TITLE: look at me AUTHOR: bishounen_curious on AO3
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Out of every filthy, reprehensible way he's ever had him, Suguru wouldn't hesitate to say that he prefers Satoru in his bed, his ambrosial eyes blinking wetly up at him.
Sure, there have been other noteworthy trysts. A few months' worth. The twisted, nimble limbs, the litany of hushed demands in an empty, dusty classroom, the overwhelming absence of shame or remorse in every novel and confident suggestion: all of that is wonderful. It all has value, somehow. Value as a throb in his belly, a shudder down the length of Suguru's spine, and as a palm full and wet with the sticky result of their impulsive, monstrous lust. Meaningful, tactile and fleeting worth.
Fucking is about the only thing that keeps Suguru's sanity in check. Every second of crawling into each other's skin gives Suguru a moment of strength outside of closed doors.
He takes it when he can.
It's no surprise it's to bed again after the pair of them return from a menial mission, nothing rewarding, nothing hard. Nothing someone else couldn't do themselves. Same thing every time: get home, patch up, clean up, crash. Monotony carves hollow space beneath Suguru's dehydrated skin, the echo inside yearning for something he isn't quite able to name yet.
Of course Satoru can see him on edge. Can probably smell it in the crook of his neck, the exhausted hunch of his shoulders beneath the towel slung over him. Suguru can't help but be obvious in moments like this when they're back in the dorms, fresh from the showers. Absolved and scrubbed of their futile actions and decisions they never really choose for themselves. They're told to follow whatever and whenever and however.
Don't ask, just do. It's nauseating, worse than ingesting a hundred curses in a single sitting.
A soft nose pokes into the cut of his jaw and Suguru feels his body tense, tense harder, before deflating.
Fuck, Suguru wants him. That's something he knows to be true, a decision only he himself can make.
Satoru kisses him and leaves. He drops his used towel on the floor like an animal and pulls on a clean pair of boxer briefs, from the drawer that he claimed as his in Suguru's dresser, and closes the distance between their pink, clean skin again. Moron, Suguru muses, those are just going to come right back off.
Satoru's body heat frizzes the damp weight of Suguru's bangs as they dry curled against his temple. Water-pruned fingers slip up the hem of Suguru's dark grey cotton tee, insatiable already.
"You look like shit," Satoru's whisper contains far too much joy, stroking the warmth of Suguru's abs. "Absolutely, unbelievably terrible."
In comparison to him, of course he does. Everyone does. But Satoru isn't just insulting him. He's prefacing. Opening up the floor for conversation. For Suguru to fill in the blanks he himself is too annoying to do himself.
