Archive of Our Own

Suguru's chest feels like a window which has been opened after a long winter. His heart sounds like a taiko concert, and his hand trembles as he tries to take in the picture he has received. Framed and neatly placed next to each other, two of his works rest on SixEyes' white walls. The red ink of his ninja designs is flawless, so beautiful it pushes him to the verge of tears. He needs to stop being so pathetic about his art.

Right. That…it's actually true. It is not the first time this has happened and has, therefore, made Suguru question his own sanity: his life before the accidents is like a diluted drink. It has become more and more watery, and lost definition with distance. It doesn't come as a surprise, though, considering he was so invested in forgetting he had ever held a pencil. Still, now that SixEyes has mentioned it, he did print a few and sold them locally…

Locally, as in Japan. An electric shock runs through his spine. They live in Japan. Both. It could be anyone: the girl sitting across him on the train, the teenager handing him the bags in the konbini, or some of the people who go jogging in the park near his home every evening. SixEyes live in Japan. Well, he had a strong sense that they were Japanese before that, who knew? They could have been based somewhere else. Should he ask them whether they still live in the country? Would it be too strange if he did? SixEyes would probably find him creepy.

He finds himself discovering he doesn't want to seem creepy. Not to SixEyes at least.

Maybe they bought them long time ago, but now they live somewhere else. He frowns and forces himself to hold his horses: why is he being so weird? Why is he so curious about this person's life?

To be honest, it is only fair that he is curious: he must admit it is a strange coincidence, Unusual, to say the least. How often do you meet someone you admire who also happens to admire you, too? He senses himself dancing around this individual who seems like an invisible equal.

Suguru chuckles, but his giggles soon turn to ash in his mouth, because he wants to tell them that no, he doesn't work in an office, like a little lab rat. However, what can he say instead? No, I'm unemployed? I'm chronically depressed? My full-time job is watching the cedar tree leaves change color? Would that do?

He also wonders what SixEyes' work might be…Their writing sounds too professional. Maybe he is a journalist or a professor? Maybe he is a student, just like him.

Well, he is assuming they are a he. He tilts his head, re-reads the messages. Most definitely, he sounds like a he in the messages. He had a sense that it was probably a man from his writing as well, but that was a long shot. He is still wading through the terrain of assumptions, though.

A part of Suguru wants the chat to keep going, but this time he is the one who doesn't want to seem like a weirdo, so he lets the last message simmer in his inbox. Like the maniac he has assumed he is at this point, he checks every SNS profile SixEyes' have: he goes through media captions, looking for a glimpse, a clue that confirms what he suspects, but most of the pictures they have shared are food or snippets from their own work. After a while, he gives up.

SixEyes doesn't make him wait long, though. A couple of days later, riding the train on his way to the doctor for another check-up, he comes across a picture he has shared. His fingers shake as he rushes to open it.

He knows he is being weird, but he is no longer concerned with that. After everything he has gone through, who the hell cares? He opens it and checks the mug with the print of MetalGreymon, and the fingers wrapping around the handle. Long, pale, white fingers.

Oh. It's a boy. He is ninety percent sure he is a boy, and he can't explain how much that makes his heart jitter.

Alright, Suguru is officially a stalker. A creepy and borderline illegal weirdo, and he knows it. He scrubs a hand over his forehead, pushing his hair aside, as his gaze is still locked on SixEyes fingers. It's too much, right? Isn't it? But he just wants to thank him because he doesn't know what he has done for him. How can he explain to him that his writing has been one of the sole things that has helped him keep pushing through these days?

Okay, he has lost it. He needs to calm down.

Should he comment? Is he going overboard? Is he trying too hard? What is he exactly trying to do? Suguru doesn't have an answer to that. He's not even into Digimon - he always thought Pokemon was better, to be honest.

In the end, he ends up typing "Nice mug!", and his stomach churns, feeling ridiculous.

This person could be a psycho. It could be a groomer or a serial killer. He doesn't know a thing about them. It could be a lie. But what if it’s not? What if it's just a boy like him? Even if it's a boy, what the heck is he going to do? He doesn't know where he lives, how old he is or if he has someone. He scoffs as he gets off at a station, because this is ridiculous.

He's been spending too much time inside his head. He needs to touch grass, as they say.

Buzz. Buzz.

Don't check it, don't check it. You're going to be late for the doctor, again. This is an important appointment. You don't want to be late.

The white fingers wrapped around the handle come back to his mind. A glimpse of the traffic lights; he needs to wait for them to change and cross the street. He slides the phone out of his jacket pocket and peeks at the notifications. He resists the urge to unblock the screen. Just a quick look, he insists.

He is smiling, and he doesn't notice his cheeks hurting until he hears the beeping sound of the traffic lights next to his head. Later, he will respond later. Besides, he gets an excuse to talk to him again.

When he returns home, he finds his mother setting the table. Shivers run down his spine, cold licking the back of his skull.

"What did the doctor say?"

"That maybe in a month or two I could get my prosthesis."

She beams at him and plants a kiss on his forehead.

"That's…that's wonderful news, Sugu. Wonderful." Her arms wrap around him, and he locks his chin on her shoulder. It's such a relief not to argue for once. He's not used to bringing good news. It's like wearing borrowed clothes.

"Dad's not coming for dinner. He's late, stuck in a meeting. Just the two of us."

He nods and takes a seat by her side. He grabs the sticks and pokes at the rice. He remembers how difficult it was at first, when he was unable to eat until he got used to using sticks with his left hand. He would have starved otherwise.

Does that mean he can force his non-dominant hand to do other things? He shouldn’t feed hope to his misery, honesty.

Is that it, Geto? Or are you just afraid of failing?

"Hey, mom."

"Yes, Suguru?"

"I was just thinking. Do you know if any of the konbini around are hiring?"

The near konbini were not hiring, but it turned out to be a really good thing in the end.

He didn't see it like that at first. Then Utahime came up with an alternative and told Shoko about this place where she worked part-time in, and how Suguru might be a good fit. He always had a soft spot for art supply shops, after all. Still, he was a bit scared of what it would be like to go into one of them: Would the woody smell of paper be as tempting as before? What would he feel now when he touched pencils he could no longer weigh in his hand? What would it be like to look at markers and only imagine those colors in one of his works?

His Dad helped him prepare the CV, and honestly speaking, he didn't think he would get hired, but they said yes. It turns out that being familiar with lots of different media, and knowledgeable in paper types and color theory is more relevant than having two hands for such kind of job. The only drawback is the distance, since it's pretty far. Now, he has to take a forty-minute train ride to his workplace, but Suguru still prefers it. He can read on the commute and grin at his phone like the idiot he has become.

He smiles to himself as he strides inside the shop. He smiles because he was able to turn a lie into a truth.

SixEyes and he talk almost every day. It goes without saying that he never told him he had got a job just because he felt miserable about that lie. Well, talking in the lax sense of the word. They comment on each other’s posts. Sometimes he shares a Fuji Kaze song on his feed, and they point out how cool that artist is. Other days, they describe some aspects of their creative process, and he jumps to encourage them to keep going. It's like a ping-pong: a joke on his side, a reply on the other, a snarky remark on his side, a bit of banter on the other.

"I love how you describe this character's internal monologue."

"The color palette you used here is insane, bro."

"Please, write 50k more of this, and I'll give you my soul."

"I swear I've been looking at this picture for ten minutes straight."

It's almost disgusting. He suspects — no, he is certain — that several people hate them and their sugary, non-stop mutual compliments. He doesn't blame them, though: Suguru would probably think the worst as well if he were a spectator of this…Friendship? Relationship? Whatever the heck this bond is supposed to be.

It's also been a good enough excuse to go back to being active on his old art account again. Using it is like wearing a costume, though, since he can no longer draw. It's that sense of guilt and inadequacy that makes him peruse through his old notepads at night. That's how he rescues an old, dusty sketchbook he had taken on an old holiday to Kyoto with his parents. Back then, he had been obsessed with perfecting his backgrounds. He didn't want to be one of those lazy artists who focused only on characters.

"What got you smiling so much?" Utahime asks him as she pokes at the bento box on her lap.

"Nothing, just a friend's post," he explains with a shrug. He stretches his legs over the storage room's floor, on which both are resting during their lunch break.

"Is it a friend? Or a friend?" she demands, and her eyebrows raise with malice. Suguru chuckles.

"Just a friend. I don't even know him in person. It's a long story."

His voice is hoarse after he has finished sharing everything with her. He didn't plan to, but as soon as the first words left his mouth, he was unable to stop. He even mentions Amanai — somehow, talking to Utahime about her is easier than with the rest. Amanai is only a concept in her mind. She might be Shoko's girlfriend, but she was not part of their gang at school.

"In a way, it's like her legacy," she says finally, as she stands up. "I mean, I don't think she intended it at the time, but it is.”

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she is no longer here, but somehow, she left you a friend." She walks up to the window, and her gaze is lost among the roofs of the buildings. "Shoko talks a lot about her, too. I know it was a hard blow for everyone, even if I can't…fully grasp it, you know. I'm really sorry, Geto."

He nods, because it's true. He still has Shoko and the rest, but it is a fact that he probably would have never cared so much about SixEyes or developed this odd bond had not been for Amanai.

"Do you think it's weird?"

"That you are flirting online with a stranger? Why? Are you afraid he might be a serial killer or something?"

He scratches his neck and smiles.

"If it makes you happy, and it's not hurting anyone. It's not like you are doing anything in real life with him, is it? I wouldn't worry too much."

"Sure."

He sighs, half disappointed, half relaxed. Utahime's words make a lot of sense, actually: it's not as if he is going to ride the bullet train to Kyoto or wherever SixEyes lives now and go for a coffee with him. At the end of the day, it's a meaningless pretence.

"Thanks, Iori."

She tilts her head.

"I've told you to call me Utahime." She extends her hand and helps him up — Suguru likes the way she does it without being condescending: her hand is firm, but she doesn't pull him up. Instead, she lets him pull his own weight and stand up by himself. He has never gathered the courage to tell her how much that means.

He is really glad Shoko is dating someone like her. Truly. She deserves every bit of it.

The art shop is hidden inside a building, but the bright side is that only customers who are aware of its existence want to come in. It's a bit of a secret spot. He knows this firsthand because he used to visit it when he still called himself an artist. Now, he admires beauty from a distance. At first, he got moody when he was assigned menial tasks, but he has come to love them: organizing and refilling the cabinet with color markers, classifying the different types of brushes, or doing shelf tagging. Also, he has discovered nobody makes a fuss out of his arm if he doesn't. Tying his apron was a bit messy at first, but Utahime discovered fighting with the apron ties on the first day, and ever since then, she has kindly and discreetly offered her help.

Suguru is feeling particularly jolly that morning: sunbeams warm his skin as he leans on the checkout desk, and the soft smell of the yuzu air freshener wraps them both. Yaga is out of the city this week, so it's just Utahime, him and a long list of pending tasks they are supposed to go through while their boss is out.

"What's wrong with these?" Suguru asks as he inspects a pile of sketchbooks that she has separated and stacked below the counter.

"Oh, those? We have to throw them away."

"Throw them away?"

"Manufacturer's defect. I thought we were going to send them back, but Yaga says the supplier doesn't want them, so…"

He scans them; it's an expensive make, and the grammage is decent. Suguru can't help but think how nice it would be for gouache. "We could offer them on discount."

She tilts her head and inspects them.

"I guess we could. Let's put them in a basket or something. I'll send Yaga a message to see if that's okay with him."

"Alright."

"Can you set one aside for me, please?" she points to her bag. "I mean, since they are spare, I asked Yaga if I could keep one he said yes. Just leave it there."

"Right."

"You can keep one for you, too, you know? If you want."

He seizes the notepad and flips the pages of the rugged, soft paper. There's a line on the upper part of the page, which is not supposed to be there, as if the paper had been folded incorrectly at some point. Despite the defect, he could do wonders with this canvas. I mean, old Suguru could — not him. His fingers treacherously itch for a pencil, a pen. Anything.

He finally seizes two pads and sets them aside. One in Utahime's bag, another one in his purple backpack. Still, before putting it away, Suguru opens it one more time and timidly grabs a pen that’s resting next to the PC.

His left clumsy hand grabs the pencil, much more comfortable now. He is more used to it now. All in all, he had to learn to write with it, to seize the stick for lunch. If he was able to learn to do all those things again, why couldn’t he draw again?

Suguru fixes his gaze on the fern sitting next to the PC screen, bathed in the warm morning sunlight. Ink spreads electrically on the sheet, disobeying his will. He tries again on another corner. Again and again, because the shop is quiet, and Utahime told him to chill out, as there were not many tasks to do.

The attempts on the first page are sad, but Suguru’s possessed by a new determination he doesn’t know where he has found. It feels like finding a folded note in the pocket of a jacket you haven’t used in a while. It feels like going back on holiday to a place you used to travel to as a child. It feels like hugging a friend who lives faraway and you haven’t met in a while.

“Nice,” Utahime whispers, checking on the third page, where a much more decent doodle of the fern sits. He has also sketched part of the window and some of the signs attached to the glass. “Hey, would you mind helping me with that inventory thing I told you about earlier?”

“Not at all,” he replies and puts the notepad to the side.

“I didn’t know you drew,” she says

“Yeah, I…used to. I haven’t done it in a while.”

I’m drawing, he thinks, and when Utahime starts explaining how to register new stock in the system, he can’t force his mind to focus on his words. Fireworks blow up in his chest, colorful and warm. I’m drawing.

I can draw. I can be myself again.

Suguru finally manages to collect two brain cells and focus: not because he has any physical limitations, but simply because Suguru has never done this task before. Utahime is halfway through explaining him the process of confirming delivery reception on the store's stock system when she looks over the PC screen and curses. The door chime sings behind the aisles, but he doesn't look up to see. He only greets the customer vaguely, and so does she.

"What?" he says, trying to follow her eyes.

"Nothing," she leans closer to whisper near his ear. "It's just an annoying customer that comes now and then. Can you continue on your own?

"Sure."

"Just enter everything into the form and then wait for me. I'll show you how I save it then."

Suguru's eyes dart back to the screen while he keeps scanning items and double-checking. Utahime's imposed, customer-intended voice reaches him from behind the aisles.

"Good morning, how can I help you?"

"Hi there! You again!" says a rich, jolly voice.

"Me again, sir, yes, I work here."

"Yeah, I figured. What was your name? Orihime?"

"Utahime."

"That's the one! I knew I had seen it on your tag. I'm looking for Moleskine notepads. The small ones?"

"Plain? Squared? Dotted?"

"Ruled soft cover, please. Black if possible. Make it three."

"Three?" she repeats, and Suguru can sense the surprise in her voice.

"Yeah."

He hears her rummaging through the aisles before handing him the pads.

At this point, he is also curious about the customer. Probably, it's only because Utahime mentioned she doesn't get along with him, even though he seems quite friendly. He can't help his curiosity when he cranes his neck to check over the display rack, and he audibly gasps.

Now he understands why Utahime remembers him. It's the kind of person you turn around to see on the street, discreetly, without making it so obvious that you've been starstruck by that sight. The kind that makes your mouth dry and flare up your cheeks.

He looks incredibly tall, especially standing next to Utahime. He circles around the rack, and they keep talking, but Suguru is no longer listening. He stares at his long, delicate, pale fingers caressing the leather covers of the notepads, or that white, elegant hair that floats around his head like a halo. To top it off, he is wearing a varsity jacket and some dark jeans that only make him seem taller and slimmer.

A minute after that, Utahime comes around with all three notepads in her arms.

"I'm afraid we are out of ruled ones. I can offer you square or dotted."

And then, he whines. Like a child. Seriously? He should have known someone looking that breathtakingly handsome would be spoiled rotten. Now that must be the reason why Utahime doesn't like him.

"I have a similar brand, though. These are ruled, and we have them in stock."

He frowns and inspects the notepad as if it were a dead rat.

"But are they good? Do you recommend them?"

He can see Utahime's brow twitching with impatience. It is then that Suguru clears his throat, and both turn to him.

"I have used them. They are quite good if you want to draw on them. Paper’s a bit thin for painting, but they are good for sketches."

The customer peers in his direction, and their eyes meet. It should be illegal to be that handsome. Suguru can't stop staring — it's almost embarrassing. There's so much to take in: his elegant jawline, the tall frame and…His eyes. Oh, God. Those swimming-pool blue eyes are surreal, so deep and piercing that Suguru bets they must make most people weak on their knees.

"I want them for writing. At uni, and that."

Suguru suppresses the urge to tell him there’s no reason to be that fussy, considering the only thing he is going to do with them is take notes. It’s so upsetting, this feeling of talking to a person who is breathtakingly gorgeous and infuriating at the same time. He puts up his best mask, smirks and shrugs.

"Then, they should do."

Still, all his nonchalance vanishes when this customer, this person, this… massive imbecile's gaze drops to Suguru's shoulder, and his jaw drops. He doesn’t even try to hide it, not even out of civility. Suguru is possessed by an impulse to yell at him. He knows it's an excessive reaction, but he is so done with people pitying him. Done with the stares, the whispers, the "oh, but he is so young, poor kid." He needs to grab him by the collar of his jacket and scream at his beautiful face that he is an idiot.

Instead, the customer shortens the distance between them. Suguru believes he is going to say something, and he braces himself as white burning rage practically blinds him.

How dare he smile and wink at him after what he has just done? Is he insane?

"I'll take one of these. Have you used them, too?" he asks, still wearing a challenging grin, as he picks a pen from a tiny basket next to the counter.

"No," Suguru replies, with an equally faux smile.

Utahime comes around behind the counter, carrying the pads in his hand.

"Geto, I'll be a minute. Do you mind?"

"All yours," he says as he snatches the sketchbook in which he was drawing.

"Nice doodle, by the way," he whispers, only for Suguru to hear.

Suguru turns around and inhales sharply, with an insult ready on his lips. He counts to ten because he has craved his job for so long, and he is proud he finally got it, despite everything. He doesn't want to go throwing it all away. Especially, not because of an ableist idiot.

He seizes the pad, storms out of the shop and into the storage room. He is so mad his fingers are shaking, and he forces himself to stash new pencil set boxes in their corresponding shelves because he needs to do something with his hands, or else he will go insane. Truth be told, he feels like punching a wall, but he can't afford to destroy the only functional arm he has left. Only when he hears the chime of the shop does he returns to the counter.

"What a massive jerk," he hisses while stuffing the pad in his backpack, and Utahime chuckles.

"Told you so," she says, checking the counter.

"Did you see the way he stared at me?" he keeps going, because words are coming out of his lips.

“Forget about him. It’s just a spoiled brat.”

Suguru is obviously not expecting the surprise. To be honest, he was so nervous about the whole procedure, and how much it would hurt or not, that he didn’t even question anything else. The idea of a surprise party never crosses his mind until his mother turns on the light, and loud voices cheer around him. Everyone is clapping, and he is looking everywhere at the same time: the cake Nanami is holding in front of him, the bonnet Shoko rushes to place on his head with a smile. Haibara is grabbing him by the shoulder, and he can´t help but smile. He looks at Utahime, and she is waving at him with a camera in her hand.

“Congrats!”

“Well done, Geto!”

“You’re in one piece again now!” somebody says, and they are all laughing, even him. Somebody gives him a peck on his cheek — probably his mum —, and he is grinning so wide. A smile he never thought himself capable of wearing in a world such as this one.

His parents’ dining room feels so small all of a sudden, yet so full. Can everything and everyone Suguru needs in the world fit in thirty square meters? He is surprised to be thinking of SixEyes, how he is somehow missing in this room.

How can you think about that? You don’t even know his name. You don’t even know him.

When the euphoria has vanished, he slides to the kitchen to bring more drinks. Also, he’s been fishing for an excuse to glance at his phone for the last ten minutes. His heart does this funny thing of beating faster when he goes over his texts. Even though he didn’t specify what kind of procedure he was getting, Suguru did mention he was having “a surgery” today. He’d rather let him think it’s a cavity issue, a problem on his knee or some stupid routine thing. He is not ready to tell him about that — not yet.

Suguru goes to visit her on a Saturday. He kneels on the floor, which is still cool and damp, because it’s so early in the morning. He places the peony bouquet in the vase next to the gravestone. He wants to pray…but what could he say? He hasn’t done it in so long. In the end, he lights an incense and studies the way smoke swirls slowly over Amanai’s name, carved in stone.

“Hey, I’m sorry I took so long. It’s been a while. Shoko and the guys say hi too.” He stretches his hand…well, both of his hands: the prosthetics and the real one. He rolls up his sleeve before he keeps going, with a shaky voice. “I want to show you this. What do you think? It’s cool, isn’t it? I think you would have liked it. Said I look like a cyborg from Ghost in Shell or something.”

He keeps quiet for a while, listening only to the wind blowing over the line of trees in the distance. He studies the shapes of clouds before opening his backpack.

“I…there’s another thing I want you to see. Look.” He opens the new sketchbook, the one he got from the shop, and holds it open in front of her. A part of him, the most rational one, feels silly, but he wants to believe she is listening, deep down. Somewhere. He swallows back his tears. He flips the pages. “I’m drawing again. I know they are not good, but…they are getting better. That’s the important thing, right? It’s uhm, mostly facades and shops from my neighborhood, and some of the old pictures we took in festivals and that, too.”

He tells her everything about the new job, about how nice Utahime has been to him and how happy he is that she is such a sweet girl for Shoko.

“Also, there’s someone I…There’s a guy I like. Yeah, a guy, as in a boy.” His voice breaks a little. “I wanted to tell you about that, too. You know. I really, really wanted, but…it was so scary at the time.”

Suguru closes the sketchbook, puts it aside and sobs.

“It’s…special, because I met him online. I met him because of you. Funny, right? You must be thinking, ‘Geto, what? What are you talking about?’ I don’t know if you remember it, but you sent me a message last night. Remember?”

The sun is setting, and the whole incense has consumed itself by the time he finishes telling her the whole story between him and SixEyes. How mystical it feels to have coincided with someone like that, how they went from commenting on each other's posts to messaging every day nowadays.

“We even say good morning and good night. It’s crazy. I should like…gather courage and ask for his real number or something, but, again, scary.” His fingers tremble on his lap. “Also, I’m not sure if…if he will be disappointed that I look like this.”

At this point, he has cried on and off so much that his eyes are itchy and his cheeks salty. He caresses the stone and traces the kanji of her name carefully.

“I loved talking with you. You are right to be mad, Amanai… I should have come earlier,” he adds, and warm tears roll down his face again. “It’s so unfair you are not here, and sometimes I can’t…I don’t understand it, you know. I try to make sense out of it, and I can’t.”

He gathers his stuff because he reckons it is time to leave. As he strides onto the coach on his way back home, he promises himself he is not going to wait this long next time. His bones vibrate softly as the train starts moving, and he checks his phone. SixEyes has sent him a message, but he decides we will wait until later to answer. He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around himself.

That night, Suguru lies down on his bed and replays SixEyes audios over and over. If he ever doubted that he was a boy, his deep, jolly voice definitely confirms it now. It does this thing to his stomach; it reminds him of a stabbing to his chest, but a good one. Cutting deep, though.

As he falls asleep listening to his voice with the phone glued to his ear, he thinks yearning is a terrible thing, because every day, he wants a bit more of this boy: his responses, his attention, his voice. How far is he willing to go without giving something back?

Suguru’s parents are so happy with his overall progress that they don’t even question his new nose piercing. Utahime laughs and says it looks cool, and so does Shoko. He is so happy with it that when he looks at himself in his bathroom mirror, he is tempted to take a picture and send it to SixEyes.

Would he think I’m weird? Is it too much?

He positions himself facing sideways and tilts his head, so his new piercing is visible, but his prosthetic arm remains hidden. He snaps a picture, another one. A couple more. He studies light, the angle and finally chooses one.

Sent.

Oh God. What has he done? His hand is shaking again. He tosses the phone on the bed. The good thing is that his excitement to get another picture of himself back exceeds the dread that is enveloping him.

Surprisingly, SixEyes does not reply quickly, so Suguru ends up showering, getting changed and going to the shop. Because he carries the sketchbook everywhere again, he doodles on the train, and doesn’t check the phone until much, much later.

He has tea with Utahime, and they have a new whole delivery to stock and distribute, which keeps them quite busy until lunch. It’s only then that he sees he has lots of new messages from SixEyes.

His jaw drops to the floor. His knees are weak, but not for the right reasons. Oh, My God. He can’t breathe. Oh, my fucking God. This cannot be. This is not true. This…there must be a mistake. He places a hand to his forehead. This cannot be true. He is going to pass out, to faint on the freaking floor of the shop where he…

“Geto, are you alright?”

Utahime is staring at him, and given how open her eyes are, he must not be looking good.

“Are you OK? Are you feeling sick or something?”

“I…yes. I’ve got a bit of nausea, actually,” he mumbles, and the phone is still shaking in his hand. “Do you mind if I stay a bit longer?”

“Gosh, no.” Utahime pushes the toilet door and moves aside. “Are you feeling dizzy or something? If you want, I can wait outside.”

“Thanks, Hime. I’m good, though. I’m…I just need a minute.”

He locks the door of the tiny room, drops the toilet lid and sits on top. He unblocks the phone and goes over the messages again. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a caged bird.

Oh, God. He has just sent him a picture. To this jerk. A picture winking at him, slightly pulling his tongue out, showing off his new nose piercing. What? Suguru, seriously? Did he recognize him? Probably not.

Probably, he doesn’t even remember that miserable-looking kid from the art shop with a missing limb. Suguru drops his head into his good hand. How pathetic.

Okay, he needs to calm down. Rationalize it. Still, is he 100% sure that’s him? I mean, it’s just three random, black notepads. He could have bought them everywhere. They could be similar, and he could be a completely different person, instead of the idiot who came in last week.

The illegally handsome, beautiful idiot who came in last week. Who could be the boy he’s been flirting with for months. The boy who is his massive, one and only crush.

Okay, he is going to throw up. No, this is his workplace. He cannot do that.

If he is right, Suguru is going to eat his fist. If he is wrong, he is pretty certain that he is going to eat it anyway. He is seriously considering tossing the phone inside the toilet and flushing it away. Still, he needs to keep answering his messages, because what if SixEyes is not this guy who came in the other day, and Suguru ends up blaming him for something he didn’t even do?

A small tap to the door. He straightens up. How long has he been in here?

“Geto, all good? Do you need something?”

“I’m coming. Just a sec.”

When he leaves the toilet, he manages to convince Utahime that he’s feeling much better. She spends the rest of the evening frowning and asking him now and then how he is doing. Also, she offers to call Shoko so she can give him a quick check, but he insists he is doing great.

All things considered, he manages quite well to hide the fact that he is going insane.

He cannot stop staring at the door. What if he comes back?

Do I want him to come back?

Suguru sits down on his bed in the sanctity of his quiet bedroom. He peruses through the gallery of images SixEyes has sent him. There must be two or three artists, but none of them is good enough. Not for his work. He has been telling him about his latest project, an original script. It’s fantastic, and it’s got a lot of potential. He clicks his tongue because none of these artists can do justice to what he’s got on his mind. They are not bad, but…

He huffs; his blood is boiling. Why do these people get to draw his ideas when he can’t? How unfair. He would do it for free if he could. If he could draw, he would have

already…

Suguru thinks of the sketchbook resting in his purple backpack. No, not that one. He has better ones. He’s gotta try. At least, he must try.

He jumps from the bed, ignoring the fact that he is already wearing pajamas, and that it is quite late. He tries not to be too noisy as he searches for old notepads in a box under his bed. Once the dust is off, he sets it on his desk, turns on the light, positions it correctly on top of the white canvas and sits down to draw.

He doesn’t care if these lines do not obey his left hand; he will make them do so. He checks the scenes SixEyes sent him, goes over the notes of the snippets and drafts he has shared with him before. Like a maniac, he makes notes, tries out shades and checks options for color palettes.

He is so confused that the only thing he can do is draw, because sometimes that is the only answer. Sometimes, most elusive responses come to you like inky silhouettes on canvas, or like sentences on a white page.

He traces the line of a building and thinks of those large, pale hands he recognizes from pictures. He sketches two characters and dwells on those blue eyes. Will he see them again? He needs to see them again, so badly. Just one more time, please. They are worth all the sleepless nights of that week, which he spends drawing and re-drawing. He keeps at it because that smile deserves the pain on his wrists and the callouses on his fingers. I want him to be proud. Please, let him be proud of me.

As with any moment you’ve been waiting for too long, Suguru doesn’t know what to do with it when it finally comes.

He hears the door chime and greets the customer at the entrance by muscle memory at this point. To make his life worse, it’s Utahime’s day off, so he is on his own in the shop when he cranes his neck and discovers that’ it’s none other than Mr. Stupidly Handsome Customer wandering through the aisles.

Or, should he call him SixEyes?

“I’m just looking around,” he says.

“Alright, please let me know if you need anything.”

His mouth goes dry because he is still not certain. He cleans his sweaty palm on his apron. His heart races again, and he has flashbacks from the day he panicked in the toilet in front of Utahime.

He needs to make sure, and this is the perfect moment to try the theory he has been thinking of. Because Suguru can be pathetic, but he can also be smart, so he does have a plan.

Out comes his phone from his pocket, and, with shaky fingers, he opens the chat.

Suguru’s eyes dart back to the aisle, but he can’t see him from here. He seizes the return bin and pretends to re-shelve some items in the opposite aisle. It’s not a big store, so he must be careful not to be too obvious.

Still, the mysterious customer ignores his phone. If it buzzes or rings, Suguru cannot hear it. He just studies him, as he tries out one pen, then another. He picks a couple before going to the counter.

Suguru places a couple of items where they belong, to make it seem he is out of his post for a valid reason. He cannot explain the drop in his stomach, the bitter pressure that falls on his chest, as disappointment engulfs him. It’s as if somebody has unplugged him from all the excitement he was feeling a few minutes ago. Why did he think he would be relieved?

Did you want it to be him?

When he returns, Mr. stupidly handsome customer is leaning on the counter.

“Hey,” he says with a smile. “I remember you.”

“Me too,” he responds. Unfortunately, he fails to add. Now that he has found out that he is not SixEyes, he feels too defeated to try anything else. Their eyes meet for a second, and Suguru quickly looks away. God, who does he stare like that? Has he never seen another handicapped person or what?

"Do you have our membership card?" Suguru asks.

"I do. Do you need the number?"

He nods, with that polite grin he gives to clients sometimes, which is his suitable-for-all-public translation of "I'm so fed up with you"

The boy chants the number, and then he confirms it. A name pops up on the screen.

"Gojo-san, right?"

"That's right," he beams.

Gojo. He savors the name in his mouth, the way you roll your tongue around a lollipop. Suguru blinks, and he sees an alternative reality in which he is fully himself again. He sees himself carrying one of those heavy paper boxes to help Utahime out. He pictures himself choosing and setting aside some extra materials and the papers to take back home and test them properly. He sees himself sketching a quick portrait and handing it over to this gorgeous boy. He sees Gojo's face blush as he invites him for a coffee.

Why do you want to do that anyway? He looked down on you last time.

In another world, maybe, Geto Suguru. You are a ghost, remember? Ghosts can go through life like fully fleshed people.

He finishes wrapping everything properly and hands it to him, together with his change. The boy beams at him. Stop pitying me.

“Thanks,” he says as he tilts his head. It takes Suguru a minute to process that he’s reading his name tag. “Bye, Geto-san. Oh, you dropped your jacket, by the way.”

Suguru turns around and picks up his coat from the floor. It must have slipped from the hanger on the wall. He says thank you, but the door chime is already singing.

“Goodbye, I suppose,” he whispers as he hangs the coat back into its place. Only then does he notice a small orange Post-it note sticking out from the pocket. It’s the exact kind of scribble pads they use. He is certain because he was the one who chose them and placed them out earlier this week.

He is also mostly certain he didn’t put that in there. Maybe Utahime…?

He seizes the paper and unfolds it.

Suguru reads it and reads it again. He looks at the door. He needs to… but no. The shop. He cannot leave the shop alone, unattended. Yaga will kill him. Fuck. Fuck. Why does this have to happen when Utahime is not here? His fingers are shaking while he still holds SixEyes’ note in his hand.

No. Gojo’s note. Now that he knows his name, he’d better use it.

Fuck it. Fuck everything.

He puts on the coat, and before he knows it, the keys are clicking in his hand as he struggles to close the door. It will be five minutes, only five minutes. He turns around and heads to the station.

“Where are you going? I’m right here,” says a voice he cannot believe he has not recognized until now. Was he that nervous that he didn’t notice it before?

Was it that, Geto? Or was it only you, craving to crush a butterfly’s wings before it could even fly, just in case it got trapped by a storm?

Gojo is leaning against the wall across the street, smirking. He is wearing a loose shirt that reveals his clavicle. He adjusts his dark glasses as he strides and shortens the distance between them.

“Morning. I’m doing well. Oh, and I don’t like Murakami, for the record.”

Suguru’s jaw is glued. He summons an inhuman amount of strength to open it.

“You could have just said hi. I’m curious. Did you get scared because you left the note, or did you leave the note because you were scared?”

“Always so philosophical. To answer your question, I’m cheeky but not that cheeky. Also, I wasn’t sure it was you. I think your voice gave you away.”

“My voice?”

“Yes, it’s very…purry.”

“Right.” Suguru clears his throat. “Such a small world.”

“A small world indeed.”

There’s an endless moment in which they both stand in front of each other in silence, until Gojo starts chuckling.

“Dude, it’s just me.”

“I know, that’s the problem,” he admits, and they both start laughing, wholeheartedly now.

He tries to grasp the surreality of the moment. SixEyes has been a concept in his mind so far, not a tall, strikingly beautiful boy who is looking at him. The person he has weeks — no, months — imagining and chatting with it’s a real, flesh-and-bone human being standing in front of him. He tries to connect both pieces, which seem to repel against each other: Gojo, and his dear, limitless and fantastic SixEyes.

“So, are we going for a coffee or what?”

Suguru points to the shop.

“I’m working, Gojo.”

He pouts, and Suguru is surprised by the tingling effect that gesture has on him.

“It’s just a bit.”

“I don’t think my boss will like it.”

“So righteous.”

“I kinda need this job, you know.”

He whines and sinks his hands in his pockets.

“Fine, I’ll wait then. You finish in an hour or so, right? Maybe I can write while I wait for you.”

“I bet that’s sugar-free,” he jokes, as Gojo stirs his matcha Frappuccino thing — he refuses to call it a drink, that is, by height and number of ingredients, a living thing in itself.

“You just say so because you are drinking that soulless, bitter poison.”

“Humanity calls it coffee.”

“Disgusting.”

Suguru smiles. They haven’t been in this tiny, cozy coffee shop for even twenty minutes, and his cheeks already hurt. It’s not as flirty as online, but the banter comes naturally, like new lines come to white canvas. To be honest, his most cowardly part was scared their dynamic in person would be different, but talking to him is the same.

He drops his chin on his hand while he listens to him, and wonders how in the world he is supposed to survive now?

Gojo’s eyes go to his right arm. His expression turns more serious; a frown between his blue gaze.

"So that's why you don't draw."

Suguru’s gaze drops to the table.

“I guess you are disappointed.”

“Why would I? I’m just surprised.”

“Why?”

Gojo shrugs. He licks his fingers, and Suguru’s guts tremble. It’s a completely new, foreign feeling, which he doesn’t dislike. Not at all.

“You could have just said so from the beginning. I was a surfer and a shark ate my arm or something.”

Suguru jaw drops, and he only stares at him.

“It was not a shark. Definitely not a shark.”

“You should tell that story, though. It’s funnier than the real one.”

“You haven’t heard the real one.”

“Still, I’m convinced it cannot beat the shark one.”

Suguru breathes in before he starts talking about it. He doesn’t talk about it, because he has spent some time burying this. He has covered it with heaps of dirt, and tears, and blood, and all the horrible things that people say and do when a disaster occurs. And Suguru is exhausted; he couldn’t take it any longer. He didn’t want to carry with all that suffering, and when guilt softened and melted, he placed the events in a drawer. He couldn’t live as if the earthquake had not occurred, but at least, he distracts himself in his little rituals and pretends. He whispers to himself.

C´mon, Suguru, you can also fake it today. Go up on that stage, smile, make a joke, text a friend. Make it seem like you have it all under control. Right? Go on, you can do it.

He gives the formulaic media intro: about two years ago, there was a massive earthquake in January. He quotes the date he can’t forget, the affected prefectures, and all that information that goes unnoticed for most people. Nowadays, when he hears about a disaster or an accident on the news, he stops and imagines what it’s like for those people. Were they scared when the bus crashed? Did she see the car coming towards her as she was crossing? Did they suffer a lot when the smoke from the fire no longer let them breathe? He needs to stop doing that; his mother has told him so, and he knows it’s right. He cannot live concerned with every poor, weak soul that gets chomped by disgrace.

He asks Gojo if he remembers the major earthquake near Tokyo about two years ago. It featured in the news, he adds. There was a tsunami alarm as well. He’s glad he doesn’t have to elaborate anymore when he nods. Suguru keeps going because he is aware he cannot pause for too long or he won’t be able finish. He also makes sure to avoid Gojo’s gaze, because saying horrible, earth-shattering stuff is easier when you don’t have to look at someone in the eye.

“I was at school when it happened, drawing in between classes. Apparently, the building was old, and there was some sort of issue with the terrain, too. A whole wing collapsed, and several kids died. My friend Amanai, the one I told you about? She also died in there. I got trapped. Maybe I tried to help her out. Maybe I didn’t. I don’t know, honestly. I can’t remember.”

Suguru is surprised that Gojo is the first person he has admitted this to. He hasn’t even told Shoko about it. He’s certain that most of his friends have this heroic vision of him trying to rescue Amanai and losing his arm for nothing. Truth is, Suguru doesn’t remember. Perhaps he abandoned her, ran away and got crushed by a falling column or something.

“She is the one who told me about you. About your writings. She was into your stuff.”

Gojo studies him, and in a way, Suguru appreciates that he says nothing but a quiet “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say it’s a shame because she was so young, or comment on how unfair it was, or point out how hard it must have been for him.

“Did she like drawing too?” he finally asks.

“Well, a little bit. She didn’t take it as seriously as I did. It was a hobby for her.”

Suguru looks out of the window. He studies the white lines of the pedestrian crossing, and a girl crossing the street with her mom's hand gets his attention. Guilt coils around him like a snake; it sneaks between his ribs and wraps around his bones until it turns them into splinters. How can he complain about life, or hide from the past when he knows he is way luckier than Amanai? He is alive, for God’s sake. He should be grateful. Why can’t he be grateful?

"I…I kinda wanted to be a mangaka. An artist. Draw manga and such. You know, before…" he gestures vaguely to his right arm, or more precisely, to his missing limb. "Before this happened."

"What's stopping you now?" Gojo leans in. "Apart from yourself."

Suguru raises a brow, surprised. Anger climbs quickly to his tongue, and his skeleton solidifies again. That’s the lovely thing about anger. It pulls you back into the world, even if you don’t want to.

"You say it like it's a piece of cake."

“Oh, I don’t think it is. Also, you don’t seem like the type of person who will just sit down and resign, you know. Just saying.”

“It’s not that simple.”

He gives another bite to the pastry.

“What I’m saying is that if you want to find an excuse, you will find it. Didn’t you say you hated your drawings before the accident, before you stopped?”

“Well, yes, but…that was different.”

“Why? Your point then was that you were not good enough. Now, it’s the same. Stop putting labels on yourself and just try it.”

“Well, I have been drawing a lot lately. Practicing.”

His eyes light up.

“Really?”

For you. Because of you. Coz I wanted you to be proud of me. Maybe I’m doing it solely to prove to myself I can still do things if I set my mind to it.

But it’s not good enough, not yet. Not for you. Not for us.

“I’m still working on it, but I might share it soon,” he finally blurts. He checks his phone. “Sorry, I have to catch the train soon if I want to be home for dinner.”

He avoids his gaze when he says, “Can’t you stay a bit longer?”

Suguru’s cheeks blush. He could chicken out. For once in his life, he is grateful, because he knows his younger self would have been timid. He would have been confused and too afraid of the consequences of making a move. Still, his new version, his broken, armless version, knows better, because he knows the world ceiling could collapse on top of any of them any day, any time. He measures time with a dropper, every instant more precious than the previous one. He knows chances are like birds: you must catch them when you can, because they could fly away any second.

Suguru, the new Suguru, leans over and stretches his hand over the table to wrap Gojo’s fingers into his. They are warm and send shivers down his nape. When he looks up, Gojo is speechless; his cheeks are flushed a faint Sakura-like shade. If he thought he looked cute before, it was clearly an understatement.

“Gojo, can I see you again another day?”

He smiles and squeezes his hand before nodding. A shy grin pulls his lips to the side.

“Call me Satoru, please.”

Satoru starts coming to the art shop every week, and every week, he invites him for a coffee after his shift. Naturally, Suguru ends up telling everything to Utahime, who tells Shoko, who basically tells everyone.

“So, when are we going to meet your boyfriend?” Haibara shoots one day, as they sit sharing some drinks in an izakaya.

Maybe it’s the beer, but Suguru’s face gets hot.

“He is not my boyfriend,” he clarifies. I’m not that fucking lucky. Shoko laughs between the smoke spirals of her cigarette, and Utahime, sitting on her lap, follows. “What?”

“You talk every day. You send each other good morning and good night texts.” Shoko’s eyelids are slow and heavy, and she slurs words as she lists, one by one, the pieces of evidence that link Suguru to the crime of love. “You started drawing again because of him.”

Heat rises up to Suguru’s burning ears, because how come Shoko was letting the cat out of the bag in front of everyone?

“You should see the face he makes when he enters the shop,” Utahime mocks.

Suguru crosses his arms, theatrically offended.

“Nonsense! I don’t make any faces.”

Utahime drops her head back in a burst of laughter; Shoko bites her playfully. She pushes her away, cheeks blushed and tells her to stop it. Suguru can’t help the sweet, liquid and heavy feeling of envy setting in the pit of his stomach.

“Just go for it, Geto,” Nanami says and offers him his glass. Suguru clicks it back and gives another long sip, as he inspects the wood grains on the table.

Am I the one holding myself back? Or is it him? Should I tell him how I feel? Doesn’t he know it? Doesn’t he deserve better than me? Someone…complete.

Later that night, as every time he goes back home on the train, Suguru splatters on the seat, as the coach is almost empty. He slips the phone out of his pocket.

Suguru opens the picture, and his eyes go wide. All the drowsiness from the alcohol and the sway of the train are gone in a minute. Satoru has sent him a selfie — he is wearing a blue sweatshirt and reading glasses, and, God, he looks insanely cute, but that’s not the point. In his hand, he is holding an open book, featuring a list of names.

Satoru looks stunning on the stage. He is wearing a grey suit, and his glasses are resting on his shirt pocket. His cheeks are so rosy that Suguru wants to give them a bite. From a safe distance, he studies the bones of his clavicle, his dazzling smile as he steps to the front when the presenter calls out his name, and vows politely in front of the mic and under the yellow lights, so bright that Satoru’s hair seems Godly, electrified. His chest is about to explode, because, from the first time he read Satoru’s words, he has known how limitless his talent is. He is o fascinated with the fact that he is finally getting the recognition he deserves.

Is Satoru aware that he’s got this magnetic aura around him when he enters a room? He takes up all that space, but in a good way. He’s like the sun, and Suguru’s just a sunflower. Staring. Burning. Growing. Because when he is touched by Satoru’s sunbeams, he is also all the sunflowers in the fields, and the wind that strokes their leaves, and the raindrops that slide between their yellow petals like tears of joy.

Still, Satoru seems a bit serious about it. He doesn’t seem quite pleased with all these people clapping around him. He has learned to identify the signs: the way his gaze trails the floor, hands in his pocket, and he strides quietly. That’s his Satoru thinking, puzzled.

He has this urge to check on him as soon as they are dispatched from the stage. He waits patiently, though, until Satoru has greeted his teachers. Two well-dressed people Suguru assumes are his parents, soon join him and he wonders if he should have thought this more thoroughly.

Well, he invited him, right? If he were embarrassed, he wouldn’t have…

Satoru’s mother is lanky, not as much as Satoru himself, but she is considerably tall. She vows politely in front of professors and friends. His father is a serious-looking man who barely speaks and checks his phone too often. Suguru watches carefully from a corner until their gazes meet. He smiles and then whispers something to his mother's ear, before slipping away.

“Hi,” he says with a bright smile, walking to him. Before Suguru knows it, he is wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer. They have briefly held hands under the table at the café. Maybe, there’s been an occasional peck or nose brush, and some silly whispers into each other’s ears on the train, but never so much contact as this.

“Satoru,” he gasps, as he pats his shoulder. He closes his eyes as he buries his face in Satoru’s neck, seeking to commit Satoru’s warm skin and his perfume to his memory. Satoru pulls him away gently, and his eyes dart to his good hand.

“Are those for me?” he asks, looking at his face, and then to the bouquet of white peonies he is holding.

“Do you like them?”

“Suguru! You didn’t have to,” he says, seizing them. “I know you don’t like leaving your cave, so I thought…”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted.”

Satoru leans in and plants a peck on his cheek. A glow spreads from his face through the rest of his skull and bathes his whole body. Suguru’s heart is fluttering like a caged bird in his chest. He glances at his summer eyes, his lips. He needs to kiss him, but not here, in front of his teachers, his classmates, his parents. Out, they need to go out. Suguru craves running on a field. Or through the streets. Under the rain, like in those stupid romantic movies. Any of those stupid things will do if he gets to hold his hand.

Warmth radiates from Satoru’s body as he steps closer.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Still, he is wearing a shameless smirk while saying so.

Satoru’s fingers brush the lapel of his jacket, and their eyes meet.

“Suguru?”

“Yes?” and the hungry voice that comes from inside him is completely foreign.

“Let’s get out of here.”

They end up going outside through a tiny back entrance that leads to a back alley, behind the university theater. Suguru assumes it’s one of those stage doors support members use to come and go. The floor feels sticky under his loafers; he doesn’t even want to look down.  An exit sign is the only light lurking over their heads. One of the kanji has burned out. The pungent smell of trash and piss reaches them. It’s definitely not the kind of scenario he envisioned, but, at this point, hasn’t that become a leitmotif in his life?

“Are you alright? You seemed a bit tense up there.”

Satoru shrugs, disguising his discomfort in feigned nonchalance as usual.

“I promised my parents I would do it, but…I don’t know. They came all the way from Kyoto for this, and I didn’t want them to get disappointed, but, like, personally? I didn’t care that much about it.”

“The book?” Suguru brushes his arm lightly, in what he hopes will look like a supportive gesture. “But, Satoru, your story is fantastic. I loved it.”

“Yeah, it’s not that.” Satoru sighs and leans on the dirty brick wall again. “My parents don’t like what I write very much.”

Suguru is frowning before he knows it.

“What do you mean?”

“They do enjoy this kind of event, and that I write, in general. The thing is…” Satoru’s restless: he paces through the alley, and his hands go up and down, as if he were trying to catch elusive ideas from the air. “I would rather be writing fantasy or horror. That’s cool, but they say those genres aren’t serious, and that if I want to write and study literature... that if I want to become a real author, I should write something more “adult”. Whatever that means.” He sinks his hands in his pockets and falls back into the wall.

“I don’t know if you care about my opinion, but…if you ask me, I think you’re an incredibly talented writer, Satoru. I feel proud to call you my friend. Really.”

Satoru stares at him, a faint blush over his cheeks. He smiles faintly.

“Thanks. It means a lot. That’s why I ended writing fanfics, actually. It was kind of…” He scratches his neck and studies his shoes or the floor — Suguru is not certain.

“Refreshing?”

“Secret,” he responds, and his eyes lock on his lips. “That’s not the only one. You know.”

“The only what?” he says as he leans on his good arm and slowly cages Satoru against the wall.

“The only secret.”

“You wanna…tell me more about that?” he says, as their noses brush. His breath is practically fanning on his face. Warm radiates from Satoru’s body, calling Suguru’s hand to touch, to squeeze, to scratch.

“I like this boy…”

“Uh-huh.” Suguru’s heart is so loud he thinks it’s to rip his ribcage open and leap outside, right into Satoru’s hands. He makes a massive effort to seem unaffected by Satoru’s provocations.

“I mean, I’m not into boys in general, you know?” he adds, and Suguru´s stomach drops. What? A cold shiver runs through his core, and he wonders if he should step back, but then, Satoru is openly smirking at him. “But I love the ones with one single arm, you see. Bit kinky."

Suguru opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He is swamped with so many emotions that his mind is crashing. He allows himself for a second to stop, study his smug face, and decide if he wants to punch him or kiss him.

"Do you know how rude that is?"

"Still, it got you blushing, didn't it?"

"You are a jerk," he says before narrowing the gap between them.

Satoru’s lips are warm and soft. Suguru presses them cautiously at first, and it takes Satoru about half a second to kiss him back. He lets out an embarrassing sound when Satoru bites his lower lip. All his initial shyness dissipates as he pushes him against the wall, and Suguru licks his mouth with determination. He cups his face in his hand and kisses him harder, deeper this second time.

“Too much?” he asks, panting.

Satoru shakes his head, pulls him closer again and buries his tongue in his mouth. A grumble slips from Suguru’s lips. How could he help it? Satoru’s hands are driving him mad: they run through his back, his sides, his chest. His fingers run through his hair, trace the shape of his ears.

Suguru is startled by a sound behind the door and steps back for a second. Satoru whines, but he shushes him softly. He waits, and his eyes remain fixed on the dark, metallic door. He swallows, expectant and nervous, but Satoru is grinning and already demanding more, pulling him from the shirt.

"What's up, sweetheart? Are you scared someone’s gonna walk on us like this?" he whispers, before running a wet, hot stripe through his ear. “It would be…hot, don’t you think?”

“Shit, Satoru,” he hisses before kissing him again.

He cannot tell if it’s the pet name that makes it, or if it’s the way Satoru’s tongue shoves into the crevasses of his ear, but something inside him clicks. Suguru feels as if a stranger took the reins of his entire body: a greedy, hungry and desperate stranger whose sole purpose is devour Satoru in every possible way. He’s reeling this time. Somebody has opened the gates of a dam inside his chest, and he is overflowing, dragging Satoru along, as he swallows his soft moans and whimpers. God, those heavenly sounds. He is going to have the most disgusting wet dreams with them.

Satoru pushes them flush, and when Suguru feels him hard between his legs, it’s like all the air has been punched out of him.

He cannot get enough of that. His body screams more, more, more. And so, his good hand pushes against the small of Satoru’s back. He makes sure to push his thigh against his crotch, and Satoru lets out this filthy, choked sound.

“Suguru, that’s…Fuck, that’s so good,” he babbles as Suguru licks and bites the white column of Satoru’s neck. Satoru’s fingers curl into his hair and pull.

His hand travels lower and grabs a handful of his ass. Satoru whimpers and wriggles against the wall. Suguru’s knuckles brush against the brick on the wall, but he couldn’t care less. Everything inside him flutters; he’s never been harder in his life.

“You good, sweetheart?”

“Mhm, yes, yes, yes.” He nods frantically, and Suguru tilts his head to kiss his temple, his jaw. He nibbles Satoru’s earlobe, and he lets out a string of pleas and whimpers.

“See, baby? I can still make you scream with only one hand.”

Satoru cannot whine again, not when Suguru is licking his mouth once more. He ruts his leg against his clothed dick.

“Shit, shit, Suguru.”

Bang. Suguru almost spits his heart when the door to his side bangs open. Between giggles, a couple of students pass by, while he stands in the middle of the alley, flustered, visibly hard and panting.

“Get a room!” one of them teases, and Suguru wishes he could melt like wax and disappear into the drainage under his feet.

Satoru is still petrified against the wall, with messy hair and glossy eyes that shine against the dim lights. He can see his chest going up and down rapidly, still agitated from their make-out session.

In an unspoken pact, they both wait for people to turn around the corner and disappear. All the cold, clammy embarrassment that covered him a moment ago dissipates when Satoru grins and starts chuckling nervously.

“Thought you were excited about that,” Suguru teases, shortening the distance between them and placing his hand on his waist.

“Yeah, it sounded more exciting and less pathetic in my mind,” he admits, as he wraps his arms around his shoulders. Suguru is in heaven when those eyes stare at him like that.

“Thought you were feeling cocky,”

“I swear if we were in a bathroom, I would already be on my knees.”

“Fuck, Satoru…don’t just say those things,” Suguru says, as he holds him by the chin and runs a thumb over his lower lip. He steals a couple more soft kisses from him before Satoru pushes him back gently.

“Sorry, my parents…they must be looking for me.”

“You don’t say.”

Satoru cups his face and leans in for another soft, cotton-like kiss. It’s so different this time. It’s a butterfly touch, slower, as if he wanted to take him in fully, to trace and memorize every lip line. Suguru can only hope they have enough time together in this life so he can do so.

Suguru’s hands are shaking as he tries to fix his hair in a bun. He’s not nervous — they have had lots of similar dates at this point, but Suguru doesn’t think he can sustain his sanity much longer. He cannot recall the last time he slept for more than a couple of hours. Also, he is pretty sure he is on the verge of cardiac arrest, considering how slow he is when he speaks and how his fingers tremble when they hold a pen. He has consumed an insane amount of coffee and energizers, too, so he hopes the shower and his dark sweatshirt hide his sleep deprivation from Satoru.

“Do I look good?” he asks his mother before heading out.

“Lovely as usual, sweetie, ” she says and plants a kiss on his forehead.

Suguru opens his mouth as he stands on the genkan, while he tries to wrap a scarf around his neck and slip into his shoes, all at the same time. Autumn is getting cold pretty early this year.

“Maybe…maybe I’ll sleep at a friend’s tonight. If that’s okay.”

His mother crosses her arms over her chest and nods. There’s the shadow of a smile on her lips. She is not stupid and is certainly wiser and older than him. She must at least be suspicious that he is singing while picking up the dishes, or doodling hearts on the margins of his notepad when he sits to draw in the dining room.

“If you are okay with that, then so am I.”

Suguru smiles.

“I am.”

“And I’m very happy that you are, Suguru.” She steps closer and wraps her arms around him. “Take care, OK?”

“I will,” he smiles back. He gives her another small squeeze before waving goodbye. “Say hello to dad on my behalf.”

“I will.”

Suguru runs to the train station. It’s nice that he no longer feels agitated when he does so. It’s also pretty nice to wave at people with a smile. He sometimes wonders when he stopped being rabidly mad at the world and started noticing the details. A tiny plant growing between two pavements. A cat sleeping on a windowsill. Three kids are cheering each other as they play on the swings. Was all of that always there?

Once he is on the train, he opens his backpack’s zipper and makes sure, for the eleventh time, that his folder is there, where it’s supposed to be. He has this fluttery creature in the pit of his stomach, which gets restless when he knows he is about to meet Satoru. It crashes against his ribcage when he steps into Satoru’s building entrance and into the elevator, and it goes absolutely wild after the man himself opens the entrance door and leans in for a peck on his lips.

“Hey,” Suguru says, with a smile.

“Hey, stranger I met on the Internet.”

“Didn’t your mum tell you to be careful with that?”

“Ugh, you are so creepy,” he jokes, and pulls him in for another kiss.

Suguru fumbles in the genkan, as he battles to take off his scarf and his jacket. Satoru helps him, though he knows it’s more a matter of hospitality rather than anything else. As soon as his jacket and shoes are off, Satoru intertwines their fingers and pulls him inside.

“Come, come,” he says and drags him to the kitchen. Satoru’s studio is tiny — it cannot be more than thirty square meters or so — but it’s cozy and nice. They go through the kitchen, and he lets go of his hand to collect a bunch of snacks and sodas before dropping them on the coffee table in front of the TV. Suguru makes sure to fetch his backpack and leave it by their side before sitting next to him and scooching closer. He wraps an arm around him and kisses him softly. When Satoru’s hand trails over his pecs, his heart starts throbbing with anticipation, but Satoru pushes him away and smiles at him.

“I have something for you.”

He blinks and frowns. How come? He’s the one who has something for Satoru. He’s the one who is supposed to surprise him. Satoru produces a small box and plants it in his hands. Suguru smiles and carefully unwraps the paper, opens the box and pulls out a ceramic incense holder.

“You said when you draw, you like lighting incense. It helps you…”

“Get inspired,” he says, as he studies the golden veins that keep the blue ceramic attached.

“It’s not broken — it’s kintsugi, because…”

“I know what kintsugi is, baby.”

Satoru looks so lovely; he wants to chomp his cheek. He’s studying his fingers over the piece, and his pale cheeks have turned impossibly red, and Suguru can tell he’s making a huge effort not to bite his lips. Only then does Suguru notice a small, tiny card at the bottom of the box. He flips it over.

“Do you like it?” he asks, while Suguru’s eyes grow teary.

“Oh, Satoru. You’ve got no idea,” he says with a shaky voice.

Suguru holds him in his arms, because somehow, a kiss would fall short to convey what he is feeling at this moment. Any word, too. Many times before today, he wished he had met Satoru before, so he would have two hands to cup his face, to pull a bang from his eyes and tuck it behind his ear or to wrap him in both of his arms, properly. Most importantly, because old Suguru lives like a golden version of himself in his mind. Still, Satoru met him afterwards and fell in love with him, like this. Broken and fixed, like a kintsugi piece.

As tears roll down his cheeks, he cannot help but wonder if Satoru would be capable of loving each and every version of him. When he can collect himself enough to avoid sobbing, he lets him go for a second.

“If I have to be honest, I have something for you too.”

“Uh? Really?”

“Uh-huh. Another happy coincidence.”

Satoru pulls back and studies him, his pockets, and looks back at the door.

“Where is it? I wanna see.”

“Well...”

If Suguru was feeling unsteady before, he can't describe what it’s like now. His rollercoaster is only getting started. He braces himself for another inverted loop as he drags the backpack tossed aside to the space between his knees and opens the zipper. His fingers shake as he places the folder with his drawings in front of Satoru.

“The first time I read your stories, I wasn’t in a good place,” he starts, and he curses his treacherous voice that falters. Still, he has practiced this speech several times, so he breathes in and out, and pushes himself to continue. “In fact, I had given up on drawing. I was…lost. If I tried to explain how much your writing meant to me back then, I would just fall short. Unlike you, I’m not good with words, so I hope my work, like yours did back then, can tell my story for me.”

Satoru doesn’t say or do anything at first. He stares with an empty gaze, and he cradles the folder as if it were a falling Momiji leaf. He drops it onto his lap and, carefully, opens it.

He flips one page, then another one. A gasp. Another one. His hand flies to his mouth. Suguru will implode if he doesn’t say anything.

“Suguru, what’s this?”

Suguru's fingers curl over his knees, scratching the denim fabric, because the drumming of his heart is deafening in his ears. Maybe it sounds louder because there’s no other sound but the flipping of his drawings.

"You drew this?" he blurts, and somehow, when he meets his pool-blue gaze, he is certain his surprise is coming from a place of love, and not from considering him incapable of the deed.

He nods.

“It’s supposed to be a sort of storyboard. Something I started working on when you told me about your manga script project. It’s just a draft. I can make it better with more time. More practice.”

“It’s so, so, so beautiful. I…I can’t believe it. Like…” he points at the drawing. “These are all my ideas, and you drew them. You-“

“I know you are still looking for an artist to help you, and you don’t have to choose me. This is just a present.”

Satoru’s eyes are teary when he looks up again, and his lower lip wobbles. Suguru can’t stand seeing him like this, even if it’s out of joy.

“Are you kidding me? Suguru, why are you always so stupid? Look at this. Oh, God, I’m going to cry,” he adds, even though he already is. He keeps flipping the pages. “I love it. All of it. God. It's fantastic. I love you so much.”

An electric shock runs through Suguru’s core, and he comes to realize how similar the words thunderstruck and love-struck are in the blink of an instant. He doesn’t really think his jaw has dropped at first. Satoru's eyes find him again.

“I love you, too. So much, Satoru, so much.”

Satoru is the first one to move and pull him into his arms. Time stops, and Suguru doesn’t know how long it’s been when Satoru leans back and cups his face between his hands, hunting for his lips. He tastes the salt from his tears as he peppers kisses over his face.

He takes him by the hand and leads him to his nearby bed. They sit cross-legged on the bed, facing each other. Suguru has fantasized with what's about to happen a million times, and yet, he feels absolutely at peace staring into Satoru's blue and brushing their knees. Nothing else matters.

Satoru climbs onto his lap. Suguru’s mind goes hazy as he runs a hand over Satoru’s solid chest, his abs, his shoulders. He stops on his nipple to draw small, lazy circles with his thumb.

“You’re so beautiful, baby. Did you know that?”

Panting, Satoru cradles his hand and guides it under his shirt. Suguru groans as his fingers meet warm, soft and taut skin. He searches again for one of his nipples, and when he finds it, Satoru lets out one of those filthy moans that repeat on loop in Suguru’s mind when he recalls their previous make-out session. He teases one of them, then the other, relentlessly, until they are hard as buds.

“Suguru,” he murmurs, his name a shapeless thing in his mouth. “Suguru.”

“What, baby? Tell me what you want.”

Satoru doesn’t respond. Instead, he strips off his shirt and reveals a pale, sinewy torso. Suguru traces a route of kisses over pink, flushed skin. He licks, sucks and bites, and Satoru melts under his kisses. He groans, a sound he didn’t think himself capable of up to now. Satoru has that effect on him; he has a unique capacity to bring out his most shameless version. His body trembles, and Suguru aches for friction, for more contact.

Still, something holds him back. Last time they were in this situation, Suguru knew it wouldn’t go too far. He was certain: they were in public, practically the middle of an alley; he knew it wouldn’t go over steamy petting. This time, however, in the safety of Satoru’s apartment, they can go as far as they want. Yes, there was an implicit in his invitation, especially when Satoru suggested he could stay over. They hadn’t thrown it openly on the table, but Suguru was aware it could happen. Still, they hadn’t talked about the point that concerned Suguru the most.

After all, he's not precisely good at laying his cards on the table.

He can’t help but wonder if Satoru will regret it. What if he’s disgusted by his body? What if he doesn’t like it or…if it’s not turned on by what he sees? Sometimes, he doesn’t even want to look at it himself.

When Satoru’s kissing slows down, he knows something’s off. When their gazes meet, Suguru feels small.

“Hey, are you okay?” His frown is a tell-tale sign he’s certainly concerned.

“It’s… It’s my arm.”

“Oh. Okay,” Satoru stills and sits back on his heels, and his hands come to rest on his thighs. “What about it?”

“I haven’t done this before, and I don’t know if I can do it, like properly…”

Satoru is staring at him with a raised eyebrow, as if nothing is making sense, and Suguru feels so inadequate, so awkward. It’s as if someone had unplugged him from the moment he was surrounded by a second ago.

Oh My God. He has totally ruined this moment, hasn’t he?

“I can leave my shirt on.”

Satoru lets out a sound that is a crossbreed between laughter and a whine, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.  He cups his face between his pale hands.

“Suguru, don’t be stupid, OK? I do not care about the properly part, whatever the hell that means. I only care about fucking you. Is that clear?” Satoru complains. He kisses him, so suddenly Suguru almost falls backwards. Then, he plants another playful kiss on top of his nose.

“How can you think I care about something so silly? You know, I make jokes and all that, but I love all of you. Like you could have no arms, or six arms, and I’d still love it.”

“Okay, we’re now entering the land of strange kinks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do, baby, I do,” he chuckles and leans for another kiss. “You’re the best, you know?

“Yeah, I do.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I don’t know how to go about it, honestly. Maybe I should take it off. It’s a bit uncomfortable, for practical matters.”

“Is that why it’s awkward?”

“A bit, yeah.”

Satoru tucks his bangs behind his ears. He caresses his cheek so softly he could swear his skin is melting.

“How are you most comfortable, usually?”

“Well, when I doff it. When I remove it, I mean.” He feels an impending need to describe it before Satoru sees it, as he could somehow prepare him for the blow. “It’s my whole arm, up to my shoulder. There’s a harness too.”

“Alright. It’s alright. Do you want to do it yourself or do you need my help?”

Suguru doesn’t know why it hurts so much. Maybe because he has spent the last two years avoiding these words. His lips tremble when he says so; it’s so stupid.

“Can you help me, please?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Satoru’s hands help him peel off his shirt. When he sees it on the floor, he looks away. He has never felt more naked in his life. Not even when he was in hospital, not even with the doctors or when his parents helped him with treatment in those early days. Not even a couple of times, Shoko helped him out when she accompanied him to the doctor's office. He has no skin, no bones, no muscles. It’s like he’s only wearing his little, broken soul.

He wants to close his eyes when he feels Satoru's fingers over it. So, he does.

"Do I unbuckle it?"

"Yeah, just like that."

"Now you have to let go of the back part."

"Got it. If it hurts or something, tell me.”

"It's okay, baby. I don't feel anything."

"And now I guess we peel this thing off."

"That's right."

Satoru lets out a long whistle.

"Huh. It looked more difficult than it was. Bingo."

Suguru chuckles. He feels a soft kiss on his shoulder's stump and holds back another sob, because how come he deserves this?

It’s all so easy, it’s almost cruel, because he was so worried, so concerned about this moment. He suspects he didn’t sleep the last few nights, mostly because he wanted to finish Satoru’s storyboard, but also because he was terrified of this moment. It's done. He stares at the prosthetics lying on the floor next to the bed, just where Satoru gently placed it.

"Now, where were we?" he says, pushing him back against the headboard. "You'd better reciprocate, Suguru."

"So eager," he whispers, pulling him closer, wrapping him with his arm.

"Shut up, you're as anxious as me."

Suguru smirks before planting a soft peck on his lips, which evolves into a second, frenzied one. Satoru hums, wraps his arms around his neck, and Suguru tilts his head, deepening the kiss and tearing delicious, desperate sounds from him.

When Satoru is back on his lap, Suguru runs the tips of his fingers against his back until he reaches the waistband of his boxers. He slips his hand against the warm, plush tissue of his ass, which rips off a soft gasp from him.

"You do love my ass," he mocks, and Suguru loves every shaky syllable he lets out.

"And you really like to sit here, don't you?" he asks, gasping against his neck, as he presses his growing erection against Satoru's tights. He bites and sucks, hoping it will leave marks, so everyone knows Satoru belongs to him and only him. It's the gift destiny gave him in return for everything it had taken away, and he is not willing to let it go.

"Baby, if there's something you don't like, you tell me, yeah? You stop me and just tell me."

Satoru nods, but his gaze is so hazy and his cheeks so rosy that Suguru wonders if there's any coherence left for him to answer.

"Same."

Satoru squirms, especially when he runs a finger deeper and teases his hole, testing. Fuck, it feels so warm and tight; arousal makes him shiver. He can barely hold the grunts and moans that fall from his lips. Satoru's hands curl and claw on his shoulders. He's cursing, babbling. Suguru is not entirely sure because there’s a static vibration in his mind that prevents any coherent thought from forming. Everything inside him is pulsing, vibrating. He's got Satoru half-naked on his lap, and he's so hard he's going to pass out.

"Sink it all in, please, please. I wanna - fuck - I wanna feel it."

Suguru shushes him as he peppers kisses over his clavicle.

"Patience, baby."

"Fuck patience."

"Do you have lube?”

"On the bedside table."

Satoru is reaching for it before he can do it himself. Suguru tugs his underwear off.

"Clothes off," he demands.

"You, too."

"My pleasure," he smiles, while Satoru pulls down both his jeans and underwear all at once. Suguru's hand brushes one of his calves before lowering down to give a small bite to his inner thigh. He loves his pale skin made for Suguru to bruise, to leave marks on. He's always been unable to resist white canvas.

"Spread your legs for me, honey?" he pleads.

"Wait, are you gonna…?"

"No, sweetie, don't worry. I just wanna give you a good look. Can I?"

Satoru's body is so beautiful that Suguru wants to scream. He takes in the feast for his eyes that is splayed on the sheets for him: his pink, flushed cock dripping on his belly, his plush ass resting on the sheets as he lies down on his back and his milky, long legs. He runs his hand over one of them, regretting not being able to caress them both. He doesn't think it would be enough, even with both. When it comes to Satoru, he becomes so selfish: he just wants to take, take and take.

Suguru sits on his heels, bottle in hand. He spills a generous amount of lube over his own length, and hisses when the cold substance touches his burning skin.

"Look at you. I love your legs. Your skin, your cock. Fuck, I love everything."

Lazily, he strokes himself. His jaw drops, and pleasure rolls over him in waves, as Satoru's name spills from his lips. He wants to keep looking at Satoru while touching himself, but it's so difficult not to squeeze his eyes shut and let himself go.

When he looks again through the haze of pleasure, Satoru is leaning on his elbows and reaching for his own length. His fingers wrap around his erection and run up and down, as he gasps and whines.

Suguru bites his lower lip as Satoru masturbates in front of him, presented on a silver plate. He takes his sweet time because he knows this moment between him and Satoru is finite, even when it will be seared in his mind forever.

"Please, Suguru. Please, please. I need to come."

"I've got you."

Suguru presses his hips flush to Satoru's ass, and his cock twitches. He doesn't know how he's supposed to go further than this, because only this brush of skin to skin has got him on the verge of passing out from pleasure. When he finds enough stability, he lets go of Satoru's knee and wraps both his own length and Satoru's into his hand. Satoru lets out a piercing cry when he starts pumping them mercilessly.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Oh, yes. Fuck. Oh My God. Fuck. Fuck. Suguru can no longer distinguish whether those words are in his mind or if he's saying them out loud. All he feels is the heat, and the friction, and the arousal that's electrifying him from the core, making him cry Satoru's name.

It takes every ounce of discipline in him not to come when Satoru spills, warm and sticky over him. He can't decide what's more delicious: his broken moans, the way he clenches on the sheets for dear life, or the cum dripping between his fingers and his cock. Satoru’s body melts on the bed; his chest rises and falls as he slowly catches his breath again. Suguru can´t believe his sweet, brilliant Satoru can look this beautiful in bed, even more than before.

He lets go of both to lean over him and plant a soft kiss on his lips. He cleans his hand before swiping his white bangs away from his sweaty forehead. Satoru's blue eyes meet his.

"How are you, sweetheart? You okay?"

"Mhm, yes," Satoru purrs, and his voice is breathy from whining. "And you?"

Suguru smiles.

"I'm fantastic, love."

He sinks into another deep, long, caring kiss, and Satoru’s tongue dives into his mouth, as they roll over. Their limbs tangle on the sheets. Satoru's fingers comb his dark, messy locks and pull back. Satoru traces the line of his jaw with lazy kisses and climbs up to his ear. His tongue laps playfully at his gauges, and Suguru hisses. He's so turned on that he rubs against his legs slowly, gasping. He growls when Satoru's fingers wrap firmly around his hard-on and tugs once, twice, another time. There are four or five seconds in which Suguru loses all awareness of his surroundings, as his eyes roll back and pleasure pools at the pit of his stomach. The ceiling is staring at him, and all he can do is swallow and growl. He’s lost in the wet, filthy squelch and on Satoru's airy pants.

"You're so big, fuck. My hands feel tiny around it."

Those words have Suguru digging his nails into the pale skin of his shoulder. How is he supposed not to come when Satoru's whispering this filthy stuff into his ear? He can't stand that for much longer.

"I'm gonna come if you keep doing that."

"What's the problem with that?" Satoru asks, panting in his ear.

He rolls to his side, presses his forehead against his, their noses brushing.

"Wanna fuck me?"

"Fuck yes."

Suguru drops a string of small, kitty-like kisses on his lips before pushing his hip to the side, so Satoru rolls on his stomach. He gently pushes his ass cheeks apart and reaches for the bottle of lube.

"Need help?" Satoru asks, and he can feel the nervousness in Satoru's voice. "Suguru! That shit is cold"

"Sorry, baby, let me warm it up for you," he coos, as he teases his entrance before pushing in. The tight and warm feeling goes straight to his dick. He's mesmerized by the way Satoru's hole stretches and pulls him in.

"Does it hurt?"

"No, it's just-" Satoru squirms a bit and hums. "It's weird."

"I'll go slowly, baby. Remember, we can stop whenever you want, yeah?"

He nods against the pillow. Suguru dares to test the waters and speeds up a bit more, feeling a bit clumsy himself. Satoru is unusually quiet, humming now and then against the pillow. Is he enjoying it? Is he doing it all right?

He doesn't want to lose his confidence or rain on their parade, so he tries and goes deeper, sinking up to the bottom, which gets Satoru to hide his face against the pillow.

"I'm going to add another finger, okay."

Satoru cries at the stretch at first, but after a couple of impossibly tight strokes, he curls his fingers, and his entire body shakes.

"Shit, Suguru. Right there- just like that," he moans against the pillow.

"You like that, uh?"

"Yes, yes. Faster."

Suguru can't get enough of his flushed cheeks, the way drops run through his temples or how his hips snap back so he can sink deeper and deeper. He whispers to his ear how beautiful he is, how well he is taking it.

"You're doing so well, love, such a good boy for me."

To think he can give Satoru this much pleasure lights him up in a completely different way. How come he's so lucky that he gets to enjoy Satoru like this? What kind of life lottery has he won?

He's never been harder in his life.

"More, Sugu, please, please, please."

He needs to close his eyes when he forces a third finger. Satoru's whimpering, the wet slapping of skin is driving him crazy, and the smell of sex and sweat in the room is such that Suguru's about to combust.

"I think you're ready."

Satoru hisses when he pulls out his lube-slicked fingers. Then, he leans against the backrest to fetch the condom and rips the package open for him. Suguru's fingers shake as he rolls it down while Satoru stares at him with vicious hunger. What if he comes the second he's inside? No, he's got this. Suguru, you idiot, you've got this. Enjoy it. It's alright. You are allowed to enjoy it. His mental rambling is interrupted when Satoru straddles him, as he finishes adjusting the condom and lubing himself up. He presses his hands against his shoulders, waiting for him.

"Suguru?"

"Yes, love?"

"I wanna ride you."

"Yeah, I think I got the memo."

He smiles, and he places a careful hand on his waist.

"Come here, then. It's where you've been wanting to sit all night," he whispers, a smug smile tugging at his lips.

He breathes in as Satoru aligns himself and slowly slides down. His fingers curl and sink into the skin of his shoulders. His breathing hitches, and he is so incredibly tight. Suguru makes an embarrassing, desperate sound as he goes for another inch.

"Slowly, baby."

"I know. Fuck. You're big."

Satoru's body goes rigid, but there's still a good way to go. Suguru forces himself to remain steady, calm, as the pleasure of being half-inside Satoru dazzles him. He kisses his shoulders.

"It's okay, baby, it’s okay. Relax. No rush," he coos, running a soothing hand through his back. "You're doing fantastic, love. Such a good boy for me. Let's give some time to your pretty little body to adjust to it, yeah?"

Little by little, Satoru's shoulders relax. Suguru hunts for a peck or two on his lips. Satoru latches, softly, until his whole self melts, and he bottoms out, giving way to a whole new world of sensations.

Suguru winces. He will be lucky if he lasts five minutes inside him. His lips brush Satoru's clavicle while he takes in the tight, warm pulse of Satoru's walls clenching around his length.

"God, baby, you're so tight."

Suguru has to blink because this is happening. It's actually happening — this scene which lived like a rent-free fantasy in his mind for months. It becomes even more real when Satoru wraps his arms around his neck for stability and begins bouncing up and down. Ragged ah ah ah drip from his mouth as he picks up the face.

"You feel so incredible," Suguru grumbles against his skin.

It's all so much: he wants to lean back to see Satoru's blushed neck and muscles, and how his back arches every time he punches inside him, but he also wants to wrap around him and push and sink to the hilt until he forgets his own name. He encircles his arm around Satoru. Nobody will come close to making him feel what he is feeling now. Even if his time with Satoru is finite, he knows this moment, this connection and the love they share will remain forever.

As soon as Suguru's hips snap up to meet his ass, Satoru's cries become high-pitched.

"Harder, Suguru, harder. Please, don't stop, please, please…"

His crying becomes a senseless babble of sweet nothings as flesh smacks flesh while Suguru fucks him in earnest. Suguru is drunk on their moaned names, on Satoru's pleas, his warmth pressing and clenching tighter and tighter. Arousal swirls inside him, and his entire body goes taut.

"Wanna come again, baby? You're gonna be a good boy and give me another one, huh?"

"So close, S'guru - shit."

He pants, moans, grunts, and utters impossible sounds. The stranger who takes control of his body when he's absolutely overwhelmed by arousal is back. He seizes a handful of Satoru's ass and, without faltering, slaps white flesh, and Satoru screams.

"Gonna fill you up, baby, yeah? Fill you up nice and full."

"Fuck, yes, yes, yes."

Satoru's back arches as he reaches for his cock. His jaw drops as he leans forward and lets Suguru fuck him mercilessly as he comes. He trembles like a leaf between sobs, and warm cum spills on Suguru's chest.

The pulsing and clenching inside Satoru are the final straw for Suguru. He whites out as searing pleasure bathes him like a wave that rises, peaks and ebbs, leaving him shuddering. He repeats Satoru's name as he spends himself, deep inside him. There's a buzzing static in his mind as he leans his forehead against Satoru's pecs, trying to catch his breath. He's pretty sure he's drooling against his skin.

The world keeps spinning, but for a few moments, everything remains still only for the two of them.

Suguru is the first one to look up to Satoru's face, with a timid smile.

"Hey,"

"Hey there."

He runs a lazy hand on his side, feeling his ribs, his muscles, and Satoru kisses him with a deep hum that makes Suguru's stomach dip. It tastes of sweat, tears and dreams. Slowly, he helps him pull out, removes the condom and tosses it into the bin to the side. Satoru makes grabby hands, and he gently cradles him on the bed.

"Did you like it?" Suguru asks, and only then does he notice how hoarse his voice is.

"Fucking loved it."

"I'm so glad, baby. You've got no idea."

Satoru props up on his elbows; he tilts his head.

"And you? How are you feeling?"

"Mind-blowing. Fantastic. Thank you so much for that," he kisses him again, unable to resist. He can't resist doubt in his mind either, so he asks again. "Wasn't it weird?"

"Not a bit."

"You can tell me if it was."

"Nope"

Suguru runs the tips of his fingers through his skin, softly.

"I was a bit concerned about that. I know you said you didn't mind, but at first, I know you did…"

Though Satoru must be sleepy and tired, he frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"Remember when you gave me that look at the shop? When you realized I had a missing limb, and you stared at me?"

Satoru stares at him quietly.

"Got me thinking a lot afterwards. That maybe if you found out who I was, you wouldn't be open to…"

"Suguru, you are such an idiot."

"Hey, we've just…"

"No, you dumbass. You think I gave you that look because of that? Who do you take me for?"

"What else if not? It's fine, it was a long time-"

"No! Wait, Suguru. Listen. Shit, you spent all this time thinking that I looked down on you? You don't understand. I had already seen you before."

Suguru's hand goes still.

"What? When? How?"

"Back then? When you still had your Blackkoifish account, before the accident. You used to post stuff."

"Well, yes, but I shared my art. I didn't normally…"

"You once posted a picture of yourself going to a convention or something. No idea where you were going, honestly. I only remember I saw you, and I thought you were the hottest guy I had seen in my life. Like, on top of being amazing as an artist, I couldn't believe you were this sexy." Satoru gestures exaggeratedly as he points at his whole body.

"Shut up. Satoru, you are a stalker," Suguru chuckles, but instead Satoru leans in and steals a kiss from his lips.

"And now you are my boyfriend. Good. I'm no stalker. I'm a genius, that is," Satoru states, leaning against the pillow and cuddling against his body, content and satisfied in every possible sense.

"See? Told ya you were being an idiot."

Happiness is a warm blanket of sun over them. Suguru's mind is hazy: he's got this feeling; it reminds him of getting a shower after being outdoors all day and arriving home dirty and sweaty, craving for a good bath. It's also like standing next to a fire after a walk in the snow. Then it hits him: it's rewards. It's the yearning after catching a rainbow between your fingers. He's trapped something he once thought impossible to catch.

Satoru brings him back. He's playing with his hair, twirling a dark strand between his fingers.

"Shower?"

"Let's cuddle a bit. Just a bit."

"As long as you wish, sweetheart," he whispers, before pressing a kiss to his forehead.

As he closes his eyes, Suguru feels he could die like this, and he wouldn't mind.

Still, for the first time in years, he wishes he won't.

When Suguru wakes up the next morning, he's so sore that walking hurts. It's the good kind of sore, though. Like the one you get after going to the gym all week, and you are proud of your own discipline. Or the one you experience after arriving at a hotel when you are visiting a new city, and you've spent the entire day walking, exploring new spots. It's worthwhile. It's linked to beautiful, happy, magical moments. Satoru's still sleeping on the bed when he slips away to the fridge to pour himself a glass of water, and another one for Satoru.

His boyfriend — yes, it is mind-blowing that he's using that word — is sitting on the bed when he returns, waiting for a good morning kiss. His lips always taste sweet, especially when he murmurs, “I love you” next to his.

They sit on the bed, side by side. Satoru decides to open the curtains, so they look at the park. He rests his head against Suguru's shoulder, as they stare into the horizon.

"Would you like to have breakfast in the park? We could buy something in the konbini."

"I'd love to," he admits. "I might take my sketchbook."

His eyes trace the silhouettes of ginko trees in the distance, the contour of pale, whimsy clouds and the vast, never-ending blue of the sky. Such a beautiful world, ready to be drawn, ready to be woven into words.