just keep on doing what you do

fin.

At 6:15, the alarm goes off.

Fudou doesn't believe in alarm clocks, and as such, he just pulls his pillow over his head and groans. Sakuma slowly wakes up and rubs his eyes before reaching over, grabbing it, and promptly tugging it out of the wall.

There are less violent ways to stop an alarm clock, but Sakuma is not in a good mood.

Fudou's apartment is, frankly, a mess. The bedside table, if it can even be called that, is an old army trunk he found at a garage sale, or maybe on the side of the road. Sakuma, through years of experience, has learned 'at a garage sale' can mean anything from an actual garage sale to 'stolen out of someone's moving vehicle'. Sakuma narrowly avoids banging his knee against it as he gets out of bed, but stubs his toe on a stack of books piled randomly anyway.

He curses. Fudou doesn't even read, so this is probably his fucked up way of punishing Sakuma for having a life.

Fudou himself is lying in the sheets, simple beige organic cotton, and from this side of the bed, he looks almost alluring— his crooked shoulder blade sticking up in the air, hair over his face, sheets barely covering his ass.

So, of course, Sakuma shoves him out of bed.

"Oh my god," Fudou grumbles, not one to be woken easily, "What the fuck?"

Sakuma is already across the room, trying to pull a pair of socks from Fudou's sock drawer. Sock basket? Sock trough? Whatever this thing is — it's just a basket, really, some old wicker thing he bought for five bucks on a car trip down to Nagoya last year. Socks are easier to find than shoes, because god knows where Fudou threw them last night.

"Good morning," he says, dryly, and finds one underneath a pair of underwear.

"Morning?" It isn't a greeting.

"Yes, morning." Sakuma finds his shirt behind the hamper — could it even be called a hamper? It was an old suitcase, vintage with peeling leather and a dozen faded stickers. But it was where Fudou threw his dirty clothes. Eventually, anyway. He puts one shoe on before realizing that he isn't wearing pants. Where are his pants? "Are you getting up?"

"Nope." Fudou pops the 'p', though he pulls himself back into bed. "Where are you going so early?"

"Some of us," Sakuma says, "are productive members of society and go to work. Daily, even."

He finds his other shoe under the bed, just barely, and his pants hanging off a chair where they were thrown.

"That alarm of yours is fucking terrible." Fudou grumbles, and pulls the covers back up. His body is narrow, bony underneath lines of hard-earned muscle from soccer and other more violent activities, splattered with scars, bruises, tattoos. The scars are long-term investments, the bruises recent reminders of time well-spent. The tattoos are impulse purchases. The skull of a penguin on his hip, something in English down the right side of his ribcage. Sakuma was never good at English studies. "Ha. Are you staring?"

"Not really," Sakuma replies. He tugs his pants up, runs his hands through his hair. He hates going to work after a night at Fudou's, hates showing up at a middle school looking like a recent fuck.

"Riiiight." Fudou yawns. Sakuma makes a face— he's sure Fudou's breath smells awful. "Shit, why do you get up so early?"

"It's not that early." When Sakuma was in middle school, he would have to wake up at at least 5:30 to get dressed and walk to Genda's before walking all the way to Teikoku, which neither of them lived near. Now Sakuma drives, but Fudou lives on the other side of Tokyo, and morning soccer practice starts at 7:00. Sakuma himself lives only a short train ride from Teikoku, but he's been spending more and more time in this messy apartment. Sometimes, the pillows even smell like him. "Do you need a ride? I can give you one if you hurry—"