[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.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
(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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
...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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]