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Shōko’s cup was dry.
It wasn’t a surprise. Long nights did that, and long nights lead to long days, and long weeks, and long years. It’d been a while since she took a break. Been a while since there was time for one. That’s fine, she thought, setting her cup to one side. Her schedule was tolerable, for lack of sleep, and she heals just fine. Satoru was worse. Satoru was always worse.
It’d been a long year.
Her mouth felt dry, like it ached for something. A cigarette, even after all these years. Or worse. She was standing, staring out into the woods around campus, idle. The railing under her elbows was a little chilly, but she didn’t mind it. The morgue was colder.
Shōko sighed.
“What a long sigh! It’s a little early in the night for that, isn’t it?”
“It’s 2am,” she countered, flat but not uninterested.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. Satoru walked up to her side, just like he always did.
“Like I said,” Satoru chirped, leaning at the railing, facing her. “Early.”
“That’s only early for you.”
“And you. I’m not the only night owl that doesn’t sleep on the staff.”
“I sleep,” she said, dry. “You don’t.”
“I get—”
“You need more than three hours.”
Satoru waved that off, leaning closer. “The worry is cute, Shōko, but we both know it’s plenty. I don’t need more.”
Shōko reached out, hooked a finger on the edge of the blindfold. Tugged. It pulled down, awkward and ungainly, catching on the line of Satoru’s nose, his ears. She didn’t care to be more careful. It was cute to watch Satoru look a little ruffled.
Satoru just smirked through it.
“All these years and you can’t even take it off?”
“Mm. I liked the glasses better.”
Satoru laughed, just a little. “Ah, so you don’t like how I look? That’s—”
She tugged him down, into a kiss.
Satoru kissed like he did everything— better than anyone else. There was confidence and skill in the press of lips against Shōko, and a playful air in how her mouth was teased open, one sharp breath at a time. Part of her wanted to say there was nothing Satoru couldn’t do, and that was right, in a way. Satoru could do anything. Kill, protect, kiss. Sing, if he got in the mood. And now, he licked the dry ache away, and replaced it with an easy laugh.
Still. Shōko knew. Satoru was just a man. And there was plenty that was beyond the reach of men.
He pulled back, after a moment.
“Happy to see me, huh?”
“Yeah,” Shōko agreed, easy. It was easy, to say that. “Welcome home, Satoru. The students have missed you.”
“They should, I’m their beloved teacher, after all!” A pause, quieter, and then, “it’s good to be back.”
He kissed her, again. Pulled back, again.
“Mm. Yep. You,” he said, into her mouth, “are definitely dehydrated.”
⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰
They settled on the couch, in the lounge. This late into the night, there was no one near. Not many sorcerers were awake, though there were a decent number on the campus. More, because of Satoru. So many more had survived past those fragile teen years.
Necks snapped so easily. Skin broke under knuckles or the knife.
“Come here,” he said, reaching down for her feet.
She let him lift them, musing, idle. He stripped off her shoes, socks, and dropped her feet into his lap. With a little plop, even. Satoru did like his dramatics.
“You’re not usually touchy in public.”
It was true. Oh, Satoru slung his arms across students until the sun went down, but this kind of touch was different. Satoru kept this kind of touch for the quiet moments they found, together, apart from the world.
That suited Shōko just fine. It was the way she liked it too.
“Maybe I want to be naughty.”
Shōko raised an eyebrow. Glanced down, at her feet. “Didn’t think you had a foot fetish.”
Satoru barked a laugh, bright and sharp. It sounded surprised. She liked that.
“Hadn’t even considered it before you said that,” Satoru said, “but now I’m going to. Sounds fun.”
She shifted, moving to dig her feet into Satoru’s belly. He let her, limitless melted away. It was warmer, like this, and broad hands came to hold her ankles steady. She watched Satoru’s eyes, and thought she saw something other than confidence. She didn’t linger on it.
It had been a long year.
Satoru rubbed a thumb over her ankle, gaze off, into the distance. He looked dangerous when he was thinking. The mask he put on next to the others slipped, just a little, and let the beast through.
Shōko didn’t mind. The beast felt grief as much as she did.
“It’s nice to see your eyes. Been a while.”
Satoru hummed.
“It has, hasn’t it? When did we last get a minute?”
Shōko felt the fingers run across her ankles, her skin. She didn’t need to think about it. “Mm. December.”
The fingers went still.
“Right. That took up plenty of time.”
She gave a noncommittal hum, curious, and kept watching. The line of his shoulders flexed, a blade testing its limits. He looked casually strong, like the world could burn and he would laugh as its savior. He looked like a god.
He wasn’t, Shōko knew. And she didn’t want him to be.
On the quieter nights, the longer ones, she wondered if she was the only one who remembered that Satoru was a man.