"Hang in there, Satoru," a voice grunts, soft, smooth baritone, holding an injured Satoru Gojo's arm over a shoulder as two teen sorcerers stagger into the hotel room they purchased after a mission they barely got out of alive.

(Suguru can still taste the bitter bile the curse was like in his throat as he swallowed to absorb it.)

Dazed, Satoru cackles, a hole in the teen's side. "Oy, Suguru," he slurs, sounding stupidly drunk with the blood loss, the sunglasses that cover his brilliant blue eyes nearly slipping off his nose, "ohh, shit, only one bed."

Suguru flops him down onto the bed, amethyst gaze calculating, trying to keep his voice even as he applies pressure to Satoru's wound. "You stupid idiot," he says breathlessly, laughing just a little, amused. "You're lucky Yaga didn't give you the assignment as a solo mission. I'm going to ring up Shoko."

Satoru snickers, reaching blindly for Suguru's hand. "Pfft, 's nothing, I took the bastard out anyway!"

"I did," Suguru says, and applies further pressure to the wound. The world is dark; the room they bought only has one window. Moonlight streaks down Suguru's black raven hair, kissing the wisps of it. Satoru stares, transfixed.

"Suguru," he whines dramatically, "if I die, at least give me a kiss goodbye, make it a hot french kiss too."