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The sauntering down the hallway and into Suguru's dorm room is anything but a newly occurred piece. Satoru—for how often he does this, the room might be as well dubbed as his too.
He doesn't knock. Suguru never locks it either.
Something echoes in Satoru's mind, reverberating among the lines of: "That's because he's expecting you."
He tells it to shut up.
Suguru doesn't even bother to look up when he enters, eyes fixated on a book, posture sturdy and firm as he sits by the hollowly vacant desk. Save for the single picture frame of his parents by the edge.
He doesn't look up when Satoru goes up to stand behind him. Doesn't look up when two, lanky arms drape themselves down his chest, and a chin jabbing the crown of his head.
"Hey," Satoru starts. The pull of his lips rivals those of confidence. "How's the most beautiful person in the world doing?"
He does, however, turns to a new page; paper delicate between his fingers, and blurs of kanjis visible through cowlicks.
"I'm not sure," Suguru says. "He seems to enjoy bothering me so, go figure."
Suguru's body unwinds. The back of his head touches the loose shirt of Satoru's.
There's a moment when Satoru goes rigid; perplexed—whatever it is you call it.
(Embarrassed?)
(Dumbstruck?)
(A heart that just skipped two beats apart?)
Shut up.
Satoru recovers almost immediately. "Well, he doesn't look all that bothered."
Suguru hums. Flicks a corner between his fingers. Tips his head to make contact with Satoru's arm.
"I suppose."
How did this happen. Why didn't he see it coming. He's supposed to be able to see it coming. Is it his fault? He's at fault, he is, he IS—
"Suguru."
Satoru crouches down. He tries. Tries his best not to tremble and shiver as he kneels down on the ground; the surface hard on his knees but it's numb compared to the weight on his chest.
Tries hard to keep his breathing even, a hand placed on Suguru's nape—
(it's cold. What's cold? His hand? Suguru's skin? He doesn't know. Doesn't want to think.)
Tries so hard to keep his throat unclogged. Little breaths—in and out, his mouth, his nose— as he rests his forehead against Suguru's—fuck, Suguru's cold—
Stop it. Don't think. Shut up.
Tries so, so hard not to cry—no, he's supposed to be the strongest.
"Hey," Satoru says, quiet, dimmed. A ghost of a smile wiping out of existence because fuck it—this is not something worth a smile upon. "How's the most beautiful person in the world doing?"
"I don't know." Suguru—his voice comes out in huffs of breaths, eyes looking into those of Satoru's—
Stop, don't look at me like that.
(How is he supposed to look at you?)
(On the verge of death by his best friend's hand)
Stop—Just shut up.
—"He seems sad." Suguru smiles. Just a meek tug.
"You're right. This is an exclusive event, I should be celebrating," Satoru says. Full breaths. His voice is stable.
"Hah," Suguru exhales. "At least curse at me a little at the very end."