Archive of Our Own

{    I remember. I write it down. 

 So I will not forget.     }

The pen hovers over the page for too long. Suguru exhales, presses it down, and writes anyway.

He takes his coffee black, no sugar. He says sugar ruins the taste, but he’ll always steal some packets from me when I’m not looking. In truth, I think he just wants to be seen as ‘grown up’, but he totally has a huge sweet tooth.

    *** If you think it’s enough sugar, it’s not!!
           Keep extra on hand, until you think
         it’s way too much.

He pauses. The words don’t feel true. Or maybe they just don’t feel enough , not quite capturing the full picture. Something stutters in his memory—the way Satoru’s face scrunches at the bitterness, the suppressed grin when he pretends not to like sweetness.  Suguru flips the pen in his fingers, frowning. For twenty years, he’d watched Satoru drink his coffee. And today, for the first time, he isn’t sure if he remembers it right.

The lie is easy: he’s just getting older. Forty-three, knees aching in the rain, hair threaded with silver. Of course he forgets things now and then, it comes with the territory of living life. Just last month, he’d forgotten the date of a faculty meeting at Jujutsu High, all teacher’s attendance required. It happened to the best of them, especially working such high risk and fast paced jobs. At some point, your body will get tired. He was bound to forget something, it was just a question of whether he’d forget to take out the trash or forget to collect homework one day. His mind was just tired, that was all. He didn’t even argue when Satoru purchased one of those large, unseemly calendars, hanging it right by the front door. Satoru kept up with crossing off the days as they passed, leaving cute little notes in the empty spaces, writing down school events and the student’s homework due dates in a pretty pink sharpie. 

This journal was just like that calendar. It wasn’t necessary , he tells himself. Just a precaution, a trick for a forgetful mind. A tool to help him keep organized. 

But the truth—God, the truth crawls beneath his ribs and doesn’t let go. Because this wasn’t the first slip, and each time it happened, it felt like a door closing quietly, somewhere inside him. He brings the pen back to the paper.

{If you have hot chocolate, do that instead of tea.
He’ll refuse it at first but it only lasts a few seconds.}

The pen stills. Suguru exhales slowly, closing the notebook and tucking it into his nightstand drawer before Satoru comes home. He tells himself it’s just words, just paper. But later, when Satoru walks in with a bag of groceries and kisses him hello, Suguru clings too long to the sound of his voice—like if he memorizes it hard enough, he won't lose it.

◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎ ◎

Suguru didn’t mean to buy another notebook. He only steps into the little stationery shop off Shinjuku’s main street because his pen is almost dry, and he’s in the middle of grading papers. He’ll grab a refill, maybe some extra sticky notes for his desk drawers, and then maybe one of those candy bars Satoru likes—what were they called again? He could see the shiny red wrapper in his mind but the name of it sits maddeningly on the tip of his tongue. Oh, well. He’ll remember when he sees it at the register.

Suguru barely gets halfway to the pens when he sees the journals stacked neatly on the shelf—linen covers in muted colors, spines begging to be broken in. His fingers brush across them, pausing longer than he should. They were gorgeous, the pastel tones soft and the feel of cloth rubbing against his skin in a way that soothes. He could imagine filling them with poems, or lesson plans, or maybe love notes to Satoru—yeah, he’d like the blue one. 

Suguru grabbed three of them—a pastel blue, purple, and pink—before heading to the front and setting the journals in front of the clerk. “Is this all for you today?” 

Suguru nodded, pulling out his card. “Oh, wait!” his hand shot out, grabbing something red. “KitKats, that’s what it was.” He handed them to the clerk, waiting for the new total before swiping his card and thanking the employee, walking out of the shop with his bag. Satoru would be so happy to get his little gift. Suguru could already see the way his eyes would light up, a smile stretching across his face before he peppers Suguru with kisses.

His phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts, and a picture of him and Satoru squishing a fluffy white cat between their faces fills the screen. “Toru! I was just thinking about you.”

A laugh sounded from the other side of the call. “Yeah? Miss me already baby?”  

He smiled. “I haven’t seen you since breakfast this morning, of course I miss you.” He starts walking again, his limbs loose and calm.

“Whatever.” Suguru could practically hear Satoru’s eyes rolling, but he knows his husband loves when he says things like that. “I was thinking, why don’t we go out to eat tonight? That new ramen place opened last week, and—no not now Maggie—it’s supposed to be pretty good, if Shoko can be trusted.” He can hear a high pitched meow behind Satoru’s voice as he shoos their cat away. 

“Sounds like a plan, my love. Meet me there? I’m already in town so… fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen minutes, then. Love you!” There’s a faint beep as he hangs up, and Suguru changes direction, walking toward the restaurant.  

◎ ◎ ◎     ◎ ◎    ◎

The ramen shop is already buzzing when Suguru arrives, the kind of cozy chaos that smells like pork broth and garlic oil, steam clouding the windows. Outside, the neon sign flickers faintly, and when Suguru pushes through the door, the sound of clattering bowls and laughter swallows him whole. Satoru is easy to spot—he always is. White hair like a beacon, sunglasses perched on his head instead of his face, waving one long arm above the crowd as if Suguru could miss him. As if he wasn’t the only thing Suguru ever saw when he entered a room with him—this beautiful, ethereal man who Suguru was lucky enough to snag in their twenties after so many years of pining and waiting. After so many years of expecting his friend to leave, just for Satoru to confess one fateful night, re-writing Suguru’s entire purpose for existing.

He’s already commandeered a booth in the corner, sprawled out like he owns the place, chopsticks twirling between his fingers with restless energy.”Took you long enough!” Satoru grins the moment Suguru slides into the seat across from him. “I was about to starve.”

“You’ve probably been here all of two minutes, Toru,” Suguru says dryly, but he can’t help the fond curve of his lips. 

The waitress comes by with menu’s, but Satoru barely glances at them. “Two tonkotsu, extra braised pork, extra egg, and gyoza to start please.” He hands the menus back with a wink. “Trust me, babe. I’ve already done the research.”

Suguru arches a brow. “Research?”

“Shoko said this place was amazing.” He leans back, smug. “And you know she doesn’t lie about food.” Suguru hums in agreement, stretching his legs out under the table until they brush against Satoru’s. He watches the way his husband bounces in place, tapping the table with restless fingers, and feels something soft settle in his chest.

The gyoza arrives first, sizzling and golden, and Satoru immediately burns his tongue trying to bite into one. He hisses, sticking it out exaggeratively, and Suguru rolls his eyes.

“Every time,” Suguru mutters, already having slid his water across the table.

Satoru takes a sip, then grins around the rim of the glass. “Maybe I just like when you fuss over me.”

Suguru shakes his head, but he does reach across to wipe a stray drop of sauce from his chin. Satoru beams, victorious. By the time the ramen bowls arrive, the shop is even louder, steam curling thick in the air. Satoru digs in like he hasn’t eaten in days, slurping noisily enough that the table of students next to them giggles. Suguru watches him—watches the way his eyes flutter shut at the first taste, the way he hums low in his throat like he’s actually savoring it. 

It’s such a simple thing, and yet Suguru feels that ache again, that quiet desperation. He reaches for his chopsticks, trying to bury it under noodles and broth, under Satoru’s voice telling a ridiculous story about one of his students.

“Sensei!”

The call comes just as Suguru’s halfway through his bowl. A boy in a crooked uniform stands there, eyes shining with recognition. His whole face lights up when Satoru turns, and he bows slightly, grinning wide. 

“You do know we aren’t in class, yeah kid? You don’t have to bow.” Satoru teases, ruffling his hair.

The boy ducks his head, laughing nervously, before glancing at Suguru with a polite nod. “Sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say hi.”

“That’s quite alright, hello. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Y–” The name slips away, vanishing just as he reaches for it. His voice falters. “Ah…”

The boy fills the gap, still cheerful. “Yuji, remember?”

Suguru forces a nod, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “Of course, forgive me. It’s been a long day.” Yuji doesn’t seem to notice. He beams at Satoru, exchanging a few quick words before running back to the crowd with a wave. Satoru slurps another mouthful of noodles, oblivious. Suguru stares at the broth swirling in his bowl, appetite gone, the clatter of the shop around him.

Back at the apartment, Satoru disappeared into the shower, humming some mangled pop song that echoes down the hallway. The sound fills the space, warm and familiar. Suguru sits at his desk. His fingers are steady this time as he flips open one of the new journals. He smooths the page with the flat of his hand, then sets Yuji’s photo in place. The printer ink is still a little tacky; it smudges faintly on his thumb. The scissors snip clean through the paper, glue stick set to the side, and then the picture is pressed firmly onto the page, there. Permanent. He writes beneath it in neat strokes:

Itadori Yuji. Age: 15. Satoru’s student.

He underlines it once, then leans back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “There,” he murmurs to himself, satisfied. “Now I won’t forget again.” The words soothe him more than he expects. He taps the pen against the page, closes the journal, and sets it neatly on top of the others. Another precaution, like the calendar at the door. Just organization, nothing more.

He tucks the journals back into his nightstand, pulling the stack of homework papers toward him. He uncaps his pen and draws a line under a sentence his student had written, but no ink comes out. Suguru shakes it, pressing harder. A faint gray smear drags across the margin, then the tip scratches dryly against the page. Empty.

For a moment, he just stares. Then he picks up the discarded stationery bag, rummaging through it, looking. He remembers walking into the shop. He remembers the journals, the soft linen covers, the way the blue one looked in his hand. He remembers grabbing the KitKats, even the cashier’s smile.

But he doesn’t remember the pens.

He stops looking through the obviously empty bag, tossing it to the floor. The silence around him thickens. Satoru is still humming in the shower, steam curling under the crack of the bathroom door, but all Suguru can hear is the hollow scrape of the useless pen in his hand. Slowly, he sets it down. His eyes flick to the neat line of journals in the drawer, and much like the pen, his chest feels suddenly, unbearably, empty.

◎            ○              ◎

.        ◎

   ✧       ✦

The living room is cluttered with papers again. Satoru’s stretched across the couch, half-upside down, one leg hooked over the backrest as he flips through a stack of exams. His sunglasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, and he mutters loudly with each page.

“God, this kid’s handwriting looks like cursed script. I should fail him on principle.”

Suguru, seated properly at the dining table with his own stack of essays, doesn’t even glance up. “You say that every semester.”

“Because it’s true every semester,” Satoru shoots back, grinning when Suguru rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like you’re not suffering too.”

Suguru lets out a quiet hum, though his attention strays—not to the papers in front of him, but to Satoru himself. The way his socks don’t match (bright orange and faded gray). The way he chews on his pen cap without realizing. The way his eyes, when they flick over the edge of the paper, are that impossible, piercing blue.

That—he’ll never forget.

Later, when the house has gone quiet and Satoru’s sprawled in their bed, snoring softly, Suguru pulls out the pastel blue journal, flipping halfway through. He’s been writing more than he thought, but that’s fine. This had all started because the empty journals had reminded him of Satoru—the soft pastel covers lined up like candy-colored thoughts—and obviously he likes writing about his husband. Why wouldn’t he?

He’d never really been the journaling type, but it’s been growing on him lately. He gets it now, why people do this. There’s something soothing about the ritual of it. Besides—he loves Satoru. He loves talking about Satoru. His friends had endured it for a few years before they’d gotten tired of it, telling him they understood that he was in love, but he was married—If he wanted to show his love, then why didn’t he just fawn over Satoru? 

So he’d done just that, showering Satoru with affection and attention for years and years, until even the white haired sorcerer needed space on occasion.  Now he simply let his heart overflow, still wanting to bring Satoru up to everyone at every opportunity. And if there’s no one else to tell, then the pages will have to listen. He picks up the pen beside him and starts to write, detailing in neat, looping script:

Things I Notice

1. His socks never match. I used to think it was laziness,
     but now I think he does it on purpose.
     He does have a penchant for chaos, after all. 
2. Every year he will, without fail, complain about not being
     able to read his student’s assignments—His handwriting
     is worse than our students’.
3. He always falls asleep during movies
               ↘
                   Only the ones he picks.
                         Says mine are “too interesting”

By next month, another journal has been opened—the purple one. This one fills quickly with photographs. Suguru prints them out, trims the edges, pastes them carefully with glue. Their wedding day, blurry snapshots from school fieldtrips, Satoru asleep with his sunglasses crooked on his forehead. Beneath each picture, Suguru writes a memory. Sometimes whole paragraphs, sometimes only a sentence.

Our apartment, 2012. He cooked the first time–surprise surprise, he burned the rice and called it “smoky flavor.” But you know what they say, happy spouse, happy house… so I ate it anyway.

Okinawa trip, 2007.

Then, pen hovering, he frowns. A photo of them outside a restaurant—neon lights blurred in the background. They are both laughing, smiles stretched wide, the selfie taken from the highest angle Satoru could reach. He writes automatically:

That place in Kyoto–

He stops. Kyoto doesn’t feel right. Something turns over uneasily in his mind, and he flips the photo over, squinting at the timestamp stamped in faded ink. Tokyo. Not Kyoto. He scratches the word out, rewriting it carefully, the letters pressed harder into the page than necessary. 

That place inKyoto  Tokyo? Yes, Tokyo. Had really bad shrimp. Food poisoning for 2 days, 0/10 stars for them. 10/10 for how Satoru and I went to the ice cream shop after and shared a cone. He got ice cream all over his lips, and I kissed it all up. 

The correction stares back at him, stark against the white margin. His chest tightens, but he doesn’t let the pen stay still for long. Another picture, another note. Keep moving. Keep writing. Suguru sits back and looks at the three journals on his desk. Likes & Dislikes. Things I Notice. Memories. He runs a hand over the covers, stacking them neatly, as if order itself could hold back the tide. Maybe some would say it was a bit excessive, but he didn’t think so. Plenty of people scrapbook, and this was just the same, right? Satoru will be grateful one day, when their minds begin to fray, that Suguru can rattle off his favorite way to eat takoyaki, or recall a memory neither of them can place. He chuckles at that a little.

“This is good,” he murmurs to himself. “This is good.”

◎     ◎                          ◎

✦ ✦                ✧

○                    ○            ○

The kitchen smells like garlic and sesame oil. Satoru leans over the pan, chopsticks poised, grinning as the chicken cutlets sizzle.

“Oil’s too hot. Bet they’ll burn before they’re cooked through.”

Suguru waves a hand, focused on slicing scallions. “You always say that.”

Sure enough, the edges blacken too quickly, smoke curling. Satoru points triumphantly, eyes bright. “See? I was right. Somebody pick up the phone…”

He pauses, waiting for the response. Their old game.

But Suguru just looks up, confused, knife stilling in his hand. “Hm?”

“…because I called it.” Satoru finishes it himself, the words landing heavier than the joke should. His smile falters for the briefest second before he pastes it back on.

Suguru blinks, then chuckles softly. “Oh. Sorry, baby. I’m so tired, my brain didn’t process what you were saying.” He leans over, presses a kiss to Satoru’s cheek. 

Satoru hums, smile returning, but when he turns back to the pan, Suguru sees the way his shoulders drop, just a little. Later, while they’re curled on the couch with the cat kneading at Satoru’s stomach, Suguru glances toward the corner.

“Hey, Toru—when did you move the bookshelf?”

Satoru hums distractedly, scratching under Maggie’s chin. “What bookshelf?”

“The one that used to be there. By the window.” Suguru points, frowning. He can see it in his mind, stacked high with Satoru’s manga and his own old texts, leaning slightly to the right. 

Satoru’s hand stills on the cat. He turns his head slowly, blue eyes narrowing just a fraction. “We… got rid of that years ago, babe. Remember? It broke when we tried to move it.”

The words land heavy. Suguru swallows, forces a shrug, waves it away. “Right. Of course. I just forgot.”

But Satoru’s gaze lingers a beat too long, as if trying to read something beneath his skin.

            ◎          ◎                        ◎

   ✦            ✧.        

           ○         ○

The laundry basket sits open at Suguru’s feet, half-empty. He plucks a shirt from the pile, holds it up, rubs the fabric between his fingers. The hook of the hanger creaks when he twists it, plastic whitening under the strain.

“You know,” he says, folding the shirt neatly, “we really should buy new hangers. These ones are starting to crack.”

Satoru hums from the couch, where he’s sprawled with Maggie on his chest. “Mm. True. We can pick some up this weekend.” He doesn’t look up from the glossy pages of his magazine, but his foot taps lazily against the coffee table, always restless.

Suguru nods, satisfied, and sets the folded shirt aside. He pulls another from the basket, one of Satoru’s button-ups, the cuff fraying where it’s been caught too many times in desk drawers. He smooths it down, thinking he should sew it before it unravels completely.

“You know, that kid today—what’s his name, the one with the messy hair—tried to hand in an essay with coffee stains all over it,” Satoru says, snorting. “I told him I couldn’t read a single word. He told me it was an ‘artistic expression’.”

Suguru chuckles, lips quirking. “Better than the one I caught doodling hearts in the margins instead of writing his thesis. At least yours tried.”

“Mine’s gonna end up a poet,” Satoru says with mock gravity. “Yours? Hopeless.”

Their laughter mingles, warm and easy, filling the small space between the laundry and the couch. Suguru feels the tightness in his chest loosen. This—this is what he wants to remember. Not the battles, not the blood, just this: the sound of Satoru laughing at nothing important.

He folds another shirt, this one faded soft from years of washes. His mind drifts. They should sort through these clothes, donate the ones they don’t wear. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week. He thinks about the stack of exams waiting on his desk, about how much grading still needs to be done. His thoughts skip, slide away, circling to the pile of cracked hangers in the closet.

“Hey babe,” he says, absently. “we really should buy new hangers. These ones are starting to crack.”

Satoru lowers the magazine slowly, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “Sugu,” he says, careful, “you just told me that. Like five minutes ago.”

Suguru looks up, startled. “...No I didn’t.”

“Yeah.” Satoru’s voice is gentle but firm, like coaxing a student who’s too stubborn to admit a mistake. “Like, five minutes ago. I said we’d pick some up this weekend.”

Suguru frowns, shirt limp in his hands. “I think I’d remember if I did.”

“You… You definitely said it already.” Satoru laughs a little, awkwardly.

Suguru feels the heat crawl up the back of his neck. He folds the shirt too quickly, the crease uneven. “Well—if I said it, I said it. Guess I was just… making a point.”

“You don’t usually repeat yourself,” Satoru says lightly, eyes still on him.

“I’d remember if I did.” Suguru repeats, bristling though his tone stays even. “It’s not like I’d forget something I just said.”

Satoru’s smile flickers, then steadies. He lifts Maggie’s paw, presses a kiss to it, and lets the moment drift. “Alright, alright. You win. You’re right, I’m wrong. Happy?”

Suguru exhales slowly through his nose, tension ebbing out with the breath. “Ecstatic.”

Satoru laughs again, easy as anything, and Maggie meows as if to punctuate the moment. But Suguru’s hands linger on the next shirt, folding it slowly, as though neat edges might press the unease out of him. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. Guess I’m more tired than I thought.” He folds another pair of pants, setting them aside.

Satoru studies him a moment longer, as if weighing whether to press. Then he shrugs, stroking Maggie’s fur again. “If you’re tired, we could nap after this. I’ll even let you have the blanket this time.”

Suguru huffs, grateful for the out. He picks up another shirt, hands steady, but his chest feels hollow. “That sounds nice, Toru.” Tired. He’s just tired, and a nap sounds heavenly.

  .                     ○        ◎        

     ✧.        ○        ·     ○

.                   ✩                 

Chalk dust softens the afternoon light, turning the classroom air gauzy. Suguru paces in front of the board, the stick of chalk warm between his fingers, a white smear along the side of his index knuckle where he’s unconsciously tapped it.

“—which is why layered barriers fail under inconsistent intent,” he says, underlining a phrase, “You can brute-force a wall, but you can’t fake conviction.”

A few heads nod. He can feel the room’s attention like a tide—flowing, receding, returning. He loves this part, the rhythm of it. The small sounds: chair legs shifting, someone’s pen cap clicking on and off, the quiet scratch of notes. He turns, scanning the faces he knows, or should. 

There. Second row, third seat from the window. The kid with the serious eyes, hair that never quite lays flat. He lifts his hand half-heartedly, pointing in the kid’s direction. “Yuta. Walk me through the failure point.”

Silence. Then, the boy blinks. “Sensei… it’s Megumi.”

A prickle creeps up Suguru’s neck. “Right. Megumi.” He gives a small, no-big-deal smile, as if he’d meant to say that all along. “Go ahead.”

Megumi straightens. “The failure point isn’t the barrier itself—it’s the caster’s wavering focus. If your internal rule set contradicts the applied rule set, the structure cannibalizes its own power.”

“Good,” Suguru says, and means it. Megumi is sharp, he always is. Suguru lets the class murmur, lets the answer settle. He turns back to the board, writing out MEGUMI—INTENT→ STRUCTURE, the letters a little too large. He underlines twice, chalk biting the slate. The point is made. Keep moving

“Okay. If that’s true, then Maki–what happens when—”

“Maki is out sick,” a voice calls out, and he turns to look. Sure enough, the seat is empty. 

“Of course.” Suguru nods. “Thank you, Nobara.”

Names are hard, he tells himself. Finals season scrambles everyone. He keeps going, because he’s always kept going; that’s his trick. Motion. Pacing. The facts are firm no matter what the names are.

He pivots back to the class. “Megumi—” His tongue tries to shape Yuta again. He feels it, a stupid little misfire, a rut worn into some old memory of roll calls from years ago. He swallows.

“Megumi,” he repeats, careful this time, “if intent is clean but your boundary conditions aren’t, what then?”

Megumi answers flawlessly. Of course he does. Suguru lets the boy talk, nodding, body angled to the chalkboard like a shield. He hears giggles flare and die at the back of the room—the kind that are more nervous than mean—and pretends not to.

“Excellent,” he says, and the chalk snaps in his hand. A thin white shard skitters across the floor. For a second the sound seems too loud, the room ringing with it. Suguru stoops to pick up the piece, his fingers steady, his head buzzing a little with the effort of pretending this is nothing at all. 

“Break,” he says lightly, because he needs one. “Five minutes.”

Chairs scrape.  The room exhales. Students stand, chatter pricking the air. Suguru sets the chalk nub on the tray and rubs his thumb against the dust smudge on his skin, as if he can rub away the moment too. He flips open the attendance book, names in neat columns. Nobara Kugisaki. Megumi Fushiguro. Maki Zenin (absent). His eyes scan more names down the list. The letters are familiar. They should match faces the way they always have.

He looks up. The classroom blurs briefly, not his eyes but the sensation, like a photograph coming in and out of focus. He knows these kids. He knows them. He’s always known them by week two—their handwriting and their laughter and the way each one says “sensei” differently. It’s pride as much as habit.

“Suguru-sensei?”

He blinks up. Nobara Kugisaki lingers near the desk, notebook hugged to her chest. Her smile is tentative in that way students have when they’re not sure if they’re about to bother you. 

“Sorry,” she says. “Do we annotate the barrier diagrams now, or wait until after lab?”

“Now,” he says automatically. “Just mark the… the boundary zones.” The word boundary feels weirdly heavy. He forces a small smile. “Good question.” She nods and slips away. He watches the back of her head disappear into the cluster by the windows. He drops his gaze to the attendance again as if the names will anchor him.

Megumi Fushiguro. Not Yuta. Of course not Yuta. Yuta graduated years ago. 

The bell rings them back into place. He teaches through the last fifteen minutes by muscle memory, the way you can still cut vegetables while thinking about something else. He says the right words; they hit the room at the right angles. The class finishes. Chairs scrape again, backpacks zip, the door swings in a rhythm he knows like a heartbeat.

“Good work today,” he says, and he means that too. “Bring your drafts next week.”

Megumi Fushiguro lingers, the serious eyes flicking to the board and back. “Sensei?”

Suguru looks up, working his mouth into an easy smile. “Yes?”

Megumi hesitates. “Do you want me to… um. Put the chalk back? Or—”

“I’ve got it,” Suguru says quickly. “Thank you, Megumi.”

The boy nods and leaves, door clicking shut behind him. Suguru exhales. He sits in the quiet on the edge of his desk and presses his thumb into the crescent of chalk on his finger until it hurts. Names are hard when you’ve got a dozen sections, and he does, and the schedule is a mess, and it’s raining, and—

His phone buzzes. A pink heart flashes across his lock screen—Satoru’s latest edit to a photo of the two of them at the beach, stupid and sunburned and happy. 

[Toru <3, 4:35 p.m.]:
Dinner at 7?I’ll cook.

And then, because Satoru never can help himself, another message comes through,

[Toru <3, 4:36 p.m.]:
Unless you want dessert first.

Three obnoxious winking emojis quickly follow it. Satoru huffs, despite himself.

[Suguru, 4:38 p.m.]:
Home in 30. Cook.

He stares at the word home for a second, then slides his phone back into his pocket. When he finally locks the classroom, the hallway is mostly empty, the floor shining in bands where the janitor’s mop has dried. He walks slowly, glancing at each kid he passes and silently names them to himself like a prayer. 

                 ○                           ·

              ✧           ·       

        ✦

At home, Satoru is asleep on the couch, full from their dinner, a hand flung over his eyes. Maggie has draped herself along his ribs like a sash, purring in triumph. The news muttered away to no one, the low sound filling the room. Suguru pauses in the doorway. The ache that lives behind his sternum eases at the sight. He could stand there forever, just watching. 

He picks up their discarded shoes, stacking them neatly at the front door. He moves quietly through the room, turning off a lamp that doesn’t need to be on. In the study, he closes the door and sits at the desk. The journals wait where he left them, where he’d moved them from his nightstand after a close call of Satoru finding them. The spines are pressed together, a line of soft colors staring back at him. Blue. Purple. Pink. He opens the drawer below and pulls out a new one—darker, slate-gray. On the first page, he writes, in his cleanest hand:

Names and Faces
Students, Year 3, 2033
Seating, habits, notes

He opens his laptop to the school portal. The directory loads. Rows of thumbnail portraits: stiff uniforms, varying degrees of forced smile. He prints them one by one. The printer chatters softly, feeding out faces into a neat little stack. Suguru cuts each along the border with slow, careful snips, the scissors clicking like a metronome. He tapes Megumi Fushiguro at the top of page two. Below it, he writes:

Megumi Fushiguro—row 2, seat 3 (by window)
Serious eyes; good edge with cases; double–checks
  lab notes
NOT YUTA

He underlines the last line, once, then again, feeling something in his chest loosen then tighten. He turns the page and tapes Nobara next.

Nobara Kugisaki—row 1, seat 4
Asks good clarifying questions; fast but neat handwriting
Sits forward when she’s confused

He continues, taping pictures and writing beneath each face, little notes that turn the picture into a person. The pages fill. Names become lines and arrows, faces taped in like butterflies pinned beneath glass. Somewhere in the apartment, Satoru stirs and murmurs in his sleep. Suguru closes his eyes at the sound and lets it anchor him. When he’s put each student into the journal, he flips to the next empty page, starting a rough and messy seating chart sketch. He realizes, halfway through drawing the grid, that he’s drawing the room reversed; he flips the page and starts over—not angry, exactly, but brisker. Tidier. He can make it correct. The lines will make it true. 

Suguru caps the pen and shuts the journal. He sets it square on top of the others, aligning the spines in the desk drawer until the line is perfect. It’s a small thing, but the neatness helps. A task with clear edges, something he can get exactly right. When he steps back into the living room, Satoru’s eyes are open, heavy with sleep, the television’s glow painting him blue. 

“You working late?” Satoru asks, voice rough.

“Just organizing for exam week,” Suguru says. His mouth shapes the lie so easily it almost doesn’t feel like one. He leans down and kisses Satoru’s hair, the faint clean scent of shampoo, and tells himself he’s done a good thing. He’s made it so the names can’t slip, built a road back to each face. He turns off the TV, holding out a hand that Satoru quickly takes, lifting himself from the couch so they can make their way to the bedroom. 

o          ·

 ○

      ✧

The apartment was dark but not silent—the hum of the city leaking faintly through the curtains, the rhythm of Maggie padding softly across the floorboards before curling against their feet. Suguru lies on his side, arm heavy around Satoru’s waist, his breath warm where it brushed Satoru’s shoulder. For a long while, they kept still, watching the ceiling, counting the faint shifting shadows cast by headlights below.

“Hey, Suguru?” His husband’s voice was barely a whisper, meant for the dark alone. Suguru hummed against him, half-asleep, and lifted his head, trying to make out his face in the low light.

“You, uh…” Satoru hesitated, wetting his lips. “I heard that you called a kid by the wrong name last week? A couple times, actually.” He laughed softly, almost apologetic. “One of your students told me. Not like in a mean way. Just—they thought it was funny, y’know?”

Suguru laid his head back down on the pillow, squeezing gently with the arm looped around Satoru. He exhaled, voice rough with drowsiness. “Long day, Toru. Long week, really. That’s all.”

He heard Satoru swallow, the sound jarring in the silence of night. He was quiet for a moment, and then Suguru heard a small inhale.

“I just…” Satoru turned, pressing his forehead against Suguru’s chest, muffling the words. “Babe, you ever think something’s really wrong?”

The question makes him freeze, tipping his head slightly down toward Satoru. “Wrong?”

“You’ve just been a bit… absent lately.”

“I told you, Toru. I’m just busy with exams and tired. You know how it gets—But I’m fine, really.” He shifts, turning his body and pulling Satoru closer. His husband pulls his face back, staring through the dark for a moment, before placing a soft kiss on Suguru’s nose.

“Okay,” he whispered. “If you say you’re fine, then you’re fine.” He tilted his head brushing a slow kiss against Suguru’s jaw, then another at the corner of his mouth. “I love you, y’know that?”

Suguru smiled against his lips, a soft press in return. “I know. I love you too.”

Satoru kissed him again, slow and lingering, almost as if memorizing the shape of it. Suguru felt the lithe hand slide up and settle at the back of his neck, holding him close. Suguru deepened his kiss, slow and loving. That hand held him there, long after the kisses stopped—long after Suguru’s breathing evened, slowly slipping back into sleep.

.         o

  …

  ✩.   

The couch sags comfortably beneath him, the kind of soft wear that comes from years of Sunday naps and late-night movie marathons. Suguru leans back, one ankle crossed lazily over his knee, half-watching the evening news flicker across the screen. He’s not really listening. The voices drone, numbers scroll. What holds him is the sound of Satoru in the kitchen—pots clinking, something sizzling faintly in oil, the rhythmic pad of socked feet against tile. It’s a domestic symphony, familiar enough to lull him into drifting thoughts.

He’s just about to call out—ask if they have any beer left, or maybe suggest wine instead—when Satoru’s voice slices through, oddly pitched. “Uh… babe?”

Suguru tilts his head. “Yeah?”

There’s no answer right away. He glances over the back of the couch, expecting some silly grin or Satoru trying to balance something on his head for attention again. Instead, he sees him standing in front of the open freezer, a hand propped on the door. In the other hand, dangling between two long fingers, is a familiar tangle of keys.

Suguru squints. “...Are those my keys?”

Satoru nods slowly. “Mhm. Care to explain why your keys were chilling—literally—next to the frozen dumplings?”

Suguru blinks at him, caught off guard. “In the freezer?”

“Thats what I said.” Satoru steps aside, tilting the keys for emphasis. “Top shelf. Right where the ice cream goes. Hope they liked the cold.”

Suguru sits up straighter, baffled. “Well, I didn’t put them there.”

Satoru’s mouth quirks like he’s holding back a grin. “So what, you’re saying Mags grew opposable thumbs when we weren’t looking?” The cat in question meows faintly from her perch on the armchair, as if saying ‘ Who, me?’

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Suguru huffs, standing now. He crosses the room and plucks the keys from Satoru’s fingers, a little too quickly, like proof he can control the narrative if he just holds onto them hard enough. The metal is freezing cold against his palm, and he stuffs them into his pocket. “Must’ve been you.”

“Me?” Satoru laughs, but it doesn’t ring quite as careless as usual. “Suguru, I’m pretty sure I can tell the difference between keys and gyoza.”

Suguru shakes his head, brushing it off, though something inside prickles uncomfortably. He didn’t even go near the freezer today, so it couldn’t have been him. He’d been grading all afternoon.

Hadn’t he?

Red pen, stacks of papers, the full thrum of rain outside the window. And then… what? He searches for the next link in the chain, but it slides through his thoughts, slippery and evasive, like trying to catch smoke in his bare hands. 

“Well, it doesn't matter.” He says finally, turning toward the sink. “I was probably just distracted. Planning for finals is killing me.” Behind him, he hears the soft click of the freezer door shutting. He feels, more than sees, Satoru’s eyes still on him.

“Yeah,” Satoru says, voice gentler now. What was he getting so quiet for? Suguru wasn’t delicate, he wouldn’t break. “Maybe.”  The faucet roars as Suguru fills the glass. He takes a sip, cold water chasing down the lingering taste of unease in his mouth. 

.

                           ○

Suguru only realized what had happened when he heard the silence. Not the usual kind—Satoru’s silences were rare, but they always carried shape, humor, anticipation. This one was flat and weighted, pulling Suguru from the kitchen before the kettle even finished boiling. Like parents with kids when there’s no chaos, like dog owners when they hear faint chewing noises. Something was off. He rounded the corner of the study, and the sight stopped him cold.

Satoru stood by the desk, head bowed over one of the linen-bound journals Suguru thought he’d hidden well enough. The others—stacked, messy, unashamed in their abundance—were scattered around him like evidence.

Suguru’s throat tightened. “Toru.”

Satoru glanced up, and that was somehow worse than if he hadn’t. His blindfold was around his neck, pale lashes catching in the dim lamplight. Those too-blue eyes are wide, confused. 

“Why… Why are you in my desk?” He askes the tall sorcerer, staring at the journal in his hand.

“I needed a pen, I lost mine—What is this?”

Suguru crossed the room quickly, hand outstretched before he even thought. “They’re just—” He snapped the book closed, almost too sharply, and tried to slip it from Satoru’s fingers. But Satoru held on, pulling it back and opening it again.

“‘He only puts honey in his tea if he’s sick,’” Satoru read out loud before Suguru could stop him, voice soft but not mocking. “‘Laughs in his sleep when he dreams of winning arguments. Says he hates cat fur getting everywhere but lets Maggie crawl under the blanket every winter.’” He set the journal down, opening another one and turning to a random page. There was a photo taped in, a young man, the neat scrawl beneath it noting Name: Itadori Yuji. Satoru’s student.

Satoru’s voice faltered. “Why do you need to write this down?”

Suguru’s heart hammered in his ears. His mouth shaped words before his mind caught up. “Because I don’t want to forget. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

Suguru hated how small his voice sounded. “I like writing. It helps me… remember.”

Satoru closed the book gently, but his hand lingered on it, knuckles pale where he held it tight. His silence stretched long enough to feel unbearable. Suguru forced a chuckle, shrugging as if that would lighten the weight crushing his chest. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s just—old man habits. I forget where I put my keys, forget which drawer the tea’s in. Nothing serious.”

He dared to look at Satoru then. He wished he hadn’t. There was no judgement in those eyes, no mockery. Only worry, sharp and unbearable, like a mirror pressed against everything Suguru was trying not to see. 

“You don’t need a hundred notebooks to remember me,” Satoru said softly.

Suguru smiled, weak and practiced, finally tugging the journal free from his husband's hand. He stacked it atop the others, handling them with more care than necessary. Spine to spine, corners lined, his fingers trembling only slightly. He told himself Satoru wouldn’t notice. He told himself if he put them away neatly, closed them tightly, then this moment could close too. He could keep it under control, like he’d done with everything else in his life lately.

Satoru didn’t move. The weight of him lingered, tall frame leaning against the wall, blindfold still loose around his neck. Suguru could feel those eyes on him, unblinking, waiting. Always waiting. Finally, he broke the silence. 

“Suguru.” His name carried no accusation, only exhaustion. “We need to go to a doctor.”

The words made Suguru’s stomach lurch like he’d been shoved from a great height. His hands stilled on the journals. “That’s unnecessary.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.” He forced a laugh, clipped and hollow. “I’m fine, Toru. I’m just forgetful. That’s what happens to people our age, they forget things.”

“You put your keys in the freezer. You asked about a bookshelf we got rid of years ago. You called a student by the wrong name–twice!”

Suguru’s jaw tightened. “I corrected it, didn’t I?”

“Baby.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Suguru swallowed hard, throat dry, chest tight. He could feel the edges of his temper fraying, the defensive spike rising sharp and bitter. “I don’t need a doctor,” he said, sharper this time, as if sheer force could make it true. “I’m managing. You see these?” He tapped the stack of journals. “This is working. I remember. That’s enough.”

“It’s not enough.” The quiet in Satoru’s voice made him falter. Not anger, just raw, aching uncertainty.

Suguru shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” Satoru said. His voice broke, a fissure in the unshakable. “Make me understand why you think hiding this from me is better than letting me help you.”

Suguru’s chest caved, breathing shallow. His mind spun. Because if I admit it, it’s real. Because if I go to a doctor, they’ll name it, and once it has a name, it’ll never let me go. Because I don’t want you looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now.

But all that came out was, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Suguru couldn’t look away as Satoru stepped closer, too close. “You already are,” he whispered.

That was when Suguru saw it—the sheen gathering at the corners of those too-bright eyes. The blue he loved, the blue that carried him through every storm, now fractured by water that caught the light.  No. No, he could withstand anything but this. Not this . “Don’t,” Suguru choked, shaking his head. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides. “Don’t cry, Toru.”

“I don’t know what else to do.” The words gutted him. Stripped him down to nothing.

Suguru’s knees nearly gave out. His mind clawed for any argument, any wall to raise back between them, but the sight of those wet lashes, that trembling mouth—it undid him in a way sickness, war, death never could. He reached forward, clutching at Satoru’s shoulders, dragging him close as if the sheer force of his hold could bind them against the inevitable. His voice was broken glass. 

“Oh c’mon Toru, don’t cry, please.” he whispered, ragged. “I’m fine. I can handle this. I don’t need anyone poking and prodding at me, telling me what I already know.”

Satoru pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and the shine there was unbearable. “And what is it you already know?”

Suguru’s throat worked, but no words came. He looked down, fingers gripping tighter into the fabric. “That I’m just tired. That’s all. Stressed. It’ll pass, it always passes.”

“It’s not passing.”

“Then I’ll make it pass,” he snapped, harsher than he meant, then softened instantly. “Please, Toru. Let me keep this. Let me keep pretending, just a little longer. If I write it down, I’ll remember. If I keep track, it won’t slip away. You don’t understand—these journals, they’re working. They’re saving me.”

“They’re not saving you,” Satoru said, quiet but firm. “They’re just showing me how much I’m already losing you.”

Suguru flinched. His mouth opened, closed. His mind scrambled for anything—anything to patch the cracks, to delay the inevitable. “I’ll be more careful. I’ll double-check. You can help me, right? You’ll remind me. You always remember. We don’t need a doctor for that.”

Satoru’s voice wavered, thick with tears he hadn’t shed yet. “I can’t do this by myself, Suguru. I can’t watch you slip away from me a piece at a time and just… hope sticky notes will fix it. I need you to let someone help us. Please.”

Suguru shook his head violently. “No, no, no, you don’t get it. A doctor makes it real. A doctor writes it down, gives it a name, and then it’s all I’ll ever be. Another patient, a pile of papers with a stupid diagnosis attached. Not your husband. Not me.” His voice cracked on the last word, a raw sound that startled even him.

“Hey,” Satoru murmured, reaching up to cup his face, thumbs sweeping the corners of his eyes though they were dry for now. “You’ll always be you. Suguru, my Suguru. Nothing changes that.”

Suguru wanted to believe it, wanted it so badly his chest ached with it. But all he could see were those blue eyes, glistening in the dim light, trembling on the brink of spilling over. Glowing Christmas lights in the dark, breaking him open. His defenses collapsed, rubble at his feet. He bent forward until his forehead touched Satoru’s shoulder, clinging like a drowning man.

“Fine,” he rasped. “Fine. If that’s what you want—if it’s what you need—.” He stopped, breath shaking, fingers tightening hard in Satoru’s shirt as though he could anchor himself.

“I’ll go,” he whispered, then immediately backpedaled, frantic. “Or—no, I’ll try. I’ll think about it. I just… I don’t want this, Toru, I don’t want them telling me things I can’t take back. But if it’s you asking me—if it’s you looking at me like that—” His voice cracked, thin and desperate.

He swallowed, tried again, softer. “Whatever you want. Whatever makes you breathe easier at night, I’ll do it. I’ll sit in the waiting room, I’ll nod at the doctor, I’ll take the papers home. I’ll do all of it if it keeps you from—” He broke off, choked, shaking his head. “God, I can’t stand when you look at me like I’m already halfway gone.”

He lifted his face just enough to see Satoru’s eyes again, wet and glimmering, but still silent, as though he doesn’t believe what Suguru is promising. That sight alone stripped him bare. “You hear me? I’m saying okay,” he breathed, the words final, shuddering. “Okay, yes. Whatever you want. Whatever you want, Toru. Just tell me, and I’ll do it. Just—just don’t look at me like that. Please, Toru. Please.” 

Satoru folded around him immediately, arms iron-tight, chin pressed into Suguru’s hair. His voice was muffled, but steady in his ear: “Then we’ll go. Together. Okay?”

Suguru squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his lips to Satoru’s jaw, salt stinging his tongue from tears that weren’t his. “Together,” he whispered, though it felt less like a promise and more like a prayer. He let himself fold, clinging tighter, whispering it again into the hollow of Satoru’s throat, as if saying it enough times would make it true: together, whatever you want, whatever you want baby.

 ○

        ✦

The kettle clicked off, a jingle letting him know it was done. He didn’t pour it, just sat at the table with his hand on the handle, staring at the thin curl of steam until it faded. 

His appointment was today. 

He’d agreed. He remembered agreeing, weeks ago, though every cell in his body insisted it must’ve been someone else’s mouth that spoke the words, not his. Someone weaker. Not him. 

His gaze slid across the table to the journals stacked in a neat column, spines pressed together. He thought about taking one with him, slipping it under his coat pocket like a talisman. Something to remind him that he hadn’t lost everything yet. That he could still remember, still hold a pen and write, still cling.

The sound of bare feet softly padded across the floor. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Who else would it be? Satoru is all that there was.

“You’re up early,” His husband said lightly, voice edged with the brightness he used when he was trying too hard not to spook him. “Aren’t you gonna pour your tea?”

Suguru’s fingers tightened on the kettle handle. “I’m not thirsty.”

He finally looked up. Satoru was leaning in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, pulling his blindfold up to settle it in place, covering one of his eyes and leaving the other side pushed up for now. Those too-bright eyes—the ones Suguru had spent half his life pretending he wasn’t obsessed with before they finally started dating.

Suguru hated the way he felt cornered.

“I can call the office and cancel,” Suguru said suddenly. “We don’t have to go.”

Satoru crossed the room slowly, like he was approaching a skittish animal. He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of Suguru’s sleeve. “We do.” 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

The words were soft, but they landed like stones in Suguru’s chest. He pushed back from the table, standing too fast. “Don’t say it like you know me better than I know myself.”

“I do, baby.” Satoru said simply.

The air went thin between them. Suguru’s jaw worked, searching for something—anything—that could claw back ground. He wanted to tell him to shut up, wanted to snarl, wanted to walk away. Instead, all he managed was a low, ragged, “I don’t…want this.”

Satoru stepped closer. His hands came up to Suguru’s scarf, folding the ends together like he’d done a thousand mornings before. “I know you don’t.” His voice was steady, but softer than a whisper. “But I need you to do it anyway.”

Suguru closed his eyes, felt the brush of wool at his throat, the weight of hands that had never trembled once in their lives except for him. His mind screamed: Don’t let them see it. Don’t let them take you apart little by little. Don’t let him see you unravel. But beneath the fear was something worse: the memory of Satoru’s eyes, wet and trembling, threatening to fall apart. 

He opened his eyes again and saw them now, those same eyes, bright and stubborn, waiting. Always waiting. And Suguru knew, with a helpless, bitter certainty, that he’d already lost this battle.

“…Fine,” he muttered, shoving his arms into his coat. His throat felt raw, like every word had scraped it hollow. “But only because you asked me. Only because it’s you.”

Satoru smiled then—slow, fragile and devastating. He bent to press a kiss to Suguru’s temple, pulling his blindfold the rest of the way down. “That’s all I’ll ever need.” Suguru exhaled, shaky, and thought of the journals still stacked on the table. He wondered if he should start another one tonight, a fresh page for this day. The day he walked willingly into being renamed. The day he realized that loving Satoru meant he no longer got to choose what battles he could lose.

The car ride was unbearable.

Not for the usual reasons—traffic, noise, Satoru’s insistence on fiddling with the radio until he found a station playing something half-decent. No, today was quiet. Satoru’s hand rested on the gearshift, steady as ever, but he wasn’t filling the silence with bad jokes or offhand commentary about pedestrians’ questionable fashion choices. He was just… driving.

Suguru hated it. He almost wanted him to start rambling about nothing, to chatter endlessly, to pull his attention anywhere but the knot twisting tighter and tighter in his stomach. But Satoru stayed silent, eyes hidden behind his blindfold, face unreadable.

And Suguru? He sat there, fingers clenched against his thighs, staring out at the blur of buildings as if memorizing every brick might anchor him here, now, in the world before.

Every red light stretched too long. Every turn felt final.

By the time they pulled into the clinic lot, Suguru was almost trembling. His throat was raw from swallowing words he wouldn’t let himself say. Let’s go home. Let’s forget this. I’ll try harder, I’ll do better.

But Satoru was already unbuckling, circling the car, opening Suguru’s door before he could stall.

“Up you get, old man.” The joke was soft, careful, the kind of thing he used when he wanted to pretend they were fine.

Suguru managed a snort. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then don’t act like it.”

Satoru’s hand was there, warm against his arm, steadying him as he climbed out. Too steady, too patient. Suguru wanted to shake it off, wanted to cling harder, wanted both at once. Wanted to shout that nothing had changed. He isn’t breakable, he isn’t delicate. He’s not going to crack into a billion pieces, so Satoru didn’t need to handle him as if he would.

The waiting room felt too bright. The lights hummed overhead, buzzing against his temples, bouncing off every sterile surface until the whole place seemed designed to expose him. To strip him bare. It smelled of antiseptic and cheap coffee. Suguru sat stiff in the chair, knees together, hands folded too neatly in his lap. He didn’t take off his coat. Didn’t meet the receptionist’s eyes. He stared at the floor tiles instead, counting the tiny specks of gray in the linoleum like they were proof that his mind still worked. He counted in his head—five breaths in, five breaths out, five seconds between—and still, his chest thudded like a fist against a locked door.

Satoru sat beside him, long legs stretched out, and Suguru could feel the weight of his gaze. “Do you want water?” Satoru asked quietly.

“No.”

“You look like you could use some.”

“I said no.” His voice came out sharper than intended, brittle with nerves. He regretted it immediately when he saw Satoru’s lips press into a thin line.

Silence again. 

Suguru’s thoughts spun in the stillness. He imagined the doctor’s office beyond the door, imagined the questions, the tests, the way they would look at him and see not Suguru, not husband, not sorcerer, not man. Just a list of symptoms. Just another case.

He rubbed at his temple, eyes shutting briefly. I should’ve hidden it better. Should’ve been careful. Shouldn’t have let him see the cracks.

When he opened them, Satoru was still watching, still quiet. Suguru caught his reflection in the window behind him—small, fragile, nothing like the man he wanted to be.

And then Satoru shifted, leaning closer, voice pitched low so no one else could hear.

“Hey. If it gets bad, if you don’t want to talk—I’ll do the talking. You just sit there and look pretty. That’s all I need from you.”

Suguru’s throat tightened. It was absurd, ridiculous—but the words cut through the dread like sunlight through fog. He turned his head slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of Satoru’s face. He forced a breath past his clenched chest. “You’re impossible.”

Satoru’s grin flickered, small but real. “Yeah. But I’m yours. Remember that, ‘kay?” 

He chuckled. Remember . Funny. Satoru reached over, covering Suguru’s hand with his own. His thumb rubbed once across the ridge of Suguru’s knuckle, steady, patient. He stiffened, then gave in, letting his fingers curl slightly under the warmth. He hated how much it steadied him. For the first time since leaving the house, Suguru felt his shoulders ease, if only slightly.

A nurse’s voice called his name. He froze. Satoru squeezed his hand. “C’mon, love. That’s us.”

His legs felt foreign as he stood, each step toward the door heavier than the last. The hall smelled faintly of disinfectant, lemon trying and failing to mask bleach. The exam room was worse: cold, white walls, a table lined with crinkling paper, two chairs too close together. A desk with a computer already humming.

The doctor entered with a smile too polished, eyes too sharp. Suguru felt his skin crawl beneath the weight of it.

“Good morning, Geto-san,” the doctor greeted, offering a hand. Suguru shook it stiffly, muttering a quiet “Morning.”

Satoru, of course, filled the space with ease. “Thanks for seeing us on short notice.”

Suguru bristled. Us. As if this was Satoru’s appointment too.

“We’ll start with some basic questions, just to get a sense of things. All right?”

Suguru gave a curt nod. He wanted to get this over with.

“What’s today’s date?”

“December fifteenth,” Suguru said instantly, then, because he couldn’t help it, “Twenty thirty three.”

“And where are we right now?”

“A doctor’s office.” His voice clipped. “Shinjuku.”

“Good. Can you tell me who the prime minister is?”

Suguru blinked. “Of course.” He said the name with practiced precision.

The doctor jotted notes, then smiled faintly. “Excellent. Now, I’ll give you three words, and I’d like you to repeat them back to me. Remember them, and we’ll come back to them later. Ready?”

Suguru nodded.

“Apple. Table. Coin.”

“Apple. Table. Coin.” He repeated easily, a little smug.

They moved on. Subtraction by sevens, spelling a word backwards, drawing the face of a clock. Suguru bristled at the simplicity— parlor tricks —but found his hand shaking as he sketched a circle with numbers. His pen hesitated between the eight and nine. The clock looked… wrong.

He shoved it back across the desk before the doctor could comment.

“Now, Suguru,” the doctor continued gently, “what were the three words I gave you earlier?”

Suguru opened his mouth. “Apple,” he said firmly. Relief flooded his chest. “Table.”

And then—blank. His throat worked uselessly.

The last word clung to the edges of his mind like smoke, slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he reached. His chest tightened. He could feel Satoru watching him, those unblinking blue eyes cutting straight through the blindfold.

Suguru forced the air from his lungs. “Apple. Table. …Chair.”

The doctor’s pen scratched. “Very close. It was ‘coin.’”

Shame burned his ears. He wanted to tear the paper in half, wanted to stand and walk out. It’s a trick. Meaningless. It doesn’t prove anything.

But then Satoru spoke. Quiet, careful. “It’s okay baby—”

Suguru turned sharply. “Shut up.” His voice cracked. He gripped his knees until his knuckles whitened.

The doctor cleared his throat delicately. “These screenings aren’t diagnostic, but they help us know when further testing might be helpful. Given the difficulties you’ve described, I’d like to refer you to a neurologist. They can order imaging, maybe an MRI, and run more detailed assessments.” Suguru’s stomach dropped, as though the floor had vanished beneath him. 

“No.” The word was out before he could stop it. “No, that’s not—this is enough. I’m fine. I don’t need—”

Satoru’s hand landed over his, warm, steady, grounding. “We’ll take the referral,” he said simply, voice brooking no argument. 

The doctor nodded, printing the papers. Suguru could barely hear over the pounding in his ears. By the time they left the office, a crisp white envelope of instructions clutched in Satoru’s hand, Suguru felt hollowed out. He kept his gaze on the floor tiles as they walked, afraid of the expression he’d find on Satoru’s face if he looked up. Only once they were outside, the winter air biting sharp against his lungs, did he finally speak, low and bitter:

“This is your fault.”

Satoru stopped, startled. “Mine?”

“You pushed for this. You dragged me here.” His voice broke. “And now they’re going to brand me. A patient. A case. You think I’m scared of forgetting? I’m terrified of being defined by it.”

Satoru didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. He just looked at him, unbearably soft, unbearably steady. Then he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind Suguru’s ear, thumb brushing his temple.

“You’re still you,” he said simply. “You’re always you, Sugu. Paperwork won’t change that.”

Suguru’s throat closed. He wanted to believe it. God, he wanted to, but all he could see was the word he’d lost. Coin. So small, so stupid — and yet it had slipped, and it meant something. Now some stranger with a clipboard had written it down, and he wouldn’t get to be Suguru or Sugu or Suguru-Sensei ever again. Would he even be allowed to teach anymore? How long did he have before it was mandatory to report this to the school? 

He felt tears well up in his eyes, but he pushed them back, breathing. Five in, five out, five between.

✦            ·.         

     ◎             ✧

The earliest appointment they could get wasn’t until February. 

Those two months had passed in a blur. Or maybe it was longer—Suguru couldn’t tell anymore. Days bled together, indistinguishable except for the little anchors Satoru pressed into him: warm hands at the nape of his neck, tea set on the desk beside his journals, a laugh cutting through the haze when Suguru lost the thread of a joke. But even those markers felt slippery, dissolving as soon as he tried to hold onto them.

It was winter when the first doctor frowned at him over a clipboard, Suguru remembered that much. Frost on the windows, Maggie curling against the radiator, his own handwriting shaking in the journals. He could recall the snow that clung stubbornly to the temple roofs, the way students shuffled with red noses and steaming breaths, the brief flare of comfort when Satoru insisted on hotpot for dinner three nights in a row. He remembered it all—well, most of it, minus his slips. So why did it feel like he had just blinked, and the months were gone?

When he blinked—just blinked—he was here. A waiting room. The air smelled of antiseptic and polish. His coat was draped over Satoru’s arm instead of on his shoulders, and the sweat at his hairline told him the season had shifted. Outside the glass doors, sunlight baked the parking lot. Not winter anymore. The calendar on the wall said July.

Suguru swallowed hard, shifting in his seat, trying to orient himself. He knew he hadn’t lost those months. He could call up fragments of them if he tried—the scattered fights, the weary reconciliations, the sound of Satoru’s laugh brushing against his ear in the dark. He could remember, technically. But it felt unreal. Disconnected. Like he’d been yanked forward through time without his consent, teleported past all the strain and the waiting and the anxiety. The memories were there, but they weren’t lived.

Satoru’s knee brushed his, steady and grounding. “You good, baby?” He nodded automatically. It felt like the only answer he had left. 

When the nurse called his name— Geto, Suguru? —he rose on unsteady legs, letting Satoru’s hand at his elbow steer him down the hall. The neurologist’s office was bright, blinds cutting harsh stripes across the desk and floor. The man greeted them kindly, but Suguru barely registered the words. Too busy watching Satoru slip into the chair beside him, blindfold pushed down low now, so Suguru could see his eyes. That small mercy steadied him, though not for long.

The consult blurred: history questions, memory prompts, orientation tests he recognized but hated for their simplicity. His answers stumbled, tripped over themselves. He wanted to tell them it wasn’t that bad—that he could write down what slipped, that he had notebooks full of proof he was still here—but the words lodged sharp in his throat. Then the next step came, and he didn’t have a choice.

The MRI room was colder, louder. They fitted him with earplugs, pressed a mask over his face, and slid him into the narrow cylinder. The machine roared around him, magnets pulsing like a second heartbeat. Every sound echoed in his skull, every vibration rattling his teeth. He closed his eyes and thought about Satoru’s hand on his own, about blue eyes shining even in dim light.

There was nothing to do but think.

It struck him how long the months had stretched and collapsed all at once. Winter had vanished, yet he could recall it if he searched: the bite of frost on his fingers as he fumbled with chalk at the blackboard, students bundled in coats that never seemed to dry. He remembered grading papers by lamplight, Maggie purring against his thigh. He remembered, too, the little slips—like insisting one student had missed class when she’d been sitting right there in the front. He had laughed it off at the time, joked about needing more coffee. But the laughter in his students’ eyes lingered. They weren’t cruel, just confused. He hated that.

Had it gotten worse? He wanted to believe not. He had his journals, meticulous notes that tethered him. Seating charts with faces taped into place, names scrawled beneath in his handwriting. He’d convinced himself it was just another kind of study aid, the way a teacher adapts with age. But every time he caught himself reaching for those pages mid-lesson, something in him trembled. He was supposed to know their names. He did know them—just not always at the right moment.

And at home… sometimes he caught Satoru watching him with a careful kind of love, the sort reserved for fragile things. Suguru hated that most of all. He didn’t want to be handled, managed. He wanted to be Satoru’s equal, his partner, not a burden. So he had doubled down—cooking more often, grading late into the night, brushing off his husband’s gentle suggestions to slow down. If he worked harder, stayed sharper, maybe he could outpace whatever was clawing at him.

But lying there now, the thrum of the machine swallowing his thoughts, he realized how futile that was. The months had passed, no matter how fast he ran. His memory had faltered, no matter how hard he clung. And now he was here, inside a machine that could see through him in ways he could not fight.

He told himself he wasn’t gone yet. He was here, in July, inside a machine that could see too much. And when they pulled him out again, Satoru would be waiting, tall frame bent over, voice steady: There you are. I’ve got you.

. 

      ✧

The room smelled faintly of coffee gone cold, stale and stagnant. The clock ticked too loudly on the wall, each second dragging its nails down Suguru’s spine. He sat stiffly in the chair, hands folded over his knee, though he was sure the tremor in his fingers gave him away. Satoru’s hand rested against the back of his own, thumb brushing an absent rhythm that was probably meant to soothe.

The neurologist spoke gently, with the careful cadence of someone who had said these words countless times before. Suguru stared at the lines in the man’s face, wondering how many lives had tilted in this office. How many people had walked in thinking they were still themselves, only to be told that, piece by piece, they would not be.

“Your scans,” the doctor says, tapping a manila folder, “show patterns consistent with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. The cognitive testing aligns with that picture.”

The words landed like stones in his chest. Early-onset. He almost laughed. He was forty-three. That wasn’t old. Not young, maybe, but not old. This was too soon. How could he have dementia, he wanted to tell the doctor, if he remembered the MRI machine in every jarring detail? How could he have dementia if he remembered the student’s names he’d written into his journals, remembered the frost on temple roofs and Maggie’s warm fur against his leg and Satoru’s bright blue eyes staring at him with such love? Didn’t that mean anything? Didn’t memory itself prove the diagnosis wrong?

Instead, he found himself speaking flatly. “So what you’re saying is… I’m dying early.”

The neurologist’s face softened. “What I’m saying is now that we know what we’re dealing with, there are treatments—medications to slow progression, strategies to manage. It isn’t a cure, but it isn’t the end right now either.”

Beside him, Satoru inhaled sharply, as if the words hurt just to breathe in. Suguru turned toward him instinctively, but the blindfold hid everything—no bright blue gaze to meet, no wet shine to cut through him. Just fabric, smooth, impenetrable. That somehow hurt worse, because he could imagine all too clearly what lay beneath: eyes going glossy, too bright, breaking apart with grief. He hated that he had to guess. Hated that he didn’t get to see the truth of it, only feel the tremor in Satoru’s hand where it pressed against his own.

He hated a lot of things, these days.

He looked away. “I don’t need drugs,” he muttered. His voice was raw. “I have a system. My journals. My notes. I’ve been managing.”

“You’ve been compensating,” the doctor corrected gently. “Which shows resourcefulness. But this isn’t something you can outwrite, Geto-san. The earlier we intervene, the more time we buy.”

Time. As if it could be bartered for like goods at a market. He wanted to snap at the man, to demand how many minutes a pill could buy, how many lectures it could teach, how many more mornings of waking up with Satoru pressed against his side it would supply. But he bit the comments back. The taste of iron fills his mouth. The neurologist went on about referrals, about starting medication, about support groups. Suguru half-listened, half-floated. At some point, his mind snagged on a single word: progressive. Etched into his bones, irreversible. 

When they were finally dismissed, Satoru thanked the doctor with a politeness that Suguru couldn’t manage. He let himself be guided out, though his body felt like a stone, every step heavier than the last. In the parking lot, the air was thick with summer heat. Asphalt shimmered. Suguru stopped short beside the car, finally letting the silence rupture.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Satoru opened his mouth but Suguru cut him off. “I can feel you.”

Satoru froze, blindfold still covering his eyes, hand still on Suguru’s arm. “Like what?”

“Like I’m—” Suguru swallowed hard, jaw tight. “Like I’m already disappearing.” Satoru’s lips parted, but he didn’t deny it. That silence undid something in Suguru, sharp as a knife. 

He pressed his palms into his eyes, teeth gritted. “I can handle this. I’m not useless yet. I’m not broken. I don’t want to—” His voice cracked, ugly, desperate. “Don’t make me into something fragile.”

There was a pause, and then long arms slid around him, pulling him in. Satoru’s chest was hot against his, voice muffled in Suguru’s hair.

“You’re not fragile,” Satoru whispered, low and fierce. “I know that. Everyone knows that.” He can feel the heat of a kiss pressed onto the top of his head. “You’re not fragile, Suguru. You’re mine and that’s it. Mine. And even if you forget everything else, I’ll keep reminding you of that. Every day. Every hour. However long we get.”

Suguru’s throat closed. His fists knotted in the back of Satoru’s shirt, pulling him closer, as if force alone could anchor him. The asphalt swam in the heat. His whole body shook with the effort of not collapsing, but Satoru’s arms held him up, held him steady.

For the first time since he couldn’t remember when, Suguru let himself break, just a little. 

[       …       ]

The first weeks after the neurologist’s words landed were an endless parade of clocks. Clocks in the kitchen, in the bedroom, ticking in his skull. Every sound was measured. Every action slotted into routine. Suguru had never thought of himself as a man of ritual—he liked order, yes, but not this kind. Not order to this extent, order that strangled. Still, the doctors had given them pamphlets and research on a healthy routine helping with memory retention, and the moment those pamphlets made it into Satoru’s hands, there was no way out of it.

The pill box appeared first. White, plastic, ugly in its utility. Seven neat compartments, each one rattling with tablets. Satoru lined it up on the counter beside the coffee maker. Every Sunday night, without fail, he sat down by that coffee maker with the orange bottles, lips pursed in exaggerated concentration, filling each square with precision.

Suguru hated the sound. The rattle of capsules against plastic, the snap of each lid closing. He hated swallowing them even more.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered the first morning, staring at the tiny white pill sitting beside his mug. It seemed to be his new mantra to his husband, who was always lurking nearby.

“Like what?” Satoru tilted his head, blindfolded eyes aimed in his direction. His grin was too sharp to be entirely kind. “Like I’m saving your life one tablet at a time?” He prodded at Suguru’s side playfully, earning a hiss and wave of his hand, shooing him away.

Suguru’s jaw tightened. He picked the pill up, rolled it between thumb and forefinger. It was absurd, how something so small could dictate so much. He didn’t mind taking the vitamins. Those, at least, normal people would also take. It felt as common as brushing his teeth or eating lunch. If he told people he took a daily vitamin, chances are whoever he was talking to would say, “Oh, me too!”  

But these things? He imagined it, talking to a coworker or a student.  “I take 10mg Donepezil a day. Oh, what’s it for? My alzheimers .” His mouth pulled into a frown, and he quickly downed the pill with lukewarm coffee, bitterness coating bitterness. One of the agreements with the school was that as long as he was regularly taking his meds—barring any ‘ complications’ —he could continue to teach. He was grateful for that, at least.

The calendars came next. Two of them—one pinned in the kitchen, one in the bedroom. Each day carved into blocks of ink. Appointments, reminders, even the small things. Groceries. Call Shoko. Water Plants. Satoru wrote them all down with a cheerfulness that made Suguru want to snap the pen in half.

“You’re overdoing it, Satoru.” Suguru said one night, watching as his husband carefully copied Dentist, 2 PM onto the bedroom calendar after writing it in the kitchen.

“Better too many anchors than none at all,” Satoru had replied. His voice was light, but his grip on the marker was tight enough to squeak. Suguru turned away before he said something cruel.

There were exercises, too. Repetition drills. Say it three times, write it once. Names, addresses, tasks. Suguru obeyed for the first few days, feeling ridiculous as a child in primary school. He eventually stopped. It felt dumb and useless. He wasn’t six, he wasn’t a child. The third time Satoru had asked him to repeat what he’d said for an exercise, Suguru snapped, “I’m not stupid.”

Satoru went still, the air in the room bending with sudden sharpness. “I never said you were.” His voice was soft. The silence that followed was worse than shouting. 

Suguru kept journaling, of course. That was his system, his anchor. But even that began to change. His once-flowing entries became bulleted lists, clipped and functional. It seemed easier to find what he needed that way. Much more organized, much more efficient.

Some nights, when Satoru was already asleep, Suguru would flip back through the pages, checking. Making sure. Did he really remember that detail, or had he only remembered the words on the paper? Was memory real if it required proof?

He began to hate the journals, but he couldn’t stop.

The routines dug in like claws. Pills at 8 a.m., calendars updated daily, journals filled, exercises attempted. On good days, Suguru played along, biting back his resentment. On bad days, he rebelled. Skipped his pill, left an appointment unmarked. Scrawled sarcastic notes across the squares of the calendar: redundancy is a sin against efficiency . Satoru found them, lips twitching at the edges. He never erased them.

Still, Suguru could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand lingered on that calendar like it was a lifeline. He saw it in the tremor of relief when Suguru remembered something on his own, unprompted. The way Satoru’s laugh broke open, too bright, too grateful.

And Suguru hated that, too. Hated that his husband looked at him with awe for recalling something so simple as a grocery list.

[     ◎ .   ✧    ]

He wanted to believe Satoru was overreacting, he really did. It all felt like too much, too overbearing, too excessive for who he was. He didn’t need the fussing and the calendars and the help— God , the constant help. Everywhere he went, Satoru was there wanting to help. Cooking dinner; help. Vacuuming the living room; help. Going to the store; help. 

Suguru loved his husband, and he loved that Satoru wanted to be there for him. But frankly, it was getting to be a bit much. Suguru told him as much, and to his husband’s credit, it got better. He was still there most of the time, just… less hovering, which was good.

The kitchen smelled faintly of garlic and soy from last night’s adobo, still clinging to the air no matter how long the window stayed cracked. The winter light was thin and pale, streaking across the table where a pile of school papers and pamphlets the neurologist sent them home with months ago had overtaken every bit of surface space. Somewhere beneath them was the wood grain, but at this point, Suguru wasn’t sure he’d see it again until summer.

He pushed a stack of essays aside and took another sip of lukewarm coffee. Satoru had made it—strong enough to strip paint, as always. His husband was humming by the sink, rinsing a mug with exaggerated laziness, like a man who had nowhere to be. Suguru tapped his pen idly against the margin of a student’s essay he’d been grading, but his mind wasn’t focused on the words below him. His voice carried instead, warm with the rare ease of storytelling, as Satoru leaned against the counter, washing dishes and grinning at every detail.

“So, one of my students nearly took out a window yesterday,” Suguru said, smirking at the memory.

Satoru glanced over his shoulder, white hair gleaming in the sunlight. “With cursed energy, or just raw teenage clumsiness?”

“Bit of both. He was trying to maintain a barrier. I told him, relax your shoulders, let the energy flow. .You can’t force it. But he—” Suguru chuckled, shaking his head as he drew circles in the air with his pen. “He just kept pressing, ! Push, push, push, until the whole thing—” he clapped his hands together, “collapsed like paper. You should’ve seen his face, Toru,

He was animated, telling the story with his hands as much as his voice. His student’s face had been priceless—wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, stammering through an apology for losing his balance during sparring. Suguru laughed just recalling it, the sound bubbling warm in his chest.

“And then” he continues, words tumbling easily, rolling out of him like water, “he looks at me like—”

But Satoru wasn’t laughing. Suguru slowed, faltered. His husband was watching him with an expression that didn’t fit the story: brows drawn, smile tugging uncertainly at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Suguru asked. He hadn’t finished yet, but the interruption pricked at his rhythm.

Satoru tilted his head. “Babe…” His tone was cautious, almost careful. “Say that again?”

Suguru blinked. “Which part?”

“The last bit.”

So he did. Or—he thought he did. But Satoru just looked at him like he was listening through glass, close enough to see the shape of the words but not the sound. Confusion pricked at his scalp. 

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Satoru sat next to him, hand landing on his wrist, grounding. “Did you know you weren’t speaking English just now?”

Suguru stared at him. A laugh nearly escaped, but it came out too sharp, defensive. “Of course I am. I just told you—”

But when he tried again, the syllables snagged in his mouth. He didn’t notice the difference in sound, only the oddity of the cadence, the way the words felt shortened, childlike. His tongue stumbled, his sentences clipped down into smaller pieces. Something about it was wrong. Off. Like muscle memory he hadn’t practiced in years, dragging him somewhere backward. 

“Hey.” Satoru’s hand came up, fingers brushing knuckles until Suguru’s clenched fist uncurled. His voice was quiet, steady, as if they weren’t sitting in their kitchen with something borderline terrifying unspooling between them. “You don’t hear it, I know. But you weren’t speaking Japanese.” Satoru must have felt the way his pulse jumped, because his grip softened, thumb circling soothingly against his wrist. “Don’t get lost on me, baby. I’m not saying it to scare you. I just wanted you to know you were speaking Tagalog, not Japanese.”

He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. “I–” The word broke in two. His throat ached. “I don’t…”

The pile of pamphlets still sat there, accusing. Suguru’s chest constricted at the sight. He knew what Satoru was reaching for before the man’s long fingers stilled on a glossy page.

Language Regression and Difficulty Communicating with Dementia.

“No.” The word scraped out of him, too raw. “No, I was fine, I–I was telling you the story, I knew what I was saying.”

“I know you did.” Satoru’s voice cracked as he smoothed a trembling hand over Suguru’s cheek. His thumb caught dampness Suguru hadn’t felt until then. “But baby… I couldn’t understand you. Not all of it. And your voice—” He stopped for a second, considering his words. “It sounded so young .”

Suguru’s stomach lurched, and for a moment, the kitchen fell away. He was nine again, sitting cross-legged on the floor while his grandmother cupped his chin, chastising him for not eating enough. He could smell the garlic and vinegar, hear the click of her tongue when he refused seconds. The way her hands had folded when she prayed. 

“Totoy, eat more. You’re too thin!”

“Lola, I’m full,” he’d whined, pushing the bowl away.

"Ha? ‘Full?’ She tsked.“Your mom babies you, let you do whatever. His grandmother picked the bowl up, setting it in front of him again. “What, you don’t like my cooking, ah?” 

He groaned and shook his head quickly. “No, I do like it–”

“Then come. ."

He remembered being small, curled in his grandmother’s lap, her hand stroking his hair as she whispered stories in the same tongue now spilling from his mouth unbidden. He hadn’t spoken that way since she died when he was fifteen, and he’d buried the language with her. His hands trembled. “I didn’t even notice.”

Satoru reached for them immediately, catching them in his own. His thumbs pressed firmly into Suguru’s palms, grounding, “I know baby. That’s why I wanted you to see this.” He nodded to the pamphlet, his voice gentle and steady. “Not to scare you. Just so we can name it, that’s all. Naming it makes it smaller, not bigger. 

Suguru wanted to argue. Wanted to say that naming it only made it more real. But his voice wouldn’t come. His mind was stuck on the image of his grandmother, the sound of her language falling from his mouth like it had never left—and he hadn’t even known. 

Suguru’s throat tightened. He pressed his palms against his eyes, but it didn’t stop the hot sting of shame. “I haven’t spoken anything but Japanese in—God. Since I was a kid. Since before she—” He couldn’t even finish the thought. “I told myself it wouldn’t happen. That I was—” He stopped. His voice cracked. “That I was stronger than this.”

Satoru’s laugh was low, warm, almost disbelieving. “Stronger? Suguru, you’ve been carrying the world on your shoulders since we were kids. You don’t need to be stronger. You just need to let me carry you a little, too.”

Satoru’s hands came up, strong and careful, prying his away and cradling his face again instead. “You’re still you, Suguru,” Satoru whispered, softer now, brushing his thumb along his cheek. “I don’t care what language comes out.”

For a while, silence settled, just the sound of a bird through the half-open window, the hum of the refrigerator.

Then Satoru broke it, voice gentle. “Okay, so. Maybe I learn some Tagalog. That way, if you slip, I can keep up.”

A broken laugh scraped its way out of Suguru, half-choked, half-disbelieving. “You can’t even order ramen without embarrassing yourself. You’ll butcher Tagalog too.”

“Rude.” Satoru pressed a kiss to his temple. “But imagine it. Me, swaggering into your mother’s kitchen, dropping perfect sentences like I’ve been practicing in secret all these years. I’d be the family favorite instantly.”

Suguru lifted his head just enough to meet his grin. “."

“What’s that mean?”

“Embarrassing. You’re ridiculous.”

Satoru barked a laugh. “Embarrassing is me trying to say—what was that word?—?” The word came out completely wrong.

Suguru chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. The weight in his chest eased, even if only slightly. “Hopeless.”

“Hopelessly in love with you,” Satoru corrected smoothly, leaning close until their noses brushed. Suguru rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving upward.

Four months passed that way.

Summer wilted into autumn. Autumn bled into winter. Routines calcified until Suguru moved through them without thought. Pills swallowed. Calendars checked. Journals written. Repetition exercises done in half-hearted mutters. Life became rails, carrying him forward whether he wanted to move or not.

 [    ✦   .     ]

The first thing Suguru noticed was the cold. Winter had sunk its teeth into the house overnight, and the sheets did little to shield him from the draft sneaking beneath the window. He stirred, half-asleep, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed. Empty.

A voice floated through the air, warm and teasing. “Morning, sleeping beauty. You planning on hibernating straight through New Years?”

Suguru blinked blearily. A tall figure stood at the dresser, white hair glowing like frost in the morning light, all broad shoulders and long limbs. His fingers were fumbling at the collar of a grey dress shirt, the mirror reflecting a slanted grin he almost recognized. 

The figure turned, a blindfold neatly tied across their face, laughing softly. “Come on, you’ve got to get up. It’s bad enough we waited until Christmas Eve—If we don’t get to the shopping center early enough then all the good stuff will be gone.”

Suguru’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. Shopping? “I–I dont…” He sat up, pressing back into the headboard without meaning to, cold sweat gathering at his temple. The man stopped abruptly, the smile dying on his lips. 

“What?” His voice cracks with something—Hurt? Confusion? “Baby? You okay?”

Suguru’s throat closed. Baby . He knew that voice. Didn’t he? The cogs in his mind turned, searching, as if seeing a face in a crowd he should know but can’t quite place.

When the man reached for him, Suguru jerked back, sheets pooling at his waist. “Don’t—” His voice was louder than he’d meant to be. His hands were already half-raised, warding off, reaching for distance he couldn’t explain.

The man’s face no longer had even the hint of a smile, mouth downturned in concern. “Whoa—hey, hey. Suguru—?” He crossed the space in two long strides, hands lifted. “Baby, what’s—”

“Don’t touch me!” Suguru’s voice cracked raw, lungs clawing like they couldn't find enough air. His pulse thundered in his ears. The man was too close, too tall, his shadow swallowing the room. He scrambled back against the headboard again, legs tangling in the sheets, hands braced as if to shove the world away. “Stay back–” His chest heaved, every breath ragged, as the walls themselves began to shrink inward.

Big hands caught his shoulders, firm and unyielding.

“Hey, it’s me—hey, hey, Sugu—” the voice was desperate, stumbling over itself, but Suguru only thrashed harder, trying to rip free.

“No—let me go!” His legs kicked against the mattress, his nails biting through the stranger’s sleeves. His body bucked under the weight of those steadying hands, terror making him stronger than reason.

“Shh, you’re safe—look at me—” The man’s grip didn’t falter, His broad frame pressed in close, pinning Suguru before he hurt himself. But the harder he held, the more Suguru writhed, lungs burning, throat torn with panicked cries.

“Don’t! Don’t–!” His arm shot up, not striking but shoving, trying to carve out an inch of space. His fingers catch fabric, rough and tight across the man's head. He yanked in blind desperation, needing the barrier gone, needing air. The cloth tore loose, dragged down and slapped roughly around the man’s neck.

And then—Blue.

A flash so vivid it stole the breath from his body. Suguru froze mid-thrash, eyes locked on those impossibly bright irises. Blue like the sky through temple eaves, like the ocean at dawn. Blue he had known since he was thirteen. Blue that burned through the fog in his mind like fire through dry grass. Blue like ice, blue like a lake, blue he’d know anywhere, even at the end of the world.

“Look at me,” the stranger said—no, not a stranger, Satoru, his Satoru—keeping hold of him, but gentler now, lowering his weight as though cradling instead of restraining. “Sugu. Baby. It’s me, it’s Satoru. Look.” The words cracked, hoarse with fear. “It’s me. Just me.”

Suguru’s chest hitched, a broken sound spilling out as recognition bled back in. His hands, still trembling, curled into Satoru’s sleeves. Blue eyes filled his whole world, cutting through the terror like light through smoke. Panic drained from him too fast, leaving only weakness in its wake.

“Toru,” he rasped, the name like an anchor thrown into storm water.

“There you are,” Satoru whispered, voice breaking. His hands cradled Suguru’s cheeks, brushing dampness from his cheeks before Suguru even realized he was crying. “God, you scared me. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I didn’t—” Suguru shook his head, shame biting hot at the edges of his clarity. “I didn’t know it was you. For a second I thought—”

“I know.” Satoru hushed him, pulling his torso up and rocking him against his chest like something precious, something fragile and breakable. “Just breathe baby, just breathe for me. I know. It’s okay now."

Suguru wanted to argue, to say it wasn’t okay, that he’d seen his own husband as a stranger in their house, in their room. But his throat only got tighter. He let himself be folded into Satoru’s arms instead, clinging to the crisp shirt that still smelled of starch and the faint sweetness of his cologne. He shut his eyes and let the weight of blue burn into him, fixing Satoru’s face in his mind as though by force alone he could keep it from slipping again.

After a long while, when his breath was steadier, a whisper slipped from him, raw and broken. “The blindfold. I couldn’t—I should’ve known it was you, even with it on, I should have—”

Satoru’s arms tightened, firm enough to still his shaking. “Hey. Stop. Don’t do that to yourself.” His voice was ragged but steady, iron wrapped in silk. “It’s not your fault. None of this is.”

Suguru swallowed hard. “But if I can’t recognize you—if I can't see you—” His chest clenched, the shame twisting sharper. “What if I forget you again, Toru? What if next time—oh God —”

Satoru tipped his chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze. Those eyes he so loved were wet, rimmed red, but they burned like lanterns all the same. “Then I’ll make sure you never have to guess,” he said softly, fiercely. 

Suguru closed his eyes, breathing shallow against the press of Satoru’s palm on his cheek. He wanted to believe that was enough. He wanted to believe the blue in Satoru’s eyes could hold him tethered forever. For now, at least, he let himself believe.

[  ✧        ]

The mall was a madhouse, and Suguru couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d agreed to this.

Not that he’d had much of a choice. One second he’d been nursing tea at the kitchen table, still rattled from the morning’s confusion, and the next Satoru had swooped in, declaring that obviously they still had to go shopping—they couldn’t show up to his mother’s house empty handed! 

By the time Suguru had opened his mouth to argue, his coat was buttoned and his scarf looped clumsily around his neck, Satoru donning a pair of sunglasses and tugging him out the door with the force of a winter gale. Now they were here, weaving through harried shoppers with bags bumping against their knees, the scent of pine and cinnamon filling the air.

“Remind me again why you need three rolls of wrapping paper,” Suguru muttered, trailing behind as Satoru crouched dramatically in front of a display.

“Because,” Satoru said, popping up with two obnoxiously shiny rolls, “this one screams ‘festive’, this one screams ‘classy’ and this one—” he wagged the third under Suguru’s nose, covered in ridiculous cartoon reindeer, “screams ‘our aesthetic’.”

Suguru snorted despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you married me.”

That was the rhythm of the evening: Suguru grumbling and Satoru making a  show of everything. They argued over gift bags versus boxes, over the “right” ribbon width, over whether his students actually needed candy canes tucked into their cards. It was absurd, but it was also oddly steadying. Normal.

Suguru caught himself watching Satoru’s reflection in a shop window as they waited in line. The tall tilt of his shoulders, the careless push of white hair from his forehead, the way he leaned down to nudge Suguru with his elbow until he cracked a smile. His chest tightened with something achingly tender. He had nearly forgotten him this morning. Had not known him, for a terrifying few moments. And yet here he was now, larger than life, so utterly himself it was impossible not to be tethered to him.

Satoru noticed his staring, of course. “What?” he asked, a grin tugging at his mouth.

Suguru shook his head. “Nothing. Just… don’t ever change.”

“Babe, change isn’t even in my vocabulary.” Satoru said breezily, but his hand found Suguru’s between their shopping bags and squeezed. 

Later, they trudged home through falling snow, breath misting the air, arms aching with bags. Satoru insisted on stopping for hot chocolate from a stand outside the train station. He piled theirs high with whipped cream and marshmallows, handing Suguru’s over with a flourish like it was fine wine. Suguru pretended to scowl but accepted it anyway, warmth seeping through the cup into his palms.

For the first time all day, silence stretched easy between them as they walked. The city glowed with lights strung across balconies and trees glittering in shopfronts. It should have felt like too much, but with Satoru beside him—cheeks pink from the cold, humming tunelessly against his straw—it was bearable.

[          ]

Christmas passed in a blur of store lights and crowded sidewalks. He remembered the weight of shopping bags digging into his palms, Satoru grumbling about last-minute crowds even as he winked at the cashier and tossed in an extra box of chocolates Suguru hadn’t asked for. He remembered their small tree lit up in the corner of their apartment, strands of tinsel sagging unevenly, both of them too tired to fix it. He remembered Satoru coaxing him into bed with the same gentleness he used when pulling him back from panic, from confusion, from the quiet slip of memory.

It wasn’t perfect. Suguru still felt small gaps—words catching on his tongue, moments that slid slippery out of reach no matter how he chased them. But when he looked across the couch and saw Satoru sprawled there, long legs dangling, Sunglasses pushed up into his hair so his ridiculously blue eyes could roll at some cheesy holiday movie… it all felt like more than enough.

The week bent itself forward, days folding into each other. Leftovers were eaten, laundry piled and sorted, students faces flickering in and out of his mind like afterimages. December wore itself down to its bones. The calendar turned towards its final page. Now it was New Year’s Eve.

They stood outside in the press of a city crown, the winter air sharp enough to sting his lungs. Fireworks cracked in the distance, still too early for midnight but already painting the clouds in colors. Music pulsed from nearby bars, and strangers shouted greetings to each other as though every passing moment was already a celebration. 

Satoru’s hand found his—careless, easy. Warm even through their gloves. He didn’t let go, even when someone jostled past them hard enough that Suguru staggered. Crowds made him worse. They’d learned that the hard way a few weeks earlier, when a trip to the winter market had ended with Suguru frozen in the middle of a bustling street, chest heaving as strangers pressed too close. He had lost the thread of where he was, who he was with—faces blurring, voices piling over one another until every sound scraped against his skull.

Satoru had pulled him out fast, arms wound tight around him as if he could shield him from the entire city. They’d ducked into an alley beside a bakery, steam and sugar spilling from the vents, and Satoru had pressed his hands to Suguru’s ears until the world shrank down to nothing but blue eyes and steady words: hey, it’s me, just me, breathe with me.

If he let Satoru have his way, Suguru would never step foot out of the apartment again, but he refused to let that happen. He wouldn’t seclude himself because of some stupid illness, wouldn’t cut himself off from the world just because of what was practically a glorified panic attack in his opinion. No, he refused. He kept going out, practicing breathing techniques and looking consistently at Satoru. Having him helped. 

“You okay?” Satoru leaned close, voice pitched low against the chaos.

Suguru nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… a little dizzy.”

Satoru’s thumb brushed his knuckles. “I’ve got you.” Suguru believed him.

Suguru’s chest felt heavy with happiness. He turned, watching the glow of neon signs flicker across Satoru’s profile. The world blurred—fireworks, voices, cold air—but the blue stayed sharp, steady, anchoring. A swell of noise rolled through the crowd—ten seconds, nine, eight. Strangers shouted, voices rising together in an uneven chant. The sound pressed against Suguru’s skull, but Satoru’s hand in his was enough to keep him tethered.

Seven. Six.

Satoru turned, grinning wide enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes, pulling his sunglasses off and tucking them into his pocket. His breath curled white in the cold air as he leaned in.

“," He said, each syllable slow, deliberate. His accent was clumsy, the cadence imperfect, but the words were unmistakable.

Suguru blinked, caught off guard. For a heartbeat he thought he had misheard, thought his mind was playing another trick on him. But then Satoru’s smile softened, waiting

Five, four

Warmth surged up through Suguru’s chest, fragile and overwhelming all at once. His throat closed tight. “," he answered, steady despite the tremor in his voice.

Three. Two.

And then there was no more counting, no more noise at all, because Satoru’s mouth was on his—fierce and gentle, familiar and devastating, every contradiction wrapped into one impossible kiss. The roar of the city dimmed to nothing but the scrape of teeth, the press of lips, the heat of gloved hands cupping his face like he was something worth worshipping.

The years flashed like sparks behind Suguru’s eyes: falling in love, the nervous grin of their wedding day, curses shattered beneath their joined strength, lesson plans scattered across their kitchen table, the weight of a diagnosis that had nearly split him in two. And over it all—always, endlessly—the brightest blue, piercing and unyielding.

That—he would never forget.

When the kiss broke, Satoru’s forehead leaned against his, both of them breathless, the crowd’s cheer swelling around them like a tide that could not reach the shore of this moment, pops and crackles of fireworks fizzling.

“Happy New Year, Suguru,” Satoru whispered, voice unsteady.

Suguru closed his eyes, clutching the memory of that impossible blue like a lifeline. “Happy New Year, Toru .”

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✦

{ a new beginning }

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