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The humid Osaka air clung to Satoru like a second skin, a familiar, comfortable weight that he’d known his entire life. He chuckled, a sound that vibrated in his chest, as Suguru, his Suguru, expertly navigated the bustling street food stalls, a symphony of sizzling meat and fragrant spices filling the air. Suguru’s arm was a steady presence around Satoru’s shoulders, a silent anchor in the vibrant chaos.
“Ah, Satoru, my koibito,” Suguru murmured, his voice a low rumble against Satoru’s ear. He pressed a kiss to Satoru's temple, a gesture that always sent a pleasant shiver down Satoru’s spine. “You look so happy tonight, my darling.”
Satoru beamed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He understood ‘happy,’ and he understood ‘tonight.’ But ‘koibito’? And ‘darling’? These were the words that danced just beyond his reach, tantalizingly close yet frustratingly foreign. Suguru, bless his infuriatingly charming heart, had a penchant for sprinkling his conversations with these strange, melodic sounds that Satoru instinctively knew held a special meaning, a tenderness reserved only for him.
English. Suguru, with his effortless fluency and his impossibly smooth way of speaking, could have explained everything. He could have sat Satoru down, pointed to words in a book, and patiently taught him. But he didn’t. Instead, he preferred to keep Satoru in this delightful, slightly bewildering bubble of affection, where words served more as sonic caresses than literal translations.
Satoru, for his part, was determined to understand. He was not a man who enjoyed being kept in the dark, especially not by the one person who held his entire world in his hands. He’d tried, subtly at first.
“Suguru,” he’d asked one evening, as they watched the neon lights of Dotonbori paint streaks across the inky sky. “What does… honeybee mean?” He’d overheard a tourist say it with a fond smile to her companion.
Suguru had merely turned his head, his eyes, pools of warm amethyst, locking onto Satoru’s. A slow, enigmatic smile had spread across his lips. “It means,” Suguru had said, his voice soft as silk, “that you are incredibly sweet, Satoru. Like a precious, buzzing little thing that brings joy to everything you touch.”
Satoru had been both pleased and utterly confused. Was he sweet? He liked to believe he was. But a honeybee? He pictured himself flitting about absentmindedly, stinging people with pollen. It didn’t quite fit. He’d made a mental note to investigate.
Later, while browsing a dusty antique shop, Satoru had stumbled upon a worn English-Japanese dictionary. He’d carefully flipped through the pages, searching for the elusive words. He found ‘darling’ – “a very dear person.” That seemed appropriate. But ‘koibito’? It wasn’t in the dictionary. Perhaps it was a rarer word, or maybe Suguru had made it up. Suguru had a talent for making things up, exquisite things, like the stories he spun about the constellations on clear nights, or the way he described the taste of sakura mochi as “the blush of a shy maiden.”
His investigations were secret, furtive glances at shop signs, hurried scribbles in a small notebook he kept hidden in his yukata pocket. He’d learned a few basic phrases: ‘hello,’ ‘thank you,’ ‘I love you.’ But the nuances, the affectionate appellations Suguru used so freely, remained a mystery.
Tonight, as they savored grilled scallops, the scent of yuzu and garlic making Satoru’s stomach rumble with anticipation, Suguru leaned in closer. “You are my sweet, sweet mon chéri,” he whispered, his breath warm against Satoru’s ear.
‘Mon chéri.’ Satoru’s brow furrowed. He’d heard that one before. It had a certain lilt, a French sound that resonated with Suguru’s sophisticated tastes. France. Suguru had always dreamed of visiting France. Was ‘mon chéri’ a French word?
He’d spent an afternoon at the library, poring over an old French phrasebook. He’d found ‘mon chéri’ – ‘my dear.’ So, it meant ‘dear.’ But Suguru’s tone, the way he’d said it, implied so much more than just a simple ‘dear.’ It was like calling him ‘my precious little treasure.’
Satoru took a large scallop, its shell glistening under the dim lantern light, and popped it into his mouth. The explosion of flavor was exquisite. He chewed thoughtfully, his mind working furiously.
“Suguru,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “This scallop… it is very… delicious.” He’d picked up ‘delicious’ from a passing tourist. Suguru’s eyes twinkled. “Indeed, Satoru. Everything you eat, you eat with such joy. You are my little… bon vivant.”
‘Bon vivant.’ Satoru felt a familiar wave of intrigue mixed with exasperation. He knew ‘bon’ meant good, from ‘bon odori,’ the summer dance. And ‘vivant’? That sounded like ‘living.’ So, ‘good living’? Was Suguru calling him a glutton? He didn’t think so, not the way Suguru said it. It sounded more like an appreciative nod to his zest for life, his enjoyment of the simple pleasures.
He was starting to notice a pattern. Suguru’s words, no matter how foreign, always seemed to paint a flattering picture of Satoru. ‘Koibito,’ ‘darling,’ ‘mon chéri,’ ‘bon vivant.’ They all felt like compliments, wrapped in a language Satoru couldn’t fully decipher.
The night deepened, and they found themselves at a quiet izakaya, the air thick with the scent of sake and grilled skewers. Suguru ordered them more food, chattering happily about his day. Satoru listened, nodding along, his gaze fixed on Suguru’s animated face.
“And then, my cherished,” Suguru said, reaching across the table to take Satoru’s hand, his thumb stroking the back of it gently, “my entire day was made better by the thought of seeing you.”
‘Cherished.’ Satoru’s heart did a little flip. He’d seen that word on a gift tag once, a beautifully wrapped box. It was accompanied by a delicate silver necklace. ‘Cherished’ felt… significant. It spoke of being valued, of being held dear. This, he could understand. This felt warm and right.
He squeezed Suguru’s hand. “Suguru,” he said, his voice a little rough. “You… you are also my…” He searched for a word, any word, that conveyed the same depth of feeling. He couldn’t find one in Japanese that felt quite enough.
Suguru’s smile widened, a soft, understanding smile that told Satoru he didn’t need to find a word. “I know, Satoru,” he said, his thumb lingering on Satoru’s skin. “I know.”
Later, back in their quiet apartment, the city lights a distant hum, Suguru held Satoru close. He buried his face in Satoru’s dark hair, inhaling his familiar scent. “You are my sunshine,” he murmured, his voice muffled. ‘Sunshine.’ Satoru’s mind raced. Sunshine was bright, warm, life-giving. He pictured Suguru, always so composed, so grounded, being uplifted by his presence.
It was a beautiful thought. He’d found ‘sunshine’ in his dictionary, of course. It was the literal sun. But Suguru meant it metaphorically. Satoru pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting Suguru’s. “Suguru,” he said, his voice earnest. “I don’t understand all your words. But I understand the way you say them. And I understand what they make me feel.”
Suguru’s gaze softened. He reached up and cupped Satoru’s cheek, his touch infinitely gentle. “That is all that matters, Satoru,” he whispered. “That you feel loved. That you feel… adored.”
‘Adored.’ Satoru felt a blush creep up his neck. Adored. It sounded like worship, like reverence. He tried to picture himself being worshipped, and it felt far too grand. But Suguru’s eyes, so full of genuine affection, made him believe it was possible.
He leaned into Suguru’s touch, closing his eyes. “Thank you, Suguru,” he said. “For… for everything.”
The next morning, Satoru woke to find Suguru already awake, a cup of steaming coffee placed gently on his bedside table. Suguru sat beside him on the edge of the bed, his expression serene.
“Good morning, my treasure,” Suguru said, his voice laced with that familiar, tender warmth. ‘Treasure.’ Satoru smiled. He knew that word from the dictionary. It meant something valuable, something precious. Like a hidden chest filled with jewels. He felt like that jewel, unearthed and cherished by Suguru.
He reached out and traced the line of Suguru’s jaw. “Suguru,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep. “I am learning.”Suguru’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise, quickly followed by a knowing smile. “Oh? And what have you learned, my sweetheart?”
‘Sweetheart.’ Satoru felt his heart swell. This one he had stumbled upon in a romance novel. It meant someone deeply loved, someone who was the object of affection. It felt… earned.
He met Suguru’s gaze, a shared secret passing between them.
He didn’t need to know the exact translation. He knew the feeling. Suguru’s words, those sweet, foreign sounds, were simply Suguru’s unique way of saying, “I love you, Satoru. In every way possible." And Satoru, in his own silent, understanding way, loved him back. He wouldn’t trade this beautiful, baffling linguistic dance for anything. Not for all the dictionaries in the world.