[retreating isn't necessarily a sign of weakness; there are times in which taking a step back proves beneficial—but in this particular scenario, suguru is certain that it would do more harm than good? that it would nullify the tentative progress they've made this evening, because pulling away now would be equal parts cowardly, petty, childish. it's only a bed; it's only one night. neither of them is so foolish as to choose shivering to death over sharing a space for a few hours, a majority of which they will remain blissfully unaware of.
and yet.
one problem, so far as suguru can tell, is that distractions are proving more difficult to find—and less effective as a whole. it's simply impossible to ignore just how connected they are; even watching satoru try (and fail) to brush the dust from his jacket—which should be funny, in a way—means spying the ring upon satoru's finger, the hair tie about satoru's wrist. and what else is there to focus on, in this tiny shack? shifting his attention down to the curse winding around his feet means thinking about the ridiculous name it now answers to; pretending to take inventory of the pillows means thinking about how close their pillows will be, once they claim them; absently brushing a lock of hair from his face means thinking about why his hair is loose in the first place. satoru is inescapable.
but as satoru pushes past the mess of emotions they seemingly share, suguru does the same, refusing to allow his vaguely amused smile to slip as satoru catches his eye. that is a mischievous look if suguru has ever seen one, and while that, too, pains him in some small way, he watches satoru tap something on his screen—
—and pop into a pair of pajamas he has no business wearing. furbies? more furbies? this would have sent a younger suguru into the mother of all laughing fits; he would have almost certainly needed to leave the room, but now, as both brows lift:]
Is it? [a dusty suit might have been better, considering the length of leg that is currently on display—but that aside:] ...Maybe it does suit you.
[a clown suit for a clown. very fitting. suguru feels genuine amusement welling within, something he should be grateful for—and yet it's what sends him turning away, a huff of a laugh escaping him as he perches on the edge of the bed. he wants to laugh, to really laugh; he can't allow himself to, so! time, then, to carefully pull his feet free from sprinkles' smothering affection, ostensibly so he can remove his sandals. lightly, easily:]
If you freeze, you only have yourself to blame.
[because wishing for so impractical an outfit is totally satoru's style! if suguru were to use the same app, surely he would, despite this train's meddling, receive something more sensible—which is why he plucks his own phone from his pocket? considers it for a moment before unlocking it simply to hit that one (1) button, following satoru's lead every bit as easily as he once did, and—poof! warm woodsman chic™, which is... a definite relief.
and while suguru had absolutely no control over this, he's absolutely casting a look back over his shoulder.]
[Satoru didn't get to pick! This totally isn't his fault.
Except, Suguru is kind of right. He did tap those fateful buttons on his phone in hopes of getting a pair of pajamas as jarring as his suit. In a way, he asked for this, and he is feeling a little bit smug as a result of being given yet another eyesore of an outfit. This train car is so dour and the situation with Suguru is so complicated — these pajamas are a much needed means of keeping their situation light, even if he'll suffer for them.
And he is suffering! He's cold! And he feels even colder once Suguru messes with his phone and is given a set of warm and comfortable pajamas. They even look like they fit him, whereas Satoru's are definitely a size too small and therefore not nearly as forgiving as they should be. He's paying the price for his antics yet again, even though this time was out of his hands.
But that isn't going to stop him from laughing out loud — unrestrained, compared to Suguru's attempt at keeping himself reeled in — when he sees that pattern because Suguru may be warm and cozy in that getup but:]
You look like...
[What's the name of that American...give him half a second to remember...]
Paul Bunyan.
[How does he know who this is? Does Satoru play gacha games in his spare time? Maybe...
Cultural knowledge aside, Satoru is only getting colder and he may very well freeze at this rate. So there's really no room for thinking deep thoughts about emotions or the fact that Suguru is going to climb in bed right after him. Satoru takes off his blindfold and sets it and his phone beside the bed. Then he lies down and immediately does what Suguru told him not to do.
He hogs the blankets, wrapping himself in all of them.
Only after he starts warming up a little does he allow himself to think on what — who — will inevitably follow.]
Sprinkles!
[Come get in this bed before Suguru does. Keep both their minds off of everything except a curse taking up too much space in bed, getting its dusty feet on everything...]
[satoru may play (and waste far too much money on) gacha games, but suguru most certainly does not—and thus paul bunyan sails right over his head. of the many books he's read throughout his life, few have focused on american folklore; this reference is yet another example of satoru existing in an entirely different world.
but it makes satoru laugh, and maybe that's what matters, in this moment? even if it does bring about a pain in suguru's chest, something he ignores as he bends down to tuck his matching slippers (nice) out of sprinkles' line of sight. the last thing he needs is this curse eating what is currently his only pair of shoes...
...and the second-to-last thing suguru needs: satoru stealing all of the blankets before he can so much as sit upright. damn.
except that suguru knows this is a distraction tactic, of sorts. satoru buying himself some time, which is why suguru only sighs as he stands, deciding to address this issue after placing his phone on the table (and patting his pockets, feeling for the charm that is both there and, blessedly, muted by the thick fabric). he, at least, is not a heathen; his phone will not go on the floor.
but the price he pays for his kindness is satoru calling sprinkles onto the bed, which—well, of course the curse hops right up? and into suguru's spot, no less, sniffing under the pillow to see if, like, a tasty piece of human is hidden beneath it. hope is all it has these days... surely one day its tasty treat will come...
there is, however, only so much foolishness suguru can tolerate—and so, as he makes his way back to his side of the bed, he gives sprinkles a look.]
Off.
[which is not strictly necessary; a verbal command is not needed, given that suguru controls this curse's will, but it feels fitting? and sends sprinkles scurrying into satoru's space, stomping all over his legs. enjoy that, you cocoon of a man, but also:]
This isn't your bed, [suguru says, holding out a hand in an expectant manner,] and those aren't your blankets. Stop being selfish.
[Whoa, Suguru, there's no need to be so strict! So mean! Poor Sprinkles, now absolutely crushing Satoru's legs, but instead of complaining about that, Satoru curls up into a ball, pulling his to himself to make room at the foot of the bed, allowing the curse to walk all over him. He slept like this in the treehouse, he can manage it again. His feet are now kind of in Suguru's space, though. There's a lot of Satoru and only so much bed.
And only so many blankets! But Suguru has the right of it; Satoru is employing a distraction tactic, and the time for such antics is swiftly running out, especially considering Suguru's tone and that hand hovering expectantly beside him.]
But I'm cold.
[A pathetic protest, coupled with an equally pathetic sniffle as Satoru grabs a handful of blanket and thrusts it behind him, blindly seeking Suguru's hand since his back is now to him.
He's cold, and he's not ready for this yet, and neither is Suguru, if that brief pang of pain that Satoru felt a few moments ago is anything to go by. But they've now reached the point where no amount of whining or curse involvement will delay what they need to do. So he gives in, handing over then blankets, then doing his best to shift to the edge of the bed, attempting to give Suguru distance.
And surely Satoru should just close his eyes as Suguru settles in bed. Surely, he knows better than to indulge his desire to chat before sleep, because figurative distance is as important as literal distance.
But he is, regrettably, still himself and thus:]
I was in the woods when you texted.
[Pillow talk...he can't help it.]
Took care of a few monsters.
[This car is dangerous, and maybe that's what he wants to talk about. Or maybe he's looking for some insight into what Suguru has been doing with his time.
Or it could be that Satoru is a glutton for punishment, and just doesn't know when to stop.
[there is something childish about this? satoru, refusing to roll over lest he meet suguru's eyes while offering the bare minimum—suguru thinks, briefly (and stupidly), of nanako. always the more willful of his two girls, prone to sulking—briefly—whenever she didn't get her way; she'd crawled into her bed many a time, keeping her back to the door as she pretended she didn't hear suguru wishing her good night. this reminds him of that, in a way—but then, of course, there was mimiko, always more likely to cry than to sulk. sometimes she turned away from him as she did so, refusing to let him see her tears; she knew it would only make her feel worse.
that's how children are; that's how people are. suguru has always understood this, on some level, which is perhaps why he managed to befriend satoru all those years ago? others wrote satoru off as an annoyance, a lost cause; suguru saw the person beneath the act and realized: oh. so this is how satoru deals with it all.
and this is how satoru deals with—well, with this: by curling into a ball, silent and still. there are, suguru supposes, worse ways to handle this.
but that doesn't make crawling into bed, tugging the blankets over him as he does so, any easier. silence should be a blessing; it feels rather like a curse in this moment, something weighing down his limbs as he gingerly rolls onto his side, his back facing satoru. a necessity—as well as a small comfort, he hopes. a small comfort.
one that is matched, surprisingly enough, by satoru's voice? it shouldn't be a surprise; it very much is, hence the slight delay before suguru offers a quiet:]
Oh?
[which isn't enough; to leave satoru hanging like this would bring an end to this strange comfort, but suguru still takes a moment to shift, pulling the edge of the blanket that much higher. if he concentrates—if he's left alone in silence for too long—he can feel the warm of satoru's calf, so very close to his feet.]
The villagers will be grateful. They haven't had much luck taking care of them on their own. [hmm—] They say there are too many of them in the woods.
[or: suguru spent his day milling about, charming people, birds, and bears into offering him information about their home. he was personable and polite, once; he still can be, when the need arises.]
[Satoru remembers many of the lasts he shared with Suguru. He remembers the last time he and Suguru talked before Suguru turned away. He remembers the last text messages they exchanged. He remembers Suguru's last smile, last words, last breath. He remembers the last time they shared a hotel room bed, and he remembers the rain that fell long into that night.
He remembers a lot.
He does not remember the last time he and Suguru shared one of their beds, in their space, before Suguru left the school.
It should be a relief, to be spared the burden of a final memory as he lies in Suguru's bed once more. It should be nice, to be given this break, a pause in the endless considerations of how things once were. This is a reprieve: Satoru can shut his eyes and listen to Suguru intone that quiet Oh? without thinking of finalities.
Yet, as he counts the breaths between that single utterance and the statements that he nearly thinks won't follow, the knowledge that he can't remember something so trivial, yet so important, settles in his chest as an ache.
It must have been an inconsequential morning. They must have woken up together in a blur. Satoru was probably late, having snoozed too long, and he probably had to leave in a rush. Maybe Suguru was already long out of bed before Satoru decided to greet the day. Maybe that's why the memory failed to stick.
There are many moments that Satoru failed to understand were important while they were happening. He didn't realize the fleeting nature of significance — the way hindsight would color that which seemed trifling at the time. He didn't realize that Suguru himself was temporary, contingent, as fleeting as all the small details that Satoru would retrace in his mind long after he left — and then long after his death.
Satoru is spared the pain of a final moment that he didn't realize was part of their ending — and that in and of itself is painful. It feels like a loss. It has Satoru wondering: Does Suguru remember? He was always better at slowing down and recognizing moments for what they were, whereas Satoru shoved himself from moment to moment with forward momentum.
(Except for moments like these: when he slowed down to listen to Suguru breathe in and out, when he waited for Suguru's words, when he reached across the gap of mattress between them to clutch Suguru's shirt — to hold him close.)
Now Suguru lies beside him, facing the other way, an impossible distance stretched between them, and Satoru thinks that this too will lead to an end: of their discussion, of Satoru's attempt to converse, and of Suguru's unspoken reply.
But Suguru speaks. Satoru exhales. He closes his eyes and thinks about the slope of Suguru's shoulder, the loose strands of his hair settled across his pillow, the way that Suguru offers what Satoru is seeking. Satoru thinks about Suguru going from villager to villager, gathering information. It reminds him of a time long ago, when he and Suguru would travel to the countryside to exorcise curses, and Suguru would ward off villagers' concerns with a smile and a polite word. He was always better at that than Satoru.]
There're a lot.
[Punctuated by a yawn, Satoru marginally relaxes as he speaks. The conversation eases him in loosening his limbs — still curled, but less defensively, soothed by this talk into accepting the shared bed — and Suguru's proximity.
Satoru could take care of most, if not all of the monsters, if given endless time and cursed energy, but he has neither of those things at his disposal. He has other concerns on his mind, other threats to consider.]
But they've got bigger problems.
[And this is partially why Satoru spent the day in the woods, instead of lingering in town. There are very few things that Satoru can't fight. Give him curses, monsters, and creatures en masse, and he'll emerge victorious. But give him an illness, and Satoru is useless. He never could heal others, and now he can't even heal himself. A plague is an opponent that doesn't respond to power or strength.
He glances over his shoulder, just barely. The motion doesn't grant him sight of Suguru; it serves more as a gesture.]
What do you think we're supposed to be doing?
[What is the objective that seems not to exist? Satoru hasn't paid the objectives much mind up until now, focused as he's been on other matters, but this is one car that warrants a swift exit.]
[it's pitch black within this too-small space; even suguru's well-adjusted eyes can just barely make out the shape of a chair near the foot of the bed, which leaves him little choice but to focus on the person curled up beside him. he can hear every breath, feel every self-inflicted wound—though maybe that isn't entirely fair. he isn't so selfish as to believe that he is at the center of every late night thought; he isn't so callous as to ignore the problems his presence poses.
(which is why he should simply ask what satoru is thinking? offer satoru a chance to—well. it doesn't matter. once, perhaps, satoru may have provided a flippant answer, attempting to deflect before ultimately allowing suguru in; now, however, satoru will almost assuredly keep suguru out, and for good reason. it's safer this way.)
but satoru once again chooses to speak—and suguru thinks of nanako mumbling his name just before he closed the door, of mimiko sidling up to him to curl her fingers around a few of his. little gestures; little ways to ask for—to admit—what is needed.
what do you think we're supposed to be doing?
not this, suguru is sure. anything but this—and yet he hums all the same, replacing thoughts of satoru with thoughts of nervous villagers. of course he'd wandered by the clinic while exploring the village; he'd spoken, albeit briefly, with a bear reeking of alcohol, lending a sympathetic ear as the bear bemoaned the rising number of patients. monsters on one front, illness on the other—and somewhere in the middle, whispers of dead bodies disappearing in the dead of night. there's a puzzle here, which means the true question should be: is this their puzzle to piece together?
the answer, so far as suguru can tell, is obvious—which is one reason he should respond with a single word: sleeping. end this conversation here; ensure they're both in top form come the morning, when they head back into the world to deal with whatever is thrown their way—and yet.]
Solving them.
[the bed is spacious for one, somewhat cramped for two; suguru shifting over to lay flat on his back means that his shoulder just barely brushes satoru's back, but he does his best to ignore it, focusing instead on the darkness above them—and then, as he catches sight of it from the corner of his eye, the pale glow at the nape of satoru's neck. numbers, barely peeking over the collar of his ridiculous top and further obscured by his messy, messy hair, but—ah.
quietly, then, as suguru turns his head before he can think better of it:]
...So yours are blue.
[fitting! and also very eloquent, suguru.]
Edited (an edit for one (1) word) 2021-09-14 20:31 (UTC)
[Suguru's response has the ring of something he might have said in the past, when Satoru was busy bemoaning having to go on missions to protect the weak. The subsequent light brush of Suguru's shoulder against Satoru's back has the feel of a closeness he might have provided in the past — back when they would fit themselves together in the same small bed, but before they allowed themselves to fully indulge in touch.
It was a little easier for Satoru to speak candidly under the cover the darkness back then. He'd offer his flippant but lackluster attempts to change difficult subjects, and then whisper his admittances: I'm tired or I've got a headache or even Do your injuries still hurt? betraying a concern he once tried to hide from Suguru. Now, a similar confession rises to the surface: a statement about how there are already enough problems on his plate — a comment about how he hasn't been able to pick up on Sukuna's energy since they entered this car, a concern about the illness and the threats of future cars, and even more than all of those, a sense of displacement as he lies here and feels immersed in the risk that Suguru provides. Satoru takes everything in stride, but sometimes his good humor wavers — and Suguru is the only one who he allowed to truly see that.
Honesty means confessing that he's worried about what they're doing right this moment. Suguru is so close, Satoru feels the heat of his shoulder along his back. It means showing Suguru the pieces of himself he's kept locked away.
It means reaching out, when he feels he should.
Satoru nearly turns over. He nearly opens his mouth. But then Suguru speaks, and the moment is interrupted. Satoru has to think for a moment to realize what the comment references; he hasn't seen his own number, nor has he paid it much mind, considering it yet another gift from a higher-up for whom he holds no respect.
When it dawns on him, he considers the number in a new light. Lying together like this, Suguru's words feel strangely intimate, as though they're speaking about something deeply personal — something that Satoru should have kept hidden. He thinks about Sylvain's reluctance to show his number, and wonders if he might have been on to something.
Instead of attempting to cross the distance, Satoru raises his hand and frees it of the covers to run his fingers along the nape of his neck. Then he brushes his hair up, attempting to hold it out of the way, though the number remains hidden by his collar.]
Someone told me it was 404.
[When he first arrived, but that was weeks ago, and Satoru had no reason to trust him and no way of confirming. Now, the number reads 413 and while they have this conversation, it ticks upward, to 421.]
Is it?
[For the first time, he truly considers the significance of the numbers, and wonders about Suguru's — where it might be and what it might mean for him. And for them both.]
[this moment does feel strangely intimate; suguru is struck by the notion that he has somehow gone too far—and yet his eyes remain fixed on that bit of blue he can barely see. a small number, he thinks. certainly smaller than his own, with its five digits taking up the lion's share of his inner forearm. for his number to take up so much space while satoru's takes up practically no space at all—what does that mean? why is his number so much higher?
...he has a guess. a few of them, actually, but he keeps them to himself, watching satoru slip a hand to the back of his neck. long, thin fingers, skimming the very top of his brand before sweeping his hair up as best he can. there's nothing special about it, really; it's a purely practical gesture, and yet suguru feels an echo of an emotion he doesn't wish to acknowledge? the sudden urge to follow along in the wake of satoru's fingers; to touch the sensitive stretch of skin he'd so often kissed.
but that's—it's a fleeting fancy, something suguru does his best to dismiss as he squints at the very tops of the numbers. a four to start with, but as for the rest—
—the smart thing, perhaps, would be to say that he isn't sure, that he can't see. simple and sensible. it would be recoverable—but suguru is lifting a hand before satoru asks that which should remain unspoken, telling himself that it's the number drawing his attention. only the number.]
Hold still.
[little more than a murmur, really, as he hooks his pointer finger into satoru's collar, drawing it far enough down to expose the number in full—and there's no helping the slight contact. the light brush of skin against skin is as inevitable the the odd thrill it provides, but it's mitigated, somewhat, by the sight of satoru's number ticking a tad higher. was it satoru's mess of emotions, was it suguru's touch—
one thing at a time.]
421, [he says at last, still quiet as he watches for further changes—and then, because he can't quite help himself:] How many people have you shown this to?
[it's the thought of someone touching satoru like this, albeit briefly; it shouldn't matter, but it somehow does.]
[He and Suguru are linked by their rings, and Satoru's reactions are amplified by what he senses from the band — the catch in his breath underscored by the flashes of emotion he senses as Suguru murmurs that instruction. Their connection is what nudges Satoru into obedience, more than Suguru's words. He stills, holds his breath, and waits for what is sure to follow: the skirting of Suguru's fingers against his neck, the tug of fabric, the quiet revelation: 421, a number altered according to a train's whims.
Satoru exhales slowly, as if sighing too hard might disrupt this moment that they shouldn't have allowed to pass. A prickling sensation travels up his spine, though whether it's a direct response to that unnamed emotion or an anticipation of what could follow such a light, unobtrusive touch, Satoru isn't sure. It prompts him toward some kind of action — a warning that incites him to drop his hair and his hand, say something stupid to deflect Suguru's attention, or turn over and demand to see Suguru's, a number for a number.
The desire to seek more. The desire to pull away. Two simultaneous compulsions that end up feeling the same — both impulses that Satoru ignores in favor of lying exactly as he is, listening to Suguru's voice.
421, and Satoru keeps holding still.
And then Suguru's question, which should be trivial. Which is trivial, because what does it matter? They don't know what the numbers represent, and even if they did, they're hardly meant to be secret. Most people have them in conspicuous places, and have no say in showing them off.
And yet his is hidden. Suguru's is hidden. It occurs to Satoru that they should stay that way — not from the train at large, but maybe from each other. Because regardless of the meaning, isn't this another piece of himself that he has essentially handed over? Another piece of insight, however vague, however minimal, to be twisted into a weapon at the end of this path they walk together?
Satoru chuckles. The sound is breathy, as quiet as Suguru's words.]
Too many.
[Now, he means. As of this very moment.
But he has sworn to be honest, and even as he speaks flippantly, he feels the way his cursed energy mingles with Suguru's. Their proximity makes the bond seem that much stronger, looming over him, a promise and a threat in one.
So he elaborates.]
Two, and now you.
[No one touched him, though, a thought he keeps to himself. Satoru doesn't let anyone in.
Except — this. Except Suguru, with his soft touches that should, but fail to, feel like warnings.]
Why? Were you keeping yours secret?
[In retrospect, that is the smarter choice; and now, Satoru wonders if he will receive nothing in exchange for giving Suguru something that suddenly feels deeply personal — a touch, a number, and confession, all in one.]
[it is, quite honestly, a stupid question, which suguru realizes a split second after it leaves his lips. his concern—his chief concern— is ridiculous; the chances of satoru allowing anyone on this train to touch him are slim to none—and what would it matter if he did? that's satoru's risk to take. same for sharing his number, really; they've no concrete clues as to what these markings represent, so sharing with strangers is satoru's call.
but the undeniable truth is that touching satoru is a privilege, of sorts. one that suguru does not necessarily deserve; one that suguru has been granted frequently, as of late. he wonders if he's growing accustomed to it.
(he isn't. each touch is a shock; even now, this brief point of contact—warm skin pressed against the back of a single finger—is something suguru is both wary and absurdly appreciative of.)
satoru's number, however, remains stable as he speaks; there isn't so much as a single flicker—and suguru knows this to be his sign to pull away. his own curiosity is (somewhat) sated, and satoru's question is answered; to linger is to take advantage, to take this a step too far, because he wasn't invited in to make himself at home.
but it's—what? the novelty of being the third as opposed to the first? which is as stupid as it is unfair, suguru knows, and yet, as he releases his hold on satoru's collar, he can't quite help himself; he feels the need to bring his fingers to satoru's number, simply to press them, lightly, against the digits that could mean anything at all. maybe he's the first to do this.
well, again: which is as stupid as it is unfair, hence his barely audible, barely amused puff of breath as he finally pulls away. pfh. now who's the rude one? now who's the problem-causer.]
From you?
[is that the real question? his tone implies, but as that is a fair thing to ask of him:]
It hasn't come up. No one has asked, and I haven't offered. [because no one needs to know more about him than is absolutely necessary, but before satoru can say so much as a single word:] Do you remember the largest number you've seen?
[there's clear rustling behind satoru? the sound, perhaps, of someone pulling their arms free from the covers and maybe, just maybe, pushing up a sleeve—if satoru decides it's worth rolling over for.
(and if he does, in large, orange numbers trailing down suguru's forearm: 60138.]
[The warm pressure of fingers set against his number comes as a shock. Satoru's inhalation is sharper than it should be, betraying his surprise, his attempt at steadying himself immediately giving way to a quaver that spreads through his chest and surfaces abruptly.
Suguru's fingers are fleeting. They apply light pressure. And yet they sear into his skin. They have the distinct effect of making him feel cut open, exposed — everything he's attempted to bury drawn forth into the open.
(If Satoru expected the press of Suguru's fingers — if he knew that Suguru would reach out on his own, seizing more than he was offered, not unlike when Satoru intertwined their fingers and took what Suguru did not want to give — what would he have done? Activated his Infinity, to shut Suguru out? Jerked away? Pressed back, the equivalent of Suguru clutching his hand, and asked: Do you think this is long enough?
No. Of course not. Satoru has never sought to hurt Suguru. For all his picking at their wounds, he never intended to reopen them. Suguru is bleeding out an emotion that is dangerous, foolish to indulge, clouding his judgement — but Satoru will not make him stare at the damage. He will not double down and force Suguru to feel as he felt when Suguru clenched his hand.
He'll try to staunch the flow.)
When Suguru pulls back his hand, Satoru releases his hair. He wants to rub his numbers, to ease the impact, to mimic Suguru's touch. He holds back, even as Suguru asks his pointed For you? — even as his numbers burn.]
Yeah. 846. On a robot with no arms or legs.
[The only reason he remembers is because he carried the robot around for a little while, staring at it. He hadn't realized the number was high at the time — nor was he aware of his own number at that point — but it still made an impression.]
It had a big mouth though.
[Or whatever the robot equivalent of a voice box is. It babbled a lot.
Satoru says all of this without turning around. He is attempting to settle himself — settle Suguru — before he does so. Staunching the flow with nonsense.
Finally, he rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. In the corner of his eye, he sees an orange blur. It's only right for Satoru to face Suguru in full — to take what Suguru is offering, after Suguru just took so much from him. He should roll over and touch those numbers — which must be higher than 421, given Suguru's question. He should press his fingers into them, and return the favor.
But Satoru thinks about their two hands, forced together. He finds his ring with his fingertips and gives it a twist.
He says:]
You don't have to show me.
[They're just numbers, currently meaningless. They have no bearing on their vow, nor do they affect their partnership. Suguru can keep this secret. Satoru can keep himself reined in. They can refrain from taking more, when they should be focused on taking less.
Satoru drapes his arm over his eyes, blocking out the glow of Suguru's numbers, shielding himself from the sight of his cursed energy.]
They probably stand for something stupid, like —
[Every conclusion that springs to mind would lead to Satoru having a higher number: how many people you annoyed, how many times you forgot to brush your teeth, how many times you died playing video games —
How many people you killed, Satoru thinks. How many lives you ruined. How many bad things you've done throughout your life.]
— how many times you've said please or thank you.
[He finishes the statement lamely, losing steam by the end, weighed down by new considerations.]
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and yet.
one problem, so far as suguru can tell, is that distractions are proving more difficult to find—and less effective as a whole. it's simply impossible to ignore just how connected they are; even watching satoru try (and fail) to brush the dust from his jacket—which should be funny, in a way—means spying the ring upon satoru's finger, the hair tie about satoru's wrist. and what else is there to focus on, in this tiny shack? shifting his attention down to the curse winding around his feet means thinking about the ridiculous name it now answers to; pretending to take inventory of the pillows means thinking about how close their pillows will be, once they claim them; absently brushing a lock of hair from his face means thinking about why his hair is loose in the first place. satoru is inescapable.
but as satoru pushes past the mess of emotions they seemingly share, suguru does the same, refusing to allow his vaguely amused smile to slip as satoru catches his eye. that is a mischievous look if suguru has ever seen one, and while that, too, pains him in some small way, he watches satoru tap something on his screen—
—and pop into a pair of pajamas he has no business wearing. furbies? more furbies? this would have sent a younger suguru into the mother of all laughing fits; he would have almost certainly needed to leave the room, but now, as both brows lift:]
Is it? [a dusty suit might have been better, considering the length of leg that is currently on display—but that aside:] ...Maybe it does suit you.
[a clown suit for a clown. very fitting. suguru feels genuine amusement welling within, something he should be grateful for—and yet it's what sends him turning away, a huff of a laugh escaping him as he perches on the edge of the bed. he wants to laugh, to really laugh; he can't allow himself to, so! time, then, to carefully pull his feet free from sprinkles' smothering affection, ostensibly so he can remove his sandals. lightly, easily:]
If you freeze, you only have yourself to blame.
[because wishing for so impractical an outfit is totally satoru's style! if suguru were to use the same app, surely he would, despite this train's meddling, receive something more sensible—which is why he plucks his own phone from his pocket? considers it for a moment before unlocking it simply to hit that one (1) button, following satoru's lead every bit as easily as he once did, and—poof! warm woodsman chic™, which is... a definite relief.
and while suguru had absolutely no control over this, he's absolutely casting a look back over his shoulder.]
See?
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Except, Suguru is kind of right. He did tap those fateful buttons on his phone in hopes of getting a pair of pajamas as jarring as his suit. In a way, he asked for this, and he is feeling a little bit smug as a result of being given yet another eyesore of an outfit. This train car is so dour and the situation with Suguru is so complicated — these pajamas are a much needed means of keeping their situation light, even if he'll suffer for them.
And he is suffering! He's cold! And he feels even colder once Suguru messes with his phone and is given a set of warm and comfortable pajamas. They even look like they fit him, whereas Satoru's are definitely a size too small and therefore not nearly as forgiving as they should be. He's paying the price for his antics yet again, even though this time was out of his hands.
But that isn't going to stop him from laughing out loud — unrestrained, compared to Suguru's attempt at keeping himself reeled in — when he sees that pattern because Suguru may be warm and cozy in that getup but:]
You look like...
[What's the name of that American...give him half a second to remember...]
Paul Bunyan.
[How does he know who this is? Does Satoru play gacha games in his spare time? Maybe...
Cultural knowledge aside, Satoru is only getting colder and he may very well freeze at this rate. So there's really no room for thinking deep thoughts about emotions or the fact that Suguru is going to climb in bed right after him. Satoru takes off his blindfold and sets it and his phone beside the bed. Then he lies down and immediately does what Suguru told him not to do.
He hogs the blankets, wrapping himself in all of them.
Only after he starts warming up a little does he allow himself to think on what — who — will inevitably follow.]
Sprinkles!
[Come get in this bed before Suguru does. Keep both their minds off of everything except a curse taking up too much space in bed, getting its dusty feet on everything...]
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but it makes satoru laugh, and maybe that's what matters, in this moment? even if it does bring about a pain in suguru's chest, something he ignores as he bends down to tuck his matching slippers (nice) out of sprinkles' line of sight. the last thing he needs is this curse eating what is currently his only pair of shoes...
...and the second-to-last thing suguru needs: satoru stealing all of the blankets before he can so much as sit upright. damn.
except that suguru knows this is a distraction tactic, of sorts. satoru buying himself some time, which is why suguru only sighs as he stands, deciding to address this issue after placing his phone on the table (and patting his pockets, feeling for the charm that is both there and, blessedly, muted by the thick fabric). he, at least, is not a heathen; his phone will not go on the floor.
but the price he pays for his kindness is satoru calling sprinkles onto the bed, which—well, of course the curse hops right up? and into suguru's spot, no less, sniffing under the pillow to see if, like, a tasty piece of human is hidden beneath it. hope is all it has these days... surely one day its tasty treat will come...
there is, however, only so much foolishness suguru can tolerate—and so, as he makes his way back to his side of the bed, he gives sprinkles a look.]
Off.
[which is not strictly necessary; a verbal command is not needed, given that suguru controls this curse's will, but it feels fitting? and sends sprinkles scurrying into satoru's space, stomping all over his legs. enjoy that, you cocoon of a man, but also:]
This isn't your bed, [suguru says, holding out a hand in an expectant manner,] and those aren't your blankets. Stop being selfish.
[this is (tired) dad mode.]
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And only so many blankets! But Suguru has the right of it; Satoru is employing a distraction tactic, and the time for such antics is swiftly running out, especially considering Suguru's tone and that hand hovering expectantly beside him.]
But I'm cold.
[A pathetic protest, coupled with an equally pathetic sniffle as Satoru grabs a handful of blanket and thrusts it behind him, blindly seeking Suguru's hand since his back is now to him.
He's cold, and he's not ready for this yet, and neither is Suguru, if that brief pang of pain that Satoru felt a few moments ago is anything to go by. But they've now reached the point where no amount of whining or curse involvement will delay what they need to do. So he gives in, handing over then blankets, then doing his best to shift to the edge of the bed, attempting to give Suguru distance.
And surely Satoru should just close his eyes as Suguru settles in bed. Surely, he knows better than to indulge his desire to chat before sleep, because figurative distance is as important as literal distance.
But he is, regrettably, still himself and thus:]
I was in the woods when you texted.
[Pillow talk...he can't help it.]
Took care of a few monsters.
[This car is dangerous, and maybe that's what he wants to talk about. Or maybe he's looking for some insight into what Suguru has been doing with his time.
Or it could be that Satoru is a glutton for punishment, and just doesn't know when to stop.
Or: all of the above.]
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that's how children are; that's how people are. suguru has always understood this, on some level, which is perhaps why he managed to befriend satoru all those years ago? others wrote satoru off as an annoyance, a lost cause; suguru saw the person beneath the act and realized: oh. so this is how satoru deals with it all.
and this is how satoru deals with—well, with this: by curling into a ball, silent and still. there are, suguru supposes, worse ways to handle this.
but that doesn't make crawling into bed, tugging the blankets over him as he does so, any easier. silence should be a blessing; it feels rather like a curse in this moment, something weighing down his limbs as he gingerly rolls onto his side, his back facing satoru. a necessity—as well as a small comfort, he hopes. a small comfort.
one that is matched, surprisingly enough, by satoru's voice? it shouldn't be a surprise; it very much is, hence the slight delay before suguru offers a quiet:]
Oh?
[which isn't enough; to leave satoru hanging like this would bring an end to this strange comfort, but suguru still takes a moment to shift, pulling the edge of the blanket that much higher. if he concentrates—if he's left alone in silence for too long—he can feel the warm of satoru's calf, so very close to his feet.]
The villagers will be grateful. They haven't had much luck taking care of them on their own. [hmm—] They say there are too many of them in the woods.
[or: suguru spent his day milling about, charming people, birds, and bears into offering him information about their home. he was personable and polite, once; he still can be, when the need arises.]
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He remembers a lot.
He does not remember the last time he and Suguru shared one of their beds, in their space, before Suguru left the school.
It should be a relief, to be spared the burden of a final memory as he lies in Suguru's bed once more. It should be nice, to be given this break, a pause in the endless considerations of how things once were. This is a reprieve: Satoru can shut his eyes and listen to Suguru intone that quiet Oh? without thinking of finalities.
Yet, as he counts the breaths between that single utterance and the statements that he nearly thinks won't follow, the knowledge that he can't remember something so trivial, yet so important, settles in his chest as an ache.
It must have been an inconsequential morning. They must have woken up together in a blur. Satoru was probably late, having snoozed too long, and he probably had to leave in a rush. Maybe Suguru was already long out of bed before Satoru decided to greet the day. Maybe that's why the memory failed to stick.
There are many moments that Satoru failed to understand were important while they were happening. He didn't realize the fleeting nature of significance — the way hindsight would color that which seemed trifling at the time. He didn't realize that Suguru himself was temporary, contingent, as fleeting as all the small details that Satoru would retrace in his mind long after he left — and then long after his death.
Satoru is spared the pain of a final moment that he didn't realize was part of their ending — and that in and of itself is painful. It feels like a loss. It has Satoru wondering: Does Suguru remember? He was always better at slowing down and recognizing moments for what they were, whereas Satoru shoved himself from moment to moment with forward momentum.
(Except for moments like these: when he slowed down to listen to Suguru breathe in and out, when he waited for Suguru's words, when he reached across the gap of mattress between them to clutch Suguru's shirt — to hold him close.)
Now Suguru lies beside him, facing the other way, an impossible distance stretched between them, and Satoru thinks that this too will lead to an end: of their discussion, of Satoru's attempt to converse, and of Suguru's unspoken reply.
But Suguru speaks. Satoru exhales. He closes his eyes and thinks about the slope of Suguru's shoulder, the loose strands of his hair settled across his pillow, the way that Suguru offers what Satoru is seeking. Satoru thinks about Suguru going from villager to villager, gathering information. It reminds him of a time long ago, when he and Suguru would travel to the countryside to exorcise curses, and Suguru would ward off villagers' concerns with a smile and a polite word. He was always better at that than Satoru.]
There're a lot.
[Punctuated by a yawn, Satoru marginally relaxes as he speaks. The conversation eases him in loosening his limbs — still curled, but less defensively, soothed by this talk into accepting the shared bed — and Suguru's proximity.
Satoru could take care of most, if not all of the monsters, if given endless time and cursed energy, but he has neither of those things at his disposal. He has other concerns on his mind, other threats to consider.]
But they've got bigger problems.
[And this is partially why Satoru spent the day in the woods, instead of lingering in town. There are very few things that Satoru can't fight. Give him curses, monsters, and creatures en masse, and he'll emerge victorious. But give him an illness, and Satoru is useless. He never could heal others, and now he can't even heal himself. A plague is an opponent that doesn't respond to power or strength.
He glances over his shoulder, just barely. The motion doesn't grant him sight of Suguru; it serves more as a gesture.]
What do you think we're supposed to be doing?
[What is the objective that seems not to exist? Satoru hasn't paid the objectives much mind up until now, focused as he's been on other matters, but this is one car that warrants a swift exit.]
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(which is why he should simply ask what satoru is thinking? offer satoru a chance to—well. it doesn't matter. once, perhaps, satoru may have provided a flippant answer, attempting to deflect before ultimately allowing suguru in; now, however, satoru will almost assuredly keep suguru out, and for good reason. it's safer this way.)
but satoru once again chooses to speak—and suguru thinks of nanako mumbling his name just before he closed the door, of mimiko sidling up to him to curl her fingers around a few of his. little gestures; little ways to ask for—to admit—what is needed.
what do you think we're supposed to be doing?
not this, suguru is sure. anything but this—and yet he hums all the same, replacing thoughts of satoru with thoughts of nervous villagers. of course he'd wandered by the clinic while exploring the village; he'd spoken, albeit briefly, with a bear reeking of alcohol, lending a sympathetic ear as the bear bemoaned the rising number of patients. monsters on one front, illness on the other—and somewhere in the middle, whispers of dead bodies disappearing in the dead of night. there's a puzzle here, which means the true question should be: is this their puzzle to piece together?
the answer, so far as suguru can tell, is obvious—which is one reason he should respond with a single word: sleeping. end this conversation here; ensure they're both in top form come the morning, when they head back into the world to deal with whatever is thrown their way—and yet.]
Solving them.
[the bed is spacious for one, somewhat cramped for two; suguru shifting over to lay flat on his back means that his shoulder just barely brushes satoru's back, but he does his best to ignore it, focusing instead on the darkness above them—and then, as he catches sight of it from the corner of his eye, the pale glow at the nape of satoru's neck. numbers, barely peeking over the collar of his ridiculous top and further obscured by his messy, messy hair, but—ah.
quietly, then, as suguru turns his head before he can think better of it:]
...So yours are blue.
[fitting! and also very eloquent, suguru.]
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It was a little easier for Satoru to speak candidly under the cover the darkness back then. He'd offer his flippant but lackluster attempts to change difficult subjects, and then whisper his admittances: I'm tired or I've got a headache or even Do your injuries still hurt? betraying a concern he once tried to hide from Suguru. Now, a similar confession rises to the surface: a statement about how there are already enough problems on his plate — a comment about how he hasn't been able to pick up on Sukuna's energy since they entered this car, a concern about the illness and the threats of future cars, and even more than all of those, a sense of displacement as he lies here and feels immersed in the risk that Suguru provides. Satoru takes everything in stride, but sometimes his good humor wavers — and Suguru is the only one who he allowed to truly see that.
Honesty means confessing that he's worried about what they're doing right this moment. Suguru is so close, Satoru feels the heat of his shoulder along his back. It means showing Suguru the pieces of himself he's kept locked away.
It means reaching out, when he feels he should.
Satoru nearly turns over. He nearly opens his mouth. But then Suguru speaks, and the moment is interrupted. Satoru has to think for a moment to realize what the comment references; he hasn't seen his own number, nor has he paid it much mind, considering it yet another gift from a higher-up for whom he holds no respect.
When it dawns on him, he considers the number in a new light. Lying together like this, Suguru's words feel strangely intimate, as though they're speaking about something deeply personal — something that Satoru should have kept hidden. He thinks about Sylvain's reluctance to show his number, and wonders if he might have been on to something.
Instead of attempting to cross the distance, Satoru raises his hand and frees it of the covers to run his fingers along the nape of his neck. Then he brushes his hair up, attempting to hold it out of the way, though the number remains hidden by his collar.]
Someone told me it was 404.
[When he first arrived, but that was weeks ago, and Satoru had no reason to trust him and no way of confirming. Now, the number reads 413 and while they have this conversation, it ticks upward, to 421.]
Is it?
[For the first time, he truly considers the significance of the numbers, and wonders about Suguru's — where it might be and what it might mean for him. And for them both.]
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...he has a guess. a few of them, actually, but he keeps them to himself, watching satoru slip a hand to the back of his neck. long, thin fingers, skimming the very top of his brand before sweeping his hair up as best he can. there's nothing special about it, really; it's a purely practical gesture, and yet suguru feels an echo of an emotion he doesn't wish to acknowledge? the sudden urge to follow along in the wake of satoru's fingers; to touch the sensitive stretch of skin he'd so often kissed.
but that's—it's a fleeting fancy, something suguru does his best to dismiss as he squints at the very tops of the numbers. a four to start with, but as for the rest—
—the smart thing, perhaps, would be to say that he isn't sure, that he can't see. simple and sensible. it would be recoverable—but suguru is lifting a hand before satoru asks that which should remain unspoken, telling himself that it's the number drawing his attention. only the number.]
Hold still.
[little more than a murmur, really, as he hooks his pointer finger into satoru's collar, drawing it far enough down to expose the number in full—and there's no helping the slight contact. the light brush of skin against skin is as inevitable the the odd thrill it provides, but it's mitigated, somewhat, by the sight of satoru's number ticking a tad higher. was it satoru's mess of emotions, was it suguru's touch—
one thing at a time.]
421, [he says at last, still quiet as he watches for further changes—and then, because he can't quite help himself:] How many people have you shown this to?
[it's the thought of someone touching satoru like this, albeit briefly; it shouldn't matter, but it somehow does.]
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Satoru exhales slowly, as if sighing too hard might disrupt this moment that they shouldn't have allowed to pass. A prickling sensation travels up his spine, though whether it's a direct response to that unnamed emotion or an anticipation of what could follow such a light, unobtrusive touch, Satoru isn't sure. It prompts him toward some kind of action — a warning that incites him to drop his hair and his hand, say something stupid to deflect Suguru's attention, or turn over and demand to see Suguru's, a number for a number.
The desire to seek more. The desire to pull away. Two simultaneous compulsions that end up feeling the same — both impulses that Satoru ignores in favor of lying exactly as he is, listening to Suguru's voice.
421, and Satoru keeps holding still.
And then Suguru's question, which should be trivial. Which is trivial, because what does it matter? They don't know what the numbers represent, and even if they did, they're hardly meant to be secret. Most people have them in conspicuous places, and have no say in showing them off.
And yet his is hidden. Suguru's is hidden. It occurs to Satoru that they should stay that way — not from the train at large, but maybe from each other. Because regardless of the meaning, isn't this another piece of himself that he has essentially handed over? Another piece of insight, however vague, however minimal, to be twisted into a weapon at the end of this path they walk together?
Satoru chuckles. The sound is breathy, as quiet as Suguru's words.]
Too many.
[Now, he means. As of this very moment.
But he has sworn to be honest, and even as he speaks flippantly, he feels the way his cursed energy mingles with Suguru's. Their proximity makes the bond seem that much stronger, looming over him, a promise and a threat in one.
So he elaborates.]
Two, and now you.
[No one touched him, though, a thought he keeps to himself. Satoru doesn't let anyone in.
Except — this. Except Suguru, with his soft touches that should, but fail to, feel like warnings.]
Why? Were you keeping yours secret?
[In retrospect, that is the smarter choice; and now, Satoru wonders if he will receive nothing in exchange for giving Suguru something that suddenly feels deeply personal — a touch, a number, and confession, all in one.]
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but the undeniable truth is that touching satoru is a privilege, of sorts. one that suguru does not necessarily deserve; one that suguru has been granted frequently, as of late. he wonders if he's growing accustomed to it.
(he isn't. each touch is a shock; even now, this brief point of contact—warm skin pressed against the back of a single finger—is something suguru is both wary and absurdly appreciative of.)
satoru's number, however, remains stable as he speaks; there isn't so much as a single flicker—and suguru knows this to be his sign to pull away. his own curiosity is (somewhat) sated, and satoru's question is answered; to linger is to take advantage, to take this a step too far, because he wasn't invited in to make himself at home.
but it's—what? the novelty of being the third as opposed to the first? which is as stupid as it is unfair, suguru knows, and yet, as he releases his hold on satoru's collar, he can't quite help himself; he feels the need to bring his fingers to satoru's number, simply to press them, lightly, against the digits that could mean anything at all. maybe he's the first to do this.
well, again: which is as stupid as it is unfair, hence his barely audible, barely amused puff of breath as he finally pulls away. pfh. now who's the rude one? now who's the problem-causer.]
From you?
[is that the real question? his tone implies, but as that is a fair thing to ask of him:]
It hasn't come up. No one has asked, and I haven't offered. [because no one needs to know more about him than is absolutely necessary, but before satoru can say so much as a single word:] Do you remember the largest number you've seen?
[there's clear rustling behind satoru? the sound, perhaps, of someone pulling their arms free from the covers and maybe, just maybe, pushing up a sleeve—if satoru decides it's worth rolling over for.
(and if he does, in large, orange numbers trailing down suguru's forearm: 60138.]
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Suguru's fingers are fleeting. They apply light pressure. And yet they sear into his skin. They have the distinct effect of making him feel cut open, exposed — everything he's attempted to bury drawn forth into the open.
(If Satoru expected the press of Suguru's fingers — if he knew that Suguru would reach out on his own, seizing more than he was offered, not unlike when Satoru intertwined their fingers and took what Suguru did not want to give — what would he have done? Activated his Infinity, to shut Suguru out? Jerked away? Pressed back, the equivalent of Suguru clutching his hand, and asked: Do you think this is long enough?
No. Of course not. Satoru has never sought to hurt Suguru. For all his picking at their wounds, he never intended to reopen them. Suguru is bleeding out an emotion that is dangerous, foolish to indulge, clouding his judgement — but Satoru will not make him stare at the damage. He will not double down and force Suguru to feel as he felt when Suguru clenched his hand.
He'll try to staunch the flow.)
When Suguru pulls back his hand, Satoru releases his hair. He wants to rub his numbers, to ease the impact, to mimic Suguru's touch. He holds back, even as Suguru asks his pointed For you? — even as his numbers burn.]
Yeah. 846. On a robot with no arms or legs.
[The only reason he remembers is because he carried the robot around for a little while, staring at it. He hadn't realized the number was high at the time — nor was he aware of his own number at that point — but it still made an impression.]
It had a big mouth though.
[Or whatever the robot equivalent of a voice box is. It babbled a lot.
Satoru says all of this without turning around. He is attempting to settle himself — settle Suguru — before he does so. Staunching the flow with nonsense.
Finally, he rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. In the corner of his eye, he sees an orange blur. It's only right for Satoru to face Suguru in full — to take what Suguru is offering, after Suguru just took so much from him. He should roll over and touch those numbers — which must be higher than 421, given Suguru's question. He should press his fingers into them, and return the favor.
But Satoru thinks about their two hands, forced together. He finds his ring with his fingertips and gives it a twist.
He says:]
You don't have to show me.
[They're just numbers, currently meaningless. They have no bearing on their vow, nor do they affect their partnership. Suguru can keep this secret. Satoru can keep himself reined in. They can refrain from taking more, when they should be focused on taking less.
Satoru drapes his arm over his eyes, blocking out the glow of Suguru's numbers, shielding himself from the sight of his cursed energy.]
They probably stand for something stupid, like —
[Every conclusion that springs to mind would lead to Satoru having a higher number: how many people you annoyed, how many times you forgot to brush your teeth, how many times you died playing video games —
How many people you killed, Satoru thinks. How many lives you ruined. How many bad things you've done throughout your life.]
— how many times you've said please or thank you.
[He finishes the statement lamely, losing steam by the end, weighed down by new considerations.]