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Satoru still saw him sometimes.
He flickered in the corners of his gaze — in the reflection of a puddle, the shade of a tree, a whisper in the breeze, in nearby laughter. He saw him in the night sky, in the dark overlapping waves of the water. In footprints on the beach, broken glass on the sidewalk.
Satoru held the memories at a distance. He never allowed himself to fully push them away, but he couldn’t dwell on them. He was clutching at a ghost, grasping for something that wasn’t there and has been gone for so long that the remains were starting to fade.
He never faded, though. Never completely.
Sometimes he would indulge.
“Why are you here?”
He still saw that child — the one who laughed with him, once, who always beat him in martial arts and drank black coffee and played pranks on Nanami with him and Shoko. The one who killed 112 people and walked away from him, unraveled everything in one night.
Nothing remained of that child, or the child left grasping for him in his wake. They faced each other, two ghosts of a memory.
“I wanted to see you.”
He thought he was dreaming sometimes. Sometimes he would wake back up to stillness, the hushed fog that welcomed him with cold arms. Sometimes he would wake up and all of it would be one long, terrible nightmare, and he was a child again. He was a child and he never died.
Molten umber eyes dragged over him, a charcoal roughness that looked too wrong, too harsh. Like every time, he pretended to hesitate. As if he wouldn’t just let Satoru in anyways.
“The girls are sleeping,” he would say every time, “Be quiet.”
And the door opened and Satoru stepped in.
It all resurfaced again, and he moved on autopilot. As soon as he was allowed entry, he closed the distance between them, pressed himself close, hands wrapped around Suguru until their scents mingled and he could pretend it was all okay, that this was really his Suguru. His fingers dug into skin, and it was there. Just for a minute, it was really there.
It was the same as always. Suguru would let Satoru cling to him for a second. He wouldn’t reciprocate. And then he would make him let go, sit with him awkwardly for a while into the night. Then Satoru would leave again, and the whole thing would start over.
Words sat on the tip of his tongue, swirled in his mind. He’d given up trying to convince Suguru to return — he’d given up after three years, knowing even then that it was hopeless. That he hadn’t been enough, and he would never be enough. He never was.
Sometimes he still reached out. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he liked to imagine Suguru did the same.
He grasped a cold hand in his own, watched it slip through his fingers like inky shadows.
“You’re late, Satoru.”
You’re dying, Satoru thought. The light of the setting sun hurt his eyes.
Suguru was always beautiful. Even with blood coating his hands and whatever remained of his arm, dark silken hair spilling over his shoulder, undone and tangled. The swirl of cursed energy around him was mesmerizing, dark and slick like an oil spill, shifting iridescence in his being. He shone so gently, gracefully. Satoru was always too bright in comparison, so bright that living was burning, living was too small an experience for a god.
Suguru was gentle. He was supposed to be gentle. He was gentle with Satoru, always.
Satoru knelt in front of him. He barely heard his own words in his ears, couldn’t tear his eyes away. This was the final moment — there was no making excuses here. He had to drink him in one last time, even as it ripped him apart.
Suguru still smiled. “I still hate those monkeys.”
Satoru screwed his eyes shut. He thought about that child, the one who died once and was reborn into divinity. Who died once and became everything at the cost of his world.
Blood pooled on the ground. Even as he bled out, Suguru reached out a hand, grasped Satoru’s with cold fingers. Satoru sucked in a breath.
“It’s all just a bad dream,” he whispered.
Suguru stroked his hand with a thumb. “Yes.”
Satoru could have said a thousand things, a thousand things that didn’t come out. He was being crushed, pulled apart bit by bit, a sorcerer and a god and a kid who had a friend once. Suguru didn’t let go of his hand.
He could have said a thousand things, but he only said one. Whispered it, even as it burst out of his chest. Suguru’s eyes widened, and he was so beautiful, so deadly even as he sat there dying. He was dead, and he was dead long ago, but he would live forever, somewhere, somehow, and Satoru would never be able to touch him again.
He smiled, even then. “At least curse me a little at the very end.”
I wish. Satoru raised their joined fingers, pressed his lips to each knuckle. I wish.
Blue and red coalesced, and the world was hollow.
Satoru still saw him sometimes. In dreams, in death, he was there.
“So?” he asked. He was young again. “How are things going, Satoru?”
Satoru turned his gaze over. He looked crazy, talking to himself on his balcony in the middle of the night, but who cared that he was having conversations with ghosts?
He said the same thing he always said, “I wish you were here.”
Suguru smiled. He stood at the corner of the balcony by the door. He always liked to lean against the wall there while he chatted with Shoko. He was young — hair in a neat bun with his silly bangs hanging out, wearing a uniform instead of his monk robes. His smile reached his eyes.
He let the silence stretch out. “I gave you all a hard time, didn’t I?”
“The worst,” Satoru grouched. Suguru laughed, and it sounded sad and distorted. Everything seemed distorted now, but he never forgot his laughter.
Suguru stepped away from the corner, joined him at the railing, not close enough to touch. He leaned over the railing, stared out at the distant city. The light mist added a hazy outline to the buildings, a fuzziness to the lights. If Satoru took off his blindfold the haziness would be gone, the world would be bright, streaked with the swirling of cursed energy and light, the rainbow of an oil spill and the eddying storm of life. He never saw anything the way a normal person did. He never envied it before, but now he wondered what Suguru saw, and if there was still beauty in that hazy view.
“I’m sorry, Satoru,” he said. His hair was down, his uniform replaced by a shirt and sweatpants.
Satoru stared up at the stars. Each one light years apart, scattered like broken fragments with nothing but space between them. Suguru followed his gaze.
“What a lonely existence,” he said.
Satoru looked back at him. He didn’t look away.
Suguru huffed, still smiling softly. He looked back out at the city.
“You told Megumi once that when you die, you die alone,” he said.
Satoru reached up, tugged off his blindfold with a finger.
“He’s not alone,” Satoru said.
“Neither was I, when I died.”
“I was,” Satoru snapped, hand tightening on the railing, “I was alone. You left me alone.”
Suguru watched him, expression unchanging.
“You’re more honest now that I’m dead.”
Satoru scoffed bitterly, “And you were never honest.”
A sadness reached his eyes, one that Satoru would recognize anywhere. That he did recognize, ten years ago, only when it was too late.
“No, I wasn’t,” a strand of hair fell onto his forehead, “But I was true to myself.”
“You left me behind.”
“You left me first. Satoru died, and only Gojo was left.”
“Tch, that’s just like you. Spouting incomprehensible nonsense trying to sound all profound.”
“Goes to show that you still know me,” Suguru tilted his head, “I’m just a product of your mind after all.”
Satoru closed his eyes. When he opened them the figure before him had changed. He was older now, wrapped in monk robes, hair longer and loose over his back.
“See?”
Satoru rolled his eyes. “I know, I’m not that crazy yet.”
He blinked again, and his younger version was back.
“You may as well be.”
“Oh hush, the real Suguru was nicer to me.”
“I really wasn’t.”
“You’re right, you weren’t,” Satoru screwed his eyes shut, “I was right here. I was always here, you idiot, and you left me behind.”
“I had to.”
“No,” Satoru whirled on him, “No.”
Suguru stared at him, face shadowed. He was taller, his arm bloodied. Dark eyes reflected the city lights. “To think you’re still so naive,” he said, still gentle even as his words cut and Satoru let them. Monks robes flapped in the breeze, and he could almost hear them.
“I can be as naive as I want,” Satoru said, “You’re nothing but a figment of my imagination.”
“You just wanted to have a pity party with your hallucination.”
“Suguru was still nicer than you.”
“My point exactly.”
Satoru sighed, draped himself over the railing. The long streets were empty at this time, glistening with recent rain. He bought an apartment outside the college for this reason.
“I failed you.”
Suguru was silent; Satoru continued.
“I failed you,” he said, boiling from the inside out. He put his face in his hands. “I failed you. I’m sorry, Suguru.”
He imagined a cold hand, broad and strong, resting on his shoulder. Sensed the phantom touch prickling on his skin.
He lifted his head, felt the sky pressing it down. Saw that he was alone on the balcony, with nothing but the wind and the cold railing.
Satoru stood upon the sky.
He summoned cursed energy, let red swirl into existence. A writhing mass of scaled limbs ravaged the land below him, and blew apart in an instant.
Exhaustion pulled at his mind. He whisked himself to the next location without another thought spared.
The headache was constant now. It thrummed between his temples in a steady, ceaseless rhythm. It was mostly ignorable — it had been for years — but it was worsening by the day, every hour he wasn’t asleep, and he hadn’t needed much sleep since high school.
Shoko fussed over him in her own way, as nonchalant as she acted. She never had to heal him, but she visited him now and again even through her busy schedule. Brought him snacks and drinks straight to him, knowing he likely wouldn’t go out.
Her signature abrasiveness remained, though, and they couldn’t really tolerate each other for long. Most of their time together was spent in long silences after some remark or another that hit just a little too close.
This time it was, “The great Gojo Satoru doesn’t need food either?”
Satoru frowned at her. She was still standing at his doorway when she said this, and for once he was seriously considering turning her away before she even stepped in.
For the moment, he let the comment slide and stepped aside with a lighthearted, “The great Gojo Satoru would appreciate a Dorito.”
Shoko saw through him as usual, and had the decency to look a little remorseful. Still too prideful to apologize, though, and she entered with her armfuls of groceries and drinks. She was the only reason his fridge had anything in it, which was partly why he let her in this time, and every other time. He noted the heaviness of the bags under her eyes, despite being a permanent feature now.
“When was the last time you slept?” he asked her.
“When was the last time you slept?” she shot back, and without waiting for a reply shot back, “That’s what I thought.”
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“You don’t need to, Mister reversed-cursed-technique-solves-all-my-problems.”
“That’s really funny, coming from you.”
Shoko rolled her eyes and started putting away the food.
“I think what both of us need,” she pulled out a six pack and a pack of Doritos, “are a few drinks.”
Like always, Satoru indulged. They lounged on his couch, each with a beer and a bag of chips, sitting in silence with nothing but the drone of the fan in the background. His headache from earlier was a continuous beat within his skull, the beer only barely dulling it. He hadn’t taken off his blindfold in nearly two days, and he didn’t think his head would appreciate him doing so now.
Shoko glanced at him like she knew, and said nothing. Sometimes Satoru wondered why she bothered showing up at all.
When she lit a cigarette, he stood to open a window. By habit she moved to stand by it.
She stayed long into the night. The campus was asleep while they ambled around Satoru’s living room, the clock inching past midnight and Shoko doing some research she brought with her and Satoru waiting for the morning. She didn’t talk to him much, so he didn’t kick her out. It was an unspoken agreement between them, and he didn’t really mind her presence much, at least until it started to take everything he had not to rub at his temples.
“You don’t have to pretend, you know,” Shoko said suddenly. Satoru tilted his head towards her from where he’d draped himself over the back of the couch.
“What?”
“Your headache,” she waved a pen at him without looking, “If you’re not gonna use your reversed cursed technique, you probably should sleep or lay down or something.”
He waved a flippant hand. “No rest for the wicked. Also, you’re a fucking hypocrite.”
“Hypocrite I may be,” she said, “But you’re no different.”
He sighed. The beer was making his head fuzzy, but he’d never let himself become completely impaired. He looked out the window, and wondered at how much darker it really was.
“It’s late, Shoko,” he said, “You should head back.”
She sighed too, packed up without argument, and was at the door in twenty seconds.
She paused for a moment, hand hesitant on the doorknob.
“Gojo,” she said.
“Huh?”
A long pause, then: “If you need anything, call me. Goodnight.”
“Night, Shoko.”
He listened to the click of her heels as she walked away. He kept the blindfold on, and stayed unmoving until he reported for his mission in the morning.
“You’re dead.”
Suguru looked back at him. He sat on the curb, a soda dangling from his hand.
“What was that, Satoru?”
Satoru breathed. The air was sweet, almost sickly.
Suguru stood and stretched. “Come on, we’ll be late to training. Yaga-sensei’s gonna beat us up again.”
He paused and looked back when Satoru still didn’t respond, this time more carefully. He stepped closer.
“Satoru? Are you okay?”
Satoru reached out a hand, made contact with cool skin. He linked their fingers together, and the coil in his chest unraveled, his eyes burned. The sickeningly sweet air turned metallic.
“I’m sorry, Suguru,” he whispered. He wrapped his arms around him, soaked in his solid warmth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t do enough. I’m sorry.”
“Satoru?”
The sun was gone, the room was dark. A heavy, warm liquid coated his hands, pooled around his shoes, darkening the floor and the walls.
“I’m sorry,” Satoru’s grip tightened, even as Suguru’s form melted away, “I’m sorry.”
His soft voice reassured him, lyrical and resonate. “I’m here, Satoru. It’s not your fault.”
There was blood soaking his shirt, his hands. It dripped from the darkness.
Satoru clung to him until he couldn't any longer. Until his form melted away completely, and only a shadow remained.
He fell to his knees, the dark puddles soaking his pants, filling his nose with an iron scent. He reached up to touch his face, felt wetness on his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and it echoed through the chamber.
“Sensei?”
Satoru opened his eyes.
“Ah, Yuji-kun,” he sat up from the grass, “What’s up?”
“Nothing really. It’s just almost time for our lesson,” he said.
“Well well, you caught me lazing around,” Satoru stood, wiped the feeling of blood from his hands with a quick clap, “Let’s get to it, then, shall we?”
Itadori lit up. They started walking down to the training grounds. The sun was uncomfortably warm, the breeze just sweeping enough to be real.
Itadori glanced over. “Sensei?”
“Yes, my sweet little student?”
“Were you and Geto Suguru really close?” He asked, then quickly added, “Sorry, it’s just — you said his name right before you woke up.”
Satoru’s lungs constricted, his smile was unfazed.
“…yes,” he said, “He was my best friend.”
Itadori hummed, “What was he like, when he was a student?”
Satoru tilted his head, let the sunlight warm his skin.
“Gentle,” he said carefully, “Kind. Principled. He was great at martial arts. He hated sweet foods.”
Itadori’s eyes were wide, always observant.
Satoru huffed a little, tugging on a small smile. The sounds of shouting and laughter lifted up from the training grounds, growing louder as they approached. A great cloud drifted overhead, the air promising rain.
For a second his Infinity rippled, the layer shifting, just enough to allow the smallest of drops through.
“He was my best friend.”
Itadori looked up. “It’s starting to rain.”
“Better hurry,” Satoru grinned, “We’re not stopping the lesson just ‘cause of a little rain.”
Itadori squawked, and took off running.
“No fair, Sensei,” he called back, “You have Infinity!”
Satoru laughed, “You’d better get a move on, Yuji-kun!”
Itadori ran off, yelling, just as the first raindrops began to fall. Satoru stopped for a second, looked up at them. Slowly, the shield around him splintered, and one at a time, drops fell in. They hit his face, his hair, his jacket, their touches light and fleeting.
“Look, Suguru,” he mumbled, “I’m letting the rain touch me.”
He remembered laughter. Heard it echoing, ringing in his ears, melodic and familiar.
He let a smile come to his lips, and walked over to his students, the rain cool on his skin.