beautiful ✽

satoru loves you so completely it feels like a fundamental law of his universe, as unchangeable and indisputable as gravity, polarity, and einstein’s theory of general relativity.

but he hates your energy drinks with an intensity that rivals his love for you

he hates the garish colors of the cans, the aggressive branding, the chemical-sweetness that clings to you after you’ve had one. and most of all, he hates what they do to you.

he hates the subtle tremor in your hands that you try to hide by shoving them in your pockets. he hates the way your eyes dart around, unable to settle on one thing for too long, he hates the slight spike in your heart rate when he presses his ear to your chest, a frantic rhythm that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the caffeine coursing through your veins.

sometimes, late at night when you’re curled up against him, he’ll trace your face with his fingertips and think about all the articles he’s read, all the studies about cardiovascular health and the long-term effects of chronic caffeine consumption.

he finds himself terrified because he loves you too much to watch you slowly poison yourself, even if it’s in the name of productivity.

when satoru finds you in the kitchen each morning, he doesn’t even have to look up to know what you’re holding. he just knows, and his jaw tightens

“another one?” he asks, he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at you like you’re about to drink a vial of poison.

you take a deliberate, long sip, the sugary, chemical taste coating your tongue. “good morning to you too, ‘toru.”

he pushes off the doorframe and walks over, snatching the can from your hand before you can stop him. “do you even know what’s in this? do you even know what taurine is?”

“does it matter?” you groan, reaching for it to no avail. standing at well over six feet, he holds it out of your grasp effortlessly.

“the artificial sweeteners in here,” he starts, already in lecture mode, “the obscene amounts of sucralose and acesulfame potassium in these is what’s making your stomach hurt all the time. it’s altering the composition of your intestinal bacteria and making you bloated”

you rub your temples, a dull throb already starting behind your eyes. “i know, toru. you’ve sent me seventeen articles about it this week alone.”

“have you read any of them?” he queries, a frown tugging at his lips

“i skimmed,” you admit, trying to grab the can again. he’s too fast, “your fearmongering makes me anxious”

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