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And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.
— Madeline Miller
He stares at his reflection through the broken window of the storefront facing him—or he tries to, at least, but that last blow to his face left a cut over his right eye and half his vision tinted red. Warm blood streams down past protruded bone and hollow cheeks until it pools into the dip of his shoulder, trickling further down in tiny droplets.
There’s only grief where the stabbing pain should be—in the pit of his stomach, with flesh threatening to spill out. Blood covers him all the way down to his abdomen, but he's not entirely sure if it’s his alone. Still, it’s blood, and still, it bleeds through his yukata, just the same.
A voice calls out for his name and it hits him, who he is. Suguru. He's Suguru, once again.
(Just like the voice had cried out, over and over, “Suguru, I’m here.” “Look at me, Suguru.” “Suguru, please forgive me.” “Suguru, Suguru, Suguru.” “Please, Suguru, not again.”)
He revels in this, in his newly reclaimed body, if only for a moment, knowing full well that his time is running. It’ll run and chase after him with its echoing footsteps, until he's stripped bare and returned to nothing.
It’s only now, in this fleeting moment of wakefulness, that he's able to look at himself through shattered glass. He looks and sees the chasm of memories that have created who he is.
i. we could see nothing else but the other
“Name one hero who was happy.” Satoru had asked.
The two of them are squeezed together on top of his twin mattress, heads turned to face each other with their noses brushing and breaths mingling. Satoru props himself up on one elbow and eyes him intently, no sunglasses to hide behind. His expression is open, vulnerable even, though that isn’t a word Suguru would ever openly describe him as.
There’s a pause as he turns his body to fully face Satoru, who speaks again—tilts his head back down to bump his forehead against Suguru's, the front of his hair tickling the tip of Suguru's nose—before Suguru even gets the chance to open his mouth.
“I’ll tell you a secret.” he whispers excitedly, a youthful lilt in his voice.
Suguru blinks, once, twice, and raises his brow at him as if to say tell me.
“We’ll be the first,” because of you, him, because of both of you, together, “because we’re the strongest” he reasons, an unfaltering smile on his lips.
We’re not heroes, Satoru, he wanted to say, we’re only sorcerers, shamans.
(Satoru of all people should know this, how cruel their kind can be.)
But instead of speaking, Suguru rolls his eyes at him and laughs from deep in his heart, because for now it didn’t really matter, for now nothing else did. Nothing but their entwined fingers and bumping knees. Nothing but this ridiculous boy with eyes as hopeful and bright as the open sky; with the eyes of a boy.
Satoru can be quite boyish when he lets himself be.
Suguru leans in to peck the side of Satoru's mouth and pulls back just as quickly, but he chases after him, like he always does (as if he were the one worlds away) and Suguru lets him. He'd let him for as long as he’s willing.
We’ll be the first.
Suguru smiles against his lips in silent agreement before deepening the kiss, pressing their bodies closer together until he blends into Satoru and paints him pink. He hopes to himself that it’ll be this, the two of them, always. He hopes that it’ll be enough.
(What Suguru didn’t know yet, what Satoru's six eyes couldn’t see: their love was one doomed from the start.)
ii. it was almost like fear, in the way it filled me
There are memories of him running—away, towards, or just simply running—sometimes through uneven shrubs and tall trees, past high buildings, or along the oval field of his old school. Round and round he went.
In this one memory Suguru is young and strong and fast. He's much faster than other boys his age and he knows this, know that he's different in more than just the cloud of dust that settles in the distance between them. He's strong and fast and he knows this to be true—
But in a different memory he stands very still with his eyes wide as he points to the winged creature resting on top of another boy’s head. The young boy stares at Suguru, confused, blinking in unison with the eerie thing that sinks its claws into his skull.
He runs away.
iii. it was almost like tears, in how swiftly it came
They’ll find him amidst all his running—they, meaning Shoko and Satoru, and him, meaning Suguru (still Suguru at this point). They’ll find him and he, them, because that’s what fate intends (just as fate will dictate him to betray them one day).
The first time they find Suguru is at a bus station in Tokyo, his entire life packed inside a suitcase and a large duffle bag. Their introductions were brief, Suguru's polite, and only then did it hit him: they’re like him.
A sense of relief washes over Suguru like newly brewed tea poured out with steady hands.
They’ll find him again, this time inside an all too large classroom with way too many seats for just three people, always there before they ever are.
They’ll find him in the dorm room he was assigned to with offers of snacks and stories, Shoko’s pack of cigarettes, and their company.
And again behind a grown maple tree, hiding from the rays of the harsh sun right before they take their place next to him; in the kitchen cooking meals in bright daylight, in moonlight, to share between the three of them; in their arms, in his bed, after a particularly long and grueling mission; in his bed, all alone, refusing any of their invitations to go out; at Haibara’s makeshift grave, sometimes at Amanai’s all too real one, with flowers in one hand and the request that they leave him escaping from his lips.
And again, in Shinjuku, with his back turned against the world.
They’ll look and they’ll find him, they’ll find him until they don’t, and one day they’ll stop looking altogether.
Shoko will give up first, because she always does (because it’s easier for her not to waste her time on a lost cause). She’ll love and mourn him still, her dearest friend, in her own time, in secret, but she’ll stop her searching—had stopped the moment she handed him back his lighter on that bench in Shinjuku.
Satoru will give up too, but not because he wants to. He’ll give up because he knows it’s what Suguru wants and because he wants Suguru to live (if only for a little longer); because he’s afraid of what he’ll find and afraid of what he’ll have to do when he does.
So Satoru won’t find him, at least not in the places he used to, with the same ease as waking up to the sun and Suguru himself.
(Suguru thinks of home, the one they managed to carve out of each other with only a rusty switchblade and two steady hands.
He thinks of all the water bottles he once forced Satoru to drink that still litter his bedroom floor, the scar on Satoru's left earlobe from when he tried piercing it, the hair tie Satoru keeps on his wrist just in case.
Suguru thinks: never again.)
Satoru won’t find him, not if he refuses to look.
iv. there is no peace for those who live after
"Explain yourself, Suguru."
What else is there to say when the blood has already been spilled? Was that not enough for him? Does he not see splatters of red on every wall, every ceiling, every surface he nears? On Suguru?
Is that what it takes to become the strongest?
Suguru reminds himself that this is Gojo Satoru and he is only Geto Suguru. Satoru is the strongest and he is the fallen, the one with scorched wings.
But when Suguru tells him of his vision for the new world, Satoru doesn't look at him like someone who has fallen from grace. Instead, he looks and sees the sun itself; fiery rage burning everything in sight. Everything and everyone that dares to come close, until there’s only destruction and the remains of burnt wax, feathers, and a broken boy.
v. he knew, but it was not enough
But in the end, only Satoru can find him.
He, alone.
For he alone is the honored one. He alone is the strongest. So he alone will find Suguru: bleeding, broken, and unable to laugh in the world they couldn’t change together, let alone by himself.
vi. and so much has passed since then
There’s a memory of him running, one where he's even younger, tumbling down from his lack of coordination, and it’s the closest he ever gets to the earth without being swallowed by it whole.
The balls of his feet are spread wide apart as he takes one large step after another, but even with his clumsy strides there’s a voice that cheers him on. When he looks up, it’s a face he's long forgotten with their arms open and welcoming.
A part of Suguru can’t help but chase after them.
vii. I cannot name the thing I hope for
“You look better,” Satoru tells him as his six eyes proceed to look at everything but Suguru himself, “healthier than when I last saw you.”
He speaks again before Suguru gets the chance to think of something to say, “I’m glad you’ve been taking care of yourself.”
The air is heavy, laced with things left unsaid, things that will remain that way (even in the years to come, even as Suguru dies by his hand).
“This is the last time, Satoru. It has to be.” is all Suguru tells him. Satoru's hand twitches, barely, but it’s enough of a tell to let Suguru know how he feels, even with his back turned to him.
Satoru faces him momentarily with a pained smile on his lips and says, “I figured you’d say that,” and walks away.
viii. it is nowhere I can reach
He is (was) half of his soul, half of his heart, half of (what once was) the strongest pair.
His one and only.
Even in death, Suguru feels the tug of Satoru's heart, persistent, and strong, and alive. It’s beats send tremors that echo through the dark and empty wherever-he-is of the afterlife.
His unshed tears send waves that pool around Suguru's feet and remind him of what he's lost: his way in the world, his own life, his other half. Still, there's no regret in what he's done, only in what he left behind.
Time passes by without Suguru knowing, boiling down to memories of his family—old and new—of him and Satoru. His only tell is his bond to his other half. From the thump of his feet on the wooden floor when he wakes up in the morning (or whatever time Satoru gets out of bed), to his laughter that reverbs through Suguru and fills him with something warm and akin to life.
There’s a sense of anticipation that comes with waiting for the one he loves to come back to him (and grief in not knowing if they’d want to return him at all, after all that’s been said and done). Yet, where he is, there’s nothing else to do but wait
—until even that simple thing is taken away from him.
ix. I am air and thought and can do nothing
This time, he finds Satoru. He finds him, but this time, he's no longer Suguru. This time he is nothing more than a vessel, a weapon, clad armor and single edged blade striking at Satoru's heel.
Suguru hears his voice speak Satoru's name like a curved sword digging into his flesh, but he is not the one who wields it. He begs for Satoru not to hear it, not to turn his back. Suguru screams at him from where he stands but he is hollow and nothing more than an echo far away, a flickering light.
Satoru of all people should know better, but still, he looks. He looks and looks because he’s always searching, always chasing after Suguru.
So he looks, six eyes and all, but he doesn’t see Suguru.
He says “my soul knows otherwise,” as if he hadn't lost Suguru in the first place; with the familiarity of someone who'd just held him, had just heard his voice that same morning and no second longer. The knowing familiarity of a soul cleaved from his own.
His reverie is shattered by the sound of not-Suguru's laughter, amused and mocking.
He looks and despairs.
(An all too familiar sight.
Suddenly, there’s the faint smell of the sea tickling Suguru's nose as cool air breezes past his skin. He hears laughter in the background—Satoru and Amanai's—but he sees it coming this time, sees them being ripped from his grasp and his stomach churns. The scent of freshly spilled blood lingers along with the deafening sound of a gunshot.
A voice asks him if they should just kill them all, if we do it now I probably wouldn’t feel a thing.)
Suguru stares back and sees the same look of hopelessness his eyes once held.
He looks, and with that one glance Satoru would bear the curse of both Orpheus and Eurydice. And Suguru— he is just another soul passing by, watching as Satoru vanishes completely.
x. I have given enough to them, I will not give them this
He realizes, at two points in his life, that it’s easier to run away.
He remembers his home, his first one. There was an offer for him to study in Tokyo with others just like him, but it bothered him, (like swallowing his first curse) the ease in his parents’ voice when they told him, It’s up to you.
The choice was stuck in his throat wanting to escape, still he felt that he had no other option but to force it down.
And he learned, that spring, what it’s like to run while sitting perfectly still.
The second time felt different.
The cage in front of him is still despite the ragged breathing and clamoring of the two girls locked inside it, covered in bruises and their own blood.
They both look at Suguru with a mix of fear and defeat and he stares back, petrified. When he finally approaches them, they tuck themselves further into the corner, clinging to each other with fists clenched and eyes shut.
This time, when Suguru swallows down a curse, it tastes like nothing at all.
xi. if you have to go, I will go with you
They find them, both Suguru and Satoru, bloodied and apart, surrounded by crushed glass and concrete, and the remains of something else that was once alive.
They find Suguru first, several days first—bruised and ruined like the massacred remains of Satoru’s conscience when he found him, again, bleeding out in some alleyway all by himself.
They find Suguru first, then Satoru. And they will know his rage in the trail of blood he left in his wake. An eye for an eye, an arm for an arm, a curse under the tip of his spear, under a man without mercy. They’ll find him victorious but no longer breathing, no longer living, a near empty well of loose cursed energy. They’ll find him, much like how they found Suguru, alone.
It’s only after the war between shamans and curses, after all of the death and destruction, that they're reunited once more—two corpses lying side by side. Jujutsu sorcerers that once had the world at their feet, turning it upside down through sheer willpower, are now nothing more than decaying flesh and bone.
(But Suguru's been through this already. He only wonders how Satoru is coping with his six eyes being closed off forever.)
Neither of them had ever prayed to any of the known gods. Sorcerers rarely ever did, denying themselves the comforting thought of the afterlife, of reincarnation, believing only in peaceful nothingness as their one end goal. Still, part of them longed to touch and feel each other once again, even in the darkest depths of death; wanted nothing more than to share each other’s unending lasts as they did their firsts. Yet, Suguru knew no god would dare grant them their request, no god could be counted on, no god—
Only an old friend whose tears continue to fall, completely soundless while she collects and cremates their bodies, buries them both under a shared grave, and mourns them all over again, all on her own. Their ashes mixed together like old lovers whose soles imprinted on the same earth, with skin kissed by the same sun. Two souls that once lived in the same world.
She curses the two of them, half hearted in her words. Those same words she would use back when they were all still shiny and new, and the worst fate Suguru could think for himself was to endure lecture after lecture from the elders, or Satoru’s cold hand down the back of his shirt after he stuck it in the freezer for too long.
In the end she doesn't curse them at all, she only lights two candles and prays they find peace and each other.
There’s a ghost of a hand that reaches out for him. Its fingers dance over Suguru's own, tracing the ridges and dips of his knuckles and the fate lines on his palm, playful and familiar. He knows it to be Satoru's, his one and only. He know it because Suguru know him, because once, a long time ago, Satoru let him, and that was enough.
The touch is barely there but somehow it held everything in its grasp. He and Satoru. Everything.
There’s a hand, or two, that reach out for him, firmer and more solid this time around. They cup his face and run their thumb over his cheekbone and jaw, their fingers over the nape of his neck and through his long loose hair.
His hands are clean, Suguru notes. There’s no blood, no scars, only a promise made between two boys all those years ago. He holds out his hand, palm facing the sky like an offer.
(There are no titles to hold them down, wherever they are. No longer special grade sorcerers. No longer a curse user. No longer the strongest. Just Suguru and Satoru.)
Suguru intertwines their fingers together, closing the gap.
It’ll be this, the two of them, always.