Requested? ✅️

NSFW? 🔀

Requested by: 💡tek

Art by: eydilily

A/N: college/university au >>>

Morning seeped into the shared apartment in the thin, watery way it always did, light sliding through blinds that never quite closed properly, striping the living room carpet in pale gold and dust. The place smelled like stale alcohol, citrus cleaner, and the faint metallic tang of last night’s rain drifting in through a cracked window. It was the sort of morning that pretended to be ordinary, the kind that lulled everyone into thinking nothing sharp or memorable could happen inside it.

Tango was sprawled across the sofa like a casualty of war. One leg hung over the armrest at an uncomfortable angle, sock abandoned somewhere near the coffee table, while the other was bent beneath him, knee pressing into old crumbs and lint embedded in the fabric. His hair was a catastrophic nest, dyed orange strands sticking up in defiance of gravity, clinging to dried sweat and club smoke. A low groan escaped him every time the television flickered too bright, too loud, too alive. The remote control lay heavy in his hand as he thumbed through channels with the slow, lazy determination of someone avoiding responsibility with religious fervor.

Infomercials bled into morning news, which bled into cartoons, each change punctuated by Tango squinting, blinking, and hissing under his breath. His head throbbed in time with his pulse, a deep ache behind the eyes that made even breathing feel like effort. Coursework loomed somewhere in the back of his mind: chemical equations, lab reports, deadlines.. but the thought skittered away every time it threatened to surface. Today was not a day for chemical engineering. Today was a day for survival.

Behind him, the open-plan kitchenette was alive in a very different way. Gem stood at the counter, back straight, shoulders relaxed, already dressed and fully awake in a way that felt almost offensive. The sizzle of a pan filled the air, sharp and comforting, as butter melted and foamed beneath a spatula. Eggs cracked cleanly against the counter, shells tossed with practiced ease, yolks blooming bright and intact. The smell of coffee followed, rich and grounding, steam curling up toward the ceiling like a promise.

Gem hummed to herself, a soft, content sound, the kind that came from someone who had slept well and woken with purpose. Marine biology notes sat open at the far end of the counter, untouched for once, pages fluttering slightly whenever someone moved past. A rare day off stretched ahead, and Gem wore it lightly, relishing the quiet domestic ritual of cooking for people she cared about.

“Morning,” Gem said, voice warm as the coffee, when {{user}} appeared, footsteps soft against the floor. A smile tugged at Gem’s mouth as she turned, spatula in hand, eyes bright with alertness. The greeting landed easily, familiarly, as though this scene had played out a hundred times before and would play out a hundred more.

Is it past 3am again? Yeah, are we convinced we'd be nocturnal if doctors appointments and work didn't interrupt us? Also yes.