Work Text:
the studio smells like wet earth and fire.
it clings to him, seeps into the fabric of his sleeves, curls beneath his fingernails in fine, gray crescents. everything in here is half - formed, half - dried. shelves of bowls that will never be perfect. spines of cracked vases turned to face the wall. slumped cups too soft around the lip to be used, but still — suguru can’t throw them out.
he understands them too well.
the light is slow this time of year. thin through the high windows, the color of cold milk. suguru moves through it like a shadow — sweeping the floor, wiping tools clean, lining up the sculpting wires like ribs in a chest. methodical. soft. he doesn’t play music while he works anymore. not since the breakup. the silence stays quieter that way. doesn’t ask questions.
he’s been alone for six months, but it still feels like yesterday. like a room in his body someone else still lives in. he doesn’t speak of it. not to shoko, not to the students. not even to the clay. but it’s there in the things suguru doesn’t say.
it's there in the way he doesn’t linger near the windows anymore, just in case someone sees him from the street. he used to love the light — used to let it hit him full in the face, arms dusted with clay, sun caught in his hair like he was part of the still life. he used to have a small studio, in the apartment he shared with his ex. now he works in the back corner, behind the glaze shelf, the curtains half - drawn. the art didn’t change, but the way he moves through it did. quiet. invisible. hard to find unless he wants to be found.
his phone is always on silent, shoved deep into a drawer, his backpack, his pocket. not just muted — buried. when it rings, he flinches. when it buzzes, he doesn’t check. he tells people he forgets it all the time. he doesn’t. he remembers too well what it’s like to answer a call and hear anger on the other end. not shouting — that would’ve been easier. just disappointment. a sharp, cruel sort of quiet. questions asked in a voice that sounded like love if you didn’t listen too closely.
“who were you with?”
“why didn’t you answer sooner?”
“do you think i’m stupid?”
he used to justify it. said it was normal. said people get jealous sometimes.
said, “he’s just protective.” then: “he’s just worried.” then: “he’s just tired.” eventually, he stopped saying anything at all.
it hadn't started this way.
at the beginning, it had been sweet. too sweet. he'd met him as a guest instructor for a free class on modern art suguru had wanted to check out. admiration exchanged, words exchanged — it bloomed into something.
he used to say suguru’s hands were made for something divine.
would watch him work and murmur things like, you’re wasted here, or you could be so much more, if you let me help. and suguru — tired, flattered, aching to be seen — let him. at first. it was easy to believe someone who spoke like that. like he was lucky to witness suguru’s process. like he understood something no one else did.
he’d say, this work deserves better than a room full of hobbyists.
you could have a gallery. your own studio. real clients. real shows.
at first it felt like love.
support. ambition. maybe even admiration.
he'd cleared an entire room for suguru's studio, after all. moved him in. for a little while, everything was perfect. perfect. suguru made art, he was loved, and he thrived.
he can't exactly pinpoint when things started to change — too slowly to notice at first — but eventually, everything...shifted. the picture - perfect life skewed like off - centered clay. everything collapsed in on his hands, and he'd realized that it had been months since he last talked to anyone else.
when suguru hesitated, when he asked to go out, to see his friends, to live — the dam broke.
it had lasted so long, that it almost felt normal.
no one else will ever really get you. not like i do.
at the time, suguru didn’t know how to argue with that.
not when it had once been said with such tenderness.
not when he still wanted so badly to believe he was special — even if the price of that was someone else’s name on every good thing he made.
it took him months to realize that being wanted and being kept were not the same thing.
by the time he noticed how quiet everything had become, it was already too late.
when he left, though, it was raining. took two boxes and a backpack and didn’t look back. suguru had no where to go, and nothing else to his name, so he showed up at the art studio he used to go to. he wasn't expecting yaga - sensei to still be there. divine timing, fate, whatever you call it — he's grateful. it's probably the only reason suguru hadn't gone back, overwhelmed and alone.
sopping wet and incredibly sad looking, yaga had let him in. quiet.
"you've been gone for a while." he said eventually, letting suguru dry off, letting him sit down at a wheel. "where were you?"
"alone." his voice is rough.
yaga hums. "did you like it?" it sounds like he knows the answer.
“turns out i just got good at it,” he murmured back.
he got this job three weeks after.
yaga didn’t ask about references. just watched him throw a pot on the wheel for three weeks in complete silence and said, “you’re hired.” this, too, had saved him. landed him a small apartment, comfortable for one person. a steady income, students who are itching to learn.
there’s no photo evidence of the relationship anymore. he deleted it all.
but memory doesn’t need images to survive.
it lives in his posture. the way he flinches when a voice turns sharp.
the way he clutches his wrists when he’s overwhelmed, like he’s trying to remind himself they’re still his.
the clay doesn’t ask questions.
it only takes what he gives.
and right now, he doesn't have much.
so, even now, he doesn’t stay late. even when the class is running long, even when someone’s almost finished shaping a handle or trimming a base, he locks the studio at 6:30 sharp. tells them it’s a safety rule. tells himself it’s not fear. but he checks the door twice after everyone leaves. sometimes a third time, just in case. he walks home with his keys between his knuckles. not because he expects danger — just because he remembers what it felt like to.
he still takes long routes home. switches sidewalks when cars slow down. never posts anything in real time. just in case.
kindness is the worst of it. he doesn’t know what to do when people are gentle with him. it sits wrong in his chest, too warm, too sudden. praise feels like a setup. compliments feel like bait. he nods when someone says he’s good at something, but he doesn’t believe it. he shrugs when thanked. looks away when someone tells him his work is beautiful. he’s learned not to trust things that feel good too quickly. they always came with conditions.
sometimes, even now, he finds himself folding laundry the way his ex liked it. making tea the way he used to drink it. checking the time like he’s late for something he hasn’t had to attend in over half a year. sometimes he feels like a shadow cast by someone else’s hand.
he is free.
but some days, freedom feels like a foreign language — and he’s not sure he ever learned how to speak it.
the work is simple. that’s really why he took it.
hands in clay. glaze on skin. routine like a metronome — not demanding, just there. steady. the studio opens at ten. the shelves are wiped. the wheel trays emptied. sponges soaked, then wrung out until the water runs clean. he re - centers the same lump of clay three times, just to feel it yield to him. there’s something sacred in that.
he teaches three classes a week and watches over the open studio hours the rest of the time, sometimes making his own work. some days, no one speaks to him beyond a nod at the sign - in sheet. other days, it’s teenagers asking how to make incense burners shaped like frogs or anxious retirees trying to remember how to wedge without ruining their wrists. he never minds. he gives instructions slowly, evenly. doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t praise too much, either — people get embarrassed when you call their work beautiful. but sometimes, when someone gets it just right, he says yes. like that. and means it.
the students mostly like him. or at least they respect him. he’s quiet, but steady. never impatient. doesn’t hover. he doesn’t overcorrect, even when the piece is bad. he lets people make things that are lopsided, uneven, unfinished. he thinks that’s part of it — the point. not everything has to be fixed to be worth something.
shoko signed up for a six - week handbuilding class last winter and never left. she says it’s because she likes smashing the air bubbles out of clay when she’s annoyed, which — given her schedule — is often. she stays late after class sometimes, lingering as she slowly cleans her tools, sitting on the counter and watching suguru refill glaze bottles like it’s entertainment. she rolls her eyes when he won’t eat lunch, nags him about drinking water, and swears his introversion is going to kill him by forty. he doesn’t argue. she’s probably right.
sometimes he thinks she’s the only person in his life who doesn’t ask anything of him. she just shows up. tells him about whatever disaster happened at work, carves rude words into the bottoms of her mugs, and leaves without ceremony. but she always comes back. in a strange way, he trusts her.
he’s come to know his regulars. not by their names, necessarily, but by their pace. the way they center clay, the pressure of their touch. some people throw like they’re trying to prove something. others touch like they’re afraid the clay will push back. some come to talk. some come to be quiet. suguru lets them do both. he walks the room with a sponge in his hand and speaks when spoken to. people soften while they work. they confess things without meaning to. someone once told him about a breakup while burnishing a coil pot, and cried while glazing it a week later. someone else built a teacup with a crack down one side and said it was the first thing they’d finished since their divorce. suguru didn’t say anything, just handed them the kintsugi kit they kept in the back.
he does most of the behind - the - scenes work now — cleaning tools, prepping clay, organizing the glaze shelf by viscosity and not color, like he prefers. he volunteers to mop. doesn’t mind staying late to reset the drying racks. it’s easier to be in motion. easier to be useful. his hands have always known what to do, even when his mind doesn’t.
the truth is, this work isn’t what he dreamed of. he wanted a gallery once. wanted to be seen. wanted to be extraordinary.
now, all he wants is to feel real.
and here — in the clay, in the quiet, in the safety of small things — he almost does.
“i’m telling you, it looked good on tiktok,” shoko says, bracing a lopsided slab of clay with both hands like it’s threatening to fold in on itself. “i swear it had… like, aesthetic curves. it was supposed to be sexy.”
“this is not sexy,” suguru replies, leaning over the table to assess the situation. “this looks like it melted in the car on the way home.”
“you have no vision,” she mutters, reaching for her rib tool. “you’re clayblind.”
“i see the vision,” he says. “the vision is ‘tragically deformed pancake.’”
“it’s a wave plate, for like, rings and stuff,” she insists, trying to smooth a sagging edge. “you’re supposed to just kind of…let it flow. it’s organic.”
“is it also supposed to be concave on one side and jagged like a weapon on the other?”
“yes,” she says immediately. “it’s a dual - purpose piece. for tapas and self - defense.”
suguru huffs a laugh through his nose, then gently presses his thumb to the underside of the clay to keep it from collapsing entirely. “tilt your hand. no, like this — here.” he shifts her grip carefully, his fingers light over hers. “support it while you soften the edge.”
“look at you,” she says, squinting at him. “getting all handsy. scandalous.”
he ignores her. “and if you want it to hold shape in the kiln, you’ll need to let it stiffen under plastic overnight. it’s too wet.”
“okay, clay police. jesus.”
“you asked for help.”
“i asked for artistic support,” she corrects. “you gave me a critique.” she sighs dramatically, then holds the piece up and tilts her head. “…do you think if i glaze it gold, people will think it’s high - concept?”
“if by people you mean the blind, maybe.”
she grins. “perfect. i’ll call it erosion of self under capitalism. or plate but make it trauma.”
suguru doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches — barely.
“you know,” she adds after a moment, turning the slab in her hands, “i know you're joking about the place, and it made me realize this is the only place where no one’s trying to fix me.”
he says nothing, because he wants to say me, too but can't. can't. too much, too big, too real.
gently adjusting the wonky curve of the slab, shoko says, “i think i’m finally understanding why people make useless little trays.”
“decorative,” suguru corrects. he's back to being kind. “not useless.”
“no, this one’s useless,” she says. “you could maybe put, like, one olive on it. a single, dramatic olive, or a ring. and it would still roll off.”
“it’s abstract.”
“it’s sad.”
he doesn’t argue. she’s not wrong.
shoko sits back, frowning at the plate like it betrayed her. then, after a beat, she says, “utahime sent me the video, by the way.”
“the one with the plate?”
“mmhm. captioned it: ‘you make things, right? this is cute, if you're pretending to be deep.’”
suguru lifts an eyebrow. “romantic.”
“she’s so mean,” shoko says, dreamily.
there’s a pause.
“you like her,” suguru says, not a question.
“she has anger issues and perfect teeth. i’d let her ruin my life.”
suguru huffs another laugh and looks at his hands, a little lost. he hasn't thought about romance in months. shoko leans over the plate, smoothing the base with the pad of her thumb. “but seriously. she keeps asking me when i’m gonna make her something ‘bespoke.’ i don’t even know what that means in pottery.”
“probably a cup shaped like her own face.”
“i’d do it,” she shrugs. “out of love. and spite.”
“you’re not supposed to make offerings to your crush.”
“what else is clay for?”
suguru shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches once more. shoko disarms him. it feels good, to have a friend. he watches as she carefully props the slab onto a foam support to help it hold its strange, lopsided form.
“you gonna give her the olive tray?”
“hell no,” she says. “this is mine. i’m gonna use it as a jewelry dish and then complain that it doesn’t hold anything, because i've already started.”
“you could always try making a functional one.”
“no,” she says, with mock offense. “then she’ll think i’m serious about her. that’s dangerous.”
he’s quiet for a second, then says, lightly, “you are serious about her.”
“yeah,” she says. “i know.”
the moment hangs, soft and untroubled. suguru doesn’t say anything else. just adjusts the foam under the slab and wipes a smear of glaze dust from the table.
outside, it’s still gray. maybe starting to rain. he hasn’t looked.
inside, it’s warm. someone has left a mug on the windowsill, half - full of cold tea. the air smells like damp clay and iron.
shoko hums under her breath as she starts kneading a fresh lump of stoneware.
“i’m gonna make her something else,” she says. “something weird and ugly. just to keep her guessing.”
“true romance,” suguru murmurs.
“the only kind worth having,” she replies, grinning.
he locks up just after six.
shoko’s already gone, waving a lazy goodbye and promising to send him a terrible tiktok for “creative inspiration.” the studio is quiet now. sponges drying in the sink. the last bits of clay scraped from the wheels. the floor swept, even if it doesn’t stay clean for long. he moves through it slowly, flicking off lights one by one.
when he steps outside, the air is colder than he expected. not sharp — just damp. soft rain has started to fall, thin and misty, not enough to need an umbrella. it clings to his hair, his sleeves. everything smells like concrete and distant smoke. the kind of evening that folds the world in half, makes it feel smaller. quieter.
he doesn’t take the main street home. he never does. instead, he cuts through the side road behind the laundromat, past the shuttered cafe with the burnt - out neon sign, past the fence where the ivy overgrew and no one ever trimmed it back. his footsteps are muted on the wet pavement. his breath fogs in the air, then disappears.
there are parts of the walk he still avoids — a bookstore he used to go to, a corner where his ex once waited for him after class. the body remembers. it always does. even when you teach it not to.
he doesn’t look in shop windows anymore. doesn’t stop to read flyers on the telephone poles. doesn’t take photos of trees when the light hits them just right. he used to — a long time ago. before he learned what it meant to be watched. now he keeps his head down, hands in his pockets, keys curled tight between his fingers.
his apartment is small and dim. he leaves the light off when he comes in. drops his bag by the door, peels off his jacket. the silence greets him like a habit.
he stands there for a while. in the middle of the room. coat half - off, the air heavy on his shoulders. it’s not that he’s waiting for something. there’s just nowhere to rush to.
eventually, he puts the kettle on.
washes his hands, even though they’re already clean.
sits at the kitchen table with a chipped mug and doesn’t drink from it.
just watches the steam drift and disappear.
he’s free.
he knows this.
but some nights, it feels like freedom is just another word for no one’s waiting.
he stares at the mug for a long time.
then, quietly, begins to sketch a new design on the back of a receipt.
it gives his hands something to hold.
a week passes.
slow, like wet clay drying under plastic — not quite ready to touch, not ready to hold. suguru keeps to his rhythm. he teaches. he mops. he rewires the kiln thermometer after it starts acting up again. he listens to shoko complain about glaze bubbles and utahime’s tragic taste in wine. he doesn’t ask for anything. he doesn’t offer much either. it’s easier that way.
saturday comes gray and soft.
the sky is colorless, muted, like paper left out in the rain. everything outside looks a little dulled — the cars, the trees, even the air itself, faded under a sheet of cold mist. it’s the kind of morning where people sleep in, or stay home, or wander slowly through the world as if it doesn’t quite belong to them.
inside, the studio is warm. the heat from the early firing still lingers in the floorboards, rising from the kiln room in gentle waves. the windows fog faintly at the edges, catching condensation like breath. suguru doesn’t wipe them clear. he likes the way it softens the outlines of the world. blurs the buildings across the street. makes everything look further away, makes everything look — softer. he likes it this way. dreamy, blurry.
it smells like damp stone and wood ash — a little metallic, a little earthy. the ghost of heat clings to the walls, mingling with the scent of wet clay and drying glaze. suguru likes the smell. it’s grounding. familiar. it settles in his lungs and reminds him he’s somewhere real, somewhere soft and solid. safe.
he arrives early, like always. unlocks the door, flicks the lights on one by one, checks the kiln temperature even though he already knows it by heart. he moves through the space quietly, like the studio might still be sleeping. the silence feels companionable here. not heavy. not pressing. just quiet enough that he can hear himself breathe.
there’s music in his head, sometimes — not a song, exactly, but a rhythm. the sound of the sponge moving in slow circles, the wheel turning, the steady drip of water from the sink. he hums along to nothing. not out loud. just in the back of his mind.
he organizes the reclaim buckets. re - sorts the bisqueware shelf. cuts down a few fresh blocks of clay and weighs them out into perfect, tidy portions. there’s comfort in the repetition — in the way things can be made to obey, if he’s careful enough. if he keeps his hands steady.
by the time the open studio hours begin, he’s already made a cup of tea, cleaned the sink, and reshaped the warped drying board near the back wall. no one’s come in yet. he doesn’t mind. it gives him a moment to stand still, hands warm from the kettle, breath fogging faintly on the window glass as the rain picks up outside.
for a while, there’s nothing but the soft weight of clay in the room, and the faint ticking of the clock above the sink.
he’s restocking bats by the sink when the door chimes.
he doesn’t look up. just calls over his shoulder, “studio’s open but the wheels aren't ready. if you’re here for pickup, give me a second.”
he hears footsteps. slow ones. someone languid, then. unhurried and unbothered. the shadow indicates tall, too.
and then a voice:
“i am here for pickup, actually. one (1) hideously beautiful olive tray, allegedly, claimed in the name of shoko ieiri.”
suguru straightens slowly.
the man in the doorway is tall. strikingly so. he’s built like someone who forgets to apologize for his height — all long limbs and careless posture, the kind of presence that doesn’t shrink to fit the room. his hair is stark, pearl - paint white and effortless, like he barely thought about it but it looks good, anyway. there’s a pair of sunglasses perched on his face, despite the heavy gray outside, despite the soft, low lighting of the studio — like he’s auditioning for the sun in a place built entirely of shadow.
his coat is too nice for the weather, and also for this place. tailored wool, dark, falling to the knees in a dramatic sweep that doesn’t match the soft, clay - streaked interior of the studio at all. beneath it, a hoodie. expensive, probably. offhandedly stylish in that disheveled way rich men dress when they want you to think they don’t care.
he’s smiling, wide and sharp and too casual, like he doesn’t even realize he’s already the loudest thing in the room.
suguru takes all of this in before the man had even spoken.
his brain catalogues it automatically.
tall. bright. unbothered. expensive.
not from here.
and then the smile hits him — not because it’s kind. not because it’s beautiful ( though it is, annoyingly ) — but because it doesn’t fit the quiet, routined life suguru's made for himself. this is different. out of the norm. it's shoko who is supposed to come in, and not this — this — this guy.
he is, unmistakably, a problem.
“you’re not shoko,” suguru says flatly.
“tragically, no.” he walks further in, like he owns the floorboards. they bend to him, groan obediently. of course. “she got caught up at work and asked me to retrieve her ‘masterpiece’ before the day ended, because she wants to give it her not - girlfriend. said you’d know the one. implied it might stab me if i looked at it wrong, perhaps. it prefers women?”
suguru exhales through his nose. “that tracks.”
the man's eyes, still hidden behind the tinted lenses of his sunglasses, sweep the room in a slow, half - lidded drag. not the way a new student might look — tentative, assessing — but like someone scoping out a party he’s already seen. mild interest, but casual.
“this place is cute,” he says, voice bright and uninvited, curling at the edges like smoke. “earthy. smells like...childhood trauma and incense.”
his grin spreads a little wider, pleased with himself.
suguru doesn’t speak. he should, maybe, ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, but he doesn't.
gojo doesn’t seem to notice — or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. he turns slightly, examining the shelves behind the counter, the scattered test tiles and tiny trial pieces, the handwritten notes taped to the cubbies. he lifts a small ceramic frog — lumpy and wide - eyed — between two fingers and lets out a low whistle.
“someone in here’s got real vision,” he says, not bothering to put it back.
his tone is teasing, but light. not cruel. there’s no sharpness in it — just the kind of casual irreverence suguru associates with people who’ve never had to earn silence. people who expect the world to echo them back.
he watches as gojo taps his fingers along the countertop, restlessly. three rings — silver, mismatched, one clearly vintage. delicate, which surprises him. suguru would’ve expected something louder. but maybe that’s the point. maybe even the softness is a flex.
he shouldn’t be looking this hard.
and yet — he is.
gojo’s shoulders curve lazily as he leans into the counter, all posture and ease, like his body doesn’t know what discomfort feels like. like he’s never once had to think about how much space he takes up. his coat shifts when he moves, wool creasing where it brushes the edge of the clay - smeared surface. there’s something indulgent about the way he rests — like a cat in a sunbeam, like someone with nowhere better to be.
suguru doesn’t mean to stare.
but his eyes move on their own.
catching on the way gojo’s hair catches the light — silver - white and soft at the ends, not dyed so much as impossible. it should look stupid. it doesn’t.
his jaw is sharp. his mouth is parted just slightly, like he’s mid - thought or mid - breath or mid - some kind of trouble. there’s a faint flush across his cheeks from the cold outside, and the collar of his coat is still damp. suguru doesn’t know why he notices that — the way the wool darkens with moisture, how the rain clings to him like it hasn’t decided whether or not to let him go.
he smells like bergamot and rain — clean, sharp, expensive. it’s distracting. not overpowering, but deliberate. suguru inhales without meaning to. the scent catches in his throat, subtle and citrusy, and he hates how it makes the air between them feel warmer.
there’s no reason to keep looking. no reason to trace the curve of his wrist, the flash of silver rings, the glint of a smile that doesn’t seem to falter. suguru’s not searching for anything.
but he’s still looking.
and the worst part is — gojo hasn’t even taken off his sunglasses. suguru can’t see his eyes. doesn’t know if he’s looking back. it doesn't matter, though. it doesn't.
suguru tightens his grip on the sponge in his hand. it’s still wet. cooling.
“you’re very loud,” suguru observes, voice flat, low. not unkind. just...factual. like he’s noting the temperature of the room. it's safe, like this.
gojo lifts his brows, unbothered. “you’re very judgmental.”
“i get paid for that.”
“do you?”
suguru doesn’t blink. “indirectly.”
gojo hums, amused. the sound curls at the edges, like smoke catching light. “ah. that explains the aura. very ‘art school priest.’ very confessional chic.”
suguru exhales, slow. doesn’t dignify it with a response. he’s used to this kind of person — fast - talking, teeth - baring, always a joke in their mouth and a dare behind their eyes. usually, he lets them burn out on their own. most people fold under his silence.
but gojo doesn’t fold.
he leans in. like he’s testing gravity.
“so, what’s the going rate for judgment these days?” he asks, voice full of sun. “do you charge by the hour, or per offense?”
“per offense,” suguru replies, deadpan. “but i offer discounts for people who leave.”
gojo grins, teeth sharp and white.
“then i better stick around. i’m racking up a tab.”
suguru doesn’t laugh.
but something in his chest shifts — not loosened, not softened. just...stirred. moved.
he hates that.
gojo grins like he’s winning something, like he knows. "so!" he tilts his head toward the shelves. “is it here? this man - hating tray of dreams?”
suguru steps into the back without answering. he pulls shoko’s finished piece from the top shelf — slightly warped, half - glazed in a slanted coat of jade green, with a tiny uneven gold decal at the edge that says ‘utahime’s fault’ in shaky handwriting.
he returns to the front and sets it down carefully, like it might run off.
gojo looks at it.
blinks once.
says, “that’s incredible.”
suguru folds his arms. “are you being serious?”
“no,” he says. “but I respect the effort. this definitely holds, like, two almonds and a grudge.”
suguru can’t help it, this time — he huffs a short laugh, quick and unwanted, mouth upturned and bright for just a moment.
gojo points at him. “that. that was good. do it again.”
“no.”
“just once more.”
“absolutely not.”
“come on, pottery guy — ”
“it’s suguru,” he says, before he can stop himself. before he can reason with himself that it's a bad idea.
gojo blinks. “oh. nice to meet you, suguru. i’m satoru. local delivery boy but just for one shoko ieiri because she's scary, former child genius, recreational menace.”
“unfortunate.”
“terribly,” satoru agrees brightly. “can i take this, or do i have to sign something in blood?”
suguru nudges the tray toward him. “just don’t break it.”
“i would never,” he says, lifting it with both hands — reverent, dramatic. like he’s holding some ancient artifact. “this is art. this belongs in a museum.”
suguru doesn’t answer. he’s still watching him, unsure why he’s still standing there.
satoru takes a step toward the door, then pauses.
turns back.
“you know,” he says, tone still easy, but softer now, “shoko didn’t tell me you were hot.”
suguru blinks.
“...that’s because i’m not.”
“that’s where you’re wrong,” satoru says, winking behind his stupid sunglasses. “tragically, devastatingly wrong.”
and just like that, he leaves — the tray under his arm, the door swinging shut behind him.
the studio falls silent again.
and suguru stands there, still holding the corner of the counter, like someone just told him something that might come back later like a haunting, when he’s alone —
and it’s quiet again.
the echo of the door chime fades out slow, leaving suguru in the quiet hum of the heater and the distant drip of a faucet he hasn’t gotten around to tightening. his hand is still curled around the edge of the counter. he doesn’t remember gripping it — just knows he hasn’t let go yet.
gojo’s voice lingers in the air like smoke, like static. like something that got too close to him and didn’t burn, just left a mark.
suguru lets out a slow breath.
feels the shape of it in his ribs.
it’s not like anything happened.
not really.
but he stands there for a long time anyway.
he finishes the rest of his work in silence. wipes down the tables. covers the slip bucket. checks the kiln logs. he finds shoko’s new clay request form and adds it to the file, pen moving evenly, precisely — a small kind of ritual. it helps.
he turns the lights off one by one, like always.
he locks the door twice, like always.
outside, the sky is sinking toward slate - blue. the street is damp with rain, but it’s stopped falling for now. everything smells faintly of wet leaves and city stone, almost cold enough for snow. for ice. some parts of the city are already iced over, and suguru doesn’t rush. his bag is slung over one shoulder. his steps are steady. he takes the side route home.
a smear of white catches in the corner of his eye — a reflection in a shop window. not gojo. just a flicker. wrong height, wrong stride. suguru doesn’t look back.
he tells himself it doesn’t matter.
he tells himself it was nothing.
his apartment is quiet when he returns. the lights are off. the air is cool. he shrugs off his coat and sets the kettle on out of habit. while it boils, he stands at the window with the light off and watches the city breathe. the glass is cold beneath his fingertips, the condensation damp against the back of his hand. outside, the world glows dim — apartment windows blinking open like tired eyes, car headlights gliding across wet pavement, neon signs smearing color into the fog. everything feels far away from him, like he’s underwater, like the city is happening on the other side of a sheet of glass he isn’t meant to touch. he watches it anyway. people passing, lights changing, lives unfolding without him. he used to imagine being part of it — the rhythm, the pulse. now he just listens to it move without him, and tells himself that peace is the same thing as stillness. some nights, he almost believes it.
he’s used to the silence now, because he’s made that peace with it.
but tonight, for some reason, it feels like something is missing.
or maybe something new has been left behind.
small. irritating. bright.
lodged under his ribs like a splinter.
when the tea is done steeping, he forgets to drink it.
just carries the mug to the table and sits with it, hands around the ceramic, warmth bleeding into his palms. the rain starts again, light against the windowpane, soft and steady. it fills the silence like a promise.
he doesn’t write anything down. doesn’t sketch. doesn’t move.
he just sits there.
still holding something.
he’s not sure what.
it snows overnight. slow and soft and thick, the kind of snow that hushes the whole street, makes everything seem cleaner than it is. the world opens in white and closes in sound. the studio windows fog along the bottom, warmth meeting glass.
suguru arrives early. he always does. the walk from his apartment is quiet — just the sound of boots over packed snow, the wet whisper of wind at his collar. the cold bites at the edges of him, but doesn’t sink in. not the way it used to.
he’s finishing a cup of tea when the front door creaks open. cold air spills in, followed by shoko, bundled in a massive scarf and looking aggressively underwhelmed.
“this weather,” she says, tossing her gloves onto the counter like they insulted her. “is anti - queer.”
suguru doesn’t look up from his tea. “i think it’s just snowing.”
“that’s exactly what snow would say if it wanted to kill me slowly.”
he gestures toward the radiator. “you want to warm up, or file a complaint?”
“yes.”
she drops into the nearest stool and starts peeling off her layers like she’s shedding her skin. her fingers are red, her hair is full of static, and she’s in a bad mood — suguru can feel it already, humming around her like a storm warning.
he tries to steer the current. “so,” he says, tone gentle, “did utahime like her tray?”
shoko rolls her eyes dramatically. “utahime said it looked like a weaponized ashtray and then kissed me on the mouth like that was a compliment.”
“and was it?”
“i blacked out halfway through and forgot to be mad, so maybe.”
he hums, almost smiling. “romantic.”
“deeply,” she mutters, rubbing her hands together. “anyway, speaking of people who think they’re charming — your little admirer won’t shut up.”
suguru frowns. “what?”
“gojo,” she says, like it’s obvious. “satoru. the human foghorn. he’s been texting me about you nonstop.”
“he met me once.”
“and you left an impression. he said you’ve got a ‘mysterious aura.’ also asked if you were seeing anyone.”
suguru lets out a quiet breath and turns to rinse a sponge in the sink. the water runs warm over his hands. too warm. he doesn’t flinch.
shoko sips her coffee, watching him. “he’s stupid,” she says eventually. “but he’s not insincere.”
“he’s loud,” suguru murmurs.
“so’s the wind. still gets in.”
he doesn’t answer that.
outside, the snow starts to thicken — soft flakes against the glass, melting on contact. the world gets quieter. smaller. suguru presses his fingers into the edge of the sink basin and stares at the backsplash like it might say something back.
“i’m not...anything right now,” he says, voice low, not quite meant to be heard.
shoko doesn’t push.
just nods, once.
sips her coffee again like it’s nothing at all.
“neither’s the snow,” she says, an almost - echo of her words a moment earlier. “still falls.”
they work in a comfortable silence until the chime rings fifteen minutes later.
not urgent — just bright. a flick of brass in the quiet.
suguru doesn’t turn immediately. he’s halfway through aligning a new batch of drying boards, hands dusted in bisque powder, sleeves pushed to his elbows. he assumes it’s someone for open studio, maybe one of the teenagers who always forgets their towel. maybe someone new. maybe —
“hey, sugarplum,” comes the voice. “miss me?”
suguru pauses.
closes his eyes.
inhales.
exhales.
shoko doesn’t even look up from her coffee. “i told you. you’re not supposed to be here until you evolve into a quieter lifeform.”
“that hurts,” satoru says, stepping fully into the studio. “i bring warmth, joy, good hair, and possibly pastries. who else can say that?”
“literally anyone with functioning hands and a starbucks card.”
“yeah,” satoru grins. “but can they do this?” he attempts a ridiculous spin in place, slipping slightly on the wet floor and nearly knocking over a reclaimed clay bucket.
suguru finally turns. satoru’s wearing the same coat — long, expensive, dramatic — and his sunglasses are still on, fogged slightly from the cold. there’s snow in his hair, almost hidden by the matching tones. and, absurdly, a paper bag clutched in one hand like a peace offering.
“you’re tracking snow,” suguru says quietly.
“good morning to you too, pottery prince.”
he steps forward, offers the bag. “i was in the area and thought of you. which is weird, because we’ve only met once. and yet, here i am. completely normal. definitely not stalking. please take this croissant before i second - guess everything, which actually won't happen, because i never doubt myself.”
suguru stares at the bag. then at him.
then back at the bag.
“…shoko put you up to this?”
both shoko and satoru looks genuinely offended. “no! i’m here of my own volition, which is honestly rare and should be celebrated.”
suguru blinks slowly. “do you want something?”
satoru shrugs. “not really. just thought maybe you’d let me make something hideous and useless today.”
“you want to make...pottery?”
“exactly! it's almost like i'm in a pottery studio. what are the odds?”
he grins again, teeth too white, too bright — and something in suguru’s chest curls inward in response.
he should say no.
he wants to say no.
but instead, suguru just nods toward an open seat.
“aprons are in the bin. don’t touch anything sharp.”
“you wound me,” satoru says, already moving.
shoko sips her coffee with the long - suffering air of someone watching a car crash in slow motion.
“he’s going to ruin everything,” she says.
suguru, very quietly, replies, “i know.” he doesn't mean around the studio.
satoru puts on the apron backwards.
shoko stares at him like he’s just committed a federal crime.
“are you doing that on purpose?” she asks.
“i like a high neckline,” he says, tying the strings in front like a gift. “it’s fashion.”
suguru says nothing. just passes him a sponge and a slab of clay with the same look he’d give a slightly misbehaving dog. “sit,” is all he says. “don’t move until I tell you to.”
“that’s a little forward,” satoru murmurs, but does it anyway. obedient, infuriatingly so.
shoko chooses a wheel near the back — close enough to make faces at satoru, far enough that suguru doesn’t have to listen to her try and recreate the sound utahime made when she saw the tray. for a few minutes, things are quiet. suguru falls into the rhythm of instruction — hand gestures, demonstrations on his own clay, teaching satoru how not to choke the clay on first touch.
satoru is surprisingly...attentive.
not good, exactly — but he listens. asks questions. doesn’t complain when his first attempt caves inward like a dying star.
“how poetic,” he says, lifting the remains of the mug he tried to make. “symbolic of my internal landscape.”
“you held your breath,” suguru replies.
“i was nervous.”
“don’t be. clay can smell weakness.”
“oh good. just like you. jokes on you both, though, i don't have any.”
he’s grinning again. suguru doesn’t return it, but he does come over, press a thumb into the base of the clay to help it anchor. their hands brush.
it’s not nothing.
suguru steps back, the back of his hand on fire —
and that’s when shoko’s phone rings.
she glances at the screen, grimaces, then looks over her shoulder.
“hey,” she says. “i gotta take this. emergency teeth situation.”
“like… your teeth?” satoru asks.
“no. a patient’s. probably. if not, i’ll just lie until it sounds convincing.”
“heroic.”
she sets her tools down and grabs her coat, already moving. “don’t break anything,” she says, pointing to satoru. “don’t make anything weirdly emo,” she adds, pointing to suguru. “and don’t kill each other unless i get to watch.”
“noted,” satoru says, saluting.
the door shuts behind her. the snow has started to stick to the glass — soft against the edges. the world outside is white and far away.
and then, just like that, they’re alone.
the silence that settles isn’t heavy. not at first. just present.
satoru’s still focused on his hands, thumbs pressing unevenly into the clay. suguru watches, arms folded, trying not to notice the curve of his mouth when he concentrates.
a minute passes. maybe more.
“she’s not very subtle,” satoru says finally.
“no,” suguru replies. “but she’s not wrong.”
satoru glances up at that. “about what?”
suguru doesn’t answer.
just reaches forward again, carefully — adjusting the slope of the clay with one hand, not quite touching satoru’s fingers.
“you’re still holding your breath,” he says, quiet.
satoru exhales. slow. almost a laugh. “how do you know?”
“you've been doing it every time your piece starts to wobble. when it starts to become something. i've just noticed."
that gets him a look.
not a smile. not a smirk. just — eyes. pale blue and open and unguarded, for once. he is without the sunglasses, took them off to work on his piece. suguru had been so taken aback by the color he almost stumbled, but managed to save it, make it normal. he felt crazy. he felt — he felt —
“you always read people this fast?” satoru asks.
suguru shrugs. “only when they’re being obvious.”
and satoru — for once — doesn’t argue.
just goes back to the clay.
a little slower now.
a little quieter.
and suguru watches.
even though he knows he shouldn’t.
they don’t speak much after that.
suguru steps back, lets satoru work. he watches in stillness — arms crossed, shoulders sloped, thumb pressed into the edge of his apron. not intervening. not correcting. just letting him go.
satoru, to his credit, doesn’t ruin it immediately.
his hands are steady. his posture is better than most first - timers. he centers the clay without mangling it, which is rare. he doesn’t flinch at the mess, doesn’t complain when his wrist starts to ache. he listens. not just the surface kind of listening — the real kind. the kind where someone wants to understand. where they’re not just trying to be good at something — they’re trying to get close to it.
it’s disarming. a little unsettling.
people like gojo shouldn’t be good at things on the first try. they’re supposed to flounder. laugh it off. fail charmingly. instead, he moves like someone who expects the world to make space for his hands — and worse, like the world usually does.
suguru feels something uncomfortable rise in him.
something tight.
competitive.
resentful.
impressed.
and then the piece is...finished.
and thank god — it’s awful.
truly.
a disaster.
the walls of the mug lean left like they’re fleeing something. the lip has a visible buckle where satoru pressed too hard. the base is technically round, but only if you’re feeling generous. and the handle — if it can be called that — looks like it’s trying to escape the body entirely. it will break off in the bisque fire, suguru is certain. if not then, the glazing process will kill it. it has no desire to live.
satoru sits back from the wheel with a proud little sigh, wiping his hands on his apron. “and that,” he says, “is the most avant garde mug you have ever seen, i bet.”
suguru, deadpan: “it’s impressive.”
“i know, right?” he beams at it. “it’s like...if a cup and a scream had a baby.”
suguru huffs — just barely — through his nose.
“go ahead,” satoru says. “say it. you’re dying to judge me.”
“i don’t have to,” suguru murmurs. “your mug speaks for itself.”
“good,” satoru says. “i like my art to be emotionally literate.”
there’s a pause.
long enough to settle.
suguru doesn’t move to throw it out. doesn’t move at all, actually. he’s still watching it — that pathetic little lump of stoneware, wobbling on the bat like it’s ashamed of itself.
“i thought you were going to be good,” he says finally. voice low. an admission
“i am good,” satoru says. “was, i guess. until the end. then i panicked.”
suguru glances at him. “you don’t seem like someone who panics.”
satoru’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time.
“i don’t. usually.”
they don’t say anything after that.
a minute passes. maybe more.
outside, the snow keeps falling. the windows are fogged again. the silence stretches — not awkward, just wide.
“i’m gonna keep it,” satoru says suddenly, nudging the mug like it might bite him. “gonna glaze it gold. say it’s a metaphor for ego.”
“it’s a metaphor for structural failure.”
“same thing.”
and suguru — against his better judgment — lets him. he'll make sure it doesn't burst in the kiln. he'll fix the structure without touching the style, and satoru will never know, because something in this feels sentimental, and warm, and suguru is always so fucking cold.
they clean up in near silence, the way sound always is when the snow outside starts to settle.
suguru doesn’t say anything when satoru tracks slush across the floor again, just passes him a towel and watches him mop it up with theatrical shame. the awful mug has been moved to the far end of the drying shelf, hidden mercifully behind a row of tiny animal sculptures. its fate is uncertain. suguru isn’t thinking about it.
the studio is warmer now, but the windows are fogged at the edges, and the light outside has gone gray - blue and soft, pressed flat against the snow - covered glass. it’s only late - afternoon, but it feels later.
suguru glances out the window, then at the near - empty sign - in sheet.
shoko’s not back yet. no one else has come in.
“i’m closing up early,” he says, quietly.
satoru looks up from the sink, where he’s been half-heartedly rinsing clay from his rings.
“because of the snow?”
suguru nods once, already moving to shut down the wheels. “roads are going to ice over by sunset, and i doubt people will be coming by. it's not safe for them to do so, anyway.”
“mm,” satoru hums. “you always this cautious?”
“yes.”
“hot.”
suguru doesn’t respond.
he moves through the shutdown process with practiced ease — flipping switches, covering buckets, checking kiln logs, flicking off half the overhead lights until the studio is cast in warm shadows and soft hums. there’s something familiar in it, in the way he moves. like muscle memory. like closing a door in his own chest.
when he returns to the front, satoru’s still standing there. coat on, gloves half - pulled on, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt.
he doesn’t look like he’s in a rush.
like he’s waiting for something.
like he’d stay, if asked.
suguru opens the door instead.
the wind comes in cold and soft. snow is still falling — steady now, collecting on the sidewalk in thick, soundless drifts.
“careful walking,” suguru says, not quite looking at him. “the front steps are slick.”
“what about you?”
“i’ll lock up.”
satoru nods slowly. like he might say something else.
but doesn’t.
instead, he steps past him into the snow.
pauses.
and glances back once — grin smaller this time, not sharp, not bright. just...there.
“don’t miss me too much,” he says.
suguru doesn’t answer.
just closes the door behind him.
locks it, twice, and realizes he cannot remember a single thing he did, because he was distracted by satoru. he has to go back in, do it all over.
so he waits a while after satoru leaves.
not long. just enough for the wind to still again, for the studio to feel like it always does when he's alone — quiet, hushed, hollow around the edges. suguru moves once more through the last of the closing motions with cold fingers and calm breath. resets the thermostat. checks the windows. folds the sign - in sheet and tucks it beneath the desk like someone might need it tomorrow.
when he steps outside, the snow is falling heavier. thick flakes, soft and slow, collecting in his hair almost instantly. he doesn’t bother brushing them off. just pulls his scarf up over his mouth, slides his gloves on, and starts walking.
the sky is a deep slate, tinged with lavender where the streetlights push through. everything is muted. the cars are fewer now, and the sidewalks are mostly untouched. his boots crunch through fresh snow. it’s quiet. the kind of quiet that makes you think too much.
he rounds the corner past the coffee shop with the closed sign half - lit when —
“no car?”
suguru startles.
he turns — and there, just a few steps ahead, leaning under the flickering awning of the laundromat, is satoru. hands in his coat pockets. sunglasses gone. hair damp with snow. like he’s been waiting.
“you walk home?” satoru asks, like it’s wild. “in this?”
“obviously,” suguru says, slower now. guarded. “you followed me?”
“i loitered,” satoru corrects, straightening. “very cool. very mysterious. not creepy at all.”
“how long were you standing there?”
“long enough to start questioning my life choices.”
suguru exhales. the fog of it catches the light. “most people assume i drive.”
“most people don’t see you and think subway gremlin, but here we are.”
“don’t project.”
“you’re wearing boots that say i suffer with dignity.”
suguru glances away, keeps walking. satoru falls into step beside him without being asked.
they walk a few paces in silence. the wind has picked up, light and sharp, cutting through the soft hush of the snow. suguru’s scarf catches on his breath. satoru’s steps are too loud, somehow — even in the snow, even with the cold. he moves like he’s not used to walking without being seen.
“you don’t drive at all?” satoru asks again, voice quieter now.
“sold the car when i left,” suguru murmurs.
he doesn’t elaborate, and satoru doesn’t press. doesn’t joke.
just says, “okay,” like he understands. like that one word is enough to hold all the things that suguru didn’t say.
they walk a little longer after that.
not far. just enough.
and suguru doesn’t tell him to leave, so they walk.
not fast — the kind of pace shaped by cold air and snowfall, not conversation. the city looks different under snow, suguru thinks. slower. more fragile. the sharp corners all dulled down. streetlights blur at the edges. every sound is softened except the crunch of their boots and the occasional distant tire spin.
satoru walks close enough that suguru can hear the quiet shift of his coat, the occasional sniffle, the soft exhale of breath through his nose like he’s not used to being this cold. his hands stay in his pockets. he doesn’t talk much. just lets the quiet stretch long and steady between them.
they reach the edge of the block — the corner suguru usually turns at — when satoru stops.
“this way,” he says, jerking his head toward the other side of the street.
suguru raises an eyebrow but follows without a word, stepping carefully across the snow - packed sidewalk.
and then he sees it.
the car is parked beneath a half - dead tree, already dusted with snow like it’s been waiting for a photo op. sleek. low. the kind of machine that gleams even in the dark — matte black with deep blue undertones, rims like polished glass, tinted windows and smooth lines that curve like a secret. foreign, obviously. expensive, obviously. the kind of car you don’t drive unless you know people will look.
suguru stops walking.
satoru doesn’t notice at first — he’s fishing in his coat for his keys, whistling something tuneless under his breath.
“this is yours?” suguru asks, flat.
satoru glances up. “what, the batmobile? yeah.”
“figures.”
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
“nothing.”
satoru hits the unlock. the lights flash once — elegant, soft.
“you’re judging me,” he says, sounding pleased.
“i’m adjusting my expectations.”
“upward, i hope.”
suguru doesn’t answer.
he stands there a moment longer, boots crunching faintly in the snow. the contrast is stark — this stupid, perfect car against the city slush, against suguru’s old coat and wind - reddened hands and the worn scarf wrapped three times around his throat.
he turns slightly. “you waited for me just to walk to your car?”
satoru shrugs. “you don’t know how this block gets. slippery. full of hazards. what if i fell? i couldn't risk it.”
“mm.”
“and maybe,” satoru says, flashing a grin as he opens the door, “i didn’t feel like going home yet.”
he leans against the doorframe for a second — doesn’t get in. just watches suguru like he’s memorizing something.
suguru looks away first.
not because he wants to.
just because it’s easier.
“i could drive you,” satoru says, light. simple.
like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
suguru stills.
he’s standing a few steps back from the car — snow climbing slow up the soles of his boots, melting into the hem of his coat. his hands are in his pockets. he hasn’t looked satoru in the eyes since the words left his mouth.
“you don’t have to say yes,” satoru adds, gentler now. “just figured, you know. it’s cold. and late. and people love the batmobile. it's warm in, like, a second.”
and maybe he means nothing by it.
maybe it’s just a ride.
but suguru’s whole body has already locked up — not visibly, not in any way that would read to someone who didn’t know what to look for. just...inward. a pull. a clench of muscle. a thought pressed hard against the inside of his ribs.
why would you go with him.
you don’t even know him.
what are you doing.
he glances at the car — sleek, low, shining like something expensive and closed - off. there’s heat fogging the edges of the windshield, because satoru's turned it on and it no doubt has an auto - heat feature. a glow in the dashboard. suguru can picture the interior before he even steps near it: the smell of something sharp and curated. soft music playing because silence would feel too heavy.
his chest tightens.
the last time he accepted a ride like this, it ended with his wrist caught in a too - tight grip and the word ungrateful said like a curse.
he doesn’t move.
doesn’t speak.
he tells himself it’s nothing.
tells himself he’s not afraid.
tells himself he just doesn’t want to owe anything.
“hey,” satoru says suddenly, lifting his hands like a joke. “it’s fine. really. just trying to be — i don’t know — is it working? i don't know what i'm asking, but is it?”
he’s smiling. still. but softer.
like maybe he’s not sure how to read the quiet.
like maybe suguru’s silence is heavier than he expected.
and of course he doesn’t know.
why would he.
why should he.
suguru exhales, slow through his nose.
it’s just a ride.
he’s walked further in worse.
and yet —
his fingers twitch inside his coat pocket.
he glances at satoru again — really looks this time.
and what he sees isn’t sharp. isn’t pushing.
just waiting.
just...human.
his voice is quiet when it comes.
“okay,” he says, low. “yeah. okay”
satoru blinks. “sure. yeah. of course.”
satoru opens the passenger door and something twists, needy and warm, in suguru's chest. he thinks that this might be a mistake, but he slides in without speaking. the leather is warm. the cabin is silent, save for the low hum of the heater and the faintest hiss of snow under tires.
he buckles in.
folds his hands in his lap.
tries not to hold his breath.
satoru gets in, glances at him — says nothing.
he just starts the car, and the city begins to move around them again.
the car hums forward, smooth as breath over glass. the heater purrs low. the snow outside folds the world inward — quiet streets, smudged lights.
suguru stares ahead, jaw tight, posture too still. one hand braced on the door, the other in his lap, fingers curled loosely like they’re remembering what it’s like to clench. his body knows how to be on alert even when nothing’s wrong. it’s an old habit, like a coat you can’t take off.
satoru doesn’t say anything either, doesn’t push. just drives. it's not hard to feel the energy, and it's screaming discomfort. suguru doesn't want to be this way.
satoru turns down the music — not off, just quieter. something ambient and slow, barely there. enough to fill the space but not disturb it.
they pass a storefront with its lights still on. a cat asleep in the window. the glow hits the windshield in streaks, gold and pale blue. suguru exhales like he’s just remembered how. it’s not that he wants to be difficult. it’s just that comfort doesn’t land right. kindness catches in his throat like something spoiled.
and maybe satoru can feel it — the tension. the quiet. the way suguru doesn’t lean back into the seat like someone used to softness. because suddenly, without warning, satoru says:
“you know, you’ve got real cryptid energy.”
suguru turns his head slightly. “...what.”
“you know. all black. almost never laughs, leading me i fever dreamed yours the other day. possibly immortal. probably lives in the rafters of the studio. children whisper your name with reverence and fear.”
a pause.
then, flat: “i teach pottery.”
“cryptid.” satoru says, like, duh.
suguru blinks.
and then — against his will — his mouth twitches. just slightly. just a breath of something like a smile, quickly strangled.
satoru grins like he’s just won a bet, glancing quickly between the road and suguru at least six times each.
“there it is!” he says, triumphant. “proof of life!”
“that was pity.”
“that was charm.”
“you’re impossible.”
“and you’re blushing.”
suguru scoffs — but it’s soft. not sharp.
his shoulders ease, just a little.
just enough that the warmth of the car finally reaches him.
and outside, the snow keeps falling.
quiet. steady. like it doesn’t care that something just shifted inside the silence.
they pull up outside suguru’s building — a narrow flat with a sun - bleached façade, tucked between a shuttered bodega and a laundromat that’s always half - lit. the steps are covered in snow, unevenly cleared, and one of the porch lights flickers like it’s considering going out for good.
the engine hums into idle.
suguru doesn’t move at first.
just looks out at the quiet sidewalk.
his street is always like this — still, half - asleep, faintly blue under the haze of city snow. it’s not beautiful, but it’s his. and lately, that’s been enough. the safety in it is comforting.
he undoes his seatbelt, slow. reaches for the door.
and then, before he can open it —
“would you go out with me?”
the words are soft. not sudden. not dramatic. like satoru’s been thinking about them and only just now let them go.
suguru freezes.
his fingers tighten faintly on the door handle. he doesn’t turn, doesn’t answer. the quiet fills the space between them like cold water.
“not now,” satoru adds, quickly. “not, like, tomorrow. just — when you want. if you want.”
suguru exhales. slow.
his voice comes a beat later, quieter than he meant it to.
“i can’t.”
and he means it.
means i’m not ready.
means i don’t know how to want things without flinching.
he feels satoru look at him — not disappointed, not surprised. just watching.
“…okay,” satoru says, soft. “then maybe your number instead. just to start.”
suguru closes his eyes for a second.
one breath.
two.
he doesn’t owe anyone anything. he’s allowed to say no. he’s allowed to protect the small peace he’s started stitching back together.
but — this isn't an owe, if he thinks about it.
it...it burns like a want.
so he turns, slowly.
pulls his phone from his coat and hands it over.
doesn’t say anything as satoru enters his number. doesn’t watch the screen. just stares out the windshield at the way the snow pools in the cracks of the stairs, like it’s been waiting for him to come home.
“there,” satoru says, handing it back. “no pressure. just...potential.”
suguru takes the phone. “goodnight, satoru.”
“sweet dreams, pottery cryptid.”
he doesn't look back as he smiles, and it's a damn shame.
he has to text him. suguru knows. not only does he have to text first because he's the only one with the number, but — it'd be rude not to check in. satoru very kindly brought him home.
suguru geto [9:41 pm]
did you get home safe?
– this is suguru. from the studio. not a spam text. unless you count unsolicited ceramic feedback.
gojo satoru [9:43 pm]
omg i lived
no black ice fatalities. my car also survived despite not being all wheel drive, which i think makes it braver than most people.
gojo satoru [9:43 pm]
also: hi suguru from the studio. you texting me is now the highlight of my year.
suguru geto [9:44 pm]
it’s february.
gojo satoru [9:44 pm]
yeah. and?
suguru geto [9:44 pm]
lower the bar.
gojo satoru [9:45 pm]
no.
the bar is on a pottery wheel now. spinning gently. slightly lopsided.
gojo satoru [9:45 pm]
like my mug. which you are 100% going to fire and preserve forever, right?
suguru geto [9:46 pm]
i’m considering burying it in the snow behind the studio and pretending it never happened.
gojo satoru [9:46 pm]
that’s so rude. it has a name.
suguru geto [9:46 pm]
dare i ask.
gojo satoru [9:47 pm]
mugnificent.
suguru geto [9:47 pm]
blocked.
the apartment is quiet.
just the hum of the radiator and the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic. suguru moves slowly through the small kitchen, half - distracted, hands moving on memory alone — tea kettle heating, leftover rice warming on the stove, dim light spilling across the counter like something gentle and unintrusive.
his phone buzzes again beside the sink.
he doesn’t reach for it right away. lets the water boil. stirs the rice, the soup. everything tonight is soft, familiar, small. rituals that make the silence feel like choice rather than punishment.
when he finally picks the phone up, there’s another message waiting. he's not experienced that in months.
gojo satoru [9:49 pm]
you’re smiling. i can feel it through the phone.
you love mugnificent. admit it.
suguru huffs under his breath — quiet, but real.
he’s not smiling.
he isn’t.
except...maybe a little.
just at the corner of his mouth.
just where it won’t show.
he types back with one hand as he sets a chipped bowl on the table.
suguru geto [9:51 pm]
you have too much confidence for someone who made a cup with the structural integrity of a wet sock.
his phone buzzes again before he’s even fully set it down.
gojo satoru [9:51 pm]
that’s just jealousy talking.
your cups WISH they had my raw energy.
gojo satoru [9:52 pm]
anyway what are you doing
besides thinking about me
suguru rolls his eyes. pours the tea. it smells like chamomile and sleep. the kind of scent that makes his chest ache, for no real reason.
he brings the mug to the table. takes a sip. lets the steam warm the space just above his mouth.
his phone buzzes again.
gojo satoru [9:54 pm]
…you’re still thinking about me, huh.
he types, slowly. deliberately.
suguru geto [9:56 pm]
only because you won’t shut up.
he doesn’t send another.
just sets the phone down and eats quietly — the room still, the tea cooling beside him, the night soft around the edges.
and inside all of that, a warmth that wasn’t there before.
not the tea.
not the soup.
something smaller.
something louder.
a voice still echoing in his hand.
it starts like most things do — small.
a check - in. a joke. a throwaway message about the weather, or satoru sending a picture of a deeply cursed mug he found at a thrift store with the caption my mug's long - lost twin.
suguru replies, because it’s easy. because he has nothing better to do. because it makes the corners of his mouth twitch, sometimes, when he thinks no one’s watching.
and then it doesn’t stop.
not that he expects it to. not that he wants it to. the days start folding in on themselves and suddenly there’s always a message waiting. a meme. a question. something stupid. something too thoughtful. photos of satoru’s dinner (do NOT rate me, i know it looks like it has a grudge) or a dog on the train (he’s spiritually yelling your name), or a screenshot of an article about clay shrinkage that ends with so when are you going to let me ruin your kiln?
and suguru, without even noticing the shift, responds every time. sometimes immediately. sometimes hours later. sometimes after midnight when he’s curled up on the couch in the dark with a blanket pulled over his head like a child hiding from the world.
and satoru is always there.
loud and ridiculous. sharp and sincere.
never once crossing the line suguru doesn’t speak aloud.
they talk about nothing. and then about everything.
satoru tells him about the new therapist he’s trying out because he “needs someone who won’t let me charm them into letting me off the hook.” suguru tells him about a bowl that cracked clean in half during the bisque firing, and how he didn’t even feel upset. just...watched it happen. satoru sends voice notes sometimes — awful, chaotic, full of laughter and ambient city noise. suguru never sends one back, but he listens to them all. more than once.
it becomes a rhythm. a new one. quiet but steady.
like breath. like routine. like something he hasn’t had in a long time.
and he doesn’t tell anyone about it.
and he doesn’t say what it means.
but some nights, when the silence gets too loud, he opens his phone before he turns on the lights.
and it’s always there.
just waiting.
like it’s nothing.
like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
they’re friends now, because that's what happens when you talk to someone every day. when they visit your work, make pottery, bring you food. that’s what this is.
it feels strange to name it — not because the word is wrong, but because it’s...easy. easier than anything has been in a long time. easier than it should be.
suguru doesn’t quite know when it started, only that one day he woke up and satoru was part of the rhythm. not the disruption. not the demand. just — there. present. impossible, yes, but steady.
and suguru finds himself leaning into it. not fast. not openly. just enough.
they talk about the absurd, about nothing at all. about how shoko is trying to get him to double - date with her (a disaster waiting to happen), about why satoru insists on naming all of his mugs as if they’re ancient relics (other than mugnificent, he's an original and an only), about which sea creature is the most fucked up. suguru pretends to be annoyed. satoru pretends to believe him.
and beneath it — barely perceptible — something shifts.
suguru is used to quiet. to stillness. to absence worn like armor. but now, there’s a pulse under it. now, his chest feels full in strange moments — not with dread, not with grief, but with something warmer. louder.
he starts catching himself watching the phone. waiting. replaying a voice note just to hear the way satoru laughs through his words. he doesn’t even notice it at first. just feels the low hum of it in his stomach. the curl of something close to longing where stillness used to be.
hunger creeps in sideways. he wants —
connection.
lightness.
the way satoru texts you still awake? at 1:17 a.m. like he knows the answer will always be yes.
the hunger doesn’t ask for permission.
it just… shows up.
at first it’s subtle. a shift in posture when his phone lights up. a pause before he responds, not because he doesn’t know what to say — but because he does, and that’s what scares him. there’s always something to say. something to send back. a reply waiting in his mouth like warmth on his tongue.
late nights are the worst for it.
the city hums quieter after midnight. suguru’s apartment is still, the studio long closed, the silence sitting beside him like an old friend he doesn’t know how to shake. that’s when the hunger speaks loudest — not with words, but with absence.
and always — without fail — his phone lights up.
gojo satoru [1:03 am]
yo
what’s your take on reincarnation
suguru geto [1:04 am]
it’s 1am
gojo satoru [1:04 am]
so?
gojo satoru [1:04 am]
you totally look like someone who believes in soul contracts
suguru geto [1:05 am]
what the hell is a soul contract
gojo satoru [1:06 am]
like you and i made a deal before birth to find each other in this lifetime so i could destroy your peace
suguru geto [1:06 am]
well. contract fulfilled. you can go now.
he tells himself it’s harmless.
that he’s just bored, and it's been so long since he's — talked to someone, like this.
that it’s nice, that’s all — someone to talk to. someone who doesn’t pull at him, doesn’t pry.
but sometimes satoru sends voice messages, half - whispered and lazy, like he’s curled under a blanket somewhere too big for one person. sometimes he just says suguru’s name. just that. like it means something.
and suguru listens.
once.
twice.
again.
plays it until his cheeks are pink, his sheets twisted. suguru. suguru. suguru.
there’s a night he almost says something real. almost types i’m glad you text me. almost sends a photo of the unfinished bowl he’s been keeping for weeks now — the one he never fires, the one that looks a little too much like hope.
but he doesn’t.
not yet.
instead he sends back a grainy picture of a stray cat in his alley and types:
suguru geto [1:11 am]
he looks like he’s seen god. and didn’t like it.
gojo satoru [1:12 am]
same tbh
suguru presses his phone to his chest when the conversation finally fades. closes his eyes in the dark.
the hunger settles under his skin like a quiet, steady ache.
not unbearable.
not demanding.
just...present.
he knows it's going to ruin him, he just doesn't imagine it happening so soon. until —
it’s almost 2 a.m. when his phone buzzes.
suguru’s already awake — of course he is. he’s on the couch, lights off, wrapped in the same blanket he’s had for years, one of the only things he took, threadbare at the edges. the mug on the coffee table is long cold. his fingers are curled against his chest like they’re holding something they’re not ready to name.
the screen lights up.
gojo satoru [1:57 am]
what do you do when you can’t sleep?
asking for a friend. the friend is me. i’m the friend.
suguru stares at it for a moment.
thumb hovering.
heart doing that soft, stupid thing it does now — that little stutter.
then:
suguru geto [1:58 am]
read
drink tea
watch pottery restoration videos until the world makes sense again
gojo satoru [1:59 am]
that’s so soothing. you’re like a witch who lives in a cabin and makes cursed mugs for lost travelers.
i wanna be one of the travelers
suguru bites his lip. doesn’t smile. not exactly.
he’s warm. or...flushed. he can’t tell which. his stomach pulls tight like something coiled is waking up — slow, deliberate. his palm is suddenly too aware of the way it rests against his chest.
suguru geto [2:00 am]
why
you want a cursed mug?
gojo satoru [2:00 am]
no
i want to see you while you make it
be there with you
watch
suguru stops.
just...
stops.
his throat is dry. his mouth too full of breath.
he stares at the message longer than he should. it's innocent enough. it shouldn’t mean anything. it shouldn’t. it’s just a text. it’s just satoru being...himself.
but it lands.
low.
deep.
suguru adjusts how he’s sitting — not consciously. just something in his body reacting, the way his thighs shift, the way his breath sinks low.
he types, deletes. types again.
suguru geto [2:03 am]
you’d be a distraction
gojo satoru [2:03 am]
god i hope so
do you want me to distract you?
his face goes hot.
desire. real and sudden. low and aching and sharp in a way he hasn’t felt in...god, months. maybe longer. the kind that makes your mouth part just slightly, your fingers curl against your thigh, your heart pound in places it shouldn’t.
he exhales, slow.
rereads the message.
suguru geto [2:04 am]
you’re unbelievable
gojo satoru [2:05 am]
and you didn’t answer my question, suguru.
suguru reads it once.
then again.
his heart stutters, too loud in the stillness. his mouth feels dry.
satoru’s good at this — that effortless, brazen charm. the kind that feels like hands ghosting along your ribs without ever touching you. suguru had forgotten what it felt like to be wanted like this. openly. hungrily.
and god, he wants to give in.
suguru geto [2:06 am]
what if i said yes
he shouldn’t say it.
but he does.
the reply is instant.
gojo satoru [2:06 am]
then i’d say
lie back
turn the light off
and let me ruin your focus one word at a time
suguru exhales, shaky.
his hand tightens around the phone.
suguru geto [2:07 am]
you really think that would work on me?
gojo satoru [2:07 am]
i think your legs are already drawn up under your blanket
and i think you’re reading this with your teeth in your lip
fuck.
he is.
suguru shifts, breath caught, heat low in his belly.
suguru geto [2:08 am]
you’re playing a dangerous game
gojo satoru [2:08 am]
oh, baby
i am the game
suguru groans. actually groans. hand over his face.
suguru geto [2:09 am]
you’re insufferable
that was literally awful
how was that a line
gojo satoru [2:09 am]
but you’re still here
still playing
still waiting for me to make you lose that careful little composure you always have
i've been thinking about it
you'd look so pretty, suguru
suguru swallows hard.
he can feel it — the want blooming fast beneath his ribs.
he types, slow.
he wants. god, he wants.
suguru geto [2:12 am]
cocky
gojo satoru [2:12 am]
confident
gojo satoru [2:13 am]
and so into you it’s honestly embarrassing
suguru stares at the message. thumb twitching.
suguru geto [2:13 am]
then prove it
he knows it's an awful idea. a terrible thing to send. he can't have this. he cannot do this. the message hangs there, and suguru is about to delete it when his screen lights up again. it vibrates, but — not like a text. satoru is calling him. he stares at his phone like it’s going to catch fire in his palm.
it’s late. he should not pick up.
he should be smarter than this.
but his body is already moving — quiet, practiced — like desire has always known the way.
he answers.
the line clicks, and then —
“hi,” satoru says, voice smooth and low, velvet across static. not teasing. not joking. just warm. “figured you’d sound good in the dark.”
suguru exhales, slow. “you’re stupid.”
“maybe,” satoru murmurs, “but you picked up.”
he lets that hang there, heavy, knowing. suguru says nothing, but the silence is weighty. intimate. it says i know. i’m here.
“you in bed?” satoru asks, voice soft now, just the ghost of a grin behind it. “you sound wrecked already.”
“i’m not,” suguru says, and it comes out lower than he meant. “either of those. i'm on the couch. just tired.”
“mm,” satoru hums. “and warm? under your blanket?”
suguru closes his eyes.
he should hang up.
he should.
“yes,” he murmurs.
“wish i could see you,” satoru says, like it’s nothing. like it’s everything. “i’d say something really smooth here, like — i bet you’re flushed. but the truth is, you’d probably just look annoyed.”
“probably,” suguru murmurs.
“but maybe,” satoru continues, gentler now, “if i said the right thing, you’d bite your lip. maybe you’d shift a little under the blanket. maybe your fingers would twitch, wanting. needing.”
suguru swallows.
his hand has twitched at his side, like it wants to move. touch.
“you think you know me that well already?”
“no,” satoru breathes, “but fuck, i want to.”
it’s not a joke. it’s not a line. it’s honest. suguru feels it in the hollow of his chest.
“tell me what you’d do if you were here,” he says before he can think better of it, voice hushed, reverent. “just...tell me.”
a beat. then, satoru’s breath:
“i’d start slow,” he says. “sit at the edge of your bed, or the couch, or wherever, and just look at you. like this. this moment. i’d memorize the way you look when you’re undone but still pretending not to be.”
suguru doesn’t respond. doesn’t have to. his breathing shudders.
“i’d ask before i touched you,” satoru continues, voice dipping lower. “and if you said yes, i’d kiss you once — just once — soft. so soft it wouldn’t even feel real. just to see if you’d lean in. i think you'd like that. i think you'd want me to take control, but still leave you enough say.”
suguru’s eyes flutter closed.
he’s still. breath barely rising.
“you’d taste like tea,” satoru murmurs. “like sleep and stubbornness. i’d let you pretend it doesn’t matter, that it’s just for fun. but i’d know better.”
silence stretches between them. thick. full.
“you still there?” satoru asks, and his voice isn’t cocky anymore. it’s quiet. “or did i lose you?”
suguru swallows.
“you didn’t lose me,” he says, and it sounds like a confession.
“good,” satoru whispers. “because i’ve barely even started.”
suguru exhales — shakily. something between a breath and a sound he’s not ready to hear himself make. his head tips back against the couch cushion, throat bared to the quiet of his apartment, to the voice in his ear. he's so fucking hard.
he should stop this.
he should.
he doesn't deserve this. he's scared of it. he wants to run.
but he doesn’t.
“keep going,” he says, and his voice is rough now, low, soft and pretty and sweet in that way you only get when your body is already giving itself away.
on the other end of the line, satoru hums. a quiet sound. pleased. warm. it makes suguru's cock twitch, and he can't help the way he palms himself, biting his tongue.
“i’d touch your throat first,” he says, like it’s nothing. “just there. under your jaw. gentle. so pretty, it's so pretty, that hook under your jaw. been wanting to get my mouth on it for weeks now, you have no idea. mouth my way down your throat, know your skin's like silk.”
suguru shifts. one hand curls into the blanket at his waist, the other slides into his sweats so he can grasp himself. he swallows a moan, because he can't. can't.
“then your collarbone,” satoru goes on. “because i’d want to feel how fast your heart’s going. and i know you’d try to hide it. pretend it doesn’t get to you.”
“it doesn’t,” suguru lies.
satoru laughs, quiet and dark. “liar.”
his voice drops lower, smooth and slow, like molten heat. “i’d kiss you there. bite you there. just once. leave a mark so you remember what it feels like to be wanted.”
suguru’s legs shift. his breath trembles.
“what would you do?” satoru asks softly. “if i kissed down your chest. if i got under that blanket and just...held you open for a while?”
suguru’s fingers tighten. his free hand ghosts up the hem of his shirt. his body is warm. too warm.
he doesn't answer — can’t.
“i bet you’d try to keep quiet,” satoru says, tone honey - slick, a little crazed with hunger. “i bet you’d be good for me. all flushed and breathless and sweet.”
“satoru—” suguru whispers, and it cracks. he fists his cock.
“say it again.”
“satoru.”
god, he says it like a prayer. like a purr.
“fuck, that’s it,” satoru breathes. “say it like that when i’m between your thighs and i’ll lose my fucking mind.”
suguru groans, low and soft, bitten down, because he cannot stop it. he presses the back of his wrist to his mouth, phone slipping from his hand to land on the couch, right by his ear. one hand covers his mouth, the other stroking himself, thumbing his tip. everything feels too much. he’s hard. he’s aching. he’s barely holding onto anything.
“are you touching yourself?” satoru murmurs.
suguru doesn’t answer, not with words. a shuddered gasp gives him away, the quiet moan. his hips buck.
“you don’t have to lie to me,” satoru says, gentle now. devastatingly gentle. “just tell me you want this.”
suguru closes his eyes. his heart feels loud. his skin feels electric.
“i want it,” he breathes. “i want — fuck. i want you.”
the silence on the other end is weighted.
and then —
“fuck,” satoru says, voice even lower now, raw at the edges. “i’ve been dying for you.”
“wanna tell you what to do.” satoru murmurs, voice dipped in heat and reverence. "would you like that? hm? want to hear me tell you how to touch yourself?"
suguru exhales shakily. his head drops back again. “yeah,” he whispers. “yes.”
on the other end of the line, there’s a low sound — something like a groan held tight in the back of satoru’s throat.
“undo your pants,” he says. “slow. take your hand out, do it right.”
suguru listens, embarrassed that satoru could tell he'd just — clumsily went for it, desperate and aching. his hand slips back beneath the blanket, working open the button with slow, shaking fingers. he shifts his hips, arches up just enough to push his waistband low.
the air hits his skin for a moment — cold, sharp. and god, he’s really hard. aching.
“how do you look right now?” satoru murmurs. “tell me.”
“flushed,” suguru breathes. “shaking.” he is, already. trembling a little with anticipation, his fingers just ghosting over himself as he waits for instruction, the thought so — so fucking hot, he flushes harder. hungry. he hasn't been hungry in so god damn long.
“fuck,” satoru groans. “wish i could see. wish i could taste.”
suguru whines, soft and low. he presses his palm flat just under his navel, not moving yet — just breathing, just holding.
“touch yourself,” satoru says, voice dark and sweet. “slow. like you want it to last.”
suguru obeys.
his hand wraps around himself, tentative. the first stroke makes him gasp, makes his hips twitch, makes his eyes slam shut. it feels different from even just doing it a moment before, because he's listening to satoru's voice, crooning in his ear, telling him what to do.
“that’s it,” satoru breathes. “take your time. i want you to savor this.”
suguru bites down on a moan, but it still slips through.
“are you imagining me?” satoru’s voice cracks a little now, lower, wrecked. “my hands on your hips, my mouth on your cock?”
“yes,” suguru says, strangled. “yes, satoru.”
“would do it, then when you came, i’d fuck you open with my mouth,” satoru whispers. “i’d make you beg for it, suguru. i’d ruin you.”
suguru whines again, choked and broken, hips canting up into his own hand. the strokes are faster now, desperate, his body on fire.
“let me hear you,” satoru groans. “c'mon, pretty, that's it, let me hear how pretty you sound when you fall apart.”
and god, he does. suguru does. he moans, soft and breathy, the kind of sound that breaks a person open. he himself feels broken open, shattered. something new. this is new.
his thighs tremble. his toes curl. his fingers are tight, slick, relentless.
“you close?” satoru asks, hoarse, and suguru should be embarrassed because it hasn't even been very long, but he hasn't done this in so long. he hasn't wanted to touch himself, hasn't felt desire, hasn't felt anything, and now it's — intense. he needs it. he needs this.
"nngh — satoru, yeah, i'm —"
“come for me, pretty. come just from my voice, suguru. you can, can't you?”
suguru can, and suguru does — with a gasping, quiet cry, his body tensing, heat spilling over his hand, his hips stuttering beneath the blanket.
it hits him like a wave — all of it. the pleasure. the shame. the want. the way his name sounded on satoru’s tongue.
he breathes through it. eyes fluttering open, heart stammering in his chest.
on the other end of the line, satoru is quiet. then: a soft exhale. a murmured, “god, you sound beautiful.”
suguru’s throat is dry. his voice breaks a little when he speaks. “i should — sleep."
satoru, kind for once, lets him.
there’s a silence, sudden and sharp, once the call ends.
he’s still on the couch. still half - covered in the blanket. still breathless.
his phone rests face - down on his chest, the call log still glowing faint behind the screen. 22 minutes. 22 minutes of being undone by a voice — by him.
suguru exhales, shaky.
he feels — raw. flushed and hollow, like something’s been scraped out of him with gentle hands. he’d laughed. he'd moaned. he said satoru. over and over.
god, what the hell was he thinking?
his stomach knots. the warmth pooling there hardens into something heavy. not regret, exactly — not quite. but shame, thick and familiar. his chest is warm. his hands are sticky. he wipes them off with the edge of his blanket and instantly feels gross for it — like he’s done something wrong. something shameful.
he shifts away from the memory of his own voice. the memory of want.
his past relationship had turned this — touch, desire, need — into something fraught. used. taken. he still flinches when he remembers the things that were said. the way he was looked at. the way he wasn’t allowed to want anything on his own terms.
you only want when i tell you to want.
you’re lucky i even still touch you.
you’re disgusting when you’re like this.
he rubs a hand over his face, jaw clenched. the heat that had bloomed in his chest is already starting to burn out.
he wants to feel proud. connected. cradled by the honesty of it, cradled by satoru's fucking hands.
instead, he just feels...exposed.
it echoes, even now. six months gone. and still, there it is — curling around the edges of what could’ve been sweet.
because it was sweet. somehow.
satoru’s voice. the heat behind it. the way he'd called him pretty like it wasn’t a trap, like he meant it. like he wanted him undone just for the sake of it — not to use it, not to lord it over him. just to see him. hear him. make him feel good.
suguru breathes out. it sounds like breaking.
his body hums with the after. his heart won’t settle. it’s not the climax that undid him — it’s what came with it. the idea that maybe he isn’t ruined. that maybe someone could want him.
it terrifies him.
he drags himself up, quiet and careful, peels off the blanket, and walks to the sink. rinses his hands with water that runs too cold. it grounds him.
when he catches sight of himself in the small mirror over the stove, he pauses. hair loose, cheeks flushed, mouth parted like he’s still in the middle of a breath.
he doesn’t recognize this version of himself. not entirely.
but he doesn’t look ashamed, either, for this split second.
just tired.
and maybe — if you look close — a little alive. he hasn't done anything like this in so long. he hasn't felt desire, or desired, in ages.
suguru turns the faucet off.
wipes his hands dry.
presses the heel of his palm to his chest, like that might quiet what still stirs underneath.
he climbs into bed without turning on the light.
suguru avoids him.
not all at once. not in a way that would seem obvious to anyone else.
just little things.
texts, left unanswered longer than usual.
the occasional class he joins shoko on, quietly subbed out.
he even tells shoko to pick up her next piece during a time he won’t be in the studio, knowing she's going to send satoru.
and when satoru does come by — like he always does, late and laughing, snow melting on his lashes — suguru’s kindness is still intact. he smiles. he says hello. he offers tea.
but it’s practiced. distant. a courtesy.
not closeness.
not anymore.
because he’s terrified. not just of what happened — not just the phone call, the want, the way he let it happen — but of what it means.
he liked it.
he liked the way satoru said his name.
he liked the things he let himself feel, the parts of himself he hadn’t let out in months — maybe years.
and that’s the problem.
he’s never been good at wanting without guilt. and satoru makes it feel so easy. so dangerously easy, like the rules don’t apply when he’s in the room, and suguru — still untangling the sharp, invisible threads of a relationship that made him smaller — doesn’t know what to do with that ease. that care. that joy.
so he does the only thing that feels safe.
he disappears in slow motion.
still smiles when satoru texts. still laughs at the occasional message. still presses his thumb to the screen like he wants to reply.
but he doesn’t.
he tells himself it’s better this way.
that he’s protecting something.
that this ache is a kindness.
but it’s not.
it’s just another wound. quieter. self - inflicted.
and every time he sees satoru’s name on his phone, he feels it twist — deep in his chest. longing, guilt, fear.
he’ll stop trying soon, suguru thinks.
and for reasons he can’t name,
that thought hurts most of all.
gojo satoru [10:42 am]
hey sugar cube
u alive?
gojo satoru [1:18 pm]
i brought snacks to the studio in case u’re hiding in the back again
(yes i included your weird rice crackers)
gojo satoru [6:07 pm]
missed u today
studio felt boring without your frowns <3
gojo satoru [10:12 pm]
okay
so i might’ve made a mug that looks like a gremlin
gojo satoru [10:12 pm]
like
haunted. genuinely cursed.
gojo satoru [10:13 pm]
kinda proud tbh
gojo satoru [12:03 am]
you okay?
gojo satoru [12:05 am]
if i pushed too far the other night
i’m sorry
three days pass.
no reply.
gojo satoru [4:44 pm]
shoko said you’re still breathing so i won’t send the search dogs
but also
ow
gojo satoru [4:45 pm]
...if you ghosted me just because the mug was ugly i understand. i’ll live in shame. but at least tell me so i can start my villain arc properly
gojo satoru [5:18 pm]
(just kidding)
(unless?)
five more days.
nothing.
gojo satoru [9:21 pm]
i don’t know what this is or was or wasn’t
but i hope you’re okay
gojo satoru [9:21 pm]
i miss talking to you
that’s all
he doesn’t send another after that, but the thread stays, undeleted..
always unread.
always waiting.
it happens in the middle of the night a week later.
he hadn’t meant to look.
he just...opened the thread. thumb swiping down out of muscle memory. not to reply. not to feel. just to see. just to remind himself what he’s ignoring.
but the moment he does, it hits him like a wave.
not the flirtation. not the jokes. not even the sweetness buried in the lines of text he couldn’t bring himself to answer.
it’s the care.
that stupid, dumb, loud, honest care.
the way satoru said you okay?
the way he apologized, even though suguru had asked for it — had wanted it.
the way he still joked, even as suguru disappeared into the dark again.
his chest caves in around it.
he sinks to the kitchen floor, back pressed to the cabinet. his tea has gone cold on the counter. the apartment hums around him like it doesn’t care.
and suguru cries.
not loud. not theatrical. just quiet, shaking, breathless sobs that fold him in half like paper. like something delicate breaking down the middle.
his phone is still in his hand.
satoru’s name still glowing.
he hates this.
he hates how bad he is at being loved. how bad he is at holding it in his hands without squeezing too tight. without panicking. without disappearing.
there’s something wrong with him.
his ex used to say that, too — but this time, it doesn’t sound cruel to him.
it just sounds real.
raw.
like an apology. like the kind of truth that makes your stomach twist.
he wipes his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, breath stuttering.
he was trying, suguru thinks. he was trying and i —
and i ruined it.
and i still want him.
he doesn’t send a message. he can’t.
but he lets the thread stay open on his screen.
lets it burn there.
he shouldn’t. he really, really shouldn’t. but it’s 1:04 am and his chest hurts and he’s been rereading that last message for over an hour.
i miss talking to you. that’s all.
he wipes his face again, even though the tears stopped a while ago. he’s cold. not from the room — from the guilt. the old kind. the kind you carry in your spine, in the place where love is supposed to rest.
he thinks: what if i just said something.
he thinks: what if he still answered.
so he types, slowly. thumb pausing after every few words.
suguru geto [1:07 am]
i’m sorry for disappearing.
i don’t really know how to do this.
whatever this is.
i didn’t mean to hurt you.
he stares at it for a long time.
then, without letting himself think too hard, he presses send.
his stomach drops immediately after. he turns off the screen. locks the phone. slides it across the floor like that will stop the feeling.
but it buzzes.
once.
he scrambles for it before the sound fades.
satoru gojo [1:08 am]
suguru
its just his name. suguru holds his breath.
satoru gojo [1:09 am]
i was just worried about you
i got used to you
and the way you say “satoru” like it’s a threat
suguru breathes in — sharp and sudden. he wants to laugh, but it hurts.
suguru geto [1:10 am]
that’s just how i say it
a beat. and then—
satoru gojo [1:10 am]
i know
i like it
he laughs now, though, a little — soft, breathless. it cracks somewhere inside him. something small. something rusted.
satoru gojo [1:10 am]
i'm usually the one ghosting, tbh
this kinda felt like karma
suguru geto [1:11 am]
i'm really sorry
satoru gojo [1:11 am]
was it the night? on the phone?
suguru geto [1:11 am]
yes, but also no
not how you think
i did want it, it wasn't like that
satoru gojo [1:12 am]
worried about that the most
that you didn't want to but did anyway
suguru geto [1:12 am]
no
no that wasn't it
satoru gojo [1:13am]
then what was it??
suguru stares at his phone. his eyes hurt. everything hurts.
suguru geto [1:15 am]
i just think there's something wrong with me
i don't know
satoru seems to type for a while.
the typing bubble comes and goes.
comes and goes.
blinks out.
comes back again.
suguru stares at it, jaw tense.
he half expects it to disappear completely.
but then:
satoru gojo [1:18 am]
hey. don’t say that.
a pause.
satoru gojo [1:19 am]
there’s nothing wrong with you. seriously.
suguru lets the phone rest on his knee. he doesn’t know what to say. he doesn’t even know what he wants to hear.
satoru gojo [1:19 am]
people want things
people get scared
you didn’t fuck anything up by feeling something
satoru gojo [1:20 am]
unless you killed someone in the time you’ve been ignoring me
in which case
that’s kind of hot but also concerning
suguru huffs a laugh. hand still over his mouth. it shakes a little.
his chest hurts.
suguru geto [1:20 am]
i didn’t kill anyone
satoru gojo [1:21 am]
see?? doing great.
satoru gojo [1:21 am]
look
you don’t have to explain anything
but if you think there’s something wrong with you for needing a second
or needing space
or not knowing what the hell to do with me
you’re wrong
just...tell me next time.
suguru geto [1:21 am]
i had a really bad ex.
satoru gojo [1:22 am]
i did kinda figure yk
you act like a skittish deer sometimes but also like a wolf
some weird cryptic prey and predator like you're scared of smth all the time
figured smth happened with an ex
i dont know how bad it is but
i like you
& still want to take you out if you want to try
im very impatient always but i can wait
the silence stretches.
suguru reads it twice. three times. presses his phone to his sternum like that might keep him from splitting open again.
he doesn’t reply yet.
but his fingers are steady now.
and the ache feels a little less like drowning.
and he knows — without needing to say it —
that satoru is still there.
it’s almost normal again.
they’re back in the studio, light spilling across the clay - speckled tables, the radio low and playing something aimless. shoko was so fucking relieved they were normal again, she came to the studio twice this week. today, though, the two fo them are alone. suguru’s working a new mug into shape. satoru’s beside him, sleeves rolled up, clay under his nails, laughing at his own awful attempt at a bowl that looks more like a deflated hat.
“be honest,” satoru says, squinting at his creation. “should i just give up and open a haunted pottery museum?”
“no one would come.”
“wrong. the spirits would.”
suguru doesn’t smile, exactly — but he softens. that same tug at the corner of his mouth. his hair’s tied back, loose and messy. his hands are stained from the slip. his sleeves are dusted with powder, his knuckles pink from the cold water.
he looks at peace.
he doesn’t feel it.
not entirely.
because every now and then — when satoru laughs, when he leans too close, when his voice dips just a little too low — suguru’s body remembers.
remembers what it felt like, breath caught in his throat, phone hot against his cheek, the low curl of desire unfurling under his skin like firelight.
it happened.
it happened.
and they haven’t talked about it. not directly. not yet, and suguru knows that's his own fault.
but it’s changed something.
like heat still trapped between them — low, humming, patient.
satoru’s hand brushes his wrist as he reaches for the sponge. just a second. barely a graze. but suguru’s pulse skips.
“you okay?” satoru asks, too casual. not looking at him, like he’s pretending it was nothing.
suguru’s breath catches anyway.
he nods. doesn’t speak.
but later, while they’re both cleaning up — fingers slick with glaze, studio quiet again — satoru says, more gently now, “you seem more like yourself, kinda. i mean, what i imagine you'd be like, if you weren't so quiet and reserved all the time.”
suguru glances up.
the look satoru gives him is easy, open. it's not cruel, or mean. the words aren't harsh. they're soft, hopeful. he looks — earnest. odd, coming from him, and all he's gotten to know about satoru. rich, spoiled, lonely.
suguru exhales slow.
“i’m trying.”
and he is.
it feels different, now — whatever this is between them. warmer. heavier.
not just flirtation. not just a joke.
like something real is threading through the silence, and they’re both pretending not to pull at it too hard.
satoru grins, leaning back against the counter.
“well,” he says, voice light, “for the record — i liked you quiet. but i like you like this too.”
suguru doesn't respond.
but he holds that warmth like a secret.
and lets it settle into his ribs.
they don’t say anything after that.
not right away.
the silence stretches, soft but charged, like the moment’s exhaling with them — long and slow and just this side of intimate.
suguru rinses his hands in the cold sink water. it slips through his fingers, washes away the slip, the glaze, the ache, but not the heat.
not the way he still feels watched.
he glances sideways.
satoru’s still leaning there, arms crossed now, watching him with a look that’s almost smug — but not quite. there’s something reverent in it. like he’s looking at something he knows he shouldn’t touch unless invited.
and god, it makes suguru feel —
he doesn’t have the word.
and if he does, he doesn't want to think about it here.
“you’re staring,” suguru says, voice low. not accusing. just...pointing it out.
satoru doesn’t look away.
just tilts his head slightly, like he’s inspecting something rare.
or holy.
“yeah,” he says. “i am.”
suguru dries his hands slowly, methodically, letting the cloth soak the water drip by drip. he doesn’t meet his gaze, but he doesn’t turn away either.
the room is quiet except for the hum of the space heater, the distant city snow - muffled outside. they’re alone.
again.
“don’t do that,” suguru murmurs, softer now. a little hoarse.
“what?”
“look at me like that.”
satoru’s voice lowers, matches his.
“like what?”
suguru turns, finally.
his hair’s falling out of its tie. his collar is a little damp from a stray splash. his eyes are tired. rimmed faintly pink. but he’s so —
god, he’s warm.
and satoru looks like he wants.
it hangs there between them. not spoken. not acted on. but present.
“like you know something i don’t,” he says quietly.
“i don’t,” satoru says, just as quiet. “i just like the view.”
and it should be corny.
should be easy to shrug off.
but it’s not.
because suguru’s heart stutters.
and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel watched.
he feels seen.
he shakes his head. half a smile at the edge of his mouth. still unsure what to do with all this softness.
“idiot,” he mutters.
but he doesn’t look away.
doesn’t hide.
and satoru’s smile, in return, is slower now.
smaller.
more careful.
like he knows not to spook him. like he knows what it means, a little bit — for suguru to stay.
they clean up the rest of the way in a comfortable quiet, but the silence hums, laced with something neither of them touches, not yet. their hands move — sponge, glaze jar, rag, rinse. habitual motions, practiced and sure, even by satoru now, who's become a bit of a regular. but every now and then their fingers brush, or their shoulders knock, or satoru leans just a little too close to grab a towel that suguru’s already holding.
and each time, suguru’s breath catches.
just for a second.
just enough.
his pulse is fast. stupid fast. like it’s remembering something he hasn't let himself name out loud.
he feels aware.
of himself, of the shape of his body, of the heat coming off satoru’s skin.
of the way satoru’s voice has gone quiet, softer, the way his eyes keep cutting sideways — not quite watching, but never far.
there’s nothing subtle about it anymore. not really.
they’re both pretending to be casual, but they’re awful at it. suguru wants him so bad, his hands shake. he drops a sponge into the sink, the splash louder than it needs to be. he leans over to drain the water, and satoru moves at the same time, reaching for the faucet.
they pause.
their arms brush.
a slow drag of skin on cotton.
neither of them moves away.
suguru straightens slowly, face angled down, but his eyes flicker up.
satoru is close.
too close.
his breath fogs the air between them.
he smells like expensive soap and clay and snow still clinging to his sleeves.
“sorry,” satoru says, but he doesn’t sound sorry.
he sounds hungry.
suguru stares at his mouth.
the air goes tight.
too much.
not enough.
neither of them moves.
“you can tell me to back off,” satoru says, voice low.
suguru doesn’t.
he thinks: this is stupid. i shouldn’t.
he thinks: i want to.
satoru’s hand brushes his wrist — barely. just a ghost of contact.
suguru’s mouth opens.
he doesn’t say yes.
he doesn’t say don’t stop.
but he doesn’t pull away.
and he doesn’t look away.
and satoru’s eyes drop to his mouth, then back up.
and the air between them aches.
satoru doesn’t move. not at first. his breath is shallow now, fogging the space between them. like this, suguru can actually see him. it's not a call. he can see the heat in satoru's eyes, the way the usually bright blue has darkened with hunger, lidded and hot.
the world has gone quiet around them — no heater hum, no water running, no city outside. just this stillness, wound tight like a wire between two hands. stretched. trembling. on the verge of something.
suguru swallows.
his fingers curl around the edge of the sink behind him, knuckles pale. he feels too much — skin too tight, heartbeat too loud, mouth dry from how long he’s been looking at satoru’s lips and not doing anything about it.
he could.
he could.
and he’s so used to saying no, to pulling away, to choosing distance because closeness is so often a weapon —
but satoru hasn’t hurt him. hasn’t even tried.
he just waits, stupid and glowing and beautiful, like the moment is suguru's to ruin.
so suguru does the one thing he shouldn’t.
he leans in.
not fast. not sure. not bold.
just a breath forward, just enough for the space to shatter between them.
and satoru meets him there.
a soft sound — a yes buried in a sigh — and then satoru’s lips are on his, warm and reverent and real.
suguru makes a noise in the back of his throat, like something inside him just cracked open.
the kiss is slow.
not tentative, but not rushed either.
like they both know exactly what they’re doing, and how it’s already too late to stop.
satoru’s hands hover before they land — one at suguru’s waist, the other curling loosely around the back of his neck, light enough to let him go if he needs to.
he doesn’t.
god, he doesn’t.
this already feels different.
completely, wholly different.
the phone call had been want in its rawest form — breath and voice and the low, urgent rasp of god, say my name again. suguru had been flushed and alone and desperate, every word another shiver up his spine. he’d come to the sound of satoru’s voice, to the ache of closeness conjured through wires and distance and longing.
but this —
this is flesh.
satoru’s hands are on him now, real and anchoring, one sliding from his waist to play with the hem of his shirt, just resting there. suguru’s breath stutters — the warmth of satoru’s palm against his skin lights him up from the inside.
and their mouths —
the kiss is slow, deep, hot — not hurried, not frantic, just wet. open. reverent. satoru kisses like he’s trying to memorize him, like he’s wanted this, really wanted it, and now he has it, he’s not going to waste a second.
suguru groans softly, lips parting as satoru tilts his head and licks into his mouth, gentle but sure. his tongue slides against suguru’s, warm and slick and so good suguru forgets how to breathe.
his hands grip satoru’s waist, pull him closer. their hips knock together, barely restrained.
it’s different from the phone because they’re touching.
because suguru can feel the tremble in satoru’s fingers.
the little noises satoru makes when suguru sucks on his bottom lip, soft and wet and a little obscene.
because suguru can open his eyes and see him — flushed and breathless and gorgeous.
satoru breaks away just enough to rest their foreheads together, panting, eyes shut.
“you kiss like you’ve been thinking about it for days,” he murmurs, breath ghosting across suguru’s cheek.
“i have,” suguru whispers back. “you?”
satoru huffs a laugh, low and shaky. “you have no idea.”
their mouths find each other again, messier now — all heat and pressure and aching need.
suguru tilts his head back just slightly, lets satoru lick into him deeper, lets the kiss turn sticky and wet, slick with spit and god, it’s filthy, the way satoru groans like he’s starving.
and suguru—
suguru wants to give.
wants to be touched, taken.
he threads his fingers into satoru’s hair and kisses him harder.
he’s still scared.
but he’s burning.
satoru doesn’t hesitate.
not now.
he’s been patient. he’s been gentle. he’s waited — through silence, through distance, through suguru pulling away and coming back like a tide that doesn’t know if it wants to drown or be held. weeks of quiet, of guilt and shame and just a general fear of connection.
but now?
now he’s here.
and suguru’s kissing him back like he means it.
satoru deepens it — hand sliding from suguru’s the hem to his lower back, firm, possessive, pulling him flush. their bodies collide, hard and hot, breath catching in shared mouths. satoru’s other hand is still at the back of suguru’s neck, guiding him, holding him steady, thumb brushing just beneath his ear.
“fuck,” he breathes against suguru’s lips, voice wrecked. “you taste good.” he gasps against suguru's mouth. "knew you would, knew you would —"
suguru makes a sound — soft, helpless — and satoru grins, teeth flashing before he licks back into his mouth, slow and filthy.
the kiss turns greedy. not rushed — but deeper. messier. a little overwhelming. suguru lets himself be kissed, lets satoru press him back until he’s against the edge of the counter. satoru’s thigh slots between his legs like it belongs there, and lets satoru lift him onto the counter.
and suguru —
he gasps when satoru rolls his hips forward, just once, just enough to feel it.
“satoru —”
“i’ve thought about this,” satoru mutters, pressing in closer. “about you. fuck, suguru — your mouth — the way you say my name —”
suguru moans before he can stop it. low and choked and ruined.
satoru kisses him like it’s the only way he knows how to speak.
wet. hot. their tongues tangled, lips kissed - red and slick with spit. suguru’s head tips back, and satoru takes advantage — trails kisses along his jaw, down to the edge of his throat, open - mouthed and hungry.
“tell me if you want me to stop,” satoru says, voice lower now, pressed to the space beneath suguru’s ear. “just say the word.”
but suguru doesn’t want to. they're in the studio and this is actually a worse idea than the phone call, but he doesn't want to stop. he can't. satoru is so big, and warm, and suguru feels so good. he's so tired of feeling bad. this is all he wants.
so his hands fist in the fabric of satoru’s shirt, and he pulls him closer instead.
“don’t stop,” suguru says, wrecked. “just — don’t.”
and satoru groans like he’s waited his whole fucking life to hear that.
he surges up, kisses him harder — no restraint, no hesitation. suguru opens for him, easy and desperate, and satoru presses closer between his thighs like it’s the only place he’s ever meant to be. suguru shudders against him, back arching, mouth gasping open under the heat of it all.
the countertop is cold beneath him, but he doesn’t feel it. he only feels satoru’s hands, large and grounding — one braced at his lower back, the other splayed across his ribs now, fingers slipping beneath layers, touching bare skin.
god, suguru thinks. he’s touching me.
and it doesn’t feel wrong.
it doesn’t feel sharp or dirty or something to be endured.
it feels good.
so good he might lose his mind.
satoru mouths at his throat, biting softly, then licking over the mark like an apology. suguru groans, high and broken. his fingers dig into satoru’s shoulders, clinging, needing something to hold onto before he floats right out of himself.
“you’re so sensitive,” satoru whispers, hot against his neck. “like you’ve never been touched right.”
suguru shivers.
because he hasn’t.
not like this.
not like this.
“satoru —” he breathes, half-wrecked already.
“shh,” satoru says, hand slipping up his shirt. “just let me.”
his thumb brushes across a nipple, and suguru gasps, his whole body jolting at the contact. satoru groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard, like suguru’s breathy little noises are something sacred.
he keeps kissing him — mouth dragging down his throat, collarbone, anywhere he can reach. when he speaks, his voice is raw and low:
“you don’t have to be quiet, you know,” he murmurs. “not with me.”
and that —
that nearly undoes suguru completely.
because he wants.
so badly.
and this time, he’s not ashamed of it.
he leans forward, cups satoru’s face in his hands, pulls him in for another kiss — open and wet and gasping — like he’s starving for it. like it’s something that will save him.
and maybe it is.
maybe it already has.
suguru kisses him like he’s breaking.
like every touch pulls something loose inside him —
like he’s been holding himself together too long and now satoru’s hands are on him, and there’s no reason to keep pretending.
satoru moans into his mouth, deep and low, pulling him closer like he needs to. his hands are everywhere now — warm against suguru’s sides, fingers splayed across his ribs, brushing under the hem of his shirt again like he wants to memorize every inch of him.
“fuck,” satoru breathes, pulling back just barely, just enough to look. his pupils are blown wide, lips kiss - bitten and wet. he stares at suguru like he’s something divine. “you’re so pretty like this.”
suguru makes a sound — half a laugh, half a broken exhale — and turns his face away, flushed down to his throat.
“shut up,” he mutters.
“no,” satoru says, soft and smug and sincere. his thumb strokes just beneath suguru’s eye, tilts his chin gently back toward him. “don’t hide. look at me.”
suguru’s breath catches.
and he does.
eyes heavy - lidded, lips parted, pupils blown wide with want. and it’s too much, too intimate, the way satoru holds his face like that, like he’s fragile but not breakable, like he’s precious. like he’s wanted.
“you’re beautiful,” satoru murmurs, reverent. “you make the prettiest sounds, you know that?”
suguru chokes on something. a laugh. a sob. a moan. he doesn’t know.
he presses his forehead to satoru’s shoulder, trying to hide the way he shakes.
“don’t say that,” he whispers, voice wrecked.
“why not?” satoru breathes into his hair. “it’s true. it’s so fucking true. you’re gorgeous, suguru. jesus, how could anyone have made you think otherwise? fuck.”
it feels different when satoru says it like this. low and full of heat.
like he means it. like he’s saying i see you. i want you. you’re mine to hold, not to hurt.
suguru fists his hands in satoru’s coat, clutching like he’s afraid this will disappear if he lets go.
he’s unraveling by the seams, quietly, exquisitely.
satoru holds him like he knows exactly how to catch the pieces.
his hands are still under suguru’s shirt, warm against bare skin, one palm splayed flat at the dip of his spine, the other tracing slow, grounding circles at his ribs. like he’s anchoring him. like he knows suguru might float off if he lets go.
“you don’t have to keep it all in,” satoru says, voice low, rough with want and worry and something sweeter underneath. “you’re allowed to come apart a little.”
suguru’s still pressed into his shoulder. breathing slow. trembling, faintly.
not because he’s scared — not exactly.
just because it’s been so long since someone touched him like this and didn’t take.
since someone wanted and didn’t hurt.
“don’t say things like that,” suguru murmurs, his voice paper - thin. “you don’t know what that does to me.”
“i think i do,” satoru says, and leans in, kisses just beneath his ear. “you’re shaking.”
suguru exhales, shaky, like the breath was caught in him.
his fingers tighten at satoru’s waist.
and satoru —
god, he’s gentle. commanding, yes — forward, cocky, hungry — but never cruel. never careless. every word like a hand offered, every kiss like a door held open.
“can i touch you more?” he asks quietly. “you can say no.”
suguru nods.
then: “yes. just — slow.”
“slow,” satoru repeats. “i can do slow.”
and he does.
his hands don’t rush. they explore.
he slides them up suguru’s sides, palms warm and fingers steady, lifting his shirt just enough to bend and kiss the skin there — soft and reverent, lips dragging over the sharp line of a rib, the dip of a waist.
suguru gasps, arches faintly. it’s not overtly sexual — not yet — but it’s intimate in a way that leaves him breathless.
“so fucking beautiful,” satoru mutters again, like he can’t help it. “wish you could see yourself.”
suguru doesn’t say anything.
he can’t.
his face is hot, his mouth parted.
his throat is tight with everything he doesn’t know how to say — not yet, not tonight — but his body is saying all of it for him.
want me.
keep going.
don’t stop.
he pulls satoru back in for a kiss, desperate and deep, and satoru goes with it — lets him take control for a beat, lets him kiss back rough and shaking, lets him want.
they don’t fuck.
not tonight.
but by the time satoru pulls away, they’re both flushed and breathless and half - undressed, leaning forehead to forehead in the quiet glow of the studio’s lamplight.
“i should go,” satoru says, eventually.
it’s regretful. not final. "you'd get in so much trouble if we fucked in here."
suguru laughs.
satoru kisses him once more, soft and slow. “but you’re gonna let me take you out soon, yeah?”
suguru hesitates. breathes in. then out.
“...yeah,” he says. “i think i am.”
it’s been snowing again.
not hard — just a soft flurry that turns the city into something quiet and dusted with white, the air crisp and full of breath. suguru watches it from his window that morning, still barefoot, still tired, one hand curled around a mug of lukewarm tea he forgot to finish.
he keeps checking the time.
keeps checking his phone.
he’s not nervous, not really — he’s just...bracing. for something.
he agreed to this. he wants this. but it’s been a long time since he’s wanted anything that didn’t come with regret.
still, when the knock comes at six sharp, he doesn’t hesitate.
he opens the door and satoru’s standing there in a coat that probably cost more than suguru’s rent, snowflakes melting on his lashes, a little grin curling his mouth like he knows he looks ridiculous.
“hey,” he says, casual, like they haven’t been texting goodnight every night for two weeks straight. like they don't kiss in the studio. like they're not kind of already dating. “you ready to be wined and dined?”
“i don’t drink,” suguru says dryly, stepping into his shoes.
“fine,” satoru sighs. “you’ll be dined. i’ll be wined. everyone wins.”
the restaurant isn’t fancy, but it’s warm. cozy. local. satoru insists on sitting next to him in the booth instead of across, which suguru only rolls his eyes at once before letting it happen.
the table’s too small. their knees keep brushing. satoru does it on purpose.
they order small plates, and satoru talks with his hands. suguru pretends not to notice how he leans in when he laughs, or how he stares at suguru’s mouth when he eats.
they talk about things that don’t hurt. art, mostly. shoko. terrible movies. the weird playlist the restaurant has going. the clay that got stuck in suguru’s hair last week.
and through it all —
the warmth of satoru’s thigh against his. the brush of fingers when their hands meet on the tabletop. the heat in satoru’s eyes every time suguru tilts his head and smiles.
they linger at the table long after the plates are cleared.
dessert comes and goes — suguru doesn’t want any, but satoru orders something with chocolate anyway and eats it obnoxiously slow, like he’s trying to tease. suguru watches him spoon molten cake into his mouth with a look that’s almost unimpressed, almost fond.
“you’re doing that on purpose,” he says, sipping the hot water he asked for after dinner. no lemon. no honey. just water.
satoru grins around a mouthful of sugar. “doing what?”
“being annoying.”
“you like it.”
suguru hums. noncommittal.
but he’s not denying it.
the warmth between them has grown into something solid. not nervous anymore, not sharp and electrified. just... present. there’s a pull now. something steady. suguru feels it in the way satoru leans into him a little more when he laughs. in the way suguru doesn’t move away.
outside, the snow is still falling, fine and quiet, catching in the glow of the streetlights like something enchanted. when they leave the restaurant, suguru tucks his hands into his coat pockets, and satoru doesn’t reach for him — not yet. just walks close, their shoulders brushing now and then.
“you good?” satoru asks, softly, when they’re about halfway to the train.
suguru glances at him. “...yeah.”
“just checking. sometimes you go quiet and i can’t tell if it’s a mood or if you’re just mysterious.”
“it’s always a mood,” suguru mutters.
“ah.” satoru bumps him with his arm. “moody and mysterious. hot.”
suguru snorts. “idiot.”
but he’s smiling again. without meaning to.
because this feels easy. and suguru doesn’t get easy. hasn’t, in a long time.
they stop outside the station entrance, the warm yellow light of a streetlamp casting a faint halo around them. suguru shifts his weight. snow’s started to collect in his hair. satoru reaches out, brushes some away. "come to mine." he murmurs, gentle. there isn't even an implication in there, but suguru wants. finally. finally. he wants so bad.
he steps away from the station and nods, which makes satoru groan. "thank fuck, because i have my car here and only took the stupid station for the cute ambiance, with you, but it's fucking freezing and my car is superior."
it makes suguru laugh, and laugh, all the way to that stupid batmobile.
the car ride is short, quiet, a little charged.
suguru stares out the window most of the time, fingers tucked into his sleeves. the snow has thickened now, blanketing the sidewalks, frosting the glass. the heater hums softly. satoru keeps sneaking glances over — not saying anything, not pushing — just...watching.
he looks like he wants to say something the whole ride.
doesn’t.
when they pull up to his building, satoru hops out first and circles around to suguru’s side before he can open the door himself.
“chivalry’s not dead,” he says, grinning, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat.
“you’re so dramatic,” suguru murmurs, stepping out.
“you like it.”
he does. so much. it makes him feel warm.
satoru’s apartment is on the eighteenth floor of a high - rise that looks too nice for someone who claims to live off of expired yogurt and sugar packets he steals from cafes.
the elevator dings quietly. the hallway is carpeted. there’s a faint smell of something fancy — like cedar and old money.
suguru exhales as they walk, a little too aware of his own boots squeaking faintly on the floor.
“you sure this is your place?” he asks, voice dry.
“absolutely,” satoru says, fishing for his keys. “can’t you tell by the aura of extreme wealth and loneliness?”
suguru snorts. “it’s the loneliness that really gives it away.”
“i’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that,” satoru says, unlocking the door.
he holds it open with a dramatic bow. “after you.”
suguru hesitates. just for a breath.
not because he doesn’t want to go in — he does. but the air shifts in his chest, tightens slightly, the same way it always does when a doorway means more than a doorway. when it means: this is a line. are you ready to cross it?
he steps through.
and —
god, it’s ridiculous.
the apartment is all wide windows and soft lighting and sleek furniture. the floors are polished. the walls are warm - toned. there’s a huge sectional couch, absurdly cozy looking, draped in throws and pillows like someone tried to Pinterest vulnerability. there’s a kitchen off to the side that looks like it’s never been used.
satoru tosses his keys onto a dish by the door and shrugs off his coat.
his hair’s mussed. there’s snow melting at the collar of his shirt.
“so,” he says, leaning against the wall like he’s in a movie. “what do you think? do i live like a man of mystery and taste?”
suguru looks around once more. then raises an eyebrow.
“you live like someone who paid someone else to make him look interesting.”
satoru presses a hand to his chest. “i am interesting.”
“are you.”
“yes! and that couch — ” he gestures grandly — “is a life - changing experience. not to be dramatic.”
“you’re always dramatic.”
“and you keep showing up anyway,” satoru says, quieter now. gentler.
that slows something in suguru’s chest.
softens it.
“...yeah,” suguru says, after a beat. “i do.”
“can i get you anything?” satoru asks, peeling off his gloves. “tea? cocoa? the blood of your enemies?”
“hot water.”
“suguru,” satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. “you have to start living a little.”
“i’m here, aren’t i?”
satoru blinks at him. then breaks into a grin.
“that you are.”
he heads to the kitchen. suguru watches him go, then walks slowly toward the couch. stands in front of it for a second, unsure what to do with himself. the room smells faintly of something clean and warm. amber, maybe. he doesn’t know. it smells like someone who’s lived here for a while but never really settled.
the same way suguru carries himself in his own apartment — like he’s still waiting for something to come back or blow up.
but here, with satoru moving around the kitchen, with the lights dimmed low and the city glowing faintly through the windows —
it’s easier to breathe.
he sits.
sinks a little into the cushions. they’re as disgustingly comfortable as advertised.
satoru returns a minute later with a mug of plain hot water and something blue and bubbly for himself.
“cheers,” he says, clinking their mugs together before sprawling next to him on the couch like he owns the place. which, technically, he does.
suguru watches him settle.
the way he keeps a little space. the way he doesn’t touch without asking. the way his knee keeps twitching like he wants to.
“so,” satoru says, quieter now. “are we watching something? or are we pretending to watch something while making extremely loaded eye contact until one of us cracks?”
“you’re such an idiot,” suguru mutters.
“but a charming one.”
and suguru — tired, warm, still here — lets himself smile.
just a little. just enough.
“...maybe,” he says, leaning back. “put something on.”
and satoru grabs the remote and doesn’t push.
they do watch something. technically.
satoru scrolls through options until he lands on some ridiculous action movie, all explosions and bad one - liners. he keeps glancing over during the first ten minutes, like he’s waiting for suguru to comment on it, tear it apart, make some quiet, cutting remark.
but suguru’s just...watching. quiet. comfortable.
their knees are still brushing.
after twenty minutes, satoru’s arm is resting behind him again, light across the back of the couch. suguru doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move away.
when the next explosion rattles the speakers, suguru shifts slightly, enough that his shoulder presses into satoru’s side.
satoru freezes for a second.
then exhales.
“you okay?” he asks again, even though suguru’s here, even though he’s leaning into him, even though he hasn’t run.
“i’m fine,” suguru says, voice low. “just warm.”
satoru chuckles. “want to move?”
“no.”
a beat. then —
“do you want me to move?” satoru asks, quieter.
suguru turns his head a little.
they’re close now. too close. not enough.
their faces are inches apart. the TV flickers against suguru’s skin, painting his jaw in light. his hair is loose, falling over one shoulder, catching satoru’s attention like it always does.
“...no,” suguru murmurs. “don’t move.”
and satoru doesn’t, until he does. it's in, though.
he leans in, slow, deliberate. gives him time to stop it. doesn’t close the distance until suguru shifts, just slightly, until their noses brush.
their mouths meet a second later. soft. exploratory.
and then —
then it changes.
because suguru sighs into it. tilts his head just so. opens for him with this quiet kind of surrender that goes straight to satoru’s chest. his hands come up, slow, cautious, resting on satoru’s chest. and satoru kisses him like he’s been starving for it — deep, careful, wanting. he licks into his mouth once, twice, and suguru makes a sound that’s half a breath and half something else.
the kiss turns slower, wetter, messier — not frantic, but hungry. like they’re still figuring out how to breathe around it.
like they don’t want to.
satoru’s hand finds suguru’s waist. warm through the fabric of his shirt. his other hand slides into the loose dark of suguru’s hair, careful not to startle him — but firm enough to hold him there.
and suguru lets him. melts into him.
“you taste good,” satoru whispers, between kisses.
“you always say that,” suguru murmurs back, voice shaky, lips brushing his.
“because it’s always true.”
he kisses him again. harder this time.
and suguru gasps.
his hands fist into the soft cotton of satoru’s shirt. his thighs shift. satoru slides closer. presses in more fully, until their bodies align, until there’s no mistaking the heat pooling low in his belly.
the movie keeps playing. they forget it entirely.
“you’re so fucking pretty,” satoru breathes, pressing open - mouthed kisses along his jaw, down the column of his neck. “you know that?”
“satoru —”
“yeah?”
“don’t stop.”
satoru pulls back just enough to look at him. suguru’s flushed — cheeks tinged pink. his eyes are soft, dark, uncertain but wanting.
“not going to,” satoru promises. “unless you tell me to.”
suguru doesn’t.
he kisses him instead.
and the night tilts around them — slow, careful, warm with heat and want and the faint, quiet knowing that this time, this time, it’s allowed to feel good.
satoru’s hands never stray too far. they stay warm at suguru’s waist, thumbs brushing slow arcs against cotton. suguru’s legs shift, parting slightly where satoru slots closer, thigh brushing thigh. he exhales against satoru’s mouth, soft and shaky — and satoru groans, low in his throat, like the sound itself undoes him.
he tilts suguru’s head back gently, guiding, coaxing, kissing him deeper. not messy yet, but wet — slick mouths, tongues meeting like heat drawn to heat. suguru's breath hitches every time satoru sucks lightly at his bottom lip, every time his hand slides just barely up under the hem of suguru’s shirt to find bare skin, warm and smooth.
“this okay?” satoru murmurs, voice thick. “you still good?”
suguru nods. then says, quietly: “don’t stop.”
he’s sitting sideways across the couch now, one knee bent, the other sliding to brace against the cushions. satoru’s between his legs, kneeling over him, arms bracketing his waist, cradling him without caging him.
it’s different from the phone. different from fantasy.
this is real. touch and scent and sound. his fingers in suguru’s hair. suguru’s breath catching when satoru’s hands ghost over the bare skin of his hips. the feel of fabric wrinkling under satoru’s palms as suguru pulls at his shirt like he needs more contact, like he’s finally letting himself want.
and god, he does.
it’s all over his face — flushed and open and hungry. and satoru feels it in the way suguru kisses back, the way he arches just barely into the pressure of satoru’s palm at the small of his back, like he’s saying yes with his whole body.
“you’re killing me,” satoru mutters, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the edge of his throat. “you — fuck, you feel so good, suguru. you’re so —”
“you talk too much,” suguru whispers, but he’s smiling, just barely, even as he tips his head back to give him access.
“do not,” satoru breathes against his skin. “i say just enough.”
he presses a kiss beneath his ear. then lower. then lower. until suguru’s gasping, clutching tighter at his shirt, lips parting like a prayer.
the couch creaks as they shift again. satoru’s thigh presses between suguru’s legs and suguru moans, soft and startled — because it’s not fast, not rough, but god it’s overwhelming. the pressure. the friction. the heat of another body so close.
“satoru,” he breathes, shaky. “please — i — ”
“i’ve got you,” satoru whispers, voice ragged. “just tell me what you need. i’ve got you.”
and suguru — blinking up at him, eyes glassy with want — just says:
“don’t stop touching me.”
his voice cracks on it. like it’s hard to ask. like it costs him something.
but satoru doesn’t flinch. doesn’t tease.
he kisses him again, slow and deep and reverent.
and he doesn’t stop.
they stay like that, tangled and trembling, the world falling away around them. the movie long forgotten, the snow behind the windows painting everything in silver. just suguru on the couch — flushed and pliant, fingers curled in the hem of satoru’s shirt — and satoru above him, coaxing his every breath into something helpless and warm.
it’s not hurried. not greedy.
but it’s consuming.
satoru’s hands trace slow, steady lines over suguru’s ribs, thumbs dipping into the dip of his waist. every motion is reverent, practiced, but gentle — like he’s learning him by touch, not just want. he shifts his thigh again, firmer this time, and suguru exhales a sound he wasn’t prepared for. it comes out strained, almost quiet — but wrecked. like it costs him everything to stay still. he's hard again, aching. he's dreamed about this. hungred for it.
“pretty,” satoru breathes again, and he means it. “you’re so fucking pretty like this.”
suguru’s head tips back against the cushions, neck bare, throat fluttering with the effort of holding something in.
“stop — saying — ” he tries, weakly, but it doesn’t land. not really. especially not when he shifts his hips forward like that, chasing the friction.
satoru leans in again. mouths at his jaw. trails kisses down the column of his neck. his teeth scrape, once, soft — and suguru’s hips jerk. it’s instinctual. it’s not graceful. it is honest.
“you like when i say it,” satoru murmurs against his throat. “it’s okay. you can like it. i want you to.”
suguru shudders.
and then his hands — finally, finally — move. they slide under satoru’s shirt, fingers cool where they meet skin, hesitant and slow, like suguru isn’t sure he’s allowed to take. satoru groans at the contact, dips down and kisses him again, filthy, all tongue and heat and open - mouthed want. the couch groans under their weight as they move together — slowly, carefully. suguru’s legs part more, draw satoru in closer, and their bodies align like gravity is tugging them into place.
and through it all, satoru keeps whispering:
“you taste so good —”
“— been thinking about this since the call, since before —”
“— you’re so warm, baby, so good —”
suguru gasps into his mouth.
it’s that word — baby — that undoes him a little. something about how easy satoru says it. like he means it. like it’s not something suguru has to earn.
his nails bite into satoru’s back. not hard. just enough.
and satoru stills. pulls back just enough to search his face.
“suguru,” he says, softer now, thumb brushing his cheek. “are you okay?”
suguru nods. swallows. his chest rises and falls quick. his lips are swollen. he looks up at him with something cracked open in his expression.
“i just...i’m not used to this,” he admits, voice barely there. “being wanted like this.”
satoru leans in again, rests his forehead against suguru’s. their next kiss is softer. not gentler — but deeper. more sure.
and when satoru rocks against him again — suguru moans into his mouth, fingers curling in his hair, the heat between them unbearable —
they don’t make it to the bedroom.
they don’t need to.
the couch becomes the whole world — soft cushions, tangled limbs, the steady hum of the heater and the muted white of snow thick behind the windows. it’s warm in here. it’s hot in here.
satoru moves slowly, like he’s unwrapping something delicate. not fragile — suguru is never fragile — but breakable, maybe. only in the places that were never tended to.
and suguru lets him.
his body opens under every touch, blooming slow, uncertain. he’s flushed and breathless, chest rising and falling with too much feeling. the curve of his neck is slick with satoru’s mouth. his shirt’s bunched high on his ribs now, the pale lines of his body bared in soft lamplight. his skin is warmer than satoru expected — warmer than fire — and he arches into every press like he’s aching to be wanted.
he is.
satoru trails kisses down the line of his throat, over the hollow of his collarbone, slow and reverent. his hands map over suguru’s waist, his hips, his thighs — not greedy, just steady, grounding, like he’s reminding him: you’re here. you’re safe. i want you like this, too.
“tell me what you need,” he murmurs, his voice rough now, wrecked around the edges. “please, suguru — let me hear you.”
and suguru’s voice is already gone. already wrecked. his cock is so hard, straining in his jeans, aching and begging.
“i don’t know,” he breathes, barely a whisper. “just — keep going. don’t stop.”
and so satoru doesn’t.
he learns him slowly, learns the way suguru’s breath hitches when his palm slips lower, the way his lashes flutter when satoru’s mouth finds the underside of his ribs. the way he whines when satoru palms him.
he gives back, too. clumsy at first, uncertain — but eager. suguru’s hands roam beneath satoru’s shirt now, mapping muscle and warmth, tracing over skin like he’s studying it, trying to memorize it all in case it disappears.
“you’re really —” he starts, but doesn’t finish. doesn’t need to.
satoru smiles against his neck. bites down, soft.
“i know,” he says. “i am.”
and suguru laughs, low and breathless, which earns him a slow roll of satoru’s hips that makes him gasp again, all the air pulled from his lungs at once.
they grind slow against each other now, fully clothed but soaked in heat. the friction is filthy. steady. unbearable. satoru’s fingers slip under the waistband of suguru’s pants, and when suguru bucks up into the touch, panting, satoru moans outright. they're both so hard, and the pressure feels so good.
“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so — fuck, suguru, you feel so good like this.”
suguru claws at him, kisses him messily, like he doesn’t know how else to say thank you. like he doesn’t know how else to say more.
and it’s this. this is what breaks something open inside of him — not the sex, not the heat — but the fact that it feels good and safe and wanted and he gets to want it back.
he’s not being taken.
he’s being held.
and when satoru once again slips a hand lower, touches him through his clothes, and keeps touching him — slow, relentless, praising —
“so good, suguru, so perfect, look at you —”
— suguru comes with a gasp, body arched, hand fisted in satoru’s shirt, breath catching on a sound.
it’s not about the sex. it’s about the letting go.
it’s about finally letting someone love the parts of him that ache.
satoru kisses him through it.
doesn’t rush. doesn’t let go.
and suguru clings.
breathless. trembling.
held.
suguru’s breath is still catching in his throat, uneven and shallow, when the tremor rolls through him — hips twitching, thighs tightening around satoru’s waist — and he comes, just like that, still in his pants, panting and flushed and overwhelmed.
the realization hits a beat later, sharp and burning.
his body goes still.
he blinks up at satoru — wide - eyed, humiliated, undone — and the flush in his cheeks spreads down to his chest like heat blooming under skin. his hands scrabble at satoru’s shirt like he means to hide, push, pull away —
but satoru just breathes out this soft, wrecked little noise, something like please and fuck all tangled together, and holds him steady.
“don’t,” satoru says, eyes dark, voice low. “don’t do that. don’t hide.”
“i —” suguru starts, but he doesn’t have anything else. he turns his face away, tries to bring his arm up to cover his eyes.
satoru doesn’t let him.
his hand catches suguru’s wrist, gentle but firm. “god, you’re — that’s so hot, suguru, fuck.”
suguru groans, embarrassed, but satoru leans in again, kissing the corner of his mouth, then the flushed skin of his cheek, then lower, like he means it. like he’s grateful.
“don’t be embarrassed,” satoru breathes. “you were so good, suguru. so fucking good for me. wanted you to come. was touching you.”
he lets his hands trail down, soft and steady, and starts to peel suguru out of the sticky cling of his clothes — careful, almost reverent. his fingers at the waistband, at the button, tugging gently.
“let me take care of you,” he whispers. “i want to keep going. can i?”
suguru’s still flushed to his ears, but he nods — slow, hesitant, eyes glassy and lips kiss - bitten. “yeah,” he murmurs, breathless. “yeah, okay.”
satoru works him out of his pants, kisses the skin just beneath his navel, then lower — trailing down like worship, like hunger, like he wants to savor every inch. his hands never stop moving — coaxing, soothing, reverent — and when suguru finally exhales and melts into it, pliant and open and letting himself be seen, satoru groans, deep and wrecked.
“fuck,” he says, pressing his mouth to suguru’s inner thigh. “you’re gonna kill me.”
and then he keeps going.
like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.
like he knows he’s got something sacred in his hands — and he’s not letting go.
“can i—” satoru murmurs, voice low, already breathless against suguru’s skin, “— get you on your stomach?”
suguru’s pulse stutters.
his eyes flutter open, wide and unsure, but satoru’s hand is on his back already, tracing light, soothing lines down his spine. he waits — doesn’t push — just asks, with his mouth still brushing suguru’s hip, reverent.
“...yeah,” suguru says. soft. shy. heat curling low in his stomach again. “yeah, okay.”
and he turns for him.
moves slow — still trembling, still half undressed, the couch too small and the air too warm — but when he lies flat, face tucked into the pillow, arms bent beneath him and back curved so beautifully, satoru’s exhale is audible.
“jesus christ,” he breathes, and then presses a kiss right to the curve of suguru’s spine. “you’re unreal.”
suguru huffs out a breath, but his body trembles with the kiss. “you’re so dramatic.” his voice is muffled, and shaky, and he jumps when satoru kisses lower — the small of his back, the dip of his waist, the soft slope of his ass. kisses that trail lazy and slow, open - mouthed and hot, each one dragging longer than the last.
“you don’t even know,” satoru murmurs, half to himself, and then spreads suguru’s thighs.
the sound suguru makes is something small and bitten off — not quite a moan, not quite a gasp — as satoru presses another kiss to the inside of his thigh. then another, higher. then another, closer.
his hands keep him spread, gentle but firm, as he mouths at sensitive skin, licking and sucking at soft flesh until suguru’s legs are shaking and his breath’s coming faster. he’s already hard again, twitching where it’s pressed against the cushion. he hides his face in his arms. he's leaking, hanging heavy and needy as satoru lavishes the backs of his thighs, the swell of his ass, with kisses.
“you doing okay?” satoru asks again, voice thick, warm, lips brushing close to where suguru needs.
“mhm,” suguru breathes, almost a whimper. “please.”
so satoru does.
he licks into him — slow at first, teasing, tentative — and suguru jerks, hips stuttering forward, a sound torn straight from his chest.
“fuck —” he gasps. “satoru —”
satoru groans against him, tongue working deeper, firmer, hands spreading him wider as he devours — no shame, no hesitation, just want. he moans against suguru’s skin, lets spit trail, lets it get messy, lets suguru rut helplessly into the couch as his voice rises, muffled and needy.
“you’re perfect like this,” satoru breathes, pausing just long enough to kiss the back of his thigh again, biting down softly before licking back up, “you’re so good for me, suguru — you don’t even know —”
“satoru —”
“i’ve got you,” he murmurs again. “just let me.”
and suguru does.
face buried in the pillow, thighs shaking, hands clenched in the cushions, he lets himself be undone —
kiss by kiss,
lick by lick,
sound by desperate, ruined sound —
he’s trembling.
slick with sweat, flushed to his chest, thighs sticky with spit. his hips twitch with every pass of satoru’s tongue, and the sounds he’s making — muffled into the pillow, bitten off, ruined — don’t sound like him anymore. not careful. not composed.
just wrecked.
satoru’s hands never stop moving. one spread low across suguru’s lower back, the other gripping tight at his hip, keeping him open, steady, here. “fuck,” suguru pants, voice gone raw. “satoru — satoru, please —”
he’s hard, aching, untouched. twitching against the couch cushion with every movement of satoru’s mouth. he grinds down helplessly and lets out a sound that could break something — needy, overwhelmed, desperate.
satoru groans against him. “you’re so fucking hot like this,” he breathes. “can’t believe you’re real.”
“please,” suguru says again, voice wrecked, legs shaking. “can’t — can’t take it anymore — please, i need you—”
and god — satoru loses it at that.
he pulls back with a gasp, face wet, lips swollen, hands moving fast now — up suguru’s back, down to his thighs, grabbing, pulling, possessive.
“say it again,” satoru pants, already shifting to kneel behind him. “say it — tell me what you want, suguru.”
suguru turns his head, just barely — enough to look at him over his shoulder, eyes blown wide, glassy, pleading.
“i want you to fuck me,” he says, breath catching on it. “please, satoru — please.”
and satoru’s gone.
he leans forward, kisses the back of suguru’s neck as his hands move fast — slicking his fingers, making sure everything is still okay — and suguru nods, gasping, saying yes over and over, a mantra in his throat.
when satoru presses in — slow, careful, hot — suguru moans like he’s never been touched before. like it’s too much and not enough, all at once.
and when he bottoms out, buried deep, arms shaking on either side of suguru’s hips, he groans, voice ragged.
“holy fuck — suguru — you feel so good — so good —”
suguru cries out, forehead pressed to the pillow, hands gripping the cushions like a lifeline. “move,” he gasps. “please — i need — move —”
and satoru does.
slow at first, steady — each thrust dragging deep and thick and hot, every movement driving suguru further apart at the seams. he presses kisses to suguru’s back as he rocks into him, mouth never still:
“so good for me —”
“you’re doing so fucking good —”
“so tight, so perfect, fuck —”
suguru shudders with every word.
his thighs are shaking, his cock untouched, leaking against the couch — and every grind of satoru’s hips pulls another sound out of him, desperate and needy and absolutely gone.
he’s not thinking anymore.
just feeling.
just the heat, the stretch, the pressure — satoru everywhere, inside him, holding him together as he comes apart.
and still — still — he whispers:
“don’t stop — please don’t stop —”
satoru moves with purpose now — deep and slow, grinding into him like he means it, like he needs suguru to feel every inch.
his hands spread wide over suguru’s hips, holding him firm, guiding him back into each thrust. and his mouth — his mouth never stops moving, low and rough and soothing all at once.
“that’s it,” satoru murmurs, breath hot against suguru’s skin. “take it, pretty — fuck, you take me so well.”
suguru sobs into the cushions. not from pain. not from shame. just from too much — too much pleasure, too much tenderness, too much of being seen and still being wanted.
“you’re doing so good,” satoru whispers, leaning over him now, chest pressed to his back, mouth right against his ear. “so fucking good for me, suguru. you feel unreal.”
his voice drops lower, thick and reverent.
“you’re perfect like this. all soft for me. letting me in.”
suguru whimpers — a sound sharp and broken — as satoru’s hand slides up, finds his wrist, laces their fingers together.
“you can let go,” satoru says, gentler now. “i’ve got you. just let me take care of you.”
his hips roll again, slow and deep, and suguru’s whole body shudders.
he’s so close again — raw and trembling, cock leaking against the cushion, and the heat of satoru inside him is dragging him under, again and again, with every relentless grind of his hips.
“please,” suguru gasps. “satoru — i can’t — it’s too —”
“yes you can,” satoru says, kissing his temple, the curve of his ear. “you can, baby. you’re doing so good. you feel so good — squeezing me just right — so hot, so tight —”
he shifts his angle — just slightly — and suguru screams.
“there,” satoru growls, fucking into him harder now, focused, precise. “right there, huh? is that it? that’s your spot, baby?”
suguru is gone.
his nails claw at the couch, back arched, body shaking as he nods helplessly, gasping and whimpering with every thrust that hits right there.
and satoru just keeps talking — voice steady, constant, like it’s holding him together.
“look at you. taking me so deep, milking my cock —”
“i’m gonna come,” suguru chokes, nearly sobbing now. “fuck — satoru —”
“come for me,” satoru breathes. “do it, c'mon, suguru — that's it, that's it —”
and he does —
with a cry, torn from somewhere deep, body locking up and shuddering as he spills hard, untouched, onto the couch beneath him.
his vision blurs. his mouth falls open. the world narrows to satoru’s voice, satoru’s hands, satoru inside him.
and satoru groans — ragged, wrecked — like he’s unraveling from the inside out.
his grip on suguru tightens, one hand splayed low on his stomach, the other pressing across his chest, pulling him close, anchoring him in place. he thrusts once, hard — again, slower, deeper — and then he breaks, hips jerking as he spills inside, buried to the hilt, his whole body trembling.
“fuck — suguru —”
it comes out like a prayer, voice caught between a gasp and a growl, all breath and heat and need. he presses his face into the curve of suguru’s neck, panting against damp skin, mouthing at his pulse like he can’t stand not to be touching. his hips stutter as aftershocks roll through him, every muscle pulled tight, his chest pressed flush to suguru’s back like he wants to crawl inside him — like it still isn’t close enough.
“god, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying. “you — you feel so fucking good —”
his fingers flex against suguru’s ribs, holding him like he might fall apart if he lets go. and maybe he would.
maybe they both would.
satoru stays there, cock still twitching inside him, breath stuttering against his shoulder, like the pleasure won’t stop. like it’s too much. like suguru was the undoing of him — soft and open and begging — and now he’s shaking, undone, held together only by skin and sweat and the sound of suguru breathing beneath him.
when he finally exhales — long and low and unsteady — he kisses the spot just behind suguru’s ear. slow. deliberate.
suguru sees stars.
“you know,” satoru says, voice still hoarse from sleep, “technically, feeding you counts as aftercare. so this —” he gestures broadly at the absurd, glimmering spread of food on the table between them — golden waffles stacked like architecture, strawberries cut into stars, artisanal honey drizzled over whipped ricotta, a small tower of croissants, three types of juice, and coffee that smells suspiciously like it was brewed by monks in the alps, “— is basically me being very responsible.”
suguru stares at him over the rim of his mug. eyes half - lidded. hair vaguely flattened on one side. blanket still draped around his bare shoulders like he’d refused to fully commit to getting dressed. he hasn’t touched his plate.
“you spent three hundred dollars,” he says flatly, “on takeout.”
“two seventy - eight,” satoru corrects, grinning. “plus tip. but the guy looked like a gary, and you always tip garys.”
“that’s not — that’s not a real principle.”
“oh, it is. name - tag psychology. classic.”
suguru puts his mug down slowly, and exhales in that very specific way he does when satoru has completely obliterated the concept of logic before 10 a.m.
“you could’ve just made eggs.”
“could’ve,” satoru agrees, stabbing a raspberry with unnecessary flourish. “but then you wouldn’t be on your third fresh pressed orange juice.”
“it’s nine in the morning.”
“and yet it’s glowing. like a sunbeam. drink it, you coward.”
suguru gives him a long, slow blink. the kind that, if he were still clothed from the night before, might carry more threat than fondness. but he isn’t. and he is fond. unfortunately.
he sips the orange juice.
“...it’s actually good.”
“see?” satoru leans across the table like he’s just won a battle. “i am responsible.”
suguru picks up a strawberry star. eats it with the air of someone indulging a toddler. “you’re something.”
“you stayed the night.”
“you bullied me into staying the night.”
“bullying is such a harsh word,” satoru says, full of smug delight, already reaching for the whipped ricotta. “i prefer seduction by means of charm and hotness. and also, like, you like me? right? suguru? suguru, i didn't bully you, right, you like me? there is like there? a mutual — suguru —”
and suguru — exhausted, full, hungover on lust and sugar and warm, gentle affection — can’t help it.
he laughs.
quiet and real, soft and bright, and not stopping after just one little sound. he laughs.
satoru beams like the sun broke just for him.