Chapter Text
Sakusa knows the risks of having a roommate. Those risks, however, were worth it when it came to having a roommate like Suna Rintaro. After successfully sharing a dorm room for their first year of university, sharing a studio apartment together the following year only seemed natural. Suna studies hard, cleans after himself, and respects Sakusa’s demands for personal space. And, though he knows Suna did go to parties, he never brought the alcohol or cigarettes or party behavior home with him. It didn’t hurt, either, that Suna frequently spends nights at his boyfriend’s place, leaving the studio spacious with alone time. Sakusa knows the risks of having a roommate, yet nothing in their year and a half of living together prepared him for this moment—the moment Suna wakes with body aches and lets out a sneeze.
—
“Osamu, I’m fine,” Suna says, his voice muffled from congestion. It doesn’t help, either, that he’s on speaker through a cell phone across the room from him. Sakusa rolls his eyes at that claim.
“He most certainly is not fine, Miya,” Sakusa lets out with a huff. “He’s complaining of body aches, he looks ashen, and he’s sneezed approximately twenty times in the last five minutes.” He can hear Osamu shuffling on the other line, can hear the jingle of keys and what sounds like footsteps on pavement. “Even if it isn’t anything serious—”
“Yes, Sakusa, I know.” And he knows Osamu knows, but he can’t help but finish his line of thinking.
“I can’t afford to get sick. Not even the slightest bit.” He can hear Osamu’s deep breath from the other line, can hear the purr of an engine as he undoubtedly makes the drive to his boyfriend’s apartment.
“Have you ever wondered why you’ve never seen Suna sick, hm? You’ve lived together for nearly eighteen months now and he’s never once been sick in your presence. Because I make him stay at my place if I notice his health is even slightly off. I respect you enough to keep you safe, Kiyoomi.” He can hear the sincerity in Osamu’s voice, and it makes a warm feeling settle in his stomach. It doesn’t last long, though, as Suna lets out another sneeze followed by a groan. Sakusa throws him a face of disgust, though the effect is lost through the mask he put on after Suna’s first sneeze of the day.
“I’m going to go ahead and wait on the balcony until you get here. Better safe than sorry.”
—
Twenty minutes later, Osamu is pushing Suna’s hair from his face as his boyfriend forcefully heaves into the toilet. His other hand rubs patterns into the sick man’s back. He can feel Sakusa’s anxiety despite them being rooms apart, and he can’t really blame him. Dealing with sick roommates sucks in general, but Osamu knows it’s much worse than that for him.
Because this is Sakusa’s everyday reality.
Osamu sighs and looks out through the bathroom doorway, a clear shot across the apartment to the door of the balcony where Sakusa sits cross-legged. It’s the furthest most point from Suna, but the balcony door is open so that they can still communicate.
“He’s not okay enough to make the car ride to my place,” Osamu says, voice loud enough for Sakusa to hear. Sturdy fingers card through Suna’s sweat-dampened hair as he makes eye contact with Sakusa, who seems to splutter at the thought of Suna staying in the small apartment while sick. “He can’t even go two minutes without vomiting.” As if to prove Osamu’s point, Suna lets another violent hurl escape him, expelling bile and what little food remains in his body.
“There’s no way I can stay here, not with him like this,” Sakusa says, voice high with what Osamu can only identify as panic. From his perch in the bathroom, Osamu would say that Sakusa looks pale with worry. Or maybe that’s just his natural skin tone and Osamu isn’t giving him enough credit. Either way, the look on Sakusa’s face is unsettled, and it pulls at Osamu’s heart strings because he knows Sakusa really can’t stay here with Suna sick like this. He can’t really stay here until Suna is better and the apartment gets disinfected thoroughly.
Osamu knows it so deeply that he doesn’t even think about his next words.
“You can stay at my place for the week,” Osamu says, and he can see Sakusa’s brows furrow at the offer. “It’s got plenty of room, and we clean thoroughly.” Sakusa knows the ‘we’ refers to the infamous twin brother, Atsumu, that he’s never managed to meet. Not surprising, though, given Atsumu’s sports schedule and tendency to party and Sakusa’s avoidance of crowds. Plus, Suna finds Atsumu whiny, which is a good enough reason for Sakusa to avoid him. And he desperately wants to say as much, because living in Osamu’s apartment for a week would surely mean having to co-exist with the sloppy, bratty party-obsessed jock. But then Suna is retching again and Sakusa can feel his own bile threaten to leave his body, and that seals it.
“Fine. But you better make sure you disinfect everything before I come back.”
—
“I’m home, ‘Samu!” Atsumu yells, toeing his shoes off at the front door. It’s three in the afternoon on a Thursday, which means Osamu won’t be home much longer before going to his next class. It seems like these small frames of down time are all they get alone together anymore, but Atsumu wouldn’t change it for the world. Not when he gets the privilege of living with his brother for another year.
He whistles as he walks down the hall, past Osamu’s bedroom and into the kitchen, noting how clean the apartment smells. He chalks it up to Osamu getting the new air fresheners he’d asked for. Reaching the small kitchen, Atsumu turns the tap on and begins to wash his hands thoroughly. It’s a routine he’s had since he was a kid, washing his hands upon entering and leaving the house, no matter what the reason. Taking the soap, he rubs it between his palms, creating a lather before cleaning the back of each hand. He interlaces his long fingers next, scrubbing between them before cleaning the backs of his fingers and moving his focus to each thumb. This part of his routine always makes him feel fuzzy, likes he’s taking care of the most delicate of treasures. He rubs the pads of his fingers into his soapy palms, admiring the feeling of callouses that prove his hard work and dedication to a sport he loves. The hand washing routine finishes with the scrubbing of wrists and a clean napkin turning the tap off, wet hands shaking through the air to help dry them faster.
“Impressive,” says an unfamiliar, modulated voice. Atsumu jumps before whirling around so fast he feels dizzy. It’s clear that the man standing in the entry way isn’t Osamu’s long-time-boyfriend, Rintaro, despite being of a similar height and build to him. Atsumu takes in the stranger’s features—dark curls falling across forehead and face, eyes black as pitch, two moles delicately sitting over his eyebrow, mask settled firmly across nose and high cheek bones—before narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
“And who the fuck are you?” Atsumu spits, trying to maintain an air of confidence despite the fear twisting tight in his stomach. He curls fingers to palms, making a squelch as the remaining water on his hands are cupped to fists. The man doesn’t seem to even notice that Atsumu has spoken, looking only where his hands glisten with fresh cleanliness as nails create crescent moons in his palms. He then makes direct eye contact with Atsumu, who wants to shift uncomfortably under the gaze.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi. I’m Suna’s roommate.” Atsumu’s fists relax, but he still feels the tension in his spine. He’s never heard Suna talk poorly of his roommate—quite the opposite, actually—but he has heard glancing rumors about the germaphobe freak who always walks around with a face mask and gloves, no matter where he goes. “I took the liberty of spraying down all the visible surfaces with a disinfectant when I got here. I hope you don’t mind.” And that would explain the fresh, clean smell of the apartment. Still, Atsumu doesn’t let his guard down fully, letting his calculating eyes glance over Sakusa.
“And what are ya doing in my house?” Sakusa’s dark eyes are unwavering on Atsumu’s face.
“Your brother didn’t tell you?” This catches Atsumu completely off guard, his fists dropping to a relaxed position by his sides. Osamu wouldn’t have invited anyone over before a class unless they were going to that class together. And in the two years of Osamu and Suna dating, Sakusa had never once tagged along with his roommate to events. A chill threatens to creep up Atsumu’s spine as he realizes the normal signs of Osamu being in the apartment weren’t there. A glint of understanding registers in Sakusa’s eyes as he lets his eyes continue boring into Atsumu’s. “Suna is sick, so Osamu is over there taking care of him. Could be just a stomach bug, could be the flu. Either way, I can’t afford to get sick, so Osamu said I could crash here until Suna’s better and they can disinfect our apartment.”
By the way the skin near Sakusa’s eyes crinkles, Atsumu can guess he’s wrinkled his nose in disgust at the thought of Suna being sick. The silence hangs thick between them, Sakusa now leaning a shoulder against the wall, his eyes still locked on Atsumu’s face. Atsumu can feel the heat of an embarrassed blush on his neck, can feel the familiar prick of it starting in his cheeks, so he clears his throat.
“So what, like a week maybe?” Sakusa shrugs his agreement, moving suddenly to slide into one of the barstools near the counter. Atsumu sighs and opens the refrigerator, finally shielding his body from Sakusa’s heavy gaze. He looks at the contents before pulling the familiar tray out and setting it on the counter in front of Sakusa with a smirk. “I hope ya like onigiri.”
—
Atsumu wakes early to the tumbling of rain against rooftop, the skylight above his bed teasing him with glimpses of dark skies and scattered lightning, and he lets out a groan. He supposes he’s grateful that he doesn’t have volleyball practice today, that he purposefully left Friday free of classes to give himself time to study. But the rain attacking the city feels too similar to the despair threatening his mind. And he desperately wishes he had something planned, anything to grasp.
He knows already that his day will be spent trying to stay afloat in these floodwaters.
The whistle of the kettle breaks through the sound of rain, and now Atsumu can hear rustling, too. He stiffens, waiting for his brother to break the silence with a “’Tsumu, want a cuppa?” like he always does when he can’t sleep, but then Atsumu remembers it’s not his brother but Sakusa Kiyoomi rustling down below. Sakusa Kiyoomi, with his intense eyes and fluffy curls and forehead moles that look like they were kissed there by loving lips. Sakusa Kiyoomi, who had sat silently on the upholstered sofa, face in a textbook or fingers tapping on a laptop for most of the evening. Sakusa Kiyoomi, whose bray of a laugh had taken Atsumu for surprise during dinner the night before. From his perch in his bed, Atsumu wonders if he should break the silence of the early morning by asking Sakusa to make him a cup of tea. But that seems too strange, too intimate, for having only met him the day before. What if he were to ask Sakusa to leave the kettle out so he can make his own? Surely that would be acceptable.
He takes three deep breaths before sitting up to speak, but he stops when he hears the creak of the steps leading to the loft. His eyes adjust to the difference in the shades of darkness, catching a glimpse of Sakusa with two mugs in hand. Sakusa, whose hair sticks wildly in all directions, whose once posture-focused body now slouches, whose balloon fit slacks and turtleneck sweater are now replaced by a tattered sleep shirt and pajama pants.
“How’d ya know I wanted a cuppa?” Atsumu asks, trying to inject a sense of humor into the question. But it falls flat on his ears, ears that are still struggling to keep above the waters of sorrow.
Sakusa eyes up the loft curiously, taking in how Atsumu has used his sense of spatial awareness to turn it into both bedroom and office space for himself. Dark eyes drag over shelves with plants and books scattered across them before settling on Atsumu’s face. He places a cup of tea gently into his hands, allowing him to stay in bed while he crosses the small area to the desk chair and plops down.
“You snore,” says Sakusa with a shrug, as if it isn’t weird to be sitting in a virtual stranger’s bedroom at five in the morning, bearing tea and unreadable features as gifts. Atsumu takes a sip of his tea, admiring the perfect balance of sweet and bitter. Is that plum? Maybe apricot. He isn’t entirely sure; he just knows it’s fruity and a bit tangy. It’s good.
He wants to say so, wants to thank Sakusa for it, wants to tell him everything is okay and he doesn’t have to sit with him while they drink their tea on this day that is already trying to rip Atsumu apart. But the words stick in his chest, a gurgle of them stick in his throat, and his lips only move so his tongue can wet them. He can see how Sakusa folds his legs unsteadily underneath himself, back hunched forward over his own tea, eyes still wandering around the room. His free hand thumbs carefully at the spines of Soseki’s I Am a Cat and Huxley’s Brave New World, the books wedged precariously next to a pothos plant on Atsumu’s desk.
“I figured if I was already making tea and you were up, then I might as well make you a cup, too.”
They sit in silence, Atsumu watching the rain fall atop the skylight, Sakusa watching the rain fall through the windows, letting time pass them by. And the time doesn’t seem to pass as heavy as it normally does on these types of days, the tea and the company bringing a momentary sense of ease to Atsumu’s soul. He’s determined to hold on to that feeling for as long as possible.
—
When Sakusa opens the door to the Miya apartment later that day, cursing his last class for dismissing thirty minutes late, he’s temporarily taken aback by the drastic change in atmosphere. Sure, he’d been gone all day for classes, but he was expecting to open the door and find the somber mood he and Atsumu had shared that morning over tea. Instead, he’s greeted by some pop song with a thick bass line blaring through speakers, the smell of cologne—and maybe fresh disinfectant?—wafting through the hall to the entranceway.
“Back, Miya!” He shouts up, not sure what to expect. He slips his shoes off and uses the pair of house slippers he’d brought for himself when methodically packing his duffle, pulling the gloves free as well and tucking them in his pocket. He walks to the kitchen to wash his hands, hearing a laugh overhead midway through his scrubbing. He looks up to see Atsumu’s dripping wet hair dangling over the ledge of the loft, a small grin pulled across his face before shaking his head. Scrubbing the last delicate parts of his wrists, Sakusa shuts the tap off and turns to stare more fully at Atsumu. “What are you laughing at?”
“Just figured with the gloves ya wouldn’t hafta come home and wash yer hands so thoroughly. Thank god yer only here a week or our water bill would skyrocket.”
Sakusa squints his eyes into a glare, hoping the hardness he shoots Atsumu reads as joking as it feels to himself. Another light chuckle and Sakusa is certain Atsumu takes no offense to the glare as he sits back up so his hair no longer drips over the edge. From where Sakusa stands, he can still see Atsumu’s blonde head where he’s taken position on the floor. The roar of a blowdryer breaks through the blaring music, and Sakusa goes to sit on the couch, legs folding like a pretzel beneath him as he sinks into the cushion. When the blow dryer stops, he can see Atsumu peak his head back over the ledge.
“I’m going to a party tonight, in case yer wondering. I know ya don’t go to these kinds of things, but my plus one is currently taking care of his plus one, so it’d be nice to not go alone, ya know?” Sakusa is stunned for a moment, watching a smile break across Atsumu’s face. “I also just really need a ride since Osamu has the car still.” Sakusa throws one of the decorative cushions at Atsumu’s head with surprising accuracy, a small oof escaping as Atsumu sends a string of curses down his way.
“I’m not going to a party,” Sakusa says with a tone of finality, scrolling through his phone without much thought. He hears Atsumu whine, but then there’s no sound outside the shitty pop music and a few groans from Atsumu for a long while. When he hears something drop from the ledge and a few expletives drop from Atsumu’s mouth, Sakusa leaves the comfort of the couch to see what’s up.
On the floor of the living room is a make-up tube that Sakusa snatches up quickly before climbing the set of stairs to where Atsumu is seated on the floor of the loft in front of a mirror. He’s wiping furiously at one eye with make up remover, black smears appearing on the wipe in hand. Sakusa can’t help the low chuckle that escapes his chest. He sits on the chair he occupied this morning, holding the makeup tube—liquid eyeliner, he realizes—firmly in his hand while waving Atsumu toward him.
“Here, I’ll help you,” he says lightly. And though he wants to return to the sarcastic banter where he jokes about not being able to stand him, Sakusa can sense something about Atsumu that, in this moment, screams fragile. So when the blonde turns and moves toward him, one eye red from being scrubbed at, Sakusa doesn’t flinch away but instead motions to the floor in front of him. “Sit,” he says firmly, and Atsumu obeys. Sakusa uncaps the eyeliner, letting it drag in one smooth line up and out before angling it down and bringing it back to its starting point, very carefully filling in the gaps between the two. “Tell me if you like the way that looks before I do the other side.” Atsumu wastes no time checking his face in the mirror again.
“Holy fuck, Kiyoomi!” Sakusa winces slightly at the casual use of his given name. “I tried that like six times before ya came up here, but here ya are nailing it on the first try. How is that even fair?” Atsumu comes back to where he was sitting, trying to find the exact same position he was in before. Once comfortable, he tilts his head back and closes his eyes so Sakusa can do the other one.
“I’ve watched my older sister do it enough times to pick it up,” he says, as if it’s the most simple explanation in the world, and repeats the same steps on this eye. “Open,” he mumbles, watching Atsumu blink his golden eyes open, Sakusa tilting his face this way and that as he decides if it’s even. Seemingly satisfied, he lets go of Atsumu’s face and recaps the tube, Atsumu’s eyes lingering on Sakusa’s face. “It’s all in the wrist,” he says confidently, making the same sure movements with the tube in the air as he had on Atsumu’s face. Golden eyes blink wide, eyebrows shooting up at Sakusa.
“Dude, yer fuckin’ wrists!” Atsumu gasps, and Sakusa flinches before laughing. It was always so easy for him to forget that most people didn’t know about that part of him, especially since the people he did interact with were all well-aware. “Yer wrists,” he repeats in awe, “so bendy.”
“That’s hypermobility for you: freakishly flexible and all the pain that comes with it.” Sakusa doesn’t feel like elaborating, doesn’t feel like going into every medical symptom he’s ever had, doesn’t feel like divulging information about his shit health today. And he can see that Atsumu is going to ask, can see it in the way he wets his lips with a flick of his tongue, so he shuts him up the only way he can think will be effective. “Hurry up and finish getting ready, I’ve got a party to drive you to.”