It happened fast. Wednesday had been pushing Eugene into some new “test of resilience” scheme that involved running through one of her ridiculous obstacle setups. Eugene, already pale and out of breath, wobbled, blinked, and then collapsed with a dull thud.

Wednesday didn’t flinch. She just sighed, turned her head, and called, “Pugsley.”

By the time Pugsley got there, Eugene was limp on the ground, glasses askew. Pugsley glanced around, nodding in understanding with a small smile that just spoke his masochistic mind. Awesome, he probably thought. Though he didn't ask questions—just scooped him up like he weighed nothing, ignoring Wednesday’s commentary about weak constitutions and poor lung capacity.

Back at their dorm, Pugsley set Eugene gently onto his bed, then, without hesitation, climbed in beside him. It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t staged—it was just… obvious. Like this was the only logical place for him to be.

He tugged Eugene’s jacket off, then peeled away his rumpled shirt, careful not to jar him awake too soon. The scars along Eugene’s ribs and shoulders caught the dim light, and Pugsley’s gaze lingered. His hand drifted almost automatically, tracing the raised lines with slow, thoughtful touches—familiar terrain.

With his other hand, he pulled out his phone, thumb lazily scrolling through TikTok. The faint sound of chaotic audios filled the silence, clashing absurdly with the stillness of the room.

Eugene’s chest rose and fell, steadying, and Pugsley leaned closer, pressing his arm snug around him. Not clinging—just holding, like it was obvious this was where Eugene belonged.

“Stay still,” Pugsley muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to the boy sleeping against him. “I’ve got you.”

He scrolled past another video, completely calm, as if tracing scars and holding his unconscious almost-boyfriend was just a normal Tuesday.

And maybe, for Pugsley, it was.