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stsg: hs edition | are we growing up or just going down?
the company, however, is another matter entirely.
suguru watches his so-called partner make a beeline for the bed closest to that very, very small window—and then flop back on it, arms spread wide as he presumably tests, like. the springiness of the mattress. who knows. it isn't as though suguru pretends to understand anything that satoru does, though he'd told himself, upon their first meeting, that it would behoove him to try. there were, after all, few people he didn't get along with; even as he'd endured satoru bounding about their classroom, asking obnoxious questions and doing his best to take up as much of the available space (and air) as possible, suguru thought that surely, surely, a fellow sorcerer would never number among them.
and yet.
it's the little things, with satoru. the way he'd stretched his legs into the aisle on the plane, forcing people to step over them even after a stewardess asked him, politely, to keep his limbs in his space; the way he'd spent the entire trip to the hotel complaining about being sent halfway across the country to deal with a curse that won't, he's sure, even be worth his time; the way he'd claimed this bed without so much as sparing suguru a single look—and it doesn't matter that suguru didn't, doesn't, care which bed he calls his own for a night or two? just as it doesn't matter that some part of him is relieved, in a way, to avoid the awkward, overly polite push-and-pull (no, no, it's fine, i don't mind, i mean it) that always accompanies these situations. there is a proper way to go about this.
there is a proper way to go about everything
but satoru is either blithely unaware of this (unlikely), or determined to buck against it at every available opportunity (highly likely)—and thus suguru, for the umpteenth time, presses his lips into a thin line, biting back the reaction he's sure satoru seeks. it simply isn't worth it.
(two days; two nights. that's as long as suguru needs to deal with this before they head home—where he will continue dealing with this, yes, but at least others will be around to distract him. each time someone sighs, or snaps, or rolls their eyes, it's nice to know he isn't alone.)
so: silence, then. suguru, setting his carry-on bag atop what he supposes is his bed before unzipping it, removing his neatly folded uniform, his neatly folded pajamas. the pajamas he leaves beside the pillow; the uniform he turns to hang in the nearby closet, hoping that most of the (inevitable) wrinkles will fall out by the morning. he isn't a stickler about neatness—not really—but if he's to question locals about the strange goings-on, a good first impression, he's sure, will open far more doors than a bad one.
and seeing as satoru remains stretched out on his bed, his own suitcase resting upside-down on the floor, suguru has a feeling that he is facing an uphill climb.
which he will worry about tomorrow. for now, as he calculates just how much time they have before nightfall (because while it's too late to do anything serious, it would be prudent to at least familiarize themselves with the scenes of the alleged crimes):]
We're leaving soon. [a pointed statement, paired with a pointed look.] I wouldn't get too comfortable.
[in fact, consider, like... getting up? brushing that messy mop of hair?]
next up: a playlist of songs i downloaded off limewire, ft radio ads and a virus
satoru, however, is objectively abnormal—and some of it is for show, suguru is sure. some of it, like satoru on the plane, stretching his long legs into the aisle in an attempt to take up as much space as physically possible—but then there was satoru on the playground, pulling away from suguru's touch too awkwardly to offend, but too swiftly to disguise his discomfort. satoru expanding the borders of his territory; satoru withdrawing within them, falling back to his last line of defense.
satoru, shutting others out.
because that's what it all comes down to, in the end: the distance that satoru oh-so carefully keeps between himself and the world at large, which isn't so much selfish as it is—what? protective? uncertain. satoru moves through the world with all the (outward) confidence of a man who believes he owns it, and yet, when given the opportunity to prove it—to claim suguru's bed for himself, to tell suguru to sleep on the floor, to march down to the front desk and demand what he is due—satoru chooses, instead, to pull back into himself once more, clearly uncomfortable with the situation as a whole. i've never shared anything, he says, as though it's perfectly natural, perfectly understandable. a fact of life.
don't you know who i am?
no, suguru thinks, hand dropping back to his side as he watches satoru make more of a mess. aside from the boring basics, all that suguru knows of satoru are the bits and pieces that sometimes slip through the cracks; the map, such as it is, remains mostly blank, and that isn't entirely satoru's fault. suguru's efforts have been—
—well. there is a conscious desire to do better, in this moment; there is a desire to smooth over the wrinkle he'd inadvertently caused, for the sight of satoru once again seeking to put space between them—to shut him out—brings back the pang of guilt from the playground. causing new problems while attempting to fix older ones—there is so much that suguru is missing. how frustrating.
but satoru remains angled away from him, busying himself with anything other than the matter at hand; it provides suguru with an opportunity to relax, shoulders dropping even as satoru's tone threatens to heighten the tension. it's on suguru to deescalate, in this moment, and thus, after a second's consideration:]
A pain, [he says, lightly, before stepping closer to his—their?—bed. two pillows rest against the headboard; he reaches for the nearest one, fingers snagging the scratchy pillowcase.] Didn't we go over this?
[in this very room, in fact. way, way earlier—which is why suguru the suck-up goes for an under-handed toss, sending the pillow arcing over satoru's head. hitting him would be more fun; suguru would, quite honestly, love to peg satoru square in the back, but as the pillow lands in satoru's open suitcase, it's about a curious sort of consideration. see, satoru? no touching, literally and figuratively. space: acknowledged and (mostly) respected, all as suguru turns his attention to his own suitcase.]
First rule of sharing a bed: you only get half of the blanket. Don't be greedy.
[because this is happening, for better or for worse; suguru is resigned to a night of lackluster sleep and/or satoru griping about everything and nothing, so there's no sense in doing anything other than acting totally normal about this as he plucks his toothbrush from its designated pocket. synergy...
(or: giving satoru an opportunity to save face, in a way, by granting satoru the option to fall back on Obnoxious.)]
brb updating my livejournal
Satoru didn't exactly pack with care. He piled his belongings into his bag without consideration for the future; hence, by the time the pillow soars over his head and lands in his bag, Satoru still hasn't found what he wants.
What he has found is a new, welcome surge of annoyance. Satoru is well-aware that he has spent the day attempting to ruffle Suguru's feathers and annoy him as much as possible; however, in his opinion, there is only one real pain in this room, and it's Suguru himself. Without his stupid need to go above and beyond with this mission, they might have been in this room when the leak started; they might have been able to secure a new room before the hotel filled up. Satoru is still dealing with the consequences of letting Suguru drag him around, and now he's going to spend the night doing the same.
But annoyance is better than the uncomfortable feeling of a moment prior, so he embraces it and pretends that he never felt off. He tips himself back over into action and takes the pillow in hand. Suguru may have, for whatever reason, avoided hitting him with the pillow, but Satoru has no such qualms. He prepares to turn around and aim for Suguru's head, when he sees it: the object for which he's been searching. He plucks it from his suitcase.
With pillow in one hand, and the object in the other, Satoru closes the gap between himself and the bed, then launches himself right on top of it, landing in the middle and thoroughly wrinkling the blanket in the process. He makes himself comfortable, shifting only slightly to one side and lying back with a grin.]
How's this for half?
[He then reveals the object by slipping it over his head: a sleep mask he bought specifically for the disconcerting eyes printed on the fabric. He had intended to use it on the plane for kicks, but making Suguru sleep next to it is even better.
(The sleep mask serves a greater purpose, too. It mutes everything just enough that Suguru, and the prospect of sharing a bed, seem a little less overbearing. Satoru dulls the sight of Suguru's cursed energy, and with it, the memory of contact — and reverts back to his obnoxious behavior without missing a beat.)
Feeling grounded once again, he finally chucks the pillow at Suguru, his aim absolutely perfect, because his Six Eyes are stronger than a sleep mask.]
stop... i feel actual nostalgia
but the twinge of relief that suguru feels neither prepares him for, nor eases the blow of, the pillow smacking against his face as he finally deigns to glance back over his shoulder.
ah, well.
it isn't the first time a classmate has chucked a pillow at suguru's head—and he did provide the ammo, this time, so there's no sense in getting even the slightest bit worked up about it. better this than satoru pouting in a corner, or storming out to find his own space while the curse is, presumably, still watching them from afar; suguru is more than willing to let satoru believe he's one-upping him if it means that satoru remains on relatively good behavior, because dealing with children and/or the childish is simple, really: you let them think that they have the upper hand.
plus, as suguru bends down to sweep the pillow that he will likely be forced to use off the floor before the germs claim it as their own, suguru catches sight of that sleep mask. well, it's‐fitting? leave it to satoru to bring something so silly along, all in the hopes of garnering some sort of reaction from those around him. laughter, maybe. a grimace of annoyance. suguru thinks of the stares it would have earned satoru back on the plane, if he'd ever bothered to break it out...
(but he didn't, which means that he was paid enough attention without them? maybe? suguru flashes back to his increasing exasperation each time the stewardess stopped by, reminding satoru that legs did not belong in the aisle, and suguru thinks—oh. yes. of course.)]
That's more like three-fourths.
[just sayin'! but as he calmly places his pillow back atop his fourth of the bed, pushing it against satoru's cheek in a clear order to move over:]
Weird how well that matches your eyes. For a second, I couldn't even tell the difference.
[big, blue, and peering right into one's soul... these eyes are just like satoru's...]
no subject
(But it's not that. Not really. Satoru wants to fight because it would make this more palatable — because relenting and moving over would be easier, if Suguru were sore from losing.
Because contact while arguing is better than the risk of accidental touch while trying to fit together in the small space the bed provides.)
He considers instigating an argument himself, pointedly refusing to move even as Suguru nudges him with the pillow and stands waiting. He waits a beat after Suguru's comment, staring at him through his sleep mask, dragging the moment out —
But it's the pillow that ultimately makes him decide to move — to rescind all desire to cause more problems, and instead, with only a put-off of sigh to accompany the motion, shifts over until he occupies only half of the bed. Because Satoru, for all that he is caught up in himself, recognizes that Suguru is choosing not to touch him. Suguru is using a pillow, when he could be reaching out his hand — he could be pushing, testing Satoru's defenses, seeing how much more he can take.
But he isn't.
So Satoru settles himself on the side of the bed, and only then does he react to Suguru's insult. Because it is an insult! Satoru's eyes are his best feature, and he knows that Suguru isn't immune to them. No one is! To prove it, he hooks a finger into his sleep mask and tugs it down to bat his eyelashes at him.]
You sure?
[But everything is bright — Suguru is bright. Intense, in this moment — the way he's been all night. It's as though letting Suguru into his Infinity make him louder, somehow. Satoru groans and pulls the sleep mask back over his eyes, turning away from Suguru entirely. He stares at the wall instead.]
Maybe you should get your own eyes checked. Bad vision would explain a lot.
[At least he'd have an excuse for treating Satoru's drink like it was something to be despised.
He uses that comment as a segue to what he really wants — needs — to say, hoping to prevent Suguru from getting in another insult. Satoru wants the last word! He deserves it for having to sleep under these conditions. But the statement also serves to buffer the warning that follows.]
Look —
[A demand, which Satoru manages to say haughtily, despite the issue he's addressing.]
I'm not using my technique tonight.
[By choice! Or so he wants Suguru to believe. He picks his words carefully, because implying that his energy is depleted would make him sound weak. Satoru isn't supposed to have faults, or admit to gaps in his abilities, or be anything other than the perfect Six Eyes ready to be deployed at a moment's notice.
He doesn't need Suguru thinking he's an easy target.
He wants to leave it at that, his point made, but the words sound awkward, hanging between them — too much like an admission — so he adds:]
Don't get any ideas.
[Keep away from him! But also: maybe use a curse to keep watch?
Satoru can't protect either of them while he's sleeping, no matter how close they lie; he can't cushion himself from Suguru, and he can't shield Suguru from the curse. It's not something Satoru would — or could — admit out loud, but Suguru, for all that he is a brown-noser, isn't stupid, so Satoru assumes he'll get it.
He isn't spelling it out for him, either way.]
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...it's sad, is all. lonely. like satoru is expecting everyone around him to admire him, just for a moment, before moving on, hence his determination to turn everything—even the simple act of rolling over—into a full-blown production. look at me.
how many do?
and maybe suguru is simply tired; it's easy, he knows, to get caught in an ultimately unproductive loop when operating on little sleep, but as satoru all but orders him to keep his distance, suguru finds himself thinking of the eyemask that he can now barely see the corner of. a minute ago, he'd been so willing to dismiss it as a tool, a toy, a ploy for attention. look at me. it seemed perfectly reasonable to assume that satoru never bothered to break it out on the plane because satoru was receiving a great deal of (negative) attention—and while that holds true, in part, suguru also considers satoru's overall state at the time? the early hour they'd met outside the dorms; the length of the car ride; the slow, slow lines they'd stood in within the airport itself, waiting for all manner of small things that suguru, while mildly exasperated by, thought absolutely nothing of. it wasn't as though he'd stationed curses about the premises.
it wasn't as though he'd bothered asking satoru about his technique, especially once satoru began acting out.
which was a mistake, even if maintaining satoru's technique is as normal, as natural, as breathing. it isn't as though satoru is a security blanket; it isn't as though satoru is a pampered pup to feel both frustrated with and responsible for. satoru is suguru's classmate—
—and there it is again: the urge to apologize for unintentional slights, which suguru suppresses with the smallest of smiles. it's not like satoru is entirely innocent; god knows he has much to learn about both teamwork and empathy, but he's still human. no one is without faults.
including suguru, of course, so:]
What? Afraid I'll smother you with a pillow? You'd deserve it, but—
[hmm. a brief pause; a moment spent studying the jut of satoru's surprisingly bony shoulder.]
Thanks, Satoru. For your hard work today.
[and as suguru has a hunch that this is something that would be better for satoru to process alone, suguru wastes no time turning toward, and then stepping through, the open bathroom door. some people, you see, like to brush their teeth before bed! some people will refrain from saying a word about others choosing to ignore this rule, because something, something, it's important to pick one's battles.
plus, like. as the sound of running water fills the room—suguru, clearly seeing to his dental hygiene—a small, hunchbacked form soon hops across the carpet to settle atop the air conditioner unit on the far side of the room. hello again, satoru... staring at the far wall means staring at that thing, which, while stationed beside the window to serve as a sentry, still occasionally dares to blink over at the bed...
🐸
anyway, feel free to complain as suguru first makes his way back to his side of the bed, and then settles atop its very edge while seeing to the rest of his nightly routine. tomorrow's clothes: laid neatly atop his suitcase. phone: charging. hair tie: plucked free from his bun before placed just beside said phone.]
no subject
Growing up, he had everything he could desire. Any time he'd ask for the latest toy or game, it was procured for him immediately, set on a table for him to find upon entering his room. If he chose to skip out on important meetings or show up late to lessons, he wasn't chastised. He wasn't bound by many rules, and the few that were in place were meant for his protection. He had it easy. He has it easy now that he's away at school, too. All it takes is a phone call asking for money or an improvement to his accommodations and someone from the clan will be there within hours, holding out a wad of cash or a TV, bowing deeply, and then leaving without waiting for a word of thanks.
The only rule that really mattered was the one that kept him bound to clan property: under no circumstance was Satoru to leave without supervision. There were numerous reasons for this, the foremost being the bounty on his head. It was too dangerous for him to be out in the world by himself before he could reliably use his techniques; often, it was determined to be too dangerous for him to venture out even if someone could supervise.
He was nine when he broke the rule — old enough to understand the consequences and young enough to ignore them entirely. Slipping away was easy; no one watched him all that closely. Seizing his freedom was more difficult. Once he was away from the clan, Satoru didn't know what to do.
Getting to town wouldn't be difficult. Satoru could see the clustered cursed energy in the distance, and so, unable to think of another place to go, he approached it. The problem was his destination — it was, Satoru soon learned, foolish to go to an area filled with people. He attracted too much attention. It wasn't long before he was approached; it wasn't long before he was taken.
He doesn't remember the man's face now, but he does remember the way his energy looked: dark, threatening, but incredibly weak. He wasn't scared, not even as they neared a vehicle. When the man jerked him by the arm and tried to force him inside, Satoru concentrated really hard — harder than he ever had before — and the car, the man, and a signpost were all brought together, violently converging on each other until they were crushed beyond recognition.
He was found shortly thereafter, staring at the aftermath, with sirens beginning to wail in the distance. His hand was taken, and he was bundled up into the back of a car and driven to the clan.
Upon arrival, the elders greeted him with excitement. Satoru had demonstrated his true potential. It was a monumental day. His training would be altered to match this new development. They would call a meeting with all of the clans so he could prove he now had command over Limitless. He had to go to bed immediately so his energy would be replenished in full. He'd receive a breakfast of all his favorite foods in the morning — everything that would keep him energized for the day to come.
No one scolded him. No one asked him why.
It was for the best. Satoru didn't understand why he left the clan that day, or why, upon being brought back to his room, he refused to sleep. He didn't know why he turned his nose up at all the sweet pastries lining the breakfast table, or why, as he was led to the meeting with the clans, he told himself he wasn't going to show anyone anything.
He also didn't know why, once in front of an audience, he did exactly what he determined he wouldn't, and demonstrated his technique.
All he knew, as the clans began to speak in loud voices, arguing about the future, is that none of what had happened felt right.
He didn't know what he had wanted when he left the clan that evening — but he knew he hadn't been given it, whatever it was.
Lying on a creaky hotel bed, all these years later, Satoru is once again thinking about getting in the last word. He's ready to prolong this conversation, the back-and-forth that seems inevitable whenever he and Suguru get to talking about anything, and delay both his rest and Suguru's further attempts to be responsible. But then Suguru says it, and all insulting comments die in his throat.
Thanks, Satoru.
Satoru stills, feeling suddenly tense — suddenly unsure of himself. He feels out of place in this bed, this room, this partnership — he feels like Suguru is reaching through his Infinity all over again, that behind him, Suguru's cursed energy has grown somehow larger. All at once, he feels uncomfortable, uncertain — unsettled. And underneath it all, faint and yet present enough that it amplifies the rest, Satoru feels —
Warm.
He doesn't know what to say. He opens his mouth, even as Suguru relieves him of responding by heading to the bathroom, but then closes it again. His throat feels too dry to call out, so Satoru lies in silence and stares at the wall in surprise — in wonder.
No one has ever thanked him for his hard work before.
And now Suguru Geto, perpetual killjoy who doesn't even like him —
Suguru thanked him.
It's too much, Satoru decides. After a long day using up most of his energy, he doesn't know what to do with any of this, so he decides to try to ignore it completely. He kicks off his shoes and takes off his uniform jacket and chucks it across the room. He nestles himself back on his side of the bed, the covers pulled up high and a disgusting curse burning through his blindfold.
He turns over.
Unbidden, that old memory surfaces — the very first time he broke a rule. The very first time he acted out, and found that for all he was he had misbehaved, no one really looked at him. No one really talked to him. No one even fussed over him.
These are not the thoughts that he wants to be mulling over when he should be sleeping. And yet, by the time Suguru makes his way out of the bathroom and goes through what Satoru can only assume is the same boring routine he follows every single night — by the time Satoru is looking at his back, his hair, and all around him, the vibrancy of his energy — he impulsively says:]
Hey —
[And then, with a beat betraying his indecision, he adds:]
Suguru.
[He says his name without a taunt imbued within it. He says it like they're friends.
But then it's on him to finish his thought, and Satoru has nothing prepared for this moment. He feels like he needs to say something, but the words don't form — and when he thinks that he probably knows what he should say (There's nothing to thank me for, or Sorry, or even, I'll try extra hard not to kick you tonight) he feels too unsteady to say anything at all.]
Forget it.
[And he should leave it at that.
Except, he huffs — then pulls down his sleep mask and forces himself to look at Suguru as he blurts:]
You didn't try my drink.
[It's a question, though Satoru doesn't phrase it as such. It feels easier to frame it as an accusation than to express a desire to understand — why Suguru rejected him, only to turn around and offer him something no one has before.
Satoru had wanted something, when he tossed that can in his direction — just as he wanted something when he was nine-years-old and on a journey he didn't understand. And he had assumed that he wouldn't find it here, because Satoru, it seemed, wasn't meant to find it anywhere.
But Suguru thanked him.
And Satoru, watching Suguru in the dim lighting, wonders if that's what he wanted all along.]