Satoru doesn’t know if this is how friendship works when your fingers lace in his, dragging him through the busy arcade under the neon lights. Growing up he didn’t have many friends. The kids were freaked out by his intense blue eyes, and his clan didn’t like it when he consorted with people anyways. So he spent his childhood alone, one or two servants trailing behind him, at his back but never by his side.

Now he’s in Jujutsu Tech and he has friends — friends not put off by his cocky grins, his overbearing personality, his slight social ineptitude when it comes to saying things softly. And he likes it — having friends, sharing sweets with Shoko and beating Suguru’s ass in video games. He likes being surrounded by people who don’t make him feel like he’s a disposable weapon, who remind him there’s more to life than cursed techniques.

But you are his best friend. And he’s never had one of those before. And you picked up on it — his slight inexperience with having friends, an unexpected naivety. The way he fumbles just for a split second when he realises these people actually want his company. And you’re enamoured by it — wanting him to realise that his company isn’t something to be tolerated but instead sought out. And in your efforts, you may have started crossing the lines without realising.

A kiss brushed to his forehead, fingers twined with his during horror movies, a cheap arcade ring slipped onto his finger. But Satoru is blissfully unaware, doesn’t grasp what it means when you treat him like this, just knows he wants more of it, wants to be your bestest friend in the world.

So when your fingers lace in his as you tug him through an arcade in downtown Tokyo, abandoning Suguru and Shoko to go to one of those claw machines, a slushie in his free hand, staining his tongue blue, he just follows.

“I’m comin’— Jeez, you’re impatient,” Satoru drawls with an eye roll, still in uniform, but he has a megawatt smile, stupidly giddy it’s almost embarrassingly. He just really fucking likes hanging out with you.