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Only one of them is untouchable — Satoru knows this acutely. The same shrapnel that keeps its distance from him like he is magnetic, a negative pole, seems to seek Suguru out with a veracity that terrifies him. He is magnetic in that he repels, pushes people and curses away without thinking, while Suguru is magnetic in that he attracts, consumes. People have always been drawn to Suguru, to his smile and good humor, and while Satoru’s own technique is a means to blow away, blow apart every enemy in his path, Suguru must draw the enemies in to consume them. Between Satoru’s near-invincibility and Suguru’s need to draw close to his enemy to exorcise them, their missions often end the same way.
Suguru sits on the edge of the sink in their shared bathroom, his hair hanging around his shoulders as he watches his would-be nurse’s hands. Satoru had a pad of clean cotton gauze pinched in his fingers, and when his hand turns a certain way Suguru can see the way the fibers don’t quite join with his fingers. Gloves made of infinity, even though the skin of Satoru’s back under his hand is warm and freely given under his hand.
The gauze pad is dipped in alcohol and Suguru hisses as Satoru draws it over the road rash that carves an ugly path along his cheek. He had been dragged this time, by a flying curse that would make an incredible addition to his menagerie. Of course, he had also nearly been gored by the other curse’s horns, just before Satoru had compressed the thing into a ball that might have been one of his own, if it hadn’t been red and green and dripped putrid fluid onto the pavement.
If he had been gored they would have gone to Shōko, because while they loathed her monotone poorly veiled threats and lectures, neither of them was quite stupid enough to risk bleeding out rather than subjecting themselves to a couple hours of nicotine scented healthcare.
As it was, with just a few gashes and bruises to deal with, Suguru was more than happy to allow the boy he loved so dearly to slot himself between his legs and clean him up. Like all things, Satoru had a knack for fixing him up, and surprisingly had a better bedside manner than Shōko, even though he knew it was just because of their relationship. Satoru wouldn’t be nearly as nice to Utahime or their underclassmen if it was them bleeding on his sink instead of his boyfriend.
“Can you pull your hair back? We’re already gonna have to wash it but I don’t want it to get more bloody.” Satoru tucks the offending strands behind his ear, grimacing at the cut he observes at the top of his helix. That they’ll actually have to go to Shoko for, because Satoru refuses to drag a needle through his best friend.
Suguru collects as much of his hair in his hand as he can, drawing it back in a fist and smiling as if embarrassed. “My last hair tie broke in the fight. I’ve been meaning to go into the city to get more.”
“They don’t sell them at the conbini?”
“Yeah, right between the condoms and the beer, actually.”
Satoru rolls his eyes, the rotation of a cold blue planet, a Pluto in retrograde. He opens a drawer on his side of the sink and pulls out a brand new hair tie, reaching up to take the bundle of hair from Suguru’s fist and draw it into his own hands, brushing his fingers through the tangles before tying it back loosely.
“I keep extra. No further questions.” Satoru grinned at him before returning to his work, drawing his gauze patches across Suguru’s face until they came away clean, the blood left to rot at the bottom of the trashcan at his feet.
He applies bandages, each to its purpose. A butterfly bandage is used to hold together the edges of a small, deep gouge. A large, thin bandage clings to his cheek. Tape and gauze are laid atop the gash at his forehead, the one that had gushed blood. Satoru had pressed his hand to it and he had felt the small tendrils of infinity pressing gently, insistent against the wound, quenching the flow of blood.
“Would you answer if I asked?” Suguru watched the way Satoru’s brow smoothed as he placed the last bandage and the last of his injuries disappeared under cotton and adhesive. There was no one on earth who would recognize the boy in front of him now, all worried lip and over careful hands.
“You don’t have to ask. I keep them in my drawer, in my bag, in my pockets. Sometimes I keep them on my wrist, even if they’re always a little too tight.” Suguru didn’t point out the fact that Satoru could put infinity between himself and the ties, just like he never pointed out that Satoru could put infinity between them if he wanted. “It’s because I’m sixteen and in love with a boy who uses them. Plus, one around my wrist is basically a ring to those high school girls that would hang all over me when I go into town without you.”
“I thought you loved attention.”
“Not when you’re not around to be jealous over it.”
Suguru pressed his hand into his back, pulling them closer together. Satoru was always conscientious when he was injured, less likely to be the one to initiate contact, as if he thought Suguru’s skin would tear at the press of his lips. He couldn’t even be blamed, because Suguru himself was sure that if he ever saw Satoru bleed it would probably change his world forever. Still, for now it was Satoru’s hands that found the undamaged skin of his cheeks, his chewed lips that found his undamaged ones.
They only parted when Satoru ran his fingers through Suguru’s hair, catching not only on the hair tie but on a mat of blood and dirt, a reminder that his nursing regiment for the night wasn’t quite over. He pulled away, fingers still splayed like the arms of puzzle pieces, jigsawing himself in between wounds. His eyes raked over his best friend’s face, the six eyes dooming him to see the blood just as clearly now as he had when he’d first peeled Suguru from the pavement.
Maybe he had been staring too long, his eyes nearly glazed, because Suguru’s hands circled his wrists as he caught his eye. “Satoru, what is it?”
For a moment he thought about taking that connection and running. Running from the jujutsu world he hated, that hated him in turn, from the responsibilities of his name and his birthright, from the possibility of blood on the ground. But Suguru would come back. No matter how many times he teleported them away, as far as he could, Suguru would undoubtedly book a flight back and make him come along, make him foot the bill. He was so good. So duty bound.
“Nothing, just be more careful next time. You’re the only part of me that I can’t always protect.”
It was telling that Suguru only laughed, not mocking but joyous. Satoru was always loving, but the nights where they found themselves balancing each other on the lip of the sink, the scent of alcohol and blood suffocating in the poorly ventilated room, that was when he shined, the brightest star in any sky Suguru has ever looked at.