Chapter Text
The bass thumped low through the battered speakers, a deep, guttural pulse that seemed to rise from the floorboards themselves and travel straight up into the soles of Satoru’s shoes. He leaned back in his battered swivel chair, one leg casually draped over the other, the heel of his boot tapping a lazy rhythm against the metal armrest. He tipped his head to the side, eyes half‑closed, as if trying to hear the music not with his ears but with the very marrow of his skull. The track looped again—crisp, clean, the kind of beat that, on paper, should have been flawless. It hit the room with the precision of a metronome, each kick and snare landing exactly where a producer dreams they would.
Across from him, Choso stood with his arms folded, his posture relaxed but his mind clearly ticking. He nodded along, the motion of his shoulders syncing with the rhythm, and let out a low hum that rose and fell with the melody. After a few more bars, he turned his head toward Satoru, his eyes reflecting the flickering light of the laptop screen.
“It’s good,” Choso said finally, his voice low enough that only the two of them could hear it over the music. “The crowd would eat this up.”
Satoru clicked his tongue, a sharp sound that cut through the song. He dragged a hand through his shaggy hair, sending a few stray strands falling onto his forehead.
“Yeah. ‘Good.’ That’s the problem.” He leaned forward, elbows planted on his knees, his brows knitting together as he stared at the waveform glowing neon‑green on the screen. “It’s missing something. I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels flat.”
Choso didn’t argue. He had learned long ago that when Satoru got into that half‑genius, half‑spiraling‑mess state, the only thing that helped was a quiet presence. He shrugged lightly, the motion almost imperceptible.
“Then you’ll find it,” he said, the words more a promise than a suggestion.
_________________
Days bled together in a haze of loops and revisions. The campus hallway buzzed with the usual chatter, but Satoru moved through it like a ghost. He kept his headphones on, the soft hiss of his own beats a constant barrier between him and the world. Conversations blurred into background static; even when Suguru slipped his hand into Satoru’s, or leaned against him in passing, the touch felt distant, as if Satoru’s mind were chasing a sound that hovered just beyond reach.
Suguru noticed.
Of course he did.
He always did.
One sweltering afternoon, the two of them sat under the shade of an old oak tree that had long ago outgrown the campus lawn. The leaves whispered overhead, casting shifting patterns of light onto their faces. Suguru rested his elbow on Satoru’s shoulder, the cool bark of the tree grounding them both, and spoke in a tone that was both gentle and steady—the kind of voice that could pull Satoru’s head out of the clouds and plant it firmly on the ground.
“You’re going to burn yourself out,” Suguru murmured, his gaze locked on the distant horizon where the sky met the brick walls of the library. “It’s just a track.”
“It’s not just a track,” Satoru muttered, his words lacking heat. He sighed, letting his head tilt back against the rough bark, the weight of his frustration evident in the way his shoulders sagged. “It’s supposed to hit. It’s supposed to feel like something. And it doesn’t.”
Suguru studied his friend for a moment, the corners of his mouth turning up in a faint, sympathetic smile. “Then maybe you’re trying too hard to force it,” he suggested, his voice soft enough to be a whisper against the rustling leaves.
Satoru huffed, turning his head just enough to glance at Suguru. “You sound like a fortune cookie, baby,” he complained, a half‑laugh escaping his lips.
“And you sound like someone who needs a break,” Sugaru retorted, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
Satoru didn’t answer, but he also didn’t pull away when Sugaru shifted closer, their shoulders brushing lightly. Sugaru’s fingers idly traced slow, lazy patterns over the back of Satoru’s hand, the simple contact a reminder that he was not alone in his struggle.
<________________>
That evening, back in Satoru’s cramped apartment, the tension that had hovered between them throughout the day softened, dulled by the familiar comfort of shared space. The room was lit only by the glow of a single lamp and the occasional flicker from the street outside. They ended up tangled together on Satoru’s unmade bed, half‑lying, half‑sitting, their limbs intertwined as they talked in low tones that barely rose above the hum of the city beyond the windows.
Suguru hovered above him at one point, dark hair falling forward, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips as Satoru’s hands rested lightly on his waist. “Still thinking about it?” he asked quietly, his breath warm against Satoru’s ear.
Satoru exhaled, his grip tightening just a fraction. “Always.”
Sugaru leaned down, brushing his nose lightly against Satoru’s. “Then stop,” he whispered, his tone half‑teasing, half‑serious.
Satoru let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh. “You make it sound easy.”
“It is,” Suguru murmured, his voice a low purr. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting his face in the darkened room. The moment cracked like thin ice.
Suguru’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at the caller ID, and a groan escaped his lips. “If this is stupid, I’m hanging up,” he muttered, already swiping the screen.
Satoru smirked, propping himself up on his elbows, watching the scene unfold like a spectator at his own life.
“Yeah?” Suguru answered, his voice casual.
There was a pause, a faint crackle of static, then his expression shifted to mild amusement. “A party?”
Satoru raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Suguru glanced back at him, then turned his head slightly away, as if listening to an invisible conversation. “Choso’s hosting?” He paused, processing the thought. “Yeah, I can drag him along.”
Satoru scoffed quietly, the sound barely audible over the muffled bass still echoing from his laptop.
Suguru hung up, tossed the phone aside, and looked at Satoru with a grin that lit his entire face. “Party tonight. Nanami says we’re going.”
“We?” Satoru asked, a mix of curiosity and surprise in his tone.
Suguru’s smile widened, and he swung his legs off the bed, standing with a fluid ease. “We,” he repeated, the certainty in his voice making the word feel like an invitation rather than a command.
By the time they were dressed and ready, the earlier tension had morphed into something lighter, almost playful. Suguru slipped out of the room first, heading toward the small kitchen that doubled as a pantry. Satoru followed a minute later, his steps slowing as he paused in the doorway, watching Suguru.
Suguru stood by the countertop, the dim kitchen light catching the glint of his dark eyes. He tilted his head back slightly, taking a long swallow from a bottle of cheap whiskey, the dark liquid sliding past his lips in a slow, unhurried motion. The amber glow caught on the glass, painting his face with a faint, warm hue.
Satoru blinked, taking in the sight.
“Well,” he said after a beat, leaning against the doorframe, “that’s new.”
Suguru lowered the bottle, his gaze meeting Satoru’s with an easy smile. “Pregaming,” he replied, his tone light.
Satoru snorted, a short, incredulous sound. “Since when?”
Suguru wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, setting the bottle aside with a casual flick. “Since my boyfriend refuses to relax,” he said, an annoyed tone present but also a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes.
Satoru rolled his eyes, though a faint grin tugged at his lips. “I am relaxed,” he retorted, the sarcasm evident.
“Mm.” Suguru stepped closer, the gap between them evaporating as he brushed past Satoru. “Sure you are,” he whispered, his breath warm against Satoru’s neck.
As Satoru watched Suguru walk away, he knew that his boyfriend was going to fuck with his mental. He rubbed his tatted hand over his face and looked to whatever god was trying to torture him.
<____________>
The party was already in full swing by the time they arrived. Neon lights flickered against the darkened streets, and the thump of bass reverberated through the walls of the loft, spilling into the night like an endless wave. Inside, bodies swayed and collided in a chaotic rhythm, the air thick with sweat, perfume, and cheap beer.
Suguru pushed through the throng of people with a grin plastered across his face, spotting Nanami near the makeshift bar. Without hesitation, he called out, “Nana—!” and launched himself across the room, diving into Nanami’s open arms.
Nanami let out a quiet sigh, a mixture of surprise and affection, but didn’t push him away. “You’ve had something to drink already,” he said, his voice soft yet edged with playful reproach.
“Maybe,” Suguru hummed, pulling back with a grin that was half‑smirk, half‑tease.
Moments later, Haibara appeared, balancing two drinks in each hand as if they were precious artifacts. “You made it!” he exclaimed, eyes lighting up at the sight of his friends.
Suguru leaned in, planting a quick kiss on Haibara’s lips before snatching one of the drinks. “Of course I did,” he replied, his voice warm with camaraderie.
From a corner of the room, Satoru watched the scene unfold with a quiet chuckle, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. He slipped away, his feet finding the path toward the DJ booth, the very heart of the party’s pulse.
Suguru’s gaze drifted across the room until it landed on a familiar sight, Kashimo perched on a low beam overhead, a lit blunt clenched between his fingers. Below, sprawled across a sagging couch, was Sukuna—broad, imposing, his face twisted in irritation. Kash's shoes sitting next to him on the couch.
Without a second thought, Suguru stepped onto Sukuna’s knees, ignoring the immediate glare that flared in the demon’s eyes. Using the elevation as a springboard, he hoisted himself up onto the beam with the ease of someone who had practiced this sort of reckless acrobatics many times before.
Sukuna clicked his tongue, a sound that cut through the music like a warning. “Watch it,” he muttered, his voice low and threatening.
Suguru didn’t even glance down. “You’ll live,” he replied, his tone nonchalant.
Kashimo glanced over, his expression barely shifting as he passed the blunt. “You’re late,” he said, the words more a statement than an accusation. He looked down, letting his barefoot hang near Sukuna’s face, slightly rubbing.
Suguru took a slow drag, exhaling a soft cloud of smoke that curled toward the ceiling. “Worth it,” he said, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips.
They settled into a temporary sanctuary, passing the blunt back and forth as the party’s noise faded into a distant hum. Time seemed to stretch, the world narrowing to the shared rhythm of inhaling and exhaling. Eventually, a low growl from Sukuna’s stomach reminded Suguru of a more immediate need.
“Food,” he muttered, hopping down from the beam without warning.
He weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, slipping between dancing bodies and laughing strangers until he spotted Choso near a side table, carefully arranging edibles with a blunt tucked between his fingers. Sugaru snatched one without asking, earning a brief glance from Choso but no protest.
By the time he returned to the DJ booth, a grin had settled firmly on his face. The music was louder here, the lights brighter, and Satoru was completely in his element. Behind the turntables, his fingers moved with practiced ease, each twist of a knob and flick of a fader shaping the flow of the night. The crowd responded instantly, bodies moving in perfect sync with the shifting beats.
Suguru leaned against the side of the booth, watching Satoru with a mixture of pride and admiration. He held out the edible he’d taken from Choso, a small, colorful gummy that seemed to glow under the strobe lights. “Peace offering?” he asked, his tone teasing.
Satoru glanced over, his eyes narrowing just enough to register the gesture before a smirk broke across his face. “Depends. Is it good?” he replied, the edge of his usual sarcasm softened by genuine curiosity.
“Try it,” Suguru said, holding the gummy between his thumb and forefinger.
Satoru leaned in, taking a bite straight from Suguru’s hand. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second—long enough that the world seemed to pause, the thumping bass momentarily dimming in the background.
“…Not bad,” he admitted, his voice low but sincere.
Suguru smiled, the satisfaction evident in the way his shoulders relaxed. He stayed there beside the booth, the two of them a quiet island amid the roaring sea of the party.
<__________>
Satoru’s fingers hovered over the DJ controller a beat longer than anyone could spot, the glossy faders catching the strobe lights that pulsed in time with the track. He let the mix ride, letting the bass roll deep enough to make the floor vibrate, the synths layered like a fresh‑squeezed juice blend—smooth, thick, just right for the crowd to get lost in. He leaned back, feeling the vibration through his chest, the way the music seemed to hug the room. The vibe was solid; the flow was tight enough that he could step away without the whole thing collapsing. Nobody would even notice—at least not yet.
He turned his head just enough to catch Suguru’s silhouette. Suguru was lounging against the side of the booth, eyes half‑closed, a lazy grin stretched across his face like he’d just finished watching a marathon of YouTube and didn’t have a single thought left to process. The look softened something in Satoru’s chest, loosening the tension that had been coiled there since the last set.
Satoru nudged him, a gentle tap on the shoulder. “Yo, you good?”
Suguru blinked, the haze clearing just enough to see Satoru’s grin. “You done?” he asked, his voice smooth as the track they’d just dropped.
“For now,” Satoru replied, a half‑smirk curling his lips. That was all it took.
Suguru sprang up like someone flicked a switch, the energy sparking back into his veins. “C’mon,” he said, dragging Satoru by the elbow.
The pair slipped out of the cramped booth and merged back into the party’s pulse. Suguru wove through the crowd with effortless swagger, his steps synced to the thumping bass, pulling Satoru along until the music softened a notch and the room’s energy shifted. They slipped into the living area, the place that smelled like a mixture of sweet incense, vodka, and the faint, comforting haze of a good night’s weed.
The moment Satoru inhaled the thick, sweet‑spicy air, he let out a slow, satisfied sigh. “Yeah,” he muttered, “this is better.” The heat of the room wrapped around him, the chatter of bodies a muffled roar compared to the dance floor’s full‑volume madness.
In the corner, Sukuna was sprawled across an old sofa, one arm draped over the back like he owned the place. Kashimo perched in his lap, eyes glued to his phone, thumb flicking through a gaming app with laser focus. “—No, you gotta time it,” Kash said flatly, not looking up. “You’re just button‑mashing.”
Sukuna scoffed, a grin cutting across his face. “I’m winning.”
“You’re not,” Kash shot back, eyes still on the screen.
Across the room, Choso sat at a makeshift card table, his composure as cool as a winter night. Hikari groaned dramatically, throwing a hand up. “There’s no way you had that,” he accused.
“I did,” Choso replied, dead‑pan.
Haibara leaned over the table, laughing. “You’re getting destroyed,” he called out, tossing a chip at Hikari.
On the other side of the room, Nanami and Shoko were half‑sunk into their chairs, eyes red and glassy, the kind of quiet that only long nights and deep conversations can breed.
Suguru took it all in, humming a low, pleased tune. He drifted toward Shoko, slipping into the empty space beside her. Her bong still glowed faintly from the night’s earlier session. He picked it up, the ceramic warm to the touch.
“Mind if I—?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Shoko waved a hand, a lazy smile flickering across her face. “Go ahead.”
Without another word, Suguru set the bowl, lit it, and drew in a slow, steady drag. The smoke curled up his throat, his shoulders relaxing as the marijuana hit his nerves. He exhaled a soft sigh, letting the haze settle over his eyes. He settled back into the chair, feeling the weight of the night ease from his limbs.
A moment later, Satoru plopped down across the table, snatching up a random slice of pizza from the plate and taking a big bite. He chewed, eyes flicking over Suguru’s relaxed form.
“You starving?” Suguru said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Satoru froze, mid‑chew, his eyes widening. “Am not,” he protested, but his mouth kept moving, a bite still stuck between his teeth.
Suguru raised an eyebrow, the amusement clear in his tone. “Liar, you look like you could eat the whole kitchen.”
Satoru shrugged, taking another bite anyway. Suguru let out a quiet laugh, but the sudden tickle in his throat turned into a dry, insistent scrape. His stomach growled in reply, a low reminder that the party’s snacks had been more about vibe than sustenance.
He pushed himself up without another word. “Yo—” Satoru started, but Suguru was already slipping out.
The kitchen was a blessing, a miniature sanctuary of actual food. Warm chicken wings clung to the plates, their skin still crisp, the sauce a sweet‑and‑spicy glaze that left a sticky sheen on his fingers. Cold beers rattled in their cans, beads of condensation sliding down the sides. Suguru didn’t think, he just grabbed, pulling wing after wing into his mouth, chewing mindlessly until the hunger dulled and a pleasant heaviness settled in his head.
When he finally pushed the empty plates aside, the party’s noise faded to a distant hum, as if the house itself had turned down the volume. He wiped his hands on a napkin, blinking slowly, his mind wandering to the upstairs hallway that always felt like a secret passage when the night got too loud.
The hallway was dim, the faint glow from the living room spilling in like a soft spotlight. He tried the first door; it swung shut with a soft thud. “Nope,” he muttered, shaking his head. The second door was locked—Choso's mess of a password still a mystery. The third door was occupied, muffled laughter seeping through the crack.
“Seriously?” he muttered, hand sliding down his face. He tried a few more, the hallway echoing his steps until finally, a fourth door clicked open on its own. Inside, the room was empty—just a bed, a lone pillow, and the soft hum of a ceiling fan.
He let out a sigh of relief, stepping in and slamming the door behind him. The mattress looked inviting, the sheets still warm from the night’s earlier heat. He flopped onto it, arms flung wide, eyes staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling. “This is nice,” he whispered, a grin spreading across his face.
A beat later, his smile faded into a sigh. “...but I’m bored.” He sprawled, feeling the room’s quiet pull at his mind.
Below, Satoru noticed the sudden emptiness. At first, he didn’t give it much thought—Suguru was always drifting, always finding new corners to claim. But ten minutes turned into twenty, then thirty, and the living room felt off, the buzz of conversation a little too thin without his friend’s easy energy.
He set his drink down with a soft clink and clicked his tongue. “Where’d he go?” he muttered into the room’s low hum.
No one answered. The group was too wrapped up in their own games, jokes, and late‑night debates.
Satoru pushed back from the couch, his shoes squeaking on the wood floor. He walked the hallway, checking each door, each closet, each hidden nook. He passed the kitchen again, where the last wing fell on the counter, now cold. He slipped up the narrow stairwell, his mind a flicker of worry and a steady undercurrent of love for his boy.
At the top, he paused outside the first bedroom, listening to the faint thump of a low‑bass track leaking through the wall. He tried the knob—locked. The second door—also locked. The third, with a cracked paint that matched the hallway’s faded vibe—opened slightly.
He eased the door open just enough to peek inside. There, on the bed, Suguru lay sprawled, looking like he owned the space, the sheet tangled around his limbs, a half‑smile playing on his lips. The room smelled faintly of incense and the residual sweetness of earlier smoke.
A rush of relief flooded Satoru’s chest, his shoulders dropping as he stepped inside and shut the door, the lock clicking into place with a soft, reassuring sound. Suguru turned his head lazily, eyes lighting up just a touch when they met Satoru’s.
“Took you long enough,” Suguru murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper against the hum of the night.