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A flick of his wrist, and the curse is dead.
This is commonplace for Satoru: the scene that he enters is falling to ruins, dust kicked up by the fight and rubble crunching beneath the soles of his shoes. The dead bodies littering the ground are ones he recognizes easily, more young sorcerers devoured by an unforgiving system that never intended to keep them alive. He has already checked to see who they belong to. He does not feel guilty for the relief that he feels.
The body he is searching for instead is alive and— not well, exactly, but alive nonetheless, and that’s good enough for Satoru. Satoru approaches, one hand shoved into the pocket of his pants, the other ready to exorcise anything else that might be lurking in the shadows. It does not go over his head that what had left such carnage behind could so easily be killed by him single-handed. Kento’s chest heaves with the effort to breathe when Satoru crouches in front of him.
“Hey,” he says, voice carved sharp by his cheeky grin.
It's not the first time he's seen Kento on the brink of death, and he's certain it won't be the last. There’s something different about this time, though: Kento isn’t looking at him, eyes dazed like his mind is elsewhere, head tilted back against the wall so his gaze falls on a point just above Satoru’s shoulder. Satoru cocks his head sideways, trying to catch his attention. Kento doesn’t seem to see him.
“Hey,” he says again, gentler this time, reaching out a hand to rest on Kento’s arm. Kento’s own hands are occupied, one pressed to the wound on his side that is bleeding too much to simply shake off, the other clenching the fabric of his pants until they wrinkle in his fist. Satoru frowns, watching a bead of sweat trickle down the side of Kento’s face. Even dying Kento only quietly grits his teeth through the pain, not making a sound or a cry for help. Satoru shakes him a little, trying to bring his focus to him.
It seems to work, because Kento’s eyes slide over to Satoru, the clouds in his gaze clearing away slightly. Kento’s brows furrow like it’s taking him a moment to recognize who Satoru is. Then he coughs, spitting out blood onto the rubble.
“Satoru,” he says, voice rough as it catches in his throat. Satoru tries to offer him his usual grin, but it doesn’t quite come out the way he wants it to.
“Hi,” he greets, squeezing Kento’s arm a little. Kento doesn’t seem to notice, eyes flicking to the wreckage around them. If Satoru focuses on the point where they touch, he thinks Kento is trembling.
“What am I doing here?” he murmurs, sounding lost. Kento shifts to straighten himself, wincing when the pain flares in his side, but not stopping anyway. Satoru’s frown deepens. “Why am I here?”
The question is strange to Satoru, the same way this Kento is strange to Satoru. There is something about Kento’s voice that makes a disquiet erupt in Satoru’s gut, gripping his insides. It’s not the first time he’s seen Kento on the brink of death. It’s the first time he’s seen him like this, though.
“You were fighting a curse,” Satoru explains, but he has a feeling that’s not what Kento is asking. Kento’s eyes slide away from him, like he can’t focus. “The higher-ups fucked up again. The curse was stronger than they thought.” Satoru squeezes Kento’s arm again, just to see if he would feel it, but Kento still doesn’t react. He squeezes harder. “But I'm here now. I exorcised it.”
He tries to say the last part with his usual cocky grin, but Kento doesn’t take notice, his usual irritation nowhere to be seen. Instead he blinks slowly, as if still processing the words. Then: “The others…?”
The hand that had been touching Kento falls to his side, just as his grin does. Satoru shakes his head.
“Dead.”
He doesn’t really expect a reaction out of Kento. They have both spent enough time in this world that death does not surprise them, and Kento is exceptionally good at keeping others at arm's length. He knows, after all, the holes that loss leaves. Satoru seems to be one of the few exceptions to his rule.
So Satoru doesn’t expect the way Kento shudders, a full-body thing, the white-knuckled grip on his pants releasing slowly. The way his face falls with the words is movie-motion, slowed down to infinity, every line of his features heavy with a sadness Satoru knows all too well. Kento takes in a shaky breath. His next exhale quakes his body with its force.
“Kento—?”
He doesn’t cry. Satoru half-expects him to, so taken aback by Kento’s reaction that anything seems possible, even the sight of Kento's tears. But they don’t come. Instead he leans back, eyes tilted to the sky and glassy, body trembling in a way that makes him seem so small. So very human.
“Why didn’t I die?” he asks, voice a harsh whisper.
Though he is shorter than him Kento is no small man by any means. Satoru has been dwarfed by those arms before, wrapped around him on the nights he could never sleep, hands pressed to his back like Kento was holding a world in his palms. Right now, like this, he seems less like a Grade 1 sorcerer, and more like a man dying at the hands of his own heart more than the wounds that are killing him. Satoru hates it. Hates everything about it.
“Why am I alive?”
Satoru’s hand curls into a tight fist, releasing again. What is there to say?
“Because I won’t let you die,” he answers, reaching up to take his blindfold off. He doesn’t quite meet Kento’s eyes, instead trailing the line of his shoulders, how defeated they look amidst the debris. Kento’s brows furrow, staring at him like that’s not the answer he wants to hear.
“Why?” he asks, sounding almost angry, the word spat out between his teeth. Satoru’s eyes flick up to meet his gaze, but there is no anger there. Just an endless exhaustion that Kento has carried all his life. Just a grief renewed.
“Because I know you, Kento,” Satoru says, reaching out a hand to gently cup Kento's cheek. Kento shivers, gritting his teeth like he doesn’t want this, can’t have it, the tenderness misplaced in the rubble where they sit. But then Satoru swipes his thumb along the tired lines beneath his left eye, and Kento makes a broken sound, the tension melting away. Kento leans into the touch, eyelids fluttering closed. His body is still shaking. “And dying won't make you happy.”
Maybe there is no happiness in a world like this for men like them. This is a truth both of them are well-acquainted with, have shook hands with, ate quiet meals with it sitting at the table. Death is no escape. Maybe this is, though:
Kento sighs heavily, and opens his eyes.
“I’m so tired,” he finally says, that glassiness in his eyes remaining, that same grief. His shirt is soaked through with his own sweat and blood, chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Kento’s eyes slide over to look at Satoru, turning his head imperceptibly into the palm still on his cheek. “Satoru.”
He says the name like it’s supposed to heal him, somehow, and how Satoru wishes that it could. “I know you are,” he replies instead, thinking of the days and nights spent like this, picking up the pieces after a mission. For a while now it has been just him and Kento. Tending to their unseen wounds. Even then it seems there are things that haunt Kento in ways Satoru is just beginning to realize. “So come home with me.”
Kento closes his eyes before nodding slowly, Satoru reaching to pull him up. Satoru has discovered since 17 that there are many things he cannot do. At the very least he can take Kento home.
your hands are like my heart, some days all they do is tremble.
I am like you.
I am like you, I too at times
am filled with fear,
but like a hallway must find the strength to walk through it.
Walk through this with me.
Walk through this with me.
— Anis Mojgani, Come Closer