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Suguru had his first cigarette when he was sixteen.
The taste of curses were overwhelmingly bad, an acrid routine that’d he’d more or less been forced to accommodate. It was a less than stellar solution, sure, because nicotine didn’t taste great either, it tended to burn the back of his throat and tingle in his nostrils. The smoky scent stuck to his clothes, and hair, and Satoru refused to sit close to him when he smoked, but it was a solution nevertheless.
It got rid of the lingering vomit taste of curses, erased the gooey, slimy texture of their cores, settled his churning stomach as they sat heavy as stones inside him.
Then he defects. And then he dies. And then he’s back. And the craving for nicotine remains.
“You still smoke?”
Suguru looks up, glancing back as Satoru stands, arms folded at the doorway of his balcony. The night sky colors him purple, while the golden light inside illuminates his back. He looks regal, as gorgeous as Suguru remembers him, even more so now that he’s older.
Suguru exhales, watching the large puff of smoke disappear into the night.
“Do you still inhale sugar?”
Satoru frowns, mouth crooked and eyes narrowed, and he leans against the door frame. “This isn’t about me.”
“Then what is it about, hm?” He asks, turning around to face him fully, resting the small of his back on the balcony railing.
“ You. ” Satoru huffs, teeth clenched in a firm grimace that Suguru knows spells trouble. He’s clearly just as feisty as Suguru remembers. Ten years hadn’t changed him much at all. “Those things are gonna kill you, Suguru.”
Suguru feels his forehead itch, his fingers twitch to scratch but he resists. He can already feel the eyes on the scar, faint but there, Satoru’s pained expression tells him that.
“You’d think being body-snatched would kill an addiction, but apparently not,” Suguru snorts, a lame attempt to try and salvage any humor Satoru might be willing to allow, but the man sighs, walking forward with graceful steps and extends his hand. “What?”
“Give it to me,” Satoru says, voice deathly quiet, a soft request he knows he’s not allowed to refuse. He hands it over. Then proceed to watch Satoru blast the cigarette into the sky, exploding into a million tiny pieces of ash and paper, like little smoky stars.
“That was unnecessary.”
“It was not,” Satoru retorts, wiping the hand that held the cigarette on his pants. “I’ll do it every time I catch you smoking, so spare us both some trouble and just quit.”
“It’s not that simple, Satoru,” Suguru says, finally giving in and scratching his forehead with his thumb. “I can’t just quit.”
“And I can’t lose you again,” Satoru snaps, and Suguru all but freezes. Pain was a terrible sound from Satoru, and he’d heard enough of it to last him a million lifetimes. He looks up, catching the strained pull of his brows, the creasing under his eyes and the soft quiver of his lips.
And he breaks .
“Satoru, you’re not gonna lose me,” he soothes, raising his arms to grab at Satoru’s shoulders, the man staring holes into the floor. “Alright? I fought too hard to come back just to disappear again.”
“I know,” he nods, inhales shakily and sighs. “I know that. But I just—“
Satoru falters, hissing out a quiet curse, palming his face.
“What is it?” Suguru brushes his bangs from his eyes, silently notes how he needs a haircut soon unless he was deciding to copy Suguru’s look and just grow it out. He doubts it, though. Satoru’s hair bothered his eyes if it got too long.
“I couldn’t help you before,” he continues after a moment. “And I hated myself for it. Every day. And now you’re back and I just—“ he groans. “I couldn’t live with myself if I just let you throw it all away again.”
“That wasn’t your fault, before.” Suguru tightens his grip on his shoulders, shakes him slightly so Satoru will look at him, then softens his expression to smile when he finally does. “Don’t blame yourself, okay? I don’t blame you. I never have.”
The Six Eyes widen, pupils dilate and tremble, and Suguru feels his soul touch the gentle night breeze. It’s exposed for Satoru, put back together delicately after being ripped to shreds by the thief that stole his body. But he’s back now, it’s hard sometimes, but he plans to stay.
“I’ll quit,” he promises, pulling the half-empty pack of Marlboro’s out of his pocket and holding it out for Satoru to take. “Just, let me look away before you destroy them.”
Satoru grabs the box, stares at it for a moment with bewilderment, like he’d never quite expected this outcome. And, to be fair, he’d be totally justified in feeling that way. Suguru had been dead until very recently.
“Deal.”
Whoever said quitting smoking was hard deserves to be shot, because clearly they were under-selling it just a little bit.
His head hurts, he’s tired, his throat is killing him. It’s terrible. Maybe letting Satoru destroy his last box of cigarettes was a mistake, maybe he could just sneak out and—
“How are you feeling?” Satoru asks, and Suguru feels the bed dip before he sees his face. And Satoru’s face, god his face. It was like a breath of fresh air, even if Suguru was a little pissed at him for forcing him to quit with those stupid puppy-dog eyes in the first place.
“Shitty,” Suguru answers, honestly, realizing just how hot he’s running when Satoru’s ice-cold hand finds his cheek. “But nothing I can’t handle.”
“I’m sorry,” he winces, seeing right through his fib because of course he did. It was Satoru, after all. “I know it sucks. But your body will thank you in time.”
Suguru grumbles, because he knows Satoru is right, but he feels so terribly awful that there’s just no way he can believe him. He flicks his eyes up at Satoru, watches the man silently look over his face, turns his head to the side so Satoru can brush his loose hair behind his ear.
It was grossly domestic. When Suguru left Jujutsu Tech, left Satoru , ten years earlier, he thought he’d lost this privilege forever. Even now it feels wrong, Satoru wearing that worried expression as he cares too much, drags a feather-light finger across the soft pink scar on Suguru’s forehead.
But through some divine miracle he’s alive, and Satoru’s here, caring for him still as if he’d never left, as if he wasn’t a classified criminal, as if he hadn’t hurt him before. Suguru would call him naïve if he didn’t already consider himself lucky.
He also considers himself selfish. A selfish, greedy creature who wants too much.
Satoru’s lips are soft against his thumb, and he’s shocked when Satoru doesn’t blast his hand away, even as his own face is being cradled by the hands that had taken his life before.
“You know you could stop me, right?” Suguru asks, pressing down against his bottom lip, hearing the faint clicking noise his lips make when they part. “You should stop me.”
“I don’t want to,” Satoru answers, the bed creaking as he moves, cradling Suguru’s face in his palm while the other hand rests beside his head. He’s close, too close, and Suguru only pulls him closer. “I’m selfish too. Though I’m sure you know that.”
Suguru grins, because yes, he does, he probably knows it better than anyone else, even after ten years. But there’s one thing he’s forgotten, one thing he’s missed in that decade. Something he hasn’t felt since before he left, and it’s worse than any withdrawal nicotine could give him.
“Can I kiss you?” It’s one last warning, one final chance for Satoru to pull away before Suguru refuses to let him go. Satoru beams.
“Wouldn’t it be me kissing you? ” He tilts his head, and Suguru squints.
“Does it really matter?”
“I mean the specifics are always important, Suguru. Or did you forget that— hey! “
Suguru rolls his eyes and tugs Satoru down by the back of his neck, holding him over his lips, so close he can feel the way Satoru’s breath catches.
“Shut up.”
Satoru’s lips are soft, plush, plump and perfect. His pale hands cling to him, hold his cheek and clench around his shirt. Satoru fits perfectly in his arms, their time apart clearly doing little to stop how they were made for each other, even now, and Suguru’s light headed from it.
They kiss for what must be hours, lips locking and sliding together, smacking when they pull away to take quick breaths before continuing. It takes a bit for their techniques to come back to them, but the sparks are immediate, twinkling behind their eyes like Suguru’s exploding cigarette, bright and dangerous but right.
Satoru pulls back first, humming and nipping at Suguru’s lip before resting their foreheads together.
“I love you,” he exhales, quiet and raw, and Suguru almost misses it over the sound of his own heartbeat. “I still do. I never stopped.”
“That’s impressive,” Suguru smirks, gripping Satoru’s hips tight as he lays on his chest, slotted between his legs, warm under his sweater. “I gave you a lot of reasons to.”
“Shut up,” Satoru whines, dropping his head down to rest between the pillows and Suguru’s neck, whimpering softly. “You’re killing the mood.”
“My bad,” he laughs, looking up toward the ceiling, cheeks sore in a smile. “I love you too, Satoru. That’s never changed.”
“I’d hope so,” he says into the pillow, hands planted against Suguru’s chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath his fingers. And Suguru guides his head back, kisses him smiling and flips them over.
Satoru’s giggling carries into the night, and Suguru swallows it all. He’s done swallowing curses, the bitterness of nicotine will be sorely missed, but he has something better.
He has Satoru.
They make a deal.
Each time Suguru gets craving, or irritation clings and crawls on him like a curse, all he has to do is tap Satoru’s shoulder. Like ringing a bell, Satoru will be there, puckered and ready to kiss him better, to smooch him pliant and calm, until all the nicotine leaves his system and he no longer feels dependent on it.
Suguru hasn’t smoked in a year. Satoru still spoils him whenever he calls, ready to calm his frayed soul with lips that were made to love.
It’s perfect. Satoru’s perfect.
Suguru has done so much wrong in his life, he doesn’t deserve a single second of joy, but he’s greedy and selfish, and Satoru gives him love endlessly.
Suguru may not need cigarettes anymore, but he’s certainly addicted.