Chapter Text
When your technique sputters out, Suguru feels a cold chill wash over his bone-marrow.
It's a warm evening in April, and you're standing in front of a First-Grade cursed spirit: an onryō, if his instincts are on the money, clinging to the presence of a nearby well. Five-yen coins click together in her palms. With every movement they shimmer, catching golden streaks of light, the rest of her body blotted in shadow. Underneath her bare feet, crushed glass stains the grass crimson.
The effects of her technique aren't physical. So far that's all he can say with certainty. It has something to do with the coins— with each clink, a different bone in his body feels out of sorts. Whatever conditions are needed for it to root itself into the innermost parts of him, they've already been fulfilled. The crushed glass makes her scream, and the bottom of his throat twists. One coin scrapes against the other, and his limbs feel like lead. Suguru isn't worried, because this cursed spirit isn't as hostile as she could be; lashing out in defense when he pre-empts a strike, but never making a direct move to kill him. Some vengeful spirits are like that. They want to be left alone. They do enough damage to humanity just by existing in the place they were born, so there's no need to seek out victims.
His curses aren't responding to him properly, though. That's worrisome.
Still, nothing is happening externally.
He thinks that must be why your technique isn't working. He could still feel it until just a moment ago, like a warm blanket over his head, settling nicely in the space around the battle-field. The actualization of luck: the ability to sense where luck might strike and turn it into a curse. You still haven't learned how to utilize it properly, so it works best when applied on physical properties. A particular area, a particular body, attacks that you can see with your eye. It might land in a different spot than usual, a gap in momentum may be created, a tree might fall to the ground in front of your opponent and block their escape route…
There are many components to "luck". Your ability lies in reading them. But when applied like this, recklessly, desperately, on an opponent who's attacks you can't understand—
He isn't surprised when your knees buckle.
Isn't caught off guard when he has to catch you with one arm, and sees a trail of crimson running from your nose down your lips.
(Worried, though. That, he'll always be when it comes to you.)
"Stick to the sidelines for now," he whispers above you. One of his smaller cursed spirits, sluggish but still listening as best it can, comes to usher you away. "I'll handle the rest."
"Suguru, I—" you swallow, dryly, choking on a greater sound. "I can't feel my technique."
"… I know." He sighs. "We'll worry about that later. I've got it, okay? I'll come get you."
He can tell from the look in your eye that you aren't happy. Far from it, hesitance and frustration burrowed in the hazy, dilated pupils of a body pushed well beyond its limits— directed not at him but at yourself. You're too tired to protest, though. Suguru makes sure you're all sorted, led farther into the woods on the back of the serpent-like curse, its tail curled protectively around your body, before turning to face his opponent.
She makes no move to pursue you, knowing he's the only real threat. It's a welcome relief.
Thinking is still difficult. It's still difficult to move, watching her flicker, the echo of coins and glass cruising around in his skull. Clean-up missions are always risky— he's sure none of the locals know of this location, the rotten bundle of cursed energy clinging to the well. He already has an idea of its cause. Past disappearances, serial murders, the perfect hiding spot. That's not his mess to untangle, but it's something to file away for later reports.
Suguru takes a breath. Roots his cursed energy to the ends of his ankles, his feet on the ground, and attempts to get in touch with his senses. The polyester of his uniform is soft beneath his palms. The stench of rotten plum tree hangs heavy in the air. The click, click, click of coins being rustled in a pair of bony palms makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He scans the battlefield, pupils struggling to land where he wants them to; disorienting, like weaving a sieve through muddy waters, but still doable. His curses aren't moving, some of them trembling, others circling the target, seemingly unsure of what their next move should be. They're stuck in a stalemate. Stasis.
Suguru knows this kind of curse: the kind sorcerers get lost in. Their bodies slowly broken down, their minds lulled into dream-like passivity, their corpses found wide-eyed and untouched days later. He finds them especially terrifying. Equally as interesting.
But this curse doesn't know what Suguru is capable of turning it into.
(All he needs is one clear opening. One good strike, and he can breach the distance she's created. He needs a curse unaffected by mental disarray. Better yet— a curse that can only be properly utilized when in mental disarray.
He summons Kuchisake-onna.)
You don't like it when Suguru takes care of you.
You came to Tokyo Jujutsu High as a transfer student two months into his first year, wide-eyed and fawn-legged and late to class on your first day. In over their head, Satoru whispered to him. Not unkind, just stating the obvious. He does that a lot. It's exactly why his jabs sting, but Satoru has no sense for that kind of thing.
Of course, Suguru tuned him out. Half-enamored by the look of you: the smile on your face, how you'd laughed to ease the tension when you admitted to oversleeping and Yaga-sensei pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh, cherry petals like kisses in your hair from where you stood next to the opened window. A breath of fresh air. The kind he'd secretly been hoping for ever since he found out what his classmates were like. When he was put on duty to show you around the school, the training field, the weaponry— Suguru was pleased.
But he noticed it, during that first hour you spent together. When you insisted on paying him back for the drink he got you from the vending machine. How you'd ask about his own background when he tried to ask for yours, smoothly redirecting the conversation. How you'd stiffened briefly, shifted in place when he held the door open to let you in first.
To the naked eye, that's good behaviour. Standard politeness. Give and get.
But Suguru knows better.
Because as much as he knew you were trying to hide it, cover it up with a smile and well-timed laughter, your expression back then wasn't one of politeness. It was discomfort. Pure and simple. You don't like it when the spotlight stays on you for too long, and you don't like accepting favours without giving something back. He gets that. Care is a heavy drug. If you aren't used to leaning on others, it won't come to you that easy. He understands. Really.
It only made him want to get to know you more, though.
(Funny how that works. You were never going to get out of being courted by him; Suguru is a boy who knows what he wants, if nothing else. There's only room for one Tokyo Jujutsu High student in your heart, and it was always going to be him.)
… Deep down, though, he'd always assumed that would change once you became official. That something would just click into place, naturally, and you'd realize he wants to look after you. That you'd learn how to ask him for help when you need it. Mutual understanding. Partner to partner. Something like that. The special connection only you two share.
But, even now, you are hesitant to lean on him. And now more than ever, he wishes you weren't.
Two weeks have gone by since your technique sputtered out in the precipice of battle, but it still hasn't returned to normal. Stale, is how you described it. When I try to use it, it feels like dragging a spoon through mud… Seriously. It's the worst. Suguru absorbed the vengeful cursed spirit before taking you back home with him, so any lingering hex placed by her should already have dissipated. That can't be the issue.
Shoko's theory is that you pushed your senses so far they need to relearn the basics for a while. Spatial awareness, cursed energy control— everything your technique needs to function as it should. That means more training, less missions. He knows you hate that. You get restless if you sit still for too long, and there's nothing you hate more than being left out of a mission him and Satoru are going to. It's a stark reminder of the difference in your capabilities: Suguru doesn't think of it as a bad thing, but you always get so silent with him. Always ask, sheepishly, why they aren't letting you tag along.
Luck isn't always applicable, he says. There are better and worse uses for it. It's nothing more or less than that.
When you hang your head, half-unconsciously, he regrets being honest with you. Wishes there was a way for him to tell you that you don't need to be strong without hurting your feelings. Not all techniques are suited for combat. It doesn't make you less significant. It doesn't make you any less special in his eyes.
(If he told you that now, he thinks he'd break your heart.)
One, two knocks ring out against the door to your dorm room. Suguru is holding a plate with one hand, a mug murmuring steam towards the ceiling with the other. On the plate is a neatly cut sandwich, well furnished with veggies and meat— bread is all they have left in the pantry, because a certain someone dropped the entire bag of rice down the sink— and slices of peach from a local market by the train station closest to the school. The owner likes him, so he always comes back with more fruit than he can carry.
Today has been a slow day. It's still springtime, edging into summer, but curses have already been found swarming Tokyo's middle schools, appearing in larger packs than usual. He was sent to clear the area with Satoru. An easy mission. He only had to absorb three of the low-grade curses present, one of each kind, so the taste didn't linger for longer than the hour-long trip back.
When he entered the dormitory's kitchen lounge, Haibara and Nanami told him you haven't left your room since breakfast.
That's why he's here, knocking at your door— bringing the kitchen to you. Selfishly, because he doesn't really want anyone else to see you when you're feeling blue. Wants to be the first to check up on you, make sure you're alright, watch you eat what he brought you. It'll cheer you up, hopefully. Make you smile at him, ask him to hold you. Maybe. If he's lucky.
… Though he shouldn't be greedy either.
When the door opens, Suguru's heart twists. You're blinking up at him, slowly, weary lashes weighing down and up. Out of sorts, glancing down at the plate with a blank expression.
"I brought you lunch," he smiles at you.
As easy as breathing, you step to the side; letting him slip into your dorm room. Built in routine, the kind that makes his heart flutter. "… Thanks, Suguru."
He watches you sit down on the side of your mattress, your bedsheets tangled up and tousled like a kitten had its way with it, one of your pillows sprawled out on the floor. Suguru loves your dorm room: loves how it reflects everything you are. Band posters fastened to the wall above your bed, board games stashed into a corner on the shelf, figurines you've gotten from gashapons in the past. For my technique, you'd tell him after stopping in the middle of the street, hunting for loose change in your pockets. He's learned to keep spare change close at hand for you, though it's not a given you'll accept it. I want to see if I can apply it here…
Fondness blooms in his breast. Even the unmade bed and dying houseplant on the windowsill instill something like endearment in him. It's you, after all. You in your mess, you in your well furnished. You, you, you.
"You aren't skipping meals, are you?"
"It's not like that," you reassure him. "I just forgot. I've been studying."
"Studying?"
You nod.
"Not too hard, I hope."
"Nah. Just the basics. Like Shoko said."
… Your tone of voice shifts at the end there. Something pitiful. The way you're seated, the look in your eye; it reminds him of a bird with broken wings. Staring up at the branches of the tree where its nest is, wishing it could fly.
"Baby." His voice is soft, delighting silently in how you squirm at the pet name, shy like a fawn. Another thing it seems you can't get used to. "Are you okay?"
You dangle your legs, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fine. It's just boring. And I don't know what to do."
"That doesn't sound fine."
You give a sheepish smile. It doesn't put his mind at ease in the slightest. Suguru raises a firm brow, keen eyes cutting into yours, and you stammer out a laugh.
"I'm… I'll be okay. I just miss going on missions with you, and stuff."
"I know. I miss it too." While missions with Satoru are always exciting, nothing beats spending time with you. "But you need the rest."
"…"
He knows you disagree. You don't need to tell him. Haven't I rested enough? He can practically hear it. "You gave me a scare back then," he walks towards you with the plate held out, your fingers slow to curl around the ceramic edges. You bring it to your lap. ”I don't want you pushing yourself like that again. Okay?" His smile is kind, but it doesn't make you look any smaller, on the cusp of curling in on yourself. Suguru doesn't like seeing you like this.
(At the same time, he…)
"… You do too much for me, Suguru."
"Huh?" His gaze snaps to yours. You're smiling, somberly, looking down at the peeled fruit cut into slices. He almost wants to ask you to repeat yourself. "What makes you say that?"
"Just… this. And missions." A beat. "And everything, actually. I just don't want you to worry."
Suguru tries not to furrow his brow. How can you say that, when you barely let him do a thing for you? You don't let him carry your bags when your arms get tired, you don't let him do your share of the laundry. You don't let yourself be selfish with his time the way he'd like you to.
That's too much?
"That much is natural," he responds. Trying to keep his voice even. "I'm your boyfriend."
"… But I," you sigh, "don't do anything for you."
"That's not true. You do more than you think." Suguru's lips furl in silent distaste, like he just bit into a lemon peel. "You do too much on your own. I want to help."
He must sound desperate, because that's how he feels. Desperate like a dog. Fiending for scraps, battering its paws against a chain-link fence. Suguru wants to grab you by the cheeks and look into your eyes until you believe him, but he can't let himself be so uninhibited with you— doesn't want to say too much and end up pushing you away.
He just wishes you would take his hand when it's offered to you. That's all.
Your face is framed by strings of shadow, waves of them caressing your cheekbones, down-turned and shut-out. "I want to," he echoes. "You don't let me do enough."
…
Inhale, exhale. He watches your lips part.
"Thank you." You muster a half-smile, meeting his gaze with crescent eyes. They're lacking luster. "I appreciate it. Really. But I just want to be alone right now, to be honest."
Suguru watched you. Fox-eyed, sharp.
Contemplates denying you that isolation.
"… Alright."
Before he leaves, he runs a gentle palm down your head. Ruffles your hair. It makes your lips draw into a smile, flimsy as a sheet of paper, a talisman waiting to be ripped into shreds. It's better than nothing. Suguru doesn't want to leave. Obviously not. He wants to help you study, help you sleep. His palms itch to do more, but he knows it'll be futile.
You'll just reject it again.
"But make sure you get some rest," he clears his throat. "And eat what I brought you. Okay?"
"Okayyy."
He puffs out a laugh. "Good."
When the door to your dorm-room closes behind him, Suguru tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. The light is broken, giving out faint flickers, burning into his eyes. Dead flies are stuck to the inside of the paper sheet. He closes them and lets out a sigh.
(There's nothing he can do about this helplessness. There's nowhere either of you can go from here.)
One rainy morning in May, Suguru enters Jujutsu High's library premises with a mission in mind.
He walks past the books on innate techniques, the tombs of history he spent his first few weeks after enrollment scouring through, up the stairs and past the infamous Domain Expansions: To Master Barrier Techniques by an unnamed sorcerer of the Heian era—
and stops by the essays and academic papers written on sense-based techniques.
The selection isn't grand. They have more in Kyoto, he's almost certain. Yaga-sensei isn't the textbook type; if it weren't for the principal and past faculty, Suguru doubts their library would be this furnished. It's enough, though. He flips through a few of the soft-covers and bundles of threaded-together paper, taking the most note-worthy of the bunch with him, secure under his arm. Nanami is sitting on one of the tables downstairs, reading through a book on cursed energy application— Suguru reads off the title as he takes the seat opposite of his junior, who looks up only to give his upperclassman a polite nod of greeting. Suguru doesn't mind that Nanami is quiet. It's nice to have that in a school like theirs. With classmates like theirs. No pressure to speak or make small talk.
He leans back, and gets comfortable. Opens one of the smaller essays at page number one.
Suguru's mission is a simple one: help his partner. Recently, you've been wanting to take your technique in new directions. From the ability to sense lucky spots, to the ability to create them yourself. The evolution of your Luck Shall Follow is a Lucky Break. Forcing the possibility of luck onto your target, a weak spot for your allies to abuse. You told him last night, mouth full of takeout he brought with him post-mission— half-sheepish, like you were afraid he'd discourage you. But Suguru couldn't have been prouder. And, though you seemed hesitant, he's grateful that you spoke to him about it. The least he could do is his fair share of research: even if you're too stubborn to ask him for help, he's always been a good teacher.
What you need, he thinks, is an even stronger grasp of what components your technique centers around. To direct luck, you have to understand it; see the full path it travels down. You have to break it down until the pieces couldn't get any smaller. You have good instincts. It's the basic understanding that needs to be honed.
Suguru hums, thumb in between two pages: hunting eagerly for any information he can relay to you later. 'Abilities built around utilizing the senses were, as far as our records show, the foundation of olden sorcery. Sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste— and of course, the infamous sixth sense. Out of these human traits blossomed sense-based sorcery, not only by utilizing cursed energy to strengthen them for survival, but by sharpening one's innate cursed technique—…' Nothing new. He flips forward, the sound of pages falling. 'The ability to sense what should be unseen is the first any sorcerer gains. Certain sorcerers attain an even wider scope of sight: the ability to view the abstract. Emotions, elements of the human body, and any manner of things. In the Kamakura period, a sorcerer by the name of Shinonome was said to have had an innate technique that allowed him to see people's pasts and futures flutter behind them, reflected in a swarm of broken glass.'
Suguru flips forward. Yet another section.
'… Further development of this technique is said to have granted him mastery of weather currents. He began to use it for directing storm-clouds to the wheat fields surrounding his village, securing a bountiful harvest. The innate ability to sense became the ability to warp reality.'
There.
Just when he's about to continue the passage— his cellphone buzzes in his pocket. It nearly makes him jolt. He fumbles for it, inwardly wincing when Nanami gives him a weathered look, flips it open and glances at the contact.
It's Satoru.
Suguru answers. "Hell—"
"Where are you?"
…
A weary exhale. "Greet me first."
On the other end of the line, a thoroughly drawn out sigh. "Hey, Suguru. You're so annoying." Suguru's brow twitches. Before he can tell his best friend off, he continues: "Where? I wanna go to the city today. You down?"
"I can't right now." He continues to idly read through the weather-based section, skimming the contents with his eyes. "I'm reading."
"Reading?! Dude, how do you not get enough of studying?"
"It's not for me. It's for ▇▇," Suguru tuts. "I'm helping them look into their technique. Ask Shoko to go with you."
"Ohhh. They told you about it?"
"… Huh?" He looks at the phone out of the corner of his eye, subconsciously, as if he could find Satoru looking back at him. Suguru tries not to frown. "How do you know about it?"
"They asked me about it. After class." Ah— that's right. You stayed behind for what must have been at least half an hour, urging him to get lunch without you. He'd assumed you were going to talk to Yaga-sensei, though. Not— "I guess they thought I'd have something useful to say 'cause of the Six Eyes. Well, I did try, though. I figured they were keeping it a secret from you."
(… Why would you ask Satoru?)
Suguru bites his inner cheek. Jealousy festers in his gut, hot and oily.
No, more importantly—
"Why would they keep something like that a secret from me?"
"I don't know. Because you're a mother hen?" He can practically see Satoru's careless shrug through the phone line. "They want to develop their technique into something more offensive, right? Something that'll let them fight on their own. Even I thought you'd be a little put off."
…
"Well, good on you, I guess. Maybe you can stop being so overprotective now."
"Satoru," Suguru's voice feels raw in his mouth. "What are you talking about?"
"… Huh?" The line goes silent. "So they didn't tell you? Or did you just not realize what they meant?"
His stomach twists. Satoru's jabs are never meant to hurt as much as they do, he reminds himself. Inhales, for five silent seconds, and exhales: feels his chest lift, then deflate.
"I didn't realize."
"Oh." A beat. For once, his best friend seems to be weighing his words. "I know you might not… love the idea. But it's a good thing, right?"
"Right."
"Weird that they didn't tell you."
"Mm."
"… I'll ask Shoko to go with me."
"Sounds good." Suguru cards through his bangs. Restless hands. Closes his eyes, and looks into the dark of his own skull. "Bye, Satoru."
"B—"
He hangs up.
…
So. Here's what Suguru knows:
1) Your Lucky Break is meant to be an individualistic offensive technique. That's just fine.
2) You were hiding it from him, though.
3) You told Satoru about it before you told him. You asked Satoru to help you figure it out, instead of asking him.
How is he supposed to contend with that?
(Suguru was awake when you first moved into the dorms. He remembers it in perfect detail, down to the thud your bags made when they hit the floor through the thin wall between you. He was lying in bed, unable to sleep, staring up at the ceiling; made sure to get up off the mattress and gently clink the empty cup on his nightstand, just so you'd hear him too. It felt like a secret between the two of you. Even though he didn't get to greet you until the morning after, you had already met before sunrise.
To some extent— Suguru always felt like you were his. He heard you first, felt you first. He knew of you before Satoru or Shoko. Sensei asked him to show you around, because he knew he was the only one suited for it. You're his partner. He's your boyfriend.
… So why did you go to Satoru for help?
Why not him?)
Suguru simmers in the feeling. Waits for it to come to a boil. Not anger, but frustration.
He wants to kick something. Satoru, ideally. Maybe swallow a curse, just to forget about the rotten taste of what he's feeling now.
Has he really failed you this much? You can't even ask him for advice anymore? Do you trust Satoru's judgment more, just because he's been a sorcerer for longer? Because he was a prodigy from birth? Satoru doesn't even know basic history. Satoru didn't know Ryōmen Sukuna was a human being and not a curse until Yaga-sensei held that class three weeks ago. Satoru doesn't know a damn thing that wasn't hand-fed to him by the clan elders——
Suguru closes the book on the table in front of him and stands up from his chair.
"… Are you alright?"
Nanami asks, staring at him from the other seat. Usually he wouldn't intrude like this. It'd warm Suguru's heart if it wasn't so muddied by his thoughts.
"Yes." He fixes his underclassman’s gaze with a smile on his lips. "I'm fine."
He doesn't believe him, obviously, but that's just as well. Suguru doesn't believe himself either. He walks up the staircase and puts the book back on the shelf where he got it, then walks out of the library with an absent look on his face. Bright-green leaves scatter around his feet, catching streaks of golden sunlight breaking through the cloud-line in the sky. Summer is almost here.
It's difficult, he thinks. It's difficult to be loved by you when you don't want him loving you back.
How is he supposed to approach this situation?
Inevitably, Suguru chooses force.
It's early in the morning when he knocks at your door. One, two knocks, in rapt succession. You wake up shortly after 8 AM on most days— an hour or two past that on weekends, depending on how hard you worked the day before. (You sleep like a baby on nights after back-to-back missions, two or three in succession. Not even slipping his tongue into your mouth could wake you. Not that that's something he's thought of trying.) He's sure you're still asleep now: curled up in bedsheets, legs to your chest, cheek smushed against your pillowcase. Infuriatingly adorable. If he thinks about it too long, he'll lose his strength of will, so—
Another knock. Sharper.
Behind the door, the sound of rustling. Bare feet meeting floorboards, moving sluggishly towards him. His palm moves on instinct, fingers curling through his bangs.
And the door opens. You're blinking at him as if you're still half-asleep, eyelids drawing up and down like haphazardly closed window-blinds, weighty with whatever dreams you were having before he roused you awake. It makes his heart pang with guilt. Like this, watching your tousled hair and unguarded face, he…
…
No.
This time, he has no choice but to be firm.
Suguru's smile is tight-knit. A crescent moon hung on its side, sculpted by monsoons.
"Good morning, baby."
You blink at him again. Lips parting slightly.
"… Morning, Suguru."
"How did you sleep?" He lets himself in, guiding you seamlessly along, his broad palm falling down to rest over your lower back. Voice carefully sharpened. Like a coyote circling its prey.
"Um, I…" you rub your eyes as the door falls shut behind you. "Good. I think. I don't remember."
A breezy chuckle. "You don't remember?" His gaze is fond where it holds yours, sitting down with you on the bedside. Your shoulders knock together. The mattress creaks beneath your shared weight. The lights in your room are off, so Suguru leans back to open the window-blinds until they've let in enough hazy streaks of dawn to illuminate your face. "I guess I woke you up, huh? I'm sorry."
You shake your head. Leaning against him, too tired to keep your head up— it makes Suguru's heartbeat sputter like a marble dropped on ragged concrete. It makes him feel more solid than a brick-wall, softer than the pillows scattered across your bed.
"It's okay."
He watches you silently.
Carefully, after a moment's hesitation, he brings his hand to your face. Cups the apple of your cheek, and lets his thumb ghost the sensitive skin under your bleary eye. Your eyes flutter shut in response— a dog to a bell-chime, even though you hold the leash to his heart. He wonders if you realize that.
He wonders if he hasn't made it clear enough.
"What did you talk to Satoru about?" Suguru asks, smiling tightly. Only his eyes remain gentle. "After class."
"Oh." Slowly, your eyelids blink open. "We, um… just stuff, you know."
"Stuff."
"Yeah."
"Just stuff," he echoes. Sucking on a laugh. It comes out sharper than he meant it. "For forty minutes?"
The air between you shifts— sparks with the beginnings of unease, blisters on the palms of whatever gravity is keeping you both side by side like this. He can't dull the spike of anger in his voice, and he knows you've heard it when you stiffen beside him. When you try to move your cheek from his collarbone. Which is the very last thing Suguru wants, so he guides you back with a palm on your skull, not firm, but insistent. You melt into it nervously.
"… Suguru," you whisper. "Are you mad at me?"
No, he wants to say. Never at you.
I'm mad at Satoru, and Shoko, and Yaga-sensei. Nanami and Haibara too. I'm mad at everyone who enables your behaviour. Who don't hold the door open for you, who don't ask if you've eaten by dinnertime, who don't tell you to take a break when you're obviously looking to exert yourself well beyond your capabilities. I'm mad at whoever made you like this in the first place.
I'm mad at myself.
"No," slips up his throat. The word tastes like ash. "I'm not mad. I'm upset, though."
"Why?"
The word is meek off your lips. It makes him want to lay himself at your feet. But Suguru is mad— just not at you— and he doesn't have it in him not to let it show. Not right now. ”Because you didn't ask me,” a slow inhale of air. "You asked Satoru. Why is that?"
His palm curls against your bedsheets. Forms a fist, white cloth spilling out through the gaps between his fingers, his gaze bleeding gold and ochre. Suguru can't hide the hurt in his voice, and he hates that more than anything.
"Why do you trust me so little?"
Your eyes widen.
Anxiety squirms in the black of your pupils, lips parting around a sound that doesn't make it out of you. You close your mouth again. Then make another move to pull away, maybe to look at him properly, but he won't let you. Doesn't let you move an inch. Petty. His mother liked to call him that when he got silent with her.
(Suguru feels beastial. Like he could eat you. He hates the feeling— desire spilling over itself.)
"Suguru, I didn't mean it like that," you rush to explain. "I just— I didn't want to bother you with it."
"Bother me."
This time, Suguru does laugh. It isn't cruel, nor is it sharp. It's exhausted; weathered down to the bone.
"Is that how you think I feel?"
…
"I don't know what I need to do to make you understand. To make you see things from my perspective. But if you think I've ever," he nearly seethes, only his voice is too quiet now to have that much of a bite, "ever, seen you as a burden— you're wrong. Alright?"
When you flinch against him, Suguru's palm slips from the back of your head. You pull away from him, standing up clumsily. Like a rabbit about to break into sprint, he thinks cynically. Are you going to run away from me again?
"Suguru."
And ah, he realizes.
You're about to cry. That's why his heart doesn't feel like it's beating anymore.
"I don't…" your gaze falls to the floor, mouth forming around a garbled murmur. The sunlight from the window glides across your face, the dip of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose. Angel. He’s made an angel cry. "I love you. I really do love you, I just can't—"
A sniffle, barely-there, tugs at the back of your throat. He put it there, he thinks. The confession jabs the blade in his heart deeper. It cuts between his ribs, settles there. Your voice is naught but a whimper.
"I don't know how to do this."
"… Do what?" he asks.
You make a gesture with your hands, smiling brokenly. "This. I don't… know how. I've tried."
Your breath is staggered— unsteady in your breast. He watches you worriedly, sure it's showing on his features; watches you take a moment to gather yourself. There's something so fractured about your expression. As if you've been keeping this dam in your throat all this time. That hurts more than anything.
How long have you wanted to speak to him like this? How long have you been avoiding it?
"I know you want me to rely on you. I'm not stupid." He wants to cut in— tell you that he's never once thought that— but bites his lower lip to keep himself silent. You need this, too. Maybe more than he does. "But it makes me so uneasy. I promise I've tried, Suguru. It just doesn't…" a worn, frustrated noise pulls at your teeth. "It never feels right."
…
"Isn't that," he exhales, "because you aren't used to it?"
The expression you're wearing now is tight-strung. Your features drawn together, set into firm lines. Like you're about to take a leap off a mountain trail, still gathering the courage.
"You don't know how to be taken care of," he summarizes. "If I want to be the one to teach you— is that so wrong? Is it still that scary?"
You wring your hands together. Inner palm cupping the small of your wrist. "… Yeah."
"… Even if it's me?"
"Especially when it's you," you laugh breathlessly. It doesn't sound much like laughter at all. "Because I like you so much. More than anyone. The last thing I want is to become another chip on your shoulder, Suguru." You bite down on your lip. "… You're always taking care of everyone. Not just me. I don't want to contribute to that."
"What? I don't…" his brows furrow. "I've never felt that way about you. And you're not just like anyone else."
"I know that's how you feel, but—"
"No." Suguru cups your jaw. It shocks you out of speaking, makes you focus on him and nothing else. He stands up with you, leaning over your frame, half-threatening, hunting for the eye contact you're so desperate to flee from. The amber of his eyes is aflame with angered love. "You're trying to give me something that I don't want from you. That I've never asked of you. Who are you to decide that all on your own?"
Your eyes are still wet, unshed tears pooling at the corners. He shouldn't be so rough with you. Shouldn't be this firm. But it's hard— it's hard when you say things like that, and look at him like this——
"I want to take care of you. I want you to need my help. For everything, ideally." His eyes bore into yours, never letting them stray. He wants you to hear this. Feel this. Thinks he'll go crazy if you don't. "I'm not being polite. That's my own selfish desire. I want you to need me. When you don't, I…"
…
On the back of his tongue: a sour taste. Suguru swallows.
"I feel like I've failed you."
(The words ring out like a bad omen. Sorcerers shouldn't be careless with their words: that was the first thing Yaga-sensei taught him, before he even moved into the dorms. Suguru has always taken them to heart. Even as a child, he knew to think before he spoke. Knew words carry weight. That they have consequences.
But now, in this moment— he's letting his greatest insecurities spill out of him. Can't take them back, because they've already splattered on the floor. If love makes you this careless, he thinks, is it really any different from a curse?)
His hand forms a knuckle, the indents of his nails digging crescents into his palm.
"You've… you've never failed me," you frown. "You're always good to me, Suguru. Seriously."
He holds a sigh between his teeth.
"… I wish you'd trust me more. That's all." He collects himself; think before you speak. Reigns himself back in, a bull finding solace in the firm palms at the juncture of its horns, blisters blooming against the ridges. Don't take your anger out on them. It isn't anyone's to bear but you. "I know it's not that easy, but..."
…
"I'm sorry," you mumble. As if there's nothing else to say. Your voice is soft and battered. "I don't know how to fix it. Sometimes it's just… so overwhelming. I want to like it. I do."
Suguru's hand slips from your chin. He shakes his head, after a moment. "I should have been more considerate. Maybe I've been pushing too hard."
"No. Anyone else would love that about you." A beat. "I love that about you. Even when you're a little… intense." Heat gnaws at the back of his neck, nipping at his nerve-ends. Suguru clears his throat discreetly. "I wish it was easier for me. To depend on you like you want me to. Honestly."
"It can be," he tries. "It'll get easier with time."
…
Your fingers curl around the fabric of your shorts. A gentle anchor. Through the window, slathers of rusted gold and tangerine come to cradle your features. The beckoning of a sun late to rise. Suguru doesn't even feel the fatigue anymore, the lead in his sleep-less limbs: all he can do is stare at you, breathlessly, waiting.
"You think so?"
"I know so," he promises. Sharp facial features, broad shoulders accentuated by the sunlight. Eyes soft, always. "I'll be patient. I promise. But can you try, for me? Even when it's scary? Can you believe me when I say you're not a bother?"
…
After a moment— though it feels like a century spent at your ankle, down on his knees— you nod. Suguru's heart loosens its shoulders, goes limp inside the bird-cage of his battered ribs.
"Okay," he exhales. "Good."
For a moment, all is still. Silently, he begins to wipe your unshed tears away, the pad of his thumb rubbing gently at the corners of your eyes. Catching them before they can think to fall, slip down your cheeks, like he's counting rain-drops cruising down a car window. Like he's cupping the innermost parts of you, pressing kisses where it hurts the worst.
"Thank you."
You shake your head, snuggling closer. Still weary, still fragile. So, so very fragile like this. In the dim light, in the crook between his neck and shoulder, whispering so low he has to strain his ears to hear: "Are we… okay?"
"We are." He cradles you closer, tethering you to his chest. His heart beats a lullaby for you. "More than okay. Talks like this will only make us stronger. Better suited for each other."
"… It's scary, though."
"I know," he croons. His palm slips down your spine, rubbing gentle circles into the small of your back, tender eights. "But we'll get through it. We've got luck on our side, remember?"
Finally, you smile. It's weak, but sincere. Suguru lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding: leaning forward to press a kiss at your temple, relieved that he could salvage this dam waiting to break. Relieved that there's something for his hands to do, and places for his lips to land. This is the first of several challenges you'll face together, but he isn't worried. Not anymore.
No one gets to see you like this but him. A wounded bird on his wrist, letting him hold its broken wing in his palm.
It's a start, he thinks. A leap off the ground.