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Amethystine eyes languidly rake down the sleeping form before the beholder. The slumbering boy’s skin will forever haunt him, Suguru thinks, as he debates running his fingers across Satoru’s pale cheek. He decides against it because in the end, Suguru’s calloused fingertips will surely mar the silky organ holding Satoru’s frail flesh together.
Though, he allows himself to brush his hand along his friend's bare collarbone because– sue him –he craves the feeling. Craves it more than food, more than any meal he wouldn’t have eaten without reminders given, more than anything he’s known. Craves it because he’s an insatiable narcissist who can’t get enough of the fact that only he is allowed to touch Satoru like this. To touch him at all, really.
Times like these, where Suguru has a burning itch rising up his throat begging him to sink his (uncut, unforgotten) nail into the sunken divot of Satoru’s collarbone, where skin (his skin) stretches across gaunt bones, is when he realizes just how much Satoru is beautiful.
Times where he’s trembling against himself in order to stop the urge to draw blood– draw real, red blood and leave an ugly lasting mark on Satoru’s otherwise ethereal skin.
Times where he needed to pull his hand away two minutes ago, times where the reason he’s in this situation escapes him, times where Satoru leans in a little too close a little too quickly, times where he realizes just how disgusting he is for thinking so much about someone's skin, are all when Suguru Geto realizes just how beautiful his dearest friend Satoru Gojo is.
Satoru shifts slightly in his sleep and Suguru’s palm freezes. His whole body does, actually, and it only serves as a reminder of how he wishes that his sleeping friend truly could freeze him with his frigid gaze, if it’d mean he’d be able to stay beside him forever. He felt his heart thunder and he pondered if Satoru could hear it, could feel the racing of his tell-tale heart through the foggy layers of his dreams.
Before Suguru realizes it, his fingers slowly glide up the side of Satoru’s throat, then up past his cheekbones until he feels opalescent silk strands of hair welcome his hand. He smiled wryly as he gently scratched the boy’s scalp, more careful this time and not thinking about stupid things like drawing blood. He’s sure blood would dye Satoru’s milky strands permanently from how white they are, and he wishes to save him the trouble.
In this position, with Satoru lying on his side, the rays of sunlight bleeding in through the curtains cast a warm glow around his head that reminds Suguru of a halo, in a sense. His hair–the tufts not getting stroked by Suguru’s languorous fingers–has splayed out against the satin pillow upholding his head.
It’s fitting. Satoru’s too good for him, angelic. As he goes around fluttering his wings and adjusting his halo like the self-centered jerk he loves, Suguru will be there, one step behind him, collecting the snowy feathers left behind, fallen on the grimy floor unworthy of upholding Satoru’s steps.
The thought comes back to Suguru in the midst of another study of his friend's face.
Satoru Gojo is beautiful and Suguru Geto was only born to notice.