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Satoru’s skates glide through the ice the way a feather would through the air: elegantly, deftly, almost imperceptible. His fingers grazing the glistening surface of the ice in a hydroblading move leave sparks in their wake, a movement beautifully alluring accompanied by Satoru’s gaze ever so steady on the crowd.
He can feel his body, weightless, flying through the steps of the program as if that’s what it was always meant to do. The pompous fabric clinging to him feels like a second skin rather than clothes, as he bares his soul for the entire world to see.
Look at me, he is saying, demanding, look at my insides and pick me apart.
He approaches his next and last jump backward, on the back outside edge of his right leg, then plants his left toe pick on the ice to impulse himself and fly. Half a revolution, he counts in his head when his skates leave the ice. One, two—his breath catches in his throat—three, he forces himself to keep counting, and then another half a revolution as he lands on the same edge he launched himself with.
The crowd screams, clap their hands in glee at Satoru’s impeccable quadruple toe loop, but as he rushes to finish his routine with a Biellmann spin, there’s only one thing going through his head: not the ice, not the adrenaline rush characteristic of the sport, but Suguru.
When he was spinning, he caught a glimpse of black eyes intently fixed on his form, drinking in his every movement, every time his muscles pull taut or flex. Long, black hair that framed an angular face with an amused expression Satoru would recognize anywhere. There, right next to his coach, he saw Geto Suguru within the madness, the velocity of his spins as he rode the air, and now he can barely contain the euphoria that surrounds his whole being, engulfs it from head to toe; the unsteady beating of his heart and ragged breathing that, he knows, has nothing to do with how demanding on the body figure skating is.
He came, Satoru thinks as he bows down and gets ready to leave the ice rink. His eyes are fixed on Suguru as his body moves on auto-pilot, on the smirk he so dearly missed for the past twelve months—a year, he remembers shakily—and the soft way his bangs fall into his eyes in that familiar way. When the blade of Satoru’s skates lands on firm, steady grounds, he doesn’t even care to listen to what his coach, Yaga, has to say—he rushes past other skaters, some his friends and some his foes, and lets himself fall into Suguru’s arms in that dramatical way so characteristic of his.
“You came,” he murmurs against Suguru’s neck, squeezing his torso tight enough to hurt him, but as always, Suguru doesn’t complain; he lets out a breathy laugh, runs a hand over Satoru’s spine in a quiet comforting gesture.
“Of course I did,” Suguru replies cheekily. “You’ve pestered me about how important this day was for you for months on end, Satoru. You would’ve murdered me in my sleep if I had missed it.”
Satoru laughs, feels Suguru’s chest heave with a chuckle of his own, and finds more comfort in that simple gesture than in the sudden heaviness of a jacket over his shoulders, warm and thick. Yaga’s hand pats his back.
“We should go sit.” Yaga doesn’t wait for a reply, instead grabbing Satoru’s elbow and directing him to the benches. Satoru sits right beside Suguru, whose nose and cheeks are reddened by the frost of the rink, and he giggles at the same time he nudges his side.
Suguru’s gaze falls on him almost in a delicate way, his expression softening immediately as he drinks in Satoru’s appearance. He has never been easy to read, oftentimes coming off as someone intimidating, but Satoru, as his best friend, knows very well the tenderness that lives in his heart. If you pay closer attention to him, you can see it in his daily gestures, too; it’s in the way he looks at messy children when their ball accidentally ends up at Suguru’s feet and they come to retrieve it; it’s in the way he kicks it and plays a game with them, smile dazzling with elation every time childish giggles echo in the park. His warmth is everywhere, anywhere you look, and Satoru fell in love with it long, long ago.
First, they were roommates in college. Suguru came into Satoru’s life in the shape of a typhoon, storming through the door with a crazed air about him that caught Satoru’s attention almost instantly. When his eyes met Satoru’s for the first time, his whole body relaxed as he muttered a “thank fuck,” and proceeded to explain that Shoko, the fucker, had told him his roommate this year was going to be Toji Fushiguro and he had been ready to strangle him in the spot.
Then he took a big, big breath, and blurted out, “Jesus, your eyes are gorgeous.”
Satoru could only laugh and introduce himself after that, of course. What a charming man.
Soon, they were making Movie Sundays in their room a tradition: Suguru would choose movies of the genre Satoru hated the most and vice versa. And between laughter, whines of complaint, and a room that felt more like home to Satoru than any other place ever, the last year of college passed by.
“Don’t you dare stay out of touch,” Satoru warned him before they parted ways in front of the building where their beautiful friendship had bloomed. “If you do, I’ll haunt your house for the rest of your miserable life, Suguru.”
Suguru was, for some reason, thrown into a laughing fit. “As if I could ever get rid of you,” he joked after a few beats, smiling toothily at him and literally, literally, petting Satoru’s head. “Don’t be a stranger and all that, Satoru.”
Blinking, it took Satoru a few seconds to realize—
“I’m not your fucking dog, you fucker!”
He yelled it with red cheeks and maybe, just maybe, he stuttered a bit at the beginning of the sentence. He jumped onto Suguru’s back, fake-strangling him, and the street was then filled with their joy and bickering, always to remain there.
After that, it’s safe to say they did not lose contact at all but rather, the distance only brought them closer. Satoru remembers staying up until ass o’clock simply texting Suguru because heavens, that man’s sleeping schedule was—and probably is—fucked. He would sometimes get home after a particularly hard training session and find Suguru sleeping on his couch after he gave him a key, or cooking, even cleaning his goddamn bathroom because you’re a mess, Satoru. What would you do without me?
“You owe me anyway,” Satoru would reply as he headed for a warm shower. “Friendly remember that I always had to clean your shit in college. It’s only fair the tables have turned.”
Suguru would mock him in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, then laugh when Satoru stuck out his tongue. So childish, he would murmur to himself in a tone so full of fondness it made Satoru’s heart skip more than one beat.
Two years passed like that, and then Suguru told him about how he had been chosen for this extremely good job opportunity in America and how he absolutely had to go because, Satoru, this is all I ever wanted and more!
“Who am I to hinder you, Suguru?” Satoru said with a smile, pretending he was joking but, truthfully, his heart was breaking in his chest because he had realized not too long ago that oh, he loved Suguru, and now that he knew, he was out of reach, and it wasn’t fair. “I say go for it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll become the next Spielberg!”
So, Suguru had gone, left, and Satoru’s life continued its course until today. They texted, called almost every day, but it wasn’t the same. Satoru had missed him so, so much that now that he has him by his side again, he doesn’t know how to react, what to do, what to say, besides maybe smile like a teenager in love.
Maybe a part of him—the part that loves Suguru—will always be a teenager in love.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Satoru says for the nth time as he opens the door to his hotel room, Suguru following behind him once he enters. “What did you think of my program? You’ve always been my best critic.” And the only one who matters, he thinks but doesn’t say.
Suguru smiles, placing his bag near Satoru’s bed and sitting down on it, letting out a relieved sigh when the mattress dips under his weight. “Ah, so soft.” He pats the space next to him. “Come lie with me, Satoru.”
Satoru rolls his eyes but obliges, letting his body fall right next to Suguru’s, which knocks the air out of his lungs for a moment. He looks at Suguru, expectant. “So? What did you think?”
“Hmm, let me think…”
“You asshole—” Satoru kicks his thigh with his feet, pushing him closer to the edge of the bed and laughing when Suguru glares at him, eyes narrowed. “You started this. Just tell me already!”
“My, my, you’re so eager, Satoru,” Suguru jokes with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Is my opinion that important to you?”
“Keep dreaming.” Satoru huffs, rolling over to rest on his side and show Suguru his back. He bites his lip to avoid a giggle from letting out when he feels the bed shift and a pair of fingers run over his spine, imitating a man walking. He used to do that often back in college, when Satoru couldn’t sleep. He wiggles. “Stop that, dumbass. I’m angry at you.”
Suguru snorts, his fingers reaching Satoru’s nape and sending goosebumps throughout all his body. It’s a warm touch, familiar and comforting and one Satoru missed for so long he had started to forget how it felt like—the feeling of Suguru’s hands on him. “Don’t be mad, Satoru,” he says with a mocking voice. “Aren’t you happy I came to see you?”
With a quick motion, Satoru rolls over and pushes Suguru with his feet again, watching him uselessly try to hold onto the fabric of the duvet before a thud echoes in the room, followed by a groan, and that makes it for Satoru—he bursts in a peal of laughter, unable to contain it anymore, and meets Suguru’s eyes when he peeks at him from behind the edge of the bed, still sitting down on the floor.
“You’ll regret that, asshole.”
“It’s your fault for mocking me so much. I’m Satoru Gojo, mind you. How very dare you treat me like that, peasant?”
“Oh, you’re dead meat.”
With a swift movement, Suguru reaches over the bed and wraps a hand around Satoru’s ankle, pulling at it while Satoru tries relentlessly to hold onto anything: the bedsheets, the nightstand, a pillow.
“Let go of me, you psycho!” he yells through laughter, but Suguru doesn’t relent, dragging him until he too falls from the bed with a thud. “My god, Suguru.” He laughs after recovering from the impact, then kicks Suguru’s shin and watches him tumble to the floor right over him, knocking, once again, the air out of his lungs. He wants to stay like this forever. “Move, you giant.”
“You say that as if you aren’t taller than me.”
Satoru arches a brow. “Finally got over your height complex?”
“You fucking—”
“Okay, okay! I give up, come on, don’t be a dick.” Satoru stops him right when Suguru is about to tickle his sides, well aware of how ticklish Satoru is. His hands hover over him and Suguru snorts, tapping Satoru’s forehead with his index before lying down next to him on the floor.
“You were magnificent.”
“Huh?”
“At the Olympics,” Suguru clarifies, clearing his throat. He’s clearly nervous, has never been one for compliments but rather the silent, reassuring gestures. “You were… you were breathtaking, really. You’ve improved so much, Satoru.”
Satoru blushes. “Well, it’s been a year, after all.”
“A year, huh? Felt like way longer.”
The air in the room shifts, and Satoru knows they’re no longer joking or playing around. What he has always loved the most about Suguru is how he can always have both playful and serious conversations with him; how, despite being quite emotionally constipated himself, Suguru always strives for communication.
“I know, right? It felt like forever for me,” Satoru agrees quietly, turning his head to look at Suguru, whose gaze is fixed on the ceiling. His profile is something Satoru has seen so many times, both in real life like right now and through a screen in the last year, but every single time, it takes his breath away. His straight nose, plump upper lip, and long eyelashes. His jawline, often covered by a few strands of messy black hair and which now houses the beginnings of a stubble.
“Did you miss me that much, Satoru?” Suguru asks breathily. His voice carries a hint of playfulness, not too much but enough to deny any expectations of a truthful answer if Satoru were to tease him about it. He did this a lot; disguising his feelings with mischievousness to avoid the embarrassment of truly exposing them.
Satoru knows this. He knows Suguru has trouble talking about his emotions. And yet, he can’t help the sincerity that seeps into his reply, which was meant to come out as a simple, teasing answer. “Always.”
Suguru’s breath catches in his throat. Satoru hears it hitch, sees his chest raise and freeze for a few moments before he exhales and turns to finally look Satoru in the eye. His black eyes are confused, the commissures of his lips twitching with jitters he cannot hide. “I—You—I mean—”
“You too, I know,” Satoru says with a soft smile, flicking his forehead and snorting when Suguru scrunches his nose and shuts his eyes closed, frowning in an easygoing manner that lets Satoru knows he isn’t truly bothered by the gesture. “Emotionally constipated ass. How are you gonna confess to the person you like if you’re like this, huh? Or propose!”
Suguru scoffs, glancing at him with amusement in his eyes. “Says you.”
“I’m different! I could if I wanted to, I just… don’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well,” Satoru begins, hesitating in his answer. He bites his lip, fixing his gaze back on the luxurious ceiling, chest heaving due to his nerves because what if he answers with the truth and Suguru finds out? But, at the same time as fear rapidly creeps up on him, engulfing his whole body with the hot flames of doubt, Satoru can’t help but feel a bit daring tonight. If he hints at it, subtly enough that he can later deny it in case it goes wrong, Suguru might realize. He might even return his feelings if Satoru is lucky, and wouldn’t that be wonderful? Like Yaga often tells him regarding adding risky moves to his programs, You’ll never truly know an answer until you risk it all to ask the right question.
This might not be a question, but it’s… something. A hint, if you will. He’s offering Suguru something to grab in case he wants to dig deeper into his feelings, as well as an easy way out if he doesn’t. Truly, the rest is up to him.
“The person I like—he’s close to me. I don’t want to mess that up for us.”
Suguru arches a brow, Satoru can see it from his peripheral. His face is blank, perhaps slightly lit up with amusement again because he never teases Satoru enough, and a playful grin plasters on his lips while he teases, “Am I supposed to believe that? Because I know you don’t have any other friends other than me. And maybe Yaga.” He gasps. “Oh my God, is it Yaga?”
Satoru’s face scrunches up with offense. “I’m not a homewrecker, thank you very much. And Yaga is, like, way older than me. I do like older men but dude.” Suguru laughs, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows and only becoming louder when Satoru pushes him away with his foot for the third time. Satoru’s chest feels warm, filled to the brim with something he so dearly missed: closure, physical touch. “You’re horrible.”
“I know,” Suguru says with a shrug, sitting up cross-legged. He shifts his weight, then after a few seconds of contemplation offers a hand for Satoru to take. He doesn’t need it, of course; Satoru has enough strength to sit up on his own, mind you, but it’s such an out-of-place gesture to come out of Suguru that he can’t fight against the desire to accept it, so he does. “Grown weak over the year, Satoru?”
“Maybe I just wanted to take your hand.”
“Maybe you’re just full of shit.”
Suguru’s face is slightly redder than usual, the apples of his cheeks high and pink and silently inviting Satoru to feel their warmth. Maybe that’s what gives him the courage he needs to lean in closer to his best friend, resting one hand on his thigh for support as he crawls toward him; Suguru is blushing.
“And maybe you wanted me to take your hand too.” It’s a dangerous assumption, a hasty claim that is out of Satoru’s lips before he can even think of containing it because he’s so eager, God, he’s so full of desire and want and love for the man in front of him—and who is not rejecting his advances thus far—that he simply can’t help himself anymore. It’s been a year since he last saw Suguru in person, touched him, felt the warmth oozing from his body, and he’ll admit that dealing with his own feelings was easier in the distance.
Perhaps he doesn’t have as much self-restraint as he thought.
With Suguru in front of him now, all messy hair and deep-set black eyes that gleam with something Satoru hopes is anticipation, he can barely think straight without his heart eagerly beating in his chest, intoxicating his words with quiet revelations.
“Bold of you to assume that,” Suguru says, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as his eyes follow Satoru’s every movement, intent and full of yearning. “Is this how you’re gonna flirt with the person you like, Satoru? Because I don’t think it’s gonna work.”
Satoru squeezes Suguru’s thigh. His best friend holds back a shiver, Satoru feels it; doesn’t say anything when the hand slowly starts moving back and forth, a caress. “Think you could do better than me, then?”
“Maybe.” Suguru tilts his head to the side and the air around them shifts in an instant. It had changed before, slowly gone from friendly and playful to teasing and flirty, but now—now it feels like a promise, Satoru thinks; smells heavily like Suguru’s cologne and raw desire, and he’s sure this time he isn’t the only one affected by it. His heart aches in his chest, beats frantically as it threatens release.
Satoru swallows, noticing the subtleness with which Suguru’s eyes follow the movement of his adam’s apple. “Let’s see it, then,” he says, catching Suguru’s gaze and keeping it there, on his, a tense thread about to snap. He licks his lips, watches his friend do the same, and challenges, “Give me your best, Suguru.”
It’s with a swift grab of hips that Suguru pushes Satoru closer, almost pulling him to his lap, and captures Satoru’s bottom lip with an urgency all the contrary to what Satoru envisioned; it’s calm, soft and bewitching, yet it still carries within a surge of desire, of a heart at the verge of exploding, too, full of feelings they’re both unable to escape.
Melting onto it almost immediately, Satoru becomes putty in Suguru’s hands as he kisses him back, his mind a malfunctioning repetition of what is happening and it’s happening! He can’t believe it, but the gentle coolness of Suguru’s mouth is grounding, feels real no matter how clashing with the sudden wave of warmth that washes over them both.
Lips move, hungry, tasting each other, and then it’s over and they’ve pulled apart and Suguru is asking, “Is this good enough?” but Satoru can’t hear him over the rush of excitement as it runs through his veins, he can’t think straight anymore, so when he kisses him again, he makes sure it’s with all the love and desire and urgency he’s been bottling up within himself ever since he met Suguru.
This time it’s a ravishing kiss full of tongue. It’s the weight of Satoru’s body falling on Suguru’s lap and the needy hands, cold to the touch due to the nerves, that graze and squeeze and feel the flaming hot skin beneath them. It’s gasps for air that last mere seconds because suddenly kissing is all they were born to do, Satoru knows, and it’s falling, it’s love, it’s love.
And so, it is made.