Chapter Text
It’s summer, it’s hot as fuck. Satoru refuses to go back to his clan and Suguru prefers short evening calls as a family time, so here they are. At Jujutstu High dorms, in Suguru’s room, same as yesterday and the day before. Satoru likes it here better because all the necessities are here, like the TV they stole from the basement. It’s ancient, tries hard to broadcast the news despite its blinking screen and terrible sound to match. Satoru can understand if he focuses but he doesn’t, he doesn’t care enough to and it’s too fucking hot.
There’s a small fan working full speed in front of them, another necessity they stole from Yaga’s office. It’s just half a meter from a perfect distance away - the wire is too short. He has ten digits on his bank account and the fan’s wire is too short. Ridiculous.
Suguru sits on the floor, back leaning against the side of the bed, right between Satoru’s legs. He reads some old book, using Satoru’s thigh as a pillow, cheek to skin. Because Satoru’s knees are too bony, apparently. In exchange, Satoru gets to sit on the soft mattress and untie Suguru’s long black hair under the pretense of making funny braids. He ends up just running his fingers through silky locks, one time, two times, a hundred and forty-two times.
It’s nice. If Satoru was an artist, he would use ungodly amounts of yellows and reds to translate the feeling. When he briefly looks around him – it’s all warm: orangey walls that are usually coloressley grey, yellowish pages of Suguru’s old book; and his cheek is warm, too, against Satoru’s inner thigh.
There’s a small scar behind Suguru’s ear, Satoru makes sure to trace it with the tip of his finger from time to time. They fought back then, started as usual with him being a nuisance and Suguru falling into the trap with adamant consistency. His ego is so easy to rile up. Satoru refuses to acknowledge the same about himself even though nothing riles up his ego as Suguru’s condescending attempts to teach him proper ways.
Back then, Satoru blasted a tree apart and Suguru was too busy staring at him to summon a curse for cover; it was like in an action movie. Suguru was so pissed, straddling Satoru to the ground and holding his wrists, eyes narrowed and lips in a scowl, about to say something, leaning closer and closer… Satoru panicked and blasted Blue. Just, somewhere. His wrists were held, not like he could aim. So, the tree behind them got blown up to smithereens and one stray piece of wood left this scar behind Suguru’s ear.
The memory feels too hectic, fresh and bright, Satoru is a thawed ice-cream puddle now, can’t resonate with it. He doesn’t feel like annoying Suguru now, completely the opposite - he loves to have Suguru so pliant now, touching him, playing with his hair, it’s great.
Satoru’s fingers travel lower, the slightly different texture of mended skin changes to smooth velvet and he follows the new sensation right away, absentmindedly fascinated. He paints a line down the neck, lower, to the collarbone. Suguru’s skin feels as good to the touch as his hair, maybe better. He ends up tracing lines from the dip of his collarbone up to the ear, up and down, feathery light touches, once, twice, fifty-two times. If Satoru was just a bit more socially adept, he would question his behavior. But, well, Suguru allows him a lot. Yeah, he yaps in front of others, scolds him, but, in the end, he never denies Satoru anything. Sometimes, doesn’t even question him.
“What are you doing?”
Not this time, though.
Suguru asks and moves his hand to flip a page, muscles tightening for a second under Satoru’s touch. When the task is done, Suguru just stays in the same position, nothing else changes. Satoru deems it safe to continue, he’s allowed.
“Nothing much,” he hums, fingertips tapping the artery.
It suffices, Suguru either snorts or sighs, nuzzles his cheek against Satoru’s thigh. They stay like this, another minute, two, five. Satoru’s brain hosts running thoughts Olympics and there’s this pesky inconvenience. A gnawing feeling somewhere deep in his chest, not unpleasant to the point of honest discomfort but annoying enough to question the whole absurdity of the situation. Like the fan that’s just half a meter away from a perfect distance.
The fan situation is easy - the ultimate desire behind it is to get the air blowing at him, top speed and all. The, ummm, the whole other situation is worse because it’s nothing more than a restless feeling in the pit of his stomach. Which is so irritating, what is it even about? Satoru feels happy now, he’s content, he’s relaxed, he’s with his favorite person and there’s not a single thing he needs to care about. Aside from maybe how good Suguru’s cheek feels on his leg.
Bingo. When in doubt - ask Suguru. It was a tough pill to swallow but Satoru realized some time ago that he could just… not think. That Suguru does so much thinking Satoru can just rely on him for that. Suguru can do all the necessary polite talk, Suguru can tell him what to do when a little girl cries in front of an ice cream stall, Suguru can do this whole people thing so much better. Satoru can only be the result of whatever his Clan’s A+ parenting was.
So, logically, Satoru is now a confused child in front of an ice cream stall. He holds yen bills in his sweaty hand and he looks right at the flavor he wants, the problem is that he’s too busy hyperventilating to explain why he just stands there and wails. He feels like Suguru will know the problem same as that one time, will tell the little girl to point at what she wants and will jab Satoru to order it for her. Will slowly read out the name of blueberry ice cream flavor and teach the girl how to pronounce it.
As he continues to absentmindedly caress his best friend’s neck, Satoru desperately needs Suguru to spell it out for him, too.
“Suguru?”
“Hm?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
The question lingers in the air for a few moments, not heavily but tangibly all the same.
“Why do you suddenly care what I think?”
His reply is lazy, backhanded. He thought too long before voicing it out, so:
“That’s not an answer.”
Suguru chuckles, turns his head just enough to side-eye him.
“I think you’re touching me a lot today,” he finally gives his verdict, nonchalant, Satoru can’t understand if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.
That’s the whole point.
“Is it good or bad?”
Suguru turns a page of his book, flattens it with a careful slide of his fingers over the binding.
“I don’t mind it,” he hums, like it's nothing.
God, he doesn’t shut up when he preaches his moral beliefs without anyone asking but now that Satoru is actively asking he can’t spare more than a few neutral words!?
Satoru tugs on a lock of black hair, “But do you like it?”
Just tell him if it’s good or bad, if he can continue or step back before he impulsively does something without considering all the consequences.
Suguru’s shoulders tense up for a second, Satoru can feel it under his fingertips. For another impossibly long moment, Suguru stares at his book. Then, as if he finally finished thinking instead of Satoru about it all, he sighs and shakes his head.
A little triumphant smile finds its place on Satoru’s lips, he knows these gestures all too well. That fond little sigh of Suguru’s means he relents, means that whatever restless feeling eats away at Satoru’s chest will soon dissipate. Because Suguru knows what it is and what to do with it. Suguru will take care of him and spoil him and cherish him and never fucking expect anything from him because Suguru is the Strongest, too.
Satoru expects everything to make sense now, anticipates Suguru’s answer as if it will give him a sure-proof instruction on what to do next. Instead, Suguru turns his head, not to look at him but the other way, the tip of his nose grazes the skin of Satoru’s inner thigh, each of his exhales tickling with warm air.
“I don’t hate it,” he murmurs, voice sweeter than any candy, so close Satoru swears he feels the lips touching him, just for a split second.
It’s hot. Fucking summer and whatnot, Satoru literally can’t breathe. And that’s still not an answer, goddamit. Who just touches your inner thigh with their face, sitting right between your legs, whispering and murmuring stuff into your skin!? In what way is that an answer to “do you like me touchin-”
Oh.
Oh.
Satoru’s dick is half-hard. He’s horny. That’s the whole situation, the annoying feeling in the pit of his stomach is just his hormones acting up. For fuck’s sake.
Unfortunately, the realization doesn’t make anything clearer. Yeah, he’s a hormonal teenager, he gets random boners, has a collection of embarrassing training sessions when too much rubbing and touching was involved. But.. but this restless feeling can’t be explained by a boner, he can’t be that shallow.
Another parade of disjointed thoughts is coming his way but Suguru sighs loudly and closes the book with a quiet thud, effectively interrupting it. Satoru blinks in surprise, feels a bit lost now that he can’t play with silky hair to distract himself.
He watches silently as Suguru shifts on his place on the floor till he fully turns around and faces him, sitting on his knees between Satoru’s legs. With deliberate patience, he serenely sets the book aside, gracefully brushes a stray lock of hair behind his ear, politely puts his hands on his thighs and slowly cranes his neck to look up.
“What do you want, Satoru?” he asks, so simply it feels anticlimactic.
Suguru definitely sees his erection, these shorts make it too easy. And, well, he’s literally half a meter away from his crotch, no way he can not see it. Still, he waits for an answer, sits there on his knees, all prim and proper. Patient. There’s a distinctive brand of condescending kindness in the way Suguru looks at him right now, twisted patience of a buddhist monk.
Suguru spells it out for him, Satoru realizes. Too bad he, apparently, can’t fucking read.
In a stalemate, Satoru does what he usually does - he talks about himself.
“I’m horny.”
No way to deny it, so he proudly announces it.
Suguru arches his eyebrow, eyes darting to the bulge right in front of him. “I see that,” he comments shortly, no other reaction, a very loud silent invite to continue.
It’s not going as Satoru envisioned. Not that he had a clear-cut goal in the first place, it’s just that they have a rulebook, an unspoken understanding. Apparently, one hundred and forty-two hair brushes plus fifty-two instances of neck touching were outside of the rulebook.
Satoru looks down at Suguru’s perfectly sculpted expression of polite curiosity and it clicks.
Fucking Suguru, that asshole. He knows that Satoru doesn’t know. He sits between his legs, facing his hard-on, and just laughs at him. Internally, yeah, but Satoru at least knows that much.
The pause is getting too long, he can’t afford to feed Suguru’s ego like this.
“If you see it, then do something about it,” he smirks, it comes naturally.
One second. Two. The realization hits and Satoru widens his eyes because, fuck, that’s not it. No, this is such a wrong line. They don’t follow their usual scenario, this is such a wrong line.
Suguru tilts his head, “You want me to do something about you being horny?”
He’s annoyingly clinical in the way he asks it. Even slightly patronizing. That bitch.
“Yes.”
Satoru is more bravado than substance, he can admit.
It’s worth it though, the brief look of surprise on Suguru’s face is priceless. When he schools his expression back to polite nonchalance, something is different though.
“And why am I the one you chose to honor with that task?” There’s a sarcastic bite to it and, finally, Suguru acts by the book.
“Well, I don’t see anyone else between my legs,” Satoru grins, smug, now that’s a good line.
By the book, Suguru has to roll his eyes, be very annoyed, blush a little, scold him for ‘unbecoming talk’, give up, call him Sa-to-ru so affectionately fond that one day he might actually listen.
Suguru does neither of those things. There’s no annoyance in his eyes, not even a hint of red on his cheeks. No, he simply looks at him, looks up at him, and the only new shade Satoru sees is a nasty undertone of disappointment in the purple of Suguru’s irises.
“That’s all the reason?” Suguru finally asks, quieter all of a sudden.
The triumph feels like shit because this is not the upper hand Satoru wanted. It doesn’t feel like triumph at all.
“I-“ he starts and then shuts up because he what?
I felt restless and horny and decided to make it your problem?
Or better yet,
I felt lost and out of depth and asked the only person I trust to explain it?
The first option will make it worse, the second option can never be voiced out. Which leaves him with…
Suguru’s phone rings somewhere on the bed, close enough to startle them both.
… leaves him with the most perfect, god-given excuse.
“I think you should take that,” he jumps on the opportunity embarrassingly fast, even tries to blindly look for the phone with his hand, it should be just behind him judging by the sound.
Suguru is not impressed. Like, at all. He’s so not impressed Satoru stops moving under the force of his disappointment and they stare at each other long enough for the ringtone to start over.
Suguru glares, Satoru cluelessly blinks at him through it. It’s not something he’s particularly proud of but it’s the best he can do.
Maybe Suguru, his amazing perfect Suguru who never expects anything from him, realized that too, because he chuckles. Yeah, very quietly, like he’s laughing at some private joke Satoru is not in on, but at least he no longer glares.
They break eye contact, Suguru starts to get up and Satoru finally breathes out; looks like whatever the fuck happened - happened.
Until a second later, when Suguru's palm lands high on Satoru’s leg for support. It’s unexpected, the sudden warmth of his calloused fingers. It’s- It’s blasphemous, the way his thumb grazes the sensitive skin of Satoru’s inner thigh, high enough to be caught under the fabric of his ridden-up shorts. It’s villainous, outrageous, fucking nefarious. Satoru holds his breath and starts to sweat.
And when Suguru shifts his weight to stand up, grips stronger, and it hurts just a bit… Satoru makes a weird noise at the back of his throat. Decidedly not a whimper and surely not a moan, but definitely fucking embarrassment of a sound.
Suddenly, he’s all too aware he’s still horny, very-very horny, probably red-faced and all with how his cheeks burn.
His field of vision is limited to Suguru’s collarbones so he can only helplessly watch him lean in, closer and closer, till his hair tickles Satoru’s cheek.
“I think I should take that, too,” he squeezes Satoru’s thigh before letting go, the phone in his other hand as he straightens up and answers.
Satoru discovered a new cursed technique just now - Self-Combustion. A good consolation prize considering he created the most sophisticated interpersonal mess between the two of them since the moment they met.