Chapter Text
The humidity makes his clothes stick to his skin. It's uncomfortable, unpleasant, disgusting, to feel the sweat from his oily skin seep into the fabric of his clothes, making them first heavy and sticky and then dry, crispy like the ground of a barren desert, the wrinkles set in place. It's a cycle that repeats, heavy then dry then heavy then dry, until Suguru finds the strength to wash the garment. But that means taking the clothes off, which means finding something else to wear, which in turn means having to face the mountain of dirty clothes that was once a rarely filled laundry basket. But that was before. Before the trek to the laundry room seemed so difficult to accomplish and then certainly felt so.
Before he knows it, Suguru stumbles over his dirty clothes strewn across his bedroom floor: shirts, pants, tank tops, underwear. His bed is unmade, hasn't been made in weeks, the sheets unchanged despite the yellowish tint their white has become. The window remains closed during the day and open as soon as the sun sets, the warm summer wind keeping him company during his sleepless nights.
He who took pride in keeping his living space clean and organized now can't bring himself to care about the dust blemishing the shine of his desk.
His uniform is the one thing he doesn't neglect. Washed, ironed, hung on a hanger on the front of his closet. A vestige of habits that will follow him to the grave. It's ridiculous, really, even laughable, that he takes pains to keep his uniform clean in the eyes of others when everything else about him is a reflection of his room. Neglected. Wasting away. Suguru knows what is whispered among the second years and reflected in the eyes of the assistants taking him to his missions.
Then again, he can't bring himself to care.
Even now he doesn't care as some first year clumsily stammers words that barely reach him. He hadn't even noticed him, caught up in his thoughts about which drink to choose from the vending machine: yet another bitter coffee or yet another energy drink whose fleeting invigorating effect diminishes with each can he swallows. It's all Suguru's been drinking lately. It's all he's been eating, too.
"—for a long time, well, since the beginning of the school year, and I've admired you since day one—"
Suguru chooses coffee. He presses the button and watches the can fall with a loud thud. Bending down uncomfortably stretches the t-shirt stuck to his back while the movement causes the wide collar to fall forward, allowing wafts of his body odor to rise to his nose. Rancid. He hasn't showered in days. Layers of dried perspiration make the skin on his shoulders peel. Arms, legs, stomach.
He can't bring himself to care about that, too.
"—only hope to become as strong as yo—"
The sweatpants are itchy against his thighs, too thick for the time of year. He rises up, cold coffee against his damp palm, and inspects the can for a moment before opening it. First there's the pop of the aluminum, then the gluglu of his throat as he greedily swallows the liquid, landing in his empty stomach. It's bitter and somewhat strong for industrial coffee, just the way Suguru likes it, yet it tastes like bland water. Eating your favorite food, enjoying your favorite vending machine drink should bring you joy, satisfaction, even for the few seconds your taste buds register the flavor. So why can't he feel any of that? He likes that cheap coffee, he knows he does. Why then? What's wrong with him?
Suguru knows what's wrong with him. He knows it well and can't bring himself to care.
"—that's why I must stop being a coward and face my feelings head on! Please go out with me, Geto-senpai!" The first year bends at the waist and extends his hand toward Suguru like a shonen romance protagonist declaring his undying love under the cherry tree behind the school at the end of class. They're neither under a cherry tree nor behind the school, there's no late-afternoon orange glow making their eyes twinkle or wind blowing in their hair. And even if there were, it would do nothing but highlight Suguru's dark circles or greasy hair which he barely brushes nowadays, simply tying into a bun on his mission days.
Suguru is a mess. This bright-eyed, pink-haired first year whose name he can't even remember saw the desolate person Suguru has become and decided he would be the heroine of his high school romance. He saw the thinness of his face and the pallor of his skin, the hollow of his dark circles, the fatigue in his eyes, the dandruff in his hair, the tartar on his teeth, liked it to the point of he standing here before Suguru, his cheeks bright red but his gaze fixed ahead, waiting for an answer.
His hands are clenched nervously at his sides, his jaw so tense that the veins in his neck stand out. He looks like he's bracing himself for impact. It's so ridiculous that a breath of laughter escapes Suguru. "Sure," he says, his tone meant to be mocking but sounding indifferent against his will. The sun is beating down so hard he can feel it even in the shade of the courtyard.
The boy's face lights up like a Christmas tree. "Really?" he asks, and Suguru is tempted to tell him no, that unlike him this is the first time he's seen him, that he hasn't even paid attention to his confession, that he's not interested in it in the slightest, that he's wasting his time and Suguru's. However, he's not fast enough. "I'll do my best!" the boy declares, raising his still clenched fists in front of his chest. "I won't disappoint you, Geto-senpai! Thank you for giving me a chance!"
And he runs off at full speed.
Suguru takes a sip of his coffee, then another, and another until the can is empty. He throws it in the nearest trash can, and it bounces off the rim before falling to the ground. He doesn't pick it up. On his way back to his room he sees what he supposes are the first years talking animatedly among themselves in the inner garden from one of the hallway windows.
A girl with hair as short as Shoko's two years ago playfully nudges a boy whose face is half hidden by long brown bangs. Between them is the boy from earlier, his face much less bright red but his cheeks still rosy from his bold, loud confession. He laughs as the other boy turns to him to escape the girl's headlock.
So this is Suguru's new boyfriend. A boy three years younger than him who apparently has a crush on him while Suguru doesn't even know his name.
Unsurprisingly, he can't bring himself to care.