red

he remembers exactly how it happened because it was an action he’d continue to repeat over and over again all the way until his late teenage years, despite everything in his body begging him to stop.

eating curses never got easier, though, even though he desperately wanted it to.

the headache was always there, the scratchiness in his throat always present, and the nausea always settling into his stomach like a second home, deep and embedded into his flesh — like even if he dug his fingernails through his belly button and tore himself open until he reached the edges of his back, he wouldn’t be able to reach it.

“suguru?” your voice is soft on the other side of the doorway, “what's wrong?”

everything, he wants to laugh.

nobody is supposed to see him in this state, not like this at least, but you’re here anyways, separated by a thin wooden door and a few feet of air.

he spits his bitter saliva with his bitter thoughts in the toilet bowl before he leans forward to flush it, making sure to hold his breath as he watches the slew of colors drain.

“you can come in,” his voice is more hoarse than it usually is. he’s always hated how he sounded afterwards; something akin to a middle-aged chain smoker with too much time on his hands, he’d put shoko to shame, “it’s unlocked.”

you shuffle unsurely on the other side of the frame and suguru impulsively coughs again. he hears you enter afterwards, your soft steps creaking against the chipped wood that makes the floor, the door squeaking open at the hinges.

your eyes are filled with pity and something else as you stare down at him, a plastic tray in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “…can you stand?”

his legs are numb and rigid, locked in their position as his knees practically indent into the hardwood floor beneath him. “not really.”

you nod, walking forward to the sink and turning it on.

pity (and something else) is an expression that has a negative connotation, he knows that, but he can't help but think about it in a different way as he sits back onto the balls of his feet, his shoulders hunched over his kneeled legs. he stares expressionless as you wait for the faucet to run warm water, occasionally flicking your finger through the stream to test the temperature as your eyes flit to him with worry.

maybe he wants to be pitied. would it really hurt every once in a while? maybe being pitied feels better than being revered the way he is, maybe it fills the hole that gapes and bleeds through the punctures of his heart, and maybe it would stop the agony that turmoils in his stomach.

you set the basin in front of him (it's quite thick, but you're quite strong), filled three-quarters of the way up with warm water, split down the middle with plastic.

“i found it in the cupboard,” you smile dryly, standing up again to pluck his toothbrush off of the towel (he realizes you must've put toothpaste on it while you were waiting for the basin to fill up), handing it to his fingers, “i think it was supposed to be like a really weird cookie jar or something, but i think it should work for our purposes.”

“…can you turn around?” his voice is barely above a whisper, not because he can't speak louder, but because he knows just how awful his breath smells right now, with stomach acid beginning to plaque onto his teeth and his gums feeling unusually slimy with drool and whatever leftover chemicals from his food reacting with each other.

you have the decency to comply, shifting your body to stare at the open door across from him, your eyes cast in a downward gaze as you gently pick at the bathroom mat your lonely motel offered you. “let me know when you’re finished. i can help you clean up, if you'd like.”

he washes his flushed face first, pressing his lips together as one of his hands dips into the pool of warm water, the other precariously holding the toothbrush while balancing his upper weight against the plastic bin.

it’s silent when he begins to brush his teeth, the wind that used to be howling outside dying down until the only thing that can be heard are the bristles that brush and scrape against the enamel.

the subtle chill of menthol nudges against his tongue the same way it has years prior, it numbs his mouth and dulls his senses until he thinks he might go delirious with how tired he is of it all.

if suguru geto was raised a worse child, he thinks he'd throw a fit on the spot. he'd scream and kick his legs until the plastic bin fell over; he’d thrash and turn, he'd seethe and cry about how unfair everything is, how humiliating it is for you to see him like this.

he was raised as a child with manners, though, so he spoons polite handfuls of water into his mouth before spitting it out on the other side, as if he has a reputation worth saving in the first place. if his exhaustion won’t kill him, after all, he might as well do his best to look decent.

(his leg muscle twitches — sinew tensing against the bone.)

“’m done,” he musters.

it’s hard to make out your expression in the dark, but he can only imagine what you might be feeling when you stand up, hoisting the sad excuse of a cookie jar up before walking past him to pour the contents down the bathtub drain.

“are you not disgusted?”

‘it’s rotten work.’

you turn on the faucet, swirling water into the basin, “having to handle someone else's throw-up, suguru? i think i'd be crazy if i didn't feel a little grossed out.”

you catch his eye for just a moment, managing a wry smile before your eyes flit back to the porcelain tub, leaning forward to pump soap into the bin, “it’s you, though, so i don’t mind.”

‘not to me. not if it’s you.’

he grips at his own palms, his head hung low as he presses his chapped lips so hard he thinks he might draw blood. what do you mean by that? what could you mean by that?

“do you…” you pause, giving yourself time to think about the question you want to ask, the lukewarm water running past your arms, “do you do it on purpose?”

“sometimes.” his head lurches, “i mean — its habitual, mostly. it just happens when things get too much.”

he takes a quick inhale, a quiet drawl escaping to an even quieter room. “most of the time, i guess.”

you bite your lip, giving a hesitant nod in acknowledgment. the lump in your throat doesn't go away, but you give him another question.

“what do curses taste like?”

he shrugs, “hearts and rainbows.”

for a moment, there's only the sound of running water, and then your astonished voice rings out, “wow, suguru.”

“hey,” an involuntary snort bubbles out from his throat, “i'm being serious!”

“here i am trying to learn more about you and—”

“c’mon,” a snicker, almost breathless, “are you saying you don't believe me?”

"...whatever you say." you bite your lip again, this time to hide the smile that threatens to form on your face (it doesn't work, it never does around him) as you finish rinsing out the basin for a second, and then a third time.

truthfully, you couldn't give a damn about how clean some grimy container the owners probably forgot about in their rush to sell off the rathole somebody could never call a home. still, suguru would feel bad afterwards, so you aspire to do your very best.

…besides, there's something inside of you that tells you that he wants you to stay.

your first impression of suguru was barely anything, really, next to satoru gojo, he was kind of just there: quiet, cold, and unassuming to everyone he met (to you, especially, despite how much it annoyed you). it's taken months for you to peruse past that, almost a year for you to find out that geto suguru was only two out of the three; modest and silent, yes, but never cold.

“they taste horrible.” he admits, “it's almost unexplainable if i'm being honest, like nothing i've eaten before.”

you could never describe suguru as cold, knowing him now. he uses his sharp features as armor to protect his soft heart, but there's a fracture between his lips when they pull into a small smile, behind his monolids when they crinkle, the way his shoulders soften when you rest your head on them. suguru is the sun, and you're lucky to be basked in his warmth.

“are you alright?”

what a stupid question.

even from a distance, it feels like he's seconds from detonating, like the humorous tone in his voice mere moments ago was just an attempt to stall the coils of red-hot pressure building up in his deteriorating heart before he collapses in on himself.

he swallows, an action he’s come to hate over the years.

“…i really—” his voice cracks, “i hate eating them.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, exhaling before you place the bin upside down against the edge of the bathtub to let it dry.

the air is mute, but the floorboards creak as you make your way over to him. his posture has changed from the kneeled position you found him in, his shoulders hunched, his back against the wall and his knees touching his chest.

you think there might be a whole universe in suguru's eyes when you crouch down in front of him, clustered emotions swirling around his pupil, locked behind the coffee haze of his iris. there's a dull fire in there, oranges folded and yellows flickering within the honeyed brown — he looks tired, faint eyebags creasing around the fat in his eyes, his lids drooping as he stares down at his arms.

you waver.

“do you need to be alone right now?” your voice is quiet, “or do you need me to stay?”

selfishly, you want to stay. you've never gotten to be that person for him, never taken the chance to show him that you could be strong like gojo or dependable like ieiri, but you'd like to. you'd like to be better, so you want to stay.

(it's suguru, so you want to stay.)

“suguru?”

for a second, he looks scared.

it's hard to make out the fear behind the murky emotions in his eyes, but it's still there ー why would someone like him be scared? your smile falters at the lack of response, blinking back the self-consciousness that creeps up your spine. it's a sorcerer's job to help those who can't help themselves, but you can't help someone who doesn't want it (that's what yaga says anyways) and if you don't know what suguru wants, what can you do?

you try to peer past the stained windows he’s already let you see, push through with the little give that he offers, but there are no more cracks in the armor he's made for himself, and too much desperate conflict behind the hurricane in his eyes.

each second of silence that drags on makes the air around you harder to inhale, and eventually, you realize that you can't wait forever, so despite how ardently you want him to just take your hand, you can't win his battle by yourself.

“…i'll go, then,” you give him an embarrassed smile, flustered heat crawling in the back of your neck as you accept your defeat as gracefully as possible. the floorboards creak again as you stand up (although nothing could match the weight of the failed obstinance on your shoulders), and clumsily, you tack on, “i'll be here if you need me.”

something flickers in his eyes, a desperate storm howling before it crashes, a silent yet desperate plea when you stand up.

“w—wait, no—” his head lifts, his fingers blindly grasping onto your sweatshirt's sleeve in a panic; you turn, your concerned eyes staring back at him.

your concerned eyes finally reaching his.

“don’t go,” he clutches onto the fabric like it's a lifeline, “please don’t go.”

his finger trembles against the polyester; it itches, pulsing with heat so hot it might torch the rest of his body. thudding as if his heartbeat migrated through his veins to empty his chest, prickling with the desire to feel.

how embarrassing.

silently, your hand shifts, and you move to hold his — you're warm as you kneel back down, but not terribly so. "of course," you smile, "for as long as you'd like."

suguru bleeds. it's a fact that he forgets sometimes; today's mission was a much closer call than he would've preferred, but he buries death deep in the recesses of his mind.

"would you like to talk about it?" your voice is unsure.

what would his parents say if they knew that their only son fell so far from his place at the top? (do they know? did they know that this would happen? when they sent him off?)

he takes a moment, a puff of tainted air escaping his lips before he lies his head sideways on his knees, his hand squeezing yours as he stares at the porcelain tub.

he closes his eyes.

would they cradle him like they did all those years ago? would his father's arms bring the same solace that it used to, would his mother's perfume smell the same?

"i'm tired," his confession is feeble, weary in the damp bathroom, "and i think i have been for a long time."

would his mother look at him with the same fear-filled eyes, her husband telling her to stay back in case their child hurt them?

"there used to be purpose in what i did — i used to find meaning in doing my job, but it feels so stupid now." his ramble loses its conviction as quickly as it started until there's just an echo left; the shell of the person he used to be (the ending of the person he could've been), "...i just don't want to suffer anymore, not for nothing."

would they still make the same choice? would they let a stranger pick their kid up from his front porch, sealing him into this life?

his breath hitches, "i don't know why i'm alive anymore."

suguru wasn't raised a poor child.

no, he was raised to tackle his problems logically and to create solutions realistically, to hold onto his trophies and achievements with his head held high, his healthy body working in tandem with his even healthier soul.

his body isn't healthy anymore, though. not with his skin paler than it's ever been and his hollow cheeks matching his sunken ribs, not with the thousands of curses he's swallowed settling into his stomach rotting him from the inside out.

"i dunno," your voice is delicate, "i'd say it's to love."

rotting.

"someone could argue that it's to be happy or to protect, but that's just twenty million different manifestations of love," you continue, "but that's the beauty in it."

rotting, and rotten.

"besides," you tap the edge of his hand with your thumb casually, "you're quite loveable, suguru. more than you give yourself credit for."

it's strange to be accompanied by the sound of your voice when there's usually only silence to complement the wallowing moments of self-pity that follow every one of his episodes, but for once, he thinks he might welcome change.

"...you're being sappy," he breathes, his chest burning, "always have been."

"oh, c'mon," there's a slight scold in your tone, treading along the waters of a tease, "i can see you smiling from underneath there, y'know."

he tilts his head, just enough so you can see his eyes, his cheeks flushed with a soft red, his armor, cracking.

"when we get back," you remove your hand from his grasp (he holds on tighter, for just a second), reaching into the pocket of your hoodie, "i'm putting you on a mandatory break, effective immediately. there'll be no curse-eating on my watch."

he makes a sound in protest, lifting up his head up fully, "i don't think that's necessary—"

"i'll get gojo in on it if i need to." you don't actually know gojo satoru that well, but you know that he cares about his best friend, and really, that's all you need.

(you also know that he'd make suguru's life a living hell out of love. as strong as gojo is, he isn't soft.)

it seems that your threat works, though, and his eyebrow twitches before he slumps forward, almost childishly. "no curse-eating on your watch."

you hum in satisfaction, pulling out an object from your front pocket — it's a lollipop, like the free ones he used to get from the bank; you unwrap the plastic seal around it to reveal a deep red candy encasing the waxed stick before you hand it over to him.

"here, you should take it. i grabbed some on our way here."

"why?"

you smile. "because i care about you. that's the point, isn't it? to love?"

he blinks, his monolids owlish before he lifts his hand.

"yeah, i guess it is."

(his mind flashes. a toothbrush, lain with mint toothpaste. a glowing orb, fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. a lollipop, with a taste he can remember from his childhood.)

it's sweet against his tongue, hard against his teeth, something deeper and aromatic hidden behind the artificial flavor and sugar, but most notably, it tastes good.

it masks the ghostly residue of the curse that decayed his taste buds, and rotted his stomach; the candy is so sweet that he fears he might get a cavity, but you're so sweet that he knows he won't.

"thank you," he mumbles, the candy stuck firmly between the inside of his warm cheek and his molars, "for caring about me."

rotting, and rotten.

his fingers, rotten enough to kill those he deems worthy of sin, his mind, rotten enough to decide it. his heart, rotten enough to stop feeling, his lips, rotten enough to want to.

your heart thuds, and your reply is quiet, "thank you for letting me."

(his lips, rotten enough to crave yours.)

you're the moon, and he's lucky to be basked in your light.

he eyes your empty hand, and within a moment, his pinky finds yours. he hesitates before he interlocks his finger to yours, his cold palm lying on top of your knuckles, his dead arteries next to your veins. his touch is soft against your skin, but still, it makes you shiver.

you know that realistically, suguru's problems can't be solved by taking a break. his sense of honor is too high, his need to protect too strong, his ego too big — still, though, you'd like to think that with time, you could help him help himself.

“your bangs are wet.” your other hand reaches up to brush his loose hairs to the side, it must've been from when he washed his face.

he flushes red with embarrassment.

“god, don’t—”

“i still think you’re pretty.” your lips curve, and you crack a nervous smile, “i think you’re beautiful, suguru.”

“…still?” even with his imperfections? even as his clammy skin lies against yours?

you grin, your hand moving to his upper back — he makes a strangled sound as you pull him into a hug, the lollipop jerking back in his mouth as you wrap your arm as tightly around him as you can. there was never a ‘still’ with geto suguru, and you doubt there ever will be.

“more.” you grin as his arms unsurely move to snake across your ribs, his head resting against your chest, his ear pressed against your thin sweater — he can hear your heart beat despite the fabric, and for the first time in a while, suguru breathes.

silently, he feels his own follow suit.

alexis core is revising, editing, and re-editing until she hates herself and the fic 😔 i feel like im not great at writing emotional scenes so the entire time writing this i was like… this could be so much better if someone else wrote it. somewhere along the way the plot got lost fr. lol i think that's why it took so long writing it but then i was like alexis thats suguru behavior what 😒 get a hold of urself 😒 but it's whatever i feel like i improved writing-wise and i had fun (i wanted to kms) and that's what matters !!! also hi yes that was a pylades/orestes ref i loveee pinterest quotes