Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

prelude

December 24, 2018

For a moment there, Gojo Satoru really thought he had it. 

Hope was a dangerous little thing. It took root in his chest, parasitic and infectious, shuffling aside his organs to accommodate its metamorphoses as Megumi’s battered and bloodied form hauled itself upright from underneath the crumbled rubble. 

The nerve endings of Gojo’s brain had been electrocuted, synapses frayed and failing to communicate signals, but it was impossible to mistake the way those familiar irises burned with something unruly; something unhinged; something wild and thirsty and unrecognisable. Sukuna was animalistic in the way Megumi never was. 

The curse growled and attempted to swallow down large portions of air past its scaly lips only for it to get caught in its throat. It doubled over, heaving. Trembling. The King of Curses, reduced to nothing but cracked bones and torn skin. The sight sent a rush down Gojo’s spine.

This was it. He had done it. Really done it. What was left for him to prove?

Relief was persuasive in its allure. It relaxed his muscles, and for a split second, Gojo allowed himself to smile.

And then the world was tilting on its axis.

It was so sudden—one moment he was upright and whole and breathing, and the other, the chain links of his spine no longer aligned. His legs no longer responded. His ears felt as though they’d been stuffed with pillow polyfill; everything apart from the incessant high-pitched screech of his cochlea and the overwhelming rush of blood subdued. 

Pain of this calibre was new to him. An unfamiliar phenomenon that surpassed the barrier of Infinity and invaded every ligament and bone and strand of his body like an all-consuming fire, seething and burning. Gojo felt his organs shut down and his vision flicker, and all he could think was: oh.

He’d been dead for a year. Ever since an evening tucked in an alleyway underneath a bruised periwinkle sky and apathetic stars—an evening that two hearts had stopped beating, but one soul had lived on for worse.

And perhaps that is why now, as the last of his strength leaves him, Gojo doesn’t resist. Rather, he allows himself the luxury of closing his eyes. He takes one last shaky inhale, feeling his lungs open up like the languid bloom of hydrangeas in late spring, and spreads his wings. 

Death welcomes him kindly.

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A film reel slowly clicks into place. 

Everything is a divine white for a few, scattered moments, before rich colours unfold over the first frame.

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i. rebirth

June, 2005

“Listen, listen!”

The sound of running water is like a Digimon Adventure victory melody to Satoru after wandering through the forest for so long. He separates the dense foliage hastily, almost tripping over fallen fruits and skewed branches until he finally emerges at the grassy banks of a lake. A weeping willow tree droops lazily over the water, its vines shifting gently along the hot summer breeze. At the far end, nestled amongst families of lotuses, ferns, and withered azaleas, thick rivulets of water spiral down rocky ledges, generating a loud white noise that fills Satoru's ears. 

“I found it!” He announces proudly. He is quick to peel away his shoes and socks and make a beeline towards the lake. Dips his toes in experimentally, observing with wide eyes as sweetfish scurry over the mildly shallow, pebbled floor, their muted olive and yellow scales attracting the brilliance of the sun.

“Slow down.” Satoru hears the distinctive drawl of Kento’s voice before he sees him. His figure rounds the corner of a miniature pathway off to the side, one which Satoru had strayed from quite early on into the walk. Shoko and Yuu trail behind him, whistling with astonishment at the view and snapping photos with worn-out digicams. 

“Can’t hear you,” Satoru sing-songs, sticking his tongue out. 

He’d been planning this group outing for a while now. The majority of summer break had sailed past without much contact between his friends: Shoko travelled to her hometown to visit family; Kento and Yuu were busy with preparations to ensure a smooth enrollment in Jujutsu High next year; and Suguru dedicated an absurd amount of his time to learning aikido. They left Satoru all alone. His days dragged by at an excruciatingly lackadaisical pace—he thought he would have driven himself mad if he spent another second sprawled like a starfish in bed, staring blankly at his ceiling, rereading his favourite shonen mangas, and bothering Utahime to pass time. 

And so, when the opportunity presented itself like a divine offering and all their schedules aligned perfectly, Satoru had snatched it quickly. Plans were made and supplies were gathered and five tickets for a flight to the island of Shikoku were booked. At first, Satoru wanted to sulk upon meeting them at the airport—lament noisily about how they forgot all about him—but his resolve quickly crumbled like the fragile dough of shortbread when he caught a glimpse of the homemade kikufuku mochi Suguru was carrying in a plastic bag. They tasted lovely and everyone was forgiven. 

Speaking of Suguru, where did he—

“Boo!”

“Fuck!” Satoru whirls around, losing his footing for a brief moment and almost plunging straight into the water. A smile warmer than the sun greets him, accompanied by two lively pools of burnt sienna. Satoru scowls, shoving him lightly. “Dude. What the hell is your problem?”

Suguru just laughs brightly, plucking an oak leaf caught in Satoru’s hair and twirling it between his fingers.

“Don’t have one. You might, though, after that noise you just made.” He teases, dropping the leaf and letting the wind carry it into the lake where it floats, weightless. “You a crow or something?”

Satoru scoffs, then retaliates in actions rather than words. Leaning down swiftly, he propels his arm in arc-like motion, effectively scooping handfuls of water that drench Suguru’s shirt and make the white fabric stick to his skin. Something playful sparkles in Suguru’s eyes at the action, as if he had been anticipating it, and Satoru can just faintly make out the disapproving click of Kento’s tongue before an onslaught of water is launched straight at his face.

Suguru’s laughter is euphoric and world-ending over the roar of the waterfall. Satoru gasps for breath and shifts his sunglasses so they rest on the crown of his head, blinking through thoroughly wet eyelashes.

“I hate you,” he grumbles as he wipes his eyes, but he’s grinning too.

“You started it.”

“What? No, you—” Another sudden splash of water causes Satoru to choke on his words, coughing and sputtering. When he glances back at Suguru, the look on his face is so smug that Satoru kind of wants to punch him for it.

“Say that again?” He taunts, and Satoru decides that he really wants to punch him.

It doesn’t take much for the pair to descend into a fit of splashing and wrestling, migrating deeper into the lake until the water laps at their upper thighs. Suguru’s shirt is fully wet now, translucent and sticking to his body obnoxiously. And with this development, Satoru comes to the stunning realisation that Suguru has grown bigger over the holidays, no doubt the result of his aikido training. It’s evident in his shoulders: broadened and wider than usual. Evident in his core muscles: filled out and solid to the touch. Evident in his arms: biceps flexing with every minor movement. 

It’s especially evident when Satoru tries to make a run for the riverbank and firm hands wrap around his waist. He falters for just a split second, and that’s all it takes for Suguru to pull him back underwater. 

When Satoru resurfaces, there’s something akin to incredulity twinging his voice. “You’ve gotten stronger.”

Suguru flashes him a proud grin, pushing back his dripping bangs. “What, scared I’ll surpass you?”

“You wish,” he scoffs, and then they’re back to brawling.

It’s not long until Shoko, Yuu, and eventually even Kento join too, passing around comically large neon water guns that Satoru and Suguru put aside their differences to target Kento with. At some point Shoko—inspired by Mulan—captures a big-scaled redfin with her bare hands, but when Yuu tries he gets bitten, and Satoru finds it the funniest thing ever despite having also failed moments prior. They bicker and laugh and slip over rocks like idiots until their skin resembles dried plums and their breaths are coming in heavy, uneven pants.

Afterwards, when the sun is setting and the world is deluged in a honey-like hue, they all change into spare sets of clothes and pile into a rented five-seater car. Satoru rolls his window down and pokes his head out, relishing in the eager whip of wind against his hair. The Kōchi countryside moves past in a blur, muted greens and beiges and salmon-pinks intermingling like splotches of watercolour. They pass rice-paddies and bamboo ryokans hidden between exuberant bundles of flora—sights so mundane; typical staples of Japan—yet Satoru takes it all in with wide eyes, brimming curiosity, and a fat grin. He excitedly points out every discovery as though he is uncovering a whole new world, each exclamation of: Woah! There’s cows! and I didn’t know goats could be this big… or even Can we ride the horses? holding enough fascination to rival the previous. 

It feels wonderful to be so far away from Tokyo, Satoru realises; a city with overwhelming expectations and obligations sealed in fine-print beneath a family name he never asked for. It feels wonderful to take a step back from it all and allow himself to just breathe. The air greets his lungs kindly, like a cordial embrace. It’s softer than Tokyo will ever be—less demanding, less suffocating, and Satoru can’t remember the last time his heart felt this light.

Shoko’s amused laugh from the passenger seat punctures the faint music drifting through the air, light and airy. Her eyes find Satoru’s in the rearview mirror, who's still peeking out the window. “Y’know, if you keep doing that your head’s gonna fall off.”

Yuu laughs too, but his eyes never stray from the console in his hands. He is currently playing Mario Super Kart on his new Nintendo DS, fingers punching in commands with vigour despite being wrapped in a bright yellow Sponge Bob bandage—a product of his injury hours ago. Satoru respects his dedication as much as he envies it. “If Gojo-senpai sticks his tongue out, he’d look just like a dog.”

Satoru grins and sticks his tongue out accordingly. “Woof.”

“Gross,” Kento mutters under his breath from the wheel. He sends Satoru a look through the rearview mirror—one that Satoru likens to a disappointed mother when they catch their child in the backyard eating insects.

“Don’t worry, Kento,” Suguru voices beside him, reaching up to ruffle Satoru’s hair. “He’s house trained.”

“I can do tricks and everything,” Satoru adds proudly, pulling his head back in the car. Every disgusted twitch of Kento’s features just spurs him on even more. “Wanna see?”

“God, no.”

“Tch. Rude.”

“If you do anything stupid, I’m pulling this car over.”

“And what? Leave me on the side of the road?” Satoru goads, letting out a snicker. “Nah, you don’t have the guts to. Think you love me too much—”

“You talk too much, that’s what.” Shoko interjects.

“Maybe we should muzzle him up,” Suguru comments thoughtfully, and Satoru thinks he’s joking until Yuu makes a move to reach under the seat in front of him like he’s grabbing for something.

Satoru’s eyes go wide and he lets out a terrified yelp right as the car dips around a lazy bend in the road, laughter and cicadas chasing after them like children with paper pinwheels.

—

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

The first thing Satoru registers is the soothing tone of Suguru’s voice in his ear like the opening vocals to an ambient track. And then, like the complex layers of synthesisers, organs, and flute acoustics that kick in, other sensory aspects return to him in slow waves. The dull ache in his legs after being curled up for so long in the cramped footwell. The prolonged, static hum that comes from a killed engine. The familiar scent of citrus yuzu and green tea. Warmth. The pleasant and mind-numbing kind.

“Are we there yet?” He mumbles groggily, shifting from where his head rests on the smooth slope of Suguru’s shoulder. Distantly, he can hear the tune of his friend’s voices mingling with one another from outside the car, occasionally punctuated with a thrilled cackle. But it seems like such a faraway world from the one Satoru currently resides in.

Suguru breathes out a laugh. “We’ve been here for a while, now.” 

“Oh,” Satoru exhales, finally finding the strength to open his heavy eyelids. The overhead lighting is dim, barely enough to accentuate the interior of the car. Outside the window nightfall has settled—the hurried wing beats of fireflies as they meander through the air resembling paper lanterns in their journey across the sea. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

“Believe me, I tried. Multiple times.” A hand comes to Satoru’s hair, fingers threading through jasmine-white strands. “You sleep like a rock.”

“Yeah, well that was the best nap of my life,” Satoru mumbles, his eyes resisting the temptation to flutter shut once more. 

Another amused chuckle. Fingers deliberately massaging sore spots that prompt Satoru’s tightly coiled muscles to melt like wax under candlelight. “Oh was it, now?”

“Mmh. You’re warm.”

“And you’re being silly.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

The space between them seldom falls silent with Satoru’s vivacious personality and never-ending list of things to talk about. He finds prolonged stillness uncomfortable—always searching for stimulation. But now, with sleep stubbornly clinging to his eyelashes and the presence of a second heartbeat that synchronises easily with his own, Satoru thinks he doesn’t mind silence when it’s with Suguru. 

Time blurs. Suguru’s fingers continue to play with his hair, featherlight and careful, and Satoru finds himself helpless to drifting off once more. Everything is spinning, spinning, spinning; a contained swirl of pleasure and weightlessness, until—

The door to the car swings open, so sudden and jarring that it retethers Satoru to the tangible world and causes Suguru’s hand to drop in a single sweep. Shoko’s hair is up for once, a few strands billowing in the air. She stands with her hands on her hips, studying the two of them closely. 

“Well?” She arches a brow. “You guys coming or what?”

Satoru groans loudly. “Five more minutes!” 

“You’ll miss the meteor shower.”

“Four, then.”

“Oh, don’t try to negotiate with me,” she huffs. “If you don’t hurry, Yuu will eat your parfaits. He’s been eyeing them the entire night, and you know how hungry he gets.”

And with that she’s gone, the door clicking shut after her. Satoru lets out another groan, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t want to move, but for Suguru’s sake—someone too polite to shove Satoru off even if his entire arm has gone numb—he does so anyway.

After moving, Satoru tilts his head to the side, watching as Suguru shuffles towards the door. “You gonna carry me?” 

In a voice that comes off a little too amused: “Nope.”

They step out of the car, stretching limbs and popping joints. The sprawling landscape of Ashizuri-Uwakai National Park unfolds before Satoru, leaves dancing in a mild breeze that carries the faraway rumble of ocean waves crashing against rocks. The air is twinged with an underlying scent of honeysuckle and cedarwood, and Satoru breathes it in appreciatively. Apart from his friends, his Six Eyes pick up little cursed energy milling about, which he supposes is due to how far they’ve strayed from civilisation. It’s nice. It feels as though his entire brain has been unravelled and cleansed, reborn anew. God, how long has it been since he’s last felt this at ease? 

As Suguru rummages through bags haphazardly thrown in the trunk, he glances over his shoulder at Satoru. With a small smile, he tilts his head towards the sky—a silent command: Look up.

And when Satoru obliges, all breath is stolen from his lungs. 

Tokyo is among one of the most light-polluted cities in the world. Large-scale factories and fluorescent lights emitting from dingy izakayas drain the luminescent glow of the stars into piffling nothingness. But here, under the southwestern sky, with only the murmur of cicadas and the hush of tall blades of grass swaying in the wind, the Milky Way stretches like a quiet river of light entangled in powdered stardust. 

And for a moment, all he can do is stare.

For all his life, Satoru’s Six Eyes have always revealed too much: the everlong swell of cursed energy residing just beneath delicate skin, or the tail-whip flicker of intention within a soul before it visually manifests. It has become a second language of sorts to him—deciphering a treillage of complexity imperceptible to others coming as easily as breathing. He grew accustomed to the perpetual ache behind his eyelids and the prickles of pain in his temples because he was told it was a simple price to pay in return for a divine blessing.

But right now, there is nothing to decipher. There are no patterns or threats he must discern. There is no means by which he can catalogue or quantify this. For a singular, sublime pocket of time, his eyes are simply eyes.

And God, it’s all so, so, endlessly—

“Pretty, right?”

Suguru slides up beside him, fallen leaves crunching beneath his feet. His hands are tucked carefully in the pockets of his black sweatpants, and a woolen scarf now wraps around his neck loosely.

“You have no idea,” Satoru replies, starlight catching in his eyelashes as he turns his head to face Suguru. His smile is wide, so wide, spilling out boyishly. “I think I’m in love.”

Suguru chuckles and murmurs an agreement under his breath, and then they both go back to quiet reverie. It’s comfortable in the way that things never really are, given their lives. 

A few seconds pass. Fireflies drift languidly in front of his eyes, as otherworldly as angel mist and as fleeting as snow. 

Satoru is mid-way through sighing happily when something is placed in his hands, taking him by surprise. In the dark he struggles to make out what it is until he is turning the fabric over with curious fingers. A jacket. It’s thick, lined with fleece, and unmistakably Suguru’s.

Huh…?

“It’ll get colder soon,” is the only explanation Suguru is willing to offer, it seems, opting to watch the stars instead of meeting eccentric cerulean eyes. He’s always been like that. In the couple of months that Satoru had to get to know him, he noticed that Suguru finds these sorts of gestures awkward. Telling someone Hey, I got this for you! or I saw this and it reminded me of you. I hope you like it, is not something he is inclined towards, instead preferring to ‘discreetly’ hand gifts over and pray the other person dismisses it. And despite Satoru knowing this, he can still feel his brain tripping over itself repeatedly like a frantic hamster on a spinning wheel as he stares down at the fabric, unable to comprehend. Needing Suguru to spell it out for him.

“You… brought this for me?” Something foreign blossoms in his heart like a cluster of shy sakuras, making Satoru’s skin tingle and fingers tighten over the fabric.

Suguru pauses. “I mean…yeah. You always forget your own, so.” The syllables drift off uncertainly, getting lost in the gentle wind. He still doesn’t look at Satoru.

“Oh,” is all he manages, voice suddenly cotton-candy soft. Nobody has ever noticed something so trivial about Satoru, let alone cared enough to commit it to memory. It’s stupid, he knows, but he finds himself ducking his head to conceal a touched smile anyways. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to, though,” Suguru says, like it’s no big deal. And perhaps it isn’t, and Satoru’s the one making things weird. 

Is this what friends do? he absently wonders, and quickly realises that he doesn’t know. Before Suguru, before Shoko, Kento, and Yuu, ‘friendship’ had been a distant concept to him. Something he had observed from the sidelines but had never truly practiced. Satoru had learned quite quickly in life that being born different to others was synonymous with always being alone. Synonymous with being automatically categorised as ‘other’. People kept their distance from the “egotistical boy-prodigy who speaks too much” and Satoru kept his distance from people. Nobody ever gave Satoru their jacket out of the kindness of their hearts, or even stayed around for long enough to learn that he forgets things like that.

But Suguru did.

Petals from the sakura constellation unfurl outwards, travelling down Satoru’s chest and towards his limbs like crystalline dip-pens sketching seraphic notations over parchment. It curls in chiffon-thin arcs over his collarbones, laces itself through the spaces between his ribs, stitching tender stars into the hollows he once thought empty.

“Thank you,” Satoru whispers sincerely.

Suguru exhales a laugh through his nose, finally turning his head and allowing sparkling sienna to meet softened cerulean. “So you do know what manners are after all,” he teases.

And just like that, the blushy pink sakuras are wisped away like startled insects, and in its place enters outrage. “Hey! Of course I do, you bitch—”

“Mm, debatable.”

Satoru just gapes at him, incredulity seeping into his features. “I am going to punch you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

They fall into step easily after that, lightly exchanging half-hearted jibes and elbow nudges, a rhythm as effortless as muscle memory. It’s then that Satoru slips the jacket on. The fabric carries the faint scent of incense and green tea, and although it’s much baggier than what he usually goes for, it fits perfectly.

And when their shoulders brush—just a fleeting, ghost of a touch that can hardly be felt through layers upon layers of clothing—that same stupid and fluttery feeling resurfaces and builds behind Satoru’s ribs. He doesn’t know what it is, what it means, or what to even do about it, but it’s alright.

He has all the time in the world to figure it out.

—

They find the others a few hundred metres away from the car, sprawled over picnic blankets laden with assortments of sliced fruits and snacks, waiting, waiting, waiting for the first meteoroid to breach the atmosphere.

“Pretty sure that one’s Orion!” Yuu exclaims, pointing up at one of the many specks of glitter in the sky. He is holding up a pair of binoculars to his eyes with his free hand, and Satoru doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s wearing them the wrong way around.

“Pretty sure that’s a plane,” Shoko replies. 

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s blinking red.”

“Colour is all a matter of perspective. Your red could be my white and your white could be my red.”

“Okay, first of all that’s not how that works…”

Satoru tunes them out easily, folding his arms behind his head and settling beside Suguru with a long sigh. His belly is satisfyingly full from the peach parfait he had inhaled moments prior, and every point of his body is warm due to the jacket embracing him. Crickets chirp quietly from where they reside beneath the fragile petals of daisies, frogs croak from a distant river, and above all is the cheerful laughter from the people he holds the closest to his heart.

This is nice, he thinks to himself as he stares up at the sky, taking in the brilliance of the cosmos laid bare before him. This is really nice.

To Satoru, the stars have always been a reminder of how ephemeral life is. He wonders how many of his ancestors have looked up at the same set, mapped the same galaxies over parchment with deliberate fingers, studied the same constellations and analysed their human-constructed significance, only for them to be a miniature blip in its seemingly eternal life. Wars have been waged, ancient empires and sprawling metropolises have risen and fallen, and sitting above it all is the universe. Silently observing yet choosing to ignore it all—loves and lives forgotten with the passage of time, legacies twisted and altered with each retelling.

And that’s the essence of humanity, really. To be inherently forgettable and inherently meaningless. To love and be loved and then erased from history. Try as he might to be something permanent, something real, but all he’ll be is a flame burning for a heartbeat before a pathetic extinguishment. A divot in the sand before the wind serenely stirs the particles surrounding it to glaze over his mark as if it were never there. 

The universe will forget tonight, like all other nights. Time will continue to stretch forward. Life will continue its fleeting cycle, and the seasons will continue bleeding into one another until the grass he is currently laying on will wilt and grow anew. Until the lake he splashed around and almost drowned his friends in will evaporate and return as the light pitter-patter of rain. Until the events of today are draped in linen and left to collect dust.

Knowing this should make Satoru upset. The knowledge that everything is futile in the grand scheme of things, that his loves and dreams are decidedly inconsequential, and that the universe does not and will not care. 

But when he turns his head and sees Suguru’s moonlight-drenched form beside him—alive and real and perfect—Satoru thinks that maybe, just maybe, the universe forgetting is a blessing. Because the universe forgetting allows him to be greedy, and Satoru wants to be greedy. Wants to keep this clandestine memory just for himself, preserved carefully in a glass champagne bottle he uncaps on his loneliest nights, getting drunk off the sound of Suguru’s laughter and the warmth of his smile. Until tonight only lives on in Satoru’s recollection. An unreachable nebula only he can orbit.

And besides:

Everything is ephemeral in the eyes of the universe, yes, but Satoru’s eyes are his own. And in his, this moment is eternal.

And that’s all that matters.

(Later, when the Milky Way erupts in a panorama of light and shooting stars zip across the sky, Satoru forgets to make a wish. But it’s okay. All he could ever want is right beside him, anyways.)

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One minute gone.

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ii. early awakening

September, 2005

It starts with a stolen mango popsicle.

Satoru rotates it between his lips, a pleased hum resonating from the back of his throat as the flavour explodes on his tongue—a swirl of tropical sweetness mixed with an appetising artificial tang. His eyes sparkle, carrying a certain coyness that only seems to arise when he is expecting a reaction from Suguru.

Like clockwork: “Satoru.”

The afternoon sun that filters lazily through the dancing curtains of the Jujutsu High dorm room scatters across the floor in idyllic ripples of light. Its warm rays catch onto the crown of Suguru’s head, engulfing silky midnight strands in a shimmering blaze. He is currently sprawled across the tatami mat, one leg haphazardly folded, the other stretched out. An English classic book the colour of persimmon-skin he’d been reading has slipped to his chest, page caught mid-turn as he instead redirects his focus towards levelling Satoru with a look.

“What?” Satoru asks innocently through a half-full mouth, but his voice gives him away. He sounds far too pleased with himself, syllables lilting with cheekiness.

Suguru notices this immediately and rolls his eyes. Still, Satoru catches the way he smothers down an endeared smile that wants to surface. “You know what.”

“Nah, I don’t think I do. Might have to spell this one out for me.”

Suguru sighs, giving in all too easily. Sitting up and balancing his weight on his elbows, he nods his head toward the frozen popsicle right as Satoru pulls it from his lips. “That was mine, you thief.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yes-huh.”

“Nuh-uh,” Satoru sing-songs, swinging his legs back and forth from his perch on the open window sill. Outside, the world is bathed in shades of terracotta and amber, whilst a chilly wind that ruffles the tips of Satoru’s hair carries the promise of a rich autumn. “I found it.”

“Yeah, in my freezer.”

“Finders keepers, losers weepers.”

A drawn out sigh. “Continue acting like that and this will be your first and last time in my dorm.” 

“Awwh, don’t sulk,” Satoru giggles, popping the iced candy back in his mouth. Just to be an asshole, he makes sure to let out an exaggerated Mmmm! eyes rolling to the back of his skull in feigned bliss. Satoru knows it worked like a charm when not even a second later a dirty sock hits his shoulder, taking him by surprise. “Ow!”

“Brat,” Suguru grumbles, already reaching for the second sock. 

“Says the abuser!” 

“Says the thief.”

“Says the delinquent!” 

Suguru shoots him a flat look. “You’re the one eating my popsicle.”

“And you’re the one skipping class.”

“So are you!”

Grinning: “Yeah, but it’s different when I do it.”

Suguru groans, letting his head thump back against the tatami heavily. It’s a familiar white-flag surrender—one that usually comes whenever Suguru is reminded once more that trying to win an argument against Satoru with logic is a futile endeavour. Because logic never applies to him. Satoru is a living contradiction, an electric current that bends wherever and whenever it pleases, filled with reckless abandon and impulse, living by no rhythm but his own.

So Suguru has no choice but to let him win, like he always does.

He goes back to reading his book and Satoru goes back to happily savouring his (Suguru’s) popsicle, droplets of mango sweetener already trickling down the birchwood stick. He lets his eyes explore Suguru’s dorm—absolutely identical to Satoru’s in the way that all Jujutsu High dorms are, yet still so distinctly his. Miscellaneous commodities that signify Suguru’s presence are littered across the space: sleeved records stacked in neat piles line his desk while shelves of novels featuring battered spines and oxidised pages lie perpendicular to the window sill Satoru is settled upon. Kitaro Nishida, George Orwell, Matsuo Basho. Puzzling pen names with equally puzzling titles, ones that Satoru doesn’t doubt that if he were to ask Suguru he’d be met with an hour long explanation. So he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze—and, by extension, his train of thought—shifts towards Suguru’s favourite three-section staff that lies on the foot of his perfectly made bed; linen smoothened out and pillows carefully arranged. And then towards the ginormous tank on his bedside table, housing six unsuspecting kohaku koi fish that bustle through the ecosystem of horsetail, water lilies, and water hyacinths like glitter swirling in a snowglobe. 

Satoru’s initial thought upon seeing this is: Huh. I never took Suguru to be a fish dad, but then the more he thinks about it the more sense it makes. Of course someone as introspective and ridiculously sentimental as Suguru would keep and admire koi fish as though they’re poetry in motion—living manifestations of verses, profound beauty in a tank of water. That’s just how he is. The polar opposite of Satoru: tranquility against eccentricity, discipline against spontaneity, black against white. Two vastly different natures, yet they intertwine so easily. Satoru thinks it’s fate.

And then, finally, his eyes land on the most perplexing items of all. Leaning against an ornamental, hip-height vase that holds rolls of paper mulberry ukiyo-e prints, a black bass guitar and amplifier lay untouched, connected to a spiderweb of cords that stretch along the floor.

“Woah!” Satoru exclaims, jumping to his feet and crossing the room at a whiplash-inducing speed, binning his now naked popsicle stick in the process. Suguru startles at the sudden surge of energy—almost dropping his book—confused sienna irises landing on the other who’s already reached the instrument. There’s a sort of naive wonder brimming in his wide eyes as he picks it up, fingers tracing over the strings. “You own a guitar?”

“Jesus,” Suguru mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Mind your volume.”

Satoru hardly hears him over the excitement of his own revelation. “This is so cool,” he breathes, crouching down to fiddle with the bass amplifier. There’s no thought behind his actions, just the mindless twisting of knobs and flipping of switches, before his attention ultimately returns to the guitar in his lap. “I’ve always wanted to learn, but my parents never let me. Said that I’d just waste my time ‘cause it’s a useless skill. I don’t think that’s true, though.” He then whips his head around, an almost accusatory look in his cerulean eyes as they meet sienna. “How come you never told me?”

Suguru just shrugs. “Dunno.” He marks the page he is up to before setting the novel aside. “You never asked.”

“That’s so stupid. If I were you it’d be the first thing I tell people when I meet them. You’d get a lot more girls that way.”

Suguru laughs, slow and breathy as he leans back on his hands, tilting his head to the side. His brown eyes catch fire underneath the afternoon sunglow, sparkling like twin caramel-moons. Like this, he looks—awfully pretty. Satoru feels giddiness crawling up his spine at the prospect of being the reason Suguru’s smiling so gorgeously. “Oh yeah?”

Satoru nods. “Yeah.” 

And then Suguru is standing up and making his way over. He crouches down beside Satoru and picks up a black, wired cable. Gently nudging Satoru until he lifts his arm, he plugs the wire in its corresponding hole located on the side of the guitar’s body. The other end goes into the amplifier.

Clearing his throat, Satoru asks, “Can you play?”

“Well, of course.” Suguru’s meticulous hands adjust the amplifier, easily reversing all of Satoru’s careless tinkering. When he deems it prepared, he then turns the switch on. A small burst of static pops through the speakers, akin to the first corn kernel giving way to soft starch, before it quiets down to a low, prolonged hum. “What, you think I just keep it around to look cool?”

“You definitely seem like the type to.”

“Fuck off,” Suguru huffs, but the ghost of a smile that teases at his lips betrays him. “But yeah. My mom taught me.”

Ah. The memory of Satoru meeting Suguru’s mother for the first time replays in his head then. His mind is automatically transported back to a late-summer afternoon in August, when Suguru had invited him over to his family home for the first time. Tucked along the outskirts of Sendai, where the air is cleaner and the neighbours are predominantly elderly and filled to the brim with tender smiles and endless compliments, it was a sleepy place. Time knew no rush, only capable of a lazy and ever-patient amble forward. The Geto household in particular carried the enticing aroma of pan-fried scallions and lavender incense through sliding paper doors at the time of Satoru’s arrival, and even had a gorgeous gardenscape that overflowed with fresh strawberries and ripening dragonfruit.

Suguru’s father was a polite and courteous man, shaped by routine and respect, but it was his mother who was especially sweet. Truthfully, Satoru remembers being quite nervous to meet her, but she had made it so easy. Before Satoru had even toed his shoes off, she had already asked him to stay the night with beckoning sienna eyes identical to her son’s and homemade purin in her hands. When dusk settled, she told the most embarrassing stories of Suguru’s childhood over a steaming hot bowl of miso soup, asked questions and actually paid attention to Satoru’s answers, and even trusted him inside the kitchen to help with decorating her signature strawberry shortcake roulade. 

It was the first time Satoru had met a mother like that. And although he spent the weeks following his visit relentlessly teasing Suguru of his baby cheeks and crooked teeth in tattered polaroids, a small part of him had selfishly wondered what it might have been like if he had grown up with that kind of love, too.

Back under Tokyo’s autumn sun, Satoru hums—reminiscent. “She’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Suguru agrees. “Really smart, too.” There’s a certain fondness that overtakes his voice when he talks about her: a sugar-sweet articulation around the vowels and a velvety roll of the consonants. His hands snake behind the guitar that’s still in Satoru’s hands, delving into the small space between the instrument’s body and Satoru’s chest. He fishes out a black nylon strap and gently slings it over Satoru’s head until it rests around his neck and under one arm, all the while continuing to speak. “She taught me everything I know, honestly. How to make udon from scratch, to tune by ear, to speak English.”

There’s a faint shuffling noise as Suguru closes the infinitesimal space between them, until their shoulders bump against one another and their thighs gently brush. He leans in, light breath fanning against Satoru’s cheek as his fingers begin to fine-tune the pegs attached to the headstock. His other hand plucks the strings experimentally, coaxing out low, resonant tones. Satoru holds his breath. Mesmerisation unfolds across his features like an organza ribbon pulled loose, because Suguru is so close. Close enough for Satoru to—for the very first time—notice the otherwise undetectable sprinkle of constellation-like freckles along Suguru’s cheekbones and nose bridge, or the tonal variations of brown dancing in his irises. Close enough that if Satoru were to lean upwards a little, their lips would…

Their eyes meet instead.

“And you? What about your parents?” Suguru’s asking, voice absurdly casual. Like he’s not a breath away from his friend. That question from all those months ago invades Satoru’s mind once more, pushy and demanding answers: Is this what friends do? It must be. Satoru’s the one who’s making it weird when it really shouldn’t be.

Act normal, act normal, act normal. “Eh.”

Suguru tilts his head, smile tugging his lips. “Eh?” He parrots.

It’s Satoru’s turn to shrug, a halfhearted rise and fall of his shoulders as he breaks eye contact. “They’re losers.”

Suguru hums contemplatively, but doesn’t push further. Satoru’s grateful. With his gaze skipping back to the strings: “If you say so.”

They lull back into quietude, letting the guitar do the speaking for them. A conversation between twisted knobs and plucked strings. Not music just yet, only the conscientious shaping of sound. Pluck, listen, adjust, and repeat. The crammed-up tension within the guitar ever-so-slowly fizzles out like firecrackers under incessant downpour, leaving nothing but restored serenity.

“There,” Suguru says after a few minutes. His thumb runs through the strings, inciting a low, mellow unification of notes. “She’s back in shape. Now you just gotta…”

His hand finds Satoru’s. It’s a gentle guidance—a featherlight adjustment of the angle of Satoru’s wrist, a careful positioning of his fingertips over the frets, a deliberate realignment of his elbow. It lingers for a delightful moment, suspended in time, before receding like a salty ocean tide.

“You’re ready,” Suguru announces with a self-satisfied sigh. Finally leaning back, his eyes land on a peachy-cheeked Satoru expectantly. “Wanna try play something?”

Satoru blinks. “Just—just like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not gonna, like, teach me the basics first?”

Suguru laughs, candid and ambrosial, eyes impossibly soft. “Nah. Just give it a go, and I’ll help you along the way.”

Satoru scrunches his nose, lips twitching in an action that reveals just how much he wants to complain about Suguru’s questionable teaching methods, but ultimately decides against it.

“Okay…”

The first note he extricates from the guitar is clumsy. Imperfect and shy, like the first word of a sunset-drowned shoujo confession on a school rooftop. The following notes are even worse, coming together in a vague recreation of a scale. Satoru bites his lower lip in concentration, eyebrows furrowing as he lets his too-tight fingers press down against the strings. It doesn’t sound too bad, if he just—

A muffled snicker resonates through the room. Satoru’s gaze snaps to the side and immediately falls on Suguru, who’s smiling so widely like he can’t help himself. Hot embarrassment spikes up Satoru’s spine and he purses his lips into a pout.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Suguru says through laughter, not sounding the least bit apologetic. It only causes Satoru’s frown to deepen. When Suguru catches this, he is quick to reverse the damage. “Hey, don’t worry, you sounded great. A bit of advice, though…”

The lesson takes shape just like that—without structure or rules. Suguru lets Satoru warm up to the bass guitar like how a hesitant duck might dip its toe in a lake to grasp the temperature before diving in. Every couple of minutes, when Satoru’s strumming becomes uncertain, Suguru will murmur a soothing encouragement that restores his spirits: That’s it, Satoru. You’re getting the hang of things quickly, or, Wow, that chord just then sounded really good. It’s the simple, absentminded praises that fill Satoru up with a prickling warmth he doesn’t know how to deal with.

If Satoru were to pick, he’d pinpoint this lazy afternoon as the instance in which he first falls in love with the ordinary. The instance in which his eyes are finally peeled open and he notices the unconcealed beauty interlaced within life’s most simple moments—‘unconcealed’, because it was never truly hidden. Beauty does not like to camouflage herself. She yearns to be acknowledged, appreciated, cherished. Beauty will be loud, beauty will be quiet, but she will never, never, be silent. You just have to know to look for her. And once you do, you will realise that she exists within every nook and cranny of existence. She is the half-breaths between shared laughter, the honeyed pull of music from strings, or the thrum of joy amidst fond teasing and mini tickle-fights. She is the supernatural and the natural winded together so seamlessly that it is impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins; the miracle stitched into the mundane. And in this cruel, apathetic world, she is the embodiment of everything that is worth holding on to. 

Hours pass. The sun shifts, golden hour officially settling, shadows morphing into longer abstractions of itself over the furniture. Across the room, the kohaku koi swim in slow, lazy loops. A few autumn leaves break free from their branches outside, breezing past the open window like paper planes in flight. Fluttery and light, similar to how Satoru’s heart feels.

Suguru is humming along to a tune Satoru is playing when the latter’s cellphone buzzes in his pocket. Once, twice, thrice in quick succession, pulling Satoru from whatever dreamy state he had submerged himself into. Just like that, the moment is shattered and the world expands from just the two of them to accommodate everything else.

Sighing, Satoru’s string-indented fingertips reluctantly leave the bass guitar to fumble for his pocket. When he flips the device open and navigates to the messages app, Shoko’s contact name stares back at him.

[4:17 PM] shoko! : did you two seriously skip class again

[4:17 PM] shoko! : yaga-sensei’s searching the dorms 

[4:17 PM] shoko! : he’s pretty pissed

Uh-oh.

“What’s the matter?” Suguru asks curiously, and Satoru’s just about to tilt the cellphone so that he can see the screen when—

Knock, knock, knock.

They both freeze. There’s a faint noise of shuffling from the other side of the door, followed by a throat being cleared, and then:

“Gojo-san. Geto-san. I know you’re in here.”

Shit!

Satoru’s eyes fly to Suguru’s, wide and filled with alarm. The younger boy is already staring at him, though, irises flashing with an unspoken warning: Don’t do anything stupid, and—okay. Satoru can do that. He can be calm.

The doorknob rattles.

Satoru panics immediately.

“Quickly, quickly!” He whisper-shouts, immediately disregarding the guitar in his hands and scrambling to his feet, rushing towards the perfectly-made covers of Suguru’s bed. In a single sweep, he’s pulled the blankets loose from the mattress. 

“Huh, what—Satoru!” Suguru whisper-shouts back, pretty eyes blown wide like moons. “What are you doing?” 

Satoru doesn’t respond, simply crossing the room and taking Suguru’s hand in his. It’s only when he begins to tug him towards the bed that is now a mess of sloven blankets and pillows that Suguru figures out exactly what his plan is, tone completely shifting from confusion to incredulity. “Are you out of your mind? That’s not gonna do anythi—”

“Shh, this will work, I promise.”

What happens next is a blur to Satoru. One moment, there’s just frantic footsteps, tangled limbs, and Suguru’s startled protests—protests Satoru promptly ignores. The next, though, there’s a sharp snap, as though a cord has been roughly pulled from its socket, followed by a surprised yelp. Instinctively, Satoru turns his head. The last thing he sees is Suguru’s features contorted into panic before they’re both sent tumbling.

Satoru’s back sinks into the mattress upon impact, the material swallowing him like quicksand. Suguru lands on his chest an eyeblink later, hearts pressed against one another, erratic breaths intermingling like plumes of smoke. They stay like that for a heartbeat, bodies stunned into stillness, before Suguru curses quietly and rolls off him. In one swift movement, he is grabbing the blanket and yanking it up and over the both of them. When the world quells down to plush satin and navy blue sheets, Satoru lets out a sigh of relief. Here, Yaga-sensei can’t find them. If he manages to get inside, that is.

As if on cue, the doorknob jostles once more.

“Come on, you two. This isn’t funny. Either you unlock this door or I will force it open myself.”

For a minute, all is still. Satoru stares up at the blanket inches from his face, holding his breath. It smells just like Suguru down here—citrus yuzu and green tea. He can feel Suguru’s shoulder lightly graze against his, but it’s a sensation secondary to the inconsistent thump of his heart as it tries to calm down from the unexpected collision. 

And then… he thinks of it. 

The nagging, immature nuisance that is Satoru’s brain recalls the image of Suguru tripping over like an idiot and replays it over and over again, like a broken record player. It twists the memory into more absurd adaptations of itself: including goofy cartoon music to his fall, or substituting the cord to a banana peel. It’s ridiculous, it’s so fucking ridiculous and not funny at all, but Satoru can feel that familiar tingle of mirth creeping up on him regardless.

No, no, no, not now. Any time but now.

He bites down on his lower lip to stop the sudden onslaught of giggles from escaping. Squeezes his eyes shut as if that will change anything.

Calm down, calm down, calm down. 

Satoru takes a few, shuddering breaths, doing his best to focus on the rise and fall of his chest instead of the scenarios his brain is currently conjuring. Much to his surprise, it actually ends up working after a while. The compulsion to laugh slowly but surely recedes, leaving him feeling confident enough to reopen his eyes.

A big mistake. Satoru’s gaze immediately finds Suguru’s in the darkness. And that’s all it takes, really—the floodgates swing open and full-blown laughter comes spilling.

Suguru shifts beside him, sounding a little panicked. “Satoru,” he hisses, voice barely above a whisper. “Shut up—he’s still out there!”

“Sorry, sorry! It’s just—oh my god, your face when—when you—”

“Shhh!” Suguru smacks a hand over Satoru’s mouth, a futile attempt to stifle the sound. He is trying to appear stern, but his glittering smile and the strawberry-red tips of his ears give him away all too easily. “You’re gonna get us caught!”

He’s right. Despite how spectacular their hiding spot is, the way the entire blanket is trembling in tandem with Satoru’s suppressed laughter is enough to give them away the instant Yaga-sensei gets inside. Unless Satoru manages to miraculously pull himself together—a possibility rapidly shrinking in likelihood with each gasp for breath—they may as well have a bright red ‘guilty’ arrow pointing in their direction. 

“I can’t believe you,” Suguru mutters under his breath, palm pressing harder over Satoru’s mouth. It only feeds Satoru’s never-ending giggles. “I actually can’t believe you.” 

“Mmmmphh!!”

“Oh, don’t give me that. This is your fault, not mine. If you had just—”

“They’re not here, sensei.”

Both boys freeze, falling silent. Satoru’s eyes go wide in recognition as soon as the new voice travels through the space, breath catching in his lungs. There’s no mistaking it. He could identify that distinctive drawl and those lazy syllables from anywhere.

Shoko.

Beyond the door, Yaga-sensei clears his throat. “Ieiri-san. What are you doing here?”

“Nothing much, I was just passing by. Your voice was really loud—I couldn’t help but check if everything was alright.”

“I see,” There’s a faint trace of suspicion that laces his tone when he asks: “And you’re sure they’re not in here?”

A hum of affirmation. Satoru can vividly picture Shoko regarding Yaga-sensei with a bored gaze, amber eyes half lidded, balancing a cherry lollipop between her teeth as she lies with the same ease as breathing. God bless her. “I checked around an hour ago ‘cause I wanted to steal some snacks, but the entire place was completely empty. Suguru wouldn’t answer any of my calls, either. It must be some sort of emergency.”

As soon as she’s finished talking, there’s a drawn-out silence. Satoru holds his breath, half-expecting Yaga-sensei see through Shoko’s deception and bust down the door anyways, but the seconds continue to tick by and no such thing happens. Suguru’s hand flexes a little over Satoru’s lips—a telltale sign of his own apprehension. They both wait, heartbeats thumping in their throats.

And then, finally, an exhausted sigh resonates. In an intonation that is coated in surrender, “There’s always an emergency when it comes to those two…”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Shoko says, a smirk in her voice. If Yaga-sensei were to read only a little bit deeper into her cadence, he’d be able to discern the smugness billowing just beneath the surface of feigned nonchalance. The subtle arrogance that comes alongside an easy victory—but he doesn’t. 

Instead, he simply mutters, “What am I going to do with them?” 

Satoru grins against Suguru’s skin.

“No idea, sensei.” Satoru hears the slick pop of candy being pulled from lips, followed by the sound of footsteps picking up. “I think you should worry about these sorts of things later, though. For now, let’s grab some food. I’m starving.”

Yaga-sensei lets out an exhale that lands halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Don’t you have medical class with Saito-sensei in half an hour? Don’t tell me that you intend to have an ‘emergency’, too.”

“Relax, I’m not like them. We’ll be quick, I swear.”

“If you say so…”

Another pair of footsteps picking up.

The conversation between the two of them ebbs and flows just like that, their voices steadily fading down the hallway. The exchangement of: Have you tried the new café near Shimokitazawa? I hear their yakitori is really good, and, Saito-sensei always shows up fifteen minutes late, so technically I’m early if you think about it, gradually grows weaker and weaker, tension dissolving alongside it, until only silence remains.

Beneath the blanket, the air is stuffy and thick with warmth. Satoru reaches up, grabbing the fabric and peeking out. Daylight comes rushing back in, fresh and delightful on his skin. His eyes flicker to the door, which remains tightly sealed shut, any signs of struggle from before unapparent. 

“He’s gone,” he affirms, voice no louder than a whisper.

Suguru pushes the blanket off his body, sitting upright on the mattress. His hair is slightly messy and ruffled at the edges as he emerges, and his clothes are wrinkly. Like Satoru, his eyes drift towards the door, silently confirming for himself, before they land on a pair of cerulean.

For a few seconds, neither of them say a word. They just keep staring at each other, chests still rising and falling with the aftershocks of thrill. The world keeps spinning and the sun keeps setting and the koi keep swimming.

And then they’re laughing.

It starts with a soft giggle on Satoru’s part. The giggle quickly snowballs into pure, unrestrained laughter, elation brimming in the fissures between every inhale he draws, like starlight filtering through the sheen of wispy clouds. Suguru rolls his eyes, mumbling something along the lines of You’re such an idiot, before he dissolves into joy, too. It’s a shared catharsis of some sort. A brief hiccup in time where nothing matters apart from the two of them; beaming and drunk on exhilaration.

“Dude,” Satoru gets out in between breathless snickers. “You fell so hard.”

“Yeah, because of you! If you hadn’t ran so fast—”

“All I hear are excuses.”

“Why, you little shit—”

Suguru tickles him. Satoru shrieks, body jerking as he tries to push him away, but Suguru’s always been the stronger one and Satoru’s completely hopeless against his own euphoria.

He only relents later, when Satoru’s cellphone buzzes from where it had been disregarded on the tatami flooring. A stupid smile breaks across his face when he retrieves the device and reads the message displayed across the blue-lit screen.

[4:25 PM] shoko! : you two owe me.

we thank you greatly, our knight in shining armour!! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ  [4:26 PM]

how does matcha and a new pack of ciggies sound? [4:26 PM]

[4:26 PM] shoko! : fantastic

Satoru tosses his cellphone to the side and flops back onto the mattress, bringing Suguru down with him. The pair lie there for some time, content in simply savouring the warmth of shared space and sun-speckled sheets, breaths slowing and easing into a familiar sync with one another. Beauty engages in a pas de deux with the waning light, pirouetting across the apples of Suguru’s cheeks and the pearly whites of his teeth when he smiles. She embellishes herself within the curve of his eyelashes, the smoothness of his skin, the dewy finish of his lips. Satoru doesn’t think she’s ever shined brighter on any other canvas. This is where she belongs.

Is this where I belong, too?

The thought arrives unsolicited, taking Satoru by surprise. He stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracking the irregular engravings that decorate the cedarwood. The light reflecting off the mahogany assemblage is subtle and ever-fading as the sun continues its descent behind the mountaintops, and Satoru absently counts the tiny knots scattered sporadically over its surface as he considers the question. 

Could it be? It’s only been half a year since he met Suguru—six months since a soft-spoken boy with a friendly nature and pretty eyes had stepped foot inside the grayscale corridors of his life and spilt pigment across the floor like an upturned jar of ink—and yet, Satoru can’t remember how things were like before him. What it meant to go through daily motions untouched, unshaken, unlit. And he finds that he doesn’t want to remember, either. He doesn’t want to return to a gruelling repetition of monochromatism and unfulfillment, not when he has finally been shown colour. 

And he thinks it’s the same for Suguru, too. His mother had said back in Sendai when Satoru visited that Suguru looks happier than she has seen him in a long time. That’s got to count towards something, right? They complete each other. Everything has got a place where it belongs: the moon orbits the Earth in a perfect balance between gravity and inertia, sea otters traverse the ocean hand-in-hand so they don’t drift apart, and sunflowers follow the curvature of the brightest star without ever being taught. It’s all instinctual. Motion without question, because what need is there to question something so natural? Something so right? 

The Earth has the moon and the sunflowers have the sun and maybe, if the world is kind enough, Satoru has Suguru.

But, as we all know, the world is anything but kind. And though Satoru doesn’t know it yet, the joy he feels so deeply in his bones right now exists on borrowed time—before the moon crumbles to dust, before the Sun expands into a red giant and swallows the sunflowers that had once worshipped its every breath. Fate, though patient, will always arrive. And when it does, it won’t matter whether or not Satoru wants to return to grayscale or not. It will happen anyways and there will be nothing he can do to change it.

But for now, there is colour. So, so much of it. Enough to chase away destiny, even if it’s just for a moment.

Satoru’s smile is wide and pure as he lets his eyes fall shut.

This is it, he thinks. I’ve found my home.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆˚✿˖°

Two minutes gone.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆˚✿˖°

iii. first blossom

December, 2005

Satoru considers it quite romantic that the season’s first snow waits until Christmas Eve to grace the streets of Tokyo.

Like wind-bitten tulip petals, they cruise through the night languidly, before eventually collecting on the tiled roofs of distant pagodas and mini markets. It’s a ritualistic cleansing of sorts—an erasure of every drop of colour, shadow, saturation, and tint that the city typically offers, until everything has returned to its base note: white. 

Satoru reaches out and lets some land on the tips of his fingers, entertained with the way they instantly liquefy upon meeting skin. An indistinct carol from faraway mixes with the cheerful melody of Tōryanse’ when the pedestrian crossing flashes green, and he presses himself closer to Suguru’s side as they step foot onto the empty intersection.

“The light display was nice this year,” he comments offhandedly, teeth sliding a sugar-glazed grape off the tanghulu stick in his hands. With a bite so big it puffs his cheeks out a little, he shoots Suguru a lopsided smile. “Much better than the ones in Sendai, huh?”

“Bigger doesn’t necessarily mean better,” Suguru hums neutrally. With one hand preoccupied with holding up a transparent umbrella for the both of them, the other pinches Satoru’s cheek lightly. “But of course you’d think it does.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what you think it means.”

Satoru lets out an offended huff, lips pursing into a scowl and eyebrows furrowing. Swatting away Suguru’s hand as though it’s a rogue mosquito, he mutters pettily: “It’s strange.”

“Hmm?”

“People always think I’m the ruder one out of the two of us, but it’s really you.”

Suguru chuckles at that, amusement tangible even above the windchimes that tinkle as they stroll past a clock repair store. “Dunno if that’s true.”

“It is. You just hide it better. It’s annoying, really. You act all self-righteous but then you go and assault your friend.”

“Cry about it.”

“I think I will.”

They fall back into step, aimless and without a fixed destination, snow crunching gingerly beneath their soles. 

Satoru wasn’t really thinking earlier in the evening when he asked Suguru if he wanted to go see the light display that was commencing in Shibuya—just that he wanted to spend time with the other and this seemed like the perfect little outing. And it was perfect. The city looked as though it had been plucked straight from an ethereal movie: spindly branches of trees bejewelled with beaming fairy lights, tinsel-wrapped sculptures of a variety of mascots glimmering in the artificial snow-drenched square, orchestral ensembles playing jazzy renditions of staple carols next to Christmas trees adorned with origami swans and handmade lanterns. The scent of crisp fried chicken permeated the air, intertwining with the buttery aroma of cream stew, both of which Satoru scoffed down his throat eagerly. But now, with the celebration long behind them, they’re left wandering the near-vacant streets, stuck in an awkward predicament in which it’s too late for anything to be open but too early for either of them to want to head back to Jujutsu High.

Satoru’s not too sure where exactly they are, either. He figures it must be a rundown district of Tokyo that nobody really frequents, considering how all he sees are occasional taxis sighing past with weary engines and dim headlights, or lovestruck couples sharing scarves and engaging in quaint, low-voiced conversation. Despite the day and hour, the entire place is embroiled in a deep, deep slumber. 

The pair turn the corner, veering away from the main road and down a narrower footpath lined with potted plants and dusty second-hand boutiques. A collection of vibrant Pokémon posters plastered against the frost-misted glass of a retro game store catches Satoru’s attention, and he scoffs distastefully under his breath.

“Stupid fucking Pikachu,” he mutters.

“Satoru,” Suguru warns, not even looking at him. “Don’t.”

“Okay, okay,” He lifts both hands innocently. “I won’t.”

A few seconds pass. They continue walking. Three steps. Four. 

And then:

“I just think it’s crazy that—”

Suguru groans right as Satoru powers up like a racecar and launches himself headfirst into a winding tirade on how Pokémon is ‘dumbed-down baby trash’ compared to the cinematic masterpiece that is Digimon. It’s petty yet filled with unbelievable passion—the volume of his voice getting louder and louder the more he spurs himself on.

At least Taichi Yagami isn’t as butt-useless as Ash. Imagine only collecting 16 out of the 150 Pokémon when you were given 74 whole episodes and every possible form of plot armour! and, Digimon had character development. Emotional nuance, if you will. Meanwhile, all Ash does is get his ass handed to him every episode and ramble on and on about friendship as if he’s old enough to know how to even spell the fucking word. Suguru has no choice but to listen without interruption, nodding along and humming in agreement every now and then lest Satoru accuse him of siding with ‘the depthless, childish, money-grabbing franchise.’

He only pauses when a chilly gust of wind snakes through the air and curls down his spine, instigating a flurry of goosebumps to rear their heads over his skin. Like a pit stop mid-race to roll in new, smooth tires and refuel the sputtering engine, Satoru holds off on his words to loop his arm through Suguru’s—a minor detour before he is scrambling back to the tracks and climbing to hungrier velocities, chattering away like his life depends on it.

Satoru doesn’t think much about their proximity. It’s become a natural aspect of their friendship, now: physical touch. Not that it wasn’t there before, faintly simmering beneath the surface of play-fights and the casual bumping of knees underneath tables just to irritate the other, but now it’s different. It’s evolved, like a caterpillar sprouting wings and flying away despite the fear that comes with change, because with time comes familiarity and with familiarity comes trust. The suspension of the belief that this bond is something temporary, something that passes through without any ultimate meaning. Gone is the Satoru who used to freeze up every time Suguru got close and had not even an inkling of an idea on what to do in that situation, and in enters a newer version made brazen by the assurance that he can reach and will be met halfway. A Satoru who no longer questions the sincerity of it all, who knows, who trusts that this, whatever it may be, is something permanent. The one constant in this ever-changing world lying in the press of Suguru’s body against his. Heart to heart, skin to skin.

When they pass a KIRIN vending machine nestled in an untitled backstreet between a vintage ceramics studio and a shuttered perfume atelier, Suguru slows his pace and waits patiently for Satoru to conclude his rant, before nudging his shoulder with his own. 

“You wanna grab a drink?” He asks lightly. “All you’ve eaten tonight is sugar.”

Satoru eyes the vending machine carefully, coasting the last candied strawberry off the stick and into his mouth. “Are you paying?”

“Even if I said no you’d find a way to make me.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“Alright, then. I won’t pay.”

Satoru pouts.

Suguru stares at him for approximately three seconds before sighing and reaching for his wallet.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, already handing coins over to the other’s awaiting palm. “You’re literally richer than me.”

“Yeah, so we gotta keep me rich so that I can afford for the both of us when we grow older.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Optimism, Suguru,” Satoru chirps as he takes a step closer to the glass casing of the vending machine, surveying all the different drinks. “You should try it sometime.”

“I’m plenty optimistic,” Suguru defends, but Satoru’s attention from the conversation at hand has already been swept away like the cloudy fluff on a dandelion after a wish has been made. Now, he only speaks a language of sugar and delicacy. Hmmm… Pocari or Ramune? He taps his chin thoughtfully. Cola is a classic but it’s too cold for that, so maybe hot cocoa? But you never know how long it’s been sitting in there—it’s probably not even hot anymore. Oh, they have Calpis! And peach soda! So many choices…

While Satoru goes dizzy with weighing out all the options presented to him, he hardly notices the umbrella that is being handed over to him and the arm that is unlinking itself from his and the quiet, I’ll be right back, whispered in his ear until it’s too late and Suguru has already drifted off. Satoru stares at the empty street for a couple of seconds, dumbfounded. He tries to discern which direction the other took off, but all that meets him is the gentle fall of snow and the tentative sound of rustling as a black cat scours an overflowing trash can across the street curiously. Satoru stares at the feline for a moment, before shrugging and turning back to the vending machine. Worry about Suguru later. There are much more important matters to settle right now. 

He lets his stomach do the thinking.

Peach soda sounds great, but melon soda just sounds way too good to pass up right now. Yeah, I think I’ll go with that. Suguru said to not get something sugary, though, so maybe I should just go for plain water…pfft, who am I kidding! There’s no way I’d listen to him.

Satoru slots the coins into the machine with numb hands, the metallic clink that follows resonating throughout the empty backstreet. Almost instantaneously after he presses the button underneath the melon soda, the drink drops into the dispenser below with a ceremonious thump. 

Right as Satoru crouches down to retrieve it, he hears footsteps. He turns his head just in time to see Suguru rounding the corner of the street, holding a plastic bag between his fingers that bumps against his right knee with every step. Snow clings to his bunned up hair like a deliberate sprinkle of stardust over a midnight sky, gathering on the shoulders of his dark blue zip-up jacket and the tips of his shoes. A stargazer lily-pink blush has rushed all the way towards his cheeks and lips from the cold, and the singular inky strand that falls in front of his face is a little tousled from the wind.

What an angel.

As he gets closer, Satoru stands up and points at the bag. “Whatcha got over there?”

“Mmm, nothing,” is Suguru’s curt response.

Satoru frowns. “Oh come on, don’t be like that. Lemme see!” When Suguru doesn’t relent, he changes tactics. “Is it drugs? Ooooh, I bet it’s drugs. You really are something, Suguru. What a role-model student.”

That pulls a laugh from the other, but not after an earnest roll of the eyes. As he steps back underneath the umbrella: “You’ll see later, okay? Now, did you pick what you want?”

Satoru grins, holding up his drink proudly. “Ta-da!”

A certain expression appears on Suguru’s face when his eyes fall onto the neon-green can in Satoru’s hands. He opens his mouth and then closes it almost immediately afterwards, struggling a few times like that, before eventually deciding against whatever he wanted to say and just sighing. “If that’s what you want.”

They resume walking. Suguru takes the umbrella from Satoru’s hand as Satoru pops the tab of his drink with a crisp hiss and brings it to his lips. A sugar-spun fizziness greets his tastebuds—the throat cloying and tooth rotting type. The type that’s an incarnation of all that is confectionary and achingly sweet, like the slow drip of gold from hexagonal-shaped honeycombs or the elastic pull of bubblegum as it stretches into pink parachutes before snapping back over plush lips. It’s disgusting. It’s perfect. Satoru gulps it down greedily.

The buildings from here on out disperse. With the more turns they take that lead them deeper and deeper into the heart of the rundown district, the architecture begins to make way for large patches of snow-speckled greenery and rusted playgrounds. Pallid paper lanterns shift sleepily from where they hang above the front steps of many crumbling apartments, and everywhere Satoru looks there’s cats. Hidden underneath boat-housing trailers to shelter themselves from the weather, traversing the rooftops with their babies following closely behind, or pawing at the discoloured wheels of abandoned bicycles with interest—Satoru wouldn’t be surprised if they outnumber the human population here. Wherever they are.

“Is this still even Tokyo?” Suguru wonders aloud, as though he read Satoru’s mind. It’s a valid question. This type of tranquility Satoru would expect in Kyoto or Okinawa, but Tokyo? To think that a cyber powerhouse of noise and energy is just a couple thousand steps away from this—vintage daydreams and paper charms—is just absurd. 

But God, is it lovely.

A squabby old lady stands at the entrance of a lamp-lit machiya with roughly seven sepia-toned cats circling her feet, noses upturned in her direction. Satoru watches as she squats down and pinches grains of plain cooked rice from the glazed bowl in her hand and lets their persian-pink tongues lick it off her fingers. The wind just barely carries her voice as she speaks to the cats kindheartedly, placing the bowl on the floor so that she can gently scratch between their ears.

When they pass by and she catches Satoru staring, her face melts into a smile: eyes crinkling into half-moons, skin creasing around the edges. Satoru can’t help but grin back, folding his lanky body into a quick bow before she joins his peripheral vision.

Turning back to Suguru, he announces: “I like this place.”

“Me too,” Suguru smiles, all pearly teethed and rosy cheeked underneath the lunarglow, and Satoru finds himself trying his best to memorise it. “We should definitely come back some other time with cat food.”

Satoru giggles. The image of Suguru feeding stray kittens is just way too adorable to take seriously. His delight follows him even as he tips his head backward one last time to lure the last droplets of carbonated melon juice into his mouth, so that he can drop the can into the empty waste bin they pass. 

Eventually, the path they’re following comes to its end, cut off by a glimmering river running perpendicular. Fragile trees dot its riverbanks, thin branches extending like spider-strung cobwebs, stark white winter cherry blossoms with tender pink bellies blending in with the rest of the snow-touched world. 

What catches both boys’ attention, though, is the state of the river—it’s solid. 

In the place in which rich water should be running, gently brushing against the rocky banks and stirring lily pads, there is just ice. Just one glance tells Satoru that it’s thick, heavily layered, with nothing but fallen flowers and snow resting still on its surface. That and the blurred reflection of the moon.

There’s a peaceful silence as they slow to a stop before the glassy expanse. A stray ginger cat politely ducks between their long legs and scurries off. Suguru catches a stamen as it flutters downwards, rolling it between his fingers before he turns to Satoru. There’s a certain undertone that Satoru can’t quite place that carries itself through his voice as he says:

“Have you ever ice skated before?”

It takes a second for Satoru to catch on. For a moment he just blinks, confusion swirling in his cerulean eyes.

Is he…?

One look into those dappled sienna eyes confirms everything, and Satoru’s face breaks into a wide grin.

“How hard can it be?”

—

Really hard, it turns out. Really, really, hard.

There is an unspoken rule of sorts that comes hand-in-hand with ice skating. Not ‘unspoken’ in the sense that this rule is that of basic etiquette—like how you are to always walk on the left side of the footpath, or that you are to keep the volume of your voice to a minimum when in libraries out of courtesy of those who come there to focus, or that you must offer your seat to the elderly when they board the subway during rush hour and the entire carriage is squeezed to the brim with passengers, stranger among stranger, and navigating the throng of bodies is as futile as clawing your way up and out of a bucket of live crabs—not ‘unspoken’ through the sentiment of politeness, respectfulness, and decency, no. This particular rule is categorised as ‘unspoken’ due to the simple fact that nobody has ever even thought to say it, to verbalise it, to reach into the swirling depths of the unacknowledged and bring it to the light, because what idiot would even imagine not following it? And that rule is simple: always wear skates when you are on the ice. 

And yes, this rule in general is non-negotiable, but it is especially non-negotiable when one branches outwards from the confines of the ice rink—where there are penguin-shaped skating aids to keep you stable and professionals patrolling the vicinity in case God forbid anything goes wrong—and steps onto the ice of a frozen-over river. Ice that is not fortified, that is not deemed safe to wander over, that can crack at any moment; starting with a tiny fracture and then spreading outwards like a cancer cell until the floor itself opens up like the carnivorous mouth of a tiger shark and swallows you whole. If you had skates, perhaps you could have made a run for the waterfront and made it out just in time before you plummet to your death, but without them, you are rendered utterly, wholly, and radically useless. You might as well be a bright red buoy stranded in the middle of a vast ocean, tethered by rusty old chains to the sea floor, incapable of nothing but floating just above the vicious waves—waiting. Waiting for death to seal its firm grip over your eyes, your mouth, your nose, your everything.

So, as you can see, it is a pretty logical rule, right? Always wear skates when you are on the ice. Only an idiot with a death wish would even consider going against it.

Which is precisely why idiot-with-a-death-wish A (Gojo Satoru) and idiot-with-a-death-wish B (Geto Suguru) are doing just that: going against a perfectly reasonable rule like the self-preserving superstars that they are.

“Okay, wait, hold still,” Suguru gasps out through giggles, both of his hands tightening their hold over Satoru’s. His legs wobble like steamed noodles from where they struggle to hold still over the frictionless surface, strands of hair that have been pulled loose from his once-tight bun fluttering in the mild breeze like squiggly lines drawn from a ballpoint pen. “Satoru—you little shit, listen to me. Hold still.”

“I am, I am!” Satoru argues, stubborn as ever even when he is doing everything but holding still: body fighting the pull of gravity as he flails forwards and backwards as if he is on the brink of losing a round of palm-push. Like a chain reaction, every one of his volatile teeters pulls Suguru off balance too, causing the both of them to panic from where they stand in the smack-bang centre of the river. How they got to this point—so far away from salvation and so hopelessly doomed—without their bottoms meeting the ice even once, Satoru has no idea. 

It doesn’t seem as though that streak of invincibility will be lasting any longer though, as Satoru is met with yet another sudden surge of disequilibrium that sends him rocking forward and Suguru in turn rocking backward, resulting in a less-than-gracious thrash of limbs and a series of embarrassingly high pitched shrieks that echo throughout the night. You’d think they’re schoolgirls. But it’s fine—nobody is close enough to hear them, nobody but the two of them. And this whole experience is slowly seeming to Satoru as something that neither of them will bring up in later arguments to embarrass the other, because bringing it up inadvertently gives permission for the other to bring up even more mortifying details. Mutually Assured Destruction, or whatever. They’ll be taking this to the grave, thank you very much.

“You’re literally not,” Suguru exclaims, and he looks this close to toppling over like a house of cards before he steadies himself, hands rushing to Satoru’s shoulders. “Do you want us to die?”

“Do I look like I want us to—”

“Yes!”

Satoru huffs, exasperated. If his hands weren’t preoccupied in smothering Suguru’s biceps in a death-grip, he’d definitely be crossing his arms over his chest with all the petulance he can muster. His fingertips twitch with the urge. “Well, that’s rich coming from the person who suggested we do this in the first place!”

Suguru ignores him. “We have to get back to our stuff,” he says, nodding over Satoru’s shoulder towards the direction in which their umbrella, jackets, and Suguru’s mysterious plastic bag lay abandoned and unattended on the wooden surface of an outdoor bench. Satoru almost takes the bait, almost turns his head to follow Suguru’s line of sight before he catches himself. Because Suguru has this habit, he realises, that he always exploits as though it’s a trump card whenever he is on the losing end of an argument. Deflection. And he is doing it right now, whether it be subconsciously or not—taking advantage of Satoru’s short attention span by laying out distractions. The inconspicuous shifting of attention from the fact that this is all his fault. What a bastard!

Satoru refuses to let him get away with it. 

“There is no ‘we’ here,” he corrects, spiteful. “I’m mad at you, so I’ll be getting back there myself. From now on, it’s every man for himself.”

“So you really do want to die,” Suguru admonishes, shocked. “Satoru. You can’t get back there all on your own.”

“Oh, yeah? Watch me.” It’s petty, unbelievably petty—Satoru’s blinding sense of confidence overflowing between the cracks and lilts of every syllable until it’s almost tangible, like boiling water spouting from a stainless-steel pot, steam hissing and bubbles gurgling and fire alarm blaring. His hands drop from Suguru’s biceps and he begins shuffling awkwardly, attempting to manoeuvre his body into facing the direction in which they came. Predictably, he doesn’t get that far. Suguru’s hands remain firm on his shoulders. “Let go of me or I’ll push you.”

Suguru gasps, all melodramatic and mock-offended. His hands don’t move. Satoru notices the little smile that teases at his lips then, practically invisible if you didn’t know to look for it. A smile Satoru is more used to just barely catching out of the corner of his eye when Suguru thinks he isn’t looking. Now, though, Suguru doesn’t try to hide it. Now, it’s out in the open for Satoru to stare for however long he likes. Those sienna eyes are sparkling. A certain emotion plays across his features, one that Satoru hesitates to label as affection—but it sure does come close. Whatever it is, it softens the angle of his jaw, relaxes the sharp edges of his eyes, overlays his entire appearance in a warm gold. “I’ll push you first,” he’s saying.

“If you push me, I’ll rip apart all your pretentious classic books.”

“If you push me, I’ll burn through your entire Digimon card collection.”

Satoru’s jaw drops. “You wouldn’t.”

Suguru nods solemnly. “I would.”

“Even the secret rare ones?”

“Especially the secret rare ones.”

And—well, from then onwards, it’s not really like Satoru has a choice, does he?

He sighs. It’s lung capacity-stretching and heavily exaggerated, hopefully enough to make Suguru feel sorry for him. Like a child who’s been told off by his mother and forced to apologise to his younger brother for not giving him a turn on the swing-set, Satoru gives in regretfully: head bowed, eyebrows furrowed. “Fine. I won’t push you, okay?”

Suguru smiles. It’s that soft, sparkling one all over again. Satoru would smack it off his face if it wasn’t so pretty. And then, he holds his pinkie finger out.

“Truce?”

Satoru eyes it wearily. 

You see, ‘pride’ and ‘survival instinct’ are contradictory, opposing forces. In order for one to prevail, the other must shut up and keep its nose in the dirt. It’s a familiar battle as old as time: ego versus id. Dignity versus preservation. Mind versus body. White versus black. Where pride shouts and snarls and shreds for rhythm in applause, stability in glory and gloating, survival instinct can only be satiated by the certainty of a beating heart. Survival instinct will drag you through mud, through humiliation, will have you crawling, clinging, begging—with raw scleras and torn skin and ugly hiccuping sobs spilling from your lips like crazed mantras—if it means to see another sunrise. It is indifferent to pride, just how pride is indifferent to survival. 

Pride has always been the dictating force of Satoru’s life. The steerer of his ship. He lives with it skyrocketing through his veins, flooding from his eyes and ears and every opening on his body until it's palpable to those who merely brush past him on the street. Pride is an unquenchable beast with an ever-intensifying appetite, and Satoru is its willing enabler. Survival instinct on the other hand has always taken the backseat, has always kept its mouth shut and its nose in the dirt. After all, what need is there for it when you’re the strongest? When you’re untouchable?

This. This is the exact scenario in which survival instinct comes into play. When it’s Christmas Eve and Satoru is stranded on a frozen-over lake with his friend because Suguru (read: they both) wanted to go ice skating after stuffing their (read: Satoru’s) belly full with sweets and unhealthy drinks, and now they have absolutely no means of returning because they’re not on skates and they don’t have even a modicum of experience with traversing the ice and Satoru hasn’t entirely mastered his teleportation technique just yet. This is it. The one in a tredecillion outcome in which Satoru is faced with the hair pulling, nausea-inducing realisation that he might just have to swallow his pride for once in his life.

And so—he groans. He pinches his eyes shut in overdone irritation, grumbling out a stingy: “You’re so fucking annoying,” before linking his pinky finger with Suguru’s. He supposes he'll let survival instinct win this round. The press of Suguru’s skin against his own is warm, familiar. “Truce.”

Suguru beams in victory, cheeks flushed shellrose pink, squeezing Satoru’s finger with his own. For some reason, Satoru’s heart squeezes a little, too.

And with that, the walk of shame begins. Satoru’s not too sure whether or not whatever they’re engaging in can even be considered as a ‘walk’, but it sure is shameful, hence the name. They waddle across the ice like a pair of baby penguins, hands held tightly in each other’s grasp with Satoru walking backwards and Suguru walking forwards. It’s a pretty serious thing—they’re tightroping along the boundary between life and death—and yet, the entire time, Suguru can’t stop giggling. Whether it be because Satoru stumbles backwards one too many times, landing flat on a butt that will most definitely be stained purple and blue by tomorrow, or because Satoru’s entire body seizes up as he sneezes whenever snow lands on the tip of his nose, causing the two of them to be thrown off balance and land in a heap over the ice, Suguru just can’t stop laughing. It’s annoying. It’s infectious. Satoru doesn’t want to be infected, because he’s the butt of the joke, but he can’t help it.

Whatever. It’s totally worth it. Satoru would do everything all over again, sport all the bruises necessary, if it means will it all end up just like this. With Suguru’s head resting on his shoulder, Suguru’s charcoal hair tickling the nape of his neck, Suguru’s hands sharing warmth with Satoru’s, Suguru’s smile pressing against Satoru’s skin as he spills into hysterics, happy and unrestrained. Suguru, always Suguru. He is all that matters in the end. An angel caught in the frost-kissed glow of winter, hair a mess, moonlight tracing a reverent path over every curve and contour of his complexion.

It’s funny, really: they’re surrounded by frigid ice, the tip of Satoru’s nose has gone all red and irritated from constant sneezing, and his feet are minutes away from going completely numb. But when Suguru lifts his head from where it was resting on the place just above Satoru’s heart and looks into a pair of cerulean with stars swimming in his eyes, Satoru has never felt warmer.

By the time they make it back to the waterfront an excruciating fifteen minutes later, they’re all breathless and spent. With a shaky exhale, Satoru steps off the ice first and almost collapses to the ground in relief. He doesn’t, because that would be weird and Suguru would definitely laugh at him, but the compulsion is there. Oh, how he missed the pavement. He’ll never take it for granted ever again.

Once he stabilises himself, the plan is simple: dust himself off of all this snow, grab his jacket, and then pretend this whole thing never happened in an attempt to reclaim his dignity. Maybe convince Suguru to buy him a cream-filled pastry from the open late Family Mart he spies a couple streets away.

He is halfway to the bench when a muffled curse makes him pause.

Slowly, Satoru glances over his shoulder.

The sight of Suguru struggling to step onto the elevated ledge meets him. The ice is slippery beneath his feet, causing him to stagger a little before trying again.

It all replays in Satoru’s head, then.

Dude, Satoru, you have no idea how fucking funny you looked just then!

At this point you’ve fallen over more times than you’ve exorcised a cursed sprit… A bit embarrassing, don’t you think?

You do realise our objective is to get to the waterfront—not to die, right?

And in an instant, Satoru knows what he has to do. 

“Satoru, can you lend me a hand here? This ledge is so fucking high,” Suguru mumbles, frustrated. He extends an arm as if he is expecting Satoru to take it. When he doesn’t, Suguru lifts his head in confusion.

Now, Satoru’s not too sure what his face looks like at this moment. But if he has to guess based on Suguru’s reaction alone—all the colour draining from his face as his eyes widen a fraction like a frazzled cat—, he’d bet that it’s something close to a villainous cartoon character certain of success. 

“I don’t know, should I?” he sing-songs gleefully, taking a few steps towards the other, cornering him. 

The instinct to take steps backwards flickers through Suguru as the other advances. Satoru can see it himself: his legs twitch a little before they realise they’re still on ice. His voice comes out in a warning. “Don’t you dare. You pinkie promised.”

“Yeah, well,” Satoru grins, hands finding purchase on Suguru’s shoulders. “I was crossing my fingers.”

And then he pushes him.

Because when it comes to Satoru, pride always wins in the end.

—

Once Suguru catches Satoru, he tickles him to death. A fitting punishment, if Satoru’s being totally honest.

Now, the snowfall has become heavier. The pellets of frost no longer fall with a graceful languidity, no longer wander through the air like blown petals before settling. Instead, they fall with a gentle sort of urgency, pitter-pattering against the bowl-shaped arch of the pair’s shared umbrella. It’s a soothing melody.

Satoru sighs, leaning back on his forearms. His legs dangle over the edge of a stone bridge that overlooks the river they were just on, right thigh absentmindedly brushing against Suguru’s left. 

“The moon looks so close from here,” he says, tilting his head upwards. A perfect waning crescent stares back at him, glowing a pale silver and sitting low in the sky. Clouds drift lazily past the celestial body, sheer and slow—like rice paper thinned by water, delicate to the point of translucence. Satoru wonders what it would feel like to sit on its curve, fishing for stars. “I can definitely touch it if I try hard enough.”

It’s an obvious bait. An invitation for Suguru to prove him wrong wrapped in decorative paper and topped with a chiffon bow with the sole intent of sparking another round of bickering. But Suguru remains silent, simply watching the water from two metres down run unhurriedly below the layer of ice. Clearly, he's not done sulking over the fact that Satoru pushed him just yet. It’s cute. He’s cute.

Undeterred, Satoru nudges his shoulder with his own, “Suguru.”

No response.

“Suguruuuuu.” When he is still being ignored, he pouts. “Talk to me.”

“I’m not speaking to a traitor,” Suguru finally huffs, indignant. Satoru briefly speculates whether this is Suguru’s way of giving Satoru a taste of his own medicine: acting all grumpy and petulant when things don’t go his way. Thief. That’s supposed to be Satoru’s thing.

It’s okay though. If there’s one thing Satoru knows about Suguru, it’s that the latter cannot hold a grudge for longer than five minutes. He tries his absolute hardest to stay ice-cold every time, but when it comes to Satoru, melting like buttercream under heat is an inevitable outcome. 

So, Satoru lights the flame. 

He sighs, scooting closer until their thighs press firmly against one another, and rests his head on Suguru’s shoulder. His body is warm, as always. So warm that sometimes, Satoru catches himself wishing he didn’t have any duties or classes so that he could spend his entire day draped over Suguru, hoarding him all to himself like a greedy dragon. 

Suguru doesn’t stir at the invasion of space—not visually, at least, but Satoru can feel the way his muscles tense a little before relaxing. He turns his head, swan-white hair falling over his eyes as he looks upward through his lashes, electric cerulean softening into an ultramarine hush, like watercolour losing its edge when dipped in water. This close, that familiar scent Satoru had subconsciously begun associating with home wafts through his nose, making him smile. Citrus yuzu and green tea. He takes a deep inhale.

Softly, “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

Suguru shivers. All he responds with is a clipped, “Hm,” but it’s fine. Satoru can see the way his demeanour falters, the redness that creeps onto the tips of his ears. The buttercream is melting. Slowly, but surely.

They stay silent for a moment. Suguru keeps staring at the placid water below and Satoru keeps staring at Suguru. From this perspective, his features are carved out perfectly against the backdrop of night and falling snow: the slope of his nose smooth and flawless, the outline of his Adam’s apple sharp as he swallows inattentively, the iridescent glow of his eyes almost hypnotising—like twin honey-pearls surfing in the moonlight. In moments like these, Satoru finds it hard to believe that Suguru isn’t aware of his own beauty. She seems to be screaming for attention right now.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he eventually concedes after finding his voice, breath tingling against Suguru’s skin, “Next time, I’ll allow you to push me.”

That particular statement pushes a tiny upwards quirk of lips out of Suguru, and Satoru’s heart leaps in his chest at the sight of it. Turning his head so that their faces are centimetres away from one another, he murmurs amusedly, “You seriously think there’s gonna be a next time? After you nearly died, like, fifty times?”

“Well, yeah! This is now a tradition! Next year, we’ll bring actual skates and everything, so that we can race and learn cool tricks together and…” Satoru trails off before he gets too far ahead of himself when he catches the look on Suguru’s face. Like a popped balloon, he deflates instantly. “What, you don’t want to?”

An arrow stings Satoru’s heart with the silence that immediately ensues. And then another, another, another, piercing from every possible angle until the vascular organ is dripping with venom. He tries to not let the hurt show—after all, it was wrong for Satoru to assume that Suguru would want to spend time with him in the first place. Satoru’s the one who dragged him all the way here, anyways. Maybe Suguru had wanted to spend Christmas Eve curled up all by himself in his bed, reading a nice book and lighting a candle, but was unable to do so when Satoru barged in and demanded they see the light display. Maybe he genuinely didn’t want to pay for Satoru’s drinks but was forced to anyway. Maybe he really wanted to yawn while Satoru was chattering away like an idiot, but didn’t want to seem impolite. Maybe, maybe, maybe—

All of his whirling doubts come to a standstill when Suguru’s face breaks into a soft smile. “Of course I want to.”

Satoru blinks. The venom melts like ice touched by the sun. In a quiet voice, “…Really?”

Suguru nods without a thought. “Really.”

“Really, really?” He can’t help but ask again, eyes wide as they search his for any sort of deception, any sort of insincerity. All he sees reflected off them is a tender warmth. “Even though I pushed you?”

Suguru lets out a light breath of laughter at that, the fog of his exhalation tangible to the naked eye as a result of the cold. It’s then that Satoru feels a hand wrapping around his waist, gently pulling him closer. The other brushes hair from where the strands poke his eyes. It’s a simple action, but it sends tendrils of warmth creeping up Satoru's skin, setting his nerves alight, fluttering his pulse and hammering his heart. “Really, really, Satoru. Seeing you happy makes me happy, even if that means I gotta get pushed.” Accentuated with a reassuring squeeze to his waist that spreads the warmth like a wildfire, “Any time spent with you is fun anyways, but what we did tonight was truly something else. If you’d like, I’d love to do it again.”

For a moment, it’s as though Satoru forgets to breathe. He forgets to do everything but feel. Tactility switches on, and he feels is warmth. Warmth, warmth, warmth—in his head, in his heart, in his soul.

“Okay,” he replies, a little breathless, and Satoru’s quick to break eye contact. Still, he is unable to smother down the giddy blush that blooms across his face, or the way his stomach feels so funny all of a sudden. “Next year, then.”

If Suguru notices anything weird, he doesn’t mention it. He simply hums happily, resting his temple against the crown of Satoru’s head. “Next year.”

The snow keeps on falling, and time loses its value.

Eventually, Satoru gets bored of just sitting there. With enough pestering, he is able to finally convince Suguru to reveal what he’s got hiding in the mysterious plastic bag he has been carrying around the entire night. After a fond yet exasperated sigh and a couple seconds of rustling, he’s met face to face with colourful packaging that holds ten individual sticks of Christmas sparklers. Satoru gasps and snatches them from Suguru’s hands with wide eyes, turning over the packaging to get a closer look. He was never able to play with these sorts of things as a kid, and it shows.

They light them up together. As soon as the first burst of brilliance flickers to life and begins travelling down the stick, Satoru is unable to take his eyes off it. Fascination takes the front row seat of his brain, a soft gasp leaving his lips as he is brought so close to a mini-firework. To Satoru, it looks like a bouquet of the tail-end of comets as they streak across the sky. And when he turns his head and watches Suguru make shapes with his, he copies him immediately. The first shape that Satoru thinks of is two circles pressed against one another and an oval beneath them. Suguru shoves him. Satoru giggles, and then settles on cute little hearts instead.

“It’s probably midnight by now,” Suguru says after many comfortable minutes of silence, the sparkler in his hands slowly dying out. “Merry Christmas, Satoru.”

Satoru tears his eyes away from his own sparkler as it faces its end, instead scanning the rooftops in the distance—particularly the chimneys. After a futile search, “We didn’t catch Santa.”

A chuckle. “You really believe in those Western myths?”

“You never know,” Satoru grins, before reaching for another sparkler, holding it out for Suguru to light up. As he watches the stick come to life, he makes a contemplative noise. “I can’t believe it’s Christmas already, though. Time has been moving so fast recently.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Suguru agrees. A little pause, and then, “Did you have fun? This year, I mean.”

“Duh,” Satoru responds in a heartbeat, like it's obvious. “This was definitely the best year of my life.”

Suguru smiles. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

And it’s true. Satoru would never admit it out loud, especially to Suguru, but he is, was, and always will be grateful to whatever divine force it was that had willed Suguru to stumble across him that April afternoon beneath the swaying leaves of a cherry blossom tree. Every little memory, every little smile, every little touch, from that fateful afternoon onwards—the afternoon when the sage saplings were just beginning to crack open and the hummingbirds were just beginning to sing after a long and lonely winter—has been nothing short of magical. Because that’s how being with Suguru feels: like drifting through an eternal spring.

Satoru nudges his shoulder again. “What about you?” he prods. “Did you have fun?”

Suguru’s gaze stays trained on the sparkler Satoru absently waves around. The light reflects off those sienna irises like far-off stellar collisions, before they flicker sideways and meet cerulean.

“Only ‘cause you were by my side.”

For a breath held in time, Satoru really believes him. A momentary, foreign sensation blooms in his chest, lingering for a split-second too long before dissolving like a shy sugarcube dropped in a steaming hot china teacup, leaving Satoru stunned.

He laughs it off a bit quicker than usual. Rolling his eyes, “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” Suguru insists, before a big yawn escapes him. He states it simply, through sleepy lips and drooping eyelashes. “You’re my best friend, dummy. This year wouldn’t have been anywhere near as enjoyable without you.”

And fireworks go off behind Satoru’s ribs.

“What?”

Suguru blinks, shooting him a confused look. “Um… I said this year wouldn’t have been as enjoya—”

“No, the first part.” 

“...You’re my best friend?”

Fireworks, again. Scalding hot and never-ending. Shifting colours and vibrant tones and ferocious drumming, rolling, roaring—heard from kilometres away. For a moment, Satoru just stares. Forces himself to remember how to breathe through the disorderly clattering in his brain.

And then, in a whisper: “Do you mean that?”

A pause. “I mean—yeah? I think?” It’s then that Suguru laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. He seems shy. Is he shy? Am I making him shy? “I only hang out with you and you only hang out with me so I just thought…y’know… But if that makes you uncomfortable then—”

Satoru bolts upright immediately. “No, no, no! That’s not what I meant!” With wide eyes and utter conviction lacing every syllable, “You’re my best friend, too, Suguru! My one and only. I was just a little surprised ‘cause I wasn’t expecting you to say it so suddenly…”

For a moment, Suguru looks genuinely taken aback. He does nothing but stare at Satoru—pretty lips pulled into an ‘o’-shape, eyebrows lifted—before he melts once again, like fluffy buttercream. “Your… one and only?”

The embarrassment of his words hit him, then. Satoru feels his cheeks go hot as he immediately averts his eyes, opting to stare firm laser holes into his lap. Maybe, if he prays hard enough, Suguru will forget he ever said something as stupid as that. Or, even better, the stone bridge he’s sitting on will open up and swallow him whole. 

But nothing of that sort happens. So Satoru takes a deep breath through the sparks and flames erupting behind his ribs, lifts his head, and nods. With a sandpaper-dry throat, “Yeah. You are.”

The smile that greets him is like the first ray of summer sunlight on ghostly skin.

“Well in that case, you’re my one and only, too. There's nobody else for me, Satoru. Just you.”

Warmth, warmth, warmth—in his head, in his heart, in his soul. Warmth from being seen, warmth from being chosen, warmth from being lo—

Satoru shakes his head. Clutches the completely fizzled out sparkler in his hand a little tighter. And before he realises it, he is grinning like an idiot. Ducking his head, he tries to suppress the joy that thrums through his veins like an electric current, but it’s no use. It bubbles rigorously, like a can of shaken soda that will burst as soon as the cap is unscrewed, like a tsunami waiting impatiently for the floodgates to open. He doesn’t know what to do with it all—all this emotion.

And so, he responds in the only way he knows how. In true Satoru fashion.

In other words, he tackles Suguru into the snow.

A surprised yelp resonates through the night, followed by the most sweetest laughter Satoru has ever heard in his life as Suguru gets knocked backwards, plunging straight into a bed of white. The momentum sends them rolling like a pair of excited puppies, until Satoru’s body lands on top of Suguru’s, cheek pressed against chest, smile so wide it aches his every cheek muscle. He’s giggling as he pushes up onto his hands, head hovering over Suguru—Suguru, whose eyes are wide, face set alight with pure, shimmering delight. Angel, angel, angel.

“What was that for?” He demands in mock-anger, still laughing as he reaches upwards and pinches Satoru’s cheek.

“Nothing!” Satoru giggles. This time, he doesn’t swat the hand away with a pout. This time, he leans into the warmth of his best friend’s touch, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before opening once more—cerulean reaching for sienna like ocean waves reaching for the warmth of sunrise. “I’m just… really happy.”

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Three minutes gone.

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iv. gentle green

April, 2006

Man, alcohol fucking sucks.

Dizzy, Satoru’s eyelids droop like the withered stems of bluebells, fighting against the multitude of sensations that overwhelm his Six Eyes. Everything is so bright. Loud, too, like the persistent drone of a horde of sand-hornets, every frantic wingbeat generating an onslaught of buzzing and humming that drives him closer and closer to insanity. That familiar sensation characterised by pinpricks of tension gathering behind his skull and between his eyes pulls a low groan from his lips as he buries his head deeper into Suguru’s lap. 

It’s an extremely recurring habit of his, Satoru’s beginning to realise: his tendency to vastly overestimate his tolerance when it comes to things he has never tried before. Exhibit A: shōchū mixed with pink grapefruit soda. Suguru had warned him that he should take it easy, that Satoru might not be able to handle it, that it’s strong even when diluted by non-alcoholic beverages, but it’s always Satoru and his fucking ego, isn’t it? It’s his main enabler, just as he is its. It’s the devil sitting on his left shoulder with an ember pitchfork and fiery horns, with a cunning smile and seductive tone. Satoru has got to stop feeding the beast, stop letting it sway him time and time again, but he is nothing if not a creature of habit. Asking him to abandon his pride is almost as futile as telling a fish to grow wings and fly away when it has never known of a life beyond the music of the marine. 

Pulling him from his misery, Satoru idly registers a set of gentle fingers combing through his hair, massaging his scalp with precision. And then, a voice filtering through the hazy fog, faraway yet so close. “Hey. You alright down there?”

Satoru nods, a movement which quickly morphs into him shaking his head when a wave of pain shoots through his temples. Instinctively, his fists tighten against the fabric of Suguru’s pants. “I’m dying…”

A hum filled with amusement. “You really are a lightweight, huh.” When Satoru groans in lieu of a response, the voice speaks up again. Softer, this time. More concerned. With a calloused thumb tracing the flushed, poppy-red curve of his helix, “Wanna go home?”

Home…? Isn’t that right here, in your arms? It’s a faint thought, one that trickles away like morning dew drops down the fragile plane of a rainforest leaf, lost to the alcohol clouding his conscience. Instead, he simply tilts his head once more in a nod and allows himself to be guided into a standing position with wax-melted limbs.

The shifting neon blues and purples of the karaoke room’s strobe lights sting his senses the moment Satoru forces his sensitive eyes open, prompting his tear ducts to well up. He blinks through the fog, trying to discern that face he’s got memorised, that face he knows like the flexion creases detailing the back of his hand, but all that meets him are blurred lines and jumbling colours. The fog gets thicker. Somewhere far off, laughter rings and glasses clink and the electronic hiss of his friends’ voices amplified through microphones crack over upbeat instrumentals. It’s too much. The fog swirls and gathers like gravity pulling giant molecular clouds inwards to form a protostar, and the walls shrink and expand and warp like they’re a living, breathing entity, and Satoru, overstimulated and lightheaded, stumbles on wobbly knees, and the next thing he knows he’s falling, falling, falling, and—

“Woah, woah, easy there.”

A hand on his hip, a voice in his ear, a thumb tenderly brushing away the tears—and the fog calms. Clears, just a little, just enough for sparkling sienna to shine through.

“S—sorry…” Satoru mumbles through a hiccup. He’s not too sure if Suguru can hear him over Yuu’s shrieking voice that reverberates off the walls as he sings along to a 90’s pop hit, paired with the slurred cheers of Shoko and Kento, but whatever. 

Sunglasses sliding over his eyes. Instantly, the kaleidoscope of synthetic energy narrows down to something less intense, something more digestible. 

“Don’t apologise. Just put one foot in front of the other, ‘kay? Can you do that for me?”

Satoru sways a little, cheeks burning and hair sticking to his forehead like paste, and nods.

The rest of the night is remembered in snapshots. The film reel buffers, staticky and crackly, detail dropping and accuracy melting, each vignette nebulous and incomplete around the edges as the brain filters through drunken recollection to get to the main event. It’s like listening to a song in two-times speed; the intermissions between the first and second beat of the drums shrinking and the lyrics unclear. He remembers the rain. He remembers the hooting of owls. He remembers throwing up. Toppling over one too many times. Flickering lamplights and honking cars. Swelling skies. Wet earth. Rain. Coral-orange goldfish swimming in circles over his head every time he got dizzy. Citrus yuzu and green tea. Rain. A voice, that voice—the one that Satoru would recognise even in death—murmuring and encouraging and soothing. Rain, rain, rain. And through the rain, he remembers the dainty petals of wisterias and snapdragons and cherry blossoms opening up along sidewalks and household gardens, the fragrance of renewal permeating the air. The earth had sinned, and spring swept herself along the ruin to forgive. 

And then, the main event arrives. Detail comes rushing back in, pixels multiplying, densifying, sharpening, until the static hum of the film reel eases into crisp clarity, song going back to normal speed, lyrics discernible once again.

They’re stumbling through the dimly lit halls of Jujutsu High, Suguru’s arm slung over Satoru’s shoulders, Satoru’s side pressed against Suguru’s, a half-empty bottle of water Suguru purchased clutched tightly in Satoru’s fingers. The air is thick with rosemary incense and disinfectant, the irregular rhythm of their wet footsteps squeaking against the polished mahogany flooring. It’s simple. Ordinary. 

Satoru has no idea what it is that catalyses what happens next. There is no definitive cause, no logic that can be strung together like beads to form a bracelet of justification—nothing. It just happens. C'est la vie. Maybe it is the alcohol playing tricks on his mind, or maybe it is a natural response a boy like Satoru would have when faced with a boy like Suguru, or maybe predestination wrote this moment centuries ago and it happens for no reason other than the simple will of the divine. In any and every circumstance, however, Satoru is a marionette on strings, manoeuvred by forces beyond his control. In any and every circumstance, what happens next is inevitable. Inevitable like the turning of seasons, inevitable like the passage of time, inevitable like the push and pull of the tides against the shoreline. Inevitable like fate. 

And perhaps that is why in the many years to come, Satoru will never blame himself for this feeling that makes itself known tonight. Yes, it would have been easier to let Suguru go, to learn to accept, to learn to move on, to allow spring to sweep herself over the ruin of his crushed heart and fill the cracks with gold had this not have happened tonight, but regardless, Satoru knows that it was never his fault. He was only sixteen. He couldn’t have known. All he knows in this moment is this feeling that has been building and building in his stomach for a year now, a feeling greater than himself, so overwhelming and big for his chest that he craves for a verbal catharsis, but his muddled mess of a brain can’t find the words. He opens and shuts his mouth a couple times until he grows restless, grows frustrated, and contemplates just letting it go. 

One wave of alcohol splashing through his head, one instinctual pull towards those sienna eyes, one set of sentences scrawled before his consciousness had even been manifested into reality, and he tries anyway.

“S-Suguru,” Satoru mumbles mindlessly, dazed. His legs tremble with his suddenly overwhelming weight, swaying like the lengthy chain of leaves on a willow tree when a breeze whirls past, helpless against inertia.

A hand squeezing his shoulder. Reassuring. Familiar. Kind. “It’s okay, just a little more. You’re almost there.”

“Suguru,” Satoru says again, more urgently, and he stops walking. That feeling stirs in his stomach, on the tip of his tongue, like the increase of pressure beneath a fault line after teasing at the brink of rupture for centuries. 

Suguru, I…

A sliver of yellow lamplight peeks through the slightly-ajar door beside the pair, catching onto the sheen of Suguru’s left eye, coasting through like dreamy, bioluminescent jellyfish. Satoru can’t look away. The world narrows down to nothing but sienna, and Satoru can’t look away. He stares and stares and stares and stares, heart in a carousel spin. Words have always failed him and this moment is no exception, syllables and consonants formulating and dissipating all in one breath; in one heartbeat; in one eyeblink of cerulean waters kissing the sienna horizon.

“Satoru? Are you okay?” Distantly, Satoru registers the dull ache in his legs. An insistent discomfort in his Achilles tendon from applying too much pressure while walking. He resists the childish urge to whine about it because he knows exactly what type of person Suguru is—the type to sacrifice his own comfort for Satoru’s. If Satoru were to voice it, he knows Suguru wouldn’t waste a second to carry him, no matter how tiresome it’d be for him. That’s just who he is. Caring for Satoru is an essential component to his character, the main code permanently wired into his CPU. There isn’t anything that Suguru won’t do for him. “Talk to me.”

Suguru, I think I…

That same sensation from all those months ago—from a breathless summer night when the world was nothing but starlight and cicadas; when the veil of light pollution had dissolved and made way for the river of heaven to smile down on them; when a familiar jacket was sitting in the palms of his hands like a promise—resurfaces then. Sakuras in his heart. Spreading down his chest, across his collarbones, through his limbs. For some reason, Satoru has a tiny feeling that they were never gone. They had just been waiting for spring.

I think I might li—

“Oh,” Satoru whispers. His head drops onto Suguru’s shoulders, eyes falling shut. The rain continues to pound. “Oh, no…”

They say that clarity hits you like a freight train when you least expect it: alarms blaring, steam engine roaring, tracks screeching. They say it leaves you stunned, like a deer caught in headlights, like sleep paralysis, like a misfired synapse. In that night, though—the night the petals of the wisterias and snapdragons and cherry blossoms were finally unfurling and presenting their beauty to the spring-soaked world—clarity does none of those things. That night, clarity is a complete antithesis of everything Satoru had grown to associate it with. That night, clarity blooms in Satoru’s chest, slow and gentle and gradual, like a sponge absorbing water, tender fingers peeling his eyes open—because, for all his Six Eyes, Satoru could have never predicted this. This pure, unadulterated truth that skyrockets down every pathway of the circuit board, sound waves travelling with a one-way ticket straight to his heart:

I like you, Suguru. I like you, I like you, I like you.

“This is bad,” Satoru half-mumbles to himself, hot breath tickling pale skin. “This is really bad…”

A small, sympathetic sound. A hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, the other tracing small circles over his lower spine, and Satoru craves to sink into the velvet hold just as much as he craves to pull away, craves to be veiled in the flames just as much as he craves to recoil from the singe. “Feeling dizzy again?”

“I don’t know,” Satoru breathes, and it is a lie. Satoru does know. He knows, he knows, God help him, he knows. He’s known. Since the moment he met Suguru through to today, he’s known. Throughout each shift of the seasons, throughout each trough of sickness and each crest of health, throughout better and throughout worse, he’s known—known that it is always Suguru. Known that it has always been Suguru. Known that it will always be Suguru. Suguru, Suguru, Suguru—

“Suguru.” Satoru lifts his head slowly, straightening his spine and staring into those coffee eyes. Tasseography. The practice of fortune telling through peering into a drunken cup and finding hidden meaning, indicative omens, laced within the leftover coffee grounds. That night, like tasseography, Satoru searches Suguru’s gaze, searches the curves of his irises—and finds his truth, his sanctuary, his entire world reflecting back at him. And it’s in that moment, that ache of clarity, that he realises he is beyond saving. Realises that nothing can pull him back to the shore, not when he is in so deep. Not when he doesn’t want salvation, not when he is comfortable simply floating through the abyss, because the abyss means Suguru and Suguru means happiness. “Will you—can you say the night?”

For a moment, the rain drumming outside takes the spotlight, becoming louder than the two of them. Thunder roars and lightning crackles and Suguru blinks, eyes gone a little wide, cheeks gone a little rosy. And then, a placating tone of voice, enough to make Satoru’s heart sink. “I-I don’t know if I can—”

“Please,” Satoru cuts in, sunglasses dipping to reveal a cerulean that glistens with unfiltered, unashamed desperation. “Please, Suguru. I want you here with me. Don’t—don’t leave.” Please don’t leave me to deal with these feelings on my own. We work everything out together, right? Why should this be any different?

Stay. I want you to stay. Forever has always been terrifying, but with you I think it’s okay.

And then Suguru’s giving in—melting, just like buttercream—and everything flickers back into snapshots.

Suguru leading Satoru the rest of the way back to the dorm. Suguru helping Satoru get out of his shoes, helping Satoru change, helping Satoru wash and wipe his sweaty face, helping Satoru swallow down disgusting pills because apparently he is burning up like a furnace. Suguru by Satoru’s side, with soft smiles and even softer touches, tending to him until he smells of raspberry and vanilla. Suguru by Satoru’s side, allowing Satoru to pull him into his single bed and drape himself all over him like a turkish angora demanding attention, muttering drunken, nonsensical, sentiments that hardly manage to make it past Satoru’s lips before trailing off and left half-spoken. Suguru by Satoru’s side, running his hand through Satoru’s hair, brushing jasmine-white bangs from his eyes gently, and whispering a quiet, Good night, before the rain sings them both to sleep.

And if Satoru’s dreams that night are of two koi in a pond circling one another as the first petals of spring kiss the undisturbed waters, nobody has to know.

(Hours later, when the hush of twilight gives way to the sweet song of the morning birds and the last waves of alcohol leave his system, Satoru awakes, confused and disoriented, to a bowl of steaming hangover soup sitting on his bedside table alongside a pair of clean bamboo chopsticks and a white, circular pill. To top it all off, there is a blue sticky note plastered against the glossy surface, written in rushed, slanted handwriting:

Good morning, sleepyhead. You were still burning hot when I woke up so I decided to take over your mission in Satozakura High School for today. You’re welcome. Make sure to have the hangover soup I made for you and the medicine. Swallowing pills won’t kill you, I promise. 

Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Remember to get some rest and drink lots of water, okay? I’ll see you later.

- S.G.

Satoru stares at the note, and then at the floating pieces of chopped green onions and radish that swirl over the beef broth like rubber ducks on still water and feels something faint, something forgotten, tugging at his heartstrings. And just like that, it all comes rushing back to him, like a gentle green breaking through the crumbling earth.)

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Four minutes gone.

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