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Suguru and Satoru sat in the darkness, in silence. Even if only for a moment, the world which would otherwise overwhelm Satoru — needlessly flood his senses, overstimulate him — felt not only tolerable, but pleasant. So little cursed energy reached him here in comparison to anywhere else. And beside him sat his one and only, in perfect stillness, looking out at nothing with him, every feeling available to them. For the first time in a while, the two welcomed the absence of conversation.
Satoru would have been tempted to check his phone had he not already figured it was sometime around 4:30 in the morning. How had they ended up here? Pulling another all-nighter together, as they had countless times in years past, though the ambiance of the night was significantly different this time. It wasn’t as if either of them had outgrown their affinity toward mischief, quite the opposite; they were both perched on top of a hill, overlooking the forest bordering Tokyo Jujutsu Tech, plotting something in their own respects. Satoru hurtled mindlessly towards self-destruction, as he had all his life, and Suguru towards the destruction of his surroundings. Still, despite knowing it would be temporary, the two existed in contentment. Whatever was already in motion, they couldn’t — wouldn’t — stop it.
Or so they thought.
It was the less likely of the two, Satoru, who spoke first. Their comfort, held in the highest regard — by Suguru, at least — had crumbled in an instant, its fragility more apparent than ever now that it was gone.
“Suguru, are you—” Satoru’s voice cracked gracelessly, “—okay?” Both of them shifted uncomfortably in unison, and Suguru looked down. How could he reply? There was nothing to be said, really. Maybe Satoru knew that already; maybe the question was rhetorical.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you that,” Suguru replied, pulling his knees to his chest and looking out at the trees again. He inhaled slowly through his mouth, exhaling through his nose. Silence would have fallen between the two again if Satoru hadn’t kept talking; it was a miracle that this boy was going to be eighteen soon and hadn’t yet learned to shut his mouth.
“I’ll go first, then,” Satoru started, too upbeat. He cleared his throat and leaned back, hands in the grass, fingers grabbing at each individual blade, feeling the energy that ran through them. Each was a part of something much larger than itself, though wholly unaware of it. Was that where Satoru and Suguru, where humanity as a whole, differed from other species? Were they aware of their place in this world, or did they belong to someone, something, greater than themselves? Were they predestined to face tragedy, to confront their sorrows, to drift steadily apart? Should they mourn what was lost before it was gone? The corners of Satoru’s mouth upturned as he spun to face Suguru. The other man rotated his head towards Satoru, but not his body. His feet were still planted firmly on the ground, pointing eastward, where the sun would soon rise over the school.
“I’ve been thinking that every time I get emotional, everything goes to shit,” Satoru sighed. He pulled off his sunglasses; this place hadn’t been much of a bother to him, anyway. There wasn’t much cursed energy here. “Doesn’t matter if it turns out alright in the end, everything gets… messy.” That was all he had to say, Suguru could interpret what Satoru meant; Fushiguro Toji’s face appeared in his memory for just a moment. Satoru’s version of messy was atypical, to say the least. It usually involved someone injured, someone meeting their untimely death. His power, bestowed upon him from birth, which he had no choice in, was the very thing holding him back. Not from achieving anything, but simply from expressing himself.
Suguru’s misery existed for reasons opposite of Satoru’s; he felt he would never be powerful enough to accomplish anything. Rather than restricting himself, Suguru felt as though he would never be satisfied with his own potential.He was a genius by the effort rather than by nature, and still, his endeavors were inadequate, pointless. How could he manage to reform the jujutsu world? Within the bounds of his own mind, Suguru was less than special, he was useless. If only Gojo could see that with his Six Eyes — the space Haibara and Amanai deserted.
“I see,” was all Suguru could manage to choke out in response. Satoru was so powerful that a mood swing could send everything awry. Suguru’s own helplessness frustrated him; how could Gojo ever understand that? We’re the strongest . Remove the we , replace it with I . Be more realistic, more pragmatic. Gojo Satoru, the expert sorcerer, the expert bullshitter. The strongest . The words echoed in Geto’s head constantly, an ever-present reminder of his own inability to save those he most longed to. How worthy of redemption was someone of his caliber? He certainly didn’t see salvation for those below him; vindication was impossible for the weak. In his current state, he may as well be among them.
The expression on Suguru’s face must have twisted, the lines bordering each of his features a declaration of his antipathy. The glare in his black eyes was fortified by each abhorrent thought he grasped at, desperate to justify the absurdity of creation and its implications. Death naturally follows life: Riko, Haibara. How many of the others would join them? The answer was simple: every last one of them, eventually. Gojo looked at Suguru, concerned rather than insulted, though he also appeared more worried than understanding. It was nauseating.
“Earth to Suguru!” Satoru whisper-yelled, waving his hand in front of Suguru’s face. He swatted it away, making a show of relaxing his face and unclenching his jaw. Satoru sighed and fell back in the grass, before screeching and sitting back up. “That’s fucking cold,” he whined, rubbing his wet back to warm it up again. When Suguru turned his head, he noticed that an insignificant portion of the grass had been compressed downward, stuck to the dirt underneath.
Unexpectedly, Suguru began to laugh. Regardless of whether or not the man was gifted, he would always be a complete idiot; there was no tactful way to put it. The moment an ounce of sympathy began to rise in his chest, though, he suppressed it, inhaling and exhaling through his nose, before adjusting his posture and looking out at the forest again, at the school. Perhaps he should say something.
“Well, I feel frustrated at times. Impotent.” He spoke before he thought about what he wanted to say. “Not that I can’t take action, but that I won’t achieve what I desire most.” That was the most considerate way he could think to put it. Had he expressed his thoughts in full, Satoru might have grown to loathe him. There was no graceful way to voice his innermost beliefs, borne of personal experience and solidified by loss.
“Doesn’t matter, if you ask me. Nobody can accomplish anything alone,” Satoru’s words rang in Suguru’s ears. He wanted to lash out, to yell, to correct Satoru. To tell him he was acting like a bratty child. But that would be hypocritical, Suguru realized, as he felt his heart beat against his ribcage. Did he truly believe that? Was there meaning behind Satoru’s use of we ? Suguru found more questions than answers in Satoru’s response, despite its simplicity and clarity. It was meant to be reassuring, though Suguru was attempting to rationalize the irrational. Presently, it wasn’t working.
Suguru searched for the right thing to say but every word he attempted to speak into existence died in the back of his throat before a noise could even be produced. “But there are things we face alone.”
But there are things I must face alone.
“Well, yeah,” Gojo sighed. He, if anyone, could empathize with tragedy borne of isolation. He hadn’t a place or person to truly call home his entire life, for the sole reason that he had never found a place he belonged. Always, Satoru was held in the highest regard, or in contempt. Never was he celebrated for his humanity, whereas Suguru relished in his.
If a pin dropped in the grass, Satoru and Suguru might have heard it, though they wouldn’t distinguish it. The two rested in stillness, preoccupied by their own idiosyncratic convictions. Satoru bit his lip until he tasted blood, an age-old habit that he could have sworn he broke ages ago. That was the thing about Suguru. Around him, he felt that he embodied his past, his present, and his future all at once. He was a person like any other, one who could scarcely contain his authenticity.
On the subject of lone endeavors — “I can’t stand the taste of cursed spirits.” Suguru’s sudden confession regarding something so personal, something expected of him, shook Satoru. There was something the two had in common; loathing what became expected of them.
“What’s it like?” Satoru questioned. Suguru felt he was being interrogated, and though he was uncomfortable with the direction of conversation, he attempted to rack his brain for something to juxtapose. Nothing he could say, he conceived, could properly convey the taste, nor the feeling of consuming another being. Satoru couldn’t understand.
What is it like? It’s easily one of the most vile sensations imaginable. Geto replied with the only accurate comparison he had ever been able to conjure. “Like swallowing a rag soaked in vomit.”
“Suguru…” Whatever it was that Satoru was planning on saying next, it never made it past his throat. Usually, he had no idea how to quiet himself, so his sudden silence spoke to one of two things: either his comprehension, or his lack thereof.
After another extended period of silence, Suguru audibly swallowed before a strained sentence escaped him. Despite the weary undertone in his voice, the weighted sentence dragging itself out of his throat, it appeared to be something which would have inevitably materialized, whether in conversation or through violence. Satoru was glad he chose conversation.
“I saw her die, you know. Amanai.”
Satoru felt something twist in his chest, something expanding in his throat, something pulling his shoulders back. Taut and upright, he glanced at Suguru, his eyebrows nearly knitting together, eyes wide and sorrowful. “You saw it?”
Rather than replying with words, Suguru just nodded; everything seemed to be escaping him tonight. I thought you were dead, too , he reflected, but the air forced itself out of his lungs in a sigh before he could say it. He noted the chirping of birds becoming more frequent, providing cover from the growing silence between the two. Neither of them fully appreciated their muted interconnectedness until Satoru spoke once more. Another moment of silence had passed.
“I thought you were dead,” he whimpered. Suguru peeked at Satoru out of the corner of his eyes and saw him sitting with his knees up, arms resting on them, head tucked in. It was implausible. The two were opposites in every way, yet here was a budding feeling that dared to unite them. Its presence was hardly discernible, though to one as perceptive as Geto, it left an obnoxious impression.
“Me, too.” Suguru replied before he could think twice.
Simultaneously, the two felt a thread snap in their chests, glancing up at each other. Was this it? The grief of existing as the other. They could feel it now, erupting in the left side of their chests, pressuring their ribcage, lungs, face. It was a profoundly worn feeling, familiar and alien at once. Red cheeks, watering eyes, the soft sound of uneven breathing. The first rays of sunlight protruded from over the trees and hit their feet, which were now facing each other, at full attention. They made eye contact for one of the first times that night. Suguru tried everything to restrain his own tears, pull them back into his eyes, but when he saw Satoru begin to weep, it was useless. He only watched as the one closest to him cried, wiping his tears with the sleeve of his school uniform.
Finally, Suguru reached for Satoru’s hand, pulling it away from his wet face. He awkwardly scooted nearer to Satoru and positioned himself between his legs. With his free hand, he cupped Satoru’s face and wiped the tears from his eyes with his thumb. Suguru understood that Satoru wouldn’t want to be stared at, and he refused to let this moment pass and this feeling die, so he kept his hand where it rested and glanced back out at dawn breaking before them. Satoru mirrored Suguru, as he usually did.
Certainly, it was warmer than it had been a few hours ago, yesterday, last week, last month, Suguru noted with rapture. Satoru felt heat spread through him; it moved from the ground into his feet, through his legs and torso, and into his chest. It ran from his shoulders and arms into his hands, and up through his neck to flood his cheeks at the same moment Suguru’s hand curled around the back of his neck. So this was sympathy.
No, surely this was something more.
Satoru felt swayed to grip Suguru’s hand tighter, and though they were examining the area over the school now, their bodies were still loosely intertwined. The sensations of their hands connecting and Suguru’s hand on Satoru’s cheek were firm, but the most entrancing attachments were the vague, the questionable. The indistinct coupling of one thigh and one calf resting against another, arms brushing together when Satoru raised his palm to wipe snot from his nose.
They were opposites, but perhaps that’s why they had been brought together. Their place in the world was beside one another; to hell with making out what had been planned for them. They may be pawns to a higher power, though they didn’t mind nearly as much as they thought they might have.
“We balance each other out, I think,” Satoru declared abruptly, focusing on Suguru, studying his expression for confirmation. The two gaped at each other, both shocked by the sudden proclamation and the recognition of the rift between the two. And yet, despite the contrast between them, it seemed that they were designed for each other. When Gojo Satoru was born, the balance of the world shifted. Cursed spirits became stronger — perfect for a curse user such as Geto Suguru, conceivably the only man in the jujutsu world capable of keeping up with Satoru.
Suguru smirked. “When did you become a philosopher?” he questioned, pausing for a moment, glancing up and to the right. He remained in deep consideration for some time before he continued. “But you’re right. We do.” The two might never fully understand each other, but that was what drew them closer.
Birdsong echoed somewhere in the distance, a vague warning that their presence would soon be required on campus. The two were receiving another mission today, and by extension, another opportunity to work together. This time, they would seize it without hesitation, without regret. “You wanna head back?” Suguru inquired, squeezing Satoru’s hand.
“No,” Satoru responded, “but we probably should.” He dragged out the word but for a second too long. Dawn had come too quickly for Satoru; it always did.
“Alright, then,” Suguru sighed. He stood up and pulled Satoru with him, and the two swung around to face the other direction together, never releasing the other’s hand. Satoru vowed to never let Suguru go in that instant.
He had no idea that Suguru pledged the same.