satoru liked sparring.

of course he did, being the strongest sorcerer; it was written within his blood to crave what he was not yet.

but most of all, he liked sparring with suguru—his best friend, his one and only.

satoru loved feeling skin against his; he loved the proof that his strength was not unmatched as it was prophesied; that blood-spray and death was not a distant thing—

that there was, in fact, a caliber serving as his sanity's crutch.

he loved, loved loved suguru.

and his mind buzzed pleasantly with adrenaline as he entered the communal showers after yet another vicious sparring session, rambling softly. his best friend trailed behind—presence warm as ever on satoru’s sweat-damp back.

"well, the clan never prioritized martial arts," satoru prattled (absently, for the repetition of this notion called for). satoru crossed his arms over his head, abs flexing gently in the low light as he shrugged his shirt off. "so suguru shouldn't think—"

arms—arms so warm that satoru nearly liquified on the spot—slid into place around his waist.

this kind of tenderness, satoru was getting used to. the kind that was so surreal; so easy to cleave his soul into two.

satoru eventually stilled.