[satosugu] saturday night live || moonlilies

(((*ﾟ∇ﾟ)ヾ(￣▽￣*)

3:39 PM  〚October 11, 2013〛

"Getou," Satoru calls out as the boy was filing out of the gym. "Fight me."

Suguru turns around slowly. "What?"

"I said fight me," Satoru says a little louder. "Come on."

"What?" Suguru asks again, walking towards Satoru.

The white-haired boy grins. Good. "Next time you're looking for a challenge, don't go running around to some weak dogs." He'd seen the new bruises, the fresh cuts—he thought they'd both quit in an unspoken agreement two years ago, but apparently that wasn't the case.

It doesn't matter. Those bastards don't have the right to roughen Suguru up, not that they could.

"Get on with it, Sadako," Satoru calls out again when Suguru starts looking hesitant. "If I win, you buy me sweets for the rest of the month."

"And if I win?"

"I'll stop bothering you." Like Satoru ever would. Even Suguru knows that's a lie. Still, his now-opponent drops his things to the ground.

They spar everyday for the next three months. The last time they do it, Suguru wins only because Satoru lets him; he swears that's the truth. He wasn't looking well that day and by the time Satoru checked, Suguru's forehead had already given the sun a run for its money. He'd recoiled in fake shock, and then they both had to struggle through a flurry of I'm fine's and no you're not's before Satoru finally got Suguru to just be still for a moment you asshole, I'm calling a cab because you're going home.

Suguru is silent for the rest of the day. He only mutters a meek "thank you" when Satoru comes back with what looked like half the medicine supply of the nearby pharmacy—to be fair, Satoru wasn't sure of which meds to buy, so he bought all of the possible ones. He keeps looking at Satoru all weirdly throughout the afternoon, too, which is unnerving, but to hell with it. Satoru looks back every time with a pointed eyebrow raise and a glass of water in hand that he shoves to Suguru every few minutes.

When his patient is all wrapped up in blankets looking like a whole cocoon, Satoru starts washing the dishes. He sweeps the living room and adjusts the things on the decaying coffee table, careful to move the picture frames just a little more to the center and face them right so they're the first thing Suguru sees when he sits down.

Satoru even folds Suguru's laundry. He finds that day that it's a very therapeutic thing to do when you're sitting in silence surrounded by the waning sunlight. He also finds that his bruises had started to form—Suguru landed a few critical hits to him earlier, and every time he moves certain parts of his arms and legs he feels their dull ache.

He comes back to Suguru's room an hour and a half later, expecting to see his friend asleep. He wasn't.

Suguru squints up at him from his blanket-armor. "You don't look like the housekeeping type," he grates, voice husky. "I don't," Satoru laughs, sitting beside him. "And you look like a punk but you aren't."

Suguru only smiles. "Too early to tell."

"Yeah?" Satoru only whispers, tucking in one loose end of a blanket around Suguru.

Suguru tries his best to turn to Satoru. "Yeah."

Outside, the rush-hour bustle continues to rage, the noises seeping into the peace of Suguru's house. The sunlight is dying, though—the day's remaining embers are finally starting to burn into the nothingness of the approaching night.

It takes the roar of a car racing furiously by before anyone speaks again.

"Thanks," Suguru says, his eyes closed. "Really. For everything."