Work Text:
Satoru is candy floss; crystalline patterns around a falling-apart cone, picked apart with sticky fingers and dissolving on the tongue; sweet candy kisses that taste like air and spun sugar.
Suguru wants, so desperately, with all his body and soul, to be his. To be perfect for him, to be loved, held, cared for, held so tightly that Satoru fears that he will bruise. To be carried, cherished without shame or guilt or regret; Suguru craves Satoru. To be loved gently, to taste the cotton candy on Satoru’s tongue, to swallow it slowlyslowlyslowly and feel it seeping through his veins, oozing out of his open wounds, every crack and crevasse leaking blue sugar and saliva, to be wholeheartedly and entirely his.
I want you, he wants to say to him, in an open field with no one but the two of them, throwing his arms wide, coming closer until Satoru’s breath is tickling his skin and whispering “ I want you so much,” until Satoru takes him in his arms and squeezes him and —
Oh, the agony.
Ribs crack and bones break and Suguru finds himself in front of the mirror, tracing the outline of his ribs until his fingers grow numb. Pushing the skin under, deeper and deeper and deeper until there is blood and his hands are sticky but he rubs his eyes and goes to bed anyway.
Love
me.
Please.
Oh, the agony of loving someone who will never love him back.
Suguru’s life is multifaceted; school and sports and Shoko and his longing glances at Satoru that are never returned. He is one pea in a pod of two, a diseased pea that has been snapped off and thrown away, brown and ugly and too squishy to be edible. Agony is to Suguru as happiness is to Satoru, the smiles on his love’s face blossoming as easily as the blood on his own wrists.
Satoru found his notebook once – the one hidden in his drawer with the incomprehensible numbers scrawled over the pages in strict lines, the date written at the top. The notebook is discreet; one of those brown ones that he swiped from a convenience store, but his heart thuds and thuds and almost pounds out of his chest when Satoru flicks through the pages, smile turned downwards into a frown, and his heart almost stops when Satoru throws the book back at him, saying, “I thought this was your diary, dude. It’s just math homework. Lame as fuck.”
Lame as fuck, but the insult does not pierce its way into Suguru’s heart as it usually does (he is too relieved that the apple of his eye lacks the intelligence to look deeper.) Instead he shoves the book under his mattress, this time where no one can find it (for fear that Shoko’s probing eyes will catch on,) and heads to dinner where he quietly laughs and smiles with everyone else and picks at a plate of food.
“I’m on dish duty,” he promises, gathering up their empty plates, “Go to bed. Long day tomorrow.” It has become a routine for Suguru to offer to do the dishes every day – to the point where Shoko and Satoru pay no heed to his hands quickly gathering up their utensils.
“I’m beat, ” Satoru says, stretching those godawful limbs that Suguru adores so much, “Good night.” He saunters off, leaving his chair pushed out and half his glass of water still on the table.
“Little shit,” Shoko grumbles, but she pushes in his chair and bades Suguru farewell, dimming the light as she leaves the room.
No one is left in the dining hall except Suguru and his full plate – another thing none of his classmates have paid any attention to – and he discreetly scrapes everything into the trash before piling the plates in the sink and absentmindedly washing them. A fantasy runs through his head; the same as always, the age-old film reel of him running into Satoru’s arms, being carried like a princess and spun around, linking his fingers around Satoru’s neck and leaning up to kiss him, allowing Satoru to lift him again with ease, touching him feeling him caring for him caressing him loving him and suddenly all the dishes are clean and Satoru wipes his hands on a towel and returns to his dorm.
Before he allows the sweet release of sleep to take him away, he painstakingly lifts his mattress to find the notebook, flips to a new pages, and writes –
03/07/2006
45
half an apple, this morning before training when he could no longer move his limbs and drag himself outside; half an apple to keep him sustained for the next forty-eight hours.
Fasting is a method of attaining peace, of attaining nirvana, of becoming one with the world and the universe for becoming perfect for Satoru for maintaining his ideals. Buddha fasted for forty-nine days, and Suguru has tried without avail to emulate him – four days turn to six days days turn to a full week without eating and then Suguru cracks and crumbles and only his shell is left behind.
Sometimes when he throws up, he wonders vaguely if curses will come out – if they will leak out of his mouth and into the toilet so they can be flushed away, never to be seen again, but they never do. And his technique does wonders for his diet; he consumes curses whenever he can, goes to the back alleys and the glimmering streets of Tokyo to eat curses until his stomach is pseudo-full and he can convince his brain to stop begging for food. The curses don’t make him gain weight, he’s tried – it almost, sometimes, feels as though his technique is a blessing to a piece of shit like him.
I fucking hate you, Geto Suguru, he says to himself in the mirror, far away in his dreams. You don’t deserve the love of someone as perfect as him.
How can Satoru – beautiful, perfect, God himself, angel, oh Satoru – love someone like Suguru?
He must, he must, he has to (there are tears in his eyes) be thin, be dainty, be angelic enough for Satoru to look at him from under those eyelashes of his and tell him he is in love and ah, the euphoria of being in love; the shivers he gets when Satoru’s fingers graze his shoulder and the hours he can spend just looking at him,
this must be what Yaga calls young love, that wretched thing, that beautiful thing, the all-consuming feeling that tears Suguru away from everything but Satoru, Satoru, Satoru.
God, he wants him so badly it hurts.
Throwing up fucks up your throat, he knows, so Suguru restricts and restricts until the numbers on the scale go down faster than ever before.
It isn’t that hard.
It is.
All Suguru has to do is look at Satoru, and he is fed enough for the day.
That’s not true.
Hunger is a construct.
I’m hungry.
The tears running down his cheeks are just a product of dry eyes.
Please help me.
He is not deserving of Satoru’s boundless love until he is perfect.
Please help me.
He is fine.
It hurts.
It hurts so much.
Suguru is in
so
much
pain.
But his love is boundless and his infatuation is neverending and he knows for a fact that Satoru wants someone perfect, to match him. Someone pretty to match his eyes and his hair and his smile, someone strong to match his unbridled power, someone skinny so he can dominate them as he dominates everything else.
Suguru is in so much pain.
But Satoru will cure it, he knows, as soon as he gets slimmer and becomes perfect and strides up to Satoru and tells him about his love, all his pain will disappear as quickly as it appeared.
03/08/2006
34
–
03/12/2006
23
–
03/15/2006
12
–
03/20/2006
0
–
03/22/2006
.
March 22nd comes and goes. It’s mundane; a training day where Suguru and Satoru spar until they are both coughing (blood, in Suguru’s case,) and Satoru looks him in the eye and says, coldly, “ You’ve gotten weaker.”
“What,” Suguru coughs out, but there is blood blurring his vision and dripping down his chin.
Making no effort to help, Satoru repeats, “You’ve gotten weaker. What’s gotten into you? I can throw you around.” His voice is ridiculing, teasing, mocking, and Suguru’s blind love turns into resentment for a split second.
“M’ fine,” Suguru mumbles, wiping his chin and staggering to his feet. “Js’ tired.”
Satoru raises an eyebrow at him. “Did you sleep last night?”
“Yeah,” Suguru says, finding himself breathless – why? Satoru barely hit him – and painfully drawing himself to his full height, just barely shorter than Satoru. “I’m just exhausted. I don’t know why.”
And suddenly, without warning, Satoru is far too close to him and his hands are on Suguru’s hips and his thumbs are rubbing back and forth and Suguru almost cries with happiness, sobs that finally his dreams are coming true, fucking finally he is dainty enough for Satoru to notice and love him.
“You’re so fucking skinny,” Satoru says, and Suguru is in bliss. Yes! This is it – this is when I reach up and tell Satoru I love him and he carries me away, this is when our life begins and all the pain will –
“Can you, like, eat more? I’m not gonna spar with you if you look like a chicken strip,” Satoru rudely laughs to himself, “You look like shit.”
Something twines itself around Suguru’s chest and pulls, and suddenly he no longer has a heart.
–
He wears his agony like his uniform every morning, all solid shades of blue and boring shoes and simple bun so he can feel the pressure of his hair being pulled every day (it keeps him awake.)
During dinner, Satoru dumps a pile of food on Suguru’s plate and hands it to him himself, adding an “eat so you don’t keep looking like shit,” for good measure.
He stays through dinner, watching Suguru eat every agonizing bite and slowly swallowing it and it is Hell in its purest forms but God, those fantasies still run through Suguru’s head of a day where he no longer looks like shit but looks like an angel in the reflection of Satoru’s ethereal eyes.
The languor catches up to Suguru and he feels his eyes drooping, but Satoru touches his chin – touches his chin! and lifts it up, commanding Suguru to finish his plate before leaving. “I’ll do the dishes,” Satoru scoffs, “You look dead.”
And it is a paradox, an oxymoron, a contradiction, because Suguru no longer knows what to do, no longer knows whether to starve himself or to eat, knows that Satoru wants a dainty doll as a lover but he is one hundred and twenty pounds of useless fat, but he looks like shit in Satoru’s eyes and there are tears brimming and threatening to spill over, so Suguru shoves the last painful bite in his mouth and rushes to bed.
3/22/2006
650
There is a devil in the corner of his eye, a spirit sitting on his shoulder and begging him to do this, do that, but he tunes it out and scratches at a bug bite and tries to fall asleep but he
simply
cannot.
The bed’s creaking and the gentle wind outside has him tossing and turning at two in the morning until God fucking damn it, he rolls out and tiptoes back to the dining hall, his stomach crying and screaming and half his brain tearing itself out of his skull and the other half beggingbeggingbegging for food until there is only one thought left in his mind and it is the hunger gnawing at him from the inside out.
There are leftovers, thank god, so Suguru takes one of the plates in the sink (still dirty, Satoru didn’t bother washing them) and dumps food on it, more and more and more piling higher and higher until he can barely balance it himself.
He goes back to his room (ceiling fan on full power so no one can hear him) and eats like a fucking pig, like a filthy cow that cannot stop eating, like all that he aspires not to be – (there are tears streaming down his face and he wants to be hugged so badly he almost breaks.)
He is so incredibly sad, so filled with agony and misery of unreturned love, of unre lenting love, of a childhood knowing nothing but pain, of the all-encompassing affection clouding his mind and his memory and consuming his soul.
03/22/2006
650
3,546
He cries and eats, cries and eats, bite after bite after bite until the plate is empty and he sobs, silent, wracking sobs that subside only when he stumbles to the bathroom and sticks his fingers down his throat and his tears mingle with the vomit. His knees hurt from squatting, thighs throbbing from sparring earlier, but the pain is nothing compared to the sheer misery of having thousands and thousands and thousands of calories within him.
It’s bad for him, he knows– his throat will hurt in the morning and consuming curses will hurt even more – but he has to purge, has to get rid of it all, has to become perfectperfectperfectperfect
You can do it. (you can’t)
It’s not that hard. (it is, god, it is)
Have some self-control.
Thoughts of Satoru’s smile fill his vision as he passes out on the bathroom floor.
—
Suguru.
Suguru.
SUGURU.
“What,” he wakes up slowly, opening is eyelids and wincing at the sudden bright light. “Where am I?”
Suguru, the voice says again, and he turns to find the source of it and does a double take.
Satoru – oh God, his life, his love, – is sitting behind him, calling his name softly, then louder when he doesn’t respond.
“Sator– what?” He cannot form comprehensible sentences. His hands shift in his lap, picking at loose skin, peeling off hangnails – he suppresses the urge to bite his fingernails.
"Suguru,” Satoru repeats, “You’re destroying yourself.”
He is at a loss for words until some hint of rage overtakes him. “Me?” he shouts, “I’m destroying myself? Who do you think I’m doing it for? ”
Satoru’s eyes are filled with imperceptible sadness. “You’re in pain.”
“No shit,” Suguru laughs bitterly, tears threatening the corner of his eyes, “It hurts like fucking hell and I’m doing it all so you love me.”
“Why?”
The question is short but Suguru is still left frozen, stunned in his own tracks as if “Why” is a question he has never asked himself before.
But the answer is mind-numbingly obvious – there is no single answer, no three words that can provide an answer to a question of multitudes, but Suguru tries.
“Because I love you.”
“Why?” Satoru asks again, his head tilted curiously. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Exactly,” Suguru laughs again, a hollow sound – “I love you because you’re…you. You don’t care what other people think of you, you just love and love and love everything around you and hate the people that don’t and I want to be one of those things you love. The only thing you love.”
“And you’re destroying yourself because of that?”
Tears have begun to steadily drip down Suguru’s face. “Yes. Because your love will cure me, Satoru.”
“It won’t,” Satoru says, matter-of-factly.
“How do you know?” Suguru shoots back, suddenly on edge.
“Because it hasn’t.”
Radio silence.
“You have to love yourself before you can love me, Suguru.”
“I do love myself. I’m more proud of myself than I’ve ever been.”
And the sadness in Satoru’s eyes only increases as Suguru goes on. “Suguru,” he says again.
“What,” Suguru snaps, “Why are you preaching to me?”
“I’m sorry,” Satoru says quietly, “Please love yourself. You know full well what I mean.”
And this is not Suguru’s Satoru; it’s not the jovial teenager he knows, but some part of this strange entity is Satoru, in the solemnity of the blue eyes and the soft tonal shift. The sight of this, this creature, this shadow of his love apologizing, makes Suguru so unbearably sad that he turns away. “You don’t need to be sorry for anything. I’ll make myself perfect so you deserve me.”
Because Suguru is undeserving.
“You don’t deserve me, Suguru,” he distantly hears Satoru say, but he chalks it up to hearing things and goes back to his pseudo-sleep.
Suguru cannot remember the dream when he wakes up.
—
“Sugu – what the fuck?!”
His love’s voice fills his ears first thing in the morning, but the tonal shift vaguely concerns a delirious Suguru and he cracks his eyelids open.
“What the actual fuck,” Satoru repeats, staring at him, and Suguru almost leaps up and runs – oh God does he look weird does he have bedhead does he have morning breath should he talk should he not– but all thoughts fly out the window when Satoru reaches out a gentle hand and threads it through Suguru’s hair. “What happened?” his voice is so much softer than usual, thick with sleep, and Suguru almost melts before he hears the oddly placed concern in his voice.
“What–?” And it is, conveniently, at this time, that Suguru realizes he is lying on the cold tile of his dorm room’s bathroom floor and Gojo Satoru is staring at him and fuck he’s probably covered in dried vomit and suddenly he wishes he could pass away at this exact moment in time.
But alas, death does not come as wished, and Suguru scrambles for an answer– “I ate too much last night. Stomach problems. I think I passed out.”
Satoru frowns, one hand still combing through Suguru’s hair, and stares him down. “I barely gave you any food last night.”
“Well, then I must have eaten something bad. I’m fine, Satoru, I’ll just take a pill and go shower and I’ll be okay.”
The concern doesn’t leave Satoru’s eyes – when Suguru stands up to walk out the door, he stops him – “Suguru. Wait.”
“What?” He turns around impatiently. “I said I’m fine.”
“Shoko told me about…” He swallows.
Suguru has never seen Satoru this hesitant before.
“She was…worried that you have…” another swallow.
“Get to the point, Satoru,” but Suguru’s heart rate has tripled and he is silently screaming no no no no no no no.
“She was worried that you have trouble eating,” Satoru finishes, looking up at him. “Like an eating disorder. And I’ve noticed that you’ve gotten really skinn–”
No.
Pity is for the weak and Suguru is strong.
The strong est.
“I don’t have a fucking eating disorder, Satoru,” Suguru hisses, and his voice comes out much more malicious than he intended, “I told you I’m fine. Now can you leave?”
The expression on Satoru’s face is mingled with sadness, but he stands up and leaves. “If you say so.”
Suguru stands in silent regret for a full minute before quietly turning around and going back to the bathroom. Once he showers, his mind is clearer — but there is a strange fog about him; some haze in his vision that he is unable to shake off. Something feels off, feels wrong,
and then he realizes his notebook is missing and all hell breaks loose.
It was on the ground, right next to his bed, and he gets on all fours and scours the floor until his hands are covered in dust but the notebook is nowhere to be found and fuck fuck fuck fuck he can hear Shoko’s footsteps approaching and he stands up, hastily wiping his hands on his uniform, ignoring his frantic heartbeat.
“Yo, Suguru. Come down for breakfast. We’re all waiting,” Shoko calls a moment before stepping into Suguru’s room. The lit cigarette in her hand seems to have been abandoned. “Hurry up. What are you—?” She curiously looks at him and around the room. “Are you looking for something?”
Suguru isn’t an idiot. There is a hint of cunning knowledge in her voice that tells him that she knows where it is. “…No. I was just cleaning,” he lies smoothly. “Let’s go.”
Breakfast is half an apple and a glass of water and he is about to stand up to clear plates before Shoko flips a pancake onto his plate and gestures to it. “You haven’t eaten anything.”
Suguru stares at it with wide eyes. “I’ve eaten plenty. I don’t like eating breakfast.”
Shoko raises an eyebrow. “Half an apple isn’t enough.” Why are they paying such close attention now? “It’s just one pancake. Satoru ate six.”
Satoru, in question, is staring at the single pancake with a miserable look in his eye. “I was going to eat seven.”
Shoko shoots him a look. “You need to eat, Suguru. Didn’t you pass out this morning? If you need to talk about something, we can—“
Suguru groans and picks up the pancake with his bare hands, stuffing it into his mouth and painfully swallowing before gesturing sarcastically. “Happy?” he says, muffled by the food in his mouth.
Shoko stares. “Yeah. Okay, let’s go.”
The three of them stand and Suguru reels.
Pain shoots through his skull and suddenly he wants to fall flat on the floor and close his eyes and never wake up but God, Satoru and Shoko are already ahead of him so he pushes the pain out of his head and painfully catches up with them.
“You good?” Satoru asks when Suguru comes up to him, gasping for air. “You look like shit.”
Again and again and again.
When will Suguru not look like shit?
“I’m fine,” he snaps irritably, “Let’s go. Spar with me.”
“I don’t really want to,” Satoru says quietly. “I think I hurt you badly yesterday—“
“You didn’t hurt me, it’s — fine. You didn’t hurt me. I was just distracted. Fight with me again. I’ll do better. I will,” he gasps in short bursts, his lungs too heavy to carry full sentences.
But they are interrupted when Yaga slams through the door in front of them, effectively scaring the living shit out of all three students. “Dude, what the shit—?” Satoru almost whirlwinds backwards and Shoko lands awkwardly on her ass. Suguru cringes, but remains where he is.
“Class will be different today,” Yaga rumbles, evidently unaware of the turmoil he just caused.
Shoko groans and dusts herself off, staggering to her feet. “Did you really have to scare the snot out of us just to say that?”
“Different like what?” Satoru asks, having recovered from his lapse in reflex. “Are we killing curses?”
“Yes –” Yaga appears as though he is about to explain himself, but glances at his watch and immediately begins speedwalking out of the building. “Follow me. We’re late. I’ll explain later.”
Shoko wrinkles her nose. “Great,” she deadpans, “Let’s go.”
Satoru laughs merrily, linking his arms with Shoko and Suguru (shivers positively overtake Suguru’s entire body,) and dragging them in the direction of Yaga’s quickly receding figure. “I wonder what we’re doing today,” he says, sunshine in his voice.
Shoko rolls her eyes and fishes around in her pocket for a lighter.
–
They end up in Tokyo and the three of them are bored out of their minds almost immediately.
“Seriously?” Shoko asks, exhaling smoke and making Satoru cough violently. “I thought we were going somewhere cool. I think I’ve seen every cursed spirit that exists in Tokyo, we’ve been here so many times.”
Suguru, too busy whacking Satoru on the back to cease the lung-destroying coughs, doesn’t respond – but the sentiment goes through and Yaga scratches his head sheepishly.
“None of the Grade Threes could make it today so they told me to bring you students here. Educational opportunity.”
“Grade threes –” Satoru coughs again. “That’s lame. You have to buy us food after this.”
Yaga gives him an irritable look. “Exorcise the curse first.”
“Where–” Shoko almost begins her question, but turns around and sees the hospital behind them and stops. “Oh.”
The building is swirling with cursed energy, making Suguru ache in ways he has never felt before.
“Yeah,” Yaga says.
They stare for a moment at the building before Satoru straightens and begins sauntering towards the double doors. “Let’s get this over with. Shoko, can you set a stopwatch to see how long it takes me to exorcise this thing?”
“Fuck off,” Shoko replies kindly, but pulls her phone out and hits the stopwatch button. “You’re on.”
Suguru sighs and follows, turning back to glance at Yaga, who gestures forward. “I’ll be in the shop next door if you need me,” he mumbles. “Go ahead.”
Suguru watches him retreat, then looks back at the hospital, stomach suddenly aching as if his heart has decided to give up on itself. Shaking it off, he runs forward to a waiting Shoko and Satoru. “Hey, does your stomach hurt too?”
“Huh?” Satoru says, confused. “No. I’m fine. Why does your stomach hurt?”
“I’m fine too,” Shoko trails off. “Have you been drinking water?”
Suguru thinks back to the last time he drank water last night after purging probably a full day ago. “You’re right. I’m just dehydrated.”
“Let’s split up,” Satoru says. “Whoever exorcises the curse first gets extra sushi.”
Suguru doesn’t want extra sushi – fuck if he does – but he agrees anyway because Satoru is stunning and how could anyone say no ?
Abandoned hospitals terrify Suguru; the grimy operating tables and the dark hospital rooms and the wards with stripped beds laying on their sides. The children’s ward scares him the most – smiling flowers painted on the walls, melting after months of decomposing paint, dirty handprints and filth all over the brightly colored walls, the carpet dusty and brownish-gray. The morbid sadness of it all scares him; the echo of children’s laughter bouncing back and forth seeping its way into his skull.
Conveniently, the section of the building he is assigned to scour includes the children’s ward –
– the section which, as soon as he steps in, makes his stomach explode with pain, doubling over and almost throwing up right there. He feels queasy, but it’s muscle pain, he knows; did he get punched recently? Did he get hurt? No.
Perhaps it is a side effect of last night’s purge, one of those side effects he desperately tries to avoid by restricting and restricting and restricting.
He pushes it out of his mind, grits his teeth through the pain, and continues moving forward through the sweet, abandoned children’s ward, but something nags at the back of his mind.
– The energy in the room is too much to be that of a regular cursed spirit, too powerful, too painful, too –
human.
Fuck. He can feel it, all of a sudden, but before he can react the pain in his stomach triples and he violently vomits blood all over the ground and on his shoes, dripping down his chin and pooling on the floor.
Something catches the corner of his eye and he struggles to pull himself upright to catch a glimpse of the – undoubtedly – special grade curse; what the hell was Yaga thinking? It was exceedingly obvious from the start, the ominous amount of cursed energy and fuck, it’s probably a disease cursed spirit since they’re in a hospital and –
Suguru’s thoughts come racing to a stop when he sees the special grade, a tall, thin being – and when he says thin he means thin, bony to the point where Suguru can count its shadowy ribs and see the bones lining its back.
A deep, deep, deep unease settles around him; the ache in his stomach refuses to leave and there is still a steady stream of blood dripping down his chin and onto his uniform because some hidden part of him knows what this curse is.
Bony to the point of delicacy, skinny enough to be dainty, perfect enough to be carried around, and suddenly there are hot tears swelling in Suguru’s eyes and he turns and runs.
The strongest cannot handle this, this rush of emotion, this withering feeling, this revolt at seeing the thing that plagues him the most; Suguru can only hope to escape and find Satoru and –
He skids on the edge of the peeling carpet and falls painfully on his ribs, wincing in extreme pain when the blood trickling out of his mouth begins to gush out faster and black spots begin to dance in his vision.
The special grade hisses something quietly, its voice low and curling, leaning closercloserclosercloser –
Suguru,
You’re destroying yourself.
Suguru,
Wake up.
Hot tears in his eyes and he scratches at the ground, tries to get up get up get up but his limbs are so tired and his eyes are drooping and the blood in his mouth tastes of iron and gold and –
This is a nice way to go, he thinks.
Perhaps Satoru will see my corpse and love me then.
And it strikes him, distantly, vaguely, that perhaps thinking of this lost love in his final moments is irrational; that thinking of Satoru, living for Satoru, starving for Satoru is pointless when God, what has Satoru done for him – but then a flash of blue, the color of longing, speeds past his vision and his heart swells and he forgets.
His eyes droop and he allows himself to settle into the carpet as the wispy curse, bones and skeletons and – now that he gets a glimpse, its crying face, is thrown backwards with the force of Satoru’s entrance.
“Fuck, what the fuck,” Satoru swears, over and over again, and the sound is like cold water to Suguru’s burning veins. “Shoko–!” he calls back, panting, “Can you call Yaga and tell him that he’s a fucking moron and that this curse is a fucking special grade?”
Oh, Satoru and his potty mouth, the voice of honey that spits out curses, Suguru’s savior. He is, unbeknownst to Satoru, his doll – a dainty being, physically and mentally, someone for Satoru to save and Suguru almost – for a moment – takes pleasure in being rescued like some kind of damsel in distress before he snaps to his senses and feels the self-hatred stirring in his veins.
I fucking hate you, Geto Suguru, he tells himself.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck, why would he ever allow himself to be saved by someone – he is the strongest, he can consume curses until they make him bleed from the mouth and ache from everywhere, he can –
His futile efforts to stand up bring Satoru’s attention to him and he winces when Satoru audibly groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Suguru, could you be any more useless? Get up.” A blow from the special grade and he covers his cheek with his hand furiously. “And Shoko, hurry the fuck up.”
Shoko is outside the children’s ward spitting curses into a phone while Yaga’s voice grows increasingly concerned by the minute.
Satoru winds up for a punch, but –
– and Suguru can feel the fear that blossoms in his eyes –
Satoru doubles over in pain, groaning as his stomach eats itself from the inside. “ Fuck,” he gasps, “ My stomach hurts so much.” Blood begins to drip out of his own mouth, and he gives Suguru a petrified glance before screaming at Shoko to get the fuck out and –
– Suguru can barely believe his own eyes at the bravery of this boy, at the sheer idiocy of this boy, at the stupid fucking ideal that Satoru holds himself to –
Because in what universe would any moron of a jujutsu sorcerer, let alone a second-year student, open their domain seconds after vomiting blood?
Evidently, this one, because Satoru, still doubled over, strangles out a Domain Expansion, and there is nothing.
–
Suguru.
What?
Suguru, my darling.
Who are you?
Oh, Suguru. You’re destroying yourself.
Who are you to say that?
You’re skin and bones, my darling. You’re weak.
I’m not weak.
You’re broken.
I’m fine.
Your ribs are breaking, my love.
You’re breaking, my love.
There is
– a crack
– a scream
– oh, the scream is coming from his own mouth
There is
– light
“Get up, Suguru,” – and then he is pulled onto his feet, barely able to keep himself upright — “God, why are you so thin,” – and he sees the orb in front of him and he knows what to do but–
He deliriously swallows the curse and is put in the most excruciating pain of his entire life.
—
“Suguru.”
Someone slaps him , and he jolts awake only to shrink back when glowing blue eyes pierce into his skull. “What,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.
Ah, to allow sleep to embrace him again.
But Satoru slaps him again and he wearily opens his eyes to see bandages and bruises and fuck, Satoru looks terrible.
“What happened to — you,” he spits, throat aching.
“I passed out after opening my domain,” Satoru says stiffly. “And you broke two ribs.”
Ah, that must be what the dull pain in his abdomen is. Suguru looks down, vision hazy, to see bandages wrapped around his torso, the same bandages hanging around Satoru’s neck after being pulled off his eyes.
And then it all comes crashing back and the daze he was in while the special grade was attacking clears, and guilt engulfs him. It all comes back — how he clutched the dirty carpet, unable to stand the fuck up while Satoru fought the special grade on his own, struggled with his own domain until —
Fuck, Satoru probably hates him for being as weak as he is, as pathetic, as useless —
— “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. There is nothing more, nothing less that he can say.
Satoru’s expression remains blank, but his pupils dilate slightly and he lets out a long sigh, running a hand over his face and cringing when he hits the bruised sides of his eyes. “You don’t have to be –” he appears to be at a loss for words for a moment, then regains confidence and stares Suguru directly in the eye. “Don’t apologize. It’s…” a pause. “My fault, anyway. I didn’t take care of you.”
What is he talking about? “ What?” Suguru echoes.
Satoru breathes, then continues. “Sugu, you –” he stops again.
“I what?” Suguru asks, lost as to why this angel in front of him is at such a loss for words.
“You didn’t even fall and you broke two ribs,” Satoru says uncomfortably. “And you weigh barely ninety pounds.”
Oh.
Oh.
A bitter sort of glee should be filling him and it is, deep down in the boiling pits of his stomach, but what arises is some diluted form of sickness; some feeling that revolts him to his bones, some sadness or misery or angst at seeing Satoru’s face, scrunched up in –
– pity?
– sadness?
– guilt?
– disgust?
He can’t tell, but the bloodshot eyes of crystal are filling with moisture and Suguru desperately tries to reach over and wipe away Satoru’s tears but he can’t– the pain in his ribs is too much for him to handle, too flashing, too hot, and suddenly he is burning and burning and burning and the world goes black again.
Barely ninety pounds.
How much is barely?
– 89
– 86
– 74
– 83
– 0
zero zero zero zero zero z e r o
he wants it all to be over.
—
“There was a notebook under his mattress,” Shoko is saying, “I think he was counting calories.”
Someone else mumbles something Suguru can’t quite place (the panic has already returned, eating its way through his insides)
ρｌ𝔼𝔸ѕⓔ 𝓅Ⓛ𝐞ά𝐒Ⓔ Ƥl𝔼ＡｓẸ ρĹєαş𝐄 𝕡Ł𝕖𝔞𝔰𝔼 ρℓｅΔ𝓢𝕖 ＤＯภ'ｔ 𝕋ẸⓁˡ 𝕋ⓗ€м
ρl€a𝓢€
His pleas go to deaf ears and Shoko sighs softly. “Most days it was, like, a hundred calories. Some days it was zero. I –” her voice cracks and Suguru’s ears pop. “ – I can’t believe we didn’t notice.”
oh.
He can hear the obvious guilt in her voice, that heavy, awful feeling of pain pain pain , the pain of leaving someone you love to drown, abandoning them and -
(there are suddenly tears in his eyes, formed out of nowhere, tears of salt and blood and the million little intricacies weaved into Shoko’s hiccuping voice, bits and pieces of resentment and anger and most importantly pure, unfiltered sadness.)
They are all so sad .
But Satoru’s beaming smile shines through it all and shuts off all the terrible terrible feelings within them – the stupid jokes and the sheer simplicity of Gojo Satoru is remarkable.
How a god can be so human is truly a wonder, how someone can hold up the universe without breaking and still trip over air, fall over laughing, hold on to his friends and refuse to let go.
i love you i love you i love you i love you his throat is lumpy and his body is heavy and his arms are limb but i love you i love you i love you i will do anything for you anything anything anything anything anything just please please please accept me love me love me love me love me love me please
p l e a s e .
His parents might have loved him at a point; the scars on his stomach say otherwise but perhaps the day he was born, leaking cursed energy invisible to the monkey eye, his mother might have taken his tiny body and repeated the same words, i love you i love you i love you , until some unforeseen darkness stole his parents away from him and the light in their eyes flickered out.
geto suguru, you are a useless disgrace of a jujutsu sorcerer.
i hate you so fucking much, geto suguru.
i hate you i love you i hate you i love you i hate you i hate you i hate you oh darling i love you so much.
he goes to sleep.
—
“Suguru,” someone – no, his love – is saying, “are you awake?”
“Mmh,” he makes some sort of strangled noise in response. “Everything hurts.”
Satoru, beside him, flinches slightly. “Can I talk to you?”
Suguru opens his eyes (again, a world of white) and shifts, a silent invitation for Satoru to clamber onto the bed and sit beside him.
Satoru remains where he is, a small rolling stool beside his hospital bed, sitting on his hands, lips pursed as if he doesn’t know what to say.
Gpjo Satoru never doesn’t know what to say.
Suguru wants to cry. “...Yeah, we can talk,” he acquiesces, “I’m fine.” He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and Satoru takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry.”
Suguru blinks. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Satoru – a god – repeats. “I’m so sorry. I –” his voice cracks akin to Shoko’s except so much worse, so filled with pure agony and shame and guilt and below it all, a slight hint of resentment (whether at Suguru or at himself, no one knows,) “I fucked up.”
Suguru has brought a god to his mercy and suddenly Satoru is no longer an angel on earth but entirely human, human, human, so filled with flaws and imperfections, cracked bones and brittle skin and ugly crying.
“I fucked up so bad and now you’re doing – this to yourself and I don’t know what to do and –”
And then Gojo Satoru, the six eyes, the god, the angel, the one holding up the fucking universe is crying, all for a piece of worthless shit like Geto Suguru and Suguru’s heart is ripped right out of its place. It isn’t just slowly dripping tears but racking sobs, Satoru’s hair sticking to his face, drowning in tears, and all Suguru can think is I did this I left my notebook out where it was too obvious I’m weak I’m weak I’m weak I’m weak I’m weak I’m weak.
so
w e a k
He reaches over achingly and wipes away Satoru’s tears; his infinity is off (oh) and Suguru brushes through sticky skin, residual hormonal acne, and tufts of wet hair to truly reach in and grab Satoru’s soul by the wrists and give his pulse a squeeze, tell him to stop crying over me but the words refuse to form in Suguru’s throat.
They gasp for air, drowning in the sky and the sand, breaking into infinitesimally small pieces; shards of sadness and misery and they are both so broken .
Satoru is Atlas, holding up the globe, the sea and the land and everything within it, and finally, finally, he has failed and Suguru can do nothing about it.
He slowly realizes this is the first time he’s seen Satoru cry like this.
What kind of god is he, what kind of angel is his love, this idea of perfection formulated so precisely in Suguru’s mind that every little flaw is overlooked, every little mistake Satoru makes and every single thing about him that is so irritating is simply gone in a flash, what is Gojo Satoru but an enigma?
Satoru is so irrevocably, so disgustingly human, snot leaking from his nose, scrubbing at his tears as he cries for Suguru – Suguru! And Suguru keeps wiping and wiping and wiping away the tears, cupping Satoru’s face in his hands, holding him , but what was once euphoric is now dulled.
this is
his
fault
Satoru’s tears and the strain in Shoko’s voice and the pain that all of them are in, three different planes in three different universes, ephemeral existences crisscrossed with one another, meeting at some points and separating at others, the only overlap being Suguru and his pathetic self.
Satoru sniffles, breaking the weighted silence, and scrubs at his face again to rid himself of the tears. His eyes are even more bloodshot, contrasting horribly with the celestial blue of his eyes, and he is no longer beautiful but just another human, full of mistakes and misery. “I’m sorry,” he repeats for the third time. “Please don’t do this to yourself. I don’t know if it’s me or –”
And it is him, it is Satoru that is driving Suguru to scrawl numbers down and count calories and restrict restrict restrict; it is Satoru’s ghost that stands behind Suguru when he vomits, it is the whisper of his hands on Suguru’s shoulders as he keels over in front of the toilet…..
??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
or
is it?
→ well, what else was he expecting? Some sort of grand lecture about how Suguru is destroying himself, breaking himself down to his bare bones but oh, it feels so good, and he looks at Satoru’s sobbing face and oh ————————————————
he realizes.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
.
His love for Satoru is limitless, but not the root cause of his tightly knit flesh, 1:1 skin to bone ratio, withering bones and whispers of pain shuddering throughout his body.
fuck.
It comes crashing back; the special grade going after him and him only, the skin and bone and flesh and the blood on his knuckles and the taste on his mouth and the force of the curse sliding down his throat – curses taste like whole cigarettes, paper and all, still smoking at the tip and burning slightly on their way down. It is the reason why Suguru never accepts when Shoko offers him a smoke, the reason why he covers his mouth when walking by a street fire, the reason his eyes burn whenever someone lights incense.
Satoru’s ghost may wander around while Suguru vomits, but it is inevitably Suguru that stares at his fingers before shoving them down his throat, it is Suguru that pinches himself when he craves another bite, it is Suguru that fines some sort of twisted glee in seeing his own ribcage in the mirror because it is euphoric.
The same euphoria that floods through him whenever Satoru speaks or touches him is reminiscent in his withering glances at himself, in the way his eyes light up when he stares at a scale, in the way hunger gnaws and screams in his stomach but he ignoresignoresingores it.
And Suguru thinks; what if I never loved Satoru? And the gnawing feeling comes back, the knowledge somewhere buried deep down under layers of denial that he would still starve himself, with or without Satoru.
Because Gojo Satoru is not a god and never will be. He is irrevocably human, capable of broken smiles and tearful laugher. He is not the Six Eyes, he is a sixteen-year-old boy with a developing acne problem and a strange affinity for vintage porn magazines, a boy that Suguru has fallen helplessly in love with but ah,
Worship and love are not synonymous.
To worship is to respect, to love is to be carefree. To worship is to stay in line with rules, to love is to break free of them.
Satoru is worshiped as a god but loved as a teenager, loved by his friends and loved by his teachers and most of all loved by Suguru . There is a fine line between idolization and true love and Suguru is wavering on the edge, tightrope walking with his arms extended at his sides so not to lose balance but one foot has already fallen off and he is on his tiptoes.
He is undeserving of even a human’s love; of any affection towards him and most of all, undeserving of Satoru’s tears.
“It’s not you,” Suguru chokes out, “it’s just –”
He cannot form anything else in his brain; his throat has closed up and it hurts it hurts it hurts and he can feel desperate, pathetic tears well up in his own eyes but Satoru,
Oh, Satoru,
Silently takes him in his arms, allows Suguru to sob heaving tears into his shoulder, cards a gentle hand through his sticky hair and tilts his face up and for a moment;
– a panicked, tense, sudden moment, filled with quiet breaths and the scent of flavorless lip balm and the shine of Satoru’s lips and the blood caked on Suguru’s –
Suguru thinks they might kiss, but Satoru pushes him off and looks away into the distance and slides back onto the stool, speaking after a beat. “Whatever it is, stop.” The words come out cold, but there is some heavy sweetness in his voice that dulls Suguru’s senses. “Please,” Satoru chokes out, “I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m just watching you waste away. Please be okay,” he begs, “please, Suguru.”
“I am okay,” Suguru finds himself unconsciously saying. “I just lost track of myself.”
There is a god at his mercy, a god begging for him to be okay, and all Suguru can think of is what food the hospital staff might bring him and how he can hide it down his flimsy shirt. It’s all himself, none of it a product of Satoru because Satoru loves endlessly and Suguru is undeserving of it until he is dainty as a doll, fragile enough to be picked up so he is no longer a burden.
no
more.
—
His dreams are peaceful and blank, silent except for the bloodcurdling screams of the special grade, skin and bones and flesh and wounds and bleeding knuckles and bloody vomit all coming towards Surugu in his sleep, breaking and breaking and breaking him down until he is nothing but bare bones and the ashes of what he could have been.
—
The lights dim on the world and Satoru lets out a soft sigh, reaching out to touch Suguru’s face but drawing back, wary of the same thing they both fear, the fear of not being loved back, the fear of not knowing how to love back.
—
—
→ suguru is filth and grime and dirty tiles, dark handprints on colorful walls and the smell of bleach.
→ satoru is candy floss, woven intricately around an ideal that is never reached.
—
—
—
—
he cannot stop.
—
—
—
—
I love you, a whisper on his cheek, a strain in his voice. I love you so much.
→ Suguru is released a day later, the doctors instructing Shoko and Satoru and Yaga to regularly monitor his weight, to make sure he’s eating, to pile his plate sky-high with food until he feels like a beached whale.
more and more and more and more and more.
Something strange has shifted in him since encountering the special grade; some strange type of self-awareness, introspection, self- hatred improvement.
In simpler terms, he no longer fears the long-term consequences of purging.
Not that he will live very long anyway. He can feel it, the creeping of Death into his skeleton, the very essence of his self, into his veins and his lungs and seeping everywhere, filling him with darkness. The rawness of his ribs, the way his skin flakes off when he rubs against it too hard, the way even a simple touch sends shivers down his spine, the way he is always cold. April peeks its head through the window and the weather grows warm while Suguru watches Shoko and Satoru drench themselves whenever it drizzles, a warm sort of rain that makes Suguru feel sick to the stomach.
(he has a telltale sign of when to purge, after meals (of course) and whenever his stomach gets this achy feeling as if it’s twisting in on itself.)
And ah, it feels so conclusive – the fact that he will either purge himself dry or die in some way or the other, soon enough – he feels it approaching, every day, this shadowy thing that clings to his back and follows him wherever he goes, the impending sense of doom.
It is no longer a fight for a goal; because Suguru is undeserving, useless, a failure – nothing he does will make him as perfect as Satoru, as human as Satoru, as godlike as Satoru, nothing he does will make him perfect for Satoru, either.
He suspects Shoko and Satoru are together; in the subtle nudges and the whispers between them and the smiles Shoko has been giving the both of them (specifically, Satoru) more often.
He’s happy for them.
No, he isn’t.
But by all means, allow Suguru to drown into inky darkness while his friends live the lives they deserve – the one that he does not.
They are all confident in his ability, after all; he assured them that he would take care of himself after being discharged, that he was too focused on school to eat, that he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine — that everything is okay because it is –
Yaga had nodded carefully, “I think you’re fine too. It’s not what they say it is. You’re just too focused;” and he sounds like he’s reassuring himself but Suguru nods along and they all forget.
Two weeks later and Shoko and Satoru have all but forgotten about Suguru’s plight – Yaga recorded his weight for a few days but consequently procrastinated until he forgot about it and Suguru forgot to remind him – and all that is left is Suguru and his own deteriorating body.
Eat, purge, eat, purge, eat, purge, eat purge eat purge eat purge eat purge eat purge eat purge eat purge eat purge eat purge
e
a
t
p
u
r
g
e
The cycle breaks for school and he buries himself in books, reading and reading and reading and reading to – without a reason – immerse himself in everything that could possibly be known before he dies. He reads about sorcerers being massacred, dreams of nonshamans monkeys being massacred, reads about monkeys killing each other, reads and reads and reads and reads until nothing is clear anymore and his eyes dim and he falls asleep right on the library floor.
One day – he’s lost track of time as it flies by – he is curled up in a pile of books as usual and suddenly his heart rate is slowing and he can feel every aching bone in his body, the astounding lack of fiber, his stomach long given up on begging for food. He hasn’t eaten in – what – a few days? Weeks? Months?
it
spins
→ he places a word to what he has been feeling; this feeling of detachment, of brokenness, of ashtrays and lanterns and curses still alive within him, eating him from the inside out.
→ yearn·ing
noun
a feeling of intense longing for something.
→ all Suguru wants– all he yearns for – is for someone (Satoru) to find his corpse and perhaps then –
→ (perhaps then his lifeless conscience will hear what he has, deep down,
been yearning to hear –)
“You deserve this, Suguru.”
You deserve to be loved, deserve to eat plates and plates of sweets, deserve to let cotton candy melt on your tongue and get stuck in your teeth; to see fireworks and beaches, to see the stars and the sunsets, to wake up earlier than the sun and sleep beside someone you love. To be hugged and kissed and whispered to, to be laughed at and laughed with, to be symbiotic with existence, to be part of a whole, to be home.
—
—
—
de·lu·sion
noun
- a false belief or judgment about external reality.
–
–
–
–
The thoughts crash-land in Suguru’s head (no survivors.)
He is delirious and disoriented and delusional, about to break and already breaking and long broken, words swimming through his head and drowning along with him and then –
Ah, bliss.
—
—
—
—
—
perhaps it is not bliss ;
pain
p
a
i
n
it hurts to live, hurts to exist as a whole but Suguru can only think of how much it hurts to die ; the throbbing pain in his head, his heart straining to keep beating, his body working overtime to keep him— him! alive, almost as if something out there is telling him and pushing him and screaming at him to live live Live, eat the filthy food and shove it in your mouth and let the grease drip down your chin and live live live.
he rejects it and tries to relax, to accept death, to open his front door and allow the reaper to enter but he won’t fucking die —
“Suguru, what the fuck?”
Someone slaps him and the fleeting moment of peace flies out the window. He is jolted back into existence and —
— pain shoots through his entire body; his aching ribs, his bony fingers, his hollow cheeks.
“Suguru,” comes the voice again, the one he hates so much; gentle and sobbing and straining and full of tears and melancholy and nostalgia. He finds himself drifting, but Satoru lightly slaps his cheek again, “stay awake. Please,” his voice cracks.
Suguru grunts slightly and makes a (painful, god it hurts) attempt to sit upright, surrounded by a sea of books that have all come clattering down at some point – whether it was his own doing or not, he can’t seem to remember. “I’m – fine,” he gasps out, but the pain in his abdomen is too obvious, too much to go unnoticed even to someone like Satoru.
“Don’t bullshit me,” Satoru’s voice is sharp and high with panic – “You’re –” his voice is thick with emotion and he reaches out to touch Suguru’s cheek, just barely, but so much so that Suguru’s entire body breaks out in shivers. “You look so –”
“Pitiful?” Suguru, out loud, finishes the sentence for him, pointedly avoiding the shake of his hands, the ache of his bones. “Pathetic? Say it, Satoru. I can handle it.” The words are harsher than expected; he isn’t thinking he isn’t moving
He isn’t breathing when Satoru’s eyes fill with tears – accentuating his already glimmering eyes – and his love ( oh, his love, because who is he lying to when he says he isn’t hopelessly in love with this boy, this angel, this human) collapses at his feet.
“I’m sorry,” Satoru says, and the words are quiet, filled with pure, pure sorrow , reaching into Suguru’s chest and tearing his heart out.
(they are all so sad.)
“Don’t be,” Suguru chokes out. “I know what I am. I don’t compare to you, Satoru. Leave me alone.”
Satoru looks back up at him, tears threatening to spill over and voice heavy. “You said you would be okay,” and god, his voice is so quiet and so reserved and so, so, so broken that Suguru feels tears welling up in his own eyes, drier than the desert but struggling to generate something so Suguru can feel something, anything at all.
Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to be; this life is not meant to be filled with agony and misery, not meant to be polluted with hatred and massacre, not meant to be so miserable and melancholy but here they are, Satoru and Suguru, opposite sites of a doorway that Satoru will never walk through.
It is a deep sort of pain that entrenches itself within Suguru; a sort of ache that never truly goes away. The agony of love, of feeling the stars themself dance across his skin, of the most gorgeous form of self-destruction. His hubris is Satoru; the flaw that will never cease to make itself known in the ugly scars adorning his skin and the beat of his heart whenever he approaches. Suguru’s heart is so full of Satoru that he hardly knows himself.
He wants his last breath to be a sigh of relief.
“I’m sorry,” Satoru repeats, more of a gasp this time, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ve been – horrible. Oh my god, Suguru, I’m sorry, I–”
“Don’t be sorry,” Suguru bites out. “I’m not –” His throat catches there (he has never said these words aloud, rampant in his mind as they are.)
A beat of silence.
“You’re not what?” Satoru asks almost cautiously. “What, Suguru?”
“Nothing,” he says, and the ache in his body rivals no other pain he has ever felt in his life. Not the sight of his parents, not the feeling of their hands on him, not the burns or the broken glass or the shards, all of it is miniscule compared to the agony he is in now and oh –
The tears have begun to trickle steadily down Satoru’s cheeks, but the sharpness of his voice has ot left. “It’s not nothing if you’re destroying yourself over it,” he snaps – then his eyes grow gentler and his tone settles into something more solemn. “You know you can talk to me.”
Suguru reaches out, painfully, and wipes the tears from Satoru’s eyes; the sight of them is so revolting he wants to run to the bathroom and make himself throw up even though there is nothing in his stomach. “Stop crying. I don’t deserve to be cried over.”
And there it is, the tip of the iceberg of the things Suguru says to himself, the things that have been said to him, the constant threats of abandonment and the knowledge that he is undeserving of Satoru’s tears, of anyone’s tears, the acceptance that love will never come to him, that he will never be loved that, that what he thinks is love may not even be so –
“ What ?” Satoru makes no effort to scrub the tears away, his voice only growing sharp at the edges. “What do you mean, you don’t deserve to be cried over?”
Suguru looks away. Satoru grabs his chin and turns him back with a terrifying force (his eyes are blazing when Suguru reluctantly stares into them, an oxymoronic combination of fire and water.)
“What do you mean, Suguru?” Satoru asks again, desperation clawing at the edge of his words. “ Of course you deserve to – what –”
And it is conveniently this point in time that Suguru’s barely-held sobs spill over, pouring down his cheeks – he makes an attempt to cover his face with his hands, but Satoru pushes them away before he can do anything and holds Suguru’s face in his own hands, roughly wiping the tears away with the pads of his thumbs while tear tracks dry on his own face.
Suguru’s heart begs to melt into Satoru’s hold; to forget and forget and forget until there is nothing left but the two of them in a void, infinite and infinitesimal, ending despite never having begun, broken but fixed, oxymoronic like the two of them, like their very existence.
But he pulls away because he is undeserving.
I fucking hate you, Geto Suguru.
I hate you so much.
“I don’t,” Suguru distantly hears himself saying, “deserve your tears. I don’t deserve anything . What have I done for you, Satoru? I haven’t given up anything, I’m not the Six Eyes, I’m not perfect , I’m not – I don’t –”
I fucking hate you, Geto Suguru.
I hate you, Geto Suguru.
I hate you, Geto Suguru.
Į̶̢̼̲̰̗͓̮͗͑̋́̇Ì̶̢̛͔̗̮̱͔̘̞͕̲̰̅̃͂͛̈́̔̈́̾̄͝l̸̢̳͔͈͎̱͓͔͎̈̌̀͊͐͆͜͝ͅo̸͖̩̽̎̀̊̍̎̄͝͝v̵̨̡̠͎̪̹̄̉͗̈͛̃̀̾̄̅͠ͅe̶̞y̵̢̳͐̀̌̈́̾͒͒͌̾̚ö̶̦͇̠̺͈̯̮̥̣͗͑̈́̍̎̓͜ů̶̞̭̜͖̳͈̖̬̜̌̌̎̈͆́̇͘͝,̸̧̢̩͇̮̱͖͇̲̫͆̅̀͋́̓́̅̂̒̐ G̴̢̭̏̈́͛̑͗̋̓̈́̐́̚͝͝ẽ̷̛͍̰͍̬͙̀̐̀̃͛̇͘͝͝ṫ̵͚͖̦̫͔͉̻̭̜͎̬̯́̃̓̀̇̍̚ͅơ̴̢͍͙̫̪̣̭͕̙̦͓̰̿́̓̑̀͐̈́̂̄͘͝͝ S̴̨̟͕̯̜̗̥̈́̒̽̏̅̉͝ữ̷̲̫̎̓̌̑͑̔̆́͘ģ̴͚̻̣̜̹̦͓̤̮̞̯́̎́̎̋̾̓̍̏̿̇̚͠u̶͉͕̜̻͒͑̆͗̃̒̏̀̌̇͝r̸͔̳̰̉̋̊̕̕ǘ̷̦̪̈́͂͗͝.̸̡̡̢̛̬̖͇̭̼̩̳̲̪̤̩̫̋̏͐̀͂̿̔̾̊̀̇̍̕
Į̶̤͍͎̈́ͅ ̷̝̹͖̠̅̑̕͝ḻ̶̜̓͗͝o̷̦̽v̴͈̜͎̅̔̆̌͘e̷̡̧͈̯̼̎̽̾̓͠ ̸̧̛̘̓̑͋y̷̙͊̌̒̌ö̴̢̱̘̩̎͑͘ů̴̥͓͍͈͇̓̓͗,̵̨̥̖̣͔̆̀̉̎͐ ̴͎̣̹̉̓G̵͖̘͍͓̈́͝e̸͈̩̰͌̂̒͜t̴̃̀ͅỡ̸̮̠̀͑͘ ̷̘̹͉͂̏͐͝S̷͚͙̻̙͆̆̓ͅů̵̧̱̲͙̥̓̓̄g̵̨̛͒̽̈́ù̴̪̜̰̗̼̑̐͠r̶̝̮̲̖͐ȕ̵͉̹̣̓̕.̷͕͖̦̜̲́͑̈́
Î̶̢̩̂͘ ̵̺͛l̷̬͘o̸̡͑̀͌v̶̰͚̉ͅe̶̜̠͋ ̴͚̈̾̀ỳ̶͈̘̋̕o̵͙͙̾̿͜u̸̟̽̇,̶͉͍̼͝ ̵̪̀G̶̨͔̓̀̚e̸̯̻̪̓́t̵̯͚͍͛ò̴̫̝͝͝ ̷̹̮͚̚S̴̬̀̉̀ủ̸͔g̴̥͚̳̓ù̵͎͗r̴̜̿u̶̡̪͍͊.̵̣̳̝̾̐͆
Ì̴̲ ̴̥̓l̵̛͕̂õ̶̡̹v̷̤͝e̵̥̔͠ ̵̋͒͜y̴̭̆̈́o̸̢̲̊ų̸̀̎,̴̲̏ ̶̖̩̄͝Ǵ̸̡́e̵̢͙̔t̸͍̟͌̋ŏ̴̗̞͂ ̴͚̀̕S̸̬̐̾u̷̯̘͗͠g̸̠̼̔͂ŭ̴̞̺̌r̷̫̓͂u̴͕̇.̶̟̙͋͂
I love you, Geto Suguru.
“I don’t deserve you, Satoru,” Suguru chokes out and Satoru’s eyes crinkle with pure sadness and his head falls in his hands.
“You’re so – fuck, Suguru,” Satoru bites out, some unnameable emotion on his face and in his voice. He looks up and sighs, “you dumb piece of shit,” and before Suguru can process the words there is a pair of lips meeting his own and he loses all function.
His first thought, strangely enough, is that the kiss is wet. Both of them are crying (Suguru especially – pathetic –) and Satoru tastes of absorbed strawberry lip balm and salty tears.
His second thought is to pull away and run stay run stay run stay run stay run stay run stay. His options are limited when Satoru pulls him closer in a vicelike grip (and Suguru is too exhausted to get up and go anywhere else) (and he likes it, of course).
His third thought is what clings to his back; the whispers of you don’t deserve this and he takes pity on you and you are a worthless, ungrateful, piece of fucking –
“-- I’ve been obviously in love with you for months, you idiot,” Satoru gasps breathlessly when they come up for air.
oh.
oh.
Part of Suguru doesn’t believe him; cannot fathom that any of this could be true: that Gojo Satoru is in love with him — him! This ungrateful, unworthy scum upon the earth — and another part of Suguru is flooded with so much — just so much that the tears surface once more and Suguru is ugly crying, gasps and wheezes and sniffles and watery inhales.
Satoru lets him cry.
And then the words that are like a sword through Suguru’s heart – “ I don’t deserve you, Suguru. I couldn’t even help you when you were going through all this on your own.”
And – no! Gojo Satoru is perfect, he is angelic, he does nothing wrong and he deserves the world for what was done to him. Locked away and kept secret, forced to train until his bones broke and rebuilt themselves, worked harder and harder to become stronger and stronger and he makes no mistakes, he deserves so much more than filth like Suguru. “Shut up,” Suguru snaps immediately. “You deserve the world.”
Satoru’s eyes soften imperceptibly and Suguru feels himself fall apart. “You are the world, Suguru,” he whispers — then cringes — “Sorry. That was cheesy. You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” Suguru says weakly, because — what? “Tell me what you mean.”
Satoru sighs disconcertedly, appearing to be contemplating something in his head — he makes up his mind and places a hand on either side of Suguru’s face, gripping so tightly he can’t pull away. “I mean I love you,” he says, voice cracking in all the wrong places. “I love you, Suguru, and it’s not out of — fucking pity or whatever — I love you so much it hurts.”
The world stops on its axis.
Suguru blacks out.
—
—
—
ephemeral eternities and parallel universes and suguru is the connection, the link between them all, the root of their sadness and their laughter and their tears, and oh –
→ they are all so sad.
→ their lives are dotted with misery, inked with agony, and drawn on with grief; brokenness is familiar to them and never once has suguru felt whole, felt healed, felt good –
– I love you so much it hurts.
i love you i love you i love you.
Death holds Suguru by the hand and Satoru holds tightly on to the other.
—
—
—
—
He opens his eyes to pure white and Satoru is at his side, again — he reaches out to slap him but Suguru groans and grabs his arm before he can make contact. “Can you stop doing that?”
“Doing what?” Satoru asks confusedly.
“Slapping me.”
Satoru snorts. “I was going to hug you, dumbass.”
And — oh. The earlier events cascade into his memory again, of Satoru saying I love you, voice tired with sleep and thick with emotion, of soft words and whispers and tears, of Suguru’s eyes still rubbed raw from sobbing all that much, of the ache in his bones that has not yet gone away. “Oh,” Suguru says.
Satoru gives him a look. “So? Can I?”
The screaming in Suguru’s head starts again;
Failure//Useless//Worthless//Undeserving;
I love you so much it hurts.
“Yeah,” he chokes out, “you can,” and Satoru wraps his arms around him and he sinks.
It an awkwardly placed hug; Suguru is sitting down and Satoru is hunched over him, Suguru’s arms around his waist and head on his shoulder, but Satoru is warm and Suguru has been rather cold lately and he almost falls asleep right there in the crook of Satoru’s neck.
Satoru’s chin rests on the crown of his head and something feels strangely wet; Suguru almost jolts out of the hug when he realizes that Satoru is crying again, gentle tears that drip-drip-drip slowlyslowlyslowly off his chin, no effort made to wipe them away —
— So (and his heart aches when he does so) Suguru pulls Satoru off of him and wipes the tears away himself, ignoring the way Satoru leans into his touch, the way his skin follows the palm of Suguru’s hand, the way the very stars seem to dance across his eyes, his face, him.
Satoru’s eyes find Suguru and the slightest hint of a smile blooms on his expression; the crinkle of his eyes and the slight upward turn of his lips that Suguru knows like the back of his hand. “I’m fucked, aren’t I?” he lets out the softest of laughs. “You’re so stupid.”
And – and – the insult doesn’t hit as hard as it usually does, doesn’t make Suguru feel worthless and doesn’t restart the barrage of onslaught he gives himself – and is that affection behind those words, a barely-there trace of sugar behind the thrown-out insult? He – without warning – finds himself laughing along with Suguru. “I am stupid,” he admits quietly.
The silence is heavy; April sunlight filters in through the half-blinded window and the distant sound of birds chirping and a stream somewhere, far away, fills the room with gentle sound.
—
—
—
—
“Suguru, what the fuck,” Shoko’s raucous voice streams in from the doorway and she comes stomping in, Yaga at her heels. She reaches a hand out and Suguru accepts the hug —
It turns into a slap and Suguru is left furiously rubbing his cheek while Satoru muffles a laugh in the corner and Shoko yells herself silly.
Her rants cease at some point (he tunes it out) and she asks, morbidly, “So, what, are you cured now? After almost dying?”
Suguru blinks. “What?”
“Are you okay? And don’t bullshit me,” she snaps, oddly akin to Satoru’s words earlier. Her voice softens. “Tell the truth.”
Suguru swallows and it feels like thorns are being shoved down his throat, rubbed raw from purging (he noticed the IV earlier and couldn’t bring himself to tear it out) and it hurts so much to speak.
“the ache in his body rivals no other pain he has ever felt in his life. Not the sight of his parents, not the feeling of their hands on him, not the burns or the broken glass or the shards, all of it is miniscule compared to the agony he is in now and oh –”
“I’m not cured,” he says quietly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t –”
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Satoru says almost immediately, “none of us took care of you and that’s our fault. Stop blaming yourself.”
Suguru feels the corners of his eyes crinkle with affection. “I –”
he what?
Worthless//Failure//Undeserving//Filth.
—
—
—
no.
—
—
“I’ll be okay,” he says, and the words are almost imperceptible. “I promise,” his voice grows louder, drowning out the screams inside his head. “I’ll be okay.”
Shoko looks at him sadly and flounces on the bed beside him. “You’re an idiot, you know that? We love you.”
The two statements are so wildly contrasting that a smile blooms on his face before he can stop himself. “I love you too,” he replies softly, much to his own (and the others’) surprise.
“ What?” Satoru hisses pettily, and Suguru feels the headache coming on (who is he kidding, he’s head over heels for this moron–) “ That statement is reserved only for me.”
And it’s almost like a fever dream, because Suguru immediately feels tears well up in his eyes for – what? Something like that? But they are happy tears, tears of relief, of joy, of some kind of distant content that he finds now that he has been yearning for for so long.
Shoko gives him a bored look. “That’s disgusting. What are you, dating now? Aren’t there more important things to talk about?”
Satoru snorts. “Don’t be a wet carpet. You —”
“Suguru-kun,” Yaga cuts in from behind. “I trusted you to take care of yourself.” His voice is heavy with disappointment and a hint of panic and — is that relief?
A pang of guilt shoots through Suguru; the audacity of him to make a promise and refuse to follow it, the stubbornness of his own body and his own brain to ruin him no matter what, his fight with his own mind to stop thinking these thoughts, stop doing these things, stop starving and purging and restricting and feeling and —
— he remembers the struggle of his heart to keep beating despite his desperate reach to Death —
→ perhaps he is not one side of a coin but a symbiote; a living, breathing thing, and perhaps his body is trying and trying and trying to keep him alive and he has failed to notice it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers in Yaga’s general direction, “I—”
His words die on his tongue when Yaga pulls him into a bone-crushing embrace, his arms pinned awkwardly at his side but it’s warm and he relaxes and —
This must be what it is; that young love that Yaga talks about — the love for every thing and every one , for the birds in the trees and the sun in the sky and the silence of dawn, for cars honking and children laughing, for candy floss and mochi and the half-eaten sushi Satoru leaves for him every time they go out.
Yaga’s shoulder is wet with tears that Suguru scrubs away when they pull apart. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he grunts. “Please take care of yourself and come to us whenever you need it.”
“Yeah, dumbfuck,” Shoko adds, “what do you think we’re here for?” She gives Satoru (who has stayed relatively silent this whole time) a pointed look and looks back at Yaga. “Let’s go. I’m hungry,” she points to Suguru, “Come meet us in the dining hall once you get out of here. Promise,” she stresses.
“Promise,” Suguru echoes, and a weight has been lifted off his back.
Once they leave, the room is shrouded in silence again— but the quiet sounds of the morning are beginning to grow louder and Suguru looks back, expectantly, at Satoru (who has been fidgeting for a while.)
“I, uh—” Satoru starts, awkwardly stumbling and it is the most endearing thing Suguru has ever seen in his entire short-lived life. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday. If I was too…straightforward. I think I skipped a couple of steps and if you don’t feel the same way or if you don’t want to —”
Suguru is
a
w
e
s
t
r
u
c
k
The fact that Gojo Satoru is sitting in front of him, cheeks red with embarrassment and a pinch of guilt, looking up at him just barely through his eyelashes, apologizing for something that Suguru has craved and craved and yearned to see — what abysmal timeline are they living in for all this to be true, to be happening?
“Don’t apologize,” Suguru says quickly, without thinking what he’ll say next (he blanks for a moment before rattling on, making no sense.) “What I mean to say is — uh —” He swallows grimly. Words, please, he begs whatever higher power exists in the universe. “You didn’t go too fast, or — anything.”
Satoru stares at him.
Fuck, he thinks almost affectionately to himself, I don’t know what I’m doing, but his stubborn mouth rambles on and he finds himself thinking the words that he has thought so many times —
The words scarring themselves into his mind whenever he sees Satoru, sleepy-eyed and blinking, at five in the morning; when he sees Satoru, bloody and beat up but still smiling like a maniac, when he hears Satoru say his name like it’s the most important word in the world, when he wipes Satoru’s tears away — and it is as if a galaxy has exploded in his vision: spheres of light and starbursts, cosmic rays and dying stars, planets and universes and black holes and the most gorgeous sight he has ever seen —
all contained in Satoru’s eyes; eyes that he can look into forever and see a new universe every time he blinks.
“Don’t apologize,” Suguru repeats quietly, “it’s okay.”
Satoru gives him a long look, and for a beat Suguru thinks this is all a dream and he is still lying amidst those books, in a daze, broken and broken and breaking some more –
Then Satoru moves towards him and (suddenly, before Suguru can process it) he is sitting beside him, turned to face him, one hand cupping his face and the look in Satoru’s eyes is enough to make Suguru trade all his worldly possessions just to gaze into his love’s eyes forever and ever and ever.
Satoru takes a breath, gentle as the breeze coming in through the window. “Can I kiss you?” it comes out as nothing more than a whisper.
“Yeah,” Suguru breathes without thinking. “You can.”
He leans in and wait –
“Wait,” Suguru cuts in sharply, “Hold on.”
Satoru, stuck in the awkward pre-kiss position, opens his eyes and blinks. “What?”
—
—
—
And finally, finally, Suguru lets a smile grace his lips as he says what has been stumbling through his mind for months, what he has become so sure of in the last day, what has led him through sorrow and misery and agony and pure, unadulterated joy.
i love you i love you i love you.
“I love you,” Suguru says, and the words don’t catch in his throat or come out choked – they stumble through his lips as if it’s the most natural thing in the world because it is – after all, he has thought those words for longer than he can remember. “I love you so much.”
Satoru’s eyes widen imperceptibly, then crinkle in that smile, the Gojo Satoru smile, the one that graces his features all the time, no matter if he is about to kiss someone or kill someone.
“You can kiss me now,” Suguru says, half-breathless, half-laughing. “I just wanted to say it out lou–”
“Shut up,” Satoru mumbles against his lips, “you’re making me blush.”
—
—
—
—
Loving Geto Suguru is hard (at least, that’s what he thinks of himself,) but to Satoru, (like everything else he does) it comes to him like breathing.
Satoru loves Suguru as the sea loves the sand; (always coming back no matter how far it recedes.)
Suguru loves Satoru as the night loves the stars; (allowing them to burn bright, contrasting and highlighting to bring out the best parts of their eternity.)
They rise and they fall, they ebb and they flow, and the numbers in Suguru’s notebook slowly begin to lose meaning. He isn’t cured, isn’t magically better (no one is, after all) but ah, has he missed the feeling of fighting over sushi with Satoru and wrenching a bag of chips from Shoko’s sneaky hands.
Suguru begins to find beauty in everything — in the night, blanketed with stars, in the early strains of the morning and the midday sunlight, in the laughter and the tears and the misery that they all share.
they are all so sad.
they are all so sad.
they are sad together , happy together , euphoric together in all that they do; a symbiote, something living and breathing and existing.
Satoru’s eyes hold the key to the universe and Suguru unlocks it, the world transforming into excited whispers and stolen kisses and sweet, sweet, joy, a feeling that Suguru has never known until now.
When they run into their next special grade, Satoru pulls Suguru towards him and they fight together, back to back, embracing each other’s fears and woes and anxieties and joys and indulgences. Togethertogethertogether , the strongest, each other’s one and only, individual but inseparable, a double-edged sword, two sides of the same coin —
— enough with the metaphors.
—
—
—
— (well, maybe one more)
Suguru learns to love Satoru like breathing, learns to accept Satoru’s love as easily as swallowing food (something that is so incredibly painful for a long time, but Satoru stays with him throughout.)
The yearning never ceases to exist — the distant notion that perhaps things could be different, perhaps they could live a domestic life together, perhaps they aren’t the strongest any more and the burden they carry is lifted — but the only thing different is that they yearn together .
Trading secrets and kisses under the stars, letting go of so many feelings, bottled up and hidden away, weaving bonds between them as closely as the stars are tied to the night sky. Loving and loving and loving and healing , fixing the gaping hole in their hearts slowly but surely.
They love as everyone has loved before and no one has loved before, as the moon loves the sun, as the night loves the day; they give way to one another and coexist as one, as two, as multitudes and eternities, as the single timeline they were fortunate to be born in.
→ satoru is one half of a whole, holding up the universe, a god, an angel, a human.
→ suguru is the other half, a living, breathing, eating being, the most exquisite form of catastrophe and the most beautiful form of joy.
i love you i love you i love you.
fin.