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one
Suguru doesn't know what to make of the Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College, whatever that actually is. All he's been told is that he will be going there and that no, he has no choice on the matter.
Regardless of his expectations, he certainly did not think the one to greet him would be a girl around his age with an unlit cigarette hanging from her puckered lips.
It's a strange image, really. The college itself is a broad campus surrounded by a forest, with huge buildings built in a traditional Japanese architectural style neatly spread out around a central edifice so tall he has to crane his neck to look at the top. It feels like it belongs to some distant past instead of the present. And this girl doesn't quite fit in with the ancient Buddhist temple she's in.
Just by being here, he feels he should be donning robes and geta instead of his admittedly worn out shirt and jeans, but she doesn't seem to have the same concerns. She just sits on a bench with her tennis shoes firmly planted on top of a frayed overnight bag like she owns the place.
He fiddles with the handle of the suitcase, a few steps away from her. Should he say something? She's chewing on her cigarette and not making any attempts to light it. Maybe she doesn't have anything to do? Well, he does. There's an emergency lighter neatly tucked in the pocket of his backpack. Should he offer it to her? It would be a good ice breaker, right? Unless she didn't actually smoke. He's heard of people who like to bite cigarettes without ever actually smoking them. If she were, then his offer would certainly be awkward. Maybe he should just leave—
"Hey." The girl's eyes land on him and she waves at him lazily. "You look lost."
Too late to leave now.
He approaches her slowly, so as to not startle her. "Hey," he responds and gestures towards her cigarette. "You look like you need a light."
"I do. Are you lost?"
"I am," he admits, fishing the lighter out of his backpack and dragging the sparkwheel down so a tiny flame jumps out of the small hole in the hood. "I don't know where the hell I'm supposed to go."
She hums in agreement as the fire licks the end of the cigarette, and then exhales a puff of smoke. "Thanks."
"No problem."
"Wanna sit down?" She scoots to the side, lending him half a bench. "There's room for two."
"Thanks." His feet ache after an entire day of walking, standing around waiting for buses and hauling two luggage.
"No problem." She echoes good-naturedly.
They sit side by side in silence, she smoking and he tapping his knee sporadically. The bench is smaller than anticipated, forcing them to be almost squished together in order to not have half their butts hanging off the edge. Her thigh is pressed against his, but she doesn't seem to mind, so he doesn't make a big deal out of it either. It's nice, he decides, the quiet of this school in the middle of nowhere.
The smoke wafts into the sky, spiraling around itself and materializing feeble shapes of grey. He watches them in some sort of mundane awe. One of them forms a soft S, that weirdly stays congruent for longer than the others.
He gestures towards the letter. "That looks like an S. My name starts with an S."
"Mine too." She doesn't call him weird for finding shapes in the smoke. "What's your name?"
"Suguru."
"Pretty."
"Thanks. Yours?"
"Shoko."
"Pretty too."
"Thanks."
The girl —Shoko— glances at him sideways and grins. Emboldened by the gesture, he elbows her slightly and adds, "maybe we should stick together then. You know, the pretty names starting with S gang."
"Maybe we should," she blows a smoke ring. "I wouldn't mind you being around."
"I wouldn't mind you either."
"So it's settled then?"
"Sure."
Not only is her name pretty, but so is her smile.
two
Suguru's head is heavy with sleep. He really should have gone to sleep earlier, but he'd stayed up talking to his parents and reassuring them that yes, he's settled in nicely and yes, he's sorry he took so long to call and no, he hasn't had any trouble—
All of that, for two hours straight. His folks are good, they really are, but they have a knack for losing track of the time.
There's no one around. Gojo had been sent off on his first mission, Yaga had gone with him and Shoko had been up all night with some emergency case—something about an arm being snapped in half, so she'd been given permission to oversleep that morning
He, being the useless one of the group, had been seated alone in the classroom and given a history assignment to do in his teacher's absence.
I mean, he's always been a loser, but this is a whole other level.
With a sigh, he buries his head in his arms and closes his eyes. There's still another forty five minutes until the bell rings, and he's already done half the work. He deserves a nap, doesn't he? It's not like there's anybody to tell him not to, right?
Someone pulls the short hairs on the nape of his neck. "Hello there, Sleeping Beauty."
He smiles to himself when he recognizes the voice. "Hi, Shoko." He glances at her sideways without lifting his head. She's sitting on the desk beside his, hair unruly and messy, eyebags dark and swollen, but smiling despite her exhaustion. "I thought you'd be asleep."
"Sleeping gets boring after a while," she shrugs. "Plus, I wanted to catch you. I didn't see you at all yesterday."
"Aww, did you miss me?" He coos, reaching out and poking her knee with a finger. "How sweet, Sho~"
She slaps his hand away. "Not at all. And don't call me Sho."
"Why?"
"You need to unlock level five of friendship to get to call me that."
"And what level am I?"
"You've been stuck at the introductory level for the past two months."
"Oh come on," he chuckles. His own fatigue washes away at the sight of her amused expression. "You wouldn't forgo sleep to catch someone who's on the introductory level, would you?"
"My blood sugar is very low right now," she blatantly ignores his question. "Buy me a coke and I'll upgrade you to level two."
"Level five."
"No. Two."
"Four at the very least."
"Three if you throw a donut in there."
"You are impossible, did you know that?"
"Do we have a deal, Geto-san?"
"Fine, you gold digger." He pushes himself off the desk and pats his pocket to make sure there's some change in there. "Let's go, Sho."
She sticks her tongue out to him.
three
The summer sucks, Suguru decides. He's lying in bed with as little clothing as it is socially acceptable but still this close to dying of a heat stroke. His old fan croaks and gasps as it tries to move along the humid air of the room to no avail. He gives it a pitiful look when it finally surrenders and the blades get stuck in place.
He thought he'd die by ingesting too many Curses, but apparently, his cause of death will be July.
Rolling off the mattress, he grabs the first shirt he finds and absentmindedly passes it over his head. He's been analyzing the structure of the dorm's building. If he stands on the window sill, he can hoist himself up to the roof. It would be so much fresher up there, with the summer breeze and what not. And if it isn't, well, then at least it'd be better than the microwave his room has turned into.
The window slides open easily. He loves the new frame, it's so easy to open, unlike the old ass one he had back home, the one he needed half an hour just to unlock. Climbing outside is also easy, and he silently thanks Yaga for pushing him so hard during physical training when his hands wrap themselves around the ledge and lift him up with no problem.
He spreads out his arms to balance himself on the roof tiles. It's a precarious way to the top, the only place flat enough to sit on, but he makes it there in one piece. A pang of pride crosses his chest when he finally reaches his destination and settles down. Look at him, being cool, climbing roofs and stuff.
"Well, hello."
He snaps to the side at the sound of the voice. Shoko flicks some ashes towards him as a greeting. A love language, as he's recently learned.
"Sho?"
"Took you long enough to get here," she points out. "I've been waiting for you forever."
"Waiting for me?" He sits by her side, keeping a nice distance to avoid any inconvenient body heat. There is a soft breeze, and his sticky, sweat-bathed body thanks it. "What do you mean?"
"Our rooms are right in front of each other, remember?" She has the habit of biting the cigarette instead of holding it with her hands, so the tip that goes into her mouth is always on the verge of being torn off. He wonders why he's noticed such a little thing. "I heard your dying grampus noises—"
"Dying grampus noises?"
"—and I figured you'd want to come up here, because it's way nicer out. Since I was dying too, I came here to wait for you and it took you ages to get up here, old man."
"Old man?" He's deeply offended. "How dare you? You're older than me!"
"But I'm young at heart. You're the geezer."
"Excuse you?"
"A dodo. An old fogey."
"What does that even mean?"
"A fuddy-duddy."
"Okay, that's it." He plucks the cigarette from her fingers. "Nicotine is obviously just as bad for your brain as it is for your lungs. I'm taking this."
"Hey!" She laughs and reaches for the cigarette, but he holds it up, away from her. "Give it back!"
Preventively immobilizing his other arm, she lunges forward, and soon they're a tangle of limbs wrestling for control. The breeze gets stronger, blowing his hair in both their faces and making their flimsy pajamas flutter. After some mindless tussling and meaningless insults, he manages to push her off him and pin her to the roof. He hovers over her, holding himself up with both elbows firmly planted on the sides of her head. The cigarette hangs loosely between his fingers, the spark on its end almost gone.
"I win."
She giggles. "What are you doing?"
"I don't know," he admits, feeling a smile creep up on his face. "Making you apologize for calling me an old man, I guess."
"Oh yes, I feel very sorry now." She tugs a lock that's come undone from his bun. "Very, very sorry, many apologies, mister senior citizen."
"You are the worst," he concludes, and he barely notices he's leaning in closer to her.
"You are the worst," she counters. Her eyes dart down, a little below his eyes, even lower than his nose. "You take precious belongings from poor innocent young women and—"
She might have had more to say, another joke at his expense to crack, but he can't hear it with her lips against his. Neither one is too good, they're clumsy and slow, she tastes like smoke and it's been a few hours since he's washed his teeth, but as far as first kisses go, this one is pretty good.
four
Shoko finds him reading in bed. He nods in her direction when he sees her enter out of the corner of the eye but remains focused on his book. If she truly needed something important, she would have said so before she finished walking through the door.
The mattress dips where she plops down (she always says his bed is too fluffy; he argues hers is too stiff). "Hey."
"Hi."
He turns the page. The paper rustles in the way only old paper can, and he revels in the sound. There's something oddly satisfying about old books. Who put the pages and covers together? Who packaged it and sent it to a library? Who put it on a shelf for display? Who bought it first, and who owned it after? How many hands other than his have held this book?
Well, he knows the partial answer to that question: besides his, Shoko's hands have also been on it. He blinks when she pushes it down, forcing his gaze to meet hers.
"Is your book interesting?"
"As a matter of fact, it is," he tries to get her to let go, but she grips it stubbornly. "Now, can I please get back to reading?"
"Is it more interesting than me?"
Oh, so that's what this is about. He has to hold back a smile.
"As a matter of fact," he repeats as obnoxiously as humanly possible. "It is."
"Oh, really?" She puts a hand to her chest. "I am deeply wounded, Suguru… That even though I cleared a few hours of my busy schedule to come and see you before you leave for your super important mission tomorrow, you refuse to pay attention to me… "
He snorts and complies, setting the book on the nightstand and pulling her by the waist. She lands on his chest and burrows in the crook of his neck.
"Better?"
"Better."
"I never pegged you as the clingy type."
"Appearances are deceiving."
Suguru kisses the top of her head. "I noticed."
"Did you just kiss the top of my head?"
"No."
"You totally did."
"Maybe."
"Sneaky bastard," she huffs.
"What?" He chuckles. "Don't tell me you don't like hair k—"
His words are left hanging in his throat when she presses her lips to the juncture of his neck. It's a small kiss, barely there, but it sets his entire body on fire.
They hadn't gotten quite… there yet. Sure, he'd kissed her and she'd kissed him back on the roof, but after that, it had never gone past light pecks in between classes and the occasional cuddling session. He'd never even dared to kiss her open-mouthed. A silly thing to be nervous about, he knows, but Shoko is his friend above and beyond and regardless of how much they play with the line between platonic and something else, he would never want to lose her.
Besides, she's the first one. Strange, sure, since he's good (questionable) with words and smooth enough to get numbers without much effort, but he's never held someone like he holds her, he's never kissed anyone like he kisses her. He's never liked anyone like he likes her.
And he's never wanted someone like he wants her.
"Hey." She squeezes his torso. "Was that too far?"
"You caught me off guard, that's all." He offers her a small smile.
She squints up at the awkwardness of his gesture. "You sure?"
"It was a bit unexpected," he admits, sitting up and clumsily helping her off him.
She kneels by his side with her hands folded on her lap as if she didn't want to touch him anymore. "I'm sorry."
"It was nice though."
"Do you mean it or are you saying it just because?"
"I mean it."
"We are both terribly awkward, aren't we?"
"Yeah," he agrees and cups her chin with his thumb and his index. "But I think it works for us."
"Yeah, it does."
five
Suguru feels very empty. It's been two weeks since… her , and he feels empty. He should feel sad, grief-ridden, outraged, disappointed in himself, something, but all he can think about is that there is nothing there. Only a void.
Even his own body feels strange. When he reaches to touch something, it's always cold. No matter what it is or its actual temperature, it's cold. He even tried grabbing a red hot cooking pot barehanded. The mark persisted for some time, but he felt nothing. Not a single tinge of pain or warmth. It burned and it was still so cold.
He hasn't talked much to anyone. Satoru had barely spoken to him since the incident. Yaga had attempted to console him, in his own very crude way, but he'd declined as politely as he could. Shoko hadn't said anything either.
Her silence stung the most. The last words he remembers from her are from when he woke up in the infirmary with bloodied bandages on his chest and she asked him how he felt. He couldn't say anything then. Shock, or maybe just pure horror. He regrets it because she never even looked him in the eye afterwards.
If he had his way, he would scream at her, beg her to say something, anything , because she's the only one whose words won't speak of his weakness, of his inability to save the only person who mattered.
And like the heavens heard his silent prayer, Shoko knocks on his door thrice, then two more times, in the same way she always knocks. His throat is hoarse, he can't tell her to come in. His hands are numb, he can't pat the floor so she knows she's welcome.
"I hope you're decent, because I'm coming in."
He would have sobbed when he saw her standing in the doorway if he could feel something other than the void. She's breathtakingly beautiful, she's always been, he's just never told her.
And she's even more beautiful when she shows him the brush and the elastics she brought and sits on his bed to reach his hair more easily. With timid nudges, she helps him rest his back against her legs, straighter than it's been these past weeks. Hunching when he's not in his right mind is a terrible habit, he should get rid of it.
"Hey," she whispers.
Is she scared? She's never feared him before. Others have. That blond first year kid, Nanami, fears him. He can see it when he moves out of the way every time he passes him in the hallway. But not Shoko. She has seen him swallow Curses as huge and enormous as himself; small but bitter Curses; sweet, almost palatable Curses that turned to poison when they reached his esophagus. She was there for the first one he ever consumed. She saw him gag and choke, trying to expel something that was meant to remain.
She could never be scared of him, could she?
"Hi." The word scrapes his throat and clings to his vocal chords, desperate to stay inside, clawing and making him bleed.
Her hands find their way to his scalp and she runs her fingers in between the strands, untangling each knot with patience and care. She's trembling, he realizes. She's not scared of him, she's scared for him. She had seen him sliced up neatly in two, guts almost pouring out, skin brutally cut up and carved to that man's liking. And she had to heal him, she had to look and put her hands on him and pray her skill was enough. If the roles were inverted, he would have—
The image of Shoko in a similar state to his is the most disturbing thing he's ever imagined and he gasps. Since when is the air so thin in his room?
"Suguru?" Her voice is shaky and on the verge of tears. "Suguru, are you okay?"
She stops combing through his hair and for a second, he doesn't feel her anymore. Is she still there? Has she left? Is she—
"Sho, I'm sorry," he cries out. Can she hear him? "I'm sorry I made you worry."
Someone sobs behind him and the hands return to motion, this time even more tremulously than before. Her skin brushes against his nape, and it's warm.
"Don't say that." She is warm when she rests her forehead on top of his head. "You're alive now, that's all that matters."
Warm.
He can't really say anything else, so he closes his mouth and his eyes, and focuses on her faint caresses. She's warm.
That's enough for now.
plus one
Shoko is a goddamn genius. She walked all the way from the school to this particular smoking area, just to forget the lighter. So now all she has is an unlit, useless cigarette.
Way to go, Ieiri.
She sticks it in her mouth, keeping it upright in between her teeth. Today is a munching-only day, apparently.
"You need a fire?"
Ah shit, here they go.
Suguru waves a hand in her direction, his smile unswerving and natural. She gives him a once over. He looks okay, clean, groomed and put together. Uninjured too, and that is a relief, even though he hasn't had a serious injury in the past two years. Too powerful for that, apparently. He certainly doesn't look like someone who just murdered an entire village.
Maybe he didn't? God, she hopes he didn't. She cares very little for what the elders consider moral and amoral, but even she knows where to draw the line.
"Hey," he walks cheerily to stand beside her, lighter in hand.
"Yo, it's the criminal." The word feels like a silly nickname she might have given him if he ever tried to steal her food. If he didn't commit mass slaughter, she might actually call him that. Would it be untasteful? Who cares, certainly not them. "You need something from me?"
He flicks the lighter on and she leans in to catch the flame. "I guess I'm just testing my luck?"
Testing his luck.
"Hmm?" She takes the first drag and it's bitter. Testing his fucking luck. Her free hand slides right into her pocket. The shiny new plastic case she hates so much is smooth under her fingers. "I'm gonna ask just to be sure, but are those false charges?"
"Nah, unfortunately not."
Appearances can be deceiving, she reminds herself. Most serial killers and psychopaths take daily baths. Blood is not very hard to scrub off clothes with cold water and a good soap. Black clothes hide stains very well.
Criminal.
She has Gojo on speed dial.
"Again, just to be sure: why?" Maybe there's a good reason. Maybe she doesn't have to press the telephone button.
"I will create a world where only sorcerers exist."
Criminal.
So no good reason then. Laughter bubbles up in the back of her throat and gushes out of her mouth, "That's hilarious!"
There, her thumb falls on the button and she holds the phone to her ear.
"I'm not a child." He doesn't try to stop her from calling. He doesn't even freak out. Criminal. "It's not like I need everyone to understand me."
"Just assuming that nobody will understand you already sounds pretty childish to me," she points out.
"Shoko, what's wrong?"
"Ah, Gojo? I met Geto." How long has it been since she's called him that? A few years? Two days? "In Shinjuku."
"Is he still with you? Did you follow him?"
"No way, I don't want to die." She hangs up.
"You think I would kill you?" Geto raises an eyebrow.
She looks at him again. He feels so familiar, the same warm smile, the same slightly hunched yet mostly straight posture, the same dark eyes. His Cursed Energy has gotten harsher over the years. He's always been perfectly contained, never overflowing out of the edges. And that hasn't changed, but the course is now rigid, stiff, almost frozen. If that isn't an indicator that this isn't her Suguru, then what is?
Criminal.
"I don't know," she admits and drops the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under her foot. The nicotine, lighted by him, doesn't feel any good. "Would you?"
"I would never hurt you."
"I don't mean to sound like an edgy thirteen year old boy, but you already did. Now get outta here. Gojo will find you either way, but I don't want to be there when that happens."
She spins on her heel and walks away. He follows her, his hand landing on her hip and spinning her around. Unconsciously, she grabs a handful of his shirt and pulls him down. His face is damp when it meets hers and his kiss tastes like ash and iron.
Criminal.
"You can come with me," he whispers and his voice is so low and on the verge of breaking it threatens to send her off balance as well.
Criminal. Criminal, criminal, criminal.
Gathering what little willpower she has left, she lets go and takes a step back. "Goodbye, Suguru."
She doesn't look back.