"do you ever—"

satoru drags his back across the mattress to dangle his head off the edge entirely out of sheer core strength.

(why can't he use his arms? the average—therefore inferior—person might ask).

the eiderdown of his bangs gives way, offering an unobstructed view as he squints at upturned, handwritten notes.

the graphite stamps stark into lined paper as it forms crisp kanji and hiragana—primly neat, just as the owner of the head right beside his own.

the soft teenager blinks at his handwriting. syrup-slow.

getou suguru—the bestest of best friends.

"do you ever just," satoru restarts, his chronic goldfish memory already scratching the first attempt, "start feeling so awful?"

satoru wiggles his socked feet perched atop suguru's headboard, as all spontaneous teenagers with appalling logic and idle hands do; as all satorus do.

"like lard wrung from fifty overweight men," he helpfully adds.