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SYNOPSIS: You don’t like it when Suguru takes care of you. As your boyfriend, he takes offense to that.

WORD COUNT: 8.2k

CONTENTS: suguru geto x gn!reader, hurt/comfort, early relationship hurdles, reader is unaccustomed to suguru’s self-sustaining brand of caretaking: inner spiral ensues, jealousy and all that good stuff, reader has an established ct. non-sexual nudity. reader is referred to by their name exactly once, but it’s blacked out (<- guy who didn’t want to slam [Name] in there). sugu-typical intensity and yearning; he’s silly and boyish and in love.

A/N: this was commissioned by my dearest @loverducky !! 💗 thank you so much for your patience and kindness ily very much… please enjoy 8k of suguru geto Going Through It <3

When your technique sputters out, Suguru feels a cold breeze wash over his bone-marrow.

It's a warm evening in April, and you're standing in front of a First-Grade cursed spirit: an onryō, if his instincts are on the money, clinging to the presence of a nearby well. Five-yen coins click together in her palms, catching streaks of light with every movement she makes, the rest of her body blotted in shadow. Underneath her bare feet, crushed glass stains the grass crimson.

The effects of her technique aren't physical. It has something to do with the coins— with each clink, a different bone in his body feels out of sorts. Whatever conditions are needed for it to root itself into the innermost parts of him, they've already been fulfilled. Must be connected to these grounds themselves. The crushed glass makes her scream, and the bottom of his throat twists. One coin scrapes against the other, and his limbs feel like lead. Suguru isn't worried, because this cursed spirit isn't as hostile as she could be; lashing out in defense but never making a direct move to kill him. Some vengeful spirits are like that. They want to be left alone.

His curses aren't responding to him properly, though. That's worrisome.

Still, nothing is happening externally.

He thinks that must be why your technique isn't working. He could still feel it until just a moment ago, like a warm blanket over his head, settling nicely in the space around the battle-field. The actualization of luck: the ability to sense where luck will strike and turn it into cursed energy. You still haven't learned how to utilize it properly, so it works best when applied on physical properties. A particular area, a particular body, attacks that you can see with your eye. It might land in a different spot than usual, a gap in momentum may be created, a tree might fall to the ground in front of your opponent and block their escape route…

There are many components to "luck". Your ability lies in reading them. But when applied like this, recklessly, desperately, on an opponent who's attacks you can't understand—

He isn't surprised when your knees buckle.

Isn't caught off guard when he has to catch you with one arm, and sees a trail of crimson running from your nose down your lips.

(Worried, though. That, he'll always be when it comes to you.)

"Stick to the sidelines for now," he whispers above you. One of his smaller cursed spirits, sluggish but still listening, comes to usher you away. "I'll handle the rest."

"Suguru, I—" you swallow dryly. "I can't feel my technique."

"… I know." Suguru sighs. "We'll worry about that later. I've got it, alright? I'll come get you."

He can tell from the look in your eye that you aren't happy. Far from it, hesitance and frustration burrowed into the hazy, dilated pupils of a body pushed well beyond its limits, directed not at him but at yourself. You're too tired to protest, though. Suguru makes sure you're all sorted, led farther into the woods on the back of the serpent-like curse, its tail curled protectively around your body.

Then he turns to face his opponent. She makes no move to pursue you, knowing he's the only real threat. It's a welcome relief.

Thinking is still difficult. It's still difficult to move, watching her flicker, the echo of coins and glass cruising around in his skull. Clean-up missions are always risky— he's sure none of the locals know of this location, the rotten bundle of cursed energy clinging to the well. He already has an idea of its cause. Past disappearances, serial murders, and the perfect hiding spot. That's not his mess to untangle, but it's something to file away for later reports.

Suguru takes a breath. Roots his cursed energy to the ends of his ankles, his feet on the ground, and attempts to get in touch with his senses. The polyester of his uniform is soft beneath his palms. The stench of rotten plum tree hangs heavy in the air. The click, click, click of coins being rustled in a pair of bony palms makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He scans the battlefield, pupils struggling to land where he wants them to; disorienting, like weaving a sieve through muddy waters, but still doable. His curses aren't moving, some of them trembling, others circling the target, seemingly unsure of what their next move should be. They're stuck in a stalemate. Stasis.

Suguru knows this kind of curse: the kind sorcerers get lost in. Their bodies slowly broken down, their minds lulled into dream-like passivity, their corpses found wide-eyed and untouched days later. He finds them especially terrifying. Interesting, too.

But this curse doesn't know what Suguru is capable of turning it into.

All he needs is one clear opening. One good strike, and he can breach the distance she's created. He needs a curse unaffected by mental disarray. Better yet— a curse that can only be properly utilized when in mental disarray.

He summons Kuchisake-onna.

You don't like it when Suguru takes care of you.

This tendency of yours is by no means new to him. You came to Tokyo Jujutsu High as a transfer student two months into his first year, wide-eyed and fawn-legged and late to class on your first day. In over their head, Satoru whispered to him. Not unkind, just stating the obvious. He does that a lot. It's exactly why his jabs sting, but Satoru has no sense for that kind of thing.

Of course, Suguru tuned him out. Half-enamored by the look of you. The smile on your face, how you'd laughed to ease the tension when you admitted to oversleeping and Yaga-sensei pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh, cherry petals in your hair from where you stood next to the opened window. A breath of fresh air. When he was put on duty to show you around the school, the training field, the weaponry— Suguru was pleased.

But he noticed it, during that first hour you spent together. When you insisted on paying him back for the drink he got you from the vending machine; how you'd ask about his own background when he tried to ask for yours, smoothly redirecting the conversation. How you'd stiffened briefly, shifted in place when he held the door open to let you in first.

To the naked eye, that's good behaviour. Standard politeness. Give and get.

Suguru knows better.

Because as much as he knew you were trying to hide it, cover it up with a smile and a laugh, your expression back then wasn't one of politeness. There was only the subtleties of discomfort. You don't like it when the spotlight stays on you for too long, and you don't like accepting favours without giving something back. He gets that. Care is a heavy drug. If you aren't used to leaning on others, it won't come to you that easy. He understands. Really.

It only made him want to get to know you more, though.

(Funny how that works. You were never going to get out of being courted by him; Suguru is a boy who knows what he wants, if nothing else. There's only room for one Tokyo Jujutsu High student in your heart, and it's him. He’s made sure of that.)

… Deep down, he'd assumed it would change once you started dating. That you'd realize he wants to look after you, or that you'd accept the idea if it's coming from your boyfriend. That you'd learn how to ask him for help when you need it. Mutual understanding. Partner to partner. Something like that. The special connection only you two share.

But, even now, you are hesitant to lean on him. It grates at him like nothing else, now more than ever.

Two weeks have gone by since your technique sputtered out in the precipice of battle, but it still hasn't returned to normal. Stale, is how you described it. When I try to use it, it feels like dragging a spoon through mud… Seriously. It's the worst. Suguru absorbed the vengeful cursed spirit before taking you back home with him, so any lingering hex placed by her should have already dissipated. That can't be the issue.

Shoko's theory is that you pushed your senses so far they need to relearn the basics for a while. Spatial awareness, cursed energy control— everything your technique needs to function as it should. That means more training, less missions. More time spent with Yaga-sensei, less time spent with him. He knows you hate that. You get restless if you sit still for too long, and there's nothing you hate more than being left out of a mission him and Satoru are going to. It's a stark reminder of the difference in your capabilities: Suguru doesn't think of it as a bad thing, but you always get so silent with him. Always ask, sheepishly, why they aren't letting you tag along.

Luck isn't always applicable, he says. There are better and worse uses for it. It's nothing more or less than that.

When you hang your head, half-unconsciously, he regrets being honest with you. Wishes there was a way for him to tell you that you don't need to be strong without hurting your feelings. Not all techniques are suited for combat. It doesn't make you less significant. It doesn't make you any less special in his eyes.

(… If he told you that now, he thinks he'd break your heart.)

One, two knocks ring out against the door to your dorm room. Suguru is holding a plate with one hand, a mug murmuring steam towards the ceiling with the other. On the plate is a neatly cut sandwich, well furnished with veggies and meat— bread is all they have left in the pantry, because a certain someone dropped the entire bag of rice down the sink— and slices of fruit from a local market by the train station closest to the school. The owner likes him, so he always comes back with more than he can carry, apricots and plums and perfectly pink peaches.

Today has been a slow day. It's still springtime, edging into summer, but curses have already been found swarming Tokyo's middle schools, appearing in larger packs than usual. He was sent to clear the area with Satoru. An easy mission. He only had to absorb three of them, one of each kind, so the taste didn't linger for longer than the hour-long trip back.

When he entered the dormitory's kitchen lounge, Haibara and Nanami told him you haven't left your room since breakfast. That's why he's here, knocking at your door— bringing the kitchen to you. Selfishly, because he doesn't really want anyone else to see you when you're feeling blue. Wants to be the first to check up on you, make sure you're alright, watch you eat what he brought you. It'll cheer you up, hopefully. Make you smile at him, ask him to hold you. Maybe. If he's lucky.

… Though he shouldn't be greedy, either.

When the door opens, Suguru's heart twists. You're blinking up at him, slowly, weary lashes weighing down and up. Out of sorts, glancing down at the plate with a blank expression. He smiles.

"I brought you lunch.”

As easy as breathing, you step to the side; letting him slip into your dorm room. Built in routine, the kind that makes his heart flutter. "Thanks, Suguru."

"You aren’t skipping meals, are you?” He watches you sit down on the side of your mattress, your bedsheets tangled up and tousled like a kitten had its way with it, one of your pillows sprawled out on the floor. Suguru loves your dorm room: loves how it reflects everything you are. Band posters fastened to the wall above your bed, board games stashed into a corner on the shelf, figurines you've gotten from gashapons in the past. For my technique, you'd tell him after stopping in the middle of the street, hunting for loose change in your pockets. He's learned to keep spare change close at hand for you, though it's not a given you'll accept it. I want to see if I can apply it here…

Fondness blooms in his breast. Even the unmade bed and dying houseplant on the windowsill instill something like endearment in him. It's you, after all. You in your mess, you in your well furnished. You, you, you.

"It's not like that," you reassure him. "I just forgot. I've been studying."

"Studying?"

You nod.

"Not too hard, I hope."

"Nah. Just the basics. Like Shoko said."

… Your tone of voice shifts at the end there. Something pitiful. The way you're seated, the look in your eye; it reminds him of a bird with broken wings. Staring up at the branches of the tree where its nest is.

"Baby." His voice is soft, delighting silently in how the pet name makes you squirm, shy as a fawn. Another thing it seems you can't get used to. "Are you okay?"

You dangle your legs, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fine. It's just boring. And I don't know what to do."

"That doesn't sound fine."

You give a sheepish smile. It doesn't put his mind at ease in the slightest. Suguru raises a firm brow, keen eyes cutting into yours, and you stammer out a laugh.

"I'm… I'll be okay. I just miss going on missions with you, and stuff."

"I know." He misses it too. Missions with Satoru are always exciting, but nothing beats spending time with you alone. "But you need the rest."

"…"

He knows you disagree. You don't need to tell him. Haven't I rested enough? He can practically hear it.

"You gave me a scare back then." He walks towards you and holds out the plate until your fingers come to curl around the ceramic edges, bringing it pliantly to your lap. "I don't want you pushing yourself like that again. Okay?" His smile is kind, but it doesn't make you look any smaller, on the cusp of curling in on yourself. Suguru doesn't like seeing you like this.

At the same time, he…

"… You do too much for me, Suguru."

"Huh?" His gaze snaps to yours. You're smiling somberly, looking down at the peeled fruit cut into slices. He almost wants to ask you to repeat yourself. "What makes you say that?"

"Just… This. And missions." A beat. "And everything, actually. I just don't want you to worry."

Suguru tries not to furrow his brow. How can you say that, when you barely let him do a thing for you? You don't let him carry your bags when your arms get tired, you don't let him do your share of the laundry. You don't let yourself be selfish with his time the way he'd like you to.

That's too much?

"That much is natural," he responds. Trying to keep his voice even. "I'm your boyfriend."

"… But I," you breathe, "don't do anything for you."

"That's not true. You do more than you think." Suguru's lips furl in silent distaste, like he just bit into a lemon peel. "You do too much on your own. I want to help."

He must sound desperate, because that's how he feels. Desperate like a dog. Fiending for scraps, battering its paws against a chain-link fence. Suguru wants to grab you by the cheeks and look into your eyes until you believe him, but he can't let himself be so uninhibited with you— doesn't want to say too much and end up pushing you away.

He just wishes you would take his hand when it's offered to you. That's all.

Your face is framed by strings of shadow, waves of them caressing your cheekbones, down-turned and shut-out. "I want to," he echoes. "You don't let me do enough."

…

Inhale, exhale. He watches your lips part.

"Thank you." You muster a half-smile, meeting his gaze with crescent eyes. They're lacking luster. "I appreciate it. Really. But I just want to be alone right now, to be honest."

Suguru watched you. Fox-eyed, sharp.

Contemplates denying you that isolation.

"… Alright."

Before he leaves, he runs a gentle palm down your head. Ruffles your hair. It makes your lips draw into a smile, flimsy as a sheet of paper, as a talisman waiting to be ripped into shreds. It's better than nothing. Suguru doesn't want to leave. Obviously not. He wants to help you study, help you sleep. His palms itch to do more, but he knows it'll be futile.

You'll just reject it again.

"But make sure you get some rest," he clears his throat. "And eat what I brought you. Okay?"

"Okayyy."

He puffs out a breath. "Good."

When the door to your dorm-room closes behind him, Suguru tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. The light is broken, giving out faint flickers, burning into his gaze. Dead flies are stuck to the inside of the paper sheet. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh.

(There's nothing he can do about this helplessness.)

One rainy morning in May, Suguru enters Jujutsu High's library premises with a mission in mind.

He walks past the books on innate techniques, the tombs of history he spent his first few weeks after enrollment scouring through, up the stairs and past the infamous Domain Expansions: To Master Barrier Techniques by an unnamed sorcerer of the Heian era—

and stops by the essays and academic papers written on sense-based techniques.

The selection isn't grand. They have more in Kyoto, he's almost certain. Yaga-sensei isn't the textbook type; if it weren't for the principal and past faculty, Suguru doubts their library would be this furnished. It's enough, though. He flips through a few of the soft-covers and bundles of threaded-together paper, tucking the most note-worthy of the bunch under his arm. Nanami is sitting on one of the tables downstairs, reading through a book on cursed energy application— Suguru reads off the title as he takes the seat opposite of his junior, who looks up only to give his upperclassman a polite nod of greeting. Suguru doesn't mind that Nanami is quiet. It's nice to have that in a school like theirs. With classmates like theirs. No pressure to speak or make small talk.

He leans back, and relaxes his shoulders. Opens one of the smaller essays at page number one.

Suguru's mission is a simple one: help his partner. Recently, you've been wanting to take your technique in new directions. From the ability to sense lucky spots, to the ability to create them yourself. The evolution of your Luck Shall Follow is a Lucky Break: forcing the possibility of luck onto your target, a weak spot for your allies to abuse. You told him last night, mouth full of takeout he brought with him post-mission— half-sheepish, like you were afraid he'd discourage you. But Suguru couldn't have been prouder. And, though you seemed hesitant, he's grateful that you spoke to him about it. The least he could do is his fair share of research. Even if you're too stubborn to ask him for help, he's always been a good teacher.

What you need is an even stronger grasp of what components your technique centers around. To direct luck, you have to understand it; see the full path it travels down. You have to break it down until the pieces couldn't get any smaller. You have good instincts, he thinks. It's the basic understanding that needs honing.

Suguru hums, thumb in between two pages: hunting eagerly for any information he can relay to you later. 'Abilities built around utilizing the senses were, as far as our records show, the foundation of olden sorcery; sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste— and of course the infamous sixth sense. Out of these human traits blossomed sense-based sorcery, not only by utilizing cursed energy to strengthen them for survival, but by sharpening one's innate cursed technique—…' Nothing new. He flips forward, the soothing sound of pages falling. 'The ability to sense what should be unseen is the first any sorcerer gains. Certain sorcerers attain an even wider scope of sight: the ability to view the abstract. Emotions, elements of the human body, and any manner of things. In the Kamakura period, a sorcerer by the name of Shinonome was said to have had an innate technique that allowed him to see people's pasts and futures flutter behind them, reflected in a swarm of broken glass.'

Suguru flips forward. Yet another section.

'… Further development of this technique is said to have granted him mastery of weather currents. He began to use it for directing storm-clouds to the wheat fields surrounding his village, securing a bountiful harvest. The innate ability to sense became the ability to warp reality.'

There.

Just when he's about to continue the passage— his cellphone buzzes in his pocket. It almost makes him jolt. He fumbles for it, inwardly wincing when Nanami gives him a weathered look, flips it open and glances at the contact.

It's Satoru.

Suguru answers. "Hell—"

"Where are you?"

…

A weary exhale. "Greet me first."

On the other end of the line, a thoroughly drawn out sigh. "Hey, Suguru. You're so annoying." Suguru's brow twitches. Before he can tell his best friend off, he continues: "Where? I wanna go to the city today. You down?"

"I can't right now." He continues to idly read through the weather-based section, skimming the contents with his eyes. "I'm reading."

"Reading?! Dude, how do you not get enough of studying?"

"It's not for me. It's for ▇▇.” Suguru tuts. "I'm helping them look into their technique. Ask Shoko to go with you."

"Ohhh. They told you about it?"

"… Huh?" He blinks. Gaze moving towards the phone at the corner of his vision, subconsciously, as if he could find Satoru looking back at him. Suguru tries not to frown. "How do you know about it?"

"They asked me about it. After class." Ah. He remembers. You stayed behind for what must have been at least half an hour, urging him to get lunch without you. (Not that he did.) He'd assumed you were going to talk to Yaga-sensei, though. Not— "I guess they thought I'd have something useful to say 'cause of the Six Eyes. Well, I did try, though. I figured they were keeping it a secret from you."

(… Why would you ask Satoru?)

Suguru bites his inner cheek. Jealousy festers in his gut, hot and oily.

No, more importantly—

"Why would they keep something like that a secret from me?"

"I don't know. Because you're a mother hen?" He can practically see Satoru's careless shrug through the phone line. "They want to develop their technique into something more offensive, right? Something that'll let them fight on their own. Even I thought you'd be a little put off."

…

"Well, good on you, I guess. Maybe you can stop being so overprotective now."

"Satoru," Suguru's voice feels raw in his mouth. "What are you talking about?"

"… Huh?" The line goes silent. "So they didn't tell you? Or did you just not realize what they meant?"

His stomach twists. Satoru's jabs are never meant to hurt as much as they do, Suguru reminds himself. Inhales, for five silent seconds, and exhales: feels his chest lift, then deflate.

"I didn't realize."

"Oh." A beat. For once, his best friend seems to be weighing his words. "I know you might not… love the idea. But it's a good thing, right?"

"Right."

"Weird that they didn't tell you."

"Mm."

"… I'll ask Shoko to go with me."

"Sounds good." Suguru cards through his bangs. Restless hands. Closes his eyes, and looks into the dark of his own skull. "Bye, Satoru."

"B—"

He hangs up.

…

So. Here's what Suguru knows:

1) Your Lucky Break is meant to be an individualistic offensive technique. That's just fine.

2) You were hiding it from him, though.

3) You told Satoru about it before you told him. You asked Satoru to help you figure it out, instead of asking him.

How is he supposed to contend with that?

(Suguru was awake when you first moved into the dorms. He remembers it in perfect detail, down to the thud your bags made when they hit the floor through the thin wall between you. He was lying in bed, unable to sleep, staring up at the ceiling; made sure to get up off the mattress and gently clink the empty cup on his nightstand, just so you'd hear him too.

It felt like a secret between the two of you. Even though he didn't get to greet you until the morning after, you had already met before sunrise. To some extent— Suguru always felt like you were his. He heard you first, felt you first. He knew of you before Satoru or Shoko. Sensei asked him to show you around, because he knew he was the only one suited for it. You're his partner. He's your boyfriend.

… So why did you go to Satoru for help?

Why not him?)

Suguru simmers in the feeling. Waits for it to come to a boil. Not anger, but frustration.

He wants to kick something. Satoru, ideally. Maybe swallow a curse, just to forget about the rotten taste of what he's feeling now.

Has he really failed you this much? You can't even ask him for advice anymore? Do you trust Satoru's judgment more, just because he's been a sorcerer for longer? Because he was a prodigy from birth? Satoru doesn't even know basic history. Satoru didn't know Ryōmen Sukuna was a human being and not a curse until Yaga-sensei held that class three weeks ago. Satoru doesn't know a damn thing that wasn't hand-fed to him by the clan elders——

Suguru closes the book on the table in front of him and stands up from his chair.

"… Are you alright?"

Nanami asks, staring at him from the other seat. Usually he wouldn't intrude like this. It'd warm Suguru's heart if it wasn't so muddied by his thoughts.

"Yes." He turns to his underclassman with a smile on his lips. "I'm fine."

He doesn't believe him, obviously, but that's just as well. Suguru doesn't believe himself either. He walks up the staircase and puts the book back on the shelf where he got it, then walks out of the library with a heavy heart and a vacant expression. Bright-green leaves scatter around his feet, catching streaks of golden sunlight breaking through the cloud-line in the sky. Summertime is almost here.

It's difficult, he thinks. It's difficult to be loved by you when you don't want him loving you back.

How is he supposed to approach the situation?

Suguru chooses force.

It's early in the morning when he knocks curtly at your door. One, two knocks, in rapt succession.

You wake up shortly after 8 AM on most days. An hour or two later on weekends, depending on how hard you worked the day before. (You sleep like a baby on nights after back-to-back missions, two or three in succession. Not even slipping his tongue into your mouth could wake you. Not that that's something he's thought of trying.) He's sure you're still asleep now: curled up in bedsheets, legs to your chest, cheek smushed against your pillowcase. Infuriatingly adorable. If he thinks about it too long, he'll lose his strength of will, so—

Another knock. Sharper.

Behind the door, the sound of rustling. Bare feet meeting floorboards, moving sluggishly towards him. His palm moves on instinct, fingers curling through his bangs.

And the door opens. You're blinking at him as if you're still half-asleep, eyelids drawing up and down like haphazardly closed window-blinds, weighty with whatever dreams you were having before he roused you awake. It makes his heart pang with guilt. Like this, watching your tousled hair and unguarded face, he…

…

No.

This time, he has no choice but to be firm.

Suguru's smile is tight-knit. A crescent moon hung on its side, sculpted by monsoons.

"Good morning, baby."

You blink at him again. Lips parting slightly.

"… Morning, Suguru."

"How did you sleep?" He lets himself in, guiding you seamlessly, his broad palm falling down to rest over your lower back. Voice carefully sharpened. Like a coyote circling its prey.

"Um, I…" you rub your eyes as the door falls shut behind you. "Good. I think. I don't remember."

A breezy chuckle. "You don't remember?" His gaze is fond where it holds yours, sitting down with you on the bedside. Your shoulders knock together. The mattress creaks beneath your shared weight. The lights in your room are off, so Suguru leans back to open the window-blinds until they've let in enough hazy streaks of dawn to illuminate your face. "I guess I woke you up, huh? I'm sorry."

You shake your head. Leaning against him, too tired to keep your head up— it makes Suguru's heartbeat sputter like a marble dropped on ragged concrete. It makes him feel more solid than a brick-wall, softer than the pillows scattered across your bed.

"It's okay."

He watches you silently.

Carefully, after a moment's hesitation, he brings his hand to your face. Cups the apple of your cheek, and lets his thumb ghost the sensitive skin under your bleary eye. Your eyes flutter shut in response— Pavlovian— a dog to a bell-chime, even though you hold the leash to his heart. He wonders if you realize that.

He wonders if he hasn't made it clear enough.

"What did you talk to Satoru about?" Suguru asks, smiling tightly. Only his eyes remain gentle. "After class."

"Oh." Slowly, your eyelids blink open. "We, um… just stuff, you know."

"Stuff."

"Yeah."

"Just stuff," he echoes. Sucking on a laugh. It comes out sharper than he meant it. "For forty minutes?"

The air between you shifts— sparks with the beginnings of unease, blisters on the palms of whatever gravity is keeping you both side by side like this. He can't dull the spike of anger in his voice, and he knows you've heard it when you stiffen beside him. When you try to move your cheek from his collarbone. Which is the very last thing Suguru wants, so he guides you back with a palm on your skull, not firm, but insistent. You melt into it nervously.

"… Suguru," you whisper. "Are you mad at me?"

No, he wants to say. Never at you.

I'm mad at Satoru, and Shoko, and Yaga-sensei. Nanami and Haibara too. I'm mad at everyone who enables your behaviour. Who don't hold the door open for you, who don't ask if you've eaten by dinnertime, who don't tell you to take a break when you're obviously looking to exert yourself beyond your capabilities. I'm mad at whoever made you like this in the first place.

I'm mad at myself.

"No," slips up his throat. The word tastes like ash. "I'm not mad. I'm upset, though."

"Why?"

The word is meek off your lips. It makes him want to lay himself at your feet. But Suguru is mad— just not at you— and he doesn't have it in him not to let it show. Not right now.

"Because you didn't ask me." A slow inhale, air flooding his lungs. "You asked Satoru. Why is that?"

His palm curls against your bedsheets. Forms a fist, white cloth spilling out through the gaps between his fingers, his gaze bleeding gold and ochre. Suguru can't hide the hurt in his voice, and he hates that more than anything.

"Why do you trust me so little?"

Your eyes widen.

Anxiety squirms in the black of your pupils, lips parting around a sound that doesn't make it out of you. You close your mouth again. Then make another move to pull away, maybe to look at him properly, but he won't let you. Doesn't let you move an inch. Petty. His mother liked to call him that when he got silent with her.

(Suguru feels beastial. Like he could eat you. He hates the feeling— desire spilling over itself.)

"Suguru, I didn't mean it like that," you rush to explain yourself. "I just— I didn't want to bother you with it."

"Bother me."

…

This time— Suguru does laugh. It isn't cruel, nor is it sharp. It's…

"Is that how you think I feel?"

(… Exhausted.)

"I don't know what I need to do to make you understand. To make you see things from my perspective. But if you think I've ever," he nearly seethes, only his voice is too quiet now to have that much of a bite, "ever, seen you as a burden— You're wrong. Alright?"

When you flinch against him, Suguru's palm slips from the back of your head. You pull away from him, standing up clumsily. Like a rabbit about to break into sprint, he thinks cynically. Are you going to run away from me again?

"Suguru."

And Ah, he realizes.

You're about to cry. That's why his heart doesn't feel like it's beating anymore.

"I don't…" your gaze falls to the floor, mouth formed around a garbled murmur. The sunlight from the window glides across your face, the dip of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose. "I love you. I really do love you, I just can't—"

A sniffle, barely-there, tugs at the back of your throat. He put it there, he thinks. The confession jabs the blade in his heart deeper; a smack against the handle. It cuts between his ribs.

"I don't know how to do this."

"… Do what?"

You make a gesture with your hands, smiling brokenly. "This. I don't… know how. I've tried."

Your breath is staggered— unsteady in your breast. He watches you worriedly, sure it's showing on his features; watches you take a moment to gather yourself. There's something so fractured about your expression. As if you've been keeping this dam in your throat all this time. That hurts more than anything.

How long have you wanted to speak to him like this?

How long have you been avoiding it?

"I know you want me to rely on you. I'm not stupid." He wants to cut in— tell you that he's never once thought that— But Suguru bites his lower lip to keep himself silent. You need this, too. "But it makes me so uneasy. I promise I've tried, Suguru. It just doesn't…" a breath pulls at your teeth, weather-worn. "it never feels right."

…

"Isn't that," he exhales, "because you aren't used to it?"

The expression you're wearing now is tight-strung. Your features drawn together, set into firm lines. Like you're about to take a leap off a mountain trail, still gathering the courage.

"You don't know how to be taken care of," he summarizes. "If I want to be the one to teach you— is that so wrong? Is it still that scary?"

You wring your hands together. Inner palm cupping the small of your wrist. "… Yeah."

"… Even if it's me?"

"Especially when it's you," you laugh breathlessly. It doesn't sound much like laughter at all. "Because I like you so much. More than anyone. The last thing I want is to become another chip on your shoulder, Suguru." You bite down on your lip. "… You're always taking care of everyone. Not just me. I don't want to contribute to that."

"What? I don't…" his brows furrow. "I've never felt that way about you. And you're not just like anyone else."

"I know that's how you feel, but—"

"No." Suguru cups your jaw. It shocks you out of speaking, makes you focus on him and nothing else. He stands up with you, leaning over your frame, half-threatening, hunting for the eye contact you're trying to flee from. The amber of his eyes is aflame with angered love. "You're trying to give me something that I don't want from you. That I've never asked of you. Who are you to decide that all on your own?"

Your eyes are still wet, unshed tears pooling at the corners. He shouldn't be so rough with you, he knows. Shouldn't be this firm. But it's hard— it's hard when you say things like that, and look at him like this——

"I want to take care of you. I want you to need my help. For everything, ideally." His eyes bore into yours, never letting them stray. He wants you to hear this. Feel this. Thinks he'll go crazy if you don't. "I'm not being polite. That's my own selfish desire. I want you to need me. When you don't, I…"

…

(On the back of his tongue: a sour taste.)

"I feel like I've failed you."

The words ring out like a bad omen. Sorcerers shouldn't be careless with their words: That's the first thing Yaga-sensei taught him, before he even moved into the dorms. Suguru has always taken them to heart. Even as a child, he knew to think before he spoke. Knew words carry weight. That they have consequences.

But now, in this moment— he's letting his greatest insecurities spill out of him. Can't take them back, because they've already splattered on the floor for you to see. If love makes you this careless, he thinks, is it really any different from a curse?

His hand forms a knuckle, the indents of his nails digging crescents into his palm.

"You've… You've never failed me," you frown. "You're always good to me, Suguru. Seriously."

He holds a sigh between his teeth.

"I wish you'd trust me more. That's all." He collects himself; Think before you speak. Reigns himself back in, a bull finding solace in the firm palms at the juncture of its horns, blisters blooming against the ridges. Don't take your anger out on them. It isn't anyone's to bear but you. "I know it's not that easy, but..."

…

"I'm sorry," you mumble. As if there's nothing else to say. Your voice is soft and battered. "I don't know how to fix it. Sometimes it's just… so overwhelming. I want to like it. I do."

Suguru's hand slips from your chin. He shakes his head, after a moment. "I should have been more considerate. Maybe I've been pushing too hard."

"No. Anyone else would love that about you." A beat. "I love that about you. Even when you're a little… intense." Heat gnaws at the back of his neck, nipping at his nerve-ends. Suguru clears his throat discreetly. "I wish it was easier for me. To depend on you like you want me to. Honestly."

"It can be," he tries. "It'll get easier with time."

…

Your fingers curl around the fabric of your shorts. A gentle anchor. Through the window, slathers of rusted gold and tangerine come to cradle your features. The beckoning of a sun late to rise. Suguru doesn't even feel the fatigue anymore, the lead in his sleep-less limbs: all he can do is stare at you, breathlessly, waiting.

"You think so?"

"I know so," Suguru promises. Sharp facial features, broad shoulders accentuated by the sunlight. Eyes soft, always, only for you. "I'll be patient. I won’t force it. But can you try, for me? Even when it's scary? Can you believe me when I say you're not a bother?"

…

After a moment— though it feels like a century spent at your ankle, down on his knees— you nod. Suguru's heart loosens its shoulders, goes limp under the bird-cage of his battered ribs.

"Okay," he exhales. "Good."

For a moment, all is still. Silently, he begins to wipe your unshed tears away: the pad of his thumb rubbing gently at the corners of your eyes. Catching them before they can think to fall, slip down your cheeks, like he's counting rain-drops cruising down a car window. Like he's cupping the innermost parts of you, pressing kisses where it hurts the worst.

"Thank you."

You shake your head, snuggling closer. Still weary, still fragile. So, so very fragile like this. In the dim light, in the crook between his neck and shoulder, whispering so low he has to strain his ears to hear: "Are we… okay?"

"We are." He cradles you closer, tethering you to his chest. His heart beats a lullaby for you. "More than okay. Talks like this will only make us stronger. Better suited for each other."

"… It's scary, though."

"I know," he croons. His palm slips down your spine, rubbing gentle circles into the small of your back, tender eights. "But we'll get through it. We've got luck on our side, remember?"

Finally, you smile. It's weak, but sincere. Suguru lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding: leaning forward to press a kiss at your temple, relieved that he could salvage this dam waiting to break. Relieved that there's something for his hands to do, and places for his lips to land. This is the first of several challenges you'll face together, but he isn't worried. Not anymore. Not right now, at least.

No one gets to see you like this but him. A wounded bird on his wrist, letting him hold its broken wing in his palm.

It's a start, he thinks. A leap off the ground.

"… Suguru."

He bends his gaze from where his feet are planted, gently untangling his hair from the hasty bun he threw it into this morning. "Yes?"

"Is this…" you shift from one foot to the other, holding a pure-white towel in your arms. It looks good there. Soft. Makes him want to hug you tight. "… really necessary?"

Suguru smiles. His hair falls across his shoulders, across his back, a pitch-black meteor shower.

"It is."

And he turns his back on you. Turning on the shower-head, then stepping away to avoid the downpour, waiting for the temperature to rise. It takes a while for the communal showers. With an exhale, he pulls off his uniform. The black fabric gives way to white, his buttoned-up undershirt. His hands move to unfasten it.

Behind his back, he can practically feel you squirming.

"I won't look," he promises. Unless you want me to. "Just let me wash your back, baby."

"But… why?"

You sound embarrassed.

"To teach you how to lean on me. How to let yourself be taken care of." He turns around, half of his chest bare. Tries not to smile when your gaze drops, then flees all over again. "I'm not expecting you to change in a day, but this will be progress. Does that sound okay?"

A moment passes.

"… If you really want to, I guess."

Another smile; deeper. It carves all the way to the corners of his eyes. "I do." Suguru steps away to fumble with the last of the buttons, until his entire chest is bare: warm skin and a few sun-shade moles smeared like kisses on his collarbone. After he's taken the undershirt off, he drapes it over his bicep. Then steps away to give you space. "You should go in first. Face the wall if you're shy. I won't peek."

"… Okay."

Ah, you sound nervous. It shouldn't make his heart flutter. But as he imagines you, eyes shutting in silent loyalty— imagines you moving your arms, dragging your uniform up and over your head, left in nothing but a tank top, or a t-shirt, or maybe nothing at all— Suguru's mouth waters. This isn't lust. It's not something that can be so neatly defined.

(When he pictures you, the flustered, vulnerable state you're in, physically and emotionally: Suguru thinks to himself that he'd truly do anything for you.)

Darkness. Overwhelming, blanketing darkness. He sees nothing else. Suguru hears only the shuffling of fabric, and finally, the sound of bare feet against the floor. Moving forward, beyond him, coming to a halt. His heartbeat aligns with the rhythm of your steps.

"… I'm done," you call softly.

And Suguru opens his eyes.

He makes quick work of his pants. Leaves his underwear on, with your comfort in mind. Then he turns to where you're standing, your naked back facing him, the lines of your neck and spine already hot with steam and shower-water, and moves until he's hovering above you. Close. Close enough that he feels sheepish. Warmth buds between your bodies. Warmth from the water, warmth from the tender nervosity bubbling in the air.

Suguru knows how much trust this must have took from you. He intends to reward that.

"Is the water okay?"

"Yeah. It's perfect."

"Good."

Body wash, shampoo, conditioner… he even brought you some of his expensive herbal oils. Anything you could need. They're stacked on the shower floor; he leans forwards and picks up the body wash, uncaps the lid and squirts a dollop onto his palms. Rubs them together until it starts to froth and the air begins to smell of honey and lavender. Your shoulders remain tensed-up, like you're waiting for a strike in the back of your neck.

"Are you sure this is fine?" He hears hesitance in your tone. "Nobody will walk in?"

"No one. You have my word." Suguru puts his hands on your shoulders, working his way down your lower back. It makes you squirm, so he remains careful. Slow enough not to overwhelm you. "I locked the door. They'll know not to force it. Nanami does it all the time."

"Oh… Okay."

He digs his thumb into the tender skin under your shoulder-blade. Waits for your body to respond. A twitch, or a shiver, a feathery flexing of your bones. You let out a shaky breath. "Don't be nervous, baby. It's just you and me."

"I know," you exhale. "It feels… nice."

Suguru's lips draw up at that. The branches of a plum-tree, budding into bloom.

He avoids doing too much. Lathering your back, shoulders and collarbone in sweet-smelling froth, all the way down to your forearms. It's fine if he doesn't get all the spots. Your comfort is more important. And the purpose of this runs deeper than just washing. Once he's finished, the shower-head rinsing it away, he changes to the hair products.

It's soothing. Quiet. He works at a slow pace, cradling your scalp with both palms.

"Um. Suguru?"

Like a dog, he responds within a heartbeat. Like he's leashed to the chamber of your voice. "Yes?"

"Is this really… good, for you?" you ask him, shifting subtly from one foot to another. He doesn't hear you well under the patter of water, so he leans closer, his breath ghosting the back of your head. "You like doing this? Honestly?"

…

He can't help it. Suguru leans down, and presses a kiss at the nape of your neck. Water clings to the seam of his lips, his nose pressed against you. He feels you shiver in response, like you've never been touched here before in your life. Like he's the only one who's ever come this close. He can't explain what that does to him. "Honestly." Then, after a moment, half in jest: "I feel like a god."

Just as he hoped, it makes you laugh.

You even turn your head to meet his gaze, the colour of your eyes shining through the steam. "A god?"

"A god," he echoes. Stifling a grin. "Your shower god."

"That's so… silly."

Suguru shrugs.

"I can be silly," another kiss, this time smeared against your shoulder. Hot water in his mouth. Worth it, for this. "For you."

Only for you.

You hum. It sits low in your throat.

"Yeah." He hears the smile in your voice, bleeding honey and gold. "You can."

After that, only silence, woven into the very space between you. You've melted against his fingers now, gone soft and pliant under the weight of the experience. You're like a small animal after a good meal. Docile, curled up with its belly exposed. Suguru keeps rubbing your scalp, washing your hair free of the conditioner. The air smells of lavender and coconut. He breathes it in, hungry.

"Suguru?" you break the silence. He hears that you're weary, feels that you're drowsy. Knows you'll fall asleep standing up before long.

"Yes?"

"I… love you." You say it shyly this time. Almost like a question. Like you're hoping he'll tell you you're exactly right. It's different from before, and better when you aren't close to crying— like you're just now realizing the weight of those words, the reality of what you're signing yourself up for. "I just want you to know that."

Suguru's chest blooms with pride. Warmth. Warmth in abundance, sweltering, his heart melting like candle-wax and dripping down the drain.

"I do know." He wraps his arms around your waist, bringing your back against his chest, skin to skin. His heart beats against you. Now, too, he feels abyssal. Like he could protect you from anything at all. As long as he gets to have you here after long missions, on nights that stretch on too long, mornings that have him struggling to let go of you— he thinks he'll learn to live with letting you fight by yourself. Maybe. "And I love you too. More than you know."

Silently, all to himself, he thinks:

Now that I've said it once, I'm scared I'll never stop. That I'll keep saying it until my tongue goes numb.

You let out a soft, contemplative noise. Something like low-lilted bird chatter. He smiles into your hair, water dripping down his chin, down his chest, down his abdomen. If he drowns here, he'll be happy.

(… Okay. Maybe he does need to work on his intensity. That can wait another day.)

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