#suo angst

You frown, swiping to the text thread you have with Suo. His last message is from the night before, telling you to sleep well. He didn’t text you good morning like usual, which is odd, but you’d woken up late and been swept away in schoolwork for the whole day so you didn’t notice. 

You’re starting to feel guilty about not noticing.  

Despite the gnawing worry eating at you, you ignore Nirei’s message for the length of time it takes you to haphazardly shove all your belongings into your school bag and run out of the classroom. Instead of bothering to type out a response, you dial Nirei’s number and press your phone to your ear. 

He answers on the third ring. 

“What’s going on with Suo?” You ask in lieu of a greeting once you hear the call connect. There’s some shuffling, some muffled voices on the other end of the call, and you know he’s still at Furin with his class. 

“We were hoping you’d know,” Nirei sounds anxious, which wouldn’t be out of place, but the tension underlying his words is making your own heart pound in return. “He hasn’t said anything to you?”

“No,” You hate how bitter the one word tastes on your tongue. It’s not like you and Suo are dating—not officially, anyways. But there’s always been a connection there, a level of closeness that goes just a touch or two past friendship. Really, you’ve just been waiting for him to finally ask you out. You’re practically a couple without the label. “He didn’t say anything about being sick when we talked last night.”

“We—hold on, let me put you on speaker,” Nirei’s voice goes distant for a moment, until the muffled voices in the background become louder, clearer. You recognize Sakura muttering something indecipherable to Nirei, hear Kiryu chastise Tsugeura for some unknown misstep. The usual crew. “We were with him last night, and he seemed fine.”

“The jerk can’t even bother to send a text?” Sakura snaps, and you know his anger is just misplaced frustration. You also know he’ll correct himself when he’s ready—you’ve watched him grow an incredible amount in the months you’ve known him. 

“I’ll try calling,” You offer, because now you’re starting to worry. The boys bid you goodbye and good luck, and you end the call before starting another.

But Suo doesn’t answer. 

You leave a voicemail, instead. 

“Hey, it’s me. Can you call me when you get a chance? Everyone’s worried about you. And I… I am, too.”

You message Nirei and tell him that when you hear from Suo, you’ll let him know, and try to reason with yourself that missing one day of school and not answering a few texts isn’t the end of the world. You try, but you don’t find much comfort in it.

Because one day turns into two, which spills into three. 

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve messaged him, let alone called. None of it gets you a response, and the small knot of worry that had been building since Nirei texted you on day one has built into a boulder of anxiety sitting heavy on your chest. 

Day two is spent checking your phone every time you imagine it to vibrate with a text. And when you do get a message, it’s Nirei or Sakura asking if you’ve heard from him. Day two is hell, because you feel helpless.

Day three isn’t much better. But Nirei calls you during your lunch block, and you answer with enough dangerous hope that they’ve found him, that you nearly die from impact when you’re let down. 

“Where does Suo live? We’re going to go there after school,”  Nirei says instead of what you actually want to hear. You frown, nudging your bento forward and away from you, ignoring the curious looks from your friends. Suddenly, you have no appetite. 

“I don’t know,” You admit, pouting. The same helplessness comes biting back at you with a vengeance at your admission. “We’ve never gone to his house. We either hang out in town or at my place.”

You’d known something was wrong when he never mentioned his family or invited you over. But you were no stranger to uncomfortable topics, so you let him decide when he wanted to talk about it. Now you’re starting to wonder if you should’ve pushed him to open up. If maybe it would change how things are. 

“Okay,” Nirei doesn’t blame you for not calling into question why you—after months of nearly dating—have no idea where Suo lives. You sort of wish the blond did, because you can’t be the only one blaming you. “I’ll check the school records. He had to list an address on his application.”

You hum, mind a million miles away. Your thoughts are scattered somewhere near where Suo is, but the problem is you don’t have a clue where that could be. 

“Hey,” You say after a beat of silence. Nirei is still on the line, no doubt having picked up on the fact you still had something to say. “If you find his address, could I come with you to check on him?”

“Of course. I’ll text you our plan.” There’s no hesitation. You think you hear relief in his tone, though you’re not sure if it’s because he and the boys won’t have to go alone or because you won’t be alone. 

Either way, you’re grateful.

“Thanks, Nirei.” 

You hang up on him quickly, and open your text thread with Suo. 

Twenty-seven unread messages from you to him. Three days of no contact. You miss talking to him, but you miss just having him even more. 

You’re typing before you can process your thumbs tapping across the screen. 

I’m sorry if something happened. Or if I did something that upset you. I just want to know you’re safe, Suo. Even if you don’t want anything to do with me anymore. I hope you remember how much I care about you. Please be safe. And come back to me soon, okay?

Somehow, you know he won’t respond even before you hit send. 

“Are… are you sure this is the right address?” 

You’re looking at an empty lot. 

An empty lot. 

It’s supposed to be Suo’s home. It’s supposed to have at least a building, one where the owner of your heart sleeps and does homework and calls you right before bed just to ask how your day was. 

And there’s not even a building. 

“I’m certain.” Nirei responds to Kiryu’s question. You’re standing hopelessly between the four boys—Sakura and Tsugeura on your left, Nirei and Kiryu on your right—hoping that no one will acknowledge you. 

Of course, you’re not that lucky. 

“You seriously have never been to his house before?” Tsugeura asks, and Nirei hisses at him to be sensitive! You nod your head despite the guilt threatening to eat you alive. 

“It’s just…” Kiryu starts his question more tactfully, but he’s still addressing you, so you kind of wish you could bury your head in the sand. As if that’d make Suo come back. “We all thought you two were… together. It’s weird that he never invited you over.”

And doesn’t Kiryu realize that you know all that? That you probably should’ve seen some of the red flags with Suo and confronted him? You know you could’ve done a million things differently, and thinking about it is only making your throat close with hot, angry tears. Guilty tears. 

“It’s all weird,” Sakura interrupts, saving you from having to answer. He turns towards you, and you think you might crumble if he asks you a question, too. 

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he nods his head over his shoulder, gesturing in the direction away from the empty lot that was supposed to have the answers to where your Suo has been. 

“C’mon, I’ll walk you home.” He’s not asking. He’s giving you a direction, an out of the conversation that’s slowly breaking you apart piece by piece. You nod, even though you don’t think you ever really had an option to not leave with him. “Let me know if you find anything out.”

He says that second part to the others, but he doesn’t wait for a response before he’s turning away, walking without checking that you’re following him. 

You do, because you can’t stand to look at the empty lot any longer. 

You walk half a step behind him the whole way back into town. Neither one of you talk, either, but you do sniffle back unshed tears every once in a while he does you the favor of not acknowledging. 

He leads you back in the direction of your house. When you get there, he doesn’t leave immediately, and you know he wants to say something to you. But it’s still Sakura, so you know he doesn’t quite understand how to open up this conversation. 

You sit on the curb, knees drawn tight to your chest and fold arms so they’re covering your face. You don’t want him to see how you’re almost crying, but you know he’s perceptive enough to figure it out regardless. Still you put some effort into hiding.

Sakura lowers himself onto the curb beside you, quietly, and suddenly it’s impossible to stop the thoughts that’d been plaguing your mind from taking over. 

“Do you…” You hesitate, turning your head to the side to watch him while still folding in on yourself. He doesn’t look at you, but he does give you the space to straighten out what you want to say. Or, more so what you need to say than what you want. “Do you think I could’ve done something to drive him away?”

“Not a chance,” He doesn’t hesitate, and the swift certainty he replies with catches you off guard. He clicks his tongue like he’s annoyed by the question, which is a positive thing, coming from him. “Stupid. Suo’s obsessed with you. Always talkin’ about you and things you like.” 

You frown, and though you know you should be comforted by his words, you’re not. There’s something gnawing at you, deep in the pit of your stomach, and you know you won’t feel at ease until Suo is back in your arms. 

Safe. 

“That’s the thing, Sakura.” Your voice is a little stronger now, but your throat burns and your eyes are still flooded with tears that haven’t yet spilled. “He knows so much about us. But how much do we know about him?”

Your words hang heavy in the air between the two of you. And it might be a sunny afternoon, but you feel chilled straight down to your bones. 

“It’s like he’s a ghost to us.” You look forward, across the street and into the distance. Nothing in particular catches your attention, but at least you don’t have to see the way Sakura reacts to your words. “Like he’s there, but not real. Just out of reach, haunting us.” 

“He ain’t a damn ghost,” Sakura snaps, and you flick your attention to him to read his expression. He’s frowning in the same forward direction you’d been looking, his dual colored brows knitted together tightly in frustration. “He’s real, and we’ll find him.” 

And you really can’t let your mind go down the road of not seeing Suo again, so you make yourself believe him. You make yourself trust Sakura’s vow, and trust that when Suo comes back, you’ll all work it out. 

You can’t let yourself believe otherwise. 

So, you nod. 

Nothing has happened by the end of the third day. 

Nothing, until Suo calls you. 

You almost don’t register that it’s actually him calling at first. There’s a moment, or two, where you just stare at the screen in disbelief. 

His contact photo is a picture of the two of you. Tsubaki had taken it at one of Bofurin’s celebrations. He’s standing behind you, strong arms wrapped around your middle with his chin tucked over your shoulder. You have a palm pressed to his outside cheek, holding him close. You look so happy. 

You thought he had been, too. 

But the moments pass and you realize you cannot miss his call, so you scramble to drop the pencil you’d been doing your homework with to collect your phone and hold it to your ear. 

“Suo?” His name falls past your lips in a breathy whisper. Like just the sound of it knocks the wind out of your lungs—and it does. 

“Come to your window.” You hear his voice, real and steady if not twinged with something you can’t place in your haste to race from your desk to your bedroom window. 

And then you see him. 

Your bedroom is on the second floor, so his head is tilted upwards to find you. Night has fallen, so he's only light up by the hazy street lights. He’s in the middle of the road, wearing his regular clothes, if not a little disheveled. There’s a smile on his lips that doesn’t look right, but none of that is what catches your attention, because—

“What happened to your nose?” You feel like your heart is in your throat. He’s so close and calling you but he has blood staining half his face. You’ve never known him to get hurt to the point he bleeds, even despite the innumerable fights he’s been in. “Who did that? Where have you been?”

“My, you have a lot of questions.” He deflects. There’s something off about him—and he didn't need to have been missing for three days for you to figure it out. Even from your spot in the window, even through the phone, you know he’s hurting. 

“Suo, hold on,” You huff into the call, weight shifting between your feet. Nervous is an understatement to describe your feelings. “Don’t move. I’ll come down—”

“Stay right there, sweetheart.” He chastises, voice dripping with honey despite stinging like venom. You freeze on command. “If you leave the window, I’ll have to go.” 

“Suo,” You plead, not caring in the slightest about the tears welling up in your eyes. Miraculously, you haven’t cried yet, but now you’re approaching your limit. Having him so close yet so out of reach is beyond painful. “Hayato.”

You see it then, the emotion he tries to hide. It flashes across his face like lightning, so quick you wouldn’t be able to catch it if you were any less devoted to him. 

He’s hurting, too. 

But then he’s smiling again, acting smug like he can convince you that he’s fine, that this is all part of his plan. You know it isn’t, but calling him on it might make him run, and you really can’t risk that right now. 

“I’m afraid that won’t work. This time, at least.” He laughs, but it’s a touch too self-depreciating for you to believe him. You hadn’t meant—ever—to use his first name as a way to convince him to do what you want. But from his words, it almost seems like he’s accusing you of manipulating him by calling him Hayato. 

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” You confess, as if that much wasn’t glaringly obvious. You have to lean your weight against the windowsill, forehead pressed to the glass as you watch him like he’ll disappear in the time it takes to blink. 

Which, is that even a stretch anymore?

“It’s all very obvious, if you think about it.” Suo hums, almost tauntingly. But any mirth he might be trying to display is completely undercut by the dried blood coating the lower half of his face. “So put that pretty head of yours to good use, alright?”

“Suo,” You plead again, hating how desperate you sound but doing nothing to temper how obviously you’re aching for him to come back. “I… I love you. Just talk to me. Please.”

It’s the first time you’ve said the words, admitting aloud just how heavy the feelings you carry for him are. And you despise you’re being forced to tell him like this. Through a phone call, on the verge of tears, unable to physically go to him despite being close. 

But it doesn’t make them any less true. 

“Don’t… don’t.” Suo breathes heavily through the line, and you hear the shudder in his words. You think he believes you; you think you see the truth of it settling across his features despite the distance or how quick he is to lock down his emotions after. “If you say stuff like that, I’ll have to leave.”

“You don’t have to.” None of this makes sense, but you know you’ll never get your answers if he leaves tonight. Something deep within your bones tells you that if he leaves—if he walks away—you won’t see him again. 

And you can’t let that happen.

“You haven’t seen poor Nirei yet.” Suo smiles and you don’t believe him. You don’t believe that he’s actually amused, or that he’s so casual about this all, or that he just implied he’d fought Nirei. And you certainly don’t believe that Nirei was the one to give him the bloody nose. You can’t believe it. “He just didn’t know when to quit.”

“Stop it.” You hiss, and you feel the first of your tears start to run down like it’s a race to fall. “You don’t mean it. I can see it in your face.”

How did everything go so wrong?

“I only came by to let you know that this thing between us? It’s done.” His voice is cold now. And you hate that the first thought you have is that at least he’s not pretending to smile anymore. But such a small comfort doesn’t take away the bite from his words, each one landing like a well placed punch to your heart. “There’s a reason I never asked you to be official.”

It feels so trivial, worrying about your non-relationship status while he’s actively breaking down. You wish you could say you don’t care about it, that the only thing that matters is that he’s here, but you know it’s not true. 

And maybe it’s selfish, but knowing that fact doesn’t make the pain cease or your tears stop falling. 

“Hayato.” You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore. All you can think is to plead his name on a broken sob, your fingers gripping your phone so tight something is bound to break—whether it be bone or glass or you. 

“Goodbye,” He doesn’t even say your name, not once, before he ends the call, still not smiling. You watch him pull his phone away from his ear, and when he turns the slightest inch away, you run. 

You don’t bother with shoes, or a coat, or even clothes other than your pajamas as you race through the house. You take the stairs two, three, at a time. You use your hands to push off from the walls to increase your momentum and speed. 

Still, it’s not enough to catch him. 

Barefoot, you sprint into the street where he’d been standing moments before. He’s gone, you knew he’d be, but there’s not even a trace of him left to be found. There’s no way to tell if he went left or right, but you guess anyways and run up and down the street like you’re insane. 

You feel like you are.

You’re still crying by the time you dial Sakura’s number and drop helplessly onto the curb. The same spot you were in when you talked to Sakura earlier that day. You don’t feel any better than you had then. Part of you wishes you could go back to the version of you that hadn’t suffered the call with Suo. 

Sakura answers after only a few rings, but you’re already talking, rambling, the moment you hear the call connect. 

“I saw him,” You sob into the phone, knees drawn tight to your body like you could physically make yourself small enough that the ache inside you has nowhere to live. “I talked to him, but he left. I let him get away. And—and he was hurt, Sakura. He had a bloody nose—”

“Yeah, we know.” He interrupts you, voice grave. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation with you, you can tell. He’s angry, and you still haven’t pinpointed who he’s angry at. Now, you’re in no state to dissect Sakura. “He fought Nirei.”

Suo had practically told you as much, you think. But you don’t say it aloud. There will be a time, later, for you to break down the conversation you had with Sakura, Nirei, and the others. But it’s not now, not tonight. 

Tonight, you can cry. Tomorrow—that will be when you can talk about it. 

You think about how, earlier, you called Suo a ghost. Unknowable, unreachable. An apparition. 

And suddenly, you’re finding it impossible to deny the fact that you might be right.

———

It’s not a particular point of pride that you saw through Suo Hayato right away. Takes an observant liar to know one, is all.

But as the years pass, whenever your mind skips back to Suo, you become less and less sure. You've never been very good with people. Sure, you’ve improved over the years. Memorized the appropriate lines for certain situations, written down your observations like an anthropologist in the field so you don't stumble the way you did as a kid.

But that doesn’t mean you understand people.

It’s just that, sometimes, certain ones feel… off. Like the size of their soul doesn’t fit right in their body, and you can see them trying to stuff it back in.

That’s how it felt to watch Suo. A murky watercolor of a person that everyone else immediately perceived as upstanding.

Rain beats against your umbrella. You're close to home, but the soft glow of a window beckons, along with the promise of a warm cup of coffee and a chance to sort through your mood.

Elegant and nearly empty, the bar’s atmosphere is a balm to your senses. Underneath the low hum of patron chatter, the tender strums of an erhu pluck gently at your brain. Rich, warm coffee tones sweep into your nose.

You breathe in deeply and settle at the far corner of the bar.

“Do you need a menu to help you decide?”

Your eyes snap up.

He was impossible for you to read as a teenager, but age has brought you experience. You don’t miss the dismay in his eye, nor do you mistake the rapid volley of thoughts behind it. He’s trying, quick as a flash, to decide if he “remembers” you.

You beat him to it.

“Hi, Hayato.”

———

This has always been your problem. Familiar to the point of rudeness. He knows you do it to get under his skin, which only makes your following mega-watt beam smile all the more irritating.

“Hello, méihuā.”

Your brow furrows, and he can’t help the immature kick of delight that he got you just after you got him.

He shouldn't want you here.

He can’t want you here.

He hands you a menu. Drinks in the color of your shirt, the way it brings out your eyes.

"What can I get you to drink?"

———

He looks the same, and he doesn’t. He’s taller, leaner, his strength apparent in the way he prowls behind the bar. You can’t stop staring at the black sleeve garter around his bicep, your brain stuttering at the muscle it squeezes. He’s only wearing one earring, a small piece of coral looped in silver.

“So you’re a barback?”

He grimaces at your word choice.

“Elegant as always, I see.”

“How would you know?” This is another reason you haven’t forgotten him: he brings out an oddly combative side of you. “You haven’t seen me in ten years. Don’t tell me you kept tabs on all of us.”

His eyes slide to yours, a flat smile in place. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

On the mark, then.

“Did you come here when you left?”

He places a steaming cup of coffee in front of you, fingers balanced on the saucer. You notice them the way you noticed the sleeve garter; they hold your attention far longer than you’d like them to.

You’re not going to get answers out of him.

Maybe, you think, Hayato’s hand a breath away from yours, that doesn’t matter anymore.

Being seen could be nice, too.

———

You shouldn’t be here, and he certainly shouldn’t have invited you back to his home, of all places, not where he can later recall the way you looked in a space so few have seen.

You certainly shouldn’t be trembling in his lap, your skirt hitched up to your waist, underwear long ago abandoned to the floor. He can feel the entire weight of you settled against him, pliant and content, your face tucked into his neck. He kisses the top of your head just to see what you’ll do, and sure enough, the intimacy of the gesture makes you squirm and flush, your inner thigh jumping under his hand as the heavy pad of his thumb circles, and circles, and circles the bud at the top of your slit.

“Hayato, more.” You sound much different from the way you did hours earlier. Much less inclined to talk back. “Please.” (My goodness. Even contrite.) “It’s been too much like this.”

It’s true. He’s kept you like this for hours, his crotch wet with your arousal and the continuous strain of his cock leaking pre- every time you vacillate between threatening him and begging him to let you cum.

How you’ve never seen right to the heart of his obsession, his devotion to you, is beyond him.

“Not yet, love.”

You suppress a shudder at the pet name. You have your own facade, your own set of rules surrounding your mask. He’s certain that liking sickly sweet pet names isn’t part of it.

“Touch me more.” Once again, your tone edges toward frustration. His cock kicks against your back. “Touch me like you want to.”

“You think I don’t?” The hand keeping your legs open drifts to your chin. He tips your gaze to his in the mirror, bands one forearm around your stomach, keeping you in place. You don’t like to be examined, made plain in the way you squirm and slide away from him. He redirects your stare with the back of his pinky.

“Look at yourself.”

You obey, shakily, dipping your gaze to where he wants it most.

“Look at how wet you are. For me.”

He’s out of pretty words. He wants to tell you that he’s thought of this more times than he should have allowed himself; that the sight of your warm, soft cunt leaking all over his trousers will replay in his head until the day he dies; that he wants, he wants, he wants —

He caresses the inside of your thigh, teeth pricking the side of your neck. You shiver.

“So sensitive.” He runs a palm up your arm to soothe away the goosebumps.

“It’s been hours of this,” you retort, but the whine undercuts your anger. “Hours of nothing.”

He’s kept himself on a leash tonight, but annoyance lights his blood nonetheless.

“Nothing?” Three fingers slip inside of you before you can blink, his thumb never ceasing its slow, melodic rubbing on your clit. “She doesn’t seem to think those hours meant nothing. In fact, she’s squeezing my fingers like she could cum at any second.”

When he feels the first flutter of your walls around him, he pulls his fingers out. You whine, a keening high thing that instinctively has him shoving your face into his neck. All for the better—this way you can’t see his feral grin of triumph while you curse him for your ruined orgasm.

“I fucking hate you.” Your hips keep rolling against him, seeking friction. You turn to straddle him, but he holds you in place. You resort to digging your nails into his chest, the sting evident even through his shirt. “Hate how good this feels.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

He doesn’t move when you guide his hand back. He can only watch in fascination as you use just the pads of his fingertips to bring yourself to your peak. It's your turn to hold his gaze, and this time, when he feels the caressing threat of your trust, he lets it sink into his chest.

———

He makes you cum four times. Doesn’t take off his clothes, doesn’t let you kiss him. But he lies beside you when you fall asleep. He makes you tea the next morning.

He tells you to come back.

"(y/n)," Suo sounded so content, his voice so light that you couldn't help but call his name just as gently. 

"Yes, Hayato ?" 

"Remember when I told you that I'll tell you more about me soon ?"

"Like where you're from ? Or about meeting your mother ?" you asked half dreamily, your head hitting your pillow lightly. 

You've asked him countless questions about him or his family, you've never been to his house either, leaving you to wander a thousand worlds, and another thousand stories, about your boyfriend. The only information you got from him was that he wasn't from here, he was a foreigner. Which didn't surprise you at all, but it was still one thing confirmed in the vast land of unanswered questions he left you in.

"Hum," he nodded on the other side of the line, "well, maybe you'll have to wait a little more before meeting my mother."

Your smile faded away from your face, slipping away slowly as your heartbeats fastened, starting racing in your ribcage.

"I'm leaving," he added lightly, as if his words meant nothing, as if your heart didn't shatter at them. 

"What ?" you asked slowly compared to all the thoughts rushing through your head, despite your vision getting blurry. "What do you mean ?"

Sitting up on your bed, the sudden chilly air brushing your warm skin turned into goosebumps, but it was the least of your concern for now. He was lying again, right ? Playing an ugly prank on you, like he never did. Because teasing was a thing, this was another. 

"We knew it, right ? It wasn't gonna last," he shrugged, but his voice did sound a little lower than a second ago. 

You hate how your head falls silent at his words. You hate how you know it's true. How you felt it for a while now, him silently drifting away, somehow, someway, without being able to put any words on it. You just watched it happen without being able to change a thing, because it was him. Your secretive boyfriend whom you knew, deeply, had no power over. And there you were, accepting the silent tears rolling down your cheeks as he waited for your answer. He didn't pressure you to answer, he never did. He always waited patiently until you were ready to talk, even in the worst scenario. 

"I guess we did," was all you could answer, trying to mask the teary sound of your voice. 

The silence filled the line, you could hear the wind brushing on the other side and almost told him to go somewhere warm in this cold winter. But would he even listen ? Did he ever ?

"I'm sorry," he said after a beat, "I really am." 

"Did you care ?" you whispered, scared he wouldn't answer at all. He was like that sometimes, more than you ever liked it. 

"It wasn't nothing for me either, I promise," he answered just as slowly, and you could almost hear his voice shaking. 

Or was it in your head ? To help you feel better about the boy you loved so deeply leaving without an explanation ? Without knowing him more than that, when he knew you like the back of his hand, from your favorite song to the way you hated yourself sometimes. 

"Don't tell them," he was saying it, stating it, but it still sounds like he was asking you one more favor before leaving forever

And you didn't have the heart to say no. You never had. 

"Hm, of course," you answered slowly. "I won't."

"Promise ?" 

You sniffed, "promise." 

"Thank you."

He didn't hang up. He could probably hear you sniffing on the other side, you couldn't hold your tears back now, the cut he made burning too much, as if he couldn't hold himself back from putting salt in it despite being the more gentle he could. He couldn't pull himself to hang up. 

"I love you ?" you said one last time, without thinking more than that.

You just needed to say it one more time, and he didn't have to answer it – yet, you wished he would. But the silence stretched for a little too long, and you knew it was over for him already. 

"Don't miss me, please," he said instead, and you could imagine the shadow of a smile on his lips. 

"Because you won't ?" the words were heavy on your tongue, half stuck in your throat. 

"Because you deserve better," he stated gently before a shaky breath echoed from his side. "Goodbye." 

The repeating beep coming from your phone echoed for a while after he hung up. It was like all the strength left in you left the second the first one ringed. It kept on ringing, filling the emptiness he left behind, you dare to think, not willingly. It didn't hurt less though. 

You haven't cried since, not once. You didn't talk about it to anyone, like you promised, didn't answer the questions when they were asked. And still, the hurt never stopped, didn't even go away a little bit. It still lingered like a bad burn you can't do anything about besides waiting for it to heal on its own. You don't touch it, but the sight of his jacket hanging on the back of your desk's chair feels like fabric brushing against it. His friends' texts feel like putting water on it except it doesn't help with the pain. 

You just wished you could get over it quickly, without everything around you reminding you of him. But he was everywhere. In the mug you use every morning because you couldn't bring yourself to get rid of it yet. In the jacket hanging on, waiting to be picked up by him, just like you. In the earrings he gifted you a month ago. In the small box that never leaves your desk full of notes he gave you, left for you to find, with kind and loving words. Nothing around you made you feel like you deserved better – you already had better. No-one could ever compete with the way Suo loved you. 

When your phone lit up one more time you almost threw it to the other side of the room. You didn't want to talk, how could anyone not notice now ? The constant lighting infuriates you, because it never came with a sound, reminding you everyday that it was actually over. He wasn't just playing a bad prank on you. He really left. 

'I saw Suo-san today...' 

Your heart stopped at the sight of Nirei's text. You didn't read the rest, you didn't let yourself do it. Instead, your phone hit the wall opposite to your bed before you buried your head in your pillow, tears falling down your cheeks as you finally broke down. 

For the first time in two weeks, you screamed out in your pillow. None of it was fair. You never fully understood Suo, nobody did, but how come Nirei got to see him before he left when you didn't ? You didn't deserve it ? Did the thought hurt him too much ?  It was the first thing that made you think that, maybe, you did deserved better.

Yet, nothing in your mind and soul could think of anyone doing better than him. 

The Red Chanpuru officer turned around, eyes wide when they recognised you. "Y/n?" He called out cautiously. "What are you doing here?" He frowned.

Your body moved before you could stop him, your hand landing flat against his cheek with a loud smack, turning the boy's head to the side. Rakta and Bacchus' mouth hung open, confusion and shock written all over their faces.

"What am I doing here?" Your voice came out harsher than intended, months of hurt seeping out. "You leave me without a word and I find you in a random street? Care to explain?" Hot tears rolled down your face, chest heaving as you tried your best to compose yourself.

Suo was your boyfriend back in Makochi.

Or so you thought.

Meeting him was purely by chance when you were caught up with a petty gang bullying a kid. Saving the kid on instinct, you were cornered by the men when Suo appeared as your saviour, standing between you and the rowdy men and acting as a shield for you and the scared child.

It had been a dream from then on. Unable to stop thinking about you, the composed Suo Hayato had acted like a fool as he pursued you with his gentlemanly actions.

It was simply impossible to not fall for him. Looking after you in every way possible–opening doors for you, giving you flowers just because, treating you to meals or simply cuddling with you after a long day. It had been a dream while it lasted.

But your heart was torn to shreds when Suo disappeared without a trace, wiped off the face of the earth. Calling him hundreds of time, each going straight to voicemail and after a while, that too stopped.

You broke down in front of his friends when Nirei told you what had conspired that night. That he was leaving Furin and Makochi without a reason. Your heart had ached when you saw the bruises and bandaid on Nirei's face.

You remember Suo telling you about how he was training Nirei and how quick he was to get better at fighting. To think it was the same person who did this to his friend, it made you realize that it was all a lie.

Calling on hours on end, meeting everyday, him walking you back home from school even if his place was a forty minute away from yours. It was all a lie.

Loving you was a lie.

"Do you know how hard it has been for us? For me?!" You screamed. The street had gone quiet, but you did not care. Not when you found him in what seemed to be a random street in Chanpuru. You wouldn't even be here if it were not for the new friend who had called you to her place.

"My love, wait–", Suo started, his hand going to hold your shoulder before you swatted them away, hard.

"Don't you dare call me that," you said through gritted teeth, seething with anger. "You lost that privilege the day you left us without a word."

Suo's mouth opened to say something, but the words died down in his throat.

Rubbing your hand over your teary face, you ripped out a ring from your finger, throwing it straight at his face.

"Take it back," you said, voice breaking.

The promise ring Suo had gotten for you four months into your relationship.

He had surprised you with the jewellery on a random stroll to the bakery downtown. "For the promise of always being with you, my love," he had said while kissing your hands.

It had been picture perfect.

"I regret ever meeting you, Hayato." The words tore your heart apart to say out aloud but you couldn't help it.

Months spent crying yourself to sleep, you had almost entirely stopped going to school, the streets reminding you of the countless times Suo had walked with you.

It was all too painful.

"I hate you."

© 𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐢𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐞

A few hours ago, the flour was dusting the counter like snowfall that refused to melt, the ovens ticking with heat; now there was no speck of it to be seen anymore. The only keepsake of the day the warm smell of bread still hanging in the air.

You were sure that you were only dispensing more dirt over your face when you wiped it with the heel of your hand, but at the very least it helped you manoeuvre around your reflection. Though not that you needed to: the tear tracks had dried into crooked lines on your face: a map you had memorised by the sheer amount of times you had felt the droplets land onto your shirt.

You thought, not for the first time, about endings and how you could say them.

Suo Hayato was waiting behind you, by the counter as he always did, and your heart had already complained when you saw him entering the bakery a few minutes ago. The tangzhuang sat neatly on him, its light fabric unruffled, the frog closures aligned with care. His hair fell loose around his face, threads of burgundy glinting in the soft light of the shop, framing his face; a golden tassel earring brushing his jaw when he tilted his head with patience.

It had been a favour that he granted you. Suo Hayato was a man who treated favours like gifts—he gave them lightly and expected not that they would be returned in kind; he took them with gratitude and had his chivalry precede his name.

Just for one evening, you had told him, begged him, the smile on your mouth more a grimace of uncomfortability in the face of their resounding joy caging you in. He had studied the situation as he always did—you remembered that part clearly, the way his gaze had taken in the street, the doorway, your hands knotted in your apron string—and then smiled that mild, untroubled smile and offered his arm like a butler helping you step out of a carriage.

That one evening had turned into tea at closing, a walk back home; and from then on, he had become something very specific in your eyes: something to count on, a rule you could follow and lean on, a constant.

With him, any type of danger felt like its existence had reason for embarrassment for having shown up at all. He was defined by boundaries: walking you home was a must, every day, waiting until you were safe behind walls; he teased you the way he teased everyone, light and effortless, and he noticed everything, he did—when you were tired; when your hands shook from kneading the dough for so long; when you walked slow because you had spent too many hours on your feet; when your smile slipped.

He spelt out safety, companionship, and it felt like he chose you, at the end of each day when he waited on you.

And now, as you turned, there were, unmistakable against the white collar, soft lipstick marks—two half moons fitting together so perfectly; an image seemingly so perverse against the purity of his jacket.

Oh.

Oh.

How to describe the feeling slithering through your chest?—when it wasn't sharp enough to be pain, and not dramatic in any way to warrant your breath catching like that. It was like opening a gift, peeling away layer by layer to expect something that was promised to you only to realise it wasn't anything you wanted.

Were you ungrateful for the knowing feeling of quiet disappointment?

Of course, you thought with a burn in your nose and a short squeeze shut of your eye, of course this was how he would tell you.

You couldn't decide whether the sight humiliated you or not. If people were to come across it, he would politely nod, make a throwaway comment of how you should be more careful with your affections, and they would laugh or chide him for not covering up properly. He would take the blame for it, and you would stand right next to him, knowing you didn't come near his neck, knowing he was lying through his teeth to these people.

Suo Hayato was cruel. The message was delivered to you without confrontation; the door closing gently, so gently you almost thought you had to thank him for that.

Your chest ached in a way that felt almost admiring.

Acutely, you became aware of yourself then—of your flour-dusted sleeves, of the faint stickiness of sugar at your wrist, of how small your wanting felt compared to the elegance of the endurance with which he brought you home each day. He stood there exactly as he always did: calm and pleasant, immaculate and offering nothing more than what he meant to give.

To be beside him meant to feel protected and unseen all at once, and you reckoned that was exactly how he meant it to be.

Yet still, traitorously, something in you kept wanting to lean forward and it burned in its purest, more humiliating form as he feeling curled tighter around itself and settled in between the folds of your ribcage.

"Oh," you said because what else could you say?

His eye—sharp in its attention, gentle in its regard—follows the slope of your eyebrows, head slightly tilting, the earrings mocking you, "Ah, you must have had a long day?"

With your spit thick and a ball lodged within your throat, all you could do was nod. The lie slid between you like it was something familiar, well-worn. You had used it before, and so had he, and it was accepted like everything else was also accepted: without fuss.

Walking home alongside him, your hands kept betraying you. They trembled despite the way you curled them into your sleeves and your quiet commands to behave. You told yourself it was the cold, but the night was still, and there was no wind that carried the sharpness of ice.

A soft touch, light, to your shoulder.

Tears surged without permission and without warning, hot and immediate as though your body had been waiting for that precise permission to collapse. You folded forwards before you could stop yourself, breath hitching into a sound that you would later remember with a flush of shame.

Suo's touch remained steady, and you hated him with grief that was undeserved and impossible to contain.

"I'm sorry," you stammered, "It's just—today was exhausting. I shouldn't—please excuse me—"

He didn't disagree with you; no it's okay or you'll be fine. His touch was unfamiliar; that was an unspoken rule, too, as consistent as his friendly smile and his teasing. He hovered around you, light on his feet, a careful orbit that kept him within you reach but never within your grasp.

His courtesy was immaculate, and in it lived a distance that could not be crossed. You hated him—you did—and yet you allowed his hand to pat your back, palms warm and fingers slender, smoothing over your shaking frame with a gentleness you had always come to recognise as uniquely his. Your sorrow became something manageable beneath his touch, a sleeve he was careful not to wrinkle, as though that might be unforgivable.

"There," he murmured, and there was almost something fond in it, "Breathe."

You did; the truth sitting right there between you, tangible and undeniable, and neither of you named it as what it was.

Worn thin by crying, by wanting something you had no right to ask for, you rubbed your eyes—a clumsy, inelegant gesture (would you ever be able to express even an ounce of control the same way he did?)—and you hated, too, how obvious it made you feel.

Another brief touch, fingertips at your wrist, light and grounding, gone almost before you could register it.

"Careful," he said, amusement threading through his voice, "Keep that up and you'll be needing an eye patch, too."

He tilted his head, the corners of his mouth lifting into the same friendly, far-away smile, mild, "It doesn't suit everyone, but I'm sure you might be able to make it work, hm?"

Cruel. He was cruel, teasing you so familiarly. But despite yourself, despite the squeeze of the feeling around your pumping heart, you laughed and pulled your hand away, anyway.

Against the expanse of your skin, right there, an eyelash clung to your fingertip, small and as absurdly fragile as you felt. You stared at it for a while, and Suo followed your gaze, curiosity flickering through his eye, yet said nothing.

Blowing it away, he watched the eyelash vanish, his expression unreadable before smoothing into something neutral once more.

"Shall we?"

You’re lingering on the dojo’s second story balcony overlooking the courtyard when he does make an appearance. Hidden in the shadows, you watch his steady steps inside as if to convince yourself that he’s really back and you can breathe a little easier.

“You shouldn’t be awake, spymaster.”

Sun Fei’s calm voice cuts through the night like a well honed blade. You don’t know why you startle in surprise; he never has been one to miss details and certainly not when they come to you. 

Still, you roll your eyes at him anyways.

“Rakta sparred with the kids this evening.” You offer in place of an explanation. Stepping closer to the railing, you can see him clearer now. You’re glad you stayed up for his arrival because he looks a mess in the put together way only he could manage. “Vuvu is sporting a very large bruise to his ego that needed my attention.”

“How unfortunate.” But he’s smiling, which doesn’t match his words. You don’t think the smile is honest, either. Having known Sun Fei for as long as you have, you’ve learned to pick apart his expressions in a way that you know unnerves him. “You spoil them, you know.”

“With what I can offer, yes.” You shrug one shoulder, then lean against the railing. You prop your chin in your hand and let your attention laze over his figure from top to bottom. Standing on the ground floor, arms folded neatly behind his back and chin tilted up to smile at you, he looks the picture of perfection. You know that’s not true. “Are you going to keep pretending that I can’t see how your nose is swollen?”

You noticed it the moment he walked in. He’s clearly taken a hit, and Sun Fei doesn’t take hits. Worry bites at the tips of your fingers, and you tap them inelegantly against the railing to fight the feeling. 

“Preferably, yes.” He tries to joke with a charming smile. But you know what he’s really doing, and you know it’s truly deflecting. Pulling an honest answer from him—and not just an answer he twists the truth from to give someone what they want to hear—is a skill you’ve been honing for ages. 

And still you rarely get it to work.

“I suffer through Bacchus and the kids enough.” You sigh, dropping your chin from your palm to press both arms against the railing, leaning forward slightly, imploringly. “Don’t make me drag this out when we both know how this ends.”

Sun Fei cuts his stare to the side, and you know you’ve won. If you weren’t so anxious about what’s going on in his mind, you’d celebrate with a smile. 

“Very well.” He sighs, and you know he’s putting on a show. You don’t know why he insists on performing for you when you’ve shown him time and time again that you’re only interested in the real version of him. You’ve seen glimpses of him, you think, at the very least. “And where do you wish to torment me this time?” 

You roll your eyes. Torment being his word of choice is ridiculous. You know he’s well aware all you intend to do is look after him. His nose doesn’t seem broken, but you’d like a closer look.

“In the kitchen. I saved your portion from dinner.” You stand straight from against the railing, but you don’t take your eye off of him. “Don’t even try to argue, because I know you haven’t eaten yet.”

He looks away, but he doesn’t argue. You think that’s the best you could hope for with the state he’s in. 

“I’ll meet you there.”

The kitchen is dark at night, but just as barren as always. 

Food is a scarce resource, carefully rationed throughout the dojo and the kids from the city that come searching for help. Few have access to the dojo’s kitchen, and you are one of the lucky handful that have a key to enter. One of your duties to the dojo, alongside assisting in overseeing the young children, is to aid in the kitchens. You know intimately well what’s there—and how little can be spared. 

Sun Fei is waiting by the doors by the time you get there. He’s silent, and you know you need to wait to question him if you want any chance of getting a straight answer. 

You do, however, touch his jaw to bring his chin lower, letting you get a better look at his nose. He lets you angle his face side to side without complaint, dutifully complacent with your fussing in a way he only ever is with you, alone. 

Your initial observation was correct: his nose is swollen but not broken. A bit of ice will do him good but he won’t need much more attention beyond that. Still, even once you’ve finished your assessment, you keep hold of his chin and search his eye for any hint of what could have happened. 

It’s quiet in the hallway. Intimate, too, with how close you are to him and your touch on his skin. It reminds you of how much you love him and that seeing him hurt cuts you twice as deep. 

He grabs your wrist, a silent command to not look so close. But how can you not, when he kisses the tips of your fingers so gently after tugging them from his face? Of course, you love Sun Fei. You’re two sides of the same avoidant, repressed coin. Neither one of you have spoken of the feelings that burn under either one of your skins, yet it’s universally known truth that you are Sun Fei’s and he is yours. 

It’s just not said with so many words. 

“It’s late,” He says, breaking the gentle quiet. The lips that had just brushed your skin curve upwards in a smile you know he doesn’t mean or really feel, but you bite down on your tongue when you feel a retort of I know, I was up waiting for you begging to roll past your lips. You want to admonish him for his bit of affection, but you’re so desperate for any edge of him that you could greedily devour, you let him hold your wrist still in one hand. 

But you reach your limit when the smooth pad of his thumb brushes over the veins of your inner wrist. 

You turn away, his touch falling away from you. It’s easier this way, you try to convince yourself. Easier to do what needs to be done for your struggling city, easier to accept the hand fate has dealt you, easier to unlock the kitchen and make your way inside, confident that he’ll follow you, always. 

You don’t turn to face him as you walk further into the kitchen, gathering the stool needed to reach the hidden, covered plate you had stashed away hours earlier in anticipation for this very moment. 

The kitchen isn’t very much, to be expected. When the dojo had more members, functioned better, it was a bustling place. You don’t know that version of the dojo kitchen. Instead, it’s a barren place with a few sparse ingredients stretched to their limit to ensure that maybe not everyone’s bellies are full, but there’s no one in need that does without. You’re proud to be part of that version of the kitchen, even if it makes you sick to think too long about. 

The center of the room is home to a long island counter, lined with stools that are rarely used for seating now that there’s barely a use for the kitchen. You hear one stool drag across the floor, and know that Sun Fei’s taken a seat there. 

“It’s cold.” You tell him when you set his plate and chopsticks in front of him. There’s an edge to your words you know he’s too smart to miss, but his smile doesn’t falter and all you can do is pout. 

“That’s alright.” He assures you, lifting the chopsticks slowly. Almost like he’s dreading the meal you know he hasn’t eaten yet. You watch him closely, and he acts like he doesn’t see you. 

“No, it isn’t.” It’s not that there’s anything wrong, necessarily, with a cold dinner. But the idea, the symbolism of it all, drives you insane. Sun Fei, such a valued member of Red Chanpuru and your heart should not be eating cold left overs hours later. 

Your throat clogs, and you turn away from him to put a kettle on the stove before he has the chance to see through you to your soul.

“Have a bite.” Sun Fei calls out to you, his voice startlingly loud in the otherwise quiet kitchen. And his request is so unbelievably stupid that you can’t help but twist around and glare harshly at him. 

“No.” You snap, irritated by the easy way his smile stays as if he isn’t offering up some of the rare food he gets as is. He’s so unendingly self-sacrificial, you hate that you love him for it. 

“Why, is it poisoned?” He tilts his head to the side, feigning genuine confusion. You can see right through his act, through the humor he’s coating the night with so as to distract you from something. It’s the same story, different day. 

“It’s your dinner. You don’t get enough to eat, as is.” You finish setting the kettle in place and close the distance between you and Sun Fei. The stool next to his becomes your home, and you know you’re sitting entirely too close but Sun Fei’s space has always belonged to you, and yours to him. 

“Neither do you.” He counters, and it’s hard to argue the truth. Reality weighs heavy on your shoulders and they slump while you fumble for a response. He must see the conflict in your eyes, because he seizes your hesitation and taps his chopsticks against your pouted lips. “Half your portion is split amongst the kids.”

“That’s my choice.” You murmur. A lame response, but all you have, unfortunately. 

“And this is mine.” Sun Fei picks up a bite of his dinner with the chopsticks and holds it out for you. There’s something sharper in his eye now, and you know him well enough that arguing is pointless. “Eat.”

“You’re beyond stubborn.” You don’t go down easily, getting in one last comment before sighing and taking the bite from his chopsticks. You don’t miss the way that it’s the first bite from his dinner, but the way he smiles so softly after feeding you melts some of the annoyance that had welled up over the course of the conversation. At his core, Sun Fei is a caretaker, and you’re high on his priority list. 

You watch him eat in silence, watching him closely. It’s more for your own sanity than anything, and you think he knows that. He doesn’t barter anymore of his meal away, but you’re fairly sure it’s only because he knows you’re liable to strangle him if he pushes you too far. 

But it’s not like him to not try and push any of your buttons. 

Something’s wrong, you know that much for sure. But it’s just a matter of how bad and what it is. There’s a sadness to him that sometimes you think you’re the only one who can see it. 

You have to wait him out, you know. He’ll tell you, whether he wants to or not, because you can always drag the answer out from him. Bacchus calls it your superpower, but something about the weight of the evening tells you that not even you might be able to if he’s resistant. 

He confesses once his plate is empty and the tea you brewed is in cups between the two of you. 

“I withdrew from Furin.” He says it so casually, you almost miss the meaning behind those words. 

“Sun Fei.” You hiss, quietly. He’s not looking at you, which is a bad sign. Your stomach is in knots, and you can’t even really do anything about it. 

“It’s already done, so no use discussing it.” You hate how definitive he is about it all. Dismissing your concern over him in order to seem unaffected. It’s sort of his M.O., but that doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

“I don’t like this.” Your face twists as though the tea has soured on your tongue. Silence bleeds through the moment, and your stare is fixed on the side of his face. He’s doing a damn good job ignoring you and pretending none of it matters, which leaves you to break the quiet first, voice soft. “Though, selfishly I will be happy to have you back here more.”

“I don’t believe that’s selfish.” At least he’s gazing at you, now. He looks gentle, fragile, but you don’t point that out. Instead, your hands search out one of his, pulling it into your lap to thread your fingers together and entwine yourself physically with him. 

“It is.” You nod, solemn. You squeeze his hand and are comforted when he returns the action. It emboldens you to keep talking, though you’ve never bothered to censor yourself around him, anyways. “I know how much you enjoyed your time with those guys, even if you’d never admit it. And to me, I see myself being happy that you’re back while you miss your friends as selfish.”

“You know I needed to return.”

“I know.” Your head tilts to the side, just barely. No use arguing facts, once again. “Doesn’t mean I need to think it’s fair. I hate seeing you like this.”

“Strong words. Like what? Everything is fine.” He goes for a smile and an easy chuckle but instead all you see is a wince and all you hear is a choked breath fighting to seem even. 

“Lie to the others as much as you’d like,” Your words turn sharp but your expression is as soft and as open as it’s been since you’ve sat down. His hand in yours twitches at the accusation, but he doesn’t pull away. “But not with me. You owe me that much, Sun Fei.”

His head tilts towards yours, and for a terrifying second you think he’s going to try and derail the conversation with the one bit of affection that’s eluded the two of you. The one boundary that’s never been crossed, as if that means either one of you could possibly deny what’s been building for years. 

You’re both cowards and neither one of you will admit it. 

“I’d rather avoid worrying you.” He says on a breath that sounds like it’s been punched out of him. Your frown twists into something deeper, something you know will linger for hours, especially while you’re tossing in bed, unable to sleep. 

“And that worries me.” 

Your counter argument frays the last of his patience. He’s out of excuses, of ways to evade your questions and dodge the important topic. 

“I’m heading to bed.” He stands, though his hand is still wrapped around yours. “Don’t wake yourself early on my account. I’ll be staying in the city tomorrow.”

He tries to leave without looking you in the eye, and you won’t have that. 

“Sun Fei,” You murmur, tugging on his hand connected with yours. You pull him back to your seat, but you know it’s only because he let you. If he hadn’t wanted to return to your side, he would’ve pulled himself free. “Please don’t forget your happiness is as important to me as mine is to you. You’re my person.”

It’s as close to I love you as you’ve ever gotten, and he knows it. 

He doesn’t answer, at first. Instead, he sets the warm hand not encased around yours on your jaw, tilting your head up a fraction of an inch and pulling you towards him. His lips graze your forehead, the kiss as much a declaration as your words. 

“Goodnight.”