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Satoru knows he has a problem when he watches Suguru absentmindedly slide a soda can back and forth between his hands. He watches his hands curl and brace and push, and he feels jealous. The strength of his instantaneous envy is nearly enough to have him keel over, he’s that jealous. Of fucking aluminum.
And then when Suguru drinks that soda? Holds the can in his hands and presses it to his mouth? Satoru watches him lick his lips free of any remnants of the drink then casually crush the can in his hands. It happened two and half hours ago and he still doesn’t have the words to explain just how hot that was. He has no words for what Suguru is doing to him right now.
So, yeah. It’s game over. Satoru has a serious problem.
The reality of his problem is reified later that very same evening when he finds himself fixated on the gentle way Suguru sets down his bowl of stew. He’s certain his problem is terminal when, instead of letting the empty bowl wobble and rattle when Satoru spins it halfheartedly, Suguru firmly takes hold of the dishware in his big, warm hands and holds it steady. Satoru’s mouth goes dry, Suguru’s light scolding going in one ear and ricocheting.
“I’ll do the dishes,” he blurts, just to get the gears turning in his head again.
“No,” Suguru scowls, flicking him in his forehead. Satoru almost hates himself for how hard he struggles to refrain from leaning into the whisper of a touch. “You cooked, so I’ll clean. Those are the rules.”
He’s quick to promise, “I’ll help.”
“You’ll be in the way and make a mess,” he corrects, amusement in the twitch of his lips.
“You act like the world ended,” Satoru scoffs, slouching across the table. “Why did we have fake wood floors in the kitchen anyway? This tile is much better.”
Suguru shakes his head to hide his smile. “You can help dry the dishes. I’m not trusting you with the hose again, Toru.”
He might have instigated a water fight one unbearable summer when the air conditioning unit crapped out on them, sure, and things may have escalated, but Suguru is just as guilty as Satoru for all that happened afterwards. He’s the one who brought actual water guns into the fight.
Stalling any rebuttal Satoru aims to mount, Suguru leans over the table and teases, “You know you only act up like that around me, don’t you?”
“You know you let me, don’t you?” Satoru smiles back at him.
“I’m saying that you’re usually a pretty competent adult,” he rolls his eyes, “or so I’ve heard.”
He sticks out his tongue. “Who dares to say such silly lies to my precious Suguru?”
“Oh, but I was thinking of giving my precious Satoru a chance to prove it,” he baits, tossing the kitchen towel at his face.
They’re going to clean up together because they always clean up together, but Satoru likes this dance they perform beforehand all the same. He jumps up, the air ringing with his own laughter as he joins Suguru at the sink in their tiny kitchen.
That’s the best part of this apartment they share, Satoru thinks. Cramped as it is, they spend a lot of time together in this kitchen. He always manages to position himself in the least convenient manner—too close to a cabinet Suguru needs to open, in the way of the drawer for the silverware, just to the left of the sink such that Suguru has to brush up against him to use it.
“Suguru,” he whines fruitlessly, “we spent way too much money on this dishwasher to only use it as a drying rack. Break your generational curses.”
“Give me back the soap, you Goliath bastard,” he orders, failing to circumvent Satoru’s height advantage.
But that’s fine, because Satoru has a problem. He forgot about it, but it clearly didn’t forget about him.
Suguru pinches Satoru’s hip and leans against him, trying to get to the bottle. He’s so close. The sudden rush of endorphins that prolonged, weighty contact gives him lessens the strength in Satoru’s arms, the dish soap falling back within Suguru’s reach.
“Not fair,” he grumbles, mildly embarrassed. Talk about missed opportunities; they would have been pressed together like that for longer if he could have kept his cool.
“What,” Suguru arches his brow in quizzical mockery, “you have a muscle spasm or something? Serves you right, asshole.”
“Sure,” he covers. “Let’s just say that.”
He huffs, not even sparing Satoru a glance as he flicks water at him over his shoulder. “You’re so weird today, Toru. Come on, let’s finish up.”
Satoru eagerly does his part. The kitchen is small enough that they’re always in each other’s way—it’s Satoru’s favorite thing. He likes the way Suguru curls his hands around his hip and pulls him elsewhere when he needs him to move. Slightly to the left or right to directly back into his own chest, anywhere is fine. There’s no need for words. Suguru stands behind him and leaves his hand pressed to his side or stomach, manually maneuvering him as need be. It’s undeniably possessive and Satoru thinks about it a normal amount, in a normal way.
And it’s all well and good except for the way that that is very obviously a lie.
Satoru is losing his fucking mind. Ah—but at least his descent is sweet. What a view, he thinks to himself, meeting Suguru’s eyes. It’s too soon to call it a night.
“Let’s watch a movie, Sugu.”
“Only if I get to pick,” he agrees, leading the way to the couch.
Suguru makes Satoru set everything up, ordering him around to play some historical drama he wants to see. Satoru welcomes the distraction with minimal whining. Otherwise, he’d likely make a total fool of himself watching Suguru methodically massage lotion into his hands.
“Here,” Suguru holds out his hands. “I have too much.”
Satoru nearly swallows his tongue in an effort to not make it weird. It’s just some extra lotion for his hands that are chapped after washing the dishes. It’s just that Suguru’s hands are very large and warm as he shares the ointment, and Satoru is dying very, very slowly.
He’s dreamily thinking that now their hands smell the same before he remembers himself, pulling up on the last threads of his dignity. God, this is ridiculous.
It’s not even like he has a hand fetish! Suguru’s hands are the issue, the exception. This is all Suguru’s fault; Satoru will die on that hill.
It’s definitely his fault, but… well. In the spirit of fairness, Satoru should have seen this coming. He likes all the rest of him, so it’s only natural that Suguru’s hands are especially eye-catching. Of course, he’d prefer to feel less like a Victorian man daydreaming about some poor girl’s ankles, but—actually, he’s significantly worse off than those pompous losers. At least those ladies probably wore long dresses and tall boots or whatever; meanwhile, Suguru always has his hands out to make Satoru suffer this impossible yearning. It’s really inconsiderate of the pretty bastard.
Satoru forgets where he was going. Anyway, the point is that, likely as a result of months of repressing his inconvenient feelings, Satoru is losing his higher brain functions.
It started earlier this year, when Satoru realized that the feeling he gets around Suguru is probably love. And being in love is really fun, actually, so much so that he wishes he would have realized his own feelings sooner. Since then, Satoru gets to have something new about Suguru rot the inside of his brain every day.
His smile and his laugh, those were first. Then it was the scar from that helix piercing that didn’t work out, plus the gauges he treated himself to afterwards. The shape of his eyes and the wet curl of his hair, his baking hobby which replaced his pottery hobby which replaced his knitting hobby.
Suguru’s hands are Satoru’s newest hyperfixation.
It’s—it’s just that they are so strong. Whenever Satoru feels untethered and frayed, he’s confident that Suguru’s hands could crush him back into his skin. They could mold him back into a human being again. He wouldn’t mind being shaped and sculpted by Suguru; he would welcome it.
And, yes. Satoru knows that’s a terribly unhinged thought to have about anyone, let alone his best friend and roommate. He can’t help it, though.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Suguru didn’t touch him so much. No, that’s not right. If anything, Satoru wants Suguru to touch him more often. He offers soft, fleeting touches—dozens of them a day. Ruffling his hair with affection, punching his shoulder in annoyance, cold fingertips pressed to his neck to shock him. Satoru catalogs and craves; he knows he gets so much that he can’t really call this feeling touch starvation, but he can’t help it. It’s not enough. He is starving for Suguru’s touch, his entire body tender and aching with the strength of his insatiable addiction.
It would be better if Suguru touched him more. His touches now are too… timid isn’t quite the right word, but it’s close. Suguru’s touch leaves Satoru wistful in its lightness and brevity; it teases him, the anticipation burning hot in his chest.
What Satoru needs is to figure out how to get Suguru to hold him tighter, touch him more firmly. Satoru wouldn’t mind if Suguru left traces of himself all over his skin; Suguru could draw out Satoru’s blood by tooth and nail and Satoru would return the favor to thank him for such a thoughtful gift. He would welcome the press of his fingertips firm enough to dimple his skin, his handprints painted into his skin like bruises.
Yeah. Satoru chews on his lip in deep, fantastical thought. God, that would be nice.
“Hey. Your eyes are glazing over,” Suguru frowns, caressing Satoru’s forehead as he pushes away his hair. “If you’re that bored, we can watch something else, Satoru.”
He waits until Suguru lets his hand fall to answer, milking the moment. “No, no, it’s fine.”
“Are you sure? I don’t wanna hear you complaining about it later, ‘cause I like it so far.”
“It’s fine, really.” With Suguru’s dark eyes focused so fully on him, Satoru feels needy. He’s going to do something about it. “But,” he hedges, “it’s probably gonna give me nightmares.”
Suguru’s concern falls away, leaving his face flat and unimpressed. He repeats, “This historical drama is gonna give you nightmares.”
“Mhmm,” he nods, quite serious. Satoru bats his lashes, laying it on nice and thick when he petitions, “So can I sleep with you in your room tonight, Suguru?”
Suguru speedruns the stages of grief before he caves with a huff, “Sure, Satoru.” He always falls prey to his antics eventually, amused despite himself. Still, Suguru tries to mount a minor resistance effort. “Bring your own pillow. I’m not giving you mine.”
“Sure, sure,” he promises. Satoru isn’t bringing his own pillow; they’re going to share and cuddle for the rest of the night. He can hardly wait. “In that case, let’s finish this in your room, Sugu. I’m getting kinda sleepy out here.”
“No.” Suguru’s denial is quick and leaves no opening. “Absolutely not. You’re not getting in my bed in clothes you’ve worn all day, and I’m not waiting out your three year long nighttime routine to watch the last hour of this movie.”
He rolls his eyes, but Satoru knows when he’s beat. “Fine, whatever. I suppose I can suck it up for now.”
“Oh, how kind of you,” Suguru snorts, poking at his pout.
“Isn’t it?” Satoru throws his legs over Suguru’s lap, sliding a little closer. He’s going to push the line as far as he can in the meantime to hold out for his bedtime cuddles.
Even as he gently massages Satoru’s calves, Suguru dryly wonders, “Do you feel like you’ve invaded my personal space enough yet?”
“No,” he answers honestly. “And calling it an invasion is rude, Suguru. Can’t I come closer?”
He startles and freezes as if he’s being told a joke and he doesn’t quite get it. “Satoru?”
“Suguru,” he returns, struck by an epiphany he should have had months ago.
What has he been doing? Suguru looks confused, so of course Satoru should lay everything out on the table. He doesn’t even know why he’s been hiding his feelings in the first place. For subtlety? Fuck that, Satoru doesn’t ascribe to such nonsense. Maybe it was instinctive to hide his crush—but is he a beast? His instincts cannot run his life when there is a far more reasonable course of action he can take.
Satoru loves Suguru, that’s all. He wants him and he wants him to want him back. He’s tired of attempting to mollify his addiction with mere crumbs. “I want you to touch me. Will you hold me?”
Suguru freezes, his breath caught in his throat. He searches Satoru’s eyes, uncertain. “Wh-while we watch the movie, you mean? Until you fall asleep?”
“That’s a start,” he nods, watching the changes in Suguru’s expression avidly. “But I want everything.”
“I—What?”
Conversational, he explains, “It’s just not like me, you know? I don’t hesitate, especially not with you.” Satoru laces his fingers through Suguru’s, resting their hands on his own face and leaning into the other’s warmth. “Why should I start now? Unless it bothers you—”
“No.” His free hand slides up Satoru’s leg to rest on his hip, holding him in place. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Then you should take responsibility,” he grumbles, tugging on Suguru’s baby hairs at his nape. “You’re making me crazy, Suguru.”
“You were already crazy,” he dismisses. “I’m the real victim here. God, Satoru, you drive me insane.”
Suguru’s hands spasm, clenching, the overly warm points of contact enough to make Satoru’s mind blue screen. More, he nods, barely hearing him. He’s insatiable; Satoru wants them to match. Suguru should think about him all the time and then some, his skin should ache with the need to touch him, too. More.
“You owe me compensation for all the time I wasted trying to toe the line,” Suguru accuses, all but pressing their foreheads together. “You never said anything and you let me get away with so much—”
“Didn’t it feel like I was giving you permission, though? I’m already yours—you can have all of me. I’ve been waiting for you to take it,” Satoru complains in turn. “It’s not my fault that you’re not greedy enough, Sugu.”
He exhales sharply from his nose, the hand on Satoru’s hip pinching meanly. “Use your words, you needy bastard. You’re not a child, Toru, you’re an adult. Communicate like one! You should have said something ages ago.”
Satoru could tell Suguru the same, but he just laughs. He’s having the time of his life. Suguru can tell; his touch becomes something unbearably gentle, both of his hands coming up to frame Satoru’s face. Satoru’s breath is trapped in his lungs. It feels like Suguru is going to kiss him, soft and sweet and almost reverent, like the tentative way he holds him, reflecting stars in each other’s eyes.
“Hey, Satoru,” he smiles. “I’m gonna say it first. Follow my lead, okay?”
It’s a real Hallmark Movie moment, trademarked and everything. Too bad Satoru doesn’t want it.
“I lov—”
Satoru pulls and turns and twists until Suguru is properly entangled with him on the couch, a comforting weight he hugs to his chest. They barely fit on the cushions like this. Satoru will tumble to the floor if either tries to put some space between themselves, and if he falls, he’s taking Suguru with him.
“Huh?” Suguru blinks, catching up.
In other news, Suguru’s hands no longer have a chokehold on Satoru’s synapses. That honor now belongs to the pretty pink blush coloring his face. Or maybe Suguru’s heartbeat is the real winner here; Satoru thinks he’s close enough to hear it, to feel it. Its thudding fills his own chest with impossible warmth.
Basking in the moment, he wonders, “Are you the type to get nervous around your crush, Sugu?”
He narrows his eyes. “Who said I have a crush on you?”
“I’m not. The nervous type, I mean,” he continues unperturbed. “That’s probably why it took me a while to be sure.”
Impatient, Suguru leads, “Sure? About what?”
“Oh—that I love you.” Satoru frowns, “Wasn’t it obvious at this point?”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s obvious.” Suguru is pleased but he pretends to be long-suffering—or maybe he’s both glad and annoyed, all at once. Satoru probably has that effect. “You should say it clearly. I just told you that, Satoru. And didn’t you do all this so you could say it first? You’re so—”
“I love you, Suguru!” Satoru giggles, peppering kisses all over his face. He won’t let Suguru respond and he won’t let their lips meet directly; Satoru likes to watch the irritation flicker in his eyes and know it’s because Suguru wants him, wants to profess his love. For the both of them, he repeats, “I love you.”
“You’re so annoying,” Suguru snaps, holding Satoru’s face still.
Satoru opens his mouth to complain that he can’t keep dotting his face with rapidfire kisses if he’s being held still like this, but then Suguru kisses him full on the lips, open mouthed and hungry. Satoru decides to save his breath for better things, meeting Suguru with the same energy.
“There,” Suguru huffs, pulling away to breathe. “That’s how you’re supposed to do it, Toru.”
“I don’t get it,” Satoru exhales, chasing after him. “Show me again.”
They have to separate for air as soon as their lips graze each other again, still out of breath from the first time. Satoru whines in the back of his throat at the unfairness of that, too eager to be crushed together to care about trivial things like breathing. Suguru apparently finds that hilarious. It’s blinding, the way he tosses his head back and laughs. Satoru’s mouth falls open in awe. He still can’t catch his breath.
Being the source of his lover’s unadulterated joy is the best feeling in the whole world. Everything else pales in comparison. Satoru can hardly think around the love bubbling in his chest, rewriting his neural code. This is what it’s all about.
“Slow down,” Suguru teases, pressing a languid kiss to his lover’s mouth.
“Don’t wanna,” he returns, doing his best to keep from separating.
“You don’t need to rush,” he laughs again. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And you know what? It sounds an awful lot like I love you.