Work Text:
Riku only notices something’s off when the basketball team files in and Daeyoung isn’t with them.
It isn’t like he’s searching – he tells himself this as he stretches out his shoulders, pretending to focus on the rotation drills Coach Choi’s barking at the volleyball squad.
But the truth is, when two entire sports teams are crammed into one hall because the rain won’t let up, it’s impossible not to notice who’s missing.
And today, it just happens to be Kim Daeyoung.
There’s no Daeyoung cutting sharp across the polished court, sneakers squeaking against timber floors, the thud of the ball always finding its way to him.
No Daeyoung laughing mid-play, head thrown back, voice ringing above whistle shrieks and the low drone of the volleyballs hammering on the other side.
No Daeyoung spotting Riku across the invisible divide, their gazes colliding in that accidental way that never feels like an accident at all.
Usually, it’s instant – the moment Daeyoung looks over, smile breaking wide, radiant enough to reach across the hall and burn straight through Riku’s chest.
That’s when the world blurs at the edges.
Coach Choi’s orders dull to static, his teammates’ chatter turns thin and far away. Because Riku can’t do anything but stand there, heat crawling up his neck, trying not to combust under the way Daeyoung looks at him – like Riku’s the only thing ever worth looking at.
But today…
Today, the side filled with the basketball team feels oddly – hollow.
Riku fumbles a serve and earns himself a concerned look from Jaehyun, but his mind keeps circling back.
When was the last time he even saw Daeyoung? A week ago? Longer?
Their texts had been steady enough – Daeyoung replying within minutes, his messages threaded with bad dad jokes and the kind of daily updates that makes it feel like they’re still orbiting the same space. But the days themselves – Riku can’t remember the last time he’d inched out of class to find Daeyoung waiting outside the lecture hall.
Leaning against the stairwell railing, long legs stretched out carelessly, the sunlight catching on his glasses as if he’d been standing there all afternoon. He always looks put together, in a way that shouldn’t be possible – tie knotted neatly, shirt crisp, sitting just right on his shoulders. Even when everyone else lets their uniforms wrinkle by midweek, Daeyoung looks the part – a picture-perfect poster boy without even trying.
And always with a drink in hand.
Not just a drink – that would make it sound careless, like he grabbed whatever was near. No, Daeyoung’s choices are deliberate, thoughtful in ways that never fails to make Riku’s stomach flip.
Barley tea during exam weeks, like he remembers Riku’s throat always gets scratchy when he’s tired. Orange juice after practice, when Riku sweats himself pale. Banana milk, Daeyoung’s favorite, pressed into Riku’s hand with a small smile and a quiet: “You look like you need it, hyung.”
At some point, it started to feel less like a casual offering and more like proof that Daeyoung’s been thinking about him – maybe earlier in the morning on the way to class, or in the middle of the day when he’s heading out for lunch, or on his way through the convenience store during break.
And every time, Riku feels the same flush crawl up his neck as he takes whatever Daeyoung offers, trying not to look as undone as he feels.
Riku blinks against the fluorescent lights of the gym now, the clatter and sweat-heavy air pressing down on him. His chest tightens with the thought, sudden and unshakable –
Where is Daeyoung?
“Oi, Maeda!”
Riku blinks back to life for about half a second before a volleyball comes into contact with the back of his head. A yelp slips free and the bright yellow ball bounces off, rolling across the slick court.
“It was yours,” Coach Choi intones.
“Sorry,” Riku mutters automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. He sees the immediate crease of disappointment on her face, and offers a quick nod, “I’ll fetch it.”
“And take five after,” she says, already turning back to the others (though she idles by long enough to make sure he isn’t about to pass out).
Riku exhales, swallowing the sting of guilt. He knows they’ve been working extra hard with the big inter-school tournament coming up, but he really just – can’t get his head straight today. He jogs towards the rogue volleyball as it rattles away – until a hand scoops it up first, long fingers halting its spin.
“Distracted?”
It’s cool, syllables threaded with amusement.
Riku stops short.
An arm’s length away, Oh Sion stands, the ball balanced easily in one hand.
His basketball jersey clings to him, navy against skin that seems almost luminous under harsh gym lights. A white headband pushes his black hair back, but does nothing to tame the strands that fall near his temple, framing a face that seems too sharp, too composed, for someone their age.
It’s unfair, Riku thinks, the way Sion looks like he belongs on the spread of a sports editorial instead of sweating it out in the same echoing hall as the rest of them.
No wonder half the school trails after him: underclassmen whispering from the bleachers, upperclassmen sneaking photos during interclass games, even students from nearby schools knowing his name on sight.
Sion doesn’t chase attention; it simply folds around him like gravity.
Basketball captain, golden boy, the center of a dozen rumors that probably only scratch the truth.
More importantly: Daeyoung’s precious sunbae.
Frankly, Riku’s never actually been this physically close to Sion before. And now, with that sharp gaze leveled on him, he feels his throat tighten, words shrinking to nothing.
“A little,” he manages. Sion flicks the ball over with lazy precision, and Riku catches it tight to his chest, “Thanks.”
Sion ignores that, “You’re looking for Daeyoungie, aren’t you?”
The way he says it – casual, almost sing-song – makes Riku’s insides lurch. Maybe it’s the tilt of Sion’s grin, or maybe it’s those ridiculously big eyes that feel like they see too much.
Either way, it’s obvious: he knows something.
Riku swallows, “Not particularly.”
“Oh?” Sion purrs, folding his arms across his chest. He doesn’t sound convinced in the slightest, “That’s funny. I thought you might be curious about where he is.”
Riku bounces the volleyball once, a failed attempt to rid his nerves, “Why?”
Sion shrugs, stepping close enough that the rest of the gym seems to drop away for a beat, “Just thought you might be.” He leans a little closer, and it could be comical, how devious he looks, but Riku swears he feels a chill run down his spine, “Aren’t you?”
The trap is dangling, obvious, and he hates that he is curious, a coil of worry wounding in his chest.
After a beat of hesitation, he relents, “…Yeah, I am. Where is he?”
Sion’s smile sharpens, victory painted plain across his face, “He’s sick.” He flicks a hand in the air when Riku stiffens, “Relax, Maeda. He said it’s just the flu.”
The ball presses harder against Riku’s chest.
Why didn’t he tell me?
The thought lodges deep. He remembers the last time he’d been sick – Daeyoung had carried half his weight home, fussed over him with tea and warm towels like it was second nature.
Even before… even before things had shifted between them.
Daeyoung had always made sure that Riku was fine.
More than fine.
And now?
Oh Sion knows, and I don’t?
Kindly – too kindly – Sion lets him fumble in silence for about half a minute before offering, “He probably didn’t want to worry you.”
“Yeah,” Riku says, not quite in agreement. “Probably.”
There’s a flicker in Sion’s expression, a quick twitch of his brow, as if he can see straight through Riku. Then, offhand, “You know he’s staying in the dorms too, right?”
“I do,” Riku mutters. The volleyball feels heavier than it should, like an anchor he can’t set down. He hugs it close, takes a step back, “Thanks for letting me know.”
Sion’s grin curves again – sinister, at least to Riku.
(To anyone else, it may be just mischief.)
I don’t know what Tokuno sees in this guy, Riku thinks mildly.
“Well,” he drawls, “I was thinking of bringing him dinner.” His gaze slides away, over Riku’s shoulder – and for the briefest instant, his bite softens, attention snagged elsewhere. The moment passes; when his eyes return to Riku, they’re cutting again, “Unless…?”
The jab lands exactly where it should.
Riku knows, for whatever reason, Sion’s baiting him. Poking him in places he knows will sting, a dig to the ribs that has him flinching, jumping yards away at this point. And still – because it’s Daeyoung, because his chest is thrumming with a relentless, restless worry – Riku can’t stop himself.
“I’ll do it.”
Sion, as Riku expects, feigns innocence, “Do what?”
“Bring him dinner.” Riku forces his tone level, though his fingers press hard into the leather, resisting the gnawing urge to strangle the older boy, “So, you don’t have to.” And with a little more effort than Riku thought it’d take, “I’ll take care of him.”
That earns a gleam of amusement, Sion near-giddy with it, “I see.”
“Yeah.” The reply sounds embarrassingly flat, even to his own ears. He inches away again, desperate to cut the conversation before Sion can unravel him any further, “Thanks, hyung.”
Sion hums, the sound curling after Riku like smoke as he retreats. Even with his back turned, he can feel the weight of Sion’s presence clinging to him until he reaches the volleyball cart.
Yushi appears almost instantly (as if he’d been waiting). He presses a cold Gatorade into Riku’s hand without a word, movements neat and careful. Riku notices, in the offbeat way he always does, how Yushi carries himself: shoulders drawn in, dark hair falling into his face.
But then Yushi’s brow creases, his line of sight pulling past Riku.
Riku turns to follow it – just in time to catch Sion watching them from across the hall, grinning like he’s caught the best seat in the house. He lifts his hand and gives a slow little flutter of fingers, half-playful, half-mocking. And as if that isn’t enough, he puckers up and blows a kiss at Yushi before jogging away, fluffy hair bouncing with each step, entirely too pleased with himself.
Yushi turns a shade of pink so bright it might rival the Gatorade in Riku’s hand.
“What did he want?” Yushi asks at last, quiet and curious. He twists the hem of his shirt, “You guys were talking for a while.”
Riku downs half the Gatorade, mostly out of residual nervousness from having dealt with Oh Sion, “He just told me Daeyoung’s not feeling too good.”
Yushi makes a face, “Oh.”
“He’s nuts, by the way,” Riku jerks his chin towards where Sion’s already wrangled his team into drills. He goes on, “Your boyfriend.”
Yushi startles, the color on his cheeks deepening as he bumps his knee against Riku’s hip to shut him up.
“He’s not my –” he falters, “He just… likes to tease.”
“Well, he should find another hobby.” Riku caps the bottle, shakes his head, “He really freaks me out sometimes. I can’t even look at him.”
Yushi’s lips press together, the corners dipping slightly. He squares his shoulders then, as though he’s bracing against something unsaid.
Protective, almost.
Riku backpedals quickly, “I mean – I feel like I can’t talk to him. He makes me nervous, for some reason.”
Yushi deflates, “I suppose that’s not unusual.” His hand ghosts against Riku’s arm, nudging him back on court just as Coach Choi glances their way, “So… then are you going to look for Daeyoung after practice?”
“Yeah,” the answer comes fast, already formed. “I’ll bring him dinner. Maybe some medicine too. Just in case.”
“That’s nice,” Yushi says simply.
And somehow, the gentle finality of it closes the conversation.
Riku doesn’t mind. The last thing he needs is to get beaned in the head twice in one afternoon. Besides, his thoughts are already elsewhere – half a step ahead, running down corridors towards Daeyoung.
x
“You’ve got a fever, hyung.”
Riku swats Daeyoung’s hand away, though the effort is sluggish, “I’m fine.”
Daeyoung sighs – louder than Riku’s ever heard in a hushed library.
The sound earns a glance from a table over, but Daeyoung doesn’t care. He shifts in his seat, the scrape of notebooks and pens signaling his decision before Riku can argue. One by one, Daeyoung packs away their things, deft and unbothered by Riku’s weak protests.
“I said I’m fine,” Riku insists again, muffled as he presses his forehead to the crook of his arms folded on the table. His head throbs dully, turning slightly to the side to catch Daeyoung’s frown, “What?”
“You’re not fine.”
Daeyoung murmurs it gently, almost coaxing, and Riku feels himself melting in spite of everything. He always does. How could he not, when Daeyoung glows like sunlight even in the cold, overbright haze of the library?
“You need rest, hyung.” Daeyoung nudges Riku’s notebooks farther aside and shifts closer still, their knees knocking beneath the table, “Won’t you please listen to me, just this once?”
Riku tips his chin up just enough to glare at the younger boy, “What are you talking about? I do listen to you. All the time.” He pushes on quickly, not giving Daeyoung a chance to argue, “How do you think I got sick in the first place?”
“I told you the theatre wasn’t cold,” Daeyoung sighs again, thumb brushing across Riku’s sleeve as if to soothe him into reason. He traces absent circles there, connecting tiny moles along Riku’s forearm like a secret constellation, “I didn’t say you should have ice cream and a frozen mango slushie, then walk through the parking lot when we’re dead in the winter.”
“You said I wouldn’t need a jacket.”
“I said you wouldn’t need a jacket inside the theatre.”
“Same thing.”
Riku closes his eyes, half to block out the brightness of Daeyoung’s gaze, half to hide the heat rushing to his cheeks.
Daeyoung doesn’t press further. He just lets Riku sit in that flimsy victory, hand still mapping slow patterns over Riku’s arm until, gradually, his palm settles lower. Soft fingers slip between his, threading together with a certainty that makes Riku’s soul threaten to rearrange.
Daeyoung gives their hands a gentle squeeze. Then another – firm, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
Riku fusses under his breath, fever-fogged eyes catching on the boy beside him.
“I’ll take you home, hm?”
The only thing Riku can think in that moment is how unbearably sweet Daeyoung is – patient in the face of his stubbornness, placating even when they both know Daeyoung’s right, watching Riku with enough concern to cure whatever infection is smoldering in his lungs.
“You’re too nice to me,” Riku mutters. He pushes himself off the table with a groan, body aching in ways that promise a fever, “Why are you so nice to me?”
“For many reasons,” Daeyoung says simply.
He leans in again, the back of his hand brushing Riku’s forehead, blessedly cool. The touch makes Riku ease out a breath before he can stop himself, leaning into it, greedy for a second longer of relief.
Embarrassment prickles his cheeks when Daeyoung pulls away.
“C’mon,” Daeyoung whispers. “Let’s get you home.”
Riku grumbles one final protest, but he lets himself be pulled up. The sudden rush of blood leaves him dizzy, stumbling – and Daeyoung’s arm is around his waist in an instant, catching him, guiding his arm over Daeyoung’s shoulder.
It’s close.
Too close.
Daeyoung smells faintly of sweet fig and pear, the same body mist he insists on carrying everywhere. It mingles with the warmth of his skin, sun-kissed and clean, and it floods Riku’s cloudy mind until he can barely think of anything else.
Great job, Maeda.
By the time they make it to the bus stop, it’s empty save for the two of them. Daeyoung urges him down onto the bench with quiet encouragements, worrying in that way only he can.
“You’re really burning up, hyung.”
Riku cracks an eye open.
Daeyoung stands close, close enough for Riku to catch every detail of his uneasiness. His backpack hangs off one shoulder, Riku’s canvas tote slung over the other. His hands never rest: checking Riku’s neck, brushing his hair back, anything to coax him into comfort.
And each touch drives Riku closer to madness.
When Daeyoung’s palm finds his cheek again, Riku can’t help himself – he drifts into the touch. The affection, the sure press of it, holds him in place. He rubs his cheek against Daeyoung’s hand like a cat seeking more, eyes closed, oblivious to the color rising across Daeyoung’s face.
“The bus will be here soon,” Daeyoung murmurs.
Riku answers with a low groan, hands tightening in the fabric of Daeyoung’s jeans. He tugs Daeyoung closer, desperate for something solid to hold onto. His head tips forward until his cheek rests against Daeyoung’s torso too, the rise and fall of his breathing grounding him.
Some conscious part of him wonders if he’s crossed a line – the invisible boundary that friends aren’t supposed to blur.
But then Daeyoung’s fingers slip into his hair, sweeping damp bangs from his fevered forehead, and Riku decides that’s permission enough.
His arms circle Daeyoung’s waist, holding him close, clinging on shamelessly. It must look ridiculous, but Riku doesn’t care.
Daeyoung is always so sweet, so kind, so confusing. Riku doesn’t care about lines anymore. Not when every inch of him aches for more. If he has to blame it on fever delirium to take this chance, then so be it.
The street is hushed, the evening air crisp, each breath puffing white between them. A streetlamp hums overhead, its weak glow pooling across the frost-dusted sidewalk.
“Try to nap a little before the bus comes, hyung.”
Riku mumbles in reply, distracted; the contrast of cold air biting his skin and Daeyoung’s heat seeping through his clothes makes Riku sink further instinctively.
Daeyoung’s quiet laugh drifts over him, soft enough that Riku feels it more than hears it. His hand lingers at Riku’s temple, thumb brushing lightly along his skin as if to check the fever once more. The touch is careful, almost reverent, and it makes Riku sink further into the pull of sleep.
And then – Daeyoung whispers something.
Riku can’t catch the words at all. Daeyoung doesn’t repeat it. He only tightens his hold, tucking Riku closer against his side to shield him from the winter chill.
And even half-lost to sleep, Riku knows one thing with aching certainty: he just wants Daeyoung close.
x
The campus paths are nearly empty by the time Riku makes it to the dorms, the night air freezing the tips of his ears and fingers. His breath fogs in uneven puffs as he clutches the plastic bag to his chest – congee boxed neatly inside, packets of cold medicine rattling faintly at every step. He’d stopped at the convenience store without thinking, throwing in anything he thought might help.
Fever reducers, lozenges, even a sports drink he isn’t sure would help.
Now, walking down the narrow dorm corridor, Riku wonders if he’s made a mistake.
His shoes pad softly against the carpeted floors, too loud in the silence.
What if Daeyoung doesn’t want him here? What if showing up like this – without asking, without even telling him – is too… much?
He shakes his head, willing the thought away.
Daeyoung is sick. Daeyoung needs someone.
And Riku… Riku wants to be that someone.
No – he needs to be that someone for Daeyoung.
Riku finds the corner room easily; he shifts the bag in his hands and knocks.
Once. Twice. Shuffling sounds from inside.
The door creaks open.
Daeyoung stands half-hidden behind the door in rumpled sweats, thick-framed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, a disposable mask tugged up over the bottom half of his face. His hair sticks out at odd angles, but flattened on one side like he’s been turning over and over in bed.
It’s odd.
This isn’t the Daeyoung who moves across basketball courts like time itself bends toward him, the Daeyoung who waits by the stairwell in a pressed shirt and perfect hair. Not the Daeyoung who greets Riku with that easy grin – like Riku’s the only one he’s been waiting for all day.
This Daeyoung looks ashen under the low light spilling from his dorm. He looks a little erratic even, like he hasn’t had the strength to hold himself together all day.
Fragile, in a way Riku has never seen before.
“Sion hyung –” Daeyoung starts, muffled under the mask, then recoils, startled, “Eh?”
Riku’s grip tightens on the bag until plastic cuts into his palms.
Of course, Daeyoung thought it would be Sion.
Of course.
The thought pinches, quick and mean, snaking through the worry already coiled tight in his chest. He hates that it bothers him – hates that the first thing he feels isn’t just concern, but that sharp edge of being second to someone else.
“Not Sion,” Riku mutters, jamming his foot in the tiny opening to nudge the door open. “It’s just me.”
Daeyoung blinks down at him, owlish behind his glasses, like he’s still trying to process that Riku’s really standing here with a takeout bag dangling from his hands.
“Wait – hyung, you shouldn’t –”
Daeyoung shifts, as though to block the doorway, but Riku sets his shoulder against the edge and pushes it open. The air that drifts out is thick and stale, heavy with the heat of a room shut in too long. He toes his shoes off and kicks them to the side; Daeyoung tries again, flustered.
“Hyung – wait, you shouldn’t come in, you’ll – get sick.”
Riku drops the bag onto the small desk shoved against the wall, contents clattering.
“I don’t care.”
It’s sharp, but the pressure in his chest won’t let him soften it. He turns around, eyes tight on Daeyoung’s tired face, “I might catch it? Is that the only reason I can’t be here?”
The question hangs between them.
“But if Oh Sion were here, you’d let him in. Wouldn’t you?”
Daeyoung just stares blankly, unable to compute.
Even under the bad yellow light of the dorm, Riku can see how ill he is – cheeks flushed unevenly, eyes dulled by fever. The loose sweatshirt swallows him whole, making him look smaller, weaker than Riku ever thought possible.
“No, hyung – what are you –”
And then Daeyoung doubles over, coughing hard into his sleeve. The sound rips through the quiet, each hack like it’s being torn straight from his lungs.
Riku’s annoyance evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold rush of worry.
He’s at Daeyoung’s side before he can even think, hand hovering uncertainly over his back – caught between wanting to ease him and not knowing if he should even touch Daeyoung at all.
“Hey, don’t –” his words stumble, tight with guilt, “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to…”
Daeyoung waves a hand weakly, still bent at the waist, holding onto the back of his desk chair for support. His face is blotched with fever-flush, shoulders quivering from the effort, and the sight alone makes Riku’s chest twist painfully.
He didn’t mean to raise his voice, didn’t mean to add any weight to what Daeyoung’s already carrying.
The surge of regret is so strong it almost knocks the breath out of him.
“Sit.”
Riku blurts it out before he can temper it, born out of panic more than command. His hand finds Daeyoung’s elbow, carefully steering him towards the single bed pushed in the corner.
The resistance he half-expects never comes; Daeyoung just lets himself be set down onto rumpled sheets, recovering through another fit of coughs, blinking like he’s not caught up to what’s happening.
“Stay there,” Riku adds, softer this time. He hovers a moment longer, hand lingering on Daeyoung’s arm, just to reassure himself Daeyoung’s actually fine, actually still.
Then he moves. Quickly – almost too quickly – as if motion alone can shave away the regret pressing against his ribs.
Daeyoung’s chair screeches faintly across the floor when Riku shoves it aside, fumbling with the stiff latch on the window until it gives. A rush of clean winter air cuts through the room, chasing out the stuffy heat that’s settled heavy on the walls.
The plastic bag rustles as he digs through it – congee container, medicine packets, the sports drink already sweating with condensation. He lines them up on the desk, then tugs open drawers in search of tissues, a trash bag, anything to make the space feel less suffocating.
But no matter how much noise he makes, the silence still creeps back in.
Daeyoung’s breaths reach him easily – shallow, uneven, each one snagging faintly in his chest. Ever so often, a cough punctuates through the quiet, rough enough to make Riku’s shoulders twitch.
He doesn’t look back, but he knows.
He knows Daeyoung’s watching him, every graceless move, and the weight of it presses between his shoulder blades.
It feels strange, bustling around someone else’s room like this.
Strange, and a little… nice.
Riku’s never been the one to take care of anyone else before. That was always his sisters – sweeping in with damp towels and steaming bowls of soup whenever he came down with a fever when he was a kid, pressing cool hands to his forehead and whispering bedtime stories until he drifted under.
The memory sticks; he wants to be that for Daeyoung.
And he wants to do it right.
When he finally circles back to the bed, he peels the congee’s lid back and sets it carefully on the nightstand within Daeyoung’s reach. He fusses too long with the disposable spoon, tearing its wrapper clean, setting it beside the container neatly.
His ears burn. He keeps his head down, hiding behind the motions, but it doesn’t help – because every time he risks a glance, Daeyoung is watching. Wide-eyed, staring at Riku like he’s encountering some sort of mystical woodland creature.
“You haven’t eaten, have you?” Riku asks eventually.
Daeyoung shakes his head, slow.
“Then eat.” Riku slides the container a little closer with both hands, “Please.”
Daeyoung doesn’t move at first. He just blinks down at the container, then back up at Riku, like he’s still trying to place this version of Riku in his mind. The silence stretches long enough that Riku’s stomach knots.
Finally, with a small exhale, Daeyoung takes the spoon.
The bed creaks faintly as it shifts, the scent of ginger cutting through the slowly cooling air of the room. He eats, every bite deliberate, like it takes more effort than it should. But he doesn’t complain.
Riku sits stiff in Daeyoung’s desk chair, hands locked between his knees. He can’t look away. Not when Daeyoung is right here, defenses lowered, laid bare in a way Riku isn’t used to. Every scrape of the spoon against the container makes the ache wind a little tighter.
After half the serving, Daeyoung sets the spoon down with a quiet clink. “I’m full,” he murmurs, rough with congestion. He pulls his mask back up and lifts his eyes – hesitant but clear, “Thank you… for the meal.”
Riku swallows too quickly, words tangling in his throat. He shoots to his feet – too fast, everything is too fast at this point – reaching for the container as if putting things away can shield him from the weight of Daeyoung’s attention.
He needs to move, to do something, anything.
But then – Daeyoung’s hand closes around his wrist. Not weak, not tentative. Hot with fever, firm enough to hold him still.
Riku freezes.
Daeyoung’s touch burns against his skin. “Hyung,” he says softly, searching Riku’s face. “Is everything… okay?”
I’m an idiot.
He came here to ease Daeyoung’s fever, to shoulder the weight for him – and somehow, even like this, Daeyoung’s the one worrying about him.
Riku forces a nod, “Yeah.”
“Riku,” Daeyoung whispers again, strained with something heavier than just a fever. Sad in a way that makes the ache in Riku’s chest balloon, pressing at his ribs. Daeyoung tugs lightly, and Riku stumbles forward, knees bumping against the edge of the mattress, “Hyung.”
Riku crumbles.
His hand moves before his mind catches up, brushing strands of hair sticky on Daeyoung’s forehead, lingering at his temple the way Daeyoung always does for him. Daeyoung’s eyes flutter shut at the touch, and Riku feels something in him give way.
It’s stupidly intimate, the way Daeyoung’s arm curls around his waist, desperate to keep him near. And Riku – he mirrors the only way he knows how. He touches Daeyoung the way Daeyoung always touches him: gentle, careful, as if afraid to break him.
Slowly, he feels Daeyoung’s body relax, tension slipping away.
The closeness sticks until it’s almost unbearable, until Riku’s heart is too loud in his ears. He eases Daeyoung’s arm down, careful not to jostle him.
Daeyoung tries to sit up immediately, “Hyung?”
“Rest,” Riku instructs, a heartbeat away from shoving Daeyoung back down.
Once Daeyoung goes, rather unwillingly, Riku straightens, needing space, needing something to do with his hands.
The trash bag waits by the nightstand, half-forgotten. Riku seizes it like a lifeline. The knot pulls tight with a sharp twist, the plastic crinkling loud in the quiet.
“I’ll, uh… take this out,” he announces flatly, filling the silence more than anything else.
Daeyoung’s jaw shifts under the half-slipped mask, like he wants to say something but swallows it down. His eyes dim instead, glassy with fever as he sinks deeper into the pillows.
“Okay,” he murmurs, soft, reluctant.
The realization dawns rather slowly on Riku. He freezes, trash bag heavy in his hands, the choice pressing down: walk out, or stay. Pretend this was just an errand, or admit what he already knows – he can’t leave. He doesn’t want to leave.
He draws a long breath, as if courage could be inhaled, sets the bag aside and turns back around. His throat works before the words do.
“Is it… is it okay if I stay? Just for a little.”
“Yes,” Daeyoung answers instantly, almost rushing over it, as if the thought of Riku leaving hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Of course.”
Riku busies himself again, searching the drawers until he finds a folded washcloth and a small basin. He wets the cloth in the bathroom, wrings it out with care, then returns to the bedside.
The room’s hush but the sound of fabric as he dabs at Daeyoung’s flushed cheeks, brushes the damp from his hairline.
Daeyoung’s lashes flutter as his eyes start to close, breathing evening out again under Riku’s touch. He looks moments away from drifting, and maybe that’s why Riku lets the words slip.
“I – want you to rely on me,” he whispers, cloth pausing against Daeyoung’s cheek.
Daeyoung’s eyes, half-lidded with fever a moment ago, snap open at once, startled.
Riku’s throat closes up, but the silence pressing back at him leaves no room to retreat. “I mean it. I… I hope you’ll trust me a little more. Since –” he forces the words out, cheeks burning, “-- since we’re boyfriends now.”
The title hangs between them. Riku grips the cloth too hard, water seeping between his fingers, but he can’t take it back. He doesn’t want to.
Daeyoung stares as if Riku’s just smacked him across the face, “Hyung…”
“And it just –” Riku rushes on, bumbling on before he can lose his nerve. “It got to me. That you didn’t tell me you were sick. That I found out from Sion hyung instead.” His voice drops, brittle, “Like maybe you don’t think you can lean on me.”
Daeyoung shakes his head at once, the movement making his glasses slip further down his nose, “That’s not true. It’s not.” He lowers his mask, as if desperate to make sure Riku understands, “I only told Sion hyung because I had to.”
“What?”
Daeyoung licks his chapped lips, “He’s captain – I needed to tell him why I was skipping practice. That’s all.”
The certainty in his eyes leaves no room for doubt, and suddenly Riku feels very small for ever thinking otherwise.
“But…” Riku hates the way he sounds, “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Daeyoung says. He’s still breathing hard, lungs working overtime, “And I didn’t want you to get sick either, not with the tournament coming up.”
Riku sighs, “I don’t care if I get sick.”
He sets the damp towel aside, then shifts closer, the edge of the mattress dipping under his weight. For a second, he hesitates – then leans forward, folding himself down, half draped across Daeyoung. The warmth of Daeyoung’s body seeps through, heartbeat a pattern against Riku’s ribs.
It’s careful, the way he settles – not enough to crush, offering his weight as something grounding, something to keep Daeyoung tethered.
“Whatever it is,” Riku murmurs, barely a breath against Daeyoung’s shoulder, “I want to know.”
Daeyoung speaks after a pause, words strumming into Riku, “Me too.”
Riku blinks, unsure if he’s heard right.
“I mean…” Daeyoung’s breath tugs. “I’d want to know if you ever needed me. I guess I’m still figuring out how to –” he pauses, searching for the words, “– how to let someone in like that. Having a boyfriend, I mean.” A low, almost embarrassed laugh slips out, “Someone who’d care about even the littlest things.”
Riku’s fingers twitch where they rest against Daeyoung. “That’s not… a bad thing,” he mumbles into the blanket, half-swallowed by cotton. “It’s new for me too. But if it’s you –” his pulse hammers in his throat, “– then I want to learn how.”
Daeyoung hums, sweet, “Then we’ll figure it out together.”
“Yeah,” Riku, for the first time in the night, relaxes.
And beneath him, Daeyoung exhales too – tension in his body melting under Riku.
They stay like this for a while, Riku rising and falling with each breath against his chest. His fingers find the edge of Daeyoung’s sleeve, idly worrying the fabric, needing something to ground himself in the hush between them. It’s a quiet that feels full – gentle between two people who no longer need to fill it.
By the time Riku straightens, his back aches faintly.
Daeyoung shifts beneath the blanket, the movement small, drowsy. He blinks up at Riku through the haze of fever; and when he speaks, it comes out rough at the edges.
“Hyung… will you stay tonight?”
Riku does his best not to combust on the spot, “Yeah.”
He pads over to click off the desk lamp, and the room folds into a muted half-dark. The glow from the streetlight outside stretches pale across the floorboards, catching the fringe of Daeyoung’s gingham blanket.
Riku fumbles out of his jacket, then his jeans – stiff with the chill of the evening – and leaves them draped over the chair.
It’s too dark to see much, which is a small mercy, because he’s only in his shirt and boxers now, bare knees shivering at the sudden cold. When his eyes adjust, he realizes Daeyoung’s watching him.
The attention makes his skin prickle, heat crawling up his neck.
He moves fast, pretending he doesn’t notice.
Daeyoung shifts closer to the wall, a quiet rustle of sheets as he makes space. Riku dithers only a heartbeat before pulling the blanket back and slipping under.
He lies down carefully, leaving a stretch of space between them even though every part of him aches to close it; Riku can feel Daeyoung radiating with heat, ghosting across his arm with every breath.
Then, through the dark, Daeyoung’s hand finds his – fingers brushing once, twice, before curling around his knuckles. Fever-warm, trembling just a little.
Riku squeezes back, thumb moving in a slow, absent sweep across Daeyoung’s skin, holding on to the connection between them.
The radiator hums low in the corner, beneath the faint whistle of wind against the windowpane. The room feels suspended – half-asleep, wrapped in stillness.
Then Daeyoung turns his head on the pillow, mask tugged back into place, “Thank you, hyung.”
The words are small, but they carry something – folded beneath them, something that thrums with sincerity and… want. It isn’t I love you, not yet, but it creeps close enough that Riku feels it take root.
They’ve only just begun, but the feeling settling in his chest feels certain, solid – like something he’ll still be carrying tomorrow, or for a long time. He squeezes Daeyoung’s hand once.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”
And in the dark, he hopes Daeyoung understands what he can’t yet say aloud.