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The mood in your dining room palpably shifts. Shock, disbelief and utter betrayal dance across Satoru’s face. His scone suspended halfway on its journey to his mouth as his brain tries to process the information you just laid before him.
“You’re not…serious, right?” He asks, eyes searching your face some sign of an impending punchline.
“Deadass.” You respond around your mouthful of pastry, “You looked like a fucked up slenderman.”
His frown deepens—brows upturned and pinched. The scone is discarded onto the table as he crosses his arms and slumps into his chair. You’re used to his melodrama, but the abandoned sweet draws your attention. Nothing gets between Satoru and dessert, not even a temper tantrum.
He’s not giving you his normal wounded puppy routine either. He isn’t invading your space and demanding affection as recompense for some perceived slight. In fact he’s pointedly not looking at you at all. His shock seems real, not just part of his normal antics.
“Why are you acting like a baby? I thought you knew I hated your guts.” It was no secret; anyone who had witnessed you interact as teens knew the hostility you flung in his direction was absolutely genuine.
“Of course you hated me! But…” He stalls, perfect glossy lips pulled into a full pout, “But I thought there was, y’know, rampant teenage sexual tension underneath it all. ‘Are they gonna fight or fuck’ that type of thing.”
You can’t hold back the laugh that escapes you— his grimace grows more pronounced at the sound.
“Absolutely not. I could not have been less attracted to you.” You assure him.
“But because of my personality? You thought I was hot, but a prick, right?” He asks, somehow managing to slump even further into his chair.
“Wrong. You were weird lookin’.” His pained cry sounds disturbingly genuine, but you stand your ground, “You were fifteen, Toru! All limbs and weird proportions. You fell squarely in the wrong part of the uncanny valley.”
“Uncanny valley?!” He wails, throwing his hands in the air.
“Yes!” You hook your foot around the leg of his chair, shifting it so so he has to face you, “Especially with your big ole wet peepers.”
You bracket your eyes with your fingers, pulling your eyelids wide to highlight your point. He huffs and kicks the leg of your chair, sending you sliding back but doing nothing to quell your laughter.
He grabs his scone off the table, finishing it off in two bites as he stands from his chair. You watch as he stomps off to your bedroom—amused but more than a little confused.
It’s clear that he’s actually upset, but you have to take a moment to decide how you feel about his reaction to something as silly as this. Were you really about to have to console your lover because he had the devastating realization that you hadn’t always thought he was hot?
Sighing, you start to clean up the remnants of your mid morning snack. Having Satoru as a partner was rarely typical. Admittedly it was easier than you ever would have believed before you started this journey with him, but there were moments like this that forced you to remember how strange Satoru really was.
Strange is maybe too unkind a word. He’s…singular.
And you loved that about him, so you put your presuppositions aside and head to your bedroom to make sure the love of your life isn’t suffering unduly.
Spread out on your mattress—ankles crossed, hands tucked behind his head, he looks like a displaced god. Only he could manage to look otherworldly while wearing joggers and a tee shirt. At the very least you know your current attraction to him isn’t in question. You’ve told him on more than one occasion that he’s so pretty you sometimes have to focus on his ears while talking to him in order to maintain your train of thought.
You climb into bed and tuck your body next to his, placing a few chaste kisses to the underside of his unfairly sharp jaw. The tension bleeds from him slightly.
“Satoru, I can’t believe you’re making me do this.” You complain, “You know for a fact you’re the most beautiful person literally anyone has ever seen or will ever see.”
He hums in acknowledgment, his frown remains. In the fifteen years you’ve known the man next to you, you’ve learned a thing or two about him. The most surprising of which was the deep well of anxiety that simmered in his chest.
Satoru is the king of superlatives: strongest, fastest, most handsome. Generally people forget that he’s also the smartest, as loath as you may be to admit it. His brain perpetually fired on all cylinders, taking the unimaginable amount of sensory input he receives from his curse technique and distilling it into actionable conclusions.
Ceaseless thoughts, ceaseless calculations, ceaseless worry.
You watch as his eyes dance across the ceiling.
“Hey,” You place a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look at you, “Penny for your thoughts, blue.”
The nickname smooths some of the tension in his brow, but he still looks too pensive for your liking.
“I hate being wrong about you.” He admits quietly, “I’m never wrong about you. I know you.”
“Now you do,” You correct him, “why are you surprised you came to the wrong conclusion about fifteen year old me?”
He makes a quiet noise of frustration.
“I know I’m arrogant.” He continues despite your amused huff at his admission, “But I’m not as bad as I used to be.”
“No.” You agree, “I certainly wouldn’t be here if you were.”
His hand moves from its place behind his head down to your hip, pulling you in, not pleased by even the hypothetical of you not being by his side. You acquiesce easily, letting yourself go pliant just the way he likes.
The mood shifts again, like your presence filled one of the unknown variables in his mental calculus. He places a few chaste kisses on your forehead and finally relaxes fully.
“It just sucks to realize I held on to an incorrect assumption all this time. Makes me worry I got more important stuff wrong, too.” Long fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt, “Plus you totally nerfed the narrative I had about us. I thought we’d been secretly pining for each other for years.”
“Nope.” You pop the P for effect, “Sorry, bud. There was zero pining on my end of things until our 20s, which, I might add, does mean we still pined over each other for years.”
Satoru releases a dramatic sigh, “It’s not the same.”
“Boo hoo, blue.” You slap his pec lightly.
“You’re gonna be the one cryin’. You know I’m never gonna let this go. I plan on being completely insufferable about this.” He threatens.
“Aw, did baby blue get his feelings hurt?” You swing a leg over his hips, settling astride your pouting husband, “Need me to kiss it better?”
He nods shamelessly, arms reaching out for you, “I’m inconsolable, but do your best, I guess.”
You always do. He deserves nothing less.