raps at the door.

“I thought you said were gonna stop Uber-Eats-ing dinner,” Kenma drawls. “‘Cause you're broke.”

Tetsurou looks over his shoulder. “I didn't order anything.”

“You can go get it. I won’t look.”

“I didn't order anything!” Tetsurou insists. “It's almost one AM! And I already had my mom’s oyakodon for dinner—”

Now he's interrupted by the knocking, and he and Kenma both jump.

“Well,” Kenma says. “Bye.”

“What?” Tetsurou whisper-shrieks. “You can’t just lea—”

Kenma hangs up. Tetsurou’s left to gape at his Kenma-less screen for only a second before the knocking starts up again.

Tetsurou extracts himself from his chair with a groan. He’s already in his pajamas, reading glasses on and hair shower-damp, and certainly not in the condition to talk to anyone who isn't Kenma.

But, clearly, ignoring the situation isn’t making it go away, so Tetsurou zombie-shuffles over, ready to (politely) chew out whoever’s on the other side for showing up at such an inopportune time (seriously, what does anyone need at one fucking AM?)—

“Oh my god.”

Daishou Suguru. Sweaty, shivering, swaying, knuckles still poised at the door. It feels like the punchline to some really bad cosmic joke that only God could laugh at.

“Hi,” he croaks. “You got any Tylenol?”

And then he promptly lurches over, sweeps up the tiny trash can by Tetsurou’s door, and throws up.

—

This week in knowing everything about everyone: Kenma is a new parent, and Daishou is somehow even more stubborn than usual when he’s sick.

Unbearably so.

“You,” Tetsurou shoves his finger into Daishou’s chest, using his other hand to keep Daishou pinned down on the mattress, “are not going anywhere. Are you fucking crazy?”

As if on cue, Daishou shudders and coughs like he’s trying to force out something within the very depths of his soul. He shoves at Tetsurou’s arm, pathetically, uselessly, and glares, the effect of which is entirely lost in his unfocused, puffy-rimmed eyes. 

“‘M fine,” he snap-slurs.

“You're stupid is what you are,” Tetsurou shoots back, but it’s with half the bite he would normally have. He wants to be angry, wants to be annoyed—should be angry, should be annoyed.

But it’s shockingly hard to be mad at someone when they look like they’re in the clutches of the grim reaper. When their every breath comes out wobbly and shuddering, when they try to lift their head and the wetness in their eyelashes catches the light just so.

Tetsurou presses Daishou’s shoulder down even harder. The second Daishou stops actively struggling, he goes to his closet to fish around for a light blanket and rip open the pack of Gatorade stuffed away in the corner.

“You don’t,” Daishou tries, only to dissolve into another coughing fit. He sits up as Tetsurou kicks his closet door shut, scooting back against the headboard without instruction.

“Good boy,” Tetsurou croons. He tosses the Gatorade and the blanket forward, neither of which Daishou manages to catch. “Now, are you going to stay put, or do I need to bring out the handcuffs?”

Daishou’s cheeks go pinker than they already are. He fumbles with the bottle cap, silent.

A rush of victory courses through Tetsurou’s veins as he scurries down the hallway and to the bathroom with a hand towel, flicking the tap on to run it under cold water. Then, inside his room again, he yanks open the top drawer of his dresser and gets his fingers around a bottle of Tylenol.

He pads back over. Daishou’s still struggling with the drink, blanket draped over his legs, and when he blinks up at Tetsurou, his eyes seem even wetter than before.

Something in Tetsurou’s chest stutters at the sight, hard. He sets down the medicine—swipes the bottle out of Daishou’s hands and twists the cap open with ease.

“Thanks,” Daishou whispers.

Their fingers brush when Tetsurou hands the bottle back. Daishou’s are slick with sweat, clammy, and Tetsurou tries not to shiver but he’s pretty sure he does.

“Haven’t heard that one before,” he cracks dryly.

Daishou sniffles, wordless.

“You look like shit,” Tetsurou prods.

Daishou sips at his Gatorade, still wordless.

“Like. So fucking bad, dude.”

Daishou’s nose twitches. 

Satisfied, Tetsurou shakes two tablets into his palm, waiting until Daishou’s done drinking to press them into Daishou’s hand. Daishou doesn’t say a word throughout any of it, but the second Tetsurou gets him laid down, towel across his forehead and blanket in a loose tuck up to his chin, he props himself up on his elbow with a labored grunt—Tetsurou, who’s just sat back down at his desk, flinches—and rasps, “I just wanted medicine.”

Tetsurou’s eyebrows come together. “...I know. I gave—”

“No, I mean—” Daishou scrubs at a ruddy cheek. “You didn’t have to do this. Everything else.”

It may very well be just the fever, but there’s a softness to Daishou’s voice that Tetsurou’s never heard before. And he looks so soft too, so soft and sick and sad, and Tetsurou should be angry, but—

He breathes out a fluttering little sigh.

“I know,” he says, quieter. “But I wanted to. Now shut up and go to sleep.”

Daishou sinks back down. “Why?” It sounds like both a laugh and a sob. Tetsurou’s head reels with it. “You don’t even—I don’t—I haven’t—”

Tetsurou sets his pen down and, after a moment of deliberation, rolls his chair over. Daishou tracks him the entire way, the rims of his eyes still pink and puffy—jerks in surprise when Tetsurou gives his cheek a hard poke.

“Go to sleep,” he commands. “One more word out of you, and I’m tossing you out the window.”

Daishou huffs. “Promise?”

He falls asleep sometime in between Tetsurou pretending to push open his window and then rolling back to his desk to continue working. Tetsurou steals periodic glances to the side, but Daishou just looks peaceful. Fevered, but an easy sleeper, it seems, which Tetsurou appreciates.

Around two, he returns to his closet and yanks out the sleeping bag he’d brought for when he had a camping retreat for a club a few months ago.

Around four, he’s woken up by an insistent finger pressing into his shoulder, and his heart nearly drops into his ass when he blinks into Daishou’s face hovering just inches away from his own.

“Jesus,” he breathes, panic settling into his bones just a beat too late. “Shit. Are you—”

“I’m sorry,” Daishou hiccups. “K’roo, I’m sorry.”

Tetsurou reaches out, blindly, to curl his fingers around Daishou’s wrist, heart still wobbling precariously from the scare.

“What? It’s not your fault you’re sick,” he rasps. Daishou’s skin burns against his palm, but he keeps holding on, even as his eyes start to droop closed again. “C’mon. You actually scared me, Dai—”

“No,” Daishou interrupts. “For. Before. The nightmare.” Tetsurou’s eyes fly back open. “You never did anything wrong. I was just being stupid. I wasn’t mad at you. I wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Tetsurou says. His throat constricts slightly. He lets go of Daishou. All the should-be anger and should-be annoyance leave his joints in exactly one breath. “Okay. Thank you. That—I really—thanks.”

He nearly cringes at how stupid he sounds, but it doesn’t matter. Daishou’s already knocked back out, cheek smushed into Tetsurou’s pillow and arm dangling over the side of the bed, having satisfied his sole purpose of apologizing.

What a funny guy, is Tetsurou’s last coherent thought before sleep takes him back under.

—

On Friday, Bokuto and Oikawa break into Tetsurou’s dorm and find Daishou sitting cross-legged on the bed, holding up a spoon of okayu to Tetsurou’s mouth.

“Hey,” Tetsurou wheezes miserably.

Bokuto’s face splits with a beam. “Hey! You guys made up?”

“How did you guys do that,” Tetsurou demands. “How did you get inside.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Oikawa sing-songs, closing the door behind him. He toes off his sneakers and makes an immediate beeline for Tetsurou’s desk.

Daishou rolls his eyes and bumps the spoon closer, smearing porridge over Tetsurou’s cupid’s bow in the process. “Yeah, he does that with me too. I’m literally this close”—he pinches his fingers together—“to calling campus security on him.”

“You would never,” Oikawa scoffs. He turns big, brown, doleful eyes to Tetsurou. “We were worried about you! You went AWOL on us so suddenly, you know—”

“I’m sick,” Tetsurou grumbles.

“Ohh,” Bokuto snivels, “you poor baby—”

He plops down on the edge of Tetsurou’s bed, making grabby hands that Tetsurou cowers against the headboard to avoid.

“I don’t wanna get you sick,” he explains when Bokuto’s face crumples at the rejection.

“Like I got him sick,” Daishou contributes.

“Not sick enough to be incapable of feeding myself,” Tetsurou grouses, but he closes his mouth easily around the next bite.

His face burns at Oikawa and Bokuto’s twin coos. Daishou, on the other hand, appears uncharacteristically unbothered by it all. 

Honestly, Tetsurou was surprised he’d even shown up. When he left a voicemail for Daishou in the morning telling him the fever had very much been passed on, the last thing he expected was for his fitful afternoon sleep to be interrupted by Daishou’s voice bleeding through the door LET ME INNNNN, BITCH, I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE—

All in all, Daishou was surprisingly good at taking care of someone. And his company has been surprisingly pleasant. If you told Tetsurou a week ago that he would be spending his next Friday afternoon being spoon fed porridge while listening to Daishou weave a riveting rant about a marketing project worth forty percent of his grade, he would’ve peed himself laughing.

Now, he reaches for the water bottle propped up against Daishou’s leg as Daishou asks, “Okay, so why’d you guys really come here?”

“What?” Bokuto and Oikawa squawk at the same time.

“Because we were worried!” Oikawa insists, hand across his chest.

“Because we missed Kuroo,” Bokuto pouts, tracking a fake tear down his cheek with his finger.

Daishou looks at Tetsurou, pulling a face like do you hear this shit.

Tetsurou laughs throatily.

Oikawa grabs the crocheted dog on the top shelf of the desk, a parting gift given to Tetsurou by Nobuyuki at their high school graduation, and tosses it directly at Tetsurou’s head.

“We’re being serious,” he whines, and he's a really good liar, usually, but his eyes are a touch too shifty, and Bokuto’s innocent puppy facade just isn't cutting it this time.

But where they lack in their deceiving abilities, they make up for in terms of their superior distraction tactics. Bokuto pulls up Clueless on his laptop, Oikawa makes a mad dash to the konbini to grab tuna mayo onigiri, and the four of them waste away the rest of their evening within the confines of Tetsurou’s room, pirating all of Tetsurou’s favorite comfort movies.

(Tetsurou knocks out halfway through Footloose and wakes up in the middle of Spirited Away credits—credits that are still rolling because it’s nearly three AM and everyone else is asleep too now.

Oikawa and Bokuto are on the floor, tipped into each other and sweetly snoring away, feet still pressed together from when they were playing footsie, and Daishou—

After a bit of frantic squinting around, Tetsurou finds him curled up at the foot of the bed. He’s hidden away, mostly, save for the thin strip of moonlight over one eyelid and his nose that makes the scar there glow extra white. His hoodie is draped over himself as a makeshift blanket, and Tetsurou leans forward to ruck it up, closer to his chin.

Daishou stirs. For one heart-stopping minute, Tetsurou thinks FUCKFUCKFUCK YOU JUST WOKE HIM UP FUCK WHAT HAVE YOU DONE.

But all Daishou does is let out a breathless little sigh and shift to turn his nose into the sheets.

Tetsurou starts breathing again. His chest goes loose and warm, and he lays back down, curling into a ball of his own.

He thinks, for a brief, fever-muddled moment, about reaching out to tuck away the stray lock of hair across Daishou’s cheekbone.

Dude, comes a droning little voice from the very depths of his brain. It sounds suspiciously like Kenma. Go to sleep. You're insane.

Nooooo, Tetsurou thinks back, just to be difficult, but his eyes are already drooping closed again and his brain's going fuzzy, Daishou’s hair now a mere afterthought. I'm not insane, Kenma. Don’t say that.

You're still sharing your twin-XL with another man. You're a little insane.

Well.)

—

They make their case through a PowerPoint. A PowerPoint. Eight substantial, clearly rehearsed slides on why they—Tetsurou and Daishou—should get an apartment with them—Oikawa and Bokuto—for next year, all concluded by,

“Yeah, so, this is actually what we were gonna ask that day you were sick.” Oikawa pops a pistachio into his mouth. “Thoughts?”

“You want me to live with this guy?” Daishou guffaws, jerking a thumb towards Tetsurou at the same time Tetsurou says, “Well, firstly, fire template.”

They look at each other.

Tetsurou smiles.

Daishou does not.

“Don't be ridiculous, ‘Shou-chan,” Oikawa scoffs. “You guys don’t even hate each other anymore.”

Daishou, who’d been slumped over the table throughout the presentation, shoots upright, sending all the whiteboard markers by his elbow clattering to the floor.

“That’s not true,” he sputters.

“It’s a little bit true,” Tetsurou says, thoroughly enjoying the deep pink flush now crawling out of Daishou’s collar. He leans forward, steadying himself with his elbows, and purrs, “I never hated you. You just hated me. All because I accidentally bumped into you—”

“That sweater was new,” Daishou scowls. “Not to mention expensive—”

“I offered to pay for dry cleaning,” Tetsurou points out. “You just had too much pride to say yes.”

He still remembers the look on Daishou’s face when he had frantically made the offer, a cross between surprise and something trying too hard to be disdain. The sun spilling through the big back windows made the whites of his eyes look almost pink as he took an angry bite out of his tempura and stomped off without an answer.

Now, Daishou purses his lips and leans way back into his chair, like he can get sucked into it if he tries hard enough.

“Plus, you’ve been getting along so well recently,” Bokuto contributes brightly. “Daishou nursed Kuroo all the way back to health—”

“I nursed him for one day.”

“And then Kuroo got him matcha milk tea as thanks—”

“He kept threatening to throw rocks at the RA’s window and frame me for it if I didn’t.”

Bokuto claps his hands, right eye twitching very noticeably. “Did we mention everyone gets their own room?”

“The in-unit washer-dryer?” Oikawa asks, eyes big.

“The barely five-minute walk to campus?”

“The konbini just below us?”

“Rooftop pool.”

“50-inch flatscreen TV.”

“24-hour gym.”

“Incredible central heating.”

“Coffee bar in the lobby.”

They both sound seconds away from bursting into tears. Oikawa has his hands pressed together in fervent prayer, Bokuto’s sinking to his honest to god knees, and it’s Daishou’s turn to lean forward now, previous embarrassment giving way to a sly sliver of teeth, a flash of no-good baby pink tongue.

“I was sold from the second I heard we’d get our own rooms,” he admits to Tetsurou in a stage-whisper. “I just think it’s funny to see them struggle. Right?”

Tetsurou laughs, mostly out of surprise. 

“Wait,” he says when Daishou just tilts his head. “You. You’re being serious?”

“Dead,” Daishou promises. “I don’t have anything else going for me right now.”

Tetsurou barely hears Oikawa’s huffy bitch? over his own voice as he says, “Well, shit. Me neither.”

This time when he cracks a grin, Daishou’s cracking the same shitty one back. 

“Wow,” Bokuto says. “Woooooow.”

“I’m moving out,” Oikawa declares, even though they’ve barely yet to move in.

“Good,” Tetsurou and Daishou chorus in unison.

The Nike slide Oikawa throws at him is worth it, Tetsurou thinks, for the ungodly snort Daishou unleashes before doubling over in a fit of cackles—even when Oikawa’s other slide smacks him upside the head too.