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Suguru has nine shots in him. At least three are vodka, two bourbon, a mystery shot, a couple Xanax, one prescribed and the other swindled from Shoko, and a .38 he’s had in his shoulder since last July, all marinating in a heavy mix of booze. On a night like this, he was feeling all of them.
It's loud and bright and dark and flashing, Shoko loves it, she’ll never admit it, he doesn’t know where she is. Satoru probably hates it, will shout so in his face when he finds him. Nanami didn’t come. Suguru doesn’t care.
He’s twenty-seven, alive, hammered, and can barely see. Unable to even remember how he found this club, he dances on the first Friday of February.
An ache builds in his temples, he’s been hot for too long, dry mouth a contradiction to the sweaty guy that just shoved him by accident, like the hot elbow that met his shoulder. He should get a drink, he should check on Shoko and make sure Satoru hasn’t been arrested.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, purposefully squeezing, and sure, he’s hot, he knows, he’d probably have been skewered or beaten to death if he didn’t have muscle. The guy's fingers are tugging his hair out of his panting mouth, so Suguru doesn’t waste time pulling him in by the hips.
The lights are blaring and the music is beating, the rhythm ricochets off the walls and through his eyes. This is nice, being able to have small fragments of someone. As a sorcerer, forever isn’t a truth he owns; it’s not something he can promise. So he doesn’t, he stands in a crowded sweat-heavy dance floor and slaps his parted lips against a face he can’t see, a name he doesn’t know.
It’s bad. He hates the way this guy is kissing him. Like he’s expecting Suguru to do all the work or something, only taking, never giving. He’s over it in mere seconds, so he pulls away, moving to smack the hands holding him.
Then the stranger pulls, the hand planted on his collar leaves a tingling mark where it tracks to his nape. Okay, this is better. This pull and push, he likes this, the fervour. His breath doesn’t burn Suguru with traces of harsh beer or whiskey. Sweet soju, he can’t figure out which flavour. He feels a little self-conscious of his own flavour, he’d swallowed a curse this morning. Sometimes it's hard to tell when the taste is gone. This guy either can’t taste or doesn’t care. Though Suguru doubts it’s the former if he’s drinking something like melon soju. Maybe it’s strawberry. He tastes a little deeper.
He grips hips, licks lips, it’s good. Really good. He feels a little bad when he lets go. Maybe this was the fling he’s been looking for, it’d probably be a brilliant way to end his birthday, but he doesn’t have anything he’d need to practice safe sex in the bathroom or even a neighbouring hotel. There’s also something about the way he’s holding Suguru’s face that puts him off. The tenderness, the care, he’s too gentle. Like after Suguru fucks him or after he fucks Suguru, he’ll want to know his name, make him coffee, learn everything from what his favourite colour is to how he spent his eighteenth birthday.
So he parts, panting, revelling, muttering, sorry, I have to find my friend.
Satoru stands in the crowd, shellshocked.
Suguru doesn’t remember how, but he wakes up at home. Fuck, when did he start getting hangovers? It’s not bad, not as bad as it should be, nothing a cold shower and a fuck ton of caffeine and ibuprofen won’t solve.
So he does that first part, a shower, colder than early February air. In the dark, because he doesn’t want to experience the sunrise just yet. He swipes the first set of sweats he can find and searches for his kitchen, bleary-eyed.
“Mornin’ sunshine.”
He almost fucking pisses himself.
“Satoru. Why- what?”
“Hey.” He’s eating cereal. The sugary shit Satoru makes him keep in his cupboards, claiming a barstool at his island.
“When did you even get here?” Suguru rubs the sleep from his eyes, getting a good look at him, boxers and a shirt that doesn’t belong to him.
“I slept here.” He takes another bite, Suguru spots his jacket and shoes splayed by the couch instead of the door, like he owns the place. “Wanted to make sure the birthday boy wasn’t incapacitated after his escapades.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He flicks his kettle on, going straight for the instant coffee instead of the fancier shit. He groans, “I’m supposed to be training with Maki in, like, three hours.”
“Nope, I already called her, said she can kick your ass twice on Tuesday.”
“Satoru.. don’t go fucking with my schedule.” His hands run through his damp hair, “Thanks.”
“So,” he chews another mouthful, “do you always kiss people at clubs, or was that a one-off?”
He has a brief revelation and quickly looks down and his bare chest, finding no traces of bites or bruises or anything else. Cool. Not that it would be the first time. Or the last.
“Uh.. sometimes.” Suguru rubs his temple, “Don’t act like you don’t, it doesn’t really matter anyway. Forget it.” He puts an unnecessary number of spoonfuls in his cup, and Satoru’s spoon stops clanging against ceramic. He turns, coffee in hand. Satoru stares at him, spoon dripping milk halfway to his mouth. His lips pulled in a tight line, deep blue holding some kind of dark disbelief.
“Forget it?”
“Yeah?” He sips, “What, did you know him or something?”
“Did I know him—” Satoru puts the spoon down, “Did I know the guy who shoved his tongue down your throat?”
“Don’t say it like that, it wasn’t dirty like that.” Suguru doesn’t even know why he bothers defending long-gone John Doe. “So, did you?”
“Yeah. I knew him.” Satoru breaks eye contact.
“Oh.” Suguru stares at his cup. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jealous.”
Okay, maybe that was probably definitely the wrong tone, but Suguru’s hungover and hazy, so really, Satoru should be more, like, understanding or something.
He’s not. It’s Satoru. So he mumbles something incoherent and swipes his shoes up as he launches himself over the balcony.
Suguru ate the rest of his cereal.
On Tuesday, Maki kicks his ass.
“Stop going easy on me!”
“Maki, if I hit you with this thing, you’re going to get seriously hurt.” Suguru swings Playful Cloud over his shoulder again, he hates it when she gets him to use proper weapons.
“You’re training me to fight serious battles.”
She has a point, and she’s flawless against the bamboo nunchucks. He sighs.
“Okay, but if you can’t keep-”
“Keep up, yeah, yeah, fight me properly, old man.”
“I’m only twenty-seven.” He chastises.
“Prove it.”
So he does, he doesn’t relent too much, and maybe his swings are designed to match her pace, but eventually they’ll speed up in tandem. Her flexibility had come a long way since last year, she’s clearly been putting in the work over the winter break.
He wins until the fourth round, she gets a good hit on his side, and maybe he’s still nauseous from another curse, so he hesitates, and suddenly, Playful Cloud isn’t in his hands anymore.
“Oh, shit.”
“Bow down, Sensei.”
He laughs, but he does, letting her give his head a light chop.
“You’re a lot better already.” He gives her shoulder a light pat as she hands his weapon back, “You have been taking enough breaks, though?”
“Yeah, sure. Yaga’s old, can’t give a hundred if you only have thirty speech.” But she smiles and takes the water he offers.
It’s only then that he spots Satoru watching from the path above the field. He waves, Satoru teleports away.
“Woah, are you getting divorced?” Maki teases.
“I guess, I didn’t think he was this mad.” Suguru sits down beside her, “We’re supposed to be picking up another first year next week.” He changes the subject quickly, “Another girl, I heard she’s a real lively one.”
“Finally, this place reeks of testosterone.”
“C’mon, the twins are around all the time, next year you’re gonna have plenty of juniors to kick the shit out of.”
“Encouraging me to beat up your daughters?”
“You encouraged me to beat you up.” He counters.
“Touché.”
And so, last week happened, Satoru threatened the Uppies again, and now Ryomen Sukuna’s vessel his one of his Students.
Yuji Itadori is a fascinating boy. Controlling a curse like that, smiling like that. He reminds him of his past self. Before everything, of course.
It’s a bit nostalgic. He still holds some kind of grief for that kid, the one he very nearly killed, along with every other one in that village.
It was Shoko who’d shown up. With that careful nonchalance, she’d offered him a cigarette, then watched as he kicked the shit out of the village chiefs. Satoru was anxiously waiting my the car they’d commandeered. It was okay. It was never easy, but it was okay.
It’s still hard sometimes, like right now. This morning, he’d exorcised three curses; he didn’t absorb them, he doesn’t have to, he knows that now. It still makes him feel a little weak.
So he hunts for Satoru. First, the room in the teacher's dorms he uses, then the courtyard, his office, Yaga’s office, his own office, the infirmary, both common rooms, the library. Nothing. He has to be on campus. He’s just avoiding him. So he returns to Satoru’s office and lets his cursed energy go.
He’s tired, his incessant searching left him frustrated, maybe he’s just hungry, but mostly, he feels disgust. It hurts, he lets it hurt, curling in on himself a little as it stings, as it burns.
“Suguru.”
He thanks the power of the Six Eyes, gripping onto Satoru when he pulls himself up. Because even when Satoru’s mad at him for a reason he can’t fathom, he’ll still show up when he needs it.
“Suguru, hey.” There’s a hand in his hair, brushing it out of the high collar of his uniform. “What’s wrong?” He coos.
Suguru lethargically pulls the zipper of Satoru’s jacket so he can shove his face into his collar. Breathing in the safe smell of Satoru.
“Tired.” He already knows that word won’t go over well, so he doesn’t fight it as he’s pulled down onto the couch.
“Talk to me.” It’s soft.
“Why don’t you talk to me?” He’s not even mad at Satoru, he doesn’t have any real reason to snap, so he apologises and sinks into his side. “It’s just a bad day, I’ll be better by tomorrow.”
“Promise?” Because they don’t lie about these things anymore.
“Yeah.” Suguru rubs his head into Satoru’s shoulder, grabbing his hand. “I just don’t want to be alone right now.”
“Okay.” So Satoru wraps his arm around his shoulders, and leans his head on Suguru’s. That night they go back to Suguru’s and watch an awful movie with the girls, even if Satoru insists it’s not. Mimiko boisterously agrees with Suguru, while Nanako just shrugs the debate off and leans farther into Satoru from where she’s curled, then they all fall asleep on the couch together.
It’s all horribly domestic until the next morning. Suguru’s fingers pet through Satoru’s hair as he wakes, Satoru checks on him, then goes back to being mad.
“Shoko~”
“No.”
Suguru hangs onto the morgue door while she dissects a.. thing.
“Is that a curse?”
“No, I don’t know what they are. Nanami found them.”
“Well, you can multitask.”
“Not really.”
“Just once?”
“You do this all the time.” She chastises through her mask, not bothering to meet his eyes.
“Then you should be used to it by now.”
Shoko finally glares at him, which means he’s won.
“Put a mask on, don’t touch anything.”
He does, claiming a spot on the wall, watching her rummage around inside a couple of carcasses.
“What’s up Satoru’s ass?”
“Not you, apparently.” She answers immediately.
“Huh?” ..the implications, they’re sending Suguru’s mind to places it absolutely fucking shouldn’t.
“You heard me. If that’s it, get out.”
He should probably definitely absolutely stop thinking about bending his best friend over his desk, making him grip the edge as he..
“No, look. I kissed some guy on my birthday, and he seems to be upset-”
Satoru’s tall, all legs, what he’d give to watch them shake propped up in his bed, or Satoru’s bed, or even on his desk, running the thick muscle of his thighs under his hands. Pressing them forward, making his back arch, knees shake, as he holds him down, makes the strongest sorcerer beg for..
“Some guy?” She looks at him, she sounds like she’s about to laugh.
Some guy he really doesn’t care about, how could he when Satoru is, like, right fucking there. All sweet and soft and unfairly delicious.
“..yeah? Do you know him too?”
“Uh huh, his boyfriend’s a dumbass.” She chuckles to herself. “Don’t think about it too hard.” She suddenly places her scalpel back on the cart, ripping a glove off.
His boyfriend. Brows draw together. What does that have to do with Satoru? Satoru’s his, even if he’s really not, no one else is supposed to have him. Not in, like, a romantic, feelings kind of way.
“Sa-”
“Okay, you have to go now, I actually have to work.” She’s pulling her phone out, “These things are human.”
Between the horrific implications of that and the mess before him on the gurneys, Satoru’s ridiculous behaviour is lost on him.
His boyfriend’s a dumbass.
Suguru thought about that very hard. Satoru has a secret boyfriend—which is a fact he is definitely going to do some hardcore brooding about later—and Suguru accidentally kissed him without knowing by complete coincidence.
That has to be it.
Shoko straight up told him, not you, apparently.
Satoru has someone else to do all those things that Suguru wants to happen to him. That he wants Satoru to do to him.
And Shoko knew and he didn’t?
“Satoru!” He catches him in the courtyard. “I’m sorry.” He starts, jogging up to meet his friend where he waits, “I didn’t know, you could’ve just told me, jeez.” He’s honestly a little hurt.
“Told you?”
“The guy I kissed.” He huffs, swinging a hand onto Satoru’s shoulder as they walk. “On my birthday.”
He pauses, Suguru almost trips.
“You.. remember?”
“Uh.. yeah,” he didn’t forget anything.
“And you don’t regret it?” The corners of his mouth twitch. Suguru sort of wants to rub the dimple under his thumb. Something sour churns in him when he realises he probably shouldn’t do things like that anymore, not to someone taken.
“Satoru, I just said I was sorry. If I’d have known, I’d never have done it.” Is Satoru really accusing him of hurting him.. and enjoying it?
Okay. He did enjoy it. He really did actually, but he absolutely fucking would not have enjoyed a single second if he knew what every gyration of his jaw was doing to Satoru.
Satoru stares. Blankly stares, void of any implication that his apology has gotten through.
“I’m sorry, I just really don’t want to lose what we have.” Even if it’s not the relationship he wants. Suguru pulls on his shoulder, the other arm coming to wrap around his side. He’s met with Infinity.
He stands in the courtyard, Satoru in front of him, untouchable, impermeable, gridlocked.
“Toru?”
“Piss off, Suguru.” He doesn’t teleport. He makes Suguru watch him walk away.
Okay. This is actually ridiculous.
He fucking apologised for something he did while he was borderline blackout.
This feels entirely unfair.
He does abso-McFucken-lutely not deserve to be in the eye of this fuckalicious shitstorm.
On his way to slam Satoru’s office door open, he runs into Megumi, pacing pissily, anxiously at the door.
“Megumi. What’d he do to you?” There’s a bit too much bite in his tone.
“Hey.” He stops his pacing, and they share mutual anger in silence for a long moment. “Lied about Itadori. Not dead, by the way. You?”
Technically, Suguru knew that too, but he’s not about to hand Satoru any empathy right now.
“Long story, stay away from vodka, Megumi.” He pats a hand on his head and kicks Satoru’s door open, “Scream away, my child. You’re free of all repercussions.”
It may be slight abuse of his authority, but the distant yelling as he walks away is enough to sate his bloodlust for now.
Later, it’s Megumi he consoles, letting Satoru pout into a mirror for attention for all he cares.
It’s been a month. A month of pissy avoidance and cold shoulders. He’s back in the morgue.
“I don’t understand, I apologised to him!” Suguru’s taken accommodation on one of the gurneys, which might be a little morbid, but Shoko isn’t dissecting anything today. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t look like she wants to chop him to pieces.
“Has it occurred to you that he didn’t want you to apologise?”
“Why the fuck would he want that?”
Shoko stares at him, genuine disbelief plastered in her tired eyes, “Is that a real question?”
“Yes!?” What? What the- what even the actual shit!?
“Suguru. I mean this with all the love in the world. You are a fucking moron.”
“How is this in any way my fault? I did nearly everything right.” Except kiss someone borderline blackout.
“Motherfuckface, Suguru.” Shoko almost breaks a beaker. “Get out of my morgue.”
He does. He struts down the hallway in an undefined direction. Semi-undefined. He already knows who his feet are dragging him to.
He doesn’t knock, he slaps Satoru’s door into the wall, then slams it shut with his foot on the rebound.
“Satoru.”
He doesn’t let the other man get a single syllable out before he’s kicking the rolling chair away from his desk, slapping his hand down on his shoulders, the contact is reassuring.
“I’m not leaving here until you talk about your stupid feelings.” Suguru grips his jacket and yanks him eye level, crowding him against the edge of the desk.
Satoru doesn’t say anything, so Suguru pulls the blindfold down, crosses his arms and waits with a creased brow.
“Why are you doing this to me?” His face doesn’t give away anything, but the sad shake at the end causes something in Suguru to clench with guilt.
“Because I’m sorry! I don’t understand, Satoru. Sometimes I kiss people, most of the time I do it drunk. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Frustration starts building up in his throat, searing hot, “I just really love you.”
It’s not a new confession. It’s almost relieving that he can say it out loud and Satoru won’t think twice about the true implication of the dire words.
He feels pathetic tears start to build in his eyes, he gnaws his lip and pulls away from saccharine blue to prevent them from falling.
A hand meets his shoulder, purposefully squeezing, the other brushing his hair out of his face, tilting his jaw up. Suddenly, he feels far too close to Satoru, not nearly close enough.
“You love me?”
“Obviously, I always come back to you.” If Satoru hadn’t foreseen that day, if he hadn’t shown up with Shoko, hadn’t made him study with Yuki, who knows where he’d be, what he’d be doing, who he’d be killing. He only exists because of Satoru.
“How much do you love me?” Deep blue sears hot and cold equally. Suguru resists the urge to squirm away from it.
“I’d do anything for you.”
“Even if it’s selfish?” Satoru’s eyes flick down, up, stuttering between choosing which one of Suguru’s they want to meet. A minuscule, simple motion, barely anything at all, yet it’s doing things to Suguru.
“You’re always selfish.” He breathes. He can’t speak any louder.
“Not like this, Sugu.” His grip drives Suguru forward, eyes closing, mouths opening. He kisses Suguru with fervour, like the first time, a familiar rhythm that Suguru didn’t know he’d already learned.
Hot and short, Satoru pulls back, Suguru almost chases him, their lips peel off each other’s warmth, the subtle sound of it sends sparks flying through him.
“Oh.” Whispered into the gap between them, “Oh fuck, oh, it was you.”
“It was me.”
Suguru can’t tell if the way Satoru has his lips in a vice is to hide a smile or a sob.
“Oh, I was an asshole.” He cringes. He was really an asshole, huh? Oh, he deserved every second of that cold shoulder. “Satoru, I-“
“Stop talking, you’re really bad at it.”
“Shut up.” He grips Satoru’s jaw and kisses him again.
It’s like Satoru is trying to breathe him in while he kisses, an arm tucked under Suguru’s, curling over his shoulder to hold his nape, rubbing maddening circles into the tenderness behind his ear, the other rolling over his lumbar curve, tracing his spine through the uniform.
Suguru buried his hand in his hair, rubbing at his undercut, fingers pressing at the sensitive tendons beneath in a way that makes Satoru shudder. Braced against the desk, Suguru tugs his lip with his teeth, earning a simple, devastating, shaky sigh.
He pauses to take in the sight of Satoru, flushed and almost panting, he lolls his head under Suguru’s fingers, and fuck if it isn’t hot.
“I love you.” Suguru whispers into soft pink cheeks, “This is how much I love you.”
Hands running, sprinting even, to Satoru’s hips, he rubs over the shape, tracing up through his jacket. Satoru pushes him back, unzipping the offending fabric at a speed he didn’t know was possible, tossing it in an undefined direction. Suguru copies him.
“I really am a dumbass.” A chaste kiss on Satoru’s jaw interrupts Suguru’s words, “I’ve loved you like this since I was seventeen.”
“That’s pretty pathetic, Suguru.” The soft words spoken directly into his temple.
“Yeah.. How old were you?” He drags himself back to look at Satoru while he traces under his shirt.
“Sixteen.” A small shaky confession.
Suguru bites down on his tongue in a futile attempt to hide his smile. He pulls again, their mouth meet open this time, rhythmically flowing against each other, it’s almost a contest. Of course, they have to kiss the same way they fight.
Suguru lets the tides in Satoru’s body pull him in, carrying him away with the current as Satoru guides his hips around, swapping where they stand. Suguru slides onto the desktop easily, letting Satoru pull them flush with a grip under his knees.
Sure, in most of his fantasies; this has been the other way around, Suguru doesn’t care. This is Satoru. Satoru’s not going to fuck him and leave. He won’t even kiss and leave.
His hands greedily explore Satoru’s chest, tugging the shirt up in their wake, running through every dip of muscle, squeezing at the generous flesh of his pecs. One hand hooks behind his neck, the other leaves skin to tilt Satoru’s jaw where he wants it. Even when Satoru’s the one pressing Suguru’s hips into wood, he complies so easily, drinking in everything Suguru will offer.
The slick sound of lips burns in his core, he pulls back. Satoru whines at him. With a smirk complementing dark eyes, Suguru licks the trail of spit and dives into the current again, tugging against, pushing, sucking. Satoru licks into it with desperate obscenity. He drags the reverent muscle through his teeth, deep sounds escaping his throat when Satoru wraps his hand around Suguru’s knee, gently manhandling him into a nicer position.
Suguru breaks, loathing the way he can’t simply live off Satoru, that he still needs to breathe pathetic air. He pants, placing chaste kisses over the tensing muscles of Satoru’s neck.
“What do you want from this, Satoru?”
He really should have asked that before he ended up flushed with bruising lips. Suguru meets his eyes again. They look unexpectedly sad.
“I want whatever you-”
“No, don’t do that.” Suguru’s fingers gently trace the shallow age lines under Satoru’s eyes. “You’re always living for other people.”
He doesn’t answer, but deep blue flicks away, lower.
“You’re never selfish when it matters, Satoru.” Suguru dips his head down, forcing Satoru to lock eyes with him again, “What do you want?”
“Everything.” Wide hands sliding up his sides, up his shirt, turning, rubbing slow circles into his back and on his stomach. “And I want it tomorrow too.”
“Tomorrow.” He echoes, eyes trained on the way Satoru leans into his hands, “and after?”
“Yeah,” Satoru knocks his forehead against Suguru’s, “Please, yes.”
“I can give you that,” he pulls him in again, “I’d be so lucky to give you that.”
Neither of them owns forever, so they promised tomorrow in their vows.