Work Text:
逆夢
sakayume (n.) a dream that is
contradicted by reality
Gojo Satoru didn't dream.
He couldn't remember a single time that he had dreamt before. Or at least, he could never recall any dreams after he woke up. He couldn’t recall ever having woken up drenched in sweat either. Dreaming, especially having nightmares was not something Gojo did. Or didn't used to, anyway. Now, everything was different. Now, nothing made sense anymore. His routines and habits, his very being had been thrown off balance, and he didn’t know how to undo any of it. All he could do these days was wake up soaking wet as the afterimages of his recurring dreams echoed in his mind.
"Another bad dream?"
Gojo blinked in the darkness to try and regain his sense of direction, his preoccupied brain barely registering the question. Though the world around him was spinning, he recognized the outlines of his bedroom in the Academy. A weight of deep anguish that was as heavy as a rock was crushing his chest, which prevented his body from calming down as he tried to catch his breath. It felt as though he was caught in a blazing inferno with his chest heaving for air and his lungs burning like fire.
He felt another weight settle on his chest, albeit much lighter, much softer than the rock sitting atop his ribcage. Slim fingers caressed his sweat soaked shirt, painting soothing circles on his chest. "You know they say that if you have a bad dream, it shows the opposite of reality, right?" The voice chimed happily.
Gojo flinched, finally taking in the voice.
He turned around, away from the other, and desperately felt around in the dark for the night light. Whether the trepidation in his fingers was a sign of the dream that didn't fade quickly enough or his exasperation at the notion that the great Gojo Satoru was feeling desperate over a dream, he couldn't tell. A recurring dream, at that. Something Gojo was used to even less.
He relaxed ever so slightly as the dim light illuminated the bedroom. He ran his fingers through his hair, which, to his embarrassment, were still shaking. "Crap," he huffed, before taking a few deep breaths. He froze when he saw someone shift in the corner of his eye. Beyond that, his body didn’t react to the other’s presence within his personal space; despite everything, it didn’t perceive the other as a threat—at least not to his own life. His well-being, on the other hand, was up for debate.
"You should take a shower." Fingers that weren't his entangled themselves in his damp strands, and it took every ounce of him not to jump away in disgust at the touch. "No wait—we should take a shower."
"Just fuck off."
He had meant to snap, but his voice sounded as empty as he felt. As empty as he had been feeling for weeks? months? years? now. The days were blending together, the nights he tried to repress as best as he could. He generally tried not to sleep, too haunted by these weird dreams he'd been having lately. When he did pass out from exhaustion—like tonight—, he cursed himself and his damned weakness. He was running out of strength. Even the great Gojo Satoru wasn't immune to sleep deprivation, he knew as much. But when he slept, he dreamt.
He hated his dreams.
Though he hated being awake just as much. He hated being in this weird state somewhere between dreams and reality, a twilight zone of his own weakness that constantly reminded him of his failures.
The other sighed. "Maybe you should get more sleep. You're insufferable when you're this tired."
Ignoring the other, he pushed out of bed. With one thing, he was right (though even acknowledging his presence made Gojo shiver)—he needed to shower. He dragged his feet into the adjacent bathroom, turned on the lights and groaned as he was greeted with a sharp pain splitting his skull. If there was ever a time to wear sunglasses or his blindfold at night, this was it.
As though he had read his mind (or maybe he had said those things out loud?), the other’s voice pierced through the night. "And hide those beautiful eyes of yours?"
Of course he had been followed into the bathroom. He shouldn't have acknowledged the other's presence to begin with. How often had he told himself, reprimanded himself not to do that? Telling himself to pretend that he didn’t notice, pretend like he was all by himself? How often had he failed to? It seemed as though all he was capable of doing lately was screwing up. What a laughing stock he'd become. If the elders could see him like that, they'd have a blast using his weakness to their advantage and hunting him down. It'd definitely play into their hands to dispose of him while he was being stupidly preoccupied like that. Not that they would've stood a chance to had he not been this distracted.
Cursing under his breath, he slipped out of his damp clothes and into the shower cabinet. He contemplated soothing his tense muscles with some steaming hot water, but decided to shock his mind back into consciousness with a cold shower instead. He grunted as the cold water hit his heated skin; at least the icy rain eased the tension behind his temples.
His relief was cut short when two arms wrapped around his torso, hands gliding over his stomach as a chin came to rest on his shoulder.
Don't do it, he told himself, his muscles tensing as they would during a fight. Don't react. Pretend you don't notice. He closed his eyes, repeating those words in his mind over and over again. This was an old game by now; still, it always took every ounce of his will to keep his defenses up. Don't be that stupid, Satoru, not again, don't do it, just don't do it, don't say anything. Like a broken record.
The other's face leaned into the nape of his neck, a deep sigh left the other's lips. "It's been awhile since we did this. I've missed this."
Gojo felt nothing.
It hurt. It hurt so fucking much.
Not being able to bear this torture anymore, Gojo broke free of the embrace. He stumbled out of the shower, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist, as he frantically tried to catch his breath. He gripped the sink for support as his knees shook, and his insides were screaming at him. Weak. Pathetic. Embarrassing. He closed his eyes trying to tune out the thoughts that were drowning him. Every time he fell asleep it was the same spiel, the same godforsaken nightmare. If any of his enemies could see him in this state, they'd bend over laughing.
He was pathetic for sure.
"Hey, what's going on, Satoru?"
No, don't do this. Don't play the concerned friend now. Not after you ruined everything. He wanted to yell it out, but his lips were glued together. Maybe they were holding back the last pieces of his sanity.
"Talk to me, please." The voice was soft, trying to coax him into opening up, into slipping up once more tonight.
Go away. Please, just leave me alone. I just want one night of peace and quiet.
"Can you at least look at me? Please. Please look at me."
Gojo shook his head ever so slightly, trying to repel the sweet spell of temptation. He didn't know how much longer he could bear this before his soul broke apart completely. He felt tears of anguish press against his lids.
Fuck.
Gojo didn't cry. Okay, maybe sometimes he did dream these days. But he sure as hell wouldn't cry. That was something he just didn't do. That wasn't something he was prone to do, it wasn't something anyone thought him capable of. He wasn't supposed to be like that.
He was supposed to be the strongest, not just in combat abilities and cursed technique. He was supposed to be strong-willed, stubborn and unbreakable, not this shattered reflection of the Strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer. He needed to fight, to function, to serve and protect. Not feel. Nobody needed a soldier that couldn't do his job properly anymore. Nobody needed this pathetic shell he'd turned into, this pathetic man that was too scared to fall asleep and to dream.
"What's wrong, Satoru?"
But maybe being broken was all that was left for him.
Feeling a numbness wash over him that didn't stem from the cold shower but the fingertips caressing his bare shoulder in an attempt to get him to turn around, his head shot up. Blue eyes found black ones in the mirror, when they shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't be doing this—but when had he ever been immune to the other's spell? It was true, the other was and always had been Gojo's weakness, and he despised it. Despised it so much he felt like he was choking.
"What's wrong?"
Gojo lost it. "Fucking you are!"
Geto simply smiled. A smile so sweet, so innocent, so full of lies and deceit. His long dark hair that had usually been tucked back in a bun had come loose, black strands were cascading over his shoulders. How much Gojo wanted to touch those strands, wrap them around his finger, pull Geto close, so close, yet never close enough. Fuck. He was drowning again. Drowning in a sea of dark eyes and dark hair and dark nothingness. Because nothing was all he felt, all he would feel if he gave into his longing.
Instead, he pushed past Geto, back into his bedroom. He tried to ignore the lingering sensation of Geto watching his every move as he slipped into another pair of boxers and a simple black shirt.
Geto placed a hand over his heart, the smile still adorning his face. "Why do we always have to play this game where you ignore me and I ignore the fact that you ignore me? You hurt me deeply," he jested, yet there was a chill to his words that made Gojo shiver. Hurting Geto had been the last thing he'd ever wanted to do.
He didn’t reply. He didn’t apologize, no matter how much he wanted to. Geto had never apologized to him, either, after all. Ignoring him some more, Gojo draped the wet towel over the chair at his desk.
"Satoru, say something."
"No."
He hadn't meant to speak the word out loud, but when did things ever go the way he'd planned them to with Geto? Fuck, the current circumstances had been the furthest from what he'd ever imagined. He had never wanted this, for neither of them. Exhausted, he sank onto the mattress. He just wanted some peace of mind. He wanted to pass out and spend a night full of rest and void of these excruciating dreams. He hated them. He hated these visions that kept piercing his subconscious, making him startle into consciousness near a panic attack each time.
Geto sat down next to him; the mattress didn't shift. He seized Gojo's shoulder gently. "C'mon, the dreams can't be that bad, can they?"
Gojo pressed his lips together to stifle a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. If only Geto knew. But he didn't. Gojo had never told anyone about his dreams, and Geto was the last person he would’ve told, anyway. Shoko had probed a few times, but after realizing his lips were sealed shut, she had given up. She had offered to prescribe him some sleeping pills, but he had declined with a wide grin. After all, he couldn't sedate himself like that when him being out of the picture was what Curses far and wide were striving for. Otherwise he would've long drowned his traumas in alcohol like every normal person.
But he wasn't normal. And neither was Geto. They were something else. They were complicated, and messy, and painful. They were special, but not in a good way, no not at all. After all, if they had been the good kind of special, they wouldn't be in this position now. Gojo wouldn't dread dreaming, he wouldn't contemplate turning into an alcoholic, and Geto wouldn't be... Geto would...
His despair must've shown on his face, because the fingers slid from his shoulder to his cheek. He didn't want to indulge, he knew he shouldn't, but the part of him that was tired wanted nothing more than to give in.
"Sakayume," Geto breathed against his temple, and Gojo closed his eyes, craving the warmth he had once felt at the touch, at every brush of their beings together. "Did I forget to say that when you woke up? Your dreams aren't reality."
It was the last nail in Gojo's coffin. "That's the problem, Suguru, isn't it?" He whispered, feeling tears well up in his eyes again. It would've been so easy, had reality mirrored his dreams. He wouldn't have been chunking an exorbitant amount of coffee every day to try and stay awake, hiding his bloodshot eyes behind sunglasses or a blindfold every time he stepped out of his bedroom. If only he could fall asleep and never wake up again, just wander his world of dreams endlessly. His dreams that weren't reality, no matter how much he wished they were.
He looked up, choking as he looked Geto in the eyes. There was no blame there, no accusations, no hatred. Just pure, untainted love; the warmth he had always regarded Gojo with before. Before everything had happened. Before they had lost everything.
"Then why'd you do it?" Geto asked, the smile still on his lips. Still no blame, still no darkness. Just his best friend smiling at him, the man he would've died for, and in a sense had, the love of his goddamn life, the man by his side—at least in another universe. In another lifetime, perhaps, they could've found happiness. Just like in his dreams. In his dreams where the warmth hadn't left Geto's eyes.
Finally, he looked at him, a knot forming in his stomach as a scar appeared on Geto's forehead. It slowly tore open as did his heart, and dark liquid spilled out and over Geto's face; a liquid that Gojo knew to be dark red in brighter light but that looked almost black in the dimly lit room. A second gash appeared, this time on Geto's throat, and Gojo felt as though his own throat was being slit as he watched the laceration unfold before his eyes in slow motion. Geto didn't try to stop the bleeding. He didn’t even flinch, didn’t try to reach for his throat. Neither did Gojo. It was far too late for that.
"Why'd you do it?" Geto repeated, a trail of blood trickling down the corner of his mouth, his lips still curved into a smile. The same smile he had worn on that fateful evening. "Why'd you kill me, Satoru?"
Gojo averted his gaze, unable to bear the picture of his crime anymore. "You know why." Even though he kept his voice down, he could still hear the tremors in his words. The pain, and regret. "It was the only way to stop you."
"Tell me again what you told me back then, right before you slit my throat." Geto was grinning, now, his hair as disheveled and bloody as it had been the night Gojo had ended Geto’s life with his own two hands.
"You're too cruel," Gojo objected, his voice hoarse from the tears he was fighting back. He had never cried, not even once in his life—except that very night he had washed his best friend's blood off his hands. He had fallen to his knees in front of the sink, and cried, and cursed Geto for straying from the right path, for hurting his students, for threatening to kill Maki and Yuta, for forcing his hand like he had.
If only things had been different.
Geto snorted in that nonchalant way of his, like he always had when they'd been bickering as students. "Says the one who cut my throat."
Gojo chuckled dryly. If nothing else was an indicator of how twisted his mental state had gotten, his reaction certainly was. There was a good chunk of bittersweet irony to it, after all. Had Shakespeare written a play about them, people would've called it poetic— a tragedy. And it was. A cruel twist of fate, a tale of two men who had become puppets of a warped society, and had found each other on opposite sides of the gun when one of them had broken out.
"I love you," Gojo repeated, the old feelings of desperation and helplessness washing over him again.
"Still?" Geto hummed, satisfied with having gotten his way.
"Still." Gojo looked up, finding to his relief that the blood had disappeared and that the cuts on Geto's skin had closed back up. If only the same thing had happened with the real Geto.
"I never stopped," he continued, feeling a splash of red tinge his cheeks. This was certainly the most morbid thing he'd ever done, confessing his undying love to his best friend whose very life he had taken with his bare hands. "And I never will."
Geto cradled his cheek. With a sigh, Gojo closed his eyes, wishing he could lean into the touch, wishing there'd been even a sliver of warmth selling this make-believe to him.
"Isn't this better than pretending I don't exist?" Geto asked smugly.
Gojo shook his head. "You know you don't exist. Not anymore. Certainly not here with me." He paused. Then, barely above a whisper, "I miss you so fucking much."
He knew that he hadn't had another choice but to do what he'd done. To kill Geto, sully his hands, his life and his conscience with the blood of the only person he'd ever considered a friend, the only person he'd ever loved. And what had come of it? Sure, humanity was safe for now, even the apes as Geto had called those without cursed energy. Yuta was safe from execution for the time being. And what did Gojo get?
A broken heart, and a broken mind.
But who cared about the sanity of the Strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer as long as he was still functioning, after all? What did he care? He had done his duty, and the reward was dreaming of Geto every time he fell asleep, dreaming of a peaceful life together they'd never have.
Again, Geto seemed to have read his mind. "So put those feelings to use then. You're Gojo Satoru, after all, aren't you? You're not gonna let something like this stop you from doing the good you were meant to do, right?"
"What do you want me to do?" Months later, Gojo still felt lost. He'd never felt this lost before, never imagined he could feel this way.
"You couldn't save me." Geto ran his thumb over Gojo's cheek—again, there wasn't even a trace of warmth or pressure to his touch. "I was beyond saving, we both knew that. So go find someone who isn't. Okkotsu Yuta surely isn't the only kid out there who needs saving."
"But why me?" Gojo objected meekly, though it was hard to not just melt at the sound of Geto's voice speaking the most reasonable things he had craved to hear back when Geto had still been alive. "I'm tired."
Geto hummed in understanding. He took Gojo's hand in his, coaxing him to lie down onto the mattress, where he cradled his head in his arms, stroking his hair as to soothe him. "Because nobody else will help them," he spoke as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. "And when you're tired, you know I'll always be here waiting for you." He painted a soft trail on Gojo's forehead with his fingertips. "I'll be here with you, or in your dreams, I'll never be far."
Gojo closed his eyes, letting himself get lulled in by this promise of false sweetness, if only a little bit.
Liar.
But maybe Geto was right. Maybe he could plaster a smile onto his face, maybe he could even find back to his once undying sense of optimism. Maybe he could still do some good in this cruel, twisted world.
And maybe he could even save another poor kid in the process.