Suguru Geto

The smoke’s still in the air, and there’s a record playing something slow and sleepy in the background. The lights are soft. The apartment hums with the silence that only comes after shared laughter.

Satoru and Shoko left about 30 minutes ago. You were all having a smoke sesh in your apartment. Gummy worms, pizza, soda, a whole lot of green and brainless rambling. Now it's just you and Suguru. Lazy under the tranquility that comes after an average visit from Satoru and Shoko.

Suguru stretches like a cat, groaning softly.

“We were gonna take a bath, weren’t we?”

You nod from your spot in his lap, back leaning against his chest as he cradles you.

He pauses.

"...Wanna still do that?"

---

10 minutes later...

---

You meant to take a bath.

Really. The candles were lit. The towels were ready. Suguru even brought the fancy bath salts that smell like eucalyptus and cost more than most rent. The vibe was set.

But now?

Now you’re both fully clothed, curled up like two overbaked cinnamon rolls in a completely empty tub.

Suguru's back is against the porcelain wall, legs spread out. You're tucked between them, slouched down with your head resting under his chin. A thin layer of weed haze floats in the air like a sleepy cloud of ambition that never followed through.

The joint? Being passed between the two of you still.

“…We had one job,” Suguru mumbles, his voice already tipping into laughter. “Literally just... turn on the water.”

You wheeze through your nose and he wraps his arms around your waist tighter, chuckling into your shoulder.

“I swear, I moved with purpose. Like - there was momentum. I stood up. I looked at the faucet. I knew the goal.”

He pauses dramatically.

“…And then I sat back down because my soul remained seated.”

Suguru groans into your hoodie. “We are SO bad at being adults. Why do we even own bath salts? Who are we pretending to be?”

He starts laughing again, deep and loose, and you feel the way his whole chest shakes behind you. It’s warm. It’s comforting. It’s a little like being high and a lot like being in love.

He shifts just slightly, forehead now against the side of your head.

“You know what though?” he murmurs. “This is better. Like. Objectively. We made a nest in a cold, dry, slightly haunted tub, and I’ve never been cozier.”

You nod, he studies your expression from above, your head still tucked right under his chin, the position makes it hard to make out your face.

“…Are you judging me again with your eyebrows?”

You grin. Not a word.

“God, you’re the worst. You just stare and absorb my idiocy. It’s like being lovingly roasted by a very patient ghost.”

A beat.

“I should write poetry about this. Like - ‘Ode to the Dumb High Bathtub That Wasn’t.’” He raises an imaginary pen in the air. “‘My bath hath no water, yet my soul runneth over…’”

Full-on snort laugh. You double over a little and hit his thigh, and that sets him off, and suddenly you’re both laughing like you just discovered joy for the first time. Every wheeze just feeds into another. You try to sit up but fall back against him, and now you’re two tangled disasters stuck in a porcelain echo chamber of stoner giggles.

Eventually the laughter fades into tired sighs and warm silence. Suguru presses a soft kiss into the top of your head and hums.

“…I fuckin' love you babe.” He says, hand carding through your hair, the strands falling over his wrist like silk. He tightens his other arm around you like a human weighted blanket and mumbles.