Archive of Our Own

Death, for Satoru, is an easy concept. You live, you learn, you die. It's as simple as drawing out air from your lungs and breathing it back in. It's as simple as letting your bone grow and veins pump blood only to have them break and fester at time's behest. Death, for Satoru, is as quick and painless as being then waning. You wither away, a miracle once birthed in spring. Your body crumbles to its extinction, a pot of ashes to be whisked by autumn's cusp. And thus, your season quells.

Satoru believes those who overcomplicate death and dying are those who feel too much of grief. They either fear it or anticipate its eventuality. The uncertain think of it as sentenced persecution lurking furtively in the personal watches of every man. The certain understands it as an inevitable instance to be dismayed by once it nears. For both, death is deemed as a natural disruption in the arrangement of things. The part that breaks the continuation. The part that breaks people.  

He's long considered death as a simple tragedy. And so he doesn't mourn it as severely as most do. Death is death, his adage goes. 

"And what of death?" A voice, melodious with its whisper, is adamant to challenge his thought. "What does it think of its misery?"

To that, Satoru offers a plain answer. 

"It is the absolute god."  He claims. "With no one and nothing to oppose it. Not even itself."

The voice likes to surmise otherwise. It laughs, a sighing twitter, as though he knows better than Satoru. 

"If death is what you say it is, then it must be an anxious god."

It is a ridiculous assumption, Satoru thinks. A force unchallenged wouldn't be one to scare. It is feared not fearing. It is the one infinity that lives on. So why should it be a shame to bear its title? Why should it be a pity to be one? The control it has over life is a noble luxury. You decide for the world and the world bends under your command. You exist as a precipice – a steep time itself will stumble upon and succumb to. 

When you are Death, you are power. You are at the rise of things and know of its workings, from the grandest down to the most unimportant. You are the edge of every dawn and every dawn is within your grasp. 

If Satoru were Death, he would be power. He wouldn't think twice to delight in the prestige. He wouldn't waver at the magnitude of its omnipotence. If Satoru were Death, he would have been the greatest horror to forever reign.

"And wouldn't that be lonely?"  The voice cautions. "What sense would a power give you if it only intends to end?"

And Satoru would say it's not a matter of concern. And Satoru would deem it an insignificant inconvenience. Because Death is Death and it cares for no one.

But then the voice would sigh at him. It would hum a doleful tune as it chides and warns, gentle but firm.

"You are human, Satoru."  It would remind. "And no human is fit to be a god."

The world is at a standstill when he meets him. 

There, by the willow's tree, whispering to the winds as it sings back melodies of glee, stands a boy younger than the rot of the bark he leans on. He's short and feeble, all puny fingers and paling tan. Humbly dressed, faintly coloured, bright and florid but still subdued. There's not a whit of him that belongs in the virescent fields –but he displays an elan of gentleness deserving of a home in the expanse of rich green and receding blossom. 

The first time Satoru sees him, he's all of a sudden thought of as a fleeting guest and an unlikely intruder. He won't stay long. A mute presence unfit for the dizzying February buzz or the bustling breeze of winter. He's too frail, too delicate and too vulnerable to the frost. He's too little of what Satoru invests in and too foreign for what Satoru would willingly peruse. 

A passerby, that's all the boy appears to be.

But then he laughs at something as silly as the tickle of a wilted petal on his cheek. And suddenly, he ignites in the shades of vesper. He turns into a glazed blaze and a ruddy flush – a bloom in the sea of shrivelled crops that calls for springtide.

Satoru dares a glimpse at him once more and even he falters. 

Lurid but mellow. Blithe but heedful. A dulling crimson and a rising yellow. Like a rhyme inscribed in between a poet's description, he presents himself as a paradox. Sublime still, but cryptic. 

Satoru ganders at his swaying locks, the only thing easily discernible of him, and interprets the whiff of its colour.

"Cherry," He mumbles to himself. His hair is cherry. Satoru muses if he tastes just as sweetly as the flavour of the fruit.

The boy catches his mindless peering and stops to wave. His smile is beaming, perhaps familiar with the countless gazes that gawk at him. He radiates in carefree pink and regards Satoru with a twinkling glance. 

Hello, he greets with his brilliance.

Satoru evades his welcome and directs his sight to the sky, where the clouds are glum and the light of sunrise is dim. The world remains a static vista then, privy to the idle musings of the quaint climate of a sleepy town. 

A minute flees and he finds no joy from his senseless probing of the horizons. So he returns his eyes to ground, eager to witness the change of the currents. The boy is no longer there, removed from the scenery and elsewhere. Suppose he's gone to the pavements and lost himself in the crowd. Suppose he's disappeared into the secluded alleyways to enter the many buildings that tower over the bumbling streets. Suppose he's simply no longer there and just a mere phantom Satoru's mind has fabricated for his amusement. 

But when he leaves, the world moves as if to signal his departure. 

Pity. He secretly laments. I didn't ask for a name.

He sees him again when he least expects it. 

There, at the centre of the gloom and mist, he dances to the beat of the downpour. He's clad in the same thin garment. A shirt too large protects little of his skin despite the cotton layer. The sleeves that veil his elbows are bunched up to show defiance. The boy dances in the rain while the rest stare at him funnily. 

He's all bliss and no heed. The drizzles, though hostile to the unfortunate nobodies sprinting without shelter, is kinder to him. They are playful as they tap on the ground he walks and stomps on. They are light and careful and forgiving. The welkins whir to the cadence of his giggles. He waltzes about in aimless glides and turns and the shower follows him like a shadow craving inclusion wherever he goes.

The interested few react to him like he's a spectacle to either be scorned, ridiculed or applauded. They're all different in the way they see him. Some disdain, some snicker and some agonize over the bareness of his toes and the flimsy cloth that secures him from the frosting cold. 

Satoru fixates on him without any of those motivations.

"What's he doing?" Suguru claims the left of the windowsill and peeks at the attraction. 

Satoru nibbles on the stick of his lollipop, supplying his friend a brief reply, "Being stupid."

"Oh," The boy parts his lips, his chuckle a hoarse jingle. "Look's like he's having fun."

"Nothing fun about getting yourself sick." Satoru disagrees. He rests his chin on the fold of his elbows, not an inch of him tipping beyond the window's brim. "His cold is gonna hurt like a bitch later on."

Suguru is partly attentive to his words when Satoru chatters about the woes of stinging fevers and clogged noses. He's entertained, eyes a wily black as he focuses longer on the unwinding marvel. "Better hand him an umbrella then if you're worried."

Satoru huffs, affronted. "I don't want to get associated with a weirdo."

The boy below squawks indignantly as if to protest against the term. Satoru quirks a brow and spares him a watchful consideration. There's a disruption in the performance and it's livid, almost raging. Another boy, dressed in a warmer attire of black and menace, approaches the smaller without a hitch in his strides. He's bellowing a reprimand and speaking in hasty curses. 

A thorough survey of the stranger has Satoru recognising a familiar face. He notices the perpetual scowl and the fine arch of troubled brows. He notices the snide grit of a foul-mouthed delinquent and a spiteful antagonist. He notices Sukuna and nearly cackles at the absurdity of his fretful expression. It's a rarity too jarring to disregard, so Satoru relishes the sight of a mean-spirited misfit worrying over someone other than himself. 

"I knew there was some resemblance." 

Satoru tilts his head to pry. "What do you mean?"

"That boy," Suguru points with his chin, "He's Sukuna's little brother. I heard he recently transferred to our school." The boy pauses thoughtfully for a reminder, ransacking through his mind to contribute a name. "Itadori Yuuji. I remember Megumi mentioning him during one of our club meetings."

Satoru stares at his friend then guides his gaze back to the boy. He's rambling now, sheepish as he reasons with his brother and candid as he blurts out strings of excuses. They're foolish for sure, much like him. Frank and outlandish and merry – the common necessities for a free-spirited living. 

Free. That's a word to define him. The boy is free.

"Itadori Yuuji," Satoru enunciates, curious with his volume. He lets the vowels roll off his tongue and savours the taste of cherry and unbridled summer.

What an oddity.

There is a cat that resides just within the fenced perimeter of the school. She loiters behind the buildings where the ground dips and replicates a declining meadow. She's a ball of brown and white stripes. Her tail is a thin curve and her paws a snow tinge. Her whiskers are a translucent thread the width of a feather's rachis. The students flock over her when she comes to visit for free treats and head pats. She's the gardener's favoured stray, the teachers most adored pet and even the principal's companion. 

No one but Satoru thinks she's a sneaky swindler. She knows to exploit and manipulate for survival. Satoru can recall the many times she's stolen a piece of his lunch with just the flutter of her lashes and twitch of her button nose. The feline is a clever thief who deceives the ignorant kindness of fools. And those who quickly fall victim to her charms are often the most guileless.

"You're feeding it again." 

The third time he meets with Yuuji, the boy is already more acquainted with the cat than he is. He's made connections deeper than Satoru has ever accomplished the entire two years he's been attending school. He's made impressive progress too, able to beckon the cat and invite her to his lap. It's both a mockery and an unforgettable betrayal to the caretaker who has religiously given her free dinner before dismissals.

"I'm sorry," The boy jolts from his crouch and blinks at Satoru. "I just couldn't deny her a treat. She's adorable."

Satoru assumes the boy is yet to know his name, so he feels less tense when he sits beside him. There's a respectable distance for formality's comfort. Whatever space was left for mowed grasses to swish is freed solely for the cat to lounge on.

"She'll get fat if you give her too much." The concern is hidden in the lowness of his voice, keen on maintaining a levelled disposition. 

Yuuji evinces a giggle to appease his worry. "I doubt Spots would allow that, she's a runner. She'll stay fit." 

"Spots?" Satoru parrots. "You named her Spots?"

The boy toys with the feline's ears and taps on a white spot at the slope of its nose. It's small but noticeable, shaped like a squiggly butterfly. "The gardener said no one has given her a name yet. So I took it upon myself to find her one."

"And Spots was the first choice?" Satoru quirks his brow. "Creative."

Yuuji shrugs, unaffected by the implication of his tone. "It's not the most original but it suits her well."

"Fair enough." Satoru concedes. He uncoils a finger for Spots to nudge, tickling the cat's nose until she sneezes. 

"And you?" A quiet query travels to his ears. It's reticent like the slant of pendulous shoulders. The way it softens and warily withdraws sounds incongruous to the outspoken nature Satoru has accustomed the boy with. He's a contradiction through and through, even to himself.

"I'm what?" Satoru asks, posture a lax slump when compared to the other.

"Your name, silly." Yuuji clarifies. "What do I call you?"

A delay lingers before Satoru provides a response. He tucks his hands into the snug embrace of his pockets and casts the boy a blank look. 

"Satoru." He says. "Gojo Satoru."

"Hello, Satoru-san." Yuuji extends a hand for a friendly handshake. "My name is Yuuji."

Satoru glances down at the offer, small in size and slender. He takes it without thought to feel the heat of soft skin against his callouses. The older doesn't find sense in letting the boy know he's long known of him before this day had even transpired. It's a secret he keeps to himself, opting to enjoy the unfamiliarity he is treated with.

"It's nice to meet you, Yuuji-kun."

They own an area reserved for themselves and clandestine to the many that pass by it. The days once scarce of trivial interactions and ceaseless maundering now basks in the eagerness of a newfound friendship. For Satoru, it is much more a newfangled pandering than anything meaningful. It is his momentary entertainment for the week. Soon, when it transitions to the next, he'll have another absorption to occupy his musings. 

But the boy acts as a constant, uninformed. He is ignorant of the temporary enthusiasm Satoru reciprocates him with. He is unwary and unwitting. He prates on many phrases and shares too much of what he sees and hears and thinks. He retells to him his misadventures, ridiculously reckless and often asinine. He reveals to him his uncomplicated pleasures too, and wanders off on tangents to gush about the movie he's watched with Junpei, or the books he's borrowed from Megumi or the perfume Nobara gifted him for Christmas that he now only uses on important occasions.  

The boy leaves nothing unsaid. Even the scarcity of his dislikes and the profuse recollections he has of his childhood are disclosed. Yuuji bares himself not once reluctant to be read and scrutinized openly for his choices and his enjoyment. Everything he can tell about his life, the people he cares for, the people he admires, and the sporadic instances he's made an enemy out of someone – he makes known. 

All Satoru does is to be a passive recipient of his stories. What they mean and the magnitude of their value, Satoru is yet to fathom for himself. But Yuuji is unconcerned. He is perceptively filling in the quiet with whatever rings in his mind and slips out of his lips. 

Satoru does return a portion of his effort through grins and chuckles and hums. He's not harassed for contributing brisk gossip or senseless details of events detached from his life. Yuuji does not bombard him with questions, sharply attuned to taciturn company and secretive friends.

Friends. It's the first Satoru was readily seen as one. Ofttimes, he's a helpful acquaintance, a senior who ranks best at academics and at sports, or an annoyance to jealous nobodies and hotheaded rivals. Of the many titles he's been called, he was never perceived as the most amiable or the most gregarious. 

A convincing actor with an aloof interior, as Ieiri loves to describe him. Disconnected, Suguru would add.

"You're a good listener, Satoru-san." To Yuuji, he is this. A friend who lends an ear no matter the incoherence of his blethers. 

"What makes you so sure I am?" In truth, Satoru is not. He's merely abstracted. 

Yuuji fumbles for proof and beams coyly to show incertitude. "I'm not exactly sure. But I just like to believe you care enough to listen to me prattle for hours. No one's stayed this long to hear me rant about the stupidity of mint chocolate before."

"That's only because I agree with you. I despise mismatched flavours."

"I can see that." Yuuji giggles. Spots marches to his lap, flopping her weight and nuzzling the palm that pets her fur. "You seem like the type to have specific tastes."

Satoru shifts in his place and attempts to stroke the cat's tail. Spots hisses at him, distrustful. "And you seem like the type to not have a taste at all. Save for the numbered disapprovals you have."

"See," The younger simpers, "You do listen."

Satoru stares at the boy and notes the overjoyed wiggle of his shoulders. His lips are arched effortlessly into genuine celebration, like it's an achievement to have Satoru heed to his words. 

"Why does it matter if I do?" So he asks, perplexed by the conventions of his priorities.

"Satoru-san, it just does."

And because the explanation is simple. And because the boy is forthright and undisguised. Satoru believes him.

"You're a weirdo." He doesn't hesitate to admit.

Yuuji is nowhere offended, only elated. "I'm glad you're taking time to speak to a weirdo."

A fresh Monday surges, but Satoru returns to the same place without fail. His companion remains to wait for him.

A week expands to two. Then to three. Until the days prolong and Satoru forgets to count the days he is to retire to the humdrum usual of his mornings. Yuuji continues an unremitting constant in his mundane meandering. He goes where Satoru goes, bearing tales of his recent ventures to whichever place his brother had taken him for weekend visits. Whatever room or corner they happen to be in, Yuuji is reminded of an encounter redolent of the hallway's aroma, the rooftops' view or the cafeteria's bustle. 

"Panorama." Today, he associates the library with the overview he insists to be imprinted on the veins of a leaf. 

Satoru scans the venules that branch out and concludes there's not a pattern to be outlined out of them. So he frowns, confused. "Where?"

Yuuji raises the leaf, its texture crisp and the minimal freshness rigid. He poses it next to the squinting panes of the hushful library. From the midrib, to the tip then back inside the jagged rims, he draws a figure of a landscape

"This is the window," He makes a square, "The trees peeking from behind," He creates ragged lines, "The clouds and the sun." Last, he maps the specks of decay and charts the veins to emerge as the blur of an overcast. 

"Panorama." Satoru releases a noise akin to a snort. "I don't see it."

Yuuji's lips morph into a scolding pout and nudges his foot, "That's because you're not looking at it right! It's there, you just deny its existence."

"Are you undermining my capability for art?" The older recoils jokingly, feigning hurt. "I'll have you know I'm well-versed on the subject of creativity. In fact, the teachers find my skills impeccable."

"Don't go bragging without proof." Yuuji bends forward to pinch his nose. "If you can't appreciate the magic of petal-reading, then you're no master critic."

Satoru grunts to voice resistance. He grips the younger's hand and discovers a bony wrist with an unhealthy sheen of paleness. Yuuji speedily retracts from his hold and lands soundly against the cushion of his backrest. Wood scrapes on wood. The sluggish students twitch to shush and wordlessly reproach.

"Read with me," The boy lowers his voice as he slides a collection of fronds and petals the other's way. "I'll teach you how to search for them."

Satoru is forced to oblige when the boy tugs on his tie, dragging him further into the crinkle pages of a makeshift notebook. 

There are blues, some azure, some cerulean and some arctic. There are reds, primarily an ebbing sangria or a parched mahogany. There are browns in differing shades too, either coffee or mocha, mostly tawny and walnut and seldom umber. Sunlike yellows, regal mauve, fancy lavender and aged moss. Altogether, they brandish a variety of flamboyant tints. A demonstration of nature's romance.

"How did you find all these?" Satoru mumbles, riddled. 

"There's a garden where I live." Yuuji provides plainly. "I tend to collect from the pots of plants and press them."

"What does this say then?" Satoru taps on a burnt emerald. He browses the lamina, imagining silhouettes around the margins in deep concentration. He's intrigued and so he is more cooperative.

"You always pay attention to the dismal ones, do you?" Yuuji clicks his tongue, unsurprised. With his trimmed nails, he scratches delicately on the leaf's base. "This is death."

A suppressed laugh escapes. "So now we're deciphering tarot cards?" 

There's another jab on Satoru's heel, this time stern. "I call this oblivion's petal. Do you see where the petiole fades to the midrib? That's the scythe. The veins that spread around it are the wings' feathers. It's a bit of a terror, isn't it?"

"Not really." Satoru examines the pad, limpid if not for the stain of its corrosion. "Death is the least of my troubles."

 Yuuji straightens, startled. "You're not scared of it?"

"We're all temporary, what's so terrifying about that?"

"Doesn't mean it wouldn't hurt." The boy argues.

At that, Satoru simply shrugs. "It's because people put too much importance in it that they let it hurt." 

"But it is important," Yuuji tells him. "The life you live and the way death robs it, sometimes willful, sometimes spontaneous – to exist and to suddenly not, isn't that a horror?"

"It is if you think too much of how you've lived." The older says. "We're all meant for it, Yuuji. It's nothing special to meet an end."

"I beg to differ." Yuuji frowns. "What of the feelings that we've made then? What of the memories? Would you tell me they never mattered? Would you tell me they were fleeting nonsense?"

Satoru stalls to give it an earnest contemplation. For what is Death but something to be accepted? Is it not a natural course that's long been the tradition of any entity? Whether or not one has lived a fruitful existence is not for Death to foster or grieve. Whether or not one has perfected virtues and made invaluable relevance is not for Death to praise. 

"For Death," Satoru concludes, "They're of no significance."

The calm tenses and then diminishes. One second it is a turmoil of discontent and the next, it is a restful peace. Yuuji's emotions range from contradictory, to precarious and then to understanding, exhibiting a talent of acumen. He's wise when he stares at Satoru, observant of the jerk of his elbows and the frigid clench of his fingers.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Nothing," Yuuji smiles. It's a smile that doesn't quite reach the same radiance as the blithesome twinkles he regularly gives. It's a smile too stilted, saddened by a knowledge Satoru is excluded from. 

Unconfident on how to proceed, Yuuji fiddles with his sleeves and buries himself in the warmness of his sweater. His shoulders sink and lids droop. "I wonder... if you've ever cherished something so deeply in your life, something so wonderful that you haven't got a clue how to ever love them well."

"Hey," Satoru scowls. He angles toward the younger and bends a finger to flick his forehead. "I care for people too you know. Even the eccentric strays."

Yuuji massages the sting of Satoru's chiding and pouts, puerile. He appears prepared for a rebuttal, assuming insult from the older. And when he stills to give it thought, the smile Satoru's used to seeing recovers. 

He produces a sound that jingles in pure euphoria. His face is adorably dumb and his grin stretches wider for a toothy cheer. 

"That makes me happy." Yuuji titters. "I'm treasured by senpai."

Satoru conceals a blush, unwilling to admit the grace that accentuates the boy's allure. 

"Shut up." He mutters with no real ill.

"So is he your boyfriend now?" 

Satoru is sauntering confidently by Suguru's side when the boy poses the question. They're at the centre of a vacant corridor, tasked with the errand to carry boxes to the third floor of the building.

"He's not. Why do you assume it's anything romantic?" The taller of the two adjusts his arms. He has a heavier pile on him, Suguru having stealthily snatched the lighter cases without an ounce of mercy. 

"The boy's been only here for two months and you've monopolized most of his days." Suguru justifies his presumption. "Nobara's been giving him hell for spending too much time with you. That surely warrants for reasonable suspicion, doesn't it?"

Satoru slouches, grumbling. "No, it doesn't. We just happen to share similar interests. Not my fault they can't keep up with Yuuji's peculiarities."

"Last I heard you weren't one for study sessions." Suguru snickers, mischief transparent in the skip of his steps. If Satoru weren't so hampered by the stack of materials in his hold, he wouldn't have hesitated to kick the smaller's shin.

"Yuuji's a friend, nothing more." The boy retorts, displeased. Where the displeasure lies, he's yet to establish. But the comment is insistent with its version of truth that the topic is given no opportunity for debate. Satoru maintains conviction, not once budging to Suguru's sallies and taunts. 

"If that's how you think it is, then good for you." Eventually, he drops any mentions of the boy. Perhaps he's found it tiresome, tedious. The level of his investments has never been committed to one area of discussion. He frequently diverts and obsesses over whatever appeals to him and the standards of his merriment. With Suguru, one can never truly guess which mood he's set himself in. 

So they walk, devoid of cacophonous banters or scathing ripostes. They pass by clamorous classrooms and rowdy packs. A myriad of gossiping girls and bickering boys breach the tranquillity of an after lunch. The both of them push through the throng, boxes heftier with the burdensome invasion of agog pupils. 

The common turbulence broadens even up to the staircase and into the third level. It's amplified because of the loftier vacancies of the ceilings. The hush is sparse, the halls no longer barren. Satoru has been used to the jangling of uninvited babbles and unprompted spiels. He admits to contributing to the ruckus whenever he's found himself bored and drained of excitement. The dissonance is a required embellishment of any school. To be without it is to be an eerie building lacking youth.

Still, the disharmony is more undisciplined today. For Satoru's ears, it's a chaos unhinged. It irks his composure and incites an agitation that disrupts his calm. He hates it now. The clatter, the stir, the palavers that drift perpetually in the atmosphere. Satoru wants to be anywhere but where he is.

They match their footsteps to the flow and only dither when Satoru catches a note that's unlike the pestering of the disorder. It's dulcet, euphonious. Satoru reverses his steps in calculated strides and hearkens to the repetition of the note. The nearer Satoru is to the source, the smoother the melody runs. 

Soft then stressed, loud then breathy, a thumping pause, a chirpy hum, back to the second stanza, skip the third, correct the pitch and revise the tuning, then to the last where the consonants are drowned for the accompanying tunes – the chorus comes and the lyrics grow more profound. Augmenting and augmenting and augmenting and–

"I didn't know your friend could sing."

Oh.

Satoru gapes at Yuuji, much too stunned to emit any comprehensible speech other than a stuttering, "Y-yeah. I didn't know either."

Of course, a voice that angelic would rightfully have itself an angelic face. 

The clock strikes one, but Satoru stays rooted in his place. There's a stagger in his poise and a glassy flicker in his eyes. Everything teeters, responding to the throb of a yearning once abandoned. 

All at once, music revives him. 

"You're the least persuasive liar," Suguru quips, regardful. "Careful there poet, you're smitten."

"You never told me you could sing."

For Wednesday afternoon, they disrupt the serenity of the barely-used music room. Yuuji is astounded by the quick permission Satoru is given. But Satoru clarifies to him outright it's the privilege of the top-of-the-rank pupil. Yuuji deems it an inexcusable partiality that must be questioned by justice. Satoru deems it an earned award for the reputable records of his hard work. Inevitably, a discourse of blatant favouritism arises. But the debate is dampened apace by Satoru's timely question of Yuuji's untold talent for singing.

"That's because you never asked." The boy supplies a muffled answer. He wears a wool sweater over the thinness of his uniform. For every motion he makes, his voice is deafened slightly by the high neckline smothering his chin. The clothing is big on his body, its hem reaching loose above his knees. 

Satoru minimises his gawking to avoid fawning over him. He situates himself farther from the boy, sitting straight on the fancy stool of a grand piano. 

"If I play for you, would you sing for me?"

Yuuji gapes as the older experiments with the keys. The start is uncoordinated, fumbling around for familiar notes and higher tones. Satoru moves from C to F, then to the more complex whites and blacks. He plays with the pedals too, swift with the tapping. Seconds pass and he finally finds the rhythm as though he's never once left the instrument unpracticed. He fiddles with it in an expert manner, the early years of learning and rehearsing coming back within the span of a blundering minute. His honed skills restore themselves, unerring.

"You never told me you could play," Yuuji says, awestruck. 

Satoru smirks, impish. "That's because you never asked."

Yuuji huffs, mildly ruffled. His face contorts to a pinched expression. Satoru, ever the devious, pokes on his temple to drag the wrinkles of his forehead upward. 

"I bet the only thing you can play is twinkle star." The boy challenges as he swats his hand away. 

Satoru lets his finger glide for a rendition of Fur Elise, haughty. "You were saying?"

Yuuji croaks. His brows furrow and then relax. "You're so boastful."

"My arrogance is not a farce." Satoru tuts. "I'm just that perfect, Yuuji."

"Then play me your music." The boy invites himself beside him. Their difference in height becomes more apparent as Yuuji's legs swing above the floor. 

"And you'll sing?" Satoru perks. 

"If," Yuuji deepens his accent, "you can make me swoon."

The older construes it as a provocation. He flexes his fingers and uncurls from his slouch to sit upright. With his sleeves furled and elbows postured straight, he begins with a lagging melody. The pace is measured, deliberately slow. It lumbers too. The intentions are spry and frisky. At sneaky intervals, it echoes an elvish jape. Satoru frees himself from the rusty restraints of the initial composition. He wanders, notes astray to let his music float about as they wish.

Satoru remembers a time like this in his life. When he was just an unskillful kid with inexpert fingers. He would often press a key wrong or play a tune badly. Sometimes he would get it perfectly, other times he fails. But his mother remained seated on his side. Like a guiding teacher, she would bob her head to the beat of his resonance, loyal as she taps her heel and prances, lively as she sways with him and sings. And the place would be an ecstatic world of whimsical laughter and jubilant carolling. 

Free. That's a word to describe him. Now, at this special instance, Satoru is free. 

Again and again, he fiddles with the keys. They speak to him in ones, twos, threes – Satoru performs them as they desired to be hearkened. He picks up the pace, endeavours a bold modulation and breaks mellifluence, but then he recovers from the error and proceeds still. The chimes fasten and then delay, Satoru teases the rise and the fall until, he decelerates in anticipation of a silvery voice.

Slowly, slowly, slowly... an aeonian whistling and –

Satoru stares Yuuji. Yuuji stares back, lips parted.

A canorous lullaby enters and reverberates. The fluent humming bears a soul. It's a heart that sings, a heart that unveils much of itself to the embrace of a symphony. Satoru reduces the volume for the graceful lyrics to enliven.

Cherry blossom in the air,

Wanderin' by the balmy flare,

Deftly, running to the fields,

I travel daring for my love,

But my dream it doubts for me,

And if this dream I dream believes,

Would it have me healed and freed?

It repeats like a chorus liberated. Yuuji sings it lovingly and longingly that Satoru persists without tiring. He fears if he ever falters the life they've breathed into the words would dissipate. So he plays, this time better and wiser. The piece they create together transcends into something magical, colourful and – devotedly true. 

"Sing to me again?" The boy pleads when the voice pauses. His breathing is a line of broken sighs, heartstrings a floundering mess. 

Yuuji taps on a key. It echoes a lovely tingle. "Only if you sing along, Satoru-san."

They hum a tune unlike any other. The threat of dissonance wanes, replaced by tuneful mirth.

This, to be with Yuuji and to sing of romance, Satoru decides is a memory of endlessness.

This, to be there and together, Satoru feels is a memory of love.

"So is he your boyfriend now?" 

Satoru grins and spreads his arms open. The sun blinds his vision and paints him a smitten fool. His strides are wide, jolly. He spins as he indulges in the tepid weather.

"No." He beams. "But he will be."

Thursday, a storm visits their quaint town. Unease lurks in the atmosphere and pervades.

The air is a tempestuous rage when they find her heaving her last breath. It was a frosty morning. The students were yet to fill their classroom and the teachers were yet to arrive at their offices. Even the gardener had been tardy, hindered by the inhospitable blow of gale.

Despite the pending cancellation of Thursday's classes, two figures lingered still within the campus. Biting rain nipped on their skin, its enduring temperature a raw chill. 

Glacial sea stares at balmy autumn and discovers the bead of tears falling unbidden. Yuuji cradles the body of a small animal, stiff and inert. There's a track of frozen blood on her fur. Satoru inspects the gash that colours her ugly crimson and suspects it to be from the blade of a broken gutter. 

"Satoru-san," The tone that stumbles out of Yuuji is stifled. There's a shake to it that worsens the rasp of his sobs. He breathes, knackered, as if his lungs had dysfunctioned. His hiccups come in three, each attack jostling him from where he sat ungainly. "Spots...she's dead."

"I know," Satoru is gentle with his intonation. 

The boy crouches beside the younger, feeling the feeble press of a short frame as he hands a blanket for him to wrap the body with. Yuuji struggles to bundle up the feline's form. His vision is blinded by the gush of new tears. Satoru lends his help in a noiseless attempt for solace. He envelops Spots with ease, covering the morbid sight of loss and decay. Like this, positioned into a hunch reminiscent of a napping baby, Spots appears at rest and dreaming. 

"We'll have to bury her soon." 

Yuuji nods, breath hitching. When he stands, his back trembles and his knees shake. Satoru holds death in his hand and assists Yuuji with the other. He rubs comfort on Yuuji's waist. Softly, he whispers to him shushing consolations and sweet-sounding promises. 

She'll be fine, he assures him. And the succour loudens each step they take to the willow's bark. Some roots protrude from the damp soil. The growth of grasses are stunted in the open hollows and so it's easier for Satoru to dig a cavern out of the earth. He uses a sharpened twig for dredging, fleetly forming a cavity where the corpse can lie undisturbed. 

Once finished, Yuuji lays the body down and pushes for soil to shroud the concave's void. They take a second to pray for the soul's painless travel to heaven. Satoru has no belief in the existence of one. But for Yuuji, he hopes there may be a firmament for her.

"Death could be so cruel," Yuuji mumbles, doleful.

Satoru very quietly rests his palm on his. He doesn't quite grasp him yet. It's not his demise, but the boy cries for it as if it is. Why he feels so strongly for an animal, Satoru hasn't got any idea. He stays even when he perceives it as abstruse. 

"I want to build a home for her soul."

This too, he finds no sense in doing. But for Yuuji, he agrees. 

"We can start once the downpour ends." 

Yuuji clutches his fingers, hangdog and dolorous.  "I didn't get to give her a treat."

Satoru thumbs his cheeks. It wouldn't do much when they're already drenched. Yuuji leans into his touch regardless. 

"She'll have better ones up there." And this one, he is confident of.

The house they build is made out of spare planks from the school's rundown shack. Yuuji designs it exactly half an arm's length and a foot's width. But Satoru does all the work for the structure because the boy is a cheeky manipulator. 

It takes him an hour to arrange the planks on the same level and spends more in ensuring the sturdiness of the foundation. They assemble the roof with their detailed placement of sticks and the gaping threshold with intricate cords. Some students regard them strangely while others wish them success. The gardener gifts them seeds to plant around the humble abode.

For a week, they busy over the refinement of their clumsy work. And on the last day, Yuuji paints the home brown with white recesses. He hangs a glittering array of butterflies on the string they pinned on the door's front. For the spot above her nose, Yuuji had wistfully explained. 

And every day they visit, unfailing. Sometimes, when the butterflies dangle freely and the drafts sweep by, they could hear a soft purr resound. 

"Panorama." Yuuji marks a dot. 

Megumi lowers his book, lashes fluttering languidly. "Again?"

The day is lazy and uneventful. Satoru is sat by the willow's trunk, with Yuuji on his lap and two guests intruding their private bubble of fun. The older would have protested against the impolite redhead and the meddlesome raven, but Yuuji's pure elation to have his friends introduced to him had the boy complying fastly like a gullible halfwit. 

So now they sit together in an untidy circle, with the two situated across Satoru and Yuuji and a pyramid of lecture notes and unread books scattered carelessly in their surrounding. 

Yuuji waves a large petal to his grouchy companions. He's the sole vibrant person in their group – and the sole procrastinator who's yet to scribble paragraphs in his essays. "I've been seeing a lot of vistas in my petals. It must be a good omen."

Satoru leans away from the boy's nape to squint at the leaf. "I still don't see it. How do you read this stuff?"

"You have doubt in your heart and it blinds you." Yuuji gestures with his finger, imitating a scholarly professor. 

Nobara laughs, sardonic. "What are you, an old man? Don't act all sagely now when you're ignoring overdue assignments."

"Homeworks are a bore, I can do that later." Yuuji pouts. He snuggles closer into Satoru's hold, his macilent limbs appearing more sickly when the older caresses them. 

"The teachers have been begging you to pass on time," Megumi cautions impassively. "Hell, even your brother's urging you to take your studies seriously."

"Sukuna?" Satoru scoffs in disbelief. "That guy? He barely perfects his attendance. Are you sure we're thinking of the same brother?"

"It's a bro-con thing," Nobara resolves the confusion for him. "The guy can screw up his life all he wants but the minute Yuuji's doing the same thing, his brother instincts are activated."

"Heh. He's that protective of you, isn't he?" Satoru says it more as a realisation than a query. 

"Trust me, you haven't seen the worst of it," Megumi adds. "I'm honestly shocked he hasn't gone after you for being so touchy with his baby brother. Or maybe Yuuji's just good at hiding you from him."

"That, or the guy's preoccupied with something else." Nobara surmises. Her tone is knowing, gaze pinned on Megumi as if to suggest a conjecture. "Rather, someone else."

"Oh?" Satoru and Yuuji chorus. "Would you like to share something with the class, Megumi~?"

The raven flushes, sputtering. "I don't know what you're implying and I don't care enough to know." He slams his book shut, sharpening his glare. "Why are you focusing on me. These two are clearly acting all mushy around each other, why not tease them?"

"That's because it's way funnier to see you blush!" Yuuji chirps. 

"Actually, Megumi has a point." Nobara intervenes. "Are you guys dating or something?"

Satoru tenses. He feels Yuuji flinch. A hot red colours the younger's nape, flustered. 

"W-we're not...?" Yuuji answers meekly.

The older loosens his grasp around his waist. He speaks before Nobara could. "Why do you phrase it like a question?" 

"Well, we never really talked about it." The boy fidgets. He tugs on his sweater again, a habit Satoru has noticed him do multiple times in nervous moments. "Besides, I..."

Yuuji quells. A tinge of guilt emerges in his eyes before he hides them with the strain of a smile. 

"Besides what?" Satoru pushes.

"Nevermind." Yuuji dismisses. He inclines his body forward, away from Satoru's embrace. Deftly, he stands before him and towers over everybody. With his oversized sweater and lanky arms, he welcomes the draw of the breeze. "I'm going to collect more petals. Do you guys wanna come with me?"

It's not only Satoru who looks up at Yuuji in question. His transparent avoidance isn't received passively by the group and they're all curious about the continuation. 

"What were you going to say?" Nobara probes. 

"I told you, it's nothing." Yuuji bends to pull on her wrist. "Now will you please come with me?"

The boy sweetens the drawl of his tone. Nobara unexpectedly concedes to his whims. 

"Well that was fast," They're off to the school's garden when Satoru smartly chooses to comment. "I thought she'd be the last to indulge him, with all that tough act, no-nonsense attitude she has going on."

Megumi snorts, concentration back on his novels. "It's Yuuji, that's why. Even Nobara can't deny him."

Satoru ganders at the two and surmises instantly that Megumi is right. He revels in the hush, patient as he waits for him to return.

When noon arrives, they squander their time for leaf-reading and childish antics. The day maintains a lukewarm climate. And although Satoru is more welcoming of the new company, he finds he most prefers being alone with Yuuji. 

"Gojo Satoru." 

A different Itadori approaches him one gloomy Monday morning. He's clad in black and embellished with accessories banned by the school's dress code. He boasts tattoos on his wrists, dark and precise like the sharpness of his gaze.  

"Sukuna," Satoru greets. "It's an honour to be noticed by you."

"Don't fuck with me, brat." The boy warns. He removes his hand from his pockets, jabbing a thumb to point at a stairwell. "Come with me to the rooftop. I need to talk to you."

Sukuna's tone is greatly dissimilar to Yuuji's. He phrases his words low and seething, gravelly and perpetually disgruntled. It's unfit for a piano and better suited for the screeching riffs of electric guitars. Satoru discerns the graveness of his volume and chooses to oblige. 

It's a rarity for the boy to reach out to him, though discourteous. In most of their interactions, Satoru had been the first to initiate. The behaviour is atypical, so Satoru is more compliant. He follows where the boy goes and keeps silent until they arrive at the destination. 

Sukuna claims a spot in one of the benches fastened to the balusters and lights himself a smoke. He offers one to Satoru but Satoru declines. 

"So," The boy arches a brow. "You plan on speaking now or do I have to wait 'til lunch?"

Sukuna grunts, inhaling harshly on his nicotine-filled addiction. "I'm gonna be frank be with you. Stay the fuck away from my brother."

"I'm afraid I can't do that." Satoru hardens his expression, his uncaring demeanour wavers. 

"I'm not asking you to. I'm demanding."

"And I'm not backing out. Do you think you can speak on behalf of your brother? It's Yuuji's decision if he doesn't want to keep me around. Not yours."

Sukuna takes another drag. Grey mist exits through his nose, clouding the red glint of his eyes. "I'm saying this for your own good, buddy. Being with him is only gonna hurt you."

"As much as it warms my heart to know you care for me, I don't think Yuuji's capable of harming anyone."

At that, the other falters. He halts midway from taking another hit. The cigarette between his fingers sizzles, ashes tipping forward. "You don't know shit, do you?"

Satoru's scowl deepens. "The fuck do you wanna say, Sukuna?"

Fog thickens. Sukuna exhales again. "Yuuji's sick."

"So?" Satoru huffs. "Everybody gets sick."

"Not like that, dumbass." Sukuna says. He rubs on his neck, grimacing. "He's got a cursed life."

The flurry of air chills. Satoru stiffens, startling the sag of his body. Dread stirs in his veins and he forces himself to sit still. He knows this feeling. He's felt the surge and terror of it before.

"What do you mean?"

"He's dying, Gojo." Sukuna says it like he's used to the prickle of the ache. He says it like it's the most natural thing he's ever said. "He has a ticking deadline."

Satoru curbs his breathing. He reclines on the railings and hides his fists inside his pockets. Wintry drafts invade the quiet, unforgiving with its frost. 

"How long?" It's the only thought that registers in his mind. Everything else is whirling tumult.

Sukuna rests his elbows on his knees, back hunched. His smoke suffuses as he speaks, "Not much. Could be a year, could be a month, could be now."

The boy twitches, blue eyes darkening. "He never told me."

"Don't feel special." Sukuna grumbles. "He never told anyone."

It doesn't make sense. None of it does. He's never seen Yuuji crumble or collapse. He's never seen him cough out blood or struggle with stairs. He's never had a strand of hair fall down or knees give out. He's never had to take absences for hospital visits and consultations. He's never had to fake a smile and break promises because he's too weakened to exit out of a bed-ridden state. 

He's never seen Yuuji be like his mother – crippled, unwell, sick. 

Because Yuuji is healthy. Yuuji is fine. Yuuji is –

"He's not dying."

Sukuna gives him a look. Pitying. He knows this look. He's had it thrown at him many times when he was younger. It's a look that's ready to mourn. It's a look Satoru never expected he'd have to receive again. It's a look that numbs.

"He's not dying," Satoru repeats. He's stubborn. He's persistent.

"Keep telling yourself that." Sukuna flicks his cigarette and stomps on it with his foot. "It's not going to change anything."

He avoids Yuuji for the rest of the week. Every time Yuuji is close to nearing him, he puts ample distance to deny any chances of conversation. The places without Yuuji are scant. For the free spaces that do exclude him, Satoru finds to be too rowdy, too cluttered, too lonesome. Everywhere he retreats there is a hitch, a barrier of sorts that restlessly troubles or upsets him. The classrooms are a bleak scene. The rooftop is a dreary desert, the cafeteria, where often the most boisterous dally, have infrequent company and listless strollers.  

There is little space for Satoru to be at ease. There is little space that Yuuji's presence has not explored.

And it must be because there is little in Satoru's world that Yuuji has not already occupied.   

"Strange, isn't it?" Suguru is a seat away from him, a carton of milk in his hand and a stick of cigarette in between his fingers. He lures the fumes with the twist of his lips, teasing. "Somehow it's quieter." 

Satoru repels the attack of vapour. The mist adheres to the loose collar of his jacket, dousing him in toxic miasma. "What's new? It's always been boring."

Eyes gleam in astute black. Suguru twirls a silken strand around his fingers and drones, "Is it now?"

From below a tinkle bursts into peals of laughter. Light, flashing – aglow.

Satoru peeks behind the binds of a shut casement. He glimpses at summer, a fair and sublime summer. Satoru inches further and glimpses at Yuuji, all airy smiles and untroubled eyes. 

He's laughing. He's free and sprightly and unstirred. He's laughing like there's never been a time he's missed Satoru. And Satoru loathes it. He loathes the way he lives still. He loathes his exuberant grins, his stupid giggles, his wide brown eyes when they're set ablaze, his button nose when he scrunches in fond distaste – his lips when he nibbles on them and his cheeks when they redden, his golden skin when the rays hit it right and his lashes when they flitter. 

He loathes everything about him. But more than anything, he loathes not being around to see them. To hear the ring of his snickers. To map the freckles on his forehead. To hold and wallow in the warmth of him.  

"The truth is you miss him." Suguru spells out for him. "You want to be there, don't you? To be wherever he is." 

Satoru, by now, knows how to contradict. He'll have an argument ready, a postulation to prove his objections right and the other party wrong. Satoru, by now, knows how to lie.

"I do." 

But for Yuuji, he doesn't. Because with Yuuji, he is the most truthful. 

"Then go." Suguru urges. He makes it sound so easy, so simple. "I don't want any lovesick fools moping around my clubroom."

"You don't get it, Suguru. If I go there, it's going to hurt me." He's going to hurt me.

"I get it, you're scared. You don't want to get attached. You don't want to be there when it happens." Suguru pauses, the first Satoru has ever seen him so pensive and so sincere. "But if I were you, I'd rather be spending the rest of the remaining time living the best I can.

Because if I were you, I know I'm brave enough for it."

A week without Yuuji and he finally agrees to meet with him. He finds him at the park, the one place he never visits.

"Satoru-san." Yuuji sits on a swing and grips on its squeaking handles. His insecure slump is noticeable even when hardly grazed by the streetlight's illumination. "I thought you wouldn't come."

Satoru moseys to the swing next to him. It's small but he makes himself fit. "I thought you wouldn't miss me that much."

"Of course I would miss you." He mumbles, brows an angry crease. "When I found out Suku-nii told you about my condition, I thought you wouldn't talk to me anymore."

"Then why didn't you tell me yourself?" Satoru whispers back, a retaliation fraught with repressed ire. "What am I to you?"

Yuuji flinches. He hangs his head low, diffident. "You're my friend."

"And do you trust me?"

"I do."

The older scruffs his shoes, swinging slightly. "So why didn't you tell me?"

"I just wanted to live like everybody else," Yuuji confesses. His frame is thinner, weaker. "I just wanted to be treated like I'm there, like I'm not some temporary thing no one wants to get attached to." He heaves a sigh, worn and unsteady. "I don't know. I guess I just wanted to feel like I'm living."

Satoru examines every inch of the boy and notices the ailing hunch of his back, the shrinking strength of his grip, and the disease that paints him in ghostly silver. He sees it now. The apparent cling of death. And he breaks, frustrated with himself and frustrated with the world. Why the universe always chooses the better ones, Satoru will forever abhor.

But he can't say he wouldn't have done what Yuuji would have expected. He isn't sure if he would have committed himself to the risk. He can't say he would have been the greatest companion or the most loyal of peers. Satoru can't assure him he would have stayed the minute he knew it wouldn't last for long. Because Satoru is human and he scares. Because Yuuji is impermanent and that scares him.

"Do you hate me now?" It's voiced in a way that trembles. Yuuji follows with a shaky breath, close to a sob that tries to muffle itself.   

Satoru doesn't hesitate. He pulls the boy to him and lets the chain jangle. He holds him, firm as he envelops his vulnerable form and desperate as he feels every trace of him. Their skins connect, head to chest, knees to knees. Satoru senses a heartbeat and floods his lungs with relief.

"I don't hate you." Satoru doesn't hesitate. Because this, he is certain of. "I'll never hate you."

The cry that bursts is loud and throaty. There's a burden to it that's freed. Yuuji clutches his shirt and crumbles. Satoru tightens his embrace and shatters at the volume of his pain. It's raw. It's heartrending. It's tragic. It's a sound he doesn't ever want to hear from Yuuji again. Because it shatters him.

Distantly, he ponders if the boy has ever cried at all, if he's ever broken down in between prayers and cursed at the gods. That perhaps this may be the first that he's bared his soul and the disquiet that plagues him. That perhaps he's held hatred too, an imperfect human deprived.

Satoru holds the boy and thinks, this must be what it is like to fear.

"You're okay. I'll be with you."

A week without Yuuji is desolation. 

Satoru dreads what a whole life without him would be.

But he does not count the days he has left. He lives without a deadline in his calendar. And he lives every second of every day. 

He lives in the faith that another lifetime awaits them.

Evenfall, an hour away from a sunless evening, it rains.

"Let's dance." Yuuji persuades him for a silly tango and pays no care for his embarrassed objections. The rain is steady, nowhere torrential, but it bites on the skin. 

"I don't want to get a cold." Satoru protests. He's aware his efforts are futile. When they're pit against Yuuji, there's not a modicum of victory. 

"It's a requirement of good living, Satoru-san." Yuuji kicks his shoes away, barefoot as he skips on the slippery ground.

"Be careful," Satoru catches him before he tumbles down. The boy, conniving, reaches for his arm and guides it to twirl his body around. The drizzle shapes into an umbrella that dresses him in a skirt of crystalline beads. 

Yuuji twirls again and lands on Satoru's chest. He leans on his toes and lets his heel hover. "Don't just stand here. Dance with me."

"People are looking at us."

"And?" A pivot. Elegant. Yuuji tugs him to the centre of a mindful crowd. "They can stare if they want to. When they get to wherever they have to be, they'll forget about us anyway."

"I don't know how to dance." Satoru blurts out, awkward with his footing. 

"Alright then," Yuuji straightens his posture. He aligns his feet, balanced. His chin is raised. Pompous, like the royalty. With his hands, he drags Satoru's right to the dip of his waist. He takes the left and stretches it wide, placing his palm atop his. "I'll lead you."

And like a string, he pulls Satoru to the invisible rhythm. They circle the open. Satoru scrapes his shoes against cement but his motions do not totter. Instead, they turn more graceful. They learn to match Yuuji's. They grow more confident and courageous until Satoru is rendered a laughing idiot capering in the downpour.

Yuuji yelps when he grips his hips and carries him above. Then he shrieks in pure verve. He spreads his arms, ready to take flight. 

Satoru soaks in his image and breathes in the scent of spring.

If, for a minute, Satoru were to look back to this moment and relive it all over again, this is the moment he will know.

If, for a minute, he's back to this very instance where it all became clearer, this is the moment he will understand.

Because this is the moment that he has utterly and wholeheartedly fallen in love with Yuuji.

"Do you see that?" 

Satoru darts his eyes at the sky. "The stars?"

Yuuji nods. "My grandfather told me that's where good souls go."

The horizon blinks. Satoru sits up and rumples the blanket. "Do you think Spots is there?"

"She is." Yuuji mirrors him and pushes his knees to his chest. "One day, I'm gonna be one of them too."

"A star?" Satoru chuckles. He would be the brightest one up there. 

"Yeah." Yuuji replies softly. "Just like Gramps."

"So you're not scared anymore?"

The boy ponders longer. "No. But you see, I have a new fear." 

Satoru plays with his locks, a soothing gesture. "What is it?"

Yuuji seeks his touch and closes his eyes, pensive. "I always thought I wanted to be surrounded by people when I die. But when I saw Spots like that, she was so hideous I couldn't bear to look at her. And then I wondered... if I would look the same to people when I go.

Pale. Cold. Unmoving. I don't think I want to be remembered like that."

"You'll still be beautiful to me." Satoru assures. "You always are."

Yuuji touches the hand on his temple and snickers, timorous. "You're just saying that because you feel bad for me."

"I don't." Satoru corrects. "I mean it."

The boy recoils from his touch. He lowers his eyes and fumbles with his sleeves. There it is again, that mousy, unconfident habit. Satoru holds his chin between his fingers and gently urges him to face him. 

"I love you."

The world stops when he utters the words. And for the second time, Yuuji cries.

"Why would you say that?" He punches his chest lightly. "You know I don't have much left."

"I don't care." Satoru inches closer, letting lips caress lips. Yuuji's are wet, whimpering. "I love you, Yuuji."

He whispers it again and again until their breaths stutter, until nose brush against nose and souls bind. They kiss with too much fervour, with too much want, fraught with many misgivings.

They kiss with the fright that this may be the last. And they fall apart, pleading for infinity.

He takes him to the beach to tell him that it will be the last he'll see of him.

Satoru doesn't question the plans he has for himself. He trusts whatever Yuuji will do. He trusts wherever Yuuji will take him.

They walk the shoreline and leave prints in the sand. They engrave memories of them for the waves to bring to the seas. Whatever left unshared of before, they reveal now. Satoru tells him about his mother, about the piano he used to play when he was little, about the songs his mother sang for him. Yuuji tells him his secrets, about the sweaters he wears and how they're all his brother's, about the petals he collects and how he's named one after every person he cherishes, his dreams of teaching kids and building his own garden. 

But there's one secret he doesn't tell him. Satoru doesn't pry. Yuuji assures he'll figure it out one day.

They lie down on the coastline and uncover every bit of themselves. Satoru takes every first Yuuji owns. And Yuuji offers them to him freely. The part of him that bleeds, that bruises, that exists - Satoru explores. He fits just right in the hollows of his flaws. Like he's been moulded for Satoru alone to worship and complete. Like he's been a part of the whole of him once. And his entirety, he entrusts to Satoru. His faith is unflagging, brimming with devotion.

It's frightening. To hold death so close and hope it doesn't betray you. To believe in death and beg that it doesn't rob you of your courage.

But Yuuji makes it less of a terror and more of a miracle. 

But Yuuji makes it less of a fright to love him.

"I love you." He can't recount how many times it's been said. 

"I love you." Yuuji only returns it to him once.

"Promise me something?"

"What?"

"Don't come. When it happens, please don't come. I want this to be the last you'll have of me." 

The first time Satoru sees him, he's all of a sudden thought of as a fleeting guest and an unlikely intruder. He won't stay long. A mute presence unfit for the dizzying February buzz or the bustling breeze of winter. He's too frail, too delicate and too vulnerable to the frost. He's too little of what Satoru invests in and too foreign for what Satoru would willingly peruse.

A passerby, that's all the boy appears to be.

The last he sees of him is under the stars, bathed in the faint glow of the universe. He's a cloud of infinitesimal dust in the vastness of the sky. But he makes himself belong. He's a beautiful tragedy. He won't stay long. A passing soul unfit for the hectic tides or blustering currents. He's too rare, too unmatched, too full of life that he's deprived of it. He's too much of what Satoru can ever be and too grand for a simple human like him.

Yuuji is constant. And he is everything to Satoru. 

What an oddity. He still thinks. An incomparable, extraordinary, mystical oddity.

"Panorama."

"Where?"

"Here. Do you see it?"

"I do. I see it. I see you."

The grave they chose for him is a blooming meadow. Much like infinite spring, it's a theme of florid fantasy and subtle magic. In the daytime, it is a vivacious wonder that never dims. In the eventide, it is a home for the hush illuminated by flickering fireflies. 

It fits him. The ideal home for a perfect soul.

"Your smoking will ruin it," Satoru warns when he sees murk taint the garden. He perches atop a half-buried boulder, an inch away from where his sole company slouches. 

Sukuna exhales anyway, face clouded by haze. "Long time no see. Didn't think you'd last a month."

"I managed." Satoru shrugs. "How did it go?"

The fog thins. Sukuna rubs the butt of his cigarette and opens a pack for another one. "Fine. He didn't say much." Two inhales, one long sigh. Then the fog doubles. "He didn't ask for you either."

Satoru breathes out a brief chuckle. "I know he wouldn't."

He feels the weight of a stare on him before Sukuna speaks. "He's a dumbass, you know that? Pushing people away and spouting shit about good memories." The boy rumbles the words in an acrid scoff. "Give me a break. Nobody wants to die alone."

Sukuna is talkative, Satoru notices. He's asking for a thought. Perhaps to ease his grieving. 

"Careful there. If he hears you right now, he might just haunt you just to nag." Satoru can almost see it. Red-faced, pouty and huffy. If he were around, he would be the prettiest ghost to ever exist.

Sukuna snorts. "For sure, he's gonna whine when he sees us not weeping."

"Or maybe he'll be happier we're not." He prefers this more than what Sukuna imagines. 

It shuts the other up. He lets his exhales whirr like the lull of the breeze. The cigarette dies and he fishes out another one. Two inhales, one heavy sigh.

"He used to tell he wanted a house by the seaside." Sukuna's voice comes out scratched, laden with fondness. "He said he'd marry soon and have two kids. The brat had the audacity to say he'd make me babysit them while he takes romantic walks with his lover." The boy grimaces as he recalls more of what he's been told. Again, he fills his lungs with smoke. 

"So what did you tell him?" Satoru asks, chortling.

"I told him he'd have to look for someone willing to put up with him first."

"And what did he say?"

Sukuna wipes his lips and turns his chin to face the other. He doesn't shy away from the blue orbs that focus on him. "That he already found him and that they'd be going there someday."

Silence whistles in the winds. Satoru breaks from the gaze of burnt red and directs his own to the skyline. They stay quiet for a tranquil while. Nothing but the rustle of the leaves meander in between their absent noises.

Sukuna finishes a pack and is on to his second. Satoru nudges with his elbow and points to a cig.

"Let me try one."

He's thrown one without hesitation. "Don't blame me when you get cancer."

Sukuna lights his first and instructs Satoru to do the same. The boy mirrors his action and drags the stick to his lips. Two inhales, one light sigh. He coughs it out more violently and feels his eyes water.

"Fuck, how do people enjoy this shit?"

"That's because you're not doing it right, moron. Don't hurry. Take one inhale at a time."

Satoru tries again. One inhale, one exhale. And as the mist enters, he slowly lets it go. One inhale, one exhale. The pattern repeats.

"I guess this is the right time to call you my brother-in-law."

A box is crumpled. The hush erupts into violent barks when Sukuna finally registers his words.

"Are you ready?"

The school bell rings and signals the beginning of the ceremony. From afar, he can see the bumbling students pacing to the sound of a graduation march.

"Not yet." Satoru tilts the tip of his pen and gently carves characters out of the thin petal. He is careful with the pressure, tinting the important spaces and leaving the veins untouched. The last of the letter loops and ends with a heart-shaped dot. Satisfied with the details, the boy hangs it back on the tiny door's wooden knob. 

"Done." 

Satoru surveys the house that peeks from the willow's roots and hums to himself, contended.

"Let's go. The teachers are calling for you."

Satoru flattens the wrinkles of his uniform and follows after his friend. Before he leaves fully, he steals a glimpse at the makeshift doorplate. It sings to him, a fading farewell of melodies.

Satoru-Yuuji.

It reads.

panorama.

to see the world as it is and beyond.

;