Archive of Our Own

There’s a common misconception ever present amongst the members of the jujutsu society. 

About Satoru. Time and time again, Suguru hears the whispers, the muted grumblings of older sorcerers who are too weak to acknowledge strength, the hushed tidbits of gossip passed between lady servants. 

A reckless child, too prideful for his own good, too privileged. Believes himself above the other families. Cares for nothing, but himself. 

Wrong.  In fact, Satoru cared a lot. Oftentimes too much. The only catch was who he cared about. Loyal to a fault, his hamartia. The world was nothing if his closest were everything. Perhaps because he was born blessed, with all the power in the world, it was easy for him to choose his way and stick by it, to ignore everything and everyone beyond it. 

Satoru was allowed to choose. 

No one ever asked how it felt to consume a cursed spirit. 

Except Satoru did.

The sky and ocean, barely visible over the rim of inky glasses, focused just a bit too intensely on him. The description fell almost too easily from his mouth. He wonders now, how much time he spent on his own, trying to find the right way to describe the taste. From the way Satoru frowned, it was easy enough to tell that he was wondering the same thing. 

It takes a while for Suguru to notice. 

After his first solo assignment in almost three weeks. He had forgotten the taste. No. That's not right. More like he had forgotten how incessantly the taste of vomit and ashes lingered like oil on skin at the back of his mouth. 

It confuses him, at first, why he’s forgotten. The thought stays with him as he boards the train to the school. It tosses and turns itself, clinging stubbornly. 

Suguru is embarrassed at how long it takes for his brain cells to put it together. 

It's not supposed to happen as often as it does. Him and Satoru being sent on assignments together. It's easily overkill and arguably a waste of jujutsu sorcerers. Because when he and Satoru are working together, it’s Satoru that’s doing most of the work. Most of the time, all he’s asked to do is leave his curses at the perimeter of wherever Satoru is putting Limitless to the test. Occasionally, he takes it upon himself to summon a curse that will lessen the property damage (and avoid the subsequent scolding from Yagamichi).

But Satoru always asks to accompany him.

And Suguru is always more than willing to accept. Because it's thankless work. Not that gratitude is something he ever sought after when he accepted this path. But it’s work that rots him from soul to skin, drains the blood from his face, from his hands, and from his heart. It’s suffocating and rules are obsolete when one is too busy looking for air to breathe. 

Satoru manages to give this dismal life a semblance of joy. And so—and not that he would ever say it—he clings to this thread of goodness, practically hanging himself on it because it’s almost all that makes this life bearable.

It’s always Satoru who exorcises the curse. Warping himself out of nowhere and finishing it before he even gets a word in. At first, he thought Satoru was doing it on purpose, just to be annoying. Or perhaps to prove a point.

We’re the strongest. 

But the words fall too naturally from Satoru’s mouth, joy and mirth clinging so stubbornly to the edges of his lips that it’s obvious he cares nothing about being a pinnacle of strength. It was a title bestowed on them by higher-ups who thought that he and Satoru were too naive to see it for what it was. A collar, forced on, binding him and Satoru to the will and whims of the aged and decrepit fools that believed such power was a blessing. 

A miracle, a gift. 

How terribly and horribly wrong. 

Strength wins no rewards in this life.

It is why Satoru is a weapon before he is a human. Why he’s put in harm’s way. Why he’s always so close to death, and yet never dying. 

It is what starves Suguru. What leaves him retching until there’s nothing left but the taste of blood in his mouth. What stops him from digging his fingers into Limitless, what stops him from reaching past it. It is what keeps him from dragging Satoru towards him and silencing his ceaseless chatter with lips and teeth and tongue. 

Snow is piled high in all the abandoned corners when he arrives at the desolate train station, with even more flakes cascading from an ink-stained sky. 

He walks. 

Rain. Snow. Hail. It used to be the type of weather he preferred. In it, all his details are blissfully blurred away behind slats of ice and water—his reflection partly strange, even to his own eyes. In a way, it lets him not be entirely himself. In this weather, he needs to be known to be found. 

If he’s been found, it means someone is looking. 

And there is someone always looking. 

For all Satoru speaks of hating such dismal weather, he always ventures into it without the proper amount of layers. Going out in nothing but his uniform, forgoing his coat in favor of a threadbare cardigan he stole from Suguru a year earlier. 

Because of his antics, Suguru always wears an extra coat in the winter, fluffing himself up so he can readily offer his outermost layer to Satoru when he visibly trembles. Once, he even wore a knit scarf, just to wrap it over Satoru’s ears when he started complaining about his nose going numb. 

It’s become a habit now, so much that he wears added layers on his solo assignment. The outer coat he’s wearing now belongs to Satoru, stolen from him two months ago. It fits him well enough, only slightly lengthy in the sleeves and torso. 

He presses his face into the sleeve, warming his face, breathing in the smell of sky and sweetness to distract from his own nausea. Unlike most of Satoru’s other clothes, this one is not overly expensive; having bought it with Shoko on a daytrip to Kyoto. 

A sudden, irrational fear seizes him and wills him to move his feet faster. Fear that the snow will wash Satoru from his own coat. That Suguru will feel as alone as he is. 

What’s left of the early morning plays out on the snow before him, a dimly lit scene on a white expanse that’s only slightly less dim. After he showers, he’ll crawl into bed. He’ll open a book and half-mindedly read it while he waits for his hair to dry. 

Once the nausea fades and his exhaustion catches up to him, the book will be thrown off the bed, and his hands will reach for the coat. Bunched up. Brought against his chest as he tugs the blankets over himself and drifts off. Blankets. Always more than one because Satoru likes to hog the blankets, almost as much as he likes to hog the window side of Suguru’s bed. 

Satoru's eyes do, in fact, glow slightly in the pitch black. Hazy, ridden with exhaustion as he blinks sleep in and out of his eyes. Partly telling and partly asking Suguru if he'll scoot over and make room for him. 

Suguru scoots over without a word. What's there to say? He knows Satoru is there for him, to comfort him or just to have him near. The reason does not matter in the slightest, not when Suguru is trying to ignore the fact that Satoru is breathing softly next to him. That he hears his own frantic heartbeat, and is praying that Satoru cannot. 

Unlike him, Satoru was sent abroad for his assignment. Across the ocean, he knows. To a warmer city, he hopes. Shoko texted him earlier. Yesterday, technically. At the end of her giddy narration of her midday adventures with Utahime and Mei, she mentioned that Satoru was already on a flight to Tokyo. 

Completing his assignment in an amount of time that shocked everyone.

Not Suguru, never Suguru.

To him, there were other things about Satoru to be shocked by. Other things that were much sweeter and much more amusing. Like how he liked dogs, and loved cats. And how he hated tea, but somehow brewed it perfectly every time. 

The first time, it was a joke, asking Satoru to brew his tea for him. But the cup that found a way into his hands was filled to the brim with bitter tea, just the way he preferred. 

Satoru gagged after the barest of sips, asking why he liked his tea that way. For him, it was impossible to fathom a like for bitterness, his sweet tooth making him forget sometimes that other people have different tastes. 

Bitterness is good at washing out the taste of everything else. 

To this day, he still remembers the look of displeasure on Satoru’s face at his explanation, how it stirred laughter from the pit of his stomach, warmth worming its way into his heart. 

In the days after, Satoru ended up ordering an outrageously expensive blend of tea from Kyoto and having it delivered to the school. He brewed it the morning after it arrived, dragging a barely-awake Suguru into the kitchen just to try it, his eyes wide with anticipation, face brimming with hope, his lips raw-bitten from a rare bout of nerves. 

Bittersweet. 

And whether it’s the tea itself, or the thoughts he conjures while drinking it, the taste grows on him. He asks Satoru again and again, to order that brand of tea. It does not help that’s trying to grow out his own sweet tooth, just for Satoru, because there’s a certain way he smiles when he discovers a pastry that Suguru likes. 

It is nothing short of Satoru’s effect on people. Life-altering, world-changing. He was certain that he was not the only one to feel it. The world must know it. 

The sky is still ash-colored, and snow is still falling when he steps through Tengen’s barrier. 

Shoko said that Satoru was scheduled to arrive in the later hours of the morning. Too late for Suguru to wait up for him, but just early enough that Suguru would be able to get to the airport on time to greet him.

He stares at his feet as he walks, wondering if he’ll need an umbrella for tomorrow. The airport is not agonizingly far, but if the weather stays like this, he would definitely be soaked by the time he reaches Satoru. His thoughts wander, frivolously as he figures out what he and Satoru will eat for breakfast tomorrow. Diligently as he sorts through what details to include and exclude on the report of his latest assignment. 

He brushes his teeth. Once. Twice. 

The scent of freshly brewed tea is wafting through the air by the time he steps into the welcome warmth of the shower. Despite the weight dragging at his bones, he’s thorough with his shower, washing his hair twice and scrubbing at his skin until he feels free of the cursed energy clinging to him.  

Two whole days and the urge to retch is still overwhelming. He’s been bedridden for most of it, only dragging himself out of his room to wash his face or attempt to puke out his own organs. Shoko assigns herself the job of bringing him food every so often—assortments of chicken and udon, curry, soups and more soups. 

Before it was Satoru. But after she learned about how impractical his food picks were, she limited his tasks to just looking after Suguru. 

As for what that meant—at first, it was mostly just Satoru sitting and complaining how bored he was while Suguru laid in bed huddled in a ball, groaning for him to shut up and leave. Not that Satoru was never the type to listen to others. Suguru was not an exception to this. In fact, he was almost certain that Satoru ignored him the most out of everyone, purely out of spite. 

He wakes from every fitful doze with a fluff of white hair in sight. 

Eventually Satoru learned how to pass the time differently, forcing Suguru to watch western movies to distract himself from his nausea, helping Suguru wash his clothes, going into lengthy and amusing stories about his travels abroad. 

He helps, more than Shoko’s healing, more than Suguru ever wants to admit. 

But perhaps it’s chance or fate that he’s the victim of, when he swallows his first special-grade cursed spirit. 

Satoru is across the sea on the mainland, and Suguru has barely eaten or slept in two days. Shoko sits with him, leaving every once in a while to eat or smoke or sleep in a bed that smells less like boys (i.e. cigarette smoke). Haibara and Nanami occasionally pop in too, but his head aches too much to remember much else other than two concerned faces swimming in and out of his vision. 

At one point, he sees Ijichi in the room too, all four of them sitting on the floor, playing mahjong and betting money. 

But he’s a bit delirious, and he’s only partly sure that the soft, muted clicking and clacking of tiles is from reality and not from his dreams. 

Luckily, the effects of swallowing a curse of a much lower grade is not as terrible. His stomach is only slightly upset as he climbs into his bed, and his mind is more foggy than outright dizzy. 

The borrowed coat is still slightly damp, but he drags it off his desk anyway and bunches it up in his lap. It still smells like him, and that’s all Suguru needs. 

Satoru warps into his room halfway through the third day, and Suguru lets himself take in the windswept hair and crookedly set glasses before closing his eyes and convincing himself that he’s hallucinating. 

It’s only after an amused huff and a string of sarcastic words that he realizes that Satoru is actually there, in his room. 

Suguru stares. 

Satoru smiles. 

And just like that, he’s throwing himself into Satoru’s arms, shamelessly sinking into the tightening embrace. The smell of the outside is still clinging stubbornly to his clothes, and he tries not to feel too disappointed at the missing smell of sweetness and coffee. 

Just having Satoru here feels like stepping onto the beach at sunrise; the air biting but invigorating at it coils through his lungs. 

Satoru nudges his face softly against Suguru’s hair, saying nothing. Other than the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional press of fingers into Suguru’s arms or his waist, he barely moves. 

A day could have come and gone, and Suguru would have been none of the wiser. He’s content like this. Despite still feeling the steady climb towards emesis and the ache in his head, he would not mind staying in this moment. But eventually, the thrumming behind his eyes stops, and he forces himself to drag his face out from where it’s buried in Satoru’s neck. 

He looks up, and without hesitation, says to Satoru that he stinks. 

Tucking his bottom half beneath his blankets, he texts Satoru, telling him to have a safe flight, telling him to text when he lands, and telling him that he’ll be waiting at the terminal when he gets off. 

Shoko and Mei have a separate washroom from him and Satoru and the others. He’s heard from Shoko that there are four showers and two bathtubs, which seems like a lot considering there are only two students who use it. It’s even more absurd because the washroom that he shares with Satoru, Nanami, Haibara, and Ijichi has the same four showers and no bathtubs at all. 

The only saving grace is that there are six sinks instead of the four in Shoko’s, but that was barely worth much, considering Nanami and Haibara sleep much earlier than he and Satoru ever try to. 

It’s late afternoon when Satoru shoots Shoko a text. After sending her an indeterminate amount of money as a bribe to take Mei with her into the city, Satoru drags him to the girl’s washroom to use the bathtubs there. It feels wholly scandalous to be sneaking into the other side of the dormitories, but with the way Satoru’s barring the door, it feels like he and Satoru are about to be the ones that get walked in on. 

While Satoru is figuring out how to get the hot water to turn on, Suguru chances a glance at himself in the mirror. He’s holding a bundle of clean clothes, looking as worn as he feels, with rings of grey circling his eyes, and a slight sunkennes to his cheeks that was not there four days ago. His clothes are beyond wrinkled, and his hair is a tangled mess, matted strands of ink hanging over his face. 

He breathes, and the person in the mirror breathes too, its chest rising and falling. 

The call of his name drags him away from his reflection. 

He looks over to see Satoru reading the labels on Suguru’s hair washing products, his brows furrowed slightly. For him, who seldom even bothers with hair conditioner, it’s no wonder he’s confused by the four different bottles Suguru brought. Other than his own sleeping clothes, he brought for himself, offhandedly mentioning that he would just use what Suguru used.

When Satoru catches his eye, he grins, beckoning Suguru over and telling him to hurry and get into the tub. The washroom, spacious as it is, fogs slightly from the steam in the air, and he’s slightly concerned about the temperature of the water. But Satoru’s doing this for him, so he finds comfort in the fact that Satoru will at least laugh when he realizes that he’s boiled his friend like a lobster. 

His shirt is halfway up his torso when he pauses and realizes that he’s about to strip in front of Satoru. 

It’s not like Satoru’s never seen him naked before. 

There was that one time that Satoru’s family paid for a trip to the hot springs for all the students at the school. To this day, it’s impossible to forget the enthusiasm with which Haibara tore off his clothes. He’s still teased about his eagerness to be naked in front of his seniors. 

Satoru catches onto his hesitation, and Suguru sees the faintest color on his cheeks before he’s turning away to face the wall. He huffs a laugh before tugging off his shirt, his pants, and his inner clothes. The water is only slightly scalding when he drops into it, and he sags further into the tub as the warmth begins to sink into his bones. 

He flicks water at Satoru to get him to turn back. 

When Satoru’s gaze meets his own, Suguru shuts his eyes and waits for the telltale rustle of clothes hitting tile. Only he never hears it, and when he opens his eyes to look, Satoru is shuffling towards the end of the tub behind him. Before Suguru even gets the chance to ask why he’s not joining him in the bath, Satoru is telling him to lay back, his words halfway between insistent and teasing. 

It’s laughable how suspicious he is of Satoru at the moment, considering he trusts no one else so completely with his life. 

Between him and Satoru and Shoko, it’s his room that the other two prefer to crowd into most often. Where Shoko’s room is crammed mostly with her belongings, his room is filled with knicknacks left behind by other people. And where Satoru is picky about where he places all of his items, Suguru’s forfeited all attempts at organization and mostly just shoves piles together. 

On days where he squinted a bit too hard at the mess that was his room, he was just able to pick out four distinct piles throughout. The pile beneath the window is Satoru’s. 

Satoru’s hands tug softly at his hair, partly playful, partly impatient, waiting for Suguru to follow the instructions given to him. 

And because there is no good reason to deny him, he lets his confusion go and settles. It’s only after he feels fingers carding against his scalp that he realizes that Satoru is about to wash his hair for him. 

Snarky, privileged, pesky, praised by the world for his strength, Gojo Satoru. 

It’s almost as shocking as the time he discovered Satoru trying to figure out how to work the laundry machine. He’s startled enough that he gets up out of the water. 

Or attempts to. 

A slight tug at his hair stops him. 

Satoru asks him, partly begging and partly commanding, his words impossibly soft. 

Was he allowed this? 

Suguru’s mind draws a blank as he wonders what Satoru would consider this. 

But he chooses not to dwell, allowing his mind to enter a dreamy haze, allowing himself to get lost in the sensation of Satoru’s hands in his hair, the occasional tug-tug-tug of fingers. 

As always, he is weak to Satoru’s whims. He would bow to no one else's so easily. 

Suguru places the coat over his face, ignoring the logical part of brain that's warning him about the dangers of suffocation.

It would be a sweet way to die, he feels, wrapped in the faded remnants of his other half. 

*

The air is crisp in the city today. A brisk wind cuts through the streets, between buildings and through the trees, straight into his clothes. It’s good weather and the late morning sky is vibrant, streaked this way and that with different blues. 

Suguru stares at it.

Today is a day without class and without training. Today it is only the teachers who are on-call to attend to any assignments that are reported in. It's Yagamichi who's up first, in case one of the school managers or local authority decides that a jujutsu sorcerer's help is needed. To the staff, who were drinking tea and engaged in an intense game of cards when Suguru walked by earlier that morning, it is nothing, but a typical day.

But for the students, it’s a train ride and day trip to Kyoto. 

Mei said on the train that she was meeting with Utahime to go to a tea ceremony with an elusive tea craftsman who charges an arm and a leg for a visit. Shoko waved off her invite, saying that she would much rather go to a newly opened art exhibit instead of getting kicked out of a tea ceremony for smelling like cigarette smoke. Mei laughed at that, and if it was more patronizing than was appropriate, no one commented on it. 

Haibara, who spent more than half the ride gushing about his pets, mentioned that he would be visiting his family. As for where Nanami was going or what he was planning to do, he escaped Mei’s interrogation by pretending to be sleeping the entire trip. 

Mei asked nothing of Satoru and Suguru. 

Their plans never change.

No trip to Kyoto for Satoru is complete without a visit to a bakery. Which bakery he visits is decided mostly on a whim—at times, a reliable favorite, and other times, an adventurous visit to a newly opened store that’s been advertised in the papers. Suguru follows because he likes to go to the bakery with Satoru, because he likes to watch the way Satoru’s eyes go big as he stares at the cakes and pastries through the window, likes how Satoru points, like a child, at all the ones he’s going to buy. 

But today is a bit different because he is not in line with Satoru.

Instead, he’s sitting on a park bench, legs spread hilariously wide so that no stranger decides to sit next to him. He’s sitting, waiting, staring up at the sky and trying not to go insane.

About a boy with hair whiter than the clouds, with eyes bluer than the earth, and hands that are always so, so warm.

Suguru loves him. 

World-altering, life-changing. 

His breaths leave him no differently when the realization hits him, crushing him with all the force of an ocean storm. His shadow is still his own, the sun still hanging in the sky like a lantern from a roof's eave. His entire world—upended, drowning in a shore’s tide that barely reaches his ankles. 

And still he walks, his feet striking the earth no differently. 

Nothing's changed. 

It's not until he hears the call of his name, until he's turning, until his eyes find Satoru—

That he realizes where it is that his existence has shifted.  

Off-kilter, imbalanced. 

Suguru feels almost insane as he stares, his eyes not even blinking as he watches Satoru walk towards him. He’s drawn up dozens of words to describe the exact way Satoru smiles. Lopsided, captivating, stupid, annoying, picturesque, haughty— but as Suguru traces the lines of his mouth, he knows that there’s no more perfect way to describe that smile than simply just Satoru. 

Sun-touched and sweet and Satoru. 

“What?” Satoru asks, his brows furrowing together into a disgruntled expression. It’s a face that would look so ugly on anyone else. In his hands, he’s holding a paper bag, the handle made of twisted paper looped over two of his fingers. 

“Nothing,” Suguru breathes, hoping that his words do not sound as choked as he feels. 

Putting a word to this feeling, and the word love of all things. It's almost as crushing as it is not, the slide of the blade easy as it slips between his ribs. Painful only because he knows that it should be, rather than because it actually feels like it is. 

Because it is not him who’s changed, nor the world. 

Rather it’s Satoru. 

Insane. 

Insane. 

Insane. 

The thread stitching his life together, the presence that fills so much of his days, the moon to his water, the carrier of his dreams, the warmth next time as the sun dies everyday on the horizon. 

Today, it feels painful to look away. Like if he loses this sight now, he will never find it again. 

Satoru steps close, stopping closer, treating Suguru’s intimate space as his own, oblivious to the fact that it belongs to him so much more than it does to Suguru. He’s practically standing between Suguru’s legs, and Suguru feels himself fraying at the edges with panic. It’s by no means the closest Satoru’s ever been to him. He’s woken up on Satoru’s chest before, on a handful of mornings. But in a park, in view of all the passersby, it feels almost like an act of indecency to be speaking to each other like this. 

His fingers twitch with the urge to strangle Satoru for his shamelessness, but he settles instead for closing his eyes. He wills himself to swallow past his dry throat and attempts rather pitifully to talk himself into a more coherent state of mind. 

“What’s in there this time?” he asks, despite already knowing the answer.  

Though he loves just about every type of dessert, his favorite is cake. And because Satoru is never picky with his cake or with his flavors—his love for a simple matcha sponge equal to his love for a brown-sugar glazed, coffee-infused, mocha half-mousse, half sponge—there is always cake and often more than one. 

It’s like Nanami with bread, except Nanami’s standards are exceptionally high and there’s only two bakeries in Tokyo, whose bread he can eat without making a face. 

Satoru’s practically glowing with glee, just about skipping as he drags Suguru and Shoko with him to a cake-tasting. Suguru, whose sweet tooth is still in infancy and practically nonexistent, is content to just slide each of his perfect littles plates with perfect littles slices of cake over to Satoru. The occasional plate slides the other way, towards Shoko, but only when she mentions how much she likes the slice she’s having.  

It’s slice number six or seven, when Satoru sways towards him—his eyes colored by the ocean’s shore, his expression painted more softly than human hands are able—and insists that Suguru try it, willing to bet his life that Suguru will like it. And like the ocean to the moon, he obeys. He grabs his spoon and reaches forward to carve out a bite from the plate. 

But Satoru beats him to it, shoving a spoonful of cake in front of his face. Suguru’s eyes dart between Satoru and the bite of cake. Once, twice. And then after a petulant huff, he opens his mouth and allows himself to be fed. 

It is good, the taste slightly roasted and slightly bitter. 

Shoko gags behind him, and before Suguru says a word, Satoru is lifting a spoon to her mouth too. Unlike Suguru, she’s not as weak to Satoru as he is, and she flips him off before signaling to the staff that she’s ready for the next cake. 

Suguru finishes his plate in the two minutes it takes for the next one to arrive. 

It’s the cake Suguru ends up getting for his birthday that year. 

“Cake,” Satoru says.  There’s an obviously buried in that word, but he keeps it to himself, indulging in the conversation, as if he knows it’s what Suguru wants. “And there was this new mochi toast on display—oh, and I got taiyaki for the ride back to the school.”

The list goes on, a list that is inexplicably lengthy for the size of the bag that’s in his hands. But Suguru listens with his eyes closed, each frayed knot of panic loosening with every word that falls from Suguru’s mouth. 

So much has changed, and so much has not.

When his next breath leaves him easy, he cracks his eyes open. Which was a mistake because he’s barely given time to brace himself before Satoru is tilting slightly forward, moving just enough so that he’s hovering slightly above Suguru. 

Suguru knows his face is decidedly neutral, knows that he looks as composed as ever on the outside. But he’s given up on trying to tide the storm in his head. Instead, he lets his gaze travel up to meet Satoru’s and tries not to make it obvious that he’s staring. He’s giving it his best to not seem like he’s trying to catalogue every detail of Satoru’s face and brand it into his memory. 

He’s been staring a lot, lately. 

Perhaps he truly is afraid of losing this sight. 

The edge of Satoru’s mouth abruptly ticks upward. In a way, it focuses the edges of his face that are softened by joy, more bold lines than delicate strokes. No less beautiful. 

Can he be blamed for being afraid?

“Suguru, do you know how to ride a bike?” Satoru asks, eyes glinting from behind his sunglasses, like sunlight on the ocean’s surface. 

Confusion blows like a forceful wind through his mind, throwing him off so completely that his head empties of all his other thoughts. How neat.

He lifts a brow in question, but still nods. “What? Are you too good for bike riding or something?”

It's not as snarky as he normally is, and Satoru seems to notice because instead of throwing his own retort, he beams, his smile growing even bigger. 

“Let’s go ride a bike, yeah?” 

Admittedly, he’s still confused. It’s not often that he loses track of what Satoru is trying to say with and without words, but what was before just a whipping wind is now a whirring maelstrom.

“A bike?” Suguru repeats, his voice purposefully disbelieving. “An actual bike?” 

Satoru’s bottom lip juts out in a disgruntled pout, which is enough to let Suguru know that he’s being serious. He blinks once before grabbing his phone from his pocket. He’s been to Kyoto enough times to know the number for the local directory, and it’s not long before he’s given the street address of a shop that rents bikes out to locals and tourists. 

He nudges Satoru’s ankles to allow himself up, and once he’s given the space, he drags himself up from his seat on the bench. He stretches slightly before walking, ambling along in that hunched way he does when he’s trying to pretend that he’s not associated with the white-haired boy behind him. The crunching of a paper bag lets him know that Satoru is already indulging in one of his sweet treats. 

The walk is short, and the sun is just past the sky’s peak when the two of them arrive. The shop owner is an older man. His wrinkles are a bit too shallow and too new to consider him elderly, but his voice is roughened with age and his hands have a slight tremor when he hands Suguru the bike that’s just been paid for by Satoru. The look on his face was knowing when Satoru asks for only one bike, despite traipsing into the store with Suguru in tow. But he says nothing of the laws banning students from bike sharing and only tells them to be careful with the bike and to have it returned by noon tomorrow. 

Satoru’s given the shop owner enough money to keep the bike for the whole day, even though everyone is due back at the train station by six.

One of Satoru’s habits. Always, always, always overpaying. 

“Well?” Suguru says, when the two of them are at the far end of a street. His arms are crossed and the bike is tilted against his hip. “Are you going to ride the bike or not?” 

There’s a look of mischief again, before Satoru beams, all spring sun and daylight, and shamelessly utters, “I’ve never ridden on a bike before.” 

Suguru fails to stop the sigh that escapes him, fails to stop his own smile—much less sun-touched, but much, much softer—from crossing onto his mouth. 

He says nothing more, knows that nothing more needs to be said. Without much thought, he throws one leg over the bike and settles himself on the seat with practiced ease. He thanks the shop owner for knowing, for filling in Suguru’s hesitation about which bike to borrow and choosing a bike with a spot for a rear basket. 

It’s not a seat, but it is a seat. 

Suguru shifts forward on the bike, planting his elbows on the bars, waiting for the inevitable complaining as he listens to Satoru adjust himself on the metal bars.  Having been the passenger on a bike like this before, Suguru is familiar with the discomfort of the metal bars digging into his legs. He knows that his butt will be sore later from sitting on a seat that’s not a seat. 

But oddly enough, even after all his shuffling is over, Satoru says nothing. Suguru squints at a line in the pavement, letting the next beat of silence go by. There’s a sudden irrational fear blossoming in his chest, that Satoru’s somehow died from getting on his first bike, and he turns abruptly to look behind him, 

Only to be met with the sight of slightly pinkened cheeks and eyes that are wide enough to be visible behind the rims of his glasses. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Satoru’s gaze darts to his face. “What do I hold onto?” 

Suguru smiles, huffing a laugh. “Me, obviously.” 

It’s not until he feels hands at his waist that he understands the color to Satoru’s face. He opens his mouth to tell him to hold on tighter, but the words die on his tongue when he feels the press of Satoru against him, the warmth of Satoru’s chest against his back. 

He gargles out a clear, “Ready?”

And the only answer is a tightening of the hands at his waist. With a soft exhale and a prayer to the heavens that the streets are not busy today, Suguru sets his feet on the pedals and rolls forward. 

Now that he’s out from between the barrier of two buildings, the onslaught of wind is newly revived. It whips against his face, blowing his hair onto his face as he chooses a particularly steep street to ride down. He feels Satoru’s arms move to encircle him entirely, and in a rather bold move, he frees one of his hands to pat the two hands locked over his stomach.

Satoru yells at him for his reckless antics. 

As if he’s in a place to lecture others about recklessness, as if he is not the one who throws himself into danger without thought. 

The brakes on the bike screech ever so slightly when he stops at the red light on a busy main street. But it’s only the barest of pauses before he’s crossing the street, zipping by strangers on the street, riding into the park that he and Satoru walked out of earlier that morning. 

The arms at his waist tighten. Others might mistake it for fear because Suguru is pedaling wildly, like an over competitive child who’s just been challenged, like a man being chased by the whole world. But Suguru knows it’s not fear. Because not a moment later, Satoru lets go with one hand, reaching up, reaching out—towards the sky or the sun or perhaps even towards an invisible heaven. 

There’s no mistaking the joy that is wrought into the laughter spilling from his mouth. 

Suguru is not like him. He is a bottomless pit, a hazy existence. He is not the type to create waves in a still pond. To put his desires into words, it is nothing short of asking the world to fall apart. 

And so, he settles for the little satiations. He watches Satoru while he sleeps, knowing that he is softer in the shadows. He waits in lines with Satoru, scooting over in his bed and breathing silently. He summons the curses that are capable of flight and rides into the clouds with the boy whose face is touched by spring and whose eyes are painted by daylight. 

But Satoru is not like him. He is a book with the pages already open, a vault without a lock, not afraid to bare his heart to the world. He is not the type to hesitate with his words. Always speaking his mind, voicing his demands, never too shy to let the world know of his displeasure with it. 

He wants and wants and wants, and yet he is selfless in all his wants.

Satoru is good in that way. 

And that is why Suguru does not begrudge him for the way he throws himself over the line that Suguru’s drawn. Helping Suguru brush his hair at night, listening more intently than he’s supposed to as Suguru tells him of a life different from this one, asking him to ride a bike. 

Satoru is good in that way. 

And Suguru loves him. 

*

“Have you lost some weight?”

It’s impossible to lie to Satoru. But lately, his brain’s been good at giving half-truths, weaving words together that suffice enough to ease his guilt. 

“It’s the summer heat.” 

He knows that Satoru grasps the underlying meaning as he says it. This summer is different from the others. To say precisely how, he doubts either of them are able to. If Shoko wonders why he and Satoru turn down all her invitations to the beach, she chooses not to ask.

Satoru's gaze lingers, searching. 

*

Buried, it still aches. 

Tucked away, it still spills onto the surface. 

Love is not like a plant. It does not need to be watered to grow, does not need to be fed or nurtured. Even soaked through with poison and cut at with knives, it can still choose to grow. 

Tsukumo dangled them in front of him, puzzle pieces that he was meant to solve. She might not have intended for them to be put together like this, but she was not desperate in the way that he was. 

Choking on his own helplessness. 

But the solution hits eventually. 

By chance or by fate, it comes in the form of Mimiko and Nanako, who look up at him through the wooden beams of a countryside prison. Eyes wide and tearful. 

The sight twists in his gut in a way that is familiar and not. He feels the bile climbing in his throat, the urge to upend his lunch on the floor prickling in his stomach, his head splitting open. 

Like the feeling of swallowing a cursed spirit. 

Except this time, the cause is entirely human. 

The hatred that boils in his gut is visceral, so different from the emptiness that’s left behind in his system from curses. 

He feels almost blind with rage as he allows the low-level curse to go free. And without his control, it goes, wreaking havoc, spilling cursed energy into the air—

Killing. 

It is easier than he expects. 

More than that, it’s almost freeing. To just let go. A logical part of his brain tells him that these people deserve it, for imprisoning children who are merely existing. 

He kicks through the wooden beams, his words soft and careful as he asks if the two girls are okay. Neither look afraid of him. He learns Mimiko’s name a bit later, and Nanako’s shortly after. Mimiko is not shy about clutching to his rather large pant leg. He’s tempted to snap a picture on his phone and send it to Satoru, jokes about adopting ready on his mind, his hand already reaching into his pocket. 

But there’s already screaming. 

It’s from outside. 

Suguru swallows thickly. 

He reaches for the cursed spirit that he released, only to be distracted by a second set of hands grasping on his legs. But there is no fear in Nanako's eyes when she looks up at him.

Only admiration. 

Seldom is he at the other end of such an expression. Not that he needs it or even wants it, but something shifts in his head, the second to last number before a safe opens, the turn of a wheel or a gear. 

He reaches out, his movements tentative as he settles his hand on top of Nanako’s head. It’s only after Mimiko tugs on his other pant leg that he gives her a soft pat to the head also. He lowers himself to the floor, propping himself on one knee. 

“Cover your ears.” 

The screams go on, an endless cacophony of wails, each change in pitch or timbre hammering like a nail into his head. 

Into his coffin. 

A more illogical part of his mind—insidious as it is—whispers mutedly, telling him that these people deserve it. 

If not for these people, curses would not be existent. 

But Suguru knows that it is human nature to be fearful. To be ignorant and hateful and to force others to endure it. The ugliest parts of human nature, but still so, so human.

Suguru is nothing, if not human, too. 

But if not for these people, Haibara would still be alive. Nanami would not be wearing mourning clothes day in and day out, his soul sinking further and further into an emptiness that cannot be filled. Suguru would not be here, watching over two children that were being treated as monsters.

Suguru would be with Satoru. Sitting next to him—maybe eating ice cream or cake or drinking a cup of tea brewed just right. Laying his head against Satoru, letting familiar hands glide through his hair.  

His eyes drag laggedly to the square window closest to him. Only the sky is visible, the last streaks of softer blues fading rapidly into an inky obsidian. He feels almost floaty, as he tries to remember whether today will be a full moon or a new moon, whether the sky will be pitch black when he walks out into it, or whether there will be light. 

Killing in hopes of saving. 

It’s not the way Satoru would choose. 

But he was not there. 

Satoru was not the one to face the ghost with the manic grin, to have his existence cleaved in half by news of a death thought impossible. 

To Suguru, it’s barely a choice. 

*

Love is, was, and always will be selfish. Suguru knows that if he allows himself this, nothing would have stopped him from asking Satoru to leave. 

With him. 

A part of him wonders if Satoru would go.

The strongest.  

The world at his fingertips, ready to be altered in a breath's moment. If he so desired, he could have wiped the jujutsu society from existence. Rid himself of the higher-ups, of curses, of the world. 

If Satoru learned why, he would follow Suguru, would go without even being asked. 

But the road he is choosing, he knows that it will be ugly. Win or lose, it ends with blood on his hands. 

In his lungs, drowning him.

To him, who's been drowning in it for so much of his life, it's nothing. 

But Satoru, who touches with the ease of salvation, whose smile was carved by joy itself, who loves so, so easy and fights so, so hard in the name of it. 

Suguru knows he would rather rip his heart from his chest than allow even the slightest bit of sin touch him. 

If Satoru ever learned why, he would convince Suguru to stay. Keeping him close, fingers digging into his ribs, whispering that he does not mind, that he would willingly carry all of Suguru’s suffering for him. 

Satoru, who could turn an ocean's distance into shared breath space, would drag the sin from Suguru's hands, wrap him in it, and make it feel like warmth. Like spring. 

But Suguru knows his soul is heavy. It is not easy to hold together what Toji Zenin broke apart. He hates the thought of allowing Satoru to carry it so freely, to burden him so easily.

Suguru opens his eyes, confused by the sudden absence of water hitting his face. He sees the umbrella before he sees the hand holding it, and when he turns at last, he’s greeted by the sight of Satoru, a smile on that stupid face of his. He’s practically drenched, his hair matted and tangled, grayed by the sky. 

Suguru stares. 

He reaches up, wrapping his fingers around the umbrella’s pole, trying to tilt the umbrella back over Satoru’s head. On normal days, it’s a toss up between who possesses more raw strength, Satoru victoriously pinning him to the ground during a spar, or Suguru successfully shattering his weapon to splinters. 

But at this moment, Suguru feels weak, his attempt to move the umbrella fruitless, Satoru too stubborn to budge. It’s annoying. His patience is already low, almost non-existent, having exhausted it all with the higher-ups. 

He yells first. 

Normally, he’s not the type, his anger always soft, his words cutting rather than explosive. 

Only Satoru ever sees him like this. Only he knows how to bring out this side of him, and only he would ever consider provoking Suguru further when he’s in such a mood. He’s oblivious that way, and Suguru never holds it against him. 

How is light supposed to react to shadow, if not attempt to brighten it?  

But this time, Satoru waits—wordless, watching—his smile softening, but not falling. Drops of rainwater are catching on his lashes, dripping from his hair, flowing from his face, wetting his expensive coat. A sky, absent of storms and grey, looking straight into Suguru’s soul. 

He looks beautiful. 

It annoys Suguru even more.

Because here he is, after lambasting the higher-ups for using Satoru as a weapon and a shield, for putting too much on Satoru’s shoulders, for stealing Satoru’s youth, and getting nothing other than scorn and disdain—here Suguru is, failing to help him and yet getting his warmth. 

It would make him no better than everyone else, like all the others who only know how to ask for help, conveniently forgetting that the lonely god prayed to is just a kid. 

Suguru does not forget.

Nor does he want to become like everyone else in Satoru’s eyes. It’s as selfish as he allows himself to be. Refusing Satoru’s affection, and yet clinging to the fact that it exists, to the fact that he is someone to the strongest jujutsu sorcerer in the world. That he is a world on his own rather than part of a world barely cared for. 

But what good is Suguru’s love in the face of this life? He was not shrouded in glory nor a child of heaven. What power belonged to him, what could he command that would allow him to help Satoru? 

He and him were different, one always the savior and one always the saved. 

And so Suguru leaves and he chooses not to tell him why. 

Instead, he throws betrayal in Satoru’s face, smears ink and ugliness over Satoru’s perception of him in hopes that Satoru will choose not to go after him. He offers his best friend the chance to kill him, half-hoping that Satoru will—because it would not be so terrible to die by the hands that have held his soul. Half-hoping that he will not because then Suguru will truly have died such a useless, useless death. 

The look on Satoru’s face—it will haunt him forever, he knows. 

Fingers tugging at his hair, dragging him forward. Barely a moment to breathe, but he trembles on the exhale, only to be interrupted by the taste of vague sweetness. It’s clumsy, teeth clattering, a misplaced tongue wet across his lips. 

It’s awful. 

It’s wonderful. 

Like with all else in life, Satoru is a fast learner. Judging by the way he tilts Suguru’s face up, fingertips dragging along his jawline, tongue pressing insistently into his mouth. 

He wonders if it’s fair that he wants to kiss Satoru like that one last time. To say all that he cannot say with words.

This does not change my love for you. 

After all this, it will still be here. 

Forever. 

*

It’s the dead of night when the air in the room changes. The slats of moonlight crossing in through the window seem to dim with Satoru’s arrival. 

Suguru was right, after all. 

No matter where he goes, Satoru always knows where to follow. 

He wonders if it’s his fault, for always being so easy to find. Perhaps he is the one who is subconsciously leaving traces of himself behind, clues about where he’s going and where’s staying. 

Stupidly hopeful that Satoru is still looking. 

Satoru is always looking, and to his credit, this is the fourth time he’s found Suguru. The first time there were no words, just a clash of eyes through a blurring crowd. Each of the past meetings have been different, and it looks like this one will be too. 

Because like the fool he is, Suguru scoots over in the bed he’s borrowing for the week. Satoru, who is not so foolish, only perches himself at the edge of the bed. A familiar silence settles between them, and Suguru wonders if this is how the night will pass. Peaceful, content. It's his first time visiting in the hours between days, and Suguru wonders what the rules are when the sun is not in the sky. 

But then he speaks. 

“You saved me,” Satoru murmurs, words soft in a way that only Suguru knows is like him. 

“Me?” He wonders if it’s old habits that are urging him to argue, to bicker with him. A semblance from times before. Or if it’s truly his own disbelief. “Satoru, you have never needed to be saved in your life.” 

Satoru turns to face him. And it feels almost like a punch to the gut when Suguru’s gaze meets with his, the air lost on him as he struggles for his next breath. 

Suguru never associated the color blue with sadness, not when he always found joy and pride and comfort and mockery while staring into it. But here Satoru’s eyes are filled with anguish, stained so heavily by grief , he feels as though all those other emotions from before, must have been imagined. 

It reaches into him, crawling between his ribs, into his soul, and he wants to scream at himself, because he knows that he is the reason. Suguru is the cause of Satoru’s pain.

But Satoru’s touch does not seek retribution when his hand comes to grab Suguru’s wrist. 

Careful.

Delicate.

Suguru wonders how much restraint is in Satoru’s hands, how much of himself is being held back. Whether out of affection or anger, he knows that Satoru wants nothing more than to crush Suguru against him. He is generous with his affection, possessing so much of it, he never hesitates to give it, to bask others in it.  

Yagamichi mentioned early on how most jujutsu sorcerers who used curse manipulation were weak in close combat. It was a natural consequence of relying on curses to fight, but he was set on preventing it from ever becoming a habit of Suguru’s. The time he allotted for exercising on the field, hand-to-hand combat, and weapons sparring was almost triple the amount of time recommended in the course curriculum. 

The only one who complained was Shoko, who was often out of breath by the time she was on her fourth lap and getting lapped four times over by Mei. She blamed it on her cursed-technique for never being able to boost her endurance. Everyone else blamed it on the fact that she smoked through a quarter pack of cigarettes a day. 

Suguru, despite never being against the physical training, was thankful that Yagamichi was so insistent on it. 

It was late in his second year, shortly after Suguru was given the classification of first-grade by the school, that he’s assigned to handle a second-grade curse in Okinawa. 

On paper, it’s easily within his capabilities. But no one was expecting the second-grade curse to lead him to the nest of a special-grade curse that was holed up in the remnants of an abandoned hospital. He dispels the second-grade curse without much thought, not even bothering to add it to his arsenal as he works his way through the hospital. 

The special-grade is grotesque, standing upright on two stilted-looking appendages, with a face that’s bubbly and almost scarred-looking. From the torso, there’s five or six flesh-looking protrusions. It’s able to speak in fractured sentences, regurgitating thoughts of medicines and numbness and surgical operations performed without anesthesia. 

It’s through a miscalculation that he ends in the lowest levels of the hospital, in the basement where it’s difficult to see, where the hallways are cramped and where the walls are too dense to break through. He reaches for Playful Cloud, too late to stop the attack entirely, but in time that he only suffers a crushing blow to his chest. 

His battle levels one wing of the building. Were it not for the concussion he suffered afterwards, he would have applauded himself for choosing a veil of a suitable size. 

Carrying himself on one of his more tame curses, he flies to the school, maintaining just enough consciousness to reach his destination, floating in and out of awareness. His ribs ache and breathing is painful and he’s dizzy. A cut is festering on his leg. There’s the taste of blood in his mouth the whole time, but he finds that he does not mind it so much when it’s not from upending his stomach.

The sky is blue. 

Suguru stares at it the whole time. 

At times it feels like he's not looking at the sky, when the sun hits his eyes just right. 

Daytime is growing on him. 

Luckily for him, Shoko is at the school when he arrives and busies herself with tending to his injuries. The curse he used for travels disperses almost instantly and all he remembers is Shoko yelling for Haibara to help carry him before he passes out from blood loss. 

When he wakes, the first words out of his mouth are a question, asking if Satoru is finished with his own assignment. 

Haibara, sweet as he is, tells him that Satoru would arrive later in the day. Haibara was never good with silence, like Nanami is, so there’s only a momentary lapse of noise before he launches into a riveting story of how he almost set fire to the kitchens trying to cook lotus and pork rib soup. It’s only after he finishes that Suguru realizes Nanami is also there, in the next bed, moping over his own injuries, which are not as severe as Suguru’s. 

True to Haibara’s words, it’s late afternoon when Satoru’s head pops into the room. He’s followed by Mei who’s delivering not-burnt soup. She coos at her injured classmates before leaving. 

Suguru barely manages an utterance of gratitude to her before hands are on his face, and he’s being forcibly turned to look at Satoru. 

It’s a strange look on him. 

Worry. 

Satoru’s eyes dart all over his face, and Suguru forgets how to breathe when Satoru’s thumb traces a line over the ridge of his cheekbones. He may or may not have a shallow gash there from debris, but his thoughts are too scattered to remember and he’s too focused on Satoru’s touch to feel the pain that might have been there. 

He’s stupid with injury, and it’s not until his face is being pressed into soft fabric that he realizes that Satoru let go of his face and is now wrapping him in his arms. His ribs are protesting the movement, a pain that reaches and recedes with every breath, like an ocean’s tide on the shore. Not to mention that he’s a bit dizzy and all the jostling has made it feel like his brain is loose in his head, like a ball jangling in an empty jar. 

Anger is the way Suguru remembers the second time that Satoru finds him, except there’s no yelling, no curses thrown or hands raised. It is just that same too-tight embrace that almost crushes his bones to dust. 

“There are more things to be saved from than death, Suguru.” 

And what else would you need to be saved from Satoru? You, who are so often so close to it?

He wants to ask, and yet he knows that the answer Satoru gives him will not make him feel better. It will not absolve him.  

But if it did? Would he deserve it? 

The words get lodged in his throat, and he tries his best not to sound like he’s choking them out, “Like what?”

The grip on his wrist tightens ever so slightly. “You stopped me,” Satoru says, a tinge of familiar haughtiness slipping into his words. It makes Suguru happy almost, to know that he is still himself. “From killing all those stupid fucks.” 

At that, even Suguru huffs a laugh. 

Impolite as Satoru often is, he is not crass. Raised as he was, within an elite family, he possessed more manners that Suguru and Shoko put together. He seldom cursed, and on the occasion that a curse slipped a bit too candidly from his mouth, everyone within vicinity would get whiplash just turning to look at him in shock. 

The smiles Satoru gives him is not without sadness as he continues. “You allow me to be good, Suguru. Always, you make me better than I am.” 

“You were always meant to be the world’s hero, Satoru.”

It is a good place to be, venerated, to sit on a perch high above others. To be the strongest, it allows him more than just the power. Satoru is capable of change , and who is Suguru to bar him from that, to be the hands that drag him into oblivion. 

“Why do you insist on shouldering the world’s hatred?” 

The words are heavy. “It’s what I am made for.” 

A cruel play by fate’s hands. Curse manipulation. What is he meant for if not bearing the world’s grudges, humanity’s hatred. A landfill to throw negativity into. 

Anger, affection, desperation. Each emotion flits through ocean-painted eyes, like the reflection of stars shooting across blackened sky. 

Suguru wonders what it would be like to swallow all those ugly feelings from the person he loves. He wants to, wants to rip all it from Satoru’s heart until all he sees is the joy that he remembers from years past. But his hands are hands that only know how to plant sorrow, not erase it. 

He is not like Satoru, who brings sunlight wherever he walks. 

“Your soul is not the price you need to pay to be loved, Suguru.” 

It’s impossible to miss the crack in his words. But Satoru does not say it, does not say the words that have been echoing endlessly in Suguru’s head for almost a year now. 

Whether to protect his heart or Suguru’s, he cannot say. But it’s easier to pretend if Satoru does not say it. To keep this charade alive. To treat each other as enemies, or as traitors, or as friends past. 

It is easier, he says to himself, to be all of those than it is to be the keepers of each other’s dreams, the holder of each other’s hearts.

*

It’s no one’s fault, but his own. Letting the word monkey slip from his mouth when he lays eyes on Zenin Maki. He knows enough about the Zenin clan, about the outdated, disgustingly sexist practices of the inner family members to feel bad for her upon first glance. But when she turns to look at him, it’s impossible not to see him in her. 

Toji Zenin.

The two are cousins. Distant enough that the two only share features here and there. But it’s the emptiness radiating from her that drags him to a standstill.

But mistake’s been made, and he’s nothing else if committed to his role in Satoru’s story. 

He spits his vile words. 

And his heart splits, dragged in opposite directions by warmth and heartache as he watches Okkotsu jump to Zenin Maki’s defense. Unlike her, he radiates with cursed energy, so much that even the curses in Suguru’s arsenal are cowering away from his touch. 

Rika. 

Hanging like a fog over his head, clinging to him like a ghost. 

The gifted and the cursed. 

No wonder the higher-ups were so ready to execute a child, to destroy this. The higher-ups likely looked at Okkotsu Yuuta and Rika Orimoto and instead saw Getou Suguru and Gojo Satoru. 

The gifted and the cursed. 

Suguru sees it, too. 

He wonders for a moment, if the higher-ups would be satisfied now. Gleefully glib to be proven right, that Suguru did end up being the stain on Satoru's life that he was always thought to be. How lucky for the higher-ups that he chose so readily to wash himself out of Satoru’s life, how lucky for them that he faded like a bruise rather than festered into a scar. 

Perhaps there will be indignation because he was not properly disposed of, much earlier on, and anger towards Satoru for not being the one to do it. 

Suguru laughs, putting on his best airs, happy that neither Shoko or Satoru have arrived on the scene yet. Either would have been able to see through his facade. By the way Nanami’s head tilts, it’s possible he sees through it also. 

It hurts to be known. To be known is to be loved. 

And he was loved here, was he not?

It becomes a game, almost. Trying to find gifts for Satoru and Suguru. It’s Haibara that tells him about it. Apparently, buying gifts for Mei and Shoko is too easy. With Mei’s inclination towards money, Haibara and Nanami always just pitch in their monthly pittances to buy her designer accessories or clothing. 

In a rather stark contrast, Shoko is a collector of odd knick knacks, and her gifts are acquired more spontaneously. One of her favorite possessions is a sculpture of an eyeball with a syringe stabbed into it. Satoru bought it for her as a gag gift, and was thoroughly confused when she placed it on her desk, displaying it next to all her medical textbooks.

It’s Shoko who figures it out for Satoru. Because after Suguru, she’s the next closest to him. And because she spends an inordinate amount of time with them and is annoyingly observant. She sees the way Satoru is always taking pictures. She listens to him complain about how he’s on his third SIM card even though the phone is only a year old. 

He’s a sentimental loser. 

And because Haibara is like a puppy who’s just been given a new toy to chew on, he spends half the season putting together a photo album. It’s supposed to be a secret, but he ends up dragging in everyone except Satoru himself, who’s oblivious enough that he misses the secret happenings around him. 

Suguru is a puzzle who ends up being solved by Nanami, a time or so later. It surprises everyone, except Suguru himself. Because in a way, Nanami is a bit like him. He likes keeping his place, even if it means hovering occasionally at the edges. Like Suguru, he is a willing satellite, happy to orbit a much brighter sun. Nanami knows that it is much easier for a satellite to lose a sun than it is for a sun to lose a satellite. 

In short, he’s an even more sentimental loser than Satoru. 

Shoko cringes at the matching bracelets when Haibara buys them. She nevers wears it, but it sits next to her eyeball sculpture every time Suguru and Satoru decide to invade her space. 

The loose and easy way Satoru stands is proof enough. There is no tautness to him, no defensiveness in the crossing of his arms. His arrival was felt before was seen, and it’s everything in Suguru’s power not to let the disappointment show on his face when he’s confronted with white bandages instead of sparkling eyes. 

There’s an almost childish urge to tease Satoru about it. But with half the staff and students watching him and ready to jump in on the spot, he chooses not to. 

After all, Suguru is here for business. Going by the frown tugging softly at the edges of Satoru’s mouth, he must know it also.

 In front of all these eyes, the charade continues. 

Today is not a day of yearning.  

Suguru’s eyes track once more to Okkotsu, who glares at him. As much as he can glare, given the absence of sternness in his face. The look Maki Zenin is giving him is much more threatening. 

Between this moment and the next, he makes a decision. It’s stupid. 

Splitting his curses between Kyoto and Tokyo. 

Suicidal.

But before his mind is allowed to get too caught up in his lapse of judgement, Mimiko and Nanako call out for him—breaking his train of thought.

The timing is almost comedic with how perfect it is. In a way, Mimiko and Nanako have always been like that for him. The hands on the brakes, stopping him from going too far into a direction that does not welcome him. The tug at the other end of a rope, telling him time and time again that he is not as lost as he feels. It’s a different space than the ones once occupied by the people he reminisces about. 

No less good or bad, only different. 

To the girls, he is loved. But he is not known. Because even if he tells all the stories of his childhood, even if he paints his younger years with feelings of whimsy and idyll, Mimiko and Nanako were not there to witness it. 

Only the people who he lost, know what he lost. 

To Satoru and Shoko and Nanami, and even Yagamichi who’s spitting curses beneath his breath, he was known. 

He was loved. 

*

The plan was never truly to kill Okkotsu Yuuta. Not that he was adverse to killing. But Okkotsu was just so young, and this life given to him was not a life he chose. And who was Suguru to rob him of it? It would make him no better than the higher-ups he wanted to crush beneath his foot. 

No. 

His hope was to speak to Rika, to bargain with her. If she was sensible and sentient enough to listen to Okkotsu, then Suguru might have a chance to enter into a binding vow with her. 

Help me kill them, all the higher-ups, all the non-sorcerers. Help me kill them, and your beloved will never be in danger ever again. 

Rika would agree with him, he thinks. 

Love is madness’s other half, and he is nothing if not woven with love. 

“It’s love.”

Suguru feels his soul shatter.

Into pieces of hatred and hope and yearning. So much yearning. He knows that even if Satoru were to try, it would be impossible to hold him together after this. His hands would bloody themselves trying, his fingers cutting themselves on all the sharp edges of Suguru's soul, the edges he sharpened himself. 

Envy. 

Okkotsu loved Orimoto Rika, and she loved him in turn, and because of that, he sought to break her curse. He accepted his weakness, found no shame in relying on her strength. He thrived, satiating himself with the love from the people who surrounded him. Okkotsu Yauta allowed himself to be saved, and in the end, he saved them all. 

Regret.  

Because Suguru was offered the same. To love and be loved. But he was too naive and too hateful and too prideful to admit to his weakness. It was easier to deprive himself of it, than to admit that he was getting more than he deserved it. And because of that, Suguru rejected the hand that was offered to him, the life that was open to him. 

He wonders how life would have looked if he decided to stay, if he saved Mimiko and Nanako silently, without killing all those people. What it would have been like to see Satoru’s child sitting next to his own. 

It is no one’s fault but his own, for believing that their love was lost before it could even be found. 

Hope. 

It is too late for hope for himself. But Suguru collects all the scraps of hope that are left from his soul, and he prays that Okkotsu, who is already so different from him, will continue to be different. He hopes that Okkotsu will not forsake the chance given to him. 

That he will be loved. 

*

In a different life, he would be walking towards Satoru with an outstretched hand, carrying an umbrella. 

The world would not be so cruel. 

Riko would have just been a girl. A normal girl who was never robbed of the opportunity to choose for herself. 

Haibara would be alive, his sun-touched smile drawing in everyone and keeping everyone close. 

Mimiko and Nanako would never have needed saving. Accepted as children, nothing more, nothing less. 

Satoru's life would have been his own, and Suguru would have chosen to stay in it. 

"We'll see each other again, Suguru."

In a different life, Satoru would be speaking of the morning yet to come, of tomorrow. 

Not the afterlife.

But in this life, love is a curse. 

Sky dips into earth when his eyes meet Satoru's, sky dripping onto earth. 

In this life, it was always going to end like this.

Suguru knows that he's at fault. For loving him, for loving him only to leave him. 

Oh, but was it ever really his choice?  

The source of all his strength and his most shameful weakness.