[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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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.]