Archive of Our Own ^beta

Satoru Gojo knows many things. 

Though he was never really a fan of the Japanese education system growing up, he’s always been eager to learn. He’s just never particularly cared for people telling him how he should gather information, or what subjects he should spend his efforts on. He doesn’t appreciate people telling him that certain pursuits are a waste of time.

He thinks he can figure that out for himself, thank you very much. 

And so he’s spent the last two decades of his life doing exactly that, steadily learning more and more about esoteric subjects that would make most people’s eyes cross. He’s even gotten a couple of PhD’s in the process, and if that isn’t dedication to the cause of knowledge, what is?

That’s not to say it’s been easy.

Though he’s plenty intelligent, the waters have muddied a bit as he’s gotten older. He knows now that not everything has an easy answer; life is not a math equation, where there’s a definite, correct solution to every problem. There are a thousand shades of gray in between the poles of white and black, and that, more often than not, is where the truth lies.

But there are three things that Satoru knows to be absolutely, unequivocally true, and that is where his mind’s been stuck of late.

For… reasons, of course.

Horny ones.

The first thing Satoru knows to be true is that:

1). His new yoga teacher is stupidly, unfairly hot. 

Like, alternative fashion model, indie band member, straight out of one of his teenage wet dreams hot. He’s tall and broad, with long, dark hair that he keeps tied back from his face in a knot while he teaches, and that ass -

The leggings have to be on purpose. They have to be. No one wears leggings that tight unless they’re trying to show off their assets, and fuck, does Suguru Geto have assets.

The things Satoru would do for this man. The things he would do - he doesn’t even know him all that well, if he’s being honest. But he can confidently say that he would give up sweets for a year (okay, a month) to go on a date with the guy, for the chance to run his fingers through that hair and press his mouth to the tattoos running down the line of his neck to disappear beneath his tank top. 

Do they feel different than regular skin? Do they taste different? 

Inquiring minds want to know. 

Which segues nicely into the second thing that Satoru knows, which is that:

2). He would do ungodly, absolutely criminal things in order to get his yoga teacher to take him home and blow his fucking back out.

Honestly, they don’t even have to get that far. 

He doesn’t need a bed - they can do it in his car, or maybe in the back of the studio once class has finished for the day. They could fuck in a dark, abandoned alleyway for all he cares, as long as he gets to feel those hands on him, that mouth pressing against his.

He’s not picky.

Nor is he ashamed. 

So what if he has a weakness for a smooth, sensuous voice and a wry, almost mean sense of humor? Who cares if he has a soft spot for big hands and dark eyes, if he sometimes catches a whiff of whatever ashy, fragrant cologne Geto wears and wants to fucking drown in it?

He’s just a man, after all - a man who is very much besotted with the guy who’s helping him improve his downward dog. He sees no reason to be embarrassed about a perfectly healthy, natural sort of attraction to another human being.

But unfortunately, he’s run into a problem. Because while it’s all well and good to have a little crush, the third thing that Satoru knows to be true is that:

3). All of this means nothing when said yoga teacher is completely fucking oblivious to every attempt Satoru has made to catch his eye.

It’s a bit of a bummer, really.

Because Satoru’s running out of ways to grab Geto’s attention.

He gets to class early, chatting the man up before everyone else gets there for the day. He sometimes also stays late, trying to score brownie points by helping him pack up the yoga mats and stacking the blocks at the back of the room. 

He’s even brought Geto tea a couple of times, having memorized his drink order after seeing him walk around the room with a to-go cup in his hands one day a couple months ago. 

And Satoru doesn’t just bring people tea -

Mostly because herbal tea is disgusting and bitter and green, and the only drinks that should be green are the ones that come out of vending machines, with enough caffeine in them to merit a warning label on the back. 

But also because he’s not used to having to fight to grab someone’s attention.

He generally has people falling all over him, whether it’s because he’s attractive or wealthy or some fatal combination of the two, and while he doesn’t always like that, it has made his prior attempts to get laid pretty fucking easy. He’s not accustomed to struggling to catch someone’s eye, of failing to seduce someone quite so spectacularly.

Not that he’s failed, really.

Geto seems to like him well enough; a couple of weeks ago, he’d even given Satoru his personal phone number. And though he’d no doubt meant it as a way for Satoru to contact him about signing up for more classes, they manage to chat every now and then, sending each other stupid memes and silly cat videos, and a couple of times, Geto’s returned the favor and brought Satoru a disgustingly sweet blend of coffee and cream that he sucks down before class. 

So yeah, they’re friendly. 

They talk.

But all of the times Satoru has tried to take things to the next level, Geto just doesn’t seem to get it. 

It doesn’t even seem to register, like his brain is writing off all of Satoru’s dirty jokes and cocky grins as him just trying to be funny. He never responds to Satoru’s attempts at promiscuity with anything more than friendly laughter, and when he occasionally gets too raunchy, telling a joke that doesn’t quite land, Geto just rolls his eyes and fondly shakes his head, a gentle That’s enough, Satoru, falling from his lips.

Satoru can’t tell whether he’s getting shot down on purpose or not.

And Shoko, god love her, is no help.

Though she’s the one who pushed Satoru into taking this class in the first place, giving him some crap about how he needs to start being proactive about his health as they get older, she absolutely refuses to help him nail his teacher. She won’t even give him pointers about what he’s doing wrong, waving him off when he asks for good, objective advice, and honestly?

It’s just plain rude.

“Talk to the guy,” has been her only helpful hint so far, delivered bluntly one day after class when Geto had once again failed to respond to his shenanigans with anything more than an amused smirk. “Tell him what you want.”

“But Shoko,” he had whined. “I don’t wanna make the first move!”

She’d shot him an exasperated look, looking up from her phone with a scowl on her face. “How else is he going to know you’re into him?” she’d demanded. 

“He’ll read my mind, obviously.”

She’d laughed at that. Actually, physically cackled as she pulled a cigarette out of the carton in her purse, lighting up before they’d even made it to the train station.

“You’re doomed.”

The prognosis was bleak - and much as he hated to admit it, Shoko wasn’t wrong.

Because for all that he doesn’t lack for experience (of course not), Satoru is used to being wooed, of having people literally fall at his feet in the hopes of sleeping with him. 

He’s not used to being in the opposite position, of wanting so badly for his own feelings to be reciprocated that he’s making a complete idiot out of himself on an almost daily basis. 

He doesn’t know what to do when someone doesn’t immediately bend over backwards to please him. He doesn’t know how to make someone interested in him - most of the people he sleeps with already are (or at least, they pretend to be) and so ninety percent of the work has been done for him. Where does he start? What does he do? 

He’d thought he was doing a pretty decent job of initiating things, for someone who’s never done it before. He thinks his interest is pretty fucking obvious.

But Geto is giving him nothing here, and he’s beginning to doubt everything.

Maybe he doesn’t actually like Satoru. 

Maybe he’s just putting up with him because Satoru is a paying customer, and wouldn’t that be rich? If after a lifetime of people fawning over him and telling him how pretty he is, how desirable, how wonderful, the one person Satoru actually wants back isn’t attracted to him? 

And sure, most of that’s bullshit. 

He’s well aware that people will say a lot of things to get in his pants. He’s said a bunch of things to egg them on, encouraging the advances of people he couldn’t care less about in order to scratch an itch his hand alone wouldn’t satisfy. 

He’s under no illusions that he’s a good person, or that he deserves Geto’s attention just because it’s what he wants.

It’s still driving him crazy, though.

It’s driving him fucking nuts -

Especially when Geto wraps his hands around Satoru’s waist and pulls to adjust his yoga positions, urging him to lengthen his spine and cant his hips up. Or when he snakes a foot between his legs, trying to get him to widen his stance so that he’s better balanced. 

“That’s better,” he coos, patting Satoru’s hip in a way that is definitely, one hundred percent not giving him dirty thoughts. He’s certainly not in danger of popping a boner in the middle of this yoga class just from the way Geto’s fingers accidentally drag against the exposed skin of his side, no, he is not. “You’re doing so good, Satoru.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

He should’ve worn the baggy pants.

“And now we’re going to walk our hands back towards our feet,” Geto continues, moving back towards the front of the room without a care in the world, like he hasn’t just destroyed what little concentration Satoru came into class with, “and slowly roll up to a standing position.”

Satoru obeys, his eyes glued towards Geto’s strong, muscled back as he follows the movements of their current flow; it’s automatic at this point, the poses so ingrained in him after four months of classes that he could do them in his sleep. He doesn’t need to watch where his hands go as he raises them into the air; he doesn’t have to look at the ground to avoid falling down onto his face.

And so he doesn’t.

Instead, he watches Geto, and tries not to let any depraved noises slip from his lips.

Class ends as it always does - with some gentle encouragement from their teacher and a reminder of when the next session will be. Geto wishes them all a good evening and thanks them for coming, the smile on his face broad and serene.

Satoru catches his eye as he drops out of their last pose, hoping to grab his attention as the rest of the group files past him towards the exit. 

Unfortunately, someone else has gotten to him first. 

Satoru scowls when he realizes it’s that woman from the front row, the idiot who still hasn’t managed to learn the difference between warrior two and three. 

He hates her. 

He hates how she always seems to pick the spot closest to where Geto stands, how she always seems to need his help. He despises how she constantly looks to him for validation, using his arms to steady herself when her balance starts to waver.

And sure, Geto offers. 

It’s not like she’s just fucking grabbing him whenever he walks by.

But Satoru can’t help but feel a little jealous whenever he sees it happen, whenever this woman opens her mouth and takes up space that Satoru wants to fill.

Geto smirks at him over the woman’s shoulder, as if he can feel Satoru’s impatience. He puts a finger to his lips, looking for all the world like he’s still listening to the woman complain -

But Satoru can tell that’s not it.

He knows the gesture is for him alone, a polite quiet now, Satoru that only he can hear.

He sighs and waves Shoko on ahead of him as he slowly rolls up his mat, saying something about stretching out his hamstrings a little more; whatever excuse will work. He’ll catch up with her later, he’s sure, because Shoko never misses a chance to rag on him and they take the same train back to their respective apartments. 

She sees right through him, knowing exactly why he’s puttering around instead of putting on his shoes. “Dumbass,” she murmurs, shaking her head. But she leaves without protest, already reaching for a cigarette as she heads for the ground floor, and then he and Geto are alone.  

Finally.

“Satoru.”

Satoru has to suppress a shiver, Geto’s soft, low voice like velvet. He has to fight not to think of how it would sound in his ear, whispering the most delicious things as Geto fucked into him from behind, telling him every little thing he planned to do to Satoru just before he did it -

“Need me for something?”

Only everything.

Every twisted, debauched fantasy he’s ever had, to help him slake this heady, aching desire he hadn’t realized was even possible to feel.

But he can’t just say that, not if he wants to maintain the illusion that’s not hopelessly infatuated with the man standing in front of him. So he just sticks a hand behind his head and smiles, hoping it comes off as boyishly charming and not pathetically stupid.

“Just cleaning up!” he says brightly. “I think Shoko stole my water bottle, can you believe it?”

Geto blinks, eyes flicking down to the traitorous, half-empty plastic jug by Satoru’s feet. “Is that not it there?” he asks, pointing.

Satoru’s smile slips a bit as he looks down to the ground.

Oh, god fucking dammit. 

The one time the woman doesn’t nick his water bottle, and he has to go and say something about it. Now he just looks like an idiot, one who can’t keep track of his basic belongings, and he’s going to have to think of something else to keep the conversation going. Something smart, something cool, something eloquent -

“Nope,” he says instead. “Not mine.”

Geto pauses. “Are you sure? I thought I recognized it.”

“Nah.” Satoru shifts, opting for a casual lean against the exposed brick wall where their coats and shoes are stacked, flipping his hair out of his face. “She definitely took it.”

“...isn’t that a sticker of your face on it?”

Satoru blanches and nearly falls over.

Fuck, he’d forgotten about the stickers. 

It had been Shoko’s idea, of course, to plaster tiny, stupid stickers of a tiny, cartoon version of his face all over the bright pink bottle. Her attempt at a joke, he guesses. 

And yeah, sure, he’d found it pretty hilarious at the time!

But now Geto is looking at him like he’s grown a second head, and he kind of just wants to shrivel up and die, so.

“Hah! You know, funnily enough, it is,” he says, bending over to pick up the stupid drink, forcing out a laugh. “I guess she didn’t steal it, after all!”

“You should pay more attention to your things,” Geto chides, lips curling up into a smirk.

Satoru nods. “I should.”

“You wouldn’t want to lose such a nice, thoughtfully made water bottle.”

Satoru would most definitely like to throw it out the window of his car while speeding along at a hundred and twenty kilometers per hour, but that’s neither here nor there.

“It’s good you’re still here, though.”

He stills, eyeing Geto curiously. “It is?”

“I have something I wanted to ask you - without everyone else listening in,” he adds, winking, and Satoru thinks he could die.

Because though he’s imagined that teasing, coy look on Geto’s face in an untold number of situations, he hadn’t really expected he’d get a chance to actually see it live and in person, most certainly not right after making such a colossal idiot of himself.

He almost pinches his arm, to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

Almost, because he’s already oh for two on successful attempts at looking cool today, and he can’t afford to strike out.

Not now, when Geto wants to ask him something special.

And what is something special, exactly? 

What would Geto want to ask him that he couldn’t say in front of the rest of the class?

Satoru’s heart rate suddenly spikes, his palms growing uncomfortably tacky with sweat.

Is this -

Is it actually happening? Has Geto finally noticed his shamefully blatant interest and determined that he reciprocates, is he going to ask if he’s down to fuck?!

All signs point to yes, the little voice in his head helpfully declares, noting that Geto has A) never winked at him before today, and B) has pushed closer to Satoru than he usually stands, even going so far as to put a friendly hand on his arm. 

That’s flirtatious behavior, dammit, he knows what he’s seeing here!

…and if Satoru elects to push aside the other little voice in his head, the one that tries to remind him that Geto could also be getting ready to tell him to finally fuck off, that his staring is unwanted and inappropriate and he could do so much better than the beanpole in the back who still can’t manage a proper headstand to save his life, that’s -

Geto hums, toeing on a pair of shoes as he reaches for his jacket. “I’ve been meaning to ask for a couple of weeks now, honestly, but I keep forgetting.” 

Oh, god, it is.

It is happening.

Satoru feels like he’s going to throw up, like he’s going to be sick in the best possible way, his stomach a mass of anticipation and giddiness and sheer, unbridled lust. 

Will Geto ask him back to his apartment? Will they go back to Satoru’s place? 

Maybe he wants to get something to eat first. It is getting close to the time when most people have dinner, and Satoru can admit to being a little peckish. 

Not to mention, fucking takes energy, and energy is derived from calories, so -

“What would you say if I asked you to -”

“Yes.”

Geto laughs, bright and sunny, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s his real laugh, Satoru notes, and not the fake one he uses with Ms. Can’t Stand on One Foot. 

He feels inordinately proud for having been the one to receive it.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask,” Geto points out.

Satoru’s grin is broad and bold. “I can guess.”

Geto’s eyebrows raise at that. “Yeah? I wasn’t sure if you’d want to, honestly. It’s a bit of a commitment.” 

Oh, Satoru is in heaven, he wants a relationship, too? He doesn’t just want Satoru for his body?

To be honest, Satoru isn’t much of a relationship guy. He can admit to that. 

It’s just too much effort; people don’t tend to hold his interest for much longer than a handful of weeks, and so while he’s had several situationships over the past decade, calling any of those flings a relationship would be a bit of a stretch. The closest he’s ever come was the friends with benefits arrangement he’d had with a guy back in college; the two of them had kept things going for almost two years, the sex too good to quit, and Satoru still isn’t sure whether or not he’d ever learned the guy’s last name.

He thinks he knew it, at one point.

Probably.

He certainly can’t recall it now though, and given that he’d moved halfway across the country as soon as he’d graduated, he doesn’t think it’s relevant.

But Geto is different. 

Geto isn’t someone Satoru’s going to be able to forget. He’s been the object of Satoru’s awkward affections for going on three months now, and while that might not seem like very long, in terms of the span of Satoru’s attention, that’s practically forever. He’s wormed his way inside Satoru’s head and taken up permanent residence there, inched his way inside every ooey, gooey romantic fantasy he’s ever had and rewritten his every fucking desire. He is all Satoru wants, all that he needs.

And to think that Geto maybe feels the same way -

Satoru clears his throat, realizing Geto is still waiting for an answer. “I can do commitment,” he says, dismissive. “Of course I can.”

“It’s an hour and a half, three times a week,” Geto replies. 

That’s… a really fucking weird way to talk about hooking up, Satoru thinks. Like it’s just something else to block off on his calendar, and not a spontaneous event.

But whatever, Satoru isn’t going to complain. 

He can deal.

“And there’s an optional two hour session on Sundays, as well. If you feel you need the additional time to practice.”

Practice?

Practice what? 

Is there going to be a test on how well he can suck a dick, how good of a kisser he is? Is he going to be rated one to ten, the chance of a repeat encounter based on how many standard deviations he is from the mean?

He’s… not entirely sure. 

He’s always been pretty good at winging it though, and so he just grins and sidles a little closer, and asks, “Do you think I need the practice?”

Geto chuckles, the sound rich and dark. “We’ll see,” he allows. “I’d like to see how well you perform at the next level, first.”

Satoru barely swallows back the whine that threatens to escape from his throat. 

Because fuck.  

He’s going to lose it, here and now, in this tiny, poorly ventilated yoga studio that always smells like incense and eucalyptus. He’s going to fucking die, unable to take this teasing any more; and then maybe Geto will resuscitate (kiss) him back to life, and he’ll ascend, and they can go home and fuck like animals on every available surface in his apartment, just as god intended -

“Thanks, Satoru. Really. This means a lot to me.”

The looks that Geto gives him is a little bashful, not quite shy, and oh -

Satoru could fucking eat him up.

He laughs, a little of his former confidence restored. “A little early to be thanking me, isn’t it?”

“Not at all.”

Satoru leans in even further then, already bending down - 

But Geto takes a step back before he can do anything, heading back to the little desk in the corner of the studio to grab his bag. He hoists it over one shoulder, oblivious to the way Satoru barely catches himself before falling onto his face, and nods towards the door that leads downstairs.

“Shall we?” 

Satoru helplessly follows.

“I was afraid I was going to have to drop the class,” Suguru mentions as he locks up. “There’s a minimum number of people that have to sign up, you know. Otherwise, the revenue the class generates isn’t enough to offset the costs of hosting the class, and the studio cancels.”

Wait. 

Hold up.

…what?

“And I know you’ve only been taking beginner level classes for a few months now, but you’re very good. Your flexibility has improved dramatically, and you’re already doing some more advanced poses. I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but you’re the best in the class. Easily.”

“I’ve noticed,” Satoru says drily. 

Geto laughs, like he’s said something funny. “Of course you have.”

He steps out into the stairwell, taking them two at a time to accommodate his long legs. Seeing his window of opportunity rapidly closing here, Satoru hastens to follow.

“Wait, so this is - you want me to take your advanced class?” he guesses. “That’s what you wanted to ask me?”

“It was, yes.”

“Because you need one more person and don’t want to have to cancel it.”

“Correct.”

“Then this wasn’t -” His mouth snaps shut when he sees Geto hoist his bag onto the back of a shiny black motorcycle parked along the curb, strapping it down so that it’s not in danger of falling off. It’s a good distraction from the way his heart has just fallen out the bottom of his stomach, plummeting down to his feet in disappointment. “Wait, seriously? This is how you get to work?”

Geto cocks his head to the side, pulling a helmet out of a leather bag sitting across the back. 

“Yes?” he offers.

Satoru has, literally, no words for how hot that is.

And so he just stands there, watching, as Geto moves to straddle the bike, powerful thighs flexing as he gets his balance.

“I don’t live too far from here, so there’s no need to take the train,” Geto explains. “But it’s still a bit too far to walk, so…” He shrugs, holding his hair up with one hand as he tugs the helmet on with the other. “The bike just made sense.”

“Huh.”

“Why?” Geto grins then, winking at Satoru again, for the second time in a number of minutes, and fuck, but he is really sending Satoru mixed signals here! “Don’t tell me you’re worried?”

“I’m not worried,” Satoru scoffs. He waves a hand, trying to encompass the yoga studio, the bike, and those insanely aggravating leggings all at once as he adds, “But it doesn’t really fit the whole vibe, you know?”

“The vibe,” Geto repeats.

“The yoga teacher vibe,” Satoru confirms. 

Geto blinks at him, long and slow. “I can’t say I know what you mean.”

Satoru waves his hand again, more forcefully this time. “You know,” he huffs. “The vibe, like - no caffeine, Lululemon, smoothies, meditation!” 

“…I’m a yoga teacher, Satoru, not a victim of a multi-level marketing scheme.”

“Yeah, okay -”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with a little mindfulness training.”

“I know that. But - whatever, it’s not important! What I meant was, it seems like a yoga teacher should be driving something more… environmentally friendly than that thing - like a Prius. Or maybe a Honda.”

“This is a Honda.”

Shit.

He should’ve paid more attention to the bike, because yep, that is differently the brand name that is stamped across the bottom piece of plastic - in bright red letters, no less. Now Satoru just looks like he can’t fucking read, and what was that about three strikes again?

He huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes. 

“Well, maybe you should just walk.”

Geto laughs. “You really don’t like my bike.”

“I love your bike,” Satoru disagrees. “I’m just saying it doesn’t fit the aesthetic.”

“The yoga teacher aesthetic.”

“Exactly.”

“Mmm. Too bad.” He sticks the key in the ignition then, and the engine purrs to life. “This yoga teacher was going to offer you a ride home, but if you don’t think it fits my image…”

Satoru has to fight not to make a face.

Because while there is probably nothing he would like more than to wrap his arms around Geto’s broad, toned back and cling to him while zooming down the streets of suburban Tokyo, his train station is just a couple blocks away. There’s nowhere for Geto to take him, not without making it painfully obvious how desperate he is.

And while Satoru has it pretty fucking bad for the guy, he’s not quite that far gone.

Right?

Wrong, he thinks, watching how smoothly Geto handles the bike, how he adjusts his mirrors and flips up the kickstand with practiced ease. He has no business looking as hot as he does while performing such routine tasks, and Satoru decides then and there it isn’t his fault he’s so weak. 

It’s Geto’s, obviously. 

Geto and his stupid, sexy thighs straddling his stupid, sexy bike. 

He should come with a warning label, or maybe some kind of content advisory - may cause irreparable damage to your circulatory and respiratory systems; side effects include but are not limited to heart palpitations, sweaty palms, heavy breathing, and intense sexual arousal. If you or a loved one has experienced any of these symptoms before -

“Satoru?”

- you may be entitled to financial compensation. 

Screw it, he thinks. 

He might not have scored a date tonight, but maybe he can still get something out of this exchange. Maybe it isn’t a total loss.

With an eager grin, he steps forward, sliding into position behind Geto.

“Put your feet there,” Geto instructs, indicating two bars of metal on either side of the back wheel. “And hold onto my waist.”

Satoru leans forward, hooking his chin over Geto’s shoulder as he slides his arms around Geto’s hips. God, he smells so good; Satoru wants to bottle it up and take it home with him, maybe spritz it on his pillows like some fancy air freshener. And the way he feels -

Geto’s body is firm beneath his grasp, corded muscle atop a strong, solid core. Though he’s not quite as tall as Satoru, he’s easily half again as broad, and he’s just so warm.

Ugh, he’s perfect - the actual embodiment of perfection, and Satoru wants him so bad.

But he’ll be good. He’ll keep his hands to himself until Geto tells him to do otherwise, and so he just loosely clasps his hands around the other man’s waist instead of curling them into the fabric of his shirt (or worse - sliding his hands into his pockets, digging into those taut thighs he’s seen teased in class).

“Like this?” he asks.

Geto chuckles, grabbing Satoru’s hands and repositioning them over his stomach.

“Hold on tighter,” he says. “I don’t want you to fall off.”

Satoru wheezes out what he hopes is a laugh, trying desperately hard not to think about where his hands are sitting, or how close his fingers are to Geto’s lap.

Not when his own groin is pressed right up against Geto’s (glorious, glorious) ass, apt to give away exactly how turned on he is by the situation. Not when there’s barely a handful of centimeters between them.

Later though, once he’s back in his apartment -

Oh yeah.

This is a fantasy he’s gonna let play out. He’s gonna let his imagination take him where it will, his favorite dildo in hand, and then, once he’s finished, he’s gonna save the memory to his spank bank.

For posterity.

“So where am I taking you?”

Satoru blinks himself out of a haze, pointing east.

“Hmm? Oh. The train station, please!”

“...the one that’s two blocks away?”

“Hey, you’re the one that offered to give me a ride,” Satoru points out. He lets his knee knock into Geto’s thigh, grinning at him in one of the side mirrors. “Or did I have to pick a place outside of the yoga studio’s general vicinity?”

To his delight, Geto laughs.

“I guess I didn’t specify,” he allows, looking back over his shoulder to make sure he’s not about to pull out into oncoming traffic. “The train station it is, then.”

Satoru thinks it’s the best minute and a half of his life. 

Geto doesn’t drive too fast, considering Satoru doesn’t have a helmet and they’re in a pretty busy area. The wind flying into his face is just harsh enough to cool the lingering sweat on his brow, and though his bag is an uncomfortable pressure against the small of his back, he can’t be bothered to care. 

Not when he’s been given the chance to press his face into Geto’s shoulder, when he’s been given free reign to hold onto him as tightly as he wants under the guise of safety.

It’s over altogether too soon, and he doesn’t bother to hide his pout when Geto swings into the drop-off lane and pulls over to the curb. 

“Have fun?” Geto asks, grinning at him as he hops off the bike.

“That was too short,” he pouts.

“Pick someplace farther away next time,” Geto advises, shrugging.

Satoru perks up.

“Next time? There’s a next time?”

“If you want.”

Satoru wants. 

He wants that very badly - so much so that he apparently says it out loud, before he can even register he’s spoken. He flushes, stepping away to look at the train schedule, a little thrill shooting through him at the way Geto can’t seem to look away from him.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, his voice low as he turns the bike around, preparing to zoom off the other direction. 

I sincerely hope you do.

“See you in class, Satoru.”

Advanced yoga, Satoru discovers, is hard.

It’s not that the positions change; a lot of the poses are the same ones that Geto had taught in the beginner’s classes, just with some fancy progressions added in. Though he’s clearly the least experienced among the advanced students, Satoru’s surprised to find he’s not actually that far behind the rest of the people in his new group in terms of basic yoga knowledge.

But he does have to hold each pose a lot longer before Geto lets them move along in the flow, and that’s what really gets him. 

He’s no longer standing in warrior two for thirty seconds, just long enough to have his quads burning before they move on to reverse warrior - he’s standing there for two fucking minutes, and the more he tries to keep himself still, the more his limbs start to shake and tremble.

By the time the first class is over, his entire body feels like jelly. 

It’s not the hope of getting lucky that has him lying around on his mat long after everyone else has left for the night; it’s necessity, and when he finally flops over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling, he finds Geto’s amused face staring down at him.

“Still doing alright?” he asks. 

“Gimme ten minutes. I’ll do it all again.”

Geto laughs at that - laughs at him - and bends over, ever merciful as he holds out a hand.

Satoru, ever greedy, takes it.

“It’s a bit of a step up in difficulty,” Geto admits, squeezing Satoru’s palm. “But I thought you did really well today, for your first class. I was impressed.”

To his utter mortification, Satoru flushes. The praise goes straight to his head, in the worst way possible, and also to his dick, a heat that has nothing to do with the ambient temperature in the room suffusing him. He lets go of Geto’s hand far more quickly than he’d like, turning away in a desperate bid for the time he needs to regain control of himself.

Geto, unfortunately, notices.

“Aww, are you embarrassed?” he teases. 

“No,” Satoru says quickly.

Too quickly. The grin on Geto’s face deepens into something mean, and he reaches a hand out, poking Satoru’s very red cheek.

“You are,” he says. “That or you’re shy, and we both know that isn’t true.”

“Never.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night -”

“I can’t be embarrassed. It is, actually, physically impossible. I have no shame.”

“Then why’re you so red?”

“It’s hot.” Satoru whips out a hand, waving at his face. “Seriously, this room is on fire, haven’t you noticed? Geez, open a window or something -”

“The heat is the point,” Geto replies. “That’s why they call it hot yoga.”

“A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“The warmth improves your circulation. That’s better for your muscles, and -”

“Says who?”

“Says science.”

Satoru scoffs. “I’m gonna need to read a few articles before I believe that.” 

Geto isn’t deterred. “I have links.”

“Scientific ones,” Satoru clarifies. “Four authors, at least, from reputable journals. And if the impact factor is less than four, don’t even bother.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Can you?” 

Geto crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll text you later tonight.”

And maybe that shouldn’t excite Satoru as much as it does -

The idea of Geto promising to text him what amounts to an annotated bibliography. But it’s a lot more serious than the garbage they usually shoot back and forth, and Satoru can’t help but get excited as he rushes back to his apartment. 

He speeds through his normal post-workout routine, not even bothering to dry his hair after he steps out of the shower. He isn’t going anywhere, he figures, and it dries quickly enough on its own. It means he’ll have to go to work in the morning vaguely resembling a cotton ball, sure, but he’s not about to sacrifice precious minutes styling his hair when it means he might miss out on a text from his crush. 

Instead, he just irritably wipes at the back of his neck with a towel as he reheats some leftovers for dinner, and when his phone finally - finally - vibrates just as he shovels the last bit of rice into his mouth, it feels like vindication.

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 18:35 > your scientific articles, as requested

A second message quickly follows, listing out a handful of links that Satoru is all too eager to browse. He reads each article quickly, pleasantly surprised that Geto’s followed his instructions and provided good, quality research material, and when he finally texts him back, he’s more than a little impressed.

< Satoru  - 19:21 > ok, read everything now

< Satoru - 19:22 > this is good shit, geto. u know ur stuff

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:24 > wow

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:24 > to think I’ve earned the great satoru gojo’s basic respect

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:25 > I’m so flattered

< Satoru - 19:26 > ur welcome :) u should be

< Satoru - 19:26 > but really, u go to school for this or something?

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:26 > I went to school to be a doctor

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:27 > but that was before I realized how much work goes into being a doctor

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:27 > the research part stuck though

< Satoru - 19:27 > no kidding

< Satoru - 19:27 > shoko’s a doctor u know

< Satoru - 19:27 > and she’s always so grumpy

Geto doesn’t deign to comment on Shoko’s apparent grumpiness. 

Probably because he doesn’t really know her, their interactions restricted to the couple of times a week she shows up for yoga. Which, honestly, is just as well -

Because if she knew Geto on a more personal level, she’d be dropping hints left and right about how fucking besotted with him Satoru is, and there’s only so much of that his ego can take.

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:28 > what did you go to school for?

Satoru easily adapts to the change in subject, thrilled Geto’s thought to keep the conversation going past its natural ending point.

< Satoru - 19:28 > guess! :D 

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:28 > …communications

< Satoru - 19:29 > first of all, geto, how dare u

< Satoru - 19:29 > second - the liberal arts??? 

< Satoru - 19:30 > i could fucking never

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:31 > why do you keep calling me that?

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:31 > sensitive subject, I see

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:32 > ok, um… chemistry?

< Satoru - 19:32 > close! 

< Satoru - 19:32 > and because its ur name…?

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:33 > physics?

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:33 > yeah, my LAST name

< Geto <3 <3 <3 - 19:34 > that makes it seem like we’re strangers. call me suguru. 

It takes Satoru a few minutes to respond to that one.

Mostly because he feels a little like he can’t breathe, the warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach threatening to spew up and out of his mouth and into the air. 

He feels - giddy, at the implication that the two of them are something more than just acquaintances, that they’re actual friends who actually like each other. 

Maybe more than just friends, if the winking emoji Geto - no, Suguru, his mind helpfully suggests - sends his way next is any indication.

God, he could die.

He could fucking die, and in this moment, he’d be happy.

It takes him only a moment to update the contact information in his phone, and then he’s thumbing back over to their wall of text messages, sending off a frankly egregious number of little heart shaped emojis in response to this latest development.

Suguru, bless him, sends back one little black heart.

It’s the best text Satoru thinks he’s ever received.

“Progress report.”

Satoru blinks, looking up from the ice cream he’d been inhaling. “What?”

“Chew your food, Satoru,” Shoko snaps. “You’re not a toddler.”

“It’s ice cream,” he shoots back. “Who chews ice cream?”

“Then swallow. I’ve heard you’re good at that.”

“From who, Nanami?”

Shoko frowns. “You had sex with Nanami?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Satoru retorts. “Nanami isn’t my type, and he’s been dating Haibara forever. But he and I do talk about that sort of thing, you know. As good friends do.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“Bullshit,” she says again, more confidently this time. “Nanami wouldn’t talk to you about sex even if you paid him to do it.”

“Okay, so maybe I’m talking at him instead of talking to him - but he’s still there! He’s a part of the conversation!”

“Willingly?”

Having scooped the last bit of chocolate soft serve into his mouth, Satoru pushes his bowl away and grabs a napkin to clean up. “How dare you imply that I would ever force Nanami into a discussion against his will,” he sighs. “I’m hurt.”

Unfazed, Shoko pulls out a cigarette. “Uh-huh.”

“Truly, physically wounded -”

“Quit avoiding the question.”

“What question was that?”

“How’s it going with Geto?”

Satoru considers, taking the high road as he lets himself be distracted. “Well, do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asks.

“Surprise me.”

He decides to start with the good. “We’ve been talking more lately. Like, a lot. Practically every night. And he told me to call him Suguru!”

He’s still not quite over that - being on a first name basis with his crush. It feels so intimate, like something special.  

No one else in the class calls him by his given name, he thinks rather smugly.

And sure, Suguru had been calling him Satoru for months now - but that’s different. That was the only name he’d bothered to write down on the form when he’d signed up for the class. 

What else was Suguru supposed to call him? 

In contrast, having permission to use Suguru’s name feels like an opportunity, one Satoru takes every time he can, really rolling the syllables around on his tongue and dragging it out - 

And fuck, but he likes the way it sounds on his lips.

“He always tells me good night and says he hopes I have sweet dreams. And in the mornings, he sends me little smiley emojis and says ‘good morning, sunshine’.”

“Disgusting. Tell me more.”

“But on the fucking front…” Satoru reluctantly admits, “I’ve got nothing to report.”

Shoko tilts her head at that, surprised. “Really?”

Satoru nods, the admission making him glum all of a sudden.

“Seems like he likes you, though.”

“I mean, yeah. Who wouldn’t?” He slumps forward onto the table, then, pushing his spoon around in the empty ice cream bowl. “But does he like like me?”

“Well, what are you doing to try and get your point across?” 

“Lots.”

“...I can’t believe I’m saying this, but give me some examples.”

Satoru holds out a hand, ticking off fingers as he goes.

“I show up to class early and take out the yoga mats. I stay late and put the mats away. I make it a point to bring him his stupid drinks that smell like grass every other class, and when I accidentally spilled one on his shirt, I went out and bought him a new one to say sorry!”

“Wow,” Shoko deadpans. “You’re really laying it on thick.”

“What else do I have to do?” Satoru demands. “Show up outside his apartment with a sign and a boombox?” He snorts. “People don’t even have boomboxes anymore, or CD’s, what the fuck.”

“...please tell me you don’t know where he lives.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Thank God -”

“If I did, I’d have sent the shirt to him directly, instead of just throwing it at him after class.”

Shoko makes a frustrated noise, and he hears the sound of something dropping from her hand - her spoon, maybe, or perhaps the last of her sanity. 

“Look, Satoru,” she says. “Geto doesn’t need you to help him put away the yoga mats.”

Satoru blinks. “He doesn’t?”

“He’s a yoga teacher,” she says, her voice flat. “It’s literally his job to prepare for and clean up after the classes he teaches.”

“So me helping him put everything away is…”

“Nice, but not necessary.”

“...huh.”

“He probably thinks you’re trying to be friendly. And that’s not what you’re going for here.”

Satoru makes a soft, pitiful sound. “No.”

“Buying him drinks is a little better,” she allows, “but again, still kinda in the realm of friendly behavior. And that’s to say nothing about the fact that you’re spilling them on him.”

“It was one time!” Satoru interjects. “And I tripped!”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure.”

“And the shirt?”

“Honestly, I’d find that a little creepy. You should’ve just offered to have it dry-cleaned.”

Satoru tries to think back to that day, tries to recall exactly how it had gone down - and honestly, it really wasn’t his fault he’d spilled the drink. The guy in the front row of the advanced class liked to use two yoga mats instead of one, something about needing extra padding for his plantar fasciitis, and if the mats weren’t perfectly aligned, it created just enough of a gap between the floor and the foam for someone to trip over. 

Which was precisely what had happened. He’d snagged his socked foot on the mat, the tea had practically jumped out of his hand, and hot, green liquid had gone flying.

But Suguru hadn’t seemed upset. 

If anything, he’d seemed amused, snorting out a burst of laughter so inelegant and genuine that Satoru could only stare, even as the tea dripped down his hand and onto the floor.

Two Mat Man hadn’t been so lucky; he’d been right in the splash zone, the scream he’d let out absolutely, one hundred percent way more dramatic than what Satoru felt was necessary. 

But who cared about him? 

Served him right for being a general nuisance.

“I think you’re going to have to be direct here.”

Satoru pouts. “But I don’t like being direct.”

“Do you want him to fuck you?”

“...yes.”

“Then you have to tell him that. Honestly, Satoru, quit being coy.”

“But being coy is part of my charm!”

“It’s cute when you’re sixteen. It’s not when you’re twenty-eight.”

“You’re mean. Why am I friends with you, again?”

“Because you’ll do anything for a bowl of ice cream and some chocolate-covered marshmallows.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Seriously, Satoru - this isn’t as hard as you’re making it out to be. Just talk to the guy about what you want. How do you think I got together with Utahime?”

Satoru’s nose scrunches. “Ew, stop. I don’t wanna hear about that.”

Shoko blows a very unamused cloud of smoke into his face. “What, so you can talk about how you want Geto to rail you but I can’t talk about my girlfriend?”

“Exactly.”

Shoko is not impressed. “Why are we friends?”

“I don’t know,” he retorts. “We just - always have been.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“...sunk cost fallacy?”

She considers that for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Figuring it’s about time they vacate their booth, Satoru pushes to his feet and grabs his trash. “Look,” he says, heading for the nearest bin. “I’ll try to be more direct with Geto.”

Shoko follows along, lets him walk her to the nearest bus stop. “Good. Tell him how you feel, and use your big boy words.”

He rolls his eyes, but nods, shooting her his best stern look. “Aye aye, captain. And you - quit smoking so much after class. You’re ruining all the hard work we do!”

“Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

“I’ll report back next week.”

“You better. Same time, same place?”

Satoru nods in agreement, waving good-bye as the bus pulls in. 

He just hopes next time he has something to say.

“Satoru.”

He looks up from packing up his things, surprised to see that Suguru is watching him. He smiles, patting the yoga mat stretched out beside him. 

Does he… want Satoru to pick it up? Put it back with the others? 

He guesses it is about the time he usually does that, though he hasn’t started cleaning up the room just yet. He’d been waiting for everyone else to leave, only to remember that Shoko had told him he shouldn’t be doing that, and then he’d gotten distracted by a couple of text messages from Nanami, and -

“Come here.”

Oh.

Well, he can do that too.

Abandoning his little gym bag, he scampers over to where Suguru is crouching down on the floor, lifting an eyebrow in question.

“You called?”

Suguru snorts. “You’ve been with the advanced group for a month or so now. And you’re doing really well - but I think it’s time you mastered that headstand you were trying earlier.”

Satoru plops down onto the ground, suddenly nervous.

“You’re so close to nailing it,” Suguru continues. “If you can just get it once, and see how it feels, I think you’ll be able to do it again. Here, watch me.”

To demonstrate, he quickly assumes the proper position on the floor, bracketing the back of his head with his hands, elbows canted out wide for balance. He carefully lifts his legs from the ground, pulling them in towards his torso until he’s fully perched on just two limbs. Then, his movements still slow and cautious, he lifts his legs up into the sky, pointing his toes up at the ceiling to really elongate the muscles, and Satoru -

Fuck.

Fuck.

Someone standing on their head should really not be as arousing as that is. 

But then again, everything Suguru does is sexy, from the way he walks into the classroom each afternoon to the way he pushes his hair out of his face, and Satoru is a weak, weak man.

He swallows, eyes wide as he watches Suguru come down from the position just as gracefully as he’d gotten into it, falling back onto the balls of his feet and then pushing up into a forward fold. He’s so flexible he can stick his face between his knees; and that’s exactly what he does, stretching out the backs of his legs before he rolls up to a standing position, grinning.

“See? Easy.”

False.

That is not easy. Satoru has never once managed anything even approaching that level of technique, even with someone else in the class spotting him, and he doesn’t much feel like making an idiot out of himself right in front of Suguru.

But Suguru is looking at him so earnestly, like he really wants Satoru to try, and has Satoru mentioned that he is a pitiful, weak creature?

“Will you catch me if I fall?” 

The question’s out of his mouth before he can think to retract it, only belatedly realizing that it came out a lot more petulant than he’d intended. 

Suguru doesn’t seem bothered though, his smile as easy as ever. “Of course,” he murmurs, patting Satoru’s shoulder. 

Satoru relaxes and sets his hands on the mat, preparing to push back into the starting position.

But then Suguru leans in a bit, his hair brushing Satoru’s arm as he adds, “You big baby,” and Satoru falls flat on his ass, wrenching himself away before he does something stupid.

“Suguru,” he whines.

All he gets in response is a laugh, and Satoru pouts.

“Are you this mean to all your advanced students?”

Suguru smirks, relinquishing his grip on Satoru’s arm. “No. Just you.”

“You mean I get special treatment?”

He’s trying to throw Suguru off now, trying to get him to react. 

But like always, Suguru is completely unflappable, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits for Satoru to get started, and so Satoru just sighs and gets back to work.

He starts in a modified downward dog position, letting his head rest against the mat as he braces himself with his arms.

“That’s it,” Suguru murmurs. “Take it slow.”

Satoru doesn’t think he can do this any other way, inching his feet towards his head. Because this is the part that’s always given him trouble - getting his legs off the ground at the same time. It requires an ungodly amount of core strength, and moving fast will only throw off his balance. 

He has to move carefully, mindfully - 

He lifts first one foot off the ground, and then the other, trying not to hold his breath as the muscles in his abdomen work to pull his limbs in towards his torso. It’s not easy, and the length of his legs isn’t helping; he has a lot more limb to pull in than the average person, and his center of gravity is different. His thighs are shaking, his abs are screaming -

But he’s so close, closer than he’s ever been before. 

He wants to impress Suguru.

He wants to show him that he can do it.

And he can, he thinks, a burst of excitement coursing through him, he’s almost there -

His leg jerks at the last moment, and he falls back to his original position, all the breath pushed from his lungs at once.

Well, so much for that.

He moves to stand, intent on making his excuses and leaving. But Suguru catches him by the arm, urging him back down to the mat, and Satoru sighs.

Fine.

He’ll do it again. 

If he has to -

And judging from the look in Suguru’s eyes, he does, in fact, have to. 

This time, when Satoru lifts his legs off the ground, Suguru catches him, coming around to the back to brace his hips. Satoru jolts at the contact, at how Suguru’s hands seem to span the entire width of his waist. But he holds him steady as Satoru pulls his legs into his chest, and when he manages that, he helps guide his legs the rest of the way up and into the air.

“I - I’m doing it,” he realizes, letting out an excited little laugh. “I - Suguru!”

He can’t see anything but the wall on the far side of the room, can’t even begin to fathom Suguru’s expression. But his voice is warm when he says, “I knew you could do it,” his hands giving Satoru’s hips a little squeeze of encouragement, and oh -

A thought comes to him, then. 

A terrible, awful, wonderfully horny thought.

Suguru is standing alongside the backside of his body to brace him. If Suguru’s hands are on his waist, and Satoru’s legs are in the air, then that means -

His ass is in Suguru’s face. 

Suguru is making direct eye contact with his fucking pancake ass, the only thing separating them the lycra-spandex blend of his leggings.

He could reach out and touch him, if he wanted. 

He could reach out and taste him, burying his head between Satoru’s thighs the way he has in so many of his stupid, horny dreams, eating him out until he fucking comes all over himself, and that’s -

“Look at you,” Suguru breathes, awed. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart.”

And Satoru knows he doesn’t mean it that way, he knows.  

But his dick doesn’t get the memo, twitching to attention in his stupid fucking leggings, and he panics, flailing at the thought of Suguru twisting to look at the front side of his body and seeing him in such a sad, sorry state. 

He nearly kicks Suguru in the face in his haste to get back down on all fours, covering his head with his hands as he sinks down into a puddle on the yoga mat. 

Suguru drops down to his knees, putting a tentative hand on Satoru’s back. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, worried.

“Great!”

“...what?”

“Great, fine, awesome,” Satoru says. He twists, peering out of the cage of his arms to give Suguru what he hopes is a convincing smile. “Just, ah - had a cramp!”

Understanding eases the concern in Suguru’s face. “Ah,” he says, nodding. “Of course. Well, try not to flail so much when you come down. You could have really hurt yourself if I wasn’t there to spot you.”

“Right,” he wheezes, thinking that he’s hurt himself plenty already.

His chances, that is, at not looking like a dumbass in front of his super hot, super sexy, super capable yoga teacher. 

Something in his voice must have given away how frustrated he is. Suguru’s face softens, and he offers up a friendly smile as he pushes to his feet, preparing to lock up for the night.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Satoru. This is still progress, and we can try again next time, alright?”

Satoru sighs, defeated. “Yeah. Next time.”

It’s late the next night when Suguru texts him.

And normally, Satoru would be ecstatic to get a text from his crush - 

He’d be… over the moon, doing a happy little dance in his blankets as he goes to answer whatever question Suguru no doubt wants to ask him. 

But he’d skipped out today, too embarrassed from the headstand incident to show his face in the beginner’s class. Instead, he’d gone straight home after work, languishing in the pits of despair as he stuffed his face with instant noodles and watched stupid old movies, feeling entirely pathetic as he moped around his apartment.

He almost can’t bring himself to look at the message.

Almost.

But Satoru is nothing if not predictable, and his curiosity eventually gets the better of him.

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:10 > missed you in class today

His heart leaps into his throat, breath hitching.

Suguru noticed he was gone? He’d realized Satoru wasn’t there?

Aw.

He did care.

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:11 > Shoko said that you were busy with work?

He’s relieved to hear Shoko had chosen the least incriminating excuse possible. It wasn’t even really a lie - finals season was fast approaching, and with it, the flurry of late-semester activity that always clogged up the university traffic. There were exams to grade, papers to read, the hopes and dreams of mediocre students to crush…

Not that Satoru did any of that.

That was what TA’s were for, after all - that and making PowerPoint presentations.

But it was undoubtedly true that this was one of the busier times of the year in academia, and so Satoru plays along. 

< Satoru - 23:12 > yep! finals season, u know

< Satoru - 23:12 > so many exams :( 

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:13 > right

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:13 > I still can’t believe you’re a teacher

< Satoru - 23:14 > professor*

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:14 > same difference lol

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:14 > you still teach people science in exchange for money

< Satoru - 23:15 > oh hell no

< Satoru - 23:15 > it is 100% not the same

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:16 > how do you figure?

< Satoru - 23:16 > first of all, fuck them kids

< Satoru - 23:17 > i hate kids, kids are assholes

< Satoru - 23:17 > i only teach young adults* science because thats the cost of doing research at a university. they make me do 1 semester every 2 years and i fucking hate it

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:18 > you poor thing

< Satoru - 23:18 > if i could split atoms in my basement, i would

< Satoru - 23:19 > alas, even my family isnt that rich 

Or, well. 

Technically, it isn’t a matter of money. It’s a matter of how much enriched uranium private citizens are allowed to have on their property at any given time.

Which is none, actually.

Satoru had learned that the hard way, when he’d asked for a nuclear reactor for his eleventh birthday. Instead, his parents had bought him a pony, and he’d cried all the way through his horseback riding lessons.

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:20 > I don’t think kids are that bad

< Satoru - 23:20 > have u met any???

< Satoru - 23:20 > because i have

< Satoru - 23:20 > they get worse every year

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:21 > Satoru, I have kids

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:21 > 2 of them, actually - twins

Satoru stares down at the phone in his hands, trying to make sense of this information.

Suguru has a kid.

Suguru, his hot yoga teacher/friend/potential booty call and/or lover has children, plural. Twins.

That’s -

< Satoru - 23:22 > identical or fraternal?

- not what he should be asking right now.

Suguru, bless him, still responds.

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:23 > fraternal. they’re 16

< Satoru - 23:24 > shit

< Satoru - 23:24 > thats old

Not to mention, according to his quick math, biologically improbable. 

Suguru, he knows, is the same age as him. They’re both just shy of thirty, and so having a couple of sixteen year old’s would mean that they had been born when Suguru was, what… twelve? Thirteen? Possible, sure, maybe - but highly unlikely.

They must be adopted, then. 

Relatives, perhaps? Siblings or cousins that Suguru had taken in and raised as his own?

Satoru isn’t sure how he feels about this. 

Because as he’d so eloquently stated earlier, he really does not like children. But he’s also never really interacted with any outside of a classroom, and he can acknowledge that kids are often at their shittiest when they’re in places they don’t want to be.

Hmm.

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:27 > they were in the same youth home as me. their parents dropped them off as infants, and I… just sort of helped take care of them, I guess 

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:27 > when I turned 18, they begged me to take them with me

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:28 > I couldn’t refuse

Well, that answered that.

They weren’t Suguru’s biological children, sure, but he’d raised them. They were his in all the ways that mattered, and that changed things. 

It changed everything. 

Satoru just wasn’t sure whether any of those changes mattered.

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:30 > is that… weird? sorry, I know you probably don’t care about that

< Suguru <3 <3 <3 - 23:30 > I just thought it would be better to be upfront

Crap. 

He’s taken too long to respond, and now Suguru’s nervous. 

He needs to say something - anything, really, so long as he can put Suguru’s mind at ease, make him realize he hasn’t fucked up by being honest.

It’s just - 

Well.

Satoru isn’t sure how to say it.

Which is annoying, really. Because he doesn’t usually find himself at a loss for words. 

In fact, the opposite is kind of true. Shoko tells him he talks too much on an almost daily basis, and he’d been reprimanded as a kid for never shutting up. He opens his mouth, and the words have a tendency to just fall out, a combination of luck and natural charisma giving them a weight they maybe don’t always deserve.

But this is important.

This is - not a conversation where he’s willing to just settle for word vomit. This sort of thing demands thoughtfulness, introspection, tact -

“Fuck it,” he says, exiting out of his messages. 

He’s not about to do this over texts.

He thumbs over to a different app and video calls Suguru, pleased when he picks up after only a couple rings.

“Satoru?”

“Hi!”

“...hi.”

“I figured this would be easier than spamming you with a wall of text,” he explains, grinning into the phone. “And this way you can see my face - since, you know, you didn’t get to during class today, and I know you missed it.”

Suguru seems to relax a bit at that, laughing as he settles back into what looks like a very plush, comfy armchair. “Sure.”

“You didn’t make it weird! Having kids is cool.”

“Cool,” Suguru repeats.

“The coolest, even! Gotta keep the population going, or else how will the wheels of capitalism keep turning?”

“You just said, and I quote, ‘fuck them kids’.”

“Yeah, them kids,” Satoru scoffs. “Not yours.”

“Satoru.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to… pretend to like kids for my sake. That’s - not everyone needs to like children.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I do. I just -” Satoru huffs out a breath, frustrated. “It’s not that I hate kids, not really. Kids are… fine. I’m not trying to, like, rag on them. Or you, for having them.”

“...but?”

Satoru sighs. “But the kids I work with can be annoying, and that kind of ruins the whole thing.”

Suguru hums. “What do you find annoying about them?”

“Everything?”

“Satoru.”

“Oh, fine. Nothing in particular, I guess. I just hate that it’s a stipulation in my contract that I have to teach people who don’t actually care about physics.”

“How do you know they don’t care?”

“Because most of them don’t even bother to show up half the time, and the ones that do just spend class on their phone.”

Suguru nods, as if he understands. “I can see why that would be frustrating.” 

“They could at least, like, pretend to pay attention, you know?”

“Do you teach a class for majors only?”

He slides down a little in his seat. “No.”

“Then most of your students are just fulfilling a gen ed.”

His voice is small. “Probably.”

“I can’t say I really blame them for not being interested. No offense, but physics is hard.” He pauses then, wipes a hand over his face. “But even if most of your students don’t care, doesn’t having one or two who do make it all worthwhile?”

That’s -

Huh.

Satoru’s never really thought about it that way before. 

And yeah, he does have a couple stand-out students. There’s Fushiguro, the quiet kid who sits in the back of his class and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but who always scores high on the exams and thinks to ask him thoughtful questions during office hours. His friend Itadori isn’t bad either, though he’s got a bit more enthusiasm than brains, and he supposes Inumaki, Maki, and Kugisaki are pretty good, too.

And then there’s Okkotsu, his star pupil who Satoru thinks could one day, maybe - if he can bother to correct some of his math - even score a doctoral placement of his own.

He’s never hesitated to stay behind after class and talk about things from lecture that he didn’t quite understand, and though it sometimes puts Satoru behind schedule, he can’t say he’s ever minded explaining concepts twice so long as it’s to someone who actually gives a shit, and that’s -

Hmm.

Maybe Suguru has a point. 

Perhaps there’s more to this than he’d thought.

“I guess so. Yeah, probably.”

Suguru nods, like this was the answer he was expecting. “That’s how it is for me when I teach.”

Satoru blinks. “What, really?”

“Sure,” Suguru replies. “I mean, come on, most of the people in the beginners classes don’t ever graduate to the advanced level. They just - come in, two to three times a week, do some light yoga and go home. That’s all they care about, all they’re interested in.”

He smiles then, and Satoru’s heart skips a beat in his chest.

“And then there are people like you,” he says, “people who really try to learn the poses, who stick around after class to try and get more practice in.”

Oh.

“It’s always really gratifying to see people putting in all that effort,” Suguru continues. “Even if yoga is just a hobby for them, and they’re not interested in the history or philosophy behind any of it, they come to class and give it their all. That is what makes it all worthwhile, I think.”

Oh, no.

Satoru can feel the blush that’s about to hit him like a freight train - it’s hot, and red, and completely fucking embarrassing, spreading from his cheeks down his neck and fanning out onto his chest, barely hidden beneath the thin, white t-shirt he’d donned after work.

Why the fuck did he think video chatting with his crush was a good idea, again?

He tilts the camera away from him, trying to fade away into the background -

“Awww, are you blushing again?” Suguru teases.

No such luck.

“Suguru,” he whines. “Don’t be mean!”

“How am I being mean?”

Satoru pouts. “You know how.”

“It’s cute,” Suguru replies, serene. 

The blush deepens, if such a thing is possible, and Satoru tries to physically meld with the cushions of his couch, sinking down and pressing a pillow to his face. 

“Stop it,” he says, even though he means no such thing. “I’ll die.”

“You’re so cute, Satoru.”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

Suguru chuckles, and Satoru peeks out from between his fingers back towards his phone, perched precariously on his lap. 

Suguru has propped his head up on one hand, smirking into the camera. Once he sees that Satoru is looking at him again, he winks, and Satoru yelps, tossing the phone away as he dives back into the cushions.

The sound of laughter fills his living room, pouring out from somewhere near his coffee table.

“Never,” Suguru says, his voice slightly muffled from having landed face down on the carpet. “I don’t want to hurt my favorite student. It’d be bad for business.”

Satoru groans and swipes the phone up off the floor, glaring at the screen as he brings it back to his face. “Shut up,” he retorts. “I hate you.”

Suguru’s smile only deepens. “You do not,” he croons. 

He did, in fact, not.

“I’ll see you in class tomorrow, sweetheart. Don’t be late.”

With a weak nod of assent, Satoru hangs up the phone.

He then slowly slides off the couch onto the carpet and ponders how his life has come to this.

Suguru doesn’t bring up what Satoru is now referring to as “Fyre Fest 3.0” again.

But he does show Satoru pics of his kids after class the next day.

“Since you seemed so interested in them,” he teases.

“Yeah, yeah, drink your tea,” Satoru snaps, even as he pounces on the phone he’s offered.

“It’s coffee, actually.”

“...what, really?” Satoru blinks. “I thought you only drank that nasty green stuff.”

“I ordered it once to try it out,” he allows, “but honestly, herbal tea doesn’t do it for me. I need more caffeine to function.”

His eyes narrow. “So all this time I’ve been buying you drinks…”

Suguru smirks. “You could’ve just gotten me a Red Bull.”

Satoru sticks his tongue out at that, earning himself another dark, rich chuckle. He goes back to the phone in his hand rather than address it, scrolling through the photographs Suguru has taken of his daughters.

“The blonde is Nanako,” he offers, peering down at the photo Satoru’s landed on.

“And the brunette?”

“Mimiko.”

“Ah.”

As far as Satoru can tell, they look like normal teenage girls; Suguru has pictures of them getting ready to go to school, hanging out at the mall, photographs of the three of them making funny faces and peace signs at the camera. Most of the time, they look bored, like they’d rather be anywhere else than taking selfies with their adopted father. 

But every so often he finds one where they all look genuinely happy and enamored with each other, and that, Satoru thinks, is nice. 

It’s - domestic. Peaceful.

Everything he’s never had. 

He’s about to hand the phone back, having seen all that he needs to, when his eyes catch on a photo of Suguru and a tall, blonde woman dressed almost exclusively in denim and leather. Both of them are standing in front of a pair of motorcycles, helmets on their hips, and the woman -

“Who’s that?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

- is planting a kiss on Suguru’s cheek.

Suguru leans in to look at the photo Satoru’s found. “Oh,” he says easily. “That’s my friend, Yuki. She and I went to high school together.”

“Your friend,” Satoru repeats. 

“I don’t get to see her as much as I used to,” Suguru admits. “She travels a lot for work. But we try to get together whenever she’s in town, grab a few beers.”

His voice is fond, almost wistful. 

Like this Yuki is maybe something more than a friend, something he’s lost -

Satoru shoves the phone back at him too quickly as he steps back, Suguru’s arms flailing wildly as he strives not to drop it. 

“What the fuck, Satoru,” he snaps, irritated. “I could have dropped it!”

Satoru ignores him. “Your friend, huh?”

Suguru stares at him. “Yes, she’s my friend.”

“You never mentioned her before.”

“Was I supposed to?”

He shrugs, turning away. 

He knows he’s being stupid. He knows that this is - dumb. But he can’t help the vicious, bitter jealousy that surges up in his throat, hot as bile, at the thought of Suguru already having someone he likes, that maybe there is someone out there for him who isn’t Satoru. 

It hurts. 

More than it should, for what’s essentially just a really bad crush.

…but maybe it isn’t just a crush. 

Maybe he doesn’t just want Suguru for his body, and that’s -

A warm hand falls on his shoulder, gently tugging him back towards Suguru.

“Satoru. Talk to me.” 

“About what?”

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

Because that’s so easy.

Satoru doesn’t even really know what’s bothering him about this whole situation, and he needs to go home and figure out what he wants from Suguru before he says something he regrets.

But Suguru sees right through him, his fingers trailing down the length of his arm to curl around his wrist, and somehow, when he speaks, it’s just what Satoru needs to hear.

“Yuki’s just a friend,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah?”

“A very old, very good friend.” Suguru smiles then, and despite how quickly his frustration came on, Satoru finds it disappearing just as quick. “Also very gay.”

Satoru’s eyes go almost comically wide. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Suguru teases. “Oh.”

Well, shit.

That’s embarrassing. 

He looks over to Suguru, flushing at the knowing look in his eyes, and wonders if he can somehow fall through the floor and into the little pastry shop that sits below the yoga studio, making a break for it through the display window.

But no. 

He can’t, because he’s unfortunately neither a liquid state of matter nor a cartoon character, and life just isn’t that kind to him. 

Nor, it seems, is the universe quite done fucking with him just yet -

Because then Suguru ducks in, a sly look in his eyes. “Are you jealous?” he asks, lifting one arm to lean against the wall. The movement effectively traps Satoru in place, and he swallows, his heart rate spiking at the sudden proximity.

Yes.

“No.”

Terribly, horrifically so. 

He puts a playful hand to Suguru’s chest, pushing him backwards in a desperate attempt to regain some control over the situation. Or at least, he attempts to. But Suguru has at least ten kilograms on him, and he’s a lot more muscular.

He doesn’t move one bit.

“I think you are.”

“What do I have to be jealous of?” Satoru scoffs, looking away.

“You tell me,” he shoots back. 

“Like you said, she’s just a friend.”

“She is.” 

“You’re not together.”

“We’re not.”

“And even if you were, we aren’t -”

He snaps his mouth shut. That is - dangerous territory he’s walking himself towards, a cliff looming over a sharp fall. 

Backpedal.

He needs to backpedal his scrawny little butt out of here -

Again, Suguru doesn’t let him. “Aren’t what,” he murmurs. He hasn’t relinquished his hold on Satoru’s wrist. His thumb rubs tiny little circles into the delicate skin there, maddeningly slowly, and Satoru has to fight to suppress a shudder.

But it feels so good, too much and not enough all at the same time, and he chances a glance up to try and determine what Suguru is thinking. 

It’s a mistake.

Because though there’s still something like concern in his gaze, Suguru’s eyes have gone hooded and dark as they dance across Satoru’s face. There’s something deeper there, something heavy and pointed; there’s a meaning to that look, one that Satoru can’t misjudge, can’t possibly misinterpret as anything other than predatory.

He knows.

He has to know that Satoru wants him. He refuses to believe anyone could be that dense, could possibly misinterpret the situation they now find themselves in.

“What aren’t we, Satoru?”

God, the way Suguru says his name.

He’s never been one to get into ASMR videos, mostly because he finds tiny little repetitive noises irritating and abrasive. But he thinks Suguru’s voice could be the thing to tip him over the edge, to have every nerve ending in his body firing at once and turning him into a puddle of goo. 

It’s like silk, rich and luxurious. 

Satoru wants to wrap himself up in the sound of it, drowning in whatever words Suguru sees fit to heap upon him. Hell, he might even be able to get off on it -

Just like he thinks he could come simply from the way Suguru is staring at him.

“Nothing,” he says finally, swallowing to ease the sudden dryness in his throat. “We’re not -”

Suguru’s head dips, his smirk deepening. If Satoru didn’t know him better, he’d think it cruel. 

But he does know better; he knows now that Suguru’s just teasing, trying to rile him up until he steps across the line they’ve been flirting with the past couple of months.

“We’re not nothing?” he laughs. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah, well,” Satoru replies, flippant. “Two negatives make a positive.”

Suguru’s face scrunches a bit at that. “I hate math.”

Satoru makes an indignant noise. “You heathen,” he says, putting a hand to his chest. “I’m appalled.”

“You’re not.”

“The entire universe is one big math equation -”

“How nice for the universe.”

The both of them lean in as their conversation grows more animated. Suguru is now no more than a hand’s breadth away from him, his grin contagious, and Satoru -

He’s going to kiss him.

He’s going to do it, dammit. He’s going to reach up, fist his hand in Suguru’s loose bun and pull, yanking that luscious head of hair towards him until he can slot their mouths together, the way he’s been wanting to do for ages. 

His entire body thrums with nervous anticipation, his heart rate spiking in his chest. He can’t help it when his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and when Suguru’s eyes follow the movement, his own intake of breath sharp, Satoru nearly keens.

But suddenly, Suguru’s phone goes off, the ringtone bright and cheery in the calm of the studio, and the both of them freeze. 

For a moment, all either of them can do is stare. Then -

“You have the ringer on?” Satoru demands, disgusted. “What are you, a serial killer?”

Suguru ignores the accusation in favor of exhaling out a resigned, “Fuck.” 

Pulling the phone from his pocket, he catches it just as it goes to voicemail, staring balefully down at the screen. “That was Nanako,” he murmurs. “I have it on for her and Mimiko, and that - that’s her ringtone.” 

The message she’s left him is short and sweet. Though he’s not trying to listen, at this distance, Satoru can hear every word, every annoyed teenage whine and petulant demand for attention. 

When it’s clear Suguru is going to have to reply, he steps back.

Suguru shoots him an apologetic look as he calls her back. “Sorry,” he says. “I have to -”

Satoru waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Got it. All good.” 

Everything is not good.

He’s gone from feeling like he’s on cloud fucking nine to rock fucking bottom, and though he knows this isn’t Suguru’s fault, it still leaves him feeling disappointed. Because this was his moment, this was his chance -

And now it just feels like a missed opportunity, something he won’t ever get back.

The call drags on, longer than Suguru seems to have anticipated. His free hand is rubbing at his forehead, his expression utterly exasperated as he tries to calm his daughter down. All the while, Satoru just stands there, his gym bag dangling from one shoulder, uncertain whether he should stay or go. He wants to stay - and maybe pick up where they’d left off, the jut of Suguru’s lower lip still begging to be kissed. 

But as the minutes drag on, his hope gradually fades out.

With a sad, sorry wave good-bye, Satoru heads out.

“It hurts.”

Shoko’s only response is to snicker into the phone, and Satoru whines.

“Everything hurts, and I’m dying.”

“No, you’re not,” she shoots back. “Besides, you’re the idiot who agreed to take advanced yoga classes three times a week just because you want to bang the teacher.” 

“I do not want to just bang the teacher,” Satoru retorts, offended.

“Oh? You wanna take him out to dinner first?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Christ, Satoru -”

“I want to wine him and dine him before taking him home and politely asking him to fuck my brains out. And then he’ll realize how wonderful I am and ask me to be his trophy wife, and we can get married and do lots of hot naked yoga in the private studio I’ll build for him using the money from my dowry.”

She sighs. “You don’t have a dowry.”

“No, I have mutual funds, and honestly, in this economy, that’s a lot more useful.”

With a monumental heave of effort, Satoru flips onto his stomach, ignoring the way his back screams in protest. He really needs to go and get the heating pad or something. But that would require him to stand, and if lying down hurts, standing sounds like fucking torture, so.

Here he is.

Wallowing in the same set of clothes he’d thrown on yesterday after class, unable to muster up the strength to so much as move. 

“How’s that going, anyways?” Shoko asks. “We haven’t talked in a while.”

Satoru makes a mournful noise, though whether it’s for his ego or his severely fatigued lats, he can’t say. “Not great,” he admits, unable to prevent his lower lip from jutting out into a pout. “Though it’s not from lack of trying.”

Shoko hums, unsympathetic. “Maybe you need to try harder.”

“How?” he demands. “Between your class and mine, I already see him every day of the week!”

“And do you talk to him?” 

“Incessantly,” Satoru replies. “Without end.”

“...have you tried talking less?”

Satoru ignores her, blowing the hair out of his face with a frustrated puff of air.

“You have his number, right? You said you all talk?”

Satoru grunts out an affirmative.

“Then I think you know what you need to do.”

 “No.”

“You need to just grow a pair -”

“No no no no no - ”

“- and talk to him.”

“But Shoko -”

“No but’s,” she snaps. “Honestly, Satoru, it’s so fucking easy. I’m tired of you just dicking around. There’s no secret here. You just - talk to the guy. Tell him you like him, and ask him if he feels the same.”

Satoru’s voice is small when he responds. “But what if he doesn’t like me back?”

“Please,” she scoffs. “You’re not actually worried about that, are you?”

He doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

He doesn’t really know how to say that that’s exactly what he’s afraid of, that as this crush deepens and he falls even harder for his fucking yoga teacher, as it becomes something more than just physical attraction, he’s worried that everything he feels is entirely one-sided, that he’s built up all the late night conversations and the touches and the subtle glances into something much more serious than it actually is.

And so he just keeps quiet, fiddling with a loose thread on the edge of his blanket, and waits for Shoko to catch up. She’s smart, he reasons. She’ll figure it out.

Sure enough, a few moments later, she sighs. 

“Satoru,” she says, her voice gone soft. “Is that what’s holding you back?”

“No,” he sputters. 

Her only answer is silence.

Satoru groans, and faceplants into his pillow. “Yes.” 

“I didn’t know it was that serious.”

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” he huffs. “But Suguru is -”

Sweet. Gentle.

A little mean.

Perfect.

He’s an infuriating blend of all of Satoru’s favorite characteristics, and though getting a boyfriend isn’t what he’d gone in for, it’s what he hopes he comes out with.

Shoko doesn’t give him the chance to elaborate on what he thinks Suguru is. Instead, she makes a grumpy noise into the phone, and Satoru can practically hear her eyes roll. 

“This just further proves my point, you know. You have to talk to him.”

He knows.

He knows, dammit -

But talking about his feelings isn’t really something he’s all that great at, yeah? 

Telling someone off, sure. Eviscerating his opponents in a debate, absolutely, and he’s practically a pro at rambling on and on until someone yells at him to shut up. 

Feelings, though - not so much.

Instead of the smart, sexy, poised figure he likes to present to the masses, whenever he’s forced to talk about something intimate, he stumbles. He stutters, and fidgets, and blushes, and though Suguru has already told him that he thinks it’s cute when Satoru gets all embarrassed and pink, Satoru feels nothing of the sort. 

And this time, when there’s something big on the line?

Hell no. 

He doesn’t want to touch the topic of feelings with a ten-foot-pole, and definitely not with Suguru Geto, the person said feelings are for.

“The worst he can say is no,” Shoko gently reminds him. 

“I know.”

“And if what you’ve told me about him true -”

“It is.”

“- then he won’t hold it against you, even if he doesn’t feel the same way.”

But that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?

When it comes to people he cares about, Suguru is too nice for his own good. He wouldn’t hold Satoru’s feelings against him; he’d still text him, and bring him coffee before class, and make jokes about his posture once everyone else has left class for the day. He’d still send him stupid memes at one in the morning and ask for his recommendations for movies when he goes to the theater with his kids. And maybe that’s all fine and dandy for Suguru, but Satoru -

He isn’t like that.

He doesn’t deal very well with rejection.

If Suguru doesn’t like him back, or if he just wants something physical and nothing else, he’ll likely drop the yoga classes and block his number, unable to deal with the aftermath of the giant bomb that is his feelings. 

He’ll hurt Suguru, if only to spare himself further pain. 

He’s selfish like that. 

Is he willing to risk it, then?

Is he willing to speak up, and maybe get his heart broken?

He recalls the soft smile Suguru had given him as he’d left class the other day, the way his hand had lingered on his arm as he’d pulled on his jacket. 

They’d been talking about Satoru’s class reviews as they walked out to the curb; they were higher than average this semester, approaching something almost positive. Much as he’d have liked to have taken the credit himself, he knows it’s Suguru’s influence that made him try a little harder towards the end of the semester. He knows it’s the way their conversation had subtly shifted his thoughts on the matter. 

Okkotsu had even asked if he’d be the advisor for his independent study project next semester, told him he was declaring as an engineering major and wanted the background in physics. 

Suguru had looked so proud of him when he’d told him that, so fond.

He’d looked so happy, and didn’t that mean something?

Doesn’t that mean he should try?

Maybe, he thinks.

Probably.

Shoko, he realizes, is still patiently waiting for an answer. He rolls over onto his back as he brings the phone back to his ear with a sigh.

“I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

“Good. Tell me all about it on Monday at lunch.”

He snorts. “Let’s hope there’s something to tell.”

The sound she makes is very patient. 

“There will be, I’m sure.”

Satoru doesn’t tell Suguru jack shit. 

He means to - but it’s been a particularly annoying day at work, and then he gets to class late because the trains were delayed; he’d accidentally spilled his soda all over his coat when someone had bumped into him on the platform, had then needed to stop by the bathroom on his way out of the station to try and clean up, and by the time he finally settles in at the back of the room, his patience is hanging by a thread.

It doesn’t help that Suguru looks annoyed as well, not a hint of his normal good humor in his eyes as he walks around the room, correcting people’s posture. He barely spares Satoru a passing glance as he gets into tree pose, and when he fucks up his half moon -

“Satoru, if you can’t do it with your leg straight, then bend your knee,” he snaps. “That way, you won’t lose your balance and fall on your face.”

It’s the cherry on top of this absolute crap sundae the universe has served him.

Red-faced, he bends his knee. 

When class ends, he finds himself quietly rolling up his mat, and before he can guilt himself into staying, he slips out the back. 

He thinks he hears Suguru call his name. 

But it’s hard to say, because while he was doing his best not to make an idiot out of himself in the middle of class, a storm rolled in, and the wind and rain that pelts his face are making it impossible to discern much of anything. 

He’s a cold, dripping mess by the time he makes it back to his apartment. 

He kicks off his shoes at the door, ignoring the hunger he feels gnawing at his stomach in favor of a long, hot shower. He stands under the spray until the water runs cold; only then does he drag himself out of the stall and dry himself off, tugging on the comfiest, fluffiest pair of sweats he owns.

His phone is buzzing when he steps out into the living room, the screen bright in the dimness of his apartment. But he doesn’t bother hurrying over to make the call, figuring whoever’s trying to reach him can wait. If it’s important, they’ll dial again. If not -

The screen fades to black. 

It doesn’t ring again.

Satoru sighs and plops down onto his couch.

A telemarketer, then. Or maybe his mother.

Both inspire the same level of apathy in him, and he rolls over onto his side, hugging a throw pillow to his chest. 

God, he’s tired.

He’s tired, and hungry, and (perhaps worst of all) he can’t even talk to Suguru about it. 

The man’s become his go-to choice for conversation over the past few months, the first person he thinks to text whenever he has good news. And even when the news isn’t so good, and all Satoru does is complain, Suguru still listens to him. 

He’s nice like that.

Nicer than Satoru has ever been.

He’s so nice that today, when he’d snapped, Satoru had recoiled as if he’d been slapped, taken aback by the sharpness of his tone. 

Had he… done something, he wonders? Said something weird the night before?

But no, that couldn’t be it. 

They’d said their good nights the same as they always did, and Suguru hadn’t seemed upset when he’d texted Satoru first thing this morning. 

Something else must have happened, then. 

Something else must have pissed him off.

That thought gives Satoru pause. 

Should he… reach out? Ask if he can help, the way that Suguru would for him? He’s never been accused of being a good listener, but for Suguru, he thinks he could try.

He grabs for his phone, tapping the screen to bring it to life.

He’s startled to find a flood of notifications spamming his home screen, most of whom are from -

“Oh, shit,” he breathes, counting the number of times Suguru had called him while he was in the shower. And that’s saying nothing about the wall of text messages he’s sent. 

He panics, wondering if something is really wrong, and brings the phone to his ear.

Suguru picks up after two rings.

“Satoru.” 

He sounds relieved. He sounds -

“I’m so sorry.”

Satoru blinks, all his panic bleeding away at once. “What?”

“I yelled at you, I was so fucking rude -” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I was just having such a shit day, and nothing was going the way I wanted it to, and I… I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“Hey,” Satoru interjects. “That’s not -”

But Suguru isn’t finished. “I never snap at people, least of all students,” he continues. “It’s not right to take my anger out on other people.”

“Well, sure, but - you didn’t, you know? You didn’t yell at me.”

“Satoru…”

“You corrected my form, and that’s… kinda what you’re supposed to do, right?” He laughs. “As my yoga teacher? I mean, you could’ve been a little nicer about it, but - you weren’t wrong. I was distracted. I’m lucky I didn’t break my nose.”

“Then why did you leave like that?”

Satoru’s mouth works furiously as he tries to think of something to say. But for once, he can’t find anything clever or witty, and so he just clears his throat and admits, “You weren’t the only one having a bad day.”

Immediately, Suguru’s tone shifts. It softens, laced with concern, and when he asks, “Did something happen?” something in Satoru just melts.

“No, not - I mean, it wasn’t anything bad. It just…” He sighs. “I guess kinda like you said. Nothing went how I wanted it to.”

“Ah. I see.” There’s a shifting sound, like Suguru is moving around. He waits until he’s settled before he asks, “Did you also have a teenager scream at you that not letting them go to the party next Saturday was basically child abuse?”

Satoru winces. “No, but I did have a graduate student try to correct my math in front of the entire department.”

“...were they right?”

“No, fuck, of course not.”

Suguru laughs. “I had to ask.”

“Please, Suguru - I’m a professional. Be serious here.”

“What did you do, then?”

Satoru sits back, tucking his legs up underneath him. “What any self-respecting genius would do,” he replies. “I grabbed a marker, redid the entire math problem by hand on the whiteboard, and then invited the dickhead up to point to where I’d made the mistake.”

“You shouldn’t call your students ‘dickheads’.”

“Then they shouldn’t be dickheads.”

“Fair.”

“I think I made him cry.”

“Satoru.”

“I mean, maybe. Not like I stayed around afterwards to find out.” He reaches down and grabs a throw pillow, setting it on his lap as he plucks at a loose string. “Nanako still giving you the cold shoulder, then?”

Suguru is quiet for a moment. “How do you know it wasn’t Mimiko?”

“I… I don’t? But you said she was quiet, right? You said that Nanako was -”

“She’s the more outgoing of the two of them, yes.” Suguru sighs. “And yes, Nanako is still ignoring me. She locked herself in her bedroom a couple hours ago and hasn’t even come out to get food.”

“Tough crowd.”

“She’ll survive. If it was just a party with her classmates, I’d let her go. But she wants to go to some bender at the university, and I’m not -”

Satoru speaks without thinking. “Oh, fuck no. Don’t let her go to that.” 

Then, realizing how that sounds, he pales. 

“I mean - she’s not my kid, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, I just - I’ve seen the aftermath of those parties on my commute. I’ve gone to some of those parties, shit, and they’re not - they’re not pretty. I wouldn’t want Nanako to get mixed up in that. Or Mimiko, if she tagged along -”

He’s rambling. He knows he’s rambling, and yet there’s very little he can do to stop it. 

Thankfully, Suguru interjects before he can get too far down a rabbit hole.

“Satoru.”

Satoru shuts up. 

“Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

…what?

“The girls are going over to a friend’s house. Knowing them, they’ll probably end up spending the night. And I’d like to see you. Out of class,” he amends.

That’s… a hell of a non sequitur. 

But it’s better than letting him continue to make an idiot out of himself, and so Satoru decides to go with it, even if he isn’t quite following Suguru’s train of thought. 

“Okay.”

Suguru’s breath hitches. “Yeah? You will?”

Is this a trick question?

“Well, you invited me,” he says slowly. 

“I did.”

“And you told me that you’re a good cook, so. Yes. Sure, I will come over for dinner.” He hesitates, and then adds, “Even if I don’t really know why you’re inviting me.”

“Will you let me tell you tomorrow?”

Satoru fights not to squirm in his seat. Because that sounds - that sounds like a promise, like Suguru has some secret he wants to divulge. 

And there can only be one thing he’d be keeping from Satoru, right? 

There’s only one possible thing he can want to tell him?

But he shouldn’t get his hopes up. He’s been burned on this before, made an ass out of himself by assuming something was happening when it wasn’t, and so even though he physically feels his mood lighten at the implication, he tries not to seem too happy when he replies.

“You can tell me anything you want,” he says.

Suguru chuckles. “Satoru.”

“Whatever you want, whenever you want.”

He can practically feel Suguru’s smile. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

For once, Satoru arrives exactly on time.

He pulls up to the address that Suguru had given him at the top of the hour, parking his car in a driveway lined with big, lush hydrangea bushes. 

It’s a nice little house, he thinks - cute, suburban, domestic. The wood siding is a creamy shade of yellow, and there’s shutters on all the windows. A line of gently used rainboots stands by the door, and the doormat invites him to Wipe Your Paws! before he comes inside.

Does Suguru have a dog, he wonders? Or a cat? 

He’s never thought to ask.

But then he’s ringing the bell, and only a fraction of a second later, Suguru answers, and all thought of potential pets vanishes from Satoru’s head.

Because Suguru looks - 

Stunning. 

He’s devastatingly handsome, practically gilded in the early light of evening. His entire face lights up when he sees Satoru, and he leans an indolent hip against the door even as he opens it wider to let him in.

“Satoru. Hey.”

God.

The way he rolls the syllables of Satoru’s name on his tongue is fucking erotic. It takes everything in him not to shudder where he stands. 

Instead, he just nods, and takes the chance to sweep his eyes over the rest of Suguru’s frame.

It’s the first time Satoru’s seen him wearing something other than athleticwear. A black sweater hangs loose over his shoulders, the neckline gaping wide to display an almost obscene amount of collarbone. He’s got it half-tucked into a pair of slim-fit joggers, the cuffs of which sit high on his muscular calves, and his hair -

The top half is pulled up and away from his face, just as it is in class, but he’s left the rest down. It hangs around his face like a silken black curtain, a couple unruly bits of bangs falling down into his eyes, and Satoru wants nothing more than to fist his hands in it and yank, to see if it feels as soft as it looks.

Suguru chuckles then, and Satoru’s eyes snap back to his face.

“Were you going to come in?” he asks, grinning. “Or did you plan to ogle me on my doorstep all night?”

Satoru flushes, caught. “That’s - ogle is a strong word.”

Suguru takes pity on him, catching him by the wrist and gently pulling him over the threshold. “Would you prefer it if I’d said you were staring?”

“Yes, actually. That sounds better than fucking ogling.”

Suguru rolls his eyes and shuts the door behind him. “If you say so.” 

He watches quietly as Satoru shucks off his shoes and hangs up his jacket - almost like he’s assessing the situation, like he’s trying to decide what he wants to do. 

He seems to figure it out once Satoru sets his keys and sunglasses on the nearby table, stepping forward to grab for his hands again. 

“You look nice,” he murmurs. “You come here from work?”

He had, actually - come straight from the university. He’d had a presentation to give today, too, so he’s in one of his better pairs of slacks and a baby blue oxford shirt. It’s a little formal for what he’s assuming was a casual invitation to dinner. But going back to his place to change would’ve taken him at least an hour, and he can admit to being maybe a little eager to get here.

Plus there’s never any harm in looking his best, right?

And Satoru knows he looks good. 

He knows, because for all the shit he’d given Satoru about ogling him on his doorstep, Suguru is taking him in just as shamelessly. His eyes linger on the exposed bit of skin at the base of his neck, the expanse of his forearms on display from where he’s pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. His gaze keeps flicking down to the cinch of his belt around his narrow waist, and when he looks up -

“Were we going to actually have dinner?” Satoru asks, grinning. “Or did you just plan to ogle me in the entryway all night?”

Suguru snorts, teeth grazing his lower lip as he grins. “Would you let me?”

Stepping a little farther into Satoru’s space, he somehow manages to loom over Satoru despite not being as tall as him, his eyes gone dark with something that looks suspiciously like want. 

“If I wanted to stare at you all night,” he clarifies.

Satoru swallows. “That depends,” he says lightly.

Suguru lifts an eyebrow. “On?”

“On whether you like what you see,” he retorts. “If you’re staring at me because I’ve got, like, egg on my face or something, then no. You can’t.”

“And if I’m staring at you because I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and I’m tired of not being obvious about it?”

Satoru’s pretty sure the noise he makes is at a register humans aren’t supposed to be able to hear. It’s high and breathy and entirely embarrassing, and he can’t help but follow it up with a laugh, reaching up a shaking hand to tug at his hair.

“Well, that’s - that’s okay, I guess,” he manages to eke out. 

“...you guess.”

“Since you were so polite about asking.”

Suguru chuckles; he’s standing so close that Satoru can feel his warm breath fan his face. If he were to twist his head just a little to the right, if he tilted his head just so -

But then Suguru’s stepping away, keeping his grip on Satoru’s hand as he leads him down the hall and into a warm, cozy kitchen, and Satoru has no choice but to follow along. 

He doesn’t know whether he’s relieved or disappointed. Both, probably. 

Something Suguru had said has caught his attention, though. 

He asks about it as Suguru gently pushes him down onto a barstool.

“What did you mean by that?”

“By what?” Suguru asks absently, bending over a couple of pots and pans on the stove. 

“That you’re tired of not being obvious about it.”

Dinner, he sees, is already well on its way to being done. 

Suguru pulls out a spoon as he ponders Satoru’s question, taking the lid off a pot to stir the contents. It releases a cloud of fragrant steam into the air, smelling of something spicy and earthy and good, and Satoru’s reminded of how very little he’d had to eat that day.

Satisfied with whatever he’s checked on, Suguru turns back toward him.

“Exactly that,” he says. Setting the spoon to the side, he pulls a couple of sodas from the fridge. He offers the first to Satoru and then cracks one open for himself. “I’m tired of pretending you aren’t the only reason I show up to class somedays.”

Satoru doesn’t choke on his soda - he doesn’t.

But it’s a close call.

“Because I’m your favorite student?” he asks weakly. 

Suguru’s eyes soften. “Because you’re my favorite person.”

Coming from anyone else, it would sound cheesy.

A line, something straight out of a how-to-pick-someone-up handbook. 

But Suguru sounds entirely sincere, and Satoru can’t help but feel a little weak in the knees, grateful that he’s already sitting down. 

“Oh.”

Suguru smiles, like Satoru has just something funny. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Oh.”

“Then… that one time, when you got that phone call from Nanako. If she hadn’t called you…”

He nods. “I’d have kissed you.”

“And all of those times you called me cute, you -”

“Meant it,” Suguru says. “Yes.”

Satoru groans and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck.”

“Is that not… did you not want me to kiss you?”

For the first time since he’s gotten here, Suguru sounds hesitant - like maybe he’s misjudged something here, and is trying to take a couple of steps back. 

Satoru doesn’t like that. 

He doesn’t like that at all, and so he looks back up, trying to sound as genuine as possible as he admits, “Suguru, I wanted you to kiss me literally the first time I ever saw you.”

Suguru nods slowly, as if that makes sense. 

“I wanted you to bend me over a stack of yoga mats after class and fold me into a fucking pretzel,” he continues, electing to ignore the soft, disgusted The yoga mats? Really? that Suguru mutters under his breath. “But I could never get any kind of reaction from you. No matter what I said, no matter what I did, you never said anything. Not until that one day, at least, but then we never talked about it again, and I… what was I supposed to think?”

Suguru purses his lips at that. As if he needs a minute, he turns around to check on the food. Once he’s ensured everything is still coming along nicely, he turns back to Satoru, his expression nothing short of admonishing.

“Satoru. Do you think I give my personal phone number out to just anybody?”

“...well, no, probably not.”

“And have you seen me offer rides to any other person in my classes? Have I ever brought anyone else their favorite coffee?”

Satoru shrinks down a little further onto his barstool. “I don’t think so.”

Suguru snorts, grinning at him. “You know, I text you more than I text my daughters.”

He… he did? That’s -

“I call you cute, and sweetheart, and sunshine on a regular basis,” Suguru tells him, tossing a dishrag down onto the counter. “And yet you don’t know what to think?”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

It hits Satoru like a ton of bricks, a bunch of little things he’d noticed but never really studied all that hard coming together to form a bigger, clearer picture. 

Maybe… maybe Suguru isn’t the oblivious one here. Maybe he’s been picking up exactly what Satoru has been putting down, from almost the very beginning. 

Because everything he’s saying adds up. Everything he’s saying makes it pretty fucking clear that he has a thing for Satoru.

And if he has a thing for Satoru, if he’s been trying to show Satoru that those feelings of his are reciprocated, that he’s not the only one falling head over heels here, then that means it’s Satoru who’s a fucking dumbass, Satoru who has missed all of the signs pointing directly to this very obvious conclusion, and -

Jesus Christ.

Shoko is never going to let him live this down.

“Oh, my god,” he moans, burying his face in his hands. “God, why?”

Suguru chuckles. “You alright over there?”

“No. No, I’m not.”

He watches through the cracks in his fingers as Suguru takes one of the pots off the burner, turning the other down to simmer. He gives the contents one final stir before he turns off the light above the stove, returning his full attention to Satoru.

“I’m fucking dumb.”

Suguru’s sigh is fond. 

“I’m - I have a fucking doctorate. Two of them, actually.” Bewildered, he asks, “Why am I such an idiot? Am I an idiot?” 

Then, realizing how that sounds, he adds, “Don’t answer that.”

Suguru takes pity on him then, coming around the island to stand next to him. A warm pair of hands settle onto his shoulders, tugging gently at his arms to get him to come up for air. 

The look in his eyes is still so, so soft, and when he presses a palm to Satoru’s cheek, tilting his head up and back so that he has no choice but to look at him, Satoru can’t help but lean into it, even as his entire face flushes a deep, bright scarlet.

“You’re an idiot,” Suguru confirms, rubbing his thumb along Satoru’s cheekbone. “But you’re my idiot, I think. If that’s what you want.”

He wants.

Oh, how he wants, and wants, and wants, he wants to take whatever Suguru will give him. 

But he doesn’t think he can articulate that at the moment, too overwhelmed by the way Suguru is looking at him and petting his face to offer up anything more than a barely coherent, “You think?”

“I hope,” Suguru amends, an amused smirk curling his lips. 

Satoru can barely look away from the sight of it, from how lovely the curve of his mouth is, how soft his lips look. He wants to kiss them. He wants to take them in between his teeth and pull, to lick into Suguru’s mouth and see if he tastes as good as he’s imagined.

But he can’t.

Because despite how much he wants this, Satoru can barely breathe, afraid to so much as move lest he break the spell and find out none of this is real. 

As if he can sense this, Suguru suddenly leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, and Satoru’s eyes flick upwards to meet his gaze. 

“Satoru. Sweetheart.”

Satoru can’t help it - he whines at the pet name, all the more potent now that he knows that Suguru means it, that it isn’t just something he’s saying to tease. 

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Satoru’s pretty sure that his brain short circuits at that point.

He can’t answer.

He has, literally, no words left in him, no thoughts in his head save for Suguru, Suguru, Suguru -

But Suguru is already leaning down, even as Satoru eagerly presses up, swallowing up the small, damning, “Please,” he manages as he finally, finally kisses him.

It’s perfect. 

Even better than he could have imagined.

It’s little fireworks going off behind Satoru’s eyelids, straight out of every rom-com he’s ever forced Shoko to watch with him. It’s butterflies in his stomach, liquid fire thrumming hot and molten in his veins. Kissing Suguru is like nothing he’s ever felt before, and as he pushes up onto his feet, his hands seem to come up to Suguru’s waist of their own volition, squeezing him like he never wants to let him go.

Suguru groans, the hand on Satoru’s shoulder coming up to fist in his hair.

He’s not particularly gentle. 

He bites at Satoru’s lips until he gasps, and then licks into his mouth with almost bruising force. He slots their mouths together like his very life depends on it, like he cannot possibly get enough of him, and Satoru, for all that he’s kissed plenty of other people before, finds he can barely keep up. He can barely think as Suguru’s lips slide against his, can barely breathe when Suguru curls his tongue into his mouth and sucks, hard. 

But that doesn’t matter.

All that matters is the feel of Suguru’s hands on him, of Suguru’s lips pressing so nicely against his own. The breathy little noises he makes as they kiss are intoxicating, and the way he tastes -

God.

It’s so fucking good, and now that Satoru knows what it feel like, he wants more, more, more.

His hands fist in the loose fabric of Suguru’s sweater, tugging him closer. Suguru steps forward easily enough, the hand in Satoru’s hair coming down to palm his waist. 

Then he’s pushing Satoru back against the kitchen island, snaking both hands down to pull at his thighs, to lift him up and onto the dark quartz surface, and oh, but isn’t that nice?

How effortlessly Suguru can lift him up, like he’s nothing but a rag doll?

“That’s hot,” he breathes, patting appreciatively at Suguru’s shoulders. 

They’re still covered by the thin fabric of his sweater - something Satoru plans to rectify soon enough - but it’s more than he’s ever allowed himself to do before. He shamelessly gropes at the muscles he’s only ever seen before in class, his fingers skimming along those ridiculously sexy collarbones, dipping into the hollow at the base of his throat. 

He feels rather than sees Suguru’s breath hitch at the touch, and Satoru grins, pressing a little harder against his skin.

“Satoru,” Suguru warns, nosing at his jaw. 

It’s just so soft, Suguru’s skin like velvet over the hard juts of bone. 

What would it feel like against his lips? What would it feel like against his tongue?

He wants to find out.

But then he feels the press of Suguru’s teeth against his neck, and every thought in Satoru’s head is silenced with a burst of white noise.

He groans, his hips stuttering up into nothing as Suguru works a dark mark into his skin. His fingers scrabble for purchase against Suguru’s neck, holding him steady even as he fights not to squirm away from the touch.

“Ah, Suguru,” he pants, shuddering. “That’s -”

Suguru relents, only to bite down again just a little farther on. He sucks an entire line of bruises down the column of Satoru’s throat, and by the time he’s finished, tugging the collar of his shirt aside so he can get to the soft, creamy skin just beneath, Satoru is a mess.

He pushes Suguru back, breathing hard.

Suguru’s mouth is red, his lips swollen; he looks incredibly happy with himself, smirking up at Satoru as he wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.

“You look good like this,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers down Satoru’s chest. They catch on a couple of his buttons, popping them through the holes - but Suguru makes no move to push the shirt from his shoulders. For now, he seems content to let it hang open, exposing just a bit more skin with every push. 

“I look good all of the time,” Satoru corrects, leaning into the touch.

Suguru chuckles. “You do,” he confirms, pulling Satoru in for another kiss. This one is slower, less hurried - but it’s no less intense, and when Suguru pulls away again, Satoru is near trembling with desire. “But you look especially good like this.”

Satoru swallows. “On your counter?”

“In my house,” Suguru replies. “With my marks littering your throat.”

He lifts a hand, pressing his thumb to a particularly large bruise just below Satoru’s ear. 

Satoru hisses at the sharp sting of pain, pouting when Suguru just laughs. 

“Suguru,” he whines. “That hurts.”

“You can take it,” Suguru assures him. 

He can. 

Satoru’s always kind of gotten off on people being mean to him in bed, and with the way Suguru is looking at him, like he wants to fucking ruin him -

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on in his life.

Suguru hasn’t even touched him yet, not really, and his cock’s already hard and aching, pushing almost uncomfortably against the seam of his pants. 

He really wants to take them off.

He wants Suguru to take them off, wants him to rip them off and throw them on the floor. His shirt too, for that matter, and whatever else he’s wearing. He can’t remember the details, not when Suguru has moved on to the other side of his neck, seemingly intent on duplicating his work on a fresh canvas.

“These are gonna be impossible to hide,” he protests, even as he tilts his neck back to give Suguru more room.

Suguru huffs out a laugh. “That’s the point, sweetheart,” he breathes.

Satoru squeezes his eyes shut, moaning through the want that floods him at the sound of Suguru’s low, rich laugh against him. It’s like pure sex, the sound going straight to his dick, and when he manages to wrench his eyes open again and catch a glimpse of that dark head of hair, so close to his face, he does what any man in his position would do -

He fists his hand in Suguru’s hair, tangling his fingers in the dark strands, and pulls. 

He’s rewarded with an absolutely breathtaking moan, Suguru’s lips momentarily going slack against him. 

Mesmerized, Satoru does it again. 

And again, Suguru near shudders against him, scraping his teeth so hard against Satoru’s neck, it’s a wonder he doesn’t break the skin.

“Satoru,” he groans.

“Yeah?”

“Behave,” he warns, pulling back just enough that he can catch Satoru’s eyes.

“What if I don’t want to behave?”

Suguru smirks and grabs his hand, yanking it out of his hair and pushing it towards his shirt. 

“Then at least make yourself useful and take this off,” he replies.

“Useful,” Satoru scoffs.

Still, he obeys. Under Suguru’s watchful eye, he tugs at the buttons on his shirt, forcing the remaining ones free until his shirt drapes off his shoulders. 

He’s not going to take it all the way off, though.

If Suguru wants him shirtless, he can take it off himself. 

A moment later, he does just that, his eyes wandering across the planes of Satoru’s exposed chest so shamelessly, Satoru can’t help but shiver. 

“Like what you see?” he teases, grinning.

Suguru doesn’t take the bait, his hands coming up to trace the same paths his eyes had taken just moments before. He runs his fingers down the grooves of Satoru’s abdominals, lets his thumbs graze against his nipples. His touch is light, teasing - but the look in his eyes in anything but, and when he wraps his hands around Satoru’s waist, his palms spanning nearly the entire breadth of him, and pulls, tugging their bodies so close that Satoru has to cant his knees out wide, a weak, desperate sort of sound punches its way out of his chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” Suguru murmurs, pressing their lips together again. 

Satoru kisses him hard, and tugs on his sweater, sliding his hands beneath the fabric. He digs his nails in, as much to tease as because he’s curious at how much the muscles will give beneath his fingers, and Suguru groans into his mouth, a low, gravelly, “Fuck,” that Satoru can practically taste.

He’s just reached for the hem when Suguru jerks back, panting.

“Can I take you to bed?” he asks.

Satoru burns.

His face, his body, his heart - all of it goes red-hot at Suguru’s question, and he can’t quite nod fast enough. 

“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck, yes, take me, fuck me, please -”

Again, Suguru hoists him off the counter as easily as if he weighs nothing. Satoru wraps his long legs around his waist, his arms coming up to wind around his shoulders, desperate to keep in contact with him even now, and Suguru -

It’s a short walk from the kitchen to Suguru’s bedroom. 

He doesn’t even bother to turn on the lights once he pushes into the room. Instead, he moves straight to the bed, letting Satoru fall from his grasp to land on the sheets as he sinks down to his knees. 

Every muscle in Satoru’s core clenches in anticipation, awaiting that first touch of his hands, that first press of his mouth. But apart from the way his hands have settled at Satoru’s waist, Suguru just looks at him, the weight of his gaze heavy as he takes Satoru in.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs again, squeezing Satoru’s hips. 

And that’s nice, it really is.

There’s very little Satoru likes more than being reminded of how pretty he is.

But right now, he’s not feeling particularly patient, and so he snakes a hand out for Suguru’s wrist and tugs it down towards his pants, towards his cock -

Something in Suguru snaps.

Satoru barely has time to undo the clasp on his belt before Suguru practically rips the pants from his legs, bending over to mouth at the jut of his hip. He scrapes his teeth along the bone as he slowly works Satoru free of his boxers, sucks another bruising mark into the soft, sensitive skin at the top of his thigh. And when he’s finally got Satoru’s cock free, when he reaches out a hand and grips him tight -

Satoru throws his head back into the sheets, the moan that rips free of his throat entirely involuntary. Because Suguru’s hand on him is just so good - it’s bigger than his own, the calluses in different spots. He can’t anticipate what Suguru is going to do, his cock already dripping from these first few touches, and when Suguru starts to move, jerking him off with long, slow strokes as he litters Satoru’s thighs with more marks, he finds himself rolling his hips up and into his fist.

Suguru doesn’t let him move very quickly - his other hand makes sure of that, keeping the pace nice and leisurely as he settles between Satoru’s thighs. He neither speeds up nor slows down as he works Satoru’s cock, even as Satoru’s breath starts coming in short, frantic gasps, and when he feels Satoru start to tense, when he senses him getting too close to the edge -

He relents, sitting back on his heels as he presses his lips to the inside of Satoru’s knees; he waits until Satoru can breathe easy again, staring up at him with dark, hooded eyes. 

“Good?”

Satoru nods, desperate. “So good,” he breathes. “But I want -”

He breaks off with another ragged groan as Suguru’s hand drifts lower, toying with his balls for a moment before pressing his fingers even lower, smoothing his knuckles against the thin, sensitive skin just beyond.

“What do you want, baby?”

Satoru makes a face and whines.

“You have to tell me,” Suguru says, huffing out a laugh.

“You know what I want.”

“Do I?”

Satoru pouts. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” Suguru replies, pushing a little harder at the underside of Satoru’s cock for emphasis. Satoru twitches, another slick bead of precome dripping down his length to splash hot and sticky on Suguru’s still hand.

“Touch me more.”

“If I do that, I’ll make you come.”

Despite his protests, he wraps his hand around Satoru again - he wraps his hand around him and doesn’t move, keeping a firm grip around the base of his dick as he stares up at Satoru, patiently waiting on his response.

Satoru groans. “Suguru.”

Suguru pushes up a little higher, cocking an eyebrow as he leers down at Satoru. “You don’t want to come so quickly, do you?” he asks. “Wouldn’t you rather come on my cock?”

It’s an impossible decision to make.

He wants to come so badly, already worked up so very much - just a couple more strokes and he’ll be there, tipping over the edge and into that heady pleasure he’s been seeking. 

And yet, the thought of Suguru fucking him, of finally pushing him down into the mattress and giving it to him, hard and fast and rough the way he’s wanted for months now…

That’s good, too.

He wants both, he realizes. He wants both, desperately, and so he throws his head back with a frustrated noise.

Sensing his dilemma, Suguru takes pity on him. “Unless… do you think you can come twice?”

He doesn’t give Satoru time to respond, bending over and pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his lips, drinking down the punched out little noises Satoru makes when the movement jostles the hand around his dick.

“Can you do that, Satoru?” he asks, nipping at Satoru’s lips. 

Satoru wants to say something smart, he really does - but Suguru has shifted against him, his own cock pressing insistently against Satoru’s hip as he licks back into Satoru’s mouth, and Satoru finds he can barely breathe again. All that comes out of his mouth is a useless string of words as Suguru ruts against him, the hand he’s brought up to the side of his neck gripping him tight.

“Yes, I can do it, I can, I want to, please, Suguru, make me come -”

It’s only when Satoru starts to beg for it that Suguru starts to move again, wrenching their mouths apart and slipping back down between his thighs. 

Satoru isn’t about to let him retreat again. The noise Suguru makes when Satoru clamps his legs around his shoulders is appreciative, and when he finally, finally leans forward, taking Satoru into his mouth, Satoru thinks he might cry.

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, again fisting a hand in Suguru’s hair. “That’s -”

Suguru’s mouth is a vice; he takes Satoru in until his lips meet his fist, licking at his dick where it sits on the flat on his tongue. He doesn’t protest when Satoru starts fucking his face, unable to resist thrusting up into that tight, wet heat, and when Satoru starts to shake, his thighs trembling as he inches closer and closer to orgasm, he abruptly takes his hand away and swallows him whole, burying his face between Satoru’s thighs with a heady, pleased moan.

It’s too much, all at once. 

Satoru barely has time to register that he’s going to come before he topples over the edge, his fingers tightening in Suguru’s hair as he comes down his throat.

And maybe that’s something he should’ve asked about first. 

Maybe he should’ve asked if that was something Suguru liked.

But before he’s really even finished twitching through the aftershocks, Suguru pulls up and off him, taking his face between his hands as he slots their mouths together again, and Satoru gets the impression that he probably doesn’t mind too much.

Once Satoru’s caught his breath, Suguru sits back on his heels. 

He looks very pleased with himself, Satoru can’t help but notice, his smirk so wide it nearly splits his face in two. 

He huffs out an exaggerated sigh. “You look way too happy for a guy who’s still wearing pants,” he points out.

“And whose fault is that?” Suguru retorts. 

“Yours, obviously. You never gave me a chance to take them off.”

Suguru stands and spreads his hands wide, as if in invitation, and Satoru sits up and finally pushes that abominably tantalizing sweater up and over Suguru’s head. 

“That’s not my pants,” Suguru points out. 

Satoru scowls and scoots the rest of the way back, so that he has more room to work. 

“Don’t rush me,” he snaps. “I only get to do this the first time once.”

Suguru rolls his eyes at that; but he lets Satoru take his time, keeping still as Satoru runs his hands down his chest and hooks his fingers in the waistband of his joggers. He doesn’t move when Satoru slides them down and leaves him standing there in nothing but a pair of plain, dark briefs. And when Satoru reaches a hand out, his eyes on Suguru’s face as he palms him through the fabric, he still doesn’t so much as twitch, the only hint that he’s losing his composure the way his breath hitches in his throat.

“Satoru,” he says, watching as Satoru works his hand up and over his clothed dick, fingers wrapping around the head, “Don’t tease.”

But Satoru can’t help himself. 

He’s spent so many lonely nights thinking of this very moment, picturing the way Suguru would look if they ever actually got around to having sex. He’s wasted entirely too many hours wondering about how Suguru would feel, about how he’d taste, to not savor the moment now.

He grins as he leans in, replacing his hand with his lips as he sucks, hard. 

“Shit,” Suguru breathes, “Satoru.”

His cock, not quite soft after the orgasm Suguru had wrung from him earlier, gives a twitch of interest against his hip at the way Suguru says his name. It’s appreciative, sensual, and Satoru feels the beginnings of that familiar warm ache of arousal wash over him.

Fuck, he tastes so good.

He’s practically leaking through the fabric, so hard it must be painful, and Satoru only makes him suffer a few more moments before he tugs the fabric down, enjoying the way Suguru’s cock bobs up to smack him in the face.

He’s big.

He’s big, and thick, and long, and Satoru only gets a few short moments to admire him before Suguru is pushing him back onto the bed, pinning his wrists to the bed as he straddles his hips.

“I said, no teasing,” he says, and something in his voice makes Satoru shiver.

“Or what?”

The taunt’s out of his mouth before he can think to pull it back. 

Above him, Suguru’s eyes narrow. He leans forward, his grip on Satoru’s wrists tightening a bit as he looms over him. “What was that, sweetheart?”

Satoru’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, heat suffusing his face as blood rushes to his cock. “You heard me.”

Suguru hums, leaning down to ghost his mouth over the skin of Satoru’s neck, the divot of his sternum. “I was giving you the chance to be good, you know,” he murmurs, his tongue flicking out to lave at one of his nipples. 

Satoru keens, twisting his head to the side. It’s like his body can’t decide whether it wants to curl into Suguru’s touch or flinch away. He’s forced to settle for something in between, his body twisting into strange, awkward shapes as Suguru gets to work, sucking and biting and teasing his chest until he practically aches.

“I - ah - know that,” he pants, writhing. “I just, fuck, decided to - decided to -”

He breaks off with another broken moan when Suguru finally takes pity on him, pressing one final kiss to his chest as he looks up at Satoru. 

“Decided to what, Satoru?”

Satoru gets his second wind, grinning as he lifts his chin in challenge. “Ignore it.”

The gleam in Suguru’s eyes is wicked. He continues to stare at Satoru as he moves to his other nipple, taking it between his lips and sucking, hard. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

Satoru yelps, his hips bucking. “Why?”

Suguru doesn’t answer until Satoru has tears in his eyes, his vision gone hazy as the pleasure starts to border on something painful. He pops off Satoru’s chest with an obscene noise, licking at his spit-slicked lips, and sits up, grinding down in his lap a little as he takes in his handiwork.

“I was going to take my time with you,” he admits, continuing to roll his hips as he speaks. “Open you up nice and slow with my fingers. But now -”

Satoru sees stars as Suguru shifts forward, panting into Suguru’s mouth as he catches his mouth in a swift, bruising kiss. He drives his hips forward with reckless intent, the head of his cock catching on Satoru’s, and Satoru -

“I’m going to wreck you.”

- Satoru mewls as Suguru abruptly sits back, pushing his thighs up and back so that Satoru’s hips are canted wide, his ass on full display. 

“Would you like that?” he asks, reaching over to the nightstand. 

He grabs what Satoru assumes is a bottle of lube, popping the cap to drizzle a healthy amount over his fingers. His other hand stays where it is, keeping Satoru exposed as his eyes slip dangerously low, locked on the cleft of his ass. 

“Do you want me to fuck you so hard you cry?” 

He presses the first finger in without preamble, sliding it in right to the knuckle. Though it’s nothing he’s not used to, Satoru’s breath still hitches in his throat as he adjusts to the sensation. Suguru’s fingers are bigger than his, after all, longer, thicker. He’s hitting spots Satoru can usually only find with his favorite toys, and he isn’t even moving yet, fuck -

“Sweetheart?”

God, it feels so good. 

He wants more.

Satoru grins and grabs the wrist between his legs, easing the digit back out. He’s a little surprised that Suguru lets him do it. But he just quirks an eyebrow in question, watching as Satoru pulls him out to the very tip of his finger before he forces their hands back forward. 

“Promise?” he asks, continuing to fuck himself on Suguru’s hand as Suguru stares. “Promise you’ll make me cry?” 

The noise Suguru makes is almost feral. He rips Satoru’s hand away, slipping another finger in alongside the first as he slides them back home. 

Satoru feels like all the air’s been punched from his lungs at once. 

He groans even as he laughs, Suguru working him open with brutal, practiced efficiency as he mouths at Satoru’s throat. He’s methodical, measured, slow - his strokes are always just shy of too much, Satoru left gasping for more with each and every thrust. Before long, he’s quivering beneath Suguru’s touch, desperate for more every time Suguru pulls out. He whines, burying his face in Suguru’s neck, arms wrapped right around his shoulders.

“More,” he pants, squeezing his eyes shut. “Suguru -”

Suguru grins into the side of his face, chuckling. “Are you done being a brat?” he asks, curling his fingers. 

Satoru shudders, his mouth going slack as Suguru nails his prostate.

“That’s a nice noise,” he murmurs, drawing his fingers back to circle around Satoru’s rim, teasing. “But it doesn’t sound like a yes.”

“Mean,” Satoru gasps. “So mean, Suguru -”

The gasp deepens into a moan when Suguru adds a third finger. 

“I think you like it when I’m mean,” he croons. “I think you -”

“Oh, fuck, right there, right there, right there -”

Suguru presses in harder, really massaging his walls with the pads of his fingers as Satoru falls apart in his arms. He can’t help but clamp his hips shut against Suguru’s sides, pushing back against the fingers to work them deeper. Not that they can get much farther - Suguru’s knuckles are already catching on his rim, pressing into the sensitive skin of his ass with every thrust.

It’s still not quite enough, and Satoru writhes.

“Is that good, sweetheart?” 

Satoru bobs his head, panting. “Good,” he agrees. “So good, the best, so fucking good -”

“Do you want me to keep going?”

He nods again, frantic.

“Or,” he asks, his fingers slowing, “do you want my cock?”

“Please,” Satoru whines, lifting his hips to try and keep Suguru moving. “Please, please, don’t stop, don’t stop, Suguru -”

Suguru chuckles, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.”

That’s -

Satoru’s breath hitches.

It’s been a while since anyone promised to do that for him. 

He’s just so used to being the one in charge, no matter what position he’s in. It’s what’s always been expected of him, what people seem to think he likes. Because people recognize his family name, maybe, or because he’s in a position of authority with his job.

Maybe just because he’s fucking taller than most of his partners, he doesn’t know.

No one ever seems to think that he wants to be the one to be manhandled, that he’s the one who wants to be taken apart, bit by bit, until he can’t even remember his own name.

No one except Suguru, it seems.

The thought’s more than a little overwhelming, and when Suguru leans back, only pulling away for as long as it takes to pull on a condom, Satoru whines. 

Suguru shushes him, kissing him as he lines himself up. 

“I’m right here,” he murmurs, palming Satoru’s face with one hand as he holds himself steady with the other. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

He keeps his eyes on Satoru’s face as he slowly pushes in, taking his time to let Satoru adjust. It’s a good thing, too; Suguru’s so big Satoru finds it hard to breathe. He has to remind himself to relax as Suguru carefully bottoms out, and by the time he’s fully settled, his hips flush with Satoru’s ass, Satoru’s breath is coming in short, hot pants.

Suguru groans, a hand coming up to grip Satoru’s knee. 

“Fuck,” he curses. “Fuck, Satoru - you feel so good.”

Satoru can’t help it.

He preens. 

He knows he feels good, has never before gotten a complaint. But hearing that from Suguru feels different; it feels heavier, makes him feel warm and happy and pleased in a way he’s never really felt before. 

Tentatively, he rolls his hips.

Suguru’s hand tightens in warning. “Satoru.”

Satoru shakes his head, curving his hand over Suguru’s on his cheek. “Give it to me,” he encourages, wiggling his hips a little more. “I can take it.”

And something in his face must convince him, for Suguru nods. “I know you can,” he says, nodding. He pulls back a couple of inches before snapping his hips back forward. The motion rips a moan from Satoru’s throat, makes Suguru’s lips pull wide into a delighted grin. “You can take me so well.”

He shifts then, grabbing Satoru’s hips and canting them up; each subsequent thrust is a little harder, a little rougher, his cock going that much deeper.

He’s hitting his prostate on almost every thrust, and Satoru keens.

“Just like that,” he pants, his eyes rolling back into his head. “Just - god, oh my god, yes -”

He slaps a hand over his mouth, biting down on his fingers. It does nothing to stop the noises from spilling out of his throat, but the pain is grounding, giving him just a little bit of clarity as he looks up at Suguru, thoroughly dazed.

“So good,” he whines. “Suguru -”

He’s drooling.

He’s fucking drooling, spit pooling in the corners of his mouth from where he can’t keep it closed, dripping over his hand and down his neck.

The sight of him with his fingers in his mouth really seems to drive Suguru really wild. He pistons into Satoru with a frantic intensity. The sound his hips make as they slap into Satoru’s ass borders on obscene; he grinds forward on every thrust, his hands pushing at Satoru’s knees to urge them up and up and over his head.

It’s about the limit of his flexibility, the tips of his toes grazing the headboard. He feels like he’s being split in two, from two different angles, and Suguru -

Suguru seems entranced. 

“Look at you,” he coos, flicking his sweaty hair up and out of his face with one jerk on his chin. “You’re a mess.”

Satoru sobs, tears pricking at his eyes when Suguru rails his prostate and stays, grinding against him instead of pulling back. 

“Such a pretty, pretty mess.”

It’s too much, too much all at once; his cock slides against his stomach with every thrust, precome leaking down his abs, and yet -

He can’t come.

He can’t come untouched, has never quite been able to get there without a hand or a mouth on his cock.

He looks up at Suguru through the haze of tears, beyond words at this point; a few spill out as he blinks up at him, entreating. 

Suguru seems to know what he needs, snaking a hand down between them to grab for Satoru’s cock. He only has to jerk him once, twice, and then he’s coming again, hard, painting his stomach in white. 

A coarse shout is torn from his lips as his vision blacks out. 

He thinks it might be Suguru’s name. 

But it’s impossible to tell, everything between his ears going fuzzy and warm as his muscles go slack. His head knocks back against the headboard, his toes curling -  

It’s the fucking best orgasm he’s ever had, and he’s still coming, his cock twitching against his stomach as it continues to drip against his abs. 

Above him, Suguru moans. 

“That’s good, sweetheart,” he pants, thumbing at Satoru’s blissed out face. “You did so good.”

Something in Satoru’s hindbrain is pleased at the praise. 

He makes a soft, happy little noise as Suguru fucks forward with renewed fervor, staring up at his tense, focused expression with something like adoration. A litany of compliments spills from his lips as he chases his own release, and when Satoru grabs for his face, bringing their mouths together once more, he shudders.

It doesn’t take long until he too is coming, hips stuttering as he gasps out Satoru’s name. 

“Fuck, Satoru -”

He buries his face in Satoru’s neck as he rides out his orgasm, his arms sliding down to wrap around Satoru’s chest. He holds on tight, the embrace just shy of painful.

But Satoru doesn’t mind. If anything, he relishes the hold, letting his legs fall down to the bed so he can wrap his ankles around Suguru’s calves, keeping their bodies connected in as many places as possible. He’s reticent to give up any contact, he finds; now that he’s gotten a taste of Suguru, he never wants to let him go, and that -

It feels impossibly right.

For a while, neither of them move. They simply lie there, content to bask in the afterglow.

Eventually, though, Suguru pulls back. 

He pulls back and slides off to the side, reaching a hand down to tug the condom off and toss it into the garbage bin across the room. He’s only gone a moment before he’s turning back onto his side, pulling Satoru towards him to press soft, gentle kisses to his face.

Satoru thinks he might die from the sheer joy of it, smiling even as he scrunches up his nose.

“Is this why you invited me over for dinner?” he asks, poking Suguru in the cheek to get him to back off. “To fuck me into the mattress? Not that I’m complaining - you did very, very well.”

Suguru rolls his eyes, even as he wraps his arms around Satoru’s waist, drawing him close.

“So good, I have literally no complaints -”

A hand settles over his mouth, muffling him. 

Unperturbed, Satoru just laughs, tugging at Suguru’s fingers until he can talk again. 

“Do you disagree with my assessment?”

Suguru lifts an eyebrow, giving Satoru a very thorough, very shameless once-over. 

He takes in every mark, gaze lingering on the imprints of his fingers on Satoru’s hips, the way his nipples are still pink and puffy from where he’d bitten them. He studies the way Satoru’s breathing has only slightly slowed, the way his legs still twitch whenever Suguru’s knee brushes against his spent cock.

Then his gaze lands on Satoru’s thighs, and the mixture of lube, sweat, and come still drying on his skin. While Satoru flushes bright red under the scrutiny, pleased and embarrassed all at once, he stares, and when he finally looks back up, he’s practically oozing satisfaction.

“I think my work speaks for itself,” he muses, and Satoru squirms, turned on despite the exhaustion settling into his limbs. 

It isn’t fair that Suguru has this effect on him.

It isn’t fair that he can work Satoru up so easily - but then again, so long as Suguru is there to make good on his promises, he supposes he can’t really complain too much. 

He snuggles in closer, tangling their fingers together as the hand Suguru pressed against his lips moves down to duck under his chin. 

“Satoru.”

“Mmm?”

It’s clear he has something to say. He holds Satoru firm as he starts to speak, his gaze unflinchingly honest. “I invited you over to dinner because of what you said about the girls.”

Satoru goes very still beside him.

“I’ll be honest with you, Satoru - I haven’t really dated a whole lot of people since I adopted them. When they were younger, it was because I didn’t have time. They needed a lot of care, I had just started working for the studio, and I was too tired to deal with a relationship on top of everything else.” He pauses, reaching up to brush Satoru’s messy hair out of his face. “It’s a little different now that they’re older. They don’t need me like they used to. But they’re still my priority; they’re still the most important people in my life.”

Satoru swallows. “Well, yeah,” he agrees. “Sure.”

“Sometimes, that’s hard for other people to get. I’ve had more than one… situation go south because they were frustrated I couldn’t spend more time with them.” He snorts then, shaking his head. “To be honest, most of the people I’ve been with had no interest in Nanako and Mimiko - they knew the girls existed, but that… that was the extent of it. They didn’t want to get to know them, they didn’t really care about them as people. They weren’t interested in that part of my life.

“And I’m not saying that you are,” he quickly adds. “I don’t - I don’t really know how you feel about that sort of thing. But you wanted to know more about them, once you found out they existed. You remembered the little things I said about their personalities, you cared enough about their wellbeing to agree with me that they shouldn’t go to stupid college parties. You don’t -” He breaks off, laughing. “You don’t even like kids, and you cared enough to stick up for them.”

The hand that sits at Satoru’s brow slips down to palm his cheek, and Satoru, unthinking, nuzzles into it, his eyes wide.

“It made me realize that maybe I’ve been too guarded all these years. Maybe I’ve been ignoring my own wants and needs in favor of playing things safe.”  

He sighs, his thumb settling at the corner of Satoru’s mouth.

“Maybe there are people out there who are worth taking a risk on,” he says.

It feels like a confession. 

It feels like… Satoru’s not sure he really knows, whether he even has the vocabulary to describe the feeling welling up in his chest. But it makes something inside him melt; it makes his toes curl and causes his breath to catch in his lungs, and he squeezes Suguru’s palm as he looks up and asks, “You think I’m worth the risk?”

Now it’s Suguru’s turn to flush, even as he smiles and knocks their ankles together. “I think you could be worth everything,” he admits, and oh -

Satoru kisses him.

How could he not, after that? He kisses him soft and slow, pouring everything he hasn’t said into the way he eases his lips against Suguru’s, and when they finally break apart - minutes, hours, days later, maybe - he can’t help but grin.

“You like me,” he says.

“I do.”

“You like me a lot.”

Suguru’s smile is broad, his eyes crinkling at the corners; it’s like he can’t help it, and when he pushes up onto an elbow, Satoru moves with him, rolling onto his back in a move that’s just as instinctual, just as automatic.

“And you, you like me?” he asks. 

Satoru giggles. “A little.”

Suguru leans down, bumping their noses together. “Just a little?”

“A bit, yeah.” Satoru catches the sides of his face with his palms, cradling his face between his fingers. “I mean, you’re super hot - you might not have noticed, but I’ve been practically salivating over you in the back row for months now.”

Suguru snorts. “I noticed.”

“But then I find out you can actually hold a conversation without boring me? You join in when I make fun of people, and send me peer-reviewed research on demand? You actually give in when I ask for fourteen pumps of hazelnut syrup in my coffee?” 

He shakes his head, grinning. 

“Be still my fucking heart.”

Suguru laughs, nuzzling into the hand at his cheek. He presses one final kiss to Satoru’s lips before he sits up, looking around for his clothes.

“I’m glad we finally cleared that up.”

“You have no idea,” Satoru shoots back. “I’ve been pining after you for months now, hoping something would happen.”

Suguru hums, reaching for his discarded sweater. He pulls it up and over his head before padding over to the closet, tugging out a spare shirt and using it to clean himself off. 

Satoru does the same with the hand towel he throws him, grimacing at the mess he finds. 

“I’m gonna have to shower before I go home,” he mutters, scrubbing at his thighs. “This is just - gross.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining earlier,” Suguru points out, reaching for his phone.

“Well, yeah,” Satoru retorts. “I was a little busy.”

Suguru chuckles. “You can shower after dinner. We both can.” 

“The girls won’t be home tonight, you said?”

Suguru holds up the phone in his hands. “Nope. Staying over at a friend’s. Just got the message a few minutes ago.” Padding over to the bed, he tugs Satoru to his feet. “Which means that you can stay over, too. If you want.”

Satoru gives a solemn nod. “I want.”

“Good,” Suguru says, smiling. 

He ducks in, stealing a quick kiss before pressing a quick change of clothes into Satoru’s arms - sweatpants, from the looks of it, and a t-shirt that’s too big even for Suguru’s more muscular form. Satoru happily dons them as Suguru steps into a pair of loose shorts, not even trying to hide it when he curls his face into the collars and sniffs, breathing in Suguru’s warm, intoxicating scent. It’s good, so good; he might just have to steal these clothes.

Judging from the pleased once-over Suguru gives him, he doesn’t think he minds.

Eventually, they make their way back to the kitchen. Suguru checks on dinner as Satoru pulls fresh drinks from the refrigerator, and when Suguru announces the curry has finished, he starts pulling dishes out of a cabinet.

Satoru’s just sat down at the table when it hits him.

“Hey, wait.”

Suguru glances over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“If you liked me too… why didn’t you say anything?”

“Oh.” Suguru sets the pot down in the middle of the table, going back to get the rice. “Well, I was curious.”

“...curious.”

Suguru’s smile is serene. “I wanted to see how long it would take you to work it out on your own.”

Satoru blinks, considering. 

Then -

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Suguru laughs, sliding down into the seat next to him.

“That’s so - that’s so fucking rude, Suguru,” he pouts.

“Aw, are you mad?” Suguru ladles him out a serving of dinner, pushing it towards him before serving himself. 

“Furious. That’s no way to treat your boyfriend.”

The word slips out before he can really consider it, belatedly realizing that maybe he shouldn’t be throwing that title around. It’s one more thing they need to discuss before the night is out.

But Suguru just spears a potato with his chopsticks, unconcerned, brandishing it at Satoru like he’s giving a lecture. “To be fair, you weren’t my boyfriend then.”

“But you could’ve been!”

Suguru hums and brings his food to his lips. “We’ll just have to make up for lost time then, yeah?” he says, the smile he shoots Satoru as he grabs for his hand nothing short of brilliant. 

Satoru can’t help but smile back.

“Yeah. We will.”