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Satoru stared at the ceiling as it slowly spun above him, waiting for the motion to settle. He had no idea what had triggered this haze. Was it the blend of gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth Kiyotaka had mixed for them a few hours earlier, or the overwhelming orgasm Suguru had given him five minutes ago? The two sensations blurred together until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
When his vision steadied slightly, Satoru drew a long breath. “I think we should try having actual sex.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the chill of his skin after lying bare against the uncarpeted floor.
“That was actual sex.”
“I mean sober sex. You know, when we’re actually conscious. No booze involved.”
“Huh? Why?” Suguru lifted his head, eyebrows knitting together as if Satoru had just suggested throwing a puppy off a cliff.
“Well …” Satoru paused for a moment, searching for the right words. “When I came, it felt like I was seeing fireworks, hearing angels sing, waves crashing on a beach, volcanoes erupting, rockets launching, summer cicadas buzzing, auroras shimmering over the North Pole… and I don’t even know what else.” He shook his head and let out a small laugh. “It was weird. In a good way. But still weird.”
Suguru frowned again, which only made Satoru laugh harder.
“What I’m saying is, all of that? There’s no way it all came from you—”
“Was it the waves or the volcano that offended you?”
“All of it. That mind-blowing orgasm? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t you. It had to be the drinks. Sorry if that hurts your feelings.”
“I’m not offended,” Suguru replied lightly, the crease in his forehead fading.
Satoru blinked at him a few times before closing his eyes. It was already eleven at night. Rain fell steadily outside, tapping against the windows. He was exhausted. A part of him wanted to fall asleep right there, not caring how wrinkled his clothes would look the next morning. But his back was growing cold and sore against the floor. And besides, there had never been any nonsense about staying over after sex. There were always boundaries between them—unspoken, but firmly observed.
If you want to stop, we can stop,” Suguru said after a yawn. He rolled onto his side, his slender body shifting until his face was level with Satoru’s thigh. His fingers slowly traced the dragon’s tail tattoo there. “We can end it now. This’ll be the last time.” His warm breath brushed against Satoru’s knee, his dark hair grazing his skin.
“Same old line,” Satoru scoffed. “We’ve been having our ‘last time’ for months. Since the very beginning, we kept saying it was just once. Just one time and never again. Every single time. And look where that got us.”
“Satoru, if you really want to end it, then let’s end it. I mean it.”
In truth, it would be easy. There was no coercion here, no promises, no strings attached. They drank, they got drunk, they slept together. Suguru wasn’t Satoru’s first partner, and Satoru certainly wasn’t Suguru’s. They had known each other for years. There was no chance of some sudden, dramatic love blooming between them like in cheap romance novels. Ending this would not be difficult.
And yet, the fact that Satoru genuinely enjoyed sex with Suguru complicated everything.
He had slept with other people before. Some of those encounters had involved alcohol too. None of them had ever come close to this.
It was too good to make sense.
Suguru lightly bumped his forehead against the curve of Satoru’s waist. “Casual sex with you wouldn’t be that great. No offense.”
“I’m not offended.” Satoru shrugged. “That’s kind of the point. We could try Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Or a harm reduction approach. God, I sound ridiculous saying that out loud. But yeah, something like that. I read about it in a psychology book once.”
Suguru narrowed his eyes. “You read a psychology book about people who need therapy because they keep drunkenly sleeping with their friends? Hold on—you read a psychology book? And actually finished it? Do you even know what you’re talking about?”
“Yes and no.” A psychology book? Who needed one when your own life already felt like a failed case study? Satoru had skimmed it out of boredom in Megumi’s car while the boy had pulled over to find a public restroom. “I know the basics. CBT’s about identifying automatic thoughts before drinking, challenging distorted beliefs like ‘It’s meaningless’ versus ‘I always overthink it afterward,’ replacing them with more accurate ones, and then setting behavioural boundaries. Like not drinking alone together.”
“But we barely drink alone together. Like tonight—well, technically last night—we were at Yaga-san's daughter's wedding reception.”
“Okay. Then harm reduction—”
“Enough. So you do want to stop?” Suguru asked casually. He didn’t sound upset in the slightest.
“Not exactly. But I think we probably should.”
Half of Satoru insisted he should end it. The other half quietly mourned the thought. What he truly wanted to know was whether the pleasure came from Geto Suguru—or from Glen Moray.
He counted to three in his head before pushing himself up, a dull ache spreading from his lower back to the base of his skull. “We should’ve done this on the sofa or the bed. This cowgirl stuff is wrecking my back.” He tilted his head back and groaned.
“We did start on the sofa,” Suguru replied, reaching for his crumpled shirt near the wardrobe.
“And you complained it was too narrow,” Satoru corrected. He vaguely remembered Suguru grumbling while trying to straddle him. As he stood, the world tilted again, like it had been placed back on a carousel. He grabbed Suguru’s shoulder for balance until everything stopped spinning.
“So?” Satoru asked, their faces barely a foot apart.
“I think you’re overthinking this. We just sleep together. There’s nothing else going on between us.”
Satoru clicked his tongue. “You sure? Let me remind you of something. You remember that girl from my bar? The really pretty one. Shoulder-length black hair. She’s been sending you signals for ages. Remember?”
Suguru nodded slowly.
“That night we ran into her at the bar, she came up to you. But you didn’t take her home.” Satoru smirked, casting him a sideways glance. “You took me home instead. You get what that means?”
Suguru’s eyes widened—far wider than Satoru had ever seen. Earlier, he’d looked like someone being asked to throw away a puppy. Now he looked like a kid who had just been told Santa wasn’t real.
“… Okay.” Suguru inhaled deeply. “Yeah. Maybe we should try sober sex.”
Satoru burst out laughing again.
Geto Suguru was one of the attending anesthesiologists at Tokyo Metropolitan Hospital—a private hospital situated across a wide arterial road from the sleek glass façade of the Gojo Group headquarters. Between the two buildings stood a narrow banner-printing shop, its sun-faded tarpaulin flapping stubbornly against the wind, as though resisting the quiet tension that passed between the institutions on either side.
Suguru had worked there for nearly eight years. He had known about the Gojo Group long before that.
Officially, the company specialized in regional logistics and property management. Unofficially, it served as the financial backbone of the Gojo-gumi. Most people pretended not to know. Suguru had never been particularly interested in pretending.
Their first real conversation happened in the Emergency Room.
Satoru had collapsed just outside the burger restaurant down the block—midday, in public, inconveniently human.
By the time Suguru reached the ER bay, the man was pale, half-conscious, and visibly irritated by the indignity of it all.
“You gave me quite a scare,” Suguru said evenly, adjusting the IV line with practiced hands. “Dr. Ieri might blame me if her best friend fainted within walking distance of my department.”
Satoru’s eyelids fluttered. “I’m … in the hospital?”
“If I told you, this is hell, you might attempt to negotiate your way out of it.”
A faint breath—almost a laugh.
“What happened?”
“The actual version? Your blood sugar dropped to 34 mg/dL—normal is around 75 to 110. That qualifies as severe hypoglycemia. I also checked your labs just now—your hemoglobin is low due to anemia. Your cardiac output dropped because of dehydration. The low glucose level deprived your brain of oxygen, which eventually led to syncope.” He paused briefly. “In simpler terms—you fainted because you’re exhausted.”
“That sounds… complicated.” Satoru kept his gaze on the ceiling lights, as though weighing whether the explanation was worth disputing.
“It is. I have no idea what you’ve been up to these past few days to end up like this. You’re still young--and you’re the wakagashira of the Gojo Group, aren’t you?”
“Ah … you knew?”
“Shoko told me,” He shrugged, his voice shifting from professional to casual. “And with those tattoos of yours, it’s not exactly subtle.”
“There was a case I needed to finish yesterday.”
“Oh.” Suguru scribbled something onto his chart.
“So I … had to stay up and skipped a few meals. It’s not like I was doing anything reckless. I was just being professional.”
“Being professional means being capable of taking care of yourself, Gojo-san.”
“Don’t you ever get sick, Doctor?”
Suguru tilted his head slightly. “I do.”
“Exactly. Even doctors get sick. So what chance do I have?”
Satoru expected him to take offense, but instead Suguru let out a friendlier laugh than before.
“I like your sense of humor.”
“I was just teasing you.”
“I like your teasing,” Suguru replied lightly. “This Saturday night—would you be willing to attend a gathering at Dirty Habit; newest izakaya near the mega donki Asakusa. It’s on me. One of my residents just completed his term.”
“Oh, Shoko told me about that yesterday.” Satoru reached to touch the IV line in his wrist, but Suguru slapped his hand away. “Am I even allowed to drink after collapsing like this?”
“Stay here until …” Suguru glanced at the watch on his wrist—something Satoru found unnecessary when a phone would have sufficed. His hands were so pretty, anyway. “Until four in the afternoon. Then you can have the IV removed and go home. And no, you’re not allowed to drink. But you may attend.”
“What’s the point of going if I can’t drink?”
“To show your face? It’ll be good for your reputation.”
“Do I even have a good reputation to maintain?”
Suguru shook his head, then nodded. “At least for the sake of the person inviting you.”
“Alright,” Satoru said. “I’ll maintain it—for you.”
Their first gathering together was not unpleasant.
Satoru limited himself to a single glass of lemonade that evening. Still, he had the rare privilege of witnessing Dr. Suguru, thoroughly under the influence of alcohol, attempt to sing O mio babbino caro—his voice faltering spectacularly in the middle of the bar.
It was, without question, an unforgettable experience.
Their second meeting—one that was quite intimate and private—did not take place in the middle of a nomikai, but rather back in the Emergency Room
Satoru stood in the center of the Tokyo Metropolitan Hospital ER, watching the staff scramble to manage the aftermath of the mess he’d brought to their doorstep. Eight men, bloodied and battered, had turned the ward into a frenzy. His subordinates were the type who got loud when they were hurting, their groans and curses filling the air.
He had just returned from a grueling, failed negotiation with the Iwazu-gumi. Technically, he wasn't supposed to be on the front lines anymore. He didn't need to get his hands dirty, even if it wasn't his own blood staining his sleeves. The meeting should have been a clean exchange, but there is always a faction too quick to draw a blade or pull a trigger. Now, eight of his men—including Megumi—had been forced through these double doors.
Then, Satoru saw Suguru.
He emerged from a side corridor, his stride purposeful but calm. His long hair was tied back in a practical knot—a stark departure from the relaxed style he wore off-duty. He had already changed into clean scrubs, sleeves rolled up, surgical clogs replacing his street shoes. He wasn't on shift; he had been called in for this.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Suguru’s features looked sharper, more severe. He was handsome, but it was a cold, clinical beauty. He didn't need to raise his voice to take control of the room. He moved to the most critical gurney, reading the situation in heartbeats, issuing commands that no one dared ignore.
Suguru possessed a quality Satoru rarely saw outside his own inner circle: the ability to dominate a space without ever having to flaunt his power.
"Multiple trauma. Blunt force. Lacerations," a triage nurse shouted. "One possible penetrating abdominal wound."
"The most critical?" Suguru asked, snapping on fresh gloves.
A subordinate pointed to the gurney being rushed in. "Him."
It was Megumi. His body was limp, drifting on the edge of consciousness. He looked too young—too young to be standing that close to the sun. His breathing was shallow, and blood soaked through the makeshift bandages pressed against his side.
Suguru didn't spare Satoru a glance. His world had narrowed down to the vitals.
"Blood pressure?"
"Dropping."
"Prep OR two. Call General Surgery and Thoracic. We’re intubating now."
Satoru stood back, letting the frantic noise of the ER fade into a dull hum. The smell of the hospital was different from the smell of the streets. It wasn't the warm, copper scent of a brawl; it was the sharp, cold sting of antiseptic. It was controlled.
As the adrenaline began to ebb, the ache in his own ribs sharpened into a slow, rhythmic pulse. It wasn't enough to make him buckle, but it was enough to remind him that even he had limits.
He sat on a narrow plastic chair against the wall, his back ramrod straight, watching his remaining men. Some were being bandaged; others were getting stitches.
"Wakadanna, are you alright?" one of them asked, noticing the state of his clothes.
Satoru just waved him off with a short, dismissive laugh, though the jagged tear in his silk shirt was hard to hide.
"Follow me."
Satoru looked up. Suguru was standing over him, his brow furrowed in a way that signaled he wasn't asking.
"Stand up. Now."
Satoru held his gaze for a second, then stood, following Suguru with a slight, uncharacteristic stagger. He sat on the edge of an exam bed, the vinyl still tacky with the blood of the men who had come before him.
A nurse helped peel away the ruins of his shirt. As the fabric fell, Satoru’s torso was laid bare under the surgical lights.
A massive irezumi tattoo—a dragon—coiled across his skin, stretching from his shoulder down to his thigh. The ink was deep black and forest green, with embers of red in the dragon’s eyes. Between the intricate scales lay the history of a violent life: thin white lines from old blades and faded marks from past stitches.
Suguru checked his shoulder first—a shallow graze. Then his arm—heavy bruising. Finally, he pressed his hand against Satoru’s side to check for internal fractures.
Satoru winced. It was a tiny movement, but Suguru caught it.
"What's this?"
"It's nothing," Satoru replied.
Suguru pressed harder. Satoru let out a sharp, genuine groan as fresh blood began to seep from a puncture wound beneath his left ribs.
"You’ve been stabbed." "Small knife. It barely went in." "How long ago?"
Satoru squinted at the ceiling. "Forty minutes."
Suguru went still. He looked at Satoru as if he were a particularly difficult puzzle. "You stood there for forty minutes with an open abdominal wound?"
"I can still stand."
"That is not a medical indicator, Satoru."
He called for an ultrasound. Luckily, the blade had missed the vitals. Whether by luck or a practiced ability to twist away from a killing blow, Satoru had survived the night. Suguru didn't hand the tray to a nurse; he began cleaning the wound himself.
They were close now—close enough for Suguru to smell the rain and gunpowder clinging to Satoru, and for Satoru to see the exhaustion behind Suguru’s calm eyes.
"Is this a habit of yours?" Suguru asked quietly, his focus on the needle.
"The neighbors are getting restless," Satoru murmured. "They started it."
"You have people for this. You should have stayed in the car."
"Sometimes," Satoru said, his voice dropping an octave, "I have to be the one to pay the price."
Suguru began to stitch. His movements were precise, efficient, and surprisingly gentle.
"You didn't lose consciousness," Suguru noted.
"I didn't intend to."
Suguru paused, the needle hovering. "That isn't always a choice you get to make."
Satoru looked him right in the eye. "In my world, it’s the only choice that matters."
Outside the curtain, the hospital rhythm continued. But inside, for a moment, the air was still.
"The kid—Megumi—he’s stable," Suguru said finally.
Satoru’s shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. He took a long, shaky breath, the first real one he’d taken all night.
.
The ICU corridor was silent by 2:00 AM. Most of Satoru’s men had been patched up and sent home. Two remained as sentries, standing at the far end of the hall like shadows.
Suguru returned from the breakroom carrying two cups. He handed a plastic cup of water to Satoru.
Satoru looked at the water, then at the steaming paper cup in Suguru’s hand. "Where’s my coffee?"
"You're a patient," Suguru said, taking a sip of his own black coffee. "Have some shame. You just got stitched up."
Satoru sighed, looking at the water as if it were a personal insult. "Cruel. Truly cruel."
"Caffeine spikes your heart rate. You need to recover, not vibrate."
Satoru didn't argue. He drank the water. It was flat and cold, but it cleared the metallic taste of blood from his throat. "Sorry for the mess tonight," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Suguru leaned against the wall. "It's fine. It's the job."
"Thank you, Suguru."
"I told you, it’s the job," Suguru replied with a faint, tired laugh. He looked toward the ICU doors. "The boy ... he’s your right hand? You looked more worried about him than your own ribs."
"Something like that," Satoru said. "I’ve been looking after him since he was a brat. He’s family."
Suguru nodded. "That explains the look on your face when they brought him in."
They stood in silence for a while. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep fatigue.
"Did you see the Hawks game yesterday?" Suguru asked suddenly, breaking the clinical tension.
Satoru blinked, surprised by the shift. "Against Seibu?"
"Yeah."
Satoru smiled, a real one this time. "That pitcher had us in a chokehold until the seventh."
"His hamstring was off," Suguru said, his tone lighter now. "His fastball lost its bite."
"Still enough to make me throw my remote at the wall. If Makihara hadn't hit that double in the eighth..."
"He waited for the two-strike count," Suguru added, eyes brightening. "Perfect timing."
Satoru leaned back, swirling the last of his water. "I was sure he’d bunt."
"That’s why he’s good. He made everyone believe the bunt was coming."
Satoru watched Suguru for a moment longer than necessary. "You watched the whole thing? Even with your schedule?"
"I’m a doctor, Satoru, not a monk."
Satoru chuckled. It was easier to talk about baseball than it was to talk about the blood on the floor or the tattoos on his back. In this empty hallway, they weren't a yakuza heir and a surgeon. They were just two fans of a struggling team.
"If the bullpen stays healthy," Satoru said, "we might actually have a shot at the pennant."
"Optimism is a dangerous thing," Suguru teased.
"It’s better than being a 'realist.'"
Suguru laughed, the sound warm and out of place in the cold corridor. He checked his watch. "I’m writing you a prescription for antibiotics. And painkillers. Don't be a martyr; take them."
"I'm tough, Doc."
"Take them anyway."
Satoru shrugged. "Fine."
Suguru finished the paperwork and gave final instructions to the night nurse. As he finished, one of Satoru’s men approached. "Wakadanna, the car is downstairs."
Satoru finished his water and stood up carefully. He could feel the tug of the stitches, a reminder of the night's cost.
"Thanks again," Satoru said, his voice sincere.
Suguru shook his head. "Let's try not to meet like this a third time."
Satoru paused at the door, looking back. "Next time, let's just watch the Hawks."
Suguru raised his coffee cup in a silent toast. "Deal."
Satoru walked out to the waiting sedan. As he settled into the leather seat, he took one last look at the bright lights of the ER through the glass.
“You’re not more attractive than that girl. You’re just… easier to take home?” Suguru whispered a few days after their talk about their CBT plan.
He sat beside Satoru, pouring beer into a glass before returning his attention to a screen filled with rows of tables and data. Satoru had always liked the way Suguru poured beer—quick, neat, barely any foam. It was his third bottle, and Satoru needed to make sure there wouldn’t be a fourth if he did not want to end up in bed under the confinement of alcohol again.
“I don’t think that’s the case, Suguru.” Satoru grinned. “She was glued to you all night. She was ready if you’d asked her to go home with you.”
“Maybe?” Suguru lifted a brow. “But seriously, you’re much easier to bring home.”
“Suit yourself.” Satoru smiled.
He understood that “easier” did not mean he was someone who could be picked up and slept with by just anyone. Suguru knew he had standards and maintained exclusivity—even in a friends-with-benefits arrangement. Satoru was thirty-six, the —the right-hand man—of the Gojo group, destined since his teens to devote himself to his family’s organization. He had never acted recklessly, never neglected his duties, and never engaged in any improper affair that could damage his future as a prospective Kumicho. He would not taint his integrity by sleeping around carelessly.
Perhaps Suguru chose to keep sleeping with him because he didn’t want to bring someone new into his life. He was sociable and easygoing, but as a doctor, he had little time to spare.
For Satoru, Suguru was the ideal partner—not merely in bed, but also in a way he handled his and their problems. Suguru was someone who adhered strictly to rules, as long as those rules were clearly defined. He didn’t mind if Satoru slept with others, as long as he complied with STD testing before resuming intimacy with him. He was skilled at deflecting suspicion when people began questioning their relationship. And most importantly, there were no feelings involved.
In recent months, however, their arrangement had grown semi-exclusive—or so Satoru believed. Neither of them had slept with anyone else. The rule allowing it had never been formally revoked, but perhaps it had become unnecessary. Perhaps they were simply too busy. Or perhaps they enjoyed sex with each other too much.
Satoru admitted it was likely the last reason.
“I genuinely never considered you attractive—in quotation marks, Satoru.”
“So outside quotation marks, I am attractive? Wait—what exactly are those quotation marks supposed to mean?”
“Attractive? Who’s attractive?” Shoko appeared with a plate of fries dusted in cheese powder, placing it in the center of the table. She also carried three unopened beer bottles—the destroyer of plans, as usual.
My employee. The petite one—the one who seems interested in Suguru,” Satoru deflected smoothly.
“The shoulder-length short hair?” Yu asked from across the table. He never missed a drinking session—especially when it was held at a bar owned by Satoru. Free booze was too good to pass up, as long as he did not have surgery scheduled within the next twenty-four hours. “She’s not just attractive. She’s exceptional. You turned her down? That’s insane.”
Suguru smiled awkwardly. “She’s not my type.”
“If I were you, I’d respond to her, take her out to dinner, and if she’s fine with going to bed afterward—why not?” Yu clicked his tongue dramatically, as if Suguru had just declined a meeting with the emperor. “Too bad no one approaches me like that.”
“People don’t usually approach Suguru either,” Shoko snorted. “That’s why I’m confused. Why reject her? Think you can get anyone better?”
He already has someone better, Satoru thought. Classified information. Not for public release.
“Or maybe he’d end up with someone worse,” Megumi cut in.
Oi. Satoru had to resist the urge to smack his subordinate.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Suguru cleared his throat, half-smiling in mockery. “My taste is terrible. Truly, truly terrible. Cheers!”
He raised his glass. Satoru was fairly certain he was inviting everyone to agree with that statement. The others looked at him oddly but raised their bottles anyway. Among seasoned drinkers, the topic hardly mattered—if someone raised a glass, you answered.
Including Satoru, who found himself lifting his beer as silent proof of Suguru’s terrible taste.
“If that girl approaches me again, maybe I’ll respond this time,” Suguru whispered in his ear minutes later.
“That would be appropriate,” Satoru said sincerely.
The girl did approach him.
Suguru ignored her. “Not in the mood.”
And in the end, Satoru went home with him again.
He never minded being the fallback option—especially when it allowed him to watch Suguru nearly fall apart from a single overly rough thrust the night before.
The next morning, Suguru sent several messages in succession—very characteristic.
Satoru
what time did you leave
God, I don’t remember when I started getting drunk and blacking out
Satoru laughed and replied.
i left at 2 am
it wasn't the alcohol that knocked you out
it was my dick lol
By the way, you might want to trim your nails. My back’s hurt because of em
Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed again.
I'll end the conversation here
That night, Suguru called.
Satoru had just reached his apartment door after delivering a report regarding the unauthorized takeover of a distribution site by the Kuroda group. He had delivered it in person, as tradition demanded—old-fashioned Yakuza custom favored face-to-face communication over modern conveniences like the internet.
“So,” Suguru began without preamble, “I wrote down a few points about what we’ve been doing.”
“Oh? Should I record this and send it to every news outlet?” Satoru smiled faintly, pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder while punching in the code to unlock his door.
Suguru had a habit of analyzing everything—work, personal needs, even relationships. There was always a small notebook and pen tucked in his pocket. Satoru suspected that the study of friends-with-benefits dynamics had recently become his new subject of research.
“Just listen.”
Satoru leaned against the door, staring down the dark hallway. “You called just to explain your analysis?”
“No, no. I’ll just give you the conclusion.”
Satoru frowned. For a moment, the sound of traffic below the apartment building was the only thing he heard. “You wrote a conclusion?”
“Yes. That’s why I made the points—to draw one.”
“Maybe you should just join the Gojo group,” Satoru grinned.
Suguru muttered something under his breath.
“I’m serious,” Satoru continued. “You take notes and analyze things more than my men with their shrimp-sized brains. Good thing you didn’t join the police academy—I’d be in trouble. What are you, Sherlock Holmes’ rival?”
“No, Satoru. Do you think I’m that strange?”
“You are strange.”
“Yeah, that’s fair. Explains why I sleep with you.”
“Hey!”
“The conclusion is: we need to do it. Sober sex. No alcohol.”
Good Lord, where has this man been? “I’ve been saying that for two weeks, Suguru. Don’t act like you just invented a brilliant idea.”
Satoru flipped on the lights and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge. A row of condiments lined the door. An untouched double cheeseburger sat on the middle shelf—definitely expired. An empty bottle of juice occupied the top rack.
He had no groceries. No time for weekly or even monthly shopping. And he was not the type to order his subordinates to fill his refrigerator.
The territorial dispute—or rather, territorial seizure—by the Kuroda group had drained him. He had skipped breakfasts, slept only a few hours at a time, and led negotiation meetings for two straight days, ensuring things stayed civil and did not escalate into violence.
“At least my proposal is based on field data,” Suguru insisted.
Satoru snorted. Suguru sounded more like law enforcement than a doctor.
“Field data? Hey, Suguru,” Satoru suddenly remembered something, his lips twitching with suppressed amusement. “Did the sentence ‘I find Satoru attractive’ make it into your bullet points?”
A heavy exhale sounded on the other end.
“Satoru, I just finished my second bottle of Grey Goose, and I still don’t find you attractive.”
“You’ve been drinking?”
“I wouldn’t be having this long conversation if I were sober. By the way, I’ve already called a taxi. I’ll be at your place in thirty minutes.”
“For what? We can’t have sober sex if you’re drunk.”
“We can’t. But we can have drunk sex.”
“I’m not drunk, Suguru.”
“I said I’ll be there in thirty minutes, didn’t I? Go have a drink.”
Satoru had heard that drinking on an empty stomach was unwise. And Mouton Cadet paired well with pepperoni pizza.
So he decided to get both before Suguru arrived, flushed and thoroughly aroused.
Every decision Suguru made while drunk deserved to be revisited and dissected by Satoru once their minds were clear again, free from the influence of alcohol.
“I’m not going to have sober sex with you. If we want to stop, then we just stop. Come on—we’re not teenagers in the middle of adolescence. We’re adults. We can decide whether we want to sleep together or not.”
That argument, however, did not last long. It was dismantled by Suguru himself one evening after they went out for drinks following a baseball game.
“I’m an adult,” Suguru said, his eyes half-lidded, his cheeks flushed the color of ripe apples from his grandfather’s orchard in Aomori. “I can decide whether I want to have sex with you or not. And…” He looked at Satoru and smiled. “I do.”
One hand slid over Satoru’s thigh and gave it a slow, deliberate squeeze.
“But only if you want to.”
Of course Satoru did.
The next day, Suguru frowned and attempted to hide half of his face beneath the brim of a baseball cap. He was no longer wearing the shirt from the night before; instead, he had on a cream-colored long-sleeved top and dark blue running pants. It always felt strangely unfamiliar to see him dressed casually like that.
He looked at Satoru with tired eyes.
Come to think of it, Satoru had never really seen Suguru fully sober up close. Nor had he ever observed him drunk—outside the context of sex—at this proximity. That morning, Suguru seemed suspended somewhere between the two states, and Satoru was not entirely sure what version of him he was looking at.
“My head is killing me,” Suguru muttered when they ran into each other at the convenience store near the hospital. He was carrying a thick copy of his research notes, bristling with sticky tabs, along with a small plastic bag of medication. The smell of alcohol lingered heavily in the air. He was clearly still a little drunk.
“You didn’t even drink that much,” Satoru said. They were both fully aware of their professions and responsibilities; alcohol, for them, was merely a catalyst—perhaps to create a mood. Satoru was not entirely sure. The point was, they did get drunk, but never beyond what could be considered reasonable. “You’re off today?”
“If I weren’t off, I wouldn’t have been drinking. I’m off tomorrow too. You’re not?”
“No. I’m just on break.”
Suguru stared at him sharply. “So last night—you weren’t actually drunk, were you?”
“I was a little tipsy, but… I was about ninety percent sober.”
Now Suguru crossed his arms over his chest, accusing him silently with nothing but his gaze.
“I’m starting to have doubts,” Suguru said.
“About what?”
“About whether you really want to stop.”
Satoru let out a small laugh. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one who keeps getting drunk and suggesting drunk sex, remember?”
Suguru looked momentarily stunned. Satoru could understand why. The alcohol likely still lingered in his bloodstream, fogging the edges of his thoughts.
They never had a fixed schedule or a calendar marked with reminders for sex. Neither Suguru nor Satoru belonged to the kind of men who could treat Sundays or national holidays as sacred days off. Emergencies arrived without warning—for both of them.
Sometimes Satoru had to leave his apartment at one in the morning because a subordinate called about a territorial dispute escalating too quickly. Or because a shipment had gone missing. Or because someone had spoken to the wrong person in the wrong tone and pride had become more dangerous than knives.
As wakagashira, he did not handle the violence himself anymore. He handled the aftermath. The prevention. The consequences.
Meanwhile, Suguru was constantly being summoned back to the hospital for emergency surgeries. Trauma cases. Internal bleeding. Anesthesia complications. His residents, brilliant but chaotic, had a remarkable talent for giving him headaches.
Whenever they sensed they would have at least twenty-four hours of relative freedom ahead—and a libido that could not be dismissed with a cold shower—they would text each other. Time. Location. Logistics. Who would bring the drinks. What kind. How much.
Then it would happen.
Then it would end.
It was uncomplicated that way.
This time, however, they agreed not to bring any alcohol, as part of the CBT experiment Satoru had proposed weeks ago. He did not care whether the idea sounded ridiculous to a medical professional. He simply wanted to confirm that the sensations he had experienced all this time did not originate from intoxication—or from the thrill of risk—but from Suguru himself.
Satoru spent more than thirty minutes staring into his open closet before closing it again.
He had no idea how to prepare for this.
His tailored shirts and pressed trousers hung neatly in a row—the uniform of a man who met investors by day and managed disputes by night. Wearing them would feel deliberate. Like effort. Like this was something fragile.
As if it were a date.
And Suguru would mock him mercilessly before anything even began.
So Satoru left his apartment dressed carelessly. His jeans were worn—not fashionably distressed, just honestly overused. He wore an old training T-shirt from years ago, sleeves slightly stretched at the shoulders. His hair was barely combed.
What mattered was that he had showered, washed his hair, brushed his teeth after boxing earlier, and changed into clean underwear.
That was enough.
He plastered on the most irritating smile he could manage when Suguru opened the door, he read him a poem he picked up randomly on an adult site.
“Lay down, anticipation. The velvet crushes. Against me, takes me. Whispers of warning. Soaring, my heart—”
And right on the last line, Suguru slammed the door in his face.
Satoru stared at the closed door.
Perhaps he should have bitten down on a rose stem. Or perhaps he should sing something romantic?
He chuckled and knocked.
“Suguru, I was joking. I—” He paused. Saying I’ll behave sounded absurd. “I won’t read you a poem anymore, promise.”
A dull thud sounded from behind the door—Suguru’s forehead lightly hitting it.
“I really don’t want to have sex with you right now, Satoru.” His voice, slightly muffled, sounded genuinely uncomfortable.
Satoru felt a flicker of sympathy.
“I know. Sorry.”
“It’s going to be a disaster.”
“You mean the sex?”
“What else would I mean?”
“I thought you were still talking about the poem.”
Suguru hit the door harder.
“Suguru,” Satoru continued, amused despite himself, “that’s the point, isn’t it? No alcohol. No atmosphere. C’mon, open up, good boy,”
“Wow. So hot,” Suguru said flatly as he opened the door and stepped aside to let Satoru in.
Satoru grinned. “Everything I do is hot, baby. You know that.”
Suguru looked at him as if he were a bowl of cereal soaked in orange juice—completely unappetizing.
“You should really just stop talking.”
Satoru mimed zipping his lips from one corner to the other. “Okay, boss.”
“So… what now?”
“I don’t know.” Satoru shrugged, feeling no tension at all as he stepped closer. “We probably kiss? Make out? Foreplay? That’s how it usually starts, right?” At least that was how he remembered the sequence.
Suguru appeared to contemplate this, likely recalling their usual routine. “I guess so,” he said.
Then, to Satoru’s astonishment, Suguru shut his eyes and puckered his lips like a nervous teenager at his first party, waiting to give—or receive—a kiss neither of them particularly wanted.
Satoru suppressed a laugh and leaned down, brushing his tongue briefly across Suguru’s lips.
“Jesus—” Suguru recoiled instantly, stumbling backward until his head bumped against the wall. “That’s disgusting, you know that?!”
That was precisely the objective; to make it unpleasant, unattractive, unappealing. A nightmare.
“Okay, that’s probably enough,” Satoru said, abruptly dropping to his knees in front of him. He unfastened Suguru’s belt, lowered the zipper, and pressed his face against the fabric separating their skin.
Suguru did not protest.
But his body offered no response.
Given the current situation, Satoru could not help but laugh.
Completely ruined—just as Suguru had predicted.
“Don’t fucking laugh,” Suguru snarled, the words scraping low and rough from his throat like gravel dragged over silk.
Satoru’s laughter only exploded louder—bright, reckless, almost manic—until he shoved his own face against the front of Suguru’s trousers to muffle it. The thick fabric was already warm from body heat, carrying the faint musk of skin and the sharp trace of laundry detergent. Even with his mouth pressed there, the sound kept vibrating against Suguru’s cock, making it twitch noticeably under the fabric.
Suguru’s patience snapped. Long fingers clamped around both of Satoru’s wrists like steel cuffs, wrenching them up and slamming the taller man’s back against the wall with enough force that the framed certificate rattled. Plaster dust trickled faintly behind the frame.
“Stop,” Suguru said again—slower, darker, each syllable weighted with warning.
Satoru finally choked the laugh down. He lifted his head, blue eyes locking onto those deep, furious purple ones. For a heartbeat they just stared—breaths harsh, chests rising and falling in jagged sync. Then Satoru twisted his captured wrists just enough to yank Suguru forward by them and sank his teeth into the side of Suguru’s neck—right where the pulse hammered under thin skin.
He bit down hard. Not playful. Not teasing. Hard enough that copper bloomed faintly on his tongue and Suguru’s entire body jerked like he’d been electrocuted.
A raw, guttural groan tore out of the doctor—low at first, then rising into something broken and needy that echoed off the bare apartment walls. The sound vibrated straight down Satoru’s spine and settled heavy in his balls.
Everything clicked back into place like a lock turning. Familiar. Dangerous. Intoxicating.
“I think I’m starting to remember,” Satoru murmured, voice gravel-rough. He dragged the flat of his tongue over the fresh, red crescent marks—slow, deliberate—tasting salt and skin and the tiniest edge of blood. Then he sealed his lips around the bite and sucked, pulling the tender flesh into his mouth until Suguru’s hips snapped forward involuntarily.
“My safe word is Apple,” Suguru forced out, voice fracturing when Satoru’s free hand slid under his shirt and roughly thumbed one already-tight nipple. The bud pebbled instantly, hot and hard against calloused fingertips. “So quit playing and just fuck me already. I want your cock in me—now. Make it quick.”
“Wow, careful with the dirty talk, tiger,” Satoru smiled, touching and tweaking his nipples with both hands. “You know exactly how I react to that sort of thing.”
He pinched the nipple between thumb and forefinger—twisted just enough to sting. Suguru’s back arched off the wall in a beautiful, helpless curve; a thin whine slipped out before he could bite it back. Satoru’s other hand shoved the shirt higher, exposing both pecs—soft yet firm, nipples already flushed dark and swollen from earlier abuse.
He stared for a second—obsessed all over again. The slight valley between them, the way the skin there was smoother, paler. The way those peaks stood so proudly, begging.
He ducked his head and latched onto the left one—sucking hard, tongue flicking the very tip before he grazed it with teeth. Suguru’s whole body shuddered; his fingers dug bruises into Satoru’s wrists.
“Fuck—Satoru—”
Hearing his name moaned like that sent a fresh pulse of pre-cum soaking into Satoru’s briefs. He switched to the other nipple—bit harder this time—then soothed it with slow, wet circles of his tongue until Suguru was panting open-mouthed, head tipped back against the wall, throat working.
Satoru felt comfortable, and God, it wasn't supposed to be like this. He shouldn't be addicted to Suguru’s moans and sighs; he shouldn't want their mouths and chests pressed together. And certainly, he shouldn't have felt a tremor when Suguru’s hand fumbled over his stomach and slipped behind his waistband.
“Here?” Satoru asked once they both slid down the wall and were sitting on the floor, Suguru still straddling his lap.
Suguru shot him a brief look before shrugging. “Fine. Makes it easier to kick you out when we’re done.”
“Fucking prick,” Satoru growled, but the insult dissolved into a messy, open-mouthed kiss—teeth clacking, tongues sliding wet and aggressive. Another kiss. Hands everywhere—yanking belts open, shoving zippers down, jeans and briefs tangled around thighs.
Suguru fished a condom and lube packet from his pocket with shaking fingers. The foil square slipped and skidded across the floorboards. He cursed—then groaned loud and broken when Satoru suddenly gripped his hips and yanked him forward, grinding their bare cocks together in one long, slick slide.
Satoru learned something else: Suguru was incredibly sensitive. Why hadn't he known?
“Hands up, aniki,” Suguru said, using the phrase on purpose, his tone laced with seduction. Satoru tried to sniff his mouth, and Suguru called him disgusting again. Satoru just needed to check if this man had cheated by drinking a few milliliters of alcohol, but he could smell nothing but mint toothpaste.
Suguru removed Satoru’s shirt completely. As he undid the remaining buttons of Satoru’s jeans, he intentionally brushed against the hardness tensing behind the man’s black underwear. He rested his hand there without moving it.
“What?” Satoru asked, feeling bothered because Suguru had been staring at and holding his crotch for over a minute.
Suguru swallowed thickly, throat working visibly. “Nothing.”
Truth was, he’d never truly been aware about Satoru’s size back when they were drunk and sloppy. Alcohol had blurred everything into a haze of heat and need. But sober now, staring down at the thick, heavy length still throbbing in his grip. He’d always known Satoru filled him completely, always known he sometimes struggled to walk straight the day after the had sex … but fuck, he hadn’t realized the cock in his hand was this massive. Long, girthy, veined, and pulsing like it was made to ruin him.
Before the situation could turn awkward or ridiculous again, Suguru slipped his hand inside Satoru’s underwear and took hold of him. When Satoru felt the warmth of that hand, adrenaline exploded in his blood like fireworks.
Giving Satoru a handjob already felt like straight-up cheating. Suguru’s grip was fucking flawless—firm, knowing, perfectly paced—squeezing the thick length in slow, deliberate pulls that made pre-cum bead steadily at the slit and trickle down over his knuckles. Every twist of his wrist at the head sent a sharp jolt straight up Satoru’s spine, like the man had mapped out every sensitive inch years ago and was now cashing in on the knowledge.
But when Suguru decided to go lower—that crossed straight into sabotage territory.
He flicked a quick, taunting glance up at Satoru—dark eyes glittering with amusement and quiet menace—then slid smoothly off his lap. Kneeling between spread thighs, he nudged Satoru’s legs even wider apart with insistent palms. Satoru obeyed instantly, thighs trembling as they parted farther, exposing everything: the heavy, flushed cock standing rigid against his stomach, veins standing out, the tight sac drawn up close from how badly he was already aching.
Suguru started slowly—almost cruelly teasing. Soft, open-mouthed kisses along the inner thighs first, then higher, lips brushing the crease where leg met groin. He dragged his tongue in lazy, wet stripes up the underside of the shaft, tracing every pulsing vein like he was memorizing it all over again. Only when Satoru’s hips twitched did he finally take the head into his mouth—sealing his lips tight around it and sucking with slow, pulsing pulls.
Satoru’s entire body locked up. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped under the skin. Eyelids fluttered, fighting to stay open, but he still caught the wicked, mocking curl of Suguru’s lips around his cock.
Then the doctor proved exactly why he belonged in the category of cunning, merciless bastards.
He hollowed his cheeks and took Satoru deeper in one smooth, relentless glide—throat relaxing just enough to let the head bump the back of it—then pulled back with a powerful, wet suck that made obscene slurping sounds fill the room.
“Fuck … Suguru …” Satoru’s voice cracked into a low, trembling moan, lips parted against the shell of Suguru’s ear. His breath came in soft, shaky puffs, every exhale carrying the quiet plea of his name. His thick thighs trembled faintly beneath them both.
Just as the coil in his belly started to tighten unbearably, he cupped Suguru’s face with both huge hands—gentle thumbs stroking along cheekbones—and eased him up from between his legs. Slowly. Reverently. Their bodies came together chest-to-chest; Satoru’s broad, sweat-slick torso enveloped Suguru like a warm wall of muscle. The irezumi dragon across his back gleamed faintly in the low light—black scales shifting with each careful breath, red flames curling protectively along his spine—as if the ink itself was breathing with him.
“The floor’s too hard,” he murmured, lips brushing Suguru’s temple in the softest kiss. “Your knee’s gonna bruise.”
Suguru lifted a hand—fingers still glossy with spit and pre-cum—and traced the sharp line of Satoru’s jaw with aching tenderness. The sticky glide of his palm made Satoru shiver, but he leaned into it, eyes half-lidded.
“Then tell me, ” Suguru whispered, voice husky and low. “Tell me exactly what that big, stupid cock of yours wants to do to me.”
Satoru tilted his head until their mouths were barely touching. His next words came out in a slow, filthy exhale against Suguru’s lips.
“I want to spread your pretty cheeks … watch your tight little hole flutter open for me. Then I want to lick you so slow and deep—tongue sliding inside, tasting how wet and needy you get—until your thighs shake and you’re dripping down my chin. Until you’re whispering my name like a prayer and begging me to slide this thick cock in and fill you up nice and slow.”
Suguru’s breath hitched; a soft, broken laugh escaped him. “You really think I’ll beg for it?”
Satoru smiled—small, fond, filthy—and rose to his feet with smooth, controlled power. He lifted Suguru like something fragile and priceless: one thick arm under his thighs, the other cradling his back, holding him close against the solid wall of his chest.
He laid Suguru down on the sheets, then followed, bracing his weight on forearms so he could hover close without crushing. Their bodies aligned slowly—thighs slotting together, cocks brushing in hot, slick slides that made them both sigh.
Suguru’s scent enveloped him again: warm sandalwood, faint tart citrus, clean skin flushed pink. No trace of hospital sterile or drunken haze—just him, real and intoxicating. Satoru felt something deep in his chest unclench, replaced by a slow, throbbing want.
“You’re—” so beautiful, the words were cut off by Satoru's own tongue. The comment wasn't necessary, even if he was the appreciative type. He lowered his head and kissed one dark nipple—soft lips parting, tongue circling the peak in lazy, wet spirals before drawing it gently into his mouth. His huge palm settled over Suguru’s chest, kneading them softly.
Suguru let out a quiet, needy whimper. Long fingers slid into Satoru’s white hair—not tugging, just cradling—holding him there as his body arched in a slow, graceful curve toward the heat of that mouth.
“You used to whisper such dirty little things when we were drunk,” Satoru murmured, lips trailing feather-soft kisses along jaw, throat, collarbone. His thumb stroked slow, soothing circles over the sharp jut of Suguru’s hip. “Told me how full I made you… how you could still feel me inside you the next morning, all stretched and tender. You gonna let me hear those words sober tonight?”
“I’m not drunk,” Suguru answered softly, voice trembling with want.
Satoru lifted his head just enough to meet dark eyes. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. “I know. That’s why your hole’s already twitching for me … why you’re leaking so much just from my tongue on your nipples.”
He kissed the slope of Suguru’s shoulder—open-mouthed, lingering—then drifted lower. Lips closed around the other nipple with the same gentle motion: slow suction, soft flicks of tongue until it swelled under the wet heat. Suguru’s back curved off the mattress in a quiet, helpless arch; a low, pleased moan spilled from his throat.
“This feels… deeper,” Satoru’s voice was rough with emotion and hunger. He settled between Suguru’s thighs, big hands sliding up the insides—palms warm, thumbs stroking gently over quivering muscle. Suguru’s cock lay flushed and heavy against his stomach, the head shiny with pre-cum, twitching with every careful breath Satoru exhaled over it.
Satoru leaned down and pressed the softest, open-mouthed kiss to the tender inside of one thigh—then another, closer—letting his warm breath tease overheated skin. When his lips finally brushed the base of Suguru’s cock, it was slow and reverent, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of pre-cum gathered there.
Suguru’s fingers carded gently through his hair.
“Satoru…” A soft, pleading whisper.
“I’ve got you,” Satoru murmured against slick skin, voice thick with lust. “Gonna take such good care of this pretty cock… and this slutty little hole.”
“Stop… don’t—” Suguru’s voice cracked, soft and breathless. His cheeks burned crimson with embarrassment; the slick shine on his lips had faded, leaving them dry and parted as he fought the overwhelming urge to just give in. “You’re… you’re doing too much. You don’t have to—”
Satoru let out a low, rumbling hum—more soothing than growl—his big hands sliding up the insides of Suguru’s thighs with infinite care. He squeezed gently, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there in slow, reassuring circles.
“I want to,” he murmured against the crease of thigh and groin, voice thick with want. “Let me taste how sweet you are when you’re this worked up.”
He pressed forward slowly—lips parting, tongue flat and warm as he licked a long, deliberate stripe over Suguru’s entrance. The muscle fluttered under the wet heat; Suguru’s hips lifted in a tiny, helpless roll, silently asking for more even as his words protested.
“Satoru …”
Satoru didn’t answer with words. He simply curled his tongue and eased inside—slow, shallow thrusts that made Suguru’s breath hitch every time. At the same time, his right hand wrapped around Suguru’s leaking cock—gentle but firm—stroking in perfect rhythm with the lazy fucks of his tongue.
The combination unraveled Suguru beautifully. His body trembled from the inside out; long fingers slid into Satoru’s white hair again—a new habit he found during this sober situation. Soft moans spilled out, then sighs, then broken little growls when Satoru’s tongue curled just right against that sensitive ring of muscle.
“Satoru—please—” The word dissolved into a sob. Tears gathered at the corners of Suguru’s eyes, glistening before they slipped free, tracing slow paths down flushed temples.
Satoru lifted his gaze just enough to watch—blue eyes dark with awe and hunger—as Suguru fought to hold everything back: the building orgasm, the filthy sounds, the raw emotion pressing against the back of his eyelids like it might spill out with the tears.
He kept going—tongue sliding deeper now, hand stroking with loving precision—until Suguru’s thighs quaked and his whole body bowed in a graceful, helpless arch. A raspy, shattered cry tore from his throat as he came—cock pulsing hot and wet over Satoru’s fingers, hole clenching rhythmically around the intrusion of his tongue.
Satoru stayed there through every aftershock, kissing softly, lapping gently until Suguru was limp and trembling beneath him. Only then did he crawl back up—slow, careful—pressing tender kisses along ribs, sternum, throat before brushing his lips against a damp cheek.
Suguru swatted weakly. “Gross…”
He settled beside Suguru for a moment, letting them both breathe, then reached for the nightstand. When he returned, he had a condom already rolled on and a packet of lube torn open between his teeth. He warmed the slick between his fingers before pressing one—then two—inside with aching slowness.
Suguru’s breath hitched again, body still oversensitive.
“No… enough, I can’t…” Suguru’s voice was barely more than a trembling exhale, body still quivering from the last orgasm. His thighs shook faintly where they framed Satoru’s shoulders; pale skin flushed deep pink from chest to cheeks.
Satoru paused immediately—fingers still buried inside, but motionless now—giving Suguru the space to breathe. He pressed the softest kiss to the inside of one trembling thigh, lips lingering there like a promise.
“One more,” he whispered, voice low and velvet-rough with restraint. “Just one more for me … then I’ll slide inside you and stay buried deep, nice and still, as long as you need.” Slowly, carefully, he curled those three fingers again—gentle pressure against that swollen spot—until Suguru’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll, chasing the sensation despite his protest.
Suguru’s lashes fluttered shut; a soft, broken sound slipped from his throat. “I can’t …”
“You can.” He added the fourth finger then—slow, so slow—watching Suguru’s face the whole time. The stretch made Suguru’s breath hitch sharply; his hole fluttered and clenched, trying to adjust.
“Fuck… Satoru…” Suguru’s voice cracked. “Just how many fingers that you put in?”
“Four.”
Suguru’s eyes flew open at that—wide, dark, pupils blown with a mix of nerves and raw want. His hands found Satoru’s shoulders, fingers digging in just enough to hold on.
“Four …?” The word came out shaky, almost awed. “God … your cock is fucking huge, isn’t it? You’re gonna split me open.”
And Suguru came again—quieter this time, but deeper—whole body shuddering with release, legs trembling as they instinctively closed around Satoru’s wrist like they never wanted to let go. When the waves finally ebbed, Suguru collapsed fully, chest heaving, skin flushed and glowing.
“Apple?” Satoru asked, his smile mocking.
“No. I’m not going to beg you to stop any of this.”
“Oh, that means you’ll beg me to continue. Suguru.” Satoru sparked his name and thrust himself into Suguru’s body, sinking deep in a single push.
Both of them gasped. Suguru felt smaller like this—Satoru’s bigger than him and Suguru’s skin flushed so easily—yet he took Satoru perfectly.
Satoru paused when he was fully seated, forehead resting against Suguru’s, breathing him in. The dragon tattoo across his back seemed to shift with every careful inhale—scales rising and falling like it was alive with the same quiet intensity.
Satoru groaned low, hips rocking in the smallest, gentlest thrusts—barely pulling back before sliding home again. Every movement was deliberate, attentive, chasing the spots that made Suguru’s breath hitch and his fingers tighten on Satoru’s shoulders.
Satoru relished the feeling of being inside Suguru, filling him like this.
Satoru felt an urgency to press into Suguru’s hips, as if to say, Do you feel it? I'm inside you. You’re—.
Satoru shook his head once, trying to clear the haze. His whole body locked up—broad chest flexing, thick arms tensing, every muscle in his back rippling under the irezumi dragon as he pulled out almost to the tip. The dragon’s scales seemed to shift with the movement, black and red ink gleaming faintly with sweat.
Suguru’s hand slid down between them, palm pressing flat to his own lower stomach. He could feel it—the distinct, obscene bulge where Satoru’s cock stretched him from the inside. “Fuck … I—” His words cut off in a choked gasp as Satoru rolled his hips forward again, slow but deep, sinking back in with steady pressure.
Satoru’s grip tightened on Suguru’s hips—not hard enough to bruise, just firm enough to hold him steady. He started thrusting then—long, controlled strokes at first, each one dragging over every sensitive inch until Suguru’s breath started coming in short, punched-out bursts. Pleasure slammed through Satoru in heavy waves, syncing with the broken, filthy nonsense spilling from Suguru’s mouth. No one had ever taken him like this—swallowed every thick inch without flinching, clenched around him like they were made for it. Their bodies just … fit. Perfectly. And right now, Satoru wasn’t in any hurry to pull out and end it.
Suguru hooked his legs around Satoru’s waist, ankles crossing loosely at the small of his back. Not locking him in—just giving himself leverage so he could rock back into every thrust, meeting him halfway. His hands slid up Satoru’s back, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint red lines over the dragon’s coiled tail. Then he tugged Satoru down until the bigger man’s face was pressed into the crook of his neck—close enough to feel each other’s heat, but no lips touching skin.
Suguru’s voice came out low and wrecked right against Satoru’s ear. “Again. Harder. Fuck—lose it already. I can feel you swelling up inside me … getting even bigger. Shit, this cock is unreal. Biggest thing I’ve ever taken. Nothing else comes close.”
Satoru let out a rough huff of laughter that turned into a groan halfway through. He’d thought Suguru was the one calling the shots this round, but nah—the doctor was right there with him, inner walls fluttering and squeezing on every withdrawal like he was trying to keep Satoru buried forever. A helpless, muffled sound escaped Satoru where his mouth rested against warm skin.
“You’re going to kill me,” Suguru screamed again, his voice nearly gone, while Satoru gave a low, feral growl. “We’re going to have sex until we die.”
“I’ll be embarrassed in the afterlife,” Satoru laughed breathlessly. Both his hands wrapped around Suguru’s waist, pulling him until the man’s body arched and Satoru absorbed his ragged breaths. “Let go,” Satoru whispered.
Suguru shook his head, his fingers clawing restlessly, leaving marks on Satoru’s back.
“Suguru.”
Satoru began to drive into Suguru like a madman. He gripped Suguru’s hips and adjusted their position, knowing exactly how to place himself to bypass Suguru’s hypersensitive spot. The doctor began to lose his voice; everything coming out of his mouth was just a collection of meaningless syllables and repeating phrases: more, more, fuck, stupid cock, I’m going to die, I’m dying for real, I want to come, we’re going to hell. But Suguru kept trying to hold on even though he looked pathetic; he was trembling, stretching himself wide to welcome Satoru’s hard thrusts.
Everything was rough, messy, and incredibly sexy. Suguru looked up, wincing at the agonizing pleasure as he hit his peak. Satoru’s hips kept thrusting and soon he too reached climax in a rush of feeling that made him shout Suguru’s name.
Satoru felt it again—the crashing waves, the siren song, the New Year's fireworks. Even if this building collapsed on top of him, Satoru didn't think he would care.
Satoru blinked up at the ceiling, the white plaster slowly coming into focus. He must have dozed off for a minute or two. Sweat had beaded across his forehead and was now cooling in the steady hum of the air conditioner, sending faint chills over his skin. He turned his head slightly and found Suguru already watching him—face flushed and damp, hair a wreck, expression pinched with pure, unmistakable irritation.
“Got any brilliant follow-up plans, genius?” He snorted in frustration, realizing their aversion therapy had been a total failure. Their sex was far more addictive—too pleasurable—than it had ever been before.
Satoru shook his head slowly. He was still exhausted. “None. Maybe next time you should coat your body in tempura sauce so I’ll be repulsed.”
The problem was, Satoru wasn't even sure about that. He might just lick all that sickening sauce off Suguru’s body and then they’d go back to having sex like possessed people.
The room went quiet again, thick and sticky with post-everything silence. The AC kept droning. Somewhere outside, traffic rumbled faintly through the window.
Satoru finally broke it. “Say something. You’re too quiet. It’s freaking me out.”
Suguru exhaled long and hard through his nose, like he was forcing the air out of his lungs on purpose.
“Apple,” he said flatly.
Satoru snorted.
“And there’s cum all over my good mattress,” Suguru continued, deadpan. “My lower back feels like someone took a bat to it. I’m calling in sick for the next two days. Maybe three.”
The conscious, sober sex Satoru had been having with Suguru over the past few weeks clearly wasn’t enough to serve as a proper benchmark. He needed more comparative data—multiple points of reference to figure out if this thing with Suguru was really as addictive as it felt, or if he was just losing his mind.
Before Suguru entered the picture (or rather, before he re-entered it so persistently), Satoru had a semi-regular fuck buddy named K. Not an initial or nickname for something longer—just K, pronounced in one sharp syllable: Kei.
She was a few years younger—thirty, maybe—sharp-featured, effortlessly beautiful in that way that didn’t scream for attention, and undeniably clever. Beyond that, Satoru couldn’t say much about her personality. They’d never really talked deep. He didn’t even know her natural hair color—whether the vivid blue-purple-orange streaks were dyed over black roots or if she’d been born looking like a walking cyberpunk glitch.
Satoru hadn’t been to her place in ages—months, maybe close to a year. The last time, she’d had maybe three or four visible piercings. Now, as she opened the door in an oversized band tee and loose shorts, he immediately clocked the two tiny diamonds glinting on her left eyebrow.
“Hey,” he said, gaze flicking straight to them. “New piercing? Looks sick.”
“Thanks.” She flashed a quick smile, tilting her head so the light caught the gems. “Hurt like a bitch getting it done there, though.”
He stepped inside, kicking off his shoes in the hallway. The apartment smelled faintly of incense and fresh laundry—same as always. “Beer?” he asked, already heading toward the fridge like it was his own place.
“No need to bother.” She leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed loosely. “You busy or…?”
Satoru shook his head. He closed the distance between them in two easy steps and leaned in, brushing a light, deliberately off-target peck at the corner of her mouth—just enough to test the waters without committing. She didn’t pull away.
“You’re weird,” she said, laughing softly under her breath. “Are you sober tonight?”
He chuckled back, low and easy. “Is that a problem?”
“Feels like it’ll be different. But sure—I’m down to try something new.” She reached for his hand, fingers threading through his, and started tugging him toward the bedroom.
“Before we jump in, I gotta say something. I’m kinda… on a mission here. You wanna hear it?”
K narrowed her eyes, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Your mission is making me come?”
“Obviously,” he shot back, mock-offended. He wasn’t the type to chase his own release and leave someone hanging—not with a woman, anyway.
She shrugged, smile widening. “Just checking. The rest? I don’t care.”
They moved to the bedroom after that. It was quick but solid—K was gorgeous, responsive, cooperative in that effortless way she always had been.
Afterward, she disappeared into the living room for a minute and came back cradling a tiny hedgehog wrapped in a small towel. Satoru—still sprawled naked on the sheets, one arm behind his head—ended up spending the post-sex haze petting the little spines with the pad of his index finger while the animal snuffled against his palm.
“So,” K said eventually. She dragged a wooden chair over to the window, lit a hand-rolled cigarette, and exhaled a thin stream of smoke toward the glass. “Any big revelations?”
Satoru stared at the ceiling for a long second, thumb still absently stroking the hedgehog’s back. He shook his head slowly.
“Nope. Nothing.” Just a weird tangle of confusion and something that felt suspiciously like guilt creeping in at the edges.
The data was inconclusive. If anything, it only made the comparison to Suguru feel sharper—and more impossible to ignore.
Back at his own house, Satoru dropped onto the sofa facing the blank TV screen. The room was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow leaking in from the city outside the window. He didn’t bother turning on any lights. Didn’t bother grabbing a drink or his phone. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing while the events of the last hour replayed in his head on loop.
Sex with K had been … fine. Solid, even. She was gorgeous, responsive, no drama, no expectations. She’d come exactly once—hard, vocal, no faking it—and he’d finished right after. Clean, efficient, mutually satisfying. If he were grading it like some detached reviewer (which he basically was right now), he’d give K a clean eight out of ten. Respectable. Above average. Nothing to complain about.
Suguru, though?
Thirteen.
Out of ten.
That was the number he landed on first—immediately, reflexively—before he even tried to talk himself out of it. Thirteen. Because ten wasn’t enough. Ten was the ceiling for normal, sane encounters. Suguru had blown straight through the ceiling weeks ago and kept climbing.
And the truth—the ugly, honest truth Satoru wasn’t ready to say out loud—was that even thirteen felt like a massive understatement.
The real score was somewhere in the ballpark of a billion.
A billion out of ten.
“What do you think about baby hedgehogs?” Satoru rambled, though his common sense hadn't strayed far from his head.
“Huh?” Suguru’s lips brushed against his arm as he spoke.
“Baby hedgehogs,” Satoru repeated.
The only sound in the room was the rush of their breathing, which was gradually returning to normal and instinctively falling into the same rhythm.
“You’re talking nonsense,” Suguru snapped. His mouth felt hot and sticky against Satoru’s arm, and honestly, Satoru felt disgusted by his current state—covered in sweat, fluids, and dried deodorant—but he wasn't ready to move yet. He couldn't, not until Suguru moved first. After the climax, Satoru had pulled out and shifted a few inches away, but the other man had simply dropped his head onto Satoru’s outstretched arm.
“Baby hedgehogs are actually really cute, you know,” Satoru realized he might be rambling, and he blamed the most bothersome orgasm in the universe for it. A bothersome orgasm. How is that even possible?
Or perhaps he could go back to scapegoating the alcohol he hadn’t actually touched in weeks.
Setting aside the failed aversion therapy, the two of them had modified the method into something newer—though in hindsight, it sounded even stupider.
At one point before the sex, they would go to a bar together, pretend to be drunk, go home together, and pretend to have drunk sex—while actually being stone-cold sober. Both knew they were lying to each other; neither of them was actually stumbling or slurring their words. Satoru knew there was no alcohol in the glass Suguru was carrying, and once, he had even caught Suguru pouring a can of beer into a nearby potted plant.
It was a foolish game they played just to have an excuse for sober sex, which felt much, much better than the drunken romps they used to have. This was the best sex Satoru had ever had in his life. He assumed it was the same for Suguru, because he often saw Suguru lose his mind—taking Satoru right along with him—without any pretense. Not that Satoru was accusing Suguru of faking it. Suguru was the easiest human being to read.
“Baby hedgehogs—”
“Satoru,” Suguru groaned in frustration. “Stop, you’re being weird.”
Satoru stared up at the ceiling and laughed, then silence returned. He knew Suguru was still awake; he could feel the soft brush of Suguru’s eyelashes blinking like butterfly wings against his arm.
They never discussed this part either: the way they spent time together after the act, the nonsensical chatter, the occasional wandering hands until they were fused together again. Even after their breathing normalized and the euphoria of the orgasm evaporated into the air, no one brought it up. Maybe they were both just lazy, or maybe they both enjoyed this odd silence.
“I have to go home,” Suguru said, just as Satoru was about to drift into a dream.
“Okay...” Satoru replied, remaining still as Suguru got up, climbed off the bed, and walked to the bathroom.
Satoru was nearly asleep again when the bathroom door opened. Suguru reached into his bag for his phone and car keys. “Bye,” he said flatly, but Satoru could feel Suguru’s gaze lingering on his face for a moment before he turned and walked out of the apartment.
Suguru went home, and Satoru truly didn’t mind. His desires were fulfilled, he’d sleep soundly, and tomorrow he would live his life as usual.
He had no attachment to that doctor whatsoever.
It was Suguru who initiated the pointless interaction between them.
“Hurry up and get dressed, I’m driving you home.”
Satoru grumbled under his breath and rolled over, groping blindly behind the sofa for his discarded shirt and boxers. He paused halfway through the search, one hand still fumbling.
“But you’re...” Satoru trailed off as Suguru glared at him while shoving a foot into a sneaker. “Drunk?” Satoru finished, sounding half-puzzled.
Suguru rolled his eyes and tossed Satoru’s trousers at him. “Just hurry up.”
Satoru knew Suguru would never drive after drinking; he knew that what Suguru was indirectly saying right now was: I’m sober, and I’m driving you home. After all, Suguru could have just called a taxi for him—it would have been far more practical and less of a hassle for everyone, and certainly less confusing.
Satoru simply nodded, even though the moment felt rather silly in his mind. They took a detour to a fast-food drive-thru for coffee, a regular beef burger and a burger set featuring a new menu item—a combination of chocolate buns and fried chicken—which they decided to eat in the parking lot. They reclined their seats, grabbed their coffees, turned the radio on low, and stared out at the quiet field.
Suguru reached out and tried his chocolate chicken burger. He took a bite, chewed, then went still, looking at Satoru with furrowed brows. A second later, he spat it back into the paper bag and tossed it into the trash on the back seat.
“Who the hell green-lights something this evil?” Suguru complained.
Satoru laughed and tore his own burger in half, handing a piece to Suguru.
“Thanks,” Suguru said with a faint smile.
It feels like going on a date with a lover, Satoru thought as Suguru rolled down the car window, letting the fresh air in. It was the lowest-effort date Satoru had ever experienced—no nice clothes, terrible complexions, and fast food that wasn't romantic in the slightest. Nevertheless, Satoru was an appreciative man; he gave Suguru’s head a pat in place of a goodnight kiss as he stopped in front of his place that night.
“What are you doing here?” Satoru asked as Suguru arrived unannounced at his door in the dead of night, days later.
Suguru didn't answer. He abruptly shoved Satoru back, pinning him against the wall before crashing their lips together.
“The door, Suguru,” Satoru managed between kisses. Suguru broke away just long enough to kick the front door shut with his heel, then dove back in. The height difference made it awkward—Suguru had to push up on his toes, straining slightly. Satoru noticed. Without a word he bent his knees, slid down the wall a few inches until their mouths lined up better, giving Suguru full access. Suguru took it. He kissed like he was starving, lips swollen and slick within minutes, tongues sliding slow and filthy until both their mouths felt numb and raw.
Satoru noticed a glint in Suguru's eyes—wet, and not from arousal. He caught Suguru’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing him to make eye contact.
“Something happen?” he asked quietly.
“I’m not drunk,” Suguru said. “Okay?”
“I didn’t ask that, Suguru.”
“I just want to fuck, Satoru. That’s all.” Suguru grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the living-room sofa. He pushed Satoru down until he was seated, then dropped to his knees between spread thighs. Hands went straight for the zipper—efficient, impatient—freeing Satoru’s cock in one smooth tug.
Satoru inhaled sharply. He could smell it on Suguru: sharp arousal undercut with something anxious, almost frantic. But he wasn’t about to play therapist right now—not with Suguru’s hand already wrapped around him, stroking once, twice, then guiding him to warm, wet lips.
The sight of those eyes, framed by gold-rimmed glasses, looking up at him was intoxicating.
“Suguru ...” Satoru stared intensely at him through hooded eyes. “Good ... good. Yeah, I fucking love your mouth. You’re amazing at this.”
The praise seemed to ignite Suguru’s enthusiasm. His lips moved with a soft, almost prayerful devotion, as if Satoru’s manhood were the most precious thing in his life. It was a dangerous thought for Satoru to entertain.
“I wasn’t wrong. You really are obsessed with my cock,” Satoru rasped, threading his fingers through Suguru’s hair to cup his head.
Suguru pulled back for a moment, letting Satoru breathe. “I want to make you climax over and over.”
A low groan vibrated in Satoru's chest. “I can handle that. As long as you can make it happen.”
Suguru’s tongue traced the pulsing vein up to the tip before he took him back in. He arched his neck as he sat back on his heels, hands resting on his knees, offering himself completely to Satoru.
“Suguru,” Satoru spread his legs wider. He groaned, his hands gripping Suguru’s hair, pulling tight as his body trembled, reaching the peak.
Satoru cursed under his breath while Suguru swallowed. His arousal was still surging, despite the lingering knot in his heart over Suguru’s expression from earlier.
Suguru stood—pants and underwear shoved down in one impatient motion, fabric pooling at his ankles—then climbed onto Satoru’s lap. Straddling him. Thighs bracketing Satoru’s hips, the heat of his body radiating through thin layers. “No condom,” he said, voice edged and raw.
Satoru’s thumb slipped under the waistband of Suguru’s briefs—found him leaking steadily, fabric soaked through and clinging. “I haven’t even touched you yet,” he whispered, his vision still blurry from the aftershocks of his own orgasm. “But you’re already wet. Your underwear is soaked.”
“I want you. Inside me. Now.”
“Easy,” Satoru pressed a thumb into Suguru. “I don't want any blood here.”
“You’re overthinking it,” Suguru pulled Satoru’s hand away. He shifted, gripping Satoru’s shoulders for balance, kneeling as he lifted himself and lowered onto Satoru’s heat. “Our bodies know each other for so long. No one’s getting hurt.”
“I’m just—” worried. But again, Satoru left the rest of the sentence in his private thoughts, locked away in his brain’s control room—if such a thing even existed.
Satoru’s length brushed the sensitive skin between Suguru’s thighs as the man moved and whimpered, so desperate and hollow, as if he would die if he didn't have this exact moment. “Oh, God...” Suguru closed his eyes, his hands clutching Satoru’s shoulders restlessly. “My God, Satoru.” He took more of him, letting Satoru slide deeper.
Satoru pressed a palm against Suguru’s stomach, stroking gently before wrapping his hand around Suguru’s cock, gripping it with a rhythmic motion. Suguru tensed, burying Satoru even deeper inside him.
Satoru watched him through heavy lids. The man looked stunning—eyes glassy, face flushed, his mouth letting out constant, soft whines. Suguru was the noisy type in bed, and Satoru had no complaints. He loved how the orderly, composed Suguru turned into absolute chaos the moment sex was involved.
“Apple. Apple!” Suguru suddenly shrieked, gripping Satoru’s neck so hard it nearly cut off his breath.
Panic flared in Satoru. Hands flew to Suguru’s back—rubbing slow, soothing circles over sweat-damp skin, kissing his shoulder. “Does it hurt? Is something wrong?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.
“Too much … too intense. Just—give me a second.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No, no. I just need a second. I’m a bit of a mess today.”
Satoru didn't know what possessed him to start giving those small, feather-light kisses, or why he was stroking Suguru’s back and neck so tenderly while the man composed himself—from whatever it was. He should have pulled out, ended the session, taken a cold shower, and played PlayStation for a distraction. He wasn't feeling a desperate urge for sex anymore, but he didn't want to leave Suguru alone. This was a new, unsettling feeling.
Minutes later, Suguru pressed his mouth to Satoru’s, his hips beginning to move again as the tide of pleasure rose. He seemed to lose himself, primitive instinct taking over until his body was in total control.
“Satoru, Satoru, it feels so good,” Suguru sobbed. “You feel so fucking good inside me … thick, hot, stretching me just right.”
Satoru guided Suguru’s rhythm with his hands, positioning them so he hit exactly where Suguru liked, where he liked. Suguru’s hands scrambled and gripped the roots of Satoru’s hair, his body tensing—he was close.
“Satoru.”
Satoru cupped the back of Suguru’s neck as an orgasm exploded within him. He could feel the tremors racking Suguru’s entire frame. He was coming apart; his eyes refused to stay open while his mouth refused to stay shut. Suguru kept groaning through a powerful climax that made his whole body jerk.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Satoru groaned, thrusting his hips up, pulling Suguru down to meet the force. “Suguru!” Satoru shouted, a wild, raw release that left Suguru in awe, a flicker of pride visible in his taunting smirk.
Suguru cupped Satoru's face, brushing his lips against Satoru’s, calming him as his short, hot breaths fanned Satoru's cheek.
“Suguru,” Satoru wrapped his arms around him and held him tight, burying his damp face in the crook of the man’s neck.
They stayed like that for a long time, holding each other, absorbing the aftershocks. Satoru turned and kissed Suguru’s face gently, his touch soothing the emotions that were threatening to boil over.
Eventually, Suguru climbed off him with a wince. The sheets were a mess, and he insisted Satoru change them.
When he returned from the bathroom, Suguru turned up the AC and curled up at the edge of the bed, wrapping the duvet up to his neck. He stared blankly at the plain walls of Satoru’s room.
“Want a beer?” Satoru asked after returning from throwing the dirty sheets into a soak. Too embarrassing for the laundromat. “Here, I brought a glass. You like drinking from a glass.”
“He was my first patient to die this year,” Suguru said suddenly. Satoru stopped pouring. He sat beside Suguru, watching the profile of his face in the dim light. “Young, our age. Had a wife and a kid. He came in last week—said he fell at a construction site and hurt his leg. But he only came to the hospital after the bone was severely infected. It was rotten, purulent ... it spread until he went into septic shock. It was so far gone his blood pressure just kept dropping and never recovered.
I tried everything. Antibiotics, fluids, vasopressors, corticosteroids, every procedure I hoped would make him strong. He was young; he should have made it. But I don't know... he went into MODS—multi-organ failure. The damage was done. Last night, I called the time of death. And then I saw his kid crying. It was the kid's birthday yesterday, and I was the one bringing him that news.”
Satoru fell silent, his mind drifting back to a cold night six years ago, long before he had become the Wakagashira he was now. It was a biting December evening when he was sent to settle a debt with an elderly man who had once been a loyal bookkeeper for the family. The man had embezzled a significant amount, not out of greed, but out of sheer, desperate ruin.
When Satoru arrived at the cramped, freezing apartment, he didn't find a thief. He found a man sitting in the dark, clutching a rusty revolver, with his three young grandchildren huddled behind him. The man didn't look at Satoru with hatred; he looked at him with the hollow eyes of someone who had already reached the end of the world. He spoke in a fractured voice about his mounting debts, the children’s parents who had abandoned them, and how he just wanted the kids to have one last warm meal before the family erased him. Satoru had come there to be the enforcer, the shadow of the patriarch, but for the first time, he had no intention of following orders. He tried to tell the man he could fix it—that he would cover the debt himself.
But the man didn't believe in mercy from a Yakuza. He looked at Satoru, gave a small, heartbreaking bow of apology to the children, and before Satoru could leap forward, the man turned the gun on himself. A single, deafening shot echoed in the small room.
Satoru had seen death in many forms—it was the currency of his profession—but that night shook him to his core. The man hadn't been a job; he had been a grandfather who felt he was worth more to his family dead than alive. Satoru had spent the rest of the night coordinating the children's safety in secret, but the image of that bow haunted him. He couldn't eat for a week; every meal felt like ash in his mouth, a physical manifestation of the guilt that comes with a life built on power and fear.
In the underworld, just as in the hospital, you are taught to maintain a certain coldness. A wakagashira must be a pillar of iron, someone who understands the weight of a life without letting it crush his own spirit. Satoru wasn't trying to compete over whose life was more tragic. He understood the specific, heavy silence that follows a death you feel responsible for—even if, on paper, you did everything you were "supposed" to do. For a doctor, it’s a failed surgery; for a Yakuza, it’s a failed negotiation. Both left the same blood on their hands, and the same hollow ache in their chests when the world went quiet.
“What if it really was my fault?” Suguru asked, whether to Satoru or the empty air of the room.
“If you hadn’t been the one in charge of him, he wouldn’t have made it. I know how you do your job. Remember that kid from my group who was stabbed in the stomach multiple times? No one thought he’d survive. You always did everything you could, Suguru.” Satoru’s words made Suguru shift slightly, his hand clutching the blanket to hide half his face.
“I know.”
“Good that you understand, then.” Satoru took a long, silent breath. He’d held back those comments while Suguru was talking, and he was relieved to say them without offending him. “So, what’s your plan for today?”
“Well, after you kick me out, I have to do grocery shopping and the laundry. And I think my car needs an oil change.”
“So, nothing urgent,” Satoru said casually.
“No, nothing urgent. Though if I don't do it today, I’ll run out of clothes—might have to go to the hospital naked tomorrow—and I’ll starve, and my car will die.”
Satoru did the thing that had become his latest addiction—besides kissing Suguru’s chest—which was stroking the back of the man’s head, fingers disappearing into the strands of hair. “Just hang out here for a bit, then.”
Suguru laughed. ‘Hang out’ wasn't quite the right phrase. But Satoru couldn't find another word to simplify his complicated desire: that he wanted Suguru to stay for a while, but not in a way that sounded like an overnight stay or ‘keeping him company.’ That was far too intimate to say out loud.
They spent the rest of their day playing PlayStation, rewatching Star Wars Episode IV, and cooking lunch together. Everything felt smooth and normal—even when Satoru accidentally tossed a lime that bounced right off Suguru’s forehead.
“Hey!” Suguru yelped, shooting a glare at Satoru.
Satoru’s laughter trailed after the string of complaints pouring from Suguru’s lips.
“Your reflexes are terrible,” Satoru snorted, breathless.
Suguru’s gaze sharpened as his hand massaged the patch of skin turning slightly red from the impact.
“Aww,” Satoru made a coaxing sound, the kind Suguru had once heard him use while talking to his nephew on the phone. He took the lime back from Suguru's hand. “Does it hurt? Poor thing,” Satoru smirked, then leaned in and kissed the sore spot on his forehead.
A second later, silence fell. Satoru was suddenly struck by the realization that he had done something he shouldn't have. He hadn't just broken the cardinal rule of friends-with-benefits by kissing outside of the act; worse, the kiss he’d given was the most dangerous kind—the casual, light, tender, and spontaneous kind.
The kind of kiss reserved for people in romantic relationships. The kind of kiss he shouldn't be giving Suguru because, hey, they were nothing. Just sex partners.
So, Satoru had no choice now. He had to kiss Suguru properly, pretending this was all part of his plan, and they would have sex right then and there. He didn't want Suguru questioning that forehead kiss, mostly because he didn't have an answer for it himself yet.
Everything was getting weirder and incredibly confusing. Satoru didn't know what to do other than try to keep his sanity intact.
Suguru returned the kiss half-heartedly; he wasn't in the mood. Satoru wasn't either. Over the past few days, he’d been forced to stay awake all night running surveillance on a drug ring in the southern district. Last night—after spending far too much time lurking around crime scenes—he had finally made it home, albeit late, only for Suguru to show up at his apartment three hours ago and make him climax twice. Bracing himself for a third round in such a depleted state felt forced.
Suguru’s hand gripping the waistband of his trousers might have been enough to pique Satoru’s interest, but it wasn't enough to make him enjoy it.
“My God,” Suguru said anxiously, his movements hesitant.
Satoru caught his wrist. “Hey, it’s okay. We don’t have to do this ...”
“No, we have to,” Suguru said with a look of forced conviction that, frankly, didn't turn Satoru on at all. Fortunately, Suguru’s aggressive blowjob helped salvage the situation.
They had a quick session on the kitchen counter just once. Satoru’s orgasm this time was pleasant, but it felt hollow; there was nothing special about it except for the ringing in his ears from the sheer weight of his exhaustion.
Suguru left immediately after they finished, without saying a word—not even a polite goodbye or a ‘see you later.’ Satoru tried to treat it as normal; that this was just a simple arrangement, just sex. They just needed to enjoy it.
Sometimes they were truly drunk—so far gone they couldn't do anything right, not even read the signs on a restroom door. It happened when they were celebrating Shoko’s latest degree, or when their favorite baseball team clinched a win. Or, occasionally, when they’d been sleeping together for three days straight.
Today was Hiroma’s bachelor party—a colleague of Suguru’s who was set to tie the knot in a few weeks. Their social circles had blended automatically; though at first, it was just his circle overlapping with Shoko’s, because Suguru was always there, Satoru sometimes forgot and just considered it all one and the same.
Satoru only realized how wasted he was when he couldn't get his apartment door open. Or maybe it wasn't even his apartment; he’d accidentally broken into a neighbor's place once before. Lightning wasn't supposed to strike the same place twice, but Satoru’s drunken brain clearly had other plans.
“Hey, Suguru ... this is my place, right?” he asked, his voice trailing off into a slur.
Suguru just blinked a few times, squinting at the door number over Satoru’s shoulder since his glasses were nowhere to be found. “I think...” Suguru said uncertainly. “I think so.”
“Thank God,” Satoru sighed in relief, returning his focus to the keypad. Suguru was no help at all; in fact, he was a nuisance, whining and complaining about how tired he was of standing and how much his feet were killing him.
“Hold on, be patient... I really have to pee!” Satoru said. He froze his fingertip over a button and started laughing. “Ha! No wonder it’s not working. I was entering my ATM pin.” He leaned his forehead against the door with a thud before trying the code again. Still, the door wouldn't budge.
“Are you sure this is my apartment?” Satoru asked, his voice rising.
“I don't know, just hurry up! I’m tired!”
“The damn door won't open... and listen, I am at my absolute limit. My bladder is going to explode—oh, wait. I just remembered I changed the code.”
Suguru groaned. “My God,Gojo Satoru...”
“Got it!” When the door finally clicked open, Satoru made a dramatic turn and hummed a tune. Then he barked, “Shoo!” leaving Suguru wondering exactly who he was talking to.
Satoru bolted for the bathroom, knocking over a laundry basket on the way. Dirty clothes scattered across the vinyl floor, but the spinning in his head refused to compromise.
When he returned to the living room without turning on the lights, he rounded a corner and stopped dead in his tracks.
Suguru wasn't on the sofa as he’d expected. Instead, he was in the kitchen, his head resting on his folded arms atop the counter. The doctor was perched on the edge of a high barstool, seemingly indifferent to the fact that half his backside was hanging off the seat. Satoru couldn't tell if he was asleep or just trying to regain consciousness.
“Hey, Suguru, wake up.”
“Shoo! Shoo!” Now Suguru was doing it too, waving Satoru away as if he were a stray cat trying to steal fish from the kitchen cabinet. His own kitchen.
Satoru shook his shoulder gently. The moment his fingers squeezed, Suguru gasped and sat bolt upright, looking as if Satoru had just startled him out of a dream.
Suguru slid off the stool immediately, standing on unsteady legs. He swayed dangerously, so Satoru threw an arm around his shoulders and guided him away from the kitchen.
“You’re sleeping on the sofa.”
Suguru let his head drop onto Satoru’s shoulder, making it even harder for Satoru to keep him upright. “You’re mean,” he complained in a whiny voice. “I’m a guest. I should get the bed.”
Satoru let go of him the moment they reached the sofa. Suguru collapsed instantly, but he didn't release his grip on Satoru’s shoulder. They went down together, and Satoru just stared into space, utterly bewildered. He briefly considered that this might all be a drunken hallucination.
“Stay,” Suguru said, his voice hitting that high-pitched tone Satoru classified as a grumble. Suguru grabbed Satoru’s hand, tugging him back toward the sofa as he tried to pull away.
Suguru lay on his side, face pressed into the sofa cushion. Satoru reached for a pillow that had fallen by their feet and tried to tuck it under Suguru’s head, but the man just started rambling again. “Stupid pillow,” he muttered, tossing it back onto the floor.
Satoru looked toward the hallway, then back at Suguru, wondering if he should just leave him alone with his nonsense. He wasn't in the mood for sex, and Suguru wasn't initiating either. Yet, it felt impossible to walk away—not because of Suguru’s grip on his arm, but because Satoru simply didn't feel like going anywhere else.
Satoru pulled off Suguru’s blazer, and in response, Suguru raised both arms into the air with his eyes squeezed shut. Satoru raised an eyebrow but complied with the silent demand to remove his shirt. The doctor then unbuckled his belt and kicked off his trousers until he was down to his underwear and ankle socks. He grabbed the lapel of Satoru’s shirt and slowly lifted his face to look at him. Suguru’s eyes were barely open, the whites of them bloodshot. “Take it off, take it aaaall ooooff. I’m not being naked by myself, you idiioooot.”
Satoru wanted to argue, but he was only operating on half a brain, so he obeyed without comment. Suguru watched him, blinking a few times before offering a thin smile. Satoru pulled a blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it over both of them. He tucked his arm under Suguru’s head, and they pressed their bare chests together in the cramped space, their legs entangling.
“So you don't fall off,” he murmured into Suguru’s hair.
“Wow, thanks, man.” Suguru wrapped an arm around Satoru’s waist and buried his face in his neck. If Satoru could rent out the crook of his neck, he’d gladly give it to Suguru for free.
The next morning, Satoru woke up with a numb arm and Suguru still clinging to him, snoring softly with a bit of drool. Satoru didn't move, trying to endure the pounding in his skull and a stomach that felt like it was being stirred with a spoon.
He stared at the ceiling, taking slow breaths and trying to piece together last night’s events. Forcing himself to untangle Suguru from his body, he walked to the kitchen, gathering what little energy remained to fetch a sip of water and some aspirin.
There were some leftover energy bars in the fridge. Satoru ate one and brought two back to the living room, along with a glass of mineral water and the aspirin.
“Suguru,” Satoru shook him. No shirt, no trousers, no shoes—they must have been absolutely hammered last night. “Suguru, wake up. I’ve got aspirin and water. And an energy bar; I don't know if it’s appropriate, but hey, breakfast for the champ. Come on, man. Drink this and go back to sleep.”
Suguru told him to get lost without opening his eyes.
Satoru kept pestering him until Suguru finally shifted. “God, I feel like I’m dying,” Suguru complained dramatically, reaching for the glass and the pills Satoru offered.
“Same,” Satoru massaged his forehead. He swayed for a moment before Suguru pulled him back onto the sofa. He curled up there again, with Suguru clinging to his back like a koala. This was the worst hangover of his life.
.
Suguru was sitting on the edge of the sofa, eating a bowl of cereal and watching TV when Satoru finally opened his eyes again. He had his shirt and trousers back on, and his hair was damp.
“There’s a logical explanation for all of this,” he said without looking at Satoru.
“All of what?” Satoru asked, his head still throbbing.
“This. Us. And why did we sleep like we did last night.” Suguru gestured vaguely, then looked down at his bowl. “Oxytocin. The hormone our brains release after sex; it makes us want to touch or be touched. The better the sex, the more oxytocin is released. It’s natural, a part of evolutionary necessity. So, yeah, it’s not our fault. It’s just ... a biological reaction.”
It had never crossed Satoru’s mind that cuddling on the sofa was a mistake. “Okay,” he said dubiously.
“It’s logical,” Suguru continued, now squinting at the curve of his spoon as if it were a fascinating discovery. “Logical, normal, and it always happens because, well, sex has side effects like that.”
There was a giant hole in Suguru's theory that wouldn't sit right in Satoru’s head.
They didn’t had sex last night.
After that incident, they became more relaxed about cuddling after an orgasm. After all, they were just living beings following biological evolution—even if Suguru never let it last long. Usually just fifteen minutes, or maybe longer if Satoru kept his mouth shut.
“Why a dragon?” Suguru suddenly asked, catching Satoru slightly off guard. They had known each other for a long time, and this was the first time Suguru had ever asked about his tattoo.
“Can you guess?”
Suguru’s fingers traced the lines along Satoru’s back as he thought for a moment. “Because it looks cool?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m joking. I know you’re not the type to just pick something randomly.”
“I didn’t choose the dragon because it looks cool, or because everyone in my organization is expected to have some grand symbol covering their back, but because in mythology it isn’t a creature that moves recklessly—it’s a force that knows when to remain still and when to descend from the sky—and in my position I can’t be the one who reacts the fastest or the loudest, I have to be the one who stands the longest without losing control, because if I falter then the people under me falter too, and the black, green, and red ink isn’t just decoration on skin but a permanent reminder that ambition without control turns into brutality, while control without strength means nothing at all.”
“Wow. That’s very philosophical.”
Satoru laughed. “Yeah, something like that.”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo too,” Suguru said.
Satoru turned around, his hand slipping automatically beneath Suguru’s head. Suguru shifted closer, his body pressing nearer as he looked up and asked, “What kind of tattoo do you think would suit me?”
“Are doctors even allowed to have tattoos?”
“Of course. I told you—I’m not a monk.”
“Don’t.”
Suguru blinked. “Huh? Why?”
“Your skin’s too beautiful for that.”
“What?!” Suguru half-shouted.
“What?”
“What are you even saying?”
“What about it?”
“You just said my skin—”
“Beautiful? Well, it is, isn’t it?”
Suguru abruptly sat up, pushing the blanket aside before unplugging his phone from the charger and wiping the screen, then sitting with his back to Satoru. Satoru watched the way Suguru’s messy black hair fell over his shoulders, strands catching the dim light and gleaming faintly.
“Camellia,” Satoru said suddenly. “That would suit you.”
Satoru didn’t understand why it felt so easy for him to comment on Suguru’s body outside of sex. And he didn’t understand why Suguru said nothing afterward, simply gathering his clothes and eventually leaving in a taxi without another word.
On another night, they dove back into their fake-drunk routine and fucked like animals again.
They’d just finished dinner—two large bowls of soba delivered via app, still steaming faintly on the coffee table. Satoru carried an empty sake bottle he’d refilled with chilled oolong tea; Suguru had mixed three leftover spoonfuls of beer in a can with a glass of tap water, shaking it lazily so it looked convincing.
They slipped right back into the act—pretending to be idiots who believed each other’s drunkenness, even though Satoru could smell zero alcohol on Suguru’s breath and Suguru had just adjusted the AC to a perfect 24°C without swaying once. How the hell does a drunk person do that? They both knew the game was bullshit, and they both played along anyway because the sober version still hit harder every time.
“Let’s keep it moderate even though we’re ‘wasted,’” Suguru said, raising his diluted beer can like a toast. “My little sisters are coming over tomorrow. Okay?”
“Cheers.” Satoru clinked his fake sake bottle against the can, then let his gaze drop—lingering on Suguru’s thighs. The stretchy mid-thigh shorts hugged the thick, defined muscle perfectly, the fabric pulling taut every time Suguru shifted.
Satoru had discovered a lot since he quit drinking. Like how obsessed he was with Suguru’s chest. And now—new revelation—he was borderline fixated on those thighs too.
They weren’t soft and plush like some women’s; they were dense, powerful slabs of muscle carved from hours in the gym, covered in a fine dusting of dark hair that caught the lamplight, veins faintly visible under the skin when Suguru flexed. The inner curves swept inward in clean, sculpted lines that made Satoru’s mouth water. To him, they were a goddamn masterpiece, and he worshipped them with the kind of single-minded devotion that bordered on unhinged.
“Hey,” Satoru said, already slipping into character.
“Yeah?”
He didn’t answer—just stood and walked toward Suguru’s bedroom. Suguru followed a second later, steps deliberately slow and unsteady, playing up the fake dizziness.
Satoru flopped onto the bed on his back, no pillow under his head, hair fanning out on the sheets. He patted his own face twice. “Come here.”
Suguru almost broke character with a startled noise, but caught himself. “What?” he slurred, faking confusion.
“Sit here.” Another pat to his face.
“No way.” Suguru’s cheeks flushed—half embarrassment, half nerves—but he played it off as drunken shyness. Perfect cover, he thought.
“I already washed my face,” Satoru insisted.
“I’m too heavy. What if I break your neck?”
Satoru frowned, genuinely annoyed for the first time. He sat up cross-legged right in front of Suguru, who was still standing at the edge of the bed. “What did you say?”
“I weigh 88 kilos, Satoru. I could snap your nose cartilage or—worse—your neck. I’m not dragging you to the ER again, okay?”
“You think I can’t handle your weight?” Satoru’s voice dropped, edged with challenge. “I literally fucked you while carrying you last week until you came so hard you pissed a little.”
“Why are you bringing that up?!” Suguru hissed, momentarily forgetting they were supposed to be too drunk to remember.
“I can do one-arm push-ups with you lying on my back. So what makes you think your glorious ass is gonna snap my neck?”
“Satoru! That’s so–”
Satoru grabbed Suguru’s arm nd yanked him forward. He stripped Suguru quickly—shirt tugged over his head, shorts and underwear dragged down together, fabric ripping faintly at one seam. Then he pulled Suguru up the bed until his back rested against the headboard.
“Kneel. Spread your legs,” Satoru ordered, voice low and commanding.
This time Suguru obeyed without protest—awkwardly settling on his knees, thighs parting wide. His whole body flushed dark red; he was painfully aware he was completely naked while Satoru was still fully dressed. His cock stood rigid, already leaking, throbbing visibly in the cool air.
Satoru lay back down between Suguru’s spread thighs, head positioned right beneath him. Suguru’s eyes widened; he nearly choked on his own spit.
“Wait—wait—how are you even gonna breathe?”
Satoru grinned up at him—the kind of feral grin that made Suguru’s stomach flip with nerves and want. “Don’t worry about that.”
Actually, Satoru had long ago decided he wouldn’t mind dying with his face buried between Suguru’s thighs or suffocating happily between those cheeks. But that was classified information—Satoru and God only.
Next thing Suguru knew, strong hands clamped onto his hips—firm, steady—and Satoru started pressing small, teasing bites along the curve of his ass. One hand slid inward, spreading him open; warm breath fanned over his hole, making it twitch and clench in anticipation. The first long, flat lick dragged from perineum to tailbone—wet, hot, deliberate—ripping a loud, startled whine from Suguru’s throat.
He hadn’t expected it to feel that good.
Satoru licked again—testing, exploring—until the rim glistened with saliva. Suguru’s high-pitched whimpers spilled out uncontrollably; his hands scrambled for the headboard, knuckles whitening as he gripped it for dear life. The reality hit him hard: he was sitting on the wakagashira of the Gojo family’s face, getting his hole worshipped at 8 p.m. on a Saturday, and he was more turned on than he’d ever been.
Satoru didn’t hold back. He licked and sucked like a starving man—tongue circling the rim, then pushing inside in slow, deep thrusts. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room: slick laps, filthy slurps, Satoru’s heavy breathing, Suguru’s broken moans and stifled pleas.
“Satoru… ah… fuck, you bastard.”
All shame, all anxiety burned away in the fire twisting through Suguru’s gut. He braced both hands on the headboard behind Satoru, arched his back, and sank down harder—offering more. The rough scrape of Satoru’s stubble on his inner thighs and ass contrasted perfectly with the soft, insistent pressure of that tongue fucking into him.
Satoru was lost in it—inch by inch. Licking, sucking, burying his nose against Suguru’s skin and inhaling deep, like the scent was oxygen. One hand left Suguru’s hip to wrap around his cock—stroking in time with every thrust of tongue. The dual stimulation was overwhelming—too much, too perfect. The coil in Suguru’s belly wound tighter and tighter.
“Satoru—wait—I’m gonna—” Suguru babbled, body shaking.
Satoru doubled down—tongue plunging deeper, hand stroking faster. Suguru’s body seized—back bowing, a hoarse scream tearing from his throat as he came hard, pulsing over Satoru’s fist and chin.
“Fucking insane,” Suguru panted, knuckles white on the headboard, cum streaking Satoru’s face, neck, hair, chest. He tried to lift off, but Satoru yanked him back down—tongue spearing back inside the still-twitching hole, letting the spasms clamp around it.
“You’re actually insane!” Suguru whined, shoving backward with all his strength. He tumbled sideways, landing on the mattress next to Satoru, chest heaving.
Satoru rose—shedding clothes in quick, impatient movements until he was naked—then grabbed Suguru’s legs, spreading them wide and settling between them. Suguru didn’t fight it. Maybe didn’t want to.
Satoru nudged his cock against Suguru’s entrance, easing in while Suguru groaned at the renewed stretch on his oversensitive rim. Suguru’s arms wrapped around Satoru’s shoulders; long legs hooked around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back.
Satoru started slow—long, rolling thrusts—then built speed, hips snapping until he nailed that spot on every stroke. Skin slapped skin; Suguru’s sharp cries echoed off the walls. Everything was too much that he couldn’t think—just feel Satoru’s hands gripping his hips, the thick drag inside him, the building pressure demanding release.
The room filled with desperate sounds: Suguru’s breathless whimpers and moans, Satoru’s low growls, wet smacks of their bodies meeting.
It was too much. Suguru’s head fell back—low groan ripping out—and he came again, clenching hard, body jerking like he’d been shocked.
Satoru—still rock-hard inside him—thrust harder, chasing his own edge. Suguru clamped down tight. Satoru’s rhythm faltered—tremors running through him, growls turning desperate, eyes squeezing shut then snapping open. He came with a rough groan of “Suguru,” spilling deep before collapsing sideways next to him.
Suguru didn’t give him more than a few seconds to breathe. He shifted closer, still catching his breath.
“That’s it. We promised moderate tonight.”
“Ah, too bad. Was just getting fun.”
Suguru rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. He reached over, grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, and wiped a streak of his own cum off Satoru’s cheek—casual, almost absent-minded.
They stayed like that for a while—limbs tangled, breathing slowing, the room cooling as the AC hummed steadily. Eventually, exhaustion won. Satoru drifted off first—deep, dreamless sleep that hit like a blackout. Suguru followed a minute later, face half-buried in the crook of Satoru’s neck, one leg hooked over Satoru’s thigh like an afterthought.
The next thing Satoru registered was a sharp poke to his ribs.
“Oi. Wake up.”
He groaned, trying to roll away. The poke came again—harder.
“Satoru. Get up. Now.”
His eyes cracked open. The room was still dim, but the clock on the nightstand glowed 6:47 a.m. Suguru was already sitting up, hair a wreck, sheet pooled around his waist. He looked annoyingly awake.
“What time is it?” Satoru mumbled, voice thick.
“Almost seven. Mimiko and Nanako are coming at eight. You need to be gone before they get here.”
Satoru groaned dramatically, head flopping back against the pillow. “Five more minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
Satoru cracked one eye open. “You’re nagging like a wife.”
“And you’re whining like a kid.” Suguru poked his side. “Move. I’m not explaining to my sisters why there’s a naked yakuza in my bed.”
Satoru snorted, finally dragging himself upright. His head felt strangely heavy—like someone had strapped weights to his skull—but Suguru’s nagging was more irritating, so he forced himself to stand and start gathering scattered clothes off the floor.
“You… okay?” Suguru asked, watching him with a small frown.
Satoru shook his head once. “Nah. Feel weird today. Probably just tired. Dunno.”
“You sick?”
Satoru let out a short, humorless laugh. “No idea. Just feel… off. That’s all.”
“And you still insisted on having sex with me?” Suguru’s voice rose a few octaves.
“For God’s sake, Suguru,” Satoru snapped. “I told you, I think I’m just exhausted and feeling weird. I wouldn't sleep with someone if I actually felt sick.”
Suguru took a few steps back and huffed. “Well, you need to go home, get in bed, and sleep.”
That worried expression still hadn't left Suguru’s face. Not one bit.
Satoru shrugged. “Fine, fine, I’m leaving now.”
“I’ll drive you.”
At least Suguru had a shred of empathy for him. But Satoru didn't feel like he needed it. “No need, I’ll just have to ask Megumi to drive me. And I think if I walk around a bit, I’ll feel better.”
Satoru’s hunch was wrong. When he stood up, his entire body ached, and his joints felt like rusted door hinges—stiff and ready to snap at any moment. Satoru had to steady himself against the wall as he took the elevator down and joined the crowd to cross the street.
“Waka, you look like a used rag.” That’s what Megumi told him. Satoru didn't have time to look in a mirror, but he agreed with the sentiment.
By the time he got home, even though it was only ten in the morning, he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep until the ring of his phone woke him up the following morning.
“You said you’ll stop by at the burger place near my complex today.” Suguru said, sounding annoyed for some reason.
Satoru wanted to ask what time it was because, good God, he hadn't even realized a whole day had passed and he was supposed to be working and treat Suguru a set of cheese burgers just like he promised him last night.
“I don’t feel well. I feel like a zombie.”
There was a pause before Suguru spoke again. “You certainly sound like a zombie. Kugisaki—the doctor who’s hired by your family—called you several times and you didn't pick up, then he asked about you in the group chat. So I called to make sure you weren't dead.”
Satoru scratched his head. It really did feel as bad as death—though compared to the injuries he usually sustained on the job, this should have been nothing.
“What’s wrong with you?” Suguru asked again.
“I don't know. My head hurts, my body is aching, and it’s a struggle just to open my eyes. The flu, maybe?”
“Hmm... yeah, sounds like flu symptoms. Just rest, then. If you don't feel better by tomorrow morning, call a doctor, not me.”
“Suguru,”
“Yeah?”
“You are a doctor, for God’s sake.”
Satoru didn't feel any better the next day. His throat was agonizing, as if razor blades were scraping the walls of his internal organs every time he swallowed, even just a sip of water. His saliva had become uncontrollable, and he constantly had to wipe it away with tissues.
The first thought that crossed his mind was to call Suguru. But halfway through, he hesitated. Why Suguru? He wasn't even a colleague who needed to be informed of his absence. Satoru tried to justify his urge: Suguru was a doctor, and Suguru himself had told him to call one if things didn't improve.
Yes, it made sense to think of Suguru. It wasn't wrong to want to call him.
But Satoru canceled the call anyway. Instead, he messaged Shoko.
I feel like crap
My body hurts
I need help
Still not better? Suguru said you caught the flu
I don't even know if it's the flu. Can you swing by after work?
Satoru, I’m not a doctor on call. Call Nobara instead
I don’t want her to tell my family. Besides, you’re my favorite best friend. And you’re an otolaryngologist, right?
Fine, but you should really call megumi or taxi or whatever works and get to the hospital. RIGHT NOW
No need, I’m still doing okay so far. Relax.
Satoru spent the rest of the day in misery awaiting Shoko’s arrival. He was simply too lazy to drag himself to a hospital.
“Throat infection, and a pretty nasty one,” Shoko said, her tone far too cheerful for Satoru’s liking, forcing him to swat at her shoulder. “I have a date with Utahime in half an hour. Be grateful I stopped by.”
Shoko turned to Suguru, who had been leaning near the bedroom door. “Strep throat. He’s not going to want to eat, but try to convince him to take the antibiotics.”
Suguru’s eyes widened, blinking rapidly. “Why are you telling me? My surgery schedule is packed this week.”
Shoko turned back to Satoru. “Can you look after yourself? You just need rest, drink as much as possible, and try to eat at least a piece of bread before taking your meds. If it’s too hard to swallow, soak it in water.”
Satoru nodded. If things got worse, he had plenty of people to call: His subordinates, his family, or even the lady at the family restaurant where he usually bought dinner. There were plenty of people; Suguru wasn't necessary.
“By the way, just a reminder in case you forgot,” Shoko cleared her throat. “This is fairly contagious. You can catch it just by physical contact with the patient ...”
Suguru looked up from his phone and shot a glance at Satoru.
“... like at a concert, a mall, an escalator, a hospital—basically anywhere you’re crowded with people.” Shoko glanced at Suguru again. “But kissing and oral sex have a much higher tendency to spread the bacteria. Well, I’m sure you already knew that?”
Suguru frowned but said nothing.
“Satoru is allergic to penicillin, so just get him Cefradoxil. To stop the infection from spreading further.”
Suguru looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end, he just nodded and stared blankly at a corner of the room where a feather duster and vacuum cleaner sat. Satoru, who hadn't actually done anything wrong, felt a pang of guilt.
Even after Shoko left, Suguru continued to stare at him sharply.
“I didn’t,” Satoru tried to say, but his voice shrank and vanished, making him wince in pain. He felt Suguru needed to know he hadn't put himself at risk by fooling around with someone else. He hadn't done that—well, maybe once with K a long time ago, but that was a non-issue. Not that it mattered now, but if Suguru was still sleeping with other people, Satoru realized he didn't want to know. He’d feel uncomfortable. He wanted Suguru’s sex life all to himself. At least, that’s what he thought.
Suguru watched him for a long moment before giving a small nod and a shrug. He seemed to remember that what Satoru did and with whom was none of his business.
“Fine, don’t talk,” he said quietly.
Suguru spent the rest of the day hunched over his phone making notes, then explaining them to Satoru as he unpacked boxes of groceries ordered from an online service. He placed mineral water bottles on Satoru's bedside table, along with isotonic drinks, several packs of extra-soft bread, medications, vitamins, ready-to-eat jelly, an ear thermometer, a phone charger, a box of tissues, clean spoons, books, and fresh batteries for the remotes. He even put a vomit basin on the floor and two extra blankets under the bed for padding. Satoru’s eyebrows shot up when he found an unopened tub of Vaseline.
“For your chin,” Suguru said softly. He opened it and smeared a little on Satoru’s skin. “You’re getting a rash from all the drooling. Call Megumi to take care of you.”
Then came the small whiteboard and marker so Satoru could communicate without using his vocal cords. The first thing Satoru drew was a penis, showing it to Suguru with a proud grin. Suguru sighed. “I didn't give you that for porn.” He paused. “Wait...”
Suguru took the marker, drew an arrow, and wrote ‘Satoru’ next to the drawing.
Satoru laughed, then immediately stopped when his throat protested. Suguru pressed his palm to Satoru’s forehead, pushing him down and telling him to sleep.
Satoru woke up a few hours later feeling absolutely miserable and bored of being stuck in bed. He found Suguru sitting at the foot of the bed, writing on a piece of paper which he handed over once finished.
“This is your list of instructions and medication schedule. Read it.”
It was classic Suguru: neat bullet points.
- Check your temperature regularly, at least three times a day. It should be between 36.5 and 37.5 degrees.
- If it goes above that, take 2 tablets of ibuprofen (only if it's been 4 hours since your last dose).
- If your fever hits 39, you might have hyperthermia. Call an ambulance immediately.
And so it went on.
Satoru wrote on the board: Can you just give me the summary?
“No, you have to read it all. You want the summary? I’ll be really pissed off if you die. That’s the summary.”
Satoru had to text him at least eight times a day to convince Suguru he was still alive. A barrage of instructions—more like forced commands—flooded his inbox.
Have you taken your meds yet?
You need to take your meds
Make sure you're drinking enough water
Have you eaten yet?
you have to eat something
How much have you drunk today? water, I mean
should I measure my urine
No, I’m not asking you to measure your urine in a beaker
I made robots, from jello
I don't want to see the robots you made out of jelly.
Eat the jelly
and stop sending me drawings of your dick
Your drawing is terrible, you know
Satoru suppressed a laugh at the last message.
Fine, you want me to send a real photo instead?
My God. No. What’s your temperature right now?
Hot enough to make you blush, baby
Satoru
chill I’m at 37 degrees and I just took my meds
Good. You need to get well soon
ou’re always talking about getting well soon this and that. Do you miss me?
Hiroma’s wedding is coming up. He wants you there. I’m just making sure you don't miss it.
For some reason Satoru couldn't explain, Suguru’s reply annoyed him.
In the afternoon, Suguru called. Satoru didn't pick up.
Stop calling. It’s useless, I can’t talk.
Just pick up the phone right now.
For what? You want to hear me breathing on the phone? Creepy
Gojo Satoru
Satoru smiled and sent another whiteboard drawing of a penis.
On the fourth day, Satoru finally had enough strength to leave his bed. He moved to the living room and sprawled across the sofa for a while. Toward midnight, Suguru arrived, entering the apartment as if he owned the place.
“You’re feeling better?”
“Fuck, you scared me! Yeah, somewhat,” Satoru said, his voice still a rasp. He gestured with his chin toward the grocery bag in Suguru’s hand. “What’d you bring?”
“Ingredients for soup,” he answered simply.
“Aww, Suguru, are you making me a soup of love?”
Suguru furrowed his brows, glancing at the bag. “No, Satoru. I’m making you chicken and mushroom soup.”
“Not like that, idiot. My mother used to say that when I was sick. Back when I was a kid, anyway. If I asked what she was making, she’d say she was cooking something with love in it.”
Suguru rolled his eyes. “There’s no love in this soup, Satoru. Just salt, onions, chicken, mushrooms, and MSG.”
Suguru disappeared into the kitchen. Satoru heard the busy sounds of cooking mingling with the background noise of the TV and the occasional honk of a car outside.
A few days ago, Satoru had called his mother, telling her he was sick but already recovering. She would have worried and forced her way from Kyoto to Tokyo if she knew her son—the heir of the family—could barely move and was vomiting three times a day. Satoru often wondered why she worried more about the flu than the literal bullets and blades he dodged for a living. Regardless, he accepted every bit of affection she gave; whether a lot or a little, it always made him happy. He wondered if Suguru—
“Here, it’s done. Sorry if it’s bad; your stove is garbage.”
Ah, forget it.
Satoru adjusted his position, sitting up against the arm of the sofa with his legs stretched out. Suguru placed the tray with the soup bowl on his lap and stood with his hands on his hips. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“It’s still hot, for God's sake ... be patient.”
“Eat it.”
“I’ll eat it when it’s cool.”
“Do I need to put it in the fridge first?”
“You'll break my fridge,” Satoru sighed. “I won’t die from eating ten minutes late, Suguru.”
“I’ll get you a drink,” Suguru said, heading back to the kitchen.
Satoru blew on a spoonful of soup and sipped slowly. Even before the soup arrived, his throat felt like it was being doused in lava every time he swallowed. This was no different. But he kept eating anyway.
Suguru placed a glass of room-temperature water on the table. He cleared his throat. “Hm, it looks like ...” he started hesitantly. “You won’t be able to make it to Hiroma-san’s wedding.”
Satoru closed his eyes and took a breath.
“When do you think you’ll actually be better? Shoko told you, right?”
“Next week,” Satoru interjected flatly. “The antibiotics aren't finished and I’m still officially a sick man, so—” Satoru took another spoonful, intentionally leaving the sentence hanging. Suguru understood. There was no need to linger; Satoru was in no physical or mental shape for sex, drinking, or talking about weddings.
“Oh, right ... well, good.”
“Haha, yeah...” Satoru said, his mind starting to wander.
Suguru hid his hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on the soup in Satoru’s hands. “Um ... sorry, I’m not really good at doing stuff like this,” he gestured vaguely toward Satoru—or the soup.
“Relax, I’m not complaining,” Satoru said lightly. “You checked on me via text every hour, prepped my room with everything I needed, and today, you made 'love soup'.” Satoru glanced up just to see the frown on Suguru’s forehead. “So yeah, if I’m in a bad mood, it’s because I’m in pain. That’s it. It’s not your fault.”
“I get it,” Suguru murmured. He moved to sit at the edge of the sofa. Satoru pulled his legs back to give him space. “It’s fine,” Suguru whispered, pulling Satoru’s feet onto his lap. His hands rested on Satoru’s knees and calves, stroking them gently while his eyes remained fixed on the TV screen.
Satoru didn't choke on his soup, only because he was an expert at controlling his emotions. But still, the situation was baffling. This wasn't about sex, it wasn't about a drinking session, and it certainly wasn't just "friendship." They might be sex partners, party buddies, or professional associates, but they weren't "put-your-feet-in-my-lap" friends.
It was hard to define their relationship when the rules kept shifting.
“Hey,” Satoru said after a few minutes. “If you feel weird about this, don’t worry. I do too.”
Satoru felt Suguru’s grip on his legs loosen, turning into a more relaxed, free gesture. “Mm-hmm,” was all he said, eyes still on the TV while his fingers traced the bone of Satoru’s leg.
Satoru loved and hated it at the same time.
Suguru ignored Satoru once he recovered, and Satoru didn't mind. They needed to pull back from the line they'd crossed.
Satoru showed up at Hiroma’s wedding, becoming the center of attention after his ten-day absence. Since it was an evening party, Satoru wore a turtleneck to keep his throat warm.
“So, my throat was full of these things that looked like boils. When they popped, it was disgusting. I swear, I felt like I’d swallowed roadkill.”
Yuuji and Aoi looked fascinated; Suguru looked repulsed. Satoru understood—after all, Suguru was the only one who regularly had his tongue or his cock in Satoru’s throat.
“Can I see?” Yuuji asked.
Satoru shook his head. “Nah, kid, nothing to see now. It’s all gone. But for a few days, I was vomiting this green fluid. Felt like I was purging an alien.”
Yuuji looked disappointed, so Satoru promised that if he ever got a throat infection again, Yuuji would be the first to see it. Suguru made another face, but Satoru didn't push it.
After Hiroma’s wife threw the bouquet—Suguru feigned interest but didn't actually try to catch it—Satoru moved to the bar. He wanted to avoid the formal banquet and, more importantly, avoid Suguru. He grabbed two drinks and handed one to Yu. The man grumbled that he didn’t want to hear another word about Satoru’s "disgusting throat" and would punch him if it came up again. Satoru was about to defend himself when Suguru approached from behind, tapped his back twice, and pulled him around.
“What?” Satoru asked. After being ignored for days, seeing Suguru made him both annoyed and relieved.
Suguru looked tense, his posture stiff. “So ... I found a hook-up partner,” he said hesitantly.
“Oh ...” Satoru nodded, wondering if Yu had already punched him because his stomach felt strange. “Good for you. Which girl is it?”
Suguru winced slightly. “It’s a guy. He’s over there.”
Satoru didn’t even look where Suguru was pointing. “A guy? If you wanted a guy, why—” He cut himself off, realizing it wasn't his business. They were free to be with anyone. He still wouldn't look Suguru in the eye.
Suguru looked at him impatiently. “You don't have a problem with this?”
Satoru blinked. “Why would I?”
Suguru stared at him until Satoru felt the bile rising in his throat and his hands starting to shake.
“Yeah, why did I even ask?” Suguru said, turning to walk away.
Only then did Satoru look up to see where Suguru was going. He watched as Suguru spoke to a man waiting by the door. The guy wasn't as tall as Satoru, but his hair was perfectly styled, his face was fresh, and he looked younger. Satoru felt a sudden, violent urge to hit him.
But to hell with that guy. Satoru was better, he had an empire to run. He had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting after Suguru: Go ahead, enjoy your night with that loser, your taste gets worse by the day.
Yu patted his back. Satoru blinked, biting his lip awkwardly. It took a full minute for his mouth to function again. “Was I that obvious?”
“Well, you’re standing right next to me, I couldn’t help but hear,” Yu said with a low laugh that made the atmosphere even more awkward. “I never knew. I mean, I knew Suguru swung that way sometimes, but I didn't know you two had that kind of connection. Not that I’m totally shocked.”
“Yeah ...” Satoru shook his head. “No one knows.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I don’t even know what’s happening, or what we’ve been doing.”
This time, Yu looked at him seriously. “In my opinion ...” he started, gesturing to the bartender for two more drinks. “That back there? He was testing you. I’d bet anything Suguru won’t go home with that guy if he sees the look on your face right now. That’s probably what he’s looking for.”
Satoru looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He looked furious and desperate. “Whatever. I’m not letting myself be tested for his ego. What does he want? Me to get on my knees and beg him not to sleep with that guy? Who does he think he is? He needs to build a wall and run his head into it.” Satoru winced and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”
“Relax,” Yu winked, handing him a glass of whiskey. Satoru downed it in one go.
“Shit, sorry. I just ... this is embarrassing. I know you’re Suguru’s friend, but please don’t say a word about this to him. I’m serious.”
About this—meaning the way Satoru felt shattered, the way anger was making his blood vibrate and his breath hitch as if he’d just run a marathon.
“You’re my friend too, Satoru,” Yu said lightly. “Let’s get another round and you can tell me about your disgusting throat boils until we both puke.”
Satoru managed to force a small, faint smile.
.
Satoru was checking the time on his phone just as he reached his bed that night. Before he could even unlock it, the device vibrated twice.
you jerk
you're ruining my life
Suguru. Satoru opened the pop-up notification and squinted, double-checking to see who had sent such a thing. It was definitely Suguru. A drunk Suguru. The phone vibrated again.
I hate you
huh?
We went back to his place. We made out for a bit and then I faked passing out. I waited for him to fall asleep and then I left him. I ran away like a loser
Satoru stared at the screen for a few moments before typing a response.
Why are you telling me this?
Are you home yet?
Have you eaten?
I made you porridge for sick peoplee
Don't worry about me, Suguru
Y OU BASTARTTTD
You rui ned m sex life
Satoru didn't reply. To hell with it; he didn't want to listen to the doctor’s rambling because his own life was a mess, too. Not just his sex life.
Lying in bed afterward, Satoru couldn't sleep. His head felt hot from overthinking—which was strange, considering his job involved strategic thinking far more complex than this. But when it came to Geto Suguru, everything became a tangled wreck. Satoru was angry. His throat hadn't even fully recovered yet.
A while later, he checked his phone and found two missed notifications.
satoru?
And then,
sorry
After the events of that night, the two of them didn't message each other for weeks. Satoru avoided the usual burger spot because he was reluctant to run into Suguru, despite Shoko constantly pestering him about his absence during their Friday lunches. Little did he know that in the second week without Suguru, the doctor hadn't shown up for lunch either. When they did happen to cross paths, Satoru would only offer a casual "hi" without any attempt at conversation—not even a jab about Suguru's ugly shirt.
Satoru wasn't holding onto the anger anymore. Because, as annoying as Suguru was, the doctor hadn't actually done anything wrong. They never had an agreement; who Suguru slept with was none of his business. And Suguru shouldn't have felt guilty if he wanted to sleep with someone else because—
Satoru would be big-hearted about it. Yes, he just needed time. A few days; a week or two. Satoru would find a new partner, eventually, once he managed to handle the discomfort he felt whenever someone other than Suguru touched him. After that, both Suguru and he would return to their simple, old habits.
But there was always a hitch in the plan.
They were forced to eat with their group of friends that night. Sitting across from each other at a long table, Suguru stood up before dessert was even served, smoothing out the sheer linen shirt that Satoru used to beg him not to take off during foreplay. He left just like that, without so much as a proper goodbye.
A sudden realization struck Satoru's mind. They really were done. Everything was over. This wasn't just about let’s cool our heads to gain some perspective or let's stop this confusing sex. It wasn't that.
“Gojo-san, are you going to eat that? You wanted it or not?” Yuuji asked, already snagging a piece of meat from Satoru’s plate before he could even answer. Satoru shook his head. He didn't want it. What Satoru wanted was to go back to his hometown in Kyoto. He wanted to see his family especially his mother.
.
That night, Satoru sent a message to his mother saying he would be coming home next month, he asked his father about this before and the old man granted him permission. When his phone vibrated, he expected a message like Come home soon, I'll cook your favorite food. Unfortunately, it wasn't.
we need to talk
Satoru didn't reply. He hated conversations that started with "we need to talk," because in his experience, that phrase was always a prelude to something bad.
Never once in Satoru’s life had he received a follow-up message saying, 'We need to talk because I still want to have great sex with you and maybe I need to discuss a little commitment this time.'
The phone stopped vibrating for a moment before Suguru’s name popped up again.
I know you're home
I'm not
don't lie. I know you
you don't know anything about me
Satoru regretted the last message immediately. It was too late to delete it; Suguru had already seen it. It sounded petty and defensive—not the "I don't care" vibe he was going for.
But apparently, it worked. Suguru stopped replying.
A few hours later, just as he was drifting off to the background noise of Groundhog Day, Satoru was startled by a loud thud at his door.
Fuck, don't tell me—
“Don’t know anything about you? Don’t make me laugh,” Suguru said, appearing at the front door. He slammed it shut and marched toward Satoru, who was still trying to process reality with half-awake senses. “No one knows you as well as I do. I know every inch of your body, every single tattoo you have, how many exes you’ve had—I know it all!”
Suguru sat himself down on the sofa right by Satoru’s head. He showed no intention of leaving until he got what he wanted. Ambitious as always.
“Fine ...” Satoru scratched the back of his head, sitting up so they were side-by-side. “What do you want to talk about? Make it quick, I’m tired.”
Suguru turned to him and nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small book, his passport-sized traveler note book. “You are the most gifted person I’ve ever met. You were a top student at your school despite you’re a son of Yakuza leader, you’ve solved cases without violence—most of them—you’re brave, you respect the people around you, and you’re a role model to them. You—”
Satoru stammered, “What are you doing?”
“You said I didn't know anything about you. Well, I do. Here,” he showed a page filled with handwriting. “A list of everything I know about you.”
Satoru closed his eyes for a moment. “You wrote a list about everything you know about me?”
“Yep,” Suguru said, popping the 'p' with conviction.
“Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Good God,” Satoru sighed, glancing at the notes, then back to Suguru. “Why?”
“Because,” Suguru paused, a small twitch in his expression.
“Because...?” Satoru prompted, making a circular gesture with his hand for Suguru to continue.
Suguru clicked his tongue. “Just listen, okay?”
Satoru really didn't want to hear it. He could already guess where this was going. It was going to be the 'this is why we can't be together' speech. Suguru was going to dump him.
“Is this about my text?”
“No,” Suguru’s voice rose in pitch.
“Okay,” Satoru nodded slowly. “So today you’re debuting as my biographer. We both know I’m handsome, so you can skip that part.”
Suguru just glared; he was in no mood for jokes. He looked back at his notes, his lips moving silently as he found his place. He cleared his throat. “Despite being talented and having many achievements at your organization, your private life is a bit of a mess. Therefore, it would be good for you to spend time with someone who appreciates the things you like outside of work, but at the same time, someone who can help you control yourself so things don't become excessive and interfere with your job. For example, this person must be willing, at any time, to go bowling with you, watch sports, have dinner, watch movies, and so on. However, this person must understand your profession—but preferably not be in the same organization as you, and—what?” Satoru stared at him in wonder. Suguru cleared his throat again. “People who come from the same background can disrupt emotional stability and prevent you from truly relaxing; your life would stay messy.”
You’re a pathetic guy who needs to find someone willing to date you. That’s what Satoru heard. Except, the someone willing to date in Suguru’s description sounded exactly like the person currently sitting next to him.
A sudden hope surged, and it terrified Satoru. He hadn't dared think about this before and ... maybe he was wrong, but he had been able to guess what Suguru wanted for dinner for years, and he was certain his guess was right this time too. “You want us to be boyfriends,” Satoru said, his voice low and slow, because he couldn't believe what he was thinking. He couldn't believe he actually wanted it.
“This isn't about me,” Suguru answered, his face as calm as possible. Practice, surely. “This is about you. I’m just reading facts about you. How you interpret them is up to you.”
“You want us to be boyfriends,” Satoru said again, more firmly.
Suguru said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on his notes. Satoru bit his lip anxiously, waiting. For an answer, a reaction, anything.
“You always hold onto me whenever you get the chance when we're with the others,” Satoru said casually, as if he weren't choking on sheer excitement. “And after the night is over, we always end up going to a bar, just the two of us. Every damn time.”
Suguru exhaled a breath he’d clearly been holding for seconds. He shifted slightly away from Satoru, though he looked more relaxed, a faint curve touching his lips. “We’ll see,” he said playfully. “I'll continue and skip the long-winded parts. As mentioned in the previous paragraph, given how highly you regard your duties in the organization, it’s only natural for you to experience stress and pressure. Therefore, it is necessary for you to travel to new places; to see different scenery, meet new people—”
Satoru was absolutely certain now. “You want to take me home to your hometown in Fukuoka and show me off to your family, your neighbors, and everyone there.”
“Satoru, I don’t know what you’re hearing, but it’s not what I’m saying,” Suguru hissed without looking up from the notes.
“Nonsense,” Satoru clapped his hands together loudly. “I understand you perfectly. Well, when you're speaking Hakata dialect, anyway. Wait ... when I visit Fukuoka later, will your family speak in Hakata dialect?”
When. Not if. And the smile on Suguru’s lips told Satoru his interpretation was spot on.
“They do. But you’ll have to learn some too, tiger.”
“Haha, my family has its own dialect too.”
Suguru raised an eyebrow. “What dialect?”
“You’ll find out when I take you home.”
Satoru congratulated himself when he saw Suguru trying hard to hide a smile. “Therefore, based on the points outlined above, new experiences would be good for you. This applies to your interactions with others as well. For example; trying to enter a relationship with clear commitment—where you don't sleep with anyone else, and neither does your partner. It could be with a man. Or a woman. Both at once—if you believe in poly—”
Satoru laughed until his throat hurt. “Where did the polygamy observation come from? I’m a monogamous man, Suguru.”
Suguru snorted. “Come on, that was just fluff. You know what I'm trying to say.”
“Do I? Do I really know what you mean?” Satoru teased.
“Yes, you fucking do. I just ... wait, even Yu knows about this, doesn't he?”
“Yu only found out at Hiroma’s wedding.”
“He’s been acting annoying toward me for weeks.”
“You deserve annoying things.”
“You don't care about me at all.”
“Fine, next time I see Yu, I’ll tell him that he’s banned from my host club in Roppongi. How’s that? Does that show enough care?”
Suguru smiled, so wide his canines peeked through. “Enough.”
Satoru swallowed hard. “Keep going,” he said impatiently.
Instead of continuing, Suguru mumbled something Satoru couldn't hear.
“What?”
Suguru repeated it, head down, voice still lost.
“Speak up, for God's sake. I can't hear you.”
“Then come closer.”
They were at opposite ends of the sofa, and Suguru showed no sign of moving, though he tucked one leg up and let the other rest on the floor. Satoru crawled closer, entering the space Suguru made between his legs. His nose brushed against Suguru’s. Their lips were barely apart, not quite touching. The moment was so intimate Satoru’s chest felt tight and giddy.
“Well?” Satoru prompted.
Suguru tilted his head and kissed him softly. “So, I think you're attractive, Satoru.”
Satoru laughed—spontaneous and full of joy—throwing his hands in the air like he’d won a championship. “I. Knew. It. I knew you were hooked on me.”
“Yeah, yeah, calm down, aniki,” Suguru murmured, making a face as if he already regretted it. “I was just ... giving an objective assessment.”
Satoru laughed again and shook his head. He shifted back in to cup Suguru’s face, peppering it with small kisses before settling into a slow, gentle one. Suguru kissed him back at a lingering pace, as if he didn't want it to end. Suguru’s hand rested on Satoru’s chest, and Satoru was sure the man could feel his heart hammering away.
It felt amazing.
“Whatever you say,” Satoru said as he pulled back to catch his breath. “Let me guess, you made that analysis just so you could understand your own feelings—for me—didn't you?”
Suguru winced, caught red-handed. “You’re so noisy,” he hissed. Satoru kissed him again. This was fun; kissing Suguru while he pouted.
“Now it's my turn to talk, and you listen,” Satoru said. “You’re not the only one who knows things here. I know you. You can make these analytical notes to make me more charmed and more ... in love with you. But I know that deep down—maybe you don't even realize it—you wrote all this just to figure out what was actually going on in your head regarding me.”
Suguru fidgeted, a gesture he only used when confronted with something personal and emotional. But Satoru didn't give him any room to make excuses. “I don’t know,” Suguru said hesitantly. “I mean, I know but I didn't realize it, you know? I started writing and it all just flowed out. There’s a lot I don't understand—why I wrote it, and all that.”
Satoru nodded. “Yeah, I get it.” He reached out, gently stroking Suguru’s cheek. His heart felt a squeeze when Suguru took his hand and held it tight. “I don't always get things either.”
Suguru’s eyes shimmered as Satoru’s thumb brushed his cheekbone. “So, we don't have to act stupid anymore, right?”
Satoru grinned widely. “Suguru, this is exactly the beginning of all the stupid things we're going to do in the future.”
Suguru laughed at that, burying his face in Satoru’s neck to muffle the sound. He crumpled the paper in his hand into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. Satoru made a mental note to find that paper tomorrow, iron it out, laminate it, and put it in a nice glass frame.
“Aww, Suguru,” Satoru pouted. “You didn't even read the conclusion.”
Suguru chuckled and pushed Satoru back until they were tangled together on the sofa. Suguru lay on top of him, resting his chin on his folded arms on Satoru’s chest. Satoru looked up at Suguru’s face and, for the first time, he could truly say this person was his.
“The conclusion,” Suguru breathed. He reached out to brush a strand of hair from Satoru’s forehead, then kissed him there. “I want us to be boyfriends. And the soup I made you when you were sick? It really was a soup of love.”
Exactly as predicted, Satoru thought. But he never guessed Suguru would say it so bluntly and without shame. Satoru could live with that. He might even fall in love with it.
“So stuuupid,” Satoru smiled as he kissed Suguru again. It felt strange, new, and wonderful because they could finally do it now; kissing for the sake of kissing, not just for sex.
“What do you want to do now?” Suguru breathed against Satoru’s neck, his hands tracing Satoru’s ears and hair.
“A lot,” Satoru answered—like an opportunist he is. “I want to sleep with you, I want you to stay over, I want you to be here when I wake up tomorrow morning. I want to take you on a date, I want you to take me home to Fukuoka, and I want you to come home to my mother’s house in Kyoto. I want you to keep acting annoying when I’m sick and making me bland soup. I want you to not sleep with anyone else but me.” Satoru nuzzled their noses together and kissed him again. “I want everything.”
“Everything?” Suguru’s eyes widened, and Satoru’s chest felt tight from the tenderness Suguru was showing him.
“Yeah, everything,” Satoru smirked. “We can talk about it over sake until we’re drunk.”
“Not again, Satoru.”