[you count. the expected response—because suguru supposes that he is interesting, in some odd way; a restored, reanimated corpse is the sort of medical marvel that would send shoko reaching for her scalpel, but with satoru, it's more than that? it's as complicated as their past ties; it's as simple as the fact that, by somehow evading death, suguru is now living proof of satoru's failure.
(and suguru, despite himself, remembers those lazy days in the dorm, putting his reading on pause to watch satoru try whatever new game he'd picked up. it never took satoru long to master them; he was as quick at picking up new controls as he was at picking up everything else, but occasionally he would lose—and he would make something of a production out of it? tipping his head back against the bed to whine about whatever cheap shot took him out, waiting for suguru to goad him into giving it another try.)
but even as satoru shifts about—even as suguru once again takes stock of his curses, finding them lacking—suguru remains still, searching the bit of satoru's face that is visible. he knows what it's like to fail; he'd felt the shame of it as he'd leaned against that wall not so very long ago, though it had been tempered, somewhat, by a strange sense of relief. at least it was satoru, in the end.
at least it was satoru.
which is not to say that suguru has any intention of dying again. he is prepared to do what he must, if it comes down to it—but for now he hums, as though he's graciously granting satoru this point.]
You always were a sore loser.
[and thus i let you win, that tone implies. the type of tease that was friendly, once, but has since taken on new meaning. dangerous.
but less dangerous than the question he asks next, as his eyes linger on that blindfold.]
And your prize?
[after all, that's how their games used to work. impossible for suguru to forget, thanks to the charm tucked somewhere on his person.]
no subject
(and suguru, despite himself, remembers those lazy days in the dorm, putting his reading on pause to watch satoru try whatever new game he'd picked up. it never took satoru long to master them; he was as quick at picking up new controls as he was at picking up everything else, but occasionally he would lose—and he would make something of a production out of it? tipping his head back against the bed to whine about whatever cheap shot took him out, waiting for suguru to goad him into giving it another try.)
but even as satoru shifts about—even as suguru once again takes stock of his curses, finding them lacking—suguru remains still, searching the bit of satoru's face that is visible. he knows what it's like to fail; he'd felt the shame of it as he'd leaned against that wall not so very long ago, though it had been tempered, somewhat, by a strange sense of relief. at least it was satoru, in the end.
at least it was satoru.
which is not to say that suguru has any intention of dying again. he is prepared to do what he must, if it comes down to it—but for now he hums, as though he's graciously granting satoru this point.]
You always were a sore loser.
[and thus i let you win, that tone implies. the type of tease that was friendly, once, but has since taken on new meaning. dangerous.
but less dangerous than the question he asks next, as his eyes linger on that blindfold.]
And your prize?
[after all, that's how their games used to work. impossible for suguru to forget, thanks to the charm tucked somewhere on his person.]