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Suguru freezes in place, groaning heavily. “No.”
“Getou Suguru.”
Gojo Satoru. They’ve crossed paths once before. Suguru hates how memorable he finds the other man. He knew it was him before he could see him. He turns to look regardless.
Gojo sits high in a tree, comfortably nestled in the branches of a great oak growing just off the side of the dirt road that brings Suguru home. He glows in the noontime sun, his signature black blindfold hiding eyes Suguru knows to be distractingly blue. Suguru doesn’t have the words to explain how much he resents having to crane his neck backwards just to see the smirking prick in all his considerable glory. Briefly, he considers using his Power to knock him off the branch.
Before he can be so petty, Gojo jumps down, landing lightly on his feet. With his hands stuffed into his pockets, he casually suggests, “Ready to pay the piper?”
There’s no point in running. Gojo can teleport. There’s no point in fighting. Gojo’s got a nearly impenetrable invisible barrier encasing his person, yes, but really there’s no point because that’s not who Suguru is anymore.
“I’m retired, man,” he sighs, gesturing at the sleepy rural land surrounding them. “Leave me alone.”
Gojo stops. “You’re what?”
“Retired.” Smiling with closed lips, he uses his Customer Service voice to condescend, “Should I spell it for you?”
“Seriously?” Gojo squints, obvious by the furrow in his brow, and his confusion makes him look more like a puppy than a government dog. It’s an improvement, Suguru thinks. “What do you mean you—is that allowed?”
“Allowed? It’s not something I needed permission for.” Generously, Suguru blames the Sorcery Council itself for their strongest player being a bit absent up top. “Yeah, I’ll admit I lost it for a sec a while back, but I’ve been inactive for nearly a decade now. That’s retirement by, like,” he waves his hand, “common law or something.”
Gojo crosses his arms, studying him carefully. “No,” he decides. “That would be wasting my time.”
Suguru doesn’t have a reputation of being wasteful, and he won’t accept one now. “Take that up with your bosses, Fido.”
“Fuck off,” he dismisses. “No, if your story’s true—”
“I’m not one to lie.”
“—then they wouldn’t have sent me after you.” Suguru stills. Gojo doesn’t notice, his face screwed up in sneer as he complains, “Do you know how many meetings they for—”
“Wait. You’ve been actively hunting me down?” The government is one thing, Suguru can understand the Sorcery Council wanting to make an example of him, but Gojo Satoru? He’s another thing altogether. The Suguru of today is hardly worth such effort. “All these years? Why?”
“I was only allowed back on your case last week,” he corrects immediately. Suguru rolls his eyes. God forbid his competence be called into question. Gojo Satoru shits gold, of course. “This is my first day in the field—”
“Yeah, don’t care,” he interrupts. “Brag on your own time.”
“This is my time,” he pouts.
What, no rec time for government weapons? Shocker. Suguru has bigger things to focus on. “Why are you hunting me down? I’m hardly worth the effort to deploy you.”
“Very few are,” Gojo allows, “and you top that list. You’re a major threat to public safety.”
Huh. What a surprising affirmation. Suguru thought he was considered washed up by now. “Am I?”
Gojo’s lip curls, incredulous. “You blew up a town, leaving over a hundred people dead—”
“I destroyed a lab in a town that was attempting, unsuccessfully, to produce high end Counterfeits.”
“I was there,” he scoffs. “I’m reminding you of the optics, Getou.”
Fair enough. Suguru shrugs. “Most of the bodies were on their hands.”
“Most,” Gojo returns, a brow raised.
“You were there,” he nods. He taps his face, right next to his eye. “And you took my advice.”
“So what if I did?” Gojo grumbles, “It was good advice.”
Suguru grins. “After I gave you that life-saving advice—”
“Life-saving,” he spits.
“—then, yeah, I did make a few credible threats to destabilize the government, but did they or did they not start cleaning house in response? Consider my work done.” He puffs up his chest, a facetious smirk carefully in place. “Honestly, I should’ve been rewarded for my efforts.”
Revolution is long, slow work. It turned out Suguru didn’t have the stamina to mount and sustain one on his own.
Washed up indeed, he huffs to himself.
Gojo doesn’t dispute his claim, but he doesn’t back down either. “You can’t expect me to believe you've abandoned your goals completely. What are you getting at?”
“Retirement, weren’t you listening?” Suguru is abruptly exhausted. “The government and I gave up on each other ages ago.”
“Bullshit,” he bites out, just as quick. “Be real with me, Getou.”
“Gojo, I literally live here. I walk around undisguised, no alias. What the hell else could I mean?”
“But that’s not what—”
“Oh, because the government would never lie to you.”
“I’d put money on you first.”
“You cannot be that sheltered,” Suguru decides. He might not think Gojo is the brightest bulb, but he’s not an idiot. “You can’t. Have you ever even spoken to a real person? Or just other Council dogs?”
“You talk a lot,” Gojo snaps. Looks like Suguru struck a nerve. “Dog this, dog that. Shut up. You’re under arrest, Getou.”
Suguru calls his Power up to his hands, conjuring up all his favorites. It’s a special kind of rush, using his Power like this—to fight, to struggle, to win. He sees the same energy about Gojo and it’s obvious. It’s so clear.
Suguru grins. He can’t help it, it’s been a while. A dragon curves protectively around him. Gojo’s fingers glow purple. “Do your worst.”
//
Satoru doesn’t know what went wrong.
They fight. Of course they fight. Getou isn’t just going to let himself be arrested.
Getou’s Power is amazing. It’s limitless—truly limitless, not just Limitless in the way the Council tries to categorize Satoru’s own. Getou’s Power is to create. Tangible specters and objects; if he can think it, he can make it. As long as he’s conscious, Getou can control whatever he can conjure. It makes him very interesting to fight.
Right. It was supposed to be fun. And it was, but Satoru still had a job to do.
The Sorcery Council let him out today to capture Getou. They gave Satoru specialized handcuffs—brand new tech, fresh out the labs—just for Getou. So Satoru, once he saw a window he felt like chancing, slapped that fancy new jewelry on Getou.
One side obediently latches securely onto Getou’s left wrist. The other automatically snaps around Satoru’s right.
The world goes quiet and dark very suddenly.
Blinded, Satoru yanks off his blindfold, betrayed and startled.
“Oh, you fuckin’ bastard. Power canceling cuffs? When did they get so advanced?”
The sun is too much. Abrupt. Unfiltered. Overwhelming. Getou’s whining is inconsequential background noise. Satoru blinks hard at their offensively conjoined limbs. Something squirms uncomfortably in his chest at the sight, a restriction binding him in place. He needs to get his breathing under control.
“Who knew I was so damn special. Bougie ass—”
Fuck that. Satoru doesn’t need cuffs to bring Getou in. The Council will be pissed he’s destroyed their newest toy, but too bad. He doesn’t like it. Satoru raises his other hand to destroy the stupid thing.
Nothing happens.
Nothing happens. “Why can’t I use my—”
“Wearing Power canceling handcuffs,” Getou growls, “means you cannot use your Power.”
“Power canceling?” Satoru echoes dumbly. “What the fuck?”
“It’s the literal name, genius,” Getou groans, entirely unsympathetic. “I don’t remember giving you a concussion, so have you always been this slow?”
“But I didn’t get my Power,” he explains, “it’s in my DNA!”
“Yeah, well,” he dryly intones, moving rapidly through his many hand signs. Nothing happens. “Join the club. What? This your first time hearing you’re not as special as you think you are?”
“Dick,” he seethes. He wishes he’d managed to make the bastard bleed as they fought.
“Sure,” Getou agrees easily, waving their bound hands. “Fact remains that we’re both without Power, courtesy of this ugly bracelet.”
As if he needs a reminder. The feeling of Getou’s skin against his own is devastating. Absent brushes of their skin set Satoru’s nerves alight, no protective layer between himself and the rest of the world. It’s not the first time, nor is it the worst, but it’s been twenty years since Satoru couldn’t control every aspect of when and how he is touched. He wants to turn it off, his senses flooded with so much stimuli—who knew his impenetrable defense would turn into such a weakness?
Satoru clenches his teeth. No. Not a weakness. A temporary setback. He squashes any tremble that thinks it will work its way through his extremities. He’ll get out of this.
“Chop, chop,” Getou claps his hands, jerking Satoru out of his head. “Time to file the paperwork.”
“Quitter,” he scolds, though he knows Getou’s smiley calm is an act. “You should be trying harder to get free, Getou.”
Irritation flares strongly in his eyes. “I don’t need your counsel, Gojo.”
So he plans to escape once Satoru takes his eyes off of him. In transit, probably. As soon as he can get some hapless idiot agent between Satoru and himself.
Which is all well and good, Satoru supposes, except for the part where he is without Power back at HQ. Getou can escape as much as he’d like—Satoru enjoys fighting with him, and it gives him reason to leave the compound. But Satoru cannot and will not return with such a glaringly obvious weakness. He will not be exploited.
“We can’t go back like this.” Satoru turns on his heel and marches toward Getou’s house.
“We? Why are you taking me to my house? I don’t want you in my house.”
“Tough shit.” Satoru’s overdue for a snack and Getou’s living quarters are within spitting distance; the stingy bastard should have more than enough sustenance to share. “How do we lose these?”
“If I get out of these cuffs, I’m gone.” His voice deeper than usual, Getou promises, “And you won’t catch me twice.”
“Burn that bridge when we get to it, Getou!” Such a drama king. Satoru dumbs down the dilemma. “Cuffs. Off. Now. How?”
“I. Don’t. Know,” he spits back in an irritating staccato. He crooks his finger in Satoru’s face and commits to being wholly unhelpful. “This is your damn tech—”
Tch. Satoru ignores him. No sense in wasting what little time they have.
There’s a small duffle bag by the door. Looks like it’s for the gym, so Satoru sniffs it judgmentally. Luckily, it doesn’t stink and it’s decently roomy. Actually, it’s pretty ideal. He dumps the clothes and miscellaneous gear, ignoring Getou’s nagging. Raiding the pantry and cabinets reveals some plastic water bottles to stuff the duffle with, but there’s not a single thing in Getou’s kitchen fit to eat. Satoru would be mildly amused by this level of incompetence on an ordinary day.
Today is no ordinary day.
Cutting off Getou’s rambling complaints about the mess he’s making, he snaps, “What do you eat in this place? Why’s there no food?”
“Do they call you Six Eyes because you’re blind without your Power?” Getou waves his hand over Satoru’s face to see if his eyes follow the movement. “You’re looking at all my food now!”
Satoru looks again and, to his total lack of surprise, exactly zero Pochi Power Bars have magically manifested before him. All Getou has is food that actors use in movies, not anything Satoru can eat—hell, he’d even take the nasty, off-brand orbs at this point, but Getou doesn’t even have those! There’s nothing edible in this whole house.
“Is that seriously how you wanna play this?” Satoru demands. “Your bullheadedness isn’t helping either of us! C’mon, man, I’m starving here!”
Getou cries out in wordless frustration, shoving something wrapped in brightly colored plastic into Satoru’s hands. It looks like a cartoonish rendering of a turtle. Cute, for sure, but Satoru doubts it’s edible. He’s never seen a meal bar that looks like this.
He pinches the corner of the package between his fingers, scowling, “What the hell and fuck is this?”
“What the hell and fuck does it look like? It’s food.”
Food? It looks toxic. A pastel green and golden brown—not the safe wet dirt look of everything else Satoru has ever eaten in his life. The label says it’s some kind of bread. Melonpan. He squints between the alleged food and Getou; without the warning system baked into his Power, Satoru has to assess the threat level manually, using his gut.
Unfortunately, his gut is curled in knots of starvation and does not care if this turtle bread kills him so long as it fills his stomach in the meantime.
Before he can think better of it, he tears open the plastic. The smell is enticing when he pulls the bread out; he tentatively presses the tip of his tongue to it and is immediately hit with a rush of sweetness that blows his eyes wide.
“Oh,” his brow clears of suspicion. “This is good. Got any more?”
Lifelessly, Getou points. Satoru dutifully loads up everything he can reach, all the stuff from TV he’s dreamt of tasting, shoving it freely into the bag. This melonpan thing not only tastes good, but it already feels much more efficient than Satoru’s usual food—he usually has to eat six Pochi Power Bars, or eight nasty orbs, per mealtime to ingest the necessary sugar for his Power. He’s kind of excited to see what the rest of this stuff will do.
Assuming it doesn’t kill him, of course. Missing one day of meal bars can’t be that bad, right? He stuffs his mouth with his melonpan, delighted to find it’s filled with an even sweeter cream. Yeah, he’ll worry about it later.
Impatient, Getou demands, “Aren’t you supposed to be taking me in? You look like a kid planning a sleepover.”
“Can’t go back ‘til we lose the cuffs,” Satoru repeats for the umpteenth time, licking cream off his finger. “Which reminds me. Getou. You’re supposed to be intelligent enough to rival me. How do we—”
He explodes, “We, we, we. There is no we, Gojo! You locked us in together. The cuffs are yours,” he jabs a finger into Satoru’s chest. “You used them, so you oughta know how to disarm them. Take some responsibility!”
“I’m brainstorming, too,” he defends, “so can the attitude.” Satoru zips the duffle closed to secure the movie food, informing Getou, “We’re running out of time. They gotta have at least one tracker wired into this shit,” he shakes the cuffs disdainfully. “And my ha—”
The kitchen windowpane shatters, followed swiftly by the unmistakable sound of more gunshots.
//
Sprawled in the ruins of his once beautiful kitchen, Suguru is not okay.
A busted water pipe soaking one of his shoes. Scorch marks on his table. His vase of fake flowers shattered, plastic and polyester smoldering. Drywall and safety glass decorate his clothes. Craters in his walls and shadows on his floor made by four unconscious bodies. Blood coats the inside of his mouth, his knuckles are split in two places, and his wrist aches something fierce from chafing against that stupid handcuff. Speaking of—
Laid out beside him, Gojo groans, “You good, man?”
“What the fuck.”
“Oh, good,” he sighs, dragging himself up into a seated position. Looks like his ribs are bruised. “I’d hate to have to lug around your dead body. On my conscience, I mean, because I would cut—”
“Gojo.” Maybe he didn’t hear him. Suguru repeats, “What the fuck?”
“What? It’s distasteful, but don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same. Where’s my movie—oh, yay, the bag is safe! How lucky,” he sings with absolutely zero awareness. Suguru wants to strangle him.
Instead, he sits upright, flexing his ankle. It’s a light sprain; the pain helps him focus. “That was the Sorcery Council, wasn’t it?”
He scoffs, “Who else would it be? We need to get out of these damn cuffs, Getou.”
“Hey, Gojo,” he prompts, remarkably calm. Cordial, even. “Why does the government want to kill you?”
“Ha,” he smiles, all teeth. “That’s a boring question.”
The government agent does not elaborate. Suguru’s eye begins to twitch. “Answer it anyways.”
“I mean,” he shrugs. “I told you so, didn’t I?”
He should have let one of those other agents shoot him. “Gojo.”
“Satoru,” he offers magnanimously. “We’ve survived an assassination attempt together now, Suguru! That makes us closer than friends.”
“Goj—”
“Satoru.”
“Go—”
“Sato—”
“Gojo Satoru,” he warns, his hand over the other’s throat. “I’ll kill you myself.”
He doesn’t bother to move his hand. He laughs, “And save the Council the work? Doubt it.”
Suguru takes a deep breath, intending to count himself down, but it all rushes out of him in a tirade he can’t stop instead. “You think being funny hides how scared you are, but—”
“Scared? Me?” Gojo reels back in offense. “Please. You’re projecting.”
“I’m no coward. I have no problem admitting that this,” he gestures vaguely at the general bullshit they now find themselves in, “is a shitshow. Yes, it’s frightening. Your refusal to admit that is—”
“Holy hell,” Satoru groans loudly, drowning him out. “Would you prefer I have a meltdown right now, Suguru? Is that better for you?”
“It’s a better reflection of a human reaction to inhumane conditions,” he fires back tersely.
This gives Gojo pause. He frowns, “Am I human?”
Suguru blinks. What the fuck? “At the very least you should’ve been programmed to act like one.”
“Okay,” he hums after a beat. He holds up his index finger. “One minute. The Sorcery Council, in their infinite wisdom, is trying to kill me. Me, their best asset. You,” he points, “the red herring they sent me after will be collateral damage. A mission to catch a man they apparently couldn’t care less about. Or—I guess it’s more likely that they weren’t ready to take you on directly. Until now,” he snorts. “They needed better tech and an idiot, and here we are. I suppose it’s a two birds, one stone sort of situation,” he muses placidly. “Good for them. I genuinely applaud the insight to plan such a risky doublecross. Honestly, I didn’t think they were ballsy or intelligent enough to attempt it, let alone pull it off. And to try it on me? Loyal probably isn’t the right word, but was I ever such a threat? I’ve only dedicated my entire life to their bullshit, so who cares, right? Me, apparently,” he derides, “because I’m the idiot. I’m not their biggest fan and they aren’t mine, but did they really have to lie to me? Oh well,” he shrugs, the closing line of his soliloquy. “That’s time.” No doubt that it’s been a minute exactly, the psycho likely keeping precise count in his head. He wrinkles his nose, “I didn’t really like that, don’t think I’ll ever do it again.”
“That’s fine,” Suguru pats his shoulder, “whatever. Now stop being consumed by the darkness and deal with the situation at hand. Literally,” he nods at their conjoined wrists. “So the Council lied to you, so what? They’re the government. Fork in the kitchen, who gives a shit, why are they trying to kill you?”
Gojo focused on the wrong parts, not quite answering Suguru’s real question. Everyone lies. Very few people actually consider premeditated murder a genuine solution to interpersonal conflict, and those that do ought to have a damn good reason for it.
And like, he gets it, in theory. Suguru has only spent an hour with Gojo and already knows how annoying he is, already he has wanted multiple times to put his fist through the menace’s perfectly straight teeth. But that’s all a far cry from wanting the guy—fuck it, the national treasure dead.
“Sounds to me like you’re the one being consumed by the darkness,” Gojo grumbles, brushing Suguru off. “Why do they wanna kill me? Obviously because, for once, they think they’ll succeed.”
That’s the other thing. Gojo is way too accepting of the fact that the Council wants his head on a stick. It’s giving Suguru whiplash, seeing how he was just spiraling with the realization that the agency has been lying to him about it, so he forgives himself for being put off his game by the obvious dissonance.
This is a courtesy that Gojo does not extend. He scowls, “You know, it’s a good thing you’re so attractive because I feel sincerely misled about your intelligence.”
“Fuck you,” he glares. “You know who you are.”
“And you know who they are.”
Suguru didn’t want to believe it. He wants to be retired. No one needs his revolution.
“If I was an evil government agency, I would find a way to control you entirely. Whatever it took. If I was ever to kill you, it would be slow. Whittling you down to a shell of yourself, a mindless gun to point as the State wishes. This,” he looks at their attackers, “is… ill-advised, if I’m being kind.”
Gojo snorts, “And if you’re honest?”
He has no words for it, not really, just that, “It’s fuckin’ stupid. Beyond that, actually. Your bosses are delusional.”
“Ding, ding, ding! So you see why I was so surprised that they got this far,” Gojo laughs, wiping away the blood from under his nose.
There aren’t many of them. Sorcerers are the product of a rare mutation resistant to treatment or imitation, something miswired in their brains that unlocks supernatural abilities. They make up less than a hundredth of a percent of the world and maybe only a third of them actually have Power worth bragging about, their abilities varying wildly by type and strength.
Gojo Satoru is the strongest. He’s the very best of them all, and he’s been the spearhead of the Sorcery Council’s special forces for the last fifteen years, ever since his official debut. Their precious little child soldier, all grown up now.
If the government is willing to do in their most prized fighter, Gojo must have seriously fucked up. Or, more likely, the Council is merely a sentient cesspool of rot in expensive bureaucratic tape. Suguru had his suspicions before, but this just about confirms it.
He gets up off his ass, standing on two feet. “What are we gonna do about it now?”
“We?” Blue eyes sparkle in delight, the cat that got the cream now that Suguru has sunk to his level.
“Yeah.” With a sigh, he doubles down, “We, Satoru.”
The smile that stretches across Satoru’s face then is pure trouble. “Now, Suguru,” he purrs, “we relieve them of their delusions.”
//
The Council only sent four agents after them. Four. After Gojo Satoru and Getou Suguru.
A quick round of first aid later, Satoru is still deeply offended.
Sure, these amateurs might have gotten lucky enough to draw a little blood, but was the Council so confident that this cannon fodder could best them? Four agents for the two strongest Sorcerers currently known to man. Four agents with training so pisspoor that their ammo reserves are down to near nothing with nothing to show for their lackluster effort. Embarrassing.
Satoru and Suguru strip them of everything, of course. Desperate times and all. Usually, Satoru wouldn’t bother with anything so primitive, but he won’t pretend not to be darkly amused by the thought of using government weapons against the government. It’s the theme of the day, after all.
Leaving the idiot agents bound in rope in the front yard, Suguru limps back inside, dragging Satoru in his wake before he can draw penises on their faces. Then the spoilsport one-ups himself by wordlessly stuffing his entire first aid kit into Satoru’s movie food bag, taking up precious real estate.
He ignores Satoru’s complaints, zipping the duffle closed and holding it hostage, but he also makes a handful of sandwiches from scratch, just like in Lilo & Stitch, to eat on the road, so Satoru supposes Suguru isn’t entirely irredeemable.
Suguru shoves a spoonful of peanut butter in Satoru’s mouth, checks him for an allergic reaction, then staunchly refuses all of his input on the flavors of sandwiches they should have. Apparently, Satoru doesn’t have a discerning palate. He lets that disrespect slide while Suguru steals his neighbor’s car, but it’s game on as soon as he finishes eating.
“So,” he asks some time later, patting his full stomach and using the rearview mirror to check his face for crumbs. “Where are we going?”
Crabbily pulling the mirror back into place, Suguru admits, “I’ve got a bunker in the city. It—”
“Ah, right,” he nods, watching the scenery whiz by sagely. “Getou Suguru, the supervillain. Don’t worry, Suguru,” he assures, smiling sunnily. “You’re not the villain in my story.”
“Gee, thanks,” he rolls his eyes, cutting off a Camry that wouldn’t know a speed limit if it was sleeping with it. “We’ve got a tail, by the way.”
“Six this time,” Satoru grins. He cocks back his new gun. “Ready to have some fun?”
“God, I hate you,” he grumbles, speeding and swerving through traffic as he pleases. Suguru looks like he’s having fun, that contrary bastard. “Pass me one, too.”
The car is a lost cause by the time they reach the city. For the rest of the way, they walk close together, trying to look like they’re just holding hands. They share a stolen electric scooter—and though he has no license, Satoru gets to drive because Suguru, who is law-abiding in only the most annoying ways, is too slow to stop him. On the subway, they pretend to have lost both a bet and the key to their handcuffs, arguing about whose fault it is.
Satoru turns to the old lady beside him and accuses, “And he made us trip down a staircase!”
She calls him a poor baby and gives him mint candy out of her purse, so, obviously, the whole subway car loves him and takes his side. Suguru can suck it.
Grouchily, Suguru makes them get off at the next stop. Satoru thinks it’s because he wants a do-over with a new audience, but it turns out that his bunker is hidden in an extensive labyrinth beneath the subway. They jump down onto the tracks and open a little door Satoru does not think they’re meant to have access to, and voilà. It feels like being a proper spy—fitting for someone like Suguru. There’s a biometric keypad and everything before they can get into a cramped little space which opens into a bigger, veritable lair of a space. No weapons stock, but that’s not surprising; they have the kind of Power that makes things like that obsolete. There aren’t any monitors to help complete their Batman cosplay, but there are whiteboards and canned provisions and—Pochi Power Bars, right there on the shelf.
“Oh, you asshole,” Satoru scoffs. “You did have food!”
“What? Dude, those are ass,” Suguru laughs. “They’re just here in case our only other option is starvation and we wanna go quick.”
Satoru narrows his eyes. “You’re saying we don’t need to eat meal supplement bars.”
Suguru snorts and chucks a melonpan—designed like a flower this time—at him from the duffle without further comment. Satoru compartmentalizes to move on.
It’s only a matter of time before the Council makes their next play. The bunker might be a kind of dead zone where the tracker in their handcuffs can’t transmit, but those bastards still have Power at their disposal, a half dozen assets they can utilize who would love to have the honor of killing Gojo Satoru.
Not that those losers could, Power or not. Especially with Suguru by his side. But they will try.
Though the bunker is an easily defendable position, they won’t be here forever. This is just a waystation to catch their breath. It’s nice to take a quick nap, eat a snack or two. It buys them time to figure out their next steps.
Something that is deeply appreciated after their attempt to short-circuit the power mechanism in the cuffs results in the two of them getting tased unconscious for—Satoru doesn’t actually know how long they’re out. Not long enough to get captured, so that’s nice. He tears through a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich and convinces himself everything’s fine. He and Suguru try again. They come to realize that short of a diamond-tipped power saw, they aren’t cutting these cuffs off. Maybe not even then. Suguru might have a line on where they can try that out next, but it requires going topside. Risky, considering the toll the day has already taken on them. They’re not yet four agents pathetic, but… Satoru knows their next plan will likely be their last.
So it has to work. To prepare themselves either way, they’re shoring up what strength they can in the bunker. The bunker where it is safe and they are secure and Satoru is so bored.
“Hey, Suguru.” He doesn’t open his eyes even though Satoru knows Suguru took his turn to nap and woke ten minutes ago. Satoru pokes his side and sings, “Su-gu-ru!”
He squints one eye open. “If you ask to shoot through this cuff one more time, I’ll beat your ass.”
“Yes, the ricochet is dangerous, but there’s enough wiggle room—”
“Wiggle room?” Suguru demands, flexing in the, admittedly, snug cuff. “There’s hardly room enough for my pulse to thud here, Satoru.”
Ignoring the ache in his ribs, he leans toward him. Their car crash did him no favors, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Satoru grins, “Aww, Suguru, do I make your heart race?”
Suguru returns his gaze, totally expressionless. Whatever reaction Satoru’s been itching for remains as elusive as ever. Lame.
“You’re no fun,” he retreats for now. “We’re out of bullets anyways, so it’s not like we can try. And that’s not what I was gonna ask.”
Suguru rises into a cross legged position, stretching out his back. “Mm?”
“If you were born with Power, why aren’t you a Council asset, too?”
Natural born talent, especially as powerful as Suguru, is rarer than rare. The Council would have loved him if they had gotten to him sooner, before he made them his enemy.
His eyebrow twitches upwards in incredulous humor. “Yeah, since, clearly, that gig’s great.”
Satoru huffs, “You know what I mean.”
Their mission as the Sorcery Council is—well, it’s supposed to be about protecting people from abuses of Power. There are rogue Sorcerers and then those known as Counterfeits, people who give themselves Power through drugs and sketchy operations. They’re all unstable and dangerous, the responsibility of government assets to find, assess, and neutralize for the greater good.
Suguru is a protector. He would’ve believed in the Council’s mission until he learned better. The two of them could’ve been there together. It would’ve been fun.
Maybe they would have been mindless government weapons until the natural end of their days. More likely, they’d always end up here—a pair of targets for the Council to hunt. Probably because Suguru dragged Satoru along with his ideals or maybe simply because they would feed off each other in all the worst ways, as far as the Council would have been concerned.
“Yeah,” Suguru admits reluctantly. He sighs, “My parents had me committed. Said I was crazy at best, but probably just a liar. Normal people can’t see Power,” he says, rightly expecting Satoru to understand. “The dent in my wall, food crumbs in my room, sure, but not the stingray I’d made, not the jumbo-sized Very Hungry Caterpillar.”
A starving bug…? Satoru shakes his head. “At least they didn’t sell you,” he comforts. That’s how his own parents got so filthy rich. “I wish they had believed you.”
Suguru smiles, knocking their shoulders together. “It doesn’t bother me anymore. Can’t really say I love them, but at least they kept me from ever becoming a weapon of the State. Which is more than you can say,” he adds slyly, “Council dog that you are.”
“I’m no dog.” Satoru returns Suguru’s fangless attack with a smirk, “I’ve gone forty years without a collar, and I’m not changing that now.”
He snorts, “I refuse to believe you’re that much older than me, Satoru.”
“I know, I know. I don’t look a day over twenty-five.”
“Generous,” Suguru whistles, looking at him in surprise. “I was gonna say thirty.”
“Suguru!” He should’ve cut a bald spot into his pretty hair while he was sleeping. “I’m only twenty-seven, as you should know!”
“Mm, should I know?” Teasingly, he only smiles at Satoru’s annoyance, totally unrepentant. “Hey, Satoru. When’s your birthday?”
And, see, this is trouble.
Satoru really likes how Suguru says his name, how he makes eye contact and holds it, humors his whims but isn’t a doormat. He asks him questions like he’s a normal person, like the two of them just shooting the breeze. Suguru treats Satoru as if they’re together only because they enjoy each other’s company rather than because they’re on the run for their temporarily conjoined lives.
And that’s all good—exciting, even. It’s the uncomfortable twinge in Satoru’s chest at the idea of it all being temporary that’s the issue. But, hell, what’s another in the face of their imminent doom? It can wait.
Promptly, Satoru answers, “December seventh.”
“Ah, now it all makes sense.” He points, “Sagiterrorist.”
“What?” Going cross eyed with Suguru’s finger in his face, Satoru is a little late to recoil and retort. “Fuck you! When’s your birthday?”
“February third.”
He doesn’t know much, but he confidently shoots back, “Then you’re a Cancer.”
“So close,” he consoles in a tone that makes it clear he’s lying. “I’m an Aquarius.”
“Aquari-ass,” he grumbles.
“Cute,” he grins. “That the best you can do?”
Satoru sticks out his tongue. “Like you can do better.”
“Easily,” Suguru agrees, self-assured. He tilts slightly, perhaps unconsciously, toward him. “Want a practical demonstration?”
“Sure,” he answers instinctively. “Teach me.”
He hesitates, settling uncertainly on a clarifying question. “About astrology?”
Satoru wants to know all about how Suguru sees the world, so yes, about astrology, but at the same time, “No.” He wants to know, “More about you, Suguru.”
Suguru swallows. Satoru bites back a self-satisfied grin.
He knows exactly what he wants.
//
Suguru is not an idiot.
Satoru isn’t discreet. He has this look in his eyes—quietly assessing Suguru’s reactions, testing his limits. Eager to make fun, to tease. Actively seeking physical contact in casual, mostly innocuous ways. Which wouldn’t be noteworthy, seeing how they’re bound together and everything, but it wasn’t like this in the beginning. No, now Satoru is having fun, if nothing else.
And is now the time? No, absolutely not. Suguru files the information neatly in his head regardless. That is why he’s an idiot, not because he doesn’t notice Satoru’s very obvious interest.
Suguru doesn’t want to have feelings on this matter. He wants to say he’s only flattered, that he doesn’t genuinely enjoy Satoru’s insufferable company. Because he is insufferable, make no mistake. It’s just that he’s also beautiful and warm and funny and honest and challenging and contrary and prideful. Even now, their lives in imminent, inescapable danger, all Suguru can think is how comfortable it is to rest by his side.
So Suguru is not an idiot because he doesn’t notice. He’s an idiot because he knows it’s a terrible idea, but he’s considering it anyway.
He stops thinking.
Instead, Suguru joins Satoru in eating so much of their food reserves that they become irresponsibly susceptible to slipping into a food coma. In his defense, Suguru has just learned that Satoru thought he had to eat meal supplement bars. As in, exclusively eat meal supplement bars. Something that is not only insanely unhealthy, but also just way too on the nose—fuck’s sake, his preferred brand is government sponsored and named Pochi. The jokes write themselves.
The jokes write themselves, but Suguru is already in too deep. He can’t joke about it, so what else was Suguru supposed to do? They eat, and then they eat some more, slouched together on the floor. There’s a perfectly functional table, but Satoru said that the cuffs make sitting in chairs uncomfortable and his back needs the support of the wall instead.
Hell of a lot that wall is doing for him, seeing the S-shape of his spine as he curls like a stray cat, slumped bonelessly into Suguru’s side. This requires Suguru to begin thinking very hard about not thinking, which then gives him an idea.
“Satoru—Satoru, stop picking at your scabs.”
“I’m not,” he lies. Suguru looks at his own road rash, bruised and red but dry. He looks at Satoru’s, actively bleeding again.
He huffs. “Satoru, what if we flood it?”
He blinks slowly, switching his brain back on. “Cuffs are manmade,” he hums, nodding along. “They gotta have an upper limit.”
“Our Power doesn’t,” Suguru hypothesizes.
Initially, the shock of the handcuffs was enough. Suguru couldn’t call his Power right away and neither could Satoru, so they both accepted the reality that the cuffs were solid. They pivoted, moved according to their new limitations. Caught up in the moment, it was their only option. Now, it was shortsighted. Lazy. Fact is, no one knows that these things are truly indestructible.
It’s time to put them through a proper test.
“We’re the strongest Sorcerers in the world, Suguru,” Satoru grins.
Arrogant, but not wrong. At the very least, Suguru is sure that they’re better off than baby elephants tied to a tree. “Worst case, it explodes. We blow our wrists off and die from shock and blood loss.”
But death doesn’t scare them. Satoru dismisses the warning with an easy, “We were always gonna die fighting one way or another.”
They probably don’t have to, but they interlock their fingers, squeezing for luck and maybe something else. Suguru isn’t thinking about it.
It’s genuinely offensive how easily the handcuff crumbles to pieces. Not instantaneously, of course, but they don’t bleed for it. Suguru feels like he’s ran a marathon and the shitty contraption sends a shock up his arm that leaves half of his body numb, which definitely sucks, but it sure as hell beats the demolition of his home, a car crash, and all the rest of the achey fuckery of today.
He and Satoru catch their breath slowly, sensation returning bit by painful bit to them both, a sharp tingling that fades into full functioning. They hold hands through it all.
“Ha,” comes Satoru’s breathy laughter. “Knew it. Council tech can’t suppress me completely.”
“Don’t say it as if you did all the work,” Suguru snorts. “You might be unfamiliar, but this is called teamwork, Satoru.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he laughs, knocking their shoulders together. Freedom hasn’t removed any of his limbs from Suguru’s personal space. “A win is a win, you bah humbug bastard.”
A win is a win, even if it was by the skin of their teeth. The cuffs lasted long enough, and it took both of them to get free. Suguru frowns, a tic in his jaw he tries to suppress.
Satoru presses the pad of his finger against it and smiles, “What a worrywart.”
“They almost had us a few times. It could have been a different story if you were alone,” he defends, ignoring the tightening in his gut.
“I’ve seen the labs,” he admits, squeezing Suguru’s hand. “Counterfeits are getting stronger and it’s not that Sorcerers aren’t, but there are only so many assets that can be deployed at once. That’s why the Council has been working to dampen artificial Power. I knew that, but I never found anything strong enough to threaten me.” Satoru smirks, “Guess I still haven’t.”
“Yes, the fuck you have,” Suguru snaps. They look like they’ve gone through hell. And they most certainly have, no matter how full Satoru’s laugh sounds right now.
“Suguru, I really did look. I investigated the whole Council, even the parts that are outside of my clearance level.”
“We’re talking about the government, Satoru,” he reminds him, unimpressed. “Don’t be naive. They prepared for you to search. They’ve no reason to let their nuke find their anti-nuke system.”
“Someone would have told me, though,” he sings. “There are others. I’m not alone.”
“Are you sure?” Suguru demands, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound as cruel as it does.
Satoru grins, reading his concern embarrassingly easily. “Yes.”
“Fine.” He decides to leave unvoiced the idea that Satoru is so strong that others might not think to watch his back as thoroughly as he’d watch theirs. “Then that means—”
“I know what it means,” he rolls his eyes. “None of my people have access to the big shit.”
He glares, “Then you know how serious this is.”
He rests his cheek on Suguru’s shoulder, curled into his side smugly. “Suguru, if you care about me enough to worry like this, why don’t you channel that energy into—”
Suguru rolls his shoulder, letting Satoru fall off.
He glares from the floor, his head at an awkward angle against the wall and his grip on Suguru’s hand unwavering. “Bet no one’s ever told you that you’re especially patient and kind, huh, Suguru?”
“Wrong,” he teases. “That’s the number one way people describe me.”
Abruptly, Suguru remembers himself. He’s not supposed to be letting Satoru sway him; they’re not out of the woods yet, and now isn’t the time for jokes. He stands and stretches, letting go of Satoru’s hand and putting a few feet of distance between them, trying to clear his head.
They should plan, right? They’re out of the cuffs, but the Council is still on their ass. They—
Satoru gets off the floor and slithers behind him, trailing a hand across his shoulders as he goes. He settles as close as he’s been all day, except now he’s on Suguru’s right, holding his hand again, which is surprisingly—no. Nope. Suguru isn’t thinking about it. His nerves aren’t lit up like Times Square. No, he’s very calm.
To prove it, he raises a single brow in question. Satoru casually supplies, “I just wanna see your face from here.”
His eyes glow with Power and mischief, alluring like a siren. And Suguru is not going to do a damn thing about it.
He’s not thinking about it. He isn’t thinking that Satoru could have teleported away if he wanted to. No, he’s only thinking that they’re free, and he’s celebrating. He’s thinking that putting distance between them didn’t change—he means, he’s thinking that they need a plan. He isn’t thinking anything else, least of all the fact that if Satoru still wants him now that they’re free it’s because he wants him.
Fuck it. Suguru meets his eyes. “Satoru.”
“Mm,” he grins, “you scared?”
Suguru means to respond in some clever way. There are a dozen half-formed lines in his throat vying for the chance to come out. He gives into the impulse to kiss Satoru before they can.
It’s desperate, maybe. Enthusiastic is a kinder word, but desperate is more honest. Probably. It’s a mix of the two that skews more towards desperate, if he’s honest about the way they angle impossibly closer together. Suguru is helpless to it, his mouth crowded with more than just the words he was too impatient to say. Their hands are in each other’s hair, around each other’s throats. Suguru doesn’t want a breath that wasn’t or won’t be shared with Satoru. He wants more, and he can’t get it soon enough.
Satoru will be the death of me, he thinks. He doesn’t mind. That’s a problem in itself. Only if Satoru doesn’t feel the same, Suguru re-evaluates, chasing after his touch. Satoru meets him halfway, giving as much as he takes.
“Stupid fuckin’ ribs,” he gasps, tilting his head back to catch his breath. Suguru lines kisses along all the free real estate of his throat. “No,” Satoru twists, ticklish. “Kiss me right.”
Suguru laughs at his pout. Retaliating, Satoru bites at his jaw—which doesn’t do much in terms of censure, that’s for sure. He kisses Satoru the way he asks, hoping to distract him. It’s too soon to put a card like that in his arsenal.
Satoru narrows his eyes, a little fuzzy but certainly assessing. Suguru changes tactics. “Am I your first kiss?”
“No,” he smirks, breathing his words into Suguru’s mouth. “Jealous?”
“Hm,” he considers. “Maybe.”
He snorts, “Well, am I your first?”
Satoru will be obnoxious no matter what Suguru says, and he has a better use of their energy. He tugs on Satoru’s collar. “Enough.”
“Suguru,” he laughs. “In another life, I think you killed me.”
“Funny,” he huffs, and he knows it sounds, correctly, as if he means anything but. “I was gonna say the same thing.”
//
Satoru learns that his bruises don’t hurt the same when Suguru’s thumb presses into them. The ache keeps him overwhelmingly present in the moment, Suguru’s sweet kisses cloying and perfect.
Satoru follows when he pulls back. Suguru smirks, “Good?”
“You are so annoying,” he says, because he can’t say that gloating is unattractive.
Suguru laughs, and Satoru doesn’t even mind that he leans away from him to do so. He knows Suguru was stressed earlier—because they were in danger, sure, but Satoru is proud to say he was the real cause. He’s even prouder to see how well kissing has calmed Suguru’s nerves.
Mission accomplished, Satoru lets Suguru lead him to take a seat at the bunker’s table. “You should probably take a moment to process. About the Council,” Suguru clarifies preemptively, “and what you want to do.”
He sighs. Suguru has a point, he knows. Despite swearing up and down that he is no dog, Satoru can’t deny that he’s spent all of his life on the government’s leash. Now they go and make it a noose and what, he’s supposed to just take that? Fuck that.
Suguru’s right. He’s right, so they need to plan.
Satoru sighs again, more of a groan this time. He was hoping that Suguru would take the lead on this front, but that guy sits in pointed silence, wholly unsympathetic. Satoru doesn’t have anything he wants to say, but Suguru presses him regardless. He won’t let him off the hook.
Satoru would rather leave all the mushy stuff for after the action, hoping to get lucky enough that the action never stops, but… ugh. While, technically, they’re waiting for the next Council attack, and that should be enough to distract—he means, focus them, their Power is back. Any agents and assets sent their way can be handled in a blink of an eye; there’s nothing to prepare for. Which Suguru knows, which means he wants Satoru to actively face his feelings, and he’s leaving him no room to wiggle out of it.
What a prick.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Suguru says. But who else would he tell? Of course he’s gonna tell him. “But you do have to face yourself at some point, Satoru.”
Satoru gets up from his chair, making sure it scratches gratingly against the floor to signal his protest. He stands behind Suguru’s chair, teasing the rubberband out from his long hair, combing the locks gently with his fingers. Even if he wanted to talk about it, he doesn’t even know where to—
Suguru prompts, “Tell me about your friends.”
Satoru narrows his eyes. It’s like the bastard is in his head. Huffing to himself, Satoru starts braiding his hair, long and loose, aiming for a distraction. “Tell me about yours.”
“I’m an asocial loner.”
“According to the reports I was forced to study before I could be released from my kennel, Getou Suguru has at least twelve loyal disciples—”
He snorts, “Do they think I’m Jesus?”
“Jesus had eleven, actual—” Suguru twists and sits backwards in his chair to make eye contact, no regard for Satoru’s impromptu hair salon. He only barely manages to tie off the end of Suguru’s braid. “Dude!”
“Don’t call me dude,” Suguru snorts, looking up at him. “You said you’re not alone. Tell me about your friends.”
“Bossy.” Satoru traces the shape of his face gently, loosening some strands of his hair to frame it. So pretty, he hums. Longsuffering, he complies, “Shoko’s my best friend, Nanamin and Utahime-chan tolerate me, Yaga thinks he’s my dad. Then I’ve got my kids. Mentees and juniors,” he corrects with a scoff. “But you know what I mean.”
“Ah. Right,” Suguru leans into Satoru’s hand. “You know. They’re doing well, by the way. You remember the twins?”
He grins. “And the cult.”
“Cult?” Suguru snorts, “Tell me what you really think of me.”
“I thought you were amazing.” Satoru presses a kiss to his surprised face, unhurried. “Still do.”
Suguru looks almost the same; same proud tilt to his shoulders, back unbending and chin high. A little more rigid, older. There was something duller about his eyes when he confronted him in front of his house, but the glow of purple fire shines brighter and brighter the more he looks at him now, the flames just needing a little push to remember the inferno they once were.
Satoru doesn’t disguise anything with his gaze, delighted to see a light blush form on Suguru’s face as he cuts his eyes away. He dismisses, “That was so long ago, how much do you even remember?”
Without pause, Satoru mimics, “Sunglasses indoors? Okay, douchebag. And then you fought me well enough to break them,” he rolls his eyes, “so you said, you look like a junkie with your eyes so red. If you can see without them, get a blindfold or something. You’re overstimulated as fuck, bro.”
“I don’t sound like that,” he knocks his hand away. “And I definitely didn’t call you bro.”
He hums noncommittally, teasing. “I remember more than you think. I only get to go out when I’m on a mission anyway, so I kinda have to remember.”
Suguru watches Satoru take a seat with narrowed eyes. Still curved backwards over his chair, he observes, “So they really don’t give you any rec time.”
“As in recreational time?” He frowns, “No, why would they? It’s not like I’m a prisoner.” Suguru looks like he has thoughts on that but he keeps them to himself, so Satoru shakes it off. “Anyway, I remembered you. More than they liked, I’m sure,” he laughs.
His gaze softens. “How do you mean?”
“Mm,” he hums. It’s a roundabout story, but he doubts Suguru will mind. “I’m not allowed unsupervised contact with the general public. The aura of my Power is kinda intense, so—”
“What?” Suguru jerks upright, turning in his chair quickly enough that Satoru almost doesn’t catch the motion. “They told you your Power is too dangerous for the general public? That’s not a thing. I mean, it can be, but not for you. You have phenomenal control, you’re not throwing Power around unconsciously.”
“Oh,” he realizes, over his initial shock. “So this is another Pochi thing.”
Suguru massages his forehead with his thumb. “I won’t interrupt you again, so finish telling me. We’ll deal with the other stuff together, Satoru.”
“Since I’m not allowed out,” he continues slowly, unsure what landmines surround him, “most of my information comes filtered through my handlers—”
“Handlers?”
“Six of them,” he nods. “That’s why they call me Six Eyes. Every asset has at least two, but I’ve got six pairs of eyes on me at all times, some on my person and the rest through screens.”
Suguru clenches his jaw. “The four at my house.”
“Yeah, they were from this month’s batch,” he confirms. “Dunno where the others were watching from, but that’s probably how they caught us on the road so quickly.”
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders. “Okay, so you were saying those bastards are your only source of outside information. That’s as shitty as it sounds, right?”
Satoru hums, making a kind of seesaw motion. “I know how they lie, so I’ve learned to read between the lines. It’s not perfect and the specifics might get lost, but I know when I’m being misled. But in your case,” he trails off with a shrug. “They really believed it, is all. You’re their monster under the bed. They wanted you to be that for me, too, but—”
“But you remembered me,” Suguru finishes.
“Yeah,” he laughs. “I told you, didn’t I? You’re not the villain in my story. More like a complex protagonist too heavily altered in a mediocre TV adaptation.”
“It wasn’t that I set out to be some kinda hero,” Suguru resists, all frowny and introspective. “Things were wrong, so I tried to fix them.” Which sounds heroic enough, but he only shrugs, “That’s all.”
See? Satoru thinks to himself, Amazing.
“You know,” he smirks, realizing that this is a clever pivot point to what he actually wants to talk about, “that’s why the Council thought you had already figured it out. Or maybe that you were about to.”
“Satoru.” Suguru narrows his eyes. “What are you trying to rope me into?”
“But then you took a step back of your own accord,” he continues, taking Suguru’s hands. “They were afraid of when you’d come back. They weren’t scared enough to get it right, though,” he snorts.
“What? I haven’t come back,” he denies, as if Satoru is some kind of fool. “I told you—”
He can’t roll his eyes hard enough. “Fuck your retirement, Suguru.”
His lip curls, his nose wrinkles, his eyes slide sideways—picture perfect annoyance. He accuses, “This is all your fault, Satoru.”
Suguru’s been out of retirement since they were lying in the shambles of his kitchen, so if he’s really blaming Satoru for it, that means… Satoru grins. Suguru must care an awful lot about him.
Be a shame not to return the sentiment. “No worries, Suguru! We’re in this together,” he promises, “me and you.”
To seal the deal—or sweeten the pot, either works—Satoru makes sure to pull him into another kiss. He even chews gently on the hinge of his jaw, just like Suguru likes. It’s much easier to get him to relax now that he’s accepted their mutual attraction. Satoru won’t leave a single defense for Suguru to hide behind.
“Sagiterrorist,” Suguru glares, his hand curved around Satoru’s nape.
Training Suguru to turn to him whenever he feels even the slightest bit overwhelmed will be one of the most satisfying accomplishments of Satoru’s life, he thinks. No act he puts on now will make him forget about the way he shivered with the same insatiable lust curled in Satoru’s own gut.
“Right,” Suguru huffs, pushing Satoru slightly out of his space. “So now I’m back from my painfully short-lived retirement because,” he draws out the sound.
“It’s all fake,” he says, confirming the conspiracy for them both. “The Counterfeits.”
“You think,” he breathes. Suguru looks like a weight has fallen off his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he grins. Satoru adores how well he keeps up. Suguru doesn’t ask for proof—the two of them sitting here is proof enough.
Suguru’s thumb traces an arc under one of Satoru’s eyes—which are probably becoming red with overstimulation right about now, his blindfold in the dirt of Suguru’s front yard. Pressing a quick kiss between his eyes, Suguru leaves Satoru at the table, rifling through a metal cabinet Satoru assumed only contained more emergency food provisions.
“Hilarious,” Satoru drawls.
“Isn’t it?” Suguru has returned with a sleep mask, black with silver stitched lashes depicting closed eyes. He grins as he fastens it around Satoru’s face. “You know, I’ve always found your beauty and popularity mismatched.”
“Oh, tell me more,” he purrs, but Suguru doesn’t flirt back—probably because Satoru’s eyes are hidden now.
“A whole department of dehumanized weapons with untapped potential at their disposal,” Suguru says, and Satoru can feel his anger rising.
“A manufactured issue to justify the redistribution of funds and the concentration of sociopolitical power,” he adds fuel to the fire. “Wiping out undesirables as they clean up the streets.”
“Perfecting their methods to mass produce us.” Suguru takes his hands again, cataloging his injuries from today’s adventures. “Dispatching you to clean up their messes in the meantime.”
Satoru wonders if Suguru knows what he looks like when he’s like this, his lips pressed to Satoru’s bruised knuckles, protective and angry and bursting with Power. Satoru feels lightheaded with it; he’s not so sure that the aura thing isn’t real.
He shoves up one side of the sleep mask, eager to take Suguru in with all of his senses. Overcome with the desire to kiss him, he succumbs—he keeps it criminally brief, though, because he also senses an incoming threat.
Suguru keeps him close but, just so that he can’t reprimand him for it later, Satoru resists. He warns, “They’re coming.”
“And?” He grins, “You scared?”
An absolutely slanderous accusation. Satoru can’t let it stand.
Once the warning system in his Power gets especially annoying, he separates from Suguru to talk shop. “What do we wanna do now?”
The footsteps of agents outside are clear now, a battering ram at the door, more sources of Power butting up against the sensory capabilities of his own. Nothing that holds his attention better than the way Suguru smirks, “Relieve them of their delusions, of course.”
Satoru grins, his fingers glowing purple as Suguru’s rainbow dragon curls around them both. “Time to finish what you started.”