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“Am I dirty?” he asked before he could think better of it.
Suguru looked him up and down with a curious expression, squinting, searching for something that could explain whatever the hell was going on. “Huh? No… you look fine to me.”
That’s not what I meant. Am I filthy, or am I pure?
“Are—are you sure?” It came out weak, brittle. He lightly unclasped the hand from Suguru’s jacket which he was still holding, leaving it just hovering over the fabric. He was scared he’d burn Suguru again, but he was more scared about being unclean. “What about my hands?”
Without reservation, Suguru gently took Satoru’s hand from the jacket and then lifted the other, still pressed to Satoru’s chest, into his own small palms. He turned his hands till his palms faced God, and Lord, did they burn, but before he could pull back, Suguru held them firmly, thumbs brushing over the lines and grooves of his palms, steady, careful, unflinching.
“All clean, ‘Toru. I promise. See?”
Satoru did not believe him.
Or, Satoru wrestles with God, the Bible, and the slow, undeniable realization that he is in love with his best friend, Suguru.
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Bookmark Notes:
Beautiful and so realistic it hurts.
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Bookmark Notes:
So fucking heartbreaking and beautiful