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Suguru is always up before the sunrise, hours before anyone else in his family wakes. In the grey light of predawn, the dry air of the desert is almost bearable. He likes to go outside barefoot while the sand is still cool to the touch. His family's new encampment is on a sloping hill, so he climbs up to the top, where he can watch the sunrise over the sierra mountains in the distance. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath in. The hem of his cotton shift sways in a rare breeze, with a hint of sweetness that only comes from damp creosote underneath all the dust.
He can feel the barometric pressure in the long-healed wound in his rib cage, almost seven years old now. It's his best gauge for weather changes these days. A storm is on the way, then. (Long ago, lifetimes ago, Satoru used to get migraines during the rainy season. Even now, he wonders if he's okay or not, if his temple is throbbing the way Suguru's chest does.)
Suguru eyes the horizon, with not a single wisp of cloud to be seen. It doesn't mean much. This far out in the remote desert, it's difficult to trust the sky during the rainy season. Things can go from bright and sunny to a sudden flash flood in the blink of an eye. Suguru trusts his body, and makes a mental note to get with Manami later today, to make sure they're prepared for the first rain of the season.
The sky is slowly changing from gray to pink, with the mountains painted a stunning lilac. It's a beautiful view. Suguru basks in it for a moment, content, before movement at the bottom of the ravine leading up to Suguru's encampment catches his eye. A lone rider is loping their way, riding their horse in an unhurried trot.
Still little more than a splash of black against the shadowy desert floor, Suguru feels a shiver crawl up his spine. The rider, as if sensing they're being watched, stops. From this far away, Suguru can't see their eyes, but he can feel the way they sear into his skin.
A black hat slides off the head, silver-white hair shining even in the sparse light of predawn. It could be anyone, but somehow, Suguru knows exactly who that head of hair belongs to.
Gojo Satoru has found them at last.
Suguru's family moves out West like every other family does: looking for the big break that will make them filthy rich. He's nine when it happens, young enough to be excited because he's heard the stories of gunfights and outlaws and cowboys from the West, too young to know what that danger might mean for them. And like most families that move out West, the move does not go as planned. Suguru's father gets wrapped up in drinking and gambling and fighting; his mother develops a rattling cough that keeps her off her feet for months, that makes their parents shout until the tin roof of their home shakes. Suguru gets a job at eleven, just to afford keeping him and his mom fed every night.
He picks up a Smith & Wesson at twelve. Six and a half inches, 44 Magnum, the chrome glinting in the blistering sun. Almost too heavy for Suguru to hold, he presses the wooden butt of the gun against his chest, just to look.
"You wanna try a shot?" his boss asks, watching him with a knowing glint in his eye.
He tilts his head towards the barren space out back, where a hay bale with a few tin cans sit innocently in the distance. Suguru, twelve years old with no clue what the fuck he's doing, dead tired from working since 4 am today, nods. The gun is huge in his hands, already old according to his boss. Still, he watches raptly while his boss points out all the parts to it, how to half-cock the gun to get the cylinder to release, how to load the long metal bullets into their respective homes. How to hold it, where to put his feet, how to cock the hammer and pull the trigger.
When he shoots, the blast nearly deafens him. He blinks, staring at the spot where a tin can used to sit, now missing.
His boss whistles. Suguru can't tell if it's a good thing or not.
(It is.)
Turns out, Suguru can hit a bullseye as easy as breathing, with any pistol someone hands him, even with the scrap-metal bull dogs most people around town can afford. Notoriously difficult to handle, most shots go wild with a bull dog, but not Suguru's. Even when a dust storm is blowing in, he can shoot his mark, leaning into the direction of the wind like he's made for it.
A prodigy, they call him. Easy money, Suguru thinks, when he can get more from an hour doing potshot tricks than an entire day washing dishes at the bar.
At fourteen, Suguru borrows the sherriff's horse (they need medicine for his mom, you see, and the only doctor who knows how to treat the consumption is three towns south, and Suguru can't make that on foot, and Suguru has always been the pride of the town, so sweet, so respectful, such a good shot with the gun). He rides twenty miles west, and with a bright red bandana tied firmly around his face, he robs his first bank.
He rides the horse almost too hard that first night, getting away from the city and imagining a pack of hellhounds at his heels. He spends a night alone with nothing but the stars, his horse, and a rattler for company.
The next morning, he rides for half the day, giving his horse the last of his water. He buys the medicine his mom needs (he wasn't lying about the consumption), and makes it back home by midnight, with no one in town the wiser.
Easy, Suguru thinks.
Even easier, three months later, when Suguru rides out into the desert and meets a lonely caravan, overstuffed with riches and hope the way only the wealthy would be, and robs them (mostly) blind.
By the time Satoru dismounts from his horse, a Chestnut Thoroughbred that bites at his hat as Satoru slips off its back, Suguru has changed, braided his hair, and slipped on his favorite rattlesnake boots. The sun has crested over the Sierra Mountains, early morning sunlight spilling harsh and golden across the desert. Suguru takes care to lean against the wooden post at the mouth of the steps that lead up to his home, hoping he doesn't look too close at the ramshackle constrction area beyond, or the quick lean-tos and ramshackle shacks the rest of his family has built while they work on the more permanent homes.
"Yo, Satoru," Suguru calls, trying and failing at levity. "Long time no see."
Satoru stares up at him. He's in all black, from his dusty boots to his black buckskin jacket, his trousers faded gray from too many washes, the butt of his gun (a glimmering polished brown) the only color on him. He looks like he's dressed for a funeral. His hair, in comparison, shines almost as bright as the sun. So do his eyes, brighter blue than the sky behind him. Gently, Satoru takes his hat back from the horse and runs a hand down her flank, almost absently.
"Yeah," Satoru says. He grins, a flash of teeth that doesn't reach his eyes. "Last time I saw you, I'd shot you through the heart."
Suguru's hand comes up to his chest, where the old wound still aches.
"Ribs," Suguru corrects. "You were never that great a shot, Satoru. Just fast."
"Faster than you."
Suguru tilts his head down, a smile trembling to life on his lips against his better judgement. Silence settles around them, a brief respite before the rest of his family wakes. Any minute now, he thinks.
"Are you here to kill me again?"
Satoru's eyes are as beautiful as ever. He'd thought that time had made him nostalgic, that the memory of those precious diamond-bright eyes had idealized him into something larger than life.
But that's just Satoru. He's always been larger than life. He doesn't respond to Suguru's question except to wrap his horse's lead around the hitching post nearby.
"All right then," Suguru says. "You may as well come in."
Suguru turns on his heel and heads back inside, trusting Satoru will follow.
Suguru's home isn't anything fancy. A tiny bedroom big enough for his cot and not much else, a sparsely furnished living room, and a kitchen big enough to hold the entire family whenever they decide to stop work for the afternoon. He'd argued with everyone for the better part of a week against building him his own house first, wanting them instead to focus on a temporary barracks, at least, so that everyone could have a roof over their heads while they worked. He'd been outnumbered. Even Mimiko and Nanako had sided against him.
He crosses the dusty floorboards of the living room, noting absently that he'll need to sweep again, all the way through to the kitchen. The large window faces east, which has a brilliant view of mountain range and spills as much morning light as possible into the room.
He listens to Gojo's footsteps following him into the house, not bothering to turn around. Maybe a hundred yards off, a two-story house sits in partial shadow. Only just finished last week, Manami, Mimiko, and Nanako quickly took it over.
None of them are early risers. He should be safe from their prying eyes for a while longer. Suguru's mostly concerned with Miguel. He's always risen the earliest of the family, after Suguru.
"Cute little place," Satoru says into the silence.
Suguru turns back to him, watching Satoru make himself at home and sprawl in one of the chairs, dropping his booted feet on the kitchen table with twin clunking sounds.
"It's no Gojo Manor," Suguru replies. "But it's enough. More than enough."
Satoru crosses his arms behind his neck, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling. Suguru stares at the not-quite forgotten column of his pale, pale throat. Suguru is suddenly very thirsty.
"Do you want some coffee?"
Satoru scoffs.
"You ask me if I'm here to kill you, and then you ask me if I want coffee? A courteous host to the end, Suguru."
"Are you here to kill me?"
"No."
"Then have some coffee with me, Satoru. And get your feet off my table."
Satoru rearranges himself into a more acceptable posture, watching Suguru with his too-bright, too-blue eyes. Suguru turns away and busies himself with his stove, lest he get too distracted by Satoru. His stove, uncooperative as always, takes forever to light. Enough that he hears Satoru shift, feels his weight by his side, smells his expensive cologne, cloves and cinnamon and lemongrass, heady enough to make Suguru's heart flutter.
"Need a hand?" Satoru asks in a low rumble.
Suguru closes his eyes for a second, drinking in the warmth of him, the spicy, mouthwatering smell of him. He opens his eyes and tries his firestarter again, watching as the sparks finally catch and grow into flames.
Suguru would call him an awful flirt if he thought Satoru had any clue what his presence does to Suguru. Plus, the whole shooting-Suguru-in-the-chest-thing. He doesn't think anyone would be shameless enough to flirt with someone you thought you'd killed.
Then again.
"Do you remember when we'd first met?" Suguru turns to find Satoru kneeling at his side, close enough to touch. "Your hair was shorter back then."
"Lots of things were different back then," Suguru says.
Satoru's delighted laugh, from years and years ago. He thinks of Satoru aiming a pistol and shooting it quicker than lightning, of the way his cheeks puffed out when he missed. He thinks of the way his fingers worked Suguru's gun, reloading it faster than Suguru himself could with none of the practice. He thinks of himself, the careful aim he'd take to prove to Satoru how easy it was to hit a bullseye.
"Not everything was different back then."
Suguru fell in love with Satoru, not the first time they spoke, but pretty soon after, the first time they shot together.
"Not everything," Suguru agrees quietly.
Suguru's mom dies the spring when Suguru turns eighteen, losing her third and last bout with consumption. He kills his father four hours after his mom's funeral, when the stumbles into the house still reeking of whiskey and piss, the sun long since set. He aims his revolver at the base of his skull and looks away when he pulls the trigger. Suguru reeks of blood and sweat as he rides his horse into the night, never once looking back. He's already been gaining the reputation of an outlaw, and whispers of it have even started reaching him here at home.
It's better this way. Cut his losses and all that. His dad has less than ten bucks in savings, but that's okay. Suguru has maybe three hundred saved up from robbing banks and people alike. It's enough to get by for a few months. Maybe half a year, if he's careful with it.
It's his dad's death that puts Suguru's face on wanted posters in every city with more than fifty inhabitants. Figures. The man was good for nothing except causing Suguru problems.
They drink coffee at the table, facing each other, completely silent. They both have long legs, and their feet tangle with each other under the table. Suguru feels lightheaded. The press of their ankles under the table is the most they've touched in years. Somewhere far away, he hears the rumble of distant thunder. Suguru sets his mug back down on the table with a clatter. Finally, he snaps.
"Why are you here , Satoru?"
Satoru keeps staring at him, as if waiting for something. Suguru thinks his question is pretty clear.
"You know why I'm here," he says.
Baffled, Suguru replies, "Obviously, I don't."
"I thought I killed you, you know."
"Satoru."
Satoru stands abruptly, leaning his hands on Suguru's table and looming over him.
"You missed." Satoru says it gravely, as if it should be obvious. "I only just heard that you might have survived. Rumors, you know. I came to check. But mostly, I'm here because you missed, and you never miss."
Suguru stares up at Satoru, helpless. Suguru has always felt helpless under that intense stare. Even more so now, when he feels like Satoru is having a conversation Suguru missed the beginning of.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Satoru grabs him roughly by the shirt collar, dragging him up so forcefully his chair clatters to the floor.
"The duel , Suguru," Satoru hisses. "I shot to kill. You missed." Suguru can't think with Satoru so close, watching him with his intense eyes, a scowl on his face. When Suguru doesn't have a response, Satoru continues. "You were using my gun. I know you were."
He shakes Suguru roughly, for good measure.
"Of course I was," he manages.
Suguru never misses a shot with that Colt.
(Just the one.)
It’s always been his lucky charm. Satoru shakes him again.
"That shot didn't even graze me," he says, and he must be the only person on the planet who would sound angry about that. "Not even close. That's why I'm here."
"You wanted me to shoot you?"
Satoru makes a frustrated growling noise in the back of his throat.
"I cannot believe I'm in love with you," he says, sounding incredibly angry about it.
Before Suguru can process the words, he's pulled Suguru even closer. They stare at each other, less than a hairsbreadth apart, and then, all at once, Suguru surges up and kisses him, so hard the two of them stumble slightly away from the table.
"You've never killed anyone before," Satoru says when he catches up with him a year after the patricide. "So, why?"
And it's true. Suguru has never killed anyone before or after he put a bullet in the spine of his wretched father. No one but Satoru seems to remember that.
"Are you here for the bounty on my head?" Suguru asks.
"Obviously not."
"Could have fooled me," Suguru replies, nodding towards the gun glinting in Satoru's holster, the shiny new pin on his lapel proclaiming him a real ranger, now.
The sun is sweltering overhead, despite the slight shade his hat provides him. He's been riding for near on two hours now, although Satoru has the dusty, windswept look of someone who hasn't stopped to rest in days.
"How long have you been looking for me?" Suguru can't help but ask.
Under the wide brim of his hat, Satoru is wearing a pair of tinted spectacles. They cover the bright blue of his eyes. He can see the frown on the edges of his pink lips, but nothing else to indicate his mood.
Satoru has always been an open book to Suguru. To look at him like this and have no clue what he's thinking is disconcerting at best.
"Come home with me," Satoru breathes, as if it's taking up all his courage to ask. "A long time, I've been looking. Come home with me. We'll figure it all out, together."
"Right," Suguru scoffs. "So you can keep me in a gilded cage like your parents kept you?" Satoru flinches at the words, and Suguru grips the reigns tighter, trying to steel himself. "It's too late, Satoru. You're too late."
Suguru kicks at his horse's side, urging her back into motion. He expects Satoru to chase after him; is already trying to plan out how to beat him with his horse as exhausted as she is.
But Satoru doesn't follow him. Satoru remains motionless, until Suguru winds his way down a ravine and loses sight of him completely. A part of him wishes Satoru does follow him. It's a stupid, reckless thought, though. In the end, it's better this way.
Satoru's mouth is a hot, relentless press against his own. He tastes like the coffee Suguru just fed him, but he smells just like he did the first time Suguru met him: too much spicy cologne but under that, the stale sweat of riding hard all night. Suguru wants to swallow him up whole and never stop tasting him, never stop smelling him.
The sharp sting of Satoru's teeth on his lip makes him gasp, and Satoru is crowding into his space even further, pushing until Suguru's back hits the wall. The meager selection of dinnerware in Suguru's cabinets clinks from the force, but Satoru's tongue in his mouth is a heady distraction. Suguru's hands slide up to Satoru's trim waist, under his jacket where the cotton fabric is damp from sweat. Suguru feels like he's going crazy. He wants to lick up every last drop of sweat from Satoru's skin.
Satoru's hands press against the sides of his face, cradling him tenderly even while he ravages Suguru's mouth.
"Satoru," Suguru gasps when he has to stop to breathe, staring up at the ceiling while Satoru traces one large, callused hand down the length of Suguru's neck.
His skin buzzes in a delicate trail down, all the way to his collar bone, where Satoru's over-long fingers press, just hard enough to leave him breathless.
"You always smelled so good without any cologne," Satoru says, his voice a low rumble, nosing at a spot under Suguru's jaw that leaves his knees weak. "It's not fair."
"Not all of us can afford to import perfume from France."
Satoru nips at the skin of his jaw, and Suguru would be annoyed at his petulance if the sharp sting didn't make him groan. Satoru's tongue instantly replaces his teeth, soothing the sting. Suguru's hands grip more tightly around Satoru's waist in response.
Satoru's hand slides lower again, trailing down the sot fabric of Suguru's button-down, coming to rest just above Sugur's pectoral muscle. An involuntary shudder rolls up Suguru's spine; Satoru's hand presses down into the long-healed bullet wound, the thing that nearly killed him. The injury that Satoru put into his body.
Satoru pulls way for a moment, and they stare at each other. Satoru looks absolutely wrecked. He's always flushed so easily, and now his cheeks and neck are dark red, his eyes gleaming brighter than starlight.
"Suguru," Satoru starts.
He licks his lips. He takes a deep breath, but before he can say anything, a deafening roar of thunder crashes, sounding directly overhead, and with it a sudden deluge of rain pounding on his roof. Satoru winces.
From the front of the house, someone knocks on the door.
"Geto?" Miguel's voice calls from outside. "There's a horse tied out front. Do you want it moved to the stables with the others?"
"She bites," Satoru whsipers, burying his face in Suguru's neck. Suguru stifles a laugh, moving a hand up to lay gently on Satoru's down-soft hair.
"Thank you, Miguel," Suguru calls over the clattering of rain. "Careful with her! She's spoiled rotten."
Miguel doesn't respond to that. Suguru hopes he's not getting completely drenched outside.
"Who was that?" Satoru asks, still not moving from his spot in Suguru's shoulder.
"Miguel," Suguru says, running his hand through Satoru's hair just to feel him shiver. "He runs a lot of the day-to-day work while we build up the town. Good with the horses, too."
"So it is true," Satoru murmurs. He pulls away from Suguru, just enough to look him in the eye again. "You're building up a whole settlement out here."
"Manami and Toshihisa worked out the deed with the government." Suguru smiles, proud of everything his family has done to make his dream a reality. "Larue obsesses over the schedule, and he and Miguel have basically coordinated the whole thing while I work out the money. We should have the last few houses built by the end of the year." Thunder crashes overhead again, so loud it rattles Suguru's bones. Unconsciously, his hands tighten around Satoru. Satoru watches him, his expression unreadable. Doubt starts to trickle in, with the heady buzz of their kiss fading into a delicious memory. "Is that--is that really why you're here?"
"I already told you why I'm here," Satoru says. His hands wind around Suguru's waist, warm pressure along his belt, the tips of his fingers tracing patterns on his tucked-in shirt. "But….I mean. I guess we should sit down for this."
Sitting at least means they're not shooting each other. Suguru nods. Thunder crashes overhead again, thankfully not nearly as loud as before, but the rain picks up somehow, almost deafening.
"Come with me," Suguru says, almost yelling to be heard over the roar of rain.
He pulls away from Satoru, trailing his hand until he can grab Satoru lightly by the wrist, tugging him to follow. Suguru leads them back into the living room, down a short hallway with a trapdoor set into the ground.
Suguru pulls the door open, revealing a short set of wooden steps.
"Not suspicious at all," Satoru mumbles. Suguru ignores him, pulling him down into the room, lighting one of the kerosene lamps as he goes.
"It's quieter down here," Suguru defends, as they reach the landing and reveal the cellar, nothing more than a few cases of wine stacked along the far back wall. Only a few paces away from the door, the rain quiets down around them, as if to prove his point. "During the dust storms, it's easiest for everyone to pile into the cellar."
Suguru sits on the floor, leaning against one of the cases of wine as he stares up at Satoru. Satoru sighs. He unholsters his gun and sets it gently down on one of the crates before collapsing to the ground beside him.
"I quit the Rangers."
Suguru whips his head around, almost smacking himself in the face with the end of his braid. Now that he's looking, he finally notices that his gleaming gold badge is missing.
" Can you quit being a Ranger?" Suguru asks. He waves one hand in the air vaguely. "You know. Paramilitary force, and all that."
"Technically, they let me retire early," Satoru ammends. His lips tilt up in a rueful smile, staring down at the floor as if lost in thought. "What else could they do? If they didn't let me leave, I would have just deserted. You think the Higher-Ups wanted that all over the papers?"
Suguru can't help laughing, imagining the headlines. That would have been something.
"You always wanted to be a Ranger," Suguru says. "What changed your mind."
Satoru looks back up at him, his eyes warm under the flickering lamplight.
"Family legacy is hard to unlearn," Satoru finally says after a long moment of silence. "When I--when I thought you were gone, I did a lot of thinking. Soul-searching, you know? Who was I if I wasn't a Gojo? If I didn't follow in my Father's footsteps, in my family's legacy of being warmongers? I didn't know. I still don't, not really."
Suguru watches Satoru's shoulders, the way they rise and fall with his carefully controlled breaths. Suguru sets his hand lightly atop Satoru's where it's lying limply on the ground. Satoru's eyes find his again, over-bright.
"You're Satoru, of course," Suguru says lightly. "You don't have to be anyone but you."
"Yeah," Satoru says, sounding a little choked. "There have been rumors of some outlaw, back from the dead, who was building an Outlaw's Paradise. I thought, if anyone was crazy enough to pull that off, it would be you. Took me almost a year to find out anything concrete. You're hard to pin down, you know."
"You've said so before."
Satoru finally smiles. He twists his hand so that their fingers can slide together.
"Whatever the hell you're doing out here, I want to be a part of it," he says, all in a rush. "However you want me here. I have some money, obviously. I mean not as much since my family kind of disowned me after leaving the Rangers, but the retirement money is enough for a few years, at least, and--"
"Satoru," Suguru breathes. Satoru shuts his mouth with a clatter, looking at Suguru with his huge, beautiful eyes. So bright, so hopeful, so vulnerable. "You--yes. Of course. Yes. Satoru."
He doesn't know who moves first, but then they're kissing again, Satoru's perfect mouth hot as a brand against his own. Suguru turns and slings a leg over Satoru's waist, so that he's sitting in his lap without breaking the kiss, and Satoru mewls deliciously into his mouth. Suguru slips his tongue into Satoru's, just to feel the way he gasps, slipping his fingers into Satoru's hair and rubbing at his scalp. Satoru's hands come up to Suguru's waist, gripping tightly. Suguru pushes down into his grip, until he can feel Satoru's quickly hardening cock press against him. They both gasp at the contact.
For a second, time seems to stand still. Suguru hovers over Satoru, watching him closely, while Satoru stares up at him with stars in his eyes. For a second, he's transported back in time, seven years ago, the two of them staring each other down from a hundred yards away, only dust between them.
Teetering on the precipice of something. Suguru takes aim.
But Satoru was always the quicker draw. He leans up, just enough to capture Suguru's lips with his own again, and hits his mark.
Over the years, he has a handful of close calls with law enforcement, almost all of them Satoru, of course. Satoru always lets him go.
At twenty, he finds Mimiko and Nanako, stumbling around in the desert delirious from dehydration. He meets Miguel, his leg broken neatly at the shin, hiding in a cliffside cave.
Slowly, he finds a family. People like him, who are on the run. Or else people who have been outcast for one reason or another. Who understand him, and who understand what it means to have to choose living life over morals. He wishes, often, that he could have Satoru here with him, at his side again, but it's a silly wish of course. He's never going to get Satoru for more than the handful of lightning-fast encounters on the road he already gets.
Still, it's enough. Almost enough to leave him satisfied.
It's all too good to be true, of course. He's caught, one day, when his horse turns her ankle and they have to stop for a few weeks for her to recover. Larue and Manami try their best, but he's recognized eventually, and Satoru shows up the next day.
Classic duel, the townspeople cry for, just like the old stories. Briefly, he wishes he could go back in time and let his seven-year-old self know that, two decades later, he'd be the one with the gun in his hand. He isn't sure if it would be a warning or a blessing.
He stands across from Satoru, a hundred and fifty yards away from him, his face obscured by the shadow of his hat. Suguru holds a shining .44 Colt at his side, a gun he's kept in pristine condition for six years (he's never missed a target with it). He takes a breath.
Satoru has always been a quicker draw than him. Satoru is the quickest draw alive. What good is Suguru's accuracy if he's killed before he pulls the trigger?
But, he thinks: Satoru was always going to be the one who would kill him. At least there's meaning to it.
Time moves in slow motion. Satoru's hand twitches, and Suguru lifts his gun. He aims. He aims. He aims.
He fires his gun.
He almost doesn't feel it, when Satoru's bullet pierces his chest.
Suguru whines and presses down against Satoru, opening his mouth and letting Satoru finally, finally claim him. Satoru surges up, one hand tugging roughly on the base of his braid, the other sliding down from his waist to palm his ass. Suguru whines again, his hands scrabbling against Satoru's jacket, pulling it roughly off his shoulders to reveal a simple black button down.
"Suguru," Satoru pants, watching him with heavy eyes while Suguru fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. "I want. I want…"
With a clink of metal, Satoru's nimble fingers undo Suguru's belt buckle, pulling Suguru's shirt from his trousers and setting his hands gently against the skin of his back.
"Yeah," Suguru agrees dumbly, finally finishing with the buttons on Satoru's shirt and pulling it off his shoulders to reveal the pale length of his stomach, his dusk-pink nipples.
Suguru's mouth waters. He latches on to one, running the flat of his tongue over it, listening to Satoru's groan. Satoru tugs on his braid again, and Suguru only sucks the bud into his mouth, teasing it with a gentle graze of his teeth. Satoru gets Suguru's trousers undone and pushes him at the shoulders.
"Off, off. Get these off, " he chants desperately, already pulling his own belt off.
Suguru unbuttons his shirt, nearly ripping the buttons in his haste, then pulls his undershirt off over his head before peeling off his boots, socks and jeans, tossing it all into a pile under the stairs. Satoru kicks off his own boots without bothering to move, tilting his hips up to slide his own jeans off, the motion rocking Suguru almost off balance. He falls forward a little, accidentally pressing his full weight on Satoru, his aching cock hot against Satoru's belly, only the thin cotton of his drawers seperating them.
Satoru's hands on his back are warm, the slide of them indecent against his spine. Suguru rocks his hips helplessly into thee hard muscle of Satoru's stomach, slipping his own hands down to tease at the hem of Satoru's drawers.
"You're ridiculous," Suguru says. "You don't bother with an undershirt, but your drawers are silk?"
"Don't pretend like you don't like them," Satoru says, rocking up against him. Suguru moans, and Satoru tugs him closer. "Come here, let me kiss you again, God. Come here. "
Satoru practically devours him, with his next kiss. Suguru ruts against his stomach again, spreading his legs wider so he can reach better. Satoru sucks a handful of bruises into the column of his neck, finally slipping his hand into his underwear and palming Suguru's slick cock. Suguru wraps his arms around Satoru's shoulders, digging his nails into Satoru's back as he moans.
"God, Suguru, you're so wet," he breathes, grinding up against Suguru's ass again.
"Next time," Suguru breathes directly into Satoru's ear. "Next time, I'm getting you in my bed and you're fucking me properly."
"Yeah," Satoru pants, his hand speeding up on his cock, rocking his hips up to meet Suguru's body desperately. "Yes. Next time. God. Suguru. Suguru."
Heat curls low in Suguru's stomach, too fast when he pulls away from sucking his own hickey on Satoru's jaw and sees him looking completely wrecked underneat him.
"Satoru," Suguru whines, rocking back onto the hot pressure of Satour's cock, rocking forward into his impossibly tight grip.
"You're the only one who says my name like that," Satoru whispers, ragged. His eyes are bloodshot, and a single tear slips out of the corner of his eye as Suguru watches. "Like it's a gift. Say it again."
"Satoru."
"Again."
"Satoru. Satoru. Satoru, " Suguru gasps when the wave of his pleasure crests unexpectedly and he comes, spilling his spend over Satoru's precious hand.
"Don't ever leave me again, Suguru," Satoru whispers, another tear leaking out of his eyes.
"I won't," Suguru gasps, riding the aftershocks of his orgasm as Satoru rocks desperately against him, "I promise. Never again."
He feels it when Satoru comes, tensing every muscle under him with an indecent moan, his hands squeezing Suguru's hips so tight he'll no doubt have bruises there, too, wetness creeping through layers of cotton and silk.
Suguru wraps his arms around Satoru's shoulders again, until his come starts to feel sticky and uncomfortable in his drawers, until Satoru finally stops trembling.
"Hey, Satoru," Suguru whispers, rubbing a hand along Satoru's shoulder to get his attention. In response, Satoru makes a satisfied humming sound. "Come on. You'll ruin your fancy silk drawers."
"They're already ruined," he says without a care in the world. "Don't make me move."
"You're such a spoiled brat," Suguru says, but doesn't move from his spot on Satoru's lap, content to bask with him, marveling at the way his entire body sings, drinking in the spicy smell of his cologne, hiding now under their sweat and the sharp smell of sex. "Fifteen minutes. After that I need to check on things. If I don't, the whole family will come looking for me."
"Hmm, fifteen minutes, then."
Satoru lies down, tugging Suguru down with him, planting a sweet, gentle kiss onto Suguru's temple. Suguru closes his eyes against the way his heart swells in his chest.
Fifteen more minutes. Then they can go back to reality and face whatever comes next. Suguru presses a kiss to Satoru's neck, gentle, tender, hoping Satoru can feel the way he pours love and devotion into it. He's loved Satoru for half his life, by now. He deserves to know it.
He meets Gojo Satoru at sixteen. Satoru blows into town with a handful of Rangers, looking for a gang of outlaws spotted nearby. Everything about Satoru shines, from the expensive glint of his spurs, to the crisp lines of his new hat, no doubt made from the best beaver wool. Suguru expects to hate him, the rookie ranger with a reputation as the best gunslinger around. He's too loud and brash, overconfident in the way folks who come from old money always are. He expects the reputation to be all talk, no substance.
Satoru talks a lot . He's annoying. That doesn't mean Suguru hates him.
When they have a contest behind the town at Suguru's makeshift shooting range, and Suguru beats him for accuracy almost two to one, Satoru just laughs it off. Easy as anything. It's one of the nicest sounds Suguru has ever heard.
"Hey, trade guns with me," he says, nothing but a flash of white teeth under the shadow cast by his hat. "Look at how smooth the recoil is on it."
"Mine's old," Suguru says, gesturing to the Smith & Wesson in his hands.
It's the same one his old boss had shown him how to shoot with five years back; old even then, it feels ancient in comparison to Satoru's weapon. It needs a clean, and he hasn't oiled it in a few weeks, and handing it over to someone as polished as Satoru feels like a crime, somehow. More so than the many other crimes he's accumulated so far. Satoru doesn't seem to notice. He smiles, delighted, opening the cylinder with a flick of his pointer finger, clicking it back into place with a quick flick of his wrist. He hands Suguru his Colt, a sleek, carefully polished thing that costs more than probably everything Suguru owns, still eyeing Suguru's gun. He can't imagine what's so interesting about an old Smith & Wesson, enough to hold Satoru's attention so completely like that.
Satoru points the Smith & Wesson back at their makeshift target range and shoots off the last three rounds in the cylinder, lightning-fast. Only two of his shots hit their mark, but the crack of each feels like it strikes him in the chest each time, especially when Satoru turns back to him, his eyes gleaming.
"Try mine out," Satoru urges. "It's built for accuracy. With a gun like that, you'll never miss again."
Suguru can't argue with the look in Satoru's eyes. He shoots four bullseyes in a row, and when he turns back to Satoru, breathless, Satoru is grinning so wide it looks like it should hurt.
Helplessly, Suguru falls in love, then and there, watching the easy twist of Satoru's hand as he pops the empty casings from Suguru's revolver, reloads it, and tries again.
(Satoru's right. Suguru never misses a shot with Satoru's .44 Colt. It feels like a blessing. It feels like a curse.)
Later, when they've put their clothes back on and Suguru has introduced Satoru to his family, when Satoru worms his way into Suguru's room an despairs at his cot, when they're lying together in the dark, Satoru a warm weight atop him, his head resting gently on Satoru's shoulder, Suguru taps him on the top of the head and clicks his tongue.
"You think your so slick," Suguru whispers into the dark.
Satoru kisses the bare skin of his collarbone before tilting his head up to look at him. His eyes catch the sparse moonlight that makes it through Suguru's curtains, sparkling in the dim light.
"Hmmm?"
"I missed," Suguru admits, thinking back to that fateful duel. "So what. You waited. You think I don't remember?" Satoru flushes in the dark, a pretty pink. Suguru wants to bite his cheek, just to see what would happen. "It takes me almost three seconds longer to fire a shot than it does you," Suguru continues when Satoru stays silent. "Your bullet was always going to hit first."
"We're both hopeless, I guess," Satoru finally says. He kisses Suguru's collarbone again, then the side of his neck, then scootches up further to kiss him properly on the lips. "I was always going to fall in love with you, I think. It was inevitable."
"Yeah," Suguru agrees.
He wraps his arms around Satoru's neck, smiling helplessly while he kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.