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The dark haired boy has his hair down. He is making coffee. Sometimes he hummed to himself, sometimes Satoru sang along with him, but he is silent today.
He has a lot on his mind. Too many thoughts, too many plans, too many conversations. He pours the coffee into a mug and he realizes he made enough for two out of habit.
Satoru isn't back yet. He's been coming back later and later, sometimes not even returning at all. He's always dead tired, always managing to just turn off his technique when he gets inside. Although their rooms are side by side, he still sleeps here for some reason. They are perfectly attuned to each other, even outside of battle. It has only gotten more intense since Riko–
The boy snaps up, sensing a change. Satoru enters a moment later, bloodied and tired, but untouched and unmarked. The boy feels the instant when Satoru turns his Infinity off and collapses against the door.
"You're back," The boy runs a hand through his long dark hair. He lets him take his time. He's bloody from the blood of the curses, but not his own.
Nothing touches him.
He's Gojo Satoru.
He's the strongest.
Satoru gathers himself and trudges towards his chair, the one with the fluffy pillow. He sinks into it with a groan. "Yaga's put me on mandatory leave," His blue eyes have also changed since that day. They're brighter, more unapproachable. The dark haired boy tries anyway.
"We both know you need it," He says, placing their coffee on the table. He adds a ton of sugar, just how Satoru likes it, but Satoru makes no move for it.
"I don't," He tries to sound fierce but he's tired, too tired.
"Satoru," The dark haired boy with dark thoughts chides. The blue eyes lock with his black ones.
"Suguru," He challenges.
"You need rest," He doesn't concede, "Put on the blindfold and sleep, just for a day,"
Satoru looks like he might argue, but he slumps. He picks the blindfold from the table, where it is placed in a seemingly casual way but the owner of the room has no requirement of bandages.
Said owner watches as Satoru tries to wrap it around his head. It's of no use. Half his hair sticks out from between the wraps and his hands are unsure and unsteady.
The onyx eyed boy watches him a bit longer before sighing. He walks up to where his friend fumbles and takes the cloth from his hands. He gently unwraps the messy folds, untangling it from his hair. It feels natural to touch him, even as he knows he is probably one of the handful who can. His hair is white and soft like snow and he leaves his fingers there longer than strictly needed. He removes the cloth from his eyes and Satoru looks up at him. He doesn't know what those infinite blue eyes see. His lashes are snow-kissed white, the same as his hair and the boy restrains himself from reaching out to them.
A lot has happened this year, a lot has happened, yet at this moment they're just themselves, just seventeen, sitting in a place that's home, although they both know it's not the place, it's really the person who is the home.
Those unblinking azure eyes, an ocean full of emotion, they make the boy think too much and too little. He breaks away first, and gathers Satoru's hair carefully. Slowly. The white strands escape and he collects them back. He wraps the bandage around his head and forehead, pushing the hair up. He can see more of his face this way, and he finds he prefers it so.
He hears Satoru's breath hitch and he pauses, looking for the source of his discomfort.
"Why'd you stop?" Satoru asks hoarsely. It is then that the boy realizes he was singing the melody playing in his head, a Cigarettes After Sex song.
"I don't know," He says, resuming the wraps and the song. When was the last time his friend had listened to music?
It is hard to convince themselves that they are still kids, still just teens. He places the cloth over the azure eyes, careful to not tighten it too hard.
Satoru is so tired, always so tired. The boy wants to stay, wants to be there for him, but that goes against everything he's decided to stand for.
He finishes the wrap, tucking the end above his friend's ear. His touch lingers more than necessary but neither of them mention it.
"Satoru," He says on impulse, his darkest moments at the tip of his tongue.
"Suguru." He responds, in a voice that knows something bad is coming, but that believes that they could face it, together.
This moment is not a goodbye yet, yet somehow it feels like one. Like they can never return to what they are right now, here, at this instant. They have both changed irreversibly. No matter how close two lines are, if they are parallel, they cannot intertwine, even at infinity.
Getou Suguru walks out without a word.