'You have to keep reversed cursed running, ' Shoko says, ladling broth into a bowl that she and Suguru had made soup of while he 'd been unconscious, 'your body will break down if you let it go. '

So many things he could say, so many things he could promise and lie and deny. Instead, Satoru takes it with a nod, swallowing the words down when they want to bubble up. He wants this to last him a lifetime. It doesn 't matter how uncomfortable he feels in this body and its sincerity. He doesn 't want just a moment anymore.

'What 's '? ' He asks, staring down at the contents of the bowl, amber and hot in his palms. He can 't quite recall the right words for it.

'Just broth, ' Suguru answers, bending down slightly to set his chin on his shoulder, delightfully taller than him still, even if only by an inch. He can 't really remember that the first time around. They 'd probably all been too busy to dedicate anything but a moment to laughing about how he 'd overtaken Suguru in height in less than a year. He doesn 't mind so much, because he 'll get to experience it again and make new memories for it.

'We made a stew, but Shoko says you can 't have any fatty foods yet. ' Satoru leans into his weight, nodding again at the information that drifts in and out of his ears without actually sticking.

'Just proteins, ' Shoko elaborates, filling two more bowls with more than just broth before she 's sweeping past them to sit down at the table. 'It 'll take a few weeks before you can go back to eating junk again. '

Satoru sighs, shutting his eyes for a moment as he tries to recall all the sweet things he 'd popped like antidepressants.

'Wasn 't it mochi? '

He muses, letting Suguru nudge him to the table as he tries to find the memory, lost in the flood of them Shibuya had been. The last thing he 'd ever eaten, a fucking candy. Figures.

'...So, ' he asks, dipping a spoon into the broth to swirl it around without actually eating any as he sits, opposite Shoko with Suguru beside him, 'soup? '

'Easiest thing for your guts to process, ' Shoko explains, spilling droplets of her own onto the edge of her mass of papers spread out on her side of the table as she scarfs down a mouthful of noodles, eyes on her messily scrawling writing. At least the textbook is far enough away to avoid the stains, he thinks, eyeing the page it 's open to and the gross looking diagram with a healthy measure of disdain.

'Every week I 'll move you up to something more sustaining depending on how unfucked you are. ' She glances at him long enough to tick up an eyebrow, a cool look hiding the flicker of amusement in her eye.

'...Great, ' Satoru says, flashing his teeth in what is definitely not a smile. 'I can 't wait. I love soup. I totally ate soup all the time. ' Suguru snorts into his bowl beside him, rice noodles sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

'Speaking of eating, ' Shoko continues, and he wilts, looking down at the liquid he 's supposed to be drinking and yet ignoring, 'we 're gonna start doing dinners. '

'Huh? ' He mutters, making a face, and Suguru nudges his foot below the table.

'Every night, we 'll make something together, and eat it, ' he says, a pointedly accusatory look narrowing his eyes slightly,

'together. '

' 'M not a toddler, ' he grumbles, leaning back in the chair, and Suguru only sighs, pushing the bowl closer to him when Satoru doesn 't make a move to actually eat any of it.

'Yeah, ' he agrees, 'but wouldn 't it just be easier if there 's a set schedule? Then you don 't have to think about it. ' Satoru slides his gaze over to him, a little surly with no good reason to be, and makes himself nod.

It is a good idea, he knows, finally lifting up a spoonful of broth made from whatever Yaga stocked in the pantry at the beginning of the year. He only lets it hover, though, instead of bringing it up to his lips, frozen from nothing he can justify.

'Move, '

he thinks, staring at his hand.

'Just eat it. '

The spoon shakes slightly in his grip, a little unsteady, wobbly like it 's been lately. It stays stubbornly put, broth dripping down the metal with every tiny tremor.

'Just eat it, '

he thinks, tasting the phantom tang of copper on his tongue.

He can 't.

He hears more than he sees Suguru jump when he lets his forehead fall to the tabletop with a loud thunk, the spoon clattering next to him as he circles his arms around his ears, shutting his eyes. He 's starting to feel nauseous the longer he sits here and stares at something he can 't choke down, somehow reminded of things he doesn 't want to remember by something he 'd never had.

He grimaces when he swallows and the taste only thickens, bitter and sour and like iron in his mouth. The feeling of hot, sludgy liquid spilling down his throat, unwanted and accidental and disgusting, a vivid memory he can 't help.

'Oi, ' Shoko says. He doesn 't bother to raise his head up.

'Oi, '

she repeats, to no answer. 'Satoru, eat the damn soup. '

Silently, he shakes his head, fingertips drumming restlessly against nothing. He 'd dreamt of food for a while before he 'd lost count of the weeks, had weathered long, agonizing days of hunger pains and a hollowness he can 't even remember now before he forgot what food smelled like. Taste had gone right after it, until even in his dreams it just felt like ash in his mouth, before it stopped showing up altogether. Eventually, he forgot what a lot of it looked like, forgot names when he never used them, things when he never saw them.

His own blood was all that had been left.

'It 's not an appearance issue, right? ' Shoko says, a drawling taunt lacing her words that he knows is only there to rile him up. 'I am right that it 's not because you just want to be a skinny little skeleton- '

'Shut

up, '

Satoru hisses, finally lifting his head from the table, the taste of iron heavy and cloying in his mouth. 'It 's not fucking anorexia. '

'Then eat the goddamn soup, ' Shoko demands, the words slow and harsh and burning under her glare.

'...Shoko- ' Suguru starts, eyes darting between them, but she only holds up a hand. Satoru doesn 't look down at his knuckles, even as he feels them creak with how tightly he 's got his hands fisted.

'No. If it 's just an accident, then he 'll eat it, ' she says, something too knowing in her hazel eyes, 'won 't he? '

Satoru scowls, opposite the table from her and wondering when Shoko got so goddamn mean. He doesn 't think she used to be like this, acidity and vitriol buried in her words, but then again, he can only picture the snuffed out thing she 'd become a decade in the future when she forgot how to care. And who 's he to talk, when he hadn 't said a single sincere word until he 'd up and died.

'You 're a real asshole when you wanna be, ' he mutters, and Shoko only narrows her eyes.

'Only when people I 'm responsible for go around trying to kill themselves, ' she says, and he bristles, a phantom feeling of skin ripping at the base of his throat. 'Eat the soup. '

'Your bedside manner 's just downright pleasant, ' Satoru grits, making a fist around the spoon he 'd dropped. Instead of using it, he only ends up staring, twitching slightly as a figure he knows isn 't real moves in the corner of his eye.

'Just eat it, '

he thinks, staring at the broth as it slowly cools,

'it 's not that hard. '

'But what if it 's fake? '

Whispers in his ear, a voice that belongs to nobody, and he stills, eyes glued to the bowl.

He doesn 't remember what things taste like. He 'd eaten those wafers Shoko had chucked at him not so long ago, just

hours

ago, he knows he had, he can remember it but-

'What did they taste like? '

He thinks, and can 't picture it.

What if the soup is the same?

Shoko 's saying something again he realizes, when the muffled murmur of her voice drags against his ears, another taunt probably to get him angry enough to spill whatever he 's not saying. She 's clever, too clever, but he 's too far gone for it to work the way she wants.

'Just a dream, '

it whispers,

'only a dream. '

'This is real, '

he thinks, the thought words a little more hysterical than they should be,

'it 's real. '

'Then eat it, '

it hisses. The broth only sits, still and untouched, a prayer or a damnation.

'Satoru, ' he hears, faint, before he 's startling with a flinch, palms warm on either side of his face. Suguru blurs into focus, his dark eyes, dark hair, the butterfly bandage on the edge of his jaw from nicking himself with a weapon. 'Tell me what you 're thinking? ' Suguru asks, endearing and earnest and always a blessing, no matter how much red had been dripping from his hands.

'What if it 's not real, ' he finds himself mumbling, blinking away the smile that hangs over Suguru 's shoulder, warped and malignant with the cold, empty eyes above it.

Suguru 's expression smooths over the pained thing almost too fast for him to see it- maybe he wouldn 't have, if he didn 't have the Six Eyes and an infinity of time. His thumbs are warm and gentle when they swipe under his eyes, leaving scattering trails of pinpricks and stars everywhere they touch, and Suguru only hums.

'Looks real to me, ' he says, and lets go with one hand to pick up the forgotten spoon, swirling it through the broth before lifting it up again. 'Try it. If it isn 't, we 'll make another. ' He holds it out, and slowly, Satoru lets his eyes drift down from his face to the hollowed metal.

It looks real, amber and still warm enough to faintly steam, and it smells like broth instead of blood. Hesitantly, he reaches out, covering Suguru 's hand with his own as he swallows down the fear.

'Just a dream, '

it whispers, a shriek among the murmur,

'what if it 's fake, just a dream, just a dream- '

Screwing his eyes shut, he leans down, shoving the spoon into his mouth with little to no grace and expecting the sharp metallic taste of copper to sting his gums and stain his teeth. He sits for a long moment, just breathing through the wait for the pain to start from whatever new hole he 's torn through his skin, when he realizes there 's a taste on his tongue he 's unfamiliar with, instead of the only one he remembers.

Slowly, Satoru opens his eyes, swallowing down the mouthful of soup broth as he looks over to the bowl, blinking. It 's 'warm. Salty slightly, a little thin and definitely made with chicken broth from a box, but '

Silently, he forgoes the spoon entirely and lifts the bowl up instead, taking a tiny sip as he watches the liquid inside roll like the waves of an ocean. It 's the same as from the spoon- warm, salty, meaty. It doesn 't taste like iron at all.

When his eyes start to sting, he sets it back down on the table with a quiet clink, his head following after to rest on wood again, falling much softer than before. When he brings his hands up to his face, it 's to hide the flush on his cheeks rather than to block out the world.

It 's real, this is real, it 's real,

he repeats, over and over again like a mantra in his head as a few tears trickle down his cheeks despite how hard he tries to squeeze his eyes shut against them.

Words float above him, things he pays no mind to as he takes a moment and pieces himself back together again, Suguru 's palm warm on his shoulder blades.

He chokes as much of it down as he 's allowed, once he finds his footing and sits up, wiping tears away and pretending he wasn 't crying over boxed made broth. It 's real, is all he can think. It 's

real.

Not a whole lot really changes from the tentative normal he 's wound up in.

The evenings are spent with all three of them together, making something for dinner and then enjoying it at the same time, rather than split apart and left alone to different devices. Shoko forces him through a hellish week of just broth for two meals a day, and then a week after that of slightly more stockier soup.

He keeps passing out every time she draws his blood with each check of his health she calls

'unfucking updates, '

meant to see what foods he can handle, though never from the old phobia that had used to make him squirm. On one memorable occasion, he 's told that Yaga walked past the clinic at the same time as Suguru and Shoko had been hauling his limp body off the floor. The first time it only makes him woozy, Suguru claps. The bird he 'd given him hadn 't been worth the headrush.

With each meal he chokes down, some of the fatigue lifts. The world feels realer with each thing he eats, none of it truly new so much as forgotten. Life gets a little easier; he gets less tired; he doesn 't make stupid mistakes anymore fighting people or curses. Weeks pass, and on a night that means nothing to him but a lot to them in the middle of November, Suguru leads him into the kitchen with hands over his eyes. He can see beyond them, something he complains about the entire while, but he 's still surprised when he blinks them open to see take out on the dinner table.

'We had to bribe Yaga, ' Shoko says, a grin on her face and wooden chopsticks already snapped apart. 'Surprise! You can eat ramen levels of sodium now without dying. '

A few days later, he pauses in front of the mirror in the middle of getting dressed before class, head tilting slightly as he notices something different about his reflection. Bringing his hands up proves he can squish the skin of his stomach between his fingers, pudgier than he can recall ever seeing it in either life he 's lived.

'Satoru, ' Suguru calls, head ducking into his room in time to see him frown at the mirror. 'Oh good, you 're awake, ' he says, wandering in, brows furrowing as he catches the frown trapped in his reflection.

'Tell me what 's on your mind? ' Suguru asks, pressing close enough to tug on the lobe of his ear.

'...Is this 'right? ' Satoru asks, poking at the fat on the lower half of his stomach, confused at the skin of it. It can 't seriously be good for him, can it?

'I have the same thing, ' Suguru says, a reassurance in his words as he rucks his shirt up to bare his belly, flat but soft enough to have a slight curve as he stands relaxed. 'You 're healthy, ' he says, and Satoru stares, unused to the fat when he 's never let himself have it before.

It 's new to be softer than he had the first time, plusher enough to pinch in places he hadn 't used to be able to and rounded in small notices that had been boney before. His ribs aren 't quite countable; his hip bones less sharp; his regrowing muscle hidden underneath the thin layer of fat on his legs. Shoko says it 's normal to put on weight after starving- that,

'it 's your body 's reaction to not having enough to consume. It adds fat so that if you starve again- and it thinks you will- you 'll have reserves to pull from. '

It 's not 'bad, he doesn 't think, staring in the mirror again like he does now every time he passes it. It 's definitely new, though. It makes him wonder, memories bubbling up when he starts to think on it of how he 'd used reversed cursed for a lot more than just running Limitless before the prison, edging like tiptoeing feet along his gaining suspicions. Sure, Satoru remembers eating, remembers sleeping, but those things had always been 'far away, of a sort.

'Have I always been starving? '

He wonders, dwelling on old things and thoughts buried under an eon of silence and darkness. His body has never quite looked like this when he tugs off his shirt and his pants, squishier and a little more rounded, fuller, or filled in a sense that he 'd always been sort of missing.

He 'd eaten, but sparingly, always busy running from one thing to the next with no time to sit and make meals beyond things he could buy or microwave. He 'd slept, but never for long, unwanting of the nightmares and the thoughts unless an over the counter drug had been available for abuse and always busy, busy, busy. Reversed cursed had kept him always refreshed, always healthy, always functional.

'But 'had it? '

He thinks, staring down at thighs he knows are his own but don 't really look like it, when they have softness on their insides instead of the lean muscle and counterfeit strength it 's always been.

He can 't lie, he feels better than he can ever remember feeling, when he 's spending nights doing something almost like sleeping wrapped up in Suguru, and evenings eating dinners he 's been genuinely delighted in spending time making, after he had spent years without the time to at all. He 's still busy, but it isn 't like how it had become, when he 'd barely been given more than a moment for himself to sit down and just breathe.

It 's different, but the third time he catches Suguru drumming his fingers into the new fat of his belly late at night, cursed energy twisting into a thing of relief, he decides it 's not so bad.

Different, he 's begun to learn, is a good thing.

Memories start coming back to him of other things from his original first year, and how after the first time Suguru had stopped them at a food stall after a mission, he 'd never shut up about trying new things. Amazingly enough, it almost happens again the same way, just enough of a butterfly effect to alter it so slightly he barely notices the changes. A week out of Shoko 's not-starving diet plan, Suguru surprises him after a mission spent in the cold weather of the inner city, holding up two small skewers of dango from a nearby stall and a rosy grin to match.

He doesn 't shut up about the new things he wants to try again, after that.

Little changes like it saturate his life as the days keep passing, small things he notices here and there or after a while of them existing under his nose without a sound about it.

Shoko and Suguru start walking around with snacks lining their pockets, shoving packages of crackers or granola bars or small candies into his hands at moments that seem random to him, but which he realizes have a sort of method to them. He eats whatever they give him every time he 's given it, because removed from the haze of panic and the fog of the hunger he hadn 't felt, he can recognize what it is to be cared for, and how he 'd never had it before. How he craves it, how it 's given to him with little but an afterthought.

He doesn 't feel hungry again. He starts being able to recognize it, when his stomach gurgles or he gets more irritable and easier to frustrate, but he never feels it. The hollowness he can remember as existing but not feeling in the darkness of that hell remains a relic of life before the prison, a pretty painting to hang up in the mausoleum of the person he 'd been and no longer is.

It 's just the same as the long pains, the ones that aren 't the short little jolts of stubbing a toe or pricking a finger on a staple, things that don 't hurt so much as startle. He doesn 't really feel them anymore, not after the escalations of all the injuries he 'd given himself and then gotten used to. He admits it to Suguru, late one night in the latter half of November after a month of eating better, laying nose to nose in his bed after another alarming day where he forgets to eat again, and Shoko yells at him, and he 's stuffed with more protein bars than chewable.

'I don 't think I 'll ever feel hungry again, ' he whispers, the words lost in the dark of the room, spoken too early in the morning after hours of lying awake because he never quite sleeps much anymore.

It doesn 't matter that Suguru is asleep when he says it; one dark eye cracks open anyway, catching his face as it starts to burn red, calm despite the secret he hadn 't meant to let slip.

'But I do, ' Suguru murmurs, reaching out to tug him closer with a hand on his waist, an action that 's been getting more and more familiar the longer he stays in this utopia-like world. 'And we 're only the strongest together, aren 't we? ' Suguru nods back off a few moments after he mumbles the words, hair fanned out on their shared pillow and oblivious to how Satoru has to spend a long while with his hands over his mouth as his eyes burn.

It means more than most things ever could.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, shivering in the chill of December, confused. Rubbing at his face, Suguru rolls over, blankets tangling between his legs as he reaches for-

Silently, he opens his eyes. Satoru 's gone.

That 's not necessarily odd by itself though, he thinks, slowly sitting up in the dark of his room as he eyes the clock on the nightstand. One in the morning, it reads. The blankets are kicked around, rustled like someone was restless, and the curtains are slightly parted, just enough to see the crescent of the moon hanging high in the black of the sky. It 's completely quiet, and he 's alone.

'Maybe he 's just in the bathroom, '

Suguru thinks, yawning, and resolves to sit and wait for a little while. Reasonably, very reasonably, he could just go back to bed- but there 's a gnawing thing in the pit of his stomach, nibbling on his flesh like a curse just hard enough that he can 't help but stay sitting up, watching the doorway.

Satoru 's been clinging to him nightly since August- since that awful afternoon when he 'd collapsed, through the terrible shock September and starvation had been, all the way past early November, as the cold had begun to seep into everything indoors once it had frosted over everything outside. It 's 'uncommon, he realizes, running the fleece throw blanket between his fingers, for Satoru to be anywhere else besides with him throughout the night.

Even if he doesn 't sleep, he lies beside him. Even if he wakes up, he stays there until morning. Even though he has his own room, his own bed, Satoru remains with him.

A flickered glance back to the clock reads five past one, and Suguru swallows, rubbing a hand over his elbow in the chill of the room without any blankets or extra body heat. He 's cold, so Satoru must be freezing, wherever he is.

Wherever, which is definitively not the bathroom like he 'd hoped, as another molasses thick minute passes by.

'Hell, '

Suguru thinks, the thought colored anxious,

'what now? '

They aren 't dating, and they certainly aren 't married, so why, he grumbles, is he getting out of bed in the middle of the night to go look for his best friend? The gnawing in his belly doesn 't go away as he pokes his head out on the chilly engawa, walks down the hallway, looks in the living room.

Maybe they aren 't dating, he worries, when he still can 't find where Satoru 's disappeared to, but a label is the most useless thing in the world when it can 't fit the definition of abstract or unspoken love into it. Maybe they haven 't kissed yet, and maybe Satoru doesn 't even have an idea that it 's mutual, but either way, it 'll only be a matter of time.

If only, he laments, finally turning out of the kitchen, he could find the idiot.

Either god is funny, or it 's an attempt at mercy, because Suguru stops in his tracks almost as he thinks it, stumbling to a halt as he turns the corner and finds a snowy head ducked against the hallway, the shoulders that hold it up shaking against the wall.

'Satoru? ' He asks, stepping forwards, and furrows his brows when it only earns him a nasty flinch. 'What are you doing out here-? ' He starts to ask, an annoyed half-hearted accusation of sleepwalking lining up on his tongue when he realizes what the odd, extra noise is.

'Shit, ' he curses, eyes widening, as Satoru leans against the wall and wheezes like he can 't breathe. He watches for one struck moment as shaky hands clutch into the old band shirt covering heaving chest, twisting the fabric tight enough to strain, before he thinks that maybe, he should really do something.

'Hey, ' he starts, stepping closer, and then closer again when he gets no reaction for it. 'Satoru? ' He asks, stooping slightly to be more level with bowed white head. Brows furrowing, Suguru reaches out, the palm of his hand pushing soft, snowy bangs out of fixed blue eyes. They stare down at some indistinct point near their feet, frozen on nothing, and it reminds him like a blow to the stomach of months ago now and a nail file; of waking up, walking back into his room, and seeing that look in dimmed eyes. The one that had been so far away, so distant, that he 'd wondered if he 'd ever be able to reach where Satoru had been at all.

'Satoru, ' he murmurs, stepping closer still until they 're nose to nose, dragging his palms down too pale face until he can cup under too sharp jaw. He tilts his head up, enough to meet their eyes where he stands and shakes as if he was dunked in a polar lake in the middle of winter. Blue irises slowly detaches from their trance on the floor, gradually rising to focus on his own, and maybe it should be a little terrifying, but it 's only reliving to watch the awareness flood back into them when they 'd been lacking any, before.

The shaking, snapping inhale is loud when they 're stood so close they could lean in just a centimeter to kiss, felt under his fingers and jarring to his bones as Satoru heaves in air like he 's dying. Two clammy, cold hands lock onto his wrists, widened blue eyes filling with panic as they hold steady on his face. It 's still infinitely better than the stillness- the emptiness.

'Just- I, if you- ' Suguru stumbles, looking for an answer he doesn 't have, because he 's never dealt with this before. He doesn 't know what to

do,

he thinks, the thought agonizing. Shoko might know, but she 's asleep and it's one in the morning and Satoru sounds like he 's about to suffocate-

He blinks in surprise as he 's steered off the wall. Satoru tugs him, stumbling away and nearly tripping over his own two feet. Suguru steadies them, the anchor of the storm tousled ship, letting Satoru lead them into the kitchen with a white-knuckled grip on his hands.

The tile is frigid on bare feet, the chill of the air freezing on the bare skin of his arms. He ignores it as Satoru pulls them forwards, past the small island and to the fridge in the corner. He lets go once they stumble close enough to it to open, still panting with useless breaths as he sucks in air that seems to do nothing, a wild sort of thing edged in the look of his eye as he falls more than lowers to his knees.

'What 're you- ' Suguru starts, only to stop as Satoru yanks open the freezer drawer, before plunging his hand down into the belly of it and rummaging around. His arm shakes, fingers trembling where they hold onto the stainless steel edge, but he finds what he 's looking for, even as he gasps like he 's drowning. Confused and a little paranoid, Suguru watches him pull out a frozen bag of berries Shoko had bought for easy smoothies in the morning, left over from when Satoru couldn 't really handle solid foods and kept around because she hates eating anything before nine.

He stands still, puzzled into silence as Satoru jams it against his sternum, shaking hard where he sits, slowly slumping down onto the flats of his legs as he lets the toes of his bare feet give out of his lopsided kneel. He wheezes quietly, hollow breaths that pull in and out of his lungs too quickly. Slowly, Suguru sits with him, shutting the freezer drawer after a long moment where it isn 't reached for again, before turning his gaze back on Satoru.

He still looks 'foggy, cloudy almost, like he 's not quite all there, shaking where he sits but actually doing something closer to breathing than before. Silently, he reaches out to set a hand on his shoulder, not expecting it when Satoru turns to look at him- his eyes are wide, pained, his lips twisted as he inhales hard through his nose.

'It 's fine, ' Suguru rambles, as Satoru tilts into him and then melts, 'it 's all fine, ' resolved to saying nonsense as white hair tickles the underside of his chin, as his fingers grow numb from keeping the frozen bag held against Satoru 's chest when his own hands keep slipping.

They 're going to be so tired in the morning, he thinks, as Satoru sits in the circle of his arms and shakes like he 's sobbing, even though he makes no noise at all and cries no tears. He rearranges and shuffles and lets himself be jostled when Satoru squirms and wriggles and tries to get something Suguru can 't pinpoint. It 's almost with a sort of mania that he moves, a wild look to his eyes and a frantic thing stiffening his hands as he breathes like he can 't.

Whatever he 's looking for, Suguru can 't figure it out- doesn 't understand until he does.

Satoru finally stills when his head 's pressed against the left half of his chest, right over the bony part of his sternum, his torso trying to slip down as his pants slide on the frictionless tile below them. Suguru lifts a hand to his temple, pushes down just a little on his head, and realizes with all the grace of a trainwreck when the heavy sigh of relief comes that what Satoru had wanted was the sound of his heartbeat.

He sits, swallows down whatever thing he feels until it 's not quite so large, and listens to the pound of it roar in his ears.

'Oh, '

is all he can think, as he shuffles them again until he 's sat with his back to the cabinets, Satoru caged in his arms and finally not sliding down the floor with one of his calves keeping him pressed upright and close.

He holds the frozen bag of mixed berries to Satoru 's sternum with icy hands, ignoring the cold of it when it seeps into his shirt, focusing instead on the weight of his head that 's heavy on his chest, the sound of his evening breathing a melody in his ears. Each rise and fall of his own inhales and exhales makes him feel a little exposed, a little scrutinized, when each one draws the oxygen needed for his heart to beat a pattern in his ribs and a rhythm in Satoru 's ear.

They sit for a long time, silent save for their shared breathing, the quiet crinkle of the frozen bag as it thaws and drips cold water all over their shirts. He watches, once he manages to tear his eyes off of the counter across from them and kick his mind back into something moving, as Satoru 's eyes slowly fall shut; as his pale skin starts to regain its color the longer he breathes steadily; how his hands slowly relax where they 'd been clenched into nail-bitten fists.

He blames it on the cold of the bag when the realization hits him later than it really should.

'He 'knew what to do? '

He thinks, feeling the pulse of his own heart like a brand in his chest when Satoru 's head leans against it over his skin.

'He looked panicked though- but he didn 't look shocked, '

Suguru thinks, the words dropping in his stomach like a stone in a lake.

Hell if he knows what a frozen bag of berries does for a panic attack, but

Satoru

does, and clearly well if he 'd thought to use them once Suguru had cleared the fog from his eyes.

This isn 't new, he thinks, the thought dull, accompanied by a faint sort of far away screeching horror. This is practiced, tried and probably tested.

He sits for a while after, trying not to think about it and yet doing nothing but yelling in his own head about it, because the last three months have been a little bit of a nightmare that he 'd thought had come from nowhere.

'But, '

he wonders, looking down at where Satoru leans against him, finally calm,

'had it? '

He 'd known what to do. He knows what to do. Had he been dealing with it all alone for the entire first half of the year, hiding it and suffering without a sound? Has he been dealing with this for the past few months, entirely alone? With a sigh, Suguru closes his eyes, head thunking against the cabinets. Either Satoru has, and this really is nothing new just like Shoko thinks, or it 's something old that 's returning again for whatever reason, just like Shoko thinks.

He hates either option.

'Hey, Satoru? ' Suguru murmurs, when his tongue feels like it can 't bear the weight of all his thoughts any longer.

He gets a raspy hum in response, a quiet,

'hm? '

that sounds as exhausted as he 's sure Satoru probably feels. Teething on his words, he pulls him a little closer, rethreading his arms around thin torso and moving the frozen bag back up when it starts to fall.

'What caused this? ' He wonders, and feels the tensing of muscles against him when Satoru stiffens ever so slightly. He doesn 't answer for a long moment, the silence overbearing when its only contender is the low thud of his heart muffled under Satoru 's ear, only loud in his own because it 's being listened to.

'I don 't know, ' Satoru mumbles after another couple of its beats pass, a drum behind his ribs, and Suguru frowns. He recognizes that tone. The words are too stale, too 'flighty. Slowly, he pulls the frozen bag from between them, setting it at his side to melt onto the tile instead of into his shirt, and pulls Satoru all the way into him. He 's as cold as an ice block, and it would be jarring if the ice hadn 't been touching him, too.

'Don 't lie, ' he chides, the words softened because it takes one to know one, and he only pushes Satoru 's head back down to his sternum when it starts to lift with a protest. He doesn 't bother to even fight the movement- a testament to his exhaustion, probably, when all Satoru does is melt back into him.

'...I nicked myself shaving yesterday, ' he admits, sounding more than a little miserable. 'I opened the cuts again- but it was an accident, ' he pleads, desperate to be believed as he presses further into Suguru 's chest with eyes screwed shut and nose burning cold. Suguru doesn 't push that he doesn 't know which part of that statement is the accident, and tries to let the anxiety wash out in favor of doing something about it, instead.

'Let me see? ' He asks, and after a contemplated moment, Satoru lifts his wrist. He unwinds one arm from around him to grab a hold of it, fingers gentle as he turns his hand palm up. Sure enough, three neat little lines sit on the soft inside, before running jagged after an abrupt curve when they hit the knob of his bone- almost like he 'd startled when he 'd realized he 'd cut himself.

They 're not deep in any sense of the word- they sit as shallow, thin little lines, likely from an accidental swipe of a shaving razor over skin in an angle just right enough to be wrong. The gnawing feeling comes back stronger than before, an annoyance and irritation both from where it makes him feel almost as if he 's in free fall. It 's unsettling, not knowing why this in particular was enough to cause all of that.

'You 're not gonna heal 'em? ' He asks, letting go of Satoru 's wrist after he 's returned it, sapphire eyes hidden against him. He gets a sluggish headshake of

no,

white stained almost blue in the darkness of the kitchen. 'Why not? '

'...Can 't, ' Satoru whispers, a single word answer, and Suguru lets his lips thin into a worried line. He never gets much of anything when it fumbles down to single word answers.

'Okay, ' he murmurs, and tries to put it out of his mind. Neither of them need an interrogation more than they need to just go back to sleep. 'Can we go back to my bed, though? It 's kind of cold in the kitchen. '

'Please, ' Satoru agrees, and he breathes out a small thing of relief, hooking his arms under newly re-strengthened thighs before he lifts. Satoru 's still light, still lean and thin and wiry, but there 's a mass to him he 'd been missing a month before. He 's careful not to slip in the puddle of water the frozen bag of mixed berries has left on the tile, standing still for a moment as he contemplates whether or not to put them back in the freezer as knees squeeze his sides and an arm threads around his neck.

The other, he feels after a moment, snakes down to press against his sternum, on the left half of his chest. It pushes slightly against his dampened shirt, feeling for the thud it finds and settles over, and for a long couple of breaths in, Suguru can 't find it in himself to move.

If he can 't hear it, then what 's the next best thing, he thinks a little faintly, as he finally bends down enough to grab the melting bag. Shoko might call him a lovesick idiot, but there 's something about a hand searching for his heartbeat that makes his blood pound in his ears, a wide-toothed thing swallow up his chest, a stutter halter his fingers as he lets the frozen bag tumble back into the freezer drawer.

He 'd let her call it lovesick, call it sappy or saccharine or gag worthy; he 'd never tell her anyway, he thinks. Something about it is 'indescribable. Like carving out an organ to give to another person alone. Like handing over a heart.

Slipping back into his own room is a mercy of a sort. He sets Satoru down on the edge of his bed, tugging off hands that cling in favor of wandering to the closet where he finds a shirt and a sweater for them to wear that aren 't wet. They could just sleep shirtless, but it 's cold, and even his body heat won 't be enough for Satoru not to spend all night shivering.

'Wet, ' he explains, tugging off his shirt to chuck it in the hamper in the corner, before pulling at the nearly sodden fabric of Satoru 's own. It 's his shirt, actually- one of his old band ones from the merch he used to buy religiously in middle school, softened with wear and a little threadbare from time, stretched out and oversized and achingly comfortable. If he were less tired, he might try a little harder to silence the little thing in his head clacking its claws together, crowing

mine mine mine mine

at the sight of Satoru in it. As it is, he lets it chant.

He gets no complaints for it, at least. Satoru shucks it off with the most minimalistic scowl ever, looking ready to pass out where he sits. Suguru trades him the cotton sweater, a white pull over that 's looser in the neck and more comfortable to sleep in than most of the others he owns, and maybe he refuses to take advantage but maybe he can 't deny that Satoru in his clothing is something more addictive than anything. He pulls the hem down after cold stiffened fingers find the arms and snake through, tossing the wet shirt in the hamper with the other before shrugging on his own once he 's certain Satoru 's not going to freeze.

He pauses for a moment before he tumbles down onto his mattress, stood between bony knees and scrutinized under a tired blue gaze, one he 's never known the real sight of. What does Satoru see, he wonders, as he stands here and touches him so gingerly it 's as if he 's made of glass? Delicately, he brushes his fingertips along Satoru 's cheek, rounded instead of gaunt or sallow, and thinks about how it 's not really something a friend would do.

Wordlessly, he lets his lips slant a little in thought, moving the feather light touch of his fingers up Satoru 's face, pressing just slightly against the undersides of his eyes, thumb brushing along fine white lashes, perfectly plucked brows. He 's only watched passively, trustingly, as something as dangerous as a hand gets as close as it can be to Satoru 's entire world. Blue watches him, white lashes like the softness of snowfall, as he touches something so precious that anyone else would willingly ruin, that anyone else is not allowed near. It 's heady- part of him is grateful it 's so late, that he 's so tired, because sometimes it 's too much knowing things like this.

Sometimes it 's too much, knowing that if Suguru were sat where Satoru is, he 'd let him do the very same.

He doesn 't say anything when he leans down, swiping white bangs to the side so he can press his lips against the cool skin of Satoru 's forehead, feeling fingers curl into the material of his shirt as he does. He doesn 't mention as he pulls away that he 'd meant to kiss somewhere else, and hadn 't quite been brave enough to.

'What were the frozen berries for? ' He asks, quiet as he climbs over Satoru to take the side closer to the window and the cold, reaching back for him once he 's under the blankets.

'Vagus nerve, ' he mumbles, sighing when Suguru drags him into the hollow below the quilt, sinking into the curve of his arms as his eyes shut. 'Slows your heart rate when it 's bothered, ' he explains, the thin words growing fainter as he talks.

Suguru listens, turning it over as he thinks and subtly shuffles them around. It 's 'sort of a perfect solution. No hassle or bother to it other than wet clothing. He wonders how he found it.

'And this? ' He asks, the last question he has for the night, as he pulls Satoru 's head down to his heart. He watches blue eyes open a little wider than they have been since they got back under the blankets, maybe surprised he 's bothering to wonder, or just realizing he 's been listening to it at all.

Whatever gets him to look so surprised, Satoru seems to let it go in favor of turning into him, pulling Suguru 's arm across his body and limbs loosening as he stills. '... 'S real, ' Satoru answers, barely above a whisper as he starts to fade back into somewhere unconscious.

For once, Suguru is the half that lies awake for the better part of the night, contemplating barely a few words, and yet unable to rest because of them.

He starts watching more closely, after that.

That isn 't to say he hadn 't been, before- but then again, he can reason, Satoru had starved for weeks before they 'd done anything. Sure he 'd noticed little things, but they hadn 't seen it.

It makes a twisted sort of sense that he could be missing attacks like the one of last night, too.

So he starts watching closer, starts keeping tabs on every little detail he thinks is out of place, and slowly, he starts to notice more. He catches the way that certain, innocuous words make Satoru still in place for barely a moment, but make him still all the same. How he acts cocky and confident and sure, when he can barely seem to catch his breath.

He starts to recognize the fakeness of a smile when he sees it being worn out of plastic rather than flesh, realizing that the more Satoru smiles, the less happy he is.

He catches shaky hands and splitting lips and finally realizes the lip gloss and chapstick and balms are an obsession to keep from teeth ripping them apart further. He sees nail marks on skin and bruises in the shapes of crescents in the last place on a hand a person would think to look, and finally has an answer as to why Satoru files his nails so short.

There 's a puzzle he has half the pieces of, a story he only knows the middle to. Blue eyes watch him watch them sometimes, and he thinks he might never find the beginning.

'You 're always so jumpy, ' Shoko complains through a mouthful of potato chips when Satoru twitches yet again after she 's reached over him for the remote, infinity wavering like a mirage under the stretch of her arm. Stacked together on the couch, Suguru watches, eyes on hands as they disappear under fleece covered thighs, the weight doing nothing to help the shake more than hide it.

'And you 're always up my ass, ' Satoru throws back, leaning away again when she bats around behind him to pull the throw blanket off the back of the couch, the thrum of infinity a buzz along his skin and a suggestion to push for him where it 's a concrete wall to Shoko.

'Oh, am I? I specifically remember someone in particular willingly mentioning a huuuge cru- ' He cuts her off with another snappy worded retort, and they go at it like chihuahuas as Suguru sits, staring at hidden hands as they tremble.

'What makes me different? '

He can only question, as Satoru presses into his body later that night and doesn 't sleep, even as he tangles them together as close as they can be.

'Why am I allowed to have you? '

Not even Shoko gets the same treatment as him. She 's close, inside the bubble enough to yell at him and make fun of things and laugh at his pain just like she does Suguru 's, when she knows that she 's allowed to. He knows though, has seen it and does see it; Satoru doesn 't let her touch him.

Shoko can get close, can put her hands on him, can heal him and bonk him on the head with the flat of her fist when she 's pissed at them, but Limitless doesn 't fall for her. Infinity stays stubbornly put between them until Satoru notices to lower it. It doesn 't part like seawater pulled with the tide between her fingers the way it does for him.

He jumps when she reaches for him, twitches when anyone else is allowed to put hands on him. Freezes at odd sentences and has panic attacks over things that Suguru can 't even begin to connect together when he only ever ends up catching a handful of them. How Satoru hides them is a thing he grows to resent; how he can walk around for hours, seemingly fine, until Suguru touches his face and the mask cracks in two.

He wakes up in the middle of the night at some point, for a reason he doesn 't remember and couldn 't find if he 'd tried. He 'd gone to move, annoyed enough to reshuffle and hope it would send him back to sleep, only to find that he couldn 't. When he 'd blinked his eyes open, registered the hand curled into the shoulder of his shirt and the weight against his body, he 'd seen Satoru 's head on the flat of his chest, his ear pressed to the left half of his sternum, blue eyes lidded but open all the same.

He 'd faked being asleep the next night, had laid still for long enough that Satoru must have thought he was, because only after had he felt it. The press of a palm over his heartbeat, hesitant or maybe reverent fingers skimming over his shirt, a cold nose finding the pulse of his jugular. Unsteady breaths, finding the rhythm of his body to calm to.

'It 's real, '

he 'd called it.

'What if it 's not real? '

He 'd worried.

'Why wonder if something 's real? Don 't you have to be convinced it 's not first to have that fear? '

He thinks, as Satoru sits on top of his desk that morning and blathers away about something inane he 's more than happy to add little snark and commentary to. He doesn 't know.

Watching more than he had gets him mostly nothing, even though he sees more, learns more, realizes that a lot of things he 'd thought were new have been around for a while. He has half of the puzzle pieces and a third of the story. He 's the lover and the friend and the ghost in the dark, wondering about it all.

'Will you tell me about it? ' He murmurs, late in the evening in the dregs of December. 'Why this caused it? ' Pinned underneath him by request, Satoru shakes like he 's got frostbite, huffing a disbelieving laugh below his weight.

'Just a bad memory. Nothing much. Everyone has bad memories. ' His hands tell another story. They curl in the front of his sweater, fingers warping threads and holding so tight it 's as if they think they 'd be ripped away, as if he 's terrified it 's all about to vanish into smoke. He has half the puzzle pieces, and a fraction of the story.

He has the whole of Satoru, and yet only a part of him.