#(sobs.)

“now what?” you repeat. an almost teasing undertone to your voice.

(you little brat, satoru thinks.)

“ah, ah, no playin’ sly, darling,” his eyebrow twitches, “you’re the one who asked me to deactivate my infinity.”

“perhaps so,” a small, amused huff escapes him when your hand sneakily drags itself across the leather of the couch between you two, almost tantalizing with the way it stopped just short of touching him.

(a hair’s breadth away.)

satoru swallows.

“uh huh,” azure eyes stare straight into yours, and if you look closely, there’s a hint of a foreign glint in them— a glint that’s perhaps a little darker.

(perhaps a little uncertain.)

“. . .”

“. . .”

a pause.

“d’you know why i made you turn your infinity off?”

satoru turns his head to look at you.

really look at you. the way the mocking grin on your face has somehow morphed itself into something much more softer. the way you gaze at him— eyes so full of longing that he might just throw up from the sheer amount of love you have for him. the way you’re just. . . there.

no, he doesn’t bother with his six eyes.

(he’s looking at you through his soul.)

satoru knows exactly why you asked him to turn his infinity off. yes, his mind tells him, but something gnawing at his heart won’t let him admit.

“no,” he breathes out.

(a pause, again.)

his hand shakes a little, so he scratches his head to hide it. but really, he knows you’ll know. you never have to try.

(you always know.

and he knows that.)

“. . . i want to touch you,” you whisper. “really touch you.”

(a pause, yet again.)

a soft breeze raps its knuckles at the frosty windows of your bedroom. with the way it constantly knocks at your abode, it’s a bit disappointed, perhaps, and a little lonely. you wonder what it wants.

some company, perhaps? but it knows it can’t have one forever. something so vagabond cannot afford such constant homes, right?

it stays for a while, then goes away— as if resigning itself to its fate of being untouched, simply because it was the wind.

(you don’t touch the wind. it touches you.)

“so touch me,” satoru breathes out, finally deciding to place his trembling hand back on the cold leather of the couch again. no boundaries.

(just you and him.)

and you do.

finally, finally giving up that miniscule space in between— your hand meets his own.

so warm against yours. they’re a little sweaty, you notice, but you don’t mind. you don’t mind the look of almost disbelieving awe in satoru’s eyes when he gazes at you, thinking you’re not looking. and you definitely don’t mind when he engulfs your hand in his, as if touching you for the first time in his entire life.

(but this isn’t him. it’s you who’s touching him.)

“your hands are cold,” he mutters, a small huff escaping him— you barely suppress a fond sigh when you see that he’s scratching his head.

(so much to hide the shakiness of his free hand.)

“c’mere,” you say, and oh the wind is knocked out of his lungs when you wrap your arms round him. his heart stutters, and he finds himself going tense for a split second— like a deer caught in headlights, a deer frantic for normalcy once again— the normalcy of his sweet little lie, his infinity.

(but then, he pauses. normalcy is home. and home—

is you.)

“. . . eager, aren’t cha,” strong, trembling hands touch your waist— hesitant, like he’s wondering whether this is right or wrong; but your touch isn’t worthy of such materialistic proclaims. your touch is just. . . home.

“shut up,” you laugh, and he breathes.

(satoru gojo has never breathed quite so freely.)