Chapter Text
The music is too loud. Always too loud.
Satoru slips out of the crowded living room, pushing through the tangle of sweaty bodies and sloshing drinks, until he finds the hallway. It is quieter here, but still not enough to drown out the bass that thumps like a heartbeat through the walls. He needs more distance.
He ventures upstairs. He guesses the upper stories are no-go for guests, but fuck it. He is not going back in there. Not now, at least. He needs time out. The door at the end of the hall is half-open, a small room that is too far removed from the party to be worth anyone else’s time. Perfect.
He shut the door behind him and stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. The room smells faintly of room spray and something like dust, but it is a welcome relief. He can tell it is someone’s bedroom. The bed is made, but the sofa, which is awkwardly placed between the bed and the windows, is full of clothes. The windows are huge, and the curtains are wide open, letting just enough light from outside for him to walk around without stumbling. He gets to the back of the sofa and decides to sit there. It looks cozy with the cushions laid on the floor. Satoru sinks down onto one of them near the window. He glances into the half-empty cup he grabbed earlier—just enough to take the edge off, he tells himself. He lifts it to his lips, but the taste is already familiar, sharp, and bitter. He grimaces and sets it aside.
It isn’t worth it.
Outside, the streetlights flicker in time with the dull pulse of the music, a steady rhythm he doesn’t quite care for. He hates how much he can feel it all—the vibration of the air, the pressure of too many people too close, their laughter grating on his nerves.
He is fine, though. He just needs to get away for a little bit. Everything else doesn’t matter.
The music still vibrates, and he can feel it from the floor, but this is nice here. He rests his elbows on his knees, staring at the window, his reflection staring back at him, and he feels... off. He isn’t sure why, but it is like something is wrong, something that has been wrong for a while now. Maybe it is the night, or maybe it is just him.
Satoru rubs his face, sighing.
The door creaks open, breaking the silence, and Suguru's familiar voice flows through in the stillness. “Satoru?”
His breath picks up. Should he let him know he’s here? Hiding pathetically because he cannot bear people. He stays still, silent, until an embarassing squeak escapes his throat.
"You hiding in here?"
Satoru frowns. "I’m not hiding," he says, more out of reflex than anything else. "Just needed a break from the circus out there."
Suguru leans against the doorframe, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, the other loosely holding a half-drunk bottle of beer. His posture is relaxed, but there’s something about the way his fingers curve around the neck of the bottle—too deliberate, too steady—that makes Satoru’s stomach tighten in a way he doesn’t understand.
"Not the party type, huh?" Suguru asks, his tone light, almost teasing.
"Not tonight," Satoru mutters, aiming for casual, but the words feel loose in his mouth, like they’re slipping through cracks he didn’t know were there. He shifts uncomfortably, his fingers brushing against the cool surface of the cup he abandoned earlier. The sensation grounds him, if only briefly.
Suguru says nothing for a long moment, and Satoru tries not to let his thoughts get too tangled. Without asking, Suguru settles onto the cushion near him instantly crowding the space, close enough that Satoru can feel the faint warmth radiating from his body. It’s maddening how natural it feels—how right—and how wrong all at once.
Satoru can’t help himself. He turns his head slightly, his eyes tracing the line of his best friend's jaw, the soft curve of his lips, and the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks in the dim light. Suguru isn’t looking at him, though. His gaze is fixed somewhere outside the window, distant and unreadable. But even in profile, there’s something achingly intimate about the way he sits there, so calm, so present, like he belongs in this space Satoru has carved out for himself.
Satoru grabs the cup again, gripping it tightly to distract himself. His breath catches in his throat when Suguru shifts, leaning forward just enough to brush his knee against Satoru’s leg—not quite accidental, not quite intentional.
“You sure you want to hang out with me right now?” Satoru blurts, the question spilling out before he can stop it. His voice wavers, betraying the insecurity he tries so hard to bury.
Suguru tilts his head, his expression mild, “What do you mean?”
Satoru shrugs, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the cup, the motion restless, agitated. “Just... I don’t know. You could be out there with everyone else. You don’t have to be here.”
Suguru keeps his eyes on him, sharp and searching, and for a brief second, his fingers twitch against the bottle like he’s resisting the urge to reach out. Satoru doesn’t want to notice that. He’s too caught up in his own spiral, too focused on the chasm he’s convinced exists between them that he does not want to read into all that.
When Suguru speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, but there’s an undercurrent to it—a weight Satoru doesn’t recognize. “Do you really think I’d rather be out there?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken, and Satoru swallows hard, unsure how to respond. He shifts uncomfortably, his pulse quickening as Suguru takes another slow sip from the bottle. The movement draws Satoru’s attention—the way Suguru’s throat moves as he swallows, the faint sheen of moisture left behind on his lower lip. Satoru looks away quickly, heat prickling at the back of his neck.
“Don’t you ever get sick of me?” Satoru asks finally, the words tumbling out in a rush, raw and exposed. He hates how vulnerable they sound, how desperate.
Suguru turns to look at him then, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are unreadable, shadowed. “You really asking me that?”
Satoru shrugs, his gaze drifting back to the window. “I don’t know. You’ve been around me for how many years now? I feel like I’d get sick of me if I were you.”
Suguru’s smile fades, and for a moment, his expression softens in a way that Satoru sees sometimes in his face. His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the bottle, knuckles whitening just slightly. When he speaks, his voice is steady, but there’s a quiet intensity to it, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I don’t get sick of you, Satoru,” he says, his gaze lingering on Satoru’s face just a beat too long. “You’re just... different sometimes.”
Satoru doesn’t know what to make of that. It isn’t an answer, not really. But it’s something.
He tries to laugh it off, but it comes out hollow, brittle. “Yeah, I’m sure I’m real easy to hang around with.”
Suguru doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he exhales softly, setting the bottle down beside him. His movements are deliberate, controlled, but there’s a tension in his shoulders, a coiled energy for some reason. The dark haired boy leans back against the sofa, his arm brushing against Satoru’s in a way that feels both accidental and inevitable.
The contact sends a jolt through Satoru’s body, sharp and electric, and he stiffens instinctively. He wants to pull away, to put distance between them, but he can’t. Not when every fiber of his being seems to crave the opposite.
Suguru’s soft voice cuts through the silence, “Where else would I be, Satoru?”
Satoru freezes, his chest tightening. He opens his mouth to deflect, to joke, to do anything to break the weight of the moment, but no words come. Instead, he stares at the rain streaming down the window, each droplet blurring the world outside into something indistinct, unrecognizable.
And yet, despite everything—the guilt, the longing, the unbearable ache—he can’t ignore the warmth of Suguru’s presence beside him, the way it seeps into his skin, into his bones, until it feels like the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
The air feels dense, thick with something Satoru can’t name. It isn’t the heat of the crowded house or the faint haze of alcohol clinging to his skin. It’s Suguru. Always Suguru.
He tries not to look at him. He tries to keep his gaze fixed on the window, on the city beyond the glass, on anything but the person sitting so close that Satoru can feel the warmth of him. But it doesn’t matter. Suguru’s presence is impossible to ignore. Even when they aren’t speaking, even when they’re just sitting, the space between them feels like something alive.
Satoru swallows. He flexes his fingers, then curls them into a loose fist against his knee.
He can hear Suguru shifting beside him—just the faintest movement, the rustle of fabric as he leans back against the couch, exhaling softly. That sound alone sends something sharp curling in Satoru’s stomach.
He hates this. Hates the way every second around Suguru feels like standing on the edge of something steep, something that would swallow him whole if he takes a wrong step.
And yet, he wants it.
The silence stretches on, tense but not unfamiliar. This is how it always is with them. Words skirting around the edges of things Satoru would never say, glances lingering a second too long before he looks away. The force of everything unspoken pressing down on them like a held breath.
Satoru lets his head tip back against the couch, staring at the ceiling now, willing himself to relax. But it’s impossible. Not with Suguru this close. Not with the quiet pressing in, heavy with something unsaid.
Suguru shifts again. Satoru feels it before he sees it—the way the cushion dips slightly under his weight as he turns, as if debating whether or not to speak.
Satoru clenches his jaw. Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin this.
He doesn’t know why he’s afraid of Suguru speaking. Maybe because if Suguru breaks the silence, Satoru might actually have to answer. They might have to face whatever this thing Satoru has brought between them is—the thing he does not want to name.
Or worse, Suguru might not say anything at all . Might just sit here, unmoving, unbothered, while Satoru sits there drowning in a feeling he doesn’t understand.
Satoru closes his eyes for a second. He needs to breathe.
But then Suguru’s voice cuts through the silence, low and unreadable. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”
Satoru’s breath catches in his throat. It isn’t an accusation. Isn’t even a real question. Just an observation, said so simply, like Suguru hasn’t just reached into his chest and pulled out something raw.
“Mm.” Satoru hums, a non-answer, keeping his face turned away. He doesn’t trust himself to look at Suguru.
But Suguru is still looking at him. Satoru can feel it, even the patience in it. Suguru has always been like this—steady, waiting, like he knows Satoru will break first.
It makes Satoru want to run. It makes him want to stay.
He forces a laugh, light, easy, and practiced. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
It’s a lie. Suguru would know. He always knows.
But Suguru doesn’t call him out on it. He just exhales softly, leaning back again, looking away. Giving Satoru space.
Satoru hates that.
Because space means he can still breathe, but only just barely.
And maybe, just maybe, he wants to drown instead.
Satoru knows what it looks like from the outside.
Suguru is effortless; warm in a way that makes people linger without realizing they’ve stopped moving. They drift toward him, drawn in like moths, their laughter too sweet, their touches too familiar. Girls look at him like he’s something to chase. Guys lean in just a little too close, testing their chances.
And Suguru lets them.
He doesn’t lean away; he doesn’t brush them off. Just listening with that slow, knowing smile lets them think they have a chance.
It’s never anything serious. Never anything real. But Satoru has seen it too many times to ignore it.
Suguru is magnetic. Not just because of how he looks, though that certainly doesn’t hurt—but because he makes people feel like they matter. The way he tilts his head when they speak, the way he hums in quiet acknowledgment, the way his fingers linger just a second too long when he passes someone a drink. It’s effortless, thoughtless.
And it kills Satoru.
Because if Suguru wanted him, if Satoru had even the smallest chance, then why? Why does he let other people in? Why does he look at them like maybe, just maybe, they could be something to him?
The thought sits heavy in his chest, something bitter curling at the edges.
It’s fine.
It has to be fine.
Satoru tips his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, pretending the space between them isn’t stifling and that the heat of Suguru’s presence beside him isn’t making his breath come too shallow.
"You’re still doing it," Suguru says suddenly, voice quiet, amused.
Satoru frowns, turning his head just enough to catch the look in Suguru’s eyes—dark, unreadable, something hovering just beneath the surface.
"Doing what?"
Suguru doesn’t answer. Not right away. Just watches him for a moment longer, like he’s weighing something in his head, before shaking his head and looking away.
"Never mind," he murmurs, stretching his arms over the back of the couch, fingers resting against the space between them.
Close.
Too close.
Satoru feels it like a live wire against his skin, the warmth of Suguru’s hand just inches from his own. He should move. He doesn’t.
Instead, his gaze flicks to the door, like he’s waiting for someone to walk in and cut this moment short before it can become something heavier.
He thinks, fleetingly, of earlier—of standing in the too-warm kitchen, watching some girl trace her fingers along Suguru’s wrist, leaning in, her voice honey-sweet, eyes bright with expectation.
Suguru had smiled at her. Let her talk, let her stay close, had laughed when she made some halfhearted joke.
Satoru had turned away before he could see how it ended.
He should be used to it by now.
But sitting here, Suguru’s hand almost brushing his own, the weight of his gaze something he can feel , he can’t help but think—
Why doesn’t he ever look at me like that?
The thought is sharp, cutting through him before he can shove it away.
His throat feels tight.
"Are you sick of me?" he asks, quieter than he meant to.
Suguru takes a breath, lets out a small laugh under it. "You always ask that."
Satoru swallows.
Because that isn’t the real question.
Because the question he really wants to ask—the one that sits heavy on his tongue, the one he will never say out loud—
Why don’t you want me?
Suguru doesn’t answer right away. He never does.
Instead, he hums, slow and thoughtful, like the question actually needs consideration. Like Satoru isn’t already hanging onto the silence, waiting for something he isn’t sure he wants to hear.
Satoru forces out a laugh, sharp and careless. "It’s a simple question, you know. Just say yes or no."
Suguru’s gaze flickers. He doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t rise to the teasing.
"You always ask like you’re waiting for me to say yes," he murmurs.
Satoru stills.
Because the worst part is—Suguru isn’t wrong.
He is waiting for it.
For the moment Suguru gets tired of him, the moment that quiet patience turns into something distant, the moment Satoru realizes that whatever this is—this unbearable thing pressing between them—it’s something only he is feeling.
Because that’s the only thing that makes sense.
If Suguru felt it too—if he wanted Satoru the way Satoru wants him—he wouldn’t be like this. Wouldn’t be so calm, so steady, so unaffected. Wouldn’t sit here like this is just another night, just another moment, just another thing that won’t change anything at all.
Wouldn’t let other people touch him. Wouldn’t let them think they have a chance. Wouldn’t let Satoru think he doesn’t.
But Suguru is like this.
And Satoru, who could have anyone, who has spent his whole life never wanting for anything, is stuck wanting the one thing he will never have.
It’s unbearable.
Satoru lets his head tip back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, swallowing against the knot in his throat.
"Nah," he says finally, too light, too easy. "I just like to keep you on your toes."
Suguru huffs a laugh. Softer, this time.
They sit there for a while like that. Satoru pretending his pulse isn’t too loud in his ears.
And then, so casual it almost feels cruel, Suguru shifts closer.
Not much. Not enough that anyone else would notice. But Satoru notices. Of course, he notices. He notices everything about Suguru.
His breath catches.
Suguru’s arm brushes against his, barely there, the warmth of it seeping through the fabric of his sleeve.
It isn’t fair.
It isn’t fair, because Satoru is already drowning, and Suguru is still so calm , still so steady , still looking at him like he isn’t completely unraveling.
Suguru doesn’t belong to him.
Suguru will never belong to him.
And it’s Satoru’s fault for ever thinking otherwise.
Every time Suguru even looks at someone a second longer, Satoru wants to break something.
Wants to break himself.
Because it’s not Suguru’s fault. It never is. It never will be.
It’s his.
Because why would Suguru ever want someone like him? Someone who is too much, too loud, too selfish, and too impossible to love. Someone who doesn’t deserve him.
That’s what he is, isn’t he? An impossible jerk of a being who knows nothing but to only want and want what is not his. The person Suguru puts up with because he’s always put up with him, because their lives have always been tangled together and neither of them has ever bothered to untangle them.
Even if Suguru never says it out loud, even if he never shows it, Satoru knows.
He knows that Suguru could never want him back.
Not when Suguru has options. Not when he has people who look at him like they’d worship the ground he walks on, people who aren’t selfish, who aren’t greedy, who aren’t Satoru.
And fuck, isn’t that just the worst part?
That no matter how much Satoru wants, no matter how much he aches with it, no matter how much he burns himself raw with it—Suguru will never be his.
Because Satoru doesn’t deserve him.
Not his softness, not his warmth, not his laughter, not his attention.
But if they had... If Suguru had ever had the chance to look at Satoru from a distance, to see him for what he really is, would he still be here?
Would he still choose him?
Or would he finally, finally realize what Satoru has known all along?
He squeezes his eyes shut. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He should be having fun. Or at least pretending to. He should—
"Hey," Suguru’s voice cuts through the haze, and Satoru blinks, suddenly here again. His fingers are gripping his knees tightly, knuckles white, and his breath feels like it’s been caught somewhere in his ribs.
Suguru is frowning.
Satoru swallows. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
His voice is steady and calm, maybe a little softer than usual. Not worried, but something close.
For a terrifying second, Satoru wonders if he knows. If it's written all over his face, the pathetic little mess of feelings he's been drowning in all night.
Suguru tilts his head. "Is it the physics test on Monday?"
Satoru exhales.
The test. The one they’d groaned about last week, the one that had made Satoru whine at Suguru to tutor him, the one Suguru had made fun of him for pretending to struggle with.
Satoru isn’t worried about it. It’s a piece of cake. But his throat is dry, his thoughts are still tangled, and it’s the only thing Suguru has given him to hold onto.
"Yeah," he says. "The test."
Suguru watches him for a moment, like he doesn’t quite buy it. Then he sighs, stretching his arms above his head. "Come on. I’ll walk you back to the dorms."
Satoru shakes his head, protesting.
"You’re not having fun here anyway, right?" Suguru nods toward the door. "Let’s go."
Satoru hesitates. "You don’t have to cut your Friday night short for me. It’s just 10. You still have time to—"
"I was already looking for you to ask if we could go home," Suguru says.
Satoru blinks.
Suguru looks at him like this was always the plan. Like he hadn’t been enjoying himself before. Like there weren’t people flirting with him, touching him, trying to get his attention.
Like he hadn’t looked at them back.
Satoru doesn’t know what to do with that.
Doesn’t know what to do with Suguru.
So he doesn’t say anything. Just swallows down the ache in his throat and follows him out the door.
~
The night air is cooler against his skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth of the house they just left behind. Satoru breathes in deep, hoping the chill will clear his head, steady him, make things feel less impossible. It doesn’t. The air feels thin, almost fragile, like he could crush it in his hands if he squeezed too hard.
Suguru walks beside him, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed like there’s not a single thing in the world weighing him down. Satoru hates that. Hates how effortless he makes it seem. Like he isn’t carrying the same unbearable things Satoru is. Like nothing ever claws at his throat, pressing in, pressing down, making every breath feel too loud, too obvious, too much.
The worst part is that Suguru looks like he belongs out here, in the quiet, in the cold, in the space between things. The streetlights flicker, casting golden halos on his dark hair, on the sharp line of his jaw, and on the parts of him Satoru can never stop looking at. He doesn’t know why it always feels like this. Why he can never exist beside Suguru without feeling like something inside him is unraveling.
It’s not like they don’t do this all the time. Walk home together. Leave places together. Drift back toward each other like gravity.
But tonight feels different.
Because tonight, Suguru chose to leave.
Satoru had expected him to stay longer. To let someone press warm fingers against his wrist, pull him back for one last drink, one last conversation, one last touch. Suguru never lets things drag out for too long, but he’s never in a rush to leave either. He lets himself be held in place, lets people tug at him, lets them ask for more. And they always do.
He always humors them.
Satoru has seen it a thousand times and has memorized it in all its variations. The way Suguru leans in when someone talks to him, like they’re the only person in the room. The way he lets his fingers linger when he hands someone a drink, the way he holds eye contact just a second longer than necessary, the way he sometimes bites his lip when he listens, like he’s considering something.
It drives Satoru insane.
Because he doesn’t know if Suguru does it on purpose. If it means something or if it means nothing at all. If it’s just who he is, or if it’s something he saves for other people.
But tonight, Suguru left.
And Satoru doesn’t know if it was because of him.
He doesn’t let himself believe it. Doesn’t let himself think that maybe, just maybe, Suguru had been looking for him first. That he had wanted to leave as soon as Satoru had disappeared. That when he finally found him, it was already decided.
Because that would be too much.
And Satoru has always been too much .
And God, isn’t that just the worst part? The way he keeps letting hope sink its claws into him, keeps feeding it scraps of maybes and what-ifs like it won’t devour him whole.
He’s pathetic.
"What?" Suguru’s voice is quiet, amused.
Satoru blinks. He hadn’t realized Suguru was staring at him. "What?"
"You’re making that face again."
Satoru scoffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I don’t have a face."
Suguru is unconvinced. "Sure."
The conversation dies as quickly as it started.
It’s always been like this between them. The easiest thing in the world and the hardest thing at the same time. A silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, that stretches between them like a worn-out thread, thin but unbreakable.
And yet, it aches.
Because there are things Satoru wants to say. Things he can’t say.
Like, why did you leave?
Like, do you ever want me the way I want you?
Like, am I imagining it all?
He exhales through his nose, staring ahead, watching the pavement blur beneath his feet. He needs something to pull himself out of this, something to break the spiral.
“Physics test, huh?” Suguru chuckles, low and knowing.
“Mhm.” Satoru narrows his eyes. “You don’t believe me?”
“You don’t even need to study for it.”
“And?”
“And that means you’re lying.”
Satoru swallows, tightening his jaw. He doesn’t have a response to that.
Suguru doesn’t press.
Of course he doesn’t. He never does.
Because Suguru has always known when to push and when to let go. And Satoru has always known how to hold himself back.
But tonight, Suguru doesn’t let it go so easily.
He slows his steps just slightly, tilting his head as if considering something. Then, with that same unreadable smile, he says, “Unless the great Gojo Satoru is actually worried about a little test?”
Satoru scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Please. I could pass it in my sleep.”
Suguru sniggers, amused. “Then what is it?”
Satoru shoves his hands into his pockets, curling his fingers into his palms. “Nothing.”
“Uh-huh.” Suguru’s voice is light, teasing, but his gaze is sharp, too knowing.
Satoru hates that. Hates how easily Suguru sees through him. Hates how he always seems to know exactly when Satoru is lying, even when Satoru can barely untangle the truth from the mess in his own head.
Suguru nudges his elbow against Satoru’s. “Did someone say something to you?”
“No.”
“Did someone do something to you?”
Satoru makes a face. “What, like beat me up in a corner? Suguru, I could take everyone at that party with one hand tied behind my back.”
Suguru laughs at that, soft and warm, like he’s indulging Satoru. “Of course. How could I forget? You’re untouchable.”
“Exactly.”
“Except when you’re sulking in some stranger’s guest room, hiding from the music like a kicked puppy.”
Satoru snaps his head toward him, scowling. “I was not sulking .”
Suguru raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Brooding, then?”
“Thinking.”
Suguru hums, like he’s pretending to consider it. “Right. Thinking .” He draws the word out, teasing. “So deep in thought you forgot to come find me.”
Satoru grunts and wipes his clammy hands on Suguru’s sleeve. “You are not a baby.”
Suguru’s gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through it. Then he just shakes his head, lips quirking. “You’re an idiot.”
Satoru snorts. “Wow. Riveting conversation. Really peeling back the layers here, Suguru.”
Suguru laughs again, but this time he doesn’t push further.
Satoru is grateful for that.
And he hates it.
Because Suguru could ask him anything , could pry him open with just a few words, and Satoru would let him. Would give him everything if he wanted it.
But he doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
Because Satoru is the only one who feels like this.
And Suguru is just Suguru —untouched, unbothered, unshaken by whatever the hell is wrong with Satoru.
Something tightens in Satoru’s chest.
Because that’s exactly it, isn’t it? That’s exactly the problem.
Suguru had expected him to come back. Had waited, maybe. Had looked for him. Had noticed his absence.
And Satoru had ruined it by running away, by hiding, by letting himself slip into a pathetic spiral of self-loathing while Suguru had been just down the hall.
They cut across the lawn, taking the shortcut back to the dorms. The grass is slightly damp, the air crisp with the lingering scent of rain from earlier in the evening. It’s quieter here, away from the buzz of the streets, just the sound of their footsteps and the occasional distant laughter from the party fading behind them.
He forces a grin, shoving Suguru’s shoulder lightly. “Please. You were having so much fun. I didn’t wanna interrupt.”
Suguru raises an eyebrow. “I was not having that much fun.”
Satoru scoffs. “You looked like you were having plenty of fun.”
Suguru lets out a sound, eyes sharp with amusement. “Were you watching me, Satoru?”
Satoru tenses. “What? No.”
Suguru tuts. “Because you sure seemed to know a lot about what I was doing.”
“I was just there, you dumbass—”
“You were hiding.”
Satoru scowls. “I was thinking.”
Suguru tsks again. “Thinking about me ?”
Satoru’s foot catches on the uneven ground. He stumbles slightly before catching himself, heat flaring up his spine.
He whips his head toward Suguru, scowling. “You wish.”
Suguru cackles, shifting just slightly—just enough to nudge his shoulder against Satoru’s, his stride unfaltering.
Satoru bristles. He shoves Suguru back, just hard enough to make him stagger.
Suguru’s smirk sharpens, and before Satoru can react, he hooks an arm around Satoru’s neck and pulls him into a headlock.
Suguru, ever the asshole, just grins.
And then he shoves Satoru right back.
Satoru stumbles but immediately retaliates, slamming a palm against Suguru’s arm, but Suguru is already moving, ducking to the side and hooking his foot behind Satoru’s ankle. Before Satoru can hit the ground, the dark-haired boy holds his waist and keeps him upright.
Satoru yelps, flailing against his grip. “Oh, fuck you —let go—”
Suguru stumbles, grip loosening just enough for Satoru to break free.
He doesn’t hesitate. He lunges, tackling Suguru to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
They hit the ground with a dull thud, and Satoru immediately scrambles to get the upper hand, pressing a forearm against Suguru’s chest. But Suguru moves fast, rolling them over so Satoru is the one pinned beneath him. He crashes into the grass with a startled grunt. The cool damp seeps through his hoodie, but he barely has a second to register it because Suguru is on him , straddling his waist, pinning his wrists down against the earth.
For a split second, Satoru forgets how to breathe.
Suguru is grinning down at him, dark eyes glinting with amusement, his hair coming loose from where it had been tied back. He’s warm and solid, the weight of him pressing down against Satoru’s hips.
And for a second—a single, stupid second—Satoru thinks I could kiss him.
His mouth goes dry. His brain stutters, like a car missing a gear. His fingers twitch against Suguru’s grip.
He wants to. God, he wants to.
But he won’t.
Because Suguru doesn’t see him like that.
Because Suguru never flirts with him.
Because Suguru is just being Suguru —easy, unbothered, playful.
And Satoru is just the idiot who reads too much into things.
He forces an eyeroll instead, shoving at Suguru’s shoulders. “Get off me, freak.”
Suguru tilts his head, mock-considering. “You’re not gonna tap out, are you?”
Satoru scoffs, trying to mask everything with a smirk, though his breath is still quick from their roughhousing. “You wish.”
Suguru’s grin widens, confident and teasing. “Oh, I know you’re not stronger than me.”
Satoru growls, annoyance flaring, and jerks his knee up, trying to throw Suguru off balance. The younger one dodges effortlessly, laughter bubbling out of him as he does.
“Bastard,” Satoru grumbles.
Suguru’s teasing continues, his voice light. “Cry about it.” He doesn’t seem to care at all.
Satoru glares, then moves fast, yanking Suguru’s arm to the side and rolling them both over. The grass is damp beneath his palms as he pins Suguru down this time, looming over him, breath slightly unsteady.
Suguru is still laughing, eyes bright and unguarded, and something about it makes Satoru feel hollow.
He’s laughing. He’s always so easy .
Satoru, on the other hand, feels like he’s holding his breath, caught in something that isn’t quite a joke. His grip tightens on Suguru’s wrists, but not enough to hurt. He’s just holding on.
Suguru lifts an eyebrow, his voice playful. “What now, champ?”
Satoru scowls, trying to maintain his dominant position. “Now you tap out.”
But Suguru just smirks, a soft, lazy look in his eyes. “Make me.”
Satoru falters. His grip slackens just slightly. Suguru doesn’t move . He doesn't take advantage of it—but he could.
And that’s what ruins him.
Suguru lets Satoru win. He always does. And Satoru knows it. But it’s not enough. It never is.
And fuck , that makes Satoru want to crawl out of his skin, because Suguru is the only person in the world who ever lets him have anything.
With a frustrated sigh, Satoru abruptly lets go, pushing himself off of Suguru and away from him, glaring down at the ground as if the grass is somehow responsible for his emotions.
Suguru sits up, watching him curiously, but he doesn’t say anything. Just picks a stray leaf out of Satoru’s hair before getting to his feet.
Satoru glares at him. “Don’t touch me.”
Suguru just crows in mirth, utterly unbothered. “Too late.” Suguru ruffles his hair more to emphasize and laughs even more. Satoru cannot help but join in because he is in love with Suguru, and he looks so beautiful right now. Under the stars, their twinkle mirrors Suguru’s eyes.
Something yanks inside his chest. Probably his heart is breaking for the nth time.
Satoru grits his teeth and shoves his hands in his pockets, starting to walk again, pointedly not looking at Suguru.
Suguru matches his pace easily, brushing against him as they fall into step together. The proximity between them suddenly feels too much.
After a beat, Suguru speaks, his voice softer this time. “You okay?”
Satoru swallows hard, focusing intently on the path ahead. His heartbeat thuds in his chest, too loud in his ears. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Suguru pulls Satoru by his forearm and tilts his head, studying him closely, as if trying to read between the lines of Satoru’s words. “Dunno. You just seem..." He trails off for a moment, thinking.
Satoru tenses.
"...like you’re dreading that physics test on Monday.”
Satoru blinks, completely thrown off by the sudden shift in conversation. For a second, his brain stalls because— Physics? That’s what Suguru thinks is bothering him?
He almost laughs, because it’s so stupid , so wrong , so not even close.
His mind immediately tries to push the thought aside, but before he can correct Suguru, he realizes what’s happening. The boy is offering him an out. A way to avoid saying what’s really on Satoru’s mind. A way to make the tension, the suffocating weight of everything he’s been feeling, fade back into something manageable. Something he can handle.
A way to brush past whatever this is, to give it a name that isn’t him.
And Satoru—pathetic, self-destructive idiot that he is—takes it.
“Yeah,” He swallows the lump in his throat and nods, trying to sound casual. “That test.”
Suguru hums thoughtfully, his voice quiet, like he doesn’t quite believe him but isn’t going to push. “Wanna just stay at mine tonight?”
Satoru falters. “Huh?”
Suguru shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s late. And if you’re stressed, you can crash at my place.”
Satoru clenches his jaw, hands curling into fists in his pockets. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Being in Suguru’s space is dangerous. It makes him think stupid things and want impossible things. But the offer is so easy, so natural, like Suguru didn’t even have to think about it.
Like it doesn’t mean anything.
Satoru wishes it did .
But Suguru is just Suguru.
And Satoru is still just Satoru, spiraling over something he will never, ever have.
Satoru declines the offer.
They reach the dorms, and for a moment, Suguru lingers, like he might say something else. But then he just tilts his head slightly, offering that quiet, knowing smile.
“Night, Satoru.”
Satoru’s chest is so tight it hurts. He swallows, forcing his voice to come out even. “Yeah. Night.”
Suguru turns first, walking toward the stairs, and Satoru watches him go, watching the way the light catches in his hair, the effortless ease of him, the way he moves through the world like it’s never once weighed on him.
And then he forces himself to turn away, to walk toward his own room, dragging his longing behind him like a ghost.