Chapter Text
First Stage
I'm awake in a world of sleep
scuffling in seas waist deep
Perseverance! I vow- 'till forever, from now
for naught will be reached should I weep.
First Year
Words never came easily to Satoshi Ohno, but his life had already been flipped over. He never said much unless spoken to, and boy did Sho Sakurai speak to him a lot. This confused and sometimes annoyed Satoshi back then, when things were simpler. Now that life decided to tangle and implode upon itself, the silence without Sho was oddly deafening.
So Satoshi wrote. A poem for each day was carefully folded and tucked into neat pink envelopes and sent to Sho. He was a busy guy, always sought out by a dozen other people he had important things to do with. Satoshi didn't mind coming in last on that list, as long as he was on it. He was always patient and Sho always thanked him for it.
Perhaps, Satoshi said to himself that year, he would just have to be extra patient.
The Second Year
Speaking still is not Satoshi's favorite thing to do. Even with Sho, he did most of the listening. The daily poetry writing helped him get thoughts into words now, however.
A year of poetry and Satoshi never once thought of giving up. He was aware of how ridiculous the idea of pursuing a boy with poetry is. There was very little to differentiate him from a stalker or an obsessed weirdo. Not that it mattered to him. He was determined to get an answer.
On one such evening, as he wrote his twenty-fourth poem of the year, he was very engrossed. It was one of two times he made extra special: Sho's birthday. He had coffee, a thesaurus and an energy bar on his desk. It was way past the last mealtime, he had only taken a break for the loo and a shower.
Whether it was day or night was not very clear. Just that it was getting so hot that he was coughing. It didn't help that someone seemed to either be cooking or smoking nearby.
When he looked up to drink coffee to clear his throat, his house was on fire.
Adrenaline kicked in, perhaps sharpened by caffeine. He grabbed his poetry tools and his goldfish in a bowl and stumbled out.
He had no injuries, but it was very cold in January even in front of a house fire. Not that it mattered. He had all he needed, the birthday poem, the goldfish and the collar on the shirt that Sho said suited him well. It was a lucky shirt -or a lucky collar- indeed...