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Looking at Suguru is like looking at a star. Or maybe the implosion of one, or something else stupid and poetic like that.
He twinkles. His laugh is like a celestial body, a sound coated in stardust that soars from his chest all the way to Satoru's ears. His stupid bangs rustling with every movement. His expression is soft with tenderness when his gaze lingers on Satoru. Suguru almost reminds him, vaguely, of the galaxies within his domain. Hundreds of thousands of stars and planets. Infinite knowledge. Suguru.
He simply glows, and Satoru cannot look away.
They sit on the engawa of the dorms after training, cicadas droning in the surrounding forest as the sun sets. They’re both soaked in rapidly drying sweat, the crisp air in the last dredges of daylight a sweet relief. It’s cool like air conditioning turned up low on a warm summer day. They sit there for what seems like hours, on the edge, close, close enough to touch. They murmur words to each other, soft in the business of dusk. Satoru is warm.
Suguru turns, looks at him, says something else, but Satoru doesn’t hear it. Only registers him, him, him, the warm press of his arm against Satoru’s, his hair, silky smooth, the curve of his cupid’s bow, the line of his jaw, the squint of his eyes, the slope of his nose—
“—toru?” Suguru questions. “Satoru?”
“Yeah?” comes Satoru’s slow, breathy reply, thick with reverence.
“You weren’t answering me,” Suguru says, one eyebrow raising pointedly. “You look like you’re on the moon. You could at least pretend to listen while I'm talking…“
Whatever he says next is lost to Satoru when he finds himself blurting, “You’re beautiful.”
A pause, and then Suguru's disbelieving, “what?”
Satoru doesn’t exactly understand what had just come out of his stupid, stupid mouth, so by the time he does register, it’s already too late.
“Well, I— I mean— you really are,“ Satoru finishes. He can feel himself beginning to flush, can see that Suguru is, too, but even then, he can’t help himself leaning closer anyway. From this distance, he can just barely feel Suguru's breath skimming his face. It smells like tobacco.
“Satoru,” Suguru huffs, scolding. Satoru tunes him out again to save himself the embarrassment and focuses on Suguru’s face; the red of the tips of Suguru's ears and the high points of his face, the smattering of freckles across his cheeks, leftovers from summer. They’ve already begun fading.
As he looks, looks, stares at this shining light in the night sky, he finds, suddenly, he doesn’t regret what he had said. Can’t find it in himself to revoke it when it’s true.
Suguru stares for a few long, long moments, now looking a bit reminiscent of a tomato. He sighs, low and soft, but his eyes twinkle with something unnameable as he looks at Satoru. “You shouldn’t say things when you don’t mean them.”
“I’m nothing but sincere when it comes to you, Suguru,” Satoru pouts.
The boy in question rolls his eyes, amusement in the curve of his smile, before finally saying “You ass,” lacking any bite. It makes Satoru laugh, loudly, and tug him closer again. Suguru groans, long and drawn out, as he relents, allowing Satoru to sway him back into where he was in the beginning, shoulders pressed close.
Victory smells of sandalwood.
There’s a pause as they sit there, simply breathing each other in. Then, in a burst of adrenaline, Satoru grips Suguru’s shoulder, tugs him closer still, wraps his arm around him tight and secure. Suguru makes a noise, startled, which makes Satoru start laughing again. Then Suguru’s laughing, too, until they’re both leaning closer, closer, until the lines separating them are practically nonexistent, giggling into one another.
There’s a toasty-warm feeling in his stomach, a supernova of warmth and color and Suguru, Suguru, Suguru. it threatens to consume him. I love you, his mind murmurs, syrupy sweet. I love you. A confession. Devotion.
Starshine burrows into his chest and murmurs to himself, his left ear hot where it’s pressed against Satoru’s neck. Satoru looks up to the sky, at the moon, at the stars. Grins, stands and tugs Suguru with him to drag him back inside. Suguru’s laugh echoes across the dorms, shines brighter than the stars, and Satoru can never get enough.
—
Satoru (older now, older than Suguru ever was, ever will be) sometimes sits his sorry ass down on that very spot on the engawa. He reminisces that night, other nights similar to it, the warmth of Suguru there, pressed into his chest. The vibration of his laughter, so close to Satoru’s heart. The “what”s and the “if”s. The “could’ve been”s, if maybe he’d loved Suguru a little harder, if maybe he’d been there to catch him when he fell.
He then drags himself inside, lone and cold as the moon without its sun, and goes to bed. There is naught but ghosts next to him when he wakes.