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Summary
The young man doesn’t even turn around. He already knew who the owner of the voice was. He merely remained in place, allowing the source to catch up to him. He hears the familiar pitter patter of running shoes. The drum of its pace was consistent, much like the certainty of a heartbeat that Suga had precisely known all his life.
‘Skin carved from Greek marble across the Agean Sea, hair woven from the finest copper of Babylon, eyes made from from the richest of molasses of Molucas and a shit-eating grin that’s nurtured only from hell.’
Suga smiles and makes sure to meet the rich pit of molasses with his own slate eyes.
Or, Suga and Daichi meet for the first time and can't see eye-to-eye.