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❛ 𝗪𝗘 𝗖𝗔𝗡’𝗧 𝗕𝗘 𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗦! 呪術廻戦

synopsis. satoru is sick and tired of pretending to be just friends

contents. sfw! hurt / comfort. best friend! gojo x fem! reader. no-curse au. second part of this fic. mutual pining. classic case of miscommunication. idiots in love. happy ending! they get together despite me wanting to leave this unresolved ࿐

satoru isn’t beside you when your eyes flutter open to see the slithers of sunlight filtering through your curtains. you think nothing of it because you know he’s halfway through making you breakfast.

( you’re a light sleeper — a fact he constantly teases you about — and you’d stirred when he’d slipped out from your sheets half an hour ago, the loss of his warmth a brief disturbance in your deep, alcohol-induced slumber. you’d gone back to sleep knowing you would meet him in the kitchen when you finally mustered up the strength to get out of bed. )

the air in your apartment is thick with the scent of melted butter, sweet batter, and the sharp, clean tang of citrus. you’re ravenous, to say the least. and you could kill for a stack of satoru’s perfect pancakes right now. or french toast. or even a regular jam and butter sandwich. he’s infuriatingly great at everything he does, and cooking is no exception.

a groan escapes your lips as your hangover makes itself known. it’s an insistent throb behind your eyes that threatens to blossom into a full-blown headache if not dealt with accordingly. and there, on your polished nightstand, arranged with precision are: a little sachet of ibuprofen, a fruit punch flavored foil packet of electrolyte powder, and a tall, sweating bottle of water.

( satoru always knows exactly what you need before you do. it’s like he has a sixth sense just for you )

you rip the electrolyte packet open, the crimson powder puffing up in a small cloud as you pour it into the water. it swirls and dissolves, turning the liquid into something that looks alarmingly like blood.

you take a long gulp regardless, letting the sugary liquid pool in your mouth before you drop the two pills in and swallow. you lean against the headboard for a moment, letting the medicine and the sugar work their magic whilst you take in the state of your room. it’s a disaster.

your bra and that stupid, overpriced dress are a heap of silk and lace by the foot of your bed, reminiscent of the date that ended in tears and satoru’s arms around you. you kick them aside, the fabric whispering against the wooden floorboards as you pad to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

you’re going through the motions on autopilot. up, down, up, down. minty froth covers your teeth and gums. it’s a welcome distraction from the lingering bitterness of last night’s champagne. you swirl with some mouthwash, alcohol burning your tongue, and then you’re finally ready, finally heading towards the kitchen.

( you’re not sure if you’re anticipating the breakfast satoru’s making or just the excuse to be near him again. it’s probably the latter. it’s always the latter )

the kitchen is quiet — too quiet — for a sunday morning. satoru’s usually humming to himself while he cooks. but no chords or melodic notes carry to your ears as you pad towards him.

he’s standing at the stove, his back to you. he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even seem to register your presence despite the floorboards creaking as you approach him. the easy smile that was forming on your lips freezes, then slowly melts away.

“morning ‘toru,” you murmur, it sounds more like a hesitant question than a greeting.

he flips a pancake with a sharp flick of his wrist. it lands perfectly in the pan, a flawless golden circle. “hey,” he replies, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth. a single, clipped word. no ‘mornin’ sleeping beauty’, no teasing about your hangover. nothing. . .

a cold knot forms in your stomach, completely unrelated to your nausea. you lean against the kitchen island, suddenly feeling unsteady on your feet. “smells good,” you offer.

“pancakes,” he says, still not turning. he gestures with his spatula towards the bowl of fruit on the counter. you don’t want them. not really. you want him to turn around. to look at you with those ridiculously blue eyes, to crack a joke, to do anything normal. he’s too quiet

“‘toru,” you start, his name feeling foreign on your tongue. “are you okay ?”

he finally turns, and the sight of his face makes your breath hitch. his expression is unreadable. his eyes, usually so bright and full of light, are a dull blue. they don’t crinkle at the corners. they don’t hold any of their usual mischief. it feels like they’re looking right through you.

“i’m fine,” he says, a lie so blatant it’s insulting. “just tired. . . how did you sleep ?”

“okay,” you murmur, rubbing your arms, feeling suddenly exposed in just your t-shirt and shorts. “thanks for. . . picking me up again and taking care of me.”

“what are friends for ?” he hums, and the words shock you. it’s a phrase he’s never used before. he’d usually say : he’d do it all over again. and that someone has to save you from the assholes you seem to attract. he’d ruffle your hair and you’d squirm and play fight until his cheeks are flushed and your chest is heaving.

but today he just slides the ceramic bowl across the counter towards you without a word.

it’s a work of art. tangerine segments with all the bitter white pith carefully peeled away, crisp apple slices, glistening with a sheen of freshly squeezed lemon juice to prevent them from turning brown. ripe mango chunks, impossibly orange and sweet, and plump strawberries, all the green leaves meticulously plucked off. you can’t help but grin.

( he really does know you like the back of his hand )

your smile soon wavers because for once satoru’s not talking to you as he fries the pancakes. no prodding about the date, no gentle teasing about your terrible taste in men. you’re genuinely confused because he’s usually so loquacious in the mornings, a running commentary of bad jokes and complaints about the economical and political state of the world. but he seems to be so far away, lost in a world you can’t see

“these are perfect,” you murmur, popping a strawberry into your mouth. the saccharine juices explode on your tongue. “you’re the best ‘toru”

“i try,” he responds, his voice clipped. not ‘of course i am’. not ‘you’re lucky i love you so much, prepping your fruit is a pain in the ass.’ none of your usual banter.

( it’s like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world instead of being here in your kitchen. anywhere else in the world instead of here with you )

you’re thrown off kilter by it, the typical rhythm of your friendship is suddenly syncopated and strange. it’s like hearing a song you know by heart being played in a minor key.

he serves you a stack of perfect pancakes, golden brown and fluffy, their edges crisp. and immediately starts cleaning up. he’s scraping leftover batter into the sink, loading your dishwasher. washing his hands, drying them on a dishtowel. all the while his back is still to you.

he doesn’t set down a plate for himself. there’s nothing for himself today. he usually sits right beside you — his thigh brushing against yours, thumb smoothing a crumb from the corner of your mouth as he hangs on to your every word and you tell him about your date in detail — but today he seems hellbent on keeping his distance from you. on keeping his voice to himself.

( he never cleans up this quickly. never talks this little. never avoids your gaze as if you’re the last person on earth he wants to look at. why is he being so weird ??? )

“gotta head out,” he says, finally looking at you. “sorry. suguru and i are going to the gym.”

your fork freezes halfway to your mouth. you look so disappointed it almost kills him. he swears he can feel the chambers of his heart caving in because your lip is quivering and you look so confused. he has half a mind to sit down and kiss you until the crease in your brow disappears. to sit down and tell you how he feels. but he’s positive he doesn’t stand a chance. and it’s fucking killing him.

“it’s sunday,” you frown. he never goes to the gym on sundays. sundays are for pancakes and bad movies on the couch. sundays are for you. plus, he’d said he was tired. none of this is adding up.

“the grind never stops,” he shrugs. you’re in disbelief as he leans over and gives you a side hug, a brief, awkward press of bodies before he’s inching towards your front door. you’re still frozen, fork suspended in mid-air, a perfect pancake suddenly looking like cardboard in front of you.

“satoru,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks, the sound pathetic and thin in the suffocating silence of your apartment.

his hand freezes on the doorknob. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his entire body goes rigid. but he doesn’t turn around. he just stands there, a silhouette against the light filtering in from the hallway, a stranger in your home.

“i have to go,” he says, his voice strained. and then he’s gone. the door clicks shut behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. you’re left alone in your kitchen, with a stack of perfect pancakes growing cold on your plate. the scent of melted butter and sweet batter, once so comforting, is now, suffocating. what. the. actual. fuck ???

the question echoes in your mind, in the silent kitchen, but there’s no one here to answer it. you slowly lower your fork, the clink of it against the ceramic plate unnaturally loud. your appetite is gone. the plate of pancakes sits untouched, golden-brown circles slowly turning cold, their edges losing their crispness. beside them, the bowl of fruit look like a still life painting. you push the dishes away. you can’t eat. the thought of putting any of that meticulously prepared food into your churning stomach is unbearable. because he’s not here to eat with you.

you stare at the door, half-expecting it to swing back open, for him to reappear with a sheepish grin and tell you he’s pranking you. for him to pull up a chair beside you and steal some of your pancakes. but the front door remains closed.

you wrap your arms around yourself, a futile attempt to hold yourself together. your mind is a chaotic mess, replaying the last twenty-four hours on a relentless loop. satoru’s arms around you at the restaurant, the low murmur of his voice in your ear as he helped you into bed, wiped off your makeup. the warmth of his body beside yours as you drifted off to sleep. you’d slept so deeply, so peacefully, nestled against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady and reassuring against your ear. in your drunken haze, you’d dared to hope, just for a little while, that maybe this was it. maybe this was the turning point. maybe he’d feel the same way and you could finally be something more.

but now your hope has curdled into confusion, into a deep, gnawing ache. what had you done ? what had you said ? was it the dress ? the stupid, overpriced dress you’d worn for a date that ended in tears and a five-word text message to satoru ? was it the way you’d clung to him ? the way you’d cried ?

your brain spirals, searching for the mistake, the single misstep that triggered this sudden change in him. and the person you’d usually call to unravel this mess with you , the one person who could always make sense of the chaos in your head, is the very person creating it.

you don’t hear from him for the rest of sunday. the day passes in a blur of hollow silence. you don’t leave your apartment. you don’t even drift to shoko’s room. you try to read, but the words swim before your eyes. you tried to watch a movie on the couch, but the familiar dialogue sounds like a foreign language. you pick up your phone a dozen times, thumb hovering over his name, heart pounding with a mixture of desperation and dread.

what would you say ? ‘are you okay ?’ he’d already answered that, with a lie.

‘why did you leave ?’ you’re not sure you want to know the answer.

‘i miss you ‘toru’ ? that feels too vulnerable, too raw.

so you just stare at his name, and wait as the silence grows, filling every corner of your apartment until you can barely breathe. seeping into your bones until you feel like you’re made of nothing but emptiness.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

monday is humiliating. you wake up alone, again. your bed is cold unsurprisingly. the weak light filtering through your curtains does little to chase away the chill that’s beginning to settle deep into your bones. you lay there for a moment too long, your mind replaying the memories of saturday night and sunday morning.

sleepovers with satoru are nothing new. you’ve shared a little over a decade of tangled limbs, stolen tubs of häagen-dazs from the fridge at midnight and whispers in the dark until the moon gave way to the sun.

( you remember the tantrums you’d both throw when your parents dared to try and separate you, to take you back to your respective homes. your shared fits of rage always ended the same way: hastily packed overnight bags, staying up talking until your voices were hoarse and the sun was kissing your cheeks.

you’d spent countless nights falling asleep beside satoru, and you’ve spent countless mornings waking up beside him, his face soft and peaceful in the morning light.

the sleepovers evolved during those awkward teenage years, when your mom decided to waltz around the topic of puberty and drill it into both of you that you weren’t kids anymore and sharing beds was no longer an option. even then, he’d just migrate to your couch, long limbs comically cramped in the small space, his presence comforting despite him being in a completely different room. sleepovers with satoru are the norm, even though you hadn’t actually slept beside each other intentionally in years. )

saturday was reminiscent of simpler times. saturday, he’d actually slept in your bed. not out of necessity, not out of convenience, but because you’d asked him to.

you’d fallen asleep tangled up in the soft sheets, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you to him.

and although your heartbeat was erratic and your breathing was heavy and shaky — because satoru is without a doubt the most attractive man on the planet, and the gentlest, and the weirdest and most annoying and an asshole too, everything all at once, and you’re still that girl with a crush on him despite him treating you like one of the guys — you’d slept like a baby.

in his arms, you’d dreamt of him being the one to take you out on a date, of him loving you the way you love him. and now, you’re laying in bed alone.

for the first time since he’d pushed you off the swings on the playground and you’d demanded a hello kitty bandaid for the scrape on your knee, satoru isn’t talking to you. and you don’t know why.

there’s a void where his voice used to be. and your brain is still searching for the mistake you’re certain you must’ve made.

did you say something in your sleep ? did you do something wrong ? you can’t think of anything.

you go about your day in a fog of confusion and hurt. you expect to see satoru on campus, expect him to fall into step beside you on the quad, to sling an arm around your shoulders, carry your ridiculously heavy tote bag on his own shoulder and complain about his eight a.m. physics lecture. but he doesn’t.

nor does he text you to ask how your international political relations class went.

( hell, he doesn’t seem to have any interest in relations with you at all. )

you finally see him at a little past noon. he’s sitting under a giant oak tree with your friends. laughing at something shoko’s saying, head thrown back, the sound carrying on the crisp air. and then his eyes sweep across your approaching figure on the lawn, and for a split second, they meet yours. then his smile vanishes, wiped clean away, as if it never existed.

despite the sinking feeling in your guy, you walk over, forcing cheerfulness into your voice as you greet your friends and plop down near him. he gives you a curt, almost imperceptible nod, then turns back to shoko, and continues his conversation without properly acknowledging you.

shoko raises a brow but doesn’t comment in fear of making things even more awkward. suguru avoids your gaze as he gives you an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. yeah, satoru is definitely avoiding you. like the plague.

usually, he’d flop over your lap, demanding you play with his hair, his eyes fixed on yours as you’d swipe his sunglasses off his nose and wear them. usually, he’d tell corny jokes until you were breathless with laughter. but now ? nothing. he doesn’t even lean towards you. doesn’t even look at you. you’re practically staring at him, brows furrowed as you try to figure him out. he’s not happy. he’s not sad. he just looks numb, hollow.

satoru doesn’t go off with you when the group splits off for your next classes. he trails after suguru. shoko comes with you, and the first thing she asks is if something happened with you and satoru. you can only say you don’t know as hot, tears threaten to slip down your cheeks and your throat closes up.

despite feeling like an absolute idiot for sitting by him. despite being humiliated by the way he’d blatantly ignored you, you try to get through the rest of the day. your heart feels like it’s splitting in two. satoru is such a core part of your day — your life — that having him flat out ignore you makes you feel physically ill.

you cross paths again after your last class. you’re heading to the cafe to grab a passion fruit refresher, and he’s coming from the opposite direction. your paths are set to intersect. your heart hammers against your ribs, a burst of hope.

maybe he’ll talk to you now. maybe he was just in a weird mood earlier. something with his parents ? his basketball coach ? but he doesn’t even look at you. he just smoothly veers away, leaving a wide, empty berth of space between you, and you’re left standing there, feeling like the world is ending.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

tuesday feels suffocating. you feel like you can barely breathe as you go about your day. this is the longest you’ve gone without speaking to satoru. even when you had petty fights over who got to be player one and whose turn it was to choose a game on the play station, you’d never ignored each other.

( okay, maybe once or twice you’d given him the silent treatment for a couple hours. but you’d never gone this long without making up. )

you want to fix this more than you’ve ever wanted anything. you’re willing to go out of your way to bridge the gap between you. you buy him a sticky sweet cinnamon roll and a perfect red velvet cupcake from the cafe that’s twenty minutes away from campus. the one that’s overpriced but has the best pastries. the one he loves and frequents often.

satoru’s a sucker for sweet treats. he always has been. he’s got the biggest sweet tooth ever. you know he won’t be able to ignore you when you’ve got so much as a jolly rancher in your palm. talk-less of two fresh pastries. you’re certain you’ll be best friends again as soon as he sees the crisp boxes.

thankfully, you still share locations with each other so it’s pretty easy to track him down. you find him in the engineering building’s computer lab, hunched over his laptop. you approach him cautiously, your hand trembling slightly as you hold out the pastries.

“peace offering?” you try, aiming for a light, airy tone.

he glances up, his eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second before darting back to his screen. “oh,” he says, his cadence a neutral tone that’s somehow worse than anger. “you didn’t have to do that.”

“i wanted to,” you say, your voice sounding smaller than you’d like. “i know you like these.”

“yeah, they’re my favorite,” he says, but he doesn’t make a move to take them. he just keeps typing, fingers flying across the keyboard. “i’m just in the middle of something right now. a project. it’s due soon.”

“oh,” you sound like a deflated balloon. “okay. well, i’ll just. . .leave them here.”

“thanks,” he says, his eyes still glued to the screen. “appreciate it.”

you stand there for a moment longer, before you turn and leave, your shoulders slumping in defeat.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

by wednesday, the sad plasma coursing in your veins starts to bubble into searing rage. who does he think he is ? to just. . . erase you ? ignore you ? to discard years of friendship without a single explanation ? it’s condescending and inconsiderate and you’re so over it. you’re not a toy he can put back on the shelf when he gets bored of playing with it. you resolve to corner him and confront him after your history lecture, your patience worn thin to the point of nonexistence.

“satoru,” you say, your voice low and shaking with fury. “we need to talk.”

he looks at you, really looks at you, and his eyes are ice cold. “i can’t talk now,” he says, his voice quiet. “i have to meet with suguru. we’re working on a presentation.”

“be so fucking for real suguru can wait, you two live together. . ” you shoot back, your fists clenched at your sides. “you’ve been ignoring me for three days, satoru. three whole days. you barely look at me, you won’t talk to me, you’re acting like i don’t even exist and i want to know why so don’t you dare stand there and give me another excuse.”

he sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to drain the last of the energy from his body. “it’s not an excuse,” he says, his voice rough. “i really do have to go. i’m sorry.”

( he doesn’t deny any of your former accusations. and that infuriates you even more )

then he walks away, leaving you standing there, fury and melancholy warring for dominance in your chest. you want to scream. you want to cry. you want to throw something. you want to grab him by the collar of his stupid hoodie and shake him until he tells you what you did wrong. but he’s walking away too quickly for you to do anything but stand there and look stupid.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

thursday comes and goes, and you feel so pathetic that you decide to stop trying completely. you stop looking for satoru in crowds. you stop hoping he’ll sit down next to you and fix everything. you stop typing and deleting messages. you stop. and it hurts. it hurts so much more than anything you’ve ever experienced. it hurts more than being stood up. it hurts more than being led on. it hurts more than being cheated on. it hurts.

there’s a constant ache in your chest. your throat feels tight every time you you try to speak. you chase the comfort of sleep every night and it runs faster. you’re zoning out in your lectures. zoning out in conversations every time shoko asks if you’re okay, you force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

you haven’t lived a day without satoru since that fateful day on the playground. and now you’ve gone four days without him. you have no idea if you’ll survive another.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

friday nearly kills you. you have a two hour literature lecture with satoru, a huge class in a cavernous auditorium where you usually sit together, in the back row. where he usually slips you notes with ridiculous drawings and nudges you under the table. where you usually draw on his toned arm, little flowers and stars that he complains about but never washes off until they fade on their own.

today, he’s already there when you arrive, to your surprise he’s saved a seat for you like he always does. and a small flicker of hope sparks in you. it’s quenched and dies just as quickly. you realize he didn’t actually save a seat for you. it’s just empty coincidentally. you’re too embarrassed to find somewhere else to sit so you plop down beside him.

he doesn’t even seem to notice because there’s someone on his other side, a pretty girl with long, dark hair who’s laughing at something he’s saying. he’s smiling, and he’s leaning in, his body angled towards her, his attention completely captured by her. you can feel tears prickling the back of your eyes.

you blink them away furiously as you pull out your laptop. heart pounding with anticipation. but he doesn’t even acknowledge you. he doesn’t slip you a note. he doesn’t nudge you under the table. he just keeps talking to the girl on his right, his voice a low murmur that you can’t quite make out over the drone of the professor.

you want to hurl. you want to stand up and scream, to grab his arm and demand that he look at you, that he acknowledge your existence. but you just sit there, your hands clenched in your lap, your eyes fixed on the front of the lecture hall, blinking back tears.

he’s never spoken to this girl in his life. you’ve never even seen her before. and sure, he’s by far one of the most popular people on campus but he doesn’t make a habit of starting conversations with random girls.

( he’s always said he didn’t need any more girl friends because he had you. and you were more than enough for him. )

you resolve, right then and there, that you’ll speak to him on saturday. you can’t do this anymore. you can’t live like this anymore. you refuse to. partly, because you miss your best friend. partly, because this week has been the most miserable week of your life. but mostly because you love satoru too much to let him go.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

on saturday, you muster up the courage to go to his dorm, heart pounding against your ribs. you can’t do it anymore. the silence, the avoidance, the gaping hole in your heart where your best friend is supposed to be.

( you don’t bother knocking because he’ll know it’s you. and you’re not sure he’ll let you in. you decide to make good use of the spare key he gave you last year for emergencies. because to you this feels like an emergency. )

you can hear the sound effects of a video game as soon as you step over the threshold. you pad towards the living room and find satoru and suguru on the couch, controllers in hand, eyes glued to the screen where sub-zero is brutally launching at kitana.

“you’re cooked” suguru grins as he mashes buttons with a ferocity that makes you smile for a second.

“in your dreams, emo” satoru drawls, a lazy smirk on his face as he leans back against the cushions. he looks so relaxed, so normal. because he hasn’t noticed your presence yet. the sight of him grinning sends a fresh wave of pain through you.

“satoru” you frown, he glances up as you stumble back, and his smirk vanishes, replaced by that same cold, expression you’ve been getting all week.

“what are you doing here?” he asks, his voice flat, trying and failing to mask the shock racking his body.

“i’m here to talk to you . . . obviously.” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound strong. “i want you to tell me what i did to upset you.”

suguru’s hazel eyes dart between the two of you, taking in the tension, the way satoru’s whole body has gone rigid. the way your eyes are sparkling with unshed tears. he slowly sets his controller down on the coffee table. “okayyy,” he murmurs, standing up. “i don’t think i should be here for this conversation so i’m gonna go to my room and you two do your thing. . .”

“yeah, you should leave,” satoru snaps, at the exact same time you say, “you should probably leave sugu.”

suguru raises his hands in mock surrender, “relax i’m going,” he mutters, and practically bolts into his bedroom, shutting the door with a soft click that echoes in the silence.

“i gave you that key for emergencies” satoru murmurs, picking up the remote beside him and turning the tv off.

( you can’t believe him. is that all he has to say? after nearly a week of radio silence . . . he’s seething over a stupid tiny silver key ? )

“you’ve been ignoring me for five days, satoru,” you start. “five whole days. you won’t look at me, you won’t talk to me, you’ve been acting like i don’t even exist. so don’t you dare sit there and make me feel crazy for coming here and trying to fix things. instead of telling me what i did and how i can fix this.”

he finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the ice in his eyes cracks, just a little. thawed by something raw and vulnerable and so full of pain it makes your own chest ache.

“you didn’t do anything. it’s not you,” he sighs “it’s me.” you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he’s red, blue, and purple in the face.

“don’t give me that cliche bullshit,” you shoot back, taking a step closer to him “don’t do that. talk to me properly. we’ve always talked about things properly.”

( the statement sounds less true as each word drips off your tongue. because you’ve talked about everything under the sun with the sole of exception of the thing that matters most: your feelings for each other )

“maybe i don’t want to talk anymore,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice.

“yes, you do,” you mumble through gritted teeth, taking another step closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “you’re the most talkative person i know. you can’t go five minutes without telling me some ridiculous joke. so please, satoru. just talk to me.”

he looks up at you, blue eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to break. you think he’s finally going to end this stalemate. he opens his mouth, then closes it again. he shakes his head subsequently.

“i can’t,” he whispers, and the words are so full of pain they break your heart all over again. “i just. . . can’t.”

“why?” you query, your voice barely a whisper.

he looks away, his gaze fixed on a point just over your shoulder. “because if i start talking,” he shudders, “we can’t be friends anymore”

“you’re my best friend, okay?” you choke out, the words torn from your throat. “i don’t know what i did, but i know that you’re the most important person in my life and the last few days have been killing me— ”

“i don’t want to be your fucking friend,” he cuts you off, his voice is ragged, sapphire eyes glinting like coal in a fireplace, burning with a scorching intensity unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.

the words hang in the air between you. unraveling everything you’ve ever known. it feels like the world is tilting on its axis. it feels like your friendship is shattering into a million irreparable pieces. you can only stare, your mind a blank, static, the tears on your cheeks are frozen in time.

“what. . ?” you breathe, “you don’t . . what?”

“i don’t want to be your friend because i want to be more than that” he repeats, his voice cracking. “i’ve wanted to be with you since the day i pushed you off the swings. since the day we met on the first day of elementary school and you wouldn’t stop talking about your brother’s obsession with digimon and pokemon. i’ve been in love with you for over a decade, and i’m so fucking tired of pretending i’m not.”

‘since the day i pushed you off the swings.’

‘since the first day of elementary school.’

‘over a decade.’

the phrases echo in your mind and you finally, finally understand what he meant when he’d said he was tired on sunday. he was never angry at you. he was never trying to hurt you. he was just trying to preserve your friendship. all your memories suddenly take on new meanings. all those times he’d linger after holding your hand, all those inside jokes, all those moments when you’d catch him looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. it wasn’t just friendship. it was never just friendship.

how did you not see it ? how could you have been so blind, so oblivious to something so obvious ?

you’d been so focused on your own feelings, so caught up in your own fears about what might happen if he knew how you felt, that you never even considered. . . never even allowed yourself to fully hope. . .

“i . . ” you don’t even know what to say “i didn’t know.”

you shake your head, trying to process the weight of his words. the years. the pain he must have felt watching you date other people, listening to you talk about your feelings while repressing his own.

“i didn’t know you felt the same way.” you whisper

his brow furrows as the words carry straight to his heart. he’d never believed in a world where he’d be this lucky. never believed in a universe where you’d love him the way he loves you.

but you do. you have. for years. you’ve buried it under layers of friendship and fear, convinced it was one-sided. convinced he was too good for you, too popular, and here he is, telling you he’s been in love with you since you were children.

“all this time, we could’ve been . . .”

you can’t finish the sentence. the possibilities flood your mind, overwhelming you. the wasted time, the missed opportunities, the years you could have had together. but then you look at him, really look at him, you see the hope dawning in his eyes. and you realize it doesn’t matter how long you’ve waited. what matters is what happens now. what you say today.

“i want to be with you too,” you say, the smile that breaks across his face is like the sun coming out from behind clouds after a grueling thunderstorm. a torrent of everything you’ve been feeling — everything you’ve been holding back for years — pours out of you.

“i’ve been looking for you in other guys,” your breath hitches. “that’s why my dates never work out. because there’s no one like you. i could go on a million dates and i’d think about you on every single one. i didn’t think you would ever see me that way. i was too scared to ask, i didn’t want to ruin our friendship. i didn’t want you to hate me. i didn’t want to lose you forever, and i felt like did. i’ve been dying all week, satoru. literally dying. because i thought i’d lost you, and i couldn’t . . . i can’t. . .”

you’re rambling, pouring your heart out to him, your words a jumbled, messy stream of consciousness, and then you start crying, really crying, your breath hitching in your chest, your vision blurring.

“shit, please don’t cry,” he frowns. “i hate seeing you sad. fuck, don’t . . you could never lose me” he’s cursing under his breath, running a hand through his ivory hair, blue eyes wide with a mixture of horror and regret. “i can’t believe you’re crying because of me. i’m such an idiot”

he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug, and you bury your face in his chest, crystal tears soaking through his shirt.

“did you expect me to be all giddy and happy when you were avoiding me all week ?” you mumble into his shirt.

“no, i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” he says, his voice muffled against your hair. “i should’ve never left you. i should’ve told you how i felt but i didn’t think you’d ever see me that way, okay ? i thought i’d be stuck in the friendzone forever and i couldn’t deal with it. i didn’t actually want to ignore you. it wasn’t fair to you in the slightest and it was honestly a dick move on my part. . . i got in my head and i was trying to force myself to move on, but i’ll never do something that stupid ever again.”

“you promise ?” you ask, your voice small.

“i pinky promise,” he murmurs, looping his pinky around yours.

you’re glaring at him through blurred vision and half-lidded eyes. you’re so beautiful. even when you’re sad and mad at him.

( he’s a goner. has been since you walked into class, clinging to your mom’s leg, wailing because you didn’t want her to leave. he’s been a goner since you were sitting three desks away from him, learning how to count up to a hundred. he’s been a goner since the first time you looked at him like this. right after you’d clambered to your feet and demanded he made amends before you snitched on him. he’ll fix everything. he’ll fix everything even if it kills him. )

“please stop crying,” he groans, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “i’m really fucking sorry and i’m really fucking stupid too . . . and i know that’s surprising ‘cause i’m the smartest person you know—”

“you’re actually the worst. you genuinely suck satoru. . .” you interject, shoving at his chest to release yourself from his cloying grip. you’re laughing in spite of the tears in your eyes.

“i know” he chuckles, somehow managing to hold you even tighter

“i hate you” you say, knowing you meant the opposite.

“i love you. romantically.” he murmurs. and you know he’s clarifying because you were the type of friends who said it casually. frequently. the type of friends who said it everyday without fail. “i don’t love you the way friends are supposed to. which checks out ‘cause i’ve been an awful friend recently,”

“recently, yeah,” you say, giving him a watery smile, and he swears he’s going to have a heart attack if you keep looking at him. “but you’re still the best friend i’ve ever had.”

“i’ll be the best boyfriend you’ll ever have if you’ll let me,” he says, eyes sparkling hopefully. “can i be your boyfriend ? will you give me a chance to make you the happiest alive ?”

“you’re such a cornball,” you say, laughing through your tears. he’s asking like you’re about to get married.

“is that a yes ?” he asks, cheeks tinged cherry blossom pink, heart thumping erratically in his chest. he’d understand if you said no. right now he doesn’t feel like he’s any better than the losers you used to go on dates with. but unlike them he’s willing to pay his dues tenfold. a hundredfold. a thousandfold. . .

“yes, i’ll go out with you,” you grin, and before you can process it he’s hugging you so tight you can barely breathe and spinning you around as your laughter echoes in the living room.

when he puts you down, he cups your face in his hands, thumbs gently wiping away the tear stains on your cheeks. “you’ve gotta tell me what to do to fix everything now” he murmurs. “i don’t have any hello kitty bandaids on me.”

“you still don’t have any ?” you gape, choosing to indulge in his cheesy bit. he’s never going to shut up about him pushing you off the swings or your demand for a cute bandaid. he’ll probably tell the story even when your skin is all wrinkled and your hair’s turning silver. and you’re very okay with that. you’re ecstatic actually. “think of something quick or i’ll tell on you.”

“y’know i’m a genius, i already know what to do” you arch a brow and grins, “i’ll kiss it better.”

( he’s been waiting his whole life to say that )

“you should’ve said that after you pushed me off the swings,” you sigh. “or when you broke my favorite monster high doll. or maybe every time you picked me up from a date . . . we would’ve gotten here sooner.”

“i should’ve just told you i wanted you from the start,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “i could’ve saved us a lot of time and heartbreak.”

satoru finally kisses you, and it tastes like strawberries, the salt from your tears, and the spearmint from the gum he’d been chewing while playing mortal kombat. his hands are everywhere—your waist, cupping your neck, caressing your cheek. your hands are in his hair, pulling him closer. it’s such a slow, sweet kiss, one that you’ve both craved forever. his lips are plush and soft, and he’s pulling you impossibly closer until you have to pull away, cursing the need for oxygen.

he’s looking at you, his cheeks rosy and flushed, blue eyes shining brighter than all the stars in the universe. “pinch me,” he says.

“what ?” you splutter, brows furrowed, head tilted as you blink at him

“pinch me,” he says again. “i’ve gotta make sure i’m not dreaming this time.”

you don’t know whether to laugh or melt. you do a mixture of both as you pinch him and he pretends to wince, “do you dream about me a lot then ?”

“all day, every day,” he quips. “you’re all i’ve ever dreamed of.”

“that’s so corny,” you say, but you’re smiling.

“oh that’s rich coming from you, little miss obsessed with rom coms,” he scoff. “if noah calhoun said that, you wouldn’t think so. you’d be geeking and saying you wish men like that existed. but last i checked i’m a man and i exist—”

“it wouldn’t be cringe because that’s the notebook,” you tut. “but y’know i think you’re quite like noah, actually. personality wise. i can see you hanging off a ferris wheel. and i’d definitely pants you.”

“of course you would” he shakes his head, “looks wise, i’m hotter than noah. wouldn’t you agree?”

“mmm, that’s pushing it,” you say, and he’s about to protest and pout and whine, but you cut him off with a kiss. it starts sweet and gentle before blossoming until you’re beneath him on the couch, his body pressed against yours, his kisses tickling you until you’re laughing so loud you can barely breathe.

“say i’m hotter than noah,” he murmurs against your skin.

“you’re hotter than noah,” you giggle. he loves you. he loves this. this is what he lives to do. make you laugh. he’s made you cry for the first and last time — okay maybe the third and last time if you count petty childhood escapades but he digresses— and he vows, right then and there, that he’ll die before he lets you cry because of him again.

he’s still hovering over you, forearms braced on either side of your head. but he’s not kissing you anymore, he’s just looking at you, and the look in his eyes is so soft, so tender, it makes your heart feel like it might just burst.

after over a decade of pining, of waiting for you to see him with bated breath, satoru can finally breathe easily. his longs are full of the air he’s denied himself of for so long. satoru could never live, never breathe, just be your friend. not really. as awful as it sounds it was a role he played, a costume he wore to stay close to you. but underneath it all, he was always yours. he’ll always be yours

people say the best things come to those who wait, and satoru has always been waiting. always been hoping. and now, looking at you, your eyes shining, your lips swollen from his kisses, he knows every moment of longing, every year of unspoken feelings, every day of carefully guarding his heart, was worth it.

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