Work Text:
Slowly, I Remember Why I Cannot Pretend (That I Never Think of You in All This Screaming Silence)
It’s late at night. An unholy hour – so late that not even Shōko would be awake to go out for a midnight cigarette break anymore.
Satoru doesn’t know how it happened. The faint moonlight is the only thing illuminating his sparsely decorated dorm room. It’s a strangely beautiful sight, the quiet peacefulness of the all-encompassing dark, only broken up by muted, silvery rays where the curtains don’t cover the window completely. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He doesn’t know when or how it happened. There is an awful wetness on his face and a stuffy feeling in his nose. Through so many foggy thoughts that he doesn’t even know where to begin to decipher them, he notices choked breathing and an ugly, distasteful sound escaping from his throat, quickly stifled by his hand that seems to be controlled by someone else entirely.
Satoru Gojō doesn’t cry. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.
Like an outsider watching from afar, he feels disconnected from his body, his thoughts, his emotions, and he doesn’t even know how to begin sorting through the mess that is his mind. It can’t logically be real.
Satoru Gojō is the strongest.
He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t grieve. He’s smart and funny, liked by everyone, always in control.
Then, why does the silence of his dorm room suddenly feel so crushing, the swirling chaos of his thoughts too much to bear?
Since the earliest days of his childhood, a truth has been engraved in his mind. Satoru Gojō is perfect. Has to be. The power of the gods, the ability to destroy everyone and everything, always at his fingertips.
He shuts his eyes close – it’s too much. He sees everything. The sudden spike of cursed energy as Nanami is plagued by a nightmare, the quiet rise and fall of Shōko’s as she wakes up to get some water, and the incomprehensible emptiness that is the absence of Suguru’s peaceful flow that Satoru has grown so accustomed to. It’s too much. He doesn’t want to perceive, doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to feel.
He digs his nails into the softness of the blanket with more force than necessary as he draws in another weak, shaky breath. His body doesn’t obey him anymore, and he can’t do anything to stop the pathetic sobs that bubble up from his chest. He doesn’t cry. He. Doesn’t. Cry.
Anything less than perfect is inexcusable. He has to be perfect, has to be strong, because if he isn’t–– Satoru doesn’t dare to finish his train of thought.
He’s always been perfect, never encountered anything he couldn’t do, couldn’t beat, couldn’t win. Every time Suguru described his behavior as arrogant, Satoru couldn’t help but think it was an unfair accusation. After all, Satoru’s … pride in his abilities is well warranted – it’s an unshakable truth: he simply is better. The first holder of both Limitless and the Six Eyes in generations, possibly the most promising and powerful sorcerer of the current time.
If he’s not meant to be perfect, then why does everything always come so easy to him?
Ever since he can remember, he has tried to challenge the limitations laid upon him. He doesn’t just want to fulfill the expectations; he needs to exceed them. Be even more– Even more … yeah, what, exactly? He shakes his head in confusion, but only manages to muddle his nebulous ambitions further.
He always chooses the most difficult tasks, the most challenging missions, climbs higher and higher on an imaginary staircase with an infinite number of steps. Where it will lead him– where he even wants to go, he doesn’t know.
There’s never been anything he couldn’t do.
Somewhere, somehow, he recognizes a silent longing within his soul, a pathetically stupid thing. A futile hope that somewhere, there will be something too demanding, too painful for even Satoru Gojo to get through.
He flinches at the prospect, both exhilarating and utterly terrifying at the same time. He doesn’t remember that his body has started shaking.
Perfection is natural, it’s in his blood, the essence of his very being. If he can’t be that, he wouldn’t know what to even call himself anymore. He would be nothing but a shell.
Maybe… Maybe he wants to be that, sometimes, in his darkest moments. A non-sorcerer. A hollow husk without any precision, without any control over their cursed energy. Simple beings without much awareness about the world around them. Not even taking notice of the people who die for their safety.
A sorcerer’s purpose is to protect the weak, huh?
That’s what Suguru always said. Before– Hell, it doesn’t matter.
Even now, Satoru doesn’t believe it. He never did any of this for the good of someone else. He’s selfish like that. He exorcises cursed spirits because he can. Because he wants to see how long he can go, how far he can push before there is no turning back.
It’s nothing more than going through the motions. It’s not like anything can hurt him anyway. Not even death at the hands of Tōji Fushiguro was able to stop him. Maybe Satoru has already reached the top. The end of the staircase, where there’s nothing to gain and everything to lose.
Cold night air sends a shiver down Satoru’s spine. Has a breeze opened the balcony door? No, it’s not just the wind. His blood burns with excitement and his lips curve up in a crooked imitation of a smile.
“You don’t even have Infinity up. Are you an idiot?”
Sickeningly sweet, a familiar voice cuts through the tense silence of the room. It’s not like Satoru hasn’t noticed the subtle shift in his surroundings. He always does. Maybe, probably, he just wants to see how far he can go. He must be stupid to not feel any fear at all.
“Try and touch me, then.”
It’s both filled with his trademark smug confidence as it is laced with a quiet plea, a hidden yearning, although Satoru only realizes the latter long after it’s already said.
The way his opponent hesitates would be hardly noticeable to anyone without the Six Eyes. In a world where only silhouettes seem to exist, the edges of his uniform are painted with an otherworldly shimmer. Satoru hopes the darkness can hide his not-puffy face covered in not-tears because he didn’t cry.
“Ha, I knew you wouldn’t hurt me! You simply like me too much.” Satoru lets out a strained laugh, but it just doesn’t feel the same anymore.
“You trust me.” A single strand of black hair sways left to right as the intruder takes a step forward, words more incredulous than anything else.
It makes no difference that Satoru can see his face now; he would know that agglomeration of cursed energy everywhere. A tightly, carefully woven piece of art made of a thousand different threads. He’s beautiful.
“What do you want, Suguru?” His voice betrays him, crumbling halfway through like dry leaves beneath his soles.
No answer finds him through the dark. Only–
A hint of panic makes his counterpart’s eyes widen just the slightest bit, a change so minute that it might as well have been a figment of Satoru’s imagination. Suguru’s expression is tinted in cold silver as he comes near – hurriedly, uncomposed, so unlike himself.
There’s so much happening at once that Satoru can feel himself getting dragged into the next emotional overload (not that he would ever admit it). Giving his best to drown out the ever-rising storm of his thoughts, he hyperfocuses on the way the moonlight dances on the curve of the other’s lips as Suguru opens his mouth to speak.
“You’re shaking– why–“
It’s like a painfully nostalgic song from his childhood that has been played one too many times, collecting scratches upon scratches until the music begins to change. Something’s ever so slightly off, and no matter how hard Satoru tries to supply the missing beats through memory, he knows that it will never sound quite the same.
Satoru Gojō doesn’t cry. He breaks down.
Faintly, he recognizes the familiar feel of a fabric-covered shoulder against his face, soaked within minutes, shielding him from the overwhelming flood of sensations coming in through his awful, hurting eyes. With violent desperation, he digs his nails into the soft rise and fall of the ribcage, the thrumming pulse underneath. He doesn’t think about Limitless, doesn’t think about talent or power or potential. He doesn’t feel like himself.
If it’s danger, why does it feel so warm?
A hesitant hand reaches up his back, and even though Satoru’s grip must hurt quite a lot, it doesn’t push him away. It’s a single brushstroke against a starless night sky, bright orange amidst the empty void, and the smell of incense and sandalwood everywhere.
Somehow, he wishes he could be made into one of those shimmery black spheres, like Suguru always does with curses. Condensed into an impossibly cramped ball of emotion. Curled into himself so tightly that there could not physically be any room left to breathe.
Satoru idly wonders what it would feel like – to be concealed in the warmth of Suguru’s palm. It must be a world consisting of nothing but touch, the sensation of being held, until he inevitably glides down the narrow of the sorcerer’s (no, curse user’s – the words still feel sticky in his mouth) esophagus to permanently fuse with the very center of his being. It’s kind of intimate if he thinks about it like that.
Suguru constantly complained that curses taste terrible, though. He always needed some strong-flavored beverage to flush them down with. Satoru scraps the idea and reluctantly hides his face in the tear-wet space between Suguru’s shoulder and neck.
There are many things Satoru thinks of saying, but none manage to leave his mouth. You asshole, how could you leave me like that? Nothing’s fun without you. Why can’t we go back to the way it was? I want to do dumb shit with you. Laugh at stupid things again. I’d be perfectly content if the crinkle of your eyes as you smile was the last thing I’d see for the rest of my life.
I hate you for all the pain you caused. I missed you. I hate how much I missed you.
Satoru has long given up on worrying about the way his breathing comes out uneven and way too fast. The more he tries to calm it, the worse it gets anyways. As a second hand comes around to embrace him, he finds himself counting all the tiny specks of color in the other’s cursed energy, just like he did back then. It’s calming, comforting and painfully familiar.
It will never be the way it was before.
It will never be the way it was before.
It will never be the way it was before–
He can’t quite suppress the pathetic sob that works its way up his throat and is only muffled by Suguru’s soft skin against his face. Satoru wonders what it feels like for the other. The unpleasantly wet fabric clinging to his form, the too-tight-too-be-tolerable grip of Satoru’s hands beneath his shoulder blades, the weird cacophony of physical closeness and emotional distance. A cruel imitation of a hug.
“Didn’t take you for a crybaby.” Suguru teases, but the words lack their sharpness.
It only makes Satoru break down further.
“Guess I’m just full of surprises.” A sly smile amidst the sobs, a dry laugh, and a pain they know they share. Satoru drags himself closer. Sometimes he isn’t sure if his airy personality is really him or just another façade. He’s glad that Suguru can’t see his face right now – he’s scared of what he might find there.
The calm presence of Suguru’s touch, the soft hum beneath his breath, the smooth long hair tickling the side of his neck. It makes some part of Satoru’s soul ache uncontrollably. Why can’t they be like this anymore? A bittersweet stab through Satoru’s chest.
“I can feel your cursed energy.” The low murmur brushes against Satoru’s skin like a hesitant street cat and catches him off-guard. The statement doesn’t contain any new information. He knows that Suguru can taste the curses he ingests; it’s only obvious that he’s outstandingly sensitive to the cursed energy of sorcerers as well.
“I know, idiot.”
“It was an answer to your question.”
Satoru pauses.
“Oh?”
“You were upset,” Suguru concludes, as if that’s any explanation at all and doesn’t just make a thousand more questions arise from Satoru’s aching heart.
Silence drapes over them like a thick, dusty blanket. It seems like Suguru classified the conversation as finished. Head still spinning, Satoru can’t think of the next thing to say. He feels suspiciously lightheaded, as if he’s about to fully collapse into the other’s strange embrace, unconscious at last. Maybe it would be easier that way.
The steady heartbeat below Suguru’s ribs lulls Satoru into a trance-like state. Ever since … that day, tiredness has clung deep to his bones. A ravenous monster, waiting eagerly for the right time to strike. That’s why he never lets his guard down.
But maybe it can be easy, just for this fleeting moment. Maybe he can allow himself to sink into the warmth just a bit longer.
The flutter in his chest is a fragile little thing. A dandelion fighting its way through the harshness of a big city, peaking its head shyly out of a crack in the asphalt of a back alley in Tokyo. It’s beautiful, if only for a blink of an eye.
Of course, things like this can’t ever last.
Suguru rips the dandelion right out of the earth, roots and all.
“If I’ll be executed for what I did– I think I want it to be you. I want you to be the one who does it.”
It’s apprehensive, almost nervous. The whisper hangs in the air between them like a butterfly waiting to be squashed. Suguru asks it like asking your middle school crush out on a date, or ordering on your own in a restaurant for the first time as a child. Satoru’s breath hitches so high that he thinks his lungs must collapse from hyperventilation. His whole body tenses and he can’t. fucking. control it.
“I– I–“
He feels as if he’s about to choke on the weight of Suguru’s words and everything they imply.
“You–“
His heart rate picks up sharply and the edges of his vision start to swim.
“So easy to render the Satoru Gojō speechless?” Even though he can’t see it because he’s still buried in that traitorous, traitorous shoulder, Satoru just knows the smug little grin that ghosts over Suguru’s features.
“Don’t you know how cruel it is, asking something like this of me?” There is no affection left in Satoru’s strained smile, only ill-concealed hurt. If he imagines the burning in his chest to be caused by the soothing heat of a campfire instead of the pain of breaking their sweet illusion, maybe he might feel warm again. He bites back a cynical laugh at the imagery. “Ever since you left, I’ve been thinking of nothing else.”
A beat.
The weight of Suguru’s arms around Satoru’s back increases. Rough hands cling closer with almost the same viciousness as Satoru had before. The coldness of the fingertips sends a shiver down his spine.
Satoru wonders if Suguru feels it too. The anger, the loneliness, the pure, unadulterated rage. The ache of being separated for so long – a phantom pain, like losing a limb, something that’s always been there but is forcefully taken away. The indescribable fear of losing the other forever should he dare to let go again.
Kill me if you want. There’s a meaning to that. Satoru shudders as those same dreadful words, spoken by the very person now in his arms during their previous encounter in Shinjuku, bubble up from his subconscious. He wasn’t able to do it, then. How many people have since died for his selfish indecisiveness?
His pulse is a roaring beast against Suguru’s perfectly controlled, expertly woven patchwork of cursed energy, rumbling lowly from deep within. Through his Six Eyes, it looks like kintsugi, a thousand different shards of broken pottery joined together in one single work of art. All the countless curses he’s accumulated over the years, edges carefully smoothed, connected by shimmery lacquer and something distinctly … Suguru.
Under his breath, Satoru admits what he’s known all along. “I wouldn’t allow anyone else to take your life.”
The ceramic cracks.
When Satoru wakes up the next morning, he doesn’t fully register the way someone else’s coat is draped over him with delicate precision. All he can focus on is the faint smell of incense and sandalwood still lingering on the fabric, and it makes him feel like breaking apart all over again.
He doesn’t cry, then.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He gets up from bed, shivers with the way the wind gusts through the still-open balcony door. Closes it.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He changes into his school uniform. Socks, pants, shirt, shoes, sunglasses. Same mechanical routine. A sip from the glass of water on his nightstand sends a chill down his throat and makes his teeth hurt.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The cold of the door handle bites against his hand. He hesitates. Turns to look at the window. Rain patters softly against the glass. Turns back. Sinks teeth into the inside of his cheek. Little pinpricks of heat.
He can’t. Not yet.
Silent steps take him back to the balcony door. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, not truly. The reflection in front of him looks horrible. At least the opaque sunglasses hide his red-rimmed eyes.
Maybe it’s the leftover warmth of where he knows Suguru must have stood mere hours ago. Satoru doesn’t know whether his mind is tricking him or not. Remains of cursed energy scattered like breadcrumbs on the wooden floor.
And suddenly, he sucks in a breath so sharp that his head starts to swim all over again.
Suguru– No. He’d never–
The rain pelts relentlessly against the glass now, louder than his thoughts. There’s energy like tiny little dust flakes on the rug. Haphazard. Disorganized.
Suguru would know how to–
Residuals. A pattern amidst the mess. Direction. A trail. Brushstrokes, a painting in deep blue. From the bedframe, over to the rug, plank by plank, straight to …
It just doesn’t make any sense.
A warmth. Treacherous, treacherous warmth. He can’t shake it from his chest.
It doesn’t make sense, unless…
“You want me to find you.” The words collide with the dull pitter-patter and Satoru realizes that he’s said it out loud, voice breathless with disbelief.
If anyone’s going to ask him about his intentions later, he won’t be able to answer a single thing. It’s like his body’s moving against his will. He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe, he wants to see how far he can go.
Fingers clutch the handle, knuckles bone-white. He opens the balcony door and steps into a world of pouring rain.
We Go beyond the Farthest Reaches (Where the Light Bends and Wraps Beneath Us)
Blue. Deep, endless blue.
Where the sky meets the ocean and the colors disperse into a thousand different refractions. Beautiful. He’d like to see it again, someday.
No matter how many hues Suguru knows to pick out from the clutter of cursed energy all around, blue will always be his favorite.
Well, it’s not entirely true. He doesn’t know color. Not really. Not like Satoru does. But he imagines this is what blue must taste like.
It's a chilling gust of wind on a November morning, carrying the earthy aroma of the forest and the anticipation of a cloudburst. Mist all around, an invisible barrier. Dampness in the grass, tension in the air. Prickly on his tongue, tingles where the breeze brushes against bare skin. Brisk and cold in a way that makes him want to be submerged forever. A thunderstorm about to strike. Cursed energy, carefully concealed, ready to snap anytime.
It’s isolation. Satoru’s signature. Seldom are the times its memory doesn’t ghost around the back of Suguru’s mind. He wasn’t aware of how painful memories could be; not until he had held Satoru in his arms and watched him break because of him because of him because of him.
From years and years of honing his technique, Suguru’s learned to pick out emotions. Before tonight, he hadn’t known that grief could feel that immobilizing. All-encompassing like an ocean – but with waves so high, it would be a hopeless endeavor to traverse.
Rage, too. So different from what he had expected. A cold kind of anger, sharp on his tongue like ice crystals. It cut so much deeper than fingernails ever could. Never, not even when Riko died, has Satoru exuded anger like this. And it was directed at him at him at him–
A toneless sigh leaves Suguru’s throat as he settles down in a clearing in the forest after hours of aimless wandering. The clouds have darkened, and the first clap of thunder startles a flock of crows into flying from their perch. A fitting scenery for the turmoil in his heart.
“You let your guard down. Who’s the idiot now, Suguru?”
Piercing like hailstones, his name is venom on Satoru’s lips. Suguru opens his mouth to snap back a reply, but the air is prematurely knocked out of his lungs as a kick lands in his stomach.
Struck down by lightning, eyes wide, Suguru’s feels his carefully crafted composure slip away like sand between his fingers. Air, air full of forest and freezing rain and cold, cold winds, but it’s not this forest, it’s Satoru’s coldness, Satoru’s anger, Satoru’s touch– No, they’re not touching. There is no warmth where the shoe was, there is–– Nothingness. The infinity between me and you. Limitless.
Suguru can’t breathe.
He's unreachable.
White hair soaked with rainwater, creeks running down from the furrow of his brow to the back of his sunglasses to the scrunch of his nose to the thin line of his lips, there’s Satoru. Cold, cold, so terribly cold; signature loneliness and sky-blue anger and it’s all because of him him him–
“Why?” Fragile as a feather, crumbling in the midst of the monsoon. Hollow against the roar of the downpour, Suguru might have missed it if he didn’t have so much practice in reading those very lips. It’s just one mere word, but it carries so much more.
It tastes of sweet blood. Tiny impurities eating through a perfect picture of fresh powder snow. The dissonance of sugar and iron is dizzying.
Suguru finds himself disoriented in the dirt, and it’s not just because of the kick.
Breathing hurts. He’s fumbling for a response, syllables feeling fuzzy around the edges. “As if you ever cared about anyone but yourself,” he chokes out. More insult than an answer, it’s meant to hurt. Lies that have settled way too comfortably on his tongue.
He pulls himself up, feigning an attack from the right but going in for a strike from the left. It’s a one-sided scuffle. Why he doesn’t call upon his cursed spirits, he doesn’t know. As always, his hand lands nowhere, hanging in the air only inches from Satoru’s face, slowed to infinity. This distance between us–
Suguru wants to break it.
If fists can’t touch him, maybe words can.
“Did you even notice how I was starving myself?” It might be a calculated attempt at throwing Satoru off-balance, but the emotion behind is real. Raw. Barely contained rage contorting his facial features into something different, something feral, maybe.
A swipe at Satoru’s kneecaps, feeble effort to try to immobilize him. It’s no use. A punch directed at his stomach. Something desperate, rather. Still as a statue, Satoru stays unmoving, rain-drenched clothes starting to cling to his form. Above them, the storm brews.
“No, of course you didn’t.” Bitterness colors his worn-out voice a waspish purple. “You were too busy going on your oh-so-special solo missions, because why send anyone else when Satoru Gojō can handle everything by himself, anyway?”
And for the first time, his kick connects – why– why does it connect? – and the snowy white hair is tinged brown with mud where Satoru’s head hits the forest floor.
Sunglasses knocked askew, allowing icy blue to peek up from underneath. For the shortest of moments, he’s lying there, staring up at Suguru with the most indecipherable expression, gasping for air.
Breathless, “Well, why didn’t you say anything? Did I mean nothing to you?”, and it’s hurt, it’s bright and red like blood from an open wound, and the intensity of it makes Suguru flinch back as if he’s been burned.
And suddenly, the world’s spinning around his head until pain flares up as his skull meets with something sharp – of course, Satoru’s taken advantage of his hesitancy, this rat – and nausea builds up in his gut. Leaves and grass seem to have softened his fall, and– and– Suguru’s breath stutters.
Everything’s black.
It takes him a second to realize that it isn’t the rain-wet forest floor moving up and down underneath his weight– it's– it’s Satoru. He can hear his heartbeat race. They’re touching.
The sky comes crashing down with as much force as the pouring rain as Satoru violently puts him in a headlock. “Why didn’t you trust me?” Words knife-sharp, searing into his flesh like frostbite as he repeats the question with audibly thin-stretched patience.
Fighting to blink the blurriness in his vision away, Suguru’s brain is working overtime to figure out what to say in retaliation. A dangerous silence, only broken up by breathless panting and the roar of adrenaline rushing through his blood.
He feels the piercing gaze placed upon him, wants to strike back, finally, finally able to see again, and then–
Those blue, blue eyes.
And suddenly, he’s all alone, thrust into the never-ending ocean, unable to swim.
It's oh so blue and for a second that seems to stretch into eternity, nothing else exists.
Nothing besides the ever-rising tide and saltwater in his lungs; the spray of seafoam against a cloudless sky and the heated huffs of breath against Suguru’s cheek and when did they get so close?
“You’d never understand. You couldn’t. No one does.” Under Satoru’s all-knowing gaze, he feels helpless as a child as he watches his face slipping away. “No one knows what a curse tastes like.” The shape of the words feels awkward and empty in his mouth – food he’s chewed one time too many until it lost its flavor entirely. Where was the meaning in all this, again?
“No one knows what cursed energy looks like, either.” Nothing more than a whisper, Satoru’s voice low and rumbling and oh-so-close to his ear it’s sending shivers down his spine.
“Yours is so, so ugly right now, by the way.”
In the blink of an eye, Suguru is sent flying across the clearing, his impact on the tree so abrupt that his vision swims all over again. Is that blood on his tongue?
Satoru’s quick to follow, faster than humanly possible, pinning him down against the rough of the oak’s bark with fury burning wild in those otherworldly eyes. Abandoned in a desert made of ice, Suguru feels weak as a snowflake torn around by freezing winds.
A memory ghosts through the back of his mind, faint and fleeting like a dandelion’s seeds. The gentle pull of his mother’s hand in his, guiding him through busy streets, crowds with people much taller than him. The scent of greasy street food flooding his sinuses and the aroma of cursed energy bitter on his palate. Chatter, noise all around.
A bird’s feather on the asphalt, mosaic pattern full of shimmery reflections in the setting evening sun and oh-so-intriguing. The wind carries whispered promises of mystery and wonder.
Don’t pick that up, it’s dirty, the voice of his mother, scattered in the air. Suguru had a bit of a habit of collecting trinkets back then, even more so since his cursed technique had manifested.
Don’t pick that up, it’s dirty.
Tiny hands flinch back, ears burning hot with shame.
And dirty is how he feels right now, too. Trash tossed to the side of the road, fading into the background as the car speeds up.
Only– Suguru doesn’t fade.
Satoru’s touch, lingering. Pressure on Suguru’s wrists so unforgiving, it wouldn’t take much more to make them snap. Wet hair tips hovering less than an inch above Suguru’s face, little droplets meeting his cheek.
How many seconds pass, neither of them could say; labored breathing the only indicator that the flow of time still exists. Up close, Satoru’s gaze is even more intoxicating.
If Satoru wanted to kill him right now, it would be as easy as swatting a fly.
But– There’s a hint of warmth. Real, palpable warmth. It must be a dream. The splitting headache caused by the impact makes every movement feel sluggish, like Suguru’s trying to run underwater.
There’s no Infinity, no invisible barrier keeping them apart. Too dizzy to even try to ask, you idiot, why are you letting your guard down again, Suguru feels whatever fight was still left in him seep out and mingle with the puddles.
The finishing blow never comes.
And suddenly, Suguru realizes that the growing wetness on his face isn’t caused by the rain. No longer tiny pinpricks like icicles against his skin, but warmth. Salty heat eating its way through his flesh. Surrounded by the pouring of the storm, he can’t tell whether the tears are Satoru’s or his own.
“I hate how much I missed you.” Satoru’s voice is so, so brittle, and Suguru’s surprised that it doesn’t shatter amid the cloudburst.
Like hoarfrost disappearing with the first rays of morning sun, Satoru melts against Suguru’s form.
It would be an insult to call it an embrace – it’s more akin to collapsing, a desperate attempt at fixing something that’s already been broken beyond repair. Sloppily patched-up holes in the asphalt, the kind he would stumble over as a child and hurt his knees.
The grip around his wrists loosens.
As he instinctively brings down his arms around Satoru’s back, Suguru feels like a drowning person, searching for something stable to hold onto, but finding only rotten driftwood.
Warmth.
Suguru can’t recall when the quivering started or whose body it belongs to – that close, it’s near impossible to tell where Suguru ends and Satoru begins.
Satoru’s warmth, Satoru’s heartbeat, Satoru’s gust-of-wind, brewing-thunderstorm cursed energy, everything bleeds together in a taste of petrichor. All Suguru knows for certain is the rocky rhythm of his heart and the world of water that seems to pulse with every beat.
“I–“ He chokes on his words, throat made of gravel. “–missed you, too.” Realization sour like biting into a lemon.
He feels Satoru’s breath against his lips, close enough for Suguru to catch the faint sweetness of ramune candy. The same ones Suguru would always buy for him during his supply runs. The throbbing in his head grows louder again, and his vision blurs like mist settling upon a lake.
Suguru must have been fading in and out of consciousness, as Satoru’s not there anymore when he opens his eyes the next time.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Only the throbbing pain in his limbs and the lingering sweetness on his lips are proof that he wasn’t just a ghost of his imagination, conjured up by Suguru’s indecipherable emotions.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Satoru is gone, and Suguru’s heart is still beating.
Why– He shakes the thought from his aching head.
Despite himself, he feels the corners of his mouth turn up – not that practiced, plastic smile of his, but a much softer expression nestling itself into his facial features.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Satoru is gone, and Suguru is still alive.
For now, at least.
Even as the storm abates, Suguru is awash – the memory of blue still haunting every corner of his mind.
God knows this ocean will be the end of him.