20 something college student in need of a drink

The hum of late-night traffic outside Geto Suguru's apartment was a familiar lullaby, easily drowned out by the canned laughter from the flickering TV. Your spine curved against his chest, the comfortable weight of his arm draped over you. His fingers, tracing lazy circles on your thigh, were a familiar comfort, yet tonight, each brush felt like a spark.

“You're staring,” Suguru murmured, his voice a low thrum against your ear.

“Am I?” you teased, shifting just enough to press closer, your knee nudging his hip.

He responded with that infuriating, knowing smile, the one that always signaled he would caught you with your guard down.

“Mhm.”

His fingers trailed higher, the innocent circles becoming more deliberate.

“Thinking loud again.” His touch stilled, pressing just a little firmer, a silent demand that had you inhaling sharply. His dark eyes, usually so composed, flickered with something warmer, hungrier.

“You’re terrible at hiding it,” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, rough at the edges.

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand slid fully up your thigh, fingers curling possessively into the soft flesh. The other arm tightened, pulling you flush against him, a gasp catching in your throat.

The TV’s laughter became a ridiculous echo from another dimension.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You didn’t.

Instead, you tilted your head, your lips brushing the line of his jaw.

A challenge, an answer.

He let out a low hum, a sound caught between amusement and satisfaction, before his mouth crashed into yours. There was nothing gentle about it; his teeth caught your lower lip, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that spiked your pulse. One hand tangled in your hair, angling your head, while the other slipped higher, fingertips teasing the edge of your underwear.

“You’re fucking impatient,” he muttered against your mouth when you arched into his touch, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric.

His slow, torturous circles had your hips jerking involuntarily.

“Always so eager.”

His breath hitched as you rocked against his hand, seeking more. He rewarded you with a firmer press, his fingers sliding inside with ease, curling just right to wring a broken moan from your throat.

He swallowed your moan with another kiss, his tongue hot and insistent as his fingers worked you open. Every drag sent sparks up your spine, your thighs trembling around his wrist.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. “So fucking wet for me already.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing tight circles that arched your back, a whimper caught in your throat. He grinned, all teeth, before biting down on your lower lip—just enough to sting.

“Suguru...”

“Thought you could tease me and get away with it?”

You gasped as he added a second finger, the stretch making your nails dig into his shoulders. His own breath hitched, his hips shifting as he ground his erection against your thigh.

“Fuck,” he hissed, regaining control, his fingers curling deeper. “You’re gonna ruin me like this.”

The TV’s laughter swelled again, absurdly cheerful.

Suguru's free hand gripped your hip, hauling you forward until you straddled his lap, the sudden friction drawing a groan from both of you. His pupils were blown wide, his usual composure fraying as he watched you rock against his hand.

“Shit...”

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice rough. “Use me. Take what you need.”

You whimpered, your hips stuttering as his thumb pressed harder against your clit.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me hear you.”

The pet name, so at odds with the filth, unraveled you. Pleasure coiled tight, then snapped—your cry muffled against his shoulder as you came, his fingers milking you through it with relentless precision.

“Please—ngh... Suguru...”

He hummed, low and satisfied, his lips brushing your ear.

“Good,” he murmured. “But we’re not done.”

His fingers withdrew, the loss aching, and you barely whined before his hands gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly.

His sweatpants slid down, his cock springing free, thick and already leaking, the tip brushing your stomach as he settled you back over him.

You didn’t hesitate, bracing your hands against his shoulders, sinking down onto him.

The stretch burned just enough to hitch your breath. Suguru's whimper was ragged, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he forced himself still, letting you adjust.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his forehead dropping against yours. “You feel—” His words cut off when you rocked forward experimentally, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that curled your toes.

His grip tightened, guiding your movements as you began to ride him in earnest, his hips meeting yours with sharp, shallow thrusts. The angle was perfect, every roll of your hips dragging his cock against that sweet spot, his pelvis grinding against your clit.

“Shit... So fucking good...”

Suguru's breath was hot against your lips, his kisses messy and unfocused.

“That’s it,” he growled, one hand sliding up to tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back. “Look at you. Taking me so fucking well.”

You whimpered, the praise igniting your oversensitive nerves, your thighs shaking.

His other hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit with unerring accuracy.

“Gonna come again?” he murmured, smug satisfaction dripping from his voice.

“Yes—please...”

“Already? You’re so greedy for it.”

His teeth grazed your throat, his hips snapping up harder, driving his cock deeper.

The words barely registered.

Too much sensation, too much him.

Every nerve alight as he fucked up into you, slow, deliberate thrusts blurring your vision. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. When you tried to squirm, his grip on your hip tightened, holding you in place.

“Uh-uh," Suguru whimpered, his breath hot against your jaw. "You don't get to run from it."

His teeth sank into the tendon of your neck, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you gasp, your nails scraping down his shoulders.

“Fuck! Suguru... Fuck you—ngh...”

He laughed, dark and delighted.

You were close, impossibly tight.

His fingers twisted in your hair, forcing your head back. “Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Words were beyond you now, reduced to panting breaths and broken whimpers. Suguru's smirk was wicked, his thumb pressing down harder.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours. “That's what I thought.”

Then it hit—white-hot and overwhelming, your back arching as you came with a cry he swallowed with a bruising kiss.

Your thighs trembled, your walls fluttering tight around his cock, and Suguru groaned, low and ragged, his hips stuttering before he fucked up into you hard, once, twice—his own release slamming into him with a sharp exhale against your lips.

His forehead pressed against yours as you both caught your breath, the air thick with sweat and the scent of sex.

Suguru's fingers loosened, trailing up your sides in lazy, possessive strokes.

You shivered when his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts. He chuckled—a low, satisfied sound—before pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, surprisingly soft.

“Mhm...”

“You're heavy," he murmured, though he made no move to shift you. His hands slid around to your back, holding you flush. You could feel his heartbeat, still racing, still yours.

The TV had long since switched to an infomercial, the volume low enough that the salesman sounded like he was whispering.

You laughed breathlessly, your fingers tracing the bite marks you'd left on his shoulder.

“You started it.”

Suguru's grin was slow, wicked. “And you finished it.”

His hand slipped between you again, fingers brushing lightly over your clit. You jerked in his lap with a sharp inhale.

“Or should I say—” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “—we finished it.”

His fingers lingered, feather-light, tracing the dampness between your thighs with a possessiveness that sent a fresh shiver up your spine.

“Shit—please...”

“Sensitive already?” Suguru murmured, his voice thick with amusement, though the way his cock twitched inside you betrayed his own barely checked hunger.

You clenched around him instinctively, earning a sharp exhale through his nose—his composure cracking just enough to satisfy you.

“Still smug,” you managed, your voice hoarse.

His grin widened, all teeth, and he rocked his hips up lazily, just enough to remind you he was still hard, still buried deep. Your breath hitched, nails scraping down his chest in weak protest.

“You're insufferable.”

“And you're still shaking,” he countered, his thumb brushing your hipbone where the skin was already flushed.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering on the swollen curve of your lower lip.

“Look at you.”

The words came out hushed, almost reverent.

You expected him to move, to drag this out until you were begging. But he surprised you. His hands slid up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as he pulled you into a kiss that was startlingly tender. No teeth, no demand—just the slow slide of his tongue, the kind of kiss that made your chest ache.

His lips lingered against yours, soft and unhurried.

You sighed into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him hum. But then he pulled back—just far enough to watch your face, his dark eyes tracing the flush, the way your lashes fluttered when he rocked his hips up lazily.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice rough but impossibly gentle. “Did you think about this? Before tonight?”

The question caught you off guard.

Your breath hitched when his fingers trailed down your throat, tracing the bruises he'd left.

“Maybe,” you admitted, biting your lip when his thumb brushed over your pulse point.

His grin was slow, satisfied.

“Liar.” His hand slid lower, fingertips skating over your ribs, making you shiver. “I know you did.”

His hips rolled up again, deliberate, dragging his cock deeper inside you until your thighs trembled. “I could tell. Every time you ‘accidentally’ brushed against me in the hallway.”

“Ahh! Shit...”

His teeth grazed your earlobe, his breath hot. “Every time you stayed late just to walk back with me.”

You gasped when his fingers found your clit again, his touch feather-light, teasing.

“Shut up... Mhm...” you muttered, though your hips jerked.

Suguru laughed—a rich, warm sound before nipping at your collarbone.

“Make me,” he challenged, his fingers circling your clit just a fraction harder, enough to make your thighs tighten. You hissed, hips rolling involuntarily, seeking more friction, but he withdrew his touch just as quickly.

“Please... Just fuck me, Suguru...”

“Ah-ah,” he tutted, his free hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. “You don’t get to rush me.”

The slow, deliberate grind of his hips was maddening. You whimpered, nails biting into his shoulders, but he only smiled. That infuriating, self-satisfied curve of his mouth before dragging his tongue along your jaw.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he murmured, his voice thick with something dangerously close to reverence. “All wrecked and desperate because of me.”

His teeth grazed your pulse point. “Tell me,” he breathed against your skin, “was it worth the wait, hm?”

“Ngh... Please...”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you answered by sinking your teeth into his shoulder, hard enough to make him groan, his hips jerking up instinctively.

Suguru's grip on your neck tightened, his other hand finally sliding back between your thighs, his fingers stroking through your slick with agonizing slowness.

“Greedy,” he chided, though his breath hitched.

His fingertips brushed your clit once, twice—just enough to tease before dipping lower, pressing against your entrance where his cock was already buried.

The stretch burned, his fingers working alongside his length, and you cried out, your back arching as pleasure spiked white-hot behind your eyelids.

“Ohh—fuck... shit, good...”

Suguru's whimper was ragged, his forehead dropping against yours as his rhythm faltered. “Fuck," he gritted out, his voice strained. "You’re—shit—you’re gonna kill me.”

His hips snapped up harder, driving his cock deeper, his fingers curling inside you in a way that had your vision blurring.

“Fuck—please... I'm—”

“Come on,” he growled, his lips brushing yours with every ragged exhale. “Let go. I got you.”

Your fingers twisted into his hair, pulling sharply enough to wrench a groan from his throat—half pain, half pleasure as his hips stuttered beneath you.

“Say it again,” you gasped, riding him with desperate, uneven rolls of your hips. “Tell me—”

Suguru's laugh was ragged, his hands tightening on your waist as he guided your movements.

“Tell you what?” he murmured, though the glint in his eyes said he knew exactly what you wanted. His thumb pressed against your clit, relentless. “That you’re perfect like this? That I’ve thought about fucking you just like this,” His hips jerked up, driving his cock deeper, “every time you looked at me with those fucking eyes?”

You whimpered, your thighs trembling as pleasure built like a live wire under your skin.

His fingers slid from your clit to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to his. “Or do you want to hear how wet you are?”

His voice dropped to a whisper, filthy and low. “How you’re squeezing me so tight I can barely think?”

Those words unraveled you.

Your orgasm crashed over you with a force that stole your breath, your cry muffled against his shoulder as your body clenched around him.

Suguru cursed, his rhythm faltering as he fucked you through it, his own release hitting him hard.

“Fuck—yes, baby...” His groan hot against your neck, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

His breath was still ragged against your neck, his fingers tracing idle patterns along the sweat-slick curve of your spine. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your palm—fast, erratic, a mirror to your own as you both came down from the high.

The silence between you was thick with unspoken words, punctuated only by the distant hum of the infomercial still playing on the TV.

He shifted beneath you, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from pulling away.

“Stay,” he murmured, the word rough with exhaustion but firm.

His lips brushed your temple—a fleeting touch that felt oddly tender for a man who just fucked you senseless.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, too wrung out to protest even if you'd wanted to. His fingers tangled in your hair, gently working through the knots his own hands had put there earlier.

The TV's infomercial droned on. Some miracle knife slicing through a tomato with absurd ease as Suguru shifted beneath you, his cock still half-hard inside you.

You gasped at the movement, oversensitive, and he chuckled, low and satisfied.

“Always so reactive.”

His lips brushed your forehead, achingly soft compared to the filth he whispered earlier.

“Tell me,” he murmured against your skin, “did the ride live up to the fantasy?”

The opening song is soft — no drums. Satoru is to your left in the industrial stage design, plucking out a soft rhythm, staring down as he toes his pedal. He amps up the reverb when the chorus draws near, and the lights oscillate in deep magenta hues.

Suguru inches his way to you from backstage, stage-left, swinging his bass across his chest as he steps behind Satoru, and into the spotlight. The crowd's demeanor shifts at the sight of his familiar, infamous face — hollowed out, exhausted, and pale. He can't remember the last time he slept for more than an hour, and this is the biggest show of his career. For once in his life, he's nervous, hands shaking as he hikes the neck up towards his armpit, breathing out steadily through his sore nose.

"Say you can hear me, baby. Tell me that you care — in a year, this love won't exist. We can't go anywhere."

Then, the drums hit — Choso giving the strings a backbone that Suguru can chew on with a solid, steady bassline. It's deep and hard-hitting, echoing through your in-ears, then the show really starts.

You stand up, limbs limp and heavy, head bowed as you work up faux emotion in the backbeat of your rasping voice.

"But, I don't wanna leave. Don't want you to leave. I can't leave, baby. Say you'll stay… say you'll stay."

The first song comes and goes, you avoid Suguru's eyes until it wraps, but once he closes off the song with a final hit, you peek over your shoulder, taking a breath as the audience erupts in chaos.

It's the biggest show of your career, and the pressure is tangible. Cameras are in your face, flying above you in drones and portable lenses. Security bustles around the barricade — water bottles are being thrown, and as you look out to the sea of ten thousand that all know your name, that nauseating, lonely feeling you've become too accustomed to, grows even hotter. Still, when the dark red lights hit your face as you fade into the performance, there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

"It's been a long time coming," You speak into your microphone, holding it like a delicate smoke, fiddling with your earpiece as you walk towards stage-left, using the little extra time you have between songs to engage with the audience. Every show follows a set schedule in your head — song one, interlude, speaking break, repeat.

You don't know why this time feels so utterly different.

"We've waited far too long to visit you, London." You whisper, voice pitched into something sweet as the crowd roars and bends at your attention. Onstage, you approach Satoru, stepping in a circle around him, keeping eye contact as he strums the same four-chord progression that leads you into the next song, whenever you're ready.

His earful of silver jewelry gleams in the light — so does his skin and pearly hair. He's an angel against them, feeling so at home in the space that he doesn't even register your call for attention until you're standing right in front of him. You want to speak — to tell him that you're excited to be in this city with him; you think about him all the time, and he's yours, but all you can muster as he stares you down is,

"Can I introduce you to my band?" It's more of a statement than a question, waiting for the crowd to cheer and fizzle before you turn back around to them, smiling devilishly as you walk to the front of the stage. Suguru is hanging about on stage right, not playing anything, just waiting, adjusting his long, falling hair. You can feel his eyes boring dark holes in your back, waiting for you to make the move to lead into the next song, but you… don't. Not yet.

You walk across the stage, back towards Satoru as he watches you drag your bare feet against the dusty, sticky stage floor. Into the microphone, you peek over your shoulder and smile, "I'm sure you're familiar… With Suguru Geto on his bass." You whisper as you walk towards him, heart hammering as his stare zeroes in on your softly covered chest. In the moment, you wonder what the audience knows — if they know, but it's fleeting.

Suguru blinks up at you as you approach, a foot cocked on one of the chain-link risers where his x-marker lives. The moment is wordless and tense; he's staring at you, and you're staring right back for the first time in weeks. The set darkens.

Behind you, Satoru is making good with the crowd — giving them winks, stuck at Choso's side like he's a stage prop. He knows you like to talk, it's your performing style — why your fans feel like they know you even with a shitty social media presence.

"But I have a few other friends with me today…" You continue, staring into Suguru's soul as you step backwards again, feet dragging. "The gorgeously talented, Satoru Gojo, on lead guitar." You turn back around to face the crowd, staring at his opposite as you utter Satoru's name in a sensitive purr. "And my sweet angel Choso on drums."

You smile, beaming diamonds as you approach them, getting so close to Satoru that you're nose to nose, smiles just inches away as his lips touch your microphone. "With our favorite girl on vocals, last but not least."

"And I call them The Good Boys."

It's not scripted, nor was it etched into your mental schedule, but as soon as you stop speaking, the heavy bass line that brings you into your next song floods your in-ears, and that natural eight-count timer starts in your head. Sparing Choso a passing glance as he rushes for his sticks, Satoru steps away, and it's like nothing happened.

With a raw voice, the only thing you could want as you run off stage is a hug.

Everyone around you is cheering, the crowd is begging for an encore — four people passed out in your presence; you kissed two of them on the head, Satoru sang with you. So much happened, you're reeling and in tears, happy and sad in ways unimaginable as you sort through bodies for a familiar, sunken frame.

"Sugu—

"Holy shit, my girl." It's a familiar voice, but it's not the one you're searching for. It hits your back like ice, shocking you awake. "You are magnetic."

"Satoru," You respond in pity, voice dipped and sad as you fall into him in a hug. He whines for you, sucking his teeth as your exhausted body melts into his strong one. It feels good to let your weight overtake him, trusting his strength to hold you in your most vulnerable moments. "Oh, Satoru."

"You just made yourself a legend out there." He breathes in your ear, body damp and warm — his hair sticking to your skin, your makeup all over his pale arms. "You're unbelievable."

 "I didn't even notice…" Choso mumbles, hands on his hips, winded as he parts through the crowd. The crew is thick, already beginning the laborious process of break-down after the headliners. "I wouldn't have counted in if you hadn't been on beat."

Suguru hums dismissively, cheeks pulled as he fiddles and picks at the bandages on his fingers, which hide the raw skin that tireless practice has driven them into. He's looking for Nanami, not you, and so is Choso, though he thinks they're both looking for you.

As you watch them dismantle your inner world piece by piece, you die a little in Satoru's arms. He holds you forever, never letting go, whispering praises and nicknames in your ear as he rocks you back and forth. He feels your tears on his shoulder. He loves it.

"Whole last song was off," Suguru mumbles, stopping in his tracks as he sees you crying in Satoru's embrace. He falters for a moment, breath still in his chest as he stares at you two. "Where the fuck is Nanami?"

"A-are…" Choso starts, wanting to say more, but caught in wanting to approach you two. "He was watching on stage-right, I don't—

Suguru doesn't let him finish, he doesn't say a word to you, he just nods and turns around, headed back towards stage-right. Choso stands frozen in space, caught between looking in Suguru's direction, then to you and Satoru's. He ponders a chase, then ponders the look on your face when he congratulates you. Of course, your smile wins him over.

"You two were great out there," He starts, pulling out his in-ears, letting them dangle over his pierced ears. Satoru pulls away from you at the sound of his voice, leaning over to pull Choso into a hug, then extending an arm for you to join. "They loved you, Jo."

"Because I love you, and her, so it translates." He breathes out a smile, leaning over to kiss your forehead, then leans his against Choso's. "Do you always cry after shows?"

"After the biggest one of my life? Yeah, this is a first."

He laughs again, leaning over to smush his cheek into the side of your head, squeezing your shoulders. "We've got it made. Good boys forever, huh?"

"Shut up."

To: Suguru the show was so great. i love you

 Three days later, you haven't heard from him. You can't hide the stupid fucking look on your face.

"Smile!" Satoru cheeses, holding his phone out to you, with bright eyes covered by dark shades. "Please? You look so pretty." His smile drops when he sees your face unchanging through the screen, caught up in the bustle of the park-goers, totally unaware of, or caring for your presence. It's a cold, rainy day in London, you and Satoru have been out since dawn, and an end has yet to show itself in sight.

For him, you don't wallow like you want to — you can't. For him, you smile, letting the wind pass over your skin and hair as you pose for the picture. He could have a mind to post them, and you don't really think you'd care.

"Gorgeous!" He smiles, jogging back up to you as you lean on the fence. "You just look so pretty today. Shame to waste it all on me."

"You're full of it." You laugh, breaking out into a soft smile just so he can have something to gawk at.

Something shifted last weekend after the show. You've begun to feel your star power a bit differently after a record-breaking performance. In a way, it's suffocating — you can feel the stares even when they're not really there. Under Satoru's arm, you're on high alert, but he makes you feel safe. He makes you see the city differently. He treasures the stares.

"Are you feeling okay? Good?" He repeats himself, reaching out to grab your chin and pull you closer. Leaning next to you on the fence, he doesn't pull his glasses down, but you can see the hidden blue hues behind the frost. "If you're tired, we can go back."

"Not tired, just…" You start, letting him lead your face closer to his, forcing a smile at the corners as he studies your shifty gaze. "A little… raw? Soft to the touch."

"Like a freshly molted spider?"

You laugh, dipping your head for him to catch. "Ha, ha." You deadpan, shoulders shivering at the mention of them. "I just feel like an idiot, I guess."

Satoru hums, letting his two-fingered grip fall from your chin. You retract, looking straight ahead, silent with the ghost of what he wants to say.

"You have the whole world laid out in front of you. I wish you could see it the way I do."

 When you finally get back to your hotel, tucked in a quiet, lush part of the city, you feel him again.

Like an omen passing through, rotten and heavy on your chest, you collapse in the doorway as soon as it draws shut and regret not inviting Satoru to stay. Not that he didn't ask — he damn near begged, but you couldn't swing it. Not after being with him for ten hours unchecked, sharing two separate meals with him, and letting him touch your heart in softly specific ways that Suguru never has.

Still, when you're alone, you're a mess. You crumple at the foot of the heavy hotel room door, barefoot and searching for an out in your phone that was your security blanket, and your only way to your guiltiest pleasure, with whom you haven't seen in days.

The message you sent him about the show has gone dry for three. Not even a read receipt, let alone an 'I love you' back. At least the message has a shiny, grey delivered tag next to it. He hasn't blocked you… yet.

Still, your finger hovers over the call button under his name, shivering and unsure, but so tempted that you feel sick with it. You don't know what you'd even say if he answers. Maybe you'd beg or ask if he's in the same city, but you're still nervous. It's a feeling that's never gone away, as long as you've known him.

You dial him like a girl in love, because you are.

Suguru answers, because of course, he can't stop thinking about you, too.

 "Are you still in London?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to come over?"

"…yeah."

 The second you lay eyes on him, you're in tatters.

Suguru's knock is soft and weak, echoing through the plaster entryway with a shake to your soul. You run up to greet him like you haven't seen him in years, hands still shaking as you pull open the door.

It's the way he's standing — back pressed to the frame, head hung, hair loose, and gaze so shadowed you're not sure it even existed at all. Before you can speak, you breathe. "H-hey."

His tone is staggered when he looks up, eyeliner-smudged lids squinting at the mere sight of you. You can imagine how much of a mess you look, it's how you feel. By the looks of it, Suguru feels the same.

Standing in this doorway, you are both broken husks of your former glory. Still, you fall right back into his arms.

It's always the same. Suguru climbs on top of you like he never left. His shirtless frame shimmers in the complete darkness. You run your hands over his sharp shoulders, thighs parted for his hips to fit perfectly between.

You're naked. So is he. Completely, blankets kicked to the base of the bed, socks discarded somewhere towards the entrance. He feels lukewarm over you, not hot like a human should, especially when he's rock hard and eager, pressing into your thigh, leaving small streaks of pre in its tracks.

He groans and grinds into you, whispering your name right back into your mouth as his thin, ringed fingers grab and pull at your sheets and thighs.

When you kiss him, you can taste the chemical draw of his drugs, numbing your lips, and throwing your mind with them. Suguru's addicting in only this way — because he touches you like you're real, hips slotting at that perfect angle to push inside of you.

You cry his name into his mouth, clawing hands winding around his neck to draw him even closer. Against your strength, he buckles, falling chest to chest with you, breath whimpering and deep as he ruts into you like a desperate dog.

"S-Sa—Suguru," You whisper, holding him close as he regains his footing. Suguru sits up, digging his knee into the mattress, hiking your hips up with it. The sharp, new angle draws a whine from your chest. He shakes his head.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" He finally whispers, an open palm right next to your head, pushing you deep into the mattress. "You almost said his name,"

"What are you—

"It's okay." He grunts, driving his cock deeper inside of you like he's trying to make a point. "I know we need to talk, it's okay."

You pause, heart stilling in your chest as you stare up at him. Reaching up to cradle his face in your hands, you stop him. "Suguru…"

"I just wanna…" He starts again, fucking into you slowly, surely, like he's trying to prove something. "Let's just… f-fuck, let's just finish. T-then we'll talk."

So, you do. And it's actually… good. You're satisfied, catching your breath as you turn on your side, facing the window. Suguru sits up as soon as he rolls off of you, swallowing around his own heavy breathing. He stretches his legs over the side of the bed and cracks his neck, then looks back at your bare frame.

"You think I'm an idiot." He starts slowly, like how everything bad tends to start. The air is so loose and warm that his tone could feel inviting if you two were on 'good terms'. "Everyone thinks you're fucking him. You've seen that, right? Those headlines poking at your 'sexual chemistry'?"

"I actually haven't, and that's crazy for anyone to say." You reply, keeping your eyes pushed shut even though you're facing the wall. "Everyone knows we're together."

"I don't think it really seems like that when people are taking pictures of you two cuddling at the park."

This time, you shut up. There's more on his breath; he hasn't swallowed his words after that last sentence.

"…are you having sex with him?"

You sit up, flustered and suddenly on edge as he pokes that raw, Satoru-shaped wound that sat so heavy on your chest. "I'm not cheating on you; I was performing."

"You are not allowed to 'perform' like that, ever again. It's bad enough you forced him into our—

"Don't act like you stopped caring about the music long before he came along."

"Would you let me speak?" He replies, just as flustered as you once were. Suguru's exhausted, springing up around the eyes because he wants to cry and beg for you. "This is what he does, can't you see?" He starts, standing up and snatching his pants from the edge of the bed. He steps into them like he's rushing, no underwear, his silver belt buckle clashing with his chunky rings. "He sees what I have and gets grabby. I have a successful music career; he wants in. I have you, he wants in. He forces his way in. It's always been like this…" His voice cracks, and you stand up.

You fall silent as he rushes around for his ratty t-shirt, back hunched as he feverishly tucks his long, unbrushed hair behind his pierced ears. In his bones, you can tell he wants to flee, but something in his head wills him to stay and try to speak.

"I… love you, Suguru. Nothing can change that." You reassure, pulling your bare knees into your chest as you settle back in. "Whether people think I'm with him or you, it doesn't matter, because I only love you."

"Are you stupid? It does matter what people think. Fuck the truth, baby. This is show business." He sniffles, pinching his nostrils closed before shaking his head. "I don't want him in the band. Neither does Nanami. He's an obvious distraction."

"You two are unbelievable."

"We two want you to have a career, and you're running yourself into a brick wall. Don't you understand that? You can't see how he's sabotaging us?"

"Satoru literally just wants to play with us."

"Because he wants to fuck you!" Suguru finally breaks, and it's in a million shards sprinkled at your feet. You can't take a step in fear of drawing blood, and you're shaking at the sound of his raised voice. "He wants to fuck you, then take you from me. I told you, he has a type, and this is always how things have been!"

"You're being paranoid—

"I'm not going to keep fighting with you on this." He deadpans, his belt undone and hanging at his waist as he storms out of the hotel bedroom. You sit for a moment, shell-shocked and a bit emotional at the sudden outburst. Still, if it's your duty to run to him, naked as the day you were born, to get more out of him, you'd do it.

"Suguru, wait. Don't go." You try, voice even as you step into the hallway, hot on his tracks. "It doesn't have to be like this — we can just keep him in the band. I mean, our fans love him."

"More than me, yeah."

"Stop." You deadpan, forcing yourself out of an eye roll so Suguru knows he can collapse back into you safely. "We both know that's not true. He didn't write the entire catalogue that made us what we are."

"He damn-sure played it as he did." He offers his final words on the situation just thrown at you in an emotional heap. You can tell it's a mix of insecurity, their past, and you, being the catalyst.

It's just so impossibly hard to ignore Satoru — he walks with an airiness that sweeps you into it. His voice is calm, sweet, and protective, making it nearly impossible not to fall for him. The universe has set you up in a way you can't control; now it's coming to bite you in the back. "Please, just hear me out."

He turns around, pointing at his ears like he's accusing you of the gift of sound. "Are you hearing yourself? Seriously. You're fighting me to keep him in the band and be able to see him outside of rehearsals, then say you two aren't having sex? Are you a liar or just confused?"

You shake your head, feeling about two sizes smaller under his belittling tone. "You don't have to… talk to me like that."

"Something isn't working in your mind. Nothing's clicking up there, hm?" He sucks his cheeks, hands on his sharp hips as he watches you masquerade for passion right in front of him, naked and uncaring. "You're just a wreck. Fucking look at you."

You're crying now, not that you weren't the second he started raising his voice, but it hurts. "Suguru, please don't do this to me. Don't do this to us."

"Us?! There is no more fucking, us! Not while he's around, why can't you see that?"

"N-no—

"And I'm not going to let him take you right in front of me." He pauses, eyes wide and wild, begging to shed a tear. "So I'm done. That's it — We're done."

You stand for a moment, bare chest hiccuping up the words you want to say as he goes to turn and walk out of your life. There's something different about this time, something that feels more tangible than any emotion you've seen from him in the past year. Your heart burns — your stomach is in your ass, and you can't breathe. It feels like your world is closing in.

Suguru moves in slow motion, rounding the front of the sofa to snatch the throw blanket, tossing it haphazardly into your chest. You don't even scramble to catch it as it hits your bare body and slides to the floor.

"At least make yourself decent—

"I hate you." You rush out like it's venom staining your throat. "You could wait until I was dressed before doing it, I hate—

"Right. So sorry. Should've waited until you were…" He pauses, back to you as he walks to the doorway out of your life. There's nothing you can do — you're inconsolable, dripping snot, tears, and broken begs all over your body.

"Till you, uh," He can't even look at you, reaching for the gold-plated doorknob as your knees get weak.

"Fuck it." Is what he chooses to leave you with — quiet and mealy. Barely there, barely spoken with enough respect to mean goodbye.

When that door shuts, and he's… gone… You don't feel better, you buckle.

Falling to your knees onto cold wood, your nervous system shuts down. Sobs wrack your body, spilling down your neck and collecting against your collarbone as you scream and cry for him. Suguru slammed the door, and it felt like you were stuck between the hinges, bloody and barely able to breathe, let alone exist in this moment without him.

And so, it begins again. That same cruel cycle that you live once a year.

Since Suguru left, you haven't gotten out of bed. You're dead to the world, wallowing in your own tears, because you can't fathom why this time feels so different.

Maybe it's the presence of Satoru — the knowing that he's there, and ready for you. But maybe it's Suguru's silence on the other end of things. He hasn't spoken to you in a week. That's how long it's been since the breakup.

If you could die in this hotel bed, the same one you two made love on for the last time, you would. But you have a seven-hour flight back home in four hours, and you still can't get up.

It takes a miracle and two blue eyes to pull you back to life.

Satoru hasn't heard from you in a week, and it's been eating him alive. At first, he thinks it's him, then he talks to Nanami and learns that even he hasn't heard from you. Choso, either. Satoru hasn't spoken to Suguru.

So he takes it upon himself to seek you out. Sure, he has the excuse of your departing flight hanging over his head, but his heart trumps that. It's his heart that leads him to your hotel room door.

Satoru doesn't just knock on your door; he bangs. He starts and doesn't stop pounding on the wood until you get up, wearing close to nothing, and answer it. He feels like he knows you, now. There's something about you, so fractured and golden that he can't help but feel drawn. That's all he sees when you come back into his vision — an unshowered mess covered in dry tears.

He frowns. "Hi, sleepy—

"Don't…" You shy away, covering up your eyes as if it'd shield you from his bright, optimistic gaze. "I-I know, our flight leaves soon."

"Yes, and." He swallows back the boyish grin he can't hide by being in your presence. "I haven't seen you since… last week." Satoru doesn't see the crust around your eyes — the remnants of tears that you couldn't rub away in time. You can't hide the rolling of your tummy, angry because all you've eaten in the past two days were your own tears and snot.

He pauses for a bit as he… really looks at you, pressing a big hand over the face of the door to push it open. "What happened? Is Suguru okay?"

At the sound of his name, your chest thrums. You shy away, pushing weakly against his weight. "I-I'll be down in a bit."

"No, that's not what I asked." His tone dips a bit, like he's ordering you. Of course, you buckle.

Still shielding your face down, he pushes the door open into your blacked-out hotel room. You stand back, letting him, pulling your arms over your chest.

Satoru tries not to notice the mess — or, the lack of one. This place doesn't look lived in, and you've been here for the past week. That worries him; you worry him. You're wearing close to nothing, but he doesn't quite notice. He sees the way you reach to cover your loose chest — how you look down and don't even offer him a passing glance. You just step back, staring at your bare toes as he forces himself into the dark room.

"Just… leave me be." You try, if only for naught, to say you refused to be his pity case. "I'll be at the airport in like… two hours. I'll call a car."

"Why should I believe that?"

"Because I told you that's what I'm going to do." You try putting your foot down in a meager, barely-there tone that Satoru stomps all over as he shuts the door behind him.

"You go ghost for a week and expect me to believe you're okay? Or to even leave you alone?"

"Yeah? If that's true, why'd it take you a week to see if I was okay?"

He shuts up, giving you a fake little chuckle from his throat. "You fucking scare me, that's why."

"You're full of shit." You reply, turning around as a fresh wave of unrelated tears springs to your eyes. It's all part of the grieving process — the overwhelming burn of tears at any given moment. "All of you… just so full of it."

As you walk away, Satoru shamelessly lets his eyes wander, raking up your backside, cocking a hip, and trying to gather the balls to give you what he knows you need to hear. "Babe,"

"Don't call me that."

"If you could just tell me… what's wrong…"

"Post-gig blues." You lie, trudging towards the back windows to pull the blackout shades you've been living under. The foggy London skyline shrouds the room in greyish, midday hues for the first time in what feels like forever, and you don't actually mind. The weather in this city feels a lot like how you feel. "Haven't heard from Suguru, either."

Satoru fiddles with his long, scarred fingers, sucking his cheek as you stare out into the bustling streets, losing yourself in the foreign cars. "Was with Nanami the other day, signing some papers, overheard him mentioning Suguru. I guess he's back in New York. Have you heard about that?"

"Does it look like I know where he is?"

Satoru throws his hands up, then blinks up at you… wearily. "Worth a try, eh?"

 "Okay, there you are…" His voice is hazy, sticky like honey as it gathers in your ear canal. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."

"I— I'm gonna puke," You cry, head hanging between your shoulders as Satoru holds you up. It's a Friday night downtown — the concrete is moist with the afterglow of rain. Crowds are gathered along the bar-lined street, and smoke fills the air, rising from the subway grates and mysterious, unkempt vents. Your world is spinning, taking your head with it as you try to gain your composure. "I ha-hate him so f— so much,"

"There, there," Satoru reassures, offering his tall body as a support beam for you to bend over, wrists tossed over his broad shoulders, thick spit falling from your numb, parted lips. He peeks over to Choso, nursing a cigarette as he leans against the bar railing. The kid raises his brows, and Satoru looks shellshocked. Neither of them has seen you so… drunk.

"Su..grur…"

"Jesus, fuck—

"Just call her a car?" Choso's voice is steady, cutting through the chatter of the city just loud enough to feel real in the chaos. He stands up straight, raccoon eyes wide and sober as Satoru peeks back at him. "I call her a car?"

"So she can puke in it? No — sorry," Satoru mumbles, pulling you to the edge of the sidewalk as a group of friends pushes through into the bar. The jolting movement makes you dry heave, a sob following afterwards as you beg your body for any form of mercy. "They charge money for that, over here, Cho. Like, an insane amount of money, eh?"

The drummer shrugs, slipping his cigarette back between his lips before standing up straight. He's ready to go — has been ready to leave since he stepped foot in this place, but couldn't tell you or Satoru as much. It's your first night back in the city after… everything with Suguru that you wouldn't dare speak about, but the boys can gauge your emotions thus far. It's just another breakup in the hat of hundreds.

"We're supposed to walk her home?" He jogs down the platform, wind pushing his dark hair back from his forehead. Choso looks younger like this, with his hair down. It'd be something you could've appreciated if you weren't so gone, but he smiles at you like you're all there — that same stunning figure that graces the stage he's come to know all too well.

"You take one shoulder, I take the other?"

"I'll pay money, I don't mind—

"Just grab her," Satoru demands with a quick tone, grunting as he hoists up your falling figure. "Hey, pretty — we're walking home, okay? Back to your place?"

He's all you can see. All of your tequila daydreams are visions of his face — getting lost in the inky darkness of his hair and ingesting his scent like it's a potion. "S—sugu-

"I don't think he's the answer right now, babe."

You hear that in some semblance of the truth, and expel it all over Satoru's jeans and shoes, letting it drip and pool from your parted lips and spill all over the sidewalk. The group of girls next to you reacts, drunk off their own asses and too freaked out to be empathetic. Satoru dissociates for a second, unblinking as he feels his brand new shoes ruin on his first night out in this big, new city. "It's okay, let it out."

"I'm calling a car, now."

"Fine."

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