Chapter Text
“…it will show how he lived his life, how humble he stayed until the very end despite how much he had,” his mother says to no one in particular, cutting her food into small, careful pieces. “It’s what he would’ve wanted.”
No one responds.
The table is quieter than ever, and even though Satoru knows it’s deliberate, that this is how they show their respect, he can’t help but feel like he wants to jump out of his skin because it all makes him more aware of himself and his presence. Dinners are usually uncomfortable, but he’s usually familiar with the silence looming over the table. The shift in the air today is new, and he doesn’t know which version of himself should handle it.
He shifts in his seat, eyes fixed on the piece of meat he’s been moving around his plate for the past twenty minutes.
He should say something, he should act like this matters more.
“If your father was here today,” his aunt beats him to it, “he would’ve scolded you already for playing with your food.” Stepfather, Satoru corrects her in his mind. It wouldn’t matter to her, but it matters to him.
Still, her words land. She doesn’t even say them unkindly. If anything, it’s just a statement, but it still settles somewhere deep in Satoru’s stomach. Suddenly, he can hear his stepfather clearly– God won’t be so merciful to provide for us next time if you can’t show basic respect at the dinner table. The words send a shiver down his spine, and he straightens immediately.
“Sorry,” and he takes the first bite.
It’s dry and plain, but he swallows it anyway. At least the food is the same as usual. It’s familiar, and he finds comfort in that.
Everyone is quiet again except for the annoying fly buzzing somewhere by the open window. If Satoru believed in reincarnation, he would be sure it was his stepfather buzzing over his head and complaining about something new.
He was a humble man. Yes and no. He was humble in the way a king calls himself one of the people. Nobody who earned that amount of money was a man of God. Still, he would appear humble in the way he acted, in the way he spoke.
“It will be a nice service,” his mother continues with the same thing she talked about five minutes earlier, muttering to herself.
Nice.
She nods to herself, confirming what she just said, trying to seem composed, but Satoru can see the tips of her fingers whitening where she grips the wine glass too tightly. “It will be respectful.”
Respectful.
The fly finally finds a place to land close to his plate, and the buzzing is gone. Satoru is sure now the fly is his reincarnated stepfather that has nothing more to say now that he finally finished his food, sat with his back straight, and ate without saying a word. Now he’s afraid to even slightly move because the fly will start buzzing again, just like his stepfather would.
That damn fly.
“Why isn’t his son here?” his uncle decides to chime in, deliberately clearing his throat before saying anything, as if that question needed preparation.
His son?
Satoru doubts there’s anything to say to that. His son left six years ago, and that is enough to stop belonging somewhere.
“He should be here tonight,” his mother says. “The flight was delayed, but he’ll arrive.”
Oh.
That actually catches him off guard. For a second, he dares to question if it’s really for the funeral or if there’s an ulterior motive. Money.
He doesn’t dare to ask, but the realisation that he’ll have to deal with another member of his family he hasn’t seen in years before the day is over, is frustrating. Satoru doesn’t know what kind of man Suguru ended up being, and for some reason, that bothers him.
“It’s getting late, and I’d like to get some sleep before tomorrow.” The words come out more carefully than he means them to, and just as expected, that earns him a sharp look from his mother.
“Please stay,” she says softly, but the tone doesn’t match the look on her face.
Now he feels embarrassed, first for interrupting the previous conversation and second for having to sit back down like a dog doing a trick. Everyone at the table would expect him to do so, therefore there shouldn’t be much room for embarrassment, but the heat settles in his cheeks too visibly, too immediately.
For a moment, he considers just getting up and leaving, letting the moment pass.
He doesn’t.
He was disrespectful. He needs to do better.
“…sorry,” this is the second apology for tonight, “that was inappropriate. I’ll stay.” The response is trained and automatic, yet he still avoids eye contact while talking, trying to align the knife and the fork until they sit perfectly parallel.
“It’s good that he’ll be here for tomorrow. It’s only proper,” his uncle picks the conversation back up as if nothing shifted.
Proper.
Satoru must not show his annoyance at the conversation. Who cares if Suguru will be here for the funeral? How is it proper that he attends if his father barely ever mentioned that he has a son?
“He was very shaken when he heard,” his mother adds. “Devastated he didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. We all were.”
Everyone nods.
“Of course.”
That seems to settle it. No one adds anything after that, and the conversation doesn’t pick back up. It was going nowhere, for what it’s worth.
For a second now, the sound of the cutlery is more deliberate, like everyone is finishing at the same time without agreeing to it out loud.
Satoru notices his mother still hasn’t taken another sip of her wine. The glass is still in her hand, although now the grip feels lighter, the imprint of her fingers faint against the surface where she held it too tightly earlier.
She sets it down evenly, and it almost makes no sound.
“That’s enough,” she says after a moment, looking at no one in particular. “If everyone agrees, we should all get some rest.” Finally.
Satoru is the first to get up, the first to grip his chair too tightly and make space to leave. No one stops him this time, no one even looks at him. By the time he thanks everyone for coming and thanks his mother for the dinner again, everyone is up.
He turns quietly on his heels and is ready to get away. The walk to his room up the stairs is slow and quiet, the opposite of how he feels inside. He supposes he could’ve stayed and helped with the dishes, but he already made a statement earlier about being too tired. It will be okay.
Upstairs, the house feels different. Lighter, less watched. Satoru can be himself now. He pauses in the doorway of his room for a second before entering, making sure his mother isn’t following to give him a lecture. It was a long day for her too, he guesses.
He enters and closes the door behind him. He can finally breathe.
That’s it.
He throws himself on the bed, breathing in the smell of his pillow. Somewhere far away, he can hear a car engine getting closer to their house.
It’s probably him.
Except it’s not his problem, and he doesn’t care about it.
He doesn’t get up to greet the stranger that is his stepbrother.
༶ ༶ ༶ ༶ ༶ ༶ ༶
Morning comes too quickly. The light pushes through the curtains in uneven strips, thin and pale, stretching across the floor before slowly reaching the edge of his bed. Satoru wakes before his alarm, not fully, just enough to register the shift in the room, the faint brightness where there should still be shadow. For a moment he stays still, eyes half open, trying to place what feels different, the thought just unreachable until it settles on its own.
Right.
He turns onto his back, staring at the ceiling, letting the thought sit there without moving to do anything about it. Someone else is in the house now, and even without hearing anything, the awareness lingers, quiet but persistent.
He exhales slowly and pushes himself up, the movement automatic. The floor is colder than expected, enough to make him pause before continuing, pulling on whatever is closest and smoothing it down more out of habit than care. By the time he steps into the hallway, his expression has already settled into something neutral, something that fits.
The house is quieter than last night. There are still sounds if he listens for them– a cupboard opening somewhere below, something placed down with more care than necessary, the faint echo of movement that doesn’t quite carry. None of it lasts long enough to follow. It comes and goes, leaving the space in between heavier than it should be.
He pauses at the top of the stairs without meaning to, hand resting lightly against the railing, listening a second longer than necessary before starting down. Halfway there, he slows.
The kitchen light is on.
He doesn’t step fully into view.
From where he stands, he can see just enough. The edge of the counter, the line of the sink, the back of a chair pulled slightly away from the table. Something moves, briefly, just out of sight, the sound of ceramic touching the surface, quiet but distinct.
Satoru stops there, not for long, just enough to feed the curiosity.
Then he turns away.
The decision feels immediate, almost automatic, like something already made before he got there. He heads toward the bathroom instead, steps quieter now, more deliberate, as if that matters.
The mirror catches him before he’s ready for it. His expression is still neutral, controlled, but there’s something off about it, something he doesn’t bother trying to fix. He runs water over his hands, colder than necessary, watching it gather and slip between his fingers before turning it off again.
Outside, something is loud again. A chair, maybe, or a door. He doesn’t listen long enough to be certain.
By the time he comes back into the hallway, the light from the kitchen is gone and for some reason, he feels relieved. It looks like he's gone.
When he turns around, the moment has already passed. Nothing lingers in a way that demands attention, and he doesn’t go looking for it. He moves through the hallway without stopping, not checking the rooms he passes, not thinking about where anyone else might be because he knows. His mother is probably expecting him too.
He enters his room and changes, pulling on something cleaner, something that fits the tone of the day without needing to think too hard about it. He checks the mirror before leaving, just to confirm that nothing stands out. He doesn’t look again.
He grabs what he needs and heads for the door, the motion simple enough that it doesn’t require any pause. Outside, the air feels sharper, the light stronger than it had been earlier, flattening everything into clearer edges.
He can see his mother in the car, waiting for him. She is alone. Thank God.
The drive doesn’t hold much of his attention. He watches the passing streets without really focusing on them, letting the movement carry him from one place to the next without marking the distance in between. Every now and then something catches; a group of people standing together in a circle, someone overdressed for the season, a girl walking three big dogs trying to keep it together.
When they arrive, there are already people gathered near the entrance. Some stand in small clusters, others apart, hands folded, voices kept low even when there’s space for them to be louder. He recognises a few faces, enough to place them without needing to look directly, and adjusts his path slightly to avoid the ones that might expect more than a brief acknowledgment.
Inside, the air changes in a way that’s difficult to describe but easy to feel. The light is softer, diffused across the room, and the sound of footsteps carries differently against the floor, each movement more noticeable than it should be. He follows the others without needing to be told where to go, settling into a place that doesn’t draw attention, far enough from the center to avoid being seen too closely.
People continue to arrive, filling the space gradually. The room shifts with them, not louder, just fuller, the low murmur of voices blending into something constant. Satoru keeps his focus forward, not on anything specific, just enough to avoid having to meet anyone’s eyes for too long.
Somewhere across the room, movement draws his attention without asking for it.
He doesn’t turn immediately. It’s more of a shift at the edge of his vision, something out of place enough to register but not enough to demand it. For a second, he lets it pass, keeping his focus forward, but the awareness lingers, quiet and persistent, until it becomes harder to ignore.
When he finally looks, it’s not direct. Just enough to place the figure among the others, to separate it from the rest of the room without fully committing to it.
Suguru stands further back than he expected.
Not near the front, not surrounded, just slightly apart in a way that doesn’t seem intentional. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, hands at his sides instead of folded like everyone else’s. The difference is small, but it holds.
Satoru’s gaze doesn’t stay long. It moves away almost immediately, settling somewhere else without landing properly, like it had never been there in the first place.
It happens again a few minutes later.
Not on purpose.
He catches the line of his shoulder this time, the way the dark fabric falls against him, then the ink just visible where the sleeve doesn’t quite cover it. It’s enough to recognise, enough to confirm, and he looks away before it becomes anything else.
There’s no reason to keep looking.
Still, at some point, he does it again.
This time, it’s faster, more instinctive, the kind of glance that doesn’t fully form before it’s already over. And for a second, it feels like it might’ve been noticed, like something in the space between them shifted just slightly.
Satoru looks down immediately, adjusting his posture, his hands, anything that gives the gaze somewhere else to land.
It doesn’t mean anything.
He doesn’t think about it long enough to decide if it does.
The room settles back into itself, the low murmur of voices fading as people begin to take their places. Movement becomes more structured, more deliberate, and Satoru follows it without thinking, stepping forward when the others do, stopping when they stop.
For a while, he manages not to look again.
—
It doesn’t stay like that.
Suguru’s presence doesn’t disappear once he stops looking. If anything, it becomes easier to notice without trying, like it’s already accounted for somewhere in the back of his mind, shaping the space without needing to be seen directly.
Satoru shifts slightly in his seat, attention moving forward, fixing on the front of the room, on anything that doesn’t require him to think beyond what’s expected of him.
It should be simple.
It isn’t.
He presses his tongue lightly against the inside of his cheek, grounding himself in something physical, something small enough to control. For a moment, his thoughts drift, not in any clear direction, just away, slipping into something quieter where nothing is defined enough to hold.
Then, unexpectedly, they settle somewhere else entirely. A problem. Not from here. Not from today.
From yesterday, maybe. Or earlier.
A fragment of something unresolved, something he hadn’t finished during his class, the shape of an equation forming without needing to be written down. It comes back to him in pieces at first, variables without structure, then gradually fitting together, the way they always do when he lets himself follow it long enough.
Force, motion, something slightly off in the way the values were set.
He turns it over once, then again, adjusting it, testing it, the process pulling his attention further from the room without asking for permission. It becomes clearer the longer he stays with it, the steps lining up in a way that feels cleaner than anything else around him, each part leading to–
The room comes back all at once, not gradually, the sound of voices returning first, then movement, then the awareness of where he is, of how long he’s been sitting there without really seeing anything.
Satoru blinks. Right, the service.
He adjusts his hands in his lap, posture correcting automatically. It had slipped without him noticing. The front of the room is already filled, people settling into stillness, the space reshaping itself into something more formal, more contained.
His mother steps forward. Satoru’s attention sharpens, not fully, but enough.
She moves carefully, each step measured, like she knows how it looks from the outside. Up close, there’s something else in it; something tighter, held in place rather than naturally steady. Her hands are clasped together at first, then separate just slightly when she reaches the front, fingers pressing together again in a way that isn’t quite controlled.
When she begins to speak, her voice doesn’t waver. Not at first. The words come out evenly, practiced, the kind that have been repeated enough times to lose their edges. She shares his life, about the way he carried himself, about things that sound right in this kind of setting, even if they don’t quite land the way they’re supposed to.
Satoru watches her for a moment, then looks away. It’s easier that way.
From somewhere behind him, voices shift, quiet but close enough to carry.
“… I didn’t expect him to show up like that,” someone murmurs.
Another voice, lower. “It’s inappropriate.”
Satoru doesn’t turn, but his attention tilts just enough to catch it.
“The tattoos,” the first voice continues. “His father wouldn't tolerate that. Did he know?"
“And the earrings,” the other adds. “He could’ve at least…”
The sentence trails off, unfinished but clear enough. Satoru’s gaze drops slightly, not focusing on anything in particular.
“…he was always like that,” someone else says. “Difficult.” There’s a pause, then a softer response. “Still. It’s his father.”
The conversation fades after that, dissolving back into the rest of the room, indistinguishable from everything else.
Satoru doesn’t look for them. He doesn’t look for Suguru either, but the awareness returns anyway, quiet and persistent, sitting somewhere just beneath everything else, harder to ignore now that it’s been named without being said directly.
He shifts slightly in his seat, eyes forward again.
༶ ༶ ༶ ༶ ༶ ༶ ༶
By the time the service begins to end, it isn’t marked by anything clear. People start moving before anything is formally finished, chairs scraping softly against the floor, bodies adjusting as if they’ve been waiting for a moment that no one needed to announce. Someone stands, then another, and soon the room begins to empty in a slow, uneven way.
Satoru stays seated a little longer than most, watching the surrounding movement without focusing on anyone in particular. When he does stand, it’s without hesitation, his posture settling into something proper before anyone can pay attention to it.
His mother remains near the front. People gather around her almost immediately, speaking in lowered voices, reaching for her hands, holding them just long enough to be noticed before letting go. From where he stands, Satoru can see her nodding, responding when needed, her expression holding steady even when the words coming to her seem to blur together.
He doesn’t go to her right away.
Instead, he steps slightly out of the way, letting others pass in front of him, shifting his position just enough to avoid being pulled into conversation. Fragments of voices move past him without settling, names, small condolences, things that sound appropriate.
Eventually, the movement carries toward the exit. He follows without thinking about it, keeping enough distance from the people ahead of him to avoid being drawn in, but not enough to stand out.
Outside, people gather again in smaller groups. Conversations restart, quieter than usual, the same faces repeating in different arrangements. Satoru recognises some of them, enough to avoid eye contact without making it obvious, letting his gaze pass over them without stopping.
Somewhere nearby, there’s movement he doesn’t fully turn toward. He’s aware of it anyway. The outline, the presence, familiar enough now that he doesn’t need to confirm it. He lets his attention drift past it before it changes into anything more.
There’s no reason to look.
The walk to the car happens without much thought. Doors open and close, voices fading as he settles inside, and Satoru takes his place without needing to be told. He adjusts his sleeve once, then again, his hands finding something small to focus on.
The drive back passes without conversation. The sound of the road carries steadily beneath them, filling the space just enough that no one feels the need to speak.
When they return, the house feels like an escape for the first time. There are still traces of people having been there, chairs not quite aligned, glasses set down where they weren’t before, but nothing that asks to be dealt with immediately. His mother moves through the space more slowly now, not stopping long enough in one place to settle into it, her attention shifting from one small task to another without finishing any of them.
Satoru lingers near the doorway for a moment before stepping further inside, watching her without meaning to. There’s something about the way she carries herself that makes him hesitate, like stepping closer would require something from him that he doesn't know how to give. He considers offering to help, the thought forming without much direction, but it doesn’t move beyond that. She doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t interrupt the quiet rhythm she’s set for herself.
Somewhere behind him, a car door closes.
Instead of turning, he moves past the living room and toward the stairs, taking them at the same measured pace as before, not rushing, not pausing either. The house feels smaller on the way up, the air warmer than it should be, like everything has been left slightly closed in.
His room is finally within reach. He closes the door behind him and lets it rest there without checking the handle, crossing the room and sitting at his desk more out of habit than intention. For a while, he just looks at what’s in front of him; the open notebook, the pen placed where he left it, the page still waiting.
He reaches for it eventually, flipping back to where he stopped.
The problem is still there, unfinished, the same set of variables arranged in a way that should make sense if he gives it enough attention. He reads over it once, then again, following the steps he had already worked through, trying to pick up the thread where he left it. It holds for a moment, long enough for him to start moving forward again, but something interrupts before it settles.
The voices from earlier come back unexpectedly. At first just fragments, the tone more than the words, but then sharper, enough to form into something recognisable.
The tattoos… inappropriate… his father…
He pauses, pen hovering just above the page.
There had been something else, something about how it looked, how it didn’t fit, how it said more than it should without needing to be explained. The way they spoke about it had been certain, not loud, but confident in a way that didn’t leave much room for anything else.
Satoru presses the tip of the pen lightly against the paper, not writing, just holding it there.
It is inappropriate.
The thought comes easily, fitting into place without resistance. There’s something careless about it, something deliberate in the way it stands out, as if it’s meant to be seen rather than hidden. At a time like this, of all times, it feels wrong.
He traces over the same line in his notes without adding anything to it.
It’s not just the tattoos.
It’s everything around them, everything they suggest without saying it outright, the kind of choices that move you further away from what’s expected. The kind that don’t try to justify themselves.
For a moment, his attention drifts from the page entirely.
There’s a version of that life he can almost place, just enough to recognise the absence of something familiar. No expectations set in advance, no constant awareness of how things are supposed to look from the outside, no need to measure every action against something that doesn’t change.
The thought doesn’t stay long enough to form properly.
He presses his lips together slightly, eyes dropping back to the page.
It’s not something worth thinking about.
The pen moves again, slower this time, rewriting a step he had already solved, adjusting it slightly even though he knows it won’t change the outcome. The structure of it is still there, the logic intact, but it takes longer to follow now, like something small has been thrown off without shifting the whole.
After a while, he stops.
The problem hasn’t moved.
He leans back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose, and reaches for his phone without thinking too much about it. The screen lights up immediately, messages already waiting. The group chat is active.
Shoko has sent something he doesn’t bother opening fully, Nanami replying underneath with something that looks like a correction, followed by a few more messages that don’t connect to anything he’s interested in right now. There’s a joke somewhere in between, or something meant to be one, but it doesn’t hold his attention long enough to register. The conversation keeps going without him.
He locks the screen and sets the phone down where it was before, the movement quiet, controlled.
After a moment, he leans forward, eyes returning to the page, following the lines he had already written as if they might arrange themselves differently this time. They don't.
Time passes without him keeping track of it. At some point, the light isn’t enough anymore, and he turns the lamp on, blinking once at the brightness before looking back down.
There’s more written than he remembers. He stares at it, trying to place when he got that far, but it doesn’t come back clearly. He exhales, shifts in his chair, then sets the pen down.
This isn’t going anywhere.
After a while, he stands, turns off the lamp, and crosses to the bed. He lies down without changing, staring at the ceiling longer than he needs to but the sleep doesn't come.
His life was difficult as it was but this adds a new meaning to the word difficult. He half expects everything to go back to normal tomorrow but he doubts Suguru will leave so soon.
Sleep doesn’t come, not even the kind that lets him pretend for a few minutes before giving up again. Satoru turns onto his side, then back, the sheets already uneven around his legs, and after a while he stops trying to fix it. There’s a point where staying in bed just becomes another way of not doing anything, and he reaches it without deciding to. He sits up, runs a hand through his hair, and leaves the room without checking the time.
The hallway is dim, enough light from downstairs to see where he’s going without turning anything on. By the time he reaches the kitchen, he’s already thinking about tea, something simple enough to follow without effort. He fills the kettle halfway, sets it on the stove, and lets the water run just a second longer than necessary before turning it off.
“You’re loud.”
The voice lands behind him before he registers anything else.
He stills, hand resting against the edge of the sink, and for a moment he doesn’t turn, as if not reacting might undo it. Then he pulls his hand away and looks over.
Suguru is leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, like he’s been there long enough for it to make sense. The light catches along his arm where the ink shows clearly, not hidden, not softened by anything, and there’s a small glint at his ear when he shifts his head slightly.
Satoru looks a second longer than he should.
Then looks away.
“I didn’t say anything,” he replies, reaching for the kettle again, giving his movement more confidence.
“You don’t have to.”
The answer comes easily, without emphasis, and somehow that makes it harder to ignore. Satoru sets the kettle on the stove, turning it on with more force than necessary, the click sharper than it needs to be.
“What are you doing up,” he says, not looking at him.
“Same as you, apparently.”
“I doubt that.”
Suguru doesn’t respond, which leaves the words hanging there without anywhere to go. The kettle begins to heat, a low sound at first, barely noticeable, and Satoru reaches for a cup, then another without thinking. He pauses halfway through the second one, the motion catching on itself, and sets it back where it was.
Suguru doesn’t say anything about it.
Satoru keeps moving, slower now, aware of where his hands are, where he’s standing, the space between them that feels more defined than it should. He glances over without meaning to.
Up close, the details are harder to ignore. The tattoos aren’t just there, they’re precise, placed like they were meant to be seen, not something added without thought. The lines follow his arm naturally, disappearing beneath the fabric without losing shape, and the piercing catches the light again when he shifts.
There’s no attempt to hide any of it.
Satoru looks away.
It’s wrong.
He focuses on the kettle instead, watching the surface of the water before it starts to move, but the thought doesn’t leave as cleanly as he expects. It lingers just enough for something else to follow it, something quieter, less certain.
What it would look like.
Not on him— just.
He presses his lips together, sharper this time, cutting it off before it settles into anything he’d have to deal with.
“Don’t stare,” Suguru says.
Satoru’s head lifts immediately. “I wasn’t.”
Suguru only raises an eyebrow slightly, not pushing it, not correcting him, and somehow that makes it worse than if he had.
Satoru turns back to the counter, dropping the tea into the cup with more force than necessary. The kettle whistles a moment later, and he turns it off before it can go on too long, pouring the water in a steady motion that’s just confident enough to look deliberate.
“You’re going to burn yourself,” Suguru says.
“I’m not.”
He takes a sip anyway.
The heat hits immediately, sharper than expected, but he swallows without reacting, setting the cup down a little harder than intended before his fingers loosen around it.
Suguru watches him for a second, then looks away, like there’s nothing else to add.
The space between them stretches, not empty, just difficult to move through. Satoru leans back against the counter, more out of habit than anything else. He doesn’t leave, even though there’s no reason to stay, and the longer he stands there, the more obvious it becomes.
Suguru doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t ask anything, either. He just stays where he is, steady, like none of this requires a mention.
Satoru glances at him again, quick this time, then away before it can be noticed, or before he has to deal with the fact that it might have been.
He doesn’t move, and after a few seconds it becomes clear that Suguru isn’t going to either.
The cup sits warm in Satoru’s hands, heat settling into his palms in a way that should be grounding but isn’t. He turns it slightly, watching the surface shift just enough to give his eyes something to follow, then brings it closer without drinking.
“You’re staying here?” he asks eventually, like it doesn’t matter.
“For some time.”
Satoru nods once, gaze still on the cup. “Right.”
He runs his thumb along the rim, catching on a small chip in the ceramic he hadn’t noticed before. It’s barely there, but enough to feel uneven.
“You could’ve stayed somewhere else.”
Suguru tilts his head slightly, not reacting right away. “I could’ve.”
Satoru glances at him then, quick and assessing, like he’s checking for something specific and not finding it. “Would’ve made more sense.”
“Probably.”
The agreement comes too easily, and Satoru’s fingers still for a second before resuming the same motion along the edge of the cup.
“Then why didn’t you?”
Suguru shifts his weight against the counter, one shoulder pressing back just a little, his sleeve pulling further up his arm in the process. The ink stretches with the movement, lines curving naturally instead of breaking.
“Didn’t feel like it.”
Satoru’s jaw tightens slightly.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, something caught between irritation and disbelief, and finally takes a sip. It’s still warmer than he expects, and he swallows too quickly, setting the cup down before his grip loosens.
The ceramic taps lightly against the counter.
“You’ve changed,” he says, before he can decide not to.
Suguru glances at him, expression unreadable. “Yeah.”
Satoru’s eyes flick to his arm again, then to the piercing at his ear when it catches the light as he shifts. “Obviously.”
His gaze lingers a second longer this time before he pulls it back, focusing instead on the faint water mark forming under his cup.
Suguru doesn’t respond right away. When he does, it’s without tension. “You haven’t.”
Satoru lets out a short breath, something dry that doesn’t quite reach a laugh. “You’ve been here, what, a day?”
“Long enough.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Suguru shrugs slightly. “It doesn't have to.”
Satoru looks at him properly this time, eyes narrowing just slightly like he’s trying to decide if there’s something else in that.
There isn’t.
He looks away again, picking the cup back up even though he just set it down, turning it in his hands like he’s forgotten what to do with it.
“You don’t get to come back and decide that,” he says, the words quieter now but sharper.
Suguru watches him for a moment, not interrupting, not reacting immediately.
“I didn’t decide anything,” he says finally.
Satoru presses his lips together, something else forming behind that, something heavier, but it doesn’t come out cleanly enough to say.
Instead, he exhales, leaning back against the counter again, arms folding tighter this time, his shoulder brushing lightly against the edge.
“You’re studying?” Suguru shifts the subject after a moment.
Satoru frowns slightly at the shift, like it came too easily. “I was.”
“How’s that going?”
He lets out another short breath. “Fine.” Satoru watches him for a second longer, then looks away first, like he’s the one ending it, even if he isn’t.
He picks up the cup again, takes another sip just to have something to do, even though it’s already gone lukewarm.
The room settles around them, not empty, just filled with things neither of them is saying.
Satoru doesn’t leave.
The tea has gone lukewarm, but he keeps the cup in his hands anyway, fingers resting along the rim as he turns it slowly, the motion small and repetitive. There’s a faint line of condensation gathering near the base, uneven, spreading just enough to catch his attention when he looks down.
He watches it for a second.
Then—
“You didn’t even try,” he says.
The words come out quieter than the rest, not quite matching the way his jaw tightens right after.
Suguru shifts slightly, straightening from where he’d been leaning, the movement subtle but enough to change the angle of his shoulders. The fabric of his sleeve pulls back just a little more, exposing more of the ink, the lines stretching with the motion rather than breaking.
“Try what?”
Satoru doesn’t look at him immediately. His thumb presses against the edge of the cup, catching on the same small imperfection again, dragging over it once before stopping.
“To—” he starts, then cuts himself off, like the rest of it doesn’t come out the way he expected.
He sets the cup down, a little too quickly, the ceramic hitting the counter with a dull sound that doesn’t echo but still feels louder than it should.
“To make it normal,” he finishes, less steady now.
Suguru watches him for a second, not interrupting, his gaze steady without being heavy.
“What would that look like?”
Satoru exhales through his nose, shifting his weight, one shoulder pressing back against the counter. His eyes flick up briefly, then away again, like holding eye contact would make him commit to something he doesn't know yet.
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t,” Suguru says, and there’s no edge to it, just a refusal to fill in the gaps for him.
Satoru glances at him then, sharper this time, like he’s expecting something to push against and getting nothing.
“Not this,” he says, his hand lifting slightly before dropping again, the gesture vague but pointed enough.
Suguru’s eyes follow the movement, then return to his face.
“This.”
The word hangs there, incomplete. Satoru doesn’t clarify. He doesn’t need to. For a moment, neither of them moves.
Suguru shifts again, pushing himself fully upright now, his posture straightening without becoming rigid. The light catches again along the edge of his ear, the small ring reflecting briefly before disappearing once more when he tilts his head.
“You mean the way I look,” he says.
Satoru doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drops instead, not directly, but enough to trace along Suguru’s arm again, the ink more visible now that he’s closer, more deliberate than it had seemed from across the room earlier.
“It’s not appropriate,” he says finally, the words coming out more controlled, like something he’s already decided. “At a funeral.”
Suguru considers that, his expression unchanged. “Right.”
That’s all.
Satoru’s grip tightens slightly against the edge of the counter, fingers pressing just enough to feel the resistance. He looks up again, expecting something more, something that explains it or corrects it. “You don’t care?” he asks.
Suguru meets his gaze this time, steady, unhurried. “About what they think?”
Satoru hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nods. “Yeah.”
Suguru’s expression doesn’t shift. “No.” The answer lands without weight, and somehow that makes it harder to argue with.
Satoru looks at him like he’s trying to find where it came from, some hesitation that didn’t show.
There isn’t any.
“That’s,” he starts, then stops again, his hand lifting slightly before dropping back to the counter.
Wrong.
The word sits there without being said.
He looks away first.
His fingers move back to the cup without picking it up, resting against the side, tracing the cooling surface like he’s forgotten why he reached for it in the first place.
For a second, the thought slips in again, quieter this time but harder to ignore. Not the tattoos. The not caring.
He presses his lips together, sharper now, pushing it back before it settles. It doesn’t mean anything.
He straightens slightly, shoulders pulling back into something more controlled, like that’s enough to close it off.
Suguru watches him for a moment longer, not saying anything, not pushing it further.
“Go to sleep,” he says after a while.
Satoru looks at him again, something sharper returning just enough to cover everything else. “I wasn’t staying.”
Suguru hums lightly, like that doesn’t change anything.
Satoru’s hand lingers on the counter for a second before he pulls it back, pushing himself upright.
This time, he leaves.
He closes the door to his room harder than he means to. Not loud enough to draw attention, but enough that the sound lingers for a second longer than it should. Satoru stands there for a moment, hand still on the handle, jaw set tighter than before, like he hasn’t fully decided what to do with the rest of it yet.
Then he lets go.
The room feels too small all of a sudden, or maybe just too contained. He crosses it without thinking, dropping onto the chair and pulling it closer to the desk in one sharp movement. The notebook is still open where he left it, the same lines staring back at him like they expect something. He flips the page. Then flips it back.
“Stupid,” he mutters under his breath, though it’s not clear what he’s talking about.
The pen rolls slightly when he picks it up, slipping against his fingers before he grips it properly. He leans forward, eyes scanning the problem again, faster this time, less careful, like forcing it might make it move. It doesn’t. He presses the pen down harder than necessary, writing over the same line again, the ink darker, thicker, slightly uneven now.
It still doesn’t go anywhere.
He stops, staring at it, then drags the pen across the margin instead, a short, unnecessary line that cuts through the space he left blank earlier.
His jaw tightens.
“That’s,” he starts, then stops, the rest of the sentence never forming.
He leans back abruptly, the chair shifting under him, one leg lifting slightly before settling again with a soft thud. His hand comes up to his face, pressing briefly against his eyes, then sliding down, slower this time.
It’s nothing.
It doesn’t matter.
He exhales sharply, pushing himself up from the chair again, pacing once across the room, then back, the movement tight and contained like he’s trying not to make it obvious, even though there’s no one there to see it.
His hand catches on the sleeve of his shirt as he moves, pulling it up slightly before he fixes it again, smoothing it down like something’s out of place.
The image comes back anyway.
The tattoos. The way they sat against Suguru’s skin without trying to disappear. Satoru’s expression hardens.
It’s wrong.
He looks down at his own arm, bare, unmarked, the skin smooth and pale under the light. For a second, he turns it slightly, like he’s trying to picture it– just a line, something small, something that doesn’t belong there.
The thought sits longer than it should. He drops his arm.
“No,” he mutters, sharper this time.
He moves again, back to the desk, then away from it immediately, like sitting down would mean committing to something he would rather not do. The room feels restless around him, or maybe it’s just him, the energy sitting too high without anywhere to go.
He runs a hand through his hair again, slower now, tugging slightly before letting it fall back into place.
He shouldn’t have said anything.
Or maybe he should’ve said more.
The thought irritates him more than it should.
He stops in the middle of the room, exhaling through his nose, shoulders pulling back like he’s trying to reset something that won’t settle.
It doesn’t work.
After a second, he drops back onto the bed instead, not bothering to fix the sheets this time, one arm thrown over his eyes like that might block everything out. It makes it worse.
He shifts again, restless, turning onto his side, then onto his back, the mattress dipping slightly under the movement.
The thoughts don’t stop, but they lose shape, becoming harder to follow, blending into something less defined. The edges of them blur the same way the room does, until they’re not sharp enough to argue with anymore. Eventually, his eyes close again. This time, they stay closed longer.
The tension doesn’t leave completely, but it loosens just enough, settling into something quieter, something he doesn’t have to push against as hard.