Chapter Text
The periodic ringing pressed to Satoru’s ear is soft, strangely comforting. He grips the telephone more fiercely—for the cold does the same to his body—and awaits, burying his face deeper in his coat.
He awaits. He has been doing so for minutes, or perhaps hours. The violent wind outside the phone booth whistles ominously, threatening to shatter the rattling glass and force its way inside, destroying everything in its path—alongside the signal Satoru prays does not get lost. He will climb the coldest hills, if he has to—stand there in a thin layer, only, if he has to. Just five minutes of uninterrupted signal. It is so little he asks.
Satoru almost crashes into the icy glass when the rhythm of the ringing gets interrupted by muffled sounds at the end of the line.
“Mr. Gojo? Sir, are y—still—the—re?”
Satoru can imagine the thin power lines getting viciously attacked by the restless wind, moving around in violent manners and failing to bring him the words of the soft-spoken nurse. But it does not matter—he can fill in the blanks himself.
“Yes, yes, miss, I can hear you.”
There are more muted noises and a faint static sound, then the next words she speaks are much, much clearer.
“Sir, forgive us for keeping you waiting—the weather up on the mountains is unforgiving, and even such a signal is a miracle.”
I know, I know—bring me him, please.
“I know, miss, do not apologise. I haven’t been waiting long.”
In the background, Satoru can hear voices that ought to be directed at the nurse speaking to him, and her hand covering the speaker as she replies. More muffled sounds, footsteps fading away. His heart sinks to his stomach when he realises she is again talking to him, but the signal has betrayed him.
Only when her breathing clearly reaches Satoru’s ears once more, his lungs expand.
“—discussed the matter you had brought to us, Mr. Gojo, and the committee has asked me to communicate to you their answer.”
Satoru’s hands are frozen, as if a layer of frost veils them. He grips the telephone, but he cannot feel his fingers.
“The number of patients in the sanatorium has lessened, and the remaining ones are not in a condition so critical that it would threaten your health—sir, you may come visit.”
If it weren’t for the cramped space of the booth, for the rigidity of his bones and muscles after standing in the cold for so long, Satoru would have sunk to his knees in gaiety. He smiles, widely, sighing into the speaker.
“But sir, we are obliged to tell you—you can only stay for a few weeks, at most—“
Satoru’s chest has gotten so light, he feels like a feather.
“Yes, yes, a few weeks, I am aware. Thank you.”
He was only ever in pursuit of the permission to set foot in there. The duration of his stay, that is another matter—he is certain he will coax them into extending it further.
“Then it is settled, sir. You are welcome to come whenever you please.” There is kindness in her voice, she’s smiling.
“Your presence will cheer sir tremendously.”
Satoru’s heart skips several beats.
“Do you wish to talk to him? He is here, waiting.”
Oh, there he can so vividly picture him—so close to the telephone, yet so far away from Satoru.
“Yes.”
She steps away from the telephone, static noise settling in. A few murmurs, some movement, then soft, gentle breathing sings right by Satoru’s ear.
“Satoru.”
Satoru closes his eyes. It’s warm, so warm—like winter has bid him farewell and spring has taken its place. The booth feels cosy, the frosty glass against his back a soft caress.
“Suguru.”
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
Suguru quietly laughs. An angelic melody.
“How have you been, my love? Is everything okay?”
Satoru clings to every lullaby, nuzzles into the soft pronunciation of each word—he allows that dulcet voice to wash over him like the tide does as it fondles the shore.
“I’m okay. Everything is good.” he lets his head lean against the glass. “I ought to be the one asking questions regarding wellbeing, you know.” He clears his throat, deepening his voice. “Come on, mister, provide an account of your health right now, this very moment.”
Suguru chuckles.
“I am quite alright. The mountain climate is truly benignant…the scenery is magnificent. And the working staff…they’re lovely.”
There is a pause. Satoru hears a few murmurs and cordial giggles.
“Worry shall not seize you—I am being profoundly spoiled here.”
Suguru speaks slowly. The way his words embrace Satoru, like honey dripping over freshly cut fruit. Satoru felicitously recalls how Suguru would prepare them for him every evening.
“Yeah, they’re taking good care of you? They better be.”
“Yes.”
Satoru takes his bottom lip between his teeth, as if to cage his following words in. His teeth lightly chatter.
“…It’s certainly not as good a care as mine.”
His voice falters. The sky outside is becoming duskier. A coy, dainty blue tint falls over the snowy land like a mantle. For a few seconds, along with the whistling of the wind, that faint static noise is in Satoru’s ear, and he inaudibly curses, thinking the signal is lost.
“…Nobody could take care of me as well as you do, my love.” The words are breathy, infinitely intimate. “Nobody is you.”
Warm, so very warm. An ardent fire burns in Satoru slowly, fondling him whole. His face aches, but it’s not from the cold. His lips cannot stop stretching into a smile.
“I know. There’s no one like me.”
He catches Suguru’s weak hum, and can picture the sweet smile adorning his lips. Perhaps, even that undetectable roll of his lovely eyes.
For a moment, they stand in silence. Satoru rests easy, knowing Suguru is there, for his soft breathing fondles his ears. It’s slow, shakily fragile like a delphinium flower under a cruel storm, and Satoru faults the weak signal.
A feeling of dread settles in him when he thinks about the line being cut off at any moment. How long he has been enduring the piercing pain of the cold penetrating his bones, just for him to now waste every precious second by remaining in silence. Suguru is not here—they cannot bask in each other’s quiescence as simply as they once did, when everything bent to Satoru’s will without objection. Time cannot stretch endlessly—every second is dear, and the cold aims to steal them from Satoru.
He suddenly feels restless. About anything and everything Satoru yearns to talk. But the major life he ought to be leading as an adult—that, he does not wish to talk about. The beautiful melody he heard when lounging in their front yard; children playing in the snow and skating on the ice; a white cat and its piebald kittens cozily resting on a blanket Satoru had forgotten to take inside; the moment when the lights went out in their home and Satoru was left in obscurity, imagining the weight of Suguru’s arms around him—
The most mundane of things, the most frivolous, trivial of things, that’s what he yearns to tell Suguru about; the things that do not truly hold any value, for a life with Suguru absent is but a hollow chamber.
Satoru can only temporarily fill it with such distantly witnessed fragments.
“Satoru.”
Satoru hums, loud enough for the signal to carry it.
“…you’ll be coming here.”
A subtle accusation or a chaste reaffirmation—Satoru cannot tell which one it is. There’s a slight fracture in Suguru’s voice, a rasp that makes his words come out breathy and languorous, although Suguru’s exertion to conceal it is strong. He’s tired. Satoru can hear it, and to deconstruct that characteristic ambiguity has now become more difficult.
“Yes.”
The booth is drowning in darkness.
“How wondrous…”
Slow, dreamy voice…
“…I’ll be waiting for you.”
The last part comes to Satoru in a whisper. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath—how it freshens his lungs to florescence!
“I know. Where else would you go?”
Suguru’s chuckle is lovely. In that fleeting moment, Satoru squeezes his brain to come up with another silly joke—anything, anything in the world—just to make the man he adores gift him another one of his delightful laughs, his blessed melodies. Just as Satoru is about to speak—and unabashedly ask Suguru to laugh again, for Satoru’s ears and contentment only—he hears numerous voices fuse into each other on the other end. They get louder, but no clear words or sentences can be distinguished. Satoru presses the telephone harder against his ear.
He doesn’t have to wait long to hear Suguru’s soft voice rise above them, aimed at him.
“I’m afraid I would have to go, my love. T—e do—t—r i—ere.”
Satoru lets out a breath, watching it materialise amidst the frosty air. It dissipates nimbly.
“Okay.” He looks down, although nothing catches his eye. Nothing interests him. “Don’t wait for another call from me. The next time we’re talking, it will be face-to-face.”
He barely catches Suguru’s hum.
“Let me know just before you arrive, at least,” there, he can sense a smile, “so I can make sure my appearance is presentable.”
What a comical thing to say.
“No need.” Satoru realises he’s slightly frowning. “You couldn’t look unappealing, even if you tried. Actually, I dare you to. Make yourself—unpresentable.”
That laugh—that soothing, unworldly laugh rings by Satoru’s ear. It’s clear, beautifully potent; no signal could have taken it away from Satoru.
It looked like Suguru wanted to say something, but again, foreign voices come closer to where he must be standing. There’s some shuffling, as if Suguru just moved. Unconsciously, Satoru himself straightens. His muscles ache.
“Suguru.”
“I’m here.”
But I shall leave soon. The continuation that he doesn’t voice, but Satoru knows.
“Let me not keep you any longer.”
Then, from his lips like a waterfall—
“I love you.”
What déjà vu. Satoru closes his eyes, feeling like a puzzle piece, part of a scenery he has known for a long, long time.
“I l—ve yo—to—“
His missing piece joins him, and the landscape completes itself—he is resting beside the fireplace, idyllic, embracing the bearer of his heart; he’s caught in an embrace just as ardent. A clear, uninterrupted I love you is whispered in his ear, kissed on his skin, spoken between tender touches of their lips. It’s warm, so very warm.
The line goes dead. Satoru opens his eyes. He extends his arm, hanging the telephone back. With numb legs, he walks out.
The reign of the night is eerie. Darkness cocoons him whole.
It’s cold, frighteningly so.
⋆ ⏾ ⭒˚.⋆
The train that left for Kamikōchi was scheduled for the afternoon—ten past fourteen. The numbers had been echoing inside Satoru’s mind for his remaining days in the city. Perhaps, he had even seen them in his dreams. He could not tell, for he had stared at the ticket almost the entirety of daylight, there was no telling between what his eyes saw and what his mind dreamed.
He had woken up early, the earliest of his life—he is surprised how he even managed to get a few hours of sleep in the first place, truth be told—and made his way to the university. Yaga had kindly looked over his schedule to see what could possibly be moved before his fixed clock, combining two noon seminars into one that he led first thing in the morning. Three lectures followed, which went by breezily—students of Computational Neuroscience have a profound talent for being so sweetly quiet during their math-oriented lectures, Satoru could only bless them, just this once. They ought not to worry, though; he will thoroughly inspect what they have learned so far, soon. Suguru’s absence has granted them an absurd amount of liberty, happily flying above the clouds of inertia once temporarily free from the shackles of Literature and Philosophy. To watch them so joyously enjoy their freedom upon the cancellation of their Humanities class—basking under the sun, planning the continuation of their day, celebrating such fortunate circumstances—oh, juvenile bliss.
While Suguru is confined high in the mountains, Satoru’s mind and heart only ever his to hold.
What a grotesque juxtaposition. Suguru would have loved dissecting it.
It’s five to fourteen. As Satoru walks to the station, the wind sweeps the tail of his coat relentlessly. He holds his suitcase by the handle, keeping it afloat. It’s lightweight. He didn’t pack a lot of clothes—he kept enough space untouched, reserving it for Suguru’s things, should he need it when they make their journey back home.
Finding his platform is no hassle. It is not crowded. He steps inside, the floorboard slightly creaking beneath his weight. His cabin is spacious, yet Satoru believes he will have no company. Putting his suitcase in its designated place, he finally rests on his seat, crossing his arms before his chest and stretching his legs. His body grieves repose.
There’s no delay in departure. As the clock strikes ten, minimum words regarding destination and estimated journey duration are spoken, before the screeching sound of the rails takes their place. They part.
Glimpses of buildings, houses, neighbourhoods greet him ever so ephemerally. They keep getting scarcer, gradually lost in the growing density of the towering trees. Satoru lets his head rest against the glass, gazing at the tiny patch of it that gets foggy from his hot breath. It comes to him unknowingly—the resting of his eyelids. Perhaps from a lack of other occupations. Sleep welcomes him silently.
⋆ ⏾ ⭒˚.⋆
The kitchen.
Their warm, cozy kitchen, orange-tinted and dimly lit. A gentle melody unravels in the background, coming from their record player, its sharp needle so masterfully bringing to life one of their favorite vinyls. Frank Sinatra’s voice is soft, a graceful touch.
It flawlessly harmonises with Satoru’s shouts.
“You’re not stepping foot in there!”
He’s walking back and forth. Fury temporarily blinds him.
“Alone? On a deserted mountain four fucking hours away?!” Satoru runs a hand over his mouth, his skin hot. “Do you take me for a goddamn fool?”
“It’s a sanatorium, Satoru. I—“
“Oh yes, a sanatorium. Where those with one foot already in the grave go. Is that what you are? Is that your state right now?”
His speech is rapid, violently hostile. He bites the majority of his words, restraining a thousand other more he cannot bring himself to say—but his mind echoes with them.
“It could be. It must be—I wouldn’t know, would I? I had to find the evidence of your withering lungs in the fucking trash can to finally see what’s been going on!”
He screams the last part, the glass and porcelain ornaments rattling ominously. Only the ruffled paper tissues lying on the counter are not frightened by Satoru’s wrath. The blotches of dried blood on them mock him cruelly.
Satoru clenches his jaw. He settles his hands on his hips, gripping his bones—he digs his fingers into his own skin. The saliva he tries swallowing burns his throat. Perhaps it is poison.
“You’re not going.”
“Satoru.“
“There are dozens of hospitals you can go to. Public or private. Thousands of doctors we can pay a fortune to take care of you. There’s nothing in that wretched sanatorium that we cannot find in endless other hospitals.”
He sets his hands on the island, lowering his head. He drums his fingers against it rhythmically.
“Nothing I cannot provide you myself. You’re not going.”
“It’s not the doctors that I need, Satoru. The mountain climate—“
“You’re not going.”
He inhales.
“You’re fine. You’re okay. If you’re not, you will be. No matter the state of your lungs, they will be able to handle it—they’ll repair the damage. There’s nothing science cannot detect or heal. I’ll—“ He squeezes his eyes shut, “—step in myself. I’ll build models to replicate human lungs, so they can—test potential treatments on them first before they dare to put a—a hand on you. Even the fucking pleura layer would do.”
Two, three breaths. It is not enough. “Every paper—every—fucking—“
His head hangs lower between his shoulders. His arms shake. His whole body does. He blinks, eyeing the shiny surface of the island. Why is it shiny? The wood they chose has a matte finish. Did they spill something on it? Is it the blood from Suguru’s lungs? Has it penetrated into Satoru’s throat, blocking his airway?
“Satoru.”
Suguru’s voice comes right by his ear. The soft skin of his hand settles on Satoru’s arm. How warm, how gentle his touch is! Satoru feels it in his cold bones. Through primal instinct, he yearns to curl in Suguru’s embrace, where he knows only tenderness could be found.
But his words keep spilling.
“A sanatorium, why a goddamn sanatorium? You—you need a specialised doctor, a—a pulmonologist that could only be found—here.” His hands curl into fists, his knuckles colliding painfully with the wood.
“Here, right here—“
Where I can be by your side.
He’s gently wrapped in strong arms, pressed against cashmere that carries the scent of the man he’s openly crying for. He’s kissed, softly, like he’s porcelain, like he’s the one whose lungs are rotting away, by lips that have only ever solaced him. He’s held, safely, in arms that are not as weak as his—they do not shake, they would never let one know they are part of a man who’s—
Who’s—
“Satoru…my Satoru…”
Satoru presses his ear against that strong chest. The beating of that heart greets him, easily, knowingly, for it recognises who seeks it. Its arteries and veins tremble so beautifully to produce such a masterpiece—it is the sweetest song, the only melody Satoru would play to infinity.
He would tear out his own; pluck his capillaries and venules altogether, one by one, to replace Suguru’s—guaranteed that that heartbeat will keep singing on forever.
“Destination, Kamikōchi, Nagano prefecture—arrival in five minutes.”
Satoru opens his eyes. The enchanting promise of sleep attempts to lure him into giving in and closing them again.
Around him, the passengers are moving. As they take their belongings, the train carries the sound of their loud footsteps. The velocity of their journey dramatically decreases—it comes to its inevitable end.
He would rather never sleep again.
“Destination, Kamikōchi. Arrival, eighteen thirty-three.”
Standing on his partially numb feet is a bizarre sensation. Satoru settles his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. Taking hold of his suitcase and slipping past the passengers whose pursuits could not be worthier than his, he makes his way out.
It’s dark, immensely so. It’s not due to his glasses. The sun has long since settled in its shelter. It would not have, however, mattered, were it to be standing higher, for the frightening height of the mountains and the trees assimilates any kind of light. Satoru discreetly looks around. Strangers walk close and pass him—numerous eyes linger on him, on his rigid posture and tall frame amidst the ill-lit path. They move, but he remains still—he doesn’t spare them a glance.
Through the corner of his eye, he notices two men gazing at him, supposedly privily, yet it doesn’t appear as natural as they might think. One of them slightly nudges a third man, pointing his finger towards Satoru. When the nudged man looks up, he immediately straightens, saying a few words to his comrades as he runs a hurried hand over his attire. Pushing away from the car he had been leaning against, seemingly hesitatingly, he starts walking towards Satoru.
A dark-haired, thin man, Satoru notes. Certainly not over thirty. His frame is small. Although, Satoru categorises the majority of frames he encounters as small.
The man gives him a fainthearted smile. “Excuse me? Mr.—“ he looks down at a shrieked piece of paper inside his palm, “—Gojo?”
Satoru looks down at him.
“Yes.”
The man’s smile gains strength.
“Good evening, sir. You just arrived from Tokyo, yes? The sanatorium must be your next destination.” He takes Satoru’s silence and lack of disagreement as confirmation. “I am the driver assigned to take you there, sir.”
He extends a hand, lines forming around his eyes as he smiles.
“Kouju, sir. A pleasure to meet you.”
Satoru blinks—as a merit to his glasses, it couldn’t possibly be perceived. He stares at the hand. One of his own is wrapped around his suitcase’s handle, while the other rests well in his coat pocket.
He gives the man—Kouju—a sharp nod.
“Likewise.”
Kouju’s hand retreats, slowly, his smile diminishing. But it doesn’t wholly disappear from his face. He clears his throat, gesturing behind himself.
“We should remain here no further, then. There’s my car, ready for our journey.” He hurriedly glances down. “May I help with your suitcase, sir?”
Satoru looks behind him, at the car he just referred to. The hum he gives is low. “It would not be necessary.”
A well-raised man, undoubtedly—and an intelligent one. He gets the hint. Although with more difficulty than Satoru finds bearable. Perhaps not so intelligent, then. He gives one final clearing of his throat, turning towards his vehicle.
“Let us take our leave.”
Against the wind, they do.
⋆ ⏾ ⭒˚.⋆
Beyond the windows, only darkness thrives. It’s a seductive veil, wrapped around everything—the sky, the trees, the road. The mountains that one would always perceive as too far are now their companions. Their appearance is monstrous.
The path Kouju drives through is only apprehensible through the strong illumination of the vehicle’s front lights. The unlit surroundings linger oppressively around them, like an uncanny threat that could plunge everything into irreversible darkness at once. Satoru would not deem it impossible.
The road is not… the pleasantest. A rather huge bump shakes the car violently.
Kouju’s laugh comes timidly. “Ah, these cursed things. We have made many complaints to get them taken care of, but they are always reluctant to send workers to such a terrain.”He makes a hand gesture. “They aren’t to be truly faulted, anyway. The wilderness is beautiful, and twice as dangerous—especially around this season.”
Another bump—with a sharp twist of his wheel, he manages to diminish its impact.
“But your arrival was quite fortunate, sir.” His voice comes through the loud roaring of the engine, his tone cheerful. Through his peripheral vision, Satoru spots the man looking at him through the rearview mirror. “The weather has been very kind these days. What a miracle it is that we did not have to fight a snowstorm.”
Satoru doesn’t meet his eyes. He keeps his head tilted to the side, looking out of the window. He cannot truly see anything, but it doesn’t mean he cannot pretend. His only response is a cryptic hum. The man can take it as agreeing.
No windows are open, for the cold would slaughter them, yet Satoru can hear nature’s sounds penetrate through. The night is alive. Owls, crickets, creatures of the shadows and the tree’s rustling leaves harmonise beautifully. Perhaps the frost is their nourishment.
Moments later, Kouju’s voice rises again.
“You know, despite the cold and the terrible road,” he laughs, “you’d be surprised how many athletes spend hours running around here. Perhaps they are the ones who advocate against the resurfacing of the road. They adore the difficult terrain.”
Ah. How truly remarkable. Why would they not? One would absentmindedly indulge in preposterous hobbies when the fundamentals of their lives do not shackle them to sorrow.
“Also, something about the low amount of oxygen and how it trains the—muscles of their lungs, or something. Odd terminologies they use, I wouldn’t know. But I remember a guy, some years ago, training shirtless. Man,” he huffs out a chuckle, “I kept thinking to myself, those lungs must truly be iron—“
“How much longer.”
The man makes a perplexed sound. As he grips the wheel tighter, this time with two hands, the roaring of the engine gets louder—the hill must be getting more violent.
“…Sir?”
His eyes move to the rear-view mirror. In that fleeting, bitter moment, he finds Satoru already looking. Their eyes meet. It lasts little, for Satoru discards his gaze unhesitatingly. Repugnantly.
“…another half an hour at most, sir.”
Each minute of that time, they spent in utter silence.
From there, the road only rises sharper, making the vehicle roar wilder as it forcefully makes its way through. Much, much later, the continuation of it morphs into something tolerable. The night gets even more impossibly dark, save for the argent light that leaks from the moon. Satoru cannot catch sight of it, for it rests above their heads.
Not long passes when on the horizon, Satoru spots numerous lights. One would argue it’s the stars—the night is so dark, to tell where the earth ends and the sky begins is impossible—but Satoru knows. He slightly shuffles in the backseat, moving to the side to get a better view through the front glass. He awaits, feverishly and cravingly, for the car to drive closer.
As the distance slowly recedes, the lights appear clearer. Minutes pass, and one cannot mistake them any longer—they’re standing horizontally, in a straight line, scattered equally across multiple rows.
They infiltrate from windows.
“Here we are, sir.”
Satoru’s heartbeat escalates frightfully. Kouju quickly rotates his wrist, taking a look at his watch. “Ah, took us a little longer than expected. Let us fault the dark.”
Earlier or later, day or night, it matters no more. He’s here—he’s finally here.
As they get closer, Satoru’s eyes survey what they can amidst the lightlessness. They drive through gates that are already open and into a stony courtyard that appears immaculately symmetrical, and so peacefully empty. Iron benches adorning numerous spots appear faintly shiny. A layer of frost.
The car slows down drastically before they even reach the main entrance. It befogs Satoru, so much that he would have snapped at Kouju for it, but when the man opens his window and extends his arm to ring a bell, and once having done so, retreats back to continue driving, he settles back in his seat. The stillness of the night carries the sound to distances where it is certainly not welcome.
They stop at the foot of some stairs. They go up, leading to the main entrance. The engine stops, Kouju removes his seatbelt—his and Satoru’s doors open as they step outside.
Air sharper than a nihonto and icier than a glacier assaults Satoru’s airways the moment he’s amidst it. Instinctively, he wraps the collar of his coat tighter, almost in a miserable manner, around his throat and mouth, but it does little—the freshness of that air is so overwhelming, he cannot decide between letting it in or never breathing again. As the unnatural stillness of the night surrounds them, Satoru looks around. Little could be seen from the sanatorium, for the lights from its rooms do not spare much of their power to the exterior. The only thing Satoru could say is that it appears structurally symmetrical, very much like the courtyard, and with an architecture that has regency elements embodied in it.
The loud creak of a door seizes his attention. Satoru looks towards the entrance.
The silhouette of a woman stands there, atop the stairs. The light that comes from behind her is strong, yet its nuance is warm. As she steps outside, her appearance gradually becomes clearer—she’s wearing hospital attire, consisting of a knee-length dress and a nurse cap that sits neatly atop her head. With pristine white clogs, she walks down the stairs.
When she’s near enough, Satoru sees the face of a middle-aged woman, brightened by a benevolent smile.
“Mr. Gojo! You’re finally here!” She takes his hand between hers, shaking it gently. “A pleasure to meet you. I hope that your journey to us faced no difficulties.”
Satoru smiles. Judging from her voice, he would dare say it is the same woman he spoke to on the telephone days ago. “Evening, madame. Fortunately, everything went smoothly.”
She pats the back of his hand. “I am glad, sir, I am glad.” She slightly tilts to the left, looking past him. “You must excuse me for a moment, though—I ought to greet Kouju. Only for a fleeting moment, I shall join you in no time so we can proceed inside.”
Satoru nods. “Certainly, madame.”
As she gives him one final smile, she walks past him and towards the car.
“Kouju, dear boy!”
“Akiya-san!”
As they warmly meet and settle into a quiet talk, Satoru awaits, hands in his pockets. From the open entrance, he can hear the distant sound of people talking. It’s late. Total serenity ought to settle soon, taking the patients of this place to their beds.
He tilts his head backwards, looking up. The sight of the moon greets him, clearer and closer than he has ever seen her—what glory! She blossoms in the sky, alive, breathing. Perhaps, if he slightly reaches, he can touch her.
A change in the atmosphere tingles Satoru’s senses. The light that comes from the sanatorium’s hallway—it ceases to reach him. There, where once it was not, a silhouette now rests.
Satoru turns.
Oh, there he rests—Satoru’s moon, stars, his sky and all of its wonders.
He’s slightly leaning against the doorframe, arms wrapped around his chest. He’s cocooned in soft-looking, comfortable clothes, perhaps having been ready to fall to bed, looking oh so beautiful and graceful in his imperturbable mien, that Satoru curses, curses his own arrival for having disturbed such elegance that neither time nor habitat could ever diminish. The unworthy facsimile in the sky above their heads—it shrieks in ignominy upon his sight.
Satoru’s anything, anything but weak—his spine and will have been disciplined to rigidity, years upon years of life weighing on him. But for this man—for this man, he yields.
For this man, he’s weak.
Satoru shifts, moving with the wind and climbing the stairs, standing now so close to him—so close that the brilliance of that gentle smile fondles Satoru from the inside, running beneath his skin, coalescing with his blood; the image of that statuesque face, framed by long, midnight-black hair, spilling over his shoulders and looking oh so soft, makes Satoru understand what tantalising in human form looks like. So much, so much delight, such allure and incomprehensible beauty, that Satoru’s mortal eyes cannot honor each of them like he yearns to, like they deserve to be perceived and worshipped—he ought to have had four, five, six eyes to admire everything this man has to offer, and it still would not have been enough.
He extends an arm, hand open and reaching.
“Satoru.”
Satoru’s heart sings—weak, he’s weak. He, too, reaches, being pulled in an embrace of ardour.
He touches the moon, his moon—it feels like he has touched the cosmos.
“Suguru.”
He nuzzles his face into the softness of that hair, breathes in the smell he has somehow, against his will, managed to live without all these months; he wraps his arms around Suguru's neck and holds him, tightly, like he might turn into mist and dissipate at any moment; he presses their bodies together, strenuously, like they’re metal that shall amalgamate into one sole piece—one body, one soul. He holds him as he has never held another. Everything he does to Suguru, Satoru gets done to himself in return; Suguru’s embrace is tyrannically desirous.
Warm, Suguru is so warm.
Satoru captures that face between his hands, holding it tenderly. He looks at Suguru’s eyes, once, before bringing their mouths together, like the touch of two roses’ petals.
Sunshine, sunshine on his lips—Satoru tastes spring, cherry blossoms and sweet breezes; unsullied, in their purest, rawest form.
When they part, it’s only to breathe. Their foreheads press together, noses slightly touching.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
The smiles on their faces deepen. Satoru opens his eyes, only to find Suguru already looking. He cannot help but grin—how indescribably silly he feels.
“You lost the dare.”
Suguru’s lovely eyes narrow, his eyebrows slightly lowering. Satoru wants to laugh, but restrains himself. “You couldn’t make yourself unpresentable.” The complete opposite, actually—but Satoru had not been expecting otherwise.
When that rusted memory of his finally grasps what Satoru is implying, his sweet chuckle fondles Satoru’s ears. Suguru’s face remains in Satoru’s grasp—his large hands slowly rise, gently seizing Satoru’s knuckles and bringing them to his lips.
“You’re cold, my love. So long you have been standing outside.”
Satoru has never felt warmer in his life.
“So long, yes.” He stares at Suguru, capricious mirth tinting his words. “The man I traveled so far for forgot about me.”
Those rosy lips so slightly curve into a foxy smile. His large hand settles on Satoru’s waist, its grip solid. Oh, how Satoru had missed it—how he had missed being held.
“Impossible. All the time in the lucid world isn’t enough for me to think about you.” His breath dances over Satoru’s lips. “I dream of you. Every night.”
Satoru smiles—he wants nothing more than to laugh, with all the breath of his lungs. “Can’t compete with a literary intellectual.” He settles a finger right over Suguru’s lips. “Which one of your Victorian books did you steal that from?”
That masterfully concealed spark of competitiveness shines in Suguru’s eyes. Yet, soft that smile remains—as do his lips against Satoru’s finger. “Are my words an act of deception, is what you’re implying?”
“I’m not implying anything.” Satoru hums, low and coltish. “But actions speak louder than words—and the action was you,” he moves even closer, putting his lips right over the delicate skin of Suguru’s ear, “leaving me outside, alone, waiting for…you.”
The grip on Satoru’s waist strengthens, those deft fingers digging so vehemently into his skin. Against his ear, Suguru’s mouth moves intimately.
“Let a guilty man atone for his sins.”
“Oh, dear sirs, so long I kept you waiting!”
Still entangled in each other’s arms, Satoru and Suguru turn—the nurse, Mrs. Akiya, climbs the last steps to stand atop the stairs. She looks at them kindly. “How delighted I am to see you united. But Mr. Geto.” She swiftly turns towards him. “I told you to wait inside—you ought not to stand outside during such an hour! The night air is more dangerous than beneficial for you!”
Satoru slightly moves so he stands by Suguru’s side, hands still wrapped around each other’s waists. Suguru closes his eyes.
“Unfortunately, madame.” He smiles. “As are many things.”
Have faith in Suguru to always derive a philosophically poetic element from the most mundane of things. Socrates need not worry—he has worthy descendants.
Behind Mrs. Akiya, Satoru notices the departure of a car, the sound of its wheels over the stony path echoing around the place. He suddenly is reminded of his suitcase, and how he forgot to retrieve it upon his arrival, feeling alarmed and ready to gesture to the driver to come back—only at the last moment, he notices it standing just over the top stair. Kouju must have taken care of it.
“Sirs,” After Satoru has grabbed hold of it, she gestures towards the hallway. “the warmth awaits us.”
Suguru gently rests his hand on the crook of Satoru’s elbow. As they walk inside, the grand entrance clicks shut behind them.
Little Satoru surveys as they make their way through the first and second floors. He notices dim lights, slightly ajar doors, medical individuals and soft-spoken words—it all passes before his eyes like a breeze, for he yearns to be close to Suguru, only—to look at him and hear his voice, only. Everything else is an abyss of irrelevance.
The third floor bears an identical resemblance, almost, though one thing makes Satoru’s eyes linger for a moment too long…an elegant thing, resting in a room they fleetingly pass by…a beautiful unexpectedness, something that hangs feebly in Satoru’s drowsy consciousness…
…The fourth floor is where Suguru resides. When the three of them have reached the end of the corridor, Mrs. Akiya turns, waving towards…two doors. They stand opposite each other.
“Mr. Gojo, this shall be your room.” She gives it a swift glance. “Cleaned, thoroughly prepared for an adequate and safe stay. A rather lucky man you are, sir—right opposite Mr. Geto.”
Satoru looks at her, although his eyelids weigh down tremendously. He hopes, at least, that his guard is not so eroded that the immense irritation eating at his bones shows right through his face.
“Very lucky…indeed.”
The woman smiles, pleased. When no more words follow, she briskly takes a look at her wrist. Her posture straightens.
“It has been a long day—especially for you, Mr. Gojo. Rest, you’ll find comfort in your room. Mr. Geto,” she turns towards him, “should the need arise, seek my presence without delay.”
“I must tend to the patients, so I ought to leave you. I wish you both a good night.”
Before she parts, they quietly thank her, adding the wish of a peaceful night shift, too. The sound of her footwear is softly muted as it travels through the long corridor.
The quietness they stand amidst is comfortable. Satoru looks at Suguru.
“Does she lock your doors?”
Suguru’s eyebrow raises. The edge of his mouth curves. “…if she does?”
“I’ll crawl through your window.”
His laugh makes Satoru’s heart flutter. How many other patients must have heard it? It would have been balm for their pain.
Suguru blinks at him, slowly, his bangs framing his face. “Sleep, my love. The road has fatigued you.”
Satoru looks at him. Nothing else can he do but look. The light from the corridor kisses Suguru’s face so benignly, caressing his cheekbones and accenting his eyes. His, too, appear fatigued—but it only adds to his beauty, so finely curating that picture of handsome languor. Those shapely eyelids, Satoru wants to kiss them.
He takes a step towards Suguru. He takes his face between his hands. One kiss, he places on Suguru’s cheek. The other one, on his forehead. So pleasant his skin is, Satoru’s lips refuse to part; so dreamily Suguru’s lips call to him, that he wants nothing more than to answer.
He slightly caresses Suguru’s cheekbones with his thumb. “Good night.”
His wrists end up in Suguru’s grip—devotedly ardent kisses are pressed on the back of Satoru’s hands, the inside of his palms. Suguru’s eyes find his.
“Good night.”
Both of their doors click shut—Satoru’s with an imperceptible delay, for he waits to hear Suguru’s one first. To his bed, he falls half merrily, half bitterly.
With the image of kissing those mole-adorned eyelids that shelter eyes like the sun, Satoru embraces sleep unguardedly.
⋆ ⏾ ⭒˚.⋆
The night passes like a sea wave. At six, sharp and without assistance, Satoru awakes. The blue tint of the arriving dawn bathes the room in somber coldness, but it does not manacle him to his bed; without delay, he is on his feet, marking the start of the day.
After having washed and performed his personal duties in the bathroom, from his suitcase he takes a grey crewneck, along with a light colored pair of trousers. The warmth they give him as he puts them on is pleasant. He slips his socked feet into his shoes.
The sound of his door opening and closing is light, yet the stillness of the corridor carries it mightily. Such dormancy the sanatorium conveys that very moment, it is quite enjoyable basking in it. Little light illuminates through, a veil of darkness over the place. It shall soon dissolve.
Satoru gazes at the door of Suguru’s room. He holds his breath in an attempt to catch a sound, a movement, feet lightly stepping over the floor. Nothing moves. To grasp the handle and silently slip inside, right under the covers and into Suguru’s arms; such a captivating invitation.
How much good that sleep can do to a human—the body’s long-awaited phase of restoration, rest and peacefulness. That and so much more; Suguru deserves it all, uninterrupted.
Satoru turns his feet away, walking leisurely through the corridor.
He keeps his steps light and ears open, wandering through the floor, keen on achieving his purpose as soon as possible—one of great significance. Yesterday had been a day of travel, ending in an unfortunate time of late hours; he did not have the opportunity to properly outline the inside of the sanatorium. Therefore, it must happen today. Nothing of heavy inspection, for he doesn’t truly care about business that regards Suguru not, but he deems it necessary to have an idea of the place.
Even if it ultimately meant not sleeping in the same room as Suguru last night. Satoru had only complied with the separate rooms policy yesterday because of today’s expedition. He hadn’t wanted his awakening to disturb Suguru.
The current floor bears nothing of relevance. Numerous rooms where the patients reside, staff-only rooms, one rather larger room that ought to be a…lounging area?—and several grandiose windows that lead to wide, open balconies. Satoru makes his way down.
The third floor, as he was expecting, appears and must be identical. It is slightly more illuminated; soon shall the rays of the sun truly reach them. He lingers through the halls a moment longer before walking towards the staircase.
He vaguely remembers what his eyes had fallen upon yesterday. He has not forgotten—he shall give it his undivided attention once his delving has been declared complete.
The second floor makes Satoru slightly frown. There are a few patients quietly sitting in the corridor’s chairs—nurses are calmly walking around, holding trays of medicine, even syringes. Satoru tilts his head down, pace slowing. If he attracts unwanted attention, being asked what he is doing or where he is going, he will say that he is looking for a specific nurse or doctor. Thankfully, none spare him a glance—or any that do cease so when he simply doesn’t reciprocate it.
The first floor has truly woken up. More nurses walk the corridors, assisting patients to their rooms or accompanying them outside. Satoru even spots a few doctors, standing in corners and seemingly giving pivotal instructions to the nurses. A little further down, in the front lobby, two ladies stand behind the desk—Satoru only peeks his head at them, swiftly retreating when he sees nothing else of interest.
As he walks away, such cheery relief overcomes him. His task is complete—he shall now go back.
On each floor, massive, almost floor-to-ceiling windows replace the majority of the walls where the greatest amount of sunlight comes from. It is a rather positive thing, for the place does not have that forlorn atmosphere—to an extent—but such strong illumination gives Satoru a headache.
When he is on the third floor, he assuredly makes his way towards his target. The lounging room of the floor appears empty, a soft echo dancing around as Satoru enters, walking to the far corner of it. As he gets closer, he curiously eyes the object that rests there so nobly.
The sight of the Yamaha piano that awaits Satoru’s approach is beautiful. Graceful in its natural wood tone, proud of its fine simplicity. Its polished, shiny surface appears smooth, and so it is even to the touch. Satoru runs his fingers breezily over it. Only a thin layer of dust mantles it. Ah, what a shame—Satoru hopes it has not been long since it was last made to sing. The melody must sound pleasant in a room of such vastness.
Satoru presses a finger over one of the keys, gently pushing down. The note that it produces is clear, perhaps a little louder than he would have preferred. He presses another one, and another. He cannot craft a song, that is for sure. But it is nice to imagine what it could be.
He turns and walks away. As he leaves, he sees two elderly patients, arms linked together, slowly make their way through. They are slightly tilted forward, unhurriedly talking in the shared space of their heads. As Satoru approaches, he notices one of them looks up and directly at him.
He passes without sparing them a glance.
The fourth floor is blessedly quieter. Nurses carry out their duties normally, but it is a much more likable atmosphere. It is not a coincidence that Suguru resides here. Perhaps it is an influence of his.
Walking towards Suguru’s room, Satoru feels like a feather. When he stands before the door, he slightly hesitates—perhaps he should wait for Suguru to reach out for him, whenever he might feel the need. But, oh, easier said than done—so many mornings he has spent without Suguru’s presence, he now feels like he has reached his limit.
He knocks twice, gently. For two seconds, he lingers there, motionless, then his hand moves involuntarily—he twists the handle, making the door creak as he pushes only his head through the tiny open space.
“…Suguru?”
Sunlight wholly invades the room. The first thing Satoru sees is the bed; it looks as pristine as ever, having already been made. On the bedside table, a full glass of water, reading glasses, and a neat pile of books rest—everything lies so peacefully. Satoru pushes his head a little further, looking to the right.
A ray of light greets him—it’s in the form of Suguru’s smile.
“Satoru.”
One leg nobly crossed over the other, he sits on a chair, right by the window. Nothing occupies his hands, so they’re placed atop his lap. As he looks at Satoru, his head tilts to the side.
“Good morning.”
In no time, the door clicks shut. Satoru stands inside, discreetly taking in the view of the room—so clean and comfortable it is. But little of it matters to him. His cheeks faintly hurt; he realises he’s smiling. When he sees Suguru’s hand extend, his fingers so slightly bent and calling for Satoru’s, it gets even broader. He moves without delay.
He stands in front of Suguru, looking down at him. As their fingers interlink, he tilts down, pressing a long, lingering kiss on Suguru’s cheek. The fresh smell of toothpaste and soap he so happily inhales. Against his skin, Satoru smiles.
“Morning.”
Before he fully retreats, Suguru kisses his cheek, too. As soft as ever his lips are.
“Did you sleep well?”
No chair besides that of Suguru’s exists in the room. Satoru moves to stand behind him, lightly caressing the ends of Suguru’s hair.
“As well as one can sleep in a sanatorium. And in an empty bed.”
Suguru chuckles. He tilts his head back, allowing his hair to fall more easily in Satoru’s hands.
“You surely must have gotten used to sleeping alone by now,” Satoru mutters, frowning. “You should know that doesn’t matter to me. Make space for me on that bed from now on.”
Suguru’s body shakes from his quiet laughter. Only for a moment, Satoru lets go of his hair to put his hands on those broad shoulders, gently rubbing the muscles and making a content sigh escape those lips.
Suguru melts beneath his fingers. “You cannot erase more than a decade of sleeping alongside another with a few months of doing so alone.” He shakes his head. “Give me centuries, even. It would still not make me cease reaching for you on the bed.”
Satoru hums. He tries to let those words wash over him with bliss—and they do, so dotingly—but the corners of his mouth faintly tremble. As he touches and fondles those shoulders, wrapped in warm fabric, he notices how the mass that once greeted his fingers has…lessened. Suguru has gotten thinner. His appearance does not give it away, despite the prominence of those cheeks and jaw—Suguru has always had a finely carved face, so gracefully handsome.
But that body, Satoru could sculpt it by memory alone. He knows it better than his own—nothing could happen to it that would escape his eyes.
He runs his fingers through Suguru’s hair again. A black claw clip keeps half of it gathered. Satoru removes it, watching the strands fall over like the most luxurious of silks.
“You’re up so early. You should sleep more.”
Little by little, he takes each strand again, gathering half of it between his fingers. It is not the first time Satoru says such words to Suguru—he has always been the one to wake up early, disturbing Satoru’s sleep, too, in the process. But that was then, when he had lectures and seminars to deliver. He’s in a sanatorium now—where he should guiltlessly rest. And prioritise himself.
Suguru pushes his head against Satoru’s hand. “How could I, now that you’re finally here?”
Perhaps, it is his way of indirectly maintaining his discipline. He has put it on hold, but not made it inactive—simply dormant, so when he gets back, it is not difficult to re-enter his old lifestyle. Ah, Suguru has always been purposive.
Satoru puts the clip on, staring at the back of Suguru’s head. He’s pleased with his design. Then, he places his hand beneath Suguru’s jaw, urging him to tilt his head back. Their gazes meet. He slowly, feathery, directs his hand down Suguru’s throat. He caresses his Adam’s apple.
“Why did you not come and seek me out, then?”
Suguru smiles.
“I was afraid of awakening you. You always sleep so sweetly.”
Satoru huffs out a laugh. He stares at those lips, before bowing to kiss them.
Even upside down, they taste the heavenliest.
Slowly—for he doesn’t wish to—Satoru straightens. While absentmindedly twirling Suguru’s hair strands between his fingers, his gaze falls beyond the windows. He’s surprised upon realising that the room has its own balcony opening; a greatly spacious one, too. Quite an enjoyable perquisite. Satoru is certain not every patient is so lucky. As his eyes move down further, he notices the great iron gates. They were open yesterday, but have today been shut. The courtyard beneath appears empty, with the sole exception of two or three patients, or perhaps medical personnel, who, from so high up, look like tiny dots amidst an open sea.
Beyond the territory of the sanatorium, only wilderness exists. Trees so tall they’re inhuman and mountains wholly covered by pure white snow—it looks like an entirely different world from that of the sanatorium’s. Yet, they manage to exist peaceably.
Satoru stares at the path that took him here. How nice it must be to walk along it, for it must have that thin layer of frost that cracks beneath one’s feet.
He caresses Suguru’s face with his knuckles.
“Would you fancy a walk?”
Suguru hums, puzzled.
“Beyond the gates.”
Vocalising his wish brings to life its silliness. With growing bitterness, Satoru glares at the windows as he thinks about the sanatorium—which is not a free-roam facility. Even around the courtyard, they would undoubtedly have to be accompanied by a nurse, perhaps one who would entirely prohibit Satoru from staying alongside them. And to go outside the surveyed territory—just another impossible thing.
Suguru’s head turns in the direction Satoru is looking at. He chuckles. “Always aiming for the troublesome things.” He takes a deep breath, exhaling it slowly.
“I would also like that.”
Satoru's hands still. “Are you even allowed?”
Suguru shrugs. “Perhaps not.” He subtly shifts, leaning further in his chair. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
Satoru clicks his tongue, shaking his head. He cannot help but chuckle. “What can you do? Didn’t know you could make your own rules.” What effortless self-assurance this man has.
Suguru hums, slipping past the sarcasm.
“I will, if I have to. For you.”
For you, Satoru echoes, his cheeks warm.
For you.
For you, Satoru thinks, I want that walk for you, so you will not stay imprisoned in this damned room.
Satoru ceases touching him. He takes a few steps and walks around, standing in front of Suguru. He puts his hands on his hips.
“You might regret making so many promises. Now I’m hyped and ready for a long walk.”
Those golden eyes—shining bright beneath the rays—narrow as he smiles. He puts his hands on his knees, knuckles whitening as he grips them. He gets up, standing at Satoru’s eye level.
“Wear something warm. I’ll meet you in no time.”
Oh, what a will it takes for Satoru not to kiss him right there. Instead, he flashes him a grin, turning around and chirpily making his way to his own room. As he bends down to search in his suitcase, smiling to himself, he knows—his act of patience will be rewarded.
When they kiss, beyond the gates and eyes of this place, with only the trees and the frosty air as their witnesses, Satoru knows, he knows—they will feel freer than the breeze that whistles between the mountain slopes.
⋆ ⏾ ⭒˚.⋆
“O-outside? I—I am afraid that’s—against the protocol, sir.”
Satoru turns his head the other way, hiding the scowl that overtakes his features—god, these fools.
They’re on the first floor, standing in front of the reception desk. Behind it, one of the nurses looks at Suguru like he has grown a second head overnight, and is now asking for headache medicine—while the other one appears as if she might faint from looking at him a moment too long. If Satoru stares at her pupils, he is sure they have transformed into hearts.
Suguru sighs, softly. “I understand.”
He stands silent for a moment, before addressing the nurse again. “Provided that it is not a hassle for you, miss,” he gestures towards the telephone on the desk, “may I have a word with Mrs. Akiya?”
The nurse might truly faint from uneasiness. Her gaze moves between Suguru and the phone. Who could resist a request made so politely? None might agree, but what a serpent Suguru is—in that moment of such immense indecisiveness, he gifts her a warm smile.
The telephone is already in her grasp and by her ear, her other hand pushing a few buttons. How faintly her cheeks blush as she focuses on that familiar ringing sound. They await.
When the person on the other end answers, she timidly hands the telephone to Suguru. He gives her a brief nod, a Thank you mouthed silently.
“…Mrs. Akiya? Good morning, madame. This is Suguru Geto speaking.” He swiftly looks to the ground. “Please, do tell me if this is an inappropriate moment to communicate.”
Muted sounds that only Suguru could hear come from the telephone’s mouth. Apparently, it is a rather favourable time, for he smiles and doesn’t look like he will hang up anytime soon. The telephone’s cord restrains him from libertine movement, so he only manages to turn around, giving Satoru and the nurses his back, slightly lowering his head as he talks.
Such wasted time, Satoru cannot help but think. They could have spent it in one of their rooms, cuddled in each other’s arms. Perhaps, Satoru could have asked him to read one of his books out loud. Not that he is grossly interested in any of their contents—it is Suguru’s voice he yearns to hear. Narrating in that soft tone of his, uninterrupted and right into Satoru’s ear. Ah, Satoru should have thought better before speaking—
“Miss?”
They turn towards Suguru. His hand is extended, urging the nurse to take the telephone. He makes a vague gesture, implying she must hold it in her ear. She complies.
“Yes, Akiya-san?”
Little sounds come from the telephone. She listens, intently.
“O-oh? I…can?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. More sentences are spoken to her.
“…I wasn’t aware. Okay, thank you.” She nods to herself. “Yes, I shall tell sir…no, nothing of importance…of course…goodbye.”
She hangs up. She addresses Suguru.
“Sir, I was told you are permitted to go on your walk. But for the time being, we are obliged to keep the gates closed. When you come back, please ring the doorbell outside, should the guard not be present.”
Suguru nods—yet another smile he gives them. “Noted, miss. Thank you.”
He walks away and towards Satoru. Satoru would have expected him to look more pleased, even veiledly pompous, but his face remains neutral. A beautiful sight he is to witness, nevertheless. Satoru clicks his tongue, smirking.
“I wasn’t familiar with such tactics, Mr. Geto.” Side by side, they walk towards the entrance. Satoru holds the door open for him. “When have they gotten so mischievous?”
They step outside. It’s like a blessed paradise. So clear and unsullied the air is, one cannot get enough of it. Suguru places his hand on the crook of Satoru’s elbow. They make their way towards the slowly gaping gate.
Suguru hums. “Certain circumstances open certain doors.”
Satoru discreetly rolls his eyes, but he’s positive Suguru notices it. “In this case, the gates.”
Suguru chuckles.
“Ah, if only students detected symbolism this easily.”
“Do not fault the poor kids.” Satoru shakes his head. “I have seen their exam papers—presenting concepts not even Freud would think of analysing.”
“Says the professor who includes bachelor’s third-year questions in the first year’s programme.”
“They ought to be prepared.” Satoru grunts, irritably rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s you I have developed that habit from, anyway. Don’t act so Tartuffian now.”
For a moment, Suguru does not answer. Such satisfaction blooms in Satoru’s chest at finally having caught the scholastic virtuoso at a loss for words—one cannot act differently when being presented with rigid truths regarding their hypocrisy—that he wants to keep teasing Suguru all the more. Through the corner of his eye, he realises Suguru is looking at him. Satoru turns his head, too.
How dulcet a smile Suguru wears on his lips—and so full of playfulness.
“Tartuffian?” He raises his eyebrows. “Have you been reading Molière?”
It’s pitiful how mortifyingly embarrassed Satoru feels, his mouth slightly gaping as no words materialise out of it—of course he was going to comment on it. As if feeling his emotions, Suguru laughs—it only grows stronger.
“Hey, why not?! It was only natural.” Satoru is fuming, looking around as if the trees will whisper to him what to say. “You had left it lying around, I merely read it as I was putting it away.”
He could give many excuses, but he’s aware none will make Suguru believe him. He has turned his head away, but his shoulders shake as he keeps laughing. He could confidently call Suguru out for making fun of somebody who reads, and it would be a flawless argument—weren’t it for the fact that he had called said book a stupidly pointless play upon seeing it in Suguru’s hands…
…so many…
Suguru shakes his head, settling into quiet chuckles. “I am sure it was only a few pages. Perhaps you accidentally made it to the end, even.”
…Suguru was supposed to do that, in fact—if he hadn’t had to be rushed to a sanatorium without delay. The book lay open on the page he had left it for a long time, atop his working desk.
Satoru finished it for him.
“…maybe.”
He looks up, the elongated tree branches shielding the view of the sky from them. The narrowness in his throat deepens.
“Maybe I even delivered the lecture to the students for you.”
You, for you, for you
“They must have loved it all the more, I am sure.”
What could Satoru do that would not be for him?
The frosty air has hardened Satoru’s cheeks. They subtly soften as he smiles.
Serene the path they walk upon is. There is a devious mist that hides between the tree trunks, giving the air that icy breath, but it is not as powerful as it might hope, for the sunlight diminishes its power. Deep in the dense forest, the song of the birds never ceases, trailing behind the two of them devotedly—perhaps they feel the warmth of their active bodies, yearning for such a rarity themselves.
Satoru presses his own arm against his side harder, just to feel Suguru’s hand around his elbow a little closer.
Slightly the ground beneath their feet cracks as they step on it. The desolation of the place makes the sound louder. They keep walking, turning their heads towards the hoot of an owl, or the flap of wings between the heavy leaves. So many secrecies hidden in the shadows, Satoru wonders whether his and Suguru’s presence is welcome. The thoughts that he voices come unexpectedly.
“Do you think they forbid walks in the forest because of the wild animals?”
They step on tiny frozen branches. Suguru’s hum is thoughtful. “Perhaps.”
A low chuckle.
“But I doubt animals would concern themselves with such flawed meat.”
Satoru clicks his tongue. “Meat is meat. Hunger doesn’t discriminate.”
Suguru hums. “It doesn’t.” He tightens his hold on Satoru’s arm, slightly pushing him to the side so they can avoid walking on an ice-covered area. “But what dishonour human flesh must be to them. So contaminated and foul.”
To an extent, Satoru ponderingly thinks. But aren’t they all made from the same material, in the end? From the soil they have spawned, to the soil they shall go. Flesh forged by Nature’s hand, new creations that will inevitably grow old—ultimately becoming nourishment for future generations. The foulness of one’s meat—it is collective.
Satoru rolls his eyes.
“How cogitative of you,” He says, waving a hand in the air. “The carnivorous beasts around here listened and are considering turning vegetarian.”
Suguru’s laugh is deep, so wholehearted that it makes Satoru inevitably grin alongside him. He slightly tilts his head, so it touches Suguru’s. How pleasant it is to feel the vibration of that laugh.
Shortly, Suguru’s soft voice follows. “Well, I couldn’t see why not—you’d find quite a large variety of fruit around here.”
“If the variety remains large, that must mean none bother to consume them.” Satoru scrunches his nose, giving Suguru a penetrative look. “Which means they taste horrible.”
Suguru narrows his eyes, keeping them fixed on their path. His top lip so slightly falls over his bottom—he dissociates when he thinks.
“You’d have to ask the sanatorium’s cooking staff,” he finally says, “the majority of the stuff they use, they get it from the forest.”
Satoru makes a low sound of surprise. Interesting. Does that mean their food, too, is prepared in a different, specialised way, part of their rigorous treatments? How full of mysteries this sanatorium is.
“And, in winter? How do they manage?” Satoru asks, eyeing a gigantic tree trunk in the distance. “I can’t imagine how large that variety must be. Perfect weather conditions and all.”
A breeze, very light and almost imperceptible, whistles by their ear. It is gone almost immediately, but its coldness lingers on their skin. Suguru lets out a breath.
“Not so large, that is certain…” He gives Satoru’s arm a gentle squeeze. Satoru turns to look at him, but Suguru’s facing away—he follows his eyes.
“But perhaps just enough.”
For a moment, Satoru is puzzled, looking but not knowing what at—then, he spots it. There, sheltered among the branches, an unusual color catches his eye, one that should not belong among the muted shades of winter. A nice, vivid blue color, packed into multiple little dots scattered across a green branch.
Satoru grins.
“Wouldn’t that satiate a ravenous bear.”
It is quite impressive, he will have to admit. Surviving in a cold this brutal, so strong they are, they must even cure cancer. Will he gain icy powers if he consumes them?
“If they aren’t sweet, I’m faulting you.”
Only one way to find out.
Chuckling, Suguru removes his hand so Satoru can walk away and towards the tree. As he approaches it, he realises how high the branch truly stands. Even with his build, there’s a considerable distance between it and the tips of his fingers as he fully stretches his arm upwards. Satoru curses under his breath before bending his knees—he swiftly jumps, successfully catching it in his grasp and holding on tightly.
The whole branch tilts as Satoru forcibly pulls it down. Frozen droplets of water and leftover snow fall on his face and hair, making him groan. Behind him, there’s a quiet laugh. Irritated, Satoru uses his other hand to violently twist until the branch finally breaks. He briskly steps back—no more snow on his head can he tolerate.
He looks down at the fruits. They look like berries, blue and perfectly round. Their color is slightly cloudy. A layer of frost mantles them. How marvellously they endure such harshness. Shaking some water off his hair, Satoru turns to walk towards Suguru.
Suguru has walked ahead of him, only a little bit. He is standing, serenely, on a part of their path where the sun rays have managed to penetrate through the trees. Satoru slows his steps down, just to keep looking at him longer.
If he looked lovely during the night, in daylight, he’s simply breathtaking.
His coat, black and long—longer than most, it must even caress the ground when he walks—wraps around his body with an elegance so unrivalled, one would think he’s a prince whose mindless stroll got him lost amidst these woods. His hands, graceful to the eye and strong to the touch, are wrapped in a pair of fine leather gloves, a birthday gift from Satoru, which only add to his finesse. The turtleneck he wears beneath is thick, only of the finest merino wool, protecting his neck without need for a scarf. Like his coat, and his trousers and his shoes, the turtleneck, too, is black. Yet none, none are as dark as that long, silken hair. Black like obsidian, they complete that comely image of luring charm, falling over his shoulders freely. It helps to keep me warm, Suguru had said, and Satoru had silently thanked such weather.
While Suguru gazes at something in the forest, Satoru drags his steps, observing that side profile, half covered by his bangs—his straight, slim nose, those dark eyebrows over his alluring eyes. So, so beautiful he is, it is never enough for Satoru. He could only look, and look, although he is painfully aware that each time he does, time reverts back to the start—it feels as if he’s meeting him for the first time.
He does the only thing no one could ever take away from him. Suguru’s face has turned towards him—and Satoru looks.
Pale, he’s pale. Beneath the rays, his skin is smooth and radiant and pale, like ivory, that fine tan he has always worn so handsomely now diminished. His lips appear a little fuller, his cheeks a little hollow.
What an impact wearing all black has on him. It adds to his elegance, just as it deviously takes from his complexion. Satoru will make sure to have him wear a vibrant palette, have that skin shine with its natural color again. And take him on more walks, keep him under the sun longer.
He proudly shakes the branch in front of Suguru’s face, grinning. “Nature’s goods acquired.”
Suguru observes, hands in his pockets, as Satoru picks one of the berries and takes it between his fingers. He attempts to squish it, but it absolutely doesn’t yield. It’s wholly frozen. Satoru hums, carefully examining it and its slippery surface.
He looks at Suguru, mouth curling into a smirk. “Rejoice, patient. This is part of your naughty boy activities. Frozen and all—it might even taste like ice cream.”
There’s a slight crack in Suguru’s smile, a momentary hollowness in his chuckle that vanishes instantaneously. “Shall I tell Mrs. Akiya you’re worsening the patient?”
Satoru grins, but he doesn’t take the threat lightly—and Suguru catches his frown, goddamn him.
“She’ll send you back to Tokyo herself.”
She’d have to drag Satoru’s body from the fourth floor and throw it outside the gates. And possibly wound him fatally, if she doesn’t want him returning. He stares at Suguru, frown deepening and eyebrow raising. He tilts his head. “Now, we can’t have that, can we?”
He plops the berry in his own mouth, giving Suguru a playful smile as his lips press shut. Suguru’s gaze falls on them, those thin eyes making Satoru’s blood redden his cheeks as they observe him so languidly, so thoroughly. How bare Satoru feels beneath that gaze.
The berry in his mouth is cold, sitting atop his tongue. He moves it around, bringing it forward, backward, between his teeth, against the roof of his mouth. Not once does he bite down on it. Slowly, its iciness dissolves, water pooling inside his mouth, which he discreetly swallows. Little time it takes—what was once a frozen surface, now feels plush and tender underneath Satoru’s teeth. How tempting to burst into its lusciousness is.
His gaze meets Suguru’s.
“How is it?”
Suguru’s eyes are lidded. Satoru takes a step forward—with the hand that is not holding the branch, he cups Suguru’s face, pulling him close to bring their mouths together.
Everything of this man is soft. His smile, his voice, his demeanour; he was forged from delicacy. And yet—
Those lips—they are simply unparalleled. So tenderly they move against Satoru’s, and yet so passionately, so fervidly, like a man in search of an oasis. They open their mouths, breathing in each other’s air, drinking in each other’s love. Their tongues touch, timidly, and Satoru flies above the clouds of delight. Their little fruit of indulgence dances from one’s mouth to the other’s, spilling its dulcet syrup between their lips, their teeth, but how little it matters to Satoru—he’s consumed, entirely, by the presence of this man, this man whose words are melodies and taste is nectar. Nothing else could match his existence. They embrace each other with an ecstasy of starved ardour, beneath the trees and amidst the cold, holding on with hands that could crush stone. They’re pressed against each other viciously, Suguru’s arms around Satoru’s waist, holding him in a bruising, violent grip. An amorous, erotic thing that cannot be called a kiss—for it is paradisical, unearthly, a sublime act—keeps them tied together, Satoru’s head always moving forward, wanting more, more—more of this man that was taken from him, from Satoru’s arms—
The mortal demand for oxygen reaches its culmination. They part, gently, breathing heavily. Their foreheads rest together. Where Suguru holds him by the waist, Satoru feels the warmest. He wraps both of his arms around Suguru’s neck, grinning.
“How was it?”
His voice is lost, nothing more than a whisper—their lust has consumed it.
But Suguru hears him, loud and clear. He puts his lips right over Satoru’s.
“Sweet,” so hot his breath is, “You’re the sweetest thing.” He drags his mouth feathery over Satoru’s own. He moves to the corner of his lips, his cheek, gifting Satoru small, open-mouthed kisses that leave Satoru trembling.
He tucks his face right into Satoru’s neck, breathing hotly over the exposed skin. His mouth, fully open and sinful, captures within itself Satoru’s most sensitive spot, right where his pulse is. His tongue and his teeth—they caress it so ardently.
“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Satoru’s shudder travels through his whole body. He clutches at Suguru’s shoulders, fingers digging into the thick material of his coat.
“Suguru.”
A strong gush of wind slips between the trees, blowing through the trunks to slam against their unknowing bodies. So violent and icy it is, it makes both of them tremble fiercely against each other. It feels like snow has been placed beneath their clothes, pressed right into their skin.
Satoru hisses, gritting his teeth. He wants nothing more than to remain in Suguru’s arms, and Suguru in his.
“We should go back.”
Even though he says it, Satoru himself doesn’t move. He puts his hand over Suguru’s nape, fingers buried between the silky strands. He keeps him there, shielded and secure, Suguru’s face pressed against his neck, where the wind cannot slip and penetrate into his fragile lungs.
A soft, final kiss is pressed over his pulse. Suguru moves, slowly, detaching himself from Satoru’s embrace. Is the action for him as painful as it is for Satoru? An ache like no other throbs in Satoru’s bones. The skin that Suguru kept so warm now remains empty, bare and offered for the wind to slaughter. The entirety of his body feels like that. Only if he could strip it naked, from head to toe, and wholly press it against Suguru’s equally exposed one—only then would he feel warm.
A few untamed hair strands fall over Suguru’s face. Satoru timidly uses a finger to tuck them away. When Suguru smiles, Satoru mirrors him.
He realises he’s still holding the branch in his grasp. Satoru picks a few of its fruits, then searches in his pockets. He places the plucked berries between two soft tissues before carefully putting the folded thing back inside. He discards the branch.
With Suguru’s arm tucked into his, they walk through the path they came from. Often the wind roars harshly, only to then settle for a grim whistle that pierces their ears. The morning birds have ceased their singing.
As expected, they find the gates closed. While they approach, it doesn’t seem like anyone will appear to open it. Satoru’s eyes search for the bell he heard the nurse mention, and once he finds it, tugs the cord back and forth a few times, the loud noise filling the air. They await.
It’s silent, mostly. The forest behind them doesn’t talk, and the courtyard is immensely spacious, any sound that might come from the sanatorium dying halfway through before reaching them. That must certainly be the reason why, then, Suguru’s faint cough is heard so clearly.
Satoru turns to look at him. He has put the back of his hand in front of his mouth, taking one, two deep breaths. For a moment, he’s silent, but his hand continues to shield his face—it receives two other coughs, stronger than the previous. Suguru closes his eyes.
Satoru grabs the bell cord again, shaking it more forcefully—he feels his fingers vibrate from the impact of it.
He stands by Suguru’s side, a hand pressed on his lower back. Even through all his layers, he can feel the frail tremble of Suguru’s muscles—is it from the cold, or the exertion to contain his coughs, Satoru does not know. He means to ask, but so hard he’s clenching his teeth, it is better that he remains silent.
Exiting the sanatorium’s door, they spot a tall man rapidly walking down the stairs and through the courtyard with fast steps. He swiftly raises his hand once, in greeting. Satoru breathes a little easier. When he arrives, he gives them a sharp nod of acknowledgement before grabbing hold of his keys to open the gates. The rattling sound of the iron bars is aggravating, and equally relieving.
Suguru’s cough comes brutishly, like a thorny blade that rips through his throat—so painful it sounds, that Satoru feels his own lungs squeeze. The gate is now open, awaiting their arrival, but they couldn’t spare it a glance. He gets closer to Suguru, putting his arm around his shoulders. Like a curtain of an operetta, Suguru’s hair has fallen over his face, shielding him from Satoru’s gaze—using his pointy finger, Satoru tucks it behind his ear, unveiling what wishes to remain hidden.
A sweet, faint blush adorns Suguru’s cheeks. If he hadn’t known what caused it, Satoru would have loved it for making him look even more beautiful.
“Suguru.”
Suguru’s breathing is shaky. Still, he gives Satoru a smile.
“…Do not worry.” He straightens, gently grabbing Satoru’s hand. “I am okay. Let’s go inside.”
They walk through the gates. He gives the guard a cruel stare, crossing the courtyard with his jaw clenched and hands equally as agitated, but the one that holds Suguru’s remains loose, their fingers restfully interlinked.
They enter the building and climb each staircase. Satoru doesn’t acknowledge anyone—not that he knows anyone to begin with. He plans to keep it that way. Perhaps Suguru let the nurses in the lobby know they got back, perhaps he didn’t; they did not stop anywhere, nor did they utter a word to another. The door shuts softly when they enter Suguru’s room.
Much warmer it is inside the pale walls of his room, but Satoru’s muscles still faintly tremble. Silent, he turns towards Suguru. Satoru watches as he tugs at his fingers, tepidly removing each of his gloves. Holding them in one hand, just as languorously, he then takes his coat off. With soundless steps, he walks to his wardrobe, carefully putting the gloves, one atop the other, over a neatly folded stack of clothes. His coat is put in its hanger. The wardrobe’s door closes.
Suguru’s eyes fall on him. They shine a little brighter, their surface a little glassier.
“Change into comfortable clothes, my love.”
He starts walking towards his bed. Satoru gazes at his back as he stands over his nightstand, head tilted down while he opens a drawer. “Take from my wardrobe, if you wish. They’ll keep you warmer.”
Perhaps his body had been awaiting Suguru’s consent. He finds himself staring at the ill-lit spot inside the wardrobe where Suguru’s clothes lie. It’s clean, a pleasant sight, his belongings folded and put in order. It has always been like this, for Satoru has witnessed such for many, many years—everything of Suguru’s must be immaculate. But they look even tidier now, like a hand has never touched or disturbed anything.
There has been no Satoru to rummage through his neatness, looking for a thing he could undoubtedly find in his own possessions, but would rather use Suguru’s, after all, Satoru thinks—he almost laughs at himself.
He reaches and takes a sweater. It’s a light blue color, like the morning sky. It’s true, Satoru has always preferred Suguru’s clothes—they’re warmer, yes, and softer, and cosier, and smell like him; a wonderful meld of their detergent, his cologne, and Suguru’s own, unique scent. Satoru brings the cloth closer to his face.
He hesitates. Almost having pressed it against his nose, he hesitates.
What if that scent is gone? This time spent away from home, their home, from Satoru, from the life they had to interrupt after having spent more than ten years curating—this djinn that they were cursed with, it ought to have stolen this intimate thing, too, the thing Satoru, only, had the privilege of having, of keeping and loving. It must smell like medicine, like hospital sterility and hollow cleanness—like Suguru’s reality, his reality now, which is but a momentary inevitability. One Satoru will never accept.
The grip on the sweater not lessening, Satoru presses his nose against its softness.
It’s Suguru’s, after all—nothing of his can Satoru ever deny.
He breathes in, like the freshest air of the mountains lies amidst the fabric. His heart sings, his chest blooms.
That identical scent of home and warmth and him, it’s as potent as ever, having diminished not even the slightest bit. It smells the same, so blissful and sweet, the very scent that would lull Satoru to sleep every night. For a moment, everything ceases—the mountains, the forest, the sanatorium, it all falls into an abyss of nullity. It’s just him, just Suguru, the only man Satoru loves and who loves him back—all that Satoru ever needs.
He smiles against the fabric.
From behind, an arm wraps around his waist. A kiss is pressed on his shoulder, Suguru’s hair tickling his cheek. As he walks past him to enter the bathroom, his fingers linger on Satoru’s body for as long as they can. When the door clicks shut, Satoru turns around.
The view of the mountains is magnificent. A fog so dense is wrapped around them and the lands beyond, it looks like a guardian responsible for separating their worlds. They’re on the fourth floor, but it feels higher up.
When he looks to the left, the bed calls Satoru’s name. The nightstand, it whispers to him to put his own things on it, his Advanced Mathematics and Neural Science books right beside Suguru’s novels and poems. He stares at the almost empty glass of water, the faint stain on its edge that comes to view underneath the sun rays, where his lips have opened and pressed. Right there, over Suguru’s, Satoru wants to put his, too, in hopes of catching even the faintest hint of the sweetness in his taste.
Everywhere Suguru is, his presence seeks Satoru’s, too.
Satoru will always answer.
⋆ ⏾ ⭒˚.⋆
Just like the morning had been bright and luminous to the point of wounding Satoru’s eyes and provoking headaches, with no real warmth behind the sun rays, the night stands on the opposite end of the spectrum—its equal extremity, equivalently dark and twice as cold.
Dusk arrived at sixteen, unwelcomed, the last surviving traces of the sun sinking to their demise, down behind the mountains, far on the horizon where Satoru could not reach to retrieve them. It felt as if an unspoken command was given, an ominous ultimatum that forced the world to quiet and settle into stillness, until the next morning, when they could awake with the newborn rays that would announce safety.
It is a good thing Satoru operated before such a thing occurred.
He had mentioned breakfast as soon as Suguru had exited the bathroom. Suguru had taken a look at the clock on the far right wall, informing him that the nurses ought to serve it soon, at eight. Satoru’s face had hardened.
“Can you not eat before that? After? Are you obliged to train your stomach how their schedule demands it to?”
Suguru had closed his eyes, smiling.
“You are under medical supervision, Satoru. Demands are what you ought to adapt to.” A loud objection was sitting on the tip of Satoru’s tongue, but Suguru continued talking. “No, eating could be done whenever the patient deems it appropriate. You could request food outside the default times they have set, too.”
Which Suguru has not been doing, for his diminished appearance speaks for itself. Satoru had demanded—yes, demanded, delivering his sentence in a manner that made it clear it was not eligible for protestation—that they eat that moment. Suguru had accepted, before using the room’s telephone to let a nurse know they ought to bring another meal alongside his. Unnecessary, if you were to ask Satoru—they must already know Suguru has a very permanent visitor.
They had sat at the table, so close to each other. Before phoning the nurse, Suguru had asked him what he wanted—things that are within their capacities, my love, it is better if you don’t think about mochi now—but Satoru already had an answer. He requested just another portion of what Suguru was having. Again, no resistance from Suguru. But Satoru caught the gloom in his eyes.
Two identical trays had rested before them. Okayu, clear vegetable broth—where Satoru spotted carrots and daikon—silken tofu on a separate plate, and an apple so soft and mushy, he judged it must have been baked or boiled. Chopsticks and a spoon. But those were not meant to be consumed.
They had eaten in silence. So much Satoru had wanted to say, yet each time words formed in his mouth, he held his tongue, because he felt as if he’d interrupt Suguru’s eating and he’d then stop altogether. He needed, he needed all of it—Satoru wanted to give him his serving, too, feed it to Suguru himself. And request a hundred other things that truly had flavour. But he refrained.
Nothing did he truly finish. Almost all of the okayu—that comforted Satoru, faintly—half of the broth, little from the tofu, nothing of the apple. It had made Satoru frown, but Suguru deserved to at least be judged under fair conditions; one, breakfast had never been his thing, two, he had two other meals ahead of him. Satoru would monitor him like a hawk. Finishing his own meal—without truly absorbing any flavour, besides his soft apple which was surprisingly very sweet—Satoru had thrown him a few bitter glances. Suguru had chuckled, pressing a kiss on his forehead as he got up. His breathing pattern had deepened.
Afterward, Satoru had taken care of his suitcase, putting his belongings in Suguru’s room. He truly attempted not to ruin his tidiness, but didn’t really succeed. Not a word of scolding did Suguru say to him. Only his sweet smiles bloomed on his face. Satoru would bend down to kiss and steal them for himself. Unhurriedly, the clock had ticked down to lunch. Little rested before them, little Suguru consumed, little relief Satoru had felt—immense, rabid dejection had overtaken him upon seeing Suguru lean back on his chair, quietly putting the chopsticks down. It must have declared itself on his face, how pathetic Satoru felt, and Suguru must have seen it, for, with the same quietness, he had given his steamed spinach a few other chances. Never had Satoru beamed with more gaiety than he had that moment—never had he had to summon such strength to keep it restrained inside his ribcage.
Satoru does not intend to conceal his lack of will to perform any duty that is not relevant to Suguru. The true attitude of the committee that had permitted him to reside in the sanatorium does not hold any value to him, for his stay shall prevail as long as Suguru’s does. Therefore, establishing a relationship between him and the staff is not necessary—Satoru would even say it is bothersome. That is why, back hunched over his suitcase that was almost empty, still lying on the floor of the spare room, he had not bothered to greet the nurse with whom his eyes had met. With a tray in her hand, the other raised to knock lightly on Suguru’s door, she had noticed Satoru’s presence across her. And he had ignored hers. For the rest of the day, no other visits did the medical staff pay to Suguru. Satoru hopes they will not be petty enough to fault his hostility.
The clock advances towards the late evening. Satoru lies on Suguru’s bed, his head pressed against the soft pillow. Quite infuriating it is to force his eyelids into staying open, but he pushes through, glancing towards the bathroom every so often. The lights within slightly dim and then strengthen again, according to the movements of Suguru’s silhouette. How confusing it is when sporadically, everything turns black, and Satoru finds himself opening his eyelids that he doesn’t remember closing. What a mewling thing his body is—what has it done that it demands rest so strongly?
He realises his consciousness has again betrayed him, when a presence he had not felt is suddenly right beside him, the lights that hurt his eyes now gone. The mattress dips, the warmth intensifies—Suguru’s body greets him, so familiarly, one of those strong arms wrapping around him. Suguru’s back presses against the pillow as he settles into a sitting position. For a bit, they communicate through the chaste touch of their skin, only.
“…May I read for a while, my love?”
Ten years—thousands of dawns witnessed together, only to await the arrival of the next dusk, millions of scenes and fragments crafted by their hands and devotion, endless words spoken between the shared space of their love—there has not been a single night where Satoru has not heard that sentence. It is his version of a lullaby, the phrase which blesses his sleep. Exhausted or restored, idyllic or aggravated, Satoru has never denied him. It must be the malevolent nature of the sanatorium, for Satoru wishes to say No, only this once, just to see what Suguru would do.
“Mhm.”
As Satoru rests his head on his chest, Suguru turns the soft, yellow light of the nightstand on, grabbing his reading glasses and book. The sound of the pages shuffling gives him a peculiar déjà vu, yet completely foreign at the same time. So many book pages Satoru has heard being turned over the years, yet they all manage to sound different, each and every time. No essence of a book could be found in another—so unparagoned their individual existence is.
Satoru pushes his face further into Suguru’s chest. He’s as close as he can get, yet he yearns for more—to melt into liquid that could flawlessly flow into Suguru’s sternum, leak between his bones, pour right into his lungs. He’d warm him, from the inside, fusing with his blood to pump into each vein and artery that is spread throughout Suguru’s body. When he’d have healed and tended to each of Suguru’s corporeal needs, he’d merrily, unobjectively return to his heart—in one of its chambers Satoru would reside, spending the continuation of his life listening to the thump of that heartbeat.
His ear rests just above Suguru’s heart. His chest rises and falls continuously, the movement further pushing Satoru into inevitable slumber. He wishes to remain awake for a moment longer.
There’s a slight shifting only when Suguru turns a page. Satoru mindlessly wonders what it is he’s reading. He would have asked, but his tongue rests heavy. He focuses the last threads of his coherence on the sound of the pages turning. He attempts to believe they sound the same as every other book Suguru has read, but it’s futile—it’s unique, a distinguishable thing.
An especial, extraordinaire thing books are. They cannot mirror another. Their cores and principles cannot find their exact match in another of their kind. They are meant to embrace their glory in solitude.
Suguru’s fingers, languorous, trail up and down his spine. Satoru feels like a feather.
As the night’s murk steals his consciousness away, in his last moments of lucidity, Satoru cannot help but feel pity for such books—how saddening it must be, to live a life of desolation. To be brilliant and incandescent, yet to never share that light with another. To forever lack your other half—to never feel your soul be rendered whole.