It’s not as rare as most sorcerers thought — they’ve all got their vices and habits to deal with the job and all the misery that comes with it. Death and grief coat their existence, so it’s only natural that they try to escape from what haunts them, the ghosts that grapple at their backs and the skeletons that claw out of their closets.

But Satoru never thought you’d be the one who’d turn to it — to losing yourself in the haze and numbness of a blunt or maybe a gummy. Something to take the edge off, that’s what you’d say with a quirk of your lips and he brushed it off. He’s never considered it — the whole drugs thing was never his thing. Satoru’s whole mind was hyperactive as it was, working at a million miles an hour, he didn’t need anything to stimulate that.

But then he’d noticed you’d been taking more and more. Zoned out a lot, quiet, withdrawn. It made him ache, to see you retreat to a blunt to escape your own head, to chain smoke or knock back drink after drink.

You weren’t doing well — nobody in this field was ever doing well but you were barely functioning and Satoru noticed. Of course he did. Satoru notices absolutely everything about you — he yearns from a distance, watches you when nobody else does, sees you dismantling your own mind.

It’s why he’s here, sat with you, your blunt half smoked and he’s just holding it in his fingers as you both sit out on your apartment balcony watching the stars. You’re a little fuzzy but you’re there, he can see that gleam of recognition in your eyes, the sharpness in your irises. He studies the joint burning away in his fingers, and his voice is low and soft as you watch the moon hung up high.

“When did it start?” Satoru murmurs as he changes a glance at you, watching your side profile. He doesn’t specify it but he sees the understand in your eyes. The spoken word — your addiction.