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The week Suguru left, Satoru had struck a bargain with himself. It was a simple arrangement: think of him all you want, just make sure you never see him again. Don’t cross that boundary.
In theory it would have worked. In theory.
- If you see him, don't acknowledge him. -
The first time it happens they stand quite literally on opposite sides of the tracks. On an overcrowded platform he still stands out, clad in those gaudy robes Satoru had seen before in surveillance footage. He only manages a few moments of silent study before Geto seems to feel his gaze on him, and even across that distance, locks eyes with him.
It doesn’t last long, but the powdery candy in his mouth feels like it’s turned to ashes and suddenly the humming of the power lines is an overwhelmingly shrill buzz that fills his head with static. All he sees before the train passes between him and shrouds Geto from his sight again is a hand raised in greeting.
- If you acknowledge him, don’t talk to him. -
There was no reason to expect his presence in the small izakaya he and Shoko had settled in for the evening. It hadn’t even existed five years ago. Five years. Five years without so much as a text.
And now, Satoru can do nothing but watch as his one and only old friend makes himself comfortable with a group of strangers he’s never seen before. He’s reminded of that ashen taste from months prior, and feels the same sickening twist in his gut that had kept him awake all night and beyond.
So in truth, there’s no reason at all for him to time his next trip to the bar so carefully that they end up side by side in the crowd.
“Geto.” His tongue sounds clumsy over each syllable, dulled from lack of practice.
“Satoru.” Geto seems to have no such problem, he realises with a sick thrill.
It’s horrendously stilted despite their attempts to maintain a facade of civility. They slowly feel out the edges of each other’s lives; Satoru finds himself asking more about Suguru’s daughters than the man himself. It’s something safe to focus on, something new. Something without a history he knows they could both drown in. As time drags on, the questions that neither of them dares to ask linger in the space between, and weigh Satoru down so heavily that it’s a struggle for him to return to the booth.
“It was good to see you again, Satoru.”
In a split second, Satoru once again revises his bargain, only to have it destroyed a moment later when Suguru’s hand finds its way to his shoulder.-If you talk to him, don’t touch him. -
At the time, he hadn’t even realised he’d let Infinity drop. He’s been so consistent for the past year that it feels startlingly intense despite how casual the touch was. That night he rereads the text thread he’s never quite brought himself to delete. Stunningly enough, it doesn’t help much.
- If you touch him, don’t kiss him -
Satoru knows even before he slips through the open door of the waiting taxi that he’ll never hear the end of this from Shoko, and rightfully so.
She’s listened to literal years of ranting about how above it all he is now: how Suguru hadn’t really even meant that much in the end. Big fucking lies the lot of it. They both know fine well Satoru’s been slowly circling the drain despite his supposed best efforts otherwise.
But still, it truly is beyond the pale when Satoru finds himself leaving the same izakaya he’d been haunting in the months since their last encounter, only to find himself faced with an opened door and a familiar face beckoning him out of the rain.
“I heard you’d been here more often. Did you decide to become a drunkard too?”
Despite how sharp Suguru’s tongue is, he still finds himself smiling as the cab pulls away from the kerb.
“Geto, we both know why I’ve been going.”
Even in the relative darkness of the cab he doesn’t miss how those amber eyes widen at the bluntness. Suguru’s mouth turns down into a mock pout.
“Tch. Still with that name. It’s like you don’t even know me anymore...”
“I don’t.”
“Would you like to?”
- For the love of God don’t kiss him. -
That particular bargain only makes it as far as the door of his hotel room.
Truly, he’d intended to leave. Or at least, that’s what he’ll swear by when he’s inevitably found out and lectured for this. But Satoru - despite claims otherwise - is ultimately only human. And really there’s no use in pretending there was ever another option when Suguru cants his head so expectantly with that inviting half-smile still on his lips.
Satoru kisses him with enough force to wipe it away, tasting not ash this time but the embers themselves. Even as the door closes behind him it feels like a trap latching shut. But he finds that in this moment he can’t bring himself to care.
Instead he clings to him like a man drowned, muttering adoration against his full lips. “Suguru…”
Each time his name falls from his lips, he feels Suguru grip a little tighter. Satoru just prays it’s enough to leave a mark. Leave something real.
- If you kiss him, don’t fuck him.-
By the time that particular bargain’s made it’s already most of the way to broken. Physicality comes as second nature, seemingly to them both, filling the space where words themselves would only falter and die on the vine.
It’s only in the dead of night that words seem to creep back into their blissfully mute reunion.
“Don’t go. Stay. Just for tonight.”
Satoru’s busy tracing his name on the taut skin of Suguru’s abdomen, signing his handiwork. But he chances a glance up to see how well that went down.
Suguru just stares back from behind heavy-lidded eyes and a furrowed brow.
“It’ll all end in tears.”
“I know.”
“We can’t change how this is going to end.”
“I know. I still want it.”
“Then why do you want me to-”
“It still matters.”
- If you fuck him, don’t you dare love him.-
Satoru can’t pretend even to himself that he’s entirely surprised to wake to cold sheets. It doesn’t matter, never would. Not when he’d still willingly swallow those embers for just a hint of the warmth he’d once basked in.
By the door, there’s a scrap of paper bearing a phone number he doesn’t recognise. He pockets it, and tries to pretend like he can’t smell smoke already.