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Satoru didn’t ask for much.
At least, not in the way people assumed.
Sure, he could be a whirlwind—loud, over the top, impossible to ignore. He could spam messages like a teenager with a crush, narrate his every thought through chaotic voice notes, and change his mind mid order just to see if Suguru would roll his eyes or smile. He was exhausting in the most Satoru way, but when it came to love, he didn’t crave theatrics. Not really.
He didn’t need fireworks or serenades. He didn’t need the world to stop spinning just for him. What he needed, what he ached for was so small it was almost invisible: to be remembered. To be thought of in the quiet moments. To be chosen when no one was watching.
He tucked Suguru into the folds of his life effortlessly—pausing in the middle of errands to buy his favorite iced tea, sending memes and reels just to hear his laugh, instinctively saving the last bite of wagyu just for him. Suguru was everywhere in Satoru’s day.
He asked silly questions in the lulls between lectures, poking at Suguru’s patience and affection with all the delicacy of a child tugging a sleeve. If I died and you remarried, who do you want to be buried beside? And when they were walking up the stairs to their next class, Satoru would spot a worm on the pavement and turn to him, wide-eyed, grinning. Would you still love me if I turned into that? Always with that same maddeningly innocent face, like the question wasn’t loaded, like it wasn’t a test he hoped Suguru would pass every time. Yet Suguru answered it all with a sweet yes.
He didn’t ask for grand gestures. Just the reassurance that love could be quiet and constant. That he wasn’t the only one tucking someone into every corner of his day.
He just wanted to be thought of.
And maybe that was what hurt the most—realizing he wasn’t.
And then there was the Blåhaj. Was it even because of that? Satoru couldn’t remember.
—
A 100cm Blåhaj. That’s all.
It wasn’t even that deep at first. Just a damn stupid IKEA run, the two of them trailing through showrooms with pencils tucked behind ears, pretending to plan their future apartment and whatnot.
Satoru saw the Blåhaj in the kids’ section and latched on immediately.
“This one,” he said, holding it with both arms. “This is it. This is the one I want to spoon until the end of my days.”
Suguru glanced over, amused. “The big one?”
“The 100cm one,” Satoru said solemnly, patting the plush’s snout. “Don’t lowball my dreams.”
“Babe,” Suguru sighed, “it’s too big for our bed.”
Satoru blinked. “That’s literally the point. The Haj can stack himself on me.”
“It’ll take up too much space.”
“I’ll throw myself out before I throw this guy out.” Satoru hugs the Blåhaj tighther.
“You will get bored of it.”
That’s what stuck.
That throwaway comment. Satoru pretended to laugh it off, let it slide with a joke and a roll of his eyes, but something in him curled inwards. He couldn’t put his feelings into words. He returned the cute Haj to his container. He wore his shades down. Screw it if it was indoors.
It wasn’t just about the plush.
It was that Suguru looked at something Satoru adored and said no. Like he couldn’t make room—not even a little. Like Satoru’s joy was a phase. A clutter. Something to eventually outgrow.
They left IKEA with a laundry basket and none of the joy they’d come in with.
—
Satoru tried not to take it personally. He really did.
Suguru was drowning in coursework—he knew that. The words Data Structures and Algorithms were enough to make any rational person in their department break into a cold sweat, and Satoru had seen Suguru suffer through that exact panic more times than he could count. His boyfriend’s days blurred into an endless loop of coding, compiling, and staring blankly at a screen as though his mind had checked out entirely.
Satoru understood. He really did. He had his own work, his own mountain of papers and readings to climb. He’d been swamped too—long readings that made even the IKEA catalog feel easy to digest, projects that seemed to multiply as soon as he looked away.
But here’s the thing—he still found time for Suguru. Even when his own schedule felt like it was about to snap, he’d still reply to those random “ I’m failing” texts. He’d still send pictures of himself during his breaks, goofing off, trying to make Suguru smile through the static of stress. He still carved out even just a moment—one second—to say, I’m thinking of you, like it was some kind of life raft he could throw out into the storm of their busy lives.
Suguru didn’t.
And that was the part Satoru couldn’t quite shake off.
The silence from him was always brushed off with an easy excuse—“Sorry, I was busy.” Or, I fell asleep . Or sometimes, there was nothing at all.
Satoru tried not to read too much into it, but the emptiness of it gnawed at him. He wanted to believe Suguru was just buried under the weight of his workload, that it was all just temporary. But the silence felt...like it wasn’t temporary. It felt deliberate, like Suguru was pushing him out, bit by bit, in the quietest way. Like Satoru was slowly fading into the background of Suguru’s world.
One day, Satoru decided to test it.
He deliberately didn’t message Suguru at all. No “good morning,” no random thoughts, no little silly selfies or check-ins. He sat with the weight of his phone in his hand and didn’t even reach for it. He let it sit there, cold and unlit, knowing the chances of Suguru noticing were slim.
Suguru didn’t.
Not even after hours passed. Not even after Satoru began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. He stared at his phone, fingers trembling slightly, waiting for just one sign, one ping. But it never came.
And that was the moment it hit him—the crushing realization that, somehow, in all their busy-ness, he’d become invisible.
—
It built up slowly.
The absence. The quiet. The one-sided check-ins. Satoru would scroll through their old chat logs, rereading conversations like they were some kind of forgotten artifact, just to remember what it felt like to have a back-and-forth. To feel heard.
And then he started leaving his phone face down, not out of some petty gesture, but because it was easier that way. Easier than waiting for a message that might never come. Easier than hoping for something that was fading, little by little.
He started giving Suguru short, clipped replies. Nothing too harsh, just enough to make it clear that he wasn’t really there anymore . He couldn’t be. It was becoming too tiring to keep pretending everything was okay when Suguru was so... absent. So far away, even when he was sitting right next to him.
And then, Satoru started going to their History class early—just to avoid the walk in together. It wasn’t a grand decision. Just an instinct. A way to keep the silence from becoming too loud, too glaring. To not have to face Suguru and feel like the distance between them was more than just physical.
And Suguru? He barely reacted.
He was always too tired, too wrapped up in his own stress to notice. Too convinced that love didn’t need tending—that it was something that would survive without effort. Like a plant you forget to water but expect to stay green anyway, always believing it’ll find its way back to life when the time comes.
The thing is, Satoru didn’t want to be the one who had to keep watering it alone.
—
That History class was their only overlap.
Once, they sat together every session, their shoulders brushing, hands often finding each other in quiet moments.
Satoru’s hands were always cold, a stark contrast to Suguru’s callused, warm ones. During the lecture, he would seek out Suguru’s hand under the table, fingers carefully intertwining with his. The soft warmth of Suguru’s skin was a comfort Satoru couldn’t get enough of—an unspoken comfort they both craved. Sometimes, Satoru would squeeze Suguru’s bicep or let his cold fingers slip between Suguru’s, anchoring himself to something solid, something certain. It was a quiet caress that said everything they didn’t need to say out loud, a moment of intimacy they held onto, hidden in plain sight.
They used to exchange knowing glances or little touches, those moments that made the mundane lectures feel less boring.
But now, Satoru sat quietly beside him, his posture stiff, eyes fixed on the notes in front of him, the laptop open but barely touched. Suguru could feel the space between them—every inch of it. He turned his attention to Satoru, hoping for a brush of his hand, a casual squeeze of his bicep, or maybe just the comfort of Satoru’s cold, slender hand grazing his own.
Nothing.
It was Suguru's group's turn to present the report today.
The professor called on them, and Suguru stood, walking to the front of the room. He could feel Satoru’s presence beside him, but it wasn’t the same as before. The air between them felt too heavy, too cold. Suguru had put in the effort for this project, just like he always did for assignment.
He glanced back at Satoru, hoping for the usual, maybe a smile, a knowing look, something to anchor him while he spoke.
Nothing. Satoru’s eyes were fixed on his laptop screen, his fingers typing quietly, the sound of the keys filling the space that used to be filled with shared thoughts.
Suguru took a deep breath and started the report, his voice steady despite the gnawing feeling in his chest. He spoke to the class, to the professor, but every time he made a small joke or reference, his eyes flicked to Satoru.
Nothing.
Satoru didn’t even look up when he cracked a joke, the kind of thing they used to laugh about together after. Suguru waited for the usual playful glance, the shared moment that would bring them back to each other, but there was nothing.
When the report finally wrapped up, Suguru returned to his seat, feeling the emptiness of the moment weigh down on him. He sat beside Satoru, who was still absorbed in his laptop, not even acknowledging his presence. Suguru’s heart ached—not because Satoru was angry or upset, but because he had become so... absent. So distant.
The lecture droned on, a distant hum against the chaos in Suguru’s chest. He stared ahead, eyes fixed on the professor, but none of the words sank in. All he could feel was the space between them—gaping, frozen, unbearable. Every second of silence rang louder than any voice ever could, echoing like a scream in a hollow room. It wasn’t just quiet. It was absence. It was the weight of something broken and unspoken, pressing against his ribs like ice.
Suguru forgot his water bottle today. He couldn’t clear the uneasy feeling he couldn't swallow.
Yeah. Maybe he just needed to drink water. Must be the water.
—
After class, Satoru was the first one out the door.
He walked fast, shoulders square, hands shoved into his jacket like he needed to hold himself together. He was holding something—a yellowish something in his fist.
Suguru jogged after him, breath catching. “Hey, Toru—wait up. What’s that in your hand?”
Satoru turned slowly, eyes rimmed red, expression unreadable. He held up the banana like it was evidence in a trial.
“This?” he said coolly. “Your dick. If it were a banana. And I crushed it.”
And then— squish.
He crushed the banana with deliberate pressure, mashed guts oozing between his fingers like a symbolic kill shot.
Suguru blinked. “What—what the hell?”
“It’s a banana I forgot in my bag since Wednesday,” Satoru snapped. “Because I’ve been too tired. Because I’ve been alone. Because you don’t ask me how I’m doing. And when I don’t message you, you don’t even notice.”
Suguru stepped back slightly. “I didn’t know you were feeling like this. I thought we were just both busy—”
“I am busy! But I still text you! I still try to make you laugh when I know you’re stressed! You don’t even look up from your compiler long enough to say hi!”
“I was just trying to survive the week—”
“And I was trying to get through the loneliness!” Satoru’s voice cracked. “I’ve been sleeping beside the wall because I can’t even imagine turning over and seeing nothing.”
Suguru opened his mouth, but Satoru cut him off again.
“And God forbid I ask for one nice thing! One thing! A soft, stupid plush shark to hold when you’re too busy to hug me! But no—‘it’s too big,’ right?”
“It is too big,” Suguru muttered.
Satoru laughed, brittle and bitter. “So am I! And yet here you are, trying to love me in bite-sized pieces.”
Suguru stood there, stunned. The words hit harder than the banana ever could.
And because he had the worst timing known to man, he asked, “Did you… H-how was my report? Was it okay?”
Satoru stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Why the hell would I care about your report, Suguru?” His voice was rising, shaking. “Why should I spare a second thinking about it when you don’t even care to message me for a second? Not a check-in. Not a ‘how are you.’ Nothing. I’ve been on Do Not Disturb in your life for weeks, and now you want a gold star for your slides?”
Suguru tried to speak, but Satoru wasn’t done.
“I hate this,” he hissed. “I hate being loved in bite-sized pieces. Like I’m something you only remember when there’s time left over. I’m not an afterthought. I’m not background noise to your coding spiral or your grades. I show up. I always show up for you.”
His voice broke. “You don’t even see me anymore.”
Suguru’s chest ached. His voice was small. “I do. I just… I’ve been trying to survive school.”
“And I’ve been trying to survive without you,” Satoru whispered.
A long beat of silence.
Suguru stepped forward, cautious. “Can I… Can I hug you?”
Satoru didn’t nod. He didn’t smile.
He just stepped forward, arms stiff, letting Suguru pull him in. Satoru even wrapped his arms around Suguru’s neck.
And for a second, it felt like relief. Like exhaling after days of holding it all in. Suguru tucked his chin over Satoru’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of his rasberry shampoo. Familiar. Home. Almost okay.
Then— bam.
A swift, sharp knee to the crotch.
Suguru froze. Eyes wide.
No sound. Just stunned silence as another hit came.
And another.
Pain exploded in white-hot bursts. He couldn’t even speak.
His arms dropped, breath hitching, knees trembling as he tried to stay upright.
Satoru didn’t let go.
He hugged him tighter, forehead pressed into Suguru’s shoulder like nothing had happened. Like his rage hadn’t just been communicated via blunt force trauma.
“You deserved that,” he muttered.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the distant shouts of other students and Suguru’s shallow breathing.
Slowly, he pulled back. His face was pale, but his gaze was clear.
“I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was just trying to survive school.”
“And I was trying to survive without you,” Satoru whispered.
Suguru stared. Then, almost instinctively, he leaned in and gently kissed Satoru’s forehead. No dramatics. No theatrics. Just a kiss that said, I know I messed up, and I know you’re still here.
Satoru closed his eyes.
For a second, just one, he leaned into it.
Then he pulled away.
His voice was quiet, flat. “Don’t think that fixes it.”
It didn’t.
Suguru nodded, the ache settling deep in his chest.
They stood there a while longer, close enough to touch, but still not quite touching.
Like forgiveness was coming—but not yet.
Not today.