stsg: hs edition | are we growing up or just going down?

[ascends]

[the room itself is fine, suguru supposes. the comforters covering the twin beds are a little faded; the chair wedged between the desk and a very, very small window has a stain upon its seat that he would rather not look at, much less think about, but all in all: it's fine. nothing to write home about, but certainly nothing to complain about.

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?]

Comments

[ascends]

[sharing a space with satoru is, in some ways, like sharing a space with a spoiled dog? a bouncy, yippy creature that takes great joy in dragging every one of its toys from the box—but only watches, confused, as someone deigns to pick one up, to toss it across the room, because there is a difference between being looked after and being cared for. something about satoru is—well. not that suguru is an expert on anything, really; there is little in this world that someone so young is qualified to dissect, and yet the way that satoru pushes, and pushes, and pushes, seemingly hoping for the one thing that never fails to catch him by surprise...

...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.]

[mugen]

[Satoru doesn't want for much.

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.]