There's a quiet, low joint pain that radiated through his entire body, and all Ritsu wanted to do was sleep it off.

Unfortunately, there was practice today - something that he needed to do, needed to learn the new choreography for their show in two weeks and he still hadn't caught how to do that damned twist portion where he went from center to fringe without bumping into Izumi -, and Ritsu had a nagging feeling that moving too much would set his stomach off into nausea, something he'd been managing so far by refusing to move from the cool spot on the floor he was laying upon. He didn't want to go, and doubted he could even get up from his spot, but he also did not wish to leave the others waiting for him to start. He should write something, but moving his arm would send a flare of pain through his nervous system.

He could get that part of the choreography another day, a day where his body wasn't actively working to hate him.

Currently, though, he just wanted to sleep in this nice spot, if he was honest: shaded and far away from others in a secluded hallway, and in previous visits he'd cleaned around so that the dust wouldn't set his allergies off. Ritsu liked it: few people came to bother him.

There was one sole exception, though, and he could hear his footsteps coming, familiar and regular. It almost lulled him into the uneasy sleep he so craved, eyes struggling to stay awake.

Maybe there was something wrong with him - more than what was wrong with his body, whatever it was - that Ritsu would know Mao by his steps, by the cadence he walked around, by the sound of his laughter from far away.

Was it jealousy he wasn't the reason behind Mao's laughter burning in his chest, or was it heartburn? Hard to know; both felt the same.

Mao sat by his side, silently putting a soda can in front of his line of sight. He rose his head, and it made a small pain grow amongst his spine, protesting the sudden move.

"For me?" Even speaking hurt, he realized. He hated this body of his: failing, ailing, painful, unexplained. He moved closer to the can, and the cold of it felt good, abating a headache he didn't even realize he was feeling.

"Who else?" Mao asked, laying down by his side. Ritsu sought the cold, but the heat gently emanating from Mao's body also felt comfortable. "Not a good day?"

"No."

"Practice?" Ritsu hummed an agreement, and found that it did not strain his throat as much as speaking. "Do you want me to type you can't go?"

Mao could read his mind, really. He nodded, and Mao grabbed Ritsu's phone from the pocket of his blazer, fingers tapping on the screen. It was almost a melody, and his body relaxed, finally dozing away with Mao's warm heat near him.