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Fever All Through the Night

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!

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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.

“I know, criminal isn't it?”

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