Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.

“Suguru! Good to see you back,” Yaga types his name into the computer as Suguru waits on the other side of the reception desk, suitcase pressed against his leg and backpack slung on his shoulder.

Suguru laughs. “I can't say I didn't consider going MIA to escape formal education.”

Yaga smiles good-naturedly and drags the mouse over to click on the room assignments. “Living on campus again this year?”

“It's convenient,” Suguru shrugs, hiking the backpack up. “C’mon, old man. Please tell me that I got a single.”

Yaga laughs again, but his eyes sharpen as he squints at something on the screen, looking almost confused. Well. Seems like Suguru didn’t get a single. Not the end of the world, but still, Suguru had hoped. At least, rooming with a beta isn’t all bad—Suguru’s done it before.

His roommate last year (a beta) was almost too considerate of him, especially his monthly rut, but unfortunately, Sayaka was studying abroad this year.

“I've got a roommate, I assume.”

He doesn’t respond. Suguru starts to get a bit concerned with the bewilderment on Yaga’s face.

Finally, Yaga pulls open one of the drawers and fishes out a keycard and a key. “Building C, third floor.”

Hesitating slightly, Suguru reaches out and takes the set from his hand, shoving it in the front pocket of his hoodie. “Right. Uh, see you later, then,”

He's about to walk away when Yaga clears his throat, halting Suguru in his tracks. Suguru plasters on a polite smile. “Yes?”

“I'm required to warn you, ah, we’re a bit—tight—on housing this year.”

“Okay?” Suguru blinks. “Is my roommate—a felon or something?”

“Of course not!” Yaga exclaims, nearly hopping out of his chair. “But, your roommate, Suguru—he’s, ah, well, you see—he's an alpha.”

Suguru stares.

“What?”

II.

“Seriously? Is that even allowed?” Yuki’s voice filters through his phone speaker as he drags his suitcase over the uneven concrete. Building C glares at him from the other side of the courtyard.

“I don't know,” Suguru runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I get they’re short on housing, but if they really had to do same-rank roommates, they could’ve stuck some omegas together instead of rooming two alphas together.”

“Seriously,” Yuki repeats. “Do they not understand that it’s a disaster waiting to happen?”

“Whatever,” Suguru sighs, pushing through the glass doors at the front of the building. “I'll call you later.”

“Sending prayers.”

Suguru snorts. “Thanks.”

He walks into the elevator and presses the button for the third floor.

III.

Goddamnit. Part of him was hoping it was just a glitch in the system. But it’s real, Suguru observes as he stands in his doorway, staring at the not-beta shaped figure plugging in a desk lamp. The wood creaks under his feet, and the figure bristles at the noise, standing up.

It’s a beat before a potent and thick scent washes over him. Suguru cringes and resists the urge to step back. Definitely not a beta.

First glance: white hair, messy in an effortless way that almost makes Suguru jealous. Key word being almost.

Second glance: piercing blue eyes—shades flashing in the light like waves. As soon as Suguru and his new roommate make eye contact, there’s a tense silence as they begin sizing each other up.

This guy’s taller than him, Suguru notes, straightening his back reflexively. The other boy seems to notice that Suguru (thank God for those hours spent at the gym) is wider, broader, and he squares his shoulders instinctively.

Suguru doesn’t even realize he’s releasing pheromones until his roommate’s body tenses. Forcing himself to relax, Suguru coughs.

“Hey.”

The new roommate coolly nods his head in acknowledgment, “Hey.”

Suguru winces. This is so fucking awkward. He takes a step inside, pulling his suitcase in after him. 

“I'm Geto Suguru.”

His new roommate sets down the cord of the lamp and reaches out a hand to shake. “Gojo Satoru.”

Feeling irrationally territorial, Suguru has to internally coach himself to reach out and take the outstretched hand (because he needs to be polite, dammit). Christ, alpha instincts are so fucking exhausting.

He suspects that this is going to be a long, long year.

IV.

Their first conflict arises—so, so predictably—in the morning, in front of the bathroom mirror.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Satoru glares at Suguru through the mirror reflection as Suguru brushes past Satoru, who’s uncapping a toothpaste tube. “It’s fucking occupied.”

Suguru rolls his eyes hard enough to hurt. “I have a lecture in fifteen minutes.”

“And I have a lecture in twenty. You should’ve woken up earlier if you needed the bathroom so bad. Hang on, what are you doing?”

Suguru has already stripped off his shirt by the time he bothers to give Satoru an unbothered side glance. He gathers his hair up into a ponytail, “You never taken a shower before or something?”

Satoru jabs his toothbrush in his direction angrily.

“Don’t strip while I’m still in here, you fucking perv.”

“No one’s asking you to look, princess.”

Satoru throws the toothpaste at him with all the force of a varsity pitcher. 

They both end up being late.

V.

“So you're telling me,” Yuki swirls her iced coffee around in her cup, an incredulous look of amusement on her face, “that they stuck two alphas, not just that, but two dominant alphas in a dorm room together and just hoped you two wouldn’t kill each other?”

Suguru sighs, pressing his knuckles to his forehead. “I don't know why you find this so amusing.”

“Because it’s fucking hilarious! I can’t believe your roommate is fucking Gojo Satoru, of all the fucking people,” she cackles, rocking back in the flimsy plastic chair.

Suguru lifts his eyes to glare at her above his fingers. “What d’you mean, of all people?”

She just grins, wagging a finger at him. “I mean, what are the odds they shove the school’s top bachelors together? I'm sure the omegas in the building are slobbering all over themselves.”

Suguru cringes. “That's disgusting. And rude, don’t say that.”

“Whatever,” Yuki brushes him off, twirling her hair around a finger as she digs out her phone to snap a selfie of the two of them. “I'm totally about to use you to get more followers, by the way.”

Suguru purposely yawns, ruining the photo. 

“You don’t need me to get followers. Omega at three o'clock.” He nods his head in that direction and Yuki turns just as a sweet-looking omega girl shuffles up to Yuki, blushing and smelling like chocolate-covered strawberries.

He watches the two of them with a raised eyebrow. Yeah, Yuki definitely doesn’t need him.

VI.

It's evening by the time Suguru makes it back to his dorm. He feels entirely drained as he pushes the door open, shoving the keycard back into his pocket.

He’s met with a blast of vanilla and Calvin Klein—dense and unmistakably alpha.

Ah, right. He's sharing a room with an alpha. A white-haired, highly irritable alpha.

Suguru diffuses some of his own pheromones to dilute the thick scent.

Satoru lays casually on his stomach atop his bed in a loose, faded t-shirt and basketball shorts, computer flipped open and playing an animated film Suguru thinks he recognizes.

He leans toward Satoru’s rumpled, splayed-out form to get a better look at his screen.

Noticing the new scent, Satoru’s nose twitches and he looks up, pulling out one of his earphones expectantly, expression screaming what?

Suguru flicks his gaze from the screen back to Satoru’s face. then, “She dies at the end, by the way.”

“Oh my god, fuck you so much?”

VII.

Putting aside their (subtly) hostile (tentative) acquaintance-ship, it’s not long before Suguru is forced to ask the (incredibly awkward) question. 

He watches Satoru put his cup ramen on the coffee table before draping himself back across the couch. 

He clears his throat. “When's your rut?”

Satoru pauses for a second. then hums, turning onto his stomach as he watches Suguru gulp down the last bits of broth from his cup. 

“Beginning of the month,” he says eventually. “You?”

Suguru sighs with palpable relief. “Second to last week of the month.”

Satoru nods, expectant. 

Suguru reels himself in and pushes on, offhandedly noticing the way Satoru’s lips are cherry red and swollen from the spicy noodles. 

“What do you—I mean, what do you wanna do? Regarding accommodations and like, rules.”

“Rules?”

“Yeah, like,” Suguru gestures, “is it okay if we bring people home, that kinda thing.”

Satoru blinks. “Do you have a rut partner?”

Suguru closes his eyes and wills down the red threatening to creep up into his face. Nothing could have prepared him for how fucking awkward this is.

“I—not right now, but I usually need one, with, you know.”

Satoru thinks for a beat, then answers, “I'm okay if you bring people back, just let me know beforehand so I can like, clear out, and all, crash at a friend’s dorm, et cetera.”

Suguru nods. “Okay, same on my side.”

“Right,” Satoru confirms slowly. “Cool.”

“Cool.”

Silence. Then—

“Uh, wanna watch One Piece? I got one of those fucking, uh, wall projector things yesterday.”

“Oh, hell yeah, dude.”

VIII.

When Suguru arrives at the restaurant, he’s expecting Yuki, but he’s not expecting the long-haired handsome brunette sitting beside her in the booth. 

Maybe Yuki finally got herself a girlfriend.

He comes close enough to slide into the booth across. Never mind, the brunette’s an alpha.

“Hey,” Yuki greets him, and the brunette nods at him coolly. “You guys haven’t met, right? This is Shoko—we’re in bio together.”

“Nice to meet you,” Suguru tips his head down politely, greeting her with a smile. 

Her scent is weak, but unmistakably cinnamon and firewood.

“Geto, right?” Shoko’s voice is smooth and satisfying to listen to. It has a relaxing quality to it, and Suguru finds his normal instincts sitting dormant in the midst of Shoko’s tranquility. “Your roommate’s a friend of mine.”

“Satoru?”

“We went to high school together.”

Shoko’s something of an enigma—he’s never met a recessive alpha who surrounds themselves (while remaining completely unaffected) with her dominant counterparts of the same rank. Maybe she can use her influence on Satoru to convince him to pull the stick out of his ass.

They make casual conversation after ordering, as they wait for their food to arrive. 

Shoko sips at her diet coke, “How’s Gojo as a roommate? Doesn’t look like you’ve killed each other yet.”

Suguru sighs. It’s been a week and a half, there’s still plenty of time for that.

“He's—fine,” Suguru decides lamely. 

Yuki snorts and slaps the table. “My god, you’re such a fuckin’ alpha.”

Suguru just grunts and rolls his eyes. 

“Have you talked about what you’re gonna do when you’re in rut?”

Shoko’s looking at him, expression void of judgment.

Suguru scratches the back of his head, “Vaguely, yeah. about—like, bringing people home, and stuff.”

“Oh, by the way,” Yuki picks up her phone. “The beta from last month asked me to let you know she’d be happy to help you out again.”

“Thanks.” Well, one worry off the table.

Shoko blinks at both of them, expression still flat but tinged with a hint of confusion. 

“Isn’t that inconvenient during the school year? Can’t you and Satoru just help each other through your ruts? I know a ton of alphas with omega and beta roommates who do that.”

Suguru freezes, a zap going through his body. He turns slowly to Shoko. “What?”

Yuki intercepts with a boisterous laugh and claps Shoko on the shoulder. “Does make sense, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, Geto doesn’t mess with alphas.”

“Ah, okay.” Shoko shrugs, casually moving on.

Suguru doesn’t move on, though. Shoko spoke as if Satoru would—as if Satoru—

Suguru grew up in the country. Around farms, among small towns. When he was young, same-rank relationships weren’t viewed well, even though they’re commonplace now. Suguru looks at his hands.

He’s not put off by it, rather the thought seldom crosses his mind.

Now, he has no concept of how it would work. Now he’s thinking about it. Yuki’s voice rings in his head: Geto doesn’t mess with alphas.

He looks at Shoko, who smiles at him around a piece of pasta.

Dammit.

IX.

Suguru forgets about it for a little while. 

No, like, actually. 

Yeah, it might’ve been thanks to the Polisci Project From Hell that he was subject to the virtue of his professor who definitely had it out for the entire class. 

Anyway.

But thanks to what Suguru will call mutual complete-fucking-exhaustion, his relationship with Satoru has gotten better. Well, kind of. His interactions with Satoru have gotten less angry and instinct-y.

Maybe it was the night when they watched One Piece until two in the morning and fell asleep sitting on the floor that really broke the ice for them, but either way, it’s a good thing.

X.

In the midst of it, Satoru’s rut comes and goes.

Suguru (out of respect) clears out of the dorm, staying with Yuki for the three nights it takes for the rut to come to an end. He knows he would hate someone lounging around casually while he was writhing around and dying in the same room, and he imagines Satoru, as a fellow alpha, feels the same.

When Suguru’s rut comes around, Satoru returns the favor, kindly disappearing for two and a half days while Suguru jacks himself off enough times to give himself a sprained wrist. In the end, he calls the beta Yuki had talked about. It helps, for a few hours.

The downside about getting help during a rut is that, most of the time, betas and sometimes even omegas struggle to keep up. They can only hold out for a while before an alpha’s stamina gets too much.

He thanks the beta as she buttons up her shirt, smiling and waving as she leaves.

She texts him a reminder that he can call her next month if he needs to. 

Suguru probably will. He doesn’t want to, though. It makes him feel a bit pathetic. 

Satoru returns eventually, and the dorm feels less empty and a little more livable again.

It's not too bad, this arrangement. What's too bad is that the short exchange with Shoko is still lingering in his head. Still. The universe must hate him.

XI.

Suguru wakes up to an (extremely loud) genuine scream coming from the bathroom. Suguru isn’t even sure it’s human for a second. 

He glances over at the clock. Two AM. Limbs heavy, he pushes the covers off and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

Just as he stands up, the bathroom room slams open with force that rattles the walls (and Suguru’s frail heart, honestly). 

Light pours into the room and temporarily blinds him, and he squeezes his eyes shut protectively. 

Footsteps thunder across the floor.

Suguru rubs his eyes. “What the ever-loving fuck is going on?”

He squints to get a look at Satoru, whose pheromones have gone haywire—normal vanilla diluted with sour fear. He's frazzled, hair sticking up in tufts everywhere, face pale white save for the touch of pink bewilderment in his cheeks.

Before Suguru can react, his roommate is sprinting across the room. Suguru wants to move out of the way, but it’s no use, as Satoru basically body-slams him, hands curling painfully tight around his bicep the moment they collide. 

The wind gets knocked out of Suguru on impact, and an oof sounds in the room as Suguru’s poor lungs deflate.

Satoru stares up at him with wide blue eyes.

“Suguru.”

Suguru scrunches his nose. “Control your fuckin—pheromones, it smells like spoiled milk in here.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“God. What is it now?”

“There’s a fucking Cthulhu in the bathroom. I almost just fucking died. I'm going to cry. We need to call fucking animal control, we need the fire department, I can’t do this, I was just trying to take a piss, shit, it could’ve bitten my dick off, oh my god,”

Suguru blinks. “What?”

Satoru looks so desperate that it’s almost hilarious. It is fucking hilarious. And Suguru would have laughed his ass off if he wasn’t dead tired on his feet and it wasn’t the dead of night.

“There's a spider,” Satoru whimpers, skin warm where he clings to Suguru, “Can you kill it?”

Suguru presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “If you got piss on the floor or something, I’m literally going to end you.”

XII.

Suguru sees Satoru on campus. A lot more than he would expect for being in two separate departments, not that he has a problem with it.

“Bitch,” Yuki derails his train of thought. “It’s so fucking cold, what the fuck?”

“You could, you know, wear a jacket. Like a normal person.”

Yuki shakes her head disappointedly at Suguru. “Nah, I'm gonna make the cold my bitch. Just wait and see.”

“Right,” Suguru snorts, taking her backpack from her and slinging it over his shoulder as they start walking toward the cafeteria.

“Yo, your roommate’s over there.”

Yuki points to a table.

She's right—it is Satoru. standing by a table, it looks like he finished eating, bag in hand and ready to head out. 

That's hardly what catches Suguru’s attention, though. 

What catches his attention is the tall, broad, dark-haired alpha currently crowding him.

Suguru moves before he can register it; Yuki’s confused calls of his name are nothing but an echo as he darts over, nearly crashing into an omega carrying a full tray. He mutters a quick apology as he brushes by, speeding up until he reaches his roommate.

“Satoru.”

“Suguru?”

Suguru can’t release any pheromones without Satoru noticing, so he just glares at the third alpha.

He momentarily looks away from the third alpha and meets Satoru’s piercing azure eyes. 

Satoru blinks at him expectantly. Oh, shit. Suguru realizes Satoru is waiting for him to say something after approaching so suddenly.

His instincts have clearly misread this situation. His instincts are—what the fuck are his instincts doing?

The third alpha shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pockets before Suguru’s suddenly being blasted by the suffocating scent of burning wood. “We were in the middle of a fucking conversation.”

Suguru tenses but doesn’t back down, eyes flashing, clearly aggravating the larger alpha more.

“Woah, chill the fuck out,” the tension fizzles as cool vanilla washes over Suguru, neutralizing the blazing, smoky air. Satoru runs a hand through his hair, the other on his hip. He turns to the offending alpha. “That's my roommate, dude.”

The alpha stares at Satoru for a beat before he grunts, stretching to diffuse the last bits of tension in the air and retracting his combative pheromones. Baffled, Suguru watches as the alpha rolls his shoulders and plops down on the bench closest to them.

“Suguru, d’you eat yet?” Satoru’s addressing him.

Suguru swallows. “Uh, no.”

Satoru’s eyes brighten. “Wait, the chili’s fucking amazing today—you have to try it. Hang on, I gotta go to class, but I’ll come with you to get some to go.”

“Yeah, okay, I—yeah, let’s go.”

“Hey, six,” the third alpha calls out to Satoru again, and Suguru’s blood turns icy again. “Wait.”

Satoru pulls away from where his shoulder was amicably brushing Suguru’s, and Suguru fights the urge to grab Satoru and pull him behind him protectively.

“So, what d’you think? You’ll do it?”

The alpha looks every bit the asshole Suguru believes he is—arms extended along the table’s edge, one leg folded across his thigh: taking up space, pressurizing the room. 

All of Suguru’s instincts flare up again, making his body burn hot. 

He looks over at Satoru, and realizes the hilarity of whatever internal turmoil he’s going through. 

Because Satoru’s gaze isn’t needy or pleading or fearful or submissive or—

Gojo Satoru is also an alpha. He's undeniably, indisputably, inarguably, incontestably, absolutely unmistakably, an alpha.

Satoru sighs, squinting a bit, which makes his nose scrunch. Cute, the back of Suguru’s mind supplies (un)helpfully. 

“Nah, probably not, sorry. I don't really do that anymore.”

The alpha shrugs. “Well, whatever. Text me if you change your mind.”

“Sure thing,” Satoru dismisses him, turning his attention back to Suguru (where it belongs, a voice in his head croons). “Let's go, I can’t be late to production design again. Is Yuki with you?”

“Yeah,” Suguru feels like he’s buffering, his brain disjointed and thoughts choppy. “Yeah, uh, let’s go.”

XIII.

“The guy from earlier, who was he?” Suguru manages to resist the (absolutely painful) urge to ask until later that evening, as the two of them make a mess on the coffee table with Chinese takeout. 

Satoru licks some sauce from the corner of his mouth. (His tongue is so pink.)

“Who?”

“The alpha, the one who smells like an arsonist,” Suguru barely manages to keep the revelatory hints of bitterness out of his voice. “The one from the cafeteria?”

Satoru swipes Suguru’s Sprite bottle and steals a sip, but Suguru doesn’t scold him. 

“Oh, Toji? Yeah, he’s a grad student. I know him—he's an alum from my high school.”

Suguru hums, fiddling with his chopsticks. “What did he want?” 

Satoru’s only half paying attention, the rest of his focus on the first section of the Punk Hazard arc. On the screen, a very sweaty Zoro squares up with a dragon.

“What? Oh—nothing really, his normal rut partner’s on medical leave, he asked if I would do him a solid.”

“What?” Every hair on Suguru’s body stands on end, and he hears one of his chopsticks crack. Simmering lightly, Suguru spits, “I'm sure there are plenty of omegas happy to help him out.” He didn’t need to ask you. He shouldn’t have asked you.

Satoru empties the rest of the kung pao into his plate, eyes still glued to the screen.

“Hm,” he replies. 

Suguru’s eye twitches. “Satoru.”

“Yeah, yeah—the thing is, he’s not the nicest person on his rut, if you know what I mean. With alpha partners he can go at it without worrying about hurting them, y’know, so he tries to do that exclusively.”

Suguru feels dizzy. “Have you—sl—helped him before?”

Satoru’s nose twitches as he stirs hot sauce into the rice. “Dude, did you take your meds? You’re releasing hella pheromones. Bitter ones, stale coffee and shit.”

Suguru presses his chopstick into his thumb and reels himself in. “Shit, sorry. But have you?”

Satoru drops a piece of chicken on his shirt and swears.

“Satoru.”

Satoru glances up at him in the middle of licking his shirt, and Suguru can’t even help but smile. 

“I haven't, obviously. I mean, did you see that guy? He's a death wish on legs. I'm an alpha, not a gymnast.”

Suguru finally laughs, cooling relief flooding his system. “Why'd he ask you, then?”

Satoru clicks to continue to the next episode, grabbing a paper towel from the roll.

“From high school—he probably heard I used to help a few alpha friends of mine with their rut. Not anymore, obviously—I wish I had half the vitality I had then. Puberty fucks you up, bro.”

“I didn't know you slept with alphas.” 

A lie. A straight-up lie. But maybe not. Shoko never explicitly said Satoru slept with alphas. But the way she phrased it—the way that Suguru can’t help but assume because of the way she said it.

Satoru flicks his eyes over to Suguru, somewhat wary. “In the past, yeah. Is that—a problem?”

“No!” Suguru replies immediately, startled out of his spiral. He’s curious, not intolerant.

Satoru’s bright, sharp grin makes a return as the suspicion falls away. “Cool.”

“What's it like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like,” Suguru tries, “how does it work?”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, eyes revealing poorly concealed amusement. “You want me to explain to you how sex works?”

“Christ, no—forget I asked,” Suguru rolls his eyes and shoves his chopsticks (what’s left of them) into one of the boxes of rice.

He accidentally catches Satoru’s gaze then, sharp and taunting, pupils dilated. 

“Why did you ask, though? Were you thinking of trying it? I’d be happy to help you out.”

Suguru halts, keeping a straight face as he stares down at Satoru. 

And again, Satoru’s eyes aren’t soft and mellow like an omega—they’re self-assured and bright and piercing and mischievous and pretty in a way Suguru doesn’t know what to do with, but it makes his heart kick against his ribcage in a way he can’t explain.

Satoru looks almost like—almost like he’s waiting for something, hawk-like and waiting for Suguru’s next move.

Suguru kind of wants to take his thumb and brush them across Satoru’s long eyelashes, just to make him close his eyes and maybe to feel if they’re as soft as they look. 

(And he wants Satoru to let him, he wants Satoru to listen, wants Satoru to keep still and—he wants Satoru to—)

The challenge fades from Satoru’s stare as he laughs and raps his fingers on the table. 

“I was just messing with you, don’t gotta look so constipated.”

“I know,” Suguru huffs and leans back. (He didn’t know, actually.)

Satoru grins and (ridiculously) fist bumps Suguru’s knee. However, it’s just a distraction so he can steal Suguru’s Sprite again. Suguru sighs fondly and doesn’t bother stopping him.

Satoru takes a few gulps and stretches his legs out under the table. “Seriously, though, if there’s actually something you wanna know or if you think you wanna experiment or something—you can always just ask me, or whatever. I won't judge or anything, at least, not that much.”

He seems to get embarrassed by the end of his supportive monologue, turning away from Suguru but Suguru can still see the pretty, warm flush climbing up his neck. (He wants to touch it.) 

Suguru swallows.

Satoru may be unaware, and it’s Suguru’s own fault, but Satoru’s well-intentioned, friendly offer will bring Suguru nothing but another sleepless night and many questionable thoughts.

XIV.

Satoru really isn’t helping Suguru’s internal extensive confusion regarding his instincts, his feelings, and their connections with Satoru. 

Suguru comes home from his afternoon lecture to find—huh. He rubs his eyes. Blinks thrice.

This must be a very weird hallucination because as of right now, there is a Satoru in his bed.

A very fluffy-haired, puffy-cheeked Satoru sitting in the center of his bed, Suguru’s duvet collected in a circle around him as he rolls a stress ball between his palms. A trick shot video plays on his laptop, precariously balanced on the edge of the bed.

Suguru shuts the door and slings his backpack onto the floor against the lamp. “Why are you in my bed?”

Satoru pulls out an Airpod and looks up at him, blinking owlishly.

Then, he innocently (adorably—no, shut up, brain) points at his own bed, of which the blanket has fallen halfway on the floor, the center of the bedsheet notably dark. 

“Spilled my coke.”

Suguru stares at him. Satoru stares right back.

Surely enough, there’s now a half-empty plastic (cap-less) coke bottle sitting on Satoru’s bedside table. 

“Then change your fucking sheets—don’t just get into my bed, you weirdo?”

Satoru is unfazed. He just shrugs. “Nah, too lazy. Later, maybe.”

“Later, maybe?” Suguru grins manically and laughs. “You have ten seconds to get your nasty bare feet off my bed before I suffocate you in it.”

“Seems counterproductive. All you’d get is a dead guy in your bed. Unless,” Satoru’s eyes twinkle mischievously, “you’re into that?”

Suguru runs at him. Satoru screams.

Neither of them wins the brawl—but Suguru does manage to land one good hit on that pretty face and that’s good enough. He feels a swell of pride watching Satoru sulk and nurse the bruise with an icepack for the rest of the evening. It’s good enough to soothe the pent-up frustration Suguru has been feeling thanks to a certain blue-eyed roommate.

(Satoru’s scent lingers. Suguru smells intoxicating vanilla on his sheets for days.)

XV.

“Suguru!” 

Suguru leans back to stick his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush still dangling from his mouth. 

Satoru stands in the near corner of their room, where their closets sit against the wall.

Suguru is forced to ignore the fact that Satoru is, in fact, shirtless, and Suguru is subsequently forced to ignore the way his skin is still pink from the heat of the shower, pulled taut against lean muscles that flex as he shifts a heap of unfolded clothes to the side of one of the wooden ledges.

“—Suguru?”

“Mph,” Suguru replies, dragging his eyes back up to Satoru’s hopeful face. He totally doesn’t watch a lone water droplet fall from his hair and slide down his abs before teasingly tracing his v-line disappearing under his waistband. You want to touch him , something tells him. He ignores it.

“Let me borrow one of your button downs,” he whines, facing Suguru with his hands clasped together. “Please, I forgot to do laundry yesterday because I had that evening lecture.”

“Hm,” Suguru gives him a ‘really?’ look. 

“I'll do your laundry this week—no, this month! I'll pay! My treat, but like, for laundry instead of food!”

Suguru can’t laugh, but he chuckles around his toothbrush, waving a hand at Satoru. “Mph (Go for it).”

“Have I told you that I love you? You’re the best. Best roommate ever.” Satoru blows him a kiss and yanks one of his shirts off the hanger. Suguru’s heart skips several beats, and he’s probably on the verge of cardiac arrest.

Somehow, knowing the shirt is likely doused with Suguru’s scent fills Suguru with a sense of glee, somewhat giddy that Satoru is so willing to wear it, willing to—

He's late for class. Shit.

XVI.

“Tell me why golden boy Gojo Satoru walked into multivariable calculus fifteen minutes late and fucking reeking of you?”

“He woke up late,” Suguru shrugs and slurps at his bowl of noodles. “Not my fault.”

“That's it? Are you serious? Do you have any idea how fucking flabbergasted everyone was when Gojo Satoru walked in smelling like a fucking—like a fucking vanilla latte with a pump of hazelnut?”

“That's…oddly specific.”

“Shut up,” Yuki squawks, wagging a finger at him.

“Did I miss the memo where you guys were at the sharing clothes level of closeness?”

“Dude, we’re chill—we’re roommates and we’re pretty good friends now, it’s not that weird.”

“Sure, fine, don’t tell me,” Yuki rolls her eyes and pushes back her chair, rocking precariously.

“You'll fall,” Suguru reminds gently, taking his phone out to respond to a selfie from a very bored Satoru stuck in a philosophy seminar.

He snaps a picture of Yuki frowning and sends it over.

Satoru responds swiftly.

SATORU: who shat in her cereal this morning?’

SUGURU: me, apparently

SATORU: damn, your shit must really stink

Suguru grins when Satoru sends another emoji, unaware of Yuki’s scrutinizing, inquisitive stare.

XVII.

Satoru is drunk. 

That much Suguru can tell from the way he sends the door crashing against the wall when he stumbles back to the dorm, leaning heavily against the doorframe before staggering inside. 

His control of his pheromones has been rendered sub-par, as french vanilla overpowers and pulsates in the air between them, diluting Suguru’s scent of roasted coffee.

Suguru takes him in—the mess he is. And oh . He’s wearing one of Suguru’s flannels. 

Sure, they share clothes regularly now, but his alpha still preens with absolute glee at the sight. Suguru still doesn’t stand up from the couch. 

There’s a rosy blush high in Satoru’s cheeks, eyes hazy in a way that’s almost dangerous.

“Fun night?”

“Fuckin’ upperclassmen,” Satoru slurs, ambling around the sofa to sit beside Suguru. “Would think they’re tryna—tryna kill us or something,”

Suguru laughs.

Satoru trips, hitting the base of the couch before he can settle himself, and he topples backwards drunkly, falling directly into Suguru’s lap. Suguru reflexively steadies him with two hands on his waist, Satoru’s weight heavy and grounding, warm and pleasing.

Suguru swallows hard, saliva suddenly the viscosity of molasses. “Did anything interesting happen?”

“Shoko punched a dude,” Satoru giggles with an adorable snort, rubbing the back of his head against Suguru’s shoulder, reducing his hair into an even more tangled mess. “It was awesome.”

“You’re drunk,” Suguru points out needlessly, potent vanilla overpowering all of his senses, and it’s sweet and dizzying and precarious, risky, fatal.

“Yeah,” Satoru hums before taking one of Suguru’s hands in his own and yanking it up to his soft mop of messy white hair. Demanding, “Pet me.”

Suguru freezes, his fingers twitching where they rest lightly atop Satoru’s head. He only reacts when Satoru whines loudly, accompanied by a low and demanding grunt. The dichotomy of it makes Suguru want to laugh. A drunk and needy alpha.

He starts lightly scratching his scalp, and Satoru practically purrs, back arching to push his head back into Suguru’s hand. 

“More,” he complains. 

Suguru replies, but his voice is a touch shaky, “Can’t believe you’re still such a brat even when drunk out of your mind.”

Satoru grunts and turns his head suddenly, pressing his icy-cold nose into the column of Suguru’s throat. 

Suguru tugs on his hair lightly in reprimand, but Satoru just smiles against his skin, burying his face farther into the junction between Suguru’s neck and shoulder.

Suguru shudders but doesn’t move as Satoru noses at his scent gland, not doing more than nuzzling at it, but it still makes Suguru’s skin erupt with tingles. 

It’s electrifying; he feels it down to his toes.

The alarms in his brain start blaring red, playing on loop: this is bad this is bad this is—

Suguru nearly jolts and almost knocks Satoru out of his lap when Satoru opens his mouth and bites him lightly, groaning, “Bitter.”

Suguru can’t control the erratic thumping of his heart, and right now, he’s terrified that Satoru can hear it. “What?”

“The coffee,” Satoru scrunches his nose in distaste. “It's bitter.”

Still dizzy and confused and his mind blanking, he says, “What?”

Satoru attempts to turn around, reaching around to plant a hand on Suguru’s shoulder, but he misses and slaps Suguru in the face.

“Your scent, it’s bitter.”

Shit—in his distress, Suguru must be releasing bitter pheromones unintentionally.

He fights to compose himself, drawing in his pheromones and pretending like Gojo Satoru isn’t sitting pretty and soft and pliant and vanilla in his lap. “Better?”

Satoru grins, dopey. “Yeah.”

Something gurgles. Satoru moans. The vanilla turns sour. 

“S’guru, gonna—hurl,”

Yeah, the moment’s gone. 

Suguru throws Satoru onto the floor.

XVIII.

Suguru has a class in the morning, so he apologetically leaves Satoru in the dorm with a supply of painkillers, two bottles of water, and a granola bar on his bedside table. 

He texts Satoru during the break in his lecture to make sure he’s still alive and kicking, and in return, receives a selfie of Satoru huddled by the toilet.

Satoru gives the camera a half-hearted thumbs up, face queasy as he rests his weight against the side. 

SUGURU: how r u feelin?

SATORU: on a wonderful date w our toilet rn, he’s such a gentleman unlike u.

Suguru grins.

“—think? Geto?”

Suguru looks up.

Ah, fuck, he’s being spoken to—by an caramel-haired omega with hopeful almond eyes. Suguru’s worked with him on a group project before, so they probably fall in the space between acquaintances and friends—meaning Suguru has to be polite. 

He shuts off his phone.

He forces himself not to lean back, but he wants to—the strong scent of pre-heat pheromones wafts off Mirai in waves. Sour-patch kids—it’s not bad, per se, but it’s not Suguru’s favorite candy either.

“I'm sorry, what was that?” He smiles tightly, eyes closing into crescents.

“Oh,” Mirai fiddles with the pocket of his baby blue hoodie.

In the back of his mind, Suguru belatedly realizes that, oh, right, he should probably find it cute. 

Mirai is exactly his type—short, with light brown curly hair and choppy bangs, honey-toned skin and hazel eyes. Omega .

His voice is kind and soft; he’s shy and a bit introverted. Yeah—according to his brain and his history, mirai is actually exactly his type. And he’s an omega.

Yet all Suguru feels is indifference.

“Um, I was asking if you could—if you would be my heat part—help me through my heat this month.”

Suguru blinks. 

The sour patch scent goes sticky with nervousness as Mirai stumbles over his next words, “I know it’s probably really last minute and all, I wanted to ask you sooner, but you’re busy and all—I didn’t wanna approach you when you were with your friends, so I—yeah,”

Suguru considers it for a moment, staring expressionlessly at Mirai's floundering.

Then, he smiles, kind, charming; releases soothing pheromones. He takes one of Mirai's hands from where he’s picking at his cuticles. “It's alright, I don't mind.”

Mirai's scent gets sweeter.

He blushes, eyes fixed on Suguru’s large hands dwarfing his own.

“Would you mind if I took a bit to think about it?” Suguru asks gently. “I want to make sure schedule wise, that I’ll be able to properly take time for you.”

A total lie. That’s not why at all—you couldn’t pay Suguru to care that much.

“Of course!” Mirai exclaims, giddiness betraying his excitement. 

They exchange numbers for the time being—Suguru watches Mirai as he types his name into Suguru’s phone. Tries to picture Mirai squirming in his bed and flushed with heat, high-pitched whines leaving him. Somehow, the thought stirs nothing in him. 

The professor walks back in, thermos freshly filled. Suguru yawns at glances at the clock.

Another hour and a half until the lecture ends.

He feels Mirai touch his sleeve and looks up. 

“Um, could I—sit next to you for the rest of the lecture?”

Suguru smiles. “Of course.”

XIX.

He nearly forgot the ordeal after sending Mirai a quick ‘hi’ text.

As usual, he goes out to lunch with Yuki, who he picks up from outside her lecture hall. Immediately, she leans forward and sniffs him. “Dude, who the fuck is this, I could smell you from the back fucking row.”

Suguru shrugs and takes her bag when she hands it to him, slinging it over his other shoulder, like routine. “South Lawn cafeteria or the diner?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Yuki punches him in the shoulder. “But South Lawn. I'm craving cereal, for some reason. Now, tell me.”

“Omega in preheat,” Suguru mumbles as he wrestles his phone out of his pocket. “Nothing special.”

Sure enough, there’s a slew of texts from Satoru. 

SATORU: shoko came to drop off the answer key, and dude, she’s got a massive shiner from yesterday

SUGURU: that’s badass

SATORU: when r u comin home?

Suguru hardly notices himself smiling as he reads over the incoming texts.

SUGURU: after lunch. w Yuki rn. why?

SATORU: wanna beat ur ass at mariokart

SUGURU: don’t u have philosophy homework?

SATORU: nah ur imaginin things

Yuki clears her throat, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looks up to find her regarding him suspiciously, one eyebrow raised. 

“What?”

“You started dating an omega and you didn’t tell me?”

“The fuck—no,” Suguru sputters, flipping his screen to her. “It's just Satoru.”

“Oh, goddamnit,” Yuki deflates, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Here I was, thinking you were finally getting some action.”

“Fuck you,” Suguru frowns, suddenly thinking of Mirai. Ugh, he has to find a way to let that kid down. “I could be getting plenty, my sex life is none of your business.”

“Boring.”

“You know what?” Yuki perks up, a lightbulb going off above her head.

“Oh no.”

“Shut up. we’re going out this weekend. I'll drag Shoko and Satoru with us. The underclassmen too.” She pats him sympathetically on the back. “We’re gonna get you some bitches.”

Suguru groans.

XX.

Suguru’s unusually drained by the time he makes it back to his dorm. At this point, Suguru should just dub it The Yuki’s Effect.

He's barely two steps in the door when Satoru emerges from behind their console setup. “Suguru!”

Suguru’s about to respond when Satoru almost recoils, nearly tripping over the console table.

“Christ,” Suguru winces when Satoru’s ankle connects with the table leg. “You alright?”

Satoru swears, hobbling around the sofa. “Peachy.”

His face is pinched together with tension. Suguru frowns. “Satoru?”

Satoru spins toward him, eyes angry. And he growls. Fucking growls .

Suguru flinches hard before his instincts take over. He tenses, not managing to suppress a responding growl of his own when he catches a flash of Satoru’s white canines—challenging, warning. They’re both threatened and threatening, rooted to their spots. Suguru’s ears might be ringing.

His chest tightens as Satoru glares down at him, his alpha demanding he respond in turn. Dominate, don’t let him, he tested you, respond, show him, dominate —

Suguru doesn’t realize he’s still growling defensively until Satoru snaps out of it, head flying back as if leaving a daze.

“Sorry,” Satoru composes himself, seemingly startled by his own reaction. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Christ, I didn’t mean to.”

Both of them are on edge now, but Suguru attempts to defuse the tension, laughing lightly, letting his pheromones fizzle out of the air. “Uh, did you set up Mariokart ?”

“Yeah,” Satoru swallows.

“Nice.”

Suguru wants to ask what the fuck just happened, but his throat clogs up each time he tries to form the words. They stand up borderline mortified silence, Satoru’s eyes swimming with a mixture of confusion and— hurt ?

“Shower. you reek.”

“What?” Suguru asks, dumbfounded.

“You stink, like, a lot.” Satoru grins, but it’s forced. Suguru feels it twist a knife in his gut. “I'm not playing with you until you shower.”

“Right,” Suguru shuffles to the bathroom.

“Get moving or I’m not making you ramen.”

XXI.

Something has gone wrong. something has gone wrong since the—incident.

Satoru is mad at him.

Not outwardly. But his words contain more bite, his insults are a touch meaner, and his playful punches hurt more than they used to. And Satoru won’t talk to him for a second longer than necessary.

“Yuki wants us to come out with her this weekend. Says it’s non-negotiable.” Suguru manages to catch Satoru a couple of evenings later before he slips out to—something. He used to tell Suguru where he was going and offer enthusiastic play by plays of his night. Not anymore, clearly.

“What day?” Satoru, for some reason, is finding any reason not to look at him. 

“She'll do whatever, but I was thinking Sunday, since none of us have Monday morning classes?”

“Can’t,” Satoru snips curtly, sliding a pair of silver hoops in his ears. “Rut. I can do Friday.”

“Ah,” Suguru fiddles with his hair, unsure and confused. Treading lightly is hard. “Right, uh, sorry. Is it my turn to crash elsewhere?”

Satoru smiles, tight and cynical. “If you don’t mind.”

It hurts, especially because Suguru can’t pinpoint what went wrong.

XXII.

“What’s up?” Shoko crosses her legs under the table, blowing across the top of her open cup. “It's rare for you to call me to meet up like this.”

True—not to say Shoko and him aren’t friends, they definitely are—but they’re mutual friends.

Essentially, Suguru is acutely aware of the fact that Shoko is Satoru’s closest friend. Which works in his favor for this very purpose. 

“I think Satoru’s pissed at me.”

Shoko blinks at him, expression unchanging. “Okay?”

“D’you know why? Has he talked to you about anything?”

Shoko looks amused. She tilts her head slightly, and Suguru feels himself getting defensive. “You realize you live with him, right?”

“Yeah, obviously, just,” Suguru scratches the back of his neck. 

He pulls a napkin out of the dispenser and begins shredding it methodically as Shoko watches.

Eventually, she seems to take pity on him. “He's not mad at you.”

Suguru’s head shoots up as he responds a bit too enthusiastically, “Really?”

Shoko winces at the volume, glancing at the tables around them.

“Geto,” she sighs eventually, massaging her forehead with her index finger. “Be real with me. Do you like him?”

Suguru frowns. “Obviously, I do. Of course I like him. Why?”

She groans, looking a moment away from banging her head against the table. Suguru discreetly readies a hand to slide over and save her skull, just in case. 

“Let me rephrase,” she looks him dead in the eyes. “Do you want to fuck him?”

Suguru freezes, face heating up as he glances around, suddenly conscious of anyone who could overhear the discussion.

“What? I—he’s an alpha,” he stutters out, flustered and caught off-guard. 

“Okay?” Shoko snorts. “And?”

“What do you mean, and?” Suguru returns, feeling a bit helpless.

“Jesus. I give up. Whatever, honestly, I'm leaving it to you to figure it out. Satoru isn’t mad at you—do with that what you will,” with that, Shoko slides out of the booth, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she gathers her purse and phone and coffee. 

“I'll see you on Friday, Geto.”

“Huh? Right—I, yeah,” Suguru stares, stupefied, after her as she leaves, platforms clicking against the floor as she goes, dark hair swishing behind her. 

What the fuck?

XXIII.

The night before the fated outing, Suguru resolves himself of one thing: he’ll fix things with Satoru on Friday, come hell or high water.

He's determined.

Jump to: the present. Although determined, he is late , speed walking through the club’s doors past the bouncer. The reason for his tardiness is somewhat embarrassing at best—he styled his hair in a new half-up half-down way, and it took longer than expected.

He makes a beeline for Yuki, who’s already waiting in front of one of the standing tables with her arms outstretched for a hug. 

It’s a trick, obviously, because the second she gets her hands on him, she wrestles him into a headlock, visibly tipsy and voice slurred. “Finally, bitch—I've been waiting for you.”

Suguru coughs and slaps her arm. “I yield, I yield, I'm too young to die.”

She reluctantly releases him, but only temporarily. With a death grip on his arm, Yuki drags him over to the closest bar and slams her hand down on the counter. 

The bartender takes one look at her and sighs, pouring two shots and placing them in front of the pair.

Yuki tosses hers back without hesitation, then glares at Suguru as she waits. He doesn’t feel like testing Yuki, who gets startlingly stronger and more reckless with life in general (he won’t mention the watch incident, he won’t) when inebriated, so he swallows around the burn, wincing. 

“Where's Satoru?” He has to shout over the music. 

Yuki squints at him. “What?”

Suguru tries again, louder this time. “Where's Satoru? Satoru, like, my roommate Satoru!”

“Oh!” She claps her hands, then gestures vaguely toward the dance floor. “Somewhere. Haibara wanted to dance.”

“Okay,” Suguru nods, casually trying to pry Yuki’s hand off his arm. “I'm gonna look for him!”

“What?”

“I said I'm gonna go look for him!”

“Okay!” Yuki waves at him with a lopsided smile, attention already shifted elsewhere as Suguru walks back through the crowd of bodies.

Surprisingly, he runs into Nanami first, sipping on a Shirley temple while monotonously watching Haibara occupy the center of the dance floor, a group formed around him. 

There’s a subtle protectiveness in the way Nanami’s fingers twitch whenever someone gets too close.

Cute.

“Yo, Nana,” he offers Nanami a short wave, and Nanami bows his head politely in response, stepping sideways to allow Suguru some room next to him. “Damn, I didn't know Yuu was such a good dancer.”

Nanami hums and sips at his drink. “He’s hardly good. He’s just confident.”

“Is that what you think?” 

“What I think is that he's a menace to society.”

Suguru snorts.

“How's the new chem professor? The one who transferred from abroad?”

“Decent,” Nanami considers. “He’s passionate, and uptight if nothing else.”

“Fun. Anyway, have you seen Satoru?”

“He was dancing with Yuu earlier, I think he recognized someone and went to talk to them.”

“What?” Suguru frowns. “Who? Did you see who it was?”

Nanami shrugs his shoulders. “Dorry. I think they went a bit farther back, where the purple booths are, the music isn’t as loud there.”

For some reason, Suguru finds himself asking again, “Did you see who he went with?”

Nanami gives him a strange look, simultaneously aloof and bemused. “Uh, I mean, I wouldn't worry, I'm sure Gojo can handle himself. He is an alpha, after all.” 

He’s an alpha.

Suguru glances up at the colored lights. “Right. Yeah.”

“Well, uh, I’m gonna go look for him,” Suguru parrots his farewell to Yuki, leaving Nanami to his enthusiastic Haibara-watching session. 

They’re cute, the two of them. Nanami might be a beta, but somehow, their relationship couldn’t be more perfect. Suguru wouldn’t have expected it. They just match. It’s—cool.

Suguru has dated betas in the past, but nothing ever clicked for him the way it did so discernibly for Nanami and Haibara. 

He wanders back toward the purple booths, maneuvering over to the side of the room. He hates clubs—the multitudes of pungent scents makes him dizzy.

Suddenly, he hears a familiar voice. his head snaps in the direction it came from, fast enough to make his neck crack.

Sure enough, leaning against the wall by one of the booths is Satoru, positively glowing under the shitty LED lights.

The guy in front of him is also familiar. Toji, Suguru’s memory helpfully supplies. The grad student with a thing for fucking his alpha underclassmen, allegedly (no, actually, Suguru just made that up).

Suguru feels his blood heat up, his fight response oscillating under his skin. 

Toji towers over Satoru thanks to the way Satoru’s leaning back against the wall. The way he’s standing—the way his broad frame dwarfs Satoru’s—it would be weird if Suguru didn’t consider it threatening, right?

Satoru, however, doesn’t look like he feels threatened. The light catches on his earrings and reflects, and for a moment, there are halos in his hair.

To say Satoru looks good is an understatement. Suguru thinks Satoru’s allure grows the more simply he dresses. Like now, wearing a plain white shirt styled with a leather jacket and black skinny jeans, various accessories clicking together on his wrists—it’s almost enchanting. Subtly masculine and boyish and so effortlessly put together, like each line of his body was drawn with the care of a lovesick artist.

Hands in his pockets, Satoru tips his head back and laughs at something Toji says, throat shifting.

Suguru feels something bitter rise in his esophagus. He gravitates closer. 

Close enough, and Nanami was right—the music gets quieter here. Meaning—Suguru can catch clips of their conversation. 

He grinds his teeth when Satoru laughs again and tussles his hair with one hand.

“—don’t think so, at least.”

“Yeah?” Toji’s voice is low and warm, rough at the edges. Suguru glowers silently. he can practically smell the burning firewood from where he stands.

“I'm serious!”

Toji is close. Too close to him. But Satoru makes no move to get away. Move back, Suguru urges. Get away from him.  

“I think you’re overthinking it, kid.”

Their voices get muffled by the best drop, and Suguru subconsciously leans forward. 

“—I figured,”

“Funny, you don’t change,” Toji says. “You were the same way back in school.”

“Not really,” Satoru counters. “It's just that you were kind of a sleaze back then.”

“Fair.”

Satoru snorts. “You admit it?”

“Let bygones be bygones, you know—you’re not seventeen anymore either.”

Suguru feels something akin to rage buzzing under his skin.

“Fair,” Satoru mirrors, copying his tone.

“Anyway,” Toji says. “Seems like you’re already sure of your worth, six.”

“Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a compliment coming from you.”

“Nothing feels like a compliment coming from me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru grins and taps Toji’s chest with the backs of his fingers. “Your offer still stands?”

“My offer still stands.”

Suguru’s feet are carrying him over before his brain even begins to register the overheard conversation. 

“Satoru?”

Toji turns to look at him, firewood billowing smoke. 

Suguru is getting deja vu. How disgusting.

If anything, Toji looks less pissed off than last time—maybe the alcohol and the atmosphere helps with the whole “aggressive alpha” thing. 

Satoru pushes himself off the wall with one leg, and Toji steps back to avoid being crashed into. 

Good , Suguru thinks. Get away.

“Oh, Suguru?”

“Hey,” Suguru gives a small half-wave before turning to politely nod at Toji. 

He may be operating about fifty percent on instinct right now, but even his instincts know, to some degree, that he wouldn’t win if he started a fight with—all of that. 

“I was looking for you.”

“Oh.” Satoru looks—surprised, frankly, which is better than the alternative of angry or—whatever the fuck. “Uh, yeah. What’s up?”

Suguru internally cringes at the awkwardness. push through, he tells himself. “Can we talk?”

Satoru’s eyes widen a fraction. “Oh! Yeah, sure.”

Suguru looks at Toji, “Sorry.”

Toji sighs dismissively at Suguru, his face miffed but passive. He shrugs to Satoru. “I'm goin’ out for a smoke, then. I'll be around. Find me later, six?”

“Sure,” Satoru agrees, and Suguru has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

No, he won’t, he wants to retort.

Suguru watches as Toji goes, eyes burning into the back of the shitty counterfeit brand he’s wearing.

When the gorilla-looking brute is out of sight, Suguru turns to Satoru, moving to lean against the wall next to him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Satoru repeats.

It gives him even more deja vu—this time, of their first meeting. They literally spoke this morning, but it feels like he hasn’t talked to Satoru in forever. 

“Your hair looks good,” Satoru says suddenly, cutting through the awkwardness.

Suguru lifts a brow, an easy smile coming over his face. “You think?”

“Yeah, like—movie character shit.”

“Movie character?”

“Think,” Satoru pauses. “Think, like, bad boy the main character shouldn’t get involved with, sexy.”

“Throwing rocks at her window, sexy?”

“Nah, too immature. Like, picking up a chick in his Porsche in the dead of night, sexy.”

“Really?” Suguru muses. “Tell me more.”

Satoru punches him in the shoulder with a ringing laugh. “Now you’re just fishing for compliments, you dick.”

Suguru lifts his hands in surrender. “In my defense, you started it.”

“Touché.”

“So,” Suguru glances at the crowd, where he can just make out Nanami’s blond head. “Has anything interesting happened so far?”

“Dunno, I think Haibara’s dancing is my highlight of the night.”

“Agreed,” Suguru shakes his head. “He's forming a whole crew over there.”

“Feelin’ jealous?” Satoru glances at him teasingly. “The guy’s got more omegas than you right now.”

“Hardly,” Suguru rolls his eyes. “And you’re definitely one to talk, you know, considering the harem you’ve gathered.”

Suguru gestures and gasps in mock awe to the empty space around Satoru, spinning melodramatically in a circle and making Satoru laugh even harder. Satoru has to rest a hand on his knee for support while he recomposes himself.

“Jesus—Christ,” Satoru wheezes, taking a moment to catch his breath before straightening up, a soft smile playing at his lips. “I missed you.”

Oh. 

Forget world—Satoru just threw Suguru’s entire universe in a washing machine and ran it for an infinite amount of cycles.

Suguru manages a weak, “I literally saw you this morning.”

Satoru closes his eyes, shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”

“Satoru?”

“I'm sorry, really. for what happened, and for being weird and touchy after, i just wasn’t sure how to go about properly apologizing, and, yeah.”

“Oh.” Of all the things Suguru was expecting, an apology actually wasn’t in his cards.

“To be honest, I was kinda embarrassed, especially since I don't know what triggered me. I thought you were also mad, actually, that’s why I was so bitchy these last few days, fucking alpha genes, you know.”

“I wasn't mad,” Suguru clears up. “I actually though I royally fucked up somehow.”

Satoru snorts, incredulous, “By what, making me bruise my ankle?”

“I don't even know,” Suguru laughs lightly. “It was a mistake, and I'm not mad at you.”

“It was a mistake, and I’m not mad at you either,” Satoru leans into the wall, purposely rocking himself off balance so his shoulder thumps against Suguru’s, leaning his weight against Suguru’s body.

Suguru presses back against him. Wanilla and Calvin Klein.

“Truce?” Satoru holds out a fist.

“Truce.” Suguru meets him halfway.

“I owe you a peace offering.”

You don’t owe me anything , Suguru wants to say. He doesn’t. Instead, he replies, “Buy me a drink, then. One of those fucked up cocktails.”

Satoru’s mouth twitches. “Deal.”

Yeah. He needs another drink. He needs to not think about this for a good, long while. It makes his head hurt.

XXIV.

Suguru is drunk. Very, very drunk. Like, he hasn’t been this drunk in a while, kind of drunk. The room is warm, and he’s lost his jacket somewhere between the booth Shoko secured and the bathroom.

Oh, and he’s lost Satoru somewhere between a circle game of Medusa and the dance floor.

There's a girl in front of Suguru—he thinks she’s a beta—suggestively trailing her hand down his arm.

She's mumbling something, far from sober. He nudges her away, seeing something more important as the DJ dims the lights, and the song changes to something deep, bass-heavy, bedroom pop.

Picture this: People dancing, spaces to allow more people onto the floor. 

Haibara, arms in the air, skin covered in body glitter. Every alpha in the room has their eyes on him, but Suguru trusts Nanami to take care of that. 

But Haibara is dancing with someone. 

And that someone is Satoru.

Haibara laughs, playfully rolling his hips and shutting his eyes. He's definitely captivating, but that’s hardly what holds Suguru’s attention. 

But Satoru. But Satoru.

Satoru, with a large palm spread over Haibara’s dainty waist, taller frame moving against the omega in sync to the beat.

Satoru’s ethereal under the harsh purple light; Suguru watches, hypnotized as Satoru lets Haibara knock his head onto his broad chest, holding his hips as he sways.

Satoru hooks his chin over Haibara’s shoulder when Haibara reaches back to thread his fingers through Satoru’s sweaty, damp hair.

Suguru swallows as Satoru’s head falls back and he laughs, presumably at Haibara stepping on his foot. Suguru wants to trace every curve of his throat. With his tongue, preferably. Enough to memorize it.

His face turns and suddenly he’s locking eyes with Suguru. Suguru freezes. Caught red-handed. Satoru’s gaze is dark and domineering—smoldering.

And he smiles. Raises an eyebrow. Satoru’s grinning even though Suguru’s watching. Satoru is grinning because Suguru is watching. 

Suguru’s brain feels like it’s sitting in an active, steaming volcano.

Drunk and his cognizance long gone, Suguru lets his eyes wander up and down the muscular lines of Satoru’s body. Satoru keeps dancing, smooth, sinful motions, and Suguru’s mouth feels dry.

Someone is speaking to him. He tears his gaze away from Satoru. “Sorry?”

The beta from early moans. 

And proceeds to puke on his shoes. 

Ah, whatever. Satoru won’t remember this in the morning. And if he’s lucky, Suguru won’t either. 

He shuffles to the closest hostess to ask for a rag to clean himself up.

XXV.

If Satoru remembers, he doesn’t say anything. 

Suguru remembers, but tells himself he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything, obviously. (He dreams about it.) 

But he doesn’t say anything.

(He’s just happy to have his best friend back.)

XXVI.

Suguru rolls over, accidentally knocking a pillow onto the floor. 

Yuki happens to walk down the hall at that exact moment, grabbing the pillow and whacking him with it.

“You’re a terrible guest. My mom gave me these; they’re from Burma, you ass.”

“You’re a terrible host,” Suguru complains. “Abusive.” 

“I'm letting you freeload in my house,” Yuki reminds him. “I didn't rent an off-campus apartment to host your stupid bitch.”

“Hey, my roommate’s in rut and stinking up the dorm, the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Yuki rolls her eyes before sitting at the breakfast bar. “How is he doing, by the way?”

Suguru hums, staring at the ceiling. “Hang on, I’ll text him.”

XXVII.

SUGURU: how u feeling

SATORU: like shit lmfao

SUGURU: damn that bad???

SATORU: bathroom floor is currently by best friend again

SUGURU: fuck dude im sorry

SUGURU: want me to pick up some food 4 u? i’m free rn

SATORU: damn is it my birthday or smth

SUGURU: consider it my peace offering

SATORU: can u grab my painkillers from the pharmacy too? the blue ones

SUGURU: i got u

SUGURU: what u want to eat

SATORU: fried chicken

SATORU: from that one place we went to after the spiderman movie last month

SUGURU: that place is on the other side of town u lil fuck

SUGURU: ur getting soup

SUGURU: maybe i’ll get u a sandwich if i’m feeling extra nice

SATORU: my hero

SUGURU: go back to yankin ur disco stick or whatever u were doing

SATORU: i hope u get hit by a car

SATORU: ayo

SUGURU: what

SUGURU: i’m literally at panera rn

SATORU: yea yea grab a coke for me

SUGURU: got u

SATORU: cramps are getting a bit better rn

SATORU: wanna play mariokart

SATORU: like actually this time

SUGURU: hm do i rlly wanna deal w u and your perpetual boner for 3 hrs

SATORU: come play or you’re just insecure abt ur size

SUGURU: bad news :(

SATORU: ??

SUGURU: they’re out of your painkillers @ the drugstore

SATORU: ah fuck

SATORU: well its not that bad rn i’ll just order them tomorrow

SUGURU: u sure?

SATORU: r u coming or not mf

SUGURU: omw

XXVIII.

Suguru fumbles with the plastic bags in his hand as he digs around his pocket with a semi-free hand.  Belatedly, he realizes he forgot his room keys at Yuki’s before he left to grab food. 

He swears and readjusts the bags so the soup won’t spill. With a sigh, he knocks. Behind the door, Suguru can faintly hear some scrambling as the occupant shuffles around desperately trying to to look somewhat presentable. Suguru knows, he’s done the exact same thing. 

He smiles, amused, and taps the door again. 

“It's just me, idiot! open the door.”

He hears Satoru swear before the door flies open, revealing a very tousled Satoru dressed in an oversized shirt that Suguru recognizes as one of his—Satoru must have hastily grabbed it off the floor in his rush to get the door.

His skin, normally pale, is flushed a gorgeous pink—Suguru already knows he’s warm to the touch.

Like the greedy gremlin he is, Satoru takes one look at him before snatching the bags out of his hands and scurrying back inside. 

Suguru makes a startled noise, padding in after him. 

The scent of vanilla is so strong it nearly chokes him—the entire room (unsurprisingly) reeks of Satoru.

The TV is playing in the background; Suguru winces slightly as he spots the two empty bottles of painkillers sitting on the coffee table. He resolves to go pick some up for Satoru in the evening—he could just try different pharmacies.

“Christ, wait for me, you greedy fuck.”

“I haven't eaten since yesterday, shut up.”

Suguru watches, helplessly fond, as Satoru (almost impressively) swallows down two halves of a grilled cheese on the counter beside their fridge. He likes watching Satoru eat, for some strange reason. It makes him feel inexplicably pleased and internally sated.

“So,” Suguru begins dryly as Satoru finishes downing half a liter of cola. “I was promised Mariokart ?”

Satoru spins on his heel, already looking happier. Food does that to you, Suguru guesses.

“I'm gonna kick your ass.”

“You wish, bitch,” Suguru grabs the remote and a controller.

Sitting on the floor and resting against the couch, they play a few rounds, hitting a tie before Satoru blue shells him out of his epic tie-breaking win. 

Satoru laughs hysterically while Suguru trembles in silent fury. (He’s having fun.) 

The screen loads as Suguru glances around the messy but undisturbed apartment.

“Did you have a rut partner this month?”

Satoru blinks at him, surprised. He scratches his neck and glances at the screen. “Uh, the omega I normally call’s busy this month; she let me know too last minute to, y’know,”

“Is that why it’s so bad? You don’t have help?”

“I guess,” Satoru shrugs as Suguru looks at him sympathetically.

Leaning a bit closer, Suguru’s throat closes a bit—heat radiates from Satoru’s skin, and his eyes have become a bit glassy, a touch hazy.

Another wave of the rut will soon hit Satoru. Which means, again, the pain gets worse and the inhibitions fly out the window again until the wave passes.

Suguru turns off the TV, much to Satoru’s confusion. (God, the warm pink contrasts so prettily with his eyes. Suguru wants to devour him.)

Satoru’s about to speak before he glances down at his arms, alarm flashing in his eyes. He seemingly notices his skin tingling, the telltale warnings.

Quickly but shakily, he pushes himself to his feet. “I'll be back, just—bathroom.”

His breathing is heavy, Suguru thought he had gotten used to the overload of pheromones, but another crest of vanilla surges to the air, intoxicating. Suguru’s vision swims as he stands.

He grabs his keys from the coffee table before turning to Satoru, who’s barely made it halfway across the room, hunched over slightly.

“Satoru.”

Satoru turns around, and seemingly shrinks back into himself, expression part uncomfortable and part—sad?

“You’re going?”

“No,” Suguru quickly reassures him without thinking. “I mean, yes, but I'm just getting your meds. I'll be back. I'll just head to the pharmacy that’s by the science faculty offices.”

Satoru seems to relax, fingers uncurling from their fists. “Okay. Don’t take too long.”

Suguru leaves, feeling almost nauseous as he forces himself out of the dorm and into the elevator. He doesn’t want to leave, he doesn’t want to leave—

He wants to get the meds for Satoru though. He'll go back immediately. then Satoru’ll be okay.

He sighs and exits the building.

XXIX.

When Suguru returns, it’s with a good six months supply of meds and a case of water (Overkill? Maybe, but who cares, both of them ought to drink more water anyway).

The bathroom door is still shut by the time Suguru steps back into the dorm, setting the bags down on the table.

“Satoru?” Suguru calls, cracking open one of the medicine bottles as well as one of the water bottles, cold and dripping with condensation. He shakes out two blue pills into his hand. 

He takes a few steps toward the bathroom door. “Satoru?”

Satoru makes a miserable (and stupidly cute) noise from behind the door.

“I have your drugs.” 

A grunt. “Don’t want ‘em. Fuck, I’m so fucking dizzy, ugh. Go away.”

Suguru has to suppress a bark of laughter. “Satoru, open the door. Please?”

Silence. Then, “It’s been unlocked, fucknugget.”

Nice to know the attitude persists through it all. But shit, how out of it is Satoru if he’s acting like this?

Suguru took too long. The vanilla in the air is bitter and pained, almost all the sweetness erased from distress. Suguru reels in his own pheromones so as not to distress Satoru further.

He gently turns the doorknob and pushes the door open. Sure enough, Satoru’s curled up in the empty bathtub, eyes glossy and half-conscious. Suguru enters cautiously, tapping on the counter lightly to prevent scaring him. Satoru’s eyes glide back over his face. “Oh, you’re back.”

“Mhm,” Suguru holds up the water. “Which means it’s time to put you out of your misery.”

Satoru smiles lazily. “Gonna kill me, are you?” 

“I wish. Here, your meds.” 

Satoru frowns at the water. “No.”

“No?” Suguru repeats, disbelieving but somewhat endeared. “I got the right ones, I promise. Just take them now, I’ll make oatmeal or something so it’s easier to keep down.”

He reaches forward to try to put the pulls into Satoru’s palm, but Satoru pulls away and tucks his hands into his armpits childishly.

“Satoru,” Suguru tries. “C’mon.”

“No. You didn’t get the gummy ones,” Satoru pouts. Fucking pouts . “I can only take the gummy ones.”

How did Suguru not see that one coming—dominant alpha bachelor Gojo Satoru can’t swallow pills. 

Suguru tries to find all the sad things in life to avoid straight-up laughing in his face. Something tells him Satoru wouldn’t take that kindly at this point in time.

“Well, can you try?” Suguru asks, hopeful. 

Satoru glares at him like he’s committed a war crime. Well, as much as he can glare looking as dazed and gorgeously blissed-out as he does now.  “No. I don’t want it.”

Suguru huffs. “Don’t be difficult. D’you wanna feel better or not?”

Satoru grimaces and curls up more as another wave of pain wracks his body. “I actually can’t, I’ll choke them up, I know I will.”

His misery is genuine enough to make Suguru’s heart clench, and he realizes Satoru is a) retaining full awareness and b) completely serious. But he still has to take the pills—Suguru hates seeing him in pain. 

Suguru sighs and kneels by the tub, popping the pills into his own mouth before sipping the water.

Satoru stares, head tipped to the side and mystified, eyelashes brushing cheekbones when he blinks.

Without giving him prior warning, Suguru grabs his chin between his thumb and index finger and forcefully tugs him forward. Satoru scrabbles at the smooth sides of the tub to stay upright as he’s pulled abruptly toward Suguru. 

And Suguru kisses him.

Well, technically, he’s making him take his medicine, but there’s no excuse in the world Suguru could use to explain the way his mouth moves against Satoru’s—slow, deep, and purposeful, grip almost bruising as he pushes the medicine into Satoru’s mouth, their tongues brushing and making uncontrollable shivers ripple through Satoru’s curled-up form. Suguru strokes Satoru’s soft tongue with his own, sealing their mouths in a way that forces Satoru to swallow.

One hand reaches up to cradle Satoru’s jaw before sliding down to his throat, pressing two fingers against the delicate skin to feel him gulp.

Satoru’s noises of bafflement and protest quickly die out and are replaced with a series of soft whines as Suguru (reluctantly) pulls his tongue out of Satoru’s warm mouth. 

Satoru’s lips are slightly swollen and sticky with spit and vanilla and—

Fuck. Suguru is so fucked.

Suguru moves to sit back on his heels, but he’s stopped by a slightly shaky fist in his shirt. Satoru’s voice is weak and heady when he speaks, “Wait, no, come back,”

Suguru feels like a bucket of lava has been dumped over his head in a fucked-up ice-bucket challenge with no reward. 

Oh, a voice in his head laughs at him. You want him.

And Suguru thinks, I want him.

Fuck. Fucking fuck. This is bad, this is very bad. Because he’s drunk on sweet vanilla and Satoru is so, so inviting, and he has to be the responsible one here, because Satoru can’t be but God if he isn’t so tempted, when Satoru is just so pliant and easy, usual snark drowned by desperation. Suguru knows—they both experience the same alpha rut, after all. Suguru knows, and he revels in the way he gets to see Satoru like this—at his most pathetic, his most unguarded, his most honest.

Heat pools in his stomach and he tells himself to get it together —Satoru’s the one in rut now.

“Suguru, come back,”

Suguru growls soft, low, and it’s not a warning because it’s a plea, “Satoru, don’t.”

He feels Satoru’s fingernails scrape against his collarbone. “Please. It hurts, please.” 

Suguru is positively burning. His knees start to ache from sitting on the bathroom tile for so long but Suguru has never cared about anything less in his life. 

Helplessly, Suguru asks, “What do you want me to do?”

Satoru looks up at him, eyes dark and inconceivably deep—the North Sea. Suguru holds his breath. 

“Just—come here.”

Suguru sighs and softly runs his fingers across Satoru’s knuckles where his fist is still clenched in Suguru’s shirt. “I am here. I’m right here, ‘Toru.”

“No,” Satoru growls, eyes flashing in frustration as he grips Suguru’s shirt tighter and hauls him forward like he’s trying to heave Suguru over the edge of the tub. Suguru’s knees protest as the collide with the white porcelain, and Suguru has to put a hand on the ledge to prevent himself from face-planting and breaking his nose. “Here, please. Now.” 

“Okay, okay,” Suguru shushes him as he stands on wobbly legs (they fell asleep somewhere between the kiss and Suguru’s grand revelation) and climbs into the small tub with Satoru, his knees bracketing Satoru’s bare thighs before he sits back on his heels, his face inches away from a sweaty and debauched (and somewhat dangerous) Satoru.

Satoru, still dissatisfied, curls an arm around Suguru’s neck and roughly tugs him down until Satoru can shove his face into the junction of Suguru’s neck and shoulder, nosing his scent gland impatiently. Suguru is about to speak when Satoru growls again, shoving Suguru away. Suguru’s alpha currently hates him—instincts have him screaming to pin Satoru down, to wrap a hand around his throat until he submits but the rational part of his brain tells the shitty wolf— don’t you fucking dare. 

Suguru leans back, about to ask Satoru what his fucking problem is, but his mind blanks out when he sees Satoru—pretty lips molded into an inquisitive little frown, tears of frustration pricking at the corner of those azure eyes. 

Something throbs—actually, two things throb. Suguru doesn’t need to confirm to himself what they are. 

“What is it?” Suguru bites out, still fighting to keep his instincts at bay (but they’re not just defensive anymore, no—he recognizes it now, what it is—desire). 

“Your pheromones,” Satoru grunts, voice raspy. “I can’t feel them.” 

“My pheromones?” Suguru blinks. “Do you—want me to release them?” 

Somehow turning even more pink, Satoru looks away with a slight nod, swallowing down a whimper as another wave of cramps rolls through his abdomen. Focus , he needs to focus—he has to pressurize and maintain his pheromones carefully, if he releases too much, it could trigger Satoru to attack him (in an unfortunate and un-fun way). 

The scent of coffee spills into the air around them and mixes with the thick vanilla, and Suguru can’t help but think: coffee creamer . He makes himself chuckle at the thought. Maybe Yuki was right when she said vanilla latte .

Satoru sighs happily and relaxes into a puddle of alpha in the small bathtub. Suguru has to stop his own breath from catching. “S’that better? Does it still hurt?” 

Satoru hums, fingers finding Suguru’s hair and pulling him down so he can nuzzle his face into Suguru’s scent gland again. Suguru shivers, feeling the vanilla wash over him, making his bones turn to liquid.

Satoru nods lazily. “Better.”

Feeling just about as dazed as Satoru looks, Suguru rubs his waist sympathetically, soothingly.

“Meds’ll kick in soon, just—need to, ah, wait,” Satoru continues, sighing into Suguru’s skin. “Still hurts, though.”

Oh. He’s scenting me , Suguru realizes as he feels Satoru’s hot and slick tongue lap at his neck once before going back pressing his cheek into it. The room is buzzing, but it’s a soothing buzz. He’s never been scented by another alpha, but he finds he doesn’t mind at all. I like Satoru.

I like him so much.

Satoru blinks slowly at him—three long, slow blinks more reminiscent of a sleepy cat than a wolf. Suguru can’t help but reach up to pet his hair, thumb stroking the skin below his hairline, pulse stuttering when Satoru leans into the touch, “Suguru.”

“Yeah?”

“I, Could you—I,” Satoru trails off, teeth scraping against Suguru’s throat as he loses the words. 

“Do you,” Suguru breathes. “Do you want me to scent you?” 

“Please.”

Suguru slowly lowers his head down to Satoru’s throat. His breath catches loudly when Satoru tips his head back to allow Suguru more space, saying please —not a sign of submission, a sign of trust . Suguru thinks he’s going crazy. Coffee and vanilla swirl around them like they’re the eye of the hurricane. 

For once, his instincts seem to be on the same page as him, and they guide him down as he blankets Satoru with his pheromones, placing small, kitten licks across his pulse point, fingers finding purchase around Satoru’s waist as Satoru shudders and gasps at the contact, grounded by Suguru’s weight in his lap. In contrast to their other questionable exchanges, this one is calmer, softer, dizzying but distinctly intimate. Satoru’s arms slide over Suguru’s shoulders as Suguru nuzzles his neck, pressing a series of soft kisses on the sensitive skin.

Satoru hugs him tight when Suguru's balance fails him and he slides down on top of Satoru in a way that would’ve probably crushed and suffocated him if he wasn’t also an alpha. There aren’t any more words between them as Suguru continues his journey along Satoru’s skin.

Satoru whines at the loss of warmth when Suguru pulls away, his task more than completed. Dazed, Suguru sits back against the other end of the tub with a thump and tangles their legs together. “Better?” 

Calm and content pheromones drift around the room, the two scents exchanging and swirling together.

“Yeah,” Satoru exhales breathlessly, already sounding more himself. “Thanks.” 

“Of course.”

I think like you, Suguru thinks. I like you, Satoru.

Chapter Text

I.

Satoru's fever breaks at about four in the morning.

Suguru can barely feel his legs as the two of them crawl out of the bathtub and curl up against the couch, wincing at the thought of painfully stretching out their stiff joints.

Satoru snores. Suguru accidentally sneezes on him thrice (they really need to vacuum this carpet).

And so, Satoru’s rut comes to a (relatively) uneventful end.

Thank god for no Monday morning classes—Suguru wants to rot in this sickly sweet room and not move a single inch for twenty-four hours.

II.

It's barely eleven when someone begins pounding on the door. Suguru rubs his eyes and ignores it. Satoru took his keys when he went downstairs to pick up the coffee they had ordered for delivery. Suguru knows he did, after all, he was the one who reminded Satoru before he shut the door.

Another set of loud, grating knocks echo through the apartment. Suguru groans as he pushes himself to his feet and shuffles over. He cracks the door open and leans out, holding onto the inside handle for balance.

Burning firewood. 

Used to his warm cocoon of vanilla cream coffee, Suguru recoils and nearly slams the door in Toji's face out of instinct.

Suguru nearly snarls. “Why are you here?”

Toji grins at him, scarily amused. “That's not a nice way to greet your seniors, you know. We don’t even know each other.”

Suguru tightens his grip on the doorknob. “Does that matter? It's eleven AM and you’re knocking on my door.”

“It’s not just your door, is it?” Toji snorts, eyes doing a half-roll. “You've got a roommate, after all.”

Asshole. 

Fortunately, the elevator is broken, which means Satoru had to walk downstairs to pick up the coffee and doughnuts—it would take him a few minutes to climb all the way back up. That’s enough time to get rid of Toji.

Suguru turns his nose up and lies. “He's not here.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Toji (miraculously) seems to believe him and shrugs. “Well tell ‘im to check his messages, and he better not be ignoring me.”

Suguru stiffens, flashing gritted teeth, a tight smile. “That almost sounds like a threat.”

“Threat or not, it doesn’t really concern you, you know.” 

“You don’t have a lot of friends, do you?”

“You don’t smell like friends ,” Toji sniffs the air obnoxiously. “You smell like you got bitched by an alpha in rut. And here I thought Six somehow became a prude.”

Got bitched, huh? Suguru's blood boils under his skin, stupid alpha pride burning like acid in his throat.

Suguru scowls and Toji just laughs, “Easy there, tiger. Taking things so seriously.” 

“You’re acting awful friendly for someone who doesn’t know me that well,” he bites out.

Toji's grin is smug, about to push another one of Suguru's buttons when his cheap performance is cut short.

“—I've told you not to show up at my dorm for a reason,” Satoru calls out as he strolls down the hallway in his fuzzy slippers, holding a paper bag and a carrier with two coffees.

Fuck . Why does this swarmy fucker always have to show up when Satoru’s around. Suguru doesn’t care that the two of them are from the same high school, he wants this slimy bastard gone . 

“Six,” Toji leans back, dark eyes holding a new gleam. “Shucks, must’ve slipped my mind.”

Suguru fumes as he realizes—Toji intentionally positioned himself to stand directly between him and Satoru.

“I don't think you’re even allowed to be here,” Satoru ignores the blatant lie, pointing at him with the carrier, voice a bored drawl. “This is undergrad housing.”

“Oh, no way!” Toji gasps exaggeratedly, hands clapping against his cheeks melodramatically. “Really?”

Satoru’s face scrunches in disgust as he stops in front of Toji. “Ugh, I forgot that you’re a cradle robber.”

“You wound me, truly.”

Satoru yawns. “What d’you want, anyway? You should leave before you scare the juniors.”

“Relax, six,” Toji slips his hands into his pockets and draws in his scent to prove his point. “I’m not gonna do anything. Just dropped by to make sure it was your phone and not you that was dead.”

Suguru finds his voice, “You came all this way to beg an underclassman to pretty please check his texts? Seems a bit desperate, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have a lot of friends, do you?” Toji mocks him, copying his tone from earlier. 

Satoru tilts his head at Suguru's poorly concealed anger, perplexed.

“Anyway,” Toji waves a hand at Suguru. “Six, seems like your rut’s pretty much over.”

“Yeah. But rewind, who says we’re friends?” Satoru snorts playfully, walking past Toji to hand the coffee carrier to a baffled Suguru. “You’re nothing but the sleazy alpha that’s been trying to get into my pants since I was a freshman in high school.”

“Ouch,” Toji lifts a hand to his chest. “It sounds bad when you phrase it like that,”

“Sounds bad no matter how you phrase it,” Satoru sing-songs, now facing Suguru, his smile easygoing. 

With Satoru within arm’s reach, Suguru feels himself relax fractionally, exponentially calmer.

“Bitch,” it takes Suguru a second to realize Satoru means him . “It’s cold as fuck outside and you’re leaving the door open when the heat’s running for once?”

“Huh?” Suguru blanks. Then feels the contrast between the warmth of their dorm and the chill of the hallway. “Ah, right, my bad.”

Satoru’s sharp elbow prods at his rib cage, nudging him through the door.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder at Toji, Satoru dismisses him, “Better get lost before the RAs find you!”

“What, you gonna tell on me, Six? That’s not nice.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Thanks for stopping by, I gotta go reheat these coffees now, so thanks for that.”

Toji smiles, self-satisfied, “I'll see you later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru sighs as he shuts the door, closing it with a click. “Anyway, listen,” Satoru waves the paper bag at Suguru, “I’m about to fucking inhale these doughnuts, bro. You gotta time me.”

III.

Suguru is conflicted—even more so now that he’s realized his feelings for Satoru might just be more than platonic. How much more than platonic, it’s hard to tell. But Suguru wants .

Toji went to Satoru’s high school—that much he knows. He knows that Toji wants Satoru—enough to persist even after all of Satoru’s aggressive rejections of him that are meant to hurt his alpha’s pride. He knows, frankly, that the things he doesn’t know outnumber the things he does. 

So Suguru does what any rational person would do. Ask a person who knows people. 

He texts Yuki.

SUGURU: hey

YUKI: ayo

YUKI: u need smth?

SUGURU: yea this is random but what do you know about a Toji, grad student?

YUKI: fushiguro?

SUGURU: i think

YUKI: oh my god Geto what did u do.

YUKI: please tell me u didn’t pick a fight w him. or talk to him. or look at him

SUGURU: wtf r u talking abt

YUKI: oh thank fuck u scared me

SUGURU: explain?

YUKI: nah stay away from that guy

YUKI: there’s a reason even the campus alphas are wary of him

SUGURU: get to the point

YUKI: dude has a criminal record

YUKI: pretty sure he’s done time

SUGURU: if ur fuckin w me im gonna kill u

YUKI: im serious

YUKI: u can probs still find the news story

SUGURU: for what

YUKI: apparently in his sr year of hs the guy beat one of his omega teachers half to death

SUGURU: yuki what the fuck

SUGURU: you better not be lying out your ass im so serious

YUKI: scouts honor, bro, the dude’s bad news

Suguru stares at his phone like it'll somehow change the words on the screen. But they remain the same.

There's no way Satoru doesn't know. Satoru undoubtedly knows—so, how? Why? Is Toji just harassing Satoru? Just bullying him? Threatening him? Pressuring him to sleep with him?

But no, that's not it either. Satoru isn't weak like that, Satoru isn't an omega.

And something's still not right—because Satoru isn't wary of Toji, in fact, he's hardly fazed by his presence or proximity. He lets him get close casually, lets him get in his space and doesn't bat an eye.

Suguru thinks about Satoru leaning against the wall of the club, completely fucking relaxed even with Toji in front of him, crowding him, even though—something's still missing.

Suguru groans and squeezes his eyes shut. Is it even his business? He's not Satoru's keeper, and Satoru isn't his omega.

IV.

Suguru loves lecture classes. Not really, but they're a hell of a lot better than the closed seminars. At least, in lectures, Suguru can properly zone out or sleep and not be disturbed. At least, not usually . 

A touch on his shoulder and sugar-sweet, sour patch.

"Hey, Mirai."

Mirai smiles at him sweetly, waving with a sweater-pawed hand. Suguru plasters on a pleasant expression. "I'm sorry for not getting back to you—things got chaotic for me at the last minute."

"Oh! No, don't worry, I understand," Mirai chirps, " I know you're probably really busy."

"Thanks," Suguru pulls out the chair next to him, nodding encouragingly when Mirai shuffles over to sit down. 

Suguru flicks his gaze to the left—Mirai's ears are tinged pink. Yeah, Suguru guesses it's cute. 

Innocently, Mirai turns to face him, "You smell different today!"

Suguru winces.

Mirai belatedly realizes—gasping, “Oh, I'm sorry—if it’s your omeg—I thought it might’ve been cologne, I didn't mean to be crass.”

“It's okay,” Suguru smiles around a grimace. “It's just my roommate—his, uh, rut was this weekend.”

Mirai’s lips part to form an ‘o’ as he leans toward Suguru. “Your roommate’s another alpha?”

“Housing issue, admin mistake, it’s a long and boring story.”

"Ooh," Mirai nods, expression dramatically sympathetic in a way that pisses Suguru off, for some reason he can’t pinpoint.

"So, uh, then,"

"—I don't have an, um, omega." Suguru finishes for him, pretending not to notice when Mirai's demeanor brightens again, bubbly and sweet.

Maybe—maybe that's the problem.

Maybe he's in a dry spell; it's been a while, and he's is so desperate that he's delusional and fixated on something that shouldn't —feelings that shouldn't be there, aren't there, and if he were to just focus on this instead of on the slope of Satoru’s neck and the delicious arch of his back—

"Um, Geto, do you, maybe, want to get lunch?"

Suguru shakes his head lightly. "I have a group meeting after class. Next time for sure!"

Suguru actually isn't lying this time: he has a meeting for one of his Polisci Projects From Hell.

"Of course," Mirai frowns slightly. "But, um, do you think you could maybe—walk me to the South Lawn Cafeteria? I don't wanna hinder you, of course, it's just that—I heard there are some protests going on so I'm a bit nervous going by myself, alone, just, as an omega, you know."

Protests—Suguru heard about something going on, Yuki may have mentioned it in passing, and he probably scrolled past some tweets from the uni reps' accounts warning about outsiders on campus. He doesn’t know if Mirai is exaggerating or not—but it seems like a bigger deal than the administration had let on.

And because his instincts (magically) can function correctly, a protective instinct is triggered, although it just feels like a drag to the conscious (and non-wolf part) of his brain.

“Of course,” Suguru exhales.

V.

As they approach the alley that leads to the courtyard, Suguru begins to sense the clumps of people, random individuals whizzing by, some holding signs and some swearing loudly. Suguru strains to hear better—arguments and shouting. 

It's good that he didn’t let Mirai go alone.

“Do you know what the protests are for?” Suguru asks as Mirai links both his arms around Suguru’s bicep, pressing against his side nervously.

Mirai’s sugary scent is starting to give him a headache.

Mirai chews on his lip, “Um, I think it’s something about same-rank couples?”

Suguru hums, keeping his eyes on the patch of courtyard grass he can see.

Red signs. A girl with short pink hair arguing heatedly with a woman in librarian glasses. Shouting.

Luckily, the gangs of people seem to be concentrated in front of the admin building and not the cafe.

“Thanks for walking me,” Mirai says earnestly, still glancing over at the crowds on the other end of the courtyard.

Suguru looks over his shoulder at the chaos. “Anytime.”

He glances unobtrusively at his phone to check the time. Damn , he’s not gonna make it for the group meeting.

He pulls out his phone as Mirai makes it safely inside.

SUGURU: wya

SATORU: leavin the library why

SUGURU: wanna get lunch

SATORU: im down

SUGURU: wait lemme meet u at the library

SATORU: aren’t u coming from sc

SATORU: just meet me in the courtyard

SUGURU: im already walking

SUGURU: wait for me

SATORU: ok weirdo

SATORU: why tho

SUGURU: rally in the courtyard

SUGURU: i’m paranoid

SUGURU: they’re getting aggressive

SATORU: awwww r u worried abt meeeee

SUGURU: hardly

SUGURU: they’re more likely to target u if youre alone you know

SATORU: lmao cute

SATORU: i can take care of myself in that respect, don’t go out of your way

SUGURU: i’m here

Suguru is approaching the library when a girl runs square into his chest, almost knocking both of them off balance. Suguru wheezes (quite pathetically) at the impact, steadying her by the shoulders. He takes a proper look at her. A female beta, probably an underclassman.

“Are you alright?”

She pulls away, already resuming her journey. Suguru reaches for her, perplexed by her haste.

“Wait! What's going on? Where are you going?

She looks up at him, red faced and out of breath, her eyes panicked. “I have to get campus security. I have to—there’s an hate group, the fucking—they’re rioting outside the library, harassing everyone, I’m sorry!”

With that, she speeds off, leaving a dumbfounded Suguru gaping after her as he slowly processes the words. 

Oh. 

Oh, shit.

He breaks into a jog and runs around the corner of the building to the front entrance of the library.

Surely enough, a large and angry group has gathered. They’re clustered together in a cohesive, turbulent blob as they attempt to engulf the students passing by. They spit intolerant bullshit, words Suguru could never repeat, and if they’re ignored by their target, they opt for cruel insults and shoves.

What the fuck . Suguru thinks something must be wrong with the administration this year, because this shit rarely gets to happen, especially on a private college campus. These people need to be arrested and charged.

Whatever, he doesn’t want any part of it—just, where the fuck is Satoru?

He looks around, hesitant about getting closer, hand hovering over the pocket containing his phone. 

Feeling a pair of eyes on him, he glares menacingly at an alpha woman who is trying to approach him with one of those damned signs. Thankfully, she backs up before getting within range of him.

As surreptitiously as possible, he approaches the three steps leading to the door, trying to sneak behind the angry mob. 

He turns slightly—white hair flashes in his vision and rushes toward him faster than he can keep track of it.

The moment Satoru gets within arms reach, he grabs him and immediately begins fussing over Suguru, subconsciously releasing waves of soothing, blanketing pheromones as if Suguru was a distressed omega that needed to be shielded.

His concern is frazzled, a touch panicked, hands moving from Suguru’s neck to his arms, to his face, and back, warm where they brush Suguru’s skin.

“Are you okay? You’re fine? They left you alone, right? That was your last class, wasn’t it? We should go home—we can order in tonight. Actually, maybe we should eat off campus.”

“I'm alright, how long have they been here?” Suguru places his hand atop Satoru’s, which is resting on Suguru’s cheek.

Unfortunately, Satoru’s protective instincts trigger Suguru’s protective instincts, and they turn into an unusual display: two alphas fussing over each other, checking each other over for any hint of injury.

(Satoru’s fingertips are cool against his cheeks, and it feels like vanilla ice cream injected into his bloodstream.)

It’s gone too soon when Satoru takes him by the wrist and pulls him back into the building. 

“The faculty is letting students leave through the fire door in the back to avoid the mob up front. I was about to call you and tell you not to come around the building.”

Suguru looks back through the glass pane in the front doors, the angry shouting and profanities now muffled by the walls of the library. 

So much hate, and for what? So much concern for how others live their lives, to the point where they’re willing to hurt others for it.

Satoru follows the direction of Suguru’s gaze. “What’s up?”

Suguru stares at the rowdy crowd outside, appalled. “Why would people care so much about what strangers do with their lives? What’s their big fucking obsession with dictating what’s ‘right’ and what’s not?”

Satoru looks at him silently for a moment. His fingers slide down to squeeze Suguru’s palm lightly. 

“They throw these tantrums because they already know they can’t dictate your life. And that pisses them off. So this is just their way of making you feel as useless and helpless as they do. But it isn’t real.”

Satoru’s voice is soft, softer, and more sincere than Suguru’s ever heard it. He looks down at where their hands are joined.

“You’re not them, you’re free. Their bravado is just a fabrication. They don’t have the power to do anything but kick and scream. But you—you’re free, Suguru.”

“Yeah,” Suguru whispers, both to himself and Satoru. He doesn’t want to reveal how deeply those words settled into the linings of his soul, how his world vibrates with the force of it. “Yeah, uh, lets—let’s head back home.”

VI.

Things virtually return to normal. Later that evening, news is released that the mob has been arrested and escorted off campus, which is a relief. 

Life resumes. But there’s one thing he has to say out loud, one thing he has to make tangible.

He calls Shoko out for coffee.

“What’s up?” Shoko greets him casually, sliding into the booth opposite from him. 

Suguru smiles warmly at her. “Hey. How’s it going?”

She shrugs off her coat, “Cheated on my bio midterm, forensics professor has it out for me, and I’m honestly reconsidering whether earth really needs doctors.”

“That sounds like an honor code violation.”

“Which part?”

Suguru laughs and Shoko joins him. 

“I ordered for you, hope you don’t mind.”

“Regular black coffee, sugar, no cream?” Shoko asks.

Suguru nods, confirming. “You’re a masochist for that order, by the way.”

They exchange small talk for a few minutes; Shoko details him on the forensics professor from hell, an ugly, fifty-something alpha with wiry hair and a gigantic ego. 

“Anyway,” Shoko finishes, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, fingers curled around her mug. “Tell me what’s up on your end.”

Suguru folds his hands together against the table, staring down at his fidgeting fingers. Shoko pulls a napkin out of the dispenser and hands it to him. when he glances up at her, she just shrugs, “Shred away.”

“What?”

“You've got something you wanna tell me, don’t you?”

Suguru chuckles airily. “I can't tell if you’re scarily perceptive or just a very good guesser.”

“Neither, you’re just easy to read.”

“I don't know if that’s an insult or not,” Suguru comments. “I feel like it is.”

Shoko leans her head into her palm, smiling patiently. “So?”

Suguru steels himself, tearing the napkin in two. 

“You were right.”

Shoko blinks. “I was right?”

Suguru can’t look at her directly. He stares at a passing waiter. “Yeah.”

“I was right…about?” She questions.

“You were right,” Suguru sighs, then soberly, almost ashamed, “I—I want him.”

A placid, knowing expression slowly works across Shoko’s face as his words set in, “Ah.”

Suguru gazes at her with wide, imploring eyes. 

“You’re—we’re talking about Satoru, right?”

Suguru nods. Shoko senses his anxiety, and she nudges his foot with her own under the table.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Why'd you look so torn up about it?”

“I don't—I don't know.”

She hums. “Are you gonna tell him?”

He laughs, strained. “Why would I tell him?”

The smile drops from Shoko’s face. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“I don't want him loathing and avoiding me.”

“You really think Satoru would hate you for something like that? Satoru?” 

Suguru takes one look at her skeptical face and runs a hand through his hair, “I mean, no. Of course not.”

“Then?”

“He’s—he’s an alpha.” Suguru tries, blurts it out pathetically.

Shoko stares at him, expression shifting from pitying to incredulous. “You and I both know that’s an excuse. And a shitty one at that.”

Suguru doesn’t respond.

“You don’t care about that even half as much as you tell yourself you do.”

Suguru opens his mouth to respond, but doesn’t know what to say. Satoru’s voice echoes in his head, you’re free, Suguru. Satoru’s voice echoes in his head and it calls him a liar. Shoko is right. 

“But Satoru,” Suguru begins.

“Doesn’t care about rank,” Shoko finishes. “Satoru has been with alphas before. And I feel like you know that.”

Suguru flinches. Recessive-ness aside, Shoko’s all alpha. She has Suguru cornered, has all of his points countered, all so he’s forced to accept the reality. After all, isn’t that why he called her out in the first place? Because he knew she would make him face the only reality?

His hands clench and unclench atop the table, shreds of crumpled napkin stuck between his fingers.

“You’re right. I know—I know that. I just,”

The wind blows through the open window and Suguru catches some of Shoko’s scent. Cinnamon and firewood. 

Firewood. Right.

“What is it?”

“Who is—what is Toji to Satoru?”

“Toji?” Shoko halts, thrown completely off guard, eyes filled with combinations of confusion and surprise. “What about Toji?”

“Why does he keep hanging around Satoru? Why does Satoru let him? Who— what’s their relationship?”

Shoko closes her eyes in sync with an exhale. “That's—not something I can tell you. It’s not my place to share that.”

“What?” Suguru stares at her, voice breaking slightly.

“You should ask Satoru. He’ll tell you if you ask, I promise, he will. It’s just that—it’s not my place. Not my story.”

“Oh.”

“Suguru.”

“Yeah?”

Shoko looks at him seriously. “You need to figure out what it is that you want from Satoru. You’re confusing yourself and your instincts are clearly confusing you, and you need to get your shit together before you pull some shit that’ll hurt you both.”

“I know,” Suguru defends. “I know.”

She smiles wryly. “Good. Now, explain the bio module to me. I haven’t done it yet.”

VII.

A week later, Suguru’s watching Satoru, who’s lying on his stomach, watching the snow flurries outside.

Someone knocks on the door.

Satoru pushes himself up with his arms, swinging his legs over the couch. “D’you order something?”

“No?”

On days when they do nothing but laze around, they take turns answering the door when someone knocks. It just so happens to be Satoru’s turn.

Suguru’s gaze follows Satoru as he makes his way to the door, straightening his (Suguru’s) loose blue shirt and adjusting his (Satoru’s) short, bright red basketball shorts. Suguru traces the backs of Satoru’s milky white, strong thighs with his eyes, imagining the fold where it curves into his ass, the—

His throat is dry, and he realizes his mouth has been open. He swallows down saliva as he listens to the door swing open.

“Oh, uh,” Satoru begins. “Hi. Um, sorry, wrong dorm?”

“Oh!” A voice chirps. Suguru sits up. The voice is familiar. Wait. “I'm so sorry, I thought Geto lived here?”

Suguru sits up fast enough to give him vertigo. Mirai.

“Mirai?” Suguru nearly trips over the coffee table as he pads across the carpet to stand behind Satoru. 

The scent of sour candy clashes against their coffee-scented dorm, and it makes the vanilla go acidic, like orange juice after brushing your teeth.

“Geto!” sure enough, Mirai.

“Mirai,” Suguru puts a hand on Satoru’s shoulder to shift him to the side slightly. “Sorry, I wasn't expecting—what’s up?”

“I'm sorry to bother you! I just—I was wondering if I could get the notes you borrowed since we have class tomorrow?”

“Shit, of course, sorry.”

He opens the door fully, “I'll grab them, sorry, shit, it’s cold in the hall, come on in.”

Mirai beams at that, nodding as he practically skips inside, leaving a trail of his pheromones behind him. 

Suguru follows him. “You can sit!”

Mirai plops down on the couch.

Satoru stands awkwardly, uncharacteristically expressionless, at the corner of the couch, to the side of Mirai. Shooting them one last glance, Suguru quickly makes his way to the far side of the dorm where his desk is.

From a distance, he hears Mirai bumbling happily to Satoru, words vague.

“—so you’re Geto’s roommate!”

“Uh, yeah,” Satoru returns inelegantly. “That's me.”

Mirai giggles. “You can call me Mirai.”

“Gojo,” he replies curtly.

“Nice to meet you! You know,” Mirai begins. “My suitemate was really worried about me going to an alpha’s dorm, even though I said Geto’s a good guy.”

Suguru flips through his subject folder, grabbing Mirai’s notes.

“Seems like a good suitemate.” Satoru coughs. 

“I guess,” Mirai drags out, tone high and sunny. “But it was irritating. I kept telling her it was fine, and that Geto wouldn’t let anything happen. You guys might be two alphas, but you’re like—total gentlemen. I told her Geto’s roommate must be a good guy too, and I was right!”

“Right.” Satoru’s voice is tight.

But Mirai blabbers on, unperturbed by Satoru’s curtness. “You know, I was actually so relieved—I am so relieved that you’re an alpha, I totally could not compete with you if you were an omega, oh my god, you’re gorgeous.”

“Uh, thanks.”

Suguru jogs back, notes in hand.

Satoru's face is hilarious when he comes back—torn between supremely irritated and completely lost. Suguru would have laughed in any ordinary situation. 

He hands the papers to Mirai. "Thanks for letting me borrow them, sorry you had to come all the way over here."

Mirai stands up to take the papers, and Suguru almost can't fathom the sheer difference between the two—Mirai and Satoru, standing side by side.

Mirai is probably a head shorter than Suguru, while Satoru stands at eye level. Instead of hazel eyes and a mellow gaze, Satoru has sharp blue ones, gaze intelligent and bright and daring— mischievous and demanding of a challenge. Fierce. Dominant. Alpha .

Mirai's hair is soft-looking and carefully brushed, bangs laying carefully and flawlessly atop his head. Satoru's messy mop of white hair, while unbelievably soft, sticks up haphazardly in all directions, never obeying the will of anyone, including its owner.

Mirai's skin is olive-toned, plush, looks squishy-soft to the touch, like a pillow, a hug. Satoru is snowy pale, all sharp angles and gangly, long limbs, taut, rippling muscles, and hard lines. He's rough and stubborn, and tastes like an unwinnable fight.

A year ago, Suguru would have killed to go out with someone like Mirai—a soft, sweet-smelling, omega-like omega like Mirai.

But somehow, now, he feels nothing but a detached sense of appreciation for the aesthetic appeal of it. The visual stirs absolutely nothing within him.

But Satoru is different. Satoru is pretty in a way that transcends rank. Suguru would probably want him regardless of what he was—Satoru is impossible to not want. Impossible to not look at. Impossible to not—

"I'll walk you out," Suguru says, trying to inconspicuously move Mirai to the door.

Mirai doesn't appear fazed, just grins and falls in step beside Suguru, hooking his arm around Suguru's elbow. Suguru fights the urge to shrug him off—the fucking arm-link: it's not an uncommon thing for omegas to do, but as of recent years, it's considered "traditional" and mostly unnecessary. But still, it’s rude if he just shrugs Mirai off.

He walks Mirai to the front of the building, waving as he hops onto the campus shuttle heading back to the campus center. 

Feeling both relieved and exhausted, he makes his way back upstairs, where he had left the room door open to save Satoru a trip to unlock it. When he returns to the dorm, he finds Satoru standing in front of the couch, holding a can of aerosol and exuding a concerning and disconcerting amount of pheromones.

Suguru coughs around the vanilla scent as he closes the door behind him. "What the fuck are you doing?" 

"The fuckin' miasma."

"The— what ?" Suguru yelps, helplessly watching Satoru spray half the can onto the sofa cushion. 

"That omega fuckin' reeked like hell, dude." 

Suguru grunts and snatches the can before he can empty the whole thing. "I would say don't be rude, but I can't argue with that."

"The two of you close?" Satoru sniffs, finally relenting and tamping back his pheromones back to normal. "He smells familiar." 

"Mirai? Yeah, he sits next to me during my PS lecture."

Satoru yawns and flops onto the comfy chair diagonal from the couch. "That omega wants you."

Suguru groans and sits on the couch, massaging his forehead with both hands. "Yeah." 

Satoru throws his legs over one of the arms of the chair and glances at Suguru sideways. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Suguru sighs. "I know." 

"Okay?" Satoru says slowly, drawing out the y. "So?"

"I've been, ugh, trying to let him down subtly." 

Satoru snorts. "Yeah, I don't think he's gotten it yet." 

"You don't say." 

Satoru cackles, leaning backward over the chair's arm to stare at Suguru upside down. "Yeah, that one feels a bit dense. Might wanna, you know."

Suguru hums, stifling a yawn. "Anyway, what the fuck is a miasma?" 

"Google exists, you know." 

"Don't be pretentious." 

Satoru snickers and flips back onto his stomach. "I didn't know having a normal-sized vocabulary was considered pretentious. Seems like you ought to try a bit harder."

“I'm literally going to miasma your fucking face.”

VIII.

They go out to see a movie the next day. 

To be honest, Suguru expected Satoru to be the type of guy to get terrified during horror films (he was actually looking forward to getting some blackmail material for his stupid, dumb, pretty roommate). 

His preconceptions fail him.

Because Satoru is not, in fact, afraid of horror movies. It seems like he enjoys them. 

In fact, as they sit in the theater, Satoru laughs so hard that he starts crying as the main character of the film gets surgically turned into a walrus.

Satoru's laughter earns them the glares of everyone in the theater, and by the end, Satoru is biting down on Suguru's arm to muffle his wheezing. His laughter leaves behind bruises and teeth marks that will undoubtedly last several days.

Suguru is never watching a horror movie with him again.

IX.

"Satoru—fucking hell, Satoru, stand up straight, you dick," Suguru steadies Satoru by the shoulders. Satoru just mumbles drunkenly in response, probably cursing Suguru's bloodline or something.

Satoru nearly trips over his feet for the millionth time, and Suguru has to basically carry Satoru down the small set of entrance steps of the apartment building.

Why does Suguru have to maneuver a hopelessly drunk Satoru back to the dorm in the freezing cold? Yuki, that's why.

Yuki was on a national table tennis team when she was in high school. 

Yuki did not share this information with Satoru when she challenged him to a loser-drinks game series of ping-pong. Satoru lost every round. Yuki did not have to drink a single drop (although she did anyway).

"Satoru—fuckin' hell, seriously, Satoru—stop trying to take your coat off, you stupid fucking," 

Satoru whines and smacks him in the sternum, which is the only area he can reach while hunched over. Unfortunately, Satoru is an alpha. Which means his punches hurt like hell . Suguru nearly doubles over in pain, debating whether to just throw Satoru onto the pavement to sober him up.

He shivers in his thin jacket. Both of them are underdressed—it's cold as shit outside; Suguru's fingers and toes are both freezing off as he walk-carries Satoru down the street.

There are no taxis on this residential street, goddamnit. They continue around the corner and keep walking. Well, Suguru walks, Satoru staggers, leaning most of his limp body weight against Suguru, gangly limbs flailing uselessly.

“God, what’s the point of long legs if you’re fucking terrible at using them.” 

They have to take breaks every five minutes. It's not ideal.

They're in the middle of a break, Satoru emptying his stomach into a nearby flowerbed, when a sleek, black car pulls up to the curb next to them.

Suguru glares at the vehicle, hand curling around Satoru's bicep. The window rolls down.

"If it isn't Six and Six's roommate!"

Suguru stops breathing momentarily: black hair, mouth scar, faint firewood diluted with the cold wind.

Toji. Suguru stares at him, but doesn't say anything. If he opens his mouth, he might just start growling, and he can't afford to create trouble with Satoru out of commission.

Luckily, Toji speaks for him, "Heading home?"

He nods curtly, icy and curt with his response. "Yeah." 

"Want a ride to your dorm?" 

Suguru looks at the car again. He doesn't, actually, but—Satoru is shivering thanks to the cold, Suguru can feel the vibrations where he's holding onto his arm.

And they're not even halfway back to the dorm. 

Toji waits expectantly, blinkers on, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

Suguru looks back at Satoru, who's still unaware of the world, eyes closed and swaying. 

He grits his teeth. "If it's not too much trouble."

Toji grins, lopsided, and beckons them toward the car. His watch catches in the light of the street lamp—it's a fake, Suguru can already tell. 

He wraps an arm around Satoru's waist and moves him over. As Suguru reaches for the handle, a hand stops him before he opens the door. 

"Put six up front with me," Toji says. "In case he needs to hurl."

The phrasing makes Suguru want to tear him to shreds, but he can't do that. Instead, he tugs his hand away from Toji's grip and opens the door. "He'll be fine." 

There's a glint in Toji's eyes at the petulant reply.

Suguru helps Satoru into the car first, climbing in after him and pointedly ignoring Toji’s shit-eating grin of sinister amusement. Suguru slams the door shut and nods. “Thanks.”

Toji hums and spins the wheel with one hand, and they pull off onto the road.

Suguru’s head is throbbing with the worst headache he’s had in years—forget Satoru, Suguru’s the one who wants to throw up—the entire car is dense with burning wood, and Suguru’s lungs might collapse with the pressure of the pheromones.  Motherfucker has to be doing it on purpose.

“Fun night?” Toji asks, and it would seem normal if it wasn’t said with that grating voice and that knowing sarcasm.

“I guess,” Suguru stops Satoru from falling and slamming his forehead into the seat in front of him. 

He adjusts Satoru so that his head rests against Suguru’s chest.

Suguru accidentally meets Toji’s eyes in the rear view mirror as the alpha glances up to watch them at a red light.

“You and six have become awful close.”

It’s not a question. Suguru holds Satoru’s wrist in his lap a bit tighter. “I guess.”

Toji snorts at the stilted reply.

“It’s cute,” it’s low enough that Suguru almost misses it entirely. 

“I'm sorry?” Suguru’s eyes narrow as the car pulls to a stop at a stop sign. Toji’s gaze flicks to the mirror. He's grinning again.

“Cute that you pretend you don’t want to have him in the ways we both know you do.”

Suguru’s eyes widen in shock before he can help it. Startled, he grasps blindly for a good response, but it’s strained nonetheless. “What the hell do you know?”

Toji’s grin stretches wider—wrong answer.

“I know Six,” he murmurs, eyes moving to settle on Satoru’s sleeping face.

With the most terrible fucking timing, Satoru’s eyes flutter open slowly as he blinks, half-awake, eyes still hazy. The top of his head knocks against Suguru’s chin as he tries to look forward.

He squints, still swaying slightly. “—What—fuck—Toji ?”

The malice drains from Toji’s eyes and is replaced with plain amusement as he turns to look over his seat, waving through the gap in the headrest. His tone is indescribably warmer, liquid, when he says, “ There you are, Six,”

Satoru leans forward, slurring, “What’re y’doing—here?”

“Collecting an IOU.”

Satoru flops back against Suguru’s front, knocking the wind out of him (again). “Fuck you.”

And he’s out cold again before Suguru even moves the hair out of his face to check.

“Dumbass,” Suguru mutters fondly, trying to get Satoru to stop swaying for one minute. 

Toji laughs tacitly. When the car stops at another red light, the momentum makes Satoru sway forward again. Suguru is about to sigh and pull him back when Toji speaks. “Not denying it anymore?”

“What?”

“Not that I blame you,” one of Toji’s giant hands leaves the wheel and comes around the seat like something out of a horror flick. Two fingers tap Satoru’s forehead, then press at the corner of his eye before finally tracing his hairline downward. “After all, he’s quite a pretty one, isn’t he?”

Toji’s index finger teases the corner of Satoru’s mouth. “Almost too pretty for his own good.”

A loud, resounding thwack echoes in the car. 

Suguru’s offending hand remains outstretched. The other wraps protectively around Satoru, holding him close so that Satoru’s shoulder presses against Suguru’s collarbone.

Toji doesn’t flinch even slightly at the impact of the hit. Instead, he returns his hand to the wheel, satisfied, with a vexatious smirk like he’s just discovered all the world’s secrets. 

“Easy there, now,” Toji tuts mockingly as he switches on his turn signal. “I was just playing.”

The air is thick enough to choke on—the only thing grounding Suguru is the way Satoru mumbles drunken nonsense into the fabric of his shirt, cold nose pressing into the dip of Suguru’s collarbone.

“I'm sure you have better people to play with than me.”

“Aw, cut yourself more slack.”

Suguru doesn’t grace that with a response.

“But I do wonder—how he’d react if he learned,” Toji’s tone takes on something deceptively whimsical. “How you really think about him. All the things you want to do to him.”

Suguru takes a breath. “Sounds like you’re projecting.”

Toji laughs again.

“Cute,” Toji repeats.

“What is?”

“How you think I'm like you? I'm not,” they make eye contact again through the rearview. “If I wanted something, I'd take it.”

Suguru gapes for a beat, thrown and very wary. “That's only because you don’t care about consideration.”

Toji shrugs. “Consideration of others is obsolete when life's so short. What’s important is what it is that you want. Some people choose their own happiness, and that’s not wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

Toji glances through the back window and makes a turn. “Okay, we’re here, now get out before Six empties his deplorable stomach contents on my console.”

Suguru spins to look out the window. Surely enough, his dorm building stares back at him. 

He jostles Satoru, who snarls angrily at being disturbed, but Suguru pays no attention as he unloads him from the car.

“Thanks for the ride,” Suguru bites down on each word.

“No problem. Later, Six’s roommate,” and with that, Toji rolls up the window and drives out of the complex.

X.

That night, Suguru dreams. 

He's going back to his dorm after class. Stupid, boring schedule and a memorizable timeline. 

He tosses his backpack off to the side as he enters, making his way to sit at the kitchen counter. 

“Oh, you’re back?” 

Suguru turns to Satoru.

A moment freezes within an infinity where it’s like someone’s hit pause—the glow from the dim overhead lights casts a shadow across the room and renders Satoru’s messy hair platinum.

His skin glows, like the sun passing behind clouds—his skin—of which so much is visible, miles and miles of milky surface that makes Suguru feel like he’s falling in reverse.

“Yeah. Yeah, right.”

Suguru’s hardly in control of the way his feet take straight him to Satoru, standing in front of him, hands reaching out to glide along Satoru’s arm where the sleeve of Suguru’s shirt ends. 

Suguru’s shirt.

Because Satoru’s wearing Suguru’s shirt. 

Just Suguru’s shirt.

Satoru’s voice is coy when he tilts his head to the side, dangerous, alluring, “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“What?” Suguru croaks out. The lights in this room are too hazy. 

Satoru’s eyes flicker excitedly.

“Like you want me,” Satoru whispers, absolutely delighted . He swings his arms around Suguru’s neck. Suguru is frozen, unable to speak. “Like you’ve been waiting for it.”

Satoru pouts, lips plush and sticky with chapstick, and oh—Satoru’s leaning into his space.

“Or are you going to pretend like I don't know exactly how you look at me when you think I can't see it?”

Satoru’s gaze flashes with mischief and his body is radiating this dizzying, tantalizing warmth, and fuck , he’s so right, because Suguru wants him—wants him so, so bad.

He opens his mouth to deescalate the situation but nothing comes out when he tries to speak. 

He exhales shakily.

Suguru isn't prepared for this—Satoru’s hands find his, which lay uselessly by his sides until Satoru takes them by the wrist and drags them up to his hips, under his shirt— under his shirt—up to settle on the narrowest part of his waist.

Suguru’s fingers involuntarily press into the warm flesh, making Satoru gasp softly. Suguru’s mind blanks out. It comes back online when Satoru laughs, low and intolerably warm. “Cmon, Suguru. Touch me.”

Suguru makes a noise that sounds embarrassingly like a wheeze.

Suguru doesn’t know what to do. Fuck. Part of him wants to kiss Satoru while part of him wants to bite down on Satoru’s exposed, pale neck until he draws blood; the third part of him decidedly can’t move an inch. 

“What's wrong?” Satoru challenges. “You can touch me better than that.”

Satoru’s smile is knowing—eyes piercing and perceptive, and it makes Suguru feel like he’s been stripped bare. “Aw, can’t do it, can you?”

No, Suguru isn’t prepared. Definitely isn’t prepared when Satoru walks him back into the counter, effectively trapping him in place.

He isn’t prepared when Satoru slots a leg between his thighs and grinds it into Suguru’s crotch, harsh and unyielding. Suguru releases a choked-out moan, fingers squeezing roughly where they rest on Satoru’s waist.

And it’s quiet for a moment.

The silence that follows is broken by Satoru’s wild, uncontrolled laughter. 

“God, you really are an idiot.”

Suguru jolts awake and sits up in bed. The digital clock on his bedside reads eight AM. 

Satoru snores loudly in the bed next to his, covers thrown on the ground.

Suguru puts his head in his hands and groans.

His boxers are sticky.

XI.

“Jesus fuck,” Yuki greets him when he picks her up outside her psychology seminar. “Do you and Satoru just like— marinate in each other’s pheromones? You smell like one entity at this point.”

“We share a dorm, it can’t exactly be helped.”

“Damn dominant alpha pheromones,” Yuki sighs. “Normally one scent cancels the other based on dom and rec-ness, but it seems like you guys are unfortunately equally alpha.”

“What, jealous?”

“Jealous that you get to walk around all day smelling like a fucking coffee shop? Fuck yeah, I’m jealous.” Yuki scoffs at him, then blasts him with her pinecones and lavender pheromones until he pleads for mercy.

They walk down the promenade toward the English department, where Yuki's next lecture is. 

“Yo, Geto, by the way—I ran into your little omega friend the other day.”

“My who?” Suguru lifts an eyebrow, mostly disinterested.

Yuki taps her chin. “Brown hair, about this tall, uh,”

“Mirai?” Suguru guesses.

Yuki snaps her fingers and points at him with a grin. “That's the one.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing really. He just introduced himself and chatted for a bit. It was weird. For a second I thought he was your boyfriend and you never told me.”

“God, no,” Suguru groans and massages his temples. 

Why in fuck’s name is Mirai going around introducing himself to Suguru’s friends? 

“No? He was cute though. He looked exactly your type. Are you courting him?”

“What is this, the eighteenth century? No. He's just a classmate.”

“Okay, I guess,” Yuki looks at him sideways, a touch strangely. “There's something you’re not telling me.”

Suguru rolls his eyes, hiking Yuki’s back up on his shoulder. “Now you’re just making shit up.”

“I'm not,” Yuki insists, shoving him lightly. “You’re hiding something.”

Suguru’s about to dismiss her again when he nearly runs into a black wall.

“Sorry—oh shit—Hey, it’s Six’s roommate!”

Suguru doesn’t even question it at this point, he just winces slightly.

“Geto,” he informs Toji reluctantly.

Suguru glances back to find Yuki’s mouth has dropped wide open. He’s going to tell her that she’s gonna catch flies, but then figures she probably deserves it.

Toji regards Yuki coolly, nodding his head in recognition after sizing her up, “What’s up.”

Yuki dips her head politely in return.

Toji glances at his (fake) watch. “Ah, shit, listen, I'm late to office hours, but I'll see you around.”

He’s already walking away when Suguru replies, “God, I hope not.”

“What the fuck,” Yuki whispers to herself. “Oh, what the fuck,” then, to Suguru, “Dude, what the fuck?”

Suguru feels a headache coming on. fucking firewood. “Don’t ask. Just—don’t ask.”

“Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“I don't know,” Yuki replies, horrified.

They walk in silence for a minute.

“Geto.”

“Hm?”

“Can you ask him where he gets his compression shirts?”

“I—what the fuck is wrong with you?”

XII.

“Hey. D’you think you could pull off a bank robbery?”

Suguru rolls his head back, legs stretched out under the coffee table. He glances at Satoru, whose relucent eyes stare back at him, a red Twizzler dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Like—a heist?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Maybe.”

Satoru rolls off the couch and lands on his knees, crawling to Suguru (no, coffee table, actually) to dig through the plastic bag full of snacks they picked up from the convenience store on the way home from a grocery run.

“I think we could. If we teamed up,” Satoru hums.

Suguru snorts, “You’d make me an accessory whether I wanted to or not.”

“Obviously. Who else is gonna be my partner in crime? We could be like—Ocean's Eleven , but instead it’s us.”

“Well, to be honest, Ocean’s Two doesn’t really have the same ring to it, so maybe we should reconsider.” 

“You suck.” Satoru tears open a pocky box.

Ripping the corner of the plastic wrapper, he points the bag of pocky at Suguru, "Play this with me." 

Suguru looks away from his phone, where he is checking the time. "Huh?"

Satoru pulls a pocky out and shuffles closer to Suguru on his knees. 

Idiot. He's going to get carpet burn.

"The pocky game," Satoru explains when his knee taps the side of Suguru's thigh. "Y’know, the first one to break off their end's a pussy."

Oh, Suguru knows —he went to high school. The game Satoru is referring to is just spin the bottle's slightly-less evil cousin.

Before Suguru can protest, Satoru swings a leg over one of Suguru's thighs—oh, he's warm—one knee precariously close to Suguru's crotch as Satoru sits back on his heels and pushes the packet into Suguru's chest. 

"C'mon, I'm bored."

Satoru's skin is so, so soft where it brushes against Suguru's; the delicate skin of his inner thighs is a touch sticky—warm—sticking to Suguru's leg where he perches atop it. 

He's warm and smells bittersweet, vanilla and Calvin Klein, and Suguru's fingers twitch against the carpet, self-restraint slipping at the proximity.

Oh, it would be so easy from here, so easy to just slide a hand between Satoru's already parted thighs and just touch him, listen to him keen—high and desperate into Suguru’s ear; easy to bend his knee and grind his thigh up into Satoru’s crotch, rough and demanding, slow and torturous, it hardly matters. It would be easy to encircle Satoru’s small, delicate waist with his hands and press bruises into his pale flesh while Satoru whines and squirms through it all.

Oh, he wants to—wants to reduce Satoru to nothing, turn him into a pliant mess—wants the relentless fight for control that he knows Satoru will put up, his cockiness, his demands. And God, if he could make the Gojo Satoru beg, if he could pin him down and hold him in place, shatter that cocky alpha facade—

Oh, shit.

Suguru wills down the oncoming boner he can feel in the base of his stomach, everything about Satoru too much and too close to him all at once.

“You want to play,” he says dumbly.

Satoru just nods his head, no hints of any malign thoughts behind his eyes. He blinks cordially at Suguru. “Yeah, that's what I said.”

“But. Why?” Suguru chokes on his own saliva trying to squeeze the question out of his compressed airways.

“Because I feel like it. Nostalgia for those high school party days, or something." 

Goddamnit. Suguru is a weak man at his best. He's never been able to refuse Satoru anything. With Satoru, it’s never no. It's 'you're annoying' and 'stop bothering me' and 'shut up' but never no .

"Fine, whatever."

Satoru cackles gleefully, sticking the chocolate end of the pocky in his own mouth and prodding it repeatedly against the space above Suguru's lip.

Satoru uses his palms to scoot him closer to Suguru, and Satoru's basketball shorts are cool where they fall on his skin, but Satoru is devilishly warm where he moves against Suguru's thigh, soft, sliding so close, too close to—

Suguru wants to grab his waist, force him down, and tell him to stop fucking moving. Instead he just grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and tries to think of the most unsexy things. 

Satoru wobbles slightly as he hovers to be on-level with Suguru's face. 

Wanting to avoid complete disaster (aka, Suguru losing his sanity and his self-restraint simultaneously) Suguru stops him from falling onto him with two hands on his shoulders.

And fuck , Suguru is nothing if not self-indulgent, and he hopes Satoru doesn't notice when Suguru's hands sneak a few inches toward his neck, thumb traveling down to sybaritically stroke the smooth dips of his sharp collarbones.

Satoru's scent fluctuates for a split second at the intimate contact, and Suguru panics, pulling away. "Are we starting?"

Satoru nods, pupils expanding slightly.

Suguru wavers as he tries to get the angle right. A hand reaches around Satoru’s head to gently cradle the back of his neck. Not forceful, just holding.

Satoru's hair is damp. 

That's right, he just showered. That's also why his skin is warm and sticky, and he smells like vanilla and the bodywash they both share to save money.

He opens his mouth and begins nibbling at the pocky stick.

Suguru feels the blue light of Satoru's eyes reflecting in his own as he aims his stare down at the snack between them, ignoring— trying to ignore the way Satoru's lips get closer with each passing second.

Somewhat involuntarily, Suguru pushes his thumb against the hollow of Satoru's throat, and Satoru inhales sharply at the pressure. The following exhale is shaky, quivering at the ends and Suguru almost wants to pull away and apologize for it, because he's being so, so selfish.

The chocolate is sweet on his tongue, but Satoru is close enough that the vanilla overwhelms all his senses—he's close enough to touch, close enough to just taste, and Suguru is glad that he's wearing a long shirt, because he already knows he's pathetically hard and leaking.

The pocky disappears into crumbs between them when their lips brush faintly, and they both shudder synchronously, the divine heat too much to ignore.

And Suguru doesn't even notice Satoru's fast and rapid exhales until he tunes out the deafening sound of his own breathing.

Their soft panting mixes and blends together in the nonexistent space between them; Satoru's breath tastes like the sweet cherry candies he's been chewing on for the better part of the last hour, and it's more than intoxicating; it makes Suguru feel like he's dying.

Suguru leans past Satoru's soft, wet mouth and begins lightly nosing at his cheekbone.

Suguru feels drunk—drunker than he's ever been, more dizzy than he's been in his worst ruts, just—

Satoru makes a soft purring noise, accompanied by a sigh that Suguru feels in his bones (and another place that he shouldn’t think about too hard with Satoru’s knee so close to his crotch). 

Suguru inclines his head down to nuzzle at Satoru's throat, and Satoru whines at sporadic contact—a sound that feels like electricity surging through Suguru's bloodstream, and he wants, God, he wants. 

He wants to ruin him and be ruined in the exact same way, and he wants it bad enough to hurt, oh, God.

His lips brush over Satoru's scent gland, and Satoru whimpers, legs pressing tight against Suguru's leg, which acts as a block between them, preventing him from closing his thighs. 

Good—Suguru wants him exposed, wants him stripped bare, wants him laid out and unable to hide a single twitch, sound, or expression. And he wants to worship every inch of him until Satoru cries with the intensity of it. 

What he would give—the things he would do to be able to work Satoru open on his fingers, watch and memorize every tick, every gasp, every desperate word that slips out of his mouth—agonizingly slow until Satoru begs him to hurry.

Suguru aches, heavy in his shorts.

Dangerous—this is dangerous —it's plenty dangerous, then Satoru pauses before celestially allowing his head to fall back, giving Suguru more access, baring—it’s an invitation, an ask. Alluring, the vanilla, fucking intoxicating. Suguru feels on the verge of blacking out, Satoru's sweet-tasting skin tantalizingly close, offered to him freely.

Suguru has never felt this stretched thin, this on the edge, this tingly, this out-of-control—and only it gets worse when he feels the way Satoru's body absolutely trembles when Suguru brushes a sensitive spot behind his ear with his thumb. Sensitive. Suguru wants to touch him more, map out each and every spot that makes him shiver and whine.

No, this isn't typical—this isn’t how it’s ever been for Suguru before, with anyone—this is intimate, too intimate.

Inhibitions out the window, Suguru's tongue laves wetly against Satoru's scent gland, and Satoru gasps—the sound sharp and unexpectedly loud in the small space of their dorm. Satoru’s hands scramble to find purchase on Suguru's shoulders, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to draw blood, to leave marks, to create bruises—Suguru already feels the sticky, metallic wetness where Satoru has broken skin.

And it's addicting.

Suguru lets himself be moved back when Satoru begins pushing at the space above his collarbones with the heels of his palms, leaning back far enough to properly take in Satoru—pupils blown out to the size of saucers, black blocking the blue like a solar eclipse. His lips parted are parted and quivering, face flushed a delicious pink that travels all the way down his neck.

His eyes are darker than Suguru has ever seen them, not pleading but still hungry , predatory—simultaneously hazy, glossy, and so, so gone in a way that makes Suguru swear under his breath. Suguru knows he doesn't look much better, though.

"Suguru," Satoru's voice is weak and raspy, beseeching.

And fuck, Suguru wants to taste him. Wants to kiss him until his lips bleed and swell. Wants to press his tongue into Satoru’s mouth until Satoru can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but just say Suguru's name like that again. 

He drifts towards Satoru's mouth.

“Satoru, I—”

Someone pounds on the door.

They're both forcibly torn out of their stupor as the obnoxious knocking continues. They stare at each other, wide-eyed and diffident. 

Another series of knocks. “Motherfuckers, I know you're in there. At least one of you bitches is coming with me to the mall, I don't care which one!”

Yuki.

"Open up, fuckers!" 

Satoru slowly climbs off Suguru, flushing an impossibly deeper shade of cherry red, and pushes himself onto unstable feet before he speed-walks to the bathroom without a word. The door shuts and the lock clicks into place.

Suguru feels the whiplash, left alone on the carpet.

He stands up slowly, pulls his shirt down over his crotch, and ambles to the door. He swings it open, pure irritation blatant on his face.

Yuki's eyes peer back, hands on her hips as she looks him up and down, uncaring. "Did I catch you jerking your stick or something? Ew, don’t answer that—just get dressed.”

XIII.

They don't talk about the game.

They really, really should, though.

But no, they don't discuss the game.

Chapter Text

I.

“Suguru.”

“Hm?”

"I'm stealing your red flannel for a bit."

"Go for it," Suguru doesn't look up from his laptop, where he is panic-writing his literature paper for a class he definitely regrets taking. "Where're you headed?" 

Rustling and jingling as Satoru grabs his keys and jacket. "Just out."

“Okay.”

Suguru doesn’t really consider the strangeness of the response to his question—he blames British literature for that. 

So no, Suguru didn’t really dwell on it. 

But as he sits on the couch, staring at the clock as it ticks past one AM, the strangeness becomes more apparent.

He sends Satoru a few texts, none of which get a response. Which is also unusual—Suguru isn’t being crazy, it’s not normal. He moves from the couch to his bed and waits. Five minutes later, he moves back. 

He attempts to get ahead on his polisci work. He stares at biology diagrams for labs he has next week.

Satoru still doesn’t come through the door.

Maybe Suguru is being weird—it’s not a wild idea that Satoru decided to spend the night at a friend’s. 

But, obviously, Suguru would be more reassured if his dumb fucking roommate would reply to a single one of his messages.

He paces around the coffee table, his phone sitting in the center of it like a strange ritual.

The ‘Satoru, reply to me’ ritual. if Satoru was a demon, that would definitely be how he was summoned.

Suguru’s getting off track—he stares at his empty notifications screen, frowning.

He sends one more ‘where are you’ for good measure, so close to giving up. 

Just as he tosses it onto the bed, it dings and lights up. Suguru nearly trips over the edge of the carpet to grab it. 

Suguru frowns at the text. It’s an address. The typing bubbles continue.

He sends back a spam of question marks and waits, quickly going back to pacing around the room.

Two texts come through then—one image, one text to caption it.

He clicks on it hesitantly. 

Suguru’s heart drops.

SATORU: yo, you might wanna come get your boy

The picture loads and Suguru is met with an intoxicated Satoru sprawled across a deep purple sofa, his elbow thrown over his eyes and Suguru’s flannel still tied around his waist, legs splayed out haphazardly over the edges.

His jacket pools somewhere on the floor, and his clothes and hair are disheveled and unkempt. Suguru can see the alcohol flush coloring his cheeks, and his head is pillowed on a jacket Suguru recognizes too well. 

Firewood.

Toji. 

He glances at the address again. And runs.

The Uber ride can’t possibly be fast enough—he nearly yells at the driver, who, annoyingly, decides to stop completely at every single stop sign as if he’s a model citizen or something, and Suguru is a hundred percent sure he’s doing it because he sensed Suguru’s desperation. fuck the driver, and fuck Uber.

He practically leaps out of the car when it finally pulls into an ordinary-looking apartment complex. Suguru checks his messages again, and finds he hasn’t received anything from Satoru (or rather, Toji) since he left. 

Building B. he spins around in a circle until he finds it.

The reception desk is vacant when Suguru pushes through the glass doors, so he heads straight for the elevator and hits the button for the tenth floor, pulse pounding in his head, getting louder with each floor he passes.

He doesn't want to think, because he’s going to think of the worst possible scenario, and if he thinks about that, his lungs start to tighten and blaze with something hotter than ablaze firewood , so—he tries not to think about the what if. 

The elevator dings and opens.

But it’s too late, he started thinking—zeroing in on past moments, the way Toji had crowded Satoru at the club, the way he had touched Satoru in the car, the way he looked at Satoru when—

Satoru was passed out in the photo—if Toji laid a single hand on him while he was—

Suguru pounds his fist on the black painted door, trying to re-regulate his breathing, instincts making every hair on his body stand on end.

The door swings open, revealing Toji—in gray sweatpants and a black shirt, rubbing damp hair with a towel. 

Suguru snarls, “Where is he?”

Toji’s eyes flit down to him, expression unchanging from its neutral state, save for a slight eyebrow raise.

“Hello to you too, I guess.”

“Stop fucking around,” Suguru demands, seething. “Where is he?”

“Drooling on my fucking couch,” Toji yawns, stepping back to allow Suguru a path. “You comin’ in or not?”

When Suguru steps through the threshold, it feels like a lit sparkler being put into cold water, where it sizzles and hisses quietly.

Suguru can already smell the pulsing semi-sweet vanilla through the blazing firewood, presumably synced up with Satoru’s breathing.

Satoru’s lying on the same couch he was in the photo, although he’s on his side now, fingers gripping the fabric of toji’s jacket, which he’s using as a pillow. 

Suguru’s relief sours slightly at the sight. 

He turns to Toji, who’s still toweling his hair.

“If you fucking did a single thing to him,” Suguru warns, heartbeat speeding up again as he waits for the answer.

Toji smirks at him, and Suguru bites down on his tongue. “Yeah? What’re you gonna do if I did?”

A hot flash temporarily blinds Suguru. He crouches by the couch, brushing stray hairs from Satoru's closed eyes, ivory lashes twitching against his cheekbones. He doesn’t look drugged, but Suguru still can’t cross it off the list.

He looks back at Toji. "What the fuck did you do to him?"

A burning sensation fills his throat as Toji continues to grin at him.

And Toji's fire extinguishes completely. The wood turns wet, and Suguru's knees feel weak against the scratchy carpet.

Toji's smile dims and his face softens slightly as he feels the waves of Suguru's panic overtake and drown the fury.

"No, hey—I'm not fucking depraved," Toji says; if Suguru didn't know any better, he'd think Toji almost sounds halcyon. "He's just shit-faced."

"What?" Suguru's voice is mortifyingly high.

"Christ —Geto, was it? I was messing with you, but fuck—you look like you're about to cry."

Toji scratches the back of his neck, almost guilty. "Okay, yeah, in hindsight, I guess it went a bit far, but seriously, relax—I'm not a monster."

Suguru sinks back into the carpet, the heat flooding out and leaving him almost cold—frigid relief, but he doesn't really mind.

The smoke in Suguru's brain begins to clear, ever so slightly. He doesn't care about Satoru's (or Toji's) what, why, when, where, whatever. Satoru's okay , and Suguru is perfectly at peace with simply that fact.

Toji tosses his towel onto his bar counter. "Look, I don't know how much Six has actually told you about me, but you've definitely taken a few conclusions too far—I wouldn't ever do anything like that to Six, okay? Or anyone, for that matter, but especially Six."

"Why," Suguru's throat is sandpaper-y. "Why is he here?"

Toji shrugs casually, opening his fridge and glancing at Suguru. "Want a drink?"

Suguru shakes his head. 

"Six asked if he could come drink at my place. I was free, so I said sure. He came over around—like, nine?"

"What are—why do you, why does Satoru," Suguru tries and fails to organize his thoughts into coherent questions. Toji looks a mixture between sympathetic and deeply amused (because he's an asshole).

"Look, roommate—Geto, ugh—it's three, and I feel a bit bad, okay, so why don't you just sleep out here with Six tonight? I'm not normally this nice, but you look a bit, uh, sick, I'm not gonna lie. Just leave tomorrow morning." 

Suguru doesn't want to agree. But—

"Okay," he croaks.

"Cool," Toji begins to walk down the hall, throwing a chary look over his shoulder. "Bathroom's the first door on the right, if Six pukes on my furniture, I'm kicking you both to the curb."

"Right."

"Uh, okay," Toji clears his throat awkwardly. "Well, night."

And he's gone.

Suguru collapses back against the sofa, air whooshing out of his lungs as he tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. 

He listens to Satoru's rhythmic breathing, allowing himself to be lulled into an almost peaceful state, vanilla pheromones washing over him in waves.

He feels himself slipping away—realizing that yes, it is the middle of the night, and Suguru is really, really sleepy. His eyes slide shut, and for just a few hours (only a few hours, he promises himself) he sleeps.

–

Sharp, stinging sunlight is what makes him open his eyes, consciousness returning to him at the feeling of someone tenderly stroking his hair. His neck hurts from the uncomfortable angle he's been sleeping in, and the tendons at the base of his throat complain as Suguru brings it upright.

The hand in his hair is familiar, nice. He leans into it, despite the ache in his—entire body, mostly. His voice raspy from sleep, he asks, "Satoru?" 

"Hm?" He gets in response. Suguru turns his head up and to the side.

Surely enough, Satoru's eyes gaze back at him.

Satoru is lying on his side, elbow propped up to rest his head in his palm as he uses the other hand to mindlessly stroke through Suguru's hair, which has spilled haphazardly atop one of the cushions. 

He's dressed differently—and the stench of liquor is gone—he showered.

The new set of clothes he dons doesn't belong to either of them. Suguru quickly analyzes that they're Toji's—by the size of the massive white shirt and the way the sweatpants bunch at Satoru's waistband and ankles. 

Yeah, Suguru hates it. Really, really hates it.

"Hungover?"

Satoru hums. "Not too bad. Think my tolerance is better than I thought." 

"What time is it?"

"Like—seven?" 

"Ugh, that's why the sun's so fucking bright."

Satoru laughs, sleep-soft, low, hollow wind chimes in nature, and Suguru, despite hearing it a million times, realizes just how much he loves that sound. He'd embarrass himself a hundred times if it made Satoru laugh like that.

Yeah. That's his favorite Satoru laugh.

"You scared the shit out of me, you know," he says eventually, staring out the window at the slowly rising sun. The rays create boxes of light on the floor. 

"Yeah, I just checked my phone. I'm sorry." 

Suguru just sighs deeply, not finding it in him to get angry. "It's okay."

"I really," he starts. "I really hate that guy." 

Satoru huffs, gaiety evident in his tone. "Who, Toji?"

He nods. He wants to know—really. Because he's confused, but unsure if he should chase the answers.

Shoko told him to ask. She said Satoru would tell him.

"Yeah, he's a dick." 

Suguru reaches and captures Satoru's hand where it's threading through his hair. He pulls his wrist down so the back of Satoru's palm rests against his cheek.

Suguru needs to stop running and just brace for the discovery. "Can you tell me about him?"

"About Toji?" Satoru snorts, unsure if Suguru is serious or not. "Why?"

"Because I get cagey when he's around. He creeps me out and won't leave you alone."

Suguru glances over to see the smile slip slightly from Satoru's face. "Where's this coming from?"

Suguru swallows. He almost forgot that this would be an inopportune confession. "I asked Yuki, uh, about him."

Satoru's pretty eyes swirl with confusion. "Okay?"

"He—uh, she said he has a record. And a sketchy reputation, if you get what I mean."

"You said you went to high school with him," Suguru continues, trying not to bungle it, "but—I don't know, you know him better, obviously, you have history and all, but I guess I was just curious. And wary, too, but I figured it wasn't a big deal, otherwise you'd, um, tell me."

Silence.

A few moments pass as Satoru stares at him, processing the words. Suguru squeezes his wrist a little tighter, praying he doesn't take it wrong, praying Suguru hasn't royally screwed up everything.

Then Satoru laughs—not the same fond laughter, but laughter of relief and repose, free of tension as he lets himself fall back, head dropping against the couch again so his cheek presses against the purple velvet.

"That's it? Christ, you scared me." Satoru sighs lightheartedly, stretching his free arm over his head. "For a second, I thought you were gonna ask me for his number or something—you can't phrase like that, God ."

"I—sorry?"

"You're fucking stupid," Satoru informs him. "Anyway, what is it you wanna know?

Suguru blinks. In all the scenarios he practiced in his head, he had never actually made it this far. Well, shit, he thinks. Now what?

"How close—you guys seem close, at least—he's kinda pushy and forward but you don't, uh; you seem to just—you're not really fazed by him."

"Uh," Satoru draws out, teasing. "That's—not a question, but I guess?" 

Fuck.

Suguru releases Satoru's hand in favor of gripping the front of the couch and lifting himself onto it. His legs, which were definitely asleep, complain, but his upper body strength serves him well.

He leans back, surprised to find the sofa is actually somewhat comfortable. Satoru pulls his knees up to accommodate him, resting his back against one of the arms.

Wordlessly, Suguru pulls at one of Satoru's ankles until Satoru unfolds his legs across Suguru's thighs.

Suguru tries again, a little more sure, "His record—was he actually, like, in jail?"

Satoru snorts. "Nah. I mean, the record's real, don't get me wrong. But that asshole never actually got served jail time. I mean, he almost did once, but that was kind of my fault."

"What?"

Satoru sighs, glancing up at the ceiling light again. "It's a long fucking story, and a long time ago, at that."

"Normally, you'd never miss an opportunity to waste my time with a long fucking story," Suguru squeezes his knee lightly.

Satoru laughs. "Actually, you're right. You really wanna know?"

"I do." 

"Okay," Satoru sing-songs. "Can't take it back now. If you try, I'm going to haunt every generation of your family."

"Shut up and start, I'm already bored."

What a terrible fucking lie. But Satoru grins anyway.

"Uh—let me think—yeah, I met Toji in high school, like I said. I was kind of unhinged back then? It's kinda embarrassing to think about it now."

"No, tell me."

“I got into a lot of trouble, and I got into fights all the time—like seriously, it was genuinely insane. And that was around the time I met Toji; Toji was an upperclassman—I think it was kind of hilariously surprising for everyone else when he started following me around. I don't know, I think I intrigued him? I didn't really care for it at the time, but still, I let him hang around me.”

“Did he…want something?”

Satoru shakes his head, "Nah. I didn't have any friends at the time and all, but that was kinda expected. At some point, Toji started dragging me around, and I let him, I didn't have anything better to do. Although, it didn't look great to others that I was hanging around with a notorious delinquent."

"He dragged you around?"

"In a sense? He was annoying, but I went along with it, and inevitably he became the person I was closest to. He eventually introduced me to his friends. It's not like anything changed though, I still got into trouble and fucked around, the only difference was that I actually had people to do it with. I was the youngest of Toji's group, which I didn't really mind. I don't know—you know, like, formative periods, and all?"

“Yeah?” Suguru nods cautiously.

"Ugh, I fucking hate the fact that I’m saying this out loud; he helped me figure out, like, who I was, and shit. Thanks to him, I learned a lot about myself. I mean, I was a kid, and I got attached. I had a massive fuckin' crush on him at one point—asked him to be my first kiss."

"Was he?"

“My first kiss?” Satoru glances at him, briefly interrupting his own story. "Yeah. Although, it was never anything more than that. He understood, I guess, the idea that I'd rather have my first kiss, or my first kiss with an alpha, be with him rather than—who knows. But then again, I was, what, fifteen? Sixteen? Looking back, that's cringe as hell, isn't it? Anyway, yeah, he's just the way he is, and I'm used to him, I guess. Who knows, maybe it's a nostalgia thing."

Suguru hums. Satoru's dodging one thing. "You said it was your fault?"

“Oh, right.”

Suguru pauses tracing patterns on Satoru's shin. "It's fine if you don't wanna tell me."

Satoru inhales deeply. "No, it's fine, it happened a long time ago, and all. Yuki probably told you he was charged with assault, right?"

"Yeah," Suguru confirms, hesitant.

"I had, uh. At one point, I had an English teacher, he seemed pretty normal, I just saw him a lot because he happened to be the proctor for detention as well. He was pretty nice to me, not that I cared, I was standoffish, which is why I completely missed the creepiness of it."

Suguru’s stomach twists.

"He used to call me all this weird shit, like I was exotic, and sturdy, and physically mature —I didn't really register any of it, especially since he was an omega."

Suguru's breath catches, sensing the direction the story is taking. He twists his fingers into Satoru's sweatpants.

“There wasn’t anyone there that afternoon, and uh—wait, sorry, fuck that, I’ll save you the, uh, those details. I was fifteen, so it had been, like, two years since I presented? You know—you get it, that alpha-ing and all is still kinda new, you’re still getting the reins and stuff.”

“Yeah?”

“Basically, I was pretty easily incapacitated by his pheromones. Kids are sensitive to that stuff at that point, you know.”

Satoru’s desperate attempts of trying to explain himself makes Suguru’s heart ache , painful and agonizing.

“And I didn’t really get what was happening, I kept asking him to stop, but eventually, his plan worked and he triggered my rut.”

Suguru inhales sharply. He tries to picture it. Tries not to picture it. It fills his bloodstream with bubbling lava either way.

"It was raining that day, if that helps with the, uh, imagery," Satoru laughs, trying to hide the strain. "Part of my memory blacks out a bit; I ran off-campus and I kept going. I think I ran, like, six kilometers before I stopped? I couldn't tell; the rut made it hard to tell."

“Jesus, Satoru.”

"And I called Toji. I mean, obviously. He was the only person I could call. But I called him. And asked him to pick me up. I refused to say anything, but it wasn't hard to figure out—he dropped me at his place, left me with a few of his friends, and drove back to the school."

“He…”

"And—I waited, but he wasn't gone for long. I couldn't go home, couldn't tell my parents anything—I mean, they'd flip out on me. You can figure how traditional alpha-majority families are. I stayed at his place for the four days it took for it to end. I didn't ask him, and he didn't verbally tell me that I could, but he let me stay."

Satoru's gaze is far away, remembering, "Obviously, he got arrested the day after it happened. His friends took care of me, and checked on me until my rut ended, and I could go home. You asked why I let him hover around me and do as he pleases even though he's a pushy dick?"

Suguru doesn't reply, but he nods, encouraging Satoru to continue.

"Because I already know instinctively that he'd never actually hurt me."

Suguru definitely feels stupid now.

“Impulsively and because I had no choice, I called him during the weakest, worst, most disgusting moment of my entire life. That was the first time I called someone expecting them to help me. And Toji didn't have to. But he did. that was a first for me, believe it or not."

“I'm sorry,” Suguru says quietly, subconsciously shifting closer to Satoru. 

Satoru snickers, genuine this time. “Dude, you’re diffusing pheromones.”

“Huh?”

Satoru laughs again. “You don’t have to, idiot. I'm good, relax.”

“Ah, sorry,” Suguru looks down sheepishly.

“Don’t get all soft on me, I hate that.”

Right, of course—this is Satoru, after all. Suguru squeezes his knee tacitly, and knows there’s nothing he’s expected to say—Satoru already gets it.

“By the way, you didn’t have to come here just ‘cuz, Toji asked if you wanted to.”

“Yeah, no,” Suguru exhales, tipping his head back to rest it on the back of the sofa. “I wanted to. I was worried.”

Satoru snorts. “You know I can take care of myself, right?”

“Yeah, well, blame the instincts, okay—I guess I'm more attached to you than I thought.”

“Cute.”

“Don’t be obnoxious.” Suguru smacks him lightly, no bite in his words.

“I'm kidding, I’m kidding,” Satoru kicks him with his heel. “But—ugh, this is the only time I’m ever gonna say this—for what it’s worth, thank you. I—uh—I really care about you too. So, yeah.”

“That's…really gay, dude.”

Yeah, Suguru totally can’t do this.

“I fucking hate you. God, I hate you.”

“Ow—motherfucker—stop kicking me.”

“Stop being a smartass.”

“I—keep your nasty foot away from my dick—Satoru, stop— fuck you !”

II.

“Would that be alright?” 

Suguru blinks. Rubs his eyes with one hand—is that dust or an eyelash? He can’t tell. He hasn’t been sleeping well thanks to one particular roommate who smells like vanilla Calvin Klein and shares Suguru’s closet.

Things have been borderline painful since his and Satoru’s heart-to-heart at Toji’s apartment—which ended quite anticlimactically, with Toji sending Suguru out on a coffee run as payment for letting him crash at his apartment.

Watching Suguru pitifully trudge out the door, throwing meaningful glances back at the remaining two, Satoru had laughed so hard that he fell off the couch. 

Suguru was tempted—just tempted —to spit in Toji’s caramel frappe with extra whip cream, but decided against it.

And now, Suguru’s brain thinks it’s a good idea to remind him of how much he likes Satoru at random, unprovoked intervals during the day (and night), making it impossible for him to get a moment of rest.

Bringing them to now: Suguru has no idea what just happened in this lecture.

Much less what’s happening now, where someone who isn’t the professor is speaking to him without the aid of a handheld microphone. He rubs the crustiness out of his eyes again, the lights making him squint.

Goddamn Satoru and his stupid vanilla.

“Sorry, what was that again?”

Mirai's smile dims lightly, and the sweet goes a touch sour before bouncing back twofold the strength. “I was asking—since my heat is coming around again, I know I asked you a few months back but we didn’t end up coordinating, so I was wondering, if maybe this time, you know,”

For fucks sake. Suguru doesn’t have the mental energy to deal with this right now. He sighs.

“Listen, Mirai, I think you might be better off finding someone, uh, more suitable; it’s just that—I don't think I'm really the right fit, you know, for what you’re looking for.”

Mirai pouts. “Did I…do something wrong?”

“I—I mean, no?” Suguru tries, voice going high at the end as he stumbles along. “It’s just that—I don't think we—we don’t, uh, we don’t really know each other that well.”

“Oh!” Mirai chirps. “I'm sorry! I can fix that right now! Are you free after class?”

“Am I—what?” Suguru stutters out, bewildered.

“Do you have plans right now?”

Suguru’s ability to think coherently right now is definitely warped somehow, because the first thing he thinks to say is, “Uh, meeting with my roommate at the cafe.”

“Ooh!'' Mirai clasps his hands together, mouth forming an ‘o’. “Do you mind if I tag along, if that’s alright? I kind of need a coffee, if you can’t tell.”

Mirai gestures to his nonexistent purple circles and visage. Suguru stares blankly. “Uh—right.”

Not the response Mirai was hoping for, clearly, because his eyebrows furrow before smoothing out, and the sour tags in briefly. Suguru wonders what Mirai wanted him to say. 

“Well, we can walk there together, right?”

Suguru shrugs. “I mean, sure, I guess.”

SATORU: wya

SUGURU: help

SATORU: ??? u good?

SUGURU: help pls

SUGURU: ive got an appendage

SATORU: u got a what

Satoru spots Suguru immediately as Suguru walks in, Mirai attached to his arm like a leech. 

(Okay, Suguru feels a little bad for thinking it, but fuck it, he’s sleepy and annoyed.)

Satoru’s face flashes with synonyms of inquiry and confusion before landing on understanding.

“Hey,” Satoru’s voice is compressed and tight as he slides out of the booth to greet them, waving awkwardly.

Suguru tilts his head, concerned.

The corners of Satoru’s mouth crinkle, his lips pressed into a line. Then, Suguru gets it. The motherfucker is trying not to laugh . In fact, Satoru is basically vibrating with the effort taken not to drop to his knees cackling.

Suguru blames it on the truly pained expression he must be wearing at this moment, but he still doesn’t appreciate it in the slightest.

Mirai, luckily, remains blissfully unaware.

“Hey,” Suguru greets through gritted teeth, eyes saying ‘don’t you dare.’

Satoru coughs and scrunches his face once to reset it, and Suguru really hates how cute he finds it.

“Hey, uh, let’s sit,” Satoru gestures to the booth, his voice high. “Haibara’s here too, by the way.”

Mirai looks up at Suguru with big eyes, cheek almost touching Suguru’s bicep as he flutters his lashes. “Who's Haibara?”

Suguru cringes internally, eyes shooting over to Satoru when Satoru clears his throat over a laugh that's too obvious, “Yuu, over here!”

Haibara walks over carrying two drinks, placing one down in front of Satoru and nodding at Suguru with a bright smile, one of those contagious Haibara smiles that you can’t help but return.

“Sorry to crash your lunch, Geto!”

“Not at all,” Suguru smiles at him, genuine.

Suguru slides into the booth, sitting opposite Satoru, Mirai following in after him.

Oh fuck, that’s right—Mirai .

“Uh, Haibara, this is Mirai, a classmate of mine. Mirai, this is Haibara, one of my juniors.”

Mirai nods at Haibara with a slight pout, releasing a wave of sour pheromones.

Haibara’s eyes flick to Suguru with a perplexed smile, but Suguru just shrugs and winces, ‘sorry.’

Satoru lets out a soft, half-wheeze and Suguru kicks him roughly in the shin, making him yelp.

“Suguru, I ordered for you, by the way,” Satoru temporarily abandons his amusement to inform him. “Uh, sorry, Mirai, I didn't know you were coming, so I didn't get anything for you.”

“Ah, no, that’s alright!” Mirai quips.

Satoru nods and leans to whisper something to Haibara.

An awkward silence falls as Haibara nods pensively at whatever Satoru is saying to him. 

Mirai giggles joltily, fingers drumming on the table. “So, uh, Haibara! Are you Gojo’s omega?”

Haibara’s face drops, falling into the disconcerted half-grimace as he searches for an answer.

“Uh.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Mirai gasps and clasps a hand over his mouth. “That was so rude—I'm sorry, you don’t have to answer that!”

“No, it’s just,” 

“—I always have to remind myself not to assume.”

“Right.” Haibara glances at Suguru for guidance that he can’t provide. “But, uh, no, we’re just friends,” Haibara finally manages to correct him, giving Satoru an awkward but friendly punch in the shoulder. “I have a boyfriend, after all!”

Satoru laughs, but not for the reason Mirai thinks.

“How cute!” Mirai nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah,” Haibara smiles happily, finally relaxing a bit as the misunderstanding slips away. “But what about you, Mirai?”

“Me?”

“Anyone you’re interested in? Maybe you have a type?”

“I like alphas that are protective and kind,” Mirai admits shyly. “But also mature and handsome.”

“So,” Satoru pipes up with a smirk, and Suguru already dreads where this is going. “Between, say, me or Suguru, which one of us is more your type?”

Mirai blushes a peachy shade of orangey pink, the scent becoming sweet. “Oh my god, I can't answer that! That’s too—ah, I can't!”

Satoru rolls his eyes when Mirai looks away. In some sense, Suguru agrees with his sentiment. The sour patch kids pheromones are giving him a migraine again. 

“But Haibara! Tell me about your alpha!”

“My alpha?” Haibara blinks. “Oh—no, I'm sorry, my boyfriend’s a beta!”

“Oh! I’m sorry that I assumed—it’s just, that’s quite unconventional!”

Haibara lifts an eyebrow. “Is it? It’s pretty commonplace these days.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Mirai sighs, “with betas it’s definitely somewhat practical. Not like with those same-rank alpha and omega couples.”

A shocked silence falls over the rest of the table, but Mirai seems not to notice as he blabbers on, “Although, I’ve heard that—of course, this isn’t a fact or anything, but I’ve heard omegas that are in relationships with betas begin to feel something missing, since, you know, biology dictates those things, and an omega’s satisfaction is so heavily dependent on their compatibility with their alpha, and all! I wasn't sure how it would work with betas—not to say you guys aren’t an adorable couple!”

“Uh-huh,” Haibara says.

Satoru is no longer smiling.

“Mirai, that’s—not an okay thing to say at all,” Suguru speaks up, pulling away from Mirai. “Why would you say that?”

Mirai's eyes go wide. “Did I talk too much? I'm so sorry, I just ramble sometimes.”

“Mirai,” Suguru rubs his forehead. “Apologize to Haibara, please.”

“Oh, of course,” Mirai turns to Haibara, red-faced and mortified. “I’m so sorry if I offended you! I don’t think before I speak sometimes, really—I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“It's alright, Mirai, really,” Haibara forces a smile. “Relax, Suguru. It was just a mistake.”

“Mistake?” Mirai asks, suddenly confused. Suguru has a bad feeling—one that pools in the base of his stomach like nausea. “But I didn't say anything incorrect?”

Haibara freezes.

Satoru inhales sharply. Then swallows. “Uh, okay, I'm gonna go get some air, I'll be back.”

He's halfway out of the booth when Suguru grabs him by the wrist, halting him in place. 

Satoru’s pheromones flare instinctively at the tacit control, and Suguru immediately lightens his grip, not wanting to aggravate Satoru further.

“Don’t—I think it’s gonna start raining.”

Glowering lightly, Satoru relents and sits back down, crossing his arms across his chest, keeping his eyes glued on Suguru.

“Mirai,” Haibara begins with a strained laugh. “You know that way of thinking is, like, super out-of-date, right? Anyways, it’s not really our business.”

“I know that,” Mirai replies defensively, scent souring. “I just don’t get it.”

“Do you need to?”

“What?”

“I asked, do you need to?” Satoru repeats, one eyebrow perfectly lifted and arched. “It's kinda weird, you know, thinking so much about what happens in others’ bedrooms.”

Mirai turns bright red, embarrassed. “That's not what I meant at all. Why am I the villain for thinking that it’s weird for people to pointlessly encourage having sex with the same rank?”

Satoru snorts. “Hilarious. But I don't need encouragement, I can do that all on my own.”

Haibara coughs. Suguru makes a noise startlingly similar to a deflating balloon.

“I—that’s not—you, that doesn’t mean—if you,” Mirai stutters distressedly.

“The superiority complex you have over your rank has to have a limit somewhere, don’t you think?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve convinced yourself that the fact that you’re an omega means so much—sorry to break it to you, it means jackshit. You’re wasting your time.”

Satoru tilts his head back condescendingly, pressuring Mirai with his scent, making Mirai recoil and shrink back in his seat.

“For example,” Satoru plants a palm on the table and hands up, using the other hand to grab Suguru’s chin and yank him forward, blanketing Suguru in his vanilla at a rate fast enough to make him dizzy.

Startled, Suguru lets him, allowing Satoru to lean over the table, over to him, flashing azure eyes heated like two blue flames, dominant, unrelenting, commanding, prepotent, pure alpha.

He lets Satoru lean over him, lets him tilt his chin up, and lets Satoru’s face drift close.

Suguru’s lips part subconsciously, and part of him wonders what it is—whether it’s trust, desire, submission, or something else entirely.

Satoru’s plush pink lips brush against Suguru’s slightly chapped ones, and Suguru can’t help it—his eyes slide shut like a reflex.

And they’re kissing.

Satoru’s mouth is warm and wet and unrelenting, and it’s nothing like that time Suguru forced those pills down Satoru’s throat during his rut all those months ago.

Now, Satoru’s mouth is inviting, prying Suguru’s lips open; all at once, vanilla explodes on his tongue.

It’s endless and sweet, but not overly so—Satoru tastes sweet in a gentle, unspoken way that’s not overbearing or sickeningly sugary. It’s a natural, soft sweetness, a kind that Suguru could never get tired of.

Even Satoru’s rage tastes sweet.

Hell, it’s addicting, and Suguru traps Satoru’s spit-slick tongue between his teeth before sucking lightly, just to see if he can draw out more of the dizzying flavor.

Satoru clearly isn’t expecting it, and he falters slightly, giving Suguru the opportunity to take over briefly, immediately grabbing Satoru’s hand where it’s grasping his chin and licks into Satoru’s mouth until he can drag his tongue over the sensitive roof of it.

Satoru’s grip on his chin tightens a fraction—a step away from painful, warning, as he regains control and bites down punishingly on Suguru’s bottom lip. 

And Satoru pulls away—leaving a string of saliva connecting their mouths.

They’re both panting heavily, pupils blown out.

Satoru’s mouth is shiny with spit, swollen and cherry red, and Suguru hates that he finds it obscenely hot—wants to kiss him until they’re blood red.

Satoru’s eyes are glassy in a way that creates an interminable buzz in Suguru’s veins.

But slowly, clarity returns to the blue.

Satoru wipes his lips with the back of his hand, smirking at the space next to Suguru. 

Fuck—that’s right, Mirai.

“See? The world didn’t end, did it?”

Suguru is honestly afraid to turn his head. He looks to Haibara imploringly.

Haibara looks back at him, amused and satisfied.

Suguru feels a pair of eyes burning into the side of his head. Fuck Satoru for putting him in this position, to be honest. 

Mirai looks—beyond horrified, to be honest. His eyes bulge out a worrying amount, tears gathering at the corners from the strain.

His hands are trembling fists on the table, and his entire face is a mixture of green and orange—it’s almost fascinating in a scientific way, Suguru has never seen that color on a person.

“Mirai, I’ve been trying to let you down gently, but I don’t think it was obvious enough.”

“Right,” Mirai says after a minute, paired with a humorless laugh. “I—of course. um, I think I should go, and all.”

They watch as Mirai staggers out the door, almost in a daze.

Haibara is the first to break the silence. “So, uh, that guy totally thinks you’re an alpha-fucker now.”

Ah, Haibara’s talking to Suguru. Satoru cackles, downing the remaining half of his drink without pause.

Suguru sighs and rubs his temples. “No, that’s—I don't really care about that part.”

“So, then what is it?”

“I feel like that was a bit harsh.”

Satoru shrugs. “The bigotry was ‘a bit harsh.’ ”

“Touche,” Suguru admits with a slight smile. “Touche.”

He still feels the ghost of Satoru’s plush lips against his mouth. He resists the urge to trace his own lips with a finger.

Satoru breaks him out of his thoughts when he yawns obnoxiously and folds his hands behind his head.

“Now that thing’s gone: wanna share a pizza or something? I’m fucking starving.”

Haibara pulls on his bangs. “I'm down as long as there’s no pepperoni.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

III.

They don’t address it until later that evening. And even then, it’s Satoru who does. 

“Sorry about earlier, by the way.”

Suguru looks up from the book he was totally, definitely reading. “Huh?”

“I didn't ask, and it was out of the blue, I'm sorry I startled you like that.”

“Uh,” Suguru vocalizes intelligently.

“Seriously, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable—it’s not an excuse, but I just wasn’t thinking, and I was so pissed off—and I grabbed you, and all; it was really out of line, I know. I just—wanted to clear that up.”

“No, you’re good, I get it,” Suguru hesitates, scratching behind his ear. “I didn’t—didn’t know Mirai was—you know. I'm sorry about that.”

Satoru smiles, relieved, sliding his laptop onto his lap. “That's hardly your fault. it’s okay, we’re cool, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Suguru swallows. He digs his fingernails into his palm, swallowing again. “Satoru—can I ask you something?”

“Hm?” Satoru blinks expectantly. “Shoot.”

“You can, like, hit me or something if it’s offensive.”

Satoru snorts. “You’re scaring me, dude.”

“What's it like, uh, being with alphas?”

Satoru freezes, eyes narrowing with uncertainty. “Why do you ask?”

“I don't know,” Suguru sighs, dropping his forehead onto his knees, which are tucked up to his chest. “It’s just—I don't have any experience with—that. I grew up in a small town, and all. You don’t have to answer.”

“To be honest, I don’t know how to answer that,” Satoru says after a beat. “It’s just—being with someone, right? Maybe it’s a little comforting, almost, knowing that with an alpha, there’s less expectation, there’s this, like, inherent understanding between the two. Because there’s a sharing of the same experience, the same societal pressures, and stuff.”

“But that’s whatever,” Satoru sighs, looking up and stretching. “Either way, your feelings don’t always align with your biology, but are you really gonna let that stupid discrepancy dictate how you live?”

“True,” Suguru replies inadvertently, eyes tracing Satoru’s profile.

Satoru laughs, pushing his laptop to the side and angling himself to face Suguru. He rests his elbow on the back of the sofa and rests his chin against his palm. “Seriously, though, none of it matters. When you care about someone, you’re just caring about someone. That’s all.”

“I care about you.”

Suguru doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Satoru’s eyes widen, mouth dropping open. There’s a reticence in his eyes that Suguru doesn’t understand.

A strained chuckle. “You really shouldn’t say stuff like that so casually, you know.”

Suguru frowns. “Why?”

“Seriously—you’re so stupid,” Satoru laughs airily, covering his eyes with his palm. “You really gotta watch it, you know. It was probably the same with that doe-eyed omega. Just the way you speak sometimes; you’re bound to give people the wrong idea.”

Almost petulantly, Suguru returns, “It hardly matters to me if people I don't care about get the wrong idea.”

Satoru lifts an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it?”

“What?” Suguru replies, slightly bewildered.

Satoru sighs again, flashing him an almost-sad smile. “I'm going to bed. 

He stands up suddenly, and Suguru looks up at him feebly.

“Remember to unplug the heater before you turn off the lights.” His back turns as he walks toward his bed, and Suguru wonders what he meant.

IV: INTERLUDE

Things go back to normal. Suguru pretends like he doesn’t hate it, just a little bit.

SUGURU: still in class

SATORU: yuh whaddup

SUGURU: i want breakfast for dinner

SUGURU: pancake house, what you think

SATORU: delivery?

SUGURU: obv

SATORU: im in

SUGURU: tell me what u want i’m ordering rn

SATORU: gimmie a second to thing you’re such a bitch

SUGURU: clock’s a tickin

SATORU: FUCK YOU okay one order of choco chip pancakes

SATORU: and one order of cinnamon apple pancakes

SUGURU: anything else

SATORU: hash browns

SUGURU: no strawberry white chocolate frappe w extra whip?

SATORU: shut the fuck up and order my food cuntmuncher

Deliveries from restaurants around the college typically come quickly, seeing as a good half of the restaurant staff in the area work part-time jobs in the area.

The Pancake House is roughly a twenty-minute walk, shorter if you’re on a delivery bike or in a car. The delivery boy arrives on time and calls Suguru once he’s stood in front of the large glass doors of the dorm building.

Soma rocks back and forth onto his heels as he waits, holding the large plastic bag with both hands. He makes sure he doesn’t jostle the bag too much—he’ll definitely be fired if he spills another customer’s container of maple syrup.

A figure with long hair rapidly approaches the door. The scent of fresh, warm coffee heats up his entire body, even in the early spring air.

Holding the door open stands a tall, gorgeously chiseled man with jet-black, silky-looking hair spilling over wide shoulders.

The man is clad in nothing but a plain black t-shirt that has the sleeves cut off, revealing mouth-watering biceps. paired with that is a pair of questionable Minecraft boxers that are a touch away from being too tight. Soma can see the outline of his massive—

“—Uh, for Geto?” The man rumbles. “Is that my order?”

Oh, God, he’s an alpha. A dominant alpha, at that. Soma nearly moans.

Soma’s voice shakes a little, “Yes! Um, for Geto Suguru, Building C, phone number as follows?”

The alpha smiles and Soma’s knees nearly buckle.

“That's me,” the man, Geto, says warmly, reaching out to grab the bag containing the food. He's unaware of Soma’s internal omega panic. The alpha’s hand brushes Soma’s, and Soma nearly drops the bag, feeling about as frail as a quivering leaf.

The alpha finally seems to sense his distress, expression turning into one of concern as he forgoes the bag and grabs Soma’s forearm instead, steadying him. “Woah, are you alright?”

Soma just squeaks in response.

“Uh,” a voice pipes up from behind them.

A brief aside: Listen. From Satoru’s point of view, this scene looks absolutely absurd. He's just returned from a three-hour lecture to find his roommate standing outside in the fuckass cold dressed like he belongs in a knockoff version of Magic Mic.

He's dressed in a sleeveless shirt and a pair of boxers Satoru recognizes as definitely his own, stolen out of their shared closet. On top of that, said roommate is panickedly holding on to an omega wearing a Pancake House hat who looks very, very close to passing the hell out.

Basically: what the ever-loving fuck.

He slides his phone into his pack pocket, approaching cautiously. The omega is freaking out, his pheromones haywire and unstable. “Is everything okay? Should I, uh, call someone?”

The omega turns, looking positively terrified upon seeing him, and whimpers pathetically.

Now, back to the omega: if Soma had been stupefied before, his brain turns completely to mush when another alpha climbs up the stairs, just as criminally, unfairly attractive as the first.

Vanilla. Oh, God.

This new alpha smells like fabric softener and pure vanilla. Soma staggers slightly, swaying precariously, and Geto hauls him upright to save him from crashing into the concrete stairs. 

He's tall, lean, even taller than Geto—with icy platinum hair and stunning blue eyes. 

Soma feels a spurt of slick gush out of him. As soon as he feels the sticky wetness in his pants, he flushes bright red in humiliation. 

The citrusy scent of tangy sweet lime fills the air, absolutely mortifyingly. Both of the alphas still. They turn to stare at him, shellshocked; still perplexed as well as concerned.

“Oh,” the white haired alpha’s eyes widen as he catches the scent wafting through the air. “Oh. Oh , uh, d’you—can I call someone for you, dude?”

Soma shuts his eyes and shakes his head, chagrined. If he looks at them again, he’ll turn into a poor excuse for a leaky faucet.

Desperate to salvage his sliver of dignity, he yanks away from Geto and shoves the plastic bag into his outstretched hand before scurrying off, almost a sprint as he desperately tries to get out of sight and out of range.

Satoru and Suguru stare after him. “What the fuck?”

Suguru stares at the bag left in his grip, bewildered. 

And Satoru starts laughing. 

“Did we—fuck, did we,” he wheezed, unable to make it more than a few syllables without choking on air, “Did we make him…?”

Suguru looks into the distance, comically nonplussed. “I think so?”

The laughter continues. Suguru glances over at Satoru to find him hunched over in the doorway, blue eyes wet with tears dripping freely down his face as he makes a noise that somewhat resembles a car exhaust. Still, he tries to speak.

“What did you do, ohmygod, I can't breathe.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Oh, hah, fuck,” Satoru coughs. “Oh god, I think I'm dying. Dude, Jesus Christ, I think I need an inhaler. Shit, I might have asthma.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. “You don’t have asthma.”

“Then what is it?”

“Idiocy.”

“Fuck you!”

V.

It’s getting more and more…trying, to say the least, pretending like his feelings for Satoru don’t really exist. And Suguru thinks that the more the two of them try to fall back into their casual “best friend” normalcy, it’s immediately shattered by Suguru doing something stupid.

Boom: they’re awkward for a day or two. Then, ta-da: peace offering, normalcy. It's taking a toll on Suguru’s sanity. He wonders if Satoru also feels that strain as well (he hopes he doesn’t).

He likes Satoru. He knows that. He’s resigned himself to that inalterable reality.

And obviously, he never planned on doing anything about the fact that he likes Satoru.

But fucking alpha mindsets and alpha instincts always have to be a pain in the ass, and unfortunately, they’ve caught onto the fact that Suguru wants him. 

Really wants him.

So the stupid, wolfy part of his mind, conscience, and spirit has decided to remind Suguru of that fact at extremely inconvenient times. And then, like little mosquitos buzzing around his brain; and they demand he act on those feelings, on that desire, like Satoru won’t punt him into the moon if he tries.

A flimsy plastic bowl whacks him across the face like a slap. Suguru turns to the offender, caressing his now-greasy (fucking potato chips) cheek with a palm. 

Satoru spits out a mouthful of soda where he’s sitting next to him, spraying grape sprite across the carpet.

“What the fuck, dude?” Suguru glares playfully at Yuki.

Yuki cackles. “You weren’t listening, I asked if you wanted more popcorn.”

Satoru devolves into choking on the heavily carbonated liquid that definitely just went down the wrong pipe.

Shoko leans over the back of the couch from where she was getting another glass of convenience store red wine to thwack Satoru heavy-handedly between his hunched-over shoulder blades.

Satoru begins wailing in pain between coughs.

Yuki groans, “Shut the fuck up, oh my god.”

Suguru snorts before taking a sip of the sprite and wrinkling his face. Tastes like cough medicine. “Have some sympathy, he’s clearly dying in your living room.”

“Tell him to die quieter, yeah?”

“Screw you,” Satoru croaks in an impressive impression of an asphyxiating duck.

With both eyebrows raised, Shoko kindly tries to hand him her mug of red wine, and Satoru stares at her like she murdered his entire family and then some out of spite. She shrugs helplessly and retracts the offer.

A shitty rom-com soap-opera wannabe plays on Yuki’s flatscreen.

“I'm good,” Suguru finally replies to Yuki’s primary question, gesturing to the half-full bowl of popcorn sitting abandoned on the oak coffee table. He glances back at the tv. “Hang on, isn’t that her fucking stepbrother?”

They all look at the screen. “No fucking way.”

A few more horrified minutes pass as they watch with horrified fascination as the main character proudly declares to her mother that she fell in love with her stepbrother who she’s known since she was three.

Some time later, Shoko swears.

“What’s up?”

“I'm out of cigs.”

“Ah, damn,” Yuki pushes up onto her knees from where she was lying on her stomach on the l-shaped soft couch. “Store’s five doors down, I'll walk you.”

 Shoko shoots her an appreciative nod. “Thanks.”

Yuki yawns and stands up. “Hit pause, motherfuckers, we’ll be back in ten.”

“Can we just watch something else while you’re gone?”

She scoffs at Satoru. “Do I look like your mother?”

“Fuck you, I’m taking a dump in your bed.”

“Try it and the only dump will be the one I put your body in.”

“Brutal,” Suguru whistles. Satoru lours at him, betrayed.

The jingling of keys accompanies a door slam as the two of them are left alone in Yuki’s (way too fancy) apartment.

“Yo,” Satoru whispers. “Don’t tell her I got sprite on the carpet.”

Suguru laughs. “Why?”

“It’s an Indo-Persian from Agra. Or Jaipur, I can't tell.”

“What the fuck—no, how the fuck do you know that?”

Satoru bites the insides of his cheeks and looks at Suguru miserably. “The weaving pattern.”

Suguru just blinks at him for a good minute. “God, I fucking hate rich people.”

“They hate you too,” Satoru sighs, defeated.

“Right,” Suguru looks at him sideways. “Uh, anyway , gimme the remote, I wanna check the scores for the basketball game tonight—our school’s playing a team from Osaka.”

As Suguru reaches for the remote, Satoru snatches it and tosses it into his other hand, even farther away from Suguru’s reach. “Not a chance, dude. Criminal Minds is on right now, and they’re playing one of the best episodes.”

Suguru gives him a prolonged ‘seriously?’ stare.

When Satoru doesn’t budge, he sighs, “Stop screwing around, just give me the remote.”

Satoru gapes at him, incredulous, like he’s appalled by Suguru’s audacity. “Over my dead body?”

Suguru lunges, but Satoru is quicker, and he leaps off the couch before Suguru can grab him.

Suguru swipes again to try to catch a claw-full of his shirt, but Satoru evades him again, hopping back and laughing evilly.

Suguru grins. He knows that they both know that they’re just playing—the constance and stability of the warm pheromones they’re both emitting is proof of that.

Although they might just be playing, if Suguru wants to win, he’s gonna have to actually try—but there’s a peace and lack of concern in one department: the alpha one. He doesn’t have to worry about accidentally hurting Satoru.

Suguru thinks about what it means to be equals.

He stands up and strides toward Satoru, closing the distance between them in seconds. He grabs the front of Satoru’s shirt and pulls, reaching for the hand holding the remote. 

Satoru cleverly uses his superior height by holding the remote out of Suguru’s vertical reach.

They stagger around as Suguru doesn’t release his grip on Satoru’s shirt, much to Satoru’s chagrin.

“You’re stretching it out,” he wails. 

Suguru stretches it further. Retorts, “Don’t care.”

Using him for balance, Suguru uses his heel to kick Satoru in the back of the knee.

Satoru stumbles, some of his weight falling against Suguru as he loses his footing. Good—Suguru reaches for the remote, which is still held by Satoru’s flailing arm. 

His fingers brush the plastic.

Satoru’s other hand, previously on Suguru’s shoulder to avoid falling, suddenly flies to the back of his head and suddenly—oh, what the fuck —Suguru’s head is being yanked backward, a slight sting on his scalp.

Suguru yelps, disbelieving, “Did you just pull my fucking hair?”

Satoru doesn’t reply, instead, he releases a shrill, very un-alpha battle cry that makes Suguru tear up with the effort not to burst out laughing.

Satoru tugs at his hair again to stall a few more seconds to regain his footing.

Suguru jabs him in the side roughly, forcing him to accidentally walk into the sharp corner of Yuki’s glass coffee table, making the bowl of unfinished popcorn rattle on the surface.

Satoru stumbles and accidentally slaps him in the forehead with the remote. “You fucking—ow,”

The noise is, Suguru can’t lie, fucking hilarious. The sting doesn’t last long, but Suguru can basically feel the outline of where an embarrassingly large red print of a tv remote is going to greet Shoko and Yuki when they get back from their convenience store run.

Okay. Sure, alphas are competitive by nature. But Suguru, by his own nature, is also very competitive naturally. Which means—

Yeah, fuck Satoru’s health and well-being.

He feels a few strands of hair being ripped from his head as he ducks down suddenly and grabs Satoru around his middle.

He bends his knees to get as much power and momentum as he can before pushing off, throwing Satoru (and himself, unfortunately) against the front side of the black line-shape couch Yuki was using prior.

His knees scream in protest when they crash against the floor, but whatever.

Suguru wastes no time—while Satoru’s disconcerted, he grabs him and pins both shoulders back against the sofa, climbing over Satoru’s splayed-out legs for good measure.

Satoru groans and tries to stretch, effectively prohibited by Suguru’s hands pinning his shoulders.

Satoru assesses the situation. His eyes flash and light up—a flickering blue flame. 

Oh, fuck, Suguru realizes too late—his positioning is off. 

Satoru’s lips part in a silent yet maniacal laugh as he promptly knees Suguru in the crotch. 

Suguru, expectedly, topples off him.

Satoru wastes no time in scrambling to his knees and using his body weight to shove Suguru onto his stomach before planting and sitting himself, full force, right in the arch of Suguru’s back.

Suguru wheezes and slaps the (Indo Persian, apparently?) carpet.

“Ah, you’re sitting on my fucking diaphragm.”

Satoru cackles. “Everyone knows diaphragms aren’t real.”

Suguru actually stops thrashing for a second, his voice high and aporetic. “What?”

Goddamn it —Suguru thinks over the possible escapes. 

Okay, upper body strength . Don’t fail him now. 

He plants both palms on the carpet and lifts himself like he’s doing a modified push up (except, there’s the added weight of one Satoru on the weak part of the spine).

But it works—Suguru’s muscles strain as he gets his knees properly under him. 

Satoru shrieks, grabbing onto the back of Suguru’s top like he’s grabbing the reins on a horse. “Dude, why the fuck are you jacked? This is cheating! Dude— shitting fuck, I hate you, oh my god.”

Suguru’s body shakes as Satoru digs and kneads his annoying fingers into the muscles between Suguru’s shoulder blades, his strong thighs, properly crushing Suguru’s rib cage. 

“Yield, bitch!”

Suguru cracks up and proceeds to nearly fall on his face.

Suguru rests his forehead against the back of his hand, panting. “Okay, fine, Jesus, I yield, I yield!”

He can practically hear Satoru’s triumphant smirk.

The weight on Suguru’s back relents, and Suguru’s lungs can finally expand fully again as the concerningly powerful thighs release their crushing grip on Suguru’s waist.

Gotcha. Suguru smirks. 

In two beats, he flips onto his back while winding both arms around Satoru’s shoulders.

He catches the satisfying shock in those widened, pretty blue eyes as he flips their positions, both of their visions doing a one-eighty as Satoru’s back hits the floor roughly.

Satoru’s lips part to let out an inverse half-gasp at the impact, air flooding out of his lungs with a soft ‘oof.’

The remote clatters against the hardwood floor somewhere, maybe four feet above where they’re strewn, but Suguru can’t bring himself to even try to care about that.

Suguru, in a very dramatic revelation, realizes that he has made a mistake.

Satoru’s hands rest above his head, one wrist pinned down by Suguru’s by his ear, the other laying still half a foot above the crown of his head, his fingers curled lightly.

Satoru’s chest heaves from the exertion of the tussle, hairline glistening ever so slightly with sweat.

The sound of his fast, desperate breathing makes blood rush loudly through his body in two directions, as if the north and the south were conquered by the same person.

Suguru watches, in a daze, as a pink tongue darts out to wet Satoru’s plush lips, sticky and shining under Yuki’s soft lighting.

The light casts shadows over the smooth, sharp, infallibly pretty angles of Satoru’s face.

Ah. Satoru’s breath smells like peppermint and popcorn.

Suguru’s other hand is splayed against the center of Satoru’s chest, the edge of his pinky brushing Satoru’s collarbone, the delicate skin smooth and impossibly soft.

He presses down lightly, feeling Satoru’s heart thudding against his rib cage.

Subconsciously, Suguru leans down, leans even closer, as if he could hear the beat if he got close enough—as if he could sync it with his own.

Suguru’s hair is loose and messy where Satoru pulled on it, and it spills around the two of them like a cloak, like a curtain—blocking the light from entering the space between them. 

And for a moment, it’s almost like Satoru’s eyes are illuminating the air.

He squeezes Satoru’s wrist, finding his racing pulse. the two of them, sprawled on the floor. Suguru holds him in place, and Satoru—Satoru lets him.

Satoru lets him—pupils blown out to the size of the moon. He blinks slowly, intentionally, lashes brushing against his cheekbones.

Suguru’s mouth hovers over Satoru's, their warm breaths mingling in the air, the room stained with the scent of vanilla coffee. Suguru’s eyes flutter shut. 

And a set of deft fingers slide over and cover his lips, a warm palm pressing against his face.

Suguru blinks his eyes open again, confused. Satoru’s eyes are wide, swirling blue. Wide—wide and…pained. Oh. Suguru finally grasps—it's pleading . But—pleading, like a hopeless orison.

“Suguru,” his voice is almost, almost a whisper. “What are you doing ?”

“What?”

Satoru turns his head, white hair spilling around him like a halo. He doesn’t meet Suguru’s eyes.

“I can't, I'm sorry.”

Bewildered, Suguru repeats, “What?”

“Look, I know—I know I said, back then, that I was here if you wanted—ever wanted to experiment with—you know. I really—I can't do that. I'm sorry. I’m happy—I'm happy for you—that you want to—yeah. But I really,” Satoru’s voice is wet with emotion. A knife twists in Suguru’s gut.

“Experiment? I—Satoru, what?” The gears in Suguru’s brain click along as he tries to process Satoru’s ramble. 

Satoru’s hand falls from Suguru’s lips and drapes across his eyes, covering azure. “Fuck—don’t be fucking mean, Suguru. Please. Stop. Don’t make me say it.”

Suguru laughs, strained, hurt, and humorless. “I'm being—mean?”

Satoru glares at him through the gaps between his fingers. There are tears in his eyes. Suguru’s heart drops to his stomach. “Yeah, actually. You’re being really fucking mean right now.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What are you doing?” Satoru asks again, beseechingly. 

Suguru stares back helplessly. “I just—I wanted to kiss you.”

Satoru inhales sharply. “You—why?”

Suguru opens his mouth, the words lodged at the base of his throat.

The lock on the front door clicks, and the hinges scream as it swings open. 

“We’re back, bitches!”

Satoru pushes him off and scoots away, resting back against the couch and pulling his knees to tuck against his chest while trying to tame his hair where the carpet mussed it up.

Yuki’s quick to hit unpause, and Suguru can’t help the emptiness he feels for the rest of the night; he sneaks glances over at Satoru, who’s tucked himself into Shoko’s side like he’s half the size he actually is, his face buried in her hair as she scrolls on her phone.

Suguru really, really has to get his shit together, doesn’t he?

He bangs his head against Yuki’s bony shoulder and wishes that these things were easier.

Chapter Text

I.

“I like Satoru.”

Yuki stares at him from across the table, unblinking, their grocery store sushi forgotten on the picnic table between them. After two full minutes, she blinks. “huh?”

Suguru winces.

“Right,” Yuki nods solemnly. “Uh. I—also? Like Satoru?”

Suguru facepalms. 

“No,” he corrects. “You are friends with Satoru.”

Yuki furrows her eyebrows. “You are also friends with Satoru.”

“Yes. But I like Satoru.”

“You like Satoru.”

“Yes.”

“Because he’s your friend.”

“I—okay, no.”

This isn’t going the way Suguru thought it would, but not for the reason he originally had thought it would. 

He looks at Yuki. Yuki squints back at him. Suguru sighs. Thinks about it in Yuki language. “I—want to fuck Satoru.”

Yuki’s eyes widen and she snaps her fingers as the metaphorical lightbulb fucking explodes over her head. “Oh! You want Satoru!”

Suguru nods, pained by her—everything. “Yes.”

“Holy shit! Are you guys, like, a thing?”

“No,” Suguru looks at his hands. “I haven't told him.”

“Why?” Yuki frowns, crossing her arms. “Is it ‘cuz he’s an alpha? Who gives a shit anymore these days?”

“I don't know.”

“Huh?” 

“I just—I think I'm scared?” Suguru admits. 

“Of what?”

“I—I don't know. How much do I like him?”

Silence.

“Dude,” she says eventually, biting back a grin. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve heard you say in the entire fucking time I’ve known you. And I’ve watched you get drunk and cry over Mila Kunis in Jupiter Ascending.”

Suguru flushes. He’d rather not be reminded of that. Ever, preferably. “Oh, fuck off.”

She cackles and leans back, uncrossing her arms. “So, what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that he’s my best friend,” Suguru sighs.

“Rude?” Yuki scoffs, kicking him in the shin under the table. “And I’m still failing to see your point, if I’m being honest.”

The big deal? Suguru wants to curl up into a ball and scream. The big deal is that he can’t get anything right anymore with Satoru, and if there’s one thing he doesn’t wanna fuck up, it’s their friendship.

Suguru puts his arms on the table and buries his face in them.

“What's goin’ on, Geto? Tell me,” Yuki sounds more sympathetic, at least. He can’t see her expression right now, but he really doesn’t want to see the pity, if there’s any there. “What happened?”

“I—” Suguru groans. “—that time—movie night at your place. I tried to kiss him.”

“Oh. Oh, shit,” Yuki’s terrible at hiding her emotions. Not that it’s a secret, though. Suguru is actually very glad he can’t see her face right now. “Well, shit, Geto, what did he do?”

“He asked me why.”

“Okay,” Yuki draws out the word, scooting forward in her chair. “What’d you say?”

“I—didn’t say anything?” Yuki’s face drops into one of forlorn incredulity, and Suguru belatedly realizes maybe that wasn’t what he was supposed to do. “I—what was I supposed to say?”

“What were you supposed—oh my fucking god, are you serious?”

“What?”

“What did he say after that?”

“Um,” Suguru goes back over the scene in his head, ignoring the way it makes his stomach twist into uncomfortable knots, and like a set of vines are cooled around his ribcage. “He, uh. He said that—that he couldn’t?”

Yuki blinks. “Couldn’t what?”

“I don't know?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Yuki slams a hand down on the flimsy table, making it rattle noisily. Several of the passersby glance over. Suguru winces and avoids their questioning eyes. 

Yuki, however, is unperturbed, “Context clues, you stupid fuck. Now, what else did he say?”

“I don't know!” Suguru exclaims, voice high and his shoulders lifted to his ears. “I don't know what he was talking about, okay?”

“Suguru, buddy,” Yuki closes her eyes and clasps her hands together in front of her mouth. “What else? Did he say?”

Suguru groans and massages his forehead with his palms, stretching his eyes back and releasing them. “Okay, fuck—he said he couldn’t—he said it’s cool that I want to experiment, but he can’t. That he’s sorry because he said he would—uh, he said he would help if I—something, I don’t fucking remember!”

“It's cool that you want to experiment?” Yuki repeats slowly, and Suguru can basically see the gears turning in her brain, head tipped down and to the side. “It’s cool that you want to experiment?”

Suguru throws his hands up helplessly, eyes begging for her input.

“You—he thinks you were trying to use him, you idiot!”

“I—what?”

“Oh, my god.” Yuki grabs a fistful of her own hair. “And you didn’t fucking correct him?”

“Correct him?” Suguru parrots with wide, perplexed eyes.

Yuki nods sarcastically, tone like she’s talking to a child. “Yes, you fuckmunch. Correct him and say no, Satoru, I don't want to selfishly use you and your body for my own sexual experimenting and change the dynamic of our friendship for my own benefit, I actually like you and want to date you.”

Suguru stares. Ponders. Considers.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”

Yuki sighs long-sufferingly and massages her eyes into her socket. 

she pulls her hands away, eyeliner now slightly smudged. “You gotta tell him you like him now, dude. Whether it’s to confess or to fix your friendship. This is ridiculous.”

II.

Suguru unstoppably paces from one end of the carpet to the other when Satoru returns home from class. Satoru shuts the door and pauses.

Gently, he asks, “Uh, whatcha doing?”

Suguru stops. Turns robotically. “Can we talk?”

Satoru nods hesitantly. “Sure.”

This is a bad idea.

But he needs to. He really has to, doesn’t he? At the bare minimum, he has to clear up the misunderstanding. He needs to, partially because Suguru cares about Satoru and hates the thought that Satoru thinks he doesn’t.

Subconsciously, Suguru also wants the weight lifted off his chest. He wants to feel free, feel easy with Satoru again.

Even if he’s met with a rejection, Satoru won’t go anywhere. Suguru knows their bond’s worth more than that.

There’s nothing he has to lose, he rationalizes.

Because in the end, because regardless of the scenario, everything will stay. Satoru will stay. Suguru knows it.

Yeah, no. He's definitely desperate: he’s pretending like he’s an optimist.

And, of course, the self conscious part of his brain tells him he’s making a grave mistake.

This is a bad idea. His brain details him on exactly how mortifying this whole ordeal will be, by playing it on repeat—all the rocks that’ll crash on top of him. It could be a terrible fucking idea. But fuck it. You know what? Suguru is gonna do it anyway.

He opens his mouth. 

“You’re a terrible fucking idea.”

Fuck, that wasn’t right. 

Suguru snaps his jaw shut so hard that it rattles his skull. Fuck, that definitely wasn’t what was supposed to come out. 

Satoru stares at him, nonplussed and concerned. His expression is almost comical—again, Suguru would laugh if he wasn’t as horrified as he is.

“I’m,” Satoru sputters, “I—what?”

“No, fucking hell, not that , I meant that—before, you know.”

“Before, I know?” Satoru urges, looking as painfully disoriented as Suguru feels.

“You were wrong.”

“I—what?” It comes out as a half-puff of air, Satoru’s concern turning fully into sheer confusion as he examines Suguru carefully, with an obvious touch of solicitude.

“About, uh, when we were—ugh, Jesus.”

“Okay,” Satoru interrupts, speaking up before Suguru can continue his—whatever it was. “Let’s go for a walk, yeah? It’s not hellishly cold for once. Fresh air, and shit. S’that fine?”

“Yeah, of course,” Suguru coughs, nodding. “Yeah, let me grab my coat.”

III.

Satoru’s right—it’s not hellishly cold, it's almost pleasant, the light coat Suguru wears is more than enough to keep him warm.

They walk in comfortable silence. The lack of tension in Satoru’s shoulders helps Suguru calm down.

At least, that’s what he thinks until he realizes the actual reason—Satoru’s been releasing light, soothing pheromones in gentle waves since they stepped outside. 

Suguru laughs. He's a mess. Maybe the lack of sleep has finally started taking a toll on his cognitive function.

Satoru glances at him, shooting him a sideways grin, a soft one. It’s a rare Satoru smile, and it’s a smile Suguru can’t help but wish that Satoru saves just for him. Maybe.

“What's funny?”

“I don't know,” Suguru replies honestly, watching his breath turn into a white cloud. “Insomnia?”

Satoru snorts, bumping their shoulders together. Suguru welcomes the added weight. “I was wondering why you look like shit.”

Suguru huffs. “You have such a way with words.”

Satoru slows to a stop as they pass through a playground, his shoes crunching against the wood chips.

Suguru stops when he realizes Satoru is no longer by his side. He turns around fully, looking whistling at Satoru, who’s stopped a meter away. He waits for Satoru to say something.

Satoru toes at a little wood chip pile.

“Satoru?”

“What's up with you?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean,” Satoru exhales, and he almost sounds angry. almost. “If this—is this about the kiss?”

“What?” Suguru gapes, dumbfounded.

“You’ve been—I don’t know—weird since then. I know it was my fault, and yeah, I fucked up, but please, just talk to me.”

Oh. Satoru’s talking about the cafe. When Satoru kissed him in front of Mirai. Suguru breathes in deeply, and the chill air almost hurts in his lungs.

Suguru glances at the play structure to the side of the two of them—the structure itself is blue, but the slide is purple. And the monkey bars are yellow. 

The gap and swing between the last bar and getting both feet safely on the platform was always the hardest part.

Suguru always hated splinters. Suguru used to hate picking them out of his knees when he missed the platform and fell back into the wood shards.

But what other choice did you have? You could either attempt the swing or climb all the way back to the other side’s platform. Go back to where you started. Suguru doesn’t want to go back to where he started.

Go back to the beginning, or take a chance.

Take a chance.

Suddenly, Suguru feels the calmest he’s felt in weeks. Months, maybe. 

Because right now, the earth is still, and the world is just him and Satoru. For this moment, it’s all that it needs to be.

Satoru wrings on hand, shoving the other in his pocket as he lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I mean, d’you really hate it that much?”

Suguru watches him as he fidgets.

The light of the street lamp casts a warm, soft light across Satoru’s face. He's cruelly gorgeous.

The wind tussles his hair as he worries at his bottom lip. cherry red. He'll break the skin soon enough if he keeps biting like that. 

“I didn't.”

Satoru’s head snaps up. “What?”

Suguru takes a step forward. (Take a chance, brace for the discovery. Take the chance.)

One more small step. A third of a meter is left between them.

Suguru smiles softly, mildly, tilting his head. “I didn't hate it. I mean—that was kinda the whole problem.”

Satoru remains frozen, blinking owlishly at Suguru, and Suguru briefly wonders for a minute if he didn’t hear him.

And then Satoru steps back like he’s been slapped, the vanilla turning sharp and thick and almost burning. “You can’t fucking—what does that mean, Suguru? Fuck, please don’t—I’m not—what does that mean?”

Suguru takes another step forward. “Are you asking what you mean to me?”

Satoru’s jaw ticks, and he takes another step back, eyes fiery and on guard.

Suguru just follows him, not taking his gaze of Satoru for a single, fleeting moment.

(Take a chance.)

They play that game until Satoru’s back hits the mini rock-climbing wall, and Suguru’s finally caught him.

With nowhere to go, Satoru defensively bares his teeth, face ripe with irritation. He grabs the front of Suguru’s coat and tries to shove him backward. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His pheromones are offensive now, and Suguru fights the wave of dizziness that shakes him.

He gently takes Satoru’s wrist where he grips his coat, urging him to calm down. Satoru falters and dissolves when Suguru begins gently massaging his pulse point with his thumb. 

He looks up at Suguru, defeated. “Please, Suguru. What is it that you want from me?”

Suguru swallows hard. Satoru’s cheeks are flushed due to the cold and it’s pretty—pretty and the splotches of red are in the shape of strawberries.

“Will you give it to me?”

“What?” Satoru’s eyebrows furrow.

“What I want. Will you give it to me?”

Satoru’s expression turns disbelieving, tinged with well-concealed hurt. “You know what? Yeah. I will, okay? I’ll do it, anything that’ll get you to just—just stop fucking acting like this.”

“You mean it?”

“No shit, I mean it, does it seem like I’m fucking joking—”

“Go out with me.”

Satoru inhales sharply, then goes quiet, the vanilla almost disappearing from the air completely. 

Suguru’s heart kicks so hard against his ribcage that he worries the bones might shatter. Part of him hopes Satoru can hear it.

“—Go, what?”

Suguru takes another step closer, until the toes of their sneakers tap together, and Suguru can hear his every exhale.

“I like you. Honestly, I think I might be in love with you, but that’s a lot to lead with—but it’s true. I really, really fucking like you, Satoru.”

Satoru’s eyes go wide with shock, and for a moment, he almost looks amazed—and then his eyes harden to ice, and it’s so jarring that Suguru feels like he’s been zapped somehow.

“If this is a weird joke, it’s not fucking funny. I hate pranks like this.”

Suguru frowns, resting a hand on the lumpy, red plastic wall next to Satoru’s head. “Why would I joke about something like this? I couldn't be that cruel. Not to you.”

Satoru exhales shakily, turning his head to the side to stare at the suddenly very interesting set of swings.

“You didn’t—you don’t mess with alphas.”

Suguru shrugs, even though Satoru is purposefully trying to look everywhere but at him. “Maybe I haven't before, but it doesn’t change the fact that I like you now.”

Satoru finally looks at him again—this time, his eyes are watery and swirling. Like he’s contemplating, determined—his gaze flashes enough times that Suguru can no longer properly read it. He holds his breath as Satoru reads him.

“You like me.”

Suguru nods jerkily. “I do.”

“Then do it again.”

Suguru blinks. “Do what?”

“I stopped you last time.” Oh. Oh, fuck. “Do it again. Ask me again.”

Suguru gulps. Satoru’s magnetic pull is endless and intense, and Suguru will be helplessly pulled toward him no matter how far away.

He asks. “Can I kiss you?”

Satoru blinks. Raises an eyebrow as if saying ‘what are you waiting for?’

Suguru’s fingertips reach out and rest against Satoru’s rosy cheeks. He's warm to the touch—warm against Suguru’s cold fingers.

Satoru is still looking straight at him, unyielding, intense, inquisitive.

Suguru lets him. He allows his own eyes to slip shut instead, following the trajectory he had mapped as he guides his mouth toward Satoru’s. 

His nose bumps against the bridge of Satoru’s as he trails down. Lips brushing skin, he sighs against the corner of Satoru’s mouth.

(Take a chance.)

With his hands lightly framing Satoru’s face, Suguru kisses him.

It only takes a second before Satoru is kissing him back, cautiously at first, then more sure, arms sliding around Suguru’s waist like he’s accepting it. Like he finally believes it. Vanilla blankets him and the scent of warm coffee creamer surrounds them, keeping them cocooned like they’re in the eye of a storm.

What's absent is the visceral hunger from the cafe, kissing like they were clinging onto the last seconds.

This time is sweeter—but it feels heavier, it feels like a pleasant weight that sits against the linings of Suguru’s soul and promises to stay. 

He starts to smile into the kiss.

Moments later, Satoru’s lip catches on one of Suguru’s canines and forthwith he’s smiling too.

“Stop smiling,” Suguru mumbles against his teeth, fingers gliding down his neck and tracing his collarbone like Suguru’s dreamed about doing a million times.

“You first,” Satoru scoffs lightheartedly, matching Suguru’s volume.

But it’s impossible. They start to laugh when their teeth accidentally clack together. Satoru clutches his mouth in faux-pain and blames Suguru.

Suguru lets him. He grins. “I told you I didn’t hate it.”

IV.

They should talk. Like, actually talk. Not for any negative reason, but just for peace of mind, maybe they should talk a bit more. Just a few sentences more.

Or at least, that’s just what Suguru thinks. Or rather, the specific thought he’s clinging on to.

Because it’s getting very, very hard to think right now.

Satoru, he wants to say, wait one second.

But alas, he can’t, because his hesitation is steadily disappearing as a set of spit-slick lips trail down his throat, placing shivery kisses in the hollows and biting down where the tendons of Suguru’s neck stand out.

Suguru’s back is cool where it’s pressed tight against the door, the scent of vanilla, vanilla, vanilla all around him. It's so intense that Suguru can taste it in the air. Satoru’s tongue feels like melted vanilla ice cream on his skin, hot, persistent, and preponderating.

Satoru’s hands are relentless, pulling rancorously at the front of Suguru’s jacket like he’s trying to rip the seams and rend it off Suguru’s body. Satoru’s own jacket is only halfway off, the sleeves caught at his elbows as he preoccupies himself with Suguru.

“Satoru,” Suguru manages to get out, one hand moving from Satoru’s chest to push at his face lightly. Satoru grunts, unamused, and nips lightly at Suguru’s prodding fingers before going right back to attacking his neck like an overexcitable teething puppy.

Oh. For fuck’s sake. Suguru can’t help but think it’s cute, dammit.

When moderately squishing Satoru’s cheek with his palm doesn’t work, Suguru threads his hand back through Satoru’s hair and winds his fingers around the tufts. And he pulls lightly, then more aggressively.

Finally, Suguru properly grips Satoru’s hair and uses it to yank his head back to meet Suguru’s face again.

Satoru yelps and whines as he’s jerked up, azure eyes meeting Suguru’s.

Satoru’s pupils are blown wide, almost eclipsing the blue — dark and dangerous, his gaze weighty and absolutely aflame. His breaths come out in little puffs, cherry red in his cheeks, but this time, it’s not from the cold.

Suguru kind of wants to pull both his wrists behind his back and slam his chest against the door and mark—

“Satoru!” The rational part of his brain interrupts the—whatever that is.

Satoru pouts at him. Fucking pouts. With pleading, large eyes, he flutters his eyelashes and pushes harder against Suguru, forcing Suguru’s grip on his hair to tighten.

Their noses brush and Suguru can’t help but smile.

“Satoru,” he tries for the third time. “We should talk first.”

Satoru wrinkles his nose at the proposition. “I'd rather not. You’re kinda shit at it.”

Unsurprisingly, Suguru is thrown for a response. In fact, the way his hand slides out of Satoru’s soft hair and falls limply at his side speaks enough volumes to make Satoru hold back a laugh. Suguru glares, feeling himself blushing involuntarily.

“Okay,” Satoru takes pity on him, eyes sparkly with unadulterated affection, and Suguru wonders if that look was there the whole time and he just happened to miss it. “Talk, then.” 

“I wanted to ask,” Suguru begins, the words clumsily strung together on his tongue. But, once again, he’s not to be blamed. It's incredibly hard to focus on anything with the way Satoru’s hands are all over him, tracing the lines of his abdomen and letting the muscle jump under his nimble hands.

Suguru makes a split-second decision. He leans forward, kisses Satoru rough and deep, commanding, challenging that cocky in a mocking way, like he’s taunting Satoru into giving up. This time, he manages to properly get with the program as he grips Satoru’s hips hard enough to bruise and shoves him forcefully back into the door with a loud, dizzying slam that echoes through the entire room and bounces back. 

He leans forward, kisses Satoru rough and deep with unyielding fevor, the taste challenging that cocky, mocking way, like he’s trying to taunt Satoru into giving up (and what he wouldn't give to see that—what he wouldn't give to bring Gojo Satoru to his knees).

Suguru plasters him against the surface, one hand slipping down to click the lock back into place, letting the noise speak for itself. Satoru lets out an amused huff at the swap in positions. Suguru returns his half-grin and mouths down his neck, mirroring the same pathways Satoru traced on him minutes earlier. 

Satoru sighs shakily, lifting his head to stare at the ceiling as he continues to suck marks down his throat, letting his teeth scrape against the smooth skin every so often just to make Satoru gasp and quiver.

He smirks against the slope of his neck, nipping lightly at a small patch until it blooms a reddish-purple. 

"Wow," Suguru marvels, low. "If I knew this is all it took to make you keep still, I would've done it ages ago."

Satoru's breath comes out shuddery, head falling back against the wood with a thunk. "You're so full of shit. Hypocrite."

And the idea that Satoru is letting him do this is somehow even hotter than having to fight him for the upper hand (not that he doesn't enjoy the latter).

Suguru laughs, rich but airy into Satoru's skin, fingers sliding from Satoru's hips to instead sneak up his shirt, curling around the narrowest part of his waist and just holding. "You're so cute."

"Shut up." 

"I'm not kidding. You're fucking adorable."

"That's hardly a compliment," Satoru snorts.

Suguru nuzzles the area around his scent gland, purposely ignoring the obvious (and ridiculously tantalizing, borderline obscene ) way Satoru bares his neck further to give Satoru access to that exact spot.

He can feel Satoru's frustration grow, resisting the urge to kiss that suppressed whine out of his throat.

"So you want to be complimented?" Suguru teases.

"I never fucking said that."

"You're pretty," Suguru murmurs softly, earnestly, and Satoru's breath catches. "When we first met, I was wondering how an alpha could be so pretty ." 

Satoru laughs, pulse jackrabbiting. "I could say the same about you, you know."

"Hm. Am I still bad at talking now, 'Toru?"

Satoru grins, teeth flashing. "The worst."

Suguru leans forward again.

And his phone starts blasting the chorus of Twice's 'I Can't Stop Me.' 

It startles both of them so badly that Satoru nearly shoves him onto his ass.

Nayeon happily sings, "nareul gamsihaneun jeo spot, spot, spotlight," as Suguru places a hand on his heart to make sure he isn't gonna have a spontaneous heart attack.

That fucking ringtone. It's fucking Yuki. 

He takes a step back and takes his phone out of his back pocket. Can’t stop me can’t stop me, oh-woah, woah.  Unfortunately, it looks like he can indeed be stopped, Suguru thinks forlornly, staring at Yuki's face flashing on the screen. 

He picks up, glancing cautiously at a very confused Satoru.

Yuki's voice is jolly as it comes through the speaker, "So, did ya tell him yet?" 

Suguru sighs. He blames Park Jihyo for this.

V.

Suguru stretches his legs out across the floor as he cups his large mug of hot coffee to warm his hands up. his back rests against the front of the couch. 

Atop their couch lies Satoru, half-curled up on his side as he scrolls through his phone.

Suguru can hear the click of every letter being typed because Satoru is exactly that person who, for some reason, refuses to silence the ringer on his phone, no matter how much he’s begged to. 

Oh well, at least Suguru’s used to the incessant tapping by that point.

The sun is warm and bright as it casts itself through the windows, creating large squares on the wood floor.

It's the warmest day they’ve had so far, and Suguru would have opened the window if both of them weren’t lounging around wearing old basketball shorts and t-shirts.

Satoru snorts at something on his phone. Suguru tips his head back to rest in the gap between two cushions, the top of his head bonking the side of Satoru’s knee in the process.

“Something happen?”

“Yeah, guess what?” Satoru absentmindedly rubs the inner corner of his eye with two fingers. “So, Toji’s girlfriend is a veterinary tech, yeah? She brought home a cat and told him to watch it for two days, and he’s panicking.”

Suguru snickers, trying to picture Toji with a kitten in his hand.

He takes a sip of his bitter coffee. “I didn't know he had a girlfriend.”

“Neither did I,” Satoru reveals, rolling onto his back and holding his phone above his face. “It’s probably recent. Seems pretty lowkey.”

Toji has a girlfriend now. It’s not a fact he’s particularly interested in beyond that, but for some reason, Suguru feels a slight twist of discomfort in his gut. 

He shouldn’t, to be honest. He's got a boyfriend too. At least, kind of.

In hindsight, they should’ve talked.

Because right now, Suguru feels a bit like a robot that’s had all its settings refreshed, unmodified and confused.

Because Satoru and him—it’s been a few weeks since Suguru kissed him at the park, against the red rock wall.

But—but his temporary sense of clarity was cruelly deceiving (maybe it’s his own fault for trusting—for trusting what, himself?).

Because they’ve been a bit stuck since then. 

Because Suguru can kiss him now, but—but they’ve been trapped in this strange limbo where they’re both aware of their feelings for each other, but they’re still more ‘friends’ than a couple, or whatever it is they’re supposed to be.

Suguru doesn’t know if this is just how it’s supposed to be—he’s never dated an alpha before (if, Suguru hopes, dating is what they’re doing now).

Satoru yawns.

He doesn't seem all awkward or put off by their (relationship?) relationship. All Suguru can do is follow his lead.

Satoru clicks his tongue and pushes himself up on one elbow. 

Suguru glances at him with his peripheral vision. The sunlight paints his pale skin gold.

“Suguru,” Satoru rolls onto his stomach.

“Hm?”

“Are you free this weekend? Saturday specifically?”

Suguru squints at the ceiling for a moment. nope, nothing urgent this weekend. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

Satoru hums a single note reading something on his phone. “Yearly school reunion for my high school graduating class. Wanna come?”

Suguru pauses. Meeting Satoru’s high school friends. Suguru hasn’t heard a mention of any of them outside Shoko and Toji. He wonders how close Satoru is to them, how often they hang out, and how much they talk, if at all.

“Sure,” Suguru swallows. “Are your friends okay if I, uh, join?”

“Of course they are,” Satoru throws his arms over the arm of the sofa. “Shoko’s bringing Yuki, if that’s any consolation. But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’m serious, I’ll manage.”

“No, I want to,” Suguru immediately objects. Of course, he wants to go. He wants to go everywhere Satoru goes. (Actually, he also wants to stay with Satoru, cocooned in their dorm, basking in each other’s warmth forever, but Satoru is going to think he’s lost his mind if he says that out loud.) 

Suguru mentally pulls up his calendar. Ponders over the dates, then nods to himself. It should be fine. No assignments are due this weekend, and his rut doesn’t start until Tuesday, which means he won’t have to worry about it screwing up his weekend plans.

“Cool.” Satoru grins at him, and Suguru’s doubts are insignificant all of a sudden. He smiles back.

Another message pings on Satoru’s phone, which he glances at noncommittally. He kicks a pillow off the couch as he flops onto his back again.  “By the way, d’you like cats?”

There's an undulating pressure on the crown of Suguru’s head, and he realizes Satoru is playfully nudging him with his knee. 

Suguru reaches back blindly and prods Satoru in the thigh, making him laugh. 

“Yeah, cats are cute. They’re warm, and they purr, and stuff; and they’re independent and randomly get moody which is hilarious.”

Satoru snorts. “You like ‘em mean, do you?”

“Shut up; they’re like that—but they’re so cute when they want affection, you know? When they meow at you, climb all over you, and stuff. They’re funny. What about you? You like cats?”

“I like cats,” Satoru answers simply, wearing a (god-honestly) cheshire smile. “I think, if I'm gonna die, I wanna be murdered by a cat.”

“Satoru, what the fuck?”

“C’mon, are you telling me you’ve never considered it?”

“Consider what?” Suguru implores, voice getting higher.

Satoru sits up and tosses his legs over the settee, whacking Suguru. Suguru swears at him.

Satoru proceeds to slide off the sofa like a wet noodle, forming a Satoru pile on the carpet. Then, using his palms, he pushes himself onto his knees and sits back on his heels.

“You know, getting murdered by a cat or a dog.”

“No one fucking considers that.”

“Says you,” Satoru scoffs, crawling closer to Suguru. “And you aren’t a reliable source, no offense.”

“Fuck you?”

Satoru laughs, crawling even closer, until Suguru can feel the addicting, alluring warmth radiating from Satoru’s exposed, inviting skin.

“What—what are you doing?” Suguru stutters out warily when Satoru swings a leg over Suguru’s lap, straddling him and sitting back on his thighs. 

Perfunctorily, Suguru’s hands dart to his waist to stabilize him when he overbalances.

And Satoru smirks down at him, not curious, but satisfied.

“What are you doing?” Suguru asks again, staring up into Satoru’s eyes, but his words are significantly and audibly weaker this time. 

It just makes Satoru’s smirk grow as he shrugs his shoulders, his hands finding home on his neck, his fingers toying with Suguru’s earlobes. The Satoru’s nail lightly scrapes the edge of Suguru’s scent, and fuck , Suguru swears his vision goes fuzzy for a moment. 

“Satoru,” he exhorts, but it’s strained.

“Suguru,” Satoru mocks his tone, then laughs. “Relax. I'm trying to think of what else they do.”

“They?”

“Hm,” Satoru hums, affirming. “Although, I really can’t think of all that much—they eat, shit, and sleep a lot.”

Suguru stares at him, bemused and bright red.

Satoru continues, “And I can't really purr, at least, I don't think I can, but I guess I could always give it a shot.”

“What,” Suguru wheezes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“How cats act,” Satoru states plainly, like it’s obvious, like it’s a given.

Suguru’s hands twitch where they rest on his waist, the soft fabric of the shirt he’s wearing recognizable as one of Suguru’s. He forces his hands to keep still and not do something stupid like slide down to the curve of his— oh, Suguru wants him bad.

“What?”

“I want your affection,” Satoru declares. “I want your affection like that too, you know.”

Suguru looks up at him, speechless. Not for any bad reason—just because he’s never met someone as direct and unabashed about what they wanted. 

Maybe it’s a virtue of his alpha rank, but maybe it’s just purely Satoru.

Either way, Satoru’s sly, cocky, and scarily perceptive—he seems to have caught onto the fact that Suguru finds him fucking irresistible and problematically captivating, and now the little shit is doing everything in his bratty power to exploit it and fluster Suguru to no end.

Satoru’s fingers begin to trail through Suguru’s hair, making his scalp tingle, and Suguru can’t help but loll his head back into the teasing, electrifying touches.

Satoru’s thighs are tantalizingly soft and mortally warm where they press against Suguru’s. Fuck, Suguru wants to touch them. Wants to touch him . Wants to mouth at the delicate, damp skin of where his sensitive inner thighs connect with his pelvis until Satoru starts trembling and whining and helplessly bucking up into nothing. He wants Satoru to let him. Would Satoru let him?

Absently, he wonders if Satoru bruises easily. Suguru figures he might—with such pale skin, the purples and pretty reds of a hickey would stand out, impossibly to cover—impossible to hide, stark and obvious against his soft, milky tone. He wonders (he hopes) that Satoru bruises easily. 

Suguru brushes the side of his thumb against Satoru’s scapula. The blooming red and purple marks Suguru had made on his throat those few weeks ago after the park visit have long since faded. Suguru frowns. He wants to repaint the canvas—would Satoru let him?

He has to clear his throat so he doesn’t choke embarrassingly over the thought. “What—what do you want me to do?”

Satoru’s eyes light up and Suguru feels like he’s fallen into a trap. Satoru cranes his head down to whisper in Suguru’s ear. “Waffles.”

“What?”

Satoru pulls back with a ‘ gotcha’ shit-eating smirk. “I want waffles.”

They stare at each other blankly. Suguru’s mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish, but he says nothing, out of spite. They continue to play the silent staring contest, eyes never backing down in challenging one another. Suguru swims in Satoru’s North Sea eyes and revels in the cool, silken water. Finally, Satoru’s lashes twitch as he sticks his tongue out to touch the tip of Suguru’s nose.

Hah.

Yeah. Suguru is a weak, weak man. 

He cracks up, laughing with his whole body as his arms wrap fully around Satoru’s middle. Suguru wastes no time in tugging him close chest-to-chest as he hugs him tight, drowning himself in that intoxicating vanilla, and he wants his hands all over Satoru, all at once, wants to see every part, all at once.

Satoru’s hands resume playing with Suguru’s hair as Suguru buries his face in the curve of Satoru’s neck and breathes in the warm vanilla. Suguru shudders as the vanilla washes over him, encasing them both in a sweet, floaty bubble.

Suguru’s hands drift across the plains of his back, one eventually resting in the arch at the base of his spine while the other wanders. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing until Satoru’s body cambers into him as the alpha in his lap shivers happily, preening from the slow, soothing circles Suguru draws across his back. A cat, huh?

Suguru smiles to himself as he lightly drags his fingers down the bumps of Satoru’s spine. He counts the vertebrae—cervical, thoracic, lumbar—he presses down, pulling their hips closer, almost flush—sacrum.

Satoru wiggles a bit, and Suguru scrapes his teeth against his scent gland warningly, but due to the fact that Satoru is all alpha, it just makes him laugh and poke him teasingly. Equals .

“You should let me braid your hair sometime,” Satoru says as he fiddles with a lock.

Suguru blinks himself out of his train of thought to register the statement. “Huh? What? Since when do you know how to braid hair?”

“Since always,” he replies unhelpfully.

Suguru pointedly stops rubbing his back.

One moment.

Two.

Satoru whines and pulls (very much not lightly) on a tuft of Suguru’s hair. “ Fine, I learned because once, in sophomore year when we were getting ready for gym, Shoko told me I could never do a French braid or a fishtail so I learned. Out of spite.”

Suguru pictures it—Satoru being so offended by the prospect of Shoko taunting him and telling him that he isn’t capable of doing something, then proceeding to learn to do it better than Shoko out of spite. It fits him a bit too well, Suguru can imagine the visual almost flawlessly like he was actually there. He chuckles against Satoru’s collarbone. “That's so—I'm not even surprised.”

Satoru arches petulantly into Suguru’s still hand until he starts lightly petting him again, in rhythmic, grounding sweeps.

“So, can we get waffles?”

Suguru sighs, inconceivably fond to a point where he hardly recognizes himself. “Fine, I'll buy you the fucking waffles, you brat. Just—let’s stay here for a bit.”

Satoru smiles and drops a kiss on the corner of Suguru’s eye. “Jokes on you, I was gonna do that anyway, dumbass.”

Chapter Text

The actual reunion takes place at a restaurant downtown.

It's an early lunch, according to Satoru, who told him the night before that they would meet with Shoko (and Yuki, thank god), and from there they would take an Uber downtown to the location.

All of the alums and Satoru’s former classmates would meet at the restaurant at noon and eat before heading out to a movie, karaoke, drinks, or to the beach depending on who wanted to go where or how everyone was feeling.

Other than that, Satoru had provided no other instructions. Namely, how Suguru was supposed to introduce himself.

Hi, I'm Suguru, Satoru's—what? Satoru's roommate? Satoru's friend? Satoru's boyfriend? Satoru’s fuckbuddy but it’s romantic and they haven’t actually fucked (which is an entirely different problem in itself)?

Suguru is still pondering the question hard enough to give him a migraine when he gets dressed in jeans and a gray-green shirt (he belatedly realizes it’s a bit tight around the chest—the shirt is probably Satoru’s, but whatever), covering it with a windbreaker. It’s probably too cold for the beach, Suguru thinks offhandedly. Seeing Satoru at karaoke would be a blast though, so Suguru can’t be too upset about it.

He pops a few suppressor pills into one of his minicap containers and screws the lid on, sliding it into his front pocket (just in case, Suguru insists. It’s just in case).

Suguru hardly looks different from usual, but Satoru smiles brightly when Suguru exits the bathroom, a cross bag hung over one shoulder and the apartment keys jingling in his left hand. Suguru feels his heart flutter — ba-dump ba-dump or some shit.

How fucking corny, half his brain tells him. You’re generally corny, the other half of his brain says. He tells both sides to shut the fuck up as he follows Satoru out the door and down the hall.

“Excited?” Suguru asks as they step into the elevator.

Satoru laughs and bounces on the balls of his feet. “Kinda. I mean, we do this every year so I’m not like, off the walls, but I’m happy you’re coming with me, if that’s something. I'm just like, what’s like, a gentler version of excitement?”

“Stimulated?”

“Yeah, no.”

“Okay, damn,” Suguru bumps his shoulder roughly against Satoru’s, sending him into the reflective elevator wall. “Idea scrapped instantly.”

“Shut up, I'm thinking. Uh, enthusiastic?”

“Aflame.”

“Eager,” Satoru cuts him before Suguru can say more (more disturbing with his suggestions, of which he had many lined up, and it's unfortunate he can't share all of them). “I'm eager that you’re with me to meet some people from my high school. There.”

The elevator dings open, and Satoru’s lips twitch down, nostrils flaring.

Says, “You smell weird. Like, sticky.”

“Pre-rut, sorry. I tried to cover it with cologne.” Suguru shrugs. “I was planning to just use suppressants this month so I can go to class this week, though.”

Rut suppressants, like omega heat suppressants, are effective. But unlike heat suppressants, they’re damaging in constant doses. And because ruts last basically half the length of heats, it’s recommended that alphas just live with the pain for two or three days until it ends. Yet suppressants aren’t necessarily dangerous to use semi-regularly—like most other dominant alphas, Suguru uses suppressants during four out of the twelve ruts in a year, as suggested by most alpha doctors.

“Sweet, d’you wanna see a movie Wednesday, then? I heard the new Jurassic movie is out.”

Suguru huffs. “Dinosaurs? fucking nerd.”

“I’ll murder you in your sleep.”

Suguru's phone buzzes as they push through the front doors. “Ah, shit, let’s go, Shoko’s waiting for us.”

+

The weather is pleasant, Suguru notes to himself as he steps out onto the curb after following Yuki out of the car. (He lost the game of rock paper scissors over who was resigned to sit in the middle seat despite being a hundred and ninety centimeter grown man in his twenties because Yuki has too much pride crammed into her hundred and eighty frame.)

His knees complain and creak as he extends them again, achy from being crushed into a box of space for the better part of twenty minutes.

Shoko shuts the front seat door and laughs at Suguru, who’s opted to now do lunges to regain sensation in his extremities.

Ugh, his stomach aches too—he’s probably hungry, it’s already afternoon. That and the pre-rut thing. But he’s pointedly ignoring that part. 

Satoru steps out of the car and points at a sign across the street, one which has balloons tied around the corners. “That’s the place.”

Suguru follows, trying not to think so much, because all of the different voices in his brain know what happens when he thinks at all.

They’re three meters from the front doors when they fly open, and a scream pierces the air.

Suguru actually thinks it’s the sound of the doors scraping the floor for a moment before he realizes that it’s an actual human being.

A human being that goes flying at them at a dangerous velocity.

A velocity that allows Satoru to barely sidestep the character and they slam directly into an unsuspecting Shoko, who, while alpha, is unfortunately not well built enough to catch the flying body, and both of them crash into the pavement.

Suguru freezes and, unsure of what to do, immediately turns to Satoru, who (weirdly enough) hasn’t reacted at all, positively or negatively. He simply stares down at the heap of limbs on the pavement. Yawns.

Suguru surreptitiously sniffs the air. Then frowns. It's just an omega. A girl.

The scent is sweet like jasmine, doubled and topped off by what smells like jasmine perfume.

Suguru steps closer to Satoru, opening his mouth to whisper to him, but Satoru turns his head and stops him, holding one finger to his own lips.

Suguru tips his head to the side, perplexed, but Satoru just smiles, a touch mischievous as he flicks his eyes forward again. “One sec. Just watch.”

“Uh—okay?”

Still thoroughly confused, Suguru obeys, glancing back down as Yuki kneels next to where Shoko fell, hands sliding underneath her arms and immediately pulling her toward herself, trying to get Shoko’s shoulders off the rough concrete.

Yuki supports Shoko’s weight with a protective arm, dusting the back of her flowy blouse off with her free hand. “Christ, are you okay?”

Her fingers tap rhythmically against her shoulders and upper arms, like she’s searching for any injuries and bruises. Shoko shuffles onto her palms with a laugh.

“Hime, you alright?”

The jasmine girl lifts her head from where it was cushioned on the soft part of Shoko’s stomach, tied-up hair now a bit messy and strewn around. 

The girl— Hime —giggles, delighted. “Shoko! you came!”

Shoko sighs. “I told you I would, didn’t i?”

Yuki clears her throat a sharp wave of bitter flowers passes through the air before disappearing as quickly as it comes. Suguru's nose wrinkles at the medicinal scent. Yuki’s upset. At least, somewhat irritated—but why? He furrows his brows at her in concern. Another wave of poorly concealed belligerent shoots through the air, more imperceptible this time. Suguru flinches, pre-rut sensitivity making his instincts run a bit volatile.

He watches as Yuki’s fingers curl possessively around Shoko's biceps. 

Oh . He feels Satoru's delighted smirk on him. Suguru presses down a sly smile of his own—something finally clicking. 

Oh, that’s it, huh. Yuki really—

He wants to laugh. He's almost forgotten how, while both of them are insufferable and largely incompatible, they’re best friends for a reason. They truly mirror each other in the stupidest, stupidest ways. Oh, he can’t wait to make fun of her later. He’s never going to let her live this down for as long as she lives. 

Satoru steps up eventually, hands in his pockets and dripping condescension, “You know, it’s not nice to assault people, Utahime. Even if they’re alphas.”

The girl—Utahime—looks over her shoulder and glares, expression soaked in disgust. Mockingly, “It’s not nice to speak when your voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Even if you’re an alpha .”

“Your comebacks need work. They’re as bad as they were in year nine. Grow up a little, yeah?” Satoru yawns. Utahime sneers disdainfully. “Sho, let’s go inside. Some annoying mosquito keeps buzzing in my ear out here.”

Utahime gives him a strong middle finger but nonetheless climbs off Shoko. Yuki wastes no time in hauling her back up, dusting off her back.

Utahime turns to Suguru, who just stares back owlishly, unsure of how he’s to begin to introduce himself. Luckily, Utahime goes first, nodding, begrudgingly polite. 

Suguru nods back, one hand awkwardly outstretched before he retracts it (who the fuck shakes hands in this setting?).

He clears his throat, “Geto Suguru. Satoru's roommate this year.”

Utahime stares at him blankly. Then looks him up and down. Suguru shifts his weight from side to side, self-conscious. He’s not giving off pheromones or anything. At least, he’s pretty sure he’s not.

One eyebrow lifts in half-interested disbelief. “But you’re an alpha.”

“Uh, yeah,” Suguru coughs. “But—yeah.”

Suspicious, as if Suguru had reason to lie about it, she raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Nice to meet you.”

Suguru decides that Satoru is the best judge of character, because he doesn’t like this girl. At all. Even slightly. Of course he doesn’t, Yuki’s his best friend, and he’ll always be rooting for her, random omega be damned. She deserves Shoko more, undoubtedly, he huffs internally. Externally, he forces an amiable, well-mannered smile. “Likewise.”

She glances at him for one more moment. Then turns to Shoko. “Let's go in! It’s cold.”

Suguru follows Satoru as they enter, Utahime in front of them, happily dragging Shoko along by the wrist.

It was easier and less noticeable outside, but stepping into the restaurant, Suguru is hit by a dizzying plethora of mixing scents that immediately makes him want to turn around and run. 

He winces, trying to stop himself from keeling over with nausea.

His vision swirls, black spots across his vision before he squeezes his eyes shut, reaching over to stabilize himself with the back of one of the nearby chairs. Just then, a familiar hand settles between his shoulder blades, and Suguru feels himself slowly return to his body, underwater vision stablizing.

“Hey, you alright?” Satoru is warm, his hands are dry and warm where they concernedly massage his trapezius, thumb scratching at the short hair on his nape.

Suguru hooks a finger in the collar of his own shirt and pulls it from his neck as he takes a deep breath. As unfortunate as this situation is, he just needs to bite his tongue and deal with it until the gathering is over and they can go home. He doesn’t have it in him to ruin Satoru’s day. However, he doesn’t notice that the rational side of his brain that tells him that is slowly slipping. Nonetheless, he lies, “Yeah, I'm fine.”

Soft vanilla nuzzles him affectionately. For a moment, Suguru wants to say fuck all this and just climb into Satoru’s body—or maybe just wrap himself around him for a few hours and not let go until the throbbing in his head subsides or the noise and pungent smells fade away to nothing.

“I'm alright,” he says again, pulling away from Satoru to make a beeline to the water dispenser sitting on one of the fancy tables set up for the event, digging through his pocket for two aspirins and downing them.

+

Suguru doesn’t bother checking how much time passes; he tries his best to linger at the edges of the room where the air is more breathable, but in the end he steels himself to chat with a few of Satoru’s classmates, who are mostly polite but far from interesting enough to distract from the throbbing in his head and his muscles.

“Seriously though,” one of the guys tells him, swirling a plastic cup of punch around in his hand, sweaty fingertips gripping the rim. “Gojo was a menace in high school. No one wanted to be within ten meters of him, seriously.”

Suguru nods causticly, but the guy doesn’t seem to notice his sarcasm, “I've heard. He sounds like a real nightmare.”

If the guy notices Suguru’s vexation, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he laughs and pats Suguru's shoulder. As if they knew each other well enough for that, like they were old pals or something. It’s annoying, Suguru thinks to himself. “Seems like he’s calmed down a lot since then though. It’s good.”

Suguru hums. “Uh-huh.”

Eventually, boredom wins over and he returns to Satoru’s side, exhausted and ready to go home. Suguru may have miscalculated, it’s clear that his rut will hit far sooner than he thought it would be. Head foggy, he folds himself around Satoru as the boy is grabbing another soda from the drinks table. Suguru hooks his chin over his shoulder, arms encircling his waist to trap him in place. .

Satoru’s hair tickles his face when he turns his head to Suguru, words hitting his cheek in warm puffs of air. “Hey—are you sure you’re alright? We don’t have to stay much longer. Just say the word, yeah?”

Suguru just hums in reply. 

Satoru frowns, and his forehead wrinkles as his eyebrows furrow. Suguru bites lightly at the shell of his ear in an attempt to get him to relax. Instead, the worry in Satoru’s eyes deepens, “You look pale.”

Not as pale as you, though. Suguru closes his eyes and presses his face into Satoru’s neck, nosing at his scent gland until Satoru sighs softly and vanilla blankets both of them like a shield from the room—hell, the rest of the world. It’s a bubble for them. Of vanilla and Calvin Klein cologne and body wash and Satoru . 

Hazy, Suguru tightens his arms around Satoru’s slim waist and squeezes like he’s trying to wrap Satoru in him, fold him into his own body. 

Without the rational part of his brain realizing (and stopping him), Suguru brushes his lips against the soft skin again in an attempt to incite another wave of vanilla. Satoru gasps at the unexpected contact, a shiver running through his body (one that Suguru can feel intimately with his chest pressed flush against Satoru’s back. He takes a moment to marvel at the way Satoru’s waist perfectly fits Suguru’s body).

Satoru opens his mouth to speak, concern and surprise written in his body language, but (with the worst fucking timing) another ex-classmate approaches, overbearing and reeking of months-old sour lemonade, a friendly smile too happy for Suguru’s liking hanging off his face. He doesn’t like the way the guy is smiling at Satoru. Doesn’t like his presence at all.

Satoru turns in the direction of the guy after he calls his name and lumbers over with the stupidest-looking walk Suguru has ever seen—a dumb little half-skip-jog towards Satoru, not yet acknowledging Suguru’s presence. It’s annoying. 

Satoru tries to step toward him in greeting, toward him, away from Suguru, which Suguru immediately finds unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.

Not now, when Suguru can finally sink into the comfort of the vanilla coffee pocket they’ve created for themselves (and only for themselves) away from the other party-goers.

Without thinking (because clearly, he hasn’t noticed that his rational thought is gone yet) Suguru growls quietly. Quietly but warningly, loud enough that the approaching classmate can hear it clear as day. 

Satoru stiffens suddenly and the ex-classmate stops in his tracks, meeting Suguru's angry gaze with positively disgruntled confusion. 

Yeah, Suguru thinks, he’s mine. Now turn around and walk away.

But he doesn’t. Contrarily, the ex-classmate’s eyes flick between Satoru and Suguru, getting more bewildered the longer he stares. 

Eventually, he coughs and scratches his neck to diffuse the tension created by Suguru’s aggression, and he reels his already faint pheromones in as a sign of resignation and submission—backing down. 

“Uh, right then. Um, I’ll guess—I’ll catch up with you in a bit then, Six?”

Satoru nods with a tight smile, quietly forcing Suguru to back down by overpowering Suguru's pheromones with his own stronger ones. Suguru never realized how strong Satoru’s alpha traits were until his pheromones extinguish Suguru’s without disturbing the gathering or breaching their bubble—for a moment, Suguru admires the sheer control he has over them. 

Suguru grunts, annoyed, but shuts up when Satoru gives him a sharp, dark stare, “Behave.”

Suguru slumps a little but obeys, feeling too achy and nonplussed to do anything else. 

Satoru waits for the ex-classmate to walk completely out of earshot before turning (which Suguru doesn’t make easy, still petulantly holding him around the middle).

When Satoru finally manages to twist around in Suguru’s grasp, the first thing he does is reach up to rest the knuckles of his left hand against Suguru's forehead, pointedly ignoring their tempting and intimate propinquity. For a moment, Suguru thinks Satoru is about to punch him, and shuts his eyes tight, only letting them flutter open when Satoru’s fingers gently brush the stray hair out of his face. 

“You’re hot.”

Suguru smiles lazily, leaning into the touch. “Thanks.”

“Your rut is starting,” Satoru says, but Suguru can’t really focus on his words when Satoru’s eyes are shining the way they are, refreshingly and cool blue like an oasis in a desert. 

Suguru hums and brushes his hand away, instead knocking their foreheads together.

“What gave it away?” Suguru chooses not to address the reality of the situation, deciding that he trusts Satoru enough to handle it—handle him, whatever it is. “I took Aspirin, it couldn’t be the fever.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow. “Your boner is pressing against my thigh.”

“Ah.”

Satoru hands come to rest on his shoulders as his eyes flick to the exit. 

Says, “We should go,” but sSguru doesn’t hear him. Rather, hears , but the words don’t mean much to him. Too much effort to comprehend. His head is cloudy. He doesn’t want to think anymore—it’s hard. 

He huffs, rubbing his cheek against Satoru’s. “Can I scent you?”

Satoru’s eyes widen before he actually laughs at that, pointedly looking around. “Are you insane?”

Suguru frowns, not understanding until he realizes Satoru is referring to all the nameless people smiling and chatting around them, engrossed in conversations.

That’s right—scenting is intimate, typically considered so much more than sexual, an action that’s—yeah. Yeah, he wouldn’t want others to see Satoru like that either. The thought makes something green and possessive rear its ugly head inside him

He stares at Satoru beseechingly. “I think there’s a bathroom upstairs.”

Satoru pushes him away slightly, and Suguru feels the slight rejection in his fucking bones —and it does nothing but make him more petulant. He frowns at Satoru—frowns deeper when Satoru laughs at his expression.

“God, Suguru,” Satoru grabs him by the wrist. “You’ve lost it.”

Suguru lets Satoru drag him—he doesn’t particularly care where, all he knows is that Satoru’s scent is intoxicating and he feels floaty like the gas they give you at the dentist before they pull teeth. 

Satoru's grip makes him stupidly happy. Satoru makes him stupidly happy.

There's a fuzzy heat that pulses through his entire body—it radiates like it’s alive—the heat. And it’s telling him that at this point, he’d follow Satoru off a cliff like a dog being led with a treat. 

Goodbye, rational thought —not like it was good for anything anyways.

Satoru turns briefly to give him an exasperated grin with a slight glint in his eye, flashing against blue, and Suguru feels like he’s found the ocean. 

He imagines how he must look, being led like a fool up the stairs, eyes dreamy but not dreams—a drug haze.

His scent must spike again because Satoru grips his arm tighter as he pulls him along.

“Satoru,” he tries to say, but his words are sluggish and rough with how gone he is. It should be embarrassing. It would be embarrassing if Suguru still felt enough shame to care.

When they finally get to the bathroom, Suguru's skin feels hot like the seventh circle of hell—scorching. 

There's absolutely no grace in the way he grabs Satoru, flips them around, slams him hard against the door, ignoring the reverberating thud that shakes the entire room.

Suguru pins Satoru to the door, then pins himself to Satoru, body to body, swelteringly hot. 

His mouth immediately finds the sharp edges of Satoru’s collarbone, and he drags his teeth against it with the self-control of a child trying not to devour his dessert too fast.

The cacophony of the reunion is muffled by the wall, thankfully, which Suguru notices offhandedly when he hears Satoru click the lock into place. 

Good—he would hate to be interrupted now—when he’s finally got Satoru right here, unfiltered vanilla creamer and mint body wash.

He accidentally breaks skin with a sharp canine, a sour metallic twinge exploding at the tip of his tongue as he apologetically laves at the puncture mark. 

Satoru hisses and swears, his hands coming to grip Suguru's shoulders and push him back. Suguru frowns, clinging to him.

He can hear his own blood singing in his veins, and he’s so turned on that his entire body hurts.

He can’t explain the draw, the pull, but he knows that the second he’s separated from Satoru is the second he’ll lose his fucking mind. Suguru has never been religious, but Satoru’s beginning to feel a lot like his only salvation. 

He needs Satoru to do something, anything.

He can’t help it—tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he buries his face in Satoru's neck once again, smearing blood across his shoulder and up his throat. 

Satoru stiffens for a moment in surprise. And he laughs—more shocked than anything. “Baby, are you crying?”

Suguru makes a miserable sound. “It fucking hurts .”

His desperation must make Satoru pity him a bit, because the next moment, there’s a hand in his hair, gently scratching his scalp in a way that makes Suguru keen up into it, soaking in the affection.

“I know, I get it, alright? I’ll take care of you,” Satoru assures. “Don’t cry.”

“Don’t push me away, please,” Suguru implores, nuzzling further into Satoru, hands coming to rest on his waist. For Satoru’s sake, he tries to keep their crotches apart; he doesn’t want to upset Satoru into shoving him away entirely. “I want—”

“What do you want?”

Suguru feels himself flush even redder—not with embarrassment, though. 

“I want you.”

He can hear Satoru smile. “I'm right here, jackass.”

Suguru shakes his head, wiping the unshed tears against Satoru’s cool, sticky skin. “Wanna fuck you.”

Satoru laughs at him again, but it’s borderline mocking this time. “Yeah?”

Fuck, his voice, fuck. Suguru is done for.

“You’re gonna have to try a lot fuckin’ harder than that if you wanna have me like that. I'm not one of your little pretty omegas.”

Oh, but you’re so much prettier, Suguru thinks.

Smooth with a liquid, shivering quality—masculine in juxtaposition with the pretty lines of his collarbones, to his pink, cotton candy lips, to the lithe movement of his skin neck, the graceful bob of his throat when he speaks.

“You think you can do that?” Satoru teases, like a switch has flipped, eyes now inescapably dark and assertive, like he’s almost bored. “Be good and listen to me for a while?”

“I can do that,” Suguru nods, exhaling against him, feeling dumb like a puppy, his mouth hovering over Satoru’s. “I can, I will.”

Satoru smiles and presses his lips to Suguru's—short and chaste. At the same time, he grinds his knee roughly, carelessly, into Suguru’s crotch, watching, sanguine as Suguru moans in surprise and scrambles to grab the wall, legs almost buckling. 

Suguru pouts at him, betrayed.

Satoru breaks and laughs, his lovely ringing, happy laugh, his eyes once again becoming fond and adoring as he cups Suguru’s face remorsefully. 

“I'm sorry, I'll stop teasing you, promise. You’re just—so. So fucking cute . God.”

“As much as I appreciate the compliment,” Suguru forces himself to reply, “It’s not getting me what I need right now, so if you have any advice.”

At that, Satoru kisses him, a rhythmic shift of lips that’s purposefully simple enough for Suguru's rut-addled mind to keep up with.

But it quickly becomes insistent and wet, hot and messy the minute Suguru decides licking into Satoru’s mouth for the core of the vanilla taste. It’s much more important than keeping pace.

He repositions one hand from the wall and places it atop Satoru’s chest, keeping him still.

He can taste the remnants of cinnamon toothpaste on Satoru’s teeth, and it drives him insane. Satoru growls as Suguru drags his tongue across his top molars.

And Suguru loves and hates the way Satoru laughs when his teeth catch on Suguru’s bottom lip only to pull at it until Suguru whimpers, tasting metal and tang.

He wants to fight Satoru for the upper hand right now.

Better yet, he wants to pin Satoru down and make him beg and cry for him. Take him apart and make a mess out of that alpha facade, he wants to fight, wants to win .

He wants, so much that it’s overwhelming, strong and fucking brutal.

But before he can simmer and burn in it, a large, elegant hand wraps around the base of his throat and pushes him back, thumb pressing commandingly at the soft valley between his collarbones.

Suguru's breath stutters and his cock throbs in his pants that are entirely too tight.

The hand, putting the ever-so-slightest amount of pressure (the heat Suguru feels turns into an ethanol fire and burns blue, frying his systems—melts him into a puddle), guides Suguru around in a circle until he hears the faraway sound of his heels hitting the wood of the door.

The hand falls from his throat and Suguru’s almost ashamed at the way he misses the pressure the second it’s gone. 

But he feels Satoru’s nimble fingers fiddling with the buckle of his belt and he forgets about everything else. A huff. “You can open your eyes, you know.”

Suguru's eyes snap open—he didn’t realize they were closed. But maybe it was better to keep them shut, because the sight of Satoru, the curve of the corner of his mouth into a soft smirk, the slope of his jaw—makes everything that much more overwhelming.

Satoru’s fingers slip beneath the waistline, knuckles pressing at the muscles just to snicker airily when they jump and contract under his touch.

Satoru pushes at the fabric. “Gonna suck you off. That's okay?”

“Yeah,” Suguru replies quickly, breathless. “Whatever you want.”

“You can pull my hair if you want,” Satoru informs him conversationally before promptly dropping to his knees. 

Suguru nearly chokes on his own saliva, recovering only to choke again when Satoru skillfully undoes his pants, pulling his jeans and underwear below his knees in one go.

“Shit, you're big,” Satoru exhales, and Suguru ignores the way his cock twitches at the praise.

“Yeah?” Suguru snorts, preening slightly at the ego boost. Gingerly, he reaches out a hand to tangle in Satoru’s hair.

Scoffing, Satoru says, “Cocky much?”

“You’re the one who said it,” Suguru rolls his eyes, gaze eventually resting on the ceiling light.

“Careful,” Satoru nips the skin of his thigh, making Suguru yelp. “Watch it, now.”

“The fuck? Don’t threaten me when you’re face to face with my dick!”

“Don’t be a dick, then.”

Without warning, Satoru wraps his fingers around Suguru’s cock, stroking it once, before watching, amused with how Suguru's hips buck up. Suguru, on the other hand, finds himself enraptured by how almost dainty Satoru’s long, lithe fingers look around his dick—pretty.

Satoru’s hand is so pale compared to the tan of Suguru's skin. He burns.

He gasps and grips a fistful of Satoru’s hair when he takes the tip into his mouth and sucks, swirling his tongue over the slit. Eyes—those fucking eyes—flash up to meet Suguru’s up through his lashes.

Suguru has to squeeze his eyes shut to maintain a semblance of composure and not prematurely cant his hips into Satoru’s tantalizingly warm mouth.

He’s so pretty—he’s strong, rough in a way that Suguru’s never experienced before but now he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

Satoru pulls off for a second, leaning back slightly, pink lips shiny and slick with spit. 

“Okay, like—uh, fucking—hit me or something if you want me to stop, yeah?”

Suguru's reply is cut off with a groan as his cock slides back into Satoru’s wet mouth, deeper. His entire body shivers when he hits the back of Satoru’s throat, around him all tight heat and wet muscles twitching and contracting with each breath. He swallows, taking Suguru impossibly deeper.

“Sa—fuck,” Suguru hisses, unable to stop a slight roll of his hips forward.

It’s taking everything—and by everything, he means everything —that Suguru has to not grab Satoru’s head and roughly fuck deeper into the soft heat of his mouth, just—until Satoru cries, maybe, until tears pour down his face and his throat constricts and— woah, what the fuck?

He clenches and unclenches his fists after dropping them to his sides, carving thin crescents into his palm as Satoru pulls back slightly only out for bobbing his head shallowly—like a tease.

Suguru grunts and taps Satoru’s knee with his shoe.

“Satoru,” he rasps, feeling sweat dampening his back as he reaches out to graze Satoru's temple with the side of his finger, featherlight. There's a moment when Satoru leans into it, softening as his eyes flutter shut. However, they snap open again as if catching himself.

And Satoru pulls off completely, to Suguru’s disappointment, before sitting back on his heels and tipping his head back, looking at Suguru with a lidded, faux-bored expression once again.

And god , it pisses Suguru off to no end.

The heat wracks his body again, making his knees wobble. Suguru's traitorous body doesn’t listen to him as he bucks his hips forward into nothing. Firetruck red humiliation blooms across the warm tan of his skin when Satoru smirks, gaze so sharp and consuming that if Suguru was anyone else, he wouldn’t be able to hold eye-contact.

Suguru bites back a grunt and nearly blows a load on spot when Satoru nuzzles the side of his dick, precum smearing across the line of his cheekbone.

Suguru swears he almost sees God. He curses. Once under his breath, and once out loud when Satoru tilts his head, light reflecting against the stickiness on his cheek.

“Hm? Yeah? Somethin’ you wanna tell me, Suguru?” That dangerous, shit-eating grin grows wider as he dares Suguru while still down on his knees—like he tastes victory on Suguru's skin, like he already knows he’s won. Like he has the high ground while standing in a valley. Sarcastically, he adds, “Or…should I be calling you ‘alpha?’”

Suguru growls, and shit, Satoru’s eyes light up—cunning, delighted.

Suguru winces—bad pain, this time—as his instincts continue clawing at his brain. The scalding, crushing pressure of the rut pushes against rational thought, slashing the tethers as his body burns hotter.

Suguru isn’t easy to deal with on the worse half of his ruts in the year—that’s why finding consistent omega rut partners in the past was a struggle. Sure, this one won’t be remotely close to the worst rut he’s had, but he’s not by himself—he has Satoru to worry about.

And with the way the instincts are clawing at him, refusing to be ignored, he’s almost afraid he’ll black out, and he’ll—driven on autopilot by instincts—hurt Satoru on accident.

He doesn’t even know how far Satoru is willing to go, what he’s comfortable with—shit, they haven’t even sat down to have this conversation, even though they really, really should.

And Satoru’s pheromones fluctuate in the air, and he’s challenging Suguru, taunting him, making the nails-on-chalkboard claws of his nature grip his brain tighter.

“Satoru—I, wait,” it comes out as a low whisper. Internally pummeling himself until he regains motor control of his left arm. “Stop, please.”

He then extends a palm to Satoru’s forehead, covering his eyes as he pushes, gently shifts him away slightly. Satoru’s skin is cool against his hand. He exhales, haggard. 

“Suguru?” Satoru’s voice climbs back to its usual tone. Suguru hears his forehead wrinkle in concern, yet the other alpha makes no move to continue to or touch Suguru again without prompting.

“I'm sorry, did I go too far? Can you talk to me? You’re worrying me.”

Suguru's body shudders as he exhales. “No, it’s just—it’s good, really good, but the rut—it’s hard to think, and everything—is just—needed a second, I just—I don't wanna hurt you by mistake.”

Satoru stills, lets the admission sit before he peels Suguru’s hand off, squeezing his fingers for a moment in a way that makes Suguru’s heart skip a beat. And then Satoru’s looking up through his lashes at Suguru with equal parts amusement and endearment. (Suguru might die.)

His eyes are smiling, and his lips twitch, like he’s covering up a laugh. He looks at the floor to recompose himself, “Stop being cute. You’re so cute, but fuck, you’re stupid.”

Bewildered, Suguru says, “Sat—I'm serious.”

“I know you are,” Satoru hums. “That's why I said you’re stupid.”

Suguru makes a disoriented, confused noise.

“I literally told you—you know what, I'm telling you, again: talk to me, or just do whatever you want, I'm okay with it. I dragged you to this reunion, and now you’re hurting yourself for no reason, while I'm right here. If there’s something I don’t like, I’ll stop you. I’ll hit you, whatever. I can handle it, though.”

“No, but I—”

“You don’t wanna hurt me, you’re worried about hurting me, blah blah blah,” Satoru replies in an imitation of Suguru’s voice, putting the statement in quotes. The cockiness in his voice makes the rut-addled part of Suguru want to put him in his place. He tells that part of him to please calm down. “I should honestly be offended.”

All Suguru’s muddled brain can spit out is, “Huh?”

“I said you’re cute , Suguru. It's cute that you’re worried about hurting me. You think you can hurt me?” Unyielding, the musky vanilla filling the stall thickens suddenly, overpowering even Suguru’s own uncontrolled pheromones.

Suguru almost chokes, then nearly chokes again as he watches Satoru’s eyes widen, a crazed, taunting smile on his lips, as if he’s personally snipping each string holding Suguru’s self restraint together (he is).

“Sats—”

“That's funny, I'll admit. It’s funny that you think you can hurt me. I'd love to see you try .”

It catches him off guard for one climactic moment where Suguru can hear where he breaks—and his instincts, his alpha, whatever lives in his brain, uses the opportunity to fill in the gaps.

A snarl echoes through the room as Satoru’s head is violently yanked up by his hair.

Despite his sharp gasp of surprise, Satoru looks frighteningly pleased for someone currently being dragged forward by his hair, preening like a cat awarded for a trick.

“You talk so fucking much—you want me to hurt you?” Suguru growls. “Are you a masochist or something?”

“Not even remotely,” Satoru snorts, eyes raging like an ethanol fire. “But a bold thing to ask with your dick two inches from my face.”

Satoru, tipped forward and unable to move much due to Suguru’s grip on his hair, meaningfully casts a smug glance at the door before placing a hand just above Suguru's knee, resting some of his weight there.

To prove the point, Suguru knows, to flip their positions again and remind Suguru that he can leave at any time. To remind Suguru that he’s the one with the upper hand. The upper hand. Suguru skin burns with it all. It’s always about the fucking upper hand.

Gojo Satoru and his fucking ego are going to be the death of him. (But it’s not like Suguru's going to give in.)

But at the same time, that prospect seems pretty impossible from where he stands right now. 

Another wave of pain wracks through his abdomen and he keels over, all the muscles in his body tensing. 

Satoru sits back on his heels as Suguru's fingers slip out of his hair.

“You’re only gonna feel worse if you keep going like this, you know,” he says conversationally.

Suguru grits his teeth. “You think I don't know that?”

Satoru shrugs, scooting forward before, without warning, taking Suguru back in his mouth and swallowing him down to the hilt.

Suguru moans far too loud as the icy heat of Satoru’s entire being washes over him again, and both of his hands fly to Satoru’s hair, holding on the white tufts far too tight to be pleasurable, but Satoru doesn’t react further than a set of canines accidentally pricking the skin.

and Suguru—it’s all too much, Suguru can’t help it—he uses the solid handle on Satoru’s hair to violently tug him even further down his cock until Satoru convulses, tears swiftly pooling in those oasis eyes, saliva dribbling down his chin as he chokes a moment, lips stretches and cherry red around him.

With that, from there, it doesn’t take long. And Suguru can barely warn Satoru before his orgasm hits him full force, vision whiting out—he would have collapsed on the floor if not for Satoru's hands pinning his pelvis against the wall.

Reality comes back to him slowly, like snowfall—the pain of the rut still simmers underneath, but it’s been quelled somewhat, subsumed into a dull ache, a slight fever, and Suguru finds himself pleasingly satisfied, likely he’s found the eye of a storm, a lull in the heat.

The sudden clarity gives him slight tinnitus, like he’s in an underwater scene in a movie. When he blinks away the dark vignette clouding his vision, he finds Satoru’s bright gaze examining him carefully. 

Scanning his face while holding him up by his shoulders—which can’t be easy, considering Suguru is far from small and skinny. He reminds his legs that they do, in fact, work, and manages to get them properly under him before accepting the toilet paper Satoru offers him and tucking himself back into his pants. 

When he blinks away the vignette, he finds Satoru’s bright gaze examining him carefully, scanning his face while holding him up by his shoulders—which can’t be easy, considering Suguru is far from small and skinny. He reminds his legs that they do, in fact, work, and manages to get them properly under him before accepting the toilet paper Satoru offers him and tucking himself back into his pants. 

“You alright?” Suguru reaches out to brush at the sticking-up unkempt tufts of Satoru’s hair as the other alpha bends down slightly to grab a few more squares to wipe his own messy face. “I pulled way too hard—I’m sorry.”

Satoru straightens and looks back at him, flushed but smiling brightly. He takes Suguru’s hand and brings it to cup his cheek, warm and rosy. “I told you it’s alright. I’m perfectly okay. Now—how do you feel?”

His body seems to be in concordance with his mind, a fact that doesn’t fail to surprise him. The residuum of the sticky, febrile itch still remains, but it’s just a bit more than an afterthought, and Suguru feels like his body has been put through a wash cycle and his consciousness is being slipped back into his damp but clean skin. The boiling water at the hadal has a while before it comes to a head again, Suguru knows his body enough to recognize that.

He zones back into Satoru limning him with shimmery, brumal eyes. Suguru’s hand falls away from the softness of Satoru’s cheek. Satoru pouts lightly at the loss of contact. 

“I’m good, I’m alright,” Suguru takes a deep breath, guilty, “I’m sorry, it’s your reunion, I didn’t want to—I really did want to meet your friends and hang out with you.” 

By the time he finishes, scratching his arm sheepishly, Satoru has his phone out and is tapping away, the white rectangle of light reflecting on his face. An antithesis to Suguru’s anxiety, Satoru seems remarkably calm, his aloofness mollifying Suguru’s mortification. 

“Hang on, I’m texting Shoko letting her know we’re leaving.”

“Huh?”

Satoru glances up at him, amused. “You think you’re in the condition to stay here? We should get back home, yeah? You can take some meds and relax, and we can talk then, alright?”

“Yeah, Suguru nods. Thinks, shit, he’s perfect. “Yeah.”