Inexorable

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/56753152.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandoms: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga)
Relationship: Getou Suguru/Gojo Satoru
Characters: Getou Suguru, Gojo Satoru
Additional Tags: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Romance, Humor, Fluff,
Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, Slice of Life, Developing
Relationship, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Alternate Universe - No Curses
(Jujutsu Kaisen)
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of gravity well
Stats: Published: 2024-06-19 Words: 8,438 Chapters: 1/1
 Inexorable
by mahbecks

Summary

It’s a little strange, building a life with the guy who accidentally sent you a dick pic in hopes
of getting laid.

But Suguru has only but to catch a glimpse of one of Satoru’s smiles - near splitting his face
in two, shining bright as a fucking sun - to remember why he can’t be bothered to care.

Notes

hello! this is the sequel to another fic of mine 🥰 you can read it here
I don’t think you necessarily have to read that one to appreciate what’s happening here,
though! just know these two idiots are head over heels for each other, they recently got
together, and that I can’t stand to see anything bad happen to them ever, lmao

that’s called canon, and we don’t talk about that here

See the end of the work for more notes

Everything changes after that.

But then again, nothing really does.

Satoru has already worked his way into Suguru’s life so thoroughly that dating just feels like
the next logical step, a natural extension of what they already have. He’s used to Satoru
sleeping next to him at night, curled up in the blankets like some overly large cat; he’s
already accustomed to the plethora of sweets and snacks and energy drinks Satoru stashes in
his cabinets, the bath products he leaves in his shower. It’s nothing, then, to watch him slowly
move more and more of his things into Suguru’s apartment, or for various bits of his clothing
to disappear from his closet only to reappear on Satoru’s frame a few days later.

Mostly, Suguru doesn’t mind. He’s always been a bit of a minimalist, so he definitely has the
space. And seeing Satoru walking around in his clothes, just a tad too big for the other’s
lanky frame -

Well, he doesn’t mind that at all.

In fact, it sets off some deeply buried part of his hindbrain, a little voice in his head
whispering mine mine mine every time he sees a draping neckline, a pair of shorts too baggy
for Satoru’s narrow waist. It makes him want to curl his hands around said waist, to tug
Satoru in close and never let him go. The soft, punched-out noises Satoru makes are like
music to his ears, his teasing laughter like a balm to a wound, and the way he smiles -

Satoru’s happiness is blinding; like the sun, Suguru can’t stand to look at it for too long.
Instead he must bask up that warmth in short, staccato bursts, hoping it’s enough to sustain
him until Satoru deigns to smile at him again.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough, and Suguru wonders if he’s ever fallen this hard for someone before.

He doesn’t think so. Surely this all-consuming, desperate type of love only happens once in a
lifetime; maybe some people don’t ever get to experience it at all.

And that’s a little humbling, he thinks.

Because Satoru makes it hard to imagine a world where people don’t get to wake up and feel
an actual, physical weight lift off their shoulders when they see the warm body lying next to
theirs, when they look across the room and find they cannot breathe because sheer, mortal
perfection is just a few short feet away.

But he knows it must exist; it must, because the world isn’t always a nice place, and not
everyone gets their happily ever after.

It must be hard.

It must be lonely.
He tries not to think of how lonely he was before he met Satoru - before he forced his way
into Suguru’s life with all the subtlety of a battering ram. He doesn’t much care to remember
how he’d felt like a man merely going through the motions of life.

Because what’s the point?

Things have changed.

His world has tilted, shifted on its axis to orient towards a new center of gravity - and
ruminating on the past does no one any good.

Better that he look to his future, he thinks. His future with Satoru, who against all sense has
chosen Suguru to share his life with -

He doesn’t understand why.

He still doesn’t quite grasp what Satoru likes about him.

But he does.

He does, showering Suguru in so much casual love and intimacy that it nearly takes his
breath away. He gives and he takes, as demanding as he is affectionate, and Suguru does not
think he will ever get enough of it.

He hopes he never does.

Satoru finally broaches the idea of moving in together after a couple months.

They’re eating breakfast, and Suguru’s just passed Satoru a plate stacked high with pancakes.
He’s already reaching for the syrup, and Suguru watches, bemused, as he drowns his food in
enough sugar to kill a small animal.

He’s beginning to think Satoru takes pleasure in his mildly amused horror; maybe he gets off
on it.

Or maybe that really is how he prefers his pancakes. It’s hard to say how much of what
Satoru does is because he enjoys it, and how much is just because he enjoys a reaction.

“Aren’t you eating?”

Suguru holds up his cup of coffee, sliding into the seat next to Satoru.

“That’s not food,” Satoru points out.

Suguru dubiously eyes Satoru’s breakfast. “Neither is that.”

“What is it, then?”

He considers, a few loose strands of hair sliding over his face as he tilts his head to the side in
thought.

“A cry for help,” he finally decides.

Satoru pouts, shoveling another bite into his mouth.

“With a side of insulin resistance.”

“I’ll have you know,” Satoru says, “that according to Shoko, I am a medical miracle.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve never even had a cavity!” He swallows down the food in his mouth, pointing his fork at
Suguru. “How many cavities have you had, Suguru?”

…more than that.

But Suguru isn’t about to admit that, not when Satoru’s looking so smug. Instead, he just rolls
his eyes and takes another sip of his coffee.

It’s a good blend - dark, but not so dark that it tastes bitter, with hints of vanilla and hazelnut.
They’d picked it up at the grocery store last week when they’d been getting supplies for a
movie night; Satoru hadn’t much cared for it. He’d hoped that it’d be sweeter than it was, but
his loss is Suguru’s gain. He’ll have to remember the brand the next time he goes out.

“You busy today?”

Suguru frowns, lifting an eyebrow in question. “You know I’m not.”

“Oh. Right.”

Satoru takes another bite, swallowing it down with a gulp of orange soda, and Suguru shakes
his head. He’d offered Satoru tea and water, thinking he might want something mild to offset
the massive amount of sugar he insists on consuming for breakfast. But Satoru had just
laughed and waved him off, procuring the soda from one of his overnight bag’s many
pockets.

He supposes there’s no accounting for taste.

“Wanna help me pack, then?”

Suguru freezes. “Pack?”

“Mmm. Got a lot of stuff to get through.”

“Are you… are you moving?”

“Something like that.”

Suguru doesn’t know what to make of that.

On the one hand, Satoru’s apartment is small. It may be close to the school where he works,
but the appliances are old and out-of-date, the paint starting to chip off the walls. He could
easily afford something better, in a nicer part of town - but he’d been on a tight timeline when
he’d moved to this neighborhood, and he’d told Suguru once that he hadn’t really felt like
putting a ton of effort towards finding a place to live.

It makes sense, then, that he’d resume the search now that he has more time on his hands.

But on the other, Satoru hasn’t said a single damn thing about moving. He’s kept this news to
himself, not saying anything until this very moment.

And isn’t that something Suguru should know?

Shouldn’t his boyfriend tell him he’s considering a change of address?

It’s not that Suguru thinks he has to be considered in the decision-making process.

He doesn’t.

Their relationship, while quite possibly the best thing to ever happen to him, is still new and
precious and vulnerable, and he’s not so naive as to think that Satoru needs to include him in
his plans. He’s not sure they’re at that stage yet, and even if they were, Satoru is his own
person. He’s allowed to make these decisions on his own.

But surely Suguru deserves to be told these things?

So that he doesn’t accidentally show up at the wrong address one night, or have something
mailed to a complete stranger?

His uncertainty must show on his face, for Satoru reaches a hand out, gently shaking his
wrist. “Suguru? Did you hear me?”

He clears his throat. “No,” he replies, automatic. “Sorry.”

Satoru is -

Satoru looks amused of all things, grinning at him from across the table. “I said we need to
go to Ikea, too. We need more furniture.”

“I - what? We do?”

“Yeah?” Satoru laughs, grabbing for his drink. “What, you think all my clothes are gonna fit
in your dinky little dresser? Babe. Come on. I have more underwear than you have outfits -”

“You do not.”

“- and I don’t think you have enough closet space for my shirts.”

That’s -
Hmm.

Something isn’t adding up.

One plus one does not equal three, and Suguru can’t make heads or tails of this conversation.

Setting his coffee aside, he shoots Satoru a confused look. “You’re not making any sense. We
need furniture for your clothes - furniture for my apartment? But why would you…”

It hits him like a ton of bricks, and his face goes slack.

“You’re moving in with me,” he says quietly.

Satoru laughs so hard soda comes out of his nose, dousing the remnants of his pancakes in a
stream of vile orange liquid. And normally Suguru would laugh at that - he’d laugh, and call
it disgusting, and then offer Satoru a napkin to clean up, because someone has to mop up the
mess, right?

But he’s too busy absorbing this latest development to notice, his lips parting in surprise as
Satoru wipes his face clean and moves to sit in Suguru’s lap.

“Planning on it,” he admits, wrapping his arms around Suguru’s neck.

Suguru’s hands come to rest on his hips, naturally settling into place on his waist. The fabric
of his shirt is soft under the pads of his fingers, worn smooth with age.

Considering it’s his shirt, Suguru would know.

He easily pushes it aside so that he’s grasping warm skin instead, and Satoru hums, barely
suppressing a shiver.

“Probably should’ve asked,” he admits, huffing out a laugh.

Suguru snorts. “You think?”

“Do you mind?”

He sounds nonchalant, utterly at ease with how he’s thrust himself into Suguru’s space once
more, into his life. But Suguru can detect the very real hint of uncertainty at the back of his
throat; he can see the way his eyes have narrowed slightly, trying to decide whether or not
he’s miscalculated, and when he presses his palm flat against Satoru’s back, he feels the way
his breath hitches.

“No,” he replies, honest.

And maybe that’s wrong.

Maybe it’s too soon for them to be doing this. They’ve only been dating for a handful of
months, after all, and that’s hardly enough time to get to know someone’s idiosyncrasies, to
really grasp how well they’ll integrate into your life.
But if dating Satoru has felt like the natural progression of their relationship, then moving in
together is the step after that, and Suguru -

He likes the idea of never having to wake up alone.

He likes the thought of finding Satoru’s whites haplessly mixed in with his darks when he
does his laundry, and relishes the prospect of arguing over whether or not they have another
bottle of soy sauce in the cabinet at home when they go shopping.

He wants that.

He wants that so bad that he aches, and for Satoru to just offer it to him, out of the blue, like
it’s something ordinary, something random -

“Suguru?”

He licks his lips, tilting his face up towards Satoru.

“Move in with me?” he breathes. “Please?”

Satoru grins and presses their foreheads together. “I thought you’d never ask.”

It takes some adjusting.

Though he and Satoru get along well, they occasionally don’t see eye to eye. Like any
couple, they have their arguments, and though most of the time it’s meaningless bickering,
heated discussions sometimes devolve into more serious fights.

The most recent topic of dissent?

The climate of their shared apartment.

Suguru runs warmer than Satoru, especially now that it’s the end of summer and Tokyo is
beset by an ungodly wave of heat and humidity. It makes him crabby and uncomfortable, and
when Satoru insists on adjusting the temperature, allowing the interior of the unit to warm
enough that he can traipse around in loose shorts and baggy t-shirts, he gets downright
irritable.

He does his best not to take this out on Satoru. It’s not his fault that he’s always cold, and
Suguru can always get a cool drink from the fridge, or take a cold shower.

But the heat makes even the littlest inconveniences worse, and it’s not long before war breaks
out.

Suguru comes home from work to find the air con set at a muggy twenty-seven degrees, and
he looks to Satoru, incredulous.

“Satoru,” he snaps, mopping at his brow.

He doesn’t even bother to look up from the video game he’s playing, tongue poked out in
concentration.

“Yeah?”

“It’s hot.”

“Is it?” Satoru blinks. “Hadn’t noticed.”

Suguru’s eyes narrow - because that is bullshit. Satoru isn’t wearing a shirt; he’s not even
wearing pants, for god’s sake. He’s just sitting on the floor in nothing but his underwear,
sweat beading at his temples and dripping down his neck as he fights his way through
whatever stupid video game he’s playing.

He was doing this on purpose.

He was doing this because they’d argued last night, Suguru begging him to at least turn the
temperature down before they went to bed so he didn’t wake up in a pool of his own sweat.
There were very few things more disgusting, a surefire way to ruin his whole day, and though
Suguru was willing to let Satoru have his way on most issues, this wasn’t one of them.

“You’re literally sweating your ass off.”

“Fuck you, I’m glistening -”

Suguru steps into the kitchen to grab a drink, picking up a dishrag while he’s at it. He throws
it at Satoru as he heads back into the living room, satisfied when it smacks right into his
face.

The movement breaks Satoru’s concentration, and he jerks, his character veering off the edge
of a cliff and into the abyss. A game over screen floods the television a moment later, and he
sits back on his haunches, whining.

“What was that for?” he demands, shooting Suguru a peevish look.

Suguru cracks open the lid on his sports drink, downing half the contents in three big gulps.
“You looked like you needed it,” he says.

“And you were - what, helping?” Satoru snorts, pushing to his feet. The rag slides to the
floor, forgotten. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Do you think I’m joking?”

“I think you’re being a baby.”

“Because wanting a comfortable living space is so unreasonable,” Suguru snaps, rolling his
eyes.

“Comfortable? You want to live in a fucking freezer!”

“Oh, my god. I do not.”

“Really? Then nineteen degrees is normal?”

“It is at night, when you’re wrapped around me like a fucking space heater!”

Satoru stills, his eyes narrowing. “Do you want me to stop?”

“What?”

“Do you want to sleep on the fucking couch? I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, after
all -”

“Stop that.”

“- even if it’s my fucking bed, too -”

“Quit putting words in my mouth.”

“Then quit being a jackass -”

They’re interrupted by a loud thumping emanating from the apartment beneath them.
Incredulous, Suguru feels his retort die on his lips, replaced by an almost manic burst of
laughter. He hides it behind a hand, a bit sheepish as he looks to Satoru.

He appears utterly mystified.

“Is that the neighbor?” he demands.

“We must be making too much noise,” Suguru says, nodding.

Satoru blinks.

He glares down at the floor.

And then he too laughs, raising his foot and stomping a few times for good measure. He
giggles as he practically tap-dances across the floorboards, and when he looks back up at
Suguru, his grin is wicked.

“Oh, fuck them. They play their music loud enough that you can hear it from space, but they
wanna complain when we raise our voices?”

He slings an arm around Suguru’s shoulders, all traces of his former ire abandoned.

“Asshats,” he snorts.

Privately, Suguru has to agree. Of all of the people he’s lived next to over the years, the
renters of unit seven-one-three are the among the worst. And it’s not just the music; it’s the
overall insensitivity. He’s pretty sure he’s had food accidentally delivered there, food that
miraculously disappeared when he went downstairs to ask about it, and don’t even get him
started on the missing mail. They’re fucking assholes, and as annoying as Satoru is being,
they probably deserve it.

He grins, wrapping a hand around Satoru’s waist. “You’re a menace,” he laughs.

“The worst,” Satoru agrees.

“Someone should punish you.”

“You offering?”

They both go still, the implications of Satoru’s teasing hitting them at the same time. Suguru
looks up, at sweat-damp hair and eyes of startling blue, and just like that -

He isn’t sure which of them moves first.

But before he can really contemplate making good on his threat, Satoru’s mouth is on his, his
body pressing in close despite the heat, and Suguru practically melts in his arms.

He scrambles to get out of his clothes, struggling to shrug off his shirt while still maintaining
the kiss. It’s not easy; Satoru’s limbs are long, and he has a tendency to cling. He hinders
more than he helps as he tucks his hands up under Suguru’s arms, as he tangles their legs
together and pulls, twisting them at the last second so that they land on the couch. The
movement drives the breath from his lungs, and he gasps, his lips parting in surprise.

Satoru deepens the kiss, licking into Suguru’s mouth as he straddles his waist, bending
forward to cradle his face in his hands. He swallows up Suguru’s groan, greedily drinks it
down as he slots their mouths together, and Suguru -

It’s more than a little overwhelming.

It’s intoxicating, the feel of those soft, plush lips moving against his, and the way he
sounds… Satoru is not a quiet lover, he’s found. Every moan, every gasp, every murmured
whine of Suguru’s name - Satoru holds nothing back when they fuck, giving himself to
Suguru so completely, so fully, that it feels like an act of worship.

And maybe it is.

Suguru certainly feels like a god, the way Satoru always seems to come alive at his touch,
writhing under his hands like a live wire, like he is an instrument only Suguru knows how to
play.

And writhe, he does.

Suguru’s reminded of how very little Satoru’s wearing when he starts grinding down against
him, rocking forward as he fists a hand in his hair.

“Suguru,” he pants.
He ruts down into Suguru’s lap a little harder, groaning at the friction, and Suguru’s grip on
his hips tightens.

“Yeah?” he bites out.

He plants his feet on the couch for leverage; the next time Satoru grinds down, Suguru thrusts
up, and Satoru throws his head back, a moan torn from his lips as the pleasure pools hot and
heavy between them. He stares down at Suguru with hazy eyes, something like a smirk
twisting his lips, and snakes a hand out, tugging at his pants.

“The fuck ‘re you still wearing pants for?”

Suguru rolls his eyes as he rolls his hips, rocking up into Satoru as he whines. From this
vantage, it makes it looks like Satoru is riding him, like he’s fucking himself on Suguru’s
cock, and oh, but isn’t that a pretty picture?

“I would’ve taken them off,” he murmurs, “if someone hadn’t gotten impatient and pushed
me over.”

“Nudged,” Satoru retorts, “I nudged you onto the couch -”

“And then sat on me -”

Satoru laughs, breathless, and smooths his hair back from his face, the movement entirely too
sexy for such an ordinary thing. “Do you want me to move?” he asks.

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughs again, and lifts his hips up just enough that Suguru can shimmy out of his pants,
pushing them down to his ankles to kick them off. Satoru’s underwear quickly joins them in a
pile on the floor, and then he’s pressing down, one hand holding their cocks steady as he
thrusts forward into his palm.

Suguru curses, sliding a hand down to join Satoru’s. He’s practically dripping sweat, Satoru’s
breaths hot and damp where he’s leaning over Suguru’s neck, but for once it’s bearable, their
bodies gliding against one another as they frantically hurtle towards release. The heat doesn’t
bother him at all as they grind against one another, and when he looks down to where their
bodies connect, sees Satoru’s cock bumping into his, precome splashing hot and sticky on his
belly -

“Close,” Satoru warns, his lips at Suguru’s throat. “I’m close, fuck, Suguru -”

Suguru palms the back of his head, pulling Satoru out of his neck. His hand shifts down to
Satoru’s shoulder as he brings their faces together, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his
lips. There’s no finesse to it, more teeth than tongue - but he needs it, needs to feel Satoru’s
mouth on his as he moans Suguru’s name, his hips stuttering into nothing as he comes.

“Fuck, babe.”
It takes Satoru a few seconds to come back to himself. Then he’s shifting to press kisses to
Suguru’s face, mouthing at his jaw as he bucks up into his fist, chasing his own orgasm.

“Suguru,” he pants. “Suguru -”

He shudders, every muscle in his body going taut. And maybe he shouldn’t be able to come
from something as simple as Satoru saying his name. Maybe it should take a little more effort
than that.

But he’s been hanging on by a thread for what feels like forever now. He wants to come so
badly, the ache in his belly hot and heavy, and the way Satoru’s working a mark onto his neck
with his teeth has his toes curling in want.

He jerks, his head knocking against the armrest as he comes with a desperate, punched-out
sound. It’s low and gravelly, more sentiment than semantic, his eyes squeezing shut as he
shudders.

It’s a couple minutes before he can speak again.

It’s a couple minutes before he can think again, and he grimaces, the sweat on his skin gone
tacky as it dries. A mind-blowing orgasm hasn’t made the apartment any more comfortable,
and he brings a hand up, nudging at Satoru’s shoulder.

“Get off me,” he complains. “You’re hot.”

Satoru pulls back with a grin. “Oh, yeah?”

Suguru rolls his eyes and sits up. The movement jostles Satoru enough that he slides onto the
floor with a yelp; it quickly shifts to a laugh when he notices Suguru’s expression, and he
winks up at him.

“Aw, Suguru.” He stands, holding a hand out. “C’mon, let’s go shower.”

Suguru allows himself to be pulled off the couch, happy to follow along as Satoru tugs down
the hall and into the bathroom. He doesn’t even wait for the water to warm before he’s
stepping under the spray, letting it sluice away the sweat and come still streaking his stomach.
It feels incredible on his heated skin, and he lets out a contented sigh as he smooths his hair
back from his face.

Satoru, he sees, hasn’t joined him.

He lifts an eyebrow at that, holding out a hand. “Coming?”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Not all of us like cold showers.”

“The water’s not cold,” Suguru points out.

Satoru tentatively sticks out his palm, yelping when the water hits his skin. “That’s freezing!”

“It is, at worst, lukewarm.”

Satoru shudders. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

“And I don’t know how you stand it when it’s so hot in the apartment.”

Just like that, they’ve come full circle.

They stare at one another for a moment, neither of them willing to budge an inch on the issue.
As Shoko so often tells them, they’re both too stubborn for their own good, and it’s difficult
for them to admit when they’re in the wrong.

But maybe Satoru feels a little guilty about this latest stunt, because he breaks eye contact
and huffs out a breath, digging one foot into the meat of the other as he apologizes.

“I guess I can turn the air con down a bit,” he sighs. “Maybe.”

Suguru feels his resolve soften.

“If you buy me a blanket.”

He chuckles, not at all surprised that Satoru sees fit to make demands even as he solicits
forgiveness. “Sure.”

“One of the big, fuzzy ones, with the little tassels on the end.”

“Whatever you want, Satoru.”

“And I’m still turning it up when you’re not here!”

“That seems fair.”

Satoru finally joins him in the shower, ducking his head underneath the spray. The water
plasters his hair to his forehead, giving him the appearance of a big, drowned cat. It makes
the glare he levels at Suguru utterly ineffectual, and when he sticks his lower lip out and
pouts, grabbing for the body wash behind Suguru’s shoulder, he can’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Satoru demands.

Suguru smiles. “You.”

Satoru’s pout deepens at that, offended. And so Suguru leans in and kisses him, forestalling
any complaints he might have as he eases their mouths together.

It’s very effective.

“You should meet my family.”

Suguru’s book falls flat in his lap, his lips parting in surprise.

“What?” he asks stupidly.

Satoru snorts, looking up at him from where he’s lying on his back at Suguru’s side. “I said -”

“I heard you,” he interjects. “But you hate your family.”

“Yeah.”

“They were horrible to you.”

“Yeah.”

“…and you want me to meet them?”

Satoru shrugs, staring up at the ceiling. There’s a blank, almost vacant look in his eyes, as if
he’s seeing something Suguru doesn’t. And maybe he is; maybe he’s caught in a memory,
something from his past that’s stuck with him to this day.

But eventually, he sighs, his gaze dropping back down to Suguru.

“You’re important to me,” he says, as if that settles things.

And perhaps it does, for a few short weeks later, they find themselves traveling to the Gojo
estate on the outskirts of Tokyo.

Suguru’s more than a little nervous.

Satoru’s family is old money, after all, able to trace their lineage back centuries to the days
before Japan had first made contact with the west and ceased being isolationist. They’ve
attended parties with the emperor, and had high tea with the members of parliament. His
father has the prime minister in his contacts list.

There may no longer be any Japanese nobility, but Suguru’s certain that if they hadn’t been
abolished, the Gojo’s would be at the very top of society, and that’s -

Fucking scary.

Suguru’s well aware that Satoru’s upbringing was a bit different than what his parents were
able to provide. He attended the most prestigious boarding schools as a child, had a trust fund
before he was able to walk, was on the roster for the University of Tokyo before he even
fucking applied. He’s privileged, much as Suguru hates to use the word; he was born with a
silver spoon in his mouth, and though his life hasn’t been easy, his difficulties have been of a
very different nature than Suguru’s own struggles.

That’s changed a bit, now that Satoru’s formalized his rejection of his father’s business. He
doesn’t have all of the same protections that he did when he was still the heir presumptive.

But though Satoru’s parents are disappointed in the decision (to put it very lightly, in his
father’s case), there’s little they can really do to punish him. He’s too old for them to take
back the money in his accounts, and his assets had been transferred to his name years ago.

He is, for lack of a better word, safe.

As a consequence, his relationship with his mother has improved.

Not that that’s saying much.

His relationship with his mother is only warm in comparison to the one he has with his
father; a phone call every three months doesn’t make up for a lifetime of benign neglect, of
ignoring his father’s verbal and emotional abuse for fear of confrontation. But they can speak
without wanting to rip each other’s throats out, and that, he assures Suguru, is progress.

He still isn’t sure if that’s enough to warrant this meeting, though, and so he slowly shreds his
cuticles to bits with his teeth as they make their way through the city.

What does Satoru want him to say to these people?

What does he expect him to do?

He fears nothing he can say or do will impress them; he doesn’t have the pedigree to matter
to these people, no matter how important he is to their son. He’s not sure it’s even worth it to
try.

Satoru had asked him to do this, though.

Quietly, without his usual wheedling fanfare. Though he hadn’t said it in so many words,
Suguru could tell that this meant a lot to him.

And there’s very little Suguru would not do for Satoru Gojo.

It goes… better than expected.

Sure, Satoru’s mother steps out around the soup course to chainsmoke behind the drapes in
the hallway. And yes, his father’s insults get less and less veiled the more wine that he drinks.
But they at least pretend to be politely interested in Suguru and his hobbies, and when Satoru
reveals that they’re living together, their congratulations seem only mostly fake. They make it
through dessert largely unscathed, and when they’re ushered into the parlor for after-dinner
drinks, the mood seems almost pleasant.

That’s probably because Satoru’s father excuses himself. When it’s just the three of them, his
mother becomes much more animated, even going so far as to put a friendly hand on
Suguru’s shoulder as she passes him a cocktail.

She’s not approving, exactly. He gets the sense that she still thinks he’s too plebeian for her
son. But she doesn’t seem to dislike him as a person, and really, Suguru supposes that’s the
best he can hope for.

When they get back to the apartment, Suguru barely has time to slip off his shoes before
Satoru pulls him in close, wrapping his arms around his waist.

Suguru goes still, surprised.

“Satoru?”
He sighs, pressing his face into Suguru’s neck. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“I know they suck.”

Well.

Yeah.

A bit.

“You still went with me, though. When I asked.”

Suguru blinks, his hand coming up to rest on the side of Satoru’s face. He palms his cheek,
his thumb rubbing gently at the jut of his cheekbone, soothing.

“Of course I did,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because you wanted me to.”

Satoru pulls back at that, staring at him with wide eyes - as if the thought of Suguru doing
something like that for him has stunned him. He doesn’t seem able to reconcile this with
some thought he’s had, his grip on Suguru going almost painfully tight.

His heart breaks a little at that - at the idea that Satoru had thought he’d have one foot out the
door already, bolting at the first sign of trouble.

It’s not an unreasonable fear.

But Suguru isn’t going anywhere. Satoru is worth whatever baggage and complications he
brings with him; he’s worth everything, and Suguru -

He offers up a soft smile, curling his other hand around Satoru’s arm.

“C’mon,” he urges, tugging him into the apartment proper. “It’s still early. Let’s go watch a
movie, stay up late. I don’t have to work tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” Satoru pauses, licks his lips. “Can I pick?”

Suguru lifts an eyebrow as they settle into the couch, raising his arm in invitation. “Are you
going to pick some dumb action movie?”

Satoru eagerly curls into him, looking only a little sheepish when he says, “…probably.”

Suguru sighs, teasing, and hands him the remote.

“The things I do for love.”

Summer turns to fall, which turns to winter - and with it, comes the first sickness of the
season.

Suguru still isn’t sure where he caught the virus. He usually isn’t prone to illness. And it’s not
terribly severe; he’s convinced this isn’t anything more than a particularly stubborn cold. He
hadn’t even gone to the doctor, certain they wouldn’t give him anything more than some
decongestants.

But it’s left him feeling utterly miserable, and he thinks he’s earned the right to complain a
little.

Sleep would do him good. That’s what all the websites suggest, and he feels incredibly tired.
But when he lies down, his sinuses clog; he always has just enough time to drift off before he
loses the ability the breathe, and that won’t fucking work.

Standing is no better. The decongestants have his stomach upset, and he hasn’t been able to
keep anything down in days. Something as simple as crossing the room leaves him dizzy and
trembling, and so he has to move at a snail’s pace, gripping the wall for support as he moves
about the apartment.

It’s a lose-lose situation, and so he settles for huddling miserably on the couch, a blanket
tossed around his shoulders and a lukewarm cup of tea in his hands as he watches old movie
reruns on television.

God, he feels pathetic.

He feels pathetic and sad and gross, and though he’s glad Satoru isn’t around to get exposed
to the virus, he also kind of wants him here anyways.

It can’t be helped, though. He’s off on another field trip with his students, gone for an entire
week while Suguru languishes in the pits of despair.

Had he known how sick Suguru really was, he might not have gone.

But in Suguru’s defense, he hadn’t been feeling bad when Satoru had left, and so he’d sent
his boyfriend off with a smile and a kiss and a promise to call him every night before he went
to bed.

It’s a promise he’s unfortunately failed to keep. His sleeping schedule is completely fucked,
fatigue catching him at the worst times and knocking him off his feet for hours at a time. He’s
woken in a daze multiple times now, frantically searching for his phone before Satoru can
realize that something is off, that something is wrong.

He thinks he’s done an okay job of covering his tracks. He’s never been more than an hour
late, and he knows just what to say so that Satoru doesn’t worry.

Or, at least, he thinks he does -

Right up until the moment Satoru bursts into the apartment at two in the morning, looking
more distressed than Suguru has ever seen him.
He takes one look at Suguru and goes into action, hefting the bags in his arms to one hand as
he closes the door and peels off his shoes.

“You’re sick,” he says.

Suguru groans, defeated, and nods. “I’m sick.”

“How come you didn’t say anything?”

He lets Satoru tug him up into a more upright position on the couch, shivering when he
presses a cold washcloth to the side of his neck. It’s good against his feverish skin, the water
dripping down the edges cool and pleasant. He tries to keep his head raised, so he can
actually talk to Satoru as he curls up behind Suguru, his arms settling around his waist.

He fails, his head lolling back onto Satoru’s shoulder.

“Didn’t want to worry you,” he grits out.

“Probably should have answered my calls, then,” Satoru points out.

Suguru winces. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Satoru says, laughing. “It’s not your fault you’re sick. It is your fault you
didn’t say anything, though. When didn’t you tell me before I left?”

“Because I wasn’t sick then,” Suguru huffs, even as he curls a little further into Satoru’s
warmth.

“Dummy.” He bops Suguru playfully on the nose, and then passes him a tissue when he
follows up a disgusting sneeze with a truly outrageous sniffle. “Geez, that sounds gross.”

“I feel gross,” Suguru admits.

“When was the last time you showered?”

Suguru thinks on it. He can’t remember, concerned that if he tried to stand for too long, he’d
fall and hit his head. He must look absolutely disgusting, then.

He must smell disgusting, and -

“Alright, upsie daisy!”

“What?”

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Satoru -”

“In the shower you go!”

Suguru tries to protest, but Satoru is having none of it. He practically drags Suguru into the
bathroom, pushing the clothes from his shoulders as he lets the water run. His own garments
join them a moment later, and before Suguru can really process what’s happening, he’s being
guided under the showerhead, blessedly cool water sliding down onto his skin.

Satoru holds most of his weight as he washes his hair and scrubs the sweat and grime from
his body. His hands are gentle as he works the tangles out of the strands, careful never to pull
too hard. Once he’s finished, he presses Suguru into a big, fluffy towel, having him sit on the
edge of the tub as he combs out his hair and ties it back into a loose knot at the back of his
neck.

It’s… deeply intimate, as is the way Satoru dresses him and pulls him back onto the couch,
having Suguru lean back on him instead of the arm rest.

He’s not sure anyone’s ever quite taken care of him like this.

Not since he was a child, at least.

He’s too befuddled to properly articulate a thank you, though, and so he just settles for
snuggling down into Satoru’s embrace before finally, finally drifting off to sleep.

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later, propped up on a stack of pillows instead of

Satoru. A strange, pitiful noise tears its way out of his throat at the sudden, clawing
awareness that he is alone, and he turns around, trying to see where the other might have
gone.

As if he senses Suguru’s distress, Satoru pops up his head into the room a moment later,
grinning at him despite the bags under his eyes.

“Suguru!” he croons. “You’re awake!” He presses a mug of what smells like ginger and
lemon tea into his hands. “Here, Shoko said I should make you this.”

Suguru croaks out a thanks, taking a delicate sip.

“How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

Satoru laughs at that, reaching a hand out to ruffle his hair. Suguru jerks away, trying to avoid
it - but his movements are still uncoordinated, and he ends up inadvertently pressing into
Satoru’s hand instead of away from it.

His face scrunches up at his misfortune.

Satoru plops down onto the couch with a laugh, half-tugging Suguru into his lap.

“Awwwww, you’re so cute when you’re grumpy, Suguru!”

“You shouldn’t sit so close to me,” Suguru advises, his voice thick in his own ears.
“What? Why not?” Satoru demands. As if in defiance of this order, he hugs Suguru around
the waist, hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Don’t you want to cuddle?”

Suguru half-heartedly pushes his face away. “You’ll get sick if you stay too close.”

Satoru is not to be deterred. He just snuggles in closer, the threat to his health be damned, and
presses a sloppy, wet kiss to Suguru’s cheek. “But then who will take care of you?” he asks.

It’s… a reasonable question.

Though Suguru knows his own argument has merit, it’s a losing battle. Suguru knows it is,
recognizes that particular tone in Satoru’s voice. He’s not going to give in, no matter how
much Suguru protests.

And while it’s not always easy for him to accept other people’s help, though he’s just as
mulish and pig-headed as Satoru can be when he puts his mind to it -

“Okay,” he breathes.

- maybe it wouldn’t feel so bad to be taken care of, for once.

Maybe he should have called Satoru when he started feeling bad.

That was the entire point of having a partner, right?

To not have to do everything by himself?

And it’s not as if he wouldn’t repay the favor. He’d happily take care of Satoru were their
situations reversed, cooking him soup, making him tea, and making sure he actually rested. It
would be a challenge, sure; he had a feeling Satoru would prove a demanding patient. But
he’d do it without complaint, taking care of him as best as he could - because being in a
relationship meant sometimes picking up your partner’s slack, of helping them when they
couldn’t help.

It was about reciprocity, he reminded himself; give and take, push and pull. He and Satoru
were in this together -

In sickness and in health.

…or so he tells himself, when Satoru succumbs to his cold next week and proves a very
needy patient indeed.

“So here’s the good news!”

Suguru looks up from his phone as Satoru waltzes out of the kitchen, something hidden
behind his back.

“Should I be concerned?” he asks.

“Quiet. As I was saying, the good news.” Satoru reveals the dish he was holding, setting what
looks like a pile of black and blue goo onto the table in front of Suguru. “I made a cake!”

“…that’s a cake?”

“The bad news, of course, is that I’m a fucking terrible cook, so I burnt the shit out of it.”

Ah.

That explains the black bits, then.

It doesn’t explain the blue parts, though, and so Suguru sticks a finger into the substance,
bringing it to his face to inspect.

“You frosted a burnt cake?” he asks, once he’s safely determined the goop is, in fact, cake
frosting.

“I was trying to fix it!”

Suguru watches as the entire thing lists to the side, its structural integrity quickly
diminishing. “You can’t fix things with icing, Satoru.”

“Sure, you can! That’s literally the premise of a gingerbread house.”

“The gingerbread generally isn’t falling apart, though.”

All at once, Satoru deflates, sliding into the chair opposite him. “Aw, who cares how it looks.
I bet it still tastes good!”

He reaches a hand out, sinking a spoon into the monstrosity he’s created to try it out. Suguru
watches, rapt, as he admirably forces down a bite; he even manages to keep a straight face
when his chewing slows and his brows furrow.

But eventually, the flavor becomes too much for him to bear.

Satoru stands, slinking over to the trash can so he can spit it out, wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand.

“That’s the last time I borrow one of Nanami’s recipes,” he says darkly.

“Because that was the problem,” Suguru agrees, “the recipe.”

Satoru holds a hand out for the plate. Suguru gladly hands it over, and he tips the whole thing
into the bin, shutting the lid with a little more force than was probably necessary before he
plops back down at the table.

“Why’d you make a cake, anyways?” Suguru asks, curious. “You know you can’t cook.”

The look Satoru shoots him is surprised. “Really? You can’t guess?”
But that’s the problem, Suguru thinks. For all that he can’t be trusted around kitchen
appliances, there are so many reasons Satoru might have attempted to make a cake that he’s
having a hard time narrowing it down to just one.

Was he hungry? Did he need a midnight pick-me-up?

Or was he just trying to improve a skill, baking his new hobby of the month?

“Babe. It’s our anniversary.”

Suguru stills. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” Satoru insists. “The fifteenth.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s - it is, though?”

Suguru shakes his head, frowning. “No, I know our anniversary is the fifteenth.” He picks up
his phone, tilting the screen so that it comes to life, so that he can check the date. “But today
is the…”

He trails off, horror washing over him as the reality of what he’s done sinks in.

“Yeah, the fifteenth,” Satoru finishes.

Suguru swallows, hard.

Because how could he forget?

How could he fucking forget the date on their one-year anniversary? Satoru’s been talking
about this for what feels like forever, dropping little hints about what he’s planning for the
big day, wondering if Suguru has anything planned for him. And Suguru had, sure - he’d
made them dinner reservations at a restaurant they both like, gotten them tickets to an art
exhibit Satoru had mentioned wanting to see.

But the reservations had been at six, and the exhibit closed by nine. He’s ashamed to see that
he’s completely missed his window of opportunity here, the clock on the wall edging
dangerously close to midnight, and Satoru -

“You forgot.”

Suguru grimaces, rising to his feet. “Satoru -”

“You forgot - ”

“What today’s date was,” Suguru interjects. “Not our anniversary. I didn’t - I couldn’t -”

He feels - terrible.

Objectively, absolutely terrible.

And he knows that in the grand scheme of things, it’s not a huge deal. They’re both fucking
adults here; they have jobs and social lives and various other real world problems demanding
their attention. Missing a date - even one as important as this - isn’t going to fuck everything
up beyond repair.

He’d been looking forward to this, though.

And he knows Satoru was, too.

It’s the longest relationship either of them has had in a long time, and by far the most
important. That deserves to be celebrated; it deserves recognition.

Except Suguru has gone and forgotten the fucking date, like a fucking moron -

“And people say I’m the thoughtless one.”

He blinks, looking at Satoru. To Suguru’s surprise, he’s smiling, and he doesn’t hesitate to
throw an arm over Suguru’s shoulder, pulling him in close.

“You really forgot?” he teases.

“I had plans,” Suguru groans. He pulls up the emails on his phone, desperate, showing Satoru
the tickets. “I really did, Satoru. I wanted to make this special.”

Satoru laughs. “I see that.”

“I swear, I thought today was Thursday. My schedule’s been off since I started covering for
Jogo while he’s out, and I -”

“Hey.”

“I’m so fucking sorry -”

“Suguru.”

He inhales sharply, fighting not to bite his lip. “Yes?”

Satoru pointedly looks at the watch on his wrist, tapping it with a finger. “We’ve still got
like… half an hour left.”

Suguru blinks.

“We could go out.”

It’s -

Not ideal.

But it’s what he’s got to work with, and so Suguru hastily pushes Satoru towards the door,
urging him into his shoes as he grabs for his wallet.
Unfortunately, there’s not a whole lot open at almost-midnight on a Thursday.

They settle for a twenty-four hour fast food joint a couple of kilometers down the road,
squeezed into a spare booth in the back. Suguru’s pretty sure they’re the only sober ones in
the place; everyone else is surely gearing up for (or winding down from) a night out, clad in
all sorts of clubbing attire. They end up ringing in Friday over a carton of french fries, some
chicken nuggets, and an oreo milkshake, and when Satoru inhales his ice cream too quickly
and gets a brain freeze for his trouble, his eyes crossing as he stabs at his forehead with a
finger, Suguru thinks maybe the night isn’t a total loss after all.

Instead, maybe this is exactly where he was supposed to end up -

With Satoru, the love of his life, acting like a couple of dumbasses in the back corner of a
restaurant as they argue over who can fit more fries in their mouth at once.

(It’s Satoru, obviously.

Suguru didn’t bother trying to compete after watching his boyfriend practically unhinge his
jaw to cram the carton into his mouth.

It’s like something out of a fucking horror story.)

God, he’s so fucking happy.

He doesn’t think he’s ever found someone who just gets him like Satoru does, someone who
seems to understand him without even trying. To always feel so seen, his every mood and
thought so openly on display -

It’s gratifying. And a little bit scary.

But not the bad kind. The good kind of scary, rather, the kind that sends happy little
butterflies into his stomach and makes him break out into nervous laughter.

He wants to spend the rest of his life chasing that feeling. He wants to spend it chasing
Satoru, by his side and at his shoulder, always within easy grasp -

“Hey, Suguru. You ever think about getting married?”

Suguru’s sharp inhale is audible; he feels his eyes go almost comically wide, his lips parting
on a wordless sound.

Is he… is Satoru -

But that’s not it.

He’s not looking at Suguru, focused instead on what looks like the remnants of a bachelorette
party that’s just come in. The bride-to-be is flushed with happiness, surrounded by her
adoring friends and family as they crowd into the booth beside theirs, trays upon trays of fast
food garbage in their hands.
And Satoru is watching it all avidly, nosy as ever, as the very drunk bride eagerly stuffs her
face.

So no.

Satoru isn’t asking him anything in particular; he’s just making small talk, curious about the
situation at hand.

Suguru finds he’s oddly disappointed.

“Looks like fun, yeah?”

Suguru hums, reaching for his drink to give his shaking hands something to do.

“Maybe,” he allows, “If it was with the right person.”

Satoru turns back to him, grinning.

“Oh, yeah?”

He scoots closer, grabbing for Suguru’s hand.

“Anyone come to mind?”

Suguru bites his lip. “There’s this one guy,” he says slowly. “I met him a couple years ago,
when he sent me some really bad nudes by accident.”

Satoru laughs. “He sounds delightful!”

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Suguru snorts.

“Awwwww -”

“But I love him anyway.”

He doesn’t have a name for the way the look in Satoru’s eyes makes him feel. He doesn’t
know how to classify the emotion that gaze evokes.

All he knows is that it’s warm, and soft, and he wants to fucking drown in it.

Satoru clears his throat, catching his attention. “You think you’d marry him?” he asks. “Some
day?”

Suguru nods, squeezing Satoru’s palm.

“Yeah. Some day.”

And Satoru actually, physically shudders at that, his happiness almost palpable; it takes
everything in Suguru not to pull him into his lap and kiss him senseless. He has to remind
himself that they’re in public, and that while there’s a lot you can get away with at midnight
in a crowded spot like this, full frontal isn’t one of them.
Later, he tells himself.

Later, when they are alone, and Suguru can worship Satoru the way he deserves.

Satoru seems to sense his frustration, leaning forward to press his forehead to Suguru’s.
“Promise?” he breathes, wistful.

Suguru bumps their noses together and squeezes his palm, still held fast in his grip.

“Promise.”
End Notes

I got about 80% done with this before I realized I wasn’t even going to get to write the scene
I wanted to write in the first place SO

there will almost certainly be a part 3 🙈🙈🙈

apologies for any typos! I’m running on about four hours of sleep, two energy drinks, and
despair

thanks for reading! 💕

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