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The Friday evening is calm, the air cool in the apartment, birds chirping sweetly to break the tranquil silence.
BANG.
The door to the laundry room slams open, beginning to swing shut again before a socked foot holds it in place.
“I don’t know! What d’you want me to do, then?!”
A grunt, and a plastic laundry basket clatters on the tiled floor. The ceiling light flicks on, revealing the small but tidy interior, a washing machine and tumble dryer nestled side by side.
Utahime groans on the other end of the video call, frowning through the screen of the phone that is now propped against the wall.
“Just tell him like a normal person!”
Satoru glares at her as he tugs the door of the washing machine open. He grabs a cream-coloured turtleneck and tosses it inside.
Utahime rolls her eyes. “Seriously… What were you expecting me to tell you?”
“Something actually useful.”
“You—!”
Satoru sticks his tongue out at her. The rest of the clothes land in the machine, and he tosses a detergent pod in after them and swings the door shut.
Through the screen, Utahime’s eyes blaze with exhaustion. “You can’t keep this up forever. He’s gonna find out eventually. You know that, right?”
“Of course I know that! What do you think we're discussing this for?” snaps Satoru. He flicks on the power with too much vehemence and starts jabbing at the buttons on the washing machine. “But what the hell do you want me to say? ‘Oh, I actually figured out how to do this by the second time you taught me, but I just kept playing dumb because I—’”
“Because you what?”
Satoru freezes, thumb wavering over the start button. He can almost hear his neck creak as he slowly turns to face the dark-haired man standing in the doorway.
They stare at each other for a painfully long minute, made even more painful by the silence, after which Satoru manages to regain enough of his motor ability to reach for his phone.
“Utahime,” he says. “I’m gonna call you back.”
★
Three months ago…
“Satoru.”
The man feigns ignorance, bopping even harder to the bassy EDM track assaulting his ears through his headphones.
“I know you can hear me. Get up.”
Another minute of non-response later, and his headphones are rudely yanked off his head. Satoru flails, sputtering, as Suguru steps back and holds them high above where he can reach from his seat.
“You better not drop those! They cost, like, a ton!”
Suguru merely smirks—beautifully, cruelly —and raises them even higher.
“We both know you can easily afford ten more of these,” he says. “So? Will you get up now?”
Resigned, Satoru heaves himself out of his chair, and snatches his headphones back from his roommate’s unresisting grip.
“What?” he says, in as annoyed a tone as possible.
Instead of answering, Suguru turns on his heel and shuffles out of Satoru’s room, hands in his pockets. Satoru follows, grumbling all the way to their destination, which turns out to be the cramped laundry room tucked away in a corner of their apartment.
Suguru pushes the door open, and turns to lean against the washing machine with arms crossed over his chest. He jerks his head, indicating the mini-mountain of clothes Satoru knows is sitting on the floor in the corner.
“Are these yours?” he says. The low, flat note in his voice tells Satoru he already knows the answer.
“Well, duh,” Satoru replies, shrugging. “Obviously they’re mine, since you have, like, zero taste in clothes.”
It’s a blatant lie, and he knows it. He has eyes that work, after all. Or maybe it’s just that Suguru looks good in anything, even if it’s an oversized plain white tee and grey cotton sweatpants that bunch around his bare ankles.
Said white tee shifts as Suguru lifts a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, like he’s praying to the gods above for patience.
“Why,” he asks, “is your dirty laundry from the past week sitting in a pile on the floor?”
A pinch of— ew, that’s not embarrassment, shut up —squeezes Satoru’s throat. There’s no other way around it, it seems.
He sets his face into the most shamelessly wide grin he can, and steels himself.
“I don’t know how to use the washing machine.”
Suguru’s eyes fly open. He stares at Satoru with his nose wrinkled.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Satoru says, shrugging even as the grin threatens to desert his face. “I don’t know how to use that thing.”
Suguru is openly gaping at him now, his jaw slack with shock. “Are you seriously saying that you, a literal grown adult, don’t know how to use a washing machine?”
Satoru cringes at the palpable judgement in his question. Then a brilliant idea waltzes across his mind. He lets the shit-eating grin spread over his face again.
“Well, since Suguru is so smart, why don’t you teach me then?”
“You—”
Suguru begins to protest, but then his face hardens into a cool, stony smile, eyes narrowing just a fraction. By some miracle Satoru manages not to swallow, or choke, or do anything incriminating as he steps closer, until he’s right up in his space, sandalwood scent and all.
They stare at each other for a good long moment, before Suguru decides he's suffered enough and smirks.
“Fine. I’m only showing you once, and after that, you'll have no excuse.”
He grabs Satoru’s wrist, tugging him down to squat side-by-side in front of the washing machine. Satoru watches him as he tugs the door open and starts shoving clothes inside, only vaguely aware that he’s speaking as he does so. A few stray pieces of silky black fall out of his messy bun, waving at Satoru as he moves, beckoning him to reach out and tug the entire thing loose.
The sound of the washing machine door slamming shut snaps him out of it.
“—don’t think they’ll run, and they’re all the same colour more or less, so you only need to do one load this time. Lucky you,” Suguru says, and frowns. “Did you hear a single word I just said?”
Satoru stares. “Uhhhhh.”
Suguru’s jaw tightens, and Satoru’s stomach clenches in response. He fights the rare urge to apologise, and pouts instead.
Luckily for him, Suguru gives up, and turns back to the washing machine.
“Whatever. It should be easy enough for you to figure out if you actually use that big brain of yours.”
“Ooh, so Suguru thinks I’m smart, huh?” Satoru grins, leaning forward. “I knew you liked me, deep down in your cold black heart.”
Suguru pushes his face away, but the tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth is telling. “Pay attention,” he says. “I’m not teaching you this again.”
“Fine, fine,” Satoru mutters, and this time he actually watches as Suguru pours the detergent and sets the mode for the wash.
It does seem simple enough, but then again, growing up in the Gojo clan as their golden child, there was never any need for him to learn how. He doesn’t even know if his clan has washing machines—they do like to be old-fashioned—but then again they do also like to boast about keeping up with the times, so they probably at least know they exist. Right?
Suguru hits the start button, and the washing machine jolts to life, making all sorts of fun whirring noises. Satoru finds himself transfixed at the sight of the clothes tossing around inside, and he plops onto his butt on the floor, crossing his legs as he stares at the whirling mass of fabric behind the window.
“You’re not gonna sit there watching the machine like a kid, are you?”
Satoru sticks his tongue out at him before turning back. “‘S not like I’m making you do it too.”
Suguru hums, apparently not bored enough to argue. He gets up with a small grunt, and Satoru pretends he doesn’t watch his back until he disappears from the doorway of the laundry room.
★
One week later…
“Suguru! Get up!”
Thirty seconds after the yell that slashes the slumbering night to pieces, Suguru is there, standing with hands braced on the edge of the doorway, still blinking sleep from his eyes as he squints at the scene in the laundry room.
“Fix it!”
“Fix what,” Suguru begins to say, but is cut off by the wet bundle of cloth that smacks him square in the face. He peels it off, face contorted in shock and fast-rising fury. “What the hell, Satoru?!”
“I should be asking you that!” Satoru screeches, and pulls the rest of his clothes out of the machine. Every single piece of light-coloured clothing is stained with splotches of assorted colours, red and blue and black. “Look! They’re all fucking ruined!”
Suguru frowns at the formerly neon blue button-up in his hands, now proudly wearing patches of bruise-purple all over. “Actually, I think this might be an improvement,” he says, completely glossing over the fact that Satoru was washing clothes at three in the morning. Maybe he's already gotten used to his roommate’s abhorrent sleep schedule. Or maybe he's too tired to care.
Satoru glares at him. “So? Can you fix it?”
“What am I, your live-in laundry expert?” Suguru sighs, and looks over the piece of clothing for a minute, before shaking his head. “I don’t think this can be saved. Or any of them, as a matter of fact.”
No fucking way. “B-but—”
“Take it as a chance to revamp your wardrobe,” Suguru slurs through a yawn, already turning to head back to bed. “God knows you need it, and I know you sure as hell can afford it.”
“But—!”
“And I told you about the colour running, didn’t I? Serves you right for not listening to me.” Suguru’s footsteps subside, and when he speaks again, the sound echoes from down the hall. “We can go shopping after your class later. For now, just deal with the wet clothes. You know how to use the dryer, don’t you?”
Silence.
Suguru sighs, and reappears. “Fine,” he says. “Coffee first, and then lesson number two.”
“Fantastic,” Satoru says, the positive clashing nicely with his grimace.
Six hours later…
When he arrives, the lecture hall is silent save for the professor’s voice. Satoru stomps his way down the aisles, ignoring the noises of surprise and displeasure that follow in his wake.
Utahime goggles at him as he sits down next to her, and he manages to tolerate it for a full minute before he snaps.
“What?” he bites out, glaring at her.
Utahime doesn’t even complain about his lack of decorum like usual. Instead, she narrows her eyes at him and asks, “Since when do you wear turtlenecks?”
Satoru looks down at himself, specifically the cream turtleneck and brown slacks he's currently sporting, and the memory of the morning’s mishap is like a spike through his chest. “Since never,” he huffs, feeling his cheeks flush as he folds his arms. “It’s my roommate’s.”
Utahime’s eyebrows shoot up so high they almost meet her hair line. Satoru realises just what that sounded like, and the warmth on his face begins to resemble a bonfire.
“It’s not like that, you pervert! All my clothes ran in the wash last night! I’m gonna get more later.”
Utahime sighs. “In two sentences, you reminded me of how filthy rich you are and how stupid you can be. Such unbelievable efficiency.”
He shoots her a glare, and pulls out his laptop. His desktop messenger app appears on the screen when he opens it, still showing the texts Suguru sent him, telling him where to meet later. He cringes at them.
“Your roommate is a philosophy major, right?” Utahime flips through her notebook, taking down something that the professor is saying. “No wonder.”
“No wonder what?”
Utahime indicates his clothes. “No wonder you’ve got a good outfit for once in your life. Humanities students all got that drip.”
“I know,” mutters Satoru. He doesn’t need Utahime to tell him that—he has first-hand experience for days. “Wait. Did you just insult my fashion sense? Oh, you're so lucky I’m too lazy to talk to other people in this class! Otherwise you’d have no one to talk to at all!”
Utahime just grits her teeth, and goes back to taking notes. At least one of them is mature.
After class…
Suguru glances up as he approaches, and checks his watch.
“You’re late, Satoru. What happened? Don’t tell me you got lost on your way here?”
“Hah!” Satoru refuses to admit that’s exactly what happened. “You wish.”
Suguru just hums and heads into the station. “Come on.”
The subway station is both sprawling and cramped, fluorescent light touching every corner of the low-ceilinged tunnels. Suguru fits into the constantly shifting picture with ease, moving with practised skill as he gets their tickets and finds the correct platform, and Satoru pretends he doesn’t notice how his movements slow just enough for him to take it in.
Suguru pulls out his phone, and Satoru stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep from tucking the wayward strand of hair behind his ear.
"Where are we going?" he asks as they queue up behind the gates.
"Ginza." Suguru's thumb flicks over the screen for a minute. "Have you been there?"
"Yup." Suguru looks up at him, eyebrows raised. "Hey, I'm not a shut-in, you know! I've lived in Tokyo for this long, after all." He glares at the track. "And just because I almost never take the train ever doesn't mean I don't know how."
Suguru blinks, looking genuinely caught off guard. Then his face stretches into a placating smile. “I see. My apologies.”
“Whatever.”
He can see why Suguru would assume that, though. Can't even blame him for it.
They stand on the platform in silence, if you can even call it that: the layers of conversations stack on top of one another, blending into a background noise that fills the air like cotton.
“You have something on your mind, don’t you?” Suguru’s eyes remain on his phone as he asks the question. “Just say it already.”
Satoru keeps his eyes on the track below them. “Why are you dragging me out to buy clothes on your one free day of the week? Don’t you have anything better to do? Besides, you don’t even—”
He bites off the end of his sentence, clenching his teeth behind his closed lips.
You don’t even like me, he wants to say. So why are you bothering with me at all?
He keeps the words stuck under his tongue as Suguru blinks at him, brow furrowed. After a moment he smiles, and shuffles a step closer to his side.
“Well, we’ve only been living together for a few weeks,” he says. “I’d like for us to at least try to get along. Even if you are the most insufferable person I’ve ever met.”
“Thanks for that,” Satoru deadpans, and Suguru swats his arm.
"You're welcome. Besides, I'll take any opportunity I can from now on to fix that eyesore you call a wardrobe."
"Hey!"
Suguru laughs, and whatever half-hearted anger remains in Satoru evaporates.
The train barrels into the station, sending a gust of wind out at them. When he looks over at Suguru, the smile on his face is softer than anything he's seen from him since they met.
It nudges at something within Satoru's chest, something warm and fuzzy (what a fucking cliche, but it's true), and it's all so nice and new that he can't help but smile back.
The train doors slide open, and they make their way onboard between the colliding crowds.
That night…
“Satoru, what the fuck.”
Satoru cracks a sheepish smile from where he’s sitting on top of the washing machine, watching Suguru run a hand through his messy bed hair. His eyes are wide as he takes in the flooded laundry room, floor covered in a thick layer of soap suds and half-washed clothes.
“I—” Suguru looks torn between laughing, crying and just straight-up exploding. “I don’t understand. How did you even manage this?”
So he may have paused the machine mid-course and opened the door with all the clothes and soapy water still inside, but there’s no way he’s admitting that.
Not when Suguru gives him that sigh and tells him to get the mop from the kitchen.
Sue him, thinks Satoru, as he hops down from his perch and tries not to blush too much when Suguru reaches out to steady him. He slaps the hand away, then grabs it a mere second later as he almost slips in the soap. Suguru huffs a laugh through his nose, face straining to hold back his amused smile, and sue him for wanting to have that smile directed at him 24/7, that voice telling him off for his stupidity and his incompetence, those hands showing him the ropes where everyone else expects him to already be flawless.
All that money of his has to go somewhere, anyway.
Suguru lets go of him as soon as he grabs onto the doorjamb, which is too soon, in his opinion. He grabs the mop and is about to hand it over when his roommate pulls him closer by the wrist.
“Might as well teach you how to use this while we’re at it,” he says, and there’s the smile, equal parts mocking and warm.
Satoru can’t even find it in himself to mind the backhanded insult. “I’m not a baby, you know,” he whines, trying to look as displeased as he can.
Suguru just shakes his head, and shows him anyway.
★
A month later…
“Satoru, the door!”
“I know, I know, jeez!” Satoru yells back, hauling himself off the couch towards the knocking at the door. Seriously, he was already gonna do it without him asking, how lazy does Suguru think he is— “Yo, Utahime. If you wanted booze, we don’t have any.”
Utahime glares at him. “You don’t have to be a dick all the time, you know,” she says, pushing past him and making herself at home on the couch.
“I don’t have to, but it’s just too fun annoying you!” Satoru says, and dodges the packet of chips that Utahime hurls at him. It lands on the floorboards with a loud smack. “Great, now Suguru’s gonna yell at me for making a mess. You deal with that.”
“Satoru, it’s rude to make your guests clean up,” Suguru calls as he finally emerges from his shower. His hair is still damp, limp around his face and soaking wet patches into the towel around his shoulders, and if Satoru feels the blood rush to somewhere other than his face, that’s not important in the slightest.
Anyway…
“B-but!” he sputters. “But Utahime did it!”
“But you started it, didn’t you,” Suguru says. He pokes Satoru’s cheek as he walks past, scooping the packet up and tossing it back at Utahime. She catches it, looking between them, then drops the weight of her stare on Satoru with a raised eyebrow.
When Suguru has disappeared safely into the kitchen, Utahime rounds on him with vehemence.
“You didn’t tell me you guys were a thing,” she hisses, punching him on the shoulder.
Satoru chokes.
“Huh?!” he yells, then remembers that Suguru is still very much in earshot. “What the fuck? We’re not a thing!”
Utahime blinks at him. “You’re not? Why not?”
“What do you mean why not?!”
“I don’t know, maybe the fact that you both already act like you are?” Utahime stares at him incredulously for a moment, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Gojo, please tell me you’ve at least noticed the way you behave around him!”
At her words, Satoru blanches. Is he really that obvious?
A shred of pity appears in Utahime’s expression. Only a shred, though.
“God, you’re whipped, aren’t you,” she mutters.
Before she can say anything else, Suguru emerges from the kitchen with an armful of drinks. He sets them down on the coffee table, and Satoru drags him to settle on one end of the couch, throwing an arm over the backrest behind his roommate.
Utahime eyes his arm with a raised eyebrow, and he almost pulls it back. But she just huffs and says, “Leave some space for Shoko. She’s almost here.”
Satoru side-eyes her. “Can’t she just sit on your lap? Since you’re dating or whatever?”
A satisfying red blush invades Utahime’s face. “Y-you— Gojo!”
“Now, now, Satoru. Let’s play nice,” Suguru says, chuckling.
Satoru makes a face at him. “We both know you’re just waiting for Shoko to come so it’ll be a fair fight!”
Suguru just smiles, and doesn’t deny it. Behind his back, Utahime gags, pointedly and deliberately. Satoru resists the urge to throw his drink at her head. After all, it would be a waste of a perfectly good drink.
Knocking at the door once again breaks up the fight.
“Yo,” Shoko says, lifting a bag that clinks with her movements. “I brought the good stuff.”
Utahime looks like she could kiss her. She probably would if they were alone, Satoru thinks. He sticks his tongue out at her to show his disgust, grinning when she glowers at him in response.
The video game night goes pretty well. Satoru absolutely destroys Shoko and Utahime at Mario Kart, and only drives off the track on purpose a handful of times. Enough not to make Suguru suspicious.
But even so, he could feel Utahime’s eyes boring holes in the side of his head every time he yelled in fake frustration.
And two hours and two pizzas in, when Suguru joins Shoko on a mini-mart run slash smoke break, she finally decides to strike. In all senses of the word.
The moment the door closes behind them, she immediately starts hitting Satoru everywhere she can reach, raining blows down on him as he yelps in surprise.
“I can't believe you, you're such an idiot—”
“Ow! Utahime, what the fuck!”
“—how the hell did you and him get into this situation, both of you are making me homophobic, I swear to God—”
“I'm telling your girlfriend you've been hitting on someone else while she's gone!”
Utahime relents, but only a fraction. “I hate you,” she says, with conviction. “That's not even true.”
“The bruises on my arm will claim otherwise!”
“Whatever!” Utahime throws her hands up. “I can't believe you pretended to be shit at chores just so he'd give you attention—”
“Actually, I'm still doing that,” Satoru corrects her, realising instantly that he should not have disclosed that damning piece of information, especially not to Utahime, because she all but explodes again. Or maybe implodes is a better word for how she grabs the nearest cushion and hunches over, smashing it into her face as she screams. “Hey, it wasn’t always pretend, though! And I’m only still doing that for the washing machine! Though our coffee maker really isn’t that fancy, so it’s not that hard to… uh… Utahime?” He blinks at her as she lifts her head. “You’re making a really scary face, you know.”
She stares at him for a minute longer before forgoing the cushion and covering her face with her hands.
“I don’t get it,” she says.
“Don’t get what?”
“How he puts up with you.”
Satoru flops back into the sofa, head lolling so that he’s staring up at the ceiling. “Me neither.”
Utahime sighs, looking up at him with a hint of despair. Satoru knows the feeling. Except dialled up to a hundred.
What is he supposed to do, when Suguru is like that?
And no, Satoru’s not referring solely to the unparalleled beauty, or the patience that he doesn’t deserve. No, it’s how the lessons have extended to every tiny domestic task in the house, no matter how small. It’s how Suguru insists on doing the laundry with him now, though that might be more because he doesn’t want a repeat of the Flooding Incident, trademark pending. It’s how their laundry nights have become regular little check-in sessions where they talk about the randomest things in their classes or their day or just some shitpost they saw on the Internet.
This was why he’d wanted to live in the dorms with a roommate, wasn’t it? He’d wanted to experience life outside of the Gojo clan’s suffocating palace of entitlement, had wanted to learn how to exist on his own, as his own person. As himself, whoever that might be.
Suguru took the time to show him, to help him learn, even though he wasn’t obliged to. And It makes Satoru want to do things that he isn’t obliged to, like make him coffee the way he likes it when he pulls yet another all-nighter on an essay, or buy him those salty snacks he’ll never admit to liking when he swings by the on-campus minimart.
Who is he kidding? He’s already done all those things, and then some. And he only wants to do them more, for as long as Suguru will let him.
With Suguru, it feels like he can do it all, whatever it may be.
“You should tell him,” Utahime says. All her anger is gone now; at this moment, she almost seems sympathetic. “Put us out of your misery.”
Satoru sinks back into the cushions, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I know.”
He just… has to figure out how to do this without driving Suguru away. Just because Suguru has tolerated him all this time and even become his friend doesn’t mean he wants to be with him in any larger capacity than that.
Utahime seems to sense his train of thought, because she says, “Don’t be stupid. If he’s put up with you for this long, I honestly don’t think there’s a chance he’d leave you hanging.”
“Yeah, but what if he doesn’t actually want to and he’s just doing it because he can’t stand my rich kid ineptitude on principle.”
“Gojo, self-deprecation doesn’t suit you, okay?” Utahime cringes, like what she’s just said is disgusting. “Look, just fucking tell him. Think of it as you repaying his kindness with your honesty, or whatever. Besides, you really can’t keep this up forever and you know it.”
She snatches up the half-eaten bag of Doritos from the coffee table and starts shovelling them into her mouth.
Guess the conversation’s over, then.
Satoru keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, feeling the weight of his decision sink in.
He’s going to come clean. He’s going to.
He just needs some more time.
★
One week ago…
“Suguru,” yells Satoru from the bathroom. “Did you forget your toothbrush or something?”
“What? Seriously?”
Suguru sticks his head into the doorway, eyes landing on the blue toothbrush Satoru has in his hand.
“Damn. Can’t believe I forgot that. Thanks, Satoru.”
Satoru bites back a teasing remark and hands it over with a grin. Suguru plucks the toothbrush from his hand, and goes to stick it in his luggage.
“I think that's everything,” he says, flipping it closed with a loud thump. Satoru watches him tug the zip closed and pretends it doesn't feel like a knife being dragged along his insides.
Recess is only for one week, but Suguru plans to spend it with his family anyway, so here they are, on the last Thursday of the term— Suguru doesn't have class on Fridays, so he's free to pack and catch the train home early—where their apartment has been filled with the heavy air of an imminent departure.
In this space, with him, it's been far too easy to forget that the outside world still exists.
“You sure you'll survive?” Suguru asks, half-joking, as he hauls his luggage to the door, Satoru trailing behind him.
“Hey, I've lived this long, right?”
“What I meant was, do you think you can survive without me for one week?”
Hell no. Suguru isn't even out the door yet, and already Satoru wants to hug his legs and beg him not to go like the cringelord he secretly is.
“Sure, whatever. There's probably a laundromat somewhere on campus, or I'll make Utahime help me, I don't know.” He shrugs, and does his best to smile. “Whatever the case, I'll still be here when you get back, in case you were worried about losing access to my glorious presence.”
“Maybe I was,” Suguru concedes, returning the teasing grin, and fuck does Satoru love this man to death. He opens the door and steps outside. “I'll be back next weekend, okay?”
“Sure,” Satoru replies. When the door clicks shut, he sits down on the couch, staring up at their ceiling fan as it stirs the air.
He should actually do it. Utahime was right. He can't keep this up.
Well, now he has a week and a half to figure out how to confess to his roommate turned best friend and (potentially, probably, most likely) the love of his life properly with the highest chances of success.
For now, he eyes the corridor leading to the laundry room. He goes inside and sits down, looking at the machine already churning his clothes around with the soapy water.
He can't half-ass this. It has to be perfect.
And it will be. He has until, like, next Sunday! Or Saturday, maybe, if Suguru is really worried that Satoru has dropped dead during the week.
In any case, whatever the outcome, he'll live.
★
…Right now.
“Utahime, I’m gonna call you back,” Satoru says, eyes still locked on Suguru leaning in the doorway, his jacket still on, arms folded over his chest as he watches him with a slight smile.
“Please don’t,” Utahime manages to get in before he hangs up.
Satoru stuffs his phone in his back pocket, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. Now that he doesn't have his phone out, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He doesn’t know what to do, period.
Uh.
“You’re early,” he says, because that’s the safest thing he can focus on right now. “It’s only Friday. You said you were coming back on the weekend.”
“Yeah, well. I changed my mind.”
Satoru doesn’t know what to do with that.
“So what's this I hear?” Suguru says, looking him up and down. He doesn't look angry, but Satoru knows just how good he is at hiding it, but he likes to think he can at least tell when— “You've been lying to me?”
“Don't ask dumb questions,” Satoru tries to retort, but it comes out weak: he knows he's been caught. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough.” Suguru leans on the doorframe. He hasn't taken off his coat, and his socks are still on. Did he come straight to look for Satoru when he got back? “I guess the next question is, why did you lie to me, then?”
“I,” Satoru starts, then chokes on the rush of guilt. “Don’t be mad, okay?”
“That depends on your answer, Satoru.”
“Don’t bully me, Suguru!” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was… kind of desperate. You probably know this already, but. I don’t really have friends. Utahime doesn’t count. It’s probably because I’m so awesome and cool and they’re all intimidated by me—”
“You really need a reality check.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He stares down at the smooth pastel tiles beneath his feet. “And horrid as it is, the one who gave me that was you. My family already thinks I should be perfect. So does everyone else. No one’s ever really gotten it.”
“And…” Suguru’s voice sounds a little off. “You think I do?”
“More than anybody else so far, anyway.”
And he might be jumping the gun here, but he’s not sure anyone else will come close. Ever.
Suguru starts laughing, and despite his growing dread and embarrassment, Satoru looks up. His cheeks are dusted faintly pink, and his eyes shine when he looks over at Satoru.
“You know, you’re not as bad as you think,” he says. “So you want me to stay? Is this a proposal?”
“Well, I don’t have a ring or anything, but I could get one, if you want.”
“Slow down, Satoru. At least let me get changed first.”
“You look fine,” Satoru says dismissively, hand on his hip. “But if you insist…” He grins, looking at him over his shades. “I can help you with that.”
Suguru stares at him, and then he reaches past Satoru to hit start on the washing machine.
“I do,” he says, and lets Satoru pull him out the door.
★
Three days later.
He sits down in the lecture theatre, dumping his bag on the ground and rifling through it for his things as he ignores Utahime’s eyes on him.
“Gojo…”
Satoru sits up, grinning at the grimace on her face. She points at the teal-coloured turtleneck he’s wearing.
“That isn’t yours,” she says, tentatively, like she doesn’t want to know the answer, or maybe because she already does. “Is it?”
The grin grows even bigger. “Nope!”
Utahime makes a disgusted noise and turns away, leaving him to stare into space with a ridiculous smile.