Chapter Text
Sharp nails drum noisily against the wooden arm of the sofa, irritation lacing each rap of polished black against lacquered birch. He keeps his breathing steady: inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Long breaths. Pause between. Techniques once utilized to help their son calm down, regulate his breathing and more tumultuous emotions. Smell the flowers, blow out the candles. Another inhale, but an exhale through a clenched jaw, through gritted teeth. The voice in his mind grates on his nerves, a reminder of the source of this irritation he so seeks to combat.
His hand lifts from the sofa, drags through thick pale rose locks before dropping back down. The drumming resumes. Louder now. More forceful. His fresh manicure threatens to chip.
Across from him, seated in a tufted grey armchair—wooden arms, matching the sofa—the woman shifts slightly. There’s a polite smile on her face, but it strains with each passing minute, then each passing second. Her hands are clasped in her lap, perhaps to prevent any nervous fidgeting, any irritated tick, anything that could betray her professional façade. It threatens to slip soon. She blinks too often.
And he almost laughs. Almost. Of course Satoru fucking Gojo has the power to drive even the calmest, most composed figures to the brink of ebullition without even so much as existing in their presence. Once he actually arrives…this woman is doomed.
But he’s late. Thirteen minutes late. Not his usual seven, or even eight. Thirteen minutes.
And Sukuna is ready to kill him for it.
The woman clears her throat, sitting up straighter in her chair. “Perhaps we should discuss rescheduling?”
“Two minutes,” he counters. “He’ll be here.”
She tries to smile. Her lips press too thin. “Two minutes.”
In reality, Satoru had arrived outside the office approximately five minutes ago. However, when it came to finally breaching the threshold, he’d paused. Sweat slicks his palms, which he’s tried to wipe off on his expensive slacks many times, to no avail. His heart races in his chest, pulse pounding in his ears. He musters up his courage, squares his shoulders, curls his palms into fists.
His feet remain rooted to the pavement.
And the thing is, Satoru Gojo is no stranger to challenge. He’s faced off against hordes of curse users, defeated the strongest of cursed spirits, laughed in the face of reality’s limits and defied even death itself. But this…This new challenge could perhaps be the most difficult yet—infinitely worse than all the others combined:
Couple’s therapy.
He huffs. C’mon, Satoru. You’re the strongest guy in the entire universe—in the history of the universe. This is nothing. Just go in there and get it over with. It was your idea, after all.
His jaw clenches. He forces away the tension. Just remember why you’re here. You’ve got to make this work. You’re doing this for Yuuji and Megumi. And Nobara, I suppose. Yuta too, maybe? Oh, and definitely Tsumiki. And Aoi?
He snorts. Okay, no, not Aoi. But everyone else.
He takes a steadying breath, adjusts the sunglasses perched on his nose. He leans down to retrieve the small paper bag that had slipped from his grasp minutes earlier. Another deep breath, an exaggerated rise and fall of his chest. Then he plasters on an award-winning smile before pushing open the glass-paned door.
Showtime.
A minute passes, quickly bleeding into two.
The office door clicks open.
Satoru struts into the office, well-dressed in a pressed pale blue shirt, grinning as though he hadn’t been keeping them waiting for the past fifteen minutes. He flashes a three-fingered peace sign with his free hand, the other tucked behind his back, poorly concealing a small green bag. “Hey! Sorry I’m late. The funniest thing happened on the way here—I’ll tell you about it later.” He rounds the back of the sofa, leaning over it to quickly press his lips to Sukuna’s temple, ignoring the latter’s glare.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Sukuna asks—well, demands—as Satoru comes to stand by the opposite end of the sofa.
“I just told you,” Satoru says with a sigh, “I’ll tell you later. Anyways, I brought gifts!” He holds up the green bag, showing it off with a flourish. “Taadaa! Kikusuian’s kikufuku mochi!”
Smell the flowers, blow out the candles. “Satoru Gojo, if that funny thing that happened on your way here involves travelling all the way to Sendai for mochi, I will flay your skin from bone and string your mutilated body up by your innards.”
Satoru’s grin widens. “Hey now, don’t threaten me with a good time. Besides, my trip to Sendai had nothing to do with it. Promise.”
Sukuna fixes him with a Look—one that says not only that he doesn’t believe him, but that he’s also trying to decide which blade would be the best for slicing through his flesh.
“So…” Satoru holds the bag out again, giving it a slight shake. “you don't want the mochi?”
“Give it here.”
Satoru tosses the bag onto Sukuna’s lap—who immediately digs in—then plops down onto the sofa with a sigh, gracefully crossing one long leg over the other, an arm draping along the sofa’s back. He finally addresses the woman, who’s been watching the exchange with a mix of emotion—annoyance and confusion primarily showing through the crease in her features, the tilt of her head. “Glad to officially make your acquaintance. I’m Satoru Gojo. Sorry again about the tardiness.”
The woman smiles that thin-lipped smile again. “Yes, well, Gojo. I hope you do not make a habit of arriving late to these sessions. You only get the hour you paid for, and I’d hate to see you squander that time.”
“Well, if I had known our counsellor was as lovely as yourself, I would’ve rushed to get here as early as possible. I know it’s rude to keep a pretty lady waiting." He grins, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously over the rims of his glasses. "Won’t happen again, I promise.”
Sukuna snorts.
Satoru tilts his head in the former’s direction, eyebrow raised. “Something funny?”
“Making promises you can’t keep.” Sukuna plucks a mochi from its wrapper, tossing the trash at Satoru. “If this were a binding vow, you’d be fucked.”
Satoru glares at him from behind his glasses. “I can be on time,” he insists, throwing the wrapper back. “I’m never late to the really important stuff!”
Sukuna raises a brow in challenge. “You sure?”
Satoru crosses his arms over his chest. “Name one time I was late to something that was actually important—no offense.” He adds this last part as an afterthought, addressing the counsellor once again. She waves the comment off, busy scribbling away in her notebook. Wait, did the session start already?
Sukuna reclines against the sofa, hands resting behind his head. “Our wedding.”
“I was not late to our—shit, I was late to our wedding.” Satoru ignores the smug smirk Sukuna sends his way. “But I had a good excuse that time, so it barely counts.”
And, okay, Sukuna will give him that. But still. “I’m telling you, Satoru. You’ll be late to your own death.”
Satoru tips his shades down so he can shoot Sukuna a wink. “I already was.”
The counsellor clears her throat, drawing the men’s attention back to her. She smiles that professional smile, setting her notebook off to the side. “Right. Well, now that we have all arrived and gotten settled, it’s time to begin. Since this is your first session, I would like to spend some time getting to know each other. I’ll start by briefly introducing myself: my name is Yua Sato, and I’ve been a marriage counsellor for almost twenty years now. I’ve worked with all sorts of clients and situations, and helped guide them to effective solutions. Now, it’s important for you to understand that relationship issues are often quite complex, and counselling doesn’t provide any quick-fix solutions. However, if you work hard and stick with it, I know you will see improvements in your relationship. That being said—” She leans back comfortably in her chair, gesturing towards the pair on the sofa— “I’d like to get to know the two of you as a couple. Tell me about yourselves. How did the two of you meet?”
“We met in high school, actually,” Satoru starts, then quickly backtracks. “Well, I was in high school—senior year. He was an ancient cursed spirit at the time, terrorizing the masses and all that.”
The woman—Yua—flicks her gaze to Sukuna as though gauging his reaction to what was so clearly intended as an insult, but rather than anger finds the other nodding along in agreement. Yua’s eyes narrow slightly in confusion. “Uh-huh,” she says slowly. “Right. And how long have the two of you been together?”
Satoru taps his chin in thought. “Hmm…well, Yuuji was eleven when we got married—”
“Megumi was eleven,” Sukuna interrupts, correcting the other. “Yuuji had just turned twelve.”
“Right.” Satoru quickly counts it out on his fingers. “So, I guess we’ve been married for four years now—almost five! Unless,” he adds, as an afterthought, “you exclude that time we were…separated, so to speak.”
“And what do you mean by that?” Yua probes.
Sukuna jabs a thumb in Satoru’s direction. “This dumbass got himself sealed away in a Special Grade cursed object, Prison Realm.”
Satoru scoffs. “Oh, you’re one to talk. You got your power sealed away inside a literal baby.”
“And just whose fault was that, huh?”
The two look about ready to rip out each other’s throats, teeth bared and bodies tense, mochi bag careless tossed aside on the floor. Session verging on the brink of disaster (though still not the worst she’s ever had), Yua tries to redirect the conversation. “And Satoru,” she starts, pressing on despite her growing confusion, “for how long were you, uh, sealed?”
Satoru relaxes back against the sofa. “Barely a year,” he says. “I probably could’ve been released sooner, but somebody was too busy sulking about it.”
Sukuna scoffs, incredulous. “You laid eyes on your ex—who you claimed to harbour no unresolved feelings towards—for a mere second, and it struck so deep into your very soul that it rendered you—the invincible Satoru Gojo—completely vulnerable to attack. And, what? Am I just supposed to be okay with that?”
“That’s not what happened!” Satoru insists, and by the way he says it—the worn exasperation in his tone—it seems as though they’ve had this argument before. “I just—”
He cuts himself off, gaze flicking to Yua. “Sorry, I’m sure none of this is really making sense to you. We should probably backtrack a bit, yeah?”
Yua blinks, gradually catching up. “Yes. Uh, yes, that would be best.” She’s quick to recollect herself, clearing her throat. “How about we start at the beginning.”
“The beginning?” Satoru echoes, humming in thought. “Yikes. Well, I guess it all started the day we almost killed each other…”
Satoru had always known he’d have to face off against Sukuna one day. It was destiny: the fated battle between the world’s strongest sorcerer and the world’s strongest curse. He was born for this, had been training for this ever since his cursed techniques manifested. It was never a matter of if, but when.
But he never thought the battle would turn out like this.
Consciousness returns slowly, gradually, icy blue eyes blinking open to gaze upon a grey sky. He winces, pulling himself to a seated position, ash cloying to his tongue, smoke burning in his lungs as he inhales sharply. Coughs rack his body. He doubles over. Blood splatters the earth below.
He gets his breathing back under control, lifting his head in an attempt to regain his bearings. All around him, the forest lies in ruins. It stretches as far the eye can see, a barren wasteland of ash and dirt, and distantly he hopes the damage didn’t make it far enough to reach civilization. He had been lucky—even he can admit—that Sukuna had agreed to a battle in the countryside rather than in, say, downtown Tokyo. Something about utilizing the open space, perhaps not wishing for anything or anyone to hinder their battle, prevent Satoru from going all out.
And all out did he go.
Flashes of battle dance across his memory—visions of sharp blue light, angry flames, invisible blades. Smoke. So much smoke. And blood. A nightmarish figure, a devilish face. Twin malicious grins throughout it all. They’d been equal in almost every aspect—he and Sukuna—and while Satoru would never admit it aloud, he had expected it. He had anticipated that the being who had so terrorized Japan since the Heian period would prove a challenge even to someone as powerful as Satoru.
Which is why he had come up with a (potentially insane) experimental technique, a complicated manipulation of both his Six Eyes and Limitless that allowed him to seal away some—if not all—of Sukuna’s power, gaining him the upper hand.
But had it worked?
Satoru hadn’t been able to test his experimental technique yet, had barely conceptualized the idea when the call to action had sounded, when he’d rushed off to fight. This move was a desperate bid to tip the scale of an expected stalemate, a final Hail Mary with no guarantee of success. Hell, he hadn’t even considered the effect such a technique could have on himself; could his body handle the output? Did he have the cursed energy left?
He's alive—through luck or strength, it’s too early to tell. His cursed energy has definitely taken a hit, and his body is in a sorry state, but he’s alive. He concentrates his Six Eyes; Sukuna’s energy is still present, but it’s different now. Fainter. More subdued. Enshrouded in a binding unmistakably Satoru.
It must have worked.
With a grunt, Satoru rises on unsteady feet, muscles protesting with every twitch, every contraction. There’s a body on the battlefield several yards from him; still, almost lifeless. He makes his way towards it.
The body. It’s unfamiliar. Not the usual monstrous, two-faced, four-armed form of Sukuna Ryoumen, King of Curses, but instead the body of a man—no, not quite a man: a boy who’s barely gotten a glimpse at adulthood, maybe nineteen or twenty by the looks of it. The only indications that this boy was—is? —Sukuna are the black markings tracing his face, dark ink staining sallow skin, and the shock of rose hair atop his head, caked and coated in ash. He’s still alive—pulse in his veins, chest rising and falling with every laboured breath—but barely. Deeply wounded, bleeding out on the forest floor. No cursed energy flows through him. No longer a cursed being. Human—if such a thing were possible.
And Satoru has to kill him.
He gathers his cursed energy, preparing to finish the job, but something halts him in his tracks, shocks him, distracts him enough to have the energy build-up fizzle out in his palm: a cry, high-pitched, human. Unmistakably human—a baby, wailing for its parents.
Satoru frowns.
He leaves Sukuna’s still form behind (he wouldn’t be going anywhere, anyways), following the sound as it echoes across the desolated landscape. Sure enough, a baby lies amongst the ruin: tiny, with golden eyes and wisps of hair atop its head so pale they’re practically white. An ordinary baby, by all appearances, though inexplicably here upon the battlefield. But deep within…
Cursed energy.
Sukuna’s cursed energy.
Wrapped and bound tightly by Satoru’s own.
What the fuck.
In his seventeen years of life, Satoru had never once seen a human baby—not in person, at least. And honestly, he had never been in a rush to see one. In fact, he could have gone his entire life without once seeing a baby and have been completely satisfied. And yet here he is, standing amongst the rubble of battle, gazing down upon a tiny baby who had somehow come to possess the cursed energy of the strongest cursed spirit to have ever existed.
What. The. Fuck.
For the first time in his life, Satoru is at a complete and utter loss as to what to do. He glances back at Sukuna’s body—still unmoving, still unconscious—then back to the baby. He needs to finish his mission. He’ll kill Sukuna, destroy the body, then…figure it out from there.
Mind made up, he steps towards Sukuna
The crying intensifies, and Satoru pauses mid-step, body tensing. For despite his insurmountable power, his ego, his self-ascribed divinity, Satoru Gojo…
He’s only human.
He turns back towards the baby, kneeling down and scooping it up awkwardly in his arms. “Hey. Hey little guy, it’s alright. Shh, it’s okay.”
The soothing attempts are clumsy at best; Satoru had never been good at providing comfort, having no experiences of his own to draw upon. Still—miraculously so—the baby does calm down, cries replaced with gurgling, spit bubbling in its tiny mouth, and it should be disgusting—it is disgusting—and yet…
Staring into those golden eyes, Satoru can’t breathe.
There’s something dangerous about the child—the influence of Sukuna’s vile energy churning deep beneath his skin—but beyond that, there’s something undeniably good. Something undeniably right. Something undeniably Satoru. A perfect yin and yang. Darkness and light, reconciled in one tiny, helpless body. So vulnerable. So strong.
And Satoru knows he has to protect it. He has to keep it safe.
He awkwardly shifts the baby to one arm so he can unzip his uniform jacket—a bit tattered, coated in dirt and ash and blood—carefully tucking it inside, holding it close to his chest as he zips the jacket up around it, mindful not to smother it. The baby quickly snuggles against him, and Satoru’s breath catches in his throat.
He spares Sukuna’s still body a final glance. Still teetering on the brink of life and death. No cursed energy with which to heal the fatal wounds. He’d succumb to them soon enough.
Satisfied, baby pressed to his chest, Satoru begins the long walk back to Jujutsu Tech.