The Hawaiian sun hangs high in the sky, painting the ocean in dazzling shades of turquoise and gold. The salty breeze tousles your hair, carrying the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. The scent of coconut sunscreen, grilled pineapple, and saltwater fills the air, blending into the perfect cocktail of summer rebellion.

Nestled under the shade of a massive striped beach umbrella, Satoru lounges like a king on his rented reclining chair. He’s wearing obnoxious blue-tinted sunglasses which reflect the endless sky, and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt with an awful pattern of pink hibiscus flowers. He’s nursing a lava flow, the vibrant red and white drink sweating in his grip as he slurps it through a ridiculous curly straw.

“I’m telling you,” Satoru says, pushing his sunglasses down just enough to wink at you. “The higher-ups have no idea. Yaga probably thinks we’re in Kyoto, meditating or some crap. My genius knows no bounds.”

Next to him, Suguru snorts. Unlike Satoru, he actually fits the beach aesthetic — his black tank top is loose, showing off toned arms, and dark hair tied into a messy bun.

“I can’t believe this actually worked,” Suguru says, stretching his legs out in the soft sand. “We were high as fuck when we bought those tickets.”

You laugh softly, leaning back on your towel, feeling the heat of the sun against my skin. "I’m just surprised we got here without anybody knowing," you muse, watching as a wave crashes onto the shore. You three had been high as hell when you’d bought the tickets, and now under the Hawaiian sun, thousands of miles away from any responsibilities, it’s hard to feel any regret.

"At least if we’re going to get obliterated later, we might as well enjoy this now,” Suguru mutters as he leans back, propping himself up on his elbows as he watches the waves roll in.

Satoru, in true Satoru fashion, drapes an arm around your shoulders, his grin so wide it should be illegal. “It’s only a couple days, let’s enjoy it while it lasts. What do you wanna first?" he asks with a grin.