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A new glaze of saliva coats his mouth, dripping from his lips and drooling down from his tongue and into the worn porcelain of a toilet. He feels a resurgence of the offending nausea that had left his throat sore and raw, jaw slack and cocked open to make way for an inevitable onslaught of stomach acid and what little remnants he had eaten early in the morning for breakfast. He was sat there, into the late hours of the night, puking his guts out.
Even then, when his stomach would empty and there would be snot and tears dribbling down his face, rolling down his chin from the force of it all, he knew that what soon follows is a predictable sequence of events that eventually devolves into him dry heaving around what isn’t there, his stomach trying to expel something that wasn’t physically residing inside him.
Suguru wasn’t certain if it was a matter of his psyche, the lingering taste of the curse on his tongue that rather cruelly clung on for hours at a time, (or maybe something spiritually beyond that, like how he felt every tortured, disgusting, perverse emotion accumulate into the form of an ugly curse, imbed itself deep inside his being only to squirm and protest until his technique subdued it.) but either way, it was relentless. Suguru would most times heave until his body could no longer exert the energy to, and his gagging would soon retire.
Sometimes, Suguru would find himself dozing off against the seat of the toilet, the side of his face pressed against the coolness of it. It would offer him a subtle respite from the sickening heat buzzing throughout his body, the same sort of fever that makes his head pound and his limbs weak. On the worst of days, he’d wake up with his head lolling back against the tiled wall of the college’s shared, communal bathroom. The signs of life that come with the start of a new day beyond the door would stir him awake, and he would know then that it was time to clean himself up and head to class.
But then again, those were only ever on his worst days when his stomach didn’t take very kindly to a curse of higher grade, or when Satoru wasn’t there to take some of the load off. Days when Satoru isn’t there to completely obliterate a curse of higher caliber that would’ve surely been useful to his growing arsenal of grade ones. It almost seemed intentional when Suguru would bark out complaints at Satoru and the latter would only offer a shrug in response, his tongue poking out in an irksome tease.
Suguru would stare bullets into nothing except the murkiness of water beneath his nose, apathetically watching the contents of his stomach swirl inside a toilet. It was only a long moment after that in his haze, he registered the click of shoes descending down the hall and the subsequent halting of them in front of the bathroom door. With a careless jostle of the knob, he immediately perks up slightly in recognition, he’s familiar with the brash confidence of this action, recklessly demanding the things in this world move around to compensate for its whims.
Satoru stands at the threshold between light and the dark murkiness of where Suguru is cramped up against the toilet, sprawled out on his knees with all assortments of bodily fluids running down his face. Self-consciously, he moves to quickly wipe away at it with a sleeve, causing hair, which frays messily out his bun, to get caught up in the mix and stick stubbornly to the wetness of his cheeks.
Well, this wasn’t ideal.
Satoru hadn’t been present when Suguru was assigned to today’s mission. Their sensei gave him a rather vague explanation about Satoru having clan affairs that he had to be in attendance at. Suguru could tell that with a furrow of Yaga’s brow, he too, didn’t have much of an idea of what something like that even entails in accordance with the Gojo clan. Despite this, he would adjust his shades and stiffly hand Suguru a folder documenting the information needed for what would be the resulting exorcism. (While rocking along a sea of bodies en route to the location, Satoru later sent him a ‘good luck’ text followed by an outright demand to get him something from the nearest confectionery on his way back. Suguru bites back a smile and sends Satoru a vague ‘maybe’ in return, despite how he’d then stubbornly purchase some dorayaki from a quaint stall of pastries post-mission, even as his upset stomach swirled at the smell of it alone.)
It seemed as if Satoru was finally back from whatever stuffy clan meeting he was made to attend.
They both stare at each other for a long moment, the pounding of Suguru’s heart beating violently in his ears.
To be caught in such a disgustingly vulnerable, borderline blasphemous state compared to the powerful forces they were hailed as was to be disgraced. It’s unsaid, the way they carry each other's own weight wordlessly without even so much as a tear shed or a complaint seething past gritted teeth. It’s because they need to maintain that front, because without it they might not be much else. Suguru did well in learning this with the passive observations of a stone-faced principal, with the unbothered way Shoko took a drag from her cigarette that was held between blood-stained fingers, and Satoru when he tried to hide the squint of his eyes and the furrow of his brows whilst intense blue trained on the hardwood of his desk.
It was an understatement to say that Satoru’s eyes on Suguru, rendered such a mess and now so completely seen through past the easy-going smile typically spread out along his face, brought him great shame.
Those same eyes, so incredibly empty of any tells that may encompass any inklings to Satoru’s inner thoughts leave him, and then his back faces him. Satoru leaves him there, knelt down on the hard bathroom tile. Satoru leaves him with all the indifference in the world, not even uttering a word nor scoffing at his sorry state.
This stings. Although Satoru coddling him or trying to comfort him would have been an unwelcome effort, —something that would surely have been disturbingly unnatural to Satoru’s character— it would have been an effort that would ultimately just make him feel weak and utterly useless. Suguru's not sure whether that would have felt worse than the way Satoru retreated out back the door with not a word spoken or another glance spared.
Suguru is starting to feel sick again. His stomach churns as if punishing him for his ineptitude.
Labeling him as one of the strongest amongst shamans seemed like some sort of cruel joke. Perhaps Suguru was just the strongest of the weak, not even near encompassing the mental fortitude required to justify this sort of title. Suguru knew he wasn’t ironclad, knew he had to be, or at the very least pretend like he was. Especially with this accursed technique that left ample room for vulnerabilities.
What does it really mean to be strong? Does it mean to cower in a corner with spit dribbling down his chin and streaks of tears staining tracks of wetness along his cheeks? If this contrived way of truth were a reality, perhaps what’s real is all some elaborate joke. Maybe all of this was something to be laughed at. Despite this, Suguru couldn’t find the humor within him to even make the corners of his mouth twitch up, couldn’t find the life in him to stretch those muscles into any vague notions of a smile. His shoulders shook with anguish rather than mirth. His throat choked out the quietest of sobs rather than the boisterous laughter that should be coughing out his lungs.
Suguru felt the press of something wet and cold against his cheek.
“Suguru.”
The iciness of leftover condensation clings to his face. His eyes draw up with a jaw drawn slack.
Suguru silently declines the bottle of water offered with a wordless shake of his head, dazedly rationalizing that he couldn’t stomach anything right now. The weak gaze of a muted brown -–drained of its former fervor— lingers on Satoru looming over him, watching as Satoru sets down the bottle along the marble sink and shuts the bathroom door with a click.
“Let me brush your hair. I know you hate when It’s messy.” Satoru is knelt beside him now, thumbs rolling along the prickles of Suguru’s comb idly. It’s not even a question, more like an assertion. Satoru was to brush Suguru’s hair. Suguru had no room to decline an offer which had a motivator of nothing but bubbling insecurity fueling its choice, Satoru didn’t allow it.
“Alright.” Suguru’s voice comes out hoarse and weak in the way that he hates, Satoru doesn’t acknowledge it and simply gets to work.
Satoru’s fingers hook into the elastic band holding up the remnants of his bun together, hair messily protruding out the loops of the hair tie in all its disheveled glory. It was nearly disturbing just how careful Satoru was being. This was unlike the times when Satoru had purposely yanked at the bound hair to draw Suguru’s bun loose in some childish tease. An action such as that was in great contrast to the delicate care he took in pinching stray locks of hair through the elastic band, soft and steady so that the tug to relinquish the knotted bun altogether wasn’t painful.
When Suguru’s hair fell to his shoulders, he felt this searing tension at his temples leave him. He hadn't even particularly noticed the pounding of his head before then, simply background noise to other ailments which were at the forefront of his mind. Everything else seemed to follow suit; the way his shoulders slacked, and the breath that he was holding shuddering out past his lips was a natural succession of events.
Satoru began at the bottom and slowly worked up towards the crown of Suguru’s head all whilst he was slack over the toilet, trying to swallow down the coil in his gut. It served well to soothe the tightness in his chest, the comb that ran tenderly through his hair was a welcome distraction from the way his heart was beating low in his stomach, which every now and then would retch to jump out his throat. Each and every time Suguru would surge forward to let acidic misery rush out his mouth, Satoru was there to hold his hair back, his silent presence comforting amidst each violent retch torn from Suguru.
At times Satoru seemed rather tentative. His ministrations grew stunted and perhaps even hesitant each time a tear would roll down Suguru’s cheek from the exertion of it all, but then he would simply just purse his lips into a stark line of indifference and sit there like a stone. Satoru offered no words of comfort nor condolence, he simply just remained by Suguru’s side until he was slouched against the toilet with his stomach having squeezed itself completely dry.
Satoru would rub the comb tenderly along Suguru’s scalp, drawing small circular motions with each downstroke through the fraying locks of hair.
“Hey, how about we head back to your room?” It’s a soft murmur that reaches Suguru’s ears, it’s not a sweet and sympathetic tone but a mindful and accommodating hush of words.
Suguru couldn’t comprehend that Satoru was capable of having even a singular considerate bone in his body. But then he considers all the times in which Satoru would squawk and flail around like an idiot to distract Suguru from the curses clawing down his throat— Suguru would think back to when the taste was particularly grating after one of their missions, when Satoru had dragged him over to the nearest ice cream parlor and made them both sample all the flavors together.
The lines of Suguru’s face soften and the memories settle warm in his stomach like a balm to the dread.
Satoru stands back and allows Suguru to make a wobbly attempt up on his feet. He weakly steadies himself against the wall, urging his legs to quit shaking beneath him as urgent hands claw to press unsteady limbs against the bathroom sink.
Satoru simply watches. Intense azure seem to stare intensely into Suguru’s very being, roving along his trembling form with barely suppressed apprehension beginning to crease lines around his eyes.
Despite this, he stays impossibly still. That is until Suguru stumbles. When Suguru reaches for something to grab ahold of, Satoru is already shot right at his side, grabbing ahold of his arms to help steady him. Hands wrap around the dirtied sleeves of Suguru’s uniform, gripping tight at his forearms whilst he seizes some semblance of balance.
The motions are messy and stunted, certainly not the spitting image of elegance nor grace. Despite it all, Satoru allows Suguru to drag himself up along the wall to gain some footing entirely on his lonesome, and Suguru appreciates that. Even if Satoru is staring bullets into each cumbersome sway of limbs that certainly have the potential to send him collapsing back onto the ground, he still allows Suguru to retain some semblance of his pride.
The trek back to Suguru’s room went well enough under their current circumstances. They pause in dim hallways of the college whenever Suguru feels his stomach coil with sinister suggestions of further expelling. Of course the feeling is a mere phantom, a torturous tease that never comes to pass.
Once they’re both settled in bed, curled up side by side, Suguru finds it within himself to claw some words out the hoarseness of his throat amidst the silence.
“How was it?”
Satoru perks up, finding Suguru’s gaze within the dark of the room. A grumbled response is instantaneous.
“God, it was such a bore. You’re much better at this diplomatic shit than I am. Maybe we should’ve swapped places for the day.”
A weak smile curves along Suguru’s lips.
“Yeah, I would have much preferred if you were the one who got all messed up.”
With a cocked brow and a petulant scowl, Satoru simply huffs, allowing himself to settle further into the mattress. There’s this vague twitch of amusement to his lips, though, that betrays the bratty act that he was going for. Suguru rolls his eyes dryly.
They lay there, legs brushing together from beneath the blanket, both breathing into the same, shared space.
It’s comparable to a universal law, an absolute, seemingly an inevitably whenever they begin to draw near towards one another. There’s no shame to be known when arms wrap around the small of Suguru’s waist and a tuft of white hair settles beneath the dig of his chin. The rustle of sheets acknowledged by neither as they wind into a lazy embrace, long limbs sticking out this way and that, skin pressed together in way of vying for even a semblance of comfort, a notion of reassurance. The contact feels like an attempt to ascertain the validity of flesh, to reassure themselves that it’s something corporeal and human, warm and buzzing with life.
The darkness that pools them into a world of blind ignorance does well in masking their shared vulnerabilities, obscuring the shared lines of stress that have embedded itself into the skin of their faces.
With twined legs there’s a silent recognition of mutual trust, a calling to one another after spending their lives prior in a lonely bout of solitude.
The morning after Suguru will wake up to a Satoru stuffing his face with dorayaki, all the while commanding that Suguru drinks some water and brushes his teeth because his breath probably smells horrible (his words verbatim). It’s audibly ridiculous and each word is just barely comprehensible with the way Satoru talks around chewed up pancake. Either way, Suguru will find it incredibly endearing and will ultimately feel accomplished at the fact that his stumbling to the pastry stall wasn’t in vain.