Work Text:
Short term memory for Suguru often feels like a Venus flytrap. Little anxieties, irritations, negative emotions held in scowls and “leave me alone”s until it dissolves into something more palatable over time.
Longer, his memory is more like the dusty filing cabinets Yaga used to make him and Satoru clean and organize as punishment for the typical brand of trouble Satoru got the two of them into. Full of old folders and yellowing edges, endless papers that Suguru can’t recall ever seeing before, easy enough to shrug his shoulders at and tuck away. Inconsequential.
The further along he goes among the dull greens and purples holding documents almost unintelligible from age are blips of folders where the dust is thinner and the papers crisper. Less “I have no idea what this is” and more “I almost forgot about…” These folders are more familiar to him, recognizable documentation of his life.
Then there is the one folder that sits on top of the metal cabinet outside, not a speck of dust on its surface. The only sign of wear is its creased spine, the result of its constant handling of being picked up, flipped over, scanned again and again like a dense novel despite only hosting two pieces of paper.
Suguru doesn’t need to look to see what’s in it, but he always has it at the ready for the growing number of days where his mind lingers in the dark spot he pulled the file from in the first place nearing one year ago.
Almost one year since towering sundaes twice the size of Suguru’s head, meant for three or four people had Satoru not been one of the indulging parties. Sandcastles, too, more dome of dirt than anything else, still picture-esque when adorned with the seashells Riko and Suguru combed all over the beach to find.
Almost one year since Suguru watched cold metal plunge through Satoru’s heart, his own stopping as the overwhelming smell of copper set in, so thick he could taste it on the back of his tongue. Cold metal, aimed with trained precision through a young girl’s temple, the sound of Riko’s body hitting the ground a sick melody he can’t shake.
Suguru never left summer of 2006, but time was content to march forward without him: balmy summer heat nipped by the first chill of the season, trees’ leaves changing colors, for all their work shedding them and leaving them bare as fall froze over to winter. Then, cold days isolated themselves to chilly early mornings and evenings, daytime a mixed bag of too hot or cool, pink flittering here, there, dusting the ground pastel a few weeks too early.
Suguru plucks the folder up once more, shakes a cigarette out of the crumpled box of Mevius he’s stashed away in one of the pockets of his pants, a gift from Shoko. Lights it—another gift. Inhale, momentary reprieve.
He relaxes his shoulders against the dark wood of the cherry blossom tree he’s made himself home under, exhaling smoke through partially parted lips as the breeze carries it downwind, stirs fallen petals around his legs.
The ground is solid beneath him now but a memory unsteadies him, his legs nearly giving out from under him when he lay eyes on Satoru again, frigidity coated in dry carmine. Small body wrapped in coarse linen in his arms, frozen in time.
”Is that you, Satoru?”
I thought I had lost you too.
Applause all around. Cheers, the right ones are still alive.
Suguru draws his legs closer to his body, shuffling his shoes against the grass. The end of his cigarette burns idly and drops hot ash on to his knees. The wind carries that away too.
Since the incident with the Time Vessel Association, Satoru has far surpassed Suguru in terms of ability, his near-death experience a kick in his bony ass to take his tasks a little more seriously. It is what Suguru has been nagging him about since first meeting him their freshman year at Jujutsu Tech, but now that he’s finally paying attention, solo missions have become common occurrence and time spent together precious.
Satoru alone became the strongest. Suguru stakes his claim as second place, left behind. He saw this coming.
He brought it up to Satoru once over zaru soba, Satoru’s treat and out-of-season for the winter. Suguru’s favorite, meant to cheer him up. He barely touched his bowl. Offhanded: “You’ve gotten so strong, Satoru. I feel like I have to sprint to keep up.”
Satoru laughed at him for that one. Probably thought this was a sign of the smog lingering around Suguru finally lifting. “Good thing you have long legs! You’ll keep up.”
A week later, Satoru was sent to handle a Special Grade terrorizing the canal in Jiyugaoka. Suguru’s non-mission: to supervise Haibara and Nanami in eradicating a Semi-Grade 2 in Akihabara. Standing still in the cold, he thought of ocean washing over hot sand and boisterous laughter. It would be two weeks before Suguru saw Satoru again.
It’s again nearing two weeks since Suguru has seen Satoru in person. They’ve been in contact—brief texts of ‘how are you doing?’s and plenty of pictures of all of the things Satoru finds funny or delicious, the occasional phone call “just to say hi!”—but long-distance doesn’t hold a flame to Satoru’s energy in-person.
Satoru, present, brings him back to all the coolest parts of summer, the sandcastles and obscenely large sweets. He’s the warmest moments of fall and winter, a steaming yaki-imo a shared blanket beside the refuge of a space heater, soaking up each other’s body heat.
Satoru is spring, a balm on his restless mind, pastel petals and the promise of a fresh start. An open flytrap. A cabinet that doesn’t need cleaning in the first place sans one open file that Satoru gently removes from Suguru’s grasp and, for a moment, returns to its place in the dark.
Suguru finishes his cigarette in one long drag and grinds it out against the sole of his shoe. He begins to reach for the box a few inches from him when his phone pings with a tone set specifically for Satoru.
He retrieves it from deep in his pocket and flips it open with a flick of his wrist. The text is truly Satoru, a long line of emoticons followed by a two words: ’call me?’
He’s less of a talker, more of a texter but he knows how Satoru is exactly the opposite. Cheery voice on the other end of the line, a ramble about his days away from Jujutsu Tech and all the things he’s seen and done since the curse was dealt with early, easy, without him. Suguru’s chest grows tight.
’Maybe later. I’m feeling kind of sick.’ Lying comes so naturally nowadays.
Satoru responds immediately. ’you eat something bad?’
Lies are easy to build piles of. ‘Yeah. I’m just laying down for now.’
’OK. call me later though OK?’
‘Okay.’
‘promise?’
He can’t. He does. ’I promise.’
’cool. (￣▽￣) ‘
Suguru closes his phone just in time for two more pings of Satoru’s text tone in rapid succession:
’miss you’
‘but see you in a few days!! ＼(＾▽＾)／’
Suguru raises another cigarette to his lips, bites down on the filter.
‘Be safe.’
There’s no response. Suguru clicks his lighter to life. In. Out. Closes his eyes and thinks of sand and seashells and cold tile and applause.
It’s too cold for spring.