Chapter Text
Satoru has been sitting on the couch for approximately nineteen hours and twenty-four minutes for a third consecutive day when Megumi and Tsumiki seem to decide that enough is enough.
“Frankly speaking, you need help,” Megumi concludes with the pompous precociousness of a child who, left with too little parental supervision over the course of his short life, concludes that he knows better than the adult.
“I need help?” Satoru echoes as she twists around to scowl at Megumi. As it is, given that she hasn’t moved more than five inches throughout today’s couch rendezvous, her spine creaks worryingly and she wheezes out a not-so-kid-friendly vulgarism. Megumi sneers. Whatever. It’s not as if Satoru is in her best shape anyway. She’s wearing a tank top with no less than three stains of unknown origins and no bra. Sweatpants from when she was thirteen—she’s been running out of clean laundry, sue her—so the cuffs only reach mid-thigh.
Tsumiki smiles more gently, kindly at Satoru like the dear, sweet child she is as she gingerly picks at a long-emptied bag of takeout fried chicken, observes the unpleasant oil stains, delicately folds it, and places it atop a neat but deteriorating stack of old takeout bags. The stack wobbles precariously. Tsumiki’s smile wobbles similarly, and Satoru moodily pushes herself back into the couch.
“Satoru-san, to put it simply, we’re worried about you. We fear that this is all very—”
“Self-destructive?”
Tsumiki frowns tersely but not unkindly as Satoru raises an eyebrow at her. “We know things have been hard. We just want you to be okay.”
Uh oh.
Satoru winces as she gingerly peels herself off the couch.
“It is because you are my children and because I love you that I sit at home all day,” Satoru says magnanimous. Megumi’s stare grows withering. “See, without my usual over-the-top helicopter parenting, you two are free as birds to explore the world and develop your own interests and—”
“You really enjoy the sound of your own nonsense. Stop sitting on your ass. It’d be inconvenient if you became incapacitated” Megumi pointedly picks at his already very well-maintained fingernails, gaze flat and cool as Tsumiki’s gaze flickers between the two of them evenly.
“Megumi doesn’t mean to make it sound like we don’t—”
“Yeah, I do,” Megumi uncharacteristically cuts Tsumiki off. “You’re no better than a NEET,” he adds on with a tone that clearly conveys being a NEET is just as bad as being, say, a world-class terrorist.
Scowling harder, Satoru points accusingly at Megumi. “Who made you meaner? I thought you’ve been spending more time with those nice kids Yuuji-kun and Nobara-chan.”
“I also have to spend a massive amount of time with you here, so.”
Unfortunately, Megumi’s notorious as a half-delinquent, half-misanthropist at the impressive age of sixteen. Hardworking though, and very sensible for a teenager. Tsumiki, as the seventeen-year-old caretaker of the house, is probably a bit too grown-up for any of their tastes, but Tsumiki’s kind of always been like that. And then there’s Satoru who’s been steadily setting new records for how much reality TV can be binged in a day since…forever.
Questionable as Satoru’s parenting is, the amount of bad parenting Satoru can consciously watch herself inflict upon the kids has been reaching a tipping point (or rather Megumi would hit his tipping point soon and Satoru really doesn’t want him to encourage his dogs’ habit of eating her nice clothing), so rather than flop over and loudly fake-snore until Megumi and Tsumiki trod off, she sighs deeply and crosses her arms, thinking.
She has to admit it to herself: her track record hasn’t been exemplary of late. Copious amounts of lazing about. Takeout. Television. Death-scrolling. Perturbingly greasy hair. Neglected skincare. One-word responses. More time spent asleep than awake.
Satoru is very well aware that something has to change now (notably, this is the later of “sooner or later”) but she’s wallowed in her pot of self-exaggerated gloom these past few days to still be playfully mean.
“What makes you think this isn’t just another phase? These things happen. Nothing to get fussy about. I’ll be up and at it soon enough and back to making big bucks and big jokes. Har dee har har.”
“Phase or not, we came prepared.” Megumi doesn’t elaborate further. Brevity really goes too far with this kid.
“Prepared? Prepared what?” Satoru eyes the kids’ lack of substantial persuasive gear (no ten-slide PowerPoint to endure today, so it seems) or whatever it is they have up their sleeves.
“Prepared with a proposal,” Tsumiki supplies gently.
So the metaphorical gear in question is diction. Satoru’s lip twists. “A proposal.”
“You already sound against it,” Megumi says as gloomily and mournfully as he might sound if Satoru just told them she’s about to die from stage four lung cancer, gambled away all their money, and bartered off the rest of their pre-adult lives to gangster loan sharks.
“Assuming things will be the death of you, Megumi. Lay out your proposal. Gojo-sama is willing to entertain it today.”
“Shut up. It’s nothing as dramatic as you’re thinking. Not as dramatic as you, at least,” Megumi mumbles as he finally draws out a scrap of paper without any degree of fuss. Tsumiki merely smiles in fond exasperation at the two of them. Satoru squints at it, reads it, squints at it again, and then reads it again.
What.
“‘Free group art therapy session voucher, good from August first to’—what the heck? Okay. I know I haven’t been doing too hot, but drawing some flowers and making up some bullshit explanations for how they relate to some locked-away trauma of mine is not the answer. Especially with a bunch of random bozos who’ll ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ and make pitiful eyes around the room. I mean, guys, seriously?”
“Seriously,” Megumi deadpans brusquely. Satoru glares harder at him, coughs loudly, and revels in Megumi’s resulting grimace. “You sound so conservative,” Megumi mutters darkly. Satoru sticks her tongue out childishly.
“Rude. I’m going to tell Shoko-chan you described her business that way.”
“It was literally just you describing her practice so weirdly, but okay.”
Tsumiki, who knows the two of them better than most anyone else and so knows to stop their bantering before it devolves into something more chaotic, cuts in smoothly. “I honestly think you should give it a chance. Actually, Megumi has his misgivings—he knew exactly what you’d think of the ordeal and thought your attitude wouldn’t really make this helpful—but he also thinks it’s worth a shot if nothing else.”
Wow. Wait a minute, does she really seem that bad these days? Yikes.
Satoru scoffs loudly, starts to reach for another Pepsi can, and twitches her hand away as she catches Tsumiki’s watchful eye in her peripheral vision. Damn it.
“Just—consider it, will you? Please. Tsumiki even found a place that was kind of disreputable. Completely to your taste.” Kids are really a bit too creative these days. “You probably won’t have to worry about, I dunno, small talk and sympathetic chit-chat and journaling or whatever it is you qualify as stupid. Though if it actually is shady, blame your bad personality for only being able to go to that sort of place.”
“Since Megumi asked so, so nicely and even said the magic word, fine, I’ll go. But if I’m found dead in a ditch or get sold to the mafia, I’m blaming you two.”
“Do you enjoy being deliberately obtuse?”
“Didn’t you watch the news today? Certain people are saying I have a bad personality.”
“...”
“Are you two done fighting?”
“Do we have a promise from you that you’re going?”
“Fine! Fine. I promise I’ll go.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want me to say?” Satoru makes a glum, dying noise as she runs a hand through her oily hair. “I’m going to have to put myself through toddler-level art classes with a bunch of nincompoops to ‘heal’ but I’ll do it if it makes you guys happy.”
For once, Megumi doesn’t immediately have a sharp comeback. Rather, he looks somewhat contemplative as his gaze shifts somewhere above Satoru’s head. Tsumiki gives Satoru a wider smile and Satoru finally cracks a small smirk. “It’s getting late. Me and Tsumiki are having dinner outside today.”
“Have fun. Remember not to talk to any strangers. Unless they have candy, make sure to get me some then.”
The door gently slams shut. Satoru blows a harsh puff of hair out, momentarily lifting her bangs up as the room grows quiet again. She rubs her face and sighs.
Right, okay. Fine. Art therapy.
-
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-
Satoru puckers her lips as she scribbles a messy clump of lines decisively meant to represent an apple (food is necessary for the picnic she is meticulously crafting), sets down the mostly unused crayon, and rubs her fingers against a tissue to get rid of the grimy film from the wax, studying her half-completed drawing.
“You’ve been here an hour and a half, Satoru, and all you’ve drawn is a stick figure with an oversized basket, that kind of flowers kindergarteners draw—are they supposed to be crooked?—and some blobs for clouds. Nothing’s even colored in. Are you afraid of not being able to color within the lines?”
“How are you so cruel as my instructor? Isn’t that just an insult to yourself…In any case, I’m having trouble thinking of what to draw, okay? Don’t bully me.” Satoru turns to pout at Shoko, though the petulance bounces right off her unaffected visage. She squats next to Satoru, picks up a purple crayon, looks into Satoru’s eyes for the go-ahead, and carefully colors in a flower’s petals. “C’mon, Shoko, what do you expect me to do?”
“I don’t teach the actual art, stupid. This is just a suggestion—I know it’s hard for you to follow directions but please try—maybe don’t spend half of your time scrolling on your phone. Also, you cackle louder than you think. You act like everyone else here thinks of themself as the next Picasso when practically no one here does art professionally. Including you. You think I expect you to be pulling out genius-level masterpieces?”
“No…but you’d make fun of me as if you did anyways.” Satoru sighs and leans forward, smushing her cheek against her mostly blank paper, avoiding Shoko’s newly drawn filled-in flowers as the other muses up her hair. Shoko makes a face and pushes at Satoru’s cheek—whoops, Satoru had smudged a flower after all. “Okay. You know what? I’m tired of this. Gonna walk around and…get inspired or something.”
“You do that. Have fun. If you fight someone, remember that I’ll make you deal with the cleanup.”
Satoru loudly makes a pretentious sniffing noise only very thinly disguised as a snort as she scoots past Shoko, who blasely rolls her eyes and turns her gaze back to continue deliberating Satoru’s debated masterpiece.
Whatever expectations Satoru had for art therapy were completely eradicated the moment she stepped inside and saw Shoko in her usual lab coat. Having Shoko being the ringleader for this particular group does things no favors. She does her work seriously and does it well, sure, but Shoko’s enigmatic at best and frustratingly apathetic at worst when it comes to certain interactions; she meshes perfectly well with Satoru.
Usually, Satoru’s peppy, nonstop pestering pushes Shoko into actually doing things, and as for the other way around, Shoko’s lazy attitude and nonchalance bring Satoru’s trigger-happy ebullience down a notch. In any case, Shoko’s general I-don’t-really-give-a-damn stance to almost everything in life works wonderfully for Satoru here, where Satoru also doesn’t really give a damn (sorry, Tsumiki and Megumi).
Under the good doctor’s supervision, Satoru’s fellow patients’ art skills have, up to now, been developed to mediocre levels but as Shoko herself said, they’re not trying to be the next da Vinci here and whatever Satoru is looking at right now seems a hundred times better than what would have been materialized without any prior coaching. Not that Satoru can talk as someone who refused all assistance, but still, sh was born with a critical eye.
Before her: a crudely painted rainbow here with erroneous smudges of color marring the already pristine lines. Some squiggly creature that may be a dog if one squints hard enough. Is that a door? Probably a whole house in itself. Satoru gives it a mental rating of one point five out of ten and moves on; she’s a busy woman.
The next one is equally subpar—no, more so. Impressive. She tells its “artist” as much, who, wonderfully enough, happens to be sitting there when Satoru strolls over.
“Look! Look at this! Look. At. This. Why’d you pick such garish colors? No sense of harmony at all. Zilch, nada. Your style clearly attempts to emulate Botticelli's, but this is a complete insult to the Late Renaissance. I mean, really? That certainly is not a Botticellian pink. Plainly, it’s tetchy. The contrast is simply garish. How is your perspective actually this terrible? A third grader could draw better than this.”
The incompetent individual assaulted with criticism gapes openly, flaps their jaw open and shut, and uncomfortably shifts their gaze from side to side. “I—”
“You’re welcome.” Satoru earnestly blows a kiss to the mediocre to the point of being an insult to the classification of amateur artist, grabs their half-eaten croissant for good measure, and scuttles away.
Stupid idiots drawing stupid pictures to resolve stupid feelings from stupid memories, Satoru thinks moodily as she chomps at the croissant. It’s not sweet enough. She scowls, eats one more bite—a pastry is a pastry, when all is said and done—and finally just resolves to eat the rest of the thing, like it or not.
And then there it is.
What, Satoru thinks, absolutely mesmerized, the hell is this?
Now this is actually something completely capturing her attention. Something about the…order of the strokes? The colors, the scale, the contrast, the blending, etc. She’s so off-put by the whole affair that it’s inducing a visceral feeling of nausea in her stomach. Unnervingly striking in a certain unidentifiable manner. Satoru pauses before the painting; something is compelling about it. It makes her feel—well, it makes her feel things. Aside from the nausea. Perhaps linked to the nausea.
Actually, Satoru’s eyes widen as she steps closer to the painting, she gets it now: she hates this painting. No— she despises it.
Yikes. She has to leave this artist a message.
After a quick moment of fumbling in her pocket, Satoru draws out a crumpled piece of notebook paper and a stray gel pen, immediately making herself home on the mystery artist’s chair and scribbling out her thoughts as fast as they come.
Hi!!! What is this foul abomination???? Can this honestly be called art?? What’s up with the appalling amounts of blue? There’s too much of it! Do you seriously not know how to use any other color? There’s literally only blue paint here. Are you seriously allergic to variety? Do big numbers scare you? I bet you were really bad at doing 1+1 in primary school with that big bad 2 waiting for you. Why pick such a garish blue. It’s ridiculously bright…what kind of alien shade is this. Maybe you should consider getting your eyes checked if you’re picking colors as gaudy as this. It’s so Machiavellian. I repeat: M. A. C. H. I. A. V. E. L. L. I. A. N. Literally, what’s the point of a color this ludicrously toned? Isn’t this a boo-hoo oh no I’ve got bad feelings sort of place? Not a yippee! I love the big blue Earth and everyone around me sort of place. This is entirely inappropriate and overall unacceptable. What kind of trigger-happy paint-happy know-nothing abomination is this??? I feel bad for your art teacher. TEACHER (not teachers) because I hope for someone’s sake you’ve only ever had the one. As I write this, I am watching Ieri-sensei sob over how much of a degenerate you are in respect to the arts.
Satoru peeks over the head of the canvas, briefly watching Shoko calmly guide another student through their creative process before ducking back down to continue her aggressive written assault.
I can’t even tell what I’m looking at!!!!!!! This is the issue of only using one color…please expand your palette. It’s okay, it won’t hurt you. The way you paint does NOT help at all either. Why so messy? It’s like you picked up a brush and blindly smacked the canvas with it and made vague corrections to make something resembling…well, something. Therein is the exact problem, like I should be able to recognize what your “something” is and not (!!!!) have to convince myself that isn’t a cockroach. If you’re trying for avant-garde, you’ve failed majorly. Your “art” (if this can still be called art) reeks of stupidity, lack of intent, and lack of education. Please actually learn how to paint before you befoul this room again. Toodaloo!! :3
Satoru goes back to dot a few I’s and cross a few T’s, finishing off with a little heart at the end for good measure (nothing can be too mean if you sign off with a cute little heart, right?) and carefully places her finished note on the accompanying table.
Shoko shoots her a wary look from where she’s back by Satoru’s canvas, watching Satoru whistling merrily as she expertly twirls her gel pen. “Did you do something while you were gone?”
“Nooooo, why would you ever think that?” Satoru avoids laser-eyed stares from no less than three individuals as she shoves Shoko off the chair and plops herself down gracefully. “I was very kind and forthcoming with my words today. And for free too!”
“So you gave unsolicited advice and altogether unwelcome criticisms.”
Satoru determinedly hums an annoying tune from a kids’ show Megumi and Tsumiki used to watch as she blindly picks out a crayon, and violently swipes it at her drawing. She rather thinks she’s getting the hang of this whole expressing your raw feelings via artistic mediums shebang. “But my advice was still good and my criticisms were correct.”
Shoko frowns as she watches the crayon press down the paper so hard creases start to form, finally chancing a look back in the direction Satoru came from. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing. But I’m hungry. Shoko, be a darling and feed me.”
Shoko grumbles, unimpressed as always, but she does take out a stick of strawberry gum and tosses it over in a disturbingly and weirdly apologetic motion.
“I don’t suppose you came across a certain someone only painting in a particularly bright shade of blue?”
Satoru pauses, stares straight into Shoko’s eyes. Shoko stares back.
“Okay, okay! I didn’t see the actual artist. Just the painting. Happy now? Wait—why’d you ask?”
“Let’s leave that for another day,” Shoko replies entirely unsuspiciously. “But please don’t tell me you left one of your strongly-worded ‘criticisms’ there too.”
“...I definitely did not but let’s propose a hypothetical situation where I did?”
“Ugh. Okay. That’s your problem for another day.”
“Now what’s that supposed to mean?”
Shoko gives Satoru a heavy look and then smirks lightly, knowingly. “I said you’ll see another day. Time’s up, see you next session, Satoru.”
-
Suguru’s hand twitches violently around the pink-glitter gel-penned uninformed message on Cinnamoroll-themed stationery. The whole thing crumples instantly and miserably. This abomination of criticism is terrible; in fact, it doesn’t even deserve to be called criticism.
“Ah—you look mad.”
“I’m not mad, I’m just thinking of punching an idiot’s guts out. Repeatedly. I also hear decapitation is particularly satisfying when you’re ridding the world of another empty head,” Suguru says through gritted teeth. “What level of stupidity is this? Part of me died reading this the same way this stupid, stupid imbecile’s neurons must have trying to think up this…hateful message.”
Shoko merely grins at Suguru amusedly and glances down at the note. “How endearing of your mystery admirer. They clearly put a lot of thought into this. You should write back. Pen pal situations are rare in this day and age—seize your chance. Not many get such a cute opportunity in this modern age.”
“Why are you like this. I’m not going to entertain any sort of association with this idiot. I will not. They used ‘abomination’ twice. Twice. Critizing the way I paint when they clearly can’t tell the difference between slovenly mess and intentional mess. I admire dump dot technique so much and this person just really—whatever. And what the hell is this? Machiavelli wasn’t an artist. How could a color be Machiavellian? Stupid. Did it never cross their mind that I used this color for a good reason of my own?”
“Admittedly, it is a pretty weird color.” Shoko rolls her eyes as Suguru whips around her head to glare at her. “What? Am I wrong? Say what you will, but eyes that bright of a blue are pretty freaky. Rather unnatural.”
Suguru scoffs as she crumples the note and tucks it into a pocket, taking extra care to flatten the miserable, despicable, ugly little wad as meanly as possible. “I was fifteen and they were very enchanting to me, okay? You’d feel the same if you saw them yourself. Everyone mooned over Satoru’s eyes.”
“Can’t be all that special, but whatever. I’m sure you’re right and I’d be mooning too.” Shoko laughs lightly at the exasperated look on Suguru’s face. “I meant it though. You should leave them a message back. If you’re really that worked up about it, don’t bother to be polite. Start a feud. Live a bit. Be the antagonist you were always meant to be. I’ll point out where their station is and you can be sure when you get there, your idiot won’t be there.”
Suguru squints at Shoko suspiciously. Shoko matches her gaze evenly. “You’re up to something.”
“Am not. I’m simply being a good friend. You live too straight-lacedly. It’s not as if I’m telling you to go engage in murder or commit a war crime. This is actually my psychological advice as your instructor: go have some fun and bully someone. I mean, it’s literally your actual personality—the same sort of semi-unfriendly banter you truly like.”
“I’m actually a nice person but that thing wasn’t unfriendly. It was violently judgmental. Obscenely judgmental.”
“Okay, whatever. Sure it was. All the more reason to give them a piece of your mind.” Suguru glances down after a nudge to her arm—Shoko’s poking her with a sparkly purple gel pen and a Lloromannic notepad.
“You’ve got to be joking. You really have been plotting something—don’t look at me like that. Lloromannic? Seriously?”
“Mere coincidence.” Shoko shrugs unenergetically and gives Suguru a pointed glare, but Suguru’s already taken hold of the pen to write a note.
-
Thank you for dropping by and leaving your detailed commentary. It’s always refreshing to get feedback on my work even if it's in a place like this and unasked for! That said, your mindless drivel clearly hints at your being uneducated. You need to go back to school. Absolutely no part of what you said led me to believe you hold any valid thought about art, you ignoramus. What kind of ass ridicules art for a lack of material and technique when anyone who has so much as looked at any old work of art knows it's the expression that is foremost? I, by the way, am a professional artist so you do not have to worry about my being uninformed; I am extremely valid (unlike you who clearly can NOT color inside lines if it kills you).
I have my own reasons for the color I chose. Not to assume, but clearly the same can’t be said about your actually hideous palette. Who in their right mind mixes purple and yellow? Did you not see the truly unpleasant shade of brown you created? Oh…right…you have absolutely NO eye for art at all. My bad. For someone who disparages my use of colors, your own choices are not only beyond tasteless but also evince you as a hypocrite. I fear for the state of your pastels. Who the fuck do you think you are to lambast others when calling your art mediocre would be high praise? XOXO
-
You dumbfuck idiot. Those are crayons.
-
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” Suguru grits out evenly as she pushes a pen into a piece of scrap paper so hard that a massive tear appears. “I’m not mad at all.”
“No one said you’re mad this time.” Shoko draws up a chair and silently sits next to Suguru, who watches her actions sourly. “In any case, you’re not the only one pissed off today. Most of the class is feeling some level of upset—though I’d say yours is much, much higher than everyone else.”
Somewhat befuddled, Suguru shiftily looks around the room and in short time spots five people grinding their teeth, three people nastily muttering in a huddle, four people staring moodily at their materials, and a single lovely individual gripping a broken pencil.
“What the hell happened here? What did you even do?”
“So quick to blame me. I didn’t do anything,” Shoko says with an unhealthy level of amusement. “A certain individual here with an extremely critical tongue and inability to shut up paired with poor art knowledge has been traipsing all over the place. Seems like everyone has gotten a nice piece of enthusiastic disapproval by now.”
There’s a strange mixture of apprehension, dread, and a feeling that she’s being set up creeping over Suguru as she glances down at her poor, destroyed scrap paper, a crumpled piece of Cinnamoroll paper, and then around the room. There’s an obnoxious amount of blue and white papers littering the tables.
“Okay,” Suguru finally says pleasantly as she stands up, politely dusting off her hands. “Where’s the bastard?”
“Hmm?”
“Playing dumb doesn’t suit you,” Suguru says plainly. Shoko shrugs benignly as if to say ‘I tried.’ “You know, why are you even trying to hide this person from me?”
“To be frank, you’re like a child: very set into certain opinions even when there’s a lot against you. I figured you need a bit of…a soft reintroduction so that you wouldn’t act so bullheadedly. Also, I’d rather that murder or any other funny business doesn’t happen in my classroom.” Suguru follows Shoko as they maneuver through the room, all the way back to one of the few areas Suguru has no visibility of from her own station. “Don’t freak out, don’t run away, and please try to avoid throwing any punches or destruction of classroom material. I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Me, a child? Reintroduction? What?” Suguru dumbly comes to a halt as Shoko suddenly ducks to the side and disappears, leaving Suguru to stare at none other than Gojo Satoru humming a truly awful kids’ show theme song she holds a phone to her ear, a box of crayons and cutesy stationery abandoned next to her.
Shoko…really knows how to pick a crowd.
“I guess I’m having fun!” Satoru exclaims happily as she spins violently in her chair, somehow completely oblivious to Suguru towering over her right there. “There’s truly a whole host of interesting individuals here. Yes, no. I mean that it’s weird to see something under Shoko’s guidance being populated with so many…talentless individuals. Megumi, shut up, I still keep your primary school art on the fridge—don’t tell me anything about my own art skills.”
“Your canvas is clearly the most terrible in the entire room,” Suguru can’t help but note. Regrettably, Suguru’s never been able to keep silent when it comes to Satoru-related matters even after over a decade.
“I clearly have boundless talent and have enough artistry to someday be lauded as the next coming of Monet.” Satoru turns around, her hair now much longer but less fluffy than it was from when they were students. Suguru notes that she’s changed the type of glasses frames she prefers as well as her fashion sense (unique in a negative way, always had bad…bad taste) and a whole other litany of things that quickly start to overwhelm Suguru—but her eyes are still as mesmerizing.
“You’re…not Shoko,” Satoru says stupidly as she and Suguru engage in the world’s lamest, most pathetically unasked-for staring contest. “I didn’t—you didn’t—Suguru? You’re back in Tokyo?”
“I only come here for Shoko’s classes.” Suguru awkwardly points off to where Shoko had darted away. “I didn’t know you still lived in Tokyo.”
Satoru blinks rapidly at Suguru, seemingly equally overtaken by the apparently not-so-unplanned encounter. Her eyelashes brush her cheekbones as her eyes flutter down towards Suguru’s hands.
“Holy shit, it can’t be you?”
“What?” Suguru voices grumpily, somewhat offended by Satoru’s incredulous tone even when she has absolutely zero idea as to what Satoru’s even talking about. “Still harping on about how bad-looking my pants are? Because your ankles were always—”
“You’re that massive asshole who only uses blue paint?” Satoru exclaims explosively. Suguru unconsciously clenches her paint-stained hands, eyes narrowing.
“And you’re that menace who’s been leaving those terrible messages everywhere, aren’t you?”
“Oh wow!” Satoru says loudly, taking another spin in her chair. So annoying, what a brat. “Would you look at that, my kid needs me to pick him up from school suddenly. You know kids, accidents all the time. Early pickups. I’ve got to skedaddle. Nice running into you again.”
“It’s five in the afternoon,” Suguru says to no avail as Satoru packs up all her stuff with a perturbing level of speed. “I didn’t know you were a parent now.”
Satoru suddenly freezes, looking up to lock eyes with Suguru, who takes a step back. She hadn’t realized how close she was to Satoru. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t the one who left everyone without a word.”
An uncomfortable silence resumes as Satoru continues packing. Somehow, Suguru gets the sense that wherever Shoko is in the room, she’s massively disappointed in both of them.
“Tomorrow. Dinner at seven. Someplace you like to eat at. Let’s catch up.”
Satoru’s eyes go wide, suddenly showing a bit more emotion than Suguru’s comfortable with right now. “I’m busy then.”
“The day after, in that case. Or whenever you’re free.” Suguru shrugs tensely, avoiding Satoru’s eyes. “You said it yourself. I left without saying anything. And you were—hm—my best friend. Don’t we at least owe it to each other to get some closure?”
Satoru remains silent, back turned towards Suguru as she fusses with the crayons and zips up her bag. She breezes past Suguru, patting her bicep before blitzing out of the room. Suguru doesn’t blame her; she’d do something rather similar if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s more afraid of Shoko getting mad at her than she is of having a nice heart-to-heart with Satoru.
She glances down at her arm, picking off a piece of paper stuck to skin still comfortably warm with the heat from Satoru’s soft pat.
Of course, it’s another one of those retina-scarring pieces of paper with equally gag-inducing sparkly blue ink.
Thursday at 7. At the bakery. You’re footing the bill for all the pastries but I’ll pay for any drinks including your stupid fancy teas.
Suguru sighs; carefully folds up the piece of paper like it’s the most precious letter; and trudges off to ask Shoko for a new phone number she later learns hasn’t changed at all.