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not just ghosts

Summary:

“I did good,” Satoru repeats, incredulous, voice audibly trembling, although it can’t be ascertained whether it's from agony or rage. “I killed you and you’re telling me I did good?”

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

It’s the first time they get to really talk.

 

With the cool breeze blowing through freshly-washed hair, Suguru toes at the grass as Satoru bounces his leg unconsciously, a twisted-up expression contorting his face as he opts to look up at the cloudless sky instead of Suguru.

 

It’s the first time in a long time that they’ve had a minute like this. Lulls in activity like never last long, and Suguru needs to make the most of it before Satoru is called again, either by one of his students requesting help or by one of the elders demanding obedience. Suguru abhors one significantly more than the other, though. 

 

Satoru has opted for sunglasses again today, and it feels almost nostalgic. They aren’t the ones he wore in high school, obviously—these new ones are rectangular and tinted darker than most traditional sunglasses, the plexiglass-strength lenses probably resistant to easily breaking. 

 

And they finally have a moment to breathe, but he doesn’t know where to begin. 

 

“You did good,” Suguru finally says after a long time, “by killing me. You saved everyone a lot of unnecessary destruction.”

 

Satoru stops. His leg stills. Moments drag on and pass by as the pause fills the air, permeating the space like a thickening agent.

 

“I did good,” Satoru repeats, incredulous, voice audibly trembling, although it can’t be ascertained whether from agony or rage. “I killed you and you’re telling me I did good?”

 

Suguru glances down to his side. Satoru’s fists are clenched so tightly that the crescents of his fingernails cut red moons into his skin, and Suguru has never seen the moon bleed, but this is the closest a simple man could ever get.

 

Satoru simply put him out of his misery, saved him from the pain of bleeding out slow and alone. Suguru doesn’t know what to say to soothe him, to properly reassure his beautiful violence, his act of love and mercy to someone undeserving, someone who had lost the right to that long ago. Inclining his head toward Satoru, he softly says, “You killed a monster.”

 

And Satoru makes the sound of a wounded animal with a broken leg. And it makes spikes of ice shoot through Suguru’s veins and dig their icicles into his heart. He bleeds on the ice. It’s not the first time. After all, what’s a more heavenly way to die than he did—in the reflection of Satoru’s eyes, spread across the ice, red staining the cold blue.

 

Suguru feels rattled to his core—but this, in itself, must also be his punishment.

 

“I killed a monster. I killed a monster, huh?” Satoru repeats to himself with an embittered laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ha! You’re right. Only a real monster would be cruel enough to make me lose you twice.”

 

“Satoru.”

 

“Shut up,” Satoru almost spits. “I’m done letting you talk. You want me to validate you? Yeah, Suguru, right now, you’re a real fucking monster, you fucking bastard. Happy?” 

 

No, Suguru wants to say, but he knows even the simplest words will only make Satoru angrier. But the expression on his face isn’t angry, and it breaks Suguru’s heart because it’s not anger no matter how badly Suguru wants it to be—everything would be easier if it were rage, indignance, hatred—but it’s misery. It’s uncertainty. Satoru looks lost, like he’s a fired ceramic pot one drop of water away from shattering. 

 

“I just—you did the right thing, that’s it,” Suguru tries gently, like he’s trying to negotiate with a white wolf nursing fresh wounds, naively heedless of its sharp teeth. But Suguru doesn’t mind bleeding for Satoru. He deserves it if a claw slashes through his flesh. After all, isn’t he the one who shot a sleeping wolf in its den? He hesitates for a beat, “I always—I’m grateful. I’m glad it was you. God, I know it was selfish, I know I’m awful for it, but I’m glad it was you.”

 

Satoru looks at him, and he’s always more gorgeous than the rolls of film Suguru has in his memories, even with raw, red eyes and a slight hollowness to his cheeks, his pallor having seen better days. A swirling storm of emotion passes through his gaze as Satoru’s eyes flick up to where Shoko’s RCT has almost fully healed the now-faded stitch marks. His voice comes out a hoarse whisper, “I just don’t—I don’t understand why sometimes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“If you—you wanted to die, I knew it from the start, and—and we both—why did it have to be me? It feels like some horrible joke—some fucked up retribution the universe played on me, that you played on me, I just—was that what you wanted? For me to never be able to close my eyes without seeing your face? To burn yourself so deeply into my fucking being that I can’t even look in the mirror without being reminded of you? Leaving traces of you all over my fucking life like a cruel reminder that I’d never be able to love someone like that again?”

 

The last sentence echoes in Suguru’s brain like a church bell. I love you, he wants to say, I’m here now, I’m right here, and I love you, but he’s scared that it won’t alleviate Satoru’s pain, the suffering that festers and clouds his bright eyes. Suguru wants to believe that they'll be alright. 

 

“You killed a spiteful creature. You killed its anger, its insanity, its darkness. Its pain. And you saved it. You killed a monster, Satoru.” 

 

“Funny, because I don’t remember killing a monster.” Satoru turns away, forcing his voice out like there’s a sharp stone lodged in his throat. “I remember killing the boy who passed notes with me in class and shared ice cream cones with me after missions even when he hated strawberry-flavored things.”

 

“Please, Sats, don't—”

 

“—The boy who scolded me for not squeezing the toothpaste tube from the bottom and held me when my head hurt so bad I thought my own technique would kill me. I killed my best friend, I killed,”

 

“Satoru, stop.”

 

"I told you to shut up." 

 

The worst part is that Suguru remembers it all. He remembers every single individual minute like it was yesterday. He remembers the dorm room with the lights off, the feeling of Satoru’s hair tickling his chin as his head rested on Suguru’s chest, listening to the steady thumps of his heartbeat. He remembers the constant heat at the base of his throat as he imagined kissing that soft, pink mouth, those lips that curled up whenever they spoke his name. But Satoru told him to shut up—so he listens silently, feeling a little like he’s dying. 

 

“You’re telling me I killed a monster?” Satoru chokes on a sob and Suguru’s soul cries out for him. “Suguru, I killed the seventeen-year-old boy who loved me.”

 

Notes:

wrote this in like 30 mins just an angsty oneshot to ruin your afternoon! anyway im on twt @illikitly