I Gave Him My Body To Save Him From The Darkness, But It Only Pushed Him Away

The air in the village was thick and wet, heavy with a mist that clung to the sloping roofs of the traditional houses and blurred the edges of the world into a uniform grey. It wasn't just water vapor; Satoru could see the cursed energy coalescing within it, a sluggish, malevolent presence that pulsed with the fear of the people hiding behind their paper-screen doors. Every shuttered window felt like a suspicious eye.

"Charming place," Satoru murmured, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his uniform pants. His sunglasses did little to mute the oppressive gloom he could perceive with his Six Eyes. "You can really feel the 'welcome sorcerers' vibe, can't you?"

Suguru, walking beside him, offered a faint, noncommittal hum. His expression was placid, but his gaze swept over the silent street, missing nothing. "They're scared, Satoru. That's why we're here."

An ancient man with a face like a dried persimmon led them wordlessly through the village to a small inn. He didn't speak, just gestured with a gnarled hand toward a room at the end of a dark, narrow hallway before shuffling away, the soft scrape of his sandals fading into the profound quiet.

Satoru slid the fusuma open and immediately groaned. "You have got to be kidding me."

The room was tiny. Two thin futons were laid out on the tatami mats, so close together their edges nearly touched. There was a single low table and not much else. The space was barely large enough for one person, let alone two fully grown men and their egos.

"It smells like damp wood and resentment in here," Satoru declared, flopping down dramatically onto one of the futons and sending a puff of dust into the air. He stretched his long limbs out, his feet brushing against the opposite wall. "There's barely room for my greatness, let alone both of us."

Suguru simply stepped around him, setting their bags down with a soft thud. He ignored Satoru’s theatrics, a familiar and fond patience in his movements as he began to unpack. He knelt, his back to Satoru, and started neatly folding their spare uniforms, his dark hair falling forward to curtain his face. The cramped space forced a kind of intimacy on them; Satoru could smell the clean, distinct scent of Suguru’s soap over the mustiness of the room.

"It's only for a few weeks," Suguru said calmly, his voice a low counterpoint to Satoru's complaints. He placed Satoru's toiletries next to his own by the wall, his actions methodical and grounding. "Think of it as... cozy."

Satoru watched him, the line of his strong back, the efficient grace of his hands. The villagers' hostility, the oppressive cursed energy, the miserable room—it all seemed to fade into the background when Suguru was there, making order out of chaos. He propped himself up on his elbows. "Cozy? Suguru, my legs are already in the next prefecture. When you get up, you're going to trip over me."

Suguru paused, then turned his head, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips. "Then I suppose you'd better not move." His eyes held Satoru's for a moment, and the air in the room shifted, growing heavier and warmer.

The opportunity didn't take long to present itself. As dusk settled, the ambient cursed energy in the village spiked, coalescing in the central square. It was a swarm, dozens of low-grade spirits that looked like crawling, multi-limbed smudges of ink, drawn to the collective anxiety of the villagers like moths to a flame.

"Showtime," Satoru grinned, stretching his arms over his head with a loud crack of his shoulders.

They moved as one. There was no need for discussion, no strategy session. Their roles were as ingrained as breathing. Satoru was the vanguard, a blur of motion stepping into the thick of the swarm. His Infinity was a passive barrier, the curses screeching as their attacks dissolved into nothingness inches from his skin. He moved with a lazy, arrogant grace, his hands in his pockets for a moment before he flicked a finger, unleashing a pulse of Cursed Energy that obliterated a cluster of spirits in a flash of blue light.

Suguru was his shadow, his perfect counterpart. He moved along the periphery, his long sleeves swaying. While Satoru was a force of pure annihilation, Suguru was one of control. He didn't waste energy. With a quiet command, one of his own powerful cursed spirits—a great, sinuous beast with too many eyes—erupted from the ground, snapping its jaws and swallowing a half-dozen of the smaller curses whole. Suguru’s gaze was sharp, tracking every enemy, anticipating their movements. When a curse slipped past Satoru's casual assault, aiming for his back, Suguru was already there. His hand shot out, grabbing the creature. It writhed and shrieked before collapsing into a small, dense orb which he swallowed without a change in his expression.

They were a devastatingly efficient pair. Satoru would scatter them, breaking their formation with raw power, and Suguru would methodically corral and consume the stragglers, leaving nothing behind. It was a dance of destruction and absorption, perfectly synchronized. In minutes, the square was silent again, the air clean of the curses’ foul energy.

Satoru pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, a triumphant smirk on his face. "See? Barely broke a sweat. We're too good, Suguru. They should be building us a shrine." He turned, expecting to share the victory with his friend, but Suguru wasn't looking at him.

His gaze was fixed on the edges of the square, where a few villagers had crept out from their homes. They weren't cheering. They weren't even relieved. They stared, their faces pinched with fear and suspicion, clutching talismans to their chests as if Satoru and Suguru were the greater monsters. One woman pulled her child behind her skirt, her eyes wide with undisguised mistrust.

Satoru’s smirk faltered slightly. But it was the look on Suguru's face that truly quieted him. There was no triumph in his friend's expression. Just a stillness. As he watched the people they had just protected shrink away from them, a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of disappointment crossed his features, dulling the light in his dark eyes before his face settled back into a mask of calm neutrality.

That night, sleep was a distant country neither of them could reach. The oppressive silence of the village pressed in, a heavy blanket woven from fear. Satoru found Suguru sitting on the narrow engawa, his back straight as he stared out into the dark, manicured garden that was little more than a collection of shadows. A half-empty bottle of sake and a single cup sat on the wooden planks beside him.

Without a word, Satoru slid the screen door open and sat down, folding his long legs until he was close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. He picked up the bottle, tilting it toward his own lips before pausing. He glanced at the single cup, then back at Suguru’s profile, silhouetted against the pale moonlight. He set the bottle down and picked up the small ceramic cup instead, filling it and taking a slow sip. The sake was dry and burned pleasantly on its way down. He refilled it and offered it to Suguru.

Suguru took it, his fingers brushing against Satoru’s for a fraction of a second. He drank, his eyes never leaving the darkness of the garden.

"They hate us," Suguru said, his voice quiet, almost swallowed by the chirping of crickets. It wasn't a question.

"They're weak," Satoru countered, his voice lacking its usual boisterous edge. "They fear what they don't understand. It's always been that way."

"And it's our job to protect them from themselves," Suguru murmured, placing the cup down between them. "What a thankless existence."

The bitterness in his tone was a sharp, unpleasant thing. Satoru didn't want to talk about the villagers or the mission anymore. He wanted to erase that look of disappointment he'd seen on Suguru's face earlier.

"We'll be done with school soon," Satoru said, changing the subject. "Then what? We'll still be the strongest. We can do whatever we want."

Suguru finally turned to look at him, a faint, humorless smile on his lips. "And what is it that you want, Satoru? To be praised by people who would just as soon see you dead?"

Satoru met his gaze. The moonlight caught in Suguru’s dark eyes, making them seem bottomless. The usual playful retort died on his tongue. He was hit with a sudden, gut-wrenching wave of honesty. "Being the strongest is... quiet," he admitted, the words feeling strange and heavy in his mouth. "It's lonely. Everyone is so far beneath you, you can't even see them." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "It's less lonely with you here."

The air between them went completely still. The crickets seemed to fall silent. All Satoru could hear was the frantic beat of his own heart, a frantic drum against his ribs. Suguru’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes held Satoru’s, and in their depths, Satoru saw a flicker of something he couldn't name—something vulnerable and raw that mirrored his own sudden nakedness.

Slowly, almost involuntarily, Satoru lifted his hand and placed it on Suguru's shoulder. The fabric of his yukata was thin, and Satoru could feel the warmth of his skin, the hard line of bone and solid muscle beneath his palm. It was just a touch, a simple gesture he'd made a thousand times before. But this time it was different. It wasn't a playful shove or a comradely clap. His fingers pressed down, a silent plea. Stay. Don't look at them, look at me. The weight of his hand felt immense, an anchor in the suffocating quiet. He felt Suguru’s body go rigid for a second before a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor ran through him, a silent acknowledgment of the charge that now crackled between them, more potent and dangerous than any cursed energy.