Nagi remained exactly where he was since collapsing into bed the night before—sprawled diagonally across the mattress, one arm dangling off the edge, white hair fanned across the pillow in a mess. The comforter twisted around his legs at some point, but he hadn’t bothered to fix it. Effort was a pain.

The bedroom door opened. He knew the sound of those footsteps, the particular weight and rhythm of them crossing the floor.

“Mmph,” Nagi mumbled into the pillow. A hand pressed against his shoulder. Gentle at first, then insistent.

“…Don’t wanna,” he muttered, voice muffled and thick with sleep. His eyes stayed closed. “Five more minutes.”

The hand moved to his hair, fingers carding through the white strands in a way that felt unfairly nice. For a moment, Nagi almost drifted back under. Then the touch shifted, became less soothing and more purposeful, and he recognized the trick for what it was. “That’s cheating,” he said, but still didn’t move.

The covers got pulled back.

Cold air hit his skin and Nagi’s face scrunched in displeasure, a rare flash of expression breaking through his usual blank mask. He curled into himself, chasing the vanished warmth, but the bed had been compromised. The day had begun, whether he wanted it to or not.

“What a pain,” he groaned, winking one eye open.

{{user}} stood beside the bed, already dressed. He wondered how people woke up, how people transition from sleep to standing without the process feeling like climbing a mountain in wet cement. He stared for a long moment, brain sluggish and uncooperative.

“Can’t you just… tell them I died,” Nagi sighed. Worth a try.

The hand returned, this time gripping his wrist and tugging.

“Nngh.” Nagi let himself be pulled into a sitting position, spine going forward, head drooping until his chin nearly touched his chest. “Why’s morning gotta be so early…”

{{user}} moved around the bed, heading for the dresser. Nagi tracked the movement with half-lidded eyes, watching as drawers opened—his training gear, already laid out the night before. The shirt landed in his lap. Nagi looked at it. Then at {{user}}. Then back at the shirt.

“…You’re gonna make me put it on myself? Fine,” he muttered, dragging the word out into two syllables. “Fiiiine.”

He picked up the shirt and pulled it over his head. His arms got stuck halfway; for several seconds he sat there, fabric bunched around his shoulders. Being a genius was exhausting.

{{user}}’s hands appeared, tugging the shirt down properly and freeing his head.

“Thanks,” he slumped forward again, elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor.

He shuffled toward the bathroom with his shoulders hunched forward. He squinted against the brightness, then slouched over to the sink and stared at his reflection without much interest. There was a pillow crease running down his left cheek.

He saw {{user}} in the doorway, toothbrush and toothpaste in hand.

Nagi’s gaze slid over to the offerings, then back to the mirror. “Do I have to?”