Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Existence is a never-ending battle between two opposing forces. Each carries a magnetism that attracts and repels the soul. It was somewhere between these two poles that Suguru had been trapped. Neither alive nor dead, but somehow just existing. When he was on the living end of the spectrum, he’d never believed in a true afterlife. His conviction had been that the soul ends as the body does. The two are inexplicably tied to each other. A body must have a soul and a soul must have somewhere to reside, thus establishing symbiosis between the two substances. What this belief never accounted for, though, was the idea of a soul being contained within its original body after death. 

Suguru could recognize his transient spikes of lucidity, realize they connect with his soul just long enough to awaken it for a fleeting moment. He can’t control when it happens, but that’s just a quirk of being in a constant state of limbo. Through these moments of consciousness, he did learn that one—he was in fact in his body, and two—someone else controlled his body and was actively suppressing his soul. Time never seems to pass between these moments. They all feel consecutive like how falling asleep is immediately followed by waking up. The only concept of time he has is that each moment seems to be a little longer than the last—or maybe he’s just processing things quicker. 

This time, a split second after realizing his lucidity, he decides to take advantage of it while he can. Somewhere, at some point in time, someone had taught him that the core of a person’s cursed energy is bound to their soul. So if his soul is all that he has, he should still be able to control his cursed energy. It is his body after all.

Using every ounce of metaphysical stamina he has, he floods the body with his cursed energy. It’s a shot in the dark, but so is everything else with only the knowledge of his soul and a rough idea of what lies beyond it. This seems to have some effect because he’s still conscious and channeling cursed energy through the body long after the point his awareness should’ve ceased. Whatever was working so hard to suppress his soul begins to weaken, eroding away into the void Suguru had been stuck in. Reclaiming the body would be the ideal outcome, but if this kills them both and leaves the body soulless that would be an acceptable alternative. He’d rather face death again than let his body be someone else’s puppet.

Bright reds and blues amongst darkness become all that he can perceive. It’s overwhelming in contrast to the dark oblivion of limbo. He isn’t sure if this is a sign of life or simply the final release of energy as a byproduct of dying. He thinks it’s rather symbolic. The same colors he saw when his former best friend first killed him appearing before his eyes for the second time he dies. But something seems off. He can feel the cold pavement beneath him and its damp surface. There are voices somewhere that blend into the distant hum of traffic. Maybe he isn’t dying after all.

His eyes begin to focus, adjusting to the light and clearing the haze that clouds them. He’s in an alleyway, somewhere in Tokyo by the looks of it. A lot of things hurt right now but it’s particularly his head that’s drawing his attention. He holds a hand up to his forehead to try and soothe the pain but his fingers catch on something unusually rough. He traces over it, trying to figure out what it is, picking at it to see if it’ll come off. Part of whatever it is breaks off under the pressure of his fingernails but he’s immediately hit with a surge of agonizing pain. He unfolds his hand to see what came off. Some kind of crude suture that is now soaked in blood. He lifts a hand to his forehead again, this time feeling a warm liquid coming from the same spot as the thread. More blood. It seems stupid given his desire to be self-sufficient in his past life, but all he can think about is calling someone for help. The pain is excruciating and doing nothing has become unbearable. He cautiously pushes himself up from the ground, unsteady on his feet as he stands. Blood began to drip further down his face and into his right eye, forcing him to close it.

At the end of the alleyway that opens up to a busy street, he finds a pay phone. He fumbles around in his pockets, hoping that whoever possessed his body had been kind enough to leave at least some change behind. He drops the two coins he manages to find into the pay phone. Enough to make a local call but nothing further. He’s only memorized two numbers in his life and they’d been two he avoided calling at all costs for over a decade. One is a definite no. Which leaves him with only one option, and that's assuming she doesn’t hang up the moment she hears his voice. He holds the receiver up to his ear, types in the number, and waits for it to ring. 

“Hello?” she answers, sounding annoyed and maybe a little drunk. He just hopes she’s at the point in drinking where she can still listen and form coherent thoughts.

“Shoko? It’s um—” he pauses, thinking how to phrase it. There’s no casual way to say you came back to life after being dead for a year. “It’s Geto and I… I think there’s something wrong with me. Can you please come out here and help me?”

Shoko just laughs, softly at first and then loud enough that he has to hold the receiver further away from his ear. He wouldn’t know how to react in her situation either, but this seems a little extreme. A simple no would’ve sufficed.

“Is this a prank call?” she muses, still choking back laughter. “Because I gotta admit, you’re doing a pretty damn good job at it. You almost fooled me.”

He should’ve expected this. These aren’t exactly the most believable of circumstances. “It’s not, I’m really serious. I’m next to where you went to smoke cigarettes in high school. Please just come out here, I’ll explain everything later.” He's becoming desperate.

The phone beeps, signaling the time he paid for is running out. He feels around in his pockets again for more coins but finds nothing. He needs to make the last seconds count. 

“Please. I’ll wait here for you,” he pleads. 

She laughs again. “Sure, sure. I’d love to see whose idea of a prank this was.”

The phone beeps again, for the final time this time. The call ends and the receiver plays a dead tone. He can only hope that she took him seriously enough.

Chapter Text

Suguru leans his back into the wall and then his head. Moving at all right now is beyond agonizing. Dying while locked away somewhere in his body might have been more pleasant than bleeding out on the street like this. He imagines the looks on residents’ faces when they see his lifeless body there in the early morning sun. Appalled, disgusted, unsympathetic. Maybe the news would get back to Shoko and she’d finally realize he was serious, maybe she’d even feel a little guilty.

The vibrant sounds of the city have lulled to a quiet buzz of streetlights and intermittent murmurs of engines on a nearby thoroughfare. It’s funny, he thinks. Shoko came to this part of the city to smoke and sneak into bars. It was a popular place for college students and salarymen to visit on weekends. But now it’s abysmally quiet. In the distance, voices echo against the sides of the buildings. One male, one female. Their conversation seems to be cheerful. Full of laughter and few breaks between speaking. He closes his eyes, hoping they’ll pass without noticing him. He hates the idea of drawing attention to himself in such a weakened state, particularly at the expense of others’ joy. Much like the way a cat will hide when it knows it’s dying, he feels a similar urge with the two voices growing nearer.

“No shit,” the female voice says.

“You owe me. I told you it was real,” the male voice responds.

Suguru thinks about opening his eyes to see what they’re talking about. He hadn’t noticed anything strange when he was walking down the same street. But he decides he’s better off trying to make it seem as though he’s asleep. He’d like to keep his interactions with strangers to a minimum until Shoko gets here.

“Hey.” He hears someone snapping in front of his face.

But it’s unavoidable if they’re interacting with him first. He opens his eyes and is immediately met with ocean-colored ones piercing into his. White hair floats above them, rising and falling with the breeze. No, not a stranger. But close enough to one. 

“Yeah, it’s definitely him,” Satoru says to whoever else is with him, probably Shoko. He runs a finger over the spot Suguru had been bleeding out from. “You look like shit.”

Suguru shivers from the pain but tries to push it from his mind. There’s a reason he didn’t call Satoru. Or ask Shoko to bring him. This is exactly why. “Thanks,” Suguru says sarcastically.

Satoru steps aside to allow Shoko to lean in and take a look for herself. She studies his forehead and holds a hand to her face while she thinks. She touches his forehead as well but is careful to avoid the spot he picked at, unlike Satoru. “I can heal the scar if that’s what you want, but you’re going to need more than that.” She tightens her lips into a straight line. “And I think we’d be committing a crime if we just leave you here.”

Suguru sighs, feeling defeated. He could’ve guessed that this would happen by calling Shoko, or anyone at the technical college. She’s obviously still bound to jujutsu regulations and his revival undoubtedly violates that. If his pain doesn’t kill him, this probably will. 

Shoko holds her hands up to his head and applies her cursed technique. Instantly, this takes the edge off his pain. It’s no longer debilitating, just more like a dull ache. He slumps back against the wall a little in relief.

“Don’t move,” she says and he reverts to his previous position. Her hands move to the back of his head, hovering an inch or two from his scalp. She pulls back. “Done. Does that feel better?”

He stretches his neck from side to side, not feeling the same sharp pressure he did before. “Yeah.”

Satoru crouches down and extends a hand out to him. He feels unsure about taking it, thinks the intent behind it might not be so friendly. He isn’t supposed to be alive after all and this was the person assigned to make sure of that. Suguru wouldn’t put it past him to take advantage of his vulnerability and correct his previous mistake. Against his better judgment, he decides to take Satoru’s hand. Satoru pulls him up. They stand at eye level now and Suguru finds himself needing to tilt his head upward slightly to meet Satoru’s eyes. It’s a little irritating.

“You’re shorter than I remember,” Satoru laughs. No, this is more than a little irritating. Within less than an hour of him being alive again, Suguru is already staring daggers into Satoru.  “Shoko, look.” He holds his hand on top of his head and moves it out over Suguru’s to emphasize the difference in their height.

She just shakes her head. “You’re the only one that cares,” she groans. At least someone has a crumb of common sense about this.

“Whatever,” Satoru says, looking back to Suguru. Everything about this feels familiar with a twinge of gut-wrenching nostalgia. The joking, the light atmosphere. Satoru raises fingers to Suguru’s forehead and—

His vision is blurry and he feels a strong urge to rub his eyes. He goes to pull his hand up to his eyes but finds he can’t move his arms. It’s like being locked away in his body again, he thinks. Wanting to move but unable to. Gaining and losing consciousness seamlessly. His own thoughts echoing into the void. He wonders if the possessor regained control. If all his hard work has already been undone. That didn’t take long. He can only sit idly by as his autonomy slips away. It’s disheartening, gaining control only to lose it again. The possessor probably knows of his plan now and will likely repress him further as punishment. It was inevitable, really.

He attempts to move his arm again, just to make sure. Again, he can’t move it but he realizes this time that it’s bound by something. He attempts to move the other arm and finds it’s the same for that one as well. Relief washes over him. Then confusion. Then frustration. He’s still alive but he might as well not be if he’s just going to be imprisoned like this. He tries opening his eyes for a second time to gain a better understanding of his predicament. An empty chair is placed across from him and talismans coat the walls. It’s not a prison cell at least, but it’s still somewhere he’d rather not be.

Footsteps emerge from somewhere behind him. It catches him off guard. He’s not sure why, but he’d gotten the impression that he was alone in the room. His eyes slowly adjust and he realizes the chair across from him is no longer empty. Satoru is sitting in it with his knee pulled up to his chest and his chin resting on it. Unlike the last time Suguru saw him, he’s now wearing a blindfold with his hair up.

“Before you say anything, tying you up wasn’t my idea.” Satoru aimlessly waves a hand around in the air, gesturing somewhere toward the ceiling. “That was their decision, not mine.”

Suguru pulls on his arms again. Bullshit. The higher-ups might have mentioned it, but Satoru probably leaped at the opportunity. Maybe not out of malice. Likely because he’s fully aware of how much it would irritate Suguru. Which it successfully has, and Satoru is not-so-subtly smiling about it.

Suguru laughs at the absurdity of the situation. “Why am I even here?”

Satoru lets the leg he propped up slip back down to the floor as he leans forward. He’s still smiling. With the blindfold on, Suguru can’t tell if it’s about something else now. The direction he’s looking, the full expression, all obscured by black fabric.

“They’re pissed at me, you know.” Of course Satoru doesn’t answer the question. “The higher-ups, they’re blaming me for all of this. They think I revived you,” he groans and sticks his tongue out, feigning disgust.

Suguru can’t help but laugh at the face Satoru’s making. He missed this. The lack of seriousness about things that really should be taken seriously, the stupid looks Satoru would give him. It’s been a while.

Satoru leans back again, making himself comfortable in the chair. “They kept talking about how I need to execute you again and that this isn’t acceptable. I stopped listening after a while, but—” his tone becomes more serious and he holds up a finger. “I was listening when they said they’d consider canceling your execution.”

Suguru looks at him unconvinced. They wouldn’t do that without being given a good reason. And even with a good reason, they’d still refuse.

“You just can’t break any more rules and they’ll let you live.” Satoru holds out his arms like this is the big reveal. “Oh, and you can’t stay here until they’re less grumpy about it, but Shoko would be happy to have you.”

“Does that mean you can untie me now?” Suguru is unimpressed, but it’s at least better than being executed for a second time. He can worry about the specifics of it when he isn’t feeling exhausted.

Satoru hesitates for a moment then snaps his fingers as if suddenly remembering. “Oh, right.”

He stands from the chair and walks behind Suguru. The rope finally loosens around his wrists and blood rushes back into his hands. He rubs his wrists where the rope had dug in. Satoru is such an asshole for this. He would’ve been just fine without the rope and Satoru definitely knows this. And it isn’t like he can kill Satoru even if he tried. His body is too weak for that.

“I’ll take you to Shoko.” Satoru beckons with one hand and uses the other to hold the door open.

Suguru hesitantly follows him out. His feet are unsteady as he follows Satoru down the hallway and up a flight of stairs. He clings to the wall for balance. His distance behind Satoru is growing and Satoru doesn’t seem to notice. He’s just carrying on at the same fast pace. This used to be one of Suguru’s biggest pet peeves. Satoru always walked ahead without any regard for Suguru, and when Suguru complained about it he’d walk at a snail’s pace just to prove a point. Suguru finds it funny how little has actually changed.

Satoru shoves the morgue doors open with both hands. “Shokooo,” he draws out the last ‘o’ in a singsong manner. “Suguru’s staying at your place until the geezers aren’t mad anymore.”

Shoko looks at him. Blinks. Then lets out a deep sigh that’s accentuated by pinching the bridge of her nose. Suguru feels his stomach drop. Satoru didn’t actually ask her if Suguru could stay with her. Of course. Suguru turns to glare at Satoru but he’s already leaving the scene of the crime.

“Shouldn’t he be staying with you?” Shoko holds her hands up in frustrated confusion but drops them upon realizing Satoru isn’t coming back.

“He’s still like that?” Suguru feels awkward in this situation. It’s not his fault that Satoru decided to spring what should be his responsibility on Shoko, but he can’t help feeling like it is. And making conversation is the only way he can think to prevent the anger Shoko might direct at him.

“Sadly,” Shoko sighs again and holds her hand up to her head again. “You can sleep in my living room but if you want anything else, talk to Gojo. Make it his problem.”

Suguru just nods. Too uncomfortable to say anything else, and too afraid that he’ll say the wrong thing. Shoko is…kinda scary now.

She steps toward him and stares intently at his forehead. It’s a little unnerving and feels very clinical. Like he’s just an experiment to her or some modern version of Frankenstein’s monster.

“Looks better.” She steps back a bit. “Does it hurt when I do this?” She uses her fingers to press on his forehead in the area he vaguely remembers picking at.

He shakes his head. The intense pain from before she healed him has subsided to a dull ache.

She smiles, looking proud of her work. “That scar was brutal, I didn’t expect it to heal so quickly.”

He raises his hand up to his forehead. The skin is completely smooth now. It’s hard to even tell where the scar had been—except for a couple of raised patches of skin.

“Thank you.” He’s probably late in saying it. Or maybe this is the correct time, he isn’t sure. There’s an unknown stretch of time between now and when she healed the scar. And it isn’t helped by the fact that the morgue doesn’t have a clock. But if Shoko says it happened quickly, maybe now is the right time to thank her. Like paying after receiving a service as opposed to before.

Suguru sits at a small dining table in the living room of Shoko’s apartment. He’s holding a cup of tea between both hands but hasn’t taken more than a couple of sips. It’s still hot, and letting his hands soak up the heat is a lot nicer than the drink itself.

Shoko tosses a bare futon onto the empty floor space between the dining table and couch. The soft thump of this is followed by another haphazard toss of bedding. She still seems annoyed. Not because of the way she tossed the bedding, but because of the bitter grunts and side glances she’s giving.

“Tell Gojo he owes me half my rent for this.” She takes a seat in the chair across from Suguru. Her irritation is much more apparent face-to-face.

Suguru nods awkwardly. “Thank you,” he says for maybe the fifth time today. The words feel like they’re starting to lose meaning.

Silence settles between them and Shoko reaches for a nearly empty pack of cigarettes on the table. She holds it in her hand for a moment, turning it over between her fingers, then placing it back down. Suguru finds it a little funny to see her reconsider taking a cigarette. He tries to stifle his surprise. To his memory, she’d always been decisive about it, balking at the idea of ever quitting or slowing down. Shoko drums the fingers of her free hand on the table and bites her lip. She’s clearly trying to repress the urge, but her restlessness is putting Suguru on edge. He almost wishes she would just take the damn cigarette.

She smacks her hand against the table, making Suguru jump. “Do you want alcohol? I want alcohol,” she says impatiently.

Suguru stares blankly at her. His mind is still coping with the shock of the sound. “Sure,” he gingerly agrees but it comes out sounding more like a question than an answer.

She pushes herself up from the table with enough force that the table legs scratch against the floor. Suguru would prefer not to drink, but Shoko’s offering and he’s scared of pissing her off more than she already is. Though logically the nicer thing to do would be not to waste her alcohol. But it’s too late for that. She’s already pouring vodka into two whisky glasses, one much more full than the other. He can guess which one is hers. Her hands shake as she fills hers to the brim. It’s dark in her kitchen but he can already tell it’s about to spill over. She mutters a string of curses to herself and uses the hem of her shirt to wipe up the overflow. He’s a little surprised not to see her licking it directly off the counter. She’d never been one to waste good alcohol. Carefully, she carries both glasses back to the table.

With the glass of vodka now in front of him, Suguru is having second—or maybe third at this point—thoughts about drinking it. Its alcoholic smell is already permeating his senses without getting close to it. And Shoko filled his glass pretty full, despite it still being less than hers. He’s really not sure if he’s going to be able to drink all of this—especially without a mixer. If she’d invited him over rather than being forced to take him in, he might’ve asked for one. But seeing as she’s still as upset over it as she was a few hours ago, he decides to use the hot tea as some kind of shitty chaser. Not ideal, but better than drinking vodka straight—something he never would have done even when he was drinking underage.

Suguru puts the glass up to his lips and really wishes he hadn’t. He fights back the strong urge to gag. A shot glass would’ve been more than enough. He closes his eyes and downs the first sip, tilting the glass to make it feel more like taking a shot than drinking leisurely. Chills run down his spine and the alcohol burns his esophagus. The conflicting sensations are making him sick.

He looks back to Shoko and realizes she’s already drunk about half of hers. It really should not be a surprise, but he’s still shocked at the sight. Especially taking into account the vile taste still lingering on his tongue. He takes a sip of his tea to try and wash it down.

“Amateur,” she mutters, to which Suguru groans.

It’s uncomfortable how casual she is about drinking this much. Normal people do not down half a whisky glass of vodka in less than five minutes. He looks back down at his tea to ignore the sight. Looking any longer might make him vomit. Ideally, they’d be talking about something to distract from the putrid experience of drinking vodka straight. And ideally, he’d feel comfortable asking her to get him caught up on the events since his death or even since he originally fled the school. He’d prefer not to go back into this life blind.

But instead, he settles on, “So you’re a doctor now?” He nods to the framed certificate on her wall.

Shoko looks over to the wall as if trying to figure out what he’s talking about. “Oh, right, you don’t know,” she finally says, laughter seeping into her words. “Yeah, for a few years now, but the pay is still pretty shit.”

He chuckles at her response and sloshes the liquor around in his glass. He imagines her in a school that isn’t the technical college, away from Satoru and Yaga, studying a subject more appealing to her. He imagines how indifferent she probably was to the other students and how popular that likely made her—or maybe not, he doesn’t know enough about medical school to have a clear picture of it.

He takes a longer sip than he did before, a little less reluctantly and this time ignoring the burn it leaves in his mouth. The liquor is beginning to make his head fuzzy. It’s calming in that way. It slows his thoughts down and makes it easier to simply be present. He isn’t worrying about making Shoko upset, or how the alcohol tastes, or what this second life holds for him. Maybe there is some value in drinking as much as Shoko is. He finishes off the remaining vodka in his glass. It still tastes just as disgusting though.

Suguru traces over the curls and gnarls of the wooden table with his fingers. Deep scratches in the veneer reveal the layer of particle board beneath. It reminds him of the desks at the technical college and the things he and Satoru would carve into them. He remembers Satoru once using a pen to carve 'GS+GS' into his desk at the time. He tried explaining to Satoru that the plus sign wasn’t used to show friendship and that it didn’t really make sense for the message he was trying to convey. Satoru didn’t care and dug his pen deeper to exaggerate the plus sign out of spite, mumbling something about how it doesn’t matter if you’re strong. Suguru rolled his eyes at it but at the time, he had a massive crush on Satoru that he was trying to conceal. Not even Shoko knew. This particular incident was something he’d replayed over and over in his head during their second year, and it’s probably why he can still remember it so vividly. It’s a little pathetic in hindsight. It was nothing more than crumbs, but he ate it right up until the day his feelings faded.

Shoko leans over the table, her glass now empty too. “It’s weird drinking with you,” she says, her voice less sober than it was before. “What was it like being dead?”

He laughs, “Quiet.” It’s not a lie but putting the experience into words isn’t something he wants to do. And letting anything slip about the possessor might hurt his chances of survival. “What’s it like not being dead?”

“Exhausting. Mostly because of you-know-who.” She holds her hand over her eyes, mimicking Satoru’s blindfold. Suguru conceals a laugh with the palm of his hand. “Maybe it’ll be better with you back, who knows.”

He can imagine that working with Satoru is a pain. Especially for Shoko. Her tolerance for chaos, particularly Satoru-caused chaos, is extremely low. Suguru used to act as the buffer between them to keep Shoko from getting too frustrated and Satoru from being too reckless. In his absence, he imagines it’s become a mess.

Shoko abruptly stands from her chair, a little unsteady on her feet. “I’m going to bed. Bathroom’s down the hall if you need it.”

“Got it. Goodnight,” he says as she walks off to her room, grabbing at the wall for balance. She only waves back to him in acknowledgment.

He mourns the loss of her presence. Being trapped in his body gave him more than a lifetime's worth of being alone. It was nice not feeling the suffocating weight of isolation for as long as he did. He almost feels normal—but maybe that’s just the alcohol’s effect on his brain.

Chapter Text

Twenty-four hours, at least, have elapsed since Suguru reclaimed his body. It’s something he turns over in his mind while sitting across from Satoru. It still feels too early to celebrate. He would rather be hiding under the sheets of his borrowed futon than at an ice cream shop in a busy district of Tokyo. But the same can’t be said for Satoru—who’s convinced it should be celebrated like a birthday.

“A day now, huh?” Satoru peers over his sunglasses. 

Ice cream was completely Satoru’s idea. Without any input from Suguru, he decided they should celebrate, and that it should be with his current favorite dessert. He chose somewhere he’d frequented lately, which was obvious when the shop’s staff recognized him. Satoru added every sugary topping available, while Suguru kept his own order simple. It wasn’t hard to guess that his order likely contributed to his memorability, among other things. 

Looking at Satoru’s bowl makes him sick to his stomach, even with most of it eaten. In comparison, Suguru’s ice cream seems out of place, a little boring even. The only toppings he’d added were apricots and brown sugar syrup. Satoru tried to get him to add more, but the brown sugar syrup was his compromise. He would’ve only added apricots originally. 

Satoru pulls his phone from his pocket and aims it at Suguru. “Smile, this is a big deal.”

He looks over at Satoru and only deepens his frown. He isn’t in the mood for pictures. Not while he’s eating, and certainly not while he has stains around his mouth from the ice cream. 

Satoru groans at this. “I’m taking the picture anyway. This is your last warning.”

Suguru holds the ice cream bowl up to his face, no longer frowning, but at least covering the stains. Satoru lets out an irritated sigh and a shutter snap from his phone signals to Suguru that he’s taken the picture. He lowers the bowl from his face and the shutter snaps again. 

Suguru glares at him and attempts to reach for his phone to delete the picture. But Satoru pulls his hand back at the last second. He leans back in his chair and smiles down at his phone, a little triumphantly. It’s annoying to watch. Satoru holds out his phone to show Suguru, gripping the phone hard enough that his knuckles are turning white.

It’s the second picture he took. The candid shot with the ice cream away from his face. From a distance it’s unremarkable, but the longer he stares at it, the more he finds himself hating it. The tangles in his hair. The dark circles under his eyes. And his forehead. His gaze lingers there. A line of ruby discoloration runs along the length of it, the same place it ached the day before. He’s embarrassed and a little disgusted by the sight. He’s only just now noticing it but hundreds of others likely already have. The stares, the fleeting glances. It makes a lot more sense. He touches his fingers to his forehead but nothing stands out. It’s completely smooth. Maybe he hadn’t been doing himself a favor by avoiding the mirrors in Shoko’s apartment.

Satoru pulls his phone back and places it face down on the table. “It’s really not that noticeable, you know. Plus, Shoko said the redness would go away in a few days.”

A few days. He laughs to himself at the idea of that. There’s no guarantee he’d even still be alive by then. He shakes his head. Satoru probably doesn’t want to hear that part. It seems rude to be so pessimistic. He reluctantly drops his hand from his forehead and decides to move away from the topic.

“Speaking of Shoko.” He points his spoon at Satoru. “She wants you to pay half her rent for making me stay with her.”

Satoru shovels a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth and points his own spoon back at Suguru. “Tell her she should learn that being generous is a virtue.”

Suguru contorts his face to make his disapproval impossible to miss. For both the remark and Satoru’s decision to speak with his mouth full. “I’m not telling her that. Also, swallow your food before talking, it’s gross.”

He receives a groan from Satoru followed by a momentary pause while he swallows his ice cream. “I just think it’s better if you stay with her. She’s a doctor, she knows what to do if something happens, I don’t.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. It’s a pretty weak justification. Satoru could always just call Shoko if he thought something was wrong. It’s not like she’s watching over him at all hours of the night anyway. If Satoru doesn’t want him back in his life, he should just come out and say it. It’d hurt less than listening to him give these half-baked excuses. Suguru briefly considers calling his bluff, but it seems like too public of a place to do it.

“Anyway,” Satoru says, pushing himself up from his chair. “We should look at clothes for you.”

The feeling that Satoru is trying to hide something is unshakable. Still, Suguru tries to push the thought aside as he follows Satoru out of the ice cream shop. The only clothes he has to wear currently are the ones Satoru lent to him, which don’t exactly fit—in both style and size. His suspicions are something he can worry about when he’s on his own.

Satoru leads him down a narrow alleyway, across a busy street, and into a busier plaza. His walking speed is annoying to keep up with. Suguru wants to take in the scenery a little this time, not rush to the destination. He lets the distance between them grow as he looks around the plaza. Lanterns and string lights hang between buildings, creating a vibrant canopy that hovers above clusters of people walking in the street. It seems to be closed off to road traffic. Bollards block both ways into the street, allowing for only pedestrians and cyclists. The gap between them continues to stretch, occasionally minimized by the ebb and flow of foot traffic. It’s busy for a weekday and it’s not a holiday as far as Suguru is aware. Would Satoru really bring him to a tourist hotspot to go clothes shopping?

Suddenly he can’t make out Satoru’s head in the crowd in front of him, and suddenly he’s all too aware of how many mon—no, people—are surrounding him. He takes a deep breath. Referring to non-sorcerers like that is the easiest way to get killed again, even if it’s only in his head. Not that he’s really become all that attached to being alive yet. But the way they keep looking at him is making it really hard not to call them that. Unyielding stares. Disgusted expressions. Like they have any room to judge. But he remembers the picture, and the mark across his forehead.

Suguru dips his head and begins to pick up his pace. It doesn’t matter where Satoru is. He just needs to get away from this crowd. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks faster. Wallet, Shoko’s spare key, and a napkin from the ice cream shop. Even with his head down, he can still make out the stares. His legs already ache from the pace he’s walking, he can’t move any faster to get away from them sooner. He’s at his limit—mentally too. His heart is somewhere in his throat and slowly cutting off his breathing. Wallet. Key. Napkin. He goes over the items in his pockets again. The overlapping conversations, laughing, and shouting have all blurred into a dull buzz in his ears. His senses are struggling to keep up.

He pulls his shoulders in and begins weaving through every opening in the crowd. Walking faster isn’t an option, but maneuvering around obstacles is. The end of the street doesn’t feel like an eternity away anymore. It’s almost over.

Then his arm catches on something, or something grabs onto his arm. He’s not paying enough attention to know. But it’s enough to throw off his balance. He steps backward to prevent himself from falling. Fuck . His back crashes into something—someone, the impact is too soft.

“Sorry,” he immediately apologizes. Now is really not the time for this. He tries to walk away again but finds his arm still stuck.

“Were you looking for me?” The pressure releases from around his arm and Satoru’s stupid laughter fills his ears. “Sorry for leaving you behind, I didn’t realize we got separated.”

He wants to yell. At Satoru. At the people staring. His brain is still in fight or flight, and flight obviously didn’t work out. But he bites his tongue and closes his eyes. Inhale, exhale.

“Are you okay? Your hands are shaking.” Satoru’s voice pierces through his thoughts.

He opens his eyes to look for himself, and indeed they are. Enough that he should be able to feel it, or at least notice something isn’t right with them. He quickly stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I’m fine. Where’s the store you wanted to take me?”

Concern seems to wash over Satoru’s face briefly but it soon disappears when he gestures to the glass doors behind him. “Here. I thought basics might be a good place to start.”

Even for basics, the store seems upscale. Clothes are piled neatly on wooden tables and hung on metallic racks around the store, all carefully organized so that they’re illuminated by the ceiling lights. It’s not somewhere Suguru would’ve chosen to go, even if money wasn’t a concern—and it very much is. He doesn’t know how much remains in his bank account, but this is definitely beyond that. It’s only by luck that he still has his debit card and that luck isn’t something he’d like to squander by spending recklessly. The possessor tossed out all of his other cards but didn’t bother to check the inner pockets of his wallet, behind the pictures of Nanako and Mimiko. All that remains now are those pictures, his debit card, and his ID. No cash, no credit card. He doesn’t know where Satoru got the idea that he could afford this.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I can afford anything there.” He feels awkward bringing it up.

Satoru’s expression goes blank for a moment but is quickly replaced by a grin. Then laughter. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on me.”

“Are you sure?” He looks up at Satoru, trying to read his intent. It makes him a little uncomfortable and muddies his earlier theory about Satoru not wanting him back in his life. This is actually generous . It’s not the kind of thing someone who’s trying to push him away would do. Or maybe it is. Satoru could be unpredictable.

“Come on.” Satoru pulls him inside through the doors but he still feels a little apprehensive about it.

Part of him fears that Satoru is lying about this and will leave at the last possible second so he’s left to pay for everything himself. That would be the kind of thing someone who’s trying to push him away does. Satoru did it once before in their teens but Suguru had scolded him so harshly after the fact that it never happened again. Maybe he’d forgotten about that, though. He suffered from selective forgetfulness, as Shoko had once called it.

“I’m pretty sure we wear the same size. My shirt looks like it fits you fine.” Satoru digs through one of the piles of shirts on the table, not caring about the mess he’s making. He holds up a plain black shirt to Suguru’s shoulders. “That works.” He drapes the shirt over his forearm. 

There were a lot of ways Satoru had embarrassed him over the years, Suguru realizes, might be the worst. Not because of the action itself, but the fact Satoru doesn’t realize he’s doing anything wrong. It seems like common sense not to leave store displays a mess when you’re done looking at them. Suguru was always careful when he went out shopping on his own. If he picked something up to look at it, he’d fold it before putting it back where he found it. Satoru obviously doesn’t have the same guilty conscience. He considers scolding Satoru for it but that seems rude given he’s paying for Suguru to have this privilege. He’ll just bring it up later.

Satoru holds up another shirt from the table, followed by a second, and then a third. He tosses them all over his arm without any input from the person he’s supposedly buying the clothes for. Suguru begins to wonder if this outing is really for him or to satiate some kind of closeted shopping addiction Satoru has. Bringing another person with him would be the perfect way to justify his spending too. If Suguru had a phone right now he’d be texting Shoko to complain about this, pictures included.

“What about those?” Satoru points to a row of jeans hanging on the wall. “I think they’d look good on you.”

The jeans in question are dark gray and seem to be somewhere in between a straight and skinny fit. This is the one item of clothing they don’t share a size in. The pants from Satoru are a little loose around his hips. He’d had to ask for a belt so that he could wear them out. Now that he’s picking out things for himself, size isn’t something he wants to take a chance on. Even if he can logically assume that he’s only one size down.

“I’ll try them on.” He takes down two pairs from the rack, one being the same size as the jeans he’s currently wearing and the other being a size smaller. Just in case. This store seems like the kind of place to size their jeans according to whim rather than objective measurements.

“These too.” Satoru hands him another pair of jeans that are black instead of gray, along with a pair of similarly colored sweatpants. 

Suguru opens his mouth to say something about this but abruptly closes it. Definitely a shopping addiction. This is becoming a little ridiculous. Suguru always thought Satoru was at risk of developing an addiction of some kind. Not to intoxicating substances, but to other things that give a similarly quick dopamine release. First, he worried it would be gambling. Satoru once spent two consecutive hours at the same gashapon machine trying to win something Suguru offhandedly mentioned liking. Then he worried it would be video games. Satoru was gifted a Nintendo DS and spent every bit of his allowance on new games and every waking moment with it in front of his face. Suguru eventually took the battery out and told him it was broken. And eventually, he realized he should’ve been worried about shopping as a potential addiction. It slipped under his radar as they grew further apart, but he still made some effort to prevent Satoru from falling too deep into it. And it’s clear now that his presence was the only thing preventing it.

With Satoru still distracted by the selection of jeans displayed on the wall, Suguru decides to wander away and look around the store on his own. This trip is meant for him after all. A long rack of sweaters is the first thing to catch his attention. He runs his fingers over the hangers. Some look similar to the ones he used to own. Similar material, similar color, but not the same. They don’t hold the memories that his did. And if he could go back to his former house to get them, he would in a heartbeat. He liked the closet that he’d built up over the years. But it’s probably all gone now, and it isn’t like he has the key to check. Nanako and Mimiko must have taken that back somehow.

He sighs and picks up a navy blue knitted sweater. It’s close enough in appearance to the one he wore most, but it looks better made. The threads are softer, thicker, and knitted tighter. It doesn’t have the fragile look to it that his previous one had, even when it was new. He places it over his arm with the pants Satoru handed to him.

The fitting rooms are well hidden between flashy sale signs and mannequin displays. And right next to the entrance to the fitting rooms, Satoru is completely absorbed in a rack of long-sleeve shirts. He carries a basket now and even that is nearly overflowing. At least by carrying the clothes on his arms, he’d be limited by the weight of them. Having a basket clearly just enables him. Suguru quietly laughs to himself at this. It’s a little endearing how much more enthusiastic Satoru is about this than he is—as long as he’s looking past the fact that it’s likely a symptom of his addiction. Suguru attempts to enter the fitting rooms without drawing Satoru’s attention and possibly being forced to carry the shopping basket so he can fill another. This does not work as planned, though.

“Wait.” Fuck. Satoru holds out a few of the shirts from his basket. “Try these on too.”

Suguru rolls his eyes at this but takes them anyway. At least it isn’t the whole basket. 

He takes a room at the end of the hall. Somewhere a little more secluded than the ones closest to the entrance and somewhere Satoru can’t easily hand him more clothes. He already has enough to try on. He places the clothes on a hook sticking out from the wall and locks the door behind him. As he turns around to begin trying on the clothes, he’s caught off guard by something. Nearly every wall in the fitting room has some kind of mirror on it. They aren’t small either. The tops of them are far above his head and they’re all wide enough to show the reflection of another person in addition to himself. Seeing his own reflection is practically unavoidable. So much for avoiding Shoko’s mirrors.

He places a pair of pants and the sweater down on an industrial-looking bench. Somehow this store even managed to make the fitting rooms pretentious. He closes his eyes and begins shedding his clothes, placing them on the bench and feeling around for the ones to try on. He pulls the pants on first, followed by the sweater; all with his eyes still closed. The saying ‘ignorance is bliss’ truly applies here. He’s perfectly happy not knowing what his body looks like under his clothes. He’d closed his eyes while showering, closed them while getting dressed, and will close them each time he changes in this fitting room. For all he knows, the possessor could have got an ugly tattoo somewhere on his body without him realizing it. If he can’t see it, he can’t be upset about it.

He opens his eyes again and reluctantly looks at his reflection. The sweater and jeans pair well together. The sweater has a looser fit while the jeans hug his legs a little tighter. This isn’t the pair he originally picked out. No, these are the ones Satoru just handed him. He gave him fucking skinny jeans. But they don’t look all that bad. Maybe not something he’d usually wear, but they go with the sweater. 

He turns his body to look at the outfit from different angles and all seem to look good enough. Cautiously, he steps a little closer to the mirror. The dark colors of the clothes make his skin appear a little brighter, a little less corpse-like. He tries to keep his focus on the clothes but his eyes won’t stop drifting up to his face. The light in the room is making his dark circles appear darker than before, and then there’s the scar. Dark red and uglier than the picture captured. Seeing it for himself almost makes him sick. It’s a brand to remind him that he shouldn’t be alive right now, that this body isn’t really his. He steps closer again. The scar isn’t one continuous line, he realizes. It’s made up of cross-like discolorations, but the horizontal lines are more apparent than the vertical ones. Like the picture from earlier, his hatred grows the longer he looks at it. He rubs at one of the crosses on his temple. This soon turns into scratching, and eventually digging as deep as his fingernails will let him. The mark isn’t changing, though. He’s scratched through several layers of skin at this point and it’s only becoming darker. 

Eventually, the feeling of his fingernails against the raw skin becomes too painful to bear. He pulls his hand away to look at the damage, and it’s bad. Droplets of blood are beginning to ooze from the places he scratched too deep. He quickly grabs his own—well, Satoru’s—shirt to stop the bleeding. He holds it there for a few minutes, checking periodically for blood. When it finally begins to slow, he takes off the clothes he was trying on and changes back into his.

Red, irritated skin covers the entirety of his left temple. His bangs do little to hide it. He pulls more of his hair down into his face to mask it a little better. Still bad. He pulls more strands down until his bangs are almost blending in with the rest of his hair. 

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. Even with it covered, the messiness of his bangs will surely draw attention. There’s no good way of hiding it.

Defeated, he leaves the dressing room with the rest of the clothes slung over his arm, barring the extra pair of jeans he’d grabbed in a size larger. Ideally, he could’ve tried everything on to make sure he liked how it all looked on him. But his tanking self-esteem had other plans.

Nervousness begins to bubble up in his chest as he looks around for Satoru. If anyone was going to notice the change in Suguru’s appearance, it would be him. He noticed his insecurity about the scar and noticed when his hands were shaking. This is more blatant than either of those were. He grits his teeth and continues searching.

Satoru is looking at the same rack of sweaters Suguru had found the navy blue one on. He’s holding up a dusty orange one that’s more of a sweatshirt than it is a sweater. It’s the kind of thing Suguru imagines him buying but never actually wearing. In the two outfits he’d seen Satoru wear so far, neither had been very adventurous in terms of color. And something like that is undeniably adventurous. Suguru discreetly drops his clothes into the basket before Satoru can make a decision about the sweatshirt. Maybe seeing how little room is left in the basket would sway his decision. But just as he thought he’d done this unnoticed, the hangers from his clothes slide out and clatter to the floor.

Satoru beats him to the punch. He bends down to pick them up before Suguru can react. It’s a little freaky how nonplussed about it he is.

“Everything fit okay?” Satoru admires the now overflowing pile of clothes in the basket—typical behavior of someone with a shopping addiction.

Suguru nods and attempts to covertly fix his hair. Bending down had likely caused his bangs to shift out of place. “Can we check out?”

Satoru seems a little taken aback by this but obliges. Not that he really should be left to look around the store any longer. Leaving him alone for ten minutes or so was damaging enough as it is. And it’s not like the basket can realistically hold much more. There are plenty of good reasons to be leaving right now that don’t include Suguru’s insecurity. Enough for Satoru to safely conclude it’s one of those without question. Or so Suguru believes.

Suguru’s fear that Satoru will leave him stranded at checkout begins to return as they approach the register. He stands far enough behind Satoru to give himself a time buffer in the event that it does happen, but not enough to make the cashier think he’s waiting in line. It’s a delicate balancing act. From where he is, he can leave the moment it sounds like Satoru might pass off the responsibility of paying to him.

But the need for all this caution never arises. Satoru unremarkably hands his card over to the store clerk after she reads out a total that Suguru struggles to wrap his head around. He can afford that? It’s jarring to witness. 

Satoru hands one of the bags over to Suguru with a smile plastered on his face and leads them out of the store. It’s actually uncomfortable letting him pay for this much. Suguru feels awkward not having something to give him in return. It’s not like a small gift where he’ll just inevitably return the favor at some point. This is a big deal.

Satoru unexpectedly stops in front of the store entrance to face Suguru. “By the way, do you want to stop by the school and have that looked at?” He pushes Suguru’s haphazardly rearranged bangs out of his face. His face has the same concerned look as before.

Suguru closes his eyes and forces a weak smile. “It’s nothing. I’ll just ask Shoko about it later.” He gently pushes Satoru’s hand away. Damn him and his inconvenient attentiveness.

Satoru pushes away his bangs again. “It looks pretty bad, Suguru. We could at least go back to Shoko’s to drop your clothes off and get a bandage for it.”

“It really doesn’t hurt that much,” he lies. The wound stings but it’s not enough to justify medical intervention. He would be fine letting it be.

Satoru isn’t convinced. “Come on. We’re going back.”

It catches Suguru by surprise. Satoru’s stubbornness about this and the way it makes his head feel a little dizzy. He actually…likes it. Satoru isn’t acting hard-headed about something pointless like he usually is. His stubbornness has a kinder intent.

For the sake of keeping up appearances, Suguru maintains his reluctant tone. “Fine.”

They reach the apartment sooner than Suguru had anticipated they would. Wandering through the city must have thrown off his internal compass somehow. The walk to the ice cream shop had been at least twenty minutes from Shoko’s, but the walk from the store back to Shoko’s had only been ten. Satoru walked at a slower pace this time so it wasn’t that. And the walk from the ice cream shop to the store hadn’t taken up ten minutes. It’s in thinking about this that he realizes Satoru took him along a touristy route to the ice cream shop. He’s been treating him like a tourist all day. Despite the fact that Suguru also used to live in Tokyo.

The apartment is dark and completely silent. Shoko had said she’d be out for most of the day, and it’s clear she meant that literally. It’s nearing sunset and she still isn’t back. He places his shopping bag down next to the futon. It feels wrong inviting someone over while she’s out. Especially someone that isn’t exactly known for behaving himself by her standards. She won’t be happy if Satoru is still there when she gets back.

Suguru lays down on the futon while Satoru searches the apartment for bandages. According to him, “the ones that have that stretchy fabric stuff.” Suguru just nodded and pretended to know what he was talking about—because, aren’t all bandages like that?

He closes his eyes and lets himself get comfortable on the futon. Not to sleep, just to rest his eyes. The walk back had been draining, even if it was short. Satoru will undoubtedly let him know when he finds the bandages he’s looking for. There’s no real risk of falling asleep.

But seconds turn into minutes. His body feels heavier and his breathing slows. He isn’t thinking about the bandage or where Satoru is in the apartment at this point. The only thing on his mind is how much more comfortable on the futon he is right now than he was last night. It isn’t making his body hurt the way it did before.

Satoru’s voice echoes somewhere in the apartment. He’s asking something—or maybe just talking—but Suguru is too tired to make out anything he’s saying. It all blurs together in his head.

“Suguru.” Satoru’s voice is clearer this time. Closer.

There’s a light pressure on his shoulder. The heat from it makes him wish he’d covered himself with the blanket.

“Hey.” The light pressure turns into movement. His shoulder is gently being shaken.

Suguru reluctantly opens his eyes. Satoru is sitting on the ground beside him with a bandage in his hand. So he did find the one he wanted. Suguru smiles and lets his eyes close again. He can put it on later.

Satoru pulls the pillow out from under Suguru’s head and tries to lift the upper half of his body. It’s an attempt but Suguru is still too tired to care. If Satoru really wants to wake him up, he’s going to have to try—oh. His head is now resting on something warmer and nicer than the worn-out pillow Shoko lent him. Fingers brush away the hair from his forehead. No, Satoru wasn’t trying to wake him up. Suguru’s mind struggles to process this without any visual input.

He opens his eyes for the second time, only a little more than a squint. Satoru stares down at him, one hand holding the bandage and the other still in Suguru’s hair. Suguru realizes now that his head is resting on Satoru’s thigh, that Satoru did this to put the bandage on without making him get up.

Satoru pulls his hand away from Suguru’s hair and Suguru mourns its loss. He peels off the paper backing of the bandage, placing the discarded pieces somewhere on the floor. The padded center of the bandage is the first to make contact with Suguru’s skin, followed by gentle swipes of Satoru’s thumb along the adhesive edges. He’s muttering something under his breath, too soft for Suguru to hear. 

Suguru’s eyelids begin to dip lower. The heat of Satoru’s thigh against his neck makes him forget about the lack of a blanket. Or maybe this is just enough of a shock to distract him from it. He makes himself comfortable in this new arrangement and places a hand over Satoru’s knee. It’s a quiet bliss that lulls him into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

In his previous life, Suguru had been a morning person. In part—or, mostly—due to Nanako and Mimiko. He liked being up early enough to cook breakfast for them before starting his own day. It gave him a purpose in waking up and comfort in knowing they’d eaten something before he left. Now, he’s struggling to wake up before midday and still feeling tired even after two cups of coffee. After the second time this happened, he began wondering if the possessor had an unusual sleep schedule that his body was still stuck in. He had no idea of the legitimacy of this theory, but it seemed plausible enough that the body could remember sleep patterns longer than its inhabitant. In a way, it’s just like jet lag. The body defaults to the origin country’s clock, despite the inhabitant’s knowledge of the shift in time zones. In his experience, jet lag could take up to a week to go away completely and it’d still been less than a week since he came back to life. Shoko must be aware of this possibility as well, given that she hasn’t brought it up in any of his daily checkups. Present one included.

She’s holding a slit lamp up to Suguru’s eyes as he sits at the edge of the infirmary’s exam table. She’d wanted him to go to work with her so that he wouldn’t get bored and so that she could examine him with better tools. The latter had been an afterthought. Shoko pulls the light away from his eyes and places it back in its cradle on the wall.

“If I didn’t know you used to be dead, I don’t think I’d be able to tell,” she says, quietly laughing to herself after the fact. She pulls her gloves off with a snap of the latex and begins washing her hands at the sink in the corner of the room. “One of Gojo’s first-years died and came back to life last month, so it’s not the first time I’ve seen it happen, but you were dead for a lot longer than he was.”

Suguru frowns at this. It’s a little surprising how casual Shoko is about it and that Satoru never brought it up. It seemed like the kind of thing he’d talk about. Maybe in a conversation about his revival, making a passing comment on the irony of it. All he knows about Satoru’s students is that one is related to the man that nearly took them both out and that he looks exactly like him. Suguru voiced his disgust about it without thinking, but Satoru didn’t seem all that offended. He just explained how he’s a good kid in spite of it. It’s possible Satoru was offended and just hid it well. Suguru’s reaction had been a little extreme for never having met the kid.

“When does the scar go away?” He decides to change the topic without pressing her for details.

“Not sure.” She shakes her hands off in the sink before grabbing paper towels to dry them. “If you stop picking at it, probably only a few more days. It’s already fading in some places.”

He hadn’t noticed it fading. It still seems as egregious as the day he first saw it, but she’s the doctor here. He brushes his fingertips over the collection of abrasions at various stages of healing. They’re all rougher than the initial scar, but at least it's by his own doing. In the patches of scabbed-over skin, the crosses of the scar are nearly invisible. Mutilating himself to achieve that isn’t ideal, but having a mark left by the possessor also isn’t ideal. It’s really the choice between two evils.

Shoko steps in front of him with a roll of gauze and what looks like some medical version of masking tape. “I’m wrapping it up so you can stop complaining and give it a chance to heal.”

Suguru groans about this, “How was I complaining?”

She pulls the gauze tight against his forehead and tears the section away from the roll. “Because you keep bringing it up.” She tapes the edges down with aggressive swipes of her thumb and abrupt rips from the tape dispenser.

He immediately runs his fingers across the patch of gauze once Shoko backs away. It feels weird having something stuck to his forehead like this. It’s reminiscent of the cones vets give dogs to keep them from scratching themselves after an operation. And just like a dog cone, there’s an uncomfortable amount of shame that comes with it. When Satoru sees it, he’ll know exactly why it’s there. But at least it hides how much damage Suguru has actually done to his forehead.

Shoko tosses the gauze and tape to the counter and sits down at her desk. She pulls out a pen and taps it against an open file. “What do you think about working as a sorcerer again?”

His head perks up at this. He’d already ruled it out as a possibility—given the crimes of his past life. But if the offer’s on the table…

“Would I even be able to?”

Two glaring barriers stand in his way to becoming a sorcerer again: the higher-ups and himself. The former pales in the presence of the latter. He has rudimentary control over his cursed energy, sure. It’s how he was able to regain control of his body. Beyond that, though, it’s unclear. For all he knows, that’s the extent of his power. Being locked away in his body could very well have caused him to forget everything else, or just lose it altogether.

Shoko simply shrugs at his question. “You’re healthy enough, so yeah, probably.”

Her answer offers little comfort. Being healthy does not automatically equate to being capable. But his question hadn’t really clarified that. She’s only responding to what she assumed he was asking about.

Voices echo through the hallway outside the infirmary door. And unsurprisingly, the loudest is Satoru’s. Shoko slumps over her desk with an annoyed groan.

Satoru and a woman with black hair tied up in a bow step through the infirmary doors. Her face bears a noticeably murderous expression that crinkles the scar running through the middle of it. It’s a little ironic with how put-together she looks otherwise. Satoru seems to be reveling in it. He walks ahead of her with a smug look on his face.

The woman’s expression changes as her gaze settles on Suguru. If her previous expression was murderous, then this must be what pure homicidal intent looks like. She quickly raises her arms up in front of her, glaring directly at Suguru. She planning an attack.

Shoko immediately rushes over, waving her hands in front of her with a sense of urgency. “He’s fine, Utahime. I’m okay.”

Iori Utahime. She looks different from the last time he saw her, but her inflexible and borderline hostile attitude toward rule-breaking hasn’t changed in the slightest. Her expression eases up a little with Shoko’s assurance, but she’s still scowling. Suguru decides to give her a small wave out of courtesy. Her scowl deepens again.

She steps closer to him, still seeming skeptical as she glances him over. “He shouldn’t be here.”

This time Satoru cuts in, “It’s fine, they already know about him.”

Iori narrows her eyes. “Are you even sure it’s actually him?”

He inwardly groans, a little bothered by her refusal to address him directly. She’d get answers quicker if she did. It’s like eavesdropping, except it’s happening right in front of him with the full intention of him hearing. He considers interrupting to remind them that he is there and capable of speaking for himself.

Shoko laughs for a moment before putting her hand on Iori’s back. “You’re worrying too much. I promise he’s safe.”

Iori’s expression is a bit less bloodthirsty but she doesn’t take her eyes off Suguru. He’s thankful the scar is now hidden behind gauze. She’s obviously meticulously analyzing him for evidence to doubt Shoko’s claim, and seeing it would’ve been all she needed. Still, she keeps her focus on the scar’s dressing. 

“What’s that?” She steps even closer and points to his forehead. 

It’s unclear who the question is directed toward but Shoko answers before he can, “He’s got a wound he keeps picking at, so this is our temporary solution.”

Letting Shoko answer for him is probably for the best. She only knows what he’s chosen to tell her about how he came back to life. Nothing of the possessor or the origins of the scar—not that he really knows much about either, anyway. But he can logically assume that the two are connected and that it’s probably something he would be killed for. Not exactly the kind of information he wants to let slip, especially around someone like Iori. Possession and suspicions of it aren’t taken lightly.

Iori’s attention shifts over to Shoko. “I wanted to ask if you’re free tonight.” Her expression softens further. “I picked up some fancy craft beer on my way here and thought maybe we could try it at your place tonight.”

Something about this conversation makes Suguru feel like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t. Iori’s soft voice. The glimmer in Shoko’s eyes. It almost feels intimate. He looks over to see if Satoru is noticing this too, but he’s busy looking through the open file on Shoko’s desk. 

“Of course,” Shoko responds, sounding more energetic than normal. “Geto’s staying with me but I could make Gojo babysit for the night.”

This catches Satoru’s attention, pulling it away from the file. “No way, I already paid for half your rent. I should be invited too.”

Iori’s face sours at this but quickly recovers as she whispers something to Shoko. She speaks quietly enough that even the pop of her tongue on consonants isn’t enough to decrypt the conversation. Shoko’s demeanor doesn’t reveal much either. She’s surprised by something. Then nodding her head. And then using her hand to muffle her laughter. If he had to guess, it’s probably something to do with him and Satoru. Iori keeps looking between them each time she whispers.

Shoko is the first to speak, “Fine.” She straightens her posture and holds a triumphant look on her face. “But you have to buy us more alcohol. We’re not finishing Utahime’s expensive beer to put up with you.”

Satoru groans and shakes his head at them. “Alcoholism isn’t cute, you know.”

Iori throws a pencil from the nearby counter at him. “She didn’t ask for your opinion.” Predictably, Satoru deflects it with his Infinity and sends it clattering to the floor.

“It’s not just my opinion,” he attempts to justify. “Most people think that. Right, Suguru?”

He stares blankly at Satoru. Why the hell is he being dragged into this? Awkwardly, he turns back to Shoko and Iori. Both are glaring at him. He’d really prefer not to answer. “Maybe, but it’s not nice to point it out.” It’s the closest thing he can think of to opting out of the discussion.

His answer isn’t received the way he’d hoped. Shoko and Iori’s expressions remain unchanged, and Satoru seems disappointed that he didn’t give resounding support. Tough crowd.

“So we want vodka and red wine,” Iori redirects the conversation. “Anything else, Shoko?”

Shoko holds up a finger while she thinks but ultimately shakes her head 'no.'

Making Satoru shop for alcohol by himself seems like a worthy enough punishment. It’s suiting for his tactless remark. Suguru laughs to himself at the idea of it.

Two hours later, though, the idea is no longer funny. Actually, it’s more like Suguru’s own personal hell. He’d rather slam his head into the wall if it means Satoru will let him go back to Shoko’s apartment. Being trapped in his body might have actually been a cut above this.

“What about this one?” Satoru is pointing to the same bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for the third time since they started looking at wines. “It’s cheap.”

Suguru inhales sharply and digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands, trying to remind himself that Satoru isn’t purposefully trying to set him off. He’s only clueless because he doesn’t drink. And usually, that’s a good thing. He’s a lot to handle despite his total sobriety—this situation is evidence of that. Suguru can only imagine how much worse drinking would make him. But this is the first time he finds himself wishing Satoru had tried a drop of alcohol at least once in his life.

“I already told you, that’s a white wine. Iori asked us to get red.” He’s struggling to keep frustration from seeping into his voice. “Look. The one next to it is a red wine and it only costs a little more.”

Satoru crouches down to inspect the bottle on the shelf despite having seen it the two previous times Suguru pointed it out as a substitute for the Sauvignon Blanc. “Yeah, but they’re both made by the same company and they both say wine on the label. Why would I pay more for the same drink?”

Suguru holds his hand up to his face, not feeling like trying to explain this again. Satoru had already loaded a shopping basket with various snacks and drinks for himself. It seems ridiculous to penny-pinch over such a small price difference. 

“You would know if you drank. But you don’t and you’re ignoring advice from the person who does.” At this rate, he was going to buy the wine himself if it would put a stop to this mind-numbing bickering. Checking account balance be damned. “Can we just get the red one and leave already?”

Satoru stands up from his crouched position but doesn’t take the bottle from the shelf. “No. I’m not paying extra for something I don’t even get to try.”

This is the final straw. He pulls the bottle of red wine off the shelf and begins making his way to the front of the convenience store. Satoru follows close behind him and eventually pries the bottle from his hands. He reluctantly places it in the basket but not without pouting first. Suguru hadn’t originally planned on drinking tonight, but after dealing with this, he considers downing half the liter of vodka on the walk back. He makes a mental note not to let Satoru carry the shopping basket the next time they go to another store. This is the second time that’s complicated things and it’s going to be the last. Though this is a lot worse than just letting him run around with it to fulfill his addictive impulses.

Satoru hands his card and ID over to the cashier, and Suguru begins to see the light at the end of the tunnel. The cashier bags everything into a single brown paper bag but, much to Suguru’s chagrin, Satoru asks for the alcohol to be placed in a separate bag. Annoyed and desperate to be free of the confines of the convenience store, Suguru takes both bags and begins walking back to the apartment on his own. For all the times Satoru walked ahead and expected him to catch up, it only seems fair he should return the favor at least once. But as he could have predicted, Satoru soon closes the gap with his annoyingly long strides. 

Back in Shoko’s apartment, Shoko and Iori are already three bottles deep into the six-pack of beer Iori brought. Shoko’s on her second and Iori is still finishing up her first. Neither comment on Suguru and Satoru’s return, too invested in their own bubbly conversation to notice. Suguru drops the bag containing the vodka and wine onto the table in front of them. This finally catches their attention.

Shoko peers into the bag, her eyes lighting up upon seeing its contents. “Only took you an hour,” she laughs.

Feeling too defeated to explain, Suguru just sighs. “Don’t mention it,” he says caustically.

With both chairs at the dining table occupied, Suguru takes a seat at the counter. Satoru soon joins with his unreasonable amount of snacks and drinks in tow. This is going to be a long night. He can already tell. Suguru leans over the counter and rests his head on his arms, blocking out the fluorescent light from the kitchen. He’s irritated and already feeling exhausted. If Satoru hadn’t been so stubborn, Suguru would’ve been grateful to go somewhere else for the night. The only places he can sleep currently are all uncomfortably close to the dining table. And with the enthusiasm that both Shoko and Iori have, their conversation likely won’t die down any time soon. He sighs to himself in frustration.

Something slides across the counter and crashes into his arm. It’s cold and covered in a layer of condensation. He lifts his head up only enough to see what it is. A bottle of soda, sparkling in water droplets. He pulls the bottle closer, still keeping his head rested on his arms. Grape-flavored. Not a flavor he would’ve picked, but it’s a nice gesture.

Satoru reaches over and pops the cap with a bottle opener attached to his keys. It’s vaguely similar to one Suguru lost in high school but a lot more worn. Suguru touches the mouth of the bottle to his lips, savoring its cool surface before taking a sip. 

It’s no wonder Satoru originally picked this out for himself. The drink is disgustingly sweet, sweeter than any other soda he’s tried. The label claims it’s grape but it tastes nothing like grape. It tastes artificial, reminiscent of fever medicine and catching the flu. He takes another sip from it, hoping that maybe it’s only the initial shock that made it bad. But no. Still, the flavor and sweetness catch him off guard. It feels like drinking grape syrup straight from the bottle. He puckers his face and pushes the bottle back to Satoru. There’s no way he’ll be able to finish it without throwing up.

Satoru happily takes the bottle. He drinks from it without the slightest hint of disgust. It’s almost worse to watch than it was to drink it. He places the bottle back down and rests his head on the counter so that his gaze is level with Suguru’s. His eyes feel unintimidating. A little soft even. He reaches out a hand to brush over the gauze patch on Suguru’s forehead.

“Did you run out of bandages here?” he laughs.

Suguru returns this with a faint smile and a breathy laugh. He knows . No matter how careless Satoru can be, he isn’t stupid. He saw the first wound before he went away on business. He knows exactly why it’s gauze rather than a bandage.

Satoru drops his hand from the gauze and flicks Suguru’s upper arm. It stings a lot more than Suguru had expected. “It’s gonna get infected if you keep picking at it.”

“I know, I know,” Suguru groans. It’s weird having Satoru scolding him about something for once. He sounds exactly the way Suguru remembers himself sounding in high school. Nagging but genuinely concerned. Satoru must be aware of this too, judging by the way he’s laughing at himself.

Satoru leans in closer and holds his hand up to Suguru’s ear. “Is Shoko not taking care of you?” He’s trying to sound serious but his smile is giving him away. “I can call social services.”

Suguru presses his palm to Satoru’s forehead and pushes him away. “Fuck off,” he laughs.

This, Suguru realizes, is something only Satoru had been able to do for him. He could make him laugh when he felt uncomfortable or upset. Not that Suguru would be a humorless killjoy otherwise, just that Satoru could do it so effortlessly. Suguru had never found anyone who could replicate it—despite desperately trying to after leaving the school behind. It’s annoyingly unique to Satoru, he eventually learned.

Satoru’s expression becomes a little more serious. “You wanna lay down? You look tired.” The soft tone of his voice dredges up something inside Suguru’s chest. 

Suguru closes his eyes and shakes his head, both at the question and his own thoughts. “I’m fine staying here. And besides.”  He gestures behind him at Shoko and Iori. “It’s not like I can sleep anyway.”

Satoru raises from the counter and turns to face Shoko and Iori. “Can you guys quiet down? Suguru’s tired.” He’s surprisingly well-mannered about this given his earlier behavior in the infirmary and convenience store. His criticism isn’t usually so watered down.

Their conversation ceases but the brief silence is quickly interrupted by Iori’s laughter. “Take him back to your place then, Sex Eyes,” she says mockingly, earning a quiet snort from Shoko.

Shoko doesn’t seem as amused by this as Iori, though. From his limited view of the dining table, Suguru can make out the beginnings of a skeptical frown forming on her face. “It’s only eight,” she points out. “You not get enough sleep last night or something?”

Suguru shrugs at her question. He slept for a while but the concept of having enough sleep is a completely subjective one. Five hours could feel like eight on the right bed. Eight hours could feel like three on the worst one. And that’s all without factoring in other things that affect the quality of sleep. But he does know that in the four days he’s been back in control of his body, he hasn’t slept enough even once.

Iori starts to say something but Shoko holds up her hand. “Just give us another hour, okay? We can go to my room and close the door.”

This seems to catch Iori by surprise. She’s looking between Shoko and Suguru with confusion drawn over her face.

Shoko is used to this by now. His sleeping patterns. His uncontrollable exhaustion. She tried to be considerate about it all. She’d said it was an undisputed fact that rest is healing and that it was something he was going to need a lot of.

“I have caffeine pills if you want some.” Iori reaches into her bag and pulls out a small plastic bottle. 

Suguru is a little shocked to hear her talking to him directly. He just assumed she’d go the rest of the night without acknowledging him. But now that she is, it’s making him nervous. 

He decides to take her up on the offer—for symbolic reasons. It’s a peace offering. A truce. “Thanks, Iori.”

She laughs and places a pill in his open hand. “It’s fine to call me Utahime, you know. You don’t have to be that formal.”

This causes Satoru to immediately whip his head around to look at her. “Why is it okay for him? You literally yelled at me the first time I called you that.”

Suguru and Utahime exchange a glance and simultaneously break out into laughter. “Because unlike you, he actually tries to be respectful,” she tries to explain, but it does little for the frown already forming on Satoru’s face. 

“You only just found out he’s alive again and you’re already playing favorites,” Satoru whines. 

She groans, “That’s assuming you even had a shot at being my favorite.” She mocks gagging, exaggerating her disgust. “Not a chance.”

Satoru’s frown only deepens at this and he turns to face away from her. He seems to be pouting but it isn’t clear if he’s doing it for dramatic effect or is genuinely hurt by this. He’d been called worse things without taking it personally. But that was a long time ago. Maybe growing up made Satoru more sensitive.

Suguru makes an attempt at lightening the mood in case he is actually hurt. “It’s okay, you’ll always be my favorite,” he teases, placing his arm around Satoru’s shoulders and stifling a laugh. It’s only half in jest, though.

Satoru doesn’t remove his arm, or make a witty comeback, or laugh at Suguru’s comment. He just sits there quietly with the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. Then the pads of his fingers press against the top of Suguru’s hand. One. Two. Three seconds. He removes them.

Suguru racks his brain. For a moment, the world around him pauses. Thank you. He’s saying thank you. It’s from the nonverbal form of communication they made up in high school. It was originally his solution for helping Satoru quietly convey things during other conversations so he’d be less disruptive. Then it became more than that. Satoru came up with his own ideas of nonverbal expressions they could add. Some were silly or too complicated and were subsequently forgotten, but others were more serious and became a regular part of their wordless communication. This gesture was one of the more serious ones. Any touch greater than one second was acknowledgment and greater than two signified both acknowledgment and comfort, the intensity of which was specified by the number of seconds past two. 

It comes as a surprise that Satoru still remembers it but even more that Suguru does too. In return, he removes his arm from around Satoru’s back and places his fingers on Satoru’s knee instead. Out of sight for Utahime and Shoko. One, two, and he pulls his hand back. He watches the corner of Satoru’s mouth flick up into a larger smile than before. 

Satoru taps Suguru’s thigh with two fingers and then one. Are you okay?

Suguru quietly laughs to himself at the concern and responds by tapping once on Satoru’s hand. Yes. 

Again, he’s more thoughtful than Suguru remembers. The gesture for ‘Are you okay?’ is one Suguru had come up with when they were first establishing what phrases would be included. Satoru rarely used it but Suguru often did when he thought Satoru seemed overexerted. 

Satoru releases his hand from Suguru’s thigh and takes a sip from, now, his grape soda. 

More than an hour has passed since Shoko promised it would only be another hour. Neither she nor Utahime seems to have noticed this either. Their conversation hasn’t seemed to die down in the slightest, and with Satoru outside on a phone call, Suguru finds himself bored and wishing they’d somehow made the promise a binding vow. He’s not sure how much longer he can stay awake. With the caffeine pill wearing off and no one to keep him company, he’s finding it hard not to doze off on the couch.

Shoko and Utahime’s conversation has devolved into a string of incoherent blabbering. He’s not sure if they’re laughing or actually trying to talk to each other. It’s painful to listen to.

Reluctantly, he gets up and sits on the floor beside the dining table. If they notice him, maybe it’ll remind them that he’s still waiting to go to sleep.

It doesn’t work. Shoko is too interested in staring at Utahime, and Utahime is too focused on scrutinizing the label of her beer bottle. Shoko’s eyes are glazed over with inebriation, but Utahime seems at least a little more lucid.

He decides to try Utahime first. “Hey.” He waves his hand in front of her.

She turns her head to look down at him. Shoko eventually does the same but only after a few seconds. “You’re not asleep?” Utahime sounds surprised.

A flash of clarity crosses Shoko’s face. “Shit. What time is it?”

“9:47.” Suguru points at the display on her microwave.

She looks at the microwave and then around the room. “Where’s Gojo? He was supposed to remind me.”

He wasn’t. Suguru had no memory of Satoru ever saying he’d remind her. “On a phone call,” he sighs.

Utahime laughs, suddenly sounding just as drunk as Shoko. What he’d said wasn’t particularly funny, but trying to have any productive conversation with drunk people is always a fruitless endeavor. He realizes now that Utahime is likely just better at hiding her intoxication than Shoko. She might even be more intoxicated.

She leans her head on the table and rests her arms on her legs so that the nearly finished bottle of beer dangles dangerously close to the floor. “How do you put up with him?”

Suguru frowns, slightly off-put by the question. He tries to laugh it off. “What do you mean?”

It’s an uncomfortable question. It feels like it’s intended more as an insult to Satoru than out of genuine curiosity. And she’s never tried to hide the fact she can’t stand Satoru, this much he knows. She’s made it painfully obvious.

She downs the remaining beer from her bottle and places it on the table. “Just curious. I don’t know anyone that can deal with him longer than an hour at a time.”

Suguru laughs again, still uncomfortable with what she’s getting at. Even if it isn’t a thinly veiled insult, answering the question is just awkward. There’s no way around that.

“I don’t know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t really think about it. It’s just normal.”

Utahime groans and covers her face with her hands. “That’s so boring. I want the details.”

The more he listens to her talk, the more he realizes that she’s actually a lot more drunk than he initially thought. It’s unlikely she’ll even remember any of this. So, he gives in.

“Okay, uh—he makes me laugh.” Generic. But Utahime nods, seemingly captivated. “He’s really not that bad when we're alone together.” Kind of true. “He’s been trying to take care of me recently.” For one day.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe these things—because there is truth in them. But it’s hard to give her the explanation she’s probably hoping for. He isn’t close to Satoru like they used to be. It doesn’t make sense to answer her question like they are—especially if she isn’t going to remember it tomorrow.

Utahime nods again and holds her hand up to her chin like she’s deep in thought. “So it’s because you want to sleep with him, right?”

He almost chokes on the breath he was taking. Where the fuck did she get an idea like that?  

“Utahimeee,” Shoko whines. Despite her previous delays in reaction times, she’s surprisingly quick to respond to this. She reaches across the table to smack Utahime’s arm. “You don’t say that to people.”

Sure he had a crush on Satoru in high school for a bit, but it was never that kind of crush. It was more innocent than that. The thought might have crossed his mind once—okay, maybe a little more than that—but it was never more than fleeting. And he was over it now anyway. This is just a really awkward situation. That’s why his cheeks feel flushed and why he has a strong urge to crawl under the blankets of his futon.

“No,” he finally manages to say. This conversation might be the death of him—again. “Do you want to sleep with Shoko because she makes you laugh?”

Utahime’s face goes red at this. She hesitates for a moment. “Probably.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. Trying to use her flawed logic against her had been a mistake. Logic and inebriation do not coexist.

Shoko’s face is red now too. “I think you drank too much. We should go to sleep.”

Utahime ignores this and continues, “I saw a video about this. You can always tell by the look on their face.” She’s talking more to Shoko now than she is to Suguru as if it’ll make her assumption any more justified. “And do you see the way Gojo looks at him? I think it’s a pretty reasonable conclusion to make.”

“Sorry. She’s like this when she drinks,” Shoko says to him. She stands from her spot at the table. “Come on. We’re going to bed.”

Utahime obliges this time and unsteadily gets up from her seat. Shoko races over to support her and prevent her from falling. She guides Utahime across the apartment, occasionally grasping at the wall for additional support.

“Goodnight,” Utahime calls out in a sing-song voice. It almost makes him feel a little sick.

He’s alone now. And it isn’t as relieving as he thought it would be. Actually, it might even be worse. Before talking to them, his dignity was at least still intact. Now, he’s stuck going over what Utahime said like her drunken assessment could hold any merit. As if it wasn’t an extremely presumptuous thing for her to say. 

Suguru pushes himself up from the ground and begins clearing off the dining table. He’s got better things to do than wonder what Utahime meant about the look on his face or how Satoru looks at him. She was just seeing something that isn’t there. Or looking too far into what is there. Because she’s drunk, and drunk people don’t think clearly. Right?  

He places the remaining alcohol on Shoko’s counter, careful to keep its distance from Satoru’s paper bag of only snacks now. Not that it really matters. It isn’t like the alcohol could even contaminate it—contrary to Satoru’s deluded belief. He questions whether Satoru actually believes it, or is just pretending to in order to irritate him. As smart as he is, he could also have some shockingly misguided ideas.

Suguru sits back down on the couch. It’s been over half an hour since Satoru went outside. He’s starting to get impatient waiting for him to come back. He plays with his hair as he waits, untangling its never-ending mass of knots. His hair reaches about mid back now. Longer than he ever would have kept it in his past life. He preferred it to be only a few inches past his shoulder blades. Nanako and Mimiko knew this and would offer to cut it for him. But he doesn’t have them, and there’s no way he’s letting Satoru or Shoko try to cut it. Shoko wouldn’t care enough to make it look good, and Satoru just shouldn’t be trusted to cut anyone’s hair. Suguru’s finger snags on a particularly tight knot and rips the hair from his scalp. He really needs to find a way to get it cut soon. The split ends are unbearable.

He sinks deeper into the couch. Satoru is really being inconsiderate with how long this phone call is taking. Suguru is struggling to make himself stay up much longer. He needs to be awake to let Satoru back in to get his things. No, Satoru is borrowing the spare key. Then he needs to be awake to lock the door after Satoru leaves. Some of the other tenants in the building looked a bit shady. But it locks the moment it’s shut. He needs to… No, he needs Satoru to give the key back. That’s it. That’s why he’s staying up.

He leans into the couch, still untangling the mess of his hair. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, gnawing at the back of his mind, but he tries his best to push it down. It’s probably just an important phone call. Nothing to worry about.

Chapter Text

Unofficially, Suguru is training to be Shoko’s assistant, or that’s the impression he’s been getting. Shoko hasn’t outright confirmed it, but it’s the second time she’s brought him to work and the second time she’s asked him to complete menial tasks around the infirmary. He’s not opposed to it. It keeps his mind busy, busier than sitting in front of the TV in her apartment and watching reruns of old soap operas and the 24-hour news cycle. Watching anything airing during regular business hours is sure to turn his brain into mush anyway. And it’s not like he’s got the option of streaming services either, her TV is too old for that. So going to the technical college with her is, ultimately, the only feasible choice for keeping his brain stimulated at all during the day.

He places two paper cups filled with coffee on the table in the break room. Shoko takes hers black but he shivers at the thought. He takes his with more milk than coffee. Any less and it would probably make him vomit. Shoko takes her cup and begins drinking from it. The obvious swirls of steam coming from it don’t deter her in the slightest. He’s more cautious and a lot less desperate than that.

Shoko places her cup down and peers into his. She turns her face up at it. “Gross.”

“Don’t look at it if you don’t like it.” He pulls the cup closer to himself. 

His patience with her is already worn too thin for him to be tolerant. And it’s only eleven in the morning. She’s been grumpy all day so far and there are no signs she’ll stop any time soon. She ignored him for most of the commute, and when she did speak, it was never more than a couple of words. At first, he assumed she was just hungover. He’d never seen her hungover before, but she did drink a lot last night. Then she let it slip that she’d walked Utahime to the train station at 5 a.m. and it began to make sense. She’s hungover and sleep-deprived. And it really makes him think that she would’ve been better off calling out sick for the day, or that she should just go back to chain smoking.

Shoko’s phone vibrates against the table with a rattle that ripples through his coffee. Her attention flicks over to it and she lets out a sigh. She immediately turns off the screen and begins glaring at Suguru. Whatever it is, it’s bad, and it’s making her temper scarier.

“You gave your key to Gojo?” She’s keeping her tone calm. Uncomfortably calm.

“I uh–,” he stutters. Words aren’t coming to him. Her glare intensifies with his silence. “Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands in defeat. “I didn’t give it to him, I let him borrow it to get back in after his phone call.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “And you—never mind.” She releases her hand and waves it around dismissively, sighing as she does so. “It doesn’t matter. He’s coming by to drop it off.”

He stares down at his paper cup, no longer emanating steam. He can’t see Shoko’s face, but he can feel the malice radiating off of it. She’s probably thinking of different ways she can make his life hell for the day. Cleaning the examination tables in the morgue, rearranging her three-tier filing cabinet into reverse alphabetical order. He’s not looking forward to the next few hours.

Shoko’s freakishly calm voice cuts in through his thoughts, “If you do it again though, I’m kicking you out.”

He can only nod in acknowledgment. It’s Satoru’s fault he has to take the blame for this. If he’d simply omitted the part about returning the key, everything would’ve been fine. Or better yet, if he’d just returned the key before leaving, this all could have been avoided. But, no. Satoru obviously doesn’t care about that. He was too focused on himself and his stupidly long phone call. Was it really so hard to just let Suguru know he was leaving?

But whether or not it’s Satoru’s fault, she’s still mad at Suguru. It was still his decision to give away the key. It crosses his mind to apologize. At least to make her a little less upset. Sorry for giving it to Satoru, sorry for trusting him in the first place, ad infinitum. Something sincere enough for her. He raises the cup to his lips and drinks the coffee regardless of its temperature. He needs something to get through this.

“Sorry,” he reluctantly says. Shoko hardly raises an eyebrow. It’s as vague as apologies get, but at least she knows he feels some shame in the situation. 

He finishes the rest of his coffee in silence. Awkward, uncomfortable silence. Shoko won’t look at him directly and is now busy texting someone. Occasionally he’ll hear her laugh, but it’s short-lived. And the moment her phone is off, she’s quiet. She’s purposefully being cold to him.

The first sounds to break the prolonged silence are footsteps in the hallway, followed by humming. Satoru strides in through the open door of the break room and unceremoniously takes a seat in the empty chair between them. It’s only a little relieving and only because it means Shoko can direct her anger at someone else. Besides that, the disruption causes Suguru to tense up. Because this is the person that got him into this mess, and he seems completely oblivious to it. Satoru and his ignorant, inconsiderate tendencies.

Satoru places the key on the table. “Was there a funeral I missed or something? You guys seem super gloomy.”

He quickly becomes the object of Shoko’s fiery glare. It’s satisfying to see, mostly because this is who should be receiving it. For forgetting about the key and for texting her about it. But her glare is only fleeting. She shakes her head and replaces it with something a little less intimidating.

“Did you talk to them yet?” Her voice is still calm, but less in a scary way and more in a matter-of-fact way.

Satoru stares blankly for a moment. He pushes his sunglasses up so they rest on his head and blinks as if each flutter of his frosty eyelashes will make him remember any faster. The cogs in his mind are definitely turning, but the persistent look of bewilderment proves that it isn’t doing anything for him. It’s really not surprising that he’s still so scatterbrained. 

“Oh my god.” Shoko leans over the table and lets out an agitated sigh, pressing her palm into her forehead.

“No, no, I’ve got it.” He’s looking up at the ceiling and tapping his chin. “About Suguru, right?”

She nods slowly, still not removing her hand from her face. Suguru thinks he can see the outline of a vein popping out on her temple.

“Oh!” Satoru snaps his fingers and turns to Suguru, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “The higher-ups won’t let you go back to being a sorcerer.”

It takes Suguru a moment to process what he’s hearing. Satoru’s expression is misleading and his brain is too sluggish to recognize that immediately. When it finally does, he feels something a little like disappointment. Not that he was really expecting them to allow it—he’s still technically a curse user, after all. He liked the idea of having something to do that’s a little more productive than just…existing. But it’s not like being a servant to non-sorcerers is truly very productive.

He offers Satoru a brief smile. “It’s fi—”

“I’m not done,” Satoru cuts him off. “They won’t let you now, but that doesn’t matter. It just gives you time to train for when they do.”

He sounds overconfident. Compassion and forgiveness aren’t exactly traits the higher-ups are known for. They’re too set in their ways for that. Suguru considers bringing this up, but Satoru doesn’t leave him a chance to respond.

“I told them you still need income, though, so they’re gonna let you work in the infirmary.” He has the same sparkly-eyed expression, but at least this time it’s more suited to the words coming out of his mouth. It still makes Suguru unreasonably bothered.

Relief begins to peek out from behind Shoko’s sullen expression. She probably requested it given her earlier eagerness about letting him do unpaid labor. She isn’t exactly the most upstanding citizen by any means, but violating labor laws doesn’t seem like the kind of mess she’d want to get herself tangled up in. If he had to guess, her wariness is probably due to the fact that breaking the law requires more paperwork than abiding by it.

“You could’ve told me that part first,” she groans and stands from the table. “Are we done now?” 

Suguru has to fight back the urge to roll his eyes. She’s impatient and probably hungover, he knows this. But that’s not really an excuse for being so hostile. If he wasn’t concerned about having somewhere to stay, he might’ve responded with something snarky.

“Yikes.” But Satoru seems to have the same thought. “What crawled up your ass?” He makes a face at her.

Suguru tries not to laugh at it but is ultimately unsuccessful. “That’s not nice, Satoru. Leave her alone.” He hardly sounds serious in saying it. 

Satoru flashes him a tormented look, similar to one a child might give when scolded. “It was just an honest question.”

This only turns her bad mood into pure bloodthirst. Suguru gives her an awkward, apologetic smile but her venomous glare quickly causes him to look away. He should probably leave her alone for a few hours. Going back with her right now would be a death wish.

“You mentioned something about training?” He bites the inside of his cheek while looking at Satoru. Please, please understand. He’s trying not to look desperate, but he needs to get the point across somehow. He considers using their nonverbal language as an added measure.

Satoru seems to understand though. “Yeah.” He looks down at his phone and then back to Suguru. “I have a couple of hours free. Do you wanna go now?”

He nods excitedly, exaggerating his enthusiasm. He’d really prefer not to do something so physical, but he’ll take what he can get. Even if it’s in clothes that aren’t really suited to the activity. It’s the only plausible way of getting away from Shoko right now. 

Shoko’s thankfully lost all interest at this point. She exits through the break room door without even a wave. What a surprise.

Suguru lets out a sigh of relief and places the key from the table in his pocket. Hopefully Shoko actually gets over whatever it is she’s so upset about. He’s not sure he can put himself through a repeat of this. Especially after getting a break from it.

Satoru stares at the door for a few seconds before returning his attention to Suguru. “Seriously, what was that?”

Explaining any of his theories about her bad temper seems too tedious to be worth it. And it’s not like Satoru really needs to know anyway. Instead, Suguru gets up to throw away his cup and just shrugs. “Wish I knew.”

He follows Satoru out of the break room. Somehow the school’s hallways are less intimidating than he remembers. The long stretches of paper screens and hardwood feel meaningless now. Maybe it’s just a byproduct of dying and coming back to life. Losing any attachment to the relics of his past life, compartmentalizing the memories he does have. Nothing is really beyond the scope of possibility. There’s a lot he still needs to figure out.

Satoru leads them to a room that is simultaneously empty and ornate. Tatami mats cover the wide floor area and carvings of dragons and other mythological beasts stare down at them from the cornice of the room. It’s comfortably familiar, the same room he spent hours working on hand-to-hand combat in. But this time, his confidence is at an all-time low. Instead of the ambition this room used to inspire, it currently invokes a sense of dread. Contrary to the meaninglessness of the walk here.

They place their shoes near the entrance and walk to the center of the room. It’s oddly ritualistic. The bounce in Satoru’s step, Suguru’s hesitancy, and the way they align themselves. It’s beginning to feel like all the other practice fights they had after Satoru became ‘the strongest.’ And it’s really not helping Suguru’s growing self-doubt.

“Okay so, rules,” Satoru says, pulling him out of his head. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. This clearly isn’t something he’d thought through yet. “I’m not going to be fighting. I just want a baseline, so give it your all. No destructive cursed techniques, though. And, um.” He pauses. “You win if you can take me down.”

He’s not fighting? Suguru feels the urge to scoff but bites his tongue. Satoru must be taking pity on him, or maybe he thinks he’s above getting his hands dirty. Both leave an equally bad taste in Suguru’s mouth. He’d prefer at least the illusion of being on par with Satoru, even if he is truly weaker than he was in his past life. But it’s obvious Satoru is trying to avoid directly mentioning that possibility.

“Ready?” Satoru briefly stretches his arms, causing his back and neck to crack. 

Suguru inhales sharply and nods, less enthusiastically than he had when agreeing to this idea. “Yep.” In hindsight, maybe a different excuse would’ve been better. 

Satoru holds his arms out at about waist level, elbows bent in an unserious defensive position. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve still got,” he chuckles, but it feels more like a taunt than encouragement.

Suguru shakes out his arms, his head, any part of his body that’ll move if it buys him a couple more seconds. No matter how much he tells himself to, his muscles refuse to relax. It would probably be easier if Satoru was actually participating. Instead, it feels too much like an audition. Like his worth is hanging in the balance. He never used to suffer from performance anxiety, at least not in combat. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

He attempts to focus his cursed energy into his hands and lunges for Satoru’s abdomen. It seems the most logical place to aim at, even when taking Satoru’s Infinity into account. It’s bold, hopefully enough to take Satoru by surprise. But his fists fail to connect with anything. They pierce through endless air until his chest hits the floor and he’s gasping for air. His ribs ache with the shock absorbed from the moment of impact. Falling is a lot more painful now than he remembers it being. Rough start. He stands from the floor and brushes himself off. But it’s fine.

Satoru is now standing in the spot Suguru had been to start. He’s—poorly—concealing a look of amusement as Suguru readies himself again. It almost feels a little condescending and it’s starting to make Suguru annoyed.

He feints with his right arm and lands a partial hit with his left. It grazes the edge of Satoru’s shoulder, but just barely. Still better than a complete miss. It’s at least proof he isn’t completely useless at this. He goes in again with his right hand but Satoru grabs hold of it before it can reach him. 

“You’re too slow.” Instead of letting go, he uses his grip on Suguru’s hand to pull him into a loose chokehold. “If we were actually fighting you’d be dead here.” He releases his arm from around Suguru’s neck.

Suguru’s head is spinning. From humiliation. Not because of the warmth of Satoru’s skin or the feeling of his back pressing into Satoru’s chest. He just doesn’t like having his failures pointed out to him so blatantly. And besides, did he really need to demonstrate it to make his point?

He quickly steps away and faces Satoru again. “I think I would’ve been dead a lot earlier if we were actually fighting.”

Satoru doesn’t seem to find this very funny. He isn’t laughing. Or smiling. He’s just staring blankly. Sore subject?

Suguru attempts a few different types of attacks. One with more weight in the lower half of his body, one aimed at Satoru’s legs, one with cursed energy focused on his arms rather than just his fists, one with no cursed energy at all, and one using a sleight-of-hand trick he once saw in a movie—though that attempt is less serious than the rest. He’s starting to get the hang of it again, but Satoru is still evading all of them effortlessly. It’s becoming a bit discouraging. He’s completely drenched in sweat while Satoru just stands there and does practically nothing. If he was fighting back, it’d at least feel a little more gratifying.

Suguru pauses for a moment to catch his breath. Each attack is leaving him more exhausted than the last. At this rate, taking Satoru down doesn’t even seem possible. His body isn’t responding the way he wants and he can’t figure out why. He knows there’s a delay in the translation of thought to movement, and he knows his movements lack consistency. But neither of these reasons offers any real explanation for the issue. His attacks are getting sloppier and there’s nothing he can do.

Satoru relaxes his posture when he realizes Suguru isn't going to make any further attempts. “Still too slow,” he sighs, almost sounding bored. He steps somewhere out of sight but the onset of vertigo keeps Suguru from trying to see where.

He closes his eyes and tries to take deep breaths, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. This is taking a lot more out of him than he’d expected it would. It’s frustrating. It’s exhausting. He’s really considering giving up. At least until he’s better adjusted to being alive again. This just isn’t sustainable.

A hand rests on his upper arm, and then on the other too. Satoru begins pulling him out of his hunch and into an upright position. He removes one of his hands and presses the heel of his palm between Suguru’s shoulder blades. “Straighten your back.”

A little confused and unsure what to make of this, Suguru does as he’s told. He lifts his shoulders back into Satoru’s hand until he can feel his fingertips at the top of his spine. What is he doing?

Satoru now removes both hands and lets them rest on Suguru’s hips. “Move your legs apart more and relax your knees.”

Suguru feels his breath catch in his throat. He coughs to try to get it loose. Satoru is being so oddly…physical. Suguru doesn’t find himself hating it, just that it’s a little different. And definitely unusual, but he tries his best to follow the instructions.

“Okay, so when you do this.” Satoru releases his hands from Suguru’s hips and places one on his right arm instead. He guides the arm up and out, mimicking the punches Suguru was throwing earlier. “You’re putting all your weight on your back foot—which doesn’t work for what you’re trying to do. So change your strategy or start leaning on the other foot.” He lets go and stands in front of Suguru again.

Suguru’s skin tingles in the spot Satoru’s hand had been. It’s kind of funny how seriously Satoru is taking this. He’s actually trying to be helpful.

“You’re not as bad of a teacher as Shoko says you are,” Suguru chuckles.

Satoru gawks at this. “What’d she tell you?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He waves his hand around. “Let’s just keep going.”

This only makes Satoru pout and cross his arms. Because, of course, he can’t let this go like a normal person would. He really hasn’t matured in that sense.

So Suguru settles on a half-truth that’s less scathing and more Satoru-friendly than the full truth. Something not all that different from what Shoko actually said but enough to make him forget about it. “She just said you’re too immature, that’s all.” He laughs it off to add believability.

It seems to work because Satoru is no longer pouting and is instead rolling his eyes. “Whatever,” he groans and readies himself.

Suguru pulls off his soaked sweatshirt and haphazardly tosses it to the side before repositioning himself as well. The air against his skin is a welcome change. It’s enough to make him feel just a bit more optimistic. Like the discomfort of wearing a sweatshirt was somehow holding him back. Satoru must notice this shift as well. He’s staring with his mouth slightly ajar and not making any effort to hide it.

Before Suguru has a chance to think through any sort of strategy, the muscles in his legs contract in a familiar pattern and the flow of cursed energy adapts by itself. He instinctively lunges for Satoru’s chest. This time, the maneuver relies solely on memory. This time, it lands and sends them both to the floor. 

Satoru is staring up at him without the slightest hint of amusement. It might’ve been a little more annoying if Suguru wasn’t basking in the glory of finally getting him to the ground.

“Do I win?” Suguru asks in between desperate gasps for air.

He’s hovering over Satoru on his hands and knees. It’s uncomfortable, but he isn’t ready to let go of this image yet. Even if it’s straining what little energy his muscles still have left, he wants to revel in his victory a little longer.

Satoru’s unamused expression isn’t budging. “No. I wasn’t paying attention so it doesn’t count.”

Suguru groans and lets himself collapse on top of Satoru. He earned this win, whether or not Satoru wants to recognize it. It doesn’t matter if he wasn’t paying attention. It’s a completely valid strategy to catch him off guard.

“Just admit I won.” He rests his head on Satoru’s sternum. It really doesn’t come as a surprise that Satoru is such a sore loser. Old habits die hard or whatever it is they say.

Suguru’s body is aching and the makeshift bandage Shoko applied is becoming loose around the edges from sweat. The considerate thing for Satoru to do would be to admit defeat and allow Suguru to have the satisfaction of winning at least once. With his current level of exhaustion, he’s not really sure he’d be able to do this again. Suguru allows his muscles to relax for a moment before he braces himself for Satoru to inevitably push him off.

But he never does. He just remains still under Suguru’s weight. His breathing is a little erratic and his heart is pounding. Probably related to his frustration, same with his silence. Suguru had at least expected a passive-aggressive comment.

He pushes himself up and sits cross-legged beside Satoru. He seems a little out of it. It’s not possible to give someone a concussion from that, right? The look in Satoru’s eyes is momentarily distant, but he quickly shakes his head and sits up as well.

Silence lingers between them, only broken by the hastened rhythm of Suguru’s inhales and exhales as he still tries to catch his breath. 

“How’d you heal your arm?” Satoru is staring at his now exposed right arm, the one he hazily remembers losing just before his death. He’d lost a lot of blood at that point so he’d been unable to accurately recall whether he actually lost it or only hallucinated that he did. But if Satoru remembers, then he must have. 

The answer is obvious—to him at least. He can’t use cursed energy to heal a lost limb, but that’s likely something the possessor could. “I don’t know.”

It’s not exactly a lie, not in the typical sense. He doesn’t actually know how or if the possessor really did it. He doesn’t have any empirical evidence to prove it. It’s just a logical assumption based on the little he can conclude about the possessor—the existence of which he’d really like to avoid bringing up.

Satoru quietly nods, a skeptical frown still cast across his face as his gaze remains locked on the arm. Does he know more than he’s letting on?  

His eyes snap back to Suguru’s face as he pushes himself up from the ground. “Let’s go again.” He extends his arm, which Suguru begrudgingly takes. 

This time, Suguru attempts to channel his cursed energy into something other than reinforcing an attack. He’s wading into unknown territory with this, he’s aware. Using cursed energy to reinforce attacks is simple in comparison. It’s more just a test of what his current limits are. And if he can take Satoru down with it, it’ll undoubtedly count as a victory.

Pain immediately shoots through his skull. Probably just his body trying to adapt. It’s been a while since he’s done this. He tries to ignore it as he makes an effort to control the output of his energy. He did it to reclaim his body, he can do it for something as mundane as training. He takes a deep breath and focuses a little harder. The sensation rapidly intensifies with his increasing concentration. Head pain becomes chest pain, and chest pain becomes entire body pain. It’s agonizing at first but quickly becomes excruciating. 

He doubles over and desperately grasps at his thighs for support. Not good. He has to close his eyes for a moment to keep himself from vomiting. The vertigo is back in full swing. He’s trying to catch his breath, but no matter how deep he breathes, it doesn’t feel like enough oxygen.

“You good?” Satoru sounds concerned but only casually. Like the fact Suguru’s body is failing right before his eyes isn’t a fucking big deal or anything.

Suguru tries to focus on the grooves in the tatami mats. Count the number of woven rows in one, follow the distinct lines with his eyes, but his vision is too blurry to make any meaningful attempt. He’s feeling lightheaded and a little unsteady. If he’s going to faint, hopefully his torso hits the ground first. His head already hurts enough as it is.

His body suddenly feels light, weightless almost. Liberated from the external force of gravity on his tired joints. The ache of his muscles is no longer present. He isn’t focused on how little oxygen he’s getting or how he kind of feels like throwing up. He’s just floating somewhere in an in-between state, exempt from all the previous pain. It’s not clear where his body ends and the air around him begins. And for once, that’s a good thing. It’s quiet bliss. Relief from the exhaustion, relief from the strain of his muscles, rest for his ailing body. He wouldn’t mind staying like this actually.

Unremarkably, all his senses go dark.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he can make out Satoru’s voice but none of the words he’s saying. Everything is muffled and nothing is very long-lived. He’s aware there’s a world outside of him, but knowing and seeing are two completely different things. He’s still floating in nothingness. Except there’s a tingly sensation this time and the discomfort of something pressing into his spine. Really uncomfortable, actually.

His eyes struggle to make out anything other than blobs of bright light and his head feels like it’s filled with TV static. He blinks a few times to regain his bearings, but the bleariness is stubborn. The corners of his vision are clear. Then the center but not the corners. Then scattered across his vision. He blinks again and it finally begins to subside. He’s on the floor, somehow upright, staring out at the empty room. Better than being on his face like he feared, but whatever is pressing into his back is becoming unbearable. Something removes itself from around his ribs, leaving the skin cold in its absence. His head is too fuzzy to make out any other details. Just that he wishes it would come back. He doesn’t like the cold.

“You scared me,” Satoru’s voice comes out breathy, somewhere close by. “I thought you died for a second.”

Suguru looks around, frantically trying to find where Satoru is in his delirious state. From his peripheral vision, he can make out the edge of Satoru’s shoulder. He tilts his head back and finds it presses up against something solid. Satoru’s chest. His breathing is erratic like it was before, but more pronounced this time. It’s shaky and audibly strained. He’s trying to conceal it. Suguru dares to glance up at his face, expecting something like pity or irritation. It was Satoru’s suggestion to keep going after all, and Suguru’s collapse ruined that. But neither pity nor irritation seems to be present on Satoru’s face. He’s…concerned.

“I think we should probably call it a day.” Satoru darts his eyes away from Suguru and to an indistinct spot in the room. 

Suguru pushes himself up into a seated position and turns to face Satoru. The discomfort in his back is finally relieved. 

“I’ll be fine, just give me a few minutes.” The statement is more for his own peace of mind than it is for Satoru’s.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Satoru awkwardly fidgets with his hands. “Let’s just go get something to drink,” he finally says, suddenly switching to a more upbeat tone of voice. 

Suguru frowns, trying to analyze the cause for his quick shift in demeanor. Eventually, and reluctantly, he agrees to go. 

At the two-week mark of being back in control of his body, Suguru’s fatigue has finally diminished to a more manageable level. He can wake up without being subjected to hours of brain fog, and he can make it through an entire day at the infirmary without crashing the moment he returns to Shoko’s apartment. It’s in line with his theory that it’s just like jet lag, that he just needed time to readjust to his own schedule. But the most important part is that he no longer needs gauze to cover the scar. It’s faded to a fleshy pink, only noticeable if you’re looking at it closely and in the right light. 

Raindrops weightlessly drift across the train window as houses and buildings fly past. The trip wasn’t planned—or, well, it was just not for Suguru to be joining. Satoru mentioned that morning he’d be going away on business for a couple of days then invited Suguru at the last minute. Normally Suguru never agreed to impulsive plans, but the offer of going somewhere other than Shoko’s apartment and the school was too good to pass up. Even just sitting in the hotel room alone would be more exciting.

Satoru insisted on taking the window seat so he could nap on the way there but the train is approaching their stop now and he hasn’t shut his eyes once during the entire ride. Instead, he spent it all looking at his phone and keeping Suguru awake by showing him something every five minutes—mostly things that really weren’t all that interesting. And when he finally asked Satoru to send it over text instead so that he could get some rest, he seemed to think that gave him permission to send basically the entirety of his timeline. So in the end, between Satoru’s phone screen constantly being shoved in his face and his own phone vibrating every few seconds with a new message, he never got any sleep. He makes a mental note to take Satoru’s phone and hide it from him on the train back. He’d prefer to keep his sanity intact next time. 

“Did you look at the links yet?” Satoru is peering over Suguru’s shoulder as he types out a text to Shoko letting her know they’re about to get off the train. 

He sends the text and immediately turns off his phone, much to Satoru’s disappointment. “Ask me again and I won’t.” He can look at all sixty-four of the links Satoru sent when they get to the hotel, but hopefully, he’ll have forgotten by that point. 

The phone had been a present from Satoru so that they could stay in touch when he went away on business. But now, after a week of having it, he’s learned that Satoru’s definition of “staying in touch” is sending every thought he finds vaguely interesting without first asking himself if it’s really something he should send at all. The night Suguru got the phone set up, he received a barrage of texts at two in the morning about a new drink flavor at a bubble tea shop he’d never heard of. These texts were then followed by a stream of desperate pleas for a response and multiple crying emojis when he realized Suguru was asleep—because it was two in the morning. He considered muting Satoru’s notifications, but that seemed rude considering he bought him the phone and was paying for the data plan as well; however, ‘Do Not Disturb’ is turned on more often than not. He’d made a crucial lapse in judgment by turning it off for this train ride, though.

The train slows to a stop and Suguru steps into the aisle to pull their luggage down from the overhead shelf. Shoko lent him a backpack for the trip and now beside Satoru’s under the fluorescent lights, it’s really showing its age. And the numerous pins Shoko had on it at some point. There are multiple punctures across the fabric and rings of dust that outline where each pin was placed.

Suguru pulls the bag over his shoulder and looks to Satoru, currently busy unwrapping a piece of gum and shoving the pack into his backpack. “You know how to get to the hotel, right?”

Satoru gets the pack put away and looks up at him. “No, but my phone does.”

And indeed his phone did—if he was willing to pay attention to it. After leaving the station he stopped looking at the directions it gave and let himself get distracted by almost every shop they passed. Suguru eventually entered the address on his phone and continued on each time Satoru got distracted. He kept the screen dim and would only briefly glance at it so Satoru wouldn’t realize what he was doing. However, this plan was only effective as long as the hotel wasn’t in front of them.

Satoru pores over the window display of a thrift shop across the street from the hotel. He’s been looking at it for at least five minutes now but doesn’t seem interested in actually going into the store. Suguru tried asking after the first three minutes of this but he cited needing to get to the hotel as his reason for not going in. Except they still haven’t moved any closer to the hotel and Suguru can’t get the room key unless Satoru goes in with him.

“Maybe you can come back to look after we check-in,” he attempts, but Satoru still doesn’t move. At this point, dragging him into the hotel might be the only option left.

He removes his hand from his pocket and waves Suguru away. “I just want to figure out why everything is priced so high. Do you think it’s a cover for money laundering?”

Suguru sighs and throws his head back. “I’m sure it’s not. Can we please go in now?” He’s starting to get flashbacks of their trip to the convenience store for alcohol. Somehow going out anywhere together seems to bring out the worst in Satoru.

Satoru groans but finally relents, leading the way into the hotel lobby. At least getting him to give up this time didn’t require the use of physical means. He leans onto the front desk and taps his fingers against it impatiently. He’s seriously finding everything that can possibly test Suguru’s patience today.

A receptionist eventually comes over to assist them and Satoru exchanges the booking information and his ID. The receptionist makes an unreadable but obviously negative expression as he hands out the key cards for the room. Maybe Satoru’s lack of manners left a bad impression. Suguru mouths an apology to the receptionist as they leave for the room.

Immediately after entering the elevator, Satoru launches into an endless stream of complaints about the receptionist. “He was so rude,” and, “Did you see the way he looked at me?”

Suguru closes his eyes and wills the elevator to climb faster than the slow upward crawl it’s currently doing. It’s early enough in the afternoon that maybe he can fit in a nap to give his mind a break. All of this is beginning to give him a headache.

The hotel room is small and dark, even with the curtains open. But—and maybe worst of all—there’s only one double bed. They’ve shared beds in the past. That’s never been an issue, but given the events leading up to this moment, it’s the last thing Suguru wants.

Satoru sits at the edge of the bed closest to the door, the only side with a nightstand. “This is fine, right? I can ask for a different room if it isn’t.”

Wanting to avoid conflict and potentially getting kicked out of the hotel if Satoru makes the receptionist any more upset, Suguru decides he can put up with it for the two nights they’re staying there. “Yeah. It’s fine,” he sighs and drops his backpack at the foot of the bed.

Every minute of this trip so far somehow manages to be worse than the last—it’s impressive actually. This is sorely failing to live up to his expectations of the escape he assumed it would be.

Chapter Text

Suguru stares blankly at his home screen in the darkness of the hotel room. 1:28 a.m. and he’s feeling restless from the hours of trying to persuade himself into sleep. And if he’s learned anything in this plight, it’s that thinking about sleeping doesn’t help and that Satoru’s soft snores are a constant reminder of this. He turns his phone screen off and throws his head back into the pillow. At Shoko’s, it never took him this long to fall asleep. The futon was uncomfortable and his back would ache after only five minutes of laying on it, but he would be out before it could bother him. Logically, sleeping on a mattress should be easier then. His back doesn’t hurt and the pillows are stuffed enough to support his head. Even sharing the bed shouldn’t be enough to keep him from falling asleep. Satoru hasn’t moved since drifting off and he hasn’t tried to hog the covers.

Suguru turns over onto his right side where he can’t be mocked by the sight of Satoru’s peaceful sleep. His body is tired and his eyes will stay closed, but his mind is wide awake. Worst of all, it’s awake and not even thinking about anything in particular. It just feels like being stuck on the loading page of a website. No matter how long he waits, it refuses to stop buffering. No matter how long he waits, it doesn’t feel any different from when he first laid down. Two hours ago. 

He can’t take it anymore.

He rips off the covers and marches over to the bathroom. The LED lights mounted into the ceiling make his eyes ache at first, but he gradually adjusts. The bathroom is small. Over half of its space is dedicated to a large rainfall shower that doesn’t seem like it belongs. All the other bathroom fixtures seem outdated in comparison. He turns the tap near its hottest point and removes the T-shirt and boxers he’d decided to use for sleepwear. He showered earlier in the day while still at Shoko’s, but that doesn’t matter. He’s too desperate to care.

He steps into the shower and lazily runs his fingers through his hair as the water soaks it. It’s uncanny how much of an improvement this shower is over the one at Shoko’s. The water temperature is consistent and the pressure is better than the pathetic trickle that hers puts out on a good day. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the heat artificially weigh his eyes down. His muscles relax into it and his mind is beginning to feel less like a broken loading screen. It’s more like an error page now, but at least that’s actually something concrete, unlike the endless spinning of a cursor wheel.

Outside of the shower, water vapor coats every surface. A thick layer of fog renders the mirror unusable and the humidity clings tightly to his skin. He parts his hair by muscle memory and ties it up in a loose knot. It seems rude to leave his wet hair down while sharing the bed, not that Satoru would even be awake to care. He pulls his clothes back on and turns out the bathroom light. 

The distance between the bed and the bathroom feels a lot longer returning than it did going. Despite holding onto furniture to guide himself, he still manages to kick the bed frame—twice—and knock his backpack over. Each time he runs into something, he pauses to make sure it hadn’t disturbed Satoru. By the fourth crash of his foot against another hidden object, he pauses a little longer. Satoru is still snoring, but he notices something else this time. He’s softly muttering between the breaks in his snores. So he talks in his sleep now. That’s different—and a little cute, if he’s being honest. He smiles to himself and climbs back into bed.

Unlike the last time his head hit the pillow, he finally finds himself able to shut his brain off. Satoru’s snoring is no longer disruptive and he isn’t obsessing over the fact that he should be asleep. Rest just comes naturally this time.

But just as he’s about to drift off, just as he’s on the brink of overcoming his sleeplessness, the abrupt and violent movement of the mattress jolts him awake. His first thought in his groggy state is that maybe it’s an earthquake. It’s not entirely unlikely. He’d been taught that they could happen unexpectedly. But after a few seconds without any other movement, he tries closing his eyes again. It’s in this semi-restful state that he realizes what woke him up. Heavy breaths pierce through the thick silence, completely replacing the quiet sounds Satoru was making in his sleep. Suguru looks over his shoulder with lazy curiosity. Satoru is sitting upright with his chin tucked into his chest and his shoulders rising with each strained breath.

Suguru lays his head back down on the pillow and wills sleep to come back to him. There’s no point in staying awake and trying to make sense of it. Whatever this is, Satoru can figure it out himself. But his breathing only becomes louder and more frenzied with each passing second. The sound is almost deafening compared to the near silence that came before it. The longer he waits, the harder it becomes to ignore.

What feels like another few minutes passes and nothing changes. Satoru’s erratic breathing is just as painfully clear and in an otherwise silent room, it’s all he can focus on. Maybe he’ll eventually soothe himself, but at this point, Suguru is tired of waiting. He’d like to get at least some sleep before the sun breaches the horizon. 

The sheets rustle as he turns over to face Satoru. “Hey.”

No response.

“Satoru,” he tries again, this time a little louder. 

Still nothing.

“I need to sleep.”

Satoru pulls his hands away from his face but otherwise remains still. “Sorry,” he croaks, his voice coming out unsteady.

Suguru closes his eyes again. At least Satoru knows he’s being disruptive now—not that knowing this has ever really stopped him from doing anything before. Suguru repositions himself on the bed and slowly dozes off again.

And then it happens a second time. The unexpected movement of the bed, Satoru’s heavy breathing—and, this time, another sound that he can’t quite make out. He sighs and vows not to look.

“Please, Satoru,” he groans. Sharing a bed really should not be this problematic.

Just like before, Satoru doesn’t respond. He’s breathing just as heavily and sending shockwaves through the mattress with each labored inhale.

Suguru waits for what feels like an eternity. Listening to the concerning rhythm of his best friend’s breathing, trying to make himself comfortable enough to tune it out, and eventually giving up on trying to go back to sleep. Reluctantly, and impatiently, he rolls over to glare at Satoru. Not that he’d really be able to see it in the dark, but it’s the thought that counts. He considers yelling to get his frustration across—and so that Satoru might actually hear him this time.

As he parts his lips to air out his grievances, he realizes something. Hazy at first, but completely unmistakable. The sighs between Satoru’s breathing, the shudder of his shoulders and back, and the sniffles concealed by the palm of his hand. Suguru blinks to make sure he’s seeing this right and that it isn’t just a figment of sleepy imagination. But no matter how many times he opens and closes his eyes or tries to rub the sleep from them, the image doesn’t change.

He bites the inside of his cheek and remains motionless. There are sides to Satoru that he’s been the only one to see. The person he is beneath the armor of his ego, what he’s actually like at peak exhaustion, and how he doesn’t hide his pain when he thinks no one is looking. Suguru just assumed he’d seen it all—or the majority of it, at least. But something he’d never seen is Satoru crying. This is entirely unfamiliar territory.

Suguru gingerly places a hand on Satoru’s lower back. It doesn’t really seem like the proper kind of response to this. Satoru is crying in front of him—which has never happened before—and all Suguru can muster is the weak brush of his fingers against Satoru’s exposed back. He can feel the suppressed sobs reverberating through Satoru’s spine but he still can’t bring himself to get any more involved.

He tries to imagine how Satoru feels, how this is undoubtedly equally uncomfortable for him. His only experience in comforting Satoru had been after the failure of the Star Plasma mission, but even then he wasn’t crying. Crying around each other just isn’t something they do, or have ever done. It’s okay. No, too cliché. I’m here for you. Condescending. Nothing sounds like the right thing to say in this situation. He’d consoled others before, but this is completely different.

Suguru sits up and gently pulls Satoru into his arms. He used to do the same for Nanako and Mimiko when they were crying. If raising them taught him anything, it’s that physical contact did more than words ever could. He runs his hand over Satoru’s head the same way he did for them. The heat of Satoru’s tears begins to soak Suguru’s chest. He wraps his arm a little tighter and pulls Satoru a little closer. 

Satoru’s sobs come in waves, he realizes. Messy, blubbering waves. He isn’t trying to hide it now. Suguru rests his forehead on Satoru’s scalp and uses the hand that isn’t tightly clasped around him to wipe his tears. He leaves it there for a moment, letting his palm cup the soft tissue of Satoru’s cheek as tears rush over the back of his hand and his thumb swipes at Satoru’s undereye.

After another minute, the sobs are relegated to soft whimpers. Suguru removes his hand from Satoru’s cheek and uses it to pull his head closer to his own quivering heart. He doesn’t know why, but this is making him unreasonably nervous. His clammy hands and the constant need to remind himself to breathe are all he can focus on. And as if the universe decided this wasn’t enough, Satoru’s arm tightly winds itself around Suguru’s back. His thoughts freeze and suddenly he isn’t thinking about his breathing or the feeling of his hands. Act normal.

Suguru uses the hand on Satoru’s back to rub small circles in it with his thumb. That’s what people do in these situations. And it’s not like they haven’t hugged before, but anything longer than a couple of seconds or closer than an arm around the shoulders is completely foreign—and this falls under both of those categories.

Satoru lets out a small sigh that sounds like relief, but it’s too quiet to accurately analyze. The fingers of his free hand play with the fabric of Suguru’s shirt. Grasping at the seam, pulling it closer to him, exposing Suguru’s midriff as the material stretches. It’s undeniably euphoric.

Suguru finds his thoughts racing and his breath catching in his throat. It’s not weird to like this, right? The fact that Satoru can be needy. It feels intimate—in a platonic way, of course. Those feelings are far behind him. He tries to let himself relax into the embrace but his muscles refuse. Every inch of his body is on high alert and coursing with adrenaline.

But the sleepy mumble of Satoru’s voice forces him to slow down. “Can we lay down?” It’s barely above a whisper.

Suguru obliges. He has to remind himself that they’re only intertwined like this for Satoru’s sake. Satoru was crying and Suguru did his part to comfort him. There’s nothing else to it. And besides, he really needs to sleep. Suguru begins to pull his arm away from Satoru’s back, lamenting its removal before their skin even breaks contact. He achieved what he set out to do. There’s no point in prolonging the end of it. But his arm is pulled back to its original position by blood-constricting pressure around his wrist.

“Don’t,” Satoru breathes into his neck.

His heart skips a beat. And another. Satoru isn’t letting go of his wrist and he isn’t moving his head to return to his pillow. No. Of course he doesn’t mean that. Suguru attempts to run through a list of alternate explanations, but he keeps coming back to the same one. Satoru means laying down together. As in, staying wrapped around Suguru.

Shakily, Suguru guides their bodies down to the mattress. He lays on his back and lets Satoru’s head rest just beneath his collarbone. His mind struggles to comprehend this development as his heart flutters and his lungs ache for more oxygen than he’s giving them. Satoru lazily adjusts the way his head is positioned and slips a hand under Suguru’s shirt to rest against the bare skin of his abdomen. The touch electrifies his nerve endings and forces his brain into shock. 

Sleep is just not in the cards for him tonight, he surmises.

Suguru sits alone at the hotel’s deserted breakfast bar, hunched over a bowl of miso soup and still wiping the sleep from his eyes. Satoru went off somewhere before he woke up. He knew this when his arms were only wrapped around himself and the other side of the bed lay empty. Reading the text Satoru sent was only further confirmation of things he already knew. That Satoru was gone, that last night’s events probably weren’t real, that his dreams have a sick way of confronting him about repressed desires. He hadn’t dreamed once since reclaiming his body, but that’s all the more reason to mistake a particularly vivid one for reality.

His phone lights up with a notification and he can feel himself involuntarily hold his breath. He exhales when he realizes it’s from Shoko. A single thumbs-up emoji in response to his detailed text about the hotel. No other text attached. He groans and goes back to eating his soup. Since getting the phone, he learned that Shoko is an incredibly dry texter. No matter what he sent, her responses never took up more than a single line on his lock screen. It’s completely jarring in comparison to the paragraphs Satoru sends in response to close-ended questions. He justified her brevity by assuming it was just an old habit that carried over from using a flip phone. Character limits haven’t been a thing in years, but maybe she was just used to it. Then he saw the length of the texts she’d send Utahime on a daily basis and his tactful justifications were subsequently shelved.

When he returns to the room, it’s still just as empty as he left it. But definitely messier…somehow. He was careful about getting dressed and he was careful to put everything back into his bag. Maybe in his half-asleep state, he’d forgotten to look at the rest of the room. Namely, Satoru’s side of the room. Calling it a disaster would be an understatement. The sheet is somehow folding over itself on his side of the bed, his pillow is thrown to the ground, and the contents of his backpack are recklessly scattered on the remaining floor space between the bed and the wall.

Suguru bends down to get a closer look at the mess. Among the clothes and other items that don’t really make sense to bring for a two-day trip sits a small napkin with pen scribbles on it. He picks it up with the full intent of throwing it away—because who in their right mind holds onto a single napkin used to test a pen? As he begins to push himself up from the ground with the napkin in hand, he realizes that they aren’t scribbles. It’s just Satoru’s astonishingly illegible handwriting. From what he can actually decipher, it seems like notes related to the mission he’s on this trip for. Something about a cursed spirit being able to disguise itself, some scratches that look like they could be a description if he squints hard enough, and numbers to indicate where a list will eventually go. Suguru carefully places the napkin back where he found it. As much of an eyesore as it is, it’s probably better to just leave Satoru’s mess alone. Still, Suguru puts the pillow back on the bed and straightens out the sheet. Even if it’s all going to get messed up again, it at least stresses him out less to look at now. 

As he’s giving the bed a final glance over, he’s caught off guard by the sound of a doorknob sliding out of its catch. His heart immediately leaps into his throat. As far as he’s aware, he should be alone in this room right now. Satoru never texted to say he was back and the door should have locked on its own when he shut it. He backs into the wall to give himself a chance in taking down a possible intruder, preemptively readying his hands. 

“Oh, you’re back.” Satoru appears in the bathroom doorway, wet hair sticking to his forehead and holding a towel in place around his hips. His body looks eerily similar to the fuzzy glimpses Suguru got in his dream.

Suguru exhales and drops his arms back down to his side, willing to keep his eyes focused on Satoru’s face instead of letting them drift down to his exposed torso. Even without looking at it directly, his peripheral vision betrays him. The contours of Satoru’s muscles, the sharp edges of his collarbones, the ridges running from his hips down to somewhere obscured beneath the towel—oh god, he’s staring. He darts his eyes back up to Satoru’s face and prays he didn’t notice, but his smug expression says it all.

Suguru’s cheeks are burning. And it’s probably completely obvious. He attempts to cover his embarrassment with irritation. “Is your phone dead?” he asks bitingly.

Satoru stares blankly, muscular arm raising up to push his hair back and smug look still plastered across his face. He leaves it like this for a moment as he ruffles through his wet mess of hair—like he knows how much it annoys Suguru, like he knows it’s stirring something up in his chest. He’s seriously so obnoxious.

“You never said you got back,” Suguru continues, looking elsewhere in the room to maintain his focus. He holds his hand to his forehead to make his frustration evident…and to shield his eyes.

Satoru laughs for a moment, airy and sugary sweet, probably still riding the high of Suguru’s lingering gaze. What a pain. “Was I supposed to?” he asks, mockingly oblivious—or maybe he really is that oblivious.

It really should be obvious to send a text when he gets back if he’s going to send one when he leaves. Suguru flashes him an exhausted look. Don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t stare. Satoru is still holding his hair up with his hand, looking less smug and a little more cheerful. Strands of snow-white hair slip through his fingers and fall down to frame his forehead and the sides of his face. He looks nice like this, Suguru admits to himself, not that it’s a weird thing to think or anything. Calling him attractive would just simply be stating an objective fact.

Satoru pulls his hand down from his hair and begins walking over to his side of the bed. “Sorry. I meant to text you on the way,” he finally says in a more serious tone. He laughs a little, drier than before. “I thought you were still asleep so I never did.”

Suguru realizes now that he never sent a text back. He read the text shortly after waking up and, in his sleepy haze, wrote out a reply he intended to edit when he felt more awake. He hasn’t looked at the message since, but he can imagine it’s riddled with errors and should probably just be deleted altogether.

“And then you weren’t here when I got back.” Satoru laughs again but it’s only half-hearted. Like a distorted sigh or exhale rather than a real laugh.  “I started getting worried that you ran away, again.”

But you didn’t think to text? Satoru’s emphasis on the word ‘again’ feels like a knife to Suguru’s gut, unexpected and sending his pain receptors into a frenzy as it twists deeper. This is the first time Satoru’s mentioned anything about that since he came back to life. It’s not a subject Suguru had ever planned to broach. Not in the moments before his death and certainly not in his second chance at life. He’d—wrongly—assumed Satoru also wanted to leave it behind. He was under the impression that they were starting fresh and had buried these things in the past. In hindsight, it makes a lot of sense. A lot more than he initially thought. Satoru’s almost overbearing attentiveness, his willingness to spend so much on Suguru, the paragraphs of texts. Satoru is bringing it up because—no, he’s jumping to conclusions. He’s looking at it through the wrong lens. Satoru doesn’t get scared.

“Did you eat?” he quickly changes the topic before Suguru can respond. Satoru is cheerful again, the seriousness gone without a trace.

As Suguru tries to wrap his head around the sudden flip in demeanor, Satoru begins removing the towel around his hips without the slightest hint of shame. Suguru quickly turns to face out the window, wanting to avoid a repeat of his previous mistake. Satoru is being way too casual about this. “Yes,” he manages to hiss out in response. “Can’t you change in the bathroom?”

“What’s wrong with changing in here?” Satoru scoffs. Without being able to see his face, he can only imagine the soured look on it. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

His cheeks start to burn again, just as he thought they’d cooled off from before. He isn’t wrong, but that was years ago. It’s different now. They don’t do that now. He continues staring out the window to give Satoru his privacy and himself a sliver of integrity. “That doesn’t mean I want to,” he grumbles.

“Then why were you staring?” Satoru poses the question innocently, playfully. Of course he would bring it up. Why wouldn’t he?

Because you were standing in front of me, because you made it hard not to, because I—no. He thinks dying might have felt a little more pleasant than this. The burn from his cheeks has spread to the rest of his face, taking his dignity along with it. He’s hopelessly flustered.

Satoru laughs, “That’s what I thought.” His sarcastic righteousness is painful to listen to.

Suguru groans and decides to drop the topic. There’s nothing he can add without incriminating himself further. And maybe Satoru deserves to revel in it for a little. Not long enough to let it go to his head, but enough to ease some of Suguru’s guilt from the earlier remark about running away.

He can hear Satoru digging through his pile of stuff on the floor, items hitting the wall, and then the rustle of everything being shoved back into his bag. What was the point of dumping everything out before showering and not even grabbing what he needed? It seems inefficient given how little of the pile was actually clothes and instead an assortment of things you’d expect to find in a junk drawer. Wrappers, scissors, chargers that weren’t being used—that’s what he remembers most. He imagines that dealing with this any longer than the two nights of this trip would probably give him a migraine. Staying with Satoru would likely give him some kind of chronic migraine condition. He shudders to think of how Satoru stores his things at home, and how this is likely only a taste of that.

“You’re coming with me, right?” Satoru’s voice is closer now. Somewhere by the bed, if he had to guess.

“Am I?” He dares to turn around and shoot Satoru a confused look, relieved to find him fully clothed. Satoru had never given him the impression that he could come along for missions. Those were always things he did alone since becoming ‘the strongest.’ Suguru would be nothing more than dead weight if he joined. Maybe he’s just being sarcastic.

“Of course,” he says enthusiastically. So it’s not sarcasm. He’s actually serious.  “You’ll get bored here.”

Unlike Shoko’s, the hotel room has a TV with access to streaming services and there’s an entire street of interesting shops to explore. Getting bored here is the least of his concerns. The most he could do by going with Satoru would be to sit around and watch, which, in comparison, seems much more boring. Plus he’d have to put up with the cocky attitude Satoru gets during fights—which does not sound appealing in the slightest.

Satoru ties the laces of his shoes and looks up at Suguru with an annoyingly optimistic expression. “Let’s go.” 

Before Suguru can respond and attempt to talk his way out of this, Satoru is pulling him out of the room by his wrist. Ironically, the same one he dreamt Satoru grabbing to keep his arm in place. He’d never believed in the theory that dreams held any deeper meaning, but this is pretty damning evidence of it. Or, as others do with their dreams, he’s just reading too far into a coincidence.

On the street in front of the hotel, it’s abnormally warm for a cloudy day. Suguru is dressed in short sleeves, but it feels utterly useless in the stagnant air. He hopes that as they continue walking maybe the breeze will pick up and evaporate some of the sweat already coating his skin. Satoru doesn’t seem to care. He’s in his uniform and walking at his usual fast pace. If one of them was going to complain about the heat, it would undoubtedly be Satoru. And given that he hasn’t even mentioned it, Suguru decides to bite his tongue.

Satoru leads them to a building that looks like it might have been a warehouse in a past life. Somehow it’s only half a mile from their hotel. The windows are boarded up and nature has begun reclaiming some of the structure. Weeds grow from the exposed cracks while moss coats the stretches between cracks. He morbidly wonders if Satoru brought him here to kill him again. It seems like a suitable place. There are no bystanders or surrounding businesses. The area is totally desolate. But the thought is put to rest with the realization that Satoru could kill him in broad daylight and only be scolded for not putting up a curtain first. If he was really going to do it, it would just be inefficient to go this far out of his way. And waiting over two weeks to do it would require more patience than Satoru has.

“Emerge from darkness, blacker than darkness…”

Satoru draws a curtain over the building and subsequently begins fumbling with the tarnished steel door. He drives a key into the rusted lock. It turns but the door won’t budge. Satoru returns the key in the lock to its default position and tries again. Still nothing. He does the same thing again with increased frustration. It’s agonizing to watch.

Suguru steps closer and attempts to shoo Satoru’s hand away from the key. “Let me do it.”

“No, I’ve got it.” Satoru keeps his hand glued to the key. Still trying to turn it the same way and still getting absolutely nowhere.

Suguru sighs and places his hand on top of Satoru’s. He’d half-expected this would make Satoru give up, but he doesn’t resist. He lets Suguru’s fingers press into his and guide the key in the other direction with a bit more force.

The door finally opens with the unpleasant sound of metal grating on metal. It takes Suguru a moment to remember that he needs to remove his hand. That Satoru doesn’t need his help now. He quickly pulls it back and stuffs it into the pockets of his jeans. That dream really threw him for a loop.

Satoru steps inside with Suguru following close behind. The building is somehow worse on the inside. Piles of rubble and discarded food containers litter the entryway. Satoru steps around it with ease but Suguru struggles to do the same. Beyond the reach of the light streaming in through the open door, it’s pitch black. And the further they venture, the harder it is to see—and breathe. Suguru claps a hand over his nose and mouth. He hadn’t noticed it at first but the smell inside the building is a gruesome assault on his senses. It’s reminiscent of death and decay with a dash of chlorine for good measure. He glances over at Satoru to see if it’s bothering him too. But he seems completely unfazed. Maybe this is just normal and Satoru is desensitized to it. Suguru hasn’t been this close to a cursed spirit since before his death. It would make sense that he still needs to get used to it again.

Suguru trips over something on the ground that he can’t see in the darkness of the building’s first floor. Instinctively, his arms fly out to steady himself and prevent an embarrassing fall to the ground. And then it hits him. The brutal intensity of the smell he’d been covering his face against. Even with his hand back in place, it’s already taken its toll. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

Suguru throws his head back to keep the nausea at bay. He’s taking deep inhales through the crevices of his fingers and pinching his nostrils tighter. His diaphragm is already contracting. He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to decrease sensory input. Not right here. Not like this. His head is throbbing from the sheer amount of energy he’s using to fight back.

“Satoru,” he weakly calls out. Speaking pushes him closer to the edge. “I’m…going outside.”

He doesn’t know if Satoru even heard him. And, frankly, he doesn’t care. He isn’t looking for approval. He needs to get out. Now.

Suguru rushes out beyond the building’s threshold and begins dry heaving over the pavement outside. His chest and his head are simultaneously burning. He clutches at his chest and places a hand over his forehead. Even outside the smell is still noticeable. He gags and chokes a little on the spit that unlodges itself from his throat. His head is spinning. His knees are swaying. He needs to sit down.

He slams his back into a cement pillar of the building’s entrance and lets himself slide down to the ground. The rough surface of the pillar catches on his shirt and exposes the skin of his back. It digs into his skin. He knows the friction of the uneven surface has already broken through the top layer. The entirety of his lower back feels like it’s on fire. But the sting of it is nothing compared to his nausea and the aching pressure building in his head.

The world around him exists as a muddy blur of grays and greens and…reds. To his knowledge, there is no paint on the building. It’s completely gray. Bland, boring. He covers his eyes with his hands. Still red. The color isn’t disappearing. He’s gasping for air and it’s only continuing to flood his vision. He can’t feel his face beneath his palms. He can’t feel anything—but the pain is still there.

Red. Crimson. And then a flash of something else. A surge of electricity travels down his spine and the pressure in his head snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. The pain is now violent and no longer localized to his head. It ricochets through his chest, his legs, his arms. He wants to move but none of his muscles are responding. 

Reflections of people Suguru doesn’t recognize. A man, a woman, but then him. All with the same striking scar. He wants to scream. He needs to open his eyes. Wake up. Blood. Intense hatred. The feeling of being burned alive. He’s going to be sick. Then it goes black. The only sounds he can make out are his pounding heart and the buzzing in his ears. Fear constricts around the vessels in his neck. He finds he can move his hands again, but even placing them over his neck doesn’t chase away the sensation of being strangled. He’s going to die out here.

A seraphic flash of white in his head. Or maybe his eyes are really open.

“Suguru.”

He blinks. Satoru is standing over him. The curtain has already been lifted from around the building. Did he see all of that? Somehow Satoru has the uncanny ability to find him at his most humiliating lows.

Satoru crouches down and places his hand on Suguru’s cheek, letting his fingers tangle in Suguru’s hair. It’s comforting. It’s bringing Suguru down from his anxiety-ridden high. Is that why he’s doing it? It’s working if he is.

Suguru drops his hands from around his neck and lets them rest on his lap. His breaths are still shaky and his thoughts are in disarray. But having Satoru here is…relieving. Not that he wouldn’t have been fine without him.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Satoru laughs uneasily. He’s clearly confused too, and maybe concerned.

“It’s nothing, I just didn’t get enough sleep,” he lies. He punctuates it with a weak smile.

Satoru’s face contorts into a deeper frown but he doesn’t press any further.

Back in the hotel room, Suguru is grateful to finally be laying down. Satoru is quietly laying next to him, scrolling through social media, and surprisingly not bothering him every other minute to show him a post. He’s reminded of the 60+ links Satoru sent that he still hasn’t looked at. And he’s not exactly planning to look at them either. Maybe if it had been ten, or even twenty. But not sixty.

His body is still recovering from the earlier incident, or whatever it was. His head still hurts and he still feels a little nauseous. Being off his feet has made it somewhat tolerable, though. If he closes his eyes and tries not to move, it’s hardly noticeable. But that’s only assuming the bed remains still too. His eyes may be shut but he can still feel Satoru turning over to look at him every five minutes, and then rolling back over when he’s done. It’s starting to give Suguru motion sickness.

Satoru turns over again. The mattress gives Suguru’s internal organs a disquieting shake. He seriously can’t take this anymore. With his eyes still closed, Suguru shoves his hand into the spot he assumes Satoru’s face is. It lands, surprisingly, and with a loud smack. More forceful than he intended but that was with the expectation that Satoru would dodge it or prevent his hand from making contact. The times he’d seen Utahime or Shoko attempt something similar, Satoru always blocked it with Infinity.

“Ow,” Satoru whines and removes Suguru’s hand from his face. “What the hell was that for?”

Suguru feels inclined to apologize. Why did Satoru let it hit? There’s no way he couldn’t have seen it coming or forgot to put up his Infinity—wasn’t that automatic? Reluctantly, and careful not to move his body too quickly, Suguru looks over at Satoru. And he struggles to contain his laughter.

The left side of Satoru’s face is flushed red and he’s grasping at his cheek in an attempt to cover it. But that’s not what’s making Suguru laugh. It’s the ridiculous expression Satoru is making. An overexaggerated sulk with his lower lip quivering. Suguru might have hit him harder than he meant to, but definitely not enough to warrant that kind of look.

“Sorry,” Suguru says between chuckles. It’s not doing his nausea any good, but it’s hard to stop laughing now.

Satoru sticks his tongue out at Suguru. He’s playing into this a little too much. “You were so nice to me last night.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I want that Suguru back.”

Suguru isn’t laughing anymore. He’s just staring. A bit dumbfounded. Can Satoru see his dreams now too?

“What?”

Satoru groans and rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, your memory can’t be that bad.”

Not helping in the slightest. That’s not even an answer. It feels like some joke he’s not in on. At the expense of his pride, he decides to push a little harder. “You can see into dreams now?”

Satoru’s eyes go wide for a moment. Then he explodes into a fit of laughter. This is also not an answer. Suguru is beginning to get impatient. Impatient and thoroughly confused.

Satoru wipes at his eyes and lets out a final laugh. “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me—but, no. Of course I don’t see dreams. Are you in denial or something?”

Oh.

Suguru’s head is spinning. He’s not paying attention to his nausea or pain anymore. His thoughts are simultaneously motionless and restless.

Oh.

Chapter Text

Suguru sits on the floor of the room he and Satoru have trained in exactly three times since he reclaimed his body. Once during his first week back to life, and twice in the days leading up to this one. After coming back from the trip, Satoru suddenly had the urge to start giving Suguru actual training. No longer the hands-off approach he had for their first time.

It’s inching closer to nightfall and Satoru still hasn’t shown up. Shoko said she’d go home once he does, but she’s two hours into overtime now. He’s considering texting her a lie about how Satoru just got there and she’s free to go home. Or that Satoru’s on his way and she doesn’t have to stay. He knows she’s annoyed with waiting by this point. But that would also mean leaving the school by himself and possibly being seen by someone who doesn’t know he’s alive. And he’s not really in any state to be defending himself in that position. Texting Satoru to hurry up is another possibility, but Suguru has already sent three other messages with a similar sentiment.

He presses the top of his phone into his forehead and closes his eyes. Satoru’s unpredictability has been his biggest source of stress over the past two and a half weeks. And it hardly seems like Satoru is aware of this fact. In all fairness, Suguru hasn’t brought it up and he’d really prefer not to if he can avoid it. It isn’t easy to mention without sounding inconsiderate. He imagines for a moment how the conversation might pan out.

Hey so I know you’re busy with work and being the strongest, but could you start being more consistent with your schedule? It’s stressing me out. He laughs to himself at the thought. Satoru would probably just tune him out after the first few words if he actually said it.

Suguru presses his back against the wall and moves his phone away from his face. His hopes that Satoru is actually going to show up are beginning to fade. Satoru is chronically running late to everything—that part isn’t new—but he’s never been more than an hour late. At least not without letting Suguru know first.

Suguru checks his phone again to make sure he didn’t somehow miss a text—not that he really could have with checking it every other minute. Still nothing. It’s still just the three messages he sent which Satoru still hasn’t read. Just him and those three messages against the world it seems. The chances of Satoru showing up or reading the texts are becoming less and less likely with each minute that passes. Right now, the chances probably sit somewhere below half a percent. Which is a generous estimate given the circumstances.

As he’s about to walk back to find Shoko, his phone vibrates. Twice. He reluctantly looks down at his screen. They’re both from Satoru and they’re both riddled with crying emojis. Suguru bites his inner lip to stifle a laugh. An exhausted, delirious laugh at how ridiculous this is. It’s annoying, and maybe a little more so than if Satoru had just flat-out canceled. He’s wasted two hours waiting for this. Two hours he would’ve preferred using to go back to Shoko’s and have dinner. Call it stubbornness, but he’d prefer not to let it all be for nothing. Especially when the end is finally in sight.

Satoru shows up about fifteen minutes later, still dressed in his uniform and wearing his blindfold. He’s rushing to put his things down and take his shoes off.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.” He’s frenzied and desperately hopping around on one foot to try to get the last shoe off. “Did you eat?”

Satoru’s frantic movements cause Suguru to laugh. “No, but it’s fine.”

It’s not fine. But he’d really rather not delay training any longer than it already has been. Satoru habitually asks the question anyway. Hearing ‘no’ for once isn’t going to kill him. He should expect that with how often he asks it. It’s a new routine that came completely out of left field over a week ago, and for whatever reason, he still hasn’t given up on it. It’s starting to get a little annoying—mostly because it feels like some shitty attempt at small talk.

Satoru flicks his forehead, just above his eyebrow. Not hard, but not exactly soft either. “You waited for…” He pulls out his phone and quickly checks the screen before dropping it back into his pocket. “Over two hours, and you didn’t think to do that?”

Suguru holds his fingertips over the spot of impact. The skin doesn’t hurt, but it definitely stings. He glares at Satoru. “I wasn’t expecting you to take two hours,” he groans. “If I knew, I would’ve.”

Satoru doesn’t seem satisfied with this answer. He pinches at Suguru’s stomach. “I’m taking you out to eat after this.”

“It’s fine, Satoru. I can eat at Shoko’s.” He swats Satoru’s hand away.

Satoru still isn’t satisfied with this answer. “I wasn’t asking.”

The way Satoru says this causes Suguru to shiver. The external temperature hasn’t changed, but there’s a warmth pooling in his stomach. His defenses melt away in its presence. Satoru does owe him for being so egregiously late.

“Fine, ” Suguru tries to sound reluctant about it. “But pick somewhere we both like, not just you.”

Satoru laughs and walks to the middle of the room. “You mean you don’t want ice cream for dinner?” He clutches a hand to his chest. “I’m truly hurt.”

He’s so dramatic. Suguru rolls his eyes and follows closely behind him. “Why would anyone even want ice cream for dinner?”

“Because.” Satoru stretches his arms and readies himself. “It tastes good.”

Suguru shakes his head. “But there’s no nutritious value to it.”

When Nanako and Mimiko were living with him, he went to great lengths to ensure they had nutritious meals. Which is why ice cream was never an option for dinner—or any meal, for that matter. It’s a dessert or a snack at most, not a meal.

Satoru offers him an exhausted look. “Your point?”

“I’m asking Shoko how many vitamin deficiencies you have, because my guess is that it’s at least ten.” He gives a brief but cutting glare.

This seems to shut Satoru up. He’s looking away from Suguru and grumbling something to himself. It’s funny how easily conversations like this seem to put him in his place, even over ten years later.

“Let’s just get started,” Satoru huffs, and Suguru wears a triumphant smile.

Training with Satoru now is much different from the first time. He actually gets involved rather than having Suguru throw all the punches. It’s probably only about a quarter of his full strength, but it at least gives Suguru the illusion that it’s slightly closer to equal. His wins are feeling more like accomplishments now rather than just participation trophies.

Satoru initiates the fight with an attempted blow to Suguru’s chest. It’s unexpected and difficult to dodge fully. It crashes into Suguru’s shoulder with enough force that it causes him to stumble backward. His shoulder screams with pain from the impact. Agonizing, dizzying pain.

There’s little time to think about his shoulder before Satoru’s fist is piercing the air between them again. Ruthless and relentless. The force of it could shatter his bones. Out of ideas, Suguru drops into a crouch. This is not normal. Satoru is not usually this aggressive to warm up.

“Satoru.” Suguru sidesteps another hit. “Satoru, ” he says a little more forcefully.

This finally causes him to pause.

“What are you doing?” Suguru holds his hand to his sore shoulder. 

Satoru pushes one side of his blindfold up and seems equally confused. Which he shouldn’t be. He started this. He knows what he’s doing.

“What we usually do.” The pitch of his voice raises like he’s asking a question.

Not even. “Since when does ‘usual’ mean trying to kill me?” Suguru spits. The pain from his shoulder is beginning to take its toll on his state of mind.

“That’s not what I—” Satoru attempts to backtrack. He hesitates and breathes out a nearly imperceptible sigh. “I thought you’d be fine.”

The words admittedly sting a little. That much Suguru can accept. Satoru is overestimating him. That’s okay, that’s fine. It just means his expectations are a little too optimistic. And that Suguru isn’t living up to them.

“Just go a little easier,” Suguru uneasily tries to laugh it off.

Satoru lets his blindfold fall back into place. “Yeah. Got it.” He doesn’t have to show it for Suguru to know he’s disappointed. It’s nested somewhere in his voice.

Suguru grits his teeth and goes on the offensive this time. If he can’t take Satoru’s hits, he needs to make up for it somehow. Just enough to show him that he isn’t really weak. Enough to prove his worth.

His cursed energy is responding reflexively and his movements are decisive. The only difference between now and the first time they did this is Suguru’s confidence. His skill has hardly changed in the time since then—and that much is still obvious.

Overwhelm. Don’t give him an opening.  

He can tune out the ache in his head now. Or at least enough that he’s not focusing on it. His eyes are on Satoru’s feet, then his hands. Each movement is a clue to the next. There’s rhythm in how he moves. Motion travels from his legs to his arms. Steps turn into grasps, and dodges turn into counters. His movements are fluid.

And it’s in one of these fluid motions that Suguru is caught—his wrists pinned to the ground and Satoru’s knee to his chest. It’s an unsatisfying conclusion. That Satoru can take him down so easily without using anything near his full strength, and that Suguru is out of breath from trying to prevent it.

Satoru’s gaze lingers with a fiery glimmer in his eyes. There’s a moment of hesitation before he removes himself from Suguru. “Better, but your moves are still choppy.”

No shit. Three days in a row of training don’t undo whatever being dead for a year has done to his memory and body. Probably enough to stunt his abilities for the foreseeable future. Any hope of reaching Satoru’s level would be a complete waste of his energy.

“I know,” he groans and pushes himself up from the floor. Satoru could take him down a hundred times—which he probably has at this point—and it wouldn’t feel any less humiliating.

Annoyingly, Satoru pokes his cheek. “Stop being so grumpy. You’re letting Shoko rub off on you.”

Suguru shakes his head and tries not to laugh. It comes out as a cough instead. A chest-racking,  throat-splitting cough. He holds his hand to his mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. Laughing while trying to catch his breath had been a bad idea.

Satoru seems to find this hilarious. “I think that was divine intervention,” he laughs.

“Shut up.” Suguru playfully shoves him away. Exhibit B of Satoru being an ass today.

This doesn’t deter Satoru. He steps closer again and uses his index fingers to force Suguru’s mouth into a smile. “Nope. Not until you stop sulking.”

Suguru groans with frustration. It’s been like this since coming back from the trip. Satoru is…friendlier. Not that he wasn’t friendly before. He’s always acted like he is, but it’s different now. It feels closer to authentic. He’s touchier, less restrained. His fingers have connected with Suguru’s skin an ungodly amount of times since then.

The remainder of the warm-up fight goes uneventfully. Satoru continues to go easy and Suguru can’t manage to land more than one meaningful hit. It’s a bit disheartening, to say the least.

Satoru’s hand slips around Suguru’s waist and presses into his abdomen. It’s embarrassingly intimate, but maybe not to Satoru. “You’re letting your posture slip.”

Suguru reluctantly straightens his back against Satoru. It’s hard to think straight like this.

“Okay stay like that.” Satoru releases his arm and steps in front of Suguru. He pulls his blindfold down to his neck so that his eyes are uncovered. “Try channeling your cursed energy again.”

He does as he’s told. It’s unremarkable, insignificant—other than the fact it’s exacerbating the pain in his head. But that’s manageable. He can ignore it better than he did the first time.

Satoru’s eyes wander up and down Suguru’s body. They don’t linger in any one spot for very long. “Increase your output.” His expression remains stoic.

This is where Suguru knows he’s going to fail. He can already feel it. He learned his lesson from the first time that there’s a hard limit to using his cursed energy. As in how much he can use before inevitably collapsing. Still, because Satoru asked, he increases it.

The tickle in his throat from earlier returns. It’s irritating, but nothing that can’t wait until this is over. Satoru continues to meticulously analyze his body. It’s similar to the feeling he gets around Shoko. Like he’s being objectified, that he’s an experiment. It’s unnerving, and so is Satoru’s abject silence. He liked it better when they were actually practicing something.

“You’re holding back,” Satoru says in a flat tone.

“Satoru, I—” He catches himself. Admitting he can’t is admitting he’s weak. It’s pathetic really. He’s never been all that scared of pain, especially not when his honor is on the line.

Suguru sighs and relents. It’ll hurt but it can’t be as bad as the feeling of humiliating himself. He bites his tongue to distract from the pressure mounting in his skull. Unlike the last time he did this, the pain quickly spreads to the rest of his body. There’s no hesitation this time.

Satoru’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t notice anything’s wrong—or he’s just good at hiding it. He steps closer and brushes his fingers against Suguru’s forehead. A little odd, but he isn’t acting with any sense of urgency. It obviously isn’t significant. It’s not like he’d be able to see anything of the possessor with his Six Eyes. Right?

The pain steadily increases with each second Suguru maintains this level of output. He closes his eyes in an attempt to stomach it better. Satoru can’t need him to do this much longer. He should have more than enough information for whatever he’s doing. Suguru decreases his output back to a stable level.

This causes Satoru to give him a confused glare. “Everything okay?”

Suguru nods and tries to mask his overwhelming exhaustion with a smile. Like every muscle fiber isn’t currently burning. “Yeah. Why?”

“I wasn’t done yet.” Satoru’s gaze is intimidating. He’s not going to budge on this.

Reluctantly, Suguru increases his output again. It hurts more to go back to than it did to maintain. If his muscles were burning before, then they’re disintegrating to ash now. It’s unbearable.

Satoru continues to watch. His emotionless expression is only making it worse. He can clearly see Suguru is in pain. Suguru isn’t trying to hide it anymore.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, his vision is beginning to get blurry. It’s like the aura that precedes a migraine—which is ironic. He’s already at the furthest extremity of pain. The warning is unfashionably late. Not that it really would’ve helped anything. He already knew this was going to hurt.

The blurriness morphs to cover his entire field of vision. It shifts with each restless pound of his heart. He can’t tell if Satoru is still in front of him anymore. Maybe he’s done and Suguru just can’t hear him over his own heartbeat. He bites deeper into his tongue to keep himself sane.

Then it happens again. The flashes of red. The overpowering sensation of nausea. Except this time he isn’t sitting down to relieve the other symptoms. It’s everything wretched at once. Everything that’s wrong with his body. Like sleep paralysis, all he can do is stand by and watch with terror. His muscles are all locked into place. Every atom of his body feels like it’s being split by an invisible force. The pain from it is making his chest convulse with disgust.

There’s a hand on his cheek and another on his upper arm. They’re cold against his skin. They hardly feel real. It could just be another hallucination like the last time, but those were all visual. The pressure of them glides across his shoulders and to his back. It’s hard to decipher the movement without being able to see. There are muffled sounds of something beneath his breathing and pounding heart. His senses are too muddied to distinguish what it is.

The pain finally begins to cease. It’s slow but it’s wavering. The room is gradually coming into focus. He’s being held tightly to Satoru’s chest while he’s on the phone with someone. His expression reads frantic. Suguru’s ears are ringing and drowning out whatever he’s saying, but it seems urgent. It all feels like an amorphous blur of events.

He blinks and Satoru is laying him down on the ground. He blinks again and Satoru is nowhere to be found. And the next time he blinks, he’s face to face with Shoko. The lower half of her face is covered by a surgical mask and she’s shining a flashlight directly into his eyes. He holds his hand up to cover the glare from the light.

“Hey,” Shoko says, already sounding annoyed. Her face blocks his view of the rest of the room. “Next time you pass out, don’t do it when I’m about to board the train home.”

Suguru breathily laughs at the remark. He knows she’s joking, but he can’t help feeling like there’s an air of sincerity to it. “Sorry.” It’s worth apologizing just in case.

She seems to find this funny. “I wasn’t being serious,” she laughs and steps away from him. He’s in the infirmary somehow. How long was he out? “Gojo should be the one apologizing. He kept calling until I got here.”

The frantic phone call makes sense now. “Good luck getting that,” he teases. 

“Yeah, yeah.” She sticks a thermometer in his ear. It beeps three times and she pulls it out. “When did your fever start?”

He stares blankly at her. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. He’s not aware of having any fever. He felt normal this morning.

She gives him a skeptical glare. It’s more intimidating with the rest of her face covered by the mask. “No chills? No weird temperature spikes out of nowhere?”

He shakes his head. Not that he was aware of. He doesn’t even feel feverish right now.

Her brow furrows. “I think you should take a break from training. I doubt this is a coincidence. I also think…” She pauses for a moment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you should stay with Gojo until then. It’s flu season and I’m not taking any chances.”

Aren’t you supposed to feel sick when you have the flu? But she’s the doctor here. “What about my stuff?” Not that he really has much to his name.

“Gojo’s out picking it up. I asked him to when he started telling me your symptoms. He should be back soon.” It’s uncomfortable that she’s already thought this far ahead. She’s probably just ecstatic to have her apartment back to herself. “You probably shouldn’t come into work either. Just take the week off.”

His eyes widen at this. Why is she cutting him so much slack? “Are you sure?”

“I can manage a week without you.” She chuckles, “Just barely.”

She doesn’t seem as indifferent as she normally is. She actually sounds a little concerned—which, he’s learned, is totally unusual for her. It’s surprisingly unnatural to witness. There’s something about this she isn’t telling him. He can sense it. His mother would have the same expression each time he got sick as a child. Concern laced with another expression that only the other adults could discern. But he’s an adult now too and he still can’t discern it.

Satoru eventually shows up after a while. He’s carrying an overflowing backpack over his shoulder and a plastic bag with the logo of a nearby pharmacy on it. His expression eases the moment he makes eye contact with Suguru. He places the things down on a table beside the infirmary bed.

He immediately reaches out to smack Suguru’s arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t tell me you’re okay if you aren’t.” He sounds exhausted, relieved in an exasperated sort of way.

Shoko laughs at this and shakes her head. “You’re both idiots.”

Satoru takes offense to this and shoots her a glare. “How am I an idiot? I did the right thing and called you.”

“Yeah, only about fifty times,” she chides.

Suguru is appalled, but not shocked. Satoru is just… like that. But it’s a little endearing to think about—if he’s being honest.

Satoru turns back to him. His forehead is covered in sweat and his hair is messily stuck to it. It’s a sight Suguru wasn’t expecting. “Are you fine leaving? I can carry you if—”

“I can walk.” Suguru pushes himself from the bed to make a point. His body still feels sore, but that doesn’t stop him from being able to walk. He picks up the things Satoru put down and examines the contents of the pharmacy bag. A bottle of pain relievers, cough medicine, and two packets of daifuku. He looks at Satoru and laughs. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

Satoru seems confused for a moment but eventually gets it. “One’s for you.” He pauses and looks away. “‘Cause you said you didn’t eat.”

Suguru looks back down at the bag. It’s an unconventionally nice thought. “Thank you.” He smiles at Satoru.

Shoko mocks gagging. “Just go already.”

Satoru tosses a key at her and sticks his tongue out. It hits the ground before she can grab it. He probably intended for that to happen.

Satoru’s apartment—no, penthouse—looks like it’s never been lived in. Everything sparkles and nothing looks like it’s been touched, not even the pans hanging above his stove. Either he has a really good cleaner, or he’s lying and just renting this place for the next week. Both seem plausible.

But in the corner of the spare room Satoru’s setting him up in, there’s something that refutes both of these possibilities. It’s behind the other decor like it’s something he’s trying to hide. It’s the last picture Suguru remembers them taking together—or the last one he’s willingly in, at least. The fact Satoru even still has it is funny. It seems like something he wouldn’t have wanted to hold onto.

Satoru sticks his head in the doorway for the third time as Suguru unpacks his things. “Do you know what you want for dinner yet?”

Suguru places his empty backpack down at the foot of the bed. “I told you before, just pick for me.” He doesn’t feel like he’s in a position to be telling Satoru what to get him. That would be imposing.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Pizza or curry?”

Suguru laughs at the choices. The two seem like polar opposites. “So specific. Curry, I guess.”

Satoru nods and disappears from the doorway. Presumably to order the food. Suguru doubts he would even know how to cook either of the choices he listed.

He steps outside of the room to explore the penthouse further. It all feels like something he’s seen on one of the home and garden shows Shoko watches. Weird sculptures in the hallway. Abstract art on the walls. The black marble countertops are pristine and the furniture is all arranged in a very inorganic manner. It’s like walking through a display at a furniture store rather than a home. The whole place still has a fresh paint smell to it. Even Satoru’s bedroom is made up the way a display would be. There are hardly any personal touches to it. Suguru imagined it would at least be a little messy. What’s the point in buying it if he doesn’t even stay here?  

He brushes his fingers over one of the metal sculptures in the hallway. A layer of dust comes off with his touch. It’s just like a museum, but museums are probably less dusty than this. His neighbors probably love him. Suguru laughs at the thought. 

He checks inside the bathroom and finds it to be the same. Lavishly decorated like it’s going to be shown off but nothing homely about it. Not even soap bottles in the shower. Suguru places his toiletries down on the sink counter. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that some things in the penthouse must still be covered in the scratch-resistant plastic film they came with. He scratches his fingernail against the mirror to check, but this one doesn’t seem to have it. Something definitely will. He’s sure of it.

The living room takes the cake for being impersonal, though. If it weren’t for the modern living-room-kitchen-dining room open-concept garbage, he might have mistaken it for the posh waiting room of a doctor’s office. He always hated this style of design in Shoko’s home renovation shows.

Satoru leans over the counter, staring at his phone screen but not moving his fingers. “I’m gonna go get the food. Are you okay staying here?” He turns off his phone and looks over at Suguru.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” He’s not really in that much pain anymore. He could’ve walked to pick it up with Satoru.

“You can sit on the couch and get comfortable. I’ll think of something for us to watch while I’m out, ‘kay?” He’s being so casual about this—like this is suddenly something normal for them. He flashes Suguru a thousand-watt smile and heads out the door.

The couch is surprisingly nice to sit on. Its looks are massively deceiving. The upholstery is velvet and, from a distance, seems like it would be stiff and uncomfortable. Upscale furniture always seems to be that way. Comfort isn’t ever factored into the high cost, so this must be worth a fortune. He pulls one of the pillows over and lies down on the couch. It’s infinitely more comfortable than any mattress he’s slept on. It doesn’t make sense for Satoru to make Suguru stay with Shoko if he has all of this. Suguru would’ve been fine sleeping on the couch if he had to—particularly this couch.

He stares up at the spiky chandelier—if you can even call it that. It looks more like some type of modern art installment than it does a light fixture. He pulls his phone out from his pocket and types out a message to Shoko. It reads, “You didn’t tell me Satoru has such a fancy place.”

His phone vibrates almost immediately.

Shoko: ???

She doesn’t know? He takes a picture of the living room and sends it to her.

Suguru: It’s like your home reno show.

Suguru: The one where they don’t shut up about open floor plans.

He snaps another picture, this time of the kitchen-dining-room combo, and sends it to her.

Shoko: Wtf.

Shoko: You’re lying.

He uses the front-facing camera to take a picture of himself with the rest of the room in the background. She must actually be shocked. She’s more wordy than usual. Double texts aren’t her thing.

Suguru: Not lying.

Shoko: Are you sure it’s actually his???

Suguru: Positive.

Shoko: Yeah no way you’re coming back here. Hope you feel better soon though.

He starts typing out a response but Shoko sends another message.

Shoko: And tell him he’s an idiot for letting a place like that go to waste.

And then two more.

Shoko: No one would choose to stay at the school over that.

Shoko: Ask him if he’s willing to give up one of those lamps.

Suguru audibly groans and shakes his head. Of course she’d ask something like that.

Suguru: Fuck off.

He turns his phone off and tosses it on the coffee table. She’s got a point. It doesn’t make sense for Satoru to stay at the school if he has a place like this. Or vice versa, it doesn’t make sense to buy a place like this if he’s staying at the school. He’s probably got his reasons, but Suguru can’t imagine anything that would justify spending this much just to let it collect dust.

Satoru returns with the food almost half an hour later. Any longer and Suguru might’ve dozed off on the bed-like couch. He even pulled a throw blanket over himself. Satoru arranges the styrofoam takeout containers and plastic silverware on the coffee table.

“What’s the third box for?” Suguru lifts to the corner of the lid to check its contents.

“Just in case you didn’t like what I got you.” Satoru plops himself on the couch with his styrofoam container held tightly to his chest. He picks up a remote from the coffee table and turns on the wall-mounted TV. “What about The Notebook?”

Suguru makes a face and gives Satoru an exhausted sigh. “No, pick something else.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Godzilla?”

“Better.”

“WALL-E ?” This is probably the best it’s going to get.

“Fine,” Suguru relents. Nothing against the movie, just not what he would’ve picked on his own. He took Nanako and Mimiko to see it when it first came out, and watching it without them feels…bad. But he can manage.

He opens both containers to gauge his options. Chicken masala and some kind of vegetable curry. He takes the vegetable and closes the lid to the chicken.

Satoru seems to have made himself comfortable. He’s leaning back into the corner between the cushion and armrest with his legs sprawled out. The couch is large enough that his feet aren’t invading Suguru’s personal space yet, but he’d really prefer if Satoru could just sit like a normal person. It’s obscene. 

Out of spite, Suguru stretches his legs out on top of Satoru’s. He pulls the blanket down to cover his feet and gets himself settled in the new position. Satoru doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He gives Suguru a brief glance, then sets his styrofoam container down on Suguru’s shin. Much to Suguru’s displeasure though, he stretches his legs out further so that his feet are nestled between Suguru’s thigh and the back of the couch. It’s like he’s trying to be annoying. But there is admittedly something a little nice about it. Suguru just can’t put his finger on it.

By the one-hour mark of the movie, Satoru is half-asleep, and by the end, he’s completely out. Suguru takes the liberty of turning off the TV and removing the empty styrofoam container from Satoru’s lap. It seems cruel, but Suguru feels a responsibility to wake him up and get him to his bed instead of the couch. Sleeping like that is going to make his neck sore. And probably his back too. 

He gently begins pulling the blanket away from Satoru’s legs. This immediately causes Satoru’s eyelids to shoot open. He’s an impressively light sleeper. It didn’t seem that way in the hotel bed.

Satoru stretches his arms and his look of bewilderment slowly fades away. He glances at the black TV screen and then back to Suguru. “Did we finish the movie?” He’s pouting.

Suguru stifles a laugh. “Yeah and it was really good, but you need to get to bed.”

Satoru sleepily nods and clings to Suguru’s arm. Suguru pulls him up and guides him across the long stretch of white tiled floor between the living room and his bedroom. He pulls the covers back on Satoru’s bed and helps him into it.

In Satoru’s sleepy haze, he says something that catches Suguru off guard. “Do you still hate me?” It’s somewhere between a whisper and a mumble, but it’s loud enough to make Suguru’s chest ache.

He awkwardly laughs. “What?” He heard him perfectly fine the first time—he’s sure of it. But the vague statement triggered a kind of masochistic curiosity in him.

Satoru pulls the covers over himself and sinks into the pillows. “Hm, nothing,” he lazily mutters into the pillowcase. He closes his eyes and before long his breathing becomes quiet snoring.

Perplexed would be the understatement of the century for how Suguru feels right now. Where did Satoru ever get the idea he hated him? In the times they spoke after Suguru had defected from the school, he never once tried to give Satoru that impression. He made it clear they disagreed, not that he held any malice toward him. It’s like he’s purposely trying to misunderstand Suguru.

Part of him wants to wake Satoru up and ask him what he’s talking about. It’s leaving a sickly feeling in his gut and making his mind run in circles. He pulls his shaky hands away from the bed. The slightest temptation would be enough to push him over the edge if his hands stay that close. Satoru deserves to sleep, even if it means leaving Suguru hanging on quite possibly the most upsetting thing he’s heard since coming back to life. Satoru is supposed to be the one to hate him, right?

Once it’s clear Satoru really is asleep, Suguru returns to the living room to clear the mess of takeout containers and plastic silverware from the coffee table. He places the uneaten chicken masala in the fridge and throws the rest of the items away. There’s a growing sense of unease filling his stomach. It’s not the opulently deserted penthouse—though that definitely adds to it. It’s a kind of loneliness that transcends it. It’s something Satoru’s Freudian slip affirmed.

It’s existential. It’s social. In everything he does, he can’t shake the feeling of being isolated by his failures—both past and current. He’s living in a constant state of being misunderstood. And being around the people he left behind is just making that clearer. Shoko would probably rather surgically remove her right arm herself than call him her friend. Utahime only pretended to trust him for Shoko’s sake. And Satoru. Where does he even start?

Suguru turns out the lights in the main room and heads to the bedroom Satoru set him up in. Having an existential crisis seems like it’s better suited to a more private space, and the mega-room isn’t that. 

He presses his back against the closed door and stares at the half-hidden picture that caught his eye before. Satoru probably stuck it there so he wouldn’t have to see it. Especially if he’s convinced Suguru hates him. Suguru pulls the picture out and angrily stuffs it in one of the dresser drawers. Maybe he can sleep a little better if he isn’t haunted by a picture of the person he supposedly hates.

It’s not like Satoru is some kind of saint either. He’s got more skeletons in his closet than he’ll willingly admit. And Suguru just happens to be one of them. He’s acted like that since seeing Suguru alive again. His insistence on making Suguru stay with Shoko, his ignorance toward Suguru’s suffering, and, above all else, his apparent disappointment in Suguru. If anything, he’s the one still harboring resentment. He’s intentionally keeping Suguru at arm’s length. 

It’s painfully apparent Suguru isn’t actually welcome in the world he’s been pulled back into. And there’s nothing he can do about it except to leave again. He misses Nanako and Mimiko more than he can imagine missing this life.

Chapter Text

The red numbers of the digital clock beside the bed read 2:51 a.m. Something woke Suguru up over thirty minutes ago and he still isn’t sure of what it was. Every restless minute he’s been awake has been spent watching the lights of the clock flicker to mark the passing of another minute. It’s hellish.

His feelings of disdain have only rooted themself deeper into his heart since the initial revelation over four hours ago. It’s the only thing he’s been able to think about since then. And if he were capable of dreaming, it probably would’ve appeared there too. He has no desire to confront Satoru about it anymore. Sleeping on it—even if only for a few hours—has made him realize that he’ll be okay without getting the answers he wants.

In the moments since waking up, he’s accepted that leaving is the only real solution. And if he doesn’t leave now, while Satoru’s asleep, the chance may never come again.

Suguru gets up from the bed and begins changing into the clothes he’d laid out for the next day. It shouldn’t be too hard to slip out. The place might be fancy but it doesn’t have any sort of security system set up. Which makes sense considering the layer of dust coating virtually every surface in the penthouse. Suguru isn’t sure where exactly he’s going to go, but he can figure it out. As long as it’s away from here. He stuffs his things into the backpack he brought them in, trying to make as little sound as possible. The only thing left to grab is his shoes by the front door.

He pulls the backpack over his shoulders and, carefully, opens the bedroom door. He briefly considers leaving a note for Satoru. It seems like the considerate thing to do in this situation. Some kind of apology, maybe a few words of an explanation. But writing that would just make him doubt himself. If he’s going to leave, he can’t think about that. He can’t give himself a chance to second guess the decision. 

Another thought crosses his mind. Satoru will be able to use his phone to track him. He’s paying the phone bill and technically still owns the phone. He can just contact the carrier to locate Suguru. Reluctantly, Suguru powers down his phone and places it on the dresser. He can’t risk anything if he’s going to follow through.

Suguru silently steps out into the hallway. He’s careful to keep the backpack tight to his shoulders so that it doesn’t make any unexpected noises or bump into any of the oddly shaped sculptures. The hallway is impossibly dark and difficult to maneuver. Suguru feels along the wall to guide himself out. Having his phone flashlight really would’ve been helpful.

He finally makes it out of the hallway and into the mega-room, as he’s been calling it. It’s dark but there is at least some light. The kitchen cabinets have some kind of light strip affixed to them that shines directly down onto the countertops. He hadn’t noticed it before. It must be some sort of time-activated thing. The light from it illuminates just enough of the room for Suguru to see a clear path to the front door. 

He keeps his footsteps quiet as he walks up to the door. And somewhere behind him is a sound that makes his heart drop into his stomach. 

“Suguru?” Satoru’s voice comes out small and uncertain.

Suguru knows he should turn around but he can’t bring himself to. A million thoughts are racing through his head. How long has Satoru been there? Why didn’t he notice him? Why didn’t he plan for this? But above all else, why is he even awake?

“I um—“ He can’t explain. He’d just be digging his grave. But the backpack around his shoulders probably makes it obvious. There isn’t a lie that can save him.

Even with how far away Satoru is, he can still make out his disheartened sigh. “Oh. I get it.” Satoru’s tone has become less subdued. “I totally get it. You're leaving again. Because it’s easier than being honest.”

Suguru remains silent. He can’t think clearly. His mind is screaming at him to move, to leave before the guilt settles in. Except his feet won’t move and his knees are locked into place.

“Because you’re not Suguru. You’re using his body to fuck with me.” Satoru’s frustration is apparent now. It’s cold, calm anger, accentuated with a laugh. Hysterical, almost.

Chills run down Suguru’s back and a sickly feeling makes itself at home in his stomach. This is bad. Like astronomically bad. How could he even figure that out?

“I always knew something wasn’t right,” Satoru continues. “But it all makes sense now.”

Suguru bites down on the inside of his cheek. It just keeps getting worse. He dares to turn around. In the dim light, he can just about make something of the outlines of Satoru’s features. He’s sitting on the couch with an arm draped over the back and a slight frown on his face. He can’t tell much else from this far away.

Satoru presses a finger to his temple. “I could never figure out how you came back to life. But then I noticed your arm and the way your cursed energy moved. Oh, the scar too.” Satoru’s laughter verges on psychotic. “And I started thinking about it. You’re trying to make me vulnerable so you—” He pauses to erratically wave his hands around. “Whoever you are—can kill me. Right?”

Suguru is stumbling to find the right words. “Satoru, that’s not—”

“I don’t want an explanation. I want an answer.” His flat tone is causing Suguru to tremble. It’s nothing like how past confrontations have gone with Satoru. He’s upset. No, more than that. He sounds borderline homicidal. “Because you know how much he means to me.”

Suguru feels a pang in his chest. His throat is constricting. Whatever fantasy he had of keeping his possession a secret has completely died. He needs to come clean. There’s no way around it. Or Satoru will bring him to his end again. The look on his face—even in the dark—isn’t one of ration or reason. Doing the wrong thing will make him snap.

“So answer honestly. Are you or are you not Geto Suguru?”

Breathing is becoming impossible. Death is imminent. He drops the backpack to the ground and carefully steps toward Satoru. Satoru needs to know that he isn’t a threat, that his intentions aren’t as suspicious as they seem. He doesn’t feel steady on his feet at all. The closer he gets, the more he realizes Satoru’s expression isn’t simply anger. It’s anguish, it’s rage, it’s hurt. And leveling with him is probably going to be more difficult than he originally thought.

He takes a deep breath. His head is beginning to pound. “I’m not someone else.” He places a hand on the back of the couch to steady himself. “I’m still…me.”

Satoru crosses his arms. “Enlighten me.” His glare isn’t letting up. “Because I don’t know how else you could be alive right now.”

Suguru feels along the armrest to guide himself down to the couch. He needs to be sitting for this part. His muscles are threatening to give out. “I guess I haven’t really been honest.” He refuses to look at Satoru right now. It’s only going to make this unnecessarily harder.

“Yeah, no shit,” Satoru scoffs.

Suguru tries to ignore his remark. “I don’t really remember much, but I know I wasn’t in control of my body.” He pinches the soft tissue of his wrist to keep himself from panicking. “So, yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Satoru is silent this time. He doesn’t have an angry remark to add for once. His reaction has been subdued to the restless bouncing of his knee.

Suguru takes this as permission to continue. “But I used my cursed energy to regain control. On the night you and Shoko found me.” He hesitates and lets out a sigh. “And Shoko was the only person I could justify calling.”

He finally looks at Satoru. Even without being able to see his face very well, he seems totally and completely unimpressed.

“So you’re saying you were possessed.” He sounds skeptical. “And you’re not currently.”

Suguru cautiously nods.

Satoru holds a hand over the lower half of his face and lets out a deep sigh. “You don’t know how bad I want to believe you.” He laughs but it’s not hysterical like before. It’s pained. “So prove it. Prove you’re not just lying again.”

What he’s proposing is practically impossible. Even if the possessor were in control, they’d still be able to see inside Suguru’s soul. His body is still holding on to all of its memories. They’d be able to prove almost anything Suguru currently can.

“How?” Suguru can’t imagine an answer that would give him what he’s hoping for.

“Tell me something you hate about me.” Here he goes bringing up that word again. But he’s completely coherent this time. “And I’ll judge whether it’s something Suguru would really say.”

Suguru pauses to think about this. There’s a lurking fear that saying the wrong thing will set him off. But the risk of being killed again is a far greater threat. Satoru wouldn’t be above doing it here. Couches are replaceable and the floors can be cleaned. Offending him is a small price to pay if it’s the difference between life and death.

“I hate that…” His mouth is unbearably dry. He’s not sure if he can do this. Sure there are things Satoru does that he dislikes, but hate is too strong of a word. Though, there is one thing. “I hate when we go out places and you make me wait while you look at everything. I thought you’d grow out of that.” He unintentionally holds his breath as he waits for Satoru to say something.

Satoru’s expression eases a little. A small laugh pierces through the silence. “One more. Tell me something you’ve never told me.”

This is a good sign, right? Suguru looks down at his hands and contemplates the request. Something he’s never told Satoru. That he never stopped thinking about him while he was gone, that being by his side as a teenager was the last place he truly felt welcome, that he still has—

“I never bought sweets because I liked them, only because you did.” This is the safest answer.

And it seems to work. “Really?” Satoru laughs. He relaxes his posture and leans back into the armrest. “So why were you trying to leave?”

Suguru breathes out a sigh that reverberates through his ribs. Because it’s easier than being honest, Satoru’s words are haunting him. He’s going to try talking about it. Even if it isn’t easy, even if he’d rather make up a believable lie and go back to bed. He’s lied enough as it is.

He closes his eyes—it’s better this way. “You don’t like that I’m here.” It’s a more tame version of everything that’s been going through his head, but it’s the closest to honesty that he’s going to get.

There’s a sound of shuffling, then Satoru’s arms are wrapped around him. His embrace is warm and unrelenting. It’s an unexpected gesture. And with every second that passes, Suguru finds himself more stunned that Satoru hasn’t let go yet. This is more than a friendly hug. There’s something deeper to it.

“Are you fucking stupid?” Satoru’s voice is loud for being right next to his ear. Suguru leans his head away to protect his hearing. “I never wanna lose you again.” His voice is quieter this time.

Suguru warily wraps his arms around Satoru too. Even if Satoru doesn’t want to lose him, it doesn’t explain the persistent feeling of being unwelcome. But for Satoru’s sake, he’ll keep that part to himself. It’s probably just temporary.

Satoru presses his head into the nape of Suguru’s neck. It’s reminiscent of how Satoru clung to him in the hotel room. Tranquility with an underlying vulnerability. The warmth from his breath is quieting Suguru’s thoughts. His hands find their way up to Suguru’s hair and tangle themselves in it. There’s definitely something more.

There’s a pressure building in Suguru’s chest, welling up in his throat and making his lungs burn with each moment that passes. In all honesty, it’s been there since the first night of their trip. But right now it’s more…prominent. It’s the only thing he can focus on. The first time ignited a fire and he still doesn’t know how to put it out. Being like this is the closest he’s gotten to alleviating it. He’s now hooked on the dopamine release it triggers. He presses his fingers deeper into Satoru’s back to commit the euphoric sensation to memory.

Satoru responds to this with a small, airy laugh. “Can I ask you something?” Satoru mumbles, to which Suguru nods. “Did you ever have another best friend after me?”

He hesitates to consider his wording. Not a chance. No one ever filled that role again. Nanako and Mimiko might be a close second though. “I never bothered to.”

Satoru smiles against his neck. He removes his hands from Suguru’s hair and lets them fall around his waist. “Did you tell your girls about me?”

Suguru briefly chuckles at his curiosity. “Yeah, a little.”

Satoru’s head perks up at this. “What'd you tell them?”

“That’s confidential information,” Suguru laughs.

They know almost everything, but he’s not going to admit that. They know that Satoru was the only best friend he had, that Suguru missed him, and that he was the only other person besides them that he could openly admit to loving. He shuddered at the word, but it was the only way he could explain it to them. And there’s no way he’ll repeat it for Satoru.

Satoru sighs and drops his head back down on Suguru’s shoulder. “Not fair,” he groans. “Can you just give me a hint?”

“Hmm.” He pauses to act like he’s thinking. “No, I won’t.”

Satoru groans again and Suguru swears he can feel him rolling his eyes.

Talking about Nanako and Mimiko is making his heart heavy. He’d tried to ignore how much he missed them. He’s convinced himself that wherever they are, they’re likely fine. He raised them to be strong. But it’s different now that he’s openly talking about them. He can’t ignore it like he was. He needs to know they’re okay.

His stomach is in knots. He chews at the inside of his cheek. The area is starting to become sore from the constant abuse of it. “Do you think I’d be able to see them?”

Satoru laughs and quickly responds, “No.” He removes himself from around Suguru and sits to face him again, still close enough that Suguru can feel the heat radiating from his skin. “But I’ll find a way.” Satoru offers him a brief grin.

Suguru smiles back at him. He traces his finger along the seam of the cushion he’s sitting on. Even just seeing them for a moment would quell most of his worries. He doesn’t have to talk to them, but it would be preferred.

Satoru leans his head back on Suguru’s shoulder. “Don’t leave when I go to sleep, promise?”

Suguru strains his ears over the ferocious pounding of his heart. “I promise,” he groans. He places a hand over Satoru’s head. “Why are you even awake?”

“To stop you from leaving.” Satoru punctuates this with a breathy laugh.

He rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Satoru.”

Satoru is silent, then he’s laughing. It’s all awkward and uncoordinated. Not like his usual self at all. “It’s just…a thing that happens.” He’s unconvincing.

“Since when?” 

He’s becoming skeptical. Satoru never used to have trouble sleeping through the night. He slept through almost everything that woke Suguru up. But this is now the second time Suguru’s seen him awake in the middle of the night. Which means that two out of the three nights they’ve spent together—in both the hotel and here—have ended up like this. Satoru isn’t telling him something. And it seems at least a little important if they’re going to be living together—even if it’s only a week. Maybe longer if Shoko really was serious. 

Satoru sighs and shakes his head. “It doesn’t really matter.” He’s downplaying it with another laugh. “Do you think you could sleep next to me again?” He quickly follows this up with, “Just so I can make sure you don’t try to leave again. That’s all.”

The pressure in Suguru’s chest returns, this time with a suffocating grasp around his throat. He coughs into his hand in an attempt to clear it, but it’s stubborn. It isn’t budging.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he manages to say despite the restraint of his throat. It comes out quiet and scratchy.

Satoru doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already pulling Suguru up by his wrist and leading him away from the couch.

In the morning light, Satoru’s body looks delicate, ethereal. And if his arms weren’t still wrapped around Suguru, Suguru would probably consider getting up to look for a caffeinated beverage…and to get rid of his morning wood. Staying like this is only causing it to persist. Especially with what Satoru wears to sleep—or the lack thereof. The entirety of his bare torso is exposed and the covers are hardly even over his legs. It’s a painfully erotic sight that Suguru would’ve really preferred not to see. But it’s too late to close his eyes now. The image is already burned into his head. And it’s going to be hard—pun not intended—to forget about.

In the midst of this internal dilemma, he doesn’t realize that Satoru’s eyes are now open. It’s only after looking over Satoru’s body for the third time that he notices.

“No shame, huh?” Satoru laughs and removes his arms from around Suguru to stretch them out.

Suguru’s face is burning. His cheeks are on fucking fire. He closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to see the look on Satoru’s face. “Do you really have to sleep in just underwear?” he groans.

“Why? Does it bother you?” Satoru is trying to sound innocent in this, which he most definitely is not .

“Yes—I mean, no. But can’t you just put something on if you’re sharing the bed?” He’s just digging himself deeper and Satoru is living for it.

Satoru just laughs without offering a response. He stands from the bed and walks over to his dresser. “If you’re into guys, you can just say it. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Suguru’s face is burning once again. His head is too scrambled to tell whether it was meant to be a joke. “It’s not about that. It’s about being considerate.”

Satoru exaggeratedly gasps. “So you’re admitting it.”

“That’s irrelevant.” And didn’t Satoru just say it doesn’t matter? “Put on clothes next time or I’m not sharing the bed with you again.”

“Fine,” he grumbles as he pulls a shirt over his head. “But that’s why, right?” He’s really not giving up.

“Yeah, kind of.” It’s really too early for this. He would’ve been perfectly fine never telling Satoru. “Also because it’s just weird. I don’t sleep like that unless I’m alone.”

Satoru seems to skip right over the last part. “How’d you figure it out?” He pauses. “You know, liking men and stuff.” It’s a sincere question. His voice doesn’t have the same playful tone.

Somehow, despite all the time they’ve been spending together lately, Suguru forgot how remarkably sheltered Satoru can be. And this is possibly the most awkward display of it.

“I just…knew.” Explaining this to Satoru already feels like explaining it to a child. “I mean, I always knew I liked women, but then I had my first crush on a guy and I realized I’m probably not straight.” He omits the fact that said crush was Satoru. This is only getting more uncomfortable and bringing that up would not be in his best interest.

“How do you know when you have a crush?” Satoru is awkwardly fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

Suguru briefly laughs in disbelief. “You’re 28, how do you not—” He catches himself. Satoru is dead serious. He really doesn’t know. Suguru takes a deep breath and reminds himself to be patient. “Okay, you’ve seen it in shows and movies, right?”

“Obviously,” Satoru grumbles.

He rolls his eyes at Satoru’s attitude. “It’s just like that.” This really feels like a talk he’s had with Nanako and Mimiko at least once. “You want to spend more time around someone because they make you happy. You want to impress them because you want their validation. And sometimes you feel shy because you’re scared they don’t feel the same way.”

Satoru silently nods. “But how is that different from having a best friend?” He seems genuinely confused.

Suguru sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. You watch romance movies, you should know, he wants to say. “It’s similar but it’s more intense than that. You feel like you want to hug them and hold hands and do…other things.” He’s definitely explained it exactly like this to Nanako and Mimiko. “Sometimes a crush is your best friend.” He’s projecting, a little too hopefully.

This finally seems to click for Satoru. He lets out a small laugh. “Your girls should be thankful you raised them. Because I never would’ve been able to explain anything like that.”

Of course not. But Suguru’s heart beats a little faster at the compliment. “You also didn’t have parents that taught you about the real world.” He laughs, “I’m the only one that ever did.”

Satoru shakes his head at this. “Whatever.” He sits back down on the bed beside Suguru, now fully clothed. He presses the back of his hand to Suguru’s forehead and leaves it for a moment before placing it in his lap. “I think you still have a fever. I’ll ask Shoko if she can come by and check you out.”

“I’m fine, Satoru,” he groans. Satoru is seriously concerning himself way too much with this. “I just need to rest, that’s all.”

The concerned look on Satoru’s face isn’t disappearing. He places his hand on Suguru’s forehead again. “No. I’m not waiting for that. I’m calling her.”

Suguru has been awake for less than an hour and somehow Satoru has only managed to make it worse since he got up. Shoko isn’t going to be happy about coming all the way out here for something as minor as a checkup. Especially if nothing’s wrong. The memory of her chastising Satoru for making her come back to the school is still fresh in his head. But Satoru is the one choosing to do it, not him. Satoru is the only one who should feel responsible for making her grumpy. Suguru doesn’t have any stake in it.

Satoru holds his phone up to his ear and steps out into the hallway. It’s going to be a long day. And Suguru already finds himself missing the distraction of working in the infirmary with Shoko.

When Satoru is done on the phone—marked by a pained sigh and a quiet ‘thank you’—Suguru walks out to the kitchen to finally look for some form of caffeine. At this point, even tea would be fine. But all of the cabinets are unsurprisingly empty. It’s a little eerie. It feels like staying in a dollhouse.

“Do you actually live here?” It’s the burning question that’s been on Suguru’s mind since first seeing the place.

“Kind of.” Satoru is spread out on the couch looking through his ‘Watch Later’ list on some streaming platform. “I own it if that’s what you’re asking.”

It is not what he’s asking. “Why is it so empty then?” He closes the door to another cabinet. “You don’t even have tea.”

“Do you want tea?” Satoru is resting his chin on the back of the couch and staring at Suguru with wide eyes. “I can get tea.”

Suguru groans. “It’s not that. You literally don’t have anything here.” He smacks his hand against the countertop. “I need caffeine, Satoru. I’m not like you.”

He defeatedly walks over to the couch. He pushes Satoru’s legs out of the way and sits down next to him, sighing about the kitchen’s lack of everything.

Satoru places his legs on Suguru’s lap. “I’ll go to the store today, okay?”

“Fine.” Suguru crosses his arms. “But I really don’t understand why your kitchen has to be so empty.”

He knows the answer. Shoko told him that Satoru mostly stays at the school. But he wants to hear Satoru explain it himself. He doesn’t want to make assumptions based on someone else’s understanding of it. Especially from someone who doesn’t know Satoru as well as he does.

“Because,” Satoru huffs. “It doesn’t make sense to buy groceries I’ll never eat for a place I never stay at.”

So Shoko was right, and everything else is beginning to make sense. But what still doesn’t make sense is why.  

“You bought this fancy, probably really expensive place and you don’t even stay in it.” He looks to Satoru to confirm. It sounds absurd when he’s saying it out loud.

“It’s so lonely here,” Satoru groans and sinks into the couch. “I only bought it because, like, that’s what people do when they have money. They buy homes.”

Suguru offers him a judgmental glare. “And you didn’t stop to think if you actually wanted to?”

Satoru scoffs at this. “I realize that now. I’m a different person than I was a few months ago.”

Suguru attempts to push his legs away again but Satoru puts them right back, much to Suguru’s displeasure. “You really make some of the worst decisions when I’m not there,” he laughs. “Whatever would you do without me?”

“Shut up.” Satoru shoves Suguru’s head with his foot.

Suguru grabs his ankle with enough force that it causes him to whine. Serves him right for everything Suguru’s had to endure this morning. He bends Satoru’s leg until his heel touches the end of his thigh. He places his other hand on the armrest above Satoru’s head. They’re face-to-face now. And Suguru is high off the power he feels from being hunched over Satoru like this.

“You’re insufferable,” he finally says, and Satoru sticks his tongue out.

“And you’re sufferable.”

Things feel normal when they’re acting like this. Everything doesn’t feel so complicated anymore. It’s like they’re second-years again. Suguru isn’t concerned about feeling unwelcome, or how his body is basically failing, or the fact that someone’s knocking on the door. 

Satoru pushes him off to go answer it.

At first, Suguru assumes it’s Shoko and that Satoru is just calling her some stupid nickname. But then he realizes it’s someone else entirely and that it’s not a woman at all—despite the name. Suguru tries to peek over at the door to see who it is but Satoru only has it partially open. Enough for him to talk, but not enough for anyone to look in—or out. So whoever Megumi is, Satoru doesn’t want him seeing Suguru. And whoever Megumi is, he’s unabashedly nosy.

“Is someone else there?” He can practically hear Megumi trying to push Satoru out of the way.

“It’s just messy in here. You really don’t want to see it.” Satoru is trying to play it off.

But Megumi isn’t stupid. “I really don’t care if you have a woman over.”

Satoru moves his shoulders to block Megumi’s attempts to look in. “No, no, no, nothing like that,” he tensely laughs. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Suguru lies down on the couch so that he’s out of sight. This is undeniably awkward and Satoru just seems to be making it worse. Can’t he just talk to Megumi outside?

And then another voice cuts through their conversation. A voice that Suguru never imagined he’d be so happy to hear. He peeks over the back of the couch and Shoko steps around Satoru into the room. She’s dressed like she’s going to work or just came from work. Satoru always manages to catch her at the most inconvenient times—which this and every other time attest to. The door is now open enough that he can see Megumi. This is the kid Satoru was talking about. He’s the spitting image of his father. Suguru can’t bring himself to look away. The sight is so jarring. Megumi is staring right back at him. He hasn’t broken eye contact since the door opened enough for him to see in.

“Gojo-sensei,” Megumi finally says. “Is that—”

“Let’s just talk outside,” Satoru cuts him off.

Finally.

Shoko sits beside Suguru, now wearing a mask again. She places her shoulder bag on the coffee table and begins digging around in it.

“You really weren’t lying,” she marvels. “I’m still asking about that lamp, by the way. You won’t, but I will.”

He rolls his eyes at her. But in all honesty, he’s never been more thankful to hear her offbeat remarks. It’s the most normal thing that’s happened all morning. It’s grounding.

“I don’t think he’ll notice if you just take it.” It’s not like Satoru even uses any of the twenty or so decorative lights in the mega-room. If anything, she’d be doing him a favor. It’s one less thing to collect dust—of which there are many.

She points at one by the dining table. “What about that one, do you think it’d look good in my living room?”

He laughs and tries to picture it. The lamp’s base is a vibrant blue while her living room solely consists of neutral, muted colors. But adding it would probably give the room some intrigue. And after watching hours of her home renovation reality shows, he can confidently say it’d give the room a shabby chic feel. He really hates that he knows the term.

He nods. “I can see it.”

Even under her mask, he can tell she’s smiling. She puts a thermometer into his ear. “I can’t believe he lets this place sit empty. I’d kill for it.” She pulls the thermometer out and goes silent. “No, that’s not right.” She puts it in his other ear.

He nervously glances over at her. “Is something wrong?”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s just—damn.” She takes the plastic tip off the thermometer and sticks a new one on. “Your temperature’s a lot higher than yesterday. Are you feeling weird or uncomfortable?”

He shrugs. He really doesn’t feel all that different. “I wouldn’t know unless you told me.”

She places the thermometer on the table. “Are you taking anything for it?”

He frowns for a moment. “No. Should I be?”

“Uh, yeah. You were supposed to start taking something last night.” She looks at him in disbelief. “Gojo bought you Tylenol, right?”

He nods. It’s still in the pharmacy bag, probably stuffed in his backpack.

She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “Start taking it. Not tomorrow, not later. Now. And I’m leaving the thermometer so you can start checking yourself. You’re gonna make me lose my mind if you keep this up.”

It’s tough love. The kind that makes Suguru wince a little, but much needed all the same. These aren’t the words of someone who’d happily watch him leave again. This is proof that, beneath her hard exterior, she truly cares. And that maybe he’s not as alone as he’d convinced himself the night before.

So he’s going to tell her. Because she deserves to know too and because he can’t keep it secret forever.

“Shoko,” he starts with a sigh. “I didn’t just come back to life. There’s more to it.”

She stares at him. Confused and wide-eyed.

“Someone—something possessed my body before I…you know the rest.” He’s trying to avoid eye contact the same way he did when telling Satoru. It doesn’t get any easier. “I think that probably has something to do with this.”

She inhales like she’s about to speak but instead hesitates for a moment. “In the nicest way possible, you really suck at telling people things.” She doesn’t sound angry or hostile, only disappointed. “Keeping that stuff to yourself isn’t gonna make you a martyr. It just makes you stupid.”

He uncomfortably laughs at the remark.

“Still take the Tylenol, I’ll look into it more when I get back to work.” She closes her bag and pulls it closer to herself. “Any other confessions I should hear about?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just that.”

She breathes a sigh of relief. “I should probably head back.” She stands from the couch and begins walking toward the door. But as she’s about to reach the door, she suddenly stops. “And Geto.” She turns around to look back at him. “Don’t make keeping secrets from your friends a habit again. It’ll go to your head.” She taps the side of her temple.

He stares at her in disbelief. Is she actually implying she thinks of him as a friend? “Thanks, I…” Won’t, is what he wants to say, what he should say. But that’s not realistic. The habit of keeping things to himself isn't one that's easily undone. Instead, he settles on, “I’ll try not to.”

This seems to be good enough for her. She slips out the door with a small wave.

Then he remembers. The lamp. He quickly sends Shoko a text about it and rises from the couch. The one by the dining table. He walks over to inspect it and, like everything else in the penthouse, it’s covered in a thick layer of dust. He unplugs it from the wall and places it on the dining table.

She comes back in to grab it. She’s smiling and shaking her head at him. “This secret doesn’t count by the way,” she laughs. “Gojo isn’t out there, so just tell him about it later. Or don’t, and tell me if he notices.”

Suguru decides to play into it. “I won’t tell him about your kleptomania.”

She groans and leaves for the final time with the lamp held tightly to her chest. And without her there, he’s completely alone in the penthouse again. At least until Satoru gets back from wherever he went.

He walks back over to look at the spot he plucked the lamp from. In its absence, he now realizes, there’s a slip of paper only about the size of a business card. He picks it up to take a closer look.

May 22nd, 2006

Satoru,

Make sure you’re eating and getting enough rest on your trip (or I’ll kill you when you get back)!! ♡

Love,

Suguru

He cringes at the last line. He made his crush so blatantly obvious but Satoru somehow still didn’t notice—thankfully, in hindsight. It probably never would’ve worked out anyway. But it’s a wonder Satoru even still has things like this. He places the note on the dining table and returns to his room to look for the Tylenol.

Over an hour later, Satoru finally returns. He’s carrying multiple shopping bags full of stuff from at least two different stores based on the bag designs. It’s a relief knowing he took Suguru’s complaints seriously. He arranges the bags on the kitchen counter and begins taking everything out of them.

Suguru walks over to inspect his purchases. Canned food in one bag, produce in another. Satoru didn’t just shop for himself.

“I thought you didn’t want to buy anything because you never stay here,” Suguru teases, paraphrasing what Satoru said earlier.

Satoru lets out an exhausted groan. “Yeah, because I don’t.” He pulls a pack of energy drinks out of one bag. “But you’re here. So it’s okay.”

The last remark doesn’t feel like he’s only talking about the groceries. And if he is, it’s an unusual way of saying so.

Suguru takes one of the energy drinks and pops the can open. “You know how to cook now?” He looks over the range of items now sitting out on the counter. Most are raw ingredients and he’s never once seen Satoru cook something for himself that isn’t some variation of instant noodles. But that was also ten years ago.

Satoru stares at him, then back to the groceries, and then back at him. “Oh, right.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Not really, but I thought I could try.” He looks away briefly. “For you.” He almost sounds shy.

It’s sweet. Really sweet, actually. He’d never shown any interest when Suguru cooked for him in the past. At most, he’d poured noodles out into a strainer and stirred a pan of vegetables when Suguru had to step outside. He didn’t cook things by himself. And that’s probably another reason for staying at the school instead of here. He never has to worry about cooking anything there.

Suguru smiles at him to show his approval. “I can help if you want. You really should learn the right way.” He pauses. “Otherwise you might cut your finger or something.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “As if. You might cut your finger, but I never would. I think I should be the one making sure you don’t.”

Yeah right. Whether or not he’s the current strongest sorcerer, he’s still prone to making mindless mistakes. Such as buying a penthouse he didn’t even really want. 

“Also, I got you this.” Satoru slides a bag over to him.

And just like that, a nice moment turns into an uncomfortable one. Inside the bag are a pack of condoms and a bottle of lube. Suguru feels like he might die of embarrassment. He’s stuck looking at it in shock—and horror.

“Satoru,” he manages to say through the wave of embarrassment clouding his thoughts. “Thanks…I guess. But why?”

Satoru doesn’t seem weirded out by it in the slightest. “Because you said you’re into guys and I want you to be safe. That’s what I read online.”

But why the lube? He really doesn’t want to know what Satoru looked up to find that out, or where he even got the idea that he should give it as a gift of all things. Does he take everything he reads online at face value?

“I, um…” The situations he’s been thrown into this morning are like something out of a horror movie. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m not exactly planning on having sex anytime soon. Also, I…don’t really think it’s the kind of thing you should be giving as a gift.”

A card would’ve sufficed. Or even a cake with the words ‘congrats on being attracted to the same sex’ in icing. This is worse than both of those—and incredibly presumptuous.

“Yeah, but just in case.” Satoru shrugs. “I don’t want something scary to happen to you. You’re already sick.”

Satoru is trying to show he cares, this much Suguru knows. But this is really not the way to go about it. He sighs and reluctantly takes the bag. If he hides it in the dresser in his room, he can hopefully forget it even exists. And maybe by the time he needs it, he’ll have forgotten Satoru gave it to him as an awkward coming-out gift. Unlikely.

Chapter Text

Signs that autumn draws closer are beginning to crop up. The trees peeking up above Satoru’s balcony railing now have sprinkles of orange and the people on the streets below have started wearing sweaters of the same color. This marks the third day of being confined to the apartment and looking out of the floor-to-ceiling windows is the only way he’s been able to observe the outside world. It’s the only thing that keeps him sane when Satoru is out.

Suguru leans his head back into the pillow and runs his hand over Satoru’s side of the bed. Satoru keeps asking to sleep next to him and Suguru always obliges. But Satoru still hasn’t given any serious explanation as to why he keeps asking for it. It’s starting to drive Suguru a little crazy. It’s placing old feelings at the forefront of his mind. Playing with his current perception of things. If he had a reason for it, maybe he could justify it a little better. Maybe then he could stop wondering if there’s something else to it. But asking would be a double-edged sword. It might be the thing that makes Satoru stop asking, and that isn’t a possibility he’s ready for yet. He guiltily enjoys imagining this is what it might’ve felt like if they’d been together in high school. Particularly when Satoru’s arms are wrapped around him—which has, without fail, been every night so far.

The sun dips behind a cluster of skyscrapers a few streets away. Night inches closer and Satoru still hasn’t returned. And in his absence, Suguru’s condition has quietly worsened. His muscles constantly feel tired and his hands now have a tremor to them that they didn’t a couple of days ago. It’s worrying, but only to the extent that a cold might be. Shoko said it was flu season, and that’s probably all it is. A quick search online shows these symptoms are common with the flu. It’s likely just that his immune system isn’t as strong after coming back to life. It’s undeniably plausible. But that doesn’t make him feel any less disgusted about being infected with a non-sorcerer illness.

Suguru pours himself another dose of the cold and flu medicine Satoru brought back for him from his grocery store trip. It’s disgustingly sweet going down. He would've chosen the pill form if it had been up to him. At least that wouldn’t leave an aftertaste. And it might be a little cheaper.

Satoru is at least aware things are worse than they were a few days ago. He’s asking more frequently if Suguru’s okay and if he needs anything, but he hasn’t outright stated that he’s concerned. It’s not at that level. Even Satoru acknowledges the fact that it’s just some mild form of illness. It’s inconvenient rather than concerning. Really inconvenient.

Suguru turns on the TV in Satoru’s bedroom and puts on an episode of one of the home renovation shows he watched with Shoko once. It’s comforting in a way that he never expected it would be after being forced to watch it so many times. It’s familiar now—a reminder of Shoko and her bristly ways of showing friendship.

It’s only after the episode ends and Suguru is falling in and out of sleep that Satoru returns. Shortly after the front door closes, he’s crouched at the side of the bed and holding his hand to Suguru’s forehead. His blindfold is pulled down to his neck and tucked into the collar of his uniform.

“Did you eat yet?” He brushes a strand of Suguru’s hair behind his ear.

Suguru rubs his eyes and stretches his arms out. It’s completely dark outside now. “No, I was waiting for you,” he sleepily sighs.

In all honesty, the cocktail of medicines he’s been taking has made his appetite nearly nonexistent. Eating wasn’t something he’d had any intention of doing until Satoru brought it up. But explaining that to Satoru would probably just make him upset. It would fall under the “concerning” category of symptoms rather than just the “inconvenient” category as everything else has been.

He slowly rises from the bed and runs a hand through his tangled mess of hair. His eyelids can barely stay open on their own. “What are you ordering?”

Satoru briefly laughs. “Did you read the text I sent?”

“Text?” He’s too groggy for his own good. He blindly feels around on the bed for his phone. Before he fell asleep, he checked it and tossed it somewhere when he verified there weren’t any new notifications.

Satoru reaches behind him and produces the phone. “Yeah, from like a couple of hours ago.” He turns on the phone and points at the notification sitting on the lock screen.

A couple of hours? Has he really been asleep that long? Suguru rubs his eyes again and reads the message through the drowsy blur in his vision.

Satoru: I’ll make dinner for us tonight. Should be home before 9 ☆ ～('▽^人)

Suguru rolls his eyes at the emoticon. Satoru’s texts are always so unnecessarily expressive. “So you’re actually going to cook.” His voice is still weighed down by tiredness. He’s not sure he’s even awake enough to supervise Satoru in the kitchen.

“I told you I would.” Satoru rises from his crouched position beside the bed and begins undoing the jacket of his uniform. “I got stuff to make sukiyaki.”

Sukiyaki. Suguru breathes a quiet sigh of relief. There’s no way he can mess that up. He’d half-expected it to be something foreign and complicated to make. Because if Satoru is anything, he’s a show-off—even the first time he ever does something and even when it doesn’t matter. But this is tame. Normal, even. And it’s thankfully something Suguru is familiar enough with that he could probably make it by muscle memory alone.

“Please tell me your knives are sharp.” In all the hours Suguru spent aimlessly wandering around the apartment while Satoru was away on business, it never occurred to him to check the knives in the knife block. The entire set seemed untouched. But for a dish that requires about half of the ingredients to be thinly sliced, he wants certainty.

Satoru stares at him blankly. “Probably. Does it matter?”

Suguru groans and stands from the bed. “ Yes, it matters.” He marches over to the kitchen with Satoru close on his heels. He pulls the large chef’s knife from the top of the block. “You cut everything thin so it cooks right. You can’t do that with a dull knife.”

At first glance, the knife seems fine. The steel is untarnished and still pristine. He gingerly taps his fingers against the blade of the knife. Definitely not dull. 

“This one’s fine.” He places it on top of a cutting board that seems equally untouched.

Satoru also picks up the knife to look at it, turning it around in front of his face. He returns it to the cutting board and begins lining up the ingredients on the counter. And—much to Suguru’s surprise—Satoru didn’t miss a single thing. He even has the bottles of sake and mirin. He’s actually serious about this.

For his own peace of mind, and maybe to show off a little himself, Suguru removes the vegetables from their individual plastic bags in preparation to cut them. He washes each item and places them beside the cutting board. “I’ll do the cutting.” He shakes the excess water from his hands and dries them with a tea towel that looks more decorative than utilitarian. It’s still stiff like it just came from the store. “That way it’ll get done quicker.” And so I don’t have to supervise you with the knife, he wants to say.

Satoru opens his mouth to say something but quickly closes it and nods.

The knife slices through the pile of cabbage leaves with ease. It catches Suguru a little off guard. Previous knives he’d used had never cut through anything this smoothly before. He pushes the cabbage off to the side and begins cutting the other vegetables in order of least to most complicated to cut. His hands aren’t steady enough to make any of the decorative cuts he might’ve done in the past, but that doesn’t matter. Looks aren’t as important as making sure everything is done right.

Out of the corner of his eye, he swears Satoru is stealing glances at him. Subtlety isn’t a trait he possesses. And Suguru is a little thankful for that. It gives him a justified rush of pride.

He pushes the vegetables off onto a plate beside the cutting board and begins unwrapping the package of marbled beef.

“Do you remember when I tried making this for your 16th birthday?” It was also the first time he ever made it and the first time cooking almost gave him a panic attack. Mostly because he was more concerned with impressing Satoru than getting the proportions right. The meal was a lot more crunchy and viscous than sukiyaki should ever be.

Satoru chuckles at this. “Of course. That’s why I wanted to make it but you aren’t letting me,” he groans.

Suguru rolls his eyes. Cutting the vegetables and meat isn’t stopping him from doing anything, it’s just making it easier for him. A lot easier than it was for Suguru the first time he made it. If anything, he’s just doing him a favor. Satoru is still responsible for putting it all together.

The first slice of beef comes out almost a little too thin. It’s still acceptable, but worse than he intended. Suguru repositions the knife in his hand. The persistent tremor is making it difficult to line up correctly for the next cut. If he can just steady his wrist—no, his grip. He presses the thumb of his left hand against the dull, top edge of the blade to steady it.

Satoru seems to notice something isn’t right. “I can finish the cutting if you want.” He steps away from the stove and closer to Suguru. “Besides, I’m supposed to be the one doing it for you. You should be resting.”

Suguru shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. I’m almost done.”

He refocuses his attention on the knife. Thinking about it is only making it worse. He’s done this maybe a thousand times before, he just needs to clear his—

Fuck.

Pain pierces through his left hand. He quickly pulls his hands away from the cutting board without any regard for where the knife falls. It hits the floor, he’s sure of it, but he can’t tell over the ringing in his ears. He looks back down at his left hand. Blood is dripping from his thumb, pooling in the crevices of its cuticles, dropping onto the floor. It’s a mess. And Satoru is trying to pry his hand away to look at the wound. 

He doesn’t want to hear it. He already knows the four words Satoru is itching to say. I told you so. But they never come. Instead, he’s pressing the stiff tea towel on Suguru’s wound. It’s like holding hands, but a lot less enjoyable and a lot more humiliating. Because Satoru was right, and there’s no way he isn’t aware of that. He’s just oddly quiet about it.

“I guess we know the knife is sharp now,” Satoru chuckles. Dark, but a little relieving to hear. It’d be more concerning if he took it seriously.

Suguru groans and attempts to pull his hand away but Satoru won’t let him. “You’re the worst.”

Satoru briefly lifts up the towel to look at the cut but quickly presses it back down. “You should go sit down. I can do the rest myself.” He releases his grasp around Suguru’s hand. “And, um, thank you. For trying to help.”

He smiles to himself. Thank you, he actually said thank you. If there ever were an antonym for ‘I told you so,’ this would probably be it. And it’s the last thing he expected to hear from Satoru. Suguru reluctantly sits in one of the chairs at the counter. It’s not ideal, but he can at least still watch over Satoru from this spot. Not that he really seems to need supervision. He’s cutting the rest of the beef just fine. Maybe even a little better than Suguru’s first slice.

He holds the tea towel a little tighter to his thumb as blood soaks into the top layer of fabric. The cut must be pretty deep.

Satoru keeps turning around to look at him. “Want me to get you a bandage? I think I have some.”

In a place that didn’t have dishes or paper towels until a couple of days ago? He’s doubtful but he decides to entertain the idea anyway. “Sure, yeah.”

Satoru places the knife down and disappears into the hallway. When he returns, he’s carrying a small, colorful paper box. They’re bandages alright, just not what Suguru envisioned.

“You can’t be serious.” He glares at Satoru and then at the box of bandages covered in brightly colored cartoon characters.

“What?” Satoru almost sounds offended. “Do you have something against My Melody and Kuromi?”

Suguru clasps his hand around his mouth to keep himself from laughing. “No, not that. It’s just…why are those the bandages you have?”

“Because.” Satoru peels one of the bandages out of its paper packaging. It’s a Kuromi one. And he hates that he knows that. “They’re more fun than the normal ones.”

He has a point, but still. Suguru doesn’t exactly want to walk around with Kuromi stuck to his thumb. What if someone comes over and sees it? Not that it would even come close to everything else that’s happened in the past month—actually, it would probably be the most normal—but it’s still a conversation starter he doesn’t want. And bandages like this don’t hold up as well as their less fun counterparts.

Satoru sticks on the center of the bandage and carefully smooths the edges around Suguru’s thumb. “Want me to kiss it better too?” he chuckles.

Suguru yanks his hand back. His face feels like it’s on fire. “No,” he manages to spit out in his flustered state.

Satoru continues to laugh and returns to the cutting board. 

He knew what he was doing. The thought is eating away at the back of Suguru’s mind. Letting Satoru know about his romantic preferences had been a bad idea. Jokes like this have become completely unavoidable now, and part of Suguru—the irrational, self-disrespecting part—wants to give in just to see what happens, to see the look on Satoru’s face. Under less humiliating circumstances though.

Satoru finishes the remaining cutting and cooking with, surprisingly, no need for Suguru to intervene. He’s handling it all better than Suguru’s first time making it and it’s a little infuriating, to say the least. He even has the bowls and portable cooktop prepared.

“Counter or table?” He’s holding out an iron pot and a small pitcher of broth.

Suguru begrudgingly agrees to the counter. It’ll at least make cleaning up a little easier—something he should probably do to make up for almost cutting his thumb off and ruining the meal.

Satoru arranges the butane stove and dishes at the counter. He places the iron pot down on the stove and the plates of ingredients beside it. His attention isn’t all over the place like it usually is. He’s actually focused on this.

“You know how to do the next part, right?” Suguru pulls his bowl and chopsticks closer to himself.

Satoru swats his hand at Suguru while lighting the stove. “Of course I know. You showed me like…” He pauses to stare up at the ceiling for a moment. “Like twelve years ago.”

Suguru finds himself laughing at how absurdly casual Satoru is about the statement. Twelve years is a long time to hold onto a memory so mundane.

Satoru begins mixing the ingredients together in the iron pot. “Tch. I can’t believe you think so lowly of me,” he whines.

Suguru reaches out to flick his forehead for the comment but Satoru catches his hand by the wrist before he can. His reflexes are dizzyingly fast. Even while focused on something else. And instead of letting go—like anyone else would and like he’s probably aware he should—Satoru continues to hold onto his wrist after he places it onto the cold marble of the countertop. He seems perfectly content like this, occasionally swiping his thumb over the bone that juts out on the side of Suguru’s wrist. His touch is delicate but still manages to ricochet through Suguru’s body. Enough to make his heart feel unstable in his chest. Is this just part of another joke he’s trying to make?

Against his better judgment and possibly at the expense of his own euphoria, Suguru decides to point it out. “Any reason your hand is still there?” He laughs to try and maintain his cool. This really shouldn’t be affecting him as much as it is.

Satoru’s eyes drift down to his hand. There’s a momentary pause. “Just making sure you don’t try to attack me again.” He’s still not moving his hand.

“Oh my god,” Suguru groans. “I wasn’t trying to attack you. You literally do the same thing to me all the time.”

Satoru just shakes his head and serves the sukiyaki into his and Suguru’s bowls—still holding onto Suguru’s wrist. “That’s different.”

Suguru rolls his eyes and cautiously takes his first bite. He goes in with the full expectation of needing to force a smile and lie to make Satoru feel good about it. He’s still new to cooking. It doesn’t seem fair to criticize him for something he’s unfamiliar with.

But the food is actually…delicious. Impressive, even. For someone who doesn’t cook, it doesn’t seem like it should even be possible. Not that sukiyaki is all that difficult to properly make. It’s just the flavor and consistency of the ingredients. It’s not something Suguru had expected him to get right or, if he’s being honest, even come close to the sukiyaki he’s made.

“Do you like it?” Satoru is looking at him with an anxious sparkle in his eyes. Like he needs validation, permission to relax. His fingers press deeper into Suguru’s wrist.

Between the bite his mind is still processing and the pressure of Satoru’s touch, Suguru struggles to find the words. The food? Fantastic. Satoru’s hand on him? Also fucking fantastic. But that’s not exactly easy to communicate with his head reeling from the overwhelm of his senses. Instead, he nods with a bit more enthusiasm than he normally would. It’s less than Satoru really deserves, but it’s all he can manage. 

Satoru smiles and looks away. His body language is still reading as nervous and uncertain. He releases his grip around Suguru’s wrist to begin eating his food. “You can tell me if you don’t. I won’t be offended.”

Suguru stares at him in disbelief. Satoru is being weirdly self-conscious about this. It’s obviously not just the meal. It’s something else. Something Suguru can’t decipher.

“Of course I do. I’m just…” Think. Because Satoru’s insistence on holding his wrist was making his head spin. No, not that. “A little offended it’s better than I can make it.”

Satoru’s face instantly lights up. He quietly chuckles. “I forgot how attached you are to your pride.”

Suguru bites his tongue. Like Satoru can talk. His pride isn’t that important. But maybe letting Satoru believe that is a better compliment than anything else he could’ve mustered up. It probably has something to do with competitiveness and his—unconfirmed—guilty pleasure of watching Suguru fold, particularly when he’s the sole cause behind it. Whatever it is, it’s keeping a smile on his face.

Three full days of staying under the same roof as Satoru, and four nights of sharing his bed. There are certain things Suguru has now come to expect. And at the top of that list is Satoru’s frequent bouts of parasomnia.

At some point in his sleep, Satoru removed his arms from around Suguru. And like clockwork, his restless movements and unintelligible muttering wake Suguru up for the third night in a row. It’s a routine now but it isn’t getting any less mystifying. 

Suguru found a strategy for resolving it the second time he witnessed it. It’s something he can do, even as groggy as he is. He pulls Satoru closer to himself and buries his face in Satoru’s hair. His scalp is damp and radiating an uncomfortable amount of heat, but letting him know he’s there is more important than his own comfort.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles in his half-awake state.

He’s learned two and a half things about these episodes Satoru has. One, that they seem to be related to the dreams he’s having. Two, that Satoru won’t acknowledge it. And still to be confirmed is that these episodes are the reason Satoru wants to sleep next to him. Without getting Satoru to talk about it, he can only assume it’s somehow related.

Suguru loops his arms around Satoru’s shoulders. His breathing is heavy, unregulated. If it wasn’t the fourth time he’d witnessed it, he’d probably be a little more concerned. He traces his fingers along the divots of Satoru’s chest. His skin is hot to the touch, bordering on feverish.

Without thinking, and partly because of the way Satoru jerks his head back, Suguru presses his lips against Satoru’s scalp in what can only be described as some kind of unintentional takeover from his subconscious. It’s enough to rouse him from his half-awake state into a ¾-awake state—still not enough to do anything, but enough to feel shame. Satoru doesn’t seem to have noticed but that doesn’t matter. 

“Sorry,” he mutters under his breath.

“Hm?” Satoru presses his forehead into Suguru’s sternum. His breathing is slowing again.

“Nothing.” His eyes are closing again.

Satoru’s hand brushes against Suguru’s hip and finally rests on his lower back. Suguru leans into his touch. The sensation is sending sparks through nerves beyond just his back. Any sleepiness he felt before is momentarily gone.

Suguru takes a deep breath to compose himself. If he convinces himself it’s a dream, it can’t bother him. But Satoru isn’t relenting. His hand is traveling below Suguru’s lower back. Plan B—whatever that is. Suguru laces his fingers through Satoru’s and gently moves his hand away. Maybe Satoru’s subconscious is hiding something as well. No. He doubts it. Satoru is just trying to hold onto him again without being awake enough to know what he’s doing. It’s an innocent mistake and Suguru is wrong to think otherwise. Satoru isn’t like him. Not in that way.

He pulls the covers away from them to let Satoru cool off. His entire back is drenched with sweat. It’s to be expected with how sweaty his hair was, but it’s still a little weird that it’s this bad. There’s probably some correlation between this and Satoru’s decision to wear so little for bed. And with how often these episodes seem to happen, it’s no wonder Satoru doesn’t exactly seem keen on changing it.

Satoru’s breathing is picking up again. The intensity of these episodes isn’t linear. It comes in agonizing waves and all Suguru can do is wait them out. 

“Suguru?” There’s a sense of urgency in Satoru’s voice despite still being riddled with sleep.

Suguru tightens his arms around him. “I’m right here.”

Satoru quickly grasps at Suguru’s shirt, tugging it closer to him. “Please don’t go.” It’s barely even a whisper, but it’s still painful to hear.

“Satoru. I’m not—” He cuts himself off with a sigh.

It’s pointless trying to reason with someone who isn’t even awake. He speaks and moves like he’s in control, but he’s not aware of his surroundings. It’s like some form of sleep paralysis. Suguru runs his fingers through Satoru’s hair in hopes it’ll calm him down.

Satoru is clinging to him like a scared child. Even his legs are wrapped around him now. Whatever goes on in his head during these episodes is something more terrifying than the gruesome scenes he’s regularly faced with. He’s learned how to deal with those but can’t seem to do the same with this. 

Suguru holds him tighter to his chest. “You’re okay. It’s just a bad dream.”

After going through this so many times, he’s realized telling Satoru these things is as much for Satoru as it is for himself. He wants to believe it’s as simple as nightmares, but everything he’s seen so far paints a different picture. A pattern has emerged in what Satoru mutters during the episodes. They always relate to Suguru, and no matter how many times Suguru tries to remind him that he’s there, it never seems to make a difference. It’s like he’s stuck in a loop.

“Please,” Satoru whispers again. 

He won’t break from the loop. At least not for another couple of minutes. It gets harder to listen to with each iteration. It’s a slow torture and Satoru is none the wiser.

“I’m right here, Satoru.” Reminding him never seems to do much but he remains hopeful that maybe one day it will. 

He runs his thumb over Satoru’s spine. The more he comforts Satoru, the more he realizes that it actually isn’t any different than how he comforted Nanako and Mimiko. Satoru has the same needs they do. Safety, support, and connection. If Suguru can give him all three, then maybe he stands a chance at alleviating Satoru’s distress. 

Satoru pulls on Suguru’s shirt a little harder and presses his face a little deeper. His breaths have turned into gasps that rattle his shoulders. It’s a grim reminder of what’s to come.

He’s rapidly deteriorating. This isn’t going to be short and painless like Suguru is hoping. Satoru’s sobs have never been a good sign. 

“Suguru,” he pleads. He’s grabbing at Suguru’s skin now, his fingernails digging in. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” He can remind Satoru as much as he wants but it’s like shouting into the void.

The pressure from Satoru’s fingernails is starting to become painful. Suguru closes his eyes and tries to ignore it. He doesn’t have the heart to make Satoru feel worse for something as frivolous as his own comfort. 

Suguru’s options are limited at this point. The two previous nights were calm in comparison. Satoru never got to the point of crying or squeezing Suguru to the point of asphyxia. And it doesn’t help that he knows so little about the shit going on in Satoru’s head. They don’t talk about those things, Satoru won’t even mention it if he can’t make some comedic spin on it. This probably wouldn’t be so severe if Satoru—for once in his life—talked about his fucking feelings. 

Suguru can only hold Satoru close to him and wait for it to pass. Count the seconds his crying lasts and remind himself that each is closer to the end than the last. He massages circles into Satoru’s scalp to take his mind off it.

“I’m…sorry,” Satoru says between suppressed sobs.

Suguru pulls Satoru’s face away from his chest and uses his fingertips to guide his chin upward. In the dim light of the city entering the room, he can just barely make out the anguished expression on Satoru’s face. It’s less shocking seeing it for the second time, but it isn’t any less haunting. He runs his thumbs over the tear tracks on Satoru’s cheeks. Unintentionally at first but now discovering this, he refuses to move them.

“It’s really okay.” Suguru manages a small chuckle. 

Satoru needs to know he isn’t scared, even if he is and even if he has to fight tooth and nail to give him that impression. In all honesty, he never does well during these episodes either. But that doesn’t matter. He’s able to compose himself, Satoru can’t. It’s clearly much worse for Satoru than it is for him.

Reluctantly, Suguru figures that going back to sleep probably isn’t possible anymore. Satoru isn’t showing any signs of calming down. He’s still just as distressed. 

“Hey.” He presses his forehead against Satoru’s. “Let’s get up for a bit, okay?”

Satoru’s breathing is heavy and unregulated. His arms are clinging tighter to Suguru. It’s clear he isn’t going to move on his own. He seems too frenzied for that, like a wild animal caught in a trap. Suguru takes a deep breath and begins pulling Satoru with him to the edge of the bed. He doubts his ability to carry Satoru, especially not when it requires crouching to pick him up.

“Can you get up?” He runs his hand through Satoru’s hair.

Satoru shakes his head profusely. He won’t move.

Suguru lets out an exhausted sigh and repositions his arms under Satoru. There’s no way around picking him up. And it’s a little ironic. Isn’t he supposed to be the one that’s sick and getting taken care of? It’s strange seeing Satoru so unwell and so frequently.

Suguru takes another deep breath and lifts Satoru up from the bed, the blanket still tangled around his legs. He’s heavy but that’s not entirely unexpected. Someone over 190 centimeters isn’t going to be as easy to pick up as Nanako and Mimiko were. He carries Satoru out to the couch, careful to avoid stepping on the edges of the blanket draping from Satoru’s legs. He seems calmer like this. His breathing sounds less erratic and his sobs have completely stopped. Instead, it almost looks like he’s…smiling?

Satoru laughs. “Am I your bride or something now?” He still sounds sleepy but much more like himself.

Suguru lays him down on the couch and sits beside him. He rolls his eyes. “No. Do you want that?”

“Maybe.” Satoru pulls the blanket over himself. “If it means you’ll carry me like that more.”

Suguru groans. Back to these jokes again, huh? “No. Just because you said that, no. Not even if you were my ‘bride.’” He uses air quotes around the word bride. Carrying Satoru was a one-time thing.

“You’d get pretty strong from it.” He reaches out to squeeze Suguru’s bicep. “I’m sure plenty of guys are into that.”

He swats Satoru’s hand away. “Again, I’m not looking and it’s not only men I’m interested in.” Is he being this dense on purpose?

Satoru just laughs and lies back down. “Are we gonna watch something?”

“Do you want to?”

Satoru nods and reaches for the remote. “Can you, um, still lie next to me?”

The couch might be large, but not enough for that. At least not comfortably. Still, Suguru agrees. This isn’t about him, it’s about Satoru and making sure he feels better. Satoru tugs the blanket up over them and pulls Suguru’s arm around him. Suguru’s chest is pressed up directly against Satoru’s back and Satoru’s ass is pressing directly into his—yeah, he’d rather forget about that part. There isn’t enough room for him to lay any differently. And, again, Satoru’s lack of clothing is only making it worse.

“What about…” He pauses to flip through the titles. “Kiki’s Delivery Service?”

Without much choice, Suguru buries his face in Satoru’s neck. The couch is far too cramped for what Satoru wants. “It’s for you, so whatever you want.” Staying up to watch anything is going to be impossible.

“Yeah, but I want you to watch it with me.” Satoru interlocks his fingers with Suguru’s. “You’re supposed to be my emotional support.”

He smiles into Satoru’s neck. “Kiki’s Delivery Service is fine.”

Satoru seems thrilled about this. He starts the movie and tosses the remote back onto the table.

It doesn’t take long for Suguru’s eyelids to begin feeling heavy. The warmth from Satoru’s back and the soft cushions of the couch are making it harder to resist falling asleep. The bright lights from the TV screen aren’t much of a deterrent either. He knows Satoru is okay now. He doesn’t have to stay up. 

And as if Satoru can sense it, he shifts his body so that he’s facing Suguru. “What if I cut your hair?” He pulls at Suguru’s disheveled bangs. “I could do it while we watch the movie.”

Where is all this energy coming from? Too tired to comprehend the implications of what Satoru is asking for, Suguru lets out a breathy laugh. No way he’s actually serious about this. “Yeah, sure.”

Satoru quickly stands from the couch. “Be right back.”

Suguru allows himself to get comfortable again. With Satoru gone, there’s enough room to stretch out. He takes over the width of the couch cushions and repositions his head in the middle of the armrest. 

It’s as he’s just about to drift off that Satoru returns. He’s carrying a pair of shears, a towel, and a hairbrush. So he was serious.

Satoru begins tugging his arm. “You ready?”

Suguru groans and attempts to push Satoru’s hand away. He needs sleep, not a haircut. But Satoru isn’t showing any sign of giving up. He’s now pulling at Suguru’s shoulder instead.

“Come on. It won’t take that long.”

This really doesn’t seem like the kind of thing anyone should be doing in the middle of the night. Especially not someone who isn’t even professionally trained to cut hair. Expecting Satoru to fuck it up is like expecting the sun to rise in the morning. Both are inevitable.

“You promised.”

He did not. But Suguru relents anyway. Satoru directs him to a stool he pulled away from the counter and into the center of the room. The TV is visible from this spot as well as a nearby wall-mounted mirror. There’s at least a chance he’ll be able to catch Satoru before he makes any irreconcilable mistakes.

Satoru is unexpectedly delicate about brushing out the tangles in Suguru’s hair. The brush has come close to snagging a few times now but Satoru always pulls it away before it can. He’s taking care with it. He covers Suguru’s shoulders with the towel and exchanges the brush for the shears. It’s a strange thing for him to even have, Suguru realizes. Satoru wouldn’t be the type to cut his hair at home. His hairstyle is evidence of that.

He dares to ask, “Why do you even have this stuff?”

Satoru pulls out a section of Suguru’s bangs and gingerly snips along the ends. “I thought I wanted to start cutting my own hair.”

Thought, so he never followed through with it. Or maybe he did and it ended up badly. Either way, it does little to increase Suguru’s confidence in him as a hairdresser.

“And you didn’t because…” He’s a little scared to know the answer.

“Because it was boring.” Of course. But he seems perfectly amused doing it for Suguru. He meticulously goes over the ends he’d already cut without the slightest hint of boredom.

Normally, Suguru would have entrusted this task to Nanako and Mimiko. They asked him to do it once and continued doing so until his death. It’s something they took pride in. Watching Satoru do the same thing feels like a continuation of the tradition, an unintentional homage to them. His heart is in it the same way theirs were. And maybe that’s enough to excuse any errors he’ll make.

All Suguru finds himself able to focus on is Satoru’s hands and the warmth swelling in his chest. Nothing else in the room matters. He can’t even hear the TV anymore. He needs to make sure Satoru doesn’t mess up. That’s all this is. And it’s good Satoru hasn’t noticed. Suguru’s lack of trust in him would probably just make him upset.

“What do you think about having Shoko over to finish the sake?” Satoru runs his fingers through Suguru’s bangs before letting them fall back into place. It’s the first time he’s suggested having someone over for a less-than-utilitarian purpose.

“You should probably hold onto it for other meals.” Suguru catches himself, “But we can still invite her over.” Dismissing the idea wasn’t his goal.

Much to Suguru’s dismay, Satoru’s hands are no longer visible as he moves on to the rest of his hair. “Yeah. We could.” He suddenly sounds less enthusiastic. “But then why would she come over?”

It seems obvious. “You don’t need a reason to have friends over.”

“I know that. ” He clearly doesn’t. He’s oddly stuck on the idea of trying to make this convenient. “I just don’t think she’d be happy going out of her way for nothing.”

“Well.” Suguru pauses to consider this. Shoko can be callous, but this is different. Satoru isn’t asking her to do some inconvenient favor. It’s something that’s actually fun. “We can buy more alcohol, maybe invite Utahime too.”

This causes Satoru to hesitate. “I guess that…could work.” He almost seems nervous.

“I’ll text them in the morning about it.”

Satoru pulls the length of Suguru’s hair around so that it lays in front of his shoulders. He takes a final few snips at the ends before swapping the shears out for the brush. His hands are delicate like before, avoiding snags and angling the brush away from Suguru’s face.

“Okay, you can take a look.” Satoru steps back and pulls the towel away.

Walking up to the mirror, Suguru braces himself. He can’t work up the courage to look at it just yet. Satoru messed something up—that’s a given—but it’s a matter of to what extent he did. And he’s not sure if he wants to know. Satoru is waiting with anticipation. He can practically hear him holding his breath. 

Suguru inhales sharply through his nose. He can’t avoid it forever. He’ll have to see it at some point and at least Satoru still has the tools out to fix it. His eyes begin to focus. It looks…

“Do you like it?” Satoru is now standing directly behind him. He rests his chin on Suguru’s shoulder.

At first blush, it looks professionally done. It’s exactly the way he’d normally keep his hair. His bangs fall just below his cheekbone and the rest of his hair almost looks like it has layers—a term explained to him by Nanako and Mimiko. 

“Thank you.” He can’t stop staring. How did Satoru know what to do?

He runs his fingers through it. It’s a lot better than he ever would’ve assumed Satoru to be capable of, and that seems to be the theme of a lot of the things Satoru has been doing for him lately. It’s like he wants to impress Suguru, or maybe the issue lies with Suguru’s expectations.

Satoru begins tugging at his arm. “C’mon. Let’s finish the movie.”

Chapter Text

Satoru has spent at least the last five minutes pacing the kitchen. He’s muttered a few things to himself—none of which Suguru can make out—he’s remarkably callous every time Suguru has tried to talk to him, and he keeps picking at his cuticles. It’s the most aggravating, irritating, downright exhausting thing to witness. It’s a race to how quickly Satoru can make him lose his cool, and he’s going for first place. If he’d known inviting Utahime and Shoko over would put Satoru on edge this much, he might not have suggested it. Even trying to talk him down proves impossible, every question Suguru asks is completely glossed over.

“I’m fine, are you? You won’t stop asking.” Satoru’s voice is high-strung, verging on neurotic. He’s seriously going to drive Suguru to insanity.

“If you keep pacing like that I won’t be,” warns Suguru. He’s heavily considering locking Satoru in his room until Utahime and Shoko arrive. 

Satoru continues pacing like he never heard a word Suguru uttered. “Don’t look then.”

Suguru massages his temples. “You’re being inconsiderate.”

Is asking him to stop really that unreasonable? It’s a shared space for fuck’s sake.

“You’re being annoying.”

Like he’s one to speak. Suguru so desperately wants to grab him by the collar of his shirt and drag him out of the kitchen. It’s an instinct only provoked by such childish behavior. Maybe he should tell him he’s grounded too. 

“Satoru.” He’s going to keep his cool. He’s going to be the better person. 

“I don’t see why I should stop when it was your idea to have them over in the first place.” His insatiable pacing is becoming louder.

Suguru is literally going to lose it. 

He walks over to Satoru and firmly grasps his shoulders. “Keep pacing and I won’t make your stupid charcuterie board.”

Satoru looks at him with begrudging acceptance. It’s the only thing he requested in all of this—because apparently regular, non-pretentious snacks aren’t good enough for him. “Fine.”

Suguru releases his hands from around Satoru’s shoulders. “Go sit down and stay out of my way until they get here.” 

He isn’t playing around. Satoru has done nothing but get in his way every time he tries to do something, even for the things he asks Suguru to do. His only contributions include organizing the decor in the living room and dusting a single one of the weird sculptures. Everything else has been left to Suguru. 

Satoru stomps over to the couch and makes a show of throwing himself down on it. It’s forceful enough to make the couch’s wooden legs creak. He’s anything but well-tempered. He hasn’t been all day.

Shoko and Utahime arrive without much fanfare. Satoru’s neurosis made it seem like it might be a bigger deal. But their arrival is as mundane as Suguru had originally thought it would be. Satoru seems to be sulking a little less too. He’s more alert now that they’re here.

“I told you so,” whispers Shoko to Utahime. It’s not clear what she’s saying that about exactly. Maybe the end to a conversation they had on the way up. 

Utahime stares with awe written all over her face. Her eyes dart from one side of the room to the other. She’s completely captivated.

“Hey. I brought this for…” Shoko digs around in her canvas tote to produce a wine bottle. “I guess just us three.” 

Merlot. A fancy one at that. Is it really just for the occasion? The eyes she’s making at Utahime point to no. Her lips even have a faint smile to them instead of their usual downturn. 

Utahime’s pinkie is wrapped around Shoko’s as they walk into the kitchen. They seem much closer than he last remembers them being—physically and mentally. Fleeting glances, sneaking in touches where they can, out of sight for the less discerning. He knows the signs when he sees them. 

Suguru pours himself a glass of wine alongside Utahime and Shoko. Satoru glares daggers at him the entire time. This, he realizes, might actually be the first time Satoru has seen him drink.

Utahime leans in closer to Shoko. “Is this where you got—”

Shoko holds a finger up to her lips and shushes Utahime before she can finish the question. 

The lamp. That goddamn lamp she took—which Utahime would probably never approve of how she obtained—has apparently gained some traction at her apartment. In all honesty, he’d completely forgotten about it. Satoru still hasn’t noticed either. Her theft has successfully gone under the radar. 

“How’s your first…” Shoko glances at her phone. “Almost-week of living like a trust fund kid?”

“Good.” Not entirely. He’s still feeling a little under the weather.

She narrows her eyes. “Your fever?”

“Fine.”

He swishes the wine around in his glass. The fever is mostly gone—well, kind of. He hasn’t stopped the fever-reducing medication long enough to know. But that’s okay. The less tolerable symptoms—the fatigue, the soreness—have dissipated. It’s not really a lie, he concludes. 

“We made charcuterie.” Satoru gestures to the board on the counter. 

Suguru corrects him, “I made it, you just suggested—no, insisted on it.”

Satoru sticks his tongue out and turns back around. He’d only be fighting a losing battle if he tried to argue—something he must be acutely aware of. Shoko and Utahime find this funny. Hilarious, even. Enough that Utahime is covering her mouth while she laughs.

Shoko flashes a look of shock. “Since when did he get so domesticated?”

“Since he started asking me to share the bed with him.” It’s a joke, but it has a hint of truth. Satoru has mellowed out a little since sharing the bed became a regular thing. 

Shoko and Utahime exchange a look not visible to Suguru. 

“It’s not a crime to want to sleep next to your best friend,” Satoru whines and throws his head back. “You guys do it all the time.”

Suguru bites his tongue. By no means are the two circumstances comparable. Utahime and Shoko clearly have something else between them. He’s not sharing a bed with Satoru for the same reasons they likely are.

“No one said it was.” Utahime is audibly choking back laughter. “And I don’t exactly think you’d call us best friends. ”

Shoko swats Utahime’s arm. “What she means is—”

“You guys are enemies.” Satoru sounds completely confident in his assessment. “Or ‘frenemies’ or whatever.”

Suguru wants to correct him and, okay, maybe he should—the intent is definitely there. But it’s a little funnier to sit back and watch. And in no way—absolutely not—is it because he’s still a little irritated with Satoru about earlier. Satoru just needs to find some things out on his own, and poking his nose in places where it doesn’t belong is one of them. 

“Yup, that’s it.” Shoko doesn’t seem particularly keen on explaining either. She only sucks in air through gritted teeth to accentuate the remark. Her hand is wrapped tighter around Utahime’s, probably to keep her from explaining too. 

Suguru grips the stem of his wine glass a little tighter. “The wine is nice.”

Shoko seems eager about the change in topic. “Yeah, a lot nicer than I usually buy.”

No shit. He’s never seen her buy alcohol that isn’t hard liquor, especially anything in this fancy of a bottle. It’s definitely for Utahime. She’s even stealing glances at her.

And it’s in the way they sit on the couch together too. Shoko inconspicuously places an arm around the back of the couch, her fingertips barely grazing Utahime’s shoulder. It’s unassuming. Clandestine, even. 

Utahime is still marveling at the penthouse. She’s looked up at the light fixtures, down at the tiled floor, and around at the pretentiously simplistic furniture. Suguru hesitates to mention it, but her expression is exactly like the one he had the first time he saw the place. Perplexed, slightly skeptical.

“You can’t seriously own this place and still choose to stay at the school.” Her tone holds an ounce of disdain.

“Just makes getting to work easier.” When Satoru lies, he becomes restless—and he’s currently bouncing his knee, trying to conceal the fact by collapsing his posture into his lap. 

This version is different. It’s not the same version Satoru gave him. Was he lying then? No. This one is further from the truth. It’s simple, calculated. It’s disingenuous. He’s stating a matter-of-fact rather than an opinion. Gojo stays somewhere because it’s efficient, but Satoru stays somewhere because he doesn’t like feeling lonely.

Shoko’s voice cuts through his thoughts, “You can sit with us, you know.”

Suguru’s attention is drawn away from Satoru’s fidgety hands. The couch is meant for three—or why else would there only be three cushions? He’s really okay with standing. It’s not a big deal. But Shoko pulls Utahime closer to her, close enough that she’s almost in her lap.

Utahime holds a finger up into the air. “Bring the wine with you.”

And Suguru does. He arranges the wine bottle and his own wine glass on the table. Careful to keep both far enough away from Satoru so that he doesn’t complain and close enough to Utahime so that she can maybe admire Shoko’s choice of wine a little closer. He squeezes in between Satoru and Utahime. Even with Shoko holding her so closely, it’s still a little more snug than he would’ve liked.

“You ever thought about renting it out?” Utahime refills her glass of wine. “I know people that make good money from doing that.”

“Nah.” Satoru leans back and crosses one leg over the other, his foot coming dangerously close to kicking Suguru’s knee. “Suguru still needs somewhere to stay. Plus, he makes it worth the longer commute.” Said with a covert wink that borders on perversion.

Gag. Suguru discreetly elbows him in the ribs—for both the comment and nearly kicking him.

Satoru barely winces, he acts like it doesn’t faze him. He uses two fingers to tap three times against the side of Suguru’s knee, out of sight for Utahime and Shoko. Sorry. But his snide smile says otherwise. What a fucking ass.

Suguru flicks his upper arm. Code for ‘fuck off’ in every nonverbal language, something that should pierce through his willfully thick skull. Satoru should not be allowed near another friendly get-together until he gets whatever this is out of his system. It’s a mental note Suguru burns into his mind.

He’s two glasses of wine in before Satoru’s unbridled, uncalled-for remark—innuendo, if he’s being honest—begins to lose its nauseating effects. The conversation has moved away from the apartment and, thankfully, away from Satoru altogether. It dances around philosophical pitfalls, on the morality of buying property you never intend to live in, the barriers of socioeconomic inequality—he’d take another of Satoru’s crass remarks over this and maybe even a shot to the head for good measure.

Satoru lost interest well before this point. He’s nestled himself into the corner of the couch with his phone propped up on the armrest as he taps online quiz after online quiz. Watching his looks of defeat as he quickly exits out of results he didn’t want is entertaining, far more than anything Shoko and Utahime’s political discussion has to offer. 

And then Satoru opens a quiz unlike the Pokémon and pop culture ones before it. The angle of the phone makes it a little hard to read clearly, but he’s sure it says: Does Your Crush Like You Back? But instead of scrolling down to fill in his answers, he presses the “share” button.

No. Please, no.

Suguru’s phone vibrates. He’s not taking the quiz. It doesn’t matter that Satoru is staring at him expectantly. He made an error in his previous assumptions. Listening to Shoko and Utahime might be bad, but this is worse. A lot worse. But Satoru isn’t backing down. He’s smirking with a remarkably repulsive smugness. He knows what he’s doing. He probably knew Suguru was looking over his shoulder the whole time. 

For a split second, Suguru considers taking it just to spite him. Maybe to make him a little uncomfortable. But he settles for glaring instead.

Utahime produces a box of Pocky from the canvas tote. “You guys wanna play a game?” She’s definitely tipsy. Her smile is wide enough to make the corners of her eyes crease and her cheeks fold into crescent-moon-like dimples. 

Shoko’s cheeks are flushed rosy pink, unbefitting of someone usually so wry. She places her hand on Utahime’s knee. “I’m really not sure they want to—”

“What’s the game?” Satoru’s boredom is suddenly whisked away. 

“Okay, so.” Utahime begins opening the Pocky box with unsteady, uncoordinated fingers. “You put one of these between your teeth.” She wrestles with the plastic wrapping inside the box to pull out a biscuit. “And then you have someone else take the other end and bite until you get to the middle. If you pull away, you lose.”

A game for teenagers. He vaguely remembers playing it with some friends in middle school. It’s how he got his first kiss. Awkward, sloppy, and cloaked in her cheap, pungently fruity perfume. He can still smell it about fifteen years and one death later. It’s not exactly the sort of memory he’s hoping to reenact. Of course, then, it would be right up Satoru’s alley—since he’s so set on humiliating Suguru. He takes a leisurely sip from his wine glass and only prays that if he stays quiet enough they won’t ask him to join. 

Shoko seems equally unenthusiastic. She’s looking everywhere except the biscuit Utahime is holding out to her. She mutters something he can’t strain his ears enough to understand.

“So you win if the other person backs out?” Satoru is visibly enthralled. His eyes glimmer with prismatic thrill. 

“Yep.” Utahime is still attempting to interest Shoko in playing. She’s like a hopeful puppy. “Ready?”

“Easy,” Satoru mutters.

He either wasn’t paying attention or is taking the idea of it being a “game” a little too literally—or maybe both. Calling it a game is purely a misnomer, and it’s probably what misled him in the first place. There’s no winning or losing. The only victory—or loss, depending on how you look at it—is the kiss you’re nibbling toward.

It feels like a cruel joke. The punishment for some unknown offense he’s committed, exactly the ammo Satoru doesn’t need. He finds himself itching for an excuse to leave. And maybe if he hadn’t lied to Shoko about not being sick anymore, he might have one. Any excuse would only be a temporary delay to what he knows is coming next.

Satoru is holding out a Pocky stick. He must’ve grabbed it from the box while Suguru was attempting to plan out the possibilities of his escape. His eyes hold an amusing abundance of hopefulness.

“No.” No way in hell. This crosses some kind of boundary. A moral one, an ethical one, and, hell, maybe even some secret jujutsu regulation. 

But Satoru would never back down so easily. “Pleeease?” He’s holding the biscuit between his teeth now.

“No, Satoru.” His face is burning crimson with the heat of a late July sunset. This is so stupid.

“Oh, come on.” Utahime’s hand unexpectedly collides with his back, urging him closer. “You were literally just talking about sharing a bed together.”

That was an hour ago. An hour before Satoru thought it would be a good idea to test the limits of his taunting. This is fucking ridiculous.

“I’m not doing it,” he says more firmly.

Satoru has moved on though. He’s asking Utahime the same thing, a pitiful look crossing his face this time. She obliges, but not without giving him a scathing glare first.

“Fine,” sighs Utahime.

In the worst twist of fate, she and Satoru lean over him to share the Pocky stick. Not wanting to play was one thing, but watching is somehow worse. They could have just asked him to move or moved themselves to do it. But, decidedly, his torment seems to be the only goal.

He exchanges an exhausted look with Shoko—who seems equally displeased. Admittedly, Satoru is treating it like a game instead of some test of romantic urges. Utahime seems less confident. Her eyes widen as the biscuit brings their faces closer, closer, until their noses seem like they might touch. But with a twitch of her jaw that almost seems intentional, Utahime drops the biscuit and quickly pulls away.

Shoko’s shoulders relax and Satoru yells out some triumphant, incoherent cry that’s garbled by the biscuit he’s still clenching between his teeth. He really needs to learn to keep his mouth shut while eating. It’s sickening.

He barely leaves any time to revel in his victory before turning to Suguru again with another biscuit from the pack. Fucking insatiable he is. For his own peace, Suguru doesn’t engage, just pretends he never even noticed. He distracts himself with the bandage still around his thumb, the corners peeling up and revealing a layer of lint that’s clung to the adhesive overnight.

But, of course, that does nothing to make Satoru give up. It’s a little eerie the way he can feel him staring.

“Just once?” A bad attempt at bargaining.

“How many times do I have to say no?” groans Suguru.

Utahime chimes in with her drunken opinion a little earlier this time, “You owe me. I just went for you.”

What is she even talking about? He didn’t ask her to do that, she did it of her own volition. He also didn’t ask to be included in this damn game. He doesn’t owe her—or Satoru, for that matter—a single thing right now.

But Satoru has an ace up his sleeve. His smug grin is proof of that. He crosses his arms over his chest as best he can with the Pocky stick still in his hand. His voice comes out cool, unbothered, “You scared or something?”

“No,” Suguru scoffs. It’s a game for literal children. Why on earth would he be scared of something so innocuous? He’s killed people, curses with his own hands, been killed at the hands of the person supposedly threatening him right now.

Satoru throws his head back, not accepting the answer. “Why not?”

He wants to slap him. Why is he so insistent on this?

“I just don’t want to. Is that good enough?”

“Because you’re scared,” laughs Satoru. He’s wriggling his fingers like it’s somehow supposed to be scary.

“I just said—” Suguru cuts himself off with a deep breath. This isn’t going to end. They’ll run in circles like this until Satoru gets what he wants or until they both pass out, whichever comes first. He doesn’t have many options.

It’s just a game, he reminds himself. A stupid fucking game.  

“Fine,” he sighs. “Once and that’s it.”

Satoru’s face lights up and the energy drains from Suguru’s body. No, that’s inaccurate. The energy doesn’t exactly drain from his body, it’s more that it’s been replaced by a different kind of energy. One that feels a bit like helium if he had to ascribe a word to it.

Reluctantly, he takes the other side of the biscuit. He’ll have to get his timing right if he wants Satoru to believe he’s putting some effort in. Failing to do that will likely result in a redo—which he really wouldn’t like risking.

Satoru carefully takes the first bite closer. He shows no hesitation or shyness about it. A bout of vertigo feels like it's going to come on. Suguru closes his eyes but it’s pointless. The image is already burned into his eyes, an apparition he can’t escape.

Somehow, this is worse than the first and only time he played the game. She—he fails to recall her name—initiated it, but she wasn’t pushy about it like Satoru. She at least had the respect to be a little timid in asking. And even if the kiss was subpar, even if her fruity fragrance clung to him for hours after and caused his parents to interrogate him, it was at least a little more dignified than the present circumstances. But—and this is the only credit he’ll give it—both have succeeded in making his heart feel like it might go into cardiac arrest from overexcitement.

Time is running out. The heat radiating from Satoru’s face grows warmer and the thought of maybe just letting go grows more tempting. Would it really be so bad? It’d teach Satoru a lesson, that’s for sure. Satoru’s nose brushes against his and a surge of sweltering heat engulfs his insides. Maybe Satoru will pull away first. No, he can’t count on that. Satoru’s soft exhales tickle the skin of his upper lip.

He can’t do it.

His eyes shoot open as he pulls back. Satoru bears a victorious smile and shoves the remaining inch and a half of biscuit into his mouth. Utahime and Shoko are groaning in disappointment. What were they even rooting for?

“I knew it!” Satoru’s excitement is already making his head hurt. “Undefeated, two-to-zero.”

Suguru would really like to punch him—if he wasn’t still trying to regain his composure from the near-kiss. If nerves could quiver, his would probably be falling apart by now.

He’s on his fourth glass of wine and Satoru finally figured out how to play music from his TV. All the songs have been ambient, a little dream-like, the kind of music you tune out in conversation—or the kind you get lost in if you’ve had a little too much to drink. It’s a good pick coming from someone who’s seemingly never hosted a party in his life.

Shoko stands from the couch. “Can I smoke on your balcony?”

This earns a silent glare from Utahime. She’s never liked the fact that Shoko smokes. Her hatred has probably only grown if they’re now together, in some sense.

He stands as well at the sight of Satoru’s approving nod. “I’ll go with you.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Satoru doesn’t like this idea. His sigh blurs the line between annoyance and defeat. It’s not clear whether it’s because he’d assumed Suguru would stay by his side the entire night or because the very idea that Suguru might smoke with her offends him. He was disgusted enough by seeing Suguru drink wine, this would probably be a worse offense in his eyes.

The air outside on the balcony is remarkably cool in comparison. It almost makes him wish he’d worn longer sleeves. He leans over the glass railing and looks out. The night sky is spoiled by the light pollution emanating from the city below. Starless, lifeless. It’s a reminder of what he hates about living in the city.

Shoko leans over the railing too and sparks up a cigarette. “What’s with that…” She takes a drag. “Cutesy bandage on your thumb?”

Suguru looks down at his hand. Yeah, that. It’s already looking worse than when he last saw it, and even then it was bad.

“Satoru’s idea, not mine.”

She laughs. “Obviously. What’s under it?”

He reaches over and plucks the cigarette from her fingers. “A cut.” The smoke burns the back of his throat as he inhales. He fights down the urge to cough. “Because apparently, I can’t hold a fucking knife right.”

Shoko takes her cigarette back. She seems to find it at least a little funny. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re just a closeted idiot.” She pauses as she holds the cigarette to her lips. “But then I remember you’re not actually quiet about it.”

He stares at her blankly. 

That’s a weird conclusion to jump to. He’s heard of various quirks attributed to sexuality before. Not being able to sit straight, cuffing jeans, but nothing about struggling to hold a knife. It’s so speculative it’s hardly rational. Maybe it’s about being clumsy? That doesn’t really make sense either, but it holds a little more ground. She could be talking from personal experience. Utahime seems pretty clumsy.

“I like to think I’m hiding it pretty well,” he says a little awkwardly. It’s not really a big deal if she knows, but this is definitely a pretty fucking weird way to come out.

He reaches for the cigarette again but Shoko jerks it back. She’s absolutely dumbfounded. Her mouth hangs slightly ajar as she stares back at him. 

“That’s a first.” Smoke escapes her lips as she laughs. “So brave of you to admit it.”

His eyebrows pull together in a confused scowl. She isn’t the most sympathetic person in the world, sure, but even this seems pretty low for her. It’s not crazy to think she’d at least have a little empathy given her own situation.

“How does that make me brave?”

Did he misinterpret what he saw between her and Utahime earlier? It’s possible, but what he saw was pretty damning. Holding hands, her jealousy when Utahime agreed to play the stupid Pocky game with Satoru. All the pieces are there, right? He takes the cigarette again for another hit.

Her laugh becomes quieter as she catches her breath. “Because I don’t know anyone that would openly admit to being an idiot.”

Oh. Suguru’s eyes immediately widen. What she meant is that he’s a closeted idiot, not a closeted idiot. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He attempts to laugh it off, “I wasn’t being serious.”

She raises one eyebrow. “Yeah, sure.” 

Maybe she’s right; only an idiot would have misinterpreted it so badly—and so loudly, too. He takes a longer drag from the cigarette to bury his embarrassment. Jumping over the balcony edge doesn’t sound so bad.

They finish the rest of the cigarette in silence. He, too humiliated to speak, and she, busying herself with her phone. The way she holds it over the railing makes his blood pressure spike.

She ashes the cigarette on the brick wall and flicks it over the edge. “I’m going back in.”

Fucking litterer. He grits his teeth and returns to the living room. 

A bottle of cherry-flavored vodka now sits on the table with its cap tossed to the side. It looks like the kind of thing Satoru would drink if he did. Suguru pours himself a shot—where did these glasses even come from?

He sits back down next to Satoru. In his absence, Satoru’s legs crept over into his spot. He lets out a small yelp as Suguru’s weight comes down on them. 

“You smell gross.” Satoru leans away from him.

“And you’re being unpleasant. ” He roughly pinches Satoru’s thigh, earning another yelp. Unpleasant is definitely an understatement.

Satoru pinches his nose and cranes his neck. “Shoko, don’t let him—” He suddenly goes quiet. He’s staring at something.

Suguru turns around to look at it too. Few things shut Satoru up and he’s very interested in the things that do. Call it admiration.

This one seems a little less deserving though. It’s something he could have predicted happening, not really anything to gawk at. Utahime is openly kissing Shoko, running a hand through her hair and another along her leg. The only impressive thing about it is that it seems she drank a lot more than he originally assumed she did. Likely a side effect of being left alone with Satoru—of which he is very familiar. 

“First you, now them too?” Satoru groans. What the fuck is he talking about?  “Is everyone just secretly gay?” He says the last part louder than the first, accidentally perhaps—hopefully.

Suguru’s eyes widen. He didn’t. He fucking didn’t. Fucking hell. Truly a new low.

A beat, and then another, and then a third. Utahime and Shoko silently exchange glances with each other, then with Suguru, but pointedly refuse to meet Satoru’s eyes. Both seem livid, but particularly Utahime. And Suguru is too—or he really should be—except his body is frozen in place. He can’t bring himself to turn around.

“I just meant—”

“I don’t really care what you meant.” Utahime’s angry expression borders on murderous.

“Good fucking grief,” Shoko grumbles. She’s less visibly angry but her bitter tone makes up the difference.

Satoru has an impressive penchant for picking the wrong time to say things. And in this case, something that really shouldn’t be said at all—regardless of the time.

Silence, then a less confident version of Satoru’s voice, “Sorry.”

His apology falls flat. Shoko is rubbing the bridge of her nose and Utahime’s eyebrow has a psychotic twitch. She looks to be on the edge of losing it. But Suguru still refuses to turn around. Someone needs to play the mediator and it isn’t going to fucking be him. His patience for Satoru’s antics has already worn thin by this point in the day. 

Satoru taps two fingers three times against the back of his arm. Sorry. But Suguru refuses to turn around.

“Okay,” Shoko is taking on the role, as exhausted and irritated as she seems. Her statement doesn’t seem to be toward anyone in particular, but more of an acknowledgment of the situation. She sighs and removes her hand from her face. Satoru’s expression must be pretty pitiful for her to do this. “First, you’re an idiot. You don’t just go around saying shit like that.”

“Why does it matter? We’re all friends.” His question seems genuine. 

“Speak for yourself,” Utahime scoffs.

“Bad.” Shoko smacks the back of Utahime’s arm like she’s scolding a dog. She’s trying to take care of two children at once with this. It’s not something he expected to witness. “Because it’s not up to you to share that about someone.”

Satoru remains silent. The Gojo family did a lot of good things—that’s undeniable—but teaching him about the world isn’t one of them. And particularly parts of the world they likely don’t agree with, such as this. But Satoru is handling the criticism well, all things considered. He hasn’t tried to argue her point.

“Sorry,” he finally says, sounding a little more ashamed this time. 

There’s a brief pause before Utahime, followed by Shoko, erupts into laughter. It catches even Suguru off guard. Begrudgingly, he turns to look at Satoru. Was it some face he made?

But no, Satoru seems just as confused. “What’s so funny?”

Shoko waves her hand around. “Nothing.”

“You’re so clueless,” Utahime manages to spit out between laughs. 

Suguru doesn’t find the same humor in it—because he knows Satoru is trying and because he’s still feeling sour about the whole thing—but he can’t resist at least smiling. Mostly at Shoko and Utahime’s sudden shift in demeanor, but also at Satoru’s angry expression. It’s reminiscent of a small dog’s.

Satoru is only becoming more frustrated. “I can’t help that. How am I supposed to know these things?”

Utahime takes a slow breath and grasps her side. “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just surprised.” Her drunkenness is beginning to show again. She’s swaying a little as she leans forward. “Almighty Gojo Satoru. The strongest sorcerer in the world, who supposedly has access to unlimited information.” She stretches her arms out and looks up toward the ceiling. “Knows jack shit about being attracted to the same sex.”

“That’s enough.” Shoko tugs on the back of Utahime’s shirt, causing her to fall backward with an unceremonious thump. “Sorry about her.”

Satoru’s fingers brush against his, rest there, then tightly wrap around his index finger. He wants something. It’s not an official sign for anything, but it is something he does when trying to get Suguru’s attention—just a little less commonly than all the other ways he tries to accomplish the same thing. If Suguru wasn’t still so irritated, he might have appreciated the gesture a little more. 

Shoko has seemingly lost all interest in trying to scold Satoru and is instead doting on Utahime. So, reluctantly and for no reason other than pity, he gives Satoru his attention.

He asks flatly, lacking any real interest, “What?”

Alcohol usually loosens people up, but it only makes him quieter, deeper in his thoughts, mulling over senseless anger. Grudges feel stronger with a few drinks in his system. And right now, Satoru’s slip isn’t the only thing he’s upset about. 

Satoru’s grip tightens. “Are you mad?”

Suguru rubs his forehead with the knuckle of his thumb. Read the room, he wants to say. Satoru can be so fucking dense sometimes. 

“Fuck, of course I’m—” He stops himself. 

A pang of guilt ripples through his chest—not that he should really be the one feeling any guilt right now, but Satoru is making that hard. Knowing him, Utahime and Shoko’s anger isn’t what got to him. It doesn’t matter that they’ve moved on, it’s that Suguru hasn’t. That’s the only thing he cares about. And lately, Satoru seems to be hyper-fixated on this insecurity of making Suguru mad at him—which is ironic given the circumstances.

“I’m just annoyed.” It’s a less hotheaded assessment of his emotions. Satoru did a pretty shitty thing but it also isn’t his fault that he didn’t know better. He’s normally terrible at keeping secrets anyway.

Satoru still isn’t releasing his grip from around Suguru’s finger. It’s reminiscent of the way Shoko and Utahime were discreetly trying to hold hands earlier. And if he ignores the reason why Satoru is actually doing it, he can almost imagine it’s as innocent as that.

“It just seemed like a funny coincidence.” He pulls Suguru’s hand into his lap. “I’m sorry.”

He’s remorseful in a way he never used to be—barring the time he saw Suguru in his final moments. He’s changed in a lot of ways since their adolescence, but this—the act of apologizing—is the most noticeable. 

Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose for what feels like the thousandth time today. They are so not hosting another get-together anytime soon. He shouldn’t have ignored Satoru’s wariness about it. “You really need to learn to keep some things to yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he groans. He’s starting to sound more like himself. “But that’s why you’re here.”

Utahime regains interest in the conversation again. She’s unsteadily leaning over Suguru to face Satoru, trying her best—but failing to keep it up—to point a finger at Satoru, and partially swaying like she’s trying to correct her posture to stay upright. 

“You really don’t know?” The smell of alcohol lingers on her breath.

“Obviously not.” Satoru points his chin up a little higher and angles his nose slightly away. He can smell it too. 

“Oh my god.” Her eyes have a glimmer of drunken, childlike excitement. “Have you ever even had a crush?” She sounds like a teenage girl with her giggling and exaggerated disbelief.

Suguru kind of wants to gag. He liked it better when she was distracted with Shoko’s over-the-top, intoxicated affection. She’s just as bad as Satoru. Being overly nosy and asking things that surely no one else wants to hear the answer to. 

Shoko seems to share this stance. “I really don’t think we need to hear about that.”

Satoru—probably delighted by someone else’s nosiness for once—answers anyway, “No, but Suguru explained— ow. ”

With Satoru’s hand still around his, Suguru forcefully twists one of his fingers to silence him. He’s talking too much again and they really don’t need to hear about the talk Suguru gave him.

“They don’t need to know that,” he tries to maintain a polite composure. 

“Nooo,” whines Utahime. She’s really, really fucking drunk. “What’d he say? Tell me what he said.”

Suguru can’t take anymore of this. He pours himself another, fuller shot of cherry vodka and stands from the couch to drink it elsewhere, anywhere that’s out of earshot.

Shoko stands with him though and intersects his path at about the kitchen counter. She’s still nursing a glass of wine. 

“Hey.” Her face is fixed into a weary sort of frown. “Everything okay? Aside from—” She vaguely gestures at Satoru and Utahime. “That. ”

He finds a slice of humor in the way she addresses it. In an objective way, looking at the absurdity of the whole thing. His laugh is small but mirthful. He places his hands on the counter and leans onto them, feigning some weak kind of stretch. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, more as an acknowledgement than a real answer.  “Just needed a break.”

She picks up a grape from the charcuterie board—which has annoyingly been neglected all night despite Satoru begging for it. “I didn’t know you were ga—”

“I’m not,” he cuts her off. “Satoru just doesn’t understand you can be attracted to more than one—never mind.”

For some ungodly reason, he can’t help himself from bringing up Satoru at least once in seemingly every conversation he has away from him. It’s fucking infuriatingly. He throws back the overfilled shot of cherry vodka. 

Shoko leans onto the counter too, but on her elbows instead of hands. “Pretty ballsy of you to tell him. It kind of sounds like hell,” she says a little wryly.

And it has been. Satoru’s limited knowledge on the subject—or unwillingness to actually pay attention when Suguru explains it—and his endless teasing have nearly put Suguru on the brink of a psychotic break several times now. But there’s no way for her to know the true extent of his suffering. Except…

“I need to show you something.” He motions for Shoko to follow him. 

He’d almost forgotten—or, well, as close to forgetting as he’ll ever be. Stuffed in the back of his dresser, still in its plastic bag, are the condoms and lube Satoru gifted him. Even looking at the bag makes him shiver with disgust. He reluctantly pulls it out and shoves it into Shoko’s hands.

“Look.”

“What are you trying to…” She peers into the bag. Her face immediately scrunches up in displeasure. “I don’t want to see your fucking sex stash. That’s gross.” She tries to hand it back to him, holding it by only the corner of the bag as if it’s contaminated.

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s what Satoru gave me after I told him.” Even the abridged version is embarrassing. 

Her mouth hangs agape, then she launches into a fit of laughter. “You’re not serious.”

He nods. He really wishes he wasn’t. 

Shoko clasps her hand over her mouth. “God, that’s tragic.”

He tucks the bag back into the depths of the dresser drawer, never to be seen again—hopefully.

“If someone gave me that, I’d assume they were trying to suggest something.”

Was he? Of course not. Subtlety isn’t something Satoru bothers with—has ever bothered with.

“No,” Suguru chuckles. “Not Satoru.”

He’s never even talked about someone in a romantic way let alone kiss them. Suggesting sex would be a weird leap to make. But maybe, in some twisted, awkward way—no. He quickly turns out the light and shows her out of the room.

Suguru throws back another shot of vodka, the second in a row. Satoru is still engrossed in conversation and Shoko’s gone outside for her second cigarette of the night. His body is limp with intoxication, a certain heaviness that pins his limbs to the couch. Words are blurring together and his head is swimming, but maybe that’s just a byproduct of sitting in one place for so long. And hell, he realizes, is sitting next to Satoru and not even receiving the slightest hint of attention from him. For someone so talkative, it’s ironic.

He slumps into the armrest of the couch. It’s getting late and he’s getting too tired to socialize. It’s Satoru’s fault for having such a comfortable couch. Someone will have to carry him to bed at this point.

“Suguru,” Satoru’s voice feels distant.

Fucking finally.  

“Hey.” Satoru’s hand on his thigh and the soft concern in his voice should be criminal, punishable by death. It’s so tender it hardly feels real. 

Without thinking, he places his hand on top of Satoru’s. In his head, it’s just the two of them right now.

“Satoru, ” he mimics Satoru’s concern. He stifles a laugh after the fact. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Aww,” Utahime coos. She still sounds just as drunk as she was an hour ago but he hasn’t seen her slip any more drinks. Probably the reason Satoru has been able to talk to her for so long.

“I’m fine.” He squeezes Satoru’s hand to make sure it is, indeed, still there. And maybe it’s just the liquor speaking, but he’s desperate to feel Satoru’s touch in more places than just his thigh. It’s not enough. He wants to coat his body with the euphoria.

“I’ll help you to the bed.” And just like that, like Satoru could sense his desperation, he slides his arm around Suguru’s waist. 

Reflexively, Suguru gasps at the stimulus. It’s divine, actually—ethereal, electric, and borderline erotic. He’s going to try his best to burn this moment into the memories of his body. Satoru pulls him up and bears the brunt of his weight with just one arm. 

They end up in what feels like Satoru’s—no, their bedroom. They’ve shared the bed enough nights to justify the change in nomenclature. Satoru’s been calling it that now anyway. He always uses “our” to refer to it. But that’s probably just a quirk of his disdain for the penthouse.

The next part is a blur and only because of Suguru’s inability to focus on what’s actually happening instead of what he wishes would happen. Satoru’s hand comes up to his cheek—this part is true—and his face comes closer to Suguru’s—this part is hazy. Drunkenly, he reaches out to Satoru’s face as well but he overshoots and grabs his hair instead. And drunkenly, he assumes Satoru might be leaning in to kiss him. He doesn’t consider why but that’s irrelevant. It’s about to happen and at a time when he’s least likely to remember it. But that’s okay. That doesn’t matter. His heart pounds in his ears as he waits. 

But it never comes. 

“You feel warm. Do you want me to get Shoko?”

Why the hell would he want Shoko here? His first kiss with Satoru shouldn’t be in front of an audience. No, I just want you. He pulls Satoru’s head closer, tangling his fingers deeper in Satoru’s snow-white locks. 

“But I’m not a doctor,” Satoru laughs a little incredulously. 

Fuck. He said it didn’t he? That wasn’t supposed to be out loud. Or maybe Satoru can just read his mind. He removes one of his hands to press it against his mouth in horror.

“I’ll go get her.” Satoru starts to move away but Suguru pulls him back in again, accidentally forcing Satoru’s head to collide with his chest.

“I’m fiiine.” Drinking usually causes his body temperature to rise. He’s just overreacting. 

Satoru breathes a deep sigh and removes his arm from under Suguru, a miserable departure. “Fine, but I’m asking them to leave. I’m not leaving you alone,” he huffs. 

Which is fine. He’d rather not be alone anyway. He likes the idea of spending the next few hours alone with Satoru. Even if nothing happens, he likes the idea of living in his head a little.

“I’ll tell them you threw up or something.”

That part isn’t fine. “No,” he barks out. “You can’t tell them that.”

Satoru pinches his cheek. “Stop being fussy. It’s a good excuse.”

No, it isn’t—and Satoru has no right to be calling anyone fussy. It's a pride-ruining, half-assed, lame excuse. He’s never thrown up from drinking too much. He and Shoko even bonded over that fact. Why should he lose that for Satoru’s bad attempt at an excuse? He doesn’t even need to explain. 

He pulls his arms across his chest. “Pick something else.”

“I could, but then I have to make a whole new story.”

He’s such a fucking menace. It’d almost be easier to just get up and tell them himself. He’d at least keep his dignity that way, even if it means crashing into the wall a few times first. He attempts to rise from the bed but Satoru pushes him back down. 

“I won’t, okay? Just rest.” Satoru runs his thumb over Suguru’s wrist. Ironically, the same wrist he held onto for dear life the night before. 

Suguru groans and makes himself comfortable again. Fucking Satoru. He’s being a pain in the ass and he knows it. Being intoxicated at least makes it a little easier to cope with. 

In Satoru’s absence—because of course that’s when it has to be—Suguru begins to feel nauseous. Not the small stomachaches he’s used to, it’s a whole-body ordeal. His skin flushes and becomes unbearably sweaty, his diaphragm is beginning to spasm, and if he doesn’t get up soon, Satoru’s made-up excuse will no longer be a lie. Suguru quickly pushes himself up from the bed. He’s dizzier than before but the path to the bathroom is short. He can do this. 

Suguru clings to the wall and any sturdy furniture as he makes his way to the bathroom. Moving around relieves the intensity of the nausea a little. His head is still swimming, but at least it isn’t drowning. His hands clasp around the wooden frame of the bathroom door. 

“Hey.” Shoko’s voice comes from somewhere behind him. He’s sure he told Satoru not to ask her to check on him. “Are you good?”

Suguru tightens his grip on the doorframe. “I’m fine. Why does everyone keep asking?”

Everyone, as in her and Satoru, the only two people coherent enough to care. 

“Because someone that’s ‘fine’ isn’t swaying and holding onto a wall.”

She has a point. The urge to vomit has receded now, so he’s at least a little closer to fine. There’s no use in holding onto the doorframe any longer. 

“But really.” She’s closer now. The stench of cigarette smoke clings to her clothes. “Is everything okay? I’ve never seen you drink like this.”

She has a point. Drinking so heavily isn’t like him. He’s usually careful about not getting too intoxicated, but one night won’t kill him. One night isn’t the end of the world. 

“Is it bad that I want him?” The words slip from his mouth like water boiling over. His nausea turned itself into word vomit instead—which might arguably be worse than actual vomit. But there’s no taking it back.

“I’m not sure who you’re talking about, but…” She’s leaning against the wall now too. “Does he want you too?”

Suguru laughs at this. Of course not. The idea that Satoru could ever feel something slightly more than friendship for him isn’t even palpable. And asking him is completely out of the question.

“So do you care if it’s only one-sided?”

“No,” he scoffs. He’s accepted it by this point anyway. 

It was probably meant to be some sort of trick question judging by the look on her face. She doesn’t seem pleased.

Here’s the thing, it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with one-sidedness. His past flings were always like that—just on their side instead of his. He’d always attempted to make it clear he never felt anything more than lust for them. And despite the warnings, it still tore them apart. So maybe this is karmic retribution—not that he totally subscribes to the belief. Doomed to only ever have unreciprocated feelings for Satoru in this second life, on behalf of everyone who suffered the same fate at his hands. He’d managed to get over the feelings in his past life, but it’s all coming back to haunt him now. Funny how that works. Shouldn’t he be the one doing the haunting?

“You’re hopeless.” Shoko shakes her head and moves away from the wall. “I’ll see you later. Text me if your toxic crush ends up going anywhere.”

The room is silent again. Only the intermittent whir of late-night traffic below keeps him aware of his consciousness. He’s still hanging onto the doorframe, still too dizzy to move. Satoru will undoubtedly appear at some point and walk him back to the bed. But for now, there’s peace in staying like this. 

If Satoru never feels the same, he’d probably be okay with it. He realizes this as he stares at the light reflecting off of the shower’s silver trim. His initial response to Shoko had been honest. And maybe it’s better this way. Attachments between sorcerers never lead to anything good—which is probably what led to his possession. Deepening that attachment would only be a mistake—for Satoru, mostly. 

Satoru returns with a cheerful demeanor that almost feels like a punch to Suguru’s gut. Maybe it actually isn’t better this way. 

He places a hand on Suguru’s cheek again. “I could try splashing water on your face.” He’s not going to give up. “Shoko mentioned doing that.”

Suguru lets out a small sigh and pulls his hands away from the doorframe. The idea doesn’t exactly spark joy, but if it makes Satoru feel better then maybe it’s at least a little productive. 

He holds onto the wall to guide himself to the sink. “You know I’m—”

“You’re fine. Yeah, I know,” Satoru cuts him off. “Just stand over the sink.”

Suguru clasps his hands around the counter’s edge. Is Satoru actually going to do this for him?

Satoru turns the faucet on and lays out a small towel beside the sink. He presses his hand against the back of Suguru’s head. “Lean over more.” He chuckles, “Or you’re gonna get water all over yourself.”

Isn’t that the point? Still, he does as he’s told. Satoru uses his fingertips to splash the water over Suguru’s face. The sensation causes him to shiver a little, not only from the temperature. Satoru’s hand slides down from his head to his mid-back. He shivers again. It’s fucking torture.

“I can stand on my own.”

Satoru hums softly, something akin to mocking acknowledgment. He spreads water around Suguru’s neck. “Maybe it’s so I can stand.”

He knows what he’s doing. There’s a reason his hand has dropped so low. He’s doing it to get a reaction. He’s purposefully being touchy. The pressure from his hand is so light it’s hardly even resting there, but it’s still there. And it’s driving Suguru mad. 

“Hold onto the counter then.” Coming to peace with the fact that his feelings will never be reciprocated is a lot harder when Satoru keeps doing this shit. The worst part is that it’s almost like he knows that too. He will unilaterally be the source of Suguru’s demise. 

Satoru turns off the faucet and wraps his other arm around Suguru. “But that’s not as fun.” He quickly turns his face up upon getting closer. “Blech, you smell like a bar.”

That’s his fault for getting so close. Suguru tries to push him away but he won’t budge. It’s like he’s somehow dead set on being a bigger pain in the ass than usual. Being bullied into the Pocky game was bad enough. With the alcohol loosening the grip his inhibitions usually have on him, getting back at Satoru doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. He leans closer to Satoru’s face, making sure to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose. Nothing he drank left a particularly alcoholic taste in his mouth, but if Satoru can smell it while he’s breathing through his nose then breathing this way should make it more noticeable. 

But instead of getting disgusted or agitated—even jokingly—Satoru only becomes fidgety. His awkward laughter permeates the ever-shrinking gap between them. “What are you doing?”

In all honesty, maybe it doesn’t make as much sense as he thought. Satoru isn’t as bothered by it as he wanted him to be. It’s not at the level of his relentless teasing or that damn Pocky game. Suguru rolls his eyes and pulls back but Satoru follows his lead. For all his complaining, he doesn’t seem deterred now. What was the point in bringing it up if he isn’t bothered about being this close?

Satoru’s breathing is shaky, or at least that’s what it sounds like to Suguru’s unreliable hearing—alcohol-induced, of course. Probably a figment of his imagination. But it doesn’t stop him from wishing that maybe it wasn’t. Just a crumb, that’s all he needs. Nothing that purposely leads him on, but something ambiguous enough to daydream about. It’s what makes one-sidedness tolerable. It’s all coming back to him now. 

Except Satoru gives him more than a crumb. A lot more. He presses his forehead against Suguru’s. He could scream from the sensation alone. His heart is struggling to keep time. He tries to remind himself that it’s probably part of another distasteful joke, that Satoru is just toying with him again.

“Your forehead’s still warm,” Satoru’s voice is nearly a whisper, punctuated by a breathy laugh.

Couldn’t he have used his hand or literally anything else to check? Still, it’s…normal enough, as much as he hates to admit it. Not a shitty joke. 

“Because it’s my forehead.” Since they just seem to be starting the obvious now. 

“Yeah, but…” Satoru pauses and closes his eyes. “Whatever.”

Satoru doesn’t seem to be in any rush to move from this position. He quietly continues to hold his head in the same place. 

“Hey,” Satoru’s voice is suddenly playful. Not again, please not again.

“Should we kiss?” He has that fucking idiotic look on his face again—like it’s somehow supposed to be suggestive. “‘Cause, you know, we’re so close.”

Fuck. Off.  

There it is—took him long enough. And somehow, it’s more annoying this way. It’s like he knows what this is doing to him, how maddening it is. Except this is worse than everything else that’s preceded it. This time he’s actually being a tease, a level he’s never reached before.

Suguru attempts to unfurl himself from Satoru’s arms but Satoru isn’t letting go. What’s his end goal? 

Fed up and quickly becoming overwhelmed, Suguru finds himself unable to speak, unable to move. Satoru is just messing with him. It’s a game of chicken. But that doesn’t make it any easier on the ache in his chest and the sweltering heat in the pit of his stomach. No, it’s just making it worse. Satoru knows. He has to. 

The only thing Suguru can think to bring an end to this awkwardly close encounter—and maybe teach Satoru a lesson—is exactly the thing currently causing his anxiety. Like he hasn’t imagined it at least a hundred times in a hundred different ways. Like he didn’t spend the entirety of high school wishing for exactly this. Except being faced with it now, as an adult and in a body that really shouldn’t be his, it’s terrifying. Even the alcohol won’t save him. 

But it’s the only thing he can fathom and probably the only time he can justify it—albeit scantily. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in through his nose. If this is what it takes to end Satoru’s teasing, if this is what ultimately sets him free, he can worry about the morality of it later. 

On the exhale and in the eye of the storm raging in his head, he presses his lips to Satoru’s. There’s no turning back now. 

Chapter Text

Satoru’s lips taste like cherry candy or maybe it’s the cherry flavoring still left on his own lips from the vodka. Either way, whether his or Satoru’s doing, it tastes exactly how he used to imagine it would. Back when Satoru went through at least ten lollipops a day and the thought of kissing him was often the sole reason Suguru couldn’t sleep.

But there’s also a lot that high-school Suguru never factored into his late-night fantasies. For one, the fact that Satoru is not a very good kisser. His teeth have nearly clashed with Suguru’s, grazed his lips a few times, and came within millimeters of biting the tip of his tongue off. He kisses like he’s never done it before, like it’s his very first time—and there’s a good chance that it is. But if anything, and even if it’s the most awkward kiss Suguru has had, he’s waited too long to care. And Satoru is at least passionate about it. A lot more than he ever imagined him to be. His lips are softer, gentler, hungrier than Suguru allowed himself to imagine. 

He’s out of breath, struggling for air in the kind of way a deep sea diver might at the end of a lengthy expedition. Air is there, true; and his nasal passageways aren’t blocked, also true. But his lungs are still burning and his thoughts are still racing in a breathless frenzy. 

Satoru’s hands have traveled up the length of his back, tangled in his hair, and finally came to rest on his hips. He’s touchy in a way that Suguru never dreamed of. It’s heavenly—even if it’s depriving him of oxygen, little by little. He keeps trying to pull Suguru closer like he can somehow defy the laws of physics and break through the barrier of skin that separates them. And his fingers threaten to burn a mark into his soul each time they grasp a little tighter. 

But with every movement, every caress, every unholy descent of Satoru’s hands, Suguru can’t bring himself to do the same. His palms are glued to two places: Satoru’s rosy cheek in his left and shoulder firmly in his right. Moving them anywhere else feels blasphemous. He’d sooner die than give Satoru any clue as to how badly he wanted this. 

There’s also a certain lurking dread underlying it all. It’s not unlike Satoru, he’s realized, to do something he doesn’t sincerely want—such as buying this penthouse. No, he doesn’t even see the issue in it. And there lies the problem, quietly threatening to swallow Suguru whole: is any of this what Satoru wants? But even if it means nothing else, even if Satoru doesn’t feel the same way, will never feel the same, it’s a hell of a lot better than any of the other crumbs Suguru ever got from him. Maybe enough to last a lifetime.

Satoru slips his hands under Suguru’s shirt, grabbing at the bare skin of his waist. It’s a sensation potent enough to nearly blind him, a flashover of wretched, burning desire. The action elicits something between a moan and a gasp from Suguru. It escapes his throat before he has the chance to suppress it. There’s no hiding his euphoria now and Satoru seems to realize it too. He laughs into the kiss and slowly pulls away. 

“Sorry, am I making you horny?” Satoru’s stupid question is like cold water being dumped over him. Because, of course, only he could think up such a terrible comment. 

Please, please, please shut the fuck up. Suguru tries to compose himself. “ No, ” he says a little too sternly. He pushes Satoru away from him. 

Satoru only finds this funnier. He holds his forehead while laughing. But maybe it’s a good thing. He’s unintentionally calming Suguru’s nerves. He’s making the whole situation feel a little less terrifying.

“You can be honest, you know.” Satoru gleefully walks back to the bed. 

Absolutely not. He’s not telling Satoru anything about that. It’s bad enough the topic even got brought up. “Why? Were you?”

Reversing the question on Satoru makes him shut up with about an 80% success rate. And with the way Satoru is still looking at him, this time might fall into the other 20%.

“Maybe.” Satoru acts so nonchalant about it. It’s infuriating. 

Definitely the other 20%. Suguru begrudgingly lays down next to him. His nerves are practically fried. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. Kissing Satoru probably wasn’t the best idea. 

“Was that your first kiss too?” Satoru sounds absurdly hopeful. 

This was his first? That would explain the lack of coordination, but still. Isn’t he a little old for that?

Suguru answers honestly, “No.”

Should he feel guilty? No, actually, it’s weirder Satoru is even asking. He should already know the answer. Suguru has at the very least implied that he’s been with other people. But maybe Satoru really didn’t pick up on it—it wouldn’t be the first time. Living within the confines of jujutsu society will warp your perception like that. It’s probably the same reason this was Satoru’s first kiss. It’s not something he’s ever been encouraged to do. If anything, he’s only been told it’s something he shouldn’t get involved in, that it’s not for someone who wields as much power as he does, that he shouldn’t care. 

“Oh.” Satoru’s voice shrinks. 

But it obviously is something he has feelings about. He’s not as emotionless as they want him to be. 

Suguru peels his hands away from his face. There’s something gnawing at the back of his mind, tugging on his heart. Satoru wanted to be his first, was hoping he’d be. Not that it could’ve happened, of course. Not even if they’d kissed in high school; Suguru already had his first kiss well before they met. It’s the only time he’s had Satoru beat—over an incredibly frivolous matter, to be fair. It’s hardly a meaningful accomplishment.

Satoru seems to be sulking. He’s gone silent and a mawkish frown is plastered across his face. But just as Suguru is about to try comforting him, seconds after becoming aware of his sour expression, Satoru’s demeanor flips. It’s a change in energy that reverberates through the whole room. Suguru can even feel it in his chest.

“What do you think about going shopping tomorrow?” Satoru is back to his bubbly and playful tone. 

Suguru’s head is spinning. Shopping for what? he wants to ask. Suguru half expects him to follow it up with some spontaneous whim suddenly awakened by the kiss. Something about how he wants to get sex toys or Pride merchandise or whatever. It’s not unlike him for a single event to consume his identity for the next couple of weeks. It happened with Digimon, it could also happen with this. 

“We should get winter clothes.”

But it’s nothing like he’d expected. It’s much more normal than that, almost uninteresting…and a little confusing. Satoru already has winter clothes. From the glimpse Suguru had, half of his closet is filled with them. It’s about the only personal touch in the entire apartment. 

“You need winter clothes?” Should he even be asking? Satoru doesn’t usually need a reason for his poor financial decisions. 

“Not for me, for you.” He pokes Suguru’s cheek. “Idiot.”

Suguru jabs his fingers into Satoru’s cheek. “ I’m not the idiot here. You know I can just wear any of your hundreds of clothes, right?”

Satoru clutches at his cheek and pouts. “But you’re smaller than me.”

Oh, he’s really trying to set Suguru off. The difference in their clothing sizes is negligible, the only real difference is in pant sizes. And even then, Suguru isn’t that much smaller. It’s a matter of one size, one measly size that can be corrected with a belt. 

“Take your shirt off.” He’s going to set the record straight. He’ll show Satoru exactly what he means. Because apparently, anything that isn’t currently in front of his eyes doesn’t count as proof.

Satoru stares at him in shock. “Why?”

“Just…just do it, okay?” He doesn’t feel as confident about this as he would’ve been pre-kiss. It sounds a little suggestive now. But if he tells Satoru the exact reason, he probably won’t agree. 

Satoru quietly grumbles as he takes his shirt off. He tosses it at Suguru and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Suguru takes his own shirt off and pulls Satoru’s on. It’s a blue tie-dye shirt he could never imagine wearing otherwise, but that’s not the point. The shirt fits perfectly—because it’s, literally, exactly the same size.

“See?” He attempts to show it off to Satoru. 

Satoru is refusing to look. He’s staring in the completely opposite direction. What a fucking ass. He can’t stand being proved wrong, even if he wasn’t that serious to begin with. 

“Satoru, look.”

Satoru takes a slow breath in and turns around. But instead of paying attention to how his shirt fits Suguru, he reaches for Suguru’s discarded shirt and puts it on. It’s a…plausible alternative. Not what Suguru envisioned though. And of course, the shirt fits Satoru just fine. 

“I can wear your shirt too,” Satoru points out like some sarcastic revelation. He doesn’t sound amused. This is not remotely close to anything Suguru was trying to prove.

“You’re missing the point.” He tugs on Satoru’s—no, his shirt. “We’re the same size.”

He hopes for a ‘gotcha’ moment, but it never materializes. Satoru looks between the two shirts, shrugs, and lays back down—still in Suguru’s shirt. It’s infuriating, to say the least. 

“Can I have my shirt back?” He holds his hand out to Satoru. 

Satoru just sticks his tongue out and turns away. “No. Also…” He pauses for a moment. Then it becomes a few seconds. Is he going to finish the thought? “No, never mind.”

Somehow this is worse than tasteless jokes. It leaves a sickly feeling in Suguru’s stomach. Satoru is always unfiltered, he speaks his mind even when he probably shouldn’t. Something about this feels off. If his thoughts weren’t still so weighed down by the alcohol, maybe he’d actually be able to figure out what. 

In the three hours since Suguru woke up, he hasn’t left the bed except to puke—twice—and ask Satoru to bring him water—once. It’s been a while since the last time he was hungover, especially this badly. In bonding with Shoko over their lack of throwing up from drinking, he was completely honest. He’s never thrown up while drinking. Just in the mornings after, countless times, all while hungover as shit. And he’s sure Shoko isn’t any different. 

Satoru still seems to be acting a little strange, or maybe he’s just imagining it. Being hungover causes the body a significant amount of stress, probably enough to make him pick up on something that isn’t actually there. He hasn’t spent long enough being actually conscious to verify that yet. 

Suguru pulls the blankets up over his face. The sunlight spilling in through the parted curtains is making his head pound. His glass of water is nearly finished now but he feels a little too guilty asking Satoru for another. He did this to himself. Satoru shouldn’t have to pay the price for it. 

“You trying to hide from me or something now?” Even Satoru’s laugh feels too bright for his ailing body. 

All Suguru offers in response is a groan. Something with the sentiment of “please stop talking.”

His perfect arrangement for keeping the sunlight out comes crashing down as Satoru pulls the blankets away from his face. He’s at least blocking some of the light with his body, but it’s not really enough. He’s starting to feel nauseous again. 

“I don’t get why anyone would drink if they just end up like this.” Satoru is thankfully keeping his hands to himself. The light is already more than enough sensory information to process.

Do you really have to be so loud? he finds himself itching to say. But Satoru does have a point. Why did he drink? So much, at that. No, that’s right. Because he’s apparently incapable of handling his feelings rationally. The spur-of-the-moment kiss last night was evidence of that. Thinking about it is starting to make him even more sick. 

“It doesn’t always happen.” Suppressing the urge to vomit is now becoming a battle. “I just drank too much.”

And it’s not a battle he can win. The bile is quickly rising to his throat. He shoves Satoru out of the way and almost breaks out in a sprint to the bathroom. 

He grips his stomach as he kneels on the floor in front of the toilet. His back is beginning to feel sore from having to do this so much. It was bad enough the first time, but doing it for a third just feels unnecessarily humiliating. 

Satoru sits on the floor beside him. Having an audience as he hits his lowest point yet feels like some sort of cruel joke. He wouldn’t want to see someone else in the same position, why does Satoru?

He wipes the corners of his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Can you stop staring? You’re making it worse.”

This causes Satoru to pout. Why is he so hell-bent on watching this? Gross. 

“You can stay there, just…look somewhere else.” It’s kind of absurd to ask him to do that. It should just be common sense—at least common enough.

Satoru sighs and turns his head so that he’s looking at the wall instead. He seems to be making it a point to act like it’s the most inconvenient thing ever.

Suguru leans back and sprawls out on the tile floor. He pulls out the hair tie that’s barely even keeping his hair up anymore. It’s already slipped down to his neck at this point, probably making him look worse than he feels. He tosses the hair tie in the direction of the sink and presses his cheek to the cold tiles of the floor. Laying on the bathroom floor is, quite possibly, rock bottom—and Satoru is still watching. But he’s at least distracted by his phone this time. 

“I have an idea.” Satoru stands from his spot on the floor and disappears from the bathroom. 

Idea? Please let this be something normal. Suguru covers his eyes with his forearm. 

Satoru returns and is standing somewhere above Suguru’s head. “Can you move your arm?”

A little weird, but Suguru moves it. Usually, Satoru wouldn’t ask. He would’ve just moved it without saying anything first. 

Satoru slides something onto his face. Glasses. Suguru opens his eyes. The room is suddenly much more tolerable. He can’t see a thing out of them, but that’s more than okay. 

“You look funny,” Satoru chuckles. 

Does he? Suguru stands from the floor and peers into the mirror over the top of the glasses. It’s kind of a nice look actually—barring the fact that his hair is a total shitshow right now. He adjusts the glasses on his face and glances around the edge of the sink for his hair tie. He could’ve sworn it ended up here. It’s not on the floor either. It should stand out on the white tile. 

Fuck it. He smooths over the worst of the tangles with his hands. 

“Do I look hot now?” he teases Satoru. It sounded a little funnier in his head. 

Satoru stands behind him in silence. He averts his gaze. He’s staring off somewhere outside of the bathroom door. “I think I forgot to start the dishwasher.”

And with that, Satoru hurries out of the bathroom. It’s a strange thing to witness, one that leaves a bad taste in Suguru’s mouth. If the past week has said anything about Satoru, it’s that he’s never been one to avoid a joke like this—and also not one to even know how to use a dishwasher.

Something is off. 

It’s been three days since the kiss and something definitely feels off. Satoru has been acting weird for days now. He’s less open, spending less time at the apartment, and even spent one night at the school without letting Suguru know. He later said it was because of some event, but that didn’t change anything. Suguru still stayed up late, waiting and worrying about him. And when he returned, it was like nothing had happened. He was simply cheerful and happy to talk about his day. They never got around to the topic of how it made Suguru feel. 

Then there’s also the bed thing. Satoru doesn’t want Suguru to sleep next to him anymore. Well, not exactly. He’s never actually said it out loud, but he’s clearly thinking it. Why else would he sleep at the school? He isn't making it a secret that he’s acting distant—except the one time Suguru asked. Satoru tried to claim nothing was different but any mention of the kiss was brushed off before Suguru could even finish the sentence. 

And there’s an unmistakable weight on Suguru’s chest. Things are different, regardless of Satoru saying otherwise. He can feel it in the air and the awkward silences between them, he can feel it in the absence of texts from Satoru. He ruined this, he made the choice to kiss Satoru. He’s painfully aware of it now.

Satoru has been home for at least an hour, or that’s how long it’s been since Suguru heard the front door open. He hasn’t come in to check on Suguru or let him know he’s home, and at this point, Suguru is too stubborn to go out and greet him. He’s already made more than enough effort trying to talk to Satoru but none of it has been reciprocated. 

Suguru paces his room for probably the 50th lap. Something needs to happen. He can’t keep living like this. And if Satoru won’t talk, he’s going to make him. Once Satoru finally decides to break the current silence between them, that is.

Time passes slower than it ever has before. Suguru manages to plan out about half of what he wants to tell Satoru in the maybe thirty minutes that have gone by. He imagines he should probably start by apologizing. Satoru must feel at least a little wronged if he’s acting like this. 

I’m sorry I kissed you. No, that’s bland and borders on passive-aggressive. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. Except that would be a lie. The kiss was supposed to make him uncomfortable, that was the whole point. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you. This seems to be the winner. It’s vague enough for Satoru to derive his own meaning from it. And it wouldn’t be a lie either. He really shouldn’t have kissed Satoru, that’s the part he’s sorry about. It opened a can of worms that frankly should’ve stayed shut.

There’s a faint knock on the bedroom door followed by a soft brushing sound against the carpet as it opens. 

“Hi.” Satoru is leaning against the doorframe and playing with a hair tie around his wrist. He’s still dressed in his uniform. 

Suguru offers him a small wave and nothing else. 

Did he start seeing someone? Is that what this is about? It’s hard to imagine he’d have any difficulty finding a woman that would want him. It’s entirely possible that’s the reason Satoru’s been acting strange. The hair tie definitely gives evidence to the theory. He probably feels a little more daring now that he’s had his first kiss.

Suguru tries to suppress the thought. He doesn’t have any right to be jealous. Satoru is an adult, he can do what he wants. He doesn’t have to tell Suguru about every little thing going on. They’re not together in any sense of the word.

“How are you?” He’s avoiding eye contact. 

Terrible. Be honest. “Fine.” He mentally curses at himself for the answer. “You?”

“Yep, I’m fine.” 

At least they’re both trying to hide something. Satoru would normally give a detailed account of his day—even without being asked. He doesn’t just say he’s fine and leave it at that. Especially if he’s so enamored with this person he’s seeing.

“Are you okay staying here alone again tonight?” He’s actually asking this time, what a surprise. 

“Doesn’t matter to me.” Actually, it does matter, but Satoru doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of hearing that.

Satoru begins pulling at the hair tie on his wrist again. Fucking show-off. Is this some attempt at getting him to ask about it?

“Cool, cool.”

There’s silence between them again. It’s a tension that Suguru can nearly taste, and the flavor ranks somewhere among curses and soured milk. Satoru seems to sense it too. It’s bringing out his nervous tics. He’s standing in the same spot but intermittently shifting his weight between each foot.

“I saw it’s supposed to rain tonight.”

It’s a simple statement, one that should be relatively inoffensive, but it irritates Suguru beyond any reasonable explanation. Rain. That’s the thing that’s going to make him snap. How embarrassing.

He pinches himself to numb his thoughts. He can’t be overly emotional going into this. That’s probably the easiest way to make this even worse. He takes a deep breath in through his nose.

But before he can even manage the first word, Satoru cuts him off, “See you tomorrow?”

Suguru stares blankly at him. Right. He’s going out. Probably to see whoever he took the hair tie from.

“Yeah. Have fun.” Suguru’s words are devoid of any emotion.

And without hesitation, without any sign of a guilty conscience, Satoru offers a half-hearted smile and turns on his heel. He’s gone again. And he left the fucking door open.

Another three days pass with the same stillness between them. By this point, it’s stagnated and is turning Suguru’s insides rotten. It’s becoming harder to put himself through. Getting out of bed, even after Satoru has left for the day, is now a chore. 

And each day has been remarkably the same. The four walls of this bedroom have never brought so much comfort yet unbearable agony. He could probably draw the entire room and its furniture from memory alone if asked. The cream-colored walls, the unmade bed in the corner opposite the door, the dresser opposite the bed and between the door and the wall, the nightstand with the least impressive lamp he’s ever used, and the fake plants littering virtually every surface.

Calling it imprisonment would be inaccurate. He’s still free. His soul isn’t being suppressed and he isn’t locked in the apartment. Nothing is physically trapping him, so why does he still feel like a prisoner?

He tosses the blanket off of himself. It’s getting late and Satoru still hasn’t returned. Not that he really cares, just that he’d prefer not to run into him and have to exchange pleasantries. His mind is too exhausted for that. He’d really rather not talk about his day. He stands from the bed and runs a hand through his tangled hair. He hasn’t bothered to put it up since this started. Shoko hasn’t asked him to come back for work yet either and Satoru is clearly not interested in him, so there’s nothing to even put it up for.

It’s likely Satoru made a last-minute decision to stay at the school again or wherever else he’s been going. He spent the previous night at the apartment, but that isn’t an indication he’ll do it again tonight. The last time he stayed there without bringing it up first, Suguru ended up wasting hours waiting in his room so that he could get his food without the risk of conversation. And when Satoru never came home that night, he was beyond annoyed with himself. His sleep schedule is still suffering as a result. So this time, he’s going to be smarter. He’s not going to let Satoru have that much control over him. 

He walks out into the kitchen and digs out the bottle of sake from one of the cabinets. The chances of cooking anything soon are slim to none. Why let good alcohol go to waste? He pours himself a small glass and sets the bottle down on the counter. Shoko would probably be proud of his resourcefulness.

The first glass goes by quickly, but that’s usually how these things go. There’s no point in drinking slowly if you’re drinking alone. You drink alone because you want to get drunk, not because you want to enjoy the experience or the taste of the alcohol. He pours himself another glass with this in mind. He’s committed at this point and maybe being a little drunk if Satoru returns—and that’s a big if —would do him some good. It’d make things a little less anxiety-inducing. But there’s no guarantee that’s even necessary. He would’ve returned by now if he was going to.

Suguru sits down in one of the chairs at the counter. With Satoru gone most of the time, he’s found himself fantasizing more and more about what it might be like if it were his penthouse instead. And similarly, the life he killed to have. 

In this fantasy, Nanako and Mimiko would still be with him. He’d give them everything he always wanted for them but could never afford. The life they deserved. Hell, he’d even give them the master bedroom if it was just the three of them. They’d enjoy the view and walk-in closet a lot more than he ever would. And he’d be able to make meals for them without needing to factor in ten additional minutes of prep time just to get the stove working. 

That’s the thing about Satoru’s place. Everything just works, and if it doesn’t, he can afford to get it professionally repaired or just outright replace it. Worrying about those things is something Satoru’s never had to do. And as jealous as it makes Suguru, it also makes him incredibly homesick. 

From the start, Suguru should have known—that being around Satoru again would be a mistake, that his old feelings would get dredged up, and that things would never work out. Satoru isn’t like him and growing older has only made that more apparent. And maybe calling Shoko was his first mistake. He should have called Nanako and Mimiko when he first regained control of his body. They may not have known what to do and that might’ve killed him, but at least it would’ve been beside them. At least that would’ve meant never getting tangled up with Satoru again. He’s a poison that Suguru never managed to drain from his body, even in their ten years apart. 

Suguru finishes off his second glass. As long as he’s thinking about how he wishes things were—not how they could ever feasibly be—it’s safe to imagine what it would have been like with Satoru as his partner. In another life, he and Satoru could have raised the girls together. A little unconventional maybe, but it would’ve been nice. They could have given them more together than Suguru was ever able to alone. 

And the girls would’ve really liked Satoru too. He and Nanako would’ve instantly clicked. Her outspoken nature and energetic personality always reminded Suguru of him. If he could do it all over again, he would’ve told them more about Satoru. If for nothing else, then to at least give them an idea of where he is right now. 

Suguru rests his head on the counter. He misses them a lot. It’s making his heart ache. Just having the ability to see them would immediately make this living arrangement much more tolerable. Satoru doesn’t seem to have put any real effort toward trying to find them though. It’s been well over a week now since Suguru asked and the topic hasn’t come up since. Satoru probably forgot about it and moved on. Because it’s not his reality, it’s not his pain. He can choose to turn a blind eye to it. 

The effects of the alcohol are becoming a little more apparent. He’s relaxing into the seat a bit more and feeling a little less subhuman. The lingering dread that’s been sitting in the pit of his stomach is beginning to fade. Maybe this situation isn’t great, but it’s manageable. Satoru’s rebuff was inevitable, and that’s okay. As long as he can learn to bury his feelings better, everything will be fine. 

The quiet calm in the apartment Suguru had become accustomed to is disrupted by a sound at the front door. It seems a little late for Satoru to have any packages delivered and a little too quiet for his neighbors to be complaining. 

No. Fuck. Suguru immediately jerks his body upright as the front door opens. Satoru wasn’t supposed to come home. He’d already calculated that. It’s past midnight and Satoru never stays out this late. 

Satoru presses his back against the door to close it. His eyes are glued to his phone screen, he hasn’t even looked up yet. And something about him seems different. He doesn’t look well. It’s the first thing Suguru notices. There are dark circles under his eyes and his skin has a sickly pale undertone. He seems to be stuck on autopilot. He wordlessly tosses his keys on the table by the door and begins removing his shoes. 

Should he say something? Suguru goes back and forth on it in his head. Satoru doesn’t seem like he’s in a very good mood and talking to him would likely just make that worse. He'd probably rather just be left alone. 

But Satoru takes the seat next to him at the counter. He still hasn’t made eye contact or spoken, or anything else that would typically acknowledge another person's presence. He’s eerily quiet. It has to be by choice. 

Suguru is just as stubborn. If this is what they’re doing now, then he’ll play too. He’s perfectly capable of sitting in awkward silence. 

As the minutes drag on though, a growing feeling of unease begins to nag at Suguru. Something’s off. Even when Satoru is trying to ignore him, he’ll still sneak in a couple of glances. Even in their current state of tension. He hasn’t moved his head since sitting down, he hasn’t even sighed. Usually he’d at least do that. 

He needs to say something. Part of cutting his feelings off includes pretending his fears don’t have the vice grip on him that they do. And he can’t let Satoru think they do either. 

“I didn’t think you’d come home.” The statement is so boringly obvious. It’s almost nauseating hearing himself say it. Is this really what their friendship has become?

“I know.” Satoru’s tone is surprisingly flat. “You’re sitting out here.”

Ouch. Okay, maybe that was deserved. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged Suguru’s aversiveness. He’s been remarkably quiet about it up until this moment. Suguru almost believed he just hadn’t noticed.

The longer he looks at Satoru, the more he realizes how bad he actually seems to be doing. The ends of his fingernails are chewed up and his cuticles are tattered. Blemishes that look a lot like scabs litter his hands, his neck, and even his face. It’s an unsettling sight. Satoru has always taken good care of his appearance. It’s hard to pretend it isn’t concerning.

Satoru clasps a hand around his face and sharply exhales. “Did I do something?” The pain in his voice is apparent. “Because I can’t help feeling like you hate my guts.”

He’s the one asking this? He started it. He’s the one who started acting distant to begin with. All of this falls squarely on him.

“I don’t.” He should at least know that part. 

“Just answer the question,” Satoru sighs through gritted teeth. 

Did Satoru do something? Yes. A lot actually. Just nothing that Suguru really feels like talking about. And Satoru’s disheveled state isn’t going to make him take pity enough to share. It’s bad enough he waited this long to talk about it. 

Suguru remains silent. It’s a little funny how much it’s making Satoru squirm. He’s pulling at the hair tie around his wrist—which is impressive that he even has the audacity to keep wearing—enough that it looks like it’s about to snap. Hopefully this mystery girl isn’t going to miss her hair tie, and maybe it’ll bring his newfound arrogance down a couple of notches. 

Suguru crosses his arms over his chest. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.” 

Silence.

“What made you finally change your mind?” Suguru’s tone makes it sound more like a jeer than an actual question—but it should technically be both, given the circumstances.

The hair tie finally breaks and flies across the room. Satoru slams his hand against the counter in an uncharacteristic show of aggression. He stands from his seat and glares down at Suguru. His hands are trembling, his eyes are wide, and it almost looks like he’s on the cusp of a breakdown.

“Can you please just stop?” Satoru is on the verge of shouting. His eyebrows and the corners of his lips are twitching. His chest heaves like saying it robbed him of all oxygen.

It’s an arrow straight through Suguru’s chest. His body has gone into shock from the impact. He can barely keep his eyes on Satoru anymore.

The silence that follows Satoru’s outburst is deafening. It almost makes Suguru’s ears ring. It’s like his body absorbed the entirety of the shock. His mouth is starting to feel uncomfortably dry and his thoughts have slowed to a halt. 

Stop what? He’d like to ask Satoru, just to clarify. But he’s capable of drawing his own conclusions. It’s probably about the way he’s been acting—which is purely a reflection of how Satoru has been treating him lately.

Like every other time he’s been under some kind of emotional distress, Satoru doesn’t care to know the details. He only cares about how it’s affecting him. He usually doesn’t make it this obvious, but that’s only a testament to his ignorance. And it just makes things easier for Suguru, because at least now he knows.

Satoru turns to face away from him. “Goodnight, Suguru.” His voice is low, strained. He disappears into the hallway. The only indication of where he went is the sound of his door slamming shut.

Suguru’s hands are angrily shaking. His eyes refuse to focus on anything. This is how it looks when the dam breaks. And the only thing he feels—maybe because he’s just that heartless—is numbness.

At least Satoru didn’t hide it this time. It’s a lot easier than trying to read between the lines, which Suguru was getting tired of. There’s something concrete to be upset about now. It’s no longer all just in his head. For once, it’s tangible.

He presses his palms to his face. It’s still unsettling how easy that was for Satoru, like it took no more effort than a flick of his wrist. He made it abundantly clear that he believes Suguru is expendable, that his only purpose is in what he can offer. And maybe that is truly how Satoru sees it. Their first friend-breakup was caused by a similar sense of estrangement, this is hardly different. 

Fuck this.  

It’s a little ironic looking at it now. History is repeating itself. But this time if anyone asks, he’ll cite “creative differences” as his reason for leaving—a term he wished he’d used the first time. It at least adds a little humility to his misfortune, which he’s going to need a hell of a lot more of. 

Despite everything else feeling like the lowest point, this is without a doubt rock bottom. He can’t keep fucking staying here, he can’t keep subjecting himself to the psychological torment of being confined to the same room for days on end. He needs to get the fuck out. Satoru’s goodwill has clearly run out.  

He stands from his seat and pushes the chair back in. Like the first time, he’s making his departure in silence. Just a bit less dramatic this time around. And without Satoru sitting out here to stop him again, it won’t be hard to slip out unnoticed.

His hand hovers above the front door’s stainless steel handle. It’s the only thing standing between him and his freedom. And maybe it’s cruel, maybe a little shortsighted, but leaving his things behind seems like the right thing to do. He’s undecided whether he’s actually leaving for good, it’s still too early to know. But he needs Satoru to believe he’ll be back if he wants to buy himself time. Enough to quell Satoru’s curiosity for a few days until he’s safely settled in somewhere. 

And there’s only one place he can think of.

Chapter Text

The building is somehow worse than Suguru remembers it, and even in those memories it still looked pretty bleak. The dilapidated stairs to the upper floor hide at the back, behind the business occupying the ground level and accessed only via the narrow alleyway. It’s a less-than-desirable part of the city—something which never used to bother him that much but does now that he’s looking at it through jaded eyes. It gives him a feeling of uneasiness to walk through it so late at night, even though he’s never witnessed anything firsthand that would give him that impression. 

Twelve stairs to the top and six steps from there to the door. He’d never forget. The ascent brings about a nostalgic sense of anticipation. And there he stands, in front of the door that he’d repaired more than a couple of times, that he used to hang decorations on, that his packages would be left in front of, and that is permanently etched into his memory. Despite all this, he still feels too nervous to knock on it. He reaches a hand out to it, then retracts it, and does so two more times before he hears the turning of the door’s lock. 

Nanako and Mimiko stare up at him with almost palpable shock. Their wide eyes dart across his body, never focusing on one spot. But amid their shock, the only emotion he can deduce is fear, an unwavering terror in their eyes. A little strange maybe, but certainly understandable. They have every right to doubt him. 

Mimiko breaks the silence, “Geto-sama?”

Inwardly, he breathes a sigh of relief. He steps toward them with outstretched arms. “Of course.”

But the girls don’t share his relief. They take a step back and huddle closer to each other. They don’t seem convinced or the slightest bit pleased. Their fear has only intensified, wide eyes searching over him a little more fervently. 

He brings his arms back to his sides, stepping back slightly. “It’s okay if you don’t believe me. I won’t be mad.” He conjures up a small smile for them. He’d prepared himself for a reaction like this anyway. “We can talk out here first if you want.”

The girls glance at each other for a moment, communicating something he isn’t privy to. Then, in the blink of an eye—dizzyingly so—they fling their arms around his waist. Their sobs suddenly fill the still air of that apartment hallway. 

“We’re sorry,” they cry in unison, the sharpness of their voices muffled by the thick fabric of his sweater. 

Assuming that the apology is for their initial hesitancy, he doesn’t take it seriously. What would there even be to apologize for? Wanting to be cautious? Their first responsibility should be to protect themselves. 

He offers a quiet, dry laugh. “You don’t need to apologize.” He places his arms around their shoulders. “It’s okay.”

He should instead be the one apologizing to them. He’s twice at fault: one for showing up so late, and two, more hurtfully, never informing them of his revival until now. Though, Satoru is partly to blame for the latter. He clearly never made any attempt to contact them. 

“No, it’s…” Nanako struggles to speak through her shuddering sobs. 

“Really, it’s okay.” He runs his hands over the backs of their heads. “Just breathe.”

They’re trying, he knows they are. Their chests heave a little slower, but their sobs aren’t letting up. It hurts to listen to, more than it probably would have before comforting Satoru for the same reasons. His mind has been conditioned to proactively react to others’ distress. More than it used to be, he realizes. Not that he was oblivious before, but he feels a stronger urgency than he used to. 

“Let’s go inside, okay?” He continues to hold onto them as he steps through the doorway. 

It’s becoming a little harder to hide his concern from them. Something isn’t right. He’s gotten really good at being able to tell when it isn’t. It’s a feeling that permeates through his skin and into the outer layers of his soul. He removes his hand from Mimiko’s head to press the door shut. The apartment only has three rooms, one of which being a combined kitchen and living room that’s about a fourth of the size Satoru’s was. It’s making him feel a little claustrophobic to stand in. His left elbow is almost touching the cabinets above the counter and his right is dangerously close to knocking magnets off the fridge. 

He awkwardly asks, “Do you want to sit down?”

They both nod and lead him to the section of the room that contains a low table and a thoroughly-loved couch covered in spots of wear and the beginning of tears. The furniture is still made up like the last time he saw it. The same centerpiece is on the table and the same selection of pillows line the back of the couch. It feels like traveling back in time. At this rate, he’ll be making a pillow fort for them like he used to. 

Suguru pulls his shoes off and sits at one end of the couch while the girls sit at the other. Tears are still streaming down their faces and their sobs almost sound like hiccups now. It’s taking everything in him not to pull them into a hug again, but there’s something they’re trying to say. 

“It’s our fault.” Nanako uses the sleeve of her cardigan to wipe away the tears and snot coating the lower half of her face. 

He furrows his brows. What is she talking about? He tries to stay calm.  “I’m sure it’s n—”

“No,” Mimiko wails with a ferocity that stuns him into silence. “We gave your body to that stupid sorcerer and…” She can’t finish the sentence before her sobs cut her off.

Satoru? Is that who she’s talking about? Because that's still not their fault, and it’s not really something they need to be sorry for. It’s just protocol for deaths like his.

“He promised he could help but—”

Nanako finishes the sentence for her, “He took over your body.”

He stares at them in silence, jaw tightening as he ponders the statement. What are they even talking about? It doesn’t seem like a joke. They’re crying even more now. 

Then it clicks. The scar, the flashbacks, the pain, all of it. They’re talking about the possessor. They know about it. It’s hard to pretend it doesn’t bother him—because it does—but he has a responsibility to stay strong for them. Showing his disappointment would only make them feel worse than they already seem to. But he’s not going to lie to them. They don’t deserve that. He needs more information first. 

“Is he the one that made the scar?” Suguru points to his forehead. 

Nanako and Mimiko wordlessly nod. It feels like a knife in his back. 

He takes a deep, shaky breath. The proper course of action would probably be to scold them, except they’ve clearly already realized what they did was wrong. And he’s a little too caught up in the relief of seeing them again to be that harsh. This is exactly the kind of thing that makes him wish he’d had a partner to raise them with, someone to handle this situation for him. Disciplining them—especially when they’re this upset—is never something he’s been good at. Hell, even Satoru would probably be better at it.

He places his hands over theirs. “I know you probably meant well.” This really isn’t going to be easy. “But that wasn’t okay to do.”

It sounds more like he’s scolding them for breaking a plate or returning home late than it does for violating his autonomy. What they did wasn’t a small thing, it was life-altering.

“You really shouldn’t make decisions like that for me.” He also—maybe wrongly—assumed he’d raised them to know better. That part might be his fault.

And why did they even have his body in the first place? He died at Satoru’s hands, someone who intimately knows the procedure for a sorcerer’s death like the back of his hand and why it exists to begin with. Satoru can be stupid sometimes, sure—or maybe careless would more aptly describe him. But not for something as serious as this. There’s something else they aren’t telling him. It’s not adding up.

But it’s getting late and there’s a limit to how much he can talk to them about it before he starts to see diminishing returns amid their anguish. He’ll just ask them about it in the morning.

But in the morning, amid his first drowsy thoughts and the sun streaming in through the east-facing window of his room, the realization of where he is begins to settle in. Not that he wasn’t aware last night, but it’s hitting him differently to wake up in. It somehow feels more real. And the last thing on his mind right now is trying to unravel the mystery behind his possession.

He stretches his arms out across the width of the bed to wake himself up. His neck is sore and the nostalgia brought on by being back in his room again won’t save him. The bed is less comfortable than either of the two at Satoru’s, but still more comfortable than Shoko’s futon, and only slightly more than the one at the hotel. All he has to show for his one month of being revived is the number of beds he’s slept on and the ambiguous rating scale he’s developed as a result. It’s comically underwhelming. 

Out of habit, he reaches for his phone. At first, it won’t turn on. Probably a software bug, he’s seen it happen before. Then it does turn on, except it’s only to flash a low battery icon. He stares at it until it disappears. Did he not plug it in last night? There don’t seem to be any chargers in the room, and he definitely didn’t bring one. 

He abruptly throws the covers off himself and begins searching the room for maybe, possibly, conceivably a hidden charger. Then in the living room. But neither search effort turns up anything. He’s found probably every type of cable known to man—including some that look like they’re from the Stone Age of technology, which probably won’t work with anything in the apartment so why are they holding onto them?—except the one he needs. There’s only one place left to search and it’s exactly what he hoped this wouldn’t come to. 

Nanako and Mimiko are still asleep. They’re wrapped up in their blankets and don’t seem to have even noticed the door opening. Which is good. But that’s only the start of it. He still needs to look around the room without waking them. It’s putting him on edge.

He glances around the room first. It’s tidy, it looks hardly any different from his last memory of it. The furniture and pictures on the wall are still arranged in exactly the same way. And if that’s the case, then maybe…

He tiptoes over to the desk. Beside the laptop and a framed photo from the first time he took them to a New Year festival lies the exact cable he’s looking for. He stuffs it into his pocket and quietly makes his way out of the room.

“Geto-sama?” Nanako asks softly. She’s barely even stirring.

He breathes a sigh of defeat. All his efforts to keep from disrupting their sleep have amounted to exactly nothing. “Sorry, ” he whispers.

Her eyes slowly begin to drift shut, it’s a relieving sight. But as he’s about to cross the threshold back out into the living room, her soft voice breaks the silence again, “Are you making breakfast?”

The question forces him to pause. He isn’t, but he could. Assuming they have the ingredients—he hasn’t checked the fridge to be sure.

“Yeah,” he tells her.

She seems satisfied with this answer. Worst case scenario, one of the stores below is open and he can just grab a few things there. It’s not ideal, but it’s still doable.

He steps back out into the living room and finally plugs his phone in to charge. It’s a little disappointing to see it still flashing the low battery warning instead of powering on. He lets out an exhausted sigh and places it down on the counter.

The fridge is mostly empty. It gives him the exact feeling he had seeing Satoru’s place for the first time, except this feels much more justified. The only things in the fridge are eggs, a carton of milk, a half-used stick of butter, and bags of produce at varying stages of ripeness. So, as he feared, not much. But maybe enough to tide him over for one meal—after that, going shopping is non-negotiable.

If his phone would charge faster, he could try looking up a recipe. It’s an odd assortment of ingredients and nothing is coming to mind. He drums his fingers against the door of the fridge before closing it. Again, he’s worried that maybe he didn’t, in fact, teach them enough before his untimely death. This definitely isn’t how they should be living. 

He pulls open the door to one of the cabinets. Rice, flour, sugar, baking powder—all of which look untouched. It’s manageable. There’s definitely at least something he can make. 

Crêpes. The girls like crêpes and it’s a dish he’s familiar enough with not to need a recipe for. The ingredients all seem to be there. The only thing really missing is a larger selection of fruits and berries to garnish the dish with. He begins pulling the ingredients out and lining them up on the laminate countertop beside the stove. It’s comfortably familiar. It’s a chance to relive some of his best memories. 

He’s pulled out of his head with the vibration of his phone on the counter. Again, again, and again. It’s nonstop. He places the large mixing bowl down on the counter. Who the fuck is blowing up his phone at seven in the morning? And because he can’t exercise an ounce of self-control for once in his life, he makes the mistake of looking through his notifications. 

Satoru: Did you go somewhere?

Satoru: I’ll leave the door unlocked

Satoru: Did you get laid or something lol

Satoru: Suguru you’re kinda scaring me haha

Satoru: This stopped being funny like 3 hours ago

Satoru: Really where are you?

Satoru: Okay I guess I’ll just wait

Satoru: Still waiting

Satoru: My messages aren’t going through

Satoru: Did you seriously block me?

Satoru: That’s not cool

The messages go as far back as three in the morning. Most of the current notifications seem to be a result of his phone catching up to the messages it received while the battery was dead. They're all from Satoru, and they’re all painful to read through—just probably not for the reasons Satoru is hoping for. And he still isn’t taking this seriously. He’s acting like it was just some small argument, like Suguru simply ran off to cool down for a bit. Fucking hopeless.

He groans and places his phone back down. Maybe he should block Satoru so that he doesn’t lose his mind from hearing his phone go off every few minutes. It’s extremely inconsiderate.

Suguru goes back to prepping the ingredients for the crêpes. It’s more work than he remembers, but he’s probably just out of practice. 

And then his phone vibrates against the counter again. Except this time the sound is sustained. Satoru is actually trying to fucking call him. He declines the call and, not long after, it’s buzzing again. Decline. But Satoru tries for a third time, and a fourth. It’s making Suguru tick with anger, stew in his mounting frustration. Why can’t Satoru just take a hint?

The second it finishes ringing for the fifth time, he quickly maneuvers to shut down the phone. So much for needing that charger. Turning it back on again anytime soon seems implausible. All because Satoru can’t act like a mature, rational fucking adult.

Crêpes, right. He can’t let that jackass ruin his day through his own fucking phone. And it’s not like he’s been gone long enough to warrant such a reaction. It’s been seven hours since he left, and Satoru can’t even handle that. It makes Suguru question how he could ever be capable of handling actual problems.

He finishes whisking together the ingredients and pours some of the mixture into a pan on the stove—which miraculously seems to have been fixed since the last time he used it. If he can just focus on making breakfast, he won’t have time to think about how positively, hopelessly annoyed he is. 

But there’s a knock at the door and for a moment, when he thought the phone had already been bad enough, he thinks that this is going to be the thing that causes him to lose his temper. Has literally no one taught Satoru what boundaries are? Texting and calling are one thing, but actually showing up is a completely different one. And how did he even find—

It’s a package. Addressed to Nanako. He feels a little embarrassed for the way he opened the door. And he had an audience too. The delivery man glares at him with scathing judgment. Suguru raises his hand in a weak, silent apology. He awkwardly pulls the package inside and closes the door with his hip. 

He returns to the pan on the stove. The first crêpe is fucking burnt. Smoke rises from around the edges of it. Fuck. He flips it over to assess the damage—and it’s bad. He pinches at the space between his eyebrows. This one is going to be his, he supposes. And unknown to Satoru, he vows to never make crêpes for him if he ever sees him again—because just the thought of him ruined this one. 

The rest of the crêpes come out perfectly fine, only making the single burnt one look worse. It serves as a reminder of exactly why he’s here. Because this crêpe is, metaphorically speaking, exactly how Satoru makes him feel. Burnt-out and unappealing. 

He glances at it again, sucks air in through his teeth. It feels like it’s glaring back at him. And because he’s now associated it with Satoru, his desire to eat it has suddenly vanished. Not that he was really all that fond of eating it before. He picks it up and throws it away without a sliver of regret. Five crêpes are left now, meaning Nanako and Mimiko can have seconds, and he’ll just have to stick to one. 

He arranges the plates on the low table and returns to Nanako and Mimiko’s room to gently wake them. 

Their eyes are misty again. The crêpes are long gone by this point and the conversation has turned back to heavier subject matter. And he’s got his answers, as unedifying, maybe slightly mortifying, as they were to hear. 

He learned that the possessor has a name—Kenjaku. An oddly divine name for someone capable of putting him through blistering hell, even if it’s the only reason he’s alive currently. Which leads to the next revelation: Kenjaku is still there. As in, Suguru is only alive because he’s suppressing Kenjaku’s presence. As in, his brain is not in his body. At first, he was incredulous, assumed they were just exaggerating, but the evidence was in their favor. The scar on his forehead was Kenjaku’s entry point, the flashbacks are Kenjaku’s memories, and the brutal periods of pain and malaise are the result of failing to suppress him enough. And seemingly at the look of horror on his face, Nanako and Mimiko began describing their initial plan to fix things, to fix him. Two mummified fingers, they’d explained, was how they had planned to go about it. But now that he seems okay, they decided to scrap the plan altogether. He breathed a sigh of relief hearing this. Bargaining with any sorcerer is the most dangerous thing they could do—which he made sure to tell them. It’s how he even got into this mess. 

Then, if knowing the details of his possession wasn’t bad enough, they’d also explained the details of his death. It’s the question he’d been burning to ask but simultaneously feared knowing the answer to. And rightfully so, because it leaves him more irritated than everything else. They didn’t steal his body from the school or commit illegal, unethical acts to obtain it—which is admittedly a weight off his chest. No, Satoru returned it to them. As in he deliberately disregarded the rules, completely aware that this could be the outcome. Suguru inwardly curses out of frustration. 

“You know he really wasn’t supposed to do that, right?” His voice borders on exasperated.

Of course they know. He’d explained it to them dozens of times before and Satoru probably explained it too—while committing the act. So now there’s someone else Suguru has a bone to pick with for this. 

The girls nod in agreement at the question, shameful expressions plastered across their faces.

“He told us,” mutters Mimiko. 

Suguru mentally pats himself on the back for predicting this so accurately. 

“He said he wanted to try and make things right,” Nanako explains. “He seemed pretty sad.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow. Make things right, huh? Seems that went out the window when he was no longer reduced to an epitaph or a picture in the spare bedroom of the penthouse he never stays at. It’s sickening. 

“Still.” He’s feeling a bit more with it today, a bit more prepared to scold them when needed—and this is needed. “That doesn’t make any of it right. He’s allowed to be careless. You aren’t.”

And it’s the truth. The ugly, unfair truth. Someone will always be there to clean up after Satoru. Because, no matter how much the higher-ups might want to, they can never take away his immense power. Damage control is their only option. But the girls will never be afforded the same privilege. Their carelessness equates to death, there’s no buffer for them. They don’t have any of the protection Satoru does nor any realistic way of achieving it. And if they want to keep themselves safe, they need to be more cautious. They can’t let their emotions interfere.

“That’s how you get yourself killed.” He gathers their empty plates and stacks them on the counter. “I would know.”

His warning instantly catches their attention. They seem a little uneasy. They’ve never liked how he can talk about death with such nonchalance—especially not now.

“Sorry,” they say in unison. 

He lets out a brief sigh. “More careful in the future. Got it?”

They nod. Their sniffling is still apparent. 

And there’s something about this that leaves a weird tightness in his chest. The idea of Satoru blatantly disobeying protocol like that. He knows better, but he still went out of his way to do that for them. He owes them nothing—and wouldn’t make more sense for him to kill them too?—but he still did it. 

Even as he washes the dishes, he can’t shake the feeling. It’s guilt, isn’t it? No, that can’t be right. What Satoru did was dumb and careless, and he’s just upset about it. He’s simply annoyed with the unnecessary recklessness of it. He needs to get out of his head. 

The girls are rubbing their eyes. From sleepiness, it seems, rather than from crying. It’s early, but not reprehensibly so. When he still lived here, this was around the time they’d normally get up. Without him there—as teenagers do and as he particularly remembers Satoru doing as a teenager—they’ve probably settled into some abnormal, freakish sleeping pattern.

“Hey.” He crouches down beside the table to meet their sleepy eyes, offering them a smile as warm as the sun rays coming in. “What do you think about going out somewhere?”

This gets their attention. They look at each other, then back to him, and nod excitedly. 

An hour passes before the girls—well, Nanako to be more precise—are even close to ready, and another half hour to look for the necklace Nanako, on the verge of tears, misplaced in the process. But they eventually make it out of the apartment, and Nanako eventually forgets about the necklace—only after Suguru promises to buy her a new one.

“What if you got us all matching ones?” Nanako uses her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as her eyes travel over the jewelry store’s front.

Mimiko is a little more reserved in these public settings, but in her quiet way, she offers encouragement for the idea. A small smile and an expectant gaze.

He doesn’t particularly enjoy wearing jewelry, a fact he only became aware of after Satoru once forced him into wearing friendship bracelets—which only lasted a day, thank god. But for them and them alone, he’ll reconsider. He holds the door open for the girls and follows them inside. 

The store feels uncomfortably pretentious, in the same way that the clothing store Satoru took him to was. It’s only a few blocks away from the apartment and nestled two blocks shy of the wealthier, diamond-encrusted ward that Satoru’s penthouse resides in. But even with the minute discrepancy in geography, he still feels out of place, and he’s painfully aware of how much closer he is to Satoru now. Four blocks closer, that is, with about two miles still between them. But even that’s too much.

Nanako fawns over a dainty necklace hung up on one of the many turnstile-like displays and Mimiko hovers close at her side. The store’s design scheme feels like it’s intended to attract teenagers and young twenty-somethings. Its exposed wood and brick interior and trendy wall decor make it seem more like a photo set than a real shop. In other words, perfect for them. 

Nanako holds out one of the necklaces to show him. “What about this?”

The necklace isn’t dainty like the first one she was looking at. This one has a bit more weight to it. Its chain is thicker and it’s less gaudy than the others, thankfully. The single charm hanging from it seems to be a winged bug of some kind but he can’t really tell from the way it’s swaying. So far, it’s the only one he’s able to imagine wearing—maybe not often, but it seems tolerable enough.

“Seems fine to me.” He steps toward her to look at the necklace a little closer. 

A dragonfly, he realizes. The charm hanging from the end is clearer now. It's only the silhouette—no details on the wings or body.

She pulls out two other necklaces from the same rack. “They’re all different bugs,” she cheerfully points out. 

A butterfly and a ladybug. She takes the dragonfly necklace back and distractedly hangs the three necklaces over her index finger as she continues to admire the store. 

Mimiko doesn’t take as much interest, though. She’s relegated to Suguru’s side as Nanako continues to browse the store, fumbling with the hem of her skirt and staying quieter than usual. 

Something doesn’t feel right, something seems off. But he tries to ignore the feeling. Reading too far into things was exactly what obliterated his already poor mental health. Unlike Satoru, the girls understand how to communicate their feelings. She’ll tell him, he has faith in that fact.

Nanako comes back with a bracelet, a hair clip, and a hopeful look on her face. He begrudgingly takes the items and pays at the polished wood checkout counter, praying that his card will go through and breathing a sigh of relief when it does.

The final stop before home is a bubble tea shop one street over from the apartment. The menu is full of fruity, photogenic drinks that probably have the same calorie content as a full meal. He carries their brightly-colored drinks over to a small, shaded bench just outside the shop’s doors.

The streets are quiet, no longer buzzing with the morning rush of traffic. It’s a fact of life at noon in this lower-middle-class neighborhood. Responsibilities splinter families off throughout the city, only to reconvene around the dinner table in the evening. The responsibility to study, the responsibility to provide, and the responsibility to keep up a certain image. It’s an ideology passed down from one generation to the next, one that has always turned his stomach—only slightly less than the barbaric expectations of jujutsu sorcerers. Spending the day with his girls is more fulfilling than living by their rules will ever be.

“We should put the necklaces on.” Nanako searches through her growing collection of bags. “I wanna take a picture.”

Inwardly, Suguru rolls his eyes. Outwardly, he gives her a patient smile. He would’ve preferred to wait until they got home for this.

Nanako sets her drink down and finally fishes the necklaces out of one of the bags, holding them up like they’re a trophy. She carefully fixes the dragonfly one around his neck, then the ladybug one around Mimiko’s, and the butterfly for herself.

She sticks her phone out far enough in front of her to fit the three of them into the frame. “Okay now hold your drinks up and smile.” She’s beginning to sound like a film director.

Following the sound of the shutter, he relaxes his shoulders and leans back into the bench. If it weren’t for Nanako, they probably wouldn’t have any family pictures to hang up around the apartment. His room is full of framed pictures she gave him as gifts for his birthday, her birthday, all minor and major accomplishments, and sometimes for no other reason than that she just “felt like it.” One and a half walls of his bedroom have been allotted to displaying the pictures. For anyone other than him seeing it, it probably gives off an eerie aura. And subconsciously, it’s probably the reason he never brought romantic partners home with him until it seemed like they might stick around for more than a couple of weeks—a very rare occurrence, only happened once and the girls scared her off within the first hour (and he subsequently decided to give up dating entirely).

Nanako holds out the picture for him to see. He has to admit the necklaces are a nice touch. It’s the only thing differentiating this photo from the countless others they have at this exact shop, on the same bench, with the same poses. He might not be opposed to having this one framed.

A text comes in from an unsaved number but that’s all he can make out before she pulls her phone back. It’s a little unusual. She saves everyone and everything as a contract, even the numbers for package delivery updates and login codes. Mimiko also seems interested. She’s leaning over Nanako’s shoulder to look at her phone. 

“Does anyone else know you’re alive?” Nanako’s question sends a chill down his spine. What did the text say? And more importantly, who is it from?

“No.” His response is a knee-jerk reaction. Reflexive, thoughtless. It falls from his lips before he even has a chance to think about why she’s asking.

But as lies go, this one is harmless. He hates seeing them worry, and the truth would more than likely evoke that kind of response. What they don’t know can’t hurt them, and if she’s asking, it’s clear she doesn’t. He’d like to live in this daydream a little longer. 

She stares up at him with inquiring deep-brown eyes, blinks, then reverts her attention back to the phone screen. No further questions, no further comments as she taps away at her phone’s keyboard. It does nothing to quell his uneasy, sickly curiosity. 

On his fourth day back home, Suguru holds a cup of chamomile tea to his chest. He sits outside on the balcony while the girls stay indoors to watch some show they like. If he’d had a little more foresight, he might have changed into something warmer before going out. It’s getting too cold now for just his T-shirt and jeans. The setting sun is still scattering its soft orange glow among the clouds, but his eastward view from the balcony reveals only nightfall for miles on end. And that’s probably why it feels so damn cold at only 5 pm. The sun’s warmth doesn’t reach the balcony. 

Bats flutter around in the sky above, voices echo up from the streets below, and he catches occasional auditory glimpses of the show Nanako and Mimiko are watching. Something about vampires, saving the world; he chuckles to himself. For the first time in weeks, he finally feels at peace. That persistent gnawing feeling, the discomfort that comes with staying in someone else’s home, both gone. It’s impressive what only a few days of being back home can do. 

His gloomy, lightless phone screen glares up at him, only the illuminated left half of his face reflected in its dark glass. Leaving it at home has become a habit. It’s the first time he’s looked at it in two days now. Satoru’s last message was sent over a day ago—an achievement, really—and earlier today, Shoko sent her first message about any of it:

Shoko: I think you just won idiot of the year. Come back and claim your prize.

Truly endearing. She probably felt pretty witty for coming up with that one—which he can admit there is some truth in. He at least smiled at it.

But with Satoru’s day of silence and his increasingly rational texts up until that point—“I’m sorry” and “I hope you’re okay” being the last two—only fill his chest with guilt. He’s not responsible for how Satoru chooses to cope, he’s well aware, but it still eats away at him to witness. Sending him a response might not be the worst idea in the world. He looks back at Satoru’s contact again. Should he?

But he decides against it. He turns his phone off and places it face down. Just one more day, that’s all he needs. Satoru can wait another day. He lifts the cup of tea to his lips and leans back in his chair.

After some time, he finds himself getting lost in the muffled chatter of Nanako and Mimiko’s show and their occasional laughs and coos. He still can’t understand much of it but it’s a pleasant moment that makes his heart full and his chest warm—though maybe the latter is a result of the tea.

A knock at the front door pierces through his thoughts. The audio from the show abruptly stops and Nanako says something he can’t strain his ears enough to hear. Probably about a package. She’s had one delivered every day since he arrived, today being the only one without. He really should talk to her about that. Satoru’s shopping addiction was a jarring enough sight. 

But she’s talking to someone. Her voice is becoming louder, more frustrated, hinging on irate. He quickly stands to see what’s going on, preparing himself to intervene and expecting to need to mediate. Except what he sees causes a quicker change of heart. 

Hair like a blizzard in an otherwise temperate winter, uniform as dark as the night sky to the east. He doesn't know whether to laugh or scream. His body is rejecting the possibility, rejecting every notion of standing still. This can’t be fucking happening. 

In a moment of boldness, he rushes into the living room.

Chapter Text

Suguru enters the living room and somehow it’s worse up close. Nanako is barking something back at Satoru and Mimiko holds an arm around her. They’re scared, he recognizes the behavior. He rushes over to comfort them, placing a hand on each of their shoulders and giving Satoru the iciest glare he can muster.

“You’re ruining our night, Satoru. Go home.” He maintains a calm front for the girls but inside, his blood is boiling. How did Satoru even find him?

Satoru’s jaw tenses, he stuffs his hands into his pockets, but he doesn’t show any intention of leaving. “Can we just talk first?” He sounds agitated, exasperated.

“I’m not interested.”

He might have been if Satoru hadn’t decided to make such a dramatic appearance, maybe if he’d communicated a little beforehand. He ruined any chance of reconciliation with the stunt.

Satoru lets out a sigh and places a brown paper bag down on the counter like he’s making himself at home. “Just for a few minutes. That’s all.”

No. Wasn’t the first ‘no’ enough? How much more does he need to say it? But Satoru wasn’t talking to him. He’s looking at the girls and bending his knees to get closer to their height. 

“Please?” he asks them.

Why does he need their permission? Not that it’s all that bad of a look for him. Better than the only date he brought home—who he had kissed more than once and could actually refer to the relationship as something other than friendship. Except Satoru isn’t his “date.” Maybe “friend,” plain and simple, is more appropriate, even if it’s not exactly accurate right now—“ex-lover” doesn’t make sense for a single kiss. 

Mimiko pulls her arm tighter around Nanako. “Geto-sama said no.”

“You’re not taking him away from us again,” cries Nanako.

“Okay, okay.” He steps back. “I get it. I probably wouldn’t trust me either.”

“Then stop asking,” Suguru bluntly cuts in. 

Satoru ignores him and continues anyway, “But this is important.” He crouches down in front of the girls and looks up at them. “Suguru’s been really sick for a couple of  weeks and I’m worried about him.”

Nanako and Mimiko look up at Suguru, as if for approval. But there’s also a smudge of confusion and skepticism in their eyes—directed at him instead of Satoru. 

“I thought you said no one else knew,” Nanako speaks softly like she’s afraid to say anything.

And—okay—sure, he lied about it, but that’s not wrong. It was for their sake and it seemed like a pretty safe plan at the time. Satoru wasn’t supposed to just show up unannounced and expose all of it. He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t understand that the girls need to be protected. They don’t need to shoulder these adult problems.

“I really think you should leave.” He locks eyes with Satoru again, making his anger unmistakable.

Satoru rests his hands on the counters at either side of him as he rises to his feet again, effectively blocking the doorway. But he stays silent, refusing to break eye contact and refusing to elaborate despite the girls’ confusion. His eyes still have that sleepless appearance to them and his dark circles only seem to have grown. 

“Five minutes, Suguru. Please.” He’s desperate, trying to hide it behind a semi-stern tone. 

Suguru glances down at Nanako and Mimiko, their expressions a mixture of disappointment and fear. Regardless, they’ll respect the choice he makes, but Satoru’s admission seems to have stirred something up in them. And their trust in him is likely waning after finding out he lied.

“What do you want?” Suguru relents with a groan.

Satoru raises a hand to rub the back of his neck. “I’d prefer if we, uh, talk about it privately.”

Absolutely not. He didn’t want to talk about it during the time Suguru spent rotting away in the penthouse. That was about as private as they could get, why should he get that privilege now?

Suguru places his hands on the girls’ heads. “Anything you want me to hear, they can too.”

Maybe that wasn’t the smartest idea, maybe it was a bit shortsighted. He was a little naïve in assuming it might scare Satoru off. No, instead the girls are now face-to-face with Satoru’s unbridled honesty.

“Is it because we kissed?” Straight to the point, no running around in circles this time. Fucking hell. “Is that why you ran away? ‘Cause it really wasn’t a big deal, you know. I’m not mad at you.”

The girls’ jaws drop, Suguru’s jaw drops—both probably for different reasons. His face is burning scarlet. He can’t bear to look Satoru in the eyes much longer. This really was a mistake. A really big fucking mistake. Why didn’t he think it through a little harder?

“No.” Suguru pinches the ever-creasing skin between his eyebrows. 

So maybe Satoru was right. This really should’ve happened in private—actually, it would’ve been better if it just didn’t happen. Too late for that. 

“I actually didn’t mi—”

“No,” Suguru raises his voice, quickly cutting Satoru off before he can utter another shame-inducing word. “We can talk outside, just…please shut up.”

He looks down at Nanako and Mimiko. Neither seems enthusiastic about the idea. No, they almost seem scared. They know better than anyone. It’d be stupid to downplay the threat that Satoru poses. And his erratic behavior surely isn’t giving anyone the illusion of safety. 

“Stay here,” he quietly says to them. He looks back up at Satoru—calling it a glare might be more appropriate. The least he can do to protect the girls is make a binding vow. “I don’t care what you do to me, but you hurt them and you’re dead. Got it?”

Satoru warily meets his gaze. “Sheesh.”

“Got it? ” Suguru re-emphasizes. 

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

He leads Satoru to the balcony, flashes the girls a less-than-reassuring smile, closes the door, and prays it won’t go as disastrously as he’s anticipating. He still needs to take the girls out shopping for groceries tonight, he still needs to be there for them. Satoru can’t take him away from them yet. 

There’s an inherent awkwardness to starting the conversation over. Satoru has busied himself with looking at the planters decorating the balcony. He’s suddenly less bold now that they’re alone. 

“Talk.” Time is ticking and Suguru is growing impatient. 

“Are you mad?” Satoru brushes his wrist over the top leaves of a basil plant. He’s pointedly refusing to look anywhere near Suguru’s direction. 

Suguru attempts to keep his voice low, “Of course I’m fucking mad. Why are you even here?”

Satoru is quiet for a moment. His face scrunches into a pained scowl. “I’m worried about you.” 

It’s a little late for that. It might’ve sounded more sincere if Satoru hadn’t waited so long to say something. He hardly even sounds like he believes it himself, and his expression almost seems like an exaggeration to suit the lie.

“You need to come back,” continues Satoru. Selfish, imposing. Hasn’t he learned anything?

Suguru takes one look at him and scoffs, “Fuck you.”

The chill of the night air is biting at the exposed skin of his arms, turning his fingers numb, making his patience wear thinner. Forgetting to put on longer sleeves earlier was a nuisance, but it’s somehow even more aggravating now. He’s uncomfortable and he’s mad. He’d really like to wrap this up. He has no intention of entertaining Satoru’s request. The topic was dead on arrival. He begins to turn back to the door but instead finds himself stuck. Satoru’s hand is locked around his wrist.

“No, wait. Just hear me out, okay?”

He refuses to turn and look at him, instead staring up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Say it then.”

Satoru presses his thumb deeper into the soft underside of Suguru’s wrist. He takes a shuddering breath in. But he still isn’t speaking. He remains silent. Like his desperation to speak has suddenly vanished, like he wasn’t expecting this and is suddenly trying to come up with another lie to fit his narrative. 

“Say it,” Suguru repeats with a little more gruffness. 

But still nothing. Probably because he’s aware of how abhorrently selfish he’s being. He’s dawdling, trying to find a way he can pity himself, make himself the victim of these circumstances. Because he refuses to acknowledge that maybe it is his fault things are like this, maybe resolving it isn’t possible. He hasn’t once admitted he did anything wrong. He hasn’t even acknowledged what he did. Currently, he’s too concerned with trying to play the role of a concerned friend for that. 

Suguru tries to pull his arm back but Satoru won’t let go. In fact, he only attempts to pull it closer. The fucking audacity. Wasting his time and deciding even that isn’t enough. 

“What do you want?” Suguru growls. He finally turns to glare at Satoru. 

Satoru, whose sullen gaze is unbefitting, whose normally photogenic face is unrecognizable amid the creases of his frown. Suguru cracked first, but it seems Satoru will surely follow.

“Why do you always run away? Why can’t you just talk to me?” 

Satoru is almost yelling; like it’s the verge of a meltdown. His chest heaves like he is, and he’s squeezing Suguru’s wrist hard enough to maybe fracture it, but he’s obviously exercising restraint. He would’ve shattered every bone in Suguru’s body if he wasn’t. Suguru tries again to pull his hand back but he still isn’t letting go. 

“Fucking hell,” Suguru mutters—both at the questions and Satoru’s stubbornness. He impatiently rubs at the skin between his eyebrows. 

He could make a list of more pressing matters. Like why Satoru thought it would be a good idea to show up unannounced, or why he never thought to ask this before Suguru left. Because this really feels like damage control more than anything else. All the evidence was there before, he can’t have only just realized something was wrong. 

Suguru prays Nanako and Mimiko aren’t listening. Being polite will only draw this out. 

“Have you ever considered,” Suguru finally manages to say. “That maybe you’re the problem.” He successfully wrenches his hand free of Satoru’s unrelenting grasp. “God, you’re so fucking full of yourself.”

Satoru’s eyes seem lost for a moment, but he quickly composes himself. Standing taller, stuffing his hands into his pockets, letting out an audible sigh like a disappointed parent. He doesn’t even flinch. He was expecting this, or maybe he’s just that unsympathetic. Any sign of emotion has been completely whisked away.

“Explain then.” His voice is rough, devoid of its usual inflection. He sounds impatient more than anything. Like he has any right to be. 

Suguru takes a step back, runs a hand through his hair, and lets out a dry laugh. This is absurd. “Do I really need to explain? Or are you just hoping to make me look bad?” In his own fucking home, no less. “You didn’t care then and I know you don’t now.”

Satoru is unamused, crossing his arms over his chest and deepening his frown. The only hint of a reaction is the twitch of his upper lip. 

“You spent fucking days ignoring me.” Suguru takes a calculated step forward. “And you ask me why I didn’t talk to you first? Connect the dots, Satoru.”

Satoru’s frown continues to deepen but he remains silent. He tightens his hands into fists and presses them against his legs. 

Suguru turns his back to Satoru. “If you’re gonna fucking kill me again, just get it over with. I’m tired of waiting.”

He prepares himself for the whirlwinds that Satoru’s Blue creates or the quick, painful end that Purple caused the first time. But nothing ever comes. 

“I don’t want to kill you.” Satoru is almost yelling. His voice is unmistakably wavering. “I never wanted to kill you.”

Like he’d ever believe that. 

“But torturing me is okay, right?” Suguru whips around and takes a step toward Satoru, dryly laughing as he does. “Because the only thing you care about is whether you’re the one suffering.”

Satoru stares back at him, wide-eyed with offense. He scoffs, “What are you talking about?”

“Maybe if you actually paid some fucking attention for once in your life, you’d know.” He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, keeping himself from letting his temper get the best of him. “I’m done with this, Satoru. Go home.”

Again, Suguru turns to go back inside. The conversation has done nothing but validate his decision to leave, its raison d’être. But Satoru stops him again. This time with words instead of his hands. 

“You keep saying I’m being selfish but at least I never abandoned you. I let you stay with me, I took care of you—I broke who-knows-how-many rules to keep you safe.”

Suguru wants to retaliate, wants to throw Satoru to the ground and make him eat his words. But there’s a sharpness to his remark, slicing deep into Suguru’s chest and leaving him dizzy. He initially mistook Satoru’s expression for annoyance, maybe shame. But it’s clear now that he’s hurting, livid. The muscles in his shoulders have tensed and his jaw quivers. This really could be the end, Suguru realizes. His end. Satoru wouldn’t be above lying about that. 

“You never abandoned me?” Suguru starts. A rhetorical question. “You left me to fucking rot in your apartment while you went out with some chick—I saw you wearing her hair tie.” But it’s deeper than that. “And what about the fact that you never bother to check up on me until it’s affecting you? That’s pretty damn close to abandonment.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Satoru is straining his voice. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t, because you never ask me what’s wrong.”

Satoru angrily stares back at him with eyes that never seem to rest in one spot. Is he searching for a weak point?

Fuck it, Suguru decides for what feels like the fifth time in the past hour alone. His heart is pounding in his ears. If Satoru really is going to kill him again, so be it.

“I thought you’d be different, but you’re obviously still just an arrogant, heartless brat.” He pauses for a second to look Satoru over again. His twitchy, hostile stance and the rage flickering over his features like a light near the end of its life. “Talking to you again was such a fucking mistake.”

Some things were to be expected—Satoru’s lunge toward him, the ache in his chest, the air leaving his lungs. The conversation was destined to devolve into this—Suguru was well aware—but he never expected his pain to be caused by anything other than Satoru’s hands. His head throbs and nausea suddenly overcomes him. Flashes of red threaten to overtake his vision. 

He doubles over and grips his knees for support. There’s something new this time: a chest-splitting cough that leaves a metallic taste on his tongue, the same flavor as the substance dripping down the back of his throat. And then—by some miracle, maybe—his eyesight disappears the moment Satoru’s hands rest on him. A correlation? Unlikely, but he’s satisfied thinking there is. 

Slowly, his hearing fades as well, like every other episode he’s experienced up until this point. He should’ve expected it. He can distantly make out Nanako and Mimiko calling out to him, Satoru’s unusually calm tone. None of it feels real. 

In the time Suguru was out, or at least in the time he was aware of, the pain never changed. It never increased, but it also never got any better. It’s still overwhelming his senses and making it difficult to discern any clues as to where he is. Satoru could’ve taken him back to the penthouse or the school infirmary—plausible and certainly not unexpected. But wherever he is feels different from both of those. 

He’s wrapped up in something and his head rests on what feels like a pillow. It’s too dark to tell, or maybe his eyesight still hasn’t recovered. Either is possible. He reaches out beside him, carefully running his fingers over every surface they encounter. It’s definitely a bed, he’d know these sheets anywhere. He’s in his room again. 

The bedroom door softly clicks as light begins to fill the room. Suguru closes his eyes again. It’s more than he can bear. Nanako or Mimiko would surely understand. 

But the weight sinking into the space beside him doesn’t feel like Nanako or Mimiko. It’s heavier than that, less delicate. And the way whoever it is next to him fumbles with the lamp on the nightstand—you press a button rather than turning a switch—certainly isn’t someone who’s been in his room before. He wants to open his eyes and look, determine whether it’s a figment of his imagination.

Something else gives it away though. He doesn’t need to open his eyes. A heavy sigh and the utterance of his name, not the one Nanako and Mimiko call him by. Satoru never left. What gives him the right to—

Suguru winces and sharply inhales. The pain flares up again, immobilizing the thought. 

“Hey, hey, no, don’t move.” Satoru’s panicked but hushed tone, his hand coming into contact with Suguru’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Everything is far from okay. Where are Nanako and Mimiko? And why hasn’t Satoru left? He reaches up to remove Satoru’s hand from his shoulder but finds he can’t move his arm more than an inch. His muscles feel spent, exhausted. 

“Your room is nice,” remarks Satoru, the sudden change of topic making Suguru question whether his senses went dark for a moment. Satoru slowly removes his hand from Suguru’s shoulder, letting it drift over his bicep. “It’s cozy.”

Suguru feels ill. There’s something uncomfortable about knowing that Satoru was poking around in his room. Not that there’s exactly anything incriminating for him to find, but it’s still embarrassing to think about. 

Suguru groans, “Why are you still here?”

“‘Cause I’m still worried about you,” answers Satoru, like it should somehow be obvious. And maybe it would be if his concerns had sounded a little more authentic earlier. “Nanako and Mimiko asked me to stay.”

Suguru lets out a breathy, forced laugh through his nostrils. He finds that hard to believe. He can’t imagine the girls even wanting to be around Satoru, let alone asking him to stay. They know he’s a threat. 

“I doubt that.” His voice comes out raspy, quieter than he’d intended. 

“Oh well,” Satoru says nonchalantly. He makes himself comfortable on the bed, inching closer to Suguru. “I’ll leave when you feel better.” Yeah right. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay first.”

“I’m fine.” Barring the splitting pain, of course. He’ll sleep it off later. Without Satoru. “You can leave.”

He still needs to go out and get groceries, he still needs to cook dinner, all of which Satoru’s presence prevents. The pain is undoubtedly related to it. But Satoru isn’t moving. He hasn’t even acknowledged Suguru’s words. 

“Leave,” Suguru reiterates, straining his voice to emphasize his growing irritation. The pain’s intensity is creeping up to intolerable levels again. He finally opens his eyes to glare at Satoru.

Satoru, who he assumed would be starting right back, who he assumed would be wearing a frown, is instead facing away and studying the wall of family photos. His phone is surprisingly still tucked in his back pocket. 

“You have a lot of pictures,” Satoru chuckles, in stark contrast to Suguru’s seriousness. “I like it. It’s kinda cute.”

“Satoru,” he warns. “I still have shit to do. Can you just leave?”

Talking to Satoru often feels like talking to a brick wall. 

“I already took care of everything.” Satoru peers over his shoulder at Suguru, his mouth obfuscated. But he sounds cheerful, unbothered. Suguru would be willing to bet that he’s smiling. “I let Nanako and Mimiko order whatever they wanted for dinner.”

How long was he out? But more importantly, “Why?”

Satoru has no reason to help him. It’s enough of a shock that he didn’t drag Suguru back to the penthouse. He has nothing to gain from doing this. And Suguru would be lying if he didn’t admit that it irritates him a little. Eating out isn’t something he usually lets the girls do, only for special events. It’s expensive and unhealthy. What kind of message is this sending them?

Satoru turns over completely, his face now a little too close for comfort. He reaches his hand up and Suguru braces himself for some awkward, ironic show of affection. But no. Satoru flicks his temple instead. 

“You don’t ask that when someone does something nice for you. You taught me that.”

Suguru recoils and scowls at Satoru. This is shaping up to be more of a nightmare than he imagined. “It’s different when I’m mad at—”

Stabbing pain. This time only on the left side of his body. He inadvertently smacks his forehead against Satoru’s as his muscles tense from the pain. Not only is this nightmarish, it’s cruel. He glances over Satoru’s body to make sure this isn’t his fault—it’s not, his hands are visible. Something else is causing this new phenomenon. 

“That’s why I’m helping, idiot.” Satoru briefly rubs his forehead at the spot of impact. “You’re not ‘fine.’”

Okay. Okay, maybe he’s got a point. Not much of one, but still a point. Suguru presses his head back into the pillow and closes his eyes. Truthfully, he can’t imagine functioning like this. 

“You probably need to eat.” It sounds more like he’s talking to a pet than a person. Satoru stands from the bed. “I’ll go heat up some of our leftovers.” 

Our? When the hell did he start referring to Nanako, Mimiko, and him as “our”? It’s infuriating, to say the least. 

Satoru returns a few minutes later carrying a plate of food. Italian. Of course the girls would order something he normally doesn’t make. Their tastes are seriously expensive when he isn’t paying. Satoru sits beside him and holds out the plate. 

Satoru chuckles, “You gonna take it?”

And this is where Suguru realizes that maybe he fucked up. He should’ve told Satoru ‘no.’ He makes an attempt to move his arms again, but still nothing. They’re still just as weak. He angrily glares at Satoru for a moment before taking a deep breath that does little to calm him.

“No, asshole. I can’t fucking move.” Being honest about his weakened state is easier when it’s motivated by irritation. 

“Okay, sheesh.” Satoru briefly holds up a hand in surrender before grasping the fork with it. He brings the fork to Suguru’s lips. “Your attitude sucks.”

Cautiously, Suguru takes a bite. It’s carbonara of some sort, not that he’s really well-versed in this kind of cuisine. It’s flavorful, definitely not a cheap meal. If he wasn’t still upset at Satoru, he’d feel more guilty about letting him buy the girls this sort of food. But right now, it feels a little deserved. 

Satoru returns the fork to the bowl and then brings it back to Suguru’s lips. “Say ahhh.”

Suguru stares back at him, unamused and with immense hatred. He somehow always finds a way to make the most humiliating things even more humiliating. But, seeing no real alternative, Suguru relents—silently, of course. 

“You’re no fun,” Satoru whines. He can die mad about it. Again he holds the fork to Suguru’s mouth, not requesting anything else this time. 

Realistically, it’s Satoru’s fault he’s in this state. The episodes always have a trigger, and Satoru is logically the only possible cause for this one—along with the others, the more he thinks about it. They always seem to happen when he’s nearby. But that’s not a concern Suguru has the mental bandwidth to analyze right now. It’ll have to wait.

Satoru feeds the rest of the bowl to him in silence, occasionally laughing as a noodle threatens to fall from Suguru’s mouth or gasping when he nearly loses his grip on the fork. But he doesn’t start any new conversations, doesn’t try to tease Suguru any further, and—only noticeable after minutes of this—he’s carefully avoiding Suguru’s gaze. And maybe because Suguru feels a little pity for him, or maybe because he’s still just as hopeless, he decides to play into Satoru’s earlier teasing. He takes each bite a little less seriously, says ‘ahhh’ even though he’d rather die, and attempts to find humor in something so painfully humiliating. And if he’s being honest, it does make it a little better. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s soothing his pain little by little. 

Satoru places the empty bowl down on the nightstand and repositions himself beside Suguru. Like this is where he plans to sleep, curled up next to Suguru just as he would before any of this shit ever happened. Is he trying to say something?

There’s a gentle knock at his bedroom door, followed by two sets of soft footsteps. They’re unmistakable. Nanako and Mimiko wrap their arms around him, tighter than is comfortable for his level of pain. Satoru quickly backs away and sits upright. Is he scared they might have seen something? Is he shy? Now that’s certainly new. 

Suguru finds it a little easier to move his limbs, placing an arm around Nanako and Mimiko—albeit at a snail’s pace.

“Geto-sama,” the girls cry out in unison, clinging tightly to the blanket wrapped around him. 

“I’m okay now,” he tries to reassure them. Worrying them is the worst thing he can imagine doing, but it’s a crime he’s likely already committed. He manages to flash them a warm smile. “I think I just didn’t eat enough.”

“Be honest.” Satoru’s voice is firm with an air of scorn.

What’s his fucking deal? Apparently, it’s somehow fine when he’s the one telling a white lie. What authority does he even have in this situation?

Nanako and Mimiko look at him expectantly. They don’t seem to know what he’s talking about. Was this Satoru’s plan all along? To force Suguru into a weakened state and get Nanako and Mimiko on his side? It makes Suguru sick to think about. He wouldn’t, would he? That would normally be too low for him. 

Suguru tries to laugh the comment off, “What are you talking about?”

“Tell them.” Satoru crosses his arms. “You know exactly what happened.”

Where is this irritability coming from? And why is he suddenly so concerned? He never seemed to care much about Nanako and Mimiko before. He didn’t even make any attempt to find them until today. He’s making this all needlessly awkward. 

Again, Suguru attempts to brush it off, “It’s not a big deal, Satoru.”

The girls cling tighter to him, their expressions morphing into worry. There’s something else going on here. Maybe they don’t know, but they know something.

“Did he do that to you?” Mimiko asks softly, pointing a finger in Satoru’s direction. She seems terrified to even bring it up. 

So that’s what this is about. 

“No, no,” responds Suguru with a slight hint of a laugh. 

Nanako and Mimiko both still seem to be skeptical. Their brows are knitted tightly together in a frown and they’re anxiously wringing their hands.

Mimiko takes a shaky breath and warily meets Suguru’s gaze. “What was it then?”

“It’s uh…” Suguru trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. 

He can’t bring himself to tell them. He can’t bring himself to admit it in front of Satoru, who probably has at least an idea of what’s going on—fuck him and his stupid eyes. It’d be easier if he wasn’t being coerced into telling the truth. But Satoru always seems to get off on humiliating him in front of others. 

“I’m still not…well.” He’d really like to stop here, omitting the damning details. But he can feel Satoru’s glare. “Sometimes the posses—Kenjaku,” he corrects himself, “makes me black out like that.”

He glances back at Satoru for approval. But the look on Satoru’s face is nothing close to approval. He seems disappointed, appalled. He won’t even meet Suguru’s eyes. And Nanako and Mimiko look appalled too, their mouths hanging slightly agape. No one, nothing in this room dares to give him reassurance nor validation that he did the right thing. Not even the smiling family pictures on the wall. 

“That’s why I want him to come back with me,” Satoru points out. Gently, as if he somehow saved the day by showing up and ruining everything. 

Asshole. Fucking asshole. Suguru’s jaw tenses, his teeth clenched together tightly enough to hurt. So this was Satoru’s intention. He wanted Suguru to suffer like this. To prove that he’s right, that he’s always right. 

But Suguru reminds himself to keep his cool, to not show his anger in front of the girls. “I really don’t think that’s necessary,” he maintains the cheerful, unbothered tone he had earlier. 

“Maybe you…should,” timidly says Nanako. She’s no longer looking at him, she’s looking somewhere else in the room. 

Mimiko weakly nods in agreement. 

And Suguru’s stomach drops. Outside of his body, to the depths of hell maybe. For what feels like the hundredth time in his life, Satoru is taking something away from him. For the second time, the one place he could actually call ‘home,’ his family, the only things that ever mattered. Except this time is surprisingly less humane than the first. He’s purposefully making a show of it.

Satoru suggests they get some rest first and talk it over in the morning—an unexpectedly mature suggestion from him—to which Nanako and Mimiko oblige. It’s the most powerless Suguru has ever felt. They hardly even say anything to him before returning to their room. 

“Are you happy now?” he dryly asks Satoru. 

“Obviously I’m not. Why would I be?” Satoru sounds equally displeased. He visibly shudders. “I hate hearing about that thing, whatever you called it. It makes me…” He pauses for a moment as he stares up at the ceiling. “Upset. It makes me really upset.”

Suguru takes a deep breath and composes himself before responding, “It’s your fault too, you know.”

“How is it—”

“You decided to give my body away instead of following the rules and doing the right thing for once.” Suguru pushes himself up from the mattress so that he’s sitting upright. “I mean, how stupid can you be? You know you’re not supposed to, and this is exactly why. And now I have to suffer the consequences of your mistake.”

“Sorry,” Satoru sheepishly mutters. 

“And do you even know how bad of a lesson that teaches Nanako and Mimiko?” He smacks his hand against the side of Satoru’s head. “You can’t be so fucking careless around impressionable people. You should know that. You’re supposed to be a teacher.”

Satoru rubs his head on the spot Suguru struck. “Ow, okay, okay, I get it.”

“I swear you’re going to give me a fucking aneurysm, Satoru.” Suguru crosses his arms over his chest and lets out an exhausted sigh. “I don’t want to go back with you.”

Satoru doesn’t respond to this one. He sits quietly, glancing around the room and toying with the fabric of his pants. And the words are all catching up to Suguru again. His head is pounding and his limbs feel weak. He falls back against the bed’s headboard.

“Can I stay here until you feel better?” Satoru is speaking softly, he isn’t looking around the room anymore. He’s only staring down at his hands.

It’s not like Suguru really has a choice in the matter. He imagines the possibility of another argument breaking out and nearly retches at the thought. Satoru always asks for things, but never because he expects a response. He’ll do it regardless of the answer. It’s closer to a warning than it is asking permission. Except, this time, he sounds much less self-imposing than usual. But Suguru isn’t willing to push his luck. His body is too sore, too tired for that. 

“Fine, but you’re sleeping on the ground.”

Satoru looks at him with a combination of dismay and shock. “What’s wrong with your bed? It fits both of us fine.”

Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose. “Because I’m still mad at you. It’s gonna give me nightmares or something if I have to sleep next to you too.”

Satoru’s hands crumple into half-hearted fists. Something about that struck a nerve. And it quickly occurs to Suguru that maybe what he said had been offensive, woefully insensitive at best. The sleepless nights in Satoru’s bed, his trance-like states of panic, his recurring pleas for Suguru to stay—it all comes rushing back to him. 

“Not like that, okay? I mean—” Suguru lets out a defeated sigh. “You can sleep on the bed, just…stay on that side. Don’t come into mine.”

Satoru’s face lights up at this. “Really?”

Suguru reluctantly nods, wishing he had maybe offered something else. 

“Oh Geto-sama, you’re the best.” Satoru flings his arms around Suguru. 

Things Suguru never wants to hear again: Satoru calling him that. It feels wrong, it makes him feel weird. 

He forcefully shoves Satoru away, nearly sending him falling to the ground. “Don’t push it. I can still change my mind.”

Over the several days he’s been back home, he never once woke up after Nanako and Mimiko. It was a schedule his body quickly reverted to during his first hours back. He’d wake up early, cook them breakfast, and spend the rest of the day taking care of things around the apartment or going out somewhere with the girls. It’s all comfortably familiar. But this is the first day he hasn’t been able to do any of that. The shock from waking up and seeing 3 p.m. on his phone’s screen hasn’t diminished in the slightest—an event that took place over thirty minutes ago now. 

He sits upright on the bed, feeling groggier than ever and absently staring out the window as he tries to calculate the number of hours he slept. Fifteen. He subsequently spends the next few minutes trying to recall the events leading up to it. First, the argument and his resulting episode. Then, Satoru convinced the girls to let him take Suguru back. He vividly remembers all of that—how could he ever forget? And he remembers allowing Satoru to spend the night next to him in bed—a memory he’d like to forget. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and stands from the bed. What he can’t account for though is the notable absence of Satoru. He remembers falling asleep next to him, vaguely remembers pulling him closer out of instinct when he started talking in his sleep, but that side of the bed is made up as if he never even graced it. 

He ventures outside of his room. No sign of life there either, and it seems Nanako and Mimiko are out too. Shamefully—but maybe not so unreasonably—his first thought is that Satoru did something to them. Satoru probably wouldn’t be above using them to blackmail him. But there aren’t any signs of struggle, and Nanako’s small purse backpack is gone too. It’s just a coincidence, bad timing. It has to be. Satoru was likely called out for a job and the girls probably decided to go out to some stores while he rested. He breathes a sigh of relief. 

And an hour later, his premonition is partially fulfilled. The girls did go out shopping, yes. The exorbitant number of bags hanging from Nanako’s arms speaks to this—how was she able to afford so much? But Satoru strolls in right behind them, carrying a few bags himself— that’s how.  

“Geto-sama!” squeals Nanako. She hurries over and holds out the bags for him to see. “Look!” She rummages through a couple, produces an oblong box from the largest one, and hands it to him. “Gojo let us get this for you.”

He lifts the lid of the box. It’s a leather wallet, stained a deep mahogany and fancier than any he’s owned before. In all honesty, he’d just been using the same one since high school. 

He turns to thank them for the gift but Mimiko interrupts, “You didn’t look inside.”

The inside of the wallet has more pockets than his current one—that’s a plus—but there’s more to it. The plastic ID cut-out lifts up to reveal a similar cut-out behind it, but this one already has two pictures stuffed into it: the picture of the three of them at the bubble tea shop a few days ago, and one of him and Satoru from what looks like their second year of high school. 

And as angry as he still is at Satoru, he can appreciate the trouble he probably went to in order to find that specific picture. Somehow he knew—or maybe was just stupidly lucky—that it’s one of Suguru’s favorite memories. The picture is more than a reminder of Satoru, it’s a reminder of happiness and the peace he had. It’s from the two days they spent in Okinawa escorting Riko. It was taken on the beach during their first day. 

He closes the wallet and looks back up at them, his eyes settling on Satoru specifically. “You guys really didn’t have to,” he chuckles. “Thank you.”

Nanako and Mimiko pull him into a tight embrace, tight enough that he finds it a little hard to breathe. This is what he gets for worrying them, he supposes. Satoru doesn’t join in though—despite buying this rather expensive-looking gift. He instead busies himself with his own purchases, lining up his bags on the counter. 

Odd, but Suguru tries to ignore it. 

The girls spend the rest of the afternoon glued to his side. They bring water without him needing to ask and they arrange a few pillows on the ground so that Satoru can join them. But to add to his growing suspicions, they don’t bring up any further details about their outing with Satoru. Nanako would normally have told him everything by this point, even Mimiko would’ve at least talked about it a little. Still, he tries to ignore this too. It’s probably just a side effect of the exhaustion they must feel from stressing out over him. That would explain their over-the-top kindness too. 

But the revelation only comes after they’ve finished eating dinner—Satoru ordered takeout again—and Satoru excuses himself to take a phone call out on the balcony . The girls are avoiding eye contact with him, tucking their hands into their laps and awkwardly shifting in their spots at the low table. 

“Geto-sama,” Mimiko starts, her head dipping low enough that her bangs obscure her eyes. “We were talking and…we really think you should go back with Gojo.”

“He says he’ll make sure you can still see us though,” Nanako quickly adds. She briefly exchanges a glance with Mimiko before turning back to him. “We’re just worried after, you know, that.”

His heart sinks, but his anger toward Satoru burns another degree—no, another few degrees hotter. And it’s clear now why he took them out shopping, why he stepped outside. This was all planned. He bought their support. That was his goal in staying over. Suguru’s trust in him is now—if it wasn’t before—at an unrecoverable, all-time low. He silently gathers the empty plastic containers and dirty utensils from the table, places them on the counter to sort through later—when his mind isn’t so addled—and breathes a heavy, exasperated sigh. What a fucking mess. 

Perhaps he should approach it gently. Exercise caution in his phrasing, choose his words carefully—it’s not their idea, but Satoru probably made them feel like it was. He’s good at doing that. 

“I understand where you’re coming from.” Blech. He hates the sound of himself saying that. “But I think we should wait before making decisions like that.”

The pain is still present, yes; but that doesn’t warrant more pain. He’s happier staying here—going back would just make it worse—and at least this pain is logical—unlike a certain other type of pain.

Nanako and Mimiko remain unconvinced. Their dark eyes bear a deep-seated concern that eats away at his convictions, lodging itself somewhere among the walls of his chest and poised to pierce his pulmonary artery. Satoru’s persuasiveness is more pervasive than he thought. This won’t be undone with a few brief reassurances. The thorns have stuck themselves too deep for that.

He backs down a little from his earlier resolve, “I mean, I don’t really think it’s safe. Do you?”

Nanako crosses her arms over her chest, exchanging her worried expression for one of doubt. She might be the first to retreat. “Maybe n—” 

Mimiko yanks on the sleeve of Nanako’s cardigan, abruptly drawing her attention away. She whispers something imperceptible, something that turns Nanako’s doubt into resignation, and resignation into wide-eyed silence. 

“He said you’ll die if you don’t,” Mimiko elaborates, her eyes closed like she can’t bear to look at him while saying it. 

He calmly positions himself beside the table again, attempting to brush off the gnawing ache of dread in his stomach. So this is how Satoru convinced them. It’s a cruel strategy, would be a cruel strategy if it weren’t a valid concern. Not that dying again had scared him—been there, done that and all—but it’s different when the girls are talking about it. It cuts deeper. It amplifies his subconscious fears. 

And in a flurry of torturous guilt, brought on only by their tears, he appeases them. He warily agrees to go back, only conditionally. First, he wants to stay at Shoko’s instead—apparently out of the question according to Satoru. Okay. Okay, that’s fine. He shouldn’t have had such high hopes. Then his compromise is that the girls are allowed to stay overnight—this is decidedly fine. 

Satoru still scoffs at it a little. “You sure they’re fine with just the one bed? I mean, we”—heavy emphasis on the ‘we’—“could probably get another.” He makes it a point to slap Suguru on the back on his way out. “Just let me know.”

And somehow, without even the slightest hint of righteousness on Satoru’s part—why is he suddenly acting so respectful?—he’s roped back in again. Back to miserable square one. 

Chapter Text

Hazy, fuzzy, cloudy skies. It’s all Suguru can remember of the day he left Nanako and Mimiko behind. He’d see them again, that’s what Satoru promised, but that hasn’t made any of this less soul-crushing. His first few hours back were spent in the infirmary bed, bound by the effects of painkillers and whatever other medicine Shoko administered after the grogginess set in. Even in his drug-induced state, her apprehension was apparent. It crinkled the skin between her eyebrows, seeped into the tone of her voice, and stagnated the air in the room. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, her voice only became graver when talking to someone else in the room. The frustration that had swallowed Suguru whole the day before was suddenly nowhere to be found.

His second day in the infirmary is similarly fuzzy. Satoru had entered the room at some point but when Suguru awakes, all that’s left is a plate containing a single, lonely-looking piece of daifuku. There’s enough room on the plate to assume there might have been a second at one point, and a ring of flour that seems to imply the same. But the chair beside the bed is empty and the room aches with antiseptic stuffiness. 

Suguru gingerly touches a hand to his face, brushing against a cord or tube of some kind and making the disappointing discovery of how dry his skin is. It’s rough and nothing like he’s used to. To add insult to an already troubling circumstance, the bed appears to be rejecting his presence. No matter how he turns or shifts his body, it’s all equally stiff and uncomfortable—made worse by such a sterile room. This bed might be a promising candidate for last place, he decides, surpassing even the lumpy yet understuffed futon at Shoko’s. 

Shoko enters the room without so much as a greeting, placing two glass vials down on a counter and keeping her back to Suguru. She’s looking at her phone in one hand and lazily flipping through a file with the other.

“Hey,” Suguru calls out, less as a friendly greeting and more as an announcement of his lucidity.

Shoko is unaffected. She pockets her phone but continues flipping through the file. “You really have a thing for bad timing, don’t you?”

He stares at the back of her head, nonplussed and brows tightened into a curious frown. He plucks the piece of daifuku up from the plate and stuffs it into his mouth as he waits for her to elaborate. 

“Gojo just left for something or other, I don’t really remember to be honest. I told him he wouldn’t miss anything but…well, guess I was wrong,” she chuckles dryly. She closes the file and finally turns to face him. “How’s the pain?”

He glances over his body sprawled out across the infirmary bed—like it might somehow start speaking to him and reveal the answer. “Fine, I think.” He moves a hand in front of his face. “I can’t really tell.”

“Yeah, sounds about right.” She brings the vials over and places them on the metal table beside him. “Gojo won’t shut up about you. He’s acting like you’re some delicate little princess.” She pauses for a moment to laugh. “What the fuck did you do to him?”

He stares back at her in bewilderment. A week ago, Satoru certainly seemed fine never talking to him again. Did something happen to him?

“I didn’t do anything,” Suguru is quick to point out. “He’s probably just trying to be an ass.”

Shoko barely quirks a brow at this and plunges a syringe into one of the vials. “Maybe, but it’s still pretty fucking weird. You’re supposed to be the one possessed, not him.”

He forces out a half-hearted laugh at her joke. The topic is still a little too sensitive for it. But his laugh is cut short by the needle piercing into his arm. The pain is hardly noticeable, but it’s the principle. Not even a warning. He offers her a subdued glare. 

“One more day of this and you can go back…” She hesitates. ‘Home’ seems like the natural end to her sentence but she instead finishes it with, “To Satoru.”

He wants to gag but the medicine she injected is quickly causing his thoughts to blur together, muddying his frustration and causing it to disappear altogether. His eyes drift shut and the room quietly vanishes. 

The next time his eyes open, he’s accompanied by Satoru. The fluorescent overhead lights of the infirmary room exaggerate his expression, deepening shadows and drawing lines longer than they should be. 

Suguru tries to recall what Shoko had said about him without much success. The memory seems to have been lost to the delirium brought on by the painkillers. Something about Satoru acting weird is all he manages to draw out, but that’s hardly useful information. Other than that, his head is stuffed with cotton. 

Satoru’s head jerks up. “You’re awake! Are you feeling better?” His hand looks like it might reach out to Suguru but he quickly retracts it. 

Feeling…better. In all honesty, he feels just as numb as the last time he woke up. But Satoru seems anxious, and to quell his concerns, Suguru gives him a light nod.

Satoru is visibly relieved. His shoulders drop a few centimeters and the lines on his face are suddenly less exaggerated—maybe it wasn’t just a trick of the lighting after all. Satoru’s hand reaches for him again, quicker this time and unexpectedly. But instead of caressing him or showing some sort of comforting gesture, it instead forcefully grabs ahold of his ear. 

“Don’t do that again.” Satoru tugs on Suguru’s ear, forcing his head closer to him. “God, just talk to me next time. Okay?” he pleads. 

Don’t do what? Suguru is slightly taken aback. It’s not like he has control over the episodes he’s been having. No, he’s talking about running away. He pulls his head away from Satoru’s grip and rubs at his now inflamed ear. Is this why Satoru was waiting for him to wake up? If he keeps going like this, they’re going to end up rehashing the same argument that got them into this mess in the first place. 

But Satoru is already talking again before he gets the chance to respond. “I know I promised to look for your girls, I just…” He’s looking incredibly guilty about something. His face is wrought with nervousness. “Never mind. I’m sorry.” He clarifies, “For not doing that.”

Shoko was right that something seemed weird about him. He’s more subdued than usual, wearing his concern much more openly. A little bit of reflection has clearly gone a long way.

The silence settles for a few seconds before Suguru asks, “Can I see them?”

Satoru averts his eyes. “Not…yet.” He hesitates before continuing, “Not here, okay?”

Right. The barrier. His own presence is hardly tolerated, he can’t imagine what it’d be like for the girls. Their lives would be in danger if anyone else from the school noticed, and entering the barrier would immediately tip someone off. 

“Soon. I promise.” Satoru holds out his pinkie which Suguru gingerly wraps his own around. 

Rain patters against the living room's floor-to-ceiling windows, and Satoru languidly paces the kitchen, occasionally drumming his fingers against the counters and peeking in the cabinets. It feels like a show more than anything, and it’s making Suguru unreasonably bothered. 

“Just say you’re hungry,” Suguru groans from his spot on the couch. “You don’t need to keep looking around like a lost dog, it’s making my head hurt.”

The girls are supposed to visit for dinner but the trip here seems to be taking them longer than Suguru would have expected. If Satoru had just eaten breakfast—as Suguru had suggested—he wouldn’t be so restless now. The storm outside is increasing in intensity. It’ll undoubtedly prolong the girls’ travel time more than it likely has already—another reason he suggested breakfast, it was already starting to rain when he first woke.

Satoru finally stills, silently removing the hand that was poised to open another cabinet. He doesn’t turn around though. Instead, he quietly retorts, “Doesn’t it already hurt anyway?”

So much for being “so concerned,” as Shoko put it. Suguru bites his tongue and attempts to ignore the frustration budding in his chest. An attempt that ultimately proves futile. “Do you really have to be so unbearable?”

If for no other reason, this is why he already misses living with Nanako and Mimiko. Satoru has an impressive penchant for making his life hell. Either by icing him out or, in this case, by not closing his mouth.

Satoru doesn’t respond immediately and at first, Suguru assumes that maybe what he said might have actually worked. This illusion is quickly shattered when Satoru leans over the back of the couch to peer down at him. He slowly reaches a finger out and jabs it into the center of Suguru’s forehead. 

“Ow, ” cries Suguru, clutching his forehead in pain. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Satoru’s expression doesn’t falter. “It hurts less now, right?”

Suguru doesn’t bother waiting to find out. He offers Satoru a menacing glare. “So what if it does? You still…did whatever that was.”

The pain has indeed lessened, but so what? His anger toward Satoru is a much more pressing issue than whether the stupid trick worked. The pain hardly even matters at this point. He could be cured of everything by this and it still wouldn’t justify Satoru’s finger being jabbed so forcefully into his forehead. 

Satoru seems slightly offended by his reaction. “Yeah, ‘cause I was trying to help. Your girls are supposed to be here soon. You can’t be sitting around looking all miserable like that.”

Somehow his explanation is only making it worse. It’s almost insulting. Like Satoru has any authority to be telling him how he should look—for his own family, no less. If anything, it’d at least show the girls how badly he doesn’t want to be here.

Satoru saunters back to the kitchen, chuckling to himself but refraining from opening any more cabinets. At least something he said actually stuck.

The girls arrive half an hour later, their hair and clothes drenched with rain and exhaustion plastered across their faces. Suguru rushes over and wraps his arms around them. A bit of rain won’t hurt them, sure, but something about their appearance is tugging at his heartstrings. He really should have asked if Satoru could get someone to drive them here instead. The towels from the kitchen hardly seem to be doing much to resolve the pitiful state they’re in.

Nanako is staring around the apartment in awe. Her eyes are wide and her jaw slackens. “Is this where you’re living now, Geto-sama?”

“No, no.” He awkwardly waves his hands in front of himself. “It’s Satoru’s place. He’s just letting me stay here for a bit, that’s all.”

Mimiko is equally impressed. Her eyes are fixated on the numerous decorative lighting fixtures around the room. He can’t blame them really. The apartment is lavish even to someone like Shoko who spends hours every week watching home renovation shows. To the girls—and to him as well, in all honesty—it’s a startling show of wealth. It’s more than just the aesthetics of it that catches their attention.

He guides the girls over to the couch and places their bags on the glass coffee table. Nanako is still so enthralled by the decor that she almost trips over the arm of the couch.

“Does Geto-sama get his own room?” Mimiko asks, looking up at Satoru with a hint of concern.

Satoru rubs the back of his neck and grins a little sheepishly. “He does, but sometimes—”

Suguru sharply elbows him in the side. “Yes, I have my own room. Ignore him.”

Satoru’s scowl is hardly a deterrent. Letting the girls know about the kiss was bad enough. They don’t need to know about the times he and Satoru shared a bed—something that definitely won’t be happening again. He was flying a little too close to the sun with that one anyway.

Mimiko offers a small laugh and drops the subject, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

“We should probably eat here. I don’t think the girls want to go back out in the rain again,” he quietly says to Satoru. “I can probably cook something for them.”

“No, no, no. Don’t worry about that,” Satoru immediately dismisses the idea. He catches Suguru by the wrist before he can leave his side. “I’ll get something for us, okay? Just go enjoy your time with them.”

He’s being oddly compassionate. And his hands. His hands are oddly gentle compared to the last time they grabbed his wrist to stop him. It’s easy to break away from the grasp this time. Again, he seems wary of something, but there’s no use in prying. Now isn’t the time. Suguru simply offers a smile and thanks him before joining the girls on the couch. 

Nanako is already taking pictures of the house, taking pictures of herself, and taking pictures of her and Mimiko. Her face lights up when Suguru sits beside her. 

“We should take a picture together,” she almost squeals. 

Suguru has to fight back the urge to cover his ears. A photo…here? Why? Before he can ask, Nanako is already positioning her phone to take the picture. 

“Three…two,” she counts down, her finger creeping closer to the shutter. There’s a shuffling sound behind him and the sudden weight of something on his shoulder. “One.”

The shutter snaps. Suguru finally catches a glimpse of what exactly he’d felt on his shoulder. Satoru’s head still rests there as he peers over at Nanako’s phone. Fucking hell. Suguru almost chastises him in front of them, but Nanako and Mimiko’s laughter stops him. 

He looks down at the picture too. Satoru was holding up two fingers behind his head. He inwardly groans at the sight. Not amusing. Not in the slightest. 

“Very funny,” he caustically remarks to Satoru. 

“Isn’t it?” Satoru raises his head and stands up straight again. “See you guys in a bit,” he calls out behind him as he walks to the door.

Nanako proceeds to take more pictures. Some of all three of them, and a lot of just Suguru. She catches his good angles, his bad angles, and repulsive angles he would absolutely not take a picture of himself from otherwise—he later asks her to delete these ones which she refuses. 

An hour passes before Satoru returns with the food, and another half hour before they actually start eating any of it. Unlike virtually every other time he’s eaten dinner at Satoru’s, they’re actually eating at the dinner table. Satoru laid out the plastic takeout containers and four plates from the cabinets so that all the dishes could be shared. The girls load their plates up with onigiri and one of each of the colorful sushi rolls Satoru picked. It’s an extravagant sight. After thoroughly reminding the girls to thank Satoru, he finally begins filling his own plate. 

After some time, Satoru and Nanako get into a heated discussion about the best onigiri fillings—which Suguru finds himself wanting to tune out. He was indeed right about their personalities being similar. Too similar, in fact. It’s an overdose of boldness and stubbornness. 

“You’re wrong if you think it’s anything but salmon,” scoffs Nanako. 

“Yeah right.” Satoru uncouthly points his chopsticks at her. “You just lack taste. It’s obviously tuna mayo.”

Her mouth hangs ajar as she glares at him. “I think you’re the one lacking taste.” She quickly turns to look at Suguru expectantly. “What do you think, Geto-sama?”

Satoru also offers the same expectant look. 

“I think you’re both being too loud. Stop arguing and eat,” Suguru snaps. He glares at Satoru harsher than he does at Nanako. He then mutters the next part only loud enough for Satoru to hear, “You’re an adult, act like one.”

Satoru shamefully lowers the chopsticks he was pointing at Nanako and eats his food in silence. He’s not making any effort to hide the fact that he’s sulking. 

“But Geto-sama,” Nanako groans.

“You too.” He’s now forced to give Nanako the same glare he gave Satoru.

The rest of the meal is calmer. Mimiko talks about a sewing project she’s been working on—her latest hobby—and how she wants to give it to Suguru once she’s finished. She keeps the details of the item itself vague but he can deduce that it’s likely a sweater of some kind. As she’s talking about it, he half expects Satoru to interject and ask for her to make him something too, but he surprisingly stays quiet. He’s actually making it a point to mind his manners. 

Nanako is still sneaking in occasional glares and pulling faces at Satoru as she finishes her plate. Normally Suguru would remind her not to be so impolite, but his lack of patience for Satoru today is making it hard to follow through. He only clears his throat and stares at her when he catches it. 

After they all finish eating, Suguru begins to clear off the table but Satoru quickly stops him and takes over. He gently presses a hand to Suguru’s shoulder. “I’ve got it.”

And Suguru can’t help but stare back in shock. Something is definitely very weird about Satoru. Shoko got that right. He doesn’t dare to complain as he takes the dishes away. 

“Geto-sama?” Mimiko quietly asks, pulling his attention away from Satoru. “Do you think we could stay here tonight? It’s getting late and I don’t think the train will still be running.”

He wants to tell her yes, that he’d absolutely love to have them spend the night. But two issues stand in his way. One, that it’s not his choice to make—it’s Satoru’s. Two, that Satoru isn’t the type of host to generously give up his bed for Suguru to sleep on. They would either be sharing the bed—hard pass—or Suguru would need to sleep on the couch. Neither of which is particularly appealing. But the storm outside isn’t letting up and he’d hate to make them walk out in it. 

After a soft but strained laugh, he responds, “I think you should ask Satoru that.”

And part of him hopes that maybe Satoru will tell them ‘no’ instead so that the responsibility for disappointing them doesn’t fall on him. But, regretfully, Satoru does the exact opposite. 

“Of course they can stay over.” Satoru places the last plate in the dishwasher. “We’ll just share my bed. I don’t mind.”

But Suguru very much minds. His face is going red at the mention of this idea. The whole situation is becoming worse by the second. He’ll now have to tell both Satoru and the girls ‘no’ if he wants to stop this. And still find a ride for the girls to get back home. 

“You know,” he awkwardly starts. “Maybe no—”

“I’ll go get the room ready for them.” Satoru hurries out of the kitchen. 

Bad. This is bad. Really bad.

Mimiko looks at Suguru a little confused. “What were you saying?”

He mentally curses at himself. So this is the plan now. There’s no way out of it. 

“Never mind,” he assures her with a half-hearted smile. 

This is going to be hell. But he’ll be damned if he lets them find that out.

Satoru returns to the living room a few minutes later with a cheerful smile that irritates Suguru beyond any reasonable explanation. It makes no sense for him to be so happy about this. He dreaded having Shoko and Utahime over, but somehow he’s enthusiastic about having Nanako and Mimiko stay. The inconsistency is making Suguru’s head pound. He almost pulls Satoru aside to speak to him privately about it, but—and this being the only reason—the girls seem to share his enthusiasm. 

“Do you wanna watch a scary movie?” Satoru asks the girls. “It’s almost Halloween.”

Nanako and Mimiko quickly exchange a look. It’s hard to miss their skepticism. Even when he’s being nice, they must assume it’s an underhanded scheme. 

Taking note, Suguru answers first, “I’m fine watching something.”

The girls need to know it’s okay. They need to know he’s safe here—whether it’s true or not. It’d be worse to worry them, he decides. The expressions on their faces certainly ease after hearing his response. And anyway, if they’re staying the night, it’s better to make the best of it.

“Just don’t pick something cheesy,” Nanako chides. “Geto-sama said you have bad taste in movies.”

Suguru nearly chokes on the breath he’s exhaling.

“Is that so?” Satoru looks at Suguru rather than Nanako. “I don’t think his taste in movies is all that good either.” He sticks his tongue out and throws himself down on the couch. 

Nanako stares at him with her mouth slightly ajar. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Take that back.”

He turns on the wall-mounted TV and launches one of the many streaming platforms loaded on it. “You wanna bet on it?”

Enough. Suguru walks over to the couch. Like the previous day in the infirmary, he reaches out and tugs on Satoru’s ear to admonish him. 

Satoru jerks his head away with a soft ‘ow.’ He rubs his ear and glances up at Suguru. He hardly seems pleased. “Fine, I’ll just pick something Suguru likes.”

This gets the girls to leave the table and take a seat on the couch. Nanako leaves enough space between her and Satoru for Suguru to sit. Right, of course. He’ll be stuck next to Satoru for all of it. He begrudgingly takes the spot, sitting a little closer to Nanako than to Satoru. 

Suguru doesn’t need to sit through the first minute to know the movie Satoru chose. It’s an indie horror film, one he probably wouldn’t have personally chosen to show the girls. It’s graphic and gory but complex enough to make up for that—naturally, a movie Satoru called “lame” the first time they watched it together. It seems he only put it on for Suguru’s sake this time. 

The movie starts off in a small village where the protagonist is shunned and disliked by the residents. The protagonist tries to appease them at first but eventually flees to a larger city. He gains status there and becomes a well-respected general, but even after this, the village still treats him with scorn when he returns to visit his family. After he returns to the city, he’s asked by government officials to lead a coup on the village and incorporate the land into the city’s territory. At first he’s enthusiastic about it. He carefully drafts the plan and selects the people to carry it out, but he slowly discovers that maybe the city isn’t so ideal after all. All past generals have mysteriously disappeared and have all been from smaller towns and villages the city captured. Just after finding this out, he learns that his mother has died and returns home. The government officials warn him not to and he begs them to give it just a few more days, but while he’s back with his family, the city’s forces invade the village and slaughter all but him. He watches the deaths of all those that mocked him but equally the only ones who ever understood him. He discovers his mother’s death was murder and he learns it was to intentionally cause him to temporarily abandon his position as general. His return to the city is then met with the same disdain that village used to hold for him. Again, he’s all alone. He’s imprisoned for his failure to carry out his duty and is forced to repent for his sins on the gallows. In the end, his death is the only thing that ever grants him freedom.

Satoru silently stares at him. Nanako and Mimiko silently stare at him. Neither are looking at the end credits rolling on the screen. 

He shakes his head and looks between them. “What?”

They all look away. 

“Nothing,” Satoru and Nanako say at the same time. 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

The movie is an acquired taste, he can accept that. 

Nanako purses her lips and continues to avoid his eyes. Satoru is less afraid to speak his mind. 

“Seriously, how do you even like that stuff?” Satoru mocks gagging. “I like horror movies and all but that’s—how is that a horror movie?”

Nanako slowly raises her head. “Yeah. No offense, Geto-sama, but maybe you should’ve let Gojo pick the movie.”

He looks between Satoru and Nanako, absolutely dumbfounded. Even Nanako is voicing her displeasure. 

“I actually thought it was pretty good,” Mimiko says quietly from behind Nanako.

“Thank you,” Suguru sighs in relief. At least someone is on his side. 

After the movie, after the girls retire to the spare bedroom, Suguru begins getting ready for bed. As he showers, he rehearses how he’ll scold Satoru for bringing up sharing the bed in front of the girls. As he brushes his teeth, he rehearses how he’ll tell Satoru that they are not, in fact, sharing the bed. And as he dries his hair, he rehearses how he’ll tell Satoru he’s not sleeping on the couch and that he should have the bed instead—this last part is a little more negotiable.

“Satoru.” There’s a hint of sternness in his voice. He’s standing in the doorway of the master bathroom, dressed in a sweatshirt and sweatpants and drying the ends of his hair with a towel. 

“Hm?” Satoru doesn’t look away from his phone. He’s already tucked himself under the blankets on one side of the bed, obviously reserving the untouched side for Suguru. 

“I’m not sharing the bed with you.” His tone is firm and unwavering. A little more serious than the statement really deserves. “I don’t know where you got the idea that I would, but you don’t have to leave that side all made up for me.”

This gets Satoru to look away from his phone. He looks taken aback at first but quickly laughs it off. “Where are you gonna sleep then?”

“The couch,” Suguru nonchalantly replies, still drying his hair. “Or your bed if you take the couch.”

Satoru quirks an eyebrow. “You’d rather sleep out there than next to me?” He doesn’t seem to buy it. “It’s one night, Suguru. You were fine with it before.”

And that was before the kiss, before the isolation, before the argument. Of course it’s different. It’s leagues different, night and day.

“Fine, I’ll take the couch.” Suguru tosses the towel on the bathroom counter and heads for the door.

This finally seems to knock some sense into Satoru. He quickly gets up from the bed to block Suguru’s path, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes to stand in front of the door. “Okay, fuck. You can have the bed. I don’t know why you have to be so difficult about this.”

“Because, Satoru. ” He’s going to rip his hair out and have none left at this rate. He can’t believe it has to be said. “I’m still mad at you. I don’t know why you can’t accept that.”

Satoru’s upper lip faintly twitches, then the corners of his eyes. He runs a hand through his frosty mess of hair. “Right,” he says, a little more subdued and almost like he’s reminding himself. All previous energy in his voice has been sucked out. “Yeah, got it.”

What a fucking relief.  

“Thank you,” Suguru sighs and proceeds to take the spot on the bed Satoru had previously occupied. “And put on some fucking clothes if you’re sleeping out there. Don’t scar them too.”

Satoru rolls his eyes but picks out something to wear anyway. His footsteps are sluggish as he leaves the room.

It doesn’t feel gratifying though, Suguru is now realizing. And the longer he thinks about it, the guiltier he starts to feel. But fuck it, he decides, it serves Satoru right anyway. He probably invited the girls to stay the night as a ploy to make Suguru sleep next to him, probably to make things feel normal for himself again. Well, that’s not happening. Satoru should consider this a lesson in respecting the boundaries of others. A polite one at that. 

It’s still dark when Suguru awakes. His first instinct is to check the time but something else gets his attention first. There’s a hand grasping his and a figure crouched beside the bed. He blinks a few times, suddenly roused by the fear in his chest. His heart is pounding in his ears. But his eyes slowly begin to decrypt the image. 

Satoru is holding onto his hand with more force than a thousand spirits could muster. He’s sitting on the floor beside the bed, head bowed and his breathing strained. This again? He wants to scold Satoru but something in his chest advises against it. He gives Satoru’s hand a light squeeze and closes his eyes again. 

“It’s late,” he mumbles into the darkness. 

Why can’t Satoru just handle this on his own? He must have been able to before Suguru reentered his life.

“I know,” Satoru gruffly mumbles back. He sharply inhales and lets out a defeated sigh. “I’ll leave in a minute.”

Satoru’s hand doesn’t move and his posture isn’t changing. He looks like he’s deep in thought, like there’s something truly bothering him. It feels wrong to assume it’s just nightmares—because how could any nightmare bring “The Strongest” to his knees like this—but it’s the only conclusion Suguru has been able to draw from these episodes. He can’t even begin to imagine what kind of horror could terrify Satoru so thoroughly. But he’s curious tonight. Tonight, he’s not restrained by the fear of offending Satoru. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

A single dry laugh escapes Satoru’s lips. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“So what if I do? Bottling it up doesn’t seem like it’s working much better for you.”

Satoru doesn’t respond this time. The silence drags on for a few seconds, then at least a minute, long enough that Suguru thinks about making sure Satoru is even still awake. But Satoru’s slow, audible inhale points to the fact that he is, indeed, still awake, just hesitant. 

“You don’t have to.” Suguru makes the last-minute decision to backtrack. “I just think—”

“It’s about you. It’s…always you.”

A chill runs down Suguru’s spine. About me? What about me? He suddenly feels like he can’t breathe, scared to make the slightest sound. The air feels fragile. He can only lay still and wait with bated breath. How does one even respond to something like that?

“You were supposed to laugh.” Ever the comedian Satoru is, even in such awkward moments. “Look, not in a, like…gross way, okay? Just…certain things about you. They make me upset to think about. It’s stupid, actually.”

Suguru carefully studies him, his tiny movements that might otherwise slip away unnoticed in the darkness. It’s making his stomach uneasy. Did he do something? He racks his brain for answers, but nothing comes up—nothing that severe, anyway. It’s a strange kind of discomfort to feel guilty for something you aren’t quite sure of. 

Satoru finally releases his grip around Suguru’s hand. He clears his throat and stands from the ground. “I’ll go back to the couch now. Sorry for waking you up.”

He almost reaches for Satoru’s hand again but ultimately forces himself to stay still. Touching him at a time like this seems impolite—especially now, knowing that he’s the source of Satoru’s distress. But he should at least do something.

“You can stay here if you want. You don’t have to go back out there.”

Satoru stops just shy of the door. His head lowers for a moment before he turns around to face Suguru. “Nah, it’s fine.” He sounds strangely laidback now. Suguru imagines that he’s wearing a smile. “It’s actually pretty comfy. You really missed out.”

A pang of guilt gnaws at Suguru’s heart. How can Satoru already be back to his usual playfulness?

“Yeah, I guess so.” He bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying more. “Goodnight then, Satoru.”

And like that, it’s suddenly over. Satoru closes the door behind him and the only evidence remaining are the questions swirling in Suguru’s head. He can hardly think about going back to sleep. 

In the morning, Suguru sits at the counter, hunched over his second cup of coffee within the past hour alone and mentally trying to slap himself awake. He only managed another restless hour of sleep between now and after Satoru left the room. His body feels like it’s short-circuiting attempting to run on such little sleep. Unsurprisingly—because maybe he’s just that unlucky—Satoru was already gone by the time he finally decided to get out of bed. It’s probably a work thing. It’s usually that. It’d be stupid to ruminate over it. 

The girls are sitting outside on the balcony, captivated by the sight of the street below. They comment to each other about the outfits of the pedestrians, the expensive cars driving by, and the fact that the air almost seems clearer. The breeze through the open door carries their voices inside, making Suguru feel like he’s somehow included in their conversation. The wind picks up and causes the curtains to flap in its gust, and the girls suddenly change topic.

“Gojo must like Geto-sama a lot,” Mimiko says. “I saw him sleeping on the couch last night.”

Nanako hums out a response then turns to Mimiko. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird? He…killed him, after all.”

The words make Suguru’s stomach twist. And as much as he hates thinking about it too deeply, she has a point. Satoru doesn’t have any reason to be kind. It’d make more sense for him to be upset, to be seeking a way to end Suguru’s life again. But he isn’t. He would’ve said something if he was, he has no reason to keep it a secret. It’s not like Suguru can even adequately defend himself. And there’s also the thing he mentioned about his nightmares. That was oddly vulnerable.

Mimiko already seems to have thought this through. “I bet it’s his guilty conscience. Same reason he sent us all that money.”

The girls exchange a look he can’t quite make out, followed by a laugh. What money are they talking about? Did Satoru pay them off for something? It’d be a little strange, but maybe not entirely implausible. He waits quietly for them to elaborate, sparing them occasional glances just to be sure he isn’t missing anything. The girls don’t say another word about it though. They’re back to looking over the balcony railing and commenting on the sights below, lamenting the life they’ll return to after this visit. 

Satoru doesn’t return until hours after the girls have already left. In the time between when they left and when Satoru got home, Suguru managed to make himself dinner, take a nap, and have a few shots of the cherry vodka still hanging around. Even in his slightly fuzzy state, he can still make out something that isn’t quite right on Satoru’s face. He no longer seems relieved, he’s back to that gloomy, dejected expression. 

And it’s undeniably burning a pit in Suguru’s chest.

Chapter Text

Suguru used to be a happy-go-lucky type of drunk. At some point, and he can’t pinpoint when, it went away. He became more serious and deep in thought. He stopped drinking for fun and reserved it solely for blighting reality. Yet still, even as it clouds his thoughts, the heaviness of the room is painfully apparent. It’s giving him déjà vu with how somber Satoru is and how late at night it is. Part of him has been stricken with a terror that binds his limbs to the couch, while the other part is painfully hopeful to pry.

But what is at least different this time is that Satoru doesn’t seem to be ignoring him. He quickly takes a spot next to him on the couch and stretches out so that his legs end up on Suguru’s lap and his head rests on the arm of the couch. He’s tired, not necessarily upset, but it’s certainly a concerning sort of tiredness. The skin around his eyes has taken on a flushed appearance. 

“It’s starting to feel like you’re my housewife.” These are regretfully the first words out of Satoru’s mouth. 

Suguru almost chokes. What the fuck? “Hello to you too, I guess,” he barely manages to say. 

“No, I’m serious.” Like that makes it any better. “It looks you cleaned or something, and there’s dishes in the sink.”

“Yeah, because it’s not like I have to live here too or anything,” he replies sarcastically. 

“Well yeah, but—hey!” Satoru sits up with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. “You finally admitted it! You said you live here.”

Suguru blankly stares back at him, blinking and unamused. So what? It’s hardly a big deal. For simplicity’s sake, temporarily living somewhere and living somewhere are interchangeable in conversation. One just requires fewer words to say—it’s simpler. And he didn’t directly state he lives here either. Satoru is making a fuss over semantics.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you need to say to help yourself sleep at night.” Satoru lays back down and rests his arm over his forehead. “I definitely won’t be forgetting. I might even get the date tattooed, who knows.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. It almost physically hurts to hear. Such inane comments could only come from a true dumbass. But something in Satoru’s voice seems a little off. The absurdity of his statements also seem to be increasing with it. He’s definitely upset and he’s definitely trying to hide it. The few drinks Suguru had earlier are waning in their effects and he’s suddenly more attuned to the unusual heaviness in Satoru’s expression. 

He pushes himself up from the couch, causing Satoru’s feet to slide off his lap and hit the floor. This takes Satoru by surprise. He removes the arm from above his head to gaze up at Suguru with a curious frown. 

Suguru holds a hand in front of Satoru’s face, slightly wavering. “Take me out somewhere. It’s boring here.”

Hearing this, the weariness on Satoru’s face turns into delight. He doesn’t move though. He instead offers a small chuckle and shakes his head. “So you wanna distract me now? Is that it? I’m still not gonna forget.”

Suguru repositions his hand closer to Satoru’s face, almost urging him. “I’m serious. I want to go out.”

There’s an ephemeral sparkle in Satoru’s eyes, suddenly fizzling out as he takes his eyes off Suguru. “Shoko said you’re supposed to be resting. I’m not taking any chances.”

This time Suguru grasps his hand around Satoru’s and gives it a forceful tug. “Come on. A little walking isn’t going to kill me.”

Satoru shoots him a glare after that last part. The look in his eyes is serious, unmoved. Maybe not the best choice of words. Suguru pulls on Satoru’s hand again, causing him to reluctantly sit upright with his head parallel to Suguru’s hips. He hardly seems any more convinced. And seeing Satoru’s head at this height is…never mind

Ten minutes later, they’re out on the street below. Satoru—now dressed in a white button-up and black pants—leads Suguru—still dressed in the same sweater and jeans he’s been wearing for the past two days—to the end of the block and across another street to the entrance of a particularly colorful and bustling establishment. An arcade? No. Suguru has to blink for a second to make sure he’s seeing it right. An arcade bar.  

He looks at Satoru skeptically. “This is what you had in mind?”

“Yeah.” Satoru’s expression proves this is undoubtedly the place. “You take on the drinking while I take on the arcade part. It’s perfect.”

Suguru stares at him, unblinking. “You know you don’t have to drink alcohol to go to a bar, right?”

“C’mon.” Satoru tugs his hand and pulls him inside. 

In one ear, out the other. Of course. Why was he so set on going out again? Staying at the apartment might not have been so bad. 

Satoru continues to pull him along like a puppy, occasionally eyeing the games and machines along the way. When he stops, it’s in front of what is clearly the “bar” part of this arcade bar. A row of liquor bottles sits behind the counter against a white tiled wall, illuminated by a blue glow underneath. The entire building is dimly lit and this bar is no exception. Satoru pulls his wallet from his pocket and gazes up at a screen displaying the menu. 

“Hey, what about…” Satoru pauses for a moment to look around. “I choose the drink for you and you choose a game to play.”

He’d so rather not have Satoru pick a sugary concoction for him to be stuck with—but Satoru is paying after all. And free alcohol is free alcohol, even if it’s disgustingly sweet. 

“Fine,” Suguru begrudgingly agrees. “Just please order something that’s actually alcoholic.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s why we came here anyway.” Satoru waves him off and approaches a bartender. 

Suguru grits his teeth and turns to scour the floor of arcade games. Racing games, fighting games, rhythm games, rows of claw machines. The place seems to have everything. He strolls down one of the aisles to get a closer look at what’s on offer. The same as what he’d seen from afar, but something suddenly catches his eye. At the end of the row, glowing brighter than everything else, it’s the perfect game to make Satoru play. Dance Dance Revolution. It’s the only game that’ll keep his interest for more than one round, long enough for Suguru to get reasonably drunk. 

Satoru eventually finds him, carrying in one hand two identical, fluorescent blue drinks that look like something out of a cleaning closet. In the other hand, he’s holding up a sparkly keychain and jiggling it with enthusiasm. 

“Look what I got,” he calls out excitedly. “They said if I ordered two I could get a free keychain.”

Suguru stares back, unamused. Buying another drink for the sake of getting the keychain is basically just buying the keychain at that point. Calling it free is a misnomer. But, again, free alcohol is free alcohol, and he isn’t complaining. Satoru hands off both drinks to him and turns to assess Suguru’s chosen game, toying with the keychain. 

He chuckles, “Dance Dance Revolution? I haven’t played that in forever, haa. Good choice.” He smacks Suguru on the back and steps closer to the screen. “You’re playing too, right?”

Suguru, already throwing back about half of one of the sickly blue, sickly sweet drinks, glares at him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shakes his head. “No, you do the first round. I’ll think about it.”

“You’re no fun,” groans Satoru, sticking out his tongue. 

Unsurprisingly, Satoru immediately goes for a song at the highest difficulty level. It’s appalling. The arrows fly by at a nauseating rate in only the first few seconds of the song. Satoru finds no difficulty in keeping up. His eyes are glued to the screen and his legs even move with a little flair. Suguru finishes off the rest of the first drink and finds a nearby table to place it on, continuing to watch Satoru out of the corner of his eye. 

“You’re missing out,” Satoru shouts over the fast-paced music. 

Yeah fucking right, Suguru thinks to say. And anyway, wasn’t Satoru so concerned about him resting earlier? Playing this at the current devilish pace he’s going could hardly be called resting by any stretch of the imagination—or even relaxing, at the very least. It’s already painful enough on the eyes. 

He leans against the machine to get a better view of Satoru. His attention is locked onto the screen and he’s biting the corner of his lower lip as he focuses. To say it isn’t at least a little charming would be an outright lie. 

Satoru continues with the game for another ten minutes before he starts getting bored. He attempts to coax Suguru into playing once again but Suguru promptly refuses. 

“Ugh, fine. What about a different rhythm game? It’s not fun doing everything by myself.”

Suguru rolls his eyes and pushes off from the spot he was leaning on. The drink he downed not too long ago is beginning to take its toll. His head spins a little from the sudden movement. No way he’ll be able to play a rhythm game without losing miserably. He grabs onto Satoru’s arm for support—not that he’s going to fall, just that he feels he might. Satoru one-ups him on this though. He wraps the arm around Suguru’s shoulders instead and pulls him closer. 

“Okay maybe not rhythm games,” he laughs. “Claw machines? I’ll help you win.”

Satoru’s enthusiasm is fucking infectious tonight. His steady arm and sunny smile are making Suguru’s chest fill with butterflies. He doesn’t even like claw machines, but he still lets himself be dragged over to one by Satoru. 

“You know they’re just a scam, right?” Suguru arches an eyebrow at him while placing his drink down. 

“That’s exactly what losers say.” Satoru bends down to swipe a bright red card with the arcade bar’s name on it. “Plus I bought a bunch of credits. I don’t wanna waste them all on me.”

Suguru bites his tongue at that. Satoru is trying to do something nice for him—and it’s not like Suguru is the one spending any money. He positions himself in front of the claw machine’s controller. He places his left hand over the joystick and his right just next to the grab button. This one is for an Eevee plush. It hardly even looks touched—probably indicative of how unlikely it is to win. The last time he used a claw machine was ages ago, maybe around the time Nanako and Mimiko turned eight. He took them to an arcade on their insistence. They asked him to win them something from the claw machine but he couldn’t do it. He gave it about ten tries before giving up. It was extremely infuriating. 

Satoru stands close behind and places his hands over Suguru’s. His head rests on Suguru’s shoulder, eyeing the layout of Eevees to choose from. Suguru’s breath hitches in his chest. He tries to remain cool, tries to pretend he’s also focusing on the plushies and not how much of Satoru’s body is pressed against his or, god forbid, how much he likes it. 

“I think we could probably get the one in the front.” Satoru first moves the claw toward the front pane of glass, then to the right. He adjusts the claw a few times then nudges Suguru’s right hand. “You press the button.”

Suguru presses the button to drop the claw. His eyes light up when it seems it might actually grab on. But he doesn’t hold his breath. It also looked like this the ten times he failed. So he musters a sense of apathy as he watches the claw grab onto the plushie. Only when it drops down the chute does the realization hit him. It actually worked. 

Satoru bends down to grab the plushie and holds it out to Suguru with a slightly goofy smile. “What was that you were saying about claw machines being a scam?”

Suguru blushes and quickly snatches it from him. “My stance hasn’t changed.”

“Sheesh, always so stubborn.” Satoru loosely rests an arm around his shoulders and strikes up a leisurely pace to the next row of claw machines. “You pick the next one. I’ll prove you wrong.”

So Suguru scours the row for something harder to win, something he would never bother to even attempt. He finds one that’s different from the machine they just used. This one is won by nudging a package between two bars and getting it to fall. The claw on it only has two arms and the package is at an impossible angle. 

Immediately, Satoru begins appraising it. He doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. He raises a skeptical eyebrow at Suguru and swipes the game card. He doesn’t win on the first try, but he does manage to move the package. On the second try, he changes the angle of it, and on the third try, it falls between the bars and sets off a sequence of bright flashing colors. 

“See?” He only offers Suguru a smug look before reaching down to grab it.

Suguru shakes his head and takes a large sip of his drink. 

Somewhere after the seventh or eighth claw machine—and after ordering another drink—watching Satoru win game after game is starting to boost his confidence. Trying at least once by himself isn’t sounding like such a bad idea—or maybe that’s just the drink. He’s getting tired of carrying around Satoru’s prizes with none to show for himself. He rests his head on Satoru’s shoulder and bats his eyelashes up at him, teasingly coquettish. 

“My turn?”

A smile creeps onto Satoru’s face, followed by a small laugh. “I was waiting for you to say that.” He holds out the card to Suguru. “Here.”

Suguru swipes the card on the machine of his choosing. This one is for a small penguin stuffed animal. Satoru hovers close by but doesn’t place his hands over Suguru’s like the first time. 

“You should go for the one in the middle,” Satoru points out. He taps his finger on the glass in the general direction. 

Suguru quietly nods. He takes a deep breath and moves the joystick over to the right. The claw seems to be hovering directly over the one he wants, but he still leans to each side to ensure he’s got it right. He inches it back a little, to the left a little, then presses the button to send it down. When the claw grabs hold of the penguin, Satoru gasps with delight. He enthusiastically slaps a hand to Suguru’s back. 

“I knew you could do—” Satoru’s celebration is cut short when the penguin falls from the claw, just shy of the chute. Suguru’s face immediately falls. “Shit. Do you want me to try? I can win it for you.”

Suguru frowns and shakes his head. “No. I’ll go again.” 

The stubborn determination to win this stupid penguin has already set in. Accepting defeat is out of the question. He swipes the card while Satoru laughs and glues himself back to the pane of glass. His movements are more cautious this time. He only moves the claw in tiny adjustments, checking from different angles each time he does. The position looks better this time—and it’s only a short distance to the chute. But just in case…

“Does that look good?” he asks Satoru. 

Satoru also looks at it from different angles the same way he did—leaning left, right, then standing on his tiptoes. He hums as he assesses it. The timer is quickly running out. 

“Move to the right a little.”

Suguru nudges the joystick ever so slightly to the right, and then again when Satoru points his finger to the right. 

Satoru looks at it for a moment then nods his head. “Looks good now.”

Suguru presses the button to drop the claw. He watches intently as it descends, holding his breath. It slowly grasps around the penguin and raises it up again, moving at a sluggish pace along its track toward the chute. Please, please, please. Satoru is watching with a hint of anxiety as well. His face is now pressed up against the glass. 

This time, the penguin makes it to the chute. A rush of relief washes over Suguru as it drops down. He snatches it out and immediately hugs it against his chest. 

“Okay, now I can say it.” Satoru places an arm around his shoulders. “I knew you could do it.”

In a tipsy haze—partially brought on by the thrill of winning—he presses his head against Satoru’s chest. His laughter is airy and incredulous as it bubbles up from his stomach. Suddenly the only things that matter are those in closest proximity to him. The penguin held snugly in his arm and Satoru’s heartbeat in his ear. Maybe claw machines aren’t as much of a scam as he’d originally thought.

It’s nearly two in the morning when they leave the arcade, arms heavy with the night’s winnings and cheeks sore from smiling. Suguru had to rely on the sturdiness of Satoru’s arm for much of the walk back, but even in the safety of the penthouse’s living room and the support of the couch against his body, he’s still reluctant to let go. And Satoru is only allowing him to indulge. He’s sitting with one leg atop the other and lazily looking at something on his phone, occasionally bobbing his foot up and down. He’s the epitome of contentment. But what’s truly shameful is Suguru’s burning desire to disrupt him and steal all the attention his phone is currently getting. 

Suguru inches closer and rests his chin on Satoru’s shoulder. His eyes first drift to the phone screen below but quickly lock on Satoru’s face. Its cool, pale undertones, the rosiness of his cheeks left over from the chilly walk home, the vast ocean of his irises that Suguru is quickly, tragically becoming lost in. Fuck. He’s staring back now. 

Satoru—much to an inebriated Suguru’s dismay—laughs at this. “What are you looking at me like that for?” He turns off his phone and tosses it to the side. “You gonna kiss me again?”

Suguru quickly averts his eyes and pulls his head away. He’s struck absolutely speechless. And his shock doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Okay, okay, just a joke.” Satoru laughs softer this time, his voice distantly showing some amount of distress. But even with that, he still can’t help himself. “Unless that’s what you wa—no, sorry, I’ll stop.”

Satoru really has no clue. Of course it’s what he fucking wants. He’s wanted it all night. And the weight of his desperation really isn’t being helped by his drunkenness. He’s seconds away from pinning Satoru to the couch and making him eat those words. 

“Was I really that bad? I mean I get I’m not your type, but maybe you could give me a little constructive criticism? I told you it was my first, so just help me out—for my next time. Okay?” Satoru’s words come out awkward and terribly clumsy. “I helped you win, it’s your turn to help me.”

It’s maybe the strangest case of begging Suguru has ever witnessed. He’s actually pleading for criticism. For a kiss. A kiss that really shouldn’t matter to him, and one that is painfully embarrassing to think about right now. His cheeks are flushing hotter, hotter. 

“I won’t be offended, I promise.” Why is Satoru still going? “Just be honest.”

“No.” Words are failing him. His mind is buzzing with everything he shouldn’t say, but nothing he should. Nothing that would be the correct answer—because how could anyone even expect this?

No. Okay, maybe it is his fault for not expecting it. Kissing Satoru in the first place was bound to lead to some awkward interactions, but even more so the distance that followed. He made his own bed with this. And humiliation is maybe a better punishment than anything else he could have gotten. Because it’s not outright rejection.  

Suguru almost chokes at the last thought. He clears his throat and squeezes his eyes shut. Satoru wants honesty, so be it. 

“You’re…” The words are sluggish, needing to be pulled through mud. They require so much force that they’re threatening to rip his insides out with them. Thinking about the kiss is shame-inducing, but speaking about it is torture. “Give me a minute.”

He quickly stands and bolts to the kitchen, digs around for the cherry vodka and flings the cap off. He’s downing the liquid in record time, hoping that maybe it’ll hit him before he’s forced to continue the thought. He places the uncapped bottle down on a counter and holds onto the edge to steady himself, still swaying a little from the earlier drinks. It’s truly impressive—and a bit depressing—that a single person can cause him to drink this much. 

“That bad, huh?”

Suguru grits his teeth. He doesn’t need to turn around to wager a guess at the look Satoru is giving him. He sounds like he’s joking, but Suguru would be remiss if he didn’t notice the trace of hurt in that voice. He grips the counter harder, praying for just another minute to let the vodka set in. It’s not that it was bad, he wants to say, just that it’s more embarrassing to say it wasn’t.

“It’s fine,” Satoru continues. “If it really was bad. I’m sure it’s way better when you’re kissing someone you’re actually interested in. But just—say something. Please.”

Why is he so reluctant to drop this? And why is he so desperate for an answer?

Suguru closes his eyes again. The vodka is slowly starting to permeate into his blood, sending tidal waves of warmth through his body. Okay. Okay, he can do this. He tears himself away from the counter and reluctantly, silently, returns to Satoru’s side on the couch. He takes a few nervous breaths in, remembers that he really needs to say something, that he kind of owes it to him, that he can’t keep ignoring this—it’ll only continue to get worse, as it already has. 

“It wasn’t…bad,” he ventures to say, like water trickling through a dam, threatening to burst if it doesn’t escape soon enough. Oh god. Another wave of heat surges his body, more intense than the last—is it embarrassment or the alcohol? 

Satoru stares at him expectantly, obviously still yearning for an explanation. How much detail does he need? His eyes are unrelenting, as if searching for something. Suguru bites at the inside of his cheek and forces himself to look away. He’s still much too sober for this. And he’s beginning to think there might not be a level of inebriation to even make it tolerable. 

“I don’t normally do that sort of thing,” he feels he has to clarify—because kissing his decade-long crush in a moment of rash confidence, in a bathroom, certainly shouldn’t be considered normal, or even acceptable. 

“I’d hope not,” laughs Satoru, easy and mild. 

What does he mean?

No, Suguru can’t get ahead of himself. That’s what got him here in the first place. But, oh. Satoru unabashedly wraps a hand around his bicep, fingers only pressing delicately. The touch is positively going to melt Suguru’s skin under its heat, it’s positively going to make him disintegrate. He suddenly can’t remember what he’d planned to say next. 

“Okay, no more questions.” Satoru’s grip tightens, declaring its deliberateness and driving the air out of Suguru’s lungs. “I’ll help you get to bed.”

No, god no. His entire body is tingling with the euphoria of that touch, blood is rushing lower. How could he even think to sleep like this? But Satoru’s hands are pulling on his arm, then wrapping around his waist, then guiding him up. And Suguru can’t help but lean into it, savor it for these last few moments. He lets Satoru pull him away, lead him to the spare room, and it’s only now he realizes how astonishingly wasted he is—maybe in part due to Satoru’s touch. 

When he’s sitting on his bed and Satoru is standing before him, he’s burning hot, burning with the weight of a thousand things left unsaid. He can’t sleep like this, he won’t. And, god, of course Satoru has to sit beside him on the bed. Of course he can’t show some compassion and let Suguru suffer alone. He’s already distracted himself by undoing the sloppy bun in Suguru’s hair—a miracle that it’s even held on this long. His body is close enough to make Suguru forget how to breathe for a moment. He leans over to place the hair tie on the nightstand, chest coming into contact with Suguru’s thigh, and he’s laughing—only softly, almost like a whisper. 

“Your face is all red,” remarks Satoru, and Suguru’s first instinct is to cover it with his hands. “No, don’t do that.” Satoru pries them away by the wrists, holding onto them even after they’ve been successfully removed. “I just noticed, that’s all.”

Suguru is hopeless, so hopeless. He isn’t even trying to push Satoru’s hands away. He’s letting his wrists be held in place. Satoru scoots closer, raising one hand to pinch Suguru’s cheek. It’s cool against the heat radiating from his face. His body is relaxing under it, melting almost. 

And when Satoru goes to remove his hand, Suguru can’t help himself. “Don’t stop,” he pleads, forgetting why he would ever be scared to say such a thing. 

Satoru’s laughter fills his chest to bursting with a sunny warmth, blooming out into his extremities. “You really like it, huh?”

No, I like you. Suguru aches for more, aches for Satoru’s other hand to grab his hips or somewhere lower. He can’t clear his mind of the thought. 

“Mm,” is all he can manage to get out. He lets the weight of his head rest on Satoru’s hand. If he says anything else, he swears he’ll fold. He will fall head first and have his atoms split to pieces, never to be seen again. 

Satoru, more cautious than he’s ever seen him, lifts his other hand and brushes away the strands of hair clinging to Suguru’s face. It hesitates there, thumb tracing over the faint remnants of a scar on his forehead. Everything about him is soft. His presence, the look on his face, his touch, the words that come next. 

“I’m sorry I let this happen to you.” His soft expression from before is now tainted by the wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows and the distant look filling his eyes. “It’s my fault.”

Suguru can’t help but feel perplexed. What’s he talking about? The alcohol?

Seeming to notice his confusion, Satoru elaborates, “Your possession. I know about what your girls did, but…” He hesitates, pain wavering in his eyes like a riptide. “I should’ve done something—I should’ve guessed.”

“That’s not your fault.” Suguru turns to rest his head on Satoru’s shoulder, suddenly feeling an instinctual urge to comfort him. He wraps his arms around Satoru’s waist. “They’re old enough to take a little blame, you know.”

He noticed it before but he’s noticing it again like it’s entirely new. Satoru is always quick to assume the blame for things, shouldering it all like it’s second nature. It’s impossible to imagine the labyrinth his mind must be to so frequently reach conclusions like this. 

One of Satoru’s hands gingerly comes to rest on Suguru’s arm, like he’s trying to hold it in place, to hold Suguru there for a little longer.

“I still let them—”

Suguru places a finger to Satoru’s lips to silence him. Only a second has passed but he’s already incredibly reluctant to move the finger. He settles on letting the hand rest on Satoru’s cheek. 

“Don’t care, it’s still not your fault,” he mutters. 

His eyes are growing heavy and the gentle brush of Satoru’s fingers against his arm certainly isn’t helping. He’s drowning in golden rays of warmth like those on a summer afternoon. But it’s actually just Satoru, he realizes, who feels like perpetual summer. Warm and bright, steady and ever-present. How could he ever think to want anything else?

And at some point, his eyes close. At some point, he falls asleep on Satoru. And he can swear, even in his heavy drunken sleep, that he felt Satoru kiss his forehead. 

Shoko’s message came as a surprise the next morning. Suguru had to read and reread it a few times to make sure he wasn’t having some kind of hungover hallucination—which has never happened to him before, but who’s to say it couldn’t. But indeed it was real, clear as day. She actually asked him to come back and work as her assistant for the day—due to a mountain of paperwork, apparently. And, enthusiastically, Suguru obliged, relieved to finally have a reason to go somewhere that isn’t just a different room of Satoru’s apartment. 

At the school—after taking a ride with Satoru—he finds Shoko hunched over her desk. There’s no “mountain of paperwork” in sight and she’s instead looking at her phone, seeming bored as ever. At best, there are a few scattered papers and files across the top of her desk. He approaches her, hands awkwardly stuffed into his pockets. If there’s no paperwork, then what did she want him here so desperately for? She couldn’t have finished it before he got here either, she sent the message only an hour ago. 

Shoko tosses her phone down to the desk with a clatter. “Thank god you’re here,” she groans, sounding relieved more than anything. For what?

“I thought you said there was paperwork.” He sends her an inquiring glance. 

“Partially a lie.” She lets her chin drop onto her hand with a slightly gloomy look. “There’s paperwork, I’m just ignoring it. And I didn’t think you’d want to be stuck at that apartment any longer than you have to. You ran away for fuck’s sake.” She shakes her head at this. “Text me next time, idiot. Don’t think you’re trapped there.”

A surge of shame blankets him. Except it isn’t the shame she’s probably hoping for. It’s the shame of being found out, the shame from hearing her mention it so casually. What good could reaching out to her have possibly done when he was already mired in apathy and detachment? Nothing, he’s certain of it. “Running away” was only the method, its entire purpose was to prove something to Satoru—and partially to himself—which it certainly did. Satoru at least knows he doesn’t have full control. Hiding at Shoko’s wouldn’t have accomplished that. 

Still, he pushes it down and offers her a weak smile. Some things are better kept secret. “I’m sorry.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re sorry—that’s it? That’s all you’re going to say about it?” Her expression is unmistakably one of concern, easy to miss if he wasn’t so used to it by now. “I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, fine. But don’t think you have to keep it to yourself.”

“It’s really nothing.” He can only smile so much to maintain this facade of calm. Any more and he’ll start worrying her. 

She grimaces. “You and Gojo both. You won’t talk about this shit to save your life. You’re not a prisoner of war, in case you forgot.”

Pretty damn close, actually. But that’s not what she meant. 

“Anyway.” She finally stands from the desk, her fingers trailing over the edges. She lingers there for a moment before approaching him, her face growing solemn. “I looked into it more and I think there’s something you should know about those episodes you’re having.”

His eyes suddenly widen. The previously casual atmosphere of the room is quickly growing colder. 

He cautions to ask, “What about them?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she traipses to the door of the infirmary and beckons him with a wave of her finger. That serious? The muscles in his abdomen tense in response, anticipating something near world-shattering. 

“I’ll tell you outside. Can’t smoke in here,” she laughs, her tone suddenly bearing none of the weight from before. 

Seriously? He’d rather hear it all now, get it over with. At least then he might be able to enjoy a cigarette with her—rather than sitting there with his heart in his throat and his limbs frostbitten with nervousness. Begrudgingly, he follows her. She takes him through some back way out to a courtyard that’s hidden from the rest of the school. It’s the first time he’s seen such a place, and he assumed he’d seen everything at the school. But this place hardly seems memorable. It’s dilapidated and fairly bleak—probably why this is where Shoko chooses to smoke. Boxes and crates are stacked along the walls and a few stray leaves scatter across the ground. It has the feeling of an abandoned shipyard, he thinks. All that’s missing is a body of water. 

Shoko leans against a wall and lights up a cigarette between her slender fingers. There’s a slight air of poignance to her silence. 

He side eyes her, unable to stomach the thought of waiting much longer. “You were going to say something.”

Her first response to this is a short exhale through her nose, then a long drag from her cigarette. “You’re probably gonna die,” she finally says, smoke escaping her lips with each word. “I haven’t told Gojo yet. He might be the type to shoot the messenger over this kind of thing.”

His mouth instantly goes dry, a metallic taste slowly taking over. He can’t even think to laugh at the offhanded comment about Satoru as he usually would. This. Fucking. Sucks.

She doesn’t seem to be taking it well either. Her eyebrows are twitching and she’s staring at the ground. Not good. If she’s faltering in her stoicism, how can he be anything but uneasy? His hearing is dulling to a shrill buzz and he has to remind himself to breathe. But death is inevitable, and her answer is so concise that it’s unclear when exactly. So maybe she doesn’t mean soon. All he can do is stare at her blankly, eyes wide, and maybe hope for some elaboration. 

Shoko stands beside him in silence. She flicks the ash from her cigarette, twists the lighter in her other hand, then pockets it. She’s hesitant, or maybe there really isn’t anything else she wants to add. 

The first time he anticipated death, it wasn’t so shocking. He’d had years to come to terms with it. He could sit comfortably with the thought by the time he took his last breath. But now, somehow, all of that mental preparation has vanished. He’s at the mercy of Shoko’s overly-blunt assessments, hanging onto every movement of her hands and shift in her face for a shred of hope. It’s really a pathetic state. And her insistence on smoking rather than talking is just making things worse. 

On the third time during this prolonged silence that she raises the cigarette to her lips, she hesitates. She seems to be turning something over in her mind. 

“There’s a chance you’ll be okay.” Her expression is becoming grimmer. “Just don’t get your hopes up.” She crosses an arm over her chest and places it beneath the other that’s bent to keep the cigarette near her lips. “The way I see it, you only have two options if you don’t want to die.”

His eyes immediately light up at this. It’s the tiniest crumb of relief, it’s an oasis in the middle of a scorching desert. He’s desperate for something, anything.

“And those are?” he urges her to continue. 

“One, you find out what’s causing it and stop doing…whatever it is. Or two, we remove whatever it is that’s possessing you—I just can’t guarantee that’ll be safe.”

With gritted teeth, his heart sinks again—lower this time. So much for that. Option two is immediately ruled out. He’ll die without a brain. It’s no different than letting himself die of the possession itself. It’s actually almost laughable to even consider. Option one is…plausible, though. If he can find a pattern in the previous episodes, that is. The only thing he’s sure of is that it’s Kenjaku’s doing. Beyond that—why it happens, when he’s vulnerable, how to stop it—he has no clue. 

“Your body and soul are sustaining some serious damage from whatever these are. You’ve got maybe another one or two to go before you’re done. Game over, lights out.” She moves her thumb across her neck to make the point. “So make your choice. Don’t go dying on me again.”

He looks down at the ground and briefly smiles. Her amiable chiding is the closest she’ll ever get to showing him platonic affection.

“I’ll try. But no promises,” he says, quirking an eyebrow—half serious, half in jest. 

One thing is abundantly clear.

“Damn right you’ll try.” She smacks his shoulder. “Show a little compassion for me.”

Satoru can’t know. 

Chapter Text

The next time Shoko asks Suguru to come into the infirmary seems more genuine. This time there’s actually work, and this time she seems a little more upbeat than usual. The two are definitely not related. She’s sitting at a table in the break room, engrossed in her phone. She hasn’t moved since he arrived. 

“Something happen?” he wonders aloud. 

“Not really.” She doesn’t glance up from her phone as she answers. She’s staring at it with exuberance written all over her face. He attempts to get a glimpse at the screen but she quickly maneuvers to shield it from him. “Go start on the files, I’ll be there in a minute.”

It’s Utahime. It’s definitely Utahime. And whatever it is, he’d probably be happier not knowing. He retreats to the infirmary and makes himself comfortable at the desk. Files and papers cover the entire usable surface. It’s chaos, to put it bluntly. Nothing like the day before and somewhat impressive that it isn’t.

He takes his time sorting through the mess—seeing that Shoko clearly isn’t in a rush herself. Loose papers in one pile, files in another. Shoko can deal with the rest. He even goes to the trouble of putting all her pens back into the cup they came from. It takes a total of thirty minutes to turn the desk into something a little less anxiety-inducing. And it’s noticeable enough to actually elicit a reaction from Shoko when she finally joins him in the infirmary. 

“God, you’re efficient,” she remarks, an eyebrow raised. 

He laughs slightly. “I think I have to be if I’m your ‘assistant.’”

And if he wants a reason not to be stuck in Satoru’s apartment every hour of every day. 

She smiles and shakes her head. “You want to help me clean some stuff then?”

He follows her to the other end of the infirmary where a collection of scintillating silver devices rests on a towel beside the sink. Used, he presumes. He reaches to pick one up but Shoko hastily smacks his hand away. 

“Those need to be sterilized. Don’t touch them,” she scolds. “Just help me wipe down the surfaces.”

His hand burns with the force of that slap, shrinking back from the impact. She hands him a wipe and points to the counter. Careful to avoid the unsterile devices this time, he begins wiping down the laminate surface. So much for his earlier efficiency. Shoko takes to cleaning one of the metal tray tables, entirely facing away from him now. Probably better that way. He’s taking an embarrassing amount of care to clean this counter. 

“Was it Utahime?”

Does he really need to ask? He knows the answer. It’s the only person who could possibly distract her. 

“Maybe,” she huffs, sounding a little taken aback. “Why do you care?”

“I thought we were friends,” he groans, slightly over-exaggerated. It’s a page out of Satoru’s book for these types of situations. “So is she your girlfriend yet?”

Even with her back to him, he can tell she’s flustered. She’s scrubbing the tray table harder and remaining silent. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs. 

She clicks her tongue at him. “What about that toxic crush of yours? You get anywhere with it?” There’s a hint of pettiness to her words like the prick of a needle. 

It’s his turn to be flustered now. The hand he was going to use to wipe down the sink momentarily pauses and his cheeks quickly grow hot. He’d started to think she might’ve forgotten—maybe a little too hopefully. He scrubs the sink harder.

“No.”

Aside from the kiss, that is. But that hardly counts. Satoru practically ignored him for almost a week after—that’s hardly “getting anywhere,” and it probably never will. Probably not even a fraction of the way. The kiss was the summit and everything else will fall embarrassingly short of it. He’s back to exactly net zero.

So that should be good enough, right? It’s not like her to press for details about his personal life. 

She hums out a response—a little mockingly, if he’s not mistaken. “Such a shame. I can’t ask you to go on a double date with us tonight then. We could’ve gotten a discount on our drinks for that.” She casts him a mournful glance. 

He wants to roll his eyes at this, make fun of her feigned disappointment, but a part of him really does wish she’d invited him. Any excuse to stay out is a good one. 

“Can I still come?” He looks back at her, pleadingly. This time she meets his gaze. “I’ll bring Satoru so I’m not, uh, third-wheeling.”

The corners of her lips twitch and she quickly raises a hand to cover them. Her eyes fold into crescents as a laugh escapes. “You sure he’s not your—” She cuts herself off with another burst of laughter, clutching at her stomach in an attempt to calm herself. “Okay, okay, never mind. Just, heh, keep him in check.”

Not my…what?

“Yeah, got it,” he groans.

Out of the corner of his eye, something flashes by the door. It’s too quick to make out what it is. A flurry of light then dark. He shakes his head and returns to cleaning the sink. Likely a lingering effect of the last episode. His eyes have felt a little off. 

“It’s a bar. Just so you know,” Shoko adds. “Kind of a fancy one too, so please don’t let Gojo act like an idiot. And you too.”

This time he rolls his eyes. Shoko can be such a fucking ass sometimes. 

He spends the rest of the day helping her clean various things around the infirmary. She shows him how to use the autoclave for sterilizing tools, how to make the beds, and where to put the discarded sheets. She eventually leaves the rest of the cleaning to him because of a supposedly “important” phone call—more than likely Utahime. His back aches from the repetitive motions and his hair is uncomfortably damp with sweat. The lack of activity from being confined for so long is truly paying off—and it’s fucking humiliating. 

When the day finally comes to an end, he’s ready to fall on the floor from exhaustion. His discomfort has reached its peak. The only thing keeping him upright currently is the fear of making Shoko think he’s not well enough to do this—that he’s weak. It would be supremely embarrassing to be fired from a job this easy. 

Shoko pulls off her lab coat and drapes it over the desk chair. Her long-sleeved top and black slacks make it seem like this date was planned well in advance. He almost feels a little bad for tagging along now. 

“Utahime said she’ll meet us there. Go find Gojo so we can leave.”

Still struggling to catch his breath, he can only manage a nod. 

In the hallway outside the infirmary, he finally allows himself to take deeper, heavier breaths. It’s impossible to imagine going back to being a sorcerer with stamina like this. Fucking pathetic. He pushes his bangs out of his face and leans against the wall. Satoru can’t see him like this, he can’t know about the sorry state he’s currently in—because that’s the only thing worse than letting Shoko see. He presses his back into the wall to keep his posture straight and stares up at the ceiling. His breathing is finally beginning to slow. He uses the sleeve of his sweatshirt to pat his face dry and finally sets off to look for Satoru. 

The school is large and Satoru’s whereabouts aren’t exactly predictable. And if Suguru hadn’t left his phone in the infirmary, he might’ve been able to call and ask. Blame it on the exhaustion. He’s still struggling to think straight. 

Halfway up the stairs in one of the buildings, a familiar voice drifts down. It’s then followed by another, less familiar one. Suguru knits his brows together and walks in the direction of the two voices. Suddenly, asking Satoru to come with him doesn’t sound like such a good idea—to an upscale bar, no less, somewhere he can’t even enjoy himself. At least the arcade bar had more to offer than just alcohol. Maybe he should just go back and tell Shoko he’s changed his mind. Staying inside another night can’t be all that bad. 

“Looking for me?” Satoru’s head peeks out from one of the doorways. He’s wearing his usual playful grin. 

It’s a little too late before Suguru realizes how awkward he must look. His hair is still messy and slicked back with sweat, and he’s been staring off into the distance for god knows how long. He desperately wishes to fold himself up into a paper airplane and fly out of an open window. 

“Yeah, um.” He uses his hand to smooth over the strands of hair sticking up—of which there are many. 

Another head pokes out from behind Satoru. Pink hair and about the same age as the black-haired one—Megumi, that was his name—that came by Satoru’s apartment. Great. He’s got an audience for this now. The pink-haired boy whispers something to Satoru but Satoru just waves him away. And now both pairs of eyes are trained on him, patiently waiting for him to continue. 

Suguru clears his throat and attempts to compose his thoughts again. He has to force himself to look away from them. It was bad enough with only Satoru watching. 

“Shoko invited us to go out with her and Utahime.” He furrows his brows. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but she wants to leave. Now.”

Another smile spreads across Satoru’s face. He turns to the pink-haired boy behind him. “We’ll finish talking about it tomorrow.” He waves to the boy and turns toward Suguru. “Geez, you look rough,” he mutters, stepping closer.

If he wanted to fold himself into a paper airplane before, he’d now like to fold himself out of existence entirely. “Are you coming or not?” he snaps.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go,” groans Satoru. He steps closer and brushes a hand over the top of Suguru’s head. “Is Shoko working you to death or something?”

Suguru swats his hand away. “Shut up. Let’s just go.”

He leads Satoru back to the infirmary. And he doesn’t realize how long this hunt for Satoru actually took until he’s met with a scathing glare from Shoko. She seems ready to kill them both. The look in her eyes is downright murderous. She positively drags them out to the chauffeured car, grumbling about how late they’re going to be. Suguru makes it a point to avoid eye contact with her until they get to the bar, occasionally exchanging pained looks with Satoru when her complaining becomes too egregious. 

Utahime occupies a booth not far from the entrance. She’s wearing a dark red dress—one that a red wine spill could camouflage in—and gazing sullenly at the martini glass in front of her. Shoko rushes over and squeezes in next to her. Her gloom vanishes for a second but quickly returns when her eyes land on Satoru. Shoko quickly says something to her that causes it to disappear again, and then they’re both laughing. 

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” she says to Shoko as he and Satoru take their seats across from them. She downs the last sip from her martini glass and slides it away from herself. “You know, you two would make such a cute couple.”

Suguru winces at the mention of ‘couple.’ She’s obviously teasing, she’s not being serious. But that doesn’t stop his face from turning a deep shade of scarlet. She criticizes Satoru for being unfiltered but she’s just as brazen. And to make matters worse, Satoru’s arm finds its way around his waist. 

“Don’t you think?” Satoru pulls him closer, tighter. 

And Suguru’s mind goes blank. His breathing falters, forcing out an unintended gasp. He’s frozen to the spot. Fucking Satoru. Fucking Satoru. Both Utahime and Shoko are staring at him now, clearly suppressing the urge to laugh. The option to spontaneously combust would really come in handy right now. 

All Utahime says is, “See?”

Satoru loosens the grip of his arm but doesn’t remove it. He lets his arm droop lower, hooks one of his fingers through the belt loop on Suguru’s jeans. He’s completely made himself comfortable. And Suguru is anything but. His heart rate has spiked. Tiny volts of electricity are being sent through his body with Satoru’s hand there. He’s struggling to even comprehend the menu in front of him. He’s read the same drink description at least three times now—and it’s only the second in a long list. 

Shoko wasn’t lying about the discount. Drinks for double dates are half off after the first round—no word on how they’re enforcing this either. Of course she’d jump at that. He reluctantly allows himself to relax into Satoru’s grasp upon noticing this. It’s only for Shoko’s sake.

Satoru stares at the menu with him and pouts. He reaches to flip the menu over but Suguru presses his wrist down to hold it in place. He’s only at the fourth drink on the list. And if a certain person could keep his hands to himself, maybe he’d be done reading by now. 

He finally settles on a drink that doesn’t seem overly complicated. Vodka, Blue Curaçao, and orange juice—named “blue summer.” Blue drinks haven’t been sounding so bad lately. They’ve sounded good, even. Maybe in part influenced by the blue concoction he had at the arcade bar. He passes this along to Shoko who eventually extricates herself from Utahime’s arms to place an order at the bar. When she comes back, she’s carrying a metal table marker with a number engraved on it. This must be how they’re checking which parties qualify as “double dates.”

Satoru’s arm still hasn’t moved from his lower back. Even as they’re engrossed in conversation—something about a mole at the school, Utahime planning to stay in Tokyo longer—it remains in place, steadily pressing into him. It almost seems a little protective. And if he weren’t already so familiar with Satoru’s penchant for teasing him, he might have mistaken it for that. Where Satoru got the idea to pick such a persistent way of messing with him is a total mystery. He’s clueless about the discount. 

Utahime clings to Shoko’s side, her cheek pressing firmly against her shoulder. “I’ll get to spend every night sleeping next to you,” she coos, still going on about staying in Tokyo. Her hand drifts along Shoko’s jaw. “And I’ll make us breakfast in the morning.”

Suguru wants to gag, and Satoru clearly does too. Neither are particularly keen on witnessing this. Satoru’s hand even begins to loosen its hold on the belt loop. He eventually removes it entirely to cover the bottom of his face in childish disgust, leaving Suguru to silently grapple with the loss—and no conceivable way of getting it back either. 

When the drinks finally arrive, his turns out to be larger than anticipated. The glass is a little over half the size of his forearm—probably a way to decrease the number of people getting the discount, no need for a second round if the first is this large. Shoko is also regarding it with a degree of shock. Her eyes have widened a little and she’s leaning in closer to look at it. 

“You sure you’ll be able to finish it all?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I can help if you want.”

Suguru bears an awkward smile and rubs the back of his neck. Finishing it isn’t the problem, it’s where his mind will be when he does. If it were just him, Shoko, and Utahime, he wouldn’t be so on edge about it. Drinking around Satoru just—it doesn’t go well. But maybe it’ll be different outside of Satoru’s apartment. He has to maintain some level of dignity in public. 

“I’ll be fine.” He waves a hand and then takes his first sip, a long, exaggerated one to make the point. Shoko shrugs and turns to her own drink.

It’s sweet, really fucking sweet. And when it goes down, it burns stronger with the combined acidity of alcohol and orange juice. His eyes begin to water from the sensation. The second sip is less shocking to the senses, and the third makes him forget it ever took him by surprise. It’s halfway through the drink before he starts to feel any symptoms of intoxication—and they’re only minimal: a subtle warmth, a haziness to his thoughts. No sign yet of that wretched desire to stick to Satoru like glue. 

By the second round of drinks—he decided on something significantly less sweet—he considers himself completely safe. Sitting beside Satoru isn’t doing anything to him this time. Nothing in the slightest. In fact, Satoru has even kept to himself. He hasn’t tried any of his usual mischief. 

“I want to go out somewhere,” whines Utahime. 

Shoko, hardly seeming like she drank at all, only rolls her eyes. “We’re already out.”

“Outside, Shoko. I want to go outdoors. Please?”

Suguru fails to resist the urge to laugh. Her drunken helplessness is truly a sight to behold. He glances over at Satoru—his reaction to this should be even more amusing. 

But Satoru isn’t laughing, or smiling, or even paying attention. He’s staring down at his glorified soda, cheek resting in his hand and a distant look in his eyes. He doesn’t look up the first time Suguru taps against his leg to get his attention, it’s only after the second time. 

Shoko and Utahime’s conversation begins to fade from his hearing as Satoru looks up at him. He seems a little caught off guard, a little disgruntled. His hair has been pushed away from his forehead, giving him a bit of an exasperated aura. And fuck. Would it be wrong to think he looks hotter like this?

Suguru has to blink a few times and eventually look away before he can recall why he even disturbed Satoru in the first place. Right. Utahime was acting like a child and he found it funny. He wanted Satoru’s reaction. But now Utahime and Shoko are climbing out of the booth and Utahime is no longer drunkenly whining about her dilemma. There’s nothing to see. 

Satoru seems a little confused. “Are we leaving?”

“We’re going to a park,” Utahime exclaims, holding onto Shoko for support. 

“After we pay,” Shoko reminds her. 

When did they mention going to a park? Suguru, after some hesitation, slides out of the booth as well. He’s still not ready to go back to Satoru’s just yet. He supposes he could go to a park. 

Satoru quietly steps around him. He picks up the table marker and fidgets with it in his hands. “I can take care of it. I’ll just meet you guys there. The one across the street, right?”

Utahime groans, then laughs, then has to steady herself against Shoko again. “Since when do you offer to pay? I begged you for, like, weeks to pay me back for that dress you ruined with your drink.”

It takes a moment to process what she said. And even longer to attempt to calculate the amount Satoru has spent on him without batting an eye—he gives up after only a few seconds. 

Shoko casts a disapproving glance at her. “‘Thank you’ is what she meant to say. And yeah.” She looks back at Satoru. “The one across the street. Thanks again.”

Suguru looks between her and Satoru, still struggling with this revelation. Is it because of him? Is that why Satoru’s offering? Shoko and Utahime lead him out of the bar before he can think to ask. 

The night air is cool as it washes over him. He follows closely behind Shoko and Utahime at first but quickly loses them after entering the park. Utahime is speaking loudly, almost tumbling over herself as she pulls Shoko along. They disappear into the dimly lit greenery, leaving Suguru hundreds of paces behind by this point. 

He first tries to wait it out—Shoko can’t want to let her stay out too long. But after a minute of silence and no signs of movement from the direction they went, he finally decides to take a seat on the grass. And, god. It’s damp, covered in dew drops from earlier showers. His jeans have already absorbed some of it and blades of grass stick to his hands with the moisture as their adhesive. Too late now, he figures. Walking around will just make him colder. 

Satoru seems to find the park with ease. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his uniform’s jacket. But what causes Suguru’s gaze to linger is the sullen look he’s still wearing. He seems to correct it when he realizes Suguru is staring—he waves and smiles more cheerfully. And he doesn’t let this cheerfulness lapse when he sits beside Suguru on the wet grass.

“Aren’t there benches or something?” Satoru is looking down and inspecting the grass now. “Or do you actually like sitting in this stuff?”

“Obviously not,” Suguru groans. “And it looked fine until I sat down—for your information.”

Satoru then looks around the empty park. “Did those idiots really just leave you behind?”

He silently nods. ‘Idiots,’ as in Shoko and Utahime—which it indeed seems they have. They haven’t come back looking for him and he doubts they will. Not until they’re done with whatever it is they’re doing. 

“Assholes,” Satoru grumbles. “At least you made it easy for me to find you, ha.”

Suguru cautions a glance at him. He’s already made himself comfortable. He’s leaning back into the grass on his elbows and staring up at the sky over the top of his sunglasses. The sodium street lights lining the path in front of them cast a soft, warm glow over his features. Even his cool complexion is now radiating the heat of summer—in October. Strands of his ivory hair appear to float in the gentle breeze, breathing with each gust’s rise and fall. He looks as serene as ever. 

And Suguru is quickly, painfully aware of how he himself must look next to such brilliance. His slipping updo, his grass-littered jeans, his dark circles, and the faint lines of a scar on his forehead—undoubtedly exaggerated by the angle of the street lights. It would be laughable to anyone passing by. 

So he forces himself to look away, think about something different. But—maybe because a side effect of being possessed is the inability to control his thoughts—it all comes back to Satoru. 

“Why’d you offer to pay?”

Disappointingly, it's the only other topic he can manage to think of—the only one he’s comfortable bringing up, that is. 

Satoru moves his head slightly to look over at him, eyebrow raised and lips parted like he might laugh. The serenity that he embodied seconds earlier vanishes completely. 

“‘Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to’—didn’t you tell me that, like, all the time back in the day?” he chides, and Suguru blushes with embarrassment. “Let me have a few secrets of my own, ‘kay?”

Suguru can’t bring himself to make eye contact. The fuck does that mean? And since when is Satoru so…mysterious? He overshares more than anything. 

Satoru pushes up from his relaxed position and sits upright in the same way that Suguru is. Legs bent at the knees and arms draped over them. 

“You know what I heard?” He suddenly reaches out and tugs at the sleeve of Suguru’s sweatshirt. “That you have a crush.”

Blood drains from Suguru’s face.

“And not to pry,” Satoru continues, still tugging at Suguru’s sleeve. Of course he means to pry. He always wants to, is bound to with something like this. “But why’d you tell Shoko before me?”

He’s at a loss for words. This can’t be happening. He grits his teeth, nearly biting his tongue in the process. And his hesitance only allows Satoru to fill the silence with more nonsense. 

“So who is it? It’s a guy, right? ‘Cause you’re—you know. Or did our kiss make you straight? Don’t look at me like that, it’s a valid question.”

Suguru forces a deep breath in and pinches the bridge of his nose to stall the oncoming headache. “It doesn’t work like that,” he groans. “And for the thousandth time, I’m not only attracted to men. How many more times do I need to say it?”

Suddenly, he’s no longer anxious or embarrassed about it. Satoru has managed to make him irritated instead. And this is exactly why he didn’t want to tell Satoru first, or at all—barring the fact that he’s this mystery crush. Because the way he’s inclined to answer all of these stupid questions is by crashing his lips into Satoru’s and making him gasp for air, pinning him to the grass and keeping him from speaking another word. And none of that would be acceptable in such a public space, especially not with the risk of Shoko and Utahime walking by. 

Instead, he uses the same, lame excuse that Satoru just used. “I’m allowed to have secrets too, in case you forgot. You won’t tell me why you’re paying, I’m not telling you about this. We’re even.”

“Not fair,” Satoru whines. He starts to look a little defeated. “It’s stupid anyway. You don’t wanna know.”

Suguru glares at him, unimpressed. “Then so is this.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” he relents. He makes a performance of resting his head on his hand, sounding exhausted as ever. “I just feel like I should…you know, when it’s for you.”

Not exactly the most profound revelation, but it still catches Suguru off guard. Why is that what Satoru was so reluctant to say? Fuck, he’s even—is he blushing? Suguru forces himself to look away. Simply catching sight of it is already doing unimaginable things to him. 

Suguru clears his throat and adjusts his expression. 

“Plus, you’re uh—” Satoru rubs the back of his neck and looks off to the side. “Pretty poor right now.”

Suguru nearly wheezes. How does he always manage to ruin these otherwise heartfelt moments? It’s fucking baffling. 

“Your turn,” Satoru urges, leaving no time to discuss the previous statement. “Who’s this crush?”

Dread immediately settles in Suguru's chest. Nope. No way he’s telling Satoru something as specific as that. That’s not a fair trade-off for his own vague answer. 

“I’ll tell you about him, not who—”

“So it is a guy,” Satoru interrupts, unmistakably excited. 

“Do you want me to continue or not?” he groans, and Satoru closes his mouth. “I thought so.”

He hesitates for a moment. What he hadn’t thought of is how exactly he’s supposed to explain this without giving it away entirely. Every second of silence he spends trying to figure this out is another that Satoru’s intense gaze burns into him. 

“I’ve…liked him for a while.” He’s already off to a rocky start. “And he definitely doesn’t feel the same—which is fine. He pisses me off and makes me want to pull my hair out. But he also feels like…” He pauses to consider the next word. “Home.”

So cliche. So, so cliche. But nothing identifying. 

Satoru’s expression falters. He’s no longer looking at Suguru. Instead, he’s staring off into the distance and seemingly lost in thought. 

But the first words out of his mouth are, “No wonder Shoko called it toxic.”

Suguru’s eyebrow twitches. Was Satoru listening in on their conversation earlier? He suddenly recalls the flash of something by the infirmary door. He’d assumed it was just his eyes playing tricks on him, but now…well, maybe it was real. It sure seems more likely than Shoko ever gossiping to Satoru about something. What a fucking headache.

“Is that why you don’t like me bringing up the time we kissed?” Satoru asks. 

“No,” he answers honestly. The problem is the way he brings it up—okay, and maybe that he even brings it up at all. “And how did you even—”

“Whatever, whatever.” Satoru waves his hand around to dismiss the question. “I’m happy for you.”

It hardly sounds sincere, and the optimist in Suguru thinks it sounds a little like jealousy. But more realistically—and ironically—it’s probably the fear that Suguru supposedly has someone else to pay attention to. 

“Thank y…” Suguru’s voice trails off as his attention drifts over to the other end of the park. Shoko and Utahime have finally emerged. He waves them over. 

And what a mess they are—or, more specifically, Utahime. Leaves and twigs cling to her hair and dress, and her stockings are ripped in multiple places. She looks like she escaped from a mountain somewhere. Shoko isn’t exactly pristine either. The changes to her appearance are just less jarring. One sleeve is pulled up higher than the other and her hair harbors a few leaves of its own. It’s hard not to laugh at the sight.

Satoru is staring at them in shock. “Did you guys bang in a tree or something?”

“Close,” Utahime giggles, clinging to Shoko’s arm like the last time he saw them. She doesn’t bother explaining how close exactly. 

Shoko is avoiding their gazes. She seems highly embarrassed at the mention of this. She’s aggressively running a hand through her hair and trying to get the leaves out. To think he felt bad for just the thought of making out with Satoru in a public place—while they were doing this. He’s embarrassed on Shoko’s behalf. 

The chauffeured drive back is equally awkward. Satoru manages to spend the entire ride pestering Utahime about it—which she surprisingly plays along with—then, when he gets bored of this, tries the same on Shoko—who does not pay him any mind. And if Satoru wasn’t sitting up front, Suguru would have strangled him by now. It’s agonizing to bear witness to.

Back at the penthouse, Satoru’s energy seems to have dulled to a more manageable level. He isn’t yelling or joking around any longer. He only quietly moves through the apartment. He’s about to enter his bedroom when he stops suddenly, nearly causing Suguru to collide with him. 

“Are we never gonna sleep in the same bed again?” He sounds a little mournful as he continues, “You know, because of your crush.”

What? He’s still thinking about that? Suguru lets out an irritated sigh. Maybe being vague was actually not such a good idea after all. He pinches the bridge of his nose and contemplates how to address this. 

But Satoru keeps going, “In my opinion, it’s fine. We’re best friends and whoever this guy is should probably get used to that. I’m not going anywhere.

“Plus, he probably doesn’t know as much about you as I do.” Satoru crosses his arms over his chest. “I bet he doesn’t even know how you like your coffee—half milk, one spoonful of sugar, and then you let it sit until the steam disappears.”

The grip Suguru’s fingers have on his nose is silently becoming strong enough to send ripples of pain throughout his face. Even if it’s a little impressive Satoru got it right, he doesn’t know how much longer he can realistically endure this. 

“Don’t you think you should’ve introduced me to him? I’m pretty sure that’s what best friends are supposed to do. Don’t look so angry. You know I have a point.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Suguru groans.

“If you let me meet him I wouldn’t have to ask you all of this. Does he even know about me?”

Satoru’s gaze is boring a hole right through him. It’s both unsettling and incredibly annoying. Both feelings Satoru excels at inflicting. 

“Can we please just talk about something else?”

Actually, he’d prefer not talking about anything at all. He’s done more than enough of that already—too much actually. 

“Not until you tell me more about him. It’s not fair Shoko gets to know more than me.”

An exasperated sigh escapes Suguru’s chest. This was truly a mistake. He closes his eyes and tips his head back. “What do you want to know?”

Or more accurately, what will shut him up?

“Okay, okay,” Satoru perks up. “How do you know him?”

Suguru indistinctly answers, “School.”

And of course that’s not enough for Satoru. 

“Which one?”

“One of them.”

“Come on,” Satoru pleads, tugging at his sweatshirt line before. “At least tell me his name.”

There’s really no escape. Suguru agitatedly rubs his thumb against his forehead. A name, a name. Should he just make one up?

“Wait, do I know him?” Satoru interjects. The name question is temporarily on hold it seems. 

Suguru offers a noncommittal nod. His patience is wearing razor-thin. Coming clean about it almost seems a better option. 

“Really?” Satoru asks excitedly. The enthusiasm in his expression is evident from his tone. He’s treating it like some playful investigation, not the intense interrogation it really is. “You have to tell me now.”

Suguru is on the verge of vomiting. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t—”

“Stop,” he finally snaps. “You’re not fucking getting it.”

Satoru’s blabbering comes to a screeching halt. His mouth hangs ajar for a moment but quickly snaps it shut. His focus is completely locked on Suguru. And maybe that’s what’s making this next part so much harder to get out. He has to force himself to look away. 

“I’m in love with you. Not some random guy that doesn’t know anything about me,” Suguru regretfully continues. “You. And right now, I’m really wishing I wasn’t.”

Satoru’s eyes are as wide as saucers. Not a single muscle in his face moves. Not for seconds, and not for what feels like a minute. He’s completely dumbstruck. To make matters worse, he isn’t even showing a hint of emotion. 

And Suguru quickly remembers something. Isn’t Satoru seeing someone? He hasn’t been acting like it lately, but that’s not really the best metric. If he is, then this conversation is extremely inappropriate. 

Suguru clears his throat. “I’m not trying to be a homewrecker—if you’re already seeing someone.” He stares off to the side, away from Satoru’s piercing gaze. He continues, a little unevenly, “Forget I, uh, said anything.”

He ruined this, didn’t he? It’s taking all his effort not to just up and run away right now, or hide in the spare room. Anywhere that isn’t here, frankly. Because if Satoru wasn’t bothered by it or—god forbid—felt the same, he would’ve said something by now. He at least would’ve done something other than standing there silently. Right? Even visceral rejection or disgust would be easier to handle. 

Suguru turns with the intent of locking himself away in the spare room for the foreseeable future—as much as he hated it before, it’s starting to seem very comforting right now. Much less stressful than this hallway. But a hand flies out to grab his wrist. It’s squeezing it with enough force that he doesn’t dare to move. He obediently allows himself to be pulled back, half expecting an argument or for an insult to be hurled at him. Better to just get it over with now. 

But instead, he’s pulled into Satoru’s chest. And in the next second, without a chance to catch his breath or figure out what’s happening, Satoru’s lips are pressed against his. 

Chapter Text

Suguru’s head is swimming. It takes little effort to wrap his arms around Satoru’s waist, and even less effort to reciprocate the kiss. This one isn’t so clumsy. And maybe that’s what makes it so much scarier. Satoru’s movements are decisive, more refined than before; he wants this. Right? Everything is happening too fast to figure out. It’s anaerobic and flashing by quicker than Suguru can keep up with. There’s an air of hunger, desperation that puts the first one to shame. 

But as suddenly as it started, it’s over. And Satoru is staring at him again—glassy-eyed and searching his face for something. His swollen lips are quivering like there’s something he wants to say but can’t quite get out. He’s incredibly human like this. Raw and vulnerable.

And somehow, in this moment, Suguru has the patience of a saint for him. He watches with trepidation, suddenly all too aware of how fragile he himself is right now. The slightest hint of rejection might shatter him into a million pieces.

“How long?” Satoru asks breathlessly.

The question takes him by surprise. He stares back with eyes equally as wide. His heart is in his throat. What exactly is Satoru asking about?

“How long—” Satoru repeats, his heavy breathing more evident. “Have you felt like that?”

Even with the kiss and everything preceding it, Suguru finds himself tongue-tied. His cheeks, his entire face burn crimson. He doesn’t dare to look at Satoru. He can hardly admit it to himself. It’s one thing to think about it in terms of something he can’t have. That was so much easier to stomach than the real thing.

“A while,” he says at first. Sensing Satoru’s gaze intensify, he begrudgingly murmurs out a shameful clarification, “Since high school.”

He expects Satoru to laugh, to make some kind of joke out of it—like he always does with these kinds of topics—but it never comes. And that really isn’t of any reassurance. He peeks at Satoru from the periphery of his vision after a few seconds of silence. The corners of his lips are pressed up into a different kind of smile than his usual. It’s something akin to awe, an expression Suguru isn’t actually sure he’s seen on Satoru before. 

And maybe because Suguru is letting his nerves get the better of him, the urge to backtrack and hide away for the foreseeable future is becoming stronger. Maybe Satoru is just playing along again. Maybe being so honest wasn’t such a good idea. It is weird after all. But before he can make any further attempt to minimize it, Satoru’s arms are pulling him closer, squeezing him tighter. 

“Fuck,” Satoru finally breathes out. He lets his head rest in the crook of Suguru’s neck, shallow breaths brushing against the skin. “You know that’s kinda crazy, right?”

“I’m aware.”

The muscles in Suguru’s jaw and back remain tense. Don’t assume it’s not rejection. Other than the kiss, Satoru hasn’t given the slightest hint of reciprocation or affirmation. Yet Suguru desperately clings to each word that leaves his mouth, frantically searching for some kind of absolute. Even the way Satoru holds onto him isn’t enough. He needs clarity. Ideally, by Satoru declaring something like “I feel the same, let’s keep making out.” Anything that would be less open to interpretation.

“Do you…” Suguru cuts himself off. Should he really be asking this?

Satoru’s head raises slightly. His eyes take on a curious look now, a little concerned even. He’s waiting with intrigue, not interrupting like he would otherwise. 

But Suguru can’t bring himself to ask the full question. Satoru does not feel the same. He’d be stupid not to see how Satoru has conveniently avoided saying it. He really shouldn’t have said anything, any of it. He should’ve just ignored Satoru and went to bed. Never letting any of this happen and never making himself so desperate for Satoru’s approval. A mistake, mistake, mistake.  

“Hm? What’s up?” Satoru is still staring up at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. His smile turns playful. “You got another confession for me?”

Not helping, not when he’s already struggling to speak. Should he say it? Just for the sake of getting it over with?

“I…” Suguru’s entire face burns hot. Of all the times for Satoru not to speak his mind without being prompted, this is the worst. “Do you feel, um, that way…too?”

His stomach clenches as the words leave his mouth. It’s making him physically ill to hear himself right now, how entirely weak he sounds. Nanako and Mimiko would be positively disappointed in him.

Satoru’s brief silence is immediately followed by laughter. He buries his face in Suguru’s neck again. It’s a little jarring how unseriously he’s taking the question.

“You wanna know something?” Satoru mumbles into his neck. 

Cautiously, completely expecting a verbose rejection, Suguru hums in the affirmative. 

“I don’t think I could ever love anyone but you.”

It takes Suguru a full three seconds before he can process it, before he can even wrap his head around the thought that Satoru actually means it. And by the time he does, he’s on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Air hardly even makes it into his bloodstream. He can’t do anything but silently repeat the words in his head like a prayer. It’s better than anything he could’ve planned for. 

One of Satoru’s hands brushes over his chest, coming to rest above his heart. Its touch is gentle, only applying the tiniest amount of pressure. “Don’t get all choked up. You asked the question,” laughs Satoru, lighthearted and free. 

It’s not that. Words are utterly failing him. He wouldn’t be able to speak even if he wanted to. He’s floating in a completely different plane of existence. Could ever love anyone but you. How do you even start to come down from that kind of high?

Suguru curls his hand around the back of Satoru’s head. He guides it upward until their faces are aligned once more, Satoru’s angled down and his slightly up. This time he initiates the kiss, his lips connected to Satoru’s before he can even think. It burns with a passion he couldn’t muster when Satoru kissed him. It’s deeper and less controlled. And Satoru is responding with fervor. He even allows himself to be pressed up against the wall.

Suguru’s hand glides down to rest on Satoru’s waist, pulling him closer and kneading at the skin through his clothes. The difference that no longer needing to restrain himself makes is monumental. Gently, he takes Satoru’s bottom lip between his teeth, bites down ever so slightly, and grazes it as he pulls back a little. 

Satoru’s shuddering breaths are the only audible indication of his pleasure. He’s holding onto Suguru tighter, pressing a hand deep into his lower back. His kisses are obedient this time. They follow Suguru’s lead, wait for his direction at each lull. He’s fully handed himself over. 

Satoru doesn’t show any resistance as Suguru’s lips move down to his neck—he even undoes his jacket to give Suguru access—and is more than compliant when Suguru’s hands slip under his shirt. He leans into the touch, letting his own hands wander Suguru’s back. 

It’s a completely new sensation. Not the kissing part, of course, but the high it’s giving him, the waves of breathless enchantment that supersede his earlier panic. He never would’ve guessed it could feel like this. Nothing in the past has ever felt so…intense. None of that even comes close to comparing.

At first, Suguru is only planting kisses around Satoru’s neck, hugging his jawline. But with each kiss, he becomes a little bolder, moves a little lower. By the time he reaches the collar of Satoru’s shirt, he’s gingerly sucking at the skin, only a second in each spot. A bruise would be unsightly on such silky, pristine skin. He undoubtedly bruises easily too. Satoru might be fine humiliating him, but Suguru has a little more tact than that. 

“Suguru.” Satoru’s voice is hardly above a sigh. His fingernails are digging at Suguru's back through the sweatshirt. “Not in the hallway, okay? I wanna be laying down when you do this. That’s what they do in the movies.”

The remark is giving Suguru whiplash. Why is that his standard? And why does he even have a standard? He’s supposed to be the fucking virgin here. 

“And also—” Satoru takes Suguru’s hand and, bolder than ever, guides it lower, lower, lower, revealing a glaringly obvious predicament. “That.”

Oh. Suguru takes a deep breath. And Satoru doesn’t show any indication of wanting Suguru to remove his hand. He keeps their fingers interlocked but places no force on Suguru’s hand. Neither pulling it away nor pressing it down. He only seems to want Suguru to know what this is doing to him. Nothing more. And, fuck. It’s effective.

Suguru awkwardly clears his throat. “Yeah, we should probably—I mean…”

Logically, he knows he should remove his hand. It definitely seems early for a move so brazen. This is only the second time they’ve kissed and the first time he’s mentioned his feelings. Rushing into something is bad. He knows this. But why can’t he put that thought into action?

Suguru allows himself to be led into Satoru’s bedroom, cheeks blushing slightly and heart racing from the thrill. Satoru doesn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest though. His laughter is the only sound aside from their clumsy footsteps. It’s not the most reassuring thing.

Satoru quickly tosses the outer jacket of his uniform to the dresser and begins tidying the bed. He’s in his own world right now. He doesn’t even glance back at Suguru as he’s doing this. He attempts to rearrange the pillows for a more…ideal setup, like he somehow already knows what he’s doing—he definitely doesn’t. 

In the light of the bedroom, the bulge of Satoru’s erection is much more prominent. More than the darkness of the halfway could’ve let on. And Suguru is shamefully failing to look away. He inhales sharply and closes his eyes instead. Somehow, fantasizing about this for years on end hasn’t prepared him in the slightest. If anything, it’s only making him more flustered. 

“Oh come on,” Satoru whines, startling him a little. “Don’t tell me you’re shy. We’re both dudes, it’s fine.”

God. Removing his lips from Satoru’s was a mistake. This was bound to happen. He crawls onto the bed in front of Satoru and firmly shoves him into the nest of pillows he carefully made. 

“If you say shit like that again, I’m going to the other room.”

Satoru yelps out a small cry but looks amused more than anything. “Or you could just, you know, shut me up a different way. ‘Cause we can do that now.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. Satoru’s preferred method of teasing—in both general conversation and now sexually, it seems—is provocation. 

He presses his lips to Satoru’s again, less considerate this time. Satoru takes it in stride, grabbing the back of Suguru’s head and inadvertently pulling his hair. Suguru reflexively gasps at the intoxicating synthesis of pleasure and pain. He presses his body closer to Satoru’s, aching for a little friction against his own swelling member. Another time he’ll let Satoru take control—when he’s had a little more experience. 

He pulls up on the hem of Satoru’s shirt to reveal his midriff, his chest, and then his collarbones. He kisses at the exposed skin, sticking to his earlier method of sucking on it for only a second. He gently runs a hand up the length of Satoru’s bare torso, fingertips brushing against one of his nipples. Instantly, Satoru squirms and lets out a groan. 

“You’re sensitive here?” Suguru brushes his fingers over it again to demonstrate, letting them toy with it for a moment. 

Satoru responds the same. Squirming, softly groaning, and—this time—bucking his hips. He’s unable to speak. It’s more than delightful to witness. Suguru trails his kisses down to the other nipple. He flicks his tongue over it, hesitates, then takes it between his lips. Satoru is positively falling apart. And just to push him closer to the edge, Suguru palms his erection through his pants. It’s the first time he’s seen Satoru in such distress. He’s fraying around the edges. His hands are tightly clinging to the fabric of Suguru’s sweatshirt, pulling at it with a degree of desperation. And Suguru is reveling in it. 

“Take these off.” He tugs at the button of Satoru’s pants, moving away to give him the space to do so. 

Satoru eagerly complies. He tosses his pants to the floor and positions his hips further down the bed. “If you’re planning on sucking me off, shouldn’t I take off my underwear too? No point in being modest really, ha.”

Suguru’s eyebrow inadvertently twitches. Satoru’s crassness is truly the least arousing thing. It’s almost mortifying. And they haven’t even done anything particularly obscene yet.

“That’s—fine, okay. If that’s what you want,” Suguru relents. 

Satoru quickly takes them off and tosses them into a pile with his pants. Truly undignified. But Suguru isn’t paying attention to that. He’s staring, he knows he is. It was going to be a surprise regardless—he always made it a point to never look below Satoru’s waist in the times he saw him naked. But, god. Nothing could have prepared him for how shocking the sight would be, or how nervous he would feel about fitting it all in his mouth. He’s struggling to even think clearly. 

“Like what you see?” Satoru laughs, self-assured and not the slightest hint of nervousness. “You look so—”

“Shut up,” Suguru interrupts. He pinches the bridge of his nose to calm himself. He’s hopelessly flustered. 

After a few deep breaths, he lowers his head to press a few kisses onto Satoru’s thighs. He’s stalling and he can’t help it. Gingerly, he traces a finger from just under the tip of Satoru’s cock to the base, slowly wrapping his hand around it. A sticky, pearlescent drop of precome leaks from the tip, down to Suguru’s thumb. He immediately licks it up and traces its path with his tongue. Satoru shivers from the contact. He twists his hips and grabs ahold of Suguru’s shoulder. He’s so much more sensitive than Suguru imagined he would be. 

“Slower?” Suguru asks, but Satoru vehemently shakes his head.

“No just—keep doing that.” The hand gripping Suguru’s shoulder tightens. 

He gently tugs at the base and runs his tongue over the tip. Satoru attempts to thrust into his mouth but Suguru forces his hips back down. “Let me set the pace.”

Satoru nods obediently, relaxing his hips a little. As a reward, Suguru takes the entire tip in his mouth and sucks slowly, gently. Satoru’s hand is grasping harder as a moan escapes his lips. Suguru waits a moment to let Satoru calm down before taking another fraction of his length. He repeats the process several times until he’s at the knuckle of the hand grasping the base. 

He’s careful with his initial motions. Sweeping his tongue across the underside of Satoru’s length, softly tugging at the base when his tongue is still. He creates a rhythm for Satoru to follow, to get used to before he moves onto anything headier. 

The fingers of Satoru’s free hand tangle in Suguru’s hair, pulling away a few of the strands that had fallen in his face. “You can be rougher, you know—ah—I don’t mind.”

Suguru removes his hand from around the base and uses it to cup Satoru’s balls instead. He allows himself to take the entirety of Satoru’s cock into his mouth. He closes his eyes to suppress the urge to gag as it hits the back of his throat. He slowly begins to bob his head, focused on keeping his throat relaxed. If Satoru manages to say anything vulgar at this crucial point, he will undoubtedly gag. 

He lifts his head to the tip, circles his tongue around it, and plunges back down. Satoru’s grip on him tightens. He groans louder than the previous times. Suguru does it for a second and third time, holding Satoru’s hips down at the slightest sign of movement. He finds a pace between excruciatingly slow and painfully fast to sustain the motion without choking. Only when the urge to gag subsides does he start adding more suction.

Satoru responds with a sharp gasp. His fingers tighten in their grasp on Suguru’s hair, abruptly tugging at the stands and making Suguru moan. Suguru grinds his erection against the mattress, willing to keep his own desperation at bay for at least a little while longer. It’s a good distraction from the feeling of Satoru’s cock repeatedly hitting the back of his throat. 

He reins himself in for a moment and shifts his focus to the tip while he catches his breath. He applies a greater amount of suction to the area, enough that the insides of his cheeks are tightly pulled between his teeth. He runs his tongue along the underside and stops at the slit on top. Satoru hisses and attempts to thrust into Suguru’s mouth again but the hands holding his hips down refuse to let him.

Suguru takes his time, swirling his tongue around the tip and raising his head enough to nearly make it slip out before taking it back in again. He takes a hand off Satoru’s hip to brush it over his inner thigh. Satoru remains still this time but lets out a breathy moan. 

Without warning, Suguru takes him to the hilt. He quickly repositions his hand on Satoru’s hip to prevent the motion he’s come to expect. Unable to move the lower half of his body, the energy transfers to his upper half instead. Satoru arches his back and makes a sound that’s almost like a squeak. Suguru doesn’t allow him to adjust this time. He increases his suction and moves his head at a faster rate. 

“Suguru—nghh—where should I—ah—finish?” Satoru’s speech is broken, laced with breathiness. Realization crosses his face. “Fuck, right—just point, okay?”

And so Suguru points a clumsy finger at his cheek, indicating he wants it in his mouth. But Satoru doesn’t seem to follow. 

“Really? On your face?” Satoru’s eyes are wide with shock. 

Suguru nearly gags upon hearing this. He damn near stops what he’s doing just to explain. But he has a different idea. He taps his index finger twice against Satoru’s ribcage, signaling “ no. ” It’s probably the most humiliating, derogatory use of the gesture, an insult to the nonverbal language itself. But it gets the point across.

“Oh. Mouth, right—ah. Got it.”

Even in his current position between Satoru’s legs, his face still flushes pink hearing Satoru say this. And the instability of Satoru’s voice is only making him desperate for his own release. 

When he looks at Satoru next, his face is also dyed crimson. His cheeks and nose glow the brightest as the upper half of his body writhes with euphoria. His fingernails feel more like claws as they dig into Suguru’s scalp and shoulder. He’s close. Suguru releases the hold he had on Satoru’s hips and allows him to thrust into his mouth. It elicits a moan that causes Satoru to shiver and his own cock to twitch. 

“ Ngh—close. I’m really fucking—gaah—close, Suguru,” Satoru’s words are loud and rushed. His voice is cracking. The muscles in his hands, his arms, his abdomen all visibly tense in that order. 

It’s the only warning Suguru gets before Satoru reaches his climax. And it’s intense, nearly catching Suguru by surprise and nearly causing him to drown. Satoru’s come hits the back of his throat. It fills the limited space in his mouth and threatens to cut off his breathing entirely. Satoru’s cries and the jolt of his body are only making it harder to concentrate on swallowing it all. Suguru keeps his mouth in place until he’s sure there’s nothing left, only slowly raising it to the tip when he’s certain. His lips make a smacking sound as they finally disconnect. 

Satoru is sprawled out on the bed, his breathing heavy and his eyes locked on Suguru. “Holy shit,” he pants. He quickly sits upright and cups Suguru’s face with his hands. “Holy shit.”

Suguru is taken aback by his sudden burst of energy. He looks up at Satoru in confusion. This is a good thing, right?

“Do we just get to do that, like, whenever?” Satoru asks. He presses his forehead against Suguru’s and beams. “‘Cause holy shit, Suguru. That felt amazing.”

Satoru closes the gap between them with a kiss like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like Suguru didn’t just swallow his come. And it’s probably the most gratifying moment in all of this. He rubs his thumbs along Suguru’s cheekbones. 

“As long as I have you, I’m never using my hand again.”

Fucking hell. Suguru rolls his eyes and lightly shoves Satoru away. “Don’t count on it.”

Idiot, Suguru smiles to himself as he thinks. He rights himself on the bed and removes one of the pillows from their arrangement at the headboard. Satoru’s gaze hasn’t left him once since removing his mouth. He’s bubbly and all smiles, taking the chance to pepper Suguru’s face with kisses the moment he finally rests his head on the pillow. 

“Your turn, right?” Satoru runs a hand down Suguru’s side, coming to rest on his thigh. “It’s not fair if I’m the only one who gets to feel good.”

Suguru stares up at him hesitantly. In all honesty, he’s a little nervous about letting Satoru do anything. If his style of kissing is any indication—teethy and bordering on aggressive at times—Suguru fears a little more than just being unsatisfied. But Satoru is pressing kisses to his neck and using his fingers to trace patterns along the length of his back. It’s hard to resist.

“Can I take this off?” Satoru slips a hand under the sweatshirt to trace a line down the center of Suguru’s torso. 

Suguru nods and helps Satoru pull the sweatshirt over his head. Instantly, Satoru’s lips meet the skin of his bare chest. He imitates the kisses Suguru had given him on his own chest—lips pressed against skin, sucking at it, then moving to another spot and repeating. But unlike Suguru, the suction created by his lips is less gentle and he lingers in some spots a little too long. He’s undoubtedly going to leave a few bruises, and Suguru isn’t opposed to that. He’s always liked souvenirs. 

Satoru abruptly stops, his lips hovering centimeters above Suguru’s sternum. He sheepishly glances off to the side. “Hey, so,” he starts a little shakily. “I heard you can actually, uh, stick your dick in somewhere—when it’s with another guy, and that it actually feels pretty good.”

Suguru is getting secondhand embarrassment from this. It hurts to listen to. But he still offers a cautious nod.

“So I was thinking,” continues Satoru. “Maybe I could do that to you? ‘Cause I think I might need a second round.” 

Satoru gestures to his still-erect cock, and Suguru is both appalled and impressed. A side effect of his reverse cursed technique likely, it’s not a phenomenon Suguru has encountered before. He blinks a few times and has to clear his throat before he’s able to speak. He never expected to be so flustered over something like this.  

“Not if that’s how you explain it.” Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose and scowls. 

This isn’t a risk he’s willing to take—despite having fantasized countless times about such an activity. He wants to play it safe, and playing it safe means not letting Satoru top him. Another time, when he’s a little less ignorant. And this way, Satoru’s first time can coincide with one of his own. It’ll be his first time giving to another man rather than receiving for himself—a selfless act he’d only reserve for Satoru. Though in some ways, maybe it’s equal parts selfish as it is selfless. 

“I can do it to you though,” Suguru offers him. “And then you’ll know how. For next time.”

“Huh?!” Satoru stares back with bewilderment plastered across his face. “You want me to—I know I got you the condoms and all, but that’s not an open invitation. I thought, you know, if it was us, I’d be the one needing them.”

Suguru stares down at him, continues staring for what feels like ages, then sighs in disbelief. He presses the fingers of his left hand to his forehead. 

“So you got them thinking we might have sex at some point?”

He can’t believe he’s saying this. He can’t believe he even has to clarify something as absurd as this.

“Well yeah, kinda, but that was like ‘just in case.’ I didn’t know if you actually would.”

Suguru doesn’t remove the hand from his face. In fact, he presses his palm into it as well. He’s at an utter loss for words. He’d told Shoko with confidence that wasn’t the case, that Satoru would never mean it to be suggestive. But fuck. She really was right all along. He doesn’t know who’s the bigger idiot here: Satoru for doing it or himself for thinking nothing of it. 

“You—god, you’re so fucking stupid.” He can’t manage to get much else out. 

“But it all worked out, didn’t it?” Satoru’s voice has a hint of teasing to it. But Suguru doesn’t respond, has no intention of it. “Okay, okay, you can be the one doing the…thing. But only this time, okay?”

Suguru slowly removes the hand from his face to glance at Satoru. Only this time is more than okay. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure—why the hell would I offer if I wasn’t? Who do you think I am?”

He takes this as his cue to leave. The condoms and lube are still wrapped in the plastic bag Satoru gave them to him in and shoved to the back of one of the dresser drawers. He really had no intention of ever seeing them again. Even now, they’re still embarrassing to look at. He brings the bag back to Satoru’s room and sets it on the bed. His jeans and underwear now join the pile of clothes on the floor. This is really happening.

He sits in front of Satoru again and breathes in a shaky breath. His fingers struggle to tear open the condom wrapper.

“So how exactly are you gonna put—” Satoru gestures with one hand at Suguru’s groin “—that in me?”

“I don’t start with it, that’s how.” Suguru finally manages to tear the wrapper, letting out a short grunt. “I use my fingers first, then we work up to that.”

“Right.” Satoru looks off to the side, suddenly seeming pensive. “Got it.”

Suguru hesitates for a moment. Satoru’s nervousness is only exacerbating his own. 

“Is that okay?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. It just sounds—I don’t know—complicated.” He frowns a little and bites his lip.

Suguru takes a deep breath before sliding the condom over his erect member. His own first time was a little something like this too. Satoru stares up at him with a wariness he’s never shown before, now toying with the hem of his shirt. 

“Should I take this off?” he asks, but quickly answers himself, “I should take this off.”

He slips the shirt over his head and lets it fall to the ground. The muscles in his chest and abdomen are now in full view and it’s making Suguru a little weak in the knees he’s supporting himself with.

“Tell me if you change your mind,” he reminds Satoru. “Or if it hurts, or if you want me to stop. We don’t have to.”

“I know, I know.” Satoru averts his gaze, looking a little flustered. “You keep saying that. Just hurry up.”

Suguru sighs uneasily. Why is he so nervous about this?

“I’m serious, Satoru.”

Satoru locks eyes with him again, his expression stern this time. “Do you need me to spell it out? I. Want. You. To. Fuck. Me,” he enunciates each word. “And you call me stupid, pah.”

Suguru raises his eyebrows and forces himself to look away. It’s embarrassing how much he likes hearing Satoru say it like that. But at least he has confirmation now. 

He refocuses on the task at hand, forces himself to remain calm as he squeezes out the lube on his fingers and uses his other hand to guide Satoru’s legs upward. Satoru is no longer fidgety or nervous. He seems more impatient than anything, and it’s only making it that much harder for Suguru to calm down. He spreads a generous amount of lubricant around Satoru’s tight hole, lightly rubbing it into the skin and only inserting to the first knuckle of his middle finger when he’s satisfied. 

Satoru’s eyes immediately widen and his muscles tense around the fraction of a digit. His previous impatience has completely vanished and is now replaced by vigilance. 

“Relax,” Suguru reminds him. “It won’t hurt.”

Satoru exhales a shaky breath and relaxes the muscles around Suguru’s finger. Suguru takes this opportunity to slip in another fraction, to the second knuckle now. Only when he’s certain it’s fine does he insert it completely. He gently begins to pump the finger in and out, watching Satoru’s expression carefully. He works the area for a few minutes before adding a second finger. This one slips in easier than the first, taking no effort to push both in completely. He presses them upward, feeling along the inner wall until they reach the sensitive spot he’s desperate to toy with. 

He’s first met with the jolt of Satoru’s upper body and an audible gasp from his lips, then the flushed coyness of his face as he regains his bearings. He’s looking down at Suguru with an ounce of curiosity and a dash of surprise. 

“What was that? What did you just do?” He closes his eyes and readjusts his head. “Actually, I don’t care. Do it again.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?” 

Suguru strokes his fingers over the same spot, causing Satoru to quiver and buck his hips. He doesn’t say another word. Suguru carefully traces its outline, tries to commit the spot to memory, and moves onto slowly stretching Satoru’s rim with his two fingers. He’s not sure how much longer he can wait. He needs to feel something for himself. Watching is pure torment.

He slowly withdraws his fingers—eliciting a small sound of protest from Satoru—and pours another generous amount of lube onto his hand. He spreads it over his own member and wipes the excess around Satoru’s hole.

“Ready?”

“I’ve been ready this whole time,” Satoru snaps back. “Just go…slow. Okay?”

Suguru nods. He rubs his fingers over the hole again and uses them to guide his cock in. And at the first point of contact, with only a couple centimeters in, it’s already pure ecstasy. One that even the condom doesn’t dull. He slowly presses the rest of his length in and Satoru’s knees reflexively squeeze into his sides. He shifts a little, allowing Satoru to get comfortable with the sensation first before making any bolder moves. 

His first thrust is slow, gentle, careful not to take Satoru by surprise. It sends a shiver from his groin up to his head, a desperate plea for more. But he’s pacing himself, absorbing the details.  The small sound that slips from Satoru’s mouth, his wide-eyed expression, the irresistible urge to keep going. He places a hand on the bed beside Satoru’s chest to steady himself. Satoru responds to this by placing a hand on his shoulder, lightly swiping his thumb over it. 

He sets an achingly sluggish pace, one that could nearly be called torturous. But Satoru’s head tips back, exposing his neck and the muscles tensing in it. His fingernails are now digging into Suguru’s shoulder. The sensation of it sends shockwaves throughout his body. He nearly gasps himself. 

“You can do this too.” He laces his fingers through Satoru’s free hand and guides it down, brushing against the skin of his torso until it reaches the intended destination. He untangles his fingers and presses the hand over Satoru’s instead, urging him to grasp his own length. Satoru’s hand responds immediately, pulling up toward his abdomen and letting a groan out along with it. 

“Suguru.” It’s all Satoru manages to say between labored breaths. His eyes are now squeezed shut. “I think I—you’re going too easy. I’m not—ah—fragile.”

The words take a moment for Suguru to wrap his head around. His pace picks up in response and he’s filled with dizzying bliss in kind. His thrusts land deeper, harder. The hand Satoru has around his cock mimics it, his head tipped back and groaning again. The sight of Satoru’s euphoria easily outweighs the physical sensations. 

Suguru places a hand on Satoru’s hip and leans onto his other elbow, intensifying the angle. The sounds freely falling from Satoru’s lips grow louder and the hand still holding onto Suguru’s shoulder grips tighter. His fingernails are digging in with a ferocity that won’t leave the skin unscathed. And Suguru has wholly ascended from the rapid shift. The edges of his vision are stained by a vignette.

Years of self-restraint have already crumbled away in the past hour, nearing total collapse with each motion. And the words at the forefront of his mind have been locked away the longest. He removes the hand from Satoru’s hip and cups his cheek with it instead. 

“I love you.” 

The relief that follows is unrivaled. He presses his lips to Satoru’s before he can respond, picking up the pace of his thrusting once again and swallowing Satoru’s moans. He greedily nips at the bottom lip, rests his pounding heart against Satoru’s. And Satoru’s cock presses into his stomach, weeping precome and smearing it across the skin. 

Satoru momentarily breaks the kiss to come up for air, gasping accentuated by rhythmic groans. “I love you— ngh —too.”

The hand that had a vice grip on his shoulder now explores his upper back, alternating between caressing and clawing. It forces a deep moan from Suguru’s throat. Satoru’s mindless gestures are making it impossible to retain any semblance of poise. He retaliates by placing a hand back on Satoru’s hip and pulling him into each thrust, rough and domineering. It’s dizzying, full-on overwhelming. The bed’s creaking is only a testament to his carnal desire.

Satoru’s moans have graduated to screams and shouts. His eyes are squeezed shut while his mouth remains open. His screams follow the rhythm of Suguru’s hips, follow the sensation of the hand around his cock grazing Suguru’s abdomen with each upward stroke. It’s probably the closest he’s ever been to intoxication. 

Suguru’s tempo is beginning to falter. His lips, his cock, his skin are all becoming more sensitive—swelling with heat and close to spilling over. He grasps Satoru’s hip tighter  and channels the last of his depleting energy into heavier thrusts. They’re brutal, nailing Satoru’s prostate with each beat and dulling his sense of hearing with the rush of blood. Satoru’s shouts are the only thing audible to him anymore. 

The previous vignette to his vision is growing in size, blanking out everything that isn’t Satoru’s face. The muscles in his back and legs tense with urgency, overworked and desperate for the explosive release. He runs a finger over Satoru’s nipple, pinching at it and tugging. Call it insurance. He won’t let himself come until Satoru has. 

And Satoru is quick to respond to the simulation, twisting and bucking his hips and digging his fingernails into Suguru’s back. His screams are hardly coherent, but a few individual words are. He’s about to come. And Suguru finally gives himself permission to tip over the edge, indulge in his release.

Ribbon after ribbon of Satoru’s come hits Suguru’s stomach, his chest, burning hot as it breaches the sheen of sweat coating his skin. This time is greater than the first—in both quantity and noise. It’s accompanied by an endless stream of loud gasps and shrieks that escape Satoru’s chest, filling the room and mixing with the sound of skin slapping against skin. If his neighbors weren’t aware before, they undoubtedly are now. He squirms with each shriek, hands scrambling to pull Suguru closer and legs clamping against his sides. His writhing creates another source of friction, adds another layer of pleasure, finally pushing Suguru into free fall as well.

It’s mind bendingly euphoric. His eyes nearly roll back and, for a second, his ears are ringing at a deafening volume. Pleasure spreads over every inch of his body, slowing everything in its wake with a syrupy sweetness. His muscles contract and relax in rhythmic fashion, his breath catching each time his inconsistent motions cause the head of his cock to brush up against Satoru’s swollen prostate. And if he had to put a color to it, it’d be the orange of sunsets and sherbet. His entire body blossoms with the heat of a hundred summers. He can’t help but be a little loud too, moaning into the sloppy kiss he gives Satoru, calling out his name for good measure. Only once his thrusting pushes him near overstimulation does he pull out and collapse entirely on Satoru. 

Satoru quickly wraps his arms around him. His breathing is still heavy and his heart is still racing. He plants kisses along the crook of Suguru’s neck, his breath tickling the skin. He seems a little spent himself. 

Suguru blindly brings a hand up to the side of Satoru’s face, lazily brushing strands of hair away. And embarrassingly, tears prick the corners of his eyes. It’s the first time something like this has ever happened. Sex has never brought him to tears—but none of those times ever held any significance. They weren’t Satoru. 

“Fuck.” He squeezes his eyes shut and forces out a laugh. “I actually just did that.”

“Yeah, because you looove me,” Satoru teases. He traces a finger down Suguru’s spine. “How come no one told me it’d be so good up the ass?”

Suguru only rolls his eyes and pinches Satoru’s cheek. A little humility won’t kill him. And besides, he’s too breathless to think of anything else. He leans his head against Satoru’s, unwilling to move. 

“If they did, would you even believe them?”

“Probably not. But still. At least I’d have the idea.” Satoru sighs and presses another kiss to the crook of Suguru’s neck. “So what do we do now? Another round? I could probably—”

Suguru cuts him off, “Sleep. It’s late.”

He shifts to pull the condom off but his attention is quickly drawn to the mess coating his and Satoru’s torsos. Right. That. A shower is non negotiable.

Satoru notices too. “Is that mine or yours?”

“Obviously yours , dumbass. How would that even—” He pauses to rein himself in. “Let’s just shower before you get it anywhere else.”

He pulls the condom off and tosses it in the ensuite bathroom’s trash. Satoru follows close behind.

In the shower—after a short argument about water temperature and a compromise on lukewarm—Satoru refuses to take his hands off Suguru. He insisted on washing the mess from both their bodies and on washing Suguru’s hair himself.

“Let me guess.” Satoru lathers the shampoo around the crown of Suguru’s head. He sounds unmistakably down about something. “That also wasn’t your first.”

“No.” He feels a little ashamed saying it. It’s a relief to have Satoru standing behind him for this. He’d hate to see his expression. 

“But,” he quickly adds, feeling a strong urge to clarify. “It’s the first time I was on top. I wanted to save it.”

Satoru huffs. His hands fall from Suguru’s scalp. “For what?”

Suguru frowns and bites the inside of his cheek. It was maybe a little shortsighted to include that last part. He forced his own hand with it. He turns to look at Satoru, not caring if soap gets in his eyes. 

With a straight face, he begrudgingly admits, “For you.”

And the shock that crosses Satoru’s face is simultaneously delightful and the most embarrassing thing he’s been subjected to. He watches as Satoru struggles to find his words, opening and closing his mouth and looking flustered as ever. 

“You’re joking, right?” Satoru’s eyes search his face for something, but failing to find it, he breathes out a sigh through his nose. “When did you become such a romantic?”

Suguru merely shrugs in response. He steps back under the shower head and washes out the shampoo. The honest answer would be the moment he started wanting something more than friendship with Satoru. But he’s already embarrassed himself enough. He was happy to have that secret die with him and he’ll be happy to have it die with him again. 

After the shower, Suguru dresses himself in a clean shirt and sweatpants while Satoru takes his time stripping the bed and putting on new sheets. It’s far past his bedtime and Suguru can’t stop himself from yawning. If Satoru takes any longer, he might just end up sleeping in the other room instead. 

But Satoru quickly finishes up. He throws himself onto the bed and pats the other side for Suguru to join. When he does, he’s immediately enveloped in Satoru’s arms. Like each time before, it’s weirdly instinctive—except this time he feels no shame. Fingers comb through his wet hair and lightly massage his shoulders. He allows Satoru’s touch to coax him into a meditative state. 

Satoru’s exhaustion is now evident. With Suguru’s head pressed against his chest, nothing slips by unnoticed. His breathing is slow and his heart rate is unhurried. His fingers move at a leisurely pace, gently tracing lines up and down Suguru’s back. He buries his face in Suguru’s hair and lets out a soft sigh. 

It’s another moment before either ventures to speak, wanting to soak in the tidal pools of calm a little longer. 

“Since it’s fine to say sappy stuff now,” Satoru starts, and Suguru cringes at the obvious nod to the earlier conversation in the shower. “I wanna sleep like this every night. I actually don’t…” He raises a hand to rub the back of his head and goes silent for a moment. “It’s just important to me.”

Suguru raises a brow. He had his suspicions—not like Satoru really went to any length to hide it though. It’s not the first time he’s even explicitly asked for it. But the why is still a mystery. The first thing that comes to mind are the nightmares about him Satoru spoke of the night the girls stayed over. It still makes Suguru uneasy. He obviously likes being in the same bed together for more than just the intimacy of it. A few weeks ago, Suguru wouldn’t have dared to ask him for details. He was comfortable keeping his questions to himself to let it continue. But seeing the way everything else has gone tonight, there’s no risk in asking anymore. His dignity went out the window a while ago. 

“Why?”

Satoru fidgets at the simple question. His fingers abruptly stall in the midst of tracing a line. He wasn’t expecting this. It’s now his turn to be ashamed. 

“It’s stupid,” he groans, seeming to be directing it at himself more than Suguru. And for a moment, Suguru thinks he isn’t going to continue, that maybe it really was inappropriate to ask. But to his relief, Satoru starts speaking again. “I don’t really sleep that good—when I’m alone. But it’s better when I’m next to you. I don’t get so, you know, upset. I don’t feel as…” He hesitates for a second. “Guilty.”

Suguru frowns a little. From the limited details he has about the dreams, it seems strange for Satoru to be the one feeling any guilt. The way he described it made it sound like they were about something Suguru did. Why on earth would he feel guilty about that?

“Guilty?” Suguru repeats. 

Satoru breathes out a strained sigh. This is obviously way outside of his comfort zone. But instead of answering or providing any explanation, he just shakes his head this time. The last question was likely already too much for him.

“It’s not really important,” Satoru finally says. “You wanted to sleep. I hate keeping you up.”

Weird. Everything surrounding this topic is so weird. He’s lucky to have even gotten another morsel of information about it at all. 

Satoru quickly reaches over to turn out the light, suddenly plunging them into darkness. If Suguru weren’t so abysmally tired, he’d probably end up spiraling about it again. He instead falls asleep with relative ease this time. 

The next day is Halloween. Somehow Satoru got the bright idea that they should be wearing couples’ costumes—not even 24 hours after Suguru’s admission, to be clear. And due to such short notice, he instead opted for a DIY cat costume he found from a YouTube tutorial. 

Suguru is laying down on the couch with Satoru straddling him, marker poised above his face. He’s drawn the nose already and is about to start on the whiskers. 

“Stop moving, you’re gonna make me mess up.” Satoru squeezes his thighs into Suguru’s sides to keep his body still. 

“I still don’t get why I had to go first,” Suguru groans. “It’s your idea.”

“‘Cause.” Satoru presses the marker down and draws out the first whisker. “Maybe I just like looking at you.”

Suguru’s face flushes as he narrows his eyes and looks away. Satoru seems to find this hilarious. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he lets out a laugh. 

Satoru draws on another two whiskers before moving onto the other cheek. “So do I get to call you my boyfriend now?”

“I’ll think about it,” Suguru huffs. 

Just as Satoru finishes drawing the last whiskers, his phone vibrates against the coffee table. He answers it without getting up from Suguru. 

“I’m kinda busy right now,” he says playfully into the phone.

But his expression quickly falls. His eyebrows knit together and he lets out a heavy sigh. Something’s not right. He tosses the marker to the table and tensely rubs the back of his neck. His gaze is no longer on Suguru.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he finally says and hangs up the phone with another heavy sigh.

Suguru looks up at him, concern quickly infiltrating his features. “Is everything okay?”

Satoru only waves him off. “Yeah, yeah. They just need me for something. It should be pretty quick, okay?”

Suguru nods but the pit in his stomach doesn’t subside. He has a bad feeling about this.

Satoru leans down and pecks him on the lips. “And when I get back, we can eat a bunch of candy and watch more of your shitty horror movie recommendations.”

“They’re not ‘shitty,” Suguru reminds him. He pushes Satoru off his lap and sits upright. “They just aren’t whatever that cheap slasher stuff you like is.”

Satoru doesn’t offer a rebuttal—maybe because he knows he won’t win this. He just shakes his head and leaves to the bedroom to get changed.

When he returns, he’s dressed in his uniform with his blindfold hanging around his neck. It’s starting to seem a lot more serious than he’s letting on.

“What is it that couples say when one of them is leaving? Oh! Bye honey, I’ll be back for dinner.” He presses a hand to his lips and blows Suguru a kiss.

Idiot. Suguru rolls his eyes. “Whatever. See you later.”

Satoru’s laughter is all that remains as he vanishes from the apartment, cheerful and unbothered as ever. But Suguru still can’t shake his own uneasiness. Is he really this clingy already?