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    Summary

    Satoru's weight is warm against his back. The fabric of his uniform is soft, and it brushes against the slip of skin between Suguru's boxers and his shirt. He misses when, a hundred years ago, feeling Satoru breathe behind him would bring him some sense of peace. It was a reminder, back then, that despite everything, they were here, together. No matter what curses they fought, no matter what injuries they accrued, they were in this together.

    Now, even skin-to-skin, it feels like they couldn't be further apart.

    The rift between them is agonizingly wide. It should be impossible to bridge--but there isn't anything Gojo Satoru can't do.

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