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For some time now, Satoru had felt like he’d gotten himself into trouble. After giving it some thought, he decided—completely objectively, of course—that Suguru’s hair was entirely to blame.
It all felt unfair. On everyone else, it just looked like… well, hair. Normal enough. But on Suguru? Too shiny. Too smooth. Smelled too good. Perfect. When loose, it fell over his shoulders so beautifully that it knocked the breath out of Satoru, like a blow to the chest. When tied up, it gleamed in the sun, hot to the touch like glowing coals.
Satoru kept finding excuses to touch it—casually, so he wouldn’t look like a creep. And he liked those touches. A kind of quiet awe lingered at his fingertips.
He found himself zoning out during class. His gaze was drawn to the line of skin peeking out from under Suguru’s uniform collar. His eyes followed a strand of hair that had slipped out of the bun and was slowly sliding down Suguru’s shoulder. Like a thin black snake. Watching it stirred an urge to mess up that ridiculously perfect hair!
A disaster. A real disaster.
Satoru would turn away, annoyed. Press his lips tight. Rest his chin stubbornly in his palm. The irritation took over his thoughts completely—uninvited, hot, strange.
And it wasn’t just the hair.
Suguru still had that awkward teenage look—sharpened features, poor posture, long legs that bumped into everything, nowhere to put them (Satoru knew the feeling). A uniform slightly too big, because Suguru was tall—and still growing. No longer a child, not quite a man.
But even now, something else showed through: a refined line to his face, the softness of an attentive gaze filled with intelligence and curiosity. Grace. A quiet, proud beauty that felt inevitable. His silly laugh, paired with the charm of his smile—when the corners of his lips lifted just enough for tiny dimples to appear on his cheeks. It seemed like no one noticed them except Satoru. No one paid that much attention. Those dimples even haunted his dreams—dreams wrapped in a sweet anticipation of something he didn’t understand.
What did it mean?
Other than the fact that he wanted to look at Suguru. To admire him—damn it, to admire him too much, to lose himself in it. Not to look away, even if it was rude.
And every time Satoru noticed it, his heart would start racing wildly somewhere. It irritated him.
Why him? Why Suguru? Why did his stupid hair and his face make Satoru feel like an idiot—with trembling hands and rising blood pressure? He was sixteen—what blood pressure?! He shouldn’t be worrying about that for years, right?!
It even interfered with sparring. His breath caught too easily.
After their morning training, Satoru dropped onto the grass, unzipping his sports jacket to let the cool air hit his damp, overheated skin. His own unruly hair stuck out in every direction. He blew at his forehead, but a sweat-damp strand clung stubbornly to his skin. He grimaced and glanced at Suguru beside him.
Suguru sat in a relaxed pose, disheveled and just as sweaty, calmly tying his hair back with a fresh band. His fingers moved easily, confidently. It made Satoru want to… hit him? Tackle him into the grass? His thoughts scattered, unsure what he even wanted in that moment.
Tease him? That, definitely.
“Y’know, Suguru,” Satoru drawled, tossing his arms behind his head, “your hair’s way too long. Like a girl’s. Maybe you should cut it already, huh?”
Suguru stilled, glancing at him sideways.
“Like a girl’s?”
“Yeah. Smooth, shiny, all dramatically pretty when it’s down. Rapunzel, let down your hair!” Satoru went on.
Not quite Rapunzel-length yet, of course—Suguru’s hair reached just past his shoulder blades. But once he got going, it was hard to stop. And Satoru barreled straight into the trap of realization he’d set himself with his own teasing.
Suguru just gave a quiet huff, tightening the hair tie.
“I thought you liked girls.”
Whoa.
That hit too close—like Suguru had accidentally touched something off-limits.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
Satoru shot upright, glaring at him. No, that wasn’t accidental at all—he was teasing him back on purpose.
“You’re the one comparing me to princesses,” Suguru replied calmly, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Those dimples again. Gods, Satoru wanted to punch him. “Seems like you’re looking a little too closely.”
“Shut up,” Satoru muttered. His pale face flushed instantly, betraying him with a vivid blush.
He crossed his arms and sulked, which only amused Suguru more.
“Honestly, criticism from someone who looks like a dandelion exploded on his head isn’t exactly valid,” Suguru added.
“A dandelion?!” Satoru shot up.
Someone was asking for a second round—and this one might not stay friendly.
“Yeah,” Suguru nodded, just like that.
Satoru snapped. He reached out, hooked a finger under the tie holding Suguru’s neat bun, and yanked. Just to mess with him.
The knot fell apart instantly. Suguru’s hair spilled over his shoulders in a dark, silky wave.
And for a moment, time stopped.
Satoru froze, feeling the strands slide through his fingers—soft, softer than he remembered. Goosebumps prickled across his skin. A faint scent reached him—shampoo, fresh and herbal, with a teasing hint of flowers. A disaster! Satoru suddenly wanted to bury his face in that hair, breathe it in again, not let go—even though it had only lasted a few seconds… not enough.
What the hell was wrong with him?
“Well, great,” Suguru said, tucking a strand behind his ear.
His tone wasn’t angry—more indulgent, like he was dealing with a misbehaving kid. Which, to be fair, Satoru was. They both were.
Satoru swallowed against the dryness in his throat, leaning back abruptly and hiding behind a cocky grin.
“Hah. Now you definitely look like a princess.”
Suguru raised an eyebrow.
“You’re just jealous. Mine’s better than yours. That pisses you off, doesn’t it?”
“Better?!” Satoru laughed hoarsely—his heart pounding like crazy. “Have you even looked in a mirror? Yours is basically an invitation—‘save me, I’m a damsel in distress!’”
He knew he was exaggerating. Shoko’s voice echoed in his head—idiot, saying stuff like that is sexist!
Suguru narrowed his eyes, clearly plotting his revenge. His smile turned lazy, almost feline.
“If I’m a damsel in distress, then that makes you the prince who saves me?”
That hit way too close to what Satoru was trying to avoid. Trying to run from. If this were battleship, that would’ve been a hit—maybe even sinking one of his carefully drawn ships.
A disaster, just like he said.
“In your dreams.”
He shoved Suguru in the shoulder.
Suguru laughed, tilting his head to tie his hair again. It fell forward in dark silk once more. Satoru couldn’t look away—mesmerized by how the strands slid through Suguru’s fingers, how the sunlight played over black. Suguru calmly gathered his hair, silent, like their strange conversation was nothing unusual.
…Was this how people flirted?
Satoru turned away, pouting. He bit the inside of his cheek until it hurt.
The truth felt too frightening. More frightening than having his perfect hairstyle called a “crazy dandelion.”
He didn’t want to admit that every movement Suguru made set his heart racing—not out of irritation. Not at all. It was something else. Something unknown. Far more dangerous. That same anticipation from his dreams. A premonition hidden in someone else’s features.
The thing that made Satoru act “like a girl.”
Suguru made him panic.
It was a real disaster.
Stupid first love.