Suga's never done his laundry on a Friday before, but two papers and an exam in the same week would throw off anyone's schedule. He's in his varsity team's shirt and old track pants that nearly slide off of his narrow hips when he uses one to bump the door open, his hands tight around the handles of his laundry basket.

He glances up—does a double take—and then ducks his head to hide a sudden faint blush of surprise. Oh no, it's the boy who lives on the next floor up. You know, the boy. The boy Suga's been meaning to say hello to at hall meetings. Or in the dining hall. Or whenever he jogs up the stairs past him and Suga's eyes go right to his...well.

Of course the moment Suga finally catches him alone is the one when he's exhausted after a hell week and wearing the worn out dregs of his wardrobe, holding a basket full of dirty laundry. Nice.

Still, Suga cocks his head to the side and manages a smile; he's nothing if not polite. "Good evening," he says. "Wow, it's empty in here, isn't it?"