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i.
You have the same idealogy. Maybe it was because people like you and him know firsthand that to rid the world of curses, you need to rid the world of those who created them in the first place. You and he know how nasty curses taste or smell in your case (your technique works like a purifier where you blow at curses to eradicate them and the smell is so horrible you feel like you’d vomit).
Maybe that’s why you like smoking. To rid yourself of the nasty smell of curses lingering around you.
You blew the smoke and watched him from the corner of your eye. He looks like he’s done with his audience, and by the looks of it, it went well, but one could never know what Geto is thinking.
He can look at those non-sorcerers with a smile one moment and kill them the next.
You nod at him in greeting and he pleasantly greets you and leaves. Probably off to rid himself of the disgusting feeling of being in the presence of non-jujutsu sorcerers, or what he likes to call "monkeys."
The smoke from your cigar blocks your view of him as he leaves.
ii.
He started smoking when he came back from his errand in some place you don’t care enough to remember. Before, he leaves you after small talk, but now he stays right next to you.
The smoke and smell from his cigar lingers around you when he stands to leave for an exorcism.
iii.
The man in front of you is dead, and his blood is everywhere. On the walls, on the ground, on the door, on Geto’s cheek.
"There’s more of them-swarming like flies." he said to you when he noticed you staring. "So don’t worry about it."
You’re not. Which is weird because you have to feel something, but no.
You feel nothing.
Which is a welcome feeling when you used to feel everything—every unwanted touch, every disgusting taste, every nauseating smell.
You nod, ignoring the dead body as you stand next to him.
He smiled at you as you walked into the meeting room where the planning would take place.
iv.
Why do you smoke? He asked one day.
You shrugged. Because it feels right.
Right, huh? He murmurs.
You said nothing, just watched him as you blew the smoke.
You? Why do you smoke?
It feels right. He says, his mouth opening as he takes a smoke. The smoke erases the disgusting feeling of those monkeys.
Really?
Yes. That’s why you smoke too, right?
You’re quiet because he’s right. The smell of a cigar is a thousand times better than the stench of curses. You think that it must be the same for him. The taste of a cigar is a thousand times better than the repulsive taste of curses.
I picked it up after a friend. He suddenly shares. She’s such a bad influence.
He laughs, but you can see a hint of sadness in it.
You hummed. Something tells you it’s not just because he’s been in the presence of those he loathes... Something tells you it’s because he missed them.
v.
You’ve heard he didn’t used to be like this. You heard from stories that he was caring for the weak, that the him before would hate the him now.
You’ve heard of stories of how there used to be some people beside him, some people he cares for deeply, some people he love more than your organization now.
Sometimes, you want to ask what happened, but you’re also not ready to hear the answer.
vi.
You’re thankful that the disgusting pig is dead. Dead, murdered, not coming back before you could get your hand on him.
You’re thankful that Geto already took care of it when you screamed bloody murder.
He smokes his cigar inside the temple to get rid of the smell for your sanity, despite the council prohibiting it.
vii.
If only I was as strong as he is. You turned to him, curious. Then my idealism would be realized.
Who?
My best friend.
Best friend?
Yes, my family and my friend. He looks sad, solemn.
Where’s he now?
He shook his head. On a different path. The right path for him.
You suddenly remember what he murmured before. But what is the right path?
He shrugs. I guess we’ll see.
viii.
He looks really solemn as he looks at the overlooking scenery before you. And for someone who knocked on your door at the dead of the night to ask for your company, he’s quiet.
You think it’s only natural. There are no stakes for you—only your faith and belief and probably your life (but only if they catch you), but the stakes are higher for him. If he failed, he would be executed, leaving Mimiko and Nanako to fend for themselves. If he fails, your organization fails. If he fails, then his sacrifices could mean nothing.
He smokes quietly, deep in his thoughts. He smokes with you all the time now, but this time is different.
Maybe it's because the day you've all been painstakingly waiting for and preparing for is almost upon you.
You sigh, letting your cigar hang loose from your fingers.
Geto, are you okay?
He smiled as if he had just heard his name and not your question. Why don’t you call me by my name? I call you by your name all the time.
You rolled your eyes at his dramatics, and he laughed.
What? You frowned at him. Don't tell me you don't know. Just say it.
You tasted his name on your tongue. It’s different from the feeling of a cigarette, but it’s not unpleasant.
Suguru… You breathe. Happy?
He grinned, and for a second, you thought he looked absolutely young and carefree and happy.
The smoke from your cigar gives what looks like a halo on his head.
viiii.
Suguru’s plan failed in the end.
Mimiko and Nanako are crying on your shoulder over his death. You feel something. You’re sure you feel something, but you’re not crying.
The rain is falling hard, but the smell of cigarettes is strong. You’ve smelled it so many times before that you've assigned it as his smell. You looked around, but you didn’t find him.
Your heart ached.
The twins looked at you questionably, and you waved their concerns, ushering them inside the temple so they could eat and sleep.
x.
The twins are already asleep. You have to move tomorrow morning, and you need to find the twins someplace safe to lay low now that the organization is as good as dead.
You put your hand on the railing overlooking the city lights. The memory of Suguru smoking right next to you is still fresh. It happened just a few days ago, but the memory looks like an old photograph preserved in feelings you couldn’t quite tell.
It’s like he’s everywhere, like the smoke in the cigars. The smell lingers, his memory persists... endures...
("Are you Suguru’s friend?" A voice behind you spoke, and you turned, your cigar falling to the ground quietly.)
and haunts until the very end.