Work Text:
Shoko stubs her cigarette into the ashtray, breath coming fast in little puffs. She turns her back to the city and leans against the snow-covered railing, and fuck, she is already regretting it as wetness seeps in through her too-thin coat. Ah, well. She takes the nearly empty cigarette pack out of her pocket and taps it against her palm, then fishes out another. She adjusts her position against the flimsy rail, then lights the cigarette with the Zippo Satoru had bought her for her birthday the year Suguru left.
Inhaling hard, she looks at the lighter dubiously. It had been meant to be a joint gift, but when Suguru defected, he gave up any claim he could have made towards that fact. Satoru would have said it was from him entirely, regardless, but it was a quieter affair with no argument to the contrary.
She runs her thumb over the engraved bandage–“because you heal us!” Satoru had explained–and doesn’t feel anything at all. Surprised, she shoves it back into her pocket. She hasn’t been sleeping well recently, ever, technically, and it’s well documented that sleep deprivation impacts emotional regulation negatively.
She exhales slowly, and shudders against the cold.
Utahime is waiting for her inside, she knows. She just can’t bring herself to join in the ‘festivities,’ with the rest of them. Who was left of them.
She flicks ash off the side of the balcony, tilting her head upwards to the stars. Night has fallen while she’s been chain-smoking; the sky changing from dusty rose and a blazing gold, to subdued oranges, now deep blue envelops her. Warm light filters through the sliding glass door, and she knows she shouldn’t just stay out here all evening.
But isn’t Mei Mei’s cackle enough of a reason to try to escape?
And how are they all that’s left?
She shivers again, and fuck. She really should have grabbed a thicker coat, but when Kirara asked her what was wrong with Christmas, she didn’t want to snap at the poor girl so she headed outside for a smoke instead. She forewent comfort in exchange for a hasty getaway. Kinji had joined her for the first one, apologizing on behalf of his girlfriend. “She didn’t mean anything by it. She doesn’t like to remember it, is all.”
But really, who does? Shoko scoffs, recounting the number of friends she’d lost over the years, before correcting herself. She accepted a long time ago that she wouldn’t be friends with these people. They are her patients. They are her students. Or they are her colleagues. They will never be her friends.
Her friends were Yuu, gone too young, and Kento, taken in the prime of his life. Her friend was Suguru, although he had forgotten about her when he left them all behind. And her friend was Satoru, despite all of his grand machinations that never quite came to fruition.
The first Christmas without Yuu was also the first without Suguru, and Shoko had to comfort Kento and Satoru both. She stole the bottle of whiskey Yaga thought he had kept well-hidden in the back of the infirmary, and passed it back and forth in silence with Kento while Satoru castigated the system within which they were trapped. Satoru shouted to the high heavens about the injustice of it all and how Suguru wasn’t what they said he was, what they had made him become . Shoko leaned her head on Kento’s shoulder, rested her hand on Satoru’s knee, and tried her best to heal them both.
The bottle of whiskey was easier to find the next year, and the year after, Shoko found the bottle wrapped in a bow. It became a tradition of sorts; she and Kento would sit and drink in silence while Satoru ate cake and declared how he was going to burn it all down.
The tenth year in, there was no whiskey. There was only Suguru, laying on the embalming table in her morgue. There was only Satoru, finally silent, staring down at his body. Kento kept his distance, asserting that his presence would only make things worse. He didn’t know him that well, anyway, didn’t harbor the same deep friendship as them.
Satoru carried his body away, promising to take care of it, and then there was only her. Just her in the empty morgue with a bottle of Yaga’s whiskey.
And then on the anniversary of Suguru’s death, Satoru joined him. Kento had warned her once that it was only a matter of time before they all died, right before he quit sorcery to live a ‘normal’ life, and she knew that he was right. But she was still grieving over him when Satoru announced his hair-brained plan of challenging Kenjaku on December 24th and, fuck, of all the days.
He had thought it would be romantic, the twisted fuck. He went on about Romeo and Juliet in his stupid way that never seemed serious, but never not serious. And Shoko wanted to strangle him, and then heal him, only so that she could strangle him again.
And now she’ll never have the chance.
And there will never again be silent drinking of Yaga’s whiskey, and loud protests against Jujutsu Sorcery at large, and there will never be another Christmas or Halloween, only anniversaries of their deaths.
When Shoko lowers her gaze, Utahime is standing in front of her. She didn’t even hear the door open or the woman approach. “You’re freezing. Won’t you come inside?” Utahime runs her hands over Shoko’s arms and shoulders, the friction causing warmth to bloom under her skin.
Shoko looks indifferently at the group of people gathered inside singing carols off-key. And she knows she’s being unfair, that they are just trying to get through this, too, each in their own ways.
The whole of jujutsu society had suffered an incalculable loss with the death of Gojo Satoru, and so many casualties besides. The survivors were enduring and trying to rebuild, scraping together what shreds of normalcy they could.
“I think I’ll stay out here a while longer, Iori-san, but thank you.” She forces a smile.
Utahime rolls her eyes and then heads back inside.
Shoko brings the cigarette to her lips for another drag and finds it’s burned itself out. She relights it and turns to look at the city lights around them, and it is beautiful, everything covered in a layer of snow, lights reflecting off of it. Nostalgia flickers somewhere in the back of her hippocampus. She really should get more sleep.
The door slides back open, and Utahime crowds in behind Shoko, wraps a blanket around them both, careful of the lit cherry, and hands Shoko a bottle of bourbon. “It’s not the good stuff, but it’ll do. You don’t have to say anything. I just don’t want Ieiri-chan to freeze.”
And true to Utahime’s word, when Mei Mei tries to draw them back inside claiming she couldn’t stand to listen to anyone other than the great songstress Utahime for another minute, she’s met with a glare and a middle finger.
Shoko and Utahime alternate sips of the liquor until Shoko’s smoked her last cigarette and Utahime has drained the bottle completely. They look at the empty vessels of their vices and then at each other, unsure of what to do next.
Utahime takes Shoko’s hand, and leads her to the door. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand it, either.” Shoko nods, and calls for a cab.
She has felt so numb for so long that it might be nice to not have to feel lonely, too.