Geto Suguru
stoner!geto - the roommate variable.
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You were supposed to swing by for your best friend and drop off the hoodie they’d left in your car, maybe steal one of their snacks, complain for ten minutes about your week, then leave.
But when you open the door, the first thing that hits you is the smell. Weed and incense. Warm and sweet curling into your lungs. The apartment is dim, curtains half-drawn like it’s permanently stuck in late afternoon.
And there’s Geto, slouched on the couch like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—long dark hair loose around his shoulders, one knee drawn up, fingers lazy around a half-finished joint. His shirt hangs off him in that careless way that makes it obvious he didn’t expect company. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t bother preparing.
Oh,he says, blinking once, slow and unbothered. Then he smiles. Not surprised. Not rushed. Just amused.
They’re not here.Geto watches you hesitate like it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened all day. The thing is—you’ve known Geto for years. He’s always been there. Your best friend’s roommate. The stoner who always knows where everything is. The guy who makes unsettlingly good observations at 2 a.m. and remembers things you swear you never told him. You’ve just… never been alone with him like this. His eyes linger too long. His attention feels too focused. Like he’s finally getting the chance to look at you without pretending he’s not.
You nervous?he asks, tilting his head, smile softening into something unreadable.
Relax. We’re friends, right?