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Satoru realizes in June.
They’re sitting on a bench between classes, just the two of them, enjoying the first warm day of the summer. Suguru has his eyes closed and a hand on his shoulder. Music streams into his ear from Suguru’s MP3 player. Satoru reaches across Suguru’s lap to change the song.
“You like this one?” Satoru asks with a sly grin. He turns up the volume.
Suguru nods solemnly. “Very classy.”
His pseudo-serious act breaks apart around a broad smile. Satoru’s breathing quickens.
Listening to music is just the method. This way Satoru gets to finally look the way he wants to, to drink in the sharp curve of Suguru’s jaw and the ridge of his nose like a man starved. He’s been getting away with staring for so long that he hasn’t considered what it means for a while, stopped panicking over it months ago.
A shadow falls over them, interrupting his reverie.
“Hey dumbass,” Shoko says, then nudges Suguru’s leg with her foot. “Hi Geto.”
Satoru greets her with the finger. Shoko takes away his earbud and listens for a moment.
“Is this crazy frog?”
Suguru raises his hands. “Take it up with the DJ.”
“It’s actually pronounced modern art, Shoko,” Satoru moans, peering at her over the top of his sunglasses. “You’re so unsophisticated.”
“Right,” Shoko remains unimpressed. “Geto and I are but peasants before a music connoisseur like yourself.”
“How did I end up on the peasant side?” Suguru complains.
Satoru beams and accepts the earbud she returns as a peace offering. Suguru’s knee brushes against his as he moves to make room, finally opening his eyes. Satoru watches the two of them share a fond, amused glance as Shoko sits. The look isn’t unusual, but that’s the thing.
It isn’t unusual at all. Satoru blinks at them.
It’s so obvious all of a sudden that he wonders how he never noticed before. All the knowing looks. All the late nights studying for exams in each other’s rooms. All the borrowed pens, shared hair clips, post-it note reminders slapped on each other’s doors.
Shoko makes a joke, mouth sly as she lights up a fresh cigarette. Satoru doesn’t catch what she says but Suguru laughs, hard enough that the headphone connecting them falls out of his ear, back into Satoru’s lap.
-
Suguru was born in the country in a tiny house his family has owned for years. Suguru loves his parents. Suguru sends letters home full of money from commission every two weeks, letting Satoru trail him to the post office and lick the envelope to seal it.
“I’m sure my parents appreciate it,” Suguru says. He smiles bigger when he talks about his family, softer. He’s an only child through and through.
Suguru is left-handed, writes in pen not pencil, favors his left arm when he fights. Suguru loves soba noodles and warm weather and wearing his hair down.
Satoru knows everything about him. Or, he thought he did. But somehow, somewhere along the way, he still managed to miss something important. Despite the six eyes. Despite the fact that he’s always looking at Suguru, just Suguru.
-
Nanami only looks surprised for a moment when he sits down across from them at breakfast. He hides it well, keeping silent, stoic as ever. Satoru smirks a little watching him push his cereal around uncomfortably.
“What? You're too cool for me now that you can kill curses all on your own?”
“We’re never too cool for you, Gojo-san,” Haibara replies earnestly. “We’re just not used to your … company. This early in the morning.”
It’s true that Satoru isn’t much of a morning person. He usually skips breakfast, skidding into class late with a muffin and Yaga’s ire. It’s not just breakfast today though. He’s doing reconnaissance—testing his new theory.
Satoru shifts his sunglasses down, but he doesn’t need his vision. He knows Shoko and Suguru are sitting across from each other at their usual table behind him, Shoko reading, two identical bowls of porridge and salmon collar between them. The same as it's been the last few days. He concentrates, trying to determine if Suguru’s foot is pressed against the leg of the table or Shoko’s ankle.
Nanami’s eyes flit over his shoulder, then back. He asks, “You’re not going to join them?”
Satoru squints at him over the rim of his glasses. Nanami stares back and there’s something in his expression that makes him feel exposed. He grips his spoon and waves his other hand.
“They’re obviously preoccupied,” Satoru grinds out, voice saccharine. “So I guess you’ll have to entertain me for now.”
Nanami goes pale. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Satoru gives him a wicked smile.
“Hey, wait, I didn’t—get away from me!”
Nanami bolts, but he’s no match for Satoru, who wrestles him to the floor easy as breathing. Satoru laughs as they grapple with each other. He likes that Nanami will always put up a fight, always give a reaction. He pushes his sunglasses back up and pretends not to notice Suguru staring at them, gaze leaving a hot sensation on the back of his neck.
-
Satoru had a growth spurt over the summer and grew a whole three inches without even noticing. He figured the body aches were because of all the fighting he was doing, all the training, until he stood next to Suguru at practice and could see over the top of his head for the first time.
It seems as though that’s the only way he notices anything anymore. As if Suguru has become the axis itself.
“How is it up there?” Suguru asks.
Satoru clutches the front of his uniform. “Lonely without you.”
“Ugh,” Suguru replies, smiling and shoving him a little. Satoru lets himself be pushed around. “I was sure you couldn’t get any more insufferable.”
For all his teasing, the height difference is largely negligible. Sure, Satoru has to account for his new limbs when he moves, his extended reach. He knows he’s bigger now. It’s just that he feels more vulnerable with the extra inches, too many new parts soft and exposed.
Suguru, by contrast, has grown into himself over the summer. He’s gained no extra height, but is broader now, sure and steady. If Satoru is being honest with himself, the tide has shifted in favor of Suguru’s hard work. These days, Suguru is always one step ahead, one inch out of reach. Sparring has never been so frustrating. He can’t stop thinking about Suguru’s hands on his skin.
“Again,” Satoru demands, chest shuddering around his pants.
The other boy grins. “Sure thing, you masochist.”
Suguru’s shoulders block out the sun as he helps Satoru off the practice turf and back to his feet. Satoru blames his newfound clumsiness on his change of height. The excuse feels empty as he leans on Suguru’s arm for a second too long, keeping Suguru’s hand folded between his own.
-
“Please,” Nanami says, pained. “Figure it out with Geto-san. I can’t keep doing this.”
“Figure what out?” he asks, playing coy, keeping one knee pressed firmly into Nanami’s hip.
Haibara hovers over them desperately. “Don’t fight!”
Nanami has had it with him, throwing a wild punch at his shoulder. Satoru lets it connect for his trouble, too busy watching Suguru reach across the table over Nanami’s head. He’s fixing Shoko’s crooked collar as she eats, the same way he always does for Satoru. He looks away before Suguru can catch him staring.
-
Satoru knows Shoko, too. He knows how much she loves those ridiculous medical dramas and chocolate cake and the human mother that raised her alone. She works hard, always checks in, smokes away her anxiety. It doesn’t keep her hands from shaking. She’s the only one of them who can heal and they haven’t had a healer in so long. It’s the type of pressure he understands better than anyone.
“Whenever I’m having a bad day, I always think, well, at least I’m not you,” she chirps happily. “Small victories.”
Satoru gathers her in a headlock. “Lucky you! And what am I supposed to think on my bad days, huh?”
Shoko taps out immediately, laughing and laughing, delighted enough that it makes him laugh, too.
-
Suguru is waiting in the hall outside of his room when he stumbles out, bleary-eyed, hair still wet from last night’s shower. It’s just barely light out. Suguru looks like something out of a painting, dark and lean, all sharp angles.
“Finally,” Suguru yawns. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
“You know teenagers need, like, ten hours of sleep? You’ll never get rid of your dark circles at this rate," he considers Suguru for a moment. “Since when do you wait around for me?”
Suguru grips his collar and shakes him playfully. “Since you started harassing Nanami and ignoring me.”
Guilty. Satoru tries to come up with an excuse. Suguru has slung an arm over his shoulder, fingertips brushing electric against his collarbone, making his mind go blank.
“I figured you were both busy.” Satoru says uncomfortably, letting himself get dragged towards the cafeteria. It’s the best he can manage.
Suguru stops them. “Satoru,” he says, confused. “I’m never too busy for you.”
Satoru swallows and averts his eyes. “Okay,” he says back, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, okay.”
-
Suguru comes back with flowers from every trip to the grocery store, every mission and mindless errand alike, juggling handwritten notes, boxes of candy, and homemade lunches. His popularity is boundless, as is his inability to make other people feel bad by cutting them off mid-confession.
Suguru dumps his newest haul on the table for them to pick through. Looking at the spread of letters and neatly wrapped bentos, Satoru feels as thorny and untouchable as ever.
Shoko picks up one of the cards. “Your eyes are like burnt coffee / and your muscles are as big as Mount Fuji. That was the best your barista could do?”
Suguru’s mouth wavers, clearly suppressing a smile. He plucks the card out of her hand.
“She has nice handwriting?” He turns it over to read the back and winces a little. “I can’t say I appreciate the Tokyo Tower comparison though.”
Suguru’s complete and utter disinterest was the only thing that once preserved Satoru’s sanity. Suguru never eats any of the gifts, pawning them off on their classmates and teachers. He promptly discards the letters in the trash after Shoko has finished poking fun at them. The flowers are always planted carefully in the community garden, in a spot that can’t be seen from Suguru’s bedroom window.
Satoru used to suspect that there was someone back home. Now, though, with Shoko acting out the lines and Suguru laughing so hard he stars to choke, he realizes maybe it was something else all along.
Satoru stands with a gusty sigh.
“Enjoy your stupid poems, Romeo. I have to see Yaga.”
Suguru’s laughter fades and turns over into a frown. “Wait, why? You didn’t tell me you had a meeting.”
The you tell me everything is implicit. Satoru knows it’s petty, but he can’t help it—for a moment, he takes a thrill in having recaptured Suguru’s attention.
“Don’t worry, Satoru,” Shoko says gleefully, eyeing Suguru for a moment. “I’m sure you’ll find someone delusional enough to write you a stupid poem soon, too.”
Suguru cheeks go pink. Satoru stares for a moment too long. He’s hoping, foolishly, for Suguru to look back and meet his gaze, to say something. To ask him not to go or to try and tag along.
Suguru’s eyes stay fixed on the table. Frustrated with himself, Satoru turns to leave.
-
“Don’t look away,” his father used to say, holding his head steady as they slaughtered the pigs in the courtyard. He’s ten in this memory. It’s winter and the cold prickles through his kimono. Their men were quick-handed and thorough and he thinks, maybe wishes, at least the pigs didn’t suffer for long. Satoru contemplates heaven for the first time watching them die.
His father didn’t have to tell him. Even with his eyes closed, he couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t stop seeing. He always saw everything.
-
Suguru puts the pictures up for him at the start of their second year.
“Too empty in here,” Suguru’s voice is garbled around the roll of tape between his teeth. “Need color.”
Satoru stares at his back, down to where he’s balanced on one foot on top of his desk, a little dumbfounded.
“You can’t just come in here and—” and what?
Satoru doesn’t even know. He just keeps watching as Suguru strings up pictures of them, selfies, group photos, the two of them leaning close, frozen in time. Then he starts on the two digimon posters. Once those are up, he unfurls a long string of Christmas lights, plugging them in before he positions them. His eyes reflect in the glow, purple and pink and green.
“Suguru,” Satoru says helplessly. “What are you doing?”
“Color,” Suguru repeats. “And if you need me, you call me. Okay?”
“Okay," Satoru agrees. Even if he can't understand it, Suguru is hard to say no to. “Alright.”
-
He knows Suguru and he knows Shoko. Suguru is the sun itself and Shoko is steady and kind, whip-smart, loyal, easy to be around and even easier to love. The more he sits on it, the more it makes sense. Suguru doesn’t have to fight with Shoko for them to really get each other. She understands intimately the way he was raised, what it means to support a family beyond just preserving a legacy, struggling under the weight of a name.
Satoru is trying to be happy for them. They’re his best friends.
They deserve someone who gets them. They deserve someone who makes their lives easier, who has never thought about leveling the earth just to see if he could, who doesn’t poke at all their soft points to see how far he can push before they leave him behind. They deserve each other.
If he tells himself enough, he’ll have to start believing it eventually.
-
It’s his first official mission alone. He’s been on his own for so long it doesn’t feel monumental until it does, not because it’s difficult but because Satoru is too late.
He wasn’t always a curse. Satoru can see that he was really just a boy, that things had changed so quickly. Satoru knows better than anyone how being just a boy is a curse of its own.
The house isn’t empty and the boy is crying and the curse has settled deep inside him like an egg about to hatch. They’re all going to die and he has to do it, he has to, but he can’t stop looking at the boy’s face. The whole time, Satoru doesn’t look away.
He cradles the small body in his hands after, just for a moment, indulges in a rare show of sentimentality. The hands are so tiny and there’s so much blood. Curses don’t bleed red.
Suguru picks up on the first ring. Satoru sits in the wreckage, waiting, listening to the boy’s family move and whimper in the other room behind a locked door. He wonders if boys go to the same heaven as pigs.
Suguru finds him outside.
“Satoru,” he murmurs gently, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”
Satoru throws up for an hour after, retching and gagging around a raw, empty stomach. Suguru kneels beside him in the bathroom the whole time, keeping a cool hand wrapped around the back of his neck.
-
“You’re a weapon,” His father always told him the same thing. “A powerful one at that. The most important thing in this life is control.”
Control , he thinks, as he watches them come out of Suguru’s room together. Suguru’s face is flushed and Shoko is crowing about something victoriously, waving her phone in his face.
Satoru imagines them crawling into bed together after a study session, the long line of Suguru’s bulk wrapped over Shoko’s small frame. With how tiny she is, it would be a comfortable fit, even in a twin. Nothing like when he and Suguru pass out next to each other after long missions away, barely making it onto the bed. Satoru is always hanging over the edge, Suguru’s foot pressed hard into the dip of his knee.
What happens next? Maybe Suguru wraps an arm over her waist and grips her hand, or maybe he kisses her neck, down further, mouth hot and—
Satoru, unable to keep watching, slips into the bathroom. He stands over the sink and screws his eyes shut. His heart, it appears, is the final frontier. The last thing that just won’t submit, that has elusively and definitively bucked his control.
Get it together, Satoru. He drags in a shuddering breath.
Satoru’s eyes snap open, hearing a small sound near the entrance. He could place Suguru by the way his blood moves under his skin, the way his breath falls, the way his feet sweep across the floor. He can feel Suguru’s cursed energy through the door.
Suguru is hovering, shifting his weight. Waiting for him. A swell of pleasure rises in him against his father’s teachings. Today, just for today, he lets his heart indulge.
-
Suguru’s mom writes to him frequently. She sends him boxes brimming with fresh cheese and fruit, long messages in neat bubble handwriting, envelopes full of pictures from Suguru’s childhood. Suguru’s mom is adamant on reminding Suguru that he is still a boy, and that boyhood isn’t a curse for all of them.
“It’s small, only two rooms. The kitchen is in the living room. We have one couch.” Suguru says, then stops to think. “My dad loves gardening. We have basil plants and tomatoes. Cucumbers, sometimes.”
“What else?” Satoru asks, listening intently.
They’re sitting on his bed, Satoru cross-legged and Suguru sprawled out everywhere. Suguru passes him a photo. It’s worn and faded. Satoru rubs a thumb over it, studying the little house and an even smaller Suguru.
He imagines growing up there instead of in the Gojo compound. As a child, Satoru was paraded around to the other sorcerer families every year on his birthday. He was meant to be admired on these visits, gawked at, feared, seen .
Satoru remembers how politely his parents clapped when his infinity kept the Zenins from spearing him, only seven then, how they bowed at his feet after as steel hit the floor. Only a test , they said lightly, Gojo-sama. In the photo, Suguru is holding up a big purple sweet potato. He’s wearing a satin birthday boy sash and a crocheted yellow sun hat, floppy, clearly handmade.
“My parents planted a tree in the backyard the year I was born. It’s my age.” Suguru pauses, then smiles. “Our age.”
Satoru’s heart stumbles. Suguru turns to look at him.
“You should visit and see. My parents would love you.”
“Yeah,” Satoru mumbles back, failing to come up with a sly remark. Suguru’s eyes are too earnest. Too expectant. He says, “I—yes. I’d like that.”
He imagines Suguru introducing him, not as Gojo Satoru but as Suguru’s friend Satoru from school. Suguru’s parents would beckon him in and they wouldn’t even be able to tell, wouldn’t feel the cursed energy radiating off him in waves, so strong that it drowns everything else about him out.
-
Satoru was used to being alone. He had done it his whole life. He made his own breakfast, tied his own shoes, dressed himself for school, wandered around on the days he didn’t feel like attending. He could take care of himself and he was good at it.
“For you,” Suguru says, holding out a plastic bag. He won’t meet his gaze, one heel digging into the dirt. Satoru stares.
Suguru scowls and shakes it at him. “Are you gonna take it or not?”
Satoru makes a face but reaches for the bag. He moves extra slow just to get under Suguru’s skin. Suguru rolls his eyes. Still, his hands are gentle when he hands it over, making sure Satoru has a solid grip on it before he lets go.
“I know things have been hard on you lately,” Suguru sighs. “You never wanna talk, so I figured maybe this would at least distract you for a bit from whatever’s bothering you.”
Curious, he looks into the bag while Suguru is talking. A gundam model kit. It's a limited edition build, and a ridiculously expensive one at that. Satoru’s heart catches in his throat.
“You didn’t have to," Satoru tries desperately. It's all he manages to get out.
“I know that," Suguru’s gaze softens. “Just say thank you, you ungrateful fuck.”
“Thanks, Suguru,” he breathes, unable to look away. “Thank you.”
-
Suguru and Shoko take to sitting out on the pitch during lunch, watching people spar if they’re training or looking at the birds when they’re not. Shoko can recall all kinds of scientific names off the top of her head, more encyclopedia than girl.
Satoru cheers as she identifies another from only a fleeting glance. He’s got the list of them with pictures, his six eyes designating him fact-checker by default. "Bingo! Right again."
Shoko gives him a smug smile, puffing smoke like a little dragon.
“It’s a great party trick,” Suguru concedes.
They invite him along incessantly, he’s sure out of pity or maybe obligation. He knows they’d much rather be alone, sees the way they joke and laugh just the same whether he’s there beside them or not. He knows.
-
Suguru barges in without knocking, inconsiderate as ever. He drops his bag at the foot of the door then pauses, leaning over his desk. Satoru blinks and puts his DS down.
“Hey,” Suguru yelps, disgruntled. “You built it without me.”
Satoru arches an eyebrow. “You bought it for me. ”
“I bought it for us to do together!”
Suguru looks genuinely offended. They stare at each other for a moment. Satoru tugs at his collar, hot all of a sudden.
“Hey—”
Suguru gets a wicked glint in his eye and, before Satoru can stop him, knocks all of Satoru’s hard work to the floor, the Gundam figurine breaking back into its base pieces and scattering underneath his bed. Satoru jumps to his feet.
“You asshole! Do you know how long that took me?”
Suguru leans into his space. “I guess we’ll just have to redo it tonight like we were supposed to .”
Laughing somehow turns into play fighting, Satoru lunging to wrap his hands around Suguru’s neck with no real force behind it. Suguru avoids him easily enough, kicking his feet out from under him.
He manages to grab a handful of Suguru’s shirt as he goes, landing hard on his back, Suguru overbalancing and falling with him. Suguru is heavy against his hips, hands caging him in on either side of his head to break his fall.
Satoru’s chest rises raggedly. His heartbeat rushes in his ears. Suguru is staring back at him, wide-eyed, far too pretty for someone that just committed that act of violence against his figurine. A bolt of heat runs through him. He can’t stop looking at Suguru’s mouth.
Satoru coughs and it breaks the spell.
Suguru rolls away, clutching his hands together like he’s been burned. Satoru feels wild and animal-hungry. He’s scared about what he would have done, if that had gone on a moment longer. He sits up and tries to get his breathing under control.
“Sorry,” Suguru says, voice high and strained.
Through the haze of embarrassment, he sees that Suguru has also gone red, the back of his neck bright and hot, lashes fluttering rapidly.
Huh, Satoru thinks, swallowing hard. They start gathering the pieces silently. Interesting.
-
He doesn’t dream often, but that night he dreams of Suguru. Dream Satoru crowds Suguru in, taking advantage of his new height, leaning down over him. He’s the one pinning Suguru to the floor, a hand over both of his wrists, holding them together. Suguru’s mouth is hot as cinders and when he gasps, Satoru swallows it whole, savoring the taste of his surprise—
He sits up, panting. There’s a cup on his desk that wasn’t there yesterday. It’s sitting next to the reassembled Gundam figurine, filled with water and daisies. Satoru studies it for a moment.
He recognizes the flowers, suddenly, as the same ones that grow in the garden right outside of Suguru’s window. When Satoru lays in Suguru’s bed, the daisies are always directly in his line of sight, all white, the same color as Satoru’s hair.
-
He hasn’t been sleeping well or eating much. Things are okay, tentatively, but nothing close to normal. When he does sleep, he dreams about Suguru’s mouth, the shape of his hands. He can’t be around the other boy without wanting to do something insane, without wanting to bully his way into Suguru’s space and take. He’s the worst friend in the world.
“You don’t look so good,” Nanami says, then pauses. “I mean worse than usual.”
Satoru sneezes. “Wow, thanks for clarifying."
He grips the table as he stands, swaying on his feet.
“Gojo,” Nanami says uneasily.
Suguru materializes out of thin air, batting Nanami aside. “Satoru,” he says, both hands on his elbows, steadying him. “Are you okay?”
Satoru puts a hand to his head, trying to focus. “Why is everyone being so weird? I’m totally fine,” he cuts off in a rough fit of coughs. “Never been better, actually.”
“You’re burning up.” Suguru says. His eyebrows draw together as he reaches out.
The back of his hand is cool against Satoru’s cheek. It feels so good Satoru could cry. He sighs a little, leaning in. The room is spinning. He blinks but when he opens his eyes again the room is still dark.
“Suguru,” Satoru murmurs. He thinks he manages to say it again, once more, before his legs give out.
-
Satoru was used to being alone. He had done it well this entire time.
Then he met Suguru.
It had been so long, maybe his whole life, since someone cared about how he was rather than who he was. Satoru had resisted at first, straining against Suguru’s watchful gaze, hating the way he saw straight through him. He isn’t sure when things changed, when he started looking back.
Satoru would be lying if he said it didn’t feel like heaven to have Suguru against his shoulder on the walk back to school after a long lunch break, to have someone understand him in all his grief and all his joy, to hear Suguru say his name, tender, the way it was meant to be said, Satoru, Satoru. For all his jokes, he’s never been a very good liar.
-
Satoru fights the fever all night, wrestles with it, going in and out of consciousness. He becomes painfully aware of how hot he is, dripping sweat, and sits up to take off his shirt. If he could peel out of his skin he would.
“Gojo,” It’s Shoko. Her hands are on him, easing him back down, and he can feel her cursed technique in his blood like it’s his own. Stark white relief comes in waves and Satoru sighs, leaning into her. He feels more than hears her laugh.
He mumbles something, doesn’t know what, so delirious from pain and sick. His vision swims. Shoko’s reply is soft and soothing in the dark, “Okay, okay. I’ll call him, okay? Don’t worry. I’ll call.”
-
When they first found their spot he and Suguru would lay out in the meadow behind the school for hours, inspecting bugs on trees, eating snacks they brought back from the convenience store, enjoying the air. Suguru would take his hair down and Satoru would balance his sunglasses carefully on one of Suguru’s limbs.
"Don’t move," Satoru would say and Suguru would make a big show of bouncing his knee or his elbow, the sunglasses swaying precariously as Satoru squawked in horror.
Satoru remembers August best, sprawling out on the grass spread eagle. The sky is so big and blue above them. He’s just starting to drift off when Suguru speaks.
“I wish we met earlier,” Suguru says.
Satoru freezes. He sneaks a glance at Suguru. He has his hair down and his eyes closed, peaceful.
“Not me.” Satoru murmurs, still looking. “I would’ve hated you as a kid. We would’ve fought to the death.”
“We fight all the time now.”
“Well, yeah, but not to die. Besides, I wasn’t very nice as a kid," he confesses.
Suguru laughs and nudges his ankle with his toes. “You’re not very nice now.”
He scowls, shoving back. "Oh, and you're a saint?"
"Well, I never said anything about that." Suguru gives him a sly glance. "Wait, we haven't been fighting to the death? I've been trying to kill you this whole time."
"Weakling,” Satoru teases. “I didn't think you'd be so eager to meet the devil, Saint Suguru."
Suguru snorts, leaning back on his hands and turning his face towards the sun.
"I guess it doesn't matter anyway," he says. "Whenever we ended up meeting it'd be the same."
"What's that mean?"
Suguru hums. "Just that from the moment I met you it felt like I had always known you. Like I've known you forever."
Satoru rubs the back of his neck. “Forever’s nothing,” his voice is tentative, giving him away. “I’ve known you way longer than that.”
Suguru’s smile makes the gamble worth it. “You’re right,” he agrees. “How could I forget?”
-
"How are you feeling?"
Satoru blinks. His vision is clear and his skin has returned to a relatively stable temperature.
He flexes his fingers and shoots her a smile. "Good as new, doc."
Shoko rolls her eyes, considering him for a moment. She has her arms crossed. "It was a curse that made you that sick," she pauses. "It was small. You must have a lot on your mind, to have missed it."
Satoru shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. “Hey,” he says, the previous conversation rushing back to him. “I didn’t say anything weird, right?”
“You were asking for Suguru all night,” Shoko tells him with a wicked grin. “So no, nothing weird at all.”
He scowls, feeling hot again. “Oh, great. You should’ve just let me die.”
“If it makes you feel any better, he was a total wreck over it,” She pats his hand fondly. “We had to stand in the soup aisle for like twenty minutes. It was agonizing.”
Satoru's eyebrows draw together. He picks at a stray thread on his sleeve. “I’m sure it was,” he replies absently.
“He came, you know,” Shoko continues. “When you asked. He sat by your bed all night.”
His back stiffens.
“Did he?” Satoru tries, voice strangled. Shoko tilts her head.
No, he’s never been a very good liar.
-
“Hey,” Suguru says. “We need to talk about last night.”
Satoru tenses. Suguru’s hand is tight around his elbow, holding him in place, face drawn.
“What about it?”
He asks, “Do you remember what happened?”
Satoru shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “Not really,” he lies. “I was half out of my mind.”
Not a total lie, then. Suguru stares at him, searching his face. Satoru doesn’t move. He feels like a rabbit sitting in the jaw of a wolf. He can tell by the set of Suguru’s mouth that he isn’t happy. Suguru always knows when he's lying. The silence hangs between them.
“You need to take better care of yourself.” Suguru says, finally, releasing him.
“Sure,” Satoru agrees easily, ignoring the sweat prickling the back of his neck. He rubs a hand over the place where Suguru held him, the red finger marks, watches Suguru stalk off down the hall alone.
-
Satoru thinks about it all night and then the night after that, tossing and turning in bed. He’s been avoiding lunch, ducking into the alcove when he catches Suguru coming out of the bathroom, arranging for make-up classes with Yaga on the excuse that he’s still recovering. He dreams, relentlessly, of Suguru turning his back and walking away.
Suguru gets busier, sent out on more missions alone. Satoru does, too, and welcomes the work. He pretends he’s asleep on the rare nights where he hears Suguru stop in front of his door. The guilt grows so big he feels like it’ll swallow him whole.
-
“Finally,” Shoko says. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
He returned from his mission in Kyoto early and has been on the roof for an hour, not ready to go inside. Satoru knows he should shower off the grime and curse bits, that the longer he waits the worse it'll set in his hair, on his clothes.
It's quiet up here, is all, and he wants to know if the sun will still feel warm when it rises on his skin, after everything his hands have done.
Satoru turns to look at her. The dark circles under Shoko’s eyes have deepened and her uniform is wrinkled. He wonders if Suguru looks as tired as the two of them, too. He's completely hopeless.
“Want a prize?”
Shoko laughs a little, leaning against the railing next to him. “Nice view. Of course you’d keep it all to yourself.”
He grins. “Not like the roof’s been here since the school was built or anything.”
“Geto says you’ve been avoiding him, too.” Shoko’s gaze is fixed on the horizon. “Lover’s quarrel?”
He knows she’s playing dumb. “Wouldn’t that be more appropriate for the two of you?”
“Whatever that means. Seriously,” Shoko finally looks at him and Satoru feels exposed, her gaze cutting straight through him, down to the bone. “What’s wrong with you?"
He bites the inside of his cheek. "Nothing," he huffs out, then tries again, calmer this time. "Nothing's wrong."
"Look, all Geto ever talks about is you.” Shoko says slowly. “Do you get what I’m saying?”
Satoru's heart drops into the pit of his stomach.
“Sorry,” he tries, mulling over the words. “I’m sure I’ve given him a lot of trouble. It’s probably not fun to listen to him complain about me.”
“Stop that,” Shoko frowns. “Earnest looks terrible on you.”
Satoru ducks his head to hide his own frown. He can feel himself getting irritated, even if none of this is her fault, even if she can't help how much Suguru loves her, can't help how much Satoru loves them both. She's trying her best.
He sighs. "Doesn't it bother you?"
"What?"
"How much time Suguru and I—we spend together."
Shoko squints. "Why would I care about that?"
“The night I was sick,” Satoru starts. “I have to tell you. Me and Suguru—”
Shoko holds up a hand, the other pressed to the bridge of her nose. “Please, no. I can’t hear any more about this. Suguru won’t shut up about it.”
Satoru doesn’t say anything. The conversation is so embarrassing he wants to crawl into a hole and die. He wonders what Suguru has been saying about him to her, what she’s been forced to listen to. He wonders if they’ve made fun of him, complaining about how impulsive he is, how inconsiderate—
“Gojo,” she interrupts his spiral, sounding exasperated. “I only like girls. It’s normal, what you might be feeling.”
He blinks. I only like girls.
They're not together. Looks like he miscalculated spectacularly, despite everything.
Satoru thinks about it and then he gets it, suddenly, because the way she looks at Utahime is the same way he looks at Suguru. He starts to laugh a little. They're even more similar than he thought.
Satoru shakes his head, dismissing his own thoughts. Even if they aren't together, that doesn't change anything.
“That doesn’t mean he can’t like you,” Satoru mumbles.
“Like me?”
Shoko is staring at him like he's the dumbest person in the entire world. Satoru scowls defensively on instinct.
She continues, voice getting louder, more incredulous, “Is that what this is about? I thought you were scared to come out, you idiot!"
Satoru stares. “I don’t think I was ever in.”
Shoko ignores him, pulling out her phone. He sees the first number she types in and grabs for it, feeling panicked and wild all of a sudden, heart beating so fast he’s scared it’ll jump clean out of his chest.
“Shoko, don’t,” Satoru’s eyes are wide. He can hear the pathetic desperation in his voice. “Please don’t tell him.”
He doesn’t think he can bear Suguru’s disappointment. Suguru’s disgust. He’s already damaged their relationship enough with the stunt he pulled the other night.
She studies him for a moment, expression unreadable. The phone drops to her side with his own hand still gripped tight around it. Shoko sighs.
“I won’t tell him. Gojo, I’d never want to be with Geto in a million years," her gaze softens. “You should talk to him, dumbass. He deserves that much at least."
She presses her shoulder into his and he realizes, sudden and sharp, how much he’s missed her. How much he hates hating her. How he never really hated her at all.
“I know,” Satoru says, mouth pulling up into a rueful smile. "I know he does."
Shoko tugs her phone out of his grip and replaces it with her hand. It’s small but steady. Satoru takes a deep breath. She isn't looking at him, eyes out towards the rising sun, but when he squeezes her hand she smiles. It feels warm on his skin.
-
He knew Suguru was there the night he got sick. Satoru listened, half-asleep, as Suguru told Shoko she could go and closed the door behind him. He let Suguru brush his hair off his sweaty face, giddy under the full force of Suguru’s attention, too sick to feel embarrassed but not sick enough to forget.
“We can’t,” Satoru slurs. “We can’t do this to Shoko.”
Suguru’s frown is blurry but he can still make it out. “Do what to Shoko?”
Satoru shakes his head urgently. His head is heavy and the cough medicine has made him borderline delirious. “You’re my best friend, Suguru. She’s my best friend.”
“Satoru,” Suguru says, confused. He’s gripping his hand.
He knows it’s wrong but all he wants to do right now is kiss Suguru. Satoru thinks of the red of Suguru’s neck, the way he held him when he found him in the cafeteria, thinks that maybe just maybe he’s been wrong this whole time. Thinks he’s allowed a bout of wishful thinking, long overdue.
Satoru leans forward, breath fanning across Suguru’s mouth. Suguru’s hand comes up to steady him. Satoru nudges his face into Suguru’s palm, vision clearing for a moment, watching Suguru's eyes go wide.
“Hey,” Suguru whispers, flushed. “You’re sick, you don’t—you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Please,” Satoru grips the front of Suguru’s shirt. Suguru rubs a rough thumb over his cheek.
"We can talk when you're better, okay?"
Suguru's voice hitches when Satoru leans in to kiss his wrist, mouth parting. Satoru watches his Adam's apple bob. He waits a moment before he kisses Suguru’s wrist again, slower this time, trailing down his hand. He thinks about happy endings.
"Please don’t make me say no to you." Suguru says desperately, just watching, hand pliant.
Satoru can't stop looking at him. Suguru's face is burning, a flash of white teeth worrying his bottom lip, pupils blown wide. He loves that color Suguru turns when he’s embarrassed, loves it even more knowing he’s the reason for it. He knows this is horrible of him, knows he owes Shoko more than he can ever repay for this, but—
"I'm in love with you," Satoru blurts out, then clamps his mouth shut, horrified. It isn’t at all what he meant to say.
Suguru jerks back away from him.
"Satoru, don't—" he cuts off sharply. Suguru looks hurt all of a sudden and Satoru would do anything to go back, to wipe that look off his face.
Idiot, he thinks, you fucking idiot.
“Wait, I'm sorry, I know you don’t—I know I'm a terrible friend but I just,” Satoru blinks, vision going dark for a second. "Suguru, please, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was talking about. Tell Shoko, okay? Tell her I'm sorry."
-
“You’re an idiot.”
Fucking Shoko. Satoru sighs and turns toward the voice, resigned to his impending lecture.
Suguru’s chest is rising raggedly, hair a dark blot waving loose in the wind. His hand is hot, too tight around Satoru’s wrist. Satoru hates how good breathless sounds on him.
“I thought you were on a mission,” Satoru starts, then shakes his head. “Nevermind. Look, I don’t know what she told you, but I’m fine. You having feelings for Shoko is none of my—”
Suguru cuts him off. “Not Shoko,” he says forcefully. His gaze is piercing.
Suguru is close enough that Satoru can smell him, the familiar laundry detergent and mint toothpaste scent, the faint hint of tea underneath. His shoulders are drawn in and tense, eyebrows furrowed. Satoru watches him shift his weight from foot to foot.
Not Shoko. Satoru’s heart skips.
“Satoru,” Suguru searches his face. When Satoru just stares back, he lets out a high, strangled laugh. “Are you really going to make me say it?”
His mouth is dry. For once, he stays quiet.
“Not Shoko. You .” Suguru takes a shuddering breath. “The person I have feelings for is you.”
No fucking way.
His thoughts are racing a mile a minute, analyzing all of the times he’s seen Suguru and Shoko interact. The way he laughs at her jokes. The way he’s never that relaxed with Satoru, always a hair nervous. The way he pulled back like he had been kicked in the teeth that night after Satoru told him how he felt. There’s just no way. It has to be her. It can’t be—
“Me?” he sputters.
Suguru won’t look at him, neck craned up towards the sky. He’s flushed red from hairline to collar. Satoru wants him so badly it’s physically painful.
“There’s no way you didn’t know how I felt about you. I figured you were messing with me when you said—” Suguru stops, swallows, and starts to pull away. “Satoru, the whole world knew.”
“Wait,” Satoru says, frantically pulling Suguru back, planting both hands on his shoulders. “Wait, please.”
Satoru never sounds like this, desperate and serious and vulnerable. It’s enough to make Suguru meet his eyes.
He tries to shake off his nerves. Satoru bites his lip for a moment, then says, “Everyone loves you. I didn’t think—it’s just that you have so many other options,” His chest hurts. “Better options.”
Suguru stares at him for a moment, silent, letting the words hang in the air between them.
“You’re actually insane.” Suguru breathes, expression raw. “Better options? Satoru, you’re beautiful and talented and funny and important and I’m just some fucking nobody from the countryside.”
“You’re not,” his voice cracks a little. “You’re—”
“The only person I’m ever looking at is you. I love you, and I’m scared. ”
Suguru’s voice is full of yearning, all his cards on the table. Satoru’s heart squeezes.
All Geto ever talks about is you.
He really is an idiot, isn’t he? This whole time Suguru has been looking at him the same way, thinking the same thoughts, sharing all the same stupid insecurities. He can’t help but laugh and laugh and—
“Hey, don’t cry.” Suguru’s voice softens as he steps closer, reeling him in, a grounding hand wrapped around the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I didn't think that would make you cry."
He actually does laugh a little now, heavy, pressing his face into Suguru's shoulder.
"Satoru, look at me."
And Suguru really is hard to say no to, isn't he?
“I’m sorry.” Satoru says, “For lying, for not noticing. I'm sorry for getting it all wrong,” He swipes an elbow across his eyes, continues, “You’re not nobody. Suguru, you’re everything.”
I love you, and I was scared too. I didn’t want you to leave me behind.
Satoru knows he doesn’t have to say it. Suguru is looking at him the way he always has, soft and sweet and needy, the way he never looks at anyone else but him. The way he should've seen him looking the whole time. The way Satoru has always looked back.
Suguru puts both hands on either side of his face, smiling a little now.
"You have me," Suguru says softly. "You've always had me."
Satoru has been patient all this time and he thinks he's waited long enough just looking and wishing and hoping. Heart full, he closes his eyes and leans in.