J, 27, raging pansexual, one of the OG pervs in this specific microcosm of filth. Emeto is my bread and butter but I just generally like to make hot men miserable.
@its-a-goddamn-heartbreak and @lickstynine Collab Masterlist
For the sake of this not being ten miles long, each group is in its own mini masterlist linked here. We have:
The Cardiff Crew
Nicky, Nye, Nate, Gwen, Delilah, Ffion, Jac, Genevieve, and anyone else who has the misfortune of stumbling into their path
Sk8r Bois
Shiro, Daichi, Ryosuke, and their family, along with Sasha and Valentina
West Coast U
Luke, Matty, Milo, with occasional friends and family
Prep School
Christian and Flossie
A/N: we've literally been writing this group for five years and this is somehow the only fic of them posted to tumblr. so that's insane and will change soon and they'll get their own list once there's things to listify.
Flossie, Island Princess
One-off Sickdays Collab
Kit and Flossie
A/N: Yeah so this was ten thousand years ago when I was still writing with Kit and just wrapping up the Misadventures saga. Unlike the Crossie (Christian+Flossie) universe, don't expect any more from this storyline.
Stuck Between the Heat and a Loud Place
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Was digging thru my iPad gathering refs for artfight and found some drawings I did literally three years ago to accompany Crawling Back to Me.
I never posted them bc I was originally planning to do three illustrations, one called Crawling, one called Back, and one called To Me, each for a different portion of the fic, but I never managed a draft of Back that I didn't hate and so Crawling and To Me just sat in my photos gathering dust.
I hope you've been enjoying the Ryosha fluff, cause it's ANGST TIME
from the evil minds of me and @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak
tw: minor character death, blood, violence
If you do not kill the snake, you deserve to be bitten.
Boris' words rang heavy in Sasha's ears, each weapon a lead weight as he checked the knives in his boot and belt, the brass knuckles in his pocket, the pistol in his coat. He knew what he needed to do, and he wasn't scared. He was never scared to handle Boris’ dirty work. He simply hated it.
Swift and silent as a phantom, he slinked out of the apartment, electing to take the stairs from his towering penthouse. Practiced athlete that he was, his long legs traversed the flights with ease, the exertion far preferable to spending an eternal elevator ride staring at the reaper in his reflection. The parking garage was blissfully empty when he arrived, greeted by the shine of his freshly-waxed Aston Martin. Jace had begged and pleaded to take it for a proper spin, promising to take good care of the car, and to his credit, he had done just that. He had driven up to his father's house, where he and Vody admired it for the afternoon, racing it against their own flashy sports cars before cleaning it inside and out, polishing it to a mirror shine, and topping off the gas. Cars, Jace once told Sasha, were a passion he and Vody had shared since he was little, and he'd grown up learning how to take them apart, put them together, and keep them in peak condition.
Sasha didn't dare to wonder what it was like, having a father who gently and joyously passed on his hobbies. Even now, he remembered the weight of a pistol pressed into his palm at only eight years old, the sharp bark of Boris' critique each time he missed still fresh in his mind. He remembered the biting cold of the hunting lodge, with wolves howling outside and the dogs snarling in anticipation, and the way Boris had furiously shoved him aside when he couldn't bring himself to cut into their catch. He remembered smelling the metallic tang of blood spilling over his shoes, as he was forced to watch exactly what happened when one of his father's subordinates stepped out of line, the life draining from a sickeningly familiar face as Irina’s father collapsed at his feet.
Insubordination can never be tolerated, Boris told him. You let one wasp go free, and a nest will build under your nose. The same rules applied now. It was his man who had been selling secrets to the enemy, and it was his job to eliminate the problem.
He knew where Rodya would be - the same place he always was, a seedy bar where the drinks were flowing, the gambling was rampant, and everything was paid in cash. Not much different to the place he had first met Ryosuke, although he tried not to think too hard about Ryosuke keeping that kind of company. Regardless, it wasn't the type of place where he had to worry about anyone seeing him or interfering. The denizens of such a criminal den knew full well how to mind their business. On top of that, anyone who ran in those circles knew exactly who Sasha was. Not only was he a force to be reckoned with in his own right, but crossing him would, by extension, be crossing Boris. The local criminals were unscrupulous, not suicidal.
Pulling up outside the dimly lit alleyway, Sasha swallowed his hesitation and stepped out of the car. He kept his face stern and impassive despite the knot in his chest. The last thing he needed was to show any sliver of weakness here. He was only in this situation because he'd already been too weak, too absent, too passive. If he had stayed more involved in following Boris' orders, in handling his underlings, then Rodya wouldn't have felt comfortable double-dealing behind his back. Now, it was the least he could do to re-assert his authority, for Ryosuke's sake as much as his own. If he continued to slack in his work, he would draw more scrutiny from Boris.
Shaking away the sickening thought of his father discovering Ryosuke, the renewed fury of protectiveness pushed Sasha forward down the alley. His boots thundered against the concrete, echoing off the dingy brick until he stopped in front of an unmarked door. Slamming it open, he loomed in the doorway, relishing the way the men inside went quiet. Not everyone was stupid as Rodya, it seemed.
As Sasha let the silence hang, the chatter in the bar began to resume. A burly man sitting by the door gave him a small nod, and Sasha stomped inside, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. It didn't take long for his gaze to zero in on a familiar face - buzzed hair, crooked teeth, and an arrogant grin. Rodya. His attention had quickly returned to the cards at his table, where he was trying to bluff his way through an abysmal hand. He was still yammering away at the men playing with him when a dark shadow fell over the table.
“Rodya.” Sasha growled, making it immediately clear that none of the others need address him.
“Sasha!” Rodya flashed him the same crooked, cocky smile. “Come play with us! I have not seen you in so long!”
“No. He is leaving,” Sasha said shortly to the others at the table.
Rodya didn't give up, protesting, “Oh, come on! At least let me finish my game. I’ll buy you a drink!”
Sasha wondered whether he was still bluffing or truly oblivious. It didn't matter. “Fuck your game. Get up, now.”
The message finally made it through Rodya’s thick skull, and he stood up without further objection. “Right. Uh, I fold,” he said, dropping his cards on the table.
Without another word, Sasha led him outside. Rodya started to speak as the door closed behind them, but he was promptly cut off.
“Not here.”
Sasha said, walking towards his car. He climbed into the driver's seat, glaring at Rodya until he got in the other side. They took off right away, following narrow streets into a more derelict area where the only witnesses would be the rats, the roaches, and God.
When he'd gotten sufficiently far into this rotting concrete wasteland, Sasha stopped the car, turning once more to glare daggers at Rodya.
“Get out.”
Rodya did as he was told, trying once more to offer a schmoozy smile as Sasha crept around the car like a tiger closing in on its prey. “So, uh… what's going on? Do I have a secret assignment? Do you need information?”
Sasha punched him.
The brass knuckles cracked off of Rodya's jaw like thunder, leaving him reeling.
“Is that what you said to the Italians?” Sasha sneered.
Stumbling back, Rodya put his hands up to protect his face. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he stammered.
“Don't fucking lie to me,” Sasha snarled, grabbing Rodya by the throat and slamming him into the nearest wall. “I know you've been selling secrets to Florimonte, you slimy piece of shit.”
“Flori - who?”
Rodya’s eyes flew wide. Unfortunately, he was about as good at lying as he was at cards. Sasha saw the answer he'd been looking for in his eyes - the truth that, even with the pile of concrete evidence his father's spies had provided, he hadn't wanted to believe. Rodya, who had worked for him since he came to America, who had dutifully followed his orders all that time, who was closer to Valentina's age than his own, had betrayed him.
“I said. Don't. Fucking. LIE TO ME!”
Sasha gripped his throat tighter, dragging Rodya across the wall before slamming him down onto the cracked concrete below. He leaned over Rodya, breath coming in heavy snarls. Under his clenched fingers, Sasha could feel the racing pulse of his prey, fluttering and fearful under a predator's claws.
Don't kill yet. Play with your food a bit. See if little birdie has anything to sing about.
This time, the voice in his head was Irina's. Where Sasha had recoiled from bloodshed, she had always relished it, cunning and ferocity making up what she lacked in strength and size. She wouldn't be scowling in Sasha's position. She would grin and giggle and savor every moment, enjoying the mental anguish she caused as much as the physical pain. The thought of it made Sasha feel a little sick. He'd played cards with Rodya, and partied with him, and….fuck, Rodya had even been to his place.
Rodya knew where he lived. The realization turned to ice water in Sasha's veins. If the Italians, or hell, even a rival group of Russians, knew where to find him, then whether they realized it or not, they also knew where to find Ryosuke.
Sasha's heart began pounding in his chest, faster even than Rodya's labored breaths below him. He wasn't supposed to let emotion cloud his judgement. He was supposed to lock his feelings away until the dirty work was done. Instead, his head began to reel with visions of thugs breaking down his door, grabbing Ryosuke, being crueler to him than Sasha was being to Rodya now. He could be sick.
If you do not kill the snake…
Boris’ voice returned to his mind, echoing louder than the blood roaring in his ears. Sasha looked down at Rodya, seeing, despite his tough exterior, just how young, how unimposing, how weak he truly was. He could still feel the frantic, fearful pulse of a trembling mouse, frail and powerless under the heavy paw of the tiger. It wasn't a fair fight. It wasn't a fight at all. Rodya hadn't dared resist - he'd seen firsthand what happened when people tried to stand up to Sasha. He’d seen it. And yet, he dared to hand over information to the Italians. The payout certainly hadn't been worth incurring Sasha's wrath. Or was it?
Had he really lost so much authority? Was his influence so absent that his own men no longer worried about his anger? If he really seemed so vulnerable, what would be next?
Unbidden, more violent than before, came the images of thugs bashing down his door. Tearing his apartment to bits, the minimalist loft leaving nowhere to hide. Ryosuke, pinned to the ground, fighting and thrashing and crying out. Red spraying across clean white couches, Ryosuke's own blood spreading across the carpet he'd cleaned so many times.
…you deserve to be bitten!
Boris' words became Boris' hand, grabbing Sasha's and guiding it to the knife on his belt. Before he could think, before he could hesitate, before he could let Ryosuke get hurt, he plunged the blade into Rodya’s chest, feeling it scrape against bone before meeting its mark. Rodya let out a hoarse gasp, staring up at Sasha with the wild eyes of a desperate animal. He didn't speak, but his face asked clearly, Why?
“If I cannot trust you,” Sasha said, his voice low and heavy with an accent so thick, he could've been mistaken for his father, “I cannot let you live.”
He withdrew the blade.
Rodya's body went slack, blood spreading across his white t-shirt. Sasha wrinkled his nose, wiping the knife clean on Rodya's shirt before sheathing it again. He stood up, drawing a slow breath before exhaling the tension from his body. Overhead, the watchful eye of the moon stared down at him, casting the shadow of Sasha's towering figure over his handiwork like an artist's signature. The cold light on his back beamed down like judgement from above, but Sasha didn't care. He had done what he needed to.
It was only as he drove away in his car, the interior still sleek and spotless, that Sasha realized he hadn't been sick. Had he, after so many years doing Boris' dirty work, finally grown a spine? Was he more like Irina now, brutal and bloodthirsty and killing because he wanted to? At the very least, she could no longer mock him so mercilessly for not being able to stomach his own acts of violence. Something about the thought brought him relief, perhaps even a glimmer of pride.
The feeling went cold as quickly as it had sparked. How could someone who took pleasure in such brutality be deserving of someone like Ryosuke? Was Ryosuke even safe around him anymore? He had done all this to keep Ryosuke safe from the monsters around them, but what good was that if the real monster was inside the house all along?
His mind flashed back to the first time, over a year ago now, that Ryosuke spent the night. Sasha was used to nightmares. They were simply a part of sleeping for him, even more so when he was stressed or unwell. A raging fever had sent him to bed far earlier than usual. Then, like so many nights before, he had woken in a frantic terror, but this time, there was someone there to target. Bedroom lit by the same cold, judgemental moon that had watched him tonight, his vision had blurred into view, and he found his hand wrapped tightly around Ryosuke's throat, just as he'd grabbed Rodya moments before.
That should have been the end of their relationship. To this day, Sasha couldn't fathom why Ryosuke had stayed. Sure, he had a nice apartment. Sure, the food was good and the sex fantastic, but someone so beautiful, talented, and charming could easily have found someone else to fit that bill, someone who wasn't a jenga tower of baggage and danger waiting to come crashing down. Someone who hadn't nearly killed him for the simple act of spending the night.
He squeezed the steering wheel tightly, fingernails digging into the expensive leather. Rodya could have found Ryosuke, he reminded himself. Rodya had proven he couldn't be trusted. Rodya had to die. Sasha had to kill him, to keep Ryosuke safe.
Truthfully, Sasha wasn't sure there were any lines he wouldn't cross for Ryosuke's sake, or Valentina's, for that matter. As a child, he'd spent all too many hours lying awake, thinking of how grateful he was that his sister was the favorite. He would gladly endure Boris' cruelty to save her from being treated even half as badly as he was. And he would do just the same for Ryosuke. Sasha’s own wants, his needs, his feelings, his morals, none of it truly mattered. He was a weapon first and a person second. But at least he could be a weapon in defense of those he loved.
He parked in his usual spot, taking a minute behind the wheel to compose himself before he went back up to the apartment. His eyes stayed shut through the elevator ride, though the motion was disorienting. By the time he reached the penthouse, Sasha was shaking faintly, and even he didn't know whether it was anxiety or exertion. His trembling hands struggled with the key, taking what felt like a thousand years to manage the myriad of locks. He stumbled in, leaning back as the door shut and taking in the sight. Low lights, candles flickering on the coffee table, Ryosuke -
He took a sharp, shuddering breath, pressing a hand against the sudden, swelling pressure below his sternum.
Ryosuke, sprawled out asleep on the sofa, cosied up in joggers and a jumper he had clearly stolen from Sasha's closet. His fine, straight hair fell delicately over his forehead, splaying out on the cushion he was using as a pillow. His hands, held tight to his chest, drowned in the oversized sleeves. His face was slack and young and gentle in sleep. He was okay. Thank God, he was okay.
The briefest wave of relief only allowed Sasha a fraction of a second before a different beast swallowed him whole. The nausea he had been so disgustingly proud of avoiding grabbed him round the middle and squeezed like an iron claw. Cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck. He tried to swallow the metallic taste, but it caught in his throat, and the floor seemed to teeter beneath him. He knew at once that he was going to be sick. Legs suddenly spindly and brittle, he staggered across the apartment. He was barely halfway to the bathroom door when a dry retch folded him over, one hand bracing against his knee to keep himself upright.
From the sofa, Ryosuke shifted, hearing the noise but not fully awake yet. The sound of a proper heave seemed to bring him more to life and he sat up, rubbing his eyes with a drowsy groan. “Sasha-chan?”
Sasha, frozen with nausea and regret, couldn't respond. He blinked, and the burst of colour behind his eyelids looked just like the bloom of Rodya’s blood as it unfurled across his white shirt. He retched, bile rising in his throat as he forced his body to move, wobbling on his long legs like a baby deer as he stumbled and swore and banged his shoulder against the doorframe of the bathroom in a desperate scramble. He made it inside just in time, bending over the toilet more through muscle memory than through any conscious effort.
The room swirled around him, and Sasha braced his hands against the toilet to keep from collapsing on the spot. It was cold, hard, just like the concrete he'd leaned over earlier. Once again, he saw the red slowly spreading across white fabric, felt the scrape of blade against bone. He threw up.
He was panting heavily, gearing up for the nausea to rise again in his throat, when Ryosuke finally shuffled through from the living room. Sympathy creased his face, and he stepped closer, too experienced to reach a hand out before Sasha knew it was him.
“Hey,” Ryosuke said softly, his voice still low and scratchy from sleep. He waited for Sasha’s eyes to flick in his direction, for the panic to shift to recognition, and then he stepped closer. Stroking a hand gently over the tense muscles in Sasha's back, his own drowsy brain slowly picked up details. Knuckles scuffed and bruised. Coat and heavy boots still on. Knife on belt. Knife in boot. Holster under one arm. Pocket heavy, probably brass knuckles.
Everything confirmed what Ryosuke had initially suspected - Sasha had been out running some grim errand for Boris. He'd gotten that feeling the night before when he saw the look on Sasha's face after a phone call in Russian. Ryosuke knew better than to pry, but he had intended to stay up, wanting to check on Sasha when he got back. Fatigue has settled over him like a weighted blanket though, the combination of his mild headache and scratchy throat altogether more exhausting than the sum of its parts, and he'd barely crawled into Sasha's comfiest clothes before he'd passed out on the couch.
Ryosuke’s sleepy musings were interrupted by another miserable retch, and he stroked a hand gently over Sasha’s back again. “Breathe,” he murmured, “it’s alright.”
“‘M fine,” Sasha coughed, scrubbing a wrist over his eyes to banish the tears that had started to well up. “I’m fine.”
“Sure,” Ryosuke nodded. “Yeah. Do you want some water?”
Sasha nodded, his breath coming in heavy puffs as he struggled to steady himself. “Yeah, just… gimme a second.”
“No rush,” Ryosuke assured him, giving Sasha’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“‘Kay,” Sasha mumbled, long legs crumpling as he crouched down to the floor, leaning back against the adjacent wall. He wasn’t remotely comfortable, but all the energy had sapped out of him, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down. His stomach was still in knots, hands trembling faintly as the adrenaline drained from him, but he was done throwing up. Sinking his head into his hands, he took a shuddering breath.
“Sasha.”
Ryosuke’s quiet voice just barely broke through the roar of blood in his ears, and he looked up blearily to see a cup of water being held out towards him. “Oh. Right. Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the cup in both hands in an attempt to keep it steady.
Ryosuke flushed the toilet then crouched down next to Sasha, once again not reaching out to touch him.
“Will you let me wrap your knuckles?”
“It's not that bad,” Sasha muttered, staring down at the cup as he forced slow, shaky breaths. He knew he needed to take a drink, but the lump in his throat only tightened further.
“Okay, but will you let me?” Ryosuke asked. “I know you don't care, but it'll make me feel better.”
“I…uh…in a minute,” Sasha nodded, raising the cup to his lips and taking the tiniest sip to rinse his mouth. The cool sensation was a welcome distraction, and after a moment, he took another drink. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way through the cup, finally setting it aside and dragging himself to sit upright. He leaned heavily on the wall as the weakness of long-lost adrenaline threatened to bring him back down. Rubbing both hands over his face, breathed out a long, shuddering sigh. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to shower. He wanted to curl up in a little ball and disappear.
Ryosuke sat down beside him, shuffling slowly closer until they sat shoulder to shoulder. Sasha leaned against him, another shaky sigh rattling in his chest. He knew he shouldn't spend the whole night on the floor, but the prospect of getting up seemed too great to surmount. Reaching out beside him, he wrapped an arm around Ryosuke, hugging him tight. He was here. That was the important part. He was here, and he was safe, and Sasha had made sure he would stay safe.
Gently, Ryosuke laid his hand over Sasha's knee. When Sasha didn't flinch away, he gave it the ghost of a squeeze. Sasha leaned further into his side, and Ryosuke took the invitation to snuggle closer. He knew they would need to get up soon, - spending a night on the floor would make them both miserable - but he didn't want to disturb the fragile peace that had arisen. Even now, he could feel the unsteady stammer of Sasha's heartbeat, pulse racing and breath shaky. Ryosuke didn't dare ask what was wrong; he could infer enough to know he didn't want the details, and Sasha wouldn't want to share.
“I love you,” he murmured instead, thumb stroking over the heavy, woollen fabric of Sasha's suit trousers.
You shouldn't, Sasha wanted to say. You deserve better. At the same time, he felt selfishly possessive, disgusted by the idea of Ryosuke in the arms of another. Instinctively, he clutched Ryosuke tighter, eliciting a little squeak of surprise. He immediately loosened his grip, finally seeming to break from his shell shock to give a sheepish, “Sorry.”
“It's fine,” Ryosuke shrugged. “Just didn't expect it. Are you feeling better?”
“Mm.” Sasha nodded non-committally, taking the hint to climb to his feet. He still felt horrible, aching and shaking and vaguely nauseous, but he knew he wasn't going to throw up again. Better to be miserable in his cozy bed than on the cold bathroom floor. He offered a hand to Ryosuke, who stood easily but kept Sasha’s fingers in his grasp.
“Don't run off just yet,” Ryosuke told him.
Sasha felt a tight stab of panic, ready to be lectured or chastised or even berated for his behavior. Was this finally the time Ryosuke realized he could do better? Sasha didn't blame him. His heart was jackhammering in his chest by the time Ryosuke continued.
“I still need to wrap those knuckles.”
“...oh.” Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the tension in Sasha's shoulders went slack. This was a practiced routine of theirs by now, and he sat on the closed lid of the toilet right away, holding his hand out obediently.
“What, did you think I was going to bite you?” Ryosuke kept his voice gentle even as he teased, stooping to grab alcohol, gauze, and bandages from the cabinet beneath the sink. Standing back up, he pecked a kiss on Sasha's forehead, pulling away with a mischievous smirk. “I'll save that for when you're feeling better.”
headcanon which is canon bc im the artist i make the rules is that the guy on the left woke up in the middle of the night, shaking and sweating after tending to the right guys fever feeling worse than ever. soo he goes to take his temp (39.4), which although is significantly higher than the guy on the right (im deciding hes at 38.8), left guy is still too worried about right guy to prioritize himself
hence why he is shivering despite wearing thicker clothes but the other guy is not. but hes only looking at right guy dont gaf about himself.
but then when the right guy wakes up hes gonna freak out and try to take care of left guy and overexert himself, raising his fever and symptoms 😇
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written, as always, with @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak
-----
New Year's day. Bright and early. Crisp and cold outside. Daichi's apartment was silent, the heavy curtains still drawn to hide the winter sun. Oliver had only stayed up long enough to watch the ball drop, and Daichi had been asleep long before that. They were both still out cold when the silence in the apartment was broken by a thunderous knocking at the door.
Oliver groaned, rolling out of the guest bed and groping around the nightstand until he found his glasses. Sticking his head into the master bedroom, he saw Daichi struggling to sit up. “I got it,” he assured. “Go back to sleep.”
Daichi couldn't argue, crumpling back into his pillows with a low moan. Talking was almost impossible for him anyway, with the wire holding his jaw in place, but quite apart from that he had woken feeling dizzy and disoriented and headache-y. Even opening his eyes was a chore, let alone getting out of bed while his head flopped around on his neck like a bowling ball.
From his room, Daichi couldn't quite make out Oliver's conversation, but the other voice coming from the front door sounded familiar. As he fought to place it, the visitor's volume rose, words more distinctly audible now.
“You can't be serious! Of course he wants to see me.”
Brynlee.
Daichi felt a heavy dread sink into his chest. His girlfriend had been sending him texts as she got ready for a New Year's Eve party yesterday, but Oliver had quickly confiscated Daichi's phone, reminding him that he wasn't supposed to be staring at screens. The rest of the night had been slow and lonely, with only the pain in his jaw to keep him company. He tried not to think about the party he should've been at. The friends he should've seen. The girlfriend he should've kissed at midnight. He hadn't even been awake at midnight to send a ‘happy new year’ text. But now, actually confronted with the prospect of human interaction, there was nothing in the world he wanted less.
At the same time, he felt guilty. Surely Brynlee missed him, too - if she didn't care, she wouldn't message him constantly to keep in touch. Surely he was doing wrong by her just lying in bed and leaving Oliver to deal with it. Surely it was the least he could do to go say hello.
Getting out of bed was more of a battle than Daichi anticipated. Sitting up, a brutal wave of vertigo hit him like a brick, and he was forced to clutch at the mattress for stability. As his balance slowly crept back, he pulled the duvet up over his shoulders, shambling out into the living room on wobbly legs.
“Now's really not a good -”
Oliver broke off, head whipping round as he heard the creak of a floorboard behind him. His face dropped immediately from stony frustration to exasperated concern as he pointed a finger sharply at Daichi.
“No. Lie back down. What the fuck, dude?”
“‘m fine,” Daichi mumbled, shuffling closer despite Oliver's instructions. “‘s fine. Let her in.” He turned to Brynlee, forcing his aching face into a weak smile. “Hey, babe. ‘d you have a good time at your party?”
Squeezing past Oliver, Brynlee strolled inside and looped her arms around Daichi's neck, pecking a careful kiss on his cheek. “Well,” she sighed, “The bartender was great, and I looked really hot. But your teammates were super weird to me.”
Oliver rolled his eyes, closing the door and turning around to cross his arms at her. “Maybe because you showed up latched onto some other guy instead of spending the night with your boyfriend,” he suggested drily.
“‘m sorry,” Daichi murmured, ignoring his brother to wrap an arm around Brynlee, one hand pressed into the small of her back. “They're just weird guys anyway, you know that right? Like, that's hockey.”
“You're not weird, though,” Brynlee said, nuzzling into his chest. “You're the best.”
“Well, exception that proves the rule or whatever,” Daichi shrugged, giving her a squeeze. “You wanna drink or something? I've got… I've got…” His face scrunched in desperate thought, but he eventually turned to Oliver with a defeated sigh. “What do we have?”
Oliver swallowed his prepared remark about the misuse of a common idiom, his smarmyness dissolving into concern at the pained, helpless look on Daichi's face. “Orange juice. Gatorade. Could make coffee.”
“Oooh, an iced latte?” Brynlee brightened, smiling hopefully over at Oliver. “You still have that hazelnut syrup, right babe?”
“Uh…”
“I'll look,” Oliver shrugged, turning towards the kitchen. “Make him sit down.”
Brynlee blinked, having seemingly forgotten about Daichi's situation for a moment. “Oh, right!” She looked up at him with a stern expression that didn't quite read seriously on her soft features. “Come on. Couch,” she ordered, pushing Daichi towards the sofa. He moved much more easily than expected, her gentle shove nearly tipping him over as he crumpled into the seat. Brynlee giggled, plopping down beside him and snuggling up. He sighed tiredly, tugging her in close.
“Tell me more about the party,” he said, tipping his head back against the cushions.
“Well, the venue was unreal,” Brynlee chattered, eager in her excitement. “Like, super grand, arc deco vibe. I got amazing photos on the staircase, Sven must have had a girlfriend back in Sweden because he is well trained.”
Oliver snorted derisively at her last comment, but Brynlee was thankfully focused on Daichi's reactions. He was slow to process her words, nodding gingerly. “Yeah, that's… super good. Glad you found a good dude.”
“You already had a good dude waiting at home,” Oliver grumbled, speaking in Japanese so he could gossip freely. His scowl faded slightly when he saw Daichi grimace.
“Not now, Ollie,” he begged.
Brynlee pouted. “Are you talking about me? What did he say? What are you saying?”
“Just an old inside joke,” Oliver said quickly. “We had a lot of jokes about hockey guys growing up.”
“Yeah, babe,” Daichi said. He rubbed his mouth, trying not to slur his words the way he had been every time a headache came on. Not now, he thought miserably. Not yet. “Don't worry about it, he's an idiot. Tell me about the food.”
“Oh my God, it was so good!” She gushed. “There were little fancy sandwiches and veggies cut into cute shapes and charcuterie boards with weird cheese and these little dumpling things that I don't know what they were called but they were so cute!”
Though it wasn't intentional, her pitch rose as she got more excited, and Daichi strained to keep a neutral expression. “That's nice,” he mumbled.
Brynlee nodded eagerly. “It was so nice and it was all so good and I looked so hot. I got tons of pictures, didn't you see them?”
Daichi nodded. He felt a little sick.
“Y’ looked good,” he agreed.
“He can't look at screens,” Oliver said flatly, appearing from the kitchen with an iced coffee in a tall glass. “I took his phone off him after the first twenty pictures.”
Brynlee's face fell. “You didn't see my midnight pictures?” She asked sadly.
“I was asleep,” Daichi said quietly. “You can show me now.”
“No, you can't.” Oliver's tone sharpened, and he leaned deliberately between them to hand Brynlee her coffee. He made eye contact with her, stern and serious as he repeated, “He can't. Look. At screens.”
“Not even for like…five minutes?”
“I can look for five minutes,” Daichi promised, “just turn the brightness down.”
“You already have a headache,” Oliver grumbled. “You're gonna wreck yourself.”
“Ollie, stop it,” Daichi said firmly, switching once more to Japanese. “I'm not a child.”
“No, you're just humoring one.” Oliver snapped back.
“Stop.” Daichi repeated. “If you're so bothered, leave.”
Oliver scowled. “God forbid I care about my brother,” he grumbled, stalking off towards the guest room nonetheless. Though he had no desire to be around Brynlee, he didn't actually want to go far, knowing Daichi would need him before long.
Daichi let out a tense sigh. “Sorry about that,” he said, turning back to Brynlee. “Show me your pictures.”
Although she had watched the interaction like a tennis match, Brynlee was quickly distracted. She scrolled through her phone, telling Daichi about all the people that she'd met and how many compliments she'd got on her dress. He nodded along, offering as many of his own compliments as he could muster, but his mind was quickly starting to struggle. Each new image flashing on the screen stabbed was an ice pick piercing his skull, and he felt flashes of pain in his jaw with every unbidden grimace. Blissfully ignorant to it all, Brynlee continued to talk.
“And this one was right at midnight, when the ball dropped!” She chirped, looking at him expectantly for a response. To her frustration, Daichi was silent. “See? Don't I look good?”
“Mmhmm…”
He couldn't look at the phone any longer. Trying not to groan, he blinked several times. Colour flashed behind his eyelids.
“Did you even look at it?” Brynlee asked, dissatisfied with his response.
“I did. Y’looked great, Brynn,” Daichi said, struggling to keep his words coherent. His vision had started to blur, the glow from her phone agonizingly bright even in his peripheral.
“Well, Sven liked it.”
“Uh huh…”
He blinked again, squeezing his fingers into his thigh in a vain attempt to…what? Distract himself from the growing discomfort in his head? Steady himself as vertigo swelled in his chest?
“Daichi?” Brynlee’s voice warped and warbled in his ears. “Are you listening? I have more pictures to show you.”
“Uhhhh… maybe ‘n a minute,” he slurred, squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to escape the overstimulation.
“Baby?”
Her fingers found his jaw and he hissed in pain, jerking away. The room tilted sharply. Brynlee wrung her hands, unsure of what to do.
“Daichi? What's wrong?” She asked, desperate for direction.
“Ollie,” he croaked desperately, blinking tears out of his eyes. “Need…”
Brynlee frowned, looking around to see where the older Jansen had gone. “Oh, shit, uh… Oliver?” She called out.
As if waiting in the rafters, he swooped down upon them in seconds, flashing Brynlee a sharp glare. “Don't shout. He's already in pain.”
He crouched down, squeezing Daichi’s shoulder.
“Don't feel good,” Daichi mumbled, folding forwards to burying his eyes in Oliver's shirt.
“You wanna lie down, bud? I can get you a shot for the pain.”
“Please…”
“A shot?” Brynlee pouted. “He doesn't like needles. That's why we didn't get tattoos together.”
“Well, he'll have this one,” Oliver said shortly. He hooked his arm around Daichi's back, slinging his brother's big arm over his shoulder. “Alright, up we go. God, you weigh a ton.”
“Sorry,” Daichi mumbled, clutching Oliver tighter to stay upright.
“No, you're fine,” Oliver muttered, still straining under the weight. “I'm sorry I don't go to the gym anymore. For both our sake.”
“Don’ put your back out,” Daichi said, clinging harder to Oliver. It was unclear whether he was teasing or seriously concerned.
“Yeah, it's not on the agenda,” Oliver assured him.
Brynlee hopped up from the couch to follow after them. “Don't drop him!” She fussed, the shrillness of her worry arcing like lightning through Daichi's head. He whimpered, and Oliver hushed him gently.
“Stay out here,” he said firmly to Brynlee. “Come on, let's get you lying down.”
“But I want to help,” she protested, hurrying ahead before Oliver could shut her out.
“Then get out of the way,” he snapped.
Daichi flinched, face pressing into Oliver's shoulder.
“Don’ fight,” he begged. “Please. Hurts.”
Oliver sighed. “Right. Sorry,” he said quietly.
Brynlee, in a rare moment of good judgement, stepped aside so Daichi could be brought into the bedroom. She still hovered at his elbow, fussing quietly, but at least allowed Oliver to work.
“Here,” Oliver said, lowering Daichi down as gently as he could onto the bed. “Lie down, there you go. Let me just…” He lifted Daichi's legs up before tugging the duvet over him. “I'll be right back, yeah?”
“Feel like shit,” Daichi lamented, slinging an arm over his eyes to hide from the light.
“It's okay, baby,” Brynlee crooned, perching on the edge of the bed. The movement made Daichi groan, and she stroked her fingers through his hair, oblivious to her own fault in his discomfort. “Shhh, you're okay.”
He flinched again, moaning softly. The pain wasn't so bad as when he truly had a migraine, but the dizziness… God, the dizziness was unbearable. Even his own breath moved the mattress an unbearable amount, and it was all he could do to stay still against Brynlee's hand. He hoped Oliver would be back soon. Hopefully the shot would knock him out for a bit and he could get a moment's peace from the sickening spin of the world underneath him.
“Okay.” Daichi wasn't sure when Oliver had returned to the room, but suddenly he was at his bedside and a cool hand was lifting his pyjama shirt. “Little pinch in three, two…”
Though he managed not to flinch, Daichi let out a little involuntary whimper. Brynlee stroked his hair, continuing to shush him and ignoring the nasty look she was getting from Oliver.
“Okay, there you go. All done,” Oliver said, sticking the needle into the sharps container that now lived on Daichi's bedside. “Hopefully you can get some rest now,” he added, looking pointedly at Brynlee.
“I can be quiet,” she said, turning back to Daichi with a little huff.
“No.” Oliver stood up, gesturing for her to leave. “He needs rest. You can sit quietly in the living room if you want to stay so badly.”
“Well, if you want me gone so badly, I'll just leave,” Brynlee said, obviously hurt.
Though he couldn't have wanted company less, her tone sent a pang of guilt through Daichi's chest. “No, you c’n… she c’n stay. ‘s okay, Ollie.” he mumbled.
“No, she can't,” Oliver said firmly. “The doctors were very clear that you should be allowed to rest. You have a fucking brain injury, we're not fucking around with this.”
“So you think I don't care about him?” Brynlee asked incredulously. Offense swelled in her chest, and she stood from the bed with careless speed. The movement made Daichi groan, but she was distracted, turning her back to Oliver and stalking off out of the room. “I don't have to deal with this kind of disrespect.”
“Sorry bud,” Oliver muttered, glancing down at Daichi. “Had to be done. You get some sleep now, the drugs should kick in in a minute. I'll be outside if you need anything.”
“Don' go yet,” Daichi begged, one clumsy hand grabbing for Oliver. Then the front door slammed, and Daichi recoiled like he'd been shot, the sound reverberating violently in his head.
“Christ,” Oliver hissed, a poisonous glare whipping around as if he could follow Brynlee’s retreat down the corridor. Behind him, Daichi whimpered, and his attention quickly returned to what actually mattered. “It's okay,” he breathed, voice barely more than a thought. “You want me to stay? I'll stay.”
“Cuddle,” Daichi demanded, tugging weakly on Oliver's sleeve.
“Sure,” Oliver sighed, toeing his sliders off and slipping into Daichi's obnoxiously large bed. Immediately, Daichi curled against him, creased forehead pressing into his shirt.
Oliver wrapped an arm lazily around his brother, thinking back nearly twenty years ago to when he was actually bigger than Daichi. Though they were the closest in age, Oliver was still the oldest, and Daichi would come to him for help with homework, or video game bosses, or even just because he was having a bad day and wanted some company. How simple things had been back then.
Absent-mindedly, he traced gentle circles over Daichi's shoulder and back. Bit by bit, he felt his brother relax into him as the medicine kicked in. Oliver sighed softly. He couldn't do much about the pain. He couldn't speed up the healing. And he, unfortunately, couldn't do anything about Brynlee. But at least he could be there.
hey~ sorry if this is random but i'm curious about the process of collaborative writing, like the logistics. do you both have characters that are "yours" and whose PoV you write, or do you both just write everything? do you divide who writes what or just whoever can continue a story when time & inspiration happens? how far do you outline/plan plot developments together, does it ever happen that one of you is writing and the story goes somewhere unexpected?
Fantastic question! Let me try to answer this as thoroughly as possible.
So when Boo and I write, it's usually one of us throws together a couple paragraphs to start and the other picks up from there, and we go back and forth, sometimes in a couple sentences, sometimes much longer chunks (eg the mean ass Sasha WIP where I've been yapping my ass off, y'all will see it soon enough). It works pretty similarly to paragraph style roleplay in that regard. Once one of us has finished writing our reply (or replies, our ADHD asses are usually writing more than one at a time), we message the other person "ding." It's a shorthand I developed years ago, essentially just means your turn, but in my head it's like the ding of a typewriter when it finishes a line or whatever. Sometimes it's rapid fire back and forth all day, sometimes it takes a day or two to reply. Life happens.
As far as whose characters are whose, there are a few old ones that belonged to one or the other of us before we started writing pretty much exclusively in tandem (eg her Nye, Nate, Gwen, Delilah, my Christian, Jace, Vody), but most of them were created together for the purpose of collaborative writing. In general, we both write from the POVs of whoever is in the current story, though sometimes one person will take the lead with a character if they "know" that character better.
Some characters have long ass storylines in place (some of which are literally mapped out a decade plus in advance, and we even have some of those far future stories already written), some we're still figuring out as we get to know the character(s) better. A lot of our ideas are initially just hashed out in the DMs, which has led to me downloading a backup of my entire blog several times over to be able to search through said DM archive because Tumblr itself is garbage. (I actually need to do that again tbh, my last one is pretty out of date. Would you believe my crazy ass has done it on my phone before?) For more organized thought, it desperately needs updating, but we do have a giant Google sheet of fic chronology with a page for each character grouping, which I'll show a sample of here:
I've cropped out several less important categories as well as blurred future stories that would be spoilers but just to give you an idea of the level of evil plotting happening here. Between some future fics there's also red lines which is where we write bullet points of plot that needs to happen but doesn't have a fic yet.
As far as plot going in its own direction, that definitely happens sometimes. The characters are developed to the point that when we're writing it's pretty easy to let them "take control" so to speak, and sometimes that leads us down a different path than anticipated. There's also been times where we wrote something, hated it or hated where it went after a certain point, and went back and re-wrote those parts. God knows we make new characters and by extension add new storylines all the time. The writing process is about as linear as a ball of yarn.
I hope this answered all your questions! Feel free to ask more. And of course if @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak wants to add to or correct anything I said, please go for it.
who woulda thought spending only 2.5 of the last 62 hours sleeping would suck
It's fully my own fault I just have the worst time management ever
But holy mother of balls do I feel awful
In my rush to get shit taken care of I have NOT taken care of myself and I'm feeling it mr krabs
My head aches, my eyes are dry and burning, my throat is sore, I keep sneezing (mind you I took my allergy meds) and my brain is going into hyperdrive over every little inconvenience
I could sleep for about a thousand years and I'm pretty sure I'd still wake up feeling like I got hit by a truck
(relevant life details under the cut)
Ran around line a crazy person Thursday bc a friend was in town but I needed to get things finished to give back to my students before they left for the summer, spent that day running on energy drink mix, room temperature bottled cold brew, an actual energy drink, and like four mountain dews.
Took so long getting student shit ready that I literally pulled an all nighter into Friday, where I had like two energy drinks and the saddest sickly sweet panda express orange chicken provided by work. I didn't drink as much caffeine that day because I was hoping to be able to come home and pass out.
Unfortunately when I got home I realized I still had two friends costumes to finish making for Ren faire in the morning resulting in All Nighter 2: Electric Boogaloo: God I Fucking Hate Myself
Technically got like 2.5 hours of sleep before leaving for the fair but I've been stuck sleeping on the couch since my cat had surgery last week. He's doing really well but he's not supposed to be like climbing and jumping and he likes to sleep in my loft bed with me so I've been crashing on the couch to prevent that, and tonight the cushions decided to spread apart as I attempted to sleep and let all of my back support fall into the void so I woke up feeling like a day old pretzel that got squished under the seat of a car that it was dropped in
Doesn't help that I spent all day today at the ren faire in the heat, walking around, mostly drinking booze (in my defense when a cold beer costs less than a lemon chill what the fuck is a man who doesn't want to pay extortionate prices for a water bottle supposed to drink)
So yeah I did this to myself but it is rough in these self made streets
Fingers crossed I can spend like the next 14 hours unconscious and wake up feeling vaguely human again
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who woulda thought spending only 2.5 of the last 62 hours sleeping would suck
It's fully my own fault I just have the worst time management ever
But holy mother of balls do I feel awful
In my rush to get shit taken care of I have NOT taken care of myself and I'm feeling it mr krabs
My head aches, my eyes are dry and burning, my throat is sore, I keep sneezing (mind you I took my allergy meds) and my brain is going into hyperdrive over every little inconvenience
I could sleep for about a thousand years and I'm pretty sure I'd still wake up feeling like I got hit by a truck
(relevant life details under the cut)
Ran around line a crazy person Thursday bc a friend was in town but I needed to get things finished to give back to my students before they left for the summer, spent that day running on energy drink mix, room temperature bottled cold brew, an actual energy drink, and like four mountain dews.
Took so long getting student shit ready that I literally pulled an all nighter into Friday, where I had like two energy drinks and the saddest sickly sweet panda express orange chicken provided by work. I didn't drink as much caffeine that day because I was hoping to be able to come home and pass out.
Unfortunately when I got home I realized I still had two friends costumes to finish making for Ren faire in the morning resulting in All Nighter 2: Electric Boogaloo: God I Fucking Hate Myself
Technically got like 2.5 hours of sleep before leaving for the fair but I've been stuck sleeping on the couch since my cat had surgery last week. He's doing really well but he's not supposed to be like climbing and jumping and he likes to sleep in my loft bed with me so I've been crashing on the couch to prevent that, and tonight the cushions decided to spread apart as I attempted to sleep and let all of my back support fall into the void so I woke up feeling like a day old pretzel that got squished under the seat of a car that it was dropped in
Doesn't help that I spent all day today at the ren faire in the heat, walking around, mostly drinking booze (in my defense when a cold beer costs less than a lemon chill what the fuck is a man who doesn't want to pay extortionate prices for a water bottle supposed to drink)
So yeah I did this to myself but it is rough in these self made streets
Fingers crossed I can spend like the next 14 hours unconscious and wake up feeling vaguely human again
What happens when you spend Christmas cuddled up to your sick boyfriend? You catch his flu, of course!
Written, as always, with @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak
---
In hindsight, the cabin in the woods had been a bad idea from the start. It had been Sasha's bad idea though, and he had seemed excited for the first time in…well, ages, and so Ryosuke had gone along with it without much complaint. He wasn't sure where Sasha had even dreamed it up. It wasn't like his own parents were off on romantic haunts regularly - no, it was more likely that he'd seen it in some trashy Christmas film round at Valentina's and thought it looked sweet.
Either way, they probably shouldn't have actually booked it for midwinter. And when the snow storm warnings had come in, they probably shouldn't have chosen to go anyway. Ryosuke, however, had once again taken the path of the gas station sushi, forgoing safety and sensibility in the name of pleasure.
It was strange, good strange but still strange, getting used to Sasha's more performative romantic gestures. He had always been very forward in the bedroom, but in a more emotional environment, Sasha was sealed tight as an oyster. After much persistent prodding, Ryosuke had slowly prised open that shell, able to glimpse the pearl hiding within. Sometimes those glimpses were as simple as being vulnerable enough to say 'today was rough.' Sometimes Ryosuke came home to lavish spreads of food, wine, candles and roses on the table.
The performance of the day was a physically extravagant one, with Sasha leaving breakfast on the table for Ryosuke in front of a window whose curtains he had deliberately left open. Dramatically framed by the window, Sasha had dressed in his lumberjack finest, arranging a pile of firewood out front to chop. Ryosuke smirked, now utterly certain Sasha had stolen the idea from one of Valentina’s romance movies.
It was nice, Sasha being so…attentive. Ryosuke had never had a partner who even put effort into planning dates. He settled into the armchair, idly dipping toast soldiers into Sasha's perfectly runny eggs as he watched his boyfriend's muscles ripple in the winter-clean sun.
By the time Sasha was finished, they had enough firewood for the remainder of their stay, if not excess. He had originally just been doing it to put on a show, but found the repetitive, violent, yet productive work extremely satisfying. Maybe he should do this more often, he thought. He sauntered back inside, gaze distant as he wondered, was wood chopping even a hobby, or was he just a freak?
“You finished demonstrating your manliness?” Ryosuke called from the kitchen as he heard the cabin door open. “I'm making hot cocoa, do you want some? Or is that not manly enough for you?”
“Any man who doesn't want hot cocoa is a bitch and a coward,” Sasha declared, strolling up behind Ryosuke and wrapping both arms around him. His skin was still icy to the touch from being outside and Ryosuke yelped.
“Did your parents never teach you to wrap up warm?” He squawked. “It's below freezing, you'll catch your death of cold!”
Sasha laughed. “Please. It is Russian summer out there,” he joked, giving Ryosuke one last playful squeeze with icy hands. “But if you insist on warming me up, I guess I need that hot chocolate.”
Ryosuke chuckled, twisting to kiss Sasha's cheek. He was short enough that his lips grazed Sasha' jaw instead, ghosting over the rough stubble. Sasha smiled, leaning his cheek against Ryosuke's head.
“Well, it's almost ready,” Ryosuke said, even as his body relaxed back against Sasha's. “Go sit down, I just need to add the cream.”
“Add it quickly,” Sasha ordered, a teasing growl rumbling in his chest. He made no move to leave the kitchen. “I'm no good at being patient.”
“Sir, yes sir,” Ryosuke flirted, pushing Sasha away towards the living room, where the fire was roaring nicely.
Sasha allowed himself to be shoved away, strolling into the living room and sprawling out on the couch. The crackling fire stirred the deepest memories in the back of his mind, and he stretched out with a contented yawn, letting his eyes flutter closed. When Ryosuke came through, he cozied up to him, tucked between Ryosuke's legs like a very large lap dog.
“Cocoa is good,” Sasha mumbled, having sat up just enough to drink it. Whipped cream lingered on his upper lip, and he smiled. “Thank you.”
Ryosuke smirked, then leaned in to kiss away the false moustache. He was still working on his own drink, the mug warm between his hands. “You're welcome. Here, hand me the book? I'll read a bit, I wanna know how they catch the guy.”
Sasha reached out one long arm to snag the book off the coffee table. He passed it over to Ryosuke and snuggled back up, sipping contentedly at his cocoa. It was hot, smooth, and perfectly sweet, satisfying and nostalgic. If only he could warm up from being outside, everything would be perfect.
Ryosuke began to read. Sasha felt his eyes getting heavier and heavier until eventually he drifted off, head nestled against his partner's chest. Cozy as he was, he had hoped to get some properly restful sleep for once. How naive he'd been.
He dreamed of snow. Not the way it had been snowing outside while he chopped the wood, but the snow in Russia. The kind of snow that ate your fingers and your hearing and made it impossible to see. The kind of snow where the howling gale could very well be the howling of wolves.
He dreamed of being lost. Everywhere he looked, there was nothing but screaming winds, a white hateful fury battering his face and blinding his eyes. He needed to get home. Which way was home? Where had he come from? Did he need to keep going? Did he need to turn around?
He woke up freezing. He was still huddled against Ryosuke, Ryosuke's hand rubbing slowly up and down his back, but he was shuddering with cold.
Ryosuke looked up from the book he'd been reading, frowning as he saw the way Sasha had started to shake. “Nightmare?” He asked softly, his hand keeping a gentle rhythm on Sasha's back.
“Not really,” Sasha mumbled, huddling in tighter on himself. “Just freezing. Can you get the fire going again?”
“It's… still going,” Ryosuke said, a concerned hesitation to his words. “It's been going this whole time.”
“But it's so cold,” Sasha whimpered, tucking his face into Ryosuke's neck. “Ryo, I'm freezing. It's… I don't like it.”
Ryosuke frowned, feeling the warmth of Sasha's skin against his own. “Um… I can add another log to the fire, if you want.”
“Blanket?” Sasha asked hopefully.
“I'm not sure you need one…” Ryosuke began, and then looked down at Sasha's miserable face. “Oh, fine, scoot over.”
Sasha reluctantly peeled away, collapsing into a pathetic heap on the couch as Ryosuke left. He really didn't feel well, he realised. His muscles ached, and his throat… His throat felt like it was filled with burning pins.
When Ryosuke finally returned with the duvet, Sasha sheepishly ventured, “Um… can I have more cocoa?”
“Of course.” Ryosuke leaned down to tuck him in, stroking his hair back carefully from his face. “Oh dear, or maybe some tea? Might that be better?”
“I liked the cocoa,” Sasha mumbled. His eyes were drifting closed again, so hard to keep open when he was just…so…
The cocoa was cold on the coffee table when he woke up. His head hurt now, the discomfort in his throat prickling and burning with every inhale. His body ached like he had been in a full-on brawl, and even under the duvet, he couldn't stop shivering. He groaned, groping around blindly. “Ryosuke?”
“Hey.” Ryosuke's voice was soft, as were his footsteps as he padded to Sasha's side. “Hey, are you awake?”
“Mmnnnn…” Any reply Sasha might have had was swallowed by the pain that splintered through his throat when he had spoken. He groaned, rolling over on the couch to bury his face in the cushions. He wanted to beg Ryosuke to bring more blankets, to add wood to the fire, to lay with him for any semblance of added warmth. But just the thought of speaking again made his throat hurt.
“Sweetheart?” Ryosuke's hand found his, thumb stroking lightly over the back. “Could you sit up for me a minute? Maybe have some water?”
Sasha groaned, slowly and laboriously pushing himself up on his elbows. The movement gave him an unexpected head rush and he almost dropped back down.
“I thought so,” Ryosuke murmured, catching his shoulder and helping him all the way up. “When did you start feeling sick?”
Sasha wrinkled his nose, tipping his head back against the sofa and trying to make the swirling stop. He didn't respond, unable to string words together when he felt so dizzyingly unwell. Ryosuke, of course, only grew more worried, gently cupping his fingers against Sasha’s jaw to gauge his fever. He winced immediately.
“You're burning up, hang on,” he said, leaning in to press his lips to Sasha's forehead. “Let me get something cool from the kitchen.”
“No,” Sasha croaked, barely able to force the words. “‘m so cold…”
“No.” Ryosuke was surprisingly firm. “You're not. You have a fever.”
Sasha groaned, but even that made his sore throat ache. He could just about gather his thoughts enough to understand the problem, but he still had no desire for anything cold to touch him.
“I know,” Ryosuke said quietly. “But it'll feel better afterwards.”
He returned to Sasha with a tea towel he'd wet under the tap, crouching beside the couch to be closer. “Alright, brace yourself,” he warned, swiping the cool cloth slowly across Sasha's forehead to start.
“Ahh…” without even meaning to, Sasha winced away from the chill touch, only to find his face cupped in Ryosuke's other hand.
“I know, it's no fun. But you're burning up, you really need it.”
“Mmnnnnooo….,” Sasha slurred, breath hitching in his chest. “hurrr’s.”
“Hey, you're okay. It'll be okay,” Ryosuke murmured, stroking Sasha's hair. “It's only for a minute. Then we can cuddle, okay?”
Sasha shook his head, trying to squirm away again. “‘s too- too c- too co-hold…” he sputtered, an unexpected cough burning in his throat.
Pain lanced through his throat, hot and unforgiving. He continued to cough, unable to stop until his chest had cleared, tears springing to his eyes. By the time it was over, he was gasping for breath, lungs burning almost as badly as his throat.
Ryosuke frowned, a deep concern creasing his face. “Here, drink some water,” he offered. “That sounded awful.”
“Felt awful,” Sasha croaked, his voice thin and scratchy as if the burning in his throat had eaten away at it.
Ryosuke knelt next to him on the sofa, one hand coming to rest on his hair. Sasha's face was red and splotchy and distinctly less dignified than usual.
“We didn't bring any meds,” he said reluctantly, once Sasha had forced down enough water for his breathing to settle. “We should have brought meds. You've probably caught what I had.”
“Brought vodka,” Sasha rasped. “In kitchen,” he mumbled, waving vaguely in that direction.
“Sasha!” Ryosuke let out an exasperated sigh. “That's not medicine. Besides, it'll be a bitch to swallow.”
“Classic remedy,” Sasha argued, “better than nothing.”
“No,” Ryosuke said firmly. “Not better. I'll make you tea. With honey. And maybe a shot of vodka if you're good.”
Sasha scowled, but the chattering of his teeth took all the ferocity out of it. “Fine,” he grumbled.
“Good.” Ryosuke nodded and leaned in to press his lips to the side of Sasha's head. “God knows I can't deal with you drunk and feverish. Who knows what you might do.”
“Get some sleep,” Sasha muttered. He coughed again, his face twisting in pain as burning needles rose in his chest and filled his throat. “Fuck,” he rasped. “Can I get that drink now?”
“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Ryosuke rolled his eyes as he got up from the couch. “I'm going, keep your hair on.”
Sasha just groaned, rolling over on the couch and pulling the duvet over his head. God, how he wished he were comfortable enough to sleep. He also wished it could've held off - missing training would have been a minor annoyance compared to how he felt about screwing up this holiday. He finally had time alone with Ryosuke, and he was wasting it.
Sasha was still stewing with frustration, buried in the duvet, when Ryosuke returned. “Come on out, mister grumpy. I brought tea.”
Sasha rolled back over, waiting for Ryosuke to put the tea down before gripping his wrist and pulling him down on top of him. Ryosuke let out a yelp of surprise, but he didn't actually fight it, nestling into Sasha's broad chest.
“All that fussing about me making tea, and now you don't even want it,” he teased, slipping a hand under Sasha's shirt to rub slow, rhythmic circles.
“I do,” Sasha croaked, arms looping lazily around Ryosuke's back. “Want you more. Feel terrible.”
Ryosuke chuckled. “The tea might help you feel a little less terrible.”
“Mm, in a minute,” Sasha rumbled, letting his eyes fall closed. He wanted to rest, but the awful scratching he felt with every inhale made it difficult to settle.
“I'll believe it when I see it,” Ryosuke teased, but he didn't push any further.
Sasha didn't continue their banter, too weary to even speak. He lingered in quiet quasi-comfort for what felt like ages, snuggling up with Ryosuke hugged tight to his chest. He could maybe have drifted off if it hadn't been for the way his throat began to tickle.
He tried to clear his throat, the sound rumbling in his chest. It did nothing. He tried once, twice, thrice more to no avail. Irritation was beginning to overwhelm him, the frustrated growl in his throat suddenly overtaken by a sharp, hacking cough.
“Shhh,” Ryosuke soothed, rubbing his chest gently but it was no use. Now that Sasha had started he couldn't stop, even though the pain slicing through his throat with every ragged breath seemed immeasurable. Tears sprung to his eyes, his face creasing with a marked discomfort. Ryosuke winced, sitting up so that he wasn't weighing Sasha down. “Here, sit up a bit, see if that helps.”
Sasha nodded, struggling up onto his elbows, his face an undignified shade of red. Ryosuke gave his back an encouraging pat, but it did little to help the wet, guttural cough that seized Sasha’s lungs. Fire in his throat burned hotter with every bark and wheeze, and he struggled to catch his breath.
Ryosuke let out a curse in Japanese before hauling Sasha up and sliding his body in behind him. Sasha swayed over his own lap like some kind of drunken marionette, chest heaving with coughs. He hacked and sputtered for what felt like eternity before his lungs finally settled, slumping back against Ryosuke with a weary groan.
“Fuck,” Sasha croaked, his voice little more than a scratchy whisper.
Ryosuke kissed his burning cheek, one hand still rubbing his chest. “Have a drink, okay? And then I think you should go lay down in bed.”
“Bed will be cold,” Sasha whined, taking the tea in his hands even as he pouted.
“I can start the fire in there,” Ryosuke offered.
“Air is cold,” Sasha argued. “Stay here. With you. In warm.”
“Sasha…” Ryosuke sighed, trying not to laugh. “You don't even fit on this couch.”
“Don't care,” Sasha grumbled, pulling his legs up to squish himself onto the couch. “Warm here.”
“I can make it warm in bed,” Ryosuke wheedled. “I promise.”
Sasha groaned. “So far away…”
“Come on, please,” Ryosuke begged. “You're going to feel even worse when you wake up with your back hurting from sleeping like this.”
That, at least, was something that Sasha unfortunately agreed with. He heaved himself up, groaning dizzily, and staggered through to the other room. The cold air was like a blast in his face, and he curled up under the mountain of blankets they'd shared the night before, hoping and praying that there would be some residual body heat left over.
The blankets, sadly, had long ago lost all the warmth from last night. Sasha shivered, teeth chattering as he burrowed deeper. Ryosuke flashed him a sympathetic smile. “I'll get the fire going, then I'll join you, okay?”
“Y-yeah.” Sasha nodded, curling tighter and coughing harshly into his fist. Every cough made his sore throat sting, and he couldn't stop shivering even buried in blankets. He wished they were home, in his bed, with the heating cranked up. He would brave the drive, if it weren't for the snowstorm.
Ryosuke started the fire as quickly as he could, but it felt like years to Sasha. Huddled up in the icy abyss of blankets with no warmth waiting for him, he could've been back in the bitter Russian winter.
Their house had always been warm. What was the point of the millions Boris made if you couldn't keep the house warm? The hunting lodge up in the woods, on the other hand, was always freezing. Sasha remembered being small and crying because his hands were sore and swollen with the cold. Boris had told him to grow up, said that this was how you became a real man. That crying was for girls.
Sasha shuddered.
There was a rustling behind him, then something brushed his back. Sasha startled, turning over with wide, wild eyes.
“Just me,” Ryosuke murmured. “You okay?”
“Cold,” Sasha mumbled, grabbing Ryosuke and pulling him in closer.
“Come on,” Ryosuke said gently, snuggling up to him. It was the only time Ryosuke seemed bigger than Sasha, when they were cuddled up in bed, when he was the big spoon and Sasha like a child in his arms. “I've got you. You're safe. You can sleep now.”
Sasha nestled up to him at once, still trembling faintly as he drifted off to sleep. Ryosuke rested his cheek on Sasha’s shoulder, trying not to be too alarmed by the heat radiating off his body. If he couldn't do anything to help it, there was no point in worrying about it, Ryosuke reasoned. Though it was hard not to worry when Sasha lay against him shivering, face tight with discomfort and fear, there was little he could do beyond holding tight and hoping.
Sasha dreamt of the hunting lodge.
He’s alone inside, no longer a child taken by his father, but a grown man out on his own. There’s no one around for miles, the wind whistling with the weight of snow that would keep him in place for days. It’s cold, but at least he has the peace of knowing it’s just him out here. No man or beast could traverse this snow to intrude upon him.
And then he hears the voice outside. It’s distant at first. It could be the wind. But it grows louder. And it gets closer.
Let me in.
Even over the howling gale, the deep, commanding tone is unmistakable now. Boris.
Let me in, boy! What do you think you're doing, leaving your father outside?! I should roast you over the fire!
Sasha shudders, heart pounding in his chest, shrinking closer towards the fire. His father's voice is joined by a bone-chilling, familiar bark.
Aleksandr! Let me in! The dogs are getting angry!
Sasha whimpers and then swallows the sound. His father won't like it. The flickering shadows around him seem to loom and grow, filling the room.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The door rattles on its hinges. Sasha feels his blood run cold. Should he try to guard the door? Should he hide? Should he get ready to fight? He can barely breathe.
CRACK
The door splinters, a looming figure filling its frame. Boris is glaring daggers at Sasha, flanked by the frothy-mouthed dogs.
I told you to let me in!
Sasha screamed himself awake.
Ryosuke's hands were on him immediately, gentling him as he coughed and coughed and coughed. Panic pounded in his chest. Pain burned in his throat. Pure terror flashed wild in his eyes, and Ryosuke deftly caught a swinging hand before it could clock him.
“It's just me,” he whispered, giving Sasha's fingers a tight squeeze. “You're safe.”
Sasha sobbed loudly, his body rigid and shuddering. He coughed some more, pain gripping his chest. Ryosuke rested a hand on his back, rubbing firmly as another round of coughing seized his lungs.
“I've got you,” he assured, “just try to breathe.”
Sasha couldn't imagine anything more difficult. His throat was on fire. His ribs seemed to be tightening, a vice grip around struggling lungs. His pulse raced, swift and erratic. Blood howled in his ears like the winter wind. Spots swam in his vision.
“Easy,” Ryosuke soothed. “Just one deep breath, that's all you need. Don't pass out on me.”
“Hurts,” Sasha wheezed, unable to keep the tears in his eyes from falling. His fingers clutched clumsily at Ryosuke's hand, clammy and trembling.
“C-c-can’t,” Sasha sobbed, gradually crumpling himself into Ryosuke's arms. “Fuck, it h-hurts…”
Ryosuke hugged Sasha tight to his chest, still rubbing slow circles on his back. “You can. Follow me. In… out. In… out.”
It took him far longer than it should've to settle, and by the end he was embarrassed and red-faced and thoroughly exhausted. Ryosuke had turned to look at him properly, a furrow of deep worry in his brow.
“Do you want some more tea?”
“Wanna sleep,” Sasha sighed, shuddering bodily. “But…what if…” He struggled to find the words, feeling suddenly very young. “What if I hurt you?”
“I’ll be fine,” Ryosuke assured him. “I would leave if I wanted to. I'm not worried.”
“I'm worried,” Sasha mumbled. He was quiet a moment, breathing roughly, before he added, “The dream, it was…really bad.”
Ryosuke nodded, giving Sasha a tight squeeze. “It's over now. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” Sasha couldn't imagine putting it into words. Just thinking about it again made him feel ill. He wished his head wasn't throbbing so badly, so that maybe he could think. Huddling in on himself, he pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face in the folds of his pyjamas pants to hide.
“You don't have to,” Ryosuke said, sitting up to lean across him. “I was just asking.”
Sasha just groaned, squeezing his eyes closed and shaking his head. Even now that he knew he was safe, that it was only Ryosuke anywhere near him, he couldn't shake the jitters. His throat was hurting worse than ever as he tried to keep his breathing steady, his head pounding at every inhale.
Ryosuke sighed. “I'm going to put more wood on the fire. If I get you a hard drink will it help you sleep?”
“Yes.” Sasha didn't even know if that was true, but he couldn't stand to be alone with his sober thoughts anymore. He could swear the wind outside was still howling like a dog.
“Alright,” Ryosuke nodded. He swung his legs out of bed, shivering slightly at the difference between the outside air and Sasha's feverish cocoon. “Don't make a habit of it though.”
Sasha only grumbled in response, curling up into the warmth Ryosuke left. He pulled the blankets closer around himself, wishing they could muffle the distant wail of the wind.
He was only semi responsive when Ryosuke returned, wordlessly slamming back the double shot of vodka before crumpling back against the mattress and drifting off to sleep. Ryosuke nestled up beside him, wrapping his arms tightly around Sasha. He couldn't do much about the sickness, or the nightmares, but at the very least, he would be there when they passed.
Caretaker with a cool cloth on a sleeping feverish Whumpee, and Whumpee kinda half wakes up, Caretaker shushes them back to sleep “It’s okay, I’m just trying to get your fever down. You can go back to sleep”
What the fuck, it's me posting the fic? Never fear, this is not a harbinger of the apocalypse. @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak's computer is fucked up. Without further ado, the long overdue continuation of the Sk8r Bois narrative, featuring Sasha and Ryosuke and a couple of cousins. Enjoy!
---
The run up to Christmas was one of the busiest periods in Ryosuke’s schedule. On top of their standard wedding and funeral bookings, they were inundated with corporate Christmas parties, and gala dinners, and candlelit Taylor-Swift-for-string-quartet concerts.
And, and, and…
The work never seemed to stop. He was home so late most nights, that if it hadn’t been for half his ceiling falling in on his bed he might have gone back to his own flat instead of waking Sasha. Unfortunately, his apartment was a death trap, so he would stumble into the penthouse at stupid hours of the morning, drunk and dizzy with exhaustion.
If he weren’t so wary of upsetting Mei after the fiasco that had been the last few weeks, he might also have said something about how they’d chosen to take bookings. Some days, they had as many as three concerts - a care home in the morning, a wedding in the afternoon, a fancy dinner in the evening - and Ryosuke felt like there was barely time to breathe, let alone get any meaningful rest. Since he wasn’t able to be home for meals, he’d been eating like shit too. Sasha packed him leftovers to go every morning for his lunch, but by dinner he inevitably ended up at McDonald’s or Chipotle or whatever random tiny takeaway was nearest the venue.
It went on like this for over a fortnight. He woke up every morning feeling as tired as when he went to bed. His stomach constantly felt off. The heart rate monitor in his watch was going haywire. His wrists hurt. And still, he dragged himself out of bed every morning and ate the miso soup and tamagoyaki that Sasha had made before Ryosuke had even arrived back the night before and made himself presentable before hurrying off to work.
Sasha couldn’t help but worry. When he got up to see Ryosuke off in the morning on Christmas Eve, he almost asked him to stay home. His skin was grey and he took a second to respond to anything Sasha said. Even then, his response was usually ‘huh?’.
His ghastly visage lingered in Sasha’s mind as he sulked about the flat, glaring at all the Christmas decor that he hadn't wanted to set up, that Ryosuke wasn't even here to appreciate. Sasha hadn't realized how accustomed he'd become to Ryosuke staying with him until he found himself spending the days alone. It felt so wrong to come home from training, throw his bag on the ground, and only be greeted by Kuro’s trilling meow. To see familiar slippers by the bedside with no one to fill them. He still cooked, of course. Prepared the food, washed the dirty clothes Ryosuke left behind in a zombie-like stupor. Their schedules had grown so disparate, Sasha was often awake for training before Ryosuke even came home. Not that he had gotten much sleep in his big, empty bed to begin with.
Though he said it often enough, Sasha sometimes forgot just how true it was - he didn't sleep well without Ryosuke. The nightmares came back, seemingly tenfold, whenever he laid against those cold sheets with nobody but his mind to fill the space beside him. It wouldn't be so bad if he hadn't grown accustomed to better sleep. Where once he had been able to power through the day, now he found himself desperately snatching naps whenever he could - when he arrived home from training, as the brisket cooked in the oven, the odd half hour before he had to go out and work for his father. It was irritating, to feel the shortcomings of his own body so acutely.
It was a blessing that at least Ryosuke would be home that night. It was Christmas Eve, and his colleagues were heading away to see families after their afternoon engagement, so Sasha had planned a meal to share before Ryosuke headed to his cousins’ house for Christmas Day.
The warning signs had been building all week. The first red flag came when Ryosuke shambled into the house, not saying a word about the decadent smell wafting from the kitchen. He often liked to joke that it was Sasha’s cooking that kept him around - the sex was just a bonus - and normally, he would have run to the kitchen, examining the evening’s fare with wide-eyed excitement. Instead, he crumpled onto the couch with a weary groan.
“Rest a while,” Sasha urged him, draping a throw blanket over his partner's limp body. “I can leave the stove on low, we can eat later.”
“Not really hungry,” Ryosuke mumbled, curling into the cushions. “...sorry.”
Sasha’s feelings came in crashing waves. Shock and alarm. Dismay. Hurt. Stupidity for feeling hurt. Finally, he came back from the recesses of his mind, clearing his throat with a stilted cough. “Oh, um, I'll… put the food away,” he muttered, hurrying off towards the kitchen before his stupid emotions could make themselves known. He had no right to be upset. Making food was the least he could do to keep up his end of the relationship. It wasn't Ryosuke's fault that his cooking wasn't worth eating tonight. He needed to do better. He'd had all day to make a meal. How had he fucked this up?
“Th’nks,” Ryosuke nodded. His eyes slid closed and before Sasha had even reached the oven, he could hear that his partner was asleep.
As Ryosuke's faint snoring became the backdrop to his work in the kitchen, Sasha found his nerves slowly settling. How had he allowed himself to get so worked up over not being able to serve dinner? Obviously, Ryosuke being home was more important. If he needed to rest, fuck the meal. It could be reheated, or Sasha could make something else. Why did he let himself go crazy over such stupidly trivial problems?
Once dinner was put away for later, Sasha turned on the kettle. He wasn't sure how soon Ryosuke would be awake, but he had a feeling it would be wise to have tea at the ready. He ought to have a cup himself - not that it truly helped him sleep, but chamomile might at least take the edge off his inexplicably frazzled nerves. Especially if he added a dash of brandy to it.
Putting the tea bag in to steep, he set about cleaning the kitchen. It wasn't like anyone else was going to see it - and he would almost certainly order takeout for Christmas while Ryosuke was with family, so it wasn't like he needed it sparkling - but the methodical, familiar motions muted his thoughts to a dull buzz as all that became important was the job.
He continued to clean even once his tea was ready, stopping only long enough to take little sips. Sitting around doing nothing wasn't an option - holding still only allowed poisonous thoughts to spread and take root. Instead, he continued to clean well beyond reason - polishing the chrome of all the kitchen appliances, dusting every orifice of every room (though they didn't have dust to begin with), lint rolling Kuro's long black fur off of his pristine white furniture. He didn't dare vacuum, of course - that might wake Ryosuke - instead getting down on his hands and knees to scrub the hardwood floor. It kept him busy.
He was still scrubbing when Ryosuke began to stir, slowly at first before jerking awake with a groan. Immediately, Sasha dropped the rag he'd been gripping, barely registering how red and raw his hands had become. Hurrying to the couch, he cupped a palm to Ryosuke's worryingly warm cheek.
“Hey. How are you feeling?”
Ryosuke groaned loudly, letting his head loll against Sasha’s hand.
“You don't look good,” Sasha said, pushing Ryosuke's hair back with forced calm. “What can I get you?”
“‘s’ a minute,” Ryosuke slurred, cracking a weary half smile. “God, my head…”
Sasha kept his face stoically smooth, but worry clenched in his chest. “I'm going to make tea,” he murmured. “It'll only take a minute, the kettle's already on.”
Before he stepped back, Sasha eased Ryosuke gently back against the couch cushions, brushing a thumb over his feverishly warm cheek and then finally peeling himself away.
“Maybe some water,” Ryosuke mumbled, fingers tangling into the hem of Sasha's t-shirt as he stood up. “And Tylenol if you've got it.”
Sasha clasped his hand over Ryosuke's, renewedly loath to step away. “I've got it. Can I get you anything else? More blankets, pillows, cold compress? There’s the nice one upstairs, the one Vody sent.”
“Nuhhhh, s’okay,” Ryosuke mumbled. He struggled upwards, propping his shoulders against the arm of the couch and blinking slowly. “Sorry ‘bout dinner, I know you worked hard on it.”
“Don't worry about it,” Sasha said, a bit too brusquely to be believable. He gave Ryosuke's hand one last squeeze before hurrying off to gather water and medicine. Though it wasn't asked for, he set a cup of tea to steep anyway. By the time he got back with a glass of water and the bottle of pills, Ryosuke had managed to sit himself almost upright, although he was still somewhat slouched against the arm of the sofa.
“You look exhausted,” Sasha grumbled. “Tell that bitch you don't need this many fucking jobs next year.”
“They will not be in charge next year,” Ryosuke grumbled. “I feel like I've been hit by a bus. And I need to ice my wrist.”
The words had barely left his lips before Sasha was in the kitchen, rifling through the myriad ice packs he kept stocked in the freezer. Once he'd settled on one suitably soft and reasonably sized, he wrapped it in a tea towel and hurried back to the living room.
“Thanks,” Ryosuke sighed. He wrapped it gingerly around his wrist, the little line down his forehead softening as the throbbing heat retreated. “Sorry I'm not up for much tonight - but we have the whole of Boxing Day to ourselves, I made sure.”
“Good,” Sasha huffed, feeling rather possessive now that he finally had his boyfriend back. “Take your medicine and get comfy,” he ordered, picking their current book up off the coffee table. “I want to read. We've been stuck on this chapter for a month.”
“Sorry,” Ryosuke repeated, snuggling into Sasha's chest. “It's just been…a time. Don't be mad if I doze off.”
“Whatever you need,” Sasha shrugged, looping an arm around him and flicking through to find their page. “That's okay.”
He was still a little annoyed when Ryosuke drifted back to sleep around the three page mark, but more with the situation than his actual partner. Folding over the corner of the page, he hefted Ryosuke into his arms, scooping against his chest as he stood up. The motion roused Ryosuke, but only slightly, and his eyelids fluttered in Sasha's direction, a bleary groan questioning why he had been moved.
“Time for bed,” Sasha said matter-of-factly, making effortless work of the stairs despite the borderline dead weight of Ryosuke in his arms.
“‘mkay,” Ryosuke nodded, head lolling against Sasha's shoulder as sleep dragged him under once more.
He seemed so exhausted that Sasha was loath to wake him to change, opting instead to strip him down to his boxers and tuck him in. Moving silently, he left a glass of water and the packet of pills on the bedside table, before creeping back downstairs to start on their laundry.
Though he knew Ryosuke needed the rest, Sasha found himself unreasonably lonely as he took care of the last chores downstairs. Sure, Ryosuke had been gone almost constantly the last few weeks, but something about having him in the apartment, so close and yet unattainable, was so much worse. As he hung the last of their clothes on the heated rack, he made his mind up. Grabbing himself a glass of water, he padded up the stairs to change. He might as well while away some time reading in bed - at least there he could keep an eye on his partner.
Sasha hadn't intended to stay up so late. He had started a new novel, not wanting to continue the one he was reading with Ryosuke alone. Caught up in the mystery, time had vanished from his mind, and it was only when he closed the flimsy paperback that he saw the time on the bedside clock.
12:17 AM
Fuck. When had he sat down to read? It must have been ages ago, as he remembered the last dregs of light creeping away from his massive picture windows. He knew he ought to lie down, but in truth, his mind was racing, eager for another story. He couldn't imagine sleeping, much less sleeping well. Maybe another, just as a treat. Tomorrow was the one day of the year he didn't need to train, after all.
The numbers on the clock rushed perilously into the wee hours as Sasha allowed himself to be absorbed in another book. Having somewhere else, someone else, some other problems to think about besides his own brought such a blissful relief that he didn't even consider the time, still fully absorbed in his story when Ryosuke shifted beside him. He glanced down, noticing the miserable twist of Ryosuke's mouth and the furrow in his brow. He wished he could do more to help, but surely this was the kind of thing it was best to sleep off.
Resting one hand idly in Ryosuke’s messy hair, Sasha once again disappeared into his paperback escape. He was thoroughly engrossed in the story by the time Ryosuke properly stirred, groaning and pawing at Sasha's thigh.
“Hey,” he murmured, stroking his fingers through the sweaty strands. “What's -”
“S’sha,” Ryosuke groaned, shuddering as cold lanced down his spine. “I don't feel so good…”
“I can get water. Or make tea. Just give me a-”
“Don't,” Ryosuke mumbled, cutting him off and burying his face in Sasha's thigh. “Feel sick.”
“Oh…”
Sasha frowned, cupping the back of Ryosuke’s head gently with one hand. Despite the medicine he'd taken earlier, the fever had only gone up - Sasha could feel the heat of it rolling off the back of his neck. He knew he ought to go get a basin, but he was loath to let go when Ryosuke seemed so frail.
“Sasha,” Ryosuke groaned again, just as lethargic yet twice as urgent. “...think ‘m gonna…”
His shoulders rolled and he gagged air against Sasha's leg. Sasha swore, Russian profanity lingering in the air as he scrambled out of bed. “Just a second,” he begged, “I'll get the bin.”
Ryosuke nodded, swallowing thickly and clamping a hand over his mouth as he flopped down onto the mattress. The air seemed to wobble with heat, and he forced himself to breathe as Sasha dashed down the steps into the kitchen. Cool discomfort was crawling up the back of his neck by the time Sasha made it back, and he'd dragged himself to hover over the edge of the bed. He couldn't swallow back the hot, bitter spit under his tongue any longer, simply drooling onto the rug with his eyes tightly closed.
Sasha's hand on his shoulder was all the permission his body seemed to need, and Ryosuke heaved, vision blurring until he could barely make out the bin Sasha had set beneath him. He felt Sasha's fingers, cool on the back of his neck, and moaned softly through the next wave.
“Jesus,” Sasha muttered, wrinkling his nose as sour vomit splattered the bin. “Go on, then, get it up.”
Ryosuke groaned, swiping a clumsy hand across his mouth and rolling heavily back onto the mattress.
“God, my head,” he whined, squeezing his temples with long, trembling fingers. “Oh, I feel like death.”
Sasha sighed, glancing down the stairs towards the faint glow of the Christmas tree Ryosuke had demanded be set up. What a way to spend the holiday. “Anything I can do?”
“Can you take that away?”
Ryosuke waved his free hand limply towards the bin. Sasha watched his face as his throat worked silently, trying to work out if he was actually done being sick.
“I'll get you some tea while I'm downstairs,” he said eventually, stroking Ryosuke’s hair back in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “To help settle your stomach.”
Ryosuke was out cold by the time he got back. He didn't wake again to vomit, but slept restlessly until the morning. As his fever climbed, he alternated between clinging weakly to Sasha's steady warmth and kicking off all of the covers as he sweated out the water and tea Sasha had coaxed into him before bed.
Sasha dozed during the lulls, but every time Ryosuke began to flail, his eyes popped open, worry weighing heavy in his chest. He felt useless, stroking Ryosuke's hair when he snuggled close and running for a cool cloth when the blankets were thrown aside. He guessed it was a small mercy that at least Ryosuke was managing to sleep.
He called Oliver as early as he thought was reasonable on Christmas Day.
“He's sick,” he said shortly, when Ollie answered with a yawn. “I'm keeping him here. You'll make his apologies to the family?”
After a moment of groggy groaning, Oliver finally seemed to register. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Of course. If people ask where he is, he's…?”
“At home. Sick. Not taking visitors.”
“Mom will want him to come be miserable with us instead,” Oliver warned him. “We're serious about Christmas in this family. And she’s been a little nuts since Daichi’s accident. He came home yesterday, she wants everything perfect.”
“Well he can't,” Sasha snapped. “His fever's through the roof. He needs to be on bed rest, not making small talk with all your million other cousins.”
“Sure,” Oliver agreed amenably. “So I'll tell her he's staying with a friend. Just so she doesn't think he's all alone in that glorified refrigerator box he calls an apartment.”
“Whatever you need to do,” Sasha replied. “Just keep my name out of it.”
And then he hung up.
To Sasha's deep irritation, he only got the morning in peace before an unexpected knock at the door had him rolling out of bed and grabbing the gun from his nightstand. Ryosuke had been nestled into his side, and when his heated body pillow leapt up, he groaned, sitting up slowly on his elbows.
“Stay here,” Sasha said, voice low. “Don't make a sound.”
Ryosuke blinked, still drowsy but wise enough to shut his mouth and hold still. He watched through sleep-blurred eyes as Sasha crept down the stairs with catlike stealth, socked feet silent against the floor as he pressed his eye to the peephole. Letting out a deep, exasperated sigh, he lowered the pistol to his side and began undoing the multitude of locks.
“It's your fucking cousins,” he growled, tucking the pistol into his waistband once he'd opened the door and confirmed they hadn't been tailed. Narrowing his eyes down at Oliver, he repeated his words from earlier. “Not. Taking. Visitors.”
“He'll see us,” Oliver shrugged, pushing carelessly past Sasha into the penthouse apartment. “Good God, you've been holding out on us. I can't believe you never host D&D, man. Why are we crammed into my place when yours is like…palatial?”
“Privacy. Where did you even get my address?” Sasha demanded, crossing his arms.
“Ryo sent it a while back,” Shiro answered, following his brother inside, “when he sent a selfie from your sexy balcony and we asked where he was. I believe he called it ‘flexing on us haters’.”
“Speaking of haters,” Oliver continued, “who left a stocking stabbed into your door with a knife?”
“Left a -?”
Sasha broke off with a growl, stomping out to look. Sure enough, a sparkly stocking with his name, Aleksandr, embroidered across it in sequins had been nailed to the door with an enamel hilted stiletto. He didn't have to take it down to know who had left it. Valentina was back in Moscow for the holidays, and if she had arranged a gift for him, it would have been to Sasha. Vlad certainly had the sense of humor to do this, but he would've sent a much larger, much stupider gift. Sasha suddenly felt a wave of dread as he wondered what might be coming his way in a week or two, closer to the time of a traditional Russian Christmas. Shuddering briefly, he pushed the thought from his mind, snatching Irina’s gift down from the door and stomping back into the flat.
Having heard the arrival of his cousins, Ryosuke slowly, reluctantly crawled out of bed, putting on his own robe followed by Sasha’s robe for an extra layer of warmth. He knew he probably looked a state as he stepped into his slippers and shambled down the stairs, but he flashed Oliver and Shiro a wan smile.
“You guys really didn't have to come over here. I'm probably contagious,” he said ruefully.
Oliver shrugged. “I'm off till the spring semester starts.”
“Besides, we couldn't let you spend Christmas alone with Mister Grinch,” Shiro added, tipping his head towards Sasha, who had sat down in an armchair to scowl at the contents of his stocking, including a handwritten note in neat Russian cursive.
Dear Aleksandr,
Have a smoke, have a drink, get the stick out of your ass.
Stop being a miserable bastard for five minutes and enjoy your Christmas.
You can keep the knife. I'm sure it is nicer than whatever you threw at me last time.
“I am not the Grinch,” Sasha grumbled, stuffing the stocking under the seat. “I am just Russian.”
Cheers,
Irina
“Oh, boo,” Shiro scoffed. “Valentina has been talking about her Christmas plans since Thanksgiving. It's the most I've ever seen her smile.”
Sasha only grumbled in response, taking the bottle of vodka that Irina had stuffed in his stocking over to the bar. He took an unnecessarily circuitous route, staying as far away from Momo as possible. Arriving at the bar, he lingered for a moment, staring at the label and considering having a drink. It was nice, almost nice enough to make up for the other gift Irina had included - a pack of the same expensive cigars Boris always smoked. Just the faint smell through the package had triggered his fight or flight, and between the cigars and the dog, it was taking all of his self control to remain remotely civil with his uninvited guests.
“Do you want a drink?” He asked, sounding impressively inhospitable despite his words.
“You should take a nap, love,” Ryosuke said gently. “I know you won't have slept, and the boys can get me things if I need them.”
“You think I can sleep when there's people in my house?” Sasha asked, his gaze locked on the dog laying peacefully at Shiro's feet.
“Then just go stare at the ceiling if you want. You're clearly exhausted and in a mood about it.”
“I'm in a mood because I have uninvited guests,” Sasha grumbled, taking the bottle Irina had given him and stalking up the stairs.
“Don't drink the whole thing,” Ryosuke called weakly. “It’ll ruin your sleep tonight. Honestly,” he turned to his cousins and rolled his eyes so hard his head hurt, “it's like living with a toddler sometimes.”
“I'll live with a toddler if the toddler's in a penthouse.” Oliver laughed. “Come on, sit down. You look ready to keel over.”
“Have you eaten yet today?” Shiro asked, Momo mirroring his movement as he cocked his head to peer worriedly at his cousin.
“I'm not hungry,” Ryosuke shrugged, folding himself down onto the sofa. “You know what they say, feed a cold and starve a fever.”
“Can I at least make you some tea?” Shiro asked. When Ryosuke nodded, he hopped up right away. “Momo, keep an eye on Ryo,” he ordered, smiling when the dog hopped up onto the couch, stretching her lanky body out beside Ryosuke. Ryosuke slung an arm over her, relishing the heat he'd missed since Sasha had rolled out of bed.
“If you look in the freezer,” he called, “there should be an ice pack. For my wrist.”
“Is it bad again?” Ollie frowned, pausing from taking wrapped presents out of his backpack. “Have you been to a doctor?”
“They'll just say to rest it,” Ryosuke murmured wearily. “What's the point?”
“They might give you drugs,” Shiro chirped. “Maybe even the good drugs.” He turned on the kettle before going to rifle through the freezer, letting out a low whistle at the massive stainless steel apparatus before him. “God, everything here is so nice. I knew Valentina’s dad was loaded, but I didn't know he was loaded loaded.”
“Have you seen how Valentina dresses?” Oliver scoffed. “That ice rink is like fashion week, every week.”
“Yeah, but she's the favorite.” Shiro shrugged, grabbing the ice pack from the freezer. “I figured she was the one daddy spent all his money on.”
“Sasha does have a salary,” Ryosuke interjected. “His dad gave him some fancy title in their US operations. But yeah, their dad is like…oligarch rich.”
“And you never host us for D&D?” Oliver cried, looking indignantly up towards the loft.
“I bring dinner. Accept it or fuck off.” Sasha called back.
Panic flashed in Oliver's eyes as he remembered the cheap pizzas the party had shared before Sasha joined the group. “No, no, it's fine, you're fine, please don't stop bringing dinner.”
“He likes cooking,” Ryosuke reassured him, blinking up with heavily lidded eyes. “He's emotionally stunted, but it's how he shows love.”
“Did you send me up here just so you could gossip about me?”
Sasha's face, pale and drawn, appeared over the railing of the mezzanine. He had their duvet tucked, cape-like, around his shoulders as he pouted down at them like a toddler. Shiro giggled, turning away from him to whisper to the others, “Valentina makes the exact same face.”
A pillow whizzed down from the mezzanine and thunked Shiro in the back of the head.
“Not his head,” Ryosuke groaned, waving his middle finger vaguely in Sasha's direction. “Or I'll send the dog up to snuggle you.”
“Don't you dare,” Sasha growled, though the threat was lost when his voice cracked at the end.
“I'm fine, Ryo,” Shiro assured him. “It's a pillow, not a brick.”
“He knows better,” Ryosuke sniffed. “Sasha, go and lie down. Don't get back up until you're not in such a foul mood. You might hate Christmas, but I like that my family want to see me. And give me presents.”
Sasha went quiet for a moment. What was it like, he wondered, having family who wanted to see you? Even Valentina, for all her affection towards him, hadn't fought back too hard when he said he was staying in America to train for the holidays. It was only when Ryosuke spoke up again that his mind returned to the present.
“Sasha,” his voice was gentler this time. “Go lie down.”
“Yeah,” Sasha mumbled, turning away and climbing back into the bed. At this point, he'd been around Momo enough to not panic, but it was still nerve-wracking to know there was a dog in his domicile, outside his line of sight. It was bad enough to have people in his home. There was no way he could sleep. He grabbed the vodka from the nightstand and took a long drink.
Downstairs, Ryosuke was basking in the attention of his cousins. He still felt grotty - achy and cold and mildly sick - but that didn't stifle the warm glow that he felt knowing they'd come just to see him when they could have lazed around at home. They certainly didn't have to bring gifts, but of course they had anyway, with Oliver having collected his favorite Japanese snacks while Shiro had found a jacket with stunningly detailed dragon embroidery in a colorway that mirrored his tattoos.
“You guys are so nice,” Ryosuke sighed, “I feel like a dick. I've been so busy, I don't have anything for you.”
“You never do,” Shiro shrugged. “But you always do birthdays and they're harder to remember.”
Ryosuke smiled weakly. “It’s the least I can do. Can I offer you guys anything? You know I can't cook, but Sasha made dinner last night. There should be plenty left in the fridge.”
“Naw, you know Mom cooks a feast,” Shiro grinned. “I ate so much at lunch…I probably could just live off that for a week. Like a snake.”
“I could eat…,” Oliver murmured, looking sideways at the fridge. He truthfully wasn't hungry either but wondered what delicacies Sasha had hidden away in there. The food he brought to D&D was always exquisite. Swinging his legs off the couch, he hurried over to nose around. He stopped, blinking incredulously at the contents of the fridge. “Is that a whole roast duck?”
“Uh…” Ryosuke racked his brain, a sudden weight sinking in his chest. “Yeah, he cooked for me yesterday but I was already feeling kind of shitty…”
“I'm sure he understands,” Shiro said hastily, clocking the mood shift that Oliver had inadvertently brought about.
“Yeah,” Ryosuke sighed. “But it's a shame isn't it. He probably made plum sauce and everything.”
“Is that what this is?” Oliver mused, picking up a Tupperware of suspicious goo next to the meticulously saran-wrapped duck. “I've never had plum sauce before.”
“Plum is in sweet and sour sauce. You just didn't know you'd had it.” Shiro said.
Realization dawned on Oliver's face. “Oh. That sounds really good.”
“Eat whatever you want,” Sasha called, his voice rumbling down from the mezzanine to make Oliver jump. “Can't promise it will reheat well.”
Frowning across at Ryosuke, Oliver mouthed, “He's like a bat!”
Ryosuke snickered. “Just grab whatever you want, it'd be nice for someone to enjoy all that hard work.”
Oliver shrugged, hauling the massive roasting pan and its accompanying tupperwares of side dishes out of the fridge. He still wasn't truly hungry, but his curiosity far outweighed his lack of appetite. Now that everything was laid out on the counter, he came to a new conundrum - not knowing where any of the dishes or silverware were.
Seeing the vacant look on his brother's face, Shiro scoffed and got up from where he'd settled in the living room, pushing past Oliver to search through cabinets and drawers. “You just have to look around. Honestly, how are you the one with a PhD?”
“Because philosophy isn't a real subject,” Ryosuke called from the living room, cackling at Oliver's indignant pout.
“Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean it's not real,” he complained. “I'm just book smart, not street smart.”
“I wouldn't say navigating a kitchen is street smarts,” Shiro countered, “more basic adult functionality.” Having found where Sasha kept the forks, knives, and plates, he set out everything Oliver would need. “Here, cut what you want and then… I guess microwave it?”
“Air fryer,” came Sasha's raspy voice from up the stairs. “Two hundred Celsius. Check after five minutes. Give five more if middle is cold.”
“Thank you!” Shiro called.
“Bat,” Oliver mouthed, gesturing dramatically while Ryosuke rolled his eyes.
“He's particular about his food,” Ryosuke told him. “It would be a shame if you wrecked it.”
“That's totally fair,” Shiro said, “he clearly worked hard on it.”
“Y’know what's not fair?” Oliver sulked, still staring at his cousin. “How'd you find somebody who's rich and cooks?”
Ryosuke smirked. His head was beginning to throb from exertion - exertion, he scoffed internally, all he was doing was lying on the sofa - and he sipped his tea before he finally replied.
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What the fuck do you mean he’s puking blood?
Harrison tapped his phone against his bouncing knee, scowling down at the screen and willing Oliver to start typing. The kids had gone down easily, and now it was just him and a quiet house and nothing to distract him. After a minute that felt like an hour, he tried again.
Ollie, fucking call me I mean it
Busy, talk later came the short reply. Harrison scowled at his screen, swallowing an angry shout that surely would've woken his children. Instead, he heaved himself up out of his seat, pacing the room as he waited for an update. Out of all of his brothers, Harrison had always been the worst at waiting. In hockey, he'd never been as good as Daichi at waiting for an opportunity, always trying to force the play when it wasn't on. He'd had little patience for reading, skipping to the ends of books to find out what happened faster. Hell, he'd missed out on college because he couldn't wait for Shelley to get on birth control.
As he circled the room like a furious caged animal, Harrison found himself unreasonably angry that his children needed to be watched. That his wife wasn't there to watch them. That he had put himself into such a miserable position through years of stupid fucking decisions, and now he couldn't be there when his brother and best friend needed him most. Daichi was always there for him. Daichi had been the first person Harrison had told about Shelley being pregnant. He'd talked him down when he got cold feet the night before the wedding. When their marriage had last been on the rocks, Daichi had wordlessly handed him a voucher for a romantic getaway and then taken the kids while they were away for the weekend. And now he was what, bleeding internally? And Harrison was just sitting at home twiddling his thumbs.
He felt bad for the thoughts almost immediately. Whatever difficulties they had, he did still truly care for Shelley, and even if they hadn't been entirely on purpose, he loved his children more than anything. God, what an asshole he was. Getting so wrapped up in his own frustrations that he was blaming everyone around him. He just wished he didn't feel so powerless. If there was anything, even the most menial task, that he could do to help Daichi, it would've eased his guilt immensely.
He slumped back down on the sofa with a heavy sigh. If it was really bad, he reasoned, Oliver would call him, right?
Right?
***
Ellen, clearly a trainee nurse from her uncertainty and the colour of her scrubs, led Oliver to a small, seated area. He couldn't sit for long though, too much pent up fear coursing through his veins for him to stay in one place. Even when she told him that this could happen after jaw surgery and was usually fine, his doubts weren't assuaged, but he shot off a text to his brothers anyway.
Nurse thinks probably fine?
Was she right, though? His mind drifted through old history classes, centuries and millennia of people not understanding what was wrong or how to treat it. He imagined some mad medieval doctor offering to bleed Daichi, rambling about unbalanced humours. A filthy herbalist shoving a foul mixture of plants at the problem. So-called scientists providing tinctures of opium or mercury. Who was to say that today's doctors were that much better?
He was broken from his reverie when the older nurse came marching back with news. He didn't understand any of it - stupid, useless philosophy degree - but he did understand that he could go back in and sit with his brother.
“The doctor will be along shortly,” she said, not unkindly. “Try not to worry too much, or your brother may become distressed.”
Oliver muttered an insincere thanks, unable to keep from sulking as he hurried back to Daichi's room. He did school his face into a more neutral expression before stepping inside - Daichi didn't need the stress of seeing that he was angry.
“Ollie…”
At the sound of his name, he hurried to the side of the bed. Perching on the edge of the mattress, he squeezed Daichi's shoulder with a smile.
“I'm here, bud, you're good.”
“‘sssssooooo f’cked up,” Daichi groaned, his brow scrunching up in discomfort. “Wanna go home.”
Oliver reached out, wrapping an arm as gently as he could around Daichi. He remembered for a moment back when he had been bigger than Daichi, when his kid brother had come to him in moments of worry, before a big game or a major exam. He wished he could offer the same kind of comfort he had then.
“Home,” Daichi begged, tucking himself as neatly as possible against Oliver's body. “Don't…”
He broke off with a lost little sob. Oliver fought the urge to crumple atop him, instead stroking Daichi's hair as gently as he could. “Hey. Hey, it's gonna be okay. I've got you. You'll be okay.”
“‘s Mom?” Daichi asked, leaning into Oliver's touch.
“She'll be here as soon as she can,” Oliver promised, praying that his parents’ flight had departed on time. “Probably next time you wake up, even.”
“Stay here. Leas’ til mom gets here?” Daichi begged.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
***
Anxiety sat like a rock in Shiro's gut, and he tried to swallow the knot in his throat. He watched as the three dots rippled, rippled, rippled… and disappeared. His stomach lurched.
Maya sighed. “Call him before you puke. Stop looking at your phone.”
Shiro nodded meekly, pulling up Oliver's number and looking for the right button. Even that was enough to peak his nausea, and he knew he needed to turn the screen off as soon as Oliver picked up.
“What's going on?” He asked, all too aware of how high and whiny his voice had become. “Is he alright? Are they doing anything about it?”
“Woah, woah,” Oliver said. His tone was calming, but there was a tight edge of worry running underneath. “Take a breath, kid. He's totally stable right now, alright? There's no emergency, it's just kinda…gross. I'd let you talk to him, but…just one minute.”
There was a clatter, then the muted noises of Oliver and Daichi talking, then soft, miserable gagging. Shiro grimaced, a pallor taking over his own face. Maya didn't miss the way he gulped, and she hollered over her shoulder towards the speakerphone. “We're gonna call back later, Ollie. This one needs to take a break.”
“No, I…”
Shiro protested weakly but he handed over the phone when she reached back for it.
“Do you need me to find somewhere to stop?”
“Uhhh…” Shiro hesitated, wanting to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. Momo, on the other hand, seemed deeply unhappy, whining and nosing his side.
“I'll stop at the next gas station,” she decided, not bothering to wait for him to make up his mind. “You can get some air, I'll grab you a 7up. I need a coffee anyway.”
“Okay,” Shiro sighed, running a trembling hand through Momo's fur. “We have to hurry, though.”
“We have to be safe,” Maya replied, shrugging apologetically. “It's no help to anyone if I fall asleep behind the wheel and you puke your brains out.”
Shiro took a shaky breath, struggling to worry about himself when his mind was still on his brothers. The flurry of texts, the sounds on the phone, the lingering visual of Daichi slamming into the ice. He swallowed tightly, murmuring, “Ollie said he was throwing up blood.”
“That's scary,” she nodded, scanning the road signs for options. “But he's in a hospital right now, which is the safest place he could be.”
“I hate not being there yet,” Shiro mumbled. “I feel like the second I stop paying attention, something awful will happen.”
“Well, right now, that something is about to be you throwing up, so hang on until I find us a rest stop,” Maya said.
“Mmhmm…”
Shiro huddled back in his seat, hugging his arms around his middle. He really was starting to feel awful, his mouth hot and wet and numb as he swallowed back the nausea. He squeezed his eyes shut, shivering slightly as Momo's cold, wet nose brushed against his neck. She climbed onto his lap, lying across him like a weighted blanket, and he tried to focus on her warm steadiness instead of the whirlpool churning in his stomach. He felt no better when Maya pulled into the next stop, stumbling out of the car to slump miserably on the nearest bench.
Climbing onto the bench beside him, Momo pressed her body against Shiro, her fur blissfully warm against the chilly night air. Even her solid presence beside him seemed to wobble, leaving Shiro hunched over until his fringe was brushing his knees. His insides tilted and whirled like a cheap carnival ride, reckless and rapid and vaguely perilous. His stomach tensed, and he pursed his lips together in a tight line, forcing a slow, deep breath in and out his nose. He considered asking Maya how much longer they had to drive. He realized he didn't want to know.
Maya came back with a Sprite and a bag of chips and a packet of blue plastic sick bags. Shiro felt too rotten to be embarrassed. It wasn't like she'd never seen him puke before. Shaking like a baby deer, he made his way back to the car and crawled into the backseat. Momo climbed up beside him, nestling into the crook of his body. Still trembling, Shiro looped his arms around her neck with a queasy groan.
“I'll put the music on again,” Maya said quietly. “The Sprite is in your cupholder, okay? I cracked the seal so it shouldn't be too fizzy.”
“...kay,” Shiro mumbled, burying his face in Momo's soft fur. As Maya was just readying to take off, he spoke up again. “Wait… can you check my phone?”
“Yeah, I'll keep it in the front, okay?”
Shiro frowned, but he knew Maya was right. He sighed, finally giving a reluctant, “Okay.”
“Cool. I'll tell you if there's any update.”
It was even harder to focus on the road as they got further into the boonies. The less commonly traveled stretch of highway hadn't been re-paved in years, and the road curved with the land it traversed rather than cutting straight through. Every bump and turn elicited a whimpering groan from Shiro, bag clutched tight in his clammy hands as he struggled to swallow the foul taste rising in his throat. He kept thinking about Daichi, about the miserable sounds of him being sick through the phone. How, even at that distance, he had been about to hear how much pain his brother was in. How he should have been there.
It started as a sob. Shiro's chest tightened, and suddenly, his stomach lurched. A miserable cry trailed off into a choking heave, liquid crinkling against the plastic bag as he continued to retch. The plastic became full and warm and heavy, all his post-comp rehydration spilling out of him like water from a weir.
Maya cringed, glancing back at him over her shoulder. Momo met her gaze, sharing a knowing, worried look. “Try to breathe,” Maya murmured. “Say the word if you want me to stop.”
“S’okay,” Shiro croaked, burying his face in his arm as he struggled to control his breathing. “Next gas station maybe, so we can throw this out.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Maya agreed. “I'll keep an eye out.”
Shiro grunted in a way that sounded vaguely like thanks, fingers clutching at the fabric of the car seat as a tidal wave of vertigo slammed into him. Momo crooned softly beside him, pressing against his body to keep him steady. He thought about Daichi. He wished he were there already.
***
When Daichi woke up, he wasn't much in the mood for visitors. Even with medication, he had an absolutely pounding headache, and the barely-useful pain meds were making him vaguely nauseous. He couldn't even try to force a smile when he saw Shiro, only giving a feeble wave. Their parents had arrived by then as well, which should have been comforting, but he just felt stifled and self-conscious. It definitely didn't help that, only minutes after he woke, his girlfriend showed up.
“I can't believe I had to call your mother to find out you were in the hospital,” Brynnlee pouted, flashing the rest of his family an accusatory glare. “Why didn't you send me a message?”
“I wasn't really up to texting, Brynn,” he muttered.
“Well someone should have,” she insisted, letting her lower lip tremble as her voice wavered. “I watched the match, baby, I was so scared.”
“We all were,” Oliver said, not hostile but very stern. “Once things settled down, I was going to let you know. It was a rough night.”
“I ...okay,” Brynnlee conceded, perching on the mattress by Daichi's head. “Sorry. What did the doctors say?” She turned her attention to her boyfriend, wincing a little at the mottled, swollen sight of him. “How are you feeling, baby? Your mom said something about surgery? When are they letting you out?”
“I’unno yet,” Daichi sighed, even that simple movement making his face ache. “I barely know what's goin’ on. Woke up feelin’ like I got hit by a bus.”
Her face tensed. “Should I get a nurse? Do you need more medication? Are you still gonna be my date to that New Years Gala?”
Daichi blinked, clearly overwhelmed, while Shiro and Oliver shared a dubious glance. Groaning softly, Daichi rested a hand gingerly against his temple. “Uhhh… when is it?”
“New Year's Eve, dummy,” she giggled, stroking his hair and seeming to forget all her other, unanswered questions.
“That's just over a week, bud,” Oliver said gently. “You might be out of here by then, but you probably still won't be feeling good.”
“A week?” Daichi's face crinkled in confusion. “Of course I'll be fine in a week.”
Now the whole Jansen family exchanged glances of alarm. Daichi's brow furrowed further despite how it hurt.
“What? Why are you guys looking at me like that?”
“Dude…” Oliver looked up at his parents in a silent plea for help.
“It's going to take a bit longer than that to heal, sweetheart,” their mother said gently, patting Diachi’s leg. “The bruising won't even be gone by then.”
Brynnlee’s nose wrinkled. “Oh, yeah. You can't be my date, then. I need to figure out who's taking me.”
“Fucking hell,” Oliver groaned. “Kick a man while he's down, why don't you? Don't you want to spend New Year's Eve with your boyfriend?”
“Well, yes but…” She blinked, as if the thought hadn't even occurred to her. “I already bought a dress. You wouldn't want me to miss out, would you baby?”
What Daichi wanted was for everyone to stop talking. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as the pounding in his head intensified.
“Baby, I'm asking a question. Do you want me to miss a party where I already bought a pretty dress?”
“You should go,” he murmured, squeezing her hand. Anything to stop her talking. “Send me photos. Bet you'll look hot.”
“Of course I will,” she said, smiling broadly. “Hm… do you think I could borrow your brother for the party? Not these two, the handsome one.”
Shiro snorted.
“If you wanna fight his wife for him,” he said, giving her an incredulous look. “I wouldn't risk it.”
“I'm not trying to steal him,” Brynnlee huffed. “I just need arm candy for the night.”
“And so you chose the only married lbrother?” Oliver asked drily.
“I chose the only hot brother,” Brynnlee corrected, rolling her eyes. “Shiro is too young, and you are too….skinny.”
“Babe, be nice,” Daichi mumbled, “Ollie is nerdy hot. It's different.”
“Aaand that's the painkillers talking,” Shiro laughed, only to quickly add, “Not that you're not hot! Just that he wouldn't usually…”
“I know what you meant,” Oliver smirked. He squeezed Daichi's hand again, waiting for his brother to turn and look at him. “Is there anything I can get you? Water or something? You don't look comfortable."
Daichi nodded meekly, but when he looked at Oliver, his lips parted and his stare went blank. Whatever he had wanted had slipped from his mind like water through a sieve, a mixture of loss, alarm, and confusion shining in his eyes. “...I don't know.”
“That's alright,” Oliver nodded. “You want me to list some stuff? Or just tell me when it comes back to you.”
“Uh… you. You please.” Daichi stammered, still fighting his own brain to put words together.
“Okay,” Oliver said patiently. “I could get you water? A blanket? More pillows? I could go get your suitcase so you can have real pajamas.”
Daichi blinked desperately up at him, but none of the words jogged his memory at all. He knew that he wanted something - he felt far too awful not to do anything about the situation. “I don't know,” he repeated, panic rising in his voice.
“Well, figure it out,” Brynnlee told him. “He's trying to help you.”
It was at this point that Mrs. Jansen stepped in, barely a foot away from Brynnlee as she planted her hands firmly on her hips. “That's enough,” she said, her voice more severe than Oliver and Shiro had heard in years. “Daichi is still very hurt, and being interrogated isn't helping him recover.”
“Sorry Mom,” Oliver nodded, visibly chastened. “You just tell me when you're ready, okay bud? No need to play twenty questions.”
“Okay,” Daichi nodded, but stress still shone bright in his eyes. His vision was fuzzy, wobbling in and out of duplicity, and he wondered how much was his injury and how much might be a burgeoning headache. He blinked hard, trying to force his whole being back into focus. “Don't feel….good.”
“Try to rest, darling,” Mrs. Jansen murmured, ghosting a hand over his cheek. “We can leave you in peace. It's a lot to handle at once, you're probably overwhelmed.”
“Just wanna sleep,” he agreed.
His mother nodded, beginning to gather and shoo away the rest of their family. Brynnlee initially went to argue, but a sharp look from Mrs. Jansen was enough to shut her up and get her moving. Shiro was, though loathe to leave his brother, almost too exhausted to walk straight, giving his family tight hugs before turning to squeeze Daichi's hand. He was relieved to see Maya and Momo sitting in the nearest waiting room, and he knelt down to wrap his arms around the dog's neck, desperate for her warm, silent comfort.
“That bad?” Maya asked quietly.
Shiro only managed a tiny nod. If just seeing his brother like this was putting his family through the wringer, he couldn't imagine what poor Daichi must actually feel like. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
