Work Text:
Satoru wants to tear his clothes off a dozen times a day and plunge headfirst into cold water. The air conditioning at school barely works. Their uniforms soak up the sun until the fabric feels like it’s burning. He tried to goad Yaga-sensei into giving them a mission by the sea, but all he got was a grumble and an uncomfortable adjustment of those tiny glasses perched over his beady eyes.
Weeks pass. Days, then more weeks. They steep in the bath of the sun. The sky is nothing but an endless plane of blue, and the schoolyard is a pocket of heat trapped within the tired, empty walls and rooms. If only someone possessed technique related to siphoning warmth. Satoru even tried using Blue to warp the space and slow the movement of molecules but he ended up setting the ginkgo tree on fire, and that was the end of that.
"My house is near your next mission, you can come by," Suguru gives him a quiet offer.
Suguru's leaning back on the scorched bark of the tree, sipping an all too sweet drink, offering him the can after a hungry gulp. Satoru beams. It seems like it's the first time he heard his voice in weeks.
"I require special treatment," he teases, Suguru only smiles back, presenting his face to the sunshine, his earring glints and the deal is sealed.
It doesn’t take him longer than an hour to finish the job. In the abandoned mall some giant, one-eyed thing is coos and hisses before exploding without much trouble. Grime splatters across the walls, a little on his uniform and his cheek. Satoru hates cleaning up the mess. He never does anyway, but he hates looking at it, too.
Asahikawa is a train ride away from Biei. Thirty minutes in another sweatbox. The carriages are as small as the trains themselves, but it’s the middle of a summer weekday: no students or teachers rushing back and forth. He sits by the door, wind whistling through the open window, watching people through the dark blue of his shades as they go about their ordinary lives. The boredom nearly kills him.
The countryside slips past in blurs of green and gold rice fields bending in the heat. Telephone wires stitching the sky together, the distant blue suggestion of mountains wavering in the haze. Everything looks soft from here. Nothing like the things that lurk in abandoned building with their wet coaxing and split-open bodies. A child across the aisle stares at him, wide-eyed, before the mother gently turns the kid’s head away. Satoru almost smiles. The glasses help. The child smiles back. Humans see what they want to see anyway. To them he's a tall boy draped in black on his way somewhere important. They don't feel the sticky splatter drying stiff on his cuff. Not the way his fingers twitch when the train screeches too sharply against the rails.
Thirty minutes. In and out. Meet, nod, pretend he didn’t just tear something apart with his bare hands.
Outside, a flock of birds startles from a field. He misses Suguru then, oddly. He’s seen him the other day—two, three, at most four. Suguru's home for a visit, a direct flight. Satoru is threading his way to him through a string of bland missions. What missions had Suguru been on? Something dull, probably. He looks tired—but he looked tired before, and there had always been a sharpness to him, something he would spit back at Satoru, and Satoru would catch without hesitation. Now Suguru doesn’t even do that.
It must be too much. He wonders what kinds of things Suguru has swallowed for them to weigh on him like this, he's the strongest after all, too. If Yaga is giving him better missions…
The train rattles on. He leans his head back against the metal paneling and closes his eyes behind the shades, counting the seconds until the doors slide open again. The sweat slicks and sticks to his nape and his hair, too. Wind touches, cradles his damp scalp and neck and forehead uncomfortably. When the train finally slows for good, the change in pitch pulls him upright.
Biei.
The doors slide open with a hydraulic sigh, and cooler air spills in, thin, clean, edged with grass and distant earth. He steps onto the platform and rolls his shoulders once, adjusting the collar at his throat. The sky here feels wider. The mountains sit low and patient in the distance, their green stretching soft and endless under the afternoon light.
The walk is familiar enough from photos and half-listened descriptions over the phone. It's a quiet road. Low houses with slanted roofs. Gardens stubborn with late-summer color. Cicadas hum a shrill line through the air.
Suguru’s house waits at the end of the street wooden siding warmed by the sun. There’s a narrow porch, a pair of shoes set neatly to one side. The curtains are drawn back just enough to suggest someone is home.
He pauses at the gate and can’t believe his eyes. He even pulls the shades back when he sees Suguru walking, sloped-shouldered, a cellophane packet dangling from his wrist, weighted down with its contents. He’s never seen him like this—flip-flops, dark red shorts, a t-shirt with a cat on it, hair tousled and loose on top, and eyes… not a single shred of tension in them, though the dark circles remain.
It’s the same sorcerer and not. He could have mistaken him for a bystander on a mission, glimpsed him in the crowd and passed by without a second thought, mocked behind his back for looking absurd. But—Satoru’s parched, dry throat seizes for a moment—it’s his Suguru, approaching with a wan smile, waving.
"I got you fish."
The cellophane crinkles as Suguru holds it out, and Satoru leans closer to inspect. Inside, the fish glisten like wet glass. Tiny flecks of blood still shimmer along its gills, and the faint, briny scent of the sea drifts up. Its one eye stares blank and unblinking, round as polished stones.
"Good, and I'm full of sweat."
Suguru winces.
"You can take a shower, we have a lot of cold water."
Satoru's provided with slippers. He ignores them, and enters the house bare feet. Suguru makes a noise but doesn't push.
"The shower's down the hall, I'll make ochazuke."
Satoru nods, already set on his way. The floors are startlingly cool. It’s an old house not as old as the school, nor the one he grew up in but old enough. Hairline fissures split the corners of the walls. One crack runs crookedly from a wedding photograph down to a second frame holding an elderly relative. The faces in both are ordinary in all the ways Satoru has never cared for. The first room he passes is locked. The next stands half-open. He nudges the door a little wider, just for a second. It takes him less than that to know it’s Suguru’s room. A bed neglected for a futon. A mess on the table, a mess on bookshelves, all of them crammed to the brim, one sagging down.
"Want soft boiled egg on top of it?" Suguru calls out.
Satoru eases the door shut like he’s been caught trespassing.
"I'm the guest, yeah? Surprise me."
A pause. He’s cursed out without bite.
The shower is a small rectangle separated from the rest of the bathroom by a cloudy plastic curtain. Bottles crowd the wall indents all pressed so tightly together they look as though they might spring loose if he breathes in their direction. The labels are faded. One cap is cracked. Everything smells of citrus.
He peels his shirt off and it catches for a moment reluctant to let go before slipping free. The air against his skin feels cooler than it should. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been sweating until now.
It isn’t filth, just too much heat and the phantom sensation of the curses crawling up his skin even though it barely touched him, it touched the Limitless and sometimes he still feels intent through the wall of the cursed technique. It's one long mission that stretched into another without giving him time to change, too. His collar is damp, the back of his shirt wrinkled and warm from hours of wear. His trousers are creased and overused.
He steps into the shower and draws the curtain closed. It brushes his shoulder, sticks for a second before Satoru pushes it away. He turns the knob; the pipes groan, then water spills out in a steady stream. He steps under it without testing. It's too hot, it scalds his skin, and he turns it too much into the other direction, and even though it gets pleasant he settles into a lukewarm temperature. The water spreads over his scalp, down his neck, easing the tightness, dissolves the sweat. The day loosens its grip. He tips his head forward and lets the water run over the back of his neck, over his shoulders, washing away the stale feeling of transit. From the kitchen comes the soft clatter of ceramic. A lid placed too loud. Liquid being poured.
Satoru rests his palm against the tile and closes his eyes. The house creaks quietly around him. He feels like he’s actually here, can name the time and the place and the day. It's relaxation that rarely settles into his skin, almost foreign little thing. When he closes his eyes again, it's nothing but school halls, and the halls in his home, all empty and tired and so so vast. Endless space where can hide and run and claim for his own. Endless space he can touch and leave untouched as he wishes. But he can breathe now. Inhale and feel the air getting in and getting out, the chest expand and his muscles ease down.
He picks a random bottle, sniffs. It’s floral. The next is citrus. The third floral again. Suguru doesn't smell like this. He smells of incense sometimes, or cigarette smoke from hanging out with Shoko, or books, old newspaper. These bottles smell like anyone. He sets the floral one back into its cramped indent and reaches for the citrus instead, squeezing a small amount into his palm. The scent blooms he works, hopefully Suguru's, shampoo in his air. Lathering the soap he hopes belongs to Suguru absentmindedly over his body, watching the foam gather in his palms form peaks before it slides down and disappears, under the drip of Suguru's shower. Rinsed clean and the scent fades away, diluted into nothing the smell of the old man Suguru's is associated with back in his nose.
"I brought you clean towels, don't use those," Suguru enters, Satoru sees his outline through the plastic of the curtain.
"Alright," Satoru mumbles back.
Suguru’s outline lingers a second longer. Satoru can make out the slope of his shoulders, the loose fall of his hair. A hand lifts—hesitates—then lowers again.
"They’re on the rack. The blue ones."
"Got it."
There’s the soft thud of fabric being set down. The curtain sways slightly from where Suguru must’ve brushed it, the motion carrying a draft of cooler air into the shower.
"Uh, after can borrow my clothes that fit," Suguru adds, closer now.
"Okay. Don’t burn the food," Satoru says, lamely.
A quiet huff, almost a laugh. "You asked a surprise, so..."
Satoru snorts at that.
Suguru's wardrobe is a sea of colors, red snug between black and dark blue, two pieces of yellow followed by many white and blue and green and back to black. He can't remember if he's seen Suguru in anything other than duller colors.
Suguru’s clothes are too big on him . The joggers, the shorts, every t-shirt he manages to find. The shoulders stretch a little wide, the sleeves are loose. The shorts hang on his hips only by a prayer and a promise. Fine. He settles on something white with weird movie poster he's never heard of. Maybe Suguru has it and they can watch it after.
He hates the smell of the roasted fish but the kitchen is thick with it. Steam is rising from the spot where Suguru is hunched forward, one hand braced on the counter. Suguru uses chopsticks to poke at the fish. It's too much poking entirely, Satoru thinks. The sizzling around the edges of the meat already subsided and there's a layer of crust hugging the sides. There's no doubt the bottom is already done. But Suguru is not turning it yet, jabbing mercilessly making the pink-already a little muted flesh peek from under the thinned skin.
"Maybe turn it over?" Satoru says, Suguru moves only marginally, gets tense.
"Yeah, I know," he sighs, "I want to flip it in one move."
Satoru whistles.
Suguru pokes the bottom of the fish, traces the whole edge. The meat is not stuck on the pan yet, but there's slight resistance. His tongue is out a little, right in the middle of his lips, and as he slides the chopsticks to the other side of the fish, his tongue travels with it, to the corner of his mouth. It's cute. It kindles warmth in Satoru's chest, even as the tongue disappears back behind the lips. Suguru steps away, stretching his arm and wiggling the pan on the stove, shaking the fish, angling for the throw. A confident, if not a bit restrained swing of the pan, and the fish flies up, but not too high. It turns in the air and then settles back with a light smack. A smile stretches on Suguru's lips. A hair falls from the bun, grazing his cheek and the curve of his jaw, and the darkness under his eyes is almost invisible.
"You're good," Satoru says.
"Sometimes it works."
Suguru looks disinterested in poking the other side. He sets down the chopsticks and slowly, lazily moves the pan up and down the stove, pulling out scratchy sounds out of it. Still, Satoru hates the smell of fish. He glances around the house. It's a small space. A dining table to the right, near the fridge and couch with a sad sagged pillow and throw-over. The stove and the counter space are so small it's a miracle anyone can cook here. Suguru takes up half the space, the sink is too close to the stove and the rest is occupied by drying cups of various sizes and the cabinets are starting right near his forehead. He's a giant, he doesn't fit. Satoru tries to imagine what Suguru was like as a child, glances around again, looking for evidence. A few steps and he's already at the couch. A few more it's the hallway, the pictures again, old people, married people, one old man has earrings similar to Suguru's but there are no children's pictures. Or even one where he's older. He runs his fingers down the wall, bumps to the frame of the locked door and there are notches on it and then—oh. Bumps and measurements. Four, five and jump to ten, hastily scribbled, half faded already.
"Did you measure your height?" Satoru yells back and the scraping of the pan stops and the stove is off.
"Dad did," he replies a little lower. Satoru can't be sure but it feels like it's the first time Suguru mentioned his parents. And now there's a ghost of a family lodging itself into Satoru's imagination. Someone with earrings like Suguru. Someone old, older, a woman with a kind face and smile wrinkles near her eyes. Satoru caresses the frame.
"No childhood photos?"
"Mom and dad are superstitious, something about soul being tainted if the camera captures a child."
Satoru can't not laugh at that.
"And your soul got corrupted anyway," he says going back to kitchen.
Suguru's back greets him, he's filling up the rice cooker and this time he pauses to send him glare over his shoulder.
"Don't laugh at them, they're simple people," he replies quietly, going back to the work, but the posture changes a little, the weight is back on his shoulders and Satoru feels a sickly cold spreading in his stomach.
"I'm not, but look at you. You're swallowing curses," Satoru says fast one word stumbling over the other, bumping the couch, on his way back to lean near the narrow strip by the sink and catch a glimpse of forgiveness.
Suguru's lips are tightly shut. He shuts the rice-cooker.
"Can you look after it?" he points at the white plastic rectangle.
"Isn't it gonna ping when it's done?"
"Yeah."
A joke can't have an effect like this. He touches Suguru's, he doesn't flinch but he still steps away, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket.
"I didn't know you started to smoke. Shoko's influence?" Satoru tries again.
"A little, maybe," he murmurs.
Suguru pulls open a door he didn't notice before. There's an inner garden behind it. A secluded little thing with a few bushes and vegetables and flowers rimming the edge of the fence. Suguru settles on the porch, cradles the lighter, gets a puff of smoke out and lays on his back, slinging an arm over his face. It's such a fluid motion it feels like it's inside of Suguru's muscles and Satoru's never seen him like this. Never even thought he'd be smoking. They hate when Shoko smokes. They comment on it and jeer, and she flips them off and they still laugh at her. That's what they do. And now Suguru takes another puff, exhales slowly, and it suits him annoyingly so. The bun is crushed under his head and the hand that has the cigarette pinched rests by his sided pushing out a thin line of smoke. Suguru inhales deeply and heavily and Satoru's eyes follow him. His shirt is hiked up, a patch of skin revealed, right over the band of his shorts and the peeking band of his underwear up until just above his belly button. There's a line of dark hair running from it, hiding under the fabric and Satoru shamelessly stares at it as though he's seeing it for the first time. As though he's never seen him naked under spring or in the onsen or in the shower or in his room and it's not a regular occurrence but still a familiar one. It's nothing, really. But the clothes don't fit, and the house doesn't and the cigarette, too. Suguru takes another long drag, the tip of the cig bright orange, and the hand is back peacefully laying on the side. The smell bothers him, mixing with the oily scent of the fried fish and the heat has it's stubborn waft, too. And Satoru can make a joke but he's staring at the patch of the skin, taking a guess at how he looks like this without anything on, and gazing down over his shorts to his long legs, one bent at the knee, and then back up to his throat. Oh, his neck all tension and tendons rising and his lips a strong harsh line of ruddy-pink, a bite on the corner and the cupid's bow sweaty just above.
He thought of him, of course. Some days, the images of him slip into his mind unbidden, reemerging as if playing hide and seek with his thoughts—smothered somewhere between fighting strategies, the endless stream of jujutsu incantations, and techniques. All the things he remembers, all the things he documents from his fights: curses, hand signs, positions. And then—Suguru, ecstatic. Suguru, laughing. Suguru, moaning and panting, all tussled and mussed—his chest, neck, arms, and nape.
Shoko fixed the scar on his chest, he'd heard about it from her. Smoking, bored to death, as though she were talking about anyone—someone ordinary. Suguru survived a deadly encounter. But her tone was so steady, so matter-of-fact, it needled him. He wishes he saw it. Touched it. Traced a finger over it, dipped it into his blood. It must be nice to have something left on the skin. Warriors have scars. Jujutsu sorcerers miss limbs and eyes and teeth and die before cracking thirty. Never Suguru though. His friend, his mirror image. A want, a need no one can understand. Only another sorcerer who's had this. Satoru's eyes are on his neck, then lips, arm, stomach, then lips again closing around a cigarette, the tip of the tongue licking them, then cheeks, rosy, and line of the jaw pink too.
Ding.
Satoru jumps a little, startled, Suguru draws away his arm, eyes narrowed as if he's waking from sleep.
"Can you assemble it? Boil the broth from the fridge, put the rice and the fish and anything you like," he says and lays back down.
"Making me work, after a long day of fights," Satoru clicks his tongue but doesn't argue.
"Get your RCT to work."
"Is that how you talk to your best friend?" he says, faking scandalized tone.
Corner of Suguru's move twitches, it's not-quite a smile but still Satoru takes it.
"The bowls are in the cabinet."
Satoru tries. Boiling the broth seems to be an easy task in words. He finds the thing in the fridge, then fetches a deeper pan. He has to find a place to relocate the fish and the rice cooker, the counter top is full already. He pulls out the bowls and frees. And he needs to... put rice cooker into—sink? Suguru is not paying him any attention every single time Satoru casts his sight at him. Smoking so slowly. How can one go through only half of the stick? Ah, fuck it. Rice cooker into sink, fish over the rice into bowls and bowls onto the dining table. He bumps against the fridge on the way and sets the broth on the stove. It's… boring.
"A good host entertains," Satoru muses just loud enough to make sure Suguru hears his assessment.
"You can entertain yourself," is the reply and when Satoru looks, ah, finally, at least the cig is done with.
"If I do, I'll level the house."
Suguru chuckles but says nothing.
Satoru heads back to his room. Despite the mess it is comfortable. He circles around the futon and the crumpled sheets, and there's a smaller bedside table pushed against the wall right in front of the futon. Papers sticking out from the first drawer out of two. How much paper one can possibly use up? He plucks out one page from it, and it's just quotes and passages from books, rewritten in perfect kanji and warm amusement makes him smile even though he'd probably toss the thing away if he saw this on someone else's desk. Perfect strokes on each line. After a few it feels like a machine could've typed this. Suguru loves being correct in everything he does. He hides the page in the pocket of his shorts and walks straight to the bookshelves. Suguru reads a lot—he can tell by the way he acts so high and mighty whenever Satoru doesn't know some human-related fact, or when he sneers, Such primitive technique. Haven't you read about it? and it's the sort of thing that gets him beaten on the tatami floors of the dojo when they get into a mock fight.
But Satoru doubts there are any books about jujutsu or martial arts in this house. Still he runs his finger over the spines, there's volumes of digimon, a few DVD discs in between them, a history book, another one, modern Japan history. Edo period. Manga. Three more volumes of a different one. There must be some secret order to this that Satoru is not privy to. Suguru's laptop is on his bed, Satoru tries to log in, and he used to know the password but can't recall it now. His foot runs over the pillow on the floor. Satoru asked once why he prefers futons to beds, Suguru couldn't quite give a straight answer. A habit from childhood, was the most coherent answer he got, still there is an unused bed, he must've used it on occasion.
"Are you gonna give me a futon too?" Satoru yells. "I can take the bed I'm not picky."
There's no answer.
Satoru’s back in the kitchen, and the broth is bubbling out of the pan. In the blink of an eye, he’s at the stove, grabbing the metal handle without thinking, his fingers locking around it and the heat is immediate, blinding.
A hiss escapes his lips. Fuck! The burn strikes deep, searing into his palm, and before he can even react, the scream tears out of him. The pain flares climbing his arm as the liquid starts to spill over the sides of the pan, the broth sizzling across the counter and splashing onto the floor in rapid bursts of scalding heat. The metal feels like it’s glued to his skin and he can’t hold onto it anymore.
A firm hand wraps around his wrist, jerking him away from the stove.
"Give it to me!" Suguru’s voice cracks through the air, filled with frantic urgency. His grip is crushing, as he snatches the pan out of Satoru’s fist, wrapping it quickly in a towel.
The pan is back on the stove, but Satoru’s whole body is caught in the burn. His palm is already bright red, the skin tight, a blister starting to form. The smell of burned flesh is stitching the air.
Suguru guides Satoru’s hand under cold water. It rushes over the burn, only makes it worse. The sudden chill is needles against the raw skin a bite that only magnifies the pain.
Satoru clenches his jaw, eyes squeezing shut as the cold sinks in. But it’s the way Suguru holds him hurts more.
"Suguru," Satoru says, through gritted teeth. "I'll heal myself."
Amidst the loud hiss of pouring water, Satoru still hears Suguru exhale. Slowly, his fingers loosen, unwinding from his wrist. The pale skin is marked with the reddened spots of his fingers, each one distinct in its imprint. Satoru's technique coats his palm, rearranges the cells, and heals the burns as it crawls upward, taking Suguru’s touch with it. Satoru hates the smell of the broth, too. It's now somehow fitted in his nose and every single inhale carries the scent with it, the fish, the cigarettes.
The front door slides open, Suguru straightens fully, like a soldier and gets away from him.
"Mom, dad," he says sharply. "I thought you were coming later."
The middle aged man with deep wrinkles running across his forehead eyes Satoru suspiciously, while the shorter woman with a few white streaks in her black hair has a kind smile. It looks like the one Suguru has when he's nervous. Satoru gives both of them a bow.
"Nice to meet you," he says.
The man by the door is still staring at him while the woman walks in, gathering their tossed around things on the way. Fixing the shoes on the shoe rack and the jacket into the open closet.
“Am I smelling fish?”
The mother sweeps in and immediately starts rearranging everything her own way, patting their shoulders as she passes. Satoru has no choice but to sit at the dining table with the bowls he’d set out. Soon even those disappear as she takes complete control of the kitchen. She eyes everything with suspicion, though she still offers compliments for their effort. The fish is overdone, the broth is wrong, and the rice should have been leftover. We had some in the fridge, Suguru. Did you notice?
Suguru is like a too big child around her. Going left and right to open the way for her, offering half explanations. He settles by the table next to him, hands on the surface and tension is sewing itself into his muscles and Satoru knows how to recognize when Suguru wants to leave but can't. He presses his foot against Suguru's under the table. Nothing eases but there's a slow blink and a slower exhale and it seems like they're caught doing something forbidden but Satoru can't tell the rules of this house much less how he can break them.
Suguru's dad looks through the mess once and then sends them each a look Satoru can only call stern and fatherly. He sniffs the air, it makes Suguru suddenly get his hand into his pocket. Both Satoru and the man notice this but neither offer anything. The door to the backyard is shut and the room turns stuffy in no time.
"Satoru, right?"
Suguru's father suddenly looks just like Suguru when he’s about to start talking about responsibility, hands folded neatly on the table. It makes Satoru want to retort the same way he does with Suguru, but he can feel Suguru’s stare burning into his cheek, and there’s a nudge against his leg under the table. The comment dies on his tongue.
“Yes.”
“Suguru used to talk about you all the time. I thought you’d transferred to another school.”
“Shigeru, don’t bother the kids. You both study a lot, right?”
“Yeah, I just came from a mi—”
A hard kick lands on his ankle under the table.
"Many day educational trip to study the preservation of old temples and folk traditions up in the mountains," Suguru finishes quickly instead of him. Lies flies out of his mouth so easily. "Our school does those a lot. Cultural immersion, fieldwork, that kind of thing."
Satoru is kicked again, Suguru raises an eyebrow, and he's catching the drift of course. Humans can't know about the curses but still there's a rash of acidic irritation flaring up.
Suguru's father tilts his head. "Temples?"
"Yeah," Satoru affirms.
"He was in Asahikawa," Suguru adds.
"Asahikawa is so close," Suguru's mother sets down the bowls of rice and fish in a broth that, thankfully, doesn’t smell too objectionable. "So you stay with families?" she asks.
"No," Suguru says calmly.
"Not usually, we’re getting access to, uh—"
"Student housing," Suguru provides.
"Strict housing," Satoru adds quickly. "Very strict. Curfew, inspections, the whole thing. So I wanted to visit Suguru instead."
He reaches for his rice, shoveling a bite into his mouth that’s still too hot. Suguru’s foot presses against his shin under the table like a warning.
"It’s nice to finally see some of Suguru’s new classmates," Suguru's mother says as she takes her place at the table. She gently pats Suguru’s father’s hand, coaxing him to unlock his fingers so she can slide the bowl closer with easy elegance. He huffs a laugh and pats her hand back.
"We thought Suguru was going to school full of ghosts," he murmurs.
"Dad, please," Suguru groans, pained—and it works, because they stop prodding.
Satoru stuffs his mouth, chews and swallows, but the room feels too full, as if the four of them are slowly using up all the oxygen in it. Chopsticks click. Suguru likes soy sauce with his fish, like he does with everything. Satoru doesn’t have a particular preference, though the food is good—better than what he’s used to. His stomach growls as he eats, and the warmth of real, homely food settles nicely. Finally not something bought on the run, either scalding hot or already cold by the time he gets to it. He’s been living on RCT and sugar for the past few days.
Suguru eats slower, as he always does, and his parents are the same. The slightly odd way Suguru holds his chopsticks—his pinky sticking out more than it should—is something his mother does too. His father eats with the bowl lifted close to his mouth, wearing a blissful expression Satoru has seen on Suguru before. The man’s hands are large enough to cover the bowl completely. Satoru notices the small cuts on his fingers—pale lines of scars along the knuckles and across the backs of his hands. The earrings he’s wearing look a size or two bigger than Suguru’s.
"Did you get the same earrings?" Satoru asks.
Everyone goes still for a moment. Then Suguru prods him under the table again. The father smiles leisurely and rubs the earring between his fingers, eyes closing for a second.
"Suguru got his all by himself," he opens one eye and glances at his son. Satoru follows the look. Suguru is turning red at the tips of his cheeks and ears. "I got them when I was young back when I believed in warding off evil spirits. I blessed them in the temple too, hah."
"And you thought they’d actually work?" Satoru asks, biting his lip, hoping his words don't betray the amusement.
Suguru's father lets out a quiet, controlled chuckle, leaning back slightly in his chair.
"I… perhaps," he says carefully, "I thought it offered some measure of protection. When I was young, I tended to look for such… assurances."
Suguru’s cheeks tint darker, but he remains composed, glancing down at his bowl rather than meeting eyes.
"Did it help?" Satoru asks cautiously.
The father inclines his head slightly.
"In a way. What I needed was discipline in the end," he replies.
"Ha, Suguru, says stuff like that all the time," now he's the one bumping Suguru under the table.
"Because you're talking nonsense—" Suguru clears his throat, "about not caring about important things."
"I'm surprised. You used to disagree with me," Suguru's father is smiling now, heartily,
"I suppose I see your point now," he sighs. "There are dire consequences when there's no real dedication to the righteous cause."
Suguru's mother gasps, and father shrugs.
Odd sticky feeling comes pouring in. A bright white room full of meaningless humans and the only meaning a dead weight in his hands. Suguru answers are devastatingly simple.
"Youth is for changing the mind about everything," Suguru's mother says. "Suguru says you spar a lot. I have to only imagine why boys would need that in monastery."
Satoru almost chokes on his food.
"It's an old practice," Suguru's father says.
"Yes, I understand," she replies a bit sternly. "But still, we're not in the old times anymore."
"I like the fighting classes the most," Suguru's wistful, a shred of smile playing on the corner of his lips.
"He's the best. I'm the strongest student, but he can kick me down," Satoru adds. Pride swells. Only the strongest can beat him down.
The smile withers away, though, in a flash of a change.
"Well, I lost an important match," he says.
His hand flies up. Rubs his forehead then temple, then thumb back on the center of it. Stone heavy heart, grows large.
"It's fine, I lost that, too," Satoru replies. Suguru nods.
"It's good that you have each other," Suguru's mother says.
Satoru smiles.
He is not angry or sad. He has nothing to offer on that. All is washed thin by time. Only Suguru can pull him back into the strange, cold heat of last spring, maybe summer. Somewhere between seasons, where days blur together. Life and death cutting across it all in bright, crooked colors.
Jujutsu sorcerer doesn’t need to moan about missions, or exhaustion, about the steady quiet loss of people, empty rooms and haunted halls, ghosts and cremated bodies in haste. It's useless anyway and the deaths never stop. They won't die like others, unskilled and boring. Suguru is the strongest, just like him. The purple beneath his eyes will fade with sleep eventually. It always does. And Shoko will find something else to complain about—anything but how awful the two of them look.
"You told them you're in religious school or something?" Satoru asks, when they're back in Suguru's room and he's tucked into the futon his parents provided.
"Yaga-sensei did," he replies.
"And they believed so easily?"
Suguru sighs.
"People believe what fits neatly into their lives," he says after a moment. “A religious school in Tokyo sounds respectable and safe.”
Satoru rolls onto his back on the futon, staring up at the ceiling seeing only the faint outline of the fan.
"Safe," he repeats, amused.
Suguru doesn’t laugh.
The room smells faintly of incense now that the window has been cracked open. Somewhere in the house a cupboard shuts softly. His parents’ voices drift through the walls.
"They don't ask many questions," Suguru continues. "They were just proud that I got into a good school and Yaga sense is good at sweet talking."
"That sounds nice."
Satoru tilts his head to look at him but he's greeted only with the outline of his body covered in the sheet even through the building heat.
"You’d hate it," Satoru says. "The school, I mean. You'll read all the books in a week and will scoff when others can't catch up."
A beat of silence.
“I hate a lot of things.”
“Exactly. You hate almost everything, well, except for me.”
Silence fuses with Satoru’s heartbeat. The stretch between replies is too long, and it settles over him in a thin layer. Like he’s being tricked in a game whose rules he already knows.
"Of course," finally comes with an exhale. For a moment the voice sounds alien. As though someone else possessed his body, imitating his tone.
"Did the earrings work?" He asks.
"I don't believe in superstitions," and there's that voice of his like a cave, like a continent to be lost in.
Satoru is meandering. A place unknown, in the territory he has to know by heart, and the world is vast again.
Even with windows wide open there is not a single current flowing into the room. Suguru sleeps cocooned in the cover. It's more like a sheet but still it's odd seeing him fully clothed and have the the additional layer over it. Satoru's own sheet is discarded in a lump by his feet. But Suguru is content. Not even snoring like he usually does.
He forgets that Limitless is still working. Some days, the technique takes on a mind of its own thinning, thickening, flowing with more force. When he watches it fill the space between his fingers, crawl over his arms, spread across his chest, and pride is the first thing that comes, joy second. But now, when he tries to hug Suguru, it’s a foreign, dirty sensation slicking his skin, there's a barrier where he wants to touch him. He’s half hovering, half repelled, half kept away.
A deep intake of breath parts the stillness of the night. He wills it, lets the technique loose. An exhale follows. His hand stretches out, settling over the sheet that separates them. A layer upon layer, each one keeping them apart before his skin can finally touch Suguru's. His palm absorbs the warmth beneath it, cradling the ball of Suguru's shoulder. It’s nice. Not clammy, despite the sweat dotting him elsewhere. He finds the edge of the sheet and pulls it down. It makes a sound only he can hear, the only movement in the room with two bodies, both quiet, cotton brushing against cotton, opening up, unshielding. The fabric is light, fragile, he rubs it between his fingers when he's satisfied with the way he dragged the sheet town. He's the wielder of the strongest eyes, he can see and touch and evaporate a sorcerer and a curse but in the night he's just as blind as any. Only the faint palpitations of Suguru's cursed energy are dotting his outline and he can filter it out, too. It's bliss full darkness, when he opens Suguru for himself and it's a vicious thought that digs itself in the back of his mind, needles through and finds a place all too eagerly.
The touch is closer now. It's a starved-feeling in his belly, under his palm and in his mouth. The taste in him blooms and he wants another touch. A real one. Hand slides down over the cotton, Suguru sniffles stretches his legs then curls them inward. Body escaping his touch. Body eating itself. Satoru sits up. A little drowsy still. His long fingers sink into the ocean of his hair, comb up and down, not touching the scalp, then the neck, one finger sliding over the curve of it, until it bumps the cotton again. The stubborn barrier, brittle little thing. He finds the hem of the shirt he thinks only for a second before slipping under it. The first thing there is the band of Suguru's underwear and then a casual movement up and there's finally the warm smooth skin, and it seems like he escaped the heat and plunged into the cold spring. The unbelievable freshness of it, the quenching of thirst, the softening of the scratch in the back of his mind. He slides up, leans closer, slides up again and it's Suguru's stomach. Life beating under him. No ghost-line grays under his eyes. No slumped shoulders, or tired eyes or hands over them. It's nothing but life and assuredness that after an exhale and inhale will come and Satoru will feel it through the gunshots and the swords cutting air and the buzz of curses he'll know this one thing, that Suguru's alive. He misses knowing it innately. Wants to learn it again and wipe out the jaded image of him.
Are you coming back? the question pops up in his mind unbidden. Of course he will. Do I still know you? One that gets under his skin, sheathes itself under his nails and behind his teeth.
Satoru is back by his side. Closer. Hand on his belly. The other hand pushing itself under his neck. Over his clavicles winding around him. Leg thrown over his bent knees, heel pressing on his thigh. Rubbing against him, sliding over him like water in the spring. Suguru's heartbeat is everywhere like warm stone. His lips at this hair covered nape. His breath scorching onto him. Satoru, a little exhale, body getting tense, and Satoru tightens his hold. He's tempted to kiss him somehow. To taste his name on his lips, to inhale the air that holds it, and there's no protest and he can just... touch there too.
Satoru's drenches himself in the fantasy of his fingers sliding over the thin of his lips, fingers parting them, getting past the tongue, past the teeth, letting the wetness of his mouth steep into him. His hips rut forward and his half stirred cock presses against Suguru's ass, and his real fingers find the edge of the underwear again, down the happy trail that tickles his palm, over the scratchy pubic hair, to the soft his cock. His palms it. Suguru curls inward again, but then—he gives in. The tight shoulders give up and the other exhale is almost a moan, surely. And maybe there's a pulse awakening under his palm inside, in the cupped groin and it's getting larger, not harder yet maybe there's just enough light stroking and pulling at the skin gently to stir it, too. Satoru. It's lethal, his name sliding out so easy and right and whiny. Forever to be etched into Suguru if it is Satoru's will. Ah, he knows this too, violence. The feeling that parts his chest and burns through him when he's about to fill his fists with cursed energy, readying for a fight. Instead it's a heady, honeyed ache in his hands, his legs, and in his gut and he's all just breath held and pressure he can't let go.
Touch his face, touch his throat, touch his lips, touch his eyes. His eyes. Kind and full and sparkling and shimmering amber. Bring him home. Bring him to school and touch again. Name on the doorjamb, lines and numbers and pictures of people who look like him but aren't him and can't be him. He can't belong to them. None of them is who Suguru is. His mirror half. Lips over the cotton. Wetting it. Kissing it. Hand stroking the hardening cock. Wet tip. Dragging it down, as low as he can. Pulling up, wetting his palm and licking the cotton and pushing Suguru back into his chest and rolling his hips—
"What—" a rasp flies out.
Rigidity slots back.
"—what are you doing—" scratchy, drowsy, tired.
Satoru turns him on his stomach, laying atop of him, his knees parting Suguru's, one pushing the other higher.
"Satoru," it's a hiss, harder now, louder.
He writhes, tries to kick Satoru off. Undo the knot they're tied into. Suguru's chin digging into Satoru's arm around him neck. Hips pushing down into his soaked palm and bumping back into Satoru's crotch. It achieves nothing. It doesn't hurt. Only a grunt and a half moan. Pressure in Satoru's lungs is exploding, his own chin on the wet spot his mouth made.
His hand pulls back from the underwear, slowly, an exhale bleeds out on the pillow.
"I'm not playing," louder. It jumps from the walls. Stumbles and skips. Suguru wiggles again. He's bigger than him. Shoulders wider, arms harder but he's pulled inward and Satoru's not applying force necessarily but he can't let go. Locked into place together with his want that spools free. And in half a second Satoru replies harshly, raspy and cruelly.
"Don't wake your parents."
All clicks in place. Suguru's getting sold and still. Satoru unwraps his arm from Suguru's clavicles pressing his between Suguru's shoulder blades. And the other drags down the underwear. His then his. Forgets it half way, lets it hang somewhere on his calf. The shake of losing him is a ghost in his bones and it shudders through and Satoru palms Suguru's cock. Wet and hard. He wants this, too. Of course Suguru loves him. He gives a few slow strokes root to tip, thumbing the head making him writhe and roll his hips down pressing his hand into the futon, groaning into the pillow.
"Stop," half-hiss, half shout.
"Let me," Satoru’s begging. It’s stupid, but he is.
Every inch of him seizes. Not an answer. A sob.
"I'll release all my curses."
A heartbeat.
"It'll level the house."
Another moment frozen.
Satoru's knees part his thighs. Hand flat on his shoulder blades. It isn't enough to keep in place a special grade sorcerer but Suguru's body is rigid and the breathes turn harsh.
There are not enough hands to touch him. Not enough limbs to give all the attention he wants. He gropes everything, ass, sides, strained muscles on his hips, the inner thigh just as tense, muscles rippling under his touch. Pulls up the t-shirt sliding it over the sweat of his back, reaching the shoulder blades again, and sinks his nails into the skin. Hiss, ugh, Satoru, it's not. Satoru feeds off resistance under, as the flesh gives and the body tries again to release itself. Heat prickles through him, filling his hands, his mouth, his thoughts. It runs up his spine, lashes under his nails and in the next moment he's greedily grabbing handful of Suguru's meaty ass, one side then another. Satoru's hips rut against him too, and there's a moan materializing and dying in the base of his throat.
Closing eyes. Opening them. Seeing nothing. Feeling everything. He ruts up again, snugly presses his cock in between Suguru's ass cheeks. Wetness leaks out, makes the cock slide easier. You're so beautiful, he whispers into the darkness, feels the thrashing rise under his hold, a thump again. Fist against the pillow maybe? But it only spurs Satoru on, he's rolling his hips leisurely, like he's trying to catch up to something he didn't know he was missing. I'll kill you, a hiss, soaked and shaking. Satoru cackles, rasping out, you can't.
He pulls the flesh apart and finds the entrance. Prods at it. Tight. It refuses to give when he pushes again. He circles around it, more tension building than layering away and whines tumbling out into Suguru's pillow and swelling in the air. Satoru presses on the shoulder blades harder, he hears a crack too, in his wrist or a little higher, his technique responds faster than his mind coating the tense snapping of muscles. Sweet resistance grows in Suguru's body. There is something about it. How easy he can break through it should be want, but he smiles to himself, no, he'll do this the right way. He'll give Suguru everything. He doesn't deserve nothing less. Satoru parts his knees wider, and presses the tip of his finger against the hole, he can feel it clenching under his touch. It doesn't give. It's fine, a cooing whisper, he spits in his hand, it's fine, he drags the spit over the length of his cock gathers the leaking want and presses his slickened fingers against the hole again. Relax, his voice is shaking, Suguru too. That's why he needs to relax. Relax, he whispers but his hips stutter in impatience, his length hungry and pulsing and god every inch of him is full of needling urgency.
The pillow kills a groan.
Satoru lowers his chest against Suguru’s back. His mouth finds the nape of his neck, licking the salt of sweat there, nuzzling into the shiver that runs under his tongue. Relax, another coo, a nibble. Another attempt to tear through him, Suguru hisses. Satoru's hand leaves the shoulder blades circles in front of his neck, flooded with the wild palpitations of Suguru's pulse against his skin. Why? Satoru's mind blanks to that question. It's follow with a sniffle and a ragged inhale and the heat of Suguru's body feels cold all of a sudden, sick and piercing, but the answer comes nevertheless. It's a though he had it at the ready and his lips part, tongue darts out to wet the dryness away, making it up to you.
His nose in Suguru's hair inhaling the cigarettes and the newspaper and the citrusy shampoo. His arm around Suguru's neck, choke hold over another one. Soothing kiss over the burning want. The cold slides away, it withers and he pushes his finger in. The body closes around him. Little whine feeds itself into the between them, hungry to be heard. Satoru kisses Suguru's neck again. It's okay.
The spit dies out, the body still taut and rigid. Not a single sound. Not a single thing except little breathes and Satoru's lips and Satoru's fingers, in and out, in and out, dry and roughly, and raspy chewed up words, and reassurances that don't work. Knuckles hit the flesh. Knuckles push deeper. Fingertips feeling the resistance. The hole is clenching, tight and hips are stuttering up and his mouth aches out another word. Satoru speaks words he can't find in himself to repeat. They slick his ears and sear his throat and make Suguru clench and tighten only with a brief moment of release. His fingers pry open and want and twist. He pulls them out only to thrust them deeper, up to the last knuckle through shaking legs and shaking breathes.
Satoru's mouth finds a spot on his shoulder, latches onto it through cotton, bites and licks and bites again. And he wishes he could taste the iron, so he pinches the skin again, nibbles and tastes and hopes and plunges his fingers out and in and finally, finally, a sound is pulled through the length of his body, spilling out into the futon, shaking under Satoru's tongue. And Satoru wants to lick it off too, feel the shape of it in his own mouth and his throat swells with the want of letting Suguru's tongue into his mouth, and he's rutting again, and fucking him open with his fingers, and it's not enough. It's the dead of night but he can see it, imprinted behind his eyelids. All ruddy and naked and his. You know how pretty you are he says again, and again, all the time. Pretty and strong and nice and kind and he wants to have it all. Maybe if Suguru's his then he's all those things too? You're the prettiest when you fight.
He thinks of the times he saw Suguru swallow a curse. How it slid down the tightness of his throat, bulged it. A groan. They'll hear you. His hand clamps around Suguru's mouth and teeth sink into his flesh. Heat spreads there, sears him. Satoru laughs. His fingers unerringly plunge into the wet heat of Suguru's mouth. Burning in all the places. Not enough still. Not inside of him. Not under his skin.
Satoru's wet root to tip, guiding himself to the hole, slicking himself up with more spit in his palm and more pre-come. This is how he takes it all, and gives it all to him. This is how they merge. Satoru's cockhead is flush pressing against the entrance and Suguru gives out one last groan before he pinches Satoru's finger between his teeth and Satoru pushes in.
His dick pulses and he wants to shout but bites into the shoulder. It's maddening. The pressure and the heat of it. The way it claws around his cockhead and slides down in obscene pleasure to his root and claims his hips and makes him want to sink into the trembling heat of Suguru in one thrust. All his muscles are liquid. His mouth unlatches from the spot on the shoulder, only to grip the flesh again, squeeze the jaws, and push his hips down. A groan. Suguru's biting his hand.
It's a slow descend without a pause, through the holy squeeze of unused body. Satoru seethes and hisses into the damp fabric as ache bites through his palm and the spit is not enough to ease the slide. Suguru's shaking, his hips all shudder and the throat tight. Swallowing over and over. Wetness dripping on Satoru's forearm and hot moisture on his palm, too. He'll wipe it all off, only when he finishes this, but his arm circles around his abdomen just the same, holding up closer, squeezing molecules from the space between them. His bitten finger pulses and Satoru's pelvis meets Suguru's ass. And all the world is their heartbeats.
Not a single ounce of pressure releases. It's cold sweat over the heat. It's ragged breath and teeth in his meat and his cock throbbing and his hips ready to plunge again. But he stills. Makes this last. Kisses his hair. Kisses his neck. Imagines a kiss on his palm with harder teeth and insistent tongue. Caresses his stomach his chest, pushing his hand between the body and soaked futon, pinches the nipple, makes Suguru yelp and shudder out a moan and clench and sigh. All of it is consumed into his skin, the hand he has clasped around the jaw, the blood he's leaking into Suguru's mouth. And the only regret is that he didn't do this sooner. Didn't find the warmth in the center of Suguru's body. His hand slides over Suguru's pectorals down his stomach stays there. Pets him gently, a need to scratch three too rises and his hips rut, sheathing him deeper. Another moan that drags out a whimper from Satoru, too. It's nice. Please, let me. Wet lips close around his finger, a fist hits against the cotton covered floor. Ah, it's okay. Shhh.
When Satoru moves it's vicious instinct spilling out of him. His hips lift a fraction, then thrust, meeting the skin with a slap and the vibration of a moan. Suguru's motionless but his body is a taut bow in Satoru's hands and on his cock. It's blistering heat burrowing itself into Satoru's flesh like it's supposed to be there. Like it's memory erased now stumbling back into his bones. And with every pull out, he keeps the head of his cock inside, stretching him, to return into the haunted house of Suguru's body pushing him forward. Making the futon slide. Slapping their skin together. Biting his shoulder, feeling Suguru's teeth sink and clamp around his fingers. It's a fever, it's war zone, and Getou's hole is clenching around him and the thrusts are furious and the Suguru's noises are softer already. Sobs and cries and mouth turning slack.
Satoru shudders at the compliance, letting go his sore fingers from around his mouth, tucking the damp strands of hair behind his ear. There's too much friction. They're not wet enough. And pre-come isn't enough to easy any of it but Satoru almost enjoys this too, turning himself raw. Filling Suguru up with everything he got. There are new noises spilling out. Little strangled sounds, breathing out like bird flaring out of their nests. He thrusts forward again, makes the futon hit the leg of the bed. Draws out a strangled noise out of Suguru, makes his cock burn and Suguru's hole break open.
As the first purple hue of morning spills in, he sees it finally, the outline of Suguru's body, the hand fisted the pillow the helpless way his body gets pushed up and down together with his cock as he rolls his hips. Satoru presses his forehead to the sweat-damp cotton on his shoulder blades and his hand finds the thigh and brings it higher over his, then sliding back under his stomach again feeling the thrusts separated through wall of flash. The heel of his palm pressing there slightly, making Suguru squick and his hips stutter back fucking himself back into. Spooling out a moan out of Satoru, through the tight dry throat and the wet spit-full mouth. Two half clothed half slick bodies fucking into each other. A heartbeat of another kind under his palm. His heartbeat imprinting itself in Suguru's body. Infesting him. Turning him just as Satoru is. Filthy and angry and wanting. He pulls Suguru up, and gets them on the side, his head lulling back on his shoulder. And Satoru sees him finally. The face that sears him through, lips blood-stained red and parted, brows pinched and hair plastered all over his forehead. And Gojou wants him harder, more.
His lips find the spot on his shoulder, teeth know where to slot and bite down and the hand from the stomach slides lower wrapping around wet and throbbing hard cock. Suguru's hand bats at it, helplessly, tiredly. I'll help, he makes a few desperate strokes and it makes Suguru's ass clench tighter. Motions turn fast and jerky working the cock.
Satoru, thumbing at the head, pulling the skin down, making the wetness smear itself, work itself into his palm. Suguru is biting his lip, there's another attempt, wrapping the hand around Satoru's wrist, there's strength there this time. Give me some credit, his voice comes out raspy and wrung out, I can handle a cock. He'll think about it later. Make it better tomorrow or today, but the body around him is an endless heartbeat rippling and palpating at his command and it's heavenly to take it like this. You're so good. The words skew Suguru's mouth and pinch his brows and he squeezes his wrist and all of him becomes one long aching string.
A smothered cry in the pillow. A harder bite in the shoulder. Come spilling into his fist. Satoru's hips jerk forward and he's pulsing from head to cock. Iron in his mouth and sticky want of his lover in his palm. They become one breath. One lung and one heart. This is how they survive now.
Satoru touches him everywhere. Lets him slide off of his cock, lay face down into the pillow. Sees the tracks of his nails on his back, the t-shirt hiked up till the shoulders, the hair damp, and the sweat on his thighs and the used hole. More greed. There's no end to it.
Sob skitter into the pillow and Suguru's back shakes with inhales and exhales. And the sun is making the dust particles shine in the air.
Satoru's whole attention is narrowed to the space between Suguru's legs. The way he's s curling inward, attempting to, and Satoru doesn't want that. He wants to see what he did, what else he can do, how to make it good for him. And he finds himself back between those thighs, hand on the familiar spot between the shoulders, Suguru plastered on the futon, wiping his other cum stricken hand against the crumpled sheets, noticing the blood on the pillow and the blood on the chin and the screwed shut eyes.
Satoru wants to push comfort into him.
It's a need that grows hard and impatient again, another fire kindling. His cock is still throbbing. Suguru tries to push up, but it's futile, he drops back even without Satoru's force. Hair plastering around his head on the pillow. I'll clean you up. Satoru's not even sure Suguru heard him. Another attempt to get up follows and Satoru has to push him down this time. His eyes close tight. Wrinkles appears near the corners.
Satoru loves the scent of the sweat. It's heady and familiar and something he can place. The scent of Suguru's room and his stupid uniform when it's hot. A scent once removed from him when he's exhausted after a fight. Satoru hungrily inhales it, and his hand meanders down a path down Suguru's side. Over the scratched up back, toward his ass, and he grabs it gently pulling aside, exposing the hole.
It's a little wet and puffy and Satoru's mouth is full again. He abandons all the desire for the softness and touches him there. And it's like electric current runs through Suguru's body, he wheezes and his hips stutter up and he groans as though he's in pain, and maybe he is, but Satoru wants more and again and his dick is getting hard again.
He's pulling up Suguru's hips and now he can see what he's done, and he knows exactly what he'll do.
Suguru's nails sink into the pillow.
I'll help, it's fine, I'll help, after.
Both of Satoru's hands are on Suguru's hips now. Flesh parted, lips wet and greedy and he licks a slow circle around the hole and the scorching heat in him lashes out and makes him groan over the twitching entrance. He gives Suguru not time to recover. He licking around it and over, tasting himself, tasting sweat, and Suguru. Pulling the ass apart. Making the hole gape and stabs his tongue inside and licks again. Suguru moans, throaty tired noise, his hips stutter, and Satoru's mind goes still and all else loses it's meaning but this.
Satoru's nails sink into skin and split it under it, he feels how the layer opens and sheathes itself under his nails. He forces his tongue into the clenching hole, it's opening and closing fast and Satoru thinks of all the way he wants to make Suguru open himself up for him. Stay like this. On his fours, and exhausted and open, chained to Satoru's bed. Legs and arms spread eagle. So he can come home and take him, and take him to himself.
Satoru's tongue writhes inside Suguru as far as he can get licking his own come out and swallowing him and licking in again. It's a mess on his face and on his tongue. He wants to hear Suguru next time. Wants to see his face and wants to see his cock going in and out breaking open the hole making him stretch around him. Satoru carelessly thrusts his tongue into the hole and—
Satoru
—he can't unhear the queerness in the way his name drops form Suguru's lips. It's half curse half begging and his lips and tongue are thirsty for both. Satoru he pulls back, to see him. Eyes still shut and hands fists in the mess of the pillow and the blood on his cupids bow and from the torn lips is staining the cotton. It's the most beautiful sight and Satoru's teeth are back scrape the rim, making him shudder, and there's a pitiful moan and it cascades down Satoru's back and bites his cock and it doesn't sooth an inch of this new hunger of his. Next time, I'm gonna fuck you slow, his tongue curls inside. His nails are claws and Suguru's hips answer pushing back against him while the mouth twists out a curse. You don't have to do anything. Tongue is not enough. The skin of Suguru's ass is set free. He's still pushing it open and his tongue is flicking in and out of the hole as though he wants to imprint the taste into his mouth, but lazily, and easily his finger slips inside, stretching the hole open.
A pained groan. It slithers up Suguru's back and over into Satoru's mouth, he swallows that too. And his brain is churning mass of need focused only on this, melting all his fantasies together to get Suguru to stay like this.
The tongue slides in together with the finger. Wet and hot and open just for him. Satoru emerges, finger still inside, Suguru's hole closing around him, opening up a little, then tightening again. There are deeper marks on his thighs, now, blood under Satoru's nails. A shimmering layer of sweat on his back. Eyes skewed shut and lips pulled in a line. He slips another finger with little resistance. His other hand circles Suguru's hips and cups his hardening cock. Suguru's tries to slap it away. Don't be like that, Satoru coos. I feel you. The hole clenches around him hard, and it's a churn of depravity. The cock he's stroking and the hole kept open and twitching around him.
Satoru goes in and out and up and down. It's all he can do. Both hands working to twist Suguru around like a little writhing thing. Him apart and flay him open like Satoru is. All he is, is Suguru. Thought burns his mind even through the searing want. Suguru's fists are pulsing and clenching in the cotton of the abused pillow. Fucked on the fingers, and into his fist. Leaking and wet and pitiful. It's cute. Satoru can do this to him all day and night. Satoru spits on the hole without even pulling out his fingers, stuffing the wetness into it. It's dirty. Filthy and he likes it.
It's theirs to be all smothered in it the two strongests only they can understand this. Only Suguru can. Only Suguru. Only you, he finds himself saying. Only you.
He's fucking his fingers in. Mind and mouth numb, hands carrying no mercy. Smearing the pre-come trickling down from Suguru's cock over him, spitting on the hole. Watching it stretched again skewering himself deep, like a blade through flesh and panting, panting, saying his name. Only you, Suguru, and that makes Suguru's hole twitch and Satoru' fingers prod at the spot that makes him do so. Fingers pull out but the mouth is back and he prods his tongue in and sucks now making Suguru jolt again. It fills his insides, it's a respite to pull all those twitches out of him. Devouring him. Swallowing the heat and scraping the flesh. And Suguru's legs are trembling now splaying wider, going lower, sinking down with what seems like a cycle of relaxation and whipping pleasure.
There's a violent jolt and Suguru's hole squeezes around his tongue. Hips jerking up and he's coming. Full body shaking locked between his mouth and his hand, into his fist and it's an absolution. Feeling it like this. White noise and white heat and ugh stop stop stop stop.
No, is the only word that comes.
Satoru's turning him around. And his mouth is all over Suguru's cock. Come still trickling out filling Satoru's mouth. Eyes closes lips wrapping around the head and then sliding down the length. He soaks the cock with spit, making it cling on his chin, licking the come weeping head and making Suguru arch his back violently. His nails are sinking into the sheets of the futon. There's tension in the fabric. It might give. Satoru swallows around him. Thickly moans and focuses on the head sucking it. Slotting it behind his cheek, and then bobbing down as hard as he can.
Suguru is suddenly silent through it, his hips unmoving the only tension in the fists that grab the fabric and Satoru is now determined to make him move. Going up and down, the cockhead hitting the back of his throat, making him gag a little, and he chases that feeling, too. Grabbing Suguru's thighs full of scratch marks, his sticky palm over them. Patting him and sucking him. Lifting his limp thighs over his shoulders. Skewing Suguru's body. Gagging and chocking and spitting out the come and bobbing down again until his nose reaches the rough hair on his pubic bone. Inhaling there. Feeling the thick fullness in his mouth, and—
Suguru breaks under him again with a pitiful little sound spilling in his mouth cock throbbing uselessly with little come. The fabric tears up. Tears are frozen on his cheeks in silver tracks, nothing new slides out of his closed eyes. Hair stuck on his red face. His lips bitten raw all red and little wells of blood at the corners. He's beautiful.
When Satoru releases his cock Suguru slides down onto the futon. The sun fully out now the day ticking forward and alive already.
Satoru crawls up and kisses those lips, licks over them. That's his too. Suguru doesn't resist.
Satoru's pulling the shirt off of Suguru. He complies.
He's on his back. Hiding all the evidence of their coupling. Raising his hands, closing his eyes, breathing like normal. All the sheets wet and sticky and they don't care. Satoru uses the shirt to wipe him as clean as he can. He doesn't prod him to turn around but he swipes his cock making him shudder. Drags the cloth over his pecks and stomach and his neck, and the bitten through spot on his shoulder. Suguru hisses. Satoru tears more of the sheet and pats the little spots on his thighs and his sides and under arms and around his neck. It seems like Suguru is asleep through it all. He finds underwear and new t-shirt in the colorful closet. Pulls the boxer briefs on. Suguru winces at that. Satoru's hand is in his sweat flat hair, combs through them, unties the knots, smooths them down onto one side. He thumbs the bitten spot too. Imprints of his incisors forming half circle. His own finger is abused. He doesn't heal it.
Satoru curls around Suguru. Ear over his heart, arm winding around the torso, thumb tracing a gentle line by his side, and lips pressing a kiss on the overheated skin. Fall asleep stuck with sweat and full of sun.
First thing he sees upon waking is the door swung wide open, then the bloodstains on the pillowcase. Next comes the gentle current of wind against his back. The heat has broken, and the house no longer stinks of fish only the faint scent of lavender lingers.
It takes him a minute or two to turn over through the pulling ache in his muscles. He stretches his arms and legs, his eyes drifting over the shadows of swaying branches imprinted on the ceiling and the thin crack that runs between them. Light is everywhere but it doesn't cut with the burns, it's soothing for once. The house feels empty but the groan of the pipes and the insistent sound of the shower cuts through the summer soaked silence. Mouth mercilessly dry, hands empty.
Satoru pulls on the torn sheets. Pulls off the ruined pillow case. It's all turning into a glob of white, folded, crumpled, stuffed in of itself. Their futons are merged together, untouched and ravished. He pushes them apart. The room is the same. The bookshelves. The closet. He gets on his feet. Selects new set of clothes from it. A shirt with a ridiculous flower print and shorts still too big on him. Suguru didn't have any missions, he mentioned as much when they arranged his visit. The emptiness of the house is mock. The hallway is the same. Frames and pictures and locked door. The door to the inner yard wide open when he reaches the kitchen. Two bowls covered with hand towels. Two cups full with something dark black. He hates coffee. It better have sugar in it. Still he aches and his mouth wants a mouth over it. The counter top is clean. There's laundry hanging in the yard on a rack. Sheets, socks, shirts, his uniform. There are no clocks in the house but it doesn't feel early in the morning. Midday maybe. One, two, three past? Cigarette butts smashed in a small plate with pink flowers rimming it. Breeze brushing the bushes in the garden, sheets swaying. The shower doesn't stop. His heart is aflame, his hands are empty. Satoru attempts to wash them under the tap water, it hits the Limitless first. Right. He wills it to stop. Cold hits his skin like a curse slithering under it. It doesn't feel like anything real. He knows the realness of a touch now. His heart leaps at it. Skips and jumps. Three cigarette butts are in the make shift ashtray. One half done. Two burnt to the orange edge of the filter.
He's back in the hallway, reaching for the door. The humidity hits him first, brushing his ankles. The floor is slippery here. Suguru behind the translucent shower curtain. He turns toward him. Satoru can see it through. Clothes and towels folded on the washing machine. He adds his own right next to it. When Satoru pulls on the curtain Suguru's back greets him. A canvas of his touch. Nail tracks down from shoulder blade to the small of his back. Three sharp lines on his thigh, then three again, and two more, a non-identical imprint on the other side. The skin looks tender, overworked and overheated by the warm water. Pink and pale and pink again in all the places where Satoru reached for him. Suguru looks over his shoulder, and he can't recognize the quality of the look. The harsh set of the jaw, the sternness and—he reaches again. Hands cupping the wet shoulders, naked and Limitless-less and getting soaked near him. Filling his touch with him. Feeling the gasp and the shudder and the gasp again. Pushing the hair to the other side, finding the imprint of his teeth on his shoulder. Sliding his hand over the clavicles making sure Suguru sees the imprint of his own mouth. An embrace. Not as tight as it gets. He keeps that in. Kisses the shoulder. Keeps his tongue in. Kisses it again.
"Does it hurt?" he asks.
Question that can be drowned in the noise of the running water.
Suguru's hands fly up. Fingertips slotting themselves on the edge of the indent with the shower products. The nailbeds turn white.
"A lot," he replies. "It hurts a lot."
Stone words on the edge of his tongue.
Satoru kisses the spot again. Nuzzles against his neck. Kisses there, too. Hurt can be fixed.
He finds the citrusy shampoo in the line, palm closes around it almost like a magnet.
"This one right?" he whispers.
Suguru nods.
He works the shampoo between his hands before slathering it on his hair, getting it to work and foam, studs running down the length of them losing their shape in between their bodies, drowning in the drain. The nail tracks are puckered a little, he soaps them too. Through cascade of hisses. Suguru presses his head against the tiles. Under his shower. Under his water. In his house. He's touching him endlessly. Washing him clean of himself. Stomach. Back. Shoulders. A hiss and a kiss a whimper. He washes his thighs, and ass, and taint and soft cock, his inner thighs, too. Kisses the hips and tongues the scratch marks. The shower is too small to hold both of them. Satoru is on his knees, kissing up to his side, then to his back, shoulders again, last kiss on the same place. Licking his teeth indents.
The towels are fresh.
He touches Suguru's forehead. Wipes the droplets from his chest. Cleans up the marks.
Stares at them. Touches them. A rough line running under his finger. Another one. And Suguru watches him as he does so. Still and empty look. Dark embers centers of an exploding star already dead. Dries his hips and torso and arms. Getting the towel damp. Picking the other one drying his hair. Cupping his cheeks. Staring at him. Mouth on his mouth. A lick of the seam. Lips don't part. A man as a stone. The strongest sorcerer.
A hand in his hair, looking for purchase. Fist forming, stinging his scalp in a needling hug. A hand cupping his jaw. Satoru closes his eyes. Losing himself to it. Towel weighted in his hands thrown over Suguru's shoulders.
Pull. Mouth over mouth. Pure heady bliss.
"Did I fight?" he asks, pressing the words into his lips.
Satoru smiles. Hands winding around his waist, chin on his shoulder. Finds their smudged reflection in the mirror. Smiles again. Presses it into his skin.
"You did. You fought very well."