Work Text:
The unfortunate fact is that he recognizes who it must be immediately.
[Unknown number, sent 13:41] : If you are free, meet me in Hinohara tonight, Satoru.
The perfect grammar, the formal pleasantry. If you are free. As if they both don’t know that Satoru is never free, maybe has never been free. Curses pile up, internationally, he has to deal with them and come home to teach the first years and try to find the security to sleep.
He sleeps mostly in Shoko’s apartment now, in her spare room, if he ever needs to at all. He used to have a real bed and a real room. Now his old dorm belongs to a third year student and his new sensei quarters is basically a glorified office. He’d rather be near Shoko anyway, if by some sheer stupid statistic he finds himself stabbed again. He isn’t sure it would even hurt him this time, but it is good to have her close if it were to.
Anyway, if he were free, which he never is, this text is presumptuous. That he even wants to meet the sender for anything at all. That he even has the same phone number that he did months ago. That he can stomach being called his name over text, the first name only, as done by only one singular person in Satoru’s life. Called him that, made it seem like it mattered, then left him in the dust and silence, whiplashed.
Megumi is looking at him oddly, his sharp eyes, “Gojo. Get off your phone.”
As if Satoru’s stomach hadn’t just dropped through his body to his knees. As if this isn’t the first contact they have had since . . . Since Suguru left him standing in a moving wave of strangers.
Satoru flips his phone closed and puts it back into his pocket, stares into the sun for two seconds until the Six Eyes screech in his head and everything around him gets a dullness that makes it easier. He tries to smile, “You are too eager Megumi, I think that is enough for today.”
Megumi pouts, glares, crosses his arms, “I hate when you do this.” He announces, then stalks off from their place sparing in the grass to head inside.
Satoru stands frozen for a few moments. He allows the thought to wash over him, actually going to meet Suguru in fucking Hinohara. He doesn’t even have to ask where, he knows where Suguru will be. Against the creek with the curved bridge, the broken down ledges of worn stairs. The place where they beat their first curse together years ago. How many, five, six? It feels like a lifetime.
The heat of the sun beams onto his face, drawing nothing when he should sweat, and Satoru’s hands tremble as he pulls out his phone again. Stares at the message. Confirms it isn’t some fucked up vision he’s imagining.
The vision that’s been dancing behind his eyes every night that Satoru does sleep a few hours, the years of them fearlessly, recklessly young and together. The dreams only char him, turn his thoughts inside out. He wakes thinking that Suguru was running his hands through his undercut, rubbing his temples, soothing his migraine. He wakes thinking that Suguru must be making breakfast because he can smell eggs. He wakes thinking that they somehow navigated everything unscathed, to get an apartment with cheap chairs and bookcases, with an old couch and one mattress large enough to house them both in comfort. Satoru wakes and realizes, slowly and quietly, that nothing is now as it was then.
Shoko can see it, he thinks, the devastation on his face before he can school it into nonchalance again. He can’t talk about it, not really, because Shoko is his friend and he adores her deeply, but . . . Suguru was like his other half. So when she says, “You can talk to me. He was my friend too.” Satoru nods but he knows he won’t. Guilty as it makes him feel, he internally is insistent that it isn’t the same, isn’t comparable.
He wants to tell her how Suguru has a mole on his ribs, under his left arm, wants to tell her that if she remembers this mole that maybe what they are feeling is comparable, but he knows she can’t so it isn’t.
He doesn’t tell Shoko about the text. He doesn’t tell anyone. He sits in the darkness of his office and he tells himself the entire thing is too stupid to entertain. He looks at the blank wall he always meant to hang something up on. He thinks and thinks and thinks. He thinks of how he can almost hear Suguru’s voice saying his message if he thinks hard enough.
If you are free, meet me in Hinohara tonight, Satoru. What a fucking prick. Fucking egotistical asshole. As if Satoru should even care now, after the way he walked out. After Suguru left him raw and angry and terrified on the sidewalk.
Suguru surely knows that Satoru has been ordered to kill him, on sight if needed. And now he’s volunteering where he’ll be tonight? Who’s to say that Satoru doesn’t go meet him to finish him off? Is Suguru really so full of shit to think he can win?
It doesn’t matter, because Satoru is not going. It could be bait maybe, or part of some kind of plot by the higher ups. It sounds so scammy too, no hello, no this is. Like this is some shady drug deal that Satoru is being expected to engage in just because, what? Some unknown number said his name?
(He knows. It is Suguru. It’s easier to hide.)
Satoru decides two hours later, with shaking hands, that this is bullshit and he’s not going. He won’t say anything to anyone, there’s no one that he trusts here to tell other than Shoko, maybe Nanami on the right day, but they both know him, they both know how things between them were left. They both know that Satoru will have to resist his instinct to chase until the sun sets and rises tomorrow.
They will take his phone. They will try to track the number. They will keep it a secret if he begs, he knows this to be true, but they won’t let him hurt himself for Suguru anymore.
Satoru should tell, should call Shoko right now and have her put him into mini house arrest to keep him from doing something stupid, so fucking stupid, like going. If he tells her, he won’t go. Suguru will wait under the bridge with whatever bullshit he wants to throw this time until he gives up and fucks off to wherever he’s staying now. It’s guaranteed, if he tells, that he won’t go.
But he’s been sitting in the office for hours now, and he can’t find it in himself to make the right choice.
That was always the fucking problem anyway, Satoru has no direction, too much impulse, too short fused and too reckless. Suguru steadied him, gave him moral compass, gave him a path to follow that he could trust, because Suguru has never once tried to use him for anything self serving. It was Suguru who cared about humans, children, the elderly, doing the right thing, being patient . . . Fuck.
If Suguru were here, sitting next to him on the desk, head tilted in contemplation, eyes sharp, he would tell Satoru that this whole thing sounds like bullshit.
But he’s not here. And without him, Satoru is not very smart.
Satoru arrives a ways away from the bridge to assess if he’s being ambushed.
Dusk is a soft yellow in the trees now, almost like a fog as it cuts through in stripes, dark and light. The crickets croon white noise around him, buzzing and humming. He can hear distantly, cars on the small road winding through the woods. He follows the road, both hands in his pockets. It seems like there’s not many living things nearby that the Six Eyes can detect, small rabbits and deer hiding among the trees.
Satoru presses, focuses, reaches out for it, any cursed energy at all . . . And, well, his fingers tighten in his pockets as a familiar feeling washes over him.
Suguru’s cursed energy. Unmistakable. Voluntary, as if he is letting it flow off of him without trying to hide.
Satoru takes a breath as he walks. Okay, no ambush then.
Fuck, it’s getting stronger, as he gets closer. Suguru’s cursed energy, like a black ocean at night, crashing on the sand, like an evening storm, steady and terrifying. Unknowable and resilient. His energy feels like a blanket over Satoru’s head watching a horror movie, like a wild tiger prowling the length of a fence, like a hot black tea, a well balanced weapon, a powerful secret. Familiar, in every way.
Satoru wants to pull his hair out. Because he knows now, based on the distance, that Suguru can sense him too.
Satoru demanded once, to know what his own cursed energy felt like, what sort of sensations he emitted.
“You have already been told, Satoru,” Suguru said, looking at his book, shoulders and knees wide on the couch, “Limitless and Six Eyes are bordering divine.”
Satoru pouted, flopped his head back over the armrest of the couch, upside down, “They just say that because they’re scared.”
Suguru hummed. Not as engaged as Satoru would have liked. And he usually handled his emotions pretty maturely. Satoru kicked the book out of Suguru’s hands, and it toppled to the floor.
Suguru glared at him, grabbing his ankle, “I lost my place.”
“Give me attention and I won’t have to do that.” Satoru said back.
Suguru sighed long sufferingly, “You want to know how your cursed energy feels?”
Satoru nodded, grinning.
His head settled back against the couch, facing the ceiling with his eyes closed.
“Hurry up.” Satoru ordered, wiggling his foot still in Suguru’s lap.
“I’m thinking.” Suguru murmured calmly. Then, “Feels like a nuclear bomb, a firework or something. Like spontaneous combustion, like burning. A star maybe, or a black hole.”
Satoru sat up a little, no one had ever given him that sort of description. They had all just told him he was god-like and intense and possibly insane, “Oh.” He said, “Is it like . . . Scary?”
He knew Suguru would understand what he meant, not scary in a hurtful way, just too much. Or like, a lot. Like a big dog bearing its teeth, knowing that if something wanted to hurt you, it would, it could. Doubtless power and absolute strength to carry out whatever he decided. Everyone looked at him that way, for as long as he can recall, like he was a bomb ready to go off and no one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.
Suguru’s face tilted to look at him, dark eyes examining the meaning behind the simplicity of his word choice. Am I a lot to deal with? And then Suguru just shrugged, like it made no difference whether Satoru was human or sorcerer or god himself.
Satoru was too distracted then with relief, at his power almost not mattering, to tell Suguru what he felt like in return. Like level scale, like morning fog, like fresh mint, like a Thursday evening inside, like a king, always fierce and loyal and steady. Satoru thinks if Suguru was in charge of the world, things would be better. If Suguru had Six Eyes and Limitless and Infinity, the world would already be orderly and just.
He has to force himself to remember that Suguru can no longer be trusted with the power that Satoru has been willing to give him.
But what does it matter, really, when Satoru hasn’t earned it either?
It’s not quite chilly yet, but Satoru feels his arms on edge regardless, little pin prick feelings of his hair standing up. He knows no one is here but Suguru, can still sense it. The bridge is echoing in his vision now, over the meandering creek that runs under it. He knows where Suguru is, the old concrete stairs that run down the side of the ridge and down to the water, under the bridge, in the dimness. He can hear the water as it dances, can hear the patterned breathing of Suguru’s lungs, the steady pump of his heart. Satoru breaths, stares at his feet as he walks down the stairs. He can’t look, not yet.
At the bottom, under the bridge, the light is blue now, catching on Suguru’s long, dark hair as he stands in the shadows created by the bridge and the trees.
“Satoru.” He says.
Satoru’s throat closes, his breathing goes shallow. He should kill him, that’s what his brain is chanting. Off guard, alone, vulnerable. Satoru can win now, could win, even if Suguru is expecting it, even if there’s something he’s missing.
Suguru is dressed in all black, not his old uniform, but something close, wide pants, a form fitting jacket that shows off his shoulders. His hair is half pulled back, away from his face all but the stubborn piece that falls against his brow and temple. His face looks pale, like it did in the months leading up to everything, when he looked exhausted and worn and Satoru couldn’t fucking reach him because he was being held at arms length.
Excluded from Suguru’s mind, his feelings, his plan, separated from him in every way that mattered.
“Fuck you.” Satoru seethes, breathless, and he means it. Because this is all Suguru’s fault really, acting like a martyr, acting all holy, when they could’ve fixed everything together. They could’ve killed anyone they wanted, they could’ve changed anything they decided. Suguru as the compass, Satoru as the sword.
Suguru takes a step towards him and Satoru reacts because his best friend is capable of things that he thought between them, that Satoru would be the one doing. His fingers together, reflexive and sickening, to what? Kill Suguru where he stands, under the bridge where they became an evenly balanced unit?
“Fuck you.” Satoru repeats, voice cracking, this time a warning more than a threat. Suguru called his bluff last time, when Satoru raised his hands to fight, but that was before being left, before he knew that everything Suguru did was real with certainty.
His dark eyes are usually more steady than expressive, but Satoru witnesses the sadness and longing shine through, the regret, for what he does not know.
“I understand you have a right to be upset with me, I won’t try to change your mind,” Suguru says, voice small but practiced, like he’s been deciding what to say, “But I would just like to talk to you as openly as I can. If you still want to blast me after . . ,” He smiles sadly, “Then I suppose we will deal with that problem as it comes.”
There are fireflies glittering in the bush behind Suguru, against his shadow, beaconing for someone to answer. Navigating in the most instinctual way they know how, together, patterned, even and close. Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.
“Fine. Talk.” Satoru says. His stomach is hollow, his mind is a mess.
Suguru sits down, crosses his legs on the flat pavement, legs only a few inches from the running water. He looks up at Satoru expectantly, testing. His lashes are dark, eyes even darker, soft in the shadows. His hair shines a bit, in the last shreds of daylight, looking silky and better taken care of than it had a few months ago.
The worst part is that it’s familiar and natural, that instinct takes over, that when Suguru wants Satoru to sit next to him, he does. Patterned, predictable, call and response.
They sit in silence, loaded and heavy. Satoru doesn’t currently trust his voice for anything at all so it will be up to Suguru to spit out whatever the hell he wants Satoru here for.
Satoru glares at their knees, their hands on the pavement, the stream, violet and navy in the dark. A car passes over them, the noise that comes and goes over their heads before Suguru speaks gently.
“I’m in love with you Satoru.”
His heart clenches, his body locks up, his Limitless ignites like a match on gasoline, he’s up and moving before he can register it, Suguru’s back is slammed on to the concrete of the underpass and held there as Infinity extends, pressing his body, squeezing him, ribs, hips, thighs, face, fuck him, fuck this, fuck you, fuck—
Suguru’s face is twisted to the side, cheek against uneven rock. Satoru could kill him, this isn’t his friend, this isn’t the person he trusted to never be cruel no matter the cards in his hand, otherwise he wouldn’t be doing this.
“How fucking dare you.” Satoru says, deadly with anger, his eyes are burning and his face feels hot, “I’ll kill you.”
Suguru has the ego to not even look surprised or afraid. Like he expected this.
Satoru grasps his hair with one hand, presses his face to the concrete even harder, “You’re a sick fuck.” He gasps, his palm is over Suguru’s gauges. If he opened Purple just an inch now, it would penetrate Suguru’s skull. He could do it, he should do it, Suguru has never been so cruel to anyone as he has just now, never intended more deadly force than such simple words.
“It’s okay. You can be angry.” He says, his voice isn’t quite right, like he can’t breathe with the way Satoru’s barrier is pressing his chest. No one ever used to touch him beyond Infinity but Suguru.
“Fuck you.” Satoru rasps, his voice doesn’t sound right either, his chest is collapsing with panic, “You ruined everything, you know that? You ruined it all.”
Suguru’s dark eyes are wide, maybe a little afraid now, “I know, I know Satoru.”
“No you don’t!” Satoru yells, voice breaking, “You have no idea what the hell you’ve put me through. Picking up the fucking pieces, cleaning up your messes. And you think you c-can—” He heaves a breath, fingers squeezing on Suguru’s entire head, other hand pointed and shaking, “Can fuck with me like this? Haven’t you had enough? How small do you think you can get away with making me feel before I blow a fucking hole through you??”
Suguru gasps, trying to take a breath in, “Not much more then, it seems.” Sardonic, casual, objective. So like Suguru, the fucking asshole.
Purple ignites, sparkles under the canopy of the trees, lights up their faces from his fingertips.
“I’m telling you the t-truth, Satoru,” His voice is weak and croaking now, tears welling in his eyes from lack of oxygen, “I was wrong.”
“Give me one good reason why I don’t kill you right now.” Satoru orders. Last chance. He’s so done, with the bullshit and the lying and the being hurt.
“Remember the night on the roof?” His voice is hoarse now, so very weak, but his eyes are desperate.
Of course Satoru fucking remembers. Everything with Suguru has left him branded beyond repair. They were sneaking shots of some terrible liquor, sixteen and invincible, staring at the stars in the summer air. Satoru remembers falling into Suguru’s arms without Infinity on, giggling into his shoulder at nothing at all, breathing him in and feeling so stupidly, naively safe.
“And you—,” Suguru hisses, “Came to sleep in my bed? I wanted to tell you then.”
Satoru remembers how solemnly Suguru had stared at him, how serious he seemed about sharing a bed. Until Satoru pouted and complained, clung to him and asked why Suguru was being so mean. He remembers the way Suguru gave in, like he always has, and curled into the blankets with him. He remembers the feeling on his face of Suguru’s cotton sleep shirt, and then the hammering hangover in the morning. That was years ago, four if he’s trying to estimate, before they were really and truly the strongest together.
Before Suguru left, before Satoru became more god than man.
A shining tear trails down his nose, against his sharp cheekbones, “I wanted to tell you, I-I thought I had time, I kept thinking I had time—.”
Purple dims, leaves them in darkness. Satoru lets him breathe.
Satoru pulls his glasses off to wipe his face, pressing his palms into his wet, stinging eyes. This is bullshit. This is what Suguru wanted him here for? To scoop his heart out and stomp on it one more time for good measure. To kick him down until the fight drains out of him. To make him doubt, to make him think maybe, when it’s already too late, it’s too late for all this. It’s been too late since they buried Riko, the grave too small, wounds on their bodies still fresh. Toji Fushiguro murdered them both, ripped the floor out from beneath their feet, took away autonomy, took away maybe, took away time. Satoru tries to think, beyond himself, if Suguru could possibly wish that they had stopped dancing around it before it was far too late to confront it at all.
“You know that—,” Satoru starts, as Suguru leans over and catches his breath in big, loud heaves, “That it’s too late.”
Suguru nods, his hair mused, hand on his chest, “I thought it was too. But . . .” He sees Satoru’s eyes now, for the first time since that stupid fight, sees the redness and the tear tracks and the restless sleep. Satoru thinks maybe he can see the last months of his life when they look at each other. His expression transforms into something familiar, like the exact moment he used to realize Satoru’s migraine was getting bad, the sharpness on his features softens, “I’m so sorry Satoru.”
He wants to be angry, he scrambles for it, but it sinks through his hands like sand. Satoru crumbles inwards, his eyes blur and the pressure in his head pounds. He can feel his lip trembling as he cries, and he bites it hard to prevent the sob from crawling out like it wants to.
“Hey,” Suguru whispers, his voice soft and gentle and everything Satoru has never needed but always wanted, “Don’t cry.”
He can’t see with his eyes anymore, burning and squeezed tight, but the Six Eyes show him the way that Suguru tilts his hand toward him, hesitating. Not wanting to spook him. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull back or push forward. Satoru only stands there, hands over his face, as Suguru’s hand settles on his shoulder.
Shoulder, then collar, then neck, then slowly, tenderly, his cheek. Fingers and palm over his own, just as he remembered them, sturdy and warm. Satoru feels his body sag with a tension cut loose that he’s been carrying for god only knows how long.
“I would never lie to you about that Satoru, you know I would never do that.” Suguru murmurs.
Satoru sobers a bit, tears pausing. He sniffles and looks up at him again in the darkness, “I don’t know what you’re capable of anymore.”
Suguru doesn’t remove his hand, but his brows pinch, “That’s fair. Will you let me explain?”
He wipes his face with his sleeve and Suguru’s hand falls back to his side, “You should’ve told me before.” Satoru says flatly.
He sighs, hand coming up to his hair, twisting the stray piece away and fiddling with his own ear like he always used to do when he was nervous, “I agree with you. But I can’t take it back now. I deserve however angry you are with me, I just want to tell you why.” Suguru looks up, tenderness in his gaze, “Because I think you may have more sympathy if you hear my reasons.”
Satoru wonders if there’s anything he could say to undo these past months of hurt, even the months before as he pulled away. But he sits down again, further now, wipes his face and tries to mentally prepare himself to not argue.
Suguru is quiet for a moment, as he sits again and sighs deeply, “You know that I never liked the way the higher ups treated you, the Gojo clan, everyone else, it was just . . ,” He shakes his head, rubbing a thumb on his knuckles, “Too much. The stronger you got, the more everyone would talk about you like you were not even capable of being human, like you had no autonomy or emotion or morality.”
Satoru feels stoney cold, and remains silent.
“And I realized that I was not okay with you killing,” Suguru stares at him, piercing and honest, “Not because you weren’t capable of doing it, but because I thought it wasn’t fair to ask. You didn’t ask for any of this, to-to—,” He waves his hand dismissively, sounding distraught, “Be a weapon more than a person. To be pointed like a dog every time they want something terrible to be done.”
Satoru’s lip trembles. It’s fine, don’t worry over me idiot, he wants to say. But Suguru knows him better than anyone, knows the toll that being the Strongest takes, mentally, physically, emotionally. It’s impossible to pretend that Limitless and Six Eyes and Infinity aren’t a burden as well as a gift.
Suguru looks at the water, frowning deeply, “I was sick watching you get your hands dirty, ruin yourself for the betterment of people who dehumanized you.” His voice is steady, quiet, “And I just kept thinking, couldn’t you and I do better? Couldn’t you and I reset this broken system?”
Satoru nods. He knows, they talked about it, indirectly, mostly passed as humorous and unrealistic.
“But the problem was that to enact our own rules, would’ve done the very thing I wanted to remove you from, to have you kill the higher ups, clan leaders, curses, people that only you could’ve handled.” He takes a long breath, “For a while, I thought maybe I should have you do it, maybe it was a reasonable trade off, to ask it of you so that it wouldn’t be asked again . . ,” Suguru swallows hard, tone uneven, “And I got so sick with myself, realizing that I just wanted to use you, like everyone else.”
For a long time, they are both silent. The crickets are louder in the evening now, the fireflies are dancing slow patterns all around, across the gentle water, through the chilly air.
Satoru stares at his best friend as he looks at the water. Suguru’s eyes are unfocused and lost, like they were for months leading up to this whole shitshow, his high cheek bones, his dark gaze.
A firefly lands gently on Suguru’s clothed forearm, on his black jacket, and sparkles, once, twice, three times. They stare at it, hypnotizing as things so simple usually are. Suguru holds his finger out, the bug crawls on, and he holds his hand out to let the firefly take flight again. Satoru swallows the lump in his throat. It lodges in his ribs something deep, something sharp and all consuming. That is always who he has known Suguru to be, careful, protective, gentle.
“Suguru.” He says, weakly. He means to follow it. Or maybe he doesn’t, maybe his name is an admission, a confession, and a plea.
He looks over, every single angle of him still so tender and familiar, his face is wide open, shot through, tormented looking as Satoru feels. Satoru nearly demands he look away, despite calling his name, because he isn’t sure he can take this and still go home whole.
“I wanted you to be safe and be happy,” Suguru suddenly rushes, urgent, eyes desperate, “That’s all I wanted, to make things better for you and I wanted to dirty my hands for you so that you could be free of it, I wanted to be your weapon, your soldier, your loyal dog. I needed—,” He empathizes, “To be someone who was lightening your load, rather than burdening it.”
Satoru feels hot tears in his eyes again, distraught more than angry now, “I didn’t ask you to do that.” He whispers, “I just wanted you with me.”
“I know, I know Satoru,” He says, gaze so soft and anguished, “I knew it then too, I’m just so . . ,” His eyebrows pinch, “Prideful. I thought I could decide what was best, I thought I could earn your trust back when you could finally see that I did so much of it for you, but I’ve only made us both miserable.”
Satoru’s vision is making Suguru look like a soft, blurred painting, quietly sobbing, “You misguided asshole.” He croaks. For the first time, Suguru seems to sort of smile, something hesitant at the corner of his mouth. Satoru finds his hiccups subsiding, “Don’t laugh, you bitch.”
He does fully smile, soft and sweet, “Do you understand more now?”
“God, you’re a prick.” Satoru says, then wraps him in a tight hug. It’s steadying with how shaky he currently feels, to hug Suguru while they sit on the uncomfortable concrete. Satoru’s arms around his neck and shoulders, forcing him close. Suguru’s warmth twists around his back, his hands on Satoru’s spine, more aggressive than any of his words have been. The hold feels like Suguru is scared to let go, like he needs more, like he has missed Satoru’s heat just as much. It’s not casual, or nonchalant, or unbothered, it’s the opposite in every way.
For a few minutes, they only cling.
Then Suguru goes and ruins everything, efficiently and effectively, in only one sentence, whispering against his temple, “Satoru, will you run away with me?”
He jerks back, stomach sinking, breath quickening again, “Are you serious?” He asks incredulously.
Suguru’s expression already makes it clear how serious he is, “Yes.” He says anyway, just to twist the knife.
Satoru puts a hand over his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose, taking a violent, sweeping breath. He thinks of the school, of the kids, of the clans, of Megumi. There’s over thirty million people in Tokyo that rely on him in some way, eight billion people on the earth who could need him at any time. The burden of it is so abstract, the quantity so high, that it is unfathomable that Satoru could ever consider abandoning his post.
Does a god consider stepping away?
“I can’t.” Satoru says, simple. Because Suguru already knows this. Suguru already knows how Riko’s small, heavy body haunts his dreams.
“Yes you can, you can come with me. I got a place in south Chichibu, for me and the twin girls,” His face twists, “I’m sure they told you I adopted two sorcerers, Mimiko and Nanako, they just turned seven years old.”
Satoru shakes his head, squinting, “Don’t tell me where you’re staying.” He orders. Seriously, this guy acts like he’s not divulging personal information to his biggest threat.
Suguru sighs, hand pushing his hair away from his face, “I don’t mind if you know, I want you to come with me. It’s a small apartment, so you’d have to be okay with you and me sharing a room,” He looks down, “I’m not sure how you’d feel about it since I told you I love you, but if we need to find you a place close by, I’m sure—.”
“Suguru,” Satoru interrupts unsteadily, frowning, “I can’t. You know I can’t.” How could Suguru ever consider something so impulsive and unwise? How did Satoru become the voice of reason?
Gracelessly, Satoru thinks of Megumi and Tsumiki, dark hair, dark eyes. Both young and alone. Satoru remembers the world at that age filtered through adult conversations about his abilities, loud whispers about who he would be, ways he needed to be trained. Now he sees Tsumiki cooking her brother breakfast, frying eggs in a hot, greased pan and he wonders if the world will ever be safe enough for them. Satoru Gojo wonders if he could ever make a place safe enough for those he loves to be able to rest without fear that the world will be burning when he opens his eyes.
“You left me, and now I have to come?” He demands as fresh tears somehow pool again. He hasn’t cried this much in years, since the clan used to test his pain tolerance. He points his finger into Suguru’s chest, “No. You fucked up. You come home.”
Suguru’s face breaks, more afraid now than half an hour ago when Satoru was strangling him, dark hesitancy swirls in his eyes, “You know I’m . . ,” He breathes deep but doesn’t look away, “Satoru, you know I killed those people.”
He grits his teeth, twisting his index finger harder, “Oh, and that’s just all my fault, isn’t it?” He swallows hard, “What the fuck, Suguru?”
Suguru whispers in the dark, “You don’t want to come with me?”
Satoru makes a choked off sound, a gasp and a scoff, “Fuck off, you know it’s not that fucking simple. How can you even ask me that as if you aren’t the person that taught me how to give a shit about all this?” He rubs his eyes, “I have people that need me, students, kids, Suguru, not everything is about us. If you want . . .”
He looks Suguru in the eyes, handsome as ever. He means what he says.
“If you want to be near me, you’ll have to come home.”
And there it is, stalemate, standoff. Lose-lose.
Suguru has his girls, he knows, he probably braids their hair at night to protect it. He probably reads to them before bed. He probably feeds them their favorite sweets but makes sure they eat all their vegetables. He probably takes them to the beach like they did with Amanai Riko months ago now, down to Okinawa in the sun. Satoru wonders who plays with them in the water, since it was always himself playing with the girls. Suguru is a good caretaker, always been more paternal, he would make a good father.
Come home. It’s too late now, because Suguru has made a home without Satoru in it.
Suguru hugs him again, tightly, the same way as before, hands on his back. The embrace is a touch desperate again, like it will be the last time. Satoru can feel it in his shoulders and chest and hands, his breathing, that Suguru means this to be finality.
Outside, surrounded by strangers and in denial, he couldn’t feel the grief of it truly hit him like it does now. It turns his ribcage inside out, this feeling, to be present and future now. He feels how he will feel three months from now, when he wakes up in Shoko’s chilly apartment and he feels like life has carved its ugly scar on his chest, straight through the center. He feels how he will feel ten years from now, when he has to fight and win against the king of curses for everyone he has ever loved. He feels how he will feel in a hundred and twenty years, when his body gets to rest in soft soil that he can feel, after being a tool for love and balance as long as his lungs were full, but lived without the embrace that made him feel safe and whole like this one does.
Suguru is murmuring something comforting, unidentifiable over the crickets and the stream. His thumb is caressing at Satoru’s temple, soothing the migraine already pounding in his ears. This is not enough, it will never be enough. They could stay like this until their bones rotted through and Satoru would still crave more.
“Come home.” Satoru sobs it against his shoulder without pretense.
Suguru’s surrounding him, arms and hands, taking up space to make him feel secure, “Okay, okay.” He whispers softly, “Okay.” He takes it as mindless comforting, attempting to soothe his breathless reaction, then Suguru says, “We have to take care of the girls, maybe they can stay somewhere else.”
Satoru jerks back, stares at him with wide eyes and open mouth. Suguru only stares back, tender and genuine in the darkness, eyes shiny. One hand still on his back, warm in the chilly air.
“I worry about what will happen if they’re connected to me, so we have to keep them safe.” Suguru explains, his voice eerily steady.
“What the fuck.” Satoru is unable to stop himself.
He raises one eyebrow questioningly, head tilting, “You don’t think the higher ups would freak out if I keep the girls with me?”
Satoru puts his head in his hands. What the fuck? “I didn’t think you’d just . . . Agree. To come back.” He admits, peeking back up at his friend’s face.
Suguru’s confused expression remains. The night has gotten too deep now, the crickets and the fireflies resting after an eventful performance. It isn’t silent, only quieter, the main sound being the stream tinkling like a windchime, “It’s not what I would choose, but I’d do it if necessary.” He responds, tone low but without hesitation.
Satoru feels his ribs tighten, “You’d really come back?”
Something about the question brings on a look of devastation in Suguru’s gaze. He swallows hard, and just nods.
“I have . . ,” Satoru’s jaw feels tense, “I don’t have a dorm anymore but I have an apartment I’m paying for, for two kids, about the girls’ age . . . I could find you a place in the same building.”
Suguru raises both eyebrows, a smile tugging his mouth again, “You’re doing charity cases now?”
Satoru scoffs, rolls his eyes, “And who would be to blame for my generous heart?” Suguru has no recognition on his face, “Shit, you, Suguru. I didn’t give a fuck before.”
He hums in acknowledgment, slow and gentle, “I don’t know Satoru, I think your heart has always been more generous than mine.” He looks at his hands, Satoru’s eyes, “The fact that you even came here is example enough.”
His chest expands, his own hands tremble at the statement, “Whatever, you text like such an asshole. Paying extra for every single character of pretentiousness.”
Suguru’s mouth twists into that self righteous little smirk, pleased and correct about every damn thing. He’s staring at Satoru’s mouth openly, “It got you here, didn’t it?”
“I can leave.” Satoru smarts back, pushing on Suguru’s chest with an open hand. Like they used to do, play fight as an excuse for young men to touch each other like this. It’s the most normal interaction they’ve had since maybe . . . Last year? Before everything was fucked.
Suguru grabs his shoulder in retaliation, gripping at his bicep, holding him there at arm’s distant apart. It doesn’t feel like a chasm anymore, “So if I call you tomorrow afternoon to talk about it, you’ll answer?” He asks pointedly.
“Yes.” Satoru answers, giddy at the warm rush of being touched with familiar force, the kind of aggression he only gives Suguru the power to wield on him, “I’ll check with the building in the morning.”
Suguru’s expression looks relaxed, for the first time tonight, truly at ease, that tense pinch in his eyebrows gone. He nods, simple and contemplative, like he’s envisioning how tomorrow will go. His gaze is so observant, so cataloguing, that Satoru feels his neck burn with heat. Those sharp, dark eyes, his thin eyebrows, his angular cheekbones. His gauges peaking out from behind his hair.
Satoru reaches out before he can help it, brushing the hair back behind his ear to examine the piercing. His fingers run along Suguru’s temple, his hairline, his jaw, assessing. Everything is exactly where he left it, this face is solid and tender in all the places he remembers. Suguru’s eyes follow him with even more softness.
“Figured you might look different,” Satoru explains in a low voice, “After everything.”
Suguru hums in understanding, “Still me.”
Satoru cups his chin, his face, with his whole hand. His fingers across one cheekbone and thumb on the other side of his mouth. Suguru doesn’t flinch, but tracks with his eyes as Satoru wets his lips to speak, “Still you.” Satoru agrees, but stares a few moments more in the silence to be sure.
Suguru’s eyes are tilted with something ignited, sparked bright and vibrant, “I think if you keep looking at me like this, I’ll need a cigarette.”
It’s Satoru’s turn to hum, holding him a minute more to be indulgent before dropping his hand. Stars are peaking through the canopy of trees, reflecting against the water of the stream. For the first time, Satoru’s soul no longer feels split in two.
Tomorrow, they can deal with the building and the girls. The day after, they can move furniture. The day after that, school systems and the grocery store. Maybe the next month of Satoru’s life will be one mundane, human problem after the other, with Suguru by his side. To fill out paperwork and buy towels and fry eggs.
“You love me?” Satoru whispers. He has always been greedy.
Suguru nods, steady, “Yes. Let me earn it back.”
Satoru nods too, closes his eyes in the darkness, feels the relief of being whole and wanted. He agrees easily, “Okay.”