i wrote my way out of hell.

There’s a boy with freckles and his arm hanging freakishly out of its socket smiling at Shinji when he opens the door to his room in the E.R.

Shinji has to stare at him for a minute when he enters, still holding his clipboard, mouth open to say his name when he makes eye contact. It’s by far the strangest thing he’s ever seen in the E.R, and he has seen some strange things in his time in residency here: the guy’s grinning like from ear to ear, cat who got the cream, and his arm basically looks like it’s detached.

Shinji keeps his reaction off his face. He glances down at his clipboard. “Sawamura Eijun?”

“Kanemaru Shinji!”

Okay, extra strange. His brow furrows this time, and he flips the paper shut. “That’s me. I’m going to be your doctor today—you already know my name?”

“Yup!” Sawamura says, chirps practically, and it makes his dead arm look even weirder considering the rest of the bounce in his motion—he has yet to even flinch at his shoulder, which has to be dislocated, and Shinji can’t tell if he’s impressed or if the guy’s an idiot. Maybe both.

“…right.” He finishes, and flips the page back on the clipboard, approaching him and examining his arm. It is in fact dislocated—not that Shinji couldn’t tell from a distance—but aside from what is obviously some swelling and what must be a lot of pain, it looks fine.

(His arm muscles look fine. Not that Shinji is thinking anything anywhere near that.)

“What happened to you?” he asks, instead, setting his clipboard down to raise an eyebrow at Sawamura, whose gaze flicks from side to side. He has to be the most obvious person on this planet—whatever it was, it must have been illegal.

After a moment of hemming and hawing, Sawamura blurts out, “Monkey bars!”

Shinji raises a single eyebrow.

“—yeah, monkey bars! I was, swinging with a bunch of kids and—“ Sawamura starts gesturing with his good hand, imagining what must be his ‘great monkey bar moves’, none of which Shinji believes for a literal second, but his endless chatter is kind of familiar and maybe somewhere deep in the back of his head he finds it a tiny bit endearing, “—and then I tried to go for one that was really far away, and, ow!”

That would be Shinji checking his pulse—he must have moved his arm a tiny centimeter when he touched his fingers to his wrist, checking the bloodflow through his arm, and he grunts an apology, glancing up away from his work. Sawamura’s whine dissolves into a pout, and it’s a weirdly not-freaking-out reaction for an injury that would make most people freak out.

He rolls his eyes, but it’s at the story. “Y’know, there’s this thing called doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Confi…” Sawamura’s brow furrows, “Dential… like dentist?”

Well. Obviously he doesn’t know, “No, genius. Confidentiality. It means tell me the truth so I can treat you right.”

“I am!” he says, bristling a little, defensive, and it’s one of those. Shinji’s eyes narrow and he rolls his eyes again, because no one’s ever complimented him on his bedside manner and today won’t be the first time. He doesn’t have to make him tell the truth, but it’d be nice, and he picks up his pen to write “monkey bar accident” in the ­space on his chart for story, making sure to write it in quotes so Toujou will see it later and laugh at it.

“Most of the patients I get that with dislocated shoulders from—“ and here he exaggerates, repeating, “’monkey bars’ are in kindergarten.”

“Kindergarten’s awesome.” Sawamura defends, his mouth curved downwards in a pout, “You can fix it, right? I need my arm!”

“I’m a doctor, of course I can fix it.” Shinji huffs, stepping back and rolling up the sleeves of his lab coat. Sawamura looks relieved, comically so, and he has a feeling if he was able to move more, he’d be practically vibrating, “You wanna lay down or sit up?”

“What?”

“Pick one.”

Sawamura stares at him for another second and Kanemaru remembers his Hippocratic oath, harm not heal, he will not choke his patient, he will not choke his patient, and grits his teeth. “If you lay down or sit up, I can fix your shoulder.”

“Oh!” Recognition crosses his face and Shinji feels his blood pressure skyrocketing. Sawamura nods very seriously, but he still looks like a goofball. “Sitting up’s fine!”

“Great.” He mutters, only maybe partially sarcastic as he takes his place beside Sawamura, who is watching him curiously, still a little tinged with desperation in his face—he clearly wants this fixed as soon as possible. Shinji glances over his shoulder, mentally dialing up a list of anesthetics. “Do you want to be knocked out? We also have laughing gas, couple of other—“

“Oh, no, it’s fine!”

Shinji blinks. “What?”

And Sawamura, infuriatingly, just beams at him. “I’ll be fine! I thought it was gonna be okay if I just let it sit for a while but I think I need somebody to just pop it into place.”

Okay, now Shinji knows he’s looking at him like an idiot. Frankly, he’s kind of aghast. How can someone be that stupid? He’s dislocated his shoulder before and recalls very nearly crying like a baby (possibly actually crying like a baby) upon being injured, but Sawamura just keeps smiling at him, head tilted, a little clueless. “Seriously?”  

“Seriously.” He confirms, jerks his other thumb towards his chest. “I’m tough!”

“Tough.” Kanemaru repeats, squinting at him. He’d be more likely to lose his license by ignoring what the patient wanted, so after a moment of flabbergasted staring, Kanemaru jerks his head up and grumbles, “Fine. You want something to bite down on?”

“Nope! Just go for it, whenever you’re ready!”

This guy’s insane. Shinji puts his hand in the right place on his arm and tries to recalibrate himself back into place. Scalpular manipulation, the repositioning of the humeral head, three, two one—

Sawamura howls, and Shinji does not tell him he told him so.

--

Sent home with a lollipop—usually saved for kids—and his arm in a sling, Sawamura still has the gall to beam and wave at him with his good hand on his way out the door.

Shinji has a feeling that’s not the last he’s seeing of this guy.

--

In fact, it wasn’t even the first he’d seen of this guy.

Of that, Shinji is sure. There was something about Sawamura that was stupidly familiar, though he can’t quite put his finger on it, even hours later. Maybe it was his face, or his stupid energy, or the fact that he refused anesthesia even though Shinji very pointedly made it clear he was going to want it. Maybe it was the way he kicked his feet, or the fact that he knew him before. Whatever it is, Shinji is going to figure it out, and he complains this to Toujou with the phone cradled in his shoulder as he makes dinner in his apartment that evening.

“I’m telling you, the guy was a lunatic, Toujou.” He grumbles, “He knew my name.”

“Shinji, you’re a doctor, the nurse probably told him about it when he was waiting for you.” Toujou’s voice is trying somewhere for soothing over the tinny receiver, but Shinji has a feeling it’s more pitying, the asshole. “This is literally all you’ve talked about all day.”

“It was weird!” Shinji huffs, poking at his rice cooker to see if it’ll go any faster, and maybe he’s a little affronted. “What kind of person just smiles when you’re gonna relocate his shoulder? Do you know how much that hurts?!”

“I remember you crying about it in ninth grade, so, yeah, kind of.”

“Not helping!”

Toujou laughs, and the sound is familiar, comforting. Kanemaru sighs into the phone, heavily enough so that his traitor best friend will hear exactly how annoyed he is at this, but he’s undeterred. “Maybe you’re still just freaking out about what happened this morning.”

Shinji goes quiet for a second as he remembers. The train derailing, treating a little girl on the floor crying for her mother, the person who ripped open the broken doors with his bare hands. “…yeah.”

“I’m still freaking out a little about it.” Toujou supplies, and this time his tone does soften, worried. It’s the second phone call they’ve had today, when Toujou called him panicked as he helped pass people through the doors behind held open by the man in the mask, Shinji shouting he was okay, just a cut on his head, he’s not going to die here, get the other people off the train,“—pretty lucky that the boy wonder showed up, right?”

“His name was Sunspot.” Shinji mutters, and he feels his ears start to burn—he knows how stupid he sounds, but how often do you get your life saved by a bona fide superhero? Sue him. It was pretty dazzling.

“Sunspot, right.” Toujou says, and he can hear him smiling even over the phone—it makes a grin tug at Shinji’s cheeks, too, and though he rolls his eyes as he pops open the rice cooker, it’s pretty fond. “Anyway, maybe you should take the day off tomorrow. Trauma’s a pretty good reason to stay home from work, right?”

“Trauma’s the exact reason I don’t get to take off work.” He grumbles, but Toujou’s right. Men in tights, six am commute trauma surgery and a weirdo who thought he was too tough for anesthesia—it’s been a really, really weird day. He scoops himself a healthy, baseball sized serving and drops it on his plate, staring at it as he begrudgingly admits, “I can ask Asou if he’ll take my shift.”

“There you go.”

“I’m still staying on call, though.”

“Of course you are. Shinji, you’re going to work yourself to death—“

“Are you my mother?” Kanemaru smirks, amused at Toujou’s cluck of disapproval as he picks up the plate and drops on the couch, reaching around for his remote buried somewhere in the cushions.

“No, but I’ll totally tell your mom on you.”

“Would not!”

“Would too.”

They both peter out, and Shinji breaks first, snorting a laugh and reaching up to cover his face with his free hand. He sighs, heavy, and rubs his temples. “Look, I’m alright. I’m takin’ the day off tomorrow, and I won’t come in unless there’s a major accident.”

“Good.” Toujou says, and for a second his voice peters out, talking to someone on the other end of the line. “Shinji, I’ve got to go, Taiyou and I are going—“

“Out to dinner, yeah, yeah. Have fun.” Shinji snorts and adjusts his phone on his shoulder as Toujou apologizes again and lets the dial tone go, leaving Shinji with a warm feeling in his chest and his own dinner just a tiny, tiny bit lonelier than usual.

Flicking on the TV and long since settled in his life as an eternal bachelor, Shinji leans back and takes a bite of his curry as the news flashes across the screen.

“Today, Sunspot made another appearance in Tokyo”, the newswoman says, her voice clear and a little earnest and Shinji considers turning away, but his hand pauses on the remote control as the news report continues.

A train derailed off the subway line due to unforeseen circumstances, and eyewitness accounts spotted Tokyo’s local superhero Sunspot on the scene. As the train dangled over a bridge, Sunspot pulled the doors open on each cart and began to pull people from the train, carrying them as many as three as a time up the top of the train and back into safety. In what could have been a national tragedy, not a single life was lost, and very few were injured, thanks to the fast action of Sunspot. Reporting to you live…

The report fades to background noise as he watches the blurry form of Sunspot move up the train, fast as a lightning bolt, dressed in reds and blues. He looks just as ridiculous as he did when he ripped the doors open and rushed to ask Shinji for help the moment he said he was a doctor, all bright, shiny golden eyes and a stupid mask on his face. It was improbable and ridiculous, but with his shirt half ripped to shreds from making tourniquets, the two of them had saved the lives of at least twenty injured people, and Sunspot had thanked him profusely before throwing him over his shoulder and carrying him up like the rest of them. He hadn’t even had the strength to complain about the treatment. (Not that much, anyway.)

Kanemaru Shinji had never really believed in superheroes, up until one showed up and brought hope to a car full of people—himself included—who had resigned themselves to death.

Grunting, Shinji pushes himself up from the couch and changes the channel. He’s turning into a sap.

--

When Shinji wakes up to his natural body clock at six am, he checks his pager by habit and finds nothing, the silence of Asou taking over his early shift. It’s a weird, missing hole in his routine, and he checks it again as he’s brushing his teeth, as he hops out of the shower, as he gets dressed. Nothing comes out—he wouldn’t be surprised if Toujou called Chris, which meant that he’d be home for the day no matter what. He couldn’t have asked for a better mentor in the head surgeon of the hospital, but Shinji had a feeling that he was the scariest person in the building at any given time, particularly when it came to the health of his staff.

So it’s surprising when by the twentieth time he’s checked his pager, he’s interrupted not by a case or Asou asking for his help, but a phone call. The ringer jars him and Kanemaru fumbles with the phone before he hits receive and answers, “Kanemaru Shinji.”

“Kanemaru,” says Chris’s voice over the receiver. He sounds a little frazzled. “Sorry to bother you on your day off.”

“Oh, uh—it’s no problem, sir.” Kanemaru stutters, snapping into formality immediately and fumbling up to his feet, as if Chris could see him. “Do you need me to come in?”

“No, no--well, sort of.” Chris pauses, and Kanemaru can almost hear him rubbing his temples. They’re kindred spirits, sometimes. “My roommate’s at home alone, and I was wondering if you could check on him for me.”

Shinji blinks. One of the benefits of living close to the hospital meant that most of his neighbors were doctors, which meant Chris’s apartment wasn’t far--he’d been there a few times for dinner when he was first in residency, and there’s one little detail he does in fact remember. “You have a roommate?”

“I do. He works nights often--that’s why you haven’t met him yet.” Chris hums, “Anyway, he’s hurt and I worry for him a little, when he’s home alone.”

Is this guy a person or a dog? “Uh, yeah, okay, I can do that.”

“Thank you, Kanemaru.” Chris sounds relieved over the phone--he sounded fairly fond earlier, too. He wonders if maybe Chris has a boyfriend or something and he just missed it completely, but daydreaming about his boss’s romantic life is not just inappropriate, but weird, so he just makes an affirmative noise on his end, “He should be able to buzz you in.”

“Right.” Shinji nods, kicking off his slippers and going towards the front door for his sneakers. A quick confirmation of the apartment number--six floors up from his, a penthouse--and he’s off the phone and on his way up the stairs, trying to discern what the hell he’s supposed to do. Keep the guy company? Make him food? Chris wasn’t exactly specific, and his dog-slash-person (Shinji’s not entirely convinced he isn’t a dog) is still an unknown mystery to Shinji. He’s not really thrilled to be what sounds like babysitting, but Chris has done so much for Shinji it’d be practically criminal to turn him down. So he buzzes the doorbell and waits, hands shoved into his pockets and looking down his nose at the doorknob.

The door opens suddenly, with a swear from behind it, to a tan face with freckles and shiny, golden brown eyes

His arm’s in a sling.

Oh fuck, Shinji thinks, at the exact moment that Sawamura Eijun brightens up like a sunbeam and chirps, “Kanemaru!!”

--

“Run this by me again,” Shinji says, his hand poised threateningly over the call button on his phone, staring at Sawamura, who is looking at him with gigantic puppy eyes, the fierceness of his scowl deterred by the fact that his dumb arm is still in a sling, “You know Chris how?”

“He’s my mentor!” Sawamura says, for the fourth time, despairingly.

“Try again. He’s my mentor, and I seriously doubt you’re a doctor.”

“I’m not!”  Sawamura looks like he might be grinding his teeth--he throws his good arm up in the air out of frustration, or something, and then returns to whining, a pattern that has been pretty typical for the past ten minutes, “He helps me out with other stuff--Kanemaru, I’m hungry!! Gimme back my phone!”

He makes a grab for Shinji and he immediately leans back, holding the phone up out of reach. It’s instinct at this point, and Sawamura keeps reaching for it anyway, so Shinji puts his free hand in his face. “And let you eat crap? Hell no, Chris’s gonna kill me if I let you anywhere near that takeout place--besides, I don’t believe you! How’re you affording this shitty rent, huh?”

Sawamura winces and drops back on his ass, away from Shinji’s hand, as the pout returns. “I don’t--” he starts, and then huffs, his cheeks puffing out with the force of the air expelled from his lungs. “I only help Chris out. He’s helping me, and I’m helping him with other stuff.”

Shinji pauses. He’s not some kind of live-in prostitute, is he? Oh god. The thought crosses his mind briefly and he must look horrified, because Sawamura squeals a, “IT’S NOT LIKE THAT!!” and starts to turn scarlet red underneath all those stupid freckles.

In the end, Shinji stays at Chris’s apartment for two hours, and cooks Sawamura dinner his damn self.

It’s not the worst night he’s ever had.

--

( He does wake up the next morning with one hell of a Sawamura-induced headache, though. )

--

By the time Shinji gets into the ER the next day, his head’s pounding less and he’s met at the door by Chris, who puts coffee in his hands before he’s even punched in. Not entirely convinced Chris isn’t an angel, he accepts the warm cup and Chris chuckles at him, walks with him in step to the front desk to clock in, and okay, he can’t help but ask. “You didn’t tell me your roommate was Sawamura.”

“You know each other?” He must have been surprised at the fact, considering, and Shinji shrugs, pulling a little bit of a face.

“He was my patient the other day. Said he dislocated his arm--” Kanemaru snorts. “On the monkey bars.”

“He does like the monkey bars.” Chris says sagely, typing a code into the hospital computer--one for himself, one for Shinji. For a moment he thinks about Sawamura, who last night picked half the vegetables off his curry and moved around entirely too much for someone with a busted arm, and decides that maybe he hadn’t been lying about his injury after all. “He always bounces back quickly, though.”

“How do you know Sawamura, Chris?” Shinji asks, winces mentally at his lack of smooth transition, “I mean--Craigslist, or whatever?”

“We went to highschool together. He’s your age, though.” Now Shinji’s definitely not imagining the fondness in Chris’s voice. Maybe he really is like his pet dog. “He mentioned he wanted to move to the city permanently, so I offered him a place to stay until he’s properly on his feet.”

“Oh.” That admittedly makes more sense than anything Shinji’d been thinking, and he flushes, a little embarrassed at his own insinuations. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s just fine.” Chris pulls his id badge from a holder and clips it onto his pocket, turning away to face Kanemaru again. He’s got this gaze that Shinji thinks is all knowing sometimes, the kind of wise face that he’d almost been willing to get on his knees to his supervisor and beg for when choosing mentors. It had been worth it: in the two years they’ve worked together, he at least knows Chris likes him.

He still can’t get a read off the guy worth shit, though. “Besides, Kanemaru, I think Sawamura likes you.”

Shinji blinks, record scratching in his head. “What?”

“He was talking about you when he came home from the hospital.” Chris pauses, as if recalling something, and then laughs, “If you pushed his shoulder back into place and he still likes spending time with you, it’s a safe bet that he’d like to be friends, I think. Sawamura’s still pretty new in town, and he needs all the friends he can get.”

“But--” All he did was lecture him, is how he wants to finish his sentence, but he snaps it shut as Chris looks at him in what has to be imploring--and he can already see exactly where this is going. Kanemaru flusters. “Chris--”

“I work a few turnover shifts this week. If you don’t mind stopping by again, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.” Just like that, Shinji feels him go in for the killing blow, oh man, “I know I would.”

And he’s fucked. He sighs. “Yeah, I guess.”

Chris claps him on the shoulder and nods, giving a squeeze, and turns to make his way to the OR. It’s all Shinji can do not to bash his head into the nearest wall, and he stops and stands there with his forehead pressed against the check-in console for a long minute, considering the fastest way to dig himself back out of the Sawamura shaped hole he just leapt into.

--

By noon, he’s forgotten about it, mostly because there’s a commotion in the hospital that’s a bit unusual.

“Sorry for the intrusion!” Someone yells from the reception room and Shinji jumps half a foot, looking up from his brief, five minute reprieve of coffee considering murder, because that voice sounds familiar, and just as he wheels on his heel to roll up his sleeve and deliver his best, most admonishing scolding at Sawamura Eijun, the doors slam open.

It’s not Sawamura at all: rather, it’s Sunspot.

In the dim hospital light, he looks just as ruffled as he did hanging over a bridge--dark hair a mess, mask still slapped across his face, blood dripping from his nose. They make eye contact and Shinji feels something in his chest twist up, something he can’t put a name to as he stares, and it’s only when he drops his gaze and notices the shape of a woman wrapped in a blanket in his arms that he snaps into action mode and he’s up, starting to yell for a stretcher and an IV, stat, and hurrying across the hall to look at the woman. “What happened?!”

“Burning building, two doors down,” Sunspot says, and he looks frantic for a second, eyes looking from the woman in his arms to Shinji and Shinji gets it, nods his head and holds out his arms. As a doctor, he’s been trained to keep his calm in treacherous situations and this is no different: he’s already analyzing her the minute Sunspot places her in his arms, moving with his team as one perfect machine to get her into treatment. The minute he takes the woman Sunspot is gone, blowing papers and ruffling Shinji’s hair as he takes off, presumably to get the rest of the victims before things get any worse.

He doesn’t have time to think: Shinji’s on the move and working as soon as he’s gone, and thirteen more patients come into his ER in the next five minutes, each one carried in by the progressively more singed looking Sunspot until Shinji is bouncing from room to room, working on as many patients as he can handle.

Crunch time always works the same way: with his mind going a hundred miles an hour and his hands possibly even faster, there's no way that Shinji has any way to think about anything besides the lives of his patients, how many people he can help in as little of time and causing as little pain as humanly possible. He loves his job: it's stressful and terrifying and sometimes heartbreaking, but the teamwork required here isn't much different than his high school baseball club. It's all about making connections, putting together great minds and great instincts.

By the time the steady stream of patients slows to a trickle and Shinji takes a breath, he has enough time to see Sunspot again, staggering past the room where Shinji had just stabilized an older gentleman, the last of his patients for the foreseeable moment. From the window, Sunspot looks like a mess, and Shinji feels the tick in his brow before he acutely realizes he's moved to the door and tossed it open. "Where do you think you're going?!"

Sunspot jumps, comical, his shoulders jerking up in the air before he whirls around. "What--me?" and to top it off, he gestures to himself, as if he's completely oblivious to how shitty he looks, to the red stain of what has to be blood on the side of his outfit.

Shinji scowls and stomps forward, grabbing his left wrist in one hand and turning on his heel. "Yes, you, dumbass--you're getting treatment. Now."

"Treat--I don't need--"

Shinji jerks his head back to give his best, thunderous glare to the superhero, who he's now dragging to the nearest open patient room, and Sunspot stares at him with wide eyes behind his facemask. "Don't need treatment, my--" Deep breaths, Shinji, remember your blood pressure, says a voice that sounds like Toujou in the back of his head, "--butt, you're coming whether you like it or not."

"What?! NO!!! HEY!!! HELP, I'M BEING DOCTORNAPPED!!! HELP!!"

The yelling and shouting bounces straight off Shinji's back, and he keeps going until he gets him onto a bed. Sunspot drops ungracefully and winces, and that's all the motivation Shinji needs to work on him as he reaches for his pager to get help from one of the nurses, if they're still running around.

He sees Sunspot open his mouth to protest and Shinji glares at him. "Look, if you saved all those people, it's the least we can do to get you proper care. Sit down, shut up, and this'll be over a lot faster."

Sunspot's mouth snaps closed. Victory.

--

Shinji doesn't actually need much help to patch up Sunspot, who had eventually given up and sat complacently, kicking his feet against the bedframe. Nurses shooed off to check on other patients and Sunspot now stripped of the top half of his dumb costume, Shinji can take care of the rest himself.

He pulls up a stool and rolls it across to the bedside, sitting down as he examines his side. There's a nasty looking cut across the tanned skin of his stomach, and though the bleeding's mostly been staunched for the time being, he's going to need stitches. Shinji looks at the anesthetic in his hand and taps the top to squeeze out the extra liquid from the syringe, flicking his gaze back up to Sunspot. He's biting his lip, and he mutters, "I hate needles" under his breath, though it's plenty loud enough for Shinji to hear.

It's charming. Really charming. "Seriously? You're a superhero. Don't be a baby."

"I'm not a baby!" Sunspot whines, sounding exactly like a baby, and Shinji rolls his eyes, though there's no less fondness to them. In the warm light of the hospital room, Sunspot, famous town superhero and apparent wuss over needles, looks just like a regular person, the sunlight from the window glancing off his skin. Even with the ugly cut across his stomach, he's hard to look away from, the sun itself.

Shinji shakes his head to clear those thoughts from his head and hopes that Sunspot's just pretty, and kind of dumb. "Alright, you big baby, I'm going to stick you with the anesthetic. It's gonna hurt--"

"I don't need it!"

Shinji jerks his head up, and this time it's with an understanding, with recognition. "What?"

Sunspot smiles sheepishly at him, reaching up towards the back of his head with his other hand as if to scratch it through his hair, "It's gonna heal itself, so, if I just lay here for a little bit, it'll be fine."

But whatever he's said has gone mostly over Shinji's head as he narrows his eyes at him. That's... impossible, because he just fixed up Sawamura's arm two days ago, so there's no way he could be out fighting crime. Plus, it's Sawamura, who Shinji discovered last night is completely incapable of doing most basic things, including all types of cooking. Someone who can't boil water without setting off his smoke alarm can't have superpowers.

Sunspot waves his other hand in his face. "Hellooooo? Shinji?" The first name snaps him out of it, and Kanemaru furrows his brow and looks down at his stomach. Inhuman healing is right: it's a weird process, watching skin start to knit itself back together. He sits back in his chair, slumping a little, and considers the cruel and terrible thought that Sawamura Eijun could be some kind of superhero. He's gotta be losing his mind. Sawamura Eijun can't be Sunspot, because Kanemaru's had some weird and embarrassing thoughts about Sunspot since the day he picked him up and pulled him out of that train, the last man standing and ready to fall to his death for his profession.

"Hey, uh, Kanemaru?" This time, his patient uses the right name, and Kanemaru flicks his gaze up towards Sunspot. He's not looking at him, his gaze off towards the wall next to his room, and the fading sunlight makes his profile look ridiculously handsome, freckles dappled like shadows across his cheeks. He grunts in response, a motion to continue. "Did everyone make it out okay?"

Kanemaru stops watching the cut on his stomach heal and feels something in his stomach twist. "Yeah. One woman in critical condition, but she'll be okay."

"Good.... that's good." Sunspot murmurs, and now he's sure he can't be Sawamura. There's no way Sawamura could look that meaningful, that pensive, and the twisty feeling in his chest returns again, brought back to the train with one look. Sunspot is a superhero, after all. His job is to save people.

Their job is to save people, really.

Shinji tears his gaze away as quickly as he can, his heartbeat rattling the bones of his ribcage, and looks down at the cut on his stomach. It's almost halfway healed now, and Shinji runs his thumb over the healed section of skin. What should have scarred left nothing, an unblemished tanned patch that seemed to be zipping up the rest as it went.

"We make a pretty good team, you know!" Sunspot says from above him, and Shinji can feel the weight of his gaze evaporate--when he looks up, he's grinning, and for a brief second he snorts, ducking his head, and feels a little like smiling, too. "You should be my sidekick!"

And just like that, the moment's gone again, and Shinji snaps, "Not a chance in hell!" and rolls his eyes. Mentally, he reminds himself that it's Toujou's shtick to get obsessed with idols. Superheroes are basically the same thing.

--

It takes about twenty minutes for Sunspot to heal up, and Shinji stays in his room the whole time, considering the storm of media standing outside the door. No matter how much he barks at them to get out of his hospital, it's mostly a losing battle, and it's after his third slam of the door that he hears enough shifting on the bed behind him that he turns around.

With a "hup!" noise, Sunspot has pushed himself up and out of bed. His stomach's completely healed, and some of the burn marks Shinji had noticed and treated earlier were gone too, leaving him exactly the same as he'd been the first time Shinji ever saw him. He flashes him a grin as he pulls his shirt back over his head and trots over to Shinji, hands on his hips. "See? I'm all fixed up! Totally better! Right as the rain and--"

"Lemme see." Shinji intones, deadpan, making a gesture at his shirt. Sunspot puffs his cheeks out and lifts his shirt, so Shinji gets an eyeful of his stomach, perfectly smooth, unmarred by blemish or pain. It really is fixed.

He leans back again, folding his arms. "I'd say someone should clone you, but no one'd ever be able to take two of you."

"Hey! Kanemaruu, that's not true!" Sunspot whines, and that familiarity returns, something warm in his stomach. Shinji snorts and yanks down the shirt again, smacking him once on the non-tender side for good measure. "Owch!"

"Fine, go out there and deal with your media circus. I'm not telling them shit."

Sunspot nods, an enthusiastic noise that sounds like osh matching his stupid, knocked off salute as he puts his hand on the doorknob. He pauses for a second there, though, and turns to look back at Shinji.

The smile on his face is blinding, and Kanemaru gets why he's called sunspot, because he sees them in his vision. "Thanks for all your help, Dr. Kanemaru! I'll see you again soon!"

And just like that, with flashbulbs immediately popping outside, he's gone. Shinji stands there for a moment, temporarily dazzled, and drops against the bed to put his face in his hands for one long, long moment. His ears are burning red.

If Sunspot actually ends up being Sawamura, Shinji's going to hate himself for the rest of his life.

--

For the next six months, Shinji sees Sunspot at least once a week. Most of the time it's for disasters, saving people and bringing them to the car of the hospital faster than an ambulance ever could, and Shinji works tirelessly on them, trying to keep their death count at zero.

He learns more about Sunspot--his powers are super speed, strength, and healing, he still hates needles, and he boasts that he's a great ice skater after a man with ice powers blusters through town and sets the place into Christmas in July--but never once his name.

That doesn't bother Shinji, though. He starts looking forward to his visits. Though he claims it's for something to do, Toujou refers to Sunspot only as "Shinji's boyfriend", much to Shinji's annoyance, and if he says that his irritation is because it's a stupid lie, it's about 95% truth.

(The other 5% is wishful thinking, but he's not about to let Toujou know that.)

--

But, same as he sees Sunspot once a week, he sees Sawamura twice a week, and that's starting to grow on him a little, too. It's helping to push away his theory that Sunspot and Sawamura are the same person, mostly because 9 times out of 10, Shinji thinks he'd rather shake Sawamura than kiss him. He's incompetent and whiny and his stubbornness is only outmatched by his stupidity. Shinji finds himself visiting him long after his arm's out of a sling, because he thinks Sawamura might actually burn the apartment complex down trying to cook when Chris isn't around, and he's not about to have his nice house destroyed because of an idiot armed with a gas stove.

He learns things about Sawamura, too. He's got a loud laugh and loves baseball, and that's what gets them to bond for the first time, rooting for the same team on the couch and jostling each other when things get intense.

He also learns that Sawamura sleeps a lot, like, more than anyone else he's ever met. He doesn't know why, but sometimes Shinji drops by in the afternoon after a morning shift at the hospital and Sawamura opens the door with bedhead and sleepy eyes, asking for breakfast.

It has to do with those night shifts he works, whatever those are.

It's definitely not cute, either.

--

The thing about this is that the streams never cross. Shinji never sees Sawamura outside his apartment, just like he never sees Sunspot outside of the hospital. A less suspicious man would ignore this, but Shinji, just once, would like to see the two of them in the same room. It might quiet some of his thoughts late at night, because he can’t stop fucking seeing the similarities, and no matter how much he ignores them (aggressively ignores them), the more time he spends with Sawamura, the more he sees of Sunspot. The whining, the puffy-cheek thing he does when he’s trying to relax, his stupid big grin: it’s all familiar. It’s driving Shinji crazy.

This tenuous little truce between people and places breaks when Sunspot crashes through his window.

Shinji hears the sound of shattering glass from the living room and leaps to his feet, swearing and grabbing the first weapon of choice he could find (a broom) to run back to his bedroom. He’s about ready to clock someone in the face with the end of it when he finds not a burglar, but a body lying prone on the floor, and a familiar one at that.

“Shit--Sunspot?!”  Shinji’’s into action mode in a second, dropping the broom with a clatter and rushing across the room to drop to his knees in front of him. There’s glass everywhere and Sunspot is silent, which is more terrifying than anything Shinji’s ever seen in his life. He reaches for his face and asks, loud, clear, “Sunspot--hey, are you okay? Are you okay?”

Two times, nothing. Shinji’s heart squeezes in his chest and he starts looking him over, feeling nausea rise up in his stomach for a brief and terrible moment, like he’s back in residency for the first time and seeing his first bloodied, miserable patient, but then Sunspot gasps and Shinji feels his own bones turn to butter.

“Shit.” he hisses, again, drops his hands to either side of his face, which is still mashed into the floor. “Answer me when I ask if you’re okay, you moron--”

“‘m okay,”  he rasps, and Shinji wants to shake him, Hippocratic oath be damned. From his cursory examination he doesn’t have any head trauma, so he carefully reaches to tilt his head to the side to keep him from choking in case he passes out, and when he lifts his head, the mask on his face ends up dropping, fabric soft against Shinji’s hands, and it turns out the face he’s cradling is tan skin and freckles, golden brown eyes half lidded from exhaustion, a cut on his cheek leaking blood and healing itself underneath Shinji’s fingerprints.

The face behind the mask is Sawamura Eijun, and the pure and genuine relief he looks at Shinji with socks him in the chest: when he breathes out, “I made it,” he’s not sure if it’s supposed to be Sunspot or Sawamura speaking.

Either way, Sawamura’s eyes flutter shut again, and Shinji stares at him for a second longer, his heart thundering in his ears.

He can’t even say I knew it.

--

Sawamura sleeps for two hours on Shinji’s bed once he’s been moved, Shinji gathering him up in his arms as carefully as possible, with only the knowledge that he’ll heal up after and the pile of glass on the floor keeping him from letting him lie still. It gives him plenty of time to stew over the knowledge that he was right, that Sawamura Eijun is the Sunspot, and that the first place he came in a time of some kind of trouble was here. Not the hospital.

Here.

Maybe he meant to go to his own apartment, he rationalizes, sweeping up glass shards and checking Sawamura’s vitals.

He said “he made it”, he chides himself, pacing around his room for the tenth time in twenty minutes.

By the time Sawamura’s showing any sign of life, Kanemaru’s given up, dropped into his desk chair with his head in his hands, and if he jerks up when Sawamura coughs, well, he wants answers. That’s what h’ll claim if asked, but it doesn’t explain why he pushes his chair across the room immediately and puts his hand on his shoulder. “Stop trying to move, idiot, you’re going to screw up your healing”

“Ughhhh,” Sawamura whines, and Shinji’s tiny I knew it echoes somewhere back in the back of his mind--if it wasn’t obvious before, it is now, in the way he pouts as he realizes he’s in a lot of pain. Slowly, he opens his eyes and tilts his head to look at Shinji, and it’s unfair, the way he starts to light up like a Christmas tree, at the realization of where he ended up. “Kanemaru--”

Is how he starts, but Kanemaru slaps his hand over his mouth. Sawamura yelps. “No.” he says, shaking his head, because it’s the best he can do to keep from being confused and angry and embarrassingly flustered all at once, and he’s going to keep Sawamura from opening his big, stupid mouth until he says what Shinji wants him to say, which is, “You are going to tell me everything that just happened.”

“Mmpf--”

“From the beginning.” He says, and lifts his hand off of his mouth. They stare at each other for a second, Sawamura wide eyed, Shinji red-cheeked, and then Sawamura gasps and reaches up to touch his face, his expression going from confused to comically horrified in a second.

“My mask--oh no!” He yelps, and if it wasn’t for Kanemaru’s hand on his shoulder holding him back, he might have leapt backwards: Sawamura pats at his face, frantically, as if confirming it’s gone, and then covers his face with his hands. “Don’t look!”

Shinji stares at him for a brief second, thinks, this idiot? Really, me? and feels a vein in his temple throb somewhere even as he snorts--it’s a little rudely. “You haven’t had that damn thing on for almost two hours, Sawamura, cut the crap.”

“You’re not supposed to see me!” Sawamura wails, and Shinji swears he sees red--he reaches forward and grabs his wrist to try and pull his hands off of his face. Now that he knows he’s healed, he has no mercy, and in pulling, he manages to get his hands free and up: Sawamura scrambles and Shinji locks their fingers together. It’s then and only then that he stops, wide eyed and flushed, eyebrows knit together at the discovery of his secret. They stare at each other, Shinji scowling, Sawamura flustered, and eventually, he relents. “--You can’t tell anyone--I don’t think you’re gonna tell anyone, but you can’t cause what if you got hurt cause of it--”

“Sawamura--” “Or Chris, what if Chris got hurt--well, Chris already knows, so  I guess that’s okay, and Kanemaru’s a good secret keeper--”

“Wamura!” He barks, and Sawamura shuts up, mouth closing with a click. Shinji can feel his blood pressure rising, somewhere between anger and concern, and he should’ve known all along that Sunspot and Sawamura were the same person, because they inspire the same damn feeling somewhere in the back of his head. “I’m not going to tell anyone so just--shut up about that already, jesus. You’re the least subtle person in the entire world.”

“I’m not!” Sawamura starts to protest, but Kanemaru levels him with a stare again and he shuts up.

Shinji has a thousand questions now that he has a captive audience, but the one that comes out of his mouth is not how long have you had superpowers or what do you mean Chris knows, it’s “Why did you come here?”

Clearly that wasn’t the question that Sawamura expected, either. He stops squirming and tilts his head. “You mean here?”

“No, Okinawa,” Shinji rolls his eyes and the minute Sawamura looks like he’s going to protest that, he has to resist the urge to groan, “Yes, here, dumbass, here as in my apartment.”

Sawamura’s looking at him like he’s nuts, and he considers the merit of just shaking him until he understands, but his response is steady, almost as if it was the only correct answer. “Because I knew you’d take care of me.”

Shinji stops. Sawamura just had to go and say it, the most obvious thing in the world--and a part of him thinks that maybe Sawamura is just starting to figure it out too, the way realization is starting to play up in his eyes. He’s exactly right, is the maddening thing, Shinji would. He’d take care of him as Sunspot and Sawamura alike.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters under his breath, and when he makes eye contact with Sawamura again, those eyes of his look hopeful, the bastard. Like he doesn’t know he’s the one who brings half of their city hope like he carried it in on his back.

“Cause you always fix me up, and stuff, and you bring me food.” Sawamura adds, and his smile’s genuine, warm and toothy, and from this distance, he notices he’s missing one, probably spat it out midway through his fight with...whatever he was fighting before he appeared here, bedraggled and broken and Kanemaru patched him back up again. Sawamura smiles and it’s embarrassing that the skipped beats in his chest that belonged to Sunspot pick right back up and belong to Sawamura, too. “Sorry for breaking your window.”

“You better be.” Shinji grumbles, reaches forward to run his fingers through Sawamura’s bangs. He tilts his head up into it like a dog, and it’s stupidly endearing. “You’re not all healed up yet, are you?”

“Mmm--” Sawamura reaches down and lifts the blankets up, to see the mottled blue and yellow of bruises instead of what had been cuts and what had to have been a punctured lung earlier in the afternoon. He drops his blanket unceremoniously and shakes his head. “Nope. But I’m gonna get better soon, and get out and kick that guy’s ass, you can count on it!”

Kanemaru snorts. It’s a little hysterical. “Yeah,” he says, and sweeps his hands through his hair again just because, “We’ll see about that.”

--

The first time Kanemaru Shinji kisses Sunspot is not as Sunspot, but as Sawamura Eijun, when he tells him that he wants to make him dinner to make up for destroying his window. Shinji’s not really sure if it was to shut up that idea or because it was endearing, such a stupid little suggestion for a massive amount of damage, but so earnest and genuine and Sawamura that he felt the need to kiss it off his mouth.

Kuramochi is royally and truly fucked. When your best friend is Miyuki Kazuya and you’re vice president of, for some reason, one of the biggest frats on campus—it’s the baseball team, Kuramochi told his mother when she laughed herself silly over her son the fraternity boy, “You never change, Youichi,”—this isn’t a completely abnormal situation. Kuramochi has been royally and truly fucked in a variety of different ways, from having to book it away from the volleyball team’s frat with an empty sack of toilet paper, howling with laughter and being chased by the frankly scary looking captain, to lying face first in the bathtub and considering an early death from his own hangover. He’s stared down finals, midterms, and everything in between, and very little compares to today. Today is their mixer with the softball team, which guarantees an obnoxiously loud party, alcohol flowing and music pumping, and Kuramochi had been laughing and watching Sawamura try to out-chug Furuya, a delightful endeavor that never got old, but he stops with his hand slammed on the table in the middle of a “Chug, rookie, chug!” and watches a pink head bob through the crowd. There’s one person in their fraternity with pink hair—Kominato Haruichi, who is currently standing right next to Kuramochi—which means that Kuramochi has no fucking idea who that guy(?) is. He squeezes through the throng of people with an, “Oi!”, because he’s not going to let some punk ass Phi Beta Theta come in and ruin their party, but the guy (who is in fact, a guy, probably) turns up to him and smiles. A chill goes down Kuramochi’s spine. The guy’s dressed in dark pants and a sweater over a buttoned up shirt—he looks so out of place amongst the throng of yelling frat boys that it’s almost laughable, and Kuramochi freezes, staring at him and his smile, his narrowed eyes, and has two thoughts at the same time. The first, oh, shit, cute and not a second later, oh, shit, run. Kuramochi’s survival instincts have never been great, so he doesn’t run, but he doesn’t make a swipe to throw the guy out, either. Instead, he stands there like an absolute idiot as the crowd seems to part for the pink haired guy, who walks up to the stereo system attached to Miyuki’s laptop, and turns it down with a delicate, small hand. The whole party stops, as if the stranger is Moses himself, and he simply turns that smile back onto Kuramochi. Youichi swears he sees flames blow up behind him, and he shudders. Without a word, he turns back on his heel and strides through the party again, confident as if he were walking on water. Kuramochi and fifty other frat boy heads turn to watch him go, and it’s only when someone shouts, “Hey, turn the music back on!” that Pink Hair Guy stops, his hand on the doorframe. Kuramochi winces for the guy—god only knew who it was, but he’s gonna hand deliver a kick to his ass for shouting it. Pink Hair Guy turns around, his expression placid, eyebrows raised, mouth still turned up in that permanent smile. “Turn it back on?” “Yeah, turn it back on!” “No—hey—“ Kuramochi blurts out, turning around to find the perpetrator, or Miyuki, or both (quite possible) but Pink Hair Guy merely walks past him, hands behind his back, up to the speakers. The entire party watches him examine the surround sound system, hears the note of curiosity to his hum, and watches as he pulls the cable connecting it and the laptop out with one hand. A low note of shock rumbles through the party, and Pink Hair Guy examines the cord in his hand. “It seems,” he comments, pausing for what must be effect, “we’ve reached an impasse.” He turns around and Kuramochi feels the hair prickling on the back of his neck—he has to assume the heat in his gut that’s coming from this is alcohol based, because holy shit, inappropriate as hell. Pink Hair Guy’s smile ticks up another notch, and he looks ready to commit first degree frat house murder. “—If you’re going to blast music across the street from a graduate student complex, perhaps provide something that’s not so grating on the ears as a trash compactor.” His smile brightens. “Your party’s terrible, and over. Goodnight!” The entire room watches him as he leaves, with the same confident stride he’d entered with, stereo cord over his shoulder, and the slam of the door leaves absolute, dead silence in the living room, made deafening by the lack of sound. “Holy shit,” Kuramochi mutters, around the same time he hears Haruichi say “aniki” under his breath and scurry towards the door, following after him and restarting the confused muttering amongst the party goers as he slips out of the door. --

Haruichi returns to the house after a few hours, and Kuramochi learns in the morning that Pink Hair Guy is Kominato Ryousuke, Haruichi’s older brother. He was a former member of the baseball team, thus the proximity of the apartment, but has since graduated and moved onto his graduate studies in mathematics. He sounds ridiculously smart, and, though Haruichi tries to convince them it’s really not that bad, ridiculously ready to call the cops on all of them at any given moment. Kuramochi guesses maybe it was a little too loud, but it doesn’t stop him from adding into the rousing cheer of “Fuck the neighbor!” when a group of the boys eat dinner together that night. Miyuki clinks his beer into Kuramochi’s with the toast and leers at him. “Fuck the neighbor, right?” There’s something about his tone that pisses Kuramochi off, and he makes a threatening face at him, even as he feels the heat of a blush starting to make his ears burn. He’d have to be an idiot not to catch onto that particular insinuation, and Miyuki’s overly toothy grin and raised eyebrows are enough to make him shove his face towards his lo mein. The squawk he makes in his attempt to escape getting a face full of noodles gives Kuramochi a vindictive joy, and he shoves his foot into his back when he gets up to add insult to injury, and push any of those particular thoughts out of Miyuki’s devious, too damn smart brain. Whatever. The neighbor was cute. It’s fine. He can admit to it. He was fucking scary as hell, but he was kinda cute, with his pink hair and his soft looking mouth. No one’s ever batted an eye at his tendencies as a switch-hitter on and off the baseball diamond, and a guy like that just kinda, to continue the metaphor, hit a homerun. Pretty, soft looking, but equally ready to tear someone’s throat out with his teeth. Kuramochi hits his forehead against the cabinet softly, a dull thunk accompanying the sound of his head bonking ancient wooden paneling, and furiously tries to ignore those thoughts, mostly because if there’s one thing he hates doing more than anything in this world, it’s proving Miyuki right. He’ll just forget about it and move on with his life. Kominato junior’s too cute for his tastes, but he’d be lying if he hadn’t thought he was kind of appealing and now? Now he’s got an older brother. A frankly sort of diabolical older brother who killed their party. Kuramochi hits his head on the cabinet again. Fuck. -- “Fuck,” Kuramochi moans into his lunch table, staring down a hastily scribbled down series of notes down his left bicep. Miyuki sits across from him, raising a curious eyebrow at Kuramochi’s less than organized system of notating for himself and were Kuramochi not so occupied with the doom currently hanging over his head, he’d flip him off. Instead, he stares at the notes, written in sharpie black pen. “FIGURE DRAWING NOTEBOOK, FINAL FULL POSE + LIGHTING, MARCH 2ND” Kuramochi drops his cheek against the table surface and considers death by cereal spoon while Miyuki grabs his arm and reads off the due date, grimacing. “Y’know, you probably wouldn’t forget about important deadlines if you didn’t write them on your arm.” “Shut up, Miyuki.” He mutters, half of its usual vitriol, and pulls his hand away. “I haven’t even started.” “So what’s the big deal? You need someone to pose for you?” Miyuki drops his hand and looks at him over his glasses, raising his eyebrows. “Y’know, I could probably make some room in my schedule, if you’re so desperate~” “Die.” “—That’s what I thought.” Miyuki laughs, a sound that makes Kuramochi want to punch him, but he pats him on the inside of the arm. “That’s what you get for not paying attention. You wanna book it to the library after practice?” “The library” has lately become code for “there’s going to be an all-nighter, you better provide coffee”, and Youichi’s stomach churns a little at the suggestion. The idea of pulling a desperate all nighter to finish his sketchbook sounds traumatizing, because art doesn’t come like Miyuki’s statistics. Art takes time, and patience, and a whole lot of fucking shit that Kuramochi doesn’t have. “I’ve got ten days.” He mutters, staring forlornly at the due date on the inside of his arm. “I’ll figure something out.” “A week of other classes,” Miyuki reminds him entirely too cheerfully, standing up from the dining hall chair with a screech of plastic on wood that makes Kuramochi wince and snap his head up to say something to him. He ends up just grinding his teeth and Miyuki claps him on the back when he stands up to clear his plate. “Good luck, Picasso.” “Pica—“ Kuramochi momentarily sees red, half because that’s not his style and second because he knows Miyuki knows it’s not his style and is doing it just to piss him off, but that doesn’t make Kuramochi want to shake him any less. He gives into the urge, throwing an arm around Miyuki’s head and dragging him into a headlock midway towards the dining room until a campus police officer starts to look at them funny, and it’s then and only then that Miyuki wriggles his way free, shooting the officer a friendly wave from across the room. “Don’t waste all the physical activity before the physical activity class!” he laughs, pulling his stupid sideways hat back onto his head as they head into the crowd of the main student building and out into the crisp weather of spring, and that comment does help lighten Kuramochi’s spirits a little. A little. Mostly because he can make fun of Miyuki for it. “Yeah, yoga, cause you fuckin’ suck at everything else.” Miyuki laughs him off, waving a hand, but Kuramochi grins, jamming his hands in his pockets. Yoga hadn’t been his idea by any means, but Kuramochi’s always been a flexible guy and he’s figuring an easy A won’t hurt his scholarship-required GPA any. He doesn’t want to put any unnecessary pressure on his ma, after all. The gym’s only a quick walk from the student union, and he and Miyuki bicker for the majority of the trip through their and into the locker room, up until they’re both standing on borrowed mats in the middle of a wide open dance studio in basketball shorts. Kuramochi’s never felt so out of place in his life—most of the people in here are on brightly colored, monogrammed mats, dressed in matching yoga outfits. He exchanges a look with Miyuki, who at least looks like as much of a tool as Kuramochi does, and he can sense Miyuki’s shitty comment incoming—right as Kuramochi gets his hands on his collar to give him a good shake, there’s a tinkling noise from the bell over the door opening, signaling the arrival of the teacher. Kuramochi stops from where he’s holding Miyuki’s collar as the teacher walks by. He’s short, clad in a pair of yoga pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination and a big shirt that drapes off of one shoulder, and his hair is a soft looking shade of bubblegum pink. “Oh my god.” Miyuki says, still dangling from Kuramochi’s fists, and Youichi stares as Kominato Ryousuke strides past them both, only turning his head to briefly acknowledge either of their presences before he turns away. Kuramochi drops Miyuki on his ass. To his credit, he doesn’t even splutter: the two of them just stare, watching Ryousuke make his way up to the front of the room. Kuramochi’s brain is caught somewhere between “Kominato is our yoga instructor” and “Kominato has no idea who either of us are”, but his dick is currently stuck happily on yoga pants and he doesn’t even register how open mouthed he is, in fact, staring, until Miyuki reaches over with his left hand to shut his jaw with a click. “Holy shit.” Kuramochi breathes, as Kominato takes his place standing there, lifting his left arm and stretching it daintily with his right—the motion makes his shirt ride up and Kuramochi hates himself, feels the flush on his cheeks start forming almost immediately. Miyuki whistles, a low note just meant for the two of them, and puts a hand in front of his mouth, conspiratorial as he whispers, “I just want you to know, if you put your dick in that, you’re probably going to lose it. Just a reminder.” Kuramochi punches him in the kidney.

--

Yoga class isn’t that bad, at first. The lights are low and soothing and Kominato’s voice sounds like silk on steel. The beginning of class happens with closed eyes and lots of breathe in and breathe out, which is relaxing enough and helps him not think about the fact that the teacher isKominato Ryousuke, the same one that Kuramochi grudgingly admitted was pretty attractive to one of his roommates and hit them with a pillow after like a teenage girl. By the end of the first round of stretches, Kuramochi’s actually feeling kind of relaxed.

“Open your eyes,” Kominato’s voice beckons, soft and inviting, and he follows, blinking his eyes open with the rest of the class and readjusting to the soft lighting. Kominato’s permanent smile hasn’t shifted once, and he gives instructions for the next set of moves, simply raising his eyebrows and expecting his students to follow. “Breathe in… out, and you’re going to reach up for the ceiling, high as you can, then sweep low. Walk your hands to the edge of the mat…”

This is pretty easy. Kuramochi does just that, spreading his fingers out wide and letting his feet shift back a little as Kominato instructs—it feels good on his muscles, and he looks up to get a fantastic look at Kominato’s ass in those yoga pants as he titles the pose, cheerfully, “the ‘Downwards Facing Dog.’”

If Kuramochi slips on his mat and mutters a, “Shit,” under his breath, he’s only human. All he can do is stare at the floor, now, aggressively forcing his gaze away from their teacher and staring at the plush surface of the yoga mat under his palms and not his instructor’s butt in a pair of tight pants. The blood rushing to his head is from a lot more than the vaguely hanging position and Kuramochi starts a litany of mental fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, this is shitty Miyuki’s shitty fault, fuck, fuck to himself, decidedly nowhere near his “inner peace” or whatever other bullshit yoga’s supposed to provide. How is he supposed to find inner peace when Kominato’s just casually stretching out like that? This class was designed to torture him, specifically, which is exactly why—

“This is your fault,” Kuramochi hisses under his breath, jerking his head towards Miyuki next to him, whose glasses are sliding off his nose as he changes positions with Ryousuke, moving to lay on his stomach and push himself up with his hands. He keeps his face forward, but Kuramochi can see his stupid toothy grin from here.

“I’ll take the blame.” Miyuki simpers under his breath, flicking his eyes to the side to look at Kuramochi, who can feel metaphorical steam coming out of his ears as he follows him down, dropping onto his stomach less than gracefully, “But I’m leaving you here for the sharks when he catches you.”

“Fuck you.” Kuramochi mutters in response, and he’s so focused on being annoyed at Miyuki that he doesn’t notice someone step in front of him, until there’s a delicate looking foot pressed on the foam of his mat. He blinks and shuts his mouth just in time for Kominato to nudge his chin up with his toes, and Kuramochi’s stomach drops straight onto the mat underneath him.

“Chat less.” He says, tilting his head as he looks at the hastily written kanji sharpied onto his mat, “Kuramochi, was it?”

Kuramochi swallows and doesn’t trust his traitorous mouth to say any words, so he just nods. Beside him, he can see Miyuki turning red with the force of holding in what must be side splitting laughter, but he ignores it in favor of the bone deep feeling of dread that will come if he looks away.

Kominato smiles. “You’ve been loud in other venues, haven’t you?”

(And Kuramochi knows he’s talking about the party, but sue him for thinking of something else entirely) “This isn’t the place for it.” Just like that, he steps back, folding his arms behind his back and looking like the picture of an angel—if it weren’t for the sweet, devilish tone of his voice, Kuramochi would probably be convinced he was one. At the moment, all he’s convinced of is that Kominato’s going to be the end of him.

“Miyuki, stop laughing. I’d be happy to fail you, too.” Ryousuke doesn’t even look at Miyuki next to him, his delivery as sharp as a cracked whip. Kominato turns on his heel, hands still clasped behind his back, and walks back to the front of the room, leaving devastation in his wake.

Kuramochi vaguely hears Miyuki laugh him off with an apology, but he stares after Kominato as he walks away for a long moment, then drops face first into his mat and moans, “Fuck,” for the second time that day.

--

Curled over his desk later that night, Kuramochi tries to work on his figure drawings, thinking of poses that might flow nicely out of his pencil. Baseball, running, fighting, stretching—they’re things he knows and understands, knows that he objectively will be able to draw them if he really, really tries.

Problem: it’s really, really hard to try.

Kuramochi taps his pencil eraser against his paper, eyeing a couple of sloppily drawn poses and the fifteen pages he has left to fill before he can turn this in. Even with his headphones in, focus feels impossible, and Kuramochi adjusts one of his earbuds and hunches his shoulders over his desk, feeling the familiar ache and stretch in his lower back. It hurts a little less than usual, his student knot at the base of his back smaller: maybe that yoga class was actually kind of helpful.

Yoga. Fuck. Kuramochi’s mind wanders back to the disaster that was class earlier in the day. Kominato’s clearly had no mercy on any of his students, but it had been good for him, and it felt sort of rewarding to be doing the poses right, to earn an approving hum for being in the right place as he walked from row to row of students. Why was Kominato teaching yoga, anyway? Haruichi said he was a math student. Maybe he was just really flexible and needed the extra cash? Baseball players usually were pretty flexible—Kominato played second base, which meant he was probably really fast, too. Kuramochi thinks about it for a moment, imagines him bending over backwards, the curve of his spine, pink hair, unreadable smile…

When he looks down, he’s already started sketching it out.

“Fuck.” He mutters out loud, and gives in, letting Kominato Ryousuke’s body flow out of his pencil.

--

Kuramochi can’t look Ryousuke in the face the next time he goes to class: his pencil figure drawings with curled pink hair dance in front of his eyes every time he tries to find his center.

( There’s another reason that involves his body bent in a completely different way that Kuramochi had to muffle into his sheets the night before, too, but that information is staying under lock and key for the rest of his life. )

--

Yoga class falls on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, in the lunch period Kuramochi set aside for himself when he was making his schedule. It’s convenient for the most part, fits in nicely between studios and baseball practice, and Miyuki’s uselessness at any other sport was really only half of the reason he picked the class—admittedly, that doesn’t stop him from blaming the entire terrible fiasco of this week on him. He’s only seen Kominato twice now, not counting the number of times that he’s caught himself drawing his lithe poses in his sketchbook, trying to recall every motion from memory, the sweep of his short, graceful limbs, the curve of his hips.

His figure book’s gained a few pages since, Kuramochi going back and erasing the swathes of pink pencil until they’re faded and the person could be anyone out of sheer embarrassment, but it’s not enough. The deadline’s looming, and he’s considering going to watch someone play ultimate Frisbee or something in the quad to try and get poses as he shuts the door to the frat and locks it, turning on his heel to head out for class—that’d be shitty, and boring, and he’d kinda like to be playing it over drawing it. It’s idle, half-awake morning thoughts, and Kuramochi abruptly loses his whole train of them when he reaches the stoplight at the end of the street, and looks up just as Kominato steps onto his section of the sidewalk.

They blink at each other, Ryousuke’s eyebrows raising a centimeter and Kuramochi’s mouth opening, before Ryousuke shifts, moving his bag over his shoulder. “Good morning, Kuramochi.”

Almost instantly, he feels himself flush, and Kuramochi kicks himself a little internally, reaching up to rub his hand at the back of his neck, longer hairs curling against his fingertips. “Uh, hey. Morning.”

“Off to class?”

“Yup.” Kuramochi nods and turns back towards the street, trying to be cool—it could have ended right there, with his red, embarrassed cheeks and Ryousuke, God, someone having mercy on him, but Kominato’s mouth ticks up an extra inch or so in a smile and he turns as well.

“I suppose we’ll head the same direction.”

The crossing light blinks on again, and Kuramochi doesn’t even notice—it takes a beat before he follows after Ryousuke, jogging to catch up with his easy strides. If Kominato approves of that, he doesn’t acknowledge it: in fact, he doesn’t stop or move to accommodate Kuramochi at all. It feels a little like approval, or a challenge, or both.

He kinda likes it.

“So,” Kuramochi starts, clearing his throat, “uh, Kominato-sa--“

Ryousuke pauses, glances at him then, his lips pursed just barely. It stops Kuramochi’s words in their tracks. “We’re not in class, Kuramochi. You live with my brother, don’t you?”

“Uh…yeah?”

“I wouldn’t want you to get us confused.” Kominato replies, and Kuramochi swears he can detect a little bit of gleeful mischief in his tone, as if he’s planning something, “After all, I’ve heard from reliable sources we’re rather similar.”

Kuramochi huffs a laugh, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he briefly considers his first thought and comparison to the younger brother—for a brief and terrifying moment he wonders if Ryousuke can read minds.

He doesn’t think it would surprise him.

“If that’s too difficult, Ryousuke is fine.” He continues, waving a hand before it goes back to slide behind his back, “Though I do wonder what’s brought you into my class in particular. What are you studying?”

Kuramochi bristles a little, prepared to defend himself, and mutters, “Art,” under his breath, hunching his shoulders. He takes a step onto the next crosswalk and Ryousuke matches him, stride for stride, makes an interested noise.

“Interesting.” He says, and that’s the end of that. Kuramochi’s not sure if Ryousuke’s judging him or not—he’s kind of hard to read—but he looks up to the sky and Kuramochi can’t help but steal a glance over at him, the confident way he walks, the color of his hair in the morning sunlight.

(He wants to draw him again: maybe paint, a little, try some watercolors. His ma liked those because they were gentle—they were never Youichi’s style, but someone like Kominato needed to be stroked over splattered, gentle touches and--)

“You know, in a conversation, it’s typical of someone to ask returning questions.” Ryousuke’s voice cuts through his thoughts and Kuramochi jumps, realizing he’d been caught in a stupid tangent almost immediately. His ears go red and he mutters an, “Oi,” under his breath, but Ryousuke seems more…amused, than annoyed.

Kuramochi relaxes a little, half of a “heh” coming out of his mouth. “Okay, fine, I got a question for you, too. What’re you doing in a class like that? Haruichi said you were a math major.”

“Oh.” Ryousuke smiles, and there’s a note to his voice that sounds devious again, plucks a chord somewhere behind Kuramochi’s stomach when he practically purrs, “I’m flexible.”

The double entendre is not lost on Kuramochi. He feels the back of his ears go red and considers, once again, Ryousuke the mind reader as his head flashes through a particular series of images he drew the night before, and he has to reach up and rub the back of his neck, managing to choke out, “Yeah?” to Ryousuke’s amused hum of a reply.

The walk to the rest of the campus is more innocent, but Kuramochi’s going to be thinking about that phrase—I’m flexible—for the rest of his life. If there’s one thing he’s figured out about Kominato Ryousuke, it’s that he’s going to be the death of him.

( He walks Ryousuke all the way to class, so drawn into the conversation they continue that he doesn’t notice he’s on the complete wrong side of campus. Ryousuke teases him mercilessly at the way he swears and bolts to the art building; as he slides into his seat in the studio thirty seconds before the door would have shut on him, Kuramochi never once stops grinning. )

--

The Idea comes to him during class when he’s watching the figure model move into a different pose for all the students in his class to draw. Kuramochi likes live, moving figures and having something to work off of other than his (traitorous) imagination, and he’s at least spoken to Kominato, now. It’s probably not the worst idea Kuramochi’s ever had.

Setting down his pencil, Kuramochi digs around in his pocket and pulls up his phone.

to: kominato haruichi ( 2:45 pm ) subject: ## hey, whats ur brothers ##?? Need it for class thx

Three seconds after he’s hit send, Kuramochi feels an inward sense of regret—somewhere, he can hear Miyuki laughing at him, and makes a mental note to kick him in the shin later for existing. He shouldn’t have gotten Haruichi involved: the kid’s perceptive as hell on the field and off of it, and Kuramochi’s been spending a little bit too much time with a pink pencil in hand for it not to be totally obvious what he’s been drawing.

Maybe he’ll just cop to it.

(Yeah right.)

Before he can consider sending an “lol jk”, his phone buzzes, prompt.

from: kominato haruichi ( 2:47 pm ) subject: ? should i tell him to expect it?

And, there at the end of the message, is Ryousuke’s contact information. Kuramochi’s thumb hovers over the text button and he flicks his gaze back up to the model, then back down.

to: kominato haruichi ( 2:48 pm ) subject: no subject nah dw thx haruichi

Haruichi doesn’t text him back again after that, and Kuramochi continues staring at the phone all through the model’s stretch break, looking at the innocent contact labeled “aniki”—must have come straight from Haruichi’s list—and considering the magnitude of what he’s about to do.

“Kuramochi-kun, eyes on the paper.”

Kuramochi sets his phone down and tries to forget about it.

--

He tries to send three separate messages and deletes them all.

This is, in fact, the worst idea he’s ever had.

-- In the end, Ryousuke’s number sits in Kuramochi’s phone for another day. He doesn’t even look at his contact name in the list (simply labeledRyousukenow) and pretends it doesn’t exist so he’ll stop thinking about it.

So, naturally, Kuramochi can’t stop fucking thinking about it.

Friday rolls around with four days to Kuramochi’s deadline, and with Friday comes another yoga class, the final one for the week. It’ll mark the fifth time since he’s seen Ryousuke—it turns out they have a morning class in common on Fridays as well, and Kuramochi ended up walking him to class again, drawn into a conversation about the punk band logo splayed on Kuramochi’s shirt. He’s still wearing it when he shows up to class, and Ryousuke makes eye contact with him when he enters and strides across the room.

Kuramochi’s heartbeat skips, but he’s just handing over a piece of paper with the poses for the day on it, one for he and Miyuki each, though Ryousuke greets him with a, “Good afternoon, Kuramochi,” when he presses the paper into his hands. Ryousuke’s hands are surprisingly calloused and his touch weighty, even just handing over something as menial as an assignment, and Kuramochi stares at them as he takes it.

Instead of saying good afternoon in return like a normal person, Kuramochi blurts out, “Can I talk to you?”

Miyuki’s head swivels to look at him at the same time Ryousuke regards him, delicate eyebrows raised in response to it—Kuramochi turns red in the face immediately and inwardly starts screaming, fuck, you idiot, fuck, think of a cover, quick, but Ryousuke hums as the class begins to fill around them. “After class.”

“Uh. Yeah. Okay.” The fact that Kuramochi’s able to even get a word out is impressive, and he lifts a hand to wave him off, “It’s not a big deal—“

“After class.” Ryousuke says, and his tone has an air of and that’s final. It sounds like a mousetrap snapping shut on its target.

Kuramochi nods, and Ryousuke pats his chest before he turns around and returns to the front of the class.

“Wow, Casanova.” Miyuki says behind him, and Kuramochi can hear the shitty grin on his face before he turns around to see it: he gives him a clap on the shoulder and squeezes and Kuramochi flusters. “Gonna confess to him with a love letter?”

“Fuck you.” Kuramochi hisses, slapping his hand off of his shoulder and picking up his mat so he can stomp across class and as far away from Miyuki’s laughter behind him as humanly possible.

--

Kuramochi spends the rest of class trying to come up with excuses for why he’d wanted to talk to Ryousuke, but all of them sound even stupider than his original idea. Lying on his back with his head up to the ceiling for the Sarasvati pose, the final one before class ends, Kuramochi considers the merits of an early death or something to actually say, like: “I have the stomach flu and probably will never come to class again out of sheer embarrassment” or “I like you, let’s go out” (yeah right). The first one might be convincing, maybe—

“Kuramochi~” A voice says over his head, sing-song, amused, and Kuramochi cracks his eyes open to Ryousuke standing directly over him. He looks amused, at least, arms folded behind his back, leaning over just a little so his pink hair falls off his face, and Kuramochi’s dumb, traitor heart skips a beat at it, enough that he can’t help but break into a little bit of a grin. “Class ended five minutes ago,” Ryousuke continue, “I thought you might have fallen asleep.”

“What, me? Nah.” Kuramochi tries for a casual grin and sits up, sweaty palms flat on his mat. Miyuki’s long gone and they are, in fact, alone. It feels for all intents and purposes like a confession—which it isn’t—and Ryousuke has no intention of letting him get away from it. He can practically feel his gaze burning a hole through his head, in curiosity or something else.

Ryousuke hums an affirmative and offers his hand to help him up. The perspective between them is strange, Kuramochi used to being able to look down at him, but he presses his calloused hand into Ryousuke’s and trusts him to pull him to his feet, and right there Kuramochi knows he’s going to have to come out and say it.

“Ryousuke-san, I was just, uh.” He pauses, glances over at his bag across the room. “I told ya I’m in art, right?” Ryousuke just hums, acknowledging him, keeping his narrowed eyes inscrutably on Kuramochi, and it feels like a confession for real now, his heartbeat tripping somewhere around his ears. “I’m workin’ on a figure drawing sketchbook for class—‘s due on Monday, and I’m way behind.”

“A procrastinator?”

“No, no!” Yes. “Well, okay, kinda. Uh, anyway. I gotta draw people posing, y’know? I need a full notebook of it, and a lighting study, and I’m kinda freaking out about it and…”

Kuramochi knows Ryousuke knows what track he’s on now, but he doesn’t do anything, just tilts his head to the side. He’s going to make him say it.

Kuramochi sighs, scrubbing his hand through the back of his head. “…I was just wonderin’ if you’re, uh, free this weekend. So I could draw… you. Since you do all the…poses and stuff.”

Up until this point, he’s been looking everywhere but at Ryousuke, but with his eloquent admission finally out, he glances at him. Ryousuke’s expression’s barely changed, one of mild interest, and he leans back a little, regarding Kuramochi with his hands still laced behind his back. Kuramochi’s sure he’s just making him sweat, and he’s succeeding, the palms of his hands clammy, until Ryousuke finally says, “Sure.”

Kuramochi blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Do you want me to take it back?” Ryousuke tips his head and Kuramochi’s hasty to correct him, a “nonono!” out of his mouth in half a second, and it makes Ryousuke chuckle, a pretty little noise that stops Kuramochi in his tracks, “It’ll be fun. Besides, I did tell you I was flexible~ I suppose I brought it upon myself.”

“Y-yeah…”

Ryousuke hums and reaches for his phone, twisting around to pull it from his bag and unlock it, making a thoughtful noise. “I teach for the rest of the afternoon. Is tomorrow alright?”

“Tomorrow—yeah, uh, I’m off practice at 3. I can meet you at the studio.” Kuramochi feels weirdly light all over, like all of this has finally fallen off of his shoulders—like he just confessed or something, all weird and warm combined with the relief that comes from his project being potentially saved from the flames of hell.

Ryousuke asks for his number and Kuramochi puts it in; when he leaves the class a few minutes later, he sinks against the door and does a fistpump to himself, one singular one that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he feels like he just asked Kominato Ryousuke on a date. (Even though he didn’t.)

Absolutely nothing.

--

Kuramochi shows up to the studio early, after clocking the fastest five mile run on his record (he’s not much of a distance runner, and he’ll be feeling that in the morning when his lungs stop hurting) and spends twenty minutes trying to talk himself out of leaving. The studio feels dusty in the late afternoon sunlight, golden light falling on the little stand for models his instructor usually uses in class, and time feels slow as molasses—Kuramochi’s so out of whack that he can practically hear the clock across the room ticking slow, torturous seconds by. He’s readjusted his stand for his sketchbook a thousand times, sharpened his pencils, checked his supplies, and it’s only when Youichi’s considering getting up and jogging around the room to try and burn off a little extra energy that the sliding door to the studio opens with a soft, “Pardon the intrusion.”

Ryousuke’s dressed in his usual class clothes, pants that cling to his small legs and a big t-shirt that’s starting to slide off his shoulder—Kuramochi could arguably watch it do that for the rest of his life—and he has his mat over his shoulder in a blue bag. There’s something about the setting that puts a hiccup in Kuramochi’s heart, and he greets him, standing up straight where he’s settled like he’s on point.

“K—“ and he stops, as Ryousuke gives him a look, “Ryousuke-san.” The familiarity makes him grin, unintentional and wide and probably pretty stupid looking, and Kuramochi jerks his head towards the stand in the middle of the room. “If ya just wanna set up, we can get started.”

Ryousuke nods and Kuramochi takes a breath when he turns away, jittering back to his stool and sitting down. By the time he’s checked his pencils and picked one to start with, Ryousuke’s laid out his mat, and is standing with his hands on his hips, head tilted just slightly to the side. It’s really, unfairly cute.

“Is there anything you’d like me to do?” Yes, Kuramochi thinks, lots of things, and pinches the inside of his own leg before that thought process gets ahead of him—he does not need to be getting a boner in front of Ryousuke, not right now, and he clears his throat to respond.

“Anything you want.” Kuramochi jerks his head up in a nod, and Ryousuke smiles.

“Anything?”

There’s weight to the way he says that, the heat of a challenge that curls thick in Kuramochi’s stomach, and he can’t help but smile with something that might butterflies, grinning back at him and nodding his head to confirm. “Anything.”

There’s something in the air, in the filtering dust that comes through the window that feels electric, some kind of spark Kuramochi’s gotta be crazy to miss—they regard each other for a solid moment before Kuramochi is finally the one to break eye contact, his heart thumping against his ribcage and the wide smile on his face still fully in place as he shakes his head to try and get his concentration back.

In the five minutes that pass, Ryousuke’s bent up in that damn downwards facing dog again, and Kuramochi remembers exactly how much he hates his life.

--

“Can you even talk while you’re doing that?” asks a flabbergasted Kuramochi twenty minutes later, watching Ryousuke drop down into what looks like the splits—his balls hurt just looking at it—and delicately reach back to pull his leg towards the back of his head, toes pointed. Kuramochi’s pencil’s pauses on the paper, and he’s finding it hard to look away.

Ryousuke hums. “I can do plenty more than talk.”

His voice says don’t underestimate me. Kuramochi hears I’m doing the splits right now and could be doing them somewhere else at the same time.

He manages to snap his jaw shut and hopes that Ryousuke just took his expression at awe at his flexibility, but seriously doubts it. Shaking his head, Kuramochi starts to sketch him out, filling in some of the lines of his body with ease. One pose, two, three, Kuramochi waving him on and Ryousuke effortlessly contorting into something new and ridiculous, graceful short limbs and concentrated face.

Ryousuke’s body practically falls out of his pencil, cleaner graphite lines than he’s ever managed in his life, and it feels easy in a way that nothing else he’s drawn recently has. Time feels slower in the studio as always, the heat of the room hazy and warm, the afternoon sunlight falling across Ryousuke’s shoulders and into his hair, making it shine rose-gold and gorgeous, and the second time that he looks up, he gets caught again, lids half lowered and staring with something that must be unbridled awe, trying to capture the person in front of him as what he is, this tiny, mischievous, amazing thing with a needlepoint tongue and a smile that never seems to fade. Kominato Ryousuke is a hurricane of a person, and after a week of knowing him, Kuramochi can’t do anything but get swept up on it, caught somewhere between adoration and arousal at his every move.

“Kuramochi.” Ryousuke says, softly, and he glances up at him, watching him unfold himself from his latest position, half standing with his side arched, arm a delicate curve over his head. Kuramochi remembers himself a brief moment later and waves his hand again to let him move, watching Ryousuke settle back down on the floor, the practiced concentration on his face, and that’s what he wants to draw, not stick figures moving. He wants to capture this, the slight wrinkle to his brow, the way the tips of his pink bangs are darker than the rest of his hair, soaked with sweat from the warm room—everything else he’s drawn feels two dimensional in comparison.

He's filled up eight pages worth of figure drawings. The lighting study’s calling his name.

“Uh, Ryo-san.” He says, and the nickname falls off his tongue before he even thinks about it, casual, “Can you get in one you can stay in for a while?”

Ryousuke stares at him, his eyebrows lifted, and Kuramochi realizes his mistake, the casual familiarity of a nickname with someone he barely knows, but Ryousuke holds his gaze for a moment just a little too long and then nods, slipping up to one knee and extending a leg out behind him, hand out in front. He’s practically reaching for Kuramochi, his fingertips stretched, and when he lifts his head to look at him, Kuramochi’s pretty sure they both hear Cupid’s arrow strike him directly in the heart.

He exhales, shaky, slow, and nods, not trusting his traitorous tongue with another word.

--

It takes him forty-five minutes to sketch Ryousuke out, and even longer to shade him in. Ryousuke shakes off any of his apologies, and doesn’t move a centimeter, steady and unending, but Kuramochi can see some of the strain on his arm, the way it plays out on his face, the bead of sweat that trails from his temple down to his cheek. He gets up and sets his pencils down, leaving the sketch messy and full of lines as crosses the room to settle in front of Ryousuke.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired,” he says, faux-innocent, knife sharp, and Kuramochi has to laugh, ducking his head and snorting. He needs to shift him over a little, tip his head up to catch the light just right, but reaching out to touch him feels like a breach of something, and Kuramochi pauses with his hand in the air, fingers curled a little, and Ryousuke never moves, just regards him, thin eyes and thick eyelashes, the picture of a breath held.

Kuramochi’s hand falters and Ryousuke tips his head to make up the distance, his cheek brushing against the top of his knuckles. He takes in a shaky breath and brushes away the sweat on his cheek, touch as soft as he can manage with trembling fingers, and stops there, two fingers to his cheekbone.

“Kuramochi.” He says, like every syllable is weighted, the words out of his mouth as golden as the sunlight across his face, heavy and valuable and precious, and Kuramochi swallows, hangs on his baited breath, waits for him to say something else.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his outstretched hand curls in the front of Kuramochi’s shirt and gives a tug. Kuramochi half yelps when he’s pulled forward, the noise startled out of him, but when he bobbles back up, Ryousuke’s mouth is two centimeters from his and Kuramochi freezes, going as tense as a livewire, his eyes flicking down to Ryousuke’s inscrutable smile and back up again, trying to read him and finding nothing.

Ryousuke huffs and Kuramochi feels it more than he hears it. “Take a break,” he says, in a voice that’s a command more than it is advice, and it feels like he’s watching in slow time when Kuramochi thinks, oh, shit and Ryousuke presses his lips to his.

His mouth is every bit as soft as it looks and Kuramochi melts like butter, almost immediately taking his jaw in his hand where his fingers were resting, gives into it and lets the five thousand thoughts of I’m kissing Ryo-san and I’m kissing my yoga teacher fade into static as he leans forward, wobbling a little in his squatted position. Ryousuke’s hand comes down to rest on the back of his neck, holding him into place, and when his tongue brushes across the seam of Kuramochi’s mouth he’s helpless to give into it, dropping his hand from his jaw to the curl at the end of his pink hair, threading his fingers in out of instinct and holding on tight.

“Say,” Ryousuke starts, a murmur against his mouth when he’s pulled away, chases it with a kiss, a second, “Did you lock the door, Kuramochi?”

“Huh?” Ryousuke expects him to speak after that, apparently, to stop kissing and use his words, and he blinks once, twice, trying to remember how to use his vocal cords, “Uh, yeah.”

“Good.” Ryousuke says, and before Kuramochi knows it, his small hands plant into his chest and push him backwards. Kuramochi topples over on his ass and Ryousuke’s on him in a second, legs over his thighs and it’s all Kuramochi can do to make space for him, dropping back on his elbows so Ryousuke’s straddling him, curled over him like a predator, small hands splayed out on his pecs.

Kuramochi’s mouth goes dry as he dully connects with what’s happening and prays to himself this isn’t a dream as he fits his hands to Ryousuke’s perfect, curved hips, watching him lean over him until his mouth’s an inch away from his ear. Kuramochi drags one of his hands up his back, rucking up the shirt he’d been staring at all afternoon until it finds his hair again and curls in, right in time for Ryousuke to open his mouth.

“Do you think I didn’t notice?” he says, the same voice he used at the party, practically a purr and Kuramochi is so boned, “You staring.”

“I—“

“Shh.” His finger comes up to press to Kuramochi’s mouth—one gesture and he’s silenced, a little afraid and suddenly a lot turned on.

“This is awfully risqué.” Ryousuke says like he’s talking about the weather, trailing searing hot kisses down his neck, the hint of teeth, “I do hope you’re prepared to face the consequences--“

He rocks his hips down on Kuramochi’s and Kuramochi’s eyes flutter shut, his head dropping back against the wooden floor with a dull thump noise. Ryousuke hums, satisfied, “Luckily, I am.”

Kuramochi’s head whips to the side to actually look at him and Ryousuke smiles a little wider, his hips starting to move again and it’s so good, the friction hot through his pants and Kuramochi squeezes, watches Ryousuke’s long eyelashes flutter from this close distance, his cheeks pinkening the color of his hair, and he wants to lean over and taste it—

Ryousuke catches his earlobe between his teeth, gives a roll of his hips that has Kuramochi bucking up underneath him to match it, scrabbling at the wooden floor for any kind of purchase, and his voice curls up against his ear, sinful, “Call me Ryo-san again.”

“Ryo-san—“ he obeys almost instantly, how could he not, and Kuramochi squeezes the hand in the back of his hair and the one on his hips. It gets Ryousuke to react and suddenly he’s sitting up again, pushing himself onto his knees, bouncing against the cradle of his hips and grinding down on him, his back arching prettily from where he’s settled. Kuramochi keeps his eyes open, finds the finger against his mouth and fits his lips around it until Ryousuke shivers, tensing up over top of him and rewarding him with a harder roll of his hips, adding a second finger that he curls his tongue around to get another one of those little, breathy noises out of Ryousuke. From what he can see he’s not the only one affected anymore, Ryousuke straining against the front of his stupid, tight pants, and Kuramochi scrabbles to sit back up, letting Ryousuke’s wet fingers trace over his cheek and back into the back of his hair, snarling there tight when Kuramochi surges up to kiss him, more tongue and teeth than lips.

His instincts beyond “stunned” have long since kicked in and Kuramochi drops his hands to get a palmful of his ass, which is absolutely as perfect as he expected it to be, dragging him inwards to match Ryousuke’s brutal pace. The friction is fire, and Kuramochi drops his forehead to bury it into his bare shoulder, sinks his teeth into the flesh he’d been wanting to mark since the first day of class. Ryo makes a noise, a barely there breath, and then his voice is in his ear, hot and warm, “Next time, I’ll show you how much more I can do,” a whisper, windswept and molten heat that sings down Kuramochi’s spine, “Can you see it? I can do the splits, you know, bend over backwards—any way you’d like,” he says, and Kuramochi moans into his shoulder, his eyes wrenched shut, shoulders hunching inwards, “Any way I’d like, I’ll take you the way I like it,”

“Ryo-san,” he gasps, bucking up against him, and his pants are starting to kill him, too tight too much—

“And then, maybe, I’ll let you do what you want, bend me in half as far as you can and fuck me, show me you can—“ His voice is breathier, higher, and Kuramochi’s fingers curl as Ryousuke drops his hand between them and lifts his hips off: the stop in pressure makes Kuramochi choke, but he barely registers the relief from being freed from his pants before Ryousuke’s palming him through his underwear, and Kuramochi goes off like a gunshot, biting down on Ryousuke’s shoulder hard, enough to make him gasp and buck down against him, and he vaguely registers him shuddering against his chest, dropping his weight forwards, a high noise breathed into his ear.

Kuramochi tips back when he’s stopped moving, landing flat on his back with a dull thump noise and Ryousuke follows him, his body twitching once or twice with an aftershock that Kuramochi’s vaguely proud of.

“Shit.” He grunts, ever eloquent, and Ryousuke huffs something that might have been a laugh up against him, face buried in his neck. His boxers feel disgusting and he can feel the sweat dripping down his back, but it doesn’t stop the smile crossing Kuramochi’s face as he considers the absolute improbability of what just happened. He lifts a hand and drops it on the top of his face, whispering, “Holy shit.” again, delirious and delighted. Ryousuke snorts, and when he looks down at the pink bundle on his chest, he hasn’t moved, looking disheveled and curled onto Kuramochi like a pillbug.

“Disgusting,” he mutters, but Kuramochi could swear it sounds fond as he sits up, propping himself up on his elbows. The light of the window cast over his hair makes him shine and Kuramochi considers sending up a thank you to whoever let this happen to him as he reaches up with his shaky hand to brush some of his hair away from where it’s sticking to his cheek, tucking the strand back and pressing his hand into his cheek.

Maybe when the afterglow’s gone, he’ll have questions, and a lot of them. For now, he basks in the way Ryousuke’s cheek, just subtly, nuzzles into his hand.

“Did you finish your sketchbook?” he asks, and Kuramochi grins at him, lopsided and sex-stupid and arguably the happiest he’s ever been.

“Like an hour ago. I was just drawing for shits.”

Ryousuke pounds him in the chest with his fist, and he can’t help it, dropping his head back and letting out a peal of wild, hyena laughter—and the fact that Ryousuke doesn’t murder him on the spot makes him feel better than anything else has all afternoon.

--

On Monday, Kuramochi’s in class, bent over with his hands splayed on the mat underneath him, and he feels Ryousuke’s fingers walk up his back where his shirt’s riding up when he passes by. Miyuki gapes at him and Kuramochi revels in the feeling of shutting him up.

In retrospect, letting Tanaka and Noya suggest the “training camp final bonding experience”—expression theirs—was probably a bad idea.

Letting them do anything, Daichi groused to himself later that night, was a bad idea. Camping sounded like an innocuous enough suggestion, and the team seemed behind it, Hinata yelling something about making s’mores and challenging Kageyama to a firewood collecting race, whatever that meant. Daichi had exchanged looks with Suga, who’d just shrugged his shoulders at him and smiled his mind bogglingly beautiful smile at him and said, “Why not? It sounds like fun,” and just like that, Daichi knew he was screwed.

It turned out that someone’s parents had a cabin out in the middle of the woods—Noya had gleefully declared it to be “Friday the 13th-esque” in his description as they hiked up to it—and that made the camping concept of the whole thing a little less wild. Daichi doled out sleeping arrangements and helped Suga pull out sleeping bags from one of the closets, and by the time it was dark outside, the majority of the members of the club had evacuated outside to sit under the stars and tell ghost stories around a fire pit.

All in all, it did turn out pretty nice. Daichi had to admit that he’d been expecting sheer and utter chaos—there was a little when Kageyama and Hinata attempted to set up a tent, which now stood by its lonesome away from the fire--but, with everyone properly terrified by ghost stories (Asahi in particular looked like he was going to pass out, much to the other third years’ amusement) and placated with marshmallows, everything was fine. The tension had bled out of his shoulders and he found himself sitting comfortably by Suga in front of the fire and absolutely not admiring how the firelight was brushstrokes of glimmering orange on his best friend’s pale face, or when he smiled, he always seemed to turn towards Daichi as if he was sharing it with him.

Absolutely not.

And, as the hours passed, Daichi spent most of his time watching the others and listening to them, feeling relaxed and comfortable. He didn’t even object when Tanaka brought out a bottle of god-only-knew-what. (Well, he objected a little, swiftly plucking it out of Hinata’s hands before more of the drink ended up on the lawn instead of in his stomach, spat out by a young age and a weak constitution.) As ghost stories shifted into an overly complicated game of never have I ever, Daichi drank from the bottle gamely as it went around, laughed with his teammates, and most of all, kept exchanging quiet, private conversation with Suga, leaning in to murmur in his ear about something one of the other boys was doing, just as he leaned in to do the same.

The problem here was that he’d let his guard down.

As the night went on, as Yamaguchi was starting to fall asleep against Tsukishima’s shoulder, Tanaka and Noya suddenly went awfully quiet. Too quiet. Daichi was just starting to stare them down when Tanaka suddenly leapt to his feet and clapped, loudly, startling the dozing members of the club with his raucously loud, “Oooookay, let’s go to bed! It’s cold as shit outside,” and sudden ushering of the majority of Karasuno towards the door.

“Daichi-san—“ said Noya, throwing him a smile over his shoulder through the chaos of moving, sleepy bodies, somewhere between Hinata and Kageyama trying to shove themselves through the door at the same time and Asahi looking larger than life hunched over at his side, “—can you get the fire? Seriously, I’ve gotta help out this dummy—“  with a resounding thwack to Asahi’s back, “Since he needs a big strong guy to make sure the monsters aren’t gonna get him and all! Thanks, you’re the best!”

Daichi blinked and he barely had enough time to answer: as if someone had pressed fast forward on a tape, the entire team was suddenly inside, leaving Daichi and Suga alone. The door shut with a little too much force, and in the silence that followed, Daichi could have sworn he heard the lock click.

There was a brief moment of silence, Suga and Daichi staring at each other, and then the door, and suddenly, everything made sense.

Daichi was first, bolting across the yard and back towards the door, lifting his fist to bang on it. Opening his mouth to yell at this team of idiots seemed like the best course of action, but as he took in a breath, Daichi remembered Suga was right there, still standing over by the fire, and he scowled as fiercely as possible, schooling his face into one that could inspire sheer first-year terror as he knocked, more of a bang than a gentle tap.

“Ta-na-ka.” He started, intense, and the door opened just half an inch, held locked by the chain near the top—Tanaka’s face appeared, Nishinoya over his shoulder like he’d climbed onto his back. Daichi’s growl was famous, if he said so himself, and it rattled through the door as he hissed through his teeth, “If you don’t open this door right now—“

“Sorry, captain!” It was Nishinoya who cut him off, lifting up a hand to give him a stupid thumbs up, “It’s for your own good! See you in a couple of hours!”

“Give him a big kiss for me, Daichi-san!”

“I’ll give you a big—“ Daichi started to snarl, taking a step forward, but with a last glance at Tanaka’s (incredibly stupid) kissy face, the door slammed shut again, leaving him and Suga alone in the dark.

Fuck.

--

Ten minutes of tapping, begging, yelling and threatening went by, but the second years didn’t budge.

Daichi was in hell.

Not really. Being stuck outside with Suga was actually not anywhere near close to the concept of “hell”, but the reasoning behind it was enough to make his stomach start doing flips. The reason he’d been trapped here was because Tanaka and Noya had cornered him a couple months ago and asked him what his “intentions were with Suga-san.” It had been baffling at the time, considering Daichi didn’t have intentions besides maybe betting him that he could beat him at a video game that night after practice, but Noya and Tanaka went on and on about Suga’s innocence (to which Daichi had to suppress a snort) and his feelings and if you like him it’s okay, Captain, but you should tell him!

The record scratch noise Daichi’s brain made upon hearing that was starting to haunt him. Because even though Daichi waved them off, now it was hard not to think about it. Now, when Suga smiled at him, Daichi watched the way it crinkled the corners of his eyes. When he leaned over Daichi’s shoulder while he was sitting down at lunch, Daichi had to hold his breath to keep from inhaling something his shampoo, which had become sort of addicting. Worst of all, when he just existed, when he tossed beautiful tosses at practice or scolded Hinata and Kageyama for getting too rowdy, Daichi felt like he was going to choke on the butterflies in his throat. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t have feelings for Suga. It was that he’d never noticed them.

Though the second years’ harassment had mostly been stupid, Daichi had finally started to let it slip. He was constantly vigilant of the two of them getting up to trouble (he envisioned a future of badly written pink and purple love notes in Suga’s locker, Daichi-san loves Suga-san xoxoxoxo ) but nothing came. Until now. Until now.

“Maybe we should try a window.”

Daichi almost jumped, the calm voice near his ear startling him—when he turned over his shoulder, Suga was there, hands in his pockets and looking at the cabin in front of them. Admittedly, his calm was refreshing, a presence just at Daichi’s shoulder that sounded more mildly amused than frustrated. Suga’s sheer unflappability in the case of their teammates had always been sort of impressive, and he smiled at Daichi and nudged him with his shoulder as he let his own drop, reaching up to splay his fingers over his face and sigh into his hand. “If I know Tanaka and Noya, they already thought of that.”

“True.” Suga laughed, a melodic sound, and put both of his hands on his hips for a second, considering their situation. “Well—I guess we’re stuck out here. Do you know why?”

“No!” Daichi blurted, and then cleared his throat. “I mean—no. They probably just want to do something they know we wouldn’t let them do.”

Suga’s ensuing snort did not make Daichi blush further, and he had to will the redness away from his cheeks to maintain a proper conversation. There seemed to be this weird sort of balance—like Suga was the most relaxing person in his life, and the most stressful person at the same time. Whatever it was, Daichi was ready for things to go back to normal, like maybe he wouldn’t want to reach over and flick Suga’s cowlick when he was thinking too much during practice, or he wouldn’t hope that on the bus ride home from practice matches Suga would use him as a pillow.

God.

As he and Suga assessed the situation before them (surely for two incredibly different reasons), Suga reached over and threaded his arm through the crook of Daichi’s elbow, cocking his head back towards the tent behind them. “Here, c’mon. We can just hang out in there until they finish doing whatever they’re doing. Sound good?”

Daichi glanced back down at Suga and nodded, allowing himself to be pulled by the arm towards the tent. Looking back at the house one last time, he spotted half of Karasuno sitting with their faces plastered against the window, half hiding behind the curtain—Daichi glared at them and took personal satisfaction in the way the curtain flew closed again.

Meddlers, every single one of them. If this failed (assuming he even did anything, which he absolutely was not going to do), Daichi was going to have them running laps for an hour before practice even started.

With the sunlight gone, Daichi found himself mostly thankful for the way Suga led him along towards the tent, ducking under the flap and motioning for Daichi to follow. There was more than enough room for them both, and as Daichi hunched down to fit into the tent, Suga chose to sit close to him, wrapping both of his long arms around his knees and tipping his cheek into them as Daichi settled beside him, carefully stretching his legs out as far as they’d go and trying to will the heat in his cheeks down. Spending time out here alone wasn’t so bad. Daichi’d follow Suga to the ends of the earth, there was no question about that, and if something horrible happened and it was only the two of them left in this entire world—well, he wouldn’t ever complain.

“This reminds me of when we were kids. “ Suga murmured beside him, his hazel eyes still looking up at Daichi’s face—even if he wasn’t looking, he could see it, could picture it clear as day.

He smiled in response, ducking his head. “Yeah. Like when you made me kill the centipede that got in our tent at ca—guh.”

Suga didn’t even let him finish the sentence before he punched him in the gut—it wasn’t hard but Suga’s cheeks flamed red and Daichi laughed, loud enough that he almost missed Suga’s hissed, “Shut up, I did not!”

“You did too! You wouldn’t even sleep in your own sleeping bag.” Daichi’s voice took on a hint of fondness, then, amusement still dancing on his face, and lifted his head up to look at the ceiling as he recalled, “I wouldn’t have even woken up if you didn’t throw yourself at me.”

“I didn’t!” But now, Suga laughed too, a giggle escaping him before he could silence it, “I don’t remember any of this. Actually, if I remember right, I think you were complaining about it getting cold and how much you missed your extra blankie at home, so I came to keep you company.”

It was Daichi’s turn to redden, and he muttered an, “Oi,” and nudged Suga with his shoulder—his vice captain had already broken out into laughter, and Daichi couldn’t help but find it infectious. Before he knew it, he was laughing too, until his sides ached and he felt tears coming to his eyes, and nothing seemed more perfect, up until Suga let out a whoosh of air and dropped his head on Daichi’s shoulder beside him.

Daichi’s heart must have skipped a beat or six: he felt the flush rising to his ears before he could stop it, but for a moment, Daichi was overcome with a crushing fondness for his closest, best friend. Maybe this stupid crush would go away one day—in the end, he’d still be left with someone who gave him a lifetime of memories, someone who had always been there. Who always had his back. Suga still smiled beside him, and he was quiet for a long moment before he spoke up again, turning his mild gaze off to the side of the tent. “We should do that again.”

Daichi choked. “What?”

Suga, beautiful, blessed Suga, didn’t laugh at Daichi’s stupid reaction (or even comment on how his face was literally exuding heat.) Instead, he just looked patient as he pulled his head off of Daichi’s shoulder, cocking it to the side. “I mean…I’m guessing we’re stuck out here for the night, right?” The aggravated noise Daichi made seemed to act as an answer, so Suga carried on. “So we might as well sleep. There’s blankets in here, but we’re going to have to share.”

“…Oh.” He mumbled, feeling like a moron for assuming—Daichi reached up to rub the back of his head with his hand and nodded. Right. Yeah. Sleeping in the same blankets as friends. No problem. “Yeah—yeah, that’s a good idea. “

Rolling over, Daichi shifted to get underneath the blankets in the tent, leftover from the team’s earlier outdoor explorations. The sheet was soft and Daichi could feel the grass under his back even with it between them, but it was far less distracting than when Suga wiggled in beside him as Daichi held up the blanket. He was so close and there was that feeling again, the twin relaxation and terror, something he thought he’d never quite know what to do with. By the time Suga settled properly, the two of them were close, very close at that, and Daichi held his breath as Suga pulled the blankets up to his shoulder and smoothed them out over Daichi’s, so they were both covered up.

There was a beat of silence. Two.

And then, Suga snorted, his shoulders hunching inwards as he started to laugh. Daichi immediately thought panic oh god what did I do wrong but Suga just tapped his chest with his fist, lightly, and looked up at him so bright that Daichi was temporarily dazzled. “Sorry, sorry! I just—I don’t really feel like a little kid. I thought I was going to.”

The fondness spreading on Daichi’s face was unstoppable, now, and he smiled a little as he felt his heartbeat ease itself to its usual “no big deal just crushing on your best friend” state. “I can find you another centipede, if you want.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

The silence settled again, this time peaceable; just like that, Suga was able to diffuse any of his nerves. He was a breath of fresh air as ever, all silvery hair and bright smiles, and Daichi was so stupidly in love with him it wasn’t even funny. With the only sound in the background crickets chirping into the night, Daichi felt himself starting to nod off to sleep, the warmth of Suga against his side comforting and perfect and something like home.

“Hey, Daichi?”

“Mm?”

Daichi didn’t even have the chance to open his eyes: he hummed his assent, expecting a comment about the players inside or something especially responsible, but what he got was Suga shifting up a little and pressing his lips to his cheek.

Daichi’s eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling for a second to make sure he hadn’t imagined that, heart a rushing river in his ears, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t hallucinating until he looked over and Suga was right there, looking a little nervous, and was he blushing? Daichi stared at him for a moment, mouth hanging open, and Suga ducked his head again, towards Daichi’s chest, squeaking out, “Stop staring at me!”

“What—I’m not—“

“I can’t do it if you’re staring!”

Both of them paused, Suga’s head jerking back up and his brown eyes widening visibly even in the dim light, Daichi still feeling like a fish pulled straight out of water (an extraordinarily happy fish, but none the less).  With his breath caught in his throat, Daichi tipped over just a little bit towards him and bit the inside of his own cheek, murmuring a mantra in his head of steady steady you are steady be steady.

“…Sorry.” He managed, and it sounded more amused—delighted—than Daichi meant to let on, but he nodded and closed his eyes. The seconds seemed to stretch into hours as he pondered what Suga was doing, if this was all some convoluted dream and he was going to wake up sad and alone on his futon, but as he held deadly still on his back, barely daring to breathe, he felt the soft, sweet pressure of what had to be Suga’s lips on his.

All the tension melted out of him in a second and Daichi reached up, tentative, his hand pausing in midair as Suga pulled away from the kiss, over far, far too soon. When Daichi opened his eyes, he was still there, and Suga looked just as surprised as he did, that he’d done it—and then, the magical moment broke, and Suga smiled so widely that Daichi had to match him,  scoffing a little laugh and lifting his head to press their foreheads together, for just long enough.

And as he leaned in to kiss him again (and again and again), Daichi reached down and pinched himself in the thigh.

Turned out he wasn’t dreaming after all. 

--

The next morning, Daichi held Suga’s hand when he watched the team run laps around the cabin.

It was extremely satisfying.

-

They knew we were both too shy to do anything so they got us drunk and locked us in the back yard with a tent, he texted Michimiya over breakfast, watching Suga pass out water bottles to Hinata and Kageyama artfully keeping his jacket on even with the warming weather. It was do or die.

His phone buzzed a moment later, when there was a loud shout of recognition from Nishinoya’s direction, and Daichi didn’t even have time to read Michimiya’s text before he was dealing with his teammates screaming “Suga-san has a hickey!” at nine in the morning, Tanaka hooting in delight right up until Daichi rose from the table with an unnerving smile on his face.

The third was perhaps the most important of all: Newt, a spry blonde with a thick British accent, who proved himself to have a hand for the pies not at all unlike the piemaker himself. Alby, owner and proprietor of his mother's restaurant, Pienstien, named for their namesake in a punny way that drove Alby crazy most days he looked at the sign, was very picky and protective of his recipes; he could make a lattice crust practically crumble in someone's mouth, personally hand picked his ingredients and made sure that no one touched them but him, until Newt came along. Newt, with his beautiful voice and his messy hair, who rolled into Alby's life like the very pin he used to push dough flat, who babytalked the dough into cooperating and swore at it when it didn't, who picked ingredients from Alby's garden without having him cause a fuss.

Being in love was a troubling thing for the piemaker, it seemed, because it was something he'd never really cared for, until Newt walked into his life. He wasn't very good at wooing--no, he wasn't very good at being kind, at all--but Newt brought out a side of the piemaker like sugar brought out the crust of his famous three-berry pie.

The two of them baked together every night in preparation for the sales the next morning, and it quickly became Alby's favorite part of the day. At eight PM on the dot, he'd close the shop, and they'd work in companionable silence, or Newt would chat with him in his dulcet voice about his best friend or his work outside of the pie shop, and the tones of his voice colored Alby's world like an artist on a blank canvas. For you see, the gruff piemaker loved his pies, but there was little more that he loved more than his lovely assistant, who caught his hand as they cleaned the kitchen late one evening and told him the very same. When Newt kissed him for the first time, it tasted like strawberry rhubarb--shank'd been sampling the filling, again, is his first dizzy thought before he loses anything that might be ticking around in his head to the soft, sweet mouth pressed onto his.

That would be the first time they kissed, but also, it would be the last. That very night, Newton Isaacs, at twenty one years, two weeks and six days old, found himself disenchanted with the world and most everything in it, save for the piemaker and his pies, and so, he leapt from his apartment complex window, and met his unfortunate end approximately sixteen seconds of fresh air later, on the top of a now-ruined car.

When Newt didn't answer when Alby texted him that night, still feeling the faint tingle of his lips against his own, Alby grew worried, and when Newt's best friend called the piemaker in tears, Alby felt the very world break apart underneath his feet.

He thought of Newt's smile just hours before, the sweet tang of rhubarb on his red lips, flour dusting his rosy cheeks as if it were a cloud from the very heavens itself, and Alb knew that he simply could not let this stand.

For the piemaker was no ordinary piemaker at all.

So he drove to the morgue just minutes later, Minho silent in the front seat beside him, then parked outside and walked in without even a word to the coroner, walking straight into the back until he found a silver drawer labeled "ISAACS, NEWTON" and pulling it open with little care or reason for who might judge. Alby reached forward and gingerly, tenderly almost, pulled the sheet away from Newt's body. Though his leg was clearly mangled, his face had hardly taken any bruising at all, and Alby felt his breath catch in his chest--in death, Newt looked peaceful, as the piemaker never saw him in life, though the color to his cheeks had all drained away. Alby stared down at Newt's face, and his heart ached with all of the memories, his voice ringing in his ears and his mouth still tingling from a kiss, and the piemaker had to make a choice right there.

Reaching forward, he admired the contrast between them for just a second, heart skipping a beat in his chest as he glanced at his watch, the second hand ticking by. As it touched the 12 on the top of his watch face, Alby leaned over and brought his fingertips up to caress Newt's pale cheek.

The color flooded his face, and Newt gasped, jerking up into a sitting position so fast Alby had to push backwards in order to avoid getting hit, or worse. "I--oh bloody--Alby?"

The piemaker thought his heart might burst as Newt's mouth formed his name, something he never thought he'd hear again--a great twin beast of sadness and joy growled angrily at his stomach as he glanced at his watch. Sixty seconds.

"Am I dead?" was Newt's first question, an astute one. "Are you?" His second.

Alby shook his head in response; he might have half smiled, had the lump in his throat not grown three sizes as Newt spoke. "It's a long story."

"Oh." Newt said, and then his brow crumpled and Alby felt his heart break for the third time that day. "Alby--I'm sorry, I had to."

Forty five seconds, and he felt angry. "No, you didn't ."

"I did." but Newt didn't seem angry at all, and that just made Alby hurt even more, the way he instantly changed the subject. "How am I talking to--"

"You got one minute left alive."

Thirty seconds, actually. "Oh." Newt looked contemplative, seeming to accept that. "And then?"

"Then I touch ya again, and you die."

"Is that right." Alby nodded, mutely, and the sorrow began to build up behind his eyelids, as if it might burst forth into tears in any second. Newt stayed quiet for a second, then looked up at Alby with a strange, soft assuredness--it occurred to the piemaker that he'd wanted to die. His brown eyes locked onto Alby's, and he felt himself fall a little further, to depression and love in twain. "Kiss me, then."

Fifteen seconds. "Wait, what?"

"Since you gotta touch me, yeah? Kiss me. Lot better than how I died the first time."

Alby's throat clicked, and he stared at Newt, watching the earnest look on his face, and he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, alright. Whatever you want, Newt."

Ten seconds.

Newt closed his eyes, then, lips slightly parted, and Alby started to lean over him, gingerly placing his hand on the sheet between them so he wouldn't touch his bare skin, heart pounding madly in his chest as he considered their first and last kiss, and the poetic injustice of it all.

Five seconds.

At 22 years, two months, one week, four days and three hours old, the piemaker made a foolish, selfish decision, for he realized he couldn't do it. He couldn't send Newt back to death, at all.

His phone vibrated in his pocket--outside, there was a loud thump, but Alby didn't notice. He kept hovering, an inch above Newt's still breathing mouth.

"Alby." came Newt's voice, then, sounding a little annoyed, and the piemaker could nearly cry with joy. "You waited two bloody years to kiss me, least you could do is do it again, now."

He wanted to say something in return, wanted to weep, to kiss Newt--though that was certainly forbidden, now wasn't it?--but Alby leaned away, just in time for Minho to burst through the door. His gaze jerked from Alby to the living, sitting up Newt, and back to Alby, and breathlessly, he asked the piemaker--"What did you do?"

--

"Flour." "Flour."

"Baking powder." "Baking powder."

A sigh.

"Newt." "Alby."

The piemaker stared down at the bowl in his arms, trying to hide the way he wanted to smile down into it and forming his mouth into an impressive scowl, instead, as he looked up. Newton Isaacs, twenty one years, one month, two weeks and six days old, smiled crookedly at him from across the room, masking his grin into a serious frown, and failing to hide it in a much more obvious way than Alby himself. "It's a pie, it's not open heart surgery." Newt had bought glasses for a disguise, and they rose up his nose when he truly smiled, and laughed, and Alby couldn't help but notice that there was flour on the black rims--his heart did a backflip and he turned away with a low snort, shaking his head. "You're--"

But the piemaker barely had time to say a thing, to chide the assistant for his foolishness, because there was something touching his mouth. His first thought was Newt, no, but it occurred to him, with his breath held that it was plastic wrap, and the warmth he felt was Newt's mouth, kissing him softly through the film. He had to resist the urge to reach out and grab him, and Alby patted around blindly for a moment before he came up with an oven mitt--this time, it seemed to be Newt that was startled when he cupped his cheek.

"I thought we had a no touching rule!" Minho yelled in response from behind the counter, and Alby turned over to shoot him a withering glare, but Newt's small fingers brushed the top of the oven mitt to hold his hand there, and the piemaker thought that maybe he'd let him get away with the commentary just this once.

But when she made her way to Stiles', her feet decided to carry her to Beacon Hills hospital instead. It wasn't a fugue state, or anything, even if the initial thought made her stomach twist unpleasantly, but rather she was lost in her thoughts, until she'd stopped in front of Scott's mother and asked to see the room with Hale, please. 

She looked at her like it was some sort of werewolf thing, a mix of worry and maybe a tiny bit of pity, and Lydia flicked a piece of her hair over her shoulder and said it was just a visit, and kept any anxiety off her face until her heels clicked slowly down the hall and she stopped at the door.  Lydia was never the type of person to visit people in the hospital; at least not before, when she just came along to be sure that Jackson could walk afterwards. But there was something about Cora, something Lydia felt--guilty for, maybe, something that made her heart twist like it used to with Jackson, not so dead and cold like she tried to make it sound. Cora had gotten hurt because of her, even if she was stupid enough to try and attack Aiden head on, and even if her words--all of them--still stung like something fierce, Lydia made her way across the room and sits in the chair. Cora looked strange in that bed, too small, too fragile for someone who'd just gotten up from every blow she'd had before, and it made Lydia's mouth curve into a frown, recalling their argument and the way she'd just made Lydia bristle, and she shook her head, reaching across the bed and covering the small, fragile hand with her own. 

There’s nothing she could really say—she wasn’t like Stiles, couldn’t just talk to nothing, so Lydia settled for letting her gaze sweep over Cora, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and pressed her lips together. “Are you really going to let a blow to the head be what takes you out? You made me think you were better than that. You can't just show up andinsult us, and then decide to up and die." Lydia snapped her mouth shut when Cora stirred; she made a noise, and Lydia's eyebrows knitted together, and the hesitant hand on hers finds a grip instead, calloused hands against soft ones--just as Cora's hand came up at the same time, turned over so that Lydia's fit into hers, smaller, softer than Jackson's, than Allison's even, and then the sound of footsteps broke the spell.

It's early on a Saturday morning when Derek gets a visitor at the loft. It's not like he's asleep--kept awake by old memories, if not by the way Peter looked at him like he was a thing of pity when he came back from the distillery. The story had to have come out to someone, and Derek can't even bring himself to be angry; not even when it's Stiles who comes to his door before the sun's fully up. He's wearing track pants and a t-shirt and is drenched in sweat, like he'd run all the way here--absently, Derek recalls an overheard conversation about going for runs in the morning, and can't imagine how much energy this kid must have without that--and he's just staring at Derek with those huge brown eyes, determination in them, like he'd been considering coming over here to ask that the whole time. 

It twists something old and familiar in his chest, and he lets out a deep sigh, turning out of the way to let Stiles come in. He does immediately, stumbling into the room with the grace of a newborn gazelle, as usual, and folds his arms as he leans across the table where the maps of the vault still are. Derek's tired, down to his bones; even just looking at Stiles is making him want to sleep, but he steps across the loft now, where the floorboards are warped from the day with Boyd, washing away the blood from when Kali stabbed him in his own apartment. He's somehow become the world's punching bag, and if anyone can handle it, it's Derek Hale, but it's just another stack to add to the weight on his shoulders, and he's fighting it all falling on him all at once. 

And maybe it's going to help him to say something--Derek doesn't open to anyone, doesn't trust anyone, hasn't since he had his heart burned out of his chest one too many times, but he looks at Stiles, the little shit tagalong he got stuck with when he'd tried to take Scott under his wing, and opens his mouth to talk. "Yes."

It's hours later when they've finished talking--when he's laid the story of Paige and Kate out on the table, vaguely thought about Jennifer (she's different, he wants to say, he's sure, but there's something deep in his gut that's saying something's not right), that Stiles cracks some sort of a joke and Derek gives him a push, light, but enough to send him windmilling across the apartment anyway. Stiles' mouth turns up in a grin, and it's not "I can't believe you'd do that to an innocent" or, "how could you be so stupid". Instead, he laughs, bright and warm and effusive as always, brushes himself off from where he'd fallen on the floor, and says, tone joking, "I hate you."

It couldn't get worse--it always, always did.

The reason Stiles had run to him, really, was something he couldn't explain in words. He'd missed most of it, only seen the alphas in front of Boyd, Derek's face, the claws, and he could put two and two together, and the sudden empathetic ache was such a punch in the chest that even when Cora pushed past him to get to Boyd, he'd kept going and put his hand on Derek's shoulder. There was nothing you could ever say to make this okay. Not even the person dying--("Stiles, honey, it's not your fault I got sick. I'll be just fine, okay? Just fine.")--could reassure you, could make the guilt mantling on your shoulders lift, there were no words, nothing that could describe the single repeating thought in the back of your mind, that it's all your fault. 

He and Derek had always been something different, two completely exact and opposite personalities, an unstoppable force versus an immovable object, but they were more similar under their skin than most people could have known, than they themselves could really admit to. 

That's ultimately why Stiles stayed. He spent most of the time moving around the apartment in a daze, trying to put on his dad's airs, his ability to look death in the face, and drained the water from the floor, brought a towel and a pair of dry clothes for Derek, setting the towel around his neck for a minute. "Dude, you're gonna catch pneumonia." So it wasn't the smoothest, but Derek looked up at Stiles, looking for all the world vulnerable and lost, and he dropped his head for a moment, then slowly took the clothes from him and started to stand, murmuring, "Werewolves can't catch pneumonia." as he lurched like a man who did have the entire world on his shoulders (the death of two teenagers whose lives he'd promised to change) into the bathroom to get dry.

Stiles stared after him for a little while, then went and sat on the loft's couch. He was so tired, down to his very bones, tired of murders and darachs and alphas, desperately wishing for Beacon Hills to actually be normal again, maybe, for once in their lives. It was so easy just to stare listlessly into the distance until Derek returned, made his way out of the bathroom with the blood physically off his hands, and dropped himself beside Stiles, letting his hands sit palm up where he could see them, the weapon that'd killed the last shreds of a pack he'd had left. 

The last time he was that upset, felt a bone crushing, gut reaction of heartbreak, of the word no rising so violently in his subconscious it shook him down to his toes, it had been when Matt was punching his dad in the sheriff's station. There'd been nothing he could do then, nothing but lay on the floor and watch, but when Scott was talking about wanting to kill himself, Stiles was damn sure he wouldn't miss the chance to do something ever again.

His world would be completely empty without Scott, period. They'd been best friends since they were four years old, when Stiles stole one of Jackson's crayons for Scott when his broke and Jackson shoved their faces in the dirt on the playground--he'd made Scott stop crying then, he'd made him stop crying during the divorce, when they sat together and read comic books on the roof of Stiles' house and he paced around and told Scott he'd get his dad arrested until he started laughing instead of sobbing, and god knows he would do literally everything in his power to stop him from going out with a bang, literally, right now.

Or at least die trying.

So when everything's said and done--when Lydia's stopped shaking against his arm, when Allison's asleep in her bus seat, Stiles slips in beside Scott, who's awake, and staring out the window. There's a twist of worry to everything--even if he knows it was just that damned motel (and Stiles will never stay in another motel in his life), there had to have been a grain of truth to it, or it wouldn't have affected him at all. If anyone knew about Scott not being sunshine all the time, it was Stiles--if anyone'd ever seen him at his worst, it was Stiles. But he did his best to bring him back up every time, just like Scott did for him when his world was upended and shaken for its lunch money when his mother passed away.

He doesn't have to say anything when he sits--Scott turns to look at him, and Stiles reaches up and wraps an arm around his shoulders in the tightest one armed hug he can manage. It's dead silent for a couple seconds, before Stiles does speak up, finally, looking at the ground before turning a tiny, half cocked smile to his best friend, to his brother. "Still got me, man."

Scott stares at him for a minute, looking every bit as lost as he had out there with the flare in his hand, before his mouth quirks up into a small, familiar smile, and he claps Stiles' hand where it's on his shoulder. "I've always had you."Stiles is so jittery after the flare that he can't really put the feelings into words.

The last time he was that upset, felt a bone crushing, gut reaction of heartbreak, of the word no rising so violently in his subconscious it shook him down to his toes, it had been when Matt was punching his dad in the sheriff's station. There'd been nothing he could do then, nothing but lay on the floor and watch, but when Scott was talking about wanting to kill himself, Stiles was damn sure he wouldn't miss the chance to do something ever again.

His world would be completely empty without Scott, period. They'd been best friends since they were four years old, when Stiles stole one of Jackson's crayons for Scott when his broke and Jackson shoved their faces in the dirt on the playground--he'd made Scott stop crying then, he'd made him stop crying during the divorce, when they sat together and read comic books on the roof of Stiles' house and he paced around and told Scott he'd get his dad arrested until he started laughing instead of sobbing, and god knows he would do literally everything in his power to stop him from going out with a bang, literally, right now.

Or at least die trying.

So when everything's said and done--when Lydia's stopped shaking against his arm, when Allison's asleep in her bus seat, Stiles slips in beside Scott, who's awake, and staring out the window. There's a twist of worry to everything--even if he knows it was just that damned motel (and Stiles will never stay in another motel in his life), there had to have been a grain of truth to it, or it wouldn't have affected him at all. If anyone knew about Scott not being sunshine all the time, it was Stiles--if anyone'd ever seen him at his worst, it was Stiles. But he did his best to bring him back up every time, just like Scott did for him when his world was upended and shaken for its lunch money when his mother passed away.

He doesn't have to say anything when he sits--Scott turns to look at him, and Stiles reaches up and wraps an arm around his shoulders in the tightest one armed hug he can manage. It's dead silent for a couple seconds, before Stiles does speak up, finally, looking at the ground before turning a tiny, half cocked smile to his best friend, to his brother. "Still got me, man."

He'd also learned, in the week or so that Isaac had moved into his house, that it was even more impossible to lie to Isaac. He had this way about him that made Scott want to avoid disappointing him whenever possible--even more so than normal--and ergo, he found himself trying to bend over backwards to make sure Isaac was happy. The guy's life sucked, so he deserved to at least have someone be nice to him.

Which is why he's sitting across from him at a Mexican restaurant, tinny Spanish music humming through old speakers and the whole place reminding him vaguely of his grandmother's. Isaac's quiet, but he looks...well, as happy as happy can really be in this current state, Scott guesses, and he reaches over to dip a chip in salsa, chewing on it. Derek being dead is a heavy weight on his conscience--yeah, he never really liked the guy, but that doesn't mean he wanted him dead. Scott didn't want anyone dead. That was the whole point--

"Scott."

Snapping out of his thoughts, Scott blinks at Isaac, who's staring at him with those huge blue eyes, cocky smirk that he's known since Isaac made lacrosse dropped into a small smile that's almost fond. There's something in his expression that reminds him of Allison, almost, and Scott swallows, puts a grin on his face that comes up sheepish. "What's up?"

It reminds him of Stilinski for just an instant; Scott fidgets, bites his lip, and Isaac turns his gaze back to the road, shaking his head. "You know you can ask whatever you're gonna ask, right?"

He turns his head to look at him, sheepish look on his face, but it softens a little. "I -- didn't mean it."

Isaac blinks. "What?"

"The...real help thing." 

Completely thrown for a loop, Isaac slows to a stop at a light and turns to look at Scott. He looks earnest, a little, brows knit together like he's seriously concerned. For a minute, Isaac considers that, the difference between Derek's "don't ask me that" face and Scott's "I'm sorry for making you feel bad" one. Scott's still talking, and he retunes in to catch, "You didn't deserve that, I mean. You've been kinda amazing since this whole thing started. I dunno what me and Derek would've done without you."

A soft snort escapes him, and he raises a hand to wave it off, settling on the most neutral reaction he can manage. "I know what you meant, Scott." 

Scott's quiet for a minute, and he reaches over to put a hand on Isaac's shoulder, oddly reassuring, and says, "I think I'd probably be kind of dead without you."

"Kind of dead?" 

"Really dead."

Isaac snorts again, reaches up and pats the hand on his shoulder twice, then returns his attention to the wheel. When he's gazing at the road, his expression's shifted into a smile, and the tips of his ears are red. 

It'd been the first time Derek had seen his sister since she was eleven years old. And there was something inside of him that was burnt up, that died with the fire and all of his family, that sparked back to life when he recognized her features--his mother's eyes, chubby cheeks that she'd grown into. Derek had driven her to school the morning before the fire, and she'd rolled her eyes at him when he pulled up to the front door of the school and then shot off to go meet--  It didn't matter, now. Kate was dead, and Cora? Cora was not.  When she fought at him, he took every blow, caught her wrists, defended himself. It was like being a kid again, when his mother would get tired of the three of them underfoot and throw them out to wrestle in the backyard until everyone was too exhausted to drive his mother any crazier. Cora was always weaker than him, younger, but Laura could beat them both into the ground with a hand behind her back, cackling when she'd pull Derek's shirt over his eyes while Cora jumped at his legs. But every time she went down, when Derek could shake her off and jump on her again, his baby sister was tenacious and quick and just kept coming. This, where it wasn't a game, wasn't any different, and Derek could recall lessons on fighting where she'd swipe at him and he'd catch her wrists and tell her to not attack so directly, it'd get her killed--the entire thing was surreal, and then, she was gone, giving him no time to process, just left with an ache in his head and a pounding where his heart used to be. 

It took an entire day to chase her down again, while she was rabid and gone from his life in a flash, so quick it might have been a dream, but Derek was hellbent on not letting her go again. And when Cora howled at him, when she told him to let her go, he didn't--he caught the younger wolf against his chest and held her there, so tight, until she stopped fighting and her arms came up around his shoulders, and suddenly, this tough as nails, vaguely rabid wolf was the Hale family's little princess again, shaking like a leaf in Derek's arms and hitting her fists against his chest. They're gone, and it's your fault, they're gone, they're gone, they're gone. 

The guilt was settled like a mantle, his own personal world to hold up, but today it didn't matter--today it was washed away by the fact that he carried his baby sister home in his arms while she healed, and she tucked her face in his neck and whispered, you're all I have left, Der. 

"So."

He doesn't get time to dwell, when he's putting the blowtorch away, and Derek rolls his head to look over at Stiles. The kid's a jittering mess as usual, but he's got his arms folded now that he's been released from his position with Scott, who's slumped over where he was sitting, eyes closed, but recovering. He looks different--Derek's kept his distance from the teenagers, more or less, as he looked for Boyd and Erica--and it's the first time he's really gotten to match a face to the occasional text message he only rarely answered. (Four AM--"do werewolves have some kind of secret language besides howling? because a cipher would be the most useful thing ever". Four thirty AM--"why did they have to screw up the green lantern with this movie" ) He's got long hair now, taller, broader in the shoulders, but still the exact same kid Derek first met, if not looking a little more comfortable in his own shoes. Still a smartass, still hopelessly squeamish (really?), still more limbs and sarcasm and heart than claws and teeth.  Still so, so human. 

"Where did you find out about the tattoo thing?" Oh, right, he was talking. Derek frowns, pushes himself off the ground, and brushes off his hands, trying to compartmentalize away the smell of burning skin and focus on Stiles instead.  "It was a tradition in our family." Simple enough answer. His dad had one, his mom had one, and he had one, although his came from a different reason entirely. Stiles looks like he's chewing that over for a moment, as if he's not quite satisfied with it, and his quick brown eyes skitter across the floor, like he's trying to find the answer somewhere within in the walls of the house. Derek sighs, rolls his head. "If you're dying to know--"

"Two seconds from offing myself." "--My sister did it for me."  That shut Stiles up for a minute, and Derek turns his gaze away, looking up at the ceiling. It was a bonding ritual--families, siblings pack. And now, he'd done it for Scott, too. ("You and I--we're brothers now" felt like so long ago, but Derek saw so much of himself in Scott that it literally ached to watch sometimes, took the heart he'd had burned out of him and threatened to make it beat ash again)  Apparently Stiles gets it. Because he turns to Derek, and for a second, they share a look, and Derek feels vulnerable. But then, the kid's face breaks out in a little smile, mouth quirked up into a grin, and he shakes his head. "You wanna talk about an initiation rite, dude, that's as permanent as hell. You two are practically wolf married. "

Derek rolls his eyes--siblings don't get married, he could say, you idiot--but instead, he doesn't look at Stiles and quips, "Till death do us part."

(The fact that he acted like he believed it meant the world and made his heart wrench at the same time.) 

2. 

The second kiss was on New Year’s Eve, surrounded by friends in town. They’d already settled into life in Beacon Hills—Derek took on a badge test and passed with flying colors (naturally) and Stiles slid into the desk behind the Sheriff’s Department like it was his home. They made enough friends that way that they were invited to a company New Year’s party, where they drank and ate and socialized, and Stiles greeted their neighbor with a smile and toasted her glass with his (really, she was his type, with strawberry blonde curls and a mouth curved into a perfect pout), but it was Derek who was there at midnight, and he gave up his first New Year’s kiss to the brush of stubble and a mouth that he was in imaginary love with.  It was a little longer than the first kiss, a little sweeter, a little softer. Derek kissed like it was real and Stiles kissed like it was real, and no one had to know it was fake, no one could have known it was fake. They were getting better at this, meshing together and arguing playfully and walking their dog in the mornings hand in hand as dusk settled over Beacon Hills.  Four months until the Argent rendevouz, he thought. I can do this. 

  3.  The third, he and Derek were running. It had been a simple recon mission—scope out the mansion where the Argents were hosting their party, find the three best escape routes. But Stiles was not a field agent, Stiles had never been a field agent, and his own curiosity had led him to kick a trip wire that set off the loudest alarm he’d ever heard. There was shouting from down the hall, and he and Derek both turned and ran, dashing out of the mansion itself and in to the dark, menacing woods that surrounded it. It was a good place for hiding, a good place to get lost in, and Stiles started mentally cataloging every different way to go and how much time it might take them—abruptly, he registered their feet slamming into the still damp mud and kicked a pile of leaves over their path.  “Stiles—” Derek had started and Stiles couldn’t think of that now, couldn’t think of whatever stupid plan Derek was going to come up with that probably involved him throwing himself into the line of fire—he saw an opening and his mind snared onto it like catching a rat in a trap, and he pushed Derek behind a tree, grabbed him by the shirt lapels, and Derek was suddenly doing the rest, like they were on the same wavelength, meeting halfway in a crushing, fast kiss. Derek’s arm came up above his head, pinning him in place, and Stiles’ hands drifted from his lapels to around his neck, fingers latching on like a lifeline to his shoulders as he opened his mouth into the kiss, meeting him with a noise and all the energy he could muster. Behind them, there were footsteps, shouting—someone might have peeked in on them, or something, and turned away with a noise, but as far as Stiles cared, his hands had come up to Derek’s hair and tugged and Derek’s teeth grazed against his lower lip. 

The Argent men had been gone for a full ten minutes before Stiles finally tore away, before Derek pushed backwards, straightened his stupid leather jacket like nothing had ever happened, and briskly made his way back through the woods with Stiles to follow. 

He could feel the phantom pull of his teeth for a few days afterwards—could see it in his dreams for a week. 

  4. 

The fourth kiss was more awkward than the first two combined—there were kids outside waiting for the bus, and Derek was off to work on Stiles’ day off, so he’d foolhardily rushed up and kissed him once on the bow of his lips like it was a goodbye. Only half of it was for show, and Stiles shut the door in his face afterwards, jittery and confused as to why for the first time since they’d started sharing a bed, he rolled over and pressed his face against Derek’s chest and didn’t move—and woke up with Derek’s arm around his shoulders. 

  5. 

The fifth kiss was so terrifyingly real that it braced against Derek’s senses and nearly threw him for a loop. One minute, he’d been in the Camaro, and the next, a black SUV slammed into the driver’s side door and he was in the hospital. The nurse, bless her heart, turned out to be the mother of another agent in their organization, and she was quick to dispense pain meds as well as not question where he’d been going, and in fact, come up with a wonderful cover story as to why he’d been out at two AM on a Sunday evening. It was something he could numbly repeat back to the police (although the Sheriff would never find anything, it was good of him to try) while his head throbbed and his stomach churned with the screaming pain of a concussion and all he could do was lay back and enjoy the extra strength morphine Melissa put him on until he felt conscious enough to eat something.  It was after a fever induced sleep that he woke up and Stiles was there—the banging sound that snapped him out of his dream was in fact the agent stumbling through the doorway. He looked at Derek for just half a second like he was made of gold, and suddenly, Stiles was across the room, his hands were on Derek’s face, and he was kissing him, slow, easy, desperate. It ached so badly of worry and pain that he could feel it in his bones, and he brought up a hand to rest on the small of Stiles’ back, letting him cradle his face and anchor him there, dizziness and nausea barely a hum in the background, as he dropped his morphine hazed attention directly on Stiles.  He berated him for about ten minutes about awful driving habits afterwards—either a farce or just Stiles being Stiles—and then, quietly asked him about the car when everyone had left.  Derek realized later that night, when he was staring at the ceiling and waiting for the next morphine dose to kick in, that Agent Q had gone from Agent Q in his head, to “kid”, to Stiles. 

It was the last thing on his mind as he dozed off, and the first thing when he woke up again in the morning. Just another month. He could do this. 

  +1: 

Everything had gone to hell when they saw Kate Argent. One moment, Derek had his wits about him, cool, calm, collected, and the next Kate was there, smiling at him (the same face she’d made so many years ago, like a shark, and he had been the dumb surfer with his feet hanging off the board), and he’d tightened his grip on Stiles’ arm so hard he felt his knuckles go white. They exchanged pleasantries. She cocked her head to Stiles and it made him angrier, made him want to grab her by the throat and throw her across the room, break her into pieces the way she’d shattered and ruined his life with pretty honey curls and an act he fell for so hard he hated himself for it to this day. 

He wouldn’t get the chance until about a week later. 

Derek had come home to the house in ruins, the dog lying wheezing and whimpering from the force of a taser, and a box of matches spread out across the front foyer—the only sign that Stiles had been there at all. He was gone, kidnapped, and the matches were his sign of who exactly had done it.