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The first time they meet feels less like an introduction and more like inevitability.
The courtyard vibrates with a low, uneven hum—whispers threading through the air, shoes scuffing nervously against stone, the faint rustle of leaves shifting above. Late morning sunlight filters lazily through the trees, catching on stray dust motes and scattering patches of light across the uneven stones. The gathered students are a study in unease: their shoulders hunched, hands shoved into pockets, gazes darting like moths toward any light that might feel safe to land on.
Satoru Gojo has no such hesitations.
He stands at the center of it all, sharp and unmistakable, the sunlight glinting off his white hair like a blade catching fire. His sunglasses glimmer darkly, obscuring the sharp edge of his gaze, but there’s no mistaking the way he owns the space around him. It isn’t in the way he commands attention—it’s in the way he expects it, as though the very world bends to his presence.
One hand rests in his pocket, casual, as if he isn’t paying attention at all. The other moves with deliberate laziness, fingers curling and twisting in the air, spinning pebbles, leaves, and an unfortunate student’s textbook in a slow, hypnotic orbit around him.
“Come on,” he says, his voice cutting easily through the murmurs like a knife through silk. It’s playful, almost careless, though there’s something under it, something sharp enough to cut. “That can’t be it. You’re telling me this is all you’ve got? This is supposed to be a school for prodigies, right?”
His grin widens, sharp and hungry, as his gaze catches on a boy standing just off-center. The boy flushes under the weight of it, shifting awkwardly, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.
Satoru doesn’t wait for an answer. He tilts his head, letting the faintest hum of amusement slip through his teeth as a pebble arcs toward him, the boy’s thrown attempt at defiance. It stops midair, hovering like it’s forgotten gravity, and Satoru barely spares it a glance before flicking his wrist.
The pebble spins back toward the boy, deliberate but unhurried, stopping just short of his face. The boy flinches, stumbling a step back, and Satoru’s grin sharpens.
“Better,” he says, though the word carries no praise, just an airy, dismissive tone. He shifts his weight, his free hand waving lazily through the air, setting the objects around him to spin faster, almost leisurely.
The students around him murmur, their voices low and awed, and though none of them step closer, their eyes are fixed on him now. Satoru feels the pull of their attention, the low thrum of it in the air.
He thrives on it.
“Come on,” Satoru presses, addressing no one and everyone. His voice is almost playful, but there’s something cutting beneath it, something sharp and challenging. “What, no one else wants to take a shot?”
No one answers.
The crowd stirs restlessly, their energy jittery and uneven, but no one steps forward. Satoru exhales, long and exaggerated, tipping his head back to the sky as though it might hold something more interesting. But the sky offers nothing, just a vast expanse of indifferent blue. It isn’t enough. He’s bored.
Until the Six Eyes see him.
At first, it’s nothing. Just another figure lingering at the edge of the courtyard, half-hidden by the shadows of a stone pillar. The light falls just short of him, brushing against the hem of his jacket, which hangs unevenly around his hips, swaying faintly in the breeze. His posture is relaxed, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, hair dark and perfectly straight as it grazes his shoulders in sharp, clean lines.
But it’s not the way he looks that catches Satoru’s attention. It’s the way he isn’t looking at him at all.
While the rest of the courtyard hums with the restless vitality of students shifting and murmuring, their cursed energy ebbing and flowing in nervous bursts, this boy stands still. His cursed energy is quiet, calm, unspooling in slow, deliberate waves, as steady as the rhythm of his breathing. He doesn’t react to Satoru’s voice, doesn’t shrink beneath his display. If anything, he feels like the only still point in a courtyard filled with motion.
The Six Eyes register it all, and it makes Satoru pause.
Because for all the energy Satoru exerts, all the pressure he radiates, this boy’s presence doesn’t waver. He isn’t impressed, isn’t unsettled. If anything, he seems… as bored as Satoru does.
It’s strange. And strange is always worth noticing.
Satoru’s smirk sharpens, his focus narrowing like a spotlight, the crowd fading into the periphery. Around him, the objects he’d kept suspended with Limitless clatter to the ground in a series of dull thuds as he lets the technique drop.
“Hey, you,” Satoru calls, his voice cutting through the courtyard with effortless command. He doesn’t need to name the target of his words; everyone follows the line of his gaze to the boy leaning against the pillar.
The boy’s eyes lift at the sound, dark and steady, meeting Satoru’s gaze for the barest of moments before sliding away again, uninterested. His posture doesn’t change, his hands still buried in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed as though the weight of Satoru Gojo’s attention hasn’t even registered.
Satoru feels it coil tight in his chest, a flicker of something like irritation—but not quite. It burns too warmly to be dismissed as annoyance, too sharply to be anything softer.
“Quiet guy leaning against the wall,” he presses, tilting his head as he steps forward. His grin spreads wider, more feral. “You think you can beat me?”
The boy tilts his head slightly, his expression thoughtful, as though the question is more of an inconvenience than a challenge. His voice, when it comes, is low and even, a single stroke against the grain.
“Depends,” he says, his words cutting cleanly through the tension. “Are we talking about techniques or actual skill?”
The crowd murmurs, a ripple of barely contained laughter spreading through their ranks.
For a fraction of a second, Satoru’s grin falters. Then it sharpens again, more precise now, more dangerous. It isn’t often that someone leaves him speechless.
“Oh, you’re funny,” he says, though his voice carries a thread of challenge now, something more deliberate. He takes another step forward, closing the distance between them, each movement calculated, precise. “But if you’re not careful, you’re gonna make a bad first impression. What’s your name?”
“Getou Suguru,” the boy replies evenly. He doesn’t move from his spot, doesn’t even shift his weight. His tone is polite, detached, as if answering a question on a form.
“Well, Getou Suguru,” Satoru says, drawing out the syllables, testing the sound of the name on his tongue. “You’re either the bravest person here or the dumbest. I’m not sure which.”
Suguru’s lips twitch, the faintest ghost of a smile, though it never reaches his eyes. “I could say the same about you.”
The air between them tightens, the weight of their gazes locking like two blades meeting mid-swing. Around them, the other students exchange glances, murmuring nervously, but no one dares step in.
“Alright, then,” Satoru says, his voice softening, but only so the edge of it cuts deeper. “What do you think? You think you can take me?”
Suguru tilts his head slightly, considering him as though he’s sizing up an opponent—or perhaps something less interesting, like an unfinished puzzle. “It’s impressive,” he says finally, nodding toward the scattered objects still rolling across the stones. “But you’re overcomplicating it. If you spent less time showing off, you might actually be better.”
For the first time in years, Satoru doesn’t know how to respond. The jab lands, subtle and cutting, with no malice behind it—just a calm, steady confidence that feels as natural as breathing.
The tension breaks as a staff member strides into the courtyard, calling the students to orientation. Satoru’s smirk returns, though it feels forced now, not quite fitting right.
“Guess we’ll settle this later,” he says, his tone breezy, though his eyes linger on Suguru’s a beat too long.
Suguru finally moves, stepping away from the pillar and into the sunlight. His uniform catches the light, casting shadows that seem too sharp for the gentle morning. He meets Satoru’s gaze one last time and offers a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
And just like that, he’s gone, moving toward the main hall with a measured, unhurried stride, leaving Satoru standing in the courtyard with the strange, undeniable feeling that something important just slipped past him.
*
The first time they spar, it’s anything but friendly.
The sky is streaked with amber and lavender, the fading light casting long, uneven shadows across the training grounds. The air hums faintly with the residue of cursed energy from earlier sessions, a quiet charge that clings to the space like static. The grounds, usually bustling with noise and activity, are nearly silent now. The other students have gone, leaving only Satoru and Suguru behind under the distant, watching eyes of the faculty. Somewhere beyond the tree line, leaves rustle faintly, mingling with the low murmur of voices drifting from the school.
Satoru stands in the center of the training grounds, spinning his staff between his fingers in unhurried arcs. His stance is loose, shoulders rolling with an easy kind of confidence that borders on cocky. He shifts his weight back and forth, energy sparking just beneath his skin, waiting to be unleashed. There’s a grin tugging at his mouth, sharp and restless.
Across from him, Suguru waits, calm and composed, his posture straight and deliberate. His cursed energy is so steady, so quiet, it almost feels like part of the air—unassuming but undeniably present in the way it fills Satoru’s lungs. He doesn’t fidget or pace and doesn’t give any sign of impatience. Instead, he watches Satoru the way someone might study the tide before deciding whether or not to dive in. The staff in his hand rests lightly at his side, but there’s no mistaking the readiness in his stance.
For a moment, neither of them moves. The tensions between them crackles faintly, electric, unspoken. The sun dips lower, the training grounds dimming by degrees. It’s like the world is holding its breath.
“You ready, Getou?” Satoru calls, his grin widening as he twirls his staff faster, the wood catching faintly in the dying light. “Or do you need a warm-up first?”
Suguru raises a brow, his lips curling faintly at the edges—not quite a smile, but close enough. “I’m ready,” he says simply. His voice, low, measured, with none of the bravado that spills so easily from Satoru. He adjusts his grip on the staff, his cursed energy shifting so slightly, an almost imperceptible ripple that Six Eyes just barely see.
The words hang there for a beat, weightless, before Satoru moves. His staff arcs forward in a blur, a wide, sweeping strike aimed at Suguru’s midsection. It’s fast—faster than most can react to—but Suguru doesn’t flinch. His own staff rises with precise, practiced ease, catching Satoru’s strike and holding firm. The impact sends a faint tremor through the air between them.
“Not bad,” Satoru says, his grin sharpening. He presses forward, shifting his stance and striking again, faster this time, the blow aimed high.
Suguru sidesteps with a fluidity that borders on effortless, his staff twisting to deflect the strike without losing momentum. His movements are smooth, deliberate, like water flowing around an obstacle. He doesn’t counter yet, doesn’t overextend—just watches, lets Satoru press him, measuring every strike, every feint.
Satoru is relentless, his strikes fast and unpredictable, each movement carrying the force of his restless cursed energy. But Suguru meets him strike for strike, never rushing, never faltering. He counters with precision, his cursed energy unfurling in quiet, controlled bursts that meet Satoru’s with calculated resistance.
The clash of their staffs rings out across the grounds, a rhythm that feels almost musical, the give-and-take of wood on wood echoing in the still evening. Around them, the air thickens with cursed energy, a subtle charge that presses against the edge of the training grounds.
Satoru pushes harder, faster, his strikes growing more aggressive as he tries to break through Suguru’s defenses. His grin falters for the briefest moment as Suguru parries another strike with infuriating ease, his expression calm, unreadable.
“You’re holding back,” Satoru grunts out, voice edged with frustration. “What’s the point of sparring if you’re not even going to try to hit me.”
Suguru tilts his head. “You’re the one who’s trying too hard,” he replies, his tone maddeningly even. “You’ll burn out of cursed energy before you break through.”
Satoru tightens his grip on his staff, his frustration crackling in the air around him. The training grounds feel hotter, heavier, as if the charged atmosphere is bending to his growing irritation. He feints to the right, then spins left, aiming a sweeping strike at Suguru’s midsection. It’s fast, precise—a blow meant to force Suguru off balance.
Suguru sidesteps with infuriating grace, his staff moving like an extension of himself as he deflects the strike with minimal effort. The faintest flicker of amusement crosses his face, gone almost as soon as it appears.
For a heartbeat, Satoru’s cursed energy dips, the shimmering field of Limitless sputtering faintly around him like static. It’s enough. Suguru strikes. The blow lands squarely on Satoru’s side, the dull thud reverberating through the space. Satoru barely registers it at first, the shock of contact more jarring than the pain itself.
Satoru’s body reacts before his mind does. His staff swings upward in a sharp arc, meeting Suguru’s own with a crack that vibrates through both of their grips. Suguru stumbles back a step, his balance shifting slightly, and the faintest flicker of surprise lights his eyes.
But the stumble is all Satoru needs. He presses forward, his movements sharper now, anger threading through his strikes. His staff slams into Suguru’s again, harder this time, forcing him back. For the first time, Satoru’s grin returns, sharp and predatory. “You think one hit is enough to throw me off?”
Suguru adjusts quickly, his composure snapping back into place as he regains his footing. “You’re predictable,” he says calmly, sidestepping another strike. “You always get reckless when you’re mad.”
The words only fuel Satoru’s fire. His cursed energy flares, but Suguru meets him strike for strike, their movements turning chaotic and heated. The rhythm of the fight dissolves into something raw, instinctual, the calculated precision of earlier lost in the rising intensity.
Somewhere in the fray, their staffs slip from their hands, forgotten in the heat of the clash. Satoru’s sunglasses slide precariously down his nose, revealing the vivid, crystalline clarity of his eyes, sharp and electric as they lock onto Suguru’s. The sight of them makes Suguru pause—just for a fraction of a second—but it’s enough to disrupt his rhythm.
Satoru’s fist swings upward, his knuckles aiming for Suguru’s jaw, but before it can connect, a sharp voice cuts through the air.
“That’s enough.”
Yaga’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and absolute, carrying the weight of a command neither boy dares to ignore. The tension snaps like a taut wire, both boys freezing mid-motion. Satoru’s fist hovers inches from Suguru’s face, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Suguru is no better, his stance still braced for a counterattack, dark eyes locked on Satoru’s bright blue ones.
“Stand down,” Yaga orders, his cursed energy crackling faintly in the air as a warning. “Now.”
For a moment, neither of them moves, the tension between them coiled too tight to release easily. Then, reluctantly, Satoru lowers his hand, stepping back with a grunt that’s equal parts frustration and adrenaline. Suguru mirrors the movement, straightening his posture and smoothing the front of his uniform.
“Draw,” Yaga announces, his tone leaving no room for argument. He crosses his arms, watching both boys with a hard, assessing gaze. “And if I see either of you try to push it further, you’ll both be running laps until sunrise. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Suguru replies smoothly, his voice even and unruffled despite the faint flush on his cheeks.
Satoru mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like wasn’t even trying, earning a sharp glance from Yaga. He straightens, slipping his hands into his pockets and adjusting his sunglasses with a huff. “Yeah, yeah. Understood,” he grumbles.
Yaga gives them one last look, his eyes narrowing. “Dismissed. And try not to kill each other before the semester ends.” He strides off toward the main building, leaving the two boys standing in the settling quiet of the training grounds.
The silence stretches, broken only by the rustle of the breeze through the trees. Satoru’s shoulders are still tight, his energy buzzing like an overstretched wire, but Suguru seems as calm as ever, his breathing evening out as he steps away from the center of the field.
“Not bad,” Suguru says softly, his voice carrying just enough weight to make it clear he means it.
Satoru bristles immediately, his shoulders stiffening as his head snaps toward Suguru. “Not bad?” he echoes, incredulous. His grin sharpens, but there’s a telltale flush creeping along his neck, a faint pink that only deepens when Suguru glances his way. “I had you on the ropes back there.”
Suguru hums noncommittally, his hands sliding into his pockets as they walk toward the edge of the grounds. “If you say so,” he replies, his tone maddeningly even, like he isn’t indulging the argument but isn’t dismissing it either.
The crunch of gravel under their shoes fills the quiet as Satoru falls into step beside him, muttering something under his breath. He adjusts his sunglasses again, not quite meeting Suguru’s gaze, the tension in his posture a glaring contrast to Suguru’s calm.
And then Suguru glances at him, the faintest curve of amusement pulling at his lips. “You did good, though,” he says, his voice quiet but firm, like he’s saying something definitive.
Satoru stops dead in his tracks.
His mouth opens, a sharp retort perched on the edge of his tongue, but nothing comes out. Instead, he stares at Suguru, his grin faltering as the words sink in. “Don’t patronize me,” he snaps finally, the flush on his neck creeping higher, blooming across his cheeks. “I don’t need your approval.”
Suguru doesn’t stop walking. “Wasn’t offering approval,” he says lightly, his tone almost teasing. “Just an observation.”
Satoru glares at his retreating figure, torn between indignation and something he can’t quite name. “Tch,” he mutters under his breath, quickly catching up. “Next time, you won’t even have the chance to say that.”
Suguru glances sideways, his expression unreadable but his dark eyes holding something knowing. “We’ll see.”
And when their gazes meet again, it’s not rivalry that lingers in the space between them, but something sharper. Something Satoru doesn’t have a name for yet.
*
The first time they share a bed, it’s an accident.
The mission stretches long past sunset, the dark settling over the hillside like a heavy blanket. Stars prickle faintly against the navy expanse of sky, their light too distant to cut through the thick shadows that cling to the forested path. The air is cool, damp with the memory of earlier rain, carrying the faint, earthy scent of moss and wet wood.
By the time they reach the inn, exhaustion has wound itself into their bones, dragging their steps and dulling their words. The building is unassuming, tucked neatly into the curve of the hillside like it’s trying not to be noticed. Warm light spills from its windows, softening the sharp edges of the night. The faint crackle of woodsmoke greets them as they step inside, blending with the quiet murmur of voices from unseen rooms.
The innkeeper greets them with a polite bow but a sheepish expression. “I’m afraid we’re out of rooms,” she says, voice tinged with apology. “There’s only one left.”
Satoru reacts first, predictably loud, with a dramatic wave of his hand. “One room?” His voice echoes slightly in the quiet lobby, filling every corner. “Do you know who we are? We’re important. On a mission. Surely you can kick someone out?”
Suguru doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. His hand rises, palm out, as if to physically halt Satoru’s tirade. “It’s fine,” he says, his tone calm, deliberate. “We’ll take it.”
The innkeeper bows again, relief softening her features, and hands over a worn key. Her footsteps retreat quickly down the hall, leaving them alone in the muted glow of the lobby lanterns.
“Fine,” Satoru mutters, dragging out the word as he follows Suguru down the narrow hallway. “But if I have to share, I’m claiming the good bed.”
Suguru doesn’t respond, his focus already on the numbered doors lining the corridor. When they reach the last one, he pushes it open, stepping aside to let Satoru enter first.
The room is small, smaller than either of them expected. The walls are paneled in aged wood, their surfaces worn smooth by years of indifferent upkeep. A single window lets in a thread of moonlight, its glow weaving soft, uneven shadows that ripple across the floor.
Then there’s the bed. Bed. Singular. Centered against the back of the wall. Plain and unassuming, its frame low and wooden, the mattress barely wide enough to fit two people without forcing them to touch.
Satoru lets out a sharp, incredulous breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, his tone pitched somewhere between disbelief and indignation. His sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, and he shoves them back into place with an impatient flick of his finger.
Suguru doesn’t spare him a glance. He steps into the room with measured ease, setting his staff gently against the wall before reaching for the clasp of his uniform jacket. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, as though the too-small bed doesn’t exist, as though the room isn’t already too small for Satoru’s energy alone.
“Don’t ignore me!” Satoru presses, gesturing dramatically toward the bed, his voice loud enough to fill the space twice over. “One bed. Just one. What kind of inn doesn’t even have futons as a backup?”
Suguru’s hands pause for a fraction of a second, the barest flicker of acknowledgment, before continuing their task. “It’s a rural inn, not a luxury hotel. Just take a side and go to sleep.”
Satoru huffs, toeing off his shoes with unnecessary force before throwing himself onto the bed with all the theatrical flair of someone used to commanding attention. The mattress creaks beneath his weight as he sprawls across it, limbs splayed in deliberate defiance, his grin sharp and smug as he glances up at Suguru. “Guess that means you’re sleeping on the floor.”
Suguru doesn’t answer immediately. He stands near the door, his posture calm, the weight of his gaze steady as it settles on Satoru. There’s no irritation, no visible reaction at all, and somehow, that stings worse than if he’d rolled his eyes. He takes his time, slipping off his jacket and folding it neatly over the back of a chair before stepping toward the bed. His silence feels deliberate, and it presses against Satoru’s skin, warm and heavy, until Satoru shifts under its weight.
Suguru stops at the edge of the bed, looking down at him. “Move over.”
For a moment, Satoru holds his ground, making a show of stretching his arms and legs even wider, but Suguru’s steady gaze doesn’t waver. With a theatrical sigh, Satoru scoots just far enough to one side to make room, though not without muttering something about “personal boundaries” and “bed hogs.”
Suguru lies down stiffly on the edge of the mattress, his back to Satoru, leaving a noticeable gap between them. His posture is tense, his arms crossed over his chest, as if determined to take up as little space as possible.
The room sinks into quiet. Outside, the crickets hum in steady rhythm, and the faint rustle of leaves carries through the open window. Satoru shifts restlessly, the mattress creaking beneath him, his energy spilling out in tiny, directionless movements. He taps his fingers against his thigh, toes curling and uncurling as if the stillness of the room is a challenge he refuses to lose to.
Suguru doesn’t move. His silence is solid, grounding, and it wraps around the room in a way that makes Satoru feel restless and too loud all at once. He wants to fill it, to break it, but something holds him back.
Then Suguru speaks, his voice low and steady, cutting through the quiet like a thread pulled taut. “You did good on the mission today.”
Satoru freezes mid-fidget, his head snapping toward Suguru’s back. “Huh?” he blurts, the word loud and incredulous in the otherwise still room.
“I said, you did good on the mission today,” Suguru repeats, his tone unchanged.
Satoru blinks, caught entirely off guard. For a moment, he just stares at Suguru’s back, his thoughts scrambling to catch up. “Oh,” he says finally, his voice higher than he wants it to be. “Uh… I mean, of course I did. What’d you expect?”
There’s a faint pause, and then Suguru hums softly, the sound both amused and knowing. He doesn’t respond further, leaving the words to hang in the quiet between them.
Satoru shifts uneasily, the mattress creaking beneath him as he flops onto his back, glaring up at the ceiling like it might offer him some kind of explanation. He can feel the heat creeping up his neck, burning his ears. “I mean, you didn’t have to say it like that,” he mutters, trying to sound nonchalant, though the words trip over themselves. “Like—like I didn’t already know.”
Suguru doesn’t even turn around. “Mm,” is all he says, and it’s maddeningly neutral.
Satoru’s mouth snaps shut, and he lets out a low, frustrated groan, dragging a hand over his face. “Fine, okay,” he grumbles, his voice muffled. “Thanks, I guess.”
Suguru’s shoulders shift faintly, like he might be suppressing a smile, but he doesn’t say anything more. And Satoru lies there, fuming quietly, the praise replaying itself in his mind with an annoying persistence he can’t seem to shake.
Restlessness defines Satoru—his movements, his presence, the restless thrum of his energy. But gradually, even he slows. The sharp edges of his breathing soften, his limbs sinking into the mattress as the night stretches on. Beside him, Suguru’s rigid stillness begins to unravel in tandem, his arms loosening from their folded position, his body settling as exhaustion presses heavy and inescapable against him.
The bed creaks faintly with each subtle shift, the noise small and soft enough to be consumed by the night. Without acknowledgment or intention, the distance between them shrinks, each unconscious adjustment narrowing the gap.
It happens quietly, without fanfare. Satoru rolls over, the motion languid, and his arm brushes against Suguru’s shoulder in a fleeting, incidental touch. Suguru’s body stiffens for a breath—a hesitation born of reflex rather than resistance—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his shoulders ease, and he exhales softly, a sigh that feels more like surrender than anything else.
The hours stretch thin, the stillness between them punctuated only by the faint sounds of the world outside. Their bodies, unbidden, find each other, drawn together as if by some invisible pull. Suguru’s arm rests loosely over Satoru’s side, his fingers grazing the hem of Satoru’s shirt, while Satoru’s leg hooks itself haphazardly over Suguru’s. Their breathing falls into a rhythm, slow and even, syncing like waves meeting the shore.
When Satoru wakes, it’s to the warmth of Suguru’s chest against his back, the steady rise and fall of it grounding and too much all at once. His eyes blink open, hazy and unfocused, catching on the faint pre-dawn light creeping through the curtains. And then awareness blooms, sharp and unwelcome, freezing him in place.
Suguru’s breath brushes the nape of his neck, soft and steady, and Satoru feels the weight of his arm, the solid warmth of it anchoring him. A flush creeps up his neck, hot and inexplicable, his body caught between the instinct to pull away and the absurd impulse to stay perfectly still. Moving feels dangerous, like it might tip some delicate balance he doesn’t quite understand.
A groan interrupts his thoughts, soft and sleepy, as Suguru shifts behind him. His eyes flutter open, dark and unfocused, before his gaze catches on Satoru. Their faces are far too close, separated by barely a breath, and for a long moment, neither of them moves.
Suguru is the first to break the stillness, his gaze sharpening slightly as the sleep fades from his eyes. His expression is calm, frustratingly so, as though waking up tangled together is the most normal thing in the world.
Satoru, on the other hand, jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted, nearly smacking his head against the low ceiling beam. “What the—” His voice cracks, high-pitched and frazzled. He flails for the edge of the bed, putting as much distance between himself and Suguru as the small space allows. “What the fuck were you doing?”
Suguru sits up more slowly, stretching his arms over his head, his composure annoyingly intact. “Sleeping” he replies, voice low and even, with a faint note of amusement. “You’re the one who rolled over onto me.”
Satoru bristles instantly, the words striking too close to the embers of his embarrassment. “I did not!” he snaps, twisting around to point a finger at Suguru as if the gesture alone could refute the claim. “You—your arm—” He flounders, the words slipping through his fingers like water. “You were definitely trying to cuddle me.”
Suguru’s lips curve into a faint smile—maddening in its subtlety, infuriating in its confidence. “Cuddle you?” he echoes, his tone so dry it could set the air alight. “I think you’re projecting, Satoru.”
“I am not projecting!” Satoru practically yells, his face flushed a furious shade of red. “You’re so—ugh! Forget it!” He throws his hands in the air and swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing for his shoes. “Let’s just pay and get out of here before I lose my mind.”
Suguru hums, a soft, infuriatingly even sound, as he rises from the bed with unhurried grace. He reaches for his jacket, slipping it on with the same maddening composure that sets Satoru’s teeth on edge. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs, his voice warm, unbothered, a low ripple beneath the lingering tension.
Satoru shoots him a glare over his shoulder, but Suguru doesn’t even look at him, his focus already elsewhere. It’s infuriating.
“Ridiculous,” Satoru mutters under his breath, jamming his sunglasses onto his face with more force than necessary. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
Suguru simply follows him to the door, his steps measured and relaxed, as if they hadn’t just been at the center of an unspoken hurricane of tension. “You’re surprisingly flustered for someone who claims I was the one trying to cuddle,” Suguru remarks casually as they step outside.
Satoru groans, stomping ahead. “Not. Another. Word.”
The morning sun stretches across the inn’s weathered roof, gilding the world in a soft, forgiving light. But the tension lingers, unspoken and stubborn, like the echo of a note struck too sharply, refusing to fade.
*
The first time they get drunk, it’s a disaster waiting to happen.
The dorm balcony hums with the quiet of a summer night, the cicadas’ low song threading through the air like a melody just out of reach. The moon hangs heavy and low, its silver light pooling on the uneven floorboards, softening the sharp edges of their shadows. A faint breeze stirs the scattered cushions and the loose folds of their uniforms, carrying with it the faint, earthy scent of distant rain. The world beyond feels far away, blurred into insignificance, leaving only this—the three of them, their laughter spilling out into the quiet like an offering.
Shoko leans against the railing, her grin sharp and mischievous as she tips the sake bottle to pour another round. The liquid gleams as it spills into their cups, shimmering faintly in the moonlight. “We need to bond properly,” she declares, her tone mock-serious, her expression anything but. “Team building. Trust exercises. Or, you know, getting wasted.”
Satoru snatches his cup with a flourish, twirling it between his fingers like he’s spinning the weight of the world itself. His grin is a blade, bright and reckless, and he raises the cup high. “To us,” he announces, his voice ringing out into the stillness. “The prodigies of Jujutsu High. Unmatched. Unstoppable. Undeniably—”
“Insufferable,” Shoko interrupts, her grin widening as she raises her own cup.
Suguru, seated cross-legged near the wall, tips his cup slightly in acknowledgment. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he knocks it back in one smooth motion, the moonlight catching the curve of his jaw. He sets the cup down with a quiet click, watching as Satoru tosses his back with unnecessary flair.
The sake burns on the way down, sharp and sweet, blooming into warmth that spreads through Satoru’s chest and unfurls into his grin. “Not bad,” he says, already reaching for the bottle to pour another round. His fingers are quick, almost careless, the liquid sloshing perilously close to the edge of the cup.
Shoko shakes her head, her grin cutting through the quiet hum of the late night. The sake bottle glimmers faintly in the soft light, a beacon of poor decisions yet to come. She pours Satoru another round, the liquid swirling like amber fire. “Pace yourself, Satoru. It’s sake, not a competition.”
Satoru scoffs, spinning the tiny cup between his fingers like a magician about to pull a rabbit from thin air. The motion is deliberate, practiced, every bit as theatrical as he is. “Everything’s a competition,” he declares, tilting his head back as he downs the drink in a single gulp. The sake burns sharp and hot, but it only widens his grin. “Besides, this is nothing. I could drink all this and still outpace you amateurs.”
Suguru snorts softly, cradling his own cup like it’s something sacred. His movements are slow, unhurried, the picture of calm in the storm that is Satoru. “That’s debatable,” he murmurs, his voice low, the faint amusement curling at the edges just enough to sting.
Shoko leans back in her chair, one leg slung over the other, her posture as lazy as her grin. “You’re going to regret that confidence,” she warns, lifting her cup in a mock toast before taking another sip. “Give it ten minutes.”
Satoru doesn’t slow down. He tips his next round back with the same exaggerated flourish, slamming the cup onto the table like he’s just scored the winning point in some imaginary game. The sharp heat of the sake has melted into something warmer now, a lazy fire licking at the edges of his mind. “The King of Curses,” he announces, his voice rising a touch too loud, slurring just slightly at the edges. “That’s me! Untouchable. Supreme.”
Suguru’s gaze flicks to him, and his lips twitch, the barest hint of a smile surfacing. He tilts his cup in Satoru’s direction. “Your majesty,” he says, his tone dry, teasing but never cruel. He takes another slow sip, his calm an unspoken counterbalance to Satoru’s chaos.
Shoko laughs, soft at first but growing louder, the kind of laugh that makes her shoulders shake. “Supreme, huh?” she echoes, her words laced with mischief. “Alright then, Supreme One. Prove it. Show us what makes you untouchable.”
The challenge lands squarely, and Satoru’s grin stretches wider, bright and reckless. “You want a demonstration?” he asks, pushing himself up from his seat with a suddenness that makes the sake bottle wobble precariously. “I’ll give you a demonstration.”
Suguru sighs, setting his cup down with a deliberate calmness that feels like a tether. “You can barely stand,” he points out, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his voice. “Sit down before you break something.”
“Pfft, I’m fine,” Satoru insists, waving him off as he takes a stumbling step forward. He bends down, placing his hands on the floor with exaggerated focus. “Watch this,” he mutters, his voice tinged with slurred determination. He attempts to kick his legs into the air for a handstand.
It goes about as well as expected.
He kicks his legs into the air—or rather, tries to. One leg shoots up too fast, the other falters, and for a single, brief moment, gravity holds its breath.
It lets go all at once. Satoru crumples, not with grace, but with a spectacular lack of it, landing halfway across Suguru’s lap in a heap of limbs and indignity.
Suguru freezes, clearly debating whether to shove Satoru off or let him stay. After a long, deliberate sigh, he rests a hand lightly on Satoru’s back. “You’re a disaster,” he says, his tone warm despite the exasperation. There’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though he does his best to keep it in check.
Shoko almost topples out of her chair, her laughter spiraling into something uncontrollable. “King of Curses!” she howls between gasps, clutching her stomach. “More like King of Making an Ass of Himself.”
Satoru groans, muffled against Suguru’s thigh, the sound low and petulant. “That was sabotage,” he mutters, his voice slurred and lazy. “Clearly, you’re all against me.”
“Sure it is,” Suguru replies, his hand brushing briefly against Satoru’s shoulder before retreating. “Should we crown you now, or wait until you’ve recovered your dignity?”
Satoru doesn’t respond right away. He stays slumped where he is, breathing deeply, his earlier bravado dimming into something quieter. His weight shifts slightly against Suguru’s leg, not quite leaning in but not pulling away either. Suguru doesn’t push him off. Instead, his hand lingers, almost absently, rubbing small, slow circles against Satoru’s back. The motion is thoughtless, instinctive, as if this closeness is natural. And maybe it is, or maybe they’re both too far gone to question it.
Shoko watches them through half-lidded eyes, her grin softening into something quieter, something knowing. She doesn’t speak, but the way her eyebrow arches suggests she’s filing this moment away for later. Instead, she lifts the sake bottle, pouring herself another drink with a flourish. “To the King and his loyal knight,” she declares, raising her cup high, her tone rich with amusement but free of malice.
Suguru huffs out a soft laugh, his hand pausing briefly against Satoru’s back. “More like his unwilling babysitter,” he mutters, though the corners of his lips twitch upward just enough to betray him.
Satoru groans in protest, finally pushing himself upright, though the movement is slow and uneven, his body swaying as if the world has tilted. “I’m surrounded by traitors,” he declares, his voice slurred but carrying the same theatricality that always follows him. He waves a hand vaguely in their direction, as though dismissing them both, before flopping back down—this time fully against Suguru’s lap. His head tilts forward, his white hair falling messily over his face, the strands catching the dim light.
Shoko dissolves into fresh laughter, leaning forward now, her arms draped lazily over the table. “Long live the King,” she says between breathless chuckles, lifting her cup in mock reverence.
Suguru exhales, low and quiet, his hand lifting once again to rest against Satoru’s back. This time, it stays there.
The next morning, the sunlight creeping through the dorm blinds feels like a personal attack. Satoru is sprawled across his bed, his face buried in his pillow, groaning like a dying man.
“I think I’m dying,” he declares, voice muffled but no less dramatic. One arm flings over his eyes as if shielding him from the cruelty of existence. “Suguru, you’re in charge of the funeral arrangements. Make it cool.”
The door creaks open, and Suguru steps inside, moving with deliberate calm. He doesn’t spare a glance at Satoru’s melodrama, doesn’t even blink at the disheveled sprawl across the mattress. Instead, he sets a glass of water and a packet of aspirin on the desk with quiet efficiency, his movements unhurried and steady, as if the scene is routine.
Satoru peeks out from beneath his arm, the light catching in his groggy, half-lidded eyes. For a moment, his gaze lingers on Suguru, the faint scrape of gratitude catching in his throat before it tumbles out in a barely audible, “Thanks.”
Suguru leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Try not to embarrass yourself next time,” he says dryly, his expression unreadable but for the faintest quirk at the corner of his lips.
Satoru lets out another groan, shifting just enough to peek at Suguru through the mess of his hair. “You’re not going to say I looked cool?” he mumbles, the words trailing off into the pillow, but they carry just enough weight to land.
Suguru doesn’t answer immediately. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharpening as it settles on Satoru. The pause stretches just long enough for Satoru to regret speaking at all, until Suguru leans a shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms with careful ease.
“You didn’t throw up,” Suguru says finally, his voice calm and even, but there’s something contemplative in his tone, something measured. “And you didn’t fall off the balcony. I’d say you did… good.”
For a second, Satoru freezes, blinking up at him like he’s trying to decide if that counts. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he sits up, his movements slow and deliberate as if the weight of the hangover is dragging him down. He grabs the water, the glass cool against his fingers, and downs it in one long, dramatic gulp.
The aspirin follows, tossed back with an almost theatrical grimace.
As he sets the glass back on the desk, he feels it—a heat creeping across his cheeks, unbidden and stubborn, settling into the hollows of his skin. He tells himself it’s the sake, the last remnants of its fire burning through him still, but the excuse feels fragile, threadbare. The warmth lingers, insistent, and he doesn’t dare look at Suguru again.
*
The first time they kiss, it’s to prove a point.
The late afternoon sun drapes over the campus in a haze of amber and gold, softening the sharp edges of the world. The steps leading up to the dorms are tepid from the day’s heat, the stone beneath them radiating a faint, lingering warmth. Above, the branches of an old tree sway gently, casting dappled shadows that shift with the breeze.
Satoru drapes himself across the steps, his legs stretched out and his arms flung over his head as if to soak in the last rays of sunlight. He’s still buzzing from their earlier sparring session, energy spilling over in restless movements as his foot bounces against the edge of a step.
Suguru sits a few steps above him, calm as ever, his posture relaxed but precise. One knee is drawn up, his arm resting casually across it, while his other hand cradles a half-empty water bottle. He watches Satoru with a faint smirk, his gaze teasing but not unkind.
“You’re unbelievable,” Satoru mutters, tilting his head back to squint up at Suguru. “Rigged. That’s what it was. Obviously rigged against me.”
Suguru doesn’t respond immediately. He lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a slow sip, deliberate and maddeningly unhurried. The silence stretches just long enough to feel intentional, a space left open for irritation to settle. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and even, carrying the faintest thread of amusement. “Rigged? You’re just mad because I beat you.”
Satoru snaps upright so quickly it’s a miracle he doesn’t tumble backward. “You didn’t beat me,” he insists, his voice sharp and rising. One hand jabs toward Suguru, his finger accusatory. “I was holding back. You know, so you wouldn’t feel bad.”
Suguru raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening ever so slightly, the faint curve of it somehow insufferable. “How considerate of you,” he replies, his tone dry enough to scrape against stone.
Satoru jumps up, pacing in front of Suguru with the restless, relentless energy of someone who refuses to let an argument slip through his fingers. His movements are sharp, his steps uneven, the kind of pacing that seems more about stirring the air around him than getting anywhere. “I could beat you anytime, anywhere. You name it—techniques, strategy, even… charm.”
Suguru doesn’t miss a beat. His brow arches, a single, deliberate movement, and his smirk deepens just enough to be infuriating. “Charm?” he repeats, the word soft, almost disbelieving. “You?”
Satoru freezes mid-step, spinning to face Suguru as if the word has physically struck him. His expression is a perfect storm of mock outrage, incredulity, and a dash of genuine offense. “Excuse me? I am extremely charming. People love me.”
Suguru leans back on his hands, his expression calm, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth is nothing short of maddening. “Do they?” he asks, his voice a low hum of amusement. “Because right now, all I see is a guy yelling about how charming he is. Not exactly… compelling.”
Satoru’s mouth opens, ready to launch into a tirade, but no words come. His hands drop to his sides, his posture stiff as he stares at Suguru, clearly flustered but unwilling to back down. His jaw tightens, his gaze narrowing.
Suguru tilts his head slightly, his eyes glinting with something that looks suspiciously like victory. “Prove it,” he says simply, his tone light but laced with challenge.
The words hang in the air like a dare, soft and sharp all at once.
Satoru blinks, caught off guard, and for a beat, the world seems to hold its breath. Then his grin returns, crooked and defiant, like a king rallying his troops before battle.
“Oh, I’ll prove it,” he says, stepping forward, his movements too loose, too confident, as though daring himself as much as Suguru. There’s a faint flush creeping up his neck, the kind he can’t disguise no matter how high his head is held. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Suguru.”
Suguru doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. His gaze holds steady, calm and unwavering, except for the faint curl of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Satoru hesitates—just a flicker, barely enough to register—before leaning in, his grin faltering as it hits him that he hasn’t thought this through. “Watch and learn,” he murmurs, the words coming out weaker than intended. And then, before the moment can drag, before his own nerves can catch up, he closes the gap.
The kiss is quick and clumsy, a press of lips that lands somewhere between a challenge and a joke, but it leaves the air between them crackling.
Satoru pulls back, blinking rapidly, as if the magnitude of what he’s just done is only now catching up to him. “See?” he says, his voice too loud, too fast. “Charming.”
Suguru stares at him, his expression unreadable for a moment that stretches unbearably long. And then, to Satoru’s horror, he laughs.
“Is that what you call charming?” Suguru says finally, his voice rich with amusement. “Because I’d call it something else entirely.”
Satoru scowls, his cheeks burning. “Whatever,” he mutters, waving a hand dismissively as he flops back onto the steps.
The moment should end there. It doesn’t
Satoru barely has time to process his embarrassment, the lingering heat in his cheeks threatening to set him aflame, when Suguru shifts. There’s a glint in his eye now, something sharp and deliberate that sets Satoru on edge.
“Here,” Suguru says, his voice soft but steady, each syllable wrapped in an unspoken challenge. “I’ll show you.”
Before Satoru can retort—before he can even think to retort—Suguru leans forward, catching him by the wrist and pulling him back in.
The kiss is nothing like the one Satoru gave him. It’s hot and deliberate, a slow press of lips that parts into something deeper, something open and unrelenting. Suguru’s hand finds its way to the back of Satoru’s neck, fingers curling against the base of his skull, holding him in place with a grip that feels firm but unbearably gentle.
Satoru’s breath catches, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides before one finally, instinctively, lifts to clutch at Suguru’s sleeve. It’s like his body has short-circuited, caught between pulling away and leaning closer, his mind reeling with the realization that Suguru is kissing him. Really kissing him.
Suguru tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against Satoru’s lower lip with a confidence that leaves no room for hesitation. The heat of it burns through Satoru’s chest, scattering whatever lingering thoughts he might’ve had like ash in the wind.
It’s over just as suddenly as it began, Suguru pulling back slowly, his hand slipping from Satoru’s neck as his gaze meets his. There’s something unreadable in Suguru’s expression, a calm steadiness that makes Satoru feel even more unbalanced.
“That,” Suguru murmurs, his voice low and soft, “is charm.”
Satoru stares at him, wide-eyed and speechless, his lips still tingling from the kiss. For the first time in his life, words fail him completely.
Suguru doesn’t wait for a response. He leans back, his composure infuriatingly intact, as if he hadn’t just dismantled Satoru’s entire worldview in the span of a single kiss.
“Thoughts?” Suguru asks, a faint smirk playing at his lips, though his tone remains light and teasing.
Satoru blinks rapidly, his brain scrambling to catch up. “I—uh—shut up,” he finally manages, his voice cracking slightly as he scrambles to his feet. He spins on his heel, walking away with a deliberate swagger that does little to hide the heat creeping up his neck.
“You’re a good kisser, by the way,” Suguru calls after him, his voice maddeningly casual, the words curling through the evening air like smoke.
Satoru’s breath catches, his face heating impossibly more. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t give Suguru the satisfaction, but the words settle somewhere deep in his chest, uncomfortably warm, impossible to ignore.
He picks up his pace, his long legs eating up the distance as the flush creeps down his neck. His mind races in circles, tripping over half-formed comebacks he’ll never say aloud.
By the time he rounds the corner and disappears from sight, his heart is pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.
*
The first time they hook up, it’s awkward.
Satoru is nervous in a way that feels almost foreign, like he’s forgotten how to exist in Suguru’s space—how to breathe. It isn’t like the seamless choreography of cursed techniques, where instinct carries them to perfect synchronicity. This is different. This is uncharted.
Intimacy has no rules. No tactics. It demands vulnerability instead of precision, and Satoru is terrible at vulnerability.
Satoru sprawls across Suguru’s bed, all long limbs and restless energy, one arm flung dramatically over his face like he’s shielding himself from some imaginary light. His sigh is loud, overdone, theatrical in a way that only Satoru can be. “You’re killing me,” he groans, the words muffled but carrying just enough weight to twist the air around them. “Do you know that? Absolutely killing me.”
Suguru sits on the floor beside the bed, knees bent, his hands resting lightly on his thighs. There’s something deliberate about his stillness, the way he holds himself like he’s balancing on the edge of a decision. “I haven’t even touched you yet,” he replies, voice low and steady, cutting clean through Satoru’s theatrics.
“That’s exactly the problem.” Satoru shifts, peeking out from beneath his arm, white hair spilling messily over his forehead. His eyes catch on Suguru’s face, the way the faint light softens his features, and for a moment, his breath stumbles. The words that follow come too fast, too pointed. “I’ve been lying here for hours waiting. You’re torturing me.”
“It’s been two minutes,” Suguru says, deadpan. The corner of his mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile there and gone in an instant.
Satoru props himself up on his elbows, his fingers tangling absently in the sheets beneath him. “C’mon, Suguru,” he says, meaning for it to sound teasing, but the usual sharpness of his tone is gone. “Don’t make me beg. Or actually—do you want me to beg? Pervert.”
Suguru leans forward, bracing a hand against the futon as he moves closer. “Shut up,” he mutters. It’s low and warm, and the way he looks at Satoru makes the rest of the world feel distant and insignificant.
Satoru tries to smirk, to say something clever, something that pulls the power back into his hands, but the effort dies the moment Suguru’s hand reaches out. A thumb brushes against his jaw, tracing the line of it with a touch so soft it almost feels imagined. There’s a faint tremor in Suguru’s fingers, barely there but enough to make Satoru’s pulse quicken.
Suguru leans in close, close enough that their breaths mingle, and for a moment, they stay suspended in that space—uncertain but so sure of each other at the same time. When their lips meet, the kiss lands somewhere between clumsy and perfect. Satoru presses forward, tilting into Suguru as if drawn by some invisible thread. His hands lift, awkward and searching, tangling in the fabric of Suguru’s shirt.
Suguru laughs against his mouth, a soft, broken sound that vibrates through Satoru’s chest. It’s disarming, that laugh, the way it feels so out of place and yet so perfect. “Slow down,” Suguru whispers, his breath brushing against Satoru’s lips.
Satoru’s face burns, his ears ringing, and he buries himself against Suguru’s shoulder with a groan. “You’re the worst,” he mumbles against the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m not.” Suguru tilts his head, brushing his nose against the curve of Satoru’s cheek. His hand moves to cup the back of Satoru’s neck. There’s a pause, a beat, and then Suguru’s voice, soft and low and so achingly familiar, breaks the silence.
“Let me see you,” he says.
Satoru pulls back just enough for their eyes to meet, and he feels something warm twist in his chest. It’s close to unbearable—the sweetness of it, the way Suguru’s smile is so small yet so painfully sincere. It’s the kind of smile that reaches places Satoru didn’t realize were vulnerable, the kind that leaves his heart stuttering like it doesn’t know how to keep pace.
Suguru’s hands slide downward, a slow, deliberate motion until they settle at Satoru’s thighs. His touch is firm but soft, grounding, like a stone warmed by sunlight. Satoru doesn’t expect the sharp breath that escapes him, doesn’t expect the way it fractures in his chest, caught between nervous laughter and something he can’t name. “You’re taking this so seriously,” he blurts, voice too fast, too sharp like he’s trying to fill the quiet before it swallows him whole. “What, is this some kind of test?”
Suguru doesn’t answer right away. His hands press against Satoru’s hipbones, and for a moment, it’s the only point of gravity in the room. He’s too quiet, too calm, like someone trying to coax a wild animal closer. “Do you ever stop talking?” Suguru murmurs, almost to himself.
The question sends a shiver down Satoru’s spine. His head tips back against the mattress, exposing the long curve of his throat. He’s all show, all deflection, but the breath that leaves him is shaky, uneven. “No,” he says, his voice catching somewhere between bravado and surrender.
Suguru hums in response, the sound low and warm, and his fingers trace the edge of Satoru’s thigh like an artist finding their line. There’s no rush to his movements, just an unrelenting patience that twists something deep in Satoru’s chest. His other hand shifts, cupping the back of Satoru’s knee, angling him with the care of someone handling something irreplaceable.
The first push is shallow. Testing. A flicker of hesitation lingers in the air, heavy and fragile. Satoru sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing against the stretch before he forces himself to exhale. “See?” he manages, his voice thin, breaking apart. “You’re making this so—” The words falter. His defiance falters. He doesn’t finish.
The sound Satoru makes is not his own. It escapes unbidden, breaking through the fragile wall of silence. His hips twitch, a reflex he can’t smother, and his body tightens around the motion like it’s clinging to the heat of Suguru’s hand. “Hold still,” Suguru murmurs, low and calm, his voice slipping beneath the cracks in Satoru’s resolve. It feels less like an order, more like a promise.
Another press. Deeper this time, sharper, the stretch unraveling something inside him. Suguru doesn’t rush. His movements are slow, rhythmic, as if he’s marking time in the cadence of Satoru’s breath. It feels like he’s writing something into Satoru’s skin—careful strokes, each one measured.
Satoru’s fingers curl into the sheets, his grip uneven and desperate, as if the fabric beneath him might keep him tethered. His head tilts to the side, his breath stuttering between shallow inhales and trembling exhales. He tries for words—something biting, something to fill the silence—but all that escapes is a sharp gasp as Suguru shifts, his fingers brushing against something deep, something electric.
Suguru’s fingers scissor slightly, a gentle push and pull that feels like it’s carving a rhythm into the air between them. It’s not just movement—it’s something more deliberate, something that feels like creation. Like ruin.
And Satoru is helpless against it. His body trembles, the tension winding tighter and tighter until he feels like he might snap. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp, keening noise spilling out before he can think to swallow it down. The world narrows to this moment—just the weight of Suguru’s touch, the way his hands feel like they’re dismantling him piece by piece, pulling him apart only to put him back together.
Suguru’s hands move like they know every piece of him, tracing his edges, smoothing his jaggedness. His other hand finds its way to Satoru’s thigh, fingers brushing circles into his skin, a counterpoint to the slow, insistent stretch inside him. The contrast is maddening—too much, too little, everything at once.
There’s a hum beneath Satoru’s skin, loud and restless, the thrum of Infinity waking with instinctive urgency. A warning. A defense. It whispers for him to push away, to shield himself, but he swallows it down. Forces it quiet. Forces himself to stay here, exposed, unraveled in a way he’s never allowed himself to be.
Time folds in on itself. The discomfort softens into warmth, the sharp edges blurring into something deeper, something he can almost sink into. The room feels small and infinite all at once, the air heavy with the rhythm of their bodies, the unspoken tension that curls between them like smoke.
By the time Suguru finally pulls back, Satoru feels undone in a way that’s terrifyingly complete. Every nerve ending sings, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His head tilts back, and his gaze flickers up to Suguru, his eyes wide and glassy, lips parted around the gasp he’s too overwhelmed to release. It’s not disbelief, not quite awe—it’s something quieter, something heavier, something that lingers in the spaces words can’t reach.
Suguru watches him, his gaze steady, unhurried. It cuts through Satoru, all quiet fondness hidden in the sharp curve of a smirk, and Satoru feels pinned beneath it. Like Suguru’s looking at him and seeing every jagged edge, every piece he doesn’t know how to keep together.
“You’re really loud,” Suguru says, his tone low, teasing. But there’s something beneath it—a kind of warmth that wraps around Satoru and squeezes tight.
Satoru lets out a breath that borders on a laugh. Too quick, too sharp. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who’s taking forever,” he says, and the words tumble out in a rush, tripping over the tremor in his voice. “I mean, seriously, Suguru, it’s like you’re—I don’t know—writing a dissertation or something. ‘The Anatomy of Gojo Satoru: A Comprehensive Study.’” His hands flutter, filling the air with nervous, nonsensical gestures. “You can put it in a binder, color-coded tabs—oh wait, no, you’d make Shoko do that, because you’re lazy.”
Suguru tilts his head, and the barest smile plays at the corner of his mouth. Amused, patient, utterly unreadable. “Are you done?”
“No,” Satoru fires back too quickly. “Not even close. I mean, who takes this long? You’re supposed to be good at everything, right? That’s your thing. ‘Suguru Geto, the calm, collected genius,’ blah blah blah. Meanwhile, here I am practically begging you to—”
“Begging me to fuck you?” Suguru interrupts smoothly, one brow arching as his voice dips low.
Satoru’s mouth snaps shut, and the heat that rises to his cheeks is immediate, molten. He twists his face away, burying himself half into the pillow like it’ll shield him from Suguru’s gaze. “Shut up,” he mutters, quieter now. Smaller. The words almost vanish into the air. “You know what I mean.”
Suguru laughs softly—a sound that hums low in Satoru’s chest, curling warm and insistent. His hand moves to brush over Satoru’s shoulder, a touch so light it almost disappears before it lands. “You’re nervous,” Suguru says, his voice calm and so gentle it makes Satoru’s breath hitch. “You don’t have to be.”
“I’m not,” Satoru insists, but the words sound thin and unconvincing, even to him.
Suguru leans closer, his smile widening just enough to press against the fragile quiet of the moment. “You are,” he says. “You talk too much when you’re nervous.” He pauses, watching the way Satoru’s breath stutters, the faint tremor in his fingers as they twist into the sheets. “It’s cute.”
“Excuse me?” Satoru twists his head back toward him, a spark of indignation flaring. His cheeks are flushed, his voice sharp, but there’s no weight to it—just air. “I’m not cute, Suguru. I’m sexy. Obviously. Now, can you just—get up here already?”
The laugh that spills from Suguru’s lips is softer this time, fond, and it settles over Satoru like an ache he doesn’t know how to name. The mattress dips as Suguru shifts forward, closing the space between them in a single movement.
He settles above Satoru, his hands braced on either side of him. Their faces are so close now that Satoru can feel the warmth of Suguru’s breath against his cheek. Suguru’s dark eyes hold his, steady and unreadable, and for a moment, Satoru feels caught between Suguru’s gaze and the air that refuses to fill his lungs—like there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nothing to say.
Suguru’s hands find his hips, guiding him through the first push, slow and deliberate. It’s sharp at first, a burn that carves into him, makes him tense, makes his breath catch in short, uneven bursts. His hands claw at the sheets, twisting the fabric until his knuckles ache. A sound escapes him—soft, choked, involuntary—and he bites down hard on his lip to keep the next one at bay.
Another press, another stretch. The burn sharpens, then dulls, then shifts into something warmer, deeper. Suguru’s movements are painstaking, careful, but not hesitant. Like he’s memorizing every reaction, every breath, the way Satoru’s body yields to him one inch at a time.
“Breathe,” Suguru murmurs, his voice calm, grounding. His hands tighten, steadying Satoru as he eases deeper, like he’s shaping the moment, holding it in place so Satoru doesn’t fall apart. “You’re doing so well.”
Satoru’s pride flares, sharp and defiant, cutting through the haze. “Don’t—don’t say stuff like that,” he snaps, though his voice cracks at the edges, weak and uneven. His chest feels hot, like the words are burning their way out of him. “I don’t need you to cheer me on.”
Suguru’s laugh is soft, barely more than an exhale, but it cuts through Satoru’s defenses all the same. “Oh?” Suguru’s hands brush over his thighs, light and deliberate, coaxing. “Then why are you trembling like this?”
Satoru opens his mouth to argue, to fight back, but the words dissolve on his tongue. His body betrays him—hips twitching, thighs quaking, breath shuddering as Suguru presses deeper. A flush spreads hot across his chest, impossible to ignore, and his voice drops into a muttered, “Just—shut up,” as he turns his head to the side.
Suguru leans in closer, the warmth of him spilling over Satoru, the brush of his fingers tightening against skin. “But you like it when I tell you how good you are.” The words are soft, spoken with a certainty that feels heavier than the weight of Suguru’s hands. “Don’t you?”
Satoru doesn’t answer—not with words, anyway. His body speaks instead, a sharp twitch of his thighs, the way his back arches instinctively, like he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach. Every thrust is a new kind of ache, a new kind of stretch, the burn giving way to heat, the heat giving way to something that makes him tremble to his core.
Satoru’s fingers slip from the sheets, his grip faltering as if even the fabric refuses to tether him. He clutches at it again, knuckles pale, but it doesn’t help. His body is moving without thought now, arching into Suguru’s rhythm despite the oversensitivity, despite the tremors in his thighs. It’s instinct—primal and raw—his hips rolling to meet each thrust like a tide dragged by the moon.
“Good boy.”
The words fall soft as a whisper, but they carve themselves into Satoru’s skin like scripture, curling deep into the hollow spaces of his chest. The sound of it pulls a gasp from him, shaky and fractured, and his body answers before he can stop it. His back bows, his legs trembling, his breath shuddering.
“There it is.” Suguru’s hands tighten on his thighs—not enough to bruise, but enough to hold. Enough to make him feel like he’s being kept, steadied, anchored. The pressure presses into him, sharp and deliberate, and it sends sparks skipping along Satoru’s spine, setting his nerves alight.
He wants to argue. To twist away from the weight of the words, to bury them in sharp retorts and mocking laughter. But he can’t. The protests tangle in his throat, dissolve into gasps, sighs, whines, spilling from his lips before he can swallow them down.
The burn inside him lingers, but it’s shifting now, tilting toward something heavier, warmer. Each thrust pulls at him, stretches him open in a way that feels raw and unbearable, yet impossible to resist. The ache presses into him with every motion, sharp edges smoothing into something that drags the breath from his lungs in shuddering bursts. His hips move without thought, instinct taking over, tilting to meet Suguru’s rhythm even as his mind screams at him to hold back, to keep some part of himself untouched.
“You’re taking me so well.”
Satoru’s breath stutters, catches, tumbles into itself. Each gasp sharper, more fractured than the last as the tension inside him coils tighter, tighter—an unrelenting ache that burns and blooms all at once. Suguru moves within him, deliberate, unyielding, and it’s too much. Too heavy. Too good. Satoru feels the pressure stretch through him, filling him, sharp edges pressing against the softest parts of him, building to something unbearable.
His hands, restless and trembling, loosen from the crumpled sheets. He doesn’t think—can’t think—until his fingers find the heat of Suguru’s forearms. Solid, steady, anchoring. His grip tightens instinctively, nails scraping faintly against skin, though Suguru doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, each thrust precise, carving through the haze clouding Satoru’s mind and leaving him bare.
Suguru glances down, eyes dark with something Satoru can’t name, something that makes his chest clench. “Look at you.” His hips shift, angling deeper, the motion dragging a sound from Satoru that doesn’t even feel like his. A sound that splinters in the air between them. “You’re so close, and I haven’t even touched you.”
It’s like a spark to dry kindling, igniting something inside of Satoru that he can’t control Satoru’s eyes flutter open, unfocused and hazy, and the sight of himself—hips rolling up to meet Suguru’s, cock twitching, leaking helplessly against his stomach—floods his senses. Heat rises, overwhelming and dizzying, until it’s all he can feel. All he can be.
Too much.
His head falls back, pressing into the mattress as his eyes squeeze shut, the world blurring at the edges. Heat washes through him in waves, cresting and breaking, each one pulling him under. His body jerks violently, arching and twisting, hips stuttering as his release rips through him. It leaves him raw, trembling, every nerve burning as his voice cracks into high, desperate whines. His grip on Suguru’s arm tightens, holds. Like he’ll fall apart otherwise.
Suguru doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, steady, dragging out every last shudder of Satoru’s release. The pressure eases but doesn’t relent, the ache shifting, twisting into something softer, something that settles into Satoru’s bones. Suguru’s hands skim up his thighs, warm and grounding, before sliding to his waist. Holding him still, holding him together as his body slackens and sinks into the sheets.
Satoru breathes like he’s drowning, his chest heaving with shallow, uneven gasps. His mind floats somewhere distant, the edges of his thoughts blurred and melting. He feels the press of Suguru’s hands, the weight of his body, the faint drag of his cock inside him—still there, still unbearably present.
Satoru barely has time to catch his breath before Suguru’s hands are moving again. They’re firm but patient, settling on his shoulders. Warm enough to brand. Steady enough to hold him together. Then, with one fluid motion, Suguru turns him, pressing him into the mattress.
The sheets are cool beneath him, the only reprieve from the heat that clings to his skin, to his bones. Suguru’s hands guide him—always guiding—his touch deliberate, a quiet kind of authority that Satoru can’t resist, that he doesn’t even want to. He lets himself be moved, lets his hips tilt up, lets the tension in his arms bleed away as his body follows Suguru’s hands like it was always meant to.
Suguru leans over him, his breath a warm hum against the nape of Satoru’s neck. For a moment, there’s nothing but the heat between them, nothing but the raw pull of muscle and want. Then Suguru’s hands slide down, skimming over sweat-slicked skin, pulling Satoru back as if to keep him from slipping away. The first motion is deep, unrelenting, and it tears through Satoru like a wave, cresting, crashing, dragging everything along with it.
“Too much—” The words bloom and die in the same instant they’re said. Because even as his breath falters, even as sensation presses into him like a blade dragged slow, he moves. Rolls back, hups arching, a silent plea etched into the trembling curve of his spine. He feels raw, something laid bare, every nerve frayed and aching under Suguru’s touch.
“You can take it.” Suguru’s voice is a rasp, grayed at the edges, something deep and desperate threading through it. His grip tightens, firm, bruising, holding Satoru down as the rhythm of his hips quickens. The air feels too thick like it’s pressing against Satoru’s lungs, leaving no room to breathe, no room for anything but the ache and the burn and the overwhelming fullness of Suguru inside him.
Satoru shudders, the sensation coiling tighter, sharper, threading through his spine until it’s all he can feel. Suguru’s hands slide up his shoulders, pulling him back into each thrust. The angle changes, and the new depth sends a broken, keening sound spilling from Satoru’s lips—something raw, something jagged. His chest presses into the mattress, the sheets twisted beneath his fingers, and it feels like the world is folding in on itself.
Suguru moves again. Without warning, his hands shift, trailing down before gripping firmly, lifting. Satoru is pulled upward, his chest arching, his back curving like a bow. The new position forces him to stretch further, and he lets out a ragged gasp, his thighs trembling, his body caught in the unrelenting push and pull.
Suguru’s palm skims up the curve of Satoru’s chest, his touch hot, almost unbearable. When his hand splays out fully against Satoru’s skin, it feels like a brand, searing its way into him, leaving something indelible beneath the surface. The hand presses Satoru closer, pulls him tighter, and he melts into it—lets it consume him.
There’s nothing steady about the kiss that follows. Suguru’s grip shifts to Satoru’s jaw, his fingers tilting his head to the side, and their mouths crash together. It’s hungry, teeth catching, breaths tangling in gasps. There’s no pretense here, no gentleness, only raw want bleeding into every movement. Suguru’s lips press against Satoru’s like they’re trying to carve something permanent into him.
Satoru moans into Suguru’s mouth, his body quaking as the tension builds to a fever pitch. The heat of Suguru’s chest against his back, the rhythm of his hips—erratic now, something breaking apart in every thrust—it all blends together, drowning out everything else. Satoru is shaking, his thighs twitching as the fullness presses deeper, sharper, dragging sparks along every nerve ending until it feels like he’s unraveling completely.
Suguru’s hand doesn’t leave his chest. The press of it is grounding, the weight of his palm keeping Satoru tethered even as everything else threatens to spin out of control. Every motion sends fresh heat rolling through him, flooding his senses, until Satoru feels like he’s burning alive.
The first stutter of Suguru’s hips sends a tremor through both of them, their breaths catching in tandem, the moment suspended like a thread about to snap. Satoru feels the shift—the way Suguru’s body locks against his, the way his grip tightens just before the final thrust that drives him over the edge. The heat of it spills into Satoru, warmth flooding him in a way that makes his breath stutter, a sharp, trembling sound escaping his throat as Suguru stills behind him.
For a moment, neither of them moves. Suguru’s lips linger at the corner of Satoru’s mouth, brushing over his skin with every uneven exhale. Eventually, Suguru guides him down with deliberate care, easing him back onto the mattress. Satoru’s chest heaves, his breaths shallow and uneven, his limbs heavy with the aftermath. The absence of Suguru inside him leaves a dull ache, a hollow space where the warmth lingers.
Suguru leans down, his lips brushing softly over the back of Satoru’s neck, a fleeting kiss that feels like a promise. He remains there for a moment, his breath warm against Satoru’s skin, before shifting. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles down beside Satoru, “You okay?”
Satoru rolls onto his side, pale hair damp and sticking to his forehead. His breaths come unevenly, a jagged rhythm that hasn’t quite steadied yet. He blinks up at Suguru, eyes glassy, lips parted as if searching for words that won’t come. What does slip out is, “What the fuck was that?”
It’s flat, incredulous. And somehow, it feels like the only thing he can say.
Suguru’s gaze softens, an eyebrow arching in lazy amusement. “What was what?”
“All that… talking,” Satoru says, his hands moving with a kind of erratic energy, painting shapes in the air that don’t seem to fit. “The ‘you’re doing so well,’ the ‘good boy,’ and—” He stops abruptly, his face flushing at the memory, heat creeping down his neck. “What the hell, Suguru?”
Suguru chuckles, the sound warm, low, a note of quiet indulgence that cuts through Satoru’s indignation like a knife. He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of white hair back from Satoru’s forehead. “You seemed to like it,” he says, so simple and so knowing it makes Satoru’s stomach twist.
“I did not,” Satoru snaps, though the words feel unconvincing even as they leave his mouth. He turns his head sharply, pressing his face into the pillow, a muffled grumble the only protest he can manage. “It was embarrassing.”
Suguru hums, his fingers trailing absently along Satoru’s shoulder, tracing faint patterns into skin still flushed and warm. “Really?” he muses, almost to himself. “Because I thought that was like… your thing? I mean, every time I say something nice you go red like—"
“Don’t.” The word is sharp, cutting, though the bite of it is softened by the way Satoru flails a hand back in Suguru’s direction, weakly swatting him away.
Suguru’s laugh is quieter this time, like it’s just for him. “Alright,” he concedes, his voice honeyed, still edged with amusement. “I’ll keep the praise to a minimum next time.”
The warmth in his tone settles into Satoru like something heavy, something he doesn’t know how to hold. It stays with him, even as he turns back to face Suguru, glaring through the flush still burning at his ears.
“You’re so smug,” Satoru mutters, narrowing his eyes, though the words feel half-formed, too soft at the edges. “It’s disgusting.”
Suguru grins but doesn’t respond. Not immediately. Instead, his hand shifts again, his palm sliding down the curve of Satoru’s back, fingertips ghosting along his spine. The touch is featherlight, fleeting, but it pulls a shiver from Satoru’s body, a ripple he can’t suppress.
The silence stretches, gentle and unhurried, until Suguru speaks again. “I love you.”
The words hang in the air, fragile, but they feel like something shattering. Satoru freezes, his breath catching, his chest tightening as the world seems to shrink to just this—just Suguru, the weight of his gaze, the steady warmth of his hand.
He doesn’t have a snappy comeback this time. Doesn’t have anything sharp or clever to throw back. His lips part, but the words don’t come until his head drops back to the pillow, a quiet exhale escaping him. “Yeah. Okay.”
And after a pause, so faint it could have gone unnoticed, Satoru adds, “I love you too.”
The first time Satoru says I love you, he means it wholeheartedly.