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February may be one of Suguru’s least favourite months. Only a few degrees warmer than January, the air is still cold and biting. Exams are just around the corner and, coupled with the flu season, means he has to take extra care not to fall ill on top of a mountain of revision to finish. Also, he gets really weird about his birthday.
But if there’s one thing Suguru hates most about February, it has to be Valentine’s day. While he’s way less cynical about it than Shoko is, he doesn’t disagree when she calls it out for what it is—a capitalist holiday. Just a leisurely stroll around Harajuku proves it: bakeries with heart-shaped macarons as the month’s special, cafes selling sugary monstrosities disguised as pink-coloured lattes, mascots handing out flyers and yelling to quickly make your reservations at XXX restaurant for this February 14th!
There’s some endearment to be found though, watching his little cousins pour melted chocolate into heart-shaped moulds, their brows furrowed in utmost concentration. Mimiko smooths out the uneven parts with a spoon and Nanako carefully tops each mould with a healthy amount of rainbow sprinkles, their fingers stained sticky-sweet. Suguru’s beliefs about the holiday aside, it’s admittedly nice to witness this side of the girls, who are pouring their hearts into making Valentine’s chocolate for their classmates.
When the trays are successfully loaded into the refrigerator, Suguru helps them clean up, meticulously wiping off any stubborn sprinkles that cling onto their hands and elbows.
“Geto-oniisan,” asks Mimiko, “are you giving anyone chocolate this Valentine’s?”
“I’m not,” he answers honestly, “but it’s nice that you guys are doing this for your friends.”
“If you had to though,” adds Nanako, “who would you give it to?”
It’s an innocent question, but Suguru immediately tries to brush it off. Because if he really stops to think about it, his answer looks like pale skin and strong hands. Like hair akin to dragon’s beard candy spun out of snow-white sugar, eyes that are bottomless oceans reflecting crystal blue skies.
There’s a name on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it back down, because saying it aloud could only mean setting himself up for disappointment.
“No one,” he lies.
Satoru has a long list of flaws, of which includes a blatant disregard for his friends’ personal space and showing up at their houses uninvited. Suguru is used to it by this point—he even has a collection of snacks dedicated solely for when Satoru comes over, after he’d spent the entirety of their first year complaining that Suguru only had ‘boring adult food’ in his house. Now when Suguru goes grocery shopping, it’s become a natural instinct to grab senbei and dorayaki, even if he doesn’t eat any of these things. He doesn’t let himself ponder on why he could probably recite Satoru’s favourite brands in his sleep, or why they already see each other at school five days a week and Satoru still decides to spend his weekends here anyway.
(Or why that makes him feel as though a sun has been placed behind his chest, undulating honeyed warmth through his blood.)
With their legs huddled under the kotatsu, Suguru is currently trying his best to do his homework and not to stare at Satoru, who has fallen asleep next to him. An arm sprawled across the table, propping up the side of his face, mouth hanging slightly agape, a single trail of drool dribbling down his chin. Suguru quickly snaps a picture because when you’re friends with Gojo Satoru, it’s an unsaid rule to collect as much blackmail on him as possible.
The early winter sunset engulfs the house in orange light, hueing everything in its glow. Satoru isn’t untouched by it, his curves and edges tinted by the amber beginnings of dusk. Chest gently rising and falling, lashes fanning prettily over closed eyelids. Like this, Satoru looks so at peace, looks safe. It physically aches to look at him. Suguru’s hold around his pencil turns into a vice grip, white-knuckled. Ears aflame, he turns back to his homework, determined to ignore the twinge in his chest.
Daylight dims into a shade like plum; breathy snores turn into a sound that’s between a sigh and a yawn. Satoru awakens, getting up to stretch his limbs. Bends and peers over Suguru’s shoulder, their faces almost brushing, because once again, he has no concept of personal space. Or maybe he does but just decides to hell with it anyway.
“Su-gu-ru.”
“Mhmm?”
“Give me attention.”
“Can’t, ‘m doing trig homework.”
“Sounds lame.”
“You should start on it too. Yaga-sensei won’t excuse you just for being a genius.”
“All I’m hearing is that you think I’m a genius.”
Suguru rolls his eyes. Behind him, Satoru straightens, taking their proximity with him. A shuffling noise follows and Suguru thinks Satoru may have sauntered off to the kitchen in search of snacks, but then his back meets something warm. All of a sudden, there are legs bracketing his sides, arms slung around his shoulders. That something warm turns out to be Satoru’s chest against his back. He wraps around Suguru like a cocoon, lips close to grazing the nape of his neck.
Suguru stops breathing. It takes everything out of him to maintain his poker face and not completely dissolve like a puddle of ice-cream that’s been left out in the sun. The pen clasped in his hand moves on autopilot, scrawling numbers his brain can’t keep up with. It’s still stuck on the point of contact between Satoru’s beating heart and his spine, Satoru’s inner thighs and his outer thighs, the backs of his elbows folding into where Satoru’s biceps meet his extensors. A conservatory full of butterflies erupts in Suguru’s stomach and it’s futile wishing his ears don’t give him away—they burn and burn like the pyre in his chest.
“Comfy,” says Satoru. He states it like a mere observation and not something that has completely tilted Suguru’s world on its axis. Perhaps that’s what aches the most, that he touches Suguru like it means nothing.
“We should always sit like this.”
“Absolutely not.”
Everything about Satoru is so warm—his fingers twisting into Suguru’s hair, exhales brushing the column of Suguru’s neck. Inevitably, Suguru succumbs to his warmth, letting it wash over him like a blanket as he finishes the last few questions of his homework.
“I have pictures of your ugly drooling face by the way.”
“Excuse me?!”
He hates to admit it, but sitting like this doesn’t sound like a bad idea after all.
If there’s one thing Suguru hates most about February, it’s Valentine’s day. And if there’s one thing he hates most about Valentine’s day, it’s—
Watching heaps of chocolate and love letters fall out from Satoru’s locker has become an annual event. It leaves a bitter taste in Suguru’s mouth. When he’d first met Satoru, he already knew he was going to be the popular type. Satoru had marched into the classroom like a hurricane—if hurricanes looked like the male lead in a shoujo manga. Receiving chocolates from half the school’s population is a given when you look like that.
It’s not as if Suguru doesn’t receive his fair share of chocolates or confessions, but he’s never had a reason to accept them, always deflecting with a polite smile. He doesn’t even like sweets, or girls for that matter, but he isn’t going to let himself linger on those thoughts.
During lunch, he and Shoko watch Satoru unwrap each package as if he’s some influencer’s haul video.
“Ooh, Godiva,” exclaims Satoru, immediately popping five hazelnut praline truffles into his mouth at once, “this girl’s got fine taste in both men and chocolates.”
“Stop speaking with your mouth full, you pig. And go quickly get some food before the bell rings. You can’t actually replace a whole meal with sugar.”
“Aw, are you worried for my health, Suguru?”
Sitting across from them, Shoko picks up a card that’s decorated with so much glitter it quickly stains her fingers sparkly-pink. “I can’t believe Aishido Yumi confessed to you,” she scoffs, “she’s way too hot for you.”
“I’d say we both fare pretty well on the hotness scale, which makes a lot of sense that she’d want me,” rebuts Satoru with a wink.
Darkness swirls inside of Suguru. His half-eaten yakisoba suddenly doesn’t seem so appealing anymore. And it’s an ugly feeling he wishes he could reject from his system, the way his heart sinks like a rock tossed out at sea. But the show has to go on, so he makes a gagging face at Satoru, all play pretend, and shoves another bite of noodles into his mouth.
Aishido Yumi, huh. It makes sense that she’d be Satoru’s type—she looks just like one of those idols on the posters in Satoru’s room. The female lead in a shoujo manga.
Suguru’s mother once said that jealousy is a disease and he feels it now, dispersing through his blood like a sickness. Under the table, he claws at his lap, not hard enough to tear through his pants but hard enough to sting. He imagines he’s clawing at the monster thudding beneath his skin instead, willing it away because what does that say about him, feeling upset that his best friend got confessed to by someone he found attractive? That’s what they are, best friends. And this ugly feeling shouldn’t belong here, so he crinkles his eyes into crescents, smiling as if his life depended on it while Satoru continues to rummage through his pile of gifts.
Smiling like if he does it hard enough, he could pretend he’s not in love.
to: the three musketeers
from: shoko
>>> won’t be joining you guys tonight, go ahead without me
to: the three musketeers
from: suguru
>>> ??? do you have a date we don’t know about?
to: the three musketeers
from: shoko
>>> no comment
to: the three musketeers
from: satoru
>>> guess it’s just you and me suguru (づ￣ ³￣)づ
The irony of spending Valentine’s day with his best friend in a purely platonic way isn’t lost on Suguru, but he supposes that’s what capitalists trick you into thinking—that February 14th is meant to be celebrated with your special someone. In reality, this is just another day for him and Satoru. Leaving school together, getting dinner on the way home. Satoru dragging him to the nearest konbini for post-dinner sweets, or to the park where they just sit on the grass and talk shit.
Suguru walks down the corridor leading to the classroom on the far right, where he knows Satoru will be waiting for him. This late in the afternoon, most of the students have already gone home. It’s quieter, just how he likes it. If Suguru looks down, he can see couples ambling out of the school gate together. Hands full of sweets and cards and flowers, but that doesn’t stop them from touching somehow, their elbows brushing, shoulders pressing into each other. Probably off to their dates at some mid-tier restaurant in Harajuku or Shibuya. Confession, reciprocation.
Approaching the classroom, he hears voices. They’re soft and muffled, but he quickly identifies Satoru’s as one of them—its dulcet cadence so distinct even at such low volume. Suguru slows down his steps, not wanting to intrude on their conversation.
And that’s where he sees them.
The lights are off but Suguru can make out their silhouettes. Standing across from each other are Satoru and Aishido Yumi. Their faces may be obscured by the long afternoon shadows extending across the classroom walls, but even then, everything about their dispositions screams soft. Soft in the way Suguru had foolishly believed was only made known to him. Soft like how Satoru had held him that day, enveloping every square inch of his body, chest to back, back to chest.
For a second, Suguru stays rooted to the ground, unable to move. But then his flight instincts kick in and all he can think is, I can’t stay here. So he flees, turning back the way he came from, dashing up flights of stairs with no destination in mind.
He’s out of breath by the time he reaches the top, greeted by a tiny door that says: Do not enter. Suguru pushes it open with his shoulder anyway. It’s not like him to break school rules—if anything, Satoru’s usually the one dragging him into bad ideas, like skipping class or trespassing restricted zones. You’re such a goody-two-shoes, he would say to him. But right now, Suguru doesn’t have the bandwidth to think about the consequences if he gets caught. Because the ache behind his breastbone has bloomed into something excruciating, almost intolerable; the scene of Satoru and Aishido in the classroom burned into the backs of his eyelids like a brand. And Suguru just wants it to go away.
The door opens to reveal a rooftop he’s never seen before. Below him is endless concrete and above him is an endless sky, peppered with pinks and reds and oranges by the setting sun. Suguru’s mind circles back to that day in his house again—Satoru sleeping soundly next to him at the kotatsu, bathed in sunset glow. He squeezes his eyes shut, digs his nails into his palms, willing the image to leave his brain.
Up here, it’s freezing, and for the first time it’s a welcome distraction. Suguru lets it bite into his skin, sting inside his bones. When he exhales, his breaths escape his mouth in visible clouds.
Inside his pocket, his phone vibrates. He whips it out, wincing when he sees a text notification from Satoru on the screen.
from: satoru
>>> where are u??
The ache behind his sternum intensifies again, knocking the breath out of his lungs. There’s a green-eyed monster residing under Suguru’s skin, threatening to unearth from where he’s tried his hardest to bury. He imagines Satoru finding him just to tell him, hey, Suguru, sorry but let’s cancel tonight, I’m going on a date. And Suguru knows he’s being really childish right now, knows it’s going against every lesson in manners his parents have taught him, but he ignores Satoru’s texts. Slumps his back against what must be the school’s water tank and stares up at the dusking sky.
More vibrations ensue, followed by his ring tone. Satoru’s name appears on his screen again. Suguru switches his phone off.
He loses track of how much time has passed just sitting there. The sky has fallen dark by now, flecked only by small wisps of clouds, with not a single star in sight. It’s so cold. Suguru’s cheeks are flushed, bones achy. He won’t be surprised if he wakes up tomorrow with a flu. In the back of his mind, unfinished homework and revision call for his attention, but he can’t move. It’s the most irresponsible he’s been in a while, and that’s counting the years being friends with Satoru and having to do stupid shit with him by default.
Hinges creak, door opens. Hurried footsteps pad across the concrete. Suguru jolts up, heart skipping a beat. It could be the security guard or even worse, a teacher. Oh well, this is it now. It’ll be his first time receiving a warning from the school. He might even have to serve detention. Suguru clenches his fists, steeling himself for the worst.
But then the person appears from the corner of his eye and it’s not the school’s security guard or one of his teachers. It’s Satoru.
He looks flustered, all scarlet cheeks and laboured breaths, his collar dishevelled and uniform creased, as if he’s been running all over. Stumbling towards Suguru in hysterics, eyes alight with something between anger and relief.
“Where were you?”
“I—”
“I looked for you in your classroom and then I looked for you all around school and then I went to your house but you weren’t there!”
It’s been a long time since he has heard Satoru sound this angry. Guilt snakes its way around Suguru’s breastbone like a poisonous vine. Satoru had gone all the way to his house and then back here. Suguru doesn’t deserve him.
“You didn’t answer my texts! You turned off your phone when I called you!”
Suguru doesn’t know what to say. What’s Satoru even so angry for? Brows furrowed, the corner of his lip quivering. Even now, Suguru has the urge to reach out, smooth those creases between his eyes. It’s his natural inclination to defuse the situation between them. So he twists his mouth into a smile, the curves of his eyelids crumpling into moons. Smiling so sweetly even when his throat feels like it’s been pumped with venom.
“What are you doing here, Satoru? You should be on your date with Aishido now. Don’t let me keep you here.”
There’s a long moment of silence where Suguru just stares at the empty space behind Satoru’s shoulder. The fixtures in the background lose their edges, blurring into a mess of abstract hues. And then without warning, Satoru leans forward, grabbing Suguru by the back of his head, pushing their bodies together. Chest to chest, Suguru’s face slotted into the crook of Satoru’s neck. His other arm drapes around Suguru’s back, squeezing him tight, like if he loosens his hold for even a second Suguru would disappear. The world stops spinning; everything gets punched out of Suguru in one go—his words, the breath in his lungs. Satoru’s fingers thread into Suguru’s hair, a gentle pressure against his scalp, and god— he can’t keep doing this. Not when he has a date with a pretty girl to get to, not when today is a day meant to celebrate lovers and they are just— best friends.
“Suguru, you’re an idiot.”
“Don’t wanna hear that from someone who walked into a glass door because he was shopping for Sanrio charms on his phone.”
“Shut up. You really are.”
Satoru’s voice is a shuddery breath in Suguru’s ear, drawing goosebumps from the earth of his skin. And it’s soft, so soft, soft like the rest of him. Soft like this moment, a blunt knife, and Suguru wonders how it can hurt more than a sharp blade. Against his wishes, a tear falls down his cheek. He presses his face harder into Satoru’s sleeve, hiding the evidence.
“I wanted to hang out with you,” says Satoru. For the millionth time, Suguru’s heart pangs behind his chest.
“Yumi-chan looked for me after school today, confessed a second time. But I said no.”
“You don’t have to explain anything, Satoru.”
“I know, I just— wanted you to know anyway.”
Suguru doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Letting his arms hang uselessly by his sides doesn’t seem right, so he grasps unsteady fingers around Satoru’s waist, bunching the material of his shirt. As if they aren’t pressed close enough, Satoru leans into the touch, the side of his chin now grazing Suguru’s temple.
“I told her that I like somebody else,” he admits and here, Suguru hitches his breath, “somebody who’s an idiot.”
Hope is terrifying but Suguru’s heart flutters with it anyway. Swathed in Satoru’s embrace, he forgets about the cold for a while.
Satoru takes him to a restaurant selling zaru soba.
It has to mean something, suggesting to get Suguru’s favourite food for dinner. On Valentine’s day. But Suguru’s afraid to read between the lines, doesn’t want to put a name to it until he gets a confirmation. For now, he’s content to spend his evening like he does with Satoru every other day.
The restaurant is a hole-in-the-wall, with only ten measly bar seats encircling the counter and an open kitchen behind it, where they can watch the chef prepare the soba. There’s just one item on the menu, but that’s how you know the food is good. And the space may be cramped, but that means getting to sit really close with Satoru—their knees and ankles brushing, elbows digging into one another as they twirl oodles of noodles around their chopsticks—and Suguru won’t admit it, but that far outweighs the discomfort of dining in close quarters.
“Would you rather have to use shrimp-flavoured toothpaste or deodorant that smells like cheese?”
“Satoru, what the fuck.”
“It’s a valid concern. You never know when the world may run out of mint or citrus scents and we’re forced to choose between— shrimp-flavoured toothpaste or deodorant that smells like cheese.”
“You’re fucking weird but shrimp-flavoured toothpaste, I guess. Don’t want people smelling cheese on me and getting grossed out.”
“I’m with you on that. Besides, shrimp-flavoured toothpaste sounds like it might actually be delicious.”
Beneath the table, Satoru rests his palm on Suguru’s thigh, creating yet another touchpoint between them. Coupled with the steam curling from a boiling pot of noodles behind the counter, it warms Suguru down to his toes.
“Okay, would you rather grow an extra toe or a third nipple?”
The salaryman sitting next to their left flashes them a weird look. Suguru smacks Satoru on the shoulder, laughing, “Shut the hell up.” But he leans in to whisper his answer anyway, “Definitely an extra toe. At least I get to hide it in my socks.”
“I don’t know,” rebuts Satoru, batting his eyelashes, “a third nipple’s kinda hot, don’t you think?”
Suguru guffaws so hard he almost chokes on his noodles.
After dinner, he gets dragged to an arcade around the corner. Just when he’s so sure he’s about to spend the next hour watching Satoru waste his life savings away on Sanrio gachapon machines, Satoru leads him to the second level, a floor decked out with photo booths.
The last time they took purikura pictures, it was with Shoko in their first year. Suguru still has the photo strip taped to his wall—their eyes dramatically enlarged, devil horns that Shoko had drawn protruding out of their heads. He’s never done anything like this with just Satoru, though.
They bicker about how many shots they should take for a single strip. Satoru wants eight, but Suguru can’t even think of that many poses, so they compromise with four. And then they bicker about which background to choose—Satoru wants something cute and bright like the hot pink one with cherry prints dotted all over, while Suguru wants something more simple like a plain white background. They settle with a light pink one.
A press of a button and five one hundred yen coins later, the timer starts.
One, they stick out their tongues for the camera.
Two, Satoru tilts his head to the right and puts up peace signs by his face; Suguru does the good old thumbs up.
Three, Satoru aims to do half of a heart, while Suguru sticks with his trusty thumbs up pose. Just as Satoru shouts at Suguru to complete the heart, the camera flash goes off, freezing the moment—furrowed brows and a mouth caught mid-yell.
Four, Suguru is still laughing at their previous shot. Satoru turns to look at him for a second, the curve of his mouth bracketed by a soft smile. And then he’s grabbing Suguru by the chin, pressing their cheeks together. Surprised by the sudden movement, Suguru turns, too. The camera clicks when their lips meet in the middle.
As they walk to the train platform, the air enveloped by a soft tension, Suguru comes to the conclusion that for the first time, Satoru is right—he is an idiot. And there’s a photo strip with a picture of them kissing safely tucked into a plastic sleeve as proof. Suguru’s already thinking about where he should display it in his room.
There’s still so much uncertainty but Suguru thinks maybe, for now, he can let this be. This delicate thing between them that aches like a bruise but also shines like the sun.
“Suguru.”
“Mhmm?”
“Your train is coming.”
“Duh, I can see that.”
“Before you go, I—”
In a flurry of movement, Satoru retrieves something from his backpack and deposits it in Suguru's hands.
“Happy Valentine’s,” he says softly.
Suguru looks down. Nestled in his palms is none other than a box of chocolates.