I'm Here to Chill ✌🏽

your knees were a mess, scraped raw and beading with tiny drops of blood. there was dirt on your palms and you had tears welling in your eyes, but you weren’t sad. not even in the slightest. you stood there, swaying slightly and pointed a trembling finger at him.

“you pushed me,” you glared at him, lips quivering as you made the demand that sealed his fate, the one that’s been echoing in his head for years “you have to get me a hello kitty bandaid or i’m telling on you.”

he didn’t have a hello kitty bandaid. he didn’t have any bandaids on him actually. but he really, really wished he did. he wished he had a whole box of them, a whole factory of them, just to give to you. he wanted to patch up the bruises he’d made. he wanted to wipe the tears from your eyes before they even fell. he wanted, for the first time in his life, to take care of someone else.

his feelings for you grew through awkward school dances, late-night study sessions, and the disastrous first dates he had to rescue you from.

they blossomed in the spaces between your laughter, in the comfortable silences you shared. they grew until they became so big he can barely contain them.

he’s supposed to be playing mortal kombat xi with suguru, but his mind is miles away. he’s waiting — he’s always waiting — for your text, your call. anything that says you need him. anything that says he’s the one you want. even if it’s just for a ride home from a date with someone else.

the blue light of the screen paints patterns on satoru’s face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw as he squints at the game. suguru’s character lands a critical hit, and satoru’s health bar plummets.

“fuck,” he curses, his fingers move over the controller, but he’s too scatterbrained to come back from this. he always is when you’re out with someone else

“you’re playing like shit tonight,” suguru comments, not looking away from the screen.

“shut up,” satoru mumbles. his phone sits face down on the cushion beside him. he imagines it buzzing, imagines your name lighting up the screen, and his stomach does that stupid flutter it always does. he hates it. he hates feeling like this when he knows you’ll never feel the same.

suguru lands another hit. game over. “told you,” he says, leaning back. “so who’s she with tonight? what’s his name?”

“don’t know,” satoru says, tossing the controller onto the couch. it bounces off a cushion. “don’t care either”

“bullshit,” suguru laughs, “you care more than anyone.”

( of course he cares. loving you is all he’s ever known and he’s terrified that one day, you won’t need to reach out. you won’t need him to pick up the pieces anymore because your date went great and you’ve fallen in love. the mere thought of it makes him sick to his stomach )

satoru doesn’t answer. he just reaches for his phone, heart thumping hopefully against his ribs. he tells himself he’s checking the time, but his thumb swipes the screen open anyway.

nothing. no messages. no missed calls. radio silence.

he’s about to put it down, to tell suguru to go fuck himself. to suggest they order some doordash and pretend tonight isn’t happening. pretend you’re not out there with some stranger who doesn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as you.

and then his phone buzzes. the screen lights up and there it is. your name. and five words that make his heart race.

can you come get me? [ 10:26 pm ]

that’s it. you offer him no explanation. zero context. but he can hear the shake in your voice, see the tears in your eyes, and he hasn’t even heard you speak yet. he’s on his feet before he’s fully processed it.

“what is it?” suguru asks, sitting up straighter.

“nothing,” satoru says, already moving towards the hallway. “i gotta go. don’t wait up for me”

“again?”

“shut up,” he throws over his shoulder, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. his shoes are by the doormat, and he’s shoving his feet into them, not even bothering to untie them first. “you’d do the same for shoko.”

“shoko doesn’t make a habit of dating assholes, and i’m not in love with her. don’t compare apples to oranges” suguru calls after him, but satoru’s already out the door.

the drive to you is a blur of streetlights and angry horns. his foot is heavy on the gas. he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

the restaurant you’re at tonight is fancy. all warm lighting and valet parking. there’s no spot, of course there’s no fucking spot, and he circles the block twice before finding a space three streets down.

he’s out of the car before the engine’s fully off, jogging down the sidewalk until he sees you through the window.

he pushes the door open and makes his way towards you. the closer he gets, the more details he can’t unsee. your shoulders are shaking and the champagne flute in front of you is empty. just how much have you had to drink?

you finally lift your head. your eyes find his impossibly blue ones, and the vulnerability in your expression is a physical blow to his chest.

( it’s the same look you had on the playground all those years ago, after he’d pushed you off and you’d scrambled to your feet, demanding he fix everything. you’re still demanding it with every breath you take. and he’s still here, doing everything in his power to make you feel better. )

“toru,” you frown, and the sound of his name on your lips makes him weak. it always does.

“i’m here,” the only comfort he has to give is himself. his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

you’re soft and warm. you smell like expensive champagne and your vanilla perfume. your hands fist desperately in the material of his t-shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s tilting on its axis. you bury your face in his chest and he can feel the tremors running through your entire body.

he holds you tighter, one hand splayed across the small of your back, the other coming up to cup the back of your head. he rubs slow circles against the silk of your dress. he wants to absorb your pain into himself and shatter it into a million pieces.

( he wishes you were clinging to him because you wanted him, not because someone else had thrown you away. )

he waits until your grip on his shirt loosens. he keeps one hand on your back, leaning back just enough to look at you. but you don’t lift your head, you keep your face hidden against the damp fabric of his shirt.

“look at me,” he murmurs, you can feel his words rumbling through his chest.

it takes a moment, but you slowly, reluctantly, pull back. your face is a mess but you’ve never looked more beautiful to him. he wants to kiss you, to taste the salt of your tears and the champagne on your lips. but he’s here to fix this. he’ll save the wanting for later, for the quiet hours of the night when he’s alone on your couch with nothing but the ghost of your warmth and the ache in his chest.

for now, he just has to be your friend. your best friend.

he gently cups your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, wiping away the dampness. “what happened?”

you take a shaky breath, and your gaze darts away from his, landing on the empty champagne flute. “he was just. . .” you hiccup, swallowing hard. “he was just awful from the beginning, ‘toru. he wouldn’t let me talk. he just kept going on about himself, about his job, his car, his. . his stupid rolex.”

“i thought. . . i don’t know what i thought. i just kept ordering champagne because he was supposed to be paying and i was bored. and then. . .then he said he was going to the bathroom and he never came back.”

“one of the waitresses,” you continue, your voice dropping to a whisper, “came over and said she saw him leave. she said he left with. . . with some girl he was talking to at the bar. and then they brought the bill a-and i didn’t have enough because he ordered the most expensive thing on the menu”

rage courses through his veins, so potent it makes him dizzy. he’s not just angry at the nameless, faceless asshole who did this. he’s angry at the fact he lives in a world where someone could have you, could sit across from you, look at you, and then . . leave. how? how is that remotely possible? how could anyone be so blind, so stupid? he can’t wrap his head around it.

“he’s a fucking idiot,” he snaps, “and you’re way too good for him, he never deserved you or time”

( satoru wishes you would finally see that he’s the one who does. if you gave him a chance he would worship the ground you walk on.

in retrospect he already does. he patches up the wounds left by other men, cleans up their messes, holds you while you cry over them. he remembers your café order and brings a cup that’s more creamer than coffee to your first lecture of the day. he sits through rewatches of ‘ten things i hate about you’ and the fear street trilogy without complaining. he pays for your gas and groceries. he does everything a boyfriend should do and more. but he’s not your boyfriend.

if you’d let him take you out on a date. he wouldn’t just sit across from you talking about himself. he would hang onto your every word.

he’d never leave you waiting, not for a second. he’d move heaven and earth to make you happy, to make you his. he just needs you to give him the chance to )

he knows you don’t believe him. you never do. you always think it’s your fault, that you weren’t pretty enough, or smart enough, or interesting enough. and it kills him, because he knows the truth. he knows you’re too good for a world full of mediocre men who can’t appreciate what’s right in front of them.

“yeah” you nod and he knows you’re just agreeing with him because that’s what he wants to hear. he lets his hands fall, but he doesn’t step away. he can’t. not yet.

he pulls out his wallet. he doesn’t even bother to look at the bill. he sifts out a thick wad of cash, the crisp edges digging into his palm, and drops it down onto the polished wood of the bar.

( it’s more than enough to cover the ridiculously expensive lobster and the multiple bubbly glasses of dom perignon. more than enough to cover a tip that’s so generous it’s obscene. but satoru doesn’t care.)

“let’s go,” he says.

you slide off the barstool and for a terrifying moment you wobble precariously. the ridiculously high heels you’d worn for a man who didn’t deserve them betray you. satoru’s there before you can even register your knees buckling. his hand wrapping around your upper arm, “i’ve got you,”

your body molds to his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. satoru has to physically force himself to breathe, to focus on the simple act of walking and not the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.

he guides you to his car, opens the door, and helps you in. he buckles your seatbelt, fingers brushing against your side, just below your ribs. you shiver and it has nothing to do with the cold.

“cold?” he asks. you shake your head, lolling back against the leather headrest.

“no ‘m just tired,” you mumble, eyes already drifting shut. long lashes casting shadows on your cheeks. but he drapes his hoodie over your frame regardless

the drive to your apartment is quiet. satoru glances over at you at every red light, at the way streetlights tinge patterns across your face, at the way your lips are slightly parted. he wants to reach over, to brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead, to trace the line of your jaw with his thumb, but he doesn’t. he can’t.

he white-knuckles the leather steering wheel and forces himself to focus on the road.

when he finally reaches your apartment and he kills the engine. he just sits there watching you sleep for a moment. he hates the thought of waking you, hates the thought of this night ending.

“hey,” he whispers, his voice barely perceptible. he reaches out, shaking your shoulder gently. “we’re here.”

your eyes flutter open. they’re heavy-lidded, and hazy with sleep and alcohol. you’re too pretty, even like this

“c’mon let’s get you inside,” he murmurs. he practically carries you through the foyer and into the elevator, his body pressed against yours, your head lolling against his chest.

the elevator ride is torturous. he’s drowning in you and it makes your head spin. his weakness is exacerbated the second he steps into your apartment. it smells too much like you. it makes his chest ache with longing.

he lays you down on your bed, carefully turning you onto your side —the way he knows you like to sleep.

your heels are a nightmare — all delicate straps and tiny buckles — and his fingers are clumsy as he works them free. he tries not to wake you, tries not to linger too long on the warm skin of your ankles.

your dress looks like it’ll be uncomfortable to sleep. he hesitates, hand hovering over the zipper at the back. he’s seen you in less — during those endless shopping trips you’d dragged him on, trying on lacy bras for your dates and asking his opinion. completely oblivious to the way his throat would close up.

but this feels different. more intimate. a line he’s not sure he’s ready to cross

“fuck it,” he mutters and turns away, heading for your bathroom. he finds your makeup wipes where he knows they’ll be, in the little wicker basket by the sink.

he grabs the small trash can from under the counter, setting it by your bedside, just in case you wake up sick. then he kneels beside you, heart pounding against his ribs.

your skin is warm beneath his touch as he gently wipes away the concealer, the mascara, and the lipgloss that’s smeared at the corners of your mouth.

he’s careful, touch light as a feather. he does this because he knows you’ll complain in the morning —about waking up with makeup on, about the inevitable breakouts — and he can’t stand the thought of you being unhappy, not even about something so small.

you stir, murmuring something unintelligible, but don’t wake. he trashes the soiled wipes and clambers to his feet. he’s almost at the door, hand on the doorknob, ready to retreat to the couch, to be the good friend he’s supposed to be. when he hears you call out to him.

“don’t go.” you sigh. he freezes, his breath catching in his throat. he turns slowly, heart hammering against his ribs.

your face is illuminated by the moonlight filtering through your curtains. your lip is quivering and he can make out the tortured expression on your face. satoru wants to wrap you in his arms and never let go.

“please,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep and alcohol and something he can’t quite place a finger on. he hopes it’s affection.

something inside him breaks. something that’s been held together by sheer willpower. by the conscious effort to keep his distance, to be what you need him to be. “okay,” he practically whimpers

he crosses back to your bed hesitantly. you shift, making room, so, so trusting. “need a shirt,” you mumble, pointing a shaky finger at your dresser. he grabs the first one he finds, cotton worn thin from a hundred washes. it smells faintly of detergent and you.

you sit up, swaying and he’s there in an instant, his hand cupping the back of your head, steadying you against the headboard. “careful”

satoru focuses on the wall, on the ceiling, on anything but the sound of fabric rustling. the glimpse of skin he catches in his peripheral vision — the delicate curve of your spine — makes his cheeks flush. you toss your dress on the floor in a heap of silk and sequins and you pull the shirt on.

“bra,” you say, your voice muffled. you fumble behind your back, your fingers clumsy, useless. “. . . help”

( satoru knows you’re trying to kill him, he just can’t prove it yet )

“okay,” his voice is a strangled whisper. he’s not sure he can manage more than a syllable. his hand trembles as he reaches behind you, fingers trailing up your back, brushing against your warm skin as he finds the clasp.

it’s a piece of fabric with tiny pieces of metal, he knows it’s not going to bite him. but he’s still shaking because this feels too monumental. you shiver at his touch when he finally gets it loose. he pulls back as if he’s been burned.

“thanks,” you murmur, pulling your straps beneath your t-shirt and shrugging your bra off. you settle back against your pillows, and after a moment’s hesitation, satoru lies beside you, the mattress dips beneath his weight.

you shift closer, until you’re pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, body fitting against his like it was made to be there. beside him.

“you’re too good to me,” you whisper, “you’re the best friend i’ve ever had.”

satoru can’t respond. can’t trust his voice not to crack. he just hums, a short, pained sound that gets lost in the darkness of your room.

best friend.

the words echo in his head. he’s perpetually stuck in the friendzone. and the absolute worst part, is he’d rather be here than anywhere else in the world. he’d rather suffer like this, than not have you at all.

he listens as your breathing evens out, as you drift deeper into sleep, your body growing heavy and limp against his. his arm’s gone numb from your weight but he wouldn’t move for the world.

in the morning, you’ll wake up embarrassed, make jokes about how you owe him one, and satoru will smile, will pretend it doesn’t hurt, will go back to being just your best friend.

but right now, he lets himself pretend this is normal, pretend that he gets to have you like this always. deludes himself into thinking that when you wake up, you’ll see what’s been right in front of you all along.