Archive of Our Own

There are three things Gao hates most in the world.

One, when his favourite pizza place runs out of the teriyaki pizza he likes so much. It had only happened a few times before, but each time brought with it an absolute state of despair that he couldn't bear. Simple enough to remedy, though; he makes sure he's early enough that they'll theoretically never run out of stock.

Two, being labelled as stupid. He's tall, he has his bumbling idiot moments, but really, who doesn't? He's had to work his ass off just to get to where he is now, and it goes without saying that his brain has had to keep up too. He didn't go from being an opposite hitter to a middle blocker just to lose out in the smarts department, and be ridiculed for petty things such as faltering intellectually.

Anyone who did so would promptly be shut down by his blocks anyway, since he could read people across the net pretty easily. Not to brag, but that's the reason why he's on the national team and not anywhere else. Besides, he makes sure to catch up on the literary classics when he has free time too, so anyone challenging him on his knowledge would have a pretty hard pill to swallow.

(He's such a gracious winner, isn't he?)

In his mouth, both of these things taste like annoyance on the best days and vitriol on the worst ones. Gao counts himself lucky that they happen very rarely now, after taking the necessary measures to satiate and prove himself. After all, hardly anyone would dare challenge a national-level athlete save for his coach and fellow players, and he preferred keeping it that way.

They didn't need to face a side of him that he would rather keep under wraps. Which, unfortunately, brings him to the third thing—he's known as carefree, expressive, sometimes clumsy to his teammates, and while they're not entirely mistaken, he is also someone else they will never know.

He hates being vulnerable. He hates being seen as weak, as less than, even though physically he will never be. That's the problem, he thinks. He has always been out in the open, too much of him for people to see, and he has to temper himself so as not to stand out even more. This includes keeping content, and staying chill so he's not seen as some maniac blowing off his top.

For gods' sake, his natural state was already enough to make random babies on the train cry. If he let loose his emotions like some kaiju unleashing itself onto a city, who knows what people would think of him? No more Nice Mr Hakuba, nice despite his desire to run out into the street and scream his lungs bare, nice despite wanting to drop to his knees and cry.

Nice despite hating everything right now, curled up in blankets too warm and nursing a head too dizzy to do much of anything. He's so nice, he tells himself, as he stares wearily at the pillow he'd thrown halfway across the room earlier out of frustration.

Everything's fine. He's at home for once, the one place he can be vulnerable without worrying about keeping up appearances. Dear, sweet Nagano, with its lush greenery and all his favourite places. No teammates to fake smiles at, no squeezing himself into corners to hide from everything and everyone—this was the only corner he didn't need to squeeze into. One with a worn, long-necked Brachiosaurus plush and a mess of covers and pillows he hadn't yet thrown, and having no company except for his sad, pathetic self.

Here, he could be sick and selfish all he liked. His body demanded it, terrible and sore, and wrecked with a fever so spectacular it was freezing. He must have downed a few dozen glasses of water and slapped quite a few fever patches on his forehead by this point, but who's counting? It was just him and the bed.

Let it stay that way. He's not willing to show anyone this miserable version of him, not even his mother.

She'd just drop everything to care for him and make him feel even worse. He also can't do that to her, not when she has her own things to be busy with.

He can take care of himself.

Or as much as taking care of himself involved writhing about under a pile of blankets restlessly, his mind working overtime. It's not used to this level of non-activity, having been accustomed to the motions of regular volleyball practice. It's still going through previous practice matches and plays even without having a screen to analyze them on, because Gao is a crazed volleyball maniac and he wants nothing more than to feel the heft of a ball in his palms.

His coach expressly forbids it. Something about being unfit for practice, even though his fever was only thirty-eight degrees and he could still run and jump. Infuriating. Perhaps it was the reason one of his pillows is now lying uselessly against his closet, but who could say?

Kourai could say. The look he had fixed Gao with as he stormed out of the gym was all too telling. He could always seem to read him, regarding his suppressed disappointment and irritation with nothing more than a frown—already enough to understand what he's trying to convey.

(Go home or you'll collapse, idiot.)

Damn him and his capacity for emotional understanding. He was one of his best friends, even if he deigned to admit it, and could tell very easily when Gao had a mask on. This usually resulted in him being punched or kicked, because in Kourai's eyes he was acting stupid once again.

Why try and hide your emotions, he could almost hear him say. Don't you know that just makes you feel worse?

He argues with the Kourai in his mind, having nothing better to do. You wouldn't understand. I'm not like you. I don't want to be a—

Gao's train of thought is rudely interrupted by commotion coming from downstairs. He can hear his mother's voice, chatting up a storm with some other voice that's more muffled, and he groans. So much for internal debates in his head. Whatever was happening—a neighbourly visit, a door-to-door sales pitch—it had ruined his mood once more.

Of course, he's just finding stupid outlets to direct his distress at, since all he has for comfort is himself. That was the conundrum, he supposes. Can't escape yourself, not even your own emotions, no matter where you go. No matter how many spikes or blocks you do. No matter how many metaphorical scenarios you make up in your head while sick.

No matter how many knocks are on his door.

Wait, what?

"Gao? You awake?"

The unmistakable voice outside his door causes him to jolt fully upright, and he groans at the sudden exertion. Ow. So much for resting his limbs, or resting for that matter. What he'd thought was some passing noise had morphed into proper conversation instead, the one person he doesn't want to see separated from him by a single piece of wood.

Sachirou. Just his luck. The other half of the I Can See Right Through Gao duo.

And the other half he's been painfully in love with for almost a decade now, that he has no idea what will happen if he sees him like this now. Sweaty and sticky from sickness, and way too emotional to see the light of day, and will most likely freak out right in front of him if he so much as expresses concern for him.

He can't fucking do this. He tells Sachirou to come in.

Gao tries to push his hair back, to look at least halfway presentable, but he knows his eyes are weary and his lips are dry. A mess. Just like his room, just like his desk, just like his heart. He feels insane looking at him, taking in his hair and ghost of a smile—windswept and resigned respectively, and there's a plastic bag of things in his hand.

His chest constricts painfully. No, he doesn't need this. Sachirou is trying to show care for him. He should be grateful, but he's more regretful than anything.

He's supposed to be at work in his veterinary clinic, helping dogs or cats or whatever exotic animal showed up at his doorstep. Not helping him.

He doesn't say a single word of what he's thinking. "Hey. What're you doing here?"

"I heard from Kourai that you were sick, and that the team was in the area. Just wanted to make sure you haven't collapsed," Sachirou says cheerfully. "You haven't."

"Are you trying to curse me? It's just a fever, I'll be fine tomorrow," Gao grumbles, trying to frown playfully at him. It does not work. What comes out is a stilted look that Sachirou regards quietly, his initial cheerfulness trying to ease Gao into calm. It does not work either.

Sachirou is far more candid than him, to the point of insult at times.

"If you haven't collapsed today, you'll collapse tomorrow." He sets down the bag on his bedside table, digging around in it for a bottle of orange juice. "Drink this."

"I'm not a kid. I know my limits," he retorts, but takes it from him and starts chugging it almost immediately. Lukewarm, most likely from the walk to the convenience store and then back, but it's good. As good as his parched throat can take it, anyhow. "…Thanks."

"Doesn't seem like you do." Sachirou shrugs, but there is a glint of something sharp in his gaze. Gao knows that look: Kourai has it too, the one he gets right before he's about to pummel him for being stubborn about emotions or vulnerability, and instinctively tenses up.

Great. Just great. Did Kourai send him here just to give him another lecture?

"Did Kourai send you here? I thought you had work."

"Today's my rest day. And for the record, I would've come on my own accord even if he didn't say anything."

Even better. Gao was now wasting Sachirou's precious off time by being here, and had wasted his money too. He opens and closes his mouth like a dumb fish out of water, trying to decide the most appropriate response to the concern he's being shown. Obviously, it's stirring up a whole lot of feelings that he really rather not address, especially not with Sachirou here.

Regarding him with barely concealed worry with those big, brown eyes of his, to the point where Gao crumples up inside.

Pity. He doesn't need pity.

He stares dead at the wall in front of him. He's fine. He doesn't need to burden Sachirou further.

"I'm fine. You didn't need to come here."

He thinks his voice is level enough to fool the average person, but because the universe just loves betraying him, Sachirou is wheeling his swivel chair over to sit beside him, arms crossed over his chest and one leg crossed over the other. From the looks of it, it seemed like he was going to stay, instead of dropping by a care package and leaving like he so desperately wants him to.

Gao panics. "Sachirou, I said I'm fine. You don't need to stay."

"Your mom asked me to take care of you," Sachirou answers simply, already dropping his hand once more into the bag for a veritable collection of fever patches and wet wipes. "She knows how stubborn you can be."

In his words, he can hear another silent admission: I know how stubborn you can be. Sachirou is well-versed in difficult emotional matters, even more so than Kourai himself, and Gao wonders just what grave transgression he could have possibly committed in a previous life to be saddled with two best friends that could read his emotions like a book. It's a curse, especially when all he wants to do is not be psychoanalyzed and left alone to wallow in his thoughts, even though he knows how unhealthy that can be.

However, he's tried fooling Sachirou, and that didn't work. He figures the only way to get him to leave is to incite a natural disaster of some kind, and there is no way the god of earthquakes and tsunamis is listening to a feeble, sick mortal.

After all, Sachirou is a god in his own right. Making the feeble, sick mortal listen to him even though the idea of being taken care of by him both thrills and agonizes him, and he's no longer sure if the flush spreading across his face is from the fever or his feelings presenting itself.

Whatever. He had survived three years of high school and countless reunions and hang-outs with the guy; there was no reason why he couldn't now.

Even if the guy was his unfairly attractive, caring, and sardonic best friend with a dark sense of humour that he's dreamed about on more occasions than he'd care to admit.

Gao sighs heavily. Pinches the bridge of his nose, the whole package. He lets Sachirou stay.

He is fucked.

—

It had been an evening like any other when Sachirou told him about middle school.

They were both third years, fully eighteen, when Sachirou finally explained the scars on his knuckles. Standing in front of a non-descript stone brick wall, in the midst of golden hour and a cold wind sending the leaves tumbling and their jackets ruffling. It was fast approaching autumn, the Spring High National Tournament now behind them, the momentum of their win now reduced to a subdued melancholy indicative of exam season and graduation.

Sachirou had shown him the exact spot where he dragged his fists against the rough surface, breaking skin and blood seeping in between the cracks of stone and staining wallflowers crimson. He had described what he did with a pinched smile, like he were discussing some rough weather or a splinter in his finger.

But he wasn't stupid. Gao could tell the memory of it still hurt from time to time, even if the wound had healed and the stone brick was clean once again. He could see it in the emptiness of Sachirou's eyes on the rare moments it came back to haunt him, and he was sure it scared him as much as it scared Gao.

The worst part is, he was still enamoured despite everything. The rougher and rawer parts of him weren't enough to deter him; they only emboldened him. Gao wasn't one to back down from a fight without screaming and kicking, and it only convinced him that he could—would never lose to Sachirou, because he was so strong for refusing to let that setback stop him from what he wanted to do.

He didn't let his famous volleyball family history stop him, he didn't let the fact that he was stupidly good at volleyball stop him. He loved animals and taking care of animals, and that was that.

Gao had no room to complain, even if all he wanted was for Sachirou to stay by his side as if they were just completing a two-person block. Even if he was one of his best friends, there was no way he could be honest with him. It would only add to his already full plate, having to consider what he thought of his hopes and dreams as opposed to chasing them as he should.

He was selfish, but not that selfish. He had swallowed everything he wanted to say in favour of putting a hand on Sachirou's shoulder, in an act of solidarity. Nothing better to say than offer reassurance, even though he wanted nothing more than to throw up from how violently his heart had squeezed.

The thought of Sachirou caring naught for his own well-being. Enough to scrape his knuckles against a wall.

Gao had smiled together with him to look forward to their futures, but he recalls how he had reached home and crashed to the floor, silently crying as his mother asked him over and over what was wrong.

Everything. Everything had been wrong. Breathtakingly heartbreaking—Sachirou leaving, Sachirou hurting, Sachirou—

That was the hardest thing he had ever done. Graduating and not saying a word, because it would ruin Sachirou's dreams. With dreams of his own, there was no way Gao could bring himself to do that to him.

A part of him had hoped it would crush him enough to forget about him. The next time they would meet, Sachirou would be a veterinarian, and Gao would be an national player.

They wouldn't be high school students anymore, and they could focus on their dreams instead.

—

What pointless drivel that was.

Here they are, grown ass men, with dreams fully realized and faces more weathered than before. Taller, more muscular, with the weight of responsibilities on their backs and deeper bags under their eyes. More on Sachirou for the latter, since it wouldn't do if Gao was sleep-deprived and couldn't focus on the court.

He's essentially still Sachirou though. With a more angular jaw, fuller eyebrows, and messier hair, the slightest hint of laughter lines pricks at the corner of his eyes, and he is a sight to behold for Gao's weak heart. Not to mention he's even more weakened by the fever, and he can't stop his mind from wandering.

Sachirou is still so beautiful. How many dogs has he saved from injury and sickness by now? Must be upwards of a few hundred. He can imagine them licking his face and tickling him with their fur, as he laughs and laughs like he only does for dogs when they throw themselves at him. Like animals are leagues better than people, and he's right.

Gao misses the pet hamster he used to have. Brown and white and soft, and it would squeak at him happily every time he squatted close to its cage. He had pulled out all the stops for it, giving it layers and layers of bedding, varied enrichment, and mixed feed to make sure it was fit and healthy. It was, for a good long while, until its natural lifespan claimed it and he had wept over its death even though it was just a tiny, little creature.

But its death wasn't tiny or little. He had loved it so much, he was inconsolable for a few months. No one ever knew.

Except now. With alarm, he realizes that reminiscing about his hamster has brought unwanted tears to his eyes, and he tries his hardest to blink them away before Sachirou realizes. He's reading a book beside his bed, at ease after having replaced the patch on his forehead and wiping his exposed skin down even after he said he didn't need it.

No. He was not going to be the clichéd idiot that cried while sick, because that was for babies and he was not a baby. He was a big and strong volleyball athlete that had grown out of holding his mother's hand for comfort, and he could deal with grief in a normal way.

Gao curls in on himself, pressing his dinosaur plushie to his face and mistakenly letting out a sob.

Oh, he had done it now.

"Gao? What's wrong?" Sachirou is at his side in an instant, a hand on the broad of his back. "It's okay, I'm here."

He detests how comforted that makes him feel. It makes him want to throw another pillow, scream into another one and maybe throw another one again. He knows he shouldn't have let Sachirou into his most private space, even if he had been here many times before. Not when he was like this, crying like a child, and intimately feeling like one when he realizes Sachirou is tugging him back and forth—rocking him.

Fuck. Heat rushes to his cheeks even when Gao doesn't want it to.

When has his body ever listened to him?

"Fuck." He presses the balls of his palms to his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

Sachirou shushes him quickly. "It's okay, don't apologize. It's okay to cry."

Is it? He wants to ask, but all he can muster is a choked sob. He's sick, he's so tired, and all he wants to do is cry. Preferably into a pillow so Sachirou doesn't have to see how pitiful he is, to preserve some contrived shred of dignity he probably never had in the first place.

It's all so stupid. The more he thinks it's stupid, the more he cries. Damn his stupid emotions, surfacing when he least wanted them to. How was Sachirou supposed to react to him crying in his own bed, holding onto the nearest soft object for dear life?

Unexpectedly, he feels Sachirou pulling him closer, maybe to take a better look at him. It's beyond embarrassing, and he nearly pushes him away if not for the sudden, steady grip on him. A pair of strong arms wrapped around his torso, and it brings another sob out of him.

He's hugging Gao, with the intensity of someone who doesn't want to let go. Ignoring the filthiness of sickness and tears that stain his shirt, he holds him firmly, holding his affections true and holding him together. There's dog fur scattered on his shirt that Gao recognizes as Kotaro's, the Hirugami family dog, and he smells slightly of earth. Almost akin to soy sauce he eats his shumai with, or with ginger and scallion on the side.

Homely, like food being steamed and served hot.

He doesn't lament over his hamster much after that. How could he, with this tangible comfort engulfing him and tilting his entire world on its axis? Sachirou is warm and Gao actually feels taken care of, which is both terrible and amazing at the same time. Attesting to Sachirou's ability as a medical professional, he gathers, bringing him to calm in such a short amount of time.

It certainly helped that his hands were rubbing his back, up until his cries subside and all there's left is a coughing fit he erupts into.

Peeling himself off from Gao, Sachirou hands him a glass of water on reflex, hand rejoining his back again to rub it as he sips from it slowly and sits until his coughing stops too.

What a rollercoaster. He doesn't know how he's meant to face Sachirou again after that shared tender moment, but he doesn't get to. Instead, Sachirou clears his throat and stands up from his seat awkwardly, right hand gripping the glass with too much ferocity and his mouth drawn into a pinched smile.

The same one where Gao knows he's not okay.

"You must be thirsty. I'll get you a new glass."

He also mutters something about food, but by that point no more of his words reach him. Obviously. Obviously this was going to happen—Sachirou having no idea of what to do with his ugly emotions other than offer obligatory comfort and run far, far away, before the fallout could reach him.

It's okay. He doesn't blame him. He's terrified of his own emotions too, to the point where he's still scared shitless. The only reason Sachirou could witness his breakdown was because he had let him stay, but even he might be reconsidering that.

It was just as well—he had done enough. Gao didn't need him to begin with, and he didn't need him now.

So why does it feel like a lie in his head?

(He laments over something newfound, an ache so painful he has to curl up again and face away from the world. He misses warmth that left as soon as it had arrived, and he only has himself to blame for it.)

(To want something more with Sachirou was wishing for a pipe dream. He was sick, not delusional.)

—

To his utter surprise, Sachirou returns—with a new, tall glass of water, and a bowl of something in his other hand.

Once bitten, twice shy. Or that was how it usually went anyway. Apparently, he hasn't had enough of Gao's emotional antics.

Was he secretly delighting in his misery?

"You're back." He's so shocked the truth slips from his mouth, and Sachirou hears it before he can take it back.

"Well, of course. Did you think I would leave?" Sachirou quirks a perfect eyebrow up. "…Your mom would be furious."

Right. His mother. Somehow, in the haze of fever-induced delirium, Gao had forgotten that she was the cause of all this turmoil he was feeling. He allows himself to let out a long, suffering sigh because as much as he loves her, how was he meant to face Sachirou after this? With the knowledge that he had been assigned to be his de facto caretaker and had seen him at his worst?

Gao knows he can't. That's why he's relieved Sachirou hasn't gone away just yet. They still have more time together.

As self-indulgent as that sounds.

"You still could. I could cover up for you and say there was a lizard dying of a heart attack or something."

He's shocked once again by Sachirou spluttering a laugh, hand pressed to his stomach as he settles back down into the swivel chair.

"Oh, so the lizard needs my attention more than the dying horse in front of me?"

"Shut up," Gao snorts, more horse-like than preferred. "I am not dying."

"No come back for the horse thing, I see. Kourai's whittled you down far more than I expected." Sachirou grins at him, familiar jokes and banter coming back to him in his presence. "And technically, only mammals can get heart attacks. Lizards get cardiac arrests."

"Nerd."

"Says the guy who memorized all one hundred karuta poems."

"It was fun," He protests, glancing self-consciously at the collection of poetry books fitted neatly into his bookshelf behind Sachirou. He's not lying—getting to test his knowledge of classic poems and using it to win in a card game was fun, as shortlived of a time as it was in his life. He still loves poetry, don't get him wrong, it's just that being a full-time athlete leaves his free time something to be desired.

He should be grateful he can talk to Sachirou like this outside of their arranged meet-ups. Even if it meant being sick.

(Something stirs in his heart over the notion of Sachirou showing him extra care due to his sickness. Short-lived, and reminding him of his unfulfillable wish, but it's still nice.)

"I'm sure. Now eat up. I helped make chicken soup for you."

Now identified, the bowl of soup smells delicious, and it reminds Gao of the nostalgia he was just reminiscing about hours earlier. A table full of warm food, and aromas to accompany it. Except, he's in bed, and Sachirou has set the bowl down on his nightstand. The spoon is now in his hand, and he's angling it at a comfortable height for him to drink.

From his hand.

Gao must look completely floored at this, enough for Sachirou to realize midway what he's doing and hastily chuck the spoon back into the bowl, scattering a few droplets. He's as stunned as he is, frozen in place, until Gao's forced to break the silence.

"Did you just…?"

"Sorry," Sachirou utters, and the apology settles like a heavy stone in his ears. "I didn't realize. Force of habit."

Gao finds it easy to laugh in spite of the strained moment. "Are you used to feeding your patients like this?"

"When they're too weak to feed themselves, yes. But I don't think you belong to that category."

"Hey, don't assume now. I could still be dying," he tries to quip, relying on the usual bluster that he's relied on for all of high school and sometimes adulthood, having been proven to be a useful tool in the way of concealing his emotions. It remains a double-edged sword, however, as Kourai and Sachirou have long since seen past it.

Sachirou lets him do it just this once, though. He can't stop his eyes from twinkling at Gao trying to lighten his mood, and he cracks a smile for his efforts.

"If you were, you wouldn't be talking. Eat."

His stomach growls on command as Sachirou holds out the bowl for him, and he sets it down on the blanket to rest on his legs. Soft chunks of chicken and potato suspend and float as he scoops a spoon out, shoving it into his mouth.

Big mistake. It scalds his tongue and he nearly chokes, forcing the offending liquid down his throat and finding it delicious regardless. Really, after seeing steam waft from the bowl, it should be second nature for him to blow on it. Maybe the fever had really killed off all of his braincells, otherwise Sachirou wouldn't be standing over him with a half-worried, half-amused expression.

God, what was wrong with him? It was like he was determined to make an even bigger fool of himself in front of the guy of his dreams, if he could even get that much lower.

"Are you sure you don't need me to—"

"No," Gao dismisses hurriedly, staring down at the bowl and busying himself with blowing on the next spoon. If he looked distracted enough, maybe it could actually distract him from the fact that he wouldn't say no if asked again.

He couldn't possibly ask that of Sachirou. Less than a day of being taken care of by him and there were already enough foolish thoughts in his head to last a lifetime.

That was all they could remain as. Thoughts, because they were well past adolescent crushes and love that Gao couldn't get over no matter how hard he tried, and so he was stuck pining after him even though he really wanted to move on and focus on the rest of his career.

That would be the sane thing to do. Not fantasize about being fed chicken soup in the throes of a fever quickly letting up.

There is a deadline to this, he knows. All the more better to quash the somehow budding seed of hope in his heart.

"You know, you're still the same as always."

What? Gao turns, repeating what he thinks with more disbelief. "What?"

"Still stubborn, still clumsy," Sachirou continues thoughtfully. "Still unable to hide how you really feel."

Okay, he takes a decent amount of offense to that. He's hid his feelings for him for so many years, there was no way that was true. And even if it was, why else would Sachirou let him pine away for so long without doing anything? If he couldn't hide the rest of his feelings, he could at least hide this one well!

He has to challenge this belief, or he won't be satisfied. "Oh yeah? Tell me how I'm feeling now then."

"You feel like crap. You wish you could go back to practice, but you can't. And it's killing you," Sachirou says matter-of-factly. He almost sounds bored, were it not for him leaning forward in his chair and facing Gao directly. An unsaid acceptance of his challenge, the competitive streak in him from their teenage years still very much present.

Was he going to verify whether Sachirou was right to his face? Not a chance.

"I'm more than capable of taking a day off."

"Really? Kourai said you still showed up to practice and sulked when the coach told you you couldn't attend. That doesn't sound like 'more than capable' to me."

Damn it. Damn Kourai and his big mouth. He couldn't possibly think of a rebuttal to that, not when Kourai had already told on him. What else had he told Sachirou that he didn't know of? What else about his undesirable emotions had he laid bare without his permission, so Sachirou could use them against him and force him to be honest with himself?

He groans resignedly. "…What else did he tell you?"

"Nothing too damning," Sachirou proclaims cheerfully. "Just things I already knew."

Huh. That does ease his worries quite a bit, but what could he possibly know that Gao didn't? Besides being privy to all of his sickness-induced misery and insanity for the past few hours, what else was he in the know of? There weren't very many secrets between the both of them, save for his foolish affections, and this was mostly Kourai and Sachirou working in tandem to properly understand who he really was as a person.

Touching, really. But it was horrifying to be known.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Things from high school, I suppose. You still like volleyball, you're still the funniest person I know, and you look like you're constipated every time someone tries to help you."

"Don't tell me—"

"Yep. You look constipated right now too."

Ugh. He could really do without that extra piece of information. "So, just to recap for today. You've seen me grumpy, sad, and angry within the span of a few hours. You've seen me scald myself on soup."

"And?"

"And you're still here?" Gao blurts, and Sachirou bursts into laughter once again. In the same way that he does when sudden affection from dogs catches him off guard, and when him and Kourai are fighting over nothing in particular and just want to fight for the sake of it. In that moment, it makes him feel as if what he said is true—that he really is the funniest person Sachirou knows, and he can induce in him the same mirth that his beloved dogs do.

No. There was no way that was a thing.

"Gao, I've known you for years. There's nothing I haven't seen at this point. I doubt you'll surprise me anymore."

Untrue, but Gao lets him believe in that for just a while longer. After all, sometimes blissful ignorance was truly the way to go, especially if it meant knowing would likely ruin their friendship beyond repair. Any hint of perceived romantic gestures between them and Sachirou had gone ahead and nipped them in the bud instantly; if he was honest, he would likely turn around and never come back.

"That's horrifying," he sincerely admits. Sachirou can't help but giggle.

"You know, it's not that scary to be known. I mean, me and Kourai like to think we know you pretty well."

"…At this point, yeah."

"And we haven't left yet, so it's pretty safe to say we won't be scared. We're much scarier than you anyway." A haunted look suddenly enshrouds Sachirou's face, and Gao would be terrified were if not for the fact that he's seen him crack jokes like this a million times over. Dramatically empty eyes and hollow smile and all, and he can't help but laugh at him. Laugh with him? He's since lost the meaning of the difference.

"I see you haven't changed much either, Hirugami-san."

"Don't call me that, or I'll assume your dog wants to undergo surgery."

"You leave my metaphorical dog alone." Then, Gao adds, "You're still terrifying."

"Why, thank you," Sachirou says, deadpan, but his impassiveness quickly turns into amusement when Gao falls back against his bedframe, a pillow propping up his back and a strangled sigh escaping him. Only now does he realize how exhausted he is, having to work through such a range of emotions in such a short amount of time.

That was why he never liked having such intense emotionality. It was nothing but taxing, and brought unnecessary agony that he never asked for in the first place.

All of it made infinitely and magnificently worse with Sachirou here.

But he doesn't blame him. He could never. The man was too good of a person for that, constantly reassuring him where his self-confidence lacked and reminding him that making mistakes were just a normal part of life. Very useful when Gao thinks he's made nothing but mistakes today, all of which Sachirou had taken in stride and cared for him when it mattered most—replenishing his fluids, making sure his temperature stayed down, and (making an attempt at) feeding him.

This is why he knows he's too good for him. He can't burden him any more than this, not when he could be with someone better and take care of them properly like they deserve.

Gao is calm about this, actually. He's long since accepted that fact, even if his heart sways sometimes and gives him unneeded hope that he has to destroy all over again.

Killing himself over and over again like this, all for Sachirou. It's worth it, he thinks.

He's spent. All he wants to do is sleep.

He does. He finds himself drifting off, and he feels the weight of blankets being heaped onto him. Sachirou. He's not freezing anymore, at least, and he's comfortable in the light of keeping his precious friendship close to him, even if it won't go anywhere else.

He does feel something else brush against his cheek though. Something soft, and warm, and smelling of earth.

What's up with that?

—

By the time he awakens again, it's dark outside, and the first thing he sees is Sachirou sitting at his bedside.

He's no longer reading the book he picked out from Gao's bookshelf, and is instead fixated on staring at the floor. How long had he been waiting for him to wake up? He'd hate it if he kept Sachirou waiting, especially if he had basically spent his whole day off playing caretaker.

Going from an animal caretaker to a human caretaker. Gao nearly laughs at the irony, were it not for the serious look on Sachirou's face.

"Sachirou?" He calls out warily, but he doesn't look up.

"Gao," Sachirou starts. "Can I ask you something?"

The air turns rigid as Gao swallows, sensing that the 'something' is about him. Unfortunately, he can't run away this time, not like before where he'd concoct some stupid excuse all for the sake of not facing his stupid emotions. It had worked multiple times over, but perhaps Sachirou has finally caught on.

He adjusts himself into a sitting position. "I mean, yeah? But you're kinda scaring me."

"Sorry. It's nothing bad," Sachirou clarifies, leaning against the backrest of his chair. "It's just something I've been…curious about, for a while now."

"Uh huh?"

"You've always been afraid to show other emotions, beside being happy or offended. And on the times that you're down, it's fairly obvious, but you always say you're fine even when you're not. Why?"

What a way to ask. Sachirou's directness knocks all the air out of Gao's lungs, but he's also indignant. Who on Earth would want to see any of his negative emotions? It was all so grotesque and unsavoury, because he felt them so strongly and was constantly living in fear that one or more of his outbursts would drive people away. Sure, none of his friends had truly left him yet, but that was because he had kept a tight lid on his sadness, anger, and the rest of it he didn't want to put names to.

In fact, he was half-expecting Sachirou to leave anytime now, once he was done with this train of thought. Maybe he just liked to gaze into the abyss and see what interesting outcomes could come out of it, as was his eccentric nature sometimes.

The abyss stares back. It always does.

The abyss chuckles nervously. "So I was right. Kourai did send you here to lecture me."

"No," Sachirou says, but he sounds like he doesn't quite believe it himself. "I've wanted to ask you for a long time now, since high school."

Since high school? How long ago had that been? First year? Second year? The year Gao realized Sachirou had been through much more than he realized?

"Then why'd you wait all this time?"

Guilt swims in Sachirou's eyes, and as much as Gao regrets putting him on the spot like this, he was the one who had gone ahead and asked the provocative questions first.

Might as well have an equal exchange.

"I don't have any excuse for that. We met up a few times after graduation, but both of us were caught up in doing our own things. I only remembered to ask now."

And that was why he was so good in Gao's eyes, because even when he messed up, he could admit it right afterwards and be honest with everyone present. He had been messing up for a few years now, trying and stumbling and struggling to heal from what ailed him, but Sachirou has and will always be the one person he admires the most for his mental fortitude.

"I think chasing our dreams are pretty important things to get caught up in."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Gao affirms, shifting his gaze to the certificates, medals, and trophies he's earned since his advent into professional volleyball. Sheets of paper and metal circles with his name on them, hung up on the wall facing his bed, where they used to mean something but have since faded into obscurity in the back of his mind. That was the thing about chasing a dream that never ceased; there was always going to be more volleyball to play, and more awards to win.

The awards were never really the main focus. He was just hungry for the sport, that's all.

"…I haven't changed much, you know. I guess that's a bad thing."

"Not necessarily." Sachirou follows his line of sight, guilt shifting to pride. "You're still a volleyball idiot, and you still cry like a baby. I don't mind it at all."

"Hey, I don't cry like a baby. Do I?"

"You do. But I guess that's why you're scared of letting your emotions show. You always hated people making fun of you."

His voice drops to a soft lull towards the end, as his hand lifts from where it's resting against his leg. As if to reach out to Gao, but then he decides against it and lets it fall by his side once again.

(Gao wants so desperately for it to connect.)

"Of course I hate people making fun of me," He exhales, unsure of the rare emotional candidness in his tone. "Everyone expects me to be strong just because I'm tall. That hasn't changed either. But how can I be strong when I don't even feel enough?"

Sachirou, in all of his infinite patience and wisdom, had done it. He had wrested vulnerability from him, the most stubborn person he knew, and had managed to make him admit his own thoughts to another person. It's anyone's guess as to how he does it, but Gao just thinks that he will always let down his walls with him.

Unconsciously or otherwise. A mistake he can't control or take back any longer.

"I know my height is perfect for volleyball or whatever. But I only got into it because I liked playing it, and I had to work my ass off to get good at it. I didn't get here doing nothing."

"You didn't."

"And I know that, but—" Gao huffs, air escaping him faster than it should. "I hate being made out to be strong. I'm not. But I don't want to worry you, or Kourai, or Mom and Dad, because I'm not the only one with lofty dreams. You have yours, and I have mine."

"Gao…"

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I do cry like a baby, but I don't know how to be strong. I've spent too long trying to be that I don't know how to be." Tears well up in his eyes, but they don't fall; instead, they linger, much like his shaking hands on the top of his blankets, but then something happens way outside of his purview that he forgets how to cry like a baby for a second: Sachirou's hand is on top of his, holding it steady, and everything comes crashing down at once.

Inevitable and frightening.

"You are strong, Gao. You just don't think so because you always spend your time looking out for us. But all I've ever wanted is for you to look out for yourself." Sachirou's voice is barely above a whisper, but it doesn't matter because he's spreading Gao's fingers apart and properly connecting their hands together, as he's wanted him to for the whole day now. "You act as if you don't care, but you do. You've always cared so much, and you haven't stopped."

His shoulders are tense, and he is as still as a statue beside Gao. "You care so much that you refuse to be honest, because you don't want to ruin things for us. You haven't changed one bit."

Before Gao can refute that in any way, Sachirou gets up from his chair and stands right beside him. He knows he's trying to cage him in, so he won't run away like all the other times, but where can he run to? Where does he want to run to?

He can't, not anymore.

"Sachirou…?"

"Your mom didn't tell me to take care of you." He squeezes Gao's hand. "I offered to."

Gao gawks at him. "Wh—Why'd you lie about that, then?"

"Why do you think I did?"

"Because you're nice." He fills in the blank easily, but it doesn't get rid of the confusion. "Or you had nothing better to do. You don't like being bored."

"I'm not that nice," Sachirou corrects, his stare boring a hole straight through Gao. He looks tortured, like there's been something gnawing at him for a long time now. "I could have gone home ages ago. I could have walked Kotaro, or read that book you were telling me about. But I didn't, because I wanted to be the one to take care of you."

There's no denying the sharp wedge that drives itself into Gao's chest at hearing that.

"You don't have to. Why are you…"

Sachirou doesn't answer him straight away. He raises his other hand, curved into a soft knuckle, and he silently brushes it against Gao's cheek.

Oh.

So that's what it was.

The confusion only worsens, but this time he has lost any coherent speech to Sachirou's overt displays of affection. From his hand to his cheek to his words, they can only mean one thing.

And Gao thinks he is an utter fool for believing so.

"No. No." He snatches his hand back, as if he'd been stung. "You're not serious."

"Gao, please listen to me—"

"You don't want this," he chokes out, but his dead hamster and scalding hot chicken soup are nowhere to be found—all that's left is his stupid, naïve heart and him, with too long limbs and too much of him existing at once for him to handle right now.

How could Sachirou ever want to handle him?

"Yes, I do. I've wanted this for a long time."

"Stop making fun of me," Gao tries to screech, but it only gets caught in his throat and it dissolves into a flurry of coughs. "I told you—I hate being made fun of."

Of all the people he thought he could trust, he thought he could trust him. Believe that he wouldn't trample all over Gao's feelings so carelessly, right after he opened up for once and tried to entrust his heart to him.

How long had he known? Why didn't he do anything?

"I'm not making fun of you. I'd have to make fun of myself too."

"What…?"

"Gao, I've loved you since third year." Sachirou weaves a hand through his hair frustratedly, through his curls that Gao has always longed to run his fingers through to find out how soft they really were. Excuses in the form of friendly headpats gave him his answer, but he still wonders what it would be like to have it fall between his hands. "It kills me that you can't see how wonderful you are."

His lips tremble, gaze dropping to meet him. "…No way."

"Believe me when I say that I'm taking you seriously. I always have. You always try your best for everything you do, and you're scared that it's not enough. But it is. It always has been. You're the funniest person I know and also the strongest person I know, and you always put others first regardless of how you feel. You're smart and passionate and you care so much, and I love you for it."

He can't believe what he's hearing. He really can't. Sachirou should want someone better—he deserves someone better. He deserves someone that can make him smile and laugh and have heart-to-hearts with comfortably, and go right back to bantering like an old married couple, discussing inane topics like classic poetry, how to take care of lizards, and soup too hot for the human tongue to bear. He deserves all of that and more, but all he can do is—

…Oh.

He can do those things, huh?

"…Really? You're really not making fun of me?"

"You're making it sound like you want me to."

"No," Gao supplies quickly, shrinking into the makeshift cocoon of blankets he's made for himself. "Just…this is a lot to process. Why did you wait until now to tell me?"

"I don't have an excuse for that either." Sachirou manages to find one of his hands underneath the cocoon, and grips it tight in case he tries to break away from him again. "But neither do you."

"We're both idiots," He groans, flopping forward and burying his face into his bed. This time though, he doesn't shy away from Sachirou's touch; he squeezes his hand back, and lets himself bask in the sensation of having his back be rubbed once again, but this time he can feel what he wants without ignoring it.

If this is some dream or hallucination he's having, let it last his entire life. May he never wake up from this, no matter how hard Kourai kicks him in practice tomorrow.

Or the day after that. Or any day afterwards.

Gao lifts his head, and maybe if he had a mirror on hand, he could see for himself just how red he had gotten. He knows he has, because his face feels way hotter beyond the fever and his jaw is hurting from smiling so wide, and Sachirou is smiling at him too—everything alright in the world in his bedroom.

He could stand to be a little more vulnerable if it got him a good outcome like this.

"I love you too, Sachirou. Since high school."

He can say it, and Sachirou won't leave. He hasn't, and he's holding Gao like he's been deprived of air for too long and he needs him to breathe. Soft and snug, a balm to his raging sickness, and one for his weak heart too.

There remains doubt in his bones that eats away at him, as it's done for almost all his life. It continues to rear its head as they share in their mutual confession, that tempts him to leave Sachirou alone before they end up too entangled in each other's lives to preserve his frail emotions. He's guarded them out of fear and prayed that no one would see past him, but someone has and they still love him.

What more could he possibly ask for?

"You're not gonna leave, right?"

"No. Not unless you want me to."

"No." Gao tugs on the edge of his shirt, pulling him down to sit on the bed with him in a half-hug, half-lean. "Stay. Please."

And he does, as simple as that. No thoughts to worry about, no doubts that Sachirou will see him any differently—just his heart bare and open, all ready for the taking.

He'd willingly let Sachirou kill him again.