Chapter Text
“Yo,” Suguru says, when he passes through the apartment’s entrance.
Satoru’s playing on his switch on their couch, eyes fixed on a game, peering at it over his signature black-lensed glasses. He’s too immersed to notice Suguru, apparently, and so Suguru drops his bags of groceries on the counter, and then walks to peer over Satoru’s shoulder. A shadow drapes over Satoru, an outline of light in the shape of Suguru.
“Done with classes, yeah?”
Suguru doesn’t need to ask. He knows Satoru’s class schedule inside and out. Could probably find him at any moment, of any day. Satoru doesn’t do anything Suguru doesn’t know about.
Satoru still doesn’t look up, his gaze singular upon the game, as though he’s intent upon ignoring Suguru. He’s always been like this. He gets focused, ignores everything around him until it’s impossible to ignore. Suguru has a theory that it’s because his mind runs a mile a minute, constantly cataloguing his surroundings, looking for what's important, and what’s not.
Usually, video games are what’s most important for Satoru.
“Hey,” Suguru tries again, pushing a hand into the messy head of hair, hovering over the arm of the couch. It’s soft, as though he’s stroking cat’s fur, and he lets his hand rest over the crown of Satoru’s head, fingertips gripping almost possessively.
The buttons of the switch keep clicking.
Suguru scratches his nails into Satoru’s scalp, the way he knows Satoru likes it. “I brought daifuku from that shop you like,” he sing-songs.
His white head jerks up suddenly. Apparently, daifuku is enough to distract Gojo from the game, his onscreen character dying in a pathetic ‘You Lose!’.
When Satoru looks back at him, his eyes are wide, a smile stretched across his face. “Really? You’re cooking too, right?”
And then everything goes exactly the way Suguru knows it’s going to: Satoru springs up to his feet, drapes an arm around Suguru in a half-hug, and begins to talk his ear off in the twenty seconds it takes to walk to the kitchen, the switch long forgotten on their couch.
Every day, give or take, goes this way. Suguru arrives home from the studio, finds Satoru peacefully waiting on the couch, or maybe stationed at his PC, and waits until he’s sufficiently distracted from whatever game he’s playing to drag him to the kitchen, where Satoru will inevitably talk at Suguru until dinner is ready.
Really, most of the benefits of living together actually benefit Satoru, rather than Suguru, though Suguru knows he wouldn’t have lasted more than a year in the adult world without his so-called best friend.
“And then I was thinking we could go shopping in Akihabara, and if Shoko’s around, we can do dinner. Tell her not to bring Utahime, though, she’ll listen to you if—”
“—Satoru,” Suguru interrupts. He’s turned away, working on the stir-fry on the stove. “It’s Utahime’s birthday on Saturday. We have plans already.”
He turns, and finds Satoru’s lip pulled into a pout.
His lips are obscene. Pink and glossy, and he probably applies lip gloss when Suguru isn’t looking. Just to tempt him.
“Can’t we stay home, Sug’ru? You’re gone all day, and you won’t let me come to the shop between my classes.”
Suguru tears his eyes away. He can’t say no to Satoru while looking him in his big blue eyes. “No. It’ll be fun. Nanami and Shoko will be there, and Haibara and Utahime. It’s rare that we all get together like this. Besides, there’s a reason for that. You almost lost me my favorite client.”
“But Utahime hates me,” Satoru continues. “And I should be your favorite client.”
At that, Suguru has to laugh a little. “She only pretends to. You’ve known her and Shoko for too long for her to still hate you. And, you…don’t have tattoos?”
Suguru knows he’s the newcomer of the group, but Nanami, and Shoko are necessary for balancing out the chaos of everyone else. Haibara, Utahime, and Satoru create enough drama all on their own. And—Satoru doesn’t really listen to anyone else.
Satoru grumbles a, “not yet,” and then for once, falls into silence, seemingly content. When Suguru looks back though, two plates in hand, he realizes Satoru’s pulled out his phone. Without the fresh food to distract him, Satoru could’ve spent hours on his phone, until he decided he had enough of the internet and wanted to bother Suguru instead.
He’ll talk to Suguru for hours, though. Nanami asked him one time whether he gets sick of it, and Suguru was blatantly honest, that he’d never be sick of hearing Satoru talk. He’ll never be sick of anything Satoru does.
“Eat,” Suguru says, in the tone he knows Satoru will actually listen to. Satoru has a terrible habit of getting distracted all day and forgetting to eat. Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but Suguru can see Satoru’s hand shaking. He seems particularly tired today, and there’s a slight flush on his cheeks, even though spring just started and it’s brisk outside.
Actually, Satoru looks disheveled, more so than usual, and judging from the way he’s demolishing the plate of stir fry Suguru just cooked for him, he’s exerted, too.
“Did you already go to the gym today?” Suguru asks, confusion warping his eyebrows.
Satoru looks at him, mouth full of noodles. “No? I thought we were going after your shift.”
It comes out a bit more like, mo, I bough we er oing afer ur shif, but Suguru’s an expert in Satoru-speak.
“Right.” Suguru looks him up and down, trying to figure out what’s different about him. It happens sometimes, where he’ll get home, and Satoru will be completely shot. By the time they get to the gym, he can’t really do anything, and it ends up being a situation where Satoru will just follow Suguru from machine to machine, acting as entertainment and occasionally a spotter.
“I’ll be ready to go after this,” Satoru continues, mouth still full of food.
Suguru raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You look a little tired, is all.”
White eyelashes blink back at him. “What makes you say that?”
Just at that moment, Satoru begins to stand. Only, it takes him way longer to do so than it normally does, and as he walks to put his plate into the dishwasher, Suguru can’t help but think he’s walking a little funny. And then Suguru mentally scolds himself for allowing his thoughts to drift to inappropriate places.
“You’re just—we’re hitting legs today. Satoru, did you…”
Turning away from the sink, Satoru gives him a look that burns.
Suguru continues anyway. Satoru can never be mad at him for too long, anyway. “Did you hook up with someone, or—”
“No,” Satoru insists, cutting Suguru off. “No, oh my god.”
When he looks at Suguru again, all shy, his face is flushed. “I was just um—”
He looks away again, down at the dishes in the sink, soaking in soapy water.
“Oh. Oh.”
It takes Suguru a moment to realize his implication, but the moment he does, he can’t quite get the image out of his head. Satoru, fucking himself with something thick and long enough to make him this weak. Satoru, liking it rough enough that he’s shaking afterwards.
And then it takes even longer for Suguru to realize Satoru’s still talking.
“...I promise it’s not going to impact anything, I’ll be fine by the time we get there. Usually I wouldn’t but—”
“Satoru.” He drapes his arms around Satoru, standing on his toes to get over his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll do something else today, yeah?”
Satoru shivers under him. “Right. Yeah.”
When Suguru pulls away, he does his best to push any thoughts of Satoru with a dildo up his ass to the way, way back of his mind.
The gym is almost empty by the time they get there, and Suguru’s grateful, because Satoru looks absolutely obscene the entire time. He wants to bend him over every surface. Instead, he has to spot Satoru on bench, because he still looks shaky, and even though he’d hit two plates just fine the week before, Suguru’s still concerned.
“One more, c’mon,” Suguru encourages, and then he has to promptly catch the bar before Satoru has the chance to drop it on his neck.
They leave after that.
“It’s really not a big deal,” Satoru says, when they get back to the apartment. “But you weren’t really meant to—y’know. Know.”
A flush rushes to Suguru’s cheeks. He’s grateful he isn’t as pale as Satoru, because usually it doesn’t show on his face.
He wants to say: I’ll fuck you better than you can fuck yourself.
Instead, he says: “‘Toru. It’s normal. We all jerk off.”
It seems to relax Satoru slightly, but he still looks on edge. And, while Suguru won’t ever push a topic like this between them, it still seems like he needs…extra reassurance, or something.
“Seriously. We’ve lived together for two years. It’s a miracle we haven’t heard each other before.”
Somehow, that makes Satoru flush even more, and now Suguru really doesn’t know what to say. He’s always made sure Satoru was out of the apartment while he jerked off, and clearly Satoru’s done the same. And—he’s known Satoru is gay for over a year, ever since he confessed one night in the early hours of the morning, spitting it out all in one word: SuguruI’mgaybytheway. And Suguru, of course, nodded and told Satoru he was bi, and then Satoru had gone pink.
“I know, just—I didn’t mean for you to find out. I guess I just got a bit carried away...”
He’s looking anywhere but Suguru’s face, and Suguru has the sense that they’ll just have to sleep it off. Most of the time it works for the two of them. Taking a bit of time where they have space from each other gives them the opportunity to process. As much as Suguru loves Satoru, it can just be a bit…much, having someone who is always there.
It makes him wonder, briefly, if he needs to give Satoru more space. If he needs some time away from Suguru to…recover. Or something.
Suguru hums in reply. “Well, take it easy tomorrow, yeah? Don’t stay too late in office hours or anything.”
Satoru nods, and then disappears into his bedroom. Suguru does the same, and when he finally changes into lounge clothes and finishes his skincare, he leans against the shared wall between them, and thinks about what Satoru had just been doing a few hours before. Right there, just on the other side of the plastered wall.
Maybe he did it on his knees, opening himself slowly, one finger at a time, before using a toy until he couldn’t walk. Maybe Satoru made it rough, as rough as he could by himself. Suguru thinks he could probably fuck him better. Satoru could only do so much by himself, only so much with his own hands. Suguru’s better than a toy, isn’t he?
It takes a moment for Suguru to realize he’s begun to grind into the mattress, initially intending to go straight to sleep. Now, though, he can’t get it out of his head. He’s picturing Satoru on his knees, trying to find release with something buried in his ass (smaller than Suguru, probably. Suguru’s pretty big), dick helplessly untouched, and Suguru wraps his hand around himself and jerks himself off fast, thumbing over the slit of his own cock until he comes over his boxers, his other hand wedged between his teeth to muffle his heady breath.
Suguru still feels restless as he tosses the underwear into his hamper and grabs a fresh pair, burying his face into his pillow as if it’ll chase away the thoughts of his best friend having fingered himself next door.
“Suguruuu,” Satoru coos the next morning.
He’s too happy, Suguru thinks. Suguru hasn’t had his coffee yet, though, which means he’s still irritable.
Satoru hands him a mug at the same time Suguru has the thought. “This is why I love you,” he says in reply, and doesn’t allow himself to think too much about it as he sips on the black drip.
“Of course you do.” Satoru leans on his hand, and then looks at Suguru the way he does when he wants something.
Suguru takes another sip of his coffee in preparation. He’s slowly coming to his senses. “What?”
“What, what?” Satoru parrots.
Sometimes Satoru does this. He plays coy, pretends as if he doesn’t want something from Suguru. And then waits for Suguru to figure out what it is he wants in the first place.
Fortunately, Suguru has always been the one to anticipate Satoru’s needs. “You’re waiting to ask me something.”
And then Suguru takes an exaggerated sip of coffee, as if to remind Satoru he isn’t going to blow up in his face. It’s exactly the way he likes it, because Satoru somehow makes coffee perfectly. It’s the only thing he can do in the kitchen without setting it on fire.
“Fine,” Satoru relents, throwing a hand up in the air. “You have a client today at two, right?”
“Yeah,” Suguru replies. The coffee's at a good temperature now. Not too hot, not too cold. Just right. “Why?”
A flush spreads across Satoru’s face. He fidgets in his chair, as if he can’t quite get comfortable, leaning forward onto the countertop. “Just wondering.”
Then that’s all Satoru says. Suguru doesn’t quite get what he means, and he looks to Satoru for elaboration, but Satoru doesn’t seem like he wants to reveal anything more. Satoru has a 9 a.m. today, because he’s annoyingly good at mornings, and then it’s just individual work on his thesis.
“Okay, yeah. Client at two, I’ll probably be back around five.” Suguru turns. “It’s on the—”
They have a calendar in the kitchen for this sort of thing. Surprisingly, it was Satoru’s idea. He apparently wanted to know where Suguru was at all times, which then turned into a discussion with Shoko and Nanami about boundaries in relationships, and then Suguru felt a bit like puking, and Satoru pouted and said it was normal for friends to always have each other’s whereabouts.
“It’s not,” Satoru states, a satisfied smirk on his face. “No worries. You mentioned it yesterday, ‘s all.”
Suguru blinks at him. Sometimes Satoru has a crystal-clear memory, though it’s never about anything consistent. Suguru can never trust him to remember what to get at the grocery store, and Satoru always manages to come home with five bags of candy and half the vegetables Suguru asks him to get. Satoru just tells him it isn’t his job to remember vegetable shapes.
“Right. Yeah, you remembered.”
And so Suguru inks it onto the board, and goes into the studio feeling as if the day’s already started strange, and tries not to think about the fact that he jerked off to the thought of his best friend taking a dildo up the ass the night before.
It doesn’t hit him until his two-o’clock that Satoru wanted to know whether he was going to be home so he could…
Suguru’s lucky he’s not in the middle of inking his client, instead refilling his machine, because he jumps just a little bit, inhaling sharply as he thinks about how cagey Satoru had been that morning, fidgeting in his chair. He’d paid Suguru’s schedule a little more attention than usual, and intentionally brought the time up. If Suguru didn’t know any better, he might think that Satoru’s implying something.
There’s a client in Suguru’s chair, though, touching up an arm piece he did a few months back, and so Suguru doesn’t allow his mind to wander. It’s one of the things he likes about tattooing—his mind manages to go completely blank, save for the hyper-focus he puts on skin and ink.
No, Suguru doesn’t let himself think of what Satoru had been doing until after, until he’s driving home an hour early and he can have some time to relax before he has to cook dinner and they hit the gym. He loves his job, and he loves Satoru, but sometimes it’s nice just to have a little time to himself. Sometimes, he just wants a bit of peace and quiet, and he’s sure, like all the other times he gets home a few minutes early, Satoru will be playing video games with his headphones on in his bedroom, and he won’t even hear Suguru come in. Hell, even if he didn’t have headphones, he still wouldn’t hear Suguru.
When he gets back to the apartment, though, it’s shockingly quiet. Satoru’s door is shut, and he can’t hear the characteristic clicking of a keyboard that comes from Satoru’s room at strange hours of the night. Suguru assumes he’s taking a nap, and makes a beeline for his own room. It’s a prime opportunity. If Satoru were to overhear, he’d never let Suguru hear the end of it.
He’s just pushed his fingertips under the waistband of his boxers when he hears it. The moan is soft, a bit breathy, and it makes Suguru’s dick jump suddenly.
“Fuck, baby, yes right there,” Satoru says, and Suguru realizes very quickly that Satoru is not taking a nap.
Suguru’s dick suddenly feels sensitive in his own hand, hard to the point that it’s painful. He hasn’t even come up with something to daydream about, yet.
“Yes, yes, yesyesyes—”
And then there’s a sound like a whine, and more moaning, and Satoru’s really loud. So loud, Suguru can’t ignore the shame seeping into his body. He doesn’t even need to come up with a fantasy anymore.
“Right—right there,” Satoru chokes, and then, “Can I come, please, please, let me, gonna—”
And then Suguru knows he’s coming, knows because Satoru’s gone silent, but he can hear a choke and muffled moaning, as if Satoru’s buried his head into a pillow. It just takes Suguru another couple strokes and then he’s coming too, static running in his mind as he shudders.
When Suguru opens his eyes, the shame increases tenfold. He’s horrified. Satoru probably thought he was going to be gone for another couple hours. Sometimes he’ll take an afternoon off if there’s nothing on his schedule, but those days are few and far between, and he’ll always ink them in on the kitchen calendar. Suguru’s insanely consistent when it comes to his routine in the afternoon, though mornings will vary for him, since Satoru’s gone with classes, and all.
The shame doesn’t linger for long, though, because Satoru starts talking again. Suguru supposes it makes sense for him to be talkative in and out of bed.
“Yeah, see you next week.” Satoru laughs, and Suguru’s blood runs cold.
He’s talking to someone.
Oh god, Suguru thinks. Satoru has a boyfriend. He has a boyfriend he doesn’t want me to know about. He’s dating someone and scheduling phone sex and now I’m the idiot who just jerked off to his roommate who has a boyfriend.
It’s a worst-case scenario. Suguru doesn’t know why Satoru wouldn’t tell him about his boyfriend, either, considering the fact that he’s, y’know, Satoru’s best friend. They share everything. Suguru’s about to make some worst-case assumption, like it’s a student, or something, before Satoru speaks again.
“You know me. I never miss a stream.”
Suguru blue-screens.
The internal monologue he’d been agonizing over in the half-second he thought Satoru was having phone sex ceased, instead replaced by simple disbelief.
I never miss a stream.
A stream? As in—people were watching Satoru fuck himself. Strangers were watching Satoru fuck himself. Strangers on the internet.
Suguru’s first thought is that he wishes he’d been watching, too. Suguru’s second thought is that he wishes he was the only one watching. And then his third thought is that he wishes everyone was watching him fuck Satoru, instead, so they’d all know he was Suguru’s.
Suguru’s fourth thought is that he’s very, very fucked.
While Satoru’s stream is still going on, the mutterings of conversation still drifting over from the next room, Suguru hops into the shower, knowing he’ll use the excuse of his dampened hair to pretend he didn’t hear anything. He thinks, maybe, it’s wrong to pretend he’s clueless, but then again, he and Satoru don’t usually have secrets. If Satoru is keeping it a secret from Suguru, it’s for a reason, and probably one that Satoru’s already thought out. He doesn’t do things halfway.
The shower melts away his tensions, though, and then it’s easy enough for Suguru to dismiss The Incident (as he’s now calling it in his mind) as a one-time occurrence. A mistake easy enough to make. And Suguru’s not an idiot. He knows he’s in love with Satoru. Knows he has been for a while. It’s natural for him to be aroused while Satoru’s jerking off in the next room.
He also knows, though, how much of a violation it is. Knows it’s fucked up. So, Suguru lets the water run over his shoulders for another minute, shakes the tension from his body, and emerges to pretend he didn’t hear a thing.
When he emerges from their shared bathroom, steam drifting out from the doorway, Satoru is lazing on the couch playing on his switch. Like he always is, whenever Suguru gets home.
“Hey,” Satoru starts. He’s put down his game, and Suguru can tell he’s vaguely on edge, his pointer finger tapping against plastic as he speaks. “I didn’t hear you come home.”
Suguru shrugs, adjusting the towel around his waist. “Finished up with my client early.”
Satoru’s face flushes. “When did you get home?”
Straight to the point.
“About ten minutes ago, or so. Hopped in the shower as soon as I could.”
Hair falls around his shoulders, wet.
“I thought we were going to the gym later,” Satoru asks, eyebrows pulling together. They have a routine fairly set in stone.
Suguru laughs, and tilts his head up. “I thought I’d give you a day to rest.”
And if Satoru’s face was flushed pink before, now it’s turned red, blood coloring his cheeks easily. It’s funny how embarrassed he is, considering Satoru normally wouldn’t bat an eye. He barely has boundaries otherwise.
“I told you I’d be fine,” Satoru insists.
Across the room, Suguru gives him a knowing look. “I’m beat. Tomorrow?”
Suguru barely sees Satoru’s nod before he makes a beeline for his room and pretends none of the last hour happened, re-emerging to make a curry without potatoes (since Satoru didn’t pick them up at the store), and desperately trying to ignore the slight hard-on he’s hiding under a pair of black sweatpants and some briefs. Satoru really doesn’t help, draping himself over Suguru’s back as he cooks. It runs in Suguru’s head, over and over.
I never miss a stream.
Suguru really, really tries not to think about it. He doesn’t let his gaze linger on Satoru for too long, and sticks to his schedule exactly. He marks out his clients on their calendar without fail, and watches out for any time he thinks Satoru might be streaming.
He does not let curiosity get the best of him. He does not think about trying to search for someone who might resemble Satoru on an x-rated livestreaming website. He does not jerk off to the thought of his best friend next door, and Suguru absolutely does not ask Satoru about it.
Three days in, though, and it’s Satoru who asks Suguru about it. He brings it up while Suguru is cooking dinner, complete with all their vegetables this time. It's a once-a-year miracle for Satoru to come back with everything Suguru needs.
Suguru’s busy stirring the sauce for their pasta, and he scoops a small portion for Satoru to taste-test. The question comes after a couple of minutes of silence between them, and a couple minutes where Suguru feels as if his body is a live wire, pent up with stress and arousal and lies.
“Hey, Suguru,” Satoru says, and his voice is small. Too small. “Did I do something wrong?”
Suguru doesn’t realize how serious the question is until he turns around. Satoru’s eyes are wide, as if he’s been scared to ask, and Suguru realizes Satoru had been working himself up to it over the past few minutes. His eyes are glistening, brimming with tears, and Suguru knows all too well it means he’s about to cry.
(“I don’t cry,” Satoru had insisted, the first time he’d cried in front of Suguru.
Suguru had cupped Satoru’s cheek in his hand. “Of course you don’t,” and the tears fell on his fingertips anyway.)
Dropping the spoon in the sink, Suguru quickly crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around Satoru’s shoulders. Even though Satoru has a couple of inches on him, he’s still much smaller around the shoulders, and Suguru’s arms envelop him easily.
“Hey, no,” Suguru starts, the panic setting in. “No, why would you think that?”
Satoru shrugs, sniffling. “I just—things have been different for the past week. That's all.”
The worst part is Suguru knows what he means. Knows that he’s been acting differently around Satoru, that he can’t quite pretend everything is the same.
“I,” Suguru sighs. “It’s my fault, Satoru.”
Blue eyes snap to his own. “So there is something wrong. Something I did.”
For the briefest moment, the sound of Satoru through the wall flashes in Suguru’s head. His little ah, ah, ah, the breath and pitch of his moans. It stirs Suguru’s dick in his pants, and Suguru has to chastise himself for time and place. Because Satoru looks stricken, thinking it’s all his fault.
“No,” Suguru corrects quickly. “No, I promise. It’s just—”
And now it’s Suguru’s turn to flush. It isn't quite as evident for Suguru, but Satoru still instantly recognizes when Suguru's embarrassed.
“Just?” Satoru replies, widening his eyes. It’s unfair. He knows Suguru can’t say no to him when he looks like this.
It takes so, so much of Suguru’s willpower to lie.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs.“I’ve just been having a long week at work. Had a couple no-shows, and you know how those throw me off.”
Suguru is a terrible person.
But the stress melts from Satoru’s eyes instantly, and when he wraps his arms around Suguru's waist, and breathes against his stomach, Suguru finds he doesn’t regret the lie at all.
“I know how you hate those,” Satoru mutters against his stomach, and it rattles Suguru’s gut like a warning.
They finally go to the gym Friday, and Satoru doesn’t struggle in the slightest. He’s getting stronger now that he’s been living with Suguru for some time. When Suguru met him, he was mostly skin and bones with a bit of muscle from sports growing up. Now, he’s filled out in the shoulders, and more in his legs, thanks to Suguru cooking most days of the week. As far as Suguru knows, before he moved in, Satoru was living mostly off of sweets and vanilla lattes.
“Good,” Suguru says. Satoru’s form is getting better. “One more.”
Satoru’s shaking, but Suguru knows his limits like the back of his own hand. Gojo’s always struggled with knowing his own limits, thinking he’s invincible, when really he needs to take a rest. Case in point: Satoru still trying to go to the gym when he can barely walk.
He finishes another rep, and then Suguru’s immediately there, hands ready to pull the barbell from his shoulders. Satoru’s strong, and doesn’t really need Suguru to spot him, but Suguru does anyway. Suguru isn’t really sure why he feels responsible for Satoru, but he does. Satoru’s just—
Before Suguru moved in, it seemed as if Satoru didn’t have much in the way of friends. To Suguru, it’s ridiculous. Satoru is perfect. He’s a good texter. Just the right amount of overbearing. Hilarious. A chronic sweet-tooth. Bothersome, and whiny, and annoyingly good-looking. It’s no wonder Suguru is irrevocably in love with him, and the upside-down way he sees the world.
The way Suguru looks at it, if he doesn’t do it, and if he doesn’t do it well, then someone else will take advantage. They’ll latch on to Satoru’s naivete, his outlook on the world. Suguru has no idea why he’s chosen him as a friend, but he knows that he’ll never, ever let Satoru’s friendship go.
Suguru snaps from his thoughts, and then adds a plate to either side of the barbell for his own set. Satoru, in the silence, has also stopped talking, opting to stand behind Suguru as he squats. Blood rushes to Suguru’s ears, and for a moment he hears nothing but his own heartbeat, the rest of the gym’s sounds draining away. Vaguely, he can hear Satoru saying something out of encouragement, but it doesn’t quite register. Suguru always gets like this, whenever he’s in the gym, whenever he’s tattooing. It’s almost meditative for him.
He re-racks the bar with little effort—it’s nowhere near his max—and then turns to look at Satoru, who looks a bit flushed. Probably from his own set.
“You make that look easy. It’s infuriating.”
To avoid Satoru seeing his own face flush, he tilts his head to the side. “C’mon, let’s head home.”
After they shower, they sit on the couch together and watch the light dance through the kitchen, the sun setting into the neon half-darkness of downtown Tokyo. Suguru sits with his legs extended outwards, and Satoru with his own curled in on himself as he taps away on his Switch.
He’s on it half the time, always addicted to one screen or the other, and Suguru knows it’s from growing up on a DS. Suguru never cared much for that sort of thing before Satoru, but now he’ll play occasionally. Really, whenever Satoru wants him to take over the game for a couple of minutes.
Across from him, Satoru begins to extend a leg forward, eyes still fixed on his game. He’s been playing Digimon since he bought the switch, and as far as Satoru knows, his Nintendo account has been the same since he was a kid. His dedication is impressive, and probably lucrative for the company, too. Satoru’s more than happy to spend his limited funds on video games. Suguru has no idea how he affords their rent, considering it can’t possibly be covered by his minimal university stipend. He’d always assumed it was a trust fund, or something, but Suguru also knows he’s cut off from his parents.
Though maybe—maybe his online identity is enough to cover his share of the rent. He’s never missed a payment in two years, either, and now he’s wondering if Satoru’s always had a second source of income.
“Hey,” Satoru nudges the inside of Suguru’s inner calf with his foot. “What’re you looking at?”
And Suguru had been staring, of course. He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Satoru sits up, and then tosses his Switch into Suguru’s lap.
“Play for me while I’m in the bathroom, okay?”
And then he climbs off the couch, stepping on Suguru’s leg in the process. Suguru picks up the switch and has to resist rolling his eyes until Satoru disappears into the bathroom. He’s terrible at Digimon. He’ll probably kill something in the two minutes it takes Satoru to pee.
He fumbles with the buttons for a moment, before he watches Satoru’s avatar begin to run around. Suguru knows he really isn’t meant to do much, and Satoru just likes to bother him with the task. He picks up a couple items he thinks are probably important, and then—
The game stutters, and then resets to a loading screen. Welcome, 6ixeyes. Then, the game resets to what’s clearly the player’s starting position, notably different from wherever Satoru had been in it before.
“What did you do?”
Suguru startles, tossing the Switch to his feet. Arms crossed, Satoru crosses to look at the screen. He stares for a moment, and then pouts, staring at Suguru as if he’s slighted him in a much, much greater way.
“Nothing,” Suguru replies, raising his arms as if to prove his innocence. “It did that all on its own. It’s not my fault you’re still playing Digimon in this day and age.”
He says it teasingly, in the way he knows will make Satoru sulk for a few minutes, but put down his game for them to watch a couple episodes of Naruto before they both go to bed. They’ve been working through it forever, really, since Satoru’s insistent on watching the filler.
“You messed it up,” Satoru mutters, but there isn’t any bite in his voice. He looks tired, and when Suguru suggests Naruto, he nods.
They assume their positions automatically, Satoru slouching into the crook of Suguru’s arm, his hand falling naturally over Satoru’s shoulder. He queues up the show, and focuses on the opening theme instead of the rise and fall of Satoru’s chest next to his own. Suguru wishes, for a brief moment, he could pull the two of them closer together, encapsulate Satoru’s chest next to his own, as if their ribs were knitted together.
Suguru isn’t supposed to do that, though, and so he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his own breath shallow, and watches the show intently—Sasuke’s about to leave Hidden Leaf—until Satoru’s breath evens out, and Suguru knows he’s fallen asleep.
Then, he pauses the show. He glances, briefly, at the mess of silver hair falling on his shoulder, allows himself the briefest touch between his thumb and forefinger, and then shakes Satoru awake.
“Hey,” Suguru whispers. “You should head to bed.”
Satoru grumbles. He’s clearly still half-asleep. Suguru gives him another shake.
“Five more minutes.”
“You’ll have an entire night in your own bed,” Suguru replies.
“Mm,” he hums. “Can’t I just stay in yours?”
And, to that, Suguru doesn’t respond. He can’t, really, because Suguru hasn’t allowed himself many thoughts of Satoru in his bed over the past two years, and he’s not about to torture himself with the real-life information of what it looks like. No matter how clingy Satoru is when he wants to be carried to bed.
“No,” Suguru finally says.
Satoru’s head shifts, cheek rubbing against the fabric of Suguru’s shirt. “Carry me, then. Aren’t these muscles good for something?”
Now, he’s awake.
“No, ‘Toru. I’d drop you, anyway. You’re heavier than you look.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean,” Satoru asks, face still buried in Suguru’s shirt.
“Nothing,” Suguru teases. “I’m the weak one. I should be able to lift you.”
Satoru flicks him, but pulls himself off of Suguru and sits upright, wiping away the sleep from his eyes. He looks like a mess. He looks like he’s been fucked—
“Fine,” he grumbles. “I’ll go on my own.”
And then, slowly, Satoru stands, still wiping his eyes—are they dry? Does he need his eyedrops?—before disappearing into the doorway of his bedroom.
“G’night, Suguru,” he says, and then he’s gone.
Suguru falls asleep easily, but wakes up in the early hours of the morning, when the light of dawn is just drifting into his window.
He checks his phone, and sees it’s almost five. Two more hours, and he’ll be up anyway, so he drags himself from bed, and flicks on his desk light to work on a design he’s been toying with over the past couple of days. There’s something about it that he can’t quite get right.
After around ten minutes of sketching, erasing, and sketching again, he decides it’s a lost cause, and goes back to his phone. Last night, he fortunately didn’t have any more difficult dreams, but he still feels a bit pent up from the night before, from the way Satoru looked with his hair pulled in every direction. It’s not all that different from the way he looks in the morning, but there was something about the fact that he looked that way because he’d buried his head in Suguru’s arms that really made the memory linger.
Moving back to his bed, it’s easy enough to draw on the memory of Satoru from earlier that week. From Satoru’s stream.
It makes Suguru jealous, for a moment, thinking about other men getting to look at Satoru, regardless of whether they’re paying for it or not. He indulges in it, briefly—the thought of proving to everyone that Satoru is his, that Satoru belongs to someone in real life. Whoever they know through the screen isn’t real. But Suguru and Satoru? For a moment, Suguru allows himself to think they’re real. Allows himself to skim the edge of his waistband, and dip his hands towards his cock, hardening slightly at the thought of Satoru finally his.
Suguru gets it, of course. Why people watch, when they know it isn’t real. If he could have even a fraction of Satoru, even if it were only in pixels, he’d take it. He has more than any of them do in real life, but it’s an entirely different side of Satoru. One Suguru wouldn’t trade for the world.
The thought flits through his mind quickly, like the flight of a hummingbird, there and gone again. Satoru’s cyber identity and Satoru are entirely separate. And, the part of Suguru that lusts after him, and Satoru’s best friend, are also entirely separate.
What would Satoru’s online identity even be? How much does he really even show? Do they know his hair is snow-white, a genetic anomaly? Do they know the shade of blue in his eyes? Do they know the single dot of ink Satoru has on his ankle, after Suguru decided he wouldn’t tattoo Satoru when he looked so obscene in his chair?
Suguru strokes himself faster. It’s angry, more than anything.
God, do they even know anything about him at all? Do they know he likes sweets? Hates pickles? Do they know how smart he is? How hard he works? How much he cares about his friends? How much he loves Digimon, of all things?
Suguru pulls his hand away. His attempt to give himself a bit of release has only left him more sexually frustrated than when he started, and he doesn’t feel much like turning to porn now that he knows he could get off to Satoru, somewhere in the abyss of the internet.
It’s what makes Suguru decide he really is a terrible friend, after all. He desperately, desperately wants to find that account.
In the morning, when Satoru finally emerges from his bedroom, Suguru feels a telltale twist in his gut. There’s guilt building there, little by little, every time he has to lie to Satoru, and he knows it’s only going to build the more he lies. But, there’s also another part of him that knows the time to tell Satoru the entire truth has passed. He’s worked himself past the point of no return, holding it in for the last few days. Has given Satoru a half-truth to placate him, to make him think Suguru knows nothing of his other life.
The truth is different, though. Suguru spent the rest of the early morning wracking his mind for what Satoru would name his internet persona. He’s identified the things Satoru would probably consider, but Suguru really isn’t sure on it. For one, Suguru knows that Satoru would want it to remain somewhat innocuous. It couldn’t use anything related to his real name, given that the Gojo clan is far too famous in Japan for Satoru not to make the morning gossip pages with his illicit activities, even estranged. For another, he probably wouldn’t show his face, probably not even his characteristic white hair, considering it was also far too identifiable.
And, finally, it’s probably something dumb. Satoru never takes himself seriously. Not even when things are serious, like when you’re creating an online identity to hide behind while you fuck yourself on camera.
Those three things fortunately make it very difficult for Suguru to figure out how to find Satoru. As much as Suguru thinks of finding it, he knows there is a line, somewhere. Knows he’s far from crossed it, so long as he never finds that account. Where he currently is, he’s in too deep for their friendship to come out completely unscathed, but it won’t be as if it’s nuclear.
If Suguru finds the account, though. He knows he’ll really have done it. Pushed Satoru beyond the bounds of typical friendship. Finally succumbed to the vice that’s tortured him for the past two years.
Their friendship would shred in the revelation, and Suguru knows he could never, ever do anything to jeopardize it.
The thought is solidified when Satoru comes out of his bedroom, hair pulled in every direction as it is every morning. He wipes the sleep and crust from his eyes, blinking slowly at the brightness of the morning light, and then settles into the chair at the bar of their kitchen, leaning on a hand and gazing up at Suguru as he works.
In their apartment, there’s a routine on Saturdays. Suguru typically rises before Satoru, who spends his Friday nights catching up on work, and so he makes breakfast. Typically something more complicated than he might during the week, when he’ll make eggs or rice balls or something more western. Today, though, Suguru’s prepared something traditional, with grilled fish and rice and miso soup. He’s finishing up the side dishes as Satoru emerges, and he nudges a teapot in Satoru’s direction when he grumbles about it being too early. It’s 9:30.
“Mean,” he whispers, when Suguru continues to ignore him in favour of plating the fish and vegetable sides onto various little plates for Satoru.
“Drink,” Suguru says. Satoru’s usually awake before him, but on the days he isn’t, he needs a familiar boost of caffeine before he’s able to tolerate all of Suguru’s bullshit.
He’ll particularly need it today. It’s Utahime’s birthday, and Satoru’s going to be a big baby about it.
Utahime’s apartment is only a couple stops over on the metro, and Satoru keeps his hands all over Suguru—holding onto his arms at all the stops, leaning on him as they wait by the tracks, brushing his fingertips as Satoru passes him a spare Suica card. Maybe Suguru’s making it all up in his head, but it’s driving him insane, making him think of the night before, of Satoru’s feet brushing against his own. He knows Satoru has his switch in his bag, too, though Suguru’s going to try and convince him to talk to the group for at least a little bit. Satoru’s a bit moody sometimes, choosing to do what he wishes with his own time, even at the expense of his friendships. Without Suguru, he’d probably have driven a fair number of them up the wall with his antics.
They get to Utahime’s apartment, and most everyone else is already there. Nanami and Haibara are talking on the couch, Yuki and Choso are leaning against a wall, and Suguru knows Utahime and Shoko are probably in the kitchen.
Satoru immediately barges into the conversation on the couch, and Suguru takes a moment before he chooses to join Choso and Yuki. They’re discussing something about Choso’s brother, Yuuji, and some issue he’s having at school.
“He’s clearly in love with his friend,” Yuki says, snapping her fingers. She hasn’t seemed to have seen Suguru, yet. “Spikey-hair.”
“Megumi,” Choso corrects.
Suguru knows Megumi. He’s almost like Satoru’s brother, and now that he thinks about it, is probably part of the reason Satoru needs to make more income. He’s missing an inheritance, and he pays for the Fushiguro’s apartment near the university.
It’s how they all met Choso.
“Right, Megumi,” Yuki continues. “They’re hopeless. You need to shove them into a closet or something, baby. I hate watching the two of them, it’s like a mini version of Gojo and—”
Suguru decides that, maybe, it’s time to make his presence known. He clears his throat, and Yuki stops, mouth half-parted. Choso looks completely oblivious, as he always does. It’s a wonder he’s dating someone at all, considering he’s terrible at picking up on social cues. He’s like a walking born-sexy-yesterday trope.
“Suguru,” Yuki smiles, dazzling. Her demeanour is flirty, though Suguru knows she’s just like that. It’s why she’s such a good match for Choso. He could care less who she flirts with, considering it’s more a game to her, than anything else. “Surprised to see you without your other half.”
Suguru gestures towards the couch, where Satoru’s made himself comfortable next to Haibara, who seems entirely content with their position. Nanami, on the other hand, looks like he wants to strangle Satoru. Kento has all the self-restraint that Satoru lacks.
“I think it’s healthy that they’re so close,” Choso says.
Yuki gives her boyfriend a questioning look. “I don’t know about that.”
Suguru tightens his grip around the beer can in his hand, feeling the aluminum bend inward. “Satoru and I are close, aren’t we?”
Sometimes, Suguru wonders if it’s too close. If he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to freefall into something dangerous. Something that could turn the relative-stability of his life into chaos.
“It’s normal, though,” Choso continues. “Perhaps you’re a bit more affectionate than most couples, certainly more than Nanami and Haibara, but—”
“Couple?” Suguru echoes.
It’s just as Yuki chimes in, “Oh, Choso. They’re not together—”
She says it quietly enough that Suguru isn’t quite sure what she says at the end, but his mind can extrapolate. It does extrapolate. Is that what their friends think of them? A pair waiting to collide? A couple stuck in the in-between?
“No,” Suguru corrects. “No, we’re just friends.”
And then Yuki takes a sip of Asahi dry, slow, and Suguru decides he wants to get out of there.
Satoru makes it about forty minutes before he pulls out his switch, immediately after they sing and cut the cake. He’s leaning against Suguru on the couch, their friends scattered around them in various levels of sobriety, and Suguru’s greeted once again with that login screen.
“Really, ‘Toru?” He whispers.
Satoru digs his head into Suguru’s arm a little bit more. “They’re not paying attention to us,” he whispers. It sends a shiver through Suguru’s body as he imagines the words in a different context.
“Okay. Ten minutes,” Suguru says, as though he’s really any sort of authority on what Satoru can and can’t do.
He runs his thumb over the material of Satoru’s shirt, and watches as the familiar login screen flashes: Welcome, 6ixeyes!
A little bar slowly fills, until the login screen disappears and Satoru’s avatar appears exactly where Suguru left it the night before.
Shoko’s talking with Utahime, and they’re whispering between themselves, and so are Choso and Yuki, and Nanami and Haibara are off somewhere in private, and Suguru wonders how it is they’re like this. How he and Satoru just fit together. With Satoru leaning against him, Suguru has never felt out of place in a room of couples, and he hates that he knows the exact reason why.
Satoru maneuvers his avatar around, a little, but Suguru’s mind is still stuck on the white hair falling across his shoulder, like winter snow, and the rasp of Satoru’s voice as he whispers in Suguru’s ear. He wants to keep Satoru by his side like this all the time, keep him somewhere where he’s never out of arm’s reach.
Maybe that’s why the streaming bothers him. Suguru thought he knew Gojo. Thought he knew him really well. And never had it crossed his mind that Satoru might…enjoy that. What’s worse is he can see it, now that he’s looking for it. Satoru’s always been immersed in what’s online. Online, he can be whoever he wants. He has full control over how he appears there. And for someone who grew up as sheltered as Satoru, it’s the perfect way for him to explore his sexuality, and earn a bit of extra cash for the Fushiguros.
Yeah, Suguru decides. It does fit Satoru.
And that’s when it hits Suguru. He knows Satoru’s username. Satoru wouldn’t think to use anything different, not when his Nintendo account is private, and has been around since he was a kid.
6ixeyes.