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Suguru has nice hands.
Satoru wasn’t vain enough to deny it (no pun intended). It was just a simple fact of life.
His palms are wide, hands thick and broad and calloused from years of hard training and use. His fingers are long and muscular, deep blue veins popped beneath golden skin, knuckles bulging and flexing with each purposeful clench of his fists.
They fit his build nicely, matched perfectly with the rest of his body; large and toned, crafted to perfection under an artist’s careful chisel.
They look just as nice against Satoru’s skin, contrasting the pale complexion like a honey coated sunset, liquid gold and molten hot against a snowy blanket. Their hands fit together like they had been molded to match from birth, Suguru’s palm almost eclipsing Satoru’s own strong, yet deceptively dainty palm, melting against each other like warm caramel when they intertwined.
To put things more simply, Satoru just has a thing for hands.
Though, at the moment, the only hands he’s concerned with are his own.
“You can stop staring at it, Satoru,” Suguru says, to which Satoru makes a point to gawk, and dramatically places his jeweled hand against his chest to clutch his metaphorical pearls.
“I will not, ” he gasps. “My fiancé gave this to me! I’ll stare at it every second of every day, thank you very much.”
Suguru breathes out, a shaky sound from somewhere deep in his chest, and the rumbling of it makes his tan cheeks flush a light pink. It’s a good color on him, and Satoru can’t help but kiss it darker.
It’s in Suguru’s arms where Satoru feels the most at home. Placed in his strong hands, Satoru knows he’s safe and loved, a shell of the boy he was when they first met and their hands were shy, sharing secret brushes of fingers under tables and maybe the linking of pinkies when they were feeling brave.
When Satoru was a child, he was told over and over again how he had incredible strength. He was a god, made to be feared and nothing more. Made to sit pretty at an altar and watch with hollow eyes as those around him bowed and worshiped his very being only to escape an inevitable wrath.
When Suguru held his hand for the first time, serious and firm, every finger perfectly nestled against slightly clammy palms, Satoru cried. He cried, ugly and nestled against Suguru’s shoulder, staining his shirt with overwhelming feelings that he didn’t fully understand at the time, too young to even try, and Suguru told no one.
It was the overwhelming sensation of relief, Satoru thinks, years later now that he’s able to process it. The feeling of relief that, for once, in Suguru’s hands, he didn’t have to be the strongest. He’s not at the beck and call of a society that uses him like a trap card, he’s just safe, just Satoru.
He told no one this dirty secret, that the all powerful Gojo Satoru had broken down into nothing but wet, heaving gasps and strangled cries into the collar of a corduroy sweater when his hand had been held for the first time. It wasn’t his secret to tell, Suguru himself had admitted when Satoru pressed him about it, and Satoru decided then and there that this was the man he’d love for the rest of his life.
Those hands of Suguru’s, calloused on the palms and hot to the touch, stripped Satoru bare. They showed him, large and veiny, that he deserved to be loved. Fully and unconditionally, by as many people as he wanted.
But, with Suguru’s hands on his back, holding him tight as Satoru peppers teasing kisses across his embarrassed blush, he thinks that he’s already loved by everyone he wants to be.
Suguru is made of love, Satoru thinks, made of sugar and caramel and everything sweet to him, made of golden sunlight on a cool autumn day, made of corduroy sweaters and tangled limbs on lazy sunday mornings. He’s made for Satoru, sent from the sky for Satoru to hold and love in his own hands. His hands that are pale enough to see all of his dark blue veins decorated with light purple blossoms, his fingers long and thin, but thrumming with incredible power beneath manicured nails.
Suguru loves his hands. He knows this because Suguru had gone out of his way to pick the perfect ring for them, the crystalline diamond in the center stunning enough to put his own eyes to shame.
If Satoru was embarrassed about crying because of innocent hand holding, then he would’ve been mortified to see the pathetic blubbering that left him when Suguru had dropped to one knee, a black velvet box in his calloused palm, that left him speechless and stammering over wet inhales. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, a promise of safety and security for the rest of their lives held inside a tiny velvet box.
“Really, you don’t have to stare so hard,” Suguru snorts, dipping his olive skin into the curve of Satoru’s ivory neck. “The ring’s not going anywhere.”
“I know that,” Satoru answers, carding his bare hand through Suguru’s raven locks, loose and cascading like a dream down his back. “But I like staring at it. Doesn’t it look so good on me?”
“If I didn’t think it looked good on you I wouldn’t have bought it.”
Satoru purses his lips, grumbling quietly. “Touché.”
“I’m gonna start to get jealous soon if you don’t start giving me attention,” Suguru whines, nibbling at Satoru’s exposed collarbone, wrapping a museum-worthy hand around Satoru’s, engulfing the diamond ring under thick fingers.
“I’m already giving up my last name for you, and now you want attention?” Satoru groans, failing at fighting a bright grin, leaning his head down until their rosy noses were bumping gingerly. “Suguru’s so greedy.”
“Only with you,” he admits far too easily, smiling bright with teeth and honey in his squinting gaze, and Satoru has to kiss him. He can’t help it.
His own hands, pale and cold to the touch, simmer and steam against Suguru’s cheeks, melt into him and swirl like soft-serve ice cream, sticky and sweet and savory on his tongue. He’s in love. He’s so, so in love.
“Getou Satoru,” Satoru whispers as they part, dragging a cool thumb across the damp heat of Suguru’s bottom lip, dusty pink and glistening. “Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t even get me started ,” Suguru sighs, tipping his head back, tugging his tall snow white into his lap, leaning back into brown couch cushions that smell like home, that feel like love when he’s laid down against them. And Satoru laughs, because he knows that if Suguru is allowed to speak about it, the conversation will last for hours.
Suguru’s hands, so big and perfect, wrap entirely around Satoru’s waist like it’s nothing, hold him so gently it makes Satoru misty eyed, even now. He’s held between his fingers like he’s treasure, like he’s made of crushed stars and constellations, so rare and fickle that a gust of wind will erase him forever.
Satoru doesn’t mind being vulnerable, either. As long as it’s framed between Suguru’s hands, a sturdy bird cage for his feathered insecurities.
They’ve done terrible things, each of them, with these hands they hold each other with. Their hands had taken lives, had touched curses and each other in the same breath, had held down gushing wounds and brushed gently over bandaged knuckles. But now, their hands are free from the weight of holding the world, no responsibility induced carpal-tunnel as they run over each other’s bodies, frame smiling faces and trace each bump and curve of muscle and squishy bits that make them both giggle like pining school boys all over again.
Because really, with Suguru, Satoru felt like a kid all over again. It was as terrifying as it was in high school, when little touches made his emotions bubble over into hot tears, but thrilling and exciting enough to make the introspection worth it.
“You’re perfect,” Suguru breathes, pressing feather-light kisses to the gentle pink on Satoru’s knuckles. When he reaches his ring finger he pauses, rubs and kisses up its length, opens his mouth in a quiet attempt to bite the ring as maybe some form of payback before Satoru catches him and flicks his temple. “Ow.”
“Leave my baby alone,” Satoru scolds, half-assed and giddy, love drunk under sweet champagne lips. “She’s done nothing wrong.”
“Getou Satoru, that is abuse,” Suguru grins, planting both hands down firmly on each side of Satoru’s head. “You’re gonna need to fix me. I think I’m losing consciousness.”
“Fixing people is Ieiri’s job, but I’ll give it the ol’ college try,” he grins, sitting up slightly on his elbows. “What kinda treatment are we looking at, here?”
“Attention,” Suguru answers without a moment to think, his expression so sickly smug it makes Satoru laugh. “And lots of kisses. Lots. ”
Satoru smiles, takes his hands and holds his whole world between them, Suguru leaning into his touch.
“I’ll do my best.”