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The staff room smells like instant coffee and the chalk dust that never quite settles, no matter how many times the cleaners come through. Suguru watches Satoru lean back in his chair—the same dangerous angle that's going to send him crashing one of these days—grading papers with theatrical sighs.
"This student," Satoru announces to no one in particular, "spelled 'cursed technique' three different ways. None of them is correct."
"Maybe you should teach spelling along with barrier techniques," Suguru says without looking up from his own stack.
"That's what regular non-sorcerer school is for."
"Bold assumption that any of them paid attention in regular school."
Satoru's laugh is bright and easy, the kind that makes something warm settle in Suguru's chest. Four years. Four years since that night, and it still catches him sometimes—the reality that this is his life now. That Satoru Gojo, the keeper of Six Eyes and Limitless, chooses to spend his evenings grading poorly-spelled homework while wearing one of Suguru's hoodies. Again.
"Remember when we were the ones turning in terrible papers?" Satoru asks, still at that precarious angle.
"You turned in terrible papers. Mine were immaculate."
"Yours were boring. All technical analysis and proper citations."
"That's what papers are supposed to be?"
"See? Boring." But Satoru's grinning, that insufferable smile that means he's enjoying himself. "Yaga-sensei probably cried tears of joy when we finally graduated and stopped being his problem."
"We're still his problem. We work here."
"Yeah, but now we're his employed problems. That's different."
Suguru shakes his head. To think that they both almost took away this chance of soft domesticity, all on their own, years ago.
The memory hits him sometimes when he's not expecting it. Twenty years old, still figuring out how to be adults instead of just weapons the jujutsu world pointed at curses. Still taking classes at university while interning at Jujutsu High, straddling the line between student and teacher.
And of course, still pretending he didn't want to kiss his best friend every time Satoru smiled at him.
The infirmary that day had smelled like antiseptic, and the cigarettes Shoko swore she'd quit by graduation but never did. Suguru had been looking for her—something about coordinating a training exercise, he can't remember now—and stopped short at the partially open door.
"—fine with how things are?" Shoko's voice was tired in that particular way that meant she was being serious. "You're just going to keep hurting yourself, you know?"
Suguru's hand froze on the doorframe.
"I'm fine." Satoru's voice was quieter than usual. Almost soft. "It's enough for now, when it's for the person I like."
"Yeah?" Shoko sounded unsure. "Stop stalling then, and actually use your time wisely rather than running away."
The world tilted sideways.
Suguru's brain short-circuited, rebooted, and crashed again. Satoru liked someone. Which meant—
Which meant all those late-night study sessions, all the missions they took together, all the times Satoru sprawled across Suguru's bed complaining about coursework. At the same time, Suguru tried not to stare—all of it was Satoru torturing himself over feelings for someone else. It's so much like Satoru to put those he is loyal to before his own well-being and self-interest.
Suguru fled and made it to the classroom he was supposed to co-teach in record time, lungs burning, chest tight with something that felt suspiciously like his heart breaking in slow motion.
He'd been enjoying these years. The casual intimacy of studying together, cooking together, existing in each other's space like it was the most natural thing in the world. Never mind that Suguru's crush had evolved from something manageable into something that kept him awake at night, that made every accidental touch feel like electricity.
Never mind that he was in love with Satoru Gojo and had been for longer than he could pinpoint.
All of it had been hurting Satoru by keeping him away from someone he was pining for.
Is it Mei-Mei? Utahime? One of the assistant managers?
Suguru barely remembered teaching that class. Just nodded along when the other instructor led the discussion, tried not to think about blue eyes, easy smiles, and the way Satoru hummed while making breakfast.
What he didn't know—what he wouldn't find out until much later—was what Satoru said after he ran.
"Suguru's worth the wait," Satoru had told Shoko, voice carrying that particular certainty he only used when he absolutely meant something.
Shoko had apparently sighed, long and suffering. "You better actually say what's been building for years. It's not like you to be shy and skittish."
Satoru had laughed. "He might feel the same way. But I need to bide my time. Wait for the right moment."
But Suguru didn't know that. So he started avoiding by any means possible, like hanging out with Kusakabe during breaks instead of Satoru or grabbing lunch with Ijichi. He even sought out Nanami when he stopped by after his corporate job, suffering through conversations about stock portfolios and overtime regulations to have somewhere to be that wasn't near Satoru.
A week passed. Then two.
Satoru cornered him in the archive room on a Thursday afternoon, materializing out of nowhere, the way he did when he was done being patient.
"Why are you avoiding me?"
Suguru didn't look up from the mission reports he was filing. "I'm not."
"Suguru."
"I'm busy—"
"You've been 'busy' for two weeks. You won't study with me. You leave rooms when I enter them. Yesterday, you literally walked the long way around the entire school to avoid passing my classroom." Satoru's voice was tight, controlled, as if he were actually upset. "What did I do?"
"Nothing. You didn't—"
"—Didn't what?" Satoru interrupted.
Suguru finally looked up, just in time to see Satoru's eyes narrow, then widen with an emotion he didn't expect to see on his best friend. Fear.
"Are you okay?" Satoru's question came out sharper than intended.
"Am I—?" Suguru laughed, but it was wrong, brittle. "I'm fine. Where is this coming from?"
But he wasn't fine.
"How many missions have you taken this week?" Satoru asked quietly.
"I don't know. The usual amount?"
"Suguru."
"Eight. Maybe nine." Suguru shrugged, too casual. "I lost count."
"Eight or nine missions. While being a full-time university student. While interning as a teacher. While apparently not sleeping by the look of those dark circles or eating properly, I'm guessing from how your clothes are hanging on your shoulders."
"Why?"
The word came out barely above a whisper.
"Why what?" Suguru asked.
"Why are you taking so many missions? Why aren't you sleeping? Why—" Satoru's hands clenched into fists. "Why do you look like you did in third year?"
Suguru went very still. "I don't."
"You do."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
The air was thick with things unsaid between them.
Suguru's phone suddenly buzzes. A mission request—grade two curse in Saitama, assistance needed. He reaches for it automatically, already mentally calculating travel time, but Satoru's hand shoots out faster.
"I'll take it," Satoru says, snatching the phone.
"It's assigned to me."
"And I'm reassigning it to myself. You have that curriculum meeting tomorrow morning."
"So do you."
"Yeah, but I can teleport back. You'd have to take the train." Satoru's already typing, probably messaging Ijichi about logistics. "Besides, you hate Saitama."
"I don't hate—"
"You complained about it for three hours last time."
Fair point. Suguru lets it go, even though he obviously feels uncomfortable at Satoru's steadfast insistence. He's actually a bit offended at being accused of spiraling.
So the two of them kept doing whatever this strange thing was. Satoru returned to campus later and later, sometimes not at all. When he does come back, he gives short answers, and Suguru picks apart the loose threads on his jacket sleeve.
A week after the confrontation at the archives, Suguru found Satoru asleep and dead to the world in their shared office space.
Awkward as it may be, they're best friends, tightly intertwined in each other's lives. Suguru draped his jacket over Satoru like a blanket before stepping out of the office. He needs to swallow his guilt, shame, and pride and do something about this.
Suguru went to three different grocery stores later that afternoon.
He told himself it was because he needed specific ingredients for the chicken katsu curry he was planning. Told himself it had nothing to do with wanting everything to be perfect, wanting to cook Satoru's favorite meal exactly right. How Shoko casually dropped a couple of days ago, how Satoru is buried beneath missions, missions likely meant for Suguru.
Suguru is familiar with all the lies he tells himself, but not when it comes to Satoru.
By the time he made it back to their building—they lived on different floors but in the same complex, close enough that cooking for each other was normal, expected—he'd compiled a mental script of what he needed to say.
We're not communicating well. We need to establish better boundaries. I'm fine, you're fine, we just need to be more direct with each other.
Professional. Practical. Perfectly reasonable.
He balanced the grocery bags in one arm and knocked on Satoru's door with the other. No answer. Knocked again. Nothing.
The door was unlocked—because of course it was, Satoru's relationship with security was theoretical at best—so Suguru let himself in.
The apartment was quiet. Dim. Satoru's mission bag sat by the door, which meant he was back. The bathroom door stood open, steam still lingering, wet towel on the floor.
Suguru moved through the space automatically, putting the groceries in Satoru's kitchen, and then—because he couldn't help himself—went to check on him.
Satoru's bedroom door was ajar.
Suguru pushed it open and stopped dead.
Satoru was asleep.
Just asleep, sprawled across his bed in that boneless way he slept when he was truly exhausted, one arm flung over his head.
Wearing Suguru's shirt.
And nothing else except boxers.
Suguru's brain flatlined.
It was his shirt. Definitely his shirt. The black crewneck with the worn collar that he'd been looking for all week, the one that was soft from years of washing. It hung loose on Satoru's frame—too loose, Suguru thought distantly—riding up to show a strip of pale stomach.
Suguru should leave. Should absolutely leave right now before this becomes even more mortifying than it already was.
Instead, he stood there like an idiot, staring, while his face heated and his heart did complicated things in his chest.
Satoru's eyes opened.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then Satoru sat up fast, defensive in a way that immediately made his expression storm over.
"Do you know how to knock?"
"I did knock. You didn't answer."
"So you just barged in?"
"The door was unlocked. I brought groceries. Thought to surprise you with dinner." The words tumbled out too fast. Suguru couldn't stop staring at his shirt on Satoru's body. "Is that—why are you wearing my shirt?"
Satoru's face did something complicated. "It was in my laundry. Must've gotten mixed up."
"That shirt has been missing for a week."
"Then I've been wearing it for a week. What's it matter to you?"
"It—" Suguru's mouth was dry. "It doesn't. I just. It's my shirt."
"You want it back?" Satoru's hands went to the hem, starting to pull it up, and Suguru made a strangled sound that had Satoru freezing. "What?"
"Don't—just. Don't."
They stared at each other. Suguru could feel his face burning. Could feel his carefully prepared speech disintegrating into nothing.
Satoru's expression shifted from defensive to something else. Something almost amused. "Are you blushing?"
"No."
"You are. You're blushing because I'm wearing your shirt."
"I'm not—this isn't—" Suguru turned around, presenting his back to Satoru, trying to get his breathing under control. "Put on pants. I'll start dinner."
He fled to the kitchen.
Cooking on autopilot, muscle memory taking over while his brain refused to function correctly, Suguru robotically prepares dinner. The image of Satoru in his shirt—just his shirt and boxers, sleep-soft and rumpled—had apparently taken up permanent residence in his mind.
Satoru emerged twenty minutes later, wearing sweatpants but still in Suguru's shirt. He slid into a chair at the small kitchen table and watched Suguru cook with that unnerving focus he sometimes employed.
"You're mad at me," Satoru said. "You don't act this nicely, and make dinner, for no reason."
"I'm not mad."
"You sound mad."
"I'm not—" Suguru took a breath. Set down the knife with deliberate care. "I'm not mad. I'm frustrated. With myself, mostly. Why are you taking my missions, Satoru?"
"I thought you were pulling away," Satoru confessed, seemingly out of the blue. "Like third year. I thought maybe you were getting depressed again, and I was trying to—I don't know. Take some of the pressure off. Make sure you didn't have to worry about missions on top of everything else."
Oh.
Oh no.
They'd been circling each other like idiots, each trying to protect the other, both of them making everything worse.
"I'm not depressed," Suguru said.
"You look thinner. You've been avoiding everyone, not just me. You barely eat lunch anymore."
"I'm not—" Suguru stopped. Because he had been skipping meals. Had been losing weight. Not because of depression but because his stomach had been in knots over Satoru liking someone else, over hurting Satoru by existing in his space.
Stupid. So incredibly stupid.
"Whatever reason you're thinking of, it's not it. I swear."
"What then?" Satoru asks.
"Answer me first, why are you taking too many missions and not sleeping enough? What made you think I'm depressed again when I'm not?"
"Because we're skirting around each other and it's causing both of us stress, apparently."
"Okay, that's more of a result of things. That's not the full story."
"What's the full story then?"
Suguru plated the curry. Brought both bowls to the table. Sat down across from Satoru and tried to figure out how to explain without explaining everything.
"I overheard you," he said finally. "Two weeks ago. At the infirmary."
Satoru went very still. "Overheard what?"
"About wanting to be close with the person you like." Suguru stared at his curry, couldn't look at Satoru's face. "I thought—I've been enjoying the past couple years with you. Probably more than I should. I thought maybe I was the one hurting you by being around so much, and taking up all of your time when you could be spending it with someone else. So I pulled back."
The silence stretched out between them.
Then Satoru started laughing.
Not his usual bright laugh but something quieter, more strained. Almost hysterical.
"You're an idiot," Satoru said.
Suguru's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"A complete idiot. We both are." Satoru was grinning now, but his eyes looked suspiciously wet. "Suguru. Who exactly do you think I was talking about?"
"I don't—" And then it clicked. The way Satoru was looking at him. The shirt he'd been wearing. The reason Shoko had asked if Satoru was fine with how things were.
Oh.
"No," Suguru said faintly.
"Yes."
"But you said—"
"I was talking about you, you idiot." Satoru reached across the table, grabbed Suguru's hand. "I've been in love with you for years. Shoko was asking if I was okay with us just being friends when I wanted more. I told her I was fine because getting to be around you at all was worth the wait."
Suguru's entire worldview reorganized itself.
"We need alcohol," he said.
Satoru blinked. "What?"
"I need alcohol to process this. Do you have any?"
"Uh. I think a pack of Asahi in my fridge from our last gathering?"
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah, let me grab them."
Suguru fumbled for the fridge handle, the metal can painfully cold against his bare skin. They ate their dinner in silence first, before Satoru broke the tension between them by opening his first can with a flourish.
"Satoru, your six-eyes—" Suguru said. He caught himself reaching towards Satoru, halted, and instead went back to finishing his plate.
"Give me some slack, Suguru. I just unloaded some heavy stuff."
"Right. Right. Yeah, that makes sense."
Satoru snorted before taking a swig. Suguru felt like he was sitting atop a bed of flaming charcoals, and promptly opened his can as well.
They drank can after can of beer like regular college students, not the almost-teachers in a supernatural high school they were supposed to be, and sitting on Satoru's floor because the world felt too unsteady for furniture.
"You thought I liked someone else?" Satoru asked after his third drink.
"You didn't specify. How was I supposed to know?"
"Maybe by the way I've been pathetically obvious for years?"
"You're obvious about everything. That's just your personality."
"Suguru." Satoru set down the bottle. "I literally tried to hold your hand during that mission in Osaka last month."
"I thought you were cold."
"It was July."
"You have terrible circulation."
"I do not—" Satoru stopped. Laughed. Took the bottle back and drank more. "Okay. Okay, so we're both idiots. Cool. That's fine. Everything's fine."
"Nothing is fine," Suguru said, but he was smiling now. Couldn't stop smiling. "We just spent two weeks making each other miserable over a misunderstanding."
"Worth it though. Now we're here."
"Where's here?"
"Drunk on my floor. Finally talking. You, having a crisis because you saw me in your shirt."
Suguru's face heated again. "I'm not having a crisis."
"You absolutely are. You looked like you were going to combust."
"I did not—"
"You couldn't even look at me. It was adorable."
"Nothing about this is adorable."
But Satoru was leaning closer now, blue eyes bright even in the dim apartment light. "So you do have feelings for me."
It wasn't a question.
Suguru could deny it. Should probably deny it. Except he was tired of denying things, tired of skirting around what he wanted.
"Yes," he said quietly.
"How long?"
"I don't know. Years. Since before I have words for it."
Satoru's smile went soft. "Yeah. Me too."
They sat there, shoulder to shoulder on Satoru's floor. Outside, Tokyo hummed its familiar night song. Inside, something was shifting, reforming, settling into a new shape.
"I really was fine, you know," Satoru said eventually. "Waiting for you. I would've waited forever if I needed to."
"You don't have to wait," Suguru said, then realized what he'd implied and wanted to take it back, except Satoru was looking at him with such open hope that the words stuck in his throat.
They finished the entire pack.
"We need to talk," Suguru said. "Actually, talk. Not tonight."
"Kay?"
"Give me some time, let me...get my head straight first."
The next evening, Suguru found himself at an izakaya with Shoko, Nanami, and Ijichi, trying to explain why he'd been so stressed lately without actually explaining anything.
"It's just—there's a lot on my mind," he said vaguely, pouring another round of drinks.
"Is this about Gojo?" Shoko asked with the bluntness of someone who'd had enough of everyone's nonsense.
"What? No. Why would—"
"Because you've been acting weird around him recently. Both of you have been acting weird around each other, actually. It's painful to watch."
Nanami sighed. "I have to agree. Last week I asked Gojo about a mission report and he spent ten minutes talking about you instead."
"He did?"
"He described your hair for five of those minutes. Your hair, Geto."
Ijichi nodded enthusiastically. "And you keep bringing him up in conversation too! Just yesterday you mentioned him four times while discussing curriculum changes."
"That's because he's co-teaching—"
"You described his teaching philosophy using the words 'innovative' and 'brilliant.'" Shoko took a long drink. "Your exact words were 'Satoru has an innovative and brilliant approach to combat training that challenges traditional methodologies.' Do you know how disgusting that was to listen to?"
Suguru drank more. Then more. The alcohol was making everything fuzzy around the edges, making it harder to maintain the careful control he usually kept on his feelings.
"What am I supposed to do?" he asked eventually, words slurring slightly. "We finally talked. He said—he said he has feelings for me. That he's been waiting. And now I can't stop thinking about him."
"Then date him," Nanami said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
"It's not that simple."
"It literally is. Didn't you say you both confessed yesterday?"
"But what if I mess it up? What if being together ruins everything we already have?"
Shoko made a disgusted sound. "You're already ruining everything by not being together. Do you know what it's like watching you two make heart eyes at each other and then pretend you're just friends? It's torture. You're torturing all of us."
"I'm not making heart eyes—"
"You are," all three of them said in unison.
Suguru slumped over the table. The world was spinning slightly. Or maybe he was spinning. Hard to tell.
"I can't get the image out of my head," he admitted to the table surface. "Of him wearing my shirt. Just my shirt. It's been driving me crazy."
"Oh my god," Shoko muttered.
"Is that why Gojo-san is extra mean lately?" Ijichi asked. Shoko and Nanami offer their youngest kouhai their sympathy.
"Just get together already," Shoko hammers Nanami's earlier statement.
"What if he changes his mind?"
Shoko sputters. "Changes his mind?!"
"Because—" Suguru lifted his head. "Because what if he realized that he actually doesn't like me like that? What if I'm reading everything wrong?"
Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. "Geto. He explicitly told you he has feelings for you."
"But what if—"
Shoko's phone appeared in her hand. She was texting someone with aggressive speed.
"What are you doing?" Suguru asked.
"Ending this. All of this. I'm done." She hit send with unnecessary force. "I just told Gojo to come get you before you drink yourself stupid over feelings he reciprocates."
"You what?"
"You're welcome."
Twenty minutes later, Satoru appeared in the doorway of the izakaya, still in his teaching uniform, hair slightly mussed like he'd teleported straight from wherever his last mission had been.
Suguru's heart did a complicated flip in his chest.
"Your boyfriend keeps asking everyone what he needs to do," Shoko told Satoru by way of greeting. "Nanami and I are officially done with both of you. Figure it out or don't, but stop making it our problem."
"I'm not his—" Suguru began.
"He's not my boyfriend," Satoru chimed in, but his eyes were on Suguru, soft and worried. "Yet."
Yet.
That single word made Suguru's breath catch.
Satoru paid their tab—overpaid, probably, based on the way the server's eyes widened—and helped Suguru to his feet. Suguru immediately wrapped his arms around Satoru, pressing his face against his shoulder.
"Hi," he mumbled into Satoru's uniform.
"Hi, yourself. You're drunk."
"Little bit."
"Shoko said you were spiraling."
"Also a little bit."
Satoru's hand came up to card through Suguru's hair, careful and familiar and grounding. "Come on. Let's get you home."
The night air was cool against Suguru's flushed face. Satoru kept one arm around his waist, steady and sure, guiding him through the familiar streets toward their building.
"I can't stop thinking about it," Suguru said halfway there.
"About what?"
"You. Wearing my shirt. Just my shirt and boxers. I've been—it's been stuck in my head since I left your place last night."
Satoru made a strangled sound. "That's what you've been stressing about?"
"Yes. Maybe. Partially." The words were coming easier now, alcohol and exhaustion and the dark making him braver. "I don't know. You were in my clothes, and you looked so—and I couldn't stop staring—and then you wouldn't take it off—"
"Suguru."
"—and now I keep thinking about it, and I don't know what to do with these feelings, and it's driving me crazy—"
"Suguru."
"What?"
They'd stopped walking. They were standing under a streetlight two blocks from their building. Satoru was looking at him with an expression Suguru couldn't quite read.
"Why is that stressing you out?" Satoru asked quietly.
"Because I don't know what to do next. I can't stop thinking about it. About you."
"What if I told you I wore your shirt on purpose? Will you finally come into your senses then?"
Suguru's brain stalled out. "What?"
"I wear your clothes because they smell like you. Because having them on feels like—like you're there, even when you're not. You're my comfort space, Suguru. You always have been."
Oh.
That was—
That was possibly the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to Suguru, and it was also incredibly corny, and he started laughing before he could stop himself.
"That's so stupid," he said, but he was smiling. "You're so stupid. That's the corniest thing I've ever heard."
"You asked."
"You wear my clothes because they smell like me?"
"Yes."
"That's—" Suguru stopped. Because Satoru was looking at him with that open, honest expression, meaning he was completely serious. And there was something else there, too. Something bright and confident and more intense than usual.
Something that made Suguru's pulse kick up.
"Satoru," he said slowly. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Can I kiss you?"
Satoru's smile was sunrise-bright, world-tilting, absolutely devastating. "You don't have to ask."
"That's not an answer."
"Yes, Suguru. You can kiss me. Have been able to kiss me for years, actually. Would very much like it if you did. Soon, preferably. So, stop making me wait—"
Suguru leaned in and pressed his lips to Satoru's, gentle and tentative and terrified of doing it wrong. Satoru made a soft sound and kissed back, one hand coming up to cup Suguru's jaw, tilting his head for a better angle.
It was everything. It was perfect. It was absolutely nothing like Suguru had imagined and somehow better for it.
They broke apart, breathing hard, still close enough that Suguru could count Satoru's eyelashes.
"That was—" Satoru started.
"Yeah."
"Can we do it again?"
"Absolutely."
They kissed under the streetlight for an indeterminate amount of time. Could've been minutes. Could've been hours. The rest of the world narrowed down to this—Satoru's mouth on his, Satoru's hands in his hair, Satoru's heartbeat steady against his chest.
When they finally made it back to the building, they stood in the hallway between their apartments for another ten minutes, neither wanting to let go.
"Your place or mine?" Satoru asked against Suguru's lips.
"Yours. You still have my shirt."
"You want it back?"
"No. Want to see you wear it again."
Satoru's laugh was bright and warm and full of promise. "That can be arranged."
Present day. Twenty-four years old. The staff room. Satoru is leaning back in his chair at a dangerous angle, wearing one of Suguru's hoodies while grading terrible papers.
Four years since that drunken confession. Four years of learning each other in new ways, of navigating the shift from best friends to something more. Four years of Satoru stealing his clothes and Suguru pretending to be annoyed about it.
Four years of this have been his life.
"You're staring," Satoru says without looking up.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
"About how we almost missed this. How we spent weeks being idiots instead of just talking."
Satoru sets down his pen. Pushes his sunglasses up into his hair so Suguru can see his eyes—still that impossible blue that makes his breath catch. "But we didn't miss it. We're here now."
"We're here now," Suguru agrees.
Satoru stands, crosses the staff room in three steps, and kisses him right there in the middle of the room where anyone could walk in. It's brief but thorough, the kind of kiss that still makes Suguru's knees weak.
"You're worth the wait," Satoru says against his lips. "Then. Now. Always."
Suguru pulls him closer, breathing in the scent of Satoru and his own laundry detergent and the coffee they'd shared that morning. His comfort space. His home.
"I'm glad you waited," he says quietly. "I'm glad we both did."
The mission request on Suguru's phone buzzes again. This time, when Satoru reaches for it, Suguru lets him take it—not because he can't handle it himself, but because they're learning. Learning to share burdens, to support each other, to communicate instead of spiraling separately.
Learning to be partners in every sense of the word.
Outside, the sun sets over Tokyo. Tomorrow, there will be students to teach, missions to complete, and the endless weight of protecting a world that barely knows they exist.
But tonight, there's just this—Satoru in his hoodie, terrible papers waiting to be graded, and the comfortable certainty of someone who knows you completely and chooses you anyway.
Twenty years old, drunk under a streetlight, finally asking for what he wanted.
Twenty-four years old, in a staff room that smells like coffee and chalk, still choosing it every single day.
Suguru wouldn't change a single moment.
Not even the stupid parts.
Especially not the stupid parts.
Those led him here.