His heart feels on beat to the rhythm of a slow dance, adagio, a gentle four-four-measure melody that feels like falling for the very first time all over again.
Gojo Satoru isn’t sure exactly when it happened the first time around, but he’s starting to remember as it happens again now, as his body melts into the warmth of the feeling, as his eyes soften at the sight of Suguru, as if he were a sailor coming home after months on a rough sea, finally ending the search for his long-lost lover. Starstruck and begging for confirmation that what he sees is real, for a while, all Satoru can do is stand there, an inanimate reflection of shock as the more logical part of his brain tries to tell him this isn’t possible, that this can’t be Geto Suguru. Because how can he be here, almost seven thousand miles from his home, his work, his priorities, just for… him?
It isn’t often that Satoru is rendered speechless, and Suguru seems to capture that rarity in his own dark eyes, narrating his relief in his movements as he reaches out and takes one of Satoru’s hands in his own. “Is this alright?”
If Geto Suguru hadn’t been enough, his voice in person confirms the sensation all the more; it shifts the narrative from uncertainty to possibility, and the single brush of their hands, skin against skin, takes away the months of being apart and turns everything into a definite. Satoru wants to laugh; he wants to tell Suguru he’s insane if he thinks otherwise, but everything his brain tries to come up with pales in comparison to what he decides to say, and what he decides to do.
Satoru moves under the sheer force of gravity and drops Suguru’s hand from his own. But they’re not apart for long, lest the universe send its wrath down upon them both— for disrupting the inevitability of his heart, which thumps compassionately at that which he and Suguru suddenly have, this secret, once a fabricated act bound by a nondisclosure, would be nothing but a sinful injustice. And he wishes it would be this way forever.
Their noses bump, Satoru holds Suguru closer, and as the hail and the sleet and the rain pour down on them, not a single thing the Earth can think to throw at them can possibly disrupt this moment.
Suguru tastes of an old familiarity that Satoru had bottled up in his memories, cast out to sea along with nothing but an enclosed note with the words ‘not yet’ etched into the paper. They kiss slowly, in time with the metronome of a late summer, and as they unravel, Suguru regards Satoru with both possessiveness and surrender, motions that remind him of the push and the pull that had begun in December, and had grown ever since.