Just as two laurels often have only one root
He’d always believed in a future where he and Suguru spent Christmases together. If he could go back, he’d believe in a future where he and Suguru spent their lives together. He wished for too little, and now he’s paying the price.
Like every year on Christmas Eve, Satoru leaves campus in the dead of night, walking in the bitter cold of winter. He needs to teleport himself there part of the way since there aren’t any trains that run this late, but he prefers to walk where he can. For some reason, it seems to mean something to him that he shows up shivering, chilled to the bone, and thaws in the embrace of stolen warmth. He doesn’t look too closely at what, exactly, it means. If you look too closely at something, you have to name it.
His knock on the door is quiet, barely more than a muted thud. He knows he doesn’t need to announce his presence. How can you miss what you’re waiting for?
And each year when the door drifts open, pulled inward as gently as a whisper, Satoru’s heart aches. It feels like his very heart could eat itself alive as Suguru gazes out at him, slender fingers reaching out past the threshold to grip Satoru’s chill bitten ones. Satoru slips in, and their feet ghost across the sleepy floorboards together. Suguru takes Satoru to his room and lets Satoru enter his body.
As they fuck, Satoru attempts to entomb himself in Suguru. He thrusts himself inside, he presses his tongue in deep, he begs Suguru to clutch at him, to dig his fingers into the muscle, he wraps Suguru’s hair around his neck, coils it around his throat like an ebony necklace. He attempts to twine them together, to dig into the soil of Suguru and find the root of him. If he can abrade it enough, can they become one? Like two trees in a dense forest.
Suguru always lets him stay inside after he’s come. He rests inside Suguru while Suguru holds him. Suguru’s arms are around his shoulders and his legs around his waist, heels digging into his low spine, while he crushes Suguru down into the mattress beneath him and mouths at his lips, wet and sloppy, slow and sedate. It’s warm in Suguru, and he smells like soap and tea leaves.
“This is the last year, Satoru.”
Satoru pauses, the words barely more than breath across his lips. He opens his eyes and looks down into Suguru. Suguru’s face is sweetly flushed, and his sweat has dampened the fine hairs along his hairline. He gazes back up at Satoru with insurmountable conviction.
He should probably find it shameful that his first thought is to ask, why can’t I be enough for you?
“Why?” he asks instead, voice raspy with resigned anger.
“It’s been long enough. It’s time for me to fight.”
Satoru isn’t able to yell the way he did when they were children. Not that it did him any good back then. All he can do now is frown and plead, pressing himself further into Suguru.
“What about Christmas?” His hands hold Suguru’s skull, fingers sliding through the tresses of his hair, cradling his head in his palms.
Suguru breathes out softly, the violet of his gaze falling on Satoru like a shadow.
“Then…” he murmurs, “Let’s fight on Christmas Eve.”
When Satoru kills Suguru, he lays his body down in the alley and holds him. They lie together, and Satoru wraps Suguru’s hair around them both, he pulls Suguru into his arms and looks at the delicate black of his lashes. The smell of blood is too strong to smell Suguru’s soap and the always present scent of tea on his skin.
Satoru’s voice is like dust, like ashes, that drift away from him.
“If…If I keep you here…with me…can’t we meet next Christmas too?”
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