Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gojo Satoru plugs his earbuds into his phone, then plucks them back out. Repeat. Repeat. Five minutes ago, he stepped into this car, ready for a nice, music-filled ride to Yokohama after a mission in Takasaki. Unfortunately, the window’s feeling talkative.

She glances back at him. One of his six eyes hovers over her shoulder, showing him what she sees—a lanky 21 year old, slumped and pouting as he fiddles with his phone. Hair wild as always, bandages engulfing his face. He bites his lip. It’s not exactly a flattering image. She asks, “So, how’d you get into all this?”

His head flops onto the window. “What, you don’t know who I am?”

She frowns. Okay, wrong answer. “Am I supposed to? My apologies. I only got hired for this job two months ago.”

He gasps, half theatrical, half exasperated. “Two months? Is this your first assignment?”

“So what if it is? I’m perfectly capable of driving. And, the files said you don’t need a curtain.” She pauses, and snipes, “And don’t even answer my question, young master.”

He knows what she’s thinking. What an entitled brat. Spoiled. Young, inexperienced, basking in temporary superiority. He’d think the same thing in her place. He also knows what he’s supposed to be feeling: guilty, for being so rude, apologetic, so he doesn’t have to sit in silence for the next two hours.

Instead, he jams his earbuds back into his phone, and jabs the play button. Eleanor Rigby fills his ears.

Exactly two and a half hours later, he stumbles out of the car. He looks wasted, squinting at the sky. In reality, he hasn’t slept for a month, and hasn’t felt settled in his body since he was 15. So what if his steps drag and stutter? The world would be fucked without him.

The window looks on, faintly disgusted. Well, fuck her too. He ups the volume on his phone—one bar to three. It thunders in his hypersensitive ears, looping through the same songs for the third time. Ahhhhh, look at all the lonely people…

The mood’s too bright. Pale sunlight dyes the piers, sliding them into the uncanny valley. However, smatterings of people still wander. Don’t they taste the resentment in the air? A gaggle of schoolchildren, visiting the marina. A couple watching the ocean, taking pictures of the seagulls. Fishermen hauling their wares into trucks. They glance at him, then their eyes flicker away. Satoru straightens his back and tucks his hands into his pockets. He should feel ashamed. Instead, emptiness burrows into his stomach.

Father Mackenzie, writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear. No one comes near.

Finally, he stops at the edge of the water. Cursed energy coils under the docks. Each shift betrays the leviathan’s size—he faintly realizes it could swallow any one of the boats whole. Six ribcages run along its spine, five skeletal arms sprout up like fins, and spiraling in its mouth, corpses like teeth.

How, he ponders, should I keep it away from these people? There was no information in his briefing other than three familiar words—send Gojo Satoru. For how many missions he takes each week, the higher ups should invest in a stamp. Stamp, stamp, and Satoru flings himself across the globe.

It’s obviously a special grade. Those are supposed to show up once a century—nowadays, one pops up every month. It’s probably caused a few shipwrecks. Ideally, he would wait until nighttime, but he wants to get home as fast as possible. Megumi and Tsumiki need him.

He kicks off the dock, pulling a curtain over everything in a two kilometer radius. There are one hundred eighty seven lights flickering inside the curtain—people. How many people could die before benefit tips into detriment?

Above the water, he takes a deep breath, and cracks his knuckles. He points his fingers towards that writhing mass of cursed energy. Hollow purple. Violet blasts through the water, tunneling through the waves and kicking up enough waves to drench the docks. It explodes against the creatures side, punching a whole through its coils. It rumbles, then roars—a great, shrieking sound that shakes the clouds. Satoru winces. Shit, it’s loud.

It rockets up, two ribcages short of six, charging at Satoru. However, as it writhes upwards, its tail lashes out at the docks. Shit, shit, shit, that’s where the window is! Too many obstacles to teleport safely. Satoru races back to the docks, vaulting a ribcage and dodging between two arms, before sliding across the water and popping up on land. He throws his body between it and the tail, leveling a kick at its spine. It cracks, and it once again writhes and screams. A headache burns behind Satoru’s eyes.

Ten lights go out, atomized by the tail’s impact, too far from Satoru. He teleports above the creature, rotating into another kick, foot slamming into one of seven eyes. It wails, head impacting the water and causing a swell that collapses half of the dock into the water. Satoru aims at the creature again. Red!

Red decimates half the curse’s head. It pants, screeching one more time, before falling beneath the waves. Its cursed energy flickers, before bleeding out into the ocean. He counts again. Twenty-seven people dead. Window’s still alive.

Father Mackenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave—

Satoru blinks, then clicks his music off. One person added, approaching from above. Satoru’s heart thumps in his chest. He turns slowly, six eyes stretching the moment—one minute, two minutes, hours, years…

Suguru floats high above him, perched on his sting-ray. His eyes widen as they catch Satoru’s, even beneath his bandages. With one hand wave, the sting ray turns, Suguru’s robes fanning out behind him from how fast they swerve.

How dare he. He’s breathless. How dare he just run away again. He watches Suguru’s back for ten, fifteen seconds, knowing he has no intentions of turning around. Coward, he seethes. You goddamn coward.

He should leave. Blip back over to the window, wrap up the mission, and forget he ever saw his one and only. Certainly, that’s what Suguru plans to do.

Satoru teleports above him, savoring the shock on Suguru’s face. Hovering inches above the sting-ray’s skin, Satoru bends down, looming over his sitting friend. “Just where,” he drawls, letting his rage bleed down his tongue, “do you think you’re going?”

Suguru looks up at him, wide-eyed.

Then, all shock drains from his face, and easy smile falling on his lips. His shoulders roll back, and he glides to his feet. “Yo, Satoru.” It’s no wonder, Satoru thinks, that I missed all the signs. He’s so damn good at hiding from me.

“Yo,” He bites out, still seething, “Suguru. Answer the question.”

Suguru shrugs. “Home. You’ve already taken care of the special grade curse. It’s not like there’s anything else here I want.” Satoru bristles. Why does that still hurt? Why does Suguru still make him want to cry? “So, what are you going to do now? Kill me? Take your best shot—”

“Don’t you dare say that would have meaning, you bastard.” Satoru’s hands are shaking as he raises them at Suguru’s neck.

“Why not? Wouldn’t it?” The worst part is, he doesn’t understand he’s wrong. Suguru’s brows pinch together, belying his genuine confusion. He doesn’t understand at all.

He’s the worst. He’s even more beautiful than the last time Satoru saw him. He killed 112 people in a single night. He looks healthy—all pink-tinted cheeks and bagless eyes. If he were here, Satoru might look that way, too.

He sighs, and lets his arms drop with a loud groan, one hand ratcheting back up to rub at his sore eyes. “You—” He screeches in frustration, “you! It’s—” Then, Suguru grabs his hand.

Suguru looks shocked. Satoru is resigned. About a month after Suguru defected, he changed his infinity requirements to exclude Suguru. His subconscious disagreed.

Suguru finally chides, soft and heavy with care, “You’ll hurt your eyes.”

“You’re the worst,” Satoru grumbles, still holding his hand, hovering over eyes worth the world. His greatest and most vulnerable weapons, for the taking. It was inevitable. It still annoys him.

“When’s the last time you slept? I don’t remember you ever being this snippy on a full night of sleep.”

Satoru chooses not to answer that, instead pulling Suguru’s hand down, letting it mingle with his. Slipping under his loose sleeves, Satoru traces up his forearms. It feels good to touch him again. Too good.

“And you never got so fixated on touching me before. Come on,” Suguru prods Satoru’s shoulder with his non-captive hand. Satoru hisses. “You’re like a cat.”

“Shut up, I’m angry at you.” Satoru mumbles, feeling strangely petulant. It’s not wrong to be angry at a mass murderer, but—well, it’s so hard to be angry at Suguru. The kind of thing you have to grasp onto with both hands, and his are occupied.

“Oh, my poor Satoru.” He croons, half-mocking. “They don’t appreciate you, do they?” His voice is still velvety, soft, and sweet. Addictive. So considerate to Satoru’s ears, still ringing from the battle. “Overworked and underpaid.”

“I don’t need the money.”

Suguru insists. “And for what? The monkeys?”

He strokes Satoru’s hair, slipping two fingers beneath his bandages and tugging. Even the bandages surrender to his touch, without a hint of resistance. Traitors.

Satoru grumbles, “Like you’d do any better.”

His friend hums, swiping his white bangs away and revealing his eyes. Suguru’s breath hitches. What for? Satoru knows he looks like shit, being eternally teary-eyed, but it’s not gasp worthy.

“You’d want to take care of me? Want to—what, lock me in your room and pamper me?” As he speaks, his vision narrows. Satoru watches as Suguru’s pupils twitch and dilate; they swallow up his purple irises. “I’m demanding. You’d have to hand feed me sweets, and hold me when I get cold, and—” Satoru swallows, “Cats get kisses—I’d want—you’d have to kiss me, too, if you want to keep me as a pet—”

He isn’t thinking. He’s devouring the blush dusting Suguru’s ears, splotchy across his cheeks. Addicted to his parted lips, to how his tongue sweeps out to wet them, nervous. He runs on instinct alone—push further, harder, until he’s in shambles, until he can’t hide anything anymore—

His mouth keeps running: “I’m lazy! I wouldn’t do shit for you. I’d just sit in your lap all day and glare at your followers, and whine all the time about how you’re not around.” His nonsense doesn’t phase Suguru, whose breaths have grown shallow. The six eyes, ever helpful, catalogue his heartbeat quicken, note and report every tremble of his fingertips on Satoru’s face with atomic precision. They immortalize Suguru’s glazed eyes and soft lips in Satoru’s brain. Brain fried, he thinks. Suguru looks brain fried.

“At that point, you’d have to buy me a collar. Hell, if it wasn’t already weird, you might as well just fuck m—” Suguru jolts, panic flooding into his eyes. His mouth spasms. His hands jerk towards Satoru’s chest and—

Pushes Satoru off the sting ray.

Satoru lets him. Holy shit, he thinks. Suguru wants to fuck me.

Twenty minutes later, he washes up drenched and still dazed. He blinks up at the sky, before squeezing his eyes shut. Suguru stole his bandages. Maybe he’ll keep them. Suguru does not have a perfect memory, like Satoru’s six eyes. He needs mementos.

Satoru thinks of his bandages, draped over Suguru’s hands. Suguru might bring them home with him. He might be injured, and then wear them. A tangible mark of Satoru on him. He wonders if one can be inoculated to shame. Instead of burning cheeks, all he feels is that same hunger.

He’s a mass murderer. He’s Satoru’s best friend, his one and only. Morals are slippery things, like eels thrashing in water. His hands are tired from holding onto rage and pain. Would it be so bad to kiss Suguru? To go further?

Maybe he will feel guilt later. For now, all the remembers is Suguru’s brain-fried face.

“I want to see that again,” he confesses. “I want to see that every day.”

Chapter Text

When Satoru takes a shower that night, he inspects his body. Long, pale limps jut from his torso. Defined muscles, slim frame. Heart shaped face. Objectively, he knows he’s attractive.

However, Suguru met him as a teenager, when he was more attractive. When he was younger, Satoru developed the slightest tan; now, he’s as pale as a sheet of paper. He pokes at the undersides of his forearms, and can see thin blue veins pulsing. “Icky,” he mumbles. He eats so rarely that his hips poke and stretch his skin, and he no longer carries chapstick, leading to cracked, scabbed lips. He bites his lower lip, and skin flakes off. Ew.

On a spiritual level, Satoru is worn down and weary. Nothing like the energetic, lovable almost-god he was once. Before Suguru left, and before Toji. He can’t joke for hours anymore, irate and feeling older by the second. What could possibly be appealing about this adult flesh suit that wasn’t when they were teenagers?

And if Suguru, by some fluke, was also attracted to his teenage self—then will he always live in the shadow of who he once was? When he was one human being, instead of this strange, split thing—half dead and half god. Would he stroke Satoru’s hair and kiss him and wish, secretly, that he had taken his fill of Satoru earlier, and left before he became so worn?

Even then, Satoru wants Suguru. Wants a few fleeting kisses for the road, to save before they inevitably part. Wants to card his hands through his hair and memorize the feeling of each strand, then bite his lips and taste the inside of his mouth.

He turns on the water, and sighs into the heat. So, what to do? Suguru is already attracted to him, God knows why, but prettying up couldn’t hurt. And, if becoming more alluring could extend the window of time Satoru has to commit all of Suguru to memory, then he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try.

He tries to remember what Suguru liked in high school. He has no shortage of memories, but finding attraction in them is nigh on impossible. Suguru never looked at anyone that way, at least not when he was around Satoru. There were glances and moments he blushed, but nothing concrete.

When the shower is done, he drags himself back to his room. Looking into his drawer of pajamas, he hesitates. Would it be strange? Yes, of course. But, well—he has no excuse. He wears it anyway.

“It” being a stolen T-shirt of Suguru’s from back in their high school days. It still dwarfs him—more so, with his lost weight. Just, in different places. Once, when Suguru and him were about the same height, but Suguru’s pecs were the size of melons, the shirt would have draped down to his thighs. Appealing, in hindsight. The kind of thing you’d see in anime. Nowadays, with his added centimeters, it ends a couple inches above his belt line, while still hanging loose under his armpits.

He wonders, once again inspecting, if Suguru and him would slot their bodies together and fit. If it would be comfortable anymore to lean on him, nestle into his space. He hopes.

Maudlin, moping, and dressed only in memories and boxers, Satoru plucks his phone from its depressed perch in a bowl of dry rice, and calls Shoko.

He does not wait to greet her. “Shoko, do you think I’m attractive?”

She chokes, then says, “No. God no.” She takes a long, clearly audible smoke. “Maybe from a distance, but the moment you open your mouth—just—no.” She pauses, tapping her scalpel against her tray, before resuming. “Is this important? I’m in the middle of an autopsy.”

Satoru whines, “Of course it’s important! C’mon, who could resist me?”

“Me. Utahime.”

“Utahime has no taste, and you’re the only one she’s ever dated who’s worth anything.”

“Mei Mei. Anyone who has spent more than 10 minutes with you.”

Satoru hesitates, before suggesting, “And Suguru?”

Shoko cracks her cigarette into an ashtray. “Suguru? Why do you ask.” It’s not a question. Satoru answers it anyway.

“Oh, no reason. Just—curious.”

She takes another drag. “Suguru killed 112 people. His opinion is irrelevant.”

“But what type—”

“Honestly, I thought we were done mentioning him.” Her voice hardens, sharp and mean. “He left. End of story.”

Satoru sighs, before conceding, “Okay, okay, we won’t talk about him. As a completely unrelated question, if someone as devastatingly attractive as me were to want to become more attractive, how would they go about that?”

Shoko bites out, “Satoru I swear to god, this better be unrelated. And, if you are stupid enough to get close to him again, then I don’t want to hear one word about it.”

Satoru flops back onto his bed. “Fine, no issues, just—answer the question.”

“And if you mention one word about this to anyone else, I will kill you in your sleep and no one will find your body, infinity be damned. Alright?”

“Alright—just—give me the tips. Please?”

Shoko pauses. On principle, Gojo Satoru does not beg, and rarely exerts the effort needed to be polite. This Gojo Satoru is one she rarely sees, one so elusive he barely exists. Slightly pathetic. Desperate. Alone. In other words, vulnerable.

She takes another drag, sighing long and loud. “You idiot. I’m in.”

“Awww Shoko, thank you! I knew you cared.” Aannd he’s right back to being insufferable.

“Fair warning, I don’t know about men’s fashion, so you’ll end up pretty, not handsome. Not that you weren’t already toeing the line…” Shoko snaps her gloves, and begins cutting. Like hell Satoru’s nonsense is getting in the way of a good autopsy. “Start with some makeup. Lipgloss, blush, doesn’t matter. Nothing big, since I know you’ll suck at contouring, but some gloss never hurts.”

“Uh huh, uh huh…”

“Get your nails painted if you can stand to drop infinity—”

“Ah, no.”

“Otherwise drop it.” Shoko sighs again. “Biggest issue? Whenever you’re out of the house, you cover everything. Neck to socks, no skin showing except your hands. You’re going to need to go shopping.”

“What… areas… should I target?” Satoru says, pinched.

“It’s not a combat situation, dumbass. Just, show your arms a bit. Wear shorts every once in a while. Not complicated.”

Shoko flips the top half of the ribcage over the body, watching the gleaming edges of the organs shine. “Anyhow, that’s all you’re getting from me. For God’s sake, never mention this again.”

“Got it. You’re a lifesaver. Bye!” As he hangs up, Shoko can’t help but wonder if she’s just killing him all over again. Ah well.

She complains to the corpse: “Suguru’s got a type, and its name is Gojo Satoru. They’re both idiots.” She shakes her head. “Some things never change.”

The corpse does not respond, but she takes its silence as a vehement agreement.

At 5 am, after alternating between watching the Great British Bake off at 4x speed and doing 5 minutes of paperwork at a time during the night, Satoru unearths his extensive collection of rice molds and begins making bento boxes.

Nanami tells him that the process of becoming an adult is that of small disappointments, building up, but Satoru finds himself instead absorbed by small joys. Fuzzy socks he bought himself, the satisfying click of the rice cooker, the soft morning light. He cuts sausages into octopus shapes, following a soft-spoken YouTube on his phone, and feels a giddy joy bubble up in his throat. He takes a picture of the finished box and sends it to Nanami. Look at the tiny rice bunnies! Ahhh nothing but the best for the cutest kids (* ^ ω ^).

At 7:15 am, Megumi and Tsumiki’s alarms go off. Within fifteen minutes, they’re already bickering at the table. Satoru sets two bowls of rice in front of them, pouring pre-beaten egg onto the steaming rice with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

“Thank you for the meal, Gojo-san!” Tsumiki chirps, kicking Megumi under the table.

“Thanks,” Megumi mumbles, with his typical sullen glare. He’s so cute, just so, so, cute, Satoru feels overwhelmed every morning.

“Awww, Megumi, I just want to pinch your cheeks and—”

“No! Get—get away—” Satoru laughs, lunging for the kid, Tsumiki giggling in the background. It’s a raucous morning. The best kind.

By 8, the kids are gone, walking to school. Satoru offers to teleport them every morning, and they refuse, citing his “reckless disregard for safety” and “flaunting of the laws of physics.” One day, he sighs. Then he could snatch a few more minutes with them. One day.

Instead, his phone rings. When he picks up, Yaga shouts, “Gojo! Where the hell were you?”

“Just getting my beauty sleep. Why, need me?”

“Curse,” he snaps, “in Narita. The details are in your email, and there’s a car in front of the college that’s been waiting for you for the past hour. Get here, now.”

Three years out of high school, still being bossed around by his teacher. It’s anachronistic. Yaga still talks to him like he’s 15 and tipping his chair too far back in class. The disrespect grates at him.

“No prob—” The call cuts out. Ah, Yaga’s really pissed. Oh well. He sighs, trading out his glasses for bandages. They itch his skin, but they don’t fall off. Unpleasant. Every day is a series of small indignities.

He teleports, already annoyed, only to find the same window waiting for him as last mission. He grimaces, opening the door and sliding into the back seat. Ah, shit—he forgot his earbuds today. The window flinches when the door closes, shoulders trembling.

The window clears her throat, and says, “I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t know you were—well, you know. Please forgive me.”

“No worries. On to Narita?”

“Ah, okay. Let’s go.”

Awkward. So awkward. Satoru groans internally. Yesterday was somehow better.

He spends the rest of the drive in silence. When he starts to play temple run, with every swipe of his fingers a faint grunt rings from his phone through the car; she flinches at every last one. It’s funny, in a bleak way. He tries and fails to muster up a laugh.

His phone pings. Nanami texted back, “Please stop texting me.” Well, at least it’s something. He curls up into the back seat, scrunching himself up against the window. Depressing. All of this is so depressing.

They don’t appreciate you, do they?

The mission goes fine. The following mission goes fine. Then the next—also fine. Three missions in one day is non-standard, but for Gojo Satoru, it’s light. He drags himself back to Tokyo, and all he wants to do is collapse onto the couch and binge the next season of the Great British Bake off while Megumi calls him old in the background.

Alas, he thinks, he has errands to run. In the grocery store, as he waits in line, he looks up makeup products. His search history: what is foundation, how to find right foundation, picking blush, finding right lipgloss, eyeshadow. Eventually, he has to check out his products. A variety of vegetables, more rice, more miso, ramen packets, eggs—all healthy, for a reasonably loose definition. With a grin, he complains to himself, oh what has the great Gojo Satoru become, a responsible parent? Blasphemy. He covertly wormholes a roll cake and five packets of mochi into his cart, and calls it a day.

After dropping everything off at home, he finally teleports to the nearest makeup store. He stares at the entrance, flicking down his shades. It’s so clean. He spends the majority of his day in dilapidated and abandoned buildings, and can’t help but feel comforted by simple, clean surfaces. Windows uninterrupted by cracks and breaks. Tables without scratches or suspicious stains. Walls that don’t look like they’re about to collapse.

It takes, in hindsight, depressingly little to please him these days. Satoru decides not to focus on that. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it…

He opens the door and strides to the foundation aisle. Picking out the lightest sample, he holds it to his arm. Unconsciously it hits infinity. He pauses, feeling ridiculous. Just, put down infinity for a second. But, cursed screams are still ringing in his ears, and this place is clean but it is not safe—

“First time? Maybe shopping for a girlfriend?” A sales rep says next to him.

“Ah, no. Just for myself—it is my first time, though.” He smiles at her, letting his shades fall. “Mind showing me around?”

She’s young. That’s his first thought. His six eyes place her around 23, but she feels so much younger. She gestures towards the foundations, and demonstrates how to try them, before handing one to Satoru. Admittedly, he’s not listening. He’s wrestling with infinity, and his eyes are caught on the six bow barrettes clipped in her hair.

Finally, infinity comes down, and he drags the sample across his skin with a provided brush. It burns as it streaks across his forearm, hypersensitive. “That one looks pretty close. Maybe one shade lighter?” She hums, before handing him another. Their fingertips almost touch, and he panics, infinity almost shoving itself back up. He traces another line on his arm. This feels like more trouble than it’s worth.

Three shades of foundation, five blushes, and sixteen lipglosses later, he has a serviceable set. The rep smiles at him. “Come again. And—” she hands him a slip of paper, “This is my number, if you need any help. Call me sometime?”

For a second, he indulges in imagining. A normal life for Gojo Satoru, where he picks up a girl like this and—then what? She’s so unbearably young. Her eyes are light and innocent, untouched by blood and death. He has two kids, acquired from a man that killed him. How could he explain that while marked with not a single scar?

There is a chasm between them. One he is always aware of. It hits harder today, with Suguru’s words still echoing in his ears. There is no one in his life who can take care of him. Yet, he tells himself. Just not yet.

He takes the phone number, smiling, with no intention of calling. “Thank you for today. It was fun! See ya.” He saunters out of the store, feeling more empty than ever.

He stares in the mirror while Tsumiki and Megumi are asleep. A makeup tutorial runs in the background.

It’s strange to imagine that all this effort is for Suguru. When he pats the foundation sponge on his cheeks, he can almost imagine Suguru’s gentle, calloused hands. “Stop fidgeting,” he’d say, “or else we’ll never be done.”

In the blush, he sees Suguru’s sun-kissed shoulders after long summer days. The muscles on his back are so elegant and expansive that Satoru swears he must have had wings at some point. When he spreads lipgloss on his lips, he imagines tasting the sweat that dripped down his spine, and shivers. He feels shamefully indulgent.

Finally, he steps back and inspects himself once more. So much is the same—the same paper skin, the same blue veins, long limbs, muscles. However, when he looks at his face, a fragile hope blossoms within him. Shoko was right. He really did turn out pretty.

Chapter Text

Ideally, Satoru would prepare for days for the big moment, when his eyes meet Suguru’s, and red burns up his face. He would buy several outfits, trying each out, weighing their benefits, getting second opinions. In reality, one day off means hundreds dead. He must settle for stolen moments, stretched by his six eyes and pressed into his memory.

Each morning for the past week, he’s stuffed lipgloss, blush, and foundation into his uniform pockets, wondering when he’ll have even an hour free. They jingle as he kicks. When he saunters, only his fingers dip beneath the fabric, brushing up against cool glass.

Today, he sits on the brim of a crater. A curse’s corpse leaks bluish-black fluid beneath him, curled in its hollow—a once writhing mess of bloody hands and feet, bursting from the foundations of this erstwhile hospital. Snow dusts the pine trees and road signs behind him; flakes gently fall into the crater, sizzling on impact with blackened bedrock. The sun bleeds orange-red over the horizon, and pinprick stars shine overhead. Legs crossed and dangling, he thumbs his phone, waiting for it to ring. He counts—one minute, two, three…

Ten minutes pass. He grins, even though his lips crack. As he climbs to his feet, dismissing the curtain, he texts Yaga: I’m assuming I have the rest of the day off. Don’t interrupt me, or I won’t come back for a week! (・`ω´・)

Humming to himself, he hovers over the chasm, inspecting each half-demolished room now left exposed by the destruction. Office, office, X-ray, storage, bathroom. In an instant, he’s emptying his pockets onto the counter space between sinks, unwrapping his bandages with the opposite hand. His favorite makeup tutorial reels by behind his eyes as he picks up a brush and the foundation. Within fifteen minutes, everything’s on, and within 20, he’s in front of Suguru’s cult compound.

Suguru has always been shockingly close to home. His residuals stain every one of Satoru’s favorite cafes and coffee shops, intruding even on candy stores and patisseries, even though Suguru has never liked sweets. Everyone sorcerer in Tokyo knows where he is. None of them dare set foot in his territory.

Even him. He grimaces. Why did Suguru have to choose the star religious cult to take over? He could have chosen anyone. Satoru sighs, treading an inch above the blanket of snow engulfing the pavilion, where three temple-like buildings loom. A fence encloses the grounds, locking off all exits but a twisting road back into Tokyo. He looks up at the stars, now drowned out by light pollution. The things he does for Suguru. He’d better appreciate it.

He pauses in front of the door of the main building, letting his shoes click against the ground as he drops onto the porch. The building, stubbornly traditional, has no doorbell, only two heavy knockers. Suguru is one of twenty-six people inside, gathering in the largest room. It’s unlikely Suguru will be the one to meet him.

He laughs to himself, half-nervous and half-giddy. Then, he knocks.

Satoru clicks his nails against his phone, then again, then again, eyes skating along the compound’s hallways. He tracks the light footsteps approaching him, cataloguing light hair cut at the shoulders, and a kimono embroidered with cranes. Curses lurk in every corner, curiously lacking light.

A girl opens the doors. She cocks one hip, looking him over from head to toe. He does the same, noting the cheap polyester composing the kimono. It makes his skin itch, just looking at it. She recites, “Hello, young master. Are you looking to join the star religious organization? Or perhaps a turn of fate lead you here.” Then, she forces a familiar smile upon her lips.

He grins back at Suguru’s daughter—with that fake smile, who else could she be? “Ah, no need to call me young master. Just Satoru’s good. Can I come in?” She stares at him again, eyes catching on his hair, whiter than the snow outside, his thin clothing, and the bandages once again covering his eyes (without them, he laments, he’s just too distinctive).

“Yes, young master. Please follow me.” She latches onto his arm, turning without another word. He does not drop infinity, instead drawing it close to his skin. She does not notice the lack of body heat, nor the hardness of his “skin” through his uniform. Most don’t.

Or perhaps, he thinks, breathing in frigid air, her fingers are simply too numb to notice. It’s freezing inside. A worm-like curse scuttles into the rafters, breathing thin trails of vapor, watching them with a single gleaming eye the size of a baseball. The girl flinches when she notices it, hands unconsciously tightening on Satoru’s forearm. Still, she does not stop.

“And what should I call you, Miss?” He drawls.

“… My name is Hasaba Nanako.” She glances at another curse, half-submerged in the tatami, and begins to walk faster. “Have you come to heal your blindness? Getou-sama can help.”

Satoru blinks. “Yes. I… cannot see.”

Hasaba taps his arm, as if to say, and?

He babbles on, “Since childhood. I’ve gone to doctors—but they say my eyes are normal, hell, above average. Healthy.” He pauses, then smirks, “I think it’s a curse. I bet my ancestors pissed someone important off, and now I’m paying for it—sounds right out of an anime, right? Do you watch anime, Hasaba-chan?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame. You should try watching it while you’re young—it’s better when you’re a kid.” Satoru belatedly realizes: “Ah, not that I could ever watch it. Still, it’s the principle of the thing, y’know? Go watch some Digimon, have fun, play around with trading cards. That’s how childhood should be.”

The girl scoffs, “There are no televisions in the compound.”

“Why not?”

“It is a spiritual space. The vibrations would interfere with Getou-sama’s work.” Satoru barks out a laugh, and she falls silent, shooting him a glare from under her bangs. “Do not be so loud. These hallways are sacred.” Sacred, Satoru muses, staring once again at a curse treading the halls. That’s one word for it. He shrugs, then mimes zipping his lips shut. Hasaba scoffs. They continue walking.

It’s possible TVs didn’t fit Suguru’s new aesthetic. However, the cold hallways and cheap clothing point towards something more sobering. Where would Suguru get money after defecting? Could anyone in this cult be rich enough to support him? Maybe he has enough for food, water, and some heating, but does he have the funds for toys? For games, and electricity, and all the Kant and Socrates he wants?

No, Satoru decides, looking once again at the fraying threads on Hasaba’s kimono. Not yet.

Hasaba stops before another set of doors. “You’re lucky,” she tells him, bowing her head, “Evening prayer has begun.” She pushes the doors open, a light and heat flooding their spot in the hallway.

Beyond, the wide room is decked in posters, each inscribed with a moral phrase. ‘Do no harm’ lives next to the altogether more suspicious ‘There is virtue in suffering’ and ‘There is salvation in pain.’ Satoru squints at them as Hasaba leads him to an empty spot on the tatami, where he joins the kneeling followers. Each follower has a curse latched on to them. He tilts his head. Is Suguru a masochist now?

An old man drones in the background, reading from a thin pamphlet. “As Tengen ascends into the next life, we will be reborn chosen—” Stiff and straight-backed, he, too, kneels, on a thin stage with a backdoor.

Satoru tries to imagine Suguru savoring the spice-bright jolt of someone bruising his cheek, touching green and purple marks after missions and pressing until stars shine bright under his eyes. The battle-born high he chases every day. Suguru never shared that addiction. He remembers Suguru’s long hours training, pressing aches into his muscles and sweating out weaknesses. His purging throughout the night, choked sounds echoing through Jujutsu High’s halls. His gentle hands and quiet longing. Suguru, a masochist? It’s inconceivable.

“And as a conveyor of Tengen’s will, present and enlightened from witnessing the death of the Star Plasma Vessel, Getou-sama will now speak.”

Suguru emerges. He glances at the crowd, but he does not see them. Instead, he stares up at the ceiling. Curses hang from the rafters, each a chorus of broken phrases. He nods, as if listening intently. He begins, “We come here today unsettled, downtrodden by our lives—by our mundane struggles, the tyranny of our oppressors. Tainted, in essence, by the lives we live. Do you feel tense? Do you feel your muscles aching, your very being rejecting you?”

“Yes!” The crowd choruses, deafening. The curses chitter, creeping down ever lower.

“We must cleanse ourselves!” He announces, voice booming. “You, the chosen few, have already taken the first steps—treading through snow and rain up our path.” There was, Satoru remembers, no parking lot. “But we must sacrifice more! Through suffering, we are free!”

“First, one must sacrifice material possessions—my aides, Mimiko and Nanako, will assist you.”

Hasaba-chan and another girl dance out from behind the stage, kimonos twirling, carrying wide baskets. The followers pile them high with cash. Satoru chuckles, contributing his own sum. Sacred indeed.

“To be rich in money is to be poor in spirit,” Suguru claims, as the two gather funds. “In excess, man becomes fixated upon himself—forgets humility, and falls to sin.

“Now, kneel before me, and bring me your worries.” Suguru sneers. Satoru snickers.

A woman rises, and walks to the stage. She stumbles under the weight of the curse attached to her shoulders—a set of interlocking mouths, each writhing and calling out mother, mother. A grade 3, at most.

She falls to her knees, crying out to Suguru, “Getou-sama!” And clutching her hands to her chest, hunched with the weight of the mouths, still whispering in her ears, mother, mother. “It hurts, it hurts to breathe, I can’t live like this, please, help me!”

Suguru approaches her, pressing his hands to her cheeks. “What is wrong, my child?”

“How could she—how could she just leave me like that? As if I was not her child, as if she did not ruin me?” The woman whimpers, yanking at her hair, “I can’t go to work, I can’t breathe, I can’t function, why—why is this happening to me?”

Factually, it’s the curse’s fault. Curses feed on the mind, making benign or minor mental difficulties into unbearable obstacles. They do not cause mental illness, but they fuel it, and they feed on it. Feedback loops. It’s lesson one at Jujutsu High.

Suguru brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. He presses his smiling lips to her forehead, close, intimate.

“Because it must,” He confesses, “if you are to have purpose. You deserve this. Through this pain, you will become pure.”

He breaks her heart in front of them all, and the crowd applauds, equally ravenous. Their eyes, beady and black in the dim, orange light glint like vultures. She collapses back into her seat, curse still hanging off her, louder now, chanting mother, mother, mother! It bloats, a single arm clawing out of one of the red, pulsing mouths, with a still heart in its hand. The mouths cackle, shoving that unbeating heart down her throat as the curse grows and grows. To the followers, she instead chokes on sobs.

Satoru vividly remembers dragging Suguru to a wine tasting. He has no fondness for alcohol, but he’d bring Suguru anywhere. They were kids back then, so they had no appreciation for anything—they gulped down glasses without even a cursory swirl. Suguru now, though, looks experienced—looks like he’s tasting the first wine of many, and savoring it. That subtle, sated enjoyment bleeds into his smugness, into the way he leans back, lax. His Suguru could never be a masochist. This Suguru is a sadist, through and through.

Satoru is no longer smiling. He wonders if he should feel something. Guilt, regret, horror? He doesn’t feel shit, since the scene renders him hollow.

Another follower wails at the stage. The sermon continues.

Suguru does not always deny them. Sometimes he inspects their curses, cutting them away as if pruning an overgrown fruit tree. Those devotees sag under the weight of their relief, yet when they face their peers they put their heads down, heavy with shame. Their fellow followers look upon them with distain, quiet. “Weak,” one whispers. No one disagrees.

When Suguru has inspected most of his followers, Hasaba lays a hand on his shoulder. She pulls him to his feet, and says, “It is time to plead.” She grimaces, looking upon the curse-ridden masses. He hears her sneer under her breath, “Monkeys.”

Satoru walks arm-in-arm with Hasaba towards the line, and towards Suguru. He does not notice them as they wait, nor when they take tentative steps forward as the followers inch along. Suguru does not even notice him when he is first in line, still taken with prodding a dragonfly curse sprouting out of a man’s head. Satoru wants to whine, didn’t you promise you’d take care of me? He pouts, but stays quiet when Hasaba nudges him.

Finally, the big moment arrives. Suguru turns from his pet-project to Satoru. His eyes widen, mouth slackening. Rapidly, his face revolves through grief and regret. The other girl rushes to his side, glaring at Satoru, before Suguru waves her off. “What do you need?” he recites, seemingly on autopilot, horror still seared on his face.

Satoru laughs. His Suguru, always overthinking. Hasaba hisses, “Stop! Kneel before Getou-sama!” He smiles at Suguru, taking in his face. There he is, he thinks. There’s my idiot.

He kneels. “Getou-sama,” he murmurs, still half a wheeze. Suguru lets out a strangled yelp, hands jerking as if to stop him.

“He’s blind,” says Hasaba. A pinched look comes over him, half-way between hilarity and despair.

“Blind?”

“Since I was a child!” Satoru chirps, looking up. “Really, doctors had no clue what to do with me—”

Without thinking, Suguru retorts, “No.” He stops, looking again towards the ceiling, this time seeming to genuinely ask the heavens, ‘Why?’ “You’re not blind.”

Satoru needles, “Aren’t I? Who are you to arbit blind and not blind? Is this,” he gasps, “ableism?” Suguru groans.

Hasaba says, “He is. Why else would he wear those bandages? If he could see, then he cannot now.” Her head tilts, adorably confused.

Suguru sighs, long and hard. “Nanako, Mimiko, why don’t we take this conversation to the… private rooms. Everyone else is dismissed. This is a more serious case, with…” he glares at Satoru, “glaring spiritual impurities.”

The congregation is still, unsure. Suguru has to repeat, “Please, everyone, leave,” before they begin to filter out, quietly conversing among themselves, wondering about this strange white-haired man.

In the meantime, Suguru herds Satoru by his collar into the backroom behind the stage—a storage room, filled with scrolls and religious texts. Most are worn and yellow, remnants of the star religious organization before their downfall, and before Riko. Hasaba and the other girl—Nanako and Mimiko—follow.

Satoru whines, “What do you mean ‘glaring spiritual impurities?’ What does that mean, Suguru?”

Nanako kicks him. “If you want help, stop whining! And do not call Getou-sama by his first name!”

Satoru pouts, “See this? This is what slander does, Suguru! Come on, help me out here—”

Mimiko interjects, “Do not address—”

“Enough!” Suguru says, one hand covering his eyes, head thrown back. “If anyone’s slandering, it’s you.”

“And how would that work, huh? Me, slandering myself? Who’d sue, you?” Satoru taunts.

“If I could, I would.” Suguru mumbles, still fighting off a headache. “What are you doing here, Satoru?”

“Oh, so ungrateful when your…” he stumbles, “person wants to visit,” Good save! “the horror!” Satoru pouts, “You didn’t even notice me come in. The sheer audacity!—it galls me.”

“Galls you enough to leave?” Suguru says, hopeful.

“No!” Satoru chirps.

“Nanako, Mimiko, meet… Satoru.” Suguru pauses, looking desperate. He fumbles around for some word to describe them. Nothing occurs to him. “… Satoru, Nanako and Mimiko.”

“So,” Satoru leers, pulling down his bandages. He leans forward, shamelessly leaving only inches between Suguru’s lips and his. He licks his lips. There it is, he thinks, as he watches Suguru’s pupils blow wide open. “Can you help me see again?”

Suguru snaps out of his arousal, nearly head-butting Satoru. “No! No I cannot help you with your blindness, because you can see!”

Nanako chimes in, “Getou-sama, why are you so sure he’s not blind? I, myself, lead him to the congregation. He did not use his eyes.”

“Oh he did,” Suguru grumbles, “All six of them.”

“Ah? Six? Nanako-chan, Mimiko-chan, look here—” He bends down, letting his eyes unfocus, “don’t you only see two eyes?”

Suguru says, “And how did you know where they were in the room, then?”

“Sounds, of course,” Satoru replies blithely. “Please answer, Nanako-chan and Mimiko-chan.”

Hesitantly, Mimiko says, “I only see two. Getou-sama, where are the other four?”

Nanako says, “Maybe Getou-sama, holy as he is, is getting old? Perhaps his eyes are not what they used to be.”

“See?” Satoru says, smirking at Suguru. “We can be blind old men together, Suguru.”

“Getou-sama,” the twins simultaneously correct.

“No need—” Suguru says, but Satoru interrupts.

“Oh, every need, Getou-sama,” He purrs, draping an arm over Suguru’s shoulders. “Would you like that? If I called you…” He whispers directly into Suguru’s ear, “Getou-sama?”

“What the fuck,” says Mimiko.

Suguru groans again. His blush, lightly dusted across his cheeks and ears, does not escape Satoru’s notice. “Why? Why are you like this?” Notably, he does not push Satoru away.

Satoru grins, squeezing his body against Suguru’s. “Well, really it’s your fault.”

Suguru glares at him. “How? How, pray tell, could this possibly be my fault?”

“You did nearly drown me.”

Suguru sputters again. “No—I—” Finally, with a wheeze and a strangled gasp, he breaks into helpless peals of laughter. “You motherfucking liar—”

Satoru slaps a hand over his mouth, and cackles.

Chapter Text

“Please, Nanako, Mimiko, leave us.” Suguru shuffles them out the door. Neither of them protest.

Suguru clicks the door shut, before turning back to Satoru. “Everyone's gone now, so answer honestly, Satoru.”

“Answer what?”

“Why are you here, Satoru?”

Satoru smiles. “To woo you.”

“What?”

Satoru goes on, smug: “You see, I noticed something the last time we met. You, Getou Suguru, want to fuck me.”

Suguru’s eyes widen, and his cheeks go red. “W—the fuck?”

“Exactly! You! Want! To! Fuck! Me!” Satoru steps forward, leaning down so he can look up at Suguru through white lashes. “I didn’t know you were such a pervert, Suguru-chan~”

Suguru sputters, “How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

“Does it matter?” Satoru grins, “I hit the nail on the head, didn’t I? No need to answer. I know, I know, genius, right?”

“In what universe—” Satoru pushes a finger to Suguru’s lips, shushing him. Suguru glares at him, still blushing.

“So I came up with a plan.” Satoru licks his lips, watching Suguru’s eyes follow his tongue. Once, twice, transfixed. “I’ll give you what you want, if you come back with me.”

Something changes. Suguru’s eyes darken, frown weighing down his lips. He straightens. “And that’s it? A trade—your body for my return?”

Something’s wrong, and not going to plan. Satoru nods anyway, still grinning.

Suguru scoffs.

Satoru’s grin wavers. “What?”

He glares. “That’s not enough. Not even close.”

“Oh come on, who wouldn’t want this?” Satoru asks, stepping back. His fingers twist behind his back, suddenly nervous.

“You think you can just barge into my life and bribe me? Rent yourself out to me for a few hours, and then I’ll be begging at your feet?” Suguru sneers. “Dream on.”

“Suguru,” Satoru says, half-pleading, “You hate it here. I saw it myself. Why the hell would you stay, not even touching my generous offer?”

Suddenly, Suguru clasps his hand on Satoru’s shoulder, pulling him close and twisting him around. His back slams against the wall. Suguru’s lips brush his ear; Satoru shivers, eyes widening. Voice dripping distain, Suguru says, “You’ve always been stupid, but this? Tops everything else.

“What else did you see, Satoru?” Cloying intimacy. Satoru’s heart pounds in his ears alongside Suguru’s voice. “The first woman? I’ve been feeding her curse for months. It gives me endless satisfaction to see that monkey writhe. Every time she chokes, I feel like laughing—”

“Wait, stop—” Suguru slams his hand over Satoru’s mouth, a manic gleam in his eyes.

“I killed three of my ‘followers’ in front of the rest, and told them it was divine retribution for their incompetence—for their weakness. Do you know how much their curses grew that day?” Suguru bars his teeth. “I could taste their cursed energy in the walls for months.

“I think I know how you feel, now. Like god. Like you could crush each of these ants beneath your toes and they’d thank you for it.” A strand of hair falls into his face, sweat pooling on his brow. “But I’m not you, Satoru. I’m no saint.”

Suguru’s hand grip his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises, another pressing at his chest until he can barely breathe. His muscles coil and tense, and his breaths grow short and quick.

“If you weren’t here, I’d kill them all. If I didn’t know you’d come running the second I killed a city off, Tokyo would be a fucking crater.”

Suguru snaps, loud enough that Satoru flinches—

“So if I hate it here? I deserve it.”

Silence. They stand there, intertwined, for what feels like hours. Each panting, staring into each other’s eyes. Suguru looks away first, hand suddenly dropping from Satoru’s face.

Satoru finally says, voice low, “You really believe that?”

“What’s there to believe? It’s fact.”

“I’ve never cared about any of that.”

“You should,” Suguru chides, then he sighs. “and you shouldn’t have sex with me.”

“Oh ‘deserve,’ ‘should,’ ‘shouldn’t’—who the hell are you to decide?” Satoru squints at him, “I can’t believe you actually put any stock in the shit you tell your followers.”

Suguru glares at him, “I don’t.”

“Oh yeah? You need to reach some—some quota of pain to be good, or else you’re the scum of the earth, sound familiar? Except for you the quota’s infinite.”

“It’s different.”

“It’s not, ‘cause it’s all half-assed bullshit—” The rest devolves into scattered mumbles, tucked into the crook between Suguru’s jaw and shoulder, where Satoru shoved his face.

“Get—off, you’re so fucking cold—”

Satoru clings on tighter. “I don’t care,” he says, still clutching Suguru. He’s so warm. “This is the punishment you actually deserve, you bitch—”

Suguru jostles him, but he refuses to get off. They don’t fit together like they used to—Satoru’s too tall now, and his limbs too bony, digging into Suguru’s newfound softness—but he doesn’t care. Lipgloss smears on Suguru’s shoulder. “If you don’t stop moving, I’ll bite you—” Satoru threatens.

“You wouldn’t dare—”

Satoru dares. He bites the crook of Suguru’s neck, hard. Suguru screeches, shoving Satoru away, but he resists, biting down harder. “Get off, what are you, a vampire?” They push and pull each other, eventually tumbling to the ground, Satoru releasing his bite and Suguru sprawling across the carpet.

The two of them stare at the ceiling for a moment, silent.

Satoru at last says, “I’m not giving up.”

“You should. Hell, you should kill me right now.”

“Never,” Satoru vows, “And one of these days you’ll give in.”

“To what, fucking you?”

Satoru turns, staring into Suguru’s eyes. Determined, he says, “Yep.” He pops the p, in the way he knows Suguru hates.

Suguru sighs, closing his eyes. “Best of luck, then,” he mocks.

By the time he gets up, Satoru is gone.

That night, Suguru dreams of Satoru.

His infinite eyes, teary with pleasure. Bitten lips that shine like tanghulu. From his place, kneeling in his auditorium, he watches Satoru whine onstage, illuminated by one vivid white bolt of light. Standing, looking upwards, beyond.

He cannot touch. Instead, his hands shake on his kneeling thighs. To look feels sacrilegious, get he cannot look away. In the dark, his hand slowly moves towards the weight between his legs. He stops. That, too, is sacrilege—one he can barely keep himself from.

Satoru’s long, pale fingers twitch towards his thighs, then inwards, disappearing from the light. Suguru can only see a shining strip of Satoru, from his hips to his knees, shivering. A glimpse of his shoulders, crescents under his cheeks—his hair, caressed only by the light. Satoru whines again, blinking, before one tear falls—down his nose, down his cheeks, until it traces a vivid path down his throat.

His visage punches the air out of Suguru’s lungs, diaphragm aching and shriveled. Satoru turns to him, pleading, but he does not move. “Look away,” he whispers, “Do not look upon this wretched thing.”

Satoru persists, and his gaze burns. Exposing skin and muscle and bone beneath those divine eyes. Even in the dark, he stares at Suguru’s face, at his scrunched brows and twisted mouth, before glancing down at his twitching hands, frozen halfway between his legs.

Satoru smirks, laughing high and cruel. “I told you,” he says, “you’ll give in eventually.”

Suguru wakes up achingly hard. The compounds cold seeps even into his room, breeching his blankets, but it is not enough to quiet the raging heat in his cheeks, down his neck, deep in his gut and between his legs.

Satoru should not have offered himself, Suguru thinks. His body is not something to be sold. He’s untouchable, and to offer to—to taint himself on a whim like that, was unconscionable. Suguru lied; it was too high an offer for Suguru, insultingly so.

Unless something has changed in these intervening years. Unless Satoru, tired of empty halls and quiet nights, found himself in someone else’s bed. Did some peon touch him? Draw those whines and tears from him, fuck him until he could barely speak? Indignant, undeserved rage wells in Suguru.

To offer himself so easily, he must have done so before. To who? It tastes like betrayal, even though it shouldn’t. Suguru’s fucked and been fucked in these intervening years—another skill to learn, another way to woo monkeys to his cause. It’s disgusting. Yet another reason he should never touch Satoru. Still, something in him protests, neither should anyone else.

When he jerks off, it is painful and unsatisfying. A scream bars itself in his teeth. This, he thinks, is untenable.

Satoru flops into his bed back home. It wasn’t a bad first attempt, he supposes. For a first attempt at seduction, ever, it was downright good.

However, even hours afterwards, past dinner and a cold shower and sending Megumi and Tsumiki to bed, he feels Suguru’s hand on his lips. Feels the brush of lips against his ear. It makes him twitchy, shivering often, unused to touch. Prods the bruise against his shoulder, already blackened, and refuses to heal it. Giddy.

It draws attention to that last step. Suguru will give in—and then what? Satoru has watched porn, sure, but no one’s ever touched him like that. The anticipation, pinned under Suguru, even when he was spitting mad and far from sex, nearly choked him. The taste of his blood, the feeling of his flesh between his teeth, oh he’s glad Suguru couldn’t see the blood drain from his brain to his dick, leaving him lightheaded. Will sex actually kill him?

It would be a hilarious end for the strongest sorcerer. Worthy of his many battles, fucked to death by Getou Suguru. “He was just too big,” he giggles to himself. Of course, he’s seen Suguru’s dick. They’ve changed in the same room and taken baths together in onsens, of course he’s seen it. With his photographic memory, it’s easy to remember its exact shape, the curve of it—lucky, that he glimpsed it when it was hard. Still, was he large, average, small? He couldn’t say. He doesn’t exactly have a wide sample size, and porn actors suffer from selection bias.

Where to start? Would he take Suguru in hand—ah, it’s already too much! He slaps a hand to his burning cheeks. Well, he’ll just have to hope Suguru knows what he’s doing, even if the thought of him fucking someone else makes him grit his teeth.

Would he be good at it? His Suguru was a consummate expert at nearly everything he tried, and Satoru learns exponentially. Clearly, they’d get the hang of it. Somehow. If not, they can always research. He laughs again, imagining them curled up in bed, each referencing their phones with each thrust—“Too hard? Ah, according to this study, you should go about 15 newtons harder—” Oh, would he have to ask Shoko? He laughs even harder. She’d stab him, he’d be dead before he ever got near Suguru’s dick!

The one thing that comforts him beyond all else, is that Suguru never denied it. He does want to fuck Satoru. In the end, that want’s all that really matters.

In the meantime, he opens a notes page on his phone, and starts brainstorming. Suguru’s clearly a kinky bastard—but how to figure out which ones will send him reeling? Collar, that was a good idea. Revealing clothing, even if it’s cold (not that it would matter to his infinity). Lipgloss worked like a charm.

Perhaps, with the power of teleportation, he can kidnap Suguru for a date. Lurk around his compound, waiting for him to be alone—ah, but his daughters, wouldn’t they worry? He’d have to leave a note. Where would they go? He researches date spots. Ice skating? Fancy dinner? Jazz club, art museum? There are too many! He wants to go on all of them with Suguru.

Well, he thinks, why not? It’s not like he can’t just… take Suguru, whenever he wants. Who’d stop him?

He cackles to himself, clutching his phone to his chest as he fantasizes. Dating Suguru—isn’t that a beautiful dream? I’ll do it, he thinks. If it’s the last thing I do before I die, I will.

Oh! He scrolls back to his phone. Crossdressing. That might pique Suguru’s interest—a pretty skirt for better access, lipgloss and painted nails—he can’t wait.

Chapter Text

Then, as his time away from Suguru stretches onwards, the giddiness fades. His feet kick slower against the mattress, eventually stilling. His manic smile fades into a slim frown. Fatigue replaces elation, alongside anxiety.

That’s not enough. Not even close.

Satoru assumed “more” meant dates, because he wants to go places with Suguru. He wants to watch Suguru shuffle around in an ice-skating rink like a baby deer, and catch him if he falls, or have dinner with him somewhere fancy and private. He stares down at his open notes page.

He realizes all at once: that was an assumption. One made without proof.

Satoru bites his lips. Usually he is beyond what is necessary, overflowing. Too much, if anything. God-like. Suddenly, he feels small. Childish.

He doesn’t know anything about having relationships, aside from rom-coms and novels. He barely knows anything about having friends. Even the basic comradely humans feel towards one another never took root in him, leaving only uncertainty.

What could he possibly know about what Suguru wants?

He steels himself. It doesn’t matter. Suguru will take his affection and like it. Or else. He saves links to the ice skating rink and to a Michelin starred restaurant. Really, he doesn’t have a choice.

His phone buzzes in his pocket; his brain blanks. Could he just… not pick up? He stares at it, ringing. A minute goes by, then longer, stretched on and on by the six eyes. Somewhere between five minutes and five hours, he answers.

“Gojo.” A voice crackles through the phone. The newest faculty at Jujutsu Technical. What’s his name again? Kusa—kusachibi?

“Yeah?”

“I’m calling for Principle Yaga.”

He hums. “I figured.”

“There’s been an accident. Three second-year students died, and the Principle is heavily injured; Shoko’s treating him right now.” He pauses. Then, he bites out, “All losses on a mission you were assigned, but they had to cover for.”

Satoru tilts his head. “Me? Ah, but I already did two missions today. I had another one?” He ought to feel something, right? Not this—sick apathy. He should feel negligent—flirting with a genocidal maniac while the higher ups send kids to the slaughter in his place. Messing around while everyone else dies. He doesn’t.

“You’re Gojo Satoru. Two missions is nothing,” Kusa-whatever hisses.

“I mean, I have my own life—”

“How can you be so nonchalant? Don’t you care?” The teacher asks. Satoru picks apart his tone—anger, of course, grief, alongside despair. “This was your responsibility. Don’t you feel even a little guilt?”

Satoru clicks his tongue. He’s really too tired for all this. “Nah.”

The man on the other side is silent. Then, his cursed energy spikes, causing the phone to emit a high-pitched shriek, buzzing with interference. Satoru winces. Wrong answer. “Do you even know their names? You gave a demonstration for them two weeks ago, don’t you remember their faces?”

The six eyes give their user a beyond-photographic memory—if they pay attention, in the first place. He didn’t—he’s not their teacher, he’s a sorcerer, and he has better things to do. Should he regret that? “No. I don’t,” He says, blank.

Kusa-something heaves, near-hysterical. “Of course, what did I expect? We all look must like ants to you! The great, godly Gojo Satoru! Why would he give a shit about anything important? A few kids die on his watch? Oh fucking well!”

He interrupts the still-ranting teacher on the other side of the phone, “What’s the grade on the thing that took them out?”

“Special.”

“Ah, well there’s your problem. Who’d send three kids to kill a special grade?” He winces again. Wrong voice—too high, too grating. The one that teases, not the serious one. What’s his serious voice again? He can’t remember how to shape it. He can barely feel his throat.

Kusa-whatever snaps, “What else were we supposed to do? You know how the higher ups are! We told them you were gone, and they said no delays!”

“Then blame them! I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You didn’t do anything at all!” Kusa keeps screaming. The higher ups sent students, knowing they weren’t ready. Knowing they’d die. He doesn’t want to think—

But it’s so, so obvious. They meant to punish him. Too many disappearances, too many missed or delayed missions. They didn’t even lie about the grade. There’s no reason they couldn’t delay the mission for a day, or hell, even a week would have been fine. No reason at all—completely and utterly pointless.

They yank on his chain, and when he doesn’t heel, they kill sorcerer kids and blame it on him. Add to the pile of people who hate him.

Should he feel something? Should he feel—

He sighs. “Just tell me where to go, and I’ll exorcise it.”

“It’s in your email,” Kusa sneers, then hisses under his breath, “You fucking bastard.” Kusa hangs up. Satoru drops the phone, holding his head in his hands.

I think I know how you feel, now. Like god. Like you could crush each of these ants beneath your toes and they’d thank you for it. But I’m not you, Satoru. I’m no saint.

He doesn’t feel like a god, nor a saint. The Jujutsu world’s carved out every piece they can of him, grasping at salvation. Gods do not tolerate disrespect, yet he endures endless slights. Like a human, he hopes. He doesn’t feel human, either.

He exorcises the curse. Damningly, it’s easy.

Five minutes later, his phone rings again.

“Gojo.”

“Yaga,” he says, “Glad to hear you’re well.” The worlds feel stilted in his mouth. He keeps his lips cocked in a grin.

“I would be more well if—well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry about Kusakube. That was out of line.”

“Really?” He drawls, “I doubt that. You think that it’s my fault, too, don’t you? If only Gojo Satoru was there, they’d have survived.” He’s still grinning. Why?

Yaga doesn’t answer.

“Ah, no worries. I understand. Is Shoko alright?”

“There’s a mission brief in your email.” Yaga hangs up.

Satoru laughs. He doesn’t know why.

After he exorcises the next curse, his phone rings again. A window answers—three grade ones. Then another. And the next.

Ring, ring, it keeps echoing in his ears. He hates that sound. One after another. The sun comes up, and he’s still fighting. Teleporting—since he doesn’t deserve the luxury of a plane or car ride.

By the third day, he nearly throws his phone in a river, into a waiting curses mouth. His hands are shaking. He hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten, hasn’t stopped for more than five minutes—but he can go for longer. He’s the strongest. He’s the only one who can.

On the fifth day, he wonders where the higher ups even dig these curses up. Surely there are not so many? Surely they’ll run out someday? He’s not the only jujutsu sorcerer in the world. There are so many bags of flesh to throw at these monsters.

They throw him at first grades, then second. It’s demeaning—insulting. He wants to go home. Why does he follow them? Why does he let them grind his face into the dirt, let them take their piece of him?

Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru, or Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?

Sweat pools in his clothes. He reeks—oil on his face, in his hair. It’s disgusting. He hates it. He hates everything. He wonders how many showers it will take to get the scent of rot out of his armpits, then shivers. Disgusting.

On the sixth day, he realizes his make up has worn off. Would Suguru want him like this? Chapped lips and dry hands, twitching from too long powered only on cursed energy. A wild gleam in his eyes—less than human, more than god.

“Won’t he collar me?” He coos to himself, surrounded by cursed corpses in the minutes between calls. He presses a hand to his throat, trying to remember how to breathe. “He would be so deserving—he would treat me so much better than—” The phone rings. The higher ups yank his chain.

On the seventh day, he realizes Megumi and Tsumiki are alone. “Shit, shit—fuck,” he mumbles, slurring as he fumbles his phone open. A curse slaps up against infinity—too close, too close, just centimeters away—and he kicks it into oblivion.

He calls Shoko, but she doesn’t answer. Does she hate him too, for sending students to her autopsy tables? Would she despise him, if she knew he was practically begging Suguru to fuck him while her students bled out?

He calls Nanami, but he doesn’t answer. He rarely does.

Finally, he texts Megumi and Tsumiki. He can’t bare to call them, not when they could hear how his voice rasps and stutters. Going to be gone for a while, not sure how long. Sorry for not warning you. Be safe—spend as much as you want. He tries not to think about Toji, and how he disappeared forever without a word—tries not to think about him bleeding out before Satoru’s manic grin. Did Megumi and Tsumiki wonder whether or not he abandoned them?

(Would he, if Suguru offered to whisk him away?)

He starts forgetting what being inside his body feels like. Is he a man, or an amorphous cloud of power? Does he have two eyes or six or ten or a thousand? He sees so much—too much—

He drops infinity. A curse slices off three of his fingers. He gasps—an unfamiliar burn, when’s the last time he felt pain at all? But it’s worth it to feel his arms, to remember that he has a body at all. Every curse in that room is dead within seconds. As he waits for the next phone call, he watches the red circles jutting from his knuckles writhe into pale knobs, before growing pale and long. He laughs. It’s like nothing ever happened.

He keeps laughing, even as the phone rings. Like nothing at all.

On the fifteenth day, his phone stops ringing. By then, he’s lost track. When he finally teleports back to his apartment, he lands in the bathroom. In the mirror—don’t look. He wants to scream. Humiliating. So, so humiliating. Not even enough time for a shower, and look at him. Disgusting. Like a goddamn worm.

When his bandages come off, they’ve molded to his face. He can see the indent of his nose in them, even as he throws them in the trash. In the shower, he turns the water temperature up so high it stings. He washes his hair, then again, until it’s dry itchy. Scrubs the smell out of his armpits, waiting to feel like less of an animal. When he steps out of the shower, he glances in the mirror. Vivid purple stains his neck—ah, did he do that? He touches the bruise.

It hurts. He drives his fingers in deeper. Hurts, hurts—he’s alive. Right? When his hand drops, crescents of blood seal up over his Adam’s apple. The bruise stays. The one on his shoulder’s already faded—a loss he isn’t sure he’ll recover from.

He wants to see Suguru. He laughs again. He’s learned nothing—he wants to see Suguru. How long does he have until the higher ups find another curse? Hours—less than a day. When’s he going to get another chance? How long can they drag this reprimand out?

“Fuck it,” he mutters, then teleports into his room.

He puts on a skirt, and waits to feel warm, fuzzy, embarrassed. No emotion arrives. He coats his neck in concealer, and feels nothing at all. Lipgloss. Blush. His eyes shine in the mirror, and he can’t bare to look at them. Instead, he winds more bandages around them—one layer, two, until their faint glow fades away.

He bribes the Michelin starred restaurant with a smile, and tries to remember what anticipation feels like.

He’s a shell. A hollowed out husk of a person. This is a lie—the makeup, the skirt, the collared shirt he threw on top. To flirt with Suguru now is to deceive him into thinking he’s touching a human. If Suguru fucks him like this, will Satoru collapse like paper around him? Will he find, instead of flesh inside him, nothing but void?

Satoru is not a saint or a god. Satoru is a selfish creature, grasping at Suguru with both hands—greed swallows him whole, and he does not resist. He teleports to Suguru’s compound. When his paper-thin skin melts away, will Suguru hate him too? Better to have had for a few seconds, then. Better to have savored it while it lasts.

He knocks, watching three little blobs of cursed energy flicker inside. One parts from the rest, coming to greet him.

“Oh, it’s the blind man—or, woman?” Nanako says, as she opens the door.

“Man, still. Not happy to see me?” It’s quiet here. Soothing—just the soft sounds of falling snow.

She tilts her head. “Mm. Getou-sama does not talk about you. Come in.”

She wraps her arm around his. They walk. This time, he does not babble.

Finally, she stops in front of one plain door. “Who are you, blind man?”

“Nobody, really,” he answers. “Just a friend stopping by.”

Nanako puffs out her cheeks, then smooths out her face. Childish for a second, but no longer. “Do you really have six eyes?”

“Ah, you saw my eyes your self, Nanako-chan. Just two.”

“But Getou-sama said you have six.”

“Before he stopped talking about me?”

She nods. “And—Are—are you a monkey?”

“Ah, Nanako-chan, you shouldn’t call people monkeys.”

Insistent, she asks again, “But are you?”

He sighs, “No, Nanako-chan. Like I said,” he chuckles, “I’m nobody at all.”

She scuffs her foot against the ground, tugging on his sleeve. “That’s not an answer, blind man. Impolite.”

“I’m not polite, on principle. Leaves people too settled.” He smiles at her. “Always keep ‘em guessing.”

She huffs, then opens the door. “Getou-sama will see you now.”

Before they enter, he says, “Ah, not so fast. Please tell your sister that I’ll be taking Suguru—” She almost corrects him, but shuts her mouth immediately, thinking better of it. “For a few hours. You’ll be okay alone, right?” Would he stop, if she said no? He doesn’t know.

“… Yes,” she answers. “He doesn’t go outside, though.”

“Hah? Of course he does. I’ve seen him.” Or his residuals.

“Not recently,” Nanako amends. “He likes staying here. It’s safe.”

Such an observant child, Satoru muses. “He’ll be safe with me, either way.” Then, he walks in the still-open door. Nanako follows.

Chapter Text

Suguru hums as he twirls his pen. Today is a good day. He’s dressed in old clothes—a collared shirt, slacks, pinned his hair to the nape of his neck. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that he’s back in his dorm, singing along with the radio as he fills out post-mission forms. Idyllic sunlit rooms, and Satoru, singing next door through their thin walls.

Sequestered in his cult compound, Suguru hears nothing—and yet, his mind deceives him with Satoru’s laughter. It taunts him with his absence every day. His heart aches, even as he smiles. It’s a good day. He has to remember that.

The door creaks open. “Nanako?” He asks, tucking his pen and papers away underneath his desk. He drops his pen, but never hears it click against the wooden drawer.

Instead, a weight sprawls against his back, and frigid air splashes against his cheeks. Arms drapes across his throat. He squints up at a sliver of azure sky, contained only by two steep alleyway walls.

Joy and resignation intertwine in his chest. “You could have called.”

He waits for a quip. “Satoru?”

“Mmmm.” Lips mumble into his hair. “We’re going on a date.”

“Really?” He asks, half-amused, half-worried. He tries to turn, but Satoru refuses to move his arms. “Then I need to get up.”

“Later,” Satoru says, still clinging.

“At least come where I can see you.” This is not sex, he argues to himself. It’s just looking—what harm could looking do? Suguru wonders if he should make psp sounds, as if coaxing a cat. Then he thinks of Satoru’s ramble about collars, and abruptly stops thinking.

“Why?”

Just words, he thinks, I’m allowed words. So I can compare your eyes to the sky. He does not say that. That’s too cheesy. Suguru purses his lips. He’s stronger than that. “Because I want to, that’s why. Or else.”

Suguru winces. Else what, Su-gu-ru? He anticipates Satoru’s teasing, and realizes he left himself wide open. What could you do to the strongest?

Instead, Satoru’s arms loosen. Suguru stiffens. He watches flats step into his periphery, then ankle-high white socks, then long, smooth, pale legs. His eyes widen. Moments before disaster, he thinks, oh shit.

Did he say it was cold? It’s hot, insufferably hot. Calm the fuck down, he chants to himself, it’s just a skirt, why the are you—stop!

His eyes dart to the delicate sleeve cuffs wrapped around Satoru’s wrists, the buttoned-up collar at the hollow of his throat, and feels a shriek crawl out of his throat. The pin-straight pleats on the skirt that land a few inches above his knees—long, unmarred stretches of pale skin—the taper at his waist—it’s one of those sun-kissed moments that sends chills up his spine, too pretty to be real.

Then his eyes skate up to Satoru’s face. Satoru’s teeth, chewing one cherry red side. The tilt of Satoru’s head, down towards the snow, the way his shoulders curl—and his eyes. Where are his eyes? Bandages, so thick he can’t even see them shine. Suguru frowns.

He stands, brushing his hands over his slacks “So,” he starts. Satoru does not respond. “That’s better.” He says. “You look—really good.” He grimaces. Inadequate, fumbling—oh, if only those flings could see him now.

Satoru hums, hands twitching at his sides. Why isn’t he talking, Suguru wonders. Then, with slight panic, he asks himself, how am I supposed to fill the silence? “You should probably return my chair.”

Between one second and the next, the chair is gone. Satoru does not move. Suguru stares at him. “Don’t you usually need a hand motion for that?”

Satoru scoffs. His head flops to the side, and Suguru hears him loud and clear: it’s a date, Suguru, can’t you act like it?

“… Sorry, sorry,” he says, rolling his eyes, “Thank you for the chair.” They stare at each other, Satoru still pouting. He’s just too cute, Suguru thinks. All buttoned up, just for Suguru.

He smiles. “So, Mr. Romantic, where are we going?” Suguru says.

“Wait and see, asshole,” Satoru spits. He’s blushing. So, so adorable.

Suguru laughs, indulgence rich and heavy in his throat, while glee dances in his cheeks. Can’t he splurge, just this once? Allow himself this one moment to hold dear in the cold? Ah, he shouldn’t, but—it’s Satoru.

He strides past Satoru, hooking an arm around his waist and spinning him around, and starts walking. Satoru stumbles, glaring at him through his bandages, chin bumping into Suguru’s cheek as he flails. Suguru smirks, and says, “Ahhh, you know how impatient I can be.”

“You’re the most patient person I know,” Satoru complains, too soft to be a barb.

“You,” Suguru responds, too fond to be mean, “don’t know that many people.” He tightens his hold, and smiles wider as the tension bleeds out of Satoru’s shoulders. Then, they are standing before a black door. “You shouldn’t teleport in public.” He chides, “What if a monkey saw you?”

“Didn’t think you’d care,” Satoru says, and before Suguru can answer, he slams the door open, dragging Suguru in. “Reservation for Gojo,” he calls, herding Suguru into a private room without waiting for an answer.

Inside the room, the restaurant has set a table for two—rose petals scattered over the floor, candle burning with the faint scent of flowers. Suguru squints into the dim mood-lighting.

“I don’t care,” he argues, “but you should.”

“Should, shouldn’t, blah blah blah—” Satoru says, pushing him into one of the chairs. He walks to the chair opposite Suguru’s, and slides it next to his, plopping down onto it and sticking his head into the crook of Suguru’s neck. He sticks his tongue out. Suguru stares at him.

“You,” he says, poking Satoru’s forehead, “are a menace to society.”

“Mmmm, tell that to your mom—”

“Oh, the one I killed?” Suguru flinches the second the words leave his mouth. He ruined it—couldn’t he have just one moment of Satoru to himself?

“No, the other one,” Satoru jeers, kicking him under the table.

“… You’re not going to comment on the … matricide?” Suguru asks.

Satoru cocks his head, as if he’s sliding his glasses down and peering over them. It looks ridiculous without them. “That’s your thing.”

“What, morals?” Suguru asks, caught between desperation and sarcasm.

“Yes!” Satoru huffs, before once again burying his face in Suguru’s neck. “When will you get that I!” He kicks Suguru’s shin,” Don’t!” Kick. “Care!” Kick.

Suguru barks out a laugh. That’s my Satoru, he muses. My little sociopath. “You should.”

Satoru bites him. “Okay,” Suguru admits, letting him, “I should have expected that.”

Satoru starts sucking.

“Ah, Satoru—” his voice wavers, “this goes a little beyond flirting, don’t you think?” Satoru attempts to stab him with his tongue, and Suguru suppresses a moan. Goddammit.

Satoru turns his head, once again tucked into his neck. “Oh, I didn’t take you for a prude, Suguru,” Satoru says. “Coward.”

“Bold words, for a virgin—” It’s an old barb, one that has no place in the present. Satoru, who’s probably fucked more people than he bothers to count—

“Shut the fuck up,” Satoru says, still pressed against him.

That is… not the response of a man who has fucked. “Wait—” It’s a revelation. Some kind of—providence. “You haven’t—?”

“Shut up shut up shut up shut up—”

“Really?” Suguru says, “What, still blush whenever dares mention anal—”

Satoru slaps both hands against Suguru’s mouth, blazing red. Suguru grins so hard under his hand it hurts. So it would be just me, he thinks. Just me—a thought that’s almost enough to break him. Almost, but not quite.

The door clicks open, and Suguru pries Satoru’s hands off.

A waiter serves them food: bowls of artfully plated noodles, with seafood balancing on top. They hesitate, before placing Satoru’s bowl down right next to his, brims touching. Satoru gives them a thumbs up from behind Suguru’s back, even though Suguru can feel the ridges of his knuckles flex. The waiter, stiff and tall, walks out of the room quickly. The door clicks shut behind them.

Next to him, Satoru hums. Suguru waits for him to pick up his chopsticks—Satoru always ate fast, like he was starving—but Satoru just stares down at his plate, fiddling with his collar and cufflinks, then brushing nonexistent wrinkles out of his shirt.

When he speaks, Satoru is quiet: “So, what do you do for work?”

“Huh? Why—you know.”

“Do I?” Satoru says, still oddly blank.

“You—you sat in on my cult. You saw it yourself.”

“No, I’m blind,” he responds, blithe. Satoru cuts off Suguru’s protests: “Besides, it’s a classic date question.”

“Oh, classic, on all the dates you’ve been on—”

“Just answer the question, Suguru,” Satoru says, pouting. His lips press together, and Suguru realizes he’s trying very hard. He doesn’t know what Satoru’s trying to do, exactly, but he’s putting a lot of effort into it. It’s odd. Endearing?

No, he thinks. Just strange—un-Satoru like. Suguru takes a bite of his noodles, noting their punchy, umami flavor. It’s delicious, but what else did he expect? “I run a cult. Next question.”

Satoru huffs, leaning back in his seat. “You’re making this difficult.”

“Okay, fine—I run a cult of monkeys, who I cultivate for curses. I make them suffer, they make me rich and powerful. It’s great. Love doing it. Provides all that I could ever need—” Suguru says, rolling his eyes.

“You’re making this really, really difficult.” Satoru repeats.

Suguru says, as if he did not hear Satoru, “And you, Satoru? What do you do for work?”

“Sorcery. Oh, look,” He says, glancing at his phone (where is he keeping that, Suguru wonders. Does the skirt have pockets?) ”Found a good question. How’d you meet your best friend?”

“What—you can’t just answer with one word, after I gave you a whole paragraph.” Suguru says.

“Can and will. C’mon, answer.”

“At school.”

He gasps, “That’s so unfair, Suguru.”

“Mmm, payback tastes sweet.”

Satoru sighs. Suguru takes another bite, then another. How long has it been since he ate out? How long has it been since he was outside at all, aside from tracking down curses to choke down? He smiles. Too long, but this is nice.

Then, Satoru shoves his bowl towards Suguru.

“What’s this?” Suguru asks.

“Same thing you’re eating. What, don’t want more? It’s delicious, right?” Satoru says.

Suguru looks at the seafood, still balancing, untouched. “You didn’t eat any,” he realizes, confused.

“I ate before coming here. Come on, just eat it, I’m paying—and it’s worth more than your whole compound, and whatever else you get from whoring yourself out to civilians—”

Suguru bites out, “Careful, Satoru—that’s a damn cruel thing to say.”

Satoru pauses. His head tilts. “Is it?”

He, Suguru notes, was supposed to jeer back. “Is it what?”

“Is it really cruel?” Satoru asks, still. “I can’t tell.”

He looks lost, fingers still jumbled in his skirt hem.

Suguru wonders where the Satoru he knew went—who was so fearless, confident, and who didn’t give a damn who got hurt by what he said. Why did that boy go? Who cracked his edges, and let insecurity take root?

Satoru waits, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His fingers keep twitching, and twitching, and Suguru catches signs—one for blue, then red, then purple, unconscious. He’s scared. Who could make his friend scared of anything?

“I guess,” he starts, gentle, “if it was anyone else, I’d say yes—” Satoru flinches—who could make his best friend flinch?—and Suguru hurries onwards, “but if it’s you, I don’t mind. I don’t—I don’t mind at all. It’s just how you are. I don’t care.”

Satoru looks unconvinced. “Actually,” he continues, wrapping hand around Satoru’s, “I like it. I want you to be a little mean to me.”

Satoru’s head jerks up, and Suguru coos at him before he can stop himself, rubbing his thumb in circles over Satoru’s palm. “If you weren’t, then how could I, in good conscience, insult you back? Can’t just—” he chucked, “attack some defenseless waif, you know?”

Satoru stares at him. “Oh.” He says, so soft Suguru can barely hear it. Then, he repeats, “Oh—” with a happy little smile, “I’m always defenseless for you, baby.”

Suguru shoves him, throwing a million-dollar piece of oyster at his chest. It hits infinity, but Satoru bursts into laughter—such a precious sound. Worth more than every last bite here, Suguru thinks. And the building, and the block, and the city—he’d level all of them, just to hear it again. But, one thing could make it better.

“Could you take off the bandages?” Suguru blurts out, before he can regret it.

“Hah?” Satoru says. “I guess I can.” His hand starts trembling again in Suguru’s. His other hovers over the knot at the back of his head. Then, he frowns, cheeks puffing out. “Or—you can. If you want to so much.” His hand drops. Suguru pries his hand off Satoru’s, and begins untying the knot.

The skin underneath the bandages is red, some parts flaky and scabbed. Suguru scolds, “You really need to spend more time with these off. You know you have sensitive skin—”

“If I could, I would,” Satoru interrupts, obstinate. “Just get it over with.” Suguru peels the bandages away, and Satoru twitches. His shoulders drop, but his eyes stay squeezed shut.

Suguru stares at him. His delicate white lashes flutter, waiting. “C’mon,” he says, “let me see you?”

Satoru shakes his head, snatching Suguru’s hands back. “Don’ wanna.”

“Please? Just for me?” It’s not begging, but Suguru’s close. He doesn’t mind.

“Just once. For a few minutes,” Satoru concedes. Suguru waits—the seconds tick by. Then, two azure blue slivers peek out behind Satoru’s eyelids.

“Happy now?” Satoru asks, still squinting.

Suguru is a greedy, greedy man. “Nope—a little wider, dearest?” The pet name slips out, and Satoru’s eyes widen. Suguru grins, staring into his fractal irises and marveling at the galaxy contained in this infinite man. “There you are.” He smiles. “Do you like it when I call you something sweet? Maybe—honey? You certainly would taste like it—”

Satoru blushes, shoving his shoulder, eyelashes still fluttering. “Fuck off. I’ll close my eyes—don’t think I won’t—”

“Nevermind, darling—”

Satoru sticks his tongue out, but keeps his eyes open, and Suguru laughs. I love you, he thinks but does not say. I love you so, so much.

The night goes on, even if Satoru continues shoving food his way. Suguru doesn’t ask. Maybe it’s some kind of… weird protector-provider thing. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care—how could he, when he has Satoru, so cute and irritated, practically in his lap?

Then, Satoru gets a call. They watch it ring.

“Shouldn’t you pick that up?” Suguru says, secretly hoping he won’t.

“Eh,” he says, clicking it off. “Maybe.”

Then, Satoru stares at him, a contemplative look in his eyes.

“Suguru, can I give you a moral question?”

“I thought you didn’t care about that kind of thing.”

“I don’t, I hate thinking about that shit, but you don’t.” Satoru shakes his head. “Just, hear me out?”

“Fine.”

“So imagine—” Satoru snaps his fingers, eyes popping open, “something a little like the trolley problem. You’ve got a few teenagers on the tracks, and you’re on the other side. Only, when the train comes, you’re not sacrificing a person—you’re sacrificing stuff like… a few hours of your free time, a cut of your sleep. Some of the food you eat. Your stupid fucking hobbies, like making cults—”

“Not a hobby, and low blow—”

“Fine, leave out the cult. Still, it's nothing you can’t live without, just—” He pauses, before sighing, “And if you don’t they die. What would you choose?”

Suguru tilts his head. “Objectively? Pretty much every branch of ethics would save them.” He rubs a few more circles into Satoru’s hands, and presses their shoulders together. “Free time can’t compare to a life. Neither can moderate hunger, or sleep deprivation. Nothing’s more valuable.”

“And your personal opinion?”

Suguru smirks, “Well, are they monkeys?”

Satoru frowns. “They’re sorcerers.”

Suguru leans back, draping an arm over Satoru’s shoulders. “Then the decision is even easier—I’m not a monster, you know. Of course I’d save them.”

Satoru huffs out a laugh. “Yeah... I thought so.”

The phone rings again. “I should get that,” he confesses, before standing. He taps Suguru’s shoulder, and suddenly they are back in his room, chairs and all, now cold and dark.

“So soon?” Suguru asks, confused. It was going so well. Where did he misstep?

“I’ve already been here too long.”

“Was it something I said?” Suguru asks.

“No, but would that change your answers?” Satoru smiles. “I have to go.” He stands, making the sign for teleportation—only necessary with very long distances. “This has been great, Suguru. I’m glad I got to have this.”

In that moment, the moonlight traces Satoru—the way he slouches, one hand at his chin, the other’s thumb tucked into his skirt waistband, a grim smirk carved on his face. His eyes are still uncovered; they shine, but in comparison to mere hours ago they look dull. Red still outlines where the bandages were.

“Wait—just—” Suguru stumbles on his words, searching for the right thing—

“It’s okay, Suguru.” Satoru says, “I’ll be back, sometime. Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he jokes. “I’ll be fine. Oh, and before I forget—” He throws a slip of paper at Suguru’s face, “Call me!”

Before Suguru can say another word, he’s gone.

Suguru slumps in his chair, still staring at the empty seat next to him. Suddenly lonely and cold. What a way to end the evening. It really was going so well. He wonders—

It was an obvious quandary. Barely worth any moral arguments at all.

But—

He knows, deep down, that he gave the wrong answer.

Chapter Text

By the end of the month, the higher ups run out of curses.

Satoru teleports to their shrine three minutes late (as late as he can get away with). He ’s changed into a collared shirt and slacks, each two sizes too big; they hang off his bony bird limbs, fluffing up his body, making him look bulky instead of lean. The bandages stay.

Dark grey clouds crowd the sky, rolling through the mountain trees as fog. The shrine doors are damp, their thousand paper seals twisting and curling in the humid air. He steals a breath, burning with incense. He slams the doors open.

The doors snap closed behind him.

“The Six Eyes, Gojo Satoru. I see you have returned,” an elder’s creaky voice croaks.

“As called.” He says, eyes narrowed.

Another, opposite the last, pipes up from behind his screen (his, for Satoru’s blessed eyes see all, and the screens are so feeble as to be an insult), “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Lesson?” Satoru grins, “You have something to teach me?”

The elder snaps, “Insolent. You have yet to grasp respect, Six Eyes.”

Satoru shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets, hiding his shaking hands.

“Still,” an elder says, “He may bark, but he has yet to bite. Obedience is a good look on you, Six Eyes.”

Satoru does not respond.

“You’ve done so well,” another coos, patronizing, cloying, “You gave your precious school a grieving period. Were their missions easy?”

“Of course.” Satoru interjects. “But I know it wasn’t just the Tokyo school.”

Think about it: nonstop missions. How many curses a day is that? Satoru can exorcise a special grade curse in five minutes or less. Transport, with his teleportation and eyes, takes 30 minutes max. Nonstop for a month—where did they get those curses?

There is only one possibility. Every mission in the past month was once assigned to the dead second years, their classmates—then, when the higher ups ran out of missions for students, they dipped into the freelancer’s pool. That drained too, leaving him time to kidnap Suguru.

Conclusion: because of his punishment, no student, from Tokyo or Kyoto, could have faced a curse in a month. Nor have their teachers—nor anyone else. That is what it takes to tire Gojo Satoru: the full weight of the Jujutsu world.

“Our thanks, Six Eyes.” No acknowledgement. No respect. Just a snide thank you that tastes like arrogance.

A brief silence. Smug grins, traded behind the screens.

Then, the furthest screen: “We have other matters to discuss. Despite the recent drop in curses, there has been an overall trend upwards in curse creation—”

So the monologues begin. Seconds, then minutes, then hours tick by, of nothing but higher ups jabbering on to themselves. Their incense and cursed energy mingle, leaving the air heavy and thick.

Each breath takes effort. Satoru watches their eyes, watches them pick at his every motion, glee rising in them as he shifts from foot to foot. Can they sense his cloudy eyes, hazy with exhaustion? They wait with bated breath for him to falter.

To sit is to kneel, to be subservient. To show any sign of weakness is too much, for he is already weak before them—how else could they command him? So he stands there with jittering legs and waits.

When they finally let him go, he stumbles to the door and hopes they don’t notice. Without RCT, he would have collapsed. The great Six Eyes, a pile of hazy eyes and shaking limbs, conquered by mere exhaustion. Humiliating. So, so humiliating.

The day after Riko died, Satoru barged into his room in the infirmary all the same, wildly gesturing to his DS and whining about how long beating his most recent fixation was taking.

With trembling fingers, Suguru grabbed Satoru’s collar, and dragged him towards the bed.

“Wh—,” Satoru yelped, as he fell onto Suguru’s bed. Suguru was not strong in those moments, but Satoru acted like he was, feigning a yank instead of a gentle tug. He fell onto Suguru’s side, elbows braced against the hospital bed, and looked at him over his glasses. “Hey, Suguru.”

He was smiling, even then. Suguru bit his lips, and brushed his hair aside. “You were bleeding here.”

“I mean, I was bleeding a lot of places,” Satoru said.

“Where?”

Satoru puffed out his chest, and pointed towards his sternum. “Here, but you saw that one. Then here.” He patted his thigh. “And a few more places, besides.”

He grinned at Suguru. “But I lived anyway. I’m fucking untouchable.”

Suguru didn’t know how to say, I wish you weren’t. Didn’t have the words to tell him, but I’m not. He wanted to cry, then, but he couldn’t, not when Satoru was in front of him, perfection restored.

“He said he killed you.” Suguru said, tracing a finger across Satoru’s cheekbone. It was sharper, somehow—yesterday he was a child, and now?

“It didn’t stick,” Satoru joked, and Suguru wanted to scream, but he hurt you, why won’t you admit he hurt you?

He pressed his thumb into Satoru’s hairline, dragging it along his forehead, waiting to feel a ridge or a scar or something, anything at all. Nothing. In desperation, he searched for the scar under Satoru’s ear, a nick Suguru pressed into Satoru’s skin during their first spar—even that was erased. He searched and searched and every last mark was gone. Burnt away.

He felt sick, hollowed out and aching. The x carved into his chest stung alongside his eyes, glassy with tears. Satoru babbled on about his game, and for once Suguru hated the sound of it, the grate on his ears. He touched Satoru’s skin, but felt nothing but smooth, cold expanses. Like touching marble.

Violence bloomed in him. He wanted to dig his nails into that skin, reveal the red blood and mess of organs underneath. He wanted to rip open Satoru’s skin and feel the warmth buried in his lungs, feel the pulse of his heart in his hands. He recoiled from the impulse, withdrawing from Satoru’s skin, but Satoru did not notice, still rambling.

“And really, why would they put such a fucking powerhouse there? I had to do so much grinding, oh my God, it sucked soooo harrddd…”

Safe from the world, from Suguru’s wretched love. Alongside resentment, relief took root.

Satoru waits days for Suguru to call him.

He sighs, swiping through his text messages. Wind whistles through the shattered windows of the abandoned apartment complex he floats in, rain flying through a gaping hole carved out of its side. While he hunches over, clicking his tongue at his phone (no change), the walls shift and bend.

He glances up at his surroundings, and hums. An utterly normal room greets him. Instead of bare concrete, the walls are now smooth, eggshell white. A made bed, a desk, a bookshelf. Still, the six eyes catch missing details—the desk is empty, the books have no titles, the bed is made of wood that has no grain. Off.

A partial domain. Satoru cracks his knuckles, then incants, “Domain expans—wait!” His eyes widen as his phone beeps. Perhaps—? He looks down. He wilts. “Dammit. Just Yaga again.”

“Domain expansion,” he mutters, rolling his eyes, “Infinite void.” The room shatters into stardust, revealing a curse. Its body is thick and bloated, composed of what looks like wet hair tangled in the bottom of a shower drain. It gargles.

“Weak,” he sighs, snapping his fingers. On higher level curses, infinite void is psychological—on lower levels, it has a similar effect to approaching the event horizon of a black hole. The curse implodes, wailing as parts of its body snap off and spin into the distance, pulled into thin strings by a gravitation force that approaches infinity.

Satoru lingers long after the curse disappears. Time itself slows in his domain. He unwraps his bandages, slumping as he stares up at his stars. His domain absorbs every sound and sight, drowning the world in infinite black expanses interrupted only by pinprick lights. Overstimulation becomes sensory deprivation in an instant.

He belongs here like nowhere else.

His endless galaxies call to him—soothing murmurs through the cosmos. Beyond them, the void itself hums, desolate and never-ending. No human can comprehend its size but Satoru—he has carved a home from its edges.

When he first arrived here, 19 and aching, he stayed for years compressed into milliseconds. Long days stretched longer by his six eyes, then longer still with limitless’s every second cut. He was nothing and everything at once—heart filled with stars and the space between them, soul glut by solitude.

He snaps, and the void shatters. He checks his phone again. Nothing.

“Ahhh,” he whines, pitching his voice up and down. This is his body—he just has to remember that he has one of those. “Testing, testing—” He rolls his shoulders, scuffs his shoes against the floor. “Shouldn’t spend so long in there,” he says, rolling his neck. Might just stay.

Still, Suguru has not called. He also hasn’t texted. Satoru honestly isn’t surprised—Suguru left his phone shattered between his parents’ bodies, but Satoru’s kept his since high school. His number is exactly the same. Suguru could have called any time.

Well, nothing for it. He’ll just have to get creative.

Chapter Text

Satoru drapes himself across the couch, letting his phone slap against the coffee table. “Kids,” he groans, “If you wanted someone to call you back, what would you do?”

The jujutsu uniform wrinkles against his chest, damp and itchy. Ugh. He swipes a hand against it, patting it down, but to no avail. It’s unbearable. Still, he’s not wearing anything underneath, so he can’t just take it off… and he can’t get dressed, that’s way too much effort…

Megumi scoffs from his seat at the dinner table. “Like anyone would want to date you.”

“Maybe it’s not for a date,” Tsumiki says, poking Satoru’s side. It hits infinity. She pokes again. “Maybe he needs a prescription or something.”

Satoru waves his hand. “No, it’s for a date.”

“Oh.” Tsumiki narrows her eyes. “With who? Is she pretty?”

Satoru grins. “He’s very pretty. Prettiest man I’ve ever seen.”

Tsumiki gasps. “What does he look like? Can you show me a picture?”

Satoru weighs his options. “… Sure.” He swipes at his phone, showing Tsumiki his lock screen.

“Uh.” Tsumiki winces. “Are you sure you have the right picture?”

Megumi pads over, looking over Tsumiki’s shoulder. A crease forms between his tiny brows. “Looks… kinda shady.”

Satoru shrugs. He knows. He lies, “It’s the lighting.”

He faced a dilemma. Either he could keep his lock screen of a 16 year-old-Suguru, and feel like one of those wrinkly old creeps who pervs on innocent, young girls, or he could switch to a covertly taken picture of Suguru now. Within the second option, he had three reasonable choices. Two were of Suguru’s back. The last? Mid-sermon. Suguru, crescent smile plastered on his lips, eyes half-way crazed and unseeing.

“But look past the ugly-ass-robes and the… crazy he’s picked up over the years, and see the potential.” Satoru waxes, pointing at Suguru’s face. “Look at those cheekbones! Sublime. That shiny hair! Those perfect, deeply expressive eyes! And under those robes…” He cuts himself off. Some things should not be said in front of impressionable, young children.

Megumi wrinkles his nose. “Are you joining a cult? Because he looks like a cult leader.”

Satoru blinks. “… The cult is unrelated.”

Megumi deadpans, “You have shit taste.”

Satoru sighs. “Well, sometimes you give your heart to someone at the ripe old age of 17 and suddenly your body decides, ‘Hey! We’re never going to let anyone touch you again except this guy! Good fucking luck!’” He flops back onto the couch.

“I still think he’s pretty, though.” He mumbles. Megumi and Tsumiki look on in horror.

Suguru wakes to the scent of ozone. A diaphanous veil of cursed energy drapes across his compound, buzzing. He breathes it in, letting it linger in his chest like fine cigarette smoke. It’s Satoru’s.

What a nostalgic scent. In their younger years, Satoru’s cursed energy was so wild and erratic that he’d give Suguru headaches with the scent of him, or on other days send him spiraling into longing for that feeling of dropping, falling, flying whenever he breathed in. However, after Toji, his cursed energy retreated under his skin.

Suguru rises and prepares for the day. He fights the impulse to rush; instead of throwing on his robes and running out the door, he laces them up at the back and walks. He cannot be too eager. Satoru may whine, impatient as always, but Suguru must retain dignity.

Experienced Jujutsu sorcerers rarely leave residuals, but Satoru has stained his hallways blue with dancing steps, streaks traced along the walls with gentle fingers. Obvious, nervous, audacious—all feelings that intermingle in each footprint, for a residual is a curse, and curses always carry feeling. One sensation rises above the others.

It is vast and intense, yet unobtrusive: a breath taken, quiet above the clouds. As if Satoru is beside him, nudging his chin towards the endless blue skies, and whispering, “look.” There it is, Suguru realizes.

Longing.

Endless and breathless; he never knew Satoru could feel so intensely. Not Satoru, with his wild laughs and dancing eyes, who so easily rose above humanity. It cannot be true, he thinks to himself, this cannot be here. This is an impossible feeling.

(For if it is not, then he is its origin, and that is unforgivable.)

When he opens the door, he expects either an empty room or a litany of complaints. Neither arrive.

Instead, thousands of paper slips hang off the walls, each the color of candlelight, with a burning streak of red symbols slapped in the center. Among them, kneeling at the alter with a paintbrush in hand, is Satoru.

“Suguru,” he says. Suguru can only see the cinch of his waist and the set of his shoulders, black uniform silhouetted against the glowing sigils. This is not whining, he thinks. This is not anything I recognize.

It would be easier if these were talismans meant to trap him. Perhaps Satoru finally gave up on him, and was being cautious with Suguru’s assassination (even while they both know Suguru would die and Satoru would return to the elders, triumphant).

They aren’t. Suguru never learned to read seals, but he knows the feeling of binding from his first long hours in the jujutsu world, waiting for the elders to choose between another weapon or a threat, executed. This is not binding.

“Satoru,” he replies, lost. “What are these?”

Satoru tilts his head. “You don’t—oh. Right. Seal script was after…” he waves his hand, “everything. I had a knack for it.” He chuckles, “I have a knack for everything, it seems.” It is not the arrogance of youth that colors his tone, but rather a cold, self-deprecating thing.

For a moment, Suguru imagines it. A class, taking notes on these ancient symbols, sitting beside Satoru once again. Prodding him into focusing, or bearing with his impassioned rants about their ancestors stupidity when inspiration struck. Letting Satoru’s head fall to his shoulder, eyes drooping from long hours reading.

Now, he stands in this room uneducated, unable to stand before Satoru’s assured genius. Unable, anymore, to keep up. Left behind again. There is longing and there is grief, heavy. So heavy and painful. For that life he could have had if only he gave up—

“Nanako and Mimiko are afraid of curses,” Satoru says, casual. Suguru blinks. Offhand, like it’s not an ongoing weight on Suguru’s soul that they have no safe place to shelter from the worst of humanity. Just as casually, he says, “So these will keep the curses in here.

“This one,” he holds up a sheet, “Is for containment, and this one,” he points to another, “Is for circulating cursed energy.” He finally turns around, eyes still bandaged. He huffs, lips drawing into a smile half indulging and half disgusted, and says, “Curses tend to grow better that way. Like convection currents. And this one is a little, special Gojo-family spice.”

So casual—casual as he gives the world to Suguru, a world he has not yet built, a world he does not yet deserve—“But you hate my cult,” Suguru protests, “and you hate my plans. Why would you—why would you help me?”

“… It is enough,” Satoru admits, hunching, propping his elbow on his knee, “that you want to. I would give you—” He stops, cutting himself off and pressing his arms close and stiff to his ribs, shoulders inching upwards. “A lot.” He says. He sighs.

He turns back to the sigils. “This is the last one, so I can leave if you like. But—” he shrugs, “call me? Please?”

He rambles while Suguru approaches, “Or I could send letters for you. Hell, I could do smoke signals. I could do anything. Anyway, I’ll just… go, now—”

Suguru’s hands land on his shoulders; Satoru flinches. He never used to do that. Did he expect Suguru to rage at him? To hit him? (Would he have let him?) “Stay,” Suguru sighs, tracing a hand up Satoru’s neck, under his ear, over his bandages and towards his wild white locks. His skin is sticky with dried sweat.

Satoru’s head follows his hand, exposing the length of his neck. Suguru peers beneath his high collar, catching a glimpse of sharp collarbones that jut from his skin. He presses the back of his hand to Satoru’s forehead, and feels it pulse with heat. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“… I can take care of myself.”

“Satoru—”

Satoru says, his incisors flashing white and sharp, “You don’t need to mother me. I’m the strongest.” Just three words, Suguru thinks, and he has thrown up a wall so tall and thick that no one else would cross it.

Suguru, too, feels anger well inside him (I, I, I and not we—), but he looks once again at Satoru. Damn near curled into a ball, thinner than he was in high school. All delicate limbs and fragile planes, if only in the mortal, physical plane. Elsewhere, he can be a god—but not here. Not in Suguru’s house.

“And if I want to take care of you?” Suguru bites out, sitting beside Satoru, pulling him into his lap. “And if I want for you to be safe?” He sighs, breath brushing against Satoru’s neck, “It’s so unfair that you do all of this for me without asking, and I can’t do anything for you unless you let me.”

“…”

“Please, Satoru,” Suguru begs, knowing he would not ask so desperately for anyone else. It’s okay if it’s you, he thinks. It’s okay. What good is dignity, anyway.

“Fine,” Satoru mutters, sinking back into his chest. “Just this once. Do whatever you want with me. I’ll disappoint you, though, if you’re expecting something—something soft, or—” He stops, biting his lips, but Suguru hears the next word: human. Oh Satoru, he thinks, something sharper than fondness and softer than grief consuming him. Oh, oh Satoru.

Chapter Text

They sit, intertwining.

When they were teenagers, they limited themselves to glancing hugs, fleeting touches, limbs casually thrown over each other. Any further trysts on Suguru’s part were quick, violent meetings—a mix of pleasure and pain, touch and revulsion. There was no intent. No message.

Now, Suguru is careful. Slow. He nudges Satoru’s hand until it unfurls, tracing the length of his palm. Satoru’s breath hitches, head low and shoulders high, and Suguru thinks, more, more—but he tempers his want to bite, devour. Instead, he holds Satoru’s hand. Feels heavy. Tongue-tied. Wonders how this was ever easy.

Satoru knocks his head against Suguru’s chin. “Get on with it already,” he demands.

“With what?”

“What do you mean—with what, he says, as if he didn’t ask to—do—as if—as if it’s my fault!” he rambles, before glaring up at Suguru through his bandages. “Cruel,” he accuses.

Suguru grins.

Still, when he taps Satoru’s leg, he follows without resistance. At the slightest instruction, Satoru clambers over Suguru’s lap to face him, legs to one side. Only when Suguru nudges his inner thigh does he hesitate. “Eh?”

Suguru settles his cheek against Satoru’s neck. “Hm?”

Satoru’s head turns towards him. Eyes hidden, expression empty. On anyone else, Suguru would call it blank; on Satoru, he sees his head tilt, his lips purse “Where’s it ‘sposed to go?” He mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Suguru gestures to his lap, “One on each side,” he says, smirking.

Satoru pauses for only a moment. Then, he sets his jaw and swings his leg over to Suguru’s side. Stiff, defiant, he once again turns to Suguru. “What now?”

Suguru stifles a laugh. He untangles his hand from Satoru’s, lets it rest across his back and and land at his nape. With the other, he hovers over his thigh.

“Now,” he grins, “I pick you up.” He grabs Satoru’s ass, and throws himself into standing alongside Satoru’s shriek.

When they settle, Suguru sees Satoru’s wild red blush, but that can’t hide his smile. “Suguru,” he whines, indignant, “you could’a warned me.” He buries his head in Suguru’s neck, clutching him tight.

Suguru softens. He strides to the kitchen, Satoru’s legs wrapped tight around his back. “I could’ve,” he agrees. Satoru scoffs.

In the kitchen, Suguru sets Satoru on the counter.

He unbuttons Satoru’s uniform, but Satou grabs his hand before he can unfold it. Suguru raises an eyebrow. Satoru admits, “Not wearing anything under.”

Suguru frowns. “Why? Doesn’t it itch?”

Satoru shrugs.

Suguru thinks, before kneeling, fingers lingering over the thin strip of black sock between Satoru’s slacks and dress shoes. Dress shoes—when did he start wearing those? “Why are you still wearing the jujutsu uniform anyway? It’s not like you’re a student anymore.”

“Affiliation thing—what are you doing with my feet?”

Suguru glances up at Satoru. “I’m taking off your shoes. Why’d you come in here with them, you know that’s impolite.” He unlaces the oxfords, slipping Satoru’s foot out of a shoe surely two sizes too big for him.

“Oh really, if I didn’t know better I’d think it’s some kind of fetish—are you a foot guy Suguru? Are you into that kinda thi—” Satoru’s breath hitches as Suguru runs his finger down his sole. Suguru smirks up at him. Satoru, shudders, blushes, then rallies, “… I was using infinity anyway.” he pouts. The other shoe comes off without protest.

Suguru grins, standing. When he slips between Satoru’s legs, Satoru has already pulled down his bandages, leaving them messily draped over his neck. “So you can feel the full force of my glare,” he says, squinting. Suguru snorts.

Suguru asks, “When’s the last time you ate?”

Satoru blinks.

“Satoru,” Suguru nudges. Hesitantly, he presses a kiss below Satoru’s ear, then another at his clenched jaw. “Please.”

“… I can’t remember,” Satoru says.

“You remember everything.” Suguru reminds him. Satoru opens his mouth, closes it again. Grimaces.

“… God, leave me some dignity, won’t you?” Satoru snipes, before mumbling.

Suguru frowns. “Again,” he demands.

“Fine, fine,” Satoru throws up his hands, “Five weeks.”

Suguru pauses.

“Five?” He asks.

“Five.”

Wretched, Suguru stares.

Satoru bites his lip, then grabs Suguru’s hand. “It’s not so bad,” he starts, awkward. “You don’t even feel it after a while. RCT’s good like that, you know? And—it means I can exorcise more curses. N—,” a sharp breath, “fewer students against special grades.”

“Just you.” Suguru realizes.

“Just me,” Satoru agrees, lips splitting into a wide smile. “Isn’t that better?”

No, Suguru wants to scream, it’s worse, so much worse. “Then the trolley problem you gave me,” he asks, quiet. What is this feeling? “It was about you.”

“Yeah,” Satoru nods, “and you gave the right answer. So—good on you. No students’ deaths on your hands.” He grins, as if to say: I expected nothing less.

What does he feel? What is this—hot, heavy feeling, this empty hole pierced through his chest, this urge to shout and cry out and—breathe, oh god breathe. What is this? Oh, he realizes. Oh—

“Did they even give you time to eat? Sleep? Treat you like—” a human, or even a goddamn dog?

“Usually.”

“Usually?”

“Unless I don’t—” Satoru scratches his jaw, fingers brushing against his fond smile. Affection for Suguru’s—mothering, he called it. “Deserve it, I suppose. I can be negligent. Hang up on calls. I’m annoying.” He shrugs.

“Hang up on calls? They’re starving you, not handing you a complaint,” Suguru snarls, “No one stops this—torture?”

Satoru tilts his head. “Why would they?”

He does not deny Suguru’s accusations: dehumanization, starvation, torture.

Suguru grabs Satoru, embraces him violently, desperately. Clutches him hard enough to leave bruises, and buries his eyes in his bony shoulder.

“Why would you stay with them? Why not just run, blast them all away?”

Satoru lays his hands on Suguru’s back, gentle. He tilts his head back and forth, considering, before plopping his head on Suguru’s. He huffs out a laugh.

“… I couldn’t face you if I did,” Satoru confesses. “They need me. That won’t change, no matter what they do to me.

“You used to care about them. Your weak and desperate,” Satoru says, fond and nostalgic, stroking Suguru’s hair with steady fingers. “I don’t. I don’t know how. But if I pretend,” he sighs, eyes lidded, “It’s like you’re with me.”

Suguru trembles, even as Satoru is still. I need you, he does not say. I need you alive and well and with me. I thought you would be okay without me. I thought you’d be better.

“I’m here,” Suguru says.

“For as long as you can stand me,” Satoru agrees.

“Longer.”

Satoru smiles, but does not answer.

Silence. The seconds tick by. Suguru steadies himself. Finally, he untangles from Satoru. “I’m heating up broth, and you will eat it.”

“Whatever you want,” says Satoru, still smiling, then grimacing. “I mean, I’ll definitely throw up. But like, you do you.”

“That doesn’t matter. You need to eat.” He snaps open the fridge, pouring vegetable broth into a bowl and slamming it into the microwave. It flickers on, humming as the broth heats.

They both stare at the blinking blue numbers on the microwave display, counting down for what seems like hours. Quiet.

“What would coming back with you mean?” Suguru asks.

Satoru licks his lips, nervous. “Theoretically fantastic sex.”

“Theoretically?”

“Maybe… 80% odds on it being great the first time. Asymptotically approaching 100% with every following round.” He hums, musing, “A good ol’ negative one over 5, maybe even 6x plus 1, about.”

“And then?” Suguru says, opening the microwave.

“You come with me.” He wiggles his eyebrows, “Y’know, in the sexual and physical sense.”

Suguru swats him with a towel, and Satoru gasps, betrayed. Suguru continues, “But what does that actually mean?” With a hard glint in his eyes, Suguru sneers, “Jerk me off then send me to the gallows?”

“Never,” Satoru swears. “I’d take you home. Away from your cult, and the elders, and anything that could hurt you. Just us and the kids.”

“And you? What do you do while I’m playing housewife?”

Satoru puffs his chest out. “Well, I go to work exorcising curses. Easy.”

Suguru smiles, half sly and half furious, “Do you think I’d want that? A tired husband, one bad day away from leaving me a widow—”

“I’d never,” Satoru scoffs.

“Who’d pass out before his dick even got hard?”

Satoru’s jaw stiffens. “I would be better than that. You know that.”

“Open wide, dearest,” Suguru mocks, spoonful of soup in hand. “You look like a ghost.”

Satoru glares at him. He opens his mouth. Drinks the soup. Swallows.

Chapter Text

When Satoru first stepped into Suguru’s cult, intent upon showing him a devotion he’d denied himself, he felt bold. Audacity so filled him it dripped off his steps. Moreover, Satoru was strong. RCT sharpened his senses, cleared his mind, giften his body strength, flexibility, blood, bone. Indomitable.

The soup claws at the top of his mouth. It crawls down his throat, scalding hot. He feels it writhe in his stomach—or are those his intestines, tying themselves into knots? He is no longer a man, made of matter; half his body is cursed energy. Food forces a foreign weight to his flesh, meaty and disgusting. Nausea ripples through him, and a headache tears through his clarity. On his third mouthful, he feels matter seep into his bones, and realizes, I do not want this.

He glares at Suguru. “I don’t need this.”

Suguru scoffs.

Satoru bristles, glaring harder.

Suguru stares back, unimpressed. “And I thought you were arrogant in school,” he snipes, “when all you did was brag—but even you cannot be so conceited as to think, ‘I am above food.’”

“And if I am?” Satoru sneers, batting away the next spoonful. It splashes against his uniform, dripping down infinity. “I do not need—such fickle things as rest or meals, Suguru. Not anymore.” He laughs. “Practically speaking, I’m a Go—”

Suguru stuffs the next spoonful down Satoru’s throat. He chokes on it. “Oh great deity Satoru,” Suguru drawls as Satoru wheezes, “brought low by soup.

“You said, ‘whatever you like, Suguru.’” He continues, “Can God not grant such a simple request?”

Satoru says, “It’s a stupid ask.” He attempts to jump off the counter, yet with Suguru wedged between his legs, he finds himself trapped. “Move, asshole.”

“No,” Suguru says, inspecting him. “Something’s bothering you about this. You didn’t care about the soup until it was in your mouth. What’s with that?” He mutters the last part, incredulous. “It’s normal soup, what the hell is making you—” Suguru stops, snatching Satoru’s hand.

He watches, with mounting horror, trails of cursed energy float from his sleeves. They both stare at Satoru’s wrist, bleeding fine blue mist.

“That,” Satoru declares, “Is totally normal.”

“You see,” he says, as Suguru stands frozen, “Some of my body is cursed energy. But if I eat, then that gets replaced with human meat-flesh. And then where does my cursed energy go but—”

“Satoru,” Suguru says, voice tight, “There are only so many tragedies I can take.”

“There is nothing tragic about this.”

“How could anyone believe that? It’s—you’re blatantly lying.”

“There is no tragedy here,” Satoru repeats, hell in his eyes. “Tragedies,” he sneers, “are for the weak.”

“What else,” Suguru says, “could you call starvation, sleep deprivation, torture? What else could you call your job?”

“A necessary sacrifice,” Satoru says. “A small price to pay for lives, don’t you think?” He laughs.

“You are not a price to be paid!”

“Well then tell that to yourself,” Satoru sneers, “because you put my life on the table the moment you left.”

Silence, but for the sound of their panting.

Satoru grits his teeth. In any other moment, he would rush to console Suguru. He wants to. It’s on the tip of his tongue, I didn’t mean that, please forgive me, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me—

But his mouth won’t move. The words feel stale in his mouth.

“Satoru,” Suguru breathes, eyes glossy.

Quiet and resigned, Satoru asks, “What do you want me to say? What did you think would happen when you left? That the world would just… go on? That your missions would just disappear? Someone had to take them. There’s no one else but me.”

Satoru holds his hand, and what should be tender burns with the lingering wisps of blue. “It’s not an accusation. It’s just fact. You and I can pretend all we want, but when all is said and done—”

You traded me away, he does not say. And I can’t even find it in myself to hate you for it.

Suguru’s lip quivers. “I thought you would leave.”

Satoru scoffs. “For the six eyes? That was never an option. Not without bringing the whole world down with me.” It is bleak and awful, but he laughs. “I could have killed them all. I would have before I met you. Now?” He shakes his head. “Never.”

Suguru clutches his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” It feels inadequate. His heart, heavy with guilt, aches in his chest. Oh how he wishes—

“I know that,” Satoru huffs. “You wouldn’t. That’s what makes this—” he gestures wildly between them, manic “so frustrating! I know I should hate you. It’s just—there are very few things I cannot do, and that is one of them.” Satoru looks out of breath then, pink-cheeked and stiff.

Impossible, Suguru thinks. How could that be? “Is there no line I could not cross?” He asks, desperate. “Is there nothing I could do—” such that you would not love me?

“Nothing,” Satoru admits, shame creeping into his voice. He hunches in on himself. “Nothing,” he repeats, yet more embarrassed, but unwilling to stop.

Now, the words tumble out, too cutting and too true: “The thing is, I want to eat. I want to let you take care of me, I want to give you everything, but it’s one thing if—if we’re pretending I’m fragile, like, as a kink thing, it’s different if—if I eat, I’ll really be weak. You know that right? I’ll—get headaches and vomit and be the worst kind of pathetic you’ve ever seen, and—how could anyone want that? That’s—that’s not what you want when you look at me.” Satoru sighs, “You don’t want a ghost.”

Suguru flinches. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What else could you have meant?”

Suguru takes a deep breath. “I meant,” he says, glaring, “that I don’t want you to die. You, or your humanity—they’re killing you Satoru. Day by day, week by week, they’re going to kill you, and someday you won’t even notice you’re already dead.”

Satoru blinks. “I won’t let them.”

Suguru tugs Satoru’s wrist up to his face. “Then what’s this?”

“A necessary sacrifice,” Satoru repeats.

“There is nothing in this world worth what you’re sacrificing,” Suguru says. “Nothing I’d trade your humanity for, your wellness, your errs and your flaws—nothing,” he claims, eyes wild as if at the pulpit, yet his gaze is fixed on Satoru. He tucks himself into Satoru’s shoulder, whispers, as if he cannot bear the world hear this confession, “I want you, Satoru, weaknesses and all.”

Satoru flinches. “You cannot mean that.”

“It’s unfair,” Suguru continues, “that there is no line I cannot cross, but you’ve drawn so many for yourself I can barely reach you.” He vows, regret and determination blazing in his eyes, “Come to me weak, hurting, give me your worst and I will care for you then. I will never abandon you again.”

Satoru blinks, silent, shocked. However, when Suguru once again picks up the soup, daring him to whine, he does not protest. Still wide-eyed, he opens his mouth and swallows.

Mere minutes later, Satoru will frantically teleport them to the bathroom, cursed energy sputtering off him in sync with his heaving groans. He will look to Suguru, defiant and terrified, and dare him to stay, knowing he won’t.

Except, Suguru does. He pulls back Satoru’s hair, is the warm hand against his neck, the soft voice in his ear, telling him he’s doing so well. He stays, even when tears drip down Satoru’s cheeks. Even when throwing up becomes sobbing, even when his words slur, and endless litany of, “Suguru, Suguru, it hurts—” There is Suguru, beside him, holding him. I love you, he does not say. I cannot bear it, but oh, how I love you.

Suguru dabs his face with wet towelettes and carries him to bed. Even then, he holds Satoru beneath the covers.

Inevitably: when he wakes, Satoru is gone.

Perhaps he should feel hurt; hope and fondness blossom, instead. A long road to redemption lays itself in front of him, but even atonement is sweet.

To touch Satoru, itself, is an impossible pleasure.

Chapter Text

Satoru maneuvers between white chairs and pretty pink tablecloths with a clumsy grace—clumsy, in his sporadic hops and long steps, and graceful, in that he dodges every obstacle. With a tense smile, he slumps into a wiry chair, and begins tapping his fingers on the table.

Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. He scans the block, then the street, then the city. His feet begin to tap alongside his fingers, clicking against the tile floor. He devotes an eye to hovering about customers at this cafe. Gazes flit towards him, before skittering away—some with that horrific instinct that recognizes a monster, others with rosy-eyed attraction that recognizes a man. He grits his teeth, still barred, and keeps his shoulders broad.

With each step she takes down the street, he constructs a sprawl. An arm swings back behind his chair, his legs cross, the tapping ceases. A grin crawls across his face. The door opens.

“Shoko!” He calls.

She shoots him a glare. When he waves, she slams the door behind her, stalking to the counter. That poor barista, he thinks, as she slaps down her credit card. Regardless, she walks to his table, serving number in hand.

“Gojo,” she sneers. “What do you want.”

“Ahh,” He raises an eyebrow under his blindfold. “Right to the chase, I see.” He lazily gestures to the street outside, leaning back, prodding, “Can’t a man relax?”

She scoffs. “Not when they’re Gojo Satoru.”

A pause.

Mmm. Satoru straightens, fist landing in his open palm with a soft, “oh!” He smiles. “This is about the dead students, isn’t it?” Shoko freezes. Her fingers curl into the table, tips pressed into the linoleum until they turn white.

Ah. Too soon? He shrugs. “Well, we’ve got bigger problems here—”

She glares at him.

“Mmmm,” There’s not a good way to say this, Satoru realizes. With a nervous chuckle, he starts, “It’s about uh, the seduction plan—”

“To hell with your seduction plan,” Shoko hisses. “Is that where you were when they died?”

Satoru stays silent, smile frozen on his face.

“You were,” Shoko realizes. “You were with Getou.”

“In my defense—”

Shoko glares. “What defense? What defense could there be?” She raises the back of her hands, where Satoru sees red flakes still lodged under her fingers. Her fraying, dry skin, washed one too many times. “One came back without a ribcage. The next? Jaw torn from her face, heart punched out of her body. What am I supposed to do about that, huh? What am I supposed to do, when you give me a fine red paste?

“Then I have to look Yaga in the eyes and say it—‘none of them made it. Not a single student lived.’ And you were with Getou, on a date,” She seethes. “How am I supposed to live with that? How are any of us?”

She glares at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Except you,” she accuses. “You seem to be doing just fine.”

Satoru stares at her. The scent of Suguru’s sheets still linger on his uniform, vomit bitter on his tongue. Fine. Yes. He’s fine. After all, “Students die all the time,” he says. “So do sorcerers.” He does not say: I didn’t send them. I don’t take missions with other people anymore. He doesn’t. What else is there to say? He wants to feel sorry. He’s not.

She glares at him, fingers tensing further. Lips bitten, pressed. Waiting.

And what of after? “Shoko, I—” and how does he phrase it? How could he say, I have been punished, when that is not the sort of person he is? That month of hell that was not truly awful, that could not be awful, for he was the strongest. The strongest does not falter. “I’m done with that now,” he sighs, knowing it will fall flat.

“You don’t get to choose when this is done,” Shoko spits.

He has nothing to offer her.

He sighs again. “Fine then. Fine.” He leans back, a headache burning under his eyes. “Be that way.” He makes this sign to teleport, yet—

Shoko grabs his hand (it bounces off, but he still flinches). “Wait.”

Satoru barks out a laugh. “So you can yell at me more? Not a chance in hell.”

Shoko sighs. “I didn’t—ugh.” She slumps into the chair across from him, lighting a cigarette. The serving number clacks on the table. He wrinkles his nose as she drags a long breath in, then out. “It was a lot of corpses.”

“I got that feeling, yeah.”

“And you just—ugh.” She gestures to him. He shrugs, she glares. “This isn’t what I wanted—just—” She groans. “What about the number of missions after.” She takes another drag. “Ringing any bells?”

“Ah.” Satoru puts on that grin, the insufferable one, the one that says, ‘of course.’ He puffs out his chest and brags, “It was nothing.” It feels like ash on his tongue.

“Nothing? You infuriate me.” Shoko grumbles, breathing in another cloud of smoke. Then out. “No one at the Tokyo school had missions for that month.”

“So?”

“So it was just you.” Satoru raises an eyebrow. Isn’t that obvious? Shoko huffs. “That wasn’t—no matter how much of an irresponsible asshole you were,” she takes a deep breath, “that wasn’t fair, okay?”

“I could handle it.” He says.

She scoffs. “Idiot. That doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have to.”

“It does. It really does.” He laughs, “Ahhh, poor Shoko, too weak to understa—”

“Stop it.” Shoko demands. “Stop trying to annoy me into—into not caring about you.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. So just—stop it.” She looks away, suddenly smaller. “Please.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confesses, “I don’t know.” Satoru stares at her. Eyes still locked on the floor, she says, “And you have the audacity to just say, ‘no, nothing is wrong.’ Of course it is, Gojo. Of course!

“You weren’t like this before Getou left. You didn’t—it was so different. I—” She sighs. “Why’d it have to be him, Satoru?”

He stares. Admits, hollow, “It could never be anyone else.”

“Just him,” she says.

“Just him.”

“Ah,” Shoko sighs, slumping further. “We were all goddamn fools.

“I thought you’d kill him,” she confesses. “Like? Who does Gojo Satoru like, anymore?” They think but do not say: how can a god like anything at all? How can a man capable of so much destruction do anything but kill? She sighs. “We all thought you’d kill him.”

“And yet,” Satoru smiles, wry and bitter, “he lives.”

“And you!” She points her cigarette at him, still sparking orange. “You went against the higher ups for him! No one does that. It’s practically suicide.”

“Suicide?” He laughs. “I’m not the type to die.”

Shoko raises an eyebrow. “No one gets out of a month like that unscathed,” she glares, yet uncertainty twists her lips. “Right?”

Satoru grimaces. “Well,” he admits. “It was—” he bites his lips, “not great.”

“Not great,” Shoko repeats, blank. “They’re killing you,” she says. Satoru does not respond.

They sit, quiet, as the drinks arrive. Then a few minutes longer.

“I’m sorry,” Shoko says. “I—I didn’t expect to see you here. I’m angry.” She closes her eyes. “I wish it wasn’t him.” She looks at him again, this time meeting his eyes, “It’s terrible, but I just—I’m tired, Satoru, of seeing the higher ups destroy you. I hate you for letting them. And I hate having to choose between you and a bunch of kids, every single day.” She takes a long drag. “But if you want to go seduce Getou, well.” Wearily, she admits, “Well. I’ll support you.”

“Thank God,” says Satoru, “because I think I’m doing it wrong.”

Chapter Text

“Well…” Shoko says. “Well. That sure is.” She takes a long drag. “A problem.”

She flicks the cigarette into the table; the embers flutter to the ground, before they and the cigarette suffer her heel smearing them into the pavement. She takes a deep breath. Squinting, one limp hand holding yet another cigarette, the other pinching her brow, she asks, “How does one ‘do seduction wrong?’”

Outside, it begins to rain.

Wearily, Satoru admits, “This is the first time I’m trying this whole… wooing thing.”

“Yep.” She pops the ‘p.’ Another drag.

Satoru huffs, puffing out a cheek. “You could at least act surprised.”

“Gojo,” she deadpans, “I’m shocked.”

He tilts his chair back, groaning, “Ahhhh, that just makes it worse. So much worse… Well, anyway.”

“Go on.”

“… Anyway,” he repeats. Blinks. “Well.”

Shoko raises an eyebrow.

Satoru taps his foot. Click, click, click. He notes the ticking clock on the waiter’s watch, gritting his teeth. He mumbles, “Look, you don’t have to be that specific.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Satoru’s mouth still tastes bitter. This is an unwelcome sensation, yet he is acutely aware of it. He squints.“So, do you really, actually need details?”

Shoko considers. “I’m not sure if I want them.”

Satoru nods. “Exactly,” he agrees, “So just gimme the generic stuff, and I’ll figure it out.” He tilts his head, listening to the rain, like static buzzing in his brain. Clicks his tongue, then stops. Bites his lips.

“… But Getou’s not really a one-size-fits-all kind of guy,” Shoko says. “The man’s issues have issues, for God’s sake. Then again,” She looks him over, “maybe they’ll cancel out?”

“I’m wounded,” Satoru hisses. “Abjectly. Mortally. I’m never going to you for help again—”

“Okay, okay,” Shoko smiles. “Just be you, I guess.”

“Shoko,” He seethes.

“No, no, really,” She points the cigarette at him. “I know you won’t believe it. That’s the best I’ve got.”

“Really?” He eyes her cigarette. “Are you high—”

“Not even a little,” She interrupts. “Look, you already know Getou likes you.” Shoko insists. “Just keep trying. He knows you, Satoru. Inside and out.” A pointed pause.

“And?”

She sighs. “Why would he stop, if he’s already seen the worst of you?”

“He hasn’t.” The clouds crackle overhead. He sighs, propping his hand on his chin. He half-heartedly jokes, “I feel old, Shoko.”

“And I, older,” Shoko counters, raising an eyebrow. “Does that matter?”

Of course it does. He’s barely even the same person. He’s barely a person at all. He doesn’t say that. Instead, he hums. “I’ll consider it,” he concedes, standing. “Better chug that coffee. It’s getting as cold as your corpses.”

“Asshole,” Shoko snarks.

He waves her off. With a snap, he’s gone.

Once again, he finds himself at his bathroom mirror. He tilts his head, staring into his bright blue eyes. What does Suguru see, here?

Yet, when he begins to pick through his appearance, all he sees is Suguru. For his face, the smoky scent of Suguru’s robes as Satoru smushed into his shoulder. For his bony shoulder, Suguru’s arms, tight around them. For his legs, the sweet vulnerability of spreading his thighs so Suguru could sit between them—the embarrassed, delighted shock at Suguru’s hands on Satoru.

And for his eyes, a weapon forged, sharpened, and feared: he hears Suguru’s longing, feels his bandages unfurl under Suguru’s gentle hands, sees tenderness bloom in Suguru’s eyes. Without terror, nor spite—only warmth, addictive.

He wants—pathetically, desperately. Was he not disgusting, hunched over and vomiting? Muscles weak as they sputtered cursed energy. Weak, humiliating, brought to his knees. Yet, there Suguru was—his hands soft against Satoru’s hair, murmuring syrup-thick-and-sweet praise—

What was Satoru to do, but surrender? To sink into his warm embrace?

So lies the paradoxical urge to conquer the world for him; to crumble in his arms. To be so perfect he cannot be denied; to be helplessly flawed, tenderly met.

I want you, Suguru said, weaknesses and all—and Satoru cannot deny him anything.