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The winter morning tastes like diesel and coffee. Satoru stands on the platform at Kyoto Station, watching his breath form small clouds in the thin air, and he thinks he might actually combust from the sheer pettiness of it all.
"Stop looking at me like that," Suguru says, voice low and rough around the edges.
Satoru snaps back to reality, and there he is. Six-foot-three of man, tattoos crawling up his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his dark coat, his long black hair pulled back in a bun that should be illegal under some kind of international convention. His ears are all pierced– silver catching the grey light– and when he meets Satoru's eyes, there's that familiar ache in his chest that feels like drowning and flying at the same time.
"Like what?" Satoru says, deliberately pouty. He's been working on this pout for weeks.
"Like I'm about to ruin your entire life," Suguru says, and there's a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out and adjusts Satoru's scarf, the one he had given him last Christmas, and the scent of him– warm cedar and ink and something distinctly him– wraps around Satoru like he's trying to take it with him on the train. Which he basically is, but that's beside the point.
Shoko emerges from inside the station with their luggage, rolling her eyes so hard Satoru worries they'll get stuck. "Are you two going to be insufferable the entire time we're in Kyoto, or are we allowed a grace period?"
"You're really gonna let your weak little omega move somewhere else without you?" Satoru says, ignoring Shoko entirely and directing the full force of his drama at Suguru. "Won't you go with him? Protect him? What if someone kidnaps me?"
There's a beat of silence. Suguru and Shoko exchange a look that Satoru's learned to interpret over the years: Satoru’s being extra today.
"'Toru," Suguru finally says, and he's definitely fighting a smile now, "the only thing anyone's kidnapping you for is ransom, and I'd send Shoko to negotiate."
Shoko nods with the gravity of someone accepting a solemn responsibility. "I'd make sure they kept him."
"Traitors," Satoru mutters, but his scent– he can feel it– is probably giving everything away. He's stressed and sad and doesn't want to get on that train, and his body's just broadcasting it to anyone with a nose. Suguru's scent tightens in response, that cedar scent sharpening with his own anxiety.
"Stop that," Suguru says quietly, and it's not an order exactly. More like a request. A plea.
The train whistle cuts through the moment like a knife.
Satoru climbs aboard, Shoko trailing behind him, and when they reach their seats, he turns back to the window. Suguru's still standing on the platform, hands shoved in his coat pockets, looking at Satoru like he's trying to memorise every single detail. His jaw's tight. His scent's doing that strained thing again.
"You'll miss me," Satoru says through the glass, knowing Suguru can read his lips.
"Already do," Suguru mouths back.
Satoru watches until the platform blurs, until Suguru becomes a distant figure and then nothing at all. He pulls out his earbuds and queues up Adele because he's dramatic and self-aware enough to commit fully to the bit. Shoko doesn't even comment; she just opens her book and leaves him to his misery.
–
The first month of long distance had been almost manageable. They'd been riding the high of the new opportunities, and the separation felt like a temporary aberration rather than a new reality. Satoru would wake up in Tokyo and think about Suguru in Kyoto, and it would ache, but it was the kind of ache that felt bearable. Suguru had FaceTimed him at lunch, showing him the new design he was working on– something with flowing lines and negative space, the kind of piece that would look stunning on skin. Satoru had watched his hands move as he talked, the way his dark hair fell across his shoulder, and thought: I can do this. This is fine.
By month three, the novelty had worn off. They'd settled into a rhythm– late-night texts, FaceTime calls when schedules aligned. But the rhythm felt like a cage, gentle but firm. Satoru would wake up some mornings and forget, for just a moment, that Suguru wasn't sleeping on his left. That moment of forgetting was almost worse than remembering.
There had been a Tuesday in March when Satoru had worn one of Suguru's hoodies to class– a faded black thing with a tattoo shop logo on the back that he'd stolen before Suguru left. He'd buried his face in it between lectures, trying to catch the scent of him: cedar and ink and something uniquely Suguru that was already starting to fade. By the end of the day, he'd almost convinced himself it still smelled like Suguru. It didn't.
Shoko had found him on the kitchen counter that evening, still wearing the hoodie, staring at nothing.
"It's been three months," she says, standing with her arms crossed.
"I'm aware," Satoru mumbles from beneath the hoodie.
"You're pathetic."
"Yes."
"Text him," Shoko said, yanking open the fridge with casual violence. "Actually, no. Call him. Hearing his voice is better for you."
Satoru had called him. Suguru had picked up after two rings– he always did, no matter what he was doing– and said, "Hey, baby," in that low voice that made everything feel slightly less impossible. They'd talked for an hour. Just talked. Suguru had described a new client, a woman who wanted a piece honouring her grandmother. Satoru had talked about a seminar that had gone well. By the end of the call, Satoru had felt tethered again, less like he was floating untethered in the vast space between them.
But it always faded. The comfort of the calls, the reassurance, it would last maybe until the next day, and then the missing would start creeping back in.
Then, October brings with it a sort of uneasy equilibrium. Some days Satoru wakes up and he's okay. Better than okay. He's excited about a project for class, or Shoko's made him laugh, or there's a new tattoo Suguru's been working on that's genuinely breathtaking. Those days, his scent stays level and bright, and he doesn't feel like there's a hole in his chest. He even manages to eat lunch without thinking about whether Suguru's remembered to eat lunch. He goes to the library. He's functional.
Other days, Satoru wakes up and the world feels grey.
On those days, the apartment feels too big. The silence feels too loud. He checks his phone constantly for messages that haven't come, then feels irritated when they do because they’re late, which is a horrible feeling and makes him feel guilty, and the whole cycle just perpetuates itself into a sort of emotional quicksand that he can't quite escape from.
One particular Tuesday in mid-October– the kind of grey morning where it might rain or might not and you can't quite tell the difference– Satoru doesn't get out of bed.
He wakes at a normal time, realises it's raining, and then just... doesn't. Shoko has an early lecture. She doesn't know that Satoru's still in bed at ten in the morning, back under the covers, listening to the rain patter against the windows.
By the time she gets back at three, his scent's probably gone a bit wonky. Distressed. Stale. He hasn't moved except to order delivery at one point and leave the food to go cold on his desk.
Shoko appears in his doorway like an avenging angel, silhouetted against the hallway light, and Satoru can practically hear her eye-rolling from underneath his blanket nest.
"You're impossible," she says, hands on her hips, utterly unimpressed by his mound of quilts and pillows and that grey hoodie balled up at his feet.
"Go away," Satoru grumbles, burrowing deeper. His voice comes out muffled and pathetic.
"He's not dead, just at work," Shoko says, which is objectively true and absolutely unhelpful.
That same evening, he and Suguru had FaceTimed during dinner prep. Satoru had held up ingredients, and Suguru had directed him through making pasta, and it had felt almost domestic, almost like they lived in the same space. Suguru had been wearing one of his work shirts, sleeves rolled up, his forearms on full display– all those careful tattoos, each one meaning something. He'd looked focused and beautiful, and Satoru had thought: I can do this. I can keep doing this.
But the good days and the bad days existed in no particular pattern. It wasn't as though they'd built toward something or moved through predictable phases. Instead, they seemed to arrive randomly, like weather. Some mornings Satoru would wake up and feel light, optimistic even. Other mornings the weight would be there before he'd even opened his eyes.
By November, Satoru had stopped trying to predict which kind of day it would be. He'd just wake up and wait to see what his own body would tell him.
By early December, they'd been long distance for almost a year. Not quite– they had a few weeks to go– but close enough that Satoru could feel it approaching with a kind of grim inevitability. A year of phone calls and FaceTime dates and the particular ache of sleeping alone in a bed that was technically big enough for two people. A year of not knowing when, or if, this would change.
They'd never talked about it, actually. Not really. Suguru had built his shop from the ground up, had been saving since he was sixteen, working toward this dream. Satoru had commitments at university, had a degree to finish, had a life in Tokyo that had started to feel increasingly real. Neither of them had asked the other to upend their life. Neither of them had suggested that maybe they should have a plan, a timeline, some kind of endpoint.
Which meant, implicitly, that there wasn't one. They were just going to keep doing this. Keep missing each other. Keep existing in this strange parallel state where they were together and apart in equal measure.
–
The Saturday before the party, Satoru had woken up wrong. He couldn't quite articulate what made it wrong– it wasn't as though something specific had happened. He'd just opened his eyes and felt the weight of it immediately: a heaviness in his chest, a tightness in his throat, restlessness that made his skin feel like it didn't quite fit.
toru
[08:41]
i don’t feel good today
sugu
[08:53]
what’s wrong?
And Satoru hadn't known how to explain it. How to convey that sometimes the missing would just hit sideways, would arrive fully formed without any particular trigger, and that there was nothing anyone could do about it. That it was just the shape of his life now. So he'd written: "just one of those days"
Suguru had sent back a string of heart emojis, which was his way of saying I understand and I hate it too but I don't know what to do.
Satoru had spent most of Saturday in his room, ostensibly working on a paper but not really working on anything. He'd told Shoko he was fine. She'd looked at him the way she did on the bad days– with that mix of sympathy and exasperation that came from watching someone you cared about hurt themselves– and she'd let it go.
By Sunday, the weight hadn't lifted. It had just settled deeper, becoming the baseline rather than an aberration. Satoru had moved through the day like he was underwater: showering because Shoko would nag him if he didn't, eating something because sustenance was technically important, opening his laptop and staring at the same paragraph for three hours without actually reading it.
sugu
[15:23]
rough couple days?
toru
[15:30]
yeah
missing u extra today
sugu
[15:34]
i know baby
i wish i could fix it
–
The thing about Suguru was that he always tried. He always showed up with his full attention, his genuine desire to help, his specific kind of love that expressed itself in presence and effort. And Satoru loved him for it– loved him fiercely, desperately– but sometimes love wasn't enough to bridge the distance. Sometimes love just made the distance feel more impossible, because he could feel how much Suguru cared, and that care couldn't actually change anything.
By late afternoon, Satoru had given up all pretense of productivity. He'd collapsed onto the couch, fully clothed, and scrolled through his phone without really seeing anything. Photos of Suguru. Photos of them together. A video from three months ago where Suguru was showing him a tattoo he'd done– flowing lines and careful shading, beautiful and precise. He'd watched that video at least fifty times. It didn't get less painful.
That was when Shoko had found him, and taken one look at his entire situation– the defeat, the restlessness, the way his scent had gone thin and strained– and made her executive decision.
"Nope," she'd said. "You're having fun at this party."
"Shoko–"
"No. I don't care if you're miserable. Actually, especially if you're miserable. You're going to get yourself dressed, and you're going to sit with actual humans for an evening. This is non-negotiable."
Satoru had wanted to argue. He'd wanted to stay on the couch in Suguru's hoodie and exist in his own personal misery. But Shoko had that look she got– the one that meant she was pulling rank as a best friend, and there was no appeal process.
–
The apartment had filled steadily over the past hour. Shoko's friends from her seminar had brought wine and loud energy. Some guys from Satoru's classes had shown up, clustering around the kitchen island like they owned it. The Christmas lights Shoko had strung up last week cast everything in soft red and gold, which would have been nice if Satoru weren't so utterly miserable.
He'd arranged himself on the couch strategically: knees drawn up to his chest, back against the armrest, phone close at hand. He'd perfected this position over the course of the year– it projected a kind of "do not approach" energy that worked roughly sixty percent of the time. Tonight it was not working at all.
"You're doing it again," Shoko said, materialising next to him with a glass of wine and that expression that preceded acts of minor violence. She sat directly on the arm of the couch, entirely uninvited.
"I'm fine," Satoru said, not moving.
“It's very depressing watching you stare at nothing."
"I'm not staring at nothing."
"You literally are. Your eyes are glazed over."
One of Shoko's seminar friends– Aiko, the one with the loud laugh– had wandered over and was watching this exchange with interest that suggested she'd decided Satoru was interesting and was therefore going to pursue the situation.
"Why are you like this?" Aiko asked, settling onto the coffee table with the confidence of someone who'd appointed herself the evening's entertainment coordinator. "You literally just sit there and don't talk to anyone."
"Character building," Satoru said flatly, which was not true. He was not building character. He was slowly dying inside.
Shoko grinned, which was the expression she wore immediately before she was about to destroy him. "Oh, he's being a baby. Misses his boyfriend."
There was a beat of silence. Satoru could actually feel his blood pressure spike.
"His what?" Aiko's eyebrows had shot up somewhere near her hairline.
"Boyfriend," Shoko repeated cheerfully, with the energy of someone who had absolutely no regard for Satoru's privacy or emotional wellbeing. "Long distance. Very tragic. Very Romeo and Juliet, except Romeo is actually in Kyoto and the family feud is just train schedules."
"You have a boyfriend?" This from one of the guys– Satoru couldn't remember his name, didn't particularly care.
Satoru shot Shoko a look that promised future violence. She was absolutely immune to future violence. She was also, apparently, settling in for the long haul, with the satisfied expression of someone about to commit actual evil.
"What's he like?" Aiko asked, leaning forward.
"Tall," Shoko said immediately. "Insanely tall. Like, irritatingly tall."
"How tall?"
"Six-foot-three."
Satoru was going to kill her. This was non-negotiable. He was going to end her.
"That's insane," one of the other guys said. "He must be like, a giant."
"And stupid hot," Shoko added, and Satoru could feel his face heating up. "Like, the kind of hot where you don't understand how people function. Dark hair, all long, like down past his shoulders. Tattoos everywhere. And I mean everywhere."
"Stop," Satoru said weakly.
"Ears all done up– piercings, I mean. He's got the whole thing. Very hot artist aesthetic."
"Stop."
"Tattoo artist, actually," Shoko continued, with the confidence of someone who'd been explicitly told to stop and had decided that was merely a suggestion. "Owns his own shop. Very successful. Very talented. Takes his work incredibly seriously. Satoru's completely obsessed with him, it's actually pathetic how often he talks about–"
"I'm genuinely considering your death," Satoru said, his voice quieter than intended.
"--his hands, specifically–"
"Shoko."
"What? You do. You go on entire monologues about his hands. About how he can–"
"I'm going to hurt you."
Aiko was grinning now, clearly having decided this was the best entertainment of the evening. "Does he have a name?"
"Suguru," Satoru heard himself say. It came out quieter than he'd intended, which somehow made it worse. All heads turned toward him. He pulled his knees tighter to his chest. "His name is Suguru."
There was a moment of something– curiosity, maybe, or the kind of understanding that came from watching someone who'd clearly been trying very hard not to exist suddenly become very real. The energy in the room shifted slightly, became less teasing and more genuinely interested.
"How long have you been together?" Aiko asked.
"Three years," Satoru said, and then– because apparently he hated himself– "Long distance for almost one."
The apartment had gone a bit quieter, the way it did when people suddenly realised they'd stumbled into something genuine. Aiko looked almost sympathetic, which somehow made it worse than the teasing. Shoko squeezed his shoulder, which was her way of saying sorry and also I'm not actually sorry because you needed to get out of that headspace.
"That's rough," one of the guys said.
Satoru didn't respond. He uncurled slightly, just enough to reach for his phone. No messages. He'd checked five minutes ago, so of course there were no new messages. It was 6:47 PM on a Saturday in early December, which meant Suguru was probably still at the shop. The shop didn't close until eight, and even then–
His phone buzzed.
It was a Pavlovian response, the way his entire body went still. Everyone was still watching him, he realised distantly. He swiped open the notification.
It was Suguru.
The screen lit up with an incoming call, his contact photo appearing– a selfie Suguru had taken about six months ago, standing in front of one of his half-finished pieces. His hair was pulled back from his face, and he was doing that thing where he looked vaguely amused at something that had nothing to do with the camera. It was Satoru's favourite photo of him.
Behind him, you could see the shop– all dark wood and careful lighting, the space Suguru had built with his own hands, his own vision. The space that was now keeping him hundreds of miles away.
"Sorry," Satoru muttered, already standing up, already moving. He gave everyone a vague apologetic gesture that he hoped conveyed both I need to take this and please forget I exist. "I need to–"
"Take it in your room," Shoko said, not unkindly.
Satoru didn't need to be told twice. He was already heading down the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, his heart doing something complicated in his chest.
"Hey," he said softly, and the word came out like a question, or a greeting, or maybe an apology. He pushed into his bedroom and shut the door.
"Hey yourself." Suguru's voice came through warm and low, and Satoru felt something in his chest unclench slightly. "Bad day?"
"Yeah." Satoru sank down onto his bed, folding himself the way he always did– knees up, back against the headboard, his small and make-it-better position. "Kind of."
"Tell me?"
So Satoru did. He told Suguru about waking up sullen and restless, about how the apartment had felt too large and too small all at once, about how he'd been thinking too much and it had spiralled into the kind of thinking where everything felt slightly too much and not quite enough. He told him about Shoko, and the house party, and the subsequent mortification of having his entire relationship broadcast to people he barely knew. He told him about the weight that had been sitting on his chest all day, the way his scent had gone thin, the particular ache of just wanting to be in the same room, not even doing anything special, just existing in the same space.
"She mentioned the tattoos," Satoru said, and could hear the slight smile in his own voice despite everything. "Extensively."
Suguru laughed– actually laughed, a real thing that came through the phone like warm honey. "Let me guess. She made it weird?"
"She said 'insanely hot.' In front of like fifteen people."
"She's not wrong."
"Suguru–"
"I'm not wrong either. You're objectively beautiful. People should be made aware of this. Public service announcement." His voice had shifted into that particular register he used when he was being deliberately charming, and despite everything, Satoru felt heat creep up the back of his neck. "Tell her she has good taste in assessment."
"I'm hanging up."
"You're not." There was a smile in his voice. "How's the party?"
"Terrible. I was dying on that couch until Shoko decided to weaponise my relationship status."
"She's not wrong to pull you out of it, though." Suguru's voice had taken on a slightly different quality– not unkind, but more serious. "Bad days are bad, but sometimes you need to be around people anyway."
"I'd rather be around you."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Satoru could picture Suguru perfectly in that moment– probably in the back office of the shop, probably with one foot propped up on something, the way he always did when he was trying to get comfortable. His dark hair probably falling across his shoulder. His long fingers probably drumming absently on whatever surface was near him. The tattoos covering his forearms catching the light.
"I know, baby," Suguru said finally, and his voice had gone softer. "I know."
They fell into the rhythm of it, the way they always did. Suguru talked about his day– three appointments, one of them a walk-in who'd been incredibly specific about what she wanted, and he'd managed to translate her scattered description into something cohesive. He'd designed something beautiful, he thought, something with those loose, organic lines he loved. He was thinking about adding it to his portfolio. Satoru made appreciative noises and asked questions because he genuinely wanted to know, because even long distance, this was still one of his favourite things: being in the orbit of Suguru's mind, listening to him think through his work, his creative process, the way he saw the world and translated it into something permanent on skin.
"What are you wearing?" Suguru asked, not in the way that would have made it a different kind of conversation, but in the specific way that meant he was asking if Satoru was comfortable.
"Your hoodie," Satoru admitted. "The black one from the shop."
There was a moment of quiet on the other end. "The one I left?"
"Yeah."
"Jesus, 'Toru." Suguru's voice had gone softer, the way it did when he was feeling something he didn't quite know how to say. "You're going to kill me."
Satoru wrapped his free arm around his middle, as though that could actually bridge the distance. "Only a little bit."
They talked for another twenty minutes. The background noise from the living room had shifted– the music had gotten louder, more people had probably arrived. Satoru could hear Shoko's laugh, sharp and bright, cutting through the bass. He didn't particularly want to rejoin them.
"You need to go back out there," Suguru said eventually, and Satoru hated how easily he could read the shift in his own silence.
"Don't want to."
"I know, baby. But you're at a party. With people. And I've got to start prepping for my next client anyway." There was the sound of him moving, the familiar rustle of him shifting his weight. "But I'm glad I caught you."
"Me too." Satoru didn't move, though. He stayed curled on his bed, wrapped in Suguru's hoodie, holding his phone like it was the most precious thing he owned. Which was stupid, probably, but also accurate. "I'll call you tomorrow? Maybe earlier if–"
"I'll make it work," Suguru promised, and the weight of that– the casual commitment to rearranging his schedule, to making time– settled something in Satoru's chest. "Get some sleep. Try to actually enjoy the party for like, twenty minutes. Do it for Shoko if you can't do it for yourself."
"Fine."
"Mmm.”
"Talk tomorrow?" Satoru asked quietly.
"Tomorrow," Suguru confirmed. "I love you."
"I love you too."
When they hung up, Satoru sat in the quiet of his room for a moment, just breathing. The background noise of the party was still audible through the door, but it felt further away now, less urgent. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his camera roll– photos of Suguru's work, mostly. Tattoos in progress, designs sketched out on paper. A few candid shots of Suguru himself: sleeping on Satoru's couch last summer, head thrown back in laughter, that one where he was concentrating on something with his brow furrowed. There were photos of them together, too, though Satoru kept those in a separate folder, somewhere private. Not because he was ashamed– never that– but because some things felt too real for public consumption.
He scrolled to a photo of Suguru from three weeks ago, the one where he was standing in front of his shop, the late afternoon sun catching in his dark hair. He was tall and beautiful in that unfair way of his, with the particular kind of presence that made everything else fade into background.
Satoru missed him so much it felt like a physical thing.
But the call had helped. It always did. That was the thing about Suguru– even through a phone line, even at a distance, his presence was grounding. He had a way of pulling Satoru back to centre, of reminding him that the distance was temporary, even if the timeline was impossible. Even if they had no plan for how this ended, at least they had this: the calls, the late-night texts, the way they carved out time for each other despite everything.
Satoru stood up, checked his reflection in his mirror– face a bit flushed from the earlier stress, but otherwise acceptable– and headed back out to the party.
Shoko was waiting for him just outside the living room, prosecco in hand and that particular expression that suggested she'd been plotting his return.
"Better?" she asked.
"Yeah," Satoru said, and found that he actually meant it. His chest still felt tight, and he was still absolutely going to murder her for the earlier commentary, but the edges of the day had softened slightly. "Yeah, I'm good."
"He's hot though, right? Suguru?" Shoko grinned, entirely unrepentant. "Six-foot-three, tattoos everywhere, owns his own business at twenty-three–"
"Shoko."
"I'm just saying. That's objectively the hottest thing I've ever heard in my life. Long dark hair, piercings, runs a successful shop–"
"I'm going to hurt you."
She linked her arm through his anyway, pulling him back toward the living room, toward the chaos and the music and the people who, despite everything, were his people. "Come on. Aiko's been asking about his specific tattoo designs. I think she's developed a new appreciation for him based purely on my description."
From his shop in Kyoto, Suguru was probably helping his next client get settled, or maybe already starting to work. He was probably thinking about Satoru, too– some part of him always was, even when he was busy, even when they weren't on the phone. That was how they existed now: in parallel, but connected. In the same city mentally, even if physically they were separated by geography and train schedules and the particular cruelty of adult life.
Satoru settled back into the evening, letting Aiko ask him questions about Suguru's tattoo designs, deflecting some. He laughed at jokes. He drank wine. He existed in a room with other people while some essential part of him remained tethered to someone so far away.
Later, when the party had wound down and Shoko had finally collapsed into bed, when the apartment was quiet again, Satoru would text Suguru. Something small and stupid, probably. A photo of the tree Shoko had decorated, or a joke about one of the party guests, or just a string of emojis that meant thinking about you.
And Suguru would respond, eventually, once his last client had left and he was closing up the shop. They would trade messages across the distance until one of them got tired or had to sleep. They would exist in that liminal space they'd built together– long distance but connected, apart but still somehow together.
For now, though, Satoru sat on the couch and felt the lingering warmth of Suguru's voice in his chest, and found that things were, miraculously, a little bit better.
–
Shoko had been glowing for approximately forty-eight hours straight when she finally told him. Not that Satoru hadn't noticed– he wasn't blind, and he'd known something was different about the way she moved through the apartment, the particular lightness in her voice when she talked to Utahime on the phone. But he'd let her have her moment before dropping the bomb.
They were in the kitchen making breakfast when she did it, casual and deliberate, the way she did important things.
"We're together," she said, setting down a mug of coffee with the kind of care that suggested she'd been rehearsing this. "Me and Utahime. Officially. As of last night."
Satoru had looked up from his toast and found himself genuinely smiling. Shoko deserved this– deserved someone who looked at her the way Utahime did, with that careful attention and genuine interest. He'd seen it coming from a mile away, but that didn't diminish the rightness of it.
"That's good," he'd said, and meant it entirely. "That's really good."
"Yeah?" Shoko had looked almost uncertain, which was rare for her.
"Yeah. She's good for you. You're good together."
She'd relaxed then, had actually beamed at him, and they'd spent the morning with Satoru listening to her talk about how it had happened, what Utahime had said, the specific way she'd felt when they'd kissed. It was sweet and genuine and everything Satoru wanted for her.
It was also, in a deeply unfair way, making him feel like his chest was slowly collapsing inward.
Because while Shoko was announcing her relationship, while she was glowing and present and in the same apartment as the person she loved, Satoru was still two hundred kilometres away from his. Still existing in that particular limbo where the people around him were moving forward and he was stuck in stasis, perpetually reaching across empty space.
That night, he'd scrolled through Haibara's Instagram stories with the kind of self-destructive intensity that suggested he hated himself. And maybe he did, a little bit.
The first story showed Suguru's shop– bright lights, the wooden counter, a client sitting in the chair with their arm extended. Suguru was visible in the background, concentrating on the work, his dark hair tied up loosely in a bun, sleeves rolled up to show the tattoos covering his forearms. His tattoos had always been beautiful– intricate and personal and uniquely his– but something about seeing them now, on the screen, made Satoru's stomach hurt.
The next story was of Nanami and Suguru laughing at something, standing in front of one of the shop's walls where Suguru kept his portfolio. Suguru's hair looked even longer than it had been last time Satoru had seen him in person. He had to be what, ten inches past his shoulders now? Satoru had always loved Suguru's hair, loved the way it fell down his back, loved running his fingers through it. The thought that Suguru's hair was growing longer in Kyoto, in a place where Satoru wasn't, made him think he might actually lose his mind.
The next story was just Suguru. Just Suguru alone for a moment, mid-laugh, his head thrown back, his smile bright and wide and absolutely beautiful. He was wearing a tank top– presumably at the shop, where it got warm with body heat and the lights overhead– and Satoru could see the full expanse of his shoulders, his biceps, the way his tattoos caught the light. Suguru was impossibly large and impossibly beautiful and impossibly far away.
Satoru had whispered to absolutely no one in his empty room: "Stop looking so good, asshole."
Then he'd closed the app and tried not to think about the fact that Suguru was probably surrounded by people, probably laughing with his friends, probably not thinking about the distance the way Satoru was thinking about it. Probably not lying in bed that night, wearing a hoodie that barely smelled like Suguru anymore, pressing his nose to the fabric anyway because he was pathetic and desperate and running out of ways to cope with missing someone.
He'd typed out a text: You'd come visit if I asked, right?
Then deleted it. Then typed it again. Then deleted it again.
He didn't send it.
–
Utahime's apartment was small and warm and absolutely packed with people by the time Satoru arrived. She'd decided to throw a Christmas party– just something casual, she'd said, just friends and wine and whatever snacks people brought. Shoko had volunteered them for that, which meant Satoru had spent the afternoon making something that was genuinely quite good, and then spent the evening actively hating every single person in attendance.
He'd positioned himself in a corner chair within thirty minutes of arrival, armed with a drink and the kind of body language that generally communicated do not approach. It wasn't working. Nothing was working. Nothing had been working for the past week, actually, not since Shoko had made her relationship official and the reminder of what he was missing had hit him like a physical thing.
The past week had been bad. Worse than bad. He'd been checking Haibara's stories every few hours like some kind of obsessed stalker, had been unable to focus on anything, had found his scent going thin and restless in a way that usually only happened when he was severely stressed or deeply sad or both. Shoko had tried to talk to him about it, but he'd just deflected, had blamed it on end-of-semester stress, had lied with the skill of someone who'd had practice.
He hadn't mentioned that every story Haibara posted felt like a small knife to his ribs. He hadn't mentioned the way his chest ached when he saw Suguru. He definitely hadn't mentioned that he was slowly losing the ability to function like a normal person.
"Come on, Satoru," Aiko called from across the room, waving a wine glass at him with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested she'd already had several. "Tell us about this mysterious boyfriend of yours."
Satoru took a long sip of his drink. "No."
"Why not?" This from Utahime, who was nestled against Shoko's side with the kind of proprietary comfort that would have been adorable if Satoru weren't so thoroughly miserable. "We want to know."
"He's not mysterious," Satoru said flatly. "He's just... busy."
"Busy," Aiko repeated sceptically. "Sure. Or maybe he doesn't exist and you've invented an entire relationship to avoid socialising."
"He exists," Satoru said. The irritation was sharp and immediate, cutting through his exhaustion. "He's just in Kyoto."
"What's he like?" someone asked– Satoru wasn't paying enough attention to identify who.
He opened his mouth, ready to snap out something biting that would probably burn at least one friendship and generally make the evening worse. Something about how it wasn't anyone's business, something about how sick he was of people treating his relationship like it was a novelty item for their entertainment. Something true and mean and likely to explode the entire gathering.
Then a voice came from behind him, low and amused and so familiar it made his entire nervous system reorganise itself in a fraction of a second.
"Me."
Satoru froze. The room went quiet in the way that rooms did when something significant had just happened and everyone was waiting to understand what. He turned his head slowly, half-convinced that he'd imagined it, that his brain had conjured Suguru out of sheer desperation and the particular cruelty of the universe.
But no.
Suguru was standing in the doorway, snow melting on his dark coat, his hair– longer than it had been, even longer than it looked in Haibara's stories– tied back loosely. He was absolutely, undeniably real. And he was smirking at Satoru with that particular expression that meant he'd been planning this, had clearly coordinated with Shoko, and had probably spent the entire train ride from Kyoto looking forward to this exact moment.
Satoru's entire body went still for approximately one second before everything short-circuited.
His omega– the part of him that had been restless and aching all week, the part that kept reaching for Suguru across the distance and finding nothing– suddenly went completely, utterly quiet. Like a dog that had been whining at a door suddenly hearing footsteps on the other side. Like recognition at a cellular level.
He was on his feet before he'd consciously made the decision to stand, was crossing the room before his brain had caught up to his body. People shifted out of his way without him really registering them. All he could focus on was Suguru– Suguru in his space, Suguru real and solid and present in a way that none of the phone calls had prepared him for.
Satoru crashed into him hard enough that Suguru actually laughed, stumbling back slightly, and then Satoru's arms were around his neck and Suguru's hands were coming up to catch him, were gripping his back, and Satoru could feel the solid reality of him through the winter coat. He buried his face against Suguru's shoulder and breathed him in– cedar and ink and leather and something that was just Suguru, something he recognised on a level that bypassed his rational mind entirely.
His scent was rising, he dimly realised. That particular bright, content omega scent that came when he felt safe, when he felt claimed, when the alpha he was bonded to was close enough to touch. He was probably giving off waves of it right now, was probably making this entire situation deeply obvious to everyone in the room, and he genuinely could not bring himself to care.
"You–" Satoru managed, pulling back just far enough to look at Suguru's face. His hands stayed on Suguru's shoulders, like he was afraid that if he let go, Suguru would disappear. "You didn't tell me–"
"Wanted to surprise you," Suguru said, and his voice had gone softer, lower, into that register he used when he was speaking directly to Satoru and not to the general world. His hands were steady on Satoru's waist, and Satoru could feel the particular kind of calm that Suguru carried with him– that stability that made everything in Satoru's nervous system slowly recalibrate from panic to contentment.
Satoru could smell him clearly now and it made his entire body relax in a way that nothing else could. This close, he could pick up the more subtle notes too: the specific detergent Suguru used, the cologne he wore occasionally, the particular scent of skin and warmth that was just him. Satoru's omega settled into it like coming home.
"You're really here," Satoru said, and his voice sounded small, uncertain. He reached up and touched Suguru's face like he needed to confirm the reality of it, his fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
"I'm really here," Suguru confirmed. He turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to Satoru's palm. "For almost two weeks. Closed the shop, rescheduled everything. Wanted to be here for you."
Satoru felt something crack open in his chest. He pulled Suguru closer, was suddenly acutely aware of just how much bigger Suguru was (had he been working out?)– the height difference, the breadth of his shoulders, the way Satoru fit against him like he was designed to do exactly that.
"Don't leave," Satoru said, and then immediately wanted to take it back because it sounded too desperate, too needy, too much like he couldn't handle the space between them.
"Not tonight," Suguru promised. "I'm not going anywhere tonight."
The room had gone completely silent. Satoru was only peripherally aware of everyone staring– of Aiko's mouth hanging open slightly, of the guy whose name he couldn't remember looking genuinely shocked, of Utahime's expression shifting into understanding. Someone whistled low under their breath.
Shoko deadpanned from across the room: "There's the alpha."
Satoru didn't particularly care that she'd said it, didn't care that everyone was gawking, didn't care about anything except the fact that Suguru was here and he was tall and beautiful and his arms were around Satoru and his hair smelled like the shampoo he always used. He was real. This was real.
"You're terrible," Satoru said, but he was smiling too much to make it convincing.
"You love it," Suguru replied, and kissed his forehead.
Someone made a soft noise that might have been a laugh or might have been amusement at watching Satoru absolutely melt under a single kiss to the forehead. Satoru didn't care. It was embarrassing and wonderful and he couldn't bring himself to stop.
They ended up on the sofa, positioned close enough that Satoru could rest his head on Suguru's shoulder without having to think about it. Suguru had one arm draped across his shoulders, and his other hand found Satoru's, lacing their fingers together in his lap. It was such a simple gesture, but it felt like an anchor point, like Suguru was making absolutely clear to everyone in the room that Satoru was his, that this claiming was mutual and deliberate and not going anywhere.
The conversation had resumed around them, though it had taken a distinctly different shape– now it was mostly people asking Suguru questions about his shop, about his tattoos, about how he and Satoru had met. Satoru could feel the slight rumble of Suguru's voice through his shoulder as he answered, could feel the way his hand never quite left Satoru's back when he wasn't actively speaking, like he was anchoring him, reminding him that he was there.
There was something deeply calming about having an alpha's scent close to him after weeks of distance. Satoru's had been restless, had been aching with a kind of low-level anxiety that came from extended separation. Now, with Suguru's solid warmth beside him and his cedar-and-ink scent wrapping around Satoru like a blanket, everything was settling. His heartbeat was slowing. His scent was softening into something more content, more grounded. It was almost like going into heat and then having the alpha nearby to manage it– not quite that intense, but that same fundamental sense of rightness that came when his body could finally relax knowing that his bonded mate was present.
"You're disgusting," Shoko announced at one point, pointing her wine glass at them with exaggerated disdain. "You're literally sickeningly adorable and it's ruining the ambiance."
Satoru flipped her off without lifting his head from Suguru's shoulder. "You coordinated this entire thing. You don't get to complain about the results."
"I can complain about whatever I want," Shoko said, but she was grinning, and she caught Utahime's eye in a way that suggested this had all been planned precisely to create this moment. "That's the best friend privilege."
Utahime, who was watching them, smiled softly. She reached over and squeezed Satoru's free hand– a gesture of solidarity that communicated I know exactly how good this feeling is.
They stayed at the party for another hour, though it felt less like a party and more like Satoru getting to reacquaint himself with Suguru in a semi-public setting. He was acutely aware of every point of contact between them– Suguru's arm around his shoulders, their legs pressed together, the way Suguru's hand would absently draw patterns on Satoru's arm while he talked to other people. It was grounding in a way that nothing else had been all week.
Around 11:30, Satoru caught Suguru's eye and tilted his head slightly toward the door. Suguru seemed to understand immediately– or maybe he was just ready to leave too– because he stood up and pulled Satoru with him, offering general goodbyes that were polite enough but clearly indicated that their evening was concluding.
–
The city was quiet in that particular way that Tokyo got on cold evenings. Snow was falling– not heavily, just those sparse flakes that seemed to drift more than fall– and the streets were lined with Christmas lights that reflected off the wet pavement. Satoru and Suguru walked with their hands intertwined, their pace unhurried, their breath visible in small clouds in front of them.
"So," Suguru said after a few minutes of companionable silence. "Rough week?"
"You have no right," Satoru replied, but without heat. "You could have told me. I could have prepared myself."
"Where's the fun in that?" Suguru squeezed his hand. "Besides, you looked like you were about to commit a felony. I was doing you a service."
"You were showing off."
"Maybe a little bit," Suguru conceded. He glanced down at Satoru, snow catching in his dark hair, his expression soft. "I missed you."
"I missed you too," Satoru said quietly.
They walked in silence for another block, and then Satoru spotted it: mistletoe hung from the sign of a small vendor's stall, strung up with Christmas lights. It was the kind of cliché that he would normally have found embarrassing, but tonight it felt like exactly what he needed.
"Stop," he said, tugging on Suguru's hand.
"What?" Suguru stopped obligingly, looking around to see what had caught his attention.
"Rules are rules," Satoru said, pointing up at the mistletoe.
Suguru laughed– a real, genuine laugh that made his entire face light up. "You're ridiculous."
"Shut up and kiss me."
So Suguru did. But he did it slowly, deliberately, like he was taking his time to relearn the geography of Satoru's mouth. He tilted Satoru's face up toward him with one hand, the other settling on the small of his back, and kissed him with the kind of focus that suggested this was the most important thing he'd done all day. His lips were warm despite the cold, and he tasted like the wine he'd been drinking and something uniquely Suguru that Satoru's body recognised even after the distance of the past weeks.
Satoru's hands came up to Suguru's shoulders, then higher, running through the long dark hair he'd been missing. It was even longer than he'd thought– it fell well past Suguru's shoulders now, and Satoru couldn't resist threading his fingers through it, pulling gently. He felt Suguru make a soft sound against his mouth, felt him deepen the kiss in response, and something in Satoru's chest twisted with want.
When Suguru deepened the kiss, pressing Satoru closer to his chest, the relief of it was almost physical. This was what his body had been craving all week: not just the visual of Suguru, not just his voice through a phone, but this. The actual weight of him, the actual warmth, the actual ability to touch him and have him touch back.
Snow was falling around them, melting into their hair, and Satoru was vaguely aware of being cold and also completely, utterly warm. Suguru's hands were moving– one staying at the small of his back, the other coming up to cradle his face, his thumb brushing across Satoru's cheekbone with infinite gentleness. It was a gesture that communicated possession and care in equal measure, the kind of thing an alpha did without thinking when his omega was near.
Satoru pulled away just enough to breathe, just far enough that their noses were almost touching. Then, Satoru kissed him again because he had to, because his omega was practically vibrating with contentment and the need to keep claiming this person, to keep confirming that they were real and present and not going to disappear the moment Satoru looked away. This kiss was less controlled than the last one– it was hungry and a little desperate, and Satoru could feel Suguru respond to it with a low sound in his throat that made Satoru's knees actually weak.
"You planned that," Suguru said when they finally broke apart, both of them slightly breathless. His hair was coming loose from its tie, and there was snow in it, and he looked absolutely wrecked in the best possible way.
"Maybe," Satoru replied, and kissed him again.
They didn't resume walking immediately. They stood under the mistletoe for another moment, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the cold air. Satoru's entire body felt warm despite the snow, felt tethered and present in a way that had been absent all week. He let himself just exist in this moment: Suguru's hands on him, Suguru's scent in the air, Suguru's heartbeat steady under his hand where he'd placed it against Suguru's chest.
"We should go," Suguru said eventually, reluctance evident in every syllable. "It's cold, and you're wearing a light coat, and I don't want you to get sick."
That was so perfectly Suguru– concerned about Satoru's wellbeing even in the middle of making out under a street vendor's mistletoe– that Satoru almost kissed him again just for it.
"Just a little bit longer," Satoru requested instead.
Suguru indulged him. He pulled Satoru close and let him rest his head against his chest, and they stood under the mistletoe while snow accumulated on Suguru's hair and the city hummed around them. Satoru could hear Suguru's heartbeat, steady and sure, and the particular relief of that– of knowing that someone existed in the world, that he was real and solid and here– was almost overwhelming.
They walked to Satoru's apartment hand-in-hand, taking the long way because neither of them was quite ready for the evening to end. By the time they arrived, it was well past midnight, and both of them were slightly damp from the snow and flushed from the cold. Satoru's face genuinely hurt from smiling, which was a complaint he was absolutely not making.
–
The apartment was quiet and dark when they entered, which meant Shoko was still at Utahime's, probably staying over. Satoru didn't even care. He was too busy being aware of Suguru shedding his coat, too busy watching the way Suguru moved through the space with the kind of comfort that came from having spent enough time here that it felt familiar.
"Go," Suguru said, already heading toward the hallway. "I'll make hot chocolate."
"Stay with me," Satoru requested.
Suguru smiled– soft and indulgent. "I'll be in the kitchen, ‘Toru. I'm not going anywhere."
So Satoru showered quickly, trying not to overthink the fact that Suguru was in his apartment, was making hot chocolate in his kitchen, was present in a way that the phone calls and FaceTime dates had never quite managed. When he emerged from the bathroom, he found Suguru still in his work clothes, moving around the kitchen with the kind of ease that suggested he'd been thinking about this moment, planning it, wanting it with the same desperation that Satoru had been experiencing.
Satoru didn't go back to his room to change. Instead, he opened the drawer where he kept Suguru's hoodies– the ones Suguru had left over the course of their relationship, the ones Satoru had deliberately accumulated and hidden away– and pulled one of the larger ones over his head. It swallowed him slightly, the sleeves falling past his fingertips, the hem hitting mid-thigh. It smelled like Suguru in a way that was so overwhelming that Satoru had to actually take a moment to breathe.
"You're wearing one of my hoodies," Suguru observed from where he was heating milk on the stove.
"I might have stolen several of them," Satoru admitted.
"Yeah?" Suguru was smiling, that soft private smile he got when Satoru did something that delighted him. "Kept them in your room?"
"How else was I supposed to cope with the distance?"
Suguru didn't answer immediately. He finished heating the milk, poured it into mugs where he'd already added chocolate, stirred carefully. Then he set one mug in front of Satoru and kept one for himself, and leaned against the counter, looking at Satoru with an intensity that made his stomach flip.
"I could have visited more," Suguru said finally. "I know I couldn't always make it work with the shop, but I could have tried harder."
"You came when you could," Satoru said. "And now you're here. That's what matters."
"Is it?" Suguru's voice had gone quieter.
Satoru set down his mug and moved around the counter to where Suguru was standing. He cupped Suguru's face in his hands and kissed him softly.
"You can't fix the distance," Satoru said against Suguru's lips. "Not right now. But you're here now, and that's everything."
Suguru made a small sound that might have been a noise of protest or might have been agreement, and then he was kissing Satoru back, his hands coming around to pull him close. It was a different kiss than the one under the mistletoe– this one was less about the romantic gesture and more about a kind of desperate reassurance, a way of confirming that they were both present, both real, both willing to keep doing this despite the distance and the longing and the way it sometimes felt impossible.
They made their way to Satoru's bedroom, kissing lazily between sips of hot chocolate, Satoru's hands finding the warm skin under Suguru's shirt, Suguru's hands staying mostly on Satoru's back like he was afraid to let go. At some point, Suguru had shucked off his work clothes and pulled on another one of his hoodies that Satoru had stolen– this one smaller, fitting him properly– and they'd ended up tangled together on Satoru's bed, drinking their hot chocolate and existing in comfortable silence.
They fell asleep like that, tangled together in Satoru's bed, his head on Suguru's chest, Suguru's arm around him, both of them wrapped in stolen hoodies that smelled like each other now. The distance didn't disappear just because Suguru was here. It would still exist when he left, would still be a problem they'd have to navigate. But for now, in this moment, with Suguru's heartbeat steady under his ear and the snow falling outside the window, Satoru could almost believe that they could make this work.
Almost.
–
Tokyo in late December was a particular kind of beautiful. The snow fell in light flurries that melted almost immediately, and the streets were crowded with people doing last-minute shopping, their breath visible in small clouds. Suguru had been in the city for five days, and Satoru had taken it as a personal challenge to drag him to every single market in central Tokyo.
"We need matching gloves," Satoru announced at the third stall, holding up a pair of cream-coloured knit gloves next to a pair in charcoal grey. They were objectively terrible– lumpy and impractical– but they had tiny embroidered stars on them, which Satoru apparently found deeply significant.
"We really don't," Suguru said, but he was already reaching for his wallet.
"Too late," Satoru said brightly, already handing cash to the vendor. "Already paid."
Suguru looked at the gloves with the expression of someone who'd just realised his boyfriend had absolutely no regard for his input in purchasing decisions. It was fond, though, the way he looked at Satoru. Indulgent. Like he couldn't quite bring himself to care about the ridiculousness of matching star gloves when Satoru was so thoroughly pleased with himself. They'd done this dance so many times over the past week– Satoru wanting something, Suguru pretending reluctance, Suguru ultimately giving in because watching Satoru's face light up was apparently worth any amount of embarrassment.
They continued through the market with Satoru pulling him from stall to stall– food vendors, decorations, a woman selling handmade jewellery who Satoru flirted with until she gave him a discount on a simple silver chain. Suguru watched the entire interaction with barely concealed amusement, waiting until they'd walked far enough away to murmur, "You really have no shame, do you?"
"I prefer to think of it as strategic charm," Satoru replied, tugging him toward a photo booth that was somehow still operational in the middle of the crowded market. "Come on."
"Absolutely not," Suguru said.
Five minutes later, they were crammed into the tiny booth, Satoru's phone out and recording. The first strip of photos showed Satoru making ridiculous faces while Suguru looked vaguely bemused, the kind of expression that suggested he'd resigned himself to this particular indignity. By the second strip, Satoru had leaned back against Suguru's chest, and Suguru had– presumably thinking no one was looking–pressed a kiss to the side of Satoru's neck, right where his jaw met his neck. Satoru's face went completely red on camera, and he could be seen biting his own smile to keep from grinning like an idiot.
"You're going to delete those," Suguru said as they exited the booth, but there was no real conviction behind it.
"Absolutely not," Satoru replied, immediately scrolling through the photos with possessive intensity. "These are evidence of your weakness for me."
"I have no weakness for you."
"Uh-huh," Satoru said, but he was already sending the photos to himself, already making mental plans to keep them forever and look at them on nights when Suguru was away and the distance felt like too much. He took Suguru's hand as they walked, their new matching gloves occasionally bumping together, and thought that if this was what happiness felt like, he never wanted to be without it.
They spent the rest of the afternoon at the market, Satoru stopping Suguru occasionally to take photos– Suguru laughing at something a vendor said, genuine and unguarded in a way that made Satoru's chest ache. Suguru's hair caught in the wind, strands of it flying everywhere despite the fact that he'd tied it back that morning. Suguru looking at a piece of art with that focused intensity he usually reserved for tattoo designs, his head tilted slightly, his expression contemplative.
Every photo seemed to capture something Satoru didn't want to forget: the specific way Suguru existed in the world, present and real and here. By the time they left, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange that reflected off the wet pavement, and Satoru was warm and content in a way that had nothing to do with the crowd and everything to do with having Suguru's hand in his and knowing he had at least another week before reality came knocking.
The next morning, they woke up late and moved slowly through the apartment like they'd been filled with honey. Suguru eventually made his way to the kitchen to start on pasta, and Satoru followed because he wanted to be wherever Suguru was, because watching him move through a space was somehow interesting enough to occupy his entire attention.
Suguru was shirtless in the kitchen, which Satoru considered a personal attack on his ability to concentrate on anything, and he'd somehow convinced Suguru that this was acceptable attire for cooking by the simple strategy of staring at him until Suguru gave up arguing.
"You're supposed to be helping," Suguru said from where he was standing at the stove, stirring something that smelled absolutely incredible.
Satoru was ostensibly chopping vegetables for the pasta sauce, but he'd mostly been standing to the side, phone in hand, filming. He'd titled the video in his head already: "This is my domestic alpha in his natural habitat, unaware he's being observed."
"I am helping," Satoru replied. "I'm appreciating the view. That's a form of support."
Suguru didn't even look up from where he was stirring the sauce, but his shoulders tensed slightly, like he was fighting a smile. "You're a menace."
"A menace who loves you," Satoru countered, making sure to get a good angle of Suguru's shoulder muscles as he moved, the way the light caught on his tattoos. This was the kind of content he could watch forever– Suguru concentrating, the slight furrow between his brows, the way he moved through the kitchen with efficient grace. The long dark hair that fell down his back, some of it having escaped from the tie he'd put it in. The tattoos visible on his arms and shoulders, intricate and personal and uniquely his.
"Put the phone down," Suguru said finally, though there was amusement in his voice. "Actually help me."
Satoru obliged, mostly because he wanted to be close to Suguru anyway. He set the phone on the counter– still recording, because he was shameless– and moved to stand beside him. Suguru handed him a wooden spoon to stir while he attended to something else, and Satoru felt absurdly domestic, absurdly happy about the mundane task of stirring pasta sauce while standing close enough to feel Suguru's body heat.
"You're not even stirring," Suguru observed after a moment. "You're just standing there."
"I'm creating atmosphere," Satoru said. "Background ambiance. Really adds to the vibe of the piece."
Suguru shook his head, but he was definitely smiling now. He took the spoon from Satoru and set it down, then pulled him close by the waist. Satoru's back pressed against Suguru's chest– warm and solid and real– and he could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Suguru's chin came to rest on top of his head.
"You're ridiculous," Suguru murmured against Satoru's hair.
"Yeah, but you love it," Satoru replied, tilting his head back to look up at Suguru.
Suguru was quiet for a moment, studying him with those dark eyes that seemed to hold entire universes. "Yeah. I really do."
They stood like that for longer than was strictly necessary for sauce-monitoring, and Satoru thought about how this– this small, quiet moment, the mundane domesticity of it– was what he'd been missing during the distance. Not just the grand gestures or the kisses, but this. Suguru in his kitchen. Suguru's arm around him. Suguru being here, solid and real and making pasta sauce while Satoru pretended to document it for posterity but was actually just existing in the moment.
Later, after they'd eaten and Satoru had deleted the video (well, saved it to a private folder where Suguru would absolutely never find it, probably), they fell onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and lazy afternoon contentment. Satoru found himself tracing the tattoos on Suguru's chest– he'd changed his shirt, much to Satoru's visible and theatrical disappointment– following the lines with his fingertips like he was reading braille.
"What's this one?" Satoru asked, pointing to a design on Suguru's ribs.
"Done it when I was nineteen," Suguru said, his voice low and warm. "Thought I was very artistic and deep. In retrospect, it's a bit pretentious."
"It's beautiful," Satoru said, and meant it entirely. All of Suguru's tattoos were beautiful– they told the story of his life, his growth, everything he'd learned and wanted to remember. Satoru wanted to know all of them, wanted to hear the stories behind each mark on his skin. "Tell me about this one too."
Suguru indulged him for hours, each tattoo accompanied by a story– some funny, some serious, all of them important enough that he'd decided to put them on his body permanently. Satoru listened to every word and asked follow-up questions, and eventually they ended up half-asleep, tangled together on the couch, Satoru draped across Suguru's chest like a cat, thinking about nothing in particular except how nice this was. How completely, utterly nice.
The next morning, Satoru woke up before Suguru, which was rare enough that he took a moment to just look at him. Suguru was sprawled across most of the bed, his hair spread out on the pillow like he'd been having a particularly active dream, his face soft with sleep in a way that he never allowed when awake. Satoru traced lazy circles on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and sure beneath his palm, and thought: Yeah. I really needed this. Not just the physical proximity, though that was part of it. But this– Suguru vulnerable in sleep, Satoru allowed to just exist in the space of watching him.
When Suguru woke up, it was slow and gradual, his eyes opening before the rest of him seemed to catch up. He looked at Satoru with the kind of contentment that suggested he'd been having a very good dream, and reached up without speaking to pull Satoru closer. He pressed his face into Satoru's hair and just breathed, and Satoru let himself sink into it completely.
Later, in the kitchen making coffee, Suguru wrapped his arms around Satoru from behind while he waited for the water to boil. He was still half-asleep, moving slowly, and he nuzzled the mark at Satoru's throat– not quite a hickey, just a place where he'd kissed repeatedly enough over the past week that there was a faint mark– and Satoru made a halfhearted noise of protest.
"You're obsessed with me," Satoru said, but he was leaning back into Suguru's embrace, not pulling away.
"Obviously," Suguru replied, unbothered, pressing another kiss to the mark like he was claiming it. "This is mine."
"The mark or me?"
"Both," Suguru said, and Satoru felt something warm unfurl in his chest at the casualness of it, at the certainty. No hesitation. No doubt.
By the afternoon, Satoru was deliberately acting sullen for reasons that had nothing to do with anything real and everything to do with wanting Suguru's attention in that specific way that came from being an omega who'd been separated from his alpha for too long. He turned his back to Suguru in bed and huffed, pretending to be absorbed in his phone when he was really just staring blankly at the screen, waiting.
It didn't take long. Suguru's low voice came from behind him: "You done sulking, baby?"
Satoru hummed noncommittally, which meant absolutely not, and which Suguru clearly understood because within seconds he'd slid a hand under Satoru's shirt and was murmuring something soft that Satoru couldn't quite hear but also didn't need to hear because the tone was enough. Soft. Indulgent. Like Suguru knew exactly what he was doing and didn't mind one bit that Satoru was being deliberately difficult just for the sake of getting his attention.
"Come here," Suguru said, and Satoru gave in immediately, turning around to press his face against Suguru's neck. Suguru's arms came around him, and they fell back into that tangle of limbs that seemed to be their default state when they were in bed together.
"I'm only doing this because I'm cold," Satoru said, which was a transparent lie. It was absolutely warm under the blankets, and the apartment was heated to a comfortable temperature.
"Sure," Suguru said, and he was smiling against Satoru's hair, the movement obvious. "Whatever you say."
On December 31st, they spent most of the day cooking elaborate meals that took far longer than necessary and tasted infinitely better because of it. Satoru insisted on making dessert– which meant mostly getting in Suguru's way while Suguru actually cooked– and by evening, they were standing on the balcony with glasses of cheap champagne, watching the city lights flicker to life as darkness fell over Tokyo.
There was a quiet moment between them, the kind where words weren't necessary. Satoru was pressed against Suguru's side, Suguru's arm around his shoulders, and they were just existing in the space of waiting for midnight. The air was cold enough that Satoru could see his breath, and snow was starting to fall again, those light flurries that would probably melt by morning.
"We survived a year apart," Satoru said softly, watching the city below them.
Suguru was quiet for a moment, considering this. "Never again."
It wasn't a question, and Satoru didn't take it as one. He just turned his head up toward Suguru and kissed him– slow and smiling, full of promise and relief and the love that came from missing someone intensely and then having them back. It was the kind of kiss that said everything Satoru couldn't quite articulate: I needed you. I missed you. I never want to be this far from you again.
Then the fireworks started. The sky lit up in explosions of colour, brilliant and loud and everywhere, and Satoru and Suguru barely looked at them. They were too caught up in each other, in the kiss that had started slow and unhurried and had gradually become more urgent– teeth and relief and laughter all tangled together. Suguru's hands came up to grip Satoru's waist, pressing him closer to the railing, and Satoru's fingers threaded through Suguru's long hair, pulling gently.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Satoru managed: "Think that's supposed to be good luck."
"It already is," Suguru replied, and kissed him again before the fireworks had even finished, like he couldn't stand to be apart from Satoru's mouth for more than a few seconds.
They stayed on the balcony long after midnight, wrapped up in blankets and each other, watching the celebrations continue across the city. Suguru's chin rested on top of Satoru's head, and his arms stayed wrapped around him like he didn't want to let go. Satoru didn't want to think about the fact that tomorrow was January 1st, which meant Suguru's time was running out. He'd leave on the 3rd– that was the plan. Back to Kyoto, back to the shop, back to the distance that would stretch between them like an ocean.
But for now, the year was new, and Suguru was here, and that was enough.
On January 1st, they went to the cinema for their yearly tradition. Since they were fourteen, Satoru and Suguru and Shoko had dragged themselves to see whatever old Christmas film was still playing in theatres during the first few days of January, usually something saccharine and earnest and absolutely perfect for their purposes. It was ridiculous and inefficient and they loved it with the kind of unshakeable devotion that came from decades of friendship.
The film was some adaptation of a Christmas carol, saccharine and earnest and exactly what they needed. Satoru was tucked against Suguru's side within the first ten minutes, Suguru's arm draped across the back of his chair in a way that managed to look casual but was actually completely possessive. Shoko, sitting on Satoru's other side, kept throwing popcorn at them and muttering "nauseating" under her breath, but she was smiling when she did it, which undermined her entire complaint.
At one point, Satoru deliberately reached into Shoko's popcorn container and tossed a piece at Suguru, who caught it in his mouth without even looking, and Shoko made a sound that was approximately 70% mock outrage and 30% genuine amusement.
"You two are absolutely unbearable," she announced, loud enough that several people in nearby seats turned to look. "This is disgusting. I'm being subjected to a war crime at the cinema."
"You love us," Satoru said, which was true. He could see it in the way Shoko looked at them– exasperated, yes, but also fond. She'd been the one to orchestrate Suguru's surprise arrival at Utahime's party, after all. She'd known how badly Satoru needed this, and she'd made it happen. And now she was here, eating her popcorn and complaining about them while clearly enjoying the fact that her best friend was happy, that her best friend was here and devoted and not going anywhere any time soon.
By the end of the film, they were all slightly emotional for reasons that had nothing to do with the plot and everything to do with the particular nostalgia of old traditions. They walked out of the cinema with Satoru smug and Shoko groaning about "nauseating displays of affection," and Suguru with his hand in Satoru's, completely unbothered by Shoko's commentary. They grabbed dinner at a small ramen place that had been their favourite since university, and Shoko spent the entire meal making increasingly elaborate complaints about how cute they were, which seemed to be her way of expressing affection.
"Same time next year?" Shoko asked as they stood outside the cinema later, the evening air cold and sharp.
"Obviously," Satoru said.
January 3rd arrived too quickly. Satoru woke up that morning acutely aware that this was the last day. Suguru's train was leaving at six PM, which meant they had approximately eight hours before the distance returned, before Satoru went back to missing him across too much space, before the phone calls and FaceTime dates resumed their place as the primary method of contact.
Satoru clung to him a little too tightly at breakfast. He was pretending to be nonchalant about the whole situation, making jokes about how excited he was to get his apartment back to himself, but he was definitely not nonchalant. He was clingy and slightly petulant and had absolutely no plans to let Suguru leave if he could help it. He kept finding excuses for Suguru to stay– let's watch one more film, let's go to that place you wanted to try, let's just stay in bed for another hour.
"We should get to the station early," Suguru said around mid-afternoon, and Satoru made a sound that was approximately halfway between agreement and protest. It was agreement in theory but protest in practice, which meant Satoru would drag his feet through getting ready, would walk slowly to the train station, would do everything in his power to delay the inevitable separation.
They took their time getting ready, the kind of slow, deliberate preparation that came from not wanting to rush toward a goodbye. By the time they left the apartment, it was already 4:30 PM, the sun setting early the way it did in January. They took the bus to the station holding hands, and Satoru was very studiously not thinking about the fact that this train was not the train Suguru would be leaving on, but it was still a train, and trains were currently his least favourite thing. Trains meant separation. Trains meant distance.
The station was crowded– it was early evening on January 3rd, and everyone seemed to be either coming back from holiday or leaving to go back to their regular lives. Suguru had his bag slung over his shoulder, and he looked every bit the part of someone about to leave, which made Satoru want to throw a tantrum like a toddler. He was already mentally preparing his face for the goodbye– the brave smile, the "I'm fine" he didn't believe, the wave as the train pulled away.
They were standing on the platform, Satoru being deliberately difficult about the whole goodbye situation, shuffling his feet and not quite meeting Suguru's eyes, when Suguru said casually: "Missed it."
"Missed what?" Satoru asked, not immediately catching up because his brain was still halfway through composing a goodbye speech that would be appropriately noble and only slightly desperate.
"My train," Suguru said, with the tone of someone discussing the weather. "It was supposed to leave ten minutes ago."
Satoru's brain took a moment to process this information. "You– what?"
"Missed it," Suguru repeated, looking entirely unbothered about the situation. "Guess I'll have to stay another night."
Satoru felt something in his chest unclench so violently that it was almost painful. He stared at Suguru, trying to determine if this was a joke or if Suguru had genuinely just decided to throw his entire schedule into chaos for one more night. "You can't just miss your train," Satoru said weakly. "The shop–"
"I called Nanami," Suguru said. "He said it's fine. He can handle the shop for another day." Suguru was looking at him with that soft expression he got sometimes, like Satoru was the most important thing in the world. "I'm not ready to leave yet."
Satoru felt his eyes get warm. "You're the worst," he said, but he was already smiling, already reaching out to grab Suguru's hand. He pulled Suguru close right there in the middle of the crowded train station, and kissed him like they weren't surrounded by dozens of people, like the world wasn't watching. Like this small gesture of Suguru choosing to stay meant everything.
They walked back to Satoru's apartment hand in hand, the city lights flickering off the snow, the evening cold and clear and perfect. Satoru thought, distantly, that he could die happy right now.
"I'm going to miss you," Satoru said quietly as they walked, even though it was still tomorrow before they had to face that reality.
"I know," Suguru replied. "I'm going to miss you too."
"But you're staying tonight?"
"I'm staying tonight," Suguru confirmed. "And tomorrow we'll figure out what comes next."
Satoru wanted to ask what he meant by that, wanted to push for specifics, but he didn't. He just squeezed Suguru's hand and let them walk through the snow together, two figures against the backdrop of Tokyo's winter lights, and tried not to think about the distance that would return tomorrow. Tonight was enough. Tonight, Suguru was here.
They didn't do anything special that night. They went back to the apartment, made tea, fell into Satoru's bed in pajamas. Suguru held him close, his chin resting on top of Satoru's head, and Satoru traced lazy patterns on his chest through his shirt. It was domestic and quiet and perfect in its simplicity.
"I'm serious about figuring this out," Suguru said eventually, his voice low in the darkness. "The distance. Us. I don't want to do another year of this."
"I know," Satoru said. "Me neither."
"We'll figure it out," Suguru said, and it sounded like a promise. Not specific, not mapped out, but real. "I promise."
Satoru fell asleep thinking about possibilities– about what the future might look like when they weren't separated by two hundred kilometres. He didn't let himself hope too hard, but he let himself hope a little bit. And when he woke up the next morning to Suguru still there, still present, still his, he decided that was enough.
For now, it was more than enough.