Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Art is stupid. 

Not in the way that makes people roll their eyes and say, Oh, you just don’t get it, but in the way that is both everything and nothing, sacred and absurd. A single brushstroke can be called genius if the right person says so, and an entire lifetime of effort can be dismissed with the flick of a critic’s wrist. A banana duct-taped to a wall can be art, but so can a centuries-old masterpiece, oil paint sinking into canvas like it was always meant to live there. Who decided? Who got to draw the line between brilliance and nonsense, between a masterpiece and a mistake?

Art is just color, shape, and form. Just ink on paper. Just a boy with a paintbrush thinking he can hold the world in his hands. 

There is no meaning in art except the meaning people assign to it, and even that is inconsistent, mercurial, shaped by time and place and the weight of history pressing down on trembling fingers. A painting means one thing to the artist who made it, another to the stranger standing in a gallery, tilting their head as if searching for understanding in a sea of brushstrokes. 

Maybe it’s just a way for people to convince themselves the world is worth something. Maybe it’s a lie wrapped in pretty colors, a desperate attempt to say, Look, here is beauty, here is something that matters, when really, it’s all just pigment and light and fleeting moments trapped in a frame. Maybe the grand pursuit of art is nothing more than an excuse for people to make themselves feel important. 

Because art is stupid. 

And yet, people kneel before it. They cry in front of it. They dream about it when they sleep. They see their own reflection in it, in the curves of sculptures, in the sharp edges of abstraction, in the words of a poet they will never meet. They grieve with it. They hold onto it like it’s something holy, something that will save them. 

And maybe that’s the stupidest part of it all. 

Comparatively, Satoru was regretting every life choice that had led him here. 

The gallery was too bright, too loud, too full —an endless sea of pretentious art lovers sipping overpriced wine and throwing around words like “juxtaposition” and “postmodernism” with the smug assurance of those who had never worked a real job a day in their lives. Soft jazz curled through the air, mixing with murmured conversation and the occasional, delighted oh, it speaks to me that made Satoru physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

The walls were lined with paintings—some abstract, some disturbingly realistic—but they all had one thing in common: Satoru didn’t give a singular shit about any of them.

A hand tightened around his arm in warning. Shoko, ever the handler to his barely-restrained chaos.

“I don’t know what you just mumbled,” she murmured, “but keep it to yourself.”

“I said,” Satoru drawled, leaning down like he was about to share something profound, “this is the worst thing I’ve ever been a part of.”

Shoko hummed, unimpressed. “Worse than getting your hand stuck in the vending machine this morning?”

“That was a human rights violation, Sho. It had already taken my money and the chips were right there—”

“Oh my god.”

“—and then some cheeky little bastard stole them while I was fighting for my life. And somehow this still ranks lower on the tier of things that have happened to me today.”

Shoko pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned, knowing full well she loved him despite her perpetual air of suffering. “Easy for you to say. You like this kind of thing.”

“It’s called cultural enrichment, Satoru.”

“It’s called torture. ” He let his head tip back like he was dying, just to make sure the full weight of his misery was clear. “I could be anywhere else right now. Doing anything else. I could be committing crimes.” 

Shoko snorted, steering them deftly through the crowd. “You couldn’t commit a crime if you wanted to. The closest you’re getting is wearing those stupid sunglasses in here.”

Satoru only pushed them higher up the bridge of his nose in defiance. “My suffering is private.” 

Her mouth twitched, but she said nothing. 

As Satoru’s eyes wandered aimlessly, the only positive he could come up with was that at least they looked good in comparison to every old geezer dressed like they came straight out of a costume shop. Shoko, ever effortlessly elegant, wore a simple black cocktail dress that made her look like she actually belonged here—like she could fit in anywhere, really. Satoru, by contrast, was a walking contradiction. He had dressed in all black as well, but where everyone else in the room was decked out in dramatic silhouettes and avant-garde fashion statements, he had gone for something as simple as classy could get. Paired with his ever-present sunglasses, it made him look like either the richest man in the room or some guy who had wandered in off the street.

The only reason he was here at all was because of Shoko. Some friend of hers was the artist of the night, someone Satoru had never met and barely heard of, and Shoko—being the loving, supportive friend she was—had insisted on showing up. And since he was her roommate, her best friend from birth, and also completely incapable of saying no to her when she really put her mind to something, he had been dragged along against his will.

Now, as Shoko flitted effortlessly through the crowd, charming and sociable, Satoru lingered just slightly behind her, at least one glass of wine in hand at all times. His boredom was reaching catastrophic levels. He had already counted the number of exit signs (three), decided which wall he would Kool-Aid Man through in an emergency (the one by the servers’ table), and spent an embarrassing amount of time contemplating whether he could fake a medical emergency dramatic enough to get carried out without getting banned from future events (though that was not entirely a turn off).

So far, he had resisted. Barely.

“Having fun?” Shoko asked, reappearing at his side just as he drained another glass.

“Oh yeah, best night of my life,” he deadpanned. “Really makes up for the vending machine trauma.”

“Glad to hear it.” She plucked the empty glass from his fingers before he could use it as an excuse to escape. “Can you try to at least pretend you’re here on purpose.”

“I am here on purpose.” He gestured vaguely toward the nearest painting—a violent explosion of red and black brushstrokes that looked vaguely like a crime scene. “It might be your purpose, but look at me. I’m appreciating culture.”

Shoko gave the piece a cursory glance. “You have no idea what you’re looking at, do you?”

“No, obviously not! Does anybody?”

She exhaled, a sound of pure, familiar exasperation, then—because she was the absolute worst—patted his cheek. “Well… be good. Behave. I’m going to find Suguru.”

“If you hate me just say that, Sho. And to think I was just starting to enjoy life again.”

“Woe is me, woe is me,” she mocked dramatically with a laugh as she walked away.

Satoru groaned, tragic and long-suffering. But he didn’t stop her. Instead, he watched Shoko disappear into the crowd, his last lifeline slipping away into a sea of silk and self-importance.

So this was it. His final moments before succumbing to the cruel and unusual punishment of being alone at an art show.

He sighed, a deep, soul-weary thing, and trudged further into the gallery like a man marching toward execution. Somewhere in the background, the jazz music took on a particularly mournful tune, and Satoru felt it in his bones. Misery loved company, and yet here he was, abandoned. Betrayed. Forced to suffer in isolation, with no one to share in his torment but the overpriced champagne and the unhinged artistic interpretations of the wealthy.

He snagged a fresh glass off a passing server’s tray without so much as a glance. Was this glass three? Four? He wasn’t sure, but the steadily increasing fuzziness settling in his head suggested the latter.

If he was going to be here, he might as well do something productive. And since art appreciation was off the table, that left the next best thing: quiet, petty judgment.

He meandered through the gallery, letting his gaze wander over the paintings, offering each one the level of respect he felt it deserved— none .

The first painting he passed was an amorphous blob of grays and whites, the kind of thing that looked like it was supposed to be deep and philosophical. It was titled Lost in the Wind.

It looked like a dryer sheet. 

The next was an explosion of reds and oranges, all jagged edges and erratic swirls, titled Rhapsody of the Soul.

A hate crime against his eyes if he ever saw one.

He moved on.

A mostly black painting with a tiny man holding a tinier lantern in the middle. Satoru squinted at it. Then at the plaque beside it. Stare of the Void.  

Satoru could barely call it art enough to insult it.

The worst one yet was a disturbing hyper-realistic painting of a man screaming, done in such excruciating detail that it felt like the guy was actually in pain. Satoru studied it for a long moment, then slowly turned his attention to the plaque.

Titled: The Birth of Despair.

He sipped his champagne. Maybe he could relate to this one. He was birthing an awful lot of despair at this show. 

He kept going, barely pretending to care, throwing out quiet barbs under his breath as he passed each piece—until one painting stopped him.

It was big , taking up nearly the entire wall, towering over the rest of the artwork like it knew it was above them. The sheer size of it demanded attention, but it was the wild, restless movement in the brushstrokes that made him pause.

The plaque beside it read: The first piece of the featured collection by Suguru Geto, titled ‘The Nature of Her.’

Satoru’s gaze lifted back to the canvas, and for the first time that night, he actually looked.

A mess of blue—deep, dark, endless—slashed and spun in violent, chaotic strokes, like a storm captured in oil paint. There was something almost frantic about the way the colors collided with each other, streaks of dark bleeding into electric blues and soft pastels. It was extravagance, it was passion, it was aching and it was longing tangled into one, and at its center—buried beneath the layers of color—was the lower half of a woman’s face.

Just her nose, her mouth, her chin, and the curve of her throat.

Satoru felt something in his chest pull tight.

There was something haunting about her, something about the way her lips were parted just slightly, like she was about to speak—but hadn’t. Or couldn’t. Like she had been swallowed by the storm of paint before she had the chance to say whatever it was she needed to.

His fingers twitched slightly against his champagne flute.

It wasn’t boring like the others. It wasn’t simple or imageless. It didn’t feel the way the rest of the gallery felt, like art for the sake of performance. No, this was something else entirely. It felt raw , like someone had carved a piece of themselves out and left it bleeding on the canvas.

Satoru’s gaze flickered back to the plaque. Suguru Geto.

He wondered, absently, if this was Suguru Geto’s lover.

It would make sense. Something about the painting felt aching , like a memory trapped in brushstrokes, like someone had poured every bit of their longing and sorrow into the movement of their hands and just let it stay there .

Which was stupid. 

Because art wasn’t about feeling. Art was about rich people selling overpriced bullshit to each other. Even as rich as he was, Satoru would never stoop so low as to be that pompous.

His face soured at the thought.

“What do you think? Of the piece?”

The voice sliced through Satoru’s trance, smooth and deep, settling in the air like velvet. It was the kind of voice that could make poetry out of grocery lists, but that was not the point. The point was that someone had spoken to him, about art of all things, and he was still standing in front of this painting like an idiot. Like he wanted to be there. Absolutely humiliating. 

His grip tightened slightly around his champagne flute, and he blinked himself back to the present. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t acknowledge the man. He was not about to get caught actually liking something in this stupid excuse for an event. So he took another look at the painting—at the messy, hidden softness in its chaos—and proceeded to lie through his teeth.

“I think it’s pretentious,” Satoru said, crossing his arms. “Messy. Lacks intentionality.” He tilted his head, letting the criticism flow like he wasn’t just staring at this thing like it had whispered its secrets into his soul moments ago. “It’s stupid and it means nothing.”

A chuckled from behind him—low, amused, like the man had been expecting that answer. “I think I agree. Lacks creativity, doesn’t it? Lacks purpose. The same concept of this piece has been made and remade by artist after artist for decades.”

Satoru exhaled through his nose, pleased to have finally found a kindred spirit. “Exactly! Where’s the originality? Another abstract emotional crisis? Groundbreaking. You’d think they’d at least try to—”

“What’s your name?”

The question came so casually that it took Satoru a second to process it. And then, finally— finally —he turned around.

And immediately forgot how to function.

Because the man standing before him was drop. dead. gorgeous.

Like offensively so. Like he had no business looking that good in public. Like he belonged in a museum himself—except unlike all the art in here, Satoru would actually appreciate him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered but lean, built like he could ruin you in the best possible way. His long, dark hair was pulled into a half-up, half-down style, falling over his shoulders elegantly, the strands framing his face just slightly tousled like he hadn't even tried to look this good, and yet, here he was, effortlessly stunning. His shirt—black with the top few buttons undone—left just enough of his collarbone exposed to be unfair, and his sleeves were rolled up just enough to show off sharp forearms, casual yet calculated. 

And the way he looked at him. 

Violet eyes raking over Satoru like they saw everything— every tell, every quirk of his lips, every inhale. The weight of that gaze was slow, thorough, as if he had all the time in the world to figure him out, as if he might just enjoy the process.

Satoru’s entire thought process could be boiled down to two words: holy. shit.

The man tilted his head slightly, one perfect eyebrow raised, like he was waiting for something.

Satoru barely managed to shove his soul back into his body before turning his most charming grin on. He shifted his weight, slipping effortlessly into a more confident stance, as if he hadn’t just been stunned into momentary silence.

“Gojo,” he introduced smoothly, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair and offering a hand. “But please, do call me Satoru.” He let his voice dip just slightly into something more sultry. 

The man’s gaze flicked to his outstretched hand but didn’t take it. Instead, his lips curled—not quite a smirk, something lazier, something knowing. His eyes flickered back to Satoru’s face, amusement laced with something heavier, something that lingered.

Oh. Interesting. 

“Satoru,” he repeated, slow and deliberate, like he was testing the weight of the name on his tongue. 

Satoru absolutely did not shiver. Not even a little bit. No matter what anyone else said. 

Before he could think of something devastatingly charming to say, the man glanced at his empty glass and said, “Come with me. Let’s get you a refill.” 

It wasn’t a question.

Satoru raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Unless you’re trying to get me drunk.”

The man exhaled a soft laugh through his nose. “Would I need to?”

Satoru blinked. A slow, delighted grin curls at his lips. Oh, he’s fun. 

“Cocky,” Satoru said, falling into step behind him. 

A sidelong glance. “ Observant.”

Satoru hummed, slipping his sunglasses back down onto the bridge of his nose. “Sure, we can call it that.” 

They didn’t stay there for long. 

Because the man turned, slow and deliberate, and stepped in just close enough. 

Just enough that Satoru’s breath hitched in his throat. That warmth radiated from the space between them, seeping into his skin like it had every intention of staying there. The faintest trace of something expensive, heady, curled in his lungs—cologne, subtle and warm and unfair. 

Satoru felt it all at once. The sudden proximity. The heat of another body just barely brushing the edge of his space. The slow, unhurried weight of dark eyes tracing over his face.

His heart raced. 

The man reached up, achingly smooth, hooked a single finger under the arm of Satoru’s sunglasses, and slid them back up into his hair.

Satoru swore his skin was electric. Every nerve in his body locked up, useless. The man’s fingers ghosted over his temple as he pulled away. Not quite a touch. Not quite not one, either.

“I want to see your eyes.” 

Satoru’s breath caught, just for a fraction of a second. 

Oh. 

Oh, fuck him. 

Satoru had to physically will himself to keep it together. To ignore the way his breath had gone shallow in his chest, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his side, like some deeply unhinged part of him wanted to grab this man by the wrist and keep him right there.

He recovered quickly, because of course he did, because Satoru Gojo does not get flustered. He exhaled slowly, schooled his expression into something lazy, something casual , and let a grin curl at his lips.

“Forward, aren’t you?” he drawled, like his skin wasn’t still burning.

The man shrugged, eyes still lingering. “I know what I want.”

Satoru swallowed, ignoring the way that sentence shot straight through his chest.

He scoffed, tilting his head just enough to play it cool. “And what is it you want, exactly?”

Dark eyes flicked over his face—steady, unreadable.

Then, the barest curve of a smile. “For now?” A pause. “Walk with me.”

And just like that, Satoru followed, tucking his hands in his pockets to hide the subtle tremblings. 

“Do you always offer to escort strangers to the bar, or am I just special?”

The man hummed. “Exceptionally.”

Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, his grin widening. They made their way through the gallery, the man moving with the kind of unbothered grace that only came with confidence—the kind that made people step aside, even before they realized they were doing it.

“What brings you here, Satoru? Obviously it’s not the art.” 

“Ugh,” Satoru started, tilting his head in mock exasperation. “ Definitely not. Art is beyond boring. I was dragged here by my best friend. And then she left me! Alone! I don’t even like art. But she said this Suguru Geto guy is a good friend or whatever, but I’ve never met him, so, like, is he really ?"

The man gave him a look. One that was entirely unreadable except for the faintest hint of amusement at the edges. “Good question.”

Satoru squinted at him. “Not much of an answer.”

A slow shrug. “I suppose not.”

Satoru huffed. “Oh, so you’re that kind of guy.”

“What kind?”

“The mysterious kind. You love making people work for it, don’t you?”

A quiet chuckle, a soft shake of his head. “And yet, here you are. Working for it.”

Satoru faltered. Just for a second. Just long enough for the weight of those words to settle in his bones. Then he exhaled a laugh, tipping his head. “Alright, fine. You win that round.”

The man inclined his head, gracious. “Good to know you’re keeping score.” 

“I always keep score.” 

Satoru intended to continue—to say something teasing, something shameless, something— but was cut off by a curious thought. 

People kept stopping them. 

It wasn’t just the occasional oh, hi! or casual nod in passing. People were coming up—the fancy people Satoru was internally mocking—shaking the man’s hand, murmuring a word or two, some lingering as if waiting for something more. And each time, the man greeted them politely but never stopped, never letting them keep him for long. 

Satoru narrowed his eyes, curiosity buzzing. 

Then, as smoothly as ever, he turned back to him and said, “Hey. I don’t think you told me your name.” 

The man stopped walking.

Just for a second. Just long enough to glance at Satoru with something unreadable in his eyes. Then, that small, knowing smile returned. 

“Geto.” A pause, dark eyes steady. “Suguru to you, if you will.”

Satoru’s brain short-circuited. 

Geto Suguru. 

Suguru Geto. 

The name rang like a bell in his head, like a gunshot. Like the very plaque beside the painting he had just spent a solid minute eviscerating .

His gaze flickered back to the artwork. Then to the absurdly attractive artist standing in front of him. Then back to the artwork again. Then, as his entire soul left his body for the second time that evening, he clapped a hand over his face, muffling the horrified noise threatening to escape.

“Oh my god.” The words came out strangled, barely above a whisper. His stomach dropped straight through the floor. “Oh my god.” He was going to die. Right here. Right now. Instant cardiac arrest. “I am literally the worst person alive. I—I’m going to throw myself into the sun.”

Suguru laughed. A real laugh, warm and rich, like he was thoroughly enjoying every second of Satoru’s misery. And worse— worse —he had the audacity to look amused . Charmed , even.

“Well, can I at least get you that drink first?” 

Satoru peeked at him between his fingers. “Get me a drink?” His voice came out an octave higher than he would have liked. He cleared his throat, tried again. “For what? So you can spit in it for insulting you?”

Suguru’s smirk curled slow, like he was savoring this. Like he was savoring him . “Only if you ask nicely.”

Satoru made a high-pitched, strangled sound in the back of his throat and groaned into his palm. “Oh, fuck me.”

Suguru hummed, the sound teasing, dark with laughter. He took a step closer, and Satoru hated how that single movement set every nerve in his body alight. “I think we’re moving a little fast, love. Don’t you think?” 

Love? Love? 

No one had ever called him that before. Not a single ex-lover, no matter how deep in the throes of passion they’d been. It was always Satoru, or sometimes baby if they were bold enough. 

But the way Suguru said it—like it was something soft, something intimate, something so natural —was pure, honeyed bliss .

It wrapped around him, warm and indulgent, and curled at the base of his spine like a whispered secret. His name had never sounded like that before. Like something worth savoring. Worth holding onto.

He was so dead.

But before he could die from sheer mortification, salvation arrived in the form of Shoko and Utahime.

“Oh, perfect !” Shoko said, sidling up beside him with a pleased grin. “You two met! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Satoru.”

Satoru exhaled in relief like a drowning man breaking the surface. Without hesitation, he shoved his empty champagne glass into Utahime’s hands.

She made an offended sound, eyeing the glass like he’d just handed her a ticking bomb. “What the—?”

Satoru ignored her entirely, gripping Shoko’s arm like a lifeline. She barely had time to blink before he leaned in, voice urgent, almost panicked. “We’re leaving. Now .”

Shoko frowned, clearly confused. “What? Why? I haven’t even gotten to—”

“ Nope. ” Satoru shook his head violently. “Don’t care. You abandoned me. And I need to rethink my entire life . We’re leaving.”

He barely had time to start dragging her away before Suguru’s voice—smooth, velvety, entirely too powerful—cut through the air.

“Wait.”

Satoru froze.

Internally, he was ashamed of how easily he obeyed the single-word command. Physically, he forced himself to remain composed, turning only slightly, just enough to watch as Suguru plucked a business card from a nearby table.

With a slow, deliberate flick of his wrist, Suguru scribbled something on the back and stepped forward, pressing the card into Satoru’s palm.

“This is my personal number,” he said, voice as rich and indulgent as the finest wine. “I’d like you to visit me at my studio. I can show you some more stupid, meaningless art.” A pause. A smirk. “Maybe you’ll find something worth appreciating.”

Satoru stared. His brain stalled. His entire existence stalled.

Shoko, bless her, placed a steadying hand over his chest and smiled up at him, amused but still entirely confused.

“Uh, okay ,” she said, drawing out the word. “I’m gonna take him home. He seems like he might be having a stroke .”

She gave Satoru a little pat before turning back to Suguru, her smile shifting into something softer, something sincere. “It was good to see you, Suguru. Your artwork is brilliant, as always. Don’t sell yourself short. We’ll have to get together sometime soon.” She pointed at him, as if warning him. “And I mean that , so keep your schedule open.”

Suguru chuckled, dipping his head slightly. “Of course. Always good to see you, Sho.”

And with that, Satoru bolted.

Well, attempted to bolt. Shoko fought against his pull just long enough to press a kiss to Utahime’s cheek—who looked about five seconds away from throwing Satoru’s empty glass at him—but eventually, they were moving, weaving through the crowd toward the exit.

But before he stepped through the doors, Satoru had to sneak one last glance back.

Suguru was already looking at him.

And he smirked.

Oh yeah. He was so dead. 

Chapter Text

The car pulled away from the curb with a low hum, city lights sliding like soft neon across the windows. It was quiet for exactly three seconds before Satoru tipped his head back against the seat and let out the loudest, most theatrical groan known to mankind.

"I’m going to die," he announced. "Not even dramatically. Just straight up. Dead. Flatline. Right here. Shoko, you’ll have to tell my fans. You'll have to explain that I died of sheer, unrelenting embarrassment."

"You’re not gonna die," Shoko said absently, thumbing through her phone. "You're just being a little bitch. And you don’t have any fans."

"I insulted his art to his face, " Satoru moaned, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. "That’s not being a little bitch, Shoko. That’s a capital crime. Other counties would consider that a declaration of war. "

Shoko arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Yeah, okay, that’s bad. But in my defense—"

"In your defense?" Satoru snapped, sitting up in dramatized outrage. "Oh, this I have to hear. How could you do this to me, Shoko?"

" Me? " Shoko scoffed. "You’re the one who insulted him!"

"You dragged me to this thing!" he shot back. "You didn’t even tell me what he looks like! You—" he jabbed a finger in her direction "— you withheld critical information!"

"I didn’t think it was relevant! " Shoko said, laughing now, because his dramatics were impossible to take seriously. "How was I supposed to know you’d immediately open your mouth and stick your whole foot in it?"

"You know I have no self-control!" Satoru wailed. "You know this! How dare you have hot friends I don’t know about!"

"Yeah, I should’ve warned you," Shoko deadpanned. "Danger: hot people present! Please keep all arms, legs, and critical thinking skills inside the vehicle at all times."

Satoru made a strangled noise and collapsed sideways against the seat, like he was fainting. "You betrayed me. I trusted you."

"I very much do not think this is my fault," Shoko said, looking back to her phone. "This is on you."

Satoru let out a pitiful whimper. "But he was so hot," he said, voice cracking like it physically hurt him to admit it. "So hot, Shoko. I had no defenses."

"I noticed," she muttered.

"And I blew it," he said mournfully. " Catastrophically. I insulted the hottest man I’ve ever seen. And he’ll never want to see me again. I’ll have to live a life of solitude now, like a hermit. Grow a beard. Move to the woods. Change my name to something tragic. Like Jogo. Or Bartholomew."

Shoko snorted. "You couldn’t survive without a mirror for more than five minutes. You’d die of ugly."

"Exactly!" Satoru said, devastated. "I’m doomed!"

Shoko shook her head, amused despite herself. "You don’t have to see him again, Sato. I just thought you two might get along. No pressure."

"But I want to get along with him!" Satoru burst out. "Real close. Real personal. Preferably naked. In a bed. Or not, if he’s a freak. I’m not picky."

The car went dead silent.

Shoko made a face like she’d just bitten into something sour. “Ew.”

"I’m just saying," Satoru continued, undeterred. "I would be very open-minded about any kind of...collaboration. Artistry. Full-body performance piece. Maybe mixed media—"

"Stop," Shoko said, laughing as she finally put her phone down to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Please. I’m begging."

Satoru kicked his feet up onto the opposite seat, sighing like a man twice his age. The motion jostled the business card still crumpled in his hand.

He glanced down at it.

Suguru Geto , it said in sharp, minimal letters. Beneath that, a personal phone number scribbled in quick, confident handwriting.

Satoru’s chest tightened.

Shoko must have noticed him staring, because she said, "Suguru’s a good guy. Seriously. He probably didn’t even think anything of it. You’re the only one obsessing."

"I’m not obsessing," Satoru said immediately, lying so fast it practically left skid marks.

Shoko gave him a look so withering he actually flinched.

“Fine,” he mumbled. “Maybe a little.”

"Stop worrying about it," Shoko said, reaching over to ruffle his hair like he was an unruly cat. "You're giving me stress wrinkles."

Satoru slapped her hand away with a squawk. But he was smiling, a little. 

/

For a while, Satoru managed not to think about it. 

He plunged himself back into his daily rhythm, loose and sun-warm, the way he always did when anything threatened to tug at him too hard. 

Mornings—or whatever passed for morning—began when he felt like it. Sometimes eleven. Sometimes two. Sometimes not at all. He woke up with the sunlight spilling unevenly across his rumpled bed, stretching like a cat, no alarms, no rush, no demands.

The gym came next. Not because he needed it—he was a nightmare of a genetic blessing, tall and lean and eternally stunning—but because the effort cleared his head. Running, lifting, boxing against a bag that had long since surrendered. Burn off the twitchy energy. Burn off the thoughts. Let muscle memory carry him where his mind refused to sit still.

After a shower that usually involved him singing loudly (and terribly) through walls that no neighbor ever complained about, he made his way to his coffee shop.

Not just a coffee shop. His coffee shop.

The one where the baristas all knew his name and rolled their eyes fondly when he ordered something criminal—whipped cream, caramel drizzle, three pumps of vanilla, two of hazelnut, not a hint of shame in sight.

"Morning, Gojo," they'd say, even if it was well into afternoon.

"Morning, my beloveds," he'd reply, sunglasses perched dramatically atop messy white hair, grin like a mischievous god who had never once been humbled by the mortal coil.

Then, drink in hand (sometimes two, if he was feeling generous), he showed up—late, always late—to the flower shop.

The shop itself was an old place, tucked between newer, shinier buildings that had all tried to gentrify the street and mostly failed. Its wood-paneled windows were sun-faded; its sign above the door ("Yaga’s Flowers") was chipped at the edges.

But inside, it was always green and colorful and breathing. Flowers spilled over every surface, heady with scent: fresh-cut roses, lilies, snapdragons, hydrangeas, baby’s breath. Ferns curled lush in the corners. Ivy dragged lazily down from shelves.

Satoru loved it there in a way he had never really tried to explain.

He didn’t have to work. His trust fund had taken care of that since birth. Money had never meant much to him. But meaning —that was something different. Meaning mattered. And there was something real about the flower shop. Something stubborn and imperfect and alive.

He loved chatting with customers, even the grumpy ones (especially the grumpy ones). He loved to make outrageous suggestions just to see how far he could push them.

"Yes, ma'am," he told an older woman once, nodding earnestly, "orange roses for your divorce party. Perfect choice. Really captures that 'good riddance' vibe."

The woman had laughed so hard she bought two dozen.

In the quieter moments, between customers, Satoru arranged flowers with surprising skill. Not just tossing things together, but choosing stems with a quick eye for color and shape, spinning bouquets between his hands with a kind of instinctive joy.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, under all the noise he made, that he was good at things. He just didn’t always let people see that part. Sometimes not even himself. 

Mostly, though, he pestered Yaga.

Yaga, who grumbled and scowled and called him a brat at least six times an hour but still waited for him most days.

Yaga, who let Satoru rearrange the display windows on a whim, even when it made no practical sense.

Yaga, who’d once muttered something about "family" under his breath to a customer when he thought Satoru wasn’t listening.

Satoru was listening. He just didn’t say anything.

He never said it out loud either. But he loved Yaga. Loved him in that bone-deep, unshakable way that didn’t need words to hold steady.

And after work, life was whatever he wanted it to be.

Sometimes concerts that lasted until sunrise. Rooftop parties with strangers. Dancing until his body ached.

Or sometimes nothing louder than curling up at home with terrible TV, yelling at the characters like they could hear him, one hand buried in a bag of snacks, the other scrolling through his phone without any real purpose.

Shoko was a constant in both cases. Evenings were for time with Shoko.

She was the only one who could keep up with him when he was moving a thousand miles an hour—and the only one who didn’t mind sitting still with him when he wasn’t.

She was, in every way that mattered, his one. 

The one who could make him laugh so hard he had to double over, clutching his ribs and gasping for breath, the kind of laughter that wrung all the air out of his lungs and left him weak with it.

The one who could, with nothing more than a flat stare or a hand on his shoulder, steady him when his mind spun out of control.

The one who knew exactly what he needed—whether it was a drink, a joke, a night out, or just someone sitting beside him in silence—long before he knew how to ask for it.

And Satoru was that for her too. 

Not that they ever said it. 

It was stitched into the spaces between them, easy and unspoken: the way he handed her a lighter before she asked for it, the way she distracted him when the weight of his own life threatened to pull him under.

He could always make her laugh, even when the rest of the world bored her. She could always make him feel understood, even when he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

She had been his family for as long as he could remember.

And when she wasn’t around—when her absence echoed a little too loudly in a room, or her sharp-edged humor wasn’t there to cut through the static—

Satoru couldn’t help but feel a little lonely.

He never liked being lonely. It was one of the few things he couldn't joke away.

But Shoko was good at knowing when he needed her. Good at distracting him when he didn’t even realize he was sinking.

And so, for eight days, Satoru did not think about Suguru Geto. 

The bell over the door chimed as Satoru swept into the flower shop, two coffees balanced neatly in one hand, the other already reaching to tug his sunglasses up into his hair.

He moved through the storefront without a glance, weaving past bright buckets of blooms and low tables covered in ivy, heading straight for the office in the back. He nudged the door open with his hip and found Yaga hunched over a stack of paperwork like a man personally battling gravity. 

Satoru leaned against the doorframe, grinning wide. "If you're back here, who's manning the register?" he asked, voice lilting. "Did we finally hire that ghost florist I kept asking for? I bet they make killer funeral wreaths."

Yaga didn’t even look up. Just flipped a page with deliberate slowness. "If you were on time," he said, voice dry as dust, "it’d be you."

Satoru barked a laugh, the sound sharp and bright in the quiet back room. He sauntered in and dropped the coffee tray on the edge of Yaga’s desk with a little flourish, sending a few papers fluttering.

" Ouch, old man. Hostility right off the bat today, huh?"

Yaga grunted, but when he finally glanced up, there was a crinkle at the edge of his eyes that gave him away. Not mad. Not even close.

Satoru plucked one of the coffees from the tray and shoved it into Yaga’s hand without ceremony. "Here. Bribery. Take it. No sugar, touch of cinnamon. Just how you like it."

Yaga accepted it with the same long-suffering air he always wore around Satoru, but there was something softer under it, something Satoru never pointed out. He just sprawled into the beat-up chair across from the desk, sipping his own coffee like he had all the time in the world.

"You know," Satoru said, tipping his head back to stare at the water-stained ceiling, "if we did have a ghost florist, I bet they'd be real punctual. Never late. Deadlines are serious when you’re actually dead."

Yaga snorted into his coffee.

And somehow, sitting there in the cluttered little office, half the day already slipping away, it didn’t feel like he was late at all. It just felt a little bit like home. 

He had only been able to sit and banter with Yaga for three and a half minutes before the front door chimes echoed through the building. 

Yaga set his coffee down with a thud. "Guess your ghost florist's on break."

Satoru groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Unbelievable. Can't trust the undead these days."

Yaga just gave him a flat look over the rim of his glasses. “Get to it, kid.”

With a dramatic sigh that would’ve won awards, Satoru heaved himself out of the chair. "Fine. Fiiine. I'll save the day. As usual."

He grabbed his apron from a hook by the window, slipping it over his head easily. 

"Miracles do happen.”

Satoru beamed. "Don’t you forget it, old man." He threw the apron strings behind his back and made a theatrical twirl toward the door —

"Ah, ah. Come here," Yaga said, beckoning him back with a tilt of his head.

Satoru groaned but shuffled over. Yaga gave the apron a few rough tugs, straightening where it had twisted at his hip, and secured the knot tighter with a firm yank.

"There," he muttered, satisfied, like he was adjusting the rigging on a ship, not fussing over a grown man’s apron. He gave Satoru a light pat on the shoulder — a dismissal.

Satoru flashed a grin and jogged out to the front. A middle-aged woman was standing by the counter, examining a cheerful bundle of sunflowers. She glanced up when he skidded to a halt behind the register.

"Hi there!" Satoru chirped, slapping on his brightest smile. "Sorry for the wait — our ghost florist got, uh, stuck between dimensions."

The woman blinked at him. 

Yaga’s voice floated out dryly from the office. " And whose fault is that, exactly? "

Satoru pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. "Mine," he stage-whispered dramatically to the customer. "Always my fault."

To his immense relief, she laughed.

Transaction secured, Satoru wrapped up the flowers with only minor casualties (he only dropped the twine once), and handed them over with a flourish that would’ve made a magician proud.

When the door chimed again and she left, bouquet in hand, Satoru let out a victorious whoop and turned toward the office.

Yaga was leaning against the doorframe now, arms crossed, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

"See?" Satoru said, tossing the register key up and catching it. "Who needs a ghost florist when you’ve got me?"

Yaga shook his head, fond in a way he never really said out loud. "One disaster’s enough for this place."

Satoru beamed like he’d just been handed a trophy. “Care if I start a new bouquet?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Satoru spun on his heel and bounced over to the storage cold-room. The air kissed his skin in a cool, damp rush. He liked it in there, the smell of fresh greenery thick and clean, the light a little softer.

He selected stems carefully: armfuls of lisianthus in pale peach and buttery yellow, sprigs of soft white astilbe like little clouds, clusters of pale pink sweet peas, and long trails of Italian ruscus, glossy and green. He plucked a few pale blue forget-me-nots from a tucked-away corner, tucking them into his bundle almost instinctively.

He’d dreamt about this bouquet last night. 

A dream so vivid he woke up with the shape of it still in his hands—something tender and full of hope, made of muted colors and quiet sincerity. Not the dramatic, overblown arrangements he liked to push on customers for the fun of it. Something real. 

At the counter, he set to work, snipping stems at an angle, arranging and rearranging until the bouquet took shape in his hands.

It wasn’t loud or attention-grabbing. It was the kind of thing you gave someone when you didn’t know how to say what you were feeling, when you just needed them to know.

Satoru whistled under his breath as he worked, a low, tuneless sound. The shop stayed mostly quiet, a steady rhythm of small things: a customer here or there, drifting in with the soft chime of the door; Satoru bounced around to help them and then made his way back to his bouquet, hands moving sure and deft through the stems. 

He liked it like this. The simplicity of it.

There was something about arranging flowers that calmed him, that pulled him back down to earth when his mind wanted to float away.

Each stem had a place. Each color had a partner. Each piece made the whole more beautiful. And maybe that was part of why he loved it so much. Because he could make something that stayed.

Satoru was lost in the rhythm of his work, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a scattering of trimmed stems and fallen petals collecting around him like the aftermath of a small, happy storm, when a voice broke through behind him.

“Hey, Gojo.”

He turned, twirling the floral scissors in his hand like a baton before catching sight of the speaker. A grin tugged instantly at his mouth.

“Hey, Megs,” Satoru greeted, warm and easy. “What’s up, kid?”

Megumi stood a little stiffly by the counter, a small handful of roses clutched awkwardly in one hand. Different colors: red, yellow, pink, blue. Satoru leaned his hip against the counter, eyebrows raised in gentle amusement.

He was used to seeing Megumi — and his boyfriend Yuuji — around the shop. They were regulars by now, two high school boys who took turns sneaking in to buy flowers for each other like it was a secret mission. Satoru thought it was cute. Young love, all clumsy earnestness and unspoken devotion.

"Rose colors have meanings, right?" Megumi said, frowning slightly like the words tasted awkward in his mouth. "I don't wanna accidentally get Yuuji something that says, like, 'I hate you' or something."

Satoru chuckled under his breath, setting the scissors aside. "Oh yes, the different colors have different meanings. Roses are tricky like that.” He reached out and tapped one of the flowers lightly. “Red ones, of course, are romantic love. Passion. Yellow roses are friendship and joy, light pinks are more… gentleness, and blue—” Satoru plucked the blue rose carefully from the bunch, twirling it between his fingers. “Well, blue’s a little rarer, yeah? It means mystery. The unattainable.”

He set the blue rose back into Megumi's hand with a little flourish, smiling when the boy's frown deepened.

"I was gonna get yellow," Megumi muttered, glancing down. "That's his favorite color. But friendship? I don't want him thinking I'm... y'know, friendzoning him."

The laughter slipped from Satoru before he could help it, light and teasing but never cruel. “I’m sure Yuuji will love whatever you get him, he knows nothing about color theory. He just thinks flowers mean ‘pretty’ and ‘I love you.’ You’re good, I promise.”

He rang Megumi up without ceremony, casually scanning the roses and knocking a few yen off the total without mentioning it. Yaga would grumble later if he noticed, but Satoru figured he'd survive. He bagged the flowers carefully and slid them across the counter.

"Have a good one, Megumi," he said, throwing in a playful salute. "Tell Yuuji I want photographic evidence of whatever embarrassing face he makes when you give him those."

Megumi muttered something about "not happening" and "see you next week," but Satoru caught the way his mouth twitched like he was hiding a smile as he left.

The bell chimed softly behind him, and the shop settled again into its lazy quiet.

Satoru turned back to his half-finished bouquet, humming a low tune under his breath, hands steady as he rearranged a trailing vine of ruscus. He was just bending to pick up a spool of ribbon when someone cleared their throat behind him.

"Hi, welcome in," Satoru said automatically, not turning around yet as he brushed off his hands. "Can I help you find someth—"

The words caught in his throat.

He turned — and stared.

Standing just across the counter, dressed in loose black clothes and looking far too good for Satoru's continued survival, was him.

The most beautiful man Satoru had ever seen. The most beautiful man Satoru hoped to never see again. The man Satoru had spent exactly eight days trying not to think about.

Suguru Geto. 

Satoru's brain short-circuited spectacularly.

Oh my fuck oh my fuck oh my fuck.

Why is he here?

What is he doing?

Why does he look so good? Is that allowed?

Stay cool, Satoru. Don’t freak out. Don’t die. Don’t burst into flames. 

For half a second, he considered diving into the cold-room and never coming out again. 

Fuck it. If this backfires it backfires. How much worse can I get?

Satoru shoved it all down—the panic, the spiraling, the heat climbing embarrassingly up the back of his neck—and let a lazy grin pull across his mouth like armor. 

He leaned forward onto the counter, chin propped on his hands, batting his eyelashes in a show of exaggerated sweetness.

"Can I help you find something?" he drawled, voice light, even though his heart was hammering against his ribs like it wanted to punch its way out.

Suguru tilted his head slightly, amusement flashing in his dark eyes like the slow glint of a blade. He looked at Satoru like he was something interesting — like he was something worth lingering over.

"Do you know much about flowers?" Suguru asked, voice warm and even, a little teasing.

"I know plenty about a lot of things," Satoru said, tipping his head to the side with a cocky grin.

Suguru smiled — not wide, but slow and certain, like he expected nothing less. Like he already knew Satoru would say something like that. “Of course you do. I’m looking for something blue.” 

Satoru let his eyes sweep down him without even pretending to be subtle. He almost laughed out loud.

Obviously he's looking for something blue. Suguru was practically soaked in it — streaks of paint smudged along the edges of his arms, across his knuckles, specks in his hair, a deeper splash trailing along the inside of one wrist like a river vein.

A true artist, Satoru supposed. Dramatic, messy, beautiful. 

"I think I can tell," Satoru said, flashing a grin. "Did you know you're covered in blue paint?"

Suguru only lifted an eyebrow, amused.

"Well, you're in luck, handsome," Satoru added, voice dropping into a purr without even thinking about it. "We've got a whole wall of blue flowers. Would you like a tour?"

Suguru huffed out a breath, a tiny sound that wasn’t quite a laugh but wasn't not one either. "That would be delightful," he said, tilting his head like he was indulging Satoru.

Satoru's heart gave a violent, stupid lurch.

Stay cool, stay cool, stay cool.

He pushed off the counter with a ridiculous dramatic flourish, spinning the scissors in his hand before shoving them into his apron pocket, and motioned for Suguru to follow.

"What kind of blue are we talking about?" Satoru asked, sauntering toward the far side of the shop.

Suguru’s voice was smooth behind him. "Not sure yet."

Satoru threw a teasing glance over his shoulder. "An artist who doesn't know what shade of blue he needs? Scandalous."

"Maybe," Suguru said, and there was a spark of something dangerous under the softness of his voice, "I'm just hoping for an expert's opinion."

Satoru tripped over nothing internally.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Okay. Fine. This was fine.

He managed to keep the slow, easy smile on his face as he bent down to pluck a small cluster of delicate flowers from a nearby arrangement. The petals were thin and almost translucent, clustered like tiny bells along the slender green stem. He held them out, tilting them toward Suguru with a slight, showy bow.

"Agapanthus africanus," Satoru said, all faux-gravitas. "Known as lily of the nile. Best kept out of the cold, thrives beautifully in the summer."

Suguru barely even looked at them. His gaze flicked over the flowers, dismissive. "Too purple."

Satoru clutched his chest dramatically. "Picky, picky."

He tapped the petals against his chin, scanning the displays around them, pretending to be deep in thought while actually just trying not to vibrate out of his skin from proximity alone.

He tucked the flowers carefully back into their arrangement and grabbed another stem, this one a shade closer to what Suguru might have wanted — more vivid, more shocking.

He turned, presenting it between two fingers like an offering.

" Meconopsis betonicifolia, " Satoru said. "Himalayan blue poppy. Temperamental, but very popular. Sound familiar?”

Suguru took the flower from him, rolling the petal lightly between his fingers. He didn’t react much — just studied it thoughtfully, lashes low over sharp, beautiful eyes. For a moment, his gaze lifted, meeting Satoru’s dead-on.

Something about it made Satoru's mouth go dry. It was direct. Curious. Like Suguru was taking notes about him the same way he was studying the flower.

Suguru looked back down. "Too light."

Satoru clicked his tongue, hands on his hips. "You're so particular."

"Maybe," Suguru said without missing a beat, "you just haven't found the right one yet."

Satoru’s grin sharpened. "Is that a challenge?"

Suguru lifted an eyebrow — slow, deliberate. "You're keeping score, aren't you?"

Satoru’s knees almost buckled. He could hear the teasing in Suguru’s voice, could feel it like a hand smoothing down his spine.

Oh, fuck that was hot. 

Dangerously hot.

Weaponized levels of hot.

It took every ounce of Satoru's training (and possibly divine intervention) to keep his expression light and easy, to not show even a crack of how badly his heart was hammering in his chest.

Recovering fast, he plucked one more bundle from the display, this time a cluster of tiny sky-blue flowers with delicate yellow centers, the stems thin and twisting.

He held them out between two fingers, offering them like a secret.

" Myosotis scorpioides, " Satoru said. "Forget-me-nots. Symbolize remembrance, faithfulness, and true love. "

Suguru took them carefully, handling the fragile stems with reverence.

Satoru barely breathed, watching.

Suguru’s hands were beautiful — long-fingered, sure, with smudges of blue paint still staining the creases. The way he turned the flowers in his grip was so careful, so deliberate it made Satoru's stomach twist sharply. 

And the light — the soft warm light of the shop — caught on Suguru’s dark hair, painting the strands gold at the edges. His profile was sharp, devastating, jawline clean and strong.

Satoru swallowed hard.

God, he was so—

Suguru lifted the little bouquet slightly, almost offering it back toward Satoru. Satoru raised a brow, tipping his head with a slow, questioning smile.

"Do I pass the test?" he asked, voice pitched just a little too low.

Suguru held his gaze for one endless second — then dropped his hand.

"Almost," he said, a little softer, a little rougher.

Satoru nearly blacked out.

Satoru stepped forward, reaching for the flowers, but Suguru didn’t let go. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around Satoru’s hand—effortless, natural, like he’d always had the right.

The shift was subtle, but it was there. Their fingers intertwined, the stems of the flowers crushed gently between them, delicate as they were. Neither moved. Not even a twitch.

For a long moment, they stood like that, the air thick and charged, suspended in a quiet that felt impossibly fragile. Suguru’s palm was warm against Satoru’s skin, and Satoru couldn’t help but focus on the heat radiating from it. The way their hands fit together so easily, like some unspoken understanding, left him almost dizzy with its simplicity.

Satoru's thoughts stumbled, unsure of where to go. His heart beat louder than it ever had, each thud drowning out the steady rhythm of his breath. The only thing he could focus on was the feel of Suguru’s skin against his own, the way his fingers felt firm and steady, almost as though they belonged there.

Suguru didn’t pull away, and for a moment, Satoru thought he might be imagining the faint tremor that passed through his hand. It was soft, like a breath, but it made Satoru’s pulse race, quick and erratic, as if Suguru’s touch were somehow a confirmation of something neither of them had spoken aloud.

The silence stretched out, heavy and thick with what wasn’t said, with what wasn’t yet admitted. Satoru could feel the weight of the moment pressing against him, his own hesitation dragging him deeper into it. It should’ve been easy to let go, to just pull away and pretend it was nothing. But there was something in the way Suguru held onto him, not too tight, but enough to keep him anchored. And something in Satoru’s chest told him—he didn’t want to pull away. Not yet.

He wondered, in a flash so bright it scorched him, what it would feel like if Suguru touched him in other places. If those hands moved elsewhere, brushed against skin in other places, leaving behind more than just warmth but the memory of his fingers on him, marking him in ways he hadn’t yet allowed himself to imagine.

His mind spiraled then—fast, wild, and a little reckless. He imagined Suguru’s hands sliding up his shirt, the touch of his fingertips leaving trails of fire in their wake. He imagined Suguru pressing him down against the counter, their bodies so close that every inch felt like it was branded into him, their proximity suffocating, but in the way only something desired can be. He imagined Suguru’s hands in his hair, tugging him closer, dragging his head back to expose the pulse in his throat, leaving him breathless.

Satoru’s pulse was pounding so loudly, his own body felt too loud in the silence, and for a moment, he was sure Suguru could hear it—the rapid thudding, the frantic pace of it. He could almost feel it against his fingertips, as if his heart was beating into Suguru’s palm, pushing into his skin.

The intensity of it all was almost too much. Satoru clenched his jaw, eyes falling half-closed, trying to steady himself, but the heat from Suguru’s hand lingered, and it pulled him closer, deeper into that space where the line between them seemed almost non-existent.

Suguru tilted his head, so close Satoru could see the thick, dark lashes framing his eyes, the sly curve of his mouth. His voice dropped low, a near whisper.

“You never called,” Suguru murmured.

And just like that—just like that—Satoru unraveled.

He shivered. His lips parted on a sharp, helpless exhale, his whole body betraying him, giving away the struggle he was fighting so hard to hide.

He licked his lips, slow and thoughtless, tasting the static in the air between them. “Was I supposed to?” he asked, voice thinner than he wanted.

Suguru’s smile sharpened into something close to cruel. “I believe I told you to.”

Satoru tilted his head lazily, letting his hair fall into his eyes like he didn’t care, like he wasn’t vibrating out of his skin. “I don't think you did,” he lied, careless and glib, even as his knees felt like they might give. “Am I supposed to do what you tell me?”

Suguru leaned in, slow and predatory, until his breath ghosted over Satoru’s cheek.

“If you did,” Suguru whispered, “I think you’d find you want to.” His voice curled around Satoru’s spine like smoke, like hands. “I could make it worth your while.”

Satoru gasped, soft and wrecked.

His brain flooded with filthy, wanton images: Suguru shoving him up against the wall, tearing at his clothes with slow, deliberate hands; Suguru yanking his hair back and biting at his throat; Suguru pinning him down, fucking him raw until Satoru was shaking, broken open and desperate.

He saw flashes of himself arching into rough hands, crying out, begging—he saw himself wrapping his legs around Suguru’s waist and pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between them at all.

He wanted to be ruined. He wanted to be undone. He wanted to be Suguru’s to defile.

Suguru took a step forward. Satoru stumbled a step back, heart clawing up his throat.
Another step. Another. Again and again, a slow, stalking pursuit, until Satoru’s back hit the wall with a soft thud.

He clutched the flowers in one hand, fingers white-knuckled, breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

He wondered, in some distant, delirious part of his mind, what he looked like—crazed, wild-eyed, half feral. And he found, to his amazement, that he didn’t care. Not if Suguru was looking at him like that.

Suguru reached out and placed one hand flat against the wall beside Satoru’s head, caging him in.

He was so close—so close that Satoru could feel the heat radiating off his body, the faint smell of cologne—something dark and clean, like rain after fire. He could see everything: the fine scars on Suguru’s knuckles, the faint freckle beneath his jaw, the way his hair caught the light like ink poured over glass.

Satoru breathed out, voice thin and shaky, “What are you—”

Suguru cut him off, voice low and steady. “I want to paint you.”

Satoru froze, his mind screeching to a halt.

“You want to... paint me?” he repeated, as if he might have misheard.

Suguru smiled—not kindly, but like he knew exactly what Satoru had been thinking. He lifted one hand, slow, deliberate, and brushed his fingers beneath Satoru’s chin. The lightest touch—but it burned.

Satoru held his breath. His pulse beat like wings beneath Suguru’s touch. His whole body straining toward him, electric, desperate.

Suguru tilted his face up. Studied him. Reverent.

“I’ve never seen anything like you,” Suguru said.

Satoru’s heart nearly shattered in his chest.

A thousand thoughts collided in his mind—he’s just saying that, he’s trying to get what he wants, he’s lying—but he couldn’t make himself believe it. Not when Suguru was looking at him like that. Like he was something holy. Something untouchable.

Suguru leaned in again, slower this time, until his lips brushed the shell of Satoru’s ear. The faintest, cruelest ghost of contact.

“Will you model for me, love?” he whispered.

Satoru shivered so hard he nearly dropped the flowers. His mind was everywhere and nowhere, scattered like a dropped deck of cards.

“I’ve never done that before,” he breathed, the confession torn from him.

Suguru chuckled, low and wicked, the sound vibrating through Satoru’s bones.

“I’ll walk you through it,” Suguru murmured, voice thick with promise.

God, there were so many things Satoru wanted him to walk him through. Wanted to be taught. Wanted to be broken open for.

Suguru leaned back just enough to meet his eyes—lazy, confident, hungry.

“Nice and slow,” he said, his fingers tracing the edge of Satoru’s jaw like he was already sketching the outline of him in his mind. “You’ll be perfect. I’ll make sure of it.”

Satoru’s mouth went dry.

Because somehow—terrifyingly, thrillingly—he believed him.

And he realized, dizzy and terrified and aching, that there was nothing he wouldn’t let Suguru do to him.

Nothing at all.

Barely above a whisper, Satoru asked, "When?" His voice was raw, almost broken by the weight of wanting.

Suguru only smiled, slow and sure, the kind of smile that felt like the slide of silk across bare skin. He reached up, fingers ghosting along Satoru's forehead, brushing a stray lock of hair away. His touch lingered—far too long for it to be innocent. His fingertips skimmed the edge of Satoru’s temple like he was memorizing him by feel alone.

Satoru held utterly still, afraid even breathing would scare the moment away.

"Call me sometime," Suguru said lowly, "and find out."

And just like that, he pushed away from the wall with a casual ease that left Satoru reeling. One step back, and Satoru was suddenly alone again, dizzy, panting like he had just surfaced from drowning.

For a moment he just stood there, pressed to the wall, clutching the bouquet of forget-me-nots like a lifeline, feeling the ghost of Suguru’s heat against his skin. His heart was hammering against his ribs, frantic and stupid, and he was sure he looked absolutely wrecked—wild-eyed, flushed, lips swollen from nothing but want.

And then—

"Satoru!" Yaga’s voice called from the office. "Are you actually working, or do I need to remind you what a damn job is?"

Satoru jumped like he’d been caught doing something filthy. His head snapped up—and his eyes immediately locked with Suguru’s.  Suguru stood a few feet away, serene, unreadable, save for the slight, wicked curl of his mouth.

 Yaga stepped into view, his sharp gaze flickering between them, narrowing suspiciously.

Satoru jolted into motion, yanking himself upright, smoothing down his rumpled shirt, shoving the flowers onto the counter with more force than necessary. He tugged at his apron strings like they might somehow fix his dignity.

"I am working!" he shouted defensively, voice a little too high. "I'm literally helping a customer right now, old man."

Yaga crossed his arms. "Helping a customer or slacking off?"

Satoru forced a winning smile, a little wild around the edges. "Helping a customer," he insisted, slapping the register with a sharp ding. "You know, like I always do. Model employee and all that."

Behind him, Suguru chuckled—low, warm, dangerous —and stepped up to the counter, a lazy saunter to his movements like he had all the time in the world to savor this.

"Oh yes," Suguru drawled, voice velvety, "Satoru’s been... helpful ."

Satoru shot him a lethal glare, but Suguru just smiled, wide and unbothered. The kind of smile that said I know what you’re thinking about, and I want you to think about it more.

Yaga gave them both a look—a deep, unimpressed, I know something’s going on kind of look—but he only shook his head with a muttered curse and disappeared back into the office.

The second he was gone, Satoru exhaled hard, stuffing the money into the register with more force than necessary. His whole body was humming, skin over-sensitized, mouth dry.

Behind him, Suguru just waited, patient like a cat watching its prey wear itself out.

"You love having me around!" Satoru called over his shoulder, voice too bright, too desperate to reclaim the high ground. "Just admit it! You wouldn't know what to do without me!"

Wouldn’t know what to do without you.

What do I do with him?

Satoru slammed the register shut a little too loud, and leaned forward on his palms against the counter, hiding the tremble in his hands. 

Because the truth was—he didn’t know what to do with Suguru 

 Not when Suguru looked at him like that. Not when Suguru touched him like he was something to be worshipped—something precious enough to slow down for. 

And God, Satoru wanted more of it. More of that dark, steady gaze. More of the promise that lingered in Suguru’s voice.  He wanted to be pushed up against the wall again—harder this time. He wanted Suguru's hands rough on his hips, his mouth hot and wet on his throat, biting bruises into his skin. 

He wanted to feel those strong hands yank at his apron, his belt, shove his pants down and manhandle him, leave him begging and breathless. He wanted to fist his hands in that stupid perfect hair and drag Suguru’s mouth to his, devour him, let him take and take until Satoru forgot how to stand. He wanted to be bent over the counter, right here, right now, flowers crushed under his knees, ruined by Suguru’s cock until he couldn’t remember his own fucking name.

Satoru gritted his teeth and gripped the counter tighter, breathing through his nose.

He was not— not —going to think about that. Not with Suguru standing three feet away looking like sin dressed in his black clothes and heavy boots, all smug patience and slow, lazy smiles.

"Thank you for your purchase," Satoru said instead, voice dry, dragging the flowers across the counter toward Suguru with a mock bow.

Suguru only smirked. Took the bouquet from him with a brush of fingers across Satoru’s knuckles—light, fleeting, teasing. Satoru barely kept from flinching. Or whimpering. Or grabbing him by the lapels and ruining the both of them.

"See you soon," Suguru murmured, voice low and private.

And then, with a final knowing glance, he turned and walked out the door, flowers in hand.

Satoru stood frozen behind the counter, staring after him, his whole body vibrating like a string pulled taut.

He was so, so screwed.