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There isn’t a name for the kind of relationship that they have.
Since Valentine’s day of last year, things have largely stayed the same between them: they still hang out like best friends, bicker like best friends, annoy each other like best friends. Whiling their afternoons away at the arcade, watching Satoru waste a week’s worth of allowance on claw machines and gachapon. Eating their weight in onigiri and pudding cups from the konbini. Satoru still drops by Suguru’s house unannounced and ransacks his cabinet for snacks; Suguru still loads senbei and dorayaki into his trolley during grocery runs despite complaining about it. Just a pair of best friends, doing best friend stuff.
Except now, Satoru takes Suguru’s hand in his, entwining their fingers together as they sit on a train headed for Shinjuku or walk along the perimetre of the lake at Hibiya Park. A thumb would run along the grooves of Suguru’s knuckles, their palms pressed long enough to sweat but still refusing to part. In new but no less profound ways, Suguru learns that Satoru’s hands are soft like velvet, warm like fresh sheets under the midday sun. Everytime their palms kiss, he imagines their lifelines intersecting, the pulses in their wrists drumming in tandem.
Just a pair of best friends, doing best friend stuff. Except now, they kiss. A lot. The sun dips beneath the horizon, spilling honey and amber over their faces, and Suguru imagines the colours taste as sweet as Satoru’s lips—all milk and vanilla, like the castella from the bakery in Harajuku that he loves so much. Here, Suguru cradles Satoru’s face in his palm, thumb tracing the plane of his cheekbone, fingertip set aglow by orange light arcing across expanse of pale skin. Satoru reciprocates by threading his fingers through Suguru’s hair, catching on loose ebony ribbons where his bun threatens to unravel. They’re both new to this, and it shows in clashing teeth and swelling mouths, but Suguru likes this, too—there’s no lead, it’s just the both of them, navigating uncharted territory side by side. When their mouths extricate briefly, like coming up from the water’s surface to gasp for air, Satoru smiles something so warm it lights Suguru up from the inside out.
There isn’t a name for the kind of relationship that they have, and Satoru hasn’t asked him to be his boyfriend yet, but Suguru thinks he can live with this. Maybe there just aren’t any words in the dictionary to describe this sun in his chest.
TGIF Fridays, as Satoru stupidly likes to call them, are spent at this particular Mosburger outlet in Ikebukuro that he really likes. It never gets too crowded, and the communal table on the second floor extends along the floor-to-ceiling window, promising lunch with a view of the street below. Suguru tries to ignore the high school couples that surround them—they take up the booths in every corner of the restaurant, ankles hooking beneath the table as they drink their milk teas from the same straw. Leaning over the counter, he redirects his attention to Satoru's piss-poor health choices instead.
“I would like three cheeseburgers and two ebi ones, plus a large fry—”
Suguru digs an elbow into Satoru’s waist. “Show some self-restraint.”
“Aww, Suguboo, there you go worrying for my health again. Growing boys like me just need a ton of food, ya know?”
“Don’t come crying to me when you’re thirty and suffering from clogged arteries.”
“Wow, we’re only eighteen and you’re already picturing future us. I like that. It truly embodies the meaning of in sickness and in health—”
Suguru clamps a hand over Satoru’s mouth, smothering the rest of his sentence. The cashier looks like she’d rather die than listen to their conversation for another second.
“Would you guys like to add anything else to that?”
From behind Suguru’s palm, Satoru’s tongue darts out, licking one long swipe across his palmar lines. The heat and wetness instantly set his ears aflame.
“That’ll be all, thanks.”
While waiting for their food, Satoru reaches out, tucks a loose fringe behind Suguru’s ear. His fingertips linger there, trailing the shape of a conch shell, as if he knows Suguru is blushing in his ears, as if teasing him about it. Suguru swats his hand away, lest the redness in his ears creeps down the nape of his neck, disperses across his cheeks, like a paintbrush dipped into water.
“If you had to choose a carb to not eat for the rest of your life—”
“Oh god, not this again.”
“Shut up and listen to me. So, if you had to pick one between rice, noodles, bread, and potatoes to get rid of forever, which would it be?”
“That’s easy. Bread.”
Satoru makes a show of being affronted by Suguru’s answer, hand to his chest, his mouth hanging agape. “I beg your pardon. What about taiyaki? Or melonpan?”
“You’re just saying that cause you like sweets.”
“We’re literally gonna eat burgers right now which, by the way, require bread.”
“And whose choice was it to come here for lunch?” retorts Suguru, before asking, “Which would you eliminate anyway?”
“Oh, definitely noodles.”
Now, that’s something Suguru takes personal offense with. “Excuse me? Noodles are the best carb, period.”
“I don’t know, they seem kinda boring to me.”
“You can have them in so many forms! Udon, ramen, soba! Hot or cold! Served in broth or with a dipping sauce!”
“Has anyone told you how cute you get when you’re all worked up about— noodles?”
Suguru flicks Satoru on the forehead. Heat blooms all over his cheeks, the feverish sensation confirming his worst fears have come true, he’s blushing everywhere. Satoru stares at him unabashedly and Suguru just wants to kiss the smug grin off his face.
When the buzzer rings, they collect their food from the counter and head back to their table. First order of business is to pour out the fries from their individual baskets onto the tray so they have a common fry pile to eat from. Fast food isn’t Suguru’s top pick for a meal—he’d much rather have zaru soba or mackerel with rice—but he contends that his teriyaki chicken burger is pretty decent. Beside him, Satoru happily chows down his five burgers, eating so quickly he almost chokes on a mouthful of beef patty. Suguru slaps him on the back, chiding, “Eat slowly, you idiot.”
Like all the other couples in the restaurant, they hook ankles under the table, Satoru's calf looping around Suguru’s shin. Sitting next to each other instead of across from each other, elbows brushing as their sides press. Satoru’s right shoulder to Suguru’s left shoulder, Suguru’s left outer thigh to Satoru’s right outer thigh.
“We should go to the My Melody pop-up cafe this weekend.”
“And eat a bunch of overpriced, sickly sweet desserts? No thanks.”
“You’re no fun, Suguru.”
“Besides, I have to study for that science test on Monday.”
“It’s just science!”
“Not everyone’s a genius like you, Satoru.”
Satoru pouts and, ah, that’s something Suguru wants to kiss off his face too, those puckered lips. If Suguru thinks about it any longer he might burst into flames so he quickly turns away, burying his face into his hand. There should be a statute of limitations on how many times you can turn apple-cheeked in front of your best friend. He wants to combust.
“You’re thinking something dirty, aren’t you?”
“What— no! I’m not!” sputters Suguru, throwing a soggy fry in Satoru’s direction for good measure. It falls miserably back onto the tray. Satoru just laughs, leaning in to press a greasy kiss to Suguru’s cheek.
(Spoiler alert: they end up going to the My Melody pop-up cafe that weekend anyway.)
Last night, Satoru had untangled the hoodie tied around Suguru’s waist and decided it would be his. In exchange, he had given Suguru his own sweater—a cashmere thing that looks way too expensive for Suguru’s possession, its shade of cream akin to those vanilla milkshakes Satoru loves to drink.
In the computer lab where the air-conditioning is on full blast, Suguru puts on Satoru’s sweater, blushing from head to toe. It’s a good thing they don’t share this class—Satoru wouldn’t let him live this down if he saw him like this. The sweater is slightly big on Suguru, swallowing his arms, drowning him in soft fabric. Blanketing him in warmth, its cuffs delicately cinching around his wrists, the neckline a cosy duvet draping his collarbone. Suguru catches his reflection on the computer screen and his heart skips a beat. He’s seen Satoru in this same sweater before, on chilly autumn evenings, in the cinema watching those stupid romcoms that he likes so much.
It’s the kind of foolish, lovesick thing Shoko would bonk him on the head for if she knew he was thinking about it—wearing this sweater feels like receiving a hug from Satoru himself. When Suguru closes his eyes, he can picture it with full clarity: Satoru’s arms encircling his back and shoulders, lips lightly brushing his forehead, their heartbeats reverberating where their chests are pressed to each other. If they were cuddling on a bed—a recent development they’ve made which makes Suguru giddy as hell—Suguru’s knees would be slotted between Satoru’s thighs, their legs intertwined like two streams merging into a river.
Cashmere bunches around Suguru’s waist and he grabs a fistful of it, its material like velvet between his fingers. The smell of cedarwood fills his lungs. He keeps the sweater on for the rest of the class.
When the bell rings, he heads to the classroom where he knows Satoru always waits for him and— oh.
Through the slats between the window panels, Suguru sees Satoru in his hoodie, its black colour a stark contrast to his snow-white hair. The hoodie fits him more snugly, cotton cinching around his waist and accentuating his curves, a concavity that Suguru has traced multiple times with his fingers. Late afternoon sunlight catches on exposed skin where wrists peek out of sleeves and ankles slip out of hemlines. A soft smile curls the corners of Satoru’s mouth upward, and he looks so relaxed it makes Suguru’s chest hurt. Satoru types away at his phone, probably sending some stupid meme to Suguru. Confirming it is the vibration in Suguru’s pocket. He’s such an idiot. Suguru loves him.
Appearing pleased with himself, Satoru sets his phone down on the desk and begins fiddling with the cuffs of Suguru’s hoodie, tugging at the elastic band. Suguru is still trying to process the fact that Satoru is wearing his hoodie when all of a sudden, Satoru bows his head, brings up his shoulder where cotton stretches taut against skin, and fucking sniffs Suguru’s hoodie sleeve. The smile on his lips widens into a full-blown grin, and it’s followed by pink dusting his cheeks.
For a long moment, Suguru forgets how to breathe. His whole body feels like it’s been set on fire. Satoru hasn’t noticed him yet but he’s compelled to hide his face behind his hand anyway, to bite his lip lest he does something stupid like mirror Satoru’s dopey smile.
(That evening, Satoru returns Suguru's hoodie to him with a command: “Take this back, wear it, make it smell like you again, and then give it back to me.”
Needless to say, Suguru responds by punching him in the stomach.)
The midday heat is unforgiving, clinging onto the napes of their necks in a sheen of perspiration. Suguru has his bun up high, the top pair of buttons on his gakuran undone. Curving against his palm is an ice-cold Sprite can, its condensation doing little to alleviate the sweltering warmth. They’re far too invested in the game they’re watching to leave though. There’s a bunch of second and third-years competing in three-on-three basketball, their uniforms soaked through with sweat. The current score is ten to seven in the second-years’ favour.
“My bets are on the seniors to win,” Haibara leans in to whisper, even though he probably can’t be heard past the loud thuds of basketball meeting asphalt, “think they’ll make a comeback towards the end?”
“I’m not sure about that. The guy with purple hair is freakishly tall,” says Suguru, stealing another mochi from the container. Haibara’s mum had made them all daifuku, and the ones left in the container are technically meant for Satoru, but Suguru thinks that sugar fiend can live with eating one less.
Soft, chewy mochi tears apart between Suguru’s teeth, revealing a red bean paste core that’s not too sweet. He’d appreciate sweets way more if they all tasted like this. “It’s so good. Please tell Haibara-okaasan thank you and we love her.”
Haibara’s eyes light up. He looks like a golden retriever that’s just been praised, and Suguru means this in the best of ways. “It’s true,” adds Suguru, “Satoru would love this.”
“Oh, speaking of Gojo-senpai!” interjects Haibara, “I heard from Yaga-sensei that he got scouted by MIT!”
…huh?
“That’s crazy. He’s the only Japanese high schooler that’s ever been sought out by the MIT. They’re offering him a full-ride scholarship for their quantum physics program—”
Suguru’s finding it really hard to focus on what Haibara’s saying. Or the game they’re watching for that matter, movements on the court now a hazy blur. Someone may have just scored and he wouldn’t notice. Everything else in the world fades away, and if his scattered thoughts were colours they’d distil into a single shade of grey, painting the voice that screams inside his head: Satoru has an overseas college placement, and he hasn’t told you yet. He hasn’t told you yet.
“Geto-senpai? Earth to Geto-senpai?”
Haibara’s voice snaps him back to reality. Suguru flashes an apologetic smile at him but it feels misplaced on his face. His ears are still burning from something he can’t name. Perhaps shame, perhaps disappointment.
“Did Gojo-senpai not tell you yet?”
Suguru shakes his head, eyes crinkling into crescents. It’s his trademark polite smile and hopefully it would allay some of the guilt that’s evidently lacing Haibara’s voice.
“He’ll tell me in his own time.” Suguru wants to believe in his own words, too. He trusts his best friend. Still, the excuse tastes like acid on his tongue.
“I hope I didn’t ruin his plans to surprise you or anything—”
Suguru reaches out and ruffles Haibara’s hair, fondness warming his chest as his junior’s kicked puppy expression gradually eases. “Don’t worry about it.”
Eventually, the bell rings and the game ends. Suguru doesn’t notice who wins.
On the way home from school, Satoru makes them stop at a playground. The evening sky is a deep mauve, speckled with thin wisps of clouds and satellite-stars. Overhead, street lamps flicker to life, dust motes floating beneath their yellow light. Satoru and Suguru sit on the swings, swaying back and forth like pendulums, accompanied only by the soft music streaming from Satoru’s phone—some pop song Suguru doesn’t recognise.
All these lights play on Satoru’s skin, casting him in lilacs and golds. Glinting his lashes, bringing out the flecks of silver in his eyes. There’s a lollipop wedged between his lips, his cheeks hollowed around the candy. He jumps from his swing to stand in front of Suguru, releasing it from his mouth with a pop. “Wanna share?”
Suguru makes a face. “Gross, no thanks.”
When Satoru bends to capture their mouths in a kiss, Suguru can taste it anyway, the strawberry on his lips. It’s sweet, unlike the ache that’s bloomed behind his chest. Even now, Satoru is so beautiful it hurts. Even now, it feels like this moment could slip through Suguru’s fingers.
“Hey Satoru,” he asks, breathless.
“Mhmm?”
“Do you— have something you want to tell me?”
There’s a brief pause, and then Satoru leans in, curving his hand around Suguru’s ear as if to relay a secret, “...your breath stinks.”
Suguru kicks him in the shins.
There isn’t a name for the kind of relationship that they have. Sometimes, Suguru wishes to himself—secretly, selfishly—that there was one so he could hold onto it like an anchor.
In the middle of class, seated next to each other, Satoru takes Suguru’s hand and intertwines their fingers under the desk. It’s a serious distraction. Suguru’s trying really hard to focus on the equation on the board. He tries to pull his hand away but Satoru has his fingers locked in a vice grip. Squeezing their palms together, his thumb running along the back of Suguru’s wrist. A telltale blush unfurls in Suguru’s ears, travelling down his nape in a heated blanket. He steps on Satoru’s foot as a warning.
“So if you use the quotient rule, you’ll see that x equals…”
For a miraculous second, Satoru loosens his grip, and Suguru takes advantage of it to let go of his hand, bringing it up on the table. But Satoru is never one to give up without a fight, immediately tugging Suguru’s elbow back down, splaying his palm open on his lap.
“Stop it,” whispers Suguru.
“But you’ll miss my hand if I let go,” retorts Satoru.
“You’re absolutely insufferable—”
“Geto-kun?” Yaga-sensei’s stern voice cuts through their bickering, and they both jump in their seats. “Since you think you’re so good at calculus that you don’t have to listen, why not share with the class how we can solve this equation on the board?”
Beside him, Satoru snickers under his breath. Suguru would turn and glare daggers at him if not for Yaga-sensei’s piercing stare from the front of the classroom. Suguru still needs to graduate with a glowing testimony, and so he puts on his signature grin, eyes curving into crescent moons. “Yes, Yaga-sensei.”
Under the desk, Satoru still has the back of Suguru’s hand pinned to his lap, palm facing up. A finger presses into the mound of meat below Suguru’s thumb. “First, we’ve got to use the power rule to differentiate three x cubed.” It slowly traces the arc of his life line, resting between his thumb and index. “Multiply three by three and you’ll get nine x squared.” Here, with just a slight pressure of a fingertip, it draws tiny circles on Suguru’s skin. “We’ll have to use the power rule for nine x to the power of five too, to get forty-five x to the power of four.” Then it drags along the middle, bypassing the heart and sun lines, tracking up Suguru’s pinky. “The last variable is just seven x so when you differentiate that, you’ll get the number seven.” Their fingertips kiss.
Suguru’s heart in his throat. It’s just a light touch to his hand, but he feels it burning like a wildfire through the rest of him. When Yaga-sensei turns back to the board, Satoru laces their hands together again. Suguru can feel his own pulse where their fingers are interlocked, and he wonders if Satoru can feel it too, that rapidfire percussion of a taiko drum.
There isn’t a name for the kind of relationship that they have. Suguru doesn’t know how much longer he can live with this—his heart feels like it’s going to give out—but he’ll take what he can get. He’ll take whatever Satoru is willing to give.
Suguru’s about to turn down the corridor when he hears familiar voices. There, standing a distance away, are Satoru and Yaga-sensei. He ducks behind the pillar, already feeling as though he’s intruding into a conversation he isn’t meant to hear. Haibara’s question from that afternoon rings through his head: did Gojo-senpai not tell you yet? Suguru’s hands curl into white-knuckled fists by his sides, nails digging into palms. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing through his blood.
It’s hard to make out everything they’re saying but his ears find words to latch onto anyway: research and America and once in a lifetime opportunity. If what Haibara said was true, that Satoru was scouted by MIT, it should be an occasion worth celebrating. But there’s acid burbling in Suguru’s stomach, each syllable from Yaga-sensei’s mouth a knife wedging deeper into his chest. Reminder after reminder that this is a secret Satoru deigns to keep Suguru in the dark from.
When Yaga-sensei walks away, Suguru stumbles forward, poking Satoru where neck curves into shoulder. Satoru turns around, open-mouthed. Brief surprise flickers over his eyes, but he quickly reins it back, twisting his mouth into a smile.
“Yo, Suguru.”
“Hey, Satoru. What did Yaga-sensei talk to you about?”
“Nothing,” answers Satoru, “nothing at all. C’mon, let’s grab a soda from the vending machine.”
Satoru curls his fingers around Suguru’s wrist, tugging him down the stairs. It doesn't make any sense why, at this moment, Suguru’s heart chooses to break quietly within his chest. But it breaks anyway, and not even Satoru’s airy laughter can do anything to stop it.
There isn’t a name for the kind of relationship that they have. Satoru hasn’t asked him to be his boyfriend yet, and Suguru thinks he understands why.
There’s a distance that spans between them. America is fourteen hours, six thousand miles away. But it isn’t just that. This distance isn’t something that can be crossed with twining hands or pressing chests or colliding mouths. Suguru’s just a human and Satoru may not be a god, but he’s far closer to being one than Suguru will ever be. Suguru’s not envious—he can work his ass off, land a spot in one of Tokyo’s top universities, and be content with it. It’s just— Satoru is made for things bigger than Tokyo, than the universe, and when Suguru closes his eyes and tries imagining what being together would look like, it’s something like this: Satoru inevitably charging ahead, stopping every few moments to turn around and wait for Suguru to catch up. But as much as Suguru doesn’t want to leave him alone, he also doesn’t want to be the one who slows him down. Someday, they’ll be on different levels, different continents, and maybe Satoru hasn’t asked him to be his boyfriend because— they’ve been doomed from the start.
Still, they’re at least best friends, right? And best friends tell each other stuff. But Satoru hasn’t told Suguru about his scholarship offer and Suguru had to hear it from someone else. Perhaps out of everything, that’s what hurts the most.
18 Sep
to: suguru
from: satoru
>>> hey suguru let’s go to ginza today they’re releasing the new kuromi blind boxes ヾ( ˃ᴗ˂ )◞ • *✰
to: satoru
from: suguru
>>> got remedial today, sry
23 Sep
to: suguru
from: satoru
>>> tgif !!! ( ๑ ˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و ♡ mos for lunch??
to: satoru
from: suguru
>>> need to run errands, see you on monday instead satoru
26 Sep
to: suguru
from: satoru
>>> come to GU today with me after school? wanna get their new coat for the fall
to: satoru
from: suguru
>>> sorry i can’t, gotta study for history
1 Oct
to: the three musketeers
from: satoru
>>> let’s get mont blanc at omotesando after class (っ˘ڡ˘ς)
to: the three musketeers
from: shoko
>>> idm, cyall at the gate later
to: the three musketeers
from: suguru
>>> count me out, got lots of homework to do. have fun guys
10 Oct
to: suguru
from: satoru
>>> i miss you
Exams are encroaching and it’s making it easier to avoid Satoru.
Suguru feels this hollow ache flaring behind his sternum everytime he turns down Satoru’s invitations to hang out. There’s a blade lodged within his chest, and the way Satoru’s eyes momentarily dim with disappointment at each rejection sears it in deeper and deeper. He wishes it didn’t boil down to this, two best friends having to hurt each other. Graduation is on the horizon, and they really don’t have much time left to spend together.
Graduation is on the horizon, and Satoru still hasn’t told Suguru about MIT.
Maybe it’s anger fueling this childish desire to keep his distance. Why does Satoru expect them to hang out like best friends, when he can’t even tell his best friend about one of the most important events in his life? The thought of it tastes like bitter medicine in Suguru’s mouth, feels like betrayal. But maybe there’s something else too. Maybe it hurts less to watch Satoru from afar. When you’re standing too close to the sun, it burns your eyes, smoulders your flesh. Because every touch is a reminder that this, too, is another moment that’ll slip through their fingers. Because every open-mouthed collision makes him sink deeper, deeper, into the pit of his own love and isn’t that the problem? That Suguru is irrevocably in love with his best friend.
They’re seated together for Math again. Next to him, Satoru’s body warmth glows like a star, and it’s taking everything out of Suguru to ignore it. He stares blankly at the board, the numbers Yaga-sensei had just written swirling into indiscernible black ink inside his head.
A hand reaches out under the desk, hovering above Suguru’s lap, then twisting into the material of his pants. Suguru feels more than sees the intensity of Satoru’s gaze, boring into his left cheek, the column of his neck. Satoru’s palmar heat burns through polyester, lingers on Suguru’s thigh. It makes his stomach sink, that familiar pressure behind his breastbone blooming like something alive. Under Satoru’s touch, Suguru’s flesh becomes tenderised. Like this, he’s easier to cut through with a knife. He swats Satoru’s hand away and doesn't turn to catch the disappointed look on his face.
But Satoru persists, twining their fingers together, and everything really, really hurts.
Forcibly, Suguru lets go of his hand.
Familiar fingers, ones whose warmth is a memory carved into Suguru’s bones, grasp onto his wrist, yanking him into the empty classroom. Heart roaring in his ears, he turns to find Satoru standing in front of him, brows furrowed, eyes kindled with something between anger and exasperation.
“You’re avoiding me,” he says.
It’s natural instinct at this point, the way Suguru’s mouth curls into a diplomatic smile, even when everything inside of him feels like ice. “What are you talking about, Satoru? I’m not.”
“We barely hang out anymore. You always have some excuse not to see me after school, on the weekends—”
“I’m just busy with studying, that’s all.”
“Really? Studying?” retorts Satoru, his voice dripping with incredulity. “You pushed my hand away, Suguru. You don’t let me touch you anymore. What the hell does that have to do with studying?”
“There’s no reason for us to be touching,” replies Suguru, a platitude spat out from between clenched teeth, “it’s not— like we’re together or anything.”
Here, Suguru can’t look away. He’s forced to witness the way Satoru’s face completely crumples, the corner of his mouth quivering, an angry flush scattering across his cheeks.
“Oh. Wow. That’s a low fucking blow, Suguru.”
At the receiving end of Satoru’s anger, Suguru feels his own hackles rise. He tries to withhold it, but the compulsion to mirror Satoru’s fury, to retaliate, surges up within him like a storm.
“Even if you think we’re— nothing,” Satoru’s voice cracks on the word as if it pains him to say it, “there has to be a reason why you’re avoiding me. You’ve got to give me a reason, dude. It’s not cool to hide shit from me. Makes it really hard for me to understand all of this.”
It’s not cool to hide shit from me. For some reason, these are the words that tip Suguru over the edge, releasing the floods he’s tried so hard to bury behind his chest. He barks out a toneless scoff, and the sound of it scrapes his throat like poison.
“That’s just goddamn hypocritical of you to say.”
“What?”
“I want— I wanted to believe we were something too,” admits Suguru, clenching his fists, “but the past couple of months made me realise I was foolish to hope we could be something at all. You tell me it’s not cool to hide shit from you but what about you, Satoru? At the very least, even if we’re not— something— we’re best friends, right? And what kind of best friend doesn’t tell his best friend he got a fucking college placement at MIT? ”
Satoru’s eyes blow wide, mouth parted in surprise, as if he’s been caught in the act. Now that Suguru’s started, he can’t stop, the words getting punched out of him without volition.
“Even when I saw you talking to Yaga-sensei about it that day and asked you, you still didn’t want to tell me. How could I let you keep holding me and touching me like we’re— lovers or something— knowing that you were going to leave without telling me? Were you ever gonna tell me, Satoru? Was I going to wake up someday and find out you’ve fucked off to America or something?”
Suguru braces for Satoru’s retaliation. Instead, Satoru grabs Suguru by the nape of his neck, pushing him forward until the distance between their bodies is closed. Where their chests are pressed tight, Suguru can feel Satoru’s rapid heartbeat. “I’m sorry,” says Satoru, whisper-soft, and Suguru shudders into both his touch and his voice.
“You can’t just say sorry and expect things to go back to normal, y’know?”
“I know. You’re right, Suguru. I’m a hypocrite. I didn’t tell you about MIT and yet I expected you to tell me what’s wrong. For that, I’m sorry. But you’re wrong, too, about us being nothing. You’re— everything to me.”
Suguru feels completely deflated, like a balloon that’s just been pricked with a needle. Saltwater pools in his eyes, and he bites on his lip to keep it from spilling out and soaking through Satoru’s sleeve.
Satoru extricates himself from him, holding him in place with firm hands clasped around his shoulders, with a gaze that screams: look at me now, listen to me, I’m going to tell you the truth. In the face of it, Suguru is rendered speechless, can’t tear his eyes away. Satoru has always struggled with words. But the conviction in his eyes proves that the next thing he’s about to say has to mean something.
“I didn’t tell you because— I didn’t even want to think about it. I don’t even know if I want to go, Suguru.”
Suguru widens his eyes. For every reason he could think of why Satoru hadn’t told him, he would’ve never guessed that Satoru contemplated not going.
“What? This is the MIT we’re talking about. You’ve always wanted to do physics. Hell, you’ve always wanted to get out of here.”
“Don’t you see it, Suguru?” Satoru brings his fist to his chest, clenching it so hard that for a second Suguru’s afraid he may bleed. “I’ve found something— someone I don’t want to lose. The thought of being somewhere I can’t see you everyday makes me want to throw up, y’know?”
Satoru’s crying a little now and Suguru mirrors him, letting out a teary laugh. “You’ve always been so dramatic.” He reaches out, thumbing away a tear on Satoru’s cheek. Like a scalpel, Satoru’s words have dissected Suguru open, and understanding aches in his bones but also courses warmth through his veins.
“I mean it. You— you keep thinking you’re someone less but you don’t know just how much you mean to me. You’re the only person in this whole world who knows me, Suguru.”
“Shut up,” says Suguru, throwing his arms around Satoru now, pulling him in, “you should have told me.” Cedarwood suffuses the air inside his lungs, the tears in his eyes finally scattering loose.
“We’re both idiots,” says Satoru.
“Nah, I think it’s just you.”
“We literally make out and you think I’m not in love with you.”
“You haven’t asked,” retorts Suguru teasingly, tiptoeing so their cheeks press.
“I’m just waiting for the right time.”
Suguru had thought there was a distance between them that couldn’t be crossed. There were times when Satoru felt like the sky, and Suguru was just meagre earth. An epiphany strikes him now, lighting up all of his nerve endings, washing him in a golden glow—that Satoru would give up rivers and oceans and constellations stitched into the ether, if that meant he could simply stay by Suguru’s side. And even if they do wound up at opposite ends of the world, this knowledge should be enough to pull Suguru through. It’ll be his anchor, fourteen hours, six thousand miles away.
“Hey Satoru.”
“Mhmm?”
“You should go anyway.”
“What?”
“You should take up MIT’s offer,” answers Suguru. He means every word.
“But what am I gonna do if you’re not just a phone call away?”
“Timezones are rough but we’ll figure it out.”
“What am I gonna do if I can’t just hop on a train to come see you?”
“I’ll visit you during the holidays.”
“You can’t, Suguru, you’re broke.”
“Then you’ll pay for my plane ticket with your scholarship money.”
Satoru laughs, now cupping Suguru’s face so they’re staring eye to eye. The fondness in his smile tugs at Suguru’s heart strings. He’s missed this. He’s missed him.
“Do you really mean it?” asks Satoru, like a child who can’t believe he’s gotten the toy of his dreams, painfully soft.
“I do,” answers Suguru, splaying his fingers over Satoru’s hand. “Wherever you are, I’ll always be here.”
They’ve long shaken off their graduation robes, and there’s a reservation at the hotpot restaurant down the block awaiting them, where Shoko, Haibara, and Nanami will join for a celebratory dinner. When the bell rings, Suguru lets himself get dragged by Satoru for a private moment anyway, out the auditorium doors and to the school field. Here, sakura trees dot its perimetre, cherry blossom petals drifting around them in a curtain of pastel confetti. Sunlight seeps through the trees overhead, and the falling petals dye it pink, bathing the earth in a rosy glow. One of them catches in Suguru’s hair. Satoru reaches out to take it in his hands, tucking it behind Suguru’s ear instead.
“Happy graduation, Suguru.”
“What are you being so sappy for?”
Satoru takes one step closer, backing Suguru up against the tree trunk. Under the canopy of cherry blossoms, his face is streaked in shades of bubblegum and cotton candy. Suguru lets his head fall back against the wood, breath caught in his throat at their proximity. Months later, it still knocks the wind out of his lungs.
“I just think— now’s the right time.”
Suguru feels himself heating up, can picture a telltale blush tinting his ears scarlet even if he can’t see himself. But Satoru is equally flushed, and the sight of it blooms affection behind Suguru’s chest, warm and honeyed. “You look like a tomato,” he teases.
“It’s just the weather.”
“Satoru, it’s literally fourteen degrees.”
Satoru chokes on his own breath, the blush on his cheeks deepening. Suguru laughs at the sight, chest squeezing once more with endearment. And then from his pocket, Satoru retrieves a single button. Suguru shifts his vision from Satoru’s pinkened cheeks, to his collar, and then to his gakuran, where the second button is suspiciously missing. The world stops for a long moment as Suguru connects the dots, the petals around them losing their edges, swathing their surroundings in a wholly pink canvas. Maybe they’ve manifested in his stomach instead—that would explain the flutters in his belly.
Satoru picks up Suguru’s hand, placing the button on his open palm. Satoru’s second button, the one closest to his heart.
There’s a stickiness in Suguru’s throat, and the words can’t claw up fast enough to get past it. All he knows is this feeling, thrumming through his veins, etching into his flesh, carving into his marrow—this love.
“Hey Suguru, you know that I’m crazy about you, right?”
“I’m not so sure,” needles Suguru despite himself, choking out a teary laugh, “refresh my memory?”
“I am, I really am. I love you, Suguru. You’re it for me,” says Satoru, his honesty sparking up every dark corner of Suguru’s mind, growing flowers in its nooks and crannies. “Be my boyfriend?”
Suguru answers by crashing their lips together.