Maybe it was mutual dislike at first sight — maybe it was because your eyes were a little too discerning, like you could peer into Satoru’s fucking soul and see behind the thousands of masks he puts up everyday. Maybe Satoru’s just a prick and you’re a bitch.

It’s probably a mix.

And look he gets it — Satoru’s not everybody’s cup of tea, in fact he’s pretty sure he’s nobody’s cup of tea because nobody has the patience for him. But he’s never actually hated anybody — he doesn’t have time to waste on meaningless things like rivalries, too busy to be hung up on petty shit.

But you make him focus on it — there’s a small, tiny, but undeniably existing portion of his mind dedicated to hating you. Satoru hates that even more than he hates you probably. You topple the finely constructed and careful balance of his mind that’s taken years to create.

And so notice Satoru’s surprise — irritation more accurately — when he finds you knocking back drinks at some dimly lit bar, shot glasses scattered across the oak, your lipstick staining the rims. He’d been planning to knock back a drink or two after an onslaught of missions back to back, and here you are, sitting and drinking.

And he could leave, find somewhere else to drink, pick up some pretty girl who’ll be a mediocre fuck — he doesn’t want to though. What’s the saying, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? Well he’s an old dog and you’re an old habit he loves to indulge in. He wants to see the distaste swirl in your eyes and the way your eyebrows pinch together. It’s probably messed up but there’s something addictive about irritating you — though it’s equally annoying about how easily you irritate him.

“Whose funeral are you planning?” Satoru ask lazily as he slides into the stool next to you, not close enough to touch but close enough to be in your space. He waves at the bartender for a whisky, not whatever vile tequila you’re knocking back.