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It’s a never ending cycle.
Exorcise, consume. Exorcise, consume. Exorcise, consume.
And it never gets easier. It just doesn’t.
Nobody prepared him for the taste of cursed spirits. Seemingly harmless in their scentlessness, but they take a little bit of him with every swallow. Bitter doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s like vomit and battery acid, rotten fruit and moldy eggs, sewage water and curdled milk. It’s sour and bitter and it hurts. No matter how many times he does it, choking them down never gets easier.
So he sits on the edge of his bed, curse in hand, taking deep breaths, getting ready to eat. He did want he always does, he dims the lights, glass of water within reach, counting down in his head, eyes pinched shut. He’s done this a thousand times before. He knows the anticipation makes it worse. The fear, the disgust, the hesitation. It’s all there.
But Satoru is there too this time.
He’s rubbing small circles into his lower back, whispering words that barely reach Suguru’s ears. With his eyes closed he can pretend that they are anywhere else but here. They’re on a mission cracking jokes with Shoko, they’re poking fun at Nanami between classes, they’re whispering during quiet hours before they go to bed. Anywhere, doing anything. Anything but this.
The curse pulses in his hand. It’s a cold reminder of what he has to do. He fights the urge to crush it between his fingers.
In the comfort of Satoru’s presence it is so much easier to let himself feel afraid. It’s easier to fall when someone else is there to catch you.
“I don’t want to do this.”
“I know.” He moves closer.
“It’s so gross,” he tries to laugh but it comes out like a sob.
“I know,” lips press to his temple. “I know.”
The hand rubbing circles into Suguru’s back stops and comes around his waist to pull him closer. He falls into Satoru’s side. His chin settles on top of his head and the hand at Suguru’s side offers a comforting squeeze.
“I hate this, Satoru.”
“I hate seeing you like this.”
There’s nothing he can do to avoid it. This is what he was born to do. What else is he but a curse eater? What else can he do but eat curses? The frustration kills him sometimes. Immense abilities coveted by sorcerers everywhere, but they’ll never know how much it tolls him. Would they still envy him if they knew this taste? If they knew the havoc it wreaked on his insides for hours- for days after? Surely they wouldn’t. He wouldn’t wish this ability on his worst enemy.
“What can I do for you, Suguru?” Satoru whispers to the top of his head.
“Nothing,” He regrets how cold he sounds. “Just be here.”
His nod ruffles Sugurus hair, he doesn’t care though, it was coming loose anyway. He’ll have to re-tie it before he spends the next hour dry heaving into his toilet.
He takes a few more deep breaths, letting the air fill his lungs fully before letting it out all at once. His pounding heart slows with his acceptance, his mouth starts to water. He has to do it eventually, it’s not going to go away.
He moves away from Satoru’s side, immediately missing the warmth, but a hand returns to rub circles into his back again. He swallows the saliva building in his mouth, the preemptive nausea hitting him hard and fast.
He brings the curse to his lips, pinching his eyes closed, holding his breath.
All at once he shoves it past his teeth, already gagging when the first bitter notes hit his tongue. He keeps his hands over his mouth, forcing his lips to stay closed, his tongue writhes in protest.
He learned a long time ago that chewing makes it worse. The first time he bit into a curse he spent days trying to brush the taste out of his molars until his gums bled. He’d been unable to eat with the lingering sourness tainting anything he put in his mouth. A young Gojo Satoru had witnessed the crushing weight of his technique from a distance seeing how much weight Suguru had lost as a result of his technique. The boys made a game of trying bold-flavored foods, testing anything and everything to see if it would be able to cover up the taste of the curse. Eventually time won out and Suguru was able to eat again until the next curse was brought to him for consumption. He learned his lessons the hard way. So now he never chews.
He always struggles to get it down, the impossible size crushing its way into his throat. Swallowing hard he gasps for breath around his gagging. He holds one hand over his mouth and the other around his throat, leaning over while he heaves for breath. His body trying impossibly to expel the evil inside of him. When he starts to shake Suguru leans in to wrap an arm around his chest, whispering encouragement in his ear and holding him steady.
“It’s over,” lips press against his temple. “You did it, you’re done. You’re okay.”
Suguru nods as his stomach does flips and his heart tries to beat its way out of his ribcage. His hands start to shake and his body gets very, very cold. Sweat collects on his brow and the back of his neck. His dry heaving forces tears from his eyes and the salty trails on his lips only add to the horror dancing on his tongue. He feels his stomach lurch hard in his abdomen and feels the curse drop lower, deeming it safe to talk.
“Bathroom,” he forces out between coughs, his voice rattling hoarse in his bruised throat.
Satoru mutters an affirmative and supports him by the elbow, the hand around his waist a comforting pressure. They move slowly while Suguru tries to keep the contents of his stomach from leaping out of his throat. A guiding hand on his back, a thumb rubbing idly on his spine.
Satoru lowers him gently to the floor in front of the toilet. His knees press into the cold tiles, grounding him while his head and stomach spin. His sweaty palms press hard into his thighs to keep him from tipping nose first into the water. He takes shuddering breaths around hiccups and swallows the burps trying to force the curse back up his neck. He hadn’t noticed Satoru’s absence until he returned with the glass of water they’d abandoned in Suguru’s room.
When Satoru finds a place to kneel next to him, his hands find that hair that frames Suguru’s face. His fingers brush the sweat peppering his forehead and drag the damp strands away from the toilet bowl, collecting it all in a clump in his fist.
“Maybe you need a haircut.”
Suguru’s laugh ripples the water, his breath shutters around a sob. Pale hands reach over to brush the tears drying on his cheeks and collecting in his lashes. Satoru brushes his knuckles across his cheek bones, down his jaw, over stretched earlobes. Suguru can’t see his eyes through his glasses, but he knows they’re roaming over his face, seeing his discomfort in high definition.
Satoru’s hands move slowly across Suguru’s scalp, his short nails sending shivers down his spine. He could put the hair in a quick top knot and be done with it, but he takes his time combing through the strands. He runs his long fingers gently through any knots he finds, smoothing the inky black hair into something less matted. He hums a song that they both know he’s making up while he ties the hair back. When he’s done he moves to lean against the bathroom wall, Suguru misses the contact.
It takes a while for the gagging to stop, it always does. In the meantime they speak about everything and nothing. What movies are coming out, how much money Shoko owes them, their thoughts on the first years, if it’ll rain tomorrow. When Suguru can’t talk around the cramping in his abdomen, Satoru fills in the silence with his own nonsense while rubbing between Suguru’s shoulder blades.
Suguru wonders how he can stand the sight of him. He is all too familiar with the green haze that washes over his skin, collecting under his eyes when he’s nauseous. He usually bursts a few blood vessels in his eyes given how violently he gags, and that’s never a pleasant thing to look at. A sheet of sweat covers him head to toe and he shivers like a nervous dog while he’s sick. He looks to Satoru expecting revulsion on his face, but there’s nothing. No disgust, no resentment. Nothing. Just Satoru.
“Is it this bad every time?” White eyebrows furrow over dark lenses.
“More or less. This curse wasn’t too big so it didn’t last as long.” Suguru finds the energy to get up to wash his hands and wipe saliva from his chin, taking a few shallow sips of water. He moves slowly and hunches over in anticipation of another attack, there’s still an uncanny buzzing running through his bones. He slides down the bathroom wall to sit shoulder to shoulder with Satoru.
“And you do it by yourself?” The pity in his voice is palpable. It makes Suguru uncomfortable.
“Yeah, I mean, I have ever since I came here.” He sees the question forming on Satoru’s lips. “I don’t want you seeing me like this.”
He’d weaseled his way into Suguru’s room when he’d found out that he had another curse to eat, his curiosity winning Suguru over. The latter hoped that seeing the revolting aftermath would prevent him from ever wanting to bear witness to his curse technique ever again, and yet…
“I don’t want you doing this alone.” He feels those blue eyes boring into his own but can’t bring himself to face them.
“You won’t always be here, Satoru.”
“I know, but…”
The silence vibrates in the cramped bathroom. Suguru’s hand itches to be held. He cracks his knuckles instead. The burn in his fingers matching the burning in his face. Most days after he eats curses he passes out on the cold bathroom floor after hours of retching. He isn’t used to a warm, comforting presence pressed into his side. Or soft words spoken at a volume tolerable to his impending headache. Or having his hair pulled back before it can fall into the toilet. Or having glasses of water ready and within reach.
It’s nice. It’s nice to be cared for and looked after. Being seen suffering isn’t something he’s used to, but that suffering is somewhat mitigated when he isn’t doing it alone. And he quickly finds himself not wanting to do this alone anymore.
“Thank you Satoru, for being here.” He leans his head toward the other man, but can’t bring himself to look him in the eyes yet- not that he could, with the dark shades that cover them. “If you’re here when this happens again, I would appreciate the company.”
A cold nose brushes against his cheekbone, the faint trace of lips tickles the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t,” Suguru says, but doesn’t pull away. There is a fierce warmth spreading across his cheeks as his eyes bore holes into the bathroom floor. “It still tastes bad, let me use some mouthwash first-”
“I don’t care.”
Satoru’s fingers tug gently at Suguru’s chin, pulling his face closer. Chapped lips brush against his before he can protest further. Against his own desires, Suguru keeps his mouth shut, sparing Satoru from the bitterness still lingering on his breath. His pulse picks up double time when Satoru runs a tongue along his bottom lip.
He pulls away briefly, “It’s gross, Sato.”
“It’s not,” he punctuates with another kiss. “You’re not.”
He kisses first this time, Satoru’s nose bumping his own. He pushes the shades over white hair when they start to get in his way. For a while they forget that they’re sitting on the bathroom floor. They forget the horrors that Suguru’s insides have been through and the horrors that are to come. They forget that they are the strongest sorcerers. For a time they are just two boys kissing and that’s all they have to be. That’s all they are.
They stay pressed to each other until Suguru can no longer bear to keep his eyes open or his body upright.
Satoru refuses to let him back into bed until he rinses the layer of perspiration from his skin. With eyes half closed he lets Satoru peel each layer of sweat-soaked clothing from his body, his arms too heavy to do so himself. They both keep their eyes turned down while a heavy blush heats their cheeks. When Suguru emerges clean Satoru presents him with fresh clothing and slippers. They face away from each other while he changes, tension hanging thick in the air with the steam from his shower.
Satoru practically carries him back to his room, Suguru claiming exhaustion and abandoning all shame so that he can stay pressed against Satoru’s side until he is deposited back into his bed. Warm, he feels so incredibly warm.
“Hey,” The whisper tickles the hairs at Suguru’s neck. “Can I stay?”
“Mm,” is all he can manage, but it’s the confirmation that Satoru needs. With his eyes closed, Suguru listens to Satoru pad over to the other side of his bed and pull back the covers. A warm, heavy presence settles beside him, barely an inch of space between their arms.
He’s warm all over, recovery has never been this easy, this quick. He sinks deeper into his sheets, breathing in his first even breath since the night began. His eyelids heavy, his muscles relaxing one by one.
After a while the tense form next to him settles and curls into his side. If he could move he would wrap an arm around Satoru, but for now he sighs into the soft, white hair that rests on his chest and lets sleep sink into his bones. Long, boney fingers brush his, tentative and shy. A warm hand envelops his own. There so much he wants- needs- to say, but lacks the energy to do so. He squeezes the hand that holds his and hopes it translates all the words left unsaid.