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His apartment was dusty. Unused and abandoned for the majority of the Hogwarts school year and his rather lengthy stay at Azkaban, it had fallen into disrepair. Of course, it was nothing that he couldn't fix, but Quirrell wanted to cry at the sight of the mess when all he wanted was to collapse into a bed for the first time in months. He was so, so tired.
Tears started to well up in the corners of his eyes as he sunk down on the couch, head in his hands. He needed to do so many things, and his head hurt and his body ached and he could feel the rough cloth of the Azkaban uniform scratching his skin too acutely—
The couch beside him dipped as someone sat down. It released a plume of dust, and Quirrell was sent into a coughing fit. His throat felt like someone had taken sandpaper to it, and a teardrop fell onto the palm of his hand, but he rushed to wipe it away before Voldemort could see.
"Squirrel?" Voldemort's raspy voice asked. "Are you alright?"
He was exhausted. Instead of responding, he let his head fall back against the couch cushions, letting his eyes stay firmly shut.
Voldemort was saying something, but he couldn't quite make out what it was. His lack of sleep was getting to him, and his voice faded in and out. Quirrell couldn't bring himself to listen.
He would just rest for a moment.
~~
God, Quirrell looked beat. Absolutely wrecked. He had sat down on the musty couch and looked about one wrong word away from bursting into tears, and Voldemort's heart couldn't help but ache for the poor man. The man who had spent months in Azkaban. Because of him. It was his fault.
Of course he sat down. What else was he supposed to do? Watch him break down, alone?
Then he started coughing. For a moment, Voldemort was afraid that he would choke on the dust that surrounded him, but then the fit died down. A tear splattered onto the delicate lines of his palm, and he itched to wipe it away gently. His wrists were still rubbed red from the chains that they had kept him in, he noticed as Quirrell rubbed at his eyes with a hand quickly. It had to hurt.
"Squirrel? Are you alright?" he heard himself ask.
Quirrell didn't respond. Not that he had to—he had every right to ignore him. He should have kicked him out already. In fact, he would just see himself out—
He was halfway up when he realized that he had said all of that aloud and cursed himself for being so stupid before he realized that Quirrell wasn't even listening to him. His head had lolled against the back of the couch, and his hands were limp in his lap.
He had fallen asleep.
Voldemort would have adored the sight of his—of Quirrell asleep if he didn't know precisely why he was so exhausted. In a best friend way, of course. Why else would he like to see him like that, all soft and unguarded?
In an effort to ground himself, he tore his gaze away from Quirrell's sleeping body and looked around the room.
It was a mess.
And the dust. Oh, the dust was everywhere.
The grey film lay over everything in sight. The floor was covered in it, save for their footprints, and it was dusted over each and every item and room that Voldemort found.
This was going to take a while.
~~
In the three hours that Quirrell had been asleep, Voldemort had made tons of progress. He had swept and mopped the floor, wiped down shelves and countertops, washed the sheets on his bed, and replaced them with clean ones. He had organized the assorted clothes lying around into piles (color coded, obviously) and was about to drop them in the laundry machine of Quirrell's flat when he heard a soft groan coming from the couch.
The pile of white shirts in his hands fell to the floor with a soft thump as he rushed to check on Quirrell. He was up, rubbing his cheek with a palm. Squinting around him, he took in his surroundings, and his eyes slowly grew wide.
"D-did you clean? My flat?" He asked, staring at the dust-free surfaces and shiny floors, his voice shaky and uncertain.
With a small smile, Voldemort told him, "Yeah, man. Of course I did."
Quirrell responded with shiny eyes glittering with tears and a soft smile.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice void of any stutter.
Voldemort's heart could have burst, which was odd, because he had never given it much thought before. Had never felt it beating this hard in his chest.
Surely it meant nothing.
~~
Quirrell had awoken to find that his flat smelled like cleaning products and fresh laundry, as opposed to the musty smell that permeated the entire place when he collapsed on the couch. Opening his eyes showed him that he wasn't simply hallucinating and that it was clean, for once in his life. Merlin knows he has never taken the time to actually mop his floors before.
Tears threatened to spill as he looked up at Voldemort, who was standing awkwardly next to his coffee table.
"D-did you clean? My flat?" he asked, feeling his unsteady voice threaten to break.
Voldemort stared back at him before a weak grin spread across his face.
"Yeah, man. Of course I did."
He felt himself smile in return.
"Thank you."
He wanted to reach out and hug Voldemort, to bring him down onto the couch with him, but something stopped him. Voldemort would hate it if he did that, even if—even if he owed him a good bit after sending him to Azkaban. But it wouldn't help things, and it would only strengthen the weird fluttery feeling that he got in his stomach whenever he looked at the other man. The feeling, he knew somewhere deep in his subconscious, was love. But he wasn't about to break their fragile new trust that they were attempting to mend.
A tear slid down his face without his consent.
He watched Voldemort kneel on the ground in front of him hesitantly.
"What's the matter, Squirrel?"
He scrambled for a response, but his thoughts were messier than his flat had been before he fell asleep.
"I'm so tired, Voldemort," he told him weakly, eyes glistening with more unshed tears.
His chest hurt with the pain of shoving his feelings down, balling them up until they were compressed somewhere deep within his heart, where no one could reach them.
Voldemort grabbed his shoulders with an uncharacteristic gentleness before tugging Quirrell into a hug.
"I know. I know. I'm sorry."