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There’s no definitive click in the way Gojou slots their lips together, only a neediness that doesn’t ebb, just flows back and forth between the two of them. Something godly and wretched at the same time. The hand cradling his face feels distant, none of the warmth and softness he was used to all those years ago, no thumb gently circling his cheek or burly palms pressing them together, only an index finger under his chin, forcing him to look up, it’s knuckle digging into his throat.
Did he know what Kento was thinking of? Who Kento was thinking of?
His face is freed momentarily as he’s pulled forward through the grip on his necktie. Gojou’s other hand, all bony and slender, plants itself atop Kento’s chest, pushing him down on the lounge chair as a set of strong thighs lock him in place. He bends down so that his mouth meets the junction of Kento’s neck, then, behind his ear, gliding his tongue along the shell of his ear with fervor.
Did he know, that even with his body pressed this close to his, Kento pictures, wishes still, that it was someone else’s? He pictures someone with a shorter stature, broader shoulders, fuller limbs, kind eyes, gentle hands; an unending list of things he wishes would return to him.
He runs a hand through Gojou’s hair, giving his scalp a slight tug. It almost feels good, the same thin strands falling from his fingers, only his hair is a little longer than Kento would have liked. He drags his fingers all the way back and feels the absence of fuzz along the nape of his neck where it should be and suddenly it all feels wrong again. Wrong hair color, wrong person. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
They shift and Kento cranes his neck in an attempt to connect their mouths, but Gojou is a little too tall for his liking and kissing in the way that he’s used to, even with an entire decade past him, only lets him up to the bulk of his shoulder. Couldn’t even meet me halfway, he thinks. He bites and sucks at the skin there until it bruises and Gojou groans.
Did he know? Their bodies weren’t made for each other. That the bodies they were made for are now long gone, dissected and disposed of.
“Satoru.” he whines. Icy blue eyes meet his own and immediately they know what Kento’s asking for, in this moment, at least.
“Please, call me Satoru.” Gojou had asked him after their first “Even if it’s just for when we’re together.”
“And why would I do that?” Kento questioned, his frown growing deeper.
“It’s just more romantic that way.” he joked, but the fatigue brought out his candor and Kento swore he heard the lilt of sadness in voice.
He gave in, eventually, but he never asked for the same in return. Part of him, a very large part, knew how wrong, how dishonest it would feel to hear his name be uttered by anyone other than family, other than Yu, so he never offered and Gojou never asked.
Gojou’s hands wander down his torso and up his thighs, loosening his belt buckle and suspenders in the process. Kento lets his head fall back and his eyes close as he tries to picture Yu, ten years older than he was back then.
Did he know? He must have. Must’ve heard Kento whisper the wrong name once or twice, even if it was just in his head.
Did he know that Kento knows? Knows how he chants Suguru over and over in his head like a prayer, as if the all powerful Gojou Satoru believed in praying or in Gods at all, as if pleading with them would bring him back from the dead. Though, despite Gojou’s undeniable strength he’d sometimes utter a syllable or two of his late lover’s name before remembering and stopping himself. There are days even, when he’d reach past the cut of Kento’s hair in search of something more, of someone that’s no longer there.
He was his one and only, after all.
He knows. They both do. It’s exactly why this whole arrangement started in the first place.
Kento rubbed the sleep from his eyes when he heard the knock on his door. On Christmas of all days, he thought to himself. He dragged his feet from the kitchen all the way to his front door, not a sip of coffee in him.
And really, who else would’ve gone out of their way to bother him during the holidays other than Gojo Satoru dressed in his jujutsu tech uniform, black blindfold, and chagrin smile.
He let out an exasperated sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you this. I’m no longer interested in becoming a jujutsu sorcerer. Please Gojou, just leave.”
For a second, his smile faltered. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to force you to do anything Nanamin. Just wanted some company y’know? It’s Christmas day after all.” his face fell back into an easy smile but Kento saw the clench in his jaw, as if he was holding something back.
“Why not spend it at the school? With Shoko and Yaga-sensei.”
“Did you really just tell me to spend the holidays with Yaga of all people?” he let out a forced laugh, “Besides, Shoko’s a little busy right now.”
Kento squinted his eyes at him, tried to gauge whatever it was that Gojou wanted from him.
“Very well. But don’t try to talk me into anything. And don’t stay too long, I want to spend the day relaxing.”
“No promises.” he teased in a sing-song tone as he stepped inside.
Still, with serenely closed eyes and a wandering mind, Kento sat there as Gojou took him in, long forgotten who’s mouth lay in front of him.
The thing about being human was that they shared all the same gaps and valleys everyone else had, and to the two of them it also meant sharing the same needs, the same grief, the same human shaped longing.
What he sees staring up at him are deep brown eyes, glossy and lidded. They’ve long forgone the innocence they had in their youth but there was still the same verve and admiration. His hair was shorter, if only by a bit, more mature. Sharper features but just as full, just as easy to color under his touch. He thought of him and only him, etched in his mind like a promise.
What they have, he and Gojou, is not love.
He knows it’s not love, but the complacency of two people who have faced death, both their own and another's, and survived. It’s not love but a comfort they’ve allowed themselves to indulge in, a consolation of sorts. It's not love but two lost bodies seeking skinship, most days something more. And why search further, when a perfectly broken man is right there? When they know his pain just as well as he knows theirs, his body even more so.
The guilt that used to linger in the moments after no longer feeds the air, instead there’s just understanding, a known yet unspoken thing. Something sacred and cursed, just the same.
He knows it’s love, just not with each other. It’s love, unreturned, for how can the dead ever love them back.
My warmth was not what she needed, but the warmth of someone else. I felt almost guilty being me.
— Haruki Murakami