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    Summary

    “You think I can't handle it like you can. You think I’m weak.” Suguru says, as a statement, as a product of his months-long spiraling. He's picking what might be a culmination of all their fighting, and Satoru can't find it in himself to give in.

    “I think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.” Satoru breathes without missing a beat, and sees it in Suguru’s eyes, sees it reach him, hit him like a bullet wound. “And I think that your technique is cruel to you, inherently. And that your heart is too big for this shit.”

    Suguru huffs a laugh, small, a little disbelieving. “That sounds a lot like weakness.” He says, voice back down to quiet. Like he can't find the fight in himself, either, anymore.

    “It’s not.” Satoru says, final.

    ///

    Or: Suguru is grieving, wilting, and succumbing to his illness of sadness, halfway to madness. Satoru's overworked and gripping on to his best friend so tightly he leaves claw marks; and finding he's, apparently, the same amount of in-love as always, in sickness and in health.

    Language:
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