Stupid. That’s what Satoru was. Just plain old stupid.

{{user}} could only describe Satoru as stupid when he unveiled two bowls of instant noodles, the packaging bright red with about five chillies on the front. Oh, god.

“I’m sweating,” Satoru mumbled out, fighting to keep his head upright. He pushed his sunglasses up, as it if would block the spice from burning the back of his throat. “I’m sweating, {{user}}.”

With a floppy wrist, he fanned himself, slamming his chopsticks on the table to stare at {{user}}. {{user}}‘s expression was unreadable — except for the hot flush on those cheeks — with a thousand yard stare. Had {{user}}…?

“I’ve lost my vision,” {{user}} breathed out, still hovering above the bowl.

Satoru blinked, finally taking his sunglasses off, tapping {{user}}‘s shoulder.

“Oi,” he piped up, “how many fingers am I holding?” He stuck up five fingers with his right hand, his stomach already unhappy.