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sexyandcringe · 20 hours

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somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this isn’t how it should be.

your living room is dimly lit, illuminated only by the tv in front of you, and the moon is glowing a pearlescent blue. flimsy strings of moonlight spill over your floorboards, reflecting off the windows, and whatever you’re doing isn’t what you should be doing. you shouldn’t be awake this late, shouldn’t be gorging on sweets before bed, shouldn’t be having a rendezvous with an enemy — shouldn’t be watching movies with your ex of ten years.

most of all, you shouldn’t be feeling nearly this content.

getō is seated right beside you, legs comfortably spread, popping a macaron into his mouth. chewing it slowly, savouring the flavour — or lack thereof, you suppose. he can’t taste much, anymore; one too many curses digested. or so he says.

this time, he brought pastries with him. expensive ones, you can tell, just from the package alone; a soft pastel pink box, wrapped up in velvet and silk, golden letter etched into the front. mont blancs, macarons, two slices of strawberry shortcake. suited to your tastes.

(you aren’t actually too fond of sweets, anymore, but how is he to know? he hasn’t seen you in years.)

”would you like me to make us some tea?”

when you turn your gaze towards him, getō’s wearing a smile. laid-back, the slightest upward curl, tilting his head in a manner you’re far too used to, eyes shining with something keen. somehow, it feels difficult to tear your gaze away from his own.

but you manage, turning forward, grasping control over your sleepy vocal cords. ”no, i’m good.”

a low hum. he’s still looking at you. ”coffee?”

”the sweets are more than enough.”

this time, a smile, one you can’t see but still somehow sense. a little bit amused. geto gazes at you with a knowing look, watches you glance at the box of pastries on your coffee table — studying you under the monochrome flicker of the tv-screen.

”understood,” he finally quips, leaning back into the leather couch, exhaling a little breath. ”eat as much as you’d like. i bought them for you, you know.”

you nod, nibbling at a macaron. not glancing his way.

being alone with him still feels a little awkward. a little tense, to be curled up on the same couch, watching the same movie, just like your old sleepovers in high school. there’s an elephant in the room that neither of you have addressed — not since he first showed up, just a couple weeks ago, waltzing up to your apartment with a plastic bag of dvds after a decade of estrangement. wearing heavy robes, and a familiar smile. asking to be let in.

and despite every single circumstance telling you not to, you did just that. you’ve yet to refuse.

(satoru would hate you, if he knew.)

so he’s there, right beside you, and you don’t talk about it. not his choice, not your work, not anything except the movie playing on the screen in front of you. this time, it’s one he’s seen before; beautiful, he called it, and for once you think it might be a romance — if the kiss between the main actors is anything to go by.

you wonder if that’s why he says it.

”say, do you hate me?”

…

it’s sudden, but not unexpected. he’s always been like this; breaking the illusion of peace before you can find any solace in it.

you bite back a groan, and shoot him a glance out of the corner of your eye — but he isn’t looking at you. only at the tv, at the two men, holding hands and standing on a bridge in the rain, watching the stars twinkle in the sky. and you sigh, turning your head to look at him fully, parting your lips. your voice comes out frustrated.

”do you really want to have this conversation now?”

”when else?” he chuckles, meeting your gaze with one brow raised. amber eyes gleaming with mirth, and something else, something less practiced. ”you don’t have to answer. i’m just curious.”

you gulp down the last of the macaron, licking your lips for any leftover crumbs — unaware of how his eyes follow the movement. ”are you?”

a hum buzzes in the back of his throat, a tiny rasp. you wonder if he’s tired. ”i hadn’t expected this, you know.” he taps at his knee with the pads of his fingers, rhythmic and controlled. ”i thought it was just wishful thinking… that you’d let me come this close.”

you feel his gaze on you. it’s heavy, heavy like lead, like a loaded gun. you feel it dissect you from afar, and can’t find it in you to reach for another pastry.

”… would you have preferred being kicked out?”

”not at all.” a little grin plays at his lips, something in his voice betraying the face he’s making. ”are you avoiding the question?”

another sigh. you’re painfully aware of how resigned it sounds, spilling out into the open air, already filling with a sense of dread; any leftover nostalgia bursting at the seams. you want to tell him so many things, but every thread inside your mind feels all tangled up.

and, as always, getō beats you to the punch.

”that’s fine, too.” a brief pause, a twitch of his pinkie. he closes his eyes, a flutter of his lashes, and inhales a breath. ”— because i’ll keep waiting.”

for a second, you consider not taking the bait.

… then you’re giving in. because that’s what you always do, whenever he’s involved. you watch him in the dark, pale skin enveloped by moonlight, raven hair spilling across the headrest. he looks beautiful, just resting his eyes.

”… for what?” you whisper, and his answer comes without a hitch to his breath.

”for you to love me again.”

…

getō tilts his head, opening his eyes, a golden brown dragging you into their depths. he looks expectant, selfishly awaiting a response, and you’re tired.

(unbeknownst to you, he resists the urge to intertwine his fingers with yours, to trace every ridge and dip of your knuckles with his thumb. to squeeze your palm like a promise, something concrete.)

when your mind has managed to untangle itself, something in your gaze turns sharp. frustrated, impatient, disappointed, looking at him with a raised brow. ”you really are stupid, aren’t you?”

as fast as it came, your gaze returns to the screen in front of you. monochrome, flickering, two beautiful men. one of them is holding a gun to the other’s temple, and the victim looks appeased. the movie’s almost over.

(how very like him, to find such violence beautiful.)

quietly, you swallow down the bile building up in the back of your throat. a decade of bitter flavours. clenching your teeth, nails digging into the couch beneath you, leather on your cold fingertips. it’s a little peeled.

you wonder why you even bother being honest, when he never quite seems to return the favour.

but the room is dimly lit, and the moon is big and bright, and your ex of ten years is sitting right next to you. in your apartment, on your couch, watching a movie on your tv. when he could, should be anywhere else. he’s with you, and he pulls the words out of your throat without trying. puppeteering your heartbeat.

”… as if i ever stopped.”

silence.

you hear a gunshot ring out. low, muffled, a crackle of static. one of the men falls down to the ground, and you can’t tell who's who. the actors are forgettable, but the soundtrack is pretty. it rings in your ears like a lullaby.

getō says your name.

it sounds the same as you remember. honeyed syllables, spilling from his parted lips, silky and sweet. he says your name like he’s asking to marry you, and you can hear the smile he’s struggling to repress.

”will you look at me?”

it’s less of a question, and more of a demand. you wonder why he even bothers asking — but you’ve never really understood the way his brain works. never understood why a burglar would bother asking the shopkeeper for permission before reaching for the register, when they’ll be leaving with the money either way.

and you’re paralyzed, stuck in place on the couch, gaze glued to the screen in front of you. but you aren’t watching, not really, just looking. and you don’t want to see what kind of face he’s making. so you whisper;

”.. no.”

”no?” he mimics, something like a coo on the tip of his tongue, lightly amused. as always, you can feel his gaze, travelling down your face like a trickle of honey. ”and why is that, my dear?”

you bite down on your lip.

a long, long moment passes, and neither of you say a word. he’s looking at you, and you’re looking down at your lap, at your clenched fists. a little meek. it’s quiet, the calm before the storm, and you know exactly what’s going to happen — because it’s already set in stone.

”because you’re going to kiss me,” you exhale, finally, resignation on your breath. ”and i’m going to let you.”

…

for a second, you wonder if his silence means he understands. if he can hear the desperate plea in your voice, if he can translate it correctly.

but his fingertips graze the lines of your jaw, his palm sneaks under your chin, and he keeps you in place. turning your head to meet his gaze, his amber eyes, dripping with something hungry; something pleading.

this time, he doesn’t ask for permission. he leans forward until there’s no space between you, tips your head back, and kisses you with bated breath — as softly as he can manage, which is still too intense for your liking. still brimming with desperation, something carnal, like he wants to pour his everything into the kiss but knows he shouldn’t. he tastes like tobacco.

and it’s over.

you know it is, because your senses are flooded with him, him, him. nothing but him, the strands of his raven hair ghosting your skin, his greedy tongue licking along your teeth, large palms resting on your spine and the back of your head. you’re pliant, surrendering yourself to his touch. he’s cradling you like he loves you, and you feel like you’ve done something awful, because you have.

because you’ve let him come so close, again, invited him inside — inside of your home, your ribcage. and he won’t bother making a home for himself there, because it’s already waiting for him, untouched, between your fourth and fifth ribs.

you never bothered to get rid of it.

(that’s your sin.)

getō hums, muffled by your lips. he sounds pleased. he sounds like he’s been waiting for this for decades, and you suppose that he has. he murmurs praise that you do nothing but swallow down.

everything feels too perfect, too normal, and it’s too much, too much, too much. your lips pressed together, your chests pressed together, your noses meeting in a tender touch. you choke down the noise that threatens to push past your lips, and he kisses you like a starved man. like he’s trying to drown in you.

he only pulls away once he realizes that you’re crying, and by then it’s too late. his widening eyes don’t matter, your cold hands don’t matter, the tremble of your erratic heartbeat has never mattered less. he looks at you with remorse, and it doesn’t matter.

(he’s yours, again, and you’re his.

you can’t stop crying.)

”… i’m sorry.”

in the background, you hear the sound of gentle whispers, an ending scene. the men are talking to each other, speaking softly, and your eyes burn with tears. geto catches one of them with his forefinger, and leans forward to plant a kiss against your nose. chaste, this time. still mumbling apologies.

it doesn’t matter, because a tiny sob still breaks past your throat — and you know the sound must hurt him.

you hate that. you hate that you always hurt him, hate that you care, hate that you feel nothing but guilt when he’s around. you hate the movie still playing to your left, hate that he doesn’t hate it, hate that he loves you. hate that you love him, that you probably always will.

you hate that you blink up at him with glassy eyes, swallow down a shaky breath, and kiss him again. hate that it’s still the only thing you know how to do well.

he doesn’t pull away, only biting back a noise of surprise — but he makes sure to kiss you gently, as if you’re made of porcelain, slow and tender, cradling you closer still. he wipes away your tears with his thumb, one after another, and you hate yourself because everything feels so deliriously right.

somewhere in the back of your mind, you know that what you’re playing is a losing game.

(he’s yours, and you’re his. it’s already set in stone.)

#To reread when im sad and yearning #To read

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sexyandcringe · 1 day

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pov onigiri miya sponsors a beach volleyball tournament

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sexyandcringe · 1 day

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i dream, now, of a normal life with you ; suguru geto

synopsis; suguru isn’t a lightweight. this is your first time actually seeing him drunk — though maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’d be the sappy kind.

word count; 9.4k (..... i got carried away ok)

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader (shoko calls u "girl" but in a "girl help" way not a gendered way), written w a no curses au in mind, sugu is a sappy emotional drunk i said what i said, sickening amounts of fluff, depictions of intoxication, reader is averse to alcohol, sugu wants to marry u so bad it makes him look silly, lots of emotions & lots of love <33

a/n; this fic has been ROTTING in my drafts for the longest time but its super precious to me and now i finally get to post it!! @softgirlgonehaywire & @hayakawalove ily ty for being interested in sappy!sugu this is a treat for u <33

the bar isn’t all that far off from your apartment.

it’s a short distance, really. walk straight ahead, until you reach the record store that suguru likes to frequent, and then take a right; a minute or two uphill, and then you’ll be able to see the blue of the sea. once you’re there, all that’s left is to look for mellow golden lighting and descend a set of stairs.

which is what you’re currently doing, popsicle in hand, loose clothes and comfortable shoes on as you wallow in the mellow summer evening. everything is blue — the dark shade of the sky, and your ice pop, pastel and sweet, tasting of pure youth. the hoodie you threw on is a rich cobalt, suguru’s in name but yours in spirit. he only wears it when you complain that it doesn’t smell like him anymore.

humming a jolly tune, you take a sharp turn, allowing the summer sensations to curl around your subconscious. blissed out and content.

you were so, so bored — stuck at home with no one to keep you company, no one to mumble snarky commentary about the show playing on tv, no one to run their fingers through your hair while your head rests in their lap. pure torture, really, being faced with the consequences of your own actions. after you stupidly told suguru you’d be okay on your own.

he even asked you twice, just to be sure, even told you that he’d prefer you to join him on his night out. and again, you declined; because it’s been so long since he had some time alone with shoko and satoru, and you were feeling a little tired anyways.

so he gave in. heading out, with a promise to bring back a tub of your favorite ice cream, leaving you with the apartment to yourself. did you come to regret your little white lie? maybe. possibly.

but everything worked out in the end.

a pleasant breeze caresses your skin, brushing against the apple of your cheek, and you watch as peach blossoms dance in a faraway park. cicadas cling to every tree in sight, buzzing a pleasant tune, mingling with the giddy giggles of high school students enjoying their summer vacation. it’s been raining for a couple of days; you can still smell it in the air, feel it in the low tinge of humidity clinging to your skin, still hear suguru’s insistence that you bring an umbrella with you to work — just in case.

but today, the skies were clear, and it’s late, not too humid but not too chilly. and the stars are out, glimmering in that fuzzy sea of mellow cerulean, leaking out like little marbles cast into space. falling down, down, down, close enough for you to see. from here, it looks as if they’re waving. you resist the urge to wave back.

peace. bliss. a nostalgia so vibrant you could drown in it, feel it lick at your ankles like soft sea foam.

eager to scratch a certain itch in your brain, attention span zipping from one street vendor to the pop music blasting from a couple streets away, you take your phone out from your pocket. absently scrolling through your messages, until you get to the ones shoko sent you just ten minutes ago. the ones that brought you out here, into a summer evening soon to slip into nightfall, ones that have you walking to the bar you chose not to join them at.

messages that still have you pushing back a bout of giggles, chewing lazily on your ramune ice pop with a giddy smile.

sho 🚬: come get ur man sho 🚬: he’s drunk. sho 🚬: like DRUNK drunk

you: …… um. you: what happened to hi? hello?? good evening???

sho 🚬: no time for that. look sho 🚬: [ image ] sho 🚬: he looks so goofy lol

unable to resist the temptation, you press the pad of your finger against the screen — opening the image attachment, just to drink in the sight once again. what you see is a certain man, slumped over in his seat, cheek smooshed against the wooden table in front of him. messy hair, no longer tied into a bun, cascading down his shoulders and back. from the little you can see of his face, his skin is flushed a light pink, and his eyes are closed, fingers still curled around an empty beer jug.

like a sleepy puppy.

a coo tiptoes on your tongue, but you bite down on your lip in an effort to stop it, just grinning at your screen with pure adoration in your lovesick eyes.

he’s drunk, alright. an unfamiliar sight, but not at all unwelcome. because he’s cute, terribly so, so cute that it hurts, even when he’s obviously wasted. it’s almost funny — you know their drinking habits. shoko holds her liquor so well that it’s a little horrifying, and satoru can get wasted if he has more than a sip of it. and suguru?

suguru never gets drunk. he barely even drinks. out of consideration for satoru, maybe, or you. probably both. that’s just how he is; you thought he hated fish for years, because he was always so eager to give you the best bites of the sushi rolls you ordered. turns out he was just indulging you.

so, to be frank — the idea of him suddenly being drunk is a little bit of a shocker. but it’s also kind of exciting, in a ridiculous way. new, fun, just what you need when you’re bored out of your mind.

(or maybe you’re just happy to have an excuse to go see him.)

you: NOOOO you: MY BABY 😭😭😭 you: what did u guys DO to him???

sho 🚬: satoru and him made a bet 😐 you know how they are sho 🚬: he drank like a divorced mother of four ive never seen something so beautiful

you: …. you: have i told you that you’re both terrible

sho 🚬: u love us <33 sho 🚬: anyway he’s been asking me where u are for the past ten minutes pls come i can’t stand him sho 🚬: he’s crying.

you: HUH???????? you: WHY????????????????

sho 🚬: dude i dont know sho 🚬: please come get him he’s being so sappy that satoru’s abt to throw up

you: ???? okok 😭 you: im omw ig??

sho 🚬: girl hurry he just told me he genuinely appreciates my presence in his life 😐

an exhale — laced with deep amusement — drops from your lips and spills into the summer air. it tastes like a memory from long ago.

slipping your phone back into your pocket, you raise your gaze, searching for a glimmer of goldish light. soaking up the scent of the ocean, sparkling on the border of your peripheral. salty and sweet.

no matter how hard you try, all you can think of is that certain someone, waiting for you to pick him up. your mind keeps drifting back to the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way his hair falls over his face when he leans down, the sound he makes when he stretches in the morning.

you want to see him. badly. you want him near, want to feel the familiar warmth of his presence, want to see him smile and laugh and sigh and raise his eyebrow at your antics.

so there isn’t any time to waste. you’re walking towards that familiar set of stairs before you know it, shoes hitting the asphalt with a mantra of satisfying thuds.

and when you step in through the opened door, you’re immediately engulfed by a sense of overflowing comfort. mellow, warm lights, the soft buzzing of static from an old radio, low citypop beats trailing through the air. the bartender by the counter gives you a curt nod in greeting, before motioning towards a certain table. it’s over in the corner, covered in beer jugs and fancy glasses, with three beauties seated around it.

satoru notices you first.

a bright grin finds its way onto his face, and he waves you over giddily, happily. barely contained excitement in the motion. shoko’s gaze follows his, flitting over to meet yours — and you think she mouths an oh, thank god, before taking another sip from her glass. she brings a hand up in greeting when you come closer, and you can’t see her smile, but there’s a crinkle to her eyes; a warmth in them that you’d never miss.

”hey, guys.”

”yo!” satoru chirps, beaming in a way that’s so distinctly him it makes you soften. he looks so comfortable in his seat, with a cocktail you know is non-alcoholic and probably too sweet for anyone but him to stomach. giggling to himself, leaning over to poke suguru’s cheek, with a teasing declaration of your chaperone is here!

and there he is.

the man you came here for, still slumped over in his seat, unresponsive. not for long. as the lilt of your voice reaches his ears, his eyes flutter open, in a bout of recognition — even in the drunken state he’s in. an immediate sensation of familiarity creeps into his veins, rousing him from his cozy, half-asleep stupor.

he doesn’t even grumble over the way satoru keeps poking at his cheek, interest and attention focused solely on a certain someone. you, your presence.

and when your eyes meet his, he lights up.

it’s precious, you think, how his eyes widen, blooming with genuine affection, so endearing you could kiss him right then and there. his face is flushed, and his hair is tousled, and the warm lighting of the bar paints him in a golden hue. so perfect for him, your star in the sky.

a smile spreads across his lips, big and happy and warm, and you can’t help but mirror it.

(gosh, he’s cute.)

with a dizzy kind of eagerness, suguru sits up, palms flush against the table to support his weight. he stumbles out of his seat, paying no heed to satoru’s amused huff of careful! or the rattling of fragile glass.

it only takes a few uncoordinated steps for him to reach you, where you haphazardly lean against the wall, watching him amusedly. that delighted smile never leaves his lips, as his arms go to curl around your waist, big and heavy, his jaw finding its rightful place on the curve of your shoulder.

”baby,” he drawls, fond and affectionate. breathing you in. ”sweetheart. my angel.”

a flustered puff of laughter slips from your lips, stumbling a little under his weight. his voice is syrupy sweet, overflowing with love and adoration, soft in a way that has your knees buckling. a little raspy. murmured right into your ear, sending pleasant shivers down your spine.

he’s too sweet for you to handle, really, even sweeter than satoru’s overpriced cocktail. and he smells the same as always; a blend between coffee grounds, cigarette smoke and rain, one that never fails to soothe you. even when it’s tangled up with a vague but vivid stench of alcohol, courtesy of the drinking he’s been doing until now.

you crinkle your nose, but don’t let go of him, nuzzling your cheek against the side of his head. words buzzing with warmth. ”hey, sugu.”

suguru only squeezes you tighter, content to have you in his arms. finally, his world makes sense again. all he can do is bask in your voice, warmth, scent — he’s just so enamored by it all. almost in a trance, heartstrings dancing along to the beat of your presence, your very existence, that appears to him as something almost angelic. soft and familiar, something that feels right at home when it’s tucked into his embrace. where he can keep it safe.

”missed you…” he murmurs, sleepy, smearing an open mouthed kiss against the crook of your neck. ”i love you s’much…”

a chuckle. ”i love you too,” you echo, running a steady hand over his back. your voice is laced with something teasing, but awfully fond. ”you really are drunk, aren’t you?”

”mm…” he only hums, cheek pressed flush against your soft skin. ”’m sorry…” he mumbles, stifling a yawn. he sounds a little guilty, and it makes you want to coo. pull his cheek a little.

instead, you laugh. amusement vowen into the bubbly noise. ”it’s fine, sugu. c’mon — let’s go home, alright?”

at that, satoru visibly reacts, placing his glass on the table with a soft clink before getting up to stretch. he grabs suguru’s discarded jacket, letting it hang off his arm as he walks over to the two of you.

”i’ll help you carry him,” he smiles, always so dependable. so ready to be of service. maybe a little too eager to carry suguru around like a sack of potatoes.

a smile blooms on your face, and satoru gives you a playful wink. shoko just leans back in her seat, stretching idly. it feels like home with them there.

”i’ll stay here,” she hums, a faint grin tugging at her lips. ”he’s your problem now.”

”got it.” you meet her lidded eyes, sharing an amused look as satoru tries to coax suguru away from you, pulling at his cheek while he whines and clings to the fabric of your clothing.

finally, he relents, and you look back at the table with a grin. ”see you later, sho’.”

a smile is the only response you get, but it’s enough. it’s her, the same as always, still sipping from a glass of expensive whiskey and raising her hand in a silent see you. relaxed and cool, and so very lovely.

with one arm over satoru’s shoulder and the other clinging to your hoodie, suguru stirs.

”shoko…” he groans, craning his head to look back at her, even as satoru makes a move to leave. ”don’t drink too much. and watch out for strangers…”

he trails off, blinking drowsily, a protective tone to his voice. worried. awfully like him. neither you nor satoru can resist the chuckle you indulge in, but shoko just rolls her hazel eyes.

”i don’t need to hear that from you,” she scoffs, tinged with amusement and what you’re almost certain is embarrassment. there’s a fondness to her snark, one you’d never miss.

(shoko will always be shoko. you know that she appreciates suguru’s concern, even if she doesn’t want to show it.)

”alright, c’mon,” satoru quips, slapping suguru’s back with a grin. ”there, there, big guy. let’s get you home, hm?”

just as you suspected, he doesn’t let you help, doing all the heavy lifting on his own. not breaking a single sweat, flaunting his strength as he hoists suguru up the steps — while you do nothing but follow, a light jacket hanging off your arm.

cold midnight air embraces you, slathering your cheeks with the essence of summer as your shoes meet the asphalt. satoru smiles, a low exhale escaping him, dusting off his hands. ”there we go.”

suguru stumbles towards you, no longer caged in, slumping against your shoulder with a satisfied sigh. blinking slowly, as you link arms, his muddled senses adjusting to the outside world. a pleasantly blue sky, a sun long set, and a string of lamp posts to light up the street ahead of you. artificial fireflies, watching over the town you love so dearly.

you part your lips, and a soft exhale slips out, dripping with fondness. ”thanks, satoru,” you smile, meeting his gaze.

”don’t mention it,” he waves you off, but you know he appreciates it; always eager to be praised. ”can you bring him back by yourself?”

”yeah, we’ll be fine. it’s close, anyway. don’t worry.”

a hum buzzes in his throat, and his cobalt gaze drifts upwards, to bask in the starry sky. a moment passes, and then he’s looking back at you and suguru; a soft and earnest smile playing at his lips. so sincere you want to reach out, cup his cheek, make sure he knows how loved he is.

”i’ll go back to shoko, then,” he chirps. bubbly and graceful, giddy and playful. always so lovely. ”gotta make sure she stays out of trouble.”

a chuckle. you mirror his smile. ”of course.”

and with that, your precious best friend makes a move to return to the bar, taking a decisive step away from you. before he can get too far, though, a certain hand reaches out to hold onto his sleeve — keeping him still.

satoru turns around. blinking once, then twice, in confusion; faced with none other than suguru, still slumped against you. a little out of it, sleepy and disoriented, yawning quietly, but his eyes are as clear as ever. caring and sentimental.

his gaze cuts to the bone of things. it’s something you’ve grown used to.

”thanks, satoru,” he murmurs, letting go of said man’s shirt. the words that spill from his lips are straightforward, a little tactless, but overflowing with earnest appreciation. ”you’re my best friend.”

a moment passes. the stars burn in silence.

satoru blinks.

then he sighs, with what you know is nothing more than feigned annoyance. masking his embarrassment, the same way shoko did, the same way suguru always does. your repressed, beloved little losers.

”yeah, yeah. i got it,” he pats suguru’s shoulder, once, twice. not looking at him. ”you’re such a sap, you know that? geez.”

a grin crawls up to rest on your lips, fresh mischief blooming in your eyes. ”not gonna call him your best friend back?” you tease, a soft tilt of your head.

satoru gives you a glare, playful, one you can’t physically see from behind his shades but still somehow sense. ”don’t add fuel to the fire,” he grins, with a halfhearted flick to your forehead.

before you can bicker further, suguru yawns, loudly, closing his eyes and nuzzling into you. you share an amused look with satoru, until he shakes his head fondly.

”take care of him, alright?”

”i will. you guys have fun!”

and at last, satoru turns on his heel, coupled with a smile and a lazy wave. but suguru calls out to him once more, unwilling to part ways without saying his piece. so sentimental, so loving it comes to him like breathing.

”bye-bye, satoru,” he slurs, voice loud enough for the entire street to hear, tired and honest. raising his arm in a lazy wave. ”i love you!”

”go home already!” satoru shouts, descending down the steps with a flush to his cheeks that you’ll tease him for later. his soft laughter is carried away by the breeze, sweet and saccharine.

(satoru will always be satoru. you know that he loves suguru back, even if he doesn’t want to say it out loud.)

with a faint chuckle, melting into the summer air, you tug on suguru’s arm. ”alright,” you chirp, looking up at him. ”let’s go!”

he seems a little more awake now, at least, trying to match your steps. meanwhile, you do what you can to support his weight; he’s stumbling a bit, but you don’t mind. if anything, his weight is a comfort, your arms linked together like a lucky charm. a safe harbour.

suguru is acting kind of like a big puppy, gazing at you with hearts in his eyes. a little meek, clinging to you, trailing after you pliantly. he’s a little dizzy, still, and he needs you to get back home in one piece. it makes you puff out your chest, stand up straighter. makes you feel protective of your 6’2 boyfriend, all toned muscle and broad shoulders, the personification of scary dog privilege. but he needs you right now.

a soft bout of laughter spills into the air, as you try to ignore his heavy stare. it’s impossible, though — so you turn your gaze to meet his own, and he practically glows under the sound of your giggles, that cheeky smile you’re wearing. ”you okay, suguru?”

his eyes soften. silently, he runs a thumb over the knots of your knuckle, smoothing down your skin, thick fingers intertwined with yours.

he looks deep into your eyes, and a soft hum of affirmation buzzes in his throat.

”i’m just so happy,” he grins, with a sincerity that has your heart doing flips inside your ribcage. it flutters, flutters, flutters, in the wake of his unbridled joy. it buzzes like it wants to break out.

suguru has this dreamy look on his face, one you can do nothing but admire, painted over with fluorescent moonlight and pure summer bliss. one that reminds you a little of high school rooftops, midnight road trips, what it means to be in love.

you nudge him, softly, with the arm that’s tangled up in his own. tilting your head, teasing words on the tip of your tongue. ”you know, i never took you for a sappy drunk.”

suguru's only response is a cute little mmrn, steps heavy as he leans on you for support. trying his best to carry himself, not wanting to inconvenience you, but it’s just a little tough. especially when he feels this soft, this grateful — this blessed.

a giddy, dreamy smile tugs at his lips. his amber gaze travels up, towards the little pale dots of star clusters all across the night sky, gleaming like milk poured over rich coffee. then he exhales; a soft, blissful little sound. ”i’m so lucky.”

a moment passes, silently. in the distance, cicadas buzz. with a patient smile, you admire him, the reflection of starlight in his eyes. suguru has this forlorn look, etched into his expression, like he’s seeing something that isn’t quite there.

”i have satoru and shoko…” he mumbles, just loud enough for you to hear. as if he’s tasting the words on his tongue, as if he can’t quite believe them himself. that’s how lucky he feels, sometimes.

a nod. ”they love you a bunch, you know?”

(they do. they’re both horrible at saying it out loud, but you know they do. you know that they love suguru, just as much as he loves them, even if none of them are good at putting it into words. perhaps they don’t really even need to, in the first place.)

suguru mirrors the soft nod of your head, bangs falling over his eyes as he does. ”and i love them, too.” his smile grows. ”they’re my best friends.”

absently, you reach a hand out, brushing away the strands of hair obscuring his vision. and suguru stirs, his gaze shifting until it falls on you. like a moth to a flame. there’s something indescribable in his eyes, soft and heavy and tender and true.

”— and i have you.”

a stutter of your heartbeat, a jolt throughout your chest. his stare almost burns, but you can’t avert your gaze — suguru looks positively lovesick. admiring you with a dreamy gaze, as if he can’t believe you’re real.

he reaches a hand out; cradling your face with one big palm, the rough pads of his fingers smoothing down your skin so very gently. smearing his fondness from your jaw to your cheekbone, so loving your breath hitches in the back of your throat.

a soft, content sigh spills into the air, like a prayer that doesn’t need any words. his smile is serene.

”my angel.”

as the words fall, that peaceful smile of his changes shape, shifting into a big, giddy grin. it lights up his whole face. a chuckle leaves his lips, content and delighted. ”i’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

and for a moment, you fear that your heart will stop beating entirely. frozen, listening to the lullaby of your heartbeat resounding in your ears.

suguru has always been frighteningly good at flustering you — but isn’t this a little unfair? you clear your throat, hoping to regain some composure. it’s tough, though. your words could never measure up to his, could never flow as freely, but they’re honest. wholly and thoroughly. and maybe that’s enough.

”we’re the luckiest in the world, too, then,” you echo, smiling, words barely above a whisper. willing yourself to meet his gaze. ”since we have you.”

suguru looks into your eyes. there’s starlight inside them, he thinks, shining brightly, gleaming in the dark. with the hazy filter of intoxication clouding his mind, it’s all he can think. you’re his northern star, his lighthouse. his one and only saving grace.

(you’re so, so pretty.)

a pause. after a silent moment, spent etching your features into his retinas, suguru tilts his head. his expression is unreadable.

— he boops your nose.

you blink. once, twice, caught entirely off guard; and suguru giggles. soft, giddy little breaths falling from his lips like marbles, strewn over the sand of a warm beach. his eyes are crinkled at the edges, and his smile is sweet, meeting your surprised gaze with a honeyed coo. ”you’re so cute, baby.”

silence. you look up at him.

then you sigh, exasperated, more flustered than you’d like to admit. god. okay, he’s really out of it. for some reason, you still thought you could get a good one-liner in, but of course he had to ruin that by being a little tease.

you grab onto his bicep. gaze fixed straight ahead, giving it a tug. your steps are more decisive now, and suguru follows you happily. ”alright, alright. c’mon,” you beckon, slightly gruff. ”we’re almost there.”

when you finally reach the familiar front door of your apartment, you exhale a deep sigh, laced with pure relief. limbs tired from dragging suguru up the stairs, mind muddled and sleepy and senses practically engulfed by a man still clinging to you like his life depends on it.

after fumbling with your keys and hearing the click of the lock, you take a victorious step over the threshold, and a familiar scent greets you. soothing, comforting, a blend between fresh laundry and leftover curry and blooming hydrangeas. filling your senses with a fervent kind of bliss. of course, suguru’s does the same; intimately intertwined with the scent of home. that everlasting, never-changing blend.

with him clinging to you like this, it’s almost suffocating — but you truly don’t mind. suguru’s warm, and sweet, and being close to him like this makes you feel at peace. his hands rest on your hips, his jaw on your shoulder, and he adamantly refuses to let go of you for even a second. it’d be annoying if he wasn’t so cute, if he wasn’t suguru geto, if you weren’t so horrendously weak for him.

what you don’t know is that suguru has an agenda. one that isn’t just i want to hug the love of my life, although partially that as well. suguru has a plan, one he’s been absentmindedly dreaming of for the past five minutes; he’s a man on a mission.

but he’s patient. always has been, always for you. so he waits, and waits, for you to hang his jacket up, for you to kick your shoes off your feet. and when you’re finally, finally finished, suguru leans in to kiss you.

— you block his mouth with the palm of your hand.

a moment passes. silent, almost tense. in his stupor, suguru’s mind can’t quite seem to comprehend the situation before him; he doesn’t understand why he isn’t pressing a kiss to your lips, right now, why he’s kissing the skin of your palm. he doesn’t understand why you look so troubled, a faint guilt simmering in your eyes. he just doesn’t understand.

all he can do is blink, dumbly, surprised. a question written on his features clear as day.

”well, it’s just…” you sputter, sheepishly. avoiding his gaze, a little guilty. ”you know. since you’ve been drinking, and all…”

and it hurts, you think. it hurts a lot more than it should. it hurts to reject him, hurts to see the way he deflates at your clarification. like a big kicked puppy. like you just threatened to throw him out into the street.

suguru removes your hand, gently, holding it in his own as he speaks. those amber eyes are downcast, and a soft pout rests on his lips. the sight alone feels like a dagger to your chest.

”but…” he frowns, voice awfully meek. he looks so sad. ”i wanna kiss you…”

a soft sigh leaves your lips, before you can think to hold it in. oh, he’s being so unfair. guilt clings to your mind, an itch you yearn to scratch, and all you want is to kiss his pout away. but you really, really don’t want to kiss his alcohol-soaked lips.

so you settle for the second best option.

”’m sorry, sugu,” you coo, reaching a hand out to cradle his cheek. he leans into your touch, still pouting, and you tug a little at his bottom lip. wasting no time in closing the narrow distance between you.

the kisses you press against his skin are soft. peppering kisses all across his face; ghosting your lips along his jaw, trailing towards his cheekbones, and settling on his forehead. tiny little pecks, wherever you can reach. your voice is soft, muffled into his skin between butterfly kisses. ”tomorrow, okay?”

and suguru seems to brighten up a little, melting under the contact, exhaling in pure bliss. he fervently returns the treatment, planting open mouthed kisses all over your face, respecting your wishes and avoiding your lips. they’re a little sloppy, but you don’t mind.

it does make you a little flustered, though. with his palms cradling your face, engulfing you, there’s nothing you can do except drown in his affection, the love he showers you with. it tickles — and suguru’s smile only grows, at the sound of your soft giggles. his cheeks are starting to hurt.

the state he’s in is just a little bit hazy. despite his initial dejection, he no longer minds that he can’t feel your lips against his, disappointment warded off by your smile and laughter alone. he thinks you’re so, so cute, and all he wants is to kiss you forever.

but you have other plans.

and before you know it, you’re both curled up in bed, limbs all tangled up beneath the blankets, bodies pressed together as suguru cages you in. he squeezes you tightly, hugging you close, practically melting into you. usually, it’d be so easy to fall asleep like this. with suguru cradling you, covering your body with his own, warm and safe. he’s like a furnace.

but right now, it’s a little tough. you’re kept awake by open mouthed, ticklish kisses pressed against your skin, supplied by the love of your life. it’s sweet, but he’s being far too distracting — as soon as your consciousness begins to fade into the fuzzy realm of sleep, he leaves a sloppy kiss against your collarbone, and you’re jolted awake once more.

”suguuu,” you whine, dragging his name out with childish inclination. ”we need to sleep…”

”sorry,” he only murmurs, muffled into your skin. he doesn’t stop, though, planting a wet smooch on your cheek, and then another. you squirm a little in his hold, and he emits a shaky breath. ”jus’ love you so much…”

suguru knows that he needs to stop. he knows that both of you need to sleep, that you need to rest up. that he needs to recover from the intoxicated state he’s fully aware that he’s in — but he just can’t seem to follow through with it. every cell in his body burns with a certain desire, a need to shower you in love, and it’s unendurable. with every kiss, every giggle he manages to pull from your lips, suguru’s heart fills up just a little more.

your presence surrounds him, like a weighted blanket, and he clings to it with a desperation he never knew before you.

in the midst of his feverish consciousness, you’re all his muddled mind can think about. the way you fit together with him like a puzzle piece, like he was formed in the shape of someone meant to hold you. like you were formed in the shape of his embrace. with you pressed up against him, limbs tangled with his, everything feels so right.

but it’s so overwhelming.

you’re so, so close, so close he’s practically engulfed by your scent, your touch, everything that makes his heart burn with devotion. it’s beating so viscerally in his ribcage, stirring the protective instinct inside him; he just wants you to stay close, by his side, wants to keep you safe and happy. wants to make you feel loved.

suguru’s heart feels wet and raw and bare, fully exposed for you to see. beating just for you.

with the alcohol inside his veins, and the nostalgia of the summer evening on his mind, everything weighs on him just a little too heavily. everything feels just a little too much. every sensation, every emotion, every sappy thought. all of it together is almost too much for him to handle.

all he can think of is you. how lucky he is, to have met you, to have gotten to know you. how much you’ve changed him, changed him for the better, how much of him is directly tied to your existence.

suguru never truly appreciated his name until you came into his life. it was always no more than a simple fact, a gift from his parents that he hadn’t asked for. something natural, that he didn’t question, didn’t think about.

but you say his name with such warmth.

he wants to hear you say it, over and over again, forever. suguru — in that sweet, lovely voice of yours. better yet, just sugu, a cutesy, silly nickname he could never bring himself to actually hate. he just wants to hear you call out to him, with that warmth of yours, the one that never fails to soothe him. no matter how tired he is, how stressed. how much everything else weighs down on him.

at the end of the day, he’s simply your sugu. and that’s all he ever really wants to be.

with a hazy filter clouding his senses, coaxing him into closing his eyes, suguru should give in. he should fall asleep, let you fall asleep. but he can’t bring himself to stop thinking about it; he just loves you so wholly. who you are, what you do. as an equal, an individual, a little galaxy tucked into a body made of flesh and blood. no matter what you’re doing, no matter where you are.

and right now, you’re here, with him. curled up in bed, in your shared apartment, inhaling the same air, exhaling at the same time. by his side, when you could be anywhere else in the world.

his heart is yours. that’s all suguru can bring himself to think, the only coherent thought he can cling to and echo in his head. his heart is yours. forever and ever.

he makes no attempt to stop the tears from pooling in his eyes, even as he feels them cling to his lashes, even as his breathing clogs up in the back of his throat. they’re proof of his devotion, his carefully nurtured love. growing over the years, into something almost sacred, a kind of faith. something so fervent he wouldn’t dare deny himself of feeling it.

he can’t hold in a faint sniffle, either, just barely audible. one that breaks your heart in two. it aches, aches, aches. suguru is gazing at you with glassy eyes, a sight you aren’t used to seeing — but he also looks so genuinely glad. his tears aren’t ones of sadness. you know, because you know him.

”aw, honey…” you coo, the pads of your fingers reaching out to cradle his cheek. despite your efforts, your voice wavers when you speak, little more than a whisper. ”don’t cry... you’ll make me cry, too.”

suguru places his larger palm over yours, choking on another sniffle. the sight renders you completely helpless — you want so desperately to stop his tears from falling, but a part of you is too touched to speak. too mesmerized by how beautiful he is, translucent tears illuminated by softly flickering moonrays, lashes glimmering like shooting stars.

all you can do is smooth a thumb right under his eye, wiping away a stray tear with enough tenderness to stitch his heart back together. suguru emits a shaky breath.

”’m sorry,” he sniffles, closing his eyes. nuzzling into the crook of your neck. ”i’m just so happy… love you so much… you mean so, so much to me, i…”

an exhale, a little breathless, tears soaking through the material of the shirt you’re wearing. his shirt. that realization makes him cry even more, a shuddering breath that shatters like glass when it drops from his tongue.

and then, in a voice so quiet you barely hear it, a soft whisper worth a million words:

”i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

and it hurts. your heart aches so sincerely, thorns curling around your ribcage, because suguru is crying, and he’s telling you all this. with such an honest intonation that you don’t dare doubt him, even for a second. heavy thumps of blood rush through your veins; he’s still clinging to you, sniffling into your neck, and you’re so in love with him that you almost can’t comprehend it.

all you can do is press a kiss to his shoulder, chaste and tender, and hug him just a little tighter. echoing his words, in earnest, desperately trying to keep your voice from breaking apart. ”i love you, too. more than anything.” a sigh, full of wonder. little butterfly kisses scattered across the expanse of his neck. ”you mean the world to me. honestly.”

with a smile against his skin, you hope so tenderly that the soft kisses will comfort him, will stop the tears from falling.

”my sweet boy,” you murmur, lovingly, because he is. the sweetest boy you’ll ever know. suguru shudders when you press your lips against his jaw. ”i’m so, so lucky.”

with the combined efforts of your kisses, the alcohol slumbering inside his veins, and the tears running down his cheeks, suguru begins to feel awfully tired. sinking into sleep’s embrace, like a sailor lost at sea. comforted by the glimmer of a lighthouse, just out of reach.

everything feels right. he’s safe, and happy, and in love. so hopelessly, blissfully in love.

the exhaustion creeps up on him, tidal waves embracing a shore, beckoning him into closing his weary eyes. a yawn leaves his lips, and he shifts a little in your hold. you’re smoothing down the back of his head, almost protectively, and sleep is only a flicker away for the both of you. with the last of his strength, suguru snuggles just a little further into you, nose pressed up against your neck, close enough that he feels the flutter of your heartbeat.

”wanna be with you forever,” he murmurs, sleepily, stifling another bout of yawns. his smile is sweet and dreamy. ”gonna marry you one day…”

a moment passes.

for a second, you think your heart does actually cease beating entirely.

swallowing a gulp, you allow yourself the luxury of an inhale — and fresh air fills your lungs. grounding. all you can hear is the rapid beating of your own heart, heavy thumps reverberating in your ears. warmth flows through your entire body.

marry.

the word is spoken so casually, so sincerely, as if he’s said it countless times before. as if he’s repeated it, over and over again in his mind, just to get used to the idea. as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. marriage. something so foreign, so scary, enough to send shivers down every narrow of your skeleton. such a large step to take.

(but suguru says it with such tenderness.)

”… okay,” you whisper, at last. breathless. ”i’ll be waiting, then.”

there’s nothing else to say. you don’t know if suguru is even conscious enough to hear you, let alone understand the full weight of your words, of his own words. but you don’t mind.

a soft smile lingers on your lips, as you stroke his hair, mind hazy and limbs heavy. nuzzling your cheek against the side of his head, full of affection. dripping from your hands down to the column on his throat, through his windpipe, down to his heart.

”goodnight, sugu.” you press a kiss to his messy hair, tender and chaste. ”i love you.”

an incoherent mutter leaves his lips, in response, one you can’t quite make out — but you don’t need to. because you already know what it means, in the same way you know that the sky is blue.

(an echo buried deep within his subconscious, voiced without effort, as easy as breathing.

i love you, too.)

the sizzling of a pan and the whirring of a coffee machine form a beautiful morning symphony, bouncing off the walls of your kitchen. to your ears, and your still sleepy brain, it’s a soothing sound — coaxing soft little melodic hums from the depths of your throat.

with such a tantalizing aroma in the air, a blend between espresso and pancake batter, you can’t help but buzz with a mellow, groggy kind of joy.

honestly, you're beginning to understand suguru’s fondness for the morning hours. waking up to his soft snores and content expression was more than enough to give you the energy you needed to get out of bed; all sleepy and relaxed and pretty, with hazy morning sunrays kissing up his bare skin, caressing his messy bedhead.

a rare sight, awfully precious. a part of you wanted to stay in bed and admire him all morning, but the thought of taking care of him coaxed you into leaving. it’s the least you could do, really — after seeing him so sincere, so open and vulnerable.

hopefully, his headache won’t be too brutal when he wakes up. you left some hangover pills on the nightstand, courtesy of shoko’s advice: just get him ibuprofen and coffee. works like a charm. are you a little worried about her nonchalance? maybe. but you trust her judgement. they’re a handful, but you love them — even when they’re drunk or hungover.

which is why you’re standing in the kitchen, engulfed by the morning sunlight, in front of a sizzling pan. trying your very best not to burn the pancakes you’re making, patiently waiting for the coffee to be done.

in your blissful stupor, caught up with thoughts of suguru and breakfast and forevers, you don’t notice another presence coming up behind you.

two arms wrap around your waist, and a jaw attaches itself to the curve of your shoulder. you startle, a little, jolting at the contact — but then you recognize that telltale scent, the familiar weight of his arms, and immediately melt into the embrace.

suguru breathes out a raspy chuckle, amused at your surprise.

a sigh slips from your lips, content. ”good morning,” you hum, placing the palm of your hand on his forearm. suguru shifts a little, getting more comfortable as he leans against you. tenderly, not too much weight. he’s delicate like that.

”g’morning,” he rasps, leftover sleep clinging to the syllables. the usual smoothness of his voice is coupled with a deep, rough kind of tilt, one that always accompanies it in the morning. your heartbeat picks up, silently.

suguru smiles. dreamy, giddy, because you just looked so pretty, in the morning light, hair still a tad messy. humming happily, swaying slightly side to side. so irresistible. he’s beginning to understand why you love sleeping in so much; getting to wrap his arms around you like this, instead of the other way around, doesn’t feel bad at all.

he squeezes you just a little tighter, hoping it’ll convey his gratitude. there are holes in his memory, last night no more than a blurry sequence of still images, but some bits and pieces remain intact. he remembers getting drunk in a way he hasn’t since he made that bet with satoru back in high school — and he remembers that you were there to take care of him.

a smile tugs at his lips. a little giddy, butterflies erupting in his chest. he’s so damn lucky.

”thanks for taking care of me yesterday, sweetheart.”

a hum. you smile, sheepishly, patting his arm. ”don’t need to thank me for that. how do you feel?”

suguru smiles. you feel it, against your skin, a chaste kiss on your neck. ”better.”

the low purring of the coffee machine has stopped, but the sizzling of the pan remains. from beyond the opened windows, you can hear the chirping of cicadas, melodic and serene. singing a summery tune. both of you soak in the preciousness of the moment, the fragile silence, before suguru breaks it.

”everything from last night is kinda fuzzy,” he admits, clearing his throat. just a tad sheepish. you simply hum, a low noise of acknowledgement, and he continues. ”i don’t really remember anything… ’m sorry, baby. i hope i didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

your lips curl up into a tiny smile. such a sweetheart — always worrying about you. always so caring and attentive. eager to reassure him, you smooth over the skin of his arm with your thumb. ”not at all.”

then you’re taking a couple steps back, moving from the stove, and suguru follows. you turn yourself around to meet his gaze, his arms still attached to your waist, a comforting weight.

a grin blooms on your lips, a little teasing, and a flicker of mischief shines in your eyes. ”you were cute, you know.”

suguru blinks, before emitting a low chuckle. a raspy little thing. ”was i?” he drawls, as you brush his bangs away from his face.

”mhm,” you chirp, eyes crinkled as they meet his own. you just can’t help but want to tease him, a little bit. just a smidge. ”kept going on and on about how much you love us.”

hands moving to cup his face, you squeeze his cheeks softly. and suguru lets you, too tired to resist, only giving you a lazy raise of his brow. there’s a sense of amusement in his eyes, and something in you knows he likes the attention. your teasing words buzz with endearment, akin to a purr. ”my sweet lil’ sugu.”

all he does is lean into your touch, allowing himself to melt into the tenderness of the physical contact. even as you pull at his cheek, earning you a very gentle pinch to your side. but he lets you have your fun. you’re warm, and sweet, and he’s so in love with you he’d probably let you tug his body around however you please.

still, your words leave him just slightly perplexed. he’s still smiling with half-lidded eyes when he asks you to elaborate, basking in the feeling of your thumb smoothing over his cheekbone. ”us?”

your grin widens, by a tad, something deeply amused glimmering in the depths of your iris. ”yep,” you answer, popping the p. for some reason, suguru dreads the teasing edge to your voice. ”me, and shoko, and satoru.”

a moment passes. he stiffens, for a second or two, mind processing the words. then he groans, softly, squeezing his eyes shut.

it makes you laugh, soft and amused, and he can’t help but smile along. despite the dreadful realization you present him with. no wonder he was met with so many notifications when he tapped at the screen of his phone — he didn’t read through any of them, but now he’s apprehensive to do so at all. shoko and satoru can be so goddamn obnoxious when they feel as if they have blackmail on him.

he can see it now, in his mind’s eye; shoko nagging him to run her errands, satoru reminding him of his words every time they have a slight disagreement.

(grab me a coffee. three shots of espresso, one cube of sugar. got it?)

slacker.

(we both know i’m right. don’t be so stubborn, suguru! it’s okay to be wrong sometimes.)

asshole.

(c’mon. you said you loved me, right?

so mean. and here i thought you loved me!)

idiots.

(he does love them. more than anything. even when they’re being absolutely insufferable.)

suguru just sighs, deep and fatigued, already anticipating his doom. ”they’re never gonna let me live it down, are they?”

a giggle slips from your lips, and his heart flutters helplessly. ”probably not. my condolences.”

another sigh. it only makes your smile widen. there’s something awfully delighted, in your eyes, as you cradle his face in your hands. ”well, i thought you were very sweet!”

”yeah, yeah…” he mutters, vaguely amused. placing one of his large palms over your hand, where it rests on his cheek. ”i won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

a chuckles bubbles up from within your throat. ”aww,” you pout, giving way to a teasing grin. ”that’s a shame. i wanted to hear you talk about how much you love me again.”

suguru blinks.

then he smiles. a very particular smile, characteristic, one you’ve come to associate solely with him. resting somewhere in the intersection between a soft grin and a teasing smirk. a flicker of mischief shines in his eyes, and you realize your mistake.

you can tease suguru all you want; but he'll always turn the tables on you, at the end of the day.

”oh?” he chuckles, fondly, thumb smoothing over the lines of your hand. his eyes gleam, looking straight into yours, shining with something mildly devilish. ”i don’t need to get drunk to tell you that, baby.”

in a smooth motion, one you can’t help but silently envy, suguru intertwines his fingers with yours and brings your hand to his lips. he never once breaks eye contact, gaze heavy as he basks in your flustered expression, planting a soft kiss against your knuckle. reverent.

”i love you. more than anything,” he purrs, lips still lingering on your skin. warm enough to burn. ”you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

a pause. heat crawls up your spine, and a flush rises to your cheeks. you couldn’t stop it if you tried.

”my everything,” he continues, intent on flustering you as much as humanly possible. voice low and smooth, honeyed and deep, and worst of all; terribly earnest. lips trailing over your knuckles, against every knot, so soft that you barely feel it. ”my entire world.”

”okay, okay!” you sputter, an embarrassed hue to your cheeks, your gaze landing on the windowpane to your right. his stare is just too heavy, too deeply in love. overwhelming. ”point taken. nevermind.”

suguru laughs, genuine and full. warm and amused, deep and real, and you catch yourself thinking that you don’t want to go a single day without hearing it. even if it’s at your own expense.

a coo rests on his the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back, opting to lean forward instead. he trails the pads of his fingers along your jaw, touch like a butterfly, lifting your chin up ever so slightly. then he closes the distance between you.

in your throat, your breath hitches.

— but he doesn’t kiss you. suguru stops right in front of your lips, so close you can feel his breath on your skin, taking a moment to simply look into your eyes. and despite how flustered the close proximity makes you, you can’t bring yourself to look away. heart fluttering madly, a string of staccatos against your parted ribs.

a tilt of his head. amber eyes gleaming, crinkled and fond. ”can i kiss you, now?” he asks, grinning softly. hand smoothing down your hip, big and warm, teasing. ”i made sure to brush away all the alcohol. or do you still not want to?”

you pause.

”hey, what happened to not remembering anything?” you pout, narrowing your eyes. the corner of suguru’s bottom lip twitches upwards.

but he only shrugs, feigning nonchalance, a playful glint in his eyes. ”guess i was just that disappointed.”

a giggle flows from your lips. he drinks it in, gazing at you with pure contentment.

”alright, alright... c’mere,” you coo, smile honeyed and sweet. tracing your fingertips along his jaw, brushing a silky strand of hair behind his ear. you take in the sight of him, meeting his lovesick gaze. he squeezes at your hips softly, a little impatient — so you finally lean in.

suguru’s lips are warm, when they meet yours. they taste like sunlight, devoid of any alcoholic flavour, just like he so kindly assured you of. and it’s a little amusing, the thought of him in front of the bathroom sink — desperately scrubbing his teeth, just to get his kissing privileges back. such a dork.

he’s your dork, though.

suguru sighs into the kiss, smiling giddily, satisfied at last. a sound you can’t help but mirror. he deepens it, ever so slightly, fingers squeezing gently at the plush of your waist. a hum of approval buzzes in your throat, and his smile only grows.

when he pulls away, that smile is all you can see, along with the ever so slight flush to his cheeks. a hint of peach dusting his skin, framed by the sunrays caressing his jaw, highlighting his handsome features. breathtaking.

before you have a chance to protest, he’s leaning in again, to press one more chaste kiss to your lips. your heartbeat picks up.

everything finally feels just right.

the warmth of the sizzling pan, the fragrance of freshly made coffee and now-burnt pancakes. the light of the morning sun, scattered across the open space of your apartment, splotches of life painting everything in a heavenly glow. the love in the air, all soft and light and comfortable.

domestic bliss. with suguru, who never seems to change, no matter how many years go by. if you could live in this moment for the rest of your life, forever and ever, you’re sure you’d die happy.

and wow, is that a heavy word. forever.

(but suguru makes it feel so very, very light.)

forever feels a lot more real, like this. cradled in the midst of a drowsy morning, bumping elbows with the man you love most, after getting to take care of him in his most vulnerable state. accepting every part of him, and having him accept you just as fervently.

just this moment alone is worth far more than you could ever comprehend.

suguru, with his warm hands, his familiar embrace. your shared laughter, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen as you try in vain to save your scorched pancakes. and his smile, his fervent devotion, coaxing him into eating them even though they’re burnt at the edges and don’t taste even a quarter as good as his. because you made them, for him, and that makes them taste sweeter than anything.

you stare at him, from across the table, admiring the sight you’ve grown so used to; suguru, with his slightly tousled hair, mug in hand and smile painted on his handsome face. drowned in sunlight, pink petals flitting in through the opened window. you don’t want a single day to ever pass without you seeing this. what does that mean, exactly? you think you know.

it means forever.

(forever, forever, forever. what a pretty word.)

marriage. you think of it, again, let it linger in the depths of your skull, bounce around until you grow just a little more used to it. and it’s a scary thought, for sure. a terrifying thought, even, something so foreign that it makes you nervous. but you truly wouldn’t mind doing this forever — not one bit. not if it’s with him.

and, unbeknownst to you, maybe that promise of forever isn’t all that far off.

maybe it’s only a couple rooms away, hidden within the depths of a certain drawer, until suguru finally gets the courage to bring it out. and maybe, just maybe — that day isn’t all that far off, either.

(suguru smiles at you, from across the table. he thinks you look ethereal, sipping from your morning coffee, blinking tiredly. so sweet and angelic.

all he can think of is forever.)

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sexyandcringe · 1 day

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if i fell through the floor i would keep falling ; suguru geto

synopsis; geto knocks at your front door one morning ten years after leaving everything he knew behind, fully expecting to be met with a middle finger or a hand to the throat. when you invite him in, instead, he can’t help but feel somewhat perplexed.

word count; 7.5k

contents; suguru geto/reader (platonic or romantic, up to u!!), gn!reader, geto-typical angst with lots of yearning, open-ended, geto’s pov, reader is a softie, mutual pining kinda, geto is terminally bitter and terminally lonely and also kind of a bitch but we love him

a/n; i’m extremely normal abt suguru geto and the debilitating loneliness he must’ve felt during the ten years after he left <33

”it’s been a while.”

the smile on his face must be sweet, he thinks, illuminated by the blurry light of the morning sun. as charming as it’s always been. coated in a thin layer of lighthearted deceit, a cruelly projected sense of normalcy.

with a hand raised up in cheerful greeting, geto gazes down at you.

— admittedly, he’s a little underwhelmed by your reaction.

astonishment or bafflement was maybe a little too much to ask for. you don’t look very surprised to see him at all; almost as if you were expecting him to show up in front of your apartment at the break of dawn.

and, really, maybe you were. after all, satoru must have told you already. why wouldn’t he let you in on their touching reunion, the promise of war that spilled so easily from his lips?

of course you would have heard of it by now.

still, geto can’t deny that it’s just a little bit disappointing. he would’ve liked to see your wide eyes, would’ve liked to hear you stammer a bit. the expression you’re currently sporting is something else entirely.

you look sad.

there’s a fondness in your eyes, though, unmistakable. a spark of it, entirely impossible to ignore, that catches him off guard. and there’s a softness in the way you raise your head to look up at him, a familiarity that flickers in the depths of your irises.

geto is just a little bit put off by it.

it looks the same as always. you look the same as always. and geto’s heart constricts, where it rests, tucked away deep within the confines of his ribcage.

a moment passes. the sun peeks out from beneath the curtain of the horizon, the violet and indigo of the morning sky melting into that familiar burst of ochre. and geto is content, to silently admire the way that you glow in its light.

he waits, patiently, for your expression to shift. to melt into one of anger, or repulsion, or any other kind of bitter hue.

it never does.

a sigh flows from your parted lips, instead. a soft little breath. in the bitter cold of a morning such as this, it turns into vapour as it drifts through the air. you blink, tiredly, eyelashes fluttering with something akin to exasperation.

”you’re a cruel guy, you know that?”

geto blinks. a fickle moment passes.

then, he smiles.

you’re admonishing him, but you’re doing so almost gently — with an easygoing kind of disapproval. as if you’re still in high school, huffing over the teasing bout of laughter he lets slip when you trip over air.

geto’s lips curl up, smoothly, an action he’s grown awfully used to over the years. smiles are a form of currency, he has come to realize — smiles of deceit, of fondness, of barely contained disgust. all kinds of smiles, whether plastered on or genuine. a means to meet an end.

a single tug of his lips, encompassing an immeasurable number of unspoken words.

the smile that geto graces you with is an amused one. it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s friendly enough. ”so i’ve been told.”

for a minute, you do nothing but observe him. there’s a turmoil behind your eyes that seeps out in the way you look at him, the way you shift from foot to foot and gnaw at your bottom lip anxiously. geto doesn’t interrupt, observing you in turn. waiting for one of you to move the first piece of this little morning game of chess.

in the light, he can almost delude himself into thinking that your eyes change colour, different shades and hues dancing around your dilated pupils. as you gaze over the contours of his face, a certain kind of affection blooms within them, one that geto expected to have faded over the years.

but it’s still there. and it’s the same. a little more blurry, maybe, a little faded at the edges — more matured. but still the same, despite that.

(a memory comes to him. one of you, and him; sharing a bag of chips on the school’s rooftop when neither of you could sleep.

bathed in the light of the moon, your eyes glimmered with that very same affection, like a shooting star breaking out across the night sky.)

one long, careful, tender moment passes by.

the intense contemplation on your features is almost enough to coax a chuckle from the depths of his throat. an urge to tease you creeps up on him, slowly, but before he can open his mouth you seem to come to a kind of conclusion.

and so, you step to the side — allowing him to see inside your apartment, catch a brief glimpse of the interior. you look oddly comfortable, at peace, having made your move; the next piece is his to place.

what a surprising move, though. geto can’t help it if his eyes widen just a smidge, if he blinks in a way that could almost be interpreted as briefly confused. out of all the possible scenarios he’s played out in his mind over the years, this wasn’t the one he expected to merge with reality.

”wanna come in?” you ask, tentative. your voice is inviting. a little clumsy, although he supposes that could just be because of fatigue. it is early, after all.

geto takes a moment to think.

as far as he can tell — and he always can, in one way or another — there is no deceit hidden in your expression. no signs of bloodlust, no spark of violence, no quiet resentment bubbling beneath the surface. earnest. that’s all it is. a little awkward, but candid. pure, in a way.

you aren’t trying to trick him. you’re genuinely, seriously, honest-to-god inviting him inside your apartment.

the next move is his to make.

and geto knows exactly what he should do. he should decline, politely, excuse himself with feigned remorse and a jovial invitation to his own personal hell.

(surely, you already know. the others have almost certainly told you by now. geto just wanted to personally invite you, himself. face to face.)

right. that’s what he should do. that’s the winning move.

and yet, he finds himself moving.

lips curling up on their own, without his approval, geto moves forward. one step is all it takes for him to cross the threshold of your home; a boundary he didn’t expect you to offer up so callously, truth be told, but who is he to deny the wishes of a dear old friend?

”why, thank you,” he smiles, voice pleasant, smooth like silk.

(for just a little while, he supposes he can indulge himself in the opportunity you’ve so graciously given him. just for a bit.)

geto doesn’t bother taking off his footwear, and he knows you couldn’t care less either way. allowing him to pass you by as he waltzes into your very own space, you close the door behind him. he half-expects to hear the click of the lock, but it never comes.

a particular scent envelops him, as he stands by the coat rack, unmoving — he has no intention of taking off his robes, heavy with his carefully nurtured devotion. a symbol of his choice.

the scent is familiar, but also unlike anything he can recall within the borders of his memory; a soothing blend between fresh laundry, and sunlight, and cat fur, and something rather sweet.

there’s more to it than that, though. a certain scent geto could only ever describe as you.

(his heart aches with longing.)

as he ponders the intricacies of the fragrance, geto is acutely aware of the stare burning into his back. how careless of him, to leave it facing you, unguarded and vulnerable.

what a perfect opportunity he’s presented you with; the great curse user suguru geto, forever exiled and wanted dead, now merely a fly at the mercy of the web you’ve created. trapped in your apartment with his back turned to you, a mere lamb to the slaughter.

how easy it would be, for you to plunge a knife into his flesh. to curve your way along his spine.

you do nothing of the sort, though. and for some reason, the realization that you aren’t going to irks him, even though deep down he knew that would be the case. still, it crawls its way under his skin, along the arteries of his forearm, an itch he yearns to claw away.

how foolish. how very like you.

(what a cruel thing change can be, when no one else seems to succumb to it.)

unable to do anything but accept it, however, geto turns towards you once more. you stiffen, as if burned by his gaze, and a part of him delights in it.

”how have you been?” he asks, bright and courteous. there’s a genuinity to the question that geto can’t deny. something about this situation sends a spark of fondness running through his veins.

at the sound of his voice, your eyes soften again. it’s a subtle shift, but he doesn’t miss it. doesn’t think he ever really could, because even though the light inside your eyes makes him uncomfortable, down to the very marrow of his bones, he can do nothing but bask in it. in your attention, in that heavy gaze.

a single word could never hope to faithfully describe the emotion smouldering inside it — but if forced to, geto would humbly settle on resignation.

it’s almost as if you still haven’t fully accepted it, ten years down the line, that you’re only just beginning to. like even now, you’re convinced that it’s nothing more than one big joke; that he’s about to reveal a hidden camera, and gleefully tell you that it was all a prank to get back at satoru.

naive, naive, naive. but geto can’t deny that it tastes sweet, on his tongue — to imagine that you might still have some faith in him, after all this time.

a sigh leaves your lips. you sound a little bit exhausted. it sends a pang of ache to the very center of his heart, and a part of him yearns to soothe you. another part relishes in the pain he must have brought you over the years.

the rest of him smoothly tucks those stray thoughts away, as he brushes non-existent dust off from his robes.

then, your eyes take on a more tender hue. you ignore his question entirely, and speak in a low voice. raspy and sincere, and maybe just a tad bitter, given everything.

”those robes don’t suit you, suguru.��

— a shiver travels down his spine.

suguru.

(the way your lips form around the syllables is still so lovely.)

you’re full of surprises, as always. at least to a certain extent, he was expecting you to settle on geto, to draw a firm line in the sand between him and you. the ocean and the land, always meant to be separated by that thin line, kept apart in each other’s best interest.

but geto is beginning to accept that you’re going to do this your way — sincerely.

the statement is a veil, obscuring a million unspoken thoughts, double meanings that aren’t particularly hard to discern. a silent rejection, a quiet disapproval. there’s a grief to it that sits heavy on your tongue.

taking a moment to collect himself, geto meets your gaze, and all its weight. his lips curl up into a sad smile, a little fatigued. he wonders if you can hear it, in his voice.

(maybe it was stupid of him, to think he could keep this meeting professional.)

”… is that so?”

you continue to look at him, as if waiting for something else. but geto doesn’t give you what you want, that touch of tender honesty he’s sure you’re hoping for.

”i think they suit me just fine,” he playfully disagrees, instead, tone bordering on something childishly stubborn.

you wait just a single moment more, still clinging to that hope for something sincere, anything.

then you huff. it sounds vaguely amused.

”you look like a con artist,” you deadpan, eyes flitting down to examine the outfit again. geto would be offended by your rudeness if you didn’t also happen to be right.

”how sweet of you,” he purrs, shooting you a smug smile. the words are lighthearted, mildly teasing. “that’s exactly what i’m going for.”

you give him an unimpressed look, that he mirrors with a perfect smile — and then you give in to another amused exhale, paired with a soft shake of your head.

there it is again, geto thinks. that sense of déjà vu. it’s equal parts eerie as it is comforting.

silence lingers in the air around you, as hazy sunlight flits in through the gap between your curtains and cascades across the floorboards. until you clear your throat endearingly, and walk past him.

”well, make yourself at home,” you murmur in passing.

considering the circumstances, the words are spoken fairly naturally, and geto has to resist the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this is. inviting a wanted criminal into your home, a literal mass murderer, and treating him with the same politeness you’d show to any other guest.

what would the elders think, he wonders, if they knew? would they brand you an accomplice, question your motives? put your head on the chopping block right next to his? he wouldn’t put it past them, the pieces of shit.

but despite his amusement, geto doesn’t laugh. he only watches as you make your way to the kitchen counter, a firefly catching his eye in the summer night.

(except you aren’t a firefly, and it’s not summer. it’s winter, and you’re someone geto wishes he didn’t still care for.)

”i was thinking of making tea,” you hum, voice soft but still easy for him to discern from his spot in the living room. ”do you want some?”

geto’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile. his voice is teasing, as it flows out from his lips.

”how generous,” he chirps, still idly watching the way you move around the open space, your hair changing colour in the flickering light of the sun. ”satoru could learn a thing or two from you.”

he expects you to flinch. a suitable reaction, to how casually he brings up his reunion with his best friend, like it’s nothing. like it means nothing. like nothing’s wrong.

geto knows it’s cruel, which is exactly why he does it.

but you don’t flinch. you don’t even stiffen. and he senses no anger in your body language, in the silence that settles in the space between his words and yours. all you do is exhale sharply, a little exasperated.

”you shouldn’t be so cruel to him.” a beat. your voice sounds just a little smaller when you continue. ”he’s missed you, you know.”

the reply is nearly instantaneous, and it’s bare. honest. you sound like you’re scolding him, but it’s more protective than angry. and it’s gentle, like you’re patching him up after a mission, reprimanding him for not being more careful.

at this point, geto can tell you have no intention of playing along. how annoying. he wishes you would — that earnest sadness and regret of yours is almost unbearable, and the gentle bluntness you present him with cuts much deeper than his casual cruelty ever could.

you aren’t going to play along, aren’t going to pretend you don’t care. geto wonders why you won’t, why you’re the only one who still refuses to.

satoru certainly has no issue with it. playing along, putting up a front. attempting to treat him coldly, as an enemy. but geto knows him, knows his soul like the back of his hand, and he could tell it was trembling when their eyes met. from underneath those bandages of his, the thin layer of cowardice that shields those precious eyes from the rest of the world. from geto.

and shoko is just as unbothered as ever. always playing it cool, never caught off guard or shaken to her core. geto can’t even tell if it’s an act or not, anymore. but he knows that she was angry, when they spoke that day, ten years in the past. knows she wanted to tell him off, but chose not to.

both her and satoru are like that. always have been. closed off, accustomed to bearing an unbearable weight, resigned to the ache that it brings them. acting distant in a desperate attempt to mend it.

you, though?

you were always a little too sincere for your own good, a little too true to yourself. it must hurt you, he thinks. it must hurt you even just to look at him. yet you continue to do so, unflinchingly.

that’s simply how you are.

you’ve always enjoyed dipping your toes into the grief of it all, leaning into the pain. always the first to take that step into the abyss. content to tear yourself open for everyone to see, even if no one follows suit.

never averting your eyes. never taking the easy way out.

(unlike him.)

geto hums, smiling a little at the sickening irony of it all.

the gentle clinking of ceramic resounds throughout the kitchen, and geto’s ears perk up. his gaze follows your hands, as they move to grab two cups from the wall cabinet. floral designs, he dully notes. blue bells on one, red camellias on the other. a porcelain teapot rests on the kitchen table, but no flowers adorn it.

without your expressions to keep him entertained, geto decides to wallow in the fleeting peace and quiet. aside from your soft breathing and the occasional clinking of teacups, there are no sounds to be heard.

a moment that seems to exist outside of time and space, where time passes backwards and your shuffling in the kitchen is his only concern.

eager to satiate the mellow boredom in his chest, geto’s eyes begin to flit across the space of your apartment. greedily drinking in every detail he can see, as if he’s trying to memorize it all. maybe he is.

everything he can see is a piece of your existence, in one way or another. every inch of the apartment is littered with your fingerprints, your choices and fickle tastes.

like the rich yellow of the curtains you’ve picked out to frame the glass of the windows, bright and stark and blending smoothly in with the cream colour of the wallpaper surrounding it. or the forgotten cup on the table in front of the tv, a faded green. he vaguely remembers seeing you drink out of it back when things were still good, when you both thought of the school as your home.

a book rests on the duvet pillows of your couch, but he sees no bookmark peeking out from between the pages. geto wonders if you still dog-ear your books, and thinks to himself that a crime of that calibre would warrant your own exile if the world was only fair. alas, it isn’t. war of the foxes, he reads from the cover. ironic.

along the windowsills are potted plants, stacked up next to each other, green and flourishing despite the snowy wonderland of the outside world. their leaves differ in shape and size, some accompanied by blooming flowers. he imagines you watering them, dutifully, nurturing them with gentle hands and sleepy smiles.

there are many things to look at, more and more little fragments sprouting up the longer geto continues to do so. a knitted sweater thrown over the wooden armrest of a chair. colourful candy wrappers littering the table. an old radio tucked away in a corner of the room.

geto drinks it all in — a home you’ve painstakingly created, that you’ve allowed him into. he examines it thoroughly, the way an art dealer judges a painting on display. turning the image over inside his mind, twisting it, burning it into his retinas. soaking in every little detail he manages to find.

your home.

(it’s so like you that it hurts.)

finally, geto thinks he’s had his fill of the living room. so he ventures into the kitchen, only a couple long strides away.

the scent that greets him this time is comforting, homey. the aroma of coffee grounds, a touch of leftover curry, a strong fragrance of blooming hyacinths and dried lavender sitting contentedly by the windowsill. through the translucent glass, geto sees layers upon layers of snow on the rooftops, and the gradual rise of the glittering sun.

the quiet buzzing of the electric kettle is the only sound he hears, along with the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall, as his eyes wander along the kitchen.

the shelves are stacked with a variety of different spices, and glass jars of honey and jam. along the counters rest a wide array of kitchen appliances, from blenders to rice cookers to french presses. mugs with silly designs are stuffed into an opened wall cabinet, and geto recognizes some of them, to his silent delight.

there are colourful post-it notes stuck to the fridge, messy scribbles of recipes and reminders. meetings, birthdays, grocery lists. even just little doodles, smiley faces and napping cats that make his lips quirk up. and polaroids — he tries not to let his gaze linger on the picture of satoru sleeping in the most uncomfortable, inhumane position he’s ever witnessed, nor the blurry image of shoko smoking by a balcony railing, sleeves cuffed and expression forlorn. he can’t imagine either of them noticed you snapping the photos.

(no polaroids of him. of course not. why would there be?)

geto tries not to look over at the fridge again, examining the floor and furniture instead. over in the corner stands a bowl of cat food, seemingly untouched. the kitchen table is covered with a checkered cloth, kept down by a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

your kitchen is fairly small, but it’s cozy. rays of fresh sunlight envelop it in a giddy, ruminating glow. like something out of a dream.

when geto enters the space, your eyes flit over to him briefly, and he shoots you a friendly smile. your eyes do that thing, again, where they crumble a little at the corners and get a tad softer. like you’re looking at an old friend.

(he supposes you are.)

you clear your throat before speaking, as he takes in all the sights.

”what kind of tea do you want? i’ve got, uh…”

with gentle movements, you open a wall cabinet, eyes swiftly scanning over the different labels of the many boxes, jars and sachets of tea inside. dutifully, you list off the ones you can see.

”earl grey, chamomile… oolong, rooibos…” you continue, seemingly never running out of options, fingers tapping at the handle. ”ah, this one’s kinda weird. it’s supposed to be, like, cherry flavoured? don’t ask, satoru picked it out — but it tastes more like laundry detergent.”

a pause.

”it’s pretty good, though.”

geto can’t help it. the comment coaxes a chuckle from out his chest, and he’s surprised at how genuine it sounds when it spills from his lips.

you seem to notice it, too, seeing as you perk up where you stand by the counter. out of the corner of his eye, geto thinks he almost catches the fleeting glimmer of a tiny smile on your lips.

and for a moment, everything feels familiar. eerie and comforting, in equal measure. a sense of nostalgia drifts throughout the kitchen, mingling with the scent of tea leaves and sunshine and freshly baked cookies.

this is the opportunity you’ve given him — a slice of normalcy. as close to normalcy as one can come to in a situation such as this. a soft bout of laughter, shared between estranged childhood friends, one of which is a mass murderer. it’s really not normal at all.

normalcy is no more than a fever dream. that much has always been the case, but —

there’s a comfort in it, in this. the familiarity of it all. the way you settle into old roles, share knowing looks and cycle through old memories he knows you’re both haunted by.

it’s soothing.

he’s changed, and you’ve changed, but there’s still a sense of belonging between the two of you. in this moment, this sole flicker of nostalgia. in this kitchen.

and for a moment, geto almost forgets why he’s there. almost forgets the unforgettable, the inevitability of a choice he made long ago. it stings, and he wonders how you can bear it; this thin line between longing and awareness.

”so? what’ll it be?”

your voice rings out across the open space, face angled towards the table to meet his stare.

geto hums, absentmindedly, and takes a step closer.

the narrow distance between you two lies heavy, as he shuffles up right next to you, haphazardly sweeping his eyes over the wide assortment in front of him. he can almost, almost hear your breath hitch when the fabric of his clothing grazes your shoulder.

he wonders if the tea is just an excuse, to be able to come so close. to bask in your warmth.

you don’t move away.

”oolong,” he firmly decides. he doesn’t really need to think about it.

then he swiftly turns on his heel, and takes a seat by the kitchen table. confident and graceful — as if this isn’t your kitchen, but his. unconcerned over table manners, his elbows resting on the wooden board, as his jaw meets the heel of his palm. he bites into one of the chocolate chip cookies, the sweetness crumbling on his tongue.

this time, you finally do stiffen — though geto doesn’t see it. he does, however, feel your lingering stare, and when he tilts his head in your direction he catches a glint of sorrow passing through the depths of your irises.

geto blinks. he tilts his head questioningly, a cue for you to follow.

and finally, finally, you stammer. barely, but it’s there. that nervous shiver of your voice.

”ah — sorry,” you mumble, gaze falling down to the floorboards. you seem almost flustered. ”it’s just…”

there’s something raw in your voice, something that wavers.

”back then, you’d always choose earl grey.”

a long moment of silence passes.

there are a million unspoken words in that sentence, geto knows. words you’ll never say, words you’ve always yearned to say. though he has no intention of digging them out.

the sentiment is more than enough.

a bitter taste settles on his tongue, but he smiles, careful to keep his voice light.

”well,” he hums. ”some things change, i suppose.”

to that, you huff out a breath of amusement, turning around to face the counter once more. but not before eyeing his robes again, expression rich with humour.

”yeah,” you hum, lighthearted. something close to a chuckle. ”i suppose they do.”

geto grins softly, in tandem, from his spot by the table. like you’re still teenagers, sharing a look over an inside joke no one else is privy to.

after that, he simply watches you work, chewing at the treat while he waits for the tea to be done. the light of the electric kettle flickers off, and your hands curl around the handle, bringing it to rest next to the teapot on the tablecloth. he watches, expression mildly bored, as you grab the ceramic cups and the silken sachet bag of dried tea leaves.

a strong scent of oolong tea wafts through the air, when you flick your fingers to pour some of the leaves into the teapot. there’s a certain elegance in the way you pour the boiling water, slowly, in a smooth circular pattern. geto follows the movement, the rise and fall of the leaves as water fills the strainer.

you’re unhurried, methodical. there is care in the motion of your hands, the intense gaze you bear as you perform it. every slight twitch of your knuckles, the soft exhale you emit when the teapot has been filled.

geto can do nothing but watch, in silent admiration.

you put the porcelain lid back on, blocking the steam rising up in a flurry of warmth. while the tea simmers, soaking up the flavour of the leaves, you busy yourself with readying two teaspoons.

”how do you take it, these days?” you ask him, as you languidly pour hot tea into the cups. ”any sweetener? milk?”

”one cube of sugar. no milk.”

at that, your eyes flit up, recognition blooming in them as you hear the familiar sentence. but geto keeps his gaze glued to the hyacinths on the windowsill, never meeting yours.

truthfully, he says it mostly to appease you. he figures he can give you this one thing, at least — this one hope that maybe everything hasn’t changed, after all. that he hasn’t changed, in his entirety, that there’s still some remnant left of who he used to be. even if all that’s left of him is just one single cube of sugar.

it’s kind of funny. but geto doesn’t laugh.

you place a cup in front of him. the one adorned by red camellias. geto racks his brain, flitting through past conversations with florists and paragraphs memorized from non-fiction books on botany. what was it, again?

eternal love. long-lasting devotion.

the petals and the calyx of a camellia always fall together.

geto bites back a laugh. some part of him wonders if you’re making fun of him, if this is how you’re planning to release your pent-up anger — in such a petty, roundabout manner. but deep down he knows it was no more than an absentminded choice, on your part.

(you always hurt him most when it’s not your intention to do so.)

as you take a seat on the opposite side of the table, he gingerly touches the rim of the cup. soft steam rises from the liquid, its colour marigold-esque, and geto breathes it in deeply before bringing the ceramic to his lips.

you watch, in anticipation. intensely enough that he can feel it even when his eyes flutter shut, your gaze prickling his skin as he sips from the cup.

the warmth of the tea is comforting, a distinctly floral taste spreading along his tongue. there’s a slight nuttiness to the taste, a rich sweetness. as it runs down his throat, geto hears himself hum softly. a satisfied smile slips into the curve of his lips. inside the depths of his chest, a light nostalgia swirls, pleasant and tingly.

he remembers moonlit nights, whispered secrets you could only ever tell each other, the glimmer of aluminium and rush of caffeine as you gulped down the too-sweet coffee that the vending machines had to offer.

he remembers sunny mornings, muffled laughter shared in the solitude of the kitchen, basking in the floral scent of chamomile and lavender and everything in between as the world woke up around you.

with a clink, geto sets his cup down on the table, pinkie raised lightly. smile a tad bittersweet.

”this is good tea.”

a moment passes. you break out into a genuine smile, nearly beaming, delighted by his approval.

”isn’t it?” you chirp, fingers curling around your own cup, the little painted flowers adorning it. blue bells. geto recalls that old wives’ tale — how wearing a wreath of blue bells compels one to tell the truth. ”nanami got this one for me, actually.”

he smiles, perking up ever so slightly. a little more animated. ”oh?” he takes another sip. ”he always was a snob, wasn’t he.”

that makes your own smile grow, lips twitching upwards, and an amused exhale flows from your lips. a gentle breath. you always were very fond of your grumpy underclassman. ”yeah.”

there’s something familiar about this, geto can’t help but think. eerily so. an acute sense of déjà vu, the same one that’s been plaguing him all morning.

the way you’re treating him isn’t how one would treat an enemy, nor a stranger — it’s how one would treat an old friend. that, and nothing more.

(geto wishes he could say it didn’t soothe his heart so terribly.)

he allows himself to sink deeper into the rotten sweetness of it all. indulges in this one fleeting moment, before everything crashes and burns.

the world outside your kitchen is a cold one, he knows, blanketed by snow and frost that has yet to be stained red. the pure white is a warning, not a consolation — a reminder that there are still things to be lost.

the world of curses is an empty promise, the promise of suffering being rewarded. the idea that the sun will melt the frost around your legs if you wade through enough snow.

(but geto knows better.)

outside your kitchen, only one path exists for him. it isn’t a kind one, nor is it particularly comforting. but, unlike those empty promises, that path has a truth to it. an end point, that isn’t just wait and see what happens, maybe the sun will rise if you’re lucky.

he isn’t a fool. the world is as cruel as it is beautiful, which is a false simile because cruelty is only ever beautiful when you aren’t a part of it. another one of those empty promises. geto has no idea how they kept him going for so long.

but here, in this moment — the world feels rather kind. kind in the sense of being just enough, the kind of brief solace that used to give him enough hope to get through the day.

for now, this aching gap of yet-to-be-ruined is enough. it’s all that he cares about, all that exists.

— but all good things must eventually come to an end.

geto knows it better than anyone, so he isn’t particularly surprised when he looks up to see your face set into hard lines.

you meet his eyes with a certain flickering determination, a conviction — and geto knows you’re about to cross the comfortable line he was hoping you could both maintain for just a little longer.

”suguru.”

he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. a smile is enough. so his lips curl up, silently.

”can i ask you something?”

every move geto makes is calculated, a performance, as your words sink into his subconscious. dragging the silence out, as if trying to waltz around the inevitable end of this sickeningly sweet game of morning chess.

the slow circling of his spoon, creating a vortex for the oolong tea to follow, as it catches the light falling from the window. the way he leans back, to make himself comfortable, letting his jaw rest on the heel of his palm as he dissects your expression from across the table.

there is something almost taunting in his eyes.

but he smiles. courteous, bright. ”go ahead.”

for just a second, he sees you falter. just a smidge, but the way your nails dig into the skin of your palm is telling, just like the way your eyes choose to linger on the tablecloth a second longer than they need to.

then you meet his eyes once more, and begin to speak. geto hangs on to your words, as if they even matter.

”i’m not expecting you to be honest with me,” you state, bluntly. he’s glad to know you’re on the same page for once. ”but i’d appreciate it if you could. just this one time. i won’t ask for anything else.”

another long and tactful sip of his tea. he wasn’t lying, before — it really is very nice. the flavour is strong and thick on his tongue, sweet and bitter all in one. expensive. the pads of his fingers tap along the ceramic of his cup, right over the red flowers that seem to taunt him so.

here it comes. your lips part, but no sound comes out, and geto knows you’re thinking of how best to phrase your inquiry. it doesn’t take you long to decide, a firmness blossoming in the scope of your iris. a sense of finality.

”are you happy?”

despite everything, his breath hitches in his throat. the movement of his fingers halts.

your question comes out clear, candid, sincere. the look in your eyes makes him feel a little like he’s being devoured. vaguely aware of how his smile wavers, for just a split second, geto can only hope you don’t notice it — but he doubts you do, because you only continue to speak, unperturbed.

”i’m sure you’ve changed a lot, these past ten years. and i’m sure you’ve had more than enough time to convince yourself that you’re happy, even if you aren’t.” you bite your lip. ”i should’ve asked you this a long time ago. but now — i’m asking.”

geto’s eyes never leave your face.

”are you happy? are you genuinely satisfied with your life? are you happy with your choice?”

there’s something desperate in your eyes, now. something geto can’t look away from, despite himself. all he can do is touch the ceramic beneath his fingers, hot enough to burn, and listen to you speak.

”if… if you are, then —”

you take a deep breath, a sharp inhale that geto would mimic if he wasn’t dead set on maintaining his composure.

”— then i won’t get in the way. i’ll let you live your life the way you want to. just as long as that’s true.”

geto looks at you, smile nowhere to be seen. time itself seems to halt, in the space of your kitchen. the current center of the world.

he doesn’t dare to even breathe.

”… but,” your voice trembles. you stare intently at your own cup, surely beginning to grow lukewarm at this point. what a waste of good tea. ”if you aren’t happy, then —”

a pause. no one says a thing.

”then what?” geto spits. his voice comes out sounding just a tad sharp, cold like the frost outside your apartment. more so than he meant it to.

your pupils waver, before you lift your head to look at him. the resolution in your eyes makes his breath hitch. an unflinching kindness, one he can’t remember you ever not having.

”— then i’ll do whatever it takes to change that. no matter what.” a beat. “even if it makes you hate me.”

such immense honesty.

geto wonders why he came here, in the first place.

to declare war. was that his genuine desire, though? or was it just another excuse?

with satoru, he can pretend. with shoko, he can pretend. with himself, he can certainly pretend.

but with you?

his fingers leave the ceramic, eyes burning with a decision mirroring yours.

geto’s burned many bridges, in his life. but this particular bridge is one he’ll miss. the cinders that follow won’t keep him warm, that much he knows.

but in the face of such honesty — such genuine kindness — he couldn’t bear not to give you a serious answer.

(it’s the least he could do for you.)

”i am.”

a moment passes. the center of the world shifts.

”i’m happy with my choice.”

it was the only one worth making.

as they fall from his lips, the words taste heavy, absolute. in the light of a morning still yet to be broken by the passage of time, your eyes shift. for a moment geto wonders if you’ll close them. if you’ll give yourself that one relief.

you don’t.

instead, you bite your lip, eyes stubbornly never leaving his own. now you look a little angry, a little frustrated. he’s glad to see that flicker of fury directed at him, at last.

”but are you happy?” you persist, frustrated in a way that buzzes with kindness and concern. a way that makes him feel rather lost.

geto hears himself speak before he has a chance to think about his answer. the voice that comes out of his throat sounds oddly soft.

”that doesn’t matter.”

”it should.”

your reply is equally instantaneous. and geto feels a tremor run through his heart.

”are you happy, suguru?” you try again, pleading. that hope of yours is back, the hope that he’ll be honest just this once. sincere, even just for a syllable or two.

the clock on the wall ticks, hands moving methodically and cruelly, second by second. another moment of time burned to cinders. geto knows what must be done.

this mindless self-indulgence was nice, for a while. but geto has more bridges to burn. more wars to brew.

one final touch. that’s what he’ll give you, in return for your generosity. one final touch of tender honesty, even if it burns his tongue.

”i will be,” he exhales, breathless. ”once all this is over.”

then he gets up from his chair, the squeaking of wood against the floorboards signaling a parting. your eyes never leave his face, as he dusts off his robes absentmindedly, glancing at the half-finished cup on the table.

then geto smiles at you. there’s a fondness to it, one he’d only ever show you. his eyes crinkle, just barely, and the dark brown of his iris shifts into a mellow amber as sunlight cascades down the contours of his face. a genuine smile.

”thank you for the tea.”

there it is. your eyes soften, again, helplessly.

you aren’t satisfied. geto doubts you ever will be.

but you’ve always been the only one to tear yourself open, the only one to step into the abyss. geto has always admired it, just as much as he’s always found it foolish. not once has he ever followed suit.

things like honesty and tenderness don’t suit him. he doesn’t think they suit any sorcerer, except maybe for you.

at last, that grieving resignation finds its way to your eyes again. it doesn’t hurt him as much this time, perhaps because he was waiting for it.

”… you’re welcome,” you breathe. a sad little breath.

geto allows himself to look at you for just a moment more.

then he turns on his heel.

”well, this was nice,” he hums. ”but i really must be going now.”

pleasant and jovial. a voice unsuited for a situation like this. geto wonders if it hurts you as much as it hurts him.

rubbing salt into wounds is all he seems to do these days, anyhow. so he smiles. ”i’ll see you on the battlefield, i hope —”

”suguru.”

…

deep down, geto knows that there’s no going back from this. that the moment he moves his feet, the moment he leaves your apartment — the moment he steps over the threshold in front of him — he can never return.

your kitchen was never his to walk into, in the first place. he was never meant to set foot into your home. that was your choice. geto can’t help but think that it’s every bit as cruel as the one he made ten years ago.

your voice is the same as always. sad and fond. familiar, in how it twists and tugs at his heart in a way nothing else can anymore.

geto waits. he’ll let you have the final word. the final piece moved into place. checkmate.

he’ll let you be the one to devour that aching gap.

curse me, he whispers to the confines of his mind. resent me. i’ve caused you so much pain.

curse me yourself, so i can hate you properly.

”if you ever want another cup, i’ll be here.”

silence falls upon the kitchen.

geto stands still, feet rooted in the spot by the threshold separating the kitchen from the living room. the ticking of the clock is the only sound he hears.

there isn’t a trace of resentment in your voice.

(he wishes you would play along, even just once.)

a low hum buzzes in his throat. the seconds stretch on; more hands moved, more time burned into nothing. the silence is deafening, thick and heavy. an intense moment of contemplation, as geto tries not to shiver under the warmth of your constant gaze, burning into his back.

the center of the world shifts, once more. the gaze of fate falls upon the two of you, bathed in the rays of the rising sun, in a kitchen where normalcy is a little more than just a fever dream.

it doesn’t mean anything, anything at all.

geto knows it. he knows it better than anyone. but maybe he can allow this mindless self-indulgence to carry on, for just a little longer. if only to give him the excuse he needs to see you again, to stand in your kitchen like this, like the view of the rising sun is something he’s allowed to behold.

how greedy. how callous. hasn’t he always been, though?

just for a little bit longer.

”… you know,”

geto takes a step forward, robes fluttering with the movement, heavy and pious. he crosses the threshold, words just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear.

(in the space between the words, laced together with the silence, lies the ghost of a smile.)

”it’s been a while since i had earl grey.”

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sexyandcringe · 1 day

Text

(i love you, i love you (kill me in the morning) ; bonus part)

kenjaku rests on a tatami mat, admiring the ephemeral glow of the starry sky.

it’s a sight to behold, truly: the infinity within it, blooming endlessly across the milky way, before his very eyes. that swirling of indigo and pure white. endless possibilities, just out of reach — so close he can almost reach out and touch them, feel them glide across the skin of his fingertips.

slowly and sweetly, savouring the cold air, he ponders. legs crossed, hair swaying gently in the summer breeze; about this, and about that. about a plan that’s been resting in the back of his mind for thousands of years.

he wonders if there is any way you could be of use to him.

without too much contemplation needed, he decides that there isn’t. that nothing about you could benefit his goal, that there’s nothing your presence could possibly accomplish. that you have no place, in the world he resides in, no place in the narrative of the story he is crafting. no place in the clash between curses and sorcerers and everything in between.

(and kenjaku understands, without needing to peek into his host’s memories, that perhaps that is exactly why suguru geto loved you.)

he goes to visit you, anyway. just for the fun of it, just to satisfy the ingrained urge his body has to do so. and it’s fascinating, it truly is — the fondness that sprouts in the confines of his chest when his eyes meet yours. a childhood muscle memory, one this body could never fully rid itself of.

it is nothing short of horrified, the expression on your face; you look like you could pass out any second, and kenjaku finds it just a little bit amusing.

but he bites back a laugh, and his lips curl up into a smile. not the smile of a people-pleaser, nor the smile of a liar, but the smile of something rather monstrous.

kenjaku does not think you will figure him out. he does not think it possible. how could you possibly? with such miniscule cursed energy, without any concept of the soul?

and yet you do.

you tell him that he isn’t suguru geto, and you’re absolutely right. and now, kenjaku is maybe just the slightest bit intrigued.

(how strange. how amusing.

is there really no limit to what love can accomplish?)

eyes shining with barely contained, gleeful curiosity, he takes a step forward, and you call out for a dead man. a ghost. kenjaku does not expect anything to happen, because how could it?

— a hand comes up to squeeze at his throat.

it is a firm grip, with strangulation as its intended purpose. a lethal kind of ferocity. almost desperate, primal, like a mother wolf protecting her cub; the pads of his lithe fingers press into the sides of his own esophagus, and prevent any air from entering his lungs. those chipped nails dig into his pale skin, vicious and ruthless, hard enough to draw blood.

it is violent, it is gritty, it is devoted. an instinct of the body, as natural as the beating of a heart.

kenjaku can’t help it — he chokes on a laugh, as suguru’s hand curls around his throat. within the vice grip lies an old promise, molded into the very fabric of his being. a promise that transcends death.

he’ll protect you forever.

kenjaku smiles, all teeth. drool dribbling down his chin, neck bruised and bloodied. pondering; about this, and about that. about two children by a dusty summer creek.

(no matter what, huh?

— such a fool.)

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sexyandcringe · 1 day

Text

i love you, i love you (kill me in the morning) ; suguru geto

synopsis; everyone has a weakness. some are harder to get rid of. (or, alternatively; suguru geto befriends a non-sorcerer as a child.)

word count; 10.0k

contents; suguru geto/reader (not explicitly romantic but the subtext is there), gn!reader, geto-typical angst, childhood friends to [redacted], mild gore, suguru geto’s defection but with added angst, twisted depictions of love, depictions of stalking, depictions of death/murder, general bloodlust (geto wants to kill u soo bad but also not really), unresolved yearning, hurt/no comfort, curse user geto is his own warning tbh

a/n; ok so. this is kind of a mess. just my own take on geto’s childhood and defection + how i think he’d deal with a non-sorcerer reader after defecting……. so it turned out kinda. Dark. it’s entirely sfw to be clear!!! just sorta twisted. in conclusion i love my cult leader wife who wants me dead <3 (pls listen to ’kill me’ by indigo de souza it is SO geto)

suguru geto meets you in the afterglow of sunset, by a dusty summer creek.

it’s his special place, hidden in the outskirts of your tiny town; a place where the water glimmers with silver-hued fish, and all the biggest cicadas reside, singing softly and waiting to be caught.

a place where he can be himself. alone, with no one to curse him.

— except, this time, he isn’t alone.

your crying face is the first thing he sees. big, wet tears, cascading down your scrunched-up face, accompanied by little sniffles as you sit there. curled up into a ball, knees against your heaving chest.

the next thing he sees is the bruise on your leg. a scrape on your knee, gritty and a little bloody, but it’s not so awful. he can tell that it hurts, though — you bite your lip to stop yourself from trembling, like you’re trying to be brave. but you look pained.

and it sends a tremor running through his very soul.

suguru was born with a bleeding heart, an empathy unusually developed for his age. always pushing him forward, coaxing him into taking action; this nagging desire to protect, to nurture. born with an inability to avert his gaze from the suffering of others.

so when the two of you lock eyes, he manages a smile. warm and soothing, even though deep down he’s alarmed. but he masks it, slathers over it with something kind, something comforting — and he can tell that it works, from the way your teary eyes seem to soften in the buttery hue of the afternoon glow.

you’re crying. and suguru finds himself wanting to wipe those tears away, more than anything. you look small, and you’re in pain.

(protect the weak, urges some voice in the back of his mind. insatiable. protect those who can’t protect themselves.)

he asks for your name, all while cleaning your wound. the wince that slips from your lips when the cold water of the creek licks at your knee makes his heart clench.

but you tell him. you tell him your name, as the sun sets in the horizon, and he tells you his.

suguru. a sweet kid who sees you fall and patches you up. a cool kid who teases you a little for being so clumsy. who holds your hand tightly in his own, to make sure you won’t fall again.

the sun melts away beyond the cluster of trees that surround you, its burning glow breaking through the gaps between the branches and dyeing the summer creek a deep red. illuminating your blurry silhouettes, as you walk back home. hand in hand.

and that’s how it begins.

the two of you grow closer, in the same way flowers who share a stem learn to lean on each other, grow in the same direction, a mess of mingled roots. a natural connection, blooming out of nothing more than a sweet coincidence — that kind of blissful, innocent childhood friendship. the kind you never have to question.

you learn very quickly that suguru isn’t like the rest. that when compared to all the other kids you know, he’s mature, almost mystical, like he knows something they don’t.

you learn that there’s a gentleness to him, one he could never fully hide. one that shines through when he looks at you, when you play and laugh to fill the silence of the hills overlooking the small town you both live in.

you also learn that he can see ghosts.

curses, you’ll both come to learn, but that’s later. for a child in a remote town, isolated and alone, the familiarity of the ghost stories that adults tell you is the only kind of comfort suguru has to cling to. something lighthearted, to explain the predicament that haunts him — the flickers of black in his vision, that lingering taste of charcoal on his tongue.

suguru is different, you realize, different from the rest. and you eventually learn, from him, that you are far from alone in that belief.

in the town you both had the misfortune of being born into, suguru is the black sheep. his parents think there’s something wrong with him. the other kids think there’s something wrong with him. he isn’t right in the head, they whisper, he sees things that aren’t there.

(it’s a debilitating isolation that never truly leaves him.)

so suguru learns to stay silent, learns to keep his pretty little mouth shut, learns to lie. it’s easier that way. easier to survive, in the remoteness of your tiny town, with all the adults who scorn him and look at him like he doesn’t belong anywhere at all.

and suguru learns to be content, in that solitude. that heaven-granted isolation. a lone white chrysanthemum, in a sea of red and lavender; blossoming alone.

but then suguru meets you.

and, contrary to everyone else, you don’t think there’s anything wrong with him. when you tell him that he’s different from the rest, you mean it in the best possible way. you say it with starlight in your eyes, gleeful, giddy. like he’s special, not broken. like you’re also tired of those other kids, those sneering adults, the silence of a town so isolated it could crush a child’s heart.

like you have something in common. like you’re the same.

and you stay by his side. throughout the most difficult years of his early life, when he’s still growing accustomed to the duty he’ll have to bear for the rest of his life, you’re there. every single day. to smile at him, to speak to him like you’re both just normal kids — even though suguru is well aware that he’s anything but normal.

(when he’s with you, he feels like it, though. feels like he’s just a normal boy, like there isn’t something glued down wrong inside his brain. something twisted, something that needs to be plucked out.)

suguru finds comfort in you. in your presence, in the notes you pass him when classes get boring, in the way you cling to his sleeve while exploring the woods during recess. in the way you grin so brightly after managing to catch a firefly in the darkness of the summer night, all proud and toothy, a childlike innocence he wishes he still had.

you’re sweet, and understanding, and suguru thinks you might be the coolest person he knows. you’re his friend, his very best friend, his one and only.

and when he tells you what’s wrong with him — when he tells you what he can see — you ask him something that will forever rest in his subconscious. a flicker of precious, fleeting, genuine acceptance, one he won’t ever feel again. not until he meets a certain boy with blue eyes, but that comes later.

(a memory he’ll return to, over and over again. even after all the evil in the world has already descended upon him like a crackling hurricane.)

what do they look like?

there is no judgement in your voice, in the way the question slips from your lips. no mocking laughter, no silent rejection or whisper of crazy, evil, wrong. there’s only you, the way you’ve always been, curious and understanding and wise beyond your years.

suguru decides, right then and there, that he’ll protect you forever. no matter what.

you can’t see curses. you aren’t like him, in that regard, and he learns that quickly. and as suguru grows up, grows a little taller, a little wiser, he is glad that it’s true. he’s glad, because he already knows what kind of road lies ahead of him.

he already knows what kind of world you both live in, how unforgiving it can be. how many people die every day, every second, because of monsters only a select few can even see. he already knows that curses aren’t the eccentric, silly ghosts you were hoping for when you were kids — but pure, unadulterated evil.

(he already knows what they taste like.)

and suguru takes careful measures, day by day, to keep you away from it. as much as he can without lying outright. you’re curious, by nature, almost fascinated by curses and sorcery and everything you do not understand. an endearing trait, though it exasperates him to no end.

someone like you has no business sticking their nose into that kind of cruelty, he thinks, that kind of bloodshed.

and you’ve always been clumsy, a little scatterbrained. enough to make him worry instinctively when you’re out of his sight. like when you tripped and scraped your knee, by that tiny summer creek, all because you wanted to catch a dragonfly.

so he tries his best to keep you away from it, all of it, away from a darkness he knows would swallow you whole. away from the small, weak curses that sometimes litter the woods or the schoolyard; away from his cursed technique, the disgust of a power he never once asked for.

(he never lets you see him swallow those things, never lets you witness the way he throws them right back up again before it happens so many times that he grows used to the disgust. you’re sharp, though, and he can’t hide the grimace that always lingers on his features.

you don’t ask — you only give him a packet of gum, to chew away the taste with, and suguru thinks to himself that he’ll love you forever.)

time passes by, slowly but surely, and the two of you stick together.

and as he grows into his teenage years, so much weight already resting on his tiny shoulders, suguru has already developed some sense of it all. of his ability, of the world of sorcerers. he’s already spoken to people like him, has already been made well aware of his potential.

he’s already been given a choice, a choice that was never really a choice at all, but he decides that it doesn’t matter.

suguru decides to become a sorcerer. to train his abilities, to hone his skills. to eventually move away, from the stifling silence of that town, the silence that was only ever filled by you.

and suguru thinks to himself that he’s doing this for you. that in doing this, in being this, he’ll fulfill his promise to protect you.

(forever. no matter what. he echoes the words in his mind like a prayer.)

suguru wants to protect those who cannot protect themselves. those who are weak, those who are alone, people he has the power to help.

but more than anything, above all else, suguru wants to protect you.

you are the most precious thing in his life. and if he can turn the world a little brighter for you, just a little bit kinder, then isn’t that enough? isn’t there enough meaning in that to give him the strength he needs?

there is. suguru decides that there is.

so when he tells you about his plans, under a pleasant, ephemeral starry sky, he does so with conviction. he knows that you will understand, because he knows you. you’re his best friend.

and he’s right. you do understand. you’re proud of him, and he’s your best friend, too.

i’ll support you, no matter what.

the instantaneous answer makes suguru smile. not the kind of smile he plasters on to appease the adults around him, nor the smile he wears when he needs to lie convincingly. a full, genuine smile, that reaches his eyes and blossoms like a flower in the light of the moon; a warm, gentle smile, one you’ll always, always associate with him.

(forever and ever. no matter what.)

and when suguru eventually has to leave, for a high school he’ll spend the next few years of his life living at, he carries that conviction with him. his choice is steadfast, unyielding, inevitable. the only one that matters.

the whistling of the wind breaches his ears, as you both stand on the platform and wait for his train to arrive. a spring breeze caresses your skin, and suguru’s bangs flutter in the wind. sunlight scatters across the train tracks and seagulls cry out in the distance, and the acute sensation of a parting lies heavy in the air.

it’s embarrassing. it’s childish. suguru wants to claim that he isn’t a child, anymore; that he wouldn’t give in to hesitation, at the sight of your meek expression. that he wouldn’t cry, at the thought of moving away from his best friend.

but the slight puffiness under his eyes is evidence enough. evidence of the tears he shed last night, when the reality of the situation finally dawned on him.

suguru doesn’t want to part from you. he’s nervous, too — leaving you alone in that town, all by yourself, with no one around to protect you properly.

it's stupid. because deep down, he knows that you’ll escape too. that you’ll come after him, no matter how long it takes, that'll you'll both end up in tokyo. that you'll end up together, despite his duty as a sorcerer — eating soft serve ice cream cones, playing shooting games at the arcade, strolling around the big city aimlessly. doing all those things you always talked about doing.

because the two of you will always, always find your way back to each other. just like how he found you with that bruise on your leg, all those years ago, a fated encounter as natural as the glow of sunset. two lone dragonflies, who always meet somewhere in the middle of a dusty summer creek.

still, suguru can’t help but feel sad. a little lost. he can only hope you don’t notice the soft frown on his face, the faint redness of his eyes.

(then again, when have you ever not noticed something he was trying to hide?)

there's no need to worry about it, suguru knows. he’s never had to worry about you judging him, looking down on him. never you.

and when his gaze falls on your face, after the train he’s supposed to board screeches to a halt behind him, your own tears are enough to make him realize how silly he’s being.

he laughs, from the bottom of his stomach, when you tackle him into a hug and tell him with teary eyes that you’ll come visit. he squeezes you especially tight, in a boyish fashion he can never quite hide from you, and murmurs into your ear that he’ll be waiting.

he asks you not to forget him. you laugh through your tears, and tell him that you never could.

before he has to let go and step into the train, you tell him that you love him, and his grin blooms with honeyed affection. he ruffles your hair, always gentle, always teasing, always the same suguru.

he tells you that he loves you, too.

— then he’s gone.

(you’ll forever regret not convincing him to stay.)

the two of you stay in contact, all throughout his first year. texting, calling — making sure neither of you get the chance to forget the other. suguru tells you about his life, his missions, his classmates, leaving out all the gritty details. and you listen; attentive, curious.

at one point, you even visit him. his friends tease him relentlessly, but all he does is roll his eyes and flick their foreheads, biting back a smile. that makes you laugh, and he’s relieved that the sound hasn’t changed in the slightest.

and suguru stays the same, throughout that one first year. he is steadfast, unyielding, decisive. he has a conviction he’ll never let go of, and people he's vowed to protect. people he needs to protect.

(non-sorcerers, is what he tells satoru, and he means it. but suguru chooses to omit the fact that he specifically wants to protect one single non-sorcerer, above all else.)

and suguru is happy, with his choice. thoroughly and wholly. the road ahead of him will be long, full of obstacles and thorns, but he always knew that would be the case. and he knows that it’ll hurt, that it’ll be tough, but he also knows that this is what he sincerely wants to do. what he was meant to do. the only choice worth making.

suguru is content. suguru will not falter.

— then, his second year descends upon him.

riko amanai dies. toji fushiguro dies.

satoru gojo becomes the strongest sorcerer of the modern era.

(and suguru geto is left behind.)

it is a slow, sinking realization. one whole year to lose sight of his goal, lose sight of the conviction he held onto so tightly. one whole year to feel it slip through the gaps between his fingers, helpless to stop its course. everything grows muddled, molding, rotting before he has a chance to root it out — and all he can do is wait, as it festers like bile in the bottom of his gut.

suguru geto falters.

(he doesn’t quite know who he is, anymore.)

words he’s swallowed down like curses all his life keep flooding his subconscious, building up inside the back of his throat, spinning and spinning and spinning inside his brain until he feels sick enough to throw up. evil. crazy. protection. responsibility.

duty, duty, duty —

(what does that word even mean?)

suguru doesn’t remember. he can’t recall what made him step onto that train with such conviction, how he was able to smile so assuredly. how he was able to laugh, from the very bottom of his gut, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. he just can't remember.

who is he doing this for? what meaning lies in all this pain?

suguru keeps watching, hoping for an answer that’ll save him just enough. waiting and watching. he’s always just watching, isn’t he? never changing anything. always too late, too weak, too fucking useless to stop even a single person from dying.

he watches helplessly as a little girl gets shot in the head, for the crime of having been born different, for the sake of simple currency. watches helplessly as satoru carries her lifeless body in his arms, across a room full of people so vile that some deep, rotten, intrinsic part of suguru just wants to —

but there would be no meaning to it.

(does there really need to be one?)

suguru honestly doesn’t know, anymore.

riko dies.

(curses spring up like flies. he devours and devours.)

then haibara dies, too.

(in the distance, he thinks he hears the sound of clapping.)

sorcerers. non-sorcerers. curses.

the words begin to rot inside his mouth, like wilted flowers, syrupy sweet and nauseating. crumbling on his tongue, numbing his senses until it’s all he can taste. a mouthful of honey, sticking to the walls of his throat, too sweet to stomach.

this is wrong, he thinks. everything is all wrong.

everything is wrong and i don’t know how to fix it.

— and then there’s you.

during your third year, both of you are busier than usual, but still find the time to talk when you can. the normalcy of your little stories is a comfort, to suguru — but also makes him burn with something he fears may be close to envy.

you tell him about your new school, your new town, your new beginning; bright and dazzling. one that suits you just fine.

the two of you are different, he realizes, all at once. some part of him always knew. you were born to be happy, kept away from the bloodshed, hands unsullied by the deep red that always dries beneath his fingernails. there was never a place for you in the world of curses. and he’s glad, that it’s true, he always has been, but —

(resentment festers in his gut. he can’t tell how long it’s been there, and he’s afraid to know the answer.)

these days, suguru takes a little longer to answer your texts. his voice comes out sounding a little more fatigued when he’s speaking to you through the phone, and he doesn’t talk as much as he used to. your voice soothes him, though, he thinks. just a tiny bit. but it’s enough.

(he’s doing this for you, too. he can’t forget that.)

and when you come to visit him, during his third year, suguru is surprised. surprised to see you, standing outside of his dorm, bags full of his favorite snacks in hand. smiling.

you look the same as always.

(he’s the only one who’s changed.)

it’s a pleasant surprise, though, despite everything. he really did miss you. in his life, your presence alone has been nothing but a comfort, for as long as he can remember. even now, when everything feels so blurry and uncertain, you appear to him as a flicker of starlight; shining through the darkness that’s been plaguing him for the past year.

so he tries to smile, tries to sound the same as always, but he knows you don’t buy it. you know because you know him, despite everything.

suguru wonders what you would think of him, if you could hear the thoughts he’s been having these past few weeks. he wonders what he looks like, reflected in your eyes. he wonders how much he’s changed since you last saw him.

(he hasn’t felt like himself in months.)

your presence is like a balm, to his soul, but it also seeks to hurt him further. because you’re still the same. still so understanding and wise and patient. you can tell that he’s fading, and he can tell that you can tell. but he doesn’t want to tell you why. he refuses to open up to you, because what would that accomplish? how could you possibly understand?

how could you understand his hatred, his resentment, towards the very people he’s supposed to protect? he told you that, himself. he decided to protect them, on his own accord. that’s his duty — steadfast, unyielding, inevitable. that’s all it was ever meant to be.

protect the weak. protect the ugly. protect everyone except his comrades, until all of them lie dead in a pile of maggots and tangly limbs and buzzing flies.

a bitter, heavy kind of vomit settles inside his chest, his throat. and somewhere deep inside suguru’s mind, in the very bottom of a drawer he vowed never to open, the image of non-sorcerers shifts, distorts, flickers on and off under the light.

protect those monkeys until his very last breath.

(what a fucking joke.)

you couldn’t understand. he doesn’t want you to. he promised himself that he would keep you away from that kind of darkness, no matter what, and —

and you’re the only good thing he has left.

not only that — you’re a non-sorcerer, too. and suguru knows what that means. if what his brain is telling him is true, if that’s really how it is, then you are no exception. then you’re just like the rest, something lesser, nothing but a —

(he thinks he might throw up.)

suguru does not tell you anything. despite everything, despite your pleading expression, despite the heavy bile at the bottom of his gut. he does not tell you what is truly wrong. he does not open up to you.

and that is suguru’s first act of betrayal, to you. before he even betrays the jujutsu world.

(it is perhaps the only betrayal he’ll ever feel any kind of remorse over.)

you try, though. persistent in your affection. he loathes how little you’ve changed, how brightly you still shine when reflected in his eyes. you sit right next to him, under a pleasant, ephemeral starry sky, stars blurred by the light pollution, and tell him what you always have.

i’ll support you, no matter what.

…

suddenly, all he can hear is the whooshing of the sea. as if he's been pulled underwater, a heavy weight tugging at his limbs, lungs gasping for air that doesn't exist. pure static, in his ears, a sharp crack of something. like a rib, or a train of thought. all he can taste is saltwater.

the dam begins to break. it cracks at the edges, like two giddy children poking a stick into a puddle layered with ice, giggling at their scattered reflections. memories resurfacing, images flashing in his subconscious. suguru looks at you like he’s lost. something inside of him breaks, disintegrates into a pile of despair.

because you don’t understand what you’re telling him. you don’t understand what he thinks about doing, sometimes, when the nights are especially long and the school is especially empty and the taste of curses lies especially thick on his tongue.

you don’t understand. you never will.

but you’re smiling at him, so very gentle. so accepting, so all-encompassing of everything that’s good, everything worth cherishing. just like always.

suguru recalls your teary face; when you scraped your knee, when he left that town behind. he recalls all the ways you’ve soothed him, saved him, in all the years you’ve known him.

i’ll definitely come visit. i love you.

i’ll support you, no matter what.

what do they look like?

— suguru falters. these days, that’s all he ever seems to do.

how could he hate non-sorcerers, when you’re among them? how could he hate a world that has you in it?

(he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. he can’t hate you. not you.)

the words that spill so very easily from your lips break him. he can’t tell if you’ve mended the damage, or only worsened it. he can’t tell where the jagged hole inside his chest ends and begins. he can only tell that it’s extending, extending, extending.

suguru wants to fall apart. he wants to fall apart, for only you to see, because you’ve always been the only one who could ever understand. the only one who wouldn’t turn your eyes away from him, even back then. the only, only one. the only other white chrysanthemum.

he wants so desperately to be honest with you, to let every dark thought he’s ever had flow out from his lips. for you to hear, for you to scorn or to accept at your leisure, doom him or bless him, a bleeding dog at your feet. to get rid of the tangled mess of thoughts inside his muddled mind — to just let go of everything, even if it’s only for a minute or two. just a second would be fine.

suguru wants to drag you down with him. drag you down into the depths, into the abyss, to share the weight of his suffering. so that you can be together, just like you always have; through thick and thin. always and forever.

but he doesn’t.

(and what a betrayal that is.)

suguru keeps his pretty little mouth shut, and he gives you a smile. a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, the kind he always wears when he needs to lie convincingly.

he could tell you so many things. could ruin you completely, take you down with him. hand in hand, staining your unsullied skin with the blood on his own. into the gaping maw.

but at the end of the day, he chooses not to.

suguru chooses your peace of mind over his, just like he always has, and feeds you a vague half-truth. not quite a lie, but something that ignores the underlying question of your statement, a silent plea for sincerity. something deep and true, but almost sorrowful.

i know, he says.

i know you will.

the moment does not save him. but suguru does feel just a little more hopeful, a little less like he’s slowly rotting from the inside out. a little less like he’s completely and utterly alone, isolated in his agony.

you are the same as always. and what a relief that is.

(for you, he can wade through the hell for just a little longer.)

when it’s time to say your goodbyes, suguru can tell you aren’t satisfied. that you wish you could do more. but he also knows that you won’t push it, because you’ve always respected him in a way no one else ever cares enough to do.

before you leave, you tell him that you love him. in a quiet voice, a whisper, as if trying to squeeze some sincerity from his chest — a last-ditch attempt at reaching him. he squeezes your hand, instead, and doesn’t say it back.

suguru just smiles, flimsy, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

you look like you want to say something, but you don’t.

and he watches you go, with forlorn eyes, until the dot that is you gets too small to distinguish from the darkness of the night. until he can almost delude himself into thinking that you’ve turned into a star. he watches you go as if trying to burn the sight into his memory, as if this is the last time he’ll ever see you.

(the curse of i love you rots in his mouth, unspoken, unvoiced.)

two weeks later, suguru stands in front of a cage, covered in blood.

the girls in front of him, skinny, frail, crying — beaten and exhausted — look at him like he’s a god. him, pale, smiling, with blood staining his white uniform, bathed in moonlight —

like some kind of angel of death.

suguru soaks up the metallic scent of the room, basks in that sickeningly sweet feeling of release. he soothes the girls, as best he can. he leads them away, careful not to let them see the bodies.

(there isn’t much left of them, anyhow.)

suguru geto makes his choice. the only choice that matters.

he will twist himself into a curse. he will devour his ideal, until it’s all that’s left of him. he will embody it, become it, through and through. it’s fine if he dies in the process, it’s fine if everyone dies — just as long as it means something.

that is the conviction he will carry with him. the decision to only ever see the line between ends and means, the bright light at the end of a never-ending tunnel.

the blood of an entire village is on his hands.

(a part of him wants to throw up. another grins with ecstasy. every part agrees that it was inevitable.)

their screams weren’t beautiful. they were aggravating, revolting, the wretched buzzing of bugs ringing like static in his ears. but it felt good. it felt just. something in his bones settling into its rightful place, a spark of affirmation.

and suguru doesn’t stop there. as if desperate for the cup to finally run over, to make sure that there truly is no going back, his feet take him to a place he always hoped he’d never have to see again.

when suguru returns to that stiflingly silent town, to kill his parents, you are no longer there.

it’s not a surprise. he knows you escaped, long ago, just like him — just like you always said you would. not quite to tokyo, to your grave disappointment, but you managed to find some other town to live in. bigger, better. the new beginning he always hoped you’d get.

suguru does not want to think of you. he doesn't want to remember your face, the sound of your laughter, the way your eyes shone in the light. he wants to erase every single trace of your existence from his memory, if only to protect you from the person he will soon become. or perhaps only to spare himself the heartache of it all.

but when he passes by that one summer creek, forgetting you becomes an impossibility.

his eyes gaze at the silver-hued fish, sparkling beneath the moonlight, the big cicadas singing sadly under the shadows of the trees. he closes his eyes, and breathes in the solitude, and recalls a child with teary eyes.

suguru knows what school you go to. he knows what your town is called, what your street looks like.

and it is far, far away from the town he’s in. far from tokyo, too.

— and suguru is relieved.

(it gives him an excuse not to hunt you down just yet.)

the sight of his childhood home stirs no fondness in his heart. it is empty, it is silent, it is the same as always. and now it doesn’t even have you in it, anymore.

so it doesn’t matter.

suguru moves on with conviction, with bloodstains scattered across his clothes, seeping into the fabric. the screams of his parents don’t mean anything — they blur together with old echoes of evil, crazy, wrong.

(there is something wrong with that child.)

their blood sticks to the soles of his shoes and he is repulsed by their fragility. their blood stains his shirt and he is elated by the irony of it all. all he sees is a blur of red.

the road before him becomes clear.

finally, there truly is no turning back. that one sliver of good still left in him, crushed beneath the heel of his boot. at last. homicide, patricide — the more he adds, the easier it’ll be. easier to distance himself, easier to convince himself that his choice matters. that the blood of mere animals is a small price to pay for the future he envisions.

that he is right. that he is just.

(self-affirmation. what a holy thing it is.)

there is still much left for him to do. so suguru leaves the town behind.

he leaves that tiny summer creek behind.

it is a premature death; a resignation of identity. he isn’t an adult, not yet, but he has long since stopped being a child. he stopped being a child the moment he saw a bullet go through the skull of an innocent girl, the moment he saw haibara’s ghostly pale skin. no sorcerers stay children for very long.

none of it matters, anymore.

time passes with a speed that’s almost frightening.

suguru disappears, almost entirely faded, leaving only geto in his wake. a new person, an entirely different human being — ten years of living in an echo chamber, ten years of forming his personality in the shape of something twisted.

(something almost divine.)

and geto is right. just. geto has conviction, and that’s all he needs. everything goes according to plan; geto has a goal, and a family to pursue that goal with, to pursue that goal for. everything finally feels just right. breathing feels a lot easier. living feels a lot easier.

but everyone has a weakness.

and there is one thing, only one thing, that still acts as a thorn in his side. something that holds him back, a stain yet to be wiped away, a piece of gum stuck to the sole of his shoe. a tattered memory, clinging to his subconscious as if haunting him.

(i’ll support you, no matter what.)

if only you could see him now.

when geto left his old life behind, he did not contact you. he did not say goodbye. he threw away his phone, deleted every single thing that someone could use to locate him with, and left. he hasn’t heard from you in years, hasn’t spoken to you.

but he has seen you.

geto knows where your town is. what your apartment looks like. he knows what university you go to, where your go-to café is located.

so resisting the temptation eventually becomes impossible.

he tries not to think of you, he really does. he tries to act like you are nothing, to him, because you aren’t. you are proof of weakness and a fragility that geto loathes, proof of his own foolishness, his young naivety. you are everything he hates and everything rotten and everything he’s vowed to cleanse from the earth.

but, despite that undeniable truth, geto cannot help but seek you out.

he tells himself that it means nothing. that he’s only doing it to make sure he knows where he’s got you, like a predator watching over their prey, preparing to lunge out of hiding when the moment is right. because geto knows that your death, at his hands, is inevitable. what you are is a weakness, a connection that lingers on his skin like a mold, one he still has to the creatures that disgust him so.

so it’s inevitable.

in reality, he should have killed you first. before his parents, before the village — he should have killed you, because that would have solidified his devotion in a way nothing else ever could. but he didn’t.

geto likes to think of it as a symbol, of sorts. that he’ll save you for last. the same way children eat every last part of the cake, greedily, before gulping down the strawberry. every single non-sorcerer will be dead by the time he gets to you. you’ll be the one remaining obstacle, the one final stain to rinse away before his dream becomes reality, the one thing still standing between him and the divinity he seeks.

it is an honour, geto thinks, an honour he would not bestow to anyone but you.

but until that time comes, all he can do is watch over you. silently, so you don’t notice. always from afar, sometimes through the eyes of the curses he’s bound to. just to make sure that you’re still alive. that you haven’t tripped over your shoelaces and gotten yourself into a car accident, or gulped down a mouthful of food too fast and choked to death, or anything similarly pathetic. he wouldn’t put it past you. really, he has no idea how you’ve survived this long without him.

weak, fragile, clumsy. soft enough to sink his teeth into. you are everything that geto hates. you are nothing, nothing at all.

(and you are the same as always, despite everything. what an aggravation that’s become.)

he watches you, anyway; like a god finding amusement in his creations, an omniscient overseer watching you stumble day to day. he watches as you live your life, as you talk to other people with that familiar smile on your face. it hasn’t changed in the slightest.

he watches you laugh, watches you grab a crêpe from a street vendor, watches you cry when you think nobody is there to see.

(the sight sends a tremor running through his soul, one he desperately wants to pretend not to feel.)

on melancholic summer days, when the sun paints the sky pink and golden, he watches you clutch onto his old sweater. one you always said you were going to return, but never did — never got the chance to. you used to tell him it was too comfortable not to steal. that it smelled like him, that it made you feel less lonely. geto so tenderly wishes he could have forgotten those words, by now.

but he watches you, in the solitude of your apartment, as you bury your face in the wool and inhale the fading tinge of his old cologne. then you cry and cry, like a child, until the moon rises in the sky; until you’re breathing softly, lulled to sleep by his scent.

(geto thinks to himself that you are a fool, to still miss him after all these years.)

it’s not an everyday occasion. most days, he does not think of you. there are many other monkeys to kill, many things to discuss. there’s money to be made, plans to be forged, wars to be brewed. geto is a busy man. a family man, no less.

but when boredom is all he can feel, he still finds himself seeking you out. just to make sure no one has gotten to you before him. just a god enjoying the struggles of a lesser being.

that’s all it is, geto tells himself. that’s all it’ll ever be, from now on.

no one needs to know if he spends the occasional morning checking up on you, curious if you did well on that exam you were studying for. no one needs to know if he absorbs the curses that sometimes cling to your fragile skin, gulping them down before they cause too much damage. no one needs to know if anyone who gives you a little too much trouble suddenly disappears off the face of the earth.

no one needs to know if he reminisces, every once in a while, when the summer nostalgia is too much to bear. about your childhood, about that question you asked him — a million years ago, back when the center of his universe was a single summer creek.

(no one needs to know if he finds comfort in your presence, even now.)

on days when the moon hangs low in the sky, and geto can’t choke back the longing in his chest, he sits by your bed and watches you sleep. a forlorn expression on his face, lips stuck in a tight line. it’s risky, careless, but he’s helpless to the temptation.

most nights, you lie perfectly still. so still he can almost delude himself into thinking that it’s over, that you’ve passed on, that he won’t have to kill you after all. sometimes you twist and turn, mumble something unintelligible under your breath that he doesn’t catch.

he wonders what you dream about. he wonders if you ever have nightmares, if they’re ever about him. he wonders why he even cares at all.

geto resents you. resents you for existing, for smiling every day, for being a bridge between him and lesser creatures. he resents you, resents you, resents you.

(self-affirmation. what a holy thing, indeed.)

— he could kill you so easily.

he wouldn’t even need a curse to do it. a flick of his pinkie would be more than enough. that’s how fragile you are; asleep, right in front of him, breathing softly while he watches you like how the fox watches the lamb.

(he could end all of this, right now, in the silence of the night. in your most vulnerable state.)

and yet, geto allows the opportunity to pass him by.

he can’t get too greedy. that’s what he tells himself, as he slips out of your window in the dead of night, leaving your sleeping figure behind him. it’s not the right time. he can let you sleep, for just a little while longer. the bags under your eyes have looked especially heavy, recently.

(he tries not to remember the sleepover you had as kids, when he stayed perfectly still as you dozed off on his shoulder. doing his best not to wake you, watching you fondly until the sun began to rise. back when all he wanted was to protect you.)

geto knows that you know he’s not dead. he knows because he’s almost certain that satoru spoke to you, back then, even if he probably didn’t let you in on any details. because he knows that you’re sharp, sharp enough to know that he’s alive.

and even if that were not the case, geto knows because he’s sent you gifts. letters. absentminded, almost taunting, cruel in their joviality — always anonymous, always mysterious and vague and impossible to trace back to him. but he knows that you know who they’re from.

a little dance, if you will. geto haunts you like a ghost. he never lets you see him, but he lets you know that he’s there, sometimes. just out of frame.

he can only hope it’ll eventually haunt you to death.

(if it ends up as a comfort to you, instead, then, well — it is what it is.)

all of it is a safety measure in disguise. a way to satisfy the yearning inside his chest, without coming too close. that doesn’t mean he never falters, though.

every once in a while, he feels strangely compelled to talk to you. to waltz into your home, in a lighthearted fashion, to soak up your shocked expression. to ask how you’ve been, casually, and watch you stammer, stumble over your words — he can imagine the face you’d make, the way the lilt of your voice would tremble. would you cry? he can’t help but wonder, sometimes.

yet he always resists the temptation. careful, cautious, with every move he makes. like a shadow. he deliberately leaves no traces of himself behind, no breadcrumbs for you to follow like the curious creature you are. geto lets you know that he’s there, but he doesn’t let you see him, because if he talks to you he knows that he’ll kill you. and he can’t have that, not just yet.

eventually, he’ll do it. he’ll do it, and he’ll watch as your blood stains the silk of his robes like the inevitability it is. but not yet.

you’ll be the last one, the last one he’ll kill. the final proof of his devotion.

until then, he can have this. this sickeningly sweet scrutiny of your life, your life without him. the sound of your laughter, the reflection of untainted light in your iris.

(you are the same as always, and you are a weakness that geto is learning to live with.)

he can’t rest, won’t rest until it finally ends. until the curtain calls on your bloodied body, until he feels the cold skin of your palm against his lips.

only then will he finally know if it was all worth it. only then will he be free of this yearning. only then will he be able to say that the last remnants of suguru have been well and truly cleansed from his soul, that there is nothing left of the person he was.

only then will geto be able to call himself wholly divine.

but until that time comes, he can do nothing but watch you. when the temptation begins to crawl under his skin again, when he needs to remind himself of what he’s fighting for. that one thing, at least, never once changed; suguru geto has always fought for you. for your protection, for your survival, for your demise.

for your happiness, in life or in death.

(geto hates you, loathes you, resents you for being what you are; but suguru will always, always love you. forever and ever. no matter what.

and that will be their undoing.)

suguru geto dies without saying goodbye to you.

if there are any regrets to speak of, any at all, then maybe that’d be it. he never got to see that shock on your face, never got to hear you stammer in the way you always used to when you were nervous.

in the golden hue of sunset, the last of his resentment finally fades away. the curse known as geto disappears, and what remains is no more than a ghost — the ghost of suguru, the person he was, the person he never quite stopped being.

and when geto disappears, when the last of his resentment fades away, suguru finally allows himself to think of you. fully, without interruption, without unspilled blood festering beneath his tongue. just one single touch of sincerity, one last indulgence before it all ends. he thinks of you, you as a person, not you as a non-sorcerer. he gives your memory the respect it deserves. something worth cherishing.

he wonders what you’re doing, right now. he wonders if you studied enough for that exam next week, if you found a good gift for your friend’s birthday party. he wonders if you still miss him, even though he'll never be deserving of it.

satoru stands in front of him, genuine, sincere. and suguru thinks that he is a fool, just like you; to still have any kind of affection left for someone like him. after he left you both behind, that summer.

satoru doesn’t curse him. suguru wishes he would.

a soft bout of laughter falls from his lips, as the sun sets behind him, and he knows you would have found the sight breathtaking. you always did love sunsets, didn't you? the sun was setting when he found you with that bruise on your leg, he recalls — such a miniscule detail. he wonders why he remembers only now.

suguru chokes back his tears, still smiling. it’s a smile of love. a smile of regret. he thinks of satoru.

at least curse me a little at the very end.

those should be his final words. he should avert his gaze, follow the script, tear his eyes away from the only other person besides you who ever truly knew him —

but he doesn’t. he can’t. suguru looks straight at him, at satoru, into his eyes, so blue they seem to gleam in the orange hue of the melting sun. sparkling like little galaxies, like the crinkling of soda pops, like crystallized summer skies. he looks beautiful, as beautiful as he always was.

(i wish i had told you, suguru thinks. i wish i had told you everything.)

in a voice so small he barely hears it, so tender that geto would’ve felt disgusted to his very core, suguru asks his best friend for one last favour. he’s not sure why, not sure why it matters —

but maybe, just this once, it’s fine if it’s meaningless.

satoru listens, intently. he looks at his best friend with eyes so soft it makes suguru want to laugh and cry and go back to a time when they were all happy. but they can’t, that choice was lost ten years ago — he threw it away. smothered it beneath his boot heel. there was never any going back, from the very beginning.

satoru answers his plea. one final favour, one best friend to another.

of course.

a shaky breath. he can’t tell who it came from.

of course i will.

suguru smiles. a full, genuine smile, that reaches his eyes and blossoms like a flower in the light of the sun. it’s the last time anyone will see it.

satoru clenches his jaw. he crouches down, and presses his fingers against his best friend’s battered body, right over his bleeding heart. he will never, ever forgive himself for what he's about to do.

(suguru already has.)

and the moment before the last flicker of light leaves his eyes, suguru chooses to think of you.

he thinks of your smile, the way your lips curled up at even the smallest things. he thinks of your curiosity, how it always lead him back to you. he thinks of what could have been.

he thinks of that question you asked him, all those years ago — how accepted it made him feel. that sensation of being understood. suguru thinks you saved his life, that day.

(he never got to thank you for it.)

you were his childhood friend. his nearest, dearest, oldest one.

suguru doesn't believe the world he lives in is kind enough to allow him a second chance. and he doesn't think he really deserves one, either way.

but if there is a next life, if he’s lucky enough to be reborn —

then suguru hopes he’ll be born as a dragonfly, so he can find his way back to you.

he’ll meet you, again; in the afterglow of sunset, by that dusty, forgotten, tiny summer creek. framed by silver-hued fish and cicadas, and the silence of a town that glimmered while you were both in it.

he won’t be able to wipe your tears away, won’t be able to clean the bruise on your knee — but he can be with you. and maybe, in your next lives, that’ll be enough.

(what a lovely thought.)

suguru smiles, and lets a final breath of air course through his burning lungs.

— it tastes like summer.

there is a silent understanding, between the two of you.

it’s been ten years since you last spoke to satoru gojo. it wasn’t a very pleasant conversation, and somehow, you doubt this will be an exception. an acute awareness lies heavy in the air — and deep down, some part of you knows what he’s about to tell you.

(as if it was an inevitability.)

gojo doesn’t smile. his voice has no masked amusement to it, no sense of joviality. if you strain your ears, you think it may even be wavering, slightly, so faint it’s hard to tell for sure. just that one low shiver of his lips, saying more than words ever could.

he doesn’t beat around the bush. and you see that for the kindness that it is, despite the ice cold chill that creeps into your veins when his words spill out into the air, a full body shiver traveling down your spine.

he tells you that suguru is dead, and you don’t flinch. you don’t even cry. that comes later.

in the moment, all you can do is nod, a little pitiful, teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip to stop it from wobbling. like you’re trying to be brave.

truthfully, you had a feeling that was the case.

sometimes, it was as if you could feel him. just barely out of reach, a certain cologne lingering on your windowsill, a box of cookies you’ve liked since you were little delivered to your doorstep. a sudden feeling of being watched. a note wishing you luck on whatever exam or driver’s test or job interview you had the next day, accompanied by a silly smiley face so distinctly suguru it made you want to cry.

— how cruel of him.

but you couldn’t help but feel comforted by it, all the same. it made you feel like he was still with you, somehow, like he still cared. even though he disappeared from your life without saying anything. even though gojo told you explicitly all those years ago to stay away, if you ever saw him, as if he was suddenly dangerous —

but you could never be afraid of him. you don’t think you have it in you.

to you, suguru will always just be the boy who helped you up when you scraped your knee, all those years ago. a sweet, cool kid, who held your hand firmly and gently wiped the blood off your skin.

(he’ll always be your nearest, dearest, oldest friend. even if you aren’t his.)

but lately, there’s been nothing. you haven't felt any traces of him at all, no lingering gazes boring into your back. so you knew. deep down, maybe you always kind of knew.

gojo looks at you with compassion, understanding. and without him having to say it, you know he loved suguru too. you know because his breathing is shaky, because his eyes look puffy from hours of crying; you know because grief is like a stench, thick and heavy, overwhelming, one that clings to your skin and haunts your very being. just like love.

and you can smell it on the both of you.

(you both loved the boy who died for his ideals, the man who was so moral it killed him.)

the news will sink in, later. you are sure that you will crumble, and you are sure that you will cry. you’re sure that the road ahead will be a long one, full of obstacles and thorns. but that’s fine. you’ll deal with it when the time comes. suguru was always a little mystical, a little too good to be true.

maybe you always sort of assumed things would end like this; that he’d walk ahead without you, with all his whispered secrets and gentle lies.

(asshole.

he could have given you a call, at least. even just once.)

for now, all you can do is try to keep your trembling skin intact. and you assume that gojo will leave, now that you know, that this was all he came here for. just a messenger of death, coated in a grief so strong you doubt he’ll ever be rid of it.

but gojo doesn’t leave.

he hands you something, instead.

a polaroid, you quickly realize. a photograph, of three kids — one with white hair, one with brown hair, and one with black hair. the black haired boy is trying hard not to smile, you can tell. the other two have got their arms around him, squeezing his body tightly with matching grins, throwing up peace signs. he looks at them with exasperation in his eyes, but you can tell that there’s a love there. you can tell, you know, because despite everything, you still know him.

a lump forms in your throat.

it’s not the original copy, is what gojo tells you, apologetic. you’re almost certain that he kept it for himself, and you don’t blame him. i’m sorry. but i wanted to… you know.

(he wanted to give you something to hold onto.)

the gesture is a little bit awkward, just a tad clumsy. but it’s a genuine concern, a sincere kindness. you aren’t really surprised that suguru spent his last moments with this man instead of you.

gojo continues to speak, and you continue to listen, attentive — hungry for anything to mend the hole in your heart. but your eyes never once stray from the photograph.

(suguru looks so, so happy.)

he tells you that suguru talked about you a lot, back then. and without him having to say it, you know what he really means is he loved you a lot. the words of consolation ring like static, in your ears. it hurts. the hole in your heart just keeps extending, extending, extending.

gojo notices. so he gets to the point, the final point, the only one that matters. this is his duty, too — granting suguru’s last request. the only one he ever asked of him in words.

(it’s the least he could do, for the man he loved so dearly, the one who left him behind in the shadow of summer.)

he tells you that there’s one more thing. that suguru asked him to tell you something, that it was the last thing he ever said. words that he wanted you to hear, more than anything.

gojo’s voice does not waver. it is not his place.

you listen. you listen as if it will bring him back. you listen as if it is the last thing you will ever do.

and gojo speaks.

the words mean everything, and also nothing at all. how very like him. they bounce off the walls of your apartment, spilling into the suffocating air, echoing inside your mind. cutting into your bloodstream, rooting themselves in a particularly soft spot deep within your ribcage, chrysanthemums blooming from your flesh. petals filling up your stomach until you can scarcely breathe.

the final words of your childhood friend. your nearest, dearest, oldest one; suguru geto, who you will always love, in the same way the sun loves the moon, as naturally as breathing.

the dam breaks. the sky shatters. the sob you choke on tastes salty, and gojo looks remorseful, his figure blurred by your tears. everything comes crashing down around you — an inevitability you were hoping to put off, in the same way suguru put off talking to you all those years.

and now, finally, he tells you his honest feelings. when it’s already far too late. how very, very like him.

(tell them i’m sorry. and that i hope their exam goes well.)

— honestly. what a fucking asshole.

not once did you ask for an apology. you never wanted one, never thought to even wish for it. you didn’t need one.

all you wanted was for him to come back to you. to find you, again, the way he always did.

tears cascade down your scrunched-up face, big and childlike, but no one’s there to wipe them away anymore. you cradle the photograph in your hands, savouring every single memory you have of him. all the love your heart can muster.

the tears never seem to end. they continue to run down your cheeks, until all you can smell is sea salt, until the sun has set in the horizon, until the moon has hanged itself in the sky. a silent comfort, but it’s not enough. it never will be.

a sniffle pushes past your lips, and you hear yourself laugh — bitter, raspy, gentle all the same. what a moron, you whisper, a soft lull of your tongue. didn’t he know?

(you forgave him long ago.)

bonus 👀

#Read this befoew work #What if throw up and cry in front of my clients?#😭😭😭😭#Thank you for writing this its sooo fuckn beautiful

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sexyandcringe · 2 days

Text

in the dream i don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap ; shoko ieiri

synopsis; ever since the battle in shinjuku came to its conclusion, nothing’s been the same as it used to. but you don’t think anyone is doing quite as badly as shoko.

word count; 4.5k

contents; shoko ieiri/reader, gn!reader, canon-typical mentions of death (iykyk), angst, hurt/comfort (but not very heavy on the comfort), jjk spoilers (up to chapter 236!!), mild gore (mentions of blood, autopsies and general gore-ish imagery? nothing too bad tho), shoko ieiri deserves better, includes gojo slander (stay safe gojo nation)

a/n; first of all i just wanna apologize to the shoko girlies for writing angst when we’re already so starved of content, i have like 50 fluff drabbles planned for her but chapter 236 threw me into a mental angst pit so </3 yeah. i love my wife!!

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while.

the thought sneaks its way into your subconscious, as your feet carry you to her morgue — a rotten thought you just can’t seem to rinse away.

it’s not very hard to notice. she doesn’t talk as much, for one. not that shoko was ever much of a talker, but now the silence around her is deafening. thick and heavy like the spine of a knife. and she smiles even less.

you can’t remember the last time you heard her laugh.

the crescents beneath her eyes are darker than ever, darker than you thought possible. a murky purple that you’d find soothing in any other context, but like this it’s just revolting. her eyes are deep and dark, the same as ever, but now they’re glazed over with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

apathy, maybe.

or bloodlust.

the scent of cigarette smoke that follows her is suffocating. indistinguishable from her natural scent. you don’t know if she’ll ever be able to scrub the tobacco stench off her skin.

(you’ve given up on counting the exact number of cigarettes she smokes each day. you’re not sure you want to know the answer.)

she doesn’t even look alive, anymore. like some part of her already reached its expiration date. a spectre, wandering the hallways, filling the air with the slow, ominous clacking of her heels.

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while — and it’s so obvious. her grief is so heavy, her sleep-deprivation so severe. you’d have to be blind not to notice it.

so why hasn’t anyone said anything?

you gnaw at your bottom lip, trying to suffocate the bitterness swimming inside your veins. it’s a dumb question, really, because you already know. you don’t want to acknowledge it, because it’s so unfair, but you know. of course you do.

no one has the time to. it’s as simple as that.

no one’s doing well, anymore. not since shinjuku.

not since gojo died.

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing. always with her, tucked away within those eyebags, in the pockets of her coat. in that smell of tobacco, never-fading, always lingering. it follows her like a ghost, like something she’ll never quite be rid of.

(like something she doesn’t want to be rid of.)

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing, and it always has been. but recently, it’s been downright overwhelming. it used to be subtle, the kind of thing you notice if you look close enough. if you squint. if you even care enough to try.

but now, it’s more like a haunting than a simple ghost.

(geto. nanami. yaga. and now gojo, too.

how many people does she have to lose before whatever’s watching is satisfied?)

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while, and it’s obvious, and it’s sickening. she still does her duty to a tee, but she isn’t quite there anymore. gaze always forlorn, as if she’s trying to convince herself of something.

and yet no one says a thing.

everything is one big mess, right now. you don’t want to blame anyone. everyone’s exhausted, completely and utterly spent, but they’re still planning it all out. even in the midst of their mourning. because they don’t have any other choice.

this is not the kind of situation where you should be pointing fingers. a part of you is angry, livid even — but you know the others are doing just as badly. it’s not like you aren’t, either.

still, though. isn’t this just too unfair?

”i brought you coffee!”

making sure your voice doesn’t waver is tougher than you initially assumed. just the sight of her sends a tremor running through your ribs; sunken down in her chair, papers in hand, eyes scanning the pages methodically. papers of what, you’d like to ask — but you already know.

(she’s reading through the post-mortem examination report, again. searching for something you don’t understand. you’re not sure she does, either.)

and she looks exhausted.

try as you might, your voice ends up sounding a little stale, as it flows from your lips and reaches her ears. but the attempt is there — the attempt to sound cheerful, calm. normal. to give her something to hold on to.

shoko looks up at you, and her lips curl in a way you think is supposed to form a smile. it doesn’t. her eyes look into yours but it’s like she’s not seeing you at all.

when you go to give her the cup of espresso, your fingertips touch. only for a second, before she curls her fingers around the ceramic handle. she receives the coffee with a small murmur of thanks, but you don’t notice because you’re too busy thinking of how cold her skin feels.

(cold like a ghost. cold like death.)

shaking away the shivers down your spine, you allow your gaze to trail over the morgue. it looks the same as always. cold, empty. foreboding. today, you think it feels just a little chillier than usual. matching the temperature of the outside world, where everything lies buried in heaps of snow and frost.

hesitantly, you plop down in the seat right next to hers. with such a narrow distance, you can smell the tobacco sticking to her clothing. it makes you want to throw up.

(you try not to look over at the couch in the corner of the room, where a certain someone used to slack off. his awkwardly long limbs would dangle off the edges, and shoko would pretend that she didn’t enjoy his company. you were more than content with silently admiring the smile she was trying to hide.)

shoko doesn’t look at you, professional in the way her eyes run across the files. cause of death: damage to central intestines, subsequent loss of blood. from a cut to the stomach, right below the liver and spleen.

you look away before your eyes can read another line.

leaning back in your chair, you exhale a tiny sigh. desperate to fill the silence with something, anything at all. you scramble for topics, racking your brain.

(what could you possibly tell her that she doesn’t already know?)

”the others are still planning everything out,” you speak, playing with your fingers idly to distract yourself. ”i think it’s going well.”

shoko hums, unaffected. ”that’s good.”

she’s speaking to you, but that feeling of unease still won’t go away. her voice sounds still, flat. empty of emotion. but you can tell she’s trying to be polite.

that’s no surprise. shoko isn’t the type to ever show how she’s truly feeling. she’s not the type to ask for help, either. people come to her for help, not the other way around. that’s all she’s ever known.

(in that sense, the two of them were alike.)

but that just makes it all the more important for you to be there. even if you’re a little awkward, and even if you can’t do much. even if it’s only for a moment or two, you want to see her smile. you want to feel for yourself that she’s really there.

looking over at shoko, you wring your hands together, the cold air of the morgue nipping at your sweaty palms. she’s drinking from the cup, one finger around the handle as her other hand flips through the papers.

”does it taste okay?” you ask, softly. if only you could ask her that under better circumstances, with cups of espresso made with better coffee machines than those at jujutsu high. ”i made it myself, so…”

”it’s fine.” shoko takes a sip. dragging her syllables out, as if mustering the will to speak. ”don’t worry.”

short sentences. almost cold, but you know better than that. she just doesn’t have it in her to pretend that everything is normal, anymore.

and it makes you uncomfortable. this silence.

a couple months ago, it would have felt comforting; a quiet, peaceful kind of solitude shared between the two of you. nostalgic, like the smell of morning dew. or the way moonlight feels on your skin when the world falls asleep.

the silence you had with shoko always felt so tender. a single moment of peace, before the other shoe dropped. just that one moment was enough to give you the hope you needed to make it through another day.

you loved being silent with shoko. you loved her silence, the way she could soothe your very soul without saying a thing.

but now it only stings your skin. you fear that you might drown in it.

there is nothing to say. you want to ask her how she’s doing, but you already know. you want to ask her why she’s still reading the files from gojo’s autopsy, but you already know.

you want to ask her if she can still keep going, like this. but you already know.

she doesn’t have a choice.

(something crumbles, deep inside your chest, like ashes cast into the sea.)

”hey. shoko?”

she hums, again. weak. quiet. absentminded, acknowledging your words but not really hearing them.

you take a deep breath.

”i think i’m going to quit being a sorcerer.”

silence.

for a moment, nothing happens. nothing moves, or speaks. the air is cold and crisp and carries no meaning, no words, nothing at all.

like time is frozen. frozen like all the bodies shoko’s had to dig inside these past few months. frozen like gojo was when she found him in the snow.

frozen like your youth, a glass marble kept in your pocket for moments when you feel as if the ground beneath your feet is about to slip away. then you’d take it out, and look deep inside it. watch the swirling of greens and blues and purples. that streak of indigo right in the middle of the glass. memories of the past, to give you comfort.

to remind yourself of why you’re doing this. to give you a reason to keep moving forward.

(south or north, it doesn’t matter. stay as you are or move forward, look to the past or to the future — none of it matters if you aren’t alive. that’s the conclusion you came to.)

shoko’s expression, too, is frozen. it doesn’t change, even as you let those loaded words fall from your tongue. you watch her carefully, out of the corner of your eye. she doesn’t even look at you, gaze still glued to the tiny letters detailing exactly what gojo’s pulse was at when he got cut.

but something flickers, in the depths of her irises, so fast you barely catch it. something you can’t identify, but it’s still something. it’s movement. it’s alive.

”not right now, obviously,” you elaborate. suddenly a little nervous, now that the words have been made manifest. ”but… you know. once all this is over.”

not sure what else to say, you trail off, fidgeting with your fingers again. voice wavering pitifully towards the end of the sentence, because deep down you know it’s not a question of once, but a question of if.

(if this ever ends. if i don’t die tomorrow, or the day after that.)

you swallow the lump in your throat, and look at her. trying to find her eyes. trying to keep her alive for as long as you can, this sequence of motion, this moment frozen in time.

trying to reach her.

”you won’t ever have to worry about me dying,” you throw in, like the words are light and not heavy as bricks. but you know she needs to hear them. ”i’ll leave, and then — and then…”

staring down at your lap, you link your hands together. exhaling, a little breathless. sheepish, in a way. ”… well. i don’t know. i haven’t thought that far ahead, yet.”

you never had the chance to. you didn’t even really think of it as a possibility, as something you could do. and you know it’s not a possibility for shoko. the choice to be a sorcerer was never hers, from the very beginning.

a user of the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing almost any wound, more power and capability than a child should ever have. invaluable. she’s saved so many lives you’re sure she’ll be reborn as a god.

but the choice was never hers.

a soothing kind of ache blooms in both your palms, as your nails dig into the soft skin. hard enough to form crescents, like the ones under shoko’s eyes, that she’ll never be rid of no matter how much she sleeps. the choice was never hers.

isn’t that just too cruel?

they don’t deserve her. none of them do. the elders didn’t, the jujutsu world doesn’t — not even the students. no one deserves it; everything she does for everyone, day and night, just slaving away in the morgue or her office. cutting up curses and old friends. every second of the day, always that same buzzing of her name being called.

shoko, someone needs healing, come quick!

shoko, i know it’s 2 am and you have work tomorrow, but there’s a curse that i need you to dissect.

shoko, i think i got a paper cut, would you mind taking a look?

none of them deserve her.

you think of gojo. a flash of white hair, a grin brighter than the sun. a bloodstained smile — one shoko had to wipe away.

something ugly claws its way up your throat.

none of them deserve her. especially not him.

what were you thinking, leaving her all alone like this? so much for being the strongest. you couldn’t even stay alive.

why would you die with a smile on your face? do you have any idea how cruel that is to her?

you idiot. don’t you know how much she missed you?

— yeah. none of them deserve her. gojo doesn’t, the world doesn’t, and neither do you. no one does.

what shoko deserves is to live a normal life.

and she never will.

it’s foolish. it’s naive, a juvenile daydream. but you wish for it so, so badly. so much that even just the thought alone feels like too much to bear.

you wish you could bring her with you.

you wish you could take her hand in yours, and run away. leave it all behind, every single thing, without caring about the consequences. you’d hold her hand and never let it go, and then you’d run and run until you were both high on adrenaline and breathless laughter.

maybe you could go somewhere, together. somewhere better. outside of japan, where there are less curses. money wouldn’t be an issue, you both have more than you know what to do with — one of the perks of having a job that’s bound to kill you. you could settle down in some smaller town, peaceful, maybe a little secluded. just to make sure no one finds you.

maybe you could open up a little shop, together. or spend all your days tangled up beneath the blankets, catching up on lost sleep. talking and whispering, like you’d do back at the sleepovers you used to have. you’d make her coffee every morning, and tea every evening. you’d spend the rest of your life trying to make her laugh as loud as possible.

there’s nothing you want more. absolutely nothing. there never will be.

— but you can’t ask her.

you can’t ask her to come with you, no matter how much you want to. that’d be the cruelest thing you could possibly do to her.

she would never agree. you’d only be hurting her more. so selfish, all of these wishes. it was so much simpler back when you were just kids. when you didn’t have to care about duties or responsibilities. when your cognitive empathic abilities were just a little more lacking.

a sigh flows from your lips. resigned, but somewhat hopeful, all the same. tainted with the murmurs of a memory that’ll never happen.

”maybe i’ll open up a bakery, or something.” you tap your fingers against the desk, smiling a little to yourself at the thought. or trying to. ”then you could come visit.”

shoko looks into her cup of coffee. watching the swirling of the vortex, the abyss that gazes back at her. she doesn’t look at you but you can tell she’s listening. then she puts the cup down, and you glance at her now-empty hand.

shoko’s hands have always been pretty. even when they’re covered in grime, or stained with blood. thin, a little bony, smooth skin obscuring clear blue veins. moles litter her hands like stars in the sky; one right beneath her pinkie, another by her wrist. the more you look, the more you find.

tentatively, you broach the distance between you. curling your fingers around her slender ones, where they rest on her lap. linking hands. it’s a slow movement, drawn out and careful, accompanied by the heavy beating of your heart.

(her skin is cold to the touch. your skin buzzes with unease, but you don’t let go.)

then you smile. a small thing, not really optimistic, but the attempt is there. something for her to hold on to. looking deep into her eyes, admiring the hazel glow that never quite left them.

”i’ll give you free pastries.”

a moment passes. shoko’s fingers squeeze around yours — weakly, but it’s there. movement, motion, life. a way of reaching out. a way to hold on.

her eyes continue to trail over the page, but you know she’s not reading any of the contents. you’ve caught her attention. a small victory, but you’ll take what you can get.

”i don’t like sweets,” she reminds you, leaning back a little in her chair. allowing her eyes to flutter shut, at last — and it’s not much but it’s something. a moment of relief for those tired, tired eyes. more tired than any 29 year old’s should be.

”i’ll change your mind,” you promise, mustering up enough will to sound smug. ”my pastries will be out of this world. you’ll get a sweet tooth in no time, sho.”

she exhales a breath, vaguely amused. your smile widens, hopelessly. her happiness was always the root of yours, wasn’t it?

then she looks at you, one eyebrow raised in lazy scepticism. ”can you even bake?”

”nope,” you deadpan. ”but i’ll learn. you’ll see.”

this time, shoko almost chuckles — and it’s more than you’ve gotten out of her in recent memory. god, you missed that sound. a little raspy, from all the cigarettes, but still so honeyed and smooth. hearing it makes you feel as if everything will turn out fine, in the end.

(what a powerful thing, for a voice to do. one so lovely it anchors you to the earth.)

a faux pout curls its way to your lips, and you squeeze her hand lightly. ”don’t laugh, i’m being serious!” your pout shifts into a soft grin, a little teasing. ”i’ll get you addicted to sugar instead of nicotine.”

”haha…”

shoko laughs. shoko laughs and it’s beautiful.

shoko laughs, a genuine laugh, and it’s so beautiful that you almost don’t notice the tears in her eyes. almost.

and then you realize your mistake.

a memory comes to you, then. you recall a hushed conversation, beneath a cloudy summer sky. the air was heavy with the scent of lilacs and cigarette smoke. two people were beside you, and all you cared about was listening to the tilt of their voices. that, and nothing more. a time before everything and everyone went south.

(”you know, shoko. you really should drop those death sticks of yours.”

”i don’t want to hear that from the guy who needs 40 grams of pure sugar every day just to function.”

”rude! and as far as addictions go, sugar is a cut above nicotine, don’t ya think?”

”whatever. just worry about yourself, gojo.”)

by the time you realize, it’s already far too late. the tears have already begun to fall. little droplets of grief, sticking to her skin.

they trickle down the contours of shoko’s face, and fall onto the paper in her hand, smudging the letters. she clutches it tightly, crinkling it, just to make the damage worse. her other hand is still holding yours, chipped nails digging into your skin gently.

but she keeps laughing. low, hazy laughter — pained. she sounds like she’s in pain, and that’s because she is. even if no one ever cares to mention it.

(how cruel, for her to be born with the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing any physical wound; leaving her with too many mental ones to count. never to be healed or acknowledged, in this life or the next.)

you can only stare. helpless to her sadness. her eyes are a little red, and she’s biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood — a drop of scarlet falls onto the paper, and you think of gojo again.

you think of shoko finding him. running to his side. doing all she could to heal him, to patch him up — getting blood all over her hands and clothes. red everywhere, staining the pure white of the snowfall. like something out of a painting.

she did all that she could. pressing down on his chest, positive cursed energy pouring out from her fingertips in tandem with the snow. pressing two shaky fingers to his pulse point, just in case. just to find any sign of life, absolutely anything. hoping so tenderly that she’d feel the flutter of his pulse. that he’d get up, and laugh obnoxiously, and ask her if she really thought he’d leave her behind so easily.

you’d never seen her look so scared. so desperate, a primal kind of fear you’ve learned to associate with self-driven survival. the way some animals can claw their way out of a predator’s stomach if they’re swallowed whole. but she did that to save him. trying to claw him out, herself. from the belly of the beast.

she did all that she could.

but gojo didn’t do anything. he just laid there, split in two. frozen in time, eternally young. watching the sky. smiling.

(what a wonderful way to die. what an awful thing for an old friend to find.)

before your mind can catch up, your body acts. muscle memory, in the way your arms curl around her midriff to bring her close. tucking her into your side while she sniffles and cries. still laughing, like she’s still trying to convince you that she’s fine. like she’s isn’t falling apart at the seams.

the dam breaks. the ice shatters. everything comes crashing down — and you’re there to pick up the pieces. despite everything.

it’s not enough, it never will be. but at least it’s something.

it’s heart-wrenching, the way she clings to you. like you’re the only thing she has. the dry laughter that spills from her throat devolves into sobbing, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, nails clinging to the fabric of your clothing like she’s trying to anchor herself. broken sniffles fill the space between you as she hides away, in the crook of your neck.

(the sound makes you feel like someone drove a knife from your sternum down to your stomach.)

all you can do is hold her. quietly, delicately. as if she could break if you squeeze her too hard. as if she’d shatter like a sheet of glass if you were to say the wrong thing again.

you hold shoko like she’s fragile. because she is, regardless of what anyone else says. because she’s a human being, and she’s grieving, and she needs this.

eventually, she musters up the will to speak — and it’s awful, raspy, broken syllables she has to force out of her throat.

she chokes on the words like they’re poisonous. like she’s been carrying them around for decades, bubbling beneath the surface, waiting to be let out.

“don’t — don’t end up here,” shoko pleads, voice wavering through the syllables. full of fear. “please.”

you know what she means. she doesn’t have to say it, because you know.

don’t end up in my morgue. don’t end up on my autopsy table.

shoko sounds meek. she sounds close to falling apart. you’ve never seen her like this before, clutching onto your sleeves as if begging you to stay.

“you’re — you’re the only one i…”

she doesn’t finish, cut off by a broken sniffle. but she doesn’t need to.

you’re the only one i have left. i can’t lose you, too.

please don’t die. please don’t leave me behind.

a shaky inhale. your arms tighten around her waist, tugging her closer. praying that she’ll feel the steady beating of your heart, the undeniable proof that you’re alive. that you haven’t left her yet.

you blink away the tears in your eyes, grasping for control over your wavering voice.

“i won’t.”

and maybe it’s cruel, maybe it’s the cruelest thing you could do to her — making a promise you know you might not be able to keep. but you do so anyway. helpless to her sadness. at the complete mercy of her grief. you’d do anything to stop the tears from falling, to soothe the turmoil in her chest.

“i won’t let you be alone, shoko,” you murmur into her hair, with all the comfort you can possibly muster. ”not now, or ever.”

three words yearn to be spoken, resting on the tip of your tongue. three little syllables, desperate to be heard after living in the back of your throat for so many years.

and for a second, you think you might say it.

you think you might say it, breathe life into the statement. you can almost taste it, can almost hear it. can almost see what her expression would look like.

but shoko sniffles, and hugs you tighter. protective, like you’ll leave if she doesn’t. so tightly that it hurts a little.

and you swallow the words, once more.

right now, this is enough. it’s enough that you’re alive, that you’re here. that’s what shoko needs, right now.

she doesn’t need your love. she just needs you to stay alive.

so you will. you decide that you will, no matter what. you’ll leave, and you’ll open up a shitty bakery that won’t get any customers — and you’ll give her free pastries for the rest of your life. you’ll get her so addicted to sweets that she’ll have no choice but to come back for more.

shoko cries like a child. filling the silence of the morgue with her shaky breaths and quiet sniffles, little hiccups and whimpers. the tears never seem to stop, and you wonder how long it’s been since she last let them fall.

you hold her in your arms, smoothing a palm down her back, counting the bumps of vertebra — and don’t say anything. there’s no need to.

for now, the soft patter of your heartbeat is enough.

ijichi stands just outside the morgue, unmoving. not saying a thing.

it’s muffled, hushed and quiet, but still audible. the sound of childlike crying. the kind all sorcerers do their best to keep to themselves.

in his arms lie a bundle of papers. the final pages of gojo’s autopsy report. it’s important that shoko sees them — vital, according to her. something about the six eyes, the possibilities they hold. the hope that maybe, just maybe…

— he clutches them tightly, and then walks away.

#I will cry myself to sleep tonight

89 notes · View notes

sexyandcringe · 2 days

Text

i crumble completely when you cry ; suguru geto

synopsis; after a tense fight with your boyfriend, you flee out into a brewing rainstorm. luckily, suguru is always willing to warm you up again.

word count; 6.2k

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader, copious amounts of hurt/comfort, no really that’s literally all this fic is, sugu snaps at you for worrying about him, (and then promptly spirals), he makes it up to you though :), healthy communication ensues, [name] is used exactly once, switching povs, soft & fluffy ending <33

a/n; going back to my roots (mindless hurt/comfort) 🙏🙏 i just think that if suguru picked me up like a small kitten and put me in his lap it would fix me

you’re cold.

little shivers run through your body, down your spine, and all you can do is clench your chattering teeth and dig your nails into the skin of your palms. the heavy rain falls down without mercy, going pitter patter as it hits the asphalt. a sudden lightning strike lights up the town, flashing in the reflection of puddles, and you manage a weak jolt.

dark clouds blanket the whole sky, not allowing even a sliver of blue to shine through the darkness of the rainy evening. enveloping you, surrounding you, soft earthy scents — wet asphalt, roses blooming to your left and right, bushes with sweet-smelling flora guiding your path, little petals glistening with droplets and bouncing with the force of the rain.

it’d be comforting, were it not for one simple fact;

you don’t have an umbrella.

at this point, thirty minutes into your solemn, sniffly walk, you’re absolutely soaked. with only a measly hoodie to cover your body and head, and a tank top sticking to the skin beneath it — you were stupid to think you’d get out of it unscathed. your shoes feel uncomfortable, wet soles sticking to the asphalt, two heavy weights carrying you down the familiar street ahead of you.

you let out a shuddering breath.

gosh, this was stupid. you knew it was going to rain, but still walked out without a care in the world; despite the weather forecast, despite suguru’s warnings over breakfast, despite the dark clouds covering the milk-blue sky. you just didn’t think it’d be this bad. you just felt so helpless.

you just couldn’t stay there.

some fresh air, and a bit of space. that was all you needed. just that one sliver of comfort.

so, yeah, maybe you weren’t thinking very clearly when you stormed out. maybe you weren’t thinking nearly enough, not enough to even grab one of the umbrellas hanging off the coatrack. hanging there just for you, the cutest little frog umbrella, one suguru bought for you himself. big, googly eyes, and a big smile. the most perfect shade of green.

(he put it there just for you.)

maybe you weren’t thinking at all. maybe you just needed to get away, away from him, away from the frustration on his features. arguments with suguru are few and far between — it only adds to the sting of his cold voice still ringing in your ears. you bite down on your bottom lip again, just to stop it from wobbling so pitifully. blinking rapidly, tears and raindrops clinging to your lashline.

you were just worried. is that so awful?

(why did he have to be so fucking mean about it?)

a sigh flows from your lips, heavy and defeated and undeniably tired. you hate feeling like this, this bitter, hate feeling like you’ve done something wrong. more than anything, you hate arguing with him — hate the idea of him being angry with you. hate the way his voice turns colder, just a little sharper, an octave lower. he never raises it, never ever, but somehow he still sounds so scary.

it bothers you. bothers you how sensitive you are when it comes to him. just that shivering tilt of his voice, coupled with the annoyance in his eyes, was enough to make your eyes a little glassy. one little sentence, and you were close to breaking out into a sob. because suguru was angry with you, and that alone makes you feel like you’ve done nothing right in your life.

so you left. because that was all you could do.

sure, the sharp pelting of the rain hurts a little, and the thunder is scary, and you’re awfully cold — but anything is better than having suguru see you burst into tears over such a small argument. you know he’d try to soothe you, know he’d feel guilty. but that just makes it all the more embarrassing.

(all the more pathetic.)

so you left, rushed out of your own apartment, and before you knew it the storm was rolling in above you. rain and thunder, something to rival the ache in your chest. it still hasn’t been that long, a little over half an hour, and you still haven’t fully calmed down. you still don’t know how to face him. but —

but fuck, it’s cold. and an undeniable part of you yearns to run back into his arms, to make up with him, to hear his voice turn warm and see his eyes go soft. you want him to soothe you so, so badly. like he always does.

another sigh — more resigned this time — slips from out your lips. your bones feel sore, you’re almost certain you’re going to catch a cold, and it’s getting late. you’re all alone, and it’s raining, and you look vulnerable and helpless.

you want to go home.

it’ll be awkward, but maybe you can sneak in somehow — without him noticing. then you can go straight to sleep, on the couch, and maybe you’ll feel a little better tomorrow. the two of you can talk it out over breakfast, over warm coffee, and you can tell him what you meant to say without stumbling over what words to use or dancing around the subject like a scared little child.

you’re just too tired to argue anymore.

he just made you feel so stupid. so very, very small. suguru’s been working so hard lately, coming home late, exhausting himself. all you wanted was to make sure he was okay. that, and to coax him into relaxing a bit; maybe take a day off to recharge. that was all.

but he just brushed you off.

and, well, maybe you should’ve backed off after that. maybe you should’ve taken that as a sign that suguru didn’t feel up to answering your questions. but you were just so worried, so pitifully anxious, and you just wanted to help him so, so badly.

suguru is always so dependable. always there to help you, to ground you, to console you. even when you push him away or insist you don’t need it. he can be pushy, when he feels like he needs to, when your health is at risk — and it’s frustrating, but you’ve always appreciated it. you just wanted to return the favour. push him, just a little, to show him how much you care. show him that he can depend on you the way he insists you do with him.

but then he grew frustrated.

”suguru… you’ve been working so much, i’m —” you bite down on your bottom lip. ”i’m just worried that you’re overdoing it.” ”… god. how many times do i have to say it? i know my limits, [name].” ”but — you just look so tired —” ”well, i’m sorry for that.” a cold smile. ”am i not living up to your expectations?”

(that’s not what you meant. he knows that’s not what you meant.)

and it makes you feel frustrated, too. pardon you for being worried. for wanting to be there for him, for once, for wanting to be a supportive partner and not just a burden.

pardon you for feeling a little lonely, with him coming home so late, leaving so early. with him not giving you the affection you’re so used to, and never confiding in you about his stress.

pardon you for wanting him to trust you, a little, even just a sliver more than not at all.

god, you’re exhausted. you just want to sleep — can’t you have that, at least? just that one thing? you don’t mind sleeping on the couch, don’t mind feeling like a stranger in your own home, as long as you get to rest your eyes. just for a little while.

your brain spins in circles, bitterness and longing heavy on your tongue, as you grumble over what to do or how to feel —

while your feet have already begun taking you home. moving almost on their own, on instinct, walking past rose bushes and backyards, the smell of glucose and rotting apples.

and you’re there before you know it: in front of the familiar door to your shared apartment, soaked from head to toe. still feeling a little lost.

for a second, you hesitate.

maybe he’s still angry. maybe he was happy to get some time away from you. maybe you’re just making things worse by doing this, maybe you should just —

but your fingers have already fished out the key from within your pocket, unlocking the door in one swift motion. moving up to curl around the doorknob, a desperation in your veins guiding you closer to his steady warmth.

and before you have the chance to waver again, you pull the door open and step inside.

you move slowly, gentle and careful, almost cautious. softly closing the door behind you and taking a couple quiet steps forward, only to shrug off your hoodie — heavy, soaking wet and discomforting as you pull it over your head. clumsily, you try to get it off you, squirming when the warm indoors air meets your sweaty tank top. it feels soothing on your bare skin, though, ghosting over your shoulders and collarbone, hoodie now clinging to your elbows.

in the middle of the taxing endeavor, you almost fail to notice the presence of a certain someone, standing just a little farther away.

almost, because it’d be impossible for you to miss him, that heavy gaze of his.

and before you can think the thought to do anything else, you’ve locked eyes with him — arms still tangled up in the wet sleeves of your hoodie, raindrops and sweat sticking to your skin.

(suguru takes a moment to look at you.)

not daring to say anything, afraid to part your lips, you simply stand there. in silence, like a deer in headlights. for some reason, you can’t really read his expression — you’re a little too tired, a little too caught off guard.

you can only blink, worry surely evident in your furrowed brows, as the seconds tick on and on. tense, tense, tense.

and then he’s walking away again.

crestfallen. that’s probably the best way to describe how you feel right now, watching him disappear around the corner. dejected, as your eyes fall to the floor, and your posture wilts like a dying rose. you finally shake off your hoodie and watch it fall to the floor with a gross, wet plap.

it hurts. you want to cry. you can’t help it. even though a part of you is still upset, even though a part of you fully expected this to happen…

another part was still hoping he’d be happy to see you. as if just seeing his smile again might’ve fixed everything.

but he didn’t even give you that.

that’s that, then. there’s nothing you can do except proceed with your original plan. you’ll change into some warm, dry clothes, and go to sleep on the couch like the miserable dog you are. you’ll leave everything troublesome and disheartening for tomorrow’s you to handle.

for now, you just have to worry about getting some sleep. you don’t have to think about suguru, or his cold voice, or the way he just walked away without saying anything.

you don’t have to think about him at all.

(don’t think. don’t think. don’t —)

— the soft patter of footsteps breaks you out of your anxious spiral. they come closer and closer, until a certain silhouette enters your vision out of the corner of your eye.

a certain suguru geto, hair down and cascading past his shoulders, wearing a comfortable sweater and loose sweatpants with a fluffy towel in tow.

once again, you can only blink. a vaguely confused deer in headlights. suguru comes closer and closer, until you can clearly see his eyes, amber gold, full of an emotion you finally manage to identify —

worry.

(ah.)

before you can say anything, he’s draped the towel around you. it feels nice, a soft texture on your skin, big enough to engulf you completely, cocooning you. cozy and snug. you can’t help but melt a little when suguru places his big hand over the towel and smooths it over your cheek, drying off your skin so gently that you feel like crying again.

”are you cold?” he asks, concern evident in his voice. to your immense relief, it sounds nowhere near as scary as before. ”you’re soaked…”

suguru almost seems to be pouting, bottom lip jutting out the slightest bit, eyebrows furrowed softly. still rubbing the raindrops off your skin. he looks awfully troubled, undeniably anxious, and the way he’s caressing your skin feels so earnestly caring. the towel feels warm, like he went the extra mile to heat it up for you.

and, more than anything, the feeling of suguru’s big hands cupping your face is almost heavenly. even though the touch is indirect, you can’t help but bask in his warmth, almost desperate to cling to it after escaping from the harsh cold of the rain. like he could slip away and leave you again if you don’t stay perfectly still, just like this.

it’s soothing. so, so soothing. but it also makes you feel kind of meek.

you sound sheepish when you answer, voice a little hoarse after your grueling walk. throat dry from all the crying. ”nah, ’m fine…”

the words are tiny, fragile like pieces of glass, and they only make suguru’s brows furrow further, pout turning into a soft frown as he gazes down at you.

(he hates how small you look. like you’re curling in on yourself.)

as soon as you left the apartment, a wave of regret washed over him. it was expected, obviously, because that’s what always happens after the two of you argue — which is almost never, which only makes the cut in his heart run deeper.

he felt frustrated. and tired, so tired. but when he saw your troubled expression, the way your eyes watered slightly before you rushed out…

he could only feel guilty.

and that sensation only deepened as he sat on the couch and spiraled, over the course of forty long minutes, playing the interaction back inside his head. over and over, thinking about your words, his words, some of which he desperately wishes he could take back.

and when it started raining? suguru could only feel regret, hot and ugly, dragging him into his own thoughts. could only drown in his worries, look out the window anxiously. thinking of you, his sweet baby, stuck under the onslaught of dark clouds and lightning strikes and heavy rain.

(you didn’t bring an umbrella.)

suguru waited. that was all he could do.

he didn’t think it was possible for him to feel so useless. fighting with himself, the part of him that wanted to give you the space you needed clashing with the part that yearned to run after you — scoop you up and apologize, hold you tight and protect you from the rainfall. you weren’t answering his calls, and he didn’t want to overwhelm you, didn’t want to make you feel even worse. afraid to scare you off for good.

so he could only sit there and worry, sit there and wait, wallow in his own shame until he heard the faintest sound of the front door unlocking. followed by the sound of it creaking open, slowly — and that was all he needed.

and there you were. standing by the entrance, entirely soaked, tank top sticking to your skin and that flimsy hoodie hanging off your arms, cheeks a little red from the cold and strands of hair sticking to your skin.

like a tiny kitten left out in the rain.

it made him feel so painfully anxious. his heart aching so deeply, so viscerally, while all he could think about was smothering you in affection. taking care of you, like he always wants to do, needs to do to stay sane. so suguru left, to go grab something to dry you off with —

and now he’s here. in front of you, smothering you with the towel rather than his love, fretting over you like an overprotective mother.

suguru yearns to soothe you. to take care of you. always, always, always, his hands on your skin and lidded amber eyes staring deeply into yours. offering himself like a shelter to a stray dog, hoping so tenderly that you’ll take the bait.

(he just wants you to feel safe with him again.)

so he stumbles for something, anything to say, afraid of overstepping or making you uncomfortable. you did just argue, and suguru was anything but patient with you. usually he would be; he’d make sure to be. but with work piling up, and exhaustion clinging to every pore of his skin…

he failed at maintaining his composure.

he needs to make it up to you. despite everything — even though he feels a little awkward, a little restless, still drowning a little in shame — he just wants to tend to you. that, and nothing more.

”hang on,” he exhales, stepping back and letting go of the towel. ”i’ll go draw you a bath…”

”ah — no need,” you smile, a little forced, swiftly reassuring him. he can tell you don’t really know how to act after everything that happened; still walking on eggshells. ”i’ll just take a quick shower.”

suguru wants to protest, wants to coax you into taking a proper bath, into letting your cold skin and aching bones relax completely —

but he can only hum, a little unsure. a little sad.

”… okay. got it.”

perplexed, he tries his hand at another tactic. still so desperate to take care of you in whatever way you’ll allow, like always, but he thinks it’s worse now. even more desperate, after the fight you had, after seeing your frail, shivering self. resisting the urge to scoop you up and coddle you is a struggle.

”i can make you tea?” he tries, inwardly wincing at the way the words spill from his lips; uncertain, awkward. what a mess.

but you smile, slightly more genuinely this time, a soft little thing. it soothes some of the anxiety rotting through his ribs.

”tea would be great, thank you.”

you brush past him, warm towel still hanging off your shoulders. ”i’ll just take a shower in the meantime,” you murmur, and suguru can do nothing but nod, watching you go.

he swallows thickly.

(that’s that, then.)

tea. right. what kind of tea? something warm, and soothing, and good for your throat. chamomile? peppermint? he’ll add a spoon of honey, just the way you like.

suguru’s mind spins in circles while his feet take him to the kitchen, hands swiftly rummaging through cabinets and getting the electric kettle ready. placing teacups and a teapot on the table, cute little floral designs he couldn’t help but fill your kitchen with. pouring hot peppermint tea into the pot, a strong scent drifting through the kitchen, drowning his senses in bliss.

caught up in his own head, losing track of time, suguru fails to notice you walking from the bathroom — stopping by the threshold of the kitchen, hesitant to make your presence known. a few silent moments pass. with a tiny inhale, mint invading your senses, you take a step forward. calm and sleepy, skin still pleasantly hot from the warm shower, hair still a little damp.

only then does suguru notice you, his gaze drifting to your figure as if instinctively drawn to it.

you’re clad in some comfortable sweatpants, and an oversized hoodie — his hoodie, the one with the unreasonably soft texture, the one you tend to gravitate towards — the one he likes to see you in the most, because you always look so thoroughly comfy in it. almost drowning in the fabric.

seeing you all warm and cozy, in his clothing no less, sends a tremor of pure warmth running through suguru’s chest. sprouting in his heart and spreading throughout his entire body. he can’t bring himself to resist the soft curl of his lips, gazing at you so fondly he’s almost sure you notice it.

”i made peppermint,” he says, a little breathless, already pouring boiling tea into two cups on the table. ”that okay?”

”yeah,” you answer, instantaneous. stifling a yawn. you’d have been fine with anything, really.

the shower worked wonders for your muddled mind; chasing away the shivers down your spine, that unpleasant chill to your skin. most importantly, it gave you a moment to simply relax, to bask in the peace and quiet. feel the hot water surround you, melt your bones like softened clay. you feel a little better, now. still anxious, more than a little sleepy, but better. and right now, that’s all you need.

with a groggy kind of pep in your step, you stumble over to the kitchen table, plopping down on the chair across from where suguru is sitting. trying to get comfortable, knees pressed against your chest, muttering a soft thank you while gingerly touching the rim of the cup.

(suguru frowns, just barely, at the sight. usually you’d sit right next to him. but now you’re in front of him, so very far — as if you’re strangers.

it breaks his heart, a little bit.)

a soft hum leaves your lips when you take a sip of the tea — all warm and comforting and minty on your tongue, a vague taste of something sweet. it’s relaxing, more than anything, and it makes you feel a little more okay with everything.

suguru only watches you, drinking absentmindedly from his own cup. not really tasting anything.

finally, he opts to clear his throat — and your attention falls on him instantly.

”hey,” he starts, ready to address the elephant in the room. his voice is gentle, but decisive, firm somehow. ”about before…”

your body tenses, ever so slightly, fingers uncurling around the handle of the teacup. there’s a kind of shift in the air around you, in suguru’s tone of voice — and you were expecting it, waiting for it anxiously, but that doesn’t make it any less harrowing.

here it comes, your mind seems to sing. here comes the moment everything shatters again.

with as much strength as you can muster, you smile. a little sheepish, just a tad forced, refusing to meet his eyes from across the table. staring into the murky green of your cup and hoping in vain that you can somehow escape this discomfort.

(you just want to rest. you just want to not have to think about anything.)

”it’s fine, suguru,” you cut him off. softly, but there’s a certain tilt to your voice that strikes him as rather cold. ”we can just drop it.”

the decision in his eyes doesn’t waver. you look meek, awfully troubled, and he hates to force you into another discussion when you’re undoubtedly tired — but suguru’s mind is set. he’s been evasive enough, today.

”no. i want to talk about it properly.”

at that, you seem to deflate a little. suguru is nothing if not stubborn, a quality that always manages to coexist with his gentleness, his desire to be a good partner for you. you can tell he won’t allow you to wriggle away, now that you’re both finally calm. he’s not doing it to exhaust you, not doing it to gain some sort of satisfaction out of ”winning” the argument — he’s doing it because he knows it’s the right thing to do. even if it makes you both a little uncomfortable.

communication is important, immensely so. suguru knows it very well.

and you do, too.

so all you do is curl into yourself, shifting in your seat, allowing him to speak his mind and sipping quietly on your tea. biting back a disgruntled huff, gaze lingering on the tablecloth, little calico cats etched into the fabric. he wanted one with yellow stripes, but still bought this one just for you. just like the ugly matching couple mugs you forced him into buying, the green colour of your kitchen wallpaper. he always places you before himself.

(all you wanted was to change that. just for a night, if nothing else. and he got mad at you for it.)

suguru sighs. it sounds fatigued, not frustrated or disappointed. he runs a hand through his hair, and you can’t help but follow the movement, the soft silky strands and the way he smooths them over. practiced, familiar, absentminded. you could watch him do it forever.

”i had a lot of time to think while you were gone,” he begins, recalling the mental gymnastics he went through while you were away. just sitting on the couch and running himself ragged, trying to be impartial, trying to see your point of view without letting his own bias get in the way.

you sink a little further into the chair, eyes downcast. inhaling the scent of peppermint, trying to prepare yourself for what he might say, the ways this could all go wrong.

”and i realized that you were right.”

…

you blink. once, then twice.

hesitantly, you raise your head, searching for suguru’s gaze. he isn’t looking at you, staring out at the rainfall through the window as if in deep thought. his gaze shifts to meet yours, and something soft flickers through his golden eyes.

he looks troubled, though. trying to find the right words, mind clouded by guilt. chewing at his bottom lip anxiously.

it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, to weigh the words in his mind, just to make sure he gets them across as smoothly as possible. he’s had more than enough time to verbalize his feelings, to think about what he wants to say to you. it was all he could do while he waited.

so his voice is earnest, when he continues, sincerely apologetic and thought out.

”i’m always telling you not to overwork yourself. and here i am, doing the same thing…” another sigh. ”you were just worried. i shouldn’t have lashed out — you didn’t deserve that.”

suguru searches for your gaze, and manages to find it. you falter a little under the weight of his eyes, but they’re warm, remorseful. a setting sun.

”i’m sorry.”

a moment of silence passes. then two. three, five. you look down at your cup, the purple hyacinths etched into the porcelain. crumbling under his gaze, at the sound of his genuine apology.

and suddenly, you feel silly — silly for being so scared, for thinking suguru might still be angry with you. for thinking he wouldn’t spend as much time as needed to properly think about your words, your feelings, even if he might not have been ready to do so when he first heard them.

suguru can be stubborn, if he’s convinced that he’s in the right. but he always, always seeks you out eventually, always makes sure to genuinely look at things from your perspective.

and, really, it means everything. it means enough to wash away all your leftover irritation, from having him brush you off when you know you didn’t do anything wrong. all the leftover sadness from being pushed away, from not being allowed to take care of him the way he always does for you.

suguru isn’t perfect, but he tries harder than anyone you know. tries his very best to be as close to perfect as he can possibly get — for you, for the both of you. he’s considerate enough, mature enough to take the time he needs to properly communicate. that’s how much he loves you.

and yes, doing so makes you a little uncomfortable. but when faced with something like that, someone so kind, who loves you like the rain loves the ground — how could you ever bear not to do the same?

”… it’s fine,” you start, softly. ”maybe i overreacted a bit. ’s just —” a gulp. you’re trying your best to verbalize your feelings, the way suguru just did, the way he always does.

and he waits, patiently. for as long as you need. looking at you from across the table softly, already immensely relieved at the lack of tension in the air.

”i don’t like seeing you so tired. i know that your work is important, and i support you, but…” your voice goes quiet, as you trail off, hoping he’ll understand what you mean. ”you know.”

and suguru does. he does understand, he always will. so he hums.

”i know,” he murmurs, softly. ”it wasn’t an overreaction. i just didn’t realize it myself. got too caught up in everything,” a sharp exhale leaves his lips. ”it’s been… a long week. i’m not using that as an excuse, though.”

you listen attentively, eyes softening at his words. you can tell that he means it, that you finally got your message across. all you wanted was for him to take a break, to take care of himself.

to let you take care of him.

suguru continues. he makes it a point to look into your eyes as he speaks — a little intimidating, especially in a situation like this — but you know it reassures him, that it lets him know you really understand what he’s trying to say.

so you hold his gaze, as steady as you can, glancing down at his collarbone when it becomes just a little too much.

”i’m grateful that i have you,” he says, voice dripping with softness, gazing at you with a fondness that has you crumbling all over again. ”and that you care enough to set me straight when i need it.”

and suguru means it. he means it more than anything else. not once has he ever stopped appreciating you, all the things you do for him; always so sweet and caring, even when it’s subtle. this was no exception. you’re always worried, always looking out for him. he feels awful for getting so defensive. for pushing you away, when you were trying so earnestly to reach him.

but he’ll make up for all of that, starting now.

”i mean it. i appreciate you so much, you have no idea — i’m so sorry if i made you think otherwise.” for a moment, his eyes look a little glassy, swimming in remorse. ”i really, really am.”

(and when he looks at you like that, when he speaks so very gently —

how could you ever bear not to forgive him?)

you shift in your seat again. gazing down, chewing at your bottom lip. his honesty makes you falter, makes it hard for you not to do the same; even if your voice ends up sounding awfully tiny and awfully close to breaking apart.

”… i was just worried,” you mumble, meekly, shooing away any tears you have left with rapid blinks.

”i know,” suguru soothes. the smile on his face is genuine, comforting, honey and peppermint and warmth. ”i was being immature. you were right — i’ve been burning myself out.”

you don’t say anything. only letting his words console you, feeling yourself relax at the sound of him opening up a little. just enough to make everything all better again.

”i was thinking of taking tomorrow off,” he continues, searching for your timid gaze and smiling gently once he finds it. ”what do you say?”

you brighten a little, so obvious in the way you sit up straighter, the way something soft and hopeful blossoms in the scope of your iris. the sight coaxes suguru’s patient smile into widening a smidge, his eyes crinkling at your barely contained excitement.

”that’d be nice…” you murmur, averting your gaze once more. but suguru can tell you like the sound of that, that it’s exactly what would finally put your anxious mind at ease.

a smile, bright and fond. suguru opens his arms.

”then i will.”

for a moment, you simply stare. at him, his outstretched limbs — that soft smile, as he waits for you to get the hint. and you blink.

oh.

you look down at your lap. a little sheepish, almost shy. it takes you another moment to raise your head, again, only to see another gentle flicker in suguru’s eyes — and then you finally get up from your seat.

it feels a little strange. a little awkward, as if some of your bones still can’t help but tread on eggshells, afraid of making him upset again. but it’s suguru, and he loves you, and his arms are waiting patiently to hold you.

and you want that more than anything.

so you fall into his arms, softly, curling up in his lap and wrapping your arms around his waist. suguru has one hand on the back of your head and the other on the small of your back, rubbing comforting circles into your spine to make you relax.

it works wonders. despite your initial hesitance, you melt into the embrace without putting up a fuss — happy to be in his arms again, to feel the anxiety dissipate when you realize that everything’s finally alright.

and suguru is just as happy, just as content. breathing out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding. he strokes your hair lovingly, and you nuzzle into him a little more; making his lips quirk up, eyes filling with adoration. finally, he can relax. having you in his arms feels so soothing. and you’re so sweet, curling into him, seeking comfort and warmth that he’s more than happy to provide.

how long has it been since he had a chance to hold you like this? he made sure to be affectionate whenever he could, before leaving for work and after coming back — but in the midst of all the paperwork and stress…

suguru sighs, a little sadder this time, watching you bask in the attention he had been robbing you of this whole time. without even realizing it.

”and i’m sorry for neglecting you, too,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. muffled by your hair as he presses a kiss against the crown of your head.

that certainly gets your attention.

”neglecting me?” you sputter, eyes suddenly wide open and lips parted in disbelief. flustered, heat rushing to your neck and ears. ”wha — what am i, some high-maintenance puppy? you didn’t neglect me.”

suguru only chuckles, biting back a soft coo that he knows would only fluster you more. instead, he pulls away a little, just to look at you, and pecks your forehead softly.

”well, i’m sorry for not being around much, then. i’ll make it up to you. okay?”

hiding away in his collarbone, again, you mutter a soft okay that has suguru’s heart squeezing in his chest. he cradles you close, engulfs you in his embrace, and hopes you can feel his love through the action. hopes you can feel it in the way his arms fit around you like they were always meant to be right there.

and you do feel his love. feel it smooth away the leftover turmoil in your brain, caress your skin softly. it’s soothing, and comforting, and you feel so incredibly safe. here, in suguru’s embrace, with the sound of rain hitting the window and the scent of peppermint wafting through the kitchen — it’d be impossible not to relax.

before you know it, your eyelids have fluttered shut, breathing softening out and heartbeat slowing down. a peaceful rhythm, carrying you away. suguru notices it before you do.

”you sleeping, baby?”

you jolt a little in his arms — murmuring something unintelligible into his neck, and he only chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest like a soothing thunderstorm.

”c’mon. let’s get you to bed, hm?”

suguru smooths a hand down your back, arms tightening around you before he scoops you up and gets up from his seat. ”there we go,” he hums, helping you hike your legs around his waist. ”you can sleep, angel. i’ve got you.”

your arms tighten around him, and you inhale his scent; grounding and comforting, raindrops and roses. tomorrow you can bask in it properly, can take care of him properly. you’ll coddle him all day.

but for now, you need to get some rest.

allowing your senses to dull away, clinging to suguru like a makeshift pillow, you absently listen to the storm still raging on outside. faraway, cold and harsh, but comforting when you’re in his steady grasp.

a yawn escapes your honey-soothed throat.

you don’t miss the i love you murmured into your ear, accompanying you into dreamland as your eyes flutter shut.

#This was so good

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