#wip:pleaser

[tacitoru]

Gojo wants to try your cherry lip balm.

He tracks the slow, methodical slide of the balm against your chapped lips and licks his own. 

Back, forth.

The east coast sun is oddly sweltering for a spring afternoon, but Satoru has been taking the swift change in weather to stride. More than happy to strip down to basketball shorts with his bare back warming to the sun. To be on a court outdoors, where he feels like he’s got a little more room to breathe.

It makes him excited for summer, when the semester would be over, the season behind them, a little more free time on their hands. He wants to check out the beach on this side of America. See if the ocean is as blue as his jerseys like his host university claims. Barbecue and bikinis, shaved ice and sunscreen. He can practically taste the saltwater taffy if he closes his eyes for long enough. After a long winter, the sudden heat wave feels like a blessing. 

Had felt like a blessing.

Back, forth.

The motion is practiced. Instinctive. It’s like you hardly notice you’re applying the salve, staining a darker shade of red with each pass. But you definitely notice him noticing.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m not!”

For a lumbering mammoth of a man, Satoru boasts a pout that would put the cutest three-year-old to shame. The rebuttal is immediate, slips out before he even has the decency to glance away while denying it.

You give him your best glare over the line of your shades and cap the cherry-red Chapstick with a sharp snap! nonetheless. Roll your mouth to spread the balm over evenly, then gesture for him to gather his things. Satoru’s eyes struggle to leave your face as he scoops up his duffle bag and basketball. He’ll obsess over the motion of your lips, pursing and unfurling over your teeth for days.

Your bottom lip comes back a bit shinier than the top and Satoru has to stop himself from wetting his own again. For nights.

“D’you want some water? Or something? You shouldn’t keep licking your lips like that.” You admonish, hardly paying him any mind as you pass him your water bottle, and in that moment Satoru recognizes the bits and pieces of you that mirror Suguru. The way you sigh his name, try to set him straight, albeit with a lot less of the easy familiarity his counterpart carries. 

You mumble, cut your gaze in the opposite direction, turn in on yourself not a second after you’ve scolded him. Like you’re still afraid he’ll bite you.

You don’t wait for him to drink, already turning your back to march towards the gravel parking lot where Suguru’s car idles nearby. Satoru spots where your balm stains the lip of the plastic water bottle a translucent light pink and presses it against his mouth. Takes a sip, tongue swiping over the rim.

Maybe he will.