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Suguru Geto is already regretting this.
Because fate is cruel. And apparently, so were his classmates.
It was supposed to be an unpretentous hangout with him and his five friends. Well, it turned to four, because Yu wasn't able to come because of a mission that had run long—something about a grade two curse in Shinagawa that had turned out to be significantly more complicated than reported. Which also led up to Kento cancelling, citing that he "needed to make sure Yu didn't get killed," reducing that number to three. And then, Shoko and Utahime had both excused themselves due to an "unexpected sequence of events," which was a vague code for "absolutely not," most definitely triggered by Satoru's recent tirade about the superiority of custard over mousse. Suguru had a small feeling they'd finally reached the end of their collective patience for his never-ending sweet tooth and fled accordingly.
And so, naturally, he ended up with Satoru Gojo.
"Just the two of us," Satoru says, spinning his sunglasses lazily around his fingers. He smirks, and Suguru has grown far too familiar with that expression. He's about to say some insufferable remark. "How romantic."
Suguru didn't even dignify that with a response. By now, he's grown more than used to Satoru's antics. He pretty much knows when they're coming like the back of his hand from merely Satoru's micro-expressions. But recently, they've been growing more... well, how should he put it. More flirtatious? Bold? Romantic, even?
There's something that coils tight like a ribbon twisting over and over until it becomes a knot in his chest. It isn't an unpleasant feeling, but it is rather unsettling in how familiar it has become, the same way he's become familiar to all of Satoru's expressions.
It's the same sensation he's been trying to ignore for weeks now, but each time it comes back—if it even goes away, that is—he tells himself it's nothing. It's just Satoru Gojo being Satoru Gojo, like always, like it has been ever since the start. Testing boundaries the way he always does, even with the higher-ups. Pushing and pulling until he finds the edges of things.
But lately, Suguru's been wondering if maybe he doesn't want there to be edges anymore.
"You know you're thrilled." Satoru holds the door open for him with a dramatic bow. The bell above the door chimes cheerfully. "Admit it."
Suguru glances at him with a scoff, though a hint of a smile tugs at his lips. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Oh, come on." Satoru slips in right behind. "Just the two of us? Dessert? This is practically a date."
The word sends Suguru's heart beating against his ribcage.
The air conditioning of the café washes away summer's hot, insistent grip on their skin. The place is on the smaller end of the hundreds across Tokyo. The walls are in a shade of pastel yellow, accompanied by delicate white and other pastel coloured furnishings. A song is playing in the background that Suguru cursorily recognizes: Slow dance, by Clairo.
It takes some time for Suguru to formulate a response. He stops walking for a second, and gives Satoru a long look. "Satoru."
"Mm?"
"You invited yourself."
Satoru opens his mouth, about to spout out some cocky retort he seems to always have on the tip of his tongue, but his attention gets snagged by the lavish display of pastries behind glass.
He scurries over and leans close to the glass case. Cakes sit on porcelain stands, their layers of cream, sponge, and fruit gleaming. Tarts with their surfaces glazed, dotted with fresh berries. Rows of purin lined up, their caramel tops glossy and dark while the custard beneath trembles faintly.
"Whoa," Satoru breathes.
Suguru follows his gaze. The display is impressive; he'd expected that much when he'd chosen this place. He'd chosen it specifically for Satoru, actually.
"It's almost too pretty to eat," Satoru says, still staring with a look of pure love.
Suguru smiles. "That won't stop you."
"Well, duh, I said 'almost.'" Satoru's eager grin returns. "But I'm gonna appreciate it first. It's called respect, Suguru."
Suguru rolls his eyes, and soon enough, a worker guides them to a little round table near a window.
The early-afternoon sunlight spills across the menu pages, the laminated paper catching the light in blinding streams that send brief flares of light gold directly into Suguru's eyes. He shifts it slightly, angling it away, and the light moves across its glossy surface like water.
Satoru squints at the menu. "Are you sure this is a dessert list? Why the hell is there a diagram for the parfait?"
Suguru leans over. "That's a parfait schematic."
"I don't trust anything that looks this architectural."
Suguru hums, lips quirking faintly. "You don't trust anything that requires reading comprehension."
"Hey, I read!"
"Manga and Digimon manuals don't count."
"At least I finish what I start, unlike someone's thousand-paged books." Satoru flips the menu over, frowning at the back. "But seriously, why do they need to label each layer? It's gonna end up as one lump in your stomach anyway."
"Coming from a dessert enthusiast, I'd expect more appreciation," Suguru replies. "Each layer is meant to be experienced separately before it comes together. The bitterness of the matcha against the sweetness of the bean paste—"
"Okay, okay, I get it. Suguru, I'm ordering dessert, not writing a thesis."
"Could've fooled me with how long you've been staring at those pastries before."
After an intense and overly dramatic deliberation, Suguru settles on the matcha-strawberry parfait, topped with crisp wafers and a delicate sugar flower. Satoru picks a neon-coloured monstrosity of a sherbet that Suguru suspects it had been designed purely to appeal to children forced to go out with their family.
Soon enough, the waitress returns with their desserts. And even Satoru had to pause.
"I feel like your dessert took a lot more effort to make than mine," Satoru says slowly, eyes darting between his chaotic rainbow and Suguru's delightful parfait.
Suguru picks up his spoon. "I told you to get the parfait."
"You did not," Satoru objects. "You said, and I quote, 'Get whatever looks the most colourful.'"
"And look how beautifully you followed through."
Satoru pokes at it experimentally with his spoon, but it sinks right through. "It's... vibrant."
He scoops up a spoonful and stares at it. Then at Suguru's parfait. Then back at his own spoon.
He sets it down.
"Okay," he admits. "I may have made a small error."
Suguru takes the first bite, savouring the way the matcha's bitterness cuts through the red bean's and cream's sweetness. He makes sure Satoru sees the look of satisfaction on his face.
"You know," Satoru begins, "sharing is caring."
"Is it now."
"Yup. It's basically the foundation of human society."
"You seemed very much against that idea a few days ago when I asked for some of your taiyaki."
"People change, Suguru. I've matured since then."
Suguru snorts. "You chose the most childish option on the menu. I'm sure that speaks for itself."
Satoru sighs dramatically, slumping forward slightly. "Just one bite."
Suguru takes another good look at his eyesore of a dessert. "You have your own mess."
"C'mon," Satoru whines, drawing out the syllables. "What kind of dessert date is this if we don't share?"
There it is again. Thrown once more so casually.
"Date?" Suguru repeats. "This was a group hangout. You just happened to be the only one who showed up."
"Oh, so I'm just the leftovers? I'm hurt."
Suguru takes another bite of his parfait, buying himself time to think. "Do you flirt like this with everyone?"
Satoru hums, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Only the ones who make me laugh and let me finish their whipped cream."
"Satoru."
"Yes, my liege?" he says sweetly, all too pleased with himself.
"You're not getting any of this parfait."
"I already plan to steal it."
Suguru's spoon intercepts against his with a clink midair.
Satoru's grin widens. "Oh so that's how it's going to be?"
Suguru's spoon smacks against Satoru's again. Again. And again.
It escalates quickly. Soon, the two men were fencing with dessert utensils, practically jousting across the table as two café workers looked on, mildly concerned.
"Put the spoon down," Suguru warns, blocking another jab.
"Never," Satoru laughs. "For too long, I've been oppressed. Denied whipped cream. This is my uprising."
"You've had five desserts in the last week."
"That's a lie. It was nine. Keep up."
When Satoru realizes he isn't going to win, he sighs and puts on the look of a kicked puppy. "C'mon Suguru. Just one bite? Please. I'll perish otherwise."
Suguru stares at him, at his shameless pleading after just trying to steal his dessert, and is now acting like a wounded puppy.
And because Suguru is, apparently, the world's biggest pushover when it comes to Satoru Gojo, because that ribbon in his chest has wound itself so tight he can barely breathe around it—
He sighs.
"Fine," he murmurs.
Satoru perks up immediately. "Really?"
Suguru is too occupied to answer. He's focusing on scooping the perfect bite, trying to fit all the components Satoru had mocked earlier onto the spoon, which was quite difficult with the one glistening strawberry threatening to slide off.
When he's successful, he holds it out across the table.
"Only one bite," Suguru warns. "That's it."
For a moment, Satoru's gaze drifts between Suguru's face and the offered parfait. And then, oddly, he glances away. Slightly.
His usual grin falters like a flame in the wind. And what remains are the gentle embers.
Faint colour blooms across Satoru's face. Soft and spreading like sunrise bleeding into morning sky, like ink dropped into clear water. It dusts over the bridge of his nose, climbs toward his ears. The pink is delicate and barely there. It's the kind of colour you only catch if you're looking closely.
And Suguru is looking closely. He always has.
Suguru has learned to read every shift in Satoru's face like a language he's fluent in. But this is new. This shy uncertainty, this soft vulnerability caught in the set of Satoru's mouth. The way he won't quite meet Suguru's eyes.
Suguru has catalogued every expression Satoru owns, has memorized them all like constellations he could map blind.
But this one doesn't exist in his collection.
Then Satoru looks back at him. His expression shifts back into that familiar beam as he leans forward to take the bite with exaggerated bliss.
"You're going to make some poor soul very lucky one day," Satoru says around the mouthful.
"And you're going to make some poor soul very tired."
Satoru begins reaching for his own spoon. He scoops up a generous heaping mess of his biohazardous rainbow. Neon orange, violet, pink, and a suspicious-looking blue that probably wasn't found in nature.
"Your turn," Satoru singsongs. "Open up."
Suguru stares at the abomination hovering between them. "Absolutely not."
"It's only fair. I tried yours."
"That thing looks radioactive."
"Don't disrespect my rainbow sherbet," Satoru warns, but the look on his face can't fool how he knows exactly how terrible it looks.
"It's glowing, Satoru. That's not normal."
"Oh, c'mon, live a little."
"I prefer living without food poisoning, thanks."
Satoru nudges it even closer until it's practically under Suguru's nose. Suguru eyes it with deep suspicion, then lets his gaze settle over Satoru, who's watching with that bright, expectant expression.
"Fine," Suguru sighs. He leans forward, resigned to his fate, and takes the smallest possible bite.
The taste hits immediately.
"Oh my god," he chokes out, reaching for his glass of water. "My taste buds."
"They'll be fine," Satoru laughs. "Now, how about another bite?"
And just like that, the summer sun kept slipping down the sky, and inside, two teenagers were in another bout of laughter, bright and full and a little too loud for the quiet shop. And Suguru thinks that he wouldn't mind being that poor soul, that tired one, if it meant more afternoons like this.