Archive of Our Own

don’t want no other shade of blue but you,

no other sadness in the world would do

Suguru stirs awake to the sound of his door sliding open, footsteps padding across the floorboards. When he opens his eyes, he sees Satoru looming over his bed, a tray balanced on his hands. Brain still foggy with sleep, Suguru barely makes out what’s on the tray: a bowl of noodles— zaru soba? Another smaller dish consisting of boiled vegetables tossed in some sauce and a rectangular plate on which a deep fried cutlet rests. Tonkatsu, maybe.

“I tried making a sandwich,” says Satoru, “but my cooking skills must have been so out of this world that it’s not fitting for human consumption. So I just bought this from the canteen instead.”

Despite himself, Suguru laughs. The sound comes out garbled, shocking them both— it’s been so long since Suguru had laughed that he’d forgotten he could produce such a sound. He can’t help but think it’s something that doesn’t belong in his mouth, light and airy unlike the heaviness behind his chest, the perpetual dark cloud hanging over his head. Unlike this tension that’s wrapped the air around them ever since what happened with Riko. Things just haven’t been the same between them since then.

There’s a cloud hanging over Suguru’s head, and it hasn’t stopped raining for a year. 

Satoru places the tray on his bedside table, staring down at Suguru. It makes Suguru feel like an insect under a microscope. “Have you been losing weight, Suguru?” he asks, “Eat this. You need to eat.”

Under Satoru’s watchful eye, Suguru is hyper conscious of his body, all sharp edges and bones cutting through pallid skin like glass. On the other hand, Satoru looks bigger now, like he’s eating well. He’s getting stronger everyday and Suguru just feels— weak. The divide between them has never looked this clear. It’s a difference between earth and ether, the land and the sky. Suguru wishes he could move on the way Satoru does too, by becoming stronger. Instead, he rinses and repeats in the darkness nestled within his ribs, in the rain pouring from the cloud above his head. 

Just the smell of food alone makes his stomach queasy, repulsion branching around his sternum like a vine, coiling in his throat. His mouth still tastes like the curse he’d swallowed in the morning, a rag doused in vomit. But he doesn’t want to worry Satoru. So, reluctantly, he picks up the tray and sets it on his lap, eating the food in small bites. 

“Is it good?”

“Yeah,” Suguru lies. Everything is tasteless.

“Good,” answers Satoru, clearly for a lack of anything to say. Suguru gets through the meal with Satoru watching him in silence. It’s stifling but he doesn’t know how to ask Satoru to join him beside the bed, like they used to in their first year, when they’d share a mountain of snacks under the covers. Suguru would always buy sweets because Satoru loved them.

When he’s done, he puts the tray aside. “You should go now,” he says, “I’ll return the tray later. Thanks, Satoru.” Suguru crinkles his eyes into crescents, tries to pull the corners of his mouth upwards into a convincing smile. But when everything inside of him is burbling poison, it feels misplaced on his face.

“Suguru, I—”

Silence falls between them again. It’s clear Satoru doesn’t know what to say to him, but that’s fine. Suguru has resigned to the fact that they can’t go back to the way they used to be. In fact, he’s sick and tired of pretending there’s hope for the both of them at all. It’s a truth clear as day—together, they’re not the strongest. Suguru isn’t strong enough to live up to that title. If he stands with Satoru, all he’ll end up doing is drag him under the rain.

The smile on his face falters. Suguru looks down at his feet, unable to meet Satoru’s gaze. Measuring the ticks of his bedside clock, counting down to the moment Satoru will finally give up and leave, when all of a sudden he feels a hand on the nape of his neck, pushing him forward until his face meets the other's chest. Satoru combs through Suguru’s hair with careful fingers, looping his other arm around Suguru’s back. 

Suguru’s breath catches in his throat. It’s his first time being touched by Satoru in a long time, but it’s also Satoru’s first time touching someone else in so long, too—he’d been training relentlessly to keep Limitless running twenty-four seven so there wouldn’t be a repeat of what happened with Toji.

Satoru’s fingers traverse up Suguru’s nape, index and thumb kneading at the base of his scalp. His touch is warm and relieving in a way Suguru doesn’t know if he deserves. He can only shudder into it. Saltwater pools in his eyes and he has to bite on his lip so hard to keep it from spilling over.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Suguru lies, mouthing into the sharpness of Satoru’s breastbone.

“But you have to tell me if you’re not, okay? You have to tell me, Suguru.”

Suguru has never known what to do with his hands when he’s being touched like this. Desperately, he fists into the material of Satoru’s shirt, crumpling it in his fingers. “I will,” he lies again.

There’s a dark cloud hanging over Suguru’s head. But at least for that day, Satoru is his umbrella.

“she would’ve made such a lovely bride, what a shame she’s fucked in the head,” they said

but you’ll find the real thing instead, she’ll patch up your tapestry that i shred

Suguru tucks the blanket over Mimiko and Nanako. The school had prepared separate beds for the twins, but they still insisted on squeezing into one anyway. After what they’ve been through, he understands their need to stay close. There are still dark circles under their eyes, bruises adorning their wrists and ankles where they’d been shackled. But here, at least they get to sleep soundly. Here, at least they’re safe. The relief of bringing them back to Jujutsu High is palpable, coursing something warm through Suguru’s veins. 

Satoru stares at them from the door with his arms folded, a fond smile bracketing the curve of his mouth. Closing the door quietly behind them, Suguru follows him out of the room.

“I’ve always known you would be the fatherly type.”

“I’m not,” rebuts Suguru.

“I can picture it though. You, taking care of the girls, teaching them how to use their curse techniques…” There’s a hopeful edge to Satoru’s voice and it makes Suguru’s chest pang. 

“Satoru, about that—”

An epiphany had struck Suguru at the village. That there was a way out from all of this. No matter how weak or cowardly that makes him, it’s a decision he’s made and committed to following through. If being weak and cowardly meant Haibara could live to see another day, Suguru would go back in time and tell him to do it, too.

“I need to tell you something.”

They step out into the gardens, weaving through the manicured trees, bamboo like skyscrapers towering over them in this part of the school. Suguru thought he had made peace with his decision, but it aches like a bruise, too, holding the truth on his tongue, to be relayed to Satoru in a matter of seconds.

“The Hasaba twins— you can do that for them, Satoru. You can keep them safe and teach them how to use their powers for good.”

“...okay? I mean, I could, but you’re clearly the better person for this.” Satoru sounds as if he’s seriously contemplating the division of labour. He’s on a whole other wavelength and Suguru’s heart shatters behind his chest as he readies himself to say the words.

“No, I can’t. Because I’m— leaving.”

“Leaving? To where?”

“I don’t know yet,” admits Suguru, “all I know is I have to leave.”

It’s dark where they are, their surroundings illuminated only by the faint beams of light emitting from the dorms. Perhaps it’s a blessing—Suguru won’t be able to clearly see Satoru’s face fall in this darkness. Or maybe it’s a curse, how this may be the last time they’ll see each other and he won’t get to drink in Satoru’s features in full. His soft curves, his rough edges. His endlessly blue eyes that always remind Suguru of salt flats under an azure sky.

“I don’t get it, you can always come back after your trip or whatever to help out with the twins—” 

“I’m not going on a trip. Satoru, I’m leaving Jujutsu High. I’m not— gonna be a sorcerer anymore.”

Maybe it’s a curse, because in this darkness, Suguru can still witness Satoru’s hands curling into fists, the slight tremble in his shoulders as he tries to withhold all of his anger from gushing out in one go. He can still catch the fire in Satoru's eyes, even if they’re partially obscured by his glasses that are now falling down his nose bridge. He can still hear the disbelieving rage laced into Satoru's voice as he asks, “Where the hell did this come from?”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good reason to me. Is this because of what happened with Ri—”

“Don’t. I don’t wanna talk about it, Satoru.”

“But I’m thinking maybe all of this is happening because we weren’t fucking talking to each other the whole time.”

Suguru can feel his repose cracking. This is a weakness, too—his compulsion to mirror Satoru’s anger, even when this is nothing like how he wanted their final conversation to go. “You couldn’t talk to me either. You didn’t want to talk to me,” he retorts through clenched teeth.

Stumbling forward, Satoru grabs Suguru’s shoulders, shaking him a little. His touch burns like a brand.

“Then tell me now! Tell me why, Suguru, because I’m really struggling to see your point.”

How can Suguru put it into words? How can he tell Satoru that he can’t eat anymore without remembering the taste of curses? The bile-acrid flavour of a rag used to clean up vomit. How can he tell him that the memory of Riko’s lifeless body has been permanently etched into the backs of his eyelids? A ghost haunting every corner of his brain and Suguru can’t run away from it because you can’t run away from yourself. How can he tell Satoru that for one frightening moment, he had imagined burning the entire village down? So that he could play out the sick fantasy that Yuki had planted in his head—a world without curses. How can he tell him that he’s consumed so many curses he can’t tell which parts of him are human and which parts of him are a curse?

How can he tell Satoru that he doesn’t think he could live through a second time hearing his best friend has fallen dead?

“If I stay here,” answers Suguru, the words like knives in his throat, “I might die.” He doesn’t specify if he means dying in a mission, or dying in his own hands. These days, he’s been thinking a lot about the latter.

“We were supposed to be the strongest,” says Satoru. He sounds like a child throwing a tantrum at the arcade, begging his mum to let him play just one more game. And Suguru’s resolve crumbles like pastries. Even now, he wants so badly to smooth those creases between Satoru’s eyes, to entwine his fingers through Satoru’s hair and stroke it gently until his breaths slow. Satoru had spent his entire childhood pretending to be an adult—Suguru thinks he’s allowed to act childlike sometimes; deserves a world that humours him. He hopes, with a twinge in his chest, that Satoru will find someone who can do that for him after he’s gone. 

“But we’re not,” answers Suguru, a placating smile to go with this final blow he’s delivering, “you are.”

It is a curse because even in this darkness, he can see the way Satoru’s face crumples, as if he’s forced to swallow a bitter pill. In the years that Suguru has known him, he’s never looked more alone.

Satoru opens his mouth as if to say one final thing but decides against it at the last second, clamping it shut. In the punishing silence, Suguru watches him retreat back into the shadows.

i wake in the night, i pace like a ghost

the room is on fire, invisible smoke

There is a black orb between his fingers. It’s muscle memory, the way Suguru puts it inside his mouth and swallows it down on instinct, even when everything inside of him screams to reject it. Teeth scraping its surface, the orb shattering like glass between his molars. Immediately filling his mouth throat lungs with a taste that draws goosebumps from his skin—the putrid flavour of vomit mixed with the musty odour of a rag that hasn’t been washed for years. Revulsion blooms behind his sternum, sinking itself into his flesh and each and every one of his organs. Years and years of ingesting curses, and Suguru never really gets used to it. It takes everything out of him not to regurgitate it back up.

But at least he’s gotten rid of this one. It should end here, right?

When Suguru looks down, the black orb reappears on his palm. He doesn’t understand why it’s there again; he doesn’t want to relive its taste. But his body refuses to listen, running on autopilot as he pops the curse into his mouth. 

The process keeps repeating itself—everytime Suguru thinks he’s done with the curse, it reemerges like an endless terror, a matryoshka doll of nightmares. Repulsion amalgamates inside of him, amplifying into something larger than himself, carving through his flesh and bone in an exoskeleton. It takes over all of his parts, destroys every semblance of his rationality.

Suguru is filled to the brim with curses now—they threaten to claw up his throat and out of his mouth. Something catches in his oesophagus and he gags on reflex, the shadows that were burbling just under epidermis finally bursting at the seams. When he retches, the walls of his throat feeling as though they’ve been scraped by a knife, blood splatters out. But the colour of it makes Suguru freeze—it isn’t bright red, like a human’s, but dark purple, the shade of a cursed spirit’s blood.

Panic is a tsunami unfurling behind Suguru’s chest, dispatching tremors across his skin. He’s shivering all over—never has he been more terrified of himself. Suguru doesn’t want to look down at his hands anymore. Desperate for an escape route, he lifts his head, finding that a mirror has suddenly manifested in front of him. And perhaps eating a hundred, thousand, million more curses is better than acknowledging the reflection that stares back at him. Suguru doesn’t recognise himself. His face is all mangled flesh and keloid scars, sinewy tendrils where his eyes and ears are supposed to be, dripping with more of that fucking purple blood.

Here, his lungs collapse on themselves, oxygen expelling from every cell in his body. Suguru gasps for air, choking on his own breaths. He tries to lift his hands to cup his throat, anything to relieve this asphyxiation. But his arms have turned into formless shapes, two black orbs in place of where his fingers should be.

When Suguru screams, nothing comes out.

Suguru jolts awake, heaving. It’s hard to discern his surroundings when the nightmare is still imprinted onto his eyelids, haphazard snapshots playing in his head like a disjointed film reel. His lungs are still here, intact, and yet it’s just as painful to breathe as it was in the dream—every exhale like pushing fire out of his chest, burning all in its wake. Cold perspiration matting his temples, he sits up against the headboard. Tries to steady his breaths, but he just ends up wheezing pathetically like an injured animal. 

He knows it’s just a bad dream. Hell, Suguru has had multiple versions of this same bad dream for three years now—he should be used to it by this point. But here, alone in this tiny bed inside this tiny room, he still feels every bit like that sixteen-year-old, trapped in a never ending loop of grief. Grief for Riko and Haibara, grief for his youth, grief for himself. Even now, he can still picture it, that dark purple blood pulsing through his veins. Syphoning inside of him like poison, rendering him more curse than human. The repulsion comes back with ten times the intensity, shaking his core. Suguru jumps out of bed, hands groping at air as he stumbles into the bathroom, crouching down with fingers clasped around the sides of the toilet seat.

The world around him is spinning. Suguru heaves, desperate to expel the venom from his system, the demons lurking behind his ribcage. That dark cloud above his head. But he hasn’t eaten anything in two days, was unable to keep the food that Kita-obaasan had given him down. So when he gags, the poison stubbornly clings to the walls of his throat, unwilling to come back up.

This is a bad habit too, he knows, but he can’t help succumbing to it—Suguru rams two fingers into the back of his mouth, heaving like his life depended on it. His body shudders with the motion, and while he doesn’t retch out all of his guts, something still manages to come up. Yellow-greenish bile juice swirls into the water, imbued with the red of his blood. It’s sick, but that satisfies him somehow, knowing he isn’t bleeding purple like he does in his dreams.

Suguru hasn’t swallowed a curse in the two years since he left high school and yet the memory of its taste hasn’t faded, coating his mouth with something bitter and acidic. In a vomit-induced daze, he staggers back out into his room, grabbing the nearest pack of cigarettes. Lights one up like clockwork, shivering with relief at the first exhale of smoke. 

The sun has just begun its ascent, peeking above the horizon, bathing the room in an orange-pinkish glow. Suguru stares at the expanse of paddy fields outside his window, their stalks swaying gently with the breeze, tinged gold by the rising sun. His first-year self would’ve never guessed he’d end up here, at some obscure rice farm in Niigata. Away from Tokyo where the roads and buildings teem with humans, and curses as a result. Here, he only ever sees Kita-ojisan and Kita-obaasan—the owners of the farm who had kindly extended one of their rooms to him in exchange for labour around the fields. On a rare day, Suguru may encounter drivers who pick up bags of rice from the farm to deliver to the city. Even then, he never says anything more than a simple hello.

It’s a nice change of pace. In place of skyscrapers that tower over him like metal giants, he gets mountains whose peaks swim in the clouds. There aren’t any vending machines around, but Kita-ojisan wakes him up every morning with a steaming mug of houjicha. The air is quiet and the work is routine—mild and predictable, unlike a sorcerer’s life.

And yet, it’s also incredibly— lonely. The photo strip taped to the wall catches the sunlight, beckoning Suguru’s attention with its glint. He stops in front of it, thumbing at the glossy paper. Memories from yesteryear spring forth unbidden. Satoru had dragged him and Shoko after class one day to take purikura pictures. Three different snapshots take up the length of the strip: in the first one, they’d posed with peace signs; in the second, Satoru and Suguru had tried to form a heart, but it was ruined by Shoko who flashed her middle finger; in the third, the camera had caught them mid-laugh, their heads thrown back, fifteen years old without a care in the world. Whatever empty space in the photo available around them was completely taken up by hearts and sparkles, courtesy of Satoru. The top right corner is signed Sashisu, 2005.

Suguru’s chest aches and aches and aches. He misses them. God, he really misses them. 

A knock on his door breaks him from his spiral. Kita-ojisan must have arrived with his morning tea. Suguru lets himself stare at the photo for just a beat longer, and then heads to get the door.

roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool

and if my wishes came true, it would’ve been you

When Suguru’s phone rings in the middle of the night, an unknown number on his screen, he assumes it’s his parents. He’s used to them calling at odd hours, and to reduce the possibility of getting traced, he’d also given them specific instructions to only call him from burner phones. So, unfazed, he picks up without thinking.

“Hello?”

“...Suguru?”

The whole world goes still. There, on the other side of the line, is a voice he still remembers with unmarred clarity, even when half a decade has passed since he last heard it. A resonance that reaches him deep in his bones, despite traversing across grainy phone lines. After all these years, his given name is still rendered soft in Satoru’s mouth.

“Suguruuuu. Is that you?”

Suguru doesn’t answer. Breath hitched in his throat, he tries to keep as silent as possible, biting on his tongue so hard he can taste metal. The edges of Satoru’s voice are slurred—he sounds like he’s been drinking. Suguru doesn’t know how to make sense of that observation.

“Are you— hic— doing goood? Suguruuu. I have so many questions for you. Will you answer them for me?”

Saltwater begins to gather in Suguru’s eyes, opposing the tiny smile that curls his mouth upwards. The hiccups interspersing Satoru’s speech are so cute, and they make Suguru want to laugh. But hearing Satoru's voice also hurts with an intensity he had forgotten could feel this strong, driving the fissures beneath his chest further and further apart.

“Do you still listen to that band? Mass of the Fermenting Dregs or whatever. Their new album suuucked. Sounds like the kind of pretentious shit you’d enjoy though.”

This time, Suguru has to bite into the back of his wrist to keep a teary giggle from spilling free. 

“That bakery in Harajuku— the one we always went to— hic— closed down, ya know? The one with the shiopan you really liked. Is there good shiopan where you’re at, Suguru? Or zaru soba? Is your favourite food still zaru soba?”

Trembling fingers clasp around the phone a little tighter, his other hand coming up to cover his chest, as if that could relieve the ache that’s bloomed behind it. 

“Do you still take your genmai flakes with soy milk? Read before you sleep? You’ve always acted like an old man, Suguru. Sorting your socks by colour— hic— do you still do that too?”

Half a decade has passed and Satoru still remembers all of these little details about him. Suguru’s heart tears itself at his warring feelings—it hurts that Satoru remembers, but it also feels so good. Too good for someone as undeserving as Suguru. Buried into the deepest corner of his chest is an unnamed emotion, one that dredges up involuntarily when it comes to Satoru. Only Satoru. He fights hard to keep it locked behind his sternum, to keep from doing something stupid like asking Satoru if he still drowns his pancakes in syrup. Like blurting out that he misses him. 

“Are you there, Suguru? Cause I—”

There’s a pause, and then a sniffle. Suguru can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Satoru cry. There should be a statute of limitations for how many times a heart can break, because the one behind his chest shatters again and again and again.

In a softer voice, as if relaying a secret, Satoru admits, “Everywhere I go, I look for your residuals, ya know? Sniffing the air like a fucking dog just to see if I can catch a whiff of your scent. You’re not here and yet— you’re everywhere I go. You’ve haunted me for years now, it’s about time you came back, yeah?”

A whimper catches in Suguru’s throat, the saltwater in his eyes finally spilling over. Next to him on the wall is that goddamn photo strip of the three of them he hasn’t taken down. He ought to, but instead he’s thumbing at it. If he closes his eyes, he could pretend he’s running his thumb over Satoru’s cheek.

“I look for you all the damn time but— Shoko said you can’t find a person who doesn’t want to be found. And you don’t want me to find you, Suguru. You don’t. But that’s okay. Because I’ll be here. If someday you decide you want to come back, I’ll always be here. Waiting for you.”

Suguru cuts the call, crying so hard he can’t see through his tears. He sinks his back down against the wall. Tomorrow, he’ll have to change his phone number.

all these people think love’s for show,

but i would die for you in secret

There’s a kindness to Satoru, hidden from the judgeful eyes of others, made privy only to Suguru. It shows in extra hair ties tucked into his pocket for when Suguru’s bun goes loose, in readily available mints inside his bag for when Suguru consumes a particularly nasty curse. In shamelessly weaselling his way into Suguru’s bathroom cubicle despite vehement protests, insisting to wash the grime and dirt out of Suguru’s hair after an exceptionally long day.

There’s a softness to him, too—a contrary force to the raw, brute strength he puts on display for the rest of the world, for those stupid higher-ups banking their elderhood on a sixteen-year-old’s downfall. It shows in gentle fingers separating tangled, sweat-sticky clumps of hair, prying with just enough force that it doesn’t hurt. Satoru lathers the shampoo into Suguru’s hair thoroughly, nails lightly digging into his scalp, rubbing slow, circular motions. Goosebumps scatter all over Suguru’s skin. He can’t help but surrender to Satoru’s touch. When the water cascades over his head, he imagines it rinsing away all of the day’s troubles.

This is how Suguru knows he’s getting better—the hopelessness doesn’t swallow him whole anymore. There are still days where it’s hard to get out of bed, but also days where his heart lifts at the sight of wildflowers poking through side cracks on the road, where the sun feels warm on his skin in a way he’d forgotten how. 

He takes better care of himself now. When Suguru washes his hair, he does it how he remembers Satoru did it for him: slow, gentle, thorough. Meticulous fingers thread through dishevelled locks, tugging against the scalp, collecting foam. Hot water streams down the back of his head, the nape of his neck, then his shoulders, washing away the grime amassed from an afternoon of harvesting rice.

Seven years later, Satoru still finds ways to reach the deepest parts of him. Suguru thinks he'll always have a place in his heart for his best friend. 

take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die

i don’t belong, and my beloved, neither do you

Sunlight beams through the canopy of leaves overhead in golden slats, rendering the green of the grass blades beneath their shoes a shade like chartreuse. They’re far enough from Tokyo that the cacophonies of curses read like white noise—still there, but subdued. It’s what Suguru likes most about this place, the quiet. Yet, he’s transfixed by something else. As they trek up the path, surrounded only by lush greenery and the occasional bird’s call, he can’t help but stare at Satoru. Can’t tear his eyes off Satoru’s face—luminescent eyes reflecting the late afternoon daylight, so utterly enamoured by something as simple as a forest. So that’s what it takes to impress Gojo Satoru, huh? Not herculean curse techniques or billions and billions of yen. Just a hill on the perimetre of the city.

When they reach the peak, the giant skyscrapers of Tokyo recede into tiny grey dots before them. Here, Suguru bears witness to the smile curving Satoru’s mouth. Where Satoru is usually wry smirks and cocksure grins, at this moment he’s smiling one of those rare, soft smiles that somehow only turn up when Suguru’s near. It fills Suguru with honeyed warmth, as he lays out the mat over the grass. From his bag he retrieves the snacks they’d bought at the konbini: tuna mayo, mentaiko, and umeboshi onigiri, a bag of karaage, four packs of strawberry milk, and another four pudding cups.

Even as they eat their lunch, Satoru doesn’t stop looking at the view. He’s taken his glasses off for a good two hours now but still looks so comfortable, so at peace. Suguru wishes Satoru could look like this everyday. He’d sneak him out on the daily if he had to, his perfect school record be damned.

“Do you really like it that much?” asks Suguru teasingly, “Technically, you could fly with Limitless and see the same damn thing from the air.”

“Technically, I could,” agrees Satoru, “but it’s different, y’know? We climbed all the way up here by ourselves and we’re even having a picnic, isn’t it so romantic—”

Suguru makes a face at that. Satoru bats his eyelashes playfully and laughs. But the laughter gradually turns into a wistful hum, as he adds, “I’ve never done anything like this, y’know? As silly as it sounds, growing up was all about lessons in defence and offence. About being the strongest in the world and never trusting anyone or wasting your time on stupid activities like… climbing a hill and then eating your weight in pudding cups once you’ve reached the top.”

Vulnerability leaks from the cracks in Satoru’s voice and it makes Suguru’s chest sting. If he were braver, he’d reach out, throw his arms around Satoru’s shoulders and envelop him in a hug. But maybe that’s a tad strange for their current level of friendship, so he digs Satoru's waist with his elbow instead. Satoru responds with a poke to Suguru’s cheek, the edges of his mouth curling up into a wider grin. It may be a trick of the light, but his ears appear flushed. “Hate to say it but I get to experience all these new things thanks to you, Suguru,” he says, whisper-soft.

If Suguru were braver, he’d close the distance between them and kiss Satoru on the mouth. But for now, he settles with smiling back, and a silent promise to himself to bring Satoru back here in the near future.

After Niigata, armed only with a backpack and a body hardened by years of farm work, Suguru sets out to travel the rest of Japan. Mapping her cartography with his battered feet, his five senses. In the span of a year, he learns that the crater lake cresting Zao Chuo changes colour several times in a day, that the Choshio falls are dazzling even when frozen in the wintertime. That the negi soba in Aizu is out of this world delicious, that if all the sweets tasted like the ikinari dango he had in Kumamoto he’d appreciate them way more.

More often than not, he would bump into curses. But Suguru isn’t in his late teens anymore, and their presence doesn’t summon forth his innate need to dispel them. His own curses that had burbled beneath his skin are long gone—he doesn’t have to weaponise himself any longer. Out there, the world’s strongest man has got his back, and he’s made peace with that.

There’s something about seeing the world beyond jujutsu that stitches Suguru’s broken pieces back together, rendering him a mosaic of all the new cities he’s visited, the new memories he’s made. Every breathtaking mountain he gets to witness, every floral scent he gets to inhale, every regional specialty he gets to savour, every brush of wind that scatters between his fingers, every birdsong that awakens him with a gentle nudge in the morning—he wishes Satoru could experience it too. More than anyone else in the world, Satoru deserves to.

i’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty-year dark night,

now i’m wide awake and now i see daylight

Ten years later, Jujutsu High still looks the same, wood panelling and tatami mats and karesansui gardens freshly plucked out of Suguru’s decade-old memories, placed right before his eyes. Shoko still has a cigarette perpetually wedged between her lips. Her hair is long now, though, and the dark circles under her eyes are even more severe. At the sight of Suguru, she tosses the cigarette aside, throwing her arms around him in a hug.

“About time,” she says quietly, extricating herself to take a better look at him. “You look happier now.”

“And you look even more depressed.”

“Shut up,” she retorts, with an elbow to Suguru’s waist. “Satoru’s here too, y’know?”

Ah. “I’ve heard from Yaga-sensei.”

“You don’t have to call him sensei anymore.”

“I know, just— habits.”

Shoko rests her head on her arm, leaning by the edge of the operating table. “I can’t believe that idiot really became a teacher,” she scoffs, “but then again, I can’t imagine him doing anything else after you left.”

Guilt eats away at Suguru’s chest—it’s a feeling to stay, no matter how many times he’s rebuilt himself over the last decade. Guilt for leaving his best friends here to shoulder the responsibility of protecting the world on their own. Hell, Shoko has had to work in this same infirmary where they’ve watched so many of their classmates die.

“I know the look on your face. Stop. It’s not your fault. You did what you had to for your own sake.”

However, juxtaposing that guilt is a single truth, shining like a beacon of light through the darkness of his own deprecation: there was no other way of saving himself but walking away from jujutsu. “I don’t regret it,” he says honestly.

“Good. Now shall we go see Satoru?”

Suguru is a bundle of nerves as Shoko leads him to the classroom building. He can’t shake the memory of Satoru’s face that very day he told him he had to leave, of the vulnerable edge in Satoru's voice during a particular drunken phone call. It’s hard to believe Satoru doesn’t feel resentful towards him, and Suguru can’t even blame him for it. He owns up to the hurt he’s inflicted. It’s just— he’s always remembered Satoru in love and light. But the memories Suguru had left him with were steeped in bitterness and pain. And while he’s never regretted leaving, he’s always regretted that.

Nearing the classroom, Suguru pauses in his tracks. Through the slats in the window, he can see the twins he rescued from that village over ten years ago. Mimiko and Nanako. They look so grown now, postures languid, but there’s a sharpness in their eyes that signals they’re being attentive. Suguru’s heart in his throat. Warmth flushes through his veins and he really feels like choking up. If there was one thing he could thank his sixteen-year-old self for, it would be bringing these girls back here, where they can be themselves. 

Sitting right in front of them is another girl with brown hair, her fringe tucked cleanly behind her ear, covering only the right side of her forehead. Eyes auburn like the fall foliage Suguru got to witness at the Kurobe Gorge last October. Flecking her sides are two boys, pink-haired and black-haired, the latter familiar in a way Suguru can’t put his finger on. They’re discussing animatedly, eyes trained on the person at the front of the room—

And oh, Satoru’s standing right there, with that unmistakable head of white hair, dragon’s beard candy spun out of crystalline sugar. Suguru can picture those ocean eyes, now hidden behind a blindfold. God, he looks so good, already glowing like the brightest star in the vicinity. Suguru has missed him for years. He has missed him so fucking much.

He can feel his own cursed energy swirling wildly around him, in tandem with his ricocheting heart. It propagates the air, reaching Satoru in seconds and then his best friend is turning towards him and—

It happens all too quickly. One moment he’s caught up with seeing Satoru in the flesh, the next Satoru has materialised in front of him, blindfold tucked to the side, as if he needs to drink Suguru in fully with his Six Eyes. Under his gaze, Suguru is a teenager all over again, fireworks erupting in the pit of his stomach. There’s a burst of noise from the classroom behind Satoru, the nosy students peeking their heads out of the windows to look at them, but Suguru can’t hear much beyond his heartbeat, a taiko drumming in his ears.

“It’s you.”

“Hi, Satoru.”

Pleasantries are useless here—when it comes to Suguru, the untouchable Gojo Satoru has always preferred speaking with touch. Fingers grasp the nape of Suguru’s neck, pulling him in, and this time Suguru doesn’t hold back, arms coming up to circle around Satoru’s waist. They slot each other in every place possible, Suguru’s head nestled in the crook of Satoru’s neck, Satoru’s knees folding into the backs of Suguru’s knees. This close, Satoru smells like cedarwood, heady but sweet. Suguru buries his nose into Satoru’s sleeve in an attempt to inhale his scent into his lungs. From behind them, the noise grows raucous. He can practically feel Shoko’s eye-roll.

“Wow, it seems like we’re becoming the latest hot goss in Jujutsu High,” says Satoru.

Maybe a few hours later, Suguru will ruminate on this moment and promptly explode from embarrassment. But for now, there’s nothing but soaking up all of Satoru’s warmth. Nothing but golden daylight, and a sunflower bending towards it. 

chains around my demons, wool to brave the seasons

one single thread of gold tied me to you

Fingers curl around Suguru’s wrist, keeping him in place. “Stay,” says Satoru, soft yet desperate. 

“I’ve already booked a hotel room at Koenji,” replies Suguru, despite every bone in his body screaming at him to remain, his face scrunching up into a polite smile. 

“I know. Stay anyway.”

“Okay.”

Suguru is pulled back into the musky heat of Satoru’s room, a suite in the teachers’ dorms. Here, the smell of cedarwood is intensified a hundredfold, scattering traces of Satoru in every nook and corner. There’s a lot to take in—the state of Satoru’s room can be categorised as an almost unliveable mess—but Suguru is drawn to a single picture on Satoru’s desk, catching the light of the lamp overhead. A copy of the same photo strip that follows Suguru wherever he goes, preserved like a prized possession. 

When Satoru cups Suguru’s face and pulls him in, Suguru completely yields to him. Their lips meet in the lightest of touches, a delicate press. It’s way overdue, if Suguru were being honest with himself, but maybe this is their right time, right place. Their foreheads tilt to touch, noses bumping, and Suguru’s palms curve themselves around Satoru’s shoulders. Bodies twisting to fit each other like puzzle pieces.

And then Satoru opens his mouth, and the desperation picks up. Heat pulses through Suguru’s blood, rushing south, as Satoru’s teeth grazes the arc of Suguru’s bottom lip. In response, Suguru’s tongue flicks upward, meeting the roof of Satoru’s jaw. Everything is salty and everything is wet. Satoru’s hand travels up the back of Suguru’s ear, and then the back of his head, his bun unravelling loose in the process, ribbons of hair flying everywhere as fingers tug on his scalp. And Suguru pulls Satoru closer, closer, closer, their chests colliding, Satoru’s musculature a firm press against Suguru’s skin. Suguru digs a knee into the meat of Satoru's inner thigh as he deepens the kiss, and Satoru groans into Suguru’s mouth, a guttural sound that vibrates down his throat.

It’s getting harder to ignore where their hips are lined up, a friction that begs for them to chase. Satoru pulls at Suguru’s hair, mouthing down his chin, the column of his neck, the expanse of his collar. And it’s not enough, the sweat, the contact. The heat. Suguru smashes his teeth together to keep a whimper from escaping. He can only touch back fervently, now slipping his hands under Satoru’s shirt, tracking skin.

“Satoru, can I?”

“Please.”

The hunger lacing Satoru’s voice, whispered in a fiery breath inside Suguru’s ear, travels all the way down to his cock. There’s no time for doubting himself, there’s only a fever simmering beneath epidermis as he rolls his hips up against Satoru’s.

“Oh fuck,” groans Satoru, his cadence rendering the friction even more delicious. In between states of undress, they don’t stop touching, even as they stumble backwards onto Satoru’s bed. Satoru looms over where Suguru lies supine, knees digging into the mattress as his legs bracket Suguru’s sides. Now, Suguru can see where his hand traverses up Satoru’s body, fingers tracing the contours of his muscles, his lines and his borders. They meet raised skin—a long scar dragging across his chest where Toji Fushiguro had stabbed him. Suguru feels like he could melt. Here, Limitless doesn’t stand between them. Underneath Suguru’s palm, Satoru’s heart thrums with life.

When his eyes look up to face Satoru’s gaze, he can see the tears trailing down his cheeks.

“Why are you crying?”

“It’s just, you’re here, Suguru. You’re here.”

“Sorry for taking so long,” whispers Suguru, his own eyes welling up with tears.

“It was a long ten years,” agrees Satoru, “but you’re here now.”

“I thought you would hate me.” Suguru’s chest pangs with his own confession.

“I tried to convince myself that I could hate you for a while. It didn’t work out.”

“You should have.”

“I’d said I’d wait for you as long as you’ll have me, right? And you came back to me, Suguru. You came back to me.”

Satoru cups the base of Suguru’s cock, his hand a warmth that engulfs Suguru entirely. Suguru moans, arching his back, succumbing to the touch. A thumb strokes over his tip, coming away with dampness. Satoru smears it across the head, down the length, and then back to the base. Spits on Suguru’s cock for good measure, repeating the motion. Warm and wet. Suguru can only grip onto the sides of Satoru’s waist tighter, an anchoring touch amidst these waves of pleasure. 

“I can’t believe I get to have you like this,” admits Satoru, the reverent note in his voice driving Suguru insane in the best of ways, “waited all my life to have you like this.”

“Me too, Satoru— ahh— I’m here now.”

“You can’t leave me again, Suguru. You can’t.”

Satoru’s strokes are desperate but thorough, fingers and palm splayed out and covering every square centimetre of Suguru’s cock. Just the right amount of heat, the right amount of friction. All the while, his mouth doesn’t leave Suguru’s neck, sucking into the skin stretched taut over his clavicle, tongue swirling over the hollow of his throat. Suguru digs his knuckles so harshly into Satoru’s flesh that if it were anyone else, they might bruise.

“Promise me you won’t leave me, Suguru. You’ve got to promise me.”

“Ahh— fuck— I promise I won’t, Satoru. I’m here to stay, so please—”

Satoru obeys with his hands, an answer to a prayer, accelerating his pace. And the heat curling low in Suguru’s stomach is now an uncontrollable flame, threatening to burn through layers of skin, burst at the seams. Suguru is toeing the precipice of climax and Satoru tips him over the edge.

“Fuck, ‘toru, I’m coming, I’m coming—”

Suguru spills into Satoru’s palm, painting his lifelines white. Satoru strokes him through it, coaxing out every last bit of him. Now sated, he lifts his chin to capture Satoru’s mouth in a kiss, slow and deep. Warm currents undulate through his blood, bathing him in afterglow.

When they get off the bed to clean up, Suguru can’t help but notice Satoru’s neglected cock, so big and pink and perfect. It’s almost enough to make him hard again. Suguru is overwhelmed with this intense desire to take all of him, have him in any way Satoru allows. And from the fervent look in Satoru’s eyes—an ocean kindled—it’s clear he would grant him anything.

Suguru kneels in front of Satoru, pressing butterfly kisses up his knees, thighs, inner thighs; buzzing with a different kind of pleasure as Satoru moans, his fingers threading through Suguru’s hair again, pulling at his locks.

“Can I…?”

“If you don’t I might just die, Suguru. Combust on the spot. And you’d be charged with the murder of the world’s strongest man.”

It’s just like Satoru to make Suguru laugh right before he gives him a blowjob. Satoru smiles down at him, fondness curling the edges of his mouth upwards, and Suguru feels like there’s a sun behind his chest, burning bright. One hand grasping the base of Satoru’s length, he puckers his lips, taking the tip into his mouth. Inch by inch, Satoru’s cock disappears into Suguru’s throat. Head, middle, base. Both Suguru’s eyes and mouth begin to water. He blinks through his tears, determined to capture Satoru’s reaction and imprint it onto his memory: eyes fluttering shut, lashes fanning prettily over his eyelids, mouth hanging agape. 

Suguru slowly releases him with a pop, tongue tracking the veins on the underside. Satoru must really like it, if the way he tugs on Suguru’s hair even harder is anything to go by. 

“Feels so good, Suguru. Fuck— yes— right there— feels so good you’re here.”

That needy voice drives Suguru to envelop Satoru’s length with his mouth again, sucking without restraint. Spit, salt, saliva. Where his mouth can’t reach, his hand is there, stroking the base, making sure every inch of Satoru’s cock is accounted for, by him. Suguru takes him all the way, and at some point, Satoru’s cock touches his gag reflex. When Suguru chokes, Satoru moans so loud that for a second he’s afraid Yaga will storm in and exile them from the school.

“Shit— I’m so close, so fucking close—”

“Come for me, ‘toru. Wanna taste you.”

“Oh fuck—”

Satoru finishes messily in Suguru’s mouth. Even with come dribbling down his chin, Suguru doesn’t stop looking at Satoru for one second—his head thrown back, eyes rolling back with pleasure, shoulders trembling as he shudders into his own orgasm. It’s the most beautiful sight Suguru has ever seen. 

When the post-coital high gradually dissipates, the weight of what they’ve done begins to sink on Suguru. But before its claws can fully latch onto his peace of mind, Satoru pulls him back into the bed, arm around his shoulder, chin against his forehead.

“When are you leaving Tokyo?”

“Next Tuesday. I’m going back to Niigata to run some errands.”

“Cancel your hotel res and stay here with me until then.”

“I can’t,” laughs Suguru, “it’s non-refundable.”

“I’ll go over then.”

“Are you really inviting yourself to my place?”

“Yep and I don’t care. This is how you’ll make it up to me.”

Suguru thinks of Satoru, who has worked tirelessly in the last decade, exorcising curses and guiding young sorcerers, changing the jujutsu world for the better. He thinks of how lonesome that must have felt. And then he thinks of all the places he’s travelled—ombre lakes and deep gorges and snow-capped mountains—and how in each and every one of them, he’d wished Satoru was there. Experiencing the beauty of the world instead of just burning himself out to protect it.

“School vacation is coming up, right?”

“Yeah, in July. Why?”

“Do you— wanna come to Hokkaido with me?”

Suguru can feel Satoru’s smile against his temple. “Skipping the first date and jumping straight to travelling together, huh?”

“Shut up,” laughs Suguru, nosing into Satoru’s chest, cedarwood filling his lungs.

“I’ll go,” answers Satoru, tightening his embrace around Suguru’s shoulders, kissing a promise to his skin, “I’ll go anywhere in the world with you.”