Archive of Our Own

act i. premature favour  

0000 

geto suguru knows he is a ticking time bomb, and the moment his tired eyes land on trembling shoulders and bruised knees, he knows he is on the trajectory of detonation – and that when he finally goes off, he’ll take everything with him until nothing is left of the world but ash and ash and ash.  

suguru’s fingers curl in until they’re pressed against the dip of his palm, harsh enough to carve violent half-moons into the smooth of his skin. the girls cowering before him cannot be any older than six years old.  

suguru’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he asks: “why are they in there?”  

the village chief’s answer is a blur, something about killers and demon spawns and retribution. suguru’s gaze is trained on the girls and the cage that holds him, and the look of unadulterated fear on their delicate, grime-stained faces.  

“it wasn’t us!” screams one of them – shorter hair, though just as matted as her sister’s. brave enough to speak, though just as scared.  

“you shut up!” the village chief’s wife snarls, lip curling up in disgust. “you two nearly killed my granddaughters!”  

the scene reminds suguru of way back when, of outgrowing the days of monsters under beds and shadows in the corners, except how with age, the creatures haunting the corner of suguru’s vision only grew scarier while the grown-ups grew more tired of his overactive imagination. no one believed him then, either.  

“will you rid of them?” the chief asks, a desperate plea in his tone. “we’ve already tried.”  

“they’re children,” suguru finds himself saying, voice even. “did you really try?”  

overhearing him, the girls only shrink further into themselves as though hoping to find shelter within the confines of the very body that bore the brunt of shallow violence. the motion makes the noise ringing in suguru’s ears flare.  

the chief squanders at an excuse, as does the woman by his side, but their voices wash away like a shell in a tidal wave, like the pelting of rain, like the thundering roar of applause. it’s the same chorus that followed when tsukumo yuki told him she wasn’t crazy enough to cull non-shamans like animals for slaughter, though the bemused glimmer in her eyes told him she could, if she really wished. it is the same sound that haunted suguru as he’d stared at yuu’s corpse in the morgue, and wished he could restore the colour back into his underclassman’s flesh.  

suguru isn’t listening. presently, suguru is only thinking of two things:  

it would be so easy to kill them, and more importantly, that they would deserve it.  

suguru is a hypocrite, knows it like he knew satoru should’ve massacred the time vessel association, like he knew they deserved it, too, and it was gojo satoru – what else would it have been but easy?  

but suguru had told him no, because he is confused and trying in his goodness, and in that moment, when suguru’s bruised eyes had fallen on satoru’s face painted red and chrome, and how he had clutched amanai to his chest like a lifeline, suguru was trying very, very hard to be good.  

yet, even suguru the hypocrite knows these villagers deserve worse. what sort of cowardice lies in caging little girls in rusty cages, in painting their skin purple and blue, yet not being able to stomach the final blow? what kind of vile coward leaves the dirty work for someone else?  

“will you help us?”  

a warm palm settles on suguru’s shoulder and he snatches the man’s wrist with enough force to sprain. it scorches suguru’s skin to touch such unbridled filth, even if just for a moment. the chief snags his hand away from suguru’s hold, eyes widened in fear.  

“please don’t touch me.” he's deliberate in reeling in the wrath threatening to spill over. it is likely they already think him a monster. “let’s take this discussion outside, shall we?”  

distantly, suguru hears the door sliding as its pulled open. he presses his eyelids shut, and evens his breathing, quelling the rain in his ears. he failed amanai. he failed yuu. this time, he’ll strike first, and if that makes him a beast, suguru supposes he’s tired of pretending otherwise.  

slowly treading after the chief, he ignores the bile raising in his throat as girls watch him in trembling, quiet horror. they think suguru will slaughter them like lambs.  

“you’re like us,” comes a hoarse whisper, so soft suguru might believe it to be the voices of old ghosts. “you see things, too.”  

suguru stills. he turns to see that it’s the other sister that spoke. her right eye is swollen shut. 

“that’s right.”  

wearily, she asks, “why are you here?”  

crouching till he’s at level with their twin black eyes, suguru murmurs, “i can hurt them like how they hurt you. you just have to ask.”  

it is a vile thing for suguru to say – to absolve himself the guilt, as if he could later testify to yaga-sensei, or the higher ups, that the slaughter of dozens by his hand was done at the request of another – but tsukumo yuki had told him he was at a crossroads, and suguru does not trust himself to choose.  

“then what will happen to us?”  

suguru swallows. “nothing. i won’t let anything happen.”  

you promised amanai the same, his mind whispers, and suguru tries not to shudder at the thought. he’s already lost everything he once thought he possessed – strength, power, goodness, so suguru is willing to gamble all else away. he’ll protect these girls, or he’ll die trying, but not without taking everything else in tow.  

“that’s not true,” the copper-haired sister accuses, pulling her brunette counterpart closer. “they’ll be angry, and then they’ll be scared. i hate it most when they’re scared.”  

suguru’s heartstrings pull taut, and the subtle motion is sharp enough to sting. wordlessly, he shatters the lock confining the girls in their prison with his fist, and the sudden sound makes their narrow shoulders jolt. belatedly, suguru wonders if he should’ve been gentler, if he still has it within himself to be tender.  

“it’ll be me they fear,” suguru assures, shoving his reddened knuckles into his trouser pocket. the girls make no attempt to move. “you two don’t need to worry.”  

he turns to head outside, ready to unleash hell upon the village. a weak tug on the seam of his pants stops him. suguru looks down, and finds two hands gripping onto him, dirty and shaking.  

“what will happen to you?” the soft-spoken sister asks, hesitant.  

when he doesn’t answer, her brasher counterpart tells suguru, “don’t lie.”  

suguru considers his words, if he should soften them into something easier for children their age to stomach, if he should spare them the bitter tang of they’ll want me dead, if he should then say that the world has wanted him dead since the day he had the misfortune of being born, and only now will suguru earn it, like the cruellest of self-fulfilling prophecies.  

“i’ll be a bad person,” he decides on saying, quiet. he meets their eyes, so big and expressive, having seen so many terrors, far more than they have seen beautiful things, and suguru’s gaze softens. “but before all that, i’ll send you both to someplace where they’ll look after you, where they’ll be kind.”  

suguru may not trust jujutsu society, but he trusts satoru, and shoko, and every other expendable cog in the wretched machine.  

“no.”  

suguru blinks. “no?”  

“no,” they repeat in unison, pleading. “we want to stay with you.”  

you don’t even know me, he wants to say. i cannot save you.  

he opens his mouth to voice his thoughts, but nothing comes out. suguru knows he cannot promise such a thing, but then he wonders if this is the dividing path – exacting revenge on faces he won’t even care to remember, or finding something new to protect, to cherish, something he can leave behind all else for.  

“okay,” suguru concedes, feeling something foreign take root in his chest, nestling right between his ribs. it is not heavy, like shame, or fury, or sorrow. it is unfamiliar and light, and suguru wants to keep it close, tuck it closer. “okay. i can take you both, and they’ll never reach us again, but you have to know – we cannot go back. if you come with me, there’s no going back. okay? you cannot go back.”  

act ii: twin primes   

1111 

his days begin before the sun has graced the skies, and suguru is quiet as he pads through the farmhouse. the old floorboards groan regardless, as do the twins in their room, shifting idly in their deep slumber. the corners of suguru’s mouth lift up at the sight of their sleeping faces.  

his first task of the day is tending to the weeds growing amidst the rice fields, and its mundane work, but suguru has grown to appreciate the rigour of labour. he switches on the old radio a neighbour had gifted him, and lets the drone of a local news channel overtake the quietness that settles. 

as he works, the passing winds brush past his cheek, weaving through stray curls of hair coming undone from his bun. once, the chill of the cold morning air would have caused goosebumps to prickle suguru’s skin, but with time, he has grown accustomed to this coldness, has made himself a home within it.  

by the time the first spilling of daybreak kisses the planes of suguru’s face, dried mud clings to his hands and feet, but the ache that settles in his bones congratulates him of a job well done.  

knowing the twins will soon rouse, and suguru takes a quick shower before the house erupts with the familiar noise of groggy children who’ve yet to realise they’re running late for school. the water is cold against his sun-soaked skin, and the girls always tell him he’s crazy for never turning the heater on. what suguru will never tell them is that he does it for their sake – the old boiler only has so much warm water for morning showers.  

as suguru exits the bathroom after drying his hair enough that water doesn’t trickle down his back, he’s graced by the sight of mimiko’s sleep-addled face in the hallway as she rubs at her eyes. 

“good morning, mimiko,” he greets, ruffling her mussed hair. “sleep well?”  

she lets out a vague hum which suguru takes as a yes, and before he can ask if her sister’s gotten up as well, nanako comes trailing after from their bedroom. ever the restless sleeper, the deep pillow marks imprinted onto her cheek tells suguru that she’s slept soundlessly.  

“geto-sama,” nanako whines, tugging at his sleeves in the way she thinks will make her look cute. unfortunately for suguru, she’s right. “i think we’re going to miss the bus. can you drive us?”  

“i drove you two yesterday,” suguru chides, pretending like he isn’t going to agree, anyway, “and two days before that. at this rate it’ll become a bad habit.”  

“today will be the last day, i promise!” she insists, holding up her little finger. “i’ll even set an alarm tomorrow!”  

suguru sighs, unable to bite down the exasperated smile spreading on his lips. locking their fingers together, he concedes, “i'll hold you to it. now, get dressed quickly you two. breakfast will get cold.”  

it's a fifteen-minute drive to the twins’ elementary school, and they insist on blasting a j-pop song suguru doesn’t recognise. mimiko patiently tells him it’s what all the popular girls are listening to these days, while nanako unceremoniously calls him old. suguru takes little offense only because nanako presses a chaste kiss on his cheek when he drops them off, before running off to join her school friends.  

suguru’s eyes then land on mimiko who’s looking at him with a brand of nervousness that has him frowning. unlike nanako who finds joy in voicing her many complaints, mimiko is less expressive, always bottling up her concerns, which only means suguru worries about her twice as much.  

“what’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks gently, brushing a stray lock behind her ear.  

mimiko gnaws on her bottom lip, wringing her hands together. “i left my workbook back at home.”  

ah, thinks suguru, twenty-two-year-old single father, genuinely stunned.  

then he starts the engine of his truck, deciding it won’t be the end of the world if he tends to the chickens a little later than usual today, though not before solemnly telling her, “don’t tell your sister. she’ll never let us live it down.” 

0000 

at eighteen, suguru is not made to be a guardian.  

much less, to girls who’ve been scarred by demons most couldn’t fathom surviving even in adulthood. much less, when some days suguru can barely look after himself, when the weight atop his shoulders feels so crushing it takes everything to just pull himself out of bed. much, much, less when suguru – fresh blood in a foreign town – has no one to turn to in crisis but the very flesh and blood he despises.  

three weeks since settling into the flat above the old shophouse suguru worked at, mimiko falls gravely ill, her sweat-soaked forehead burning to the touch. the sight of her sister in such a state is enough for tears to well up in the corner of nanako’s eyes, and suguru holds them both close, desperate in concealing his own gnawing anxiety.  

none of the medication the local pharmacy prescribed worked, and suguru wonders what sin his two girls have committed to be at the mercy of his care. desperately, he thinks of childhood remedies, tries to think back to what his mother might’ve done when it’d been little suguru tucked into a too-small bed instead, but comes short of anything.  

“geto-sama,” mimiko croaks, all small and fragile, “i don’t feel so good.”  

suguru’s heart lurches, and all he can offer are soft words that soothe all but the ache resonating within him. 

“i know, mimiko,” he murmurs softly, “just hold on a little longer, okay? i’ll find someone to make it better. i promise.”  

coaxing nanako with gentle assurances that he’ll be right back, suguru leaves the flat, back pressing against the front door as he sinks to the ground, knees drawn up to his chest. his hands shake as he holds up his phone, staring at the harsh light that blinds his eyes in the quiet dark.  

the empty contacts list stares back at him. he’d deleted all old numbers but in this moment of utter solitude, suguru can only wish he bothered to memorise shoko’s number back when that sort of thing felt so needless, when she’d just been down the hall and a little to the right.  

rubbing at his bleary eyes, suguru then asks himself even if he knew her number by heart, would she pick up? what would she think when she sees his name – that a ghost has come to haunt her? 

suguru scoffs at the thought.  

his fingers hover over the keypad, and suguru bites down the urge to dial the one number he does know, the one number that had prompted him to delete the rest, to sever the pull of temptation. it didn’t work, and suguru knows that if it ever comes to, satoru would come for him – and then he’d see suguru in this state, and suguru wouldn’t be able to bear it, not even for mimiko’s sake.  

what is suguru doing? he isn’t a father. he was barely a son, and now suguru isn’t quite sure he’s anyone’s anything anymore.  

“oh, son,” comes a woman’s voice, pitying in its drawl, “what’s happened to you?”  

suguru looks up, cursing himself for being so out of it. he comes to face the lady living across the street looking down at him with her lips pursed and inked brows drawn together. in her arms are a basketful of oranges that she sets aside, peering at him with a degree of scrutiny that has suguru’s skin crawling.  

get away, he wants to snarl like a wounded dog, but all that comes out is, “my girl, she’s sick. i don’t know what to do.”  

it’s pathetic, and suguru is certain that if his seventeen-year-old self could see him now, he’d rip open suguru’s throat with a viciousness they both would deem deserved.  

but at seventeen, suguru had been naive, and it had taken his chest being split open by a man of his living nightmares to realise that he was weak – not just because he lost, but because toji let him live, when really, he should’ve done the world a premature favour and killed suguru as he was then, still believing in the falsehood of his own goodness.  

the lady, fujimura-san, takes one look at mimiko and tells suguru to wake her husband. together, they drive to the hospital, both girls tucked into either side of suguru in the cramped backseat of the fujimuras’ old sedan, stirring occasionally with the bumpy countryside roads.  

suguru thinks of fujimura-san's voice as she nags at her husband to reroute, and how it sounds nothing like his own mother’s, yet comforts him all the same.  

in the sterile walls of the emergency room, they wait outside as mimiko is ushered into a ward. nanako lies in suguru’s lap, still asleep, and suguru drums his fingers against the cold plastic chair, unsettled. fujimura-san turns to face him, her gaze searching, and must find something in suguru that makes her huff. 

“it doesn’t get less nerve-wracking – children, that is,” she tells him, “and every time they get hurt, or sick, or anxious, it will feel like the first time... but it gets easier.”  

suguru nods, uncertain.  

“you’re young, and life can be unkind. trust me when i say it’s harder to keep it all to yourself, geto-kun. next time, if anything happens, call me or tatsuo.” when suguru doesn’t say anything, she cracks a smile. “and if i need anything, i’ll call you, too.”  

that night, when suguru closes his eyes in the hospital ward after the fujimuras have gone home, it’s with music playing in one ear, the other earbud hanging off his shoulder. his phone feels heavier in the pocket of his baggy cargos, with the two new contacts stored within.  

2222 

typically, suguru has the afternoons all to himself, but time has made him realise how much he cherishes the interruptions mid-farming to be asked to sign a report card, or to explain a math problem, or any other mundane thing that becomes commonplace in the geto household. without the usual chatter ringing in the air, the lapses of silence are only punctuated by the bleating of the goats as they graze suguru’s tea trees.  

today, he decides to head to the markets.  

as per the conventions of rural villages, the marketplace teems with haggling seniors and peddlers looking to sell off this and that. bodies push against one another as they drift from stall to stall, and even if suguru’s skin crawls with every minute point of contact, it’s the price he pays to wash away the constant static humming in his skull with the noisy bustle of crowds.  

“didn’t bring the girls today, suguru?”  

suguru’s eyes crease into half-moons. “i’m afraid not, sando-san. they’re still at school.” 

“i keep forgetting,” he says, shaking his head. “it feels like just yesterday that nanako-chan and mimiko-chan would spend afternoons running about the market, and bumping into customers and knocking over wicker baskets.”  

sando ken owns the inn by the hot spring resort and is enough of a regular for suguru to know there’s no rice he likes more than the one suguru harvests. suguru suspects sando-san might just have a soft spot for his household, but likes believing otherwise, lest old ideals come to haunt him again.  

naturally, the longer suguru stays, the more townsfolk gather around his stall, and suguru greets them with what he deems an acceptable degree of warmth. he listens in on their chatter – mostly gossip, like how the nagasawas are finally getting a divorce after thirty years of endless bickering, or how suzume mujiwara’s hot-shot lawyer son is coming back for the summer, meaning all the hovering mothers with unmarried daughters are hounding at a chance to score an audience.  

“i don’t know what’s so special about that boy,” sniffs shiba-san, ever the contrarian, “our village has enough eligible bachelors for our daughters. look at our dear geto-kun for example!”  

suguru’s brows raise. opening his mouth to pivot the conversation away from himself, he’s interrupted by the bout of unanimous agreement by the gaggle of grannies and grandpas.  

“aren’t you looking to get married, my dear? maybe a step-mother for your girls?”  

“i’ll have you know, my akiko is a lovely cook!”  

suguru holds up his hands in a placating gesture, ignoring the strange coiling of his gut at the thought of something like marriage.  

“you all flatter me,” he laughs, “but the last i heard, kita-san's eldest son is looking to get married. he’s a doctor, you know, and very good with children.” 

and like the guiding of sails, the attention thankfully ebbs away from suguru and moves onto kita yoshio who should be very pleased to find that come tomorrow, the townsfolk will regard him as one of the most coveted bachelors in ryujinmura.  

it’s about three hours past midday that suguru anticipates the inevitable shuffling of the front door as mimiko and nanako kick off their shoes and race to be the first to greet him, either to declare how hungry they are or to ask him if they could help out with setting the table. 

he’s reading a book on irrigation farming when he hears nanako’s call of, we’re home, geto-sama! and guess who we brought over!  

switching off the television that was playing in the background, suguru heads over to the front door, ready to nag at the twins for not telling him beforehand if they intend to bring mika-chan over.  

“girls,” he starts, “what did i tell you about–” 

flanked by mimiko and nanako isn’t mika-chan, or the boy down the road they like playing on the fields with, or anyone suguru could have expected.  

five years, and still suguru’s heart stutters at the sight of gojo satoru.  

he’s grown taller, shoulders broader and jaw sharper, no soft baby fat clinging to his cheeks. in place of his shades are white blindfolds that shield his eyes, and selfishly, suguru rues the secrecy, wishes he could see those eyes again. he remembers them to be blue like a cloudless summer sky, blue like the crystalline river that flows through the heart of the village, and suguru has never seen blue the same since.  

it’s in everything.  

yet, as the awe of reconnection washes away, suguru is left with nauseating dread. satoru has yet to move, to say a single word, and suguru only wishes he were a phantom, or a hallucination.  

“geto-sama, it’s rude to leave guests waiting,” nanako says bluntly, oblivious to the knot that’s tightening in suguru’s stomach.  

“i know geto-sama said not to talk to weird grown-ups, but there was an accident by the school and he offered to walk us back home,” mimiko adds, smiling brightly. “can he stay over for dinner?”  

“you two let a strange man follow you back home?” suguru demands, frowning as he presses two fingers into his now-throbbing temple.  

“gojo-san is nice,” mimiko defends, right as nanako blurts out, “if he tried anything i would’ve kicked him and ran!”  

they're interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter from satoru, and suguru expression softens at the sound. he’s missed it like a vice.  

“suguru,” satoru murmurs, sobering. there’s a faraway quality to his voice as if he can’t believe suguru is here, either.  

suguru forces a smile on his lips even if it threatens to waver. “hello, gojo-san. come on in.” 

act iii. the heart is an eye  

0000 

for all his shortcomings as a parent, suguru does not allow his share of suffering to be an heirloom. it’s why he’d opted for the rural countryside, somewhere mimiko and nanako could be brought up without being hidden away from the vastness of the world. tokyo, as much as it it’d been a thing of fantasy, had been a cage.  

it made suguru soft, moulded his young heart with the promise of romantic ideals that crumbled into nothing, marring his insides with the remnants of blackened dreams.  

in tokyo, suguru lived in a world of black, white, and blue, where all non-shamans were deserving of protection until the day they were suddenly the same filth as the curses they create, and when that dichotomy got too exhausting to live with, suguru would distract himself with being one half of someone who was already born whole.  

wakayama brings with it a litany of greys, and suguru finds his place amidst the failing and the trying. grandiose delusions of collective punishment fizzle out to smoke when he sees his girls playing in the schoolyard with children who don’t have monsters chasing after them, and suguru realises that his ideals have always been rooted in self-saving vengeance, as if by spilling enough blood, suguru might make up for all that’d been bled out of him.  

so, suguru allows his daughters to live amidst non-shamans, raising them not as sorcerers but children, and leaves the dirty work for himself. reinvention is cruel and difficult, and suguru feels like he’s cracking his own bones just to make them heal the right way, except they don’t, and at times, it’s more fracture than growth, more bruise than flesh, and all suguru is left with is ache, ache, ache.  

it’s the day that suguru’s called to the principal’s office that he reaches his breaking point.  

first sight of mimiko’s tear-stained cheeks and the angry bruise on nanako’s cheek and suguru feels his shoulders relax, and his heartrate, singing a song of paternal worry, changes its tune to one of an eerie calmness, like his body knows before his mind that he is not letting anyone in this office out alive.  

“nanako hit a student,” the principal tells him, unsuspecting of the danger brewing within suguru, “and no matter the circumstances, we do not condone violence here. for that, she’ll be facing a suspension of three days.”  

“okay,” suguru says, nodding slowly, “and what did he do?”  

he tips his head towards the boy who’s staring up at suguru with baleful eyes, murky blood staining his lips from the evidently broken nose.  

“kaoru similarly retaliated in violence, which is obviously unacceptable–”  

“no,” suguru interrupts smoothly. “what did he do to mimiko?”  

the principal blinks. waving a dismissive hand, he says, “just a disagreement between kids, you know how it is.”  

“a disagreement,” suguru echoes, jaw clenching.  

“come now, hasaba-san,"–suguru doesn’t correct the mistake–“they’re elementary school students. slight squabbles are bound to happen, but nanako’s response was truly unbecoming.”  

suguru looks at the twins who are stood side by side, not meeting his eyes. he knows his nanako, and knows how she doesn’t fight without reason, and if reason enough, there’s no wilting of her spirit. likewise, he knows his mimiko, knows that even if she’s quiet, she’s strong. suguru has only ever seen her cry twice.  

unbecoming? oh, suguru will show them unbecoming. if they are unsettled by the state of his daughters, suguru will show them just how untoward their father could be, just how much viciousness he has within him.  

suguru’s hands move on their own accord, and he feels the shaky exhale of a phantom curse breathing down his neck. he just has to will it, and their bodies will be shred to ribbons. suguru’s fingers twitch, the curse lets out a hoarse hiss, eliciting a sharp gasp from suguru’s side.  

he turns to see mimiko and nanako with their brown eyes blown wide with fear, backs pressed against the wall. when his steely gaze locks with theirs, they look afraid not of the decades old curse towering over his shoulder, with its haunted eyes and rotting skin, but of him, of suguru.  

suguru dissipates the curse at an instant.  

the drive back home is silent, as are the twins when they step into the farmhouse and toe off their shoes with a neatness that has suguru’s mouth flattening down to a terse frown. they’d only moved in recently, when suguru had scraped up enough working two jobs, and found a plot that housed an abandoned rice field. the previous owner had sold it to him at a discount, and suguru had deigned to ignore the open pity in his eyes. 

pride did not raise children, pride did not pay bills, and most importantly, pride had already once betrayed suguru in the body of a creature more god than man, more human than suguru.  

it’s only when they’re seated at the dinner table that they speak.  

“are you angry at us, geto-sama?” mimiko asks, biting her inner cheek.  

“why would i ever be angry?”  

“you looked angry,” nanako suddenly says, looking up at him. when suguru shifts his gaze to her, she looks away. “you summoned that curse. i’ve never seen you do that before.”  

“i was angry,” suguru clarifies, “but not at either of you. i was angry at your school, and that boy, and i...” i almost killed them all. he shakes his head lightly, words trailing off. “i’m sorry for frightening you both.”  

that night, suguru invents a punishment, a matter of instilling discipline. in the wilderness of rural wakayama, he’s forgotten the hurt of a pulled collar, the sting of a whip. evidently, suguru is still a mutt, and if he has to quell his own rebellion, so be it.  

there lurks a cursed spirit by the northern end of river ryujinmura, producing enough bloating corpses washing up by the southern end that locals understood to keep clear. likewise, suguru has done nothing about it because that’s not his job anymore. his girls are safe, and smart enough to know better than to tread anywhere close.  

suguru should know better as well, but it’s been too long since he’s been afraid.  

the first time a curse had touched him, suguru’s frail body had shook so violently he believed he might’ve died right then and there. with age, suguru has forgotten true fear, and he intends to remind himself of it, to beat it back into his bones that he is no god, no purveyor of justice.  

the trek to the top of the river is arduous, but suguru, simmering with barely kept anger, reaches the summit before sundown. the sound of the flowing rapids fills his ears, and suguru immediately senses the presence of a greater beast, one that might even best him. he is being reckless. 

that’s all the warning he gets before a clawed hand snags his ankle, and suguru is pulled beneath the rushing waters with a quickness that has his mind reeling. the water is freezing, and suguru lets out a choked cry that fills his lungs with freshwater. he thrashes, wild and uncoordinated, but the grip around his foot does not loosen.  

i could die, suguru thinks, and it hits him how the realisation doesn’t frighten. it excites him.  

he could die, and it seems like suguru has forgotten the exhilaration that follows when death is at your heel, and your heart flitters between your ribs like a caged bird, so desperate to live. it grounds him, tethering suguru to the corporeal world where his life suddenly holds weight when he finds it slipping out of his grasp, stolen by a creature with dozens of arms that hold him taut, squeezing.  

it takes hours for suguru to defeat it, and when he stands by the river bay, victorious, his chest is heaving and his skin blood-soaked, the sun having long found her course back to the horizon. the conquered curse lets out a slur of whines, and it almost sounds human in its last-ditch desperation. suguru casts it a dazed glance, panting still.  

raising a steady hand, he beckons its broken form towards him, watching how it weaves into itself until what lands in the palm of his sullied hands is a dark, black ball.  

suguru can feel the thrumming of the curse beneath the pads of fingertips, pulsating like a heartbeat. he parts his lips open, hands coming up to shove the austere ball down his throat but all suguru can think of is the ghost of its taste.  

the first time he’d eaten a curse, he’d retched his stomach empty, but the cursed stayed inside as did the taste of bile on suguru’s tongue. he’d been fifteen with no way of knowing that nothing would taste the same ever again. no one had told him he couldn’t just rinse the putrid tang of vitriol. it’s the sort of thing that stays with a boy, crawling into the negative spaces between thoughts, between words, between the folds of his insides.  

two years since the last time he’d forced a curse down, suguru wonders why this one trembles so furiously, until he realises it’s his own hands that are shaking, so unwilling, so spoiled.  

squeezing his eyes shut, he forces it into his mouth, and suguru wills himself to swallow, but he cannot. he gags, blinking away tears that cloud his vision as the curse falls to the ground. cradling it back into his palms with a violent desperation, suguru tries again, but he cannot.  

he cannot. 

3333 

the first thing satoru does when he steps into suguru’s home is grab suguru’s wrist with enough force to bruise, tugging him closer without warning.  

“gojo-san?” satoru seethes, and the anger in his tone makes suguru purse his lips.  

suguru snatches his hand away, glancing aside to find that the twins have thankfully scampered off inside. rather than the sensation of an unfeeling void, suguru had been met with the unbridled warmth of skin against skin, freed from the fenced walls of infinity. it surprised him.  

“you can’t push me away–”  

suguru raises a hand to silence him. “not here. not around them.” 

at dinner, suguru sits across from satoru. the arrangement should be nostalgic, but the tendrils of dread have crawled up the column of suguru’s throat and made its way into his mouth, robbing him of speech and appetite both. so, suguru spends most of the time toying with his food and sneaking glances at satoru.  

satoru, who is this strange balancing act of familiar and unknown. satoru, with his hair like wild foxglove, smile like the summer sun so much so that suguru tries not to stare, lest its brilliance blinds him.  

the girls take to satoru like flies to honey, and it isn’t resentment that bubbles at the sight of satoru eliciting pearls of gentle laughter from his daughters, but it makes suguru’s stomach churn regardless.  

satoru has always made everything look effortless, anyway. 

at one point, suguru notices mimiko’s curious eyes on him, so he smiles when satoru makes a joke, playing along with this charade where suguru doesn’t acknowledge the weight of satoru’s gaze on him, and satoru doesn’t comment on how suguru treats him like a stranger.  

“what brings you to the area, gojo-san?” suguru finally prompts, voicing his curiosity. he tries not to revel in the way satoru’s shoulders straighten when he speaks. “i’m guessing it’s not our famed onsens.”  

“no,” satoru agrees, “i came here to exorcise a special-grade.”  

“a special grade?” nanako asks, and suguru curls his fingers inwards, already regretting opening his damn mouth.  

“gojo-san is like us,” suguru says, deciding it’s not just satoru who can be blunt to a fault. “he’s a very powerful sorcerer, and he must’ve detected a special-grade curse around, though that seems unlikely.”  

“why so?” satoru challenges, cocking a brow.  

“because i’m here, and as far as i’m aware, there’s no such thing in ryujinmura. i make sure of it.”  

“is that so,” satoru says, bordering acidic, and suguru feels the bite behind his words, the way his smile hides knives poised right by suguru’s throat.  

“gojo-san, what’s tokyo like?” mimiko interrupts, and the smile on satoru’s face melts to something kinder, and suguru does not think about how the satoru five years ago wouldn’t have cared to humour her.  

suguru does not speak again during their meal, and when he finally rises, he begins piling the used bowls in one hand. satoru, already watching him, mirrors the gesture.  

“there’s really no need,” suguru protests, almost tightly. “you’re a guest.”  

satoru walks past him towards the kitchen, his shoulder brushing against suguru’s. “i insist, actually.”  

at the sink, suguru rolls up the sleeves of his longsleeve, and as he lets the faucet run, satoru stands by his side. he casts satoru a weary glance, but satoru stays put. taking in a deep breath, suguru begins washing the dishes, wordlessly passing them to satoru who wipes them down with a dry washcloth. each time suguru suspects satoru will speak, he doesn’t, and suguru is forced to endure the suffocating tension that settles in its place.  

“could you just say something?” suguru finally snaps, setting down the bowl he’s holding back into the sink with more force than necessary.  

satoru appears unfazed. “what should i say?”  

there’s a casualness to his tone that makes suguru bristle. “it’s clear you have things you wish to say.”  

“i’m sparing you for now,” satoru says cryptically.  

suguru scoffs. “then make small talk, i don’t know.”  

satoru peers down at him, and suguru realises that he has to tip his head up, just by the slightest bit, to properly look back at him. they used to be the same height back in jujutsu tech. 

pausing, satoru murmurs, “you don’t like the quiet?” 

“what?” 

“silence,” he repeats, deliberate in its slowness. “you can’t stand it.”  

suguru parts his mouth to deflect the mere notion, but a stray creak makes him pause, head turning to the kitchen entryway where twin heads of copper and brunette hair sneak out of view. smoothening out his expression into something placid, suguru sighs.  

“girls,” he begins, chiding, “go start your schoolwork. i’ll check through them before bed, so get it done properly.” 

mimiko and nanako, embarrassed to have been caught eavesdropping, stick their heads through the doorway and sullenly chorus, yes, geto-sama, but not before sheepishly mumbling a goodbye to satoru, who returns them a bemused wave back.  

“they’re sweet, your girls.” 

“i know.”  

“they call you their father.” the girls never say it to his face, but suguru hears it in all the ways that matter. “i never thought you’d be the type.”  

“why are you here, satoru?” suguru asks instead, growing sick of glass plates and eggshells.  

“i was sent on a mission.” 

“but why are you here? out of all children at the school, why my girls? out of all homes to stand before, why my front door?”  

“do you think it’d be possible for me to not recognise even the faintest trace of you?” satoru asks with a forwardness that has suguru blinking back, stunned. “i sensed it, your residuals on them. i didn’t let myself think it could lead me to you, but i couldn’t let it go. how could i?”  

“it’s been five years, satoru.”  

“yes, i know,” satoru says, his mouth pulling to an unhappy frown. “it’s been five years, suguru, so where the hell have you been?”  

grimacing, suguru grits his teeth. “here. i’ve always been here. so now that you know that, i think you should go.”  

“go?” satoru echoes, disbelieving. he takes a menacing step towards suguru, as if suguru could ever be frightened into obedience, as if suguru could ever be frightened by satoru. “go where?”  

“back to tokyo,” suguru insists, turning away from satoru, unable to face him even with the blindfolds on. “back to the life i gave up being a part of – where you belong.”  

satoru scoffs.  

“where i belong?” he repeats, mocking. “what would you know about that? the last time i stayed in tokyo for more than a week was eight months ago.”  

“what?”  

“i only take missions that need me travelling out of the city, to the furthest parts of japan and and then some,” satoru continues, “even if it's in a shitty small town with no reception, and even if the curse is no stronger than a semi-first grade, i still go. this year alone, i’ve spent more nights sleeping on motel room beds than the one in my own apartment. ask me why.”  

suguru swallows thickly. cautiously, he allows it. “why?”  

“because of you, suguru. why else?”  

biting his inner cheek, suguru falters at the earnest quality of satoru’s voice, hates how it makes his chest squeeze with an ache he’s long grown tired of soothing.  

“satoru,” he starts, throat dry.  

“i didn’t go to the wake they held for you. the urn was empty and they still thought i’d come as if...” satoru lets out a bitter laugh. “as if some scrap of paper you sent your parents would be enough for me. i read it, you know. i still remember the words. can you?”  

bristling at the mention of the letter he left his mother, suguru warns, “that’s enough.” 

“can you?” satoru repeats, ignoring him. “i knew it was bullshit. even then, i knew.”  

“it was meant to be closure,” suguru hisses, growing defensive. “i meant every word i wrote. you might not have liked it, but it wasn’t made for you. it was meant for my mother’s eyes. only hers.”  

“ever the filial son you are,” satoru croons, taunting, “kind enough to drop off a suicide note before fucking off forever. the rest of us should be so lucky.”  

“is this why you’re here, satoru?” suguru sneers, barely recognising the aborted laugh leaving his lips. “to humiliate me? to demand the goodbye you never got?”  

satoru lets out a frustrated sound. “no!” he growls, before clicking his tongue. then, he mutters, softer though no less pained, “no.” 

“then what?”  

“why didn’t you tell me? we could’ve fixed whatever made you leave. us, together. the strongest.”  

goosebumps prickle suguru’s skin at that detested title. “don’t start.” 

“why?” satoru challenges, “what am i not getting here? what happened that made you leave without a word? why didn’t you come to me?”  

what could you have done? suguru thinks of retorting, but bites his tongue.  

“we’re being too loud.”  

“i don’t give a fuck, suguru.”  

suguru grabs satoru by the collar, dragging him close with a roughness he’s kept at bay for years. 

“you’re in my house, gojo satoru,” he reminds, voice laced with a nameless poison. suguru wants to think it to be wrath, worries it might be hurt instead. “i can throw you out if i so please.”  

a mirthless smile spreads on satoru’s lips. “like i’d let you. have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”  

to that, suguru’s face goes blank as he lets go of the material of satoru’s uniform.  

“you’re right, forgive me. in fact, have the higher ups called for my bounty, gojo-san? is that what this is? in that case, kill me if you’d like.”  

the slackening of satoru’s handsome features is expected, as is the stilling of his body to a rigid stillness.  

“you’ve grown cruel.” 

“perhaps,” suguru muses, sliding open the back door connected to the fields housing suguru’s crops.  

the evening air that rushes inside is pleasantly cool, and suguru takes a step outside. he wordlessly begins treading deeper into the landmass, not once looking back. he knows satoru is following.  

in the enveloping darkness, the mountains towering in the horizon remind suguru of dormant gods lying to rest, the slopes of their relaxed backs and shoulders stretching over the hazy evening skyline. amidst the wild grass, satoru filters in and out of his periphery, and maybe it’s the perceived distance that grants suguru the courage to speak.  

“the day i disappeared, i was going to massacre an entire village. a hundred and ten people, it would’ve been.”  

“because they deserved it,” satoru says, voicing it not like a question, but like he knows it to be true, like he thinks suguru was like a savant in his retribution, and not a man in his anguish.  

“because i wanted to,” suguru corrects, “and they were unlucky enough to be collateral. it would’ve had nothing to do with them, and everything to do with me. i would’ve killed whoever i ran across that day. i’m sure of it. even if it was a little runt who kicked a stray dog, i would’ve killed him. maybe the dog, too.”  

suguru has mulled over this scenario in all its renditions – what if the villagers had caged the girls, but not hurt them? what if the girls had killed a dozen men, and maybe a dozen more? what if it hadn’t been a village, but a town, but a city, but a country? what if there were no girls with black eyes, no rusty cages, but a village chief who placed his grimy hands on suguru’s shoulder, in a thoughtless unknowing gesture?  

after all, suguru’s hands were crafted to be violent. the man his grandmother had brought him to in childhood had told them as much. he’d called himself a prophet, and with the way he had looked into suguru’s eyes like he was a monster, suguru had believed him, even when his grandmother had dragged him away, calling the man a fraud.  

“why?” satoru asks. he doesn’t sound disgusted.  

“because i hated curses, and found out only at seventeen that it was non-shamans who birthed them. even then, i knew i was fodder, but i never stopped to question my blind belief in the goodness of humanity. i didn’t stop to ask myself if non-shamans were the makers of curses, why did curses taste so retched? if curses are at their very core human, more human than even us, why are they so vile? eventually, the answer felt so simple, and i felt so stupid.”  

“nobody told me, you know,” suguru admits, continuing, and he can’t help the bitterness that makes it presence known in the dry laugh he lets out. “it seemed like everyone knew but me. maybe they thought i’d come to learn the fact myself, or maybe it was just funny to watch.”  

ignorant little suguru, self-righteous to a fault. 

tsukumo yuki had certainly found it amusing, the way her brown eyes had twinkled with a mean sort of humour when she realised suguru hadn’t known anything, not really, about the nature of curses. her gaze had turned knowing as suguru’s expression had darkened, bile rising up his throat as this newfound wrath took root – not new, not quite, but a hatred that had been nameless all this while. within suguru, it flared like a wildfire at each curse he consumed, each ungrateful non-shaman he saved, each beloved comrade that that fell.  

suguru finally comes to a stop when he stands before the outermost fencing enveloping the perimeter of the estate.  

here, the house looks so tiny and faraway, like a distant flickering light amidst the endless dark. distantly, suguru thinks he might be a mere moth, yearning to crawl underneath his covers and abandon satoru among the lesser weeds that have overtaken this part of the plot, not yet restored. glancing lazily at satoru, his eyes lock with satoru’s obscured gaze. it pins him down regardless, like a butterfly in a glass case. suguru doesn’t mind it.  

“you ask me why i left, and it’s because i never could’ve stayed, not without doing something bad, something they would’ve killed me for.”  

“i wouldn’t have let them,” says satoru immediately, something urgent in his tone, “no matter what you did.”  

he presses closer to suguru, tugging off his blindfolds with a stark quickness. in the quiet dark, satoru’s eyes glitter like open constellations, and suguru’s heart lurches at the sight. they are searching, and so desperate to be understood, and suguru’s face softens into something pitying.  

“i know,” suguru offers gently.  

“i would’ve come with you. why didn’t you tell me? didn’t you know that i would have followed you anywhere?”  

a lifetime ago, suguru’s heart might have swelled with such affection it would have burst. now, it just throbs.  

“i didn’t want that. not then, not ever,” suguru tells him firmly, watching the look of hurt that flashes across satoru’s eyes, so expressive, so honest. “the world needs you, satoru, and being the strongest is a heavy weight to shoulder. i wouldn’t have allowed myself to be another burden.”  

“burden?” satoru raises a fist right above where suguru’s heart rests, and knocks it against suguru’s chest. once, twice. it rattles suguru, makes his head spin not with dizziness but an old, nameless sort of fondness. “suguru, we’re the strongest together. me and you, remember? you and me. me and you.” 

“we had a good run,” suguru allows, ghosting a hand over the ridges of satoru’s knuckles, the touch featherlight. his voice comes off thick, but he ignores it in favour of gently pushing satoru’s hand away. “but we’re different people now. i’m not the boy you remember, and my life is for my girls. one night with you isn’t going to change that.”  

for a moment, satoru does not speak.  

“and if they leave you? who’ll your life be for? what happens if your girls grow older and decide they take after their father?”  

suguru forces a wry smile. “then i guess i would deserve it. is that what you want to hear? that i’d be heartbroken? because you’d be right.” 

“that’s not–” satoru starts, cursing underneath his breath. kicking at the dirt with a boyish sort of frustration, he mutters, “i feel like i’m saying all the wrong things.” 

suguru could be callous, could say something equally biting. inexplicably, he finds he doesn’t want to. wetting his bottom lip, he shakes his head. “it’s okay.” 

“do you hate non-shamans, suguru?”  

“most days i don’t. not anymore.”  

“and me?” satoru probes, something imploring in his voice, “do you hate me?”  

it would be easy to hate satoru. once, lying straight on his back with tired eyes staring up at his ceiling, suguru believed he might. it’d been the summer yuu had died, and suguru had replayed the memory of tsukumo peering down at him, half demeaning, half curious. half believing, half not. he imagines what might have happened if he confessed to her then his desire to eradicate humanity. she would have laughed. suguru knows it.  

and then he imagines if it had been satoru who proposed it instead. satoru, who’d grown disillusioned, who’d grown bitter and resentful and lost the weight clinging to his cheeks. satoru, who told her, i'll kill them all.  

tsukumo yuki would have still laughed, but she would have believed him. the thought alone had seventeen-year-old suguru, wounded ego still raw from where toji had cut it down, curling into himself, as if he could eat into himself enough to disappear. envy found room in his gut amidst all the lesser devils he consumed and suguru believed he really did hate gojo satoru and his endless, effortless, brilliance.  

it was only in late teenagehood when suguru had realised that it wasn’t true, and his bitterness had lied to him. satoru struggled. suguru just happened to see the tail end of infinity and assumed satoru’s weakness came just as enrapturingly as his strength, that satoru didn’t shove it somewhere unreachable just like suguru tried to.  

“no,” suguru confesses. “not you. never you.” 

satoru nods, slow, as he murmurs, “you’re right, we can’t fix this in one night. that’s why i’ll come back, as many times as i need to, until we do.”  

“what?”  

“i’m coming back for you,” satoru vows. “maybe i don’t know you like i did back then, but i’ll always know you in every other way that matters, and i know that i’m not letting you go again. i failed you once, so this time all i ask is that you let me catch up to you.”  

“satoru,” suguru begins, disapproving, “you can’t possibly – what about work?”  

“you know better than me that it's all secondary,” satoru dismisses. “if i don’t have the time, then i’ll make the time. i don’t care. i just need you to promise me that you’ll stay. even if they send me oceans away, i’ll come back. i swear it. just stay, will you?”  

suguru lets out a shaky exhale. he attempts to take a step away, finding himself caged by the fences, and as he looks back at satoru – satoru who appears like everything of suguru’s dreams, returning to him, and begging for a place within suguru’s life like there hasn’t existed a satoru-shaped hole in him all this time – suguru doesn’t know how to refuse him.  

“okay,” he whispers. “i’ll stay.”  

later that night, as suguru tucks mimiko into bed, it’s long since satoru has made his leave. 

nanako always takes the longest getting ready for bed so suguru sits by mimiko first, gentle as he runs a soothing hand through her soft hair. it’s grown long, almost reaching her shoulders and idly, suguru’s mind wanders. of course, mimiko, observant as she is brilliant, notices.  

“geto-sama already knows gojo-san from before, right?” 

suguru’s hand doesn’t still, but the question makes him smile, apologetic. “my mimiko is so clever,” he muses. “did you hear us talking in the kitchen?”  

mimiko shakes her head.  

suguru cocks a brow in question.  

lifting her chin from under the covers, she shuffles closer to his side. “i recognised gojo-san from the picture geto-sama keeps in his wallet. that’s why i brought him home with nanako.”  

suguru squints at her. “has mimi-chan been looking through my wallet?”  

the indignant squeak she lets out makes him crack a smile, ignoring the dull throb that resonates in his chest. the photo is a sun-bleached relic, one suguru keeps behind the polaroid of the girls, never having the heart to rid of it, burying it beneath his other loves. how odd in its power, suguru thinks, old, and fraying, and still somehow what brought satoru back to him.

0000 

it’s the last day of spring the year suguru turns twenty that he tells the twins about satoru.  

they’re sitting on the couch, watching a romcom mimiko picked because she saw it in one of her magazines, at the part where the heroine finally realises her feelings for her childhood best friend after he’s moved away. suguru finds the movie too melodramatic for his tastes, but is content to have mimiko leaning her head against his shoulder and nanako using his thigh as a pillow.  

suguru doesn’t get many days like these, not when he’s busy restoring the old paddy fields come summertime. so, when days off do pop up, he cherishes them, watches as many bad movies as requested, lets his face be painted using fujiwara-san's old makeup, and have his hair braided no matter how forcefully the girls tug and twist. 

suguru should’ve expected the tranquil to end when nanako squints at the television screen and asks, “say, geto-sama, have you ever been in love?”  

suguru’s hands still from where they’re idly playing with nanako’s hair, and he looks down at her, brows raising in mild amusement.  

“what makes you ask that?”  

“geto-sama never really talks about his life before we became a family,” nanako says. “i was always curious, but mimiko says its rude to ask.”  

mimiko makes an affronted noise at the mention of her name, to which suguru snorts.  

“it’s okay to ask,” he answers easily, and then with a bit more difficulty: “i have been in love. only once.”  

nanako shifts her head in his lap, turning so she’s facing him. the open curiosity on her face makes suguru crack a smile, as does the tightening grip on his sleeve as mimiko presses closer, gasping softly, “really?”  

sighing fondly, suguru realises there’s no way he’s getting out of this. “yes, really.”  

“what was she like?” nanako prompts, “and how did you meet? i bet she’s really pretty. is she really pretty?”  

“slow down, angel,” suguru laughs, “one question at a time.”  

“sorry,” she says obediently, patently not sorry at all when she continues, “can you answer them now?”  

“well, to start it’s not a she ... we were classmates. he was my best friend.”    

suguru doesn’t often allow himself to reminisce about high school, much less about satoru, because when he starts, he can’t stop, and then it’s everywhere – the knowledge of how suguru can never get that time back, can never again feel satoru’s shoulder brushing against his as they sit side to side on the metro, the muted afternoon sun warm against his back, filtering through the foggy windows of the train. 

nostalgia is a mind’s trick, because as much as suguru knows it wasn’t all good, it’s all he can think about. days where him, satoru and shoko would loiter around shinjuku after joint missions and ignore their phones buzzing in their pockets, watching shit movies that they talked the entire way through, so unaware of what would become of them in just one summer.  

sometimes, he even thinks of okinawa and the endless horizon, of amanai’s laughter, but then he realises how in his reveries, suguru can’t seem to quite remember the colour of her eyes, or the length of shoko’s hair, and then that bubble is popped, and suguru is back in wakayama, in ryujinmura where the sun isn’t as kind, but the warmth of his girls, even if smothering on bad days, is as tangible as the tan lines against his skin.  

“he?” nanako parrots, and suguru nods.  

“then he must be handsome,” mimiko says thoughtfully.  

satoru was beautiful, suguru muses, and it had taken four months since meeting him for fifteen-year-old suguru to realise that. the discovery had come to him without fanfare – it’d been raining and suguru hadn’t had an umbrella, except without the aid of limitless to shield him from the pelting rain. they never could get along, but in that moment, as rainwater was seeping into his socks, suguru had felt a slight tug on his sleeve, only to see satoru holding on, not looking at him.  

for a moment, suguru had been quiet. then, he realised the world had gone quiet, too. that afternoon, the world couldn’t touch him. only satoru could.  

“thanks,” suguru had murmured, too embarrassed to say it any louder than he did.  

satoru had cleared his throat, and the delicate flush on the apples of his cheeks had suguru’s heart lodging in his throat. beneath that sun shower, satoru looked like a thing of paintings come to life, and as the lone witness, suguru had wished he cared for things like photography or painting or writing, just so he could give gojo satoru the due diligence of immortalising his brilliance.  

“he was,” suguru agrees, after a beat. “i’m sure he still is.” 

“who confessed first?”  

“ah... it wasn’t like that.”  

nanako frowns. “didn’t he love you back?”  

“even though it was love, we never actually said it,” suguru tries to explain. at the look of confusion on both their little faces, he continues, “think of it like this – let’s say from the day i took you both in up till now, i never once told either of you ‘i love you,’ but i still braided your hair, and packed your lunches with perfectly cat-shaped onigiri, and tucked you both into bed, would you still think i loved you?”  

mimiko nods gently while nanako replies, “obviously! it takes you so long to get the little ears right!” 

“there’s your answer,” suguru says gently, pinching nanako’s cheek. for a moment, he hesitates, before quietly finishing, “he never told me that he loved me, but i felt it. i never said anything, either. i hoped he felt it, too.”  

any further inquiries on nanako’s part were then deterred as the heroine's love interest pulls her into a sweeping kiss, forgoing his new job in favour of their newfound romance. suguru smiles wryly at the cliched display, and just like that, with the girls’ attention back to the television screen, he exhales softly.    

it is only when suguru begins dozing off himself that he feels his shoulder being shaken. opening one eye, he sees mimiko tucking her head under his arm. nanako’s already out cold, her head nearly lolling off his lap which suguru readjusts.  

“hmm?” he lets out a sleepy hum, addressing mimiko. 

“don’t you miss him? your best friend?”  

“i’m too busy for that,” suguru assures, shifting his arm to squeeze her shoulder. it’s a lie as much as it isn’t. “there’s a different sort of love in my life now – two, in fact – and they swell up my heart so much that there’s no more space for silly boys and first loves anymore.”  

smiling, mimiko’s eyes sparkle. “that’s us, right?” she whispers.  

suguru closes his eyes once more, feeling his own private smile stretch. “who else, sweetheart?” 

act iv. i’m good at letting you go / i’m good at letting it get to me  

4444 

as promised, satoru comes back again, and again, and again, until it’s been two months since that first conversation in the fields and satoru has his own mug stored in the cupboards that suguru takes out the evenings satoru sits cross-legged by the television console, with nanako’s homework spread out on the living room floor.  

satoru’s always been better at math than suguru, and suguru, who has much experience painstakingly teaching two ten-year-olds how to find the area of two overlapping circles, welcomes the development. in fact, he gives his thanks by handing satoru a cup of freshly-brewed coffee so sweet even nanako hates it, sticking her tongue out every time she coaxes a sip from satoru.  

suguru doesn’t mean for the semi-frequent addition of one gojo satoru to their dining table to be so seamless, but the day he opens the door to find mimiko and nanako each hanging off either of satoru’s biceps, squealing as they dangle their feet above the ground, suguru doesn’t think he quite knows how to prevent it, either.  

some routines are easy to fall back into, like the bickering between old friends. now, the presence someone hovering over him as suguru tends to the fields only has him sighing, wiping the dirt off the palm of his hands as he drawls, “if you’re just going to stare, you might as well lend a hand.”  

shoving his hands even deeper into his pockets, satoru only grins, shameless. “i prefer to watch, thank you.” 

suguru rolls his eyes, but lets him linger and they fall into a pattern wherein satoru gets to keep his hands clean, and puts suguru’s old radio out of business. suguru doesn’t tell him this, but he prefers the smooth baritone of satoru’s voice over weather reports and old ghost stories, anyway.  

they don’t talk about suguru very much.  

he knows satoru wants to, knows how he keeps looking at suguru like he wants to take him apart, and then piece him back together. he feels the weight of satoru’s gaze even with the blindfolds on, but suguru doesn’t let him get anywhere close because if he does, then satoru will uncover that suguru has more lost pieces than broken ones, and maybe all that’s missing is all that satoru wants.   

and what suguru wants, though he doubts it matters very much, is to not lose this.  

‘this’, meaning the laughter satoru elicits from his girls when he takes them out to the park after school, squeezing himself into swings that aren’t meant to accommodate nearly two-hundred-centimetre-tall grown men, and complaining to suguru when he gets stuck.  

‘this’, meaning an extra pair of hands while suguru is chopping up the freshly harvested vegetables for dinner later, even if satoru spends more time perched atop the kitchen counter ‘taste-testing’ the goods than actually doing any helping.  

and sometimes ‘this’, meaning a warm body by his side as they curl up by the sofa after sending the girls to sleep, suguru doing his nightly reading and satoru braiding his hair over and over again, his hands gentle and slow with the repetitive motions.  

this, really just meaning love that suguru pretends not to see, just so it doesn’t get taken away. 

but because he is geto suguru, and something is very wrong with him, he ruins it anyway. 

... 

it starts with a snide comment: “the hasaba twins are such lovely girls. it makes them all the more pitiful, not having a proper family.”  

suguru pauses behind the two women, grip tightening on the bags of produce in his hands. the summer sun is cruel, and he feels the first beads of sweat trickling down his hair. his hair tie is left snug against nanako’s wrist.  

the woman by her side leans in closer. suguru cannot see either of their faces. “but geto-san is well-liked by the other parents. why, did you hear otherwise?” 

“they just feel sorry for him.” there’s a flippant wave of a hand, and then, “murata-san was telling me how geto-san didn’t even have a high school diploma when he first moved here, and the way he dodges the question of the girls’ mother doesn’t bode very well. i never quite liked my son mixing with his girls, anyway.”  

she sighs, long suffering, continuing, “you never know how much a child can turn out like their parent, and i rather keep my takeda away from rotten apples.” 

further ahead, nanako and mimiko are walking with interlocked arms, and when his line of sight falls on them, he kisses his teeth. suguru isn’t proud of what he does next. 

silently, he stalks past the two women, uncaring when he brushes past one of their shoulders with enough force that she drops the wicker basket in her hands. there’s a sharp gasp, and then panicked whispering, and suguru doesn’t once look back. 

by now, he should know better than to care for what people think of him, but because today is a bad day, the words stick to suguru like sweat on his skin, and they follow him as he lets the goats out to graze the tea garden, as he cooks, and when the mailman's fingers brush against suguru's by accident, suguru wants to break them. 

the stray thought makes him jolt, the stack of letters dropping to the ground. suguru forces out an apology, and it sounds rough even to his own ears.  

letting the door close behind him, suguru can only think of how he wants to scrub his skin raw, and then how he wants to retch at the smell of his own cooking, and then he realises he is spiralling, and so he must be punished.  

but then his doorbell rings and it’s satoru who stands on the opposite end, his grin blinding. he's holding a bag of crepes from that one place in shinjuku that the twins really like, and suguru forces a smile even if he feels like grimacing.  

nanako lets out a delighted squeal, hugging satoru’s arm, and suguru pushes down the need to force satoru away and lock himself somewhere secret and untouchable, where he can be as bad as he feels without anyone bearing witness. 

but he cannot, so he lets him in and allows satoru to dangle a black plastic bag in front of suguru, nearly bumping it against his nose. “don’t look at me like that, this one is for you.” 

wordlessly, suguru opens it, only half-listening to satoru saying, “you were saying it’s hard to get dragonfruit here so i got you both kinds, even though it’s obvious the pink ones are way better.”  

“thank you,” he breathes, something tight furling in his chest. suguru means it.  

satoru leans into his personal space, unbothered by the closeness. “long day today?”  

swallowing, suguru's eyes crinkle to a smile. “just tired.” 

at dinner, suguru doesn't eat and when mimiko points it out, he tells her he's already had his fill. satoru stares at him all the while, but when suguru meets his eye, satoru's gaze melts into something softer and for a moment, suguru’s heart seizes. 

being loved, as much as it is a thing of wonder, for someone like suguru and his secret, rotting, badness, it is also smothering and unbearable because when someone loves you, it is harder to crawl somewhere deep and dark, because there will always be someone tugging, and tugging, and tugging. 

when it was just the girls, suguru had an easier time managing. they revere him, and seldom disobey, so the days suguru thinks he might drown, he tells the girls he’s going on a walk, and they let him, not asking if they can come with even if their gazes are imploring.  

likewise, sando-san does not mind the last-minute childminding, though he does tell suguru to bundle up lest the winds rattle his bones. suguru does not listen, but in kind, does not hate this sort of caring that does very little to actually care. 

but satoru is different. 

he appears loud and boisterous and shallow, but suguru knows him well enough to know that it is more ruse than real, more projection then self, because the satoru that lurks beneath is watchful, knowing and quiet.  

if suguru thinks he can slip away from under satoru's fingers as he had done that summer of weeping rot and sweltering heat, he is forgetting that satoru has already lost him once, and if there is one thing about gojo satoru, it is that he does not make the same mistake twice. 

yet presently, suguru does not know this, or that he is known so intimately, and if he does, is too consumed by lesser devils to care. suguru will still attempt to deceive him, as if there exists anything satoru’s six eyes are blind to.  

after dinner, they all pile up on the sofa to watch a drama that mimiko and satoru had picked, and suguru feels antsy. he sits on the rug, smiling good-naturedly at the string of protests that follow, but does not pull himself up and into their waiting arms.  

suguru cannot sit still, cannot bear to pretend otherwise, and so when he finds all the bodies on the sofa enraptured by the programme, he quietly slips away and into the kitchen where he rests his weight against the countertop, fingers closing in so tight against the wood that his knuckles grow white.  

there is too much noise in his ears, and suguru feels like he is a bomb on the cusp of detonation, and just a room away are all the people he cares about, much too precious to be collateral. 

suguru’s steps are featherlight as heads outside, and when the evening air makes goosebumps prickle on his skin, he lets out a shuddering breath. the material of his shirt is thin, but the unsettling chill that rests at the base of his spine sates the need for discipline, if just barely.  

“where you headed?”  

suguru doesn’t jump at the sound of satoru’s voice. he’s not that careless. “nowhere, really,” he answers, offering satoru an easy smile. “just needed some fresh air.”  

“got room for one more?” 

“if you convinced the girls to pause the show, you have two minutes at best before they start watching without you.” 

“i don’t mind,” satoru says. he bumps a shoulder with suguru, smiling just a little. “i rather be with you, anyway.”  

suguru’s fingers curl in against the side of his hips. he counts to five before answering. “okay.” 

tonight, suguru leads satoru to his vegetable garden where his newest additions sport crimson red cherry tomatoes. he plucks one that looks ripe enough and hands it to satoru who pops it into his mouth, along with three more. satoru then promptly makes a face.  

“that’s sour,” he whines, sticking out his tongue.  

“that’s what you get for being greedy,” suguru says dryly, before he takes a bite out of another. it’s sweet, he finds, even with his dulled taste buds, and before satoru can complain some more, suguru feeds the rest to him, satoru accepting it with a pleased hum.  

“you seemed distracted earlier,” satoru comments as they walk along the wild grass. the dim garden lights illuminate their path, yet suguru can’t quite make out the look on satoru’s face. “did something happen?”  

“it’s ryujinmura,” suguru laughs, and it rings hollow, even to his own ears. “nothing happens here.”  

it’s only when they’re rounding the chicken coop, suguru intending to coax satoru away, that everything goes wrong.  

suddenly, satoru stills, and suguru watches him, rueing the belated realisation that this is the stillness of a predator right before it pounces, and he feels the first threads of real danger materialise when satoru’s shoulders straighten, his mouth pulling into a tense, hard line.  

“there’s a potent stench of curses in the area,” satoru murmurs, more to himself than anything. he cocks his head to the side, frowning at suguru. “how?”  

“it’s nothing interesting,” suguru dismisses, deliberate in his nonchalance. 

“you wouldn’t let a curse linger a thousand feet of your girls,” satoru counters, sharp, “and now you’re saying it’s nothing interesting? if you’re keeping something secret, you’re doing a poor job at it, suguru.”  

“just drop it, please.”  

satoru’s eyes narrow. “either you take me to whatever it is you’re hiding, or i find it myself. i’ll grant you the grace of deciding.”  

“it’s nothing like what you’re thinking.” when satoru does not answer, suguru lets out a steadying breath. softening his tone to something pleading, something pitiful, he changes his approach. “i don’t want you to see.”  

satoru clicks his tongue in irritation. “wrong answer, suguru.”  

suguru’s expression hardens.  

“you’re so fucking suffocating,” he snaps, and the surprise that colours satoru’s face makes him scowl harder. “what do you think i’m going to do? kill someone?”  

“i don’t know,” satoru retorts, unmoved. “it’s always a mystery with you.”  

“tough luck,” suguru scoffs. “i’m heading back in.”  

“you’re not leaving my line of sight.”  

suguru smiles, frigid. “what makes you think i’ll listen?”  

satoru laughs, cruel in a way suguru has never known him to be. “do your daughters know that their father can’t even look after himself? because i’m not above telling them.”  

had suguru been seventeen, he might have barked at satoru to go ahead, might have even told them himself. since suguru is not seventeen, and more importantly, has dearer things to lose than his pride, he keeps his lips pressed shut.  

it doesn’t take very long for satoru to track down the lingering trace of cursed energy back to an old shed that lies beyond the fenced border of suguru’s home. all the while, suguru follows him, wishing with every step that the ground would swallow him whole and finally make something of him.  

satoru kicks the shed open with a blatant disregard for suguru and door hinges alike, stepping inside to find an unremarkable interior – rows of gardening tools hung neatly on the wall, bags of fertile soil hunched over by the sides, and a tabletop with stray pencils and screwdrivers left to gather dust.  

what covets satoru’s interest is a plain wooden chest, from it emitting a tang of wild cursed energy so strong that even satoru wrinkles his nose in distaste. it’s sealed by a dirtied old lock. the key is tucked beneath the material of suguru’s loose shirt, swinging on the pendant suguru never takes off. it used to be his grandmother’s.  

impatiently, satoru raises a hand, summoning a small beam of red. panic stirs in suguru’s gut. 

“let me open it,” he insists, placing a tentative hand on satoru’s shoulder. “please.”  

frowning, satoru nods.  

crouching before the chest, suguru’s hands only tremble a little as he unlocks the padlock. he lifts the top gingerly, and is greeted by his collection of curses. they glint like obsidian gems beneath the light that pools in through the sunroof, and suguru bites down the urge to pull them all to close his chest, and away from satoru.  

suguru cannot discern what look must be flashing across satoru’s eyes, and cannot stand the not knowing. the terse downturn of satoru’s mouth clues him in enough, at the very least.  

“i still hunt curses, because they’re vile and i don’t want my girls to grow up with monsters in their periphery, and... i condense them, like i would back then,” suguru’s voice grows uncertain, before carefully adding, “nobody comes here but me. it’s safe to keep them here.” 

“what are you trying to say, suguru?” satoru asks, and there’s something raw in his voice that sounds enough like judgement for him to bristle.  

“i don’t need your pity,” suguru says coldly. he stands in front of the opened chest, as though shielding the dark orbs from satoru’s line of sight could hide away his shame. “i haven’t needed it the last five years.”  

“but you need to keep these?” the bubbling anger colouring satoru’s tone surprises suguru.  

satoru raises his hands once more, as though a mere moment away from dispelling suguru’s arsenal. hot panic claws up suguru’s throat and he takes a step back towards the chest, almost protective in his stance. satoru’s jaw clenches at the movement.  

“i still consume them,” suguru relents, near shamefully, “but not all at once. you know how i’ve always hated the taste... i save them for the days even the sound of a non-shaman breathing is enough to set me off... the taste is grounding, it’s–” grotesque, humiliating, debasing. “–a reminder of my status.”  

“reminder of your status, or a means to torture yourself?”  

“spare me the saviour complex,” suguru answers, scathing. “you didn’t seem to care back when i’d swallow at least a dozen curses a week. was it not torture then?” he exhales, shaking his head. his heart is racing. “whatever, that’s not important. this isn’t what you think it is, satoru. it’s just a matter of instilling discipline, like a little punishment.”  

“little punishment?” satoru echoes, spitting out the words like they sully his tongue.  

“i know it sounds bad, but it’s not that terrible,” suguru lies, trying to mould his voice into something soft, something soothing, “it helps me–”  

bristling, satoru snarls, “like hell it does!” 

“you know i’ve endured worse.”  

“i don’t care,” satoru says, livid, “i don’t want you to endure anything at all.”  

“then where were you five years ago?” the words leave suguru’s mouth like a dart laced with bitterness, before he can remember that satoru had been enduring, too, just as long, just as hard. he curses underneath his breath. “don’t answer that.”  

suguru runs a hand through his hair, rough with the motions, continuing, “satoru, i know you care about me, but this isn’t going anywhere. i can’t be good right now, and if you stay, i’ll keep saying things i don’t mean, and making everything worse. i like you in my life, even if i don’t deserve it, and i want to keep you so please just go back inside. i’ll come back soon, i swear.” 

“suguru,” satoru says, and there’s something pleading in the way he says suguru’s name, drawing out the syllables like a prayer, “suguru, we can’t keep skirting around this. you can’t keep pretending like nothing is wrong, and i can’t keep acting like i don’t notice that you’re bottling everything up all over again when really, it’s eating me alive. talk to me, suguru. it’s me.”  

“you don’t know what you’re asking for, satoru,” suguru says quietly. “you’re better off with the version of myself you made in your head. he’s easier to love.”  

“fuck that,” satoru snaps, “i don’t want an idealised version of you. i’m here because i want to see you in your rawest form, even if it’s ugly. if you want to yell at me, yell at me. hit me, even, but don’t force a smile. i’m not the rest of the world, i’m not your girls, and i don’t want pretty, or kind, or good – i know you, and i will always want you. you don’t have to put up appearances, not with me.”

suguru lets out a shaky exhale. horrifyingly, he thinks he might cry.  

before he can change his mind, suguru takes a step forward and wraps his arms around satoru, head slumping against his shoulder. he can’t bring himself to care if he’s holding on too tightly, and satoru melts into the embrace immediately, hands pressed against suguru’s lower back to pull him even closer.  

“i’ll talk,” suguru mumbles into the fabric of satoru’s shirt, “but only if you take the damn blindfolds off. i want to see you.”  

satoru laughs, and suguru feels it reverberate through his heart.  

“yeah,” he breathes, sounding oddly winded, “of course.” 

gingerly, suguru’s fingers tug at the soft material, loosening the folds until the blindfold slips off the bridge of satoru's nose and satoru, fluttering his delicately long lashes, letting out a quiet laugh and then there they are, those crystal blue skies, those ocean blue waves – oh, how suguru has missed satoru’s eyes.  

“impatient,” satoru murmurs, letting the blindfold fall to the ground. they’re still so close, and suguru can feel his heartbeat, that steady badumbadumbadum. he wonders if satoru can hear his, if they’re in tune, singing the same song.  

“sorry,” suguru says, and he says it not for the dirt-stained blindfold by their feet but because he knows satoru’s been patient, and how much satoru hates waiting.  

he tells satoru everything. together, they sit by shed with their knees drawn to their chests like they’re skipping class in their high school days, and suguru’s voice trembles when he gets to the especially bad parts, but he doesn’t stop talking.  

he tells satoru the days he wished a curse would kill him if it weren’t for the possibility that his bitterness might outlive him and suguru would die leaving rot in his place, and satoru doesn’t interrupt him. he tells satoru about that time he fought the river curse, and how he didn’t let the scars heal so they could brand his skin as a reminder. satoru squeezes his hand at that, tight enough that it hurts, but doesn’t say a word.  

and when suguru is doing laying his heart bare, he looks back at satoru, waiting.  

“when we were younger, i’d ask myself why you put so much thought into these things. what did it matter if non-shamans never returned us sorcerers the favour? to me, it was just the natural order of things. yet, you – you, who had just learnt curses were called curses less than four weeks ago – needed more than that. i couldn’t stand you for it,” there’s something wistful in satoru’s voice as he speaks, and suguru rests his head on his knees, hanging onto each word, “but then i realised that you were just thrown into this, forced to answer your own questions, make up your own moral compass to stick by.”  

“you think you’re a monster because the ideals you held onto as a kid didn’t play out like they were supposed to, like it was your fault you didn’t have it all figured out at fifteen, like it was your fault that everything has been stacked against you. even me.”  

suguru’s brows draw together. “even you?”  

“my birth tipped the scales, made curses stronger than they’ve been in four hundred years, and who had to suffer the brunt of it more than the boy born with cursed manipulation?” satoru smiles wryly, before continuing, “but that doesn’t bother me. i like that we’re tethered. i like that my existence changes yours. does that make me a monster, too?”   

“would you care if it did?”  

“no,” satoru answers easily, “because if there’s something wrong with me, then there’s something wrong with you, and mimi-chan, and nana-chan, and everyone else that matters. we’re all monsters in our own kind. so what?”  

“so what,” suguru repeats, more to himself than anything. could ever be that simple? “i should hate you then, i suppose.”  

“maybe,” satoru laughs, “but you don’t.”  

“no,” suguru agrees. “i don’t.”  

there’s a slight lull in the conversation, until satoru shifts from beside him and stretches out his arms and legs. he lets them drop back to the ground, before he tips his head over until it’s resting on suguru’s shoulder. the tufts of white hair tickles suguru’s cheek.  

“do you know why i know we’re the strongest?”  

suguru inhales. he hadn’t expected that. still, he leans into satoru’s head. “tell me.”  

“from the day i was born, i’d been alone. there wasn’t a single person who saw the world from where i stood. no child my age was at my level, and i'd soon overtake the adults anyway. i hardly saw my own parents, and i can’t tell you the last time i’ve spoken to my mother. i’d be lying if i said it wasn’t a lonely existence, but at one point i accepted that i had no equal, and then...” satoru cuts himself off by letting out a laugh. 

suguru frowns. “and then what?”  

“and then came you,” satoru smiles, huffing at the groan suguru lets out. “you challenged me, and for the first time in my life, i wanted something, and had to earn it.”  

“being the strongest?”  

“being with you,” satoru corrects, oblivious to the warm flush that crawls up suguru’s neck, “being at the very top of the world together. forever, preferably.” 

"i can’t be the strongest alone, because alone, i would have slaughtered the time vessel association. alone, i would have regressed somewhere dark and meaningless. i could have killed them all. i still can. who else would dare to stop me but you?” 

“but alone, you’re still gojo satoru. what am i alone?”  

“what aren’t you?” satoru asks plainly. “you gave two girls a chance at a life that was never meant for them, at least not by the conventions of jujutsu society, or the outside world. neither of our parents could do that for us, but you did it for them. ask the girls, and they’ll tell you you’re everything alone.” 

suguru bites his lip. “and if i ask you?”  

“i’ll tell you that you’re everything but the strongest. that’s a strictly me-and-you thing.”   

“me and you, huh?” suguru muses. “doesn’t sound so bad.” 

it sounds like a promise, one he might’ve made five years ago, one that he intends to keep. he isn’t all good, not yet, but he’s getting better, and when satoru tells him he’s going to destroy the chest full of curses, suguru doesn’t protest.  

“close the door when you do it,” he says, face angled to the sky. before satoru shuts the door, he adds, “don’t you dare destroy my shed.”  

later, they lie on the grass and argue whether the blinking lights dotting the midnight sky are planets or starships, and suguru privately hopes they are something else entirely. at some point, it begins to rain, and suguru thinks of pulling himself up, but as the world is graced by raindrops like a kiss from the skies, suguru feels nothing.  

he turns his head to the side, uncaring of how the grass and the dirt and the grime will muss up his hair, only to find that satoru is already looking at him.  

satoru’s eyes are incandescent, emitting the faintest of blues, and suguru finds that their fingers are touching, if just barely. infinity wraps around them, and in this bubble, they’re untouchable. 

so, suguru crosses that distance and takes satoru’s hand in his, whispering, “we don’t need infinity.”  

satoru looks back at him, eyes blown wide. “we’ll get drenched.”  

the corner of suguru’s mouth twitches up. “scared of a little rain, satoru?”  

“no,” he answers, breathless. “i’m not.”  

when they finally head back inside, it’s with shoes muddied from the wet soil and rainwater clinging to their skin. they’re shivering, and tracking water all over suguru’s wooden floors, but suguru’s too busy giggling when satoru nearly slips on the puddles they’ve made. satoru hushes him, clamping a hand over his mouth, warning him that they’ll wake the girls at this rate.  

“how am i meant to get home like this?” satoru complains as they’re both crowding the bathroom, pulling at the clothes that stick taut to his skin. 

“just stay over,” suguru answers him, taking off his own shirt.  

for a moment, satoru just stares. there’s something in his eyes that makes suguru want to turn away, suddenly hyperaware of his bare chest and pants that hang low on his hips. like this, satoru can see the scars that run along his arms, his hair hiding the ones on his back. his hair covers his tattoo, too. it bothers suguru for a different reason than he anticipates.  

“what?” he asks, feigning annoyance when satoru just keeps looking at him.  

“nothing,” satoru says, dazed. “didn’t think i was allowed.”  

“idiot,” suguru mutters, but it comes off fonder that he intends it to be.  

satoru raises a hand, like he wants to reach out to him, and suguru’s breathing slows, but then he’s flicking water at suguru’s face and that moment is lost. had it lingered, suguru would have held onto to it forever, probably.

0000 

18/09/06 

to ▇▇▇: 

how are you? how is dad? have the cherry trees you planted blossomed? you never sent me a picture like you said you would. i figured you forgot, but that's okay. i tend to forget these things, too. 

i hate how the last time we spoke was when you called me on new years' and we spoke for five minutes. months, i thought of calling first for once, or telling you about this and that, even if it felt odd and unfamiliar, and when we finally called – when you called me – five minutes was all we had within us to give each other. 

i think i have been emptied of my usefulness. i was once a son you could have been proud of, the kind that would bring home something to pin on the fridge, but i kept getting worse as i grew older, and i think it is best to put an end to things before i become something worse than a son who does not make his parents proud. maybe i can be useful as a memory, the fond sort you keep close to your heart, closer than i would allow to be kept, were i still by your side. 

i haven't told anyone else, and i know it might be selfish, but i hope you could tell them for me – my school, my friends, everybody else who might care to know. 

i cannot stop you from being sad, but i can tell you that this was one of those inevitable things. dying, that is. but i think you will also be okay, and one day you will plant yet another tree and this time you will think of me, and it will not be a thing of tragedy, just nostalgia. 

and me, i'll be okay, too.

yours,

suguru

act v. but here i blur into you  

5555 

there is an old shoebox suguru keeps in his closet, stacked between pairs of worn-down shoes the twins have long grown out of, yet suguru could not bear to throw. if opened, there is nothing exceptional within at first, second, or third glance – old receipts, sun-damaged photographs, movie tickets with the ink fading off. as you dig deeper, the items grow stranger and more worthless like old candy wrappers, used napkins, and crumpled up lined paper.  

satoru finds it by accident.  

at least, that’s what he tells suguru, but there’s something faraway in his eyes as he sifts through the physical evidence of suguru’s longing, and suguru doesn’t know what to make of it. gingerly, satoru picks up a cigarette and shows it to suguru.  

wrinkling his nose in distaste he says, “fell out of your pack, did it?”  

suguru smiles wryly, taking it from satoru. “shoko’s actually.” he plays with the cigarette, twirling it between his fingers. “it’s the first cig she offered me. i was too nervous to actually smoke it.”  

“you kept it.”  

“i keep a lot of things,” suguru answers, placing it back into the box. 

“you never ask me about them,” satoru suddenly says. “you know, everyone back home.”  

suguru shrugs. “i think i forfeited any right to ask after i left.”  

satoru lets out a low whistle.  

“sounds serious,” he says gravely, all faux-important, and suguru knows satoru thinks he’s being particularly funny. “did they tell you that?”  

“hilarious,” suguru drawls.  

“i’m not kidding,” satoru says. “stop punishing yourself. it’s pissing me off, and it’ll piss shoko off, too, after i tell her.”  

suguru’s hands still from where they’re holding an old birthday card. it’d been from yuu for his sixteenth. “you told her about me?” 

satoru doesn’t appear fazed by the question.  

“i told yaga, too,” he offers, “it was the day after i found you and i wanted to tell the whole world. i settled for the people who’d care most to know.” 

suguru doesn’t say anything. he doesn't trust himself not to be a hypocrite.  

“i know you want to ask,” satoru prompts, “so just do it.”  

sighing, suguru relents. “how is she?” 

“for one, she’s gotten meaner,” satoru starts, pointer finger tapping against his bottom lip. “i blame utahime. she got her medical license, even though i’m half convinced she cheated her way through med school. her hair’s all long, too, sorta like yours. she also misses you, even if she won’t say it.”  

suguru lets out a hum. “she quit smoking yet?”  

satoru makes a disapproving noise. “she’s traded vices. i think she’s a bit of an alcoholic now – said utahime doesn’t like the smell of smoke on her.” dragging a hand through his hair, he mutters, “still won’t admit she’s in love with her, though.”  

suguru’s brows raise. “shoko and utahime?”  

“i know,” satoru groans emphatically, though suguru reckons his reaction stems more from disdain than disbelief. “shoko swears she’s sworn off love and the like, but i think she’s just hates the thought of being left behind. partially your fault for sure, no offense.”  

“none taken,” suguru answers, before pausing. “okay, maybe a little taken. was she angry when you told her about me?”  

satoru looks at him, something knowing in his eyes. “ask her yourself.” 

that afternoon, satoru leaves promising he’ll be back next friday, and suguru paces around the living room, his phone pressed against his cheek. on the third ring, there’s a faint rustling in the background before a familiar drawl sounds in his ear.  

“hello?”

“guess who?” suguru is thrumming with nervousness, and there’s an audible hitching on the other end of the line that makes him laugh, a hiccupping thing. “hi, shoko,” he then murmurs, voice thick, “i’ve missed you.”  

...

say time is a circle, and that what has happened will happen again, and again, and so on, then suguru thinks him and satoru are fated to chase after one another in an unending loop wherein they never reach one another, but they get very close, like a dog chasing after its tail, or the self reaching out to the shadow – wherein they are one, but not yet, not quite.   

and say suguru is still in love with satoru, and in fact has never stopped loving him, then he thinks satoru might love him still, might love him despite suguru being a waste of devotion. 

yet, satoru does not say anything, and suguru doesn’t know if he’s allowed, so he pretends he doesn’t notice the elephant in the room that makes its presence into something smothering when satoru stops wearing his blindfolds when it’s just him and suguru, or when there are not only two toothbrushes in suguru’s bathroom but also two tubes of toothpaste because satoru doesn’t like the sort he uses, or even when it’s been nearly three weeks since the last time suguru has seen satoru, and there’s only two more days before satoru’s back, but that distance suddenly feels like the infinity that exists between one and two, an infinity that suguru has transversed a million times before, and yet has never felt more impossible, unending, unbearable.   

currently, the house is empty because the twins are over at mika-chan's, and suguru can’t stand the solitude not just because the television is screening the same old shows, and the radio is playing the same old songs, but because suguru has been spoiled these eight months with good company.  

so, tying his hair up into a tight ponytail that will soon make his head throb, suguru spends his afternoon in the marketplace where he makes idle chatter and sweat sticks to his nape regardless. 

the forecasts said it would be the hottest day of the year, and suguru is sunsick, and homesick, and quite possibly lovesick, all of which for a person, and that thought alone makes him question if he’s regressed back to high school, and there it is – time, an unending, unchanging loop.  

“what’s got you thinking so hard?” 

suguru blinks, and standing before him is satoru and his glistening smile and alabaster hair, and suguru’s already smiling, something exasperated to hide the fondness, and it’s unbearable, how much he adores satoru.  

“you said you’d be back tuesday evening.”   

“what can i say?” satoru grins, joining him behind the stands. “i’m just that good at my job.”  

today, satoru has forgone his usual dress shirt for a black tank top, and suguru pries his eyes away from straying too long on the dip of satoru’s collarbones, the light sheen of sweat making his milky skin glisten beneath the stark sunlight, and how each time he moves, the muscles beneath his top ripple like waves.  

“you’re all quiet again,” satoru says, flicking at his ponytail childishly.  

suguru coughs. “heatstroke.”  

“what? really?”  

“yes, really,” suguru says dryly, smiling when satoru clicks his tongue, “so you should get me ice cream. i don’t like–”  

“–chocolate or strawberry, yes, i know,” satoru finishes. “a total disgrace, by the way. where’s your wallet?”   

huffing, suguru fishes it out of his pocket, throwing it at satoru who catches it with ease. with a cheeky two-fingered salute, he saunters off, and suguru watches him go, gaze lingering when there’s no one to catch him.  

“hey, suguru.”  

distractedly, suguru shifts his gaze over to find a familiar face smiling at him, making him jolt. keichi sando is one of the few people suguru would sincerely call a friend in these parts, and he’s one suguru hasn’t seen in a while.  

“keichi, hey,” suguru greets, grinning once he regains his composure, “you didn’t tell me you’d be visiting! does your father know?” 

keichi makes a face. “if he did, i don’t think i’d live to tell the tale. i finally quit my job.”  

“it’s about time,” suguru says, being one of the firsts to read keichi’s manuscripts when he’d still been in school. “i don’t think you should worry too much. sando-san is kind.”  

“yeah, to you!” keichi snorts, pointing an accusatory finger at suguru. “you’re basically like his fourth son.”  

suguru shrugs, not denying it. “worst case scenario, you fall back on your doctor girlfriend and become a househusband that writes novels after dropping the kids off at school. it’s a win-win, really.”  

keichi makes a sound of indignation that draws a laugh from suguru. they continue talking, conversation coming easy, him telling suguru about life back in kyoto, and how he’s planning on proposing soon. they’re interrupted by an arm swinging around suguru’s shoulder, pulling him close.

“who’s this?” satoru asks, smiling down at keichi with a brow raised, almost like he’s sizing him up.  

suguru pushes against him lightly, but makes no move to brush satoru off him. “you remember sando-san, right? this is his youngest son, keichi. keichi, this is gojo satoru. he’s my friend from back in tokyo.” 

“it’s a pleasure to meet you,” keichi says, sticking his hand out politely.  

satoru stares at the offered hand for a moment too long, and suguru wonders with disdain if this is a dick-measuring contest he hadn’t been invited to.  

“apologies, sando-san,” satoru intones, sounding not very sorry at all, “but my hands are full.” 

“don’t be rude,” suguru chastises, before turning to keichi with an apologetic smile. “he can be a bit of an ass, don’t mind him.” 

keichi squints at them before he shakes his head good-naturedly. “no, it’s alright. i’ll see you around, suguru-kun. nice meeting you as well, gojo-san.”  

once keichi is out of earshot, suguru glares at satoru.  

“what was that?”  

“what was what, suguru-kun?” satoru asks innocently, handing suguru his vanilla ice cream but not before taking a bite that has suguru grumbling at him to get his own. 

“be nice to my friends,” suguru gripes, “and help me pack up.”  

“i’m always nice,” satoru sniffs, but graciously cooperates.  

in hindsight, suguru should’ve known satoru’s graciousness would expire as soon as suguru starts pulling on his work boots back home, ready to head back to the fields for another round of picking rice seedlings. 

“you just came back from the market all to do more work?” satoru laments, visibly distraught, as if it’ll be him tasked to slave away beneath the unrelenting sun.  

suguru stares at him, nonplussed. “how exactly do you think i earn a living?”  

“but it’s so hot, suguru . i think i’m going to melt into a puddle.”  

“you go do that,” suguru dismisses, motioning for satoru to hand him his gloves. “if you’re hungry there’s leftovers in the fridge. don’t touch the soba, though, i think it’s gone bad.”  

satoru slumps against the entryway, arms crossed against his chest. “what about the girls?”  

“they’re having a sleepover at the iwasaki’s.”  

“really? i didn’t think you’d agree.”  

immediately, suguru frowns. “should i not have?”  

satoru shuts him up by tossing him his rubber work gloves.  

“i didn’t say that,” he says patiently, before biting his lip, considering. “you’ve come a long way, that’s all.” 

when nanako and mimiko had asked him, suguru hadn’t even thought of it like that. the only concern that felt important enough to voice at the time had been whether they’d promise to study, and not give mika’s mother a hard time, to which they had chorused a resounding, we promise, geto-sama!  

“huh,” suguru says, and little else.  

that thought follows suguru idly as he runs through the motions of his daily routine: weeding, feeding the chickens, letting the goats out to graze, picking rice seedlings for planting, and repeat. by the time the sun feels scorching against his skin, and his body aches, suguru is only left with watering the plants in his vegetable garden, which are coming along rather beautifully as of late. 

“there you are!” satoru calls out to him, holding up the new hose suguru hadn’t yet installed. “i fixed this up! told you i can make myself useful.” he says the last part like a little kid, with his chest puffed up, and suguru has to bite down his smile.  

“my knight in shining armour,” he coos. “do you think you could water my gourds? be careful though, the water pressure–” 

“got it!” satoru answers brightly, before spraying the water at full force right at suguru’s face.  

suguru splutters, shaking the water off him to find his body fully soaked. when he looks up, half murderous, satoru has the decency to appear genuinely abashed.  

“gojo satoru,” suguru growls, pushing his now drenched locks out of his face, “i’m going to kill you.” 

satoru lets out a startled bark of laughter, letting the hose drop to the ground before he’s sticking out his tongue. “how are you gonna do that if you can’t touch me?”  

satoru might possess that cling-wrap of an innate technique he calls infinity, but he’s forgotten that suguru’s always been the faster one, not to mention being better at hand-to-hand combat, and that forgetfulness is what has him tackled to the grass not even one minute later, suguru pinning satoru down with ease.  

narrowing his eyes to slits, suguru mocks, “what was that about being untouchable?”  

beneath him, satoru smacks the ground, yelling, “okay! okay! you win! i yield!” 

suguru spares satoru the hosing down, if only to save his dear plants from drowning, and hops into the shower, though not before telling satoru to mop the floors dry.  

by the time suguru’s dried himself down, skin smelling like vanilla from the moisturiser he uses, he realises he’s forgotten to grab his clothes. groaning, suguru exits the bathroom with a towel around his waist, calling out to satoru, “don’t barge into my room, i’m changing!”  

mere moments later, satoru proceeds to do just that, which has suguru throwing his towel over his face, scandalised. “what did i just tell you?”  

obediently, satoru looks away as he defends, “that’s what i came in to ask!”  

with satoru’s back turned to him, suguru throws on a loose shirt and a pair of old shorts that he’s quite frankly outgrown, coming down to only his mid-thigh. still, suguru keeps it because it’s perfect for days like these, where the sun burns so bright that suguru wishes to do nothing else but open the refrigerator and stand in front of it for an obscenely long time.  

“can i look now?” satoru asks, already turning around and there’s a brief moment of silence, which has suguru glancing up, brow raised. satoru’s staring at him, face likely flushed from the heat.  

“what?”  

“nice tan,” satoru whistles, drawing closer to prod suguru’s calf with his foot. “didn’t know you sunbathed in short shorts.”  

“don’t be gross,” suguru groans, ignoring the way his skin tingles when satoru pushes up the sleeves of his shirt to trace the harsh tan lines.  

together, they settle on the living room floor, satoru hogging the portable fan all to himself while suguru opens the windows all the way to let the wind in. neither of them are drinkers, so it’s two cans of apple cider between them that satoru nicked from mimiko’s stash. the television’s playing an old movie that suguru isn’t paying attention to, and satoru likely isn’t, either, fanning himself with a stray magazine.  

“i can’t believe you don’t have air conditioning.”  

“this house is fifty years old,” suguru mutters in response, “cut her some slack. how was the states?”  

“boring,” is satoru’s immediate answer, before he adds, “they had a billion flavours of soda, though. if i stayed a little longer, i probably would’ve tried them all.”  

“why didn’t you?”  

satoru shrugs, taking a swig of his drink. “i rather be here.” 

suguru’s heart, the traitorous thing, stutters. “oh.”  

“what about you? did you miss me, suguru?” there’s a playful smile on satoru’s lips, and he drags the syllables of suguru’s name out and the scene is so nostalgic that suguru almost can’t stand it.  

seventeen-year-old suguru would’ve shoved satoru, laughing it off like a joke between friends. seventeen-year-old suguru would’ve taken the fluttering in his chest, and shoved it somewhere deep and dark. 

twenty-two-year-old suguru answers, “i did. believe it or not, days go by a lot slower when you’re not around.”   

satoru gapes at him, and the visual makes suguru snort. “i’m going to get that tattooed on my forehead.” 

“way to ruin the moment.”  

“sorry,” satoru offers. he flips open the tween magazine in hand, and suguru scans the article over satoru’s shoulder. it’s a spread about tattoos, most of the ones pictured being stick-and-poke inspiration. “say, do you think you’d ever get a tattoo?”  

suguru presses the cool metal of the soda can against his cheek, letting out a content sigh. “i already have one.”  

satoru pushes up his sunglasses, brows pinching together. “what? where? you have to show me.” 

“sure,” suguru relents, swatting away satoru’s hands that begin to tug at the hem of his shirt. “it’s nothing crazy though, so fair warning.”  

swallowing any lingering embarrassment at being observed so intently, suguru peels off his shirt, sighing in quiet contentment when the cool breeze coming in from the open windows hits his skin. he lets the shirt drop to the floor, before meeting satoru’s gaze, expression kept even.  

“well?” he prompts, when satoru doesn’t say anything. “getting cold feet?”  

“shut up,” satoru answers, and it comes off strangely, too quiet for a moment like this.  

with his body laid bare, suguru tries not to squirm underneath satoru’s gaze. languidly, satoru pushes suguru’s hair over his shoulder, and his eyes widen, just by a fraction.  

“you really do have one,” he marvels, fingers coming up to brush the skin beneath his clavicle. 

the bouquet of crimson spider lilies blooming by his collarbones tingle as satoru hands hover over them, and suguru supresses a shiver at the sensation, at the chill of satoru’s fingers. 

“i got it when i was nineteen,” suguru says, “i’ve always wanted more. couldn’t stand the touch of strangers, though, so it’s just the one.” 

satoru looks up from his examination of suguru’s tattoo and cocks a brow. “so who did this one?”  

“just an old friend,” answers suguru, “she was a sorcerer, too.”  

she’d also been suguru’s first kiss, but he doesn’t tell satoru that. suguru had been angry at the world, and lonely, and the older tattoo artist two towns away seemed like the best person to take it all out on. she had more piercings than suguru could count, mean in the sort of way suguru liked, and she’d taken one look at suguru and laughed, telling him he wasn’t the only dropout to come from jujutsu tech.  

she had wanted suguru, and suguru had badly wanted to be wanted, and so he kissed her. he didn’t like it very much, brimming with too much self-loathing for that sort of thing, but at least he got a free tattoo out of it.   

“d’you have a lot of those?” satoru asks, “old friends, that is.”  

he says old friends like it’s a dirty word, and suguru tries not to bristle at the implication. 

“maybe,” he answers, just to be mean. “what’s it to you?”  

satoru’s eyes narrow, and they darken with intent. something hot pools in suguru’s gut at the sight, and when satoru’s hand comes up to brush against his scalp, suguru doesn’t push him away, the unfurling tension between them suffocating. 

“i’ll tell you exactly what it is to me,” satoru promises, his hold tightening on suguru’s hair. it stings, but suguru finds that he doesn’t mind, finds that he’s hanging onto every word that’s coming out of satoru’s mouth. “every time you mention someone i don’t know, i can’t stand it.”  

“i don’t care if it’s some tattoo artist, or a neighbour’s son, just the thought of you having a life that i’m not privy to drives me insane, makes me wonder crazy things like if they’ve seen you laugh, if they’d made you smile, and i realise that i’m jealous of everyone who’s gotten even a glimpse of you these agonising five years – these five years where i hadn’t once stopped looking, and you were here, at the reach of all these undeserving people. i hate it.”  

“i wasn’t a very pretty sight,” suguru says, breath hitching when satoru’s other hand trails down to his waist, “i can’t say you missed out on much.”  

“suguru,” satoru murmurs, disbelieving, “are you gonna make me say it?”  

“say what, satoru?”  

satoru leans in so close that suguru wonders for an impossible moment if he’s about to be kissed. from here, his lashes appear like the ridges of a snowflake, snow white and delicate, and suguru wants to count them over and over again.  

“i’m in love with you.”  

and suguru, who’s known this since he was sixteen, holds satoru’s gaze, and doesn’t give in beneath the weight of it. satoru wants to eat him alive and frankly, suguru’s tired of waiting.  

corner of his mouth twitching up to something wicked, suguru finds the boldness in him to reply, “then do something about it.”  

“you’re going to kill me,” satoru groans, before he’s tugging suguru closer to kiss him with bruising force.  

satoru’s impatient, easing open suguru’s mouth with more bite than needed, but suguru welcomes it, wonders if satoru has fantasised this exact moment as many times as suguru had, when he’d been sixteen and the world only ever seemed as big as satoru’s boyish grins.  

young and obviously inexperienced, suguru would imagine all the ways satoru might kiss him, whether he’d be sweet and slow, or perhaps hungry and hurried, and suguru finds that teenage daydreams don’t hold a candle to the real thing.  

satoru’s hands are eager to map out every inch of him, roaming across the broad of his back, and when fingers press into the base of his spine, suguru can’t help the gasp he lets out, satoru drinking up the slight sound, biting into his lower lip like a man starved. satoru’s so obvious with his desire, and the thought makes suguru smile, which makes their teeth clack, and has satoru pulling away, visibly annoyed.  

“what’s got you grinning so hard?”  

despite himself, suguru lets out a laugh, soft and bright. satoru looks mildly offended, likely since suguru is not doing a very good job at matching the mood, but he doesn’t get to express his dissatisfaction because suguru leans forward and presses a kiss to satoru’s lips, chaste and unassuming.  

“i really can’t help it,” suguru confesses, unabashedly honest, “i just feel so happy.”  

satoru makes a face suguru can’t quite decipher, and the irritation on his face softens to something tender. satoru then pushes suguru down until he lands on his back against the floor with a dull oof, and satoru’s already hovering over him, closing the distance between their bodies to mouth kisses along the column of suguru’s bared throat.   

“keep saying things like that, and i’ll never let you go,” satoru tells him, voice low with desire, and suguru, who’s been wanting this for as long as he can remember, can only breathlessly reply, “what’s stopping you?”  

in response, satoru hikes up suguru’s leg so it’s resting atop his shoulder, all to press a lingering kiss to suguru’s inner thigh, now exposed by the hem of his shorts riding up.  

suguru’s face flushes, and satoru’s smile grows as he spreads suguru’s legs further apart so suguru is bracketing his torso, and satoru’s leaning back in to kiss him till suguru’s mind is reeling from the nearness, from the sensation of having the boy of his dreams above him, looking back at suguru with that same unbridled wonder in his eyes.  

“you’re so beautiful,” satoru murmurs against his lips, and suguru feels his face warm at the confession.  

“flattery doesn’t work on me, satoru,” suguru laughs, a breathy thing that makes satoru draw back, still close enough that their noses brush.  

“five years you’re gone, and now i finally have you in my reach, so much like my wildest dreams, and all for me to ravish,” satoru says, fingers digging into his sides. “suguru, you think i care to flatter?” 

his hands then roam until they’re toying with the waistband of suguru’s shorts, and when satoru’s fingers make contact with the skin beneath, testing the waters, arousal pools into suguru’s gut.  

“you’re not fucking me on my living room floor,” suguru says without thinking, and satoru pauses, his smiling turning cocky.  

“confident, are we?”  

suguru doesn’t dignify him with a response, turning away so satoru doesn’t catch the smile on his lips. his burning ears don’t cooperate the same.  

satoru, never taking kindly to being ignored, responds by dragging suguru by the hips and lifting him up with ease as he stands. instinctively, suguru’s hands grab onto satoru’s shoulders for purchase as a pair of strong arms hold him up by the rear.  

embarrassed by the blatant manhandling, suguru complains, “i can walk, you know.”  

looking up at him, satoru’s eyes crinkle with mirth. he presses a soft kiss to suguru’s mouth, which suguru reciprocates with a content sigh. when they pull apart, suguru lets out a soft whine, which makes satoru smirk in a way that makes him look so handsome that suguru considers eating his words and letting satoru take him right then and there.  

“you won’t be doing much moving,” satoru promises, “not after i’m done with you.”  

satoru is infuriatingly correct, suguru comes to realise as he’s leaning his back against the rim of the bathtub, all sore and spent.  

he closes his eyes, huffing at the racket satoru is making outside of the bathroom in trying to find a fresh set of sheets. suguru is tempted to tell satoru to just leave it, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and all he really wants to do is fall into a restful slumber.  

he’s stirred by gentle hands pressing against his back before satoru is lowering himself into the water, caging suguru between his knees. letting out a soft sigh, suguru basks in both the soothing warmth of the water and the warmth of satoru’s firm chest flush against his back. 

“you took too long,” suguru grunts out, fingers tracing nameless shapes into the arms that snake around his torso.  

“sorry,” satoru placates, pressing a soft kiss to suguru’s shoulder. “can i wash your hair to make it up to you?” 

satoru’s hands are gentle as they lather shampoo into suguru’s scalp, far gentler than he expects, and because suguru is in a strange mood and is unused to having so many good things one after another, he says, “do you wash all your hookups’ hair like this?” 

satoru makes a disapproving noise, before he tugs at suguru’s hair, yanking hard enough for suguru to let out a low grunt. “are you trying to piss me off?” 

“only a little,” suguru admits. he wriggles his toes in the water, pausing before: “what are we, satoru?”  

“if i had it my way, we’d be married,” satoru tells him, unflinchingly honest, back to being gentle, “but i don’t want to scare you off, so i’ll settle for lovers. fated mates, maybe.”  

suguru snorts, because crying would be embarrassing. “that’s awful.”  

“i got it off the manga mimiko reads. you don’t think it’s romantic?” satoru asks, smearing a fingerful of suds across suguru’s cheek. 

letting out a soft sigh, suguru confesses, “i think i’ve been in love with you since i was fifteen.”  

“you think?”  

“i know,” he amends, and satoru lets out a contemplative hum.  

satoru’s arm squeeze him around the middle once more, head coming to rest on suguru’s shoulder. “say it again,” he whispers.  

“i love you,” suguru says, and it’s the first time he’s uttered it, three simple words that have been housed in his head where he would shelter any other truth of the world. the sun is yellow. shoko’s eyes are brown. suguru loves satoru, and so on and so forth. 

“i love you, too.”  

“i know,” he admits, and satoru stills, even if just for a moment, “i’ve always known.”  

“why didn’t you say anything?”  

suguru’s answer is wistful. “i thought we had more time. all the time in the world, in fact.” 

“and now?”  

from the tub, suguru can see their reflections in the mirror, and the sight of them so close together makes him feel like he’s bearing witness something sacred, like they’re more than just satoru, and just suguru, but something else entirely, something just them.  

the strongest, he thinks, almost deliriously, and the thought makes his heart throb, makes him want to tell seventeen-year-old satoru that he was right, and that suguru has never been unsalvageable, even then.   

“i still think we have forever,” suguru answers, watching the way satoru watches him, so openly fond, so unendingly devoted. “is that silly to say?”  

they don’t talk much more after that, and when they’re both sprawled on suguru’s bed, legs tangled together, satoru says to the unanswering ceiling, “do you ever think of going back to tokyo?”  

suguru doesn’t reply, not for a while. it’s only when satoru shifts on his side to face him that he speaks.  

“sometimes, i think of you asking me.”  

satoru lets out a soft exhale. “would you say yes?”  

suguru’s gaze lands on satoru. the moonlight leaking into the room makes satoru’s porcelain skin glint like rivers of moonstone. languidly, suguru pushes forward until they’re mere inches apart, and his hands come to brush against satoru’s jaw, the apples of his cheek, the corner of his mouth. he wants to crawl even closer until they become one, but it’s far too hot, even with the fan blowing cool air into their faces.  

“ask me sometime,” suguru tells him quietly, “and find out for yourself.” 

come daybreak, suguru will stir awake with sunshine in his eyes and satoru leaning over him, eyes searching. a kiss will be pressed to the corner of his mouth, and satoru will ask him, come back to tokyo with me. you deserve the vacation, and the girls have always wanted to go and– and suguru will tell him to shut up, and he will say yes, a million times yes. he’ll text shoko about it, too, for good measure, and she’ll tell him to bring her homemade rice wine, but not before asking him what sort of gifts ten-year-olds would like, and suguru will be happy. he will be so undeniably happy.  

but now, satoru only lets out a fond huff, a hand coming up to cover his eyes. “okay,” he answers, just as soft, “just don’t break my heart.”