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For Satoru, there’s something inexplicably lonely about the way the sun sets. It’s almost as if the last scraps of marigold luminescence know it’s their time to go, and thus, they put on their best show; bright crimsons, light oranges, opaque purples—they tinge the skies with their most beautiful shades, clinging to the dashed hopes of remembrance after their unavoidable death.
However, most people pay no heed to the sun’s most earnest illustration, their hearts sheltered by the ardent promise of a tomorrow. Another day, another sunset—but the one of yesterday won’t ever come back, Satoru knows.
There’s no such thing as guarantees when it comes to the challenge of living, staying alive, surviving another day and getting to see the brilliance of the stars slowly consuming the clouds once more. But with Satoru’s job—with a Jujutsu Sorcerer’s duties— one has to be well-acquainted with the occupational hazard, thus always being ready to selflessly give up their lives for the sake of other, weaker people.
That’s why every day, when he finally gets to go home after a tiring mission, Satoru takes a few moments to glance up at the sky and make certain that the shape of the clouds, the colors of the sun, the scent of that day, are all engraved deep into his mind. Only then does he allow himself to open his chest, lay his heart bare for everyone to see; only then does he remove his Gojo mask and is just—Satoru.
The only one who ever gets to see him as his true self, with all his fears and foibles and the impure stains on his soul, is his best friend. His one and only, Geto Suguru.
The one Satoru always comes back home to.
It never takes long for Satoru to willingly sink into the intoxicating embrace of Suguru. He loves when his cologne engulfs all of his being, drowning him in a sea of comfort and love and devotion so, so vast. An ocean of emotions Satoru can only ever feel when he’s with him, a graceful tide with Suguru’s name engraved therein.
Letting out a leaden sigh, Satoru opens his eyes and peers up at Suguru from where his head rests on his chest, relishing the up and down of his breathing. Every day, after he gets home, Satoru never dares waste a second before snuggling against Suguru, who always waits with open arms and a dazzling smile that has Satoru’s heart skipping a beat in his chest, restless and so, so in love.
From this angle, he can see the subtle hints of stubble trailing up his jaw, accentuating his sharp features; the shadow his eyelashes cast on his cheekbones, long and thick and so, so beautiful. Ethereal, even, as his dark eyes gently take in Satoru’s expression.
Suguru might come off as reckless, intimidating, and even slightly menacing, but underneath all those layers of appearances and façades lies a different person; the Geto Suguru that Satoru knows, with his strong sense of righteousness, his emotions that sometimes are a little too big for his body, and a heart innately tender and dedicate as it quietly gives its love away. To all the people he cares about, to those he doesn’t know yet still wishes to help—the strong, the weak, the human .
“Hey, Suguru,” Satoru softly calls him, bringing forth a hand and poking at Suguru’s cheek. He grins when his best friend scowls, then looks down at him tilting his head to the side, resembling a confused dog. Satoru sighs again, so resonant and lovesick and lonely . “What am I supposed to do when you’re gone?”
It’s a question he’s been meaning to ask for a long while now. It might sound clingy, childish even, coming from the strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer out there—but Satoru knows Suguru will never judge him, laugh at him or belittle his emotions for the sake of his own. He knows just how raw the honesty in Suguru’s soul is, for he has seen it overflow from his body, has felt it dusting his own bones with warmth and veracity and sorrow, so much sorrow that merely remembering it has Satoru flinching, squirming a little on his best friend’s embrace. Uneasy.
“What kind of question is that?” Suguru softly responds with another question and through an amused snort. He brings one of his hands to Satoru’s platinum hair and starts to play with a strand, twirling it with his finger. “I don’t know, Satoru. That’s up to you, isn’t it? Why are you asking me, dumbass?”
Whining, Satoru slaps Suguru’s hand and takes the opportunity to grab it, bringing it to his lap and playing with lithe fingers, touching them, memorizing the callous on his palm and the ridges of Suguru’s skin against his own. A perfect fit, really, Satoru thinks as he fits his fingers in the gaps between Suguru’s, squeezing his hand.
“Just—tell me what I'm supposed to do, Suguru,” he prompts again with a sigh, the ghostly hint of a smile on the corners of his lips when Suguru’s fingers clasp with his own. Satoru can feel the glee with which his heart beats then, warmth pooling in his cheeks and tinging them red.
“You’re so pale that it’s always really easy to see when you’re blushing, Satoru,” Suguru teases him, once again avoiding the question as he brushes a thumb over Satoru’s cheek with his free hand. It’s a tender gesture that has Satoru’s eyes fluttering shut as he basks in the sensation of Suguru’s touch; the fire that it seems to light up within him in its wake.
When Satoru glares at him, blue eyes narrowed to slits and accusing, Suguru lets out a laugh that reverberates on his chest. Satoru feels it against his back, loud, unabashed and so full of life. He has to bite back a fond smile for the sake of his pride.
“Okay, okay,” Suguru appeases. “What do you usually do when I’m gone, then?”
Satoru stills, feels the blood freezing in his veins as a lump grows in his throat, filling him with anxiety and illogical fear. His hands shake where they’re sheltered by Suguru’s, his breaths become ragged, and the world slows down. So, so slow, as the gentle brush of warm fingertips grazes the skin of the back of his hands, a muffled voice barely reaching Satoru’s ears. As big palms cup his cheeks, grounding, cold, barely there. And it’s so sad, it’s such a heartbreaking gesture, that Satoru can’t help the tremble of his lower lip.
“I wait for you to come back,” he whispers, the words broken in the stillness of this desolate night, loud against the silent beating of his heart; incredibly genuine, too, for Satoru thinks he tastes his own blood in his mouth. The words come from the deepest parts of his soul, have breached their way to the surface by fighting tooth and nail against the sweetest of irrationalities. “I always wait for you to come back.”
Suguru sucks in a breath, then a smile softly creeps into his face when he watches Satoru lean into his touch, nuzzling his palm. He traces the slope of Satoru’s nose with a finger, booping the tip of his nose.
“Don’t be sad, Satoru,” he says, although in Satoru’s ears it sounds more like a plead. His next words are forced, pained as he whispers them. “I’m here now, am I not? You see me every day.”
“I do.” Satoru pulls away to stare into Suguru’s dark eyes. They’re so beautiful, shadowed by his affection and with the glint of life in them. They’re so beautiful, yet Satoru keeps forgetting what they look like. He wishes he could gaze at them forevermore. “That’s probably the problem.”
The moment breaks just like that. With the echoes of a wrong reality ruthlessly attacking the mirage of a fate that was meant to be but wasn’t in the end. With a shattering cry, the glass breaks; the surface of the water where Satoru’s tear-struck face reflects, crumbled, the light of bliss ruined and withering in his eyes.
He feels the wet slide of stricken tears as they glide down his cheeks. Cold, benumbing as they trace his face; they reach his chin, where they hold on for a few seconds as if begging, waiting for someone to catch them—and then they fall. Into the void, into the waiting palms of Suguru’s hands, which soften the despairing screams of all the sorrow long ago buried within them.
A body that once was so strong is now so feeble and broken and anguished. It makes Satoru sick.
“Hey, Satoru, don’t cry,” Suguru pleads almost frantically. “Come on, what’s gotten into you today?”
His voice oscillates with jitters because he’s never been good at comforting others, Satoru knows. Suguru finds it too awkward to spew words of reassurance or make promises he doesn’t know if he can keep, so he more often than not relies on comforting gestures instead.
But today, right now—they’re not working, because Satoru’s cries only grow louder with every mellow touch, and Suguru is clearly at a loss of what to do. However, even if he’s bad at comforting others, he will still try his damn best for Satoru. This knowledge only twists the knife in Satoru’s heart a little more, the pain almost unbearable as he refuses to let go of Suguru’s shirt, fist so tight around the fabric that his knuckles have turned white.
“Satoru.” Suguru is now cupping his face with both hands, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. His expression is distressed, thin eyebrows furrowed together and lips downturned in a frown that Satoru wants to erase with a kiss. His voice is quiet and dripping with concern. When it reaches Satoru, it feels like a slap in the face. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
Deciding that enough is enough, Satoru closes his eyes as he lets out a breath. “Can you—” He chokes on his spit in the middle of his words due to the agony tormenting his chest, so unforgiving of him. Still, Suguru doesn’t let go of him; he patiently waits the way he always does, the way he has always done. He waits for him. “Suguru, can you kiss me, please? Just this once. Just once. Please .”
Because Satoru’s feelings have always gone further than those of a friend toward Suguru and he needs him to know before he goes tomorrow. Before he returns at night to find himself in the same position as yesterday: looking at a future that can’t possibly be as it reflects in the water that threatens to drown his heart every day. Looking at his bloodied hands and praying for them to be clean again despite knowing that will never happen.
Because Satoru is selfish. Because Satoru is in love with Suguru. Because he wants to allow himself a small taste of heaven before returning back to hell.
It’s a soft press of lips, the kiss. Suguru doesn’t say anything; doesn’t ask questions because he probably knows the answers. His lips are wet and plump and taste so much like home , like nostalgia embedded in the four walls of Satoru’s room, his personal cage, like whispers of we’re the strongest so full of promises now gone.
Their mouths slot together almost perfectly; they slide together slowly as Satoru makes sure to burn this feeling into his very soul, memorizing every inch of his mouth so that he can never forget, never move on, never let go .
With a hum, Satoru wraps his arms around Suguru’s shoulders and brings him closer, closer to him until he can feel his chest against his own but not a heartbeat, not a heartbeat, not a heartbeat . Satoru breaks, sobs in the middle of the kiss yet still refuses to let go. Still kisses Suguru through his ragged breaths and the desperate touch of his hands as they squeeze Suguru’s muscles. He makes sure to remember the give of his flesh underneath his greedy palms, so tangible , so alive.
“Tell me you love me,” Satoru whispers as a plea, voice broken, cracking and so miserable he can’t believe it’s the same one that echoes so cheerful sheer hours ago in Jujutsu High, ordering around and giggling. “Even if it’s a lie, tell me you love me, Suguru.”
Suguru looks at him, gazes deep into his eyes and for a moment, for a single second that will live forever in eternity, Satoru can pretend this is real. “I love you, Satoru. I love you so much that it’s killing you.”
Satoru chokes on a sob, resting his forehead against Suguru’s. He can’t feel him now; the warmth that was there before is long gone and so is his wistful thinking. Reality sinks in, slow and evil, and Suguru hasn’t told him whether he’s lying or not about loving him, but Satoru has a feeling, a hunch, a cruel decision of destiny, that tells him he’s not.
“Me too,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. He feels dizzy, his head aching with remembrances of a lifetime, and he finally confesses, “I love you so much that it’s killing me, Suguru.”
When Satoru awakes, it’s with a gasp and a shaking frame. He’s lying on his bed, sweat drenching his work clothes because he didn’t even change out of them when he got home, and he can hear distant cries of despair that blare so miserable, so poignant, so utterly destroyed that Satoru shudders.
Then, he realizes as he draws a breath—it’s him. He, the strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer, unbeatable Gojo Satoru, is sobbing uncontrollably at the same time he screams into his fist, eyesight blurry and chest empty as the scent of Suguru’s cologne—the one Satoru used to buy him, the one he keeps buying—lingers on his body.
He looks out the window after a particularly loud scream into his hands. The sun has fully set now, so Satoru thinks the world shouldn’t feel so lonely anymore. He’ll live for tomorrow’s sunset, he’ll watch it and allow the sun’s sadness to fully awoke his own because Suguru loved watching as night slowly fell upon the world.
But the stars accompany the moon in its mourning tonight. The moon accompanies Satoru. And Satoru cries for Suguru. His best friend, his one and only.
Because still, in the infinite that shelters Satoru’s heart—in the void that’s left of his soul, in the glint of remembrance that is held in eyes so beautiful yet so shattered, there lives Geto Suguru. His blood might be in Satoru’s hands for the rest of his life, his heart might not beat anymore, but for now and until forever—
“I’ll wait for you. You wait for me, too, Suguru.”
—Satoru will wait.