Chapter Text
So what’s up with the weird bangs? Was it a dare? Did you run face-first into a pair of scissors?
You should consider cute hair clips. Here’s one attached for your perusal. Weirdo.
💌
Suguru stares at the simple piece of paper, clearly hastily torn out of a notebook, weighed down by an admittedly cute little Cinnamorol hair clip. He wonders what he has done to deserve this. Has he committed some awful crime in a past life? Nothing short of mass murder feels like enough of a cause for this torture.
It’s not the note, or the hair clip. Suguru wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anything from the Sanrio brand, it'd be a betrayal of his anti-capitalist beliefs, but he can easily pass it off to one of the girls he tutors, Nanako or Mimiko. Their home life isn’t the best, so even a little gift like this would make their day. Suguru thinks about buying a second, matching clip, and some sweets to go with them, and yeah, actually, it’s a lovely idea. Top of his to-do list.
The issue is that this is not the first such note he’s received, nor the second, nor the fifth. It is, in fact, the sixty-sixth anonymous message that’s found its way to Suguru’s locker. And it’s not the worst one among them by a long shot.
Suguru, who has carefully slipped each note into a protective sleeve and stored them in a binder, could quote his favourite lines from memory. “You slurp up noodles like a pro. Bet you’d be good at sucking other things, too” , lives rent-free in his mind, right alongside, “saw you kick that kid’s ass at practice. Bet I could take you without breaking a sweat. Not like that, Suguru. Unless…”
But there are also gems like “stop fucking smiling like that, all fake. Makes me want to kick your teeth in,” that, at first, made Suguru feel vaguely threatened. He almost went to the principal’s office with that one. Most are at the very least aggressive. All feel like they’ve been plucked from someone’s stream of consciousness. Thoughtless, lacking any sort of effort in terms of presentation, the notes truly give the impression of being an odd method of bullying.
Unfortunately, Suguru knows that is not the case.
“You got another one?” asks the worst person Suguru knows, draping himself over Suguru’s back and peering over Suguru’s shoulder at the note.
“What have we said about respecting my privacy, Satoru?”
Satoru shrugs, jostling Suguru so badly he needs to adjust his footing. “I dunno. Something about how I should do it, probably. Who cares.”
“I care.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So, any thoughts on who’s sending you these?” Satoru pokes the note with a long, pale finger, calloused from playing basketball and piano both.
Suguru wants to bite it. “None. I have no idea who they’re from, and I don’t care to find out.”
It’s a good thing that Suguru began his career as a liar at five years of age, after he’d broken the neighbours’ window with a carefully aimed rock. It comes easy to him, lying, especially when he feels that the moral high ground is his. And in this particular case, it most definitely is.
“Eh? You don’t care who’s doing it? Why not?”
Satoru sounds like a whiny baby, except his voice is unfairly deep, and it reverberates through Suguru’s back. He hates it. He wishes Satoru would go mute.
“You’ve read most of the notes, Satoru. Do they sound like they were written by someone I want to spend time with? Even just to tell them to stop?”
And okay, maybe Suguru is being a little mean. Maybe he’s enjoying it a little too much, too. But it took him some twenty notes before he was sure he knew who wrote them. That had been the most stressful time in his life, probably. He deserves to have a little fun.
Satoru peels himself off of Suguru’s back and stomps over to the vending machine, expression stormy. Suguru wants to pinch his puffed cheeks. He gets so caught up in amused staring that the can of soda Satoru throws at him almost smacks him in the face.
“See something you like?” Satoru asks, cocky smirk firmly in place.
Suguru offers him his fakest smile. “I do love seeing you stomp and huff like a grumpy child. It makes me feel mature by comparison.”
Satoru, always eager to prove Suguru’s point, sticks out his tongue.
They make their way to class, where Yaga-sensei greets them with quelling looks, even though it’s early morning and not even Satoru would have had time to cause trouble. The day is uneventful. Suguru pays attention in class while Satoru pretends to doze off, slumped over his desk. Their physics teacher, Gakuganji, has stopped trying to get Satoru to behave. Giving him attention only encourages him to act out.
They take their lunch to the roof, because Shoko wants to smoke, and Satoru likes to feel the wind in his hair. Suguru appreciates the privacy. No one else comes up here, because no one else has the protection of the Gojo family, who may or may not be responsible for funding several recent renovations and high quality sports equipment. Suguru, a scholarship student who should care about what the faculty think of him, quickly learned that Gojo Satoru’s word is law when it comes to this type of delinquent behaviour.
Suguru hasn’t yet told Satoru that he doesn’t find breaking school rules cool or particularly fun. He should have, a long time ago, but somehow, the lie keeps getting stuck in his throat.
“Has your loser admirer left you another note?” Shoko asks.
She’s sprawled out on the cleanest section of concrete she could find. Somehow, she hasn’t yet gotten cigarette ash on her face or in her hair. It’s impressive.
Suguru chews his food calmly, swallows, rests his chopsticks on his bento box, and only then answers. “He has. With a gift this time. Wanna see?”
Shoko sits up with an eager nod, so Suguru tosses the hair clip to her. She cackles, turning it this way and that. “It would suit you.”
“It would not.”
“It—”
“How do you know they’re a he?” Satoru cuts in, sandwich halfway to his mouth.
Suguru heaves an exasperated sigh. “He threatens to fight me in every other note. I don’t think a girl would do that.”
“That’s sexist, Suguru.”
“Yeah.” Shoko grins at him, so wide the cigarette nearly falls from her lips. “You shouldn’t underestimate women, Suguru. I think it would do you good to explore your feminine side. Just to understand the perspective, you know?”
“No, I do not know.”
Satoru stuffs the whole remaining two-thirds of his sandwich into his mouth and pounces, trying to get Suguru in a headlock. He succeeds, but only because Suguru needs to scramble to push his bento aside, and because he doesn’t want to risk hitting Satoru in the face and causing him to spit food all over them both. Resigned to his fate, Suguru doesn’t struggle when Shoko crawls over his lap and pins his bangs back with the clip.
“There. Do you feel pretty yet?”
“Get off of me, both of you.” When they do, Suguru returns to his food. “I feel pretty every day. Or are you suggesting that I don’t look good without Cinnamoroll?”
Satoru chokes on his sandwich. Suguru slaps him on the back a few times too many. In the resulting chaos, he forgets to take off the clip and is only reminded of it much later, during class, when a girl sitting to his left keeps shooting him amused glances.
Face hot, Suguru starts reaching up to tear the offending thing off, but stops halfway through the motion. Under the pretense of getting a new pencil out of his bag, he twists a little in his seat and glances at Satoru.
Suguru blushes even harder, and hopes to hell the remnants of his summer tan conceal it. Satoru has his cheek pillowed on his folded arms and stares at Suguru with such open longing in his unnaturally beautiful eyes. Suguru feels pierced through with that gaze. Flayed open. Exposed. He turns around to face the teacher, but with his heartbeat thundering in his ears, he has no idea what old Naobito is saying. Something about the many failures of contemporary culture, most likely.
Suguru proceeds to forget about the hair clip again. As they gather their things to head home, Satoru lingers at his side, which is normal, but keeps his hands to himself, which happens pretty much never. Suguru throws him increasingly suspicious glances, but Satoru just grins and bounces on the balls of his feet, sharp teeth locked around a lollipop stick.
It’s not until they’re halfway to Satoru’s place—he lives alone in an apartment that would be too big for a family, and owns every gaming console known to man, so it’s their go-to hangout spot—that he brushes his shoulder gently against Suguru’s and tilts his chin at Suguru’s face.
“You ended up liking it after all?”
The question is spoken so softly, so genuinely, that for a moment, caught off guard by Satoru’s smile and his blue, blue eyes, Suguru loses the ability to think. When his faculties return, some twenty seconds later, he’s mortified.
“Shit.” His hand flies up to yank the clip out of his hair none too gently. “I forgot.”
Satoru laughs at him. “Suguru, you don’t have to be shy. Cinnamoroll suits you! You should try wearing more pastel pink and cute accessories.”
“What for?” Suguru shoves him, but carefully, aware of the passers-by around them and the cars whipping past. “Am I supposed to put in the effort to look cute just because of your whim?”
“You should,” Satoru confirms, clearly fond of the idea. “Wear it during practice tomorrow, the guys will have a blast.”
Suguru shakes his head, always astonished by Satoru’s lack of understanding of their friends and peers. Suguru would bet good money that Nanami is not interested in Suguru’s style, while Haibara is blind to that kind of thing. Everyone else in the basketball club respects Suguru too much to say anything to him.
“You wear it,” he counters. “It’s in your colour scheme and everything. Here.”
He reaches for Satoru, who, predictably, looks torn between performing outrage at the idea and leaning into Suguru’s touch. He’s like a cat that suddenly switches from playing to biting, then back, unable to decide what it wants. Suguru uses Satoru’s hesitation to grab him by the collar and snap the clip to a random tuft of hair over his forehead. It looks ridiculous. Suguru wants to squish Satoru’s cheeks and make fun of him forever.
“There. Very cute. Never take it off.”
Satoru blinks at him, slow, like he’s rebooting. He reaches up and frowns when he feels the clip. “Okay, you’re definitely not made out to be a stylist.” With deft fingers, Satoru moves the clip to pin back a section of his fringe, which is getting too long, gathering it by his ear. “How’s that?”
“Not bad.” It isn’t. Suguru is staring at two white, blue-eyed creatures that were clearly designed to be disconcertingly huggable. “You’re like twins.”
Satoru grins, more happy about this than Suguru expected him to be. “Oh yeah? Think I should go for the pastel blues? I look good in anything, so I can definitely pull it off, but I’m not sure the rest of the student body can handle me at my cutest.”
“The rest of the student body never sees you outside of your uniform and gym clothes. But sure. Wow them. Go nuts.”
They start walking again, Satoru humming a little to himself. There’s a bounce in his step. Sometimes, Suguru is genuinely scared of the power he holds over Satoru. He’s a teenage boy, he should not be responsible for someone else’s feelings when he barely has a handle on his own.
“You should write your penpal back,” Satoru says, out of nowhere, when they’re riding the elevator to his penthouse.
Suguru blinks at their reflections in the elevator mirror. “What? Why? No, more importantly, how?”
“Oh, right.” Satoru wilts a little. The harsh artificial lighting makes him look especially tragic—and like he’s about to sneeze.
Suguru sighs, yanks Satoru’s glasses off his nose and places a sweaty palm over his eyes. “You’re too smart to be this dumb.”
“Whatever.”
Satoru may grumble, but he presses into Suguru’s touch, just subtly. Truly a large, moody, fluffy cat.
“If I wrote back, it might encourage him,” Suguru reasons. “Not that he needs encouragement, apparently, but still. His obsession is unhealthy. I’m not gonna feed it.”
Under his hand, he feels Satoru’s brows move and his skin bunch up in a frown. His eyelashes flutter. His skin grows a little warmer.
“Yeah,” he says, and has to clear his throat twice. “I know. Thought you might want to mess with them, is all.”
Feeling inexplicably guilty all of a sudden, Suguru squeezes his hand and uses his hold to gently move Satoru’s head from side to side. “Why would I? I get to mess with you whenever I want. That’s more than enough for me.”
You should spend less time kissing ass with that fake smile, and more getting what you actually want.
I bet you want things, Suguru. I bet they aren’t nice.
💌
This time, the note is adorned with an unintelligible little doodle that’s probably meant to be some kind of animal. Maybe. A little devil? A Digimon? Suguru really wants to know, but unfortunately, he can’t ask the artist.
Satoru was called away from practice today, to attend some kind of event in his capacity as the Gojo heir. Playing basketball without him is a lot less fun, even if Suguru becomes the best player on the court by a long shot. It’s made him think about what comes after, going to college or maybe, possibly, if he wanted, going professional with basketball. Suguru is good enough, and with Satoru beside him, all the scouts are looking at him whether they want to or not. He’s simply in the frame.
But the thing is, Suguru doesn’t want to cling to Satoru’s coattails. He already leans on Satoru for a lot. Getting out of trouble at school is one thing, but Satoru pays for their meals and snacks, lets Suguru stay over whenever he wants, buys cinema tickets and games, seems genuinely unbothered by it all, sometimes to the point of callousness, and Suguru…
He’s just not sure what he has to offer in return.
Sighing, unhappy with himself for letting his thoughts veer in that direction, Suguru presses the note between the pages of a book, and gets on with his day. His commute from school is an hour in a crowded train. By the end of it, he’s sweated through his shirt and is exponentially more annoyed than before.
It’s a blessing his parents aren’t home. Dinner’s waiting for Suguru at the table, wrapped in foil and ready to be heated up. His father tends to work such long hours that he’s barely home long enough to sleep, and his mother, a nurse, takes as many shifts as her aging body will let her. Suguru isn’t sure why. They’ve spoken about it, and it’s not because of money. His father makes enough. Would make just as much working for a different company, with a slightly less insane work culture.
Sometimes, Suguru wonders if they just don’t want to spend time with him. If the fear and guilt eat at them so badly that they can’t look at their own son without suffering. It would be fitting, somehow, Suguru decides. He’s like a leech, sucking up other people’s happiness wherever he goes.
He raps himself sharply on the forehead for thinking this way. Careful to cut himself off whenever he starts again, Suguru takes a shower, eats, takes his meds, and retreats to his room to distract himself with homework. When he opens his book, the note sticks up between the pages. Chuckling quietly, Suguru extracts his binder from the very bottom of one of his desk drawers and carefully slips the note into a sleeve, making sure not to bend the edges.
He flips through his collection idly, eyes drawn to the doodles, a few pressed flowers, a candy wrapper or two. It’s all the same, mildly threatening bullshit, but Suguru has long figured out the secret code. Each of these notes is as good as a love confession. A clumsy, embarrassing one, but all the more genuine for it. Suguru plans to treasure them forever.
He got the first one in spring, not long after the school year started. At first, they appeared at random, with a week of nothing between them, then five days, then three. Now, there’s a note waiting in Suguru’s shoe locker every school day, like clockwork, either in the morning or after basketball practice. He would rather die than admit this to anyone, but Suguru looks forward to them. On good days, they are a source of amusement. On bad days, they remind him that there is at least one person in this world who would be sad if Suguru were gone.
Sighing, he slams the binder shut and casts it down into its prison, before immersing himself fully in schoolwork. Suguru’s studiousness has been his saving grace on days like this one. It’s easy to quiet his mind when he has equations to solve or an essay to write.
He’s torn sharply out of his flow when his phone rings, an indeterminate amount of time later. Suguru blinks at it, mind full of alleles, zygotes, and other fun concepts related to genetics, for a couple of seconds, before he realises what’s happening. In the following mad scramble to pick up, he knocks a pencil off his desk and isn’t fast enough to prevent his book from closing. He doesn’t remember what page he was on.
“Hey,” he croaks, surprised to discover his throat is dry. He should make himself some tea. Chamomile, maybe.
“Why do you sound like a frog?” Satoru’s voice is, unfortunately, very pleasing to the ears even through a shitty speaker and over kilometres of distance. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Did you miss me at practice today?”
“You came to practice today, Satoru, and only left near the end.” Suguru stands to stretch, then moves to the kitchen. The apartment is dark. The electric kettle barely disrupts the quiet. “Did you forget? Did someone get you drunk at your parents’ party?”
Satoru makes a disgusted noise. “You’re still allowed to say you missed me, even if I was there for most of it.”
“Sure. Did you miss me, then?”
There’s a telling pause. Then, “Did you get another note?”
“Mhm. At this point, I’d be shocked if I didn’t. It would probably mean my stalker died on the way to deliver it or something.”
“Are we calling them a stalker now?”
“If the shoe fits…” The trouble with camomile tea is that it needs to steep for a while. Suguru tugs idly on the string connecting the bag to its label, leaning his hip against the counter. “How was it? The event, I mean. Dinner? Cocktail party? I never know what to imagine when they call you away like that.”
“A waste of time is what I call it,” Satoru grumbles. “It was fine. There were miniature cakes.”
“Ah.” Suguru grins as he imagines Satoru’s face lighting up in delight at the sight of tiny desserts. “Multiple kinds?”
“Definitely over twenty.” Satoru’s smile is audible. “I think I hunted down all of them, though not all were worth my effort. Hey, so, is it too late for you to come over?”
Suguru stares into his mug, considering. He checks the time—almost nine—and goes to knock on his parents’ bedroom door, just in case. No answer. “I dunno. I already bathed, and spending so much time on the train again is…”
“Wussing out, huh? Okay, I get it.”
“Satoru.”
“What? Are you going to tell me you have homework to finish? Go on, Suguru, prove me right. Prove that you’re no fun.”
Suguru can’t help the way his lips curl into a smile, but he can make sure his voice sounds dry and incredulous when he says, “And what would I be making the trip for? The joy of having your company?”
There’s a soft, nearly silent exhalation from Satoru’s end of the connection. “Of course! My wonderful self and the new Samurai Trilogy film on DVD. On a big screen. With as much popcorn and soda as you can keep down. Also pizza if you like. Do I have your attention yet?”
He always does, no matter what they’re doing, no matter what’s happening around them, but it’s too embarrassing to admit. Suguru hums, noncommittal, pretending he has to think about it. In truth, his mind was made up the moment Satoru asked, and not just because there’s no school tomorrow and they can sleep in. Not even because Suguru hates being alone in an empty house, haunted by the ghosts of his parents’ guilt and disappointment.
It’s because he knows, has known for a long time, that Satoru is just as alone. More so, maybe. Satoru, despite all his confidence, money, and good looks, has a lot more trouble building real connections with people.
“I don’t know,” Suguru teases. “Do you think I’m paying attention to you right now? Maybe I’m really, really busy.”
“With what? Highlighting your favourite passages about the human genome?”
“What if I wanted some alone time?” Suguru isn’t sure what possesses him to say this, but once it’s out of his mouth, he has to commit. “I spend so much time with you that I barely get any privacy. Anyone would get a little pent up.”
There’s some muffled swearing and the sound of Satoru’s phone falling onto a soft surface, then being picked back up. Some shuffling. “I,” Satoru says, voice so high he groans and tries again. “Suguru. Do you want to tell me about your little fantasies? Have we unlocked the girl talk mechanic?”
Suguru cannot stand him. “My fantasies aren’t particularly little.”
It’s true. When he does get some time to himself—and it happens often enough for his limited needs; he’s on medication and exerting a lot of energy to keep up with schoolwork, basketball, and Satoru—he thinks about long limbs, flexing forearms, muscular shoulders. A pretty neck, red from the sun and beaded with sweat above the collar. Pianist’s fingers. Big hands. A big mouth.
“Suguru.” Satoru sounds like there isn’t enough air in his body. “I’ve waited years to reach this stage of our friendship. Tell me more.”
He’s ridiculous. “You’re ridiculous. Do you want me to come over or do you want me to talk?”
The noise he gets in response is definitely a whine. Music to Suguru’s ears.
After some hemming and hawing, Satoru makes a decision. “Come over. We can do girl talk over here if you’re still in the mood. Or not,” he adds, painfully earnest. “Love and Honor won’t watch itself.”
Suguru’s glad they’re on the phone and not face to face, because the soft smile he’s wearing right now would be damning. “Alright. I gotta get ready. See you soon, Satoru.”
“Hurry up, I’ll be so pissed if I fall asleep before you get here.”
Suguru hangs up mid-laugh. There’s no danger of that and they both know it. Satoru barely sleeps on a good night, when he’s not buzzing with impatience, when Suguru hasn’t teased him into a frenzy. Suguru likes to think that him staying over helps Satoru sleep, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking and his need to feel useful lying to him. There’s no point in asking Satoru.
Suguru packs an overnight bag, tossing in his notebooks and the few textbooks that Satoru doesn’t also own. He leaves a note for his parents, stuck to the fridge. When he’s almost out the door, he gets a message from Satoru.
Bet my fantasies are bigger than yours.
Suguru’s blush doesn’t subside all the way to the train station.
You’ve been walking around with a dumb look on your face. Need me to do something about it?
💌
The note is almost civil this time. Shorter than usual, too. As someone who has pored over each of the almost seventy notes for hours upon hours, Suguru thinks of himself as something of an expert, and so, he’s fairly sure he detects traces of concern in the message.
Which is bad. It means that Suguru hasn’t been masking his recent mood as effectively as he’d hoped.
But he can fix it. It’s fine. He just needs to bully himself back into shape, put a proper smile on his face for once, and stop making the lives of the people around him more difficult.
With that in mind, Suguru dodges from under Satoru’s sweaty arm the moment the other boy tries to latch onto him.
“Suguru, what the fuck?” Satoru has an unnatural sense of balance, excellent hand-eye coordination, and insane reflexes, so he doesn’t stumble. He mimes going through the motions in a bid to make himself look like a kicked puppy.
“I gotta run. I’m tutoring my neighbours’ kids today, remember?”
Satoru’s expression clears. He knows how seriously Suguru takes that job. Not because of the money—it is, frankly, an insulting amount—but because Nanako and Mimiko deserve to have at least one mature, reliable person in their lives. Suguru hits the showers fast, and rushes for the train without looking back.
The Hasabas’ place is a mess, as usual, so he starts with their little tradition: quizzing the girls with easy questions while they tidy up together, enough to create a comfortable space for learning. Suguru got cookies and chips on the way, the girls make tea and slice an apple, and in no time, they’re sitting around a low table and going through maths problems.
As usual, Suguru feels a wave of anger rise within him, flooding his lungs, threatening to spill with every exhale. A familiar pressure builds in his head, his chest, tension trembling through his limbs. But Suguru knows himself, and trusts his meds. He breathes. Lets the awful, violent energy go while folding his fury down into a manageable shape.
Nanako and Mimiko are smart girls. Gifted, even, each in her own way. They should be excelling in school, should be getting more opportunities and better guidance from teachers. But they’re not, because their parents can barely take care of themselves, and they won’t listen to Suguru when he argues that children need love and attention to develop properly.
“Geto-san,” Mimiko says softly, after the third time Suguru has to dig his nails into his palm to keep himself grounded. “Are you okay?”
Suguru forces his body to relax, and tries to make his smile sit more naturally on his face. He knows he’s a tall, athletic guy. He knows he can look threatening without meaning to. These girls are the last people in the world who deserve that from him.
“I’m okay, Mimiko. Why do you ask?”
She shakes her head, hugging her favourite—only—stuffed toy closer to her chest. “You seem…”
“Angry,” Nanako supplies. “Not in a bad way! Not at us.” She exchanges a glance with her sister. “Right?”
“I’m definitely not angry at you,” Suguru tells them, softly but firmly. Then he hesitates.
The girls are seven years old. They don’t need to know that Suguru is pissed off at himself, or, more specifically, his stupid brain, for having no chill. No off or pause or reset button for when he starts getting upset. For knowing all this about himself, and still falling into the same trap over, and over, and over again.
“I feel a little bad about practice today,” Suguru lies smoothly. “I missed a couple of shots.”
“Why?” asks Nanako, eyes big and worshipful.
It’s sad, how the girls cling to him, the only person who consistently shows them kindness and attention.
“I don’t know,” Suguru says, inspired for some reasons to turn this into a lesson. “Sometimes, I work hard and prepare, but things still don’t go the way I want them to. Life is unpredictable like that.”
Mimiko hugs her toy a bit tighter. “Is it scary?”
“It can be, when I have to handle it alone. But it’s no so bad if I can share my troubles with a friend.”
He expects the girls to nod and start losing interest, as is usually the case when he slips into random lecture mode. Instead, Mimiko and Nanako perk up, exchanging smiles and meaningful looks.
“Your friend Satoru?” Nanako asks eagerly.
Suguru gapes. Has he spoken to the girls about Satoru? He must have. Their lives are so intertwined, it’s impossible for Suguru to talk about his day without mentioning Satoru. Suguru can’t go five minutes without thinking about the other boy. It wouldn’t be a surprise to learn that he talks about him more than he realised.
“Usually,” Suguru agrees, tone cautious. “Satoru is my best friend.”
Nanako nods a few times, pigtails bobbing adorably with the motion. “Geto-san, do you like him?”
“I… Isn’t it normal to like your friends?”
“Not that kind of like.” Nanako puffs up her cheeks in annoyance.
“Is he your special friend?” Mimiko asks.
Suguru feels his face grow hot, then hotter. He can’t believe these seven year old girls, whom he has known since they were five, are doing this to him. It’s so embarrassing.
“What made you think so?”
“You always smile when you talk about him,” Nanako explains.
“The special smile,” Mimiko adds.
“Right.” Suguru smiles now, but if any of his friends saw him, they’d know it’s a cry for help. “Yes, I do like him in a way I don’t like anyone else.”
The answer seems to appease the girls, but they keep giggling to each other throughout the tutoring session. Suguru focuses on using their time practically, to get their homework to a state that will ensure good grades. It’s all he can do in this situation.
Because apparently the universe has decided that Suguru is not allowed to catch a break, Satoru calls him not long after he’s left the Hasabas’ apartment. Suguru’s just taken the first gulp of a blessedly cold vending machine soda when his phone rings.
He doesn’t even check the caller ID. “Hey. I’m guessing you missed me. Again.”
There’s a huff and shuffling noise, like maybe Satoru’s rolling around in bed or on the floor. Suguru imagines him kicking out his feet, smacking his free hand onto the sheets, fluffy hair falling into his face.
“Suguru, why are you mean to me? What have I done to deserve this? Tell me. I won’t change myself for you because I’m perfect, but at least I’ll know.”
For just a moment, gripped by insanity, Suguru considers saying something true. Something like: you’ve been tormenting me for months, and I can’t figure out if it’s because you’re a coward or just not serious about it.
Or: I’ve been thinking about how much better off you would be without me. Without my stupid dark thoughts and unstable moods and shitty example. What if I’m the only thing preventing you from finding better friends? Real friends, ones without ulterior motives. Ones that will need you less.
But Suguru knows the value of keeping his deepest, truest thoughts to himself all too well. So he says, “Someone has to take you down a peg every now and then. Everyone else is either scared of you or kissing your ass. You need the variety, Satoru.”
He starts walking back home—it’s a short walk, across a car park and up the apartment building’s staircase—and wonders if his mother will be there. At this point, he doesn’t know if he’d like that. It feels like they haven’t spoken in weeks, beyond the occasional post-it note or voicemail. Suguru isn’t eager to start a conversation with her like they’re strangers, catching up on each other’s lives.
“I need less harassment from you, my best friend, the one person who’s supposed to be on my side always,” Satoru says. “Forget that though. Come over?”
The clinginess is really getting concerning. Suguru makes a mental note to research codependence. He meant to do it months ago.
“What for? If you want a Street Fighter rematch, I must remind you of the rules. The victor shall enjoy his superiority for at least a week, unmolested.”
Satoru mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like he’s threatening to molest someone. “I’m bored. Why do you need a reason?”
“Because it’s late, I’m tired, and you’re an hour away.” Suguru steps into the dark apartment and sees no signs of his parents’ presence. He sighs. “You should fix that.”
“What, like move?”
“Unless you can figure out teleportation, I guess that’s the only viable option.”
“But then I’d be living as far away from school as you do. That would suck.”
“Welcome to the lives of us mere mortals.” Suguru checks for food in the fridge, and finds dinner set aside for him, ready to be reheated. “I’m joking, if you couldn’t tell. I don’t want you to move.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to do it, either. You should move instead.”
Suguru rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “I couldn’t afford rent.”
“I have three spare rooms.”
The offer hangs in the silence between them. Suguru doesn’t know how to answer. With some variation of ‘no’, obviously, but—it’s not what he wants to say.
It’s what he should and will say. In a second. Once he’s caught his breath. “That’s three more than you need.”
“Suguru.”
“What.”
“Suguru.”
“It’s—Satoru, I can’t just…”
He can, is the thing. His parents either wouldn’t notice, or they’d be relieved. Suguru wouldn’t waste so much time commuting. He’d be able to dedicate himself more to basketball. And he knows Satoru wouldn’t let him pay rent.
“Can I think about it?” Suguru tries, a little desperate.
“No.” Satoru sounds unusually serious. “I need you to give me more than that. Some kind of answer, Suguru.”
Suguru realises he’s been staring into the fridge all this time, the cool air a relief against his overheated skin. He leaves the food inside, not hungry in the slightest, and collapses in a chair.
“Are you sure?”
He’s not supposed to entertain the idea. He’s being so stupid and, worse than that, cruel.
“I’m always sure about everything. It’ll be fun! I’ll get to beat you at video games whenever I want. And it’ll be like practice before college.”
Tears prickle at the corners of Suguru’s eyes. It’s mortifying. He’s being emotional over something he already half-expected. Just not so soon. Not while he’s—unprepared.
“I can’t, Satoru,” he breathes, and regrets his answer immediately. The words leave a sticky residue in his throat, nauseating, difficult to swallow around.
Satoru goes quiet for a long moment. “Why not?”
Suguru grimaces. He has plenty of very valid, very rational reasons that Satoru will dismiss. Such as that Suguru doesn’t trust himself enough. That he’s not always safe to be around, and needs somewhere to escape to from the people he loves. He presses his thumb to the scar on his forehead, fighting the old habit to pick at it with his nail.
“I don’t want to be far from Nanako and Mimiko,” Suguru says. “They trust me, you know? I’d hurt them by suddenly disappearing from their lives.”
It’s not like he’s lying. He doesn’t want to leave the girls behind. Doesn’t like the idea of not knowing how they’re doing, whether their parents are even around. It’s dumb to feel this way, but Suguru worries that without his overt vigilance, the Hasabas’ household would only fall into further chaos and neglect.
“Yeah, okay,” Satoru says softly. “It’s kind of arrogant of you to think they can’t do without you, Suguru. The world doesn’t revolve around you. Would it kill you to do what you want for once?” And then he hangs up.
Suguru wishes he were capable of finding Satoru as annoying as he objectively is. Contradictory asshole. Suguru wants to hold him, and maybe, possibly, be held in return. The lines between them are hopelessly blurred. Suguru needs to draw new, clearer boundaries soon.
That night, he tosses and turns for a long time, staring at the familiar outlines of his furniture, the sliver of sky visible through his window at this angle. He wouldn’t miss this place at all, if he were to move out. For some reason, the thought makes him sad.