Archive of Our Own

“A 40 year-old man attends your clinic with sustained, elevated blood pressure. He’s been experiencing episodic headaches and tachycardia for the last five months. Blood pressure correction was achieved on resection of the adrenal gland – I’ve got this picture for you…”

Shoko groans as Suguru presents a striking image of a knobbly brown blob. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Diagnose the poor man. Or try to, at least.”

“Fine,” she sighs, put upon. “Maybe too much vasopressin. The anti-diuretic, the don’t-piss hormone.”

Suguru stares her down, unrepentant. “Headache – fluid in the brain that’s not draining as it should,” she muses. “Could be… by the looks of it… phaeochromocytoma – a tumour in the adrenal gland. Causes too much adrenaline to be released, which would explain the blood pressure and heart problems.”

“So, why’s it this ugly brown?”

Finally lighting the cigarette that had been lounging in her mouth, she mumbles around it, “Potassium dichromate oxidises the stored catecholamines. Turns it brown.”

“Great.” Suguru puts as much enthusiasm into his praise as Shoko does her studies. It earns him a flat look and a refusal to share her delicious cancer stick when he holds his hand out, expectant. Suguru doesn’t pout. He simply smiles at her, hand raised, steely and unblinking, until she begrudgingly accepts her fate and procures him a cigarette of his own.

They take a pause from studying for a quick smoke break, enjoying the serenity that is only made possible when their other roommate is absent. As a certified non-smoker, Satoru is unrepentant in harassing the others about their bad habits – he’s quite fastidious about it.

Sensing the direction of his thoughts, or possibly following a similar vein herself, Shoko asks, “Where is our resident idiot? Don’t tell me he’s actually attending his lecture.”

“I wouldn’t hold out hope,” Suguru says ruefully, taking a long drag of his cigarette. Satoru was supposed to be in his one o’clock Quantum Mechanics II lecture, which the whole house was cognisant of, since, at the start of the semester, Suguru had handily printed the alpha’s timetable out and stuck it on the fridge door, glaringly obvious in its A3 size and colour-coded format. He’d even decorated it with cute stickers – tiny cakes and mochi – in the naïve hope that it would attract Satoru’s fleeting attention. As the man had not attended a single lecture or seminar yet, it was clearly an abject failure.

Somehow, in one of the most theoretical, intensive degrees, Satoru was scraping by with a zero percent attendance rate. He was constantly avoiding tests and skipping lectures, all while barely managing to string two friends together. It defied all rational logic – and that was not just Suguru’s law degree trauma speaking.

Upon meeting Satoru, and experiencing the man open his mouth, one would not be remiss in assuming that he was a menace that should never touch a position of power, lest the world crumble at his feet in misery. Alas, the alpha not only hailed from one of the largest packs on the entire planet, run by a prestigious line of pack leaders that are dotted throughout history books alongside Miyamoto Musashi and other such figures, but he was also set to inherit said familial pack. Whoever became his mate and future pack omega had their work cut out for them – Satoru’s biggest responsibility at present was his wardrobe. A coveted position of command, truly.

But that was Gojo Satoru for you: the most childish, un-alpha-like alpha Suguru had ever had the pleasure to encounter, evading the heat-seeking missile of responsibility with the grace of a ballet dancer, mesmerising in his single-minded focus.

Rubbing at his temple, Suguru flicks fragments of ash onto the designated smoking tray neatly balanced on top of his old Trusts and Equity textbook. Their place was not messy, exactly, but it was as disorganised as a collective of university students could achieve. One could consider it homely – if you disregarded the stressed scent that painted the walls, imbued from years of last-minute cramming.

“When’s your exam again?” A casual query, carefully devoid of judgement, as he blows another ring of smoke out of the open window.

“Too soon.” Shoko rubs at her face, leaving pink patches in her wake. “I need a drink.”

He snorts. “We can arrange that. I’ve got training tonight though – maybe tomorrow?”

“You do too much,” Shoko notes bluntly, languidly leaning back in her seat. “If you took the effort between you and Satoru and derived the mean from it, I think you’d have an average student with healthy boundaries.”

Suguru’s brain kindly translates that as: if you two had a kid, which makes the tips of his ears briefly flare with heat. A cough rides up and out of his lungs. “Noted.”

There’s a smirk on her face that he decidedly does not read into, focusing on the arduous task of snubbing out the remains of his cigarette. It’s just in the nick of time, too, because the door rattles ominously, prompting Shoko to bolt upright and hastily remove the evidence of her own foibles as well, throwing the entire smoke tray in the nearby bin. The two of them make a ridiculous sight fruitlessly waving their arms around, trying to cycle the contraband smoke out of the room.

The door bursts open, a fresh blast of alpha freezing them in place, as Satoru sings, “I’m home!”

“Hello, you,” Suguru smiles, sharing a quick glance at Shoko that reads act natural.

“How’re my favourite people today?” coos their white-haired pest, glasses dropping precariously down the bridge of his nose, allowing stark blue eyes to observe them unimpeded. The alpha drops his bags haphazardly on the floor and proceeds to throw his body onto the couch in a tangle of limbs.

“We’re your only people.” Shoko, high on her glass house of having one singular, additional person in her life compared to the rest of them, remains bland and unresponsive in the face of Satoru’s immediate spluttering.

Quick to intervene, Suguru calmly raises a hand. “Shoko, that’s not fair.” There’s a gleeful expression sliding across the alpha’s face, pleased at the prospect of an ally, as Shoko raises a brow in judgment. A smirk lifts at the corner of his mouth as he continues, “You’re forgetting the lovely omega at the KFC.”

The wail Satoru releases pierces straight through his ear drums. “You promised you’d drop that!” In a fit of melodrama, he lifts himself off the couch and flops back with a flourish, as he bemoans the trappings of existence and his terrible, evil roommates.

Shoko flicks him a look, you’re dealing with that, which Suguru accepts with an air of resignation, as she slides over to the door. “On that note, I’m running late for my date; see you boys tomorrow.” With that, she slips out of their humble abode, absconding into the city streets with a dexterity that would make Bruce Wayne file for adoption on sight. Checking his phone, Suguru quickly calculates how much time he needs to complete this week’s readings – it’s mid-afternoon and training tonight is six-thirty to nine. That leaves him with plenty of leeway to knock over his seminar preparation, have a pre-workout meal, and…

He moves closer to the couch to lock eyes with Satoru, who shuts his mouth midsentence with an audible click, grinning widely. “Want to grab a snack with me?”

“You’re paying.” The audacious, mega-rich alpha sticks his tongue out at Suguru, and the two proceed to bicker all the way to the store, pointing out poor fashion choices and venting about their classes with the ease and privilege of two students who have nothing better to do with their time.

There’s a new kid at martial arts, Suguru notes absently.

The pink hair stands out like a beacon, drawing in the gym’s occupants. Nanami is speaking to him already, likely conducting a level assessment. Suguru heads over to reception to sign in and Haibara greets him at the counter, bubbly and bright as usual.

“That’s Itadori Yuuji,” confirms Haibara, noting Suguru’s questioning look. “He’s so sweet! Signed up for the free BJJ trial tonight.”

“I’d better go introduce myself, then,” he utters, smiling and thanking Haibara, who enthusiastically waves him off. He makes a mental note to catch up with the other omega properly after class – like clockwork, his social life falls to the wayside the minute a new semester starts. Meandering over, Suguru takes a moment to assess the new student: Itadori appears to be trained to some extent already, as he’s taken to Nanami’s basic tests like a duck to water. Suguru’s running the open level BJJ class tonight, having been an instructor at the gym for the duration of his undergrad. It’s conveniently located equidistant between home and campus and pays well enough to cover his rent and utilities, with a bit to spare.

He slows to a stop next to Nanami, who is levelling a relatively severe look at the individual in front of him. Itadori Yuuji is completely unmoved by the display – if he had a tail, it would be helicoptering with the force of his zeal.

“Taido, you said.” Nanami’s eyes are narrowed, arms crossed.

“Yes! I thought I’d try something new here!” The kid’s teeth are gleaming, pearly white. Nanami remains indifferent to his staunch enthusiasm, instead directing Itadori’s radiance towards Suguru with a flick of his wrist.

“This is your instructor, Getou-sensei.”

Bowing low, Itadori bounces back up keenly. “Thank you for looking after me!” Wide, doe-like eyes, teeming with eagerness, perfectly complement Itadori’s soft, cinnamon scent – unusual for an alpha, but it suited him. Behind Nanami’s cool exterior, Suguru could tell even he was charmed by the display.

“Nice to meet you,” acknowledges Suguru. Noting the rest of his class congregating in his periphery, waiting to begin, he directs Itadori to the mats. “I believe class is about to start – shall we?”

He was correct: Itadori’s well-trained, his stamina and power close to Suguru’s own. Form was an issue, but that muscle memory comes with time and practice, which is exactly the feedback he passes on at the end of the session.

“You have the requisite strength,” he praises. “All that’s left is to learn the proper technique. Obviously BJJ is quite different to Taido.”

The pink-haired alpha laps it up like he’d been starving for years. It’s a little surprising – he’s clearly talented. Suguru resolves to verbalise Itadori’s successes where possible, to work on boosting his confidence.

“If you’re interested, we hold these classes every Tuesday and Thursday. You can book in with reception.”

“Thank you, Getou-sensei!” Pink flies up and down in a long streak of colour as the alpha bows furiously. Suguru suppresses a laugh, suddenly feeling ancient: he can’t remember when he last had this much energy. He’s positive that he’s not that much older than Itadori either, embarrassingly enough.

Suguru trudges off to clean up the gym with Nanami, a comfortable silence between them – a quiet respite is often needed after training. He’s been working with the beta and his partner, Haibara, since he started, and they’ve developed a neat, efficient system that enables them to close the gym within minutes of the last class ending.

After a brief catch up with Haibara, who regales him with the latest work gossip, Suguru says his goodbyes and slinks back home, thoughts occupied with the impending doom awaiting him. He and Satoru had wasted far too much time together that afternoon, and it was circling around to bite him: a thousand words and several readings were on the agenda for tonight. A part of him wishes Satoru paid more attention in class and had figured out the secret to time travel already, so Suguru could slap the shit out of his younger self for choosing to do law. The alpha was certainly smart enough to pull it off – if he could be bothered to apply himself.

No rest for the wicked, he supposes, unlocking the front door and slipping inside with a sigh. The TV is blaring in the lounge, Satoru glued to some reality show that Suguru’s been compelled to watch by proxy. It would seem his favourite timewaster hasn’t moved since Suguru left for the gym, though when he opens the fridge, contemplating his dinner options, he finds leftovers tucked away with a sticky note attached of a crudely drawn penis. Underneath that fantastic image, Suguru spots in Satoru’s chicken script: I’M THE BEST!! :)

Lips twitching upwards, he takes the plate and unwraps it, sticking it in the microwave. It’s katsu curry – in its sweetest, mildest form, no doubt – but he isn’t complaining. In an astonishing feat of ingenuity, Satoru’s even crumbed the chicken from scratch. Suguru wanders over to the couch, leaning over the back to smile broadly at Satoru. “Were you bored tonight, or what?”

Beaming up at him, Satoru’s eyes belay his mischievousness, dancing in the dim light of the television. “Maybe. You complaining?”

“Never,” Suguru says fervently, as the microwave finishes with a ding, and he extricates himself from Satoru’s magnetic gaze to nab his free meal. This is absolutely a bribe – for what, Suguru’s unsure, but he’s happy enough to wait for the other shoe to drop, plonking himself next to the alpha and digging into his curry with gusto.

Satoru takes the blatant opportunity to rest his ungainly limbs on Suguru, which earns him a stink eye, but the omega is swiftly distracted by the drama on the television: a couple shouting (because what else is reality TV for), having a raging fight while the camera pans to children nearby, watching on in horror.

“Ugh,” Suguru gripes around a mouthful of chicken, “how hard is it to not argue in front of your kids?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” is the reply, casual in tone, just shy of callous, but Satoru’s features are hard. He doesn’t talk about his family and pack members if he can avoid it, but it’s evident from his distinct lack of interest in forming his own pack that there’s some trauma there. The disinterest suits Suguru fine, but whenever he considers the reasoning his heart bleeds that little bit more for his friend. Eyes on the screen, he takes one of Satoru’s feet, resting on his lap, and digs his thumb into the sole in a pseudo-massage, an unsubtle attempt at comfort. It works though, the tension gradually fading from his body, and Satoru launches into updating Suguru on the drama he had missed while at training.

Satoru’s a tactile person – to the point that he accidentally scent marks his roommates frequently, leaving a trail of strong alpha pheromones that wash out as easily as a red wine stain on a white shirt. Originally, it had severely grated on Suguru, leading to an explosive fight between the alpha and omega in their first month of living together, resolved only by Shoko’s half-hearted mediation (read: locking them in a room together until they sorted themselves out). Now, he understands it’s merely a quirk, a by-product of the alpha’s touchiness, as opposed to a desire to form a pack, so he accepts it. More than that, honestly: at this point, he enables it. Maybe the familiarity is a comfort, so what? Sue him.

Sleep takes him like this: his dirty plate left on the table, Suguru’s splayed awkwardly on top of his best friend with his feet still glued on the floor, drooling onto the alpha’s Gucci pyjama pants, sunk deep into the Mariana Trench of their soothing, combined scents.

“Getou-sensei! Getou-sensei, over here!”

It’s that BJJ kid again, arms flailing flamboyantly, yelling so loudly a group of birds scatter in fear. A scowling, spiky-haired youth is slouched next to him with a large coffee in hand, alongside a girl who’s sipping on a vibrantly green matcha latte.

Politely, Suguru gives a small wave back, hiding a grimace. It’s too early in the morning for this. He’d woken up on the couch, alone, with a crick in his neck and a frenzied panic as he realised no alarm had been set, leaving him to speedrun preparing for his 9am lecture. Throttling Gojo was definitely on the cards for tonight. If the man was smart, he’d have left the country by now.

The salmon-haired alpha, Itadori, is inescapable in his social niceties, however, as he bounds over, evidently wishing to engage in an actual conversation with Suguru.

“I didn’t realise you were a student too!” Itadori is noticeably vibrating. Is it anxiety or caffeine, or something else perhaps, Suguru wonders, making a mental note to watch the boy more closely at training.

“Yes, I’m graduating this year, actually,” he responds as kindly as possible. Itadori is not deserving of his ire – that is solely for another alpha. A frustrating, imbecilic alpha.

“Really! That’s great – you should come chat with me and my friends!” Before he finishes processing Itadori’s rambling, he’s being yanked over to the table to join the other two, who are not remotely phased by their friend’s behaviour – which does seem par for the course, from what Suguru has witnessed thus far.

This close to the group, he catches a sharp whiff of an aroma that tugs at his senses, uncannily familiar, but that fraction off, enough to spark a feeling of discord that leaves him uneasy.

“Guys, look, this is my new martial arts teacher!”

Smiling benignly at the group, Suguru settles into the motions of introductions, thoughts already wandering. At this point, he’s running sufficiently late to his lecture that he may as well secure a coffee while he’s here. The line is short, at least, and crucially, he needs one – he’s not surviving the day otherwise.

“… cute! Kugisaki Nobara.” Matcha girl is surveying him, darting up and down his figure, expectant. On average, he’s quite tall – unusually so for an omega. Blatant staring is just a factor of life for him.

“Fushiguro Megumi,” mutters the final group member, completing the set. Pleasantries completed, Suguru is prepared to excuse himself and calmly powerwalk over to the coffee shop, when he hears, “You know Gojo.”

“Sorry?” he startles, blinking comically at Fushiguro.

“Gojo Satoru,” comes the clarification, complete with an eyeroll. “He’s all over you like a rash.”

A brief flash of irritation fills him at the thought of that man before he dismisses it, brows lowering in confusion. Sleeping so close to the alpha last night must have left a strong residue, enough that this random omega has picked up on it. Gojo is, to no one’s surprise, relatively infamous on campus, though there are few who are on a first name basis with him, or more accurately, desire to be on a first name basis with him. Inhaling, he almost slaps himself when it hits him, flitting up his nostrils and triggering that special corner of his brain: that scent – it’s coming from Fushiguro.

“Ah, yes, I do. We’re roommates.” Hesitating briefly, he asks, charmingly, “Are you part of the Gojo pack?”

“Unfortunately,” says Megumi, monotone, and a part of Suguru unclenches. “We lived together for a while – it was the worst. Not sure how you deal with him. You must be a saint or something.”

Suguru doesn’t feel particularly saint-like right now, but he says, with a sly twist of his lips, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I didn’t realise he’d started bringing together his own pack here.” There’s a calculating glint in Megumi’s eyes that sends a fleeting flash of concern through Suguru – but it’s not enough to overwhelm the desire to laugh at such a ridiculous assumption.

“Oh, no, he hasn’t. Don’t worry,” he says glibly, shaking his head. His Satoru, a pack alpha? It’s highly unlikely Suguru will live to see the day, and that’s probably for the best.

Kugisaki interrupts, brandishing her drink with abandon, “Wait, are you talking about your annoying not-quite cousin? The one you’re constantly whining about?”

Pressing his lips together tightly barely prevents Suguru from laughing in Megumi’s face, as the beleaguered youth throws his head back with a world-weary, “Yes, Nobara. Thank you for paying attention.” Being prone to the dramatic is clearly an innate trait within the Gojo family.

As entertaining as it is to watch the poor, stern omega be ribbed by his friends, a caffeine headache has begun to throb against Suguru’s skull; a fun reminder that he does genuinely have places to be. Making a show of checking his phone, he rubs a hand across the back of his neck, and notes, apologetic, “I’m running late for my lecture, I should really head off. Lovely meeting you all though. I’ll see you next week, Itadori.” The sincerity that drips from his tongue surprises him.

“See you around, Getou-sensei!” declares the bubbly alpha, earnest to a fault.

Huh, he thinks, as he beelines for the coffee stand, and then he’s ordering, and his mind drifts to his missed lecture, dreading his Jurisprudence seminar this afternoon, and the moment vanishes, sand sifting through his fingers.

Leaving campus that afternoon with a splitting headache, Suguru is beyond desperate to curl up in bed and binge watch the latest crime doco, but he’s instead met with a text from Shoko the second he steps foot on the boundary line of their property, reminding him of his pledge the other day to get her wasted.

I didn’t say that, he types out clumsily, hands cramping from a day of endless writing. I said one drink.

I know what you meant in your heart, is her instantaneous response, and then she forwards him her location: a greasy bar nearby. He drags a hand over his face, feeling his skin sag.

The door he’s resting against swings open and Satoru leers at him, cheeky grin firmly in place. “Thought I heard you groaning. You forget how to unlock a door?”

Grumbling, Suguru shoves him aside roughly, snapping, “Yeah, like how you forgot to wake me this morning.” Stumbling back on his haunches, Satoru pouts, and that pout follows Suguru into the kitchen, where it proceeds to lean against the marble island, conveniently blocking Suguru’s way.

“Ha?! You looked so cute though, I didn’t want to wake you!” Satoru bemoans, which almost causes Suguru to choke on his freshly poured water. “You were drooling and everything!”

Refilling his water, Suguru shoots his friend the filthiest glare he can muster, sniping, “Wonderful. Next time, can you please set an alarm? Some of us actually attend our classes.”

“Next time?” Quick as lightning, with an obnoxious wiggle of his brows, “Ah, Suguru, did you enjoy sleeping with me that much?” The veritable comedian releases a peel of laughter at his own joke, curling over with the force of it, as Suguru simply flicks him the bird, heart beating in double-time, and leaves the kitchen to change into a more bar-appropriate outfit.

Shutting his bedroom door reduces the noise enough for Suguru to breathe again. At this point, a stiff drink sounds terribly appealing. Exhaling loudly, he scans his closet critically. It’s fairly organised: casual clothing on one end, going-out gear on the other. It’s a sharp divide, especially after living with Satoru for years. Initially, Suguru had nothing fancy or expensive in his wardrobe, which was packed to the brim with baggy, mass-produced items, but then Gojo Satoru descended upon it, a fashionable bird of prey with a platinum Amex card held tightly in his talons.

The alpha had developed a habit of stealing Suguru’s baggier fits to lounge in, much to the omega’s chagrin.

(It’s highly inconvenient when you’re tearing through dirty laundry, sure you recently washed that top, where is it, only to catch your roommate walking out, cool as a cucumber, dressed to the nines in your comfiest apparel. The gall.)

In exchange, however, clothing would miraculously appear in his room, neatly pressed and hanging innocently in his closet: cashmere sweaters, trench coats, designer jeans. The works.

The first time Suguru had noticed, he’d hunted Satoru down, brandishing his pristine, unsolicited designer shirt like a weapon, only to be met with vehement denial, the alpha refusing to admit to his transgressions. Flabbergasted, Suguru had tried again repeatedly, at different intervals, to similar effect, until eventually he resigned himself to the involuntary makeover. The clothing had all been scentless (a tinge of disappointment was felt when he’d realised, though he’d put it firmly back in its box), fresh from the store. If Satoru had the money and wanted to spend it carelessly, who was Suguru to demand he return the gifts? That would be rude, and Suguru’s nothing but polite.

He picks out a stylish, sleeveless turtleneck and a pair of high-waisted boyfriend jeans. Simple, but effective. Swapping out his everyday earrings with prettier set, he completes the look with a touch of lavender body oil on his wrists to accentuate his natural scent. Texting Shoko, coming, he grabs a bag, preparing to leave. Satoru hasn’t moved from the kitchen, tracking Suguru’s movements with beady eyes. Pointedly ignoring the alpha, Suguru slips on a pair of combat boots and does a final check, patting himself down: ID, wallet, phone…

“Going out?” drawls Satoru, having snuck up behind him somehow, surprising the shit out of the omega.

Calming his racing heart with measured breaths and praying his voice is even, he casually replies, “Yeah. Meeting up with Shoko for drinks.” A beat. “You’re invited too, obviously.” An olive branch if there ever was one.

“Nah,” Satoru waves him off, lax, “I’ve got plans, won’t be home tonight. You two will just have to have fun without me!”

Cold curdles in his lungs for no apparent reason. “Oh?” he questions, headache worming back without warning. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve made other friends? Colour me surprised.”

“Aw, no, Suguru, you know you’re irreplaceable!” Satoru slings an arm over Suguru in a side hug, wrestling him playfully.

“A-huh,” he side-eyes Satoru, unable to stop the smile creeping onto his face as he meets electric blue. Enticing vanilla, spicy-sweet, curls around him: Satoru’s scent, the complexity reminiscent of a tonka bean. Annoyingly, his irritability all but melts away, replaced with a deep fondness.

“I’ve got a date! Isn’t she hot?” What. There’s a phone waving in front of his face, a picture on the screen that Suguru stares at, unseeing. All thoughts taper off, the whiplash jarring Suguru enough that he flinches back and is consequently released from Satoru’s warm embrace.

“Stop moving the phone around and maybe I’ll agree with you,” he says on autopilot, capturing Satoru’s wrist and squinting at the girl’s picture in a facsimile of interest. Painting a grin on his face, he affirms, “Damn, Satoru. She’s very… pretty.”

Satoru gushes at that, clearly pleased with himself, and Suguru believes he’s off the hook, small hiccup gone unnoticed. Doubling his efforts to leave, he gently nudges Satoru – “You better get ready then, hm?” – and says a brief farewell before fleeing out into the cold night air.

When he manages to arrive at the bar, Shoko takes one look at him and hails a waiter.

“What’s he done now?” she asks, flatter than paper, after politely awaiting the arrival of his drinks. He’s double-parked, and already debating buying two or three shots after for the hell of it.

Trying and failing to not be sullen, he huffs, “Nothing,” and then proceeds to scull his first gin and tonic of the night, passive-aggressively chewing on the lemon garnish once he’s done.

“Yeah, really seems like nothing,” Shoko agrees, tilting her head to better assess his very normal behaviour.

“We’re doing shots tonight.” It’s a statement, his tone brokering no arguments, as he orders them a round. Not like Shoko would complain – her stomach must be pure iron with how she can drink most normal, well-adjusted people under the table.

Suguru directs the conversation back to her with a question about Utahime, which Shoko permits out of the goodness of her heart. For a while, he listens appreciatively as Shoko updates him on her life and her girlfriend, a pleasant buzz settling over him, until the conversation inevitably winds back around.

“You should really bring Utahime around more often,” is the casual remark that brings about the end. Suguru’s finally unwinding: the tension in his shoulders easing minute by minute and his headache long forgotten, replaced with the burn of alcohol igniting his veins.

Snorting, Shoko drops her empty glass on the table with a clunk, pointing a damning finger at him. “You know why she can’t come ‘round.”

Ah. Just when he was on the cusp of forgetting all his problems.

“Which, by the way, brings us back to you.” Meanly, Shoko pulls his drink away. He folds across the table with a whine, burying his head in his arms.

“Seriously?” he mutters into the wood below, which Shoko catches with her inhuman hearing. She’s going to be a terrifying Doctor one day, he muses sourly.

“Yes. What did that loser do. I’m not ordering you anymore unless you tell me.”

Groaning, Suguru rights himself, leaning on his fist as he stares across the bar, avoiding her omniscient gaze. “He made me miss my lecture this morning, that’s all.” Then, smoothly, idly stirring his straw, he adds, “Did you know he has a date tonight?”

“Satoru?” is the flat reply.

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Exasperated, he tacks on, “I’m ordering another drink now, thanks.”

She lets him, contemplative, chin resting on her palm. “Hm. No, he didn’t mention it to me.”

“Well, lucky us,” and it’s spiteful, but he’s hurt, and Satoru’s not here to hear it, so what’s the harm. Besides, the waiter’s back with their drinks to wash these weird feelings down with. There’s a touch of commiseration in Shoko’s expression that Suguru steadily avoids examining.

“You seem thrilled for him,” Shoko notes astutely, raising a sardonic brow.

Quick on the defensive, the omega retorts, hands gesticulating wildly to further drive his point home, “I guess I figured he would’ve mentioned something sooner? You know how Satoru is, he can barely keep his mouth shut on a good day! And we’re meant to be… we’re his friends, right? I don’t get it.”

“To be fair, neither of us asked him.” Always the voice of reason, that’s Shoko. Suguru needs her to understand, though, that her logic in this instance is outrageously off.

“I shouldn’t have to! He’s my best friend!” Suguru slams his drink back in one hit.

There’s a small fraction of him that can admit his line of thinking is slightly unreasonable. But it’s outweighed by the other half – the half that is absurdly drowning in panic at the thought of Satoru finding better, an omega that matches him, that’s his equal, in every way that Suguru is not and never will be. Having Satoru’s undivided attention is addictive, hypnotic, and pain lances through him at the thought of this date taking Suguru’s place in an inevitable turnover, basking in the irresistible lure of his once-best friend while Suguru is left to rot, having been blessed with a fleeting eternity that was not his to keep and facing the impossible return to ordinary life.

Shoko’s voice filters through, cutting, “You’re reading way too much into this.” In direct opposition to her tone, she gently takes his hand and slides their inner wrists together. Light notes of jasmine waft between them, and Suguru closes his eyes for a second, letting Shoko’s scent fill his lungs.

“I’m sure it just slipped his mind – we’re all busy people. Or, more likely, he doesn’t think it’s that serious,” she declares, strangely insistent, “otherwise I’m sure he would’ve been a complete and utter nightmare about it. Remember the last omega he dated?”

Oh, Suguru remembers, alright. Satoru had never been one for dating, so when this new omega had appeared in his life, out of the blue, they’d all taken note. Bets were made on how long it would last. Suguru is proud to say he won by a landslide.

“How could I forget,” he snickers. “One time he called me to discuss their date while they were still at the restaurant.” That sets them both off, cackling hard enough that the table shakes, Suguru’s ribs sore and throat tender with it. The room spins when they manage to calm themselves, the bar that tad bit brighter all of a sudden, the orange glow of the place softening the harsh edges of Suguru’s gloomy thoughts.

They swap a few more stories afterwards, mainly of Satoru, because even though they tease the alpha endlessly for it they also don’t have that many friends to spare. Then, they proceed to giggle their way home, stumbling around, a certified pair of loons. Suguru leans on Shoko too hard, and she falls, tripping over her heels, which starts a fresh lot of crowing laughter. Clambering together into the house, fumbling in the dark, they deposit themselves with gusto onto Shoko’s bed, where they fall asleep curled up together, hazy and gooey, in a stark contrast to how they wake the next day (but that’s tomorrow’s problem).

Squinting over his laptop quizzically, Suguru spies a mop of black hair in the front row of his lecture that belongs to none other than Fushiguro Megumi. What are the odds, he thinks, bemused. It’s almost comical how much the omega stands out: hair a veritable bird’s nest, stinking of eau de Gojo enough that Suguru can smell it from several rows back, and, to top it off, a killer resting bitch face.

This is a first-year subject – as part of his law degree, Suguru is required to complete a set number of electives. They can be from any level, however, so choosing a first-year subject was a no brainer, though this Religion, Peace and Violence course is turning out to be relatively interesting. There’s a section on cults that Suguru’s keen to write his long essay on.

He's certain he doesn’t recall Megumi in his tutorial for the subject; regardless, it’s nice to have a familiar face around. Suguru wonders if the omega would be interested in forming a study group. The assignments appear straightforward, but he remembers the learning curve that was his first year – if Megumi can use his experience, Suguru’s happy to oblige.

Returning to his notes, he jots in his calendar relevant due dates with a practiced ease. Gojo hadn’t returned home this weekend. He hadn’t called or messaged either, not that Suguru had reached out: opening his messages with the alpha felt like a trap, as though Satoru could peer through the screen and observe his neediness in real time. It left him antsy, unsure. The house was peaceful, and yet Suguru was unable to concentrate, puttering around mindlessly cleaning instead. Shoko had been grateful, sure, but Suguru’s already behind this semester and he’s kicking himself for it now.

So, he’s determined to be present and attentive today. He is not checking his phone intermittently, whenever the lecturer swivels to face the whiteboard, or there’s a short break, or when he’s hurrying to his next class. No, Getou Suguru is a picture-perfect student.

His phone buzzes, and his head snaps down so fast it cricks his neck. There’s a new message from Satoru that simply reads: Lunch?

Either he believes Suguru’s at home or the alpha’s crawled his way onto campus for once. Typing out a curt in a lecture, Suguru locks his phone in an effort to return to his study, though rather ineffectively because there’s an instant reply: yeah that ends at 12. meet at usual???

Unlocking his phone with a drawn-out sigh for no one’s ears but his own, he replies: sure.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that the Gojo Satoru, on campus?”

It’s brutally hard to stay upset when Suguru’s hit with his friend’s effervescent smile. For all Satoru claims otherwise, Suguru is a weak, weak man.

Slotting in next to the alpha, Suguru covers his mouth to hide his grin as Satoru confidently replies, “Well, someone had to remind these peasants of my genius.” With that, he leans back, cradling his head in his hands, the picture of arrogance. Suguru pinches his arm, hard, eliciting a sharp yelp.

“Satoru, I think it’s high time we had a discussion about your attitude,” he scolds, containing his amusement. “Please tell me you didn’t mention that fact to your date the other night.”

“You worry too much, I was the perfect gentleman,” dismisses the lanky alpha, but the gleam in his eyes speaks volumes. Rolling his eyes, Suguru orders his meal, mentally filtering through appropriate questions to ask to find one that isn’t overtly accusatory. It’s an onerous job.

Cautiously, uncertain of whether he’ll find the answer to his liking, Suguru probes, “How did it go then?” At the core of it, Suguru wants his friend to be happy, and if this omega is what Satoru wants, needs, then Suguru is willing to be happy for him.

“What?” Satoru blinks at him.

Mirroring him, Suguru cocks his head, confused. “Your date?”

“Oh, fine.” Flippantly, Satoru pulls out his phone to order as well, leaving Suguru to question if that’s seriously the entirety of what he’s willing to share and whether it’s worth asking more direct questions – but then, Satoru opens his mouth again: “Went about as well as expected. My parents weren’t happy, but I couldn’t care less.”

“What?”

Satoru sends him a questioning glance. “Obviously, I told her I’m not interested in this whole farce, and then I had to spend the entire weekend dealing with my parents raging about how I’m,” disdainfully, he makes exaggerated air quotes, “wasting my life, and I need to find an omega and create my own pack, or face being a disappointment to the whole family. Y’know, the usual.”

“Wait,” holding up a hand, Suguru uses the other to pinch the bridge of his nose, “this was an arranged meeting? Your parents arranged this date?”

“Yes? I told you before – my parents want me mated off before I graduate.” The food arrives: Satoru’s requisitioned several burgers to compliment Suguru’s large chips and drinks. They swap, Satoru handing over a burger while Suguru shuffles the fries between them and passes over the alpha’s preferred, obnoxiously sweet soda.

“I didn’t realise… you didn’t say anything?” There’s the accusation his brain so dearly wanted. It’s warranted though, in that this saga is generating severe emotional whiplash, and his friend needs the prodding.

Laughing, Satoru waves a burger in Suguru’s face, exclaiming, “I thought you knew I was being sarcastic!”

Relief floods his parched body, and laughing after that is freeing, a release, popping a valve he didn’t know was closed. “God, Satoru, you’re so bad at communicating.” He nearly pities his date – though he only has a modicum of sympathy for a person who willingly throws themselves into the hellfire of the Gojo clan.

Mouth full of burger, Satoru sprays chunks across the table in his effort to counter, causing Suguru to push away harder than intended to escape the wayward pieces, promptly falling off his seat. Dazed and winded, he snickers deliriously as the alpha heaves him up, Satoru’s body similarly shaking with amusement at his predicament.

God, Suguru’s missed him.

They haven’t had a whole weekend apart in ages. It could be argued that they’re a bit codependent, but that’s normal for close friends-slash-roommates. They’re in each other’s pockets twenty-four seven, and thriving for it: why look elsewhere when you have everything you need in the palm of your hand?

Happiness blazing deep in his chest, he watches Satoru shovel food into his mouth with a strange tenderness.

They walk home together once they finish lunch, side by side, stopping to collect afternoon tea for Satoru along the way. The alpha’s on a tangent, rambling about his classmates as he munches away on his cookies, but there’s a burning question that’s been festering in Suguru’s mind that aches to be released, and he’s not sure how much longer he can hold it in.

“Hey, Satoru.” He pauses. “About your parents.”

“Yeah?” The alpha licks stray crumbs from his fingers, momentarily distracting him. Clearly, he should’ve bought some napkins for this feral, uncivilised man.

“Is – is that why you haven’t dated anyone in a while?” he ultimately asks, staring directly ahead at the horizon line as if it held the secrets of the universe. “Out of spite, or something.”

There’s a brief silence that spans eons in Suguru’s mind. He stays facing forward, expression pleasantly neutral. You’re allowed to be curious about your friend’s life, is his self-affirming mantra, that’s completely normal.

“Is that what you think?” Satoru’s casual, teasing lilt masks a peculiar underlying note that Suguru can’t place. He twists to face him, staring into the lion’s maw, and is met with an uncharacteristically serious expression – his trademark smile is present, but it’s calculative. Eyes narrowed a fraction. Shoulders back. A shiver rolls down the omega’s spine.

Suguru swallows. “I wouldn’t put it past you,” he replies, as feather-light as he can, quirking a brow.

“Ha! You’re not wrong.” Satoru rolls his neck in one smooth movement before fixing Suguru with heated blue. “But no. I just know what I want.” The space between them compresses and expands, an unnamed tension building and churning in the gap. There’s nothing in Satoru’s scent to aid Suguru in extrapolating on that non-answer, leaving him to tear the words apart dizzily, searching for a puzzle piece he doesn’t have.

“Sure, I get it.” He does not. Instead of voicing this to Satoru, he deflects, resuming their earlier conversation, which Satoru latches onto greedily, willing and able to vent about his life for hours.

Suguru’s prone to overthinking. That’s why law was a natural pathway for him – it’s practical and useful to nitpick, to consider all possibilities. With Satoru, however, there’s no hidden meaning in his words. Face-value is the way to go, and boy, does he let you know it.

He knows what he wants means exactly that: he has a type. That’s all. If Suguru asked, he’s sure Satoru would benevolently supply further details, but there’s no urgency or reason for Suguru to press the matter. It’ll come up when the alpha finds his perfect, ideal match, he’s sure. Until then, he doesn’t need to know.

Midsemester hits with the ferocity and audacity of a bullet. Even Satoru, bless his heart, was studying at times, though he was quick to justify it as not wanting to “miss out” on group hangs with Shoko and Suguru. And, frankly, that was fair: they had limited time outside of study sessions to spend with their neediest roommate – and a deprived Satoru was a degenerate one (in both senses of the term). This long into living together they’d established a failproof system: plied with an assortment of daifuku and allowed intermittent Digimon breaks, Satoru would shred through his assessment like a controlled burn.

Suguru had no intention of breaking their tried-and-true studying habits – that is, until Itadori Yuuji entered the scene. Looking back, he can’t believe the boy’s pouty routine had worked.

“I haven’t seen Fushiguro in days,” he’d whined, chin wobbling pathetically. “He’s stuck on some assignment and won’t leave his room. Nobara wants to stage an intervention.”

“I think that’s fairly normal for first year,” Suguru had comforted, saying goodbye to other students on autopilot as he mused on what the true source of Itadori’s distress was: pure separation anxiety? Or…

“It’s just for an elective too! Fushiguro’s so capable and smart, he’ll be totally fine, I don’t know why he’s stressing over this.”

“It’s not for Religion, Peace and Violence, is it?”

“Yeah! How’d you know!” Itadori’s face read, plainly: are you a mind reader?!

Suguru had to bite his lip, staving off a laugh. “I saw Fushiguro the other day. I’m doing that subject as well.”

“Wow, you can do first year subjects when you’re older?” asked the first-year, astonished, tanking Suguru’s self-esteem in one hit.

Pointedly tucking his bangs back, he muttered, “I’m not that much older than you, Itadori.”

“Yeah, but you’re way more experienced! Hey,” Itadori bounced back on his heels, a lightbulb visibly flicking on inside him, “Getou-sensei, do you think you could help Fushiguro on his assignment? Please? Human Earthworm 4’s coming out soon, and I really want to go with him – and Nobara of course! She hasn’t watched the entire series though, she’s just seen the first one, and I don’t think she’s super keen, so –”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Suguru had cut in, “let’s run that back. You want me to help Fushiguro with his assignment? Are you sure he wants help?”

“Yeah! I’ll text him now –” and then he’d whipped his out phone and typed away, looking comically determined, as though this was a life-threatening mission he couldn’t afford to fail. Suguru had been baffled at the turn of events. He couldn’t remember offering help, at all, but here they were, apparently.

After an awkward pause where Suguru had aimlessly watched Nanami tiding up the gym for lack of anything better to do, Itadori finally looked up again, tucking his phone away with relish. “Ok, he took some convincing, I think he’s super embarrassed, but he’s willing to study together! Thanks so much, Getou-sensei.”

“Of course,” he conceded, internally reeling. “Happy to help.” It sounded like Suguru was now running a study session for Fushiguro Megumi, who he’d met once and spoken to for a total of two minutes. Fantastic.

After that thrilling set-up, he receives a text message, decidedly sparse: it’s Fushiguro. This is my number.

So, Suguru acknowledges the lacklustre text and replies, establishing an actual date and time for said study group as a responsible adult would.

Satoru weasels his way in after discovering Suguru has study plans – “Without me?” he cries, with the wettest, saddest eyes, and Suguru’s supremely unimpressed, but he folds easily, because ugh – and then Shoko notes that she’ll be there too.

“You know, because I live here,” she says.

“Yeah, and Utahime’s away on a holiday without you and we’re all that’s left,” Satoru jeers, dodging the towel Shoko snaps at him with an obnoxious giggle, which rapidly devolves into full-on war. Shoko accidentally hits Suguru while aiming for Satoru, and, in retaliation, Suguru grabs the nearest utensil and starts swinging aimlessly, driving the beta to run for the hills as the other two gang up on her, screeching up and down narrow corridors before utilising her smaller stature wisely and hiding under a table.

After that, they call a truce and end up collapsing in the lounge room together, high on adrenaline and ready to swap divisive commentary on the latest episode of The Ultimatum.

Amidst the madness, however, because this is his life and he’s just living in it, he fully forgets to inform Satoru that Megumi is joining them. He assumes the other omega is fully aware this is Satoru’s place, but –

Bolting upright in his chair at three on the dot, Satoru twists around inhumanly fast, nostrils flaring. Suguru realises all at once what’s about to happen and hurries to open the door first, but his taller roommate is way ahead of him.

Wrenching it open, Satoru cups his mouth and shouts, “MEGUMI!!” The force of his yell shocks Shoko out of her power nap and she slides onto the ground with a thump. Sparing a thought for her, Suguru reaches the door, clutching Satoru by the back of his jacket and pulling him bodily out of the way so their guests can enter in (relative) peace. Megumi’s brought company, it seems: Itadori and Kugisaki have also had their eardrums dissolved, though Itadori manages to wave excitedly through the pain.

“That was completely unnecessary, Gojo.” Megumi’s stern face does little to hide his embarrassment, which, of course, Satoru latches onto, grinning impishly.

“It’s just so good to see you, little ‘Gumi,” he says, peering over from his resting place on Suguru’s shoulder. “I was worried you’d forgotten where I lived!”

“How could I forget,” Megumi drones, though Suguru notices he tolerates Satoru scenting him on entry. A flare of envy strikes him; he’s not entirely sure why, but there’s something about that small interaction that shadows him as he shows the guests to the lounge. Satoru’s always scent marking – inadvertently. It’s rarely intentional.

Suguru’s never cared for pack dynamics. It’s part of what makes these living arrangements simple – that the three of them are in the same boat, none of them interested in forming or being a pack. But, he supposes, he understands the appeal – the inherent community, the rituals, the safety of it.

He's long decided, however, that it’s simply not for him, and with that at the forefront of his mind, he determinedly shakes the negativity away. They’re here to study, not reevaluate their internalised norms and reconsider their future goals.

“Right,” he claps his hands, “this is our study area. This is Ieiri Shoko –” she nods at them, “– our resident med student. There’re snacks here, though they’re mostly sweets because Satoru has the palette of a child –”

“Hey!”

“– but feel free to have some. Do you guys want anything to drink?”

There’s a polite refusal from Megumi, who’s settled into a chair with his laptop at the ready, as Kugisaki and Itadori comparatively inspect their humble dwelling, commenting rapturously on the interior design choices to a smug Satoru. Shoko and Suguru had supplied a few knickknacks, mainly second-hand from their respective parents, but Satoru had supplied the rest – which, surprisingly, worked out quite nicely, as Satoru’s sense of style suited the place best (and he could afford it).

“Wow, this is gorgeous, what beautiful dogs!” squeals Kugisaki, standing in front of a giant oil painting cased in a golden frame. It was stunning – the centrepiece of their living room, one of the few art pieces in the entire house, and filched from Satoru’s family home, in fact.

“They’re Megumi’s!” Satoru informs her, sweeping his arm towards the man of the hour. “He ordered this painting when he was… how old were you? Ten?”

“Eleven.”

“That’s right, it was his birthday gift to me! It was adorable – he was obsessed with those dogs. Still is, right, Me-gu-mi?”

The omega in question grumbles in response, amidst the cooing from his friends. Steam could start rising from his ears with how flushed his face is. Suguru takes pity on him and sits down, opening his own laptop and bringing up his coursework in quick succession.

“They might be a while,” he cautions Megumi, wary of Satoru’s penchant for evading work. “Should we start? Itadori mentioned that you were concerned about the long essay for Religion. Did you want to chat about it?”

There’s a stilted pause. Megumi scowls at his computer screen, as if offended by its mere presence. At the other end of the table, Shoko signals she’s off for a smoke break, leaving Megumi and Suguru alone.

“It’s fine, I’ve done it already,” Megumi states, voice pitched low.

“Oh? Sorry if I misunderstood.”

“No, it’s… Itadori’s been wanting to hang out. So.”

A lull settles around them like a blanket – Satoru’s taken the others outside to show off their garden, evidently. It grants Suguru a moment to study the prickly omega. He seems troubled: jaw clenched, mouth a fine line, shoulders rolled inwards.

Cogs whirring, Suguru decides to aim for nonchalant. “Yeah, he said you’d been pretty busy lately.”

Megumi makes a noncommittal noise, biting at his lip.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Suguru pries, soft as spun sugar. Megumi strikes him as the reserved type, but there’s no harm in trying.

As suspected, the reply is illuminating: “Not particularly.”

“Alright,” he acquiesces. “Well, I’m here if you change your mind. Bit of advice, though: I haven’t known Itadori for long, but I know for a fact that he’s not a mind reader.”

Suguru can feel Megumi’s stare burning a hole in the side of his head. Placidly, he scrolls through his coursework, unperturbed.

Eventually, Megumi mutters, with a touch of petulance, “I’m aware.” Suguru shoots him a knowing grin. Issues with communication between the two, then. Interesting. There must be something compelling in Suguru’s countenance, however, because Megumi, slowly but surely, begins to spill.

“He made a new friend at university the other day, and Nobara and I had to hang out with them,” he’s viciously curbing his emotions, speaking with barely any inflection, “which was annoying, but fine. And then this friend,” he spits, “asked him what his type was. And he said, and I quote, “I like tall girls with fat asses”.”

The ball drops, and Suguru wants to die laughing. Of course. Satoru’s voice drifts into his mind, teasing, “Aw, Megumi, sad you don’t meet the criteria?” He refrains from verbalising that, though, banishing his inner-Satoru and thanking the high heavens the real one was currently absent.

“It sounds like that upset you,” is what he says instead.

“Itadori is free to like who he likes. I thought – it doesn’t matter.” A light blush dusts his cheeks. Suguru croons internally, unable to stop himself – he wants to wrap this spindly kid up in a blanket and tuck him in, burrito-style. He has a sneaking suspicion the omega may be taking Itadori’s words entirely too seriously.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short, Megumi – two out of three isn’t bad,” he comments, tongue in cheek. Megumi’s blush spreads vivaciously at that, and Suguru laughs. “So, based on what is, without a doubt, incredibly superficial criteria, you decided that Itadori wasn’t interested in you? And that’s why you holed yourself up in your room for weeks?”

Caught out, possibly unused to being perceived so frankly, the other omega argues, cold, “I needed the space. To move on.”

“Right, sure, very respectful of you.” There’s a difference between being an introverted, quiet person and being emotionally constipated. Suguru’s not prepared to baby Megumi (he has no space in his calendar: fussing over Satoru is a full-time job). “Here’s another option: you could ask him directly if he’s interested in dating you.”

The absolute look Suguru cops at that – it’s as if he’d suggested they attack Russia, the two of them, on foot, in the dead of winter.

He will not falter in his quest, however. Megumi is no match for Suguru’s law professors. “If anything, verbalising your feelings might help you move on faster. It’s a win/win for you.”

“How’s that working out for you?” Megumi volleys back, cocking an eyebrow.

“What?” he says, tentative, confused by the sudden shift in the conversation.

“You, verbalising your feelings,” clarifies the other omega, maintaining unflinching eye contact.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to –” he states, slightly miffed at the accusatory tone, but then the of the rest of their study crew returns, covered in filth and grass and trailing it across the clean floor, causing him to sharply slam the brakes on his earnest objection.

Suguru narrows flinty eyes at Satoru, who innocently blinks back. “Shower. All of you. Now.”

The remainder of their study session runs smoothly, albeit a tad more boisterously than usual. Suguru sees their guests off at dinner time and courteously informs them they’re welcome back whenever.

They appear to translate that cordial sentiment as this house is free real estate, because Suguru ends up hosting the three musketeers more often than not – purportedly for studying, but he rarely witnesses it. This open-door policy extends to their cars as well. As none of the youths have their driver’s licence yet, they bully whoever’s available to drive them around like their personal chauffeur.

One day, out of the blue, Yuuji messages Suguru begging for a volunteer to see Human Earthworm 4 with at the cinemas since Nobara and Megumi had (smartly) opted out. Suguru tells Satoru, also seeking an out but coming up with nothing. In a serious act of betrayal, Satoru, refusing to spend his hard-earned trust fund money on it, instead messages Yuuji: we have it at home, come over.

“I’m not paying for that trash,” he scoffs, watching a recap compilation of the earlier movies. “I’ll stream it for him.”

So, they remodel the lounge room into a faux cinema, with soft fairy lights and a huge mattress on the floor in place of chairs. Despite their best intentions, it’s a tight fit, as Megumi and Nobara also rock up, two hungry caterpillars desperate to be fed free pizza and bubble tea. The siren call of food attracts Shoko too, who emerges from her room, dead inside and out, and collapses onto the couch behind them. The movie’s an abomination that belongs in Suguru’s most chilling nightmares, but it’s easy to poke fun at, the group mercilessly ganging up on Yuuji as he wholeheartedly, singlehandedly attempts to defend it.

Suguru won’t lie, being piled together on a mattress on the floor, slotted neatly between Satoru and Megumi, was cozier than it had any right to be.

The bone-deep contentment he felt had him agreeing to Satoru’s offer to brush and braid his hair once everyone left for the night, unlocking a broad, pleasantly surprised smile from the alpha. Suguru’s finnicky about people touching his hair, much to Satoru’s chagrin. His thrill at caring for Suguru’s hair is on par with his enthusiasm for sweet treats, which leaves the omega considering if he should relinquish some of his tightly coiled control and let Satoru tend to his hair more often. It’s a dangerous precedent to set, but he can’t say no the next night, meeting Satoru’s hopeful eyes with an over-exaggerated eyeroll before gesturing for the alpha to join him in the bathroom.

Not long after their movie night, Megumi evidently resolves his hangups over Yuuji’s thoughtless comment (following several discussions with Nobara, which Suguru hears about second-hand, and some peptalks with Suguru directly), because the two officially begin dating. They are, in Suguru’s humble opinion, disgustingly cute. Satoru shows his approval by gifting the happy couple with life-sized body pillows of each other, which Megumi almost shreds in half upon receipt. Nobara is beside herself, both at becoming a third wheel in their relationship and because Yuuji and Megumi, of all people, started dating before she did.

“I’m happy for them,” she tells Suguru over coffee, “obviously! I just think it defies the laws of reality! That’s all!”

Suguru doesn’t bother with obvious statements such as, “What did you think would happen when you told Megumi to suck it up and ask him out?” Instead, he goes for the jugular: “Only one way to reset balance in the universe, then: are you on any apps?”

They spend a good chunk of time avoiding their respective classes and swiping on various dating apps. Suguru’s distinctly dissatisfied by the options presented, and incredibly glad that he’s not currently interested in dating. He’s also stupidly grateful that he doesn’t spot Satoru anywhere, despite him meeting Nobara’s loose criteria. He doesn’t dwell on it further, though, lest he accidentally jinx himself.

When Nobara does score a date a few weeks later, Suguru swipes Satoru’s molten-black credit card, with permission, of course, and he and Shoko take Nobara shopping for an appropriate outfit. It’s reaching end of semester, and the break from studying is a boon for everyone involved. Satoru would also have jumped at the licence to avoid work; however, his parents had demanded the pleasure of his company, to his immense consternation. Suguru offers to bring back an assortment of sweets, though, which bolsters his mood slightly.

They find a cute, corseted number, a minidress that hugs her figure nicely. Nobara, fluttering her lashes at Suguru, asks sweetly if she can use their bathroom to get ready (“I need the mirror, it’s so big! Also, your house is the closest to the restaurant…”), which obviously Suguru consents to, resigned to his apparent fate of having three additional household occupants at any given time.

When the heralded day arrives, the bathroom is consequently transformed into a makeup oasis. Nobara locks herself in there for several hours, whipping her head out occasionally to ask for their opinion before sliding back to become one with the tiles. She comes to regret her decision to camp out in their house, however, when Satoru yells out, an hour before the designated pickup time, “Nobara, your date’s here!”

Which, of course, leads to her screaming around, frantic, nearly ruining her makeup by rushing her eyeliner, and when she hobbles out and opens the front door, she’s met with twinkling stars, a vacant street, and Satoru’s hideous cackling.

She wastes precious time attempting to slap Satoru with her mini handbag, who is unfortunately quite agile and difficult to hit – Suguru’s been burnt by Satoru’s hidden athletic abilities as well – before toddling off to adjust her outfit. When the menace himself slides next to Suguru on the couch, arm reaching over his shoulders, the omega jabs at his ribs with a savage grin. “That’s for Nobara.”

Satoru clasps his other hand to his chest, groaning, “You’re a vicious man, Getou Suguru.” He stays put, though, leaning closer into Suguru’s space, seemingly not that bothered by it.

Suguru settles back to watching his show until Nobara reemerges, properly prepared and raring to go. The boys look up in tandem, and Suguru checks, a tiny note of concern trickling out, “Are you sure you don’t want a lift?”

“I’ll be fine, thanks – if you’re really worried, I’ll send you my location, ok,” she declares, before twirling around for them. “What do you think?”

It’s strange seeing Nobara, confident and self-possessed, seeking approval from them, so Suguru is hasty to reassure her. “Perfect. She won’t know what hit her.” He nudges Satoru.

“Looking great!” He gives her two thumbs up. “Remember to use protection!”

“Ugh,” she flips him off, and with that, she heads off to wait for her pickup.

Satoru sniffles pathetically once the door fastens shut behind her. “They grow up so fast!”

Blithely shoving him, Suguru taunts, “And yet, here you are.”

“Excuse you,” the confirmed man-child gasps, playfully slapping Suguru’s arm, “I’m plenty grown.”

“I’ve yet to see it,” Suguru laments, a devious smirk teasing along the lines of his mouth.

“I’d be more than happy to remind you.” Octaves have been shaved off Satoru’s voice, the lower-than-usual register taking Suguru’s head for a spin. Then, Satoru’s standing, leering, with one hand planted on Suguru’s knee and the other firmly clutching the back of couch, adjacent to his head. For a man that Suguru never catches exercising, Satoru is intolerably built. Trapped beneath a broad expanse of pectorals, Suguru slowly tilts his head back to meet avid blue. His heart has ramped up in tempo, allegro to presto in a blink. Shifting away is impossible; he’s blinded, his vision tunnelling rapidly. He thinks he spots those stunning irises darting downwards, and he vaguely wonders what’s caught Satoru’s attention.

“Stop bullying Suguru.” Shoko’s voice echoes from the kitchen, and Satoru slips back gracefully, the bizarrely charged moment between them dissipating. Suguru’s caught between feeling embarrassingly grateful at the timely interruption and bizarrely annoyed.

With a distinct, lingering look at Suguru, frozen on the couch, Satoru casually links his hands behind his head and heads over to the kitchen to pester Shoko about her dinner plans.

Unfocused eyes watch the TV, shapes and colours drifting around Suguru’s vision like a kaleidoscope. Well. That was… something. When he tries to parse it out, though, his mind plays Russian Roulette with him, drawing nothing but blanks.

It doesn’t stop him from replaying the scene over and over as he lies in bed that night – and it draws a shiver up his spine every time.

He wishes he could say that the next day was as rote as ever, but that would be untrue.

Because now Suguru’s waking hours are filled with images of Satoru, looming over him, close enough for their noses to touch. Electric blue gliding over his skin, the warmth of a hand on his knee, seeping through his clothes. Silly daydreams that consume his mental energy, repeatedly dragging his attention away from his studies. It’s highly problematic, given end of semester exams are approaching fast and Suguru is woefully unprepared.

It's sexual frustration, Suguru reasons, because it has to be, because he needs it to be. He hasn’t dated in ages (they don’t discuss what happened last time). He’s latched onto the slightest provocation from an alpha and run to the hills with it. That’s on him and his stupid brain.

There’s one way to fix this: Suguru’s not above taking his own advice – as he said to Nobara, putting yourself out there is how you achieve results. Or words to that effect.

There’s a bar close enough to university that it attracts both students and regular customers – a preferable blend to the one on campus, filled solely with awkward first years. Also, there’s a pool area, which Suguru enjoys playing when he has a suitable partner. Which, he is currently on the lookout for.

It must be his lucky day, in fact, because, as he walks in, he immediately observes a man by the pool tables, surrounded by a motley assortment of friends, that piques his interest. Tall, lean, with brown hair and darker eyes. Jovial, and with an empty beer glass on his left. Considering his options, Suguru moves to the bar and orders two drinks, guessing at the other man’s preferences, before flicking his hair back and sauntering over.

“Hi there,” he hoists up the beers with a smile, “mind if I join you?”

His bribe works a treat: the alpha is putty in his hands. And he is an alpha – a smoky, cedarwood scent emanates from him, lingering heavily below the middle-notes of his beta companions. It’s not quite to Suguru’s tastes, but it’s tolerable.

They take turns at pool for a while. Once Suguru clocks how bad a player his newfound partner is, he doesn’t hesitate to introduce betting to their game to turn it up a notch, which the other man laps up, keen to show off in front of his friends. It’s all going swimmingly, until Suguru swans over to the bar again in search of another round with the extra cash he’s acquired and runs straight into Yuuji.

“I’m sorry, are you alrigh – ah, Getou-sensei!” Yuuji blinks at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too!” he says once his mouth catches up to his brain. “I’m having a couple of drinks – is that allowed?” Ribbing Yuuji is effortless. The corners of his mouth lift as the boy splutters, digging himself the deepest possible hole as he attempts to backtrack.

Taking pity on him, Suguru calmly returns the question, “What’re you doing here?”, over top of his flailing.

“We’re having a break from finals study.” Yuuji signals with his thumb behind him to where Megumi and Nobara sit, patiently awaiting their pink-haired maître d’ to return with drinks.

Suguru waves at them and they return it, openly pleased to see him. The alcohol must be kicking in because he wants to go over there and hug them, check that they smell right. Currently, Yuuji reeks of a stale, bland mix of scents, creating an unholy cocktail only palatable because of the underlying aroma of his friends and the slightest whiff of Satoru that’s holding on by a thread.

“Are you going to join us?” asks Yuuji happily, and it pains Suguru to decline, but he has left his potential one-night stand alone after promising drinks, so. He tells Yuuji this, in simpler, less explicit terms, and is confused by the trepidation that crosses his face.

“Oh? R-really? You’re hanging out – with that alpha?” Yuuji glances back at the group, and the other two must read something there, because there are some truly mixed expressions being passed around.

“Are you ok, Yuuji?” he inquires, smiling beatifically at the alpha to minimal response. That just makes him more concerned. “You seem a bit stressed.”

He reaches up to ruffle his hair, snaking his wrist past Yuuji’s scent gland as he does so, crowing internally when his sneaky scenting manoeuvres are successful. Yuuji visibly relaxes, which makes him viciously pleased. But there’s still a strange anxiety etched in his posture, and he can’t seem to stop fidgeting. “Ah, no! I’m fine?” It’s posed as a question. “I’ll let you get back to it?”

Tilting his head at Yuuji, Suguru raises a brow in response, and he’s met with an audible gulp. Well, this has been sufficiently strange, he thinks, nodding at him with a final assurance of, “Come round soon, ok? All of you – we’ll celebrate the end of your first semester together.”

This does not seem to assuage Yuuji’s nerves, but he trundles off back to Megumi and Nobara, glancing concernedly back to Suguru as he does so. Suguru watches them in his periphery as he orders his own drinks. They seem to be arguing about something, heated glances prominent and aimed mostly at Suguru. By the time he collects his beers and heads back towards the pool tables, the group’s sitting in silence: Yuuji’s tapping on the table, Nobara has her fingers laced together, expression mutinous, and Megumi’s texting away, ignoring them.

Worry engulfs him, but Yuuji had said everything was fine, so he’ll leave it for now. If it’s important, he’s certain they’ll chat about it later.

Returning to his pool game, however, he’s caught by the feeling that he’d much prefer to be with his friends right now. Scalping money from this alpha is rapidly losing its appeal. He aches to be in their company, surrounded by familiarity and simplicity. It might be because he’s close to his heat, but that generally increases his sex drive, if anything, which should make him want the attention of this alpha instead. And he has his full, undivided attention – his friends have gone, having read the room and excused themselves.

Confused, Suguru resolves to speed up the process, laying it on thick with the alpha in the hopes that they can have a quickie and be done with it. As such, he’s bending over the table obscenely, a full ninety-degree angle that he’s conscious makes his ass pop, mindlessly planning what he’s going to make for dinner, and if roommates will be in, when the alpha says sternly, a touch aggressive, “Who’re you?”

Suguru takes his shot, tip of his tongue sticking out, sinking two balls, before he rights himself with a self-satisfied smirk. It slides right off his face, replaced with confusion, when he’s met with scintillating, icy blue –

“Satoru?” He stares at the alpha, who stands rigid, locked on to Suguru’s new friend, face devoid of emotion. Satoru’s an open book to most, but especially to Suguru. Seeing him standing there, unreadable, causes his diaphragm to clench, anxiety funnelling in.

“Satoru? I thought you had your exam this afternoon,” he questions, reaching out slowly, as though to an injured beast, wild-eyed and dangerous. Before he can make contact, Satoru’s moving, circling the pool table like a shark. Suguru offers the brown-haired alpha an apologetic smile, a sorry, he’s socially inept, was raised by wolves, etc. It appeases him somewhat, spine straightening as his confidence returns, though he watches Satoru’s movements like a hawk.

“Finished early.” For reasons unknown to Suguru, it’s clipped, strained. He blinks, unsure what to say as the white-haired predator before him finishes his lap around the table, returning to Suguru’s side with a poised, easy gait. Suguru has this thought often, but it bears repeating: Satoru could be a supermodel if he wished.

“Wow,” he sounds out, coarse and elongated. Satoru’s not interested in playing nice, it seems. “Suguru, are you stripes?”

“This must be your roommate?” the other alpha says, strained, as he looks at Suguru for askance. They’d chatted briefly about their lives, the brown-haired man querying the semi-permanent alpha scent that Suguru carries. He’d explained about Satoru and his heavy-handed, but platonic, petting. They’d had a laugh about love languages, about where alphas fit into the Venn diagram (physical affection and gift giving, for sure – that’s Satoru to a tee). Suguru’s glad for the other alpha connecting the dots because he can only nod in reply.

Satoru’s head snaps up at the question, laser-focused on the alpha, grin pointed and sharp. “Suguru,” he drawls, vowels stretched as far as they can feasibly go, “if you wanted a real challenge, you should’ve asked. He’s practically letting you win.”

Here we go, Suguru snorts. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Satoru.”

“Oh, you know I’m the only match for you, baby.”

“Don’t try to drag me down to your level. I’m quite happy at the top.” Grinning, Suguru rests his head on the top of his pool cue, hooded eyes daring the alpha to make a scene. As much as Satoru’s right, he’s not going to let the man ruin his hard work here. “The kids are here too you know, why don’t you go bother them instead of judging our playing, hm?” Shooing Satoru, he returns his attention to the brunette next to him. His eyes are darting between him and Satoru as if they’re a remarkably engaging tennis match.

“Sorry about him, he wasn’t socialised properly as a child,” Suguru says sweetly, ignoring Satoru’s protests. “I believe it’s your turn?”

“Um.” The alpha can’t meet his eyes, staring at a point behind Suguru as the brunette’s head tilts faintly to the side, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck. “I have to head off now, actually. It’s been great meeting you.”

Flatly, Suguru lets out a, “What –”, but the alpha is already moving, fleeing the scene. Suguru whips around to stare at Satoru, fuming. “What the fuck was that?”

The absolute ignoramus of an alpha has collected the brunette’s abandoned beer and is sipping away at it without a care in the world. “Dunno,” he says indifferently, immune to Suguru’s anger. “Don’t worry, I’ll pick up his slack for you.”

“It’s your money on the line, then,” is his frosty reply. To be fair, he does feel significantly better by the end of their game, having completely flattened Satoru despite the alpha’s previous grandstanding.

“You’re such a sore loser,” he ribs as the overconfident asshole slinks around, tail tucked between his legs, muttering under his breath.

They do end up staying longer than anticipated, with Satoru demanding a rematch, which Suguru allows since he shouts him a drink, and then one match becomes several and the alcohol ramps up to compensate. Foolishly, Suguru realises too late this was all done on an empty stomach – he’s beyond tipsy, little hiccups escaping with every breath, by the time they stop.

Unable to stand without serious support, Satoru is left to heft him up, dragging him along with him. The alpha is tall for sure, which Suguru is vividly aware of considering Satoru’s entire being is embedded into his neural pathways, classified as critical information to retain by his treacherous brain.

“My brain… sucks,” he tells Satoru, solemn, and then he bursts into uncontrollable laughter at the alpha’s subsequent bewilderment.

“Do you think your sucky brain can manage the walk home? Hm?” Satoru wheedles, carefully pushing flyaway strands out of Suguru’s face.

Suguru hums. “I’m doin’ it, aren’t I?” and then he slips over an uneven patch of pavement and drops like a brick to the ground. There’s violent coughing above him, and Suguru squints at Satoru menacingly, knowing the fucker is covering up laughter.

“C’mon, up you get,” Satoru says, hands reaching under his knees and back, and then he’s being hoisted up in a bridal carry. Arms cling around Satoru’s neck instinctively as he begins walking, and Suguru sticks his nose into the side of his neck, purring when he notes Satoru smells correct. At least someone does, he grumbles.

“What do you think you’re doing there?” comes Satoru’s amused rumble.

But Suguru is unresponsive – mainly because he finds he’s unable to open his eyelids, lulled by the sweetness in the air and the alcohol in his system. Satoru knows his answer, anyways. He always does.

Thoughtfully, Suguru’s heat arrives after he’s finished his exams.

It’s a welcome change from the horrible timing of previous years. To compensate for this, however, because there must always be balance in the world, Suguru’s pre-heat is a noticeable deviation from the norm.

He never nests. Hasn’t since he first experienced puberty, when his parents supplied him with as many blankets as they could and worn clothing that carried their scents.

His roommates are also puzzled. They’ve never witnessed this side of him, which has been a blessing for them because Suguru is a feral nester. Tearing through their closets, he steals the stinkiest articles of clothing, the sheets with the highest thread count, the memory foam pillows. Grocery shopping is a nightmare that destroys his budget. He comes home with piles of snacks and electrolyte-filled sports drinks, and an unnecessary haul of sheets and towels from his accidental visit to Shibuya.

“Did you wind up at Hands?” Shoko asks pleasantly, as Suguru smacks her grabby paws away from his fluffy, luxurious new towels. Sullen, he grunts in affirmation.

“Ok, good chat,” she yawns, already walking away from the irritable omega.

By the time his actual heat starts, though, Suguru’s nest is still not complete. Initially, it was an itch in the back of his mind, consistently placated by his acquirement of more comfy items, but the itch had ultimately evolved into constant anxiety at the wrongness of his nest.

He’s leaking stress like the most grating faucet alive, drip drip dripping all over his house. Satoru has usually long vanished from their house out of respect for Suguru’s space, but the alpha’s seemingly not willing to leave when he’s in this state. Instead, he’s pacing around, releasing soothing pheromones and catering to Suguru’s every whim. Which is the dream of omegas worldwide, to have a stunning alpha ply you with care and support and follow you around like a lost puppy, but it’s not solving the issue.

Satoru finds him collapsed on the floor near tears, hair tangled and in disarray as he tugs at his scalp, hyperventilating.

“It’s not right!” He fretfully peeks at Satoru before resuming his nest-quest, rearranging pieces like it will have any substantial impact on the outcome.

“What isn’t?” The white-haired man is using his gentlest tone, which pisses Suguru off to no end.

“Don’t patronise me, use your fucking nose!” Suguru demands, whipping his head around to glare at him. “It smells wrong!”

Obeying Suguru for once, Satoru inhales, nostrils flaring widely. He drums a finger on his chin, looking quizzically at the nest. A beat later a penny must drop because he lights up, snapping his fingers gleefully.

“I’ve got it, leave it to me.” With that, he spins and runs, leaving Suguru to resume his rigid panic alone.

It takes Satoru what feels like days to return, though in hindsight it was maybe an hour or two. Still, he does deliver, as promised: a plastic bag containing three soft, strong-smelling hoodies. Suguru spends a delightful moment sniffing the bag, a true bloodhound in the making, before he rips the clothes out and folds them into his nest.

There’s a serious purr building in his chest. He thinks he hears the door close behind him, but he pays little attention to anything outside of inhaling the blend of scents now permeating his room. He feels like Goldilocks, just right, as he curls into it and grants himself licence to fall into the heat that’s crawling through his bloodstream.

“How’re you feeling?” Narrowed eyes glint over the top of a mug. Suguru supposes he deserves a bit of reticence – he did snap at Shoko over towels, of all things.

“Alive.” He pours himself a coffee, settling next to her. “Where’s Satoru? Should I text him that it’s safe to come home now?”

“Ah, that’s not necessary,” she says, bobbing her head towards the alpha’s closed bedroom door.

Suguru struggles to contain his surprise. “He stayed? The whole time?”

“Yep,” she confirms, popping the ‘p’. It leaves Suguru with more questions than answers. Uninterested in his internal strife, however, Shoko idly scrolls on her phone, nibbling on toast. Suguru drinks his coffee in silence, too exhausted to do much else.

He’s shoving his soiled towels and sheets into the washing machine when Satoru finally emerges from his room. Lumbering back to the lounge to collapse on the couch, he finds the alpha’s stolen his spot, stretched out across it lazily.

“Hey,” Suguru tickles his feet meanly, and Satoru kicks them back in retaliation. “You look a bit peaky.”

He receives a dirty look and a foot lodged in his stomach for his troubles. “Oof. Fair.”

Satoru raises his sunglasses to study Suguru properly, blue reduced to narrow slits as looks him up and down. “The clothes did the job, then?”

“Hm? Oh, those hoodies?” Suguru stretches, leisurely rolling his neck. (He is not preening. He’s stiff and sore, ok? Very normal.) “Yeah, thank you. I have no idea what was going on there.”

Satoru hasn’t moved, eyes fastened on Suguru. He was certain he washed off all traces of the heat, but there’s a shadow of something hungry in those depths, lurking patiently. Poor Satoru – he can’t believe he stayed.

“What do you mean? You were missing the rest of the pack’s scents, that’s all. Those hoodies are from the kids.” It’s unbelievably casual, Satoru’s pitch calm and measured. Yet, Suguru can’t hear anything except for the pounding heartbeat in his ears.

“Sorry, what?” His mouth is twisting into a smile, stiff and daring, but Satoru stares back at him, unmoved.

“You were missing your pack.” He dares to emphasise the words, as though the added inflection will push them through Suguru’s thick skull.

With a fake chuckle, he pushes back: “I don’t have a pack.”

Satoru’s head lolls off the side of the couch, and he groans into his palms, exasperated. “Suguru, you’re killing me here.”

“Then don’t joke about shit like that!”

“I’m not fucking joking around; I’m telling you what happened!”

They rarely ever fight. There are little boundaries between them, their relationship built on compromise and mutual satisfaction at seeing the other happy. The tiffs they do have are minor, resolved expediently, minus their initial blowup, of course, but they don’t count that. This, however. This has the hairs on Suguru’s neck standing, his pulse racing. Satoru’s angry with him, eyes aflame, teeth bared.

It frightens him, for a myriad of reasons. And that puts him firmly on the defensive, which is his big mistake.

“I can’t believe you would say that – you know how I feel about packs,” he spits, stepping back, creating space between him and Satoru’s fury.

“I’m telling you what you don’t want to know, what you refuse to hear.” Incensed, Satoru rolls off the couch to stalk towards Suguru. “You’re in a pack, Suguru! Deal with it!”

“Having friends does not equate to having a pack!” Suguru yells. He’s trapped in a complicated dance with the alpha: for every one step back, Satoru takes two more, and Suguru’s rapidly being herded into a corner.

“Explain to me why you think you nested then.”

“Nesting can happen for a number of reasons, Satoru. Hormone fluctuations are an obvious one.”

The alpha pretends to mull it over, dropping a fist into his palm with an overly cheerful, “A-ha!”, when he reaches a “conclusion”. “Or it happened because omegas nest when they’re in packs.”

Suguru’s officially run himself into said corner, back hitting the wall, and Satoru takes full advantage, barring him from leaving with his body.

“Satoru, I’m warning you, stop,” he hisses, defiant.

“No,” he says darkly. “You’ve been ignoring this, and we’ve been enabling you. But you’ve been reaping the rewards of a pack for months now with zero complaints, and now you decide to flip out? What the fuck is your deal Suguru?”

White noise, static in his head. Satoru’s heaving breaths skating over his mouth, the air thick with anger and want and desperation, to the point that each lungful is pain.

The question reverberates around, around, around – what’s your deal, Suguru, and he suddenly can’t stand it, a hopeless tightness in his chest constricting him, and he moves on impulse.

The punch is not cathartic: it’s sheer panic, ladened with guilt. It does the job though, Satoru is pushed back with a grunt, and Suguru slips away, outside, down the street, shoeless and without his phone, only stopping when his body screams at him to dry heave in an alleyway.

Wiping away the spittle from his mouth, he slides down the dirty brick walls, unseeing. He has to head home at some point, he knows, but he doesn’t want to while the stars glisten above him, bright and poignant. They don’t need to hear his tale to cry with him, shooting stars their tears, running endlessly through the infinite lustre of the galaxy.

It’s tense at home afterwards. Suguru does his best to stay on campus, using his ingrained knowledge of Satoru’s habits to thoroughly avoid him. He’s taking a summer semester, anyways, which is an excellent excuse to not be present at the house.

Shoko’s the one to find him camped out near the university’s track field days after their fight. She is similarly stuck on campus, the med school timetable cruel and unusual in its lack of a proper holiday. She sidles next to him on the grass, offering a cigarette, which he takes with shaking hands.

For a while, they sit in silence, smoking together. It’s near tranquil: the blazing sun, the cool grass, birdsong surrounding them. A clear juxtaposition to his internal strife.

“So,” Shoko takes a large hammer to the ice, “what the fuck was that about.”

After a long drag, Suguru replies, “I assume you’ve spoken to Satoru.”

Humming in response, Shoko lets the silence bleed in, collecting her thoughts. Suguru takes the opportunity to sift through his own emotions, a futile attempt to create order in the madness.

“He wasn’t very forthcoming,” she eventually divulges, and Suguru’s guilt deepens astronomically at the concern lining her face. Hurting Satoru in any sense, no matter how theoretically justifiable, is a double-edged sword for Suguru, a knife lodged in his guts that twists with each breath he takes. He owes Shoko an explanation, a chance to absolve himself a small portion of this horrible guilt.

So, he tells her: about the heat; the scented clothing; and confronting Satoru, his confusion, his hurt, his denial.

He thinks he observes Shoko’s eyebags deepening in real time.

“Let me get this straight,” she says, aiming her cigarette at him, and Suguru knows he’s not going to appreciate what she has to say next. “You’re cranky because you think Satoru formed a pack with you and a bunch of kids and didn’t bother to discuss it with you. Is that it?”

“Yes, I’m cranky,” Suguru snaps, teeth gritted.

“God, you’re an idiot.” She certainly doesn’t pull her punches, Suguru muses.

“Don’t mistake this for a kindness, Suguru, it was pure selfishness. He didn’t willingly adopt a bunch of ragtag, needy students. I’m sure it strokes his ego and has probably contributed to his newfound awareness that companionship can be nice – but it was never for that purpose. It was for you. This is your pack, and he’s begrudgingly welcomed it because it’s an extension of you.”

Shoko inhales her nicotine with a relish, smoke curling as she blows it out across the field. Next to her, Suguru sits silently, absorbing her words. He doesn’t understand – he’s not sure what Shoko means: this is your pack. Everyone is fully aware that Suguru does not want a pack, why the fuck would he make one himself? It defies all logic. He expresses this to Shoko.

Underneath her grimace, there’s a softness there, as she notes, “I think you need to talk to Satoru about this, sorry. I don’t think it’s my place to speak for him.”

“I’ve tried,” is his mulish answer.

“Uh-huh. Have you tried speaking to him in person?”

“No.” Half a pout forms, the slightest jut of his lip. “I can’t go back home yet. It just feels… wrong. I don’t understand why he won’t call me back.”

“I mean, you did reject him. Completely out of the blue as well,” she says, far too calmly.

“What? I didn’t reject him?!”

“Yes, you did?” she snorts, staring at Suguru like she can’t believe how audacious he’s being. “You yelled at him and said you didn’t want to be a part of the pack. And then left without any explanation.”

“That’s not the same thing! I just needed some space to process, Satoru understands that.”

“Don’t be dense, Suguru.”

“I’m not! I never rejected Satoru. He’s my best friend! I would never –”

“How did you expect him to feel when you said you didn’t want to be in the pack with him? You essentially said it wasn’t good enough – he wasn’t good enough, as a pack member, an alpha, as a…” Shoko drifts off, expelling an aggravated sigh.

“That was never my intention,” Suguru says roughly. “Though I can’t help feeling like there would be nothing to reject if he’d respected my wishes in the first instance? I’ve made my position on packs abundantly clear. You can’t tell me he somehow forgot my feelings on the matter.”

“Now you’re just being fucking obtuse, Suguru.” Shoko’s face has settled on pure disbelief. Starting to protest, Suguru is swiftly knocked back by a fearsome glare and a raised hand. “No. Did you not hear me before? You’ve dug yourself so deep in denial you’ve forgotten how this works. Gojo did not unilaterally form this pack, idiot; this is shit you learn as a child. You chose to scent mark and be scented in return. You chose to invite everyone into the house for gatherings, to make it a communal space. You chose to practically adopt those kids. One alpha does not a pack make. Everyone was a party to the decision – forgive them for not explicitly confirming with you if your blatant invitation to become pack was real or not.”

Ouch. Words evade him for a while as he struggles with that information. With the facts laid out bare, he can see the pattern. The kids had rapidly become part of his life, establishing their place amongst Shoko and Satoru in his inner circle. But why did he allow that? He blurred his own boundaries, the lines fading into obscurity, and for what? He can be overly permissive at times, his friendship with Satoru is evidence of that. Perhaps he had simply trusted that the people in his life respected his decision regarding packs and had failed to properly cement that boundary when pushed.

“Listen, I’ve got an exam at three. Do you think you could hurry up and gain some insight into your avoidance in the next five minutes? Or is that not on the agenda for today.”

Brutal, Shoko. “Thanks for that psychoanalysis, Freud,” Suguru remarks dryly.

She throws him a look, lip curling in distaste. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me. I’m never listening to your pathetic sob stories again.”

“That’s funny – you barely listened the first time.”

Case in point: she proceeds to ignore him, rudely checking her watch.

“You’re a piece of work, you know.” Sighing, he considers his “avoidance”, as Shoko so kindly put it. The word draws a precipitous, bottomless well of insecurity to the surface from its hidden depths, choking Suguru with its all-encompassing energy. He grapples with it, breathing shoddily through the feeling, until it relaxes its grip on him enough that he can think once more.

Stuttering, he tries to convey the complicated tapestry of emotions currently doing a jig in his stomach. “I know how packs work, Shoko. I – I can see how I may have… been responsible. For this. I just… I never wanted to be a pack omega. Subject to the whims of an alpha, to the demands of everyone else. It’s a cage. I wanted independence.”

He pauses, mulling his next sentence over. “And… it’s overwhelming, at times, having people you care about. It’s easy to hurt and be hurt, and the intensity that comes with that connection – it makes me want to run away and live alone in the woods, you know. Drop everyone and start again.”

“Mm, wouldn’t that be nice,” Shoko smiles, staring up at the pale blue sky blissfully. “But that would solve nothing, and I think you know that. We’re social creatures, Suguru. Yeah, pack omegas and alphas come with a stack of stereotypes, but at the heart of it, you’re simply delegates that the rest of the pack has chosen to ensure that everything runs smoothly, and everyone’s cared for. It’s a job, well, a caretaker role, really. For a community of people who love each other and benefit from the cohesiveness.” With a small chuckle, she amends, “Actually, love’s a strong word. Let’s go with tolerate instead.”

A fair amendment, Suguru thinks, his mind flashing back to Megumi and Satoru’s interesting relationship dynamic. Which leads to: “A caretaker role, you say.”

“Laugh all you want – Satoru’s latched onto those kids like a barnacle on a whale. Did you know he’s been trying to convince Megumi and Nobara to train with you and Yuuji?”

That surprises him. “No, I had no idea.”

“He’s quite focused on their development. I’m convinced he’s got grand plans to become a soccer dad. I caught him scrolling for SUVs the other day, I was horrified.”

That image arrests his brain, and Suguru is overcome with profuse laughter at the idea. The accuracy of it is astounding – Suguru’s tempted to encourage Satoru to drop his degree and pursue his dreams, honestly (though the sunk-cost fallacy prohibits him from acting on it. Suguru’s spent an exorbitant amount of time fixing Satoru’s study habits and ensuring he passes to permit him to quit at this juncture). Shoko joins in, and they ride high on the endorphins together.

“I can’t imagine – Satoru, a single father?” he wheezes, and Shoko shakes her head, tapping him on the nose.

“Is this you telling me you’re breaking up or something? Just give me plenty of warning if you do, I can’t deal with him sobbing on me again.”

Suguru’s laugh swiftly peters out when her expression stays resolutely neutral.

“We’re not – we’re not together?” He chokes on the words, ears bright red. He’s not delusional enough to believe his feelings are in any way reciprocated. Satoru’s not known for subtlety, after all.

Shoko just heaves a sigh, standing and brushing grass from her pants. “I’m not doing this today. I’ve done enough, I’m out.”

She’s sadly right, as per usual, Suguru acknowledges as he makes his way back onto campus proper. Not about their relationship status, to be perfectly clear, but everything else. Where she found time to complete a quick psychology degree, he’s not sure, but he is thankful nonetheless. He heads home with purpose, swiftly cutting through the swarms of people milling around the university. It’s time to face Satoru – they’re long overdue for a chat.

Picking up Satoru’s favourite crepes on the way is a no-brainer. Suguru thus appears at home armed and ready, dual-wielding two giant crepes.

He’s not fucking around: he kicks open the alpha’s door with a firm, “Satoru, we need to talk.”

The baleful look he receives is not encouraging, but Satoru does, shockingly, sit up in bed. “Are we doing this now?” he asks, sounding bored, though there’s an underlying note of hesitancy that shatters the illusion.

Suguru sits down next to him, politely leaving space between them, before handing over both crepes. “I’m sorry,” he says, unable to meet the alpha’s eyes. His hands twitch in his lap, wanting to touch and take their fill after such a long separation, but he stays strong. “I didn’t handle that very well. What you were saying scared the shit out of me, and you’re right – I would’ve kept ignoring it if I could.”

There’s a hum of acknowledgement from the alpha, who’s begun picking at his crepes delicately. Chocolate sauce and cream drip onto his fingers as he pops a strawberry into his mouth, tongue darting to catch the juice that trickles past his lips.

Suguru’s mesmerised – he nearly forgets the entire point of the conversation, brain tuning into the Gojo Satoru channel unbidden.

“Why don’t you want a pack?” that strawberry-red mouth asks, and Suguru forcefully closes his eyes to redirect his ludicrous, hormonal thoughts.

He means to repeat his reasoning from before – the words are there, ripe for the picking – but what exits his mouth is starkly different: “I’m not good enough. To be in one. With you, that is. I’m not – I’m just not.”

Satoru’s shocked speechless. There’s a first time for everything, he guesses.

“Wait, wait, wait.” The alpha grapples with this information – and also with his hands being full of crepes, leaving him floundering around trying to put them down somewhere. Placing them carefully on a serviette on his desk, he whips around and jumps at Suguru, seizing him roughly. “What do you mean?!”

“Satoru, you’ve been taught how to run packs your whole life,” he begins, slotting his hands over the alpha’s larger ones where they clasp his shoulders, “and I’ve never been in one. Your family pack – it’s monstruous. It’s a legacy. Packs were not really on my radar, but then I met you and I realised just how out of my depth I am.”

There’s that paralysing fear that wants to worm its way out of him – the agonising realisation that, if he ever wanted to date Satoru, to stay with him, he would automatically be the pack omega. Satoru’s family, from what he tells Suguru, are a nightmare of old-money ideals and traditional values. Some packless, poor law student, thousands of dollars in debt from student fees, would barely be considered to join the pack full stop, let alone as Satoru’s –

“Suguru.” Satoru’s got that you’re an idiot face, toggled onto its highest setting. “You run this pack. You always have, even when it was just me and Shoko. But if you’re so sure you want to wallow in self-pity and never think about packs again, then listen to me when I say that we’re a team. We make each other stronger. I don’t care about my family pack, I hate those old fucks – if you’re not there, I’m not. It’s that simple.”

Maybe it is that simple – when he stares into Satoru’s fathomless electric-blue eyes, it certainly feels that way.

“If you don’t want a pack, that’s fine,” he continues, threading a finger in Suguru’s bangs, curling his hair. “I’m with you either way.”

It’s the sweetest sentiment he’s ever heard from the alpha; Suguru’s heart returns it threefold. Desperately, Suguru wishes Satoru would close the gap, inch forward so the omega could taste that sweetness directly from the source.

He clears his throat, but his voice stays at a whisper, “I do want one – I mean, I want our pack. I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t.”

It’s the right thing to say. Beaming, Satoru runs his fingernails through Suguru’s hair in cyclical motions, lightly scratching his scalp. He lets his head fall onto the taller man’s lap for better access, silky tresses covering his face and spilling down Satoru’s legs. It simultaneously brings awareness to his exhaustion, both physical and mental, but the position also causes a pulse of arousal, a curl of passion in his core. Having tight control over his scent has been a necessary venture, living with Satoru, but too long spent in this position may test his limits.

“Satoru,” he exhales, purring around the vowels as the pressure on his scalp increases, “I’m gonna fall asleep – I should g –”

“No. Stay,” the alpha half-commands, half-pleas. “You can sleep here.”

“Satoru,” he feebly chastises, wriggling in his lap. One strong arm locks him place, however, as the other continues the ministrations on his scalp.

“You know, when I brought you those hoodies, I thought you’d finally realised – I thought you’d accepted –” the alpha pauses momentarily, and Suguru feels a cold nose nuzzling into his hairline, hears Satoru’s deep breaths as he takes in his scent.

The conversation with Shoko flashes across his mind’s eye – he knows where this is going. The puzzle pieces subsequently click together: the unwillingness to let Suguru leave is part of Satoru feeling rejected as pack alpha, he realises with a start.

“The others – they knew what it all meant, and they recognised me as their alpha, but… but then you punched me and left.”

Suguru winces. Raring to validate his unfortunate alpha, he tries to speak, to affirm him, tell him that he’s seen his effort, and is promptly shushed.

“No, Suguru, please,” he begs, “you don’t understand what I’m trying to say. I mean that I see myself one way, and I don’t think you view me like that at all. But, then, I thought –”

Turning in his lap to face Satoru properly, to show he’s listening, is a critical error: they’re nose to nose, mouths parted in sync. Suguru swallows as Satoru pauses, absolutely still.

“Can I kiss you?” and it’s courteous, considerate, and Suguru thinks calling himself unprepared is an understatement, but he agrees with the tiniest downturn of his head, his brain having exited the building. And boy, was he right, because he is not expecting the skill that Satoru displays, the buildup of small, gentle kisses that gradually pry his mouth open, until a tongue slips past his defences, trailing heat and whipped cream in its wake.

He's definitely not in control of his scent now: it’s rising to intertwine with Satoru’s vanilla-sweet, their combined arousal bombarding Suguru’s body, ricocheting his sensitivity up to the maximum. There are hands gripping his hair now, tugging, and Suguru moans into the alpha’s arrogant smirk.

“I knew it,” is whispered on his skin, branding, “I knew it.”

“You can boast later,” Suguru bites into his neck, “shut up and kiss me now.”