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“Damn, Shoko’s getting married, huh,” Satoru says. Suguru closes the door behind them, Satoru flipping on the lights to their apartment.
“Yeah, I’m really happy for her,” he replies absently, toeing off his shoes and placing them on the rack. “Put your shoes on the rack, I almost died tripping over them this morning.”
Satoru pouts and picks his shoes up with his feet, placing them gently on the rack. “Maybe if you didn’t leave so early in the morning you’d actually be awake enough to not trip over them.”
“Maybe if you actually taught early morning classes I wouldn’t have to wake up so early,” Suguru pokes him in his side, which, fair enough.
“Well, there aren’t going to be classes tomorrow,” Satoru replies, snaking his arms around Suguru from behind, hands coming to rest on his muscular chest. He squeezes lightly, nose brushing against Suguru’s cheek.
“Yeah, yeah, go take a shower. You stink,” Suguru brushes him off, nudging him in the side with his elbow. Satoru pretends to whine, but heads off to the shower anyway. He’d been called away from classes to deal with a Grade 1 curse at an abandoned hospital not too far away, and it was a pretty easy mission, save for the fact that it sprayed spit all over Satoru when it roared. It hadn’t actually touched him, getting caught in Limitless instead, but some of the smell still lingered.
He strips off his clothes, dumping them in the laundry basket and making a mental note to throw them in the washing machine once he’s done showering. He takes off his glasses, perching them on the side of the sink. Usually, he’d draw a bath and soak until Suguru comes to chase him out, but his joints are aching from the winter cold and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed under their duvet.
The warm shower spray washes over him, fogging up the mirror with steam. He gently works his hands through his hair, letting the water reach his roots, and relishing the feeling of water on his skin. He uncaps the bottle of lavender shampoo, massaging his scalp, hoping the smell of curse spit gets washed away by the lovely scent of home.
When he’s done, the bathroom smells of lavender, warm and humid like a sauna. He towels himself off with the towel hanging by the door, the one hanging on the left, because Suguru bought them a matching set without realising they had no way of telling whose towel was whose, so they just hang it at the same places: Satoru on the left, and Suguru on the right.
He’s about to wrap himself in the towel so he can go get dressed in their room, but there’s a hoodie and sweatpants neatly folded on the counter. Suguru must have come in while he was in the shower. And he didn’t join me, Satoru resists the urge to pout. They’re warm and cozy - Suguru must’ve just taken them out of the dryer. He smiles fondly, tugging the hoodie over his head.
“Hey, I’m done,” he says to Suguru, who’s lying on the couch using his phone.
“That’s faster than I thought you’d be,” he replies, getting up and grabbing his own clothes off the couch.
“I can be fast when I want to be,” Satoru says, “hurry up and shower, I want to sleep soon.” It’s a half-truth: he isn’t tired at all, despite the alcohol in his blood. He does want to cuddle up with Suguru as soon as he can, though.
Suguru waves him off, heading into the bathroom. “I’m going to play games on your phone,” Satoru calls, and doesn’t wait for a response before he’s unlocking Suguru’s phone. The lockscreen is completely black, like the edgy guy he is, but the homescreen is a candid picture of them, taken at the aquarium that they’d visited with Shoko two years ago. He’s looking at the fish, mouth open in excitement, but Suguru’s looking at him, a slight smile on his face. It’s dark and slightly blurry, but it’s a beautiful picture. It’s his lockscreen too, except his homescreen is a selfie they took together, their cheeks pressed together, smiling wide.
He swipes mindlessly through the few games Suguru has on his phone, settling on a random word game, because obviously Suguru only plays intellectual games. And Pokemon Go, because he’s an old man at heart. He’s barely through the fourth puzzle when Suguru leaves the bathroom, hair still moist, towel slung around his neck.
“What are you doing,” Suguru sighs, but his tone is fond. His long hair is out of its usual bun, hanging loose over his shoulders, the moisture from his hair darkening the grey fabric of his shirt. He looks softer, younger even, and Satoru pushes himself off the couch to wrap him in a hug.
“What’s this for?” Suguru asks, slightly muffled against Satoru’s shoulder.
“What, I can’t just hug you when I want to?” Satoru teases. “C’mon, let’s dry your hair.”
Their bedroom is a muted grey, curtains drawn so the Tokyo lights can’t shine in. Suguru sits, reaching for his hairdryer when Satoru snags it out of his grip.
“Let me,” he says, flicking on the power.
“How kind of you,” Suguru yawns, barely audible over the sound of the hairdryer. Satoru cards his fingers through Suguru’s hair, taking care to untangle the knots with his fingers as the hot air evaporates the lingering moisture. Suguru’s always had really straight hair, and it never even tangles when it’s dry. It’s luscious. The last time he’d said that to Suguru’s face, he’d received a gentle slap on the head for his efforts.
Suguru is pliant under his finger tips, eyes closed, seemingly enjoying the gentle touch. He reminds Satoru of a cat, snarky and aggressive when he wants to be, but also vying for attention. Soon enough, his hair is dry and free of tangles, and Satoru rubs his scalp with his fingertips, eliciting a full-body shiver.
“All done?” Suguru’s voice comes out raspier than before. Cute, Satoru thinks, he must’ve been falling asleep.
“Yup, let’s go brush our teeth, sleeping beauty,” he says, and Suguru’s conscious enough to elbow him.
Their toothbrushes and cups were also a matching set - they’d almost just bought identical ones but Satoru realised they’d have to find some way to tell them apart (”can’t we just label them with our initials?” “we have the same initials, dumbass.”) In the end, they settled for different colours - blue for Satoru and purple for Suguru. They brush their teeth in silence, Suguru leaning against Satoru.
Satoru looks into the mirror at him, at them, the picture of domesticity: pajamas, and quiet, unspoken, unbreakable trust between them. Suguru’s eyes are droopy like they usually are when he’s tired, looking at Satoru through the mirror.
They get into bed, flicking off the side-table lamps that they’d bought together with the apartment. Satoru pulls him close, letting Suguru’s head rest on his chest, legs tangled together. He smells of the same lavender soap that Satoru does, but it somehow smells better on him.
“See you tomorrow?” Suguru says, tilting his head up. His eyes are already closed, but Satoru knows what he’s asking for. He leans down, pressing their lips together gently.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, pressing another kiss to Suguru’s forehead. His thoughts drift over to the little velvet box tucked in his sock drawer, and then it’s just the scent of lavender.