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“Suguru. You forget— I have your mom on speed dial, and I am not afraid to press call.”
The shuffling stops. Quietly, almost furtively, steps are redirected to the futon, abandoning their attempted escape for the kitchen. An indignant huff precedes an exaggerated plop onto the pile of roughly seventeen blankets and throws, neatly arranged in a fluffy prison of his two best friends’ making.
“I was simply going to make some tea. Is that not allowed under your dictatorship?” he states, deceptively calm. He ignores the tiny shiver dancing along his spine from the look he receives for his temerity.
“I thought we agreed. Do we need to go over the terms again?” she veers matter-of-factly, gazing at him from the top of her rather thick book.
Suguru wonders briefly whether she intends on finishing it while this… operation is underway. He has it under good authority that his friend is a rather slow reader, not due to any intellectual impairments, but owing to a propensity for daydreaming while engaged in the activity.
With a book that thick, they could be here a while.
Before Suguru can respond in kind, the door to his non-solitary confinement (read: Ayame’s apartment) bursts open none-too-gently, revealing a flurry of plastic and paper bags of all colors and sizes before any identifiable visitors. Of course, there could only be one with a voice that obnoxious.
“Anyone starving? Worry not! I bring sustenance. Nourishment! Uh— quick, what’s another word for food?”
Satoru, on the other hand, is full of intellectual impairments.
“For the kind of food you buy, I’m afraid the word would be trash,” Ayame offers delicately, flipping the page she’s been on for the past eight minutes.
“I second that,” Suguru joins, sneaking farther inside the softest of the blankets.
Satoru’s expression is utterly devastated.
“So mean to me! Both of you!” he whines, unceremoniously depositing the array of bags all over the hallway leading to the living room. Ayame raises an eyebrow at this, but says nothing. A few moments of eerie silence later, Satoru proceeds to remove the bags, muttering complaints all the way to the kitchen. Slow rustling of numerous packages ensues.
If Suguru’s intuition serves him, Satoru is in the process of unpacking what may be approximately enough bags of candy to put several preschoolers into a sugar coma. An obvious and definitive transgression of the terms and conditions hashed out at the beginning of this so-called intervention, with a side of house arrest.
He immediately seizes the glaring opportunity for bargaining.
“So…” he begins, voice edged with a hint of persuasion, “How about—”
The book slams shut in Ayame’s hands. She doesn’t bother to mark her spot. Suguru raises an eyebrow.
“Is it not interesting, then?” he smiles thinly.
“Would you like some tea?” she asks instead, pushing off the armchair she was nestled in.
Her smile is equally thin. Suguru knows this particular song and dance. He will go along with it, for now.
“I would. Thank you.” He pulls the blanket even closer, playing the perfect victim. If he had on fuzzy socks, he would rub his feet together like a cricket.
Ayame nods once, disappearing into the kitchen and closing the door with a quiet click that indicates it didn’t slot all the way in. Moments later, hushed voices can be heard bickering furiously. A cabinet door slams shut. Opens again. Rustling bags hit the bottom of what sounds suspiciously like an empty trash can.
Satoru’s whine is unmistakable. Suguru struggles to keep the corners of his mouth from pulling too hard at his face.
The door to the kitchen opens abruptly in the light draft, just a millimeter, enough for the hushed voices to flood into the living room. Ayame’s is the first one he hears.
“—can you expect him to follow the terms if you don’t?”
“I’m not the one under siege here!”
“Siege? We’re looking after him, not occupying foreign territory.”
“We’ve put him under house arrest. He’s not allowed contact with the outside world. He’s been living off of the groceries you bought, which, no offense—”
“Don’t say ‘no offense’ if you’re going to say something offensive.”
“— are boring. And he’s literally wilting in your living room because he’s so bored. I thought I would at least bring something fun to snack on.”
“He literally expelled about half a year’s worth of curses, just this morning. His stomach can’t handle fun snacks.”
Pause.
“And, Suguru isn’t you. He doesn’t need to be constantly entertained to satiate a supercomputer of a brain. Just normal conversation will do.”
“...”
“You can talk to him, Satoru. I know it’s difficult, but we agreed. He needs this. I can’t believe I have to say this again— this was your idea!”
Suguru files that information away for later.
“I’ve been playing nice, assuming responsibility, being the bad cop because you’re too soft to impose boundaries. But if you don’t start taking this seriously—”
“Okay! Alright! Jeez…”
“Don’t say jeez. I’m not one of your little students.”
“They’re your students, too!”
Suguru can almost taste the incredulity in Satoru’s voice. Listening to adults bickering like children would be a grating pastime if the people in question were any other. As it happens, Suguru manifests the occasional weakness for chaos, and the people closest to him in the entire world are nothing but catalysts for exquisite, delicious chaos, especially when they’re at each other’s throats. A slow smile settles onto his face as he goes to retrieve Ayame’s forgotten book— a romantic thriller with a central kidnapping plot, how apropos— before burrowing back into the futon with a satisfied sigh.
He decides, as he relaxes into the cosy pillows and smothers himself with at least three blankets, that perhaps the secret joys of this little intervention are worth exploring further.
“And don’t even think about keeping even one of the eleven Pocky boxes! I’m throwing everything out!”
“Over my dead body!”
As long as his friends don’t kill each other first.