#>> BOND ( satoru tbt. )

[huntershowl-moving]

some threads ive been enjoying pt. 1 — chats w/ @chaoslulled gojo under a cherry tree

yes infinity is keeping the petals from falling on him lmfao

[huntershowl-moving]

PLOTTING SILLIES AND SHENANIGANS…. featuring @chaoslulled sato who is, apparently, the fucking Antidote to seph’s interpersonal trauma

[huntershowl-moving]

[CHECK]: after an unexpectedly violent situation, sender frantically rushes to check if the receiver is okay, cupping their face to look closer. // satoruuuuu

@hinodae —

❝ WOAH — HEY, IT'S OKAY. ❞ A SOFT laugh under her voice at the sudden, frantic tenderness. persephone's vision fills with satoru: ozone eyes peer down at her like she's dying, long hands turning her face this way and that to make sure being thrown so hard against the wall didn't do too much damage.

sure, the back of her head is bleeding. sure, the room is spinning, just a little. but who gives a fuck. ❝ sato. ❞ seph leans her face into the touch absentmindedly, as if her body knows what to do when her mind is still catching up. ❝ it's fine. i'm good. we're alive, yeah? 'm not made of glass. ❞

[gravesung-moving]

WE WOULDN'T HAVE FOUND THE RIGHT MEANING IN IT. satoru's words... stick to him, somehow. what does that mean, the right meaning? how far throughout this world does the wickedness they saw extend? toji zen'in, the star religious group, the juutsu society higher-ups — what if it's rotten to the core? what if the meaning in it is to harm the harmers?

the thought creeps with long, ichorous fingers through the back of his mind, but he doesn't shove it down this time. he lets it travel through him, listens to what it has to say. perhaps satoru can help him make sense of it all.

lanky arms pull him close and infinity closes around them both, and suguru presses his forehead a little harder into satoru's shoulder as he feels the caress of his fingers through slightly-knotted hair, feels the press of lips atop his head. like coming home after something harrowing and no longer being alone. he... should have reached out before. it was stupid to believe satoru stopped caring. their bond was never about them being the strongest — it was about them, the people who wielded the weapons, and what they loved about each other. arrogant and power-drunk, maybe. naïve, maybe. but genuine and soul-deep. even up to his neck, treading water in this yawning darkness, that love has not faded. cannot fade.

travel is always a bit of a haze these days — he finds himself drifting from one place to another, never really aware of how he gets from point A to point B. they ghost to his dorm together, and suguru does not turn the lights on. it's uncharacteristically messy for his normally tidy space: clutter more like satoru's, like a stranger has rifled through it and left nothing in the right place.

he doesn't want satoru's arm to leave him, doesn't want to give up that closeness, but he allows it while they settle on the bed with their backs against the wall like they used to. and for a moment, he simply... looks. looks at the way satoru's angular face is haloed by the wan moonlight streaming in through the window, looks at how his eyes glow in the darkness of the room. he has always been indisputably beautiful. suguru can't imagine ever growing tired of looking at him — if ever he does, someone smite him on the spot, because he is no longer himself.

the reverie is broken by the feeling of breadcrumbs on his lips, the sound of satoru's teasing quip. some of the knots in his stomach have loosened since they were brought back together; the thought of eating no longer makes him nauseous, at the very least, so he allows satoru to feed him a piece of the cheese stick. chews, swallows.

❝ you wouldn't dare. i have too much leverage. ❞

their secrets are written all over each other's souls by now; suguru has always been reserved with his worries, his insecurities, because he was never sure how satoru would respond. but everything else? all of his firsts, his mistakes and failures, every guilty pleasure and the reason for every scar? it all belongs to satoru. perhaps now is the time for him to allow that final barrier to break. untie that thread, let it fall to the floor and lay bare all of his ugly for the other to see. finally, as if on cue, an audible growl rises from his stomach — a welcome sound, and a welcome ache after so long being out of touch with his body. ❝ give me that. ❞

THE WAY THAT THEY OPERATE has always been through shades of black and white; for so long suguru had played the angel on the shoulder and satoru had played the devil. suguru had believed in helping the weak and that there was no killing non-sorcerers, that there was something in protecting them and meaning in the fact that they were born with cursed techniques. satoru had been raised to be arrogant, to turn his nose up at the weak, to boast about his cursed technique and how strong he was. that had changed though with amanai  ––  they had been forced to confront the fact that they had to operate in shades of gray instead; that not everything was so simple, that they had to learn to think for themselves instead of the morals that they had been taught for so long now.

sometimes he wonders if it had been a test  ––  if tengen had chosen them because they were the strongest, but also because he somehow knew what would happen. if he knew that it would either make or break them as sorcerers, even if they had been so sure of themselves before they had begun the mission. before they had met amanai and seen the life in her eyes, the fact that she was a living breathing person, that she was more than just some star plasma vessel. assimilating wasn't some grand honor  ––  it was death, and somewhere along the line they had begun to learn what that actual fate would mean to both the girl and her caretaker. 

❝ it would've been the better decision, but i don't think either of us would've felt good about it afterward. we wouldn't have found the right meaning in it. we would've just blamed ourselves and gotten expelled from jujutsu tech for doing so. ❞   though satoru still thinks that he should have done it; he hates them, those fuckers that had clapped like amanai's life had meant nothing so long as their precious tengen had stayed pure. he doesn't understand them, worshipping him like he is some god. he hides away in the bowels of jujutsu tech and never shows his face  ––  barriers or not, he sees him as a coward. he doesn't speak it out loud because suguru is digesting enough right now, but he feels it curling in his chest like smoke. he wouldn't have felt bad for killing tengen if that was what had to happen. he thinks maybe they all would have been better off.   ❝ you had morals. there is nothing wrong with that. there's nothing wrong with them changing, either. ❞

palms press together and he watches the motion; is reminded of a damn shakespeare quote about palms kissing, and the slightest smirk quirks at the corner of his lips. he remains quiet though, lets his fingers tangle with suguru's and squeezes tight  ––  throws him that life jacket that he's been looking for for so long now. how had he been so foolish? how had he missed every single sign that had thrown itself at him like a neon light? he feels foolish, horrendous  ––  he should've never looked away. he should've checked in more, told the higher ups to fuck off more. that suguru is hurting, that he is not okay, and they aren't willing to actually see the damage that they've caused.

his body goes willingly when it's pulled closed, their bodies melding and the hot tears hitting his skin. something ugly flares in him  ––  suguru should never have to cry. he gently untangles their hands so that he can wrap his arm around him instead, fingers stroking through brunette hair as he presses a kiss against his hair; the fierce protectiveness flares around them for a moment and satoru brings infinity back up, wraps it around suguru too  ––  keeps him close, keeps him secure, i promise you'll never be alone again. 

a weak laugh leaves his lips and he settles his cheek against the top of his head.   ❝ probably. but they'll be just as good. come on. ❞   gently, he prods him until they both stand, then he ducks down to snatch up the container once more. it still holds some of its heat, so it's not completely a lost cause. if anything, he'll heat them in a microwave. anything to get suguru to eat a little bit. he wraps his arm around his waist and heads back into his dorm with him, never even casting a glance back at his own. 

once they're tucked away inside, he pulls off a small piece and holds it out, pressing it against his lips.  ❝ eat or i'm telling everyone you cried like a big baby. ❞   it's soft, teasing; he would never. he will hold suguru's secrets, pinky tangled around his own. 

[huntershowl-moving]

PERSEPHONE NEVER IMAGINED HERSELF in this kind of ... arrangement.

the crush is — fine. she can swallow it, ignore it, because it seems like satoru would rather eat glass than be truly vulnerable and, you know what? it's probably better that she isn't, either. so they have this. whatever this is. physical, unspoken, something to curb the hunger of loneliness for just a little while.

and the trust is certainly there. satoru's presence has a way of relaxing the constant security-breach alarms in her brain — partly because she knows him so well, partly because simply being near him means safety. perhaps that's why she let him challenge her pre-existing belief that sex is bad and boring.

it's different with him. he's so, so different from —

❝ you sure you can handle it, pretty boy? ❞ they tease back between panting breaths, face flushed and eyes absolutely wolfish. the wall is cold against their back; satoru's skin is warm, warm, thrumming with life, the combined cursed energy pulsing through them a frenzied and torrential storm. their teeth are sinking hard into his shoulder before he can answer, a desperate attempt to stifle a moan — skin and blood, salt and iron on her tongue as she trails it up his jugular, sucks a hickey into his throat, watches red and purple bloom across his lovely throat. fingers tangle in his hair and tug hard enough to sting. ❝ ah — how's that? you want it harder? ❞

@huntershowl let's get spicy + satoru & seph !

it's a lazy kind of day with almost nothing to do. everyone else has made plans, leaving satoru and persephone behind. he had entertained the idea of going shopping, but his attention span had been so low, he would have gotten bored before he'd even stepped foot inside of the shopping center. he had wanted something physical to do.

so he found persephone and did her.

or was in the process of it.

"you can bite harder than that," he teases breathlessly, grinding his hips into hers. he smirks up at her, hands gripping her thighs to keep her in place. he was going to set the pace, for now at least. if she managed to win control for a bit, he'd allow it.

[huntershowl-moving]

THERE IS ONE THING persephone and her coworkers have in common with satoru. with geto, itadori, fushiguro, nobara. they were all too young. they were just kids. the sorcerers are nothing more than curse fodder for a war they didn't start; they are expendable toy soldiers being told they're heroes. the unseen's killers were turned into human weapons before they hit puberty. each world is fucked up in its own right, and persephone was yanked from both sides like a rubber band. somehow, they never expected she'd snap.

granted, it took a lot more than being pulled between two worlds to finally break her. it took being torn apart. it took being put back together a lot less human and a lot more weapon — a devoted hunting dog that rests her cheek in the palm that harmed her. it took being trapped in hell for two years with no end in sight, every day and night a new war. it took dying. burning. bleeding out. clawing her way from the grave with a black hole in her chest.

the last straw was pushing orion away. after that, she was alone. no one could be trusted. what were they supposed to do — what could they do?

as if he knows what they were thinking, satoru speaks again, his voice soft and edged with hurt. the sound of it nearly breaks their heart. he avoids her gaze; despite it all, persephone finds themself missing that strange feeling that comes with eye contact from him. that heady, exhilarating thing. but seeing them in this state has done something to satoru that persephone doesn't quite understand.

❝ because i care about you, asshole. ❞ their eyes bore into him, all black fire. they yank aside the collar of the shirt to expose the part of their collarbone where smooth skin becomes scar tissue, torn edges gnarled over like tree roots. ❝ you need a reminder about what happens when you try to escape? they ripped my fucking arms off. in case i wasn't clear before. they took orion's eye. and they don't need to touch you to fuck your life up, satoru — they've already accounted for you as a threat. they could kill off your students one by one when you're away. they're already in contact with geto and those fucking special-grades he lugs around. you can only be in so many places at once, do you really want to add another enemy to the list? ❞

only when seph falls silent do they realize they're standing over satoru with wild, desperate eyes. shit. when did she stand up? sometime between starting and stopping? was their body going to attack him on autopilot? fuck. if there's one thing persephone excels at, it's pushing away the people who open their hearts to her.

the fire dims as quickly as it flared; there's not enough fuel left to keep it going. she sinks back down onto the couch, beside him this time, and rests their elbows on their knees.

❝ it ... ❞ she grits her teeth against the strain of talking about this; every atom in her body screams stop talking, stop showing your hand. but satoru gojo just spared her life. against all logic, he took them in and stuck his neck out for them. he deserves to know. ❝ ... wasn't even the unseen that fucked me up this bad, satoru. there are worse people out there than the tower, and worse things can happen to you than injury. ❞ a sharp inhale, exhale; she pushes back the burn in her eyes. ❝ but i'm going to get revenge for it, even if it's the last thing i do. every drop of blood i spill as hellhound is for that mission. the people need to be afraid — takes a monster to kill a monster, right? ❞

the scratchiness in her throat is only made worse by all the talking. seph lifts a hand to their neck, rubs at the long scar that ropes across one side. she wants to cry. she wants to wrap her arms around satoru and bury her face in the crook of his neck, and let go of the constant paranoia dogging her steps. let his infinity wrap around them and stop worrying about being ambushed, just for one stolen moment. the touch-starved body they inhabit yearns horribly for the feeling of his arm around them when he teleported them here — the grin, the 'hold on tight.' it's been so long since persephone has been held kindly that they'd forgotten what it felt like.

she settles for the closeness of sitting beside him. they bump their knee up against the edge of infinity that separates it from his own. it's a small gesture, a sign of the care she doesn't have the words to communicate. and despite it all, they look up and give him a tired smile. ❝ sorry to dump all this on you. you didn't know — it's not your fault. but you have to understand that coming to you would only have put both of us in danger. orion, too. these kinds of people go after your attachments before they go after you. ❞

HIS MOVEMENTS ARE PRACTICED, secure in the way that he reaches for more to fill his plate with.   he has the grace of someone that is used to interrogations, that has to meet with the higher ups at least twice a week because they can't seem to get the hint that he will not indulge in their practices and go quietly.   chopsticks snag a few of the zuke sake, kanikama, and california roll.   there's nothing hurried in the way he moves  ––  it's as if he just asked how the weather was, doesn't even stop to look at the reaction that persephone is giving him.   spending so much time doing the things he has has tamed down his expressions when he's in moments like this  ––  the younger version of himself would've given him away by now. 

a small hum in his throat does acknowledge her words though;  there's a slight comfort in know that this legacy, this monster, is persephone's doing and no one else's.   there is destruction in their veins and it screams to be let out, but it is persephone who holds the control over it.  in that same breath though, it's not comforting to know that someone else isn't pulling the strings  ––  that means that she has made this choice all on their own.   it's not a warming thought; at least if it had been the tower and the unseen doing all of this, then it would've meant that this isn't just her doing.   the blood on her hands, the horrid crime scenes  ––  they would've at least been told to happen.  instead, this is all her.

he wonders how she's drifted so far away from it all.  if this is the monster that she was always meant to become.   there's a quiet guilt that glooms him  ––  is this his doing?  should he have tried harder to stay in contact with them when they had left the school?   this would be the second person who has gone rogue and turned to murder in his presence  ––  he's starting to think that maybe he brings something out in people.

but no, there's at least something driving persephone.   he may not like it, may not like what's coming, but he at least knows that there is a purpose.

❝ i know enough, ❞   he comments back, popping another piece of tempura into his mouth.  he takes his time chewing it; it saves him from having to actively speak about any of this  ––  and he does have some manners when it comes down to it.   but more than anything he churns the information that he does know around in his head.   it's not much  ––  even though he's been looking into it for a while, his mind has been distracted by other things, honed in through the fact that he had had to kill suguru, had to begin training itadori and stave off the execution that was begging to happen.  there's too much at any given time to focus on it for too long.   what he does know though is that they're bad news and that they're everywhere.  there's not one inch of them that hasn't infiltrated something.

and he knows that they are horrid people, that they will do anything to keep their little pets around them so that they can control them further, faster, harder.   it makes something in him tense up, makes him want to lash out with hollow purple and destroy everyone around him.  it would've been easy to do that  ––  it would've ended all of persephone's trouble if he had.   why hadn't they just asked for help?   why couldn't they have just stopped being stubborn as hell and actually asked?

eyes refuse to meet hers;  they tell too much, ask too much.   so he lets out a careful breath instead and sets his chopsticks down; it's times like these when he wishes he drank more, when he would actively enjoy it and not have to worry about the effects on the infinity and six eyes that rule him.   but all he has is a bottle of water and he sips it for lack of anything better to do.   he can feel the headache beginning in his temples.

❝ why didn't you ask for help?   we could've gotten orion out before there would have been repercussions.  instead you just…what?  turn yourself into a monster that still accepts help from him while toeing the line?   what happens when he turns on you, huh?   what happens if he turns orion on you? ❞    he hates to admit it  ––  the way that he is scared for their wellbeing.   the way that he desperately wants to pull in close and shield them from everything that is going to eventually and inevitably come their way.

❝ persephone  –– ❞    voice cuts itself off for a moment, clips it so that he can pull in a careful breath and steel his emotions.    ❝ you could have come to me.  i thought we were over this sense of mistrust? ❞     he does his best to keep his hurt out of his voice.

[gravesung-moving]

❝ OHHHH, JEALOUSY! ❞ SOMEHOW her eyes go even wider — a feat once thought impossible by most of those around her. where he's gone strawberry, she's gone with a virgin lychee mojito ( and promptly eaten the lychees before getting into the drink. )

❝ yeah, but what if he wants to go home because the girl he was looking at is here. and their marriage — see, they have the rings look! — was already on the rocks, so a confrontation with both of them is the last thing he needs right now. at least at home they can argue about it in peace. ❞

he's noisly slurping on his non-alcoholic strawberry daiquiri, following her eyeline to whoever she's looking at.

"oooh, good question. i bet she caught him looking at some other girl. or maybe he wants to go home and she's calling him boring?"

[gravesung-moving]

AT LEAST HIT ME WITH A FEW CURSES AT MY END.

THE WORDS ON A tongue that is his and is not his. satoru's face raw with grief. the smell of blood and asphalt and him. suguru holds the elegant angles of satoru's face in his hands and feels the softness beneath. he isn't listening to the gibberish story but he is listening to his voice, melodic and joyful.

( say my name again. say it until it doesn't sound real anymore. )

satoru puffs out his cheeks and leans into his hand in a way that makes suguru's heart ache in his chest. and he wonders at the forces that spin the wheel of reincarnation, awestruck, always, that it was him who got the memories of their past lives. satoru deserves none of that pain. none of the weight of suguru's mistakes will ever fall on his shoulders again.

❝ sorry for leaving you before, satoru. ❞ double, triple meaning to the words, a key in a box tucked within the carved-out pages of a book. ❝ my uncle surprised me with a company tour. if i'd known, you would have been along whether you wanted to or not. ❞ if there's one thing suguru can count on, it's that though his parents couldn't give less of a damn what he does, his uncle's attraction to status would bend any rule for someone like satoru — someone whose family name is plastered on practically every bench and hall entrance in their school. ❝ no, i'm not going away. i'm just looking at your pretty face. and thinking about how incredibly lucky i am that you're mine. ❞

lucky to be alive, with you.

suguru pulls his boyfriend's face down just enough to kiss him, a slow sigh in his lungs and a smile on his lips. and it's gentle, and it's hungry, and it's words-without-words: hello, i love you. hello, i love you.

@gravesung asked: [WONDER]: unable to comprehend how incredible the receiver is, the sender decides to simply cup their face in their hands and marvel at them instead. ( suguru for satoru. reincarnated college au!! )

"suguru? are you even listening?" satoru pouts, brows rising as he inclines his head. his sunglasses slide down his nose and bright blue eyes peer at his boyfriend who is supposed to be listening to him so they can make plans for the weekend. "so i ran into a giant slug this morning and it asked me for a hat but i—" he's talking nonsense now, but it doesn't matter.

suguru's taking his face in his hands and he freezes, caught off guard. it isn't that suguru isn't affectionate ( quite the opposite ), but he hadn't moved for a few minutes. satoru even feels a little bit like an ass for getting annoyed ; how could he be annoyed when suguru was looking at him like that? he's not sure what he did to earn such a soft, loving gaze, but he'll take it. he loved getting his attention. he puffs out his cheeks for a brief moment before he leans into his touch, gaze searching his face.

"are you alright? did you not have your tea this morning?" he asks, raising a hand to touch the back of it to suguru's forehead. he felt fine. brows furrow, concerned. "don't tell me you're going out of town again." he wrinkles his nose, hands moving to circle around suguru's wrists. "you're taking me this time. no way are you leaving me alone again. god, that was awful."

[huntershowl-moving]

IT ISN'T LONG AFTER PERSEPHONE LEAVES the bath and settles in that the doorbell rings. they nearly jump out of their skin at the sound, how sudden and loud it is. she's half-off the couch and ready to dive for cover when gojo gets up. he is calm, not a hint of caution on his face — though that isn't unusual for him. even if there were danger, persephone suspects he'd smile in its face.

her muscles unwind one at a time as he approaches the door and hefts a large plastic bag into his hand from the person on the other side. seph settles back into their seat with a low huff of a breath. it was more of a physical reaction than a conscious one, and her body fights still, a tight anxiety coiling up in her chest in the wake of being startled by another presence. but it's fine. they're safe. it's satoru's voice in her head that repeats it now: you're safe.

they're silent — and judging by their expression, a little shocked — as he lays out a metric fuckton of sushi options onto the coffee table in front of them. even the most mundane actions are taken cautiously: she waits for satoru to eat before picking up a pair of chopsticks and hunting down an assortment of tuna, yellowtail and tamago pieces to claim for her plate. some nigiri and sashimi, too.

they didn't realize how hungry they were. it's the first proper meal she's had in weeks, maybe months — and their silence as they savor each piece is a testament to that. wild how it feels good to experience food you like instead of scarfing down military rations whenever you get a moment to breathe. and she eyes him, too, the things he chooses from such a large array. tempura somehow makes sense for him; she wouldn't be able to explain it if asked, but it sparks a warm feeling.

they're about to refill their plate when satoru speaks. the chopsticks pause midair. almost robotic, a perfect stillness only achievable by the arms she possesses, the same thing that gives her an edge with a sniper rifle over other prodigies. there are so many things wrong with what he said that she doesn't even know where to start, information falling over itself to be thought about first —

— and they breathe in, because their lungs are burning from the lack of air. how much does he know? part of them suspected he would have investigated over the years, but that part was always an idyllic little remnant of a girl long dead. the rest of her, the logical part, knew it was unlikely he gave them another thought in the wake of everything else that he deals with on a daily basis. curses. cursed spirits. the fucking society.

the tower sounds strange on satoru's tongue. sometimes they forget that that's how the world knows amari fletch: a faceless tarot card left behind at the scene of the unseen's highest-profile crimes, the ones that make an example of someone for the whole underworld to see. it isn't exactly difficult to find out their alias, so long as you know the unseen exists, so it's not farfetched to believe that he did a bit of digging. it's impressive that he made the connection, though.

❝ i — ❞ she exhales again, sharp. it's better if he doesn't know. just lie and say yes. if it's a crime by orders, he won't look deeper. but persephone has never been a good liar, and satoru gojo sees too much, and his shirt feels nice on their skin and they're so fucking tired.

she owes him one hell of a debt for all of this. the least they can provide is an answer. finally, quiet and bitter: ❝ no. hellhound has nothing to do with them. it's — personal. ❞ the random victims, the panic of a new serial killer, the slow-built myth of a cursed spirit who transforms into a wolf with too many eyes or teeth or heads or whatever the fuck each region has come up with for their version. she doesn't care; it all serves her well.

fletch — the tower — covers for her with the police, but otherwise they stay their hand. she never figured out how to thank them for that.

seph's movements are slower now as she acquiesces to the demand for more from her body, picking up a similar collection of rolls and nigiri to sit back and enjoy. before she does, her dark eyes cut over to satoru. ❝ how much do you know? ❞

it may have been years, but persephone hasn't changed, not really.  they still have that same haunted look in their eye, the look that makes them look as if they are consistently backed into a corner, ready for the next attack to come their way.  he can't say he blames them, not with the background that they have.  his mind constantly goes to the arms that were attached to her  ––  the way that scar tissue pokes out every so often, how they make a joke of them, play with the middle finger lighter like it's a joke.  there's a sad way that they carry themselves;  he wants to settle in, keep them safe  ––  even if it's never been asked of him.  even if they have never once asked him anything.

the unseen.  he hasn't found much out about them  ––  he keeps his inquiries small, not enough to actively draw attention to himself.  while he can handle himself, he knows that the organization is enough to scare persephone, and he doesn't see them scare easily at any given moment.  all he knows is that they do some very fucked up things, things that should never be able to see the light of day.   satoru has been biding his time over the past ten years  ––  gathering quiet information, mentally keeping his rage hidden.  he keeps thinking of their brother.  he keeps thinking of the things that have happened to them.  the way that there is compression on their souls. 

heavenly pacts.   he absolutely hates them.  they seem to bring nothing more than trouble with them.  but he doesn't say anything about it to persephone, not yet:  she had already been hard to even reach, ready to bolt.  it hadn't been until he had used a nickname that he had brought her in  ––  and he wasn't keen to shatter their fragile sort of alliance just yet.

thumb swipes a few times on his phone, finding the familiar site that he orders from constantly.  eyes flick to the clock  ––  they close in five, and he's pretty sure the guy is going to be mad at him for this.   however, he makes sure he leaves a good tip when placing the order and hopes that it'll be enough to inspire.  

an hour ticks down.  the doorbell goes off and he buzzes the delivery guy in and makes sure to slip him an extra fifty yen on top of the hundreds that he had already tipped.  when he shuts and locks the door, he tripe checks it, then sets out the buffet of sushi just as the door to the bathroom opens up.  the steam that settles into the room makes him glance up, eyes softening slightly at the way that his clothes hang off of their body.  her hair is already drying in the way that makes him question it, makes him want to tug and see what makes it work.  he refrains  ––  he has some self control.

❝  you know, that's the thing about having money.  all you gotta do is flash a really good tip and they're willing to bend over backward. ❞   slight smile and born arrogance.   really, satoru had tipped well over the limit because it was appropriate.   he wouldn't have imagined even attempting it if he didn't have a steady flow of business there already  ––  the extra edamame that was included speaks to just how much he's actually valued there.

once they're seated, he puts a few pieces of tempura shrimp onto his plate, dipping them into soy sauce before popping them into his mouth.   he lets them sit in silence for a few moments, simply enjoying the food.  he's hungry after everything, and personally, he has learned that sometimes it's the perfect way to break the tension.

❝  so, did the tower put you up to whatever it was you were doing out there? ❞    it's said with absolute casualty, his chopsticks reaching forth to snag a vegetable roll out of one of the containers.

[huntershowl-moving]

IT'S NOW, IN THE MIDST OF THIS QUIET pondering, that persephone feels the threatening creep of fingertips up the back of her spine. it's now, when their body hangs on by a thread — their control over their body hangs on by a thread.

nausea spears up the back of her throat at the feeling. this raw state always brings the worst memories to the surface, chaos in a contained space. if gojo had tried to touch her right now, she may take a knife to him. the old persephone, the dead one he allowed to sit beside him and took out to sushi and shared cigarettes with when they both easily could have had one of their own, might have sought out that embrace in a moment like this. physical closeness, connection, the safety and familiarity of satoru's infinity wrapping around them. now the edges are all too sharp. persephone isn't persephone anymore, and anyone's arms around them feel like a vice, and in the back of their head all they can hear is the snip-snip-snip of scissors in their hair.

it's hundred-dollar cologne, but it's the wrong one. it's all ozone and petrichor.

for a moment she sees the wrong face in front of her. two faces. one still alabaster and otherworldly, and one rooted in the earth, haloed by dark curls. for a moment it feels like their last chance. they nearly lunge toward the darker. but before the spiral can properly start, satoru's even voice breaks through the fog; her eyes slip away from the spot next to him and focus, focus, on that aegean blue in front of her.

( we're friends. ) ( this place is safe, little chaos bringer. )

a long, controlled inhale. pink peppercorn, lemon, patchouli. a four-second hold. an exhale, longer and shaky. this place is safe. you're here because i want you here and you're free to leave at any time. she is in another country. even if he did come here, he would be on unfamiliar turf with no political or social hold. and this place belongs to satoru — of all people, satoru, who would see anyone coming from a mile away.

after an excruciating silence, filled only by her labored breaths and the heavy shift of her hair, persephone steps close enough to take the clothes from his hands. her movements are stilted and cautious, a wild animal approaching a hand, each second an anticipation of the tables turning on them. it still feels too good to be true. it feels like the first time, twenty-one years old and undercover, offered a bath and food and a place to stay by someone who was supposed to be dead at the end of six months. only back then, it was all setup for a blindside, and it killed her in the end. she wasn't strong enough.

the fear in her, the spiny thing that shields a young, sad, gangly persephone from further harm, screams that this is the same fucking thing. he seemed nice, too. strong and safe, confident, wealthy. he, too, was an excellent actor.

but the difference between them is that satoru has already had the opportunity to pull the rug out from under them. he didn't. not back then, and not now. he doesn't push into her space and demand anything of them that they do not want to give.

he calls her seph and something breaks. it was only hanging on by a thread to begin with, and with the fading of the flashback it finally snaps. fuck it. maybe he'll still turn them in or kill them despite his words, maybe he won't, but he's right: this place is as safe as she'll ever have the chance to be. the realization, the relief, washes over them in a wave so strong it nearly brings tears to their eyes. stop running yourself ragged, seph. you're safe.

❝ . . . thanks, satoru. ❞ his name a half-strangled whisper, but spoken nonetheless: a peace offering. she stares at him a moment longer, eyes soft and so much clearer than before. something burns on the tip of her tongue — but she doesn't say it. instead they nod again, turn, and carry the offered clothes toward the bathroom.

it's surprising how well satoru's clothes fit her. they still hang off her shoulders, but in a similar way that they hang off his. she supposes they are a similar height and build, but — still. it's nice. it takes her nearly an hour to scrub the blood and massage the scar tissues in her shoulders and then fill the bath for a long, exhausted soak. but it helps. by the time she ghosts out of the bathroom, hair already air-drying in that unnaturally fast way it does, her body is beginning to work again. her eyes are a bit red, face still etched with that deep sadness they always carry, but it's a start.

❝ no fuckin' way you found a place that delivers this late. ❞

❝ you can get blood on it, i'll just order a new one in the morning. ❞    a shrug of shoulders; he's come from a clan of wealth and keeps it dangled from his fingers like the pompous boy he is.   but he knows what they're doing; trying to find a reason, the distrust written across their entire face.  he's been there before  ––  to not trust the kindness that's handed out, the need to bite the hand that feeds you is thrumming harshly in their veins right now.   teeth press into his bottom lip for a moment as he tries to figure out the right thing to say  ––  they are battle weary and have exerted their technique, look close to collapse.   he can't risk persephone being a flight risk.

things have changed for him over the years.  suguru's absence and death has left him empty inside  ––  the knowledge that he had failed him constantly slipping up every time that he tries to push it back down.   there's a twist in his chest every time he thinks of it, something ugly that thrums just below the surface, that threatens to strangle him when he falls asleep at night.   sometimes he thinks he sees his ghost  ––  sees his failure written clearly across his features, the disappointment written like a neon sign in accusatory eyes.

the students that he trains now make that feeling rise up as well; the fact that he falls them more and more every time he allows them to be in the depths of jujutsu society, especially given the execution order they constantly have hanging over itadori's head.   but this is the way he can keep them safe and train them to hit their potential  ––  he would never let the higher ups do anything to them.   he would rather destroy them than ever have their blood spilled.

it should be concerning how much it doesn't bother him, the thought of blood on his hands for his own cause.   is this what suguru felt?   when he found his own cause to fight for, is this the sort of compromise that he had to look at?

he shakes the thoughts off, looks at seph and the way that they're still barely hanging on.  his body moves backward, toward his bedroom, pulling a shirt and a large pair of sweatpants free  ––  it has to be more comfortable than the blood soaked garments that they're wearing currently.    stepping back in, he holds them out, arms extended:  allowing them the space to take it if they so wish.

❝ i don't get anything out of this, there's no catch.   i'm offering because we're friends, no matter how long it's been.  i'm not going to leave you out to dry while the society's looking for you and whatever fucked up organization you're working for looks for you.   this place is safe, little chaos bringer.  you're here because i want you here and you are free to leave at any time.   i would rather you not because you look exhausted, but i'm not going to stop you. ❞     i won't kill you, that is made clear.    he shifts for a moment before he sighs, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.    ❝ you have to hit the hot water handle, it sticks sometimes.   there is bubble bath underneath the sink if you prefer that.   take the clothes; get out of the blood.  then come out and eat sushi. ❞

eyes are quick to glance at the clock, just to gauge the time, where he can place an order from.   his name and repeated orders sometimes gets him in the good graces past hours.    ❝ and then afterward, if you want to leave, you are free to.  but at least have a warmth bath and some food.  stop running yourself ragged, seph.  you're safe. ❞

[gravesung-moving]

IT'S SUCH A FAR CRY FROM WHAT HE EXPECTED of satoru that, for some time, suguru is wide-eyed and silent. since toji zen'in, amanai, and the star religious group, he feels as if he has been walking a tightrope with no net. there is something below, watching. suguru does not know what it is. it has always been there, banished to the deepest recesses of his mind: something dark. each blow that has been dealt, to him and to satoru, causes him to sway a bit more on that tightrope.

part of it, he knows, is the influence of the spirits he absorbs. cursed spirits have evil intent more often than not, and it is impossible to consume them into his body without some echo of that desire for destruction seeping into his veins. satoru's admission reveals to him, in this moment, that he struggles with it as well. ❝ yeah, ❞ he replies, voice raspy from disuse. ❝ it was a mistake to tell you not to. it would have had meaning, i see that now. at least their cult would have been wiped out. ❞

suguru has always managed his darkness by keeping his mind balanced: meditation, thought experiments, weighing the destructive thoughts against their opposition on the scales of justice. and it has worked. it has kept that dark thing at bay, his dedicaton to the duty of sorcerers to protect the rest of the world. but after riko, the scale broke. he realized that what he had been weighing his darkness against was not so pure after all.

and he was telling the truth: it is killing him. he can't do this alone.

so when satoru moves closer, hips and legs and shoulders pressed flush, it feels like breathing for the first time. suguru lets out a shaky exhale, a breath he didn't know he was holding. how he missed this. how he needs this. satoru's warmth, cursed energy, gangly legs and eyes and hands. how can he have gone without it for so long? it's not enough. it never is, though. physical touch with satoru always leaves him hungry for more, greedy for him, wishing he could press so close that they become one down to the marrow. ever-disciplined and diligent, suguru always abstains. even when the yearning threatens to eat him from the inside.

now, as satoru ditches the glasses and looks at him, suguru reaches out and intertwines their fingers together. palm to palm — a promise. i'm still yours, just like you're still mine. he lacks the strength to suppress the tears that burn at his eyes and tighten his throat. they spill quietly; he has always been a quiet crier, subtle and easily masked. being the strongest made crying an incredibly embarrassing affair. to avoid lingering in that particular vulnerability, suguru tucks his head into the crook of his other half's neck. the free arm snakes around his waist and pulls him closer, into a desperate, shaky one-armed hug.

i miss you, he doesn't say, thank you. i love you. he doesn't need to. instead, voice thick with tears: ❝ yeah. alright. i think they've gotten cold by now, though. ❞

he doesn't realize how much he is holding his breath, watching suguru and seeing if he'll actually tell him what's wrong. if he'll actually open up instead of standing in the shadows, leering from eyes that are far too tired, that if you don't look hard enough, you'll miss the way that his smile never meets his eyes anymore. satoru doesn't like prying  ––  he knows the divide that's grown between them and knows that it's partly his fault. it makes something in him feel ugly, makes him want to lash out at the school and his clan for how much of a wedge that they're driving. he had never wanted this. had he wanted to survive? of course he did. but he hadn't known this would be the cost  ––  a life for a life, he supposes.

❝yeah, this is me asking.❞    his voice is soft, like he's afraid to break the thick air that's begun to swirl between them. without his infinity up, he can feel every inch of everything around him; the wind on his cheeks, the soft feeling of the grass as it settles around them, whispers up against his leg even through the pants of his uniform. but more than anything, he can feel the warmth that radiates off of suguru, the same warmth that he has leaned into time and time again because it's what's purely them. it's where his heart keeps residing  ––  no matter where they keep trying to pull them, he always comes home; because home is not a place, it's not his rich mansion with the clan. it's suguru. it's a person, someone who makes something in him light up, challenge him like never before. and all he wants to do is curl into his side and nudge until an arm wraps around him, let this all be some strange nightmare.

because suguru shouldn't be sad. he should never have this look in his eyes. it makes him want to burn everything to the ground so that those who hurt him can be hurt back.

he could do it, too. fingers subconsciously move through the signs without calling anything forth. a nervous habit  ––  staying vigilant in his own way so that toji zen'in never happens again.

brows furrow for a moment before he dares to move closer, so close that his hip presses against his, thigh against thigh.  ❝i'm right here, suguru. i'm not going anywhere. i know there's been…things have been different. i'm sorry for that. i never wanted it to be this way, either.❞    his voice is quiet, almost lost when the wind kicks up for a moment, the warm summer scent carrying with it and the sound of frogs in the pond a little ways down. 

he understands; things have been strange since amanai's death. they had been so ready to destroy everything that held the society together if it meant that she could walk free. if it meant that one human girl got to be a girl instead of lose her life into a merger for some selfish prick that holds their barriers up. maybe they were never meant to understand it  ––  maybe tengen had known this and known that they would go on their own moral quest with it. either way, they had been divided  ––  and while satoru had been pulling himself back together, suguru had been fighting for his life, watched amanai died, and presumed that satoru had died too. it had been too much on one person. 

and then there was everything that happened afterward  ––  the way that this distance has grown, the way that satoru's power has grown. he curses at himself for not realizing it sooner, for thinking that maybe suguru was just drowning in his own work, in the way that he bit down his own technique and swallowed the curses down. suguru had always been there for him  ––  he had neglected to see that something was wrong with him.

maybe suguru was right about him being selfish, about him being self absorbed. 

satoru breathes in deep for a moment, then bites down on his bottom lip for a moment. they can be awarded honesty here, even if they probably shouldn't be. he finds he doesn't care  ––  that suguru's entire being means more to him than anything jujutsu tech could ever produce.   ❝you know, i regret not killing everyone in that room. for what they did for her, how they had fucking clapped at her death. people like that will never understand  ––  they just see tengen as this holy being. they don't realize what happens every single damn time just so that bastard can live.❞   

for a moment, he is quiet, then he presses closer, until they are completely pressed together. until suguru's cursed energy bleeds into his own and that serenity of home slips around him once more.   ❝don't leave me here by myself, suguru. i know things are screwed up right now. but i'm still yours, you know. just like you're still mine. no matter what they say or do, it's always going to be us against them. got it?❞    gently, he knocks their knees together, slips his glasses off so that they can rest in the neckline of his shirt.    ❝now eat some shitty food with me on our shitty, too small beds, and tell me all about it. everything.❞

eyes are honest where they shine in the dark  ––  let me carry your burdens too.