Archive of Our Own

Let us meet again in the new world, the thing in his dead lover’s body says.

But Satoru’s sealed before he can hear the end of its sentence, body twisting through the kaleidoscopic blur of three lost years. The gore-strewn station bursts into nothingness, cruel laughter spiralling after him, and he plunges into oblivion. He stumbles blindly against old bones, struggling to find his bearings, and his head cracks painfully against a half-rotted skull. Then he’s falling, again, consciousness slipping, but this time, his mind spins with him until he lands in an old memory, slipping into another body, another bed. And this, God, this — this is his deepest memory. This is the memory he can never scrub out, no matter how much his hands bleed.

This is the old world, and in this world, Suguru is still his.

No, that’s not quite right. Suguru was never really his to begin with. But this memory of Suguru — boyish, lovely, striking in the moonlight — is his. This is the memory that always comes first, the one he shudders towards whenever he’s had too much to drink.

He’d been so beautiful, his Suguru. That night, he’d shifted on the bed to face him and smiled so easily, eyes curving into crescents. Satoru had never been able to resist him, looking like that: mouth tipped with desire; skin blued with moonlight. Body sculpted in hungry detail, marble softening to skin under his wondering hands. He’d only ever been able to love him, and want him, and love him, and love him. Even when he’d smelled of curse-breath, or smoked with Shoko after he’d said he’d quit, or pressed his too-cold toes to Satoru’s in the morning. Just this boy, in this bed.

“Satoru,” he’d whispered, hand cupping his jaw. He’d pressed his name into the night like a flower under glass — already fragile, already forgotten.

“Open.”

Satoru had let his mouth fall open, and Suguru had slipped his thumb over the swell of his lip, pressing skin to tongue. Satoru had looked up at him, eyelashes trembling, and Suguru had knelt over him, his other hand curling around his throat. He’d grinned then, a little feral, a little mean, just how Satoru liked him.

He’d slid his tongue down his finger, hollowing his cheeks, and Suguru had cursed quietly, leaning down to bite at the curve of his neck. He’d wanted him to sink his teeth in harder, closer, cruel enough to make him forget everything that had been shattering between them.

I know you’re scared, he’d wanted to tell him, before Suguru had slammed the door shut and pinned him against the wall. I know something’s wrong. But they’d had no space left for words — just this room, stripped bare of glory. Just their bodies, trying to remember how to be wanted, and Satoru, trying to see a boy who didn't want to be seen. He hadn’t known how to ask what was wrong, so he’d curled his hand in Suguru’s hair and pulled, harsh, and they hadn’t spoken after that.

Suguru hadn’t let him touch him again. The next time he’d been close enough to touch, Satoru had let him walk away, fury splintering through his blood, and he’d felt something like heartbreak worming under his skin. Something bright, and jagged, and apocalyptic. He’d watched him melt into the crowd, hands falling limply to his sides. I kissed you there, once, and you told me you loved me, he’d thought, eyes fixed to the last place he’d seen the pale curve of his ear. A dull roar had filled his head. Do you still remember?

Then he’d gone back to their room, where they’d laid together just days before, and he’d cried, and he’d thrown back bottle after bottle of beer until he could pretend he was still going to come back, until Shoko had found him curled on the floor the next morning beside a puddle of his own vomit. She’d pressed a cool hand to his forehead, voice soft with worry, and he’d granted himself the momentary weakness of being seen like that.

I alone am the honored one, he’d declared once, wind whipping victoriously through his hair, but it hadn’t really meant anything. Not if he couldn’t save one girl. Not if he couldn’t even save the boy he loved.

“Fuck you,” he’d spat after Shoko had left, wrenching out the drawer of Suguru’s shirts and flinging it against the wall. “You fucking bastard!”

He’d smashed the lantern he’d brought back from a mission for Suguru next, grabbing it from where he’d kept it on their nightstand and slamming it to the floor. His hand had bled, and he’d sworn viciously, clenching his fist around glass. Then he’d swept Suguru’s books off their shelves with a resounding crash and fallen to his knees, breath trembling out of him.

“Please,” he’d finally begged, pressing his cheek to the floor. He’d tugged their blankets off the bed, wrapping them shakily around his shoulders and staining them with blood. “Please.” He hadn’t known if he’d been begging Suguru to stay, or to die, or to forgive him for never asking if he’d been lonely. He’d crawled back to where his shirts had spilled out of the drawer, and he’d curled up against the fabric, chasing the lingering smell of his skin: sandalwood, a little salt. Cool to the touch.

I, alone. So it was destined to be.

Satoru, alone. Scrubbing the blood and sick from their floorboards. Stacking Suguru’s cigarettes on their nightstand. Folding his shirts in their dresser.

“There’s a meaning to that,” Suguru had said as he’d left, turning his back on him. Like he’d still trusted Satoru. Like he’d known Satoru had loved him too much to hurt him, the way Suguru had loved everyone else so much it’d destroyed him. Like he’d known Satoru had needed to watch him walk away to know it was real.

Satoru had squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his sweater over his nose. He hadn’t been able to stay in that room any longer. He’d washed their sheets, and only his pillow had still smelled like Suguru.

Don’t you know? The only meaning left for me is you.

He’d sat on the steps outside until the sun had risen, and Suguru hadn’t come home.

I, alone. You, missing from me.

Do you still remember?