The fever sticks around to Sunday, turning pale skin a faint pink and churning his stomach at the sight of glossy blue eyes, a striking contrast to the flush that seems to have stuck itself to the bridge of Satoru 's nose.

'You 're so lucky I like you, ' Suguru mumbles, the low words sheltered under his breath as Satoru lays pressed against him contorted onto his side, breathing through his mouth as he continues to radiate heat like an oven. His whole bed almost feels sticky with humidity, but he hasn 't bothered to change the sheets since before Friday night, when Satoru stumbled into his room like he was trapped in a dream.

He catches the garbled sounds of hazy syllables, the squinting of one blue eye over rounded shoulder scrutinizing him. 'I said you 're gross, ' Suguru lies, making a wane face in judgment, and only gets a sweaty head flopping back down on

his

pillow for it.

It 's certainly one way to spend his weekend, he thinks, not for the first time as he thumbs at the smooth paper of his book page, not actually reading any of the text printed on it. Shoko had said earlier in the morning that Satoru 's fine, that fevers can last for a few days, that she didn 't want to be involved in any unnecessary medical maladies unless somebody was dying.

'She 's such a prude, '

he thinks, not really meaning it as he uselessly flips a page,

'really missing out on all the sweaty blankets. '

Despite the fact that he could just leave Satoru to get better in his own room, he 's let him stay; has laid beside him for almost twenty hours in an uncomfortable amount of heat for August, when he could so easily get up and do other things, like his homework, or Pok 'mon.

'It 's not denial if I don 't think about it, '

he thinks, like a hypocrite, lying beside his best friend and as worried as he is enamored.

Against him, Satoru shuffles around again, scowling. He breathes out through his nose in a harsh noise when his legs get tangled in the rumpled sheets, kicking at it to get them off and only succeeding in making the thin throw blanket fall off his middle.

He makes a noise Suguru can only interpret as being too resigned to curse about it, rolling over to shiver into his shoulder instead of reaching for where it 's pooled on the floor. Silently, he sets his book on the windowsill, turning onto his side to mirror where Satoru lays with cold nose shoved into his collar, so he can drape an arm over his ribs, thread manicured fingers into the small hairs at the nape of his neck.

'Sorry, ' he murmurs, a repeated word in the past few hours since Satoru woke up at nine and stayed restless for the rest of the morning. 'I know it sucks. '

He gets a headshake for it, a quiet, ' 's fine, ' as the shivers set back in, and can 't help a frown. Watching Satoru substitutes for any response he could give when he 's already given all of them, eyes tracing down white lashes, scrunched nose, cherry kissed lips pressed into an unhappy line.

'...When was the last time you showered? ' He asks, breaking the peace as he lifts his head and pulls his hand away from Satoru 's dampened hair- oilier than he 's ever seen it get in the four months since school started, made worse from the fever and the sweat.

'What? ' He gets, though blue eyes don 't even bother to open alongside the muddled word.

'Washed? Bathed? ' Suguru snarks, raising an eyebrow, and makes an increasingly unenthused face the longer that Satoru has to think about it.

He shrugs eventually, mumbling a thin,

'dunno, '

into the pillow.

'How do you not reek, ' Suguru mutters, the words hidden under his breath, before he says a little more audibly, 'you might feel better if you did. Being clean is always nice. '

'...Imagine, ' Satoru croaks, a sardonic note to his voice that 's just dissonant enough to the sarcasm to be noticeable, something he brushes off because it isn 't nearly the most unsettling or nerve wracking sentence he 's heard from those lips in the past two days.

'Do you wanna take one? ' He asks, nose to nose with Satoru as he lays on his pillow and shivers out of his skin, waiting for long enough that those blue eyes open, finally. They roam foggily over his face for a long while, blinking slowly, as if it 's heavy carrying the weight bruising their undersides purple.

'...Yeah, ' Satoru eventually murmurs, and it should be beyond weird that the small word sounds hopeful, but suddenly having something useful for him to do beats laying in his twin sized bed unable to do anything at all.

'Okay, ' Suguru responds, before pushing himself up with an elbow, cracking his spine as he goes. He leaves his book on the windowsill, shuffling down to the end of his bed so he can slide off the edge of it where Satoru 's legs don 't touch- curled up to his stomach instead as he shakes with an artificial chill. 'Do you- uhm, ' he stumbles, shorts rumpled over his legs as he stands, fingertips skimming the side of the mattress Satoru lays on, slowly turning around to look up at him.

'I mean- are you- do you want help? ' He asks, wincing slightly at all the stuttering his cracking voice can 't seem to speak around. Even his own shirt feels sweaty, big and baggy and a faded old yellow, and all he 's been doing is laying next to Satoru.

He 's eyed for a moment, the flush on pale cheeks starker when he 's looking down at it in the light of his dorm room rather than across. 'Help? ' Satoru rasps, that confusion furrowing his brows, putting that odd look back on his face again.

'For me to- stay, ' Suguru explains, stilted. 'You look like you 'll just 'topple over ' ' He trails off, waiting for the snappish retort or waspish ire that, ordinarily, what would have been a ribbing insult would 've gotten him, only to sink into the silence between the spaces of words when none comes.

Satoru only stares at him for a nervous moment that has his cheeks staining as red as his own, face unreadable as whatever goes through his head runs along its path. Slowly, he nods, eyes falling shut again as his face scrunches in discomfort, arms raising to press closer to his chest.

'Weird, '

Suguru thinks, tugging gently on Satoru 's wrist to get him to sit upright,

'too weird. '

Satoru 's always barking about something. The quiet he 's been floating with since Thursday is just all too odd.

He watches a grimace mar fine features as he pulls Satoru up to his wobbly feet by his hands, shivers racking his body in just shorts and a shirt and standing in the chill of the air that must feel terribly cold compared to his elevated temperature. Maybe lightheadedness has something to be said for it when Satoru leans mostly on him for the stiff walk out of his room, having said he wasn 't hungry in the morning before ignoring the plate of sliced toast Suguru had left on the nightstand for him. He 'd even put ungodly amounts of raspberry jam on it to sweeten it, having thought the sugar alone might be enticing enough.

It still sits untouched in his room, hours later in the last of muggish, dreary afternoon as they stagger and stumble like drunks to the small dorm bathroom down the hall.

'Sticky, ' Satoru mumbles, as Suguru leads him past the door frame with hands around the backs of his elbows, eyes barely open as he rambles nonsense again. 'Why is it always sticky, hate sticky. '

'You 're about to be not sticky, ' he says back, just to fill the other half of the conversation he 's not really a part of, gently pushing Satoru down by his shoulders to sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

'Wha 's that like, ' Satoru asks, the words slurring slightly as his head tilts down, a long sigh leaving his nose as he hangs it over his legs.

'Whatever the opposite of sticky is, ' Suguru says, shrugging as he coaxes long arms into lifting up. 'Smooth maybe? '

'Wanna be smooth, ' Satoru repeats as Suguru drags the tacky shirt off his head, nose wrinkling at the feel of it as he chucks it into the corner of the small room, taking a step back to kick the door shut. 'I can be so smooth. Suave. I 'm cool. '

He has to close his eyes for a moment, lips pressed together so he doesn 't laugh. For all that it 's been one giant concern, when the rambling turns from less lucid and faraway to dreamy and jumbled, it 's sort of funny. It could be great teasing material if he didn 't feel so sympathetically bad about it.

'I thought you were hot, though? ' He nudges, trying to distract from the way his fingers seem to want to slip trying to grab the waistband of Satoru 's shorts. His heart 's pounding away a staccato behind his ribs- something he steadfastly ignores.

'No, ' Satoru argues, eyes still shut as he shivers, body as pliant as melted butter as Suguru undresses him, 'I 'm freeze. Mr. Freeze. '

'Like Batman? ' He asks, brows furrowing slightly in amusement at the English name, tugging thin fabric from limp feet.

'Dunno, ' Satoru mumbles, nails biting into his own pale skin as he wraps his arms around his bare torso, faintly shaking. 'Didn 't read it. ' Suguru lets him sit in his briefs for a moment, stepping the half of a foot to the side to turn the faucet on.

'...Would a bath be easier? '

He wonders, running the water over his hand as he debates plugging the drain. All the hassle that a shower gets him imagining has him shoving it in after a second of thinking. Satoru 's still an inch shorter than him, but he 's gangly- all long legs and thin frame. It 'd just be easier if he were sitting. He wouldn 't have to worry about him slipping if he wasn 't trying to stay on his wobbly feet.

He lets the clammy fingers curl into the back of his shirt, leans back slightly into the weight of a forehead being tucked into the small of his back, right where it curves. Something 's mumbled against his hip, lost to the fabric of his faded shirt, and he doesn 't ask Satoru to repeat it.

Instead, he watches the water rise, warmed and just shy of too hot. All three of them keep their products in the dorm bathroom, mostly for ease of convenience but also for storage space, since their rooms are so small. The big bathhouses the school has are much nicer, with better pipes and more room and no ugly colored bath mat, but they 're sort of a walk. It 's easier when they 're exhausted to just use the shower that 's down the hall instead of the bath in a separate building.

'I was just gonna use my shampoo, if that 's alright, ' he murmurs, the question left out of it as he leans forward to turn the faucet off, even as fingers pull at his shirt when he moves. He 'd have to be blind to miss the long, dragging inhales Satoru has sometimes taken of his pillows, the scent of his lavender soap ever clinging to them.

He doesn 't get a response, but then again, Suguru isn 't really expecting one. Faintly lucid eyes watching him when he turns around are something he is, and he meets them with a small, crooked thing of a smile as they fix on his face.

'...You 're nice, ' is what Satoru mumbles near his ear as he pulls him off of the toilet lid and back onto shivery legs with a stumble, clammy hands resting on the tops of his shoulders as he presses his lips together and leans down, dipping his fingers into elastic waistband.

'What, am I not usually? ' He snarks, the taunt lacking any teasing as he tugs off fabric and very pointedly looks at the wall instead of where long, pale legs step out of the last shred of modesty they had. His mouth feels dry.

'...I like it when you 're nice, ' Satoru says, the softened words barely audible against the rush of blood in his ears and the heat making his face feel like a glowing coal. He doesn 't make any move to brush off the palms settled over his shirt, tossing away the underwear into the same corner where all the rest of the discarded clothing was thrown, before looking up to meet blue.

'...Yeah, ' he breathes, struck by the easy, fearless thing Satoru gazes down at him with, not a hint of shame, or embarrassment, or uncomfortable snapping to be found on him where the fevered flush of his blood paints his face pink. There 's just contentedness, a simple trust. 'Don 't get used to it, ' he says, too rapidly to cover the wanting waver of his voice as he takes one listless hand and uses it to steer Satoru to the tub, not meaning the words at all.

'Uh huh, ' Satoru tones, the spacey quality to his hum the only thing that saves it from sarcasm, and Suguru rolls his eyes. He holds out his forearms to be clutched onto as Satoru steps over the lip of the tub, wobbly when stood on one foot with his center of balance shot.

If he was going to say anything else, the words die on his parted lips as soon as his toes break the water, eyes widening with an awareness that hasn 't really been there all day. Suguru watches his face slacken slightly, eyes tracking all over the water filled tub as his left foot joins the right- the sheer something that catches his expression into an unreadable wonder as slowly, he lowers into the heat of the bath.

Suguru goes to open his mouth, to ask,

'are you okay, '

or maybe just to say,

'Satoru? '

only to slowly close it again, watching over pale shoulder as two long fingered hands gingerly fall from where they clutch his own, slipping below the rippling water and splaying wide before they turn around. Twin palms cup together, raising a small oasis of liquid up into the air of the bathroom, blue eyes marveling down at how it all slowly trickles out between the creases of of his skin.

He has no explanation for it, has no words to explain why Satoru skims his fingertips along the surface of a bath full of water like he 's never felt it before, awestruck and wondering and maybe a little reverent.

'You 've heard the rumors of how clans treat their children, haven 't you? '

Echoes in his head, Shoko 's words from yesterday evening that he hadn 't wanted to be true. Over Satoru 's shoulder where he isn 't being seen, he inhales as quietly as he can, swallowing down the uncomfortable thing that crawls up his throat. Then, he breathes it out, and shoves all the thoughts away. He doesn 't need to be overthinking at the moment.

'You 're not cold? ' He asks, knelt by the side of the tub as he dips a few fingers into the bath to test that it 's acceptably hot, and sees Satoru shake his head in his peripherals before he looks up.

'No, ' he says, still watching the water as he makes it ripple by trailing the pad of a fingertip against the surface in squiggling, meaningless patterns. 'It 's warm. ' There 's a touch of disbelief to it, of surprise, that he carefully doesn 't think about.

Suguru nods, pushing off the side of the tub as he gets up, walking the few steps to the cabinets to rummage around inside for where he keeps his hair products and bodywash stored on the only side where towels aren 't folded, making a face when he opens the doors to see Shoko 's box of pads passive-aggressively set in front of the small shoebox labeled as his.

He listens to the faint sound of moving water as he stuffs them in the farthest corner away from the toilet as they can possibly go in retaliation, the war of cabinet space a never ending battlefront only Satoru is safe from, with all his things in the small basket that hangs on the cabinet door. A stray bottle catches his eye, decidedly pink and decidedly unfamiliar, and with something reminiscent of a spark of excitement, he wonders when and who got soap for a bubble bath.

When he turns around, arms laden with more than just his product bottles, he can 't help the stutter he feels his stupid heart skip with at the sight of Satoru; his head pillowed on his raised knees, one hand drawing never ending, never finishing images into the surface of the water. Something small and almost content presses little dimples into his cheeks, the flush of the fever still pink but not so out of place with the hot water, short white hair cascading down his forehead to brush along his nose.

He blinks a little furiously to kick his brain back into something functioning, kneeling on the ugly rug at the foot of the tub as he spaces out his hoard of cheap products, the towels set on the closed toilet and the spare washcloth draped over the tub 's lip.

He watches Satoru notice it, realizes the thought that goes through his head right before he moves, and still isn 't fast enough to open his mouth in protest before pinkened cheek is resting over the washcloth, nestled in the crook of pointy elbow.

'I was gonna let you use that, ' he says, just to state the obvious, and watches Satoru tick up a smile.

'I am using it, ' he refutes, a shine to his eyes that 's been dulled under a hazy sort of fog for the past few days, bright and something like the playfulness he 's gotten used to more than the glazed thing he 's been seeing.

'Smartass, ' Suguru mutters, the insult good natured, and fiddles with the top of his shampoo bottle with one aimless finger. 'Want me to wash your hair? ' He asks, a thread of nervousness in the question, even though it 's just Satoru, even though it 's just his best friend, even though it 's just the small fact that he thinks he might love him.

He watches him still slightly, the emotion on his face tempering as it falls blank, and for a crushing, anxiety filled second, he thinks he 's finally overstepped. The sound of the water sloshing against the tub is loud in his ears as Satoru turns around, hiding his face in the tops of his knees as he nods, silent again.

His inhale is a little rattled when he breathes it in, nervous slightly as he extends a palm out. Suguru watches those pale shoulders tense away from a flinch as he rests the underside of his hand against one sharply edged angel wing, carved by jutting blades of bone, the noise in his head loud even though he crowds it all at the back.

'I used to love it when my mom washed my hair, ' he admits, the old childhood memories of being small and happy a worn out warmth, maybe to fill the silence or maybe to soften the image of that blank look as it stains the backs of his eyes. 'I grew it long because everyone always said I looked just like her. '

'...What 's she like? ' Satoru asks, after a moment has passed by and he thinks all he 's going to keep is the silence. The words are little, hesitant, something he might almost call fearful if he wasn 't intent on ignoring the sobering, somber things that have leaked into Satoru, somehow.

'Confident, ' Suguru says, shrugging, red lipstick always curved into a smile when he thinks of her. 'She likes to garden. My dad says a lot that she may as well have grown me in one we 're so similar. '

He hears the tiny huff of an amused breath; exhaled into drawn up knees and quiet, sure, but there. '...She must be important to you, ' Satoru murmurs, and not for the first time, Suguru wonders what his own family must be like to have so much melancholy tied into his words.

'...Yeah, ' he agrees, through a melancholy of his own though one never quite as morose as Satoru 's, feeling wiry muscles shift slightly under his palm as he tenses, untenses, tenses again. 'Lean back, ' he says, moving his hand up to thin shoulder instead to coax Satoru down, and catches a flicker of blue studying his face in a fraction of a second, before they 're shutting closed as his head moves closer towards the water.

They stay shut as white hair fans out like a cloud below the surface, a long sigh leaving pretty nose as rosy lips part. It must feel nice, having gravity shooed away from tugging at fever aching limbs. Suguru lets him float for a moment, setting his chin on his crossed arms as he leans on the lip of the tub, eyes roaming over Satoru 's face and all his delicate features.

It 's almost a little funny how angelic he always looks. To every unsuspecting person, he 's pretty, refined, a face seen more in a fashion magazine than one out on the street. No one who sees him in passing would ever guess at what a huge, walking annoyance Satoru makes himself out to be on a day to day basis.

'Life really is unfair, '

he thinks, wryly amused.

'Hey, ' Suguru murmurs, reaching down to tap between two perfect white brows, 'don 't fall asleep. ' They scrunch in time with the slight face Satoru makes, annoyed with the idea of getting back up, apparently.

'Not, ' he mumbles, something unintelligible following after it fizzling out into inaudible noise. Suguru only rolls his eyes, reaching down again to pinch the sides of Satoru 's nose shut.

Amazingly, he lasts for a solid thirty seconds before blue is snapping open again and waterlogged head is raising, a glare turning his direction as he drops his hand, a cattish smile all he has to offer for the action. 'I can 't wash your hair if it 's underwater, genius, ' Suguru chides, slipping a palm behind Satoru 's neck to push him up again and ignoring the disgruntled look he gets for it.

'Should be, ' Satoru mutters, even as he curls around his knees, cheek cushioning on their tops as his eyelids droop. Suguru only hums noncommittally as he reaches down for a pump or two of his shampoo, the one he keeps buying because it smells nice and it 's inexpensive.

'Forgive this lowly one, my liege, ' he drawls, lathering bubbles into his palms, and doesn 't miss the uptick of a smile hidden behind wet arms. He shuffles closer on the ugly bath mat, leaning over the side on his knees to drag his hands up into Satoru 's hair from the base of his neck, looking more like silk on top of his head than anything else with how it almost seems a touch translucent, almost a hue of gray or blue when wet.

'Seriously, '

he thinks, scrubbing his fingers along Satoru 's scalp and watching him do something like melt where he sits, arms slackening down his long legs and spine curving in with how he collapses into himself,

'how is it white? '

There 's no way it 's dye, not when he 's seen curse blood be washed out of it after leaving a faint stain that had only lasted a day and a half. It 's stayed white for over four months, and unless Satoru has some magical toner that keeps it pigmentless for longer than a handful of weeks, it just naturally is.

He could look, he thinks, the thought making his hands pause. Just a glance down, and '

'No, '

he thinks, face flaming as he puffs metaphorical steam out of his ears, staring at the bathroom wall,

'no no no no, no way. '

'Hey, ' he starts, voice a touch reedy, toying with the question in his head because he doesn 't know if it 's technically a rude thing to ask or not, but it isn 't like they aren 't already at several crossed lines beyond a singular rude question at this point- some lines, anyway. Satoru makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, eyes shut and wilting like a ragdoll where he sits. Suguru scratches a little longer behind his ears, fingers gliding through soapy hair, amused at how it melts him further.

'Are you albino, or something? ' He asks, smoothing the suds down Satoru 's head so it 's not all in a curling mess, the heat slowly cooling from his cheeks. 'I 've never seen anyone else with white hair. '

He watches lidded eyes struggle to crack open, slumped shoulders moving slightly as a heavy head turns towards him only marginally. They blink, hazy and evidently relaxed, silent for a moment that he 's sure has more to do with just summoning the words than actually thinking of what to say.

'Yeah, ' Satoru mumbles after a few lazy seconds, eyes slipping shut again in obvious ease as Suguru experimentally winds his fingers back into fine hair, more docile than he 's ever seen him. ' 'S some fucked up gene strain, or s 'mthing, ' he explains, the words less enunciated than earlier. 'Not no pigment, but little 't none. '

'So blue eyes, instead of red? ' Suguru wonders, thinking of rabbits he 's seen, of how little he really knows about it other than that humans can have it too, white lashes that couldn 't be dyed if he tried. Satoru does something like nod, sighing out an exhale into his knees, beaded with water.

'Six Eyes, ' he says, the words low, tired. 'Lot of them have red eyes. '

There 's something about the phrasing,

'them '

instead of

'us, '

the pitch of the tone as he 'd said it.

'You 've heard the rumors of how clans treat their children, haven 't you? '

Lips pressed together, Suguru carefully shoves the thought away, over-focusing instead on how his hands contrast with Satoru 's skin as he drags them down his neck, over his shoulders. Sun tanned, compared to ivory.

'That 's cool, ' he offers, not really fishing for a full conversation so much as a sound to fill the space when Satoru looks ready to puddle down the drain of the bathtub. The only response he gets is Satoru sagging a little more under the light touch of his palms; running down the nape of his neck, over the taut lines of his shoulders, clearly doing something good.

It 's almost sort of amazing how quickly he 's shut up since Suguru tangled his fingers into soft hair, not that he 's been overly chatty since the fever started.

'Have you ever been touched like this? '

He wonders, keeping the thought tucked only to himself as he remembers Satoru turning his face away when he 'd asked, of how he 's liquified under his hands, of the faint relief he can almost feel under the tips of his fingers in laxened muscles.

'You 've heard the rumors, '

Shoko had said.

'Haven 't you? '

He has. He thinks he might be seeing them, too.

'Lean back, ' Suguru murmurs, after another long few minutes where they sit in a soft silence, filled with the little sounds of water faintly moving and the scrub of soap under his hands, drawn out just because he can make it. 'I 'm gonna wash it out. '

Satoru sighs, but he leans back without having to be pushed, sliding down under the water with little but a sound, eyes shut and long white lashes dampened where they rest on slackened face. Suguru follows him- shuffling down to the other end of the tub to reach his hair where it fans out below the water, clouding with soap and foam and bubbles that drift to the surface.

It reminds him a little of syrup, the way Satoru seems to meld out into the water, like he 'd drift off in a matter of moments if only he 'd turn off the lights. He tries- though Suguru doesn 't let him, one palm snaking under the back of his neck to hold his head above the surface as he rakes careful fingers through sodden silver, a cloud if it were rung through a lake.

'...Hey, Suguru, ' he hears, the soft mumble of his name drawing his eyes down to blue where it fixes on his face, half-lidded and tired.

'Yeah? ' He asks, running a hand through flowing silken hair just to see Satoru shiver, wondering what could possibly be important enough to break the peace, when he knows all that he wants at the moment is a nap.

'You think molecules are sticky? ' He frowns, confused, brows furrowing a divot in his forehead as he narrows his eyes, squinting in thought.

'I mean, aren 't they, technically? Solids anyway, ' he mutters, perplexed enough to give it a little merit, eyes turning back to Satoru 's as he watches them meander to the side, seeing something he can 't, be it real or imagined.

'I mean their atoms, ' Satoru murmurs, the fingers of one hand lazily swirling around in the water of the bath, 'do they have memories? '

'...Maybe they do if you ask a philosopher. I think they have a term for that, ' Suguru says, after a moment of thought trying to remember his dad 's old books, stacked on a shelf to mostly grow dust after they 'd sat forever untouched after the one instance he 'd pulled a yellowed tome off the wood. 'Pan-psych something? Panpsychism? '

Satoru stays silent for a few beats, long enough that he curves a hand over his shoulder and coaxes him into sitting up again, reaching over to turn on the faucet to something hot as he pulls the drain. No use in bathing if he 'll just be sitting in his own sweat. The rush of running water is loud in the small bathroom, echoey on tiled walls.

'Maybe that 's what ghosts are, ' Satoru wonders, legs crossed as much as they can be in the narrow tub, hands pooled limply in his lap. 'Sticky atoms. '

'Why? ' Suguru puzzles, looking back at him with one eyebrow ticked up. 'You seen one? '

Blue eyes dart up to his own for a second, switching between his left and his right in tiny, barely visible flickers he can only catch because they 're sat so close, before falling away back to where they had been stuck on. 'Something like that, ' Satoru answers, and it isn 't much of one at all.

He lets his lips thin as he sits back, listening to the dull roar of the faucet running as he thumbs the bottle of bubble-bath soap. Sticky atoms, he thinks, what an interesting way to describe a ghost. Absently, he wonders if Satoru really is thinking of one, or just somebody who had become one. The most relevant thing he 's learned about jujutsu society is that there isn 't a shaman alive without any skeletons in their closet, and that Satoru 's been doing this a lot longer than he has.

'Anyway, ' Suguru trills, aiming for a lighter note as he nicks the soap bottle, 'you ever had the pleasure of making a bubble beard? ' He smiles, holding up the pink thing by its neck and watching as Satoru 's eyes notice it and widen in real time.

'Is that, ' he asks, and doesn 't finish the sentence, seemingly cut off by nothing as he stares.

'Bubble bath, ' Suguru confirms, swinging the thing between his fingers, amused at how Satoru 's eyes track it like a pendulum. 'Want me to dump it in? '

He gets a glare for it, an obvious scowl that says,

'what do

you

think, '

the attitude he hasn 't seen in a while making a short return that has something iced thawing a little where it weighs on his ribs. He pours more into the tub than he really should as the faucet runs, stirring up growing mounds of bubbles as white as Satoru 's hair, using one arm to swirl it all around the water.

Like when he 'd stepped into it, two twin palms cup a cloud made of soap in their hollow, raising it for blue eyes to marvel at with a wonder that doesn 't belong on the face of someone so much older than a child. Satoru blows at it, sending small, miniature bubbles scattering out into the air, and Suguru can 't help something like fondness creeping onto his face as he turns the faucet off and replugs the drain.

'Don 't get it in your hair, ' he muses, the warning mostly said with the intent for eventual resignation, 'I 'm gonna put conditioner in it. '

'Wait, ' Satoru says, cheeks flushed as he gathers two handfuls of white, stacking foam on top of more foam until he 's got a little less than a tower in one palm. Suguru sits, complacent, chin held in one hand and elbows on the lip of the tub, the unsuspecting victim when said tower suddenly makes a break for his face.

'What 're you-! ' He yells, enough time to get the words out before soap is hitting his mouth and dripping down to his chin, forcing him to sputter.

The peals of laughter have him stilling, stopping in wiping bubbles off his lips as it rings in his ears like the notes of a windchime, clear and genuine and happy. Satoru sits in front of him, grinning ear to ear in an open mouthed smile as he laughs, eyes shut against the apples of his cheeks and brows digging down to match his scrunched nose.

'He 'gave me a beard, '

Suguru thinks, the thought faint as he feels his heart do something like stutter in his chest, or maybe forget to pound for a second- utterly enamored with the blatant joy on Satoru 's face.

He 's pretty when he laughs, not that he isn 't pretty all the time- but there 's something more real to it when there 's a smile on his face, Suguru realizes, when he sounds the way he feels in a way that can 't possibly be artificial. He ends up only sighing, a small smile of his own tilting his lips up as he sets his elbows on the edge of the tub, denial forgotten for the moment as he drowns in the simple fact that he could spend a life like this.

'You 're so annoying, ' he chides, mirth in his voice as he scoops up a wad of bubbles to smear over Satoru 's cheek as he finally stops laughing, watching his face scrunch under the soap he presses to it.

'Maybe, ' Satoru says, a shine to his eyes as he settles down, mirroring him in resting his elbows on the edge, ducking his head to set the side of his face that doesn 't have soap on it on his arms. 'You like annoying. '

'...Maybe, ' Suguru echoes, looking away at the admittance as his ears heat, snagging the forgotten washcloth to wipe his soapy hands on it before rucking it down his face. He folds it over before using it to brush away the bubbles on Satoru 's cheek, sinking into how blue eyes fall shut in a little show of trust, how snowy head tilts up just a bit.

They lapse back into a comfortable quiet after, as he lathers conditioner between his palms to smooth over Satoru 's short hair, noting again how he sighs so softly it 's barely audible; relaxes a little more; sinks a little lower into the soapy water. It doesn 't take long to use up the small dollop of it. Satoru 's hair isn 't like his, long and thicker and a touch courser from faint curls he brushes out when it 's wet. It 's short and fine and thinner, maybe curly enough to be wavy if it were grown out, or maybe just straight as a pin.

It isn 't enough to make the unsaid excuse of applying product, but he doesn 't really want to stop touching him like this yet, and he 's got something a little more solid of a suspicion that Satoru doesn 't, either. Cautiously, he lifts his hands, hovering them above flushed skin as he waits, watching. It takes less than a handful of seconds for Satoru to start tensing up again, for his shoulders to raise up by his ears a bit, for him to curl in on himself. For his languid, partially hidden expression to tighten, brows furrowing.

He doesn 't have any excuse left to mindlessly touch when he doesn 't have any more product to rub in. Except, he thinks, it wouldn 't be selfish for him to keep going despite that. Not if it 's for Satoru 's sake, instead of his own. So for once, he just doesn 't make one; doesn 't say anything when his towel dried hands dip down the bony knobs of Satoru 's spine to smooth out the returned stress in his skin, when they fan out over the sharpened blades of his shoulders, as they find tensed muscles to press into only because he can, because it 's wanted.

Because Satoru sits still and complacent in the warmth of the water, unmoving under every pass of his palms even though he sees the little jolts, the would be flinches, the shivers his fingertips leave along ivory skin, unused to it even though it makes him melt. He touches because he can, because he 's allowed, because he doesn 't care to find an excuse if Satoru won 't ask him for one.

'I never knew he had freckles, '

Suguru wonders, noting the small dot of pale brown marking the underside of one shoulder as his hands trace over it; another hidden between the contours of Satoru 's ribs; a third just to the left of the base of his tailbone, all of them some degree of faint but clearly visible. Absently, as he presses his thumbs into the stress coiled tendons along the sides of Satoru 's neck, he marvels if he 'd get any on his face if he spent enough time in the sun.

At some point, the water starts to cool, only noticed when he dips a hand in to check and shakes it out because it 's almost room temperature- something Satoru apparently hadn 't noticed, when he looks down at where white head cushions on top of his arms, questioning if he actually had fallen asleep.

'Hey, ' Suguru starts, poking the rosy half of Satoru 's left cheek he can see, brows raising slightly at the faint groan of annoyance it gets him. 'The water 's almost cold. You 're not seriously gonna sit in a cold bath? '

Satoru grumbles something indistinct, turning his face further into his elbow, and Suguru sighs. 'For the love of, ' he mutters, 'fine. ' His knees crack as he gets up, stiff after sitting on them for so long, and he can 't help stretching out his back with a series of pops as he stands.

'Let 's play, is it laundry day yet? '

He thinks snidely to himself as he quietly pads out of the bathroom, at least sixty percent confident Satoru won 't drown himself in the time it takes him to grab spare clothing.

'Fuck, '

he thinks, a minute later as he stares down into the sorely lacking depths of his dresser drawer, his second to last pair of briefs in hand and resigned to doing a load of laundry early this month. 'And I have to wash my sheets, ' Suguru whines, making a face as he thinks of the sticky layer of sweat caked into them. Sucks.

When he cracks the door open and steps back into the bathroom bearing a handful of clothing, he 's expecting Satoru to still be snoozing, lazy and not particularly interested in getting up to wash out the conditioner and bubbles. Instead, he meets the sight of blue eyes snapping to where he shuts the door, pale hands gripping the tub 's edge a little too hard, and Satoru 's thin shoulders pulled up towards his ears.

'...Sorry, ' Suguru murmurs, padding back over to drop the change of clothing on top of the toilet next to the towels, a little surprised. 'Thought you were dozing. '

He eyes the way Satoru 's jaw tenses like he 's clenching his teeth, how he breathes in through his nose in a deliberate motion, and then out again, like he 's trying to force himself to be calm. Slanted fingers grip at porcelain too tightly, nailbeds shocked white. Rosy lips part just slightly as if to say something, before they 're shutting without a sound as Satoru looks away, sinking back into the soapy water.

Suguru frowns, coming closer to bend down on the tips of his toes, tall enough to be eye level with Satoru where he sits and pointedly doesn 't look at him. He wants to say something, say anything, whatever would be right for his ears to hear that would get him to relax again- to wash away the tension he 's spent an hour coaxing out of tight muscles and concealed expressions.

He tries. Suguru opens his mouth, takes in a breath to say something, say anything, only to fall short, exhaling a soft sigh as he stares at Satoru 's stubborn profile, still turned away. Instead, he finds himself raising a hand, pressing the backs of his tan knuckles to fever flushed skin, blinking at the slight startle it gets him of blue eyes snapping back up to his face.

'I 'm 'here now? ' He says, the words quiet, oddly weighted, but sitting right on his tongue in a way anything else doesn 't feel like it would. Under the back of his hand, he feels Satoru 's brows tug down, watches lips thin and eyes blink away fog as he brushes snowy bangs from them.

Without a word, Satoru nods after a moment passes, eyes dropping down to the water as he pulls his lips in between his teeth, breathing slightly unsteady. He can 't help the drop of his own stomach in sympathy, despite not knowing why a simple disappearance has this happening, simply upset that Satoru is.

'Come on, ' he murmurs, drawing his hand away as he reaches for the tub drain, 'it 's cold anyway. ' He keeps his head turned, eyes firmly fixed on the plug as he lets the water begin to filter out, giving Satoru a semblance of a moment alone to swipe at his eyes.

He isn 't expecting it when nimble fingers find his own, carefully skimming over his knuckles in a gesture that 's shy enough it doesn 't remind him of the Satoru he knows, but the one that 's been hanging around with a fever. He blinks, looking over his shoulder to find two blue eyes on him, the rest of the pretty face they belong to hidden in drawn up knees.

Silently, and just a little perplexed, he lets their fingers thread together on the lip of the tub, mouth drying out when he thinks of how it 's disgustingly intimate.

'It 's not gay if I don 't think about it, '

he chants in his head, unable to hold Satoru 's unwavering gaze as his heart pounds.

Nevermind his own uncontrollable feelings, he won 't take advantage of Satoru when he 's like this, not if it 's selfish. Nevermind that he wants to hold his hand, and maybe kiss him, and maybe touch him all the time, he won 't take more than what 's asked of him to be given. Not when Satoru 's sick, when he 's feverish and a little out of his mind, reliant on Suguru to make sure he 's okay. He won 't turn the tiny hold out into something larger, won 't lift his hands so their palms press together, won 't lean in and draw rosy lips out from where they 're hidden with his own.

'Stop thinking so much, ' Satoru softly tones, head tilted on his knees as he sits in a mostly empty tub, the last of the sudsy bathwater just a puddle by the soles of his feet. His left arm falls down the long slant of his legs, loose fingers lean and delicate, and Suguru swallows, feeling his face heat as he jerks his eyes back up to blue.

'Who said I was thinking about anything, ' he protests, hoping desperately Satoru won 't hear the nerves in his voice, won 't feel the clammy warmth his entangled hand sweats with.

'You had that look on your face, ' Satoru argues, quiet and uncomplicated, a little roughed from whatever past experience he says nothing of that had threatened tears at his short disappearance.

'I don 't get a look, ' he says, making a face, and catches the corner of perfect lips ticking up behind warmth reddened knees.

Satoru hums, giving his fingers an offbeat squeeze as he drags the toe of one foot in the last trickle of water, smearing stagnant bubbles along the floor of the bathtub. 'So you don 't get a wrinkle between your eyebrows? ' He asks, too innocently for the insult it hides, and scrunches a grin when Suguru swipes a finger in the last of the water to flick it at him.

'You 've got soap all over you, ' he says, changing the topic as he lets their laced fingers go, though not before he squeezes back. The ugly rug leaves imprints in his knees when he gets to his feet, a wavy pattern pressed into his skin. 'Can you stand? '

Satoru seems to think for a moment, chewing on the words as he leans over his legs, head tilted and lips slanted as he parces through what would otherwise be a simple question. He shrugs, staring down at his toes. 'Probably? ' He says, the word not sure if it 's a following question or a statement.

'You 're not dizzy, are you? ' Suguru asks, worried about him slipping and falling and creating another problem when a fever is already more than enough. The relief is quick but cool when Satoru shakes his head no, looking up at him with something that allows for more of the exhaustion he feels to show through.

'Just feel weird, ' he mumbles, lifting a hand to be taken as Suguru extends his own, 'floaty, maybe. '

Suguru doesn 't comment on it, lips pursing as he helps haul Satoru to his feet, steadying him with a hold on his arms until he 's certain he won 't go tumbling. Maybe it 's the fever, maybe it 's a side effect of experiencing actual human touch, he doesn't know. He turns Satoru around with one shoulder, using the skin between his index finger and thumb to keep the water off of his forehead when he uses the showerhead to wash the conditioner out of his hair. The warm water runs off most of the soap suds from his skin, the last of it all trickling down the drain with a faint gurgle as he turns the shower knob off.

Satoru stands and shivers on the bathmat as he unfolds one of the towels left on the toilet lid, hands jumpy and jittery at his sides as his inhales and exhales rattle, slightly. 'Cold? ' Suguru asks, winding the towel around thin shoulders, watching as he starts to shake his head, pauses, and then nods.

He draws him up into a hug, letting him leech body heat as Suguru runs the flats of his hands down cotton covered back, feeling the point of a nose press into his shoulder and inhale deeper than a breath strictly needs. 'I brought back clothes, ' he says, messing with the short baby hairs behind Satoru 's ear. 'So you don 't have to go out and feel the air conditioning. '

'Thanks, ' he hears, muffled into his shirt, and feels something like possession and fear both with how much Satoru trusts him.

'It 's not so big, though, right? '

He wonders, trying to convince himself and sort of failing as he ushers Satoru away just far enough to grab the briefs he left next to the small stack of towels on the toilet. He 'd feel the same if it were reversed, wouldn 't he? Shaky legs step into smooth nylon, arms still wrapped up in their towel as he slides them on. Blue eyes slip shut as he does, exhausted, and entirely at ease. Maybe he would.

He makes Satoru give it up to pat down his arms and shoulders dry before he 's letting it pool to the ugly mat in favor of slipping him into a shirt, too. It 's one of his own, one of the longer ones he has, big and comfortable and something he likes to sleep in. It practically drowns Satoru, when he 's just a smidge shorter and more wiry than Suguru is, and it 's more of a trial than an open expanse of touchable skin could ever be to look at Satoru standing in

his

clothing and not flame red in the face.

'I 'm sure we can find a sweatshirt somewhere, ' he rambles, turning his head away to hide his widened eyes as his ears burn behind his hair, taking Satoru 's hand after he gathers together the dirty clothing and used towels into a carriable bundle. He only registers he has after he 's done it, and by then it 's too late to let go, so he looks at the ceiling and tells himself to not be a goddamn mess when Satoru wiggles his fingers a little, settling their hands better into the clasp.

'The blue one, ' he mumbles, leaning into his side as Suguru swings open the bathroom door, all of the humidity escaping into the chill. 'I like that one. ' He leads him out into the hallway, clumsy feet shuffling beside his as they walk back to his room, hand in hand. The blue hoodie he 's certain is crumpled somewhere in between his bed covers, probably alongside three of his other sweaters.

Satoru hovers by the door when Suguru unlatches their hands, moving away to dump the load of dirty laundry into the hamper and search through his mussed duvet, intent on finding the damn sweater before Satoru can freeze. He hears a small thunk, looking up as he catches sight of a baby blue sleeve and yanks. He can 't help a huffing smile that brightens his face when he sees Satoru, slumped against the wooden doorway, head lolled and mouth hanging partly open.

'Here, ' he says, biting his lip to keep from snickering as he meets him where he stands, ready to doze off. 'I found it. Arms up. ' Satoru makes a noise in the back of his throat but listens anyway, arms raising like a zombie as Suguru shuffles him into the thick cotton hoodie.

'C 'mon, ' he murmurs, more of an afterthought when he knows Satoru will follow him anywhere he goes, linking their middle and pointer fingers together as he slowly winds down the hall to keep from grabbing his whole hand, again. Shoko had said to keep him hydrated, and Satoru had never touched the toast he 'd made that morning.

Suguru lets him pool into a puddle at the kitchen counter, head pillowed in fabric covered arms as he finds the instant cocoa mix and the electric kettle. 'Whaaat, he 's not dead? ' Shoko drawls, shuffling into the kitchen a moment later as she stretches, eyebags as dark as usual. Speak of the devil, he thinks.

'Funny, ' Suguru simpers, pulling down one mug from the cabinet, and then on second thought, one more. 'How 's the cramming going? ' He asks, the last he 'd seen of Shoko having been Saturday night when she 'd disappeared into her hovel of a room with no less than three textbooks thicker than his head and a spaghetti stain on her sweatshirt.

'I hate my life, ' she drones, clicking the coffee maker on.

'So great, then, ' he says, mostly to himself. 'Satoru, ' he tones, as the kettle clicks, steaming, 'wake up. '

He gets a muffled moan at the island counter, something that only barely resembles words. Suguru rolls his eyes, pouring the boiled water into two mugs and setting the kettle aside before ripping open two packets of instant hot cocoa, stirring them in with the same spoon and thinking about the mini-marshmallows he knows are in the pantry, though ultimately vetoing them. Too much sugar.

'Here, ' he says, setting one mug in front of where Satoru lays halfway on top of the counter, more so a pile of light blue fabric than a person. 'It 's hot chocolate. ' Blue eyes slowly appear over one sleeve, blinking up at him for a moment before Satoru 's face follows after, one hand coming up to rub at the side of his nose tiredly.

'Mhm? ' He mumbles, a hum instead of words, leaning over to sniff the mug set in front of him.

'You used the dorm bathroom, right? ' Shoko asks, seemingly innocuous, and he stills, lips thinning as he faces away from her and tries not to show weakness.

'Yeah, ' Suguru drags out, slowly looking over his shoulder to where Shoko leans against the counter, arms crossed while she waits for her coffee to finish.

'So, hypothetically, ' she starts, looking down at her shortened nails, 'if I were to go use it right now, I 'd find my pads at the front of the cabinet. '

'Yup, ' he lies, keeping his face blank. 'Right where you left them. '

'Really, ' Shoko tones, brows raising in a false nicety to match her plastic pleasantness. He smiles, all teeth and no pleasantries as he fights a war she started. Shoko flashes one back, made from thinned lips and narrowed eyes. 'I 'll kill you, Suguru. '

'You threw all my hair accessories away, ' he digs, and she scoffs.

'They were taking up like,

all

of the room, ' Shoko protests, hands splaying, and he makes a face.

'Then keep your stuff on the counter or something, ' he groans, petty and annoying and participating in their mutually agreed upon bullshit instead of just buying an organizer to solve the problem, because it 's the most excitement either of them get on their dreary mountain.

'And let you have the entire cabinet? ' Shoko makes a face, sticking out her tongue. 'That 's sexist. '

'You 're sexist, ' he grumbles, watching in one part faint amusement and another part annoyance as Shoko turns her back to face the coffee maker, shaking her fanned out hands in a mockery of his bad insult. 'Satoru, say I 'm right- ' He starts, twisting to look at where he sits at the counter, cutting off as his mouth parts at what he sees.

He sighs, softening at the sight. 'You were supposed to drink that, ' he murmurs, watching as Satoru 's shoulders quietly rise and fall with his soundless breaths, slowed and deepened where he sleeps, head pillowed on his arms. When he bends down to look, he 's satisfied enough that a little of the cocoa 's gone.

'Is he asleep? ' Shoko asks, slurping at the rim of her mug, coffee straight and black, something he both deeply respects and utterly reviles when he hasn 't quite worked up to the same yet.

'Yeah, ' Suguru answers, pulling out a stool to sit next to Satoru, tugging the hoodie up a little higher over his ears, white hair still damp and chilly.

'...Cute, ' Shoko offers, sparing a glance. 'Whatever it is must really be wringing him out, ' she muses, watching where Satoru melts into his sweater, breathing only audible up close.

'That 's one way to put it, ' Suguru mutters, unable to help reaching out to wind a stray white curl behind one slightly reddened ear.

'Maybe he just overworked himself, ' she says, shrugging, lingering for a moment before she ducks out of the kitchen. 'I mean, nobody here 's blind. We all know Yaga treats him like a pack mule. '

'Don 't say that, ' Suguru chides, 'at least, not where he can hear you. ' He hears her bark of a laugh as it fades down the hallway, eyes on where she disappears before they 're trailing back to Satoru, pulled like a magnet.

He openly stares at snowy lashes, fanned over fever flushed cheeks, curving down to where peony petal lips part just slightly, the soft slope of Satoru 's nose something he wants to trace a finger down. He looks like he belongs in the crest of a winter landscape, like he could be one of the snowflakes falling from the clouds, delicate and unique and beautiful up close.

'I like you, ' Suguru murmurs, a secret said when it can 't be heard, fingers messing with the fabric of the hoodie. 'I hope you like me, too. '

Satoru doesn 't move, still asleep where he sits, and he can't tell if he feels relief or disappointment.