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[takumina]

Hey, it's Gojo.
You know what to do.

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[takumina]

( he's carried the weight of what he'd been forced to do with him all these years, kept it locked away along with everything else he'd lost and kept it hidden, because it's never been anyone's burden to bear but his own, and he couldn't fathom letting the skeletons out of his closet just for the sake of a little bit of peace of mind.

( he hadn't had a choice. there was no other way. but the toll it had taken on him had been a big one, and he'd never thought he would ever actually find himself getting over it. )

satoru swallows hard, pressing into the hand at his cheek and all at once shifting to close what little distance remains between them, lifting himself up to straddle the other's waist and bury his face in the side of his neck, choking back a strained, strangled sort of sound at i'm sorry it ended that way. )

I never wanted it to be like that, Suguru. I never thought I would have to—

( do what i did.

he's shaking now, and a part of him hates how vulnerable he's made himself out to be, but if there's ever going to be a weakness he'll own with everything in him … it's the man he now shares a bed with without a second thought. )

Sometimes I think I'm dreaming. Here, you know? ( he murmurs against the beat of his pulse, lips brushing over warm skin, not wanting to pull back enough to speak properly. ) That I wanted you back so badly that this is some kind of screwed up coping mechanism for refusing to accept you were really gone. ( he pauses, then lifts his head to press a desperate kiss against his mouth, so out of his mind from a stupid dream that he doesn't stop to think for a moment that he shouldn't. )

I'm not still dreaming, right?

[shrove]

[ the things it does to him, this whole killing business.

suguru has once said that he is kinder of them both, with the implication that satoru is fully capable of carrying out cold-blooded, calculated acts -- he has demonstrated that on several occasions, but suguru also knows that gojo satoru is ultimately only human where it counts, and that the unbearable weight of killing the only best friend you have is quite something.

he's seen the quiet devastation in his face when he'd been dying, learned that even in his death, satoru, precious satoru, had not even given his body over to the higher ups. sentiment, perhaps, for someone who doesn't deserve it.

he can feel him shaking, that familiar, welcome weight above him a reminder that satoru is still a man, and his hands come to rest on his hips before his arms come to wrap around him. it's a raw, pivotal moment, this vulnerability that he displays in the darkest of the night. is it just a dream, he wonders?

maybe he's dreaming, too, and satoru is simply privy to the yearning of a dying man's last thoughts. but satoru feels real, and his heart hurts for him too sharply to be some sort of fantasy. he runs his fingers through his hair in silence as he parts his mouth for him, taking his desperation, kissing him back, tongue sliding sweetly against his.

he gives him the comfort he seeks, shaking his head in between kisses. he leads him into another kiss, and another, a third. ]

You're not. I'm here. [ another kiss. another. he draws the last one out longer, gently gripping his hair to tug, as a reminder of his presence. so he wants him back so badly, huh? ]

I'm here with you, Satoru. Right now, you're wide awake in a brand new world with me, and we're kissing, and we're pretending this is what friends do. I'm pretty sure even you can't actually dream up how annoying I can be.

[ ...and so he pinches his inner thigh suddenly. just because. see? annoying. can screwed up coping mechanisms pinch you suddenly in the soft spot and remind you of their shared denial? they can't. dryly, he murmurs, teasing him to keep him anchored, to keep his satoru here, with him: ] Give this a few more weeks, maybe you'll really want me gone, then.