Archive of Our Own

Satoru is a light sleeper, always has been; it’s hard not to be, when he’s constantly aware of everything happening around him. His sleep is often dreamless, and when he wakes, it happens all at once, like a lightswitch: one moment, everything is dark, and the next, his eyes are snapping open at the sound of stumbling from the hallway outside.

He listens for a few long moments, to the shuffling on the other side of the wall. Clumsy, inconsistent; abnormal, but not so much on nights like these. It’s only when he hears the trash can scrape across the floor that he sits up in bed, throwing his blankets off and padding towards the door.

Suguru is sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, still fully dressed in his grimy uniform that practically glows with the remnants of whatever curse he was fighting. Satoru can see it, its energy restlessly zipping up and down Suguru’s hunched form, churning in his gut, dripping over his own clearer energy like thick sludge. It looks like a nasty one, his suspicion confirmed by the trash can by the bed and the fact that the only thing Suguru’s bothered with since returning home is letting his hair down, holding it back from his face as his head hangs limply between his shoulders.

He’s not retching, which is a good sign, and Satoru crosses the room to take a seat on the bed beside him. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t stir at all as the mattress dips slightly, though Satoru can feel him shudder a little as the curse pulses angrily inside of him, its energy flaring, threatening to overtake his own, but not strong enough. Never strong enough.

Satoru had told him, once, that the nausea from the curses probably had less to do with the taste or texture, and more to do with his cursed energy trying to fight for dominance against the foreign intrusion. Suguru hadn’t seemed all that interested, though he had been sitting rather like this, with his head between his knees and his hands shaking as the thick, tar-like blood dripped from his fingers and into his hair. He hasn’t brought it up again, but ever since then, he’s noticed that Suguru’s cursed energy output seems different, steadier, in the hours after absorbing the curse; like he’s consciously controlling it, forcing the curse into submission. The nausea has decreased too, he thinks, if the amount of times Suguru has actually gotten sick since then has anything to say about it. It makes him feel happy, or something like it, to know that his friend took something he said once when they were dumb kids to heart, and that it seems to be helping. Something like pride, though without the usual ensuing urge to brag and boast and shout it from the rooftops. No, he rather likes the idea that this is Suguru and his secret, a technique only the two of them are privy to.

Eventually, Suguru manages to sit up. He’s pale, so pale in the dark room that he’s practically glowing—Satoru raises a hand to his face, curious about how much his skin will stand out against Suguru’s like this. Suguru grunts quietly when he brushes his fingertips against his cheek, but instead of telling him off, he turns his head into the touch, startling Satoru enough that he freezes, hand inadvertently cupping his cheek.

Suguru doesn’t give any indication that this is anything out of the ordinary; just closes his eyes and lets out a soft breath. So, after a few moments, Satoru relaxes, taking his lead and just letting it happen. They’re touchy, touchier than most friends, he knows that much, and this really is nothing.

He holds Suguru’s face for a while longer, at some point lifting his other hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. His fingers linger, brushing along the apple of Suguru’s cheek as they sit in the quiet darkness, breathing nearly in sync, as Suguru slowly absorbs the curse and his cursed energy begins to stabilize.

Finally, his eyes flutter open. Satoru was already looking at him—for how long, he realizes he isn’t sure—and their eyes meet, blue locking with violet.

The colour of curses, he’d said thoughtlessly when they were younger, after the first time he’d ever seen Suguru reduce a curse to a swirling purple ball.

(Suguru hadn’t talked to him for a week after that. He’s never said it again.)

“Water?” Satoru asks, nearly wincing at how loud his whisper sounds in the silence. Suguru’s eyes dart to his bedside table, and Satoru sees an unopened water bottle sitting and sweating on the surface. He pulls away, finally, to grab it and cracks it open, guiding it carefully to Suguru’s hands when he fumbles in a darkness that Satoru will never be able to fully see.

(It’s weird that you’ll never know what nothing looks like, Suguru had said a few months after they met. Satoru has never had an answer to that.)

He shuffles around to sit behind Suguru, gently pulling his hair back over his shoulders until it spills between his shoulderblades. It’s getting a little long, he’ll probably cut it soon. Satoru wishes he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t say that; just braids Suguru’s hair in silence while he takes tiny sips of water.

Eventually, Suguru pushes the trash can away with his foot, and Satoru ties the loose braid off at the end. He moves to get up, taking his cue, but only one of his feet is on the floor before Suguru’s hand closes around his wrist.

He looks back to see Suguru staring up at him. His eyes glow in the darkness, violet and lilac and mauve swirling together, tiny galaxies and supernovas and planets of tamed horrors shimmering in his irises.

(He’d mentioned it to Shoko once; she looked at him like he was crazy. She’d blamed it on Six Eyes, something about Satoru’s sense for cursed energy reacting to Suguru’s technique and making him see them differently. Satoru thinks it’s just because it’s Suguru.)

“Stay?” he asks, quieter than Satoru but still ringing in his ears after the extended silence. It was a bad one, then; Suguru doesn’t usually bother to ask, preferring to weather through it on his own for whatever dumb reason.

Satoru doesn’t respond past turning on his heel and crawling back into bed. He takes the spot against the wall, just in case, and watches through one opened eye as Suguru moves around the room, slow and unsteady, changing into his pyjamas and taking some medicine for his stomach.

The dorm beds are too small for them both, but they manage. They lay on their left sides—it helps with Suguru’s stomach, he says, and Satoru has never thought to question it—leaving Satoru smushed between the wall and his friend’s broad back. It’s not an unfamiliar situation for them, though, and he doesn’t mind, long limbs automatically curling over Suguru with nowhere else to go, one hand loosely clutching the hem of his sleep shirt, one leg hooked over his calves. He’s warm, and it makes Satoru sleepy, like laying on sun-warmed carpet in a summer sunbeam.

Still, he waits for Suguru to fall asleep to close his eyes, and even then he keeps Six Eyes open, focused on the movements of his cursed energy as the latest monster slowly becomes a part of him.

It’s late—early?—when they return to the hotel. The front desk clerk is asleep, and the lobby and elevator are empty; there are no signs of life, too late for even nightlifers and the drinking crowd.

It’s just as well. They look like shit, and just being in the same area as another human being might be enough to get the police called and cause even more of a headache than Suguru already has pounding between his brows. He wouldn’t blame them, really; two teenage boys in unidentifiable school uniforms who look like they’ve been running through the grimiest alleys in Yokohama (nevermind that it's true). They’re dirty, dishevelled, and Satoru’s face is still streaked with the blood from the unfortunate normie who decided they looked like two good people to mug.

“You want first shower?” Satoru mutters as the elevator dings at each passing floor. Suguru grimaces. He doesn’t, not really; he just wants to get back to the room and pass out until tomorrow night, when they’ll be back on the streets again, searching for the same damned curse they’ve been chasing for the last two days.

“Probably should,” he mutters, flexing his fingers and grimacing at the dirt under his nails.

Satoru glances over at him.

“Could just washcloth it.”

“That’s inconsiderate to housekeeping,” Suguru murmurs, on instinct more than anything. The ding of the doors opening drowns out the sound that Satoru surely makes with how hard he rolls his eyes.

Suguru isn't proud of the times he's resorted to 'washclothing it,' as Satoru so tastefully puts it. Sometimes, it's easier to just soak one of the hotel-provided washcloths in water and soap and scrub the most egregious of the mess from their skin, tossing the cloths into the sink afterwards. He always feels bad, despite Satoru pointing out that none of the curse residue will remain for housekeeping to clean; either way, the white cloths will be ruined, covered in dirt and grime and blood for some poor housekeeper to deal with in the morning. He tries to avoid it when he can, and mostly manages to keep Satoru from doing it as well.

They do end up cleaning with washcloths and hand soap, leaving their uniforms on the floor of the bathroom with the soiled towels. Some of the grime still sticks to Suguru’s skin when he climbs into bed, residue from the lower level curses they came across while hunting for the special grade.

His whole body seems to melt into the mattress as soon as he lies down, and he lets out a long, bone-tired sigh. Satoru is down for the count, sprawled onto his stomach with his sunglasses tossed to the other side of the bed, so he releases a curse to snake out a long, slimy tendril and flick off the lamp.

He dismisses the curse. He closes his eyes.

And he doesn’t fall asleep.

He’s not sure how long he stays awake, too tired to toss and turn, too tired to even open his eyes, and yet unable to fall asleep. His body is completely done, but his mind is running, thoughts tripping over themselves but not resolving in anything more than tired tired tired.

“Suguru?”

He opens his eyes.

Satoru is looking at him, eyes near glowing in the darkness of the hotel room. Suguru wonders briefly what he looks like right now, when he can’t see his own hand in front of his face.

(It’s not seeing, exactly, Satoru had said to him once, laying in one of their rooms, head on Suguru’s stomach as he played with his fingers. I can’t see things like facial expressions, or clothing details, or, like, the colour of most people’s eyes.)

“Yeah?” he mumbles back. It feels like talking in his sleep, like trying to speak in a dream.

“I can’t sleep.”

Suguru grunts, closes his eyes.

“Me neither.”

(He remembers finding the statement odd, but then Satoru had flicked him in the forehead and demanded they play Tekken, successfully distracted him from the subject.)

“Can I come over?”

Suguru snorts, but he’s too tired to make fun of his wording. Instead, he manages to shuffle enough to the side to give Satoru some room, feeling him clamber into bed beside him as soon as he deems it enough space.

(Why’d you word it like that? he’d asked later that night. He’d given up on trying to get Satoru to go back to his own room, and they were laying side-by-side in the small dorm bed, staring at the ceiling.

Word what like what? Satoru had muttered, already half asleep.

When you were talking about Six Eyes, he’d said, lowering his voice. Not because it’s a secret, but because he’d looked over at that moment and seen Satoru’s quiet, lax face, vulnerable and sleepy, and had the sudden strong feeling he needed to preserve the atmosphere. You said you can’t see the colour of most people’s eyes. It was just a weird way to phrase it. You could’ve just said everyone’s.)

“Better?” he thinks to mumble. Satoru hums, and the sound vibrates against his arm where his face is smushed against him. It can’t be comfortable, to be laying like that, but Satoru doesn’t seem to mind so Suguru lets it go.

“Mhm.”

Silence falls again, and the heaviness settles once more over Suguru’s body; however, this time, instead of racing thoughts, his brain feels slower, sweeter, following the rhythm of Satoru’s breaths and thinking about what they’ll do together when the mission is over.

“Thanks,” Satoru mumbles, right as Suguru is on the edge of sleep. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to reply, but he takes the word into his heart and lets it drift with him to sleep.

He’s always been the exception.

(No, I couldn’tve, Satoru had argued, opening those nightlight eyes. It’s not like that with everyone.

Suguru had raised his eyebrows, a silent nudge to continue. With a shrug, Satoru closed his eyes again, but Suguru could still feel his gaze on him.

It’s different with you, he’d said quietly, unaware of the stutter in Suguru’s chest that sent a wave of weakness through his body. I can always see your eyes.)

Everyone is drunk. The air itself feels strange, wavy, though that might just be because Satoru is also drunk, and when Satoru gets drunk, things get…weird.

“Geto, he’s floating again.”

Shoko’s voice is bored, like she can barely be bothered to tear her attention away from Utahime to let him know. Satoru doesn’t even fully grasp her words until he feels a hand close around his ankle and oh, yeah, he is; a foot or two off the ground, bobbing gently with the drunken, wavy air that weaves around and through their little group, bending around Infinity to lift him up as his brain floats away.

Or something like that.

“C’mon, down you go,” Suguru says, tugging him back down until his weight is fully settled on the floor. And then he tips to the side, not entirely of his own volition, and whines into Suguru’s shoulder.

“Sug’ruuu,” he slurs, rubbing his face against his shirt sleeve like a cat. He’s wearing that nice cream cable-knit sweater he usually has hanging up in his closet; it’s easily Satoru’s favourite of his shirts, so very, very soft. And it looks good on him, too, contrasting nicely with his olive skin and dark hair that spills over his shoulders, let free of its bun.

The hair tickles his nose now, and he wrinkles it and buries his face further in Suguru’s sweater. And then he bites it.

“Satoru—” Suguru’s voice is muffled, amused even through the alcohol and the slight overstimulation starting to blur and fuzz his thoughts. “What are you doing.”

Satoru mumbles a half-hearted explanation, though it’s hard to get the words out past the mouthful of shirt.

“You know, he’s almost bearable when he’s drunk,” Utahime pipes up.

“Alright babe, I’m cutting you off.”

“This has to be some form of public indecency.”

“Aw, c’mon Kento, I think it’s cute!”

His friends’ voices fizzle into background noise in his ears, and he spits out the fabric and rubs his cheek over Suguru’s shoulder again. His nice, warm face cushion moves, and he whines, but then Suguru’s arm wraps around his shoulders and tugs him closer to his chest and oh, yeah okay, this is much better. Suguru is so smart. The smartest ever. Maybe he wears his hair like that to cover up his huge brain bulging out of the back of his skull. Satoru thinks he’s seen a movie like that once.

“—tell me you’re recording this,” Shoko’s voice bubbles back to the foreground, and oh, he was saying that out loud. But Suguru’s chest is buzzing with laughter under his face, and his stupid sweater is so soft, and Satoru can’t really bring himself to care.

It’s only around eight, but the alcohol and Suguru’s warmth is making him tired, and he lets himself be pulled under the blanket of sleep.

He wakes up on a couch, with a distinct lack of Suguru and Suguru’s sweater, poorly replaced by a blanket draped over him. He doesn’t appear to have moved much; his friends are still sitting in a circle on the floor, only now instead of bottles, they each have a hand of cards in front of them. They’re loud, louder than Satoru wants to deal with when he’s this sleepy and warm, and he kind of wants to go back to sleep.

But then Haibara catches his eye and loudly announces Gojo’s awake! and then Suguru’s face is in front of his, eyes soft, always so soft.

“Hey,” he says gently, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” Satoru says, and he realizes he is. He’s a little dizzy, a little tipsy still, but his nap seems to have dulled the alcohol’s effects a little, and he sits up and stretches his arms above his head with a loud groan.

“He lives,” Shoko announces, deadpan, as she places a card in the centre of their little circle. “Also, uno.”

“Huh?!”

Satoru slinks off the couch, pulling the blanket around his shoulders as he shuffles closer. Suguru is sitting down again and he plops himself down beside him, resting his head on his shoulder and blinking sleepily at his cards.

“How’re you feeling?” he murmurs, bringing his free hand up and around Satoru’s shoulders, carding his fingers through his hair. Satoru hums, the sound rumbling at the base of his throat, allowing his brain to slowly boot back up.

“Better,” he says. “Bit more sober.”

Suguru gently scrapes his nails against the skin behind his ear, making Satoru’s eyes flutter shut as he melts.

“Draw two, Sho.”

“Fuck you, die.”

As the night begins to peter out into early morning, the conversation around the circle begins to wane, until Haibara falls asleep on Nanami’s shoulder, and the rest of them take it as a cue to head back to the dorms. They clean up the cards, hide the empty beer bottles, and begin the walk back towards the dorm building, quietly chatting.

The cool night air helps sober him up further—at least, he thinks that’s how that works—and there’s a bit more of a pep in his step as he loops his arm through Suguru’s and tugs him closer, hooking his chin over his shoulder.

“Suguruuu,” he whines, “carry me.”

Suguru shoves his head away, but Satoru holds fast, and he has to put his attention into balancing them out to keep from falling over on him.

“I’m not going to carry you,” he says, glancing up at their friends, but no one seems to be paying Satoru’s antics any mind. “It’s not that far of a walk.”

“But I’m tired,” he complains, slumping harder into his side, until Suguru has to actively press back against him to keep them upright. “And I’m drunk.”

“You said you were feeling more sober.”

Deciding he’s had enough of his excuses, Satoru straightens up, abruptly enough that Suguru nearly topples to the side. He rights himself, and Satoru takes the opportunity to jump him, throwing his legs around his waist. Suguru yelps, hands flying to his knees, as Satoru wraps his arms around his neck and slots his head beside Suguru’s.

“You are so fucking annoying,” Suguru says, nonetheless adjusting his grip, hitching Satoru’s legs up to hold him easier.

“But you love me.”

Their group slowly splits off, heading to different ends of the dorm building, until it’s only Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko. She’s a little worse off than them, swaying a little as she walks, and eventually Suguru sighs and hitches Satoru a little higher up on his back, then takes an arm off of his leg to wrap it around her shoulders as she swerves a little too far left.

“You two are lucky it’s not a school night.”

They both groan in unison.

When Suguru wakes up, Satoru is standing by the window. It’s a little creepy, opening his eyes to the tall silhouette, backlit by the full moon over the ocean. His brain barely gets a chance to turn on before Satoru is turning, blue eyes glowing and staring into his soul.

“Why are you awake.”

Despite the fact that he’s still mostly asleep, Suguru snorts.

“Dunno,” he says, rolling onto his back with a groan. He stretches his arms up so his palms flatten against the headboard, pressing until something in him cracks, before turning his head and looking at Satoru from under heavy eyelids. “You’re one to talk, though.”

Satoru stares at him for a few long seconds before rolling his eyes.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Mhm. At least lie down.”

Satoru huffs, turning back to look out the window. Suguru rolls back onto his side and rests his chin in his hand, watching him.

“I can feel you staring.”

“So? Now you know how everyone else feels around you.”

(He always feels Satoru’s eyes on him, even if they’re not in the same room, or the same country. He’s been starting to think that last part might not have anything to do with Six Eyes.)

Satoru doesn’t move from his post, and eventually, Suguru gets tired of staring at his back. With a sigh, he summons a curse, something like a snake with the head of a dog that wraps around Satoru’s ankles and tugs. He stumbles backwards; he’s either a lot more tired than he’s letting on, or he never planned on putting up a fight in the first place.

He lands on his back, staring upside-down up into Suguru’s smiling eyes, blinks twice, and then pouts.

“Rude.”

“It’s for your own good,” he murmurs, pleased as Satoru shuffles around to lie properly on the bed. “You don’t need to sleep, but at least stop standing in the corner like a sleep paralysis demon.”

Satoru grumbles but doesn’t move to sit up, and Suguru lets himself lay back down beside him. The curse dissipates, and he feels the slightest tension leave Satoru’s body.

“You’re gonna be so sore when this mission is over,” he teases gently, always gently. Satoru huffs.

“Maybe if I was you,” he mutters. “I could do this forever.”

Suguru hums. He inches his hand a little to the right, lessening the distance between their bodies, only for his fingers to brush against something that feels like Satoru’s hand but lacks the warmth, the softness that he’s used to.

“I hope you don’t,” he says softly.

(The lines have been blurred, these last few months. Something has shifted, or maybe has been shifting the whole time they’ve known each other. Maybe they themselves are growing towards the same sun, towards each other, until someday they’ll tangle together like vines, until each of their limbs are interchangeable from the other’s.)

Satoru doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. He chances a glance over, seeing his eyes open, staring unblinking towards the ceiling.

And then the cursed energy in the room changes, only slightly, like the atoms around them shift almost imperceptibly, and then the tips of Suguru’s finger meets warm, soft skin. It’s not a lot, just enough for him to hook his pinkie around Satoru’s before the rest of his fingers hit the barrier of Infinity, but he feels every bare centimetre of their skin that touches, and his eyes flutter shut, unbidden.

He knows that Satoru won’t sleep tonight, and he knows that if they were attacked, he’d protect him. But he feels safe, safe in an entirely different way than the barrier of Infinity, the extent of Six Eyes.

(It’s not protection, or a lack of danger. It’s the knowledge that Suguru would be willing to face any danger, any harm that might come to him, for his finger to stay linked like this for just a few moments longer.)

(The following night, with red still staining the uniform he hasn’t yet removed, he dreams of reaching out to touch Satoru’s hand, only to find a pool of blood and eyes that will never stare at him through a dark room again.)

Satoru doesn’t sleep much, anymore.

He’s not tired, not really. Now that he has access to RCT, he can pretty much remove any traces of exhaustion from his body on command, and using his technique doesn’t take up as much energy as it used to. He doesn’t really need to sleep, so he doesn’t really try, choosing to spend his free time in more productive ways.

He’s climbing, always climbing, always getting stronger. He doesn’t really have the time, anymore.

He is developing a problem with that, though. Now that he’s not sleeping as much, it’s like his brain is trying to forget how. Sometimes he’ll change into his pyjamas, brush his teeth, turn on his fan, and then stare up at the ceiling, unable to close his eyes, much less fall asleep. It’s annoying, because he does still need to sleep a few hours a night, and prefers to just get it out of the way, but he can’t exactly do that when his brain refuses to just. Shut. Up.

He sighs, then again, louder, when it doesn’t magically fix anything. He turns onto his left side, then his right. He kicks off all the covers, then pulls them back up to his chin, starfishes in the middle of the bed and then curls up into a tiny little ball at the bottom of his mattress. He doesn’t look at the clock.

Finally, when it becomes apparent he’s not going to be nodding off any time soon, he gets up, shoves his feet into his slippers, and wanders out into the hall. He doesn’t bother changing out of his sleep shirt and boxers and doesn’t have much of a plan about where he’s going, but just getting out of his room is a tangible relief after however many hours of being cooped up.

The floors creak ever so slightly as he pads down the hall, headed towards the engawa on the far side of the building. He can smell the night air wafting towards him, underlaid with the tang of cigarette smoke, and he closes his eyes, letting his senses and his Six Eyes guide him just as well.

The familiar cursed energy signature lingering in the engawa is both a surprise and not. He hasn’t been seeing a lot of Suguru lately, and he’s pretty sure it’s some ungodly hour of the night, and he’s always been more reasonable (boring) than Satoru when it came to stuff like that.

Though, he also feels like Suguru might not be sleeping a whole lot, either.

He doesn’t stir when Satoru sidles up next to him, but his cursed energy shifts slightly, as though recognizing his presence even if Suguru doesn’t. Satoru can’t see his expression with his eyes closed, but he has a feeling that even if he were to look, he wouldn’t be able to read much from him. He doesn’t react to him, doesn’t say anything, and Satoru doesn’t either; just leans against the railing and ‘looks’ out over the grounds.

(They used to make a sort of game out of it, Satoru pointing out things around them that Suguru’s boring old regular eyes don’t notice. He’d close his eyes and point out squirrels, birds, bugs, and Suguru would pretend he wasn’t impressed, but he kept playing.)

“Are we in a fight?”

That gets a physical reaction, Suguru turning sharply at the same time that his cursed energy pulses. It’s sort of nauseating to watch, the swirling and twisting of the curses inside him swelling, expanding against the borders of his own cursed energy when his emotions flare.

“What?”

Satoru shrugs, not really sure how to explain himself; he hadn’t even known he was thinking it before it came out of his mouth.

(Not consciously, at least. But for the last few months, every time he stares up at his blank ceiling and tries to force himself to sleep, it’s a thought that bubbles up to the forefront of his mind, swimming between his ears until he has to shove his head under his pillow and squeeze his eyes shut so tight they hurt.)

“Are we?” he asks. Suguru stares at him, then shakes his head, raising his hand to his face; after a moment; the smell of smoke gets stronger, and he fights the urge to wrinkle his nose.

“No. Why would we be?”

Satoru shrugs again, tapping his fingers against the railing.

“I dunno,” he says lamely. “Just wanted to check.”

Suguru watches him a few long moments longer; then, he snorts under his breath and turns back to face the grounds. The sound affects Satoru more than he wants to admit; it’s been a while since he heard it.

“Just because we haven’t talked much doesn’t mean we’re in a fight,” he points out. “We’ve both been busy.”

Yeah, Satoru goes to say, you’re right.

“You’re not supposed to be too busy for me,” he says instead.

Suguru looks over at him again, and Satoru chomps down on the inside of his cheek. For the strongest, he has a pretty weak brain-to-mouth filter.

Suguru takes another drag; Satoru can see the barest hint of cursed energy escape him with his breath, lingering in the air for a few seconds before it pulls back into his muted violet.

“That’s a pretty egotistical thing to say, Satoru,” he says finally, amusement curling at the edges of his words. Satoru huffs, but he feels a smile creep its way onto his face anyway.

“Yeah, well. You shouldn’t be too busy for your best friend.”

Suguru pauses, almost imperceptibly; but Satoru catches it, as he always has. As he always will.

“You’ve been busy too,” he says, and the teasing has dried up from his voice. Satoru rolls his tongue against the back of his teeth, fingers tightening a little on the railing.

“Since when do you smoke?” he changes the subject. “Bad for you.”

Suguru doesn’t acknowledge the shift in topic, shrugging a shoulder.

“Shoko smokes.”

“Shoko can heal herself,” Satoru shoots back. “Girl’s got lungs of steel with all the RCT she’s blasting them with.”

Suguru doesn’t seem to have a retort to that.

“Almost a year,” he says instead. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It’s gonna kill you, you know.”

Suguru snorts.

“We both know it’s not the smoking that’s going to kill me.”

Satoru freezes. Goosebumps prick at the surface of his skin, rolling over him in a nauseating wave.

Suguru grunts when he launches himself into him, folding his arms around him and slotting his face against his neck. The impact seems to stagger him, but Satoru easily steadies them as he clutches at his sleep shirt, pressing his face into Suguru’s neck, ignoring the smell of smoke.

“Satoru, what—”

“I’m not too busy now,” he says, voice muffled against Suguru’s skin. He sounds petulant, whiny, even to his own ears, but just squeezes Suguru tighter.

“Okay, okay,” Suguru says, voice strained as he tries to gently pry Satoru off. He manages to shuffle him away a little, but Satoru just moves around to his back, wrapping his arms around his stomach from behind and digging his chin into Suguru’s shoulder hard enough that he’s sure it hurts.

It’s not abnormal contact for them, but it feels strange; foreign. It’s been so long since he’s spent any meaningful amount of time with Suguru, much less touched him like this, and he feels strange, restless under his skin, heart beating too fast like it’s his first time holding a girl’s hand.

It takes almost a minute for him to realize that that’s not all that feels off. He frowns, tightening his arms around Suguru’s middle, then splaying his palm flat over his ribs.

“You’re skinny,” he murmurs, running his thumb along the protruding shape of his bottom rib. “When’d you get so thin?”

“I told you,” Suguru says, trying again to get out of Satoru’s grasp. “It’s the heat. I’ve been nauseous and sweating a lot, ‘course I’m gonna lose some weight.”

“This isn’t just the heat, Suguru,” Satoru says. His hands travel over the planes of his abdomen, heart sinking when he realizes just how much Suguru’s baggy shirts have been hiding. “You’re wasting away. Have you been eating at all?”

“Let—” Suguru’s breath hitches as Satoru shoves his hand up under his shirt to get a better feel for how thin he’s gotten. “Satoru, let go.”

“You’re lying,” he says, grabbing at Suguru’s sides and biting his tongue when he barely gets a handful of skin. “There’s something wrong.”

“Let go of me, Satoru,” Suguru warns. “Just go back to bed.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Satoru squeezes him tighter, digging his fingers into the pronounced divots between his ribs. “Not ‘til you tell me what’s going on.”

A moment later, something yanks at his ankle, and he yelps as his legs are pulled out from under him as one of Suguru’s curses holds him in the air with a vine-like tentacle. Finally, he opens his eyes to see Suguru’s face glaring up at him upside-down, and it’s only then that Satoru realizes just how dark the shadows under his eyes are, just how gaunt his cheeks have gotten.

“It’s none of your business,” Suguru mutters, stubbing his cigarette out on the railing and flicking it into the yard. Satoru stares at him.

“What do you mean?” he asks incredulously. “Of course it’s my business. It’s you.”

Suguru blinks, looking genuinely caught off guard. Satoru realizes that he is; he’s actually surprised. He frowns.

“You’re my best friend,” he says simply. “If something’s wrong with you, it’s my business.”

They stare at each other for a long few moments, the courtyard still but for the light breeze that sets Satoru swaying gently in the curse’s grasp.

(My eyes are just better, he’d told Suguru once after winning yet another one of their games. I can see everything, y’know. I could probably see inside your head right now.

That’s not a Six Eyes thing, Suguru had said plainly. I bet I could see what’s in your head, no problem.

He’d been setting up for a joke to call him dumb, but that’s stuck with him to this day. If there’s anyone in the world who could read Satoru, it’s Suguru. And he thought he could read Suguru just as well.)

He hits the ground with an oomph! as the curse dissipates into thin air. He coughs, getting the wind back into his lungs, then peers up as a shadow falls over him.

Suguru’s eyes are unreadable, but he sticks a hand out, and after a moment, Satoru takes it and allows him to pull him to his feet. He brushes himself off, feeling Suguru’s gaze on him the whole time.

“You wanted to talk,” Suguru says. Satoru pauses, looking up at him and meeting his eyes.

“Let’s talk.”

Four hours ago, Suguru was ready to go to bed.

He just finished an almost week-long mission, is sore all over, and had barely stepped out of the showers when he was ambushed by Satoru and dragged to his dorm, blearily listening to him yap about a movie night. He wasn’t that bothered, assuming he’d make it about a half hour into the movie and then crash in Satoru’s bed like they used to when they were younger.

That was four hours ago. Now, he’s pacing his room, chewing on his lip as his heart and his brain seemingly try to race to see which one of them can kill him first.

He glances at the clock; 2:30. Less than two minutes after he last looked. And he’s never been more awake in his life.

He groans, stopping in place and burying his face in his hands. He feels sick with how fast his heart is pounding, dizzy with his mind running in circles, and he’s not sure if he’s ever going to be able to sleep again.

The knock at his door isn’t a surprise; it never is. Still, his heart freezes in his chest, then begins to pound at double the speed, sending the blood rushing to his head fast enough to make the room spin.

Satoru’s eyes are near piercing in the darkness, doubly so with how intensely he’s staring as Suguru opens the door, like he could burn a hole in the wood if he just looks hard enough. They might as well be burning through Suguru himself with the jolt that shoots through him when their eyes meet, and he stalls for a moment, unable to move from his spot.

It’s Satoru that moves first, brushing past him into the room. Suguru closes the door, stomach twisted into knots.

Satoru doesn’t look at him for a while, staring down at the floor as he starts to pace almost the same route that Suguru was. It would be funny if he didn’t feel so sick, and he has a brief, vague thought that he might actually pass out.

Before he can, though, Satoru whirls around, fixing him with that sharp, unforgiving stare. A lump swells in Suguru’s throat, and his breath catches painfully.

“You kissed me.”

Somehow, Suguru manages to not a) jump out of his skin, or b) sink through the floor, despite those being the two only good options he can think of in this situation. He can’t move, can’t tear his eyes away from Satoru’s, mouth slightly open like an idiot as he tries to form a single coherent thought.

He doesn’t seem to need to, though, as Satoru immediately begins to pace again, twice as fast, with his arms folded tightly across his chest. Suguru watches him dumbly, like some sort of weird, lanky screensaver animation he can’t take his eyes off of.

When Satoru stops again, he looks almost determined, despite his shoulders being hitched up and his hands stuffed under his armpits.

“Why?”

Surprised, Suguru momentarily forgets to be terrified, and he snorts incredulously.

“I don’t know, Satoru,” he says, and he sounds so tired but oh, so fond in his own ears. “Why do people normally kiss people?”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, and in a moment Suguru’s field of vision is obscured by icy blue. He stumbles back, hitting the door as Satoru easily follows him, leaning further into his space.

“I’m not just people,” he says plainly. “Neither are you.”

Despite his anxiety, Suguru manages a laugh.

“Rude.”

There’s a loud thunk! as Satoru’s hands hit the door on either side of his face, and he flinches when he leans closer.

“Why,” Satoru says; slow, measured. “Did you kiss me.”

(And he doesn’t really know, does he? One minute, they’d been laying in Satoru’s bed, and Satoru had been trying to tell a story but kept laughing in the middle, so hard that tiny, sparkling tears were forming in the corners of his eyes, and then he’d opened his eyes and grinned at Suguru and Suguru had kissed him.)

He can’t bring himself to answer, thoughts stalling and heart stuttering and—

And Satoru is kissing him.

It’s short, already over by the time he registers it’s happened, Satoru pulling back and looking at him with those piercing eyes. He doesn't look scared, like Suguru is sure he looked right after he'd kissed him in his bed; he looks almost accusatory, like he just initiated a fight instead of scrambling Suguru’s entire brain chemistry with his second kiss ever.

Suguru, for his part, is trying his best not to combust, because fuck, he’s known he was in love with Satoru for years, he knew before he was able to put the name to the feeling, hell, he probably knew before he even met him, maybe before he was even born, and now he’s kissed him twice in the span of an hour and Satoru is looking at him like he’s looking for a fight and he is so, so tired.

“Huh?” he squeaks, his voice honest to god cracks, it hasn’t done that since he was fifteen years old. Satoru raises an eyebrow.

“Now you know how it feels,” he says, and Suguru’s heart sinks to his knees.

“Um,” he says, then realizes his mind is blank. He blinks once, twice, shakes his head a little as heat starts to rise up his chest, his neck, his cheeks. His brain starts to come back online, racing thoughts turning sharp and painful, because of course, Satoru is trying to make a point. He feels sick.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, clenching and unclenching his fists to try soothing the staccato beating of his heart, “sorry, yeah, that was. Not great of me. I didn’t—I should’ve—I shouldn’t have done that.”

He shakes his head again, shrinking back against the door like he can put more distance between them, despite how close Satoru is and how he doesn’t seem to be planning on moving any time soon. His face is unreadable as Suguru babbles, trying to slap a bandaid on a slashed artery and somehow salvage this situation.

“Just, can we just, like, forget it? Just forget about it, okay? I don’t know, I’m tired, mission was rough and all that, I think I’m just a little woozy…I’m, I’m gonna go to bed now I think, get some rest, tomorrow I’ll be—”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Satoru’s lips are even softer the second (third!) time around, and the anxiety and regret is still sour in his stomach, but the shock is starting to wear off, and he really is so tired and also not entirely sure this is really happening, and if he can’t kiss Satoru in the middle of the night when he’s so exhausted that he might be hallucinating it, then when can he? His eyes flutter closed, and he softly, hesitantly kisses him back—just a slight touch, barely a press of his lips as Satoru’s mouth covers his. He can hear Satoru suck in a short breath through his nose in the second before he lessens the distance between them even more, tilting his head slightly, both of them grunting when their noses mash together for a second, uncomfortable, soothed in the next moment when Satoru pulls back barely enough to count before pressing his lips firmer to Suguru’s, better aligned, soft, so soft.

(Satoru is soft. He’s the strongest, and his smiles and eyes and words are always so sharp, cutting, he’s always so on edge even when he tries his best to hide it; but to Suguru, laying in the grass on the grounds, sharing an ice cream sundae after a mission, watching shitty movies until they fall asleep with their legs tangled; then, always, he is soft.)

It’s over too soon, and Suguru hears the quiet little noise of discontent that pulls itself from his throat when they part. Satoru’s eyes are bright, but his pupils are blown and it makes the blue seem hazier, almost, still just as sharp and strong but softer at the edges, like wispy clouds obscuring a painfully bright moon.

“I—”

“Shut up,” Satoru demands. Suguru shuts up.

“The first one,” he says, holding up a finger, “was to prove a point.”

Suguru keeps his mouth shut; nods. Satoru seems to search his face for a moment before his throat bobs as he swallows. Suguru can’t feel the tips of his fingers.

“The second was because I’ve been pretty much obsessed with you since we were fifteen.”

Suguru blinks, slow. Satoru tilts his head a little; his bangs fall over his brow, and his eyelashes flutter for a second to keep it from getting in his eyes.

“You have to tell me now,” he says plainly. “Why you kissed me. For real.”

Suguru swallows. His throat is thick and dry and sticky and sweet, like he’s just swallowed a bottle of honey.

(He wonders if Satoru would kiss him again if he did that, then promptly shoves that thought away in his brain because what the hell, answer him, he’s staring at you, say something that makes sense and isn’t stupid—)

“I think I’m in love with you,” he blurts, and okay, that’s not. That’s not exactly what he was going for, and he almost winces as something in him shrivels in embarrassment. Satoru stares, because of course he does, like he can do anything else with those giant, moonlight eyes.

“Okay,” he finally says, and Suguru is ready this time when he kisses him, tilting his head when he sees Satoru start to lean in so he catches his lips at a good angle. The happy little hum Satoru makes tells him it was the right thing to do, and that’s about the extent of the coherent thoughts he’s able to have.

(Satoru is soft, and he is sweet, and he is gentle and he holds Suguru like he is something precious. Suguru thinks he’s probably obsessed with him, too.)

Satoru sometimes feels too big for his body.

Or, more, his body feels too big for the rest of the world. When he was still growing into it, he was lanky, gangly, always feeling like he was about to run into something or knock something over. He got pretty good at controlling his limbs, and he’s started growing into himself better, putting on more solid muscle and maturing out of his ‘flailing’ phase.

But the feeling never really went away. It doesn’t help that he’s so freaking tall, not that that’s something he’s ever minded. It’s useful, and makes him more intimidating, if he does say so himself.

Though, sometimes, he wants to feel small. He wants his body to fit the way he feels inside, when he’s not being loud and obnoxious and demanding attention and respect. He wants his figure to mirror the way he curls up inside in the quiet darkness of the middle of the night, letting the solitude cover his cowardice as he brings his knees to his chest and stares at the wall. He’s a kid, he’s still a kid, why does he have to be an adult and look like an adult and take up the space of an adult when he feels so small inside?

Suguru is shorter than him; just barely. But he’s been growing up, too, getting wider and stronger and taking up more space in his own right. He’s at Satoru’s back now, strong arms wrapped around his middle, body curved around his with one leg tangling between Satoru’s. His breath is hot and slow on the back of Satoru’s neck, goosebumps breaking out where the heat dissipates despite the comfortable temperature of the room, and he’s holding Satoru close, cradling him in his arms like it’s nothing, like Satoru is precious and small and fragile and soft and gentle and all of the things he knows he never can be. The darkness helps, an extra blanket of privacy, allowing him to suspend his disbelief and let himself be held.

He’s been nervous, lately, clingy. Maybe it’s because they’re getting close to graduating, maybe it’s the latest string of solo missions that have been keeping him and Suguru apart, maybe he’s suddenly developing fucking allergies or something; whatever it is, something is making him feel all weird and itchy under his skin, in the back of his mind, making him restless and on edge.

He sighs and pushes his head harder into the pillow, like that’ll help him sleep. He’s not tired—Suguru might have been onto something when he scolded him for napping after class—but if he doesn’t get some sleep soon, he’s going to seriously regret it tomorrow.

“Hmm…”

Satoru perks up a little, craning his neck to look at Suguru. He’s awake, not by much but noticeable, and his eyelids flutter a little as Satoru watches, though he doesn’t seem able to fully drag them open.

“Hey,” Satoru murmurs, turning in his arms to face him. His hand finds the side of Suguru’s face; natural, now, despite the fact that they’ve only been dating for a few months.

(He remembers Suguru’s face, tacky and pale under his hand, the way he relaxed into Satoru’s touch, nuzzled into it like an affection-starved animal. He finds any excuse to touch Satoru now—Satoru is just as bad, obnoxiously clingy, which is the only reason why anyone could possibly think that Suguru is more reserved. Pinkies linked inconspicuously as they walk down the hall, a hand on Satoru’s back when he passes by him in the kitchen, feet tangled with Satoru’s when they sit across from each other in the library.)

“Why’re you awake?” he asks, running his thumb over the sensitive skin under Suguru’s eye; gentle.

(He has to be gentle, with Suguru. Not when they fight, not when they argue, but here, now, in Suguru’s tiny dorm bed with his thin blanket pulled over them both, in the darkness of half-past-who-knows, he has to be gentle for him.)

“You’re,” Suguru mumbles, and it takes Satoru a few seconds to understand what he’s saying. He flushes a little, grateful for the night to hide his embarrassment.

“What, you copying me now?” he jokes softly. Suguru gives a little huff through his nose that’s something like a laugh, but it makes Satoru smile nonetheless.

They stay like that for long enough that Satoru loses track of time, but not so long that he ever gets tired of the feeling of Suguru’s skin under his hands, the gentle puff of air against his wrist, the way he fidgets slightly with his feet under the blankets. He stays awake, though, despite being too tired to open his eyes, his cursed energy reflecting his wakefulness despite its slow, almost molasses-y movements.

(People’s cursed energies don’t normally move all that much. They flare in strong emotions, and sort of float in a way, like an aura around them that’s not quite physical, but still its own force. Suguru’s cursed energy is an Aurora Borealis, always shifting and curling around itself, constantly flowing like a pseudo-violet stream.)

“You should go back to sleep,” he says eventually, gently pinching his cheek. “Class tomorrow.”

Suguru mumbles something unintelligible, making Satoru smile a little, endeared. After a few moments, he drags his eyes open—just barely, just enough for his eyes to gleam in the darkness, swirling violet barely visible beyond his heavy eyelids.

And then he smiles, oh so soft and so gentle, and slowly raises a hand and places it softly, softly, on Satoru’s wrist where his hand still rest on his face.

“You first,” he murmurs, and oh, it’s like a wave of warmth and comfort washes over Satoru all at once, and before he really realizes he’s moving, he lowers himself to lay on Suguru’s chest. His arm immediately wraps around Satoru’s shoulders, pulling him closer, and he shifts his hand to rest it on his waist to stabilize him where he lies.

“No fair,” he mumbles, but Suguru only chuckles, chest rumbling under his cheek.

“Go to sleep,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Satoru’s head. “We’ve got class tomorrow.”

Satoru can’t even be mad about his words being turned around on him; not when Suguru is so warm under him and his arms are so firm, yet gentle, around him. His eyes are closed, he’s not quite sure when that happened, and even Six Eyes seem to be unfocused, flickering in and out until all he can see is the darkness behind his own eyelids.

It’s a cool night—not freezing, but cold enough that the little fingers clutching his own feel like ice. He has half a mind to stop and warm them, rub those tiny hands between his own and blow into his palms like his mom used to when he was really little. He doesn’t want to stop walking, though; he’s pretty sure if he does, he’ll turn right around and walk back to that cursed village.

(The look of terror on the villagers’ faces when he and Satoru escorted the two tiny, broken girls from their prison accompanied by the rainbow dragon and a clear aura of two equally broken teenage weapons’ bloodlust brought him some comfort, but not enough to fully satiate him. He still wants to see their blood spilled. But then he looks down at the dried reddish-brown smear on the thin, white face and he thinks, maybe, enough blood has been spilled in that village for a lifetime.)

A curse ambles along beside him, carrying the taller girl, the blonde one; a funny sort of thing, something like a furry, bear-sized tardigrade. Her sister was a little more perturbed by the curse than her, and so she’s instead being carried by Satoru, skinny little arms wrapped around his neck tight enough that Suguru’s sure he must be choking, at least a little. She glances over at them every few seconds, like she’s checking to make sure her sister is still there, but she’s visibly getting sleepier each time, eyes beginning to droop the further they trek into the forest.

(We’ll call an assistant supervisor on the way. Satoru hadn’t argued, hasn’t said much of anything since the village. Suguru suspects he’s not alone in wanting to get them as far away from that place as possible before calling for a ride, so walking it is.)

She does fall asleep eventually, Satoru effortlessly adjusting his hold to keep her from slipping. He glances down, seeing her sister in the same boat; she’s practically laying down on the back of the curse, the fingers not clutching Suguru’s hand curled in the soft brown fur, eyes barely open. He feels a bizarre urge to crack a smile; it’s cute, sure, but there’s something else.

(Despite everything, despite the horror they’ve been through, the fact that Satoru and Suguru are strangers who’ve come to take them away on the backs of monsters, the girls are dozing, comfortable enough to fall asleep around them. He’s never much felt like a force of good, even doing what he knows he’s supposed to do; now, he thinks they just might be, at least to the girls.)

“We should call for a ride when they both fall asleep,” he murmurs, trusting the child is sleepy enough to disregard his words meant for Satoru. “The little one’s already there, I think.”

“They’re twins.”

He blinks. Satoru doesn’t look at him; keeps staring straight ahead, eyes barely visible in the dark, just a flash of moonlight blue in the shadows of the forest.

“Huh?”

“They’re twins. Their cursed energy is almost identical.”

Suguru doesn’t know what to say to that. He glances down at the blonde girl, then back up to the one Satoru is carrying.

“Make sure to call Shoko once we’re in the car,” Satoru says, like he’s reading his mind. “We’ll let them sleep on the way.”

For a few long, quiet moments, he just stares at Satoru. His face is blank, and for a moment, he swears he can see a smear of blood across his cheek, dark stains marring his uniform in symmetrical patches on the front and back.

(We could kill them all. I don’t think I would feel anything.)

“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “They need the rest.”

The little girl’s hand falls away from his, arm dropping limply to the side; only then does he break his gaze, gently lifting it and placing her hand on top of the one resting on the curse, letting his own linger for a moment over them, hoping to thaw the fragile little icicles.

“Faster, Gojo-san!”

“I’m going as fast as I can, Nana,” Satoru says, and that’s sort of true: he’s going as fast as he can with one twin holding each hand. Even at the snail’s pace he feels like they’re moving at, Mimiko is still lagging a little behind, meaning his arms are stretched both behind and in front of him as she sleepily tries to keep up, and Nanako tries pulling them along faster.

“You’re gonna pull my arm out of my socket,” he says, but she doesn’t pay him mind. He doesn’t blame her, really; the twins have been anxiously awaiting Suguru’s return all week, and once they overheard their foster parents on the phone with Shoko that he was back and injured…well, trying to get them to go back to bed after that would’ve been practically impossible. Satoru would know: even though they’re technically in the care of a couple of windows that live on the college grounds, they spend more time with him and Suguru, and he’s tried to put them to bed enough times to understand the frazzled note in their foster mother’s voice when she called.

Their anxiety is rubbing off on him, he thinks, as he allows Nanako to drag him along while making sure Mimiko doesn’t trip over her nightgown. He feels weird under his skin, too tight and sort of itchy all over in his brain. He knows that Suguru is fine, he’s in good hands with Shoko, and he’s half of the strongest, so it’s not like he could be hurt that bad.

(Unless, his brain helpfully supplies, the mission was misreported and he wasn’t prepared. Unless there were non-sorcerers involved and he had to alter his fighting style to lessen collateral damage. Unless, unless, unless.)

He bites his tongue and walks a little faster.

He was right, though; obviously, he’s a genius and Suguru is strong. He’s sitting up on the exam bed while Shoko finishes up a line of stitches along the top of his brow, and he can’t turn his head but Satoru sees his cursed energy hone in on the three of them as they enter, see his eyes flick towards the door, trying to get a good look at them without turning, and it makes something feel warm and funny in his stomach.

“Geto-san!” Nanako cries, letting go of Satoru’s hand and launching towards him. Satoru catches her easily, holding her a foot above the ground and shaking his head.

“Hang on, now,” he says. “Ieri is still working.”

“I’m almost done,” Shoko says, tapping Suguru’s jaw to bring his attention back to her. “Just another stitch or two.”

Nanako looks like she’d rather explode than wait that long, but Satoru manages to get all three of them seated on a different exam bed and tucks the twins against his sides, keeping them still. He can feel both of them trembling slightly and tightens his hold on them, hoping to alleviate some of the nervous energy.

“It’s just a few scratches,” Suguru says, peeking one eye at them and giving a small smile. “It looks worse than it is.”

Bullshit, Satoru immediately thinks, but he bites his tongue. If Shoko is using physical medicine, it means her RCT has been completely depleted, which means that Suguru came in here a lot worse than he looks now. Six Eyes confirms it, but he can’t tell the extent of the damage.

He’s not so oblivious as to say that in front of a pair of anxious seven year olds, though, so he keeps quiet and holds them against his sides. It seems to calm them somewhat, but the second Shoko steps away to begin cleaning up, they’re rocketing off the table and rushing to his side. Satoru doesn’t mind, not really; they’ve always been more partial to him, which Suguru writes off as them feeling calmer around him with his more mellow demeanor, and Satoru blames on kids not knowing anything.

The Fushiguros are like that as well, though Megumi doesn’t particularly like Suguru, he just tolerates him more than he does Satoru. Which is fine, Satoru is totally fine with it and not salty at all.

(So what if he’s the one who tracked them down while Suguru was on a mission? So what if he spoils them rotten and takes every opportunity to insert himself into Megumi’s business in hopes that more exposure to him will make him come around? He’s fine, he’s totally normal about it all.)

“I’m okay,” he soothes again, holding the girls close. “See? Ieri-sensei patched me all up.”

“Is that gonna be there forever?” Nanako asks, reaching up to touch the new stitches standing red and slightly bloodstained above Suguru’s brow; Shoko gently catches her hand before she can, placing it back in her lap before starting to clean up the area.

“No,” he says, wincing a little at the sting, but keeping that same calm smile. “Ieri-sensei will take them out in a few days. I might have a bit of a scar, though.”

Mimiko’s head whips around to look at Satoru.

“Like Gojo-san?”

Suguru meets his eyes over the top of her head as a knot lodges itself in Satoru’s throat. A phantom pain flickers over his skin, burning hot and sharp for just a moment before fading back into the back of his mind.

“Well, sure,” he says, giving the girls a big grin. “Scars make you cool. Suguru’s got some catching up to do before he gets to my level, though.”

“Don’t go encouraging anything reckless,” Suguru scolds, but his eyes don’t leave Satoru’s, watching him intently enough that Satoru feels like squirming.

“You’re good to go,” Shoko says, tossing the bloodied cotton swab in the trash and stepping away from the exam bed. “You’re off for a few days, I’ll come by to check on you tomorrow at some point.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Suguru starts to say, but two small hands immediately cover his mouth, muffling the end of his sentence.

“You gotta do what Ieri-sensei says!” Nanako exclaims, while Mimiko nods sagely. “She’s the doctor, so you have to listen to her and get lots and lots of rest so you can play with us again!”

Suguru seems to soften in the way only the kids make him, and he nods solemnly behind her and Mimiko’s hands.

“Speaking of rest,” Shoko says, crossing her arms and giving the twins as firm of a look she can, “you two need to be getting back home. It’s way too late for you to be up.”

“Can’t we stay here?” Mimiko whines, fisting the hem of her nightgown and pouting up at her, then Suguru.

“Yeah,” Nanako says, but Suguru is already shaking his head.

“The Hanamuras will be worried,” he says firmly, tucking a lock of hair behind Mimiko’s ear even as she pouts harder.

Nanako peers around him to lock eyes with Satoru, and oh, okay, he knows where this is going.

“Please, Gojo-san?” she asks, folding her hands under her chin and giving him her best puppy-dog eyes. “We just want to make sure Geto-san is okay.”

“Yeah,” Mimiko echoes, mimicking her pose and expression so well it’s almost scary. “Please?”

All remaining eyes in the room turn to Satoru; Shoko looks amused, while Suguru is giving him that warning raised eyebrow that he knows all too well by now.

“It would be faster to have them sleep in the dorms,” he says eventually. “I can text Hanamura-san, tell her we’ll bring them over after breakfast.”

Even if Suguru wanted to argue, the twins’ ensuing cheers drown out anything he might have started to say. He gives Satoru an exasperated look, and he just grins and shrugs, a little sheepish, a little fond.

“This is a special circumstance,” Suguru decides, and the girls immediately cling to him again. He sighs, but even he can’t keep that small, content smile from his face.

They end up having to carry the girls back to the dorms; once the adrenaline from the evening fades, both of them are more akin to slugs than the insistent, nervous children from earlier. Satoru ends up with Nanako clinging sleepily to his back, while Suguru carries a sleeping Mimiko on his hip, despite the fact that she’s probably much too old to be carried like that anymore. Her arm is dangling by her side, fingers still clinging to the arm of her bear even in sleep, and Nanako keeps yawning in Satoru’s ear, skinny little arms draped loosely around his neck as they carry them through the halls.

“Yours or mine?” Suguru whispers as they near the dormitories. Satoru hums.

“Mine,” he decides. “It’s got the blackout curtains, and they’re going to need to sleep in after tonight.”

He can feel Suguru looking at him as he takes the lead, carefully pushing his door open and holding it for Suguru to carry Mimiko inside.

They tuck the girls in side-by-side, Suguru making sure to drape Mimiko’s arm over her stuffed animal as Satoru pulls the blankets up to their chins. Nanako’s eyes are barely open, and she mumbles something that he thinks might have been a goodnight before she, too, is out like a light.

Suguru releases a group of small, luminescent curses that resemble different kinds of fish, leaving them swimming around the air above the girls as a sort of night light. Satoru turns to leave, though he watches him with Six Eyes for a moment, seeing him gazing down at the girls, cursed energy gently pulsing and rolling like low tide at midnight.

They leave the door open a crack and retire to Suguru’s room next door, not bothering to turn on the light. Satoru flops down in bed and watches Suguru strip out of his dirty uniform, tossing it in the laundry hamper before blindly making his way over. He scoots against the wall, making as much space for him as he can as he climbs under the covers, not taking his eyes off of him as he settles with a long, tired sigh.

“How many hours of sleep do you think we’re gonna get?” he asks after a moment. Suguru snorts, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I read somewhere you can expect ‘three hours less than their age,’” he mumbles. Satoru chuckles, curling his long body around Suguru’s.

“Sounds about right. Probably why newborn parents are so tired.”

“Glad we missed that stage.”

Satoru pauses, but Suguru seems too tired to catch it, simply pulling the blankets up a little more and letting out a slow breath. He’s half asleep already, it seems, and it’s past two in the morning but Satoru is suddenly wide awake, unable to tear his eyes from his face.

It’s a strange thought, the one that’s surfaced; Suguru’s casual tone while implying something so serious. The girls have parents—foster parents, anyway—and the two of them have barely graduated. It’s ridiculous to even imply that they’d be their parents, that they could fill that role.

And yet.

And yet, the girls cling to Suguru’s arms and stand on his feet while he walks, giggling all the while. And yet, they’ve found themselves at their quiet home multiple nights now to help get them to sleep, the two of them refusing to go to bed without seeing Satoru and Suguru at least once during the day. They like being read to, whether in Suguru’s soft, level intonation, or with Satoru’s silly voices and improvised stories that make them giggle and chime in with their own embellishments. And yet, he gives all four kids piggy-back rides whenever they ask, and he braids the girls’ hair with plenty of practice on Suguru’s over the years, and Tsumiki asks for their help with homework and Megumi has fallen asleep on their couch watching TV multiple times, and Satoru has found that he can no longer imagine a life with just himself, or just him and Suguru; any plan or vision for the future always comes with four little pairs of feet plodding alongside their own.

He blinks, once, twice, and then pokes a finger into Suguru’s cheek.

“Hey. Suguru.”

Suguru grunts, but doesn’t open his eyes. Satoru waits a beat, two, three, before poking him again.

“Suuguuruu.”

“What,” Suguru mumbles, half into the pillow. Satoru hums, turning to lie on his back, folding his hands over his stomach.

“D’you wanna have a baby?”

A moment, two, three. Satoru yawns.

“What.”

“After we finish moving, obviously,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “That place I’ve got picked out, it has a guest bed. We could make it a baby room or something. I have the money.”

Suguru is staring; he can feel his eyes on the side of his face. After three long seconds, he sighs, long and tired.

“First of all,” he says, and oh, his voice is exasperated and vaguely annoyed but so, so fond underneath it. Satoru’s heart flutters a little.

“It’s biologically impossible,” he continues, oblivious to Satoru’s little gay moment he’s having on the other side of the mattress. “And even if you could get pregnant, you would absolutely not be able to deal with it. You’re already so moody and sensitive.”

Satoru opens his mouth to retort, but something catches him. He turns his head, squinting suspiciously at Suguru.

“You make it sound like you’ve thought about it.”

And Six Eyes doesn’t exactly catch his blush, but his cursed energy does a weird little spike and twist that shows his embarrassment, and he glares at Satoru in the way he does when he doesn’t have anything good to say.

Hm. They’ll definitely be revisiting this later.

“What’s with that all of a sudden?” he asks instead, nudging Satoru’s foot with his own. “Never really would’ve taken you as someone to want to settle down.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t settle,” Satoru scoffs. “Come on, the two of us? We’d make the strongest little killing machine in the entire world. I’d have my hands full with training it up.”

“Okay, first, don’t talk about it like it’s a dog,” Suguru scolds, though Satoru can hear the smile in his voice, and he can’t help but grin in return. “Second, don’t you think it would be better to, like…dote on them a little? Focus on raising them to be a good person, and letting them decide if they want to be a sorcerer or not.”

And this is all theoretical, and Suguru is wounded and they’re both exhausted past rational thought, but Satoru can still hear a hint of disquiet in his voice; something uneasy, something that’s faded from his tone these last few years but still rears its head occasionally. He softens a little, bumping his knee against Suguru’s.

“Well, duh,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world (because it is, really.) “That would be your job.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow.

“My job.”

“Yep,” Satoru says with a grin. “You’d be the doting housewife, and I’d be the working husband. You’d raise our kid to be smart and sensitive and whatever, and I’d raise them to be super strong and cool.”

Suguru sighs through his nose; it tickles Satoru’s face, and he fights back the urge to sneeze.

“I don’t think you’re mature enough to have a baby.”

“Hey!”

Satoru’s indignant protest is cut off when Suguru cups his face, running a thumb along the swell of his cheek. His eyes have softened, and he surely can’t see Satoru in the darkness, but Satoru watches as his lips slowly curve into a small, secret smile.

“Besides,” he says quietly, sliding his hand around to scratch his fingers lightly through Satoru’s undercut, “we already have our hands full with four.”

It’s an acknowledgement and a confirmation and a love confession all in one, and Satoru melts into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. He feels like he could start purring, but he just buries his face in Suguru’s chest and wraps an arm around his waist.

Satoru is a light sleeper, so it’s no surprise to hear him shuffling into the laundry room at four in the morning, just as Suguru is starting the dryer. He doesn’t speak, just wraps his arms around Suguru’s waist and presses his lips to his shoulderblade, watching as he finishes setting the time and starting the cycle.

“Sorry,” he whispers, despite the fact that the kids are at the other side of the house, and the dryer is much louder than his voice this early. “Did I wake you?”

“Mm. It’s fine. Everything okay?”

“He sweat through his sheets,” Suguru sighs, leaning back in Satoru’s hold. “And his pyjamas. I had to change his sheets anyways, so I figured I’d toss them in the wash.”

Satoru hums, rocking them slightly back and forth.

“He’ll probably be up again soon, anyways.”

Suguru sighs.

“I gave him some more fever medication,” he says, resting a hand over Satoru’s where they’re clasped over his middle. “He’s not coughing as much as he was earlier, but he says his chest and head are hurting again and his fever hasn’t gone down.”

Satoru kisses his shoulder again.

“Do you think he needs to see Shoko?”

“No,” Suguru sighs again, “I know it’s just a regular cold. Maybe if the fever doesn’t go down soon. I’m just trying to make him as comfortable as possible so he can get the rest he needs.”

They stand in silence for a while, swaying gently in the middle of the room and watching the dryer spin. Satoru presses his lips to Suguru’s shoulder again, then the crook of his neck, then his ear over his gauge. Suguru hums, running his thumb back and forth over the back of Satoru’s hand, feeling his eyelids begin to droop.

As though reading his mind, Satoru speaks up.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs in his ear, rubbing his chin along the line of Suguru’s neck. “The laundry will be fine in the dryer.”

“I want to stay up a bit longer in case Megumi needs anything again,” he replies softly, idly dragging the back of his nail over Satoru’s wrist. “I doubt he’s going to fall asleep until the Tylonel works.”

“I’ll wait up, then,” Satoru says. “You’ve been caring for him all weekend. You’re going to get sick yourself if you’re not careful.”

“You have a mission tomorrow,” Suguru protests, turning a little in his hold to look up at him. “You need to sleep.”

“Please,” Satoru snorts, “it’s a grade one. I can take it asleep with my hands tied behind my back.”

Suguru rolls his eyes, turning around the rest of the way and draping his arms over Satoru’s shoulders, clasping his hands behind his neck.

“You shouldn’t be so flippant,” he scolds him, not for the first time. “One of these days, you might need to be on your guard. You can’t goof around forever, especially with modern curses trending upwards in strength.”

Satoru’s eyes soften a little, and he cups Suguru’s cheek, running his thumb under his eye gently, so painfully gently.

“I know you worry,” he murmurs, voice soft and just as gentle, just as calming as his touch. “I would never do anything to put me in genuine danger.”

He leans a little closer, so their noses brush; Suguru’s eyes flutter closed, lightly scraping his nails into Satoru’s undercut.

“I have too much to live for,” he continues quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

(I’m probably gonna die young, Satoru had said to him once, a few months after they’d become friends. It had been out of pocket, a strange thing to hear at eleven A.M. on a Wednesday, and Suguru had stared at him blankly.

What?

Well, it’s either that or I’ll live forever, Satoru had said, as easily as describing his weekend plans, and, you know. Law of probability and everything.

Sorcerers don’t always die young, Suguru remembers telling him, and god, that was so long ago now, was there ever a time he actually believed that? Loads of the higher ups and clan heads are super old, aren’t they?

Good sorcerers die young, Satoru had replied plainly. The ones they send to get the real bad guys. The ones who’ll throw everything away to fight to the last breath without regrets.

You think you won’t have any regrets, if you die at fifteen? He was being sarcastic, disbelieving, ready to call Satoru out on his bluff. He hadn’t known him as well back then.

I don’t have anything to regret, Satoru had simply replied. It’s how I was raised. I don’t have anything to leave behind.)

Suguru is good with words, good at verbalising his thoughts and matching what he’s given, but there are no real words for the way something inside of him lights up at Satoru’s words; like his curses are all purring at once, making his insides warm and tingly and causing the thready-floaty feeling of exhaustion from caring for Megumi dissolve into something honey-gold and sweet. He kisses him instead, softly, barely a brush of lips, then one more for good measure as Satoru’s lips curve up just slightly against his own.

They end up on the couch, neither of them willing to admit defeat. The lights are off, the only illumination being the flickering light of the TV as it plays some magical girl anime Satoru put on. Suguru is watching through half-lidded eyes, not really following the flashing colours and rapid movements on screen, more focused on Satoru’s hand slowly running through his hair, his arm around his shoulders and broad chest pillowing his head. He seems thoroughly engrossed in the show, and every so often his chest will rumble with a chuckle at the antics playing out on the screen, making Suguru’s cheek tingle a little.

He tries to stay awake, he really does; but Satoru is warm against him, and the weight of his arm is steady and comforting around him, and the movements of his fingers are so consistent and repetitive that he distantly wonders if he’s being hypnotized, somehow. Still, he tries to keep his eyes open, despite the burn that starts to itch at them the harder his body tries to pull him into sleep.

“Geto?”

Megumi’s thin, stuffed-up voice calling from down the hall drags him back awake, if only a little, and he grunts and tries to push himself to sit up. Satoru stops him, brushing his fingers against the back of his neck.

“I’ll take care of it,” he whispers, lips brushing Suguru’s temple. “Tell me what I missed when I get back.”

He wants to protest, but Satoru is already standing, and he finds it’s a lot easier to just do as he’s told, letting the momentum pull him to lie down, head landing on one of the throw pillows near the arm of the couch. He blearily watches the screen as Satoru’s footsteps recede down the hall, the characters reduced to blurry blobs of colour and sparkles through his lashes, eyes barely open as he waits for his husband to return.

(He wakes up late the next morning with a blanket carefully draped over him, a sticky note stuck to his forehead, and an uncomfortably stuffed nose. Satoru isn’t set to be back for a few days, but Tsumiki makes him tea and the twins take his temperature and Megumi sits on the couch with him, both of them wrapped in fluffy blankets and restricted to watching TV—doctor’s orders, Tsumiki says firmly, the twins nodding sagely beside her from a safe distance away.

He doesn’t mind, not really, and rewatches the episode from last night while Megumi dozes against his side.)

And the world of sorcery is wrought with pain and loss.

And the cover of night offers no real comfort other than a false sense of timelessness.

And life marches on regardless of the fears and secrets whispered into precious darkness, of promises made under the moonlight and between freshly watched sheets, uncaring and unloving.

But Satoru has never been bound by history or precedent.

And Suguru holds more love within him than he or the curses he consumes can hide from the cruelty of the outside world.

And there are people who love them, who depend on them, and as the nights and the days tick on uncaring, the spaces between are filled with laughter and love and more pure, unfiltered life than all of the curses in the world can take from them.

And there are miles to go before they sleep.

The first few thoughts after waking are always hazy for Satoru. One moment, everything is dark; then slowly, quietly, awareness of the world around him creeps in. From faint grasping at the coattails of his dreams, to the inky darkness behind his eyes fading to lavender twilight, to the feeling of soft sheets and softer skin protecting him from the late autumn chill beyond the sanctuary of bedclothes. The feeling returns to his body slowly, fingers twitching and a rough noise rumbling in the back of his throat as he turns over, seeking out the warmth and weight of the body behind him.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Suguru’s voice rumbles, and a smile slowly pulls at Satoru’s lips at the amusement in his tone. “About time.”

“Hmngh,” Satoru replies intelligently, and Suguru laughs; soft, gentle in the morning, the sound wrapping around Satoru better than any blanket.

“I don’t know why you call me complaining about bad sleep on missions,” Suguru hums, brushing a lock of hair behind Satoru’s ear and letting his hand linger against his cheek. “It’s impossible to wake you up sometimes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Satoru says, though the yawn breaking up his sentence might take a bit of the credence out of it. He sees Suguru roll his eyes and simply grins, allowing himself the luxury of watching him with Six Eyes for a few moments longer.

However, there’s only so much the most lauded sight in the jujutsu world can capture, and Suguru bathed in early morning light is not one of them, so he finally opens his eyes to take in the sight.

Suguru is beautiful, truly; more than any sight Satoru could see from above the world, than any gorgeous vista he’s witnessed abroad on missions, any piece of art or perfectly framed photograph. The windows in their bedroom are tall, and the blackout curtains are open, letting the warm morning light in, and it spills over Suguru’s form where he lays propped up on an elbow, smiling down at Satoru. His chest is bare and his hair is flowing over his shoulders, pools of ink trickling over golden skin, looking so very soft and pullable, if Satoru says so himself. His eyes are crinkled with his smile, the fond little look that Satoru will never get tired of; it’s a look reserved for him and him alone, slightly teasing, like he knows that Satoru’s mind is always a stray glance away from tipping over into dirty thoughts, but so, so soft. Everything about him is soft, especially like this, the morning light rounding his edges and smoothing his skin and showing a side of him that Satoru is so lucky to have to his very own, the ring on his finger an unnecessary but welcome visual reminder of the fact.

And his eyes…god, his eyes. Satoru could stare into them forever, could lose himself in the swirling violet, could become hypnotised at a glance. It’s cosmically unfair how his eyes are so highly revered—rightfully so, to be fair—when Suguru’s are overlooked; like comparing the meeting of sky and sea to the crashing of galaxies, black holes collapsing in on themselves and exploding outwards infinitely.

“How much longer do you think we have?” he asks, and Suguru’s lips quirk up in amusement.

“Maybe an hour,” he muses, running his fingers down to hold Satoru’s chin, tilting it up slightly, baring his neck to him. “I think—”

An echoing bark from somewhere else in the house cuts him off, followed by a shout, a clatter, and two identical screams. Suguru’s eyes turn tired as angry yelling begins to echo throughout the house, and Satoru groans and throws his arms across his eyes.

“It’s the first day of school,” Suguru sighs. “I suppose a bit of excitement is unavoidable.”

“Don’t you think we have, like, ten minutes?” Satoru tries, peeking up at him hopefully. “I can do ten minutes.”

“That’s not as much of a bragging point as you think,” Suguru says, amused. Satoru grins, reaching out to hook his fingers over the waistband of his husband’s pyjama pants.

“Right now it is,” he says with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Surely we have ten minutes. And then—”

“With this treasure—”

He heaves a sigh. Or not.

Suguru is already half out of bed, throwing the blankets off of himself and lunging towards the door.

“Fushiguro Megumi, don’t you dare!”

“Megumi, get your stupid slobbery hound out of my closet!”

“Stop chasing—Nanako, that isn’t helping—”

“Why’s everyone yelling…”

Satoru sighs heavily, staring mournfully at the open bedroom door as he listens to Suguru attempt to calm the situation, voice fading down the hall into the din of angry teenagers. The pout doesn’t stay on his face for long, though, as he listens to his husband’s calm voice quiet the ruckus, then some mumbled maybe-apologies, and soon, the shouting is replaced by the typical sounds of morning in their house, dishes clattering from the kitchen and calmer, more civil conversation. He grins up at the ceiling, listening for a few moments, letting the ambience set the tone for the day.

Finally, he resigns himself to the fact that he has to actually start his morning, so he sits up, stretches, and follows the sound of cooking and smell of breakfast, ready to tackle whatever may come.