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Fukube Satoshi is a man of extremes. He's not the person Oreki Houtarou is, who can (and wants to, why does he want to) deal with a grey-coloured life. With him, everything is either rose-coloured,
or blue. A deep, sinking blue.
If black-or-white thinking were charisma, he'd have it in spades.
He knows too much to get anywhere. That's his calling card, his fall-back when people ask too much, look at him the wrong way. Nobody (plus one) wants to pry at him, the way Chitanda does Houtarou, so he pries himself open and offers his data to the world, no charge. It gets him attention, but not in the way he wants.
How long does it take the average person to ignore a rolling camera?
He says too little that could help him with this. For all the things that could get Houtarou going, he still has a hard time believing it's an "I'm curious!" Part of him finds it funny. Another part of him hates it, because for all the years and all the days they've been together, nothing he's said has ever made Houtarou react like that before.
If he said it in English, would that be any different?
He knows too little of what actually matters. If this were a detective novel, he feels like he and Houtarou would be the two halves of Sherlock Holmes. There's him, the half that knows everything they need ― then there's Houtarou, with the brains and the guts to make a difference. Satoshi is smarter than him; there's no doubt about it.
But what's useless trivia when you don't know how to use it?
He says too much that means nothing at all. Houtarou is so immersed in his own world that Satoshi's afraid he'll get trapped there, sometimes. That's why he talks. He never stops talking, because when Houtarou actually acknowledges what he says, it makes him angry, happy. It makes him feel too many conflicting things, at once and not at all.
Does he ever stop thinking?
He gets nowhere. Being in so many clubs at once means constantly playing catch-up. It doesn't matter how well he can manage his time; he's always missed something. He's out pricking his fingers with needles while Chitanda is pressing Houtarou close.
Is it crazy if he thinks he'll wander in one day and find them getting married?
He misses his chance. Satoshi doesn't miss much, but then again, neither does Houtarou. It starts with Houtarou signing up for the Classics Club on his own. It keeps going, like a slow-rolling boulder down a hill, and soon enough he's wasting energy for the sake of others. It's only natural. He just wanted to be the one to get it rolling, is all.
What if he wanted it to slow down?
He learns, but not what he needs to. He has a mind most people envy, where picking up on details is his expertise. In middle school, it gets to be too much. He learns that the only way to kick frustration is to chase an impossible goal. He doesn't learn that he could be satisfied, if he really wanted to be.
Where did he get that idea, anyway?
He runs out of things to say. It happens, in those dying hours when it's just him and Houtarou. It's the cloud he carries with him, the oppressive silence that wrings out people's thoughts and feelings and hangs them up to dry. Friends should be comfortable with silence, but when it falls, Satoshi feels like screaming.
Who came up with the idea of "comfortable silence?"
He knows―what it's like to stand beside Houtarou and still be in his shadow―too much.
He says―"I'm jealous," when he really means it―too little.
He knows―how it would feel to look Houtarou in the eyes and say "No"―too little.
He says―"I'm jealous," but not when it matters―too much.
He gets nowhere (with Houtarou, with himself, because spinning your wheels means nothing if you're not on the ground).
He misses his chance (to slide his hand under the table and into Houtarou's; to catch his eyes across the room before Chitanda does; to―).
He learns, but not what he needs to (do to make things stop, pause for one second, because this is too fast).
He runs out of things to say.