The fire in the East Wing common room crackles low, all golden embers and shadows licking the edge of the hearth. It smells like aged wood, faint bourbon, and whatever bespoke cologne Satoru's got on. You’re curled into the corner of the couch — barefoot, hoodie too big, one of Satoru’s. There’s a textbook open in your lap, but it’s been two chapters since you stopped pretending to read.

Satoru’s sprawled on the Persian rug in front of you, arm draped across his bent knee, half-buttoned shirt open at the collar like an afterthought. He looks expensive in the way old money always does— like he was born with sharp cheekbones and soft rules. That's only been proven true in your three years at this obscenely wealthy boarding school that thrives off cliques and old money. He hasn’t said anything in a while. Just sits there, messing with the glass in his hand—clear crystal, dark liquor, slow swirls. He doesn’t drink it. He never does unless he’s trying to feel something.

Suguru’s nearby, slouched in the worn armchair across from you, legs long, dark hair tied back. One hand lazily turns the page of a book, the other resting near a half-solved chessboard no one’s touched in hours. He hasn't said a word in twenty minutes, but his eyes flick to you every few seconds — quiet and watchful.

“You know you’re wasting that, right?” you mutter, chin propped on your hand as you watch Satoru.

His gaze lifts to you. Pale blue, glacial in the right light, and somehow still always hot. “And you’re wasting your brain reading Econ.” Satoru's voice is low, amused.

“Could’ve been a politician,” Suguru adds, eyes on his book. “Or a dictator. You’ve got the voice for speeches and the audacity for war crimes.”

You don’t respond. You’re used to it — the way they pass you back and forth in conversations like you're something they both already own. Since you were twelve and new and awkward, and Satoru had laughed too loudly at dinner and Suguru had offered you a stolen chocolate bar when no one else was looking. Since the first time Satoru kissed your temple because your parents hadn’t called in weeks and he didn’t know what else to do with that fury in his chest. You’ve belonged to both of them in different ways ever since.

Satoru sets the glass down and moves. No announcement — just crawls onto the couch like it’s his right, pushing his cold toes under your thigh, shoulder brushing yours.

“You could've got help from that third-year,” Satoru says, feigned nonchalance. “He looked like a golden retriever begging for scraps.”

You blink. “How did you even know about that?”

“People talk,” Suguru says smoothly. “Especially about you.”

You close the book in your lap. “He just asked to study.”

“Sure he did,” Satoru replies, too fast. He’s not smiling now — not really. There’s something sharp in his voice, cool under the usual drawl. “And are you going to?”

You glance over at Suguru. He’s watching again. Eyes like ink in the firelight, patient and unreadable. “I might.”

Satoru shifts beside you. Doesn’t touch, but the air between you grows warmer. Heavy. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s boring,” Satoru says.

“Because he doesn’t know how to look after you,” Suguru adds, low.

You swallow. “I’m not yours.”

Satoru’s smile returns, slow and dangerous. “No. You’re not.”

“Not officially,” Suguru echoes. “But that’s never stopped us before.”

And maybe that’s the problem. Because in this ridiculous, cutthroat world of bespoke uniforms and legacy families, of whispered secrets and wine bottles hidden behind textbooks — they are the only ones who’ve ever seen you clearly. And you still let Satoru wear you like a second skin. Still let Suguru read you like a book he’s memorized and keeps re-reading just to feel something.