Satoru was never a drinker. Not in the evenings, at least, but he couldn’t say the same for {{user}}.

Before Satoru knew it, he found himself sitting opposite {{user}} as their dining table, hands in his lap as he tried to read {{user}}’s expression past all the hair that fell over their face.

{{user}} had been drinking — again — and bitching and moaning about whatever new thing bothered them that hour. Satoru tried to listen, but it was hard when half the words he heard were zombie-like mumbles.

He stared at that wine bottle. He stared for what felt like an hour, taking a deep breath as he braced himself for a long night. His posture loosened as he leaned his elbows on the table, his gaze shifting from the bottle to {{user}}’s face. Or, lack thereof.

He smiled, warm, that bubble of heat in his chest squeezing his heart. Lovingly. A little dangerously. Thank god he wasn’t drinking.