He heaves, retching into the restaurant bathroom 's toilet, one part guilty and two parts miserable. Suguru gasps a choking inhale, given just enough time to get a breath in before he 's convulsing again, hacking into the bowl as all the contents of his stomach shove back up his throat.

He hates these missions, the ones that go smoothly and perfectly fine until he compacts a curse into his stomach, like Suguru 's the one with the problem. He 'd be lying if he said he couldn 't hate his technique, not even a little.

The only comfort he has as he slowly suffocates between every retch is that Satoru sits beside him, unbothered as he holds Suguru 's loosened hair off his forehead. How he can stand it, he 'll never know- Suguru pukes on the regular, and he still gets queasy watching other people do it up close.

Maybe that 's a pavlov reaction, he thinks, choking down heavy inhales that drag almost wetly down his throat as he gets a moment between the roiling of his stomach. It 'd make sense that he 'd get sick if someone else throws up around him since he does it so often, right? Another wave hits him like a truck, and he lurches forwards again as more bile spills off his tongue, dribbling past his lips.

He can feel them somewhere inside of him- restless, angry, slithering around like parasites. Maybe he wouldn 't be here burning up his esophagus if he hadn 't eaten three of them.

'Guess it 's a good thing we 're at a restaurant, ' Satoru murmurs beside him as he jerks through another wave, body so tense he feels like he 's about to break in half.

'A fucking good thing-? ' Suguru snaps, before clenching his teeth shut as he breathes through another particularly awful sway of curse-induced nausea. He can 't exactly light up a cigarette at a restaurant.

'Yeah. I can buy you something to drink. A water, maybe, ginger-ale if they have it, ' Satoru explains, a little absentmindedly as his hands thread through his mussed hair to tug it all loose, just about to fully fall out of its bun. As if they 'd been doing it forever, he spins it all back up into another one with nimble fingers, retying it as Suguru kneels and breathes too heavily.

Exhausted, he doesn 't say anything to the thought, even though he thinks it 's particularly appealing at the moment. The taste of bile always washes out, even if the curse doesn 't. Silently, he reaches up to flush the toilet, before collapsing to his left, arms around his head as Satoru 's crossed legs catch him.

Manicured hands hover over him for a moment, before they settle on his shoulder, his ribs. Quietly, he lays there and just tries to breathe, face lined with stress and feeling as taut as a bowstring.

'Three, '

he thinks, morose,

'why did I have to eat

three? '

'Hey, ' Satoru starts, the hand on his shoulder moving up to the back of his neck as his fingers wind through the short baby hairs at his nape, 'what if I told you something crazy. '

Suguru makes a face where he 's got his own shoved against Satoru 's stomach, a little trite. 'You say crazy shit all the time, ' he grumbles, and the small snort he gets is a little gratifying.

'I mean something crazier, ' Satoru responds, the restless fidgeting of his fingers more of a clue than anything else that he 's genuine, that he 's nervous of it. 'I mean, what if I told you that you 'd never have to eat another curse again if you didn 't want to? '

Suguru stills at that, feels it like a brand when Satoru 's fingers stutter slightly in their winding pattern, bile like a burn in the back of his throat. '...That 's not funny, ' he mutters, his voice raspy, and Satoru shifts slightly where he sits.

'What if I told you I meant it? ' Satoru says, and when he swallows, the sear of it is lessened under the sheer disbelief.

'...How? ' He utters, hovering his boot over the hope blooming so slowly in his chest, waiting to ruthlessly crush it. 'How would I even be able to? ' Satoru 's silent for a moment, rearranging words in his head as his fingers drum a beat into the back of his neck. Suguru lays, waiting, hovering the sole above the hope and maybe a little desperate not to stomp on it.

'There 's 'something you could do- something you could consume. Say it makes eating curses irrelevant, ' Satoru begins, a non-answer wrapped up in another fucking mystery, he realizes, feeling the weight of those blue eyes on him. 'Would you do it? ' He asks, and slowly, Suguru sits up.

He meets the sight of them head on as his bangs spill from over his ear where they were tucked away, holding Satoru 's bright eyes with a matching intensity, knowing with a merciless sort of certainty that this is something true because it 's another puzzle piece to the picture he doesn 't have. They don 't waver, don 't leave his own, don 't shrink or shy away. They meet his as heavily as he meets Satoru 's, giving him a choice he doesn 't know the options of.

Would he do it. There 's a lot of things Suguru 's already done, already seen, already eaten. Would he do it.

The back of his throat burns, and he knows if he keeps going like he is, he 'll hit a wall eventually. Eating curses is a curse itself, and though maybe people call him strong, it 's only because they don 't see the moments in between. How after swallowing a monster he has to fight its wrath just to digest it, has to spend hours tearing up the tissue in his throat with stomach acid and the never ending retching.

Shoko had mentioned offhand last week, after they 'd gotten back from a four day mission that had stretched out too long to fight one of the sixteen known special grades, that his esophagus is a few curses short of looking bulimic. She 'd healed it; she won 't be around forever.

Would he do it.

'Yes, ' he says, and the word burns like a fire in his throat. 'I would. '

Satoru 's lips tick up in the slightest smile, eyes narrowing under his long, white lashes. It 's a look he 's getting more familiar with, one that spells all sorts of chess games being thought out behind azure.

'Okay, ' Satoru says, and it sounds like a promise even though it isn 't one. 'C 'mon, ' he says immediately afterward, tugging him up with a hand over his own, 'let 's go buy something to drink. '

Suguru follows him, exhausted where he stands, repeating the words over and over in his head.

Would you do it.

Whatever he 's just agreed to, he can 't find in himself to be wary. There 's a certain mania to Satoru, a certain insanity that most other people find intolerable because they find it dangerous, and they 're right that it is. There 's something sharp and edged to the thoughts he thinks that he doesn 't tell anyone about- the ones that move people around like pawns without looking like he 's the one playing the game at all.

Still, he 's not afraid so much as he is a little restless. To never eat a curse again 'he doesn 't doubt Satoru; he doesn 't think it 's possible; Satoru himself is the impossible.

He feels those blue eyes on him as they sit at the restaurant and he 's forced to sip through a ginger-ale instead of chug it like he wants, as they finally go back up the mountain trailing smoke from the light of his lit cigarette, when it 's the middle of the night and they 're supposed to be asleep. Whatever he 's planning, Satoru 's not going to tell him.

That 's fine. Suguru said yes, after all.

After it happens, he tends to dream about it a lot. Maybe it 's the unreal, almost dream-like way it did, or maybe it 's the unreal, almost dream-like way that Satoru is somehow actually his.

He keeps remembering a moment in the dojo at the breaking of winter like it 's a song he can 't get out of his head, sweeping Satoru off his feet for once when Suguru had smirked and he'd just stared, stared, stared, unaware of the kick coming for his legs until his back had already hit the floor. He keeps thinking about the rush that had filled him full of adrenaline as he 'd pinned the untouchable, and finally seen Satoru 's eyes entirely clear of their perpetual fog for the first time in months.

He can recall with a clarity the breath that had filled his lungs in cold, shocking clouds as he 'd panted, winded, right by Satoru 's ear. How he 'd leaned in, murmuring, 'and what would you do, if this were a real fight? '

He can picture the spark of exhilaration that had ignited in his chest when Satoru had breathed out awe as he 'd caught his own breath like the glossy finish of a photograph, reaching up to brush fingertips along his cheek. 'I wouldn 't worry, ' he 'd said, 'you 'd be there, wouldn 't you? ' And Suguru had finally felled to his gravity, then, had given in to the magnetizing pull of it and allowed himself to topple.

'Yeah. I would be, ' he 'd whispered, as quiet as the first snow of winter drifting to the ground outside and maybe, finally, brave enough, 'because I choose you. ' He's been thinking about the excitement that had bloomed bright around his heart when Satoru 's eyes had widened, rendered, amazingly, speechless, repeating like an unending look he keeps pressing to rewind.

'Would you? Even if there was something bigger than me? Something greater you could do? ' Satoru had breathed, almost like the words hadn 't meant to escape his lips, fleeting and timid and important, Suguru had suddenly understood.

'You 're the greatest thing there is, ' he 'd said, leaning into the warmth of Satoru 's palm on his cheek. 'There isn 't anything more. There 's only you. '

'You promise? ' Satoru had said, and the snowflakes hitting the ground outside had probably been louder.

'I do, ' Suguru had murmured, leaning down, never looking away from the naked, raw hope in Satoru 's flared eyes. He 'd wanted him to see the same things reflected in his own.

'Then there 's only you, too, ' he 'd promised, the other half. 'I choose you. I want to choose you. '

When he thinks of the way their lips had brushed together for the first time, he remembers

soft

and

rough

and

cold,

adjectives all at odds with the way it makes his heart blaze behind his ribs.

Satoru comes home with him for the break.

It isn 't planned at first. Suguru had intended to go home with just a suitcase of clothing, his DS, his hair conditioner, and a flurry of text messages to catch up on from the lagging time difference of train rides. Satoru had been unexpected, extra luggage.

'I 've got word that the Gojo matriarch is informing you that you 're going back to the estate for the break, ' Yaga tells Satoru as he and Suguru sit in the archive, pouring over old books as Satoru looks for something he won 't tell anyone about, and only Suguru recognizes that he 's searching for. Mostly, though, they 've been goofing off and finding increasingly stupid reasons to

'candoodle, '

as Shoko gaggingly puts it.

'She said she wanted to make sure you 've kept up with your training, ' he continues, taking his sunglasses off for a moment to wipe them down with his shirt, 'and I 'm told there 's a clan event she wants your attendance for. '

The way Satoru stiffens in his seat is telling all on its own, and Suguru 's struck with the recurring sound of what Shoko had said back in early autumn as it clashes loudly against the memory of Satoru falling to his knees, retching into wilted grass.

'You 've heard the rumors of how clans treat their children, haven 't you? '

'

What if it 's not real? '

'Only monsters starve their children. '

'Why don 't you tell the old hag to stuff it, ' Satoru says, meeting eyes with the edge of the table instead of anyone else. The words are dark, tense, riddled with a sharpness Suguru hasn 't heard from him before, even begging on death 's doorstep not a full month ago.

'Satoru- ' Yaga starts, frowning, likely because he doesn 't have a solution to the problem at hand. Gojo Satoru hates his blood family, he 's expected back home, and there 's not much anyone can do about any of it.

'No, ' Satoru mutters, glaring down at nothing as he pushes out of his chair hard enough for it to screech along the hardwood. 'I won 't do it. I won 't go, ' he says, face contorting more with every word. He looks angry, Suguru thinks, until he slides his gaze down, and sees his clenched, trembling fist. It 's a struggle to keep his mouth shut when he knows why it shakes.

'I don 't have any power here, Satoru, ' Yaga sighs, dragging a hand down his face. He 's too young to be so tired, Suguru thinks, watching for the moment Satoru snaps. He knows it 'll happen. 'They want you back for the winter. I can 't exactly tell them no, ' Sensei says, and the sour, unsaid words of all the things that money can buy is left to hover heavily in the library 's musty, stale air.

It 's easy, after that, to pinpoint the moment right before it happens.

'I 'm not a commodity! ' Satoru yells suddenly, whirling where he stands with enough pressurized cursed energy leaking from him to move the heavy, oakwood table a good foot across the floor. The pages of the books resting on it all fly in the other direction, flapping loudly in the nonexistent wind, their bookmarks sailing and scattering to the floor. Suguru watches him seethe, hears the growing wetness in his pitching voice as he continues to shout, and hates that he knows this isn 't a fight he can join.

'I 'm not a product that can be returned! You don 't get to pretend that I am one! ' Yaga takes a step back, eyes wide and surprised for the first time Suguru 's ever seen him be before as Satoru yells at him, loud and genuine and almost sounding hurt behind all the anger.

'It 's always do this, Satoru, exorcize that! Go there, Satoru, carry all our work for us. ' He bares his teeth, as pained as a snarl can possibly get, Suguru thinks, as he spots the shine turning blue eyes glossy. 'Everybody always needs me, but nobody actually

wants

me! ' He shouts, fists squeezed so tightly at his sides they 've turned white, and his face follows quickly after once he registers what he 's said.

He backs up a step, looking around frantically for a moment before anyone else can catch their bearings. He whips his gaze back around to Yaga, snarling out a last, 'I 'm not going and you can 't make me, ' before he 's taking a step, and then vanishing into thin air.

'That 's new, '

Suguru thinks.

They stew in silence for a long minute after he 's gone. Suguru sits in his chair, and tries not to dwell on how the backlash of cursed energy passed harmlessly around him, while it hit Yaga and the table full force. He pretends he doesn 't see it when Sensei heaves a weighted sigh, dragging a hand down his face.

'What am I going to do with that kid, ' he mutters under his breath, likely not intending for Suguru to hear it.

'He could come home with me, ' he says, without thinking about it, until he 's rethinking what just came out of his mouth when Yaga turns to stare at him.

'Could he? ' He asks, one eyebrow raising in mild disbelief.

'Yeah, ' Suguru stumbles, because even though he didn 't mean to say it doesn 't mean it isn 't true.

'...Convince him, you 'll convince me, ' Yaga says, and then turns on his heel and slips out of the library again. Suguru watches him go, wondering if the lack of a fight is from Satoru 's outburst, or his own miniature declaration of war. There 's nothing else to really call it.

'This is going to give me a headache, '

he thinks, before leaving the library after Yaga to go find Satoru, wherever he 's made a mess.

Sometimes he hates Yaga Masamichi.

It 's unfair of him. The man is just as trapped in this world as any of them, when he 's bound by the same strict rules everybody lives by save the people who make them. It isn 't enough, though, to pretend like he doesn 't. Not when Yaga only stood by; not when Yaga only watched; not when Yaga didn 't do anything when they needed it most.

'Control it, '

they hiss as he stalks down the halls, slamming big, heavy doors as he goes with nothing but his own raw, unfiltered cursed energy, all the while failing to catch his breaths as they start coming larger, wetter, louder.

'Don 't make a mess. '

However much he might sometimes hate Yaga, he thinks he hates the voices more.

Digging his fingers into his hair doesn 't work to shut them up, and neither does leaving crescent shaped indents into the skin of his arms below his sleeves. 'Shut up, ' he mutters, desperate, 'shut up, shut up, shut up, ' but they don 't stop talking as he all but runs, stumbling through the grounds of the school, covered in snow.

'Work to live, live to die, '

they taunt,

'little god, little god, why aren 't you perfect now? '

'I 'm trying! ' He cries, yelled to nobody but the frosted air that curls from his lips in the freezing weather outside, no footprints left under the heavy footfalls he staggers through thick powder when blanketed by infinity, clawing at his hair in fistfuls of white. 'I have been! ' The snow around him plumes as if kicked by a huge gust of wind, and he barely notices when the entire world tilts and reshapes. His nose burns in the cold, something warm and wet trickling down his cupid 's bow.

'What did we say about restraint, Satoru? '

He hears, the old, biting words a shiver down his spine, and he grits his teeth against the crackling spark of Blue that wants to pull from his fingertips as he falls through reality- still the easiest of the three after all the decades passed. Every step takes him somewhere else on the barren campus, pulled everywhere and nowhere when he can 't control his own emotions.

'You didn 't care about restraint, ' he mumbles, the bitter, wetted words chattering in the cold of the snow and the frigid air, the icy exterior of the wall unhelpful when he stumbles against it, staring out at the gardens on the east side of campus. They 're beautiful, covered in crystal and glimmering snow. Death painted pretty. 'You never cared about restraint. ' The fountains take their place.

'Think of what you reflect upon the family. '

He listens, because he doesn 't have any other choice, slowly sliding down against the chilly stone as he shuts his eyes, the tang of copper on his tongue. The gardens, again.

'You

are

this family. What will your actions say about us? '

'That you 're just as awful as any of them, ' he murmurs, eyes shut against the dull gray-blue of the cloud-hazed sky, shivering where he sits in the snow with nothing but his uniform jacket and Limitless and the warmth of a nosebleed to protect him from the ice.

'We made you who you are, '

they taunt, so justified in such a lie he could almost laugh. How many times has he heard those words, he wonders? How many times has he thought so many things, but only said what they 'd wanted to hear?

'Who I am is awful, ' he says, and it sounds small, whittled away.

He doesn 't fight it as his energy flickers, rippling, altering the world around him until it 's stuck skipping like a broken record between different places, him left as the needle scratching the disk. Instead, he only sets his head down on top of his knees, shoulders curled up to his ears as he bites into the softness of his lips hard enough to rip old skin, unwilling to cry with sound.

'I taught you everything, '

she preaches,

'I made you into a sorcerer, '

he says.

'You stole your strength from me, '

she says,

'I lent you pride, '

they claim.

'None of you ever gave me anything that mattered, '

he thinks, years separated from the family he runs from, found again right at the step of its doorway. It feels hot when the tears dribble past his waterlines, dripping onto his cheeks, mixing with the blood pooled on his upper lip.

'None of you ever let me be human. You took it away from me. '

'Satoru! ' He hears, his name called faintly as if far away. He ignores it, curling tighter into himself and hoping it 'll just go away with all the other noise. 'Satoru! '

It doesn 't. Instead, it slowly gets louder and quieter as the world shifts and blurs, changing and solidifying and changing again. 'Satoru! ' Suguru yells, as he sniffles into his knees, sat in the cold of another garden he doesn 't recognize. He cuts off abruptly, his voice replaced with the sound of boots crunching in snow and the polyester of a puffer jacket swishing against itself.

'I 've been looking for over an hour- what the hell! ' Suguru exclaims, annoyance in his sharply cut words but a worry hidden along their edges. 'It 's freezing out here, what are you doing?! '

He tenses as the heavy thunk of knees hitting snow right in front of him sends a jitter up his legs, sniffling in another breath that feels wet through the blood, slowly raising his head just enough to peer over the tops of his knees and their ripped jeans.

'-you 're gonna

freeze.

I know you 've been doing better but you get cold when it 's fucking hot out, Shoko 's gonna kill us you dweeb- ' Suguru rambles, digging around in his shoulder bag as he pulls out a scarf, another scarf, his spare winter coat, a hat, gloves '

Swallowing thickly, Satoru watches, blinking away the remnants of tears. He doesn 't know if it 's because he 's fifteen again, or if it 's because he spent so long all alone, but he doesn 't feel like twenty or thirty anymore with the unshakable ability to stuff his own feelings down until they 'd disappear. They feel big, and overwhelming, and he can 't help but cry at the thought of returning to his family.

Suguru kneels in front of him in the cold of the snow, soaking his pants as he drags out warm things to bundle him up in because he cares, because he 's worried, and it feels big. It feels overwhelming, and he can 't help but cry at the thought that he 's doing it because Satoru 's just as human as him, and Suguru knows that.

'-I mean seriously, who just runs off in the middle of fucking winter? I can 't believe you, you 're so- so ' ' Suguru trails off mid-way through his anxiety fueled rant, the words dying on his tongue once he looks up. 'Satoru? ' He asks, and there 's a softness in the way his name is said that only makes the tears come harder, hotter, worse.

He sniffles again as he inhales, a miserable sound if he 's ever heard any, meeting Suguru 's dark eyes below the white veil of his bangs. When he blinks, another stray tear trickles past his waterlines, falling down into the snow where a few droplets of red stain it pink. He hates crying. He never used to do it. Maybe it 's because he 's fifteen, maybe it 's because he 's not. He hates crying. Now it 's all he ever seems to do.

He doesn 't really know what emotion it is that shifts on Suguru 's face. It 's something softened, sympathetic, a sharpness hidden behind the lowered pull of his eyebrows, the quiet slant to his mouth. Satoru can 't help tensing when a hand reaches out for his face in what he doesn 't want to call a flinch, eyes shutting as fingers skim through the barrier of infinity like it isn 't there at all.

He blinks them open again in something like surprise, or maybe confusion, when he feels them brush aside the hair in front of his eyes, sending snow cascading down in little flurries where it 's settled on his head in the small moments when Limitless hadn 't covered him.

He meets dark eyes stained a barely there violet, swallowing down the thick feeling that promises more tears at the touch of Suguru 's fingertips, always slow, always gentle, and something he 'd forgotten once it had gone away. He 's glad when Suguru doesn 't say anything about the way his cheeks redden, how his lips twist, how his eyes get blurry because they fill with more warbling saltwater.

Instead, he only turns away for a moment to grab a scarf to wind around his neck, silent and simple and somehow understanding when Satoru hasn 't explained anything to him- when he never explained anything to him. He smiles slightly as he winds the second scarf over the first, nose right by his own and eyes so close he can make out their hidden purple, delicately using the corner to wipe the red from his lips even though it 'll stain the patterned wool.

'I 'm sorry, ' he says, and the word is weak with his tears, jittery and stumbling and pitching all over the place. Suguru only hums, looking down at where he pulls cotton gloves over Satoru 's cold stiffened fingers, seemingly placid.

'I- ' He stumbles, when Suguru doesn 't say anything back, desperate to fill the silence. Maybe because he fears it, or maybe because he doesn 't want Suguru to be mad, or maybe because he just wants him to understand. 'It 's not- I didn 't- '

Satoru sniffles again, ignoring the wetness chilling his skin when Suguru looks up, cowering down into his bundle of scarves. '...You don 't like talking about your family, ' he murmurs, a knowing thing narrowing those dark eyes, a learned acceptance beside it. 'You don 't have to. I don 't need to know about them. '

He raises a hand, fingers splayed out into a fan and covered by his own fleece gloves, an unsure smile creasing a dimple into one side of his cheeks. Suguru holds it there, steady like his gaze as he simply waits for Satoru to reach back, patient in a way that 's grown over the months like a melody building its harmonies.

It takes him a moment to quell the waver his breaths want to shake with, the tears that sting his eyes and vision into something unseeable, but he finds it in himself to move. Slowly, Satoru lifts an arm, fingers shaking below the cotton gloves Suguru had slipped on for him as he presses the pads of their fingertips together, watching as that small smile grows a little warmer.

He 's met halfway- fleece fabric slowly pressing into the palm of his covered hand as they align, rising slightly as their mirrored fingers spread out. Suguru 's are slightly broader than his, though not longer, the tips of their thumbs perfectly level. He waits, held still until Satoru moves. Daring to shift his hand to the side just enough to curl his fingers over Suguru 's, something wound tight in his chest loosens when Suguru reflects him and does the same.

Satoru pulls him closer, breathing out the last of the panic as Suguru falls forwards enough to shuffle between the space where he lets his knees lower, feet pushing grooves into the snow. It 's sort of amazing, he marvels, as Suguru traces keen fingers down his side to find his other hand, how life can be so different in places so similar.

He doesn 't protest a word as Suguru lifts it to settle under the fabric of his coat, his palm laid flat over the bone of his sternum where his heart pounds a rhythm in his chest. Suguru gives his other hand a squeeze where they 're laced together, and silently, Satoru squeezes back.

Suguru could touch him if he wanted, even with Limitless up and impenetrable. It 's not something he likes to think about- how Suguru can step past infinity if only he wants to, when Satoru isn 't consciously keeping him out. It 's a trait that probably comes from the very first life, and the slow realization that Suguru had been, would be, was the safest person on earth. Only Suguru had been his equal in terms of power, and so only Suguru had been safe, when sleeping, and being, and existing as a person in their world had always meant a waiting threat.

Tengen 's barriers are good, but not perfect; Limitless is perfect, but not good. Suguru is, would be, was the oasis where he could let it go, and so maybe it was why he 'd always been able to reach out a hand, and find a person instead of empty space. Maybe it 's why, even after all the years, the betrayal, the hurt he 'd boxed away and tried not to think about, he can sit here, and wrap a scarf around him in the cold of a snowy garden.

'And still, '

Satoru wonders, the beat of Suguru 's heart all the proof he needs to remember which earth he 's stood on. Suguru could touch him if he wanted, and still he waits. Maybe he gets close and does what he has to to keep him from harm, but Suguru waits. He holds out a hand, lets it be taken, comes only after he 's called.

It 's so different, even decades separated from his childhood and its blight on his memories. It 's so different.

'I 'm glad you 're here, ' he murmurs into the coat covering Suguru 's shoulder, fingers curling into his sweater where they sit above his sternum. Against his cheek, he feels lips pull into a weary smile, cold nose exhaling a calm breath.

When he pulls back, Suguru lets him, eyes set higher than his own by way of sitting on his knees and the extra inch he still has. Satoru stares up at him, commits his face and expression to memory, another in return for all the years of them he 'd missed.

'I don 't want to go back to them, ' he admits, feeling the snow around them stir under the ripple of his own cursed energy, wild like it had been when he was originally fifteen, but less controllable when it 's as heavy as it was when he was twenty-eight. The whispers tell him to contain it, but they 're quiet, easier to brush away when Suguru 's heart is louder in his ears, thrumming through his skin.

Suguru 's silent for a moment, lips pressing together in thought as it settles, before he 's leaning down just enough to tilt their foreheads together. He untangles their clasped hands, squeezing as he lets go to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear, instead.

'Then don 't, ' he says. 'Come home with me. '

'Welcome home, '

he 'd said, to a blood splattered ghost in a back alley, watching that last sad smile bloom.

'You know I want you, ' Suguru whispers, thumb tracing a trail of stars along his cheekbone, and Satoru can only nod, not wanting to shut his eyes as they fill with tears again because he doesn 't want to miss the sight of dark irises looking at him as if he 's something touchable, rather than something only to be admired.

It 's a little wet when he tilts his face up into a kiss Suguru willingly returns, salty with his tears, metallic with his blood, and humid with their shared breaths out in the cold of winter. It 's perfect.

'I already am home, '

he thinks, as Suguru pulls him up out of the snow and the ice and tugs a hat on over his reddened ears, frowning at the chill of his nose and the slight blue of his lips below their stain.

He 'd spent years chasing after Suguru- maybe he 's spent his life chasing after him. Satoru holds his hand tight as they walk back to the dorms, where Shoko will be curled on the couch with her homework and a pot of coffee made next to two cups of cocoa, holding on just because he can. He hasn 't found home again so much as he 's just returned to it. Wanting, being wanted, is what 's new.

He doesn 't ever want to let go.