Okay. Breathe, Satoru. You can do this. It's just a sleepover. Just your girlfriend. Just the person you're absolutely, irrevocably obsessed with. Who you're trying really, really hard not to scare off.
Standing in your apartment, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from touching everything. You’re flitting around, casual, relaxed, while he’s trying to memorize the shape of your furniture, the smell of your space, the way you hum when you walk into the kitchen.
Satoru's baby-blues locking onto the bathroom door. “I’ll, uh... shower first, if that’s okay?” like it’s the most neutral, chill request ever. It’s not. He’s sweating. His ears are pink. You nod like it’s no big deal - of course it’s no big deal - but to him? It’s a very big deal.
He gently closes the bathroom door behind him. Worries if he makes too much of a sound, he will be banned from your fine establishment. Your things are everywhere. Shampoo bottles, conditioner, your razor, a little candle half-burned on the sink, your loofah hanging from the shower knob, the loofah. He stares at it for too long.
Are we at the loofah-sharing stage? Satoru wonders, frozen in place. It’s pink. Fluffy. It looks soft, and it’s yours, and he’s fighting every stupid urge in his body. “Don’t be weird,” muttering aloud, as if he can command himself into normalcy. Still, his fingers twitch. He holds it. Briefly. Gently. Just for a second. Just to say he did.
Then comes the body wash. He squirts out the tiniest amount and rubs it between his hands like it’s precious perfume. The scent hits him and he nearly slides down the wall. You smell like this. You smell like this all the time. How is he supposed to survive? Because now he smells like you.
Pressing his face into the steam and pretends it’s your neck. He’s sick. Maybe a little pathetic. He knows it. But he’s also just so in love. What can a guy do?
When he steps out, face flushed and hair damp, he feels like a teenage boy at his crush’s house for the first time - which, in his mind, he kinda is. You’re waiting for him in pajamas, makeup wiped off, looking soft and sleepy and so perfectly you. He thinks he might pass out.
And then… brushing teeth together. Should be simple. Should be normal. But nothing is normal around you. He’s beside you at the sink, trying to play it cool while your shoulder brushes his. You hum to yourself while brushing, glancing at him through the mirror, and he nearly foams at the mouth. Or maybe that’s the toothpaste. He’s not sure.
Then he sees it.
A little blob of foam at the corner of your lips.
Something happens to him. Something dark and unspeakable. He wants to kiss it away. He wants to lick it off your mouth like a psychopath. He stares. Blinks. Shakes his head like a wet dog. Absolutely not. No. Stop it.
What’s wrong with you, scolding himself. She’s just brushing her teeth. Like a person. A very pretty, perfect person.
He spits. Rinses. Avoids eye contact. Looks at the drain. Looks at your spit down the drain. Another weird thought. One that must be suppressed.
And then it’s time. Bedtime. Final boss.
Your bed is small. Cozy. Absolutely infested with plushies. He pretends to be annoyed but he secretly loves them. Even if they are plotting to kick him off the edge of the mattress. He climbs in carefully, unsure which plush is your favorite. Unsure what you'd do if he accidentally knocked one little guy off the floor. The blanket smells like your laundry. Like home. Like the future he wants with you.
You’re already under the covers, blinking at him sleepily, smile soft and content. Wearing his shirt and not much else. The fabric rides up your thighs and he has to look away before his brain fully melts. He deserves a prize for not making a move. Deciding to lay on his back, stiff, hands folded like he’s in a coffin. He doesn’t touch you. Not even a pinky. Be good, chanting to himself. Be good. You like her. You love her. You’re not a perv, you’re not a perv.
You shift closer.
A leg brushes his. A sigh escapes your lips. Your hand settles gently on his stomach like it belongs there.
He almost cries, something between a half whimper and a wheeze leaves his throat.
Slowly, carefully, he slides his arm around your waist. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. You lean into him.
He swears he hears wedding bells.
You fall asleep just like that, face nestled against his shoulder, breath even and slow. And he lies there, heart racing, brain fried, blinking up at the ceiling, Satoru would be getting no sleep tonight.
His thoughts are a mess: She’s so pretty. Is she really mine? What if I kissed her forehead? No, too soon. Maybe not. God, her skin is soft. I should move in. Tomorrow. Today. Right now. No, bad. Calm down. Be cool. Be a good boyfriend. Don’t get a boner. You’re cuddling. It’s fine. Just breathe. You’re okay. This is okay. Everything is okay.
He wants to. Touch you, that is. Just your waist. Just a hand on your back. Just to pull you closer and feel your heartbeat against his chest. But he doesn’t. He stays perfectly still. He doesn’t want to push anything. You haven’t done that yet, and he’d rather die than make you uncomfortable.
Except nothing’s okay. Because he’s so in love it physically hurts. Because you’re sleeping peacefully and trusting him with this little moment, and all he wants is to stay like this forever.
How are you sleeping so peacefully while he’s over here thinking about nothing but how perfect yoh are?
Marc Snuffy and His Nightmares
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
His sight was blurry, like a painting that had been smeared over. Of all the colors blending together, Marc could oh so clearly make out his face.
That sullen, lifeless face. The light that once shone with promise of regality and conquest was replaced with a dull, muddy brown that only encapsulated the horrors of peasantry and failure. The dirty, overgrown locks that covered his forehead instead of that proud, Mohawk-esque hairstyle he would adorn with his full chest. That god awful beard that tainted his once golden skin, matted together with bile that had poured from his mouth. The tear streaks he could barely make out had dried so delicately along his cheeks.
Oh, Mick. How Marc had let you down.
Snuffy’s eyes opened instantly. The hazy blurs of dream began to fade and the harsh lines of reality became more and more apparent with every blink he took.
There was no more Mick. Mick wasn’t next to him, in this bed of love and security that he had nested in so cautiously for months and months. You were, with your hair unkempt and your drool that had seeped from your lips onto your pillow. How similar the two of you look right now, Marc noted with slight horror.
Before he could think much more, his hand was already pressing against your cheek; cradling the side of your face. He cradled Mick just like this too that day. His thumb whisked over your lips as he gathered some of the drool there. He didn’t like it, didn’t like this feeling scalding over his body and mind with such heat. And yet, even though his best friend may live in his head, Marc knows he is gone and you are not.
You are alive, even when you look so dead. Dead to the world, dead to him. The only thing he can be certain of right now is the warmth of your skin and the current of air circulation from your breaths. He can’t trust his thoughts. But he can trust your pulse.
Inhaling with a shake, Marc squints to focus on you more clearly in the dark of the night. Your skin was carefully drawn and colored by Michelangelo himself, with streaks of moonlight giving your skin an ethereal glow. Your hair, though unkempt, foiled and laid to rest around you perfectly. A composition directed by Mozart. You were royal. You are royal.
You are..awake.
Marc stared into your eyes. You stared back, sleep dulling the inquisitive look you were giving him.
“What are you doing?” You mumble, closing your eyes.
He blinks, “How long have you been awake?”
You ignore his question, “I can feel your hand shaking. Do you want to talk about it?”
Your hand comes up and slides in tune with his own. He watches as you press a soft, chaste kiss to his palm. Marc reaches his other hand under you and pulls you towards him. He settles in the crook of your neck, trying to find the peace that sleep did not offer him. You entangle further with him, using your free hand to pet his hair. Moments pass with the two of you just like this.
“I just woke up. Felt you.” You whisper, hoping to draw out a respond from him. He sighs.
“Go back to sleep. I feel you too.”
You line the top of his head with slow kisses. He didn’t want to talk about it.
You knew what happened with Mick Moon. You know how much it haunts Marc. You know that you can’t help him when he tries to shut you out like this. For a guy that’s generally so easy going, he can become real uptight when he feels the need. This need is one you don’t particularly like.
“I love you,” You try. “I love you Marc.”
His breath hitches. That got him, Wetness begins to coat the junction between your neck and shoulder. His body is starting to heave with every muffled sob he lets out. You let him, holding him closely to you as he releases all of that burden he’s been caring.
•••
You don’t know how much has passed. You press a kiss to Marc’s hair again. Your eyelids refuse to open, sleep caging you. Despite that, rest will not find you, not yet. Marc stopped crying a good bit ago, but you speculate the two of you are both still awake. You press another kiss to his head.
“I love you.” You barely hear it. It’s small and weak, probably just like how he feels right now. But it’s raw. Thats one thing Marc always does, and continues to do: love with raw passion. He loved Mick, loves Mick. He has loved you and will still love you well into tomorrow. Just like Mick.
You smile. The waves of dream take over the two of you, that solace of the embrace you two fall asleep in being one of protection and intimacy.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
This biscuit is just for you, mwah 😽
9.8.24