Work Text:
In the days leading up to spring, it’s easy for Satoru to let his mind wander. He thinks of get-togethers of years past, of long, quiet rides to missions, of listening to Suguru’s breathing on his chest, and a lot of the time, it doesn’t feel like something lost. Something unattainable. It feels like he’ll get out of bed tomorrow and knock down Suguru’s door. He almost convinced himself that he’ll finally take him on that date he’d imagined so many times, and on Suguru’s birthday, they’ll visit a shrine. They’d both know it was in vain, but they would drive away the previous year’s bad fortunes and the evil spirits yet to come. As always, they’d both know it wouldn’t work. They both always knew it would always have to be them.
He’d remember Nanami’s exasperated tone of voice, the deep, long sighs, and Haibara’s giggles in the distance, and he’d remember the way Nanami’s expression would soften at the sound of those alone. He’d remember Suguru giving him a scornful look, pulling him aside and telling him to stop messing with Nanami all the time.
“You jealous, Suguru? I’ll mess with you anytime—”
He remembers the first time he’d ever said that, the way he could swear Suguru’s cheeks flushed for a split-second, the way he faltered before telling him to shut the hell up. He smirks at the mere memory, yet somehow it’s drenched in sadness, even if he pretends he doesn’t remember that Suguru’s long gone.
Maybe, just maybe, if it hadn’t been just jokes. Maybe, if he hadn’t ignored whatever he felt back then. Maybe if he’d told him outright. Maybe he’d still be here.
It’s a stupid thought. Satoru knows full well that Suguru’s convictions wouldn’t dissipate under the mere holding of hands, of kisses under blankets, of dreaded phrases such as “I love you,” or “I’ll always be yours,” or “we’re the strongest.”
Perhaps it’s the melancholy smile that’s plastered over Satoru’s face, perhaps it’s the fact that she’s gotten no response out of him for a few minutes, perhaps she’s just being Shoko. Satoru’s torn from his daydreams, from his longing, from his mistakes, by the sound of Shoko scraping her throat, then the click of a lighter and the invasive scent of cigarette smoke assaulting his senses.
“You’re in the way,” Shoko says, pulling at the cold storage locker behind him, nearly hitting Satoru in the head with a corpse, though Satoru’s grown so defensive he hasn’t spent a waking moment without Infinity enveloping him like a safety blanket. It would be a miracle, or rather gross negligence on his part, if anything were to hit him at all.
“Hey, watch it!”
Satoru looks at the corpse from the corners of his eye, and it could be anyone. He didn’t recognize them, but even if he did, he probably wouldn’t grieve for them. He could’ve seen anyone —Suguru, Haibara, even Nanami. Satoru never used to care for anyone, then learned to, and then wished he could unlearn it. Then, he did.
Once one enters what’s referred to as the “zone”, it’s tough to get out of it. It takes effort. Satoru hadn’t wanted to make that effort since December 24th. It was better to remain like this— to remain unfeeling, cold, uncaring. He didn’t have time to care. Not anymore.
“Suguru’s birthday is coming up,” Shoko states bluntly, cigarette dangling between her lips. The ashes dangerously break away from what’s left of the cigarette as her face hovers over the open cavity in the dead man’s chest. Miraculously, the ashes don’t fall from the cigarette until after she’s pulled away. She graciously gives the cigarette a singular tap as she holds it above the ashtray; slender, pale fingers bringing the cigarette back to her lips before she sharply inhales again.
She takes out her chart, scribbles something illegible on it, and tosses it aside like it’s some dirty laundry. She looks at Satoru expectantly, both eyebrows raised, but something about it looks funny to him. If she meant to exert some kind of authority, it wasn’t working. Not with those dead fish-eyes and wine-stained lips, anyway.
“So?” Satoru responds, only just realizing he hasn’t given a word in response. “Are you suggesting I go kill some monkeys in his honour?”
“Jesus,” she merely says, taking another drag from the cigarette, this time without removing it from her lips. Satoru thinks she looks even funnier.
“Piss on his grave, then?” He means to sound aloof, not angry, but it rolls off his tongue so easily. “I don’t know what you’re expecting me to do. His blood dried on my hands mere minutes after I put a hole larger than your head into his chest, I think it’s clear where my loyalties lie.”
“They grilled you hard, huh? I think this is the first time we’ve talked about him since that day. I’m not spying for Gakuganji, or whoever the fuck. This isn’t an interrogation, Satoru. I’m saying this as a friend: Go say goodbye to him. Pay your respects.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have nothing more to say to him.”
It’s all so easy. It’s easy to pretend he’s over it, to pretend he’s angry, to pretend he isn’t sad one bit. It’s easy to view the Suguru he’d spent time with during school as an entity completely set aside from the Suguru he’d put out of his misery that December evening.
Here’s what isn’t easy. Returning to an empty room, where the music Suguru’s carefully selected isn’t playing, where the only dinner waiting for him is cup ramen. Where whenever he closes his eyes, he meets those of someone he shouldn’t even be thinking about. Where he barely sleeps more than three hours, because he’s haunted. Where even the good dreams are bad.
His dreams take him places he barely remembers; a forest along a river, where the three of them lay down and relax after one of their first missions, when Shoko was still sent along with them to patch them up where needed.
The sun glistens through the trees, reflecting off the water, and Suguru’s fallen asleep so very close to Satoru who lets himself drift off to sleep as well. The backs of their hands brush against one another, and Shoko isn’t one to let an opportunity to splash water into their faces just pass right in front of her. The two of them startle awake, and another battle erupts, though this time there isn’t a cursed spirit involved; it’s just the three of them.
When Satoru awakes, he fondly remembers coming back to the school soaking wet, their Window’s car left in disarray, Masamichi’s scornful gaze upon them. They’re told to clean the car, and then themselves. Satoru doesn’t miss the slight smile that tugs at the corners of their teacher’s lips, though.
That evening, Nanami and Haibara watch as the three of them begrudgingly clean the car, though they don’t get away unscathed, either: by the end of the evening, all five of them are soaking wet. Laughter spreads across the normally quiet campus, and the car isn’t looking any better than it did when it drove in earlier that day. If anything, it was worse.
“This is coming out of your stipends,” Masamichi mutters, and before Nanami can object, he adds: “Yes, yours too. I expected more from you, at the very least.”
A wet cloth hits Masamichi square in the face, and Satoru and Suguru feign ignorance. There’s a quiet moment, but it’s so short it’s barely noticeable in the aftermath of children’s laughter.
It’s hard to pretend there weren’t any good times. For the amount of times Satoru’s cursed Jujutsu society for existing, there were unforgettable moments, things he can’t ever let go. Getting to meet Suguru should be one of them, no matter what happened in the end.
Satoru finds himself standing in front of Shoko’s door in the middle of the night, and he lets his hand hover in the air for a moment before allowing his knuckles to make contact with the wood.
“Satoru?” he hears her mumble, groggy, but probably not from sleeping. He might have his share of issues with sleep, but he knows full well that she does too.
The door opens, and he can tell she’s been drinking again. As expected— no, planned for.
“What’s up?” he says, trying to appear lighthearted, holding a bottle of wine in front of his chest as a peace offering, hoping it’ll be enough.
“What’s up?” she repeats, incredulously. “Well, for starters, you are.” She eyes the bottle. “Come in.”
She ushers him inside, closing the door behind her.
“So, what prompted this very spontaneous visit?” she asks, quickly taking the wine out of his hands and setting it onto the counter.
“I can’t just decide to pay a visit to my clearly troubled but deeply trusted classmate out of the goodness of my heart? Why don’t you offer me a seat and a drink?”
“So much to unpack here. The reflecting of your issues onto me, the lies, the idiotic notion of you willingly getting drunk? Something tells me we’ll need more than just a night.” She sighs, closes her eyes for a bit and then exhales for such a long time Satoru half-expects her to sputter and whine like a balloon that hasn’t been properly tied. “Sit. I’ll make you a cocktail. Might make you make sense.”
Satoru doesn’t pay much mind to the clutter in the room. The full ashtrays, the empty bottles, the dishes piling up in the sink. It’s something he’s seen too many times before, and he doesn’t even come here that often. Something went to shit in her life even before Suguru left, and they’d never talked about it before. He’d visit sometimes, she’d tear his secrets and misconceptions out of his hands by force. He’d always come out of it unscathed, though somehow still feeling as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to his heart. He always intended to ask her how she was doing, but he never got the chance.
“I’m bored,” Satoru lies, trying to keep the mood light somehow, “want to talk about the undisclosed environmental impact of Jujutsu society?”
“Not particularly.”
“We can play hopscotch while we talk. It’ll be fun.”
“Shut the hell up,” she says, shoving a glass into Satoru’s hands. “It’s grape juice, lime and vodka. You’ll like it, probably. Won’t like it very much in the morning, though.”
He carefully brings it to his lips, eyes her suspiciously, and sniffs it. It doesn’t really smell like anything, though the scent does carry a certain sweetness with it. He takes a sip, then nods. Here goes. He’s not really sure why he’d asked for a drink. In some way maybe he feels it’s his only excuse to visit Shoko this late, knowing she’d be up drinking anyway. Maybe, at this point, it’s the only way they can connect. Maybe he wants to toss his inhibitions aside, but the thought of losing absolute control creates a black hole in his stomach, churning and twisting his insides. He feels stretched too thin, on edge, nauseous. He might not need to wait until morning to not like this drink.
It’s a good drink. It takes him three hours to finish it, though.
They spend most of the evening watching dumb late-night reruns, talking about whether the coming year’s students will be promising at all, and dodging the subject they’d addressed earlier that day.
Shoko drapes herself on the couch, cigarette in her mouth, drink sitting on the floor next to her. When she stares up at the ceiling like that, Satoru feels selfish for dropping by again. She looks calm somehow, but he knows her better than that. She’s been lost for a good while, and he wonders if she’ll ever be found. He makes a mental note to send Utahime an aggravating text message before he starts his day later.
They end up sitting in silence together, and somehow, it isn’t as hard as it is when he’s on his own. Perhaps that’s the one upside of shared trauma. They barely watch what’s on the TV, instead opting to mindlessly scroll through their phones, though none of the images or snippets of text register for either one of them.
“Shoko,” Satoru mumbles, and it’s barely audible to himself, but Shoko looks up from her phone. “No. Nevermind.”
“Talk if you wanna talk. I’m too tired for you to beat around the bush.”
He ponders her words for a second. That’s what he came here for originally, yes.
“I wanted to…” This is much too hard. How do people do this apology thing? “Say I’m…”
“Oh, this is going to be good.” She quickly taps on her phone, locks it, and then turns to face Satoru, sitting upright now. “Please, continue.” She sounds positively happy, likely already revelling in the bliss of having Satoru apologizing to any audience she pleases.
He takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for a second. “Sorry. I wanted to say I’m sorry. There. Said it. Leaving now.”
He moves to get up, but she puts her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down. Or rather, her fingers tingle as Infinity slows down her touch, but he obliges, remaining seated.
“Satoru. Dumbass.” She offers him a slight smile, a genuine one for once, and he lets her pass through Infinity in return. It’s odd to feel her touch again after such a long time, but it isn’t unwelcome. “I really need you to say that to someone else.”
“What do you—”
“You need to give me a little more credit than that. I’m not stupid, and neither are you. You feel guilty as fuck. You shouldn’t, yet you are. Maybe saying sorry will fix that.” Her voice is calm like the ebb and flow of the ocean, but he can feel her fingers digging into his shoulders. She’s angry, for whatever reason. Maybe he is, too.
“I shouldn’t feel guilty for killing someone? Good one. Maybe they should use that in court.” He tries to chuckle, but it comes out almost like a whimper.
Not good. She’s really not pulling her punches tonight. He should’ve kept his mouth shut.
“He fucking forced your hand and you know it,” she hisses, squeezing tighter. “It’s almost like he wanted to die.”
“I think he did. He also didn’t. I don’t know. I should probably go.”
He feels raw. He feels like a slab of meat that had the shit beaten out of it with a mallet, except he doesn’t feel tender, he feels like he’s coming apart completely, his insides fully exposed.
“Maybe. Just go say goodbye to him. It’s just a word.”
Satoru doesn’t offer a response, instead getting up, leaving her apartment without a word. He’d come to apologise, yet instead he’d made it worse. Shoko had. They both had. Mutual blame sounded good.
Walking back to his own place is a desolate thing, a thing lacking romance and beauty or even solace. He’s left alone with his thoughts again, and he can only think of Suguru wanting to die, or maybe not wanting to die at all. He’ll never really know, now, yet his thoughts run in circles trying to conjure what Suguru must’ve been thinking about in his last moments. His last words left unspoken, a last smile that was only for Satoru and never for anyone else.
What were you thinking, Suguru?
Sometimes, when Satoru looks down on his hands he can still see the blood on them if he looks hard enough. No matter how much he’d scrub his hands, it was still there, menacingly drawing out guilt and pain, self-righteousness and the knowledge of having done the right thing. There had been no other way. This was always going to end with one of them dying.
He tries to think of something else, anything else. The separation of church and state. Helping these kids become stronger than they thought they could be. Kikufuku. Not being angry and sad all at once, all the time .
Satoru stops at the bridge overlooking the lake, long-forgotten Christmas lights still tied to it, faintly blinking in the darkness of early morning, no sign of the sun just yet. It’s not yet spring, after all. He stands there for a bit, gazing out over the lake, deciding he’ll wait here for the sun to rise. He's here now anyway, he thinks, and somehow the view gives him some peace of mind.
He sits down on the wooden railing, slowly unravelling the bits and pieces of lights tied around it as he waits for the sun to peek through the clouds, but all he’s seen so far are stars, both reflecting on the lake and in the sky above him, and he can’t help but get the feeling he’s been here before. It’s easy to envision Suguru sitting next to him, waiting for the sun alongside him, hands close enough to touch. They’d spent summer nights here, he now remembers, just sitting, talking, pretending not to be willing to die for one another.
When he looks at the water long enough, it’s easy to conjure up Suguru’s reflection in the water, peering down at the bottom of the lake, sitting next to him, yet out of reach.
“Hey, Suguru,” he finds himself saying, not putting much thought behind his words. “I know this is stupid, and that you can’t hear me,” he continues, whispering, as though it’s a secret that no one else, not even the spirits themselves, may overhear, “I think I miss you after all. Stupid, right?” He takes a deep breath. “Why did it turn out like this? Why did we have to turn out like this?”
Instead of heading back, he lets his feet guide him towards the school. He sluggishly moves up the stairs, and the school feels eerie when it’s this empty. The kids are still asleep in their beds, and classes don’t start for another three hours.
Satoru looks out over the courtyard, and the eerie feeling remains. It’s much like after Suguru left. After Nanami left. It was just Masamichi, Shoko and himself for a while, and a year after that, Shoko and Satoru would look out over the training area from up on the roof, watching Ijichi struggle, placing bets.
It was some amusement, but it wasn’t the same as when he’d watch Suguru training on his own when they were first-years. He’d yell insults at him, he’d jeer at him, and Suguru would be up on the roof in no time, deciding he’d much rather have a sparring partner.
He can still see the damaged paint on the door leading to the stairwell, the cracks in the tiles.
Some parts of Suguru didn’t just disappear, which was fine, as long as Satoru didn’t think about it too hard.
Somehow, the bad memories were good, and the good memories hurt like nothing else. The times they sat under the sacred tree, the times they played video games together, the times they fell asleep on the couch, controllers still in hand. All the times Satoru hadn’t said I love you .
This is what regret feels like , Satoru thinks, unwanted memories forcing themselves into his head again, and part of him wants to scream. He doesn’t– he’s long forgotten how. His legs grow shaky, and he hangs on to the railing for support, hanging his head low.
This is what grief feels like.
He gives himself some time to calm down, to collect himself again, before descending the stairs and letting himself inside Masamichi’s office. There are stuffed toys everywhere, as expected, and they’re all watching him.
“Relax. I’m not stealing anything,” he says to the creatures, “I’m actually leaving him something,” he continues, slowly opening the drawer.
Breaking into Masamichi’s office had ended in injury more than once before. They were second-years at the time, and Shoko desperately wanted her confiscated phone back. Although, she had said no such thing, and in all honesty, Suguru and Satoru just wanted to peek at her texts. It’s quite hard to read with two black eyes per face. The only blemish on Satoru’s reputation, the only mission he’d ever failed, and yet, he looked back on it with a fondness in his heart.
It meant they got to be children, even if it was just once. Even if it ended in injury and detention. Even if it was with someone he’d rather not think about anymore.
He lets his thoughts return to the matter at hand, taking out a notebook from the drawer, then grabbing a fountain pen from the desk.
Masamichi,
I will be taking a short vacation. I’ll be back whenever!
Signed,
Satoru
He puts down the notebook, admiring the genitals he’d drawn under his name.
He leaves the note in plain sight for Masamichi to find when he returns to his office in a few hours. He remains seated in the chair for a while, marvelling at how comfortable it is, and it’s not until one of the stuffed toys slowly begins to move in his direction that he quickly gets up and leaves the office, nearly stumbling over another plushie. He’s certainly overstayed his welcome. He remembers thinking Masamichi's office was somewhat terrifying with all those things laying around, and even after all these years, that hadn't changed.
He slips out of the office, his footsteps echoing in these empty hallways, an emptiness overcoming him. Satoru tries his best to remain occupied at all times, but now that everyone's asleep, it's tough. It's tougher not to remember Suguru's laughter as he turns around the corner, or Shoko's grumbling at whatever plan Satoru had cooked up (knowing she'd be the one that had to patch him up after). The latter reminded him that maybe he'd need to let her know he'd be away for a while, too.
He makes a mental note to send her a text later, but he doesn’t know where to start– how to begin, even when he’s back home, even when he’s packing his bags. He’s not sure where to go– there’s no grave to put flowers on. There’s nowhere he can call a place of remembrance for Suguru, nowhere to either honour him or shout profanities at him. He does, however, recall a place they’d visited together, before. While it had been an assignment for them to take on, he had fond memories of it. It had been the first time that it had been just the two of them, and other than the trip in the car to the airport, they had been all alone. Suguru was all business, at first.
“It seems the curse manifests on the third of February every year,” Suguru mentioned, rereading the mission briefing one last time.
They had been seated next to each other, and Satoru was half-asleep, head resting against Suguru’s shoulder. While they hadn’t become best friends just yet, they were able to get along just fine, and Satoru was just testing his limits. After the water incident, they’d grown a bit closer, and they’d started hanging out more, Shoko in tow. This time, he hadn’t intended for his head to end up on Suguru’s shoulder. It just happened that way as he blissfully dozed off.
The sound of Suguru’s voice woke him up from his micro-nap, and he felt his glasses pressing into the side of his face.
“Setsubun,” Satoru recalled, though they didn’t really celebrate it in his hometown. “Oh,” he then said, surprised at how well his memory was serving him despite his grogginess. “And your birthday, right?”
Suguru didn’t answer, at first, and Satoru knew he felt flustered at the fact that Satoru remembered. He gently nodded, instead.
“How’d you know?” Suguru finally asked.
“My brain is, like, amazing,” Satoru utters boastfully, “just gigantic.”
“You’re insufferable,” came Suguru’s voice, accompanied with a deep, vexed sigh.
Satoru chuckled at that, looking at Suguru over the rim of his glasses.
“Wait, does that mean your birthday’s soon?” Satoru wondered out loud, taking out his flip phone. “It’s tomorrow and you’re voluntarily going on a mission?”
“Yes. I don’t mind. Anyway,” Suguru continued, “the place we’re headed to is called Kintsugi Lake, named famously after mending things with gold leaf, and in this case, the tradition of encountering your soulmate on Setsubun, creating room to mend your connected fates. Of course, a lot of people are disappointed by the results or lack thereof–”
“Can you just stop talking?” Satoru cut him off, “You sound like the books Masamichi made me read as a child. They get disappointed, negative energy coalesces, blah blah blah. We know already.” He closed his eyes again, placing his glasses on his lap.
“Well, I think it’s romantic. Reconnecting with the ones you love, meeting those you hold dear,” Suguru said, ignoring Satoru’s comments. “You probably think it’s stupid, knowing you.”
“Yup. Oh, the things weak people come up with. I’m going back to sleep. If you want to tell me a more interesting story, feel free to wake me up.”
Suguru didn’t answer, and before falling back asleep, Satoru peeked at him one more time, now catching visible annoyance on his face. Too far?
When he woke up a few minutes later, he noticed Suguru had placed Satoru’s glasses on the fold-out table in front of him, tucked safely into their case. Suguru himself had fallen asleep as well, the side of his head resting atop Satoru’s. Satoru blinked a couple of times at that, then let himself drift off again.
“Satoru,” came Suguru’s voice again after a while, feeling a tapping on his shoulder. “We’re nearly there.”
Satoru takes himself out of the memory, wondering why he hadn’t been kinder, back then. He was always trying to pick fights with Suguru at the time, and he didn’t really understand why. He wished he hadn’t– that he’d instead agreed with him, that it did sound romantic, and that maybe his soulmate would look him in the eyes at that lake. Maybe he still could. He remembers spending the day before Suguru’s birthday strolling around the lake, spending the night at a local traditional inn the school had paid for, sitting with him in the hot spring.
Satoru thinks about how this was their first time so close together, just on their own, and how they ate snacks until their stomachs hurt, how they played whatever board games they had laying around at the inn, and how he talked Suguru’s ear off his head (which he then proceeded to call a major achievement, since Suguru’s ears were so gigantic, thus earning a well-deserved slap). He remembers how they found out they were both obsessed with the same games, the same manga, how Suguru openly laughed at his jokes for the first time.
I should have kissed him then.
He draws the memory back in, thinking back on the lake they had lunch at, waiting for the cursed spirit to show. They’d had the most wonderful afternoon of their lives until it did. They ate convenience store onigiri and taiyaki, and Satoru had bought himself so many sweets, even he felt like he was going to be sick.
Satoru smiles at the memory now. It had been good. The cursed spirit was weak, barely a semi-grade 2. With their forces combined, it was nothing. This had been the humble beginnings of two young boys who would one day refer to themselves as the strongest.
I should have kissed him then, too.
He decides then and there that he might as well say goodbye to him there, or whatever it was that Shoko wanted him to do. He wasn’t quite convinced about the myth itself, but even if it didn’t do as the legends said, it was a nice place to say goodbye– better than the alley he finds himself at when he’s mindlessly wandering about, in any case. There were good memories at the lake, and despite its popularity, it was easy to find a quiet spot there due to its sheer size.
It’s still dark when Satoru arrives at the lake, fireflies lighting up his path, and he can’t help but feel as though his heart is folding in on itself. He doesn’t bother to get any flowers, but instead he carries a paper bag with freshly made taiyaki in his left hand. In the other, he carries a cup of hot chocolate, marshmallows surely melting under the lid. The store apparently opens quite early, all year round. Satoru was surprised at the sight of the old man tending the stall, wondering how it was possible that he hadn’t died of old age yet. He refrained from calling him a walking corpse.
He finds a spot at the lakeside, where the patches of frosted-over grass make way for smooth rocks. The bridge to his right, similar to the one near the school, is still adorned with Christmas lights, and he has to agree that it makes for cozy scenery. It’s technically spring now, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. He’s glad for the scarf Shoko gave him for Christmas, as well as for the hot chocolate in his hand.
He brings the cup of chocolate goodness to his lips after he sits down on the rocky plateau, and it’s just as sweet as he likes it, almost as though the owner had remembered from the last time he was there, though that was definitely impossible. He remembers Suguru ordering it for him, which had seemed almost instinctual. He needn’t even say a word, he just… knew. Suguru had always been thoughtful like that. He remembers the jolt of happiness that had coursed through him at the very first taste, and Suguru’s smile, and Suguru’s hand on his shoulder, and the almost knee-jerk desire of wanting to say “I love you”, pressing his hand over Suguru, and the current feeling of regret, remembering he had done neither of those things. Instead, he’d opted for “Thanks, man,” as if his entire body wasn’t aching to touch him and keep him close.
Satoru doesn’t cry. He wishes he would.
If he tries, he can imagine the touch of the palm of Suguru’s hand against his cheek, the gentleness at which it moves, and the softness of his skin. The scent of tangerines on his lips when he gets too close, the warmth he keeps within his heart. He wishes he’d taken that scent off his lips, let that warmth touch his own heart. He wishes so many things, all of which he hadn’t thought about in years.
He wonders if coming here is a mistake, if letting himself remember is a bigger mistake. He wonders if he has the right to say goodbye or, when he deludes himself, deserves to see him again. Taker of lives– he who had taken the warmth from Suguru’s heart.
Satoru shakes his head, knowing full well he can’t shake the thoughts away, and looks over the lake, opening up the bag of taiyaki. He’d bought two– one for him, one for Suguru. Not for any particular reason, just out of memory, because he couldn’t say it was out of habit.
He bites into one of them, the warm chocolate inside emulating the sensation of happiness for a moment. The one he bought for Suguru had red bean paste inside– a classic. Suguru loved the classics, and while he always came back with the sweetest souvenirs he could find, Suguru’s own taste buds weren’t quite adjusted to them.
Time passes slowly, though in the end, it does pass. Satoru looks out over the lake as the sun rises, illuminating the lake with specks of light coloured in red, turning lighter every minute, and he knows it’s a view Suguru would have enjoyed. Normally, Satoru would have fallen asleep just before the sunrise, and Suguru would have woken him up, because a promise is a promise, and they’d promised to look at the sunrise together. In hindsight, perhaps that wasn’t something friends did with one another.
Satoru sits completely still by the lake as more and more people roam the grasslands surrounding him, and he tries to remember if there’s something he’s meant to be doing to get Suguru to show up. He realises then that the myth Suguru had mentioned never guaranteed that the person you encountered would be the person you had in mind– likely one of the reasons a curse had emerged here back then. The disappointment, the swirling of negative emotions, the heartbreak. Even so, it hadn’t crossed Satoru’s mind that perhaps the soulmate who would emerge would be anyone other than Suguru. It simply wasn’t a possibility in his mind. The myth being true hadn’t crossed his mind either, so why was he now so adamant about wanting Suguru to appear? He’d merely come here to say goodbye, hadn’t he?
He tries to make amends with the idea that his heart aches for Suguru, the fact that he misses him, and that he wants nothing more than for him to appear in that lake, no matter how ghostly or decomposing or full of life he would be. He wants to see him, just once, just one more time. He wants for them to talk, to say he wishes things hadn’t turned out like this, that he knows there’s nothing he could have done to prevent it but wishes there had been a way nonetheless.
They’d had a chance before, to talk, to sort out their differences. At the same time, it had been a chance to put an end to whatever crimes Suguru had committed at that point, to hold his limp corpse in his arms in the same way he had done that Christmas eve. Instead, they sat outside a crêpe shop, two girls with chocolate and strawberry sauce stains on their cheeks inside the store, looking out at the two of them. Two little girls, whose names Satoru could guess. They couldn’t be much older than seven at the time.
“Do you take them here often?” Satoru had asked, stuffing a crepe of his own into his mouth in between words. “You must like them very much; visiting a monkey den like this one must feel awful for an extremist like yourself.”
“I don’t like them, Satoru,” Suguru sighed, his hands devoid of any sign he had so much as considered purchasing a crêpe for himself. “I love them. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Hmm,” it spilled over Satoru’s lips as though he was considering it out loud. “I’m a teacher now, you know. And I’ve adopted some kids. I’m more or less a dad.”
“You?” Something tugged at the corners of Suguru’s lips. Amusement? Ridicule? Satoru couldn’t be sure. “I hate to say it, but I’m proud of you,” Suguru continued, smiling pleasantly. He seemed to be finished speaking, but then followed up anyway: “just make sure you don’t accidentally kill them.”
“Me? I would never. I’m gentler than a summer breeze.” Satoru couldn’t help but chuckle, and through the heaviness of it all, felt somewhat at home. “I miss you,” he blurted out, stuffing the remainder of the crêpe down his throat, hoping that that would somehow erase what he’d said.
“Mmhm. Same here.” Suguru’s posture was calm and collected, and he’d looked at Satoru with fondness in his eyes. His hand was only inches away from Satoru’s, resting on the bench, and Satoru fought every bone in his body to not put his hand over Suguru’s. Fighting these urges was easier now that he was older, but at the same time he felt like he was back in school, being beside Suguru like this. One look at Suguru, though, and it was obvious too much time had passed.
“I should go, before some Window out there reports my negligence in killing you where you sit.”
Suguru nodded at that. “Good idea. Before you go, though, I have a request.”
“You aren’t exactly in a position to make any, but speak your curse-addled mind.”
“When I die,” Suguru started, and Satoru’s heart felt like it was about to drop out of his chest. When. Not if. When . It made sense, in Suguru’s line of work (if you could call it that). “Can I ask you to check in on them once in a while?” He eyed the girls inside the shop, hands covered in syrup and cream. The blonde one wiped her hands clean on the dark-haired one’s skirt when she wasn’t looking.
“I–” he started, then held his lips still. “I’ll try.”
“Goodbye, Satoru. And thank you.”
“Goodbye,” Satoru replied, his voice a hushed whisper before continuing, “Suguru.” I’m sorry , Satoru thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Sorry I can’t do anything for you. I’m sorry I can’t be your friend. I’m sorry you can’t be mine.
After all this time, Suguru’s name was still like honey on his lips, though something bitter had been mixed into the taste.
He lets the memory dissipate, and only when he reopens his eyes does he realise that it had been a dream just as much as it had been a memory. He blinks a few times, noticing how it had become noon already.
Still, no trace of Suguru anywhere. Around him, he can see how people had put down picnic blankets, enjoying the first day of spring to their hearts’ content. Satoru wonders how many had come here to get their hearts broken once more, and then wonders how long it was going to take to manifest another curse through their tangled emotions and fears. He doesn’t remember anyone having been sent here in the years after Suguru and he himself had visited, and he doesn’t sense much in the way of cursed energy anyway. So far, so good.
Satoru decides to roam the lake a bit, just in case. He wishes for the taste of sugar and coffee on his taste buds, so he walks towards the coffee stand opposite the taiyaki stand.
“One matcha latte, extra sugar, extra cream,” he orders, eyeing the cookies and pastries. “Oh, and a dorayaki.” If there was a way to honour his and Suguru’s childhood obsession with Doraemon, this was it. He bites into the sweet pancake-like pastry, the azuki bean paste filling up his mouth with delicious sweetness.
He takes a sip from his latte, turning back towards his former spot, hoping no one had taken it yet. He thinks about how nice this is, despite the reason for coming here, despite Suguru’s absence. It’s been a while since he’d let himself relax like this.
“Gojo Satoru!” a man’s voice exclaims, and Satoru is so taken aback by someone shouting his name he almost drops the dorayaki. “Gojo Satoru, that’s your name, right?”
“Huh? Who’s asking?” he responds, taking another bite from his snack. “You’re the taiyaki guy, right? Did I forget to pay earlier or something?”
“No, no,” the man chuckles, waving him over to his stand. “I didn’t recognize you earlier since you look a little different,” the man explains, “but last time you were here, I didn’t get a chance to properly thank you. So– thank you.”
“Huh? For what?”
“Saving my boy’s life, of course. How many years ago was it…” the man mumbles, trying to recall.
“Uhh,” Satoru mumbles, confused, trying to remember. “Yeah. Sure. No problem.”
“You don’t remember– that’s okay. I just wanted to give you this. I’ve kept it in a box for years and nearly forgot about it.” He passes Satoru a sturdy but small piece of paper, and the writing on it has disappeared with the years gone by.
Satoru and Suguru, Kintsugi lake, 2005.
Satoru flips it over, Suguru, looking somewhat beaten up, smiles back at him, and he barely recognizes the smile on his own 15-year-old-self’s face. Somehow it was more vibrant than it had been in a while.
“Thank you for this,” he says, “I remember now. Is he doing okay? Your grandson?”
“Very well! Come, sit, we have a while until the festivities start.”
Satoru doesn’t decline, certainly not if there’s a potential for free taiyaki in his future. The man talks about how thankful he is to be able to see his grandson grow up, and how he’s been able to see cursed spirits since he was a little boy. He’d been the one to call in the request in 2005.
“You’re a Window?” Satoru asks, gratefully warming his hands against the free taiyaki in his hands, then taking a bite.
“So that’s the word. Yes, I suppose. No sightings after you dealt with that thing though, luckily. The stand’s been doing well since.” The man takes a sip of his own coffee. “Say, how’s that other boy doing? The one you were here with. Geto-kun?”
Satoru looks down at the taiyaki in his hands.
“He died.” He doesn’t offer any explanation– he wouldn’t know where to start.
“I see.” The man doesn’t pry. “I’m glad you seem to be doing alright. Take care of yourself, okay? I know there are plenty of people like me out there who owe you the world.”
“I’ll be fine,” Satoru says, a false grimace lining his lips. “I’m the strongest.”
The man chuckles. He’s a bright-eyed man, almost as if his very soul never aged past the age of eighteen.
“I’m glad.”
“You take care.”
Satoru bows to the man, then turns around to see his spot’s been taken, so instead he takes a walk around the lake. He can see various acts have started up, from Noh theatre to kabuki dances to taiko drums and shamisen players. It had grown a lot more festive over the years, or at least, Satoru doesn’t remember it ever being like this. At the other end of the lake he finds a market, where people walk around in fox and tengu masks where, if you pay attention, you can see soulmates with red threads connecting their pinky fingers together: a red thread of fate. The market leads up to a temple, and Satoru figures he might as well pay his respects.
He does as tradition requires: he bows to the gods at the torii gate, then pours water over his hands at the water pavilion, taking his time in doing so despite the line behind him. He moves on to the main hall, quietly placing a coin into the box, then bows twice, claps his hands twice, bowing afterwards. He prays quietly, then bows once more.
He decides to get a fortune while he’s here, hoping for the best. He unfolds the paper, eyes darting over it. Small blessing. Better than nothing– he then notices something else, though he’s sure it’s nothing strange for this shrine.
待人 – someone being waited for.
He thinks every fortune probably includes some form of the one he received– at least today.
He spends some time around the market, eating various snacks, listening to music, watching people, until evening falls and he returns to his spot at the lake, now vacant once more.
He sits back down, taking a deep breath. He sits there a while, until his boredom takes over.
“Will you show already? I’m getting tired, and people are packing up.” He closes his eyes, deciding to instead say his piece, whether Suguru will hear it or not.
“Happy birthday, Suguru. Or it would have been, if you hadn’t completely lost your sanity. The girls are well– I’m sure that would be your first question. I send them some money every month, but I don’t think they know who it comes from. I thought it would be better that way. They’re getting by, anyway. I know they struggle, despite the money. I can’t be there for them the way you are– were. But I think they’ll be okay, eventually. You raised them to be strong, didn’t you?”
His fingers dip into the ice cold water, drawing circles.
“I always held you close to my heart, you know? Not because I’ve been hopelessly in love with you since the time we came here, but because I don’t know who I am without you in this world. It’s strange. We never knew each other for that long, but it was long enough. You were what kept me grounded, you were why I could call us the strongest without losing my grasp on reality, so where does that leave me? Even when I was meant to kill you, somehow, I believe you still kept me tethered, or if anything, you were part of why I was tethered to anything at all.”
He goes on, quietly, then a bit louder, unfelt feelings suddenly being felt. It stings.
“I hate you, for leaving, for dying, for everything, and why shouldn’t that mean I hate myself a little bit too?” He takes his fingertips out of the water. “Damn it. Happy birthday, you bastard. I hope you rot in hell. I hope the sun kisses your face every day you wake up. I hope you’re getting tortured down there. I hope you can laugh from the bottom of your heart.”
He sits in the perfect quiet of the night, looking out over the still water that stretches out before him, and he wants to scream. He tries and tries and tries, but he can’t. He wishes he could lose it all.
He takes out a pack of cigarettes– smeared with blood. He remembers it falling on the pavement after he’d held Suguru’s limp body in his arms before returning to his kids. He’d picked it up, stuffing it snugly into his pocket, where it existed for weeks on end until he finally tucked it away in a drawer.
“This one’s for you, you asshole.” He lights the cigarette, trying his hardest not to break into a fit of coughing, but he manages to hold it together, slowly breathing out. He watches the smoke dissipate in the starlit sky.
“When’d you pick up smoking?” he asks, giving pause as though he’s expecting a reply. “Was it to destroy your taste buds? To mask the taste of vomit and shit? To kill yourself quicker? I guess I’ll never know.”
Against every instinct, he finishes the cigarette, slowly, surely, thinking of what Suguru’s mouth must have tasted like, what Shoko’s mouth probably tastes like.
“Goodbye, Suguru,” Satoru says, exhaling the last puff, getting up from where he’d been sitting. “Truth be told, I’m a little disappointed. Didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect to see you, either, but still.”
He thinks he can’t wait to tell Shoko about how terrible an experience this had been, and how she’s to blame for his feeling like shit. He carries himself towards the bridge, fingers trailing over the lights tied to the wood, and some part of him wants to rip them off. He doesn’t.
Satoru can almost hear someone calling out to him, and he feels it isn’t fair– he’s been met with delusions and memories all week, not to mention the most vivid of dreams, not sure what it’s all for, why it’s happening now. All it does is bring up the most painful of feelings.
The view is still beautiful. Fireflies dance atop the water, the lights strewn across the bridge reflecting below him, and in the distance he can just barely hear the toll of the shrine bell.
He finds himself drawn to the water below, and it’s easy to pretend he can see Suguru’s face in there. In the end, the myth ended up being nothing but a myth– false hope, an obvious source of negative emotion. It’s just a matter of time until another curse manifests. He tells himself he wasn’t expecting anything anyway, probably like most people here, but there are many still gazing at the water, perhaps still holding out hope. He felt hypocritical for coming here, thinking of the words he’d first said to Suguru when he was talking about the myth. It was stupid.
The moon reflects in the lake. He’d normally have called it beautiful, wishing he could have brought Tsumiki and Megumi here to see it with him, and Tsumiki could have pointed out all the constellations she’d managed to remember as if it was nothing. Satoru looks up to see the full moon, but the moon is shrouded by clouds so thick he wonders if the moon is even out tonight. Instead, tiny specks of white flutter from above, spring snow slightly numbing his skin where they touch him– where he lets them touch him.
He looks down again, and yet the reflection remains, and it almost seems even brighter. It is brighter, getting ever brighter as time passes. It feels like cursed energy , Satoru thinks, it looks like cursed energy .
Satoru forms a pre-emptive hand sign, ready to blast whatever’s in the water with Purple if need be.
He’d recognize this cursed energy anywhere. He knows it in his bones, in his heart, intrinsically. Its shape, the very sensation he’d felt many times before. The feeling of awe he had the first time he’d seen it.
He freezes, fingers still on the verge of utter destruction. It’s as though there’s a ghost in front of him, but he doesn’t see it yet– not in the way he’d ever envisioned a ghost, anyway. It feels like pure, unadulterated, cursed energy the likes of which he hadn’t seen since the day he’d snuffed the life out of Suguru’s limp body.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
The words don’t have any meaning, the sheer timbre of the voice resounding through his head doing more damage than any cursed technique would have. It feels like his skull is cracking, a dull ache in his temples swiftly developing.
It’s Suguru’s voice, yet it exists only inside his head, and it resounds sharply, echoing countless times before dissipating. He tries to relax his hand but can’t. He stands still before the illuminated lake, trying to grasp where the sound is coming from. He can’t accept that it’s only in his head, only there for the sheer purpose of wreaking havoc on his senses.
“Satoru,” the voice echoes once more, and this time Satoru manages to bring his hands to his temples, trying to block it out somehow. Suguru’s voice resounds inside his head a thousand times, in different tones, in different volumes, and it’s as though it’s intent on destroying his very sanity.
Satoru can make out a vague shape in the water— almost like a reflection, but a fractured memory of one. He blinks, and the shape is gone, only leaving fireflies and glistening lights in its wake. He acts without thought, reaching his hand out over the edge of the bridge, closing his eyes.
He feels the tips of fingers touch his, though they’re cold, and it doesn’t feel dissimilar to water slipping through his fingers– like Suguru slipping through his fingers, a ghost of his own making.
“Suguru?” he manages, speaking for the first time since he’d heard the voice. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since.
“I’m here,” comes the voice again, now smoother against the inside of his skull, gentler. “I’m here.”
He opens his eyes.
It is him, but it also isn’t. He sees a pale figure in front of him, translucent and weakly glowing like the reflection of the moon.
“So you are,” Satoru simply states, fingertips still connecting with Suguru’s. He hadn’t really thought about what was supposed to happen next; what he was supposed to say next.
“Thanks for the birthday wishes,” Suguru smiles, moving towards Satoru, “they were well received.” Suguru’s voice sounds more solid now, not touching the very inside of his head anymore. Instead, it was just him.
“You heard all that? Never one to let someone be blissfully ignorant, are you?” Satoru tries to chuckle, but it comes out a wheeze. It was always easier to pretend around others, but never Suguru. Sure, he postured around him, he provoked him any chance he got, but Suguru saw through him with ease if he tried to hide anything.
Suguru simply grins at him, not offering any kind of response.
“Hey, Suguru?” Satoru starts, then deciding to continue without letting Suguru get a word in: “Can we pretend I didn’t say those things? Y’know, for my sanity?”
“What if I said no? You said some pretty interesting things.” There’s no malice in the way he says it, though Satoru can notice a slight smile at the corners of Suguru’s lips.
“I don’t know why I came here if you’re going to be as insufferable as you were when you were alive.” Satoru lets out a sigh, but can’t hide a smirk. Perhaps they’re both being insufferable. “Can you come up here or something? I know I’m better than you ever were, but looking down at you feels wrong, somehow.”
“Let’s take a walk,” Suguru says, disregarding Satoru’s words.
Suguru moves gracefully across the water, white robes fluttering behind him amidst the snowflakes and fireflies. Satoru can only think he looks, quite literally, like he descended from heaven to grace him with his presence. It’s ridiculous, Satoru knows, because if there was a heaven or hell, Suguru would definitely be getting tortured down below.
“Thank you,” Suguru speaks in a soft murmur once they’re rejoined at the edge of the lake, and Satoru stretches out his hand as though Suguru needs any help getting out. He gratefully accepts his hand however, and the coldness Satoru felt before seems to have dissipated somewhat. He almost seemed like the Suguru he knew again. He looked more human now, too.
Their bodies are close, and Satoru finds his free hand reaching for Suguru’s cheek, gently cupping it. Suguru lets him, and returns the gesture.
“I hate you.” Satoru feels Suguru’s breath against his lips, warmth spreading across his chest. It feels as though there are thousands of venomous butterflies fluttering against his stomach lining, poisoning him with every touch.
“I know,” Suguru answers, his voice now barely audible.
They break apart at the swift movement of Satoru’s hand, though their hands remain interlaced.
Satoru feels as if Suguru will disappear once he lets go, so he doesn’t, even if that contradicts the words he uttered only moments earlier. After all, this is only temporary, and if Suguru were to disappear now, he might as well not have come here.
They move towards the forest in silence, with only the sounds of their breaths between them, creating an invisible, all-consuming distance.
“So,” Satoru says, once they’ve reached the forest in an attempt to make this encounter worthwhile, “remember when we first came here?”
“Of course. I seem to remember you thought the myth was, what did you call it–” Suguru smirks. “‘The things weak people come up with’?”
“Shut up,” Satoru grumbles, “but that does remind me– soulmates, as stupid as that is.”
“Are you suggesting we’re soulmates, then?” Suguru jeers, unable to keep his amusement to himself.
“If we are, it’s rather cruel. You’re dead, you know?” Satoru carries a solemn expression on his face, then chuckles at the sight of Suguru’s face. “My god, the look on your face. You didn’t actually think–”
“Yeah. I think you’re serious. I could see through your lies even if you poked both my eyes out.”
Satoru wonders if he was joking when he said that, and then feels irritation building up at the idea that Suguru knows him better than he knows himself. He only looks back at Suguru, trying to see if he might be messing with him, this time. He searches for indications of Suguru’s trademark mockery, but he doesn’t recognize a trace of it anywhere.
“Maybe. We’re fucked, then,” Satoru relents. “Immensely so.”
“Yup,” Suguru says quietly, then smiling back at Satoru. “But it does seem fitting, somehow, doesn’t it? I– no. We both knew this would end with one of us dying, and we both knew that wouldn’t be you.”
Satoru is reminded of his talk with Shoko, and he figures he might as well ask now.
“Did you want to die?”
They stop in their tracks, and Satoru feels utterly alone despite Suguru’s presence.
“Some part of me, yes, I suppose. I never wanted to leave the girls behind like that, but it happened, and when you found me in that alleyway– I’d made peace with my own death. If you hadn’t showed…”
“So I made you want to die. Great.” Satoru doesn’t look at him until he feels the touch of Suguru’s fingers against his jaw, gently lifting his face so that he has no choice but to look.
“No. Never. Don’t interpret my words however you want just to make yourself feel worse. If anything, you should have been a reason to live on for. You didn’t kill me– not really. I killed myself as soon as I set foot in that school again, and I knew that before I ever thought of returning.”
Suguru traces his thumb along Satoru’s jawline and slips his hand behind Satoru’s ear, his thumb lingering on the edge of his face as he presses their foreheads together.
“Satoru. I’m sorry. You can carry the weight of the world all you want, but let me carry this.”
The two of them stand like that for what feels like too long, and Satoru feels like he could cry for the first time in years, the tenderness of it all chipping away at the walls he’d built around himself from the moment he became the strongest, all on his own.
“I miss you,” Satoru finally mouths, but he can’t bring himself to say it any louder. “I love you,” he breathes again, wordlessly.
Suguru moves to hold Satoru in a tight embrace, and they let their bodies sink to the cold forest floor, fresh snow staining their knees.
Instead of saying anything, Satoru brings his lips closer to Suguru’s, inches away from a kiss.
“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, and Suguru closes the distance between them by pressing his lips against Satoru’s.
It’s nothing like Satoru had ever imagined. The salt on his lips mixed with the taste of cursed energy. The cold winter air had chapped his lips somewhat, too.
“I can’t believe I just kissed a dead guy,” he chuckles against Suguru’s lips.
He feels Suguru’s lips jerk up at his words.
“I wouldn’t repeat that to anyone if I were you,” Suguru laughs, cupping Satoru’s face with both of his hands, thumbs wiping away the remainder of tears on his cheeks. “They might look at you funny.”
“I don’t care about that. I’m glad it was you.”
After a while, Suguru gets up again, grabbing Satoru’s hand again in the process. The two of them head towards a clearing, now devoid of people. Satoru decides on lighter subjects on the way there: the taiyaki stand owner (and of course Suguru immediately remembers him), the taiyaki itself, the lake back home where they used to spend their summer evenings, and eventually, once they’ve sat down, he tells Suguru about his family.
“You’re going to hate this,” Satoru says, fishing the taiyaki he’d forgotten about until now out of his pocket, “but Miguel is training Yuuta.”
“Oh?” Suguru raises his eyebrows, slightly amused. “That’s alright. He’s strong. I’m sure Miguel can teach him some interesting things.”
“Your girls are doing okay, all things considered, last I got back a report from a Window,” he continues, breaking the taiyaki apart, gesturing to offer one half to Suguru, who shakes his head, looking on in disgust as he stuffs it into his mouth. “I send them some money every month, so they get by. I know you asked to keep an eye on them, but…”
“Thank you. I wasn’t expecting you to adopt them or anything. I’m glad they’re okay.”
“They’d be a lot more okay if you were alive. Sorry. Still angry.”
“I don’t expect you to get over it in an hour,” Suguru smiles, now grabbing a piece of taiyaki for the sheer purpose of annoying him. “But I hope you do, eventually.”
“You’re a better man than I’ll ever be,” Satoru says in between bites, “if I died and the love of my life moved on from that, I’d personally haunt them until they died of stress.”
“I’m the love of your life now, am I?” Suguru certainly looks amused.
Satoru nearly chokes on the pastry before Suguru’s even finished his sentence, cheeks flushing red. “I didn’t–”
“Oh but you did,” Suguru quips.
“If you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you where you stand. Sit. Whatever. You get the gist.”
“Sorry. I wouldn’t mind being the love of your life, though.”
The smile on Suguru’s face likens him to a fox as the colour red stains Satoru’s cheeks once again. Suguru can’t help but laugh, and it isn’t long until the infection that is Suguru’s laughter spreads to Satoru too.
Once they calm down, Satoru rests his head against Suguru’s chest, but he doesn’t find the courage to close his eyes, worried Suguru will disappear if he drifts off. Instead, his eyes find a red flower sprouting from the bushes next to where they’re seated, and he gently touches it with wonder. Snow perches upon its petals, falling off at Satoru’s touch. He almost feels sorry.
“A spring flower?” he wonders out loud, eyeing the new life that’s already developing on the first day of spring.
“It’s a camellia,” Suguru chimes in, “a winter flower.”
“Why do you insist on always knowing everything?” Satoru whines, though in truth, he’d always been fascinated by how Suguru always seemed to know everything.
“There’s one on the ground,” Suguru says, ignoring Satoru’s words. “Here,” he continues, reaching for it and placing it in the palm of Satoru’s hand. “A flower for the man I love, or something.”
“Oh, I didn’t take you for the sentimental hopeless romantic sort,” Satoru says, and yet accepts the flower, happy he’ll have at least some semblance of memory of this evening, even if the flower won’t last.
Suguru has a soft expression on his face, seemingly taking in the moment. Satoru leans back against his shoulder, this time feeling courageous enough to close his eyes. Suguru’s fingers stroke his hair, and he wishes he’d done this before. He wishes he’d just told him outright.
“Do you know the language of flowers?” Suguru asks. “Look Camellia up sometime.”
“You’re not going to tell me?” Satoru asks, slightly annoyed.
“Nope.”
Suguru grins, and Satoru relents.
Fine .
“How long do we have?” he asks, feeling anxious again.
“I don’t know,” Suguru admits, the sudden question interrupting the movement of his fingers for a little bit. “It won’t be enough, however long it is. I think I'm okay with that, too, somehow.”
“...Yeah.” Satoru swallows thickly, touching the petals on the flower again for comfort. He decides to keep his eyes open, and he lets his head slide into Suguru’s lap, staring at him until Suguru gets annoyed, slipping Satoru’s sunglasses back on his face.
“Where are those bandages when you need them most?” Suguru wonders out loud, only half joking.
“Wow. You love me.”
“We’ve established that, yes.”
Suguru lowers his face as Satoru raises his, joining again for a kiss. They talk of nothing and everything, and Satoru tells him about everything he’d remembered over the past week, the vivid daydreams, the memento’s he’s kept. How he cleared out Suguru’s old room only just last week, and maybe that gave cause to remember everything so vividly. How that room was going to be Megumi’s soon.
They talk and kiss and talk and kiss again, as though they’re racing against the clock to give shape to as many memories as possible, as though they can replace the bitter memories with these better ones.
“Satoru.” Suguru’s voice sounds grim, and Satoru raises his head, ripping the sunglasses off his face in one single motion.
“No.”
Suguru’s hand is stretched out, the snow below visible through his skin.
“It seems we had until sunrise,” Suguru says, holding both of Satoru’s hands in his. “I want for you to be happy, Satoru. Please be happy.”
Satoru curses under his breath, holding Suguru’s hands tighter than he had all night.
“Goodbye,” Suguru says, lips trembling when Satoru’s left hand moves through his own.
He smiles despite everything, the way only Suguru could. The sight of it was bittersweet at best, and soul shattering at worst. This was the last Satoru would ever see of Suguru, and part of him was glad for it– at least, compared to when he’d seen him in that alley, this was preferable. This was something he could engrave into his memory, something he could keep close to his chest.
“Goodbye,” Satoru repeats, holding Suguru close one last time, kissing him one last time, until there’s no one there but him and an ache to see him again. “And I’m sorry.”
Gojo Satoru, alone once again. The strongest, again, all by himself.
He sits for a while, not sure how to process what had happened, what had led up to this, how it ended. He’d said goodbye, but had seeing him again been for the best?
The trip home is quiet, or at least, that’s how Satoru experiences it. He doesn’t hear the taiyaki man calling out to him, nor does he hear a woman ask what time it is. He doesn’t hear the whistle for the train, and he doesn’t hear the sound of screaming children in the carriage.
He tells himself he doesn’t hear the sound of Suguru’s voice still resounding in his mind.
The more time passes, and the more distance he puts between himself and the lake, the more he begins to consider the possibility that everything they’d shared, everything they’d spoken of, had been nothing more than a dream, much like the ones he’d experienced earlier that week, and that suspicion becomes more believable by the second. He has nothing to prove to himself, that yes– he had seen Suguru. They’d spoken. They’d kissed , even. It’s no longer I should have kissed him then . It’s I kissed him then . Wasn't it?
Not until he fishes the flower out of his pocket. He brings it to his nose, taking in the scent. He remembers then to look up the meaning.
Camellia. In love, perishing with grace.
Bastard.
Truthfully, he'd always missed him. Truthfully, he misses him now.
Truthfully, he'd be seeing him again soon.