Caesura

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/33505807.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandoms: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime)
Relationship: Getou Suguru/Gojo Satoru
Characters: Getou Suguru, Gojo Satoru, Ieiri Shoko, Yaga Masamichi
Additional Tags: Canon Universe, Canon Compliant, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Fluff,
Light Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, POV Alternating, Enemies to
Friends, Kinda, 2005, Elements of Horror, Stranded Together, minor
shokohime, Mystery, First Kiss, Injury, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of Volta, Part 2 of Caesura
Collections: Satosugu_special_fics, JJK the only honored fics, no thoughts only love,
Satosugu tear fuel
Stats: Published: 2021-08-27 Completed: 2022-09-26 Words: 85,574 Chapters:
15/15
 Caesura
by cielelyse

Summary

The first time they meet, Suguru and Satoru do not like each other. Arrogant, cocky,
insufferable, they think. Despite the smirks Shoko gives Suguru, or the sighs Yaga gives
Satoru, they do not like each other.

Until a mission changes that.

Notes

HI FRIENDS life kicked me around a bit there but! longfic now yay!!!!!!!!!!

As always I can never thank my beta emso enough for her UNYIELDING SUPPORT and
dealing with all of my uncertainties with so much kindness. You are too wonderful em let me
squish u and keep u in my dilapidated backpack forever

This fic is an exchange gift to the VERY TALENTED and KIND and slightly insane
Alice!!!!!!! Please know her ideas have fuelled so much of this story, and anything genius
that happens in this fic we only have her to blame. PLS DO check out her incredible art and
give her all the love!!!!

Please be patient with me, and thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always
appreciated! :D

Translation into Українська available: Цезура by JaneTimeLess

 Prologue

Suguru is 70% sure he is going to pass out.

It's an approximate guess, but he's had a lot of experiences with fainting before. Like when he
received one too many hits to the head from judo class, or when he drank way too much on a
night out and collapsed, or when he swallowed five consecutive curses. It’s fine. He’s fine.
Fainting is scary, but Suguru has done it enough times to not panic. He isn't panicking now.

Someone else seems to be, though.

“Suguru!"

The voice grates on Suguru's ears. A flare of annoyance erupts in his chest, climbs up to his
throat, and he spits out before he can stop himself: “Get the fuck away from me.”

Gojo halts mid-step.

Suguru can see the flicker of hurt on Gojo's expression, there and gone too quickly to give
chase. And he would feel bad — he would — if there weren't an entire hole in his stomach
that may or may not have been caused by this goddamn dipshit fucking asshole of a pretty
boy. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, like someone has seared a blowtorch to his skin, like someone
is prodding and tearing at his wound until it bleeds fresh.

“Suguru.” Gojo's voice is quieter now, more uncertain. “Let me help you.”

Suguru glares at him.

I’m being unfair, he thinks. I’m being unfair, but everything hurts and Suguru is fucking
pissed off, because they could’ve avoided this if Gojo had just listened to him. And oh, he’s
so dizzy now, shit, his vision is blurring quite a bit, and that’s the ground he’s seeing, and ah,
now there’s a 100% chance that I’m going to—

(If Suguru had known that this is the first mission that would change his relationship with
Satoru — the first out of three — he would've handled it better. Would've done it differently,
maybe.

But well.)
.
 Suguru
Chapter Notes

(Note: the driver Ijichi in this fic is the father of Ijichi Kiyotaka that we know - I took
liberty!)

Two months earlier

[ 2005 ]

Leaving his village isn’t as difficult as Suguru thought it would be.

It’s a small town where he comes from, with more greenery than man and a dozen sweeps of
rural fields too wide to make out at once. Every inch of it he can map out. It feels strange to
leave it behind, somehow, even through the excitement and anticipation of moving to a big
city. It feels like he ought to have stayed.

But Suguru has never found it difficult to abandon things. Nostalgia is a regressive emotion;
it’s useless to look back, if you have a clear goal ahead.

So Suguru leaves.

Five days before classes begin at the Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School, he packs
everything he needs in a bag. They're only a few things — his necessities, some mementos; a
few books to keep him company, lest he feels lonely — but his parents had reacted like they'd
been robbed of an entire existence. Suguru feels guilty, almost, that his own emotions don't
match theirs. He's just excited, mostly. Eager, as opposed to all the sadness barely concealed
on his parents’ faces.

But they all know that independence is something to look forward to, and independence is
growth, so.

Yaga ordered a ride for him. The chauffeur who shows up at his front door — full suit and tie
— ends up being a surprisingly quiet man.

“My name’s Ijichi,” says the chauffeur.

“Getou Suguru,” says Suguru, returning his bow.

“I know.” Ijichi smiles. “You’re the boy with the curse manipulation technique.”
Suguru smiles back, unsure of what to say.

But it seems like he doesn’t need to respond, because Ijichi just proceeds to load his luggage
into the trunk, climb into the driver’s seat, and — once Suguru has gotten into the car as well
— remain ghostly silent as he steps on the pedal and steers.

Suguru slouches back against the seat; lets the car move them along. He had braced himself
for the possibility of having to converse with a total stranger for the entirety of the trip, so
this comes as a neat surprise. Man, considering the number of tearful goodbyes he's gone
through in the past few days, several hours of silence can do him well.

He rolls the window down further, then, and rests his head on the backseat. Feels the wind
washing through him like rain. It smells like grass, this open land before him — freshly
watered and summer-scorched — and if he looks over his shoulder, he’ll still be able to see
his house, his childhood home in its ramshackled frame of stone and wood.

Suguru looks over his shoulder.

The house greets his gaze.

Feels strange to leave this behind, he thinks, even though he'll be back in a few months for
the holidays. It feels callous as hell.

But that's okay. It’s not like Suguru won't ever see them again; not like he's left all of his best
years behind him. The fear of leaving is only the fear that you must have lost something
important along the way, and he hasn't, has he?

_____

“You’re arriving early.”

Suguru opens his eyes.

Blinks a few times, because the haze of sleep is still muddling his mind. Shit, he realizes, I
must have nodded off.

There's a low rumble of tires on the asphalt. The car is still humming and moving.

Suguru looks up. Out through the window, the blue sky is a shade darker now. The flat,
pastoral farmlands are gone, and in place of them are skyscrapers; strings of fairy lights
decorating the buildings silhouetted against the pale gray clouds. They're smack in the middle
of Tokyo — noise and noise and noise all over, like a freighter running around — and it takes
him a moment to get used to the city centre's drone of life.

Shit. He must have been gone for the whole three hours.
Suguru turns to the driver. “Pardon?”

“Classes start in five days, no?” says Ijichi. “You're arriving early, kid. First time in Tokyo?”

Brain still disoriented with sleep, Suguru shakes his head. Then realizes that Ijichi's eyes are
trained on the road ahead, and not at him. “Ah, no.” The words come out dry, his mouth
sandy from the nap. “But first time moving.”

“Really.” Ijichi lifts a brow. “With just that one bag?”

“Hey,” Suguru says lightly. “Just because I travel light doesn't mean I'm unprepared.”

That earns him a laugh. “Fair enough,” Ijichi says. “Sorry to interrupt your sleep, by the way.
You must have been tired. Completely knocked out for the whole trip.”

Yeah, fuck, shouldn't have done that. Suguru’s knees are cramping now, static through his
skin, and he has to make a conscious decision not to acknowledge it.

“Sorry I missed the scenic view,” he says.

“Not much to see now that you won’t see later,” says Ijichi. “Your technique allows you to
summon cursed spirits at will, right? If you get ones that fly, kid, you can just hop on them
and roam this entire city anytime you’d like.”

“I guess.” Suguru huffs a laugh. “I do have a stingray.”

Ijichi sighs wistfully. “You're so lucky to have this technique. It's a miracle no one tried to
recruit you sooner.” A short silence, and then, “Actually, that makes me wonder— how did
Yaga manage to find you?”

Suguru hums. “I'm not sure. Rumours, apparently.”

Yaga had showed up to his home a few months prior, with his glasses and his beard and his
burly frame. It took a while to convince Suguru’s parents that he wasn’t some sketchy
underground criminal and was, in fact, there to offer Suguru enrolment into their jujutsu
sorcerer school in Tokyo. It’s been a while since we’ve seen someone with such an interesting
technique, said Yaga. And uninherited, at that. We’ll make sure your son is safe and strong,
Getou-san.

And when asked how he knew of Suguru’s powers, “rumours” was all the explanation Yaga
gave. Vague as you please.

“Huh. Well, I suppose that's because you're pretty well-known.” Ijichi grins. “‘The boy with
the curse manipulation technique’. We've all heard about you at the college; I just didn't
realize Yaga managed to recruit you to our school this year.”

Glad to know I’m famous for swallowing balls, Suguru thinks, and nearly chokes out a laugh.
“Yes, well.” He clears his throat. “I still have to learn to properly control it.”
“Oh, I'm sure you will,” says Ijichi. “You seem like a smart kid. I hope my son can grow to
be as good of a sorcerer as you.”

Suguru hears a strange note in his voice, then, and glances at him. Ijichi's hands are
somewhat fidgety on the steering wheel. And that previously stern, unwavering façade —
with his hair combed neatly and not a single wrinkle in his suit — is giving way to a
meekness there now, a sort of nervous hesitation.

Suguru takes pity.

“I'm sure he’ll be even better,” he says.

Ijichi looks at him through the mirror briefly, and there's a faint curl of a smile there— an
indulgent one.

“You're nice, kid,” says Ijichi. “I hope the next few years won't be too hard on you, especially
with that boy as your classmate. I was glad that my son isn't in the same year as him;
Kiyotaka would be devastated.”

Suguru blinks.

Well, that piques his attention. “'That boy'?”

“Hmm? Oh. Right, yeah, I guess you haven't heard from all the way out in the countryside.
Your classmate this year is a bit of a—” Ijichi pauses, shrugs one shoulder vaguely “—special
kid.”

“Oh.” Suguru doesn't know who his classmates are, just that there are two of them. Yaga
hasn't bothered to inform him of them, and Suguru hasn't bothered to ask. He'll meet them
anyway. But the way Ijichi is speaking about this kid — uncertain, snide, on the edge of
derisive — is tugging at his curiosity. “What's he like?”

“He's powerful,” says Ijichi. “Actually, come to think of it, it seems like with the two of you
as first-year students, the college is really getting some strong sorcerers this year. Goodness, I
bet the higher-ups are happy.”

That really doesn't answer Suguru's question. “I bet.”

He waits for an elaboration, but even after a suspended pause, none comes. Ijichi only fixes
his eyes on the highway, a distant look of thrill on his face, a strange sort of giddiness. So
Suguru sits up straighter in his seat and decides to press. “Do you know what my classmate's
name is, Ijichi-san?”

“Do I know his name,” Ijichi echoes, amused. “Of course I do. My god, everyone does. The
boy from the Gojo clan— Gojo Satoru.”

Gojo Satoru. Suguru muses over the name like a secret, over the familiar cadence of it.
Similar to mine, kinda. Gojo Satoru.

“What’s he like?”
Ijichi raises a brow, a clear look of surprise over his face. “Huh. It’s rare that I get asked
that.” Suguru watches him sigh, eyes glancing up like he's wracking his memory for a
description, like it's a difficult task. “But I guess... cold? I don't know. He's just too powerful,
to be honest. Yaga's got a lot on his plate being the boy's teacher, what with all the
expectations and potential and whatnot.”

Okay, well. That gives Suguru next to nothing. “...Right.”

“Sorry,” says Ijichi, laughing a little. “That's awful of me to say. Adults shouldn't be saying
these things about kids.”

Then he turns his head to give Suguru a cursory look, offers him an apologetic smile. Suguru
wants to ask more questions, but it seems final, this look. It's almost the same kind of
expression his mother wears whenever she knows she's said too much, whenever she feels
like the information will harm his innocence. As if a child able to see curses needs coddling,
Suguru thinks.

“In any case,” says Ijichi, “I hope you'll have a good time at the school, kid.”

_____

It was a bit of a weird conversation, but Suguru lets it slide.

Cold.

Powerful, apparently, and cold.

But Suguru figures that if he wants to know more about this boy, Ijichi isn't quite the one to
ask. So he sits back in the car, silent, and watches as they follow a patch of road winding
around what appears to be a mountain, green and green and green all over. He'll wait until he
gets there. The only way to know, Suguru supposes, is just to meet them directly in person.

It doesn't take long to arrive at the school.

Soon enough, Ijichi pulls to a stop before a red shrine gate. Behind it is a stairway that leads
directly into the forest and up, obscured by the trees and the undergrowth. A path, Suguru
supposes, that guides straight into the school grounds.

Ijichi puts the car into park, twists the ignition key to hear the engine die down, and turns
back to Suguru.

“We're here.” He grins. “Sorry you'll have to walk all the way up. Our barriers don't allow
cursed techniques inside.”

“That's okay.” Suguru returns the smile. “Thanks for the drive, Ijichi-san.”
He climbs out of the car, hefts his luggage from the trunk, and begins to hike all the hundreds
of steps up to the campus. Good thing that it's only one valise, and good thing that his parents
have allowed him to train rigorously throughout his childhood; his stamina can withstand
more than this.

(Plus, the air is cool and fresh out here, all the way up in the mountains. It’s clear as glass,
every time he inhales. Suguru isn't complaining.)

It's Yaga who greets him at the top of the stairway.

“My apologies that you walked all the way up,” is the first thing he says to Suguru. “Our
barriers don't allow cursed techniques inside.”

Suguru huffs a laugh. “So I've heard. That's some workout.”

Yaga raises an eyebrow. “You're not out of breath.”

“My judo teacher might’ve had a sadistic streak,” says Suguru. He sets his suitcase down
onto the ground; pulls the handle up high until he hears it click. Yaga watches from where he
stands, hands clasped behind his back, towering like a wall made of man. He would've looked
intimidating, if Suguru hadn't met him before.

“How was your trip?” asks Yaga.

“Good, thank you,” says Suguru. “Although I slept most of the way. Was too tired.”

“That does sound good.”

Suguru smiles. “Thanks for getting Ijichi-san to come pick me up, sensei.”

“He's the chauffeur around here, so you can always ask him if you need to be somewhere.”
Yaga pauses for a moment, and then jerks his head to the side. “Come. I'll show you to your
room.”

He turns around, and starts walking back along the stonepath, leading deeper into the school
grounds.

Suguru follows suit.

Yaga points out all the centres, all the resources to him as they walk toward the dorms— and
god, the campus is broader than he imagined. Buildings built in the traditional architectural
style, reminiscent of temples, surrounded by trees and stretches of green to obscure the
location. He's slightly glad that it's a little on the outskirts of Tokyo instead of at the centre; it
seems more peaceful here.

The dormitory, Suguru notes when they arrive, consists of only one floor.

“Each student has their own room,” Yaga explains as they tread along the hallway, “and you
can do whatever you want with yours. Just try not to have any parties here. Mei Mei hosted
one party a couple years back and we're still trying to recover from it since.”
“...Mei Mei?”

“A recent graduate.” Yaga’s face immediately clouds over in a murky grimace. “Apparently
there was a lot of theft that night, so we were overwhelmed with complaints the next day.”

“Ah. Angry neighbours?”

“No, no— from the party-goers,” says Yaga. “Imagine that. Your student hosts a secret party
right under your nose, and you only find out about it when her guests come to you demanding
why all their damn money is missing.”

Suguru tries not to laugh.

“Anyway.” Yaga inhales. “Right now there are only three of you first-years here, so we have
a lot of empty rooms.”

Suguru’s attention perks up, then.

“The three first-years,” he echoes. “Who is—”

“Ah, hey,” Yaga interrupts. “It's Shoko.”

He halts to a stop. Suguru almost rams into him, but slows his steps just in time.

There's a girl coming out of one of the rooms. Suguru cranes his neck to get a clearer look,
beyond where Yaga has blocked his view.

The girl appears about his age— a fellow student? Short black hair, casual clothes, a beauty
mark under her right eye. She glances over to them as the door shuts behind her, and gives a
very curt, informal nod.

“Sensei,” she says.

“This is your new classmate.” Yaga motions to him. “He just arrived today.”

“I'm Getou,” says Suguru, offering her a smile.

She stares at him for a beat, then raises her hand in something resembling a greeting wave.
Suguru feels calm as a cat, just looking at her. “Ieiri Shoko.”

“Well, then,” says Yaga, turning back to Suguru. He gestures to the room beside them, one
down and across from Shoko's, and hands Suguru the key. “This is yours. You still got five
days before classes start, so feel free to do whatever you want, explore wherever you'd like.
It's a big school and a big city; I'm sure you won't get bored.”

“Thank you,” Suguru says, letting the key drop into his outstretched palm. To be honest, he
had expected a little more guidance, a little less freedom. Yaga seemed like the sort of stern,
severe instructor who breathes constant supervision down your neck, so this comes as a neat
surprise.
“My office is just the building over, if you need anything.” says Yaga. “Just please, don't burn
anything down.”

“What kind of students have you been having, sensei?” says Suguru.

Yaga opens his mouth, then wordlessly closes it.

“I'm concerned,” he mutters, “for this year, especially.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but decides against it. Suguru watches, more amused
than offended, as Yaga seems to shake off a shudder and utters a simple, “Well, then. I’ll
leave you two to get acquainted, then.”

And then he disappears down the hallway.

Suguru waits for the footsteps to recede before turning to Shoko.

She fixes her gaze back on him, not a shift in her expression, seemingly bored. He doesn't get
easily flustered in social situations, if ever, but this does make him feel a little awkward.

“...So,” says Suguru, for the sake of conversation, “when did you get here?”

Shoko keeps her eyes on him for another moment, and then looks away. “A couple days ago,”
she says, digging her hands into her pockets to rummage for something.

“How are you liking the school?”

“Let's cut the small talk,” says Shoko. “Do you want a smoke?”

Suguru decides he likes her. “Ah, no,” he says, with a little chuckle. “No, thanks.”

She shrugs— a tacit Suit yourself. A pack of Mevius is fished out of her pocket, and she
opens it, draws out a cigarette, and puts it into her mouth. It dangles, a lifeless stub between
her lips.

“Don't worry,” says Shoko. “I'm not gonna light it inside.”

“I wasn't worried,” says Suguru.

She glances at him. “Have you ever smoked?”

“No.”

“Try it sometime,” says Shoko. “It calms you down.”

Suguru smiles. “I don't think I need much calming down these days. But I'll keep that in
mind.”

“Maybe you'll want one sooner than you think,” Shoko says, a faint tone of tease, but there
isn't a hint of mockery in her voice. “Anyway, I'm down to grab a drink anytime too, if you're
up for some alcohol.”
Suguru's smile widens. “That, I can do.”

The corners of Shoko's mouth lift — the first and closest thing to a grin he's seen from her —
and removes the cigarette from her mouth. Clamps it loose between her fingers, and begins
walking past him, heading out toward the door. The sound of her steps echo in the otherwise
silent hall, and Suguru briefly wonders if there really isn't anyone else here, in any of the
student rooms before them. There doesn't seem to be. It's quiet as death.

“In case you're wondering,” says Shoko, “our other classmate isn't here yet.”

Suguru nearly winces.

“Did you read my mind?” he asks.

She gives him a strange look. “I heard what you wanted to ask Yaga earlier.” Her lips spread
into a smirk, then, and it's a little unnerving, Suguru has to admit. “Apparently the other guy
— Gojo something? I don't remember — isn't gonna show up until the day classes start. Or
that's what I heard, at least.”

“Wow,” says Suguru. “That’s pretty late.”

“That’s pretty on time, I’d say.” Shoko shrugs. “Honestly, I’m just here early to not have to
deal with curses. They’re everywhere downtown.”

Suguru can believe that. If he encountered as many curses as he did out in the countryside,
with its reputed peace and scarcity of humans, then he can't imagine the sheer amount of
them in Tokyo. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Yeah, well,” says Shoko.

She places the cigarette back in her mouth again. Suguru takes it as an end-of-conversation
signal— and sure enough, Shoko then proceeds to quietly stroll a few paces forward until she
reaches the door. Slides it open and, before disappearing beyond it, turns back to give him a
sidelong glance. Raises her hand in a parting wave.

“Welcome to Tokyo Jujutsu High,” she calls, around the cigarette in her mouth. “Hit me up
for vodka later.”

_____

Suguru has, admittedly, been looking forward to making new friends at this school.

Never been one to be left alone, often finer in a social setting, he has always found it easy to
draw people toward him. It’s a straightforward thing: you smile, you're nice, you listen, and
everything falls into place at the tip of his fingers. Forming friendships has always been
second-nature to him. It usually results in Suguru not having too much time to himself, but he
doesn't quite mind it. People are pleasant. Complicated, he supposes, but generally agreeable.
Easily charmed.

So he was eager to befriend his classmates. Especially when there are only two of them.

Shoko is cool.

He thinks that's the most accurate word to describe her: cool. Laid-back, unbothered, a killer
(twisted?) sense of humour. There's always a rather solemn air she carries, but he finds it easy
to be around her. Soothing, almost.

He goes for a drink with Shoko on the first day, both perched on the rooftops of their dorm;
and then again on the third day. She tells him about her city, her favourite beverages, the one
incident where she nearly bled to death but managed to reverse it. It’s a good time. He likes
her.

But Suguru does spend most of the days by himself.

He familiarizes himself with the terrains, roves around the campus, tours the city. Many
sights he hasn't seen— vastly different from the village he was born in. He takes pictures of
everything pretty and sends them to his mom. Calls her, even, when he reaches Shinjuku in
all of its neon-lit abundance. Then calls her again, when the orders for the Jujutsu High
School uniforms arrive and his request for the loose-fitting pant legs comes through. They fit
nicely. Ample room to move, just the way he likes it.

The school staff are friendly to him, too. It doesn't take Suguru long to get acquainted with
people working in the vicinity of the campus. He hasn’t met anyone who’s difficult to talk to.
Day one, and he learns their names; day two, and he jokes with them.

And they tell him, in turn, all he needs to know. About the rules, about the land, about the
people, about the students.

_____

And about Gojo Satoru.

The thing is: Suguru is curious about the boy, but not so curious that he would solicit
information out of everyone. There are protocols for socializing, first off. Plus, he doesn't
care enough. He would've just forgotten about it after the first day, opted to wait until classes
start.

But — to Suguru's chronic surprise — the name pops up in conversation everywhere he

goes.

It always starts with the same reaction. Oh, you're the new first-year student here, shit, that's
gotta be tough, and then it's often accompanied with a flinch or a cluck of the tongue. It
astonishes him, the sheer number of people who react this way.

And then the name comes up.

Gojo Satoru.

It hangs in the air like a ghost, like an omen every time it's mentioned. Suguru quickly learns
that there is a general consensus around this 15-year-old kid, and it’s pretty damn negative.

All the tidbits of intel he gathers from everyone working at the school grounds — the
teachers, the visitors, all sorcerers — tell him much about the three great families of the
jujutsu world. Tell him that currently, the Gojo family is just the one-man presence of Gojo
Satoru, whose birth had caused a shift in the balance of power and whose head has had a
bounty placed upon it ever since he was a child. Who inherited the Limitless and Six Eyes
techniques, who is now the face of the clan. The strongest of us all, soon. Infamy since birth.

Jeez, that's some responsibility, Suguru thinks. I bet he's uptight.

Or— cold, was what Ijichi said.

But.

But, strangely, despite the fact that everyone — every single person he encounters — knows
who Gojo Satoru is, every description he gets of him is rather vague.

Suguru makes an attempt to ask, because why not. Ah, really. What's he like? But even then,
what he receives in response are all along the lines of:

“I don’t know. He doesn’t socialize much.”

“Unapproachable.”

“Arrogant, I've heard.”

“I’ve never spoken to him.”

“I think he’s mostly alone.”

The answers are always the same. Curt comments with a dismissive wave of a hand, a shrug.
Even Yaga — the person Suguru thought was most likely to supply him some insight — had
simply said, I'm not sure, I've only ever watched him from afar.

It's a little baffling.

For someone whose history people can recite by rote, “powerful" seems to be the only
common adjective for Gojo Satoru's description. That's all it boils down to. The reputation of
his strength and clan, it seems, far precedes his character. What an image.

Well—
(Shoko doesn't seem to care. She isn't with Suguru most of the time, when he speaks to the
people around campus. But on the rare occasion that she is, she merely stays impassive,
whenever the topic of Gojo Satoru comes up.

“Oh yeah?” Shoko would just say, before tuning out. He really likes her.)

—whatever, then, Suguru thinks, after waving goodbye to the thirteenth person who
scornfully spoke of the Gojo clan. Doesn't matter. It's not like fame being isolating is a new
phenomenon. Always a far better thing to see for yourself. It isn't his place, anyway, to poke
his nose in and pick apart before he even meets the boy.

So Suguru shrugs it off, and puts it aside. Tries not to think about it.

.
 Suguru
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Suguru tries not to think about it.

Until the topic comes up again, the evening before classes start.

He's coming back from a full day of wandering around downtown Tokyo. His legs are sore
from walking, his phone nearly out of storage from all the photos he’s taken— all the cafés,
the gardens, the shrines. All day ensconced in the middle of Tokyo, and it still feels like what
he had explored is only a fraction of what lies within it. Too many things to subsume,
especially in just four days.

Ijichi drives him back.

Autumn comes early this year and settles like a warm cloak over the city. Suguru sits on the
backseat beside the rolled-down window, the cool wind nipping through the tufts of his hair.
Languid with exhaustion, his legs numb from walking, all he manages to do is leave the sun
on his skin, heavy with warmth and soft. Miles away, the city glints brass under the orange
sky.

Suguru doesn't have his guard up.

He doesn't pay much attention to his surroundings. That's why, only when he climbs out of
the car — after Ijichi has pulled to a stop at the same foot of the stairway — does he notice
the presence of someone else there.

“Ijichi-san!” yells a feminine voice, at the same time as Suguru whirls around, startled and
alarmed, and behind him—

Is a girl. She's a few feet away from him, draped in school uniform. High school uniform.
With dark hair reaching her shoulders and her eyes sanguine-bright. She looks out of place on
a mountain trail like this, a lone young girl in the middle of nowhere with tides of green all
over. There doesn't seem to be anyone else with her.

Before Suguru manages to soothe his erratic heartbeats down, her eyes lift to catch his
expression, and she laughs, a little nervously.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“Ah, that’s— that's okay,” Suguru forces out.

“Rin!”

Ijichi’s voice. Suguru hears the car door swing shut behind him, and it takes exactly three
seconds for Ijichi to appear before them; then two more to close the distance between him
and the girl. The older man’s grin is unexpectedly radiant — the cheeriest Suguru has ever
seen him — as he stands before her and pats her head.

“What are you doing here?” Ijichi asks, excitedly.

She glares at him, then swats his hand away. “Stop it,” she says, without rancor, “I’m not
three.”

“You’re fourteen.” Ijichi beams. “Child enough for me to do this, no?”

“Ugh.”

Suguru takes in a deep, quiet breath and waits for his heartbeats to calm. Motherfuck, that
was a scare. But she’s harmless, he tells himself, no cursed energy or anything, and it seems
like she and Ijichi are close acquaintances. He supposes it’s been a while since he’s let his
guard down this much.

A lone young girl on a mountain path. Suguru does a once-over of her.

Rin, he recalls, is it? From her red-ribbon-tied uniform to the way he can’t detect even a slim
trace of cursed energy on her, she must not be a jujutsu sorcerer. Family friend of Ijichi-san,
then? Uncle and niece? They don't look alike enough to be directly blood-related, though one
can shock.

Then he notices that she's holding something in her hand.

Some kind of... papery thing, hidden behind her fingers. Suguru’s attention flicks back up to
her face — as subtly as he can while Ijichi chatters on to her about how young you are to be
stranded here alone, kid, what the heck are you even doing — and sees that her eyes are
darting around as she pretends to listen. Left and right, right and left, like she's searching for
something. Or someone.

(From what he’s experienced in the past few days, Suguru can take a wild guess as to who
this might be.)

“Ijichi-san,” Rin interrupts. “He's not here, is he?”

Ijichi halts in the middle of his words, mouth still open. He blinks for a few moments,
uncomprehending, until a realization dawns on his face, blooming like a shadow.

“Oh,” he breathes out, “no, kid. No, he's not.”

“Ah,” she murmurs. Her expression dissolves into an odd mix of relief and dejection, as if
she hasn't quite decided on whether this is good news, and hm, that's a face Suguru hasn't
seen in a while. Feels like he should probably step away from this conversation— but then
her fingers fidget around the object in her palms, kittenish, and she mumbles, “That’s a
shame. I really wanted to see him.”

Suguru pauses.
Narrows his eyes for a moment, then— what the hell.

“Are you,” he asks, because curiosity is a hard thing to shake off when nobody seems to be
able to stop mentioning this boy, “by any chance, talking about Gojo Satoru?”

The girl whips toward him. It’s such a sudden sweep of movement, so unexpected, that
Suguru’s knee-jerk reaction kicks in and he smiles, blank and sweet.

“Do you,” she asks, “do you know him?”

“Er,” says Suguru.

“Oh, right, yes!” Ijichi cuts in, thank god, with a vague gesture in Suguru’s direction. “This is
Getou, a new student who will be studying here this year. Kid, this is Rin, my son’s friend.”

Suguru looks over to Ijichi, and in the cursory second that their eyes meet, the older man's
gaze hardens into caution. Just briefly; enough for Suguru to understand its meaning: she
doesn’t know about our world.

Suguru smiles at her. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Rin returns, a tad hesitantly. “You’re a... new student?”

“Yes,” says Suguru, before remembering that for anyone without knowledge of curses or
sorcery or anything in between, the campus on the high side of the mountain is merely a
religious school, a private façade of temples and shrines. So he changes the subject. “You
know Kiyotaka?”

“Eh?” says Rin, blinking. “Oh. Uh, yes. We’ve been friends for a while.” She shifts uneasily.
“Do you... do you know Gojo-kun?”

“Nope,” Suguru says frankly, before adding in consideration, “unfortunately. I’m supposed to
meet him tomorrow.”

That seems to have brought out a light in her. She gazes up at him with a calf-like expression,
eyes wide and mouth tight, and in any other circumstance he would've cracked a joke to
break the comical tension of it, but right now she's too eager, this girl, her next words poised
like a marble on the lip of a table. And he's curious. Even without looking, Suguru can sense
the puzzlement from Ijichi's stance as well.

So he waits.

“Well, actually,” she begins, after the silence has gone on long enough— and her eyes bore
into Suguru again, bright and greedy and keen. Honestly, in all his years interacting with
people, this is an expression he knows all too well. An easy tell to spot: it's the look they have
when they want something from you, when they’re gearing to ask. So it doesn’t take him by
surprise when she straightens, tightens the grip she has in her hands, and blurts out: “I want
to ask a favour from you, Getou-kun.”

Suguru smiles. “Oh?”

“Huh?” Ijichi starts, but she cuts him off before he can continue.

“Could you please,” says Rin, tentatively, “pass this along to your classmate?”

She unfurls the object in her hand, flips it over for them both to see, and it's...

A rose-coloured envelope. Small, carefully tucked between her fingers; and beside it is a tiny
chocolate box with a pink ribbon wrapped around its sides. They’re modestly adorned, cute
and sweet. Suguru glances back up at her— and the girl’s cheeks begin to tinge a little red,
then, gaze suddenly bashful.

Ah, he thinks, immediately catching on.

“Lucky guy,” Suguru says, winking. Her face instantly brightens.

“Now hold on just a second,” Ijichi splutters, before Suguru manages to say anything further.
“You— Rin, are you seriously planning on giving this to him? Gojo Satoru?” He looks, if
anything, affronted. “Him?!”

She huffs. Suguru notes, with quiet amusement, that her previous diffidence has already
morphed into something surly, almost childish. “You say that like it's so bad, Ijichi-san,” Rin
says indignantly. “Have you seen him?”

“Yes,” cries Ijichi. “What the— have you talked to him?!”

“Clearly you haven't,” says Rin. “I can listen to his voice all day. He is perfectly nice, by the
way, unlike what you paint him out to be.”

“You've spoken to him once,” Ijichi points out.

“Takes some people less to develop a crush,” says Rin. “What's so bad about this? He's
strong, he's handsome, and his voice is like silk. I don't see what the issue is with wanting to
get to know him better.”

“Oh god,” says Ijichi. “Does Kiyotaka know about this?”

“Who do you think told me about this school?” says Rin.

“Oh god,” Ijichi groans.

Suguru listens to the exchange, entertained and trying not to look it.

A love letter.

A love letter. He hasn't seen one of those in a while either, the last time being a rain-worn
letter set covertly inside his school desk compartment. After that it's mostly been blushes and
stammers of verbal confessions. So it's endearing, he muses, to see this. It's sweet.

But a love letter to Gojo Satoru.

From all the bleak and ornery remarks he had heard in the past few days — cold, distant,
powerful — Gojo Satoru had seemed like an entity too otherworldly to be human, let alone a
15-year-old boy. Some urban legend kinda thing. So it feels a bit unreal, frankly, to have
someone standing before him with this kind of intention, these feelings, these offerings so
tangible to someone Suguru hadn't quite yet braced himself to meet.

Although, he thinks, this is a rather… bizarre situation, now that there's a moment to think
twice about it. To repeatedly hear of your incomprehensible classmate days before you even
start school is one thing, and it's another to be standing on this windswept mountain trail,
being asked by a girl you don't know to deliver this handwritten letter to said
incomprehensible classmate. He’s not sure how he should feel about this.

The trouble you're worth, Suguru thinks, rather amused.

And then he thinks: how untouchable do you have to be for this to happen?

“I can pass this along,” Suguru says out loud, as tactfully as he can, “but do you not want to
do it yourself?”

They both turn towards him, their conversation falling to a silence.

And Suguru is surprised. Because there's a certain doomed valor with the way she squares her
shoulders, now, all the previous zest and gusto gone. Her guise is shading back into
something timid, and jeez, Suguru has witnessed a lot of people get unbearably shy when it
comes to the subject of their crush (particularly girls around him in most cases, even though
he pretends he doesn’t see it), but the way she’s looking down at the toe of her shoes right
now, fingers clutching a tick tighter at the envelope, feels like she's already bracing herself
for an outright rejection. Like there isn't a possibility that the boy would even consider it.

Suguru doesn't think he's ever seen such low hopes.

“I just,” Rin stammers, “I just heard…” And she trails off, voice fading down into an
inaudible mumble.

Aw. “It's fine,” Suguru says. “Don't worry. I can just—”

“I'm sorry to bother you,” she stutters out, with a helpless laugh, and Suguru knows the
beginning of a nervous ramble when he sees it. “I know it's strange to ask you, since we've
only just met, but, y'know, I wanted to do something more personal, with more effort —
hence the chocolate and the letter — and I was kind of hoping he'd be here today. B-but I
don't think I can exactly say it to his face, in the end... and since you're here...”

“No, I get it,” says Suguru, sympathizing.

“And,” she continues, “and the other classmate that I saw of yours seems so scary, I couldn't
even bring myself to approach her—"

“Ah, yes.” Suguru tries not to laugh, giddy that there is now something he can tease Shoko
with. “She's like that. Don't worry.”
Ijichi heaves a huge sigh.

His arm comes up to scratch at the back of his head, the lines of his face settling into
awkward resignation. Suguru's well-versed enough in the art of observing, now, that he can
tell the older man is dying to say something but is instead biting it back.

“See,” says Ijichi. “If the act of merely giving Gojo this letter scares you this much, he isn't
worth it, kid.”

Rin looks up at him.

And, well. Suguru had half-expected the comment to be morally discouraging — a blunt
inference that she would have no chance of getting what she wants out of this, best to just
leave it be — but dejection is not the emotion that he’s reading on her face.

There is a small, careful smile at the corners of her lips instead; the sort that is all acceptance
and sardonic, in a way, although Suguru isn't sure if the sardonicism is directed at herself or
the man before her. And he would’ve felt bad for her, would've taken pity, if it weren't for the
fragile lap of hope in her eyes as she fiddles, once again, with the box and letter in her hands,
turning them over with an expression that says she has already made peace with whatever the
outcome is.

“I don't know, Ijichi-san,” she says, quiet and soft. “I think you're wrong.”

_____

Suguru makes his way back to his room, letter and box light in his hands.

It's chocolate, Rin had told him. I hope Gojo-kun likes sweets.

Suguru churns the box over in his palm. It's small, near weightless, probably containing
merely one or two pieces inside.

And as for the envelope— it feels like fine paper, this thing. He flips it over once, then twice,
inspecting out of curiosity. At a front corner are her name and Gojo Satoru’s, printed in neat
handwriting with a tiny pink heart next to them. Nothing showy, sickly sweet. The effort she
put in, he thinks, catching a pale whiff of floral fragrance emanating from it. She really tried.

He'd said goodbye to the two of them, just shortly after. Even through the barrage of
displeasure coming from Ijichi — verbal or non — she had handed Suguru both the letter and
box and simply said, If Gojo-kun likes it, I've written down how he can contact me, with a
dark blush rising in her cheeks. Suguru had wanted to pinch her.

(Rin was cute. He remembers seeing the orange sunlight dance across the pale brown of her
eyes, and she was cute, that girl. He imagines it would’ve been better if she hands it over
herself, but.)
Nothing he can do about it.

So Suguru walks, now, striding back through the corridors of their dormitory, the creaking of
wood sounding beneath his feet.

He finds Shoko in the hallway.

She appears to have just come out of the shower. Towel across her shoulder, hair wet,
earphones in, steam rising still around the silk of her clothes. She spots him just as he turns
the corner to the hall of their rooms; then nods in a salute, and removes her earphones.

“What's up,” she asks, and then, “What's that in your hand?”

Suguru waves it up so she can see. “Someone gave me chocolate and a love letter,” he says
cheerily. “Jealous?”

“Sure,” says Shoko. “Who’s it actually for?”

Suguru grins. She really doesn't indulge him. “Our other classmate. The one we keep hearing
about.” Shoko raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him, a clear Seriously? “Is he still not here
yet?”

“Nah. Didn't see him.” She glances down again at the letter. “Why would they give these to
you, and not to him?”

Suguru shrugs. “Some people are shy.”

“Shy,” says Shoko, “or just a coward?”

“You should try confessing, then,” says Suguru, though there's levity in his tone. “Would like
to see you fluster sometime.”

Shoko gives him a sideways glance. There's a mordant glint in her gaze, he notices, before
she brushes back a stray curl of hair and huffs out a little scoff. “Seriously,” she says. “You
like getting yourself tangled up in things, don't you.”

“I’m doing someone a favour,” says Suguru.

“What I said.”

“I mean,” says Suguru, “I wasn't gonna say no.”

“I would've,” says Shoko. It comes out harsh, her eyes seemingly fighting back against a roll,
but he catches the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. They haven't gotten to know each other
for long, but if there's one characteristic he can pin on Shoko (who is notoriously mysterious,
with her impassive eyes and her deft hands, and her penchant for being as evasive as a
lurcher), it's that she's blunt. Painfully so. Unnecessarily so, even. He doesn't want to ever be
on the receiving end of her judgment.
Though it's refreshing. For someone who puts up a front as much as he does, it's fun to be
around a girl so unflinchingly frank.

“I know.” Suguru gives the box a tiny shake, grinning. “The girl who gave me this seems to
know that too.”

Shoko actually rolls her eyes, this time. It only makes Suguru grin wider.

“By the way,” she says airily, as she walks across the floorboards to pass Suguru by, heading
toward the dormitory exit, “Yaga told us to meet at his office at 6 a.m. tomorrow.”

Suguru stares after her.

“Six?” he echoes. “Six?”

She looks back over her shoulder, and the smile on her face suggests that she considers
making fun of him. “I'm going for a walk,” she declares instead, and he swears he's able to
catch her winking at him as she turns. “Get enough sleep, Getou. Gotta look your best to drop
off that love letter tomorrow.”

“Could you not make it sound like it's mine?” says Suguru, exasperatedly.

But all Shoko does is cut through the corridor, step past the exit, and ram the door shut
behind her.

He stares at the empty hall.

“For god's sake,” Suguru mutters. He rakes a hand through his hair — undoing the bun in the
process — lets out a deep sigh, and makes his way back to his room.

(Have you seen him?)

Suguru gently closes his door. He sets both the letter and box atop his bedside drawer, placed
neatly above a stack of books. Walks to the bathroom, changes out of his clothes, takes a
shower, slips into his pyjamas, washes his face and brushes his teeth, and before long he's
climbed onto the bed and drawing the blanket up to his chest, tucked cozy inside the confines
of his room.

(Have you talked to him?)

Suguru peers at the bedside table.

There is a part of him that wants to tear the letter open and read whatever’s inside, see if
there’s anything else interesting for him to know. What kind of presence would you have,
really, to meet a girl one time and have her fawn over you this much? Flustering and anxious
it's something more cardinal on the line. It's funny, and intriguing, and Suguru badly wants to
know—

(He is perfectly nice, unlike what you paint him out to be.)
—but nah. Of course he won't read the letter. It isn't his place, Suguru reminds himself, to
poke his nose in and pick apart.

So he turns over onto his side. Listens to the breeze through the frames of his window, to his
own breathing, quiet and soft, and drifts off.

_____

Turns out 5:45 a.m. is quite a dehumanizing hour for teenagers to wake.

Suguru opens his eyes and immediately wants to die. Only his cursed sense of duty wills him
to rise from the bed and stagger toward the bathroom. He bumps into the wall three times on
the way there, almost falls asleep while brushing his teeth, and incorrectly buttons his shirt
twice.

When he finally manages to look presentable and get himself out of his room, the hallway is
empty.

Suguru blinks for a few moments, his mind blank, before he remembers. It only takes an
extra 30 seconds for him to head back into his room, grab the letter and box to put into his
loose pant pockets, and come back out.

He can't make out any noises coming from the student rooms as he walks through the
corridor. Nothing from Shoko's, or any of the other ones that Gojo Satoru might be assigned
in. Either they haven’t woken up yet, or they’re already there at Yaga's office— and the idea
of the latter increases the speed of his steps a bit.

Yaga's office is only a few buildings over. Suguru treads through a bridge overhead a pond
and two vast stone grounds to get to it. And it's a cool, colourless morning today, the kind
where once the sun really comes up the landscape will be bleached with hues and heat, and
Suguru will be incapable of doing anything but lie around under the shade with a book,
feeling his brain thawing out into the pages, songbirds all around. If classes end early today,
he thinks, I might ask Shoko and Gojo to join me.

When he finally reaches Yaga's office, it's silent in the corridor.

Every sound is amplified in the empty hall: the quiet thud of his footsteps, the faint tinkling
of windchimes. Suguru stands before Yaga's door — not hearing any voices from inside
except for a low scratching sound — and pushes it open.

There are only two people in the room.

Yaga is sitting at his desk. He's facing Suguru but his head is bowed, eyes trained
downwards, and Suguru notices that his hands are meticulously toying with what appears to
be a stuffed animal. At least, Suguru hopes it's a stuffed animal, because otherwise the poor
panda has gone blind. That's where the scratching noises come from, he realizes, that pen on
the pelage.

And in the middle of the room is a U-shaped couch. Shoko is lounging on it— on the side
opposite the open sliding doors, where the garden is lush and visible. She has one leg draped
over the other, arms folded across her chest in a manner that is not so much reservation as it
is insouciance. She takes one look at Suguru, and nods her head.

(No third student.)

“Ah,” says Yaga, without lifting his eyes from the task at hand, “you're here.”

Suguru glances at the clock hanging by the wall. Six sharp. He isn't late.

“Good morning, sensei,” says Suguru, then turns to Shoko and smiles at her, teasing. “I didn't
take you for a punctual person.”

“Don't give me too much credit.” Shoko yawns. “I just didn't sleep much. Waking up this
early is not something I’m gonna keep doing.”

“That's nice to hear,” Yaga says dryly.

Suguru scans the room. He can't even see a figure from beyond the sliding doors; no one in
the garden.

“That boy’s probably going to be late,” comes Yaga's voice, startling him back. Suguru turns
in time to see Yaga frown, looking deeply annoyed. “You can sit. We’ll wait for him to start.
I'll go through the rules and regulations and the curriculum, so I don't want to have to repeat
myself.” He lets out a huge sigh, and slices into the panda with extra ferocity. “Honestly, I've
heard that he tends to do whatever he wants, but on these grounds, he is my student. He can't
expect to do this and get away with it.”

So, Suguru thinks, Gojo Satoru isn't punctual, and logs it in the back of his mind.

“I’ll stand,” he says.

Yaga looks up at Suguru, lingering for a brief beat, before casting his eyes down again to the
task at hand.

The room goes silent.

After five minutes of waiting, Suguru ends up sitting.

Shoko doesn't seem to be interested in talking, either. She just sits with her arms crossed,
eyes half-lidded, occasionally nibbling her thumb like she's itching for a light, and well,
considering how early it is in the morning, Suguru doesn't have the mental fortitude to keep
up a conversation anyway. So he just slouches back against his seat, one ankle up on his
knee, and waits.

They end up waiting 20 minutes.

It’s footsteps he hears first. Unhurried— which, judging by the way Yaga's brows instantly
furrow at the sound of it, is really grating on his nerves. They're light, and slow, and
eventually they get closer and louder and closer, and then the door swings open.

From all Suguru has heard about Gojo Satoru, no one has given him any details on what the
boy looks like.

Suguru had thought that he’d be some kind of brute. Some hunky, cranky kid who appears
and acts too old for his age. Maybe a scar or two, veins obtruding from his skin, an
appearance that would justify all the reverence and fear he instills in people—

—but the person who steps in is just a boy.

(Arrogant, I've heard.

He doesn’t socialize much.

Unapproachable.

I think he’s mostly alone.)

A very... blinding one. Suguru sits still in his seat, carefully watching as the boy walks in—
saunters in, more like, a lightness in his gait. He's tall, Suguru notes, maybe as tall as I am,
with fair skin, hands shoved in his pockets, uniform wrinkled around his frame, and it's not
uncommon, perhaps, for someone to have their hair dyed white, but it falls so naturally on
Gojo Satoru. From his locks to his lashes to his brows, all of it like snow.

And when his eyes sweep over the room to eventually land on Suguru, the blue of it is almost
drowning.

God, is Suguru’s first thought, he's so pretty.

“Satoru,” Yaga seethes, with a tone that can cut granite. Then he takes a breath. Inhales. Lets
it out. Pulls up the watch around his wrists and displays it clear. “You're twenty minutes
late.”

Gojo’s gaze settles on Yaga.

Blue, Suguru thinks. So blue, and he understands why people call this boy cold, why people
call him distant, untouchable, because there's ice in that look. It's almost startling how stony
it is.

Gojo, without a word, ambles toward the sofa. Silently strolls there and falls onto it — falls
into, rather, the cushions sagging dramatically under the impact of his descent — and refuses
to look at any of them. He’s grace and roughness all in one person, perched like that: the
crass way he slings one leg over the other, the easy fold of his arms across his chest.
Certainly not quite the image Suguru had of him.

This is Gojo Satoru, he muses, filing the moment away.

Gojo doesn't say anything. Doesn't meet any of their eyes. He just trains his gaze down onto
the table before him, expression blank.

A vein at Yaga's temple twitches.

“Hey,” Suguru attempts, leaning forward, speaking as quietly as he can even though he
knows everyone is able to hear him. “Um. Sensei just talked to you.”

Gojo looks up at him.

Suguru can't really decipher what his expression is saying, but it looks like Gojo is— slightly
caught off-guard. His eyes are innocently bright.

“I said,” Yaga grumbles, before either of them manages to continue, “that you are twenty
minutes late, Satoru.”

Gojo cranes his neck to look at Yaga.

There is a short pause, and then: “Some people,” Gojo says, “would call that fashionable,
sensei.”

Suguru forces down a cough.

“Excuse me?!” Yaga snaps, his face turning a remarkable shade of purple. He might’ve
looked frightening, really, if he weren't holding a stuffed baby panda in his hands. “This is a
school, not a school party. Be serious! How difficult is it to show up at the exact minute we
agreed upon? This is disrespectful to anyone who's waiting for you!”

Gojo blinks. And it's only because Suguru is watching closely that he sees it — a subtle,
minor shift — but there is something like surprise flitting across Gojo's face. Something like
a startle. It's almost, Suguru thinks, frowning, almost like he isn't used to reprimand.

“...Well,” says Gojo. He doesn't raise his voice, but it carries through the room anyway. “I’d
make more of an effort, if you’d chosen to meet in the morning instead of at dawn.”

“Six is hardly dawn!” says Yaga.

“You all could've just started without me,” says Gojo.

“This is not the point,” Yaga grumbles. “First, Satoru, you’re late. Then you don't apologize.
Then you don't even greet or acknowledge your fellow classmates, who have clearly been
here, waiting for you for all those twenty minutes after we were scheduled to meet.”

Gojo leans back against the couch and lets out a sigh, as if he himself is the one who had
been waiting for them. Then he straightens. Looks up at Shoko for a brief second, then turns
to stare at Suguru.

Suguru holds his gaze.

“I'm Ieiri Shoko,” says Shoko. Suguru doesn't have to see her to know that she’s a little too
done with this.

Gojo flicks his eyes over at Shoko again, then trains them once more on Suguru. He hesitates
for a beat before holding up a hand. “Gojo Satoru.”

Suguru nods. “Getou Suguru.”

“There,” says Yaga. “That wasn't so hard, was it?”

Gojo lets out a groan. “Alright, alright. Sorry I'm late. But you're anal, sensei.” He gestures
out to the garden, arm flinging animatedly like it'll sooner make his point. “You can hear the
first birds chirping outside! In the trees! It's the break of dawn! It's like you consider it a
character flaw to sleep.”

“Satoru,” Yaga warns.

Suguru bites his lips to keep from reacting inappropriately. Cold, everyone had said.
Unapproachable, that kid. Credit where it's due, it's not an unreasonable conclusion for them
to reach, considering how unfriendly Gojo Satoru appears to be at first glance.

But this, Suguru thinks, this is... attitude.

“Sensei,” he says instead, because he is nothing if not a peacemaker, as diplomatic as they go.
“It's six a.m. Please excuse me to say this, but that's— pretty early, to be honest.”

Yaga whips his head over to him, a flicker of betrayal across his face. Suguru looks away.

“See!” says Gojo, pointing at Suguru. “That— bangs, he agrees with me. What's your name
again?”

“Suguru,” he says without thinking.

“Suguru,” says Gojo, and—

And Suguru doesn't catch the rest of what he's saying, or what Yaga responds in turn, because
Gojo is smiling at him.

A bright, cold smile.

Suguru, experienced enough in the art of faking it, knows a forced smile when he sees one.
Knows when someone doesn't mean the happiness or fondness they display on their face.
Knows when it's only meant to charm.

And he usually hates it. He usually dislikes the reflection of himself he sees in it, resents the
implication that they are masking something he isn’t bound to know. But—

But with the way Gojo's eyes are crinkled right now; with how fawn-soft he looks with his
lips pulled wide, the morning glow of sunlight flooding in from behind him — golden rays
spilling over the cloud of his hair, over his eyes that are latched onto Suguru’s under all that
light, all that sky, blue as stillwater — Gojo simply looks brilliant. Radiant, when he has no
right to be. Suguru feels, more or less, like he's been pinned with a sniper’s red mark.

Shit, he thinks.

“Okay,” says Yaga, and Suguru nearly flinches from the tone of it, “enough. What I'm going
to do now, is that I'm gonna go through all the rules and regulation and curriculum, and then
you're going to all leave for breakfast. And then we will reconvene here at 9 o'clock for actual
class. Nine—” he turns to Gojo, his glare obvious and stern even with those glasses shielding
his eyes “—sharp. Sharp, alright, Satoru?”

_____

It takes an hour for Yaga to say everything he has to say.

Suguru tries to remember everything. In two days, says Yaga, I’ll accompany you on your
first low-level mission. If everything goes well, you get to do it on your own in three weeks’
time, though I'll get an assistant to observe you from afar ‘cause I'm not trusting you lot to
handle it by yourselves just yet. The rest of their days, then, will be spent learning, training,
fighting, gauging what each of their capabilities are.

Yaga describes everything he has to. Everything in the curriculum, all the resources they
need, all the people they can contact. He tells them about the alarm that sounds if
unregistered cursed energy is detected (if this happens, that's an extra hour of training the
next day, no objections). Tells them about the isolation chamber, the morgue, the foothills of
Mount Mushiro. The underground compound of old buildings that encircles a giant tree;
Tomb of the Stars, they call it, for whatever unexplained reason. Suguru has visited most of
these places in the past five days, so it isn't too much information to absorb.

But the entire way through, Gojo doesn't seem to be paying attention.

He just… zones out. Legs and arms crossed, head rested back against the sofa, he either
spends the entire lecture staring into space or darting his eyes around, focusing on seemingly
the tiniest details in the room. It's funny. Suguru notices it; which means that Yaga must
notice too, only the older man apparently chooses not to address the annoyance (even though
Suguru hears him mumbling grievances under his breath, goodness, goddamn, fuck shit why,
more times than Suguru has ever heard coming out of his mouth).

But Gojo doesn't listen. He merely remains quiet, and it's stark, the difference between him
silent and him speaking. Without the life form of his voice, he does seem the caricature of all
that Suguru has heard of him.

But anyway.

Eventually, Yaga finishes.

He shoos them out of his office afterwards. Get some food while you have a break, and then
asks them, with a meaningful glance at Gojo, to reconvene in precisely two hours.

So they shuffle out into the hallway (surprisingly, with Gojo quietly falling back behind both
of them). Suguru steps out first and turns around, watching the sliver of light from within the
room files down into a slit, and then into nothing as Gojo silently closes the door behind
him.

Suguru catches Shoko's eyes. Only for a brief moment, but she understands.

“I’m gonna go first, then,” she says with a smug tilt of her lips, and marches away without
another word.

Gojo stares at Shoko's retreating form. Then turns to walk in the other direction, before
Suguru shoves down all the awkwardness he feels about the situation — here goes nothing —
and says, “Gojo. Can I have a minute?”

Gojo halts in his steps and looks back.

Suguru sort of wants to hit him. Or shove him hard against a wall, if only to stop those eyes
from staring at him like this. But he gathers himself. Reaches into his pockets, pulls out the
box and envelope, and hands it to Gojo with an outstretched arm.

Gojo blinks at him. Casts his gaze down to the objects in Suguru's hand.

A long moment between them draws.

Why isn't he reacting, Suguru thinks, starting to feel like he should just catapult the damn
things at Gojo's head and get himself out of the building, when Gojo’s face — slowly,
deviously — spreads into a sly grin.

“What is this?” he drawls. “You’ve fallen for me already?”

This brat, Suguru thinks. “Don't be ridiculous,” he says instead, frowning. “Rin asked me to
give this to you.” Gojo doesn't react at all at the reply, face blank, only a small tilt of his head
to indicate that he has heard anything at all. It's almost like he doesn't remember who Rin is.
Suguru tries to shake that off. “Take it.”

Gojo hesitates.

“I didn't poison it,” Suguru adds.

Gojo narrows his eyes, mouth pressing together slightly as if irked. He grabs both the box
and envelope away from Suguru's hand with a clear petulance to it. Regards them for beat,
weighs the box in his palm, then pulls on the ribbon to open it. Suguru catches a faint scent of
what's inside— something like cream, something like layers upon layers of cocoa, something
that has the soft inner curl of cameral. He wonders if Rin took the time to make this herself;
either that or she's spent a shit ton of money on this, way too much to be worth giving to a
boy she's only met once anyway.
The thought lingers with him, uneasy, as Gojo pulls out a dark, round piece of chocolate.
Looks at it for a second, then pops it in his mouth and swallows.

“True,” says Gojo, once he's licked all the smidges of it from his fingers. “You didn't poison
it.”

“Just wait a few minutes,” says Suguru. Gojo scowls. “I'm kidding. Would choose a rougher
way to go about it, if I wanted to.”

“Good to know,” Gojo says, and then—

Suguru should've seen it coming. From the way Gojo has acted in the past hour, from the way
he's been carelessly speaking and holding onto the letter, wrinkling in his hand, Suguru
should've known.

He should've seen it coming. But it takes him aback — suddenly — when the letter is
crumpled into a tight ball in Gojo's hand. Reduced to a sad mass of creases and folds without
Gojo’s fingers even curling in on themselves, without them even moving. Suguru stares,
open-mouthed, as Gojo then tosses it into the trashcan beside them. He doesn't even spare a
glance at it. Not even a remorseful peek.

“What the—” Suguru blurts out. “What are you doing?”

Gojo blinks at him. “Huh?”

“You— you didn’t even read it.”

“Oh,” says Gojo. “I'm not interested. Why should I?”

“You’re eating her chocolate,” says Suguru, “but you’re not even going to bother opening the
letter?”

Gojo frowns. “What's it to you,” he mutters. “I don't even remember her.”

“I—” Suguru begins. And okay. He hasn't gotten angry on a stranger's behalf in a while; not
for any romantic reasons, not for something like this. But he remembers Rin's face now, how
hopeful she had been. How enamoured she was. “She put a lot of time and effort into this,
you know,” he says, ticked off despite himself, because honestly, accepting the letter and
throwing it away in the privacy of your own room is one thing, but crushing it into a ball and
flinging it inside a bin in front of the person who delivers it to you — whether they're the one
who wrote it or not — is an entirely different thing altogether. What kind of fucking manners
is this?

“Bleurghh,” Gojo groans. “Gimme a break. I should be able to do what I want, can't I?”

“Yeah, as long as you take other people’s feelings into consideration,” says Suguru.

“Whose feelings?” says Gojo. “She's not even here.”

“It doesn't matter,” Suguru insists, bewildered that he has to voice this. “I am. It's the
principle of it. You can't be this rude and think that this is an okay thing to do.”

“What are you being so virtuous for?” Gojo says, eyes wide. “My god. If you like this girl so
much, why don't you go out with her?”

Suguru stares. “Are you serious.”

“Why wouldn't I be."

For fuck’s sake. “I'm just asking you to be respectful,” Suguru says, baffled. “Do you think
this is a joke?”

“Am I laughing,” says Gojo.

Oh my god, Suguru's going to punch him. He really is going to punch him. Rude-ass
motherfucking piece of shit. Gojo is just standing there, hands on his hips with a defensive
look on his face, all of him a child, and Suguru wants to dismantle every last brick in this
building, because maybe then he’ll finally see him sweat.

“Even if Rin's not here,” Suguru says instead, “you have to be respectful.”

And, somehow, that seems to have hit a nerve.

Gojo's expression clouds — a dark, unreadable curtain drawing over his face — and before
Suguru can backpedal on his words and identify what it was that was so provoking, Gojo
hurls the box of chocolate straight into the trash. Suguru blinks, jaw slack open, as it crashes
with a thud. The bin wobbles around its stance.

“What are you gonna do about it then? Beat me up?” Something sharp flashes across Gojo's
face, his hands clenched into fists. Suguru stands his ground, unintimidated, but there is still
an edge of something uncontrollable from Gojo, a sudden spark of cursed energy crackling in
between them. “You'd be deluded, y'know, if you think you can.”

“What the hell—” Suguru begins.

“You're the one who can manipulate curses, aren't you?” Gojo snaps, and then he crosses his
arms over his chest and says, in a petty, mocking, unhesitating tone: “What a stupid weak-ass
lame technique.”

Suguru gapes at him.

Blinks.

“What did you say?” Suguru snarls, the shock from insult catapulting him into white-hot
rage. He's angry, holy fuck, so enraged he could spit, and it doesn't matter if Yaga's able to
hear them from inside his office, because all of Suguru's restraint has instantly vanished, all
his patience recoiling into itself like a tape measure snapping free. What the actual fuck. “You
absolute—" and instead of finishing his sentence, he braces his feet hard against the ground,
one elbow pulled back to feel the surge of cursed energy pooling from the pit of his stomach
down through the length of his arm, forging into a black, swirling mass at the tip of his
fingers.

Gojo quickly glances to the cursed spirit forming at Suguru's hand, eyes wide, and looks back
at him.

Suguru smirks. “Scared?”

Gojo's brows knit together, and Suguru notes with delight that he looks just as pissed as
Suguru feels.

“Very funny,” says Gojo, his fingers moving, shoulders hunched. “We'll see who ends up
laughing.”

“Oh, me,” says Suguru matter-of-factly, “it'll be me,” and pulls his arm back even further, fist
raised—

—and an alarm rings throughout the building.

They both jump. Suguru's heart almost jolts out of his ribcage. He jerks his head around, eyes
panickedly darting back and forth as the alarm continues to blare from apparently every
which way. Gojo's doing the same, which means that neither of them knows what this means,
until—

“One extra hour of training the next day,” Yaga's voice booms from within his office, “to
both of you, for the use of unregistered cursed energy!”

They both freeze.

“Oh shit,” says Suguru.

“Oh shit,” says Gojo. “Wait— why me too?!”

“Sorry, sensei,” Suguru shouts over the blaring siren, and hurriedly summons the cursed spirit
back into his body. The alarm immediately stops. “Crap.”

“Hold on, this has nothing to do with—” Gojo splutters, then points at Suguru. “This is your
fault!”

Suguru wants to throw him into the sun. “If you hadn't been such an asshole,” he snaps, “this
wouldn't have happened.”

“I didn't tell you to summon a curse!” Gojo protests, and whispers under his breath,
“Dammit, sensei’s so anal about this!”

“I may be anal,” Yaga's voice calls from within his lair, “but I am not deaf.”

Gojo cringes. Suguru beams.

“Not so tough now,” Suguru says smugly, chin up, shoulders relaxed, “are you.”
Gojo glares at him. “You— you're annoying!” he cries. Suguru’s mouth tugs at a corner,
giddy to see that Gojo's face is turning a funny shade of red, eyes bright now with hot-
blooded anger. The boy can't even seem to find the right words to spout. “Insufferable! You're
a jerk!”

“A state of being you know all about, I'm sure,” says Suguru.

“Just you wait,” Gojo bites out, pointing at Suguru as he turns around and begins to stomp
away, his face scrunched up in a fury that Suguru finds so, so satisfying to witness. “I'm
going to beat you during training tomorrow!”

“Don't make promises you can't keep,” Suguru calls after him. Gojo flips him off.

Suguru grins, watching as Gojo tramps loudly down the hallway, hands jammed into his
pockets like he’s either sulking or unsure of where to place them. Fast as he is at running
away, hah, it doesn't take long for his steps to be no longer audible.

Suguru stares after him until he disappears.

(...Gojo Satoru? said Yaga.

I don't know. I've only ever watched him from afar.)

Man, Suguru thinks. He lets out a huge sigh and pinches at the skin between his brows. There
it goes. What the heck was this. In retrospect, he can't believe that he had been eager to
befriend his classmates; can’t believe that he was willing to make nice with this asshole, even
when he’d expected some kind of brute. Some kind of hunky, cranky kid, because what else
should he have anticipated, after hearing all these rumours about someone whose lineage
precedes them?

(Cold. Unapproachable.)

But the kid who walked into the room was no better than he is. The kid who walked in was
pretending, was callous, too carefree with his words. Eyes of an ocean, but at what cost,
when everything coming out of his mouth holds no goddamn regard for anything else. And
now, after speaking to him for merely less than three minutes, Suguru has solidified his
opinions into—

(Powerful.

The strongest of us all, soon.)

Gojo Satoru, Suguru decides, firmly, confidently, is an absolute dimwit fucking asshole piece
of shit.
Chapter End Notes

a scene in this chapter was briefly written in Yaga's POV, the poor man, if anyone's
interested :)

THANK U to emso once again you are so so wonderful & our similar niches are
concerning!! And thank you guys for reading as always!!!! :D <3
 Satoru
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Satoru,

OK. If you are sure you don't want to come to campus before classes begin, meet me at my
office (last room down the hall at the staff building) at 6 AM on September 3rd. We will see
you then.

But if you change your mind and want to come before, feel free. Your classmates are already
here. I am sure they would like to meet you.

Yaga Masamichi

_____

“You'll start school so soon.”

Satoru looks up from where he's kneeling on the straw mat, hands pressed neatly onto the
fabric of his kimono.

The lady before him meets his gaze. She’s donning a similar outfit, only with flower-dredged
ivory patterns instead of a simple grey, and she's kneeling as well— though in a much
straighter posture, rigid and unmoving, as if stiffness is the only thing that distinguishes her
status from his.

“In just two days,” she says, before he even manages to respond, “you won’t be staying here
anymore.”

Satoru doesn't answer. Best not to voice what he thinks out loud.

“Remember,” says the lady, “that you will be the heir of the clan, Gojo Satoru. What the
world thinks of you is what the world thinks of this family.” She pauses. Satoru waits for it,
braces himself for it, because he knows what comes just as he knows the mapping of this
mansion, just as he knows the approaching sounds of her footsteps. And sure enough:

“Even when we aren't there to watch you,” she says, “you have to be respectful.”

There it is. That age-old line. For the clan image, they mean, no matter how much they avoid
voicing the sentiment out loud. It makes him want to hurl.

So he doesn't say anything.

The woman looks at him, her gaze firm. “Do you remember,” she decides to say, after a
protracted while of silence, “the twins of the Zenin clan?”

Satoru stares.

“They turned three this year,” she continues. “Rumour has it that their father wants them
killed.”

And then she shifts, suddenly, without waiting for his response. Angles her body forward,
leaning into an impossibly strange, uncomfortable posture, her head moving an inch closer to
his; and Satoru's glad for the foot of distance between them, because the smile that bleeds
across her face, then, is unnervingly empty. Almost lifeless.

“Please remember, Gojo Satoru,” she says, quietly, “that you were fortunate to be born into
this family.”

_____

Satoru has always been alone.

Not that he gives a shit. It’s completely fine.

But that's just a fact of the matter. Satoru is fifteen years old and understands envy by rote,
knows that he’s a mortal sin walking. The world will bend at your will and wishes, someone
had told him once. But that will mean that you stand alone.

And therefore, this is what will happen:

Satoru will arrive at the Jujutsu High School. Classes will begin. He will meet his teacher, he
will meet his classmates.

If they don't know who he is— well. They will eventually. Rumours will spread, as all
rumours do, and they will learn of him and his powers and everything associated with the
prestige of his clan. They will hear of the bounties, of the hierarchy, of the ladder, and one of
two things will happen.

One: they will ignore him. Best case scenario, this avoidance thing. Stay an arm's length
away from Gojo Satoru, stay a safe distance, lest something happens and everything goes
awry against their favour. The teacher will allow him to do whatever he wants, and the
students will steer clear.

Two: they'll suck up to him. Indulge him, cajole him, do everything in their power to avoid
going against him. And why wouldn't they, if it furthers their agenda by aligning with one of
the three major clans. The teacher will allow him to do whatever he wants, and the students
will be annoying. A real damn pain up the ass.
So yes. Either or. This is what will happen, because it is everything that has happened
before.

So Satoru sits, now, alone in his room. Still in the kimono they all make him wear — always,
whenever you're in the confines of the Gojo household — but he's sitting with one leg
propped up, improper as he pleases, and one arm resting on the windowsill. It's afternoon
now, which means that the sun rays are slanting towards him, shining onto a warm grid of
light at his feet. Comforting, but it’s humid as hell for September. He doesn’t understand how
the children out in the yard can run amok like this, leaving used things everywhere and
barking loud laughter and smelling of dirty, sweaty shirts. He certainly isn’t going to move
from where he’s sitting. Satoru will just lounge here in this ridiculous, pretentious kimono
and watch them instead; watch as two of the kids shoot marbles across the ground, battling to
win, as a few more are concentrated on an intense game of hopscotch. It's a little interesting,
if he's being honest, to watch people suck at something you know you’ll excel at. It's fun to
see where things could go wrong. So Satoru watches, keen, as a child balances shakily on one
foot in her court, and skips a stone three squares over.

“Young Master Gojo.”

Satoru blinks slow. Then turns his head towards the door.

“Oh,” he says evenly. “It's you, obāsan.”

A maid. Mutsuko, an old maid who had been with the Gojo family for over sixty years now,
had been there ever since he was born. Wrinkles near her eyes, dark spots on the backs of her
hands— spots that have grown larger and newer in the past few years. She looks at him with
an indulgent smile, and nods to the window. “Not going to join those kids?”

Satoru scoffs. “I don't want to.”

“You never do,” says Mustuko. “At least wave to them. If they see you, they might invite you
to come play with them.”

“Like I said,” Satoru insists, “I don't want to.”

“And yet you're pouting,” says Mutsuko. There's laughter in her tone, which is always an
indication that she thinks he's lying. He's not. “By the way, if the adults see Young Master
sitting like this, they'll be very mad at you, you know.”

Satoru glances at her. He pulls a face, sticks his tongue out, and props his leg on the
windowsill.

“What a surprising reaction,” says Mutsuko.

“They get mad at everything I do, anyway,” says Satoru. “Might as well rile ‘em up some
more.”

Mutsuko chuckles. “Sometimes I wonder how they haven't kicked you out yet.”

“They can't even if they want to,” says Satoru. “I'm better than them.”
It isn't so much a threat as it is a childish retort. Satoru leans his cheek against his palm and
looks out the window, peevish and stubborn, so he doesn't see the smile on her face when she
says, “Okay,” even though he knows it's there.

Then he hears the doors close. Hears the drag of Mutsuko's feet across the straw mat floor,
and she's making her way towards him, as slowly as her age would allow her, and Satoru
moves as to stand and help but he's stopped when she firmly puts up a hand — a clear no
need — and reaches his side.

“Why isn't Young Master at school yet?” she asks, once she's directly in front of him.
“Classes start tomorrow, don't they?”

“Yeah,” says Satoru, “but I don't wanna go.”

“Really?”

“Really, obāsan,” says Satoru. “Stop hackling me.”

“That’s not a word,” she says, gently. “Not used correctly, anyway. Are you sure you don't
want to meet your classmates now?”

They'll suck up to me or avoid me, he thinks. One of the two. He won't tell her any of this, but
there is zero use of him going there early, if all that does is lengthen this nuisance. He'd rather
stay here than face all those pseuds.

Six in the morning, Yaga Masamichi had said. Satoru will arrive then. Six in the morning.

“I'll stay here,” says Satoru.

She gives him a look. He tries not to decipher what it means.

“I heard that you have two classmates,” says Mutsuko. “Do you know who they are?”

“It doesn't matter,” says Satoru. “I don't care.”

“I heard that the girl can heal herself,” she says, “and the boy can manipulate curses.”

Satoru looks out into the garden.

He can hear a huff of laughter behind him— the quiet kind of laugh that's reserved for when
he's being a child, that only ever comes from her. “Young Master is always quite a handful,”
she says, her voice tender, no hint of an actual scolding. “Your classmates will have such a
fun time getting to know you.”

“Yeah,” Satoru mumbles, “who wouldn't?”

“I know,” says Mutsuko, “that it's hard to leave home sometimes. Especially when you're so
used to it.” A pause. “But it doesn't mean that this is better for you.”
Satoru glances back at her. She favours him with a smile, simple and sweet and totally unlike
the immense, horrifying ones that he receives from the elders.

If he's being really honest — and this is a rather pathetic, sad-sounding sentiment, but it's all
in his head and no one’s gonna hear it to take pity on him anyway — Mutsuko's pretty much
the closest thing to home he has.

She has always been around. Is always around, whether it's to sneak him food when he gets a
little hungry, whether it's to give him toys when all the books around him are boring and
stupid and filled with Big Words. The way she's there is different from the way everyone else
is there, attentive and indulgent and nice. And he appreciates it. He appreciates it, her
presence, because Satoru doesn't remember when he'd last felt at home; and he's done
searching.

You will be the heir of the clan, Gojo Satoru. As if it's in stone. Not that he doesn't want it —
who wouldn't like that kind of power, that kind of authority to reign, to be able to do
whatever the hell he wants — but all the duty that comes with it. All the appearances he has
to maintain, all the strength he has to harbour, all the fraternizing he has to do with people
who want nothing but the potential in his eyes. Everything for our sake, the brilliance of our
clan. What a load of crap. It almost makes him want to leave; say fuck it to the family, get out
of this place, and stay as far the hell away as possible from everyone associated with this
bloodline.

So he appreciates it, her presence. Mutsuko, the only person who comes close to expecting
nothing from him, but even then...

“In either case,” she says, “I can't wait to see how strong of a sorcerer you’ll become, Young
Master.”

Outside, there's the sound of children's laughter. Someone had finally won their game of
hopscotch, or gotten their friend's marbles into the dip.

“Whenever you leave,” Mutsuko continues, “please make sure to come back and visit me.”

Satoru stares at the children calling after each other.

Then he turns toward her, and offers her a smile. As warmly and as brightly as he can.

“Sure, obāsan,” he says, affably. “Of course I will.”

_____

Satoru didn't want to go. He really didn't. But come twilight, when the children outside have
exhausted their energy and retreated back to their families, when he has finished counting all
the mangled spots on the straw mat, listless in his room, Satoru decides to leave.
As soon as dinner has been served at the main manor, he takes everything he needs. A few
sets of clothes, his toothbrush, a kimono just to spite them (it's the one they make him wear
the least; his favourite.) There's ample room inside his backpack when he's done, but there
isn't much else that needs to fit.

So Satoru slings it over his shoulder, and quietly slips out.

Well. He tries to quietly slip out.

In hindsight, climbing through the window and flying over the wall would've been the better
option. Would've been more peaceful. But hindsight has never been Satoru's forte, and so he’s
opted to walk through the halls of the main building instead — the one that he resides in —
thinking that if he treads lightly through the vacant corridors, it won't be that big of a deal,
surely.

He supposes that's his mistake.

“—Is the kid leaving now?”

“Look at him.”

“With just that one bag?”

“You really think this is a good idea?”

“He's going to cause us trouble, isn't he?”

“What if he—”

It causes an entire commotion. People peek out of their rooms, leave a slit through their doors
— enough that Satoru can sense their prying eyes on him — and whisper amongst each other.
Hushed, murmured, under the cups of their hands, but it's audible still. Satoru can hear pretty
much everything that's being said about him. About whether or not he's fit to live on his own,
is this fine, what about people who are gonna keep an eye on him, will he disappoint us, he's
always been such a difficult boy, are the others equipped to handle him? Nothing Satoru
hasn't heard before, but some spectacle he is. He's just going to school, for god's sake. Even if
he has stayed in this place for most of his life, that doesn't warrant all this needless fuss, all
this attention. So keen and annoying.

But it's whatever. He's used to it.

The sooner I leave, the better. The sooner he's out, good riddance— so Satoru hastily makes
his way across the floors, through the buildings, and toward the entrance of the Gojo family
estate.

There are two bodyguards at the gate. One of them catches sight of Satoru as he approaches,
and bows.

“Young Master Gojo,” says the guard. “Would you like to be escorted to your school? We
have a car ready for—”
“No, thanks,” says Satoru, and teleports.

_____

Satoru sucks at teleporting.

Can’t do it for long distances. Not properly, anyway. The whiplash hits him as everything in
his surrounding distorts, drawing down to a single, twisted welt of discomfort— and next
thing he knows, his legs are hovering in the air, meters away from an undergrowth.

“Ack!” Satoru yelps, and falls into it.

It's a soft land, relatively. One or two cuts on his arms, a sad little twig snapping beneath his
thighs; and it smells like fresh dirt mixed in with the moss, this place. Like cold autumn
leaves.

“Ow,” Satoru groans, and helps himself up, brushing away the tiny pinpricks of thorns on his
clothes.

Then he stands, and takes one look around.

Not a single person in sight. It's quiet, save for a few crickets, and underneath the darkening
sky, Satoru can make out a building in front of him, a building behind, another building to his
side. They look more like traditional Japanese architecture, really, and with all the trees in
their autumn finery around him, garden-fresh and verdant, covering an area of land that's too
vast to be in the middle of the city, this...

This is definitely Tokyo Jujutsu High School.

“Heh.” Satoru grins in satisfaction, hands on both sides of his hips. “I'm better than I
thought.”

All the way across the city. But given that it's a day before classes begin (10 hours before, to
be exact), he thought it'd be… bustling with people. Staff wandering around, students
aimlessly strolling...

But there's seriously no one here. The lights are also off inside two of the buildings.

Having nothing else to do and not quite in the mood to seek out Yaga — or any of the other
staff, particularly — Satoru adjusts the backpack on his shoulders, climbs up a tree beside
him, and sits on one of the branches. His legs swing over the wood, dangling free, as he
surveys the building before him.

It's the only one with the lights on. There's just one floor. One very long floor, visible through
all the glass windows spanning the length of it, and Satoru can make out a hallway inside that
hosts about ten different rooms across. Neat and clean as the corridor is, it looks too sombre.
The hell? No paintings or flowers decorated anywhere, nothing that gives it any vibrancy,
nothing that makes it look like a habitat; this has to be one of the dreary staff buildings,
maybe, or some dwelling filled with storage rooms—

And Satoru stands corrected, one second after.

Two people appear in the hallway. Two students, Satoru notes, judging by their uniforms. A
girl and a boy.

The girl looks like she'd just come right out of the shower. Short wet hair, a towel draped
over one shoulder, droplets and steam covering all around her. Judging by the way she'd just
exited one of the rooms, this building is probably the student dorms, then, Satoru thinks,
watching as the girl halts when she spots the other student, as she removes the earphones
from her ears, and—

Bangs, Satoru thinks.

This guy has bangs.

He looks funny, Satoru muses, and stares. The boy sauntering into the corridor is tall. Over
two heads taller than the girl, and with his shoulders firmly set, chin up, back straight, there's
an aura of quiet confidence he exudes, a certain kind of commanding air as he strolls into the
hallway. One hand in his pocket, the other raised to wave at her, fingers curled around
something that looks like a letter and box in his palm.

And he's smiling.

Satoru blinks. The boy is smiling. Eyes softening at the corners, lips drawn up, expression
bright.

...And it's so charming.

So winning. So polite, so sweet; so unbelievably attractive that Satoru immediately resents

him.

These are my classmates, Satoru thinks, and feels a surge of dread in his stomach.

He watches them. Unable to hear what they're saying to each other, but their open postures
are enough to tell him that conversation comes easy to both of them, that they're already
close, already familiar with one another. Satoru watches as the girl smiles, as she leaves; as
the boy stares after her figure, an inexplicably miffed expression on his face, before
eventually turning to make his way back into his room.

Satoru watches it all, and then waits.

It's already gotten dark out. The night deepens all the green hues around him to nearly black,
the quarter moon still hanging low over the horizon. He sits, and waits, because to run into
either of his classmates now would mean effort.

So Satoru picks out an acorn from a nearby branch, tosses it around in his hand.
“I bet,” he says, looking at a squirrel that’s just now scuttling up beside him, “that the girl
will avoid me. Don't you think?”

The squirrel, in the manner of most squirrels, doesn't answer. But Satoru’s pretty confident in
his prediction, anyway. The girl does seem like the sort who will leave him alone— from the
serene way she carries herself, to the languid way she smiles. She has the vibe of someone
who just wants to stay out of the way, and so will most likely do nothing in response to most
of his antics.

He isn't sure about the boy.

The boy is a bit… harder to read, for some inexplicable reason. He seems like the kind of
person everyone likes: friendly, agreeable, polite, warm and what-have-you, et cetera, et
cetera. Not quite the sort to avoid Satoru. But there's a certain self-assuredness to him that
doesn't feel like he'll bend over backwards to indulge Satoru either. The rigid, morally
inflexible kind. Not that Satoru is so good a judge of character that he's able to tell, now, from
this distance anyway; but hey, he's learned to read people enough to survive over the course
of a decade of his lifetime, so there's gotta be something to it.

“What do you think?” he asks the squirrel.

The squirrel, of course, doesn't reply. It only looks at him with big round eyes, tiny paws
tucked close together, and Satoru’s pretty sure it means: just gimme the acorn you big whiny
idiot. So he relents, and passes it all the acorns he can pick out.

(Oh well. No use in thinking about this now, anyway.)

So he sits with the squirrel, and waits.

It's another half-hour before the girl returns. Another hour, yet, for all the lights to dim inside
the building, and then turn completely off.

Satoru waits for a few more minutes.

Waits quietly in the dark, until only the sounds of crickets echo through the grass, until the
roofs and treetops are filled with the silver sheen of moonlight, and then — when the silence
is still enough — he teleports into one of the empty student rooms, slides off his backpack,
and collapses onto the bed.

I heard that the girl can heal herself, said Mutsuko, and the boy can manipulate curses.

Satoru closes his eyes.

Six in the morning, Yaga had said. He will wake up then. Six in the morning.

Anything that happens after, he thinks, drowsy and tired, I can deal with.

And he dozes off.

 _____

Satoru wakes up at 6:13 a.m.

Late. Of course.

He glances at the clock again, just to make sure the time is right. Then mumbles under his
breath. Then drowsily climbs out of the sheets, puts on his uniform, takes two quick minutes
in the bathroom, and walks to Yaga's office. The trek there is a short one, so he decides to
take a leisurely stroll, letting the cool morning air wash some wakefulness into him.

(It doesn't matter, anyway. Sensei will let him off the hook.)

He walks through the grounds, through the gardens, through the building, and finally arrives
at Yaga's office. His steps falter for a moment before the door, just to find some solid ground.

Satoru places his hand on the doorknob. The other students are already there, surely. He
remembers the girl's walk. He remembers the boy's smile.

They'll suck up to me, he thinks, or avoid me.

But welp. That's okay. Whichever one it'll be, he tells himself, I can always shrug it off, and
opens the door.

_____

“Hey,” says a low voice before him. “Sensei just talked to you.”

Satoru looks up.

A pair of black eyes meet his, as calm and dark as a lake.

_____

So two things go wrong.

_____
“I said,” Yaga grumbles, “that you are twenty minutes late, Satoru.”

Satoru cranes his neck to look at Yaga, and manages to hide the surprise on his face.

Huh, he thinks, watching as Yaga turns a funny shade of purple. Maybe he's wrong. Maybe
this teacher is a bit more inflexible than he thought.

And that's the first thing that goes wrong.

Yaga isn't letting him off the hook. The man’s angry, as expected; and is expressing it, which
is decidedly less expected. Satoru gives him lip because 6 a.m. is a totally perverted hour for
teenagers to wake, and somebody has to say it, ‘cause otherwise Satoru will simply be late
everyday for the rest of his student life.

The students, however, do seem to be indulging him.

Especially the boy. The girl isn't really saying anything, which is fine, that's another person
who will likely leave him alone for the upcoming years, but the boy is speaking to him.
Suggesting that he answer Yaga, which initially takes Satoru aback; but the surprise does
subside once Getou Suguru appears to be taking his side, trying to placate their teacher into
giving Satoru some leeway with his tardiness. And the boy speaks the same way he smiles.
Politely and with charm.

Just some good old sucking up, Satoru thinks. As expected.

_____

“What the—” Getou blurts out. “What are you doing?”

...That's the second thing that goes wrong.

_____

Okay.

Okay, so. Satoru doesn't get angry very often.

He doesn't get angry very often, because there's often little to get angry about, right. Or, at
least, the things that he does get angry about are very pain-inducing, life-altering, adult-
involving things.

Not— not this.

Not because of some dumb, stupid, rose-coloured, perfume-scented, girl-he-doesn't-
remember-giving letter.

“You— you're annoying!” Satoru yells. “Insufferable! You're a jerk!”

“A state of being you know all about, I'm sure,” says Getou. He's wearing that intolerable
smirk on his face, and okay, my god, Satoru wants very, very, very, very, very badly to hit
him. What the fuck!

This entire thing is— is just so stupid.

And Getou Suguru is so adamantly annoying! Satoru glares at the boy in front of him, as if
enough hateful staring will inflict the requisite agony, because what the actual hell. He can't
believe that this asshole has the audacity to get ridiculously, righteously angry on behalf of a
girl he'd only met once. Once! And all because Satoru didn't want to open the stupid, flower-
smelly letter! The chocolate wasn't gonna eat itself! What the hell else was he supposed to
do?

And not just that. Getou Suguru even had to summon a goddamn curse, when sensei had
specifically told them not to, unregistered, unauthorized, just because Satoru apparently said
something that was so damaging to his pride that he had to pull out a weird black curse thing
and land them both one extra hour of training the next day. Satoru wants to tear his own hair
out, because maybe he'll be so distracted by the pain and the oozing and the blood that he
won't have to deal with this shit, because he's at his wit's end now, every thread of his
patience about to snap, and if he doesn't walk out right this minute—

“Just you wait,” Satoru yells. “I'm going to beat you during training tomorrow!”

And he storms away, stomping his steps extra hard just— just because.

Satoru slams the door behind him as he exits, hard enough to make it shiver. Marches as far
away as possible — down the hall, out the corridor, past the garden, his steps increasing in
pace as he walks — until the building’s no longer visible behind him.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, “what an entitled piece of shit.”

Satoru doesn't get angry often. He really doesn't, so he can't believe how quickly he'd lost his
temper like this. My god, this is just like his stupid family. All so obsessed over manners and
appearances, on what you show on the surface at the cost of how you feel inside, why the hell
do they care, why the hell does he care about the feelings of someone who isn't even here to
witness it, because this feels exactly like something you do for your ego, someone you
defend just to feel good about yourself—

Satoru tries to even his breathing out, forcing down the flush in his cheeks through sheer
willpower, but all the rage is still bubbling inside him, threatening to spill. It would have
fucking spilled, if he'd stayed there long enough to prolong the conversation with that
absolute jerk.

“He's a jerk,” Satoru says aloud, just for emphasis. “Jerk! Fucking— jerk!”
They avoid each other for the rest of the day.

When Satoru comes back to reconvene at Yaga's office, Getou is there in the hallway with
Shoko. He looks up once he spots Satoru in his line of sight, and — before Satoru even has
time to react — his face twists into a disdainful frown.

“Let's go, Shoko,” he murmurs, loud enough for Satoru to hear, and they usher themselves
inside without a second glance.

Satoru wants to flip something.

This is all their interactions boil down to, for the rest of the day.

Every time Satoru passes by Getou in the hallway, Getou’s face scrunches up in distaste.

Every time he speaks, Getou looks as if he's tasted bile.

Every time he argues with Yaga, he can feel Getou's eyes on him, can feel the contempt even
without seeing the expression Getou is wearing.

The asshole doesn't even try to hide it. It's infuriating. Every time Satoru looks over at Getou,
all they do is glare at each other, chin lifted upwards, a defiant look in their eyes. And Yaga
just goes deathly silent whenever he notices it, until Getou (not Satoru, never Satoru, because
Satoru does not lose a glaring battle) notices the drop in volume and turns back to the front of
the class, his shoulders diligently straight, ears tractably attentive.

It drives Satoru nuts.

Diligent, rigid, stuck up piece of work. Satoru doesn't understand how the others can find him
so likeable, from the way Yaga seems to dote on him a bit, to the way the other student —
Shoko — never looks bored whenever she speaks to him.

Satoru silently fumes.

This happens for the rest of the day. He silently fumes, and glares, and mopes, and sulks, and
puts all his energy into making his derision clear to Getou. He's way too pissed. Too
indignant, too bitter, too riled. Too caught up in his anger, that Satoru doesn't stop to notice
the way his own steps lag.

Too caught up in rage, that he doesn’t notice the way his eyes start to hurt.

_____

Satoru only notices the next day.

Unfortunately, it is only after three hours of morning classes, one hour of lunch break, and
three more hours of training, that Satoru realizes there's something wrong.

He's in the middle of training — when Yaga has assembled the three of them to the empty
sparring grounds, where wooden posts are stationed across the scant space — that he notices
how quickly his energy has drained.

Back at the Gojo family estate, Satoru didn’t go out often. Didn’t quite spend this much time
outdoors. They'd make him train, of course; they'd make him practice, teach him lessons,
make him go to banquets and attend those silly, turgid meetings with Important People. That,
he can handle. But eight consecutive hours of having to concentrate and spend time around
people— that’s something he isn’t used to.

His eyes start to ache.

By the seventh hour, Satoru has to start blinking faster than normal, if only to get the
weariness in his eyes to subside. By the eighth hour, his breathing gets uneven, his feet
dragging slack along the asphalt. He can feel the sun on his cheeks, his forehead, his fingers,
through the fabric of his own uniform. The weather has no patience for whatever physical
turmoil he’s going through, so it’s nearly 30 degrees out and clear as anything, absolutely
merciless.

And no one notices.

No one notices because Satoru doesn't let anyone notice. He pulls forth all his strength and
powers through, forces himself to be animated, tries to keep pace with everyone else.
Because it's fine. He's not weak. He's strong. This is just— he's simply not used to this many
hours of concentration in a day, this many hours of— of having to put effort into staring at
things. That, combined with how much the damn sun is beating on him, heightening the
brightness of everything in the vicinity, is draining him hard to keep focus.

(Plus, it would be humiliating for Getou to see how worn he is right now.)

But Satoru won't admit that. So he powers through.

Training is normal. Not as vigorous as the ones he’d been through. Yaga demonstrates the
difference between cursed energy and cursed technique, shows them how to apply it, how to
control it, how to detect it. They’re all things that Satoru knows already, so he zones out and
doesn’t listen to the rest of it, whatever it is. He just concentrates on regulating his breathing,
on keeping his eyes open, on standing still.

Until, suddenly, Yaga snaps his fingers in his face.

Satoru barely holds back a flinch. He glances up, into Yaga's face that is now right in front of
him.

“Satoru,” Yaga says, sharply. “Are you even listening?”

“No,” Satoru admits.

“Sometimes I wonder why I keep this job,” says Yaga. “I was asking, boy, if you've learned
any martial arts before.”

Satoru blinks. Then glances over at his classmates.

Shoko, for some reason, is sitting on the nearest bench; legs crossed, chin resting on her
palm. And Getou, on the other hand, is standing on the training grounds just a few paces
away. He's staring at Satoru over his shoulder, his expression impassive, unreadable.

“Oh,” says Satoru, turning back to Yaga. “Uh. I learned jujutsu for a couple years.”

“Right. Why does it feel like I should've expected that,” says Yaga. “Of course they would
teach you that.”

“I requested to learn,” says Satoru.

One of Yaga's eyebrows lifts. “Hm. Alright then.” He straightens up— and it's an impressive
process, like watching an avalanche in reverse. The man towers over Satoru, and if Satoru's
brain isn't tricking him, he swears he can see a hint of amusement in Yaga's eyes. “Well.
Since this is an extra hour of training that doesn't involve Shoko, and since you were so
adamant yesterday, Satoru, on beating your fellow student,” he says, with a nod in Getou's
direction, “why don't you both spar?”

Satoru blinks.

“Now?” he blurts out. Shit. He's completely forgotten about that.

“I also wanted to gauge both your levels and competency,” says Yaga. “Don't hurt each other,
obviously. We're not here to measure your egos. You can take this as both practice and an
assessment, if you'd like.” And then Yaga turns on his heel, and begins to walk towards
where Shoko's sitting.

Satoru stares after him. Watches as the man settle down besides Shoko, as they both sit back,
as they both gaze at him, expectant.

Then he turns to Getou. Who, predictably, has an unimpressed look on his face. Even in this
scorching heat, he looks as composed as ever. Hands in his pockets, strands of hair in a bun,
not a single sweat broken on his skin. His eyes, dark and blank and impersonal, train on
Satoru's.

“What's wrong?” Getou's voice is flat, cold enough to burn. “Is the sun hurting your ugly
eyes?”

Satoru frowns. His body is still not quite cooperating, is still weighing him heavy. But he
bites out: “You're one to talk,” and is glad that his voice comes out steady. “You're just lucky
you have those hideous bangs to cover 'em.”

“Oh?” says Getou. “Do I detect a note of jealousy in your whining?”

Satoru makes a face.

"There," says Getou, "that grimace looks better on you."

"Well, I'm sorry that Suguru's pride is so fragile that he doesn't like me hating on his hair,"
says Satoru. "Or his technique. Or, y'know, everything about you, really."

Getou frowns. "Don't call me that."

"'Suguru'?" Satoru grins, knowing he's hit the mark. "Why not? It's how you introduced
yourself to me yesterday, isn't it? Or is Suguru someone who goes back on his words?"

If Getou looked annoyed before, he looks like he'd want nothing more than to stab Satoru
right now. "Say that again," he says, voice low, "and I won't go easy on you."

"Suguru," says Satoru.

"You really," says Getou, "have no foresight, haven't you."

"Why should I when I'm strong?" says Satoru, rolling up his sleeves and cracking his neck
audibly. "Come on. Gimme your best. Though I'm sure it's as underwhelming as the rest of
you."

Getou smiles, frigidly.

“As you want,” he says, with a smug, condescending tilt of his head. “Your highness.”

Then Getou crouches down, shifts into a fighting stance.

One foot pulled to the front, the other balancing behind. Getou raises his arms out in front of
him, both hands relaxed and still, his fingers pressed together. Even through the suffocating
heat of the campus grounds, Satoru can make out the lines of Getou's muscles underneath his
uniform, his arms flexing beneath fabric. And he looks confident. Sure of himself, poised,
and with the sunlight filtering through the rows of trees on either side of him, his silhouette
stands tall against the postcard of light, steady at the threshold.

And he's smirking at Satoru. That insufferable curve of his mouth. That horrible smile.

“First one to get the other one on their back,” says Getou, “wins.”

Satoru lunges at him.

It's always been easy enough for Satoru to give as good as he gets. Maybe even more,
sometimes. Getou appears to be of similar height, though broader in the shoulder and with
brawn you can clearly see in his posture, in his firmness of adolescent pride. It reminds
Satoru of the martial arts instructors he’d had over the years, their figures looming over him
with frames that Satoru doesn’t have, frames that are an adult’s and not of a growing teenage
boy.

Still, he can take on his instructors nine times out of ten. Fighting is all just reflex, all just
reacting to what is being given to you, and Satoru’s good at that. Excellent at it, actually, just
as he excels at most everything once he gives it a try. Rarely does it happen that a challenge
is posed, and so — just as he can overthrow his instructors with the same moves they teach
him — he can definitely bludgeon Getou back with his body, can definitely land him on his
back as easily as flying.

But Satoru lunges for Getou, and completely misses.

He’s aiming for right below Getou’s chest — painful, but one of the least damaging places to
land a hit on someone, relatively — but in the next moment, Getou disappears from his
vision.

Satoru has less than a second to react, before he feels something pressing down on the back
of his neck, warm and rough — a hand — and then he’s leaning downwards, quickly jerking
himself away from the hold, adrenaline racing through his veins like ice. Disoriented, shit, he
can't really make out which way is upright, every move he makes an instinct. Satoru turns,
holds his footing, until he can see Getou behind him — until he can see the surprise on
Getou's face, eyes slightly wide — and then Satoru blindly swings his fist.

Only to collide with Getou’s open palm, the shock of their muscles striking, ringing like a
live wire all the way up Satoru's arm.

Getou makes a muffled noise.

“You don't punch in jujutsu,” he says, grudgingly.

“Yeah, well, be grateful that I added a little something,” Satoru pants, trying not to sound as
ragged as he feels, “just for you.”

Getou lifts an eyebrow. Momentarily, and then his expression, slowly, morphs into a smirk.

“Really,” says Getou, and then—

Satoru blinks. Gets a brief moment to panic, before Getou swings his arm across, grabs him
by the front of his shirt, and then Satoru feels himself being flipped in the air, both his feet
losing footing, and the next moment his back thumps loudly against the ground. He lets out a
choked gasp, startled, and Getou is above him, leaning over. His forearm pressed hard onto
Satoru's chest, one hand clutched tight around Satoru's wrist, pinning him down to the
ground.

“Gojo Satoru,” Getou drawls, quietly, “isn’t that strong, is he.”

Satoru chokes out a cough. It isn’t painful, but the blow does knock the wind out of his chest.
Getou’s weight on him is so firm, so heavy that there isn’t much else he can do but wallow
under the loss of his dignity and stay still, stay frozen underneath.

“Can't move much now, can you,” says Getou. He’s still that insufferable smile, cat-got-the-
cream self-satisfied. “Your uniform is too big. Doesn’t fit you. Get one like mine and you
won’t be manhandled this easily.”

“And here,” Satoru grits out, “here I thought you were above bragging."
“Not bragging.” Getou smiles. “Just some sartorial advice.”

Satoru glares at him.

“Nobody asked,” he begins to say—

And then his breathing becomes short.

All the oxygen seems to have thinned out in his lungs. He can breathe, he can, it’s just
getting really difficult to, especially with Getou on top of him like this, pinning him down.
And everything around him is a little bright, a little too bright, like someone had washed out
all the colours in his vision and replaced it with—

Satoru clenches his eyes shut.

It helps, somewhat. That familiar darkness, those familiar shadows.

Thank god; it's better, this loss of sight. Satoru can feel the oxygen seep back into his body,
lungfuls of it, and it's like cool water on his skin, the relief.

Just for one second. Just one second, and then Satoru opens his eyes.

Getou is staring at him.

He's frowning. But it is unlike the frowns that he's sent Satoru throughout the entirety of them
knowing each other. There's a milder look to it, this time. Something like concern, or
confusion. Or maybe even worry, if Satoru's deluded enough to allow himself that thought.

And he's closer. Getou has shifted, somewhat, to lean down a bit more, the lines of his
shoulders blocking the sun from view. The weight his arm has on Satoru's chest is lighter,
now, but the band of firm pressure still bleeds heat through fabric and skin. Satoru keeps
himself deathly still, as Getou continues to stare as if he's searching for something, addled
about something, the proximity of their bodies too close, too sudden, too near for comfort—

“Hey,” says Getou, uncertainly. “Are you—?"

Satoru kicks him in the stomach.

Getou lets out a surprised grunt and is pushed back, stumbling backwards a couple steps.
Satoru watches — heartbeat erratic, shit, his pulse a hummingbird — as Getou holds a hand
to his stomach, neck snapping up to glare at Satoru.

“The hell was that?” Getou says angrily.

“You— don't,” Satoru stammers, “don't get so close to my face like that!”

“And kicking me was the way to solve it?” Getou snaps.

Satoru bites on his lip, unable to answer with anything louder than a glare. He glances up,
frantic, towards where Shoko isn't even paying attention; where Yaga, on the other hand, is
staring at them with a thoughtful expression.

“I'm,” Satoru manages out, “I'm gonna get some water,” and bolts out of there.

Call him a coward, call him pathetic; but Satoru just gets out of the training grounds as
quickly as possible. He doesn't run, of course, but he takes quick strides, marching away as
fast as possible, putting as much distance as he can between himself and— and that.

What the world thinks of you, a voice echoes, is what the world thinks of this family.

Satoru finds a bench just on the other side of the nearest building. He slumps onto it with
elephantine gracelessness, and closes his eyes. There's still a dull throb on his back, a dull
wave of fatigue over his entire body, and he rubs a rueful hand over eyes, hissing as it aches.

The world will bend at your will and wishes, they said, but that will mean—

Satoru lets out a sigh.

There are tulip petals all around him, dewed with water and glowing candy-bright. Too
bright. It is all too bright right now, so Satoru just keeps his head down, eyes closed,
drowning himself in the shadows under his eyelids, trying to quench down the
embarrassment.

Moldering in his patch of gloom, Satoru doesn't immediately notice the shadow falling over
him, or the pair of feet that come to a stop in front of his bench. It's the lack of light and
warmth that notifies him of the presence of someone else there.

Satoru groans. “Go away,” he says, bracing for an incoming headache. “If you're coming here
to gloat—”

“Why would you assume,” comes Yaga's voice, “that it's not me?”

Satoru looks up.

Yaga is peering at him, the sunlight streaming behind his frame. He folds his hands behind
his back, gaze anchored on Satoru.

“Are you coming here to gloat, sensei?” says Satoru, too tired to deal with this.

“About what?” says Yaga. “Two of my students fought, and one got hurt. What kind of
teacher do you take me for?” A pause. “Actually— what kinds of teachers have you had in
the past?”

“I didn't get hurt,” says Satoru.

“I can't tell you how much I don't believe you,” says Yaga. “Do you usually tire this easily?”

“That's mean, sensei.”

 Yaga lets out a huff of laughter. “Suguru thought he hurt you, you know,” says Yaga, “with
the way you marched off.”

Satoru doesn't answer. He just hangs his head again, focusing on the tufts of grass beneath
him, on the lines of ants above the ground. Eyes blinking slow, lidded. And then:

“It's not the sun, is it,” says Yaga, with a firm, meaningful tone, “that's hurting your eyes.”

Satoru says nothing.

He's going to cause us trouble, they'd said, isn't he? They had warned him of this. About his
powers whittling down, his body straining from overuse. Heir of the clan, but Gojo Satoru
still hasn't mastered the usage of his Six Eyes, of his apparent limitless potential. That kid.
Don't overwork your capabilities, they told him, else you tire easily, and Satoru's so sick of it,
god, the blessed son of this family and he can't—

“Satoru,” says Yaga. “Have you ever worn sunglasses?”

Satoru glances up.

“...Huh?” he says, surprised.

The corners of Yaga's mouth lift slightly. It's such a small gesture. So minute. But it is warm,
and is the closest thing to a smile that Satoru has ever seen from the man.

“Come to my office tomorrow,” says Yaga. “I have something to give you.”

Chapter End Notes

(Edit 4 Dec 2022:) Alice drew such BEAUTIFUL art for the sparring scene in this
chapter and I can't get over how gorgeous and perfect their faces look!!!!
 Satoru

“Glasses.”

Satoru holds the pair of glasses in his hand. They're black, and round, and new, and the thin
wire frames weigh it light in his palm. He brings it close to his face, then pulls it away.

“You want me,” says Satoru, uncertainly, “to wear glasses?”

“Sunglasses,” says Yaga. “There's a difference.”

“Did you pick these out yourself?” Satoru looks at Yaga, who is sitting at his desk and is,
frankly, paying more attention to the mess of papers on the table. “Why?”

“I figured it could help,” Yaga says, airily. “You possess the Six Eyes. Enhanced perception,
enhanced brain processing power, enhanced ability to see cursed energy and residuals. It's
like a high resolution camera, as I'm sure you know. No wonder it has drawbacks.” He lifts
his gaze from the papers, and looks straight at Satoru. “I’m surprised no one in your clan has
given you this.”

“They lack creativity,” says Satoru, and doesn't even believe in what he's saying. “So— what,
I wear this all the time?”

“You can put them on now,” suggests Yaga.

Satoru does.

It settles neatly on his face. Not too irritating on his nose or ears, and he blinks, quickly
adjusting his sight through the gloom before him, everything around him shadowed.

And it is comforting, if he's being honest. Albeit a little...

“I don't know, sensei,” says Satoru. “Don't I look stupid in these glasses?”

_____

“Wow,” says Getou. “You look stupid in those glasses.”

Satoru glares at him.

Getou’s leaning against a chair in the classroom. His eyes sweep over Satoru's face, calm and
cool, then up and down his body as if inspecting for further abnormalities. Shithead.
“What a weird way to say,” says Satoru, “that you don't like the fact that my eyes are
covered.”

Getou frowns. “You're full of yourself.”

“And you're not?” Satoru retorts. “What, conveniently forgot the part where you lost it just
because I insulted your technique?” He peers at Getou from above his glasses, and notes with
sick satisfaction that Getou looks about ready to knife him. “Or do you only remember things
that align with your views?”

“Your attitude is shit,” says Getou, crossly. “Can you stop acting like a child for once? It
won't kill you.”

“You don't know that,” says Satoru. “It might.”

“Well, then maybe we'd finally get some peace around here for a change.”

“Oh, come on, that's not very nice,” Satoru says cheerily. “Gotta be more tactful with your
words. My feelings are hurt— Suguru.”

Getou narrows his eyes.

A smile tugs at the corner of Satoru's mouth. Just so easy to rile up this boy, he thinks
giddily. And so he walks further into the room — both hands in his pockets, cutting across
the floor towards where Getou is sitting — and, with all the elegance he can muster, slides on
top of Getou's desk. One leg draped over the other.

And god, the delight that courses through him at the small twitch of annoyance in Getou's
eyes. It should be criminal.

“...Get off the table,” Getou says quietly.

“Suguru,” Satoru taunts. “Does hearing that come out of my mouth piss you off?”

Getou slices a glare at him. It's cold and scathing both at once, all the hatred and obscenities
he doesn't voice packed tight in it. “I have no interest,” says Getou, voice low, “in doing this
with you.”

“Come on, don't be boring,” says Satoru. “I can say it however many times you—”

Getou rises to his feet. The movement is sudden — the chair behind him scraping jarringly
fast against the floor.

Satoru doesn't flinch. Doesn't react. Just keeps the same shit-eating grin on his face, even
when Getou glares at him as if he's muck.

“You,” says Getou, so low it's chilling. “Stay the hell away from me.”

And then he heads straight out of the room. Doesn't even glance back to see the glee on
Satoru's face.
 _____

Time passes by quickly at Jujutsu High.

Satoru stretches.

Classes start at 8 a.m. everyday, much to Yaga's leniency, and end at 3 or 4 p.m. depending on
how training runs. Satoru spends the majority of his days learning about the technicalities of
jujutsu, the technicalities of fighting, the technicalities of emotions. All the details and
intricacies of a world he’s already known since he was a child. It's boring, kinda. But it's not
too bad. He won't complain about anything that gives him an excuse to zone out in class.

But school is… interesting. Let's just put it that way.

He doesn't feel a particular way about it. Satoru learns to cast a curtain. He learns how to
control Limitless, how to use Black Flash. He refines his cursed techniques: the converging
blue, the diverging red, infinity, which are hard, admittedly, to wield, but he never has too
much trouble with any of them for long. They always end up well.

Although, frustratingly enough, he hasn't learned to cast a Domain— particularly Domain

Expansion. Even after hearing the countless descriptions from other people, Yaga doesn't
allow them to practice. The one time Satoru furtively tries to activate it during training, he
gets a whack over the head from Yaga.

“Do not,” Yaga snaps, “do this in the vicinity of other people! Don't rush into things ahead of
your time.”

“How do you know this is ahead of my time?” says Satoru, peevishly rubbing at the sore
spot.

“You haven't even learned the full extent of your techniques yet,” says Yaga. “How can I
expect you to try this after, what, only three weeks into school?”

“I might surprise you,” Satoru mumbles.

“Or you might kill everyone in a half-mile radius,” says Yaga. “And I am personally not a
gambler, thanks.”

Satoru pouts.

Yaga’s just so austere. He accompanies them through most everything, watches them like a
hawk, corrects them. Satoru doesn't like admitting it, but while Yaga isn't exactly a faultless
role model and emotional anchor, he is a good man. A good teacher.

But he's so fucking anal about so many things.

He doesn't even let Satoru and Getou spar together anymore. Not during training, not
anywhere. Weird— since they get into fights with each other regularly anyway; alarms
blaring, curse summoning, bruises on their skin and all.

(Especially with his new sunglasses. Satoru can hold his own better now, because the glasses
allow his eyes to fully open in any light, letting him use his powers without any fear of
retribution, of having it ricochet back at him. His reflexes and speed improve. His stamina
increases.)

“The glasses really do help me, though,” says Satoru.

“No means no,” says Yaga.

So that's that.

School is fine. No Domain casting for him just yet, which is— less than desirable, but it's
whatever. Satoru will learn in due time, and when he does, the expression on Getou's face
will be absolutely worth it. He'll show him.

So yeah, school is fine. It's simple.

And as for the missions...

Well. They start out easy enough.

On the first mission, the three of them get to go to downtown Tokyo. Roppongi, Yaga
declares. Satoru has never gone to Roppongi before without people watching his every move,
his every stride, so he’s excited, naturally. Yaga can take them to sightsee a little, or maybe
go to one of those street vendors, or malls, or one of those buildings with the blinking neon
lights, or—

Yaga takes them to a haunted house.

“Oh,” says Getou.

“Oh,” says Shoko.

“Oh, seriously?” Satoru sulks. “This is no fun.”

It's a low-level curse. Way too weak to be made the sole objective of an entire mission, in
Satoru's opinion; but Yaga insists that each of them show him what they're capable of from
bottom up.

It takes them three seconds to exorcise it.

On their second mission, they go to Shibuya. Shoko corners it, Satoru fatally injuries it, and
when the curse is all reduced to a black swirling mass around a golden core, Getou puts it to
his mouth, tilts his head, and knocks it back in one smooth movement.

It's the first time Satoru has ever seen someone consume a curse. Getou winces slightly, but
not obviously enough for Yaga to notice.

But Yaga does take them to a crêpe shop afterwards. The one on Takeshita street.

On their third mission, three people have already died.

They arrive at the scene to a few mangled corpses. Soaked into the ground, their blood is a
continental blotch. There is flesh hanging free, unveiling curves of bone that gleam like
porcelain, like moonlight sheen. The tangy smell of blood, the dried-skin deformity, the teeth
marks, the famished mess they made of the scene— all of it stopping them dead in their
tracks.

It's Satoru who moves first.

Reacts like clockwork, because why wouldn't you? He exorcises a curse, Getou exorcises
another, and Shoko tends to two people on the brink of death.

And when all that is done, they head to the victims' homes. There is a lot of screaming, and
crying, and clutching at the pieces of cloth parched with blood, and thick air. Don't leave me,
don't leave me behind. Satoru never really knows what to do in these cases, so he just hangs
back.

Getou does all the talking.

And that's the thing with Getou.

He's respectful. He's polite.

He's articulate. After every mission, it would be him talking to the civilians' families, the
deceased’s loved ones, the bereaved. None of them should have to do it, in Satoru's opinion,
but Getou seems to handle it better than even the assistants who accompany them.

And plus, Getou has this Thing, Satoru thinks. He has this thing that he does, where he
smiles, or he crinkles his eyes at the corners, or pushes his sleeves up over his elbows, or
brushes a girl's waist with his hand as he passes by her on the streets, and something just
clicks into place for him. Maybe he would’ve been less infuriating, Satoru thinks, if people
didn't find him so charming. But Getou knows how to herd with a light touch, and although
he’s stupid and conceited and mocking, he has the Thing. The perfect picture of deference—
at odds with that arrogant personality of his.

But when it comes to Satoru, he's nothing like that.

“Getou Suguru,” Satoru would call. “Enjoying that shitty book of yo—?”

“Go away.”

“Suguru! That technique was honestly horri—"

“Fuck off.”

“Sugu—"

“One step closer,” Getou warns, “and I'll slam you to the ground.”

True to his threats. Getou avoids Satoru as most he can; swerves away whenever they near
each other, sends Satoru contemptuous glares across the room whenever Satoru tries to get
his attention. He doesn't play nice. Not to Satoru, at least. No manners or propriety or
tiptoeing around— unlike how Getou is with everyone else.

(It's a refreshing kind of candor. Satoru can admit that.)

But he'd be lying if he didn't say that Getou is aggravating. He calls Satoru out on almost
everything, tells him he's rude, or improper, or shameless, and it always ends up with them
fighting on school grounds, despite all of Getou's earlier insistence on them staying away
from each other. How predictable. Icing on the cake is whenever Getou acts as if jujutsu is
something they should keep noble; a real fucking upright citizen, he thinks he is, but that
righteous front of his is only ever good for nothing.

And well. Maybe Satoru is testing the limits here. Riling Getou up just because he can, using
his first name more as a mock than real friendliness. Being annoying just for the sake of it.
Honestly, he should probably be toning it down, especially after knowing that Getou can
knock him down, can fight, can give him one hell of a shiner. A boy who matches his
strength.

But there's a certain thrill that shoots straight down Satoru's spine, smug and private, at the
idea that Getou can't stand him.

“You really,” says Yaga, one day while they're in private, “are a difficult kid, aren't you?”

“Eh?” says Satoru.

Yaga looks at him. It's a little fond, and a lot reprimanding. “It’s been more than a month
since you came to school,” he says. “It would be good for you to make friends.”

“I don't need friends,” argues Satoru.

“Keep having that mindset,” Yaga says, “and it'll come back to bite you.”

But it's true, Satoru doesn't say. It's true. He doesn't need them, never has. You are never safe
from the people you let in; and frankly, things have been faring well for him so far, so why
bother.
And that is why, on most nights, he’s alone.

Some nights, Getou and Shoko retreat to their rooms early, exhausted from the day's work.
Some nights, Getou and Shoko hang out on a bench outside, or make their way out to central
Tokyo to do whatever the hell it is they do there. Sometimes they come back laughing.
Sometimes they come back with funny little souvenirs (yuck), and sometimes they come
back with the faint smell of alcohol (extra yuck).

So most nights, Satoru’s alone. He stays inside his dorm, or goes up to the roofs, or swings
his legs over a tree branch and sits by himself. There's moonlight accompanying him usually,
along with dark, sharp trees blending into the landscape. Outside, Satoru can always feel the
coldness from the heart of a forest, like the spine of a knife.

It's fun being alone. He can do whatever he wants.

So. Well, in any case— school is interesting, he supposes. He doesn't feel a particular way
about it. It's way better than his perfumed aunts, and their quiet disapproval, and having to
hide in his own room to escape the madness of family. This is way better than that.

“Although,” Satoru says out loud, then pauses.

Although, he thinks, there haven't been any other shamans around lately.

Nearly two months into school, and they haven't encountered any other jujutsu sorcerers. No
upperclassmen in their second or third year. No one else besides the staff, no events with the
other Kyoto school. No visitors.

_____

Until their twelfth mission.

It's about seven weeks into school. Yaga was right: this mission is a relatively easy one, with
only a number of low-level curses that Satoru can annihilate blind. Nothing any shaman can’t
handle.

Yaga doesn't accompany them this time. It's just Shoko, and Getou, and Satoru, left to their
own devices along with an assistant that Satoru can't quite remember the name of.

The report states that there are five Grade 3 curses terrorizing a quiet neighbourhood. They
arrive at the vacant parking lot where the curses are allegedly appearing, just in time to see a
family get caught up in it. Both parents, a little boy, an even younger girl. They’re staring in
terror as the curses surround them like a sultan, caging them in.

No delicate way to go about it, Satoru thinks. You'll have to witness this.

And so the three of them get to work.

Satoru tears through the flesh of them all. Yanks them free from their limbs, the sounds of
their bones cracking apart, their bodies eventually burned crisp enough to crumble under a
nudge. He keeps in mind the presence of the family still standing nearby against the wall
(seriously, why the hell aren't they running, fuck), watching him in shocked horror as he
disintegrates a curse beneath him. Judging by the feel of it, Shoko and Getou are nearly done
with the other curses too—

But somehow, they’ve all missed one.

Satoru feels it.

A Grade 3 curse. He senses its energy before he sees it — the bastard was hiding — and
when Satoru whirls around to look behind him, it's lunging at the little boy.

A boy no more than ten. Satoru sees it for a split second — has a heartbeat to react, a spike of
alarm lacing up his chest — and in the next moment he's beside the kid, in front of him,
wedging himself in between the child and the curse charging towards them. No time to think,
no time to actually discern what the hell is happening— Satoru twists his fingers together,
concentrates— and then the curse is dispelled away from him, flown backwards until it hits
the wall a good few meters away.

Satoru stands still. Waits until the resounding bang quiets down, until the curse begins to
disintegrate into smoke, exorcised for sure and leaving only the debris of shattered bricks
behind it.

“Jeez,” Satoru mutters. “That was annoying.”

He glances to the side. His classmates are a bit further away from him. Shoko has both hands
on her knees, panting, the residue of soot on the ground evidence of her finishing off another
cursed spirit. Getou is next to her, staring straight at Satoru, an indecipherable frown on his
face, and—

There's a woman standing right beside them.

A shaman, Satoru immediately realizes. Her presence is definitely that of a shaman, although
her levels are weak. She looks slightly older than they are (maybe 18?) with longish black
hair that extends down to her back, divided into two large pigtails on either side of her. The
robes of a traditional miko outfit, white and red, fall neatly about her frame.

And she's staring at him.

“Hey,” says Satoru, guard up, “what’re you—"

A foot nudges against him, cuts him off his thoughts.

Crap. “Oh, woops!” Satoru turns around, instantly grinning at the little boy behind him.
“Forgot you were there for a sec!”

The kid looks about ready to cry. He's gaping at Satoru, his nose turning red, his eyes
watering, and there's a slight tremble to his lower lip.
Oh, come on. “Hey, c'mon,” Satoru tries, with a cheery little laugh. “I exorcised that thing!
See, there's the body. If I hadn't been here, you really would've been dead meat, huh, and now
that would be a reason to cry about—”

“Gojo Satoru.”

Too far, Satoru thinks, inwardly sighing for a moment before he turns around at the
unfamiliar voice.

The girl in the miko outfit looks back at him, disapproval clear on her face. Not this again, he
thinks. From the corner of his eyes, the little boy is trotting away, running in the direction of
where his mother is tearfully bringing him into an embrace. Getou and Shoko are with them,
speaking to the family with, undoubtedly, feeble attempts at reassurance— and out of earshot.
“Who're you?” asks Satoru.

The girl furrows her brows together slightly, a universal sign for: don't be disrespectful or I'll
bury you.

“I’m Iori Utahime,” she says. “You're Gojo Satoru?”

“Yeah,” says Satoru. “What's it to you?”

Rude, the Getou-sounding voice inside of him say, and Satoru rolls his eyes just to wash it out
of his head. Annoying ass. Satoru does understand that he's being ill-mannered, and uncivil,
but he knows the look Utahime is giving him. He's seen it enough times; has gotten used to
enough people weighing him on a scale of strength and basing everything off of it. He knows
when someone is assessing him.

And he can tell, with great annoyance, that there's something about him she doesn't like
seeing.

“What,” Satoru says testily. “Saw something you like?”

Utahime scowls.

“Would be hard not to, I mean,” supplies Satoru.

“I heard reports of curses loitering around here, so I came,” says Utahime. She glances at the
remains; almost reduced to nothing now. “Seems like you guys did a good job. I didn't need
to help.”

“They're just Grade 3 curses,” says Satoru.

“Still dangerous,” says Utahime. “You shouldn’t underestimate them, especially in your first
year.”

“Maybe.” Satoru shrugs. “But I'm strong.”

The frown on her face deepens. She looks irritated, and maybe even a tiny bit disappointed. If
he didn't find her reactions so transparently typical, Satoru would've been pretty damn ticked
off. “Don't be so arrogant.”

“Not arrogance if it's true,” says Satoru.

The muscles at the base of her jaw twitch, her glare dagger-sharp. She bites down on
something— and then shakes her head, giving up on whatever was going to come next.

“I'm from Kyoto Jujutsu High,” Utahime says slowly. “Was from. There are matters that I
need to discuss with Yaga, so I’ll be accompanying you back.”

Satoru frowns. Something doesn't sit right with what she's saying. Incidentally running into
them here and then declaring that she has business with Yaga? Just to, if anything,
conveniently come back with the three of them?

But before Satoru manages to respond, Utahime turns around, and walks back toward Shoko
and Getou.

The civilian family has already walked off. Shoko is dusting the dirt off her pants, and looks
up as Utahime approaches. Her expression is placid as they exchange a few words,
indistinctive and short; and then Shoko begins to head her way down the street, in the
direction of where the assistant has parked their car. Utahime follows suit.

Is there something wrong?

All his senses narrow down to the unsettled feeling in his gut. He's done this many times
before, has experienced this with all those bounty hunters that have come after him in his
past. There’s no strange presence around them, no cursed energy, no residuals that he doesn't
already know is there, but there is a lurch in his chest, the wind on his skin an eerie cold,
because he's rarely wrong, and something is telling him—

Somebody’s watching me.

“Gojo.”

Satoru looks up, startled.

Getou is standing a few feet away. Shoko and Utahime have already disappeared around the
corner, but Getou is staring at him. A level scowl, too far to really make out what it means,
but he doesn't look happy.

“What are you spacing out for?” Getou says, a note of impatience in his voice. “Hurry up.”

Never looks happy. Satoru huffs. Asshole.

But everything he sensed has suddenly lifted. No weird unsettled feeling, nothing horrid or
creepy on the back of his neck. Nothing cold.

Whatever it is, then, he thinks, it probably isn't strong. So Satoru just sticks out his tongue at
Getou, and steps forward.
 _____

They make the drive back to school.

A couple bruises dot them black and blue beneath their clothes, but it's nothing too serious.
The sky rushing past them, too, is mottled purple, cloudy and dark, the remnants of a bad
memory.

“Storm coming,” says Getou.

“Hopefully,” says Shoko. “Wish it always looked like this around here.”

Utahime seems to already know their chauffeur. She apologizes for the imposition, and Getou
offers her the passenger seat. And god, it makes Satoru want to retch every time Getou tries
to be nice. Or gallant, or gratuitously thoughtful to people, because it makes him think that
Getou will probably make a good friend, or a good— something more— and then Satoru
wants to shoot his own brains out afterwards, because come on. No.

They arrive at the school in 20 minutes.

Utahime walks with them up the stairs; but branches off from them at the gate. I'll go meet
with Yaga, she tells them, and heads her way to the staff building.

So the three of them go to file their reports, nestled in the building on the other side of
campus. They're boring, as always. Tedious as hell. Only Getou manages to make it seem like
something worth doing; even Shoko looks like she'd rather haul dirt.

It goes the same way all reports go. Satoru finishes in five minutes — more from scribbling a
quick summary rather than diving into all the sorry details — and gets up from his seat.
Shoko looks up when he does, and fixes him with a clinical gaze. It's how she regards most
everything, he thinks: pellucid and evasive both. Satoru wonders, vaguely, what it'll take to
break that armour. If it even is one.

Getou doesn't even glance at him.

Satoru exits the room. He stretches for a moment outside the door, breathes out, and then
makes his way toward the staff building.

If there's something going on, he thinks, walking past the garden, through the paths, stealthily
down the corridor, I want to know. Obviously not a matter that he should impinge on, but he's
curious. An itch to follow his feet.

Yaga’s office is the last room down the hall. The corridor is empty when he gets there, and
Satoru shifts cautiously in the shadowed hallway, until he can see movements angled in the
sliver of room visible between the paper door and the wall.
He can see Yaga at his desk. Utahime sits opposite him on the sofa.

And there's another woman with them.

Young. Long, blue-tinted silver hair that's mostly tied up in a high ponytail, two bundles
parted down in front of her. She's just walking across the office to sit beside Utahime, which
— oops — means that he has caught them right when she's just entered the room.

“Mei Mei,” says Yaga.

Satoru squints. Yaga has his arms folded, looking stern as the girl crosses one leg over the
other, casual as you please. “I'm surprised,” he says, “that you came here. I thought you're on
vacation.”

“For the price they offered,” says Mei Mei, “I’d come out of my grave.”

Yaga lifts a brow. “It's been a while since you've visited.”

“Only three months,” says Mei Mei.

“A while.”

“You know why, sensei,” says Utahime. “Even I haven't been able to come back to Kyoto
Jujutsu High often. It's been difficult trying to just locate this curse, let alone exorcise it.”

“No luck there, then, I gather,” says Yaga.

“No,” Utahime says dejectedly. “It’s more powerful than we expected. A lot of us have been
trying our best, and— I mean, you know how some of it— ended up.”

“Yes,” murmurs Yaga. “I know.”

There's a short, awkward silence in the room, as if any words spoken will open up old
wounds. Yikes. That's no good, Satoru thinks, watching with slight discomfort— until Mei
Mei finally says, “Anyhow,” her voice so low it's almost a drawl, “what did you call us here
for?”

Yaga sighs.

Satoru sees the man reach into the compartment underneath his desk, and pulls out a stack of
papers. He sets them onto the table with a thump, then flips to a bookmarked page— and for
a moment, none of them say anything.

Mei Mei's arm reaches out, but Utahime is closer. She snatches the report and holds it to her
face as she scans it, like proximity would help assuage her disbelief.

“This is,” says Utahime, stunned, “there's another unregistered Special Grade curse?”

“Apparently,” says Yaga, an edge in his voice. “Here, you can take a look at this.” He pushes
something toward them — a photo? — and they both lean closer, peering at it on the table.
“There have been disappearances near Ebisu district. Always people in groups disappearing
without a trace. Their bodies are found days afterwards, in different places, with matching
DNA, same fingerprints, dental records, correct pieces of ID on them.” Yaga lets out a quiet
sigh through his nose, and runs a hand over his hair. “The only thing is, their bodies have
apparently aged... quite a few good decades when their corpses were found.”

Satoru frowns.

“Aged?” echoes Utahime. “What do you mean, ‘aged'?”

“They're older versions of themselves,” says Yaga. “Much older. Some of them, I think, have
already started to rot and decompose in the way that corpses break down weeks after their
death, when they've only gone missing for a few days.”

“Oh, well,” says Mei Mei. “That's great.”

“There are residuals at the scene,” continues Yaga, “but they lead nowhere. There have been
no records of this cursed technique in the past, and with the amount of people it's affected,
and the way they've managed to hide their presence and isolate the victims... we've classified
it as another unregistered Special Grade.”

Utahime and Mei Mei don't respond. They just lapse into silence, staring at the papers
presented on the table, head bent; occasionally flipping a page, occasionally letting out a
nauseous grunt. Satoru, with his itchy trigger-finger, wants to barge in and peek at all of it.

But he waits, and watches. Taps his toe, just to shake the eagerness loose.

“What about,” says Mei Mei, after a while, “the first-years?”

Satoru blinks. That’s enough of a non sequitur to pique his attention.

“...Are you suggesting,” Yaga says slowly, and there's a note of warning in his voice, “that I
involve the first-years in this?”

“Why not?” says Mei Mei, and Satoru almost chokes on the laugh that he manages to
swallow down. “There's the Gojo kid with the Six Eyes and Limitless, isn't there?”

“Mei,” says Yaga. “I am not exposing the first-years to a Special Grade. None of them can
even cast a Domain yet.”

“Only because you haven't taught them,” says Mei Mei.

“Watch it,” Yaga warns.

“The other boy,” Mei Mei continues, confidently, heedlessly, “with his curse manipulation
technique. I hear he's good, too.”

Satoru wants to gag.

“That doesn't matter,” snaps Yaga. “They’re in their first year.”

“No, they,” says Utahime, before cutting herself off. She hesitates, just the barest of pauses,
before leaning back against the cushions. “They're too young,” she begins, slowly. “I met
them today, and—”

“You,” Yaga interrupts, and oh, yup, that's anger right there, “met my students to assess
them?”

“I wasn't thinking clearly,” says Utahime, sounding regretful. “I was— people have died, and
I haven't— I thought he might be…” She hangs her head. Satoru can almost feel sorry for
her, the sad sight of this. “I'm sorry. You're right, sensei.”

“That was inappropriate,” Yaga says strictly.

“Come on, Yaga. You know how infamous he is,” says Mei Mei. “It was just an idea. We
won't do anything with it.” She makes a gesture that’s almost a shrug, and drapes one arm
over the sofa. Neither Yaga nor Utahime respond. The silence stretches on for so long that
Satoru has gone past expecting a reply and is on the verge of slipping back into his own
head.

“Did you know, though,” Mei Mei begins to say, then, “that his clan…”

And that is Satoru's cue to leave.

He heads back down the corridor. Silently treads along the floorboards until he's out of the
building, until he's making his way back towards the dorms, the sky overhead a darkened
bruise. Two unregistered Special Grade curses, he muses. Two that are clearly rampaging
Tokyo neighbourhoods and harming civilians, that have been difficult to locate, difficult to
trounce. From the way they're speaking about it, it seems to have taken other sorcerers' lives
as well, and what, they want his strength? His, and Getou's apparently, and so does that mean
— was the presence back in the parking lot what—

“Hey.”

Satoru nearly jumps out of his skin. Startled so badly he almost trips over his own foot.
Clearly, shit, he's miscalculated the distance he's walked, and so Satoru looks swiftly up, one
hand pressed to his chest just to make sure his heart's beating right.

Getou is standing there, leaning against the wall beside his room. One eyebrow raised. "Not
your most dignified reaction.”

“Fuck you,” Satoru bites out. “Don’t fucking lurk around like that.”

"I thought that if I waited," says Getou, "you might’ve just walked into the wall, or better yet,
trip over yourself."

“Yeah, well, thanks for the look-out,” Satoru grumbles. “God. What do you want?”

Getou is staring at him. There's something inscrutable in his expression. He isn't frowning,
but the careful blankness on his face is almost worse. All of Getou's judgment has always
seemed graver in his silence.
“You,” Getou begins, then pauses. “Earlier. Why did you jump in front of the kid like that?”

Satoru’s mind halts.

“Huh?” he says blankly.

Getou glares at him. There is a drawn beat of silence — Satoru not quite understanding,
what, an apparent issue? a problem with the way he tried to exorcise a curse? — before
Getou averts his gaze and focuses on the wall beside him. “Never mind,” Getou says, gruffly.
“Forget I asked.”

Satoru fights back a roll of his eyes. Of all the things he has to deal with today. “Come on,”
he says. “Did you really come here to lecture me on saving somebody?”

“I’m not lecturing,” says Getou.

“Then what the hell are you trying to say?”

Getou turns his glare back onto Satoru. It's clear he's irritated, and irked, and would rather be
anywhere else than here. He opens his mouth to say something, hesitates, then closes it again.
Satoru wonders, faintly, how it is that Getou always seems so capable of reeling back his own
words, even when his expression looks like he's been forced to eat glass. So different from
how Satoru handles it— not that Satoru doesn't have a filter, or doesn't mean everything he
says, but there are some instances where he can never quite convey things the way people
take it, the words just spilling out regardless. Like fairytale frogs and pearls.

“Apparently,” Getou says curtly, “we’re assigned on a mission together in three days.”

Satoru pauses. “...Oh.”

“Since you left early and didn't see the new schedule Yaga updated for us,” Getou adds, “I'm
telling you now. It's just the two of us, unfortunately, so.”

“Stop looking so miserable,” Satoru mutters. “I'm just about as excited as you are.”

Getou blinks, slow; as if the act of it is actively refraining him from throttling Satoru. But in
the end he only angles his body around, places one hand onto the doorknob of his own room,
and turns back to look at Satoru again, his frown steely.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Getou says, and opens the door to head inside.
 Suguru
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

18 CIVILIANS MISSING WITHOUT A TRACE IN TOKYO

Police have declared at least 18 people missing between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. on October 27th.

The disappearances occurred in 4 different districts: Shinjuku, Asakusa, Roppongi, and

Shibuya.

“They were just going for a drive to the cinema,” a family member of one of the missing
persons told us. “And they never came back. We couldn't find traces of [the car], either.”

“They were just going back to their home hours before,” another family friend said. “That’s
where I saw them go last. I remember, also, that they’d been speaking to a little girl that
morning. But I don’t know who she is.”

There have been no other witnesses.

Several suspects are reportedly under custody for interrogation, although the Tokyo
Metropolitan Police Department has yet to release any conclusive statements.

The AP news agency said these disappearances are similar to those scattered throughout
Tokyo for the past 3 months. “But this is on a larger scale,” an informant told us. “We've
never gotten 18 missing people in a single day before.”

If any one has heard or seen any of the missing persons (listed below), please contact the
TMPD by calling 110, or emergency services by calling 119.

Oct 27 — 4:15 p.m.

_____

“Shoko,” says Suguru. “This is bad.”

Shoko gives him a look. The strobe lights of the karaoke bar fall across her face, and under
the red and blue tinges of it, her gaze is more severe than it's probably meant to be.

“Drinking beer is bad?”

“No,” says Suguru. “Drinking your seventh bottle of beer while Utahime is on her fifth,
attempting a terrible rendition of— whatever that—”

“Cry Me A River,” yells Utahime.

“Cry Me a River,” says Suguru. “That. Is bad.”

Shoko gives him another firm look. Suguru would've perhaps balked under it, if it weren't for
the fact that she dragged him out here. Him and an upperclassman that they met just all of
yesterday.

“Seven beers is nothing, Getou,” says Shoko. “What are you so worried about? Also, you
have to admit that Utahime's singing is at least a little bit decent.”

“Her English is not bad,” allows Suguru.

“So in conclusion, you have nothing to fuss over,” says Shoko. “Everything is all fine and fun
and dandy here.”

Suguru glances over at Utahime. Who is, of her own free will, standing on the other side of
the room, one leg stomped over a table, microphone to her chin, expression fervent and
perhaps a tiny bit too intense as she bellows the words displayed on the monitor. On beat and
tuned, though, he'll give her that. It's bizarre to see someone who had looked so stern hours
before — like she'd been halfway between scolding him and inviting him a shrine — to
doing... this.

“She's drunk out of her mind,” says Suguru.

“Here's an idea,” Shoko offers without ire, and pushes a half-filled glass of whiskey towards
him. “You should drink.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow. “You're full of brilliant ideas tonight, Shoko.”

He doesn't take the glass. He might've, under different circumstances. Maybe if he didn't have
a mission tomorrow, or if he’d been feeling— more comfortable.

Shoko’s eyes linger on him for another beat. Then she leans against the table, chin rested on
her palm; and there is a wry smile she's wearing there, like she's watching all his mistakes.
He really doesn't like it. “You know,” she says. “If someone else were here, I feel like you'd
be joining in on the fun with us.”

Suguru frowns. “What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“You,” Suguru begins, then cuts himself off. He blinks, mouth opening wordlessly, working
around his sheer dumbfoundedness at the implication. “You really think— are you
insinuating that that asshole being here would make things better?”

“I'm not saying he'd make it better,” says Shoko. “I'm just saying you'd join in.”
“Why would you think that?”

Shoko doesn't answer. She just keeps her stare on him, vacant and amused.

Suguru’s scowl deepens.

This is annoying him quite a bit, and so: “...Well,” Suguru ventures. “I really don’t know
where you’re getting these ideas from, Shoko. But I do know, at least, that I’m not the one
trying to make a move on a girl twenty hours after I meet her.”

Shoko’s expression doesn’t change. But she does blink.

Suguru tilts his head. “Or am I wrong?”

Shoko's face is carefully neutral. Nothing besides perfect calmness reflected in her eyes,
nothing except for controlled silence— but Suguru knows her better than that. He leans back
against his seat, arms folded, and doesn't even try to hide the smirk that spreads across his
face.

“Please,” says Suguru, lightly. “Do you think I wouldn't know flirting when I see it?”

Shoko lifts a brow. It's somehow sarcastic. “No, Getou. I don't think you do.”

“Did you think I wouldn't notice,” says Suguru, with a teasing nod in Utahime's direction,
“when you asked her what her hobbies were, latched onto the first thing she said, which,
coincidentally, is karaoke, something that you were planning on going to tonight anyway,
despite never having gone?”

“Keep your voice down,” mutters Shoko.

“You never went through all that trouble for me,” says Suguru.

“Well, you weren't that likeable,” says Shoko. She stares at him, hard, which is basically her
equivalent of a full-on glare. “One word to her, and—”

“I know, I know.” Suguru grins, holding two hands up in yield. “Lips sealed.”

Shoko keeps her warning glare on him. As secretly petty as he is, Suguru feels a small stew
of triumph from the fact that he's right. Doesn't happen as often as he wants, to be honest,
with Shoko. But she does look seconds away from boiling him, so Suguru smiles at her,
warm and complacent, ready to diverge the conversation into something more boring like
alcohol, or Utahi—

—and then his phone rings.

Suguru feels the vibration in his pocket, rather than hear the ringtone amidst the chorus of
Utahime’s roaring. He pulls out his phone and glances at the caller’s name.

It's Ijichi.
“I gotta take this,” says Suguru.

Shoko stares at him for another beat, then gives a one-shoulder shrug. An evident you can
fuck right off, then.

Suguru lets out a laugh, stands, and makes his way out of the room.

He wades through the throngs of people in the corridor. The entire floor is packed sardine-
tight, conversation and noise flowing like a virus. God, as much as he wants to sympathize
with Shoko's earlier look of mild panic and request for aid when she asked him to join them,
he really shouldn't have come here in the first place. The entire building is giving him a
headache. Too crowded for a Thursday night.

I wonder, though, Suguru thinks, as he enters the pavement outside and the blast of fresh,
cool October air washes over him like relief, what this is all about. Because Ijichi never calls
them at this time of day. It's 11 p.m.

...Way too late to be good news.

“Hello?” Suguru holds the phone to his ear.

“Hey kid,” says Ijichi. His voice is worn, strained with something, and Suguru's alarm
instantly spikes. “I'm sorry, I... I think I might not be able to— drive you and Gojo Satoru to
your mission location tomorrow.”

Suguru lets out a breath, the dread in his stomach sinking even deeper. Could’ve been worse,
he tells himself. “Why? What's wrong?”

“It's really nothing, it's just,” says Ijichi. “Something came up with Kiyotaka tonight. It's
nothing bad, but…”

“What happened?”

“I think he ate something weird,” Ijichi begins to stammer. “It's just— it's not fatal, but I'd
like to stay with him to make sure everything's alright. But that means I can't accompany you
to your mission tomorrow.”

The mission tomorrow. Their report stated that they'll be heading to Shibuya, somewhere
near the Aoyama neighbourhood. Six Grade 3 curses. No civilian fatalities so far, only mild
burns and injuries. It's simple. It should be an easy mission.

“We'll be fine,” says Suguru. “Don't worry. I hope the situation with Kiyotaka isn't too bad.”

Ijichi clears his throat. There's a particular hesitation in his voice; one that tells Suguru he's
either unsure of what happened, or is being secretive. “No,” he settles on saying. “No. He
will be fine.” Another pause, as Suguru can practically hear Ijichi rubbing at the space
between his brows. “All our assistants are busy tomorrow. No one is available, kid, otherwise
I would've arranged for someone to come with you. But if you’d rather not go, of course, I
can always—”
“What's a few Grade 3 curses?” says Suguru. “They're nothing, Ijichi-san. We can handle the
mission ourselves.”

“Are you sure?”

“We've each exorcised Grade 2 curses before,” Suguru assures. “It'll be annoying being alone
with that kid, but I'm sure we'll be okay.”

Ijichi huffs out a laugh. “‘That kid'. You talk about him like he’s younger.”

“Well, he sure acts like a child.”

“Don’t be mean,” says Ijichi, but Suguru can hear the fondness in his tone. “Goodness. I'm
real sorry again. I really am. This came up so suddenly, he's a lot sicker than the annual flu
going around, and the whole family's been worried.”

“I mean,” says Suguru. “If we don't come back in one piece, we'll know who to blame.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Ijichi chides. His voice is still careworn, but there's more warmth there,
more ease. “But seriously. You better, kid. If it does turn out to be too much, we'd rather you
return defeated than not return at all.”

Suguru smiles.

They exchange a few more pleasantries. Reassurances and reminders, Ijichi going over the
details of the mission again, just to be sure, the conversation turning repetitive more to soothe
the man's guilt and responsibility than anything— until Ijichi suddenly declares that he'll
have to call Gojo to confirm that everything is alright with him too, crap, before Gojo
Satoru’s asleep, which leads to a very rushed goodbye— and then they hang up.

Suguru sighs.

Well, then. He rests his back against the brick wall of the bar behind him. There's dulled-out
music from inside, crowds and crowds of people filtering through the street ahead. A couple
girls passing by stare at him, waving shyly, and Suguru offers them a smile in return — the
smile he places as buffer between him and the world — and makes no move to speak to
them.

Well, then. Guess that means he'll be 100% alone with Gojo for the entire day tomorrow. God,
what a chore.

All our assistants are busy tomorrow, Ijichi had said. All of them. That's odd, isn't it? A rarity,
considering they always have ample staff to accommodate; excessive, even. Why the sudden
lack of people? Not that it would be at all an issue for him and Gojo to tend to the Grade 3
curses by themselves, but surely this has nothing to do with—?

“What's up?”

Suguru exhales. He doesn't bother looking. “Not much,” he replies. “Ijichi just can't drive us
to the mission tomorrow.”
“Oh,” comes Shoko’s voice. “Well, that sucks.”

He turns to her. Shoko already has a cigarette dangling from her lips, lit and sizzling, a pale
stream of smoke blowing past the corner of her mouth.

“You left Utahime in there alone?” asks Suguru.

“You act like someone’s gonna come and throw her body into the ocean,” says Shoko. “Why
can’t Ijichi drive you?”

“Something happened with his son.” Suguru crosses his arms. “Not dangerous, though, it
seems. And all the other assistants are busy.”

Shoko hums. There’s a silence as she takes another drag from the burnt stub between her
fingers, eyes boring into him as if she has something more she wants to say. Suguru raises a
questioning brow. It has always, he thinks, been a bit hard to read her. Such a penchant for
keeping to herself, for staying an arm's length away; but he supposes it's nice, then, that her
friendship with him is more or less a mark of character approval.

“You know,” Shoko says, finally, “Utahime told me there have been issues that our staff and
most sorcerers in Tokyo have to deal with. She wouldn't tell me what,” she adds, when
Suguru opens his mouth to ask, “so I don't know. But it's why they had to push back
something called a— what was it— Goodwill Event this year. It's partly why she's here.”

“A Goodwill Event?” asks Suguru.

“Tradition,” says Shoko, “apparently. Some sort of competition between the two schools. Not
happening until they solve whatever's been bothering them, though, probably.”

Suguru nods, slowly, in acknowledgement.

Things that shamans have to deal with? All the staff occupied in a rare occurrence, Ijchi's son
suddenly ill? Some of it can be coincidental, sure, but there's apprehension growing in his gut
like skin, because surely... surely, then, this has something to do with the news he read this
morning.

Eighteen civilians missing without a trace in Tokyo.

A curse, perhaps? There must be some link to it, and something discomforting nags at the
back of Suguru's mind, now, sharp as lightning, spreading like thorns— but he reigns himself
in before the contours and depths of his dread can form.

“Go home, Getou.”

Suguru looks at Shoko.

She's staring back at him, a thoughtful look in her eyes. A slightly quizzical one, too, because
as close as they are, there are things he won't ever let anyone read on his face. It's how you
keep others from worrying; how you keep yourself in control. So Suguru sets his feelings
aside — something that, at least when it comes to the less than finer ones, he has always
found himself naturally skilled at doing — and gives her a smile.

Shoko regards him for another moment. Then, with a sigh, seems to give in to whatever she
was holding back, and flicks the end of her cigarette into the ossified interior of a trash can
nearby, layers of old ash and tobacco like a sedimentary record of the years.

“Go home,” Shoko repeats, coolly. “And get some rest. Whatever is happening, Getou, you
better have half the brain and common sense to stay out of it.”

_____

Mei Mei joins them in half an hour.

Apparently Shoko phoned her. Suguru waits for Mei Mei to show up before he can leave.
This, he believes, is a very sound and considerate move, regardless of how pissy that makes
Shoko. Because Utahime is, at that point, nearly hacking out her lungs in an attempt at
soprano singing, and Shoko herself is on her ninth bottle of beer, a contented grin on her face
as she watches Utahime screech. It's a little sweet, and kind of exhausting. Suguru wishes he
were home.

And that is why as soon as Mei Mei steps through the door of their karaoke room, he rises
from his seat, bids them all goodbye, and hails a taxi back to the school.

It's late, now.

Suguru sits on the passenger seat. He thunks his head against the headrest; listens to the low
thrum of the engine, watches the road. The sky is all tar before him, starless and black.
Through the frame of the taxi's windshield, the car follows the pavement that winds like a
river towards the mountain, bending deep into their temple-guise of a campus. Too dark to
make out anything, anyway, besides the headlights and the city lights to his left, twinkling the
Tokyo signs of life.

It's late. Approaching midnight.

Which probably means, Suguru thinks, as the car pulls up to their gate, that everyone else has
retreated to their rooms and called it. That guy is most likely asleep as well.

But as Suguru walks through the stonepath of their campus and approaches their dormitory
building, he's proven wrong.

Gojo is awake.

Suguru almost halts in surprise, ten feet away from their dorms.
Gojo is up on a tree branch. Suguru likely would've missed him, if it weren't for the moon so
high and bright in the sky. Gojo is up on a tree branch — instead of sitting at one of the
benches in the garden, or pacing around any adjacent buildings — and his legs are swinging
wildly up and down, his hands not gripping onto... anything. He just has an acorn in his hand,
nothing in the other, and is— what, is he trying to poke at a squirrel? What the hell is he—?

“Hey,” calls Suguru. “What the hell are you doing?”

Gojo doesn't stop moving. Which means, undoubtedly, that he’s already sensed Suguru there
before even turning to look.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” says Gojo.

“Talking to squirrels,” says Suguru. “Emoting into the night. Why are you up there?”

“Do I need a reason?” asks Gojo. “I just felt like it.”

One day, Suguru thinks, one day I will graduate and leave this school and never have to deal
with this entitled white-haired stick of a brat ever again, and finds solace in the brief fantasy.
“Did you hear from Ijichi?” Suguru decides to ask, changing the subject before his instincts
kick in and he throws a rock at Gojo's head. “About the mission tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Gojo yawns, stretching. “He called half an hour ago.”

“Good,” says Suguru. “Wake up at a reasonable hour, then, so we can catch the morning
train.”

Gojo stops moving.

He blinks. Then lifts his chin, tilts his head to one side, and stares directly at Suguru.
“What?” he says, eyes narrowed. “The train? Why don't we use one of your... ugly fish things
to go?”

“My stingray,” Suguru corrects, irritatedly. “And no, it won't fit two people.”

“Yes, it will.”

“Do you manipulate these curses,” snaps Suguru, “or do I?”

“If I did, I wouldn't be as stingy as you,” says Gojo. “Why can't we just take your stingray?
It'll be faster, less crowded, and we won't have to wait for public transportation.” He slouches
against the bark, one leg up on the branch. So casual that Suguru wants to cut the whole
damn tree down. “I can always teleport, but this’ll be less work.”

“Do you think I want to stay in that close proximity with you?”

“Do you think I do?”

“It won’t fit two people,” repeats Suguru.

Gojo rolls his eyes. “Stupid. We won’t know until we try.”

Suguru wants to punch him. He really does. Straight to the nose and topple him right off that
fucking branch. But for now, all he can do is carve Gojo with a cutting glare, hoping that the
brat will be able to translate all the loathe stifled there.

This boy is exasperating. Cocky, arrogant, full of himself. Talking to Gojo is like running
straight into a brick wall and hoping that you come out skull intact. For fuck's sake.

Here's the thing: Gojo is the son of a legacy, a tale, son of the history of his old family plot.
Suguru can see the weight of his family in the closed-off look he has whenever he walks
alone, in the cold, guarded expression, eyes scanning the area as if no one can touch him.
Suguru can sympathize. But then— when it comes to the classroom, when it comes to
teaming up during training, there's a boastful way about Gojo. About his stance, the way he
talks. There's a strange cheeriness to it, and it’s contradicting. It's unsettling. And to Suguru
— who can always understand quickly what people are, who can easily pinpoint what it is he
can get out of others — it's exhausting.

It's hard to believe, somehow, that this is the same boy who jumped in front of a child to
shield him from danger, without any regard for the outcome.

“What,” comes Gojo’s voice, light and airy. “What I said was so logical, it stunned you into
silence?”

Suguru looks up.

Under the canopy of leaves, Gojo is grinning down at him. A wily, playful grin. And as the
clouds pass over the moon and the light streams across him, gliding his lashes to silver and
snow, Gojo Satoru looks intangible. An endless blue in his eyes— and as stubborn as Suguru
is to admit it, Gojo Satoru is beautiful in a way that makes Suguru wonder, and then makes
him mad.

“Get down,” Suguru says, crossly. “You're too far up.”

Gojo blinks at him. Just for a moment, and then his mouth spreads into a smile — bright and
wide and sharp as steel — and he says, “Oh?” with a sly tone underlying that Suguru deeply,
deeply, deeply dislikes. “Is Suguru worried?”

Never mind. He’s fucking ugly.

“Go fuck yourself,” Suguru says, and begins to stomp his way to their dorm. He can hear
Gojo laughing behind him, the sound echoing through the night, bright and sadistic, and it
genuinely does make Suguru consider the merits and legality of stabbing your classmate.

“So,” Gojo yells after him, “no public transportation tomorrow?”

“We are not,” Suguru shouts back, “taking the stingray!”

 _____

They end up taking the stingray. It turns out, apparently, that this damn curse can hold two
people atop it. Not enough room to make the trip comfortable, but it definitely doesn't fall
under the impact or give up on their weights mid-way.

“See!” Gojo cries out. “I told you!”

Suguru hates this.

He really hates it. It doesn't help, also, unsurprisingly, that Gojo doesn't fucking shut up
about it.

The brat boasts about being right for minutes after they've gone altitudes up high, lounging
carelessly behind Suguru as Suguru tries — as responsibly as Gojo is not — to navigate and
identify the exact location they have to land in. And even when he's finished bragging, Gojo
still yabbers on and on about— about everything. Everything. Everything and anything that
comes to light inside whatever hollowness he has left of his brain.

“Whoa!” Gojo will shout, wondrously. “I've never been this high up!”

And: “Why aren't we going that way?”

And: “Look at those birds!”

And: “Oh my god, what the hell, did you feel that weird flipping thing in your stomach?”

“Can you shut up?” Suguru snaps, once all the restraint in his body has cracked. He glares
back at Gojo. “You've been shouting for the past five minutes now, and it's really hurting my
ears.”

“Well,” Gojo huffs, affronted, “you don't need ears to steer, do you?”

“I need silence to concentrate,” says Suguru. “So if you can just zip your mouth, Gojo, for
once in your goddamn life—”

“Wait, I think that's where I beat that curse user up one time!” exclaims Gojo, pointing at a
mess of an alleyway. “Do you see? Wow, my uncle was so mad at me that day for nearly
hitting him with my technique. Yeah, look, there! That exact place! And no, asshole, I am
very sure, so you don't have to look so dubious.”

“I don’t look dubious,” Suguru says, heatedly. “I look annoyed. I don't need to hear about
your childhood dra—"

“Hey, there's a fight down there!” interrupts Gojo. “Wow! Wanna bet on who will win? Oh,
c’mon, don't look at me like that. You're just like Yaga. Always so hinged on rules and
manners and all that! It's such a shame that you're controlling these curses, y'know that?” He
leans back on his palms, one leg crossed blithely over the other, and regards Suguru with a
smirk that somehow looks simultaneously deriding and amused. Suguru wants to strangle
him. “If I were you, Suguru, I'd just take all the girls you fancy on this thing and take them to
see the whole city. Now that'll loosen you up. Mellow you down. Decompress!”

“I,” Suguru declares, “am going to kick you off this thing.”

“Oh, please.” Gojo smiles, sardonic and mocking. “We both know you wo—”

It probably isn’t very healthy — or morally upright, in fact — for Suguru to take pleasure in
hearing Gojo yelp as he's kicked off the stingray. But there is a certain kind of delight in the
way Gojo’s voice Doppler-rescinds, the further down he falls through the sky.

Suguru keeps his eyes ahead at the deep blue skyline, clouds hanging overhead, and waits.

Just for one second, and then he's maneuvering the stingray around, down, plummeting
further and further with the sight of Gojo before him, flailing wildly as he freefalls in the air
— and in the next moment, Suguru's grabbing a fistful of the back of Gojo's collar.

The stingray dips a sudden inch under the addition of Gojo's weight. They're still a good few
stories higher than the tallest building, slightly below the lowest clouds and entrenched in
thin air, Tokyo a busy hustle below them. Suguru keeps his hold tight. And when Gojo snaps
his head up to glare at Suguru, shocked and angry and delectably baffled, Suguru gives him
the most pleasant, winning smile he can pull forth.

“Sorry,” Suguru says, cheerfully. “You were saying?”

“Fuck you,” hisses Gojo. Both his arms and legs are comically thrashing around, incensed
and futile in the air. “You know I can't just fly on command while I'm— hey! What the hell
are you— stop yanking me like that and pull me up!”

“Not until you promise to shut it,” says Suguru.

“You’re such a—!”

“Be quiet,” Suguru murmurs, slowly, “and I'll let you on the ride.”

Gojo glares at him, full heat and wrath. He’s surprisingly lighter than expected; Suguru's arm
isn’t straining painfully with the weight, even when Gojo reaches his hands up to clutch to his
sleeves, his cheeks beginning to flush with frustration, his eyes bright and blue, all hate.

It's almost cute. Suguru wants to drop him again.

“So?” he says, smiling.

Gojo's eyes flash, burning holes through his hand. “You,” he snarls, “are such a stupid stuck-
up useless piece of—”

_____
Gojo stays quiet for the rest of the ride.

Sulking, but quiet.

Suguru tries to contain the satisfaction that tugs at the corners of his mouth. And if he so
happens to be unsuccessful, at times, no one is there to witness it.

_____

The mission finishes quickly.

It's roughly 15 minutes away from their school by stingray. They manage to locate the curse
at the specified area (thanks to Suguru, no thanks to Gojo), and waste no time in exorcising it.
No casualties, no faults. A job done perfect.

Suguru will also never admit this, but missions with Gojo are efficient.

A chore and a thorn in his side, but Gojo knows how to fight. He fights by logic, by gut, by
the powers nestled in his heritage. It seems like an animal reaction, sometimes, the way he
goes for the throat; the way he barrels against those faceless, rusty pale human emotions
before them, an instinct; the way he takes apart these curses with a thoroughness that people
seem to label him under: with the ethics of the insane. Suguru watches as Gojo rips them
belly from belly, spilling smoke all over the earth.

Efficient.

Suguru forgets it sometimes, but Gojo Satoru is strong.

_____

“Ahh,” Gojo sighs, stretching his arms high above his head. “That went well, thanks to me!”

It's evening now. The leaving sun splays red over Gojo's face and hands, staining him the
colour of warning. Suguru continues to walk — the October wind biting across his shoulders
and through his clothes like fresh ice — and tries to ignore him.

“Hey, Suguru, c'mon,” says Gojo. “Show some gratitude around here!”

“Thanks,” says Suguru, giving up on control, “for blasting that curse all the way over so that
it almost hit me.”
“But it didn't,” Gojo says innocently. “You swallowed it.”

“The point, Gojo,” Suguru bites out, “since you’re so adamant on not listening to anything
worthwhile that people tell you, is that you cannot be that reckless with your powers. It's
harmful.”

“It's harmful,” Gojo mimics mockingly. He sticks out a tongue. “You suck.”

“Sure, be sour about it. That's helpful,” says Suguru.

The mission had finished quickly. Gojo defeated three curses, Suguru defeated three. Suguru
consumed all of them. They've both brushed off the soot from their bodies and tended to the
civilians; and now, a few hours after all that is done, they're walking down an empty road in a
wealthy neighbourhood to get to the main street, only because Gojo insisted — grovelled,
more like — on getting to a nearby candy store that is allegedly known for its multiple
incidents of sending their customers into sugar-induced cardiac arrest.

He has, as a result, gotten them both lost a total of four times. Round and around and around
the neighbourhood.

“Moron,” adds Suguru.

“What?” snaps Gojo.

Ridiculous. No regard for protocol or courtesy. They've been wandering around aimlessly for
a while now, even after Gojo pulled up his phone to search for the exact location. Even after
they've cut through the same three corners.

Ridiculous— but that, he supposes, is the way all interactions with Gojo will go. Persistent
and uncaring, Gojo Satoru is simply the kind of boy who got handed knives too fucking early
in his life, and now thinks that just because he can wield them better than most means that no
one else's time matters as much as his does. He's the kind of person who got turned into a
legend too soon, gilded so quick the human parts of him are still struggling to be. Not
someone Suguru can call to heel.

“Sheesh,” Gojo scoffs. “Gimme a break.”

He's looking at Suguru now, scowling and petulant, his shoulders dipping under some
invisible weight. It's a bad look on him, is all Suguru can think; the dip like the skin curve of
a rotten apple. Spoiled.

“Don't think,” says Suguru, “that just because you're used to getting your way, you get to do
whatever you want.”

“How else do you expect to live,” retorts Gojo.

“Just don't get your classmate lost in the middle of Shibuya,” scolds Suguru. “The same
classmate who, I believe, was the means for your transportation here.”

“It was a horrible ride, anyway,” mumbles Gojo.

“You're so spoiled.”

“At least I'm not arrogant.”

“You're a brat.”

“You're pretentious.”

“Imbecile.”

Gojo shoots him a scathing glare, and then—

Unease

Gojo stops moving.

Suguru freezes in sync. The sudden spike of fear locks his bones into place, and he glances at
Gojo, quick, only to see the alarm mirrored in the way Gojo’s eyes are widened, blue as cold
water.

“...Do you feel that?” asks Gojo.

There’s something, Suguru can tell. There’s something here.

It’s cursed energy. Definitely. Cursed energy that is now suddenly too obvious and too dark,
too foreign, too sour and festering, and Suguru remains perfectly still. Only his eyes dart
around in sharp movements to pick out any...

No one is available, kid, otherwise I would've arranged for someone to come with you to—

—issues that our staff and most sorcerers in—

October 27th. Eighteen civilians missing without a trace in—

Tokyo feels like a grave, now, seeped in a silence too uncanny for the setting sun. Suguru
gathers himself.

He turns to look back; no one is behind them. He glances around; the entire street is empty,
quiet and ghostly under the rose-red sky of evening, except for them.

Cursed energy. But it's emanating from a place that he still can't quite—

“It's coming from there,” says Gojo, and points.

Suguru follows the direction his finger.

It's a house.

A large, pristine house. Three floors, sloping roofs, broad windows. A garden and vines that
slither around its brick sides. The home is beautiful in the way most expensive buildings are
beautiful, shored up by the weight of its own money and chilled in the cold of Tokyo autumn.
There aren’t any lights turned on from inside.

And Suguru can sense it now— a presence inside it. Dark, and low, and waiting.

“We should go check it out,” declares Gojo.

Suguru looks at him. Gojo blinks back, no trace of a joke or faux-bravado.

“Hold on a minute,” says Suguru, with a bewildered scoff. “There is something dangerous in
there, and you want to run into it headlong?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Gojo says easily.

“You and I can both tell, Gojo,” Suguru says, quietly, “that it's a Special Grade curse.”

Gojo regards him with a level gaze. The lift of his eyebrow tells Suguru that he knows, of
course he knows; the unmistakable cursed energy flow of a Special Grade cannot go amiss
with the inheritor of the Six Eyes.

But this is a Special Grade that can hide its presence, Suguru thinks privately. Its existence
was difficult to spot until it's been pointed out to him. Something sinister about it, and
hiemal.

He doesn't like it.

Gojo has one hand on his hip, frowning. His gaze at Suguru is caught between
disappointment and impatience. “So?”

“So,” Suguru says, slowly, as patiently as he possibly can, even though all he wants to do
right now is give Gojo a damn fucking shiner. “We have to report it back to the school, you
idiot. Someone will come back for it later.”

Gojo hesitates. Then tilts his head, and asks, “Are you scared?”

“Of course I'm not.”

“If you're scared,” says Gojo, and somehow it sounds much, much worse when there's
sincerity in his voice and no taunt, “I can always just go in alone.” And walks away.

Suguru stares after him.

Blinks, a few times.

This, Suguru thinks, clutching his phone in his pocket until the edges of it bite into his
fingers. This is why Shoko will probably outlive both of them and chuckle wisely to herself
until the very end.

“You're a menace,” Suguru mutters, and steps forward.

They walk across the paveway, up the few steps of stairs, and reaches the front door of the
house. Gojo glances around, shifty, and so Suguru takes it upon himself, with great
annoyance, to raise his hand and knock on the door.

Once, twice, three times.

Nobody answers.

Not even any footsteps from within. No rustling, no noise. They wait another moment,
Suguru exchanging a cursory frown with Gojo, before Suguru reaches out his arm, going for
the knob, and—

The door creaks open.

Suguru's hand hovers, unmoving, as the door lets out a pneumatic swish as it slowly,
gradually opens all the way.

The hallway is empty inside. Not a single person there.

“...I don't know about you,” says Suguru, “but this looks like a trap.”

“It totally is a trap,” Gojo says, and heads in.

Suguru sighs, then follows him.

Inside, the house is thick with brooding. Nothing out of the ordinary — everything in its right
place, clean, no furniture ransacked or toppled or destroyed — but there is a thickness to its
feel. Like a pillow that smothers, quiet and resentful, spite in every corner of its ailing
opulence.

The first floor is empty. They peer into each room along the corridor: nothing. There are
signs of life — wrinkled newspaper, half-filled tea mugs, an open notebook with scattered
crayons around it — but there's nobody here. Suguru can feel its echoes, its ghosts of a
family; but it's eerily silent. The air tastes stale, somehow. Cold to the touch.

Did everybody—?

“Seems like nobody's home,” says Gojo.

Suguru doesn't answer. He hopes it's the case.

They reach the stairs at the end of the corridor. With an affirmative nod at Gojo, Suguru leads
the way up the steps, pausing as he reaches the threshold of the second floor. He glances
around then, checks, and motions a safety pass for Gojo behind him.

“I don't need protection,” Gojo mumbles, brushing by Suguru to walk ahead down the
hallway. Though it lacks bite.

“Now who's the ungrateful one?” asks Suguru.

It’s the same as below, this floor. Nothing out of the ordinary— just furniture upon furniture
that are quixotic and callous in the flaunting of itself, useless and decorated seemingly for
flair. Have they all disappeared? This doesn't look like a struggle— did they all manage to
escape before whatever it is that's resting here took hold of this building?

Suguru peers into the rooms, one by one, slowly so that neither of them is missing anything.
He keeps an eye on Gojo in his peripheral, four steps ahead of him. The boy’s expression is
tight, shoulders set rigid. Not something natural for Gojo to do, and Suguru tries to brush off
the unease, tries to tread carefully across the marble ground, wary of any potential traps set in
waylay.

Then he hears Gojo take a sharp inhale.

Suguru quickly looks up.

Gojo's standing a few feet before him, in front of a room at the end of the hallway. The door
is fully open, Gojo's hand on the doorknob, and his expression is hard as he stares at
something just within it, out of Suguru's sightline.

Dread grows in the pit of Suguru's stomach.

He has always known that Gojo is light on his feet; can shrug off any horror with cavalier.
But right now, seemingly poised on the axis of fight or flight, Gojo's grip on the door looks
like it's the only tether he has left, as though the texture of metal under his fingertips is the
only thing stopping him from bolting.

Suguru walks over to him, his steps quick. Reaches Gojo's side, and looks in.

There are five bodies there.

Five— all stripped down to nakedness. All their skins are peeled off, unearthing veins and
muscles that are red as field-born poppy, blood already dried to the point that it's no longer
dripping down onto the marble and grout beneath them. Suguru can't help but notice two of
them holding hands, locked in rigor mortis as they're all kneeling out on the floor, backs and
heads bent to the ground in a bow. Someone, he thinks, feeling the bile curl in his throat, had
set them up in a thorough image of subservience.

Not just a ruthless murder, but a work of masturbation. Suguru wants to rip the whole place
apart.

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

Gojo doesn't say anything. He swallows, hard, and it's the first time Suguru has seen him
looking this affected. His expression is worse than the colour — which is gradually shifting
towards white — and in the next exhale his breath steams up a damp patch of condensation, a
sudden tinge of chill to the air that threads inside here.

“We should go,” Suguru says firmly.

—and then all the colours flip.

Suguru goes still. Blinks. Two, three, four times, fast, just to make sure he's not hallucinating.
The whole area in his field of vision has turned, suddenly, into negative colours.

He turns around.

There is a woman behind them. A tall woman. Long, black hair covering all of her face. A
beige trench coat tied tightly around her waist, dots covered all over her legs. There are
bandages wrapped around her arms, her fingers, her neck, her mouth.

And then she lifts her head up slightly.

Her mouth opens.

Suguru can hear the tearing of flesh as her mouth stretches taut— so far on either side of her
cheeks that it's red, and bloodied, and unnaturally grotesque, uncovering razor-sharp teeth as
she breaks into a feral grin of bow-mouthed dread. He hears his own heart beating in his ears,
loud and sporadic, realizing too late that they are now in an innate domain, as she utters:

“Am I pretty?”

Suguru stares back at her, unmoving. From the corner of his eyes, Gojo is also frozen in his
place.

This isn't the Special Grade curse.

Gojo knows it, too, if his tense expression is anything to go by. This isn't the Special Grade
curse. Not its presence, which means that it's still here, outside of this domain and lurking
somewhere neither of them can see, waiting for—

“Am I pretty?” she repeats, voice frizzling.

Suguru hesitates.

“Er,” he says, after a moment, “yes...?”

Gojo snorts.

Suguru shoots him a glare. The idiot only looks back at him, eyes wide and innocent.

And then they hear it. The chitters and clicks, the sound of metal slicing the air, and Suguru
turns back around just to see eyes growing on the woman's hair, clumps of eyes, gasping and
convulsing, and the next thing he knows, she summons a dozen scissors in the air— and
throws it at them.

Suguru rushes in front of Gojo.

Doesn’t think twice about it. He pulls out a cursed spirit just in time to block the daggers
before him, all of them impaling into the curse's flesh, none of it hitting either of them, and
then all the colours flipping back to normal, before—
 “—darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is—”

—something strikes him in the stomach.

Suguru stills.

He looks, instantly, at Gojo. Who is fine, unscathed, but his eyes are blown wide, his mouth
hanging open in shock as he stares at something just below Suguru’s chest.

Suguru looks down.

His stomach is opened apart. A hole right through his side, and he doesn't know what has hit
him.

The pain surges all at once, then, a punch of fire between his ribs. The world blurs in his
vision, like vaseline smeared over a camera lens. He can't make out anything but the
thrumming in his ears, the frozen look on Gojo's face, his senses dulled, the pain in his
stomach curling like a caress, golden and corrosive, and—

“Suguru!”

—and Suguru, with all the rationality left in his mind and all the dread pooling in his gut —
hazily, angrily — is 70% sure he's going to pass out.

Chapter End Notes

if anyone remembers the Kuchisake-Onna curse... ;)

the "Unease" thing was something Gege used during the Gojo vs. Toji fight, and i
thought it'd be a fun device to explore/pay respect to canon with here hehe. as always
THANKS EMSO and THANK U GUYS FOR BEING SO SUPPORTIVE
THROUGHOUT THE LOSS OF SUGURU'S IQ POINTS DURING SATORU
INTERACTIONS <3 i really always appreciate you!

(Edit 30 Nov 2021:) THE TRANSCENDENT Alice drew an incredibly BEAUTIFUL

fanart for the moonlight scene in this chapter and it is mesmerizing!!!!!!!!!
Breathtaking!!!! Please give Alice all the love, I can't do it alone!!!!!!!
 Satoru
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Satoru hasn't felt fear in a long time.

Not sure if he ever has. A by-product of being strong, he supposes; no need for this brand of
primal instincts. Satoru has always been pleased with himself for never feeling fright or panic
surge so sharply up his spine, for never seeming to be on track of ever experiencing this.

But when Getou’s side is punctured enough to draw blood, Satoru comes pretty damn close to
it.

“Suguru!”

Satoru's panicking. He takes a step, tries to hurry towards Getou, but then Getou looks at him
with one hand held up while the other clutches to his side, eyes blazing with— with anger.
That's anger, isn't it, and hatred.

“Get the fuck,” Getou grits out, “away from me.”

Satoru freezes.

The dread in his stomach drops to somewhere past his ankles. Getou’s glaring at him— as
though he wants to wrap his hands around Satoru's neck and see blood, as though he's
blaming, and Satoru’s frozen in place at the weight of it, unsure of what to say, or do, or even
try.

“Suguru,” Satoru says, uncertainly. “Let me help you.”

Getou keeps his glare on him. Holds it there, furious, for a moment so long as to be
suspended out of time— before Satoru visibly sees the consciousness slipping away from
him, the awareness dying in his eyes, and then Getou’s canting forward, off-balance, tipping
over—

Satoru rushes towards him. Getou collapses, all his weight leaned against Satoru's shoulder.

“Shit,” hisses Satoru, staggering. Getou’s heavier than he thought, limp and unconscious, his
body nearly dragging them both down. Satoru places both hands on Getou's shoulders, and —
as quickly as he can while carefully making sure Getou's skin or flesh isn't torn further than
what's already been damaged — pushes; setting Getou down on the floor, back supported
against the corridor wall.

And when Satoru’s hands come away, they come away red.

“Oh god,” whispers Satoru. “Shit. Oh god.”

There's so much blood. Shit, shit, what the hell was that? He frantically tries to remember—
where did that attack come from? Was that not a technique? He didn’t feel any incoming
cursed energy; his senses had picked up danger before it came, activating Infinity in time for
himself, and he could've reached out, could’ve reached his arm across the space between
himself and Getou and shield them both from it, if only he was aware in time—

Satoru looks to the side.

The woman is gone.

She’s gone. And there, at the other end of the corridor, is a figure.

A human-looking figure. It’s standing, stone-still, in the middle of the hallway.

But there is no face. No eyes, no mouth, no hair. Only all their limbs and digits, mannequin-
like; and instead of clothes, its entire body is covered with ash, grey and dusty, as if it's just
soaked itself in the solid remnants of a forest fire and came out barely there.

A chill runs down Satoru's spine.

This, he recognizes, is the Special Grade curse.

“Shit,” he says again, “shit, shit,” and desperately looks at Getou. Getou, who is bleeding out
on the floor, unable to escape on his own let alone defend himself, and there is, fuck, a solid
chance that that woman will come back again to attack him while Satoru isn't looking.

He hastily stands, and turns arou—

The Special Grade is right before him.

Just a good foot away. Standing motionless, its faceless figure boring straight through him.

It's large, and tall. Almost two heads over Satoru. Satoru gathers himself fast enough to only
tense — no flinching, no blanching — because this isn't the first time someone has taken him
off guard like this, quiet and quick like they’re gagging for a fast slaughter.

He steels himself. Plants his feet hard on the ground, and does not move.

The figure’s body changes.

Its torso of ashes is crumbling, giving way to something black, something that is fabric. A
suit, Satoru realizes, once enough of it has formed to be evident. The curse's face begins to
form into human features now, too: nose, mouth, eyes flattened into slits, dark grey hair
slicked back until it reaches the lower end of their neck.

And across their face, a crack.

A crack like tree roots, stretching diagonally from their forehead to their chin. It almost looks
like dried concrete splitting, like branches turning out. It looks like a fault.
Satoru tries to focus, to rationalize this. Because he should know what basis of fear this curse
is forged upon.

“Six Eyes,” the curse says. Their mouth is scarred, broken in places, and Satoru swears he
can hear the cracking of skin as their lips fracture into a smile, their arms held wide. Even
their voice sounds abrasive. “What a pleasure.”

Satoru glares.

Fuck. He hasn't encountered a curse like this before — not only from the immense cursed
energy they're exuding, but from the way they're towering over him — an easy smile on their
face like this is all just but a show. And it's hard to crowd this curse so capable of looming
over himself by the sheer dint of their height; even harder when they look as though they're
laughing, amused by the turnout.

But Satoru is a force of nature in his own right. When he steps forward, the curse makes a
show of stepping back.

“Stay still,” warns Satoru.

“Oh,” the curse crows, delightedly. “Look at your little face. You're so serious. You're so
fucking serious.”

“What,” says Satoru, ignoring the jeer, “are you?”

The curse smiles at him. Something a little crooked, almost mischievous, an imperfection that
lights up the unholy asymmetry of their face in a way that's terrible to behold. “The name,”
they say, “is Jishin.”

Earthquakes.

That's what this Special Grade curse was built upon. The human aversion to earthquakes.

“Hey, I’m not here to pick a fight,” says the curse— Jishin. They hold up both hands in
something akin to friendly surrender, their grin pulled smugly wide. “I’m just here to talk.
Negotiate, parley, give you choices, et cetera et cetera, only because we are magnanimous
like that, right. Is that so bad? You can’t escape either way, Six Eyes. Surely you’ve noticed
that.”

Satoru has.

Satoru has noticed. Amidst the chaos of Getou getting injured — of trying to keep his
attention focused on Jishin, lest they haste a move — he has noticed the barrier forming
around them. A curtain around the entire building. Whilst there was sunlight streaming
through the windows before, everything beyond them is now shaded black. Everything
outside a hue darker.

They're trying to keep me inside.

And he can't fight now. He can't fight now, Satoru thinks, putting one foot in front of Getou's
body to shield him. He can take this dusty, dirty, scar-filled, stupid-natural-disaster Special
Grade on, but if he does, Getou would be a weakness, smack right in harm’s way and
vulnerable.

“...What do you want?” asks Satoru.

The curse gazes at him for a beat, one eyebrow lifted. The ash and dust from their body fall in
flakes; residues of flames that float down to the ground like snow. God, there's something so
darkly creepy about their presence; as much as Satoru finds this whole fucking ambush
annoying and cheap, his jaw is tensing hard enough to ache. “Too bad, so sad.” They pout.
“You don't seem scared.”

Satoru scowls. “Should I be?”

“You would be a fool,” says Jishin, “if you're not.”

Satoru scoffs in response. The curse only smiles back; no sudden movements, no intent to
kill. They have eyes like an oil spill, Satoru thinks, fingers that look quavery and decrepit but
never so much as twitch.

“Well, no need to prevaricate,” Jishin coos, and claps their hands together. Satoru tenses. “I
am only here to tell you, Six Eyes, that if you come with us, and leave him here—” they nod
curtly to Getou, “—we’ll spare his life.”

...Okay, wow. That almost gets a laugh out of Satoru.

“What?” Jishin has the gall to look indignant. “Was that amusing?”

“What kind of choice is that to give?” says Satoru. “Do you think I'm an idiot?”

“You're our target,” says Jishin. They shrug nonchalantly. Satoru has the vague urge to just
blast them into the next building. “We don't care much for him. If you just come with us
compliantly, we'll promise to leave him alone.”

“Is this about the bounty on my head?” asks Satoru.

“Come on, what do you say?” Jishin grins, much too cheerful to not be unsettling. They
spread their arms open again in invitation— and there's a certain kind of lightness to their
movements that Satoru really doesn't like, something simultaneously slow and calculating,
but sprightly all the same. That damn smile is real fucking awful. “Oh, look at your little
face. Seriously, don't be difficult. I can assure you that being stuck here would be a much
worse ultimatum.” They pause, smug. “It’s a great deal for your friend, isn’t it?”

Not my friend, Satoru bites back on saying.

“Back off,” is what comes out instead. He puts both hands in front of himself, moves his
fingers: Cursed Technique Rever—
“Whoa, hey!” calls Jishin, sliding one step to the left, hands held up. There's a slight flicker
of panic in their eyes. “No need to get all aggressive. I'm really not here to fight you.”

“How many of you are there?” demands Satoru. “Answer me.”

Jishin just lifts their chin, and leers down at Satoru. It's so condescending, so demeaning that
Satoru wants to fucking knock the scar off their face.

(There must be more than two. There must be, Satoru thinks, for this trap to have worked.
More than this Special Grade curse before him and the woman he saw earlier.

There must be, considering the barrier that’s forming around them, and the shot Getou took
that doesn’t seem to have been from cursed energy of any kind.)

“How many?” Satoru insists.

Jishin lets out a sigh.

“Well, seems like Plan A failed.” Jishin takes a few steps back. A slow grin is plastered on
their face, and they don't even break stride, the bastard, gliding backwards down the hallway
as though there is no danger in the way Satoru's gearing to strike. They even wink at him. “I
don't want to fight you just yet. But you’re a cute one, Six Eyes.”

Then, gradually, Satoru feels their cursed energy dissipating — the curse's body preparing to
fade — and in the next moment they’re giving him one final jeering bow, and says: “Anytime
you change your mind, do give us a signal. I’ll come back for you.”

There’s a resounding bang as they vanish. All the air suddenly sucked into the empty space,
and Satoru winces despite himself.

The curse has disappeared.

Satoru stares. He blinks at the empty space before him; at the crumble of walls on the floor,
debris and ashes stuck to the grout.

Then he quickly looks to Getou.

God, Satoru thinks, bile rising in his gut, he’s bleeding out. Getou’s bleeding out, blood
pooling over the marble floor, and Satoru briefly, desperately wishes that Shoko were here to
help, because he's really not fucking equipped to deal with something like this.

Satoru kneels down. No time to think about anything else, prioritize, and puts one hand
underneath Getou's chest — awkwardly trying to avoiding the deep wound in his stomach —
and then wraps one of Getou's arms around his shoulders, hefting him up.

“Ow, you're fucking heavy,” Satoru gasps out.

There's a bedroom around here. He remembers. There's a bedroom on this floor. So Satoru
trudges through the hallway to get to it: the room at the other end of the hallway. He aims a
kick at it once he nears — the doors lurching open in fitful jerks, a convulsive skeletal dance
— then heaves Getou across the room, and sets him down as delicately as possible onto the
bed.

Satoru looks down at his stomach.

“Ah, shit,” he whispers.

The wound looks awful. God, there’s so much blood. It’s not even an injury that’s blocked,
nothing impaled in Getou's side for Satoru to stem the flow of blood and keep it inside
Getou’s body. And with his own breathing evening out gradually, the panic slowly subsiding,
Satoru ransacks his memory, tries to recall, but he can’t remember what exactly it was that hit
Getou— just that it was not from that Special Grade curse. But there was no other presence
besides them and that vengeful spirit, was there? What kind of technique was it? Something
that can hit at a distance, hit fast, without warning, something that just punctures a hole
straight through flesh and perhaps bone—

“Stop,” says Satoru, and tries to regain his composure, tries to halt his thoughts from
spiralling. “I need to—”

He has to tend to Getou first.

Bandages. Disinfectant.

This is a house, a wealthy house. Surely there's something in the bedroom.

He rummages through the drawers. The entire room is jarringly pristine: bed, closet, tables,
connected bathroom, large windows. It takes a while to find what he needs — only because
this damn household just puts all their useless possessions at the surface — but Satoru
manages to, in the end. A first aid kit, a towel. He runs to the adjoined bathroom, wets the
towel, and comes back to bed.

Getou is still passed out. There's a small frown on his face, but his breathing is even.

“Ugh.” Satoru makes a face. “You're gonna kill me when you wake up, aren't you?”

No time to—

Satoru sits down on the mattress. Inhales, shoves down the nerves fizzing in his stomach, and
begins to unbutton Getou's uniform.

Getou neither moves nor reacts. He lies there, motionless, head tilted to the side.

“Good,” mumbles Satoru. “Stay knocked out for a bit more, will you?”

Satoru unfastens all his buttons. Makes quick work of it, and then he pulls the uniform open
— as gently as he can without moving Getou — out of the way to reveal a simple white shirt
underneath. Man, that's gonna leave a stain. Satoru lifts the shirt up, only up to the centre of
Getou's well-muscled torso, and looks down at the wound.

“Shit.” Satoru feels sick to his stomach. “This is bad.”

It's a hole the size of his thumb. Maybe even a bit larger; coating the insides of Getou's body
like liquor, slick and nasty and mean.

Could've been worse, Satoru tells himself. Doesn't look like it hit any vital organs or cracked
any ribs, right? Or else there'd be more blood? Dammit, he's not a fucking doctor. It could've
been worse.

Satoru presses the towel to the wound, and starts to clean.

God, he's bad at this. He's so fucking bad at this, Satoru realizes as he wipes. Blood is oozing
out way too much at this rate, soaking onto the clothes and sheets beneath them. A dark red
stain that's warm and smells of fresh iron, a sodden patch of red. But there's really nothing he
can do about this, right, because hello, Getou's going to die at this point, so Satoru curses, one
final time, before he grabs the bandages and begins to wrap them around his classmate.

His hands aren’t shaking, but they’re unstable and imprecise enough. It's sloppy work, Satoru
thinks, after he's finished winding a few rounds, but at least it's preventing further blood loss
for now. This will have to do.

Satoru sighs.

He sucks in a deep breath, bracing himself with one palm on the bed. The adrenaline is
dulling the ache in his arms, but the monster headache and the suspiciously pre-ulcerous
gnawing in his stomach are starting to exhaust him. He falls back, body flopping gracelessly
onto the mattress beside Getou.

Okay, well.

This sucks.

“This sucks,” Satoru says out loud. He covers his glasses with both hands, breathes deep, and
releases all the panic and worry inside him with the next exhale. The bed drapes in front of
him wavers slightly, a waterfall made of light.

So. The curses are keeping them here.

But for how long?

Think, think. Satoru composes himself, eyes focusing on the thinly veiled drapes for anchor,
and tries to gather all the scraps of information left out for him. Okay. Basically, what he has
is this:

1. This is a trap, and it's planned.

2. The curses are targeting him, and him alone. Supposedly.
3. There are at least two of them. Maybe four? Besides the Special Grade earthquake
weirdo and the vengeful cursed spirit, there have to be more.
4. No one at school will suspect that something's wrong until later tonight. A search for
them will be issued tomorrow morning, probably. If anything, Satoru will only need to
hold out until then.
 5. The curtain envelopes the entire building, it seems — the sky outside a shadowed lens
— and it's a barrier that surely prevents Satoru from getting out.

Does it prevent Getou, too?

Satoru frowns. You'd really think that, though, having gone through all this trouble, the
curses would keep them somewhere dilapidated. Not in this fancy-ass house. Hospitable,
honestly, or maybe downright dumb.

But what are these curses trying to do, drain them? Starve them out? People will come
searching for them here tomorrow— are they only drawing this out before then? Why not
attack while Getou is down? Satoru’s honestly not sure what the average IQ point of a
Special Grade curse is, but surely it includes some common sense, else this is just some
harebrained attempt to— what, are they waiting for Getou to bleed out and die, one obstacle
out of the way? Because that's definitely not gonna happen. No. Nope. Satoru will get this
annoying stuck-up mean jerk of a classmate to wake up and come back to full health, and
then—

And then Getou can just leave.

Satoru blinks.

Yeah. Right, yeah. That's the best course of action. Satoru couldn't just leave Getou alone
before and go with those creepy curses (and then beat them up afterwards, because please);
not even because the curses wouldn't have kept their word, but because Getou couldn't bring
himself home afterwards. No one can come help him. No one knows yet how much perilous
danger they're in.

But Getou isn't their target. If it comes down to a fight, Getou can just leave.

This is good, Satoru thinks, determinedly. This is good.

He glances over at Getou.

Getou's eyes are still closed, the furrow between his brows a little deeper. His head is tilted to
one side, sloped over from the bun tied up behind his head, his sweat-dampened hair
tumbling loose over his forehead in dark curls.

Satoru watches him.

And then remembers: you jumped in front of me.

You did, didn't you? For all of Getou's earlier chiding, he was the one who jumped in front of
Satoru. The one who shielded him. In a moment so leased neither of them could possibly
know what to do, Getou had stepped out into the squalid grille of danger for him; and despite
all the unforeseen ways this could have gone, Satoru feels suddenly, inexplicably angry. As
though you've ever wanted me there around you, he thinks. As though you've ever made an
effort.

What was the meaning of that?

Satoru inches himself closer. Crawls over on the mattress to perch neatly by Getou's side.

Gingerly, as though it is feather instead he's tracing, Satoru reaches a hand out and touches
his fingertips to the strands of Getou’s hair, like brushing across a beaded curtain.

And then — when Getou still does not move — he slowly moves his hand over to the bun,
and pulls loose the hair tie on Getou's head.

It’s a smooth movement. Getou’s hair gives easily, falling into strands that fan out against the
sheets, black lengths coming undone like waves. Satoru, with a strange pinprick against his
chest, has never seen Getou with his hair down before. They have never been close enough
for this; never spent enough time. He's never been allowed to witness Getou's hair mussing
up this messily against his forehead, his neck, his cheek. The sharp lining of his jaw.

Why, Satoru thinks, a question he won't ever ask, did you do that?

And then, suddenly, Getou's eyes open.

Satoru barely has time to react, before one of Getou's hands wraps around his wrist that's
holding the hair tie, and the other shoots up to wrap around his neck.

Satoru nearly chokes. He takes his free hand and pulls at Getou's arm around his neck — tries
to wrench away — but even though Getou's fingers at his throat aren't painful, he's putting
enough pressure to make Satoru wince, and then freeze.

And Getou's eyes are on him. Dark, frowning, his breathing coming out rapidly in short
gasps. There's a frenzied look on his face; his eyes are hazed over, as if unaware of where he
is or what he's doing.

(Turn on your Infini—)

“Hey,” says Satoru, tentatively. Hand still clutched to Getou's arm, he evens out the keel of
his voice enough to hold it steady. “Suguru.”

Getou doesn't reply. His eyes are still glossed over, not focusing quite right. The grip he has
on Satoru's wrist is as firm as a shout. Satoru is, almost irrationally, afraid that if he tries to
move or struggle or shift, Getou will deliriously snap.

“...It's just me,” says Satoru.

Getou’s pupils are a tad dilated— from pain, from panic. He stares at Satoru, a little frantic,
as if searching for something there; and it's that uncomfortable Getou-gaze that leaves Satoru
feeling horribly bare, right down to his bones and back. He tells himself that he's way too old
to visibly squirm under it. It's a close call.

“What are…?” Getou begins.

“We're fine. You're fine,” Satoru says quickly. “We're just a little, uh, trapped. But we're
fine.” Getou still doesn't move. God, Satoru's neck is gonna have a bruise if this gets any
tighter. “I was just trying to loosen your bun — ow — so your neck doesn't crick, asshole,”
he explains, as lightly as possible. “If you can, um. Let go of me.”

Getou blinks.

Something parts into clarity in his eyes. He pauses for a moment, grip slackening slightly,
before fully releasing his hold on both Satoru's wrist and neck.

Satoru manages enough dignity not to cough. He puts his fingers over his own neck,
caressing and soothing whatever mark there may be away, and flops brusquely down onto the
mattress. Getou doesn't say anything. Just stares at Satoru, an expression that's still a mix of
confusion and pain and perhaps something else, before he tries to shift toward him, and
flinches from the wound.

“Ow,” Getou grunts.

“Don't move,” says Satoru. “You'll agitate it.”

Getou lets out another pained noise. He moves his head a little, panting slightly, but his half-
lidded eyes are still trained on Satoru. Satoru can tell, by the clouded look on his face, that
he's about to slip away soon, collapse back into unconsciousness against his will. He doesn't
even seem aware of what's happening. Doesn't have the strength to ask. And so the silence
between them draws — a heavy presence rather than an absence — until Satoru
uncomfortably scrambles for something to say just to rid himself of the tension.

But he has all the bedside manner of a carrion bird on a battlefield, in the end. And because
thank you sounds like he wanted this to happen, and he's too proud to give voice to I'm sorry,
Satoru winds up with a foot in his mouth as he tenses and tells Getou: “You shouldn't have
come with me.”

Getou blinks, slowly, at him.

Satoru expects an insult. He expects rage. But all Getou does, to his shocked dismay, is huff
out a little noise that sounds almost like a laugh.

Getou mumbles something, then. Something that might've been that's my thanks, asshole, but
his voice is too quiet and wavery to make out. Satoru, unsure, makes to crawl closer towards
him, but Getou's eyes are falling fastly shut now, his mouth parting just the barest bit— and
in the next moment he's drifted away again.

Satoru stares.

At the way Getou's chest rises and falls, gradually slowing. At his hands on either side of
him. At the bandages around his abdomen, stained and parched with blood but holding him
together all the same.

Satoru stares— and suddenly feels tired.

I need a nap, he thinks, cagey and sluggish. Just a few minutes to rest his eyes. All the
tension and exhaustion are rushing into him now, a crestfall after everything. And if these
curses are going to attack them later anyway, maybe he can simply just—

A sound rustles by the doorway.

Satoru nearly jolts. He sits up, alarmed.

There's a small curse at the door. Frog-like, green and slimy, one of its small hands placed on
the hinges. It looks up at him with big, round eyes; eyes that are almost fading into white.

A low-level curse.

“...Hah,” says Satoru, with a tiny laugh of disbelief. “So this is how they want to play.”

_____

He exorcises it.

Quick and easy. A flick of his wrist and it's gone.

Satoru glances, then, at the clock hanging by the wall. Five minutes to six— but none of its
hands are moving; not the hour, not the minute, not the skinny broken second. Nothing here
to measure time by.

(But that's alright. In another 12 hours, Yaga will go searching for them.)

And then — in a movement so furtive, so fluid he nearly doesn't parse and dodge it in time —
another low-level curse drops upside down from the ceiling, and smiles at him.

_____

That motherfucker of a Special Grade.

It wasn't just one. It wasn't just two.

They've released countless curses in the house. Jishin and their accomplices, those bastards,
have let loose a herd of curses for him to exorcise. Mostly low-levels. Some Grade 4, some
Grade 3, some semi-Grade 2. Satoru even finds one that's a straight up Grade 2. Which is
fine, cool, whatever — he's powerful enough to handle them all — but every time he finishes
one, another keeps appearing.

The whole building is swarming with them; drawn to him like flies to a piece of meat. Some
would try to come to the bedroom through the entrance, through the walls, through the
crevices all hidden. Satoru has to fight them off every time — careful not to let any of them
near Getou — and it damn near frustrates him to the point of torching the entire
establishment away.

So this is what they wanted, Satoru thinks. To wear me down.

Well, then. No matter. Feet thumping bedlam against the ground, Satoru rubs his hands
together, and turns towards them.

_____

One hour after they’re trapped, Satoru has fended off seven of them.

_____

Three hours: twenty.

_____

Six hours: thirty-five.

_____

And then, unexpectedly, the electricity gets cut off.

In the tenth hour, every light in- and outside the room goes out. A sudden flip.

Satoru has exorcised almost fifty curses at this point. It has, admittedly, taken a toll on his
stamina. Not the loss of light, or the exorcism itself, but the tax of constantly being on his
feet and being alert— that, he thinks, is really leaving him panting, his vision faltering, his
entire body a cumbersome weight. No sugar left in him to run.

But Getou is still unconscious.

Getou's still unconscious. Satoru has replaced his bandages several times, each time with the
wound scarring redder, leaving angrier traces, but at least his temperature’s stable. His
complexion retains colour. Satoru can't tend to a patient as well as your average man, granted,
but at least this boy is alive.

This will have to do for now, Satoru thinks. And once he wakes, I can tell him about all this,
let him decide what to do, how we want to leave, or wait, or move from here. When he wakes
up.

_____

Twenty hours after they're trapped, Satoru has not slept.

He leans against the bedside table, facing the doorway. There is sweat beading on his skin,
heat and adrenaline still pulsing through his veins. His breaths are coming out in ragged
gasps, trying to catch some modicum of air to hold.

(How many has he killed, sixty? Seventy? They're thinning out gradually, thank god, and he's
lost count— but Satoru hasn't slept. Hasn't managed to close his eyes, and he can tell that his
stamina is reducing by the minute, his endurance plummeting down.)

Satoru coughs. Brings a hand to his mouth, and hacks out what little left of his lungs he has.

He's tired.

He's tired, and alone.

Satoru senses it. The presence of another Grade 4 curse in the hallway. He senses it before he
sees it; and so Satoru shrugs off the exhaustion and steps through the door into the pitch
black, sterile cold of the corridor. An immaculate ghost town, this building has become: a
desolate stretch of spirits and souls. He raises a hand and sends a wave of energy to his right;
doesn't even turn to look when the blast sounds behind him, but he figures that it makes a
slow-motion sight for sore eyes, that curse and its blood splattering across the painted walls
of this lavish home.

Killing these things just as I'm wearing the damn building down. The pristine decor has been
chipped at the edges. Little by little, the wood-panelled walls of this place have become a
little slice of otherwise, what this building could have been in better days.

He staggers towards the door, then, and leans against the hinges. It feels like gasping his way
past the finish line, his legs giving out from under him— and he breathes in, deep. Brings a
hand to his forehead, rubs at the migraine forming there.

(The bodies.

He has to bury the bodies, too.)

They are still where Satoru had left them, knelt on the ground with all their organs sewn
closed, skinless. He can't get to them with all these curses looming around; and if Satoru has
made a habit of being a more honest boy, he would admit that he can't do this alone. He can't,
he can't, but he has to, hasn't he. His body feels sloppy, a puddle on the floor for someone to
mop up. Why, he thinks, feverishly, near delirious, won't anything be fucking good enough to
do my job for me.

Tick.

—Satoru stills.

The sound does not come again. He doesn't move, a perfect statue; but everything is eerily
quiet in the hallway.

Satoru glances up.

It's hard to see, the darkness around him like oceanic black. But he can still make out the
shape hanging on the wall in front of him, in the middle of the corridor. A circular clock.

That's where the noise came from, Satoru thinks, isn't it? But wasn't the clock broken, last he
checked? It's still five minutes to six now, but surely... he hadn't been paying attention to it
for the past few hours, but it definitely made a noise, didn't it? A ticking noise.

...Did the second hand move?

Satoru blinks at it.

Always, said Yaga, people in groups disappearing—

—their bodies have apparently aged—

—older versions of themselves. Much older.

The second hand moved.

“...Oh,” says Satoru, realization dawning. Something cold runs down his spine. “God.”

And this, ill-timedly, is when he feels the beginning of a faint.

His body is one muscle held at the point of stretch. Satoru can’t feel the tip of his fingers,
can’t feel anything below the numbness of his legs, his consciousness eluding from his grasp.
I've overexerted myself, right, but there are curses around, there are curses around
everywhere, lurking in the corners of this murky slaughterhouse, and Getou is here, Getou is
hurt, so Satoru has to do this even while he's doing it alone, because—

Satoru falters, and staggers to the ground.

Everything around him goes black.

 (He won’t ever admit this. He is a boy too proud, too stubborn to admit it. But in this
moment, Satoru is so tired that he doesn't realize his classmate behind him has blearily,
quietly woken up just minutes ago.)

(So tired, he barely registers the warm pair of arms wrapping around his side, holding him
up. And a voice beside his ear — soft and low, distant as an old dream but familiar still —
calling his name.)

Chapter End Notes

THANK U ENDLESSLY to my beta emso for always being there for me. ALSO
THANK U to Lex, who helped me with my uncertainties and who has been so so so
insanely supportive!!

and thank you guys so much for reading!! I was surprised that there hasn't (yet) been a
Special Grade curse born from humanity's relationship to earthquakes, since Japan is
quite known for them. GEGE IF YOU DO CREATE ONE IN THE FUTURE WELL
I'M SORRY-
 Suguru
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Suguru.

There are flashes of visibility, flashes of clarity. Voices here and there, fickle and faint as
Suguru slips in and out of consciousness. Some of them sound real. Some of them sound like
dreams. He can’t recognize most of it, though, all of these sounds blurring into each other
like a watercourse.

But he does hear one voice, sometimes.

Suguru.

_____

When Suguru wakes, he wakes to a flash of light.

There are drapes before him, soft and transparent. Beige-white, hanging in low threads from
above; and there's a flash of bright lights coming from somewhere to his left. The air around
him is cold, everything incandescent. And so, naturally, Suguru wonders if he’s just died and
gone up to heaven.

He turns his head.

It's a bit too blinding to see. But there — on his left, standing by the doorway with his back
facing Suguru — is Gojo Satoru.

Not heaven, then, thinks Suguru.

It takes a couple seconds for Suguru to adjust to the sight, the washed-out edges of the world
resolving in blink by blink. They're in a room. A bedroom, by the looks of it. And that's
where the light came from, he realizes, staring at Gojo. The flare of light that Gojo caused
with his technique, the flare of white and red; the one that’s dying down right now,
diminishing somewhere out in the hallway that Suguru can't see.

And Gojo’s leaning against the doorframe, his steps appearing somewhat heavy—

Then everything goes dark.

“...Hey,” Suguru croaks out.

Or, at least, that’s what he tries to say. His voice doesn’t come out proper. It's stuck
somewhere between this breath and the last— and there's a sudden burst of pain that blooms
in his stomach, then, right near his side, holy shit, and Suguru has to briefly squeeze his eyes
shut to let the agony wash over him.

It's too dark to see anything clearly. But his eyes are adapting. It only takes a few more
moments for him to make out Gojo's silhouette.

“Hey,” he repeats.

Suguru sits up. The bed doesn’t creak, but the sheets do ruffle beneath him. He looks up,
expecting Gojo to turn around at the sound — acute as he is — but Gojo doesn't. He only
continues to lean against the door hinges, apparently focused on something in front of him.
Something that seems... serious, by the way he's tensing.

And then Gojo begins to sway.

Suguru stands abruptly.

He knows what it means for someone’s stance to shift this way, for their legs to go this aslant.
Feet on the ground — ignoring the pain tearing at his side — Suguru cuts through the room
in record speed, just in time for Gojo to stagger, wobbling knees-first to the ground— and
both of Suguru’s arms reach out to catch him.

“Gojo,” Suguru says, in a voice softer than he means to. His hands instinctively wrap around
the boy, pulling him close; and Gojo collapses backwards, all his weight in Suguru’s arms,
his head limp on Suguru’s shoulder.

Fuck, ow. Ow, ow, ow, motherfuck. His stomach feels like it's been ripped to fucking shreds.
Suguru hisses the pain back, staggers a little.

He shifts Gojo's weight in his arms. Then begins to lug him back — wincing as each
movement threatens to enlarge the goddamn wound he already has — and manages to get
them both back to the bed. He lowers Gojo down as gently as possible; then roughly kneels
beside him, panting.

“Gojo,” he repeats, this time a little louder.

Gojo doesn't move. It's too fucking dark — why aren't the lights turned on? everything
outside the windows is black — to really see, but Gojo doesn't seem to have any injuries.
Suguru presses a hand to his cheek. He's breathing, eyes closed, his brows pinched together
like he's in pain, and his body is... alarmingly warmer than normal, even though the air
around them is near freezing. Shit, is he burning up? How long has this been going on?

Suguru's stomach drops. He's never seen Gojo unresponsive before. He's never seen Gojo
unconscious, this isn't—

Suguru stands. Legs still a bit weak from underuse, he forces himself to walk around the
room. Feels around the walls for light switches, and they're there; but whenever he pulls or
presses on them, nothing turns on.

Alright. What a great fucking time for a power outage.

So he heads toward what he's certain is a drawer. Pulls open all the compartments, and
successively scours through all of them by touch for some kind of light source.

He ends up finding two things: a lighter, and a row of candles.

He flicks the lighter on. It's a sudden glow of red and gold, casting shadows over the room.
He unwraps the candles with one hand, holds the flame to each wick, and lights them up one
by one— floral scents emanate from them: roses, lavender, whatever other god-awful aroma
there is. Suguru combs his way through the room, and hurriedly puts them up against mirrors,
against white walls, on top of non-wooden drawers. For maximum visibility.

The whole room is lit.

And that’s when Suguru sees it.

Residuals. Residuals upon residuals, all born from curses and the remnants of life they leave
behind.

Suguru blinks at the sight, stunned.

What was... what's all this? The last thing he remembers is something striking him from an
unknown source, something whose origin he couldn't even detect. There was a woman there,
too, a vengeful cursed spirit. So what are all these residuals— splattered across the walls and
furniture, stark against the room, residuals from the repeated use of jujutsu— what are they
doing here?

Were there more curses?

Did Gojo fend them all off by himself?

Suguru turns over to him. Gojo's still out cold. Haloed by the candlelight that casts over his
face, Suguru can see, now, that Gojo really harbours no wounds. His clothes are intact: no
tears or scratches, no cuts. His lips are pursed together and his brows furrowed, his breathing
a little more rapid than normal— like he's having a nightmare.

And his cheeks are flushed. There is sweat beading down his skin.

A fever, Suguru realizes.

He goes to get a towel, then wets it with cool water. Then comes back to bed to shift Gojo
slightly closer to the headboard, set Gojo's neck on a pillow, tucks a blanket over him, and
places the towel atop his forehead.

“You idiot,” Suguru mutters, because he doesn’t quite know what else to say. Gojo lets out a
soft little noise, but otherwise doesn't react. And it's strange— to see this lack of response
from someone who is always so adamant on mouthing off.
Something warm, and something guilty, twists in Suguru's stomach.

What happened? he thinks, just to distract himself.

How long have they been here? They're in the same house they were in earlier, surely. No
lights coming from the windows, no sounds around them. But they're not alone, he knows.
They're not alone. If the residuals he sees is any indication, then the apprehensively heavy
presence of curses all around them — low levels, mostly, thank god, but large in number all
the same — has already notified Suguru ever since he woke up that they've been surrounded.
Surrounded and trapped.

But nothing is attacking them right now. Special Grade cursed energy earlier is gone; so is the
woman’s. There’s only what appears to be a Curtain enclosing them from outside.

What happened while I was out?

Suguru digs the heel of one hand into his temple. Shouldn't have let myself go unconscious
like that, he thinks. Shouldn't have left Gojo alone, annoying as he is. This whole thing is
most likely his own fau—

“Papa.”

Suguru nearly jumps.

He swivels around, startled by the voice, young and feminine and distorted, and—

There is a little girl by the doorway.

Not... exactly a little girl. She stands with her hands clasped together in front of her — no
more than six years old — but her face is too pale, her eyes too sunken, her dress too still.
Her skin too melted.

And there is blood around her mouth.

“Papa,” she whispers. She's looking straight at him, eyes wide and hollow.

Suguru stares back at her, willing his heartbeat to calm.

Was she, he thinks, one of the five bodies that they found earlier? He doesn't— doesn't
remember her. But she looks to be this family's child. Her cursed energy is low, though it's
there regardless; the energy of a vengeful cursed spirit born from humans after death.

Suguru tries not to let any emotion show on his face.

He keeps his gaze locked on her. Then, carefully — while maintaining as pleasant a façade as
possible — he kneels down on one knee, and slowly reaches his hand out to her, palm-up.

“Hey,” says Suguru softly. “Come here.”

The girl doesn't move.

“...I won’t hurt you,” he assures her.

She hesitates. It only lasts for a few moments, before she eventually treads over to him,
tentative and slow like she’s wary of her own steps. He waits until she stops a couple paces in
front of him, and then asks:

“What happened to you?”

She blinks at him. Then opens her mouth; but before any answer can escape, a surge of blood
gushes out of her lips and drips down onto the ground, tapping rhythmically against the floor.
Like someone has held a knife to her lips and slit open a velvet inch.

Suguru watches, both horrified and somehow deeply, deeply sad, as she places a hand to her
throat, tries to gurgle around the words caught there. But they don't come. Anything she has
to say is drowned within the blood in her mouth, like she has gone and swallowed iron whole
— and Suguru begins to move his hand, begins to whisper a quiet I'm sorry, tries to exorcise
to free her from this.

But before he manages anything, the little girl looks at him — void of expression, a doll-like
apparition — and fades away into nothing.

_____

It doesn't take long for Gojo to wake up.

The only clock Suguru sees — the one in the hallway — is broken. But it's approximately 15
minutes later that Gojo wakes.

(Suguru spends those 15 minutes making sure Gojo doesn't overheat. That, plus examining
his own injury.

The pain in his side has been an incessantly dull throb. He’s sat down at the foot of the bed,
slid off his uniform, removed his undershirt, and peered down at the wound— only to find a...
surprisingly horrendous job of bandaging. Seriously, he thinks, feeling slightly bad, it looks
like a child attempted some kind of slapdash stitch-up game. It does the job, though, no
matter how sloppy the work is, no matter how some parts are left lax.

And judging by the amount of used, bloodstained bandages discarded in the trash, Gojo must
have... tended to his wound a few times. Must have treated him till exhaustion.

Suguru tries to ignore the funny, roiling feeling in his stomach.)

So it takes 15 minutes. Suguru rebandages himself, replaces the towel on Gojo's forehead,
and sits beside Gojo.

Fifteen minutes later, Gojo begins to stir.

Suguru turns at the sound, watching as Gojo's face scrunches together — his mouth pursing
with a soft groan — before relaxing as he blearily, slowly opens his eyes.

He blinks up at the bed drapes. Then casts his stare down at Suguru.

One, two, three seconds. And then, expectedly, Gojo hastily clambers up to a sitting position.

“Oh,” he stammers. His head whizzes around: at Suguru, to his left, to his right. If
circumstances were different, Suguru would've whipped out his phone and recorded this mess
of a reaction, just to fuck with him. “I…”

“You were passed out for about 15 minutes,” supplies Suguru. “From exhaustion, I'm
guessing. You also have a slight fever.”

Gojo stares at him some more. His eyes are wide, nearly frantic; and watching him scramble
for coherency — watching him be confused — is something Suguru has never witnessed in
the entirety of their acquaintanceship. It's unusually pleasing.

Gojo rubs a hand over his face. He pinches the space between his brows, then looks up at
Suguru, glancing him up and down. Suguru can also tell, somehow, that Gojo's peripherals
are scanning over the room, flitting over all the candles that were lit in his absence.

“When did you...?” asks Gojo.

“I woke up right when you fainted,” says Suguru. “Caught you while you were going down.”

“While I was…” Gojo trails off.

Then his eyes snap open, the clarity rushing back into him— and he makes to move off the
bed, his gaze darting towards the door—

Suguru, for some bizarre reason, has anticipated this reaction. He closes the distance between
them, quick as light, and grabs the blanket on both sides of Gojo's shoulders. Gojo visibly
starts in surprise, but doesn't move in time: Suguru pushes the blanket down onto the
mattress, taking Gojo down with it and effectively trapping him down onto the sheets.

Gojo, unexpectedly, falls back with little resistance. He lets out a startled noise as his back
hits the sheets, and then gapes at Suguru, baffled. “Hey! What are you—”

“You just fainted from exhaustion,” says Suguru. “You need to rest.”

“What? This is ridiculous!” Gojo gawks at him. He looks almost offended, which would've
been amusing under other circumstances. And even with his face flushed from the fever, heat
emanating from his skin, he thrashes against Suguru's hold. Suguru only pins the blanket
down harder, though, covering Gojo from the neck down. “Get off me!”

“Stop struggling,” says Suguru.

“The whole place is swarming with curses! Can't you feel it? There are two outside the door
right now, in case you—”
“If you keep struggling,” says Suguru calmly, “the wound on my side is going to tear.”

Gojo stills.

“...They haven't attacked,” explains Suguru, still keeping his hold on the blanket. “There's no
reason to exorcise them right now.”

Gojo scoffs, halfway between disbelieving and irked. “You,” he says, after a moment, “are so
goddamn annoying. You suck. I can't believe I'm stuck here with you.”

Ten seconds into him waking up, thinks Suguru, and refrains from slapping Gojo back into
unconsciousness. “I,” he says instead, “am making sure you don't die.”

“You're not doing any death prevention,” says Gojo. “You're only doing this to annoy me.”

“I think you're flattering yourself,” says Suguru. “Anyway, if you’re trying to get up so you
can continue doing whatever you were doing earlier—” he jerks his head towards the
residuals behind him, “—you can stop that. There's no use to this if you'll just pass out every
minute.”

“I'm not gonna pass out every minute!” Gojo protests, affronted. “I have more endurance than
that!”

Suguru gives him a long look.

“That was once,” grumbles Gojo. “I was fighting for what I'm pretty sure is twenty hours,
asshole. What did you expect?”

Twenty hours.

Twenty hours. Had Suguru been out for that long? He really left Gojo to defend both of them
for nearly a whole day— and something in Suguru's chest constricts at the thought,
simultaneously warm and guilty. He wants very badly to clamp a hand on Gojo's mouth.

“We're fine now,” says Suguru instead, just to mask it. “You keep lying down, and recount to
me what happened while I was out.”

“Jeez,” says Gojo. “Can’t you ask a little more nicely?”

Suguru gives him another long-suffering look.

Gojo glares back at him this time, eyes full of aggravation. For a moment, they simply stare
each other down, sharp and tense. Strangely, Gojo is the one to tear his gaze away first— and
there's something in the dip of his chin, the slide of his eyes to the floor, that surprises Suguru
momentarily. The word shyness rises unbidden into his mind. He dismisses it. This isn't
shyness— even though, he notes, Gojo’s cheeks are flushed a little redder than before. Is his
fever...?

“Put your shirt on,” says Gojo.

Suguru blinks. “What?”

“Put your shirt on,” Gojo repeats, averting his gaze. He seems annoyed. “You look gross.
And tie your hair up. It's weird when it's down.”

Oh. Suguru looks down at himself. He's forgotten that he has neither shirt nor uniform on,
with only the bandage around his lower torso to cover skin.

Fixing Gojo with another warning look — one that Gojo doesn't even meet — Suguru climbs
off of him, sits down with both feet planted on the floor, his back facing Gojo, and reaches
for the loose shirt at the foot of the bed. “Sorry your precious eyes can't handle it,” he says,
annoyed for reasons he can't quite explain, and dons it over himself. He looks behind at Gojo.
“You have my hair tie on your wrist, by the way. For some reason.”

Gojo stares at him.

Then he shifts, allowing his head to be placed a couple inches higher on the pillow, and pulls
out the hair tie wrapped around his left hand.

There is a curiously strange look on his face, though. As if Suguru has forgotten something
important.

“What?” asks Suguru.

“Nothing,” says Gojo, and hands him the hair tie.

Suguru takes it, and binds his hair up into a bun. It must look rather pathetic and lopsided,
given how little effort he's put forth.

“How's your…” Gojo trails off. He gestures vaguely at Suguru's wound. “That injury didn't
take you out for good yet?”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Suguru rolls his eyes. “Should've left me alone, if that's what you
wanted to happen.”

Gojo scowls.

“It hurts, but it's fine,” says Suguru, and then adds, somewhat begrudgingly: “You did a
decent job.”

Suguru expects Gojo to boast about it. Take that compliment and run a mile high, pester and
use it for his own egotistical show of vanity, like he often does.

But Gojo doesn't. He only trains his gaze on the bandages, quiet.

“Well,” says Suguru, after a long minute. The silence unnerves him. “Care to tell me what
happened?”

Gojo looks at him. Then lets out a deep sigh, and thunks his head back against the bed frame.
Gojo recounts everything.

From the way the vengeful cursed spirit disappeared (Kuchisake-Onna, they pinpointed), to
the Special Grade that Suguru had only sensed but not seen; to everything Jishin told Gojo; to
the way they’ve trapped them both here with a surrounding Curtain; to the countless released
low-level curses that Gojo had fought off for the past 20 hours; to the way he had to
continuously replace Suguru’s bandages, goddamn, and Suguru’s so heavy to carry around,
what in the actual hell did he eat to weigh that much?

“Wow,” says Suguru. “Graceful with your words.”

“My arms were sore afterwards.” Gojo’s sitting up against the headboard now, his arms
crossed petulantly. It sounds like a lie. “It was awful. Terrible experience.”

“Don't brag about how weak you are,” says Suguru. “So, what, they're just leaving us here?
Like this? Until you signal for them?”

“Apparently,” says Gojo. His lips purse together, hesitating. Suguru watches him —
observing how Gojo's eyes are determinedly focused on a dip in the mattress, how his face is
blushed with feverish heat — and Suguru suddenly has the faint, inexplicable urge to reach
out and pinch his cheek.

Suguru doesn't do that. He sits motionless, instead, and thinks about it.

...Something doesn't add up.

No. Something really doesn't add up. He nearly startles himself, when the realization comes
to him. Can't believe I haven't thought of this before. “What about the school?”

Gojo’s face instantly falls.

A coldness spreads through Suguru's skin, thick and honed. “We've been here a while, haven't
we?” he presses, already dreading the answer. “Where's Yaga? Why haven't other shamans
come to help us yet?”

Gojo meets his eyes for a brief second, and then looks away. Something goes panicky in
Suguru's chest, curdled by the way Gojo's gaze awkwardly drops to the ground.

“...No one’s coming to help us.”

Suguru frowns. “What?”

“No one’s coming to help us,” repeats Gojo. “No one will ever know we're missing.”

Suguru searches his face for something. Some sort of indication that Gojo’s pulling his leg,
but Gojo’s expression is stony.
“How do you know that?” asks Suguru.

Gojo looks at him. There's disappointment in his stare, and something like discomfort. He
shifts, seemingly to move the blanket and get off the bed, but Suguru shoots him a warning
stare.

Gojo pouts, sitting back. “Fine,” he settles on saying. “Can you get the clock hanging in the
corridor here, then?”

Suguru narrows his eyes together. Still no trace of humour on Gojo's face— and so he stands
up, makes his way to the door, ignores the low-level curses stationing immobile at the corners
of the hallway, and approaches the clock.

The minute he steps in front of it, Suguru feels an unease lacing through his body.

Cursed energy. There's cursed energy originating from it; dark and cold, so strong that it's
flowing out across the space between him and the clock. Is it a cursed tool? It's gotta be
classified as a Special Grade, if it is. There's simply way too much cursed energy for it to be
anything lesser.

And the time shown: five minutes to six.

Suguru takes it off the wall.

His hands tingle with it. He turns it around once in his palms, then heads back into the room.

Gojo's hunched over slightly on the bed now, his cheek resting on one hand that's propped up
on his knee. He tilts his chin up as Suguru enters, as Suguru approaches to stand before him.

“I have to admit,” says Gojo. “The great big arrogant Getou Suguru obeying my orders is
kinda fun.”

“Don't joke around,” Suguru scolds. “What is this?”

Gojo leans back against the headboard. “A cursed object.” He appears, of all things, resigned.
“Isn't it good at hiding its presence?”

“...A cursed object,” echoes Suguru.

“I didn't realize that it was one right away,” says Gojo. “The presence of curses all around
helped mask it a bit too much. Blegh. So annoying.”

Suguru glances down at the clock.

A cursed object. He remembers what this means. Unlike cursed tools, they're not imbued
with cursed energy; rather, actual curses are bound to them. They are relics. Artifacts of the
jujutsu world.

“There was this conversation,” continues Gojo, “that I overheard Yaga talking to Utahime
and another woman about. They mentioned two unregistered Special Grade curses that have
run rampant in the city.”

Civilians missing, Suguru recalls. All the staff occupied in a rare occurrence.

“This cursed object isn't Jishin's,” says Gojo. “I know the difference. I can tell.”

“So...” Suguru ventures slowly, turning the clock over again in his hands. Its surface is
smooth, burnished. “You think the other unnamed, unregistered Special Grade curse bound
itself to this. Is that it?”

“Yeah. Part of itself.”

“Why?”

Gojo hesitates. “I think… it's part of the conditions of this Curtain.”

Suguru stares at him.

“You know how Curtains can be created and imbued in cursed objects?” says Gojo. “I think
that's what they did, since the Curtain here is so strong. And hear this: Yaga said there have
been mass deaths lately. There were corpses that have shown up aged recently; bodies that
are older versions of themselves. It was the work of a Special Grade curse, he said. A curse
that’s managed to hide its presence and avoided all the sorcerers that have been searching for
it.” Gojo pauses, scratching his head. “I was surprised, after 20 hours, that we were still stuck
here. But then I noticed—” he jerked his head to the clock, “—that the second hand moved.
One second, after 20 hours.

“This clock isn't broken. It's the only thing that moves at a different pace than everything else
in this building.”

Gojo locks gazes with him, and waits. Suguru stares back blankly.

It takes him a few moments.

“...You’re saying,” Suguru ventures, cautiously, “that time moves slower inside this Curtain
than outside?”

“Significantly slower,” confirms Gojo. “Twenty hours here, one second outside.”

Suguru opens his mouth. Wordlessly closes it.

“Maybe.” Gojo shrugs. “I'm guessing 20 hours. I also might have missed another instance
where it moved. But it's not a quiet sound— I think I would've heard it.”

There are no hints of falsity in Gojo's expression. No indication that he's lying.

Suguru's mind reels. He feels the flare of panic singe through him, then, like a final rush of
blood.

Twenty hours?
Yaga doesn't even know they've been attacked yet. Shoko hasn't noticed they're gone.

No one will come help us, Gojo had said, and it makes sense. It makes sense now, why
Suguru's wound has taken the time to partially heal, why Gojo had developed a fever from
relentless fighting and yet no assistance has even come for them.

From the corner of his eyes, Gojo peers at him. And there is, of all damn things, a glint of
mirth in his eyes. “What's this?” Gojo yip, grinning cheerily. “Are you panicking, Suguru?
Are you worried? Are you about to keel over and cry? Ooou, I haven't ever seen the great
Getou Suguru this stressed bef—”

“Cut it,” snaps Suguru. “I know you're just as worried as I am.”

Gojo's smile doesn't falter. But he says nothing.

“...That means,” Suguru says eventually, “that we can be here a month, and only 30 seconds
will have passed. Eight years, and only an hour will have passed.”

“Whoa,” says Gojo. “Sugu— whoa. Who taught you math?”

“And you think this,” says Suguru, nudging at the clock in his hands, “cursed object —
Special Grade cursed object — is responsible?”

“Sorta.” Gojo’s brows furrow. “I think it's part of the Special Grade curse that set up this
Curtain... and I think it's to help maintain the conditions that the Curtain requires.”

“Okay,” says Suguru. “So time-slowing is one. What's the other condition?”

Gojo fixes his eyes on the metal linings of the clock. It's odd, Suguru thinks, to see him so
heedful, so suddenly wary of the words that may come out of his mouth, like he's
methodically picking them apart. It's uncanny.

“I talked to one of the curses while you were out. The Special Grade.” Gojo hesitates. “They
told me they'll let you go, if I come with them.”

He trains his gaze on Suguru, then. Watching.

Suguru's brain nearly halts.

He looks to the window. It's dark, and ominous, the veil of the Curtain evidently right up
against the glass— and he makes his way towards it. Unlocks the window, pushes it slightly
ajar, and presses one hand through the Curtain.

It goes through.

“I figured,” says Gojo behind him, voice sounding more sulky than anything. “When I did
that earlier, it didn't work.”

Suguru turns back to him. “This is,” he says, stunned, “this is a Curtain that keeps only you
in?”
“It's strong, too.” Gojo lets out an indignant huff, arms folded. Suguru can't comprehend how
he can act this way, as if this merely is a thorn he's too idle to pry out. “I tried brute force on
it earlier, but it didn't work. Couldn't get through. Pretty sure they’re continually releasing
those low-level curses from outside to storm in, too, which means the only function of this
Curtain — besides warping time, of course — is to keep Gojo Satoru inside.” He grins, slow
and playful, like it's a way for him to show off the insolent curve of his mouth. Suguru
resents this display of self-promotion. “Makes sense, no? I'm such excellent company! Why
wouldn't anyone want me in captivity?”

“Don’t make light of this,” Suguru says harshly.

“You're no fun,” Gojo huffs. “This is boutta be the worst few years of my life.”

“Optimistic to think we'll survive each other till then,” mutters Suguru. “My god.”

Gojo's only response is to grin.

...So that's it, then? The two conditions of the Curtain: to slow down time, and to keep Gojo
Satoru in. Suguru isn't sure what the Special Grade curse's technique is, but he supposes it's
logical, then, that they'd put their own cursed object here to maintain this Curtain; the only
thing in here that works in real-time.

“It does suck, though, doesn't it,” says Gojo, “that the enemies are stronger than I
anticipated.”

“Aren't they,” says Suguru.

Stronger than anticipated, he thinks. A whole damn understatement. Special Grade cursed
objects can't be destroyed with jujutsu, they both know that. Can't break the clock to bring
down the curtain. There's no way for them to claw out of this place but to wreck it from
outside, give up from within.

But why did they trap them here? Why enclose only Gojo?

Why go through all the trouble? He supposes they might’ve wanted to starve them out, wear
them down fight-by-fight, deplete them of their resources. But wouldn't it have been better to
finish them both off from the start, when Suguru was already a hindrance? Couldn't they have
just acted when he was unconscious?

Unless…

Unless, he thinks, they're anticipating something worse.

(The little girl.

There was blood around her mouth. And the bodies—)

“Hey, stop worrying,” comes Gojo's voice. “You look horrible when you're worried.”

Suguru glances up.

Gojo's watching him. Eyes curious, bright under the golden candlelights. And there's nothing
even remotely fearful in his expression, nothing belying any distress, or concern— as if this
all is just some storybook happening.

“Don't worry.” Gojo is starting to look… absurdly cheerful. He's perked up too brightly for it
to fool anyone. “Worst case scenario, we can negotiate. They might let you go.”

Suguru stares at him.

Just for a moment.

Then he walks over to the bed, sets down the clock, approaches Gojo who is inching away
from him in uncertain increments, and flicks the boy right on the forehead.

“Ow!”

Suguru might have done it a little more harshly than he means to. But he's upset. He's upset,
for some reason, for some inexplicable reason, and not exactly from the fact that Gojo thinks
this lowly of him, or that he feels insulted, or anything as self-righteous as that. He’s upset
because—

(Were you always like this?)

“What the hell are you saying?” he snaps, glaring at Gojo like enough time will translate
everything that needs to be voiced. Because is this what you think people would default to?
Some half-assed attempt at loyalty only to abandon you? I wouldn't just leave, he wants to
say, but none of it comes out. He despises how honest it sounds.

And Gojo — no points for guessing — looks wronged. And confused. There is a flush across
his cheeks darker than the low fever would warrant, his hair a bird's nest against the
headboard.

“Fine,” Gojo bites out. “Fine. If that's how you're gonna— asshole— go stand guard and deal
with all those curses by yourself then!”

And then he flips to the side, pulls the blanket over himself, and turns his back to Suguru.

Suguru blinks.

It’s a... surprisingly childish response. He doesn't quite know how to react; Gojo just stays
where he is, firm as faith, his face hidden from view and only his mat of hair visible from
over the blanket. He doesn't even move to glance over at Suguru, even after a few moments
pass.

Suguru continues to stare, the rage in him quickly sinking down.

...Okay, then.

Guess I brought that onto myself, Suguru thinks. He inwardly sighs, and seats himself up
against the bedpost.
The room goes quiet. It could have been daytime, for all he knows, but there isn't even
anything here to reliably mark it by. Just layers and layers of darkness. Walls lined with
candles, draped in lights that nervously flicker along with every unconcealable movement.

Suguru watches.

No heating, he notes. No functioning radiators. Cold as a cellar, the room and most likely the
entire building are permeated with the stench of curses and tapers, infested the whole way
through. They'll have to find a way out of here, he thinks, with Gojo's fever. They'll have to
fight their way out. Providence will have as much to do with it as their own powers, really;
Suguru can't figure out how exactly they’ll go about it, only that the five bodies they saw and
the little girl may give some form of insight.

And that would be fine. It would be fine, except Gojo had gone and said, don't worry, they
might let you go. Like he's used to it.

The thought makes Suguru want to hit something.

“Hey,” he says.

No response.

“You really,” says Suguru, because he’s not sure how else to break the silence, “went and
eavesdropped on Yaga's private conversation, huh?”

There is a long pause.

A silence so drawn he wonders if Gojo’s even heard him at all. So Suguru moves. Tries to
inch closer to make sure Gojo hasn't already slipped away, but then, muffled by the blanket:
“Please. It's not like you wouldn't have done the same,” Gojo mutters.

Suguru pauses. “What?”

“Don't lie,” says Gojo. “You would've eavesdropped, too.”

“No, I wouldn't have.”

“Sure you would.”

A corner of Suguru's mouth threatens to curve up, despite himself. He leans back against the
bedpost, one knee drawn up to rest his arm. “Sorry you had to fend off everything by
yourself, by the way,” he decides to say. “Sounds like it was exhausting.”

Gojo doesn't answer. He doesn't move, or shift; no indication that he has heard Suguru at all.
Stubborn as expected, Suguru thinks, always so difficult, but he finds it a surprising thing to
realize that he doesn't mind it much. Or at all, really. It's a comfort to know that Gojo is more
predictable than not, more foreseeable even with his faults, and Suguru almost leaves it as is.
Almost doesn't add anything.

But the room is calm. Quiet as an ancient spell.

 “Thanks, though,” Suguru says tentatively, “for keeping guard. And for treating my wound.”

Gojo does not turn back. There is a stale, frozen atmosphere around him that perhaps means
he's still awake and listening, but nothing besides.

And then the bed creaks.

“...Good,” Gojo mutters, nearly too quiet to be audible beneath the fabric. “Because I'm no
good at apologizing. Or thanking people.”

Suguru fights back a smile.

“I know.” His voice is low, soft and faint. “That's why I did it.”

Chapter End Notes

me, planning this fic, trying to calculate how much time should be passing:

(Edit 23 Feb 2022:) the inimitable and incredibly talented Alice drew fanart for the
blanket scene in this chapter and every time i look at it i scream lovingly into my tea
towel, PLEASE GO LOOK AT IT AND GIVE HER LOVE!! :'((
 Suguru
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Gojo does end up sleeping.

Their conversation ends. Suguru sits in silence for a few minutes — watching as the candle
shadows flicker across the walls — before he begins to hear the steady in- and exhales that
tell him Gojo has already fallen asleep.

Fair enough, considering.

Suguru watches over him. Watches over both of them, he corrects. There's not much to do in
the meantime: he attempts to destroy the cursed clock, naturally, to no avail; he exorcises a
hoard of curses, which are weak and few in number— Gojo had likely eradicated most of
them already. He paces around the room, rummages through the drawers, tries to examine
every nook and cranny of this sunless place. Makeup, clothes, DVDs, lighters. An assortment
of books that range from bedtime stories to erotica. Every sort of thing you can expect from a
bedroom, really; except it's lavish. It's like these homeowners think that something has to be
publicly valued for it to be valuable.

Anyway.

He also finds Gojo's glasses.

They were left strewn on the ground near the bathroom. Gojo probably dropped them in a
rush and simply forgot that he needed them. Suguru picks them up, checks for cracks, and
places them on the bedside table beside Gojo.

And he waits.

_____

Gojo sleeps for what feels like an entire day, though Suguru knows it isn’t.

Ten hours, if Suguru's biological clock is anything to go by. He sleeps for about ten hours.
The way Gojo's form rises and falls — lying on his side, facing Suguru — is nearly
disquieting to watch, only because it's never quite occurred to Suguru's imagination before
that Gojo can be as silent as anyone asleep. No snark from his mouth, no scowl or smile. Just
peace.

So Suguru sits next to him, and picks out a novel to read.

Ninety pages into the book, Gojo wakes.

For a boy so constantly light on his feet, Suguru had thought Gojo would wake as
grandiosely as he acts: obvious shifts, face scrunching up, long yawns, big stretches.

But Gojo wakes quietly. No movements, no stirring. He simply opens his eyes, slowly.

(It's only a coincidence that Suguru is watching Gojo at this particular moment, really, that he
notices this. Lucky timing.)

“Morning,” says Suguru.

“Ugh,” says Gojo.

“Graceful greeting,” says Suguru. “You've been out for a while. Doesn't seem like it's reached
20 hours yet, though.”

It's a strange thing, to see Gojo come unto himself. It takes a moment for the boy to
comprehend where he is, what he's done, who he's with— and as it appears to dawn over his
face, Gojo glances up at Suguru, brief, before he crassly opens his mouth into a more
characteristic yawn and pulls his arms up into a stretch.

“Hi there,” says Gojo, grinning slyly up at him. “Did you miss me?”

Suguru sends him a dry look. “Like a bullet to my stomach.”

Gojo's mouth opens, caught mid-word, before he clamps it shut again.

“It was a good joke,” says Suguru.

“Not really,” mumbles Gojo, in a slightly bitter tone. “Also, are you actually reading? We're
in mortal danger and you're actually reading?”

“Pages under candlelight are pretty legible,” says Suguru. “What else would you have me
do?”

“I thought you'd be freaking out a lot by now.”

“Do I give off that impression?”

“Come on,” says Gojo. “You put up a collected front, Suguru, but you're not really as calm as
you appear, are you?”

Suguru looks at him. Gojo only looks back, gaze somehow both innocently playful and steel-
calm. The silence suddenly stretches on a tiny bit too long for Suguru’s liking— and so he
opts for: “I told you not to call me that.”

“Why not?” Gojo smiles, a little mischievous. “Why don't you call me Satoru, too? We're
friends, aren't we? We're stuck here for god knows how long, might as well get familiar. It's a
great bonding experience!”
“That is—”

“Objectionable,” interrupts Gojo. “Disgusting. Delusional. Not true. I know what you're
gonna say.” He waves his hand, squinching his face up in mock distaste. “At least come up
with original responses, Suguru. Predictable is boring. Routine is boring. And you're such an
annoying ass.”

“Tell me something new,” deadpans Suguru.

“Anyways!” chirps Gojo, rising up abruptly into a sitting position. He swings his legs over
the foot of the bed, stands up, turns around to face Suguru, both hands on his hips, and grins.
“Now that you're also awake, Suguru, I can finally get to have fun.”

“...You what?” says Suguru.

Apparently, Gojo's definition of having fun is going through the deceased's belongings.

“This is highly inappropriate,” says Suguru.

“Come on, I didn't get to do this much while you were unconscious,” argues Gojo. “Let me
snoop a little!”

He doesn't even listen to Suguru's protests. The first thing he rummages through are the
drawers. All kinds of financial and governmental and inappropriately personal things. Gojo
scours through them, then moves onto the closet, then the second closet, then the third closet,
and then the bathroom.

“These people are filthy rich,” says Gojo, in awe.

“Gojo,” Suguru points out, “we have corpses next door.”

“They have porn.” Gojo whips out a case of DVDs and several books, taken from a floor
shelf where he's kneeling beside. He looks at Suguru, astonished. “Did you know that?”

“This is highly inappropriate,” repeats Suguru.

“I've never seen these before,” says Gojo excitedly. “Whoa. How sick is this! There's this—
oh. Oh, okay. And there's— hey, come and take a look at this position. Isn't this cool?”

Suguru, against his better judgment, does come take a look at it.

“...I wouldn't call it cool,” he decides.

“They seem like fun people!” Gojo grins. “My family never lets me go outside and see all
this stuff, you know. They're so bland. Who knew there were things like these in the adult
section of the store?” He turns to Suguru, bright eyes expectant. “These people wouldn't mind
too much if I nick this from them, right?”

“Gojo.”

“I mean, they have all this stuff!” Gojo gestures around. “Who needs all this useless decor? I
bet you that they won't even know this is missing. Right?”

“They're dead, you know,” says Suguru.

“Exactly my point,” says Gojo. He looks entertained, like he's just made a wonderful joke,
and Suguru has to wonder if he’s callous or simply too mentally unhinged to know what the
hell he's doing. It's not even the fever, probably, Suguru thinks. He's been around Gojo long
enough to understand that tactlessness is a by-product of interacting with this boy. “So it's
fine if I just take this! Oh, don't make that face, Suguru. You're such a fake do-gooder. You'd
steal all this too, if I weren't here to make you feel like you should be righteous.”

“Does that mouth of yours ever stop moving?” Suguru asks, aggrieved.

And then — abruptly, without putting much thought into it — he reaches his hand up, and
places the back of it against Gojo's forehead.

Gojo freezes.

“...Your fever went down,” Suguru notes. He smiles pleasantly. “I bet you're still too weak to
move around though, hm?”

Gojo doesn't react for a moment. Then, as if breaking out of something, he pushes Suguru's
hand away— and clears his throat. “Shut up,” he mumbles. “I'm fine.”

“Are you?”

“Please,” says Gojo, cocksure. “A night's sleep was enough to get over it. I'm strong! Only
the weak gets taken out with just this.”

Suguru gives him a flat look. “Are you always so full of yourself?”

“How else should you live?”

Suguru rolls his eyes. When he straightens up and stands to tower over Gojo, Gojo's grin only
widens. Fucking insufferable.

Well. It's relieving, in any case. Gojo's fever does seem to have gone down completely: his
cheeks are no longer flushed, eyes no longer lidded, his body no longer overwhelmingly
heated from when Suguru was in proximity with him just seconds ago. He seems healthier,
now.

“Either way,” says Suguru. “Let's explore the place, now that you're up. I've managed to find
some towels and spare toothbrushes, since it appears we'll be—”
“What? Wait, what? We’re jumping straight into action mode now?” says Gojo. From the
laughter in his tone, Suguru knows he's only doing this to be a menace. “Let's sit down and
talk, Suguru! If we're gonna be stuck here for a while, we might as well talk about our likes
and interests. Where are you from, what are your dreams. How do you like your eggs in the
morning.”

“Cooked,” says Suguru. “Preferably not with you around.”

“That's not a great start,” says Gojo.

“There is no start,” says Suguru. “Come on. Let's go.”

Gojo huffs, crossing his arm. It's not the first time Suguru has seen him sulk — and he
suspects it's far from being the last — but Suguru can somehow tell, now, that most of Gojo's
petulance and tantrums are thrown with levity, with the expectation that people will ignore
him for it. Suguru doesn't know how to feel about that.

“As I said,” says Suguru, “I found towels and spare toothbrushes.” He walks towards the
closet, cards through a row of clothes, and throws a pair of light pants and shirt over to Gojo
— who, in a start of surprise, manages to catch them by reflex. “We've been wearing the
same uniform for two days. They're filthy. You can get cleaned up first; then we can go and
explore the building afterwards, see what we can gather. ”

Gojo frowns, a little peevish. “Bossy.”

“Just go.”

And so they take turns in the bathroom.

Suguru couldn't have gone and spent more than a few minutes showering while Gojo was
sleeping, lest anything happen to the idiot. So he sits, now, reading through several tedious
pages of the book again— and after approximately ten minutes Gojo emerges from the
bathroom, hair and face steeped with water, patches of his clothes soaked. The steam curls
out past the open doorway, a pleasant dampness in the air.

“Not bad,” says Gojo. “Looks like their water heater doesn't run on electricity.”

“Good.” Suguru stands, walks forward, and steps his way past Gojo into the bathroom.

It’s been cold as hell for the past few hours. Makes sense, given that the radiators have been
turned off and no electricity has been running through the residence; but it's gotten to the
point where Suguru isn't sure if they'll be able to survive here for long without lighting a fire
inside this house.

Well, he thinks, as he steps into the shower, they sure know how to deplete our resources.
The heat from the showerhead, when he turns it on, beats down on his skin like rain. Suguru
stands and lets it wash all the grime, all the tension out from his skin, the sound echoing off
the bathroom tiles, drumming hard against the tub. He allows himself minutes to clear his
head.

And when he emerges back into the room, Gojo is lounging by the bed.

“What took you so long?” Gojo stretches, yawning. “I'm dying over here.”

“Die quieter, then,” says Suguru. “You found your glasses, I see.”

Gojo’s eyes are covered beneath him, locks of hair still damp from the shower. Suguru hadn't
quite noticed it before, but the clothes are a bit loose-fitting on him. The pants inches too
long, the shirt sizes too large. They hang awkwardly on his form. It's even more comical
when Gojo is lying with one leg propped up, cheek resting on his palm, elbow against the
mattress. He looks like a child.

“I'm hungry,” Gojo declares.

Suguru scoffs. “If you want food, we're gonna have to move.”

“You really think there's food here?”

“It's a house. What do you expect?”

Gojo squints.

“We'll have to see,” says Suguru. “I couldn’t leave the room earlier since you were sleeping,
but now we can both go and see if there's anything that might be—”

“This is such a bother.” Gojo groans, flopping his back against the sheets. “Usually if I want
food, I just ring or call for it and it's there! This is so annoying. Can't we just fight our way
out now?”

Suguru lifts a brow. “Do you just get everything handed to you as a child?”

“Please,” says Gojo. “Have you heard of my family? They practically spoil me.”

“Great mistake on their part, then.”

“So what do you wanna do?” asks Gojo. “Find food, bury the bodies, and...?”

“Examine the place,” says Suguru. “That's probably the best option for us. Not much else we
can do. Maybe there'd be some clues about how to deal with this situation.”

And that's pretty much all he can bank on, at this point. The Special Grades' target, clearly, is
Gojo. The Curtain’s restricted to only Gojo— so they have to look for leads. For reasons why
the curses have designed the trap this way, for faults, for signs of weaknesses that could've
been left throughout the building. It seems like plan A failed, Jishin had apparently told Gojo.
I don't want to fight you just yet.
Whatever that means.

(He hasn't forgotten about the little girl, either. She hasn't made another appearance since he
saw her last, though he bets she's still lingering in this place, anyhow. It's hard to leave a
place you've bled in.)

“Ehh?” whines Gojo. “You sure you don't wanna chit-chat a little before? We have all the
time in the world!”

“Cut it out, Gojo,” says Suguru. “I know you’re doing this purely to annoy me.”

“Well, I think,” says Gojo, “that you gotta take it easy once in a while. Nothing's that
serious.”

Suguru gives him a stern look, and turns away.

…This, he thinks, feeling something sour flip over in his chest. This is always going to be the
difference between them, no matter how similar they are in their strengths, in their
circumstances. Because Suguru is careful. He's principled, and amiable, and perhaps takes
more responsibility that he truly wants to shoulder. He's lived his fifteen years of life this
way, walking through the world like it's something to navigate, walking in steps he’s
consciously aware of, in steps other people can handle.

But Gojo is different. Gojo will grind decorum under his boot heel just for the sake of it.
Gojo is a fucking menace.

They snuff out all the candles in the room.

In his search around this room earlier, Suguru had managed to find two working flashlights
with batteries. Judging by the light intensity, they should last a couple more days at least.
Worst case scenario. It's pretty satisfying— the pleasantly surprised look Gojo gives him
when he pulls them out from one of the drawers.

And so: with all the candles put out, and with only the two flashlights in hand illuminating all
the brindled corners and walls, the two of them step out into the corridor.

“God,” mumbles Gojo. “It stinks.”

Suguru agrees.

It's not quite the stench of a sewer, but it comes close to something rotten, something
decaying, something that reeks. Figures, given that the bodies have been decomposing for at
least 30 hours now, mixed in with the grimy dark smell of residuals. It's nasty. Not to mention
that the hallway is even more dilapidated than the bedroom: just layers and layers of
scratches and dents. Gojo really did a number on it.
Suguru places a hand on the wall and leads them along the hallway.

One. Two.

Three rooms over, and he finds them.

Seeing it once, he thinks, doesn't make seeing it again any easier.

Suguru slows in his steps. Five bodies still where they were, still bowing. All their skin
peeled back; and upon closer inspection, he can discern that four of them are adults, one a
teenager.

“Oh man,” Gojo breathes out.

Suguru tries not to let anything show on his face.

The smell. God, the smell, coating his lungs like rancid tar. There's enough blood dried on
their bodies that they can mark each other up and you'd never see the red. If it were summer,
he thinks, there'd be flies.

The touch of the wall on Suguru's fingers suddenly feels cold. As familiar, for god's sake,
with the grotesque and malformed as he is, the sight of it still makes him want to burn
something. If only we’d arrived here earlier—

Gojo steps past him.

“Come on,” Gojo says over his shoulder. “Let's give them some kind of burial.”

Suguru stares at him.

“Oh?” says Gojo, smiling deviously. “Or is Suguru too scared to move?”

Suguru thwacks him upside the head. Gojo yelps.

“Just get to work,” says Suguru, walking irritatedly forward.

One-by-one, they pull up all the bodies into a sitting position. Set them up against the largest
couch in the room. It's hard to work under the narrow shine of the flashlights, but they make
do. Lack of sight is better, anyway, than the stench of it.

Guess there's nothing I can do that’ll make this less clinical, Suguru thinks, once they finish.
He kneels down beside the corpses. It's nearly impossible to even see what they looked like:
all their facial features are stripped, their eye sockets all gone, their flesh dried and red, their
mouths bared with teeth— a death skull's smile. And in a terrible, selfish moment, Suguru’s
relieved that not seeing their faces would make this whole process easier.

He shines the flashlight on them. Careful not to move the bodies too much lest anything
crumble upon impact, he inspects.

“Ugh,” Gojo groans. “Do you need to look at them so closely?”

“Don't say it with that tone,” Suguru scolds. “I'm trying to figure out how they got
murdered.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why'?”

“If you're looking for clues on the Special Grade's techniques,” says Gojo, “I don't think
you'll find them here.”

A corner of Suguru's mouth tugs up. “You'd make a terrible investigator.”

“Fine.” Gojo lets out a huff of air, indignant, before there's the telltale sounds of his footsteps
pacing around the room. “Fine, then. Suit yourself.”

“Don't wander off,” calls Suguru, eyes still trained on the bodies.

“I'm not an idiot!”

Suguru bites back a smile, and turns his attention onto the bodies.

All the blood had coagulated. It’s more black than red at this point, all their limbs turned to
tar. For fuck’s sake. Suguru has to stop breathing just to make it more bearable. He examines
them under the light, looks for puncture wounds, or any perforated places.

But he finds none.

...How were they killed, then?

They couldn't have been skinned alive, could they? No— there are too few signs of struggle
for that. There aren't any stab wounds, even; no lacerations that go beneath meat and bone.
Suguru didn't see anyone's techniques except for the woman's, but he doubts that cursed
energy was used here, based on the lack of residuals around. How could they have all been
killed without any sites of injury?

Suguru tries to ransack his memory. Was there something useful that anyone said?

(What was it Ijichi told him?)

“Suguru.”

“What?” says Suguru. He doesn't tear his eyes away from the corpses.

“Look,” says Gojo.

Suguru lifts his chin. Gojo is at one end of the couch — a few feet away from him — knelt
on one knee with a hand on the armrest.

Gojo isn't looking at him. His eyes are trained, instead, on something behind the couch.

“What is it?” asks Suguru.

Gojo looks like he isn't sure how to use his face. “It's another,” he says, then promptly trails
off.

Suguru stands. Dread low in his stomach, he walks around towards where Gojo is, leans over,
and peers behind the couch.

The little girl is there.

Not her curse form. Not her ghost. But her corpse itself— cowering into herself on the floor,
both hands wrapped around her head. The way she’s positioned looks like she'd been trying
to hide away behind the cushions, tucked here while the rest of her family have died outside.
Her skin is still there, her clothes not torn, the floor beneath her form not soaked with blood.

Suguru takes one look at her, and nearly summons a curse.

“—Suguru.”

It takes all his restraint not to snap. He grits his teeth, glares at somewhere past the girl’s
body for a moment— before focusing his gaze back onto Gojo.

Gojo's face is carefully blank. There's a slump to his shoulders and a queer silence about him,
the usual mark of someone knowing not to make light of a situation. Suguru decides — near
deliriously, amidst the restless churning in his stomach and the livid, sudden coldness of the
room — that solemnity doesn't sit well on him.

“You're angry,” Gojo says cautiously. “Someone you know?”

“...I met her,” says Suguru. “Her curse.”

Gojo seems to have taken that as all the answer he needs. He nods once, and moves to stand.
“Let's get her out, then.” His voice is light, but light to the point of being off-colour. “It's too
cramped in there.”

Suguru stares at him for a beat.

And then gets to work.

_____

Don't freeze, someone had taught him once. Panic kills. You can't save everyone and
everything all the time. The media will tell it like it's a story instead of a life; act like them.
These warnings and forewarnings, plus a dozen other experiences of witnessing the life leave
someone's eyes, doesn't exactly prepare Suguru for the act of dragging the limp, lead-heavy
weight of the little girl out from behind the couch.
They pull her out into the middle of the room, where the rest of her family is. He pointedly
does not look at her face. At her mouth that colours just a little closer to the pale of her flesh,
the words that she'd tried to say stuck in her jenny-wren throat.

No puncture wounds, Suguru notes instead, before laying her down gently onto the floor. No
cuts or injuries. Her face is the perfect stillness of the dead, white as bone.

Gojo grabs several white sheets and covers all the corpses laid on the ground— all six of
them in a row. Best to leave them be for now, Suguru thinks, give them a proper burial later.

“I've never had to bury anyone before,” says Suguru.

“Me neither.” Gojo scratches his head. “First time for everything, I guess.”

They leave the bodies there in the room, and close the door on their way out.

If Suguru has counted correctly, there are approximately twelve rooms in this house; six on
each floor. They'll have to check each and every one of them, just to be sure.

The second floor is mostly composed of bedrooms, playrooms, bathrooms. Seen one of them,
you've seen them all. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything is left in place as it was, no
signs of residuals or cursed energy that might've given them some information, save for the
few low-level curses exorcised in their path. Suguru trudges ahead to lead, relying on the
flashlights to show him the way, the cold clinging to all the shadows and walls of the
building, sharp and biting.

“By the way,” says Gojo, as they approach the staircase at the end of the corridor, preparing
to go down, “is there a limit to the amount of curses you can eat?”

Suguru turns back to look at him. “Physically, no.”

“Hm,” muses Gojo. “I didn't think it through, then. Should've kept some curses for you to
consume, huh.”

That, thinks Suguru, amused, is about as close to an apology as I'll ever get. “That's fine.
They don't taste that good anyway.”

Gojo stares at him for a moment.

“You know,” says Gojo, after a pause, “I think my clan would've liked powers like yours.”

“…Should I be flattered?”

“Nah. They'll see you as a weapon. It's so boring, honestly— the same whacky old thing.
They'll treat you like an orphan,” says Gojo, “which is another way of saying the world’s
leftovers, isn't it?”

“Gojo,” warns Suguru.

“I'm just saying! It makes sense, right? I'm strong. The strongest one out there. Great
personality to match, too,” Gojo adds, smiling blithely. “I'd also use me, if I were them.”

Suguru frowns at him. He has a vague, sudden, lightning impulse to grab the back of Gojo's
collar and yank.

“What,” Gojo says, after a moment of watching Suguru's face. He's almost amused. “Do you
disagree?”

Suguru doesn't answer. He doesn't say that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. He
doesn't say yeah, you idiot, what kind of ideology is that? He doesn't tell Gojo about all the
things he's heard of him before they even met, because that’s just a surefire way to pour
gasoline all over Gojo's ego. They talk about him like he's some kind of reverence, some kind
of legend— as if you can turn a child into a weapon and then call it fucking poetry. It's
ridiculous.

So Suguru asks, instead, “Are you?”

“What?”

“Are you an orphan?”

Gojo stretches, both hands raised high above his head, and hums. “Pretty much,” he replies—
which Suguru thinks is not that straightforward an answer at all.

But when someone circumvents a question like this, you drop it. So he does.

“...Your family,” says Suguru. “Aren't they very wealthy?”

“What is this?” coos Gojo. “Are you trying to get to know me better, Suguru? Is this the start
of our bonding? Our friendship?”

“Can you not,” says Suguru.

“Yeah, they're pretty rich.” Gojo smiles. “Where did you hear that from?”

“Rumours. Heard quite a bit at the school before I met you.”

“Oh?” Gojo, as expected, perks up brightly. “Did they talk about how dazzling I am? I bet
they describe my looks lots, huh? Anyone mention my eyes? My lips? How charming I am?”

Suguru scoffs. “You received a lot of ‘he's… something’.”

“Oh my,” says Gojo. “Is this a roundabout way of complimenting me?”

“You must not receive a lot of compliments, if that's what you think this was,” says Suguru,
pained. “You really don't have a filter, do you? People are only who they are when nobody's
there to watch them, but that's not the case with you, is it.” Suguru turns to him. When Gojo
only blinks back, eyebrows raised like he's surprised, Suguru decides to drop the subject and
says, “Turn left here, by the way. That over there is the basement.”
He leads them into the kitchen.

Neither of them had thoroughly searched it first time round. Maybe it would've been a lovely,
exorbitant place, Suguru thinks, as they enter the room with its marble floors and its marble
counters, but now it looks like a horror scene. As are most rooms in this building, really. But
here is where they can find the half-finished signs of life: half-eaten fruits on the table,
opened bars of chocolate, plates littered on the countertops, all of them licked clean.

“Looks like they just finished dinner,” says Gojo.

Suguru frowns.

There's something… off. He can't quite piece it together just yet, but there’s something
niggling at the back of his mind.

(...Something came up with Kiyotaka tonight, said Ijichi.

It's nothing bad, but…)

“What about you?” asks Gojo.

Suguru blinks. “What?”

Gojo's glancing at him over his shoulder, an easy smile on his face. “If we are who are we
when nobody's there to watch us,” he says, lilting the words like he's mocking Suguru, “then
what does that make you?”

Suguru stares at him.

Gojo doesn't blink. There's a certain warmth in his eyes, something playful, something
languid, and Suguru nearly shines his flashlight away. The silence draws for a little too long,
like saltwater taffy pulled until snapping.

“Go check the fridge,” Suguru says finally, and is relieved when all Gojo does is cackle.

“Got it.” Gojo turns around. “Whatever you say.”

Suguru ignores him.

Stupid. He tries to focus, instead, on the sleek wood statues scattered around the room: tall,
wooden monoliths placed there for decoration. Tries to ignore the discomfort in his chest.

He places a hand on the cool, wooden handle. Pulls it open, examines the space inside,
closes, and moves on to the countertop. Then the microwave. Then the sink. There's dust,
sure, and it's cold as hell in here, his breaths coming out in dandelion puffs in the dark, but
there aren't any signs of struggle.

If the family was killed here, he thinks, frowning, why wasn't there some kind of fight?

Why were there no marks on their bodies?

(Like someone has held a knife to her lips and—)

“Whoa,” comes Gojo’s voice.

Suguru turns around.

Gojo’s staring inside the open fridge, one hand on the door. He looks delightfully surprised.

“Look, Suguru!” he exclaims, turning around with a bright expression on his face, made
young by the flashlight. “There's so much food!”

(Sounds like plan A failed.)

Suguru crosses the space between him and Gojo, and looks inside.

The fridge is full. All the ingredients set neatly in their places, untouched. Vegetables, meat,
seafood, dairy. Every corner is stocked full of them. No electricity; but it's cold enough in the
room, in the entire house, that it has probably managed to preserve even the freshest of
foods.

“Aren't we lucky?” Gojo grins. “The homeowners decided to grocery shop the day before.
Come on, Suguru, look happier!” He moves his hand, reaching in to grab at a strawberry
container. “There's enough in here that’ll probably give us—”

Before Gojo manages to finish his sentence, Suguru's arm darts out to close tightly around his
wrist.

“No.”

Gojo turns to gawk at him. “Huh? What are you—” he starts, then falters once he catches the
expression on Suguru's face. “...Suguru?”

Suguru opens his mouth. Pauses.

All the pieces scramble to come together in his brain. Shit, there’s a very large, very high
potential that this can just be paranoia speaking, or overthinking, or perhaps a very stupid
false sense of danger— but there are no wounds on the victims, are there, no transformations,
no residuals left behind.

And there's the little girl. The girl with a hand on her throat, gurgling around her words.

Drowned within the blood in her mouth, like she had swallowed—

Something, said Ijichi, came up with Kiyotaka tonight—

—I think he ate something weird.

“It's poison,” says Suguru.

“What?”
“Don’t touch anything,” says Suguru. “I don’t think they’re safe to eat.”

Gojo frowns. But he doesn't pull his hand away.

Suguru feels the lengths of his arms run cold. No, he thinks, this isn't paranoia. This has to be
it, he isn't mistaken.

“Did you eat any of this while I was out?” asks Suguru.

“D'you think I have time to go check the fridge while you're bleeding to your death?” retorts
Gojo. “Actually, you know, maybe that would've been kinda funny—”

“Take this seriously,” Suguru scolds. When Gojo holds up both hands innocently — no
indication that he's about to make light of this again — Suguru explains it to him.

About the little girl. About the blood around her mouth. About Kiyotaka and the phone call
he had with Ijichi. About the lack of wounds on the corpses, the lack of residuals.

“It doesn't make sense,” Suguru adds, once he's done. “If they wanted to beat us by attrition,
why would they trap us in here with a fridge full of food to last us a month? Why wouldn't
they remove all this?”

“I,” says Gojo. “Well...”

“We were both incapacitated,” continues Suguru. “You were off to fend for yourself. Surely
they're not just waiting for us to recover and break out.”

Gojo stares into the fridge. He frowns, silent— but Suguru can read his expressions well
enough by now to guess the train of thought he's taking, which is one: Suguru wouldn't lie
about this. Two: there's no cursed energy from the food. Three: it's strange that there's no
cursed energy from the food; strange that the Special Grade curses would resort to human
poison, when all they need to take us down is a flick of the wrist.

Unless, he concludes, they think we're a much bigger obstacle than we thought.

Gojo looks dubious.

Suguru knows he's planted a seed of doubt anyhow, because Gojo doesn't say anything for a
while. He just stares.

And then, firmly, Gojo shuts the fridge door closed.

“Alright.” There’s an uncertain note in his voice. But he lets out a frustrated huff, blows his
hair away from his forehead, mopes petulantly at the fridge, and says, “Alright. Fair.”

Suguru lets out a breath.

“So what?” asks Gojo. “What do we do now?”

“You're asking me?” Slowly, Suguru inches closer to the dining table and leans against it,
arms crossed. The flashlight hangs idly by his hand, flickering. “We'll have to do something
about the cold first, I guess,” he says, fighting back a shiver. “The temperature will drop
more, the longer we’re here.”

“Arson isn't out of the question,” says Gojo.

“Gojo.”

“I'm kidding. God, Suguru, where's your sense of humour?” says Gojo, grinning. He leans
against the fridge for a moment; then changes his mind and ambles easily over to sit at a chair
by the dining table, a few feet away from Suguru. It's more of a slouch, Suguru thinks, than
anything: airy and relaxed, like he hasn't just received news that they're being deliberately
starved. What a fucking boy wonder.

“You said that part out loud,” says Gojo, and Suguru sighs.

“This means,” says Suguru, “that we won’t have any food to eat until we’re out, you know.”

“I know.”

“And you’re good with that?”

Gojo shrugs. “We don't really have a choice, do we? Besides, it’s not like lack of nutrition
will ever be enough to take me down.”

“Last I checked, exhaustion seems to have done the job.”

Gojo flips him off.

“Very mature," says Suguru.

“Oh well.” Gojo props both feet up on the table, yawning. “Guess we'll have to call the curses
in and fight them. But hey, do you think we can rest and sleep a bit more before we do that? I
wanna lie down.”

“How did you manage to survive until now?”

“Strength,” Gojo begins to list. “Charisma. Intelligence. Looks. Did I mention—?”

“Enough.”

Gojo smiles. “If you call me Satoru,” he sing-songs, “I'll stop making it difficult for you.”

“You're too cavalier about this situation,” Suguru says, aggrieved.

“No, I'm not. You're just stiff,” Gojo says lightly. “Honestly, I'm a bit offended that you have
so little faith in us.”

Suguru cuts him another glare.

This is what it comes down to, then. Either starve out here, or risk their lives trying to fight
against curses that have already beaten them once. For fuck's sake, he thinks, bringing his
hands up to blow warm breaths on them, rubbing them together against the cold. There's little
hope that they will get any help; not to mention the chance that they might just freeze to
death. Apparently with hypothermia, you don't even notice it's happening, but Suguru isn't so
sure.

—And then, suddenly, his flashlight goes off.

Suguru blinks. His field of vision immediately turns dark. He looks quickly towards Gojo,
who still has his flashlight working, who is staring back at him, surprised.

And then Gojo’s face contorts. He’s looking at something past Suguru, eyes blown wide,
mouth slackened into a wordless shout— and Suguru, with a horrifying spike of panic, turns
around—

Only to hit his head on something.

“Fuck!” Suguru’s hands fly to his forehead, rubbing at the instant flash of pain that forms
there. Shit, what the fuck— he glares up at what’s right before him, something solid and cold,
and—

It's just a lamp.

A table lamp. Levitating freely in the air for a moment, no higher than his torso, with the
power cord attached to it and nothing else— before it drops to the ground.

He turns back to Gojo.

Just to find that Gojo is currently bowled over, both hands around his stomach, and his
shoulders are shaking. Suguru gets one fleeting moment of concern, before he realizes that
Gojo is laughing.

He's fucking laughing. And it's with this that Suguru realizes Gojo had set him up; had
pretended to panic over something behind him, only to have moved the lamp close to
Suguru's face while he wasn't paying attention.

“You,” Suguru says, dangerously low, “you absolute—”

And then Gojo bursts out laughing.

His laughter is loud, unloosed and rippling. His eyes are crinkled in mirth, face flushed, and
he's gripping his stomach hard just to keep from bowling over. He laughs, and laughs, and
doesn't stop laughing, even when Suguru glares at him as hard as he can and grabs the front
of Gojo's collar.

“Hey, whoa!” Gojo gasps, in between breaths. “It's not, it’s just— your face—”

“I'm gonna throw you out the window,” Suguru threatens.

“Wait, it’s not my fault your battery went out! I was just—”

“One more word—”

“No, wait!” Gojo exclaims, setting his flashlight onto the table and holding both his hands up,
still wheezing. “Wait, I'll make it up to you! Hang on!”

Suguru shoots him a warning look, his hold on Gojo's collar tightening. What a stupid
fucking idiot, for fuck's sake, but instead of struggling, the boy only looks at him with an
almost child-like expression.

Then Gojo lifts his hands, and presses his fingers together.

A speck of light forms. A small, confetti flake of white — bright as gold — dances in the
space between his fingers; and when he pulls his arms apart, a bright ball of light emerges
from it, growing larger and larger as Gojo's hands move away from each other until it reaches
the size of a vinyl record. It's warm, like sunlight on your skin, and faintly buzzing. Suguru's
field of vision steeps hot as light floods over the room, covering the shadows as it ebbs.

“Why didn't you tell me you can,” Suguru begins to ask, but is cut short when Gojo grins up
at him, all his features illuminated.

“I'm the Six Eyes,” says Gojo. “C'mon, Suguru.”

God, Suguru wants to boil him. He also wants, very much, to strangle Gojo to the point of
death— but not over it, so that he can enjoy the opportunity of doing it again.

“Don't look so sour,” Gojo says, amused.

And then, as gently as it formed, the light ball bursts into a thousand different pieces.

Small, tiny snowflakes of light. Scattering toward their sky of a ceiling, dispersing into the air
like fireflies floating, like lodestars winking. They illuminate the entire place, colours soft
and hyper-real all at once, and Suguru watches — wordlessly, grip slackened at Gojo's collar
— as Gojo tips back against the chair and hooks his leg around the table for balance.

“See,” Gojo says confidently, like he himself has hung the moon, like he himself has picked
out the stars and arranged them in their firmaments. “What were you worried about?”

Suguru stares at him.

Gojo smiles back. And with the thin lights catching in the blue of his eyes, he looks so
terribly young. Like he's been taken apart and peered into.

…And this, Suguru thinks.

This was always going to be the difference between them, try as they might to make truce.

Because Suguru is careful. He's lived his fifteen years of life this way: principled, and
amiable, and without the inclination towards much anything but the responsibly pragmatic—
 but Gojo is different. Gojo lives like a habit licked. He'll tell you what you hate to hear, he'll
tell you what is true. Gojo Satoru lives like the world isn't on his shoulders, like the wind isn't
at his heel; and Gojo Satoru at fifteen is so bright, so innocent in his feral cruelty, that even in
passing moments of doubt Suguru can’t possibly imagine him any older than he is now.

“...Don't do that again,” Suguru says, and something in him stirs without making a sound,
then, when Satoru laughs in turn.

Chapter End Notes

me: is it too senseless for satoru to look through people's belongings and porn collection
while they're dead??? is it too inappropriate??? is it too ooc???
me:
me:
Yuuta, age 15: i wanna die
Gojo, age 27: yikes, you're depressing
me:
me:
me:
me:
me:
me: ya hes fine
 Satoru
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“Take off your shirt,” demands Satoru.

“You know,” says Getou, “if you’re trying to make a move, you better first ask—”

“Yours is white,” insists Satoru, “and I need it for the flag. Plus I don't wanna ruin mine.
Come on, Suguru, give it!”

Getou heaves a sigh. He glares at Satoru, exasperated, before shedding off his jacket and
making quick work of the buttons. Then he pulls the dress shirt off of himself as the fabric
stretches against his skin, undershirt tight across his chest. He looks broad and solid and
warm, the heat radiating off him when Satoru reaches out a hand to take the shirt.

“I can disrobe further, if you'd like,” Getou says dryly.

“Shush,” says Satoru. He ties both sleeves of the shirt around each other, hooks them tight to
one end of a metal rod they've found lying around, and stations the rod against the floor. Half
of it — the half with the shirt — hangs limply outside the window, outside the Curtain. The
white fabric flutters in the air.

“Isn't this a little…” says Getou. “Where's our dignity?”

“This should be signal enough for the curses, right?” asks Satoru. “To tell them I've changed
my mind? I'm done deciding?”

“I can't believe we're stuck here with no food, no light, a shitload of poison in the fridge,”
says Getou, “and your idea of a signal is a white flag out the window.”

“What, come on!” Satoru bristles. “It's like tradition!”

“Didn't take you for a traditionalist.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes it's necessary to communicate,” mumbles Satoru. “Either way, that
should be fine, right? They should be able to see this?”

Getou sighs.

It's roughly two hours after they’ve checked the fridge.

In all honesty, Satoru thinks, admiring his successful handiwork of a flag, maybe eating the
food would've been interesting. Not that he's suddenly suicidal, or that ending up like one of
those corpses in the other room is now a temptation, because yikes. No thanks. It's just that
part of him is intrigued to see what this would result in; what consuming all the poison would
induce, or when it would take effect, or whether or not he'd be able to combat it through sheer
willpower alone.

Not that he's about to let natural selection do its job.

Anyway, it's disappointing. He was looking forward to the sweets.

Seriously, Suguru, he had asked Getou, fluttering his eyelashes, not even the bagged snacks
and canned food? Just to see Getou look like he’s contemplating which objects within reach
are enough to impale Satoru with.

They retreated back to the bedroom afterwards. After they've gathered up as many necessities
as they can: spare blankets, batteries, lighters, a couple metal rods and bats just in case.
Several candles are left lit, but Satoru has formed a luminous ball of light and places it at the
center of the room; bright enough to shine alight the entire place, turn everything visible for
them.

Anytime you change your mind, he remembered Jishin saying, do give us a signal.

It didn't take them long to decide what to do.

They went back to the kitchen, then, and destroyed the food there.

Not all of it. Enough for it to look like they've eaten a sufficient, reasonable amount. They
burned some of it, hid some of it, threw some of it in the trash. Getou's idea. He's so rational
sometimes that it's alarming.

Makes sense though, as much as Satoru doesn't like to admit it. Staying here to die is out of
the question. He likes his life; it's hard to hate it when he's so great. Destroying the clock is
impossible; they've already tried. No matter how many times he shot blasts at it, or how many
times Getou summoned a curse to have a go at it, it didn't work. The clock remained intact,
the curses didn't come. Destroying the Curtain to break Satoru out is also impossible. I mean,
he thinks, it's a Special Grade. Plus, given the fact that the caster is outside the Curtain —
which makes their location obvious — the barrier is consequently just way too strong.

The only thing that's left, naturally, is to plan out an offense. They'll signal for the curses that
he's changed his mind, and wait for them to come in.

And Satoru wanted to wait until Getou was fully healed, but…

You do know, said Getou, that if our estimates are correct about the 20-hour one-second
thing, it'll probably take them several days to react.

I know, Satoru said irritatedly, but—

It'll be enough time for my wound to heal, said Getou, with a note of decisive finality. We'll
rest. Sleep a lot. Let's signal for them as soon as possible. We should avoid being too starved
to fight.

Satoru sulked.
And that was the thing, also. Whenever Satoru wanted to inspect Getou's wound, or ask him
to lift his shirt so he could simply see how bad it was, Getou had — for some inexplicable
reason — brushed it off with a grumpy tone and absolutely refused to let Satoru see it.

Why? Satoru asked, baffled.

Just no, said Getou.

Satoru had assumed, at first, that the wound was so bad Getou wanted to hide it for some
stupid noble reason. But he'd snuck glances at it whenever Getou tended to it himself and
wasn't aware that Satoru was looking; and it wasn't bad at all. Lots better, in fact.

(It makes Satoru a little peeved, even now, that this probably, probably means Getou doesn't
want any kind of physical proximity with him.)

…Whatever. It's fine.

So either way, he digresses. This leads to them being here in the bedroom, now, after Satoru
suggested they signal to the curses and lure them in by jabbing a white flag out the window.
Honestly, in his personal opinion, it’s the crystal-clearest message there is.

“A bit embarrassing,” says Getou, “but sure.”

“Like you have a better idea.”

Getou lifts an eyebrow. “I did,” he begins slowly, like he's carefully picking out his words.
With the firm way he's standing, arms crossed, face impassive, it seems like he's already
bracing for a protest. “Like I said earlier, it wouldn't be such a bad idea if I just get out of
here first and—”

“No,” Satoru says immediately.

Getou gives him a pointed look. “It might make this faster.”

“No,” Satoru repeats, because that's stupid. They've already gone over this. “I can't get out. I
won't be able to tell what's happening.”

“You know that I—”

“Plus, I'm gonna be really bored in here.” Satoru masks on a pout. “For days, Suguru! I'm not
gonna have anyone to talk to. At least suffer in here with me.”

“What a convincing argument,” Getou says flatly.

“Also, if you do manage to beat them, where’s the glory in that for me?” says Satoru. “Come
on. Gojo Satoru, inheritor of the Six Eyes, possessor of Limitless. The youngest person to
take down a Special Grade curse. Don't you think I'm suited for that title?”

Getou's eyes say, clearer than words, that the only thing he thinks Satoru is suited for is a
prison cell. “Sure,” he says, expression pained. “Fine. Alright.”
Satoru grins triumphantly.

“You know,” says Getou, rather helplessly, “for a plan as simple as ours, you sure are
confident about winning this fight.”

“Of course I am,” says Satoru. “Because you know what I have against them?”

“What.”

Satoru feels giddy, jumbled with excitement. It's been far too long since he's tried it, since
he's seen someone do it, courtesy of their stick-up-the-butt sensei. “Do you know,” he says in
a low, conspiring tone, “what the peak of a sorcery battle is?”

Getou stares at him.

Just for one long, comprehensive moment— and then his brows crease into a frown. He looks
reproachful and, for some reason, nearly angry. “No.”

“No, you don't?”

“No,” Getou says crossly, “you are not doing that.”

“Oh, come on, Suguru!” Satoru groans. “Why not? It’ll work!”

“Domain Expansion is dangerous. Especially when you don't even know how to cast it.”

“Which is why it'll only be a last resort!” says Satoru. “I won't do it unless we're desperate.
I've heard enough about it that I know what to do! Kinda wish I read more books and reports
back on this stuff, but it's gonna come down to intuition, anyway.” He grins brightly, which
somehow only makes Getou's frown deepen. “Come on, I can try it. It wouldn't hurt!”

“If you do it incorrectly—”

“Then we'll die anyway,” says Satoru. “It's a last resort. I promise.”

Getou hesitates.

Satoru tries to hold back a grin. After all the time he's spent together with Getou in the past
couple months, he knows exactly what it means for Getou to hesitate. He's pretty sure Getou
knows, too. They both do.

(And it's not like Satoru needs his permission to use a technique. It's just fun, convincing.)

Getou sighs.

He gives Satoru a silent, helplessly resigned look. Then he turns around, walks to the other
side of the room, opens a closet, takes out a grey shirt, and pulls it over himself. Satoru
watches, attentive, as the shirt fits snugly against him; as Getou flattens out the folds and
creases, slowly like he's giving himself enough pause to think this through— before looking
over once again at Satoru.
“You do not do it if you're overexerted,” says Getou, after a moment. Something dangerous
passes over his face. “Or I'm gonna give you hell.”

“All talk,” chirps Satoru, and he delightedly dodges a jacket Getou throws at him.

_____

And so: time goes by for them this way, slowly and surely.

_____

Five hours pass.

_____

Ten hours pass.

_____

Twenty hours.

_____

Thirty hours.

_____
Forty hours.

It's difficult to tell time, even when you try to go by the amount of hours you need to sleep.
Who would've thought. The ticking of the clock helps a little, but still.

It's been a solid while.

And Satoru has predicted that it would take a while. He's not expecting the curses to have the
reaction time of a mole or anything, but at this point it's like, huh. Okay. For Special Grades
with the literal power to manipulate time — for those small-fry curses that are inducing a
straight up hostage-in-captivity situation — they sure are procrastinating.

“You really do just insult everybody you meet,” says Getou.

“Did I say that part out loud?” asks Satoru, unapologetically.

It's not too bad, either way. Of all the places to be held captive, this is a far cry from being the
worst. At least they aren't stuck in a musty hut with trellised ceilings.

Besides, he's having fun.

If he looks back, Satoru thinks, on all the years he's spent as a child — on the infinite number
of moments sliced thin as paper, fine as fine ham, of being confined in his home — he had
really detested it. It's boring. It's dull. It makes him restless. He's never really liked being
stuck in one place, cramped inside all alone.

But it’s growing on him now.

He would’ve never put up with this as a child. Call it Getou's influence. Call it a sudden
attack of maturity. But Satoru's finding it easier and easier to be in the same confined space
over time. It's nice, somehow, to just lounge around in the rooms, read a bunch of crap,
rummage through stuff, pester Getou, and babble inanely. Who knew evolution would come
for him like this. Very baffling. Hanging around Getou Suguru has ruined him as a person.

Satoru finds that he doesn't mind.

They kill time. They go over their plan. They alternate sleep when they need, wake when
they can, practice channeling and focusing their cursed energy. They also talk about the
curses. Jishin, the earthquake Special Grade, right, and another Special Grade that's able to
warp time. That woman, too, who Getou manages to identify as the cursed spirit of
Kuchisake-Onna. There's probably another one with their group; hopefully only one other
one.

Satoru and Getou also just chat.

Things like:

“If you eat more of those curses,” asks Satoru, “does that count as food?”

“No, you idiot,” says Getou. “It's not nutritious.”

And:

“Have you heard of the King of Curses?” says Satoru. “You know, that guy with the fingers.
Shouldn't that title, like, go to you, what with your curse manipulation technique and all?”

“What kind of logic is that,” says Getou.

And:

“Do you think if I spike my hair up like this,” asks Satoru, “it'll add to my height?”

“Even if it does,” replies Getou, “it wouldn't be the most jarring thing about you.”

"Hey! That's mean. I can tell you right now that girls do take a liking to me," declares Satoru.
"Remember? There was that girl, right, who gave you a love letter to pass onto me when we
first met? That's evidence!"

"Perhaps I should've asked her to check her eyesight beforehand," says Getou, "or auditory
skills."

“...Now you're just making fun of me.”

“I would never,” Getou says lightly, and smiles in a way that indicates he very much is
indeed.

Their conversations, naturally, mostly consist of Satoru trying his hardest to rile Getou up. He
would never admit it, but it's more to get Getou to stop being so tense and frigid all the time.
Questionable method maybe, but it seems to be working.

Although, for some reason, Getou has been… oddly a little softer.

It might just be Satoru's imagination. But his jibes are less sharp, his insults less with a
venomous bite to them. He answers Satoru's questions seriously at times, and occasionally
Satoru will catch him turning away to hide, unsuccessfully, a faint hint of a smile after
something Satoru has said. Or he'll feel Getou's gaze on his back, following his movements
when he isn't looking, with as much of a quiet burn but less of hate.

It's a bit unsettling.

But… well. That's fine. It's probably the natural correlation of proximity and tolerance, or
something. The air will eventually lift between you and anybody you're with, right, given
enough exposure. You’ll just lapse into a kind of rhythm with each other, sharing space with
where the other lives.

Plus, Getou still doesn't want Satoru too near his wound. So there's that.

“Oh well,” mumbles Satoru. It doesn't matter. They just have to focus on making it through
the days. Getou is recovering at a rapid pace on his own, healing well enough through time
and a pack of demulcent herbs, so Satoru’s not too worried about that.
The only thing he's concerned about, as it turns out, is the lack of food.

It has been a total of four days since they ate.

At least they are still able to drink. Getou has reasoned out that the water is most likely not
contaminated, since the hydro system is used for the entire neighbourhood and all its brick-
and-mortar buildings. We will die of thirst if we don't drink, anyway, he had said, so that is
point enough. But god, neither of them have gone this long without eating before. It probably
is a miraculous feat of control that Getou hasn't yet shown signs of being worn out — his
movements are still normal, still energetic enough to throw snark and train — but Satoru
figures it will eventually have an effect on him. Hunger always does.

But that’s fine, too. Worst case scenario, Satoru can hold out long enough for both of them.

I'm strong, after all, aren't I? Isn't that what he was made for, to withstand all this drag? He
hasn't been too tired, or drained, or worn. Something as trivial as this should never be enough
to take a toll— not on him.

_____

Until the third night.

“How many curses do you have, Suguru?”

On the third night, Satoru lies level on the bedsheets, ankles crossed, both hands beneath his
head. Getou is standing at the foot of the bed, donned in black pants and an even darker long-
sleeved shirt. His hair is partially down, some locks tied up in a half-bun.

It's gotten a lot colder over the past few days. Even Satoru's spheres of light aren't enough to
hold heat for them. The cold snags on his skin, chilling in the dark— but it doesn't seem to be
bothering Getou. He still wears fewer layers than Satoru thinks is sufficient, and doesn't seem
to be shivering as much as before, or even complain about it. This guy’s immune system is
surprisingly whack.

“Three hundred,” replies Getou. “Why?”

Satoru hums in approval. “What're your strongest ones?”

“Why do you ask?” says Getou. A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Preparing yourself to
get beat up?”

“Hey, no way your strongest curse can beat me.”

“Didn't know you have such short-term memory,” says Getou. “Who's the one consistently
yielding every time we spar?”
“Not consistently,” mutters Satoru, crossing his arms. “Also, I only ever lose in hand-to-hand
combat, which is different.”

“This is not making you sound cooler,” says Getou.

“Anyway! Answer my question, Suguru,” Satoru cuts in, pettishly. “What are your strongest
curses?”

Getou gives him a flat, chastising look, but the amused twitch at the corner of his mouth ruins
the expression. He moves to sit at the edge of the bed, arms folded. “I have a dragon,” he says
without much hesitation. “Got it last year. It's pretty durable; bites off everything in its way.
Can fly, too. Why are you asking?”

“Can't I be a little curious?” says Satoru, mock-offended. At the roll of Getou's eyes, he adds,
more sombrely, “I wanted to know just in case. For our fight.”

“Hmm.” Getou's eyes dance. “I can unleash them on you now, just to see.”

“Yeah, and you'll lose.”

“Will I,” says Getou. He's clearly amused by this. It would've made Satoru a lot more
infuriated a mere week ago — before they’d gone on this mission — but he just finds it
uneasy now. Getou has been surprisingly more indulgent lately. More responsive, more
receptive. He seems to understand, by now, which one of Satoru's questions are half-serious
and which are full teases, and of all the things this can make him feel, Satoru simply finds the
prospect of this… somewhat uncomfortable.

“Well,” says Getou, after a considerate pause, “I have a curse that can generate fire.” He tilts
his head and looks up to the ceiling; recalls. “And another one that’s a lion. And another one
that can turn everything dark, although that’s pretty useless for our situation now, I guess.
There's also a curse that's very sturdy…”

And that's when it hits Satoru.

It's a sensation he's felt before. Back then, two months ago, when he and Getou first sparred
on their school’s training grounds: the sudden drain, the oxygen thinning out in his lungs.
And back during one of their missions, too; the one where he jumped in front of the child,
where he met Utahime, I heard reports of curses loitering around here, so I came, where it's
eerily cold, a lurch in his chest, an unsettling in his stomach—

“—hear me?” says Getou. “Hey.”

Satoru glances up.

Getou is staring at him, brows furrowed together in something resembling concern. Satoru
stares back, blinking a couple times, forcing his breathing to even out.

“Um.” Satoru coughs. He tries to inhale; everything before him turns dizzy. Calm down.
Calm down, calm down, calm down. “Yeah, I'm fine. Why?”
Getou narrows his eyes, thin and supple as a stiletto knife.

“It's rude to stare, didn't you know?” Satoru says, rather unsteadily.

“Who would wanna stare at you?” says Getou. “...Is something wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You…” Getou frowns, gaze set heavily firm on Satoru like it's something he's prying open.
“Has your fever come back? You're a little…”

“Ah, I'm fine, I'm fine!” Satoru waves a dismissive hand. “What are you worried about? I’m
all good. Here, see?” He stands up for good measure, impressively stable, and gestures
vaguely at himself. “There's nothing wrong.”

“But—”

“Suguru should stop worrying,” Satoru says cheerily, as he begins to walk — quickly march,
more like — towards the bathroom, “or you’re gonna get even more wrinkles! I'm off to
shower!” And then he slams the door closed behind him, drowning out whatever Getou is
going to say.

…Shit.

Satoru forces down a disgruntled noise at the back of his throat. He leans over the sink, hangs
his head, both elbows on the porcelain, and waits for his lungs to fill back with air.

“Crap,” he mutters, “what the…”

What the hell was that?

He closes his eyes. The dizziness subsides somewhat, the coherency returning, his breathing
steadying, the same way it did back at the training grounds. Satoru leans hard against the
sink, and waits for several minutes until standing becomes easier for him.

Then he straightens. It takes another while for him to move towards the bath, turn on the
faucet, and wait for the hot water to fill. He removes his clothes in the meantime, and steps
into the tub once the water has reached its crest.

The bath is almost scalding, fever-hot as Satoru sinks in past his chin, drenching away all the
exhaustion in the marrow of his bones. The candle at the far corner of the room flickers.

Four days.

Is that what this is?

Four days since they ate. The lack of food — and especially sweets, fuck — have been more
detrimental than he thought. He's already gone past the point, it seems, where he doesn't even
feel hungry anymore. Just an empty, mauling pit in his stomach; as though your body's lying
to itself so you don't panic as you're dying, he thinks, closing his eyes against the steam. He
hasn't even been sleeping well.

That's just what this is, right? The effects of starvation?

—Young Master.

If the adults see Young Master sitting like this, comes a voice in his head, they'll be very mad
at you, you know.

Satoru opens his eyes.

…Mutsuko.

He hasn't thought about her for a very long time.

What a memory to remember her by. All in all, honestly, he's pretty glad none of his family
members are here right now to witness him like this. Imagine the ruckus, Satoru thinks.
They've always spread such embellished stories about him; left all the rumours about his
powers, stories about his strength, tales about his name to anyone who would listen twice.
They’d cast his skin into white and his eyes into seas, because it’s much easier to love a boy
if he's symmetrical, if he's beautiful, if he's perfect. Like Satoru is some kind of beacon of
filial piety for them.

“Stupid,” he mumbles.

Anyway. Clearly he's just thinking nonsense. Probably the side effect of starvation or
something, which is great. Fun. He’s gonna die so pathetically.

Please remember, Gojo Satoru, that you have been fortunate to be born into this—

Satoru rises himself out of the bath, the sloshing of water dripping down the tub and echoing
off the tiles.

Well. It doesn't matter at this point, he thinks, glancing at himself in the mirror. What good
will his clan do now? Six feet two inches of spun sugar, bullshit. No matter how much honey
they drip onto their words, the answer will always remain the same. The Special Grade curses
are here for him, for the bounty on his head, and there's fuck-all they will really do about it.

(And that's all this is, isn't it? The bounty placed on him since birth? Their trap is way too
elaborate for something as measly as fame and chance. Getou hasn't mentioned this, hasn't
broached the topic, or even voiced the possibility that this is all because of Satoru's bounty.

All for the better, he supposes. For some reason, Satoru finds it awkward to bring up.)

So he dries himself off. Wraps a towel around his waist; then moves towards the sink,
reaching for the folds of clothes he’s previously left there—

—before his foot suddenly skids across the floor, and he slips.
“Ack!”

Satoru lands — gracelessly, with a hard thump — onto his back, the tiles squeaking
underneath his feet. Toothbrushes and containers scatter down the sink from where he’s tried
to grab ahold of something for support.

“Fuck,” Satoru hisses, wincing. “Ow!”

His mind fogs, momentarily. Dizzy and faint, but Satoru manages to ascertain that he has
nothing broken. His ass and back are sore, his hips may have been bruised, and his ankle is
aching— but nothing is broken or sprained.

“Great, ow, of all things,” he mutters under his breath. He hooks his arm over the tub,
attempting to stand—

And then the door swings open.

Satoru blinks, surprised.

Getou is there. He’s staring at Satoru, eyes slightly wide, one hand on the door handle. He
looks like he’s been holding his breath, or trying hard to control himself.

“You…” Getou says tensely. “What happened?”

“Um.” Satoru stares for another moment, stunned, before he collects himself. He clears his
throat, waving his hand as casually as possible. “Oh, I just— just slipped, is all. It's fine, it's
fine.”

“Did you—"

“Didn't sprain anything or injure myself,” Satoru fills in. “All good.”

Getou frowns, dubious.

“Suguru is such a worrier,” says Satoru, teasing out his words. “Your blood pressure's gonna
spike real high like this, y’know. If I…”

And then, suddenly, Getou's face turns vacant.

The line of his mouth goes flat, his body still, something unreadable flitting over his
expression. Satoru blinks, uncomprehending— before he looks down at himself and realizes
he only has a towel around his waist, not even reaching past his knees.

His entire body warms.

“Oh,” stammers Satoru. “I'm— can you—”

Getou's expression closes off completely.

There is a short pause where they stay frozen in their places, unmoving. Satoru tenses, taken
aback by the guardedness in Getou's face, his eyes a shade darker than usual. So he opens his
mouth, ready to fill the silence in with something, anything— before Getou steps forward.

Three seconds, and he's by Satoru's side, kneeling down.

“Eh?” says Satoru. “What are you…”

For some reason, Satoru expects exasperation or scorn, a stern talking-to, frosting up all the
air between them. Get the hell up, what are you doing. But instead, Getou just takes his ankle
— the one that's almost bent awkward, the one that's aching — and slowly, gently, lifts it up
to his own knee.

“Hey!” yelps Satoru. All the blood rushes to his cheeks. The hot steam from the bath makes it
hard to breathe somehow, the towel around his waist too loose for comfort. “Suguru, what are
you doing?!”

Getou doesn't meet his eyes. His voice is inflectionless when he says, eyes focused on
Satoru's ankle, “Checking to see if you’ve actually sprained it.”

“What the hell—”

“Let me see,” demands Getou. The sound of his voice strums along all of Satoru's nerves. He
holds Satoru's leg with both hands, his grip gentle enough but firm. “Stay still.”

Satoru grits his teeth.

He knows it's just a dumb animal response, nothing more than a hare seeking shelter, but
Satoru puts his hand on the tub in front of him and all his blood runs hot. Heat pools deep
within his hipbones. God, what an embarrassing position to be in— but then Getou's thumb
brushes over where the ache is gradually washing away, soft as a caress over a string drawn
taut, and Satoru fights back a rush of shivers down his spine.

Just no, Getou had said.

In the haze of it all, Satoru bites back his questions. Why didn't you want me to see your
wound? What is this, then? He doesn't remember a time when Getou has ever treated him like
this, also. Not this way— not with his hands wrapped so tenderly around him, like gathering
up the shards of something precious, like someone tasked with carrying an armful of treasure
to safer ground.

“You don't,” mutters Satoru, "you don't have to be so damn careful with me.”

“Oh, sure,” says Getou, “since you're so careful with yourself.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're fine when I say you're fine.” Getou looks up at him. “You keep pretending you are. It
gets annoying, did you know that?”
Satoru glares back. Getou only holds his gaze, wordlessly determined, and gently sets his leg
down to the ground, apparently satisfied with whatever he doesn't find there.

(Satoru won't ever admit it, but he misses the touch instantly.)

“See. I said I was fine, didn't I?” says Satoru.

“Right,” says Getou. “Keep saying that, and maybe one day I'll believe you.”

“So little faith in me.”

“You’re the one acting so nonchalant even when we're trapped in this situation,” says Getou.
“In every situation, actually.”

“It's called optimism.”

“More like denial,” says Getou, “but alright.”

Satoru sulks. “And what's with you today, Suguru?” he decides to taunt, because it seems that
he is, in fact, quite annoyed. He feels awkward, galled under the weight of Getou's gaze—
and all the words just spill past him, out of control. “You've been acting all weird. Weren't
you avoiding me? Don't think that I didn't notice you trying not to let me see your wound,
and then you turn around and do this.” At the surprised look on Getou's face, Satoru turns his
head, averting his eyes to a sodden point on the grout. “Even before,” he adds, babbling at
this point, “you call me by my first name? Come on, haven't we become friends already?
Bonded through these trying times? I'd say it warrants some kind of—”

“Satoru.”

Satoru freezes.

He looks up. Getou is staring down at him, eyes steady. The target of his attention narrows
from the whole room, funnelling down to just him.

And then, slowly, like coaxing a stray animal to eat: “Satoru,” Getou whispers. “You wanted
me to say it, didn't you?”

Satoru parts open his mouth wordlessly.

“I…” he says, faltering. There's a hoarseness to the words under his lips, the scrape of the
truth, and Satoru wants to bite down. But he tears his eyes away instead; his heartbeat
sounding loud in his ears, pounding low against his ribcage. “Go away. It sounds weird.”

Getou’s eyes stay on him.

Only for a brief moment. Then he stands.

Satoru stares down at the tiles and grout beneath him, the slick wetness on his feet. He barely
has time to slow the hammering in his chest before, unexpectedly, something falls on top of
his lap.
Satoru looks down.

It's Getou's uniform. His jacket, to be exact. They've washed both their clothes ever since
they were able to shower, and have been wearing the homeowners' garments for the past
couple days. Getou’s uniform has dried by this point, smelling of linen, fresh laundry, and
warmth.

“It's cold outside,” says Getou. “Wear this on top of your clothes, too.”

Then he turns around, and exits the bathroom.

Satoru waits for the door to close — for the sounds to echo away from him — before he
shifts. Elbows and arms on the tub, he lifts himself up and rises to his feet. His ankle is
feeling a little off, like the way it feels when you've stepped on it wrong, but nothing serious.
He rotates it several times, steps lightly on the floor for good measure.

His skin still tingles with Getou's touch.

“Dammit, what am I,” Satoru mutters, and can't even finish his sentence.

He dries himself off. Puts on his clothes, puts on Getou's uniform on top of them as well, and
walks out.

It's cold in the room. A biting copper-cold, though the heat from the bath is still simmering
behind him. The candle in a corner limns a dim glow of light over the room, cutting through
the long shadows over the ground and walls. Getou is on the bed, leaning back against the
headboard, book in hand.

His eyes carefully lift when he hears Satoru by the door.

He blinks, slow. And then, in a tone lower and more teasing than Satoru has ever heard him
speak, says, “You look good in my uniform.”

“I look good in and out of everything,” Satoru retorts without thinking, and then crosses his
arm to nail his heart in place.

That makes Getou strangely silent. Satoru takes that opportunity to make his way over to his
side of the bed. The dim light of a candle wavers as he roguishly flops down onto the
mattress and draws a blanket over himself, the air around them thick.

Getou doesn't say anything. Neither does Satoru, turning over to the side with his back
toward him.

The silence between them is an unpleasant weight, tense and threadbare in the dark. Not a
word is spoken, but this unmapped quietness feels like the prelude to something more
important, some kind of hint he's putting off— and that's ridiculous, isn't it? Getou is just a
boy his age, he thinks. Even if all the enforced silhouette of his frame renders him adult and
alien, and his voice is always light, face in profile when he smiles; even if he's someone who
can hold a room under his thrall without ever raising his voice, he's just a boy Satoru's age.
Someone whose warmth Satoru can feel, quiet and unsure. Someone whose touch is so gentle
it can set you on fire, like he doesn't know what would happen if he holds on too tight. More
tender than he has any right to ask for.

Satoru closes his eyes.

He doesn't wait for Getou's breathing to even, or for Getou to shift in his space. He doesn't
wait for anything to calm.

Satoru just closes his eyes and counts, his thoughts reeling in the silence— until they
gradually drift away.

_____

He doesn't sleep too soundly.

Satoru sinks into a mirage of dreams, colours a little duller, sounds a little faded. He's sitting,
proper and still, at the head of a banquet hall, donned in a dragonfly kimono with his legs
resting on a bamboo mat.

There are people around. Everyone he recognizes: all the faces and hands he remembers from
the Gojo clan, milling around the room, chattering in voices indiscernible. His parents are
seated at the other end of the room, completely still, as faceless and pale as their ancestors.

But no one speaks to him. No one dares to, even as they sneak glances at Satoru. He's
vaguely sure that he needs to listen for something, watch for something, but he doesn't know
exactly what.

And as Satoru begins to fidget, everyone turns to look at him. Their voices fall silent.

His mother tilts her head.

You'd better wake up, dear, she says gently. The void of her face spreads into a grin,
insidious. You have company.

Satoru flinches awake.

Getou is beside him, fast asleep. But before Satoru's eyes have adjusted to the darkness
around them, he knows they're not alone.

There, on the ceiling. Right in front of him, directly above the foot of the bed, is a creature.
Black, and grimy, pieces of skin hanging off its flesh. It's human, Satoru thinks, except both
its arms and legs are glued to the ceiling — looking like it's crawling as a spider would —
and there are stacks of clocks strapped to its back, weighing it down. Its head hangs loosely
at its neck, upside-down and staring straight at Satoru.

No eyes, no mouth. Just a black, empty slate.

The entire room floods cold.

Satoru must've made some sort of sound. He doesn’t remember what it is, only that he’s
brought both hands in front of him, fingers geared, ready to strike—

—and then the creature vanishes.

“Satoru?” Getou has somehow woken up in the middle of it. He's now upright, his hand on
Satoru's back. “Satoru? Satoru.”

“It's…” Satoru breathes. “I…”

But there is nothing there anymore. The curse is already gone.

“What's wrong?” asks Getou, a note of alarm in his voice. “Hey.”

Nothing there. Not even a whiff of cursed energy against the concrete walls of the room, cold
at his neck, subsumed by the dark.

But that wasn't his imagination.

It wasn't. That was the second Special Grade curse, he's certain, a low rise of satisfaction
warming him over. That same damn scent, that same sinister energy as from the clock. It was
here, watching them, waiting for a move.

Satoru turns to Getou, the adrenaline sharp and giddy within his ribs.

“They're coming,” he says.

_____

“Six Eyes,” says Jishin, “has a fast reaction time, doesn't he?”

Outside, the setting sun spreads red over the streets of Tokyo. Jishin stands, hands in their
pockets, on the roofs of an adjacent building, smiling over the creature that has just emerged
from the Curtain. It crawls low, clocks on its back, over the walls and pirouettes towards
them, dragging itself to heel like you would a dog.

“Did they eat?” asks Jishin.

 The creature, face void and featureless, nods its head.

Jishin's lips curl into a smile.

Then they move. Hurtle up towards the sky, the wind rushing past them in a surge of sting
and ice. Tokyo, thinks Jishin, exhilaration cold in their veins, isn't much of a city at all, when
it comes down to it. Most of the buildings hardly deserve the name, silhouettes thrown
together above my soil, crumbling at the edges and trickling down to the ground. Everything
metal, decaying and useless. Quick to bore. All you humans.

Jishin hurtles towards the sky, floating at its zenith…

Then flies sharply down toward the Curtain, and vows to open up the earth in their path.

Chapter End Notes

❤️ ❤️
Thank you guys for always being so supportive!!! All your comments mean A HECK
TON and I'm really grateful for you!

THANK YOU emso for ur crazed beta-ing as always, and THANK YOU Alice and Lex
for helping me so much with the writing process amongst leaving me cursed comments

The next chapter might come a little late! Got lots of tiring things going on but the good
news is that I was accepted to interview for my PhD in 2 weeks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
YAAAAYYYYYY (but yes if i do go mia i am just somewhere screaming, u can find
me on twitter if there's anything at all u need! :D)
 Satoru
Chapter Notes

hi hi hi it's been so long - action is hella hard to write! But also, thanks to all of your
guys' generosity and well wishes and incredible kindness to me, I did well in my
interviews and got accepted into my dream PhD program!!!!!! YAYAY HEHE I really
do hope u enjoy this chap <333 these two are so out of my control at this point

The effects of the Curtain lift.

_____

“How did you know?”

“I saw them, Suguru! The one who held up this Curtain, at least! They were up on the ceiling,
right there, see, it was kinda sick, actually—”

“Satoru.”

“What?”

“We have no time to—”

_____

The moment the Special Grade curse exits the room, the effects of the Curtain lift.

_____

“—waste if they're going to be here any minute now! What on earth are you doing?”
“Stretching? What? Suguru, if you stay close to me, Infinity's gonna protect both of us, so it's
gonna be fine.”

“I can’t fucking believe—”

“Oh, come on. You're always so strict, they're gonna attack anyway, so we might as well—”

“—how the hell are you so—”

_____

Ten seconds later, the ceiling caves in.

The moment the Special Grade curse exits the room, the effects of the Curtain lift. It takes 10
seconds for Jishin to shoot towards the sky and hurtle back downwards.

In that span of time, Gojo Satoru and Getou Suguru climb out of their bed.

Straighten up.

Look each other in the eye, and—

_____

“Hey.” Getou’s tone is solemn, almost scornful. “Don't push it.”

“What are you saying?” says Satoru. “Of course I won’t.”

Getou gives him a look.

“No promises though,” says Satoru.

“You have a tendency to just dive into things,” reminds Getou. “Don’t do that.”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Satoru says confidently, hands on his hips. “I’m strong! It’ll be easy to
take down these curses without resorting to drastic measures.”

“Still.”

Satoru groans, exasperated.

“I’m just telling you—” begins Getou.

“Come on. What’re you so serious for?” says Satoru. “Worst comes to worst, you can run,
you know. They’re not targeting you.”

And that, apparently, is the wrong thing to say.

(Satoru didn’t mean for it to be insulting. It’s only because they’ve gone over this numerous
times, really: Getou keeps reinstating the points that have already been made, and Satoru’s
not someone who wants to be told twice. I get it, jeez, alright, and so he’s just stating the
alternative out of annoyance. It was meant to be reassuring.)

But the resulting flinch sits firmly in Getou's eyes.

He's too controlled to let it have greater reign than that, so it stays there, leashed and
condensed. There's a single bleat of hurt — there and gone too fast, even when Satoru’s
staring at him, surprised — before Getou drops his gaze.

“You really…” Getou says quietly. “Honestly, you—”

And that’s when the ceiling caves in.

_____

Satoru has experienced buildings collapsing on top of him before.

He had survived bricks to his shoulders, monoliths to his knee. The entirety of an
establishment, derelict or otherwise, falling on top of him through the undoing of a curse
user. That's what you get for having a bounty placed on you. That’s what you get for being
born strong. And it’s not too much of a problem, frankly; he has survived all of them
unscathed.

The difference, this time, is that he can’t just worry about himself.

When his Six Eyes warn him of the Special Grade presence — even before the first brick of
the ceiling falls apart on them — Satoru launches himself at Getou.

“Sato—”

He activates Infinity on time.

There’s a deafening explosion from somewhere in the building, and all the windows blow
out, scattering shards of glass down below. Everything goes dark for a second. Something
crashes above him; Satoru doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t have time to think about it. He
squeezes his eyes shut and falls on top of Getou, arms around Getou’s shoulders, and feels
the weight of the world collapse above them. Even through Infinity, he can feel the force of
it, rumbling and shaking.
It lasts for a few moments. Then…

“—Satoru!”

Satoru opens his eyes.

They’re lying on the ground, one floor below where they were. Heaps of rubble surround
them: bricks, rocks, dust, and debris. Satoru coughs, irritated, and pushes himself up with his
hands. God, that’s brutal. It’s hard to breathe amidst all this smoke.

He can vaguely hear Getou say something beneath him, his tone urgent. Satoru looks down
— blinking a couple times to clear up his vision — and sees that Getou’s eyes are wide, like
he’s fearing that he’d lost something.

“Six Eyes,” comes a voice behind them. “Did you miss me?”

Satoru turns sharply around.

There, in the middle of the room, Jishin stands tall amongst the ruins. Still in that suit they
wore before, still with that crack across their face, their arms held wide. Above them, sprays
of rebar protrude from the walls and ceiling, lanky and jagged. Every spear of steel like a rib
of some giant critter, its broken backbone holding up the skeleton of the building.

And when Satoru locks eyes with them, Jishin tilts their head. Slow like the slide of glazed
honey onto a plate.

“Well, now,” says Jishin. “Don't look at me like that.”

Then something crashes against Satoru’s head.

It comes from his right. A force collides against him— and there’s a brief second where
Satoru registers that Getou has summoned a curse, quick and precise, to wedge itself between
Satoru and whatever is hitting him. It strikes him, blunted, but still strong enough to hurl him
into the air and knock him against the wall on the other side of the room.

“Satoru!”

Satoru coughs. The shockwave burns at his back, the thick smoke almost choking. He sees
out of the corner of his eyes that Getou is getting up from the ground, staring at Satoru in
worry— and shit, the dull ache in his head explodes, ringing through his ears, but right now
he doesn’t have the luxury of pain. He staggers up from the ground, leaning against the
wall…

And realizes he can’t move.

His legs. They're sunken into the ground, pulled down below in slowed speed. His arms, too
— engulfed into the wall behind him, trapped and restrained.

Shit.
Satoru looks over at Getou on the other side of the room. The same thing’s happening to him:
his legs are plunged into the ground, all the way up to his calf. It’s almost like they’re
sinking. Almost like quicksand. Except it’s—

“Liquefaction,” says Jishin. “One of the effects of an earthquake. Didn’t you learn about
this?”

Satoru looks up.

Jishin is standing right in front of him. Satoru hadn’t even felt them move. Their eyes, dark as
tar, bore into him with amusement, and they’re holding what appears to be a pipe in their
hand. Its frame glows hot beneath the layers of clay, like something just pulled from a
blacksmith's forge.

“...A Special Grade curse,” taunts Satoru, “and you go for hitting me over the head with a
pipe?”

Jishin smiles. “Don’t be close-minded, now.”

There’s a faint scent of iron and fumes, the echoing clatters of bricks giving ground. The
entire place is still enveloped in darkness, enclosed by the Curtain; a demolition that smells
almost like gun powder, like mortar dust.

And behind Jishin, nearer to where Getou is, stands the woman. Kuchisake-Onna. Long hair
covering her face, bandages around her arms. About five feet away from Getou, but still
closer to Getou than Satoru would like.

No trace of the Time curse.

“Attention on me, Six Eyes,” says Jishin.

Satoru glares back at them. Jishin looks entertained, the bastard; lips curled up in something
that can only be described as satisfaction.

“Where’s your other friend?” Satoru goads, and from the corner of his eyes, Getou stiffens.
(Satoru can practically hear him say don’t test your luck, you idiot, and chooses to ignore it.)
“Scared to come out?”

Jishin smiles.

“What about you?” They put both hands behind their back, bending down to eye-level with
Satoru. “Why aren’t you fighting back?”

Satoru frowns, and doesn’t answer.

“You possess Infinity, don’t you?” asks Jishin. “Are you trying to act helpless, Six Eyes?
Trick me into thinking you’re weak so you can catch me off guard? Attack me while my
defenses are down?” They place a finger below Satoru’s chin, and lift his face up higher.
“Struggle doesn’t look cute when it’s dishonest, you know.”
“What are you waiting for, then?” challenges Satoru. “Finish me off.”

“Now, where’s the fun in that?”

Satoru smirks. “Prolong this too much, and it might come back to bite you.”

That answer seems to thrill the Special Grade. Jishin moves back, straightens to a standing
position. Their smile feels made of wax, like the spread of sap down a tree, the same kind of
impending threat to any stray insect.

“You’ve got a lot of lip for the situation you’re in.” Jishin’s eyes linger on Satoru for a few
moments, before they turn away to settle onto Getou. Getou, who is glaring at them with a
vehemence that, for a brief second, surprises Satoru. “What about you, Curse Manipulator?
Why haven’t you tried to escape yet?” They tilt their head. “Didn’t the Six Eyes tell you our
only target is him?”

Getou doesn’t grace them with an answer. He only continues to glare, eyes bright and
hateful.

(Satoru’s glad, in part, to see that both of Getou’s hands are freed. Only his feet are sunken
into the ground below, not even past his knees, but the rest of him isn’t restrained. He should
be able to move properly, just in case.)

There’s a while of silence. Jishin watches Getou for a long, drawn stretch of time. And then,
as if something has clicked into place:

“Oh,” whispers Jishin. Their eyes are wide with delight, their grin devilish. “Oh. You like
him, don’t you?”

Satoru blinks.

From the other side of the room, he sees Getou stop moving. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react
at all to the question; doesn’t meet Satoru’s eyes. He only stares back at Jishin, firm and
irritated and with an emotion that might’ve resembled anger.

…Huh?

What’s the issue?

Satoru frowns, confused. That was a question directed at Getou, wasn’t it? There seems to be
something he’s missing, judging by the reaction it’s eliciting out of Getou— because of
course Getou likes him. Haven’t they grown close enough at this point? They’ve become
friends, haven’t they? Satoru’s observation skills aren’t bad; he can tell, from the past few
days of being stuck together, that Getou has warmed up to him. They’ve gotten close.

But when Satoru focuses back on Getou, Getou looks uncomfortable.

Getou looks stiff. And then he opens his mouth, and with his gaze still trained in Jishin, his
voice cold and unwavering, he says, “What on earth makes you think that?”
Satoru feels something in his stomach drop.

Oh.

Jishin seems to have caught Satoru’s response. Whatever they read in his expression, then,
appears to satisfy them. “Oh. Well, now,” Jishin says, nearly a drawl with their pity-slick
smile. “This is lovely.”

“Shut it,” snaps Getou.

Jishin’s smirk widens.

There is a beat of silence. Satoru holds his breath, wary like a knotted muscle, because for a
few moments he can’t quite seem to predict anybody’s next move. The air feels thick as
blood, somehow. Getou is tense, Jishin looks sinisterly pleased, and Satoru keeps his eyes on
both of them, waiting for something to give.

It takes several more seconds. Eventually, Jishin turns to him in a slow, careful movement;
takes one step closer, and:

“‘Ten million yen’,” they recite, “‘for anyone who can capture the current inheritor of the Six
Eyes and Limitless, Gojo Satoru. Dead or alive.

“‘Any accounts of him interacting with the Gojo clan have ceased ever since he became a
student at Tokyo Jujutsu High at 15 years old, in September 2005.’” Jishin smiles at Satoru.
“‘He can wield his powers and utilize them. There have been 23 exorcisms, 269 injuries, and
8 missing bodies in the attempt to eliminate the Six Eyes.

“‘Ten million yen.’”

Jishin looks up at him once they're done, their eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You really do insist on giving people a hard time,” murmurs Jishin, “don’t you.”

Satoru gives them a hardened look. That’s what all of this is about, then, my god. The lengths
these fools go through. “So this is about the bounty on my head, after all.” He scoffs. “Is that
what they say about me?”

“Does it make you mad?” asks Jishin.

Satoru glares at them.

“‘Gojo Satoru’,” says Jishin, and their mouth spreads into a sneer, more derisive and
contemptuous than anything— as if Satoru’s name is an insult to voice. “They call you the
blessed young master, or so we’ve heard. The pride of your clan. Your body the chalice by
which a superior genetic code is kept hostage.” They turn their head towards the ceiling and
sigh. “They wax poetic about you, you know. Your inability to die is the only thing against
the censure of your family.”
“What’s with all this dramatic babbling?” Satoru makes a face. “I’d rather you kill me than
make me listen to this.”

Jishin merely smiles.

“Would you.” Their eyes are glinting, almost. There’s a brief second, then, when Jishin’s gaze
reverts back to Getou. Satoru can’t really read what the look on their face is saying, but it
gets Getou’s hands to tighten into fists.

What is…

Jishin looks back at Satoru. Then, in a movement so slow it feels as if they’re challenging
him to move away if he dares, Jishin closes the distance between them entirely. And before
Satoru can react, they lift his chin up — sudden and quick — and brush a thumb over his
cheek.

The touch is slow, revoltingly gentle. Satoru tenses, assailed by the sudden proximity, the
coldness of their hand, and his own stupid goosebumps chilling up his skin. Out of the corner
of his eyes, Getou makes a sudden movement as if scalded.

“...Though they never told me,” Jishin says quietly, “that you were this pretty.”

And that’s when he sees Getou’s signal.

_____

“We need a signal,” declared Getou, a day ago.

“A what?”

“One of us will give some kind of signal,” explained Getou, “like a gesture, or anything—
and we both attack at the same time. It’s a well-known tactic to feign weakness and strike
when they least expect it.”

“Whoa, Suguru,” said Satoru. “That’s— seriously?”

Getou had given him a withering look. “You should be the one to signal. Do it when you
think it’s appropriate, since I expect they’re going to gun for you, anyway.”

Satoru frowned, doubtful, but Getou just returned his look with a stern gaze.

“It’s up to you,” decided Getou.

_____
But it’s Getou who signals.

Satoru sees it, a split-second before Getou moves.

One second.

Satoru activates Infinity. It cracks open the ground beneath him, the wall behind him. He can
see the surprise on Jishin’s face, and then Satoru focuses — Cursed Technique Reversal: Red
— and in the next moment Jishin is propelled backwards, slamming against the wall opposite
him.

One second.

Getou’s dragon shatters the floor underneath him.

He summoned it so quickly, none of them could track what was happening. The dragon
shoots towards Kuchisake-Onna, and she sees it coming. She sees it. Satoru can tell.

But she doesn’t react fast enough. Kuchisake-Onna only manages to open her mouth, but the
dragon rams her into the ground, broken pieces of bricks and mortar hurling into the air.

“Don’t eat her,” Getou commands. He’s standing right beside the indent that they’ve left on
the floor, staring down at her coldly. “We’re taking her in.”

Satoru stares at him. Getou’s gaze looks downright demeaning; Satoru doesn’t think he’s ever
seen him like that.

And out of the corner of his eyes, Jishin staggers up. They’re a few meters in front of him,
rising to their feet from the spiderweb dent in the wall. Not even a mark on them, the durable
bastard. They get up, lift their head to stare at Satoru, eyes bright and alight like the glint of
teeth. And then—

“Ryu,” says Getou.

Satoru doesn’t even have time to process. He doesn’t even have time to blink— before the
dragon moves, lightning-quick, and crashes into Jishin. It smashes them into the ground.
Through the ground, rather, leaving a hole in its wake. The shockwave of it nearly pushes
Satoru back.

“Jeez, Suguru.” Satoru coughs through the lungfuls of dust. “What the hell was that?!”

Getou turns to glare at him. His eyes are sharp, looking more livid than Satoru’s probably
ever seen him. Like Satoru has personally wronged him, somehow. “You,” he says angrily,
“sent the signal too late.”

“What?”

Getou continues glaring at him.

“What are you—” Satoru coughs again. He can’t see or hear Getou clearly through the clouds
of dust and all this damn lung pollution, so he quickly heads over to Getou’s side. There’s a
gust of wind as the dragon shifts to make way for him. “What are you talking about?” he
says, once he’s next to Getou. Getou doesn’t look away from him, but his glare doesn’t
soften. “You said I sent the signal too— what’re you talking about?!”

“You could’ve done it sooner,” snaps Getou.

“What do you mean?” Satoru says incredulously. “You were the one who wanted me to signal
after they’ve told us about their plans. Or after they’ve gotten their defenses down! Isn’t that
what we agreed upon?”

“No,” argues Getou, “you waited too long.”

“And what’s with this violence?” says Satoru, glancing over at the hole in the floor. “Not
complaining or anything, but jeez, you attacked like you were pissed, Suguru.”

“You shouldn’t have let that asshole—” Getou says, before cutting himself off, his mouth
pressing into a thin line. He seems to waver on the edge of something, silent and wordless,
but doesn't say anything.

There's laughter from below.

The two of them break eye contact, and look down. Jishin is lying over a mound of rubble,
their arms slung over the piles of dirt and broken furniture. Their suit is rumpled, the top
button loose and their sleeves torn, but there is still no injury on their skin.

Then they lift their gaze up to meet Getou’s eyes.

“That was rough,” scolds Jishin. Their voice is solicitous, silk-slippery, falls out of their
mouth like water, and they match it with a little tilt of their head, all faux satisfaction. “Dear,
oh dear. You’re more interesting than I thought.”

Getou stares coldly at them.

“Curse manipulator, huh,” says Jishin. “What do you think of joining forces with—”

“Please,” Getou says icily, “if that’s all you can do,” and lifts his hand up.

The dragon — the silver, metal-scaled dragon — releases Kuchisake-Onna between its teeth
in one rough movement, and coils itself around Satoru and Getou; thick and sturdy, a
protective wall. And before Kuchisake-Onna has time to react, before she even gets the
dignity of recovering on her own and standing up on her legs, she morphs — with a sizzling
sound — into a black, golden-cored sphere.

The ball floats and settles into Getou’s hand, and he brings it to his mouth; swallows it down
in one gulp.

“Oh-ho.” Jishin grins, sardonic and satisfied both at once. “That was quick.”
“How many of you are there?” demands Satoru. Beside him, Getou wipes his mouth with the
back of his hand, frowning. “Why haven’t they come out?”

“I’ve got it under control,” says Jishin.

“Doesn’t look it.”

“Please.” Jishin’s voice pitches lower, calmer. “You think I needed her? It doesn’t please me
to speak about a lady this way, but she’s quite dispensable, that woman.”

Getou glares at them. “Shut up,” he snaps. “If you’re so confident in yourself, then attack.”

Jishin lets out a scoff.

In a movement so easy it feels as though they hadn’t been smashed through concrete, Jishin
pushes their body up from the rubble. They dust off the dirt on their pants, look up, and tilt
their head at them. Satoru glares back, bracing himself. The air is about as stale as a funeral
parlour's in a heatwave, and something about this whole thing stinks just the same.

But then Jishin pauses.

Their brows lift slightly. Something like surprise seems to slip into their expression for a
moment, into the bone of their jaw; but Satoru blinks, and it’s gone. It’s in Jishin’s eyes
instead. And then— they go oddly flat, like buttons.

Satoru tenses. From beside him, he feels Getou doing the same.

Then, without warning, Jishin clasps both hands in front of them. Their fingers entwine
indecipherably, and they murmur something under their breath, so low Satoru can’t catch.

And the entire building trembles.

The dragon is still coiled around them both, protective. But the entire foundation shakes itself
apart. There’s a thundering boom as Satoru staggers, the metal pipes and racks falling like
dominoes, and he grabs onto Getou’s sleeve, trying to shield him from harm’s way. But it’s
too tremulous to see clearly. Everything roars in his ears like a war drum. Satoru raises a
hand up, eyes squeezed tight against the blast of dust stinging his skin— bracing himself for
the collapse, shit, the mountain of ruins to come crashing down on his shoulders.

But it doesn’t.

When the wind dies down, Satoru lifts his head again— and sees that they’re untouched.

The walls, though, have crumbled down all around them, the entire building razed to the
ground. And in its stead is the sunset-lit streets of the neighbourhood, burned orange and red,
an empty stretch of dwellings before them. Everything as it was, Satoru thinks. Just as we left
it. The same sunset from four days ago.

The Curtain has collapsed.

“So,” says Jishin, “whose idea was it to not eat anything?”

Satoru turns sharply towards them.

Jishin isn’t smiling. Something seems to have shifted in their expression; it’s calmer,
somehow, and shrouded. More ominous. Like they’re keyed up with the sinister weight of
carving out history.

“...What do you mean?” asks Satoru.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” says Jishin. “I can’t stand it when sorcerers play dumb. Such an
insult to someone who spent all this time fleshing out this whole plan for them. It really does
drive me up the wall.”

There’s anger in that voice; tightly concealed, but it’s there. Satoru steels himself.

(...Where’s the other curse?)

“You know,” says Jishin, watching him like a hawk. From the corner of his eyes, Getou
moves instinctively towards him, like he’s shielding. “They’ve warned me about you. It
would’ve been difficult to take you down, they said, what with your powers and your
impenetrability. Immune against physical attacks, no known mental weaknesses. Even against
Special Grade curses, there was a 99% chance that you would’ve been able to come out alive.
We weren’t about to take that chance now, were we?”

Satoru frowns.

(He can feel the Time curse’s presence nearby, looming and heavy in line with his heartbeat.
But he can’t see it. The small fry is hiding.)

“That’s why,” continues Jishin, “we figured a more human method could be used to wear you
down, before we deal the final blow…”

(He needs to stall. He needs to pinpoint exactly where their accomplices are, what they’re
doing, how they’re lurking, because it’ll be irritating if this becomes a surprise atta—)

“It should have activated by now,” says Jishin. “But it seems like you knew not to eat any of
it, hmm? See! This is why I told her not to make it too obvious. Why would we allow a
family to stock up like this so blatantly—”

“Stop monologuing,” Getou snaps impatiently. “Shut up and get to the point. Neither of us
have consumed anything, and you already know that.”

Jishin closes their mouth. They look at Getou blankly.

Then they turn towards Satoru, gaze disinterested for a drawn moment, before their mouth
spreads into a smile.

“Oh,” says Jishin, “but have you?”

Something scorches Satoru’s chest.

It feels like his heart has been burned. He stumbles down onto the ground, gasping. The pain
is sudden and immense, and it sears through him in a white-hot flare, like his body’s being
torn apart.

“Satoru!”

Getou’s voice sounds faint through the rush of blood in his ears. Satoru clutches at the shirt
over his chest, trying not to curl in on himself. All his organs feel like they’ve been boiled.

There are hands on him. He’s hunched over, on his knees, fingers scratching the ground so
hard that the dirt has gotten under his nails, but he doesn’t look at Getou. Getou’s saying
something, urgent and repeated, and the hands on his back are as gentle as worry can let it—
but Satoru doesn’t look at him.

He’s glaring up at Jishin instead. And Jishin stares back idly, a small smile on their lips.
Satoru tries to speak, but the words are clogged in his throat. It’s difficult to pull himself up
from the ground. It’s difficult to even breathe.

“A poison,” Jishin begins to say, “that enters your bloodstream instead of moving through
your digestive system, once you consume it. We had to think of something special for you,
Six Eyes. Something you can’t get rid of with cursed energy—”

“Satoru—”

“—something human. It’s in your blood. You won’t be able to use Infinity or cursed energy
to repel it. It’s a good thing you haven’t been able to master the reversed cursed technique,
isn’t it?”

The pain is— scalding.

He tries to activate Infinity, but it doesn’t stop. He tries to channel cursed energy, but it
doesn’t stop.

Satoru groans. The hands on his shoulders tighten in return. Through the muzzy haze of pain,
he can blearily see Getou there beside him, eyes sharp and alert, looking all over his body to
search for any visible signs of injury. At least he’s okay, Satoru thinks faintly. He’s unharmed.
At least he’s— and Satoru’s train of thought halts as he gasps, a blaze of pain slicing through
him. It feels like his entire body is bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding. Burned with
prodding, needling jabs.

(He doesn’t understand. He hasn’t eaten anything. He doesn’t remember consuming anything
ever since he stepped foot into the house. What is—)

“Really.” Jishin sighs. “It’s not my fault you underestimated us.”

Getou turns towards Jishin. Satoru can see — so blurred that he’s unsure if his vision is
failing him — the other boy’s glare hardening into black ice. “What,” Getou bites out, “did
you do?”
“Scaaary,” Jishin says cheerily. “I’m glad we went through with this back-up plan. See, the
good thing about dormant poison in your blood is that you can administer it at any time, and
it’ll activate even months down the line. He should be in excruciating pain right now. All his
innards are burning. Soon he’ll asphyxiate and then it’ll be such an easy job to—”

Getou doesn’t wait for them to finish. He stands up, puts one foot in front of the other,
outstretches his arm, and a black ball of curse forms at his palm. The dragon stirs, ready to
pounce.

“Oh, come on, don’t do that,” Jishin says, smiling. “You know you’re practically the person
who poisoned him, don’t you?”

Getou falters.

Satoru’s still on the ground, gasping for air, but he wills enough strength to glance over at
Getou. Getou’s brows are furrowed, eyes bright in both anger and confusion. Satoru can tell
by his expression that he’s scouring through his memories, trying to decipher what the hell
that could’ve meant.

“Didn't you think,” says Jishin, “it was weird for a high school girl to be up on the mountains
alone?”

Getou’s expression turns pale.

Satoru blinks. He watches him, uncomprehending. All the colour seems to have drained from
Getou’s face.

Suguru, he tries to whisper.

Getou looks over at him. There’s something that resembles guilt there. And the look on his
face…

“Don’t you two remember,” continues Jishin, “what happened the first time you met?”

The first—

Satoru hisses. His skin feels stretched thin as paper, like it’s being peeled open. He tries to
gather himself, tries to think.

(The first time.)

(The first meeting. Two months ago, when Satoru had tried to avoid school. He’d perched on
that tree to watch Getou and Shoko in the dormitory hallway. He’d gone into Yaga’s office
with no expectations. He’d met his classmates. He had an argument with Getou for a stupid
reason. What was it again? Wasn’t it a letter? Getou was so adamant on Satoru receiving that
letter and that chocolate—)

Satoru freezes.

“Oh,” says Jishin. “So you do remember.”

And then the pain intensifies.

Something curdles inside him, then. Satoru bites back a scream, his hands balling into fists to
distract himself from the overpowering agony inside his chest, his lungs, his fucking blood. It
feels as though long-dead nerves are being forced back alive, shoved through his veins.

Distantly, he hears Getou calling his name.

Distantly, he can feel the presence of someone else, hear the approaching footsteps of a
person he can’t make out. Distantly, he hears Jishin’s voice, taunting and muted.

“—better than her clan. She was good, wouldn’t you say? It only activates at her scent,
whenever she’s near—”

Distantly, he can see another figure appearing by Jishin’s side.

A girl. Dark hair, shoulder-lengthed, draped in high school uniform. She's unfamiliar. Satoru's
never seen her before.

But Getou has, apparently.

He’s gone stiff beside Satoru. His mouth is slightly open, locked unwaveringly onto the girl.
Satoru’s vision is out of focus now, but he can still hear the name that comes out of Getou’s
mouth, then— uttered so quietly it was nearly inaudible to catch, even with the proximity
between them:

“Rin.”
 Suguru
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Suguru should’ve known.

_____

18 CIVILIANS MISSING WITHOUT A TRACE IN TOKYO.

“They were just going back to their home hours before,” another family friend said. “I
remember, also, that they’d been speaking to a little girl that morning. But I don’t know who
she—”

_____

“—is Rin, my son’s friend.”

Suguru looked over to Ijichi, and in the cursory second that their eyes met, the older man’s
gaze hardened into caution. Just briefly; enough for Suguru to understand its meaning: she
doesn’t know about our world.

Suguru smiled at her. “Nice to meet you.”

Rin stared at him, then hesitantly returned, “Nice to meet—”

_____

“—you didn’t even read it.”

“Oh,” Gojo said blankly. “I’m not interested. Why should I?”

“You’re eating her chocolate,” said Suguru, “but you’re not even going to bother opening
the letter?”

“What’s it to you,” Gojo muttered. “I don’t even remember her—”

 _____

“—just,” said Ijichi, through the phone, right outside of that karaoke bar. “Something came
up with Kiyotaka tonight. It’s nothing bad, but…”

“What happened?”

“I think,” said Ijichi, “he ate something weird. It’s just— it’s not fatal, but I’d like to stay
with him to—”

_____

“See.” Ijichi scratched the back of his neck. “If the act of merely giving Gojo this letter
scares you this much, he isn’t worth it, kid.”

Rin looked up at him.

Dejection was not the emotion he was reading on her face.

There was a small, careful smile at the corner of her lips instead; the sort that is all
acceptance and sardonic.

“I don’t know, Ijichi-san,” she said, quiet and soft. “I think you’re wrong.”

_____

Suguru is an idiot.

He’s a clueless, big-headed, huge massive colossal fucking idiot.

He should’ve known. He should’ve sensed it. He should’ve pieced two and two together
when Ijichi was unable to drive them, when nobody else could’ve chaperoned them, when a
random girl he hadn’t met before asked him to pass something along to Gojo Satoru with
romantic weight in it instead of giving it herself. He should’ve known.

But Rin stands before him now, a quiet smile on her lips, her gaze impressionless. Still as
young as he remembers her to be.

“Hello,” she says.

“You,” says Suguru. He pauses, speechless. Rin gives him a tiny wave in response, and that
instantaneously sends a quiet surge of anger through him that he has to strain to keep level.
“Who are you?”

She inhales. He notices, then, that there is a gun in her left hand. With her right, she reaches
into her pocket, pulls out a pair of glasses, and adjusts it onto the bridge of her nose. “Still
Rin,” she says, and there’s something different in her façade somehow, compared to when he
first met her. Her voice is softer than he remembers, but it feels as though there’s tempered
steel beneath, supporting each syllable like a vertebrae. “I didn’t lie about my name.”

Suguru stares at her, processing. Hundreds of explanations, dozens of possibilities file

through his mind.

Why is she here?

How did she get to this point? What about Ijichi? How did she slip under Suguru’s guard like
this, go unnoticed even though he’s always had his—

Beneath him, Satoru groans. Suguru reflexively tightens the hold he has on him, one knee on
the ground, his hands on Satoru’s back.

Hang in there, Suguru thinks desperately. Don’t pass out on me. God, there’s an old clump of
fear crawling up his chest, all fuzzy and grey and anxiety-thick, but he wills himself to ignore
it.

(He has to. He can’t let his attention be too diverted. He knows Satoru has warmed up
considerably in just the past minute— his entire body is shaking, trembling underneath
Suguru’s arms, and he’s panting like breathing has become laborious. Suguru can tell from
the restrained sounds, shit, that Satoru’s trying his hardest not to whimper— but—)

“Well,” says Jishin. Rin has made her way over to them. They glance down at her, both hands
clasped behind their back, their suit rumpled red in the dusk. “It’s not good to lie, Rin.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell him the full truth,” says Jishin. “You did omit something about your name.”

“No, I didn’t,” snaps Rin.

“Zenin,” supplies Jishin. They turn to look at Suguru, their smile twisted in some sort of
contentment. “She’s from the Zenin clan.”

Suguru frowns. The Zenin—?

“Oh.” Jishin sounds pleased. “So you have heard of this family, Curse Manipulator.”

…One of the Big Three sorcerer families. Who hasn’t heard of them, if only in pieces, if only
in hearsay? The Zenin clan — soon to be led by Naobito, if he remembers correctly — with
their array of cursed techniques and tools stored down in the underground warehouse.
Does this mean, then, he thinks, that they’ve been targeting Satoru?

Suguru watches Rin, eyeing the gun revolving around her finger. But it doesn’t make sense—
as fast as he’s trying to reason this out. What are they gaining out of this? Why such a blatant
attack, and why send just her? Aren’t they worried about keeping order with the rest of the
shaman world, considering their current alliance with these Special Grade curses? Shouldn’t
this upset their status?

But then Suguru looks over at Rin— and understanding dawns on him.

There is a specific kind of anger, he thinks, that you can find in people if you look close
enough. One that runs maw deep, borne from rage carved deep in their past. Suguru can
never tell its source if left unsaid, but he knows how to spot it, how to find it, how to read
wounds from a person’s face.

And Rin is livid, now, in the blankest way possible. Her expression hasn’t changed, but it’s
closed off against a storm, and she’s stubborn-eyed. Like she’ll gore something to death —
skewer her way through it like putting your thumb through year-old apple flesh, soft and
rotten — even if it’s herself.

“They are not,” she bites out, “my family.”

Suguru stares at her, comprehending.

And then it clicks.

No cursed energy.

She emits no cursed energy, then and now. It’s how he has never sensed her, even during that
first meeting when she’d scared him out of the blue.

It’s how neither he nor Satoru has been able to feel her presence. It’s how she managed to
shoot a hole through his stomach back then, without either of them noticing— and it sends a
chill through his spine, now. Under the darkening sky, the area around them is a desolate
stretch, harrowingly bare for him and Satoru lying beneath.

Rin has no cursed energy.

In the Zenin clan’s eyes, from what he’s heard, this is about as good as death.

Jishin smiles at her, clearly amused. “You know, Rin,” they say, adjusting their tie, like it’s a
typical old argument they’ve had before, “convincing yourself that you’re fine without
something is as good as admitting you want it. But alright, I guess.”

Rin’s expression sours. “I’m not admitting to anything.”

“Hmm,” says Jishin.

“What did you do?” Suguru asks, because he needs time to think, needs time to rationalize
this out. “With Kiyotaka.”
“Oh, him.” Rin averts her gaze, casually shrugging. “He’s alive. I didn’t give him anything
horrible. He’ll be fine in a couple days, unlike that little mess over there.”

Suguru glares at her.

“You weren’t able to detect the poison, were you?” She smiles. “It’s because I didn’t use a
technique, Getou-kun,” and the honorific comes out of her mouth like venom, like the sound
of it makes her gag. “No cursed energy infused in it. You won’t be able to deactivate it either,
so don’t even bother trying.”

“And your solution to family abandonment, Rin,” Suguru says coldly, even with the gnaw of
dread in his gut, “is to work with wanted Special Grade curses who will throw you away once
they get their chance?”

Rin looks at him.

For a few moments, she just stares at him. He can’t quite read the expression on her face, but
he’d almost feel a sick cat’s-got-your-tongue satisfaction, if it weren’t for how Rin looks so
caught off guard, indignance simmering under the surface.

“I was the one who found out about your missions,” she grits out. I really hit a nerve, Suguru
thinks; and when he covertly glances over to Jishin, the Special Grade curse looks cold. Like
they’re staring down at ants, foot raised a hovering inch. “I was the one who got Kiyotaka to
tell me where you were sent to. I was the one who came up with the idea of attacking all
those districts to divert the attention of the other sorcerers, and get them to leave you
unsupervised.”

Suguru’s gaze hardens.

(No one is available, kid, Ijichi had said, over the phone, outside of that karaoke bar the night
before they left to come here, otherwise I would’ve arranged for someone to come with—

You know, Shoko said, Utahime told me there have been issues that our staff and most
sorcerers in Tokyo have to—

—A Goodwill Event. Not happening until they solve whatever’s been bothering them.)

“Send out enough curses,” continues Rin, “attack enough places, and everyone gets
occupied.”

“...That was all a diversion, then,” says Suguru.

“Isn’t this so flattering?” says Jishin. They give him a sordid grin, straightening the tie on
their collar. “That we went to these lengths to isolate the Six Eyes?”

“We realized,” says Rin, “that the staff wouldn’t let Gojo Satoru go on a mission on his own
yet, but we figured whoever with him would be easy to eliminate. We just had to make sure
nobody could supervise you.”
“All for some prize money,” Jishin says happily. Their smile is easy, no strain to their jaw,
and it’s one thing to be creeped out by the natural powers of a curse, but it’s an entirely
different thing to watch them act with such a gleefully sick demeanour. So fucking
nauseously shrewd. “Although I wouldn’t have minded doing this for free.”

Suguru feels a muscle in his jaw twitch.

“Oh, come on.” Jishin smiles, seemingly entertained at whatever they’re reading in his
expression. “It’s nothing personal.”

The anger that’s been threatening to boil for the past few minutes curdles up his stomach,
then. He wants to break his own fingers, jam something inside the crack across Jishin’s face
and snap their little neck in half.

But Suguru holds his ground instead. He tenses, watchful— because behind him, the faint,
distant presence of the Time curse emerges from wherever it’s been hiding for the past while.
It’s still several meters away — not close enough to charge at them yet — but he can feel its
cursed energy, dark and heavy and leaden. It hasn’t made a sound. It hasn’t made any sort of
noise. He can’t turn around and see, but the aura emitting from it is unmistakable, powerful
enough to make him uneasy.

They’re surrounded.

Shit, Suguru thinks. They’ve surrounded us. The entire area surrounding them is deserted; no
one’s around, no civilians to get caught up in this fight, no potential casualties. He can hear
the distant motor purring of cars, the distant hum of the city. From somewhere far away, an
articulated bus hisses as it turns a street bend, on its way to the commuter sweep. Oblivious
to this place.

Suguru chances a glance at Satoru.

The poison seems to have seeped out all the energy left in him. He’s lying flat on the ground
now, on his side, pressing his shoulder hard against the dirt like it can somehow stop the
tremors. It’s throwing Suguru off balance to see Satoru like this, broken down to the point of
being unable to move. His hair is starting to damp with sweat, his face flushed from the lack
of oxygen, mouth open as he tries to take in shallow breaths, gasping for air.

Just looking at him hurts.

“Don’t worry about him,” says Rin. She fiddles with the gun in her hand, spinning the guard
of it around her finger. “He’ll probably pass out soon. It’s a poison that activates at my scent,
in my presence. It’ll just slowly eat away at him.”

Suguru turns to glare at her.

Rin only looks back at him, passive. She stands, backlit by the sunset, her face in shadow and
bleached of all expression. There’s no guilt, or remorse, or shame. All from a girl who looks
no older than fifteen.
“What was all this for, Rin?” Suguru asks quietly. “Just to prove yourself to your own clan?
A clan whom you hate?”

Rin blinks at him— before her mouth slowly spreads into a smile, as cool as an afternoon
shade.

Then she lifts up the gun, aims it at him, and pulls the trigger.

Suguru draws — light-fast — a squid curse from within his core. He flattens it open; the
bullet impales it, blunted. And then, in the next moment, the two Special Grade curses charge
at him.

One second.

The dragon curls itself around Satoru, a protective shield.

One second.

It happens all too fast for him to process. Suguru knows Jishin is launching at him from the
front, the Time curse from behind. He waits for them to close— then turns on his heel, and
swerves around the Time curse. Jishin’s attack crashes into it, imploding in a blaze of toxic
orange, and Suguru throws another one of his own curses up to shield himself from the blast,
debris flying all around, everything shrouded in smoke.

But before he reorients himself, something barrels back at him.

Suguru tries to dodge. He tries to, but it moves too quickly for him to see. He manages to
shift enough for it not to strike at his heart— but it wrenches by his shoulder.

It crushes down onto his bones. There are spots in the back of his head. His vision
immediately blurs from the pain, god, fuck— Suguru tastes blood in his mouth, wet and
metallic, and it feels as though his arm’s about to rip away from his shoulder, hanging loosely
through flesh and nerves.

“Oh?” he hears Jishin say. “You’re not bad.”

Suguru staggers against the ground. Hasn’t lost his footing yet, but it’s a close call. He
clutches his arm, winces, and feels the warm trickles of blood spilling down onto his fingers.
Around him, the Special Grades have reverted right back to where they were: Jishin next to
Rin, the Time curse behind him.

“Even the Grade 2 sorcerers weren’t able to dodge that,” Jishin says, impressed. “It killed
them so quickly. You sure you’re not a Grade 1?”

“Yeah— well,” Suguru pants. “Do better.” But his voice is worn at the edges, despite the
bravado of that statement, and tinged with pain all the same. He’s barely even managing to
not hiss the words out.

Rin and the curses aren’t moving. They’re only watching him now, baleful, and Suguru stares
back at them, wary of any sudden movement. The rush of adrenaline pumps along with his
own heartbeat. His chest goes cold, then hot, then cold again, and he doesn’t turn to look at
his own shoulder — just knows that it’s bleeding, heat-sick, blood and soot speckled over the
ground beneath — but he can’t think about that now. He has to think fast, has to act fast, has
to get this over with so he can bring Satoru back to—

“Hey,” says Jishin. “You want the Six Eyes all to yourself, don’t you?”

Suguru looks up at them.

Jishin is staring at him, their mouth downturned slightly, their head lolled to the side in some
condescending show of pity. The gleam of absolute bliss in their eyes, though, betray any
kind of sympathy they’re trying to convey. “I know what you want, Getou Suguru,” they say,
and it’s the first time they’ve called him by name. “I know what you think of him.” They take
one step further. “I know how you feel about him, where you want to put him, what you want
to do to him. I know you think he would look pretty on his knees, all bowed down to you the
same way I’ve set up all those bodies.” They bite on their lip, their smile uncontained. “What
obedient humans, don’t you think? All sweet and compliant.”

“You’re disgusting,” says Suguru. His stomach lurches with repugnance, along with another
emotion he can’t quite place. He ignores it anyway, and gives Jishin a slow, wry smile.
“Don’t take it too far with the projection, now.”

“How do you think he’ll feel,” continues Jishin, “if he knows of all the things you’ve been
thinking about him the past couple of days?”

Suguru doesn’t answer.

“You could’ve abandoned him, you know,” says Rin, and the sound of her voice surprises
him a little. Suguru glances over at her. She’s watching him, gaze calm and steely; he’s pretty
sure his arm’s going to numb out at any point — even the sleeve of his shirt is dampening,
sticking to his skin like wax, and it hurts at every point of contact — but he returns the look
twice over. “You’re not the one with the bounty on your head,” mutters Rin. “You could’ve
left at any point, if you wanted to survive.”

Suguru frowns at her.

Well.

…There isn’t much he can try now.

If he pulls out one curse to fight against them, it won’t be enough. If he pulls out five, ten,
twenty, it still won’t be enough, nowhere near enough. He needs this to be over quickly. As
fast as he can, as soon as possible, because Satoru needs to be brought back to the school and
to Shoko before it’s too late; before he passes out, before the poison seeps deep enough to
effectively kill—

How many curses do you have.

Suguru breathes in.

Then out. And then — calmly and measuredly, even with the blood leaking out of him that
threatens to blur each moment with the next — Suguru draws one foot back, as slow as a
welcome ache.

How many curses do you have, Suguru?

He can see the realization dawning in Jishin’s eyes. Suguru braces himself in a strike
position; and then, with the arm that’s not yet numbing, he concentrates— diving deep into
the recesses of his cursed reserves, searching for everything, everything he can find.

“Oh, no.” Jishin’s laugh tolls through his ears, euphoric. “No, are you kidding? You’re really
doing it! He’s really—”

(They feel like mould. They always do. They’re dirt stirred up from the bottom of the lake,
every swallow of them a rewrite of his very organs until they beat only to affirm his
belonging.)

Suguru pulls forth all the curses he has in him.

All three hundred of them— forming into a sphere at the back of his palm, dark and purple
and screeching, swelling to the size of a full-body tumour. The ground shakes with the weight
of it. He can taste each one as they’re shrieking, drowned out by the roar of gale in his ears,
and it feels like an empty kind of power. The earth fractures beneath his legs, giving way for
a gust of wind to blow around him, suffocating, smelling like dust. Turbulent enough to raze
every last thing in this area to the goddamn ground.

“Wow.” The delight is still there in Jishin’s voice. Beside them, Rin stares, eyes wide in alarm
as she takes a few steps back. “You’re really not bad, boy.”

Suguru smiles.

…He won’t survive this, probably.

Every single curse he has. From the very first one he consumed at the age of 9, to the one that
tried to hunt him down at 12, to the one he found sulking and alone on the crowded streets at
14, to Kuchisake-Onna. Every single one of them, contained in the sphere behind him.
Suguru pulls them out of their boundaries like it’s a way to get ahead of his own fears,
because he isn’t sure if the throb in his shoulder means healing or infection, and he doesn’t
want to look. His body is already heavy and he’s seeing doubles.

(He probably won’t survive this.)

But this’ll give him a chance. The only chance, really, to take on the two Special Grades and
get the human girl out of harm’s way. To get Satoru back to safety. So his voice doesn’t
waver, not even at the end, when he grits his teeth and quietly says: “Get out of here, Rin.”

—Then something grabs at his ankle.

Suguru looks down, startled.

Satoru is on the ground. He’s still doubled over in pain, his head bent down. Suguru can’t
catch what expression he’s wearing, but his entire body still wracks with tremors, even with
the vice-grip he has on Suguru’s ankle.

Suguru’s stomach drops with guilt. Satoru looks like he only has a few minutes left before he
completely passes out, loses consciousness, and Suguru tries not to think of the worst case
scenario. Because surely that’s not it. Surely Satoru’s stronger than that. Even if Suguru gets
killed, he should be able to hold on long enough for someone to sense the abnormal amount
of cursed energy and—

But then Satoru lifts his head, and locks eyes with him.

Satoru’s face is still flushed red. His mouth is still open as he struggles to breathe, but there’s
a look in his eyes as he stares up at Suguru, brows furrowed in agony.

…Suguru knows this look. It’s the one Satoru gives Yaga before aiming a too-hard kick at
one of the dummies in the training yard. The one he gives Shoko before stealing a pencil
from her case. The one he gives Suguru before doing something stupid, like a warning, or a
check-in…

No.

(He doesn’t see this, but several yards in front of him, Jishin’s eyes widen another fraction.
Rin’s mouth falls open as she takes another step back, stumbling to get away).

And the immediate fear Suguru feels, then — cutting up his chest, blister-hot — is —

“No,” shouts Suguru, “Satoru!”

But Satoru doesn’t listen to those words. Doesn’t pay attention to them.

He looks towards the curses.

Crosses one finger over another. Opens his mouth, and — even with his eyes glazed over, his
knees on the ground — says:

_____

Domain Expansion.

Suguru sat by his desk, flipping through a page of the report in his hands. The empty library
at Tokyo Jujutsu High proved to be the most peaceful place on campus.

Domain Expansion, the report in his hand read, is the most supreme ability of any jujutsu
user.
An advanced barrier technique that manifests the user’s Innate Domain and traps their target
inside it, using a separate space. Once inside, the user’s cursed techniques are improved and
cannot be avoided.

Domain Expansion is a difficult technique to learn that most high-level sorcerers are never
able to master. It requires an immense amount of cursed energy; the user’s innate technique
will become unstable for a brief time after deactivating their domain, and their cursed energy
reserves will be extremely low.

Suguru flipped to the next page, where there were diagrams on how to cast it, how to use it,
who has succeeded, and the consequences of those who have failed.

Distantly, he remembered overhearing a conversation that Satoru and Yaga had, merely a few
days ago. Don’t rush into things ahead of your time, their teacher had scolded.

Yeah, Suguru agreed with that. From what he was reading about it now, it sounded like a
death wish. Something you use only when death has warmed you over. Something
meaningless. Like spitting up the blood in your mouth to blind someone else on the way out.

“Domain Expansion,” murmured Suguru, “huh.”

_____

“—Unlimited Void.”

The space around them warps.

Everything distorts, like he’s being catapulted through a tunnel of light. He’s still standing,
stable on his feet, but it feels as though the fabric of space has contorted around him,
mangling and dizzy.

Then he blinks— and an eye appears before him.

Suguru stares at it. The eye is large, the edges of it swirling around in wisps. At the center of
it, a circle rests, vast and endless, black as the ocean floor.

He blinks at it, speechless. Unsure of what’s just happened, he looks over at the curses, then
— and sees that Rin isn’t here. Satoru must have pushed her out of the way, he realizes. He
must have targeted precisely so she wouldn’t be caught in this. But both the Time curse and
Jishin are unmoving in their places, the latter’s eyes widened in shock. They look frozen.

…This, Suguru thinks, his stomach twisting in dread, is Satoru’s Domain Expansion.

The curses don’t look at all like they can move. They seem flooded with something,
everything, that renders them immobile. Cautiously, Suguru tries to move his fingers— and
finds that he can. He tries to turn his head, tries to take a step. And finds that he can.
Satoru’s hand is still wrapped around his ankle, warm.

It’s because, Suguru realizes, he’s touching me. The Domain doesn’t affect him, doesn’t
freeze him up like the other two because they’re in direct physical contact with each other.

Satoru looks up at him. His brows are pinched together, both seemingly in pain and
concentration. Then he turns his gaze over to the curses, gasps in a stuttered breath, and tries
to croak out something—

_____

Every attack of the caster in a Domain Expansion, the report read, is a guaranteed hit.

_____

—and there’s a blast of Red. It glows at the corner of Suguru’s eyes. He has to squint before
it blinds him; and then it’s pitching straight towards the curses, a streak of red, before hitting
Jishin in the arm.

And then the Domain dissolves.

The space around them withers down, giving way to the old neighbourhood around them.
The heaps of rubble, the sunset-orange sky, the empty streets. A quiet breeze puffs over his
hair, stirring the leaves overhead.

Rin, Suguru notes hazily, is nowhere to be found.

She must’ve ran away. She must’ve— and Suguru pulls himself together with a jolt, then. He
can see the curses before him, can feel Satoru under him with much more clarity now.
Everything has whittled down to what it was before.

Satoru could no longer hold the Domain.

But that was enough. That was more than enough. Suguru — knowing both Jishin and the
Time curse are still shocked frozen from the impact — draws back his arm, and then launches
the massive sphere of curses towards them.

He doesn’t open his eyes to look when the blast sounds before him, but he figures that it
makes for an ardent light in the explosion. A sight to behold— him shielding Satoru to a
backdrop of smoke and blooming fire. The ground beneath them shakes. He can hear the
crack of the earth underneath them, can see the chalk lines across his feet when he opens his
eyes, measured clean and distinct, dissecting the land precisely in pieces.
That should’ve done it.

That should’ve—

Suguru turns around.

“Satoru.” He kneels on the ground, down where Satoru is lying with his nails scraping
desperately at the dirt, still heaving to breathe. “Satoru.” Suguru has both hands on his
shoulders now, as gently as he possibly can, and it’s not until he tries to lift Satoru to a sitting
position that Suguru realizes his own hands are shaking.

“Hey,” Suguru says urgently. “You idiot. Don’t pass out. Don’t fucking pass out.”

Satoru lifts his chin up to meet Suguru’s eyes. His cheeks and neck are red, straining with
exertion, and his body has broken out in sweat. He seems unable to speak, still; but the
amused expression on his face — even through the wetness of his eyes and the small twitch
at the corner of his mouth — sends a clear enough message: You can’t even be nice to me
now, Suguru?

God, Suguru is torn between wanting to punch him and hug him.

“You’re an idiot,” he says instead, a little less harshly than he means to. “Why the hell did
you do that?!”

Satoru opens his mouth. He tries to form words, but all that come out are tiny gasps. His
hands clutch at the sleeves of Suguru’s shirt, tight and trembling.

“You’ll be fine,” whispers Suguru. “You’re fine. Just stay awake.” He shifts his weight,
ignoring the stabbing pain in his shoulder. He needs to get them out of here. Needs to get
them moving. “Just don’t pass out. Let me—”

Jishin’s face appears beside them.

Suguru flinches. His body flashes horribly hot, then cold, hit with a wave of shock— but he
doesn’t have time to react. Jishin holds up one arm — the arm that isn’t destroyed with
Satoru’s attack — and strikes him.

Suguru feels his back colliding with a pile of rubble. The sharpness of it jabs at his back, at
the shoulder that’s already scorching with pain — ow, god, fuck — the metal clang of them
rings harshly against his ears. His ribs ache. His mouth tastes of iron, of blood; everything
feels like fire. Suguru coughs as he struggles to a sitting position against the weight of his
own body, and he feels half-blind, like he’s got blood dripping into his eyes.

“Oh dear,” comes Jishin’s voice, bright and giddy. “Our face is the most public thing of ours
we own, you know. That almost scarred me.”

When Suguru looks up, Jishin has Satoru pinned to the ground.

They’ve got one hand pressing against Satoru’s neck, fingers clutched around the skin there,
tight enough to bruise. Suguru can see their veins straining with the force of it. Can see
Satoru on his back, mouth open, both hands prying at Jishin’s arm.

Suguru tries to get up, but the pain pierces his entire body. His head throbs with it,
overwhelmed by the static.

“Silly boy,” murmurs Jishin. They have morphed, now, into something Suguru doesn’t
recognize. Their face has cracked so horribly that he can see the blood beneath it, red like
magma, pooling over their skin stretched tight as paper. Their mouth is pulled as wide as half
their face. It’s barely recognizable. Suguru can see them grinning maniacally down at Satoru,
eyes blown wide, their body covered in ash— and under the setting sun, the light reflects off
Jishin’s face, red as wounds. The sight of it sits as weight, heavy as a sodden blanket on
Suguru’s chest.

“Using up your last resort, Six Eyes?” Jishin hisses. There’s a note of derangement, of elation
in their voice. It’s loud even from this distance. “Don’t you know that you can only do one
Domain Expansion in a day?”

They apply more pressure on Satoru’s neck, to the point that their bones pop with it.

Panic rises to Suguru’s throat. He tries to get up, but his limbs won’t let him. The pain in his
arm is almost dulled by the pain in his head; there’s too much fucking blood there, or too
little. His vision is going awry.

He looks at Satoru, desperate—

But instead of the fear that he expects to find there, Satoru merely stares back at them.

Instead of fear, or apprehension, or fluster, he merely stares straight back at Jishin. His eyes
are blue, cold, even though they’re wet with the tears that are threatening to form. Even with
his face drained of colour.

And his lips are quirked up into a small smile.

A small, thrilled smile. Like he’s got the Special Grade curse trapped between the twirl of his
fingers. And Suguru, well-versed enough by now to read every single one of Satoru’s
expressions, feels the bottom of his stomach drop straight down to the floor.

(Two months of being around each other, and he knows. He knows how futile it is. He knows
how useless it is to try to convince Satoru against something he’s already set his mind on, and
so Suguru can only watch, his heart somewhere on the ground. The problem with that kind of
thing, though, is that it always feels like years when it happens, it feels like forever, you’re
always in the moment too long.)

When Suguru turns back to look at Jishin, the complete shock on Jishin’s face mirrors
Suguru’s own.

Because the words that come out of Satoru’s mouth, then — even though they’re hoarse, and
strained, and nearly inaudible with how quietly he mutters them — are unmistakable.

“Domain,” Satoru says, for the second time, “Expansion.”

 .

Chapter End Notes

gojo "im gonna do whats called a pro gamer move" satoru

(Edit 20 May 2022:) Obscure drew a scene from this chapter so evocatively that I have
to share! It is so AWESOME and emotional and they are so wonderful! Please come
look at it and give them love!!

(Edit 29 Sept 2022:) Mwin drew such an incredible scene from this chapter on TikTok!
It is so insane - Rin and their expressions are absolutely FANTASTIC and AAAAAAA I
love it so much!! Please give Mwin all the love!
 Satoru

Domain Expansion isn’t difficult.

The first time he’d heard of it had been back when he was four years old. Several of the
servants in the Gojo household had been whispering amongst each other, frowning, their
hushed voices filled with reproach. Satoru had caught some of the words. Did you hear of the
boy who tried it and it backfired on him? That poor thing. He got too excited about it, didn’t
he? It ended up being futile in the end and draining all his cursed energy, and then the enemy
completely obliterated him until he died without—

Satoru barely understood most of what they were saying. He didn’t even know the word die;
only that it was a bad word.

He learned, later on, that the term “Domain Expansion” was associated with adjectives like
“strong” and “incredible” and “admirable”. He learned that it was something the Gojo clan
expected of him. He learned that it was an aim.

Well. Satoru never got the chance to use it, though; most of the trainers back home always
said that it was not in their place to teach him, someone will come along eventually, or you
can figure it out for yourself, Young Master, try it, why don’t you. Most of them didn’t know
how, anyway. The few who could never really bothered. He figured it had something to do
with jealousy, or indifference, or fear, or the need to be stronger.

You haven’t even learned the full extent of your techniques yet, Yaga had said. How can I
expect you to try this?

So Satoru has never been allowed to cast it before. The first person who explained it to him,
as it turned out, was Getou: he showed him how to use it, how to aim it, how to hold it. It
didn’t seem difficult in theory then; it doesn’t seem difficult in practice now.

But be careful, Getou had warned. If you do it to a human, they might break.

_____

“She’s from the Zenin clan.”

_____

“—Do you remember,” said the lady before him, “the twins of the Zenin clan?”
Satoru met her gaze.

“They turned three this year,” she continued. “Rumour has it that their father wants them
killed.”

And she angled her body forward then, leaning into an impossibly strange, uncomfortable
posture. Her head moved an inch closer to his.

“Please remember, Gojo Satoru,” she said, quietly, “that you were fortunate to be born into
this family.”

_____

Satoru hates admitting he has feelings.

Not that he has many to begin with anyway; but it feels weird, sometimes, to spare someone
his sympathies and show it in his actions. He’s just not used to it. It makes him feel all
uncomfortable inside, like a spider has crawled up his ankle and lodged itself at the back of
his knee. It’s such a hassle. It’s not like anyone will miss it if he doesn’t care for them,
besides. Satoru hates going out of his way to do things for other people.

They are not, said Rin, my family.

He hates it.

But when he uses Domain Expansion for the first time — when he uses his last resource, that
desperate, feeble attempt to stop Getou from doing whatever stupid thing he’s trying to do —
Satoru turns to look Rin in the eye, and pushes her out of the way.

_____

“You could’ve abandoned him, you—”

_____

“—idiot. Don’t pass out. Don’t fucking pass—”

 _____

“—your last resort, Six Eyes?”

Jishin’s eyes are on him, but they’re hollower, crueler, less human than he remembers ever
seeing them. Their hand is choking his neck, tight and suffocating.

He needs to activate Infinity. He needs to get them off him. He needs to gather up the last of
his cursed energy and activate Infinity, or else—

“Don’t you know,” says Jishin, “you can only do one Domain Expansion in a day?”

_____

Satoru is petty.

He knows he is. It would’ve been fine, probably, if he had just used Infinity right then and
used Red afterwards to repel Jishin away from him. That would’ve done the job. That
would’ve managed to push Jishin out of the way, grant the two of them enough time to
escape, or breathe, or retaliate, or perhaps buy them the lucky few minutes that might’ve
allowed reinforcement to come.

But then Jishin says, only one Domain Expansion, and that does it.

Satoru opens his mouth.

Not a very wise decision, in retrospect— doing this just to one-up the bastard. Just to prove
them wrong. The satisfaction he gets is instant, though: Jishin’s face is like a cat in a trap, one
that might still bite off its own leg to escape. The look in their eyes is that of a thing in the
heartbeat before it bolts.

Satoru sees it. Savours it, and smiles.

I’ll do it better this time, he thinks, smug and proud. Frag out this sorry bastard.

But the moment the words “Domain Expansion” leave his mouth — for the second time —
he feels every last ounce of his energy disappear along with them.

_____

Satoru can’t see what’s going on.

Shit. Shit, he can’t tell what’s happening.

Everything’s a blur. He can sense his Domain building. He can sense the grip Jishin has on
his neck loosening. Can feel himself gasping in sharp breaths, his hands coming up to soothe
the skin that’s sure to be reddening at his throat— but everything’s faded. Like watching the
sky from the placid bottom of a pool, the world around him muted and drowned.

Everything’s a blur. He can’t see anything. He can’t hear anything. His heart starts to beat
louder, quicker, more potent with alarm—

Red, Satoru thinks, coughing. I need to use…

He tries to croak out a sound. It might’ve formed into words, but he isn’t sure. Fuck, it hurts
— everything hurts — and he turns over onto his hands and knees, just to avoid any blood in
his mouth choking him.

And then he hears something break.

Satoru.

He can hear his name, called by a voice from behind.

But Satoru doesn’t have the energy to look back. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything.
His body feels as heavy as a corpse, now.

Is he close to dying? Is this— is this the last time he’ll be awake— but no. No. Dying
happens to other people. Dying happens to other people; it’s tragic when it happens and it
sucks when it happens to people you know, but dying happens to other people and he doesn’t
know what it means if dying happens to him. Would his clan replace him? Would his powers
be reborn a day from now, or a week from now, or a year from now? There’s a small part of
him that wants to crack a joke, maybe make some kind of dumb statement that would get
Getou pissed and annoyed at him, but the idea isn’t really funny because he doesn’t even
know if Getou is around. Satoru feels cold.

And everything is faint, now. The only thing keeping him conscious is— is the smell of
sulphur, and brightness, and the taste of smoke that makes him cough and retch and gag as he
scrambles against the sleep-weight of his own body. His skin feels stretched tight as paper,
peeled open like an envelope.

Someone is yelling something, but he doesn’t know what it is.

Satoru slowly curls in on himself, overwhelmed with the noise. His insides are on fire, his
forehead is scraping pathetically against the ground. And there is only a brief second where
he manages to make out, with perfect clarity, the dirt beneath him and Getou’s voice behind
him—

—and then he thinks, guess this is it, huh— before everything goes—
 _____

There is ringing in his ears.

 _____

There’s the scent of death. Satoru knows how to read this smell: the smell of curses
disintegrating into air. It’s dry, like fingernails or hair, yet somehow it’s also a wet smell, a
putrid smell. Soggy like a dog’s nose.

It makes the hair on Satoru’s neck stand up. He can taste iron in—

_____

Shadows move beyond Satoru’s eyelids. They zip past the dirty, hot stench in the air.

He doesn’t recognize anything. He can barely feel his own thoughts.

He can’t open his eyes and see anything, though maybe he would if everything would just
stop spinning. If everything can just stand still for ten seconds, please—

_____

Satoru.

_____

Can you hear me? Hey.

_____

Satoru, what are you—

 _____

The wind whistles all around him.

He’s cradled against someone’s chest. Satoru has never really been held by Getou before, has
never felt Getou’s form against him, warm and solid — has never even been held by anyone
before, actually, for as long as he can remember — but he knows, with daunting certainty,
whose arms these are. He knows it by scent. By gut.

When Satoru pries his eyes open, Getou is there.

He’s staring straight ahead, the edge in his eyes like the edge in the wind. There is blood
pooling down the side of his head, smeared at the corner of his mouth. Behind him, the moon
is consumed by the momentary clouds, casting the sky in shade after shade of darkness,
saved only by the city lights.

Stingray, Satoru manages to realize. We’re on…

_____

There are a lot more voices now.

Satoru groans. God, it’s bringing him more agony than reassurance. Every single sound
pierces through his ears, his brain, shaking up the pebble that’s been moving around in his
head.

Careful. That’s Getou’s voice, harsh. Don’t talk so loud.

Jesus, kid, you need treatment, too—

Satoru feels himself being passed over to someone else. The warmth of the hands that have
been around him disappears, replaced by another pair of arms. A hand is placed over his
forehead, another over his neck, and then someone’s arms are beneath his shoulders and legs,
lifting him up.

Gojo, a familiar voice says. Are you awake?

_____

He can barely register what’s happening.

Pain wakes him up, heavy and thick. He can hear voices, can make out indistinct figures
above him. There are blurry shapes moving around.

Is he back at school? Did Getou bring him back? There are familiar voices nearby. No
ominous presence, no tainted cursed energy. Does that mean we’ve won?

Where’s, he wheezes out, where’s Suguru?

Don’t talk, someone is saying to him. A female voice. She doesn’t sound gentle, but she
doesn’t sound admonishing either. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the past ten
hours, Gojo. I doubt you’ll even remember this conversation, when you wake up for real. But
don’t talk. It’ll be less painful.

I’m— fine, Satoru rasps out, even as agony blooms through his chest. Let me get up.

No. Stay down. You don’t have enough energy to do anything, the woman says. You’re going
to pass out either way, you know. You’re already going.

But…

Get some sleep, Gojo, she says. Try again next time.

_____
 _____

Satoru wakes to silence.

Everything is still. There’s a haze of muzzy pain and thick, cotton-mouthed bad taste. It’s
sickening, and too bright for comfort. He clenches his eyes shut again, waiting for it to pass.
It doesn’t.

He opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is the metal ceiling. The lines and joists cross over each other, dividing
it into square patterns. A hospital?

He tries to make a sound at the back of his throat. It barely comes out. Ow, god. This has
never happened to him before— waking up like this, nauseated and disoriented. Satoru’s
dimly shocked at first, and then a little annoyed with instinctive worry, and then it turns into
frustration. He closes his eyes again, willing for his usual grace and agility and competence
to return the next time he opens them.

No such thing happens.

…I’m alive, I guess, he thinks dimly.

He wishes he wasn’t, though; his body would feel better if he wasn’t. God. Satoru lifts his
thumb up to press onto the place where his nose indents into his forehead, warding off the
headache to cope with the dizziness and nausea. It’s working. Somewhat.

He takes in the sight around him, slowly and carefully. The metal ceiling is familiar. The
white, near-transparent curtains are familiar. That window to his right, the huge vase with
yellow flowers are familiar. There’s a bitter, clean smell.

I’m in the school clinic, he realizes vaguely, and ugh. He should be relieved, should be
grateful, but all he can manage to think of is how mortifying it is not to die and to have been
so certain. How did he even end up here? Trying to wrack his brain with memories is making
the headache even worse, which is such a pain. How did he manage to survive all that? Last
thing he remembers, there was a Domain cast because of him, and then a… breaking sound?
And then… something with a stingray, with Getou’s voice…

Satoru’s eyes snap fully open.

Suguru—

“Ah,” comes a voice. “You’re awake?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin.

Shoko is there, standing a few paces away to his left. She has a hand lifting up the curtain
with a lollipop in her mouth. Her gaze bores into him, flat and unfazed.

“Oh,” Satoru says dumbly. “Uh…”

Shoko raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’ve got brain damage now. Should I call in the
actual nurse?”

“N-no.” Satoru’s voice is shakier than he wants it to be. He tries again. “No.”

The corners of Shoko’s eyes crinkle a little. “It’s kinda funny,” she says, reaching for
something behind the curtain, “seeing you so unintelligible.” She pulls out a vinyl chair. It
screeches across the floor as she drags it over, grating on Satoru’s ears. He winces. That
doesn’t deter Shoko though; she makes her way over to him and places the chair close to the
side of the bed, then promptly and gracefully sits herself on top of it.

Satoru stares at her.

“What?” says Shoko. “Hoping you’d see someone else?”

Having Shoko Ieiri here, now, is making him feel… off. Having her talk to him makes him
uncomfortable, a little. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s spent so long alone with someone — “so
long” as in “the past few days”, kinda, but that’s long enough, longer than any amount of
time he’s spent with a person and not get strangled by them — but it’s strange to see another
human being beside him, now. Strange like he has to recalibrate. Like he doesn’t know how
to helm the interaction just yet.

Or maybe it’s because he and Shoko have never really been friends to begin with, and here
she is, the first face he sees when he wakes.

“Where’s Suguru?” he croaks out.

Shoko’s brow rises even higher. She crosses one leg over the other, leans back against the
chair, and slides the lollipop out of her mouth. “Died in an alley somewhere.”

“...Very funny.”

“He’s in better condition than you are,” replies Shoko, scoffing. “You two are the same, huh.
I can’t believe that’s the first thing you ask about when you wake up…” She shakes her head.
“He was treated for his injuries. He’s mostly recovered by now, but it was still bad. Definitely
not in as horrible a condition as yours, though.”

“Not,” mutters Satoru, “not horrible.”

“You’re a bad liar.” Shoko reaches over to the bedside table, takes a bottle of water that he
didn't notice was there before, and hands it to him. She jerks her chin up. “Drink this. Worry
about yourself, why don’t you? Getou can walk outside and prance around now, which is
more than I can say for you.”

“I’m fine,” Satoru says faintly.

“I don’t think you’d be able to stop me from punching you right now,” Shoko points out, “so
you might wanna rephrase that statement.”

Satoru glares at her. But he twists open the bottle cap, lifts it up, and — without even sitting
up on the bed, since the pillows are rising his head up higher anyway — downs five gulps of
it straight down. It’s cold, and refreshing, and definitely helps him feel less and less like
something the maid sweeps out from under his bed, all fuzzy and gray. His throat certainly
feels like it can function again.

“So why are you here, Shoko?” It comes out a little crankier than he means it to be. “What
happened?”

“Hey, now.” Shoko chuckles. “A simple ‘thanks’ would’ve been a good start.”

Satoru gives her a long, withering look. Then he mutters a noise that sounds like “nks”.

“Much better,” says Shoko, clearly enjoying herself.

“So…” begins Satoru. “What happened? And how come you’re here, Shoko? If you're trying
to get me to return you your eraser, maybe another time would be better, y'know, given the
current state of me being very close to barfing my—”

“Shut up,” says Shoko, but there’s amusement in her voice. “I'm missing the ten hours of
silence before you two came back.”

“Ten boring hours, though.”

She rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe Getou put up with you for nearly a week.” She’s smiling
though, regardless. “I figured you might wake up around now. Was just curious to see how
you’re doing. That was pretty cool, by the way.” She winks. “The double Domain Expansion,
I mean.”

Satoru blinks at her. With the way Shoko has always held herself a disengaged length away
from him, this might be the closest thing to a compliment he’ll ever get. “Oh. I know, right?”

Shoko’s smile widens a little. It might even look benign, if he doesn’t know any better. Then
she leans forward, closer to him — the locks of her hair falling over her cheeks — until the
back of her hand touches Satoru’s forehead. Her skin feels cool, tentative. He looks away for
a moment as she hums.

“Not too warm. You’re getting better,” she notes. “Are you able to sit up?”

“Of course I can,” Satoru says, affronted.

But he immediately regrets it. The world reels sickening around him as he rises to a sitting
position, so much that he has to stop mid-way through the get-up just to keep things still
again. His stomach twists. His hands shakes, digging deep into the sheets.

“Fuck,” hisses Satoru.

“Oh?” Shoko laughs. “All talk, aren’t you?”

“You should— move.” He doesn’t even have the energy to glare at her. His voice feels
strange in his throat, rusty; the world lurches sickeningly and he clutches the bedsheets,
closes his eyes. "I'm going to be sick on you if you don't, I think."

“You really are fun when you’re handicapped,” says Shoko. Despite that, she still holds out a
lightweight porcelain bowl. Satoru takes it with tingling arms and shoves his head into it,
waiting for the heavy sickness in his stomach to pass. It lurches unsteadily, rises, rises, and
then fades with the cool shadows in the bowl. He gives himself a minute more to collect
himself, joints burning, temples throbbing, his skin and ribs stretching painfully with every
breath.

“If you’re gonna vomit, vomit now,” suggests Shoko.

“And here I thought— thought I was the one with the crappy bedside manner,” says Satoru,
voice echoing inside the empty bowl. He knows his voice is wavering. His words are also
tripping over each other, which effectively lessens the sternness in his comeback, so ugh.
“You’re awful.”

“And you’re funnier than I realized,” retorts Shoko. “Shame we never really spent that much
time together.” She’s smirking though, which isn’t adding any points to her mark of good
will. The horrible little smile at the corner of her mouth basically says Not so snarky now,
huh. If being poisoned and thwarted within an inch of your life would result in you being this
docile, you should do it more often, this is fun to watch, I’m Shoko and I think I’m so much
cooler, blah blah blah. Satoru makes a face.

“So what happened?” He clears his throat. “After the— second Domain Expansion?”

Shoko regards him curiously. “So you don’t remember anything?”

“I remember I kicked ass,” says Satoru, “and that’s it.”

Shoko gives him an amused look. “Hmm. And here I was about to ask what you did to
Getou. He looked…” She looks up at the ceiling, craning her neck like she’s contemplating
the right word for it. “Weird, I guess, when he brought you back.”

Satoru stares at her. “‘Weird’?”

“Looked a little off, that’s all.” And before he can manage to probe her with any more
questions, she continues with a shrug. “Well. Whatever. The doctor did warn us that you
might not remember a lot of the details, anyway. You’ve been out for three days, Gojo. Getou
recovered after a day of treatment, and he came by here to see you, once. He also caught us
up on everything: with the house, the time dilation, the Special Grades, the Zenin girl— all
that.”

“And the curses…?”

“Both exorcised. Although the second Domain Expansion might’ve really killed you.” She
raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t take you for that much of a risk-taker.”

“The other option was death, so I mean.”

Shoko huffs out a laugh. “Fair enough.”

They’re steeped, then, in a while of awkward silence. Shoko looks out through the window,
watching the sunlight splay over the floor. He stares at her blankly.

I was about to ask what you did to Getou, she’d said. Looked a little off— but Satoru doesn’t
quite know what she means. He doesn’t particularly have the energy to ransack his memories
for answers, either. He knows the brain can forget periods of great stress; it's the best shot it
can give at healing, really, so it can go piecemeal in your thoughts.

(But was there something important that he forgot?)

“Ah well,” says Shoko. “That’s it, then.”

She takes out her phone. Dials something into it, and puts it up to her ear. He watches as the
faint ringing of the phone echoes once, twice, and then the other end picks up. “Ah, hey,”
Shoko says casually into it. “He’s awake.” A pause. She glances over at him, does a once-
over. “No. No, he doesn’t. What?” Another long pause. “Sure, I’ll stay here until you reach.”

Then she hangs up, and looks at Satoru. Something in his expression must have given him
away, because she adds: “That wasn’t Getou, by the way, if that’s what you’re wondering.
Just Yaga.”

“I wasn’t wondering,” Satoru protests weakly.

She gives him a half-pitying look. “Getou never really liked you, you know,” she says at
length. “He thought you were obnoxious. But something must’ve happened during that
mission. You guys seem a little closer now.”

Something in her voice makes Satoru’s stomach twist.

(Oh. You like him, don’t you?)

He’s not sure where she’s getting this idea from, considering she hasn’t even seen them
interact. They haven’t gotten closer, have they? They’ve spent, what, five days alone together
in that house, and chatted incessantly, and Satoru has taken every opportunity to annoy Getou
and get on his nerves and Getou still lets him do whatever he wants to him, and there was that
— in the shower—

(What on earth makes you think that?)

Satoru clears his throat, dropping his gaze down to the mattress.

“Okay, well.” Out of the corner of his eyes, Shoko gives a one-shoulder shrug. She stands up,
the legs of her chair scraping against the tiled floor. “I’m leaving, then. Good to see you’re
alive, Gojo. Yaga will be here soon, so you should be fine for the next few minutes as long as
you behave.”

“I thought you told him you’ll stay until he reaches,” says Satoru.

Shoko’s already half turned away from him, but she pivots back to face him. There’s a smile
on her face. It’s a smile that’s warm, but discomforting, somehow underlaid with something
else: like she’s abandoning him in the name of entertainment.

“Well,” she says, and the tone of her voice makes Satoru tense, “I’m just not in the mood to
see sensei get mad.”

_____

Yaga is, in fact, very mad.

Very very very mad. When he barges into the room, Satoru takes one look at his face and
blanches. If he’d thought Getou’s wrath would be the worst thing he’d encounter, Yaga’s is
even more outrageous. The man gets so red in the face that Satoru’s worried he’ll actually
split a vein and drown in his own blood and die.

“I cannot believe,” Yaga bites out, “that despite everything I’ve taught and warned you about,
you still went ahead and unleashed not one — not one — but two Domain Expansions! Two!
What on earth were you thinking?!”

“Ah ha,” says Satoru. “Ha ha ha.”

“Don’t you dare laugh, Satoru,” shouts Yaga. “You’re lucky you’re bedridden right now. I
would knock on your goddamn head if I could.”

“That’s a threat, sensei,” says Satoru. “I don’t think you’re allowed to do that to your
students, not to mention your favourite one! I did the coolest thing any of your students has
ever done and exorcised a Special Grade curse with my Domain Expansion. I think you
oughta praise me!”

“I ought to smack you,” Yaga rumbles. “You didn’t exorcise the curse, by the way. It was
Suguru who did it.”

Satoru blinks.

Yaga lets out a heavy sigh. He’s still standing there, hands on his hips with an anguished
expression. At least, he looks like how Satoru feels, which is as though his head is being
jabbed by a thousand tiny needles.

Yaga must have read the confusion in his expression though, because he adds: “Even though
your Domain worked, you didn’t have enough energy to land any hits on that Special Grade.
They were just frozen in place.” He scoffs, crossing his arms. “You and— what’s their name,
again? You and Jishin would’ve stayed in your Domain Expansion until you ran out of cursed
energy and died. It was Getou who managed to break in, land the fatal blow on Jishin, and
pull you out of there. I’d say what you did was more reckless than ‘cool’.”

“Oh.” Satoru swallows. “Suguru’s fine though, right?”

“He would’ve been better if you guys hadn't gone into that house in the first place,” Yaga
points out. “That was all your idea, wasn’t it?”

Satoru smiles at him innocently.

“I knew Suguru wouldn’t head in there so recklessly.” Yaga stares sternly down at him, like a
giant angry oak. “This is all such a headache. Why didn’t you just call for reinforcement,
Satoru?”

“Well,” Satoru begins, “being a hero sounds like the most exciting way to rub it in people’s
faces, and Suguru was being such a pain in the ass that I—”

“Forget it.” Yaga sighs. He looks like he just wants to retire to his doll-filled chamber and
sleep like the dead for the next decade. Satoru feels kinda bad. But this is more fun than he
usually gets to have with any adult, so, well. Not that bad. “Shoko told me you don’t
remember much of what happened. Has she filled you in?”

Looked a little off, that’s all. You guys seem a little closer now. “Um. No.”

Yaga lets out another aggrieved sigh, and scratches the back of his neck. “With your
conditions right now, I’ll have to give you a couple weeks off. You’ll have to stay here for the
next few days. And no complaints,” he adds when Satoru opens his mouth. “The effects of
the poison haven't worn off yet. You need to be here so we can monitor you. And here, take
this.”

He tosses something to Satoru. Satoru, with his dwindled reflexes, doesn’t catch it in time. It
falls on top of his lap, over the blanket.

“...Oh,” says Satoru.

They’re a pair of sunglasses. His sunglasses. “Suguru picked them up for you,” explains
Yaga. “I’m impressed he remembered to take them as he brought you back. Oh, seriously.”
He shakes his head. “It’s your goddamn recklessness that got you here, Satoru. You can’t do
this sort of thing again.”

“It worked, though,” Satoru says, but it comes out faint, especially at the look on Yaga’s
face.

“I’m going to lecture you on that later,” Yaga informs him. “For now though— we haven’t
phoned your family yet, by the way.”

Satoru meets his eyes. He doesn’t know if the instinctively sour reaction he has to hearing
this shows on his face; doesn’t particularly mind if it does, though. It’s just the same old
dross. “They probably already know.”

“They probably already know,” agrees Yaga. He looks down at Satoru, and oh, Satoru really
doesn’t like that look. It’s the one people give him to read his mood, test some nonexistent
waters. “If you want, I can give you a week off to stay with your family, get some rest there
—”

“No,” interrupts Satoru.

Yaga visibly hesitates. Satoru can’t really make out what sort of gaze is underneath his dark
glasses. He’s not sure he wants to.

“No,” Satoru repeats. “It’s boring there. Who would I annoy with my brilliance, sensei? Who
would let me roam around the estate and hit all the dummies in the training yard?”

“You’re a nuisance,” mutters Yaga, but it lacks bite.

Satoru offers him a smile. Welp, it’s not like he expects his family to come visit him or
anything. That’d be weird. The Gojo clan is busy, and impersonal, and secluded, and wealthy
in the sort of distant way whereby the idea of a cost is an unaffecting concept, and they have
other things to do. He imagines some of them must be brewing tea or something. Very busy.
The thought gets him laughing on the inside, a little.

Yaga lets out another sigh— the third one in the span of two minutes. He pinches the bridge
of his nose, moves himself towards the chair that Shoko was using ten minutes ago, and sinks
down onto it, elbow over the armrest for mental support.

“Fine.” He meets Satoru’s eyes. “I’ll just catch you up, then.”

_____

Apparently, what happened was this:

Rin ran away. She was already gone when Satoru’s first Domain dissolved; nobody could
find any traces of her. It’s hard, after all, to track the movements of someone without cursed
energy. The Zenin clan was contacted about her. They gave no response.

The Time curse was exorcised by Getou, right after the first Domain Expansion. This was,
Yaga admits begrudgingly, possible due to Satoru freezing them in place. They were a fast-
moving curse, apparently (not that Satoru was conscious to really take note, whoops), and did
quite a lot of damage to Getou’s shoulder. In the end, Suguru summoned all of his curses and
killed it, Yaga tells him, sounding torn between being impressed and being angry.

And as for Jishin—

I’m not sure if you know this, Satoru, says Yaga, but all the sorcerers in Tokyo and Kyoto
were having massive trouble trying to locate and exorcise this Special Grade curse. They
were murdering and displacing more citizens in the span of a month than we’ve seen in the
past year. We were confused, since it only started happening around the time school starts for
you. Now it’s clear why. He shakes his head, gaze hardening. They wanted to distract us, to
isolate you. I don’t know how long it would’ve taken for us to find them, otherwise.

Stroke of luck, then, says Satoru, that they were after the bounty on my head.

Yaga gives him a half-hearted glare. Don’t say that.

And as for Jishin: Satoru had passed out right after he casted the Domain Expansion. Getou
had broken in, released his curses on Jishin, and — with how weakened Jishin was at that
point — managed to deal the final blow.

Apparently, Satoru had been too out of it to notice. Getou had brought him on the stingray,
flew him back to campus, and nearly collapsed beside him at the front steps of the school
grounds.

He lost more blood than you, said Yaga, but insisted you get treatment first. I don’t think I’ve
ever seen him that scared.

They had gotten immediate treatment. The doctors and nurses were able to repair Getou’s
shoulder and injuries. His fatigue only needed a day’s worth of hospitalization. He was
released within 24 hours, and then, apparently, had retreated back to his room afterwards and
didn’t come out to speak to anyone for half a day.

Sounds like him, Satoru says, laughing.

Satoru’s injuries, on the other hand, took much longer to treat. Ingested poison is hard to
dispel; ingested poison that flows through your blood — combined with his weakened state
due to the double Domain Expansion — is even harder to dispel. Reverse cursed technique
was able to help, but Rin must have administered something else in the poison that the
doctors couldn’t pinpoint, because it took longer than expected for Satoru to wake up. He did
wake, eventually, after 30 hours.

The staff of Tokyo Jujutsu High had set out to recover the bodies of the family in the house,
including the little girl’s. Had given them a proper burial. It was horrendous, they said, their
bodies were rotting and stiffened, curled up into themselves in the pitch-dark hours of the
night. The staff also tried to search for Rin — in case it could help speed up Satoru’s recovery
— but to no avail. She had disappeared.

It’s a shame, says Yaga.

Mm, agrees Satoru. I don’t think it’ll be the last we’ll see of her, though.

Yaga looks at him, stern and level. That wasn’t something he wanted to hear, Satoru realizes.
In either case, the man says, you’re still going to feel the effects sometimes, Satoru, and it
won’t be pretty. We’ll have to keep you here for at least another three days. Alright?
Being confined in fancy buildings is my fate now, huh, Satoru laments.

_____

But in the span of the next few days, he’s glad Yaga has kept him here.

The poison is more potent than he gave it credit for. Sometimes he gets nauseous, sometimes
he can’t breathe, sometimes he sleeps for hours at a time during the day. Sometimes there’s
an anchoring pressure around his head, his stomach, pain so strong it’s alive, splintering his
innards apart. During these times he just curls in on himself and tries to sleep it off, forcing
back all his whimpers. Satoru is never really sure who’s there with him when this happens —
too agonized to stay conscious for long — but he does feel a hand in his hair sometimes,
gentle.

It also helps with the coping, really, that people come to visit him.

On the first day, it’s Ijichi.

“I’m very sorry about Rin.”

Ijichi is so apologetic, Satoru almost feels bad for him. The man repeatedly checks him for
any injuries, bows to him at least four times, and looks like he wants to crawl down into a
hole and off himself.

Half of Satoru wants to order him around, tell him that’ll repent for his sins. But he’s a better
person than that. Marginally. “It’s fine. Really.”

“But you could’ve died, kid,” whispers Ijichi.

“How’s Kiyotaka?” asks Satoru, changing the topic. “Your son’s not on death’s door
anymore, right?”

That gets Ijichi to stop apologizing, briefly.

Apparently, Satoru learns after Ijichi has decidedly exhausted his guilt, Rin showed up
unexpectedly, a month before school started. She and Kiyotaka befriended each other at a
park and became fast friends. Ijichi never realized she was from the Zenin clan; there had
been no records of her, no hints, no cursed energy to sense, and there hadn’t been any news
from the Zenin clan itself because they’d been trying to erase the existence of all non-
shamans in their family, covering any tracks. It would’ve been impossible to know.
“If she had used the poison she gave you against her clan,” Ijichi murmurs regretfully, “she
might’ve been able to wipe a good portion of them out.”

Satoru lets out a laugh. The idea of it sounds insane; too laudable to imagine.

“Well,” he says, regardless. “Missed opportunities. I would’ve loved to see them wrecked by
one of their girls.”

On the second day, Shoko brings Utahime and Mei Mei along.

“Did you get paid for this mission?” is the first thing Mei Mei asks him.

“Uh,” says Satoru, “what?”

I’m bringing them because it'll be nice for you to have company, Shoko had told him hours
before. He figures she might have been worried that he’d tire of being alone in here; but then
again, she’s bringing two people that he doesn’t really wanna speak to, so he’s not really
sure.

“That was impressive, what you did,” says Mei Mei. “See. I was right in telling Yaga to
involve the first-years, after all.”

Utahime elbows her.

“I overheard that conversion,” says Satoru. “You care so much about your kouhai, Mei-san.”

“I only think of what’s best for the community,” says Mei Mei.

“You’d make a great teacher,” Satoru plays along, grinning. “Replace Yaga-sensei with his
overprotectiveness and strictness and awful anal morning hours.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Mei Mei smiles. “Unfortunately for you, I’ll be damned if I go on a teacher’s
salary.”

“Ignore her,” says Utahime, crossing her arms and looking down at him. “And you— not that
I’m in a position to criticize you, Gojo, but the Domain Expansions were really dangerous. I
think Yaga nearly had a heart attack when he heard.”

“Bet you’re just jealous, Utahime,” says Satoru. “You’re too weak to cast one, aren’t you?”

Utahime throws a water bottle at him. It bounces off of Infinity.

The three of them stay there for approximately 30 minutes. Not long, but long enough to lift
Satoru’s mood up just slightly. Most of it is just Utahime trying her best not to strangle him,
Mei Mei looking ceaselessly amused, and Shoko leaning back in her chair, her legs crossed
and her eyes watching them impassively. Not the textbook sort of fun, but Shoko is right.
Company is nice.

Although, Satoru thinks uncertainly, there is someone that he hasn’t…

“Hey,” he blurts out, right in the middle of Utahime and Shoko discussing something
amongst themselves. They turn towards him, eyebrows raised. “Have you seen Suguru?”

Shoko blinks.

“What?” Utahime says, surprised. “Getou?” She glances at Shoko, who shakes her head, then
glances at Mei Mei, who also shakes her head. “No? He’s probably off somewhere on
campus, or maybe he’s gone out into the city to take a break. Yaga allowed him some time
off.”

“There’s still quite a bit of ruckus over the exorcisms of the Special Grade curses,” adds Mei
Mei. “All the sorcerers in this city are still processing what happened. I’m sure he’s just
avoiding all the attention.”

Shoko tilts her head at him. “Why do you ask?”

Satoru shrugs. It takes all his restraint not to swallow, or avert his eyes, or do something that
would warrant a closer look. There will be better times than this.

“Oh,” Satoru says, “nothing,” and ignores the acute way Shoko stares at him.

On the third, fourth, fifth days, different people drop by.

Sometimes it’s Yaga. Sometimes it’s Yaga with company. Sometimes it’s a doctor, or a nurse,
or one of the elderly higher-ups strolling in to see how stable a condition he’s in. Sometimes
it’s Shoko.

Oftentimes it’s to update him on recent news. Like how there haven’t been any murders or
missing persons since; like how the sorcerers of Tokyo have been thoroughly impressed; like
how the rumours have started to spread about the two first-year boys of Tokyo Jujutsu High,
did you hear? Like how the rumours get embellished, as all rumours do: a concoction made
of enough truth to smudge out the imperfections.

Though anyway, most of the time, his visitors keep him company. They’re there to check in
on him, to give him food, to make the whole ordeal less lonely.

Satoru sits and receives them. Appeases them, just for the hell of it.
(He doesn’t tell anyone this, also: but during the third, fourth, fifth days, he would lie on his
bed, clinically waiting — though pretending not to — for a specific figure to appear at the
door. For a certain someone to be there, even if it’s just to chastise him.)

But despite all this — despite all the visits, all the news, despite the five whole days full of
people coming and going and filling his room with presences and chatter — Getou still does
not come to see him.

Not even once.

 Satoru
Chapter Notes

i’m sorry for vanishing into the ether for 4 months!! tbh it was really hard to— oH
LOOK IS THAT FINALLY A CONVERSATION BETWEEN OUR EMOTIONALLY
STUNTED BOYS I SPY?

“Do you like chocolates?”

Satoru looks behind him. Shoko is at the door of the clinic, peering into the room with a box
of chocolates in her hands.

“...Really, Shoko?” says Satoru.

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea.” She smiles. Satoru narrows his eyes at her. Before he can open his
mouth to retort, though — before he can even turn around and stare out the window, leave his
back towards her as he peevishly sits on his clinic’s bed — Shoko ambles into the room. She
cuts across the floor and reaches his side; and there’s such an air of confidence in the way she
walks, he thinks, that makes it hard for him to quip back at her with pettier rebuffs. “A maid
from the Gojo clan asked to pass this onto you.”

Satoru looks down at the box.

It’s large. He’s seen this kind of box before, back when he was a kid. The sort that’s packed
with all his favourite sweets.

“Go on,” urges Shoko. “Open it.”

Satoru mutters something under his breath. But he takes the box anyway, and ignores Shoko’s
smug expression as he removes the top.

The whole thing is filled, as it turns out, with his favourite chocolates. Ones that he’s always
loved as a kid. Dark, sweet, dangerously rich ones that always left his tongue feeling
drenched and coated with velvet; the light, creamy buttery ones bursting with almonds; the
honeyed smell of caramel from a gold-swirled stack in the left corner; and the delicate,
mallow strawberry ones. Silk and satin for the tongue.

“Heh,” says Shoko. “Seems like someone did care for you back at that household.”

“...Was the maid’s name Mutsuko?” Satoru asks faintly.

“Yeah. She mailed this to the school this morning.” Shoko chuckles. “I guess she didn’t know
how you got poisoned. This is kinda funny.”
Satoru stares down at the box. The scent of it is comforting, familiar. It almost makes him
miss something from the years back— but he reels it in, quick, before the emotion takes
form.

“You’ve been looking kinda down lately,” says Shoko, “so I figured it’s also a good time to
give you this.”

Satoru frowns. “I haven’t been looking down.”

“You’re not as good as Getou is at lying, huh,” says Shoko. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone
you’re feeling sad because a certain someone is avoiding you.”

Satoru glares at her.

It’s the sixth day now.

Getou still hasn’t come to visit him. At this point Satoru isn’t thinking that it’s only because
Getou is tired, or drained, or forgetful, or needs some alone time anymore. It feels as though
something has happened, and Satoru has just completely forgotten what it was that caused
this strange rift. Or maybe he really has overestimated his friendship with Getou. Maybe
Getou doesn’t consider him a friend at all; doesn’t feel compelled to come check in on Satoru
after all those days of being stuck together and all those injuries they both sustained.

The thought makes him want to kick something.

“Hey,” he opts to say instead, “Shoko.”

“Hmm?”

Satoru glances up at her. Shoko blinks back, expectant, and there’s a brief look on her face
like the two sides of her mouth are trying not to pull up into a smirk— though she tethers it in
quickly. Replaces it with her best smile, even though her eyes stay smug. (He ignores it, as he
always does. As he always seems to do lately.)

“I’m gonna ask you to get something for me.”

_____

Satoru had no say in anything when he was enrolled into the school. But meh. It wasn’t like
he was eager to give his own opinions, anyway, so it wasn’t much of a loss.

It had already been decided that he was to attend Tokyo Jujutsu High, that he would be under
Yaga Masamichi’s guidance, that he would receive this much allowance, that he would wear
this specific uniform. Satoru had no say. Which didn’t bother him at all, honestly; it had been
like this ever since he was born, and predictability wasn’t troublesome.
He did, though, wonder if his clan would’ve cared if he decided something for himself.

As long as it doesn’t interfere with your progress, they might have said, back when their
words held more weight. Satoru wondered if it mattered. Wondered if it would’ve made a
difference for him to choose his own room, his own school, his own time. His own uniform
as brand.

_____

The package arrives, with surprising speed, to his room the next day.

When he asked Shoko to order it for him, he’d expected her to take her time, and he’d
expected the tailor to take at least three days to have it all ready for him. But he wakes up one
morning — a little earlier than expected — to see a white package laid out on the table beside
him. It’s wrapped neatly, uncreased, only a few centimetres thick.

It’s the seventh day.

People are still coming and going. The check-ups on how he’s doing grows to be more
tiresome than he expected them to. Pain gets boring, after a while; nobody really wants to
hear about it even if they say they do, so Satoru doesn’t go into detail about how exhausting it
gets some nights. And that’s fine. Yaga and the school staff are happy, at least, that he’s
gotten better than he was a week ago.

But this is getting frustrating.

Ugh. It’s boring, first of all. He’s confined to his own thoughts (which is entertaining
sometimes, because his mind is the funnest place to be in), but come on. Honestly. There’s a
limit to how much he can handle being in one place. No wonder patients escape from
hospitals barefoot.

Mostly, though, he just mindlessly plays that dumb snake game on his Nokia phone. There
are no TVs in the room, so if there isn’t anybody around for him to pester, he often picks up
the book titled Barrier Techniques and When to Use Them that Yaga gave him four days ago
to read. Desperate times. He’s seriously fallen so low.

Being trapped here, also, means that his mind gets ample time to wander. Satoru thinks about
the mission, about the contempt of the higher-ups. About how sure he is that they won’t grant
them the Special Grade statuses— which is disappointing, but not surprising. About how the
bounty on his head won’t lift. About how this mission might’ve deterred some curses from
going after him for a while, but there are surely more; surely others who will hunt for him
again, who might be accomplices of Jishin and Rin and god knows what else. This won’t be
the last time, just like how it never was.

So this whole hospitalization thing is frustrating.

He’s trapped. He’s bored. He’s restless.

And he hasn’t seen—

(—recovered after a day of treatment, said Shoko, and he came by to see you, once.)

Satoru frowns.

It’s the seventh day.

Getou still hasn’t come to visit him. He hasn’t even sent Satoru a text to check up on him. No
word, no calls. Not even a peek through the damn window. They simply just haven’t seen
each other for a straight week now, and Satoru feels the knee-jerk impulse to obliterate the
dumbass walls around him. Because what the hell.

Did he misunderstand something?

Will things just go back to normal after this?

At the rate this goes, they likely won’t see each other until classes start. Will Satoru be
hanging around by himself most of the time, then, with Getou and Shoko off on their own
and with Getou pointedly avoiding him again? He supposes it’s always been this way, so
that’s fine. Right? That’s fine. But he really thought that something had changed between
them back that house, back during those isolated days they’ve spent together, since—

“Ugh,” says Satoru.

He slouches, pouting, on the edge of the bed. It’s so stupid. He hates thinking about
ridiculous things like these. Best to shove them down somewhere he can’t feel them— and so
Satoru reaches, instead, for the white package that’s sitting on the mattress, an arm away
from him.

It’s raining now, the whole world green. Outside, the water drums gently against the open
window, smearing the glass and turning everything into a series of blurred colourscapes. He
stares, lazily, at the garden outside for a moment — the greens all a shade darker, the puddles
glinting grey under the torrential sheet rain — before slowly removing his shirt.

“Ow,” hisses Satoru, wincing. “My god.”

It’s annoying. His agility has been a little hindered since he got back. It hasn’t hurt that much
anymore, but pulling his shirt over his head has become an aching, rough chore. He manages
to heave it off of him though, in the end, and tosses it over to the side where the package—

“Oh.”

Satoru jumps.

He swivels around. The voice is a dead giveaway already, but seeing the other boy standing
there, right outside the door, almost makes Satoru’s heart give out.
Getou is staring at him. Hair tied up in his usual bun, dressed in his uniform, all the creases of
his clothes smoothed out. Looking the perfect picture of composure, except his eyes are
slightly widened.

Everything falls silent.

“Sugu—”

Satoru clamps his mouth shut in time. His voice isn’t wavering, and he is immensely proud of
himself, proud of how he can crystallize on the outside even as his insides roil in protest.

Getou is still staring at him, his eyes heavy on Satoru’s face, on Satoru’s neck, on Satoru’s
body. They are trained on Satoru as though the other boy hadn’t meant to take all the turns to
get here and step into the room at all. Getou’s hands are lax on his sides, frozen, like he
doesn’t know what to do with them.

Seeing him now makes Satoru want to run, somewhat. What the hell— he's not prepared for
this. It’s only been a week, right? It’s only been a week, which isn’t that much time at all, but
they had been so forcibly glued to each other for so long in that house, so stupidly fucking
close, that seeing Getou now — with his shoulders firmly set, his eyes as dark as a lake, his
expression, his stance, his body so wholly Suguru that it’s tilting — makes Satoru’s stomach
do a strange swoop, before his heart plummets to the ground.

“I thought,” Getou says, before trailing off. His body goes stiff. “I thought you’d be
sleeping.”

Satoru stares at him.

There is a while of silence. And then, unthinkingly, like his body is moving on its own, he
reaches for the bedside table, grabs the first object he sees, and hurls it at Getou.

“Whoa, hey!” Getou exclaims, eyes wide, dodging the empty water bottle thrown at him.
“What are you—”

Satoru grabs the second thing he sees — which turns out to be a pen — and pitches it towards
Getou.

“Stop!” demands Getou, managing to catch the pen with his hand this time. He looks
stunned, confused. “What are you doing, Satoru? My arm hasn’t completely healed yet!”

Satoru, halfway through grabbing a book on the table, halts in his movements.

Getou looks at him like he’s sprouted an extra limb. He holds up a hand, cautious. “What was
that?” Getou echoes, sounding bewildered. “What on earth was that about?”

Satoru doesn’t say anything. He would’ve been angrier, more sour, if it weren’t for the fact
that this is the first time he’s heard Getou’s voice in seven days. The first time he’s heard the
tenor of it, the steadfast way it carries even if it’s spoken quietly, in a week. It makes Satoru
want to ram his head into a wall.
So he does what he does best in moments of conflicting emotions: he turns his back towards
Getou, sits down, and obstinately says, “Go away.”

Getou’s stares are hot at his back.

“...Hey.”

Satoru glares at the ground underneath him.

“Satoru.”

Satoru resolutely stays where he is. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn to face Getou.

Silence falls over both of them for a minute. Then Getou lets out a sigh (it sounds unhappy;
of course it’s unhappy; Satoru can even sense his shoulders sagging with the action), and in
lieu of a response, there’s the click of a door shutting behind them.

And then footsteps.

They near, and near, and eventually Satoru doesn’t feel the cool draft from the window
anymore. When he looks up, Getou is standing an arm’s length away from him, back-lit by
the dim lamplight by the side of the bed and the grey sky through the window behind,
looking down at him.

Satoru can see Getou a lot fuller now. Up close, the faint bags under his eyes are visible.
There’s a fading scar on his left temple, another scar on his left cheek, and his right arm isn’t
moving as much as it should when he walks. Not completely healed, Satoru thinks, frowning,
but better than me. Which is all he can ask for, really.

“What are you doing?” Getou asks softly. “Trying to catch a cold?”

Satoru blinks at him.

Then he looks down at himself. In the midst of all that, he’s completely forgotten that he
doesn’t have a shirt on; only a pair of loose-fitting pants to cover himself and with the rain-
chilled breeze whiffing coolly through the open window. Satoru resists the urge to cross his
arms.

“And what if I was?” he retorts crossly. “What about you, Suguru? What’s wrong with your
arm?”

Getou’s eyes furrow. He leans forward slightly to bore his gaze into Satoru’s, and his next
few words are slow. Careful. “You’re mad at me.”

“No, I’m not,” snaps Satoru.

“I’m sorry,” says Getou.

Satoru glares at him. Part of him hopes the other boy would just be able to fucking translate
what he’s thinking. Even if they haven’t known each other for long, Getou has always been
able to pick most of Satoru’s silence apart into something. But it doesn’t seem like that now;
not so much. “It’s been seven days,” Satoru says grumpily, discarding all his dignity to get
the words out. He resents the fact that he has to verbalize this. “What did you do the entire
week?”

Getou’s eyes stay on him, firm. But he’s noticeably hesitating.

“...I’m sorry I didn’t come see you,” Getou says eventually, clearing his throat. “I just had
to… sort out some things.”

Satoru knows there is a novel hidden in that sentence, but he doesn’t have the grounding to
figure out what it is.

“I’ll punch you if you say it’s because you felt guilty,” Satoru says instead.

Getou’s eyebrows lift. “What?”

“Didn’t you feel guilty,” rephrases Satoru, “because it was you who handed me the
chocolate?”

Getou looks surprised. He stares at Satoru for a few seconds, unblinking. “It’s…” he finally
says, a note of startle in his voice. Then he looks to the side— and there, finally. That’s the
look of guilt in your eyes. “I guess it was that. Sorry.”

Okay... What kind of lame ass explanation is that?

“If you’re going to lie, lie better,” says Satoru.

“But it really was that,” says Getou. “I just couldn’t…”

He trails off. Satoru stares at him, and stares, and even though it still feels like that was a lie,
he thinks about how it was Getou who was the one to bring him back here — the one who
held Gojo in his arms on the stingray, bloody and weak and struggling to breathe as they flew
through the skies alone — and doesn’t push it. Maybe Getou believed he was going to die.
Maybe that had scared him off. With the blood tainted over his hands like that, it probably
wasn’t easy for Getou to tell himself half of it wasn’t on him to live with.

“If it helps a little, Satoru,” says Getou, “I did drop by a few times. You were just asleep.”

And you never thought to wake me up? Satoru bites back from saying. That sounds too
confessional a question.

“All those times, when I was sick,” he says instead, “someone came and touched my hair.
While I was asleep. That was you?”

“I really am sorry,” says Getou.

Satoru hates how sincere it sounds. “It’s been a week.”

“I know.”
“Shoko and Mei were here to make fun of me.”

“I know.”

“Yaga-sensei gave me a book on how bad an idea it is to use a Domain Expansion.”

“That’s a little deserved, I have to admit,” says Getou, smiling a little. “Sorry, though. You
doing okay?”

Satoru scowls. This is still dissatisfying, and kind of annoying, but he’s never been that great
at pushing when Getou refuses to yield. Go figure.

“As you can see, Suguru, I’m fine.” Satoru leans back, both hands on the mattress, and
crosses one leg over the other. Getou’s eyes briefly flick down his body, before they hastily
glance up again. “I don’t know why I’m still here, to be honest. Sensei should just release me
already. This is no different than those Special Grade curses imprisoning us for a week.”

“Well,” considers Getou, “it’s a little different.”

“I’m not bred for the indoors,” Satoru complains. “You should tell sensei that I managed to
beat you in a fight, and therefore am capable of handling myself outside of the clinic.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t beat me in a fight,” says Getou. “In any case, you haven’t answered my
question earlier, Satoru.”

Satoru gives him a blank stare.

“Should I close the window?” says Getou, and there’s a small, teasing smile tugging at the
corner of his mouth. “Or will you please put on a shirt?”

Satoru shoots him a glare. It doesn’t seem to be doing anything, because Getou’s smile
doesn’t drop from his face. A whole week of avoidance, and he just saunters back here to
tease him like nothing happened, this jerk. And so, out of pettiness, Satoru grabs the white
package seated next to him, shoves his hand inside it, pulls out the object from within, and
holds it up for Getou to see.

Getou stares at it, uncomprehending for several seconds, before his eyes go wide.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Satoru, “I knew you’d react that way.”

“Is…” Getou says uncertainly. “Is that…?”

It’s his school uniform.

Not Satoru’s. Getou’s uniform. The design is different. It’s lighter than Satoru’s own, and
neater, with the collar slightly open at the front and with only one gold button placed above
the heart. It’s more facile; looser to the point of being bigger.

(Shoko hadn’t questioned it, when he asked her to bring it for him. Not verbally, at least. He
only received a mildly amused, mildly probing look, and Shoko had exited the room with the
claim that tailoring Getou Suguru’s uniform won’t take too much time, so don’t make that
face, god.

And the package did, true to her words, arrive the next day.)

“I was about to try this on when you entered,” explains Satoru. He holds Getou’s gaze for a
brief second, then unfolds the uniform— where the fresh, starchy smell of new clothing wafts
through the air, wrinkling his nose. He drapes it over himself, slots both arms into the sleeves.
When he finally dares a glance back up, Getou has this weird stunned look on his face, eyes
all over the place. He seems at a loss for words. “It’s not weird,” Satoru adds defensively,
unsure of how to react, or how to stop Getou from being so dumbfounded. “You said I looked
good in your uniform.”

Getou stares at him for a while.

Satoru can’t seem to read his expression. His eyes are hard, like they’re hovering over the
edge of something— and then Getou seems to compose himself. He glances off to the side,
puts a hand up to his mouth, and coughs.

“What is that reaction, Suguru?” prods Satoru.

“You tell me,” says Getou, voice rather hoarse. He sends Satoru a stern, reprimanding look.
“Why would you get that?”

“Eh?” says Satoru. “I told you, didn’t I? I look good in it! What, are you gonna make me take
it off?”

“No, don’t take off your—” says Getou. He looks to the side again, and sighs. “God, this is
not making anything easier for me.”

Satoru frowns. He isn’t sure what kind of statement that was, but it seems strange to ask. All
he does, then, is petulantly look towards the window — at the rain, the grey sky, the dark
green leaves — and moves his hands over his chest to fasten all the buttons. His hands feel
too rigid. Too perfunctory.

“So,” he says after a moment of silence, “did you come back to the house to recover the
bodies?”

If Getou is taken aback by the sudden change in topic, he doesn’t show it. “Not really.” He
turns to face Satoru. “Did you hear what happened?”

“Tell me anyway,” says Satoru.

“They uncovered the bodies from the building. All five of them, plus that little girl.” Getou’s
expression doesn’t change, but the way he’s averting his gaze already lets Satoru know how
he’s feeling about it. “I’m not sure what happened to that girl’s cursed spirit. Maybe she got
exorcised along with the bunch. Maybe she left. As for Rin… I’m sure you’ve heard from
Ijichi already, but we couldn’t really find traces of her afterwards.”

“She was smart,” admits Satoru. “I wouldn’t expect her to be caught that easily.”
“I should’ve known something was off, though,” says Getou, “when she asked me to hand
that chocolate to you.”

“Hey,” warns Satoru. “No guilt.”

“But—”

“You carried me all the way back, Suguru,” says Satoru.

Getou smiles at him, a little crookedly. Like he isn’t sure how he should respond.

“...I did want to kill her,” Getou says quietly, then. The statement is uttered so suddenly, so
surely, that Satoru has to blink several times at him to search for any hidden jokes. “For a
second, back when you were down on the ground. I wasn’t sure if you would survive.” Getou
looks away again, his face rather blank. “If killing her meant it would deactivate the poison,
maybe I would’ve done it.”

“You would not,” assures Satoru.

“Maybe I would,” says Getou, “I don’t know.”

Satoru doesn’t answer that. Getou has always been this: half-worried about things that don’t
happen, half-anxious about possibilities. Man. What a load of useless thoughts. Satoru would
normally laugh at whoever spends their time torturing themselves with what-ifs, but this is
Suguru, and in all honesty, right now, the only thing he’s feeling is relief to see Getou
speaking to him this way. Things haven’t been too awkward, or sideways. And even though
he feels like there’s a landmine that he shouldn’t dig too hard lest he sinks his feet into it,
Getou isn’t treating him the way he did before they went on their mission. Not with coldness,
or contempt. Definitely not with avoidance.

Satoru is so lost in his own thoughts, then, that he doesn’t hear anything for a few moments.

It’s only when a hand appears before him that he registers Getou has moved. Nothing
alarming about it— except then, without warning, Getou’s fingers clasp around the top button
of Satoru’s uniform, and unfastens it.

“Whoa!” Satoru doesn’t yelp, but it’s a close call. “Suguru, what are you—?!”

“All right, calm down,” mutters Getou, and then, a little gentler: “You buttoned it up wrong,
idiot. Here.”

Getou’s hand lowers down toward the fifth button, the one right below Satoru’s diaphragm.
And it’s there that he sees it— a wrinkle of fabric on one side of the uniform, right where
he’d buttoned it up wrong and skipped one.

“Oh…” says Satoru.

Getou smiles. “Pretty undignified for the great young master of the Gojo clan, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” says Satoru. “It’s not my fault your uniform’s stupidly complicated.”
A corner of Getou’s mouth lifts up; just slightly, enough for his smile to turn more into a
smirk. The light coming in through the windows behind him makes his eyes darker than they
usually are, and he’s gazing down at Satoru with amusement now. Amusement, and
something else; a look he gets, Satoru remembers, in the rare instances when he backs their
opponents into a corner.

“Let me make it up to you, then.”

He reaches out his hand and, without warning, unfastens Satoru’s second button.

“You—” begins Satoru.

“I’ll do it properly for you,” says Getou, “to compensate.”

Satoru’s cheeks warm. His entire body feels singed, fraying at the edges. He only gapes at
Getou, unable to speak, as Getou slowly, steadily unfastens the buttons over his uniform one
by one, tentative as he works them loose, down to the fifth button. His fingers slow across the
fabric but never close enough to touch Satoru’s bare skin underneath, and he’s being careful,
Satoru realizes. Mindful not to accidentally touch him.

This is too much.

Satoru can push him off. He can yank his uniform away, yell I can do it on my own and insist
that they stay a good distance away from each other, like diseases or— or something, but he
takes one look at Getou’s concentrated face and finds that he can’t bring himself to.

He braces both hands on the mattress, instead — the softness of it a strange kind of anchor —
and tries to slow his breathing down. Tries to ignore the loudness of his heartbeats. Getou has
worked them loose down to the fifth button now, the mistake, and there is only a single
momentary pause in his movements before he begins to button them all up again, slow and
cautious.

And he’s stiff, too. Satoru knows him well enough to tell. Getou is stiff, despite all his earlier
mock and confidence, and tense in a way that shows no give. His eyes are dark under the
shadow his silhouette casts; and his expression is still, though it seems strained at the seams
with what is crammed into it. Satoru averts his gaze and looks out the window, where the rain
is starting to let down. Where the graying sunlight glints bright and opaque, like the glint of
teeth.

“There,” says Getou. “That’s good.”

Satoru looks back at him. Getou is cracking something like a smile, a wry corner of his
mouth curving upward. After what seems like forever he drops his hand from Satoru’s collar,
breaking contact, and Satoru realizes he has been holding his breath.

“Don’t make it a habit of dressing and undressing me, now,” mutters Satoru.

That seems to have broken the smug trance that Getou has been in. He glances down onto the
ground, eyes determinedly trained on the tiles beneath them. His cheeks colour— and Satoru
stares at it. He’s never seen Getou’s face turning that shade of red before, not in the week
they had together, not even in the two months they studied together; and so, unthinkingly,
Satoru reaches both his hands up, puts them on either side of Getou’s cheeks, and pulls him
down a little.

Getou’s eyes widen.

On the other side of the windowpane, there’s a muffled burst of laughter of people passing
by. Getou stiffens at the sound, his mouth going thin— but he doesn’t move away. He stands
there, looking down at Satoru, slightly leaned over so their faces are only inches apart, the
distance between them way too close for either of them to find comfort in. Satoru brushes a
thumb over the scar on his cheek. Cool as river water, that skin against his.

“Satoru,” whispers Getou, “what are you—”

But Satoru doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence, because a memory occurs to him.

(Satoru.)

(Can you hear me? Hey.)

It’s blurry. It’s vague. The memory doesn’t fully form; only wisps and threads of it piecing
together in his mind. But the way the two of them are positioned right now — Getou leaning
close to him, the light illuminating him from behind, Satoru’s hand on his cheek — is
wringing the fabric of his memories, conjuring up a scene both familiar and distant.

There was a stingray. The moon. The shiny, half-healed tear of Getou’s skin right above his
jawline. The wind in his ears. The sound of the city miles and miles below, far away from
either of them, humming and droning to life.

(Satoru, what are you—)

“Suguru,” says Satoru, barely audibly. Something gnaws at the pit of his stomach, like ants.
“Did we…” He swallows, the words scraping against the back of his throat. He wishes he has
a clearer recollection, god, desperate to glean the truth from it, but everything is fuzzy in his
mind. Everything is unclear. So he stares up at Getou instead (who is, somehow, impossibly
still), and manages, “When I was passed out.” He hesitates. “Did we kiss?”

Getou’s expression doesn’t change.

There’s not a hint of emotion on his face. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. The quiet
between them is as oppressive as the air, and Satoru tries to read into Getou’s expression —
suspecting there’s a more jagged truth lying in wait for him, something ungainly — but he
comes up with nothing.

“We,” Getou says, after a moment. He seems frozen. “I—”

“All right,” comes Shoko’s voice, “what are you two doing?”

They immediately jump apart.

Satoru leaps back as far as he can on the sheets, his heart drumming against his chest. Getou
does the same: he takes two steps back, straightens up, and puts a hand up over his mouth.

Shoko walks into the room. Her boots clink heavily on the floor, knelling like doom, and she
smirks as she makes her way over to them. “Sorry,” she says pleasantly, “am I interrupting
anything?”

“No,” Getou says quickly. “No.”

“No,” Satoru strangles out. “What do you want, Shoko?”

“Oh, how polite,” says Shoko. “I’m here to check up on you idiots, and this is how you treat
me?”

Satoru glares at her. He hasn’t noticed her presence until now, this voodoo girl. Maybe he
should teleport her. “Okay, so now that you’ve checked up on us, you can go, right?”

Shoko raises an eyebrow. “So I am interrupting.”

“No,” repeats Getou. He presses his fingers to his forehead, refusing to look at either of them.
“No, you’re not interrupting. It’s fine. What’s up?”

Shoko has that look on her face like the two sides of her mouth are trying to squirm in
opposite directions, the look she gets when she’s trying to be serious and wanting to laugh.
Satoru doesn’t think Getou notices it. Getou would’ve also tried to shoo her away from the
room, too, if he did. Probably.

(But just like that, the moment vanishes.

Whatever strangeness that existed between them earlier has dissipated, gone undiscussed, and
Satoru feels like he’s been left at the edge of a cliff.)

“Relax,” says Shoko, “I’m just curious to see how your conversation went.” She turns to
Satoru. “I had to tell Getou you were asleep this morning, you know, for him to come.”

“No, you did not,” says Getou stiffly.

“And I saw that you opened your package, Gojo,” continues Shoko. She’s staring at his
uniform, seemingly flippant, but her eyes are searching. “Fits you well, huh?”

“That’s why I got it,” says Satoru.

“Oh, please,” says Shoko, “you got it because you think that’ll make Getou stop avoiding—”

“It does fit me well, you’re right,” Satoru says loudly. “But then again, I’m pretty sure I can
pull off anything. Do you wanna try it on, too, Shoko? One uniform for the three of us?”

“That’s kind of gross,” says Shoko.

“Hey,” says Getou crossly. “As if you would even hesitate to agree to it if it’s with Utahi—”
“Anyway, I actually am here for something,” says Shoko. She digs into her pocket, and fishes
out something. Satoru can’t make out exactly what it is underneath her fingers, but it appears
square, beige with a little shine. “Getou asked me to give this to you. He picked it out
himself, apparently, but asked that I give it to you. So I thought that since we’re all here—”

“Hang on,” yelps Getou, “you’re giving it to him now?”

“—with the uniform, and the both of you, it’s as good a time as any.” Shoko smiles. Then she
says, “Catch,” and throws the object at Satoru.

It lands, with a surprisingly heavy thud, in his hands. Not as light as it looks. He turns it over,
curious, unsure of what to expect.

It’s a Gameboy.

One of those flip ones. With a smooth, sleek cover and the words Nintendo branded on the
front in silver. He tries to pry the thing open, and it gives easily. The buttons and the blank
screen stare back at him, silent and new.

Satoru blinks.

This is… definitely not what he expected.

“Couldn’t you have waited until I was gone?” he hears Getou hissing quietly.

“But where’s the fun in that?” retorts Shoko.

“What?” says Satoru. He glances up from the Gameboy (feeling strangely anticlimactic and
touched at the same time) to the sight of Getou and Shoko tearing their eyes away from each
other to look back at him. Getou’s frowning, clearly uncomfortable. “Why?”

“Do you know what that is?” asks Shoko.

“Of course I know what this is.” Satoru’s seen it multiple times on TV, on the streets, on the
hands of little boys running home from school. “But this is random. Why?”

“It’s nothing big,” says Getou, averting his gaze. “The only game we have on it right now is
Digimon. Maybe you won’t like it. But I figured you’d be bored in here.”

“I told him you were bored,” Shoko adds helpfully.

“And I figured you didn’t get to play these kinds of games back in your clan,” says Getou.
“So maybe this would be fun for you.”

Satoru stares at him.

“Or if you don’t like it,” Getou adds tensely, “I’ll take it back.”

Satoru glances down at the Gameboy. He turns it over in his hands carefully, watching the
fluorescent lights reflect across its surface like a faceted gemstone.
Getou had bought this for him. He had gone out into the city, walked into a store, surveyed all
the electronics they had shelved, and picked one out specifically for Satoru. He had done this
not out of boredom, not out of anything as self-gratifying as an apology. It was all from
solicitude. The thought that Satoru might’ve grown agitated in isolation.

“So?” comes Shoko’s voice. “Do you hate it?”

Satoru lifts his head. They are both looking back at him. Getou’s expression is careful here,
and tentative.

“...It’s a gift for me,” Satoru says quietly, frowning, “so there’s no way you’re having it
back.”

Getou stares at him.

He stares, wordlessly, for a long while. Then the blankness of his expression changes— and
in the briefest of seconds, Satoru forgets to breathe.

Getou is laughing.

He’s laughing. Not the chortle whenever he’s being nasty, not the chuckle whenever he’s
being polite. He’s laughing, genuinely laughing— the sound quiet but echoing across the
room nonetheless, hearty and joyful. And with the way the sunlight cants in from the window
and catches in his hair, soft as silk, Satoru is struck dumb by the sight of it. The sound latches
onto his lungs.

“God, Satoru,” Getou says eventually, through wheezing breaths. He folds both arms across
his chest; gives Satoru an oddly, helplessly fond look. “You really can’t thank people, can
you.”

Satoru feels like dying.

His hands itch at his sides. He has the sudden urge to reach out, to catch hold of Suguru’s
sleeve, to touch his skin, to punch something. But trying to do that seems like digging his
own grave, somehow, concocting a finality out of his own want. And so he says, instead of
the truth, “Gimme a break.” His chest feels stupidly, unbearably tender, in a way that a bruise
is. “This is only to make up for the week that you were gone.”

Suguru smiles at him. “Is that so.”

…Satoru’s seriously going to die.

“You two are funny,” says Shoko. “It’s like watching TV.”

“It’s all him,” says Suguru, still smiling. He steps to the side to lean against the bedside table,
hands tucked in his pockets, and nods at Satoru. “He’s the one without the proper manners to
make up for his personality.”

“Oh,” mutters Satoru, “like you treat people so genuinely.”

“At least I treat them with respect,” says Suguru.

“Does that matter if it’s all fake?”

“Does it matter if you’re rude?”

“Hypocrite.”

“Asshole.”

“Did you just segue into fighting?” asks Shoko.

"We could," says Suguru. “Except Satoru’s not very fun to punch. He doesn’t make amusing
noises. He just gets petty. Dropping him from a stingray, though— ah, the screaming. That
was nice.”

Satoru swings his leg out to kick him. Suguru blocks it, laughing.

“There we go,” says Shoko. She rolls her eyes, but her expression is gentle. “It’s amazing
how you two have the energy to act like this, after being so close to death.”

“Well,” says Suguru, “next time, we’ll do this whole dying thing properly.” He smiles at
Satoru, indulgently soft, and the sight of it makes Satoru’s whole body sag, like a knotted
muscle has been pushed back into alignment.

And in lieu of a response — to distract himself from responding, rather, lest he gives
anything away — Satoru glances out the window.

A long span of radio silence, Suguru gave him. That week-long avoidance. There are too
many things weltering in his mind— from Jishin’s words of you like him, don’t you, to
Suguru’s what makes you think that, to the shower, to the distance, to the breaking in of his
Domain Expansion and the insistence that he get treatment first; to the dark eyes that are set
on him, tethered to a precipice; to the kiss that might have never happened at all. His
thoughts swim up to the surface to find themselves nowhere close to air. And so, because
Satoru has never been good at managing his own emotions, he wraps his memories together
like a cord, barbed and ungainly, and folds them all away.

Outside, the rain has died down completely, making way for fog. A bird perches on a nearby
branch, folding its unpinioned wings like something poised to strike, and it feels like an
eternity and a half before anyone says anything.

“By the way,” says Shoko, in that lake-smooth tone of her voice. “Not to change the subject
or anything, but." She crosses her arms. "Have either of you heard what the others are saying
about you?”

“What?”

They both turn to look at her. The way the question is phrased makes it sound awful, like
there are rumours of bad news. Satoru searches her expression, looking for the dread he
expects there— but he finds nothing.
Instead, there is something that looks like pride in her eyes. She’s watching them quietly, a
small smile at the corner of her mouth, and it takes Satoru a moment to register that she’s
happy. That she's pleased.

“Everyone is saying,” says Shoko, smirking, “that you two are on your way to becoming
Special Grades.”

Satoru blinks. He immediately turns to Suguru, who is looking back at him, eyebrows
raised.

“Everyone is saying,” continues Shoko, “that you are on your way to being the strongest of
our generation.”

.
 Epilogue
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The problem with being a Zenin girl, sometimes, is that you are forever confined to being one
step above a possession.

Rin sneaks along the hallways of the Zenin clan. Her footsteps are light, her clothes tight and
quiet. Even after years away from the household, the paths and corners of the property are
still committed to her memory, like holding onto parents who no longer love you. It’s strange.
It’s familiar. She’s angry about it — angry, and resentful, and whatever emotion it is that
makes her thumb the veins over her own wrist — but also a little thrilled.

No one notices her there. She’s snuck here at dusk, after all, to avoid being seen.

The Zenin estate is composed of several interconnected buildings. She hops through their
corridors, passes the garden, hides behind the trees. God, seriously, what do they do with all
this land? It’s not like any of these shitty old men are living any worthwhile lives on them
anyway, and she hopes someday someone will burn it all down. She wishes she hadn’t come
back.

A benefit of this, though, is that Rin picks up threads of conversations here and there, as she
traverses across the household.

“—No. That’s not true. It was two Special Grades—”

“They had to have had backup—”

“—no way—”

“Keep your voice down—”

“—he’ll be angry—”

“Those two boys will be powerful,” a softer voice says. “The strongest of their generation.”

The conversations are muted. Whispered, as though worried they’ll be overheard. Rin rolls
her eyes and continues on her path. No point listening to rumours I bore witness to, she
thinks, her feet light on the garden grass.

It takes a while, but she comes to a stop, unnoticed, before the building she’s come here for.

The armory.

Rin presses her ear against the window. No sounds from within. She slides it open, and
climbs in.
There are shelves of guns, knives, scythes, hammers, bows, hatchets. Every kind of weapon
she grew up seeing. She opens a drawer, scours through it. Grabs small knives and large
knives. Tucks them under her clothes. Closes the drawer. Opens another one.

The strongest of their generation.

From what she’s heard of the hushed conversations outside, the Zenin family is mad. The
feud with the Gojo clan has long since been something of a thorn in their side. An
irrepressible annoyance. They are mad, and bitter, and envious. No surprise there, she thinks
— before her fingers land on something smooth.

It’s a gun. Much bigger than the one she currently possesses.

Rin picks it up to examine it. It’s more sleek; good recoil and caliber trade-off. The muzzle
energy must be high with this one.

The strongest of their generation.

The funny thing is, Rin used to be a member of the Zenin family. She has seen men come
back from fights, sabres blood-crusted in their hands, triumph and fire in their eyes. She has
seen men who thrive on the sounds of war for days after. They always look proud. And so
that must’ve been what they assume of Gojo and Getou, now, after the mission— that the two
boys are proud. But she knows otherwise. She’s seen the expressions on those boys’ faces.
Strong as they are, they only wanted to survive.

And this, here. This is the problem with being a Zenin girl.

You can’t be strong. You can’t be proud. The problem with being a Zenin girl is that you are
expected to sit, and wait, and pray that whichever man wins the race will be gentle to you.
The problem with being a Zenin girl is that you are forever confined to being one step above
a possession.

And so Rin regards the gun with momentary curiosity, slots it into her belt, and turns to
leave.

(The Sorcerer Killer.

She has to find the Sorcerer Killer.)

She climbs through the window. Sneaks across the gardens. Climbs over the fences. No one
sees her, no one pays attention to her. Just as well, she thinks, eager to get the hell out of this
place. Eager to leave. This clan is a place where the old wants to bleed youths dry to gild
themselves, the place where the truth turns sour— so she’s unafraid.

The fear of leaving, after all, is only the fear that you must have lost something important
along the way. And she hasn’t.

_____
The strongest of their generation.

Rumours spread.

When the Curtain around the house in Shibuya lifted, there were jujutsu sorcerers in the
vicinity. They had sensed the immense amount of cursed energy from it, shuddering right
through their skin, and had alerted the higher-ups. Reinforcements were sent 20 minutes later.
They were too late, though, to be of any use in the assist. Too late to even witness the
exorcisms of the Special Grade curses.

When they arrived, the entire building had already been razed to the ground.

They were able to identify the Special Grade curses. The residuals were enough. There was
the Time curse: the one that had caused the disappearances of civilians all around Tokyo,
turning their decades-old bodies up in rot. There was Jishin, the curse born of earthquakes:
the one that has been terrorizing any sorcerer that’s been trying to hunt them down, skinning
them apart, flaying their skin alive. When the sorcerers came to the scene, their eyes went
wide in shock.

One day later, the jujutsu world whispers.

“Didn’t you hear about it?”

“That is unbelievable—”

“What were their names again?”

“Gojo Satoru, of course. And the other one—”

“Uninherited—”

“—curse manipulator. Getou Suguru.”

“Apparently he called forth all three hundred of his curses and broke through Gojo Satoru’s
—”

“—two Domain Expansions!”

“Are they only first-years?”

Word spreads. It is unheard of that merely two people could handle two Special Grade curses,
let alone two 15-year-old boys. Both their names are soaked in a hotbed of speculation,
revered like neither had been trapped in a life-threatening situation, gossiped like they
couldn’t have died. People speak about them like they’re at the front seats to a circus.

_____
Life adjusts, gradually, at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

The incident was beyond anyone’s expectations. But as soon as Gojo recovers, classes
resume back to normal. Missions are assigned to them as usual. Training starts again. There is
to be no slacking this time, Yaga demands, and no bending the rules, with a distinct look at
Gojo. Everything returns back to normal.

_____

But there are little changes, here and there.

_____

Mei Mei is thriving.

She does her business like before. She travels all over, goes on missions, visits her brother,
watches the rolls and rolls of blood bills in her hands, and occasionally goes for drinks with
the first-years.

“Work seems to be going well for you, Mei-san,” says Getou.

“Oh, you know,” says Mei Mei. “I work hard.”

Shoko shoots her a look.

Mei Mei is thriving. Things have changed after that mission, no matter how unnoticeable.
Like it or not, the trick of the trade is this: the sooner you name-drop, the sooner money will
pour in your sleeves like a dam. She only needs to mention to her employers that she’s from
Tokyo Jujutsu High — that school where they had that incident recently, the one where two
boys defeated Special Grades, yes, yes, we do train for the best, don’t we? — and her salary
increases.

“It’s a nice change,” says Mei Mei. “I’m glad you two won that battle.”

“Yeah, I bet,” says Shoko dryly.

Mei Mei laughs. She means well. Really, she does. She cares for the well-being of her
younger fellow sorcerers, of her stronger little friends.
But she’s looking out for herself, too. The road to heaven is paved with self-interest, and
whoever disagrees with that is a liar.

_____

There are little changes, here and there.

Utahime works. Utahime fights. Utahime trains her body to be stronger, to be able to
withstand pain while keeping her clothes and appearances intact. She hangs out more with
Shoko, speaks to Getou with distant politeness, snaps at Gojo every single time she sees him,
and wears her expressions on her sleeves.

And occasionally, she will hear people talk.

“If Gojo Satoru and Getou Suguru are so strong already, why bother training more people?”

“Why bother hiring more staff?”

“Why bother paying adults when we can let the students handle it?”

“If they are so strong already, why don’t we let them take over the missions from now on?”

Utahime hates it. She can’t help but feel anger, even though this is how things have always
been. Gojo Satoru has always been the jujutsu world’s darling, picked up, plucked out, born
to give audiences the belief they keep for their heretics. And now Getou Suguru fares no
better. She hates it.

As if they bear all the responsibility, Utahime thinks. I’m here. I’m here, too. And she
exorcises, and exorcises, and exorcises.

_____

Yaga becomes a little distant, a little less there.

He’s much busier now. Life adjusts at Tokyo Jujutsu High, but the amount of work he
shoulders has increased tenfold. There are more missions, more assignments. More
paperwork as the higher-ups dump it all on him. There are two new promising students we
want you to enroll, they say. Two boys. Think they can keep up?

It has made him gradually pull away from the first-years. There are other teachers instructing
them, other staff. But that’s fine— it’s not like he’s stopped being their guide altogether. The
conversations he has with them are just becoming more scarce.
“What are you trying to do?” asks Ijichi one day. “The kids need you.”

“Don’t,” says Yaga. “I’ve been busy.”

“Do you think,” says Ijichi tersely, “that it benefits them for you to not be around so much?”

“They will be fine,” snaps Yaga.

And he believes it. He’s busy now, always busy. But he believes they will be fine. Satoru and
Suguru and Shoko are strong. They’re adaptable, powerful, full of energy, and they have each
other. That mission has proved it. They will be able to navigate this world without him being
there every step of the way— and it’s not like he’s gone altogether, is it? He’s still there; just
not as much. They have other staff and peers to back them up.

And if they need anything, surely they will come to him for support. Surely they’ll know how
to ask for help.

_____

There are little changes, here and there.

Shoko notices it.

She’s beginning to hang out more with both of them, rather than with just Getou. She doesn’t
treat them any differently. Still speaks to them like usual, makes fun of them like usual,
doesn’t get too involved with their personal lives like usual.

But Shoko is perceptive.

Sometimes, she notices things. There is a guarded way Getou has begun to hold himself
recently. He turns tense at the strangest times. Stiffens, or closes his expressions off, or
replies awkwardly— always, it seems, whenever Gojo is around.

There is one time, in particular, when Gojo leans a little too close to Getou, their cheeks
almost brushing together, and Getou immediately freezes.

“Satoru,” he says.

And then, in a movement not at all subtle for how careful he is, he stands to excuse himself to
the bathroom, and walks away.

Gojo huffs then, making a show of how offended he is. But Shoko knows the difference
between his mock-wounded expression and his actually-hurt-and-trying-not-to-show-it
expression. The latter is rare. It’s happening now. His frown is exaggerated, but his shoulders
are too taut to be natural.
This, curiously, isn’t the only time.

It happens once more. Twice. Three times. Four. It happens again, and again, and again, and
Shoko wonders, finally, if something did happen between them during that mission. It is
natural that they have gotten closer, that they have become friends, that they have started to
laugh and joke and spend more time together than they even do with her, but this is different.
These are small changes, but they are loud. And they exist.

But Shoko will never ask them about it, because it is not in her lane.

She will never ask them about it, because while they are the strongest of their generation —
that’s all they are in the public eye, now, that’s all they ever will be — watching her friends
fail to communicate is an amusement all on its own.

_____

And so nobody knows.

Nobody was able to witness what happened, so nobody knows. The events that transpired
during that mission in the Shibuya house remains a secret between the two of them, between
Gojo Satoru and Getou Suguru, unspoken. Half-remembered.

_____

And so the beginning of the story started like this:

Satoru had always been alone.

Not that he gave a shit. It’s completely fine. But that was a fact of the matter. Satoru was
fifteen years old and understood envy by rote, knew that he was a mortal sin walking. The
world will bend at your will and wishes, someone had told him once. But that will mean that
you stand alone.

But what happened was this:

Satoru arrived at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

Classes began. He met the staff, he met his teacher, he met his classmates. He rejected a girl’s
love letter. He got into fights. Got into arguments. Got assigned on a Grade 3 mission to a
neighbourhood in Shibuya. Got trapped there with a classmate. Encountered two Special
Grade curses.

And then:

_____

“Satoru!”

Suguru has broken into the Domain.

Satoru does not respond. He lies limp, lifeless on the ground. Suguru spots him, swears, and
god, ow, his own knuckles are still feeling the force of breaking into the Domain, his arm and
stomach bleeding out.

Suguru turns toward Jishin.

The Special Grade curse is lying on the ground, a good distance away from him. Large
chunks of their shoulders and limbs are missing. They’re not even panting, however; they
only gaze up at him, watching with eerie calm, their mouth parted open slightly.

Suguru doesn’t register what happens next. But the next thing he knows, he is up against
Jishin, one hand around their neck, the other holding a large rock he’s picked up from the
ground.

“...My, oh my,” whispers Jishin, smiling. “Those are some murderous eyes, Curse
Manipulator.”

Suguru smashes the rock into their face.

The crunching sound is sickening. Ashes float away from them. Suguru pulls away his arm,
and smashes into their face again, once more, and another, and another, and another, because
he can’t see anything but the sight of Satoru lying motionless on the ground, can’t feel
anything but rage, rage, shrieking rage. His whole body is fucking boiling with fury.

Jishin only watches him with a resigned, imploring look. Even as their figure is caving in.

“You know,” says Jishin, almost a whisper. Their voice cracks. “There is a way to undo the
poison.”

Suguru stops moving.

His arm is outstretched, a ball of curses summoned into his hand. There is a tremor through
the ground, a brief shiver like something threatening to break free.
“It’s true.” Jishin’s mouth curves up into a smile; twists into a lazy, vicious thing. “You can
save him, if you perform mouth-to-mouth.”

Red colours Suguru’s vision.

“Liar.”

He turns on his heel, heading straight for Satoru. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t turn around
— not when his curses cut through the air behind him. Not when there’s a crunching sound of
Jishin being mangled, not when there’s the stale smell of decay afterwards. Not when Jishin
remains silent, never uttering a single sound as they die.

Suguru runs towards Satoru. He can’t pay attention to their surroundings, only focuses on
how fast he can make his feet move. Satoru’s lying on the ground, unmoving, with his eyes
almost all the way closed and his mouth parted open as he breathes.

Suguru wastes no time. He hefts Satoru up on his shoulders, whistles to call the stingray over,
climbs onto the ride, and takes off into the air.

They fly east, east, east. As fast as they possibly can. Even with the cold wind searing his
skin, Suguru sits balanced on the stingray, cross-legged, with Satoru nestled in his lap. His
hand is on Satoru’s back, his chest against Satoru’s collarbone, Satoru’s face hidden by his
shoulder.

The sky before them is vast. Endless. Only miles of oceanic dark, the neon city lights
blurring beneath them. Under moonlight, everything seems more deathly than it is. Suguru
keeps his face calm as cool wax, and they fly, and fly, and he can hear the whirring of life
from below— the sound of cars, of music, of voices. But he can’t feel anything except the
cold-hot flashes in his body.

Is Satoru going to die?

Suguru wants to break something. No. No, no, he’s not freaking out. He’s not freaking out
right now; this isn’t panic. He doesn’t care about Gojo Satoru this much. He doesn’t. He’s
never cared about Satoru this much before, not before the mission. He hated him, was
outright repulsed by him, because the other boy was always alone, and they were always at
each other’s throats. Suguru was so much better at keeping his emotions at bay, back then.

But Satoru is in his arms right now, unresponsive.

He isn’t even struggling to breathe. He’s morbidly still. Suguru has a hand behind his back,
the other on his hip to keep him from falling over. Satoru’s face is hidden behind Suguru’s
shoulder, so he can’t see him, he can’t, he can’t see him. The wind whips cold and dry against
their skin.

Suguru doesn’t care about Satoru this much. He’ll take them back to the school in no time,
and Satoru’s going to get treated, and then he’ll get scolded by Yaga, and everything will be
balanced, and that’ll be the end of that, like they’ve just finished any good old normal
mission—
“Suguru...”

It takes everything for Suguru not to crumble. He looks over. Satoru has his forehead against
Suguru’s shoulder now, but his head is turned to look up at him, eyes half-lidded, his mouth
open to catch short, shallow breaths.

“Satoru,” Suguru exhales, shaky with relief. He’s careful not to move too much. “Can you
hear me? Hey.”

Satoru doesn’t respond at first. He’s dizzyingly staring at Suguru, yet somehow past Suguru,
at a point where Suguru can’t see.

“You,” whispers Satoru. “You’re bleeding.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Suguru crossly. “You got poisoned. You could’ve died with the
stunt you pulled back there. How much pain are you in?”

Satoru moves his head slightly. It takes Suguru a moment to realize that he is trying,
unsuccessfully, to shake his head. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t hurt.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Suguru,” Satoru croaks out. “You’re bleeding.”

Oh, Suguru really wants to break something. That comment, somehow, makes him so much
more furious than he was a second ago. This fucking idiot. “I’m fine. How much pain are you
in?”

“Doesn’t,” says Satoru, “doesn’t hurt.”

“You have to tell me if it hurts.”

“It doesn’t…”

Suguru makes a tsk sound. Something acidic claws up his chest, and it’s another moment
before he realizes that he’s terrified. He’s terrified, because it’s not good if Satoru’s lying, and
it’s not good if he truthfully can’t feel anything either. Suguru isn’t sure if he’ll be able to get
them back to the campus on time, because they are miles away from the compound, and
there’s pain in Suguru’s skull, and the gale roars around them like thunder, and they are so
bone-soaked with blood that he can’t even think straight anymore.

“Can you keep yourself conscious for me?” asks Suguru.

Satoru moves his head. An inconspicuous nod.

“Okay,” says Suguru. “Are you having trouble breathing?”

Satoru shakes his head.

“Do you feel any burning sensations?”

Another shake.

“Do you think you can move your hands and legs right now?”

A pause. And then, hesitantly, another shake.

“Okay,” repeats Suguru. Okay. This isn’t so bad. Satoru’s eyes are still focusing and
unfocusing, but his breathing is more regular now. He’s not panting, or writhing, or shaking
as hard as before. Perhaps it’s due to the lack of Rin’s presence. Or perhaps the poison is
beginning to wear away. Or perhaps—

Suguru doesn’t let himself think it.

“You’re… bleeding,” whispers Satoru. He lifts his head to look at Suguru, and the movement
on Suguru’s shoulder is warm, too warm. “They got us good, too, huh. Hah… that’s so
annoying. Your bleeding is… is ugly.”

Trust Satoru to say something like that. Suguru huffs out a breathless laugh, despite himself.
“Thanks for commenting on the aesthetics of my wound.”

“I thought,” says Satoru, “I thought you would’ve left me.”

Suguru stills. He glances down at Satoru, only to find that Satoru isn’t even looking at him.
His eyes are bleary, trained vaguely on the fabric of Suguru’s uniform.

Is he delirious?

“Stop talking,” murmurs Suguru, because anything else that he can say might be too bare of
an admission, or it’ll hurt him too much. Or perhaps both. “Just stay awake for me.”

Satoru keeps on breathing, and doesn’t say anything. They’ve moved past skyscrapers and
towards copses of trees now, the moon hanging high. Suguru shifts slightly on his feet,
angling them into a more comfortable position, more stabilized, and then—

Satoru begins to convulse.

It starts with small shakes. His thighs begin to shiver, minutely, and then in the next moment
his entire body is trembling, quivering like it’s being torn apart. Satoru gasps, his eyes going
wide, and Suguru watches in shock as Satoru arches back, away from Suguru, his hands
flying up to cover his mouth. And before Suguru can do anything, Satoru is biting hard into
the skin of his own hand, drawing blood.

“Satoru!”

Suguru grabs both of Satoru’s wrists and pulls them down. The movement throws them
slightly off-balance— and so Suguru quickly traps Satoru’s wrists with one hand, freeing his
other hand to settle on Satoru’s back, holding him tight to keep them both from toppling
over.

Satoru bites into his lower lip, so forcefully that it’ll bleed. His eyes are pained.
“Where does it hurt?” demands Suguru.

Satoru squeezes his eyes shut. He’s panting, quiet for a moment, before he looks up
desperately at Suguru without a word.

“Satoru, what are you—” says Suguru. What happened? Did the poison’s effects act up
again? “Stop biting your lip. Hey. You’re going to bleed!”

“It’s not,” gasps Satoru. “Shut up, it’s—”

He cuts himself off with another bite into his lip, and this time, there’s a trickle of blood that
paints it red. Suguru’s grip on his wrists tighten. Satoru looks like he’s in excruciating pain,
but there’s nothing Suguru can do, not like this— not with both hands occupied, not with the
way they’re sitting, not with how fast the stingray is flying. He stares helplessly at Satoru,
agitated. The other boy is still shaking violently.

(Mouth-to-mouth.)

“Where does it hurt?” insists Suguru.

“No,” groans Satoru, “leave it, I—”

Perhaps Suguru should've thought this through.

Perhaps he should’ve been more rational. Perhaps he should’ve kept his cool, the way he
normally does. But the moment has undone his composure, just a little or just enough, and he
looks at Satoru’s hands and his half-closed eyes — blue under the moon, the colour of
longing — and a secret unravels in his chest.

Suguru places pressure on Satoru’s back, pulls him down, and kisses him.

_____

Satoru feels a hand on his back drawing him close, and a pair of lips press against his own.

Suguru.

Satoru gasps into his mouth. The fingers around his wrists twitch.

(There is pain somewhere in his chest, like sharp nails scraping at his innards. It’s agonizing,
hacking— but Satoru isn’t paying attention to that now.)

The kiss doesn’t even start out light. It’s rough, hungry, the touch setting his skin alight, the
heat swimming through from the joining of their lips down the length of his spine. Needily,
Satoru parts open his mouth. He pushes back against Suguru, a slow answer in kind, and
that’s what gets fingertips to dig into the slope of his back, Suguru slanting his head and
darting a lick against the inside corner of Satoru’s mouth.

Satoru lets out a moan. Suguru muffles it.

It tastes of blood. A kiss of iron, firm as a seal. Satoru presses their bodies closer together, his
hips against Suguru’s, their hands wedged between them— every point of contact eliciting a
broken sound out of him. His lower lip stings where he has bitten it.

And the sight of Suguru melts him, when Satoru opens his eyes to look. Beyond the want,
beyond the tenderness of it all, there’s a tight insistence held back in the set of Suguru’s jaw,
an intensity that verges on frustration. Not at me, Satoru knows, but he’s upset, somehow.
Like there would be teeth in this, if he lets himself.

Then the moment disappears.

Suguru yanks himself away. Satoru gasps for air, shuddering from the loss of contact. He’s
suddenly hyper-aware, then, of the way his thighs are caging Suguru in, of the way the lower
half of his body is pressed flush against Suguru’s, of his own bound wrists.

And when he tilts his chin to look down, Suguru’s eyes are wide. His cheeks are flushed. The
wind blows his hair across his face, across his complicated expression.

“Satoru,” says Suguru, and why does he look heartbroken? “I…”

Satoru stares at him.

Just the sight of Suguru aches. The pain that has bloomed across Satoru’s entire body mere
minutes ago — fire across his veins, needles in his organs — has lowered into a dull agony
now. Something bearable. Withstandable. But for some reason, the sight of Suguru gazing at
him with something akin to heartsickness, blood smeared over his skin, is making Satoru
ache.

His head throbs.

He doesn’t want to think.

He can’t stand this. He doesn’t want to think.

“Suguru,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Unhand me.”

Suguru’s eyes widen only a fraction, a flash of hurt flickering across them. But it’s gone in a
second. He schools himself as though his composure is penitence for anything, and then, very
slowly, removes his grip from Satoru’s wrists.

Satoru tries to meet his eyes. Suguru looks away.

Satoru knows his own eyes are unfocused. He knows his cheeks are flushed, his lips are red.
He knows he isn’t able to speak coherently right now, the pain still scratching at his throat.
He knows he is all instinct.
And so he does the only thing he can think of.

Whatever Suguru sees in his face when he looks up, then — whatever it is that makes Satoru
curl one hand around the back of Suguru’s neck, the other on his jaw, and kiss him — it can’t
have been anything less than an avalanche.

Suguru makes a shocked, muffled sound. Satoru holds on. It takes a moment for the surprise
to ease from Suguru’s body— and then he’s making a noise low in his throat, fingers digging
into Satoru’s waist, pulling him in, and Satoru opens up into the kiss like he is shaking apart,
unsteady as a man pulled from the edge of death. The taste of blood and something sweet,
warm, barely tethers his feet to the ground. The colours of the city swim like northern lights.

Later, he won’t remember this.

Later, the pain that Satoru’s been ignoring will prove too overwhelming to surmount, and he
will faint. He’ll go slack in Suguru’s arms, and Suguru will have a brief moment of panic
before another emotion takes over, fond and exasperated.

Later, Suguru will get them both back to campus. He will insist on the staff treating Satoru
first, despite the blood pooling out all around him.

Later, Suguru will learn that Satoru doesn’t remember any of this. The doctors will tell him
that Gojo Satoru doesn’t seem to recall anything from after his second Domain Expansion.
His mind was too frazzled, they’ll say. You two were starved, you know. All that expended
energy drained his mind. Shoko will be beside Suguru when that happens, and she will notice
that his expression delves into a mixture of horror, and regret, and something else.

Later, he will try to visit Satoru at odd times. Only when he’s asleep.

Later, Shoko will watch as they both tread glass around each other. She will hear Satoru’s
request for a new school uniform. She will listen to Satoru’s questions. She will observe as
Suguru lingers out at the clinic’s doorway until no sounds are heard from within — until it’s
late into the night, or early in the morning — and he’ll step in only when he’s sure Satoru is
asleep.

And then Shoko will tell him, sneakily, to come at a time when she knows Satoru is awake.

Later, the jujutsu world will whisper. The strongest of their generation: rumours will spread,
as all rumours do. All the events during this mission will become part fiction, warped by the
stories concocted out of hearsay. The stories will be passed around so much that nobody will
quite know exactly what happened, or which part of it is true.

(And later, too, these memories will be used against them.)

(Thirteen years from now, these memories will be used against them, back again in Shibuya.
They will both have grown up by then, one with more life than the other, and god, what a pair
 of men they’ll make then. Two mortal bodies waiting for time and their piece of shit karma to
catch up with them. With nothing to look forward to but decay.)

But for now, none of that matters.

It’s you, both of them think.

All you. Satoru’s hands on Suguru’s cheeks, Suguru’s hands on Satoru’s back. The wind gets
in their hair as they press each other down into the present, their eyes closed into prayer. God,
the faith we place in forever. Neither of them has ever been any good at letting go, and so
Satoru holds on tighter, smiling into the kiss like he’s coming up for air, and Suguru laughs
genuinely, happily, filled to the brim with joy. And all of it — their warm bodies, the stars,
the moonlight above and the city below, the horizon stretching far beyond either of their
sights — all of it, in that moment, melts into gold.

Chapter End Notes

The sequel to this fic is called Volta, for anyone who's interested :)

I want to first and foremost thank Alice for being the reason why this fic exists (cursed
as you are), emso for her continuously wonderful and unhinged beta, and I want to thank
everyone for your unwavering support! I couldn’t have written all this without the
kindness you send my way. I hope you've enjoyed it - you guys are a GODSEND!

P.S. jishin used their dying breath to be a stsg shipper and ngl i did not expect that

(Edit 7 Dec 2022:) Snek/Nelly drew the most amazing art from the last scene of this fic
and I have been SO IN LOVE EVER SINCE, his expression is just PERFECT! Please
give Nelly all the love, mine can't ever be enough!!

(Edit 6 Aug 2023:) Alice who is everlastingly amazing drew the last scene of this fic
and words cannot describe how floored I am by it, PLEASE JOIN ME in giving her all
the love and appreciation she deserves and more!!
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