#mastabahs

[necrosin]

nighttime does not bring stillness —— it never does / never has / cursed spirits linger and surge and press in the darkness incrementally more than in the light and awareness doesn't dare wax nor wane : it is a constant. barriers provide comfort and ease that carry the mind off to sleep, yet here they have none of that, really, a nice hotel suite and little more. he imagines he can hear the crash of waves on the shore, though the windows are shut and locked and this hotel isn't on the beach, but he shakes sand out of his sleeve and tucks shower—damp hair behind his ear, hyperawareness settling over his skin easily. awareness of the low grade curses lingering in corners and down halls, of the danger they're in, of the girl who is a SACRIFICE and the only family she's ever known sleeping in the other room, and ——

and most of all : satoru, sleepless and stubborn and carrying on, still.

steam drifts from bathroom to living area as he exits, feeling his own exhaustion wearing at his eyes, his skin, the very marrow of his being / driven away by sheer force of will as his gaze immediately falls upon @mastabahs. where else would he look, where else would he bother in this impersonal space, lightyears away from cramped dormitories and laughter soaked walls. for a moment he doesn't speak, simply watches the silhouette of his best friend, familiarity like a balm and worry disquiet, lodged in the aching hollow of his throat, too unwieldy to ingest like every other curse he's ever devoured.

❝ you should get some sleep, sa—toru, ❞ suguru walks around the armchair to the front of it, in satoru's line of sight, breaking up the steadiness of his gaze : an intrusion, unasked for and unrelenting. the salt—warm hair of the day lingering around them, in the subtly more disarrayed fall of satoru's hair, the slight pinking to his pale skin / HE'S TIRED AND PROBABLY WON'T ADMIT IT / no one knows satoru as well as suguru ( a prideful thought, a head held high thought, a covetous thought ) and he's never seen him quite this exhausted. can only imagine the extent of his headache, sustaining infinity for so long.

he wants to touch satoru / settles for brushing stray sand from his hair, a tilt to his head, softness to his voice ( you sound different then you talk to him, shoko once said / he hadn't really understood then, not quite / not wholly / the shades of his heart ) pitched quiet not only for the pair sleeping in the other room. not only for them. ❝ i can keep watch for a few hours. ❞

[necrosin]

applause rings, white noise like rainfall pattering, senseless and dull and dulling the senses, caught between overwhelming and underwhelming. rain is falling / it isn't falling / the self and connection to the self frayed and fraying / rain is falling —— applause rings, so on and so forth, ad finitum. the self : the body, folded into itself, mind trying to package itself neatly, seal itself away, protection paper like, sunlight filtering through, a hairline fracture growing ever larger / there and not, like a magic trick. his attention shifts and applause dulls ( dulling the senses ), emptiness / THE VOID within him quiet, for now, sated, throat raw and rotted and senses —— ugh, haven't we gone over that already?

HE UNFOLDS HIMSELF, metaphysically, limbs feel heavy and strange, as if the body isn't the self at all, and where does the soul begin and the body end, and where does the soul dwell? pointless thoughts, endless thoughts, thoughts like a winding road leading to nowhere, a faint gunshot, far off and echoing. he unfolds himself, sludge flowing through his veins, fueled by decay, a vacancy in his larynx near-silent, the faintest of whines ; he unfolds himself for satoru, an instinct more than not / peers up at him with raised brows and a gentle mouth, driving away lethargy and woe like sunlight to shadows / it's not the sun's fault if the room has sharp corners and edges.

❝ —— satoru, ❞ @mastabahs, satoru, impossible—boy sa—toru, his satoru. satoru, lanky long body and all / living and breathing and all. ( i killed gojo satoru. ) delineated in light, caught in the sky ; suguru smiles, bemused, yes really, muscles pulling in a wan, unwanting way, an abandoned way, the shift of his skin strange and too tight, applause mocking in his ears, white noise turning grey—black. ❝ you're late, ❞ suffused in smoke —— he taps his half—forgotten cigarette, wasting away / wasted away, an absentminded gesture, ashes and ashes falling to the floor before inhaling slowly, smoke curling, reaching, diffusing.

[necrosin]

@mastabahs : ❝ i've only ever defended you. ❞

amusement unfurls, a flighty sort of thing, a bubbling sort of thing, a summertime exclusive sort of thing —— out of place, trapped in this space they've colluded to make, a grossly contrived homage to intimacy and the honored and most holy practice of carving out a place in your lover for yourself. a pyre of pressed sheets ( wrinkled and half-ruined, now ) and bland walls and the tinny sound of the television in the background and the curtains thrown open for the moonlight glow because they both hate enclosed rooms in that way and a smell far too chemical, cloying in his nose. their bodies stretched out alongside each other, imperfect parentheses, knees overlapping, suguru propped on his elbow, jaw resting in his palm. his eyes narrow / brows raise / mouth a slash across his face ; he drags his fingers through satoru's hair just because he can.

❝ should i reward you? ❞ as if any concept as trite as reward and punishment holds much way over either of them, as if it ever did. the meanings and uses of such things falling flat, intentions that had been meant to be engraved on such ideals never coming to any fruition nor meaning at all. SUGURU UNDERSTANDS THE WEIGHT OF THE WORDS / perhaps even the intention of them / satoru wouldn't come all this way just to be with him otherwise, after all / they hold meaning and he acknowledges them, irrelevant though they may be. ( echoing as you're mine, not quite lost in the void ) idly he brushes his thumb across satoru's temple, ❝ for standing up for the villanous curse user against the higher up council? ❞

the idea is funny —— it always has been, satoru's indifference turned irritation with it all, playing at being rebellious in spirit. as if his existence in and of itself wasn't an act of revolt, though from where and what remains a mystery / everyone always says the world was upended by satoru's birth, and suguru found it funny more than anything, the weight of it all. ( though, born after satoru, perhaps it's that he'd never known a world without him / and never will / but suguru is just arrogant enough to presume that even if he had been born first, it would persist in hardly mattering at all. )

fingers curl to brush against his jaw, a lover's caress, gentling over a bruise before poking at his cheek, ❝ i'm not a child, satoru, ❞ perhaps it's romantic to defend your clandestine lover against the deraignments and hatred of the greater masses / perhaps it really is romantic to not carry out the ever standing order of execution hanging over his head ( it's an ineffectual sort of thing, as though suguru would let anyone but satoru ( and shoko ) find any trace of him, as if anyone but satoru were capable of doing such a thing even if suguru did it ) / and suguru is a romantic above all else, other than idealism, but still : the concept is simply humorous to him. declarations and adorations and all the things in between —— all veiled words, thin as the lank curtains they had drawn back however long ago. ❝ you don't need to defend me against them, their judgments and opinions are nothing more than senseless bleating, ❞no need to defend suguru against or anyone or anything / not even satoru, himself / suguru holds no hate nor resentment for jujutsu high and only a heavy handed distaste for the faceless council so determined to lord over them all —— their methods are ancient and their tactics cruel / hypocrites, the lot of them, preening and power hungry. it will all come crumbling down beneath his hands, after all, once he succeeds. washed away like sand on the shore.

a phone buzzes / mimiko's text ringtone chimes ( she'd insisted and he's not especially good at denying his daughters anything ) / he stretches languid as a cat, leg extending over satoru's as he rolls, glancing over his shoulder at the bedside table as the void opens over it / a hand reaching out / closes / drops the phone neatly in the space between them. ❝ —— unless it makes you feel better, ❞ a half—cruel curl of his mouth and an unspoken challenge as he lays his palm over the phone / hiding mimiko's name on the screen.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON.

[necrosin]

to say that he'd been waiting for him would be a stretch —— he isn't, and wasn't, and never would again / not in so many words, that is. waiting and wanting and other wanton things of youth are long in the past ( it occurs to him, at times, that he's not nearly as distanced from his springtime teenage years as he convinces himself he is / barely outside of the literal teenage years of age / and he isn't actually exempt from the agony of EXTREMELY EARLY ADULTHOOD, but it's never really relevant, is it, except for when he's thinking about —— ) and simply are not involved in his day to day life, any longer.

SUGURU IS NOT WAITING FOR HIM —— that does not, however, mean that he isn't expecting him. there's a certain thrill that lingers in the beat of his heart, at the precipice of the void that exists within him / the void that is him who is the void / the limitless void and hadn't that turn of phrase enticed him, once upon a time? it does, still, though he's not one to admit it outright. suguru is not waiting for him but has positioned himself in such a way that his family shall be safe / his girls shall be safe and, of course, HE WILL DEPART SAFELY.

a pretty spring day. the outskirts of one festival or another, tokyo coming alive around them, cherry blossoms blooming. one may think him incautious for simply being out in the open, but suguru knows perfectly well that no one but satoru would be able to sense his residual cursed energy / he's excellent at not being found except for when he wants to be and you could say HE WANTS TO BE FOUND.

❝ oh, dear, ❞ tone lingering near a simper, a smile curving at his mouth / is it cruel? is it meanspirited? a touch, here and there, though not purposefully. well : NOT LOOKING AT SATORU is purposeful, suguru would know his presence blind, deaf, dead. he tucks his hands into his sleeves / gazes at the vermin going about their lives, their days, their blissfully ignorant safety, curses lingering and lurking around every corner. so beautiful he could vomit, rot coating his mouth. ❝ you've found me, satoru, ❞ he lingers on the syllables of his name like he always has, like he's bidden to do, something inherently ingrained, as natural as bleeding.

a lover's caress, awfully adoring, a threat of devotion. ❝ whatever shall i do? ❞ he slants his gaze, then, head tipping back as he looks over at him / his other half / the once center of his universe ( doesn't that ring of something as a lie? ONCE ) / THE STRONGEST, HIS VERY OWN.

[necrosin]

THE RECURRENCE OF YOUTH —— dragging themselves into one mess or another, though it would be dramatic to call this a mess ( and too irreverent to refer to the risk of their lives on a day to day basis by means or protecting the world at large and the weak first and foremost simply A MESS but a blanket term can only do so much ) for all that he had been reluctant to partake. he's always reluctant to partake in anything adjacent, harmless though it may be / the simple fact of the universe is that suguru hates losing and he's never been especially adept at VIDEO GAMES IN GENERAL to the point that even when his old school friends from what feels like lifetimes ago would be playing games, clustered around their game boys, rowdy in an arcade, suguru would abstain with a laugh and a smile.

regrettably, satoru is adept at dragging him into messes / and suguru will take any and all chances to beat him at nearly anything in the world, simply to prove that he could, a silly little perpetual half-baked rivalry that, really, goes nowhere at all —— granted, suguru has won out over satoru on occasion ( the list of things he's won at is perilously short, but he ignores that ) but never, never when it comes to VIDEO GAMES.

and yet : all @mastabahs needs to do is grin and bat his stupid white lashes and ask and suguru ( ... ) ugh, complies. it stings somewhat less, given that satoru is nearly obedient when it comes to everything that suguru requests of him, something that he's quietly pleased about, unseemly bursts of joy kept close to his chest.

it doesn't help that THEY'VE DECIDED TO BET THIS TIME, simply another tactic to drag suguru along into whatever it is that satoru wants to do to while their youth away, shamelessly intertwined with each other as they stumble about the mire that is teenager—dom —— though, honestly, why suguru agreed is beyond him. as if he doesn't already spoil satoru rotten. the only saving grace he maintains currently is that shoko isn't here to LAUGH HERSELF TO TEARS at him and his objective idiocy when it comes to satoru / and the way that hope flees his eyes as the vibrant, joyous, cheering YOU LOSE !!! flashes across the screen at him. because of course it does.

❝ —— don't, ❞ he says immediately, elbow flying out to smack senselessly at satoru's ribs / he can already hear the crowing, triumphant laughter, the way that he'll lord his win over him endlessly, ceaseless, until satoru win at something else and can hold that over his head. honestly, satoru's ego is in desperate need of deflating. ❝ even start, i don't want to hear it, ❞ alright, he's also being a sore loser, but he thinks that's owed to him given that satoru is, famously, an even SORER WINNER, the asshole. he elbows him again for good measure, scowl set on his face, perhaps a little too close to a pout to any passersby.

he can only take so much GOJO SATORU WINNER OF ALL TIME, alright, he already has to pay for dinner when satoru is practically a trust fund baby. ❝ best two out of three, ❞ he says against his better judgement, because obviously he's going to lose again, suguru isn't good at video games and never has been, but satoru's joy is an infectious sort of thing, like the wrappers of all of his favorite candies gathering in suguru's pockets, like the sound of his laughter and grabbing hands whenever he presents him with his favorite drinks.

objectively : embarrassing. suguru doesn't have it in him to be embarrassed about it, though ; as though he had forgotten that lesson / as though the world had forgotten to give him any sort of shame when it comes to gojo satoru.

NONVERBAL PROMPTS. —— ∗ 72﹕ sender  beats  receiver  in  a  video  game .

[necrosin]

❝ —— do you actually know what you're doing? ❞ he knows he sounds mulish, childishly unsure : because he is, thanks, this idea is dumb but he'd been cajoled and corralled and poked and prodded until he'd given in. megumi is 10, okay, and while he's stubborn a CERTAIN SOMEONE is somehow more childish than he, the literal child, is and megumi only has so much patience. most of it goes to tsumiki, who usually manages his hair, but she's been busy and it's just ( ... ) it's annoying and curls around his neck while sticking up everywhere and he might get in trouble with school at this point for dress code and, ugh.

somehow all of that had become : welllllll, i can cut it for you / huh? you? / naturally / have you ever actually cut hair. / i'm wounded! of course i have / i don't believe you / AND SO ON AND SO FORTH until megumi has, somehow, against all common sense ( which he has a good deal of, thanks ) ended up sitting in the cramped bathroom he and tsumiki share, knees bumping against the cabinets while @mastabahs twirls scissors in his hands. it would almost be cool if he weren't SHOWING OFF.

❝ megumi, who do you take me for? someone who'd cut a child's hair without experience? ❞ he tuts, because he thinks it makes him sound more mature or something, and that grin on his face isn't exactly reassuring. actually, it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he glares at gojo in the mirror. ❝ yikes, your face will get stuck like that, y'know !! ❞

megumi huffs, crossing his arms and wondering if he could get out of his. somehow. but there's no way now that he's here. ❝ yes," he says shortly, frown deepening into a scowl when gojo laughs, because of course he does. ❝ ugh, just do it. and don't cut it too short, gojo-san. ❞ megumi's hair is too long but he hates it when it's TOO SHORT, hates not being able to run his fingers through it / he knows that tsumiki likes his hair longer, too, because she says it's pretty.

❝ yes, yes, ❞ gojo waves his hand in the air and it looks almost dismissive, though megumi doesn't have time to point out how annoying the gesture is before gojo pats his head the way he always does : palm pressing against his skull, just a touch too hard, squeezing for some weird reason, tousling his hair in the way that he hates / it must be ON PURPOSE, surely. maybe that's a bit, ugh, uncharitable. ❝ don't worry, megumi, put your trust in gojo-san. ❞

he presses his thumb in the space between his eyebrows / sighs / he'd essentially put his trust in gojo when he was FIVE YEARS OLD for the sake of tsumiki and avoiding what sounded like sure despair amongst whatever family his father had been from, it's not like he'd cared about them, but gojo had given him a way out of what would have been the worst case scenario. or something like that.

( it would occur to him that maybe gojo had simply made it all up for the sake of getting megumi for whatever reason, but —— the few times he'd gone to the zen'in compound, not quite hidden in gojo's shadow, had been MORE THAN ENOUGH to foster a stronger distaste for them than he had even for gojo. )

❝ fine, gojo-san. hurry up. ❞

( it's uneven and slightly ridiculous looking but not too short and it's no longer curling around his neck in that way he HATES and he decidedly doesn't thank gojo, despite everything, and makes a beeline for tsumiki the moment she returns home for her to clean it up. )

NONVERBAL PROMPTS. —— ∗ 81﹕ sender helps receiver cut their hair .

[necrosin]

sometimes it occurs to yuugi that they probably EMBARRASS THEIR FRIENDS by virtue of their mere existence. when they press too close, nearly always touching, limbs overlapping, small displays of affection, all done without thought nor concern to their surroundings. pda has always been something that the group laughed about, tittering to each other, heads ducked together, sharing in one constant, gently cajoling, inside joke that always came back around, without fail. whenever a pair would start dating at school, unable to keep their hands off of each other, whenever honda would reach out for miho, for shizuka, a lovelorn expression on his face, only to duck out of jounouchi's swing whenever shizuka was involved, yuugi and anzu giggling to each other. whenever yuugi had stared longingly at anzu's hand, much too afraid to reach out.

it was different with friendly touches, an arm throw across shoulders, hands hoisting him in the air, fingers tousling his hair, small scuffles and wrestling matches, shoulders bumping, locking elbows together to walk in tandem, laughing, so on and so forth.

❛ i don't think i could ever do it, ❜ yuugi once said, laughing / the idea of it was terrifying / of reaching out to someone you adore in full sight of everyone and all the stars and beings in the sky / the idea had made him shy, the idea of being able to TOUCH ATEM ALONE had made him unbearable in his bashfulness, fingers poking together and head ducking and the whole song and dance, and yet ——

maybe it's a result of LITERALLY SHARING A BODY? what could possibly be closer than that? yuugi knows, knows now, that strange ache that fills him, that burst from his soul, a plaintive sort of wanting soothed only by proximity to atem upon his return to the land of the living ; as though his body protests at any distance between them at all, as though his soul demands for them to crawl back inside of each other, make homes inside of each other. physically, not just spiritually. and, short of literally tearing each other apart, near-constant touch is, really, the only other way to go ; which means that their hands tangle and their knees bump and their legs are thrown over each other and their arms intertwine and it's like friendly touches but not. INTENTION, and whatnot.

which is to say : YUUGI ISN'T SURPRISED WHEN THEIR FRIENDS ABANDON THEM AT THE ARCADE / they were practically sitting on top of each other without meaning to, his legs thrown over atem's, shoulders pressing close as they squint at the claw machine together, determined to win that beloved prize of a HUGE PLUSH to add to their ever growing ( slightly alarming ) collection. they were still nearby, of course, it's rare for them to get time together, anymore : distance and responsibilities and adulthood keeping them apart, but they were probably SICK OF THEM / in an affectionate way, of course.

❝ —— oh !! ❞ yuugi surges forward, the concentration on his face slipping as he drops the claw onto the corner of the giant plush they had thoroughly persuaded with nothing but brute force into getting closer to the prize slot, watching as it tips and tips and tips. ❝ atem, atem, i think this is it, ❞ he says, as though atem isn't right there, as though their arms hadn't been entangled and their shoulders pressed together and their sides of their hips pressed flush, bouncing slightly as he goes.

they watch with baited breath as it tips and tips and tips and then FALLS at long, long last. yuugi cheers and atem shouts in triumph, both of their hands lifting in celebration as they rotate towards each other, high fiving each other automatically, palms pressing and fingers tangling thereafter. "good work, aibou," atem grins / sounds pleased / warmly proud / soon he'll have to dedicate himself to getting another oversized plushie, just to make it even.

❝ nahhh, ❞ yuugi laughs, swaying close to atem, ❝ you did half the work, atem. ❞

atem laughs / chuckles / lifts their hands to press his mouth against the back of yuugi's hand, lips warm and sticky-soft with the lip gloss that he had snagged from anzu. despite himself, yuugi feels his heart flutter, a thrill bubbling through him / HE FEELS ALMOST SHY, AGAIN / like he's a blushing teenager utterly gone for the spirit that he shared a body with / his head even ducks for a moment !! ❝ i did 40% of the work, maybe. ❞

❝ pfffff, ❞ yuugi rolls his eyes, pressing close because he can, a quick kiss ( really more of a smooch, which should be embarrassing but isn't ) slanted across atem's mouth, the taste of cherries lingering as he flits in and then out / not lingering because while they were definitely guilty of EXCESSIVE AMOUNTS OF PDA, there are limits —— probably. it's just that he couldn't help but kiss him for a moment, his treasured atem, before pulling away to drag out the massive baby chick plushie that is, somehow, wider than he is. ❝ ready for the next one? ❞

❝ always. ❞

THE INTIMACY OF HANDS.—— [ hand kiss ] for the sender’s muse to kiss the back of the receiver’s hand.

[necrosin]

WHAT DO PEOPLE DO, WHEN THEY'RE ABOUT TO DIE? it's not something he's given much thought to / curse-eater / curse-bearer / cursed / accursed. he's only ever thought of death tangentially, obliquely, never quite in relation to himself, only ever in relation to OTHERS, as though it were a condition he were separate from, as though it could never happen to him —— as though because he doesn't believe himself exempt from death / simply GODLY he may be, practically godly he may seem to the monkeys clamoring for his so-called blessings, but suguru is a man like any other, a jujutsu user like any other / this path is LITTERED WITH CORPSES and his proximity to death has simply made him ( ... ) distant from the idea of it. goal driven and idealistic as ever, getou suguru, he's lived and lived and lived for his cause, his reason, to better the world, to exterminate the pests and create a better, kinder world for jujutsu sorcerers, where they would not have to die BECAUSE OF and IN SERVICE TO the damned and accursed creatures that are good for nothing at all, besides sacrifice. in that ideal, in that wish and hope and want and dream, there is no space to consider death, no time to ponder it, no room to linger within painted with the IDEA OF HIS OWN DEATH —— he's not quite fatalistic enough, for such things.

well —— it's a lie / it isn't a lie at all / it's simply part of the MORTAL CONDITION OF LIVING to consider death every now and then, isn't it / he'd thought of his own death often as a teenager, in that grey-cast year / but in recent years —— only every now and then. an occasional thought brought upon by a near brush, by one of his family being brutally injured, by the loss of another dear to him. and in those thoughts one thing has remained constant, from the fumbling springtime days of his adolescence until here, now, at the very end : HE IS GOING TO DIE IN SATORU'S ARMS.

suguru does love being right. even about his own death.

yet the question remains : WHAT DO PEOPLE DO, WHEN THEY'RE ABOUT TO DIE? lament? weep? sob? plead? reminisce? simply pass away? it's a strange train of thought, nonlinear and sprawling. irrational, not quite incoherent, things that he's never considered and isn't quite considering, now, simply a passing thought, something morbid and not quite morose. disjointed and almost humorous.

the sun could be out / the moon could be glowing / rain could be pouring / snow could be falling —— suguru doesn't care much for the sky, doesn't pay much mind to the pain resonating through his body, gives little thought to his utter lack of an arm. it seems that his world is eternally destined to narrow down to : satoru.

any last words? he had asked / only for satoru to speak as if HE WERE GIVING HIS FINAL WORDS, a quiet admission, knelt and gazing at him —— for a moment suguru had almost been offended h was so fucking far away, though the offense was buried beneath shock and something like awe, a mixture from long lost boyhood, something that felt almost melancholic. and suguru could only smile, could only laugh, of course, of course —— of fucking course.

AT LEAST CURSE ME A LITTLE BIT AT THE VERY END.

satoru is crouching, still. looking at the ground / looking at him / looking at him / looking at him —— had satoru ever looked away, truly? what a strange thought. what a romantic though. ❝ satoru, ❞ he says, name covetous, name as a brand, name as a devotional / suguru lists to the side. blood loss, dizziness, impending death, true and unconditional and absolute and unending love. ❝ come here. ❞

and always, always : SATORU COMES. the distance closes / he takes suguru into his arms easily, as if it's second nature, it is second nature, his body aches with the movement but it's far—away, utterly distant, as separate from him as death, itself. satoru's body is familiar against his, this body he knows as well as his own, the press of his chest against his shoulder, the smell of him / the scent of his cursed energy like lightning lingering in the air / the gravitational pull they make / INIFINITY AND THE VOID : the destruction they wreak. there's no room nor time nor space for regrets, and even if there were suguru would have none at all.

always living for the future. always striving for something. always, always, this silly tangle of MORALITY and JUSTICE and A CAUSE TO LIVE AND DIE FOR. those things satoru had always hated.

❝ you said any final words, yet here we are, ❞ he can't help but point out, just to be aggravating, even now. ❝ usually that's when you'd kill me, you know. ❞

❝ —— shut upppp, suguru, ❞ worn and affectionate, a roll of his eyes, ❝ of course you'd be an asshole on death's door. ❞

❝ as if you won't be, ❞ the thought is strangely harrowing, heavily melancholic —— suguru sets it aside / satoru isn't immortal, a man like any other and some day in the future he will die / but he'd rather not dwell on his death.

he is going to die in satoru's arms, he can feel the slight tremor of his muscles, allows his head to dip back to gaze into his eyes, those eyes that had taken him from the moment they met / and had NEVER LET HIM GO / satoru is too selfish to have ever let him go truly, fully, even as the risk of pride and honor and other worthless things. saotru is too selfish / suguru is too selfish / their minds and bodies and hears and souls and the endless expanse of them entangled for all of time. a distant recollection occurs to him / their bodies intertwined and sheets shoved to the side, the press of satoru's body against his, inexorable and perfect, satoru's teeth against his collarbone, suguru's hands tangled in his hair / or was it satoru's hands tangled in his hair? a quiet, amused, TEASING thing : ❛ when you kill me, don't use hollow purple, ❜ as near as he could to saying : you will kill me / you will kill me / I'LL GO NO OTHER WAY / isn't this the ultimate act of love?

( satoru had stared at him, as if aghast, mouth twisted into something that should have been ugly but wasn't, because he's satoru, before rolling his eyes and lamenting how dramatic suguru was, honestly, what the fuck, before biting him hard enough to leave a coveted bruise. )

devoted love. adoring love. springtime love. long lasting love. twisted love. he's never said it, has he? never spoken the words aloud, just like satoru, not out of PRIDE like he supposes satoru has twisted himself into —— in the spirit of ROMANTICISM. suguru loves satoru, that is as absolute a fact as the earth revolving around the sun / as the existence of curses being because of monkeys / as the depth of satoru's gaze / as absolute as satoru. why should he ever have to say it aloud? is it not enough to claim, possess, adore him in the only way he knows how? EVEN NOW, AT THE END OF HIS LIFE, SATORU IS HIS / AND HE LOVES HIM.

it's simply shocking that satoru had said it at all. 愛してる. the only thing satoru could have possibly said to shock him. though, really, if satoru was ever going to say it, of course it would be NOW, of course it would follow ANY LAST WORDS, of course it would be as his hand settles against suguru's neck / as if it's any other day / as if they'll fall into bed and into each other and into each other and into each other so deeply they'll never find a way out / as if they ever want to.

they're both fucking idiots, honestly.

satoru's eyes are solemn, are burning, are vibrant and vivid and he's always been expressive. expressive / and logical / and realistic. suguru loves him, endlessly, will love him beyond death, to the ends of the world, until satoru dies, and beyond that, too. ❝ satoru, ❞ close to a proclamation of love / satoru can hear it, he knows, he knows by the way that his eyes widen and his lips part / by the way that suguru takes his hand from his neck with his only remaining hand / by the way that he tangles their fingers together.

❝ come here, ❞ he says again because of blood loss and imminent death and weakness overtaking, tipping his chin up, imperious and demanding as ever. satoru's hand is warm in his, slightly damp, he smells like the remnants of lightning and the vestiges of battle / suguru thinks of his family / of his daughters / hopes they'll be alright. knows they'll be alright. satoru huffs, as if suguru is asking SO VERY MUCH OF HIM, before ducking his head down and letting suguru lean up to kiss him : adoringly / determinedly / violently / gently. the way they've shoved themselves together. the way they've gouged out spaces in each other for the other. the ragged, tender, FAITHFULLY ARDENT WAY THEY SEARCH FOR EACH OTHER WITHOUT END. satoru's arm supporting his shoulders squeezes him, painfully tight, blood spilling everywhere and anywhere. their mouths part and crash together again / satoru shakes his hand free and grips suguru's face strongly enough that it hurts, a throbbing pain, thrumming alongside his heart. suguru presses his hand against satoru's chest, over his heart, as if he could leave an imprint of his hand in his skin, nails digging as though he could claw his way through, as if he could stay with him forever.

violent and wretched and caught in each other until the very end.

suguru got to see his daughters grow / not fully and not wholly / the others will have to look after them now / treat them to crepes and whatever else their hearts desire / he hopes they will / he hopes they will / he cannot say such a thing to satoru who his daughters will not forgive / but he hopes they understand : this is how it is meant to be, isn't it?

satoru will mourn him / he cannot protect satoru from that / protection as an instinct as an act of love / satoru who is the strongest who is just satoru, to him / a tragedy amongst many.

infinity kisses the void desperately, searchingly, seekingly. what do people do when they're about to die? something about confessions, perhaps. it echoes in his mind, satoru's words, his horrible words, his wonderful words, sending suguru's heart skittering and careening and keening in his chest : HE REGRETS NOTHING AT ALL / this is how he's meant to die / he's going to die in satoru's arms / he has done his best and his family will carry on without him / and satoru will mourn him.

❝ —— 愛してる ❞ a vow / a curse : delivered to the soul, sealed into his skin, pressed into his mouth, carved into the marrow of his bones, in all of the shadowy and sunlit corners that suguru has claimed in this body that is an extension of his, in this man he loves so dreadfully, in his other half.

satoru's hand spasms against his face / they crash together / and suguru ————

THE INTIMACY OF HANDS.—— [acceptance] for the sender & receiver to sit / lay somewhere in acceptance of their ends together. in a final act of closeness, the sender places their hand in the receiver’s own.