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'You’re all I ever wanted Satoru.'
'I Am?'
Satoru Gojo tenses, his other ear now leaning against Getou's abdomen, pulled taut, so is Getou's breath. His fingers are nimble, care pouring like a waterfall, caresses his hair, longer strokes, nails scratching his scalp, just how Gojo likes it.
Gojo perceives too little of himself, simultaneously thinking an enormous amount. He, by himself, minus limitless, minus six eyes, is more. He is more than his power, more than his uses. He needs to see this. Getou needs him to see this.
'You are.' he gazes at the sealing, its within reach. 'You’re always here for me.'
'No one else?' Gojo asks, eyelashes pulled up to gaze at him, constellation pretty and complicated, shining and puzzled, pleading or questioning. Eager, Getou settles on. Gojo's throat clamped on oxygen, resilient and willed, awaiting.
Getou meets his eyes, thoughts flurried, catastrophic, is it his constellation?
'What I want is here.' he breaths, deep, like the mould plaguing his lungs, cancerous, are his thoughts killing him? 'What's mine is here.'
'Are you implying i'm yours, Suguru?' His smile contrasts the tone of his questions. Is it ignorance or innocence?
Getou looks down, the corner of his lips curve, his fingers still caress his scalp, his heart is smooth and mellow, his hurricane has stopped. Everyone knows Satoru is his, Satoru included.
'You know what I mean.' Getou says. Soft in the way he gets for Gojo, low in how sleep lurks in the shadows.
Gojo takes a second to answer, and within that Getou's heartbeat accelerates. 'I don't.' he finally says.
Getou hadn't even realised, but his chest had pulled firm, it is unclasped now. 'You do.'
'I don't.' Gojo insists.
'Yes you do, Satoru.' Getou says.
'I wanna hear you say it.'
Getou quirks a brow, glancing down, Gojo now with a palm laid flat on his chest. He could probably feel his heartbeat, rapid, alarming. His gaze shifting, swallowing Gojo's face, by no means innocent, but still loving, enduring all this pain and suffering but still love.
Getou adores him, his mannerisms are so aesthetic, attached to only Satoru Gojo himself. It's him, only him. His heart distends with awe, regarding his constellation, he is glued to him, at the hips, with his heart, with his lips.
Getou pulls Gojo up, so his face is inches from him, breathing in tandem, the comfort of his skin radiates like sun beams, the type associated with beach days and sunburns. It warms Getou up, unfortunately, not sinking to his bones, but his skin, soaked and still. His skin still sheds.
'You're mine Satoru, always.'
And the heat radiating from his smile must be that of a supernova, although maybe his skin continues to burn, but the love overwhelms. He proclaims his love, his possessiveness, and even then his collarbones turn yellow. And then Getou's lips are pliant and pink all over Gojo's face, peppering him with kisses so enduring, hopefully warm, full of love.
Gojo can't help but laugh, a sound so accepted, yearned for, loved. Lips split in two, pretty, radiating, enduring. His cheeks set a dusty pink, Gojo's calloused fingers cherishing Getou, his skin held, smooth, but tinged with blue.
Getou pulls from his attack, hands attached to Gojo's cheeks, cupping them as if his hands were made for the specific vocation. Thumbing at his jaw, Gojo isn't one to drop the eyes contact. Getou isn't one to drop so easily.
So they meet, blissed in their irises, hazed and lust and so much fucking more. It's pliant, intense, everything the two can bring to the alter, and isn't that limitless?
It's magnificent, how Satoru melts at his palms, like Getou's fingers are blazing and pricking while Satoru is ice, melting, smooth, willing.
And through this, this light, soft and inviting, willing to him, controlled at his fingertips, a question tilts like a seesaw on the tip of his tongue, rough and uncalled for, unusual, that his thoughts swim towards this, his throat doesn't hold back the tide.
'Satoru.' Getou says, voice edged, more rough than habitual, not so receptive and loving, more tense now, the type of tone before an unsolicited question is asked. But Gojo tilts his head. His concern isn't hidden, but it isn't scared, tilted, doubting. And of course curiosity always had claws on his tongue, but the nails are blunt, they aren't scraping blood.
'Will you always remember me?'
And the weight is still salivated on his tongue, still savoury and saccharine, unusual. Getou's fingers are still running through his hair, long strokes. The bed is still in their dorm, the wind still howls through the curtains, Gojo is still here, Getou is still sane. Somewhat.
'Huh?' It's soft, it isn't doubting him, isn't appointing and accusing. A hum, from the back of his throat, but he's still staring, more intently, more scrutinising. As if he can hear Suguru's bones chatter, and can smell them turning blue.
Suguru sighs, deeply. 'Like if hell freezes over,' he contemplates, releasing his grip on Satoru's face. Satoru's slips his hand into his. 'if you finally dropped your ego, a once in a life time thing.' he chuckled to himself, 'would you still remember me?'
Satoru drops his eyes in thought, eyebrows drew tight, fumbling with Getou's fingers. 'I'd always.' he says, and Suguru's fingers turn pink, his body feels elevated, like lights have flooded his system. They have, the stars, the constellation, flooding, blinding loving. 'Your my blessing.'
Further on, Satoru would rename Suguru as his curse, or supposedly their love is the curse. Everyone knows Satoru is lying, and both of them have been cursed since the womb, after all, three crows continually circled above them.
Satoru's memories are full of spite, burning, scalding and bitterness, bubbling through surfaces, one, two, five, eradicating. Could he forget? To forget, shouldn't he burn those letters? Handwriting clean, cursive, contemplated. He saved them, all of them, each minuscule and stupid one, the ones that proclaim his love, his attention, his thoughts.
Responses to Satoru's letters aswell, so some lack context. Nevertheless they charm him, glitter and charming and dead. He's dead, and lying and betraying and deceitful, and crying and helpless and Satoru's lover and dead.
He's burning them, scanning the contents, his name is mentioned many times, contents of his days, his thoughts. And there's variety too. Even ones after he dropped their connection and ran off to slaughter his family. Ones when Suguru was sent on missions long and wrenching.
Everyone wonders, questions, scrutinises and Satoru walks past. It's never one or the other, always both or none. And now it is always one, always and forever. Didn't Getou say those exact words? Always and forever he promised, promised him to remember him always. Always he'd said. Remember me he begged. Fuck off.
Said it like a taunt, low in his throat. And Satoru is so naive, so stupid and lacking common sense, and trusting and gullible and dupable. And god he's so fucking stupid, and he fucking misses him, and this isn't the place to cry.
Satoru is in his house, isn't this the exact place to cry? He isn't comfortable anywhere. Not without him here. It's pathetic, pitiful, tragic fucking sad and stupid and fuck, he's dead.
Love, might just be the greatest curse of all. Love. Ha. Fuck love.