The impression of the infinite

The Institute's gate opened with a familiar whisper.

Yuzu walked down the path with measured steps, fingers grazing the edge of the stiff folder: prints, sketches, two books with worn spines. In the garden the class was already neatly assembled; the air, mild for the hour, had the green smell of wet leaves.

"Let's talk about red," Yuzu said, laying the prints on the table.

Her voice was clear, controlled.

"Not the red that bursts in. The red that knows how to wait. The one born in Venice, in the slow time of the studios, when the oil dries slowly and light learns to pass through the layers."

She drew out a sample panel, very thin.

"Tiziano doesn't 'lay down' a color; he builds it. Glazes—one, two, ten—transparent layers. Underneath, a warm ground; above, light lakes, perhaps cochineal or madder, sometimes a touch of cinnabar to kindle the spot. Each layer lets the previous one live. It's like weaving velvet with light."

A student leaned forward; others took notes. No one looked away.

Yuzu walked among the chairs, showing the details. "Look at Danaë's draperies: the red doesn't attack; it surrounds. And in the Venus of Urbino the skin seems to breathe because the nearby red doesn't shout: it envelops, gives warmth. In the great altarpieces—think of the Assumption—the mantle isn't a chromatic billboard: it is depth, time, air."

She paused for a moment, letting the silence settle. "Glazing is a promise: you don't see it right away. You sense it. It's intimacy. It's the opposite of haste."

Her slender hands moved confidently over the prints; she pointed to a softened contour, the transition of a shadow.

"Tiziano entrusts much to the unspoken: the edge that fades, the tone that hesitates, the gaze that doesn't offer itself but lets itself be glimpsed. That's why his red is 'alive': because it isn't all on the surface."

The light on the lawn shifted just slightly; a petal fell from the nearby blossom. The students' attention was tight, almost suspended.

A short distance away, under the flowering tree, Satoru was watching her. Black hoodie, dark glasses, relaxed posture; but his hands in his pockets betrayed the opposite, tense to the rhythm of her words. When Yuzu said "the red that knows how to wait," he tilted his head imperceptibly, as if that note had touched him more deeply than he'd expected.

The wind stirred his white hair; in his glasses, for a moment, the reflection of the sky flashed. Then he lowered his gaze to her just slightly, with that steady attention that needed no words.

Yuzu resumed, more softly: "Tiziano teaches us that certain things are seen only if you let them ripen. Painting is time. Looking is time, too."

She lifted the print, turned it to the light: the red changed, only a little but decisively. "Like this."

Someone held their breath. And in the silence, without anyone really noticing, Satoru's gaze softened, as if in that slow red he had recognized something—of her, and of himself.

When the lesson ended, as the students stood to leave, Yuzu gathered her things with her usual calm. At that very moment, her phone buzzed in the coat's inner pocket.

It was Airi.

"You're coming tonight, right? Table for four. You, me, and Suguru. And yes: you have to bring him, too. I want to see him after a glass of sake."

Yuzu bit the inside of her cheek, almost smiling.

"Is that your polite way of telling me you don't trust leaving me alone with him?"

The reply arrived in under ten seconds.

"No. It's my polite way of saying you're both suspiciously brilliant. And I need to check the karma in the room."

Yuzu closed the message with that half-smile she allowed herself only when no one was looking.

Behind her, a now-familiar voice cut in.

"You've become the class's silent idol. When I tried to say something about Tiziano, one of them shushed me, saying, 'Tachibana-sensei is talking.' Have you started a cult?"

Yuzu turned, her face already composed.

"I just tell the truth with the right words. Not everyone can do that." She looked at him, smiling with her eyes.

Satoru stepped a little too close.

"Careful, Tachibana-san. If you keep this up I might start asking you to be my private tutor."

"Too late. I don't accept students with that kind of sarcasm wired into their nervous system." She smiled, giving his arm a light tap.

They exchanged a look that lasted longer than necessary.

Then he dipped his head slightly, as if to study her better.

"What are we doing tonight?" he asked, with a tone halfway between curious and impertinent.

Yuzu glanced at the phone still in her hand. "Dinner. With Airi and Suguru. And… they asked me to bring you, too."

"An official invitation?" he asked.

"An order, I'd say."

Satoru smiled faintly. "Then get ready, Tachibana-sensei. Tonight you'll have to sit next to two professors. And one of them… is terribly charming."

Yuzu set off down the path. "I hope it's Suguru. You're already dangerous enough without needing charm."

But when he laughed behind her, the sound hung for a few seconds among the leaves.

He turned and went on, probably to rejoin his students.

And the sun, which by then was setting, seemed to have settled on them alone.

***

It was late afternoon, and the library smelled of old paper and resin. Yuzu was writing, back straight, wrist steady. The door clicked softly.

"Tachibana-sensei," Satoru's voice—low, amused. "Evening betrayal: trading me for treatises."

"You make noise; they answer."

"I devote myself to other things." He came closer. "Keep studying."

She didn't stop writing. Only her breathing changed rhythm when he adjusted the lamp, lowering it just enough to warm her neck. Satoru's fingers grazed the air a centimeter from her skin, without really touching her. The room seemed to tighten.

"What I asked you before," he murmured near her ear, true to his promise to always ask.

Yuzu didn't look up; the pen drew a firm stroke.

A slanting smile crossed his mouth. From the inner pocket of his coat he drew a new blindfold, black, smooth.

"My signature," he whispered. "Give me your wrists."

She offered them to him. Satoru wrapped the ribbon once, then twice; he left room for a finger and tested the hold. "Perfect. Now obey." He brushed her chin. "Come with me. No questions."

He guided her in three steps to the ladder of the balcony. A quick knot fastened her wrists to the smooth handrail; her shadow stretched across the wood.

"Like that. In your place." He ran a hand through his hair, unconcerned by the disarray. "Look at me."

She bit her lip. "I didn't think… here… someone could come in."

"The door is closed. The only thing that comes in is my voice." He loosened her ponytail; her hair fell like silk to her hips. He set it with his fingers, slowly.

"I want you like this. Good. Now stay where you are."

He brushed her hairline with his lips, then moved down along the line of her jaw, his breath hot on her skin.

"What were you studying?" he asked, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Glazing, and the held breath of color," Yuzu replied.

"Hands up."

She obeyed. Arms raised. Satoru tipped up her chin: "Eyes on me, and be quiet."

His tone stayed elegant, but the next sentence tilted just slightly as his fingers slowly opened the buttons of her blouse.

One, two, three: the faintest sound of thread yielding to the air.

"You're exasperating," she said, and the tremor on the "-ting" made him smile.

"Educationally? Let's see how much you learn."

His index fingers slipped under the fabric, tracing precise paths; his hands at her hips guided the cloth down along the curve of her thighs. His breath filled every space that remained.

"Perfect," he murmured. "In class. Here… worse: irresistible."

Yuzu arched against the handrail, held taut between the wood and his body.

"You're conceited," she whispered.

"A realist with excellent taste."

He kissed her bound wrists, then moved down again, sliding in profile through the blade of light that divided them: his shirt fell from his shoulders, his belt came undone with a click, and his trousers slid down his hips with a flick of the wrist. He stayed a step away, bare beneath, his breath shorter now, the urgency no longer masked.

"Eyes on me," he said.

He grazed the edge of her shoulder with his teeth, enough to make her lose her head.

"Afterward, write 'admission of guilt,'" he whispered.

"Which one?"

"That I'm on you with everything I have." His voice went hoarse. "And that I want you."

The kiss hit, overwhelming, without prelude: the tearing surge of two currents meeting. Satoru caught her by the waist and drove her against the balustrade, mouth on mouth, deep, hungry; her pen fell and bounced on the wood, forgotten.

"Yuzu, eyes on me," he said between breaths, excited, "now I'm going to fuck you good, okay? Nod."

She nodded. Her gaze clear, steady.

"Stronger than you think." He added.

She nodded again, still composed, her breathing deeper.

He lifted her blouse over her bound arms, undressing her with confident gestures, taking his time to adore every new patch of skin the light presented to him; when he returned to her mouth, it was to silence a moan with an even deeper kiss. The library held its breath.

Satoru leaned in, naked underneath, his hand guiding her hips until the distance closed.

"Shall I fuck you... or shall I stop? Answer me." He managed to say, a final check.

"Nono..." Yuzu whispered, tugging at the knot with her fingers as if to provoke him. "Don't you dare..."

She didn't have time to finish her sentence before he suddenly entered her. She arched her back and threw her head back, letting out a loud moan. Her voice echoed off the walls.

He placed his thumb on her lips, still pounding her.

"Shh... library... sensei." He whispered against her mouth, his voice hoarse.

He began to move slowly. His mouth on her neck, her head thrown back. She couldn't move, couldn't do anything, her wrists bound. A viscous liquid dripped from her legs, stopping at her knees.

"If they hear us, they'll banish me for life," he murmured, already unable to stop, his rhythm accelerating like a racing heartbeat. She let out another moan; Gojo silenced her with a deep, almost ferocious kiss:

"Shut up, Yuzu… now shut up," he added through gritted teeth. And the desire trembled in his voice, stronger than any joke.

Yuzu couldn't contain herself. The pleasure was too much, she tried with all her might not to make a sound. Suddenly, Satoru pushed her against the wood, his breath coming out of his chest, his unblinded eyes fixed on her like hot blades. Every movement became faster, lower. She moaned again, and he barely covered her mouth with his hand, kissing the corner of her lips.

"Just your breath, Yuzu," he whispered. "Give me everything, but be quiet."

Every moan she made was a shock to him.

"Yes...come for me...Yuzu...come, I can barely feel it...I can feel you..."

She began to tremble visibly, her legs giving way, but she was bound. Satoru showed no signs of slowing down. He wanted her so much he lost his composure: his thrusts became tense, hungry, and her name burned in his throat.

"Come… Yuzu…" he whispered against her lips, pushing her deeper and deeper.

She exploded with pleasure beneath him, rolling her eyes, and her fluids exploded between her legs with every thrust. Satoru moaned softly; she had begun to moan again, loudly, and he bit her lip lightly.

"Shut up," he gasped, "or I swear I'll make the shelves rattle."

He pounded into her even harder, grabbing her hips.

"Spread your legs... wider..." He said, his tone brooking no argument. She tried to open them wider, but a louder moan escaped her mouth, inadvertently. Her legs trembled with each of his violent thrusts.

He bit her lip again, his breath ragged. "I told you to be… quiet..." But the pleasure was too intense, those moans too beautiful, and they were all for him. He couldn't help it. His body trembled once, sharply. With a broken sigh, he melted into her heat, their fingers intertwined, not letting go.

"Now… I'm coming inside… okay? Answer me." he whispered.

She nodded.

And he let himself go, inside her without holding back any longer, into a white darkness that swallowed them both together.