Chapter Text
Suguru knows it’s cliche, but he doesn’t care.
Suguru also loves lying to himself.
For more than a decade it was always them. The boys, like they’d become their own singular force of nature.
Their fathers met back in college, which Suguru always found to be fuckin’ hilarious. His dad, of all people, in a fraternity. But the evidence was living just across the street, the product of a friendship that had survived decades and marriages and the general just, chaos, of becoming adults. The families stayed in the neighborhood long enough that they’d both settled down and popped a couple kids out, the boys arriving into a friendship that was more or less, made for them. Pre-built, pre-installed, however you’d want to describe it.
Winters spent together, warmth and shared noises of Suguru’s loud family blending seamlessly, somehow, with the usual calm of Satoru’s. Springs and summers outside until the streetlights came on, the only mostly enforced rule, and really the only one set at all.
Most of their time was spent in the woods behind Suguru’s house though, a wide stretch of tall trees backed up to the fence line — and specifically, in the treehouse his dad had built for his tenth birthday. Cedar planks, a ladder made of chopped up 2x4’s nailed into the tree trunk, and big windows that looked out to both of their houses.
The whole shebang, his dad told him, to which Suguru would ask his dad what the heck shebang meant. His dad just made an explosion gesture with his hands and shrugged, which was a good enough explanation for a ten year old.
The treehouse would hold strong for years though, despite everything they’d put it though. And despite both of the boys growing like weeds, quickly beyond the size it was built for.
They were up there more than they were on the ground it seemed like, the childhood logic of having a spot outside of life ‘down there’, a novelty like their own fairy garden in the canopy. When they were on the ground though, the boys were always causing havoc somewhere in the background. Whether it was Satoru kicking a soccer ball straight through the bay window in Suguru’s kitchen, or Suguru somehow crashing his bike into Satoru’s garage door so hard they had to replace the whole thing. It was always something.
Always them, and more often than not, the other one’s fault. Allegedly.
Beneath their immature and very boyish exterior though, was something different, specific to them. It was easy to see — even by their parents — but it’d always be brushed off and fall into the rest of it.
Around the age of twelve, Satoru would start to find Suguru up in the treehouse a lot, just sitting by himself.
His parents started to fight. Loud enough for it to be obvious they stopped trying to keep it hidden anymore. Neither of the boys fully understood what it was about, just knew it was bad, and Suguru would usually slip out of the house by the time it’d get too loud. He’d put enough distance between himself and the house until it was muffled and distant. Up in the trees. Then he’d just wait for it to be over.
He was never alone up there for too long, though.
Satoru’s bedroom faced the street, the view a straight shot to the woods behind Suguru’s house, and he learned to watch for the lamp as time went on, like a sixth sense. The small yellow glow in the dark, tucked back in the layers of trees. When he saw it flicker on, he’d watch for just a minute, then slip out the backdoor and sprint into the woods before he could get caught.
One of the nights was a little worse than the others.
The cold hit harder than usual, autumn in full swing now, sun having disappeared hours ago and the woods were dark and smelled like wet and dead leaves. Satoru braved it, running through the trees and to the ladder, knuckles white as he pulled himself up.
He popped his head though the hatch, then stopped.
Suguru was tucked back in the corner in his dad’s heavy work jacket — thick canvas and flannel swallowing him, shoulders hanging off of him and collar pulled up, knees pulled to his chest with his face turned away. Satoru could see his tearstained cheeks from there though, the tracks visible even in the low light.
He was so young, both of them, just kids — but Satoru knew he didn’t need to say anything.
He just crawled over and leaned in. Clattering halfway on top of Suguru, awkward and lanky and without ceremony, legs slotting together and arms going around his neck, face tucking into it. Without a second of hesitation, Suguru’s arms came around his waist and pulled in tight.
Satoru stayed like that. Just held him, the only thing he knew how to do right now, waiting for Suguru’s breaths to match his own. Slow and even as they sat there, warm against each others chests.
Eventually the hiccups would start to subside, and Satoru pulled back just enough to see him; the lamp throwing a soft gold across his blotchy cheeks and dark, wet lashes. Then Suguru’s misty eyes would find his.
Something shifted in the air; small and subtle yet overbearing and enormous — a feeling they weren’t able to put a name to as kids, but their bodies had known for years already. They both flinched a little.
Satoru’s gaze dropped to Suguru’s parted lips, then back up. He watched Suguru nod, just the slightest movement, so subtle he’d nearly missed it.
But he didn’t.
He reached up. Cautious, cold hands settled on Suguru’s warm cheeks, and Satoru leaned in to press their lips together.
It was innocent in the way firsts always were; awkward and clumsy and sweet, teeth knocking together a little. Satoru still sort of on top of him and Suguru’s hair is tickling at his neck.
When they finally part, neither of them spoke for a moment.
And then they just laughed. Quiet and breathy, faces red even through the faint glow of the lamp, surprised and embarrassed. But it was warm. Happy. Satoru felt the weight lift from his chest.
Suguru was smiling, and that’s all Satoru went up there for anyways.
“It’s cold,” Satoru says finally, sitting back on his feet in front of him. “We should go inside before my parents figure out I’m gone.”
Suguru just nodded, and they would climb down together.
They stood on the side of the house in the dark, reluctantly exchanging quiet goodbyes knowing they’d probably see each other in like, 12 hours, but still. Satoru prepared to run back across the street, but stopped.
He turned back to grab Suguru’s wrist.
“Wait—" Pressed one kiss to his lips, quick.
Then he went still. Short circuited for a half second. Then he took off across the front lawn.
Suguru stood there for a while with his fingers pressed to his lips, cheeks burning hot against the cold air. Beside him, the house was quiet now.
He stayed there for a while.
Suguru Geto was 100% positive he was in love with Satoru Gojo on September 26th, 2009.
The night of his thirteenth birthday.
They never talk about the kiss(es) again.
Neither of them had the vocabulary to try and figure out what the hell that was, and both seemed to operate on the unspoken agreement that it was probably safer to just leave it. Things immediately went back to normal.
For Suguru, things at home settled down after a year or so. His parents get into marriage counseling, and from spending more time with them — as prescribed, or whatever, his mother’s love of art began to rub off on him. He spends more days at home now, house quiet and calm and much more inviting than it’d been in a while. He’d hang out with his mom, always drawing or painting, or trying to convince her to let him use her nice oil pastels. It’d become a thing he’d be excited to come home to.
Satoru’s still there almost daily, and even though he doesn’t really care about any of it, he cares about Suguru, so he’d sit and watch. Chin on his hand, occasional question and random comments on whatever Suguru was working on. Suguru starts going to his soccer games in exchange. Standing on the sidelines with his hands in his pockets, just watching Satoru move through the field while he’d fight off an unnamed feeling.
Their routines changed as life grew around them, and it was slow at first.
Until it wasn't.
Satoru starts leaning harder into soccer. Practice sessions getting longer and longer, friendships with his team getting more consuming. And then, the cancelations start coming in. Always last minute, but apologetic at first, then less, then just there. And Suguru gets it. He does. Their interests had started to pull them in different directions for a while now, and he understands he’s not Satoru’s #1 priority anymore, and that’s okay.
He understands when Satoru starts splitting lunchtimes between tables, sitting with Suguru every other day now, and it was fine. Suguru’s got other friends. He sits on his side of the cafeteria and watches Satoru on the other; watches the way he smiles and laughs with his teammates, always animated, half stood up and talking with his hands. It was like the universe revolved around Satoru wherever he was, no matter whose world it was.
Suguru would watch, and he’d tell himself it was okay.
By the end of the next year, the Geto house quieted down even more. Satoru came over for weekly dinners with his parents — mandatory — and video games occasionally if Satoru had time. The if Satoru had time thing fucked with Suguru more than he’d ever admit.
The gallery presentation was on a Friday after school, the arts classroom arranged into something nearly-professional; white paper on the walls, miscellaneous artwork in all kinds of different mediums mounted or set out on tables, labeled placards below them. The annual chance to have eyes on your work by folks other than teachers.
Suguru’s painting was up there too, and he’d spent three weeks on it. He told Satoru about it twice and got a yeah, I’ll be there both times, delivered with confidence and Suguru really, really wanted to think he meant it. At some point, at least.
Suguru waited until a half hour past the end.
Around him, all the photos, paintings and other pieces are beginning to filter out with their owners, and he’s just sat in a chair. Stared at the door with his hands in his lap and tears stinging at his eyes.
Nobody else came in.
He got up eventually, silent. Tool the painting off of the wall — the treehouse, yellow lamp glowing in the windows and rendered in the oils his mom finally let him use — and dropped it in the trash on his way out, the canvas hitting the bottom of the bin with a hard thunk.
Silent as he walked home. Headphones in until he was in his bed. Said nothing about about any of it to anyone.
In the blink of an eye, they’re on their final year of high school, and Suguru found it hard to try anymore.
Caring required a baseline to sustain it, and just going off of hope was getting embarrassing. He was eighteen and although his self respect was a little shaky, he wanted to get out of this shit hole with his dignity at least somewhat in tact. Waiting around for someone who stopped showing up for you was not a part of that, though.
His best friend had turned into someone worthy of his resentment.
The distance wasn’t dramatic, which almost made it harder on him, along with the fact that nothing had necessarily happened. He wanted to blame it on something he’d done, but realistically, he knew:
Satoru had simply outgrown him.
And that was okay.
He had other friends. Good ones. A small group, easy to be around and they’re kind, all creative in their own right with their own interest in making stuff. He was fine, even went to a couple soccer games, the ones where his friends wanted to make signs for the fences. He’d stand there like he always had before. Silent, hands in his pockets, watching Satoru with something heavy in his chest, light around his pinky finger.
He saw Satoru in the halls and on holidays.
The treehouse started to fall apart.
Their red string had snapped.
By the time graduation finally rolled around, Suguru walked across the stage and felt nothing but pure, absolute fucking relief.
He deferred his university acceptance and left for Europe a couple months later. Just a backpack and a couple duffel bags, along with a list of apprenticeships he’d arranged with the help of his art teacher.
He’d never been out of the country before, and although the language barriers were occasionally beating his ass, he couldn’t have been happier. The art was everywhere, in the galleries and on the buildings, walls of underpasses and facades of warehouses, just huge and full of color and life and unlike anything he’d ever experienced at home. He met so many people, so many insanely talented artists of all kinds, and even some he’d looked up to for years. Hopping from hostel to hostel between apprenticeships Florence, Amsterdam, Barcelona — the list goes on.
But Berlin.
Berlin did it for him.
The street art there swallowed buildings whole, massive and intricate and political and raw. It was staggering, the kind of shit that made you stand and stare like an idiot before you could keep walking. The galleries were full of pieces he couldn’t imagine even dreaming up, conceptual masterpieces.
The underground music he’d be introduced to, random basements and warehouse venues full of just freaks and creatives and some of the best people he’d ever met in his life.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he’d stand in those rooms and feel like the version of himself he’d been trying to become.
He would’ve stayed. Forever if he had the choice. But after about six months, he was starting to run out of money. The university deferral had a limit, and he knew time wasn’t waiting for him back home.
So, Suguru packed his shit, cried with his friends at the airport, and then he left.
His first quarter was more manageable than he’d expected, majoring in Fine Arts with a minor in Urban Art & Design, the minor being more of a treat for himself than anything. He’d weighed double majoring in Fine Arts and Art History, but decided he wanted some time to just exist sometimes.
He got a small apartment off campus, his first time living on his own, and it was awesome except for one little detail. He’s a mile from frat row, at most, close enough that from Thursday through Monday he was cursed to be moderately irritated. However, it was also close to the studio space a few blocks down the street, which made it worth it.
He stays there as late as they’ll let him. Comes home and scrubs the acrylic paint off his hands in the shower, dries his hair and crawls into bed. It was a simple routine.
He had trouble sleeping sometimes, though.
One night, he was up late. Later than the frats could keep him up, and he eventually gave up on trying and reached for his phone. The light as he tapped the screen awake felt like a flash bang of defeat, but he’d just squint and sigh as he started to scroll aimlessly. Art clips from people he’d met in Berlin, memes he’d breathe through his nose sort of hard at, updates from people at home just living their lives.
And then came a group photo.
A bunch of guys, all huddled and crammed together to make it into the selfie, tongues out, middle fingers and peace signs all over the place. At the forefront, as usual, immediately identifiable before anything else in the photo: a big, cheeky grin and a head of fluffy platinum hair that hadn’t changed since the last time he’d seen it up close.
He started to scroll away, but stopped. Let his thumb hover over it while he chewed at the inside of his cheek. He wasn't sure if he was weighing options or holding himself back.
Either way though, he tapped the tag.
Satoru’s profile loaded, and he stared at it for a minute. He resisted unfollowing him out of pettiness, and instead browsed through a few rows of posts. It was pretty much what he expected it to be; sports, selfies, shirtless selfies, more sports, fraternity stuff, parties. A social life that was a world far away from his own, and everything younger Satoru probably would’ve given him shit for ever posting. Probably would’ve made fun of him for being a douchey frat kid, which was precisely what Suguru was looking at.
Curiosity got the best of him and he tapped Satoru’s story; picture of him with his tongue out, snapback on backwards and his middle finger up. On top of it is just text saying SEE YOU MFS ON FRIYAYYY and their frat name below it.
Suguru stared until the time runs out and he was back to Satoru's profile. Then, he turned the screen off.
His arm dropped out lazily, letting his phone hit the floor with a thud as he laid there in the dark. His hands found his face eventually, heels of his palms pressed to his eyes as he just groaned. Dragged them down until they’d rest on his cheeks.
He thought of that face, but as a kid again. The cold, small hands pressed to his cheek when Satoru kissed him for the first time, nearly six years ago now.
Closed his eyes.
Flipped over and went to sleep.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to! Jeeeez,” Shoko drones, tapping the top of Suguru’s head with her hair brush as she pulled his hair half up.
He told her he could do it himself, but it’d fall on deaf ears and he’d be shoved onto the stool in front of her vanity. He stares at himself in the mirror, the square of bright bulbs surrounding it making him wince a little.
Suguru let out a low groan. “It’s fineee."
Her room had a two girls getting ready in a small space type chaos (or charm, depending on who you were talking to) to it, clothes strewn all over the place, Yuki’s duffel bag basically exploded across the floor, and everything smelled like perfume and hairspray and whatever candle Shoko lit to cover the smell of her joint from earlier.
“Then quit complaining.”
She slips his hair through the elastic and yanks on a lock from the lower part, and he just groans and smacks her hand away, turning around on the stool.
Yuki’s sat on the floor in front of Shoko’s full length mirror, touching up the last bit of her makeup. She met his eyes in the mirror.
“Are you going to hit me if I ask how much longer?” he asks.
Suguru’s only even there because Shoko begged him to go with her and Yuki so they weren’t alone, and he’s not the type to say no to requests like that — which she often takes advantage of, so here he was.
Shoko just shoves a can of soda into his hand and feeds him a shot. Yuki’s getting to her feet right after, brushing some powder from her shirt.
“Nope!” she says, hands out like ta-daa and they're finally both ready to leave.
The night was cold and clear, smelled like fallen leaves and autumn — and despite the chill in the air, the girls were dressed like it was still June. They were both drunk and didn’t care though, so he didn’t either, and Shoko’s place was close anyways, barely half a mile from the frats.
The walk certainly sets the tone for the night.
The streets surrounding are already packed with groups walking to and from the ‘party houses’, Friday night energy letting the pressure from the week explode. Suguru’s street side, red cup in his hand matching the ones the girls had, all sipping on some concoction Yuki threw together before running out the door.
It wasn’t too long until they were rounding a corner, and Kappa Sigma was in front of them.
It’s massive; colored lights flashing inside the windows where flags weren’t hung, a dozen people on the front porch smoking or throwing up over the railing and into the bushes.
The girls laugh from beside him, and they’re both staring when he turns to look at them.
“What?”
“You look like you’re getting escorted to a sentencing.”
“Jesus, I’m fine.” He turns back to the house. “Come on.”
They walked across the yard then, dodging the empty cans and discarded cups until they were finally at the door.
The frat is packed. The windows are steamy and the stickiness of the floor really adds a certain charm to the smell in the air, and the music was loud to the point where it just sounds like noise.
Yuki’s dragging him through by his wrist, him happily letting the girls lead since they were hot and people would actually let them pass.
They make a stop into a room somewhere upstairs, people are on the bed and floor, passing around a bong. The big light is on and it smells like stale weed and old beer and it’s the worsttt, but Suguru’s glad to see one of them hand Shoko a bottle of tequila. She pushes it to his chest, he takes it with a smile, and they’re onto their next location right after.
Down a crowded hall, through the kitchen and thankfully, out onto the deck. It was better. Less dense, only a handful of people out there, the glow of phones in the haze of whatever they’re smoking. Just chatting over the loud music filtering out of the house.
He looks out to the yard below them. Dead grass and random garbage. A half broken folding table. He just doesn’t get it.
Shoko lights a cigarette for him while he's leaned back against the railing, a bottle in his other hand. She pats his shoulder after.
“Gonna go get a little-” She taps the side of her nose a few times, wiggling her eyebrows at him. “Wanna come?”
“Nah, all you.” He laughs, waving her off. “I’ll be out here.”
She just presses a kiss to his cheek, which he automatically wipes off on the back of his hand, and then she’s disappearing back into the noise with Yuki in tow.
Suguru takes a pull from the bottle and chases it with a drag of his cigarette, staring at the yard again.
Within a minute of him not having the girls at his side, others took the chance to fill the space. It’s fine. He knows they probably just want some of the tequila in his hand — doesn’t really care either way though, willingly offers it to them after they chat for a minute.
They stick around regardless of their mission being fulfilled, and one slowly starts to get a little extra friendly. He picks up on quick, but, you see; Suguru’s not really into girls.
She’s at least pretty and she smells nice, though, so he lets her touch his arm and play with his hair. She reaches to gently pull it down from his half bun, so he shakes it out with a small smile and lets it fall, dark and soft against his jaw.
The girls are all giggling and honestly, he’s kind of having fun. He’s drunk, his body all warm and fuzzy, and he just keeps ripping his cigarette.Takes another pull. Talks.
He goes to take another pull, but stops as the bottle touches his lips.
Something’s going on inside the house. Banging and smashing over the music, and he can see the crowd in the kitchen start shoving their way into the dining room area, a straight shot through the open sliding glass doors behind him.
One of the girls groans and throws her hand up. “Here he goes again.”
Suguru stubs his cigarette out against the railing, then hands the bottle to her before heading in.
He shoves his way through to the threshold of the dining room — if you could even call it that considering it’s just camping chairs and a shitty hue light — and he stopped.
Two guys, one pushed to the wall, both going in on each other equally and nobody’s doing anything but cheering them on and recording them.
Suguru sighs, just stares at everyone for a second.
He's always been strong — really strong, but he’s not much of a fighter despite looking like he could be. He’s got a lip ring and his septum pierced, tattoos and whatever else, more of a skater-ish alt style than Fine Arts major by a long shot. And although he still works out regularly between his classes and he’s well-built, etc., he doesn’t get a chance to use the brawn often. But this was fucking stupid. Nobody’s trying to stop it.
It’s gone beyond some idiots just wailing on each other, they’re actually beating the shit out of each other.
“Alright, alright, fuck.” He pushes through the front of the crowd. “They’re gonna fuckin’ kill each other.”
He came up behind the one whose back is facing the room, locks his arm around his neck and took him to the ground in one sweep. The guy tries to fight him off for a second, just long enough to split Suguru’s lip, hard enough to sting and draw blood, but Suguru’s got him pinned now.
Hands land on Suguru’s shoulders from behind, trying to pull him off, and he delivers a swift and sharp elbow behind into whatever’s there. The guy under him uses the chance to lunge again, and Suguru just punches him once, very efficiently, and the guy’s pliant with his hand on his nose, like okayyy man, fuck, alright.
Suguru wipes the blood off of his lip with his sleeve as he stood up, then he turns around.
The room goes still around him.
The crowd pulls back a bit, making space, and the music is still blaring but everything seems to just stop.
The cliché of it isn’t lost on Suguru; the cinematic moment of turning around to the one fucking person you think of every day and sort of never want to see again, standing in front of you, blood on his knuckles and his blue eyes burning a hole into you.
In unison,
“Geto?”
“Satoru?”
Satoru grabs his arm, bloody hand wrapped around his bicep — adding more stains to his white t-shirt — and drags him out of the room and down the hallway. He fumbles with a key as he unlocks the door at the end of it, shoves Suguru inside the second he’s got it open and locks it behind them.
Satoru’s bedroom.
It’s decently sized, and it’s very him. A very Satoru-esque controlled chaos throughout it. A big window faces the street, the smell of his cologne in the air, his dirty laundry scattered on the floor.
Suguru’s back is against the door before he’s fully registered how he’d gotten there.
They stand a few feet apart, staring at each other in the low light.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Satoru asks finally, mouth nearly as wide as his eyes, and Suguru can’t really tell if it’s a question or an accusation.
Suguru just looks at him like are you fucking for real right now, trying to get his thoughts together for a split second. Satoru Gojo, twenty now, standing in his own room, bloody and bruised. Years of distance.
It felt wrong.
“Why are you saying it like that?” Suguru narrows his eyes.
Satoru throws a hand out, motioning to the rest of the house. “I mean — since when do you go to shit like this?”
“Huh?" Suguru tilts his head, “Just ‘cause I’m an arts major doesn’t mean I sit on my ass painting every weekend. If you even knew that.”
Something flashes over Satoru’s face, quick, barely noticeable. He doesn’t say anything though. Just huffs a laugh, hands resting on the top of his head with his fingers interlaced. He turns away slightly. Needs to look at something that wasn't Suguru before he loses it.
Suguru looks at the way his hair flips out under his hat, gaze trailing over Satoru’s hands and arms, across his broad shoulders and back. Then he looks to the gap between them.
He’d only realized it then.
He fucking hates him.
“You’re an idiot,” Suguru says under his breath, reaching for the door handle.
Satoru takes a quick step in, hand catching Suguru’s wrist.
Suguru freezes for a half second. His chest goes warm, filling with that fucking feeling he’s grown to resent Satoru for so much over the years. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before yanking his arm from Satoru’s grip.
Glares at him. “What, Satoru?”
And Satoru’s close, close enough to feel the heat of him in the cold room, to smell the alcohol and cologne and that thing he’s got to him that’s just… Satoru. Same as always.
That’s not why Suguru’s holding his breath though.
Satoru’s staring down at him, the scrape under his eye already shifting from red purple. He’s searching his face like he’s trying to figure out what he’s thinking.
Meanwhile, Suguru’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see the desperation in his eyes.
“Don’t go,” Satoru says simply, falling somewhere between a plea and a statement, and Suguru just stares at him.
“What the fuck?” Suguru manages, though the words came out weaker than he’d meant for them to.
He hardly hear himself over the muffled music anyways.
I wanna love you, and I love you
But I shouldn't take your heart
But I just couldn't 'cause I wouldn't make you feel it all
The adrenaline spirals into something else — it’s feels honeyed and hot, spreading up his spine and outward to his fingertips. His back is to the door and the music from the party is vibrating through his chest, and Satoru’s right there — drunk and sweaty, his shirt stretched and ripped at the collar, half-dried blood cracking across his knuckles.
And he’s looking at Suguru like he’s worth looking at, just like he used to.
Suguru’s twenty years old now and he’s such a fucking liar.
There’s a pause between both of them, the air heavy and full of something so annoyingly familiar.
Suguru lets himself see it now.
They both wanted it.
He has one hand on the back of Satoru’s neck before he’s fully decided it, the other at his hip, and then he spins them around.
The moment Satoru’s back hits the door, Suguru crashes their lips together.
Satoru tastes like blood and cheap liquor. Underneath that, though, something warm and sweet, just the same as he did before, but also completely different. They weren’t twelve anymore, and they both knew exactly what they were doing. His strong arms wrap around Suguru's neck to pull him in closer, moaning softly as his tongue slips past his lips.
They’re both experienced now — the way they kiss, hands wandering to just the right spots. Suguru presses his leg between Satoru’s thighs and reaches up to toss his snapback somewhere behind them, then runs his fingers into the damp platinum hair beneath it.
The groan that comes from Satoru is low and immediate as he ruts up against his thigh, pulled straight from his chest and into Suguru’s mouth.
Suguru's reaches to take a handful of Satoru’s ass through his baggy jeans, getting a whimper out of him before he’s nipping at Suguru’s pierced lip. Suguru pushes him harder against the door, his hand sliding over the curve of his ass before coming down with muffled clap.
“Fuck,” Satoru gasps, reaching to tangle his fingers in Suguru’s hair. Starts to walk him backwards to the bed.
The kiss doesn’t break until his calves hit the frame, then Satoru’s pushing him onto his back.
Suguru’s already hard by the time Satoru settles in his lap. He’s incredible is his only surviving in that moment.
Satoru’s built now; broad, lean and cut, athletic down to the v lines on his hips and the flex of his stomach. He looks down to Suguru in the low light, hair messy from his hat, lips puffy, and Suguru couldn’t have told you his own name.
Satoru’s needy hand finds the hem of Suguru's shirt, slender fingers tracing over the definition of his abs while he starts to grind down on him. It's slow and practiced, palm flattening over Suguru’s heart while it pounds at his chest.
Suguru reaches to pull him down by the back of his neck, and Satoru’s happy to oblige. They kiss slower this time, more patient, as if they’d both been rewriting something. Or adding detail, depending who you were talking to.
Satoru pulls back first. Listens to Suguru breathe for just a moment.
“I missed you,” he whispers.
Suguru looks at him.
“No you didn’t.”
Without missing a beat, he presses their lips back together.
Something sinks in both of their chests.
Oh, I just hurt you, but I wouldn't ever mean to
Keep you around to look right through you
Keep on pushing you until you fall
Satoru shakes it off.
He shifts to sit back on Suguru’s thighs, popping the button on his jeans before slowly pulling down his zipper. Slides his hand into the front of Suguru’s pants, curved palm running over the length him; thick and straining within his boxers.
As simple as it is, it’s got Suguru seeing stars already.
“‘Toru,” he says, sucking in sharp breath. Satoru’s hand wraps around him fully, and his head drops back against the bed. “Oh my god.”
Wet, hot kisses trail down his neck, then Satoru sinks his teeth into the salty skin just below Suguru’s jugular, sucking a dark spot into it.
Suguru feels it, but he’s as good as convinced that none of this is real anyways and all he wants is more, more, more.
It's not my fault, it's all I know
If I didn't want you, would I care at all?
And just as Satoru’s slender fingers are dipping below the band of Suguru's boxers, someone’s slamming their fist against the door.
Suguru are you alive in there? Are you okay? Suguruuu! Shoko and Yuki’s voices are overlapping each other on the other side of the wood.
It’s like a spell broke. The reality of the room reassembles around them in the few seconds it takes to get back to their feet. Satoru haphazardly yanks his shirt back over his head, and Suguru gets his pants buttoned and zipped up, other hand already reaching for the door handle.
Satoru’s frozen beside his bed, staring like Suguru’s stealing something precious and all he can do is watch it go.
But Suguru stops. Turns back one last time and locks eyes with him.
“Don’t say that shit to me ever again,” he says, his voice steady.
And he’s out.
Pushes through the girls with an flat I’m leaving, already moving down the hall.
Oh, what to do? To do with you?
So how can I put this? Is it getting through?