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The coffee rots old in Suguru's cup and the smell of it makes him sick to his stomach. It becomes routine: he makes the responsible decision to get something to eat three times a day, and all of the three times he lets it go bad right in front of his eyes, incapable of downing anything.
The truth is, the energy it'd take to not throw up is completely gone just to restrain his bad thoughts to the inside of his head. So he spares his throat this extra trouble. Still, the smell is terrible. Suguru buries his face in his shaking fingers, just to avoid looking at the abandoned cup. He needs to at least get some caffeine in his system, or else he'll seriously pass out before arriving at any mission.
Just as he decides that drinking the borderline expired drink is more effective than making a new one, very familiar, very long and very pale fingers take the cup from the desk, right under his grasp. Suguru blinks. Turns around. The door to his room is still very much locked, but wind blows through the window where before it got stalled. He can't help the dumbfounded look he flashes Satoru, even though he knows it'll feed his ego, even though he knows his normal self would never stumble like that.
As predicted, Satoru puffs his chest out like a child. Also predictably, his friend has the social awareness of a systematically isolated bull, "You didn't sense me? Getting rusty, Suguru!"
Satoru is... He looks fine. His hair looks as affected by electricity as always, though it's getting a little long. Suguru doesn't know if that's on purpose, which hurts a lot to realize. He should know. At least he's still able to tell when Satoru only looks fine.
"You're like a bedbug to me, Satoru," he finds in himself to say, mostly deadpan.
It would be all much simpler if Suguru felt properly tired. Well, he does, he's exhausted and fading like burnt plastic, but his body is, at this point, too well conditioned. Even as he struggles to take more than a bite from his food, his eyes aren't heavy. There's no strain on his muscles. He can't justify not noticing Satoru with being out of shape; Suguru's just really that out of his mind.
Satoru gasps like they're doing a bit. Suguru wonders if they are. In any case, he's just happy to look at him.
"You're terrible! Also, this is disgusting," his friend shakes the cup, raising his eyebrows multiple times, looking so stupid and magical. Suguru can only stare at the shine on his lips, the pen stains on his fingers (did he have to sign something? Satoru gets pen ink all over himself with any small thing, even just writing his name), wondering if he's real at all. "I'll buy you cool, sweet iced coffee. Then you'll have to be nice to me!"
Suguru wonders why this is a day when Satoru only looks, not feels, fine. Maybe he had a Riko dream, or saw somebody die in a mission or two, just this morning. At first, he'd tell Suguru those things, but they both went busy and silent. This could even be Satoru's new constant instead of a today thing, and Suguru just wouldn't know.
Maybe the pain of thinking that is what propels Suguru to go with him, to just, after such a long time abstaining, follow Satoru.
It doesn't take that much convincing for Suguru to summon his manta curse for them to ride. He feels weirdly agreeable. Maybe the sight of Satoru's fingers making the detestable smell go away did something to his, currently mushy, mind. Maybe the way the boy makes avoiding bad thoughts easier, through the iron grip he has on Suguru's attention, incites Suguru to award him.
The setting sun looks beautiful, purple and pink, and Suguru knows that, unlike him, Satoru appreciates things like that even in a bad mood. It's nice to please someone that can be this expressive: Satoru laughs hysterically as the manta dives into the cold air, as fast as if free falling, and Suguru smiles, disarmed by the sight: Satoru using both hands to hold his sunglasses, snowy locks completely blown upwards, counting only on Suguru's grip on his shirt not to fly away along with his hair. Then, they're on their feet, Satoru's laughter still coming in small hiccups, while Suguru is reminded that the real world exists and so his face closes into a mild, unreadable expression.
It's easy to contain his dilemma when isolated from its cause; easier still when he's quite literally up in the sky, accompanied only by the person that must be the biggest antithesis to the target of his disgust. Once they're walking, more and more surrounded by non-sorcerers at each step, it's a different story.
Suguru hides his growing distress behind a perfectly blank face and, by his side, Satoru hides whatever's bugging him today behind sunglasses, munching on his own mouth and permanently facing the sky as if he's a super-not-stressed cartoon character. They're only hiding in an imaginary sense, too attuned to each other for dishonesty to be effective. Still, the walk is silent, the previous laughter forgotten.
The question of what exactly Satoru intends with this is a mystery to Suguru. With all his knowledge and the symmetry they share, he still can't tell even how aware Satoru is of Suguru's current state, of its gravity, much less if he's trying to do something about it.
Or rather, everything so far indicates that he's not interfering at all, and Suguru's sentimentality is inclined to believe this means Satoru does not, can not have any idea of what he's going through. Because he wouldn't let it happen if he knew. Surely, he wouldn't.
It's, for a couple different reasons, an insane, unfair way of thinking. Suguru realizes it's still exactly how he feels.
Satoru only talks again when they arrive at their destination, a small and very expensive, artisanal coffee shop. It goes without saying that Suguru knows the place. There was, before, this strange dynamic where Suguru never had to pay for his drinks, and Satoru never had to make the travel to get his, meaning Suguru knows his friend's favorite spots as much as or more than him.
They get inside and Suguru watches, warmed despite his will, how Satoru's form mellows below the cozy lighting, his hair now spikes of gray, his shoulders sitting still for a change as he's distracted smelling the sweet air.
"Now that's how coffee should smell!" Suguru only barely contains a snort. He thinks back on it and, then, really snorts. Satoru lets his sunglasses fall to the very tip of his nose, looking at him with his best offended, bug eyes.
"You're delusional, oh my god," and he's being nothing but honest. Satoru's face grows exasperated and Suguru can't stop laughing. He thinks they shouldn't be making a scene, but then can't figure out why that would be.
Maybe dissociation has its perks, he thinks, as Satoru gets into his space, headbutting him with no Infinity and almost no strength behind it, and he doesn't feel self conscious at all, not even when Satoru barely distances their faces before talking back at him.
Suguru only half listens to his bitching. Satoru has really absurd eyelashes. He's so pretty.
"Satoru," for vengeance purposes, he grabs Satoru's cheeks with one hand, harshly, to push him away. He smiles his threat smile, and determinedly does not think about how malleable the most guarded person he knows suddenly becomes, the moment Suguru's hand touches him, "I'm not waiting the whole evening for your over-expensive coffee."
Satoru huffs and makes an ugly face at him. Suguru shows him his tongue. He ends up winning a ten second staring contest against Gojo.
It all feels a little unreal, with how rare playing with Satoru like this has become. The dryness on his mouth and the hole on his stomach are almost forgotten. He does hope Satoru won't notice how unusual it is for him to refrain completely from interacting with the barista – as disgusted as he feels with himself for needing this, it seems best to keep reality away for now, if only so Satoru can have one good outing.
When Satoru turns back with their drinks, the one he hands Suguru is just black coffee. The cool, sweet iced coffee he threatened is contained in his own drink, some pink mess with a straw on top and colored ice cubes. Suguru's cup is plain ceramic and it fumes, the smell of (not rotten!) caffeine making him feel more clear headed.
It's perfect. Satoru smiles at him, and he doesn't seem half as performative as he did invading Suguru's room, moments ago. This probably helps him a lot, too, is just painful to realize.
They sit down, Satoru putting his sunglasses away, in the inner pocket of his uniform shirt, looking altogether very homey. The light from being with Satoru like this swims around Suguru's mind, but so do prickling sensations from being around... them. Suguru doesn't want to think any of it but he hasn't convinced himself enough, one way or the other, for the thoughts to feel right or leave him. And there's nothing he can think of that's worse than this stagnation in the middle.
He looks at Satoru and breathes out. His friend is already looking back, but he doesn't mind being caught sighing so emotionally. Satoru's eyes are attentive, wide in a way that anyone else could find eerie.
"You look..." Satoru actually hums inquisitively, seemingly trying hard to find the correct definition, and it'd be hysterical if Suguru wasn't so used to it, "I don't think I get it. What is it, Suguru? What's up?"
This is one of those moments where it's almost impossible to figure out whether Satoru's being an emotional manipulator, or just terribly, helplessly ignorant. Suguru doesn't exactly have the energy to analyze. He also struggles to decide how he wants to respond.
Sometimes, Suguru thinks he should just tell him. It seems like such an easy way out: confess your sins, and he'll solve it. Put it in his hands instead of yours, free yourself from the decision.
As fanatic as this is, Suguru wasn't ever prone to making Satoru into a god. That's not how he met Satoru, in the first place - for seven entire minutes, before Yaga or Shoko arrived, Suguru didn't know who Gojo Satoru was other than (1) his new classmate, (2) someone who couldn't sit still and (3), a shameless whiner. Suguru concluded the teen was rich within a minute inside the same room. Then, they talked, and he could feel Satoru's cursed energy like needles down his throat.
They bonded over mutual recognition of strength in the first five minutes. Satoru didn't know, but Suguru could taste the iciness of his capability on his tongue, and Suguru didn't know, but Satoru could see the shape of his power even with his eyes closed behind his sunglasses. What they both knew was I never met a wall before, someone who could stop me. It feels more like a window.
Suguru didn't meet him like a god. He was, actually, the first equal he met. It's only being distant, and stuck in a morality spiral, that Suguru thinks of him even remotely like that: godlike. An intrusive thought, mostly. He imagines Satoru as a target for his developing fanaticism and, in the same beat, fantasizes him as his executioner. Then, he holds onto those first ever seven minutes (the first of his entire life, the first since the beginning of time) to find sanity again.
And he can't tell if it's this small sliver of sanity or either of his inner torments that causes it, but whatever it is, something bites at his throat and begs him to be honest, these rare moments they still share. He can't swallow it down enough to shut it up.
Every previous time Satoru tried to do this, to question how beaten Suguru always looks nowadays, Suguru let the conversation slip away like water. It seemed no more than fool self indulgence, the idea of telling Satoru. When he'd gear up to do it, Satoru's impossible eyes would suddenly cease comforting and start triggering his guard up.
He glares into those eyes again. Tries, again,
"I'm okay," to hide. But his words sound like a joke. "A little tired," I'm all under control, he almost says, then feels nauseous for thinking it.
Satoru looks at him like he, too, thinks it sounds like a joke. He grows incredibly restless in the span of a few seconds, his foot stamping beneath the table where it almost touches Suguru's, and Suguru wagers the magical outing is over.
In a way, he's quite mistaken.
Satoru sips his "coffee" angrily. Suguru can see the straw getting smashed between his pearly teeth. Just the smell of that thing makes Suguru a bit nauseous, but watching Satoru let his cheeks puff a little before swallowing makes Suguru think of how his mouth must taste like the drink, and suddenly he wants to ask for a sip. Just to know.
It's a great distraction that leaves his head light enough not to flip the table when Satoru speaks again.
"You keep lying to me and then you're all depressed that things don't change," he spits like a stupid, stupid boy, "I can't help if I don't know what you want, Suguru."
"You assume this is something you're capable of helping with," Suguru's mouth runs without his full permission, just as stupid, "You always assume this."
Against all odds, despite Suguru's sharp predictions over his friend's behavior, Satoru's next words are exact and firm, unexpectedly knowing, though his voice betrays how exasperated he feels, "My capability is not the point," Suguru takes a harsh breath in, "I want to help you, or try to, whatever wording pleases you more, but I can't if you assume there's no use to talking to me!"
Suguru doesn't have an answer ready for that. The coffeeshop feels way too small for the dimensions of this conversation, like the half-glass walls are closing on them. Suguru drinks his coffee, trying not to glare at the cashier or the other patrons – all ignorant monkeys, leaking all over the place, making him think, isn't it so obvious?
God, Satoru has no idea.
"Just drop it, Satoru," he ends up saying, not very hopeful it'll work, but panicking a little.
Their school might be the easiest place for someone to throw themselves into neglect, and Suguru was rotting away with no interruptions, so far. The one talk he had about it...
He thinks of that casual tone, do you hate non-sorcerers? and how some part of him latched to the question as if it was an answer, hatred as a guideline, hatred as meaning.
Suguru can't tell what his friend would think of him. Suguru wasn't badly influenced, his mind was already whispering 'dirty monkeys' before he met Tsukumo, and he was aware and rational enough not to let it show in his speech. The part of him that's currently blind on irritation, revolted at each word Satoru says, wants to tell him in the crudest way he possibly can and watch him squirm. Another part of him, one that seems to get smaller each day, wants to curl into himself in sadness and apologize.
He takes a sip of his own coffee, thankfully managing to repress any shakiness on his hands. Without realizing that he's breaking the habit, that he's opening up to those eyes, Suguru finds a middle ground to speak.
"Alright," bitterness comes first, "I no longer see meaning in what we're doing. Even you, being the strongest, can't seem to make any real difference on the state of curses in our country," Satoru's visibly grinding his teeth. He doesn't need to say anything, for Suguru to know his distress comes from being so plainly isolated into the title he's keen on sharing with Suguru. Then, Suguru licks the wounds he inflicted, using his own vulnerability, "I need there to be meaning. If nothing is being truly achieved, I can't say I'm fulfilling my duties, and I've even become unsure as to who I owe those duties. I can't function like this. I need there to be a way."
It shouldn't be so shocking that he'd end up telling at least some of it to him. It shouldn't be, but still Suguru finds himself breathless. And Satoru looks more thoughtful than surprised but he can't unfreeze, can't process the lack of threat. In a second, Satoru is standing up; Suguru holds his breath like he's preparing himself to do it permanently, and there's only time for Satoru to scoff before his hands are on Suguru's shoulders and, suddenly, the space around them bends like paper.
Suguru falls on his butt. Thankfully, grass isn't the harshest place to do it. Satoru is in front of him, standing with his back bent, the way it had to, to reach Suguru's shoulders across the table. It's already dark outside, so Satoru stands like a visual sample for the word contrast.
Suguru turns to the side, braces his hands on the grass and throws up.
Unmoved, Satoru paces around, "Why- why the fuck would you possibly expect me to attack you for that?" his hands are in his pockets and he's just short of sounding mocking. He stops suddenly, glaring at Suguru. "Also, could you make it any less obvious that you're leaving something out? Make it easier for me to pretend I can't tell you're still hiding, asshole."
Unfortunately, it didn't take long for Suguru to empty his stomach. Barely anything there. Resigned to continue the conversation, he cleans his mouth on the sleeve of his uniform, feels the metallic button against his skin. Tries not to scream.
"You know I can't take this on an empty stomach, Satoru," he says, reprimanding tone already programmed into him.
Though it's too dark to really tell, Suguru's fairly sure Satoru narrows his eyes. He's not being threatening, at all, but it's either irrelevant or it straight up makes it worse. Alone with him, more than he ever planned revealed and having just vomited directly from Satoru's electricity in him, Suguru feels flayed open like a fish. There's no dissociation leftover; his fear and his hatred and his cry for help buzz around his body until throwing up starts sounding nice, if only so there's less of it all.
Instead of whining, throwing pettiness back at him like he knows Satoru wants to, his friend breathes out a sigh that feels a minute long. Then he crouches, his long legs sitting awkwardly crisscrossed and close to Suguru, no sign of aversion despite- Well. Everything.
It's easy to forget he hasn't said all of it yet, but Suguru doesn't. Part of him still prepares to either go back to hiding or lose Satoru. Or both.
"Well, basically all you do is put me through things I can't take, so deal with it," he says, tone honest and pouty and, Suguru can't pretend he doesn't know, just smitten. For a brief moment, Suguru is heartbroken, wishing they were talking about those things instead. If only he was anyone else. If what they feel for each other could ever come first to him. But he isn't, and it doesn't.
Satoru's face is so striking even in the dark, earnest like he actually can't get hurt – so much blue. At night, Satoru's otherwise light, icy blue eyes accompany the sky, becoming dark and starry, an impossibly rich blue. Suguru hates himself for sometimes being able to look at them and see just a weapon, a threat. He hates himself for never being as much of an exception as Satoru so lovingly sees him as.
Looking at that face, Suguru is overwhelmed by grief. He stops himself from touching him, almost scared that such a terrible, unbearable feeling of loss would contaminate through his skin. He feels like rot.
But this choice is taken from him – Satoru holds his face suddenly, both hands cold on his cheeks. His face doesn't seem to lose any of its light, no matter how much closer he gets, something Suguru never seems to fully understand. He realizes his own eyes are wide open.
"Okay. Let's be productive about this," Satoru says, quieter than usual, as if sliding his previous words away, "You're right. It doesn't work, don't even know if there ever was a time when it did. But we always knew that. Even talked about it, constantly. That's why we never really follow the orders- well, some of us less than others," he looks proud, almost getting a scoff out of Suguru. "But, that's not new. That's not what changed. So, again: what's up with you?"
He sounds so genuinely exasperated Suguru actually smiles, a weak stretch of lips that makes Satoru, in turn, smile confusedly. At that, Suguru chuckles.
It's not so much that there's no way to frame his thoughts in a lighter way, it's just that it feels distinctly wrong to do so. However, Suguru can't find it in himself to tell Satoru to can it now, and he can't find it in himself to look his best friend in the eyes and ask him to coddle him about serious murderous intent – because there's no other way to do it: however he says it, confessing to Satoru would make him feel some inclination to be on his side, and Suguru can't, won't do this to him.
By comparison, going against his moral code and dressing up his words feels like a small sacrifice.
"What happened... With Riko. Since then, I'm doubtful of our duty. Protecting non-sorcerers," his face shifts into an expression he doesn't bother to figure out, just glad he's managing not to avert his eyes. "It's. The more I think about it, the more immoral it all seems. Sorcerers live just to die, and do so very young, trying to shield those who are, technically, responsible for creating the danger. I..."
Suguru swallows. The second he stops ignoring his own face, he notices not only how angry he's most certainly looking (unhinged, even), but also how Satoru's face settles more and more into understanding. It's not opinion, it's just Satoru finding the connection between Suguru's strange behavior and his words, pure curiosity satiated. Impartial, scientific understanding over the sequence of events. His fingers not once leave their gentle placement on Suguru's cheeks.
"I don't think we should just do nothing, but whatever we should do, I no longer think it's this. It makes me sick to be part of it. I... Don't know what to do."
Despite leaving out the disgusting part, Suguru can't help but think Satoru knows. He didn't say it but he wasn't subtle, and he's too strong to be allowed freedom with this type of ideology. He knows Satoru will be the one sent to kill him if he ever acts. Part of him welcomes the idea, even wishes he'd do it now, but there's also panic and he suddenly can't make sense of why he just confessed so much-
"Suguru," finally, Satoru whines, shoulders dropping and his hands with them. His arms hang casually on Suguru's crossed legs and, though he looks somewhat defeated, it distinctly feels nothing like Suguru's horror. "You always have to take the hard route. I know this won't mean anything, god, you exhaust me, but I need to at least say it: you understand you don't need to be part of it, right? Like, you can walk away. If the alternative is as bad as you're making it seem like it is, you can just not participate. I don't even really believe in this duty thing. You know all of this, don't you?"
Suguru can't help a smile, morbid like he didn't know a smile could be, "I mean, in theory, yeah. Physically speaking, I could do that."
"And you won't. It's not a possibility. Right?"
"Yes."
"Of course," Satoru's eyes look the most angry then. In its own way, it's just as loving.
"I don't think it's right, Satoru," he sighs, serious, "People I care about have and will continue dying for this. We can't keep putting band-aids on it- the problem has to be addressed at the root, in order to end it, not soften it."
Satoru makes a face of effort. The effort to tackle this problem as if it bothers him half as much as it does Suguru, probably.
"Sounds a lot to me like you're trying to end world hunger just 'cause you know how to bake," he mumbles. The effort didn't suffice, apparently.
But Satoru knows when he's about to lose Suguru's investment in a conversation, so when his voice comes back louder, he goes another way.
"Look, I won't suggest you up and leave, then do nothing. Still, whenever I see you these days," he groans, distressed, "I can't describe it anyway other than that you look on the edge. And not of something great. I... Kept wishing it wasn't anything. That you were just grieving. I know people don't ever deal with these things like I do, so I don't try to understand it, just accept how it is– but it's not just that, right? It's worse, somehow."
The night wind blows cold on them, and though he himself doesn't seem affected by it, Satoru automatically goes to rub Suguru's arms, not even delaying his words for it – the type of thing that ties Suguru on the ground, that makes it so hard to leave him and, therefore, to leave this practice he's come to despise. He feels almost chained, and can't decide whether he hates it or not.
"I don't think you're going to figure out anything right like this, but you don't need to do it now. Stop taking missions, I'll cover it. Then we'll think of something," Satoru has a way to sound stressed and certain at the same time, that brings a less unstable smile to Suguru's lips. Then, like habit, "Not like you're in a rush. You sure aren't dying young. You're too strong."
If for nothing else, Suguru tries taking the words in for Satoru. For the fact that he reacted like this, like it never even crossed his mind to deny, to leave Suguru.
They're too different, sometimes.
He lets himself breathe, lets himself settle into the foolish safety of being isolated, the ease of thinking clearly when he's only with Satoru. If all Satoru's suggesting is him leaving the School (and that's what it really is, even if Satoru doesn't want to put it like that), he can't logically disagree. That's what he'd probably end up doing, eventually. When he knew where to go instead. When he could outweigh the guilt over his thoughts, and let the aversion win.
It feels like they're leaving out the very core of Suguru's dilemma: his hatred, the imperative filth of those people. Even then, Suguru can't find anything wrong to point out in Satoru's logic. He hasn't figured out what to do; he can't stomach doing more of the same. It makes sense to stop and organize.
Betraying himself, Suguru leads his hands to Satoru's hair, caressing the sides, where it shortens on the way to his ears. Against the dark sky, his hair looks like a dandelion. Suguru doesn't recognize this place, some sort of small cliff; isolated enough to see a good amount of stars, but close to the center enough that the faraway city lights outline Satoru's, now tense, shoulders. For someone so touchy, he looks startled like a deer in headlights. His hands grab Suguru's sleeves childishly. Weak at his touch, always. Stupid.
For a moment, Suguru thinks only about Satoru picking this place, quiet and open, just to make him comfortable. Thinks about his silent steps, not touching even the ground while, at the same time, he'd drop himself on Suguru, skin to vulnerable skin. It feels hard to speak, and yet, Suguru barely notices as the words fall out of his mouth.
"Alright," it's what he manages, "I'll think about it."
Satoru smiles but it's wobbly, clearly thinking more about the hands on him than anything else. It's almost a relief: there's no way he didn't catch some of Suguru's worst feelings tonight, but there's not even a whiff of difference in the way he feels for him.
Suguru thinks clearer, cleaner than he has in days and he holds onto it, holds onto Satoru's bright presence. At least for the night, it's enough.