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Satoru is acting strange .
Satoru has always been a weird guy, an annoying guy, but this is different. This is excessive trips in between classes and missions, movie screenings and theme parks and karaoke. Which wouldn’t be all that odd, Suguru thinks, if Satoru didn’t get absolutely butthurt anytime Suguru thought to include Shoko or some of the underclassmen. He’s not just a little putout about it either, it’s a full tantrum and Suguru is the one that has to deal with the cold shoulders and the pissy attitude. It’s not the same weird, annoying Satoru that Suguru is used to, and it’s strange .
It makes Suguru feel strange about it.
“Yo, Suguruuu.”
Think of the devil, and he’ll appear.
Suguru doesn’t shiver. At all. He’s a special grade sorcerer, with more successful missions in his register than most of his elders. Which is probably why only Gojo Satoru can make Suguru squirm.
Satoru flops painfully into Suguru’s side, arm across his shoulders and tucking him in so close, so that they’re pressed together tightly from knee to chest. That squirming, weird feeling is back, because Suguru can already tell that Satoru is about to be strange again.
“Sooo,” Satoru starts. His knee is jiggling, up and down, a frenetic energy that Suguru knows well but only when Satoru is excited about something actually challenging. He leans in close, and his breath is minty and sweet as it fans over Suguru’s cheek. “It’s supposed to be nice weather on our day off. We could go to the park, maybe have a picnic! What do you say?”
For a moment, Suguru doesn’t reply, weighing his options. It sounds like the type of thing you’re supposed to do as a group. Shoko might not like that kind of thing, but she’d come along anyway. Well, maybe, except she’s started glaring at Suguru anytime he suggests she join them.
So Suguru shrugs his shoulder under Satoru’s arm and tries to give him an easy smile. “Sure,” he breezes. “Whatever you want, Sato.”
And that’s the right answer, because Satoru’s glasses slip down his nose as he grins. Suguru does not get caught up in the soft blue of Satoru’s eyes. It’s something he’s gotten used to over the years. So it’s nothing new .
“Perfect!” He shakes Suguru a little before he stands once more, bouncing on his heels. “I’ll see you then! Bright and early! Eleven o’clock!”
Suguru blinks a few times, shaking off the dazzle of Satoru’s gaze and scowling at his friend’s retreating back. “Eleven isn’t early, idiot!”
Satoru spins on his heel, his grin almost as blinding as his eyes, even as he slips around the corner back to the dorms without the usual quibble and laughter.
So strange.
“I know you’re not that oblivious,” Shoko sighs.
Suguru likes tossing his underclassmen around after hours, when the summer sun is just ready to set and the cicadas are singing. The air begins to cool in the stretching shadows. It feels good to work his muscles after sitting in classrooms all day.
And Shoko gets some kind of sadistic enjoyment out of watching them.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And Suguru doesn’t. He takes a little step back, and the sword swinging for his neck whistles harmlessly past. Nanami has a cool head on his shoulders though and rarely gets frustrated, letting Haibara swoop in from behind, loud and proud. They’re a good team—not as good as him and Satoru—but Suguru likes his little juniors. Likes it even more when he gets to trip them up, and Suguru doesn’t bother hiding his smirk when Haibara goes tumbling.
“Yes, you do,” Shoko says. Smoke curls in lazy puffs from her mouth. She snorts when Suguru sends Nanami head over ass into Haibara next. “You’re driving him crazy.”
“He’s always been crazy.”
“ Crazier .”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Suguru says. He watches his two juniors straighten themselves up, dirty and sweaty, and ready to quit. “Had enough already?”
“It’s the weekend, senpai,” Haibara whines. Beside him, Nanami checks his watch and gives Suguru a respectful nod as he departs. Haibara has to jog to keep up with him, shouting over his shoulder. “We’re out!”
Waving them off, Suguru stretches and sighs. “That’s disappointing, I was hoping for more of a workout.”
Shoko wrinkles her nose when he flops down on the grass beside her. “You stink.” She blows cigarette smoke in his face. “Go fight with Satoru then.”
“Ugh, will you drop it already?”
“See, you do know what I’m talking about.” Leave it to Shoko to never let it go. She’s a dog with a bone when it suits her best. “Seriously, Suguru, the rollercoasters? The cafes? The movies? The aquarium ? Those are classic da—”
“You know what,” Suguru says, sliding to his feet just as fast. “I do need a shower, actually.”
Silence is his only answer, but Shoko’s heavy gaze on his back is loud enough. Suguru knows he’s shown more of his hand than he should have, but there’s only so much he can take. Shoko’s too blunt sometimes. It’s better to let things lie when you can, and she should know that.
And sure, Suguru is aware, alright? He’s not stupid.
It’s just not something that’s done. Even the non-sorcerers, no matter how accepting they seem to be, hate such things. And in their world of jujutsu and curses, where propriety and responsibility are law, it’s just not done. Satoru’s from a clan— the clan—he should know better. He should know Suguru can’t afford…
Well, it’s foolish, that’s all there is to it.
He wakes to bird song and the summer sunrise through the window, and it’s Sunday. Satoru likes to sleep in on Sundays, sometimes won’t rise until the afternoon has nearly burned away. Suguru knows this, knows Satoru will be sprawled in bed, probably covered in candy wrappers, his gameboy tossed on the floor, battery dead. But Satoru had said eleven o’clock, in the morning, on their day off. Suguru almost wishes some emergency would happen and one of them would get sent out hunting curses.
The numbers on the clock keep changing though, and no one summons him. He showers, combs his hair, debates on what to wear.
Satoru’s voice is almost crystal clear in his ear, imagining his sour face and whining if Suguru were to show up in his uniform.
“It’s like you hate me,” he’d grumble, nose wrinkled, mouth pinched, eyes squeezed shut, his bottom lip starting to poke out. No one can pout like Gojo Satoru.
Suguru catches himself smiling at the thought, and has to pinch himself.
Maybe it’ll be fine, Suguru thinks. It’s a nice little lie to tell himself. Nothing Satoru touches turns out fine—usually, horrifyingly, the opposite and inexplicably just as Satoru had planned.
But Suguru is going to let himself be optimistic here, because Satoru is his best friend. They squabble and tease and disagree more than they ever compromise. But Satoru is his partner. If he could admit it, even to himself, he’d say that Satoru is the most important person in his life. So he lets himself hide in the knowledge that no matter what, that will never change. Satoru’s place in his life will never change. It’s a permanence that Suguru can count on.
The time ticks by slowly, slower, and Suguru is too filled with energy to wait any longer in his room, so he decides to haunt the common area instead, thinks about the Shoko’s pudding in the fridge that he might steal while he waits for Satoru to emerge, expecting him to be late. He’s already prepared to wait around for at least another hour.
Except…
Except, when he steps from the hallway, Satoru’s there already.
He hasn’t noticed Suguru yet, which is shocking enough to bring Suguru to a standstill, frozen. Satoru doesn’t turn like he usually would, blue eyes gazing at him from over his glasses from where he sprawls over the leather cushions and anyone who might be unfortunate enough to already occupy that space. No, instead, Satoru doesn’t do anything, sits just on the edge of his seat, his knee jumping, his shoulders hunched as he stares at the clock on the wall.
It’s just barely past ten.
“S-Sato?” Suguru tries. He feels his face twist up in an awkward smile against his will.
Satoru startles—genuinely and truly jumps in his skin—to his feet. “Hey, yo, Suguru,” he says, grinning in a way that Suguru can only describe as nervous and that anxiety Suguru was feeling before doubles, doubles again, and multiplies by the hundreds. “You’re early!”
Suddenly, Suguru can’t look at him, sets his eyes on the wall to his left, keenly aware that he can’t look down or up, focuses on a dent in the drywall that Satoru’s face had made when Shoko had tripped him one time. He’s not going to act nervous, Suguru tells himself. And he’s not going to act annoyed. Satoru is his best friend. This is fine.
One date, to get it out of Satoru’s system, is going to be fine. It’s not going to break anyone’s heart. Suguru will give Satoru what he wants, and, like he always does when the chase is over, Satoru will get bored.
It’ll be fine.
“So are you,” Suguru says, voice steady, neutral. He can’t look at Satoru, but he can still keep a level head about it.
“Right.” Satoru’s laugh has always been obnoxious, but Suguru’s not used to this version of it, small and thin and shaky. “Right, uh, did you want to go…?”
Suguru swallows, steels himself, and forces his eyes to meet Satoru’s gaze—or at least the thin pane of tint on his glasses where they’ve slid down Satoru’s nose. His eyes are blue, bluer than any sky or sea or flower that Suguru’s ever seen, and internally he squirms beneath that stare. That doesn’t matter though. Suguru’s not a coward. He meets it head on and offers Satoru what he hopes is an easy smile.
“Yeah, Sato. Let’s go.”
It sounds foreign coming out of his mouth, too laid-back, too gentle, too flirty . But he says it anyway.
The bus ride is only awkward for as long as Satoru lets it be, until he apparently gets bored of it and decides that the status quo is the way to go. He starts off by teasing Suguru for the graphic tee he’s wearing (a gift from Satoru himself) and ends by pulling on Suguru’s ponytail and giggling when Suguru smacks him for it. Suguru lets it happen, falls into place with ease, scowls and rolls his eyes in all the right places. Doesn’t comment on the fact that Satoru seems tired, like he hasn’t slept. Doesn’t let himself wonder if Satoru was really that excited for their date that he’d stayed up all night in anticipation. His stomach squirms, queasy.
Their lives are rigid laws in the middle of an ocean of chaos and insanity, and Suguru knows how to work within those rules. He knows when to simper, when to endure, when to move, to be still. He knows what’s expected of him, and he knows exactly when to break the rules.
But he doesn’t know what to do here.
Their stop comes up too fast, and Suguru follows where Satoru leads. The day is pleasant, even though it promises a humid heat before the afternoon, the sun burning a little brighter as it reaches closer to its zenith. The street is already lined with open doors, ready for a stray breeze to cool the shelter of each shop, a welcome respite from the clear skies.
Satoru ducks into one of the bigger convenience stores, bouncing on his heels down the aisles. Suguru follows as soon as he picks up a basket for them, already resigned to what’s about to happen.
“These are supposed to be tasty,” Satoru says, dumping his first bag of candy into the basket without even a thank you or acknowledgement. “Oh, and these. These too!”
Suguru lets it happen with an amused smile, the basket growing heavier, readying himself to have a lunch made up of sweets. He’s fine with that, there’s not much of anything he dislikes enough not to eat. But when he looks down, most of it are things that Suguru would pick up usually for snacks—cold soba lunch boxes and onigiri and sesame rice crackers, a tiny bag of shiso candy, his favorite soy sauce flavored chips.
As he’s looking, two bottles of tea are added to the basket, and Satoru is saying, “There’s a vendor here that does the grilled dango you like to get outside the park, we’ll grab some when we go in.”
“Okay,” Suguru says, feeling a little overwhelmed. Satoru doesn’t comment on it though, and tosses two packages of castella on top of everything.
He leads Suguru to the counter, digging his wallet out of his bag. They’ve bought way too much food, and he doubts they’ll be able to get through it all. It’s a waste. It should irritate Suguru. But it doesn’t. Instead, he drops a melon pan onto the counter because he knows Satoru will like it.
The dango is long gone and Suguru’s mouth is still sweet from the sauce when Satoru finally stops. They’ve strolled through almost the entire park, the winding footpaths turning from pavement to dirt, and Sunday visitors thinning out as they go deeper into the foliage. Underneath the shade, Suguru feels the heat leeching off of him, sweat beginning to dry on his skin. He likes being outdoors, being in nature, breathing in the air fresh. Satoru has brought him to a park on the edges of the city, where it’s less crowded and greener. Suguru can’t help but like it.
Fewer humans who are loud and obnoxious and ignorant. It’s nice.
It’s a nice spot for cursed spirits to lurk.
A jujutsu sorcerer by profession makes a habit to pay attention to the flow of energy around them, and Suguru is no different. It’s second nature. People like to play and sunbathe and pretend the world isn’t in turmoil, but Suguru knows that if a curse were to show up, it would be havoc. The cute little couples and the old ladies and their puppies would all scream.
He and Satoru would have to drop everything to fix it. It would ruin their date.
Suguru tells himself that it would be stupid to be disappointed if it happened. Stupid to hate the idea of their day getting cut short.
So when Satoru finally comes to a stop under a large tree, thick with leaves and shade, Suguru realizes he hasn’t caught a whiff of cursed energy. This place must be incredibly peaceful then. Suguru likes it even more.
Satoru dumps his backpack on the ground, pulling out a huge blanket that he unfolds with a dramatic flourish and then bows in invitation.
“You’re a dork,” Suguru snorts as he kicks off his shoes, dropping their bags of junk food before he crosses his legs as he sits. Satoru grins, obviously pleased with himself, and flops down with his usual flair beside Suguru, long-limbed and everywhere. He’s probably a bed hog, Suguru thinks to himself, and immediately banishes the thought to the back of his mind to never come up again.
Their date isn’t what Suguru thought it would be—thought it would be awkward and stilted, the kind of unnatural atmosphere between two people who know each other well but decided to do something completely different and insane .
Instead, it’s like those late nights they used to have when they first got to know each other. The days just after Suguru had been scouted for the college, when he thought Satoru was full of it even though everyone worshiped the ground he walked on. Those late nights of candy and video games when Satoru would barge into Suguru’s dorm room uninvited, and practically loitered his way into Suguru’s heart. Laying out side by side on the blanket, Satoru keeps pausing his playlist to show Suguru a video or show him something funny he found on the internet. Suguru laughs and snarks, eats his soba with relish because Satoru bought the expensive lunch boxes.
It’s nice. It’s so nice, and normal.
He doesn’t mean to doze off when they’re done with their lunch. But Satoru is watching a music video and laughing at the weird costumes, and Suguru likes to hear this version of Satoru laugh, because it belongs only to Suguru—this Satoru who’s not putting on airs and strutting around high and mighty. This Satoru is comfortable and easy smiles. Suguru likes to exist in the same space as him, likes that Satoru has given this part of himself to Suguru for safe keeping. It makes Suguru warm and lazy, and it’s just too easy to drift to sleep with Satoru a line of warmth along his side.
Suguru wakes to the click of a camera, the whirr as it starts to print. Of course Satoru brought that stupid polaroid with them.
“You’re cute,” Satoru says, shameless, when Suguru glares at him, squinting through sleep and the summer sun that’s shifted towards the horizon since Suguru last opened his eyes. The soft smile and blue eyes are too much for Suguru’s foggy brain. Satoru shakes the printed picture as it develops. “Had to immortalize it forever!”
Grumbling, Suguru sits up and flaps his hand at him, smoothing his ruffled hair and fixing his ponytail. The summer heat has settled heavy around them, the remains of their lunch scattered along the blanket. He wonders what Satoru did the entire time Suguru napped because it looks like he hasn’t moved at all.
But Suguru now has the itch, tired of being in one spot.
And like usual, Satoru seems to know before Suguru can even say anything.
“There’s supposed to be this really pretty flower garden nearby,” he says breezily. He’s still laid out on his stomach, head propped on his hands and feet kicking in the air. “Nice and shady too, so it won’t be too hot. Wanna go?”
Suguru can’t say no, not right now, sleep-warm and loose-limbed. He smiles, wider than he’s used to, it stretches his cheeks. “Alright,” and his voice is soft, quiet.
Satoru watches him for a moment, his lips parted just a breath and eyes round as he stares over the thin rim of his glasses. Paying him no mind, Suguru stretches, joints popping pleasantly, and gets to his feet.
“You coming?” he asks, and Satoru seems to jolt and scrambles up.
They gather their trash and the blanket, tucking it all into Satoru’s bag. As soon as he throws it over his shoulder, Satoru grins, mischievous and sparkling, and smacks Suguru in the center of his chest. “Race you!” he calls and darts away cackling. Suguru’s reflexes are quick though, and he’s on Satoru’s heels as they sprint full tilt back through the park, weaving around trees and bushes and people.
When they tumble through a wooden arbor, woven through with green vines and white flowers, they’re sweaty and flushed, squabbling over the winner.
“It was definitely me,” Satoru says, cocky as ever, laughing in Suguru’s face when he scoffs. “You could barely keep up, Suguruuu, don’t be jealous.”
It's exactly the right thing to say that makes Suguru’s face sour, nose wrinkling and eyes rolling. And his reflexes are quick, but still he doesn’t have enough time to react when Satoru throws his arm around his neck, pulls him in close, and snaps the picture. Suguru’s scowls harder.
“You’re a menace.”
“Of course,” Satoru tells him, grinning, pleased as the photo develops.
They take more, a few still with the polaroid, and more still with Satoru’s phone. Suguru doesn’t really know what to do with his face or his hands, unused to having a camera pointed at him like this. He feels like he’s under scrutiny, even though they’re just silly little pictures. Satoru makes him put his face through the branches of a flowering tree and laughs at Suguru’s disgruntled expression for the next twenty minutes. Suguru does it though, hopes they turn out fine, hope Satoru will be satisfied with it all at the end of the day.
Still, it’s fun, and at the end, Satoru hands him one of the polaroids.
That first photo, Suguru’s sour expression belied by the curve of his lip, the red flush of his face where Satoru has pressed close, cheek to cheek, and framed by the wood arch. Satoru looks happy, his face soft and round and boyish.
Suguru slips it in his pocket, careful of the edges, his palm flat against his thigh for a moment to protect it.
He watches as Satoru taps away at his phone, flipping through the pictures until he finds the one of Suguru with pink flower petals in his hair, strands tangled in the branches, glaring at Satoru behind the camera.
And it hurts. It hurts because he knows he’s not going to get to have this. But he does want it, just as much as Satoru does.
“You’re such a priss,” Satoru says, laughing as he turns away, and sets it as his background.
Suguru catches the small, pleased smile stretching his face, a thin crescent moon of happiness. It hurts.
The sun is setting on the day, the air gone humid and stuffy once more as the street lights start to flicker on. Suguru follows as they amble their way back towards the bus stop, aimless, their hands sticky with ice cream. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this full, between the snacks and treats and candy and a day filled with just Satoru and his company.
Their hands swing between them as they walk, fingers brushing.
And then Satoru takes Suguru’s hand in his, fingers taking up the empty spaces in between.
Suguru isn't proud of it, when he tenses and jerks away. But Satoru doesn’t reach, still smiling easily, watching the people as they pass them by, his hand still brushing the back of Suguru’s as they walk. Suguru isn’t proud of it. It hurts deep in his chest. Because this could have just been any other day, two friends taking a break, eating junk food and laughing at youtube videos.
But it’s not any other day. It’s not.
Later, seated on the bus and in the relative darkness granted by the dying dusk, Suguru reaches out. He takes Satoru’s hand in his, laces their fingers together. His palm must be sweaty, hot and uncomfortable when Suguru hides their link between them where they’re pressed thigh to thigh. But Satoru doesn’t say anything, doesn’t complain.
He just smiles, soft as anything, his thumb brushing rhythmically along Suguru’s skin as he watches the scenery go by.
“Sooo,” Satoru says, dragging out the vowels. He’s been yawning through his smiles, and to Suguru, he seems especially tired, like he’s had one too many all nighters piling up on him that even the mighty Gojo has to struggle. “Did you have a good time?”
He’s walking so close to Suguru as they head back to the dorms that his shoulder and arm is constantly pressed against Suguru’s own, their arms might as well be linked together, they might as well be holding hands for the lack of space between them. Suguru doesn’t bother making any distance from him, even though he should, even though they’re stepping back into their world again and this sort of thing just isn’t done.
Suguru doesn’t. He doesn’t want to lie to Satoru, just this once.
The smile on his face feels foreign, too soft, too real, when Suguru turns to look at him. Satoru’s eyes seem like they glow in the dark, electric blue, and Suguru is acutely aware that Satoru can see everything: the heat of Suguru’s body, the expansion of lungs, the thud of his pulse in his neck.
“Yeah, Sato,” Suguru says quietly. He wonders what exactly Satoru sees right now, if he could explain it to Suguru so he’d know. “I had a good time.”
Satoru’s grin is just as bright as gaze. So often Satoru’s expressions are sardonic, sarcastic, scathing. Long has Suguru learned to commit those carefree pieces of him to memory, hold it up to the light for a sweet moment, and then hide them away for safe keeping.
The photo burns a hole in his pocket.
“Perfect!” he says, laughing in that special maniacal way of his, stretching his arms high above his head. “Whoo, that all nighter was worth it then! Not one curse in thirty kilometers to annoy us, I really am the greatest. Aren’t you luckyyy?”
“Huh?” Suguru scowls when Satoru goes to pinch his cheek, ducking away.
“You just went on a date with the most powerful sorcerer in the world,” Satoru crows, tugging on Suguru’s ponytail instead. “Who else could get rid of that many curses in one night?”
“Me,” Suguru says automatically. Satoru tugs his hair again and doesn’t argue, like he can see the thoughts tumbling through Suguru’s mind with his Six Eyes. “You really did that? Just for… whatever this was?”
His glasses have slid so far down Satoru’s nose, hanging precariously just on the end, and Suguru is surprised when they don’t fall as Satoru leans forward into Suguru’s space. He’s always had several centimeters over Suguru, which he brags about constantly even though Suguru couldn’t be bothered to care. Now, Suguru wishes he didn’t, wishes the proximity between them didn’t make his stomach swoop. It was so easy to ignore before, and now…
“You know,” Satoru says, voice low, a whisper between them. “This is when you’re supposed to give me a good night kiss.”
For a moment, just a moment, Suguru’s breath abandons him, his heart stumbles. Unbidden, he pictures it: leans forward in a dream and presses his mouth to Satoru’s smile, tastes him for real, tilts his head to the side to press closer. His hands on Satoru’s hips, big on his trim waist, pulling Satoru closer, closer, closer.
Instead Suguru snorts and smiles and says, “In your dreams, idiot.”
Satoru throws his head back with a laugh.
Suguru lays in his bed later, staring up at the ceiling of his dorm, flat and painted a boring beige, and tries not to mourn something he can’t have. Today was nothing special, nothing new, but it was a promise of something more. Something Suguru knows he’ll never get to have, to keep. He can’t have Satoru the way he wants—sleepy smiles and warm beds and gentle touches. A nice little dream. He should be satisfied that he got to taste it today, the press of Satoru’s fingers in his hand, the photo Suguru’s already secreted away in a drawer, the laugher that belongs to Suguru only. He should be sated, ready to move on.
Instead, he can only think about the shape of Satoru’s lips when he smiled, when asked for that good night kiss. Can only wish that Suguru had been brave enough to give it to him.