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Pitter, patter. The rain drums a gentle staccato over Satoru’s umbrella. Beneath its shelter, Satoru and Suguru sit on a weathered wooden bench.
Off the canopy of Satoru’s umbrella and onto the pavement—the raindrops leave a glossy sheen. Satoru and Suguru gaze at the row of soaked trees some distance away. Behind them, Suguru’s temple looms, wisps of incense mixed with the scent of damp soil.
Satoru’s left shoulder is wet, despite how close they’re sitting. Satoru brought the smallest umbrella he could find from the school. It’s funny how he thinks the width of an umbrella can justify the need to touch elbows to avoid the rain—when he can simply activate Infinity.
Suguru’s robes are damp along the hem. Satoru thinks about how they’d slip down if he were to lift Suguru’s legs. The feeling of Suguru’s ankles pressed into his palms, the soft cotton of his socks under his fingers—push, push, till his legs break off.
If Suguru lost two limbs, he probably could survive. Between his arms and his legs, which would be better to get rid of? Without legs, he can’t run away, but Satoru thinks he needs his hands to ingest curses.
Four limbs—Satoru’s sure Suguru could survive.
“Are you thinking of killing me?” Suguru hums.
He has a serenity to him now. His eyes no longer waver and he smiles with ease. That peace he was searching for so desperately doesn’t include Satoru.
When Satoru doesn’t answer him, Suguru clicks his tongue.
“You shouldn’t keep visiting without a purpose. The higher-ups might think you’re defecting too,” Suguru remarks. “I’m sure they’re already upset with you for not killing me off.”
“Am I supposed to worry about that? I could wipe them out with one hand.”
“I don’t like wasting my time either. Running this place needs work,” Suguru heaves.
Pitter, patter.
“Would you be angry at me if I dismembered you?” Satoru asks.
Suguru laughs, eyes glinting with the reflections of the temple’s lanterns. His laughter is irritating. Satoru considers mutilating Suguru’s mouth as well.
How much of Suguru needs to be left for him to still be considered him? Without arms or legs, certainly. Maybe just his head is enough, or even just a select few of his sinews and organs. If Suguru remained alive as simply his heart, Satoru thinks he could accept that.
Simplicity has always been Satoru’s strength. He never overthinks, never ruminates, never second guesses himself. Suguru ruins all of it.
Suguru smiles. “Why don’t you try it right now and find out?”
His lungs. His stomach. His intestines.
Satoru has felt Suguru inside out before. The first time, they chalked it up to experimentation—two teenagers who, despite their countless charms, were still a little stiff around girls. They never spoke about it.
That day, Suguru’s body moulded out a space just for him. Satoru’s fingers didn’t feel the same afterwards.
The next time, Suguru’s body mapped out a bigger space for Satoru. Suguru gritted his teeth; his hair had come loose from his bun, sprawled over the pillow in a mess. Satoru pressed Suguru’s legs down and pushed further into him slowly, driven by a borderline delirium for Suguru to remember his shape.
Soft, warm and wet. Suguru felt like a part of Satoru that had become separated somewhere along the way—and momentarily, Satoru wondered if they were meant to be one person. It made no sense for two to be ‘the strongest’, by definition.
Under his breath, Satoru asked if Suguru was alright. Suguru grunted, and they said nothing for the rest of the night. Each time Satoru thrusted, Suguru tightened around him, body clinging to Satoru’s length like a more perverse way of holding hands.
Satoru kept his head by Suguru’s, not looking at him. Satoru’s Six Eyes saw everything but he made no eye contact because he was nervous—how rare.
Instead, he listened to the way Suguru’s breath quickened, his groans restrained.
His thumb, pressed into the space between Suguru’s thigh and groin, felt Suguru’s femoral pulse.
He smelled Suguru’s cursed energy, scent heavier from having just finished a mission.
He tasted Suguru’s sweat and skin, tinged with saltiness.
Satoru adjusted himself based on Suguru’s reactions. He thrusted harder once Suguru untensed; he went faster when Suguru arched. The moment Suguru orgasmed, Satoru leaned back to properly look at him.
Even now, Satoru remembers it vividly. The white liquid over Suguru’s stomach, the uneven rise and fall of his chest, his subtle twitches. His hair, matted with sweat, and his glazed eyes—how he looked up at Satoru and then lowered his gaze, revealing his embarrassment as well.
Satoru didn’t think he needed to name what they had. In the day, the two of them eradicated curses, got up to hijinks boys their age did, and squabbled over petty things. At night, Satoru felt Suguru inside out and left traces of himself within Suguru.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, regardless, it makes a sound. Likewise, even if there was no name for what they felt for one another, the feelings were there.
They were one.
Always and forever.
Pitter, patter. The downpour grows heavier and Satoru leans the umbrella over Suguru slightly more.
Without a doubt, Suguru knows why Satoru visits so often—and precisely what he’s waiting to hear from him. After all, Suguru has always read Satoru well.
So, Satoru waits, for the umpteenth time.
“Satoru.”
Maybe today will be different.
“Don’t come again.”
It’s ridiculous that a cult leader, hell bent on annihilating all non-sorcerers, refuses to ask the most powerful sorcerer to join him, when he stands no chance without him.
It’s fucking ridiculous that Suguru—who dares worry about the strongest, who asks Satoru to stay inside him a little longer—never did consider Satoru as a part of the insane future he aspires for, and never will.
Just as Suguru knows what Satoru wants to hear, Satoru knows why Suguru won’t let him hear it. There are nuances to what duty means: an obligation, or a responsibility. Suguru knows where Satoru leans on the spectrum.
Suguru will never ask Satoru to join him because he knows that Satoru, no matter his initial outrage, would come around eventually—for Suguru.
Gojo Satoru, who inherited both the Limitless and the Six Eyes, was born with an obligation that came with his power: protecting the world. He was destined to be on the side of good. It’s funny that Suguru cares about how the world sees Satoru when he loathes the bulk of them.
Satoru knows it’s Suguru’s own form of love—at least, he hopes so. It would be nice if he loved differently, though. More like Satoru’s kind of love, where getting the blood of millions on your hands might not compare to being left behind.
Satoru stands. Suguru takes the umbrella, still enjoying the scenery of the rain-soaked trees.
“Next week. I’ll meet you here at the same time.”
Satoru walks away with the rain bleeding down his head.