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Satoru Gojo had never believed in quiet love. Not until he met Suguru Geto when he was 7 years old.
He used to think love had to be loud to be real, passionate, violent, blinding. Something that hit like lightning and tore everything in its path apart. But this? This thing between them? It crept in slowly. Softly. It bloomed like smoke under his ribs, filling him without warning. And by the time he realized what it was, it was already too late to stop it.

Suguru had always been there. Calm, measured, impossible not to notice even when he wasn’t trying. Even as kids, he had that presence, that cool, magnetic steadiness that pulled people in without saying a word. Satoru had been drawn to it from the start, orbiting Suguru like gravity. But in the beginning, Satrou thought that Suguru was faking everything, like he genuinely thought that Suguru was nice and funny just so that people would like him. No one could have been this gentle with everyone for no reason you know. But then Suguru gave Satoru a present for his eighth birthday. He was so shocked by this pure and kind gesture, nobody has ever wished him a happy birthday so when Suguru brought him a box of cookies that he had made with his mother the day before, Satoru decided at this exact moment, that Suguru will be a part of his life no matter what.

They were best friends first. That was the problem. The worst kind of love is the kind that grows out of something good. Something safe. Because once it changes, it can’t go back. They were doing everything together, at school the teachers called them “Chip and Dale”, Suguru’s parents invited Satoru at any moment and Satoru’s parents, even if they weren’t really part of their son’s life, brought Suguru with them when they were leaving for holidays.

They were best friends and that was the problem.

It started sometime around their second year of high school. Satoru didn’t know exactly when. The shift was subtle, a glance that lasted too long, a laugh that made his chest ache, a hand brushing his arm that made his skin burn. Satoru was dreaming about him. You would say this is normal when you hangout 100% of your time with someone you will obviously dream about them. But it’s the kind of dream Satoru wished he would never wake up, in the morning. The kind of dream where you close your eyes hoping for your brain to bring back happiness. Satoru was dreaming about Suguru, and it was a problem because you are not supposed to dream about your best friend in this way. And since he had those dreams, Satoru was looking at Suguru and the conclusion was not good.

Suguru was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that poets would use him as a muse. Beautiful like the sunrise on a summer morning, calm and gentle, not aggressing your skin and letting the moon disappear gently. Beautiful like the first snow of the year, quiet but so precious.

Satoru had always known that Suguru was a pretty boy. But one day, he noticed. The curve of his neck when he tied his hair up. The soft cut of his mouth. The way his voice dropped when he was tired, or how he’d lean into Satoru’s side during movies like it was natural like Satoru was his favorite place to rest. His black and long hair that has some blue reflects almost purple when the sun was hitting his head, like some acai plum juice. But the most important and beautiful part for Satoru was Suguru’s eyes. Brown with the halo around his eye almost black but the inside, orh God, bright and shining and golden. From time to time, Satoru wasn’t even listening to what Suguru was saying, he was just looking at his eyes and that was enough to make his day better.

Satoru knew Suguru was beautiful but that night, the realization hit hard. They’d been walking back from the konbini, Suguru holding an umbrella lazily over them both. He was wearing an oversized hoodie black, worn at the cuffs and loose pants that clung to his hips when the wind blew. Suguru’s hair was wet and his nose was red from the cold.

Satoru looked over and thought, God, you’re beautiful. Then he hated himself a little for it. Because Suguru was his best friend. Because they were seventeen. Because boys like Satoru athletes, legacy names, all eyes on him weren’t allowed to want things like this. He was supposed to be focused on his future career in automobile. He wasn’t supposed to want something like love and even more, he wasn’t supposed to love his best friend. Because that would complicate everything. What if Suguru didn’t like him like he did? What if he ruined his friendship because of this stupide attraction he had for his best friend? Satoru was not ready. But Satoru was dying because of his love.

He keeps dreaming about Suguru. Soft, breathless dreams that left his sheets tangled and his chest tight. He started watching him too much, noticing things that weren’t meant to be noticed. How Suguru’s fingers tapped on his knee when he was thinking. The exact way he looked when he laughed so hard his eyes crinkled.

It was agony. And it was perfect. By the time he let himself feel it, it had already consumed him. His love was too much, he needed to taste a little bit of it, even if it would change their life forever. Satoru needed to try. He needed to do it because it was Suguru. He needed to try because the reward would surely have been better than the defeat.

That night — the first — was like something from a memory he’d never forget, even if he tried.

It was raining. Suguru’s room was warm, dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a candle burning low on his desk. The scent was something sweet and woody, vanilla and cedar, always the same. His window fogged up from the heat inside. The storm outside made everything feel more closed in, more private.

Suguru was sitting on his bed, legs crossed, scrolling through his phone. His hair was wet, tied back loosely, a few strands stuck to his cheek. He was wearing a black t-shirt that clung slightly to his skin, and grey sweatpants that hung just low enough to make Satoru’s throat go dry. Satoru had borrowed one of Suguru’s hoodies. It still smelled like him. He sat on the floor at the edge of the bed, leaning back against it, knees bent, head tilted like he was thinking.

But he wasn’t thinking. Not clearly. He was watching Suguru. His collarbone, his lips, the hollow of his throat. The way his fingers grab his phone. His chest rising with each breath.

He was so used to Suguru that it was disorienting to see him like this. Like a stranger. Like someone he wanted to touch in ways he wasn’t supposed to want.

“You good?” Suguru asked, voice low.

Satoru swallowed. Nodded but of course it was a lie. He wasn’t good. He was losing his mind.

And the worst part? He didn’t want to stop. Not right now, not with Suguru so close to him and so pretty.

He leaned in before he could stop himself. Just a little. Suguru didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away, he just looked up slowly, gaze settling on Satoru like he already knew. Satoru’s eyes fell on Suguru’s lips, he was waiting for Suguru to stop him, to insult him to tell him how gross it was. But nothing. So Satoru moved forward and kissed him.

The kiss was careful. Barely there at first. Their lips brushed soft, slow, unsure until Suguru tilted his head and kissed him back, deeper. It was Satoru's first kiss and probably Suguru’s one too. They didn’t know how to do it but they learned together. Satoru’s hand found his jaw. Suguru’s fingers curled in his hoodie, pulling him closer, until Satoru was half in his lap, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads touched. Suguru’s eyes were heavy-lidded, lips pink and parted, breath shaky.

“Finally,” he whispered.

Satoru could’ve died from how it made him feel. His brain couldn’t work for a moment, he wanted to ask : “What do you mean finally?”. But Satoru couldn't manage to open his mouth and made a full sentence and he didn’t trust his voice to not break. The only thing he could do was to reach for him again, he grabs Suguru’s jaw and kisses him again. More hungry this time, he wanted to devour him, to discover every feeling, every little noise he could make Suguru do.It didn’t stop at the kiss, it never could’ve. Satoru was way too invested to stop now (and also because his body would have never forgiven him to stop now.).

Suguru lay back on the bed slowly, tugging Satoru down with him. Their legs tangled, hands explored every part of their body they never tried to reach before. Every touch made it worse, the heat, the ache, the urgency. Clothes came off piece by piece. Shirts tugged over heads, hoodies flung to the floor, fingers dragging down bare skin like they were trying to memorize each other.

Suguru was so responsive and it made Satoru become delirious, moaning quietly when Satoru kissed down his neck, biting his lip when Satoru’s hands slid under the waistband of his sweats. He arched when Satoru touched him properly, voice breaking on a gasp.

“Fuck, Satoru.. I-I”

“Is that okay?” Satoru asks, wishing for the answer to be ‘yes’.

“Yeah.. Yeah.. I-I just-” Suguru cheeks become red and Satoru couldn’t stop himself, he kisses him again smiling.

“Talk to me Suguru, do you want me to continue?”

Suguru nods shyly, pouting his hands over his face.

“Use your words Suguru, I don’t want to overstep or-”

“I’m okay. Please– Just-” Suguru look at Satoru now “I want you please– don’t stop.”

And so, Satoru took his time. Got him ready slow, fingers slick and patient, mouth pressed to Suguru’s as he worked him open, coaxing every sound he could from him. He stayed attentive to any noise, making sure he was doing great and not hurting Suguru. But then Suguru grabs Satoru's cock and starts moving his hand. It was too much for Satoru, way too much. He had imagined those scenarios a hundred times for the last few months but never would have expected it to feel this good, this… this perfect.

“I’m ready Satoru..” Suguru whispered quietly. Satoru answered with a simple nod.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. It was desperate. Years of want. Years of pretending. Years of silence breaking apart all at once in the dark.

When he finally pushed into him slowly and carefully, he wrapped Suguru’s legs around him immediately, arms dragging him close, mouth finding his ear whispering kind words to him. He was so tight. So good. Satoru felt like he was unraveling with every thrust, with every way Suguru said his name like it meant something sacred. Satoru brushes his hair away from his face carefully, admiring every expression Suguru made.

Before, Satoru said Suguru was beautiful, remember? Now Surguru is magnifique, sublime, breathtaking. His cheeks are pink from pleasure, his eyes are barely open because of how good he feels, his black hair is forming a crown around his head which makes him almost majestic. His red lips are mistreated by the kisses Satoru left earlier but also by the bites Suguru gives to himself. He was breathtaking, he was a vision that Satoru would never forget.

Satoru knew that he was lucky to see Suguru like that so he savored every minute, every second, every little noise, every sigh, every whisper, everything. And something was forming in Satoru’s heart, a pure, devastating and scary feeling. Satoru knew he wanted Suguru before, but now, he wants him close to him, he wants everything about Suguru, he wants to know everything about him, even the tiny things that have punctuated his day, he doesn’t want to be separated from him just by a few minutes. But most importantly, he wants to protect Suguru from the world, he wants him for him and for him only. Satoru had always been the possessive type, when he was a kid he couldn’t stand the other kids to play with his little car. He couldn’t stand people being better than him in mathematics, sport or any other thing because Satoru needed to possess and be the strongest in everything he touched. And right now, Satoru needs to have Suguru and be the only one who can touch him like that, kiss him like that and can make love to him like that. He was completely obsessed with Suguru and there was no turning back.

When Suguru came, his whole body shuddered, eyes fluttering shut, back arching, breath catching in his throat as he whispered Satoru’s name like a promise. Satoru followed not long after, his mouth buried in Suguru’s neck, his hands gripping him like he’d disappear if he let go. They stayed tangled together after. No words, just breathing. Sweat cooling between them, bodies pressed close, the sound of rain still steady against the glass. Satoru ran a hand through Suguru’s hair. Pressed a kiss to his forehead. Tried not to fall apart.

Because he knew. He knew. He was in love. He had been for a long time. And he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

–

If you ask Satoru what his best memories ever is, his political answer would be the first time he drove a Formula One or maybe the first time he won in Formula One. But for him, those memories are not even close to the one he shared with Suguru. He would never say his best memories because it is something people wouldn’t understand why this and not another thing. That's why he always lied. Always.

His best memories, it’s something really pure, something close to heaven, something maybe you won’t understand how precious it was.

It was the 24th December of his twenty, Satoru had started his training in Formula One and he was becoming the future, everybody was singing his name, like the king of the sport. He was the strongest of this sport and he was only in his training year. Because he was over working, always in the motorhome calculating his time and trying to find the good angle to be faster than his teammate but that means he couldn’t be with Suguru a lot. Even if they called all the time, like really all the time, he was missing him. A lot.

He was leaving the motorhome, at maybe 8 or 9 p.m, it was a really productive day, he was so tired and hungry. He was walking in this long alley and it was snowing. The first snow of the year. And there he was, Suguru. With his big black coat and his black scarf, snow all over his hair, his nose red from the cold. And he was smiling, the most beautiful bright smile Satoru had ever seen. Satoru stops for a moment, looking at him. He was too stunned to move or to speak.

But as if his body couldn’t listen to his brain, he moves, or more like he runs to reach Suguru. He grabs him and buries his head in his hair. Suguru hugs him tight, laughing.

“Well, surprise!" he said between two laughs.

Satoru sniffs his scent. He had missed him so much. So so much.

“You are here.”

“Of course I am, I would never miss this day with you.”

Satoru looks at him one last time before kissing him like his life depends on it. Suguru never stopped hugging him. It was also hard for him, being away from his boyfriend for days or months, it was like hell. But he let him do it because it was for the better. Satoru’s career would be beautiful and Suguru wanted him to live his dream. But it was really hard for him. But right now, he was with him and they were kissing under the snow on the most romantic day of the year.

This was the best memory of Satoru’s life.

—

The beginning of the end didn’t look like anything, at first.

It wasn’t a fight, not at the start. It was small things, moments that didn’t sting until later. Missed calls, short replies. The way Suguru’s eyes started looking through him instead of at him. Something was missing and Satoru couldn’t say what. He knew Suguru was working hard on his musical project and so anytime he could call him was the time Suguru was in the studio and when Suguru tried to call him, he was on the track. Their life was so different but they tried to keep it alive. They tried to keep their love alive.

But hindsight made everything obvious. Back then, everything had been bright. Loud and fast. Satoru’s career took off quicker than anyone expected. One minute he was a prodigy on the track, the next he was signing deals, doing interviews, plastered across Tokyo in sleek black and white billboards with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones.

They called him the future of Formula One. Satoru was so glad to have achieved this level, but it felt like someone else’s life.

He still wore Suguru’s hoodie to bed.

And in quiet moments, late nights before a race, lying on hotel beds with too many pillows and too much silence, Satoru would listen to Suguru’s music through his headphones, the unreleased demos sent through encrypted drives. Suguru never asked if he listened. He never had to. The sound of his voice was enough to bring Satoru to his knees.

The first time Suguru didn’t come to a race, Satoru pretended it didn’t matter.

He told himself it was scheduled, that Suguru was working on his demo. He'd started writing music seriously by then, hiding behind an alias and a sound that was dark, deep but so beautiful. Satoru loved it, though he never said that out loud. He listened to every track on loop during practice runs, letting the reverb shake through his bones like it could reach him across the distance.

But still. He noticed.

And when he texted Suguru that night “missed you” and didn’t get a response until the next morning, it hit deeper than he thought it would. He kept the phone in his hand for hours. Just in case.

–

“You’re not even trying anymore,” Satoru snapped, pacing Suguru’s apartment like he was trapped.

Suguru sat on the edge of the couch, arms folded, gaze calm but sharp. “Not trying? Are you serious? I haven’t seen you in three weeks, Satoru.”

“I’m working.”

“So am I.”

“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under—”

Suguru stood. “Then talk to me. Don’t shut me out. Don’t pretend like I’m supposed to know everything when you won’t say anything.”

Satoru turned away. Ran a hand through his hair. His jaw clenched. He wasn’t supposed to let the anger possess his body. He was supposed to savor the moment with Suguru. He was supposed to hug him, kiss him, make him laugh, look at him, kiss him again and make love with him. He was supposed to do all the things he couldn’t do when he was away. He wasn’t supposed to ruin the moment with his racer life.

How could he tell Suguru that people were asking him every race week if he had a girlfriend. How could he tell him that every time they asked him to pose next to the new mannequin with whom they are trying to put him in a relationship, the only thing he was thinking was how his career could be destroyed if they knew he was with a man. How could he tell him how afraid he was to lose everything he fought for. How could he tell him he was afraid of his parents reaction if they knew he was with Suguru. But most important, how could he tell him he was afraid to lose him.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered.

“What’s not?”

“This,” Satoru said, motioning between them. “Us. It’s not simple, Suguru. People are watching me. I can’t—”

Suguru flinched. “So what? I’m a secret now?”

The silence that followed was the loudest thing in the room. Of course he was, it was better like this. People could destroy Satoru’s career but also Suguru's one.

Suguru walked toward him slowly. He reached out, hesitated then rested his palm flat against Satoru’s chest.

“You said we were forever,” Suguru whispered.

Satoru stared down at him. And said nothing, because yeah they are forever. Satoru will love him forever but they would have to fight forever for it to be liveable. Maybe this is not something Satoru wants them to undergo, they deserve to be living a calm love not a loud one where everybody puts their nose in business that doesn't concern them. Satoru doesn’t want people to speak about their relationship because they don’t know a thing. They don’t know how pure it is. They would talk shit and try to destroy them and that is something Satoru couldn’t let happen.

They didn’t talk for a week after that. And Satoru hated how empty everything felt without him. He tried to bury it, focus on the next race, the next press conference, the next fake smile. The more success he earned, the more it felt like he was losing something else.

Suguru stopped texting first. Then he stopped texting back.

And yet Satoru kept his number in favorites. Just in case.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he’d hover over the contact name. Just a thumb away from calling. Just to hear his voice.

He never did.

Coward.

–

Satoru kept the hoodie. It smelled less like him every day.

But Satoru would catch himself pressing his face into the fabric some nights, like he could still find pieces of Suguru hidden in the threads.

He wore it once under his racing suit, right before the Monaco Grand Prix. He won. And cried in the shower after.

–

One night, months later, they met up again. Unplanned.

Shoko had invited them both to the same birthday dinner. She always had a habit of pretending things were fine when they weren’t. Satoru showed up in a charcoal-grey suit, designer shades pushed up in his hair, looking every inch the star he was becoming. Suguru came in black jeans, combat boots, and a simple white t-shirt under a leather jacket.

He looked like a song Satoru couldn’t stop playing in his head. They didn’t speak. They sat across the table from each other like strangers.

Satoru spent the whole night memorizing every new piercing on Suguru’s ear, every new detail, the way his laugh had changed slightly. Softer. Like he didn’t want to be heard anymore. Suguru never looked his way. Not even once.

And that? That was the worst part. Because Satoru noticed him but did Suguru notice him?

–

The last time they touched, it wasn’t soft.

It was desperation. A night in Satoru’s apartment. No words, just need. They kissed like they were angry. Like they were trying to remember how it used to feel, when things weren’t complicated, when the world hadn’t crept into their bed and poisoned it. Satoru fucked him like he was trying to carve his name into him. Suguru let him. And afterward, when they lay side by side, chests still rising fast, Suguru didn’t say a word.

He just got up, got dressed, and left.

Satoru didn’t stop him. He stared at the ceiling for an hour after. Shirtless, and cold in a way that had nothing to do with the air. He let his tears roll down his cheeks; he didn't try to stop them. He was breathing heavily, realizing that he probably have lost Suguru for good now, realizing that it was the last time they would be this close, realizing that it was not even that good because they didn’t kiss like they meant to, they didn’t make love like they wanted to, they were trying to fight a last time for their relation, for their love; and they failed.

He didn’t even shower. He just lay there until the room started to smell like sweat, like sex, like Suguru.

He wished it would never fade, like their love. But everything comes to an end isn’t it?

–

It ended in a fight. A real one, a door slammed, voices raised. Years of silence spilling out all at once.

“You care more about your image than me,” Suguru hissed.

Satoru’s hands trembled. “I care about everything. That’s the problem. You think I don’t feel things, but I do, Suguru. I feel everything and I can’t breathe most days—”

“Then say it. Say you love me.”

Satoru froze.

Suguru’s voice cracked. “Say it.”

“I…” Satoru couldn’t. Not because he didn’t feel it. Because he felt it too much. Because if he said it, it would make everything real. And the world he was in the cameras, the contracts, the cold glint of fame had no room for something as messy, as true as love.

Suguru stared at him for a long time. Then nodded, like he’d expected it.

“I hope your career is worth it,” he whispered and he left.

And this time, Satoru didn’t move. Didn’t chase him. Didn’t break down. Not until the door had been closed for hours. He felt on his knees looking at the door hoping for him to come back, to insult him, to slap him, to do something, because right now Satoru feels like it is his fault and maybe he is egoist but he doesn't want it to be his fault..

He called Shoko that night. Didn’t say a word when she picked up. She stayed on the line anyway.

_

The woman Satoru married years later was kind. Beautiful she understood him in all the ways that were easy. But she never made him feel like he was home.

Not like Suguru.

His wife never asked why he slept with the light on, or why he disappeared into his car alone after every victory. She didn’t ask about the songs on his playlist. The ones he never skipped.

She just smiled and helped him pretend that he was someone else. Satoru tried to convince himself that was enough.

But it wasn’t.

The present didn’t look like a life so much as it looked like a movie he couldn’t pause.

Flashes. Screams. Cameras. Satoru Gojo, global racing icon, face of five different brands, the kind of man who wore Tom Ford like it was made for him and never lost his cool on the red carpet. He smiled like he meant it. Laughed when he had to. Let his wife hold his hand like everything was fine.

He was good at pretending. He’d had years of practice. 7 years exactly. It’s been seven long fucking years that Satoru et Suguru haven’t have a discussion. Satoru was pretending to be ok.

But inside? Inside, he was a slow-burning wreck.

His career had never been the plan. At first, he was just fast, dangerously fast and liked the way the world blurred when he pushed past 300 km/h. He wasn’t in it for fame. Not for the trophies or podiums. He just wanted to escape. Speed and control were the only things he knew how to deal with.

And then he won his first Grand Prix.

Then his fifth.

Then a championship. Then two and three.

And then came the branding deals, the sponsorships, the magazine covers. The cameras never left, the world wanted him – the platinum-haired prodigy with arrogance for days and hands built to handle death at 200 mph.

There were days that grounded him. Like Monaco. It had been a scorching afternoon. He’d woken at 5 a.m., body aching from the previous race in Bahrain, and downed three espressos before pulling on his fireproof undersuit. The paddock buzzed with tension. Reporters hovered. His engineer, Mei Mei, gave the go-ahead with her usual cool efficiency.

Helmet on. Gloves tight. His Ferrari engine roared to life. He took pole position, of course. No one beat Gojo in Monaco.

Every curve was muscle memory. The blur of buildings. The dangerous tightness of the tunnel. The insane G-force at Mirabeau.

When he crossed the finish line, the world slowed.

Crowd on its feet, his name is everywhere. Champagne sprayed. His team tackled him. But even as he stood on the podium, trophy raised, smile wide…

His heart ached.

Because he looked into the stands and thought: Suguru would’ve loved this.

–

Suguru was becoming a superstar, his music record inflamed the press and Satoru’s heart. It was hard to pretend that his heart wasn’t hurting him anytime he was driving and listening to the radio with his wife. Besides his wife was a huge fan, she listens to his music whenever she can. Satoru pretended he didn’t like the music and that's why he didn’t want to listen to it. But in reality, he loved it so damn much.

Suguru became the face model of a few brands and he was touring in the whole world for his incoming album. Everybody was obsessed with his life, they wanted to know who he was, where he had grown up, if he was with someone or not. And Satoru could bet that Suguru hates this. Suguru had always been in love with music, always singing and trying to produce songs even when they were only young boys and now, people wanted Suguru because he is pretty and does good music but they were mainly here for the first option.

Suguru was in the past under an username and mask so people wouldn’t care about who he was but they would care about his music. Suguru wanted to speak about music and share his passion, just that. The star life wasn’t something he would like, Satoru is sure of that. He likes to have his private life even if in his song he sings about his life but in the music it was different; he decided what to share, but when the interviewer asked him private questions he didn’t choose it, so he just lied or gave short answers.

–

Tokyo Fashion Week.

He showed up in a cream-white suit, sunglasses at night, and a disinterest so palpable it practically walked in ahead of him. Reporters loved it. They called him elegant. Icy and timeless. They didn’t see the exhaustion in the lines around his mouth. The fact that he hadn’t slept without pills in five years. That he hadn’t been touched in six months.

His wife was there too, draped in a red Dior gown that complimented her perfectly, fingers curled around his arm with effortless grace. She was the image of elegance poised, witty and supportive. She kissed his cheek when the flashes went off. Whispered jokes in his ear to keep him from spiraling.

They looked like a dream couple. And sometimes, in rare, quiet moments, it almost felt like they were.

But she wasn’t Suguru and even if she tried her best to be the best wife ever, he wasn’t Suguru and couldn’t make it close to him.

He wasn’t whole, he posed, he drank. He answered polite questions with even politer lies. And then, across the room—

He saw him.

Suguru.

Hair longer now, shiny black hair. Simple black-on-black fit, silver jewelry flashing under the lights. He was leaning against the bar, smiling at something Nanami Kento said, and looking like every memory Satoru had tried to bury in his ribs.

The music pulsed, loud and rhythmic, and yet everything went quiet for a second.

Satoru couldn’t breathe, because Suguru was in front of him, at just a few meters, he could reach him and kiss him and hug him and so many other things. But things have changed now.

–

It wasn’t the first time they’d run into each other like this. Celebrities in the same circles, always on opposite sides of the room, always pretending like they don’t know each other, like they never see each other naked, like they didn’t know how to make the other shovel.

The first time was a film premiere. Suguru had walked the carpet with Miguel, the powerhouse producer behind his new album. Miguel had his hand on the small of Suguru’s back. The internet had exploded, fans speculated. “Was Miguel just his manager? His friend? Or was it more?”

Satoru left after ten minutes because of how stupid he felt. He shouldn’t feel jealous, they weren’t together anymore and worth, Satoru was engaged, how does Suguru feel? But, orh God, it hurt so bad seeing another man close to him when it should be him and him only.

The second time was a photoshoot event for Vogue Japan. Suguru was performing a stripped-down acoustic version of a new single. He sang eyes closed, lips parted, voice raw. The lyrics? Devastating. Satoru had to clench his fists to keep from shaking, he puts his sunglass to hide the way his eyes were teary and he just pretended he wasn’t listening to it, speaking with Sukuna his teammate.

–

He never approached. Neither did Suguru. That was the deal now, wasn’t it?

Silence and distance. A performance of forgetting and never knowing each other.

Backstage after Fashion Week, Satoru stood in the hallway with a champagne flute in one hand, tie loose, shirt slightly undone. His wife had gone ahead to their car. He needed a minute. And then he heard it. A laugh, low and familiar. Suguru turned the corner, deep in conversation with Shoko. They both saw him at the same time. Suguru’s expression didn’t change. Shoko raised an eyebrow. Satoru swallowed and looked away. Like a fucking coward.

He didn’t turn back, but he felt it. The weight of Suguru’s gaze. The years between them, the words unsaid. He wanted to scream. Grab him. Say something. Anything.

But all he did was walk away because that was what Satoru was the best for, to walk away from his problem. Pretend it didn’t exist and just like that he went to his car breathing heavily of regret and culpability.

–

The next day, it was all over social media. Paparazzi had caught a blurry photo of Suguru and Miguel in the same frame. Headlines buzzed:

Fan theories exploded and Satoru ignored it all. Except he didn’t. He found himself on Suguru’s tagged posts that night. Reading comments. Watching stories. Wondering what it would take to just say something. He didn’t but he saw the rumors. The internet was ablaze with questions. Was Suguru dating Miguel? Was that why they were always together? Why did Miguel fly across continents for his tour? There were candid shots of them at galleries. At dinner. In Paris. Madrid. New York.

And Satoru hated every fucking one of them. He zoomed in on Miguel’s hand on Suguru’s waist. He stared too long at a grainy kiss pressed to his cheek.

He wanted to throw his phone away. Break it, break himself because it was only his fault if they weren’t together anymore and Satoru have no right to express his anger, no right to feel this way after seven fucking long years of guilt and tears. Satoru hated himself, so so bad. Because they were no turning back. He had lost his lover but he had lost his best friend, the person he likes the most in the world, the person he promised himself when he was height, that he would stay on his life forever.

–

The Met Gala came fast. Too fast. Theme: Icons of the Night.
Satoru arrived in a custom midnight blue ensemble with silver-threaded embroidery. He looked like a fallen star, everyone said so. He smiled but he didn’t care. His wife walked beside him in white silk, her hair slicked back, makeup sharp. She looked like royalty. Every photographer wanted them together.

She leaned in and whispered, “Honey, smile.”

But Suguru was there, just a few meters away. His outfit? Sleek, all-black, a sheer mesh shirt underneath a velvet jacket, low-cut trousers, rings on every finger. He looked sinful but so gorgeous. He looked like regret, like Satoru’s regret.

They didn’t speak but their eyes met. And for a moment, it was just them. The flashes didn’t matter. The people didn’t exist. It was just a second or maybe five, but it was enough for Satoru’s breathing to disappear. It was enough to bring back all those memories he tried so hard to forget to not suffer. It was enough to lose his mind in those pretty brown eyes, the favorite part of Suguru’s body for Satoru. Satoru looked away first, he needed to take back his breath. He looked at his wife and smiled at her then he led her by the waist to climb the stairs. He wanted to escape Suguru. He needed to escape Suguru.

–

He went home drunk and alone, his wife was at her best friend’s house claiming she needed to be sheared up because of her break up. Satoru didn’t care really, so he let her do whatever she wanted. He needed to be sheared up back to, so he texted Shoko.

“Is he happy?”

He hoped the answer would be ‘yes’ because Suguru only deserved to be happy, Satoru made him suffer too much he needed to be at peace now. But a part, a possessive part, wishes she would say ‘no, he misses you’.

She replied an hour later:

“Probably.”

He stared at the screen for a long time and didn’t reply. He could not sleep after that, he was looking at the moon, watching it disappear slowly in the night letting the sunrise take its place on the horizon. Satoru loves the sun, it has always made him remember Suguru, bright and shiny and warm; exactly like Suguru. He grabs the remote control for the curtains and closes them, he told himself he needed to sleep, but in reality he couldn’t stand the sight of the sunrise, it was too hurtful.

–

The next event they saw each other (or more Satoru saw Suguru) was Suguru’s concert. His wife begged him to go, she said she loved the new album. Satoru almost said no, telling her she could go with her friend Sakura, but something inside him, something hungry and aching and selfish, he said yes. He needed to see him again. He needed to know. He needed to remember what it felt like to feel. He needed to see him doing what he was the best for : singing. And here they are now…

The engine hummed low, the hum of the city outside muffled by the glass. Satoru sat in the backseat of the black SUV, one ankle resting over his knee, fingers absentmindedly rubbing the gold ring on his left hand. He was dressed in black tailored slacks and a loose silk shirt the color of bruised moonlight—unbuttoned just enough to expose the curve of his collarbone. A pair of Saint Laurent sunglasses covered his eyes even though the sun had already dipped behind Tokyo’s skyline. Beside him, his wife was a picture of effortless charm. Long curled hair, crimson lips, a fitted black dress paired with a Suguru Geto tour hoodie, which she’d pulled over her designer heels for the sake of comfort. She scrolled through her phone, thumb hovering over a TikTok edit of the concert teaser.

“They say he’s opening with Saltwater,” she said brightly. “The visuals are supposed to be insane.”

Satoru made a noncommittal sound.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to sulk through the whole thing,” she added, turning to look at him. “I dragged you out of that post-race dinner for this.”

“You didn’t drag me.”

“You sulked and said, ‘Fine, I’ll go if you stop posting thirst traps of him on your story.’ That’s not enthusiasm, babe.”

He didn’t answer.

She reached out, brushing a piece of lint off his shirt. “Come on. You never go out anymore unless it’s for press. You need this. It will be fun!”

He looked at her then. She was beautiful. Smart, kind and everything he should’ve wanted. The kind of woman who didn’t flinch when the press hounded her. Who never raised her voice, never made a scene. She supported his career, laughed at his dumb jokes, held him when the crash last year nearly paralyzed his left arm. She also knew – not everything, not the name, but she knew there’d been someone else, that he hadn’t walked into their marriage with a full heart. She knew something was off and she knew she wasn’t the love of his life, but she was okay with that. They would meet because of their parents, her father was a famous engineer in Formula One and a good friend of Satoru’s father. Satoru was never attracted to her but he couldn’t deny that she was beautiful and his father was starting to push him to marry someone : “Satoru you are almost thirty and you are still not married this is not right blablablabla”. So Satoru just proposed to her, because it would be an easy marriage. She is in love, he is not but she doesn’t care and she told herself that “maybe one day he would love me” even if she knew there was someone else. And still, she stayed.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For being with me, for being good.”

She smiled, soft but sad. “I just want you to enjoy tonight.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because he already knew he wouldn’t. Because no matter how good the woman beside him was, no matter how comfortable the leather seat or how sleek the city looked through tinted windows—

He was driving straight into the past. Into the wreckage of the only boy , the only person he had ever loved.

The car slid to a stop in the underground VIP parking level of the Tokyo Dome. A staff member opened the door before the driver could even turn the engine off. Bright vests, walkie-talkies, the low hum of organized chaos, it all came rushing in. Satoru stepped out first. Flashes went off the second someone recognized him. Even down here. He sighed and tugged his sunglasses back on.

“Gojo-san! Gojo-san—are you attending the concert as a fan?”

“Is it true you know Geto-san personally?”

“Your wife’s been spotted wearing his merch—is she the real stan in the household?”

Satoru cracked a smile, all teeth, easy and practiced. “She dragged me here,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as his wife stepped out. “I’m just the arm candy tonight.”

They laughed. Cameras clicked. A staffer offered to escort them up to the VIP entrance. As they walked, whispers trailed behind them like perfume.

"They used to go to high school together, didn’t they? I saw that on twitter, someone found Suguru’s prom and they were together!"

“Didn’t he start his career around the same year Geto debuted?”

“Maybe Geto wrote Saltwater about him.”

“You are crazy!! It’s about his first love and Satoru is straight!!”

Satoru pretended not to hear what they had to say because they didn't know shit. Fans always try to guess the private life of the person they stan and this is ridiculous but that one, the last whisper, hit harder than he expected. He looked away.

They reached the private lounge entrance. He spotted a few other celebrities milling around. A couple of actors, a handful of singers, one model he’d done a campaign with last year. Eyes turned when he entered, curiosity sharpening like knives. He kept his shoulders relaxed. Smiled just enough. Nodded when someone greeted him.

There were monitors in the lounge playing the pre-show visuals, montage loops of Suguru’s face, his tour name in flashing neon, snippets of past concerts. The kind of curated beauty that turned a person into an icon. His wife settled onto the leather sofa, legs crossed, sipping sparkling water from a crystal glass. Satoru stood near the glass wall that overlooked the arena floor. Thousands of lightsticks. A wave of purple and blue. The kind of sold-out crowd only someone like Suguru could pull.

Someone raw.

Real.

Unapologetic.

He caught his reflection in the glass, immaculate, tailored and unreadable; he perfected the art of pretending.

But all he could think was: He used to know what Suguru looked like without the lights, without the cameras. In nothing but morning light and a hoodie three sizes too big. And Suguru used to know him, not the man who walked red carpets, but the boy who once shook with the weight of his own fear. The boy who left.

“You okay?” his wife asked, gently.

He nodded.

“I still think it’s cool you came.”

He didn’t answer because it wasn’t cool. It was punishment and he deserved every second of it.

The venue was packed. Tokyo Dome buzzed with something electric, not just excitement, but anticipation, tension, something holy. Suguru Geto's name was everywhere, his face lit up billboards, his voice had become the kind you couldn't forget, even if you tried. Satoru sat in the VIP box beside his wife, arms folded over his chest, sunglasses hiding his eyes despite the indoor lighting. She was beaming, clutching her lightstick, decked out in the limited edition merch tee.

"Try to enjoy it," she whispered, squeezing his hand.

He nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. A hush rippled through the lounge as the lights in the arena dimmed.

The change was instant, like a spell cast over twenty thousand people at once. Lightsticks waved like stars. The low thrum of a heartbeat echoed through the speakers. Screens flickered, the visuals turned black.

Then—
Boom.

A single violet spotlight cut across the stage. And Suguru Geto walked out of the dark like he was carved from it.

Satoru forgot how to breathe.

Suguru moved like silk on a knife’s edge, elegant, lethal, beautiful. He was dressed in a floor-length black coat, draped and split at the sides, shimmering faintly with embroidered constellations that caught the light every time he moved. Beneath it, loose high-waisted pants cinched at the waist with a corset-style belt, and a sheer sleeveless shirt that clung to him in the stage’s heat, catching on the lean lines of his chest.

Silver rings adorned his fingers. A single earring, a dangling spike glinted at his left ear. His hair was styled half-up, loose strands curling around his jaw. His lips were painted a soft plum, his eyeliner was a smoky wing that pulled his eyes into something divine.

He didn’t walk onto stage.

He descended.

And the crowd lost it. Satoru swore the building shook with the sound. Suguru didn’t wave, didn’t smile. He just stepped into the light like it belonged to him.

And Satoru?

He gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white.

His wife leaned forward. “Damn. Okay. I get the hype now.” But Satoru couldn’t even smirk because all he could think was:

He looks like something you dream about and never see again.

The lights shifted again, subtle and dreamlike. Suguru raised the mic to his lips, eyes hooded, voice a soft, “Tokyo.” The crowd screamed and then, without any announcement, without warning—

The first piano chord of Saltwater rang out and the concert began. He looked unreal, the crowd went feral. Then he sang and Satoru broke.
The moment the first note of Saltwater slid into the air, everything inside Satoru stilled. Suguru stood bathed in that spotlight, his frame elongated and ethereal, as if the light itself was bending just to touch him. The mic was clasped in both hands, lips brushing the mesh as he began to sing, voice low, mournful, smooth as velvet and sharp as a blade.

“I kissed a ghost in the summer rain / Said goodbye without a name…”

The hush that fell over the crowd was reverent, almost holy. Twenty thousand people, breath held. Satoru among them. He knew this song, he’d heard it the night it dropped, in secret, alone in a hotel bathroom, sitting on the cold tile floor with the volume low and the door locked. Back then, he’d told himself it was curiosity. Now, he knew it was hunger, the hunger to feel closer to the boy he once held in the dark.

Suguru’s voice cracked on the bridge, soft and strained, and it felt intentional. He let the wound show, no auto-tune, no perfection, just grief, live and raw and echoing from the rafters.

Satoru felt his chest hollow out. Beside him, his wife leaned forward, swaying slightly to the melody. Her hand brushed his knee. She didn’t look at him, he was grateful for that because if she did, she’d see the way his jaw was clenched, the way his sunglasses hid the sheen in his eyes, the way he wasn’t watching the concert.

He was watching Suguru.

Track Two: "Cigarette Ash"

The beat kicked up. Shadows and red lights painted Suguru in something more dangerous now. He shed the coat halfway through the first chorus, revealing the way the sheer fabric of his shirt clung to his back, catching in the heat of the stage. He stalked the edge of the platform like he owned it, like he had nothing to lose.
“You held the door then called it love / I begged to stay / You said enough.”

The visuals were fragmented, distorted clips of memories only Satoru recognized. A pair of hands wrapped around a helmet. Someone walking away through rain. Satoru flinched, the edits were genius but they were also knives.

Suguru didn’t look at the VIP box.

But Satoru felt like he was being stared through.

Track Three: "Hollow"

This one was slower, dreamy. Sad in a way that seeped into your bones. Suguru stood center stage, arms loose at his sides, head tilted back. A screen behind him displayed an obsidian sky splitting with slow lightning. The lyrics circled around being left, around aching in silence. Around being replaced. The fans sang along softly. Satoru did not, his hands were still clenched in his lap, his jaw sore from how tight it was locked. The air in the VIP box felt too thin.

His wife whispered, "That song sounds like mourning."

He didn’t answer because it was. And worse: it was his.

Track Four: "Lilith"

Suguru danced for this one. Not the choreographed, polished kind. But raw movement, improvised. His body moved with the beat, hips rolling, chest rising with each breath. He pulled at his shirt, dropped to his knees during the chorus, moaned into the mic. The crowd screamed and Satoru felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Not just because of desire but because this was what he’d once begged Suguru to not hide. And now the whole world saw it. Worshipped it.

He wasn’t angry.

He was drowning in the ache of it.

Track Five: "Static"

Flashes of headlines filled the screen behind Suguru now.

#GETO SUGURU COMES OUT AS GAY#
#GETO OPENS UP ABOUT CLOSETED RELATIONSHIP IN NEW SINGLE#
#WHO IS THE MAN BEHIND GETO'S HEARTBREAK ANTHEM?#

The chorus repeated like a chant:

“You married the silence / I married the pain.”

He had, he still wore the ring. And Suguru didn’t wear anything but scars.

Track Six: "Muse (Liar)"

Suguru prowled the stage, bathed in white light, shirt now undone completely. His voice cracked from emotion, not strain.

“Now you’re gold and fast and famous / And I’m here, bleeding on stage.”

The line hit too hard, because it was true. Satoru was still fast, still gold, still the image of control. But Suguru was the one still bleeding.

And doing it beautifully.

Track Seven: "Obsidian Sky"

Bare stage, single spotlight, Suguru’s silhouette and a piano, nothing else.

“You looked back once / Just once / And I mistook it for a sign.”

He sang like a man unafraid of breaking and Satoru watched like one who already had.

Final Track: "Remember Us" (Unreleased)

Suguru sat at the edge of the stage, legs dangling, mic in his lap, lights low. His voice was soft and laced with something delicate.

“We were fire in a freezing world / A secret too soft to survive.”

The whole dome was silent, Satoru felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“So if you're out there, haunted too / Know this ghost still aches for you.”

Tears slipped down his cheek, he didn’t wipe them away. Suguru stared into the crowd. And for a moment—just a breath—their eyes locked.

And then the stage went dark.

–

The concert ended, but the ache in his chest didn’t. Lights went up, the crowd erupted. Suguru disappeared backstage like a wraith evaporating in smoke.

Satoru didn’t move.

His wife was already standing, clapping hard, turning to him with damp eyes. “That was incredible, wasn’t it?”

He forced a smile.

She leaned in, kissed his cheek. “Thank you for coming with me.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Inside, he was somewhere else. Still stuck in the echo of Suguru’s voice, still reeling from that look, the second their eyes had locked. Like time had folded in on itself. Like twenty-four wasn’t a number, but a loop they never broke out of. Security ushered them through a private exit. Paparazzi were already circling the venue, lenses long and vicious.

“Mr. Gojo! Did you enjoy the show?”

“Are you a fan of Geto Suguru’s music?”

“Will there be a collab?!”

He laughed it off, the practiced chuckle of someone who’d been in front of cameras since he was nineteen. “My wife dragged me here,” he said with a wink. “She’s the real fan.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was glowing. She had no idea, no one did.

They got in the car, his driver shut the door behind them. Tokyo lights streamed past the window like comets. He stared at his reflection, his hair was perfect, suit was expensive, watch customs. Everything about him was polished and untouchable. But inside? He was wreckage.

The music was still in his head. Not the beats, not the screaming fans but Suguru’s voice. Those goddamn lyrics, every line a precision hit to the parts of Satoru he’d buried deep. Every song is a ghost of what they used to be. He closed his eyes. Took a breath. Then another.

“There's an afterparty,” his wife said softly.

He opened one eye.

“At the Monarch. Apparently all the big names will be there.”

He hesitated. “Do you want to go?”

She shrugged. “Only if you feel up to it. But you know the press will eat it up.”

Right, the image, always the image.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”

–

By the time they arrived, the sky was velvet and the rooftop was already glittering with Tokyo’s most radiant. Celebrities, influencers, musicians, athletes. A DJ spun low, pulsing beats over the shimmer of laughter and glasses clinking. Satoru stepped out of the car, buttoning his suit jacket. The cameras at the entrance clicked wildly. He adjusted his sunglasses, even though it was dark because he couldn’t bear to see anyone’s eyes.

Not tonight.

Inside, the rooftop bar was a dreamscape, glass walls, gold fixtures, and a panoramic view of the city below. Ice sculptures, candlelight, every surface gleamed. He spotted Nanami first—always the calm one, drink in hand, suit impeccable.

“Didn’t expect you here,” Nanami said as he approached.

Satoru smirked. “Me neither.”

Nanami gave him a long look. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

His wife disappeared into a circle of actors she knew from her latest campaign. That was fine, he needed air. Then he saw him.

Suguru.

Across the room. Leaning against the bar in a dark green silk shirt, unbuttoned halfway down, sleeves rolled. Hair loose, lips red from wine or gloss or both. Surrounded by a small crowd—other artists, some models, a few producers.

And Miguel.

The rumor mill had been spiraling ever since the two were photographed outside a gallery last month. Satoru hadn’t let himself read the articles. But he’d seen the headlines.

“Suguru Geto: Is He Off the Market?”
“Mysterious Musician Spotted with Underground Producer Miguel”
“The Power Couple Tokyo Didn’t Know It Needed”

Bullshit.

Still, watching Miguel’s hand brush Suguru’s lower back made something in Satoru’s stomach turn, he should be the one touching him. He looked too good, too ethereal, like he belonged in this world of gold and smoke. Satoru hated how drawn he was to it, to him.

Their eyes didn’t meet. Not yet. Satoru grabbed a glass of something strong and downed it in one shot. He wasn’t ready but he’d never be. He made his way through the crowd, heart hammering.

Tonight, he’d stop running. He needed to talk to him, enough time had passed. He was drowning himself since they broke up and now he needed to get back to the surface, he needed to breathe again, he needed to reach him, to speak with him, to touch him, to kiss him, he needed everything all at once.

He felt the moment Suguru saw him, it wasn’t dramatic, just a shift in his posture. A fractional pause in Suguru’s smile, his head turned slightly, lashes lowered but his eyes locked right onto Satoru’s. For a second, neither of them moved. Then Suguru gave Miguel a gentle touch on the arm and stepped away from the group, without a word, without even a glance back, he walked to the far end of the rooftop, toward the balcony.

The tension in Satoru’s chest tightened like a vice. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look at Nanami, or his wife, or the dozens of curious eyes now watching Tokyo’s favorite golden boy walk after the mystery musician. The crowd parted for him like they knew. Like the whole city was holding its breath. Out on the balcony, the wind picked up, the city glittered below them. Suguru stood with both hands on the railing, back to him, shirt fluttering slightly. Satoru stepped out, closed the glass door behind him. It was quiet, too quiet. And suddenly Satou feels like a little boy again, afraid of talking to other kids, afraid of his parents' reaction if he didn't bring an A at his mathematics work. He was afraid.

Suguru didn’t turn.

“You’re not subtle,” he said softly, voice like silk cut with razor wire.

Satoru gulps. “Didn’t try to be.”

Finally, Suguru looked at him, the expression on his face wasn’t anger, it wasn’t softness either. It was distant, a thousand miles between them in a single glance.

“You liked the show?”

“You know I did.” Satoru couldn’t stop looking at him. At every parcel of his face. He hasn't changed a lot but it feels like he is discovering a new face. It feels like he just met a stranger.

Silence stretched between them like an invisible thread.

Satoru stepped closer. “You sang like you meant it.”

“I did.”

“Was it all about me?”

Suguru raised a brow. “Narcissist.” Satoru flinched, just slightly. “But yeah,” Suguru added. “Some of it was. The worst parts, you know, the one that I wish I could erase from my memory.”

That hit hard. Satoru took another step. He was close now. The wind carried Suguru’s scent, something sharp and expensive. His jaw clenched. “I’ve missed you,” he said, voice low.

Suguru scoffed. “Yeah? Missed me in the arms of your wife?”

Satoru didn’t speak, couldn’t because he was right, this makes no sense at all if you don’t know the story behind his marriage.

Suguru turned back to the railing. “You don’t get to miss me, Satoru. You threw me out.”

“I was scared.” Satoru confesses in a whisper.

“I wasn’t.”

That cracked something deep inside, Satoru already knew their break up was his own fault because Suguru was ready to give it all for him, but Satoru has been a coward.

“You wanted it quiet,” Suguru said. “And I was loud. I didn’t fit in your version of the world.”

Satoru stepped beside him, their arms almost touching. “You were everything.” He tried to confess again, because he feels like Suguru doesn’t know how hard it has been for him too. It feels like Suguru has been the only one to suffer but he was there too, he had lost everything too. He had lost his lover, his best friend. He had lost his person.

“Too late.”

Their eyes met again and something in Suguru’s glare wavered just a little and Satoru saw the door, he saw that the door wasn’t fully closed. He saw that he could try to reach it and open it back. He saw a tiny chance and he won’t let it waste.

Satoru whispered, “Then why did you sing like that?”

Suguru turned his face away again, looking down at the streetlights far below like they held more comfort than the man standing beside him.

Satoru's jaw flexed. “So,” he began, voice quieter now, rougher, “you and Miguel.”

Suguru blinked slowly. “What about us?”

“You dating?”

A humorless laugh slipped out of Suguru’s mouth. “You care?”

Satoru stepped closer. “Answer the question.”

“Why?” Suguru said, turning to look at him full-on. “So you can pretend like it matters when you’ve got a ring on your finger and a whole curated, perfect life?”

“That’s not—” Satoru started, but Suguru cut him off.

“There’s nothing serious between us,” Suguru said sharply. “We fucked. Once. Maybe twice. That's it.” Satoru’s breath caught, a slow inhale like he’d been gut-punched. His hand twitched at his side. Suguru’s voice didn’t soften. “He’s a good producer, he respects me, we make music together. It’s professional.”

“That’s not just professional.”

Suguru rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Satoru. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to not let someone else touch you.” The words slipped out before he could even think. Possessive.

Suguru stared at him like he was insane. “Don’t you dare Satoru, don’t you fucking dare. You don’t get that right anymore,” he said, cold. “You gave that up the second you chose safety over me.”

“I never stopped loving you,” Satoru growled, his voice suddenly desperate, cracking around the edges. “I never stopped.” He tried to find Suguru's eyes but he didn't let him.

Suguru stepped back. “But you stopped fighting for me. You stopped choosing me.” Satoru’s breath hitched. “And now what?” Suguru asked, biting. “Now that you’ve seen me up on a stage, in front of thousands, now that I’m real again, you want to crawl back and play what, house? Behind your wife’s back? While I get to be your dirty little secret again?”

Satoru shook his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice small, too small for someone who used to be untouchable. “I just know that the second you started singing, I remembered what it felt like to feel. And it fucking hurt.”

Suguru’s face broke for a moment, just a moment, a crack in the mask.

“Good,” he whispered. “I wanted you to feel it. I wanted every word to cut.”

“It did,” Satoru said. “It still does.”

Silence again. The city below them buzzed, oblivious, the balcony lights above flickered in the breeze. Suguru looked at him, jaw tight, eyes rimmed red.

“I hate that I still love you,” Suguru whispered, closing his eyes.

That was it. Satoru’s breath stuttered. His heart screamed in his chest, ‘do not fucking waste your chance Satoru’.

“I hate that I never stopped,” Suguru continued, softer now. “I see your face in every fucking song I write. I hear your voice when I try to forget. And then you show up at my concert and look at me like I’m still yours.” He opens his eyes again, looking right into Satoru.

“I want to be,” Satoru said.

“No,” Suguru said, stepping back again, as if the words burned. “You want the idea of me. You want the past but we’re not those kids anymore.”

“But we could be.” He said without hesitation. Nothing in his brain sounds logical, there is no little voice that has ruined him for the past few years asking him ‘what about your career? What about your wife? What about your parents?’. It’s just him and his love. It’s just him and Suguru.

Suguru looked at him for a long, tense moment. Eyes burning, lips parted like he wanted to scream or kiss or cry. His eyes shifted behind Satoru’ shoulder and then, his voice was low, quiet, for Satoru’s ears only. “Room 812. The Kira Hotel. If you want to finish this conversation without an audience.”

And then he pulled away. Not harshly. Just… definitely.

He turned and walked back through the glass doors, posture smooth, expression unreadable. A few steps in, Miguel met him. Suguru leaned close, said something light. Maybe a joke, maybe a compliment but the way Miguel smiled at him made Satoru want to break something. They looked like nothing had happened. Like Suguru hadn’t just gutted him with the sharp edge of honesty and longing. Satoru stayed frozen on the balcony. Breathing heavy. Still tasting every word.

When he finally re-entered the rooftop lounge, people barely glanced at him. He found his wife near the drinks table, still laughing with her designer friends. She caught sight of him and immediately touched his arm.

“There you are,” she said warmly. “You disappeared.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Just needed some air.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said automatically.

She looked at him, brows slightly furrowed, concerned but not suspicious.

The party dragged on around them, champagne flutes clinking, camera flashes popping, laughter blurring into the low pulse of expensive background music. Satoru stood stiffly beside his wife, her hand resting gently on his arm, chatting with a well-known director.

His phone buzzed in his pocket or more Satoru pretended it did. He pulled it out anyway and glanced at the screen like something urgent was blinking.

“Sorry,” he said to his wife, pressing the phone to his ear. “I have to take this.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “Now?”

He offered a tight smile. “It’s important. I won’t be long.”

She frowned. “We should probably head out soon, don’t you think?”

“I know. I’ll meet you back at the apartment. Call the driver?”

She hesitated, her eyes flicking over him. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice too smooth, too practiced. “Just a sponsor issue. I promise.”

She nodded slowly, she trusted him. She kissed his cheek lightly before gathering her things and walking toward the exit, high heels tapping like a countdown. Satoru waited until she was gone. Until the room felt like it exhaled. Then, without another word to anyone, he slipped out of the lounge. His steps carried purpose.

He knew exactly where he was going.
Room 812.
The Kira Hotel.
And the man waiting inside.

–

The hallway outside Room 812 was dimly lit, silent except for the low hum of the city seeping through the windows at the far end. Satoru stood before the door, staring at the brass numbers like they might rearrange themselves, spell out a warning. His heart was a hammer in his chest, fists clenched at his sides.

He knocked, it wasn't forceful, just enough to say I’m here.

A moment passed. Then another. Footsteps padded on carpet, then the soft click of a lock turning.

The door opened.

Suguru stood there, still damp from the shower, a black silk robe tied loosely around his waist. His hair clung to his neck and collarbones, dark and dripping, and the scent of something expensive—lavender, amber, cedarwood, something distinctly him—drifted into the hall. His skin was flushed from the heat of the water.

Satoru swallowed, he tried to force his eyes to stay on Suguru's eyes and to not drift lower. Suguru looked at him for a beat, unreadable, then stepped aside.

“You came.”

“Of course.”

Suguru didn’t answer that. Just nodded slightly and motioned toward the sofa inside. “Make yourself at home. I need to throw something on.”

Satoru walked in, heart in his throat, and the door clicked shut behind him. The room smelled like the shower, steam and cologne and faintly of something sweet: the champagne Suguru must’ve poured earlier, sitting half-finished on the table beside a stack of handwritten lyrics. Satoru didn’t sit. He stood there, looking out the window at the skyline, fists still clenched.

When Suguru returned, he was wearing black slacks and a dark grey shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. His hair was towel-dried and messy, like he hadn’t bothered with a mirror. He looked unfairly good, but his eyes, those deep, bottomless eyes were wary. They stood in silence for a long moment, the tension thick enough to taste.

Satoru’s brain was at 250km/h. It feels like he was in his sports car thinking about his next overstep move but he was just thinking about Suguru. About how they could conclude the discussion with a better situation than they are now. By what to start?

Then Satoru spoke.

“I hated seeing him touch you.”

Suguru sighs loudly and blinks. “Still on Miguel?”

“You’re mine.”

“You gave that up,” Suguru snapped, voice sharp. “You gave me up.”

“I know,” Satoru said, breathing harder now. “But I couldn’t—”

“What? You couldn’t love me?” Satoru is offended by this answer. He knows Suguru is trying to make a point here but how could he say that when he knows how crazy in love Suguru was (still is) of him.

“I couldn’t be seen loving you, Suguru.” Suguru looked like he’d been slapped. Satoru stepped forward, voice cracking. “I was scared, Suguru. I’d just signed with my first team, I was twenty-one, and I kept hearing these stories, about how being queer would kill sponsorships, how the media would tear me apart. I’d worked my whole life for a seat in that car.”

“So you picked the car,” Suguru said, flatly.

“No,” Satoru whispered. “I picked survival.”

Silence. Suguru stared at him, chest rising and falling.

“And what was I supposed to do with that?” he asked. “Just wait in the dark? Let you call me when no one was looking?”

“I thought I could have both,” Satoru said, helpless. “The career. And you.”

“But only if I stayed invisible.”

“I was young and fucking terrified,” Satoru said, louder now. “You think I didn’t want to scream your name from every rooftop? I wanted to wear your hoodie in interviews. I wanted to bring you to Monaco and kiss you after a win. But I—”

“You chose to hide me.”

Satoru’s voice dropped. “And I’ve regretted it every goddamn day since.”

Suguru’s breath hitched. “You don’t get to say that now.”

“I do,” Satoru said. “Because it’s true. Because you were my heart, and I threw it away because I was scared of losing something that didn’t matter half as much.”

“You think that makes it better?”

“No,” Satoru said. “It makes it worse. I know that.”

Suguru ran a hand through his hair, pacing a step. His voice dropped to a low, broken hum.

“I wanted to hate you.” He said with a little voice, as if he was afraid of those words. “I tried,” Suguru went on. “For years. Every time I wrote a lyric, every time I touched someone else, every time I heard your name on the news. I tried to bury you in music.”

Satoru stepped closer. “Did it work?”

Suguru looked up, his voice cracked. “No.” Their eyes locked. Satoru reached out, not quite touching, just… bridging the gap.

“I never stopped seeing you,” Suguru whispered. “Even in strangers. Even in dreams.”

“I never stopped loving you.”

Suguru swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Then why did you wait so long?”

“Because I thought I’d ruined it beyond repair.”

“And maybe you have.”

Satoru closed the final distance, their breath mingling. “Then let me try,” he whispered. “Please, Suguru. Let me try.”

Suguru didn’t move, didn’t blink but he didn’t step away. And Satoru knew the past wasn’t dead. It was burning and bright and dangerous. And maybe… maybe it wasn’t too late to save it. And he needed to try.

He closed the gap between their lips. The kiss hit like a slap, harsh, unyielding. Teeth clashed, lips bruised. It was anger, grief, years of resentment and craving and need erupting all at once. Satoru gripped Suguru’s waist, dragged him in like he was starving. Suguru moaned into his mouth, fingers fisting into Satoru’s jacket, and it was like no time had passed, like they were twenty again and nothing had broken yet. Clothes came off in a storm, buttons scattered, breath heaving, backs hitting walls and knees bruising on the floor. They didn’t slow down, didn’t ask—just took. Satoru lifted him onto the edge of the bed and kissed him breathless. Their bodies collided with a kind of violence, need overtaking reason. Suguru scratched down his back, gasping his name like a curse.

“You don’t get to act like I’m yours,” Suguru growled.

“You’ve always been mine,” Satoru hissed, pushing him down.

Satoru kissed every parcel of skin he reached, he was worshiping his body. Kissing his cheeks, his collarbone, his nipples, his belly, his thighs, everything. He couldn’t let him escape again. He prepared him, with fingers that know their path. It feels natural, as if they weren’t apart from each other for the last few years. And Satoru loved this feeling, because it feels like time hasn’t passed, it feels like they are twenty again, and in love and good.

“Please Satoru–” Suguru moans and Satoru knows what it means.

He entered with no pretense, no hesitation, just raw need. Suguru arched beneath him, biting down on a moan, and the room filled with the rhythm of skin on skin, the creak of the mattress, the tangled curses in the dark.

“Fuck, Suguru—still so tight—”

“Harder,” Suguru begged, nails digging in. “Don’t you dare hold back.”

Satoru didn’t. He thrust harder and deeper. He gripped Suguru’s thighs like he was grounding himself. Their mouths met again, clashing, desperate and their bodies found the beat they’d always known. When they finally came, it was harsh, staggering. Satoru collapsed over him, forehead to forehead, both of them shaking.

And then—

The kiss softened, their fingers found each other, interlaced. It was pure and romantic. Satoru’s heart arc in his body, he didn’t felt like that for a long moment. Happiness.

“Again,” Suguru whispered.

Slower this time, Satoru kissed every inch of him, worshipped the scars and the softness, and traced old memories with trembling hands. Suguru cried when Satoru pushed into him again, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Satoru whispered, voice breaking. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve stayed.”

Suguru wrapped his arms around him. “Then stay now.”

“I will.”

They moved together like they had all the time in the world, soft, gentle, rediscovering what had never really died. When they came the second time, it was quiet and intimate. Suguru clung to him like he was afraid Satoru might disappear. Satoru brushed his tears away.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

“Don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

–

The morning sun slipped through the hotel curtains in pale stripes, golden and warm against the sheets tangled around their bodies. Satoru stirred first, one arm curled tightly around Suguru's bare waist, the other half-asleep beneath the pillow. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to let go not when everything finally felt right again.

Suguru’s hair tickled his shoulder, messy from sleep and still scented faintly of lavender. He was warm and real in Satoru’s arms, breathing soft and even. For a moment, Satoru just watched him. Like if he blinked, it might all vanish.

Eventually, he reached for his phone. The screen lit up with a wall of notifications.
10 missed calls. 5 messages.
From her.

Satoru’s chest twisted, guilt settled like lead in his gut but it was quiet. It didn’t drown out the peace he felt lying next to Suguru. Didn’t shake the certainty in his bones that this was where he was meant to be.

Still, he sighed and set the phone down without replying.

Suguru stirred and turned to look at Satoru. “Everything okay?”

Satoru nodded, brushing a hand through Suguru’s hair. “Yeah. Everything’s… perfect.”

Suguru blinked sleepily, but a soft smile tugged at his lips. “You’re not gonna disappear on me again, right?”

Satoru leaned in and kissed him. “Never.”

They stayed like that for a while entwined, quiet, and finally, finally not pretending.

–

Two Months Later

The world turned sideways at 280 km/h.

It was a sharp corner at the Suzuka Circuit, and Satoru had taken it a hundred times before. But this time, the tires didn’t hold. He felt the back end slip, the steering wheel jerk violently in his grip, the scream of rubber on asphalt and the surge of adrenaline as everything went wrong—fast. The impact was violent, the car spun, flipped once, then twice, before slamming sideways into the safety barriers. Metal crumpled like paper. A wall of smoke and sparks bloomed across the track. Marshals rushed in.

The footage would play in loops for days, slowed down and analyzed by analysts, racers, fans. Commentators would talk about luck, about engineering, about the miracle of survival. But all Satoru remembered was the stillness that followed, a dizzy, painful silence. The silence of death. Everytime he enters his car he looks death in the eyes and dares it to show him what there is after life, but Satoru has always shown his middle fingers to it because he always stands proud and alive after every race. But this accident was a nightmare for Satoru and death has made him K.O, just remembering him, who is really in charge.

He woke up in a hospital room with bruised ribs, a mild concussion, and a ringing in his ears. But he was alive.

He asked for his phone before anything else. Dozens of missed calls, his manager, his team, his wife, his fans.

And Suguru.

“Please call me.” “I saw the crash. Are you alive?” “Satoru. Fuck. Say something.”

His fingers shook as he called him, the line clicked. “You fucking idiot,” Suguru said, voice wrecked.

“I’m okay,” Satoru rasped. “Promise.”

“Do you know what it felt like? Watching that, not knowing—” Suguru broke off, breath shaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought I lost you. Again.”

Satoru closed his eyes. “You didn’t.”

“I’m coming.”

Suguru showed up the next evening, no cameras, no press. Just him in a hoodie and a mask, slipping into the hospital room like a shadow. He didn’t speak at first. Just sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Satoru.

Then he leaned in and hugged him, tight and desperate.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he whispered. “This. Hiding. This waiting for the world to kill you before you figure out what matters.”

“I know.”

“I love you, you idiot.”

“I love you too.”

—

They met again three days later, after Satoru was released. In Suguru’s studio, late at night, the city humming outside. Satoru walked in like a man possessed. Suguru didn’t speak, just stared at him, eyes wide.

Satoru stepped close. “I’m divorcing her.”

“What?”

“I told her this morning. I’m done pretending.”

“Satoru—”

“I almost died. And all I could think was how I wasted years without you. I want you. I want the world to know I’m yours.”

Suguru’s face twisted. “You say that now, but what happens when the press turns on you? When sponsors pull out? What if you regret it again?”

“I won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Suguru stared at him, searching for the lie, for the weakness. He didn’t find it.

Satoru took his hands. “I’ll prove it every day, for the rest of my life, if you let me.”

Suguru didn’t speak, just pulled him into a kiss that tasted like hope.

-

Three Weeks Later

The press conference announcing Satoru’s divorce was brutal. Paparazzi swarmed, headlines screamed, speculations spiraled. But Satoru didn’t waver. He sat in front of the microphones, dressed in black, his expression clear.

“I’ve been living a lie,” he said. “And I won’t anymore.”

He came out publicly, not as a scandal, not as an apology, as truth. Some fans were outraged, some sponsors pulled their deals. But others stood by him. New ones came forward. And Suguru—Suguru watched from the wings, eyes wet.

Later, alone in Suguru’s studio, Satoru whispered, “I’m free.”

Suguru just kissed him. “You’re home.”

-

Eight Months Later

Satoru was still racing, still fast, still fierce but now, he kissed Suguru on camera.

They’d gone to Monaco together and when Satoru took first, Suguru was the first person he ran to—laughing, breathless, and high on adrenaline. He pulled him into a kiss that made international headlines.

The internet exploded. And Satoru didn’t care.

He had love. Real, messy, loud love.

–

It was a quiet Sunday when Suguru went live on Instagram. He was lounging on the couch, hoodie too big, hair a mess, glasses slipping. Fans spammed the comments.

“And no, I’m not doing a collab with Miguel again. We’re still good though.”

#Are you dating anyone?#

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “Yeah.”

Right on cue, Satoru walked into frame, wearing Suguru’s hoodie, holding two mugs of tea. He plopped down on the couch, wrapped himself around Suguru like a vine.

“Hi,” he said to the camera, grinning.

Suguru tried to look annoyed but it failed.

“You’re clingy.” Suguru said trying to seem annoyed, again failed.

“You love it.” Satoru says, grabbing Suguru by the waist to hug him.

“Unfortunately.” Suguru smiles.

The fans lost their minds.

Satoru kissed his cheek. “I’m his number one fan.”

Suguru tilted the camera to show both their faces. “Yeah. This idiot? He’s mine.”

No shame, no fear.

Just love.

The End.