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Shoko places an order to have a box of chocolates dropped at Utahime's door and pours herself three fingers of scotch before she sets her phone on silent. She sits out on her balcony, weaves her cursed energy through the air in the shape of a name, and readies a second glass.
He appears as she's filling it to her fourth finger, her shoulders shoved down by the cursed energy rolling off of him in waves, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up from the weight of his covered eyes on her face.
"Shoko," Satoru greets, pulling out the empty chair across from her, purposeful in how he makes the legs screech against the cold stone that freezes the soles of her feet through her thick socks.
"Gojo," she returns, wincing at the grating sting of the sound in her ears, wishing not for the first time that she could punch him when he laughs in her face, cheeky and annoying as ever. "Do you have to do that every time?"
"Only because you love it so much," he coos, dropping delicate fingers around the rim of the drink she slides him, the amber liquid splashing up and bouncing off the Infinity blanketing his skin, falling right back into the glass. "Do you have to do this every time?"
She shrugs with one shoulder, taking her first sip of the night. "It makes me feel better about killing the bottle later."
The bottle, the same brand sent to her after she cheated her way through her MD, sits between them on the table next to the unopened cigarettes and the lighter.
He raises his glass to his face and sniffs, immediately wrinkling his nose and sticking out his tongue with a disgusted noise. "Blegh. I still don't know how you can stand this stuff."
In all honesty, she hates this brand. She hates scotch in general, much rather preferring the peach-flavored vodka Utahime got her hooked on three years ago or the strawberry soju Kento had given her for her birthday, but this is what had appeared on her doorstep the day she got her diploma from med school in the mail, with no sign of who sent it aside from the residuals of Curse Manipulation slowly fading from the unsealed cap, lingering on the mouth of the bottle where a glassful of liquor was already missing.
"It's more like it gets the job done fast," she tells him, finishing her glass and opening her hand for his. He pushes it over with a flick of his nail, the clink quiet enough to be almost gentle in the strength it betrays, and she continues, "I know you have places to be."
Places is Shinjuku, is the remains of a village forever infested by cursed spirits because of the soil's memory of the murders, is the alley where he asked for last words.
"I'm in no rush," he says, in that special way he does where she can't tell if he's lying. "Have you seen Utahime today?"
"We talked on the phone," she drains the second drink and goes for the refill, already feeling the alcohol dampen her thoughts, and craves a cigarette so suddenly that she doesn't waste time tearing the plastic and flicking open the box, pulling one from the back row by her knuckles and placing it between her teeth. She says out of the side of her mouth, "She got stuck in Kyoto for the kids who can't go home."
Satoru hums, picking up the lighter and sparking it, holding it out for her to lean into. In thanks, she blows smoke in his face, just to watch it flatten against the thickest layer of Infinity that protects him from the neck up and evaporate into his laugh, mixing with the white fog that spills from his lips. It's almost like yin and yang, she thinks, and taps the ash into the first glass that she's abandoned in favor of the second before taking another pull.
"You're lucky, you know," he remarks, tilting his head as he watches her suck the nicotine into her lungs. She wonders if he can see it, with those eyes of his, if he's watching the drug and her white blood cells battle it out for dominance, only for her cursed energy to level the playing field and wipe the slate clean. "Not many people can say they spent the holiday with the Strongest."
Shoko rolls her eyes. "Please. It’s not like I want you here."
He had come to her after ensuring Okkotsu and the rest of the first years were safe, a bottle in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, his eyes dulling with the release of his technique as he stepped into her apartment. It was the only time she saw him shed a tear, listening to him recount the final conversation between himself and Suguru like a pastor delivering a sermon.
She had cried, too, she loathes to admit, had gotten so drunk she was shocked she even woke up at all the next morning, even if it was to him flipping pancakes and dancing around her kitchen like he was the one paying the rent, like he never dodged her repeated question of, What did you do with the body? until she was incoherent from the alcohol.
A year later and here he is again, though this time she’s the one providing.
"Sure," he drawls, passing her another cigarette when she kills the first, offering his other hand for her to twist it out against the Infinity coiled in his palm, the ash fluttering away in the breeze. "What are your plans for tomorrow?"
"Dunno," she answers, dropping her chin in her palm with a heavy sigh as she finishes her third drink and takes a long drag, "Hime's going to see her family, maybe I'll watch TV?"
The corners of Satoru's mouth twitch up before he smooths it out, the thing he does when he's trying not to laugh.
"What?" Shoko narrows her eyes, thrown by the way they lag behind her brain's command, squinting half a second after she wants. "What's funny?"
"Nothing," his voice vibrates with amusement, "I just always forget how fast you start slurring when you drink the heavy stuff."
Half the bottle is gone. Last year she got to this point and it only took one or two more glasses for her to start remembering the night in fragments, but this time she feels more present, her grip on herself stronger. She pours her fourth drink and doesn't pay attention to the way Satoru straightens his spine, leaning forward on the table like he's about to tell her a secret.
"I'm taking the first years to Tokyo proper so they can buy themselves gifts," he whispers conspiratorially, like they aren't the only two people here, "Nobara and Yuji still think I'm sending them on some boring surveillance mission."
Shoko raises an eyebrow. "And Megumi?"
Satoru grins. "He actually wants to go on the mission. He'll be so disappointed!"
She huffs a laugh. "Sounds like you've got your work cut out for you, then."
As one of the only sorcerers with a technique not suited for combat, she used to be jealous of everyone around her getting to leave the school, to visit the darkest corners of Japan and make meaning with their actions. She was just the cleanup crew, the person her friends all stumbled and whined to when they needed healing, telling her bombastic stories of their adventures. The day she realized she was the lucky one, sheltered and protected because of her value to the higher-ups, is the first time she had to perform an autopsy, using her technique to identify the places where the body took the most damage and then fix them up for the funeral, only to watch all of her work disappear in a flash of smoke and flame.
What did you do with the body? she wants to ask again, liquid courage burning down her throat as she takes a long drink then another rough drag of her cigarette. Where are you hiding him?
"Nah," Satoru sighs, tilting back in his chair, rocking onto its hind legs and balancing with his feet propped on the edge of the table, pouting when she reaches across and smacks at them. They drop back to the floor with a thud, his chair following suit. "It'll be fun. They get to celebrate their promotions, too, and Yuji keeps asking me about conveyor belt sushi."
Shoko wrinkles her nose. What did you do with the body? "He's still on about that?"
"Yeah, I-" A faint ringing comes from his pocket and he holds up a finger before digging out his phone. "One second."
He answers with a wide grin, and as she watches him lazily talk to whoever's on the other line, yapping on about holiday plans and what clothes he's wearing to a meeting and something about his allergies, she finds herself drifting, lulled into something like security by his presence and the warmth of the scotch in her stomach.
Maybe I am a lightweight, she thinks, having just enough clarity to stub out her cigarette on the backs of his drumming fingers, sticking out her tongue when he flips her off as he talks about his students, before letting herself fall back into her trance.
The next thing she's aware of is being tucked into her bed, her pillow strangely fluffed and her blanket warm as it's dragged over her body. The last time anyone did this for her was back in school, when she was delirious from an eighteen-hour operation and passed out in her clothes, her bloodied shoes still on her feet.
"Satoru," she mumbles, grabbing for his hand, interrupting where he's opening the bedroom door to walk away. The only time she says his first name is like this, when she forgets they aren't eighteen anymore, that their third is dead and gone because they were both blind even with eight eyes between them.
"Relax, Sho," The only time he calls her that stupidly fond nickname from third year, when all they had was each other and a forever empty seat in the classroom, is when he thinks she's too drunk to remember it come morning. The same logic applies for the way he lowers his technique, letting the warmth of his skin seep into her palm for exactly one breath before he tugs his fingers free. "I'm just getting you a glass of water and a pill."
She learned how to Reverse Curse a hangover when they were seventeen years old and Suguru nicked Yaga's poorly hidden bottle of now-familiar scotch from his desk, wanting to celebrate her promotion to Grade 1 after she impressed the higher-ups by curing a sorcerer's cancer with nothing but a handshake. Satoru nitpicked, asking why she wasn't given the same rank as them, but Shoko was fine not being seen as Special Grade. It meant she got to stay in her office, only called away when someone was close to dying.
She and Suguru had split the bottle after failing to peer pressure Satoru into indulging, rolling their eyes at his excuse that he hated alcohol, that it fucked with his forever-healing brain, that he would rather laugh at them when the sun rose and their bodies rebelled. Even now she can't remember the whole night, only that she had done something stupid like told them she was going to miss them when they left for all of their big-shot missions, and that she screamed in excitement when Suguru manned up and finally kissed Satoru on the mouth.
You're such a fucking bitch, he had moaned when she flaunted her blissful, not-pounding head at breakfast and refused his pleas for relief.
I'm not permitted to use my technique on others unless the injury could lead to loss of a limb or death, she had replied, laughing as she dodged the crumpled napkin he threw her way, but your boyfriend could possibly afford my private, off-the-books services.
Doubtful, Satoru had lamented, blinking into reality atop the counter and stealing a strawberry from the bowl of yogurt she was preparing, popping it into his mouth, I just had to give Mei Mei a finders fee on my new glasses. I didn't feel like heading into town.
Suguru had moaned again, his forehead on the edge of the dining table as he mumbled a plea for them to, Stop yelling, and Shoko nearly spit out her coffee when Satoru decided to turn on the radio and sing along to the latest hits in the loudest, most off-key voice he could muster.
"Here," he whispers, placing the glass of water on her end table and two ibuprofen in her hand, bringing her back to the present. "Take 'em and then you can sleep."
The color of his eyes has always shocked her, not because of how unnatural the almost-fluorescent color is but because they're blue, just blue, only scary if you look too closely and see the divinity swirling around his pupils. Of course, Shoko has never had the full, incomprehensible weight of the Six Eyes bearing down on her, has never had a reason to fight him and would lose her life in a heartbeat, but part of her has always wondered what that feels like, what happens in a curse user's brain when he really looks.
"Where's Suguru?" she murmurs, dry swallowing the pills and pushing the water away when he moves it toward her. She stares into his eyes and is grateful she's already lying down so her knees can't buckle. "What did you do with his body?"
Satoru's blindfold is loose around his neck like a scarf. His eyes are sad as he looks at her, sliding along where she's curled under her blankets, checking something she can only guess at, before they flick back to her face. His lips thin into a weak smile when she doesn't flinch.
"He's safe," he tells her. "You know I can't tell you any more than that."
Because she would burn him to ash. She knows she would, because it's too dangerous to have something like a dormant Curse Manipulation technique just lying around, ripe and ready for the taking by someone who would rather Suguru Geto become more of a curse than he already is. She knows Suguru would rather die again than become the one disease she could never purge from his tongue.
But still, it would be nice to fix him up before he goes, to say goodbye the only way she knows how, by healing his wounds before sending him on his way. He always did badger her for lollipops like she was a pediatrician instead of a surgeon, though she knows he only ever asked in Satoru's place.
"Yeah," she whispers, letting her eyes fall shut. "I know."
In the morning, she wakes to a thank you message from Utahime and a pounding headache that evaporates with a swipe of her fingers across her forehead. The only sign that Satoru was ever there at all are the two empty glasses sitting in the drain board and the full glass of water still sitting on her end table, a ring of condensation dried on the wood.
She texts him, Same time next year? and groans at how he sends a string of emojis in reply.