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The world, for just this moment - will wait for them.
It’s a phenomenon only seen by the six eyes; a phenomenon rarely, if ever, repeated. Like a blackflash - not a single sorcerer can execute one on command, but Satoru finds a loop hole, regardless.
Suguru could count each time the world halted, the same way he keeps track of the thousands of curses in his inventory; a faint jump in his pulse, and even weaker breath skittering the air.
To find a moment to themselves was an act of isolation. A powerful barrier; of black and white and dangerous and natural.
Suguru Geto, the worst curse user of the modern age, has thousands of curses at his disposal. The only thing that comes close to his army of the blighted creatures are the ones made of flesh; the hundreds of men who would fight for him the minute he dropped the word.
Satoru finds a loophole, regardless. Heedlessly, despite, and thereof.
Satou, the strongest, sitting on the line of ex-bestfriend and weekend-lover and enemy. One would burn their eyes attempting - daring - to stare into the six of the limitless user’s; the fact is this: Suguru sends a location, and the strongest arrives, dropping everything.
Regardless of, heedless of, despite of, thereof.
Suguru’s breaths breach the air slowly, comfortably. Propped against the head board, silk sheets bunched around him as he pretends, or tries, to read the novel he visits every time nostalgia ladens his bones. He’s only on the fifth chapter. Thumb creasing the book open, eye scanning the words twice, three times, four - the exact amount he’s opened the cover, the exact amount of times Satoru has veiled them, the exact amount of times Suguru has asked him to.
The wind flutters his pages, tearing him from the onslaught. The creak of the window, the roar of the air rushing in - it’s nothing compared to the tiny breaths, unmistakably Satoru’s - the ones Suguru immediately, innately latches onto. He keeps himself scanning the page, unmoving.
He pretends to be flippant, nail stretching to the opposite end of the room.
“There is a door, you know.”
The strongest is perched on the window seal. The strongest; his cheeks red with the rush and his six eyes bandaged - stirring the air with their energy. He’s a monster.
Powerful, suffocating. Suguru could pinpoint the man’s location three blocks and half a world away from the pure threat of his presence alone; Suguru carefully closes his book, and takes his time.
When he’s reaching, stretching to set it down on the bedside table, he can feel Satoru’s overwhelming cursed energy shudder behind him. He attempts to, dares to not let it get to his head.
But then he hasps to those punctured breaths. The intake of ether air, the slow and melodic exhale and -
“Suguru.”
The room delves two degrees colder.
An event that commonly transpired when they were young and foolish; Satoru not having as masterful of a control over himself as he does now, stepping into a room and making the very atmosphere succumb to his will. Here, he loses, quietly; crawling, slipping off the ledge with a sound that betrays himself, themselves, and everyone they try to ignore on these nights.
Because these nights are different.
The thing with being so overwhelming is that you’re hard to miss. Satoru’s energy denounces his otherwise collected demeanor, flickering, trembling, sputtering. It’s an outburst; incredibly contrasting the way Satoru moves towards the other - moving like water, turbulent in the same way a lake freezes over and churns underneath.
Suguru turns to him this time, without meaning to. His chest is weeping, the aftermath of a forest fire. The man beckons him with a sharp inhale and Suguru comes. They would always be like that. Defying the other purposefully, then obeying each other unrequitedly.
Suguru, the worst curse user, has the strongest in his arsenal - Satoru, the strongest, has him in his palm in kind.
Satoru’s knee presses into the mattress, Suguru feels it and lets it. They say nothing. They stare into each other, and say everything. The air tightens between them.
Everything that should have been said five years ago, everything the very essence that they deny, everything they bare regardless despite and thereof.
Satoru leans down, scarcely. Suguru can feel the strongest’s breath on his skin, warming it up. The presence of him made the room yawn, grow cold; yet the body is warm.
“Suguru,” Satoru comes back to himself with playful disdain, and Suguru can’t help how his chest flips, swooning, performing a trick for the audience of one. “You took too long,” his eyebrows scrunch the bandage on his face together.
Willfully, Suguru’s palm comes up to hold the side of it; innately, Satoru nuzzles into it. “It’s been a year," he whispers into the shivering air between them, "I might have moved on,” he teases, voice brisk and cold in the way that snaps the trunks of trees.
Suguru snickers, and feels it buzz through his skin, leaping through his fingertips to touch Satoru -
his weekend lover, his enemy, his everything in between.
“Don’t get my hopes up,” he muses, skillful with the way his thumb brushes against the skin beneath it, skillful in the way he restrains himself. His heart is beating out of his chest. His pulse is fluttering through his skin, migrating, dispersing like a pack of vengeful wolves.
In a way that transcends reality itself, a glad smile grows across Satoru’s face. It’s soft. It contrasts everything they ever know, staring into each other like this; like even bandaged and bruised and betrayed they could hold each other for one more night and not regret it.
They always do.
The air between them fractures. Suguru, following the leap and bounds of his heart, leads Satoru’s mouth to his. The shards of the atmosphere gather on their tongues, pressing, molding - passing between them; filling their mouths with a sweetness you only find solace in, in the afterlife.
Shards, pieces. A mosaic. That’s what they are. White, black, dangerous, natural.
Satoru brings himself on top of the bed fully, spread over Suguru, pressing down on him. The air is cold by his design and yet his mouth burns against Suguru; that’s what it means, to be with the strongest.
Suguru was mended by the hands of something divine, to partake in divine creation, to understand and bear the weight of Satoru’s hot-blood and cold eyes. Six of them, thousands of them; his arsenal, his inventory - thousands. It’s why every time Satoru breathes Suguru feels the motion as if from his own lungs. A breath from the strongest is a breath from the worst curse user; their mosaic only fragments that they keep donating between each other. Pushing it past their teeth and into the other’s mouth the same way they kiss now - passing the air, passing the burden, on their tongues.
Satoru gasps, nails scratching Suguru’s scalp, sputtering. “Suguru,” he whispers, commands, begs - beckons. Suguru comes, willfully and then some. His heart is keening, his chest is heaving, his soul is trembling like a magnet fighting to meet its opposite. Because that’s what they are, too - opposites.
The meat of his palm drags to the back of Satoru’s skull, scraping the bone, tearing through the flesh. They make scars like they do love. Willfully, gladly, begging.
An ethereal breath of air escapes Satoru’s lips, a moan hastily pursuing and taking its time to fall over Suguru like stars. Their lips bruise together, sealing the atoms between their mouths, fusing.
A loud noise. Muffled to them, unbarring to outsiders. The creak of the mattress - the shuffle of the sheets - the smacking, the groaning. It’s raw, despite everything.
It’s unabashed, regardless. It’s them, thereof.
Satoru’s between his legs now, one crossed over, hands tangled in Suguru’s silk.
The strongest moans again. He’s beautiful, otherworldly. The noises he makes are deceivingly human.
They break for the first time in minutes, hours, years. Even when they do, their chests rise and clash together, breaths mixing and pushing back.
The bandages on Satoru’s face are disheveled, not yet revealing what Suguru yearns for the most. Satoru’s eyes, his attention, his adoration that gets withheld from the strongest and then from the curse user ten times over.
Satoru’s skin seems to be squirming perfectly in time with his cursed energy. The man’s lips are red, bitten, hair parting oddly. He begs with the music of his body; he begs and presses down into the heat between them. Suguru groans, uncareful in the way he raises his hips to meet the other, fingers dancing across Satoru’s face in a terrifying contrast of softness.
“Take it off,” Satoru’s words are already so rushed, so terribly fallen apart.
Suguru gnaws on the inside of his cheek, tongue pressing to the blood there.
“Veil us, Satoru,” he purrs, watching the other stutter as if electricity suddenly ran through his spine. The man’s nostrils flare. His hand retreats from Suguru’s hair to guide his hand to the weak spot of the cloth. If Suguru dared to, he could call it gentle, in the way Satoru begs, rutting into him, waiting as his cursed energy sporadically quivers and fills the room with a wanton discrepancy.
Like this, Satoru was placing a finger print on the body of the earth, one that would fossilize for eons to come. The cursed energy in the room only grows more intense.
Suguru can feel himself heat up, insides boiling, steam hissing through his teeth. His chest shakes with each breath, their hips grate, sparking, and then they share the air with a moan that should be shameful.
Suguru shivers with it, bracing his arm against the mattress to sit up until his chest is flush with Satoru’s, soul tipping over like a filled glass. “Satoru,” he whispers against trembling skin, petting his lips, ”Satoru, veil us, and then I will.”
It’s the one promise that Suguru won’t break. It’s the one promise Satoru has to depart to make due with; tearing their skin away like pulling apart dough, clay molded by the hands of something godly. The strongest fills his chest with unstartling power, willing wickedly soft words from his very core.
Suguru begins peeling away the first layer. His fingers tap across Satoru’s skin, barely there, working deftly.
Satoru speaks the words into Suguru’s lips.
“Emerge from darkness blacker than darkness,” it’s a chant, usually mundane, flicked off Satoru’s tongue in a way that could only be described as prayer. The lights in the room flicker then dim. The air swirls, and Suguru’s abdomen pinches as Satoru crosses their noses, holding his sides, praying as if he wasn’t the divine one here.
A pause. A breath. An exhale.
“Purify that which is impure,” the bandage falls from Satoru’s face, Suguru’s hands now uncharacteristically shaky. Another pause.
Satoru’s cursed energy has thickened, taking shape, surrounding them exquisitely. His lashes flutter open.
It had been days, then weeks, then months and then years; the last time Suguru allowed himself to have Satoru like this.
Satoru needy, Satoru wholly, Satoru wonderfully human and costly and heedlessly.
His eyes are everything which Suguru can’t describe, each time he tries he must start over from scratch - because each time he sees them, him, it’s as if for the very first time. It’s like the chilled air has taken form of that hot summer afternoon - the sweat sticking to their skin now different from the sweat sticking to their skin little under a decade ago.
Suguru’s heart skips, then lands awkwardly, tripping and spilling blood all over. It’d stain only because Suguru would let it.
The eyes of Jujutsu society would call it sacrilegious, would become sick with the way they cradled each other. Suguru kisses Satoru like it’s the last time they’ll see each other, like it’s their last day on earth; he doesn’t understand how it could be anything short of holy.
They shift against each other all too easily, gasping and shuddering. Suguru pulls Satoru closer, man handling his face until the underside of his jaw is exposed. He presses a mark there. He presses his fingerprint there. He presses his soul there, sucking, licking, biting, praying.
Their mixture of sin was nothing but holy, nothing but prayer and devotion; Satoru’s voice breaks from a deep groan into a transfixed murmur, words that don’t make it far, crossing over each other, unintelligible. Suguru nips at the skin, unblemished because of the cursed technique that the man wore like a second layer of skin; and is welcomed with a gratifying release of Satoru’s pleasure whisking through the room. He can almost feel the man’s warmth traveling, sprinting all over, shaken by Suguru’s hands and mouth alone.
Suguru, however, is nothing but greedy. He feels his chest split in two, right down his sternum, and feels himself thicken with that intoxication - pressing himself level with the man, a hand traveling to the hidden zipper of his uniform jacket. Satoru moans to the ceiling, to the sky, and then to above.
“Suguru,” his voice is glittery, delighted and ruined, “Suguru, you always take too long,” but exposes himself further, helping to get rid of his clothes.
Suguru’s waterline floods with fondness, but doesn’t dare to travel further. He keeps it to himself, that feeling. Nostalgia, regret, and something more. He’s only ventured to open that book four times.
“And yet, you're always late.” He thinks of rain and a cheap umbrella.
Silence encroaches on them as Satoru finally shrugs off his jacket. Their noises of haste cease. Just gentle breathing and harsh reminders, now.
Satoru is the one to move first. He always was, always will be. Daring to do what Suguru can’t, daring to do what Suguru wouldn’t.
He takes the other’s hand in his, now sitting on his knees, as if in a strange bit of proper respect. His back is straight. His eyes are demanding, burdened with gloss and entitled tenderness. He looks at Suguru, and then through him.
Goosebumps travel up Suguru’s skin as Satoru kisses his palm. The act is quiet. The air buzzes just the same as his skin does. It buzzes, rippling like a pond in response to movement - in response to words that Suguru cannot hear, muttered directly into his veins.
He attempts to breathe. It catches on his molars.
“..Satoru?” he swallows the name. The very sound of it is infinitely sweeter than the curses he has to digest, but in the moment, it twists the same. Satoru looks at him through his fluttering eyelashes, still murmuring.
Then, suddenly, and not at all - Satoru moves to toss his shirt over his head. Maybe it’s just because time tends to bend in funny ways around Satoru, but Suguru swears it slows down, here and now, until it’s running like a lazy faucet. His eyes rake across every movement, heart pounding to the point of overexertion;
Satoru settles in his lap, a knee on each side. His eyes are piercing, fierce, and the kind of tantalizing that makes Suguru think of a dumb youth.
The man’s lips move, and Suguru takes it as permission - sucking in the air between them greedily, tracing Satoru’s abdomen, palming the naked flesh. Satoru stares down at him, eyes unflinching and ablaze. His lips move this time in a way that creates a symphony.
“Suguru,” it’s devastation wrapped in a present for the taking, “Suguru.” He pleads, dips his head to plant a kiss on the column of Suguru's neck, then presses his tongue flat.
Suguru shudders and falls apart, the boiling heat inside him turns petrified, into thick vapor, and Satoru’s tongue travels up to his jaw the same way a fire licks up the walls of a burning building. He bites his ear, takes the jewelry into his mouth, and wrestles Suguru’s shirt away.
It gets tossed into the pile. The curtains flutter from the open window they will never bother to close. Each breath comes to Suguru like the adding of kindle to a bonfire, and he’s burning, and burning and burning - ash settling into the marrow of his bones.
Satoru’s nimble fingers spread across Suguru’s broken sternum. His palm warms the crack. Sugruu could die, right here, and only be grateful.
“You,” The man above him starts, voice wafting from himself like smoke, lightly pressing, bruising Suguru’s skin. He presses harder, gaining something like courage and something like the arousal of freedom. The air thickens. Satoru’s eyes shine, hair barely moving with an invisible breeze.
Another press, like the firm touch of lips, and Suguru allows himself to fall, holding himself up on his elbows, sharing the addiction of liberty like a wine. Satoru stays perfectly perched on Suguru’s hips.
He’s divine. Muscles toned, rippling and shifting beneath his glittery skin with each and every movement. Suguru drinks him in - the wine dripping past his lips as he hopelessly tries not to waste a drop. It’s the overfilling of his soul, it's the overfilling of an overwhelming cursed energy; Satoru rolls his hips, each stifling different sensations, sharing the same, then breaking apart.
“You,” his voice breaks, rushes out to tear Suguru’s attention to him, no longer staring into his eyes - instead into where their hips meet.
“You, Suguru, you’re the only one for me,” like it meant something, because it does. Suguru betrays all which is to be betrayed; gripping Satoru’s hips, tracing where his skin disappears into the fabric of his uniform. They roll into each other, pleasure bounds back - slamming, frantic and constant. Suguru moans hard enough that his eyes squeeze shut, fingers making marks on Satoru’s hip bones - Satoru’s head falls back, exposing his throat, letting himself sink down, heady.
Suguru goes lightheaded until it’s terrifying, ears popping with pleasure - Suguru could get off by watching Satoru’s chest heave in ecstasy - now, he stumbles over himself, forgetting what composure even is.
“Satoru,” he hisses, sharp, “Satoru, the things you do to me,” he groans, guiding the man’s hips until he’s sure his dick will burst with the pressure.
The other isn’t faring better; one hand dangling from his mouth to cope, tapered abdomen clenching with every muffled noise.
His hips hitch accidentally, stuttering - the feeling is sharp, with how pent up they are - and Satoru lets a scandalous ‘ah’ fall from heaven. Suguru blinks his eyes open, teeth gritted, determined to watch every moment of this and brand it to the back of his brain.
The outline of Satoru’s cock is dreadfully enticing, braced against his muscled thigh. It twitches against his own with every rut. It’s feral - the way they're content with rutting against each other like animals - so long they can take and keep on taking until there's nothing left.
There won’t be anything left, after this.
Satoru’s stomach clenches again, muscles scrunching, and then he’s lifting himself - pressing his nose right up to Suguru’s.
He’s gorgeous. He’s beautiful, pretty and divine. Suguru must come up with another word, something worthy of Satoru, to describe him and the feeling jittering between his fourth and fifth rib. The look on Satoru’s face could only have been painted by one of the greats. Could only be sculpted in marble, layered with oil paint; the way his eyes seem dizzy, the way his glazed lips part with heavy breath, the way his hair falls and frames his glowing skin, sheen with spit and sweat. He tilts his head like he’s unsteady, ass squirming behind him, teasing a kiss with only atoms between them before smiling tenderly.
Suguru must shut his eyes entirely to save himself.
“Suguru,” he coos the minute his plan works, the minute Suguru freezes from the onslaught. “Come now,” he’s hot against his mouth, “Come now, Suguru, don’t run from me.”
There’s only one end to this story. There will always only be one end to this story. Satoru beckons and Suguru comes. It could be the other way around - and it has, but it never will be; the same way stars swirl around their gravitational poles is the same way time bends and meets itself in shallow spaces, is the same way Satoru runs and Suguru chases. In circles, in belts of meteors and galactical phenomena; in the mark of infinity. Satoru and Suguru lap each other, and then meet, and then eventually - five and ten years later - they’ll forget who was chasing who, who was running, whose footsteps they were following in their wake.
Satoru’s ass, bent behind himself, rises higher, and the man’s radiant eyes leave him to focus on wriggling something out of his back pocket. The temperature fluctuates. Satoru commands everything, including Suguru, who will always wait no matter how late the other is.
“Suguru,” he whispers, settling back down, careful not to hit anything too sensitive, staring at something in his palm. The atmosphere churns like the ocean, and something in the tide has changed. Suguru immediately cups Satoru’s face, willing the heat that grows impatiently inside him to quell.
Satoru’s face breaks like glass - he presses into Suguru’s touch, wilting, hand tightening.
One, twice, three - four times. An eternity. Not enough.
Satoru straightens himself with a far away look. His hand opens like the unflurring of petals. He presents it to the other, almost shy. His eyes grow glossy - Suguru goes cold.
The curse user could recognize it blind. Here, he practically does as his eyes go soft and blurry. The metal button sits obediently in Satoru’s palm. So small, now. If Suguru tried - dared - he could pretend that it wasn’t anything so utterly devastating. Like it didn’t tear the breath from lungs. Like it didn’t tear the heart from ribs, or the control from a brain as millions of memories pour over him all at once - dousing him in frigid water.
His eyebrows knit together. His heart falls through the thin flesh of his diaphragm.
“..Satoru, what?”
It’s the button from Satoru’s uniform one, two, five years ago. His uniform from Jujustu high - the same place that makes him sick with the mention - now just sick with that finicky animosity, the kind that doubled over and brushed itself where it thinned. The kind that Suguru catches himself turning over like a smooth stone with those forbidden emotions of delicacy.
“It’s yours,” Satoru breathes. Each of his thighs are spread over Suguru. His other hand grips the cloth there - knuckles turning white. The air isn’t invigorated. The intimacy they’re used to sharing has crossed a line, tumbling, and Suguru’s chest shakes.
Satoru takes a sharp inhale. “It's yours, Suguru - always has been.”
Suguru breaks in two.
It turns fragile, his movements, his everything. His mind is racing. His heart is dead. His lips are firm, in that desperate way, biting more than just the skin back - he brushes away the hair that has fallen across Satoru’s face with a thumb.
It catches the other by surprise - the gentle, tender way Suguru holds them together. The man’s lip wobbles before it catches on his teeth. He looks at Suguru, pleading, hand shaking between their chests.
This time, when their lips meet, it’s chaste. It’s simple, firm; Suguru accepts it in the only way he knows how. Taking Satoru’s hand, pressing the metal between their palms. They break, and then he dives to press a kiss to their intertwined knuckles.
He swallows down something pasty. He begs, always begging; this time for himself to behave. He doesn’t look at Satoru’s eyes. He can’t bring himself to. He whispers into their hands, squeezing Satoru’s hip, feeling his ribs open like a flower. “Okay, Satoru..”
The strongest squeezes their hands together. The metal burns between them.
They both know what it means, to accept this. Suguru gave his away years ago - confessing, and leaving, in the only way he knew how. A parting gift. His final act of love.
Now, Satoru’s head is falling on his shoulder, and his breath is shuddering through him in a desperate attempt to steady himself. Satoru, confessing, leaving in the only way he knew how.
Tonight would be their last night together.
Suguru looks to the ceiling, to the sky and then above, squeezing back with conviction.
A new and almost defiant fire starts low in his chest, whizzing out steam through his nose. He sees Satoru in the sky, blinded by the sun. He hears Satoru laughing boyishly, he feels Satoru thumping his arms across his shoulders, he sees Satoru - at fifteen, seventeen, and now.
Sugruu would die here, and he would only be glad.
With a final kiss to Satoru’s knuckles, Suguru makes sure to place the button on the cover of his book on the bedside table with the kind of reverence only found in shrines.
Tonight, would be their last night together, and Suguru would gladly empty everything left in him to make sure it’s a night that will make him sick with grief in the near future.
Suguru lays Satoru out on the mattress. Tonight, Satoru lets him. Tonight, their hands unclasp and hesitate in the air as the space between them grows, Suguru sinking between Satoru’s legs the same way the sun sinks behind a mountain.
The strongest, the six eyes, the sorcerer; used to be a boy.
Suguru remembered it only when he was weak enough to lose that battle within himself. Remembering soft skin, the trace of sputtering, bolstering laughter. Remembering freedom, remembering disregard, remembering when they weren’t so thin with crucifixion.
Satoru’s chest heaves. Suguru watches with the sharpness of a special grade - discerning Satoru’s heaved breath as the muscle stutters. The man’s hands fly up to cover his face as a sound punctures the air - stabbing Suguru hard enough to make his eyes close.
It’s a whimper. A cry. Satoru’s hands twist. The noises, sorrowful, dreadful, escape despite his best effort.
Suguru holds his hips. He reaches up minimally, and presses his lips into the fuzzy hair that dances below the man’s belt line, steeling himself as another sob breaches the air.
This, he can do.
This is the one promise he doesn’t break.
Satoru’s abdomen trembles with a scarce wheeze. He sniffles as quietly as he can, then attempts to clear his throat. “Suguru,” he barks, the strength gone, “Takin’ too long,” his voice is shaky and stuffed with mucus.
Suguru snickers. It catches himself by surprise - stilling the air.
They both freeze.
The air swirls with warmth; for this moment, and just for now, they have all the time in the world.
They break into laughter.
It curls against them, twirling between them, heating the air to its intimate stature. One of Satoru’s hands slap against the mattress as the humor makes him convulse. Suguru feels the vibration across his skin, and then plants a firmer, surer kiss to his happy trail.
Then his mouth ventures further, taking its time, graciously savoring the salty taste. Satoru is still half chewing on his laughter, blood warming up to the first layer of his skin, moving in that animated way Suguru was so dearly acquainted with.
He presses his tongue flat against the man’s hardening erection through the cloth, mindless to the fuzz, so purely focused on Satoru’s pleasure. He kisses it, utterly unafraid to press anywhere - everywhere - they were far from virgins, now.
Suguru had become so intimate, so familiar with Satoru’s body he could nestle between the hearth of the sorcerer’s ribs and know exactly how to contort himself to be comfortable; Suguru kisses Satoru through the cloth from base to tip and gets off just in the way the other squirms.
“Suguru -”
“I know, I know,” endearment drips off his tongue. His pupils have bloated - his heat too, in a way. He unzips Satoru’s pants with his teeth. A well practiced motion, almost engraved in him.
Satoru’s legs make space for him in that same, self assured and practiced motion. Everything is second nature. Everything doubling over, returning to themselves.
They’re a mosaic - what was made of one was made of the other.
Suguru greedily zeros in on the wet spot in Satoru’s boxers, the temptation riddling his gut becoming uncontrollable. He whistles low, shrugging Satoru's pants and boxers down in one go just to the top of his thighs. His palm fits snug against the root of Satoru’s heady cock, thumb scraping up against the underside.
Satoru muffles a noise with one hand, the other scrunches the bed. He's itchy with his impatience, always have been.
Suguru takes his time, letting his mouth fill with saliva before letting it carefully trail off his tongue and onto Satoru’s dick.
Another baited breath. “Suguru, Suguru, c’mon,” he grates his hips up uselessly. A groan travels between them. It’s unclear who it comes from.
Suguru could hum to himself, with this feeling sitting all prettily inside his chest. A smile graces his face, eyes crinkling with it. Satoru doesn’t stop rutting the air. Satoru has never once been patient, in all these years.
Without hesitation, Suguru presses his tongue flat and licks a long and slow wet stripe up Satoru’s cock. The way the sorcerer responds so electrically could make Suguru swoon.
“Su, Suguru -”
Suguru muscles Satoru’s twitching dick down his throat. His technique wasn’t something he usually glorified; on nights like these, Suguru could practically praise it. Swallowing down Satoru, feeling him intrude into his senses, feeling him drip down his throat - it’s something Suguru wasn’t sure how he was going to live without.
Satoru’s moan trembles in the air. Suguru hollows out his cheeks, then quickly returns to the tip to swirl his tongue just to suck him down to the root all at once.
The sound that rips from Satoru’s chest is nothing short of powerful. “Suguru, shit -”
Suguru has memorized every vein at this point. He’s memorized it down to a science, bobbing his head, not bothering to wipe away spit, inhaling through his nose or not at all.
Satoru arches into the heat of Suguru’s mouth helplessly, “Fu -uhn, fuck.” The sounds thicken in the room and then fill up the cavity in Suguru’s chest with pride. Almost giddily, Suguru fingers march up to Satoru’s frenulum, masterfully rubbing everything in between.
He knows Satoru’s close when the man goes silent. He hollows out his cheeks until he’s sure they push into the veins he could make a map out of, and then pulls off with a pop just in time.
Satoru makes a sound close to being punched in the gut. His breath fizzles out like it was caught in his lungs for an unprecedented amount of time, tapping against the air.
Suguru valiantly smacks his lips against the space in between Satoru's thigh, daring to make a mark there too just to test the taut strings of Satoru’s greed. The skin, warm, shivers up against his lips.
“Suguru, that mouth on you,” Satoru groans with his voice wonderfully hoarse and deep. Suguru’s sure the sun breaks in the sky and takes place in between his ribs with the way he glows with spit and pre smeared around his lips, smiling with all his teeth.
His own voice scratches from the abuse - deepthroating Satoru was no small feat - as he pretends to hum in consideration. “Want to finish?” he muses, “I’ll swallow,” he offers easily, lazily pumping warmth up Satoru’s cock. It twitches in his hold.
Then Satoru sits up unsteadily, meeting the other’s face with a strange look of determination. His eyes are red around the rims. His hair is frizzled in the back where he was throwing it into the mattress; Suguru mentally applauds himself.
Satoru’s eyes scan his face, breaking into a slow smile. His thumb comes up to wipe away the spittle-pre at the corner of the other's lips. Suguru pouts, nose scrunching from the onslaught.
The motion is intimate in a way neither will have the time to memorize.
Suguru’s pulse stutters, the way Satoru continues to hold him, fingers curling under his chin, tilting his head up. The man’s eyelashes are fanned out softly, all of him perfectly disheveled in the way that will continue to invade Suguru’s dreams for years to come.
“I want to taste you,” he beckons, then leads their mouths together sweetly, and Suguru comes.
He hums pleasantly into the kiss, how gentle it is. Passing the taste of each other between their tongues, getting lost and hazy in the motion. Soon, Suguru has crawled on top of the other, and they depart in a way that doesn’t disturb the air between them.
His heart flutters, seeing Satoru like this; laid out beneath him, hair fanned out like a halo. Satoru laughs to himself awfully boyishly, pressing a thumb to Suguru's bottom lip.
“Ahh, Suguru,” he purrs, drawing the sorcerer in, intoxicating him until he can do nothing but listen heedily. “You’re all mine, you know?”
A startle runs through Suguru. It tumbles past his mouth humorously, into laughter that pitters similarly to the rain in Tokyo. “All yours,” his heart flutters, swells, and then bursts - right here, all over their skin, sticky with the sweet syrup of blood.
He takes Satoru’s hand and kisses the tips of his fingers, then into the dip of his palm; Down until he's inhaling the skin at the juncture of Satoru’s neck. The man's leftover laughter fades into high and attractive groans as Suguru rolls their hips together. Satoru’s pants are bunched against his ankles, giving him the freedom to open his legs and kick the rest away. He crosses a heel over Suguru’s lower back.
He’s still laughing.
Suguru could cry with how warm he felt, how it simmered in him like a gentle sauna. They roll together again, in time, in the only rhythm they knew, and Satoru’s face pinches - in joy, in ecstasy, in everything and more.
“Al - all mine,” he repeats, airy. Suguru sucks into his neck, Satoru’s other foot comes to cross over the other. He shudders, groaning with the uncharacteristic burden of endurance, “ooh -Sugruu, fuck.” His breath is hot and steady. Suguru feels as though he needed to tear through his own skin to remedy the burn in his gut. He’s been aching, strained against the confines of his pants for what feels like forever - almost painful.
Satoru tears him away from the fog beginning to cloud him - his focus was only, and ever, on Satoru.
“Suguru,” he calls, bringing their closed eyes together, gently, until their foreheads rest.
And Suguru could cry. He could cry - but he wasn’t going to, even if the need trembled through him, even if it scorched his throat and stung his eyes. One of Satoru’s hands continues to play with Suguru’s hair, twirling it absently - the other resting on the side of his face.
“Suguru,” he breathes, warm, “you think we could have married?”
Silently, Suguru loses. He loses and loses with the most dignity he’ll ever have - helpless to the tears running down his cheeks, helpless to the wine in his throat.
“Yes,” and it’s pitiful; their still rutting together like animals, and Suguru still has his pants on and -
“Yes, Satoru,” his voice wobbles and then breaks like glass.
A mosaic.
“You’re the only one for me, after all.”
The smile that spreads across Satoru’s face is something Suguru has never seen before. It’s something that causes wonder and agony to strike him - something that causes his eyes to become so tearful they’re blurry.
It’s achingly soft. It’s woefully pure. It’s wholly Satoru; the very core of him - not the man, or the strongest, or the sorcerer, neither the boy - simply Satoru.
The sunlight that has long settled in Suguru’s chest leaps out of him, into the air, and travels to Satoru. He’s always reaching, always venturing - for Satoru. Everything is always for him, even now, as he ignores the blistering need between his legs.
Always; doing what Satoru couldn’t - wouldn’t do. All for him.
Satoru’s ankles come off his back, allowing Suguru to finally release himself of his pants, immediately coming to get his hands on the man under him. His thumbs circles into Satoru’s hips, caressing the muscle and the bone and welcoming everything in between.
“I’ll show you,” he promises wetly, only the edges of his voice evident of tears, “Let me show you, Satoru.”
Just for tonight. Just for this moment.
One singular night, moment, for Suguru to pour out his devotion until there’s nothing left - to let Satoru carry it with him for eternity even if it means parting with it himself.
Doing what Satoru couldn’t. Doing what Satoru wouldn’t ask of him, even desperate.
Their skin is burning too fiercely, it's singing the air, restless as Suguru carefully throttles the things around on the nightstand to search for the lube. Every moment away is a moment wasted. Suguru is burning with a passion he thought he lost, all those years ago; reinvented, renewed. He kisses Satoru with all the strength he has, bones trembling as Satoru gets hazy between their moaning.
He takes the rhythm of their hearts and uses it to guide his fingers; careful with each thrust, eager all the same.
Beneath him, Satoru twitches and wriggles and moans and gasps; his voice high, low. Soft and sweeping, loud and tantalizing - always begging. Always begging, for Sugruu - for his lover, who will always answer even if it demands everything from him.
“Suguru,” he cries, moans - and he’s fifteen, poking Suguru’s shoulder for a mint - and he’s seventeen, begging Suguru to turn around - and he’s twenty, kissing the breath from his lungs. He’s everything, always everything all at once, to Suguru.
“Fu, fuck - ahn!” Suguru works in a third finger, the sounds squelching, loud, lovely - carelessly and wonderfully free. Satoru’s jaw falls open as Suguru twists his hand and taps the man’s prostate with a purpose.
Satoru’s eyebrows knit together. His head throws back, and he wines beautifully - Suguru kisses the hollow of his throat and feels the vibrations of the moans through his lips, feels the wetness of his eyes slicking up the skin.
Their hearts’ tipping over and bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding; all this time, and never growing cold. Never growing stale.
Not when Satoru’s moans echo off the walls, not when Suguru feels his chest bursting with a light he thought he was forbidden from. Once a fourth finger manages past Satoru’s rim, and the man is loose from his pleasure, Suguru takes back his hand.
His mouth has been salivating since the other burned the block with his cursed energy.
“Satoru,” his voice whining, on the tip of losing his restraint as the head of his neglected cock pressed to Satoru’s rim. Satoru stares up at him, eyes swimming, face glowing a beautiful shade. “Suguru, c’mon,” he crosses his ankles again, using the leverage to get them closer.
“Suguru -”
He guides himself in, face cracking, jaw falling open, eyes shutting closed. They both go silent, moans so heavy they clear the air - then Suguru is working his way in with tiny thrusts, dizzy.
It’s not long, and yet it’s an eternity, before their hips meet.
Satoru’s shuddering up to his shoulder’s, already arching so prettily. He can feel the man pulse around him, “Fu - uuck,” he practically sobs, muscles constricting, convulsing. Suguru hasn’t even moved, and yet Satoru’s eyes are red at the brims, and his head throws back as another needy sounds tears from him.
Suguru loses a battle within himself despite the steadying breaths he’s taking. He grips Satoru’s hips, using the leverage to pull back and snap them together with a desperate kind of haste. He can’t get a hold of himself, cock pulsing, trapped inside Satoru’s heat - hips moving on their own.
He’s sure he trembles with the groan that comes from his lips. “Satoru,” he hisses, then pulls the man’s hips greedily onto his thighs, leaning over him. His head dips to kiss the open corner of Satoru’s mouth, then licks into it like a dog.
“Satoru - fuck, oh,” he’s sure he’s going to fall apart. Come undone prematurely.
Satoru, who hasn’t said a thing, suddenly resurrects as a devastating scream begins to rip from his throat. Suguru’s head floods with everything. Everything; then, now, never.
The rhythm in which he can’t control is brutal, nudging Satoru up just to be tugged down.
The man, beautiful, divine, an angel - begins to weep. Eyebrows knitting together, lips stuttering, eyes fighting to stay open. Suguru is thrusting with reckless abandon; lips smattering Satoru with curses and prayer and kisses.
The strongest shakily reaches across to thread his fingers through the back of Suguru’s hair. They stare into each other, through each other; the air halts. The words that go unsaid - the words that they will never be able to be said - crescendo between them.
It’s the crowning of a wave at the beach of Okinawa. It’s the beams of sunlight bouncing off the pane of their classroom window. It’s the fallen petals of the Orange Osmanthus tree by the vending machine, it’s the color of the Tokyo sky right before it begins to rain - it’s everything.
It’s everything.
With a bite of a groan, Suguru goes lightheaded - Satoru spills, untouched, across their stomachs. He faintly hears the man’s melody flood the air over the ringing in his ears. His soul sucks into itself, breath so sharp it’s dangerous - hips stuttering, Satoru mewling - he shoves himself to the hilt, cumming hard enough to feel the blood coursing through him.
Their chests heave. Their breathing, labored, sticky, flips and turns as they swallow and gasp.
Time screeches around them like failed brakes.
Suguru’s fifteen. His eyes land on a boy across the classroom, the only boy in the classroom, and his nose wrinkles at how closely cropped his hair is.
The breeze filters through the open window they’ll never close, and Satoru, panting, pushes Suguru flat onto his back. He jerks himself as he builds a rhythm with his thighs until Suguru’s numb, until they're moving together breathlessly.
Suguru’s fifteen. He tells himself that he carries the mint in his pocket to freshen his mouth after the taste of curses. It’s always already empty when the time comes.
Satoru rolls his hips sinfully, murmuring holy words to the air like a chant. Suguru feels himself come apart. Suguru feels Satoru follow.
But then he’s sixteen - and he buys two sodas at the vending machine without meaning to.
And then Satoru’s on his stomach, back arched, moaning and twisting into the pillow; and Suguru is pounding into him, the cum on their reddened thighs frothing together. The strongest's back muscles, useless, ripple with power. Suguru presses a kiss in between his shoulder blades.
And then he’s seventeen. He’s seventeen, and he betrays himself, and doesn’t turn around. He betrays himself - and turns around, always chasing Satoru, always nipping at the shadow on his heels.
And then he’s eighteen. Eighteen, tussling back his daughters’ hair with a soft brush, telling them a bedtime story about a boy who could fly - about a boy who could laugh and shake the ceiling, and the sky, and then above.
And then he’s twenty, and when Satoru shows up, he lets him in. And when Satoru kisses him, he kisses back.
And then he’s twenty-two; and this is the last they’ll see of each other.
Suguru wipes Satoru down with careful hands. Kissing every spot that’s still red and inflamed, mouthing every inch of his fair skin that isn’t.
They stay together on a bare mattress, the silk sheets far more than ruined. It creaks whenever they move.
They haven’t said a word.
But when Satoru pulls Suguru close to him, he goes, willingly. When Satoru beckons him he comes - that’s how it’s always worked. That’s how it was supposed to always be.
His fingers card through the strongest’s soft hair, mesmerized by how far it’s grown since they were young and foolish.
-
He waits until Satoru’s asleep. Waits until Satoru’s chest is rising and falling with a serenity Suguru could only smile at.
Then, using the skills of a special grade, he climbs out of bed without stirring him.
He dresses in the middle of the room. He stands, feeling the dead of night encroach him through the window. He stands, and he breathes, and he begs to leave - just one more time - to do what the other couldn’t, wouldn’t, just once more.
Because Suguru loved Satoru enough to stain his hands in blood. He loved him enough to burn up on the inside, to take tinder into his mouth, set it alight and then swallow the ash.
He loves him enough to not stand idly as Satoru does the same - too lovelorn to pretend like he doesn’t see the smoke leading out from the gaps of Satoru’s teeth every time he smiles.
Still, he sits back on the mattress and latches onto the way Satoru breathed.
He looks at his hands. Then, he looks to Satoru, sleeping peacefully. Peace is never something he has known; but if he can give it to Satoru - even if it demands everything from him - he’ll do so, and he’ll only be glad.
Still, the air is stagnant.
Suguru licks open the seam of his mouth to get it warm enough to speak, whispering to himself, and then the other.
“..Marriage, huh?”
Quietly, discreetly, he allows himself to imagine what it could have been like. What they could have been like, before everything. It's a hard picture to imagine. It's hard to imagine them as anything then what they are, in a way that he's protective over. He wouldn't have it any other way. It's a fierce realization. Suguru holds his face in his hands, feeling anxiety skirt closely by. He swallows. He can feel time tick in his ear.
Suguru's shadow falls across Satoru once more. He leans down, and brushes back the hair that has fallen across Satoru’s face with a thumb.
He pours out all he has in a single kiss. He tips over the glass of his soul, and allows it to pour all over Satoru - his final act of devotion, his final act of love.
Carefully, so quiet only the air rubs together, Suguru whispers with the droplets that still cling to the glass. He whispers, and he sets himself alight.
A binding vow, maybe. But if anything - he wanted Satoru to be the one to do him in, in the end.
There’d be a point to that. To curse him one last time.
So it’s not a binding vow - but it does bind them together, in a strange fashion, in a childish, foolish way.
And so he vows.
“For a chance to bask in your sunlight, even if it means you’ll burn me;”
It floods through him, the memories, the other, and himself.
“For a chance to be swept by your tides, even if it means you’ll drown me;”
They're fifteen. Their shoes are scuffed. They're Sixteen, together, and seventeen, apart.
“For the chance to be yours, even if it kills me.”
He seals the promise close with the fragile press of his mouth against Satoru’s forehead, heart hitching when Satoru hums gratefully in his sleep.
He stands in the middle of the room. He folds Satoru’s clothes for him one last time. He takes the book he'll never open again and then pockets Satoru's button like its coin; something he'll present to the grim reaper guarding the ferry in the afterlife - not to get in to heaven - but to prove that he's already been there. The curtain shifts in the wind. Suguru shifts his back to Satoru and faces the door.
This is the once promise he’ll never break.
He betrays himself, and lingers, catching one last glance, pained.
And then he betrays himself; takes one last breath, and leaves.
-
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