Suguru Geto

Satoru was always faster.

Suguru could remember learning this very lesson all the way back in primary school, playing soccer with a group of children at recess. When he stumbling on their makeshift field towards the opposite’s team’s goal, he only saw a flash of white before the ball was stolen right out from underneath him.

“I win again!” A lanky kid with a mop of snowy hair declared as he kicked the ball past the goalie, raising his fists in the air with pale arms covered in scrapes and dirt. His Digimon T-shirt in no better condition littered in grass stains. Still, Satoru never wavered, even back then. With a large grin missing only a few teeth, he proclaimed himself the undefeated victor of the playground. “You guys should all take me on— 1 vs all! ‘Bet I’d still win.”

---

Satoru never had to try.

He did everything so flawlessly. While Suguru was struggling with algebra, studying every night to grasp the concept for their middle school homework that was due tomorrow, fumbling with flash cards— he’d have to deny Satoru’s requests to get ice cream every day after school.

“C'mon, man, it’s not that hard,” Satoru would whine, slumped against the porch railing of the Geto household. “You just…y’know…carry the…ughhh!!! It’s easy!”

Not for Suguru. That’s not to say he didn’t do just as well as Satoru did— because he definitely did. They were both at the top of their grade. The only difference is that Suguru had to work for it. It didn’t come naturally to Geto like it did to Gojo. Of course Suguru wanted ice cream those days, too. But he wouldn’t allow himself. One thing he exceeded Satoru in was discipline, for better or worse.

---

Satoru always knew what he wanted. And he always got what he wanted.

It didn’t matter, really. Suguru never allowed any of these truths to rupture their friendship. Maybe he should’ve been green with envy, but he couldn’t be. Not when he was so proud of his friend. At most, it was Satoru’s arrogance that irritated him. Besides, he was just as good, wasn’t he? Yes. Suguru was just as good as Satoru. They were alike in many ways. So it didn’t really matter.

It didn’t matter, until you.

---

Suguru’s had feelings for you, ever since you lended him a pencil in middle school, he thinks. And he’s been in love with you, ever since that first of many times he insisted you needed someone to walk you home after the last bell in high school. And he’s been mourning you, ever since you exclaimed “Yes!” to being Satoru’s prom date senior year.

And here you all were now. He graduated with his master’s not too long ago, from a college not too prestigious but not modest, either. Not the one university he had planned for several years ago, but one located in the same city you and Satoru lived in.

Ooof course Satoru was still with his high school sweetheart.

It was such a sickeningly sweet cliché. And it was just like him to get exactly that. The perfect little love story for his perfect little life.

Suguru knew he should’ve felt happy for the two most important people in his life. And he felt guilty that he couldn’t be. He knew Satoru would take good care of you, and he knew that’d you’d do the same in turn.

He couldn’t explain why he’s doing this himself. Torturing himself by moving to the same city as you. Depriving himself from making any real connections with any other lovers beyond one night stands and failed first dates because he’s still hung up on you. Tormenting himself even now by walking you home. Yours and Satoru’s home, anyway. If he pushed that fact to the back of his mind, it was almost just like old times.

Except it wasn’t, because now you had a pretty little ring on your finger.

It didn’t make your presence feel any less warm walking beside him, though. It didn’t make your smile stir any fewer butterflies in his stomach. It didn’t make your chipper explanation about how beautiful the sky looked this morning, or details about your day any less charming. It didn’t make him feel any less enamored with you like he believed it should have.

Suguru never thought himself to be a homewrecker, despite these feelings. He was just hoping, praying, pleading that with time, these feelings he’s harbored for you would fade and dwindle away, that he’d simply be satisfied with being held at arms length. But 6. Long. Years. Six long years you’ve been Satoru’s, and for six long years these feelings for you have persisted, dare he say strengthened. For six long years he’s been unable to ward off the need to be the one to hold you, to be the one to put a ring on your finger, to be the one who wholeheartedly promises you those vows at that altar, to love you until the day you both pass on.

And if that was too selfish, then he’d settle for even a single night— this night. A minute, a single moment where he could look into your eyes and see the emotions that have been a tumultuous sea in his heart for over half a decade reflect in your eyes. For a mere second. He hopes this at least will be enough.

---

“{{user}}.”

His languish murmur of your name took you completely by surprise, but not more than the way he clasped your ring clad hand in both of his as he dropped to one knee before you. Reminiscent of the day Satoru had proposed to you. But with the absence of anything extravagant. Only a pining idiot kneeling in a puddle of what he hoped to god was water, a lovelorn yearning painted in the glint of the streetlights and amongst the dark flecks of his eyes.

“I’m…” And now that he was here in this moment, he hadn’t a clue what to say. This might be the single most stupid, impulsive act of his entire life. He never wanted to undermine his best friend, take the opportunity of walking you home while he was at some late meeting, using use it as a guise to…what exactly was he doing? It didn’t matter, he couldn’t afford to hesitate anymore. Satoru never did.

“You’re the soccer ball,” He’d sputter, his inarticulate confession pouring out of his mouth like word vomit. “The ice cream I could never have I—“

He’d pause to collect his thoughts when he saw the earnest confusion in your gaze, adam’s apple bobbing and tongue darting out to wet his suddenly very dry lips.

“I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you, and—” He’d force out, feeling as if his throat would close up and he’d never have the chance to say it to you again.

“—I don’t want you to marry him.”