brightside
by deifiliaa
A soft gasp and the feeling of someone jerking away wakes him up.
Roger groans, feeling a slight pounding at his temples, and he turns from his side onto his back and releases a satisfied exhale when the welcome semi-orgasmic quiver that comes with all great stretches finds a nook in his abdomen.
He opens his eyes slowly, adjusting his vision until it's quite clear that the pastel green star stickers on the ceiling most certainly are not his, so he sits up.
"Roger."
She's sitting at the foot of the bed with a blanket drawn modestly around her torso and her dark blue push-up bra is hidden behind long, silky hair, but he's not sneaking glances at her chest, is he, because he can't pull away from her gaze, fixed so firmly on him, and her eyes are wide, half measures worried and confused, while her dark lips are parted slightly, and never in a million years did he think he would be in the same bed as her-
Roger swallows and feels the inside of his mouth turn to sandpaper.
He's slept with girls before. It's not a new game to him.
Slept with them and woke up the next morning to leave early or to find that they've left; it doesn't really matter. It's always been the same.
But waking to the girl-he-maybe-had-a-small-thing-for-once-upon-a-time is something completely new. (She's thrown on an old scrimmage jersey, and he's thankful she did because he's still trying to get the image of her from this morning out of his mind.)
Cho's rummaging through her freezer, and he can tell she's doing her best to avoid looking at him because she's a bit too intent on finding whatever she can to fry, and he kind of wishes she would just look at him because he remembers what happened last night and it's not anything embarrassing-
"All I've got are turkey sausages," she says, finally turning to him with said package in hand, and there's something about the way she sounds almost guilty that makes him realize he should have already known her to be the sort that bypasses bacon in the frozen meats aisle for gluten-free breakfast sausages instead.
"Yeah," he breathes, and clears his throat, adjusting awkwardly in his seat. "Yeah, no, that's - that's fine."
So maybe he's always liked her, and maybe he's always wanted her to look at him the way she still looks at Diggory, but this-
his clothes smell a little like they've mopped the floor of a frat house rush party and she's made him a plate of toast and sunny-side eggs and perfectly crisp turkey sausages, but she's leaning against her counter and is silent, looking at him, waiting for him to say something-
he doesn't know how it ended up like this.
He also doesn't know where to go from here because being her friend all this time is something he's kept close to his heart and treasured and he wonders if it's possible not to screw it up, especially considering the way she's kept quiet all morning.
"Cho," he finally says, and even the way he says her name isn't completely without adoration. She looks up from the ground and stays leaning against the cupboards, arms crossed over her chest almost protectively. He sets his fork down. "I - we didn't do anything last night, okay?"
His mind's still a bit hazy, and his head hurts only slightly now, but he remembers how far he got with her.
(Rather, how far he didn't get with her, honestly, because he remembers nothing of the sort happening.)
There's a furrow between her brows, but Roger notices her shoulders relax. What she says next surprises him. "I know that," is her reply, and she shifts her weight from one leg to the next. There's a fraction of a smile she wears.
"...Oh," Roger replies tersely, failing terribly to keep his expression from looking dumbstruck. "So..."
One of her hands reaches up to brush back a few flyaway strands grazing her cheek, and he gets a good look at her, sees the way there's still a tiredness weighing heavy under her eyes and still streaks of tears now hours behind them framing the lines of her mouth.
But there's a small smile lifting the corners of the lips he's so often caught himself staring at, between team practices and mornings in the dining commons and when she sits across from him in the library, when it's only her that shows up in response to his message in the group chat for a study session on a Saturday.
(Stretton, Burrows, Page, and Inglebee always leave him on 'read', the pricks, and the other three never even check their messages half the time.)
"You took me back home." The words are simple and innocent, but he catches what underlies her words. Catches the way she studies him when she says so.
He sits up importantly in his seat, but all the same, he feels awkward and fumbling. "I - well, yeah, you - you weren't feeling well last night. Kind of-" he gestures to her front "-all on your clothes."
Roger clears his throat, possibly the millionth time that morning. A new record. "Thought someone should at least see that you made it back okay and cleaned up well."
Like the almighty gentleman he is.
Cho's face flickers embarrassment. "Vomiting - all over you and myself, for that matter - if that's what you mean."
And she blushes blooms of pink, and nope, screw being almighty, he's an absolute mortal when it comes to her.
He laughs, deep and warm and full of adoration - always, with her - and her face gives way until she does, too.
The dishes are glistening on her drying rack a little while later.
A soapy citrus scent lingers in the kitchen.
And from her place at the kitchen sink, the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window hits her hair and her lashes until they catch fire, and the faint freckles on her face stand out darker, and she feels his gaze on her and looks up to catch it, and she smiles, that one dimple deepening, and Roger can't bring himself to look away, so he only smiles back at her, feels the giddy lurch in his stomach, can't believe how fascinated he is by this woman and how he knows he probably shouldn't be but he can't help himself from thinking there's a hope that maybe one day she'll feel the same, and even his mates know how in over his head he is-
-if this is what it means to die a mortal death, then he's already died a thousand times over.