delirium bubbles up in suguru’s chest. he’s never touched a drug in his entire life, but he’s so damn high right now.

he never knew dancing could be so fun.

suguru's sleek dress shoes click and swivel against the gojo estate’s ballroom floor, narrowly dodging dress ends, pretentious coattails, and a server squeezing by. he laughs in pink-faced glee as he spins satoru in his arms, watching his best friend unravel like the silkiest ribbon.

this party is for posh people—a pastime for gossipy titters and wealthy chortles. yet—satoru wanted suguru, a boy from empty plains and cattle to feed, to join him tonight.

and now—look at his satoru.

the boy is drunk on fruit punch, giggling apologies with every squash of suguru’s foot, dumping too many twirls into the mix.

the boy looks—well—simply beautiful in his suit; suguru rarely sees the boy act formal, no less dress so.

the suit crinkles, hugging satoru perfectly with each eager movement—and what a blessing that is.

but it’s satoru himself that burns bright.

his eyes are so shiny, like there's no place else he'd rather be. his styled hair is starting to give way, snow strands sweeping into his eyes.

the warm balm of the chandelier above smears everything around suguru together—all but one thing.

the jazz singer and the rest of the ensemble are amazing, yes, but the only thing suguru can hear is the soft, off-key arrangement satoru hums, and—

the way suguru’s heart sings back.