Work Text:
Suguru is holding his face.
Suguru is holding Satoru’s face after he finished shaving his own, placing a decent amount of shaving cream, and it’s sending his nerves aflame- with warmth pooling like the heat of a thousand suns brought by Suguru’s gentle touch, a soothing caress on his face- not quite scorching it, but rather, balancing the course of the universe by setting it at par with the frost of a thousand winters. Cupping it, examining whether hair had grown out into his pretty, pretty face. He could say it was porcelain- perfect, smooth, fine china- but looking at it from mere inches away, he could see how there were bumps and ridges and miniscule moles that made up Satoru; bumps of darkened skin that left a mark as they healed long ago, lumps of reddening zits here and there, and circles starting to form under his eyes as a result from treading countless missions at ungodly hours.
He could say he was lucky. Blessed by the gods, satan, deities, or whoever. He doesn’t care.
Suguru’s the only one that was granted permission to see him in his most vulnerable of states. He’s the only one allowed , for that matter. To see the otherwise known as the picture-perfect strongest jujutsu sorcerer alive up close as he’d like, anytime he wanted to- he’d let him. Let Suguru touch him beyond the bounds of infinity, of endless supernovas and galaxies, of space matter and newborn stars, beyond the bounds of the milky way up to andromeda, pinwheel, whirlpool- and back to earth, back to where Icarus was allowed to hold the sun in a tight embrace.
Although, Satoru thinks otherwise.
For him, he believes as if he’s the chosen one bestowed by the heavens to come across one Getou Suguru.
Well, a minute ago, he only felt it, but now, the butterflies somersaulting at the pit of his stomach faded into still calmness- of pure serenity mixed with a dash of sweet ambrosia, and it’s a feeling Satoru knew he wanted to bask in forever . As long as Aphrodite would lend her most beautiful angel to his mortal self, as puny as a peasant he is- as undeserving as he is (in his eyes, that is)- he would move the heavens and earth to gather enough space to kneel and plead his mundanity to be worthy of her grace. To be worthy of her pity to bask in the grace that is Getou Suguru.
As Suguru positioned the razor to his face, hot breath fanning his cheek and eyes boring into his skin, Satoru took the time to admire his features: from his chin with barely a stubble, jaws chiseled by Ares himself, a nose not too crooked and not too pointy, big droopy ears caging his iconic black studs, up until he finally caught sight of it.
Like sparks igniting, coming to life with the sheer force of his slight grin- sweeter than honeydew concentrated and brighter than the thundering clap of a flash of thunder on stormy nights - Satoru had an epiphany at the very moment he locked eyes with Suguru.
Holy fuck.
He gazes at Suguru's eyes for longer than what is deemed comfortable, admiring the way his pupils dilate– pupils of the darkest shade of wine cascading into plum as it comes into contact with the fluorescent light. Pretty , Satoru thinks. He could stare at it all day, if he'd let him. Hang it in an art gallery along with the works of Van Gogh, Rembrandt, and Monét— and let it be the main attraction for people to see. But deep down, Satoru knew in his heart that he'd want to keep this masterpiece for himself.
“Earth to Satoru, hey,” Suguru waves his hand near Satoru’s eyes. “What are you thinking about?”
Your eyes.
Your eyes of mixed crimson and azure - your eyes in the color of my most powerful technique.
“Nothing.” He affirms with a slight raise of his shoulders, and Suguru doubts, of course he does - he knows this guy like the back of his hand - but he doesn’t pry, and instead, returns back to gliding the razor by the side of his face and— every detail just seemed to magnify in his senses as he closed his eyes. The slight brush of Suguru’s fingers on his face, calloused, careful, meticulous. Pokes here and there to angle his face, the ever-so-careful glide of the razor on his face, the cooling sensation of the shaving cream. So gentle, subtle, all the tenderness absorbed by porcelain, not quite ready to bounce the warmth of the six a.m. sunrise back to the stratosphere. Not quite ready to reveal the magnum opus for the world to interpret to their own liking. Not quite ready for people to touch him, feel him, hold him as much as he was allowed to.
Truth be told, he wants to keep this - all this beauty and this grace - locked up and hidden within the deepest dungeons of his heart - deep, deep, deep beneath the mariana trench, where sunlight would never have a chance to pass through, beneath the super-deep currents, the chilling frost settling in the ocean floor. He’d lock such a beauty there - with him being the only one daring and strong enough to brave the fatal currents. Satoru would brave anything for Getou Suguru.
Suguru had always been gentle to him, being so patient with his pace at getting comfortable with things. He’s been cautious not to overstep any boundaries Satoru had set for himself - even without the infinity, even just as he deactivates it for him - he’s been patient with all their firsts. The one and only person who was fluent in his language. Suguru’s affection for him wasn’t measured in acts of service, words of affirmation, or any of the other love languages. It runs deeper than that - it’s measured in the way he’d drop anything and everything he’s doing just to be assured that the person he cares about is okay, even if it’s at four a.m. after a disastrous mission not having a single wink of sleep, or at four p.m. when he’s out having fun with his friends.
Maybe this- maybe this is why I like you.
Admitting it to himself… felt oddly euphoric. Who would have known he’d come to this realization while his bestfriend is shaving off his facial hair? But nonetheless - after a few years of rotating from being unsure and telling himself that it’s only platonic - he’s here. But..
No… no, no.
His eyes open at the absence of Suguru’s hands on his face, his feet go back to earth from being trapped in his own bubble of realization - and he comes back to Suguru putting aftershave on his face, massaging the side of his jaw, his cheeks, his chin.
“There you go.” He finally says.
Satoru feels the butterflies cascade to an ocean of stillness - pure serenity. Before he had the chance to get out of his hold, for the fear of exploding into everything and nothing, Suguru, with the most genuine smile he could give him, shrouded with fondness and care and love, musters:
“Pretty. You look pretty, Satoru.”
I love you. I’ve never been this sure of anything my whole life.