a heart heavy sort of thing —— heavy like a plant beneath a torrential downpour, heavy like your favorite blanket laying familiarly over your body, heavy like comfort, heavy like familiarity, heavy like something verging on TOO GOOD, TOO MUCH, love by way of toeing the line of sating and glutting, never quite finding the balance in between. satoru takes up so much room within and without, the presence and force of him / the brevity of his love, the ridiculousness of everything he chooses to do for one reason or another, every movement and flutter of his lashes deliberate, leading suguru along with hardly a thought, at times.

the trick of it is that suguru commands satoru / satoru commands suguru in return / the push and pull of them, the way their hearts beat in time. made for each other, and other objectively disgusting things.

❝ —— too organized, ❞ he aims for incredulous and lands firmly in amused because satoru would complain about a trait as sought after as organizational skills / honestly, fushiguro is the ideal student in nearly all ways ( with the exception of his occasional forays into willful disobedience in the name of whatever he gets on his mind, but that's par for the course for this place anyways ) so OF COURSE satoru doesn't want to look over his reports when they're thorough and generally well written. ❝ taking into account the weather gives context to the encounter, it may even explain why he opted for one method over the other, ❞ halfway to lecturing / only halfway because there's no point in lecturing satoru about reports, anyways.

THE POUT IS SO SATORU that it nearly lands in the category of cute, never mind he's nearly a thirty year old man and suguru hasn't thought of satoru as cute since they were fifteen years old and he was tumbling head first into love without realizing, not aware that it would carve itself into the very marrow of his bones as if in defiance of everything else in his life and world at the time. ❝ if only someone did," he crosses his arms, perches himself on the edge of his desk, legs outstretched, amusement widening into mirth, the curve of his mouth teasing at the idea of almost being mean for the sake of it. ❝ i'm not doing your work for you, satoru, ❞ especially not when satoru had claimed fushiguro as his favorite and therefore his first year to take under his wing. essentially.

❝ you know, if you refrained from torturing fushiguro—kun, he may stop adding every detail he can think of, ❞ it is rather excessive, especially for a boy as terse and straightforward as fushiguro / though, honestly, the idea of him purposefully fluffing up his reports for the sole purpose of tormenting satoru is hilarious.

❛ you're only defending him because you rarely have to go through his work. stop taking the moral high ground and let me be petty. ❜ he kicks at suguru's leg defiantly, doing his best to stay looking dejected because that normally wins him favor.

❛ that's so mean. ❜ he considers the frightening possibility that he's getting too old for pouting to have any real effect —— which is especially concerning since he plans to live forever ( ahh!! aging!! if he thinks too much about how nanami looks nowadays he'll break into hives, he was supposed to stay a dweeb forever ). ❛ fine. i'll do my job or whatever. ❜ suguru sitting beside him / suguru existing in the same school as him was always privately thrilling, as if it wasn't the natural conclusion to their togetherness. he stretches his legs out alongside suguru's, pointing the tips of his shoes forward as if there were any doubt he's taller.

❛ i don't torture him!! i treat all my students the same. yaga played favorites and now my skull's dented. ❜ always prone to dramatics, he theatrically rolls his neck, hand raising to run across the space reserved for half-hearted punishment. it's a lie anyway; megumi is his favorite without a doubt, any attempt to convince the others he's not only further proves it ( and somehow always ends up with his bank account drained? this probably isn't an issue for the other schools with their … less fashionably inclined students ). ❛ just because he can't take a little ribbing doesn't make me the bad guy. ❜

❝ mmm, your heart can put itself back together, ❞ gently amused in the way he only ever is when it comes to satoru, really, affection wearing away at worry like the ocean upon the sand / a persistent tide, but a fruitless one all the same : the ocean always carries with it more sand, can never wear away at the earth wholly or entirely. but he can't say as much to satoru, this unspoken agreement that they'll worry about each other and maintain each other's safety as something of a priority ( so long as it isn't in direct opposition to the task they've been assigned and places an unnecessary number of people at risk, of course —— insofar as suguru is concerned, that is, though if truth be told he's not certain if he would be able to put satoru side for the GREATER GOOD but / he's never been faced with such a situation and will reserve judgment until he is ) but never, ever speak of it. as if it's taboo to speak of it aloud. ❝ and if it struggles we'll just ask shoko and she can laugh her ass off at you. ❞

a slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when satoru reaches for the small curse, only for it to disappear before he gets the chance. satoru's general affection for the creatures that he ( ... ) engorges, enhouses, embodies, something somewhere in between all of those things —— it threatens to serve as a balm to the whole of it / threatens to. the vague discomfort that comes with his capabilities is just that : vague and discomforting but he was made to devour and house unwanted things, the ache in his throat and the rot in his mouth serves as proof of that / and so he will. that doesn't mean others can be so agreeable to it. ❝ i only bring out the cuties to put their minds at ease, ❞ gentle stress on the word cuties, a gentle tease. ❝ it can be unnerving to have something grotesque defending you. ❞ a half truth : suguru never brings out the grotesque without warning unless the situation is dire and he'd rather not deal with recoiling or retching or anything of the like. it is what it is / he'll maintain a vague semblance of inner peace / half-ignore the yawning void / turn away from the loss of self / so on and so forth.

this is what he's made to do : to devour / command / to hold satoru between his hands, too, perhaps.

satoru is nearly gentle beneath his hands and there's that affection that resides within him stretching languidly in his chest, across his heart, his lungs, dipping into the void. ❝ needy, ❞ he doesn't stop all the same, wouldn't dream of it / he's accused of spoiling satoru by nearly everyone who has to deal with them on a semi-consistent basis and suguru is perfectly content with that. with white hair slipping between his fingers, pressing against sore points gently, trying to bring a semblance of comfort where he can. ❝ okay, okay, ❞ a brief roll of his eyes that satoru can't see anyways, but what's he supposed to do? drag satoru to the shower bodily? no, thanks, the thought alone makes his face want to explode. ( there are only so many lines in the sand to cross. )

suguru offers a quiet laugh, nose wrinkling even as he can feel his face going slightly red as satoru presses closer, forehead against his belly, hands against his hips. ❝ ugh, please don't, ❞ a hand drifts back and he digs his fingers into the nape of satoru's neck, pressing firmly against the muscles / half as a punishment but half to soothe, as well. ❝ if you do i'll just take another shower before we leave, ❞ he adds, purely to be difficult, thumb pressing as gently as he can manage into satoru's temple, as well. ❝ he won't be able to complain much ( ... ) you're going above and beyond, after all. ❞ which is true, really : satoru is going above and beyond what is expected of him for this assignment, all things considered. yaga and master tengen said simply to let riko live and to make her suitably happy, not to go to these lengths, specifically.

so he smiles fondly down at the top of satoru's head, perhaps even threatening something like tenderness, affection in full show —— because satoru isn't looking, of course. ❝ even beyond my expectations ( ... ) ❞ a pause / we're the strongest, after all echoes in his mind, a humming sort of thing. satoru has never cared much for the weak, and yet. ❝ could it be you pity riko-chan, satoru? ❞

❛ they're not grotesque. ❜ defiant for no real reason, too tired to offer any proper defense to the curses suguru's speaking about; his care for them stems only as far as their ties to suguru, as if somehow the second he spits them back out they're transformed. suddenly lovable, deserving to be pet and cooed over. the ugliness ( because he'd be a fool to deny that ) only serves to charm him further, hulking things, drooling, moaning from cool air across glistening skin; perhaps it's obsession, a desperation to soothe the sickness that overtakes suguru whenever he summons obviously foul things. perhaps it's because he's a digimon fan. ❛ but i'm not complaining. it's less stuff for me to look out for. ❜ he hums as fingers roam through his hair, knowing where to press.

❛ nee — dy ❜ chiming back, a singsong voice. spoiled regardless, it was different from suguru ( as most things were ). tiny gifts fed to him, handed over, lavished upon him; he never missed them, never forgot the subtle ways that suguru would soothe his need for overwhelming attention. dismissal came easy, rolling his eyes and teasing the same way that every else did, but only because he knew he understood — offered up the same in an overwhelming want to touch, to soothe, to make things right. the same and not, more of their common language that placed them above everyone else; never in the history of everything had it come so easy before, he figured.

moving again, his forehead resting where it'd first fallen. maybe if he were better rested, if his head didn't throb from exertion, the sudden intimacy of them might've made him blush. rarely did he so broadly broach the space between them, instead lingering, pressing further, languishing in the distance until finally they slipped into some barely platonic space, remaining so only by the gymnastic thinking he implied. were anyone else to see them, they would appear as they always did: absolutely hopeless. ❛ he'll find something, he always does. ❜ his hands roam from their space on suguru's hips upward, holding his back, fingers pressing at the base of his spine concerned with some horrific future where he's left alone with his headache again.

utahime has no clarity on why things unraveled like they did , why geto was willing to go so far . . . she ' d like to know , she 'd like to yell at him and demand his reasoning , voice tinny and dramatic how it was always has been when she ' d chide the boys , but those luxuries aren ' t offered , only the silence that gives no chance of coping .

she ' s here for shoko , has been for the better part of a week and she ' d been faintly aware that it had been an exceptionally peaceful time , save for the tears , save for the ravaged hearts , open chests with bleeding hearts , slow , frail , broken . the sky has opened up , clouds arranged in wispy shapes , floating by as witnesses . there ' s a voice that echos from nearby , it makes utahime jolt as she ' s startled , the memories of thin veiled annoyance reminding her that shoko was not the only one in need of consul . honeyed optics trace the sound , finding one satoru gojo , looking rougher than she ' d seen him before . oh how the mighty fall . ❛ be stupid somewhere else ❜ spat at him but there ' s no venom , no real want for him to get lost .

and of course she's here for shoko, for someone else, for a myriad of reasons that don't pertain to him or his impending insanity; the way she'd turned / the way her face had twisted when she'd seen him / the fact that they'd never shared anything beyond unfortunate familiarly was proof enough. still, it was strange to see her in tokyo, the permanent backdrop of her on simple missions stunted at the sight of her clasping her hands against the honey-orange sunset.

perhaps if he'd been better, kinder to her across the however many years they'd known each other now, he might find some solace in the way she lingered. instead, it only served to irritate him, an unusual itch of anxiety coursing through him arms, his hands, buzzing at the tips of his fingers. absently his leg bounced, his eyes rolling at the dismissive way she answered him. he should leave, he should go back to his room and carry on rotting, it would be better for them both if he gave up his act of individualism but —— but he'd missed the sound of his own voice. or whatever.

❛ and —— ?? ❜ innately needing to pick apart whatever half-formed story shoko fed her, to fix the twisted version of his best friend into something ironically palatable. he could imagine them both, careening closer, whispering behind cupped hands from the threat of him looming; perhaps it was unfair of him to view shoko so unfavorably, but cast in the same light as utahime, he struggled to set the scene kindly. her dislike for him had never been anything more than a poorly kept secret, something they all knew but never said, so obvious was it made in her dramatic displays at the nerve of him existing.

❝ well, we can't have that, can we? ❞ it's far more a compulsion of selfishness than anything else / this rejection of satoru's rejection of his own crimes, his own culpability, half truth or no, but ( ... ) satoru isn't an idiot ; never has been. always too sharp, too intent, too intelligent, sometimes far more than anyone could ever presume or expect from him. self denial can only take someone so far, protection of the self can only carry one so far —— satoru knows because he must know, he must accept that which suguru has wrought / because HE WILL ACCEPT NOTHING LESS THAN THE WHOLE OF SATORU, refuses pieces or parts or scraps, he will not sate himself on pieces of satoru / he'd rather have none of him than fractional portions.

he's always been strangely selfish when it comes to satoru / covetous of him, his attention, his whole being, dwelling in that strange liminal space at the heart of him and the fringes of him and everywhere in between. consumed in him / consumed by him / CONSUMING HIM IN RETURN / the relentless cycle of infinity and the void and the impossibility that stretches between them inexorably, unendingly, absolutely. ❝ since when have you ever chosen the easy way out? don't disappoint me now, satoru. ❞

yet, the crux of it all is something as simple yet profound as the years that stretched and the chasm that yawns between them, purely vertical, perhaps able to be crossed in a single leap, yet who would want to risk it when you could fall into the infinite void beneath? NEITHER OF THEM ARE SCHOOLBOYS ANYMORE / the childish compulsion to be selfish with satoru's time and attention and whole being, as if suguru had been created to fill in the gaps of him, as though he had been born months later as a matched set, other juvenile, ridiculous, absurdist things / they're years and hundreds of dead bodies separated from that, the blood stained path that suguru follows not one that satoru will follow him down. not precisely. not exactly / not the way he once did, when suguru was his MORAL COMPASS and they begged at and played at living in each other's pockets / perhaps satoru feels guilty, for all of it.

ridiculous, if so.

unbearable in concept, even. nearly.

the path that suguru has chosen was his, wrought by his own hands, chosen with open eyes and an open heart : declared as he looked into the eyes of two emaciated, fearful, abused girls who had wept with relief when he had delivered to them their retribution, placing it at their feet before taking both of them into his arms and carrying them away, simply telling them don't look as he stepped over bodies and bodies and bodies and a veritable river of blood. SUGURU REGRETS NOTHING / thinks at times of haibara's cold, dead body / yet it is not regret but rage that fills him at the memory, at the knowledge that sorcerers are DEMANDED to place their lives on the line, to sacrifice themselves, all for the safety and wellbeing of vermin who would never understand, never know, would sooner cage them and lock them away and destroy them than ever attempt to understand, let alone THANK THEM.

this path was inevitable. from the moment that he had determined his initial true reason for living ( to protect the weak ) it was only a matter of time before he would learn. before he would realize. before he would see this world as it truly was. satoru had no role in it / he had every role in it / satoru, the strongest, tasked with only the most dangerous, the most perilous / shoko, caged and commodified and ——

unbearable. unbearable.

❝ they certainly did, ❞ once he had wanted satoru to meet his parents / he'd been certain they would have found him amusing, at the very least / he thought that his mother would have ADORED HIM and his father wouldn't have quite known what to do with him, but alas. vague affection fills him, lightens his tone, for all that it's morbid / for all that they shouldn't speak of the dead, ❝ my unerring devotion to my morality is thanks to them, you know. always speaking of the importance of ethics and morality ( ... ) my mother was quite taken with confucianism. ❞ cruel, perhaps. but the truth. perhaps it was this action that had truly and decisively warped satoru's perception of him. changed him from the boy he had loved so much to some unknown creature, formless and terrifying in that loss. it doesn't matter much anymore though, does it? his parents are long dead, buried in a location only suguru knows, honored and loved still, in spite of it all.

he huffs out a bemused laugh / satoru's absurdities amusing as always / the smile on his face threatening to be blinding. perhaps it would be, to anyone who was not as well studied in satoru's smiles as him, to anyone who hadn't picked apart every last curve and shadow and millimeter of it available to him with the devotion of a saint, determined to commit ever last line of it to memory, always studious : even in this. maybe especially in this. ❝ only on sundays, ❞ an offering / followed by another, vague and lacking in most details, just enough to sate curiosity, a piece of candy pressed into a warm palm in the middle of a springtime day because suguru had so conveniently found it when satoru was flagging, draping himself over his desk with loud sighs and listless fidgeting, utterly unable to remain still. ❝ if you must know, i have a raised platform, though of course when i meet with my family we're often around a table, ❞ equals in every way his family, naturally. how else would they be? how else could he stomach them?

❝ am i? oh, silly me, ❞ smirk curves wider / he entertains the mental images longer because of course he does, because he's wont to, because satoru knocking his head on things because he's SO ABSURDLY TALL is the sort of humor that a child would laugh it, certainly, but the idea of someone as thoroughly powerful as satoru being laid low by a small doorframe ( ... ) the jokes, almost literally, write themselves. ❝ your lack of an answer is an answer, you know. ❞

❝ clarification leads to understanding, sa—toru. ❞ senseless lecturing, alll of this waffling —— the glee on satoru's face the utmost of his fixations, like a singular star in the sky / satoru's hands on him, roaming, pressing, perfunctory and playing at possessiveness. he curves his palm against satoru's low back, a heatless branding, hand gripping at his elbow, like and unlike the past / but the past only has bearing in that it was where they had started, where this fixation had taken root, where they had started revolving around each other as though they had a GRAVTIATIONAL PULL tuned only for each other —— the past is in the past, they are here and now, pressed against each other / latching onto each other / apparently intent on following this disastrous road / like birds flitting around each other, pecking each other, intent and absorbed and hurtling towards the earth. ❝ you've always been terrible at subtlety, ❞ nails dig against satoru's back, muffled by fabric, a subtle thing, a harmless thing, an avaricious thing : desire is hungry creature / not unlike the void / not unlike infinity —— ??? ❝ can you blame me? it was so amusing, watching you toe around the subject, trying to be coy, ❞ as if they hadn't known, as if they hadn't presumed / though he supposes satoru hadn't, hadn't wholly known, fully known, bravado buoying him as it often does.

because he had left him behind / because suguru had left satoru behind, an act that would have seem IMPOSSIBLE mere weeks before he had carried it out —— and he does not regret. he does not anguish over it. he did not offer satoru a place beside him / it would have been insufferable, the never ending clash of morality / lack thereof / SATORU WOULDN'T HAVE UNDERSTOOD / suguru refuses to entertain the idea that perhaps, perhaps he could have. perhaps if he had taken nanako and mimiko to him, perhaps if he hadn't done all that he had done ——

pointless theoretical, not to be entertained ( and he doesn't, really, when he states he does not regret HE MEANS IT / even at the cost of satoru, himself. )

❝ i suppose it can't be helped, ❞ as if there would have been any way for satoru to know, as if there could have been a way for him to solve a puzzle missing over half of the pieces —— this is wholly on SUGURU'S TERMS / or was / now it's on both of theirs / equals in all ways that matter, mirrors of each other, twin souls, soul mates, other insufferably saccharine things : tooth aching things, this connection, this obsession, this absurd IMMOLATION OF THE SELF, reaching for each other all the same —— a tender show of violence, as if they were shearing layers of the other's heart away, sheet by sheet, blood sticky on their fingers.

( perhaps they simply would have been tender, once upon a time. he thinks they would have / the affection that he held for satoru once upon a time pure, shadowed only by possessiveness / lacking in this intrinsic violence he feels now / this desire to CARVE OUT A PLACE FOR HIMSELF IN SATORU'S BONES, bone chips flying, marrow bared not to the world but to suguru alone —— perhaps. another useless, pointless theoretical. )

satoru pulls at his hair / he lets his lashes flutter in response, action to reaction demanding a reaction / smile turning sly, as though speaking of their respective deaths is as demure a subject as possible / he supposes that for THEM it is. he tips his head up, placing traction against satoru's pull, scalp stinging ever so slightly / when he speaks it's with teeth, a hint of them / suguru has always liked satoru mean, just the way satoru had always like him mean. maybe this, too, was inevitable. ❝ is there any other order for us to go? ❞ a plain statement : suguru will die first, surely, a simplistic sort of deduction given, oh, the entirety of their lives —— a star burning brighter and BRIGHTER until it collapses, destroying all around it in return / maybe even satoru.

oh, a hint of skin, a sliver of satoru's back / he presses his fingers against it, nails tracing gently over fine, pale, delicate skin. so few scars, the barest of one on his forehead to suguru's recollection / he wonders if satoru has collected any more / aches to sink his teeth into them. ❝ you might keep my body? forever? i suppose you could circumvent decay well enough, ❞ he takes satoru's jaw in hand / an almost gentle gesture / tracing his thumb along the line of it. ❝ how romantic, ❞ the most honeyed of coos.

❛ yeah, that was always more your style. ❜ he'd like to think it justified, cutting down the months that tormented suguru into tiny, swallowable pieces of impulse and ease, but it only roots the guilt further. their togetherness demands otherwise, satoru's insistence on staying stuck had forced him ( if nothing else ) to meticulously piece though every moment that pointed to the bleak now he found himself in. it was startling to hear himself speak so clearly, his voice different than how he expects it; how he'd struggled for the right words, searching the space between them for the clever turn of phrase that would fix the wrongness rotting in suguru until the impossible happened —— they'd ran out of time.

still he persevered it an avoidable fate, if only he'd been better, kinder. if only he'd noticed sooner. if only anyone else had joined them; satoru doing his best to the act part carved out for him and suguru smoking, slouched into himself, shrinking against an invisible weight. normality never suited them, never played any part in their conjoined life but still … there were things people did when sickness struck, medication and trips and professionals and. the idea is silly, nothing more than play pretend. and it doesn't matter now anyway.

it wasn't in that hallway, blood pearling through his fingers, nor the first time news reached them that he'd committed another atrocity; it had been later, when he really didn't come back / when satoru led sleepless, staring at his phone hoping it would do something. it didn't matter what he'd done, what he could've done, he was alone then. the imaginary versions of suguru that stayed served only to wound him further, cementing childlike abandonment too far in him to fix. alone and embarrassed, squeezing his eyes until he saw light, pretending he could feel arms around him until the ghost of a touch caressed across his hips, resting on his stomach. he'd mumble all the horrid things he wanted to say, bitter and cruel until he was too tired to keep going and facade broke.

a vicious cycle, it followed him for years until the anger subsided into something else but always he waited, kept the same phone number and watched the skyline when he walked through tokyo, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. whatever imaginary versions of suguru he still kept now refused to play along, they wouldn't be sweet, they wouldn't listen patiently and kiss along the back of his neck ( the open window, a cool breath down his spine, shuddering at the mere thought ) but instead violently rebelled against softness. even with their distance, even without knowing, he'd constructed suguru as he was; a craving for blood, for skin bound together, for satoru however he could have him.

❛ maybe it was for the best then. ❜ where suguru relents, a kindness when he speaks about his parents, he cannot help but be mean. the closer they stray to more moral arguments ( which he fears moored to them, regardless of how hard he rallies against truly pointless bickering ) the more he itches to lean closer, to press their lips together again, if only to shut him up. ❛ i don't want to talk about your mother. ❜ mumbled against smooth skin, satoru kisses the space he can reach along suguru's neck. whatever embarrassment would surface normally shunned from an intrinsic understanding of what to do —— if someone were to find them, he wondered what they would think. it was certainly not a lover's embrace, wild and manic they grasped and tugged and spoke too cruelly to each other; even now satoru longed to bite down, to spill blood and lap against the wound obediently.

overtaken with fever, language always too slack; he remembered once poking at suguru's willingness to please him as he crushed a half smoked cigarette beneath his heel. satoru had held some refusal to beg, defiantly rejecting such debasement as if his self-importance would save him from devotion. how he'd grown, how well he'd do on his knees now.

pulling back, dreamy, trance-like, there would be no other way to hear suguru call anyone but him his family. his smile still splits his face, his cheeks aching, when had he last grinned so earnestly? ❛ a whole platform all to yourself? even my self aggrandizing doesn't get me that kind of luxury, aren't you lucky! ❜ the daughters and their persistence, existing around a table with suguru, speaking and eating and living with him: he could stomach that, wouldn't harbor resentment against children in the name of his own obsession but —— there's almost certainly other people around the table. jealousy again blooming in his chest, stifled only by the hands reaching for him, the eyes burning back at his. ❛ so it's a family now. bah, typical cult shit. ❜

cheery, empty words; fragility wants to silence him / he'd let the ground swallow him whole if he says the wrong thing again … abandonment hadn't formed him but poisoned so wholly that it was hard to tell the difference. where lay the moment he'd flinched back, his arrogance a weapon for the first time, spat bitterly back from suguru like it'd been a bad thing, like it'd been a reason? the same space too much of his resentment festered from —— rooted in a crowd, staring straight ahead, watching himself get left behind. he'd tried to be quiet for a little while, biting the fleshy skin inside his mouth until he could only taste blood, but it never worked. perhaps he should've tried harder, should've cut out his tongue in fear that ego might insult suguru again and he'd be left alone; it would be better than the fear, better than a second time.

❛ silly you. ❜ the coldness of suguru's smirk is offset only by the fact that satoru knows exactly what he's thinking about. ❛ my lack of an answer is just that. just because you insist on reading into everything doesn't mean you can subject me to your … wild accusations. ❜ deflection doesn't make the door frames any taller though.

❛ it's new, that's all. ❜ his tune changes quickly enough. too used to stumbling in the dark / through the void that they'd created, impenetrable and stretching between them until suguru ( of course it was suguru, it was always going to be ) let himself be seen. hands roam across him, claiming, and he knows he must be beaming; lavished in attention, deprived too long of hands across him, the wind on his burning cheeks, the ground solid below him. infinity had gotten easier, his head hurt less, the pain behind his eyes only a dull throb; maybe that played into the mania, the world around him suddenly real again upon suguru's return. spring, pink and shy and beautiful around them, everything gentler as it reaches him. ❛ i wasn't aiming for subtlety, you just never took the bait. you're just too shy, i assume. ❜ he arches against the nails almost digging into his skin but finds nowhere to go, so tightly they've woven together / just short of devouring each other.

he laughs before suguru can finish speaking. ❛ amusing —— !! ❜ the idea is hilarious because it has to be, because if it's anything else it would hurt. ❛ shut up. i was there. i guess once you stopped blushing you'd run off and laugh about it. ❜ the overwhelming affection of his youth, the summer waning in his mind the longer he stays here; it had been childish, raw, like pink skin sliced open and hit with cool air. he wants to deny more but the words die before he can fully form them.

he'd been left behind. maybe it was funny.

❛ nah, there's not. ❜ untouchable, death remaining a concept for other people, for other things often callously disregarded. a bad habit maybe, always too egotistical to see reality for what everyone claims it to be. if he were to die, it would be his self-importance pushing him onward into nothing. hallowed by mourning the living, too used to seeing bodies slack and still; suguru's occupation only served to push him further into complacency. toji had been the closest, the slice though his chest / vaguely he recalled the smell, the feeling of something warm blooming before the shock of the fall, the jolting awake. even then, with flies crawling into him, he'd known it was a pointless death and refused it.

it all served to prove what he'd known since he was a child —— he would live forever.

❝ —— yeah, which is why i'm telling you to stop, ❞ overwrought : his heart, the void within, the aching chasm of his throat, this existence they've built around each other. affection threatens to wear bitterly on his tongue / a brackish taste, too, punctuated by applause, the weight of kuroi's body in his arms ( heavy, still warm, not breathing, NOT BREATHING, blood staining her apron and skin / not just her own blood / his blood / shoko's face when he placed kuroi's body in front of her and asked — demanded that she be saved when they both know her soul had long departed ) and the scar that pulls every time he moves. every time he dares to breathe. affection touched and untouched by this all, warped and bittersweet / once upon a time it was just sweet / once upon a time.

the abrupt unsteadiness of the self threatens to overwhelm. he had known, once, not so long ago, precisely why he exists, exactly what his reason for living is —— HE IS STRONG, THEREFORE HE MUST PROTECT THE WEAK, and yet —— and yet ——

stop. STOP LOOKING.

the reverential nature of agony. agony and satoru, satoru, sky—held satoru, satoru who hates him smoking, apparently, and suguru's eyebrow arches. it's nearly a childish demand, nearly only because the demand is unspoken but heavily implied ( like two boys tangled in each other and unable to figure out where one ends and the other begins ) as smoke drifts between them. ❝ alright, ❞ easy enough : he drops the essentially burned away cigarette to the ground and grinds it into concrete beneath his heel. SIMPLE ENOUGH, like wiping away steam from a mirror, like dropping pieces of his heart along the way. ❝ then i won't, ❞ around satoru, at least / satoru demands and suguru complies, is the way of things, the nature of things, most of the time, it's the same in reverse, offering BENEFACTIONS to each other, again and again.

something demands to give, hearing I MISS, a strange moment suspended, unreal—reality, mind briefly adrift, rot setting back in as smoke and tobacco flees, that relentless cycle. suguru closes his eyes for a moment, a flutter of his lashes as his head drops to one side / and then the other / muscles pulling and stretching. ❝ yeah i'm sure you hate having to put up your own barriers, ❞ he says because it's the first thing to come to mind, because it is WEIRD, because absence is felt so acutely it's as though his heart had been misplaced / because he has learned to shift for satoru and satoru is no longer there.

❝ ( ... ) i miss going on missions with you, too, ❞ he offers honesty in place of rot / because he does, because that is the truth, because HE'S BEEN SPENDING A LOT OF TIME ALONE, LATELY, because satoru is satoru and takes up so much space that the absence of him aches. ❝ but we always knew this was going to happen, ❞ he bumps their knees together, an affectionate thing, affection threatening to wear bitter. ❝ we can't be first and second years forever. ❞

suguru had made it look so easy, had calmed him from every wild tantrum, every momentary brush with mania; a well-timed hand on the curve of his back, the right words mumbled against his ear. an impossible task asked of him carried out with the confidence of someone who knew, innately, how to soothe / how to fix things. nauseating guilt wet against him, he stumbles onward, only ever almost making things worse; if his arrogance didn't seem to charm suguru, there would be no point having ever bothered.

he follows the little light down, red until it's crushed under suguru's heal like it means nothing at all ( like it doesn't prove devotion, like it's not an act satoru wishes he could perform in a myriad of other ways ). the smell of ash lingers until it doesn't, the air cleaner, smoke no longer hovering around them like tiny storm clouds; satoru coughs anyway, proving some point he's not entirely sure of himself. ❛ that was easy, ❜ always leaning closer, a boy careening until pulling back is as impossible as staying. ❛ here i thought you were going to make me beg. ❜ though of course he wouldn't, the thought of debasing himself for suguru like that makes his skin crawl. persistence is close enough to pleading anyway.

that irritation again, coarse, insulting: we can't be first and second years forever. how to explain it / how to explain it in a way where he actually says nothing at all. nostalgia already chasing him, clawing at him from the comfort of summers long enough gone that everyone else seems to have forgotten them, as if they didn't form him. molded in the sun and warmth of another body, the ever-present knowledge that he exists there and here; it's easy to slip back, to persistently be sixteen, to never know what the right words. ❛ who says? ❜ slumping, childish, all but pouting; it's silly and he knows it but can't stop himself.

the classrooms are the same, their rooms a fixed point in time and —— suguru is here, pressing their knees together. familiarity in everything and nothing, the world refuses to make sense. what would he be chasing in idle daydreams if not suguru?

❝ right, because the picture of bravery is wearing an itchy, gross shirt, ❞ he'll keep it, of course he will, he cleaned it even and left it to dry hanging in the shower, it'll be their little souvenir of this impromptu trip to kyoto together in the name of saving a woman and then letting a girl who they're leading to the pyre experience life and happiness and joy before she's sacrificed atop it. it's for the greater good, he knows / but it COMFORTS HIM MORE to know they're of one mind : that if she chooses life, that if she doesn't wish to become one with tengen and thus lose herself entirely, then they'll take her away and, probably, become enemies of the jujutsu community. at least for a time. ❝ you'll live. ❞

satoru will live because suguru won't accept an alternative —— he's never considered either of them dying, not really, they've only ever been in SO MUCH DANGER BEFORE and together nothing is impossible, together they can do anything, this is an unshakable belief that suguru holds. yet, the idea of satoru dying is unacceptable. suguru won't let it happen, therefore it won't happen / just as it's the same in reverse, he knows. he ignores the reflection, because yes, he would do the same if he were able to / he is in a manner of speaking, though having curses summoned is minimal drain on his cursed energy reserves, to begin with. ❝ they're around, ❞ a small shadowy portral appears next to satoru as a curse, small and rather diminutive, sticks its head out to bump against the side of satoru's head before disappearing again. ❝ they're hiding, mostly, ❞ tucked away in corners, hidden in shadows, drifting around the perimeter, with suguru checking in on them frequently. ❝ which i know you know, ❞ six eyes see all, whatever.

frown gives way to the slightest of smiles, silly affection rearing its head. satoru's head aches terribly when he uses infinity or any of his abilities this way, they both know it, the way that they know that suguru's throat burns when he devours too many curses, the way they know that the taste of sewage and rot lingers at the back of his tongue constantly. ❝ oh? and how can i make it worth it, exactly? ❞ satoru pliant and content is a satoru that reminds him of springtime days spent beneath cherry blossom trees, satoru dropping his head into suguru's lap and demanding attention, which he always gets. instead of a head in his lap, though, suguru allows himself to be pulled between satoru's legs, his knees bumping against the armchair cushion as his other hand mirrors positioning and he massages gently at satoru's scalp, fingers moving in small circular motions.

❝ you know, if i'm making you tired, ❞ he pitches his voice just quieter, a soft carrying, satoru's forehead practically pressed against his belly, love tasting like sugary candies against the back of his throat, driving away rot for a time, ❝ you might as well shower, since your only reason to not is that it'll make you tired, ❞ he takes of his hands away briefly, shaking out sand before returning to his self—ascribed task, satoru's skin and hair soft beneath his touch in spite of their active day.

he will live, despite everything, despite the throbbing in his head that only dulls slightly ( he desperately wants suguru to disassemble him, to pull out his brain and scrub it clean ) when infinity wains. the threat of death is ever present but never for him, never for suguru, it's a vague concept that he considers only when he's the last one awake, watching the gentle rise and fall of his best friend's chest like it'll stop when he looks away. they won't die because they can't —— they'll get fucked up and break bones and bleed so heavily it seems it'll never stop but always they're patched up and laughing later, a triumph despite everything.

he wonders why tonight feels different when a tiny curse pops next to him, bumping his head. he knows this one, likes it the same way he likes the rest; he reaches to touch it, to poke at the strange slickness of it's cold not-quite skin but it's gone before he can. ❛ that's why i said i'm surprised i haven't seen more. you only brought out the cuties. ❜ strangely embarrassed, he knows he's not the only one worrying, he can see it in the trace of suguru's features, but to be worrying the most? proving a care that he so violently argues against whenever they bicker about reason? mortifying! as if suguru can't already read him like the back of his hand.

❛ just don't stop. ❜ head lifting, pushing against the fingers tracing through his scalp. that always kindness, that forgiving way hands press and glide through his hair —— it reminds him of winters spent huddled together, wound tightly under the pretense of keeping warm. suguru content, absently winding white hair through his fingers while they steady themselves against the cold outside. ❛ i can't i can't. ❜ not quite slurring his words, they fall out of him slowly, dripped in honey. satoru wants to describe the feeling, to know he'll tip into the strange sleepless frenzy if he bothers to keep up appearances. he knows that tomorrow, he'll return home still smelling like the beach, sea-salt and sand stuck against him.

❝ of course i did, ❞ the shirts had been a silly idea but, like how suguru inevitably gives in to nearly whatever satoru asks of him / not unlike the shore giving way to the ocean / shadows giving way to the sun : he gave in, all the same. it's funny, to match each other, and honestly suguru didn't hate the shirt —— it's gaudy and ridiculous, yes, but puts him in mind of vacation, and the idea of simply going on vacation with satoru isn't a disagreeable one by any means. they were not on vacation, of course, but the thought is nice. ❝ it was covered in sand and who knows what else, ❞ he tucks some of his own hair behind his ear / it's sticking almost uncomfortably to the back of his neck, damn and cool beneath the air conditioning. ❝ you always look like an asshole, anyways. ❞

mostly true : it's just the way that satoru carries himself, as though he were bigger than life itself / which he is, and it would be far more surprising if he didn't, honestly. it would almost seem reasonable if you were to tilt your head and squint at the whole of the situation ( of course the gojo boy turned out like this !! look at the power he holds, the responsibility that weighs on him, et cetera ) if it didn't make him borderline unapproachable by the vast majority of people, et cetera. suguru doesn't mind one way or another, of course, because he's here all the same and certainly isn't going anywhere any time soon.

his mouth tilts downwards into a frown all the same / i'm fine may be true but fine is so vague a word, hardly carries any meaning, doesn't begin to encompass the exhaustion that satoru must be feeling, the burden of keeping his abilities CONSTANTLY ACTIVE for far longer than he's ever managed to in the past lingering over head. IT WORRIES SUGURU / the cost of it, the damage that it may wreak to satoru's brain —— shoko isn't here to encourage any sense of healing, and even satoru relinquishing infinity just to let suguru touch him doesn't wear away at that worry, for all that it causes something to swell in his chest, warm and almost comforting.

❝ i know you can, but you're pushing yourself too hard, ❞ he runs his fingers through satoru's hair gently / daringly / presses his fingers against his temple and thumb against his forehead. he ignores the suggestion that he should sleep / suguru will eventually, he's sure, he's far worse at pulling all nighters in comparison, though perhaps sheer force of will and worry will keep him afloat. ❝ shoko isn't here to heal any brain damage, you know, ❞ the thing is that satoru isn't even being unreasonable, necessarily. the threat to riko's life is practically omnipresent around them, and they are her protectors / and satoru can make himself effectively IMMUNE TO DAMAGE, which can blow in through the window at any given time. and yet. ❝ at least take a shower. you're covered in sand. ❞

he mirrors suguru's frown, mocking concern against any better judgement he can still formulate. ❛ you'd be doing the same thing, if you could. ❜ and he knows it's true, because suguru is always so protective: perhaps it wasn't really necessary, the strain behind his eyes, the pressure swelling in his head. his best friend would sooner lose himself before anything happened to the girls in the other room, a prevailing innocence to do good that satoru clung to, a compass guiding them both against the cruelness of the world and bad things manifest. ❛ i'm surprised i haven't seen more of your critters running about. ❜ he considers them fondly, as much as he can given their nature, encouraged only by their proximity to suguru; he'd eaten them, housed them, called to them and it was charming, in a sick way satoru had long since grown used to.

❛ i won't get brain damage. i've held it before for longer —— with less reason. ❜ much younger then, cross-legged on soft bed sheets; a wild, sustained boredom brought about by living in luxury few would ever know and resenting it for no real reason. he'd been denied something, something small and insignificant no doubt, and pushed the world back with childish defiance. how long had it been? how many hours? an expanse of nothing wrapped around him, consoling frustrated tears: the lack-of was always such a strange thing, stranger now there was a need for it. ❛ as nice as it sounds, i can't. it'll make me tired. ❜

nighttime does not bring stillness —— it never does / never has / cursed spirits linger and surge and press in the darkness incrementally more than in the light and awareness doesn't dare wax nor wane : it is a constant. barriers provide comfort and ease that carry the mind off to sleep, yet here they have none of that, really, a nice hotel suite and little more. he imagines he can hear the crash of waves on the shore, though the windows are shut and locked and this hotel isn't on the beach, but he shakes sand out of his sleeve and tucks shower—damp hair behind his ear, hyperawareness settling over his skin easily. awareness of the low grade curses lingering in corners and down halls, of the danger they're in, of the girl who is a SACRIFICE and the only family she's ever known sleeping in the other room, and ——

and most of all : satoru, sleepless and stubborn and carrying on, still.

steam drifts from bathroom to living area as he exits, feeling his own exhaustion wearing at his eyes, his skin, the very marrow of his being / driven away by sheer force of will as his gaze immediately falls upon @mastabahs. where else would he look, where else would he bother in this impersonal space, lightyears away from cramped dormitories and laughter soaked walls. for a moment he doesn't speak, simply watches the silhouette of his best friend, familiarity like a balm and worry disquiet, lodged in the aching hollow of his throat, too unwieldy to ingest like every other curse he's ever devoured.

❝ you should get some sleep, sa—toru, ❞ suguru walks around the armchair to the front of it, in satoru's line of sight, breaking up the steadiness of his gaze : an intrusion, unasked for and unrelenting. the salt—warm hair of the day lingering around them, in the subtly more disarrayed fall of satoru's hair, the slight pinking to his pale skin / HE'S TIRED AND PROBABLY WON'T ADMIT IT / no one knows satoru as well as suguru ( a prideful thought, a head held high thought, a covetous thought ) and he's never seen him quite this exhausted. can only imagine the extent of his headache, sustaining infinity for so long.

he wants to touch satoru / settles for brushing stray sand from his hair, a tilt to his head, softness to his voice ( you sound different then you talk to him, shoko once said / he hadn't really understood then, not quite / not wholly / the shades of his heart ) pitched quiet not only for the pair sleeping in the other room. not only for them. ❝ i can keep watch for a few hours. ❞

probably. he's cruel about most things.

❛ you changed out your shirt. ❜ the steady line of his sight shifts only slightly, up to the pink-tint on suguru's cheeks; clean and warm, how badly he want to shower as well, to scrub the sea-salt from the soft skin below his eyes, between his fingers, finely coating him everywhere. perhaps it's silly, the tired sag of his face evident to him and so overtly obvious to suguru, he denies his body's protesting anyway; whisper quiet, he leans forward, tugging at suguru's clothes. ❛ it's only ironic if we're matching. now i just look like an asshole. ❜

they'd been his idea anyway, so tired now he couldn't find the humor in them. matching shirts against the heat, brought from a shoreline store that hadn't seen renovation since the seventies. eagerly he'd lifted them, ignoring riko's inevitable teenage-girl teasing about being old and uncool. their uniforms would cook them he'd reasoned, and he wasn't going to look like a tourist on his own. maybe later, maybe when this was over and his head stopped hurting and they could sleep in their own beds ( inevitably finding one another, cocooning together / pretending it was normal ) they'd find a new use for them.

an instinctive hiding of the self —— an uninstinctive instinct, against all instinct, something unfamiliar that is forcing itself to be known : this not quite shielding of himself from satoru, of all people. unthinkable, impossible / from the very start, from the moment their eyes had met, from the moment that satoru had opened his ridiculous mouth and made an easy, effortless declaration, suguru has never hidden any part of himself from him / had never had cause nor reason to, not once, had never even CONCEPTUALIZED of such a thing. like an eclipse, a sealed door, cast in shadow, movements stilled to nothingness : devotion turned delusory.

incomplete / how do you do something you've never done before with skill / the unwillingness with which he holds himself to allow satoru to know, because he cannot know, he will never know, he'd never understand and isn't that, itself, a weight he does not need? ( it's nothing quite so selfless as that, however / suguru doesn't want to burden him, certainly, but it's more than that, deeper than that, crueler than that, too. he carries on so easily, altered in subtler ways, quieter ways, brighter ways so as to divert attention and still. and still. ) ❝ don't look for things to pick a fight with me over, ❞ he doesn't want satoru to see the shambling mess he's made of himself so very expertly. a disastrous, lifeless thing —— no way out / no way out / eventually it will end and eventually he will stop HEARING APPLAUSE everywhere he goes and eventually suguru will find a way out.

eventually.

satoru is not a means of escape / he's satoru / the one and only. his one and only.

he watches satoru. the line of his neck. the fall of his hair. the curve of his lashes. chest rising and falling, smoke curling around him. he doesn't cough because of course he doesn't / limed in light, smoke coiling around his neck, possession / want / other ridiculous things. ( heart carrying on, carrying forth, a beat like satoru, satoru, sa—toru, cadence carved into muscle, worn and familiar and beloved. ) ❝ absolutely not, ❞ he bats at satoru's hand, nose wrinkling, making a face at him like a child as he swipes the cigarette back, placing it fluidly between his lips and inhaling. an indirect kiss.

suguru kicks at satoru's ankle as he exhales, shifting the cigarette to the corner of his mouth. ❝ you can't just say something is yours, that's not how it works, satoru, ❞ except it is how it works, for them, for the two of the, the pair of them, the three of them, too. hands reaching / fingers pointing / declaring things as theirs —— from the very start. the picture of immature maturity, declarations and possession abound. ❝ and you hate it, anyways. don't bother with it. ❞

already waiting so long for the right moment, pushing forward and pulling back, an automatic response. there would always be more time ( exhausted, over and over ) but waiting only made things worse, a bitter realization that celebration would be hard fought now, despite everything. eventually eventually, everything will go back to how it was —— how it's supposed to be, the panic will die, he won't have to hold so tightly what's right in front of him. relentless change will settle and he'll sleep without strange dreams of him stranded, running late, his teeth falling out one by one.

he kicks back, smiling warm and avoiding the strange image of suguru as shoko, smoke twirling, sticking in his hair. ❛ it's absolutely how it works. ❜ relenting anyway, thankful, the swell of his head a foreign thing: his mouth already tasting like ash. ❛ and i hate you doing it more so. ❜ childish, pouting, a raw honesty uncomfortable on his tongue. love spoken in unkind strands, handed over quickly, never saying what they both know: a fools game, one satoru found himself losing time and time again lately, existing aside from himself so often does he stumble through his inability to say what he wants.

❛ i miss —— ❜ you, us, the two person life he'd built himself around and forgotten how to exist without. it's mean, he knows, because suguru is here and alive and mostly all the same if it weren't for the strange air he surrounded himself in. denial had been so much easier, but pretending that suguru really was just tired had only gotten him so far. ❛ —— going out on missions together. sometimes i turn to say something to you but you're not there. ❜

( his heart always bleeds and he says it anyway, speaking into the wind or some dank hallway infested with rot. but suguru hardly needs to know that. )

❝ what, i don't own stocks, at this point? i should take it up with the board —— wait, that's you, ❞ and all this time supplying them with whatever they wanted !! it's a childlike silliness, effervescent like a freshly opened soda, the sort of grinning stickiness that can only accompany summertime youth, laying in the grass complaining in the heat with your best friend sort of youth. the abrupt totality with which satoru arrived in his life, all but crashing in for all that their meeting likely appeared mundane to any sane third party —— aka, any third party not privy to their world and to the flow of CURSED ENERGY and whatnot —— was like what suguru presumes it's like when a meteor crashes to the earth, leaving a huge crater in its wake, leaving in its death wreckage where life will grow anew. satoru as a gravitational presence ( the irony is not lost on him, thank you ) in one moment and the next a teenage boy, overbearing with lilting laughter and a presence that had hooked around suguru's heart and he had been : lost.

or close enough.

❝ a supplier can't provide quality product without corrective actions, satoru, ❞ right, like he doesn't know all of satoru's favorite and second favorite things to eat and drink and snack on. he even has the tertiary backups memorized by sheer exposure and wanting to know. it should be embarrassing, how well he knows and how much he wants to know and commit to memory again and again, from the curve of satoru's nose to his stupid little morning rituals, but —— it isn't. whatsoever. it just ( ... ) is.

a sort of friendship / companionship / something—ship that suguru had never been prepared for, though how do you prepare for something like this, this all—consuming absolute otherworldly consummation, this world changing heart—changing sort of meeting? perhaps it's a result of who they are innately or perhaps it's the result of the isolationism of jujutsu sorcerers or perhaps or perhaps or perhaps : the sort of thought process suguru loathes to give much energy towards. after all, satoru—suguru exists regardless of reason or the universe or any COMMON SENSE whatsoever, a delirium of being and knowing and loving / yes he loves satoru of course he does suguru loves so many / yes alright it's different, it's different than that sort of love it's different than any sort of love he's ever experienced, something immense and massive, like a PLANETARY BODY, something that exists in paradox with the void he is and yet.

❝ people like us, ❞ a neutral statement, a peering up at a beautiful boy statement, a pleased to being watched beneath the summertime sun statement, ❝ can take the easy way out, sure, ❞ they're the strongest, the pair of them together, so much so that word has spread and acknowledgement is offered and SUGURU LIKES BEING POWERFUL, likes being powerful for the opportunities it provides, not just for the sake of being powerful. what's power without meaning to it, after all? ❝ but that just means that we also need to be kept in check to make sure our power doesn't get out of control, ❞ oh, satoru hates when it talks like this / or doesn't hate it but finds it annoying at best / their little tiffs over morality and the use of power and whatnot. suguru can't help his own moralities and standards, this wailing need inside of him to have a CAUSE TO FOLLOW, a reason to live for, to protect the weak so that they may survive and, thus, maintain the power of the strong.

HE WAS BORN FOR THAT, FOR THIS / for that and perhaps, perhaps, to fill himself with the sound of satoru's voice, the cadence of his breaths, the rhythm of his heart —— a honey—thick thought.

❝ and you aren't better at putting up veils, shut up, ❞ a laugh, something lighthearted / they can argue he doesn't mind, satoru's indifference to the world at large doesn't bother him like it once did / and how brief that period had been, besides.

suguru's nose wrinkles, ❝ ugh, osculating is even worse, go back to fondling, ❞ it's not worse really, neither are especially preferable, their combined absurdities overwhelm and whatnot —— this is somewhat heavier than usual, like the summer air around them, heated and weighted, too much talk about mouths and tongues for two boys who won't kiss / suguru imagines it, bridging the gap between them and kissing satoru for the sake of kissing him, just to see / the thought is acknowledged and then dropped into the void, a coin into a wishing well —— it's not that he's anxious about it, precisely, though the fluttery feeling he gets in his chest at the thought is NAUSEATING, it's just —— is this the right time? here, in this moment? alright, maybe he is anxious about it, in that teenage way that anxieties flourish, irrational and childish.

a hand in his hair / or rather against / suguru's eyes close reflexively. the beat of his heart feels closer than usual, somehow, as if there were a closeness more than residing-in-the-chest, louder, in his ears, a constant thrum / fast—paced. sun—warmed, satoru—warmed, the touch is there and gone again, a brief and fleeting thing, a leaving something wanting thing, he'd chastise himself it he had half a mind to. instead he peers at satoru again, satoru, satoru, satoru, his ever dramatic best friend, his one and only. ❝ in southeast asian countries they think that ingesting heat in hot weather deeps the suffering at bay, ❞ he plucks grass from the ground and tosses it lazily at satoru for no reason at all, color pops on satoru, always, appearing far more vibrant on his body than anyone else's, pale hair and pale skin and sky eyes demanding nothing less than the utmost saturation from colors.

❝ my mom always makes hot soups on summer days, ❞ a remnant of her time living abroad, learning and whatnot. ( never mind suguru always sighs loudly whenever his mother does it, laughing beneath her gentle scolding ) speaking of his mother always feels somewhat odd, in this sort of setting, in a place where she does not know and can never, ever touch / suguru will protect his parents from that, always. ❝ maybe you need to expand your horizons, satoru. ❞

( dreamy and quiet, he imagined suguru and his mother — drinking tea, laughing in all the right places. he would fill the gaps that satoru only barely managed before high school, and would certainly stumble across now, louder and ruder and never quite remembering what childish things he'd mumbled out to make her smile like she'd loved him. maybe one day he'd get to watch, giggling, as his idea of suguru as something pristine crumbled at the sound of a single well place insult, slyly slipped into conversation: the wickedness of her wit shocking them both into silence. )

❛ you've been doing just fine so far, and we're two years into this very beneficial agreement. ❜ beneficial to him, in obvious ways. beneficial to suguru in less obvious ways that he'd never really understood; his attention was a sought after thing until it was granted, quickly discarded for any number of less grating things. suguru though, always seemed as enraptured as he had that first day. something like an agreement between them, an understanding, a red thread looped around them both with finality —— the instantaneous change within him that made him less tolerable to everyone else, but delighted suguru as if he'd known there was a change in the first place. like they'd known each other since birth, like a part of the other had always been rooted within them. ❛ if i didn't know any better, i'd think you were looking for an excuse. ❜ he tsks, kicking at suguru's leg.

what came after ( their friendship a guaranteed thing, always ) was maybe a little more surprising; there was no cataclysmic revelation, no wild regret gnawing through him, it was bound to happen. if he'd been a little less stunted, watched anything beyond shonen and read anything but the dull textbooks forced upon him, he might've seen it coming. the sputter of his heart when he caught suguru one morning, sleepy and lit with spring sun — or the drop of his stomach when they held hands that first time, an unknown need to impress clawing up his throat with such ferocity he'd jumbled his words and blushed blood red. that changed him too, once he realized it had a name: it made him want to be kinder, softer, to forgive the world for its mistakes but always he poked, riling for the sake of it.

he settled for following suguru's lead, who's judgement always seemed far superior to his anyway.

❛ uh huh — kept in check by who, suguru? ❜ pride on full display, his smile all teeth. who would stop them? the absence of violence, a theoretical line they follow from opposite sides as if it meant something. one might consider it merciful, his loyalty, otherwise … ❛ if we decided one day that heyactuallyfuckthis then there's not a fat lot anyone could do about it. ❜ he laughs, despite it being a conversation replayed so often it happens almost on autopilot; power without meaning is power nonetheless, a tender reminder that they can but won't do awful, terrifying things. ❛ —— not that we will. or i won't at least. you can get pretty grumpy. ❜

their laugh a chorus, another act of togetherness. ❛ am too. just because you don't want to admit it, doesn't mean it isn't an indisputable fact. ❜ never mind that he rarely thinks it's necessary, thinks that there's no need for such formalities when they're impossibly quick at what they do most of the time.

❛ maybe we should just stop saying it all together. i'm putting an embargo on fondling. ❜ instinct and desire prove otherwise; the longing to curl his fingers around suguru's cheek, to press their palms together / their legs / anything he can reach with his hands. it's overwhelming, sometimes, the absurdity of touch between them usually reserved until more things are said —— they're hardly usual though, satoru priding himself on othering regardless of this distance that spans between them and the rest of the world. the strongest as a declaration, proving devotion in a way he could never articulate alone.

sun-warmed, red from the heat, cheeks alight; suguru looking up at him, looking over, peering in his general direction manages still to spur his heart on. he can feel it in his neck, the warm beat stuttering to keep up with love threatening to overflow. ❛ yeah but does it? ❜ grass is thrown his way ( after he was so kind to remove imaginary foliage from suguru's hair no less !! ) and retaliation hardly seems worth it; he can have his victory. ❛ sounds like your mom should reel back her horizons. when i was little i used to walk into town and get um … those little ice pops. the cola ones. ❜

❝ if poor you listened, you wouldn't get whacked, ❞ curl of smoke / curl of his mouth / curl of amusement in his voice / curling and coiling in the mess and mire he's made of himself, some mockery of a catacomb, some morbid thing like that. a change marked by the sound of a gunshot ( no, no, by the hope in her eyes and the surety that you would betray the whole jujutsu world, stupid ) hurried along by the sight of satoru holding riko's body, the deadened look in his eyes —— FEAR had become a well known companion, that day, amplified by the sight of him, something trembling inside of him, displeased / unsettled / guilt writhing, the first paving stone, the first slapdash of cement. fear and fear and fear, tasting bitter in his mouth, acrid like smoke, lingering like rot.

❝ yeah, right next to my stunning work, ❞ because yeah, suguru prides himself on his reports, why wouldn't he?

IF NOTHING ELSE : he can maintain patterns / even as the world crumbles from beneath his feet / pacing these same steps again and again until the earth has learned his weight and collapses.

words like a blade ( a neat, tidy, perfunctory x, i didn't cut you deep enough to kill you, scars shiny and puckered and ugly, no you just cut me deep enough to linger on my body forever, another unwelcome thing, but isn't he an expert at housing UNWANTED THINGS? ) and the bump of a knee like a bandage / not quite large enough to cover the gash. ❝ what, the bags under my eyes that are always there? ❞ it's a poor deflection, though the length of the shadows exacerbate those that pre-date this space in time / suguru has always had bags beneath his eyes / they're just shades darker than usual. sleepless nights plagued by nightmares and whirling thoughts catching up to him.

vague surprise blooms like a blossom too early for warmth in his chest at satoru's insistence ; satoru who's always made a face whenever shoko smoked, teasing her and poking at her / but satoru hates being left behind. ❝ you're going to hate it, ❞ satoru's proximity feels like TOO MUCH, suddenly, as though their thighs hadn't been pressed together, as though they weren't as familiar with each other's bodies as their own, the physicality of them a once—constant. ❝ don't cough all over me, ❞ for a strange, protracted moment of unreality it feels as though he were holding a SMOKING GUN between them, smoke curling, balanced delicately between his fingers. an offering; satoru's body leaning over his, leaning close / suguru still as the grave.

❛ with golden plaques and those weird museum-y lights. they'll call it a waste of budget, but really, there's no price on enrichment. ❜ he tries not to think about the kids that'll naturally come after, the spaces they'll have to fill and the rooms they'll occupy. an unnerving familiarity with their imagined faces, he pictures himself there too, always sixteen and doing his best to ignore the world around him —— as if there's no other way for him to exist, outside what he'd carved for himself bitterly before suguru showed up and fixed him, lured out stunted speech from presence alone.

strangely, he struggled to view suguru in these half-formed thoughts. the scar on his forehead itches, fingers twitching to absently press against it ( a bad habit ), and he wishes he could've done more.

if his eyes roll, if his face flutters with frustration, he hopes it fast enough that suguru doesn't catch it. ❛ mm, yeah. thank god we've only just met, otherwise i'd pick up on your bullshit. ❜ but deflection is better than outright denial, and he'll push against barely healed wounds until they give under the weight, until suguru can't hide what they both already know. the strange anxiety in his gut doesn't settle; restless, fidgeting, satoru notices he's rocking himself ever so slightly and stops, because nothing is wrong.

the surprise is award enough and really, he shouldn't. already he knows he'll hate it, hates the beer they smuggle in and drink but downs it anyway because shoko always laughs, and it's fun to jab keys into the side of cans and race against suguru, foam dripping down their chins. when was the last time they'd done that? it'd been warm, fans dragged from their rooms into the common area they'd squared off for themselves; the smell of thick smoke, windows open, orange lamp-light and the sound of cicadas. they'd played truth of dare and did their best to pretend they were normal —— or maybe that was just him. ❛ i won't cough asshole. ❜ he leans closer, takes the cigarette between his fingers like shoko does and holds it between his lips. inhaling too much, too quickly, there's a rush of something that makes his head swim and his stomach sick.