Chapter Text
Fact: Gojo Satoru is a god who walks the mortal earth that everyone can reach for, but nobody can reach.
Another fact: Gojo Satoru hasn’t let anyone touch him in years.
How many years exactly, Suguru doesn’t know. But he does know that there’s something beyond the jokes, beyond his pseudo-god complex, beyond infinity itself, that explains the constant active state of infinity that surrounds him like a second skin.
And Suguru isn’t better than the next person. Everything he wants is selfish. And he knows it’s selfish, but he desperately wants to feel the heat and stickiness of Gojo’s skin when he swings an arm around his shoulder after a training session; he wants to feel the soft give of flesh when he hugs him; he wants to feel the warmth emanating from his body instead of hitting an impenetrable, cold wall of air just millimeters from salvation. Suguru just wants proof that he's real.
And there’s something beyond his superiority complex that accounts for Gojo Satoru holding everyone, including Suguru, at arm’s length. He just doesn’t know what it is. And he doesn’t know how to ask. Because even when Suguru thinks he’s caught him off-guard, his hand still finds no warmth radiating from the fabric of Satoru’s shirt. Infinity hovers around Satoru like an overprotective parent—constantly active even when it seems like he isn’t paying attention.
It’s honestly impressive—on vacation at the beach, waking up in the middle of the night to get water, Suguru reached out to brush the glowing white hair from a dreaming Satoru’s forehead, only to be met with cold shock and disappointment. Infinity remained active even when Satoru was asleep. It seemed absurd. It seemed impossible. But Gojo Satoru himself is the impossible. He eats, drinks, and lives the impossible every day.
It’s frustrating. Suguru is frustrated. Because as it stands, Suguru can’t even express his affection for Satoru in the most important and active way—touch. Because as it stands, even Suguru, whom Satoru has smiled at and called his other half, his soulmate, apparently isn’t allowed to lay a finger on him. But he knows if he tries to argue with Satoru, headstrong and stubborn, it’ll end poorly, and Suguru would rather die than watch Satoru put even more distance between them.
And up until now, Suguru has been hoping and praying that time would tell, and the boundaries around Satoru would start to soften. Suguru waited. He’s been patient. But he doesn’t know how long he can wait or how long he’s supposed to wait for the vague idea of being “let in.” Conceptually, it seems intangible.
Don’t get him wrong, though; Suguru doesn’t want Satoru to change. He’s perfectly content seeing Satoru push people out of his way, chin up, and too proud for his own good. Suguru doesn’t want Satoru to just drop infinity and step out into the crowd waiting outside his castle. Suguru just wants to be let in. Wants to gloat and goad over the fact that it was him, him that Satoru chose. He gets to stand inside, by Satoru’s side, while everyone else remains outside the walls.
But beyond his pettiness, Suguru yearns deeply enough for it to ache.
Sometimes, he wonders if he’ll crush his own ribcage in with the force of it. And every time— every time—Suguru bumps shoulders with Satoru as they walk, he's reminded of the way Satoru can’t really feel it. And each time puts another crack in his immeasurable patience.
Suguru scares himself sometimes. With just how much he wants it.
(And he knows—he knows—it goes so far beyond friendship, but it’s not something he’s willing to pull apart. It’s not a curse he can face yet.)
♠♠♠
“Can you mope somewhere else? I’m kind of busy.” Shoko taps the end of her cigarette on the small coffee table in the infirmary, next to her spread of various papers.
“Shut up. You’ve been reading that textbook page for seventeen minutes.”
Shoko just glares at him and slams the book shut, miffed at being called out but not even a bit embarrassed. She throws the book at him unsuccessfully, and it hits Suguru in the knee before thudding unceremoniously on the floor.
Suguru rubs his kneecap in exaggerated agony. “Aw, what’ll you do if you broke something?”
"The only thing worth breaking on you is your ego.” Shoko snorts. “Are you going to tell me why you’re throwing a temper tantrum in my infirmary, or are you just going to continue to ruin my day?”
“I’m the best thing this infirmary has seen in years, and you know it, babe.”
Shoko levels him with a long stare of disgust, rolling her eyes and reaching into her white coat for another cigarette. “Talk to him.”
Suguru blinks. “What?”
“This is about Gojo, right? I'm gonna be really honest, I don't really care what this is about, and all I know is that I don't wanna hear about it, so I'll skip the context and get to the point. Talk to him. You’re both dense as hell and terrible at communicating, so please, for the love of God, just talk to him.”
Suguru gapes at her, floored. “How did you—”
“I believe I said go, not stay. Go talk to him. Go.”
Still disbelieving, Suguru stands, thrown. “Christ. Okay, fine, message received; I’m leaving.”
Shoko sighs passionately in faux relief. Suguru flips her the bird, and she returns the gesture with two middle fingers, mouth stretched in a toothy grin. Suguru wrinkles his nose.
“Don’t do that. You look ugly.”
“Good, I was doing an impression of you.”
Suguru scoffs. “Fuck you. Remind me to never ask you for advice.”
“But that would be giving you advice.” Shoko gasps mockingly. “Getou! You’ve created a paradox!”
Suguru playfully slams the door on his way out, making sure to practice every sign-language curse he’s ever learned through the small glass pane on the window. Shoko pulls the blinds down, and Suguru wonders why he can never win against a lazy medical student.
♠♠♠
“Hey, do you keep infinity on when you shower?”
Satoru pushes himself off the balcony railing that he was leaning on and turns to Suguru with the ultimate deadpan stare. “You serious?”
Suguru shrugs, putting down the book he was flipping through. He wasn’t reading it, obviously. Rather, he was thinking of a way to bring up this conversation and decided the stupidest approach would be the most harmless and have the lowest chance of backfiring. Now that he’s said it, though, he’s not sure. He doesn’t even know what this book is called. He glances at the cover. It’s red and in English. Suguru groans inwardly and pretends like it doesn’t exist.
"Do you?"
"Obviously not," Satoru looks at him like he's grown an additional fifteen heads. "Kinda defeats the purpose. Why?"
“Just wondering. If it’s tiring. You know, keeping it active all the time.”
Satoru hums thoughtfully, leaving the railing entirely in favor of dropping into one of the balcony chairs next to Suguru. “I guess, yeah.”
“You guess?”
“I mean, yeah, it’s probably tiring, but I’m so used to it that I can’t really—like— feel it anymore.”
“Why do you keep it active all the time?”
Fuck. He jumped way too far in the script. He tries to avoid giving anything away with his face as Satoru’s azure eyes blink at him in slight surprise. The wind starts to blow and ruffles the ends of Satoru’s hair; the sunlight catches on it and creates flashes of light. It’s only evening, but if Suguru could name this, he’d call it his own aurora borealis. He wants to run his fingers through it. His fingers twitch in his lap with the force of his want.
Gojo Satoru is gorgeous. When he keeps his sharp mouth shut, Gojo Satoru looks like something to be worshipped. Suguru is reverent. He only realizes that he’s staring a few seconds too late when Satoru waves a hand in front of his face, lips parted as he speaks, but Suguru can hardly bring himself to pay attention.
Satoru snaps his fingers at him. “—to ask?”
“What?” Suguru replies dumbly.
Satoru rolls his eyes and pulls his hand back, relaxing back into his chair. He looks away, focusing his eyes on a passing airplane as he bites down on his lower lip, uncertain in a way Suguru doesn’t get to see very often (but relishes it when he does). Satoru huffs through his nose, still chewing on his lower lip, and Suguru forces himself not to reach out and hook a finger under his chin, using his thumb to pull it free. That would be stupid . He’s getting distracted.
“I feel like I’ve told you this before,” Satoru sighs eventually, still avoiding Suguru’s eyes. “I don’t trust other people to touch me.”
Suguru lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me?”
It’s a rhetorical question. Suguru knows he does. He remembers every time Satoru said those words to him—bumping fists before a mission, grabbing snacks from the convenience store, trading homework answers—Suguru remembers the exact shapes Satoru’s mouth forms when he says the words I trust you.
Suguru knows Satoru trusts him. Which is why it doesn’t make sense to Suguru— if Satoru is telling the truth, why aren’t people like him and Shoko allowed to touch him without his barriers in place?
When he returns to the present from his internal plight, he finds Satoru staring at him, expression unreadable. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his eyes dart to the sliding door behind Suguru, once again staring everywhere but Suguru's face.
“I let you touch me.”
Suguru shoves down a scoff. Bullshit .
It feels strange. It’s strange, because now Suguru knows for a fact that there’s something else fortifying Satoru’s barriers, and he won’t let this go until he knows what it is. Partially because he’s selfish, and partially because something is wrong , and it’s a something that Satoru has avoided telling him, and that in itself is even wronger . And Suguru just wants to know because he loves him.
“Not really, you don’t,” Suguru states flatly. "I can tell when you have infinity up, Toru."
Suguru thinks that it must be lonely, stuck in a prison like that, a prison of your own making. Used to shield you, to protect you, but isolating you from a warmth that the human body desperately craves for survival. He debates commenting on the fact but knows he would only anger Satoru if he tried.
Satoru opens his mouth, then promptly shuts it. Suguru waits patiently until he speaks again. “I think—I think that we should talk about this later.”
Suguru frowns. He wasn’t expecting that to be his answer.
“Does it bother you?”
“Huh?” Satoru’s eyebrows furrow together.
“That I brought it up,” Suguru clarifies. “Does it bother you?”
"I—no,” he replies unhelpfully.
Suguru is honestly proud of how neutral he’s kept both the conversation and his tone, (hopefully) betraying nothing quite yet. Gently, he assures, “If you just don’t want it—this conversation, me touching you or anything, or whatever—just say so. I’ll drop it.”
He swallows the hint of bitterness that arises. No matter what Suguru wants, his wants can always be kept at bay. What matters is what Satoru wants. Because Suguru would burn the earth to ash rather than even chance hurting Satoru. Because whatever Satoru gives him is enough—he's lucky to even have that much.
"Fuck— no , it’s not that,” Satoru grunts, struggling to piece together what he wants to say. He massages his temple with an index finger. A swell of hopefulness sprouts in Suguru’s chest. “I just think—I don’t know how to explain without feeling humiliated; I need—I would rather talk about this later.”
Humiliated?
Suguru blinks, arguably more confused than he was before. Slowly, he nods. It wasn’t a rejection, thankfully. But on the other hand, while not a rejection, Suguru isn’t quite sure what the hell Satoru’s vague confession means. They sit in comfortable silence and watch the sun set behind the city buildings, cool breezes flowing through their hair and clothes. Well, Satoru watches the sky, and Suguru watches his aurora borealis.
Suguru asks again once the sun has disappeared. “Why do you bother keeping infinity on all the time?"
What he really means is why do you keep infinity on when you're with me?
Satoru runs his hand through his hair, seeming to realize that he’s not getting away from this topic anytime soon. He sighs. “I don’t like pain.”
“Pain?” Suguru furrows his brows. “But I’m not—no one’s going to hurt you.”
Suguru doesn't know what he would do if it turns out that Satoru's afraid of him. Afraid that he'll hurt him.
“I know that.” Satoru huffs, standing up and patting his pockets, presumably for a cigarette. Suguru deflates a bit at the certainty of his tone. Satoru's still nervous, he notes. “But I’ve gone so long without it— without—touch—that it’s just overwhelming.”
Satoru chews on the inside of his cheek, frustrated. His cheeks dust with a pretty pink. Suguru leans forward, encouraging him to continue. He stands to level with Satoru, who looks like a vision, with white hair contrasting against the darkness of the buildings behind him and clear blue eyes emitting a light of their own as if they hold supernovas. Suguru walks over to the edge and leans his hip against the railing, carefully watching Satoru.
"Why is that humiliating? Why's that wrong?"
Satoru grew up in a clan that taught him that strength was deprivation, strength was only needing yourself, and surviving on willpower alone. But he's not there anymore. He doesn't have to keep up those pretenses. He's allowed to ease into it slowly, to waver his boundaries. But he hasn't. Suguru doesn't know why.
Satoru groans. “I don’t know—you don’t underst— I don't know how to handle it. My body doesn't know how to deal with it, deal with someone else, someone else's hands on me. It’s weird, how bad it is, okay? It's easier to just go without it, like always.” Then, quietly, he mutters, “It scares me. I get scared, okay?”
Satoru's pouting, lower lip jutting out, and white lashes brushing across high cheekbones. Suguru wants to kiss him. Obviously, he can't so he just smiles, teasing. “So, you don’t let people touch you because you're sensitive?”
Satoru glares at him, and Suguru nudges his shoe with his foot to let him know he’s just joking.
“That’s not it at all! That’s—not,” Satoru glares at the ground. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” Suguru replies, startlingly honest. “But if I say I want you to let me in; I want to touch you; would you let me in?”
Satoru stares at him, speechless. Eventually, he croaks out, “Why?”
Why? For how highly Gojo Satoru seems to view himself, he seems to be insanely stupid when it comes to just how much Suguru wants him— wants everything about him.
Suguru sighs. When he starts to ramble, he's horrified to find he can't stop. “I just—I want to be able to hug you—to touch you without the barrier; I want to feel you properly. I—I want you to feel me touching you. It’s selfish, I guess, but I want to be able to touch you and know that you’re real, you’re here,” you’re mine.
He sighs again and meets Satoru’s eyes with an earnest gaze. “Would you let me?”
Satoru shakes his head. "It's not gonna be what you want, Suguru, it's not."
"You're all I want," Suguru replies, more honest than he's ever been in his life. "You're all that I want."
♠♠♠
Suguru takes another step toward him, and Satoru flinches, trying to calm himself with counted breaths as he leans against the wall. Suguru wants to curse his own selfishness for not being able to see beyond his own stupid desire. To see what the issue really was and how bad it really was.
Satoru stares at his socked feet on the floor, and Suguru’s heart squeezes painfully when he realizes that Satoru truly is terrified. And Satoru is his best friend, his other half, and Suguru has seen him angry, furious, sad, overjoyed, drunk, and high, but Gojo Satoru is never scared. But here he is, trembling after dropping the safety net he’s hidden behind for so many years that he’s forgotten the way the world feels without it.
Here he is, trusting Suguru to be here while he’s at his most vulnerable, the most breakable Suguru has ever seen him.
His face is dusted red, but he’s not hyperventilating; he's regulating his breath with meditative techniques they were taught years before in training. His blue eyes flash. Suguru thinks he looks the most gorgeous like this, imperfect, tousled.
“You alright?” Suguru speaks gently, like talking to a spooked animal. He can’t screw this up because Suguru knows—he knows that Satoru will run if he feels embarrassed, and he knows that Satoru, who’s stood with him long enough to become a part of him, for some reason fears his reaction. And Suguru would rather die than hurt him.
“I’m fine,” Satoru says quickly. “I’m good.”
His fingers dig into the fabric of his sweatpants when Suguru takes a half-step closer. God, Suguru wants to grab him and hold him until he stops trembling like that, but he knows he can’t. Carefully watching his reaction, Suguru takes another step toward him, now almost toe-to-toe, and Satoru flinches again like he’s been hit.
And Suguru hasn’t even put a hand on him yet.
“It’s off, isn’t it?” Suguru asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Satoru forces himself to look at him, his expression annoyed but his eyes laced with resolve. “No shit.”
“You can back out if you want, Satoru. Say the word, and I’ll back up. You don’t have to do this.”
Satoru glares at him, determined. “No, don’t. It’s fine.”
His voice rings with resolution, but his head knocks against the wall when Suguru lifts a hand to reach for him. There’s blood on his mouth from where he’s been biting down on his lip.
Suguru swallows.
“It’s all right. You know you’re safe with me, right?”
Satoru dips his head in a short nod, and fuck, he’s just so fucking cute that Suguru could kill himself. His self-restraint is a bodybuilder at this point. He’s so fond, he could combust.
While significantly calmer, Satoru’s hands still shake a bit where he holds them at his thighs.
“You can turn it back on at any time.”
Satoru scoffs, but his attempt at bravado falls flat with the following shaky exhale. Suguru leans closer.
“I’m not going to hurt you, baby.”
Satoru sighs, fists unclenching as he deflates into the wall behind him, looking up at Suguru with a shaky but sincere smile. “I know.”
Suguru smiles back. “Can I?”
Bravely, Satoru swallows and nods.
Suguru should have chosen somewhere easier; maybe he should have started slow, with just a hand atop his shoulder or a hand curled around his bicep.
Maybe he should have gone slower, because when Suguru’s hands settle lightly on his waist, Satoru gasps so loudly that the sound echoes through the apartment, and Suguru decides to commit before either of them can overthink it. He uses Satoru’s shirt to tug him in his direction, leading Satoru to throw his arms around his neck. When Suguru feels nimble fingers combing through the hair at his nape, he tightens his grip on Satoru’s waist and pulls their bodies flush together. With each move, a soft keen escapes Satoru’s mouth, followed by a whimper as Suguru’s fingers tighten around his waist.
Satoru’s breaths are coming short and fast, and Suguru really should not find it as hot as he does.
“Can I?” Suguru repeats, trying to hide how raspy his voice has become.
Satoru just nods before burying his face in Suguru’s neck, and Suguru can see his ears blushing a bright red.
Suguru slips one hand under the hem of Satoru's shirt and uses two fingers to trace the length of his spine in a way that almost feels too intimate—too much, even for him. Using the hand still on his waist, Suguru starts stroking the skin atop his ribs gently with his thumb, and the breath gets punched out of him when Satoru mewls, a pathetic, dirty-sexy- fucking-insane noise that’s going to live in Suguru’s head for the rest of his life.
Satoru must be able to feel Suguru’s smile because he digs his fingernails into Suguru’s neck with a loud sniff. “You promised me you wouldn’t laugh. You promised.”
Suguru’s heart grows and breaks at the same time, and he never wants to let go; he wants to hold Satoru right here forever.
“Oh, baby,” Suguru murmurs. “I’m not. Not even remotely. I’m just happy.”
He drops a kiss on the junction between Satoru’s neck and shoulder, and Satoru jolts at the contact. Suguru feels selfish—Satoru has relinquished all control and served himself up on a silver platter for Suguru, but somehow, Suguru still craves just a little more.
He’ll never push Satoru, but he can’t help himself when all he can focus on is Satoru—from the vitreous quality of his voice to the smell of soft vanilla body wash wafting off of him all the way to the sheer heat of Satoru’s body as he gives into Suguru’s. It’s fucking intoxicating—everything about Satoru makes him dizzy. Suguru’s never been more fond and turned on in his life.
“Could I?" Suguru drags his lips up the side of Satoru’s neck, as agonizingly slow as he can force himself to go. “Just once? Please?”
Satoru’s breath hitches and Suguru worries about how much longer Satoru’ll be able to stand at this rate, his body pushing further into Suguru like he’s begging for it. The way Satoru exhales breathily with every shiver of his body makes Suguru feel like he’s going insane.
Satoru whimpers softly, still trying to sound dispassionate. “Do whatever you want.”
Suguru’s head spins at the implications of those words, and the revelation falls on him—the reality of just how much power Satoru had put into his hands. Just how much trust Satoru’s graciously given him. Gojo Satoru’s invulnerability was his strength, his asset, his pride, but here he was, letting it all go and just letting Suguru touch as he pleases.
Suguru could cry over just how fucking pliant Satoru is in his arms, not objecting to Suguru’s hands greedily exploring underneath his shirt; instead, he lets out soft gasps and keens that are going to haunt Suguru’s mind for centuries. He swears and circles his arms around Satoru’s waist and squeezes even tighter, eliciting another sharp gasp that breaks at the end and turns to stardust.
Everything about Gojo Satoru is absolutely ethereal. It’s almost a shame no one gets to see him like this.
But the mere thought of anyone other than Suguru seeing Satoru in this shattered, vitiated state makes Suguru want to commit mass murder.
Satoru squirms in his grip, nervously awaiting Suguru’s next move.
He begins gently and wetly mouthing at Satoru’s neck, and Satoru slumps against the wall, baring his neck in a way that has Suguru swallowing to clear his head before continuing his path. He stops when a wet kiss followed by a lave of his tongue has Satoru gripping his shoulders like a lifeline; the punched-out whimper he releases is musical. It’s holy .
“God, you’re so fucking pretty.” Satoru makes a noise at the compliment, but Suguru pays no mind. “Even when you act all cocky, I know—I know you don’t grasp just how fucking ethereal you are. You have no fucking idea what people would do to touch you like this. To get close at all. You’re fucking perfect .”
Satoru whines.
He cries out and ruts against Suguru, his knees going weak as Suguru sucks a mark into the soft patch of skin, pulling back briefly to check on Satoru, whose glassy, fucked-out gaze and splotchy blush make him look like the epitome of sin.
But Suguru would choose hell a million times over if it meant he could have this.
Suguru alternates between biting and sucking until Satoru keens loud enough for it to ring through the apartment, high and gorgeous. Suguru shudders against him at the sound.
“Don’t,” Satoru tries to get out between pants, fingers slowly returning to their home in Suguru’s hair, twisting through the strands. “Don’t leave—ah—a mark too high; I can't—I can’t cover it."
Suguru gently kisses the newly formed bruise in apology. (He’s not sorry at all.)
“Too late.”
Satoru huffs like he doesn’t believe him, his muscles still quivering where Suguru presses his hand underneath his shirt, and it’s so cute and so hot and so Satoru that Suguru thinks he’ll die before he gets the chance to properly kiss this fool.
“You’re doing so good , baby,” Suguru murmurs into his skin, tensing briefly when Satoru lets out a soft sob in response, and Suguru can feel wetness against his neck.
“What’s wrong, Satoru?” Suguru asks softly, worried. “Should I let go?”
“No,” Satoru whimpers out, his voice gossamer thin. “No, it’s fine; it’s just a lot—it's too much.”
"Shit, I’m sorry, you’re just so—I shouldn’t have— I’ll let go.”
Satoru shakes his head, clinging on tighter. “ No, please. It’s good. It’s too much, but it’s good. It’s good. I like it.”
And Suguru could have passed out from those words alone because of the fucking mouth on this boy—to say shit like that while sounding so ruined. Looking so fucking breakable in Suguru’s arms. Suguru’s sure all it would take is a harsh breeze for him to finish—he's been hard since he first wrapped his hands around Satoru’s waist. But this isn’t about him; this is about Satoru.
Another flash of possessiveness shoots down to his toes when he realizes that there’s no one else on the planet who will ever be allowed to see Gojo Satoru like this, fragile and debauched over just a few soft touches, sweet noises escaping between his teeth with every breath he takes. This is a sight just for Suguru. Because there’s only one person Gojo Satoru would ever allow to see him—touch him—in a state of such weakness, and it’s him.
Satoru says something, but it’s muffled in Suguru’s neck.
“What was that?”
“It doesn’t hurt like I thought it would,” Satoru reveals. “It hurts, but I like it. It’s burning and achy but in a good way. It—it makes me feel like I’m dying.”
Suguru snorts softly, breathing in fruity shampoo. “You like feeling like you’re dying?”
Satoru lets out a groan of annoyance. “You know what I mean.”
Suguru hums. He playfully leans down and scrapes his teeth against Satoru’s neck, freezing in surprise when Satoru lets out a moan that’s straight-up pornographic, his fingers tightening and yanking on Suguru’s hair. His back arches and presses him further into Suguru, Suguru thinks he’s already died and gone to heaven.
“Fuck,” Suguru laughs airily and drops his head into the crook of Satoru’s neck and shoulder, breathless. “This is driving me insane. You’re so— sensitive .”
Satoru pulls on his hair again, warning. He's embarrassed, and Suguru thinks it's fucking adorable. Unhappily, he scoffs, “Obviously. You’re the first person I’ve let touch me in fucking—ugh, fucking, I don’t know how long.”
“I know,” Suguru smiles. “Thank you.”
Satoru grunts, hugging him impossibly tighter. “For what?”
“For this.” Suguru hugs him so tight that it feels like he’s trying to meld their bodies together into one. “For giving me this. For letting me have this.”
Satoru buries his face back into Suguru’s neck, and he can feel the wetness where the boy is crying from oversensitivity, writhing from overstimulation, so good that he trembles with the sensations zipping through his body like a livewire. It’s unfair—even when shattered and absolutely falling apart, Satoru still looks like a deity hand-crafted by gods, irrevocably perfect.
Suguru closes his eyes and tries to regain composure. This boy would be the death of him.
“You know I don't—I can't—you know I wouldn’t let anyone else do this.”
Suguru smiles. “I know.”
"You're the only person I’d let touch me— like this.” Have me like this, see me like this, hold me like this.
Suguru noses his hair and breathes him in like oxygen. “I know.”