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"You owe me new underwear."
Shoko rests her cheek against his chest while curling up on her side. Satoru's heart beats heavily beneath her hands, and the smell of his skin and sweat fills her senses in a pleasant haze, a warm afterglow. A pleasant warmth shoots through her body, competing with the subtle stings and aches. Her own body has revealed itself to her in all of its gratuitous carnality. And Shoko twines her arms around the back of Satoru's neck and she holds on to him. She holds on because in this world, you never know when something good will be taken away.
There are fingers trailing idly down her back, counting every jutting vertebrae in her spine. When Satoru laughs, the bed shakes with the force of it. He's free and easy with his laughter, letting down his walls just a little whenever he's with friends, the people he considers precious.
Occasionally, he'll be able to hide his feelings from her, but more often than not, they shine through on his features. And she'll pick him apart the way she does with a scalpel, to a body on her operating theatre. Because they've been through too much, been with each other for far too long. She knows him. And he knows her.
With a single look, Shoko can see what's in his heart, the feelings there that they're both reluctant to put a name to. Neither of them want to speak the words, to will them into reality. It makes all of this that much worse.
"Want me to choose a set for you?"
"Sure." Shoko thinks longingly of her favorite set of lingerie; deep magenta satin, cut so racily that it's barely a few scraps of fabric. And under Satoru's hands, that's exactly what it's been reduced to. The loud, echoing rip had been proof enough. "As long as you don't get us kicked out of the store again."
"Once."
"That's more than enough, Satoru."
There's no real heat in her admonishment, and Satoru knows it. He kisses her again, and his lips mold against hers. Soft. Warm. It's brief, lasting for only a few moments, but still Shoko feels that soul-deep connection, feels the loss of him so acutely when he pulls away, disentangling his limbs from hers.
And she lets him go.
Satoru brushes the damp tendrils of hair off her temples, his fingertips gliding almost reverently across her face. The way he studies her makes her chest hurt. Almost as though he expects to never see her again.
"You don't have to go," Shoko says, unexpectedly sentimental.
But Satoru's already putting on his clothes, collecting them from the debris of shoes and clothes strewn about on the white tiles of the infirmary floor. He rights the disorder her hands have done to his hair, his mouth a relaxed curve as he slips the blindfold back on over his eyes once again. "I've got a meeting."
"Meeting?" Shoko repeats, her brows lifting in surprise.
There's a feral edge to Satoru's smile, bared teeth and fangs and claws. "With Principal Gakuganji."
"Harassment." Shoko corrects, beginning the process of dressing. She has the luxury of time, considering how the day has proven to be a relatively easy one. With luck, she'll be able to clock out at five. She tugs down the hem of her emerald green skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles in the brilliant fabric. "Not a meeting. You're planning to harass the Kyoto Principal for what he did to Itadori, aren't you?"
"Just a bit."
"Good."
A spark in her eyes, a twist of her lips. Rare anger eats at her normally calm composure.
Yuji's prone body had arrived wrapped up in a white body bag; another casualty of the war waged by the adults in their battle against Curses. It was by no means the first time she'd seen a dead body, but something had struck her then. The stink of mortality. The awful truth about humans. The awful shortness of a life.
The front door opens, the bell at the back of the door chiming out a cheerful warning. The spell is broken. The sound signals reality.
This time, she's fueled by a much greater sense of urgency as she searches for her blouse, her underwear and tries to straighten her appearance. Satoru hands items over one by one, his smile wide and unrepentant when he sees the ruined state of her undergarments. A trip to Victoria's Secret is definitely in order. And soon.
Satoru's hands catch the hem of her black silk blouse, tugging it into place, adjusting it so that the buttons once again form a straight row between her breasts.
Regrettably, there's far less time for her to restore her makeup to its prior state of perfection. The friction of mouth and skin and fingertips has erased the carefully applied film of color. Quickly, Shoko fishes in her desk for a compact and powders her face, using the tip of her ring finger to wipe smudges of liner from beneath her eyes.
She's just slipping her white coat back on when there's a knock on the door to her office.
"Come in."
"Shoko!" Maki calls out in greeting, poking her head inside. The second-year is overwhelmingly casual; not that Shoko minds. Maki, very pointedly, ignores Gojo, perched upon the very edge of her desk. "Can you fix these guys up?"
Maki nudges Megumi and Nobara into the room. Surprise darts across her face for a quick second, momentarily surprised at the extent of their injuries, right before it's gone, smoothness melting over her face once again. Megumi’s hair is shooting out in all directions, as though he’s been electrocuted. Blood is streaming down his face, and bits of glass and fragments of debris peek out from his skin and hair. Nobara is hissing about her ruined clothes in a very cat-like way. There are drops of blood on her jersey, and her normally creamy skin is mottled dark shades of blue and purple.
"Sure." Shoko reaches for her scrunchie, and clicks her tongue when she realizes she's left it in her handbag. Wordlessly, Satoru slips off his perch, and his fingers are gentle as they rake through her hair, pulling it away from her face, securing it with a hair tie, retrieved from the inner pocket of his jacket. The unexpected show of thoughtfulness triggers a pang of surprise. His fingers brush against the back of her neck, lingering for far longer than is strictly necessary. Shoko keeps her eyes trained on Maki's face. Her voice is perfectly steady, even as a pleasant, yearning ache gathers in her chest. "You coming in?"
Maki's nose crinkles, her brows knitting together. Her gaze darts between Shoko and Satoru, settling into something knowing. "No, I'll wait outside."
"Ten minutes." Maki nods, more in acknowledgement than anything else, before flitting out again, her high ponytail swishing. Turning her attention back to the first-years, Shoko gestures at the leather sofa, where, just moments ago, her back had been pressed against it. "You two wanna sit?"
Megumi and Nobara exchange a look. An entire conversation seems to take place in the span of a heartbeat, right before they reply, so simultaneously that even she can't tell whose voice is whose. "No."
Fine. It doesn't seem worth it to argue. Shrugging, Shoko pulls out the first-aid kit.
She's in her element now; bandages and antiseptic and tweezers. Injuries she can fix, wounds she can heal. Nobara she directs to the fridge, with instructions to retrieve ice for her bruises. Shoko turns her attention to Megumi, working with quick, sure movements as she cleans his wounds of debris. The routine is familiar; she remembers afternoons spent pressing alcohol-soaked swabs to the skin scraped raw on Megumi's knuckles, back when he was still a middle-schooler.
Plink, plink, plink.
Megumi stiffens when she leans in close to tug at a particularly stubborn piece of glass, but when she looks at him, there are flickers of realization in his eyes when he draws in a deep, bracing breath. It's only then Shoko realizes that she hasn't showered yet, hasn't yet washed the away the lingering traces of Satoru from her skin. And all she can smell is Satoru Satoru Satoru, his sweat and even a faint trace of the expensive cologne he uses, mingling with her own vanilla and lilac perfume.
Shoko pulls away, her fingers searching blindly for her supplies, touching the heavy oak of her desk to steady herself. She needs another dish. Ah. And Satoru's there, as if he's read her mind, pressing another one into her hand. The metal is cool against the flesh of her palm, and just like before, Satoru's fingers brush against her own, his hands white and pale and impossibly smooth. Shoko's own hands feel heavy and clumsy as she turns back to her task, even though she's performed this simple task hundreds of times.
Gojo's voice is loud, and much too cheerful. It jolts Nobara out of her daze; the brunette recovers, closing her mouth gaping open in mute shock, and goes right back to nursing her own injuries. As usual, Gojo inches right into Megumi's face, right into his personal space. "Wow, you two got beat up good! What happened?"
"Aoi Todou." The corners of Megumi's mouth are downturned; the name is spat out sourly, like a curse.
Shoko exchanges a look with Satoru. Her smile is perfectly dry, perfectly knowing. "Ah. So you've met the Kyoto students."
"That Zenin girl ruined my jersey!" Nobara cries, her eyes flashing in indignant anger.
Rivalries. Competition. Friends. The overconfidence of youth. Simpler times which will never come back again. As she does so often, Shoko remembers her life as a student, when her eyes had been shining bright, as if the future was a treasure that she couldn’t wait to hold in her hands. And always, in her memories, there's the distant sound of Suguru's voice, the low, smooth baritone, when their lives had ran together for that short, brief period. Her smile turns a shade rueful, and a shake of her head dispels the longing making a home deep in her bones.
"You roundhouse kicked a Zenin during our Exchange." Satoru says, suddenly. "Do you remember?"
Yes, yes, yes.
She hasn’t forgotten.
Instead, Shoko responds with a shrug, and an ambiguous facial expression. She focuses on the tweezers in her hands with great concentration. "Don't you have a meeting to get to? You've kept Principal Gakuganji waiting long enough, no?"
"Five minutes more won't hurt." Satoru disagrees through a laugh. He musses Megumi's hair even further, taking care to avoid any open wounds. Megumi's face puckers, as though he's sucked on a lemon. "See ya soon."
Shoko makes a low sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat. She waves a hand at Satoru, too busy to see him to the door. Quickly, Satoru catches it, turns it over and presses a quick kiss to the soft flesh of her wrist, to the traceries of blue veins mapping the inside of her skin. A rush of heat dances across her skin; Shoko's caught between kissing him and pulling her hand away, but Satoru's already dancing out the door before she can decide. She drops her suddenly graceless hand back down to her lap.
Megumi and Nobara are staring at her in a new light. Megumi's forehead is scrunched in skepticism, but Nobara's face is colored in disgust.
Shoko arches an eyebrow. Her voice is still remarkably steady. "What?"
"Nothing." Megumi and Nobara chorus again.
Shoko stares at her wrist for the span of a heartbeat, feeling the heat uncoil in her stomach and seeping into every cell of her body.