Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all starts with a simple lunch date.

Satoru and Shoko have made a routine of meeting for lunch at least once a week between their busy schedules, usually patronizing one of the cute coffee shops not far from the university Shoko attends—the one Satoru attends too, when he deigns to show up (which…isn’t often, admittedly, just don’t tell Yaga). As per usual, Satoru sips away at a drink that’s more sugar than anything else while Shoko pounds back enough espresso to kill a man, her demanding course load clearly catching up with her. But despite the dark circles under her eyes, she’s still brimming with excitement when she extends a certain invitation—or perhaps that’s simply the caffeine that has her jittering.

“So, you’re gonna come, right?” she asks, pushing the previously offered invitation across the table towards Satoru.

Satoru examines the cardstock invite—the bold title of Shoko Ieiri’s Bad Bitches Birthday Bash scrawled in delicate font—an interesting design choice, considering the name she’s chosen for her planned bar crawl, but Satoru will keep that thought to himself. Bars aren’t exactly Satoru’s scene, his low alcohol tolerance making it difficult to participate in such festivities, but it’s been a while since he’s had a chance to cut loose for a night. Between his classes, missions, and taking care of a rambunctious toddler, there’s little time for Satoru to relax. Maybe a night out is exactly what he needs.

But of course, things aren’t that simple. “I’d love to, I really would,” he admits with a sigh. “But the higher-ups have me running missions near non-stop—”

Shoko’s quick to interrupt. “Don’t worry about them. Yaga will handle it,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “Obviously, I predicted your excuses, so I’ve already found solutions. I talked to Yaga, and he promised to use his influence as principal to ensure that you get the night off—the next day, too. You’ll probably need it.”

“True,” Satoru acquiesces with a laugh. Though he’s been practicing his Reversed Cursed Technique a lot more, lately, he’s yet to discover how to use it to cure a hangover. “Still, there’s the issue with Yuuji. The kid’s been super fussy lately, and Sukuna’ll be pissed if I ditch him to deal with it alone again.” 

Shoko raises a brow. “So? Bring Sukuna along, too,” she says, as though it were obvious, as though the plus-one had been implied. “I’m sure Itadori won’t mind watching Yuuji for a night. And besides, I’ve always been curious to see what Sukuna would be like at a bar. He doesn’t strike me as the type to enjoy places like that, but if we can get a few drinks in him…” She shrugs, a slight smile on her lips. “Should make for an entertaining night.”

Satoru juts his lips in a pout. “Oh, I get it. You’re only inviting me so that you can get to Sukuna. I admit, I’m a little insulted. I’m great at parties—”

“Really?” Shoko challenges instantly. “I seem to remember you almost bitching-out about that mistletoe, while Sukuna—”

“That was a completely different situation and you know it!” Satoru interjects. Then he slumps back in his seat, crosses his arms over his chest. “But fine. I’ll drag Sukuna along too—my birthday gift to you.”

“Thank you.” Shoko’s smile is all too smug now, especially when she adds, “Though you better be planning to get me an actual present, too…”

Satoru laughs, waving a hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll figure out a proper gift too.”

Which is easier said than done, of course—really, he’s already paying her tuition (thanks to a deal Sukuna had made with her a while back, but semantics), so what more could he possibly give her? Even so, Satoru isn’t too stressed about it, not when an even more difficult challenge faces him: getting Sukuna to agree to the outing. While things are far better now than they were over a year ago, back when the wounds left behind by the whole Suguru incident were still fresh, it’s still a bit difficult to get Sukuna to agree to hangouts outside of the house, and the addition of other people—strangers—doesn’t help. And so, when Satoru springs the prospect on Sukuna later that night, Sukuna predictably declines.

“No way in hell.”

“Don’t swear in front of Yuuji!” Satoru hisses, wide-eyed gaze flickering to the young boy currently nestled in Sukuna’s arms. “He’s very impressionable.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Hell hardly constitutes a swear. Not to mention the child is currently sleeping.”

Which is true; they’re lounging on the sofa at home, TV quietly playing some trashy show in the background that Sukuna had insisted they watch. It’s become a routine, their late-night TV binges after Yuuji has gone to sleep, but tonight, there’s a noticeable difference. “Yeah, I was gonna ask about that. Usually, you have Yuuji tucked into bed by now.”

“I’ve tried,” Sukuna admits, head flopping back against the plush sofa cushions. “The damn brat cries every time I lay him in his bed. This is the only way he—and I—get any sleep.”

At least that explains why Sukuna hasn’t been coming to bed with Satoru lately. And here Satoru had figured Sukuna finally decided he actually hated him—which, is totally fair, all things considered. It’s a comforting thought, knowing the true reason behind Sukuna’s absences, but it pales in comparison to the guilt that rises in his stomach, the reminder of how Satoru is still failing as a co-parent. “I’m sorry,” Satoru murmurs, reaching out to brush away a stray strand of hair from Sukuna’s forehead—and it’s a testament to Sukuna’s exhaustion that he doesn’t bother grumbling at the action. “I can take him for the night, y’know. And we can both get the night off if you come with me to Shoko’s party—”

“That would hardly count as a night-off,” Sukuna points out, lifting his head just enough to glare at Satoru, “not when I’d undoubtedly have to drag you home after you succumb to intoxication—”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour, promise!” But Sukuna clearly doesn’t believe him, the scoff he lets out more than enough proof. So Satoru’s quick to add, “Besides, Utahime is gonna be on mom-duty there. If I cause trouble, you can just dump me off on her. Sure, she’ll probably abandon me in a ditch somewhere, but hey—what can ya do?”

“Even so—” Sukuna begins to protest, but Satoru’s prepared, has already secured a sure-fire trump card to win Sukuna over—a literal card, in fact.

“If you come, I’ll give you my credit card—the good one, the fancy black card,” Satoru tempts, reaching into his pocket to withdraw said card. “You’ll be able to buy whatever you want, whenever you want, no strings attached. Well, as long as it’s mostly legal.” He waves the credit card enticingly before Sukuna’s eyes, a wide grin on his face. “Well? What do you say?”

“Deal.” Sukuna snatches the card from Satoru’s hand, thankfully not rousing Yuuji despite the hastiness in his actions. He smirks wickedly at the card. “You’re never getting this back.”

Satoru huffs a laugh. It’s no real loss—he already has several other fancy credit cards, anyway. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”

The night of Shoko Ieiri’s Bad Bitches Birthday Bash finally arrives, and thankfully, everything is falling into place without a hitch. As Shoko had said, Yaga had ensured Satoru would have the next two days off from missions, though clearly it had come with some convincing, Yaga sounding more tired than usual when he had called Satoru to give him the news. He’ll have to find a way to thank Yaga, later. Meanwhile, they had dropped Yuuji off with Wasuke earlier that day, the man surprisingly cooperative in the matter, not even grumbling about it the way Satoru had expected. He must think they need a night off, too.

And it should be smooth sailing from there, Satoru and Sukuna just needing to get dressed and await their ride to the bar, but of course, nothing can be easy, and soon an unexpected problem rears its ugly head.

Well, perhaps ugly isn’t the right word for it.

“No,” Satoru whines, raking a hand through his hair. “No, no, it’s all wrong.”

“What?” Sukuna glances down at himself, then back to Satoru. “You told me to wear this—”

“I know,” Satoru admits with a sigh, “but I didn’t think it’d look this good on you.”

Because Sukuna really does look good—too good—and it simply isn’t fair. He and Satoru are basically wearing the same outfit in different colours, the same black jeans, the same silky button-ups—Satoru’s a pale blue, Sukuna’s a stark black. But there’s something especially enticing about the way Sukuna wears his, the sleeves rolled up enough to reveal his toned forearms, the black bands encircling his wrists, and his collar is comfortably unbuttoned, exposing just a hint of the lines adorning his chest—a chest that Satoru has been staring at for just a tad too long—

It's a disaster in the making, really: if Sukuna goes out looking like this, he’ll undoubtedly steal the spotlight from Satoru—and Shoko, the actual birthday girl and star of the show, but hey, priorities. No, there’s only one solution here, one way to avoid absolute ruin:

“You have to change.”

Sukuna scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest—a chest that Satoru really needs to stop staring at. “You’re not serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.” Satoru ushers Sukuna back towards the bedroom, though the other resists. But Satoru isn’t deterred. “Go change into a t-shirt or something—the biggest, slouchiest one you can find.”

“Satoru—”

“Actually, hold that thought,” Satoru decides, quickly backtracking. “You’d probably look good in that, too.”

Maybe there’s a way Satoru can salvage this. There are trash bags beneath the sink; if he just cuts out some neck and arm holes, he could stuff that over Sukuna’s head—actually, no arm holes, Sukuna’s arms are simply too nice, he’ll just have to deal—

Outside, a car horn blares, cutting off Satoru’s train of thought. The others must have arrived to pick them up, leaving no time for Satoru to enact his master plan. He sighs, drags a hand across his forehead as he tries to come up with a new plan. “Okay, okay, let’s just—” He reaches out, begins adjusting Sukuna’s outfit to his liking— “roll your sleeves down, at least. And maybe if we untuck your shirt, it’ll help disguise your figure—”

“This is ridiculous,” Sukuna complains, but doesn’t fight Satoru’s worrying hands.

“Trust me, it’s for the best.” Satoru steps back, examines his work. It’s…still not great, but it’ll have to do. “Now c’mon. Can’t keep the birthday girl waiting.”

There’s a black car pulled up outside—borrowed from Jujutsu Tech, most likely. The windows are rolled down, and pop music blares from the speakers as Shoko hangs her head out of the passenger seat, waving at them. “Hey! Hurry up and let’s go!”

Satoru and Sukuna waste no more time, climbing into the backseat where Mei Mei sits, Utahime in the driver’s seat already looking done with the night. But she had agreed to be the designated driver of the evening, and there’s no way she’d go back on that agreement, wouldn’t risk upsetting Shoko.

As they slide into the car, Shoko twists around in her seat, a bright grin on her face. “I can’t believe you actually convinced him to come!”

“So little faith!” Satoru chides lightly, matching her smile. “Of course he couldn’t resist my charm.”

“I can still leave,” Sukuna points out, already reaching for the door handle.

“No you can’t!” Satoru decides, knocking Sukuna’s hand away and locking the door for good measure. “Utahime, step on it!”

Utahime glares at him in the rearview. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

Despite her words, Utahime does start driving, and Shoko and Satoru cheer as the car makes its way down the drive. Finally on the move, Satoru settles into his seat—leans heavily against Sukuna, maybe, but he’ll blame it on the car’s cramped backseat, no room for grown adults to sit comfortably. Mei raises a sculpted brow at him, hair pulled back in a fancy updo for their night out, but doesn’t comment, simply hands him a small silver flask. “You boys better drink up. You’re already a few shots behind.”

Against his better judgment, Satoru accepts easily. “Don’t mind if I do!”

It’s straight vodka, and it burns all the way down. Satoru coughs at the harsh taste, barely manages half a sip before passing the flask off, too busy trying not to hack up a lung to be bothered by the laughter aimed at him. Sukuna takes the flask from him, downs a large gulp with ease, and when he passes it back to Satoru, the smirk on his face far too smug for Satoru’s liking. Satoru glares at him, then tries to take a proper swallow of the awful liquid. And while it’s no better the second time, he keeps his composure, feigns indifference even as a part of him dies inside.

The ride passes in such a manner, singing along to music at the top of their lungs, passing the flask around, though Satoru lets it pass every time, already feels a little tipsy just from the tiny bit he’d consumed—the joys of being an eternal lightweight. Still, he’s not nearly tipsy enough to miss the long looks Mei has been casting his direction—no, not at him, at Sukuna, lingering a little too long on his chest. And when she realizes Satoru has caught her looking, she doesn’t even have the gall to look embarrassed, just grins and winks at him, something knowing in her gaze—though what she thinks she knows, Satoru has no idea. Still, Satoru is quick to rectify the situation, takes it upon himself to button Sukuna’s shirt a bit more, ignoring the annoyed grumbles Sukuna sends his way, too focused on protecting the other’s modesty from Mei’s leering gaze. He’s only doing Sukuna a favour, nothing more, no need to read into it…

They make it to the bar in what feels like no time, and after Utahime finds a parking spot, they practically tumble out of the car. The girls adjust their sleek cocktail dresses as they exit the car—at least, Shoko and Mei do, Utahime not dressed for the occasion at all, her plain outfit as boring as the rest of her. Shoko and Mei quickly check their appearances in the reflection of the car window—and maybe Satoru does the same, so what?  He has stiff competition, after all.

Speaking of competition, while Satoru had been distracted fixing his hair, Sukuna had subtly tried to undo the few buttons Satoru had done up for him, tried to undo Satoru’s hard work. But Satoru catches him the reflection, quickly shoves his hands away. “Stop that.”

“You stop that,” Sukuna childishly fires back, but wisely allows Satoru to redo his shirt, leaves only a couple loose for comfort.

A little ways down the sidewalk now, Shoko calls out to them, “Come on! The others are already inside.”

Without further ado, Satoru and Sukuna follow the girls down the sidewalk, making their way into the first bar of the night. Despite the relatively early hour, the bar is already loud and rambunctious, though all action seems to come to a halt when they walk in, all eyes cast upon them, numerous jaws hitting the floor—not that Satoru can blame them. He and his friends are hot, after all—minus Utahime, that is—and Satoru can’t help but preen under the attention.

They find Shoko’s other friends already seated—friends she had made in med school, ones Satoru has never met. They’re all pretty plain, honestly, or maybe Satoru is simply too used to the eccentrics that make up Jujutsu society. Either way, he doesn’t bother learning their faces or names, lets the introductions fly right through his ears as they join the others at the table.

And Satoru can’t help but make a point of dragging Sukuna into the booth next to him, shoots warning looks at all those whose gazes linger a little too long on his companion. And had Satoru been sober in that moment, he would have been able to recognize those glances were more wary than lustful, but in his tipsiness, he couldn’t tell a difference, couldn’t even begin to theorize why such glances made him so annoyed in the first place. But he isn’t sober, doesn’t read into the situation any further than the first impression, just reaches over and buttons Sukuna’s shirt all the way up—though this time the other is more resistant, tries to shove Satoru’s hands away.

“Ugh, you guys are disgusting,” Shoko groans, reaching across the table to smack Satoru’s shoulder. “Satoru, stop fondling him and get your card out.” Satoru rolls his eyes but obeys, and as he does, Shoko announces, “Drinks and appetizers are on Satoru tonight!”

This declaration is met with cheers from the group, and Satoru just shrugs, tossing one of his credit cards onto the table—footing the bill tonight can be his gift to her. The group wastes no time ordering an assortment of appetizers, chowing down between a few rounds of drinks, swapping stories from school that Satoru honestly doesn’t pay much attention to. He doesn’t really have anything to add to the conversation—probably shouldn’t bring up sorcery work in front of civilians, after all. But when Shoko makes an offhand comment about Yuuji—an attempt at bringing Satoru into the conversation, most likely—Satoru is quick to pull out his phone, grinning as he shows off his impressive collection of photos of his son, makes a point to dig around for any that also feature Sukuna. Is it possessiveness? Nah, totally not that. He’s just trying to embarrass Sukuna, that’s all.

Satoru’s not sure how long they spend there, how many rounds they’ve managed to down. It doesn’t seem like long, and already he’s feeling far more drunk than he had planned, should probably take a break and let himself sober up a little. He doesn’t want to ruin Shoko’s party, after all. But at least he’s not alone in his inebriation, the rest of the group already laughing a little too loudly, fidgeting a little too restlessly as they sit around the table. So it’s no surprise when Shoko decides it’s time to move on to their next location—a new night club that had opened up that summer, a place where they can dance to their heart’s content. And so, after Satoru settles the bill, the group wobbles out of the bar, piles into their cars and lets the designated drivers transport them to the club.

Unfortunately, there’s a slight problem: the line for the club is ridiculously long, the night a little too cold to make standing outside worthwhile, especially when none of them are dressed for the weather. Thankfully, they find an easy solution in a night club just a couple blocks over, one with no line to wait in.

And it’s only when they reach the bouncer that Satoru realizes he’s overlooked a very important thing: Sukuna doesn’t have an ID. Having been a curse for so long, he’s likely not even recognized as an actual human person by the Japanese government. And Satoru should probably rectify that little oversight sometime, but for now, he’s too concerned with figuring out how much cash he has on hand to use to bribe the bouncer—

The bouncer casts a long look over Sukuna, then wordlessly steps aside and allows him entry, no questions asked.

Well, that’s one crisis averted.

They pay their cover and head inside, and it’s all too soon that they find out why this club has no line outside.

The DJ playing at the club sucks. He adds ridiculous embellishments to popular songs, throws in weird phrases during the drops, and overall is just unpleasant to listen to. But the girls want to dance and no one wants to wait out in the cold right now, so they decide to give the place a chance—after doing a round of shots, of course. Though Satoru really should be taking that break, he’s not foolish enough to think he could survive this atmosphere if he were even a tad more sober.

Shoko throws back her shot with ease, barely grimaces at the taste. She sets the short glass down with a cheer, calling out, “Let’s hit the floor!”

The group joins her, filling the empty dance floor—well, most of the group, at least. A few have decided to opt out of the dancing for now, and while Satoru really couldn’t care less about a few extras being party-poopers, he absolutely will not sit back and allow Sukuna to be among them.

And yet, there Sukuna sits, occupies one of the few tables in the club, makes a point to not sit with any of Shoko’s friends. And Satoru will give him some credit—he’s clearly trying to make the best of an uncomfortable situation. Though his tolerance for displeasure must be reaching its limit, for Sukuna’s eyes keep darting towards the exits, like he’s debating just getting up and walking home despite the distance and the chill. But the night is still young, and Satoru doesn’t want him to leave, not yet. So, from his place on the dance floor, Satoru stares Sukuna down, waits for their gazes to meet before beckoning the other over, flutters his lashes in a way that he hopes comes across as enticing.

But his attempt is a decided failure. Sukuna rolls his eyes at the display, then makes a point to not look in Satoru’s direction at all. And that just won’t do; Satoru’s far more interesting to look at than anything else in this shitty club. Sukuna’s eyes should be on him and him alone.

And Satoru has half a mind to cross the distance between them, to drag Sukuna out onto the floor and make him look. Even in his inebriated state, Satoru is certainly still stronger than Sukuna, should have no problem with the matter—

“Hell yeah! Let’s get this party started!”

The unexpected shout distracts Satoru, the call ringing out in heavily accented English. When Satoru turns his head towards it, he finds a large group of guys has just arrived—definitely not Japanese, looking more like the stereotypical frat boys he’s seen in those American college movies. And while Satoru’s group is staring at them, they stare right back, huge grins spreading across their faces. “Yo, the babes are already here!” one of guys says, beckoning them over. “C’mon, let’s do shots!”

Shoko glances around their group, shrugs a shoulder. “Sure, why not?”

And Satoru could think of a few reasons why not, but he doesn’t get a chance to voice them, not when everyone is already vacating the dance floor, heading over to where the guys have gathered around the small bar tucked into the corner of the club. The guy who had invited them over—their apparent leader, by the looks of things—is leaning over the bar top and saying something to the bartender, though the words are impossible to hear over the pounding clamour of the awful music, especially from where Satoru stands, lingering near the back of the group, mostly there to observe, to make sure no one tries anything funny. For Satoru’s pretty sure he should opt out of this round, already feels a bit too much of a headrush, a little too unsteady on his feet—

The guy pushes himself off the bar top, turning towards those gathered around him and calling out, “Yo, he’s gonna let us do body shots! Absolute beauty!”

—but hey, one more shot won’t hurt, right?

The frat leader peels off his shirt, revealing a set of admittedly impressive abs. There are few whistles, and he makes a show of flexing his pecs before he pulls himself up onto the bar, lays down on the top—which, gross. He reclines back, hands tucked behind his head as he grins at his audience. “Alright, which of you lucky ladies wants to go first?”

The girls in the group just laugh, no one taking him up on the offer. The guy keeps goading them, however, and Satoru decides he better take one for the team—not that he minds. The dude is attractive, and Satoru’s just a man. So he steps up to the front of the crowd, smirks down at the foreigner. “I’m not a lady, but I’ll take you up on the offer.”

The guy’s eyes rake slowly up and down Satoru’s form, a lazy smirk settling on his lips. “Yeah, okay. I can work with that.”

They decide to place the salt on the abs, shot in the navel, and wedge in the lips. There are cheers coming from the crowd around them as Satoru leans in to lick the salt, but before he reaches his target, there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder that yanks him away.

The crowd boos, and Satoru whirls around, coming face to face with Sukuna. “What the hell?”

“What the hell is right,” Sukuna spits back, a sharp glare on his features—though it doesn’t settle on Satoru, lands somewhere behind him, on the dude still laying atop the bar.

And it clicks in Satoru’s mind: Sukuna’s from a whole other era. It’s no wonder he has no real understanding of modern party culture. Thankfully, he has the amazing Satoru Gojo here to be his guide! “It’s a body shot,” Satoru quickly explains. “You lick the salt off the person, do the shot, then take the lime from them.”

Sukuna’s nose wrinkles. “Disgusting. You should not place your mouth anywhere near that filthy lech—”

“That kind of defeats the purpose of a body shot,” Satoru points out, cutting Sukuna off. But when Sukuna’s look of disgust never wavers, Satoru sighs. “Fine, fine. We’ll change it up a bit.”

They quickly reset: salt on the abs (Satoru’s a weak man, okay?), shot in the glass, and wedge from the lips (which Satoru is surprised Sukuna didn’t object to, maybe a little disappointed—not that it means anything). As the crowd gathers around for the spectacle once more, Satoru springs into action, licks the salt up with a long drag of his tongue, the taste of flesh underneath not as pleasant as he would’ve liked. He washes it away quickly with the shot, the tequila burning his throat the entire way down, and Satoru winces, quickly turning so he pluck the lime from the guy’s lips—

The guy is brutally shoved off the bar top, tumbling to the floor below with a pained grunt, lime knocked from his lips and joining him on the dirty floor. And Satoru’s more than a little annoyed—he needs that lime, dammit—but when he whirls on the assailant to give him a piece of his mind, Sukuna just grins at him, teeth hidden behind a fresh lime wedge—

And hey, Satoru needs a lime.

He takes the wedge, lips barely brushing against Sukuna’s when he plucks it away with his teeth, and there are several cheers that erupt from the crowd at the action, Satoru basking in the attention as he sucks the juice from the wedge. But the cheers quickly turn to shocked gasps and whistles when Sukuna grabs the lime from him again, tossing it aside so he can replace it with his lips, more so licking into Satoru’s mouth than a proper kiss, but Satoru’s brain short circuits all the same, his body going rigid.

Sukuna pulls back after a moment, nose wrinkled again. “Disgusting,” he repeats, as though he hadn’t been the one to initiate, who had made the choice to try and lick the tequila directly from Satoru’s mouth. “I fail to see the appeal.”

But Satoru barely registers the words, barely hears them over the ringing in his ears. His head spins—from the shot or from the taste of Sukuna’s tongue, it’s impossible to tell. And when his mind does finally start to work again, there’s only one though rattling around in his brain: could he convince Sukuna to let him lick the salt from his tattoos?

Another time, maybe.

While Satoru is busy pondering this important matter, the rest of the group does a round of shots—the normal way, no one keen on continuing with body shots after that display. Limbs alight with the fresh dose of liquor, they all hit the dance floor once more, and this time Sukuna lets Satoru drag him along, though he doesn’t really dance with them, just hovers close to Satoru and keeps the foreign frat boys away—not that Satoru minds. The frat boys are weirdly sweaty now, and Satoru much prefers brushing up against Sukuna than any of them.

It isn’t long before the heat from dancing and drinking becomes too much, and it’s a unanimous agreement to step outside and cool off for a moment. The chill of the night is much more welcome now, and Satoru savours the feeling, leans heavily against Sukuna to keep balanced as the world sways slightly around him, giggles at the sight of his breath puffing in a small white cloud through the air.

Sukuna watches him idly, clicks his tongue at the display. “You are far too drunk already.”

“Me? Drunk? Nah,” Satoru decides with a laugh, the light from the streetlamps blurring around him. And that…that’s not really normal, is it?  “Okay, maybe just a teensy tiny wee bit drunk, just like this much.” He holds up a hand, allows just a fraction of space between his pointer and thumb to illustrate his point.

Sukuna rolls his eyes, mouth opening to refute him, but before he can, a new attraction steals their attention—a sleek black party bus pulling up in front of a club just across the street, its walls practically vibrating with the pulse of music from within. After a moment, a group of women tumble out—a bachelorette party, most likely, if the delicate tiara and pristine white Bride sash one of the women wears is anything to go by. Their arrival is met by several hoots and hollers from the frat boys, who immediately make a beeline across the street, ignoring the honking horns of cars as they sprint through the traffic.

“That could turn into a problem,” Shoko says with a sigh, already making her way after the guys. “C’mon, lets go save those poor women.”

After waiting for a break in traffic, their group crosses the street, quickly pushing their way into the group of frat boys to ensure they aren’t harassing the women. Thankfully, the boys aren’t appearing to be making any forward advances, are simply chatting amicably with the women about the wedding, congratulating the bride. “Yo, you should totes come get a drink with us, celebrate!” the frat leader says upon their arrival, reaching out to wrap an arm around Satoru’s shoulders. “This weird white-haired guy’s paying.”

And Satoru’s not sure when he started paying for these guys’ drinks too, but he’s drunk enough to not care. Besides, the club they’re outside of seems far busier than the last one, the chances of being able to ditch these weird foreigners high.

The bride-to-be glances at Satoru, raising a brow. “Are you sure? We would hate to impose.”

“Nah, it’s fine!” Satoru decides, dislodging the frat guy’s arm from his shoulder. “The more, the merrier!”

The bride grins, eyes practically sparkling with excitement. “Yeah? Okay then! Let’s do shots!”

Satoru winces at that suggestion, but his reluctance goes unnoticed. With a cheer, their group—far larger than it had started out—makes their way into the club, the bouncers rushing through ID checks and again not bothering to question Sukuna (it’s the tattoos, it’s gotta be the tattoos). They head toward the bar immediately, and the bride-to-be quickly summons a bartender, leaning over the bar top to order—her companions hastily stepping in to ensure her all-white outfit doesn’t actually make contact with the disgusting surface.

And Satoru can’t help but smile at the sight. “Cute,” he says, lightly nudging Sukuna with his elbow. “D’ya think my bridal party would be that nice to me?”

“Your bridal party?” Sukuna echoes. “You plan to wed?”

Satoru shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe? It’d be…nice, I think. To love someone like that, to bind yourself to another.” And Satoru decides he should just leave it at that, isn’t sure what else might come spilling out if he keeps the conversation focused on himself. So he turns the question back on Sukuna. “Would you ever get married?”

Sukuna dodges the question. “Why do you ask?”

“Just making conversation!” Satoru claims, though he’s quick to add, “And I’m curious.”

For while Sukuna has had plenty to say on the topic of love before, he’s never really spoken to marriage—to relationships in general. And Satoru…he wants to know—for no particular reason, of course! He’s just…curious. Yeah, that’s all.

But before Satoru can get an answer from Sukuna—if indeed Sukuna were going to answer at all—he’s being called away, beckoned toward the card reader to pay. Satoru does so without hesitation, doesn’t bother to check the total. It’s definitely an outrageous amount, but it’ll hardly make a dent in his wealth, would quickly be recovered after his next completed mission.

The shots are poured and handed out, one of the frat boys calling for cheers. Satoru raises his glass, brings it to his lips. But he catches a whiff of the alcohol within, the sharp scent making his stomach roll dangerously, and he falters a moment, poised to drink but unable to bring himself to do it.

Then the shot glass is plucked from his fingers, Sukuna making the choice for him. He downs the shot in Satoru’s stead, frowning at the taste. But before Satoru can poke fun at him, there’s a glass of water being rudely shoved into his face, a disapproving glare fired his way from Utahime. “Drink this,” she demands. “You’re already a mess and I refuse to deal with you if you throw up or pass out.”

“Rude. But I can’t blame you,” Satoru replies, accepting the glass. “You probably wouldn’t be capable of taking care of me, anyway.”

Utahime’s glare worsens. “Drink the damn water, Gojo.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Satoru offers her a quick salute, and Utahime rolls her eyes, quickly turning and disappearing back into the group—likely goes to plaster herself at Shoko’s side and whine about how rude Satoru’s being. Typical. Still, Satoru can’t help but point out to anyone who will listen, “Seriously though, I’m not even that drunk—”

“Drink your water,” Sukuna interrupts, the traitor. “I share that woman’s sentiments. Should you overdo it tonight, I will not bear the burden of dragging you home.”

“You won’t have to!” Satoru claims, holding his hands placatingly. “Seriously, I’m fine.” Sukuna scoffs at his claim, so Satoru relents, amending his statement. “I will be fine, after I drink this water.”

Sukuna seems pleased by this, gaze never leaving Satoru as he drinks the water, downing nearly half the glass. In his haste, he spills a little, droplets of water dripping down his chin, and Sukuna’s hand comes up to wipe them away before they can dribble onto his shirt.

Cheeks aflame, Satoru manages a slight laugh, tries to ignore the traces of electricity that buzz beneath his skin at Sukuna’s touch. “Oops.”

“Pathetic,” Sukuna chides, but there’s something almost fond about the way he says it, something like amusement in his gaze. And surely Sukuna must be drunk—it’s the only explanation for the way his touch lingers just a moment too long upon his chin, the softness in his eyes, the way he retains a firm hold around Satoru’s waist even when the sorcerer has long since regained his sense of balance. Surely, there could be no other explanation for it.

“Hey,” Shoko calls out, pulling Satoru from his thoughts, “we’re hitting the dance floor! You coming?”

“Yeah, we’ll meet you there,” Satoru calls back, then downs the rest of his water. He sets the empty glass on the counter before grabbing Sukuna’s hands, tugging him towards the dance floor, giving the other no room for argument. “C’mon, it’s time to dance!”

The music here is far better than the other place, but the floor is more packed, the dance little more than a rhythmic sway or grind, impossible to move without brushing up against someone else. It’s a little uncomfortable, and Satoru’s tempted to activate Infinity, to give himself a little room to breathe. But none of his companions have that luxury, so Satoru decides to suck it up; he can bear it for one night.

Just as he had predicted, the frat boys have already dispersed into the crowd, likely shooting their shot with anyone who catches their eye. It’s a relief not having to worry about them making any untoward moves on the bride-to-be and her friends, though that doesn’t mean there are no advances being made toward the group—toward any of the women in their group. Mei doesn’t seem to mind, is sensually swaying with her back pressed up against some muscular guy, but Utahime—painfully sober—looks seconds away from swinging a fist at the next guy who gets too close. Shoko stays stuck to Satoru’s side, uses him as a barrier between herself and the strangers beyond as she bops along to the music, a wide grin stretching her features.

And though Satoru plays his part of the barrier well, he’s only one man. It isn’t long before he notices an older-looking man start to get handsy with the bride-to-be, who doesn’t relent no matter how many times she pushes his hands away, pursues whenever she tries to put space between them.

Satoru nudges Sukuna—stood next to him, stock still amongst the writhing sea, arms crossed and a fierce glare on his face. At Satoru’s prompting, he glances over. “What?”

Satoru can barely hear the question over the music, more so reads the word from his lips. So he doesn’t bother replying out loud, just gestures with his head towards the old guy harassing the other girls. Sukuna catches on quickly, nodding.

Satoru plants his hands on Shoko’s shoulders, isn’t about to ditch her as he and Sukuna push their way through the crowd toward the bride and her friends. Satoru guides Shoko into the group as he and Sukuna force their way between the girls and the creep, a much more solid barrier with the two of them, now. And their actions do not go unnoticed by the bride, a grateful smile on her lips when she mouths a quick thank you to them.

Someone shoves Satoru from behind—far too forceful to be an accident. Satoru turns, finds the old sleaze glaring at him. “What the fuck is your problem, man?”

“Hey, that should be my line!” Satoru fires back, hands planted on his hips as he glares down at the man. “She doesn’t want to dance with you, creep. Take a hint and fuck off.”

The man’s nostrils flare, and he stabs a finger towards Satoru’s chest. “You think you’re tough shit, huh pretty boy?”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Satoru mocks, a smirk on his lips. “I’m flattered, really, but unfortunately, you’re way too ugly to be my type.”

“Fucking bitch!” the sleaze shouts, shoving Satoru again—not that Satoru budges even a centimetre. “You tryna start something?”

Satoru just laughs. “Trust me, pal. You do not want to pick a fight with me.”

“I’ll knock you flat on your ass, fucking twink,” the man threatens, trying to shove Satoru again.

Satoru’s grin widens. “I’d like to see you try.”

The man takes a swing, but his fist never connects; though alcohol muddles Satoru’s senses, interferes with his control over his cursed technique, he’s still the strongest for a reason. He activates Infinity just in time to halt the attack, the man’s eyes widening when his fist collides with what seems like a solid barrier of nothing. “What the fuck?”

“You missed? That’s pretty embarrassing,” Satoru taunts, easily brushing the man’s extended arm aside. “My turn now.”

And Satoru does his best to restrain his strength—he really does. He reaches out, lands a light flick to the man’s forehead—

The man stumbles back as though struck by a bullet, loses his footing and tumbles to dirty floor below as he clutches his head.

Satoru hisses between his teeth, sheepishly rubs the back of his head. “Oops.”

“Too much,” Sukuna scolds, shaking his head.

“It was an accident,” Satoru whines, “I swear!”

The man recovers surprisingly quickly, races toward Satoru with a fist poised to strike. “You’re a fucking dead man!”

But the man doesn’t get a chance to make good on that threat, too busy eating the fist that collides with his face—courtesy of Sukuna, a maniacal grin on his face. The man crumples instantly, twitching limbs the only sign that he hadn’t just died on the spot.

Satoru sighs, dragging a palm across his forehead. “Now that was too much.”

Sukuna scoffs, shaking out his fist. “What? You expect me to let you have all the fun?”

The crowd is quickly breaking into commotion, people rushing to check on the collapsed man while others rush to his defense, start taking swings at Satoru and Sukuna. But neither is phased by the strikes, bat them away as easily as fending off buzzing flies. And Satoru can’t help the joyous laugh that rips from his throat, doesn’t bother to keep up Infinity any longer, welcomes the contact of each hit as he rises to block, each smack of flesh against flesh when he counters.

The brawl does not last long, not with security quick to intervene. Satoru ceases his strikes as soon as they show up, simply raises his hands in surrender when they go to grab him and pull him away. Sukuna puts up more of a struggle, but he settles when he notices Satoru’s acquiescence, shoves the security guards away and escorts himself out of the club after Satoru.

And now, standing in the chill outside, Satoru’s still laughing. “Now that’s how you get the party started!”

“Idiot,” Sukuna replies, smacking him on the back of the head. But there’s a grin on his face, betraying his true thoughts on the matter.

And Satoru can’t help but point out, “Hey, you jumped in too. Defending my honour like some sort of knight in shining armour.”

“I did no such thing,” Sukuna denies, crossing his arms over his chest, averting his gaze.

And Satoru’s just about to mention that that’s exactly what Sukuna had done when the rest of their group spills out of the bar, the bride-to-be racing towards them instantly. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” she says when she reaches them, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to get you guys kicked out—”

Shoko’s quick to interrupt, pulling a cigarette from her clutch as she says, “That wasn’t on you. The guy was being a total creep. Besides—” she adds, tucking the cigarette between her lips before fishing around for her lighter, nodding her head towards Satoru and Sukuna— “these two are always looking for a reason to start a fight.”

Satoru can’t argue with that sentiment, and neither can Sukuna. So, Satoru just shrugs. “Yeah, that’s kind of our thing.”

But their words do little to ease the worried expression on the woman’s face. “Still, I feel bad for ruining your night.”

“Hey now, the night is still young!” Satoru declares. “Far from ruined.”

“He has a point. We’ve been doing more of a bar crawl type of thing, anyway.” Shoko shrugs, taking a long pull from her cigarette, white smoke drifting up into the air. “It’s just on to the next place, for us.”

“In that case, you should join us!” The bride glances to her friends—probably ensures the invite is welcome before she continues, “We were planning on taking our bus to this cute little cocktail bar a few minutes away, if you want to come too.”

“Sounds good to me.” Shoko drops her cigarette, squashes it beneath the sole of her high heel. “Lead the way!”

They follow the party towards the bus, piling onto it quickly, and the driver stares at the group—suddenly double in size—with wide eyes. Shoko pauses next to his seat, smacks Satoru on the arm when he goes to pass.

“Ow,” Satoru says with a wince, more reflexive than anything. Then he shoots his friend a glare. “What?”

“Don’t be rude!” Shoko scolds, then gestures toward the driver. “Give the man a nice tip for his service.”

“He hasn’t even driven us anywhere yet—” Satoru points out, and Shoko smacks him again. “Hey, stop that!” Shoko raises her hand in warning, and Satoru rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay.” He withdraws his wallet, grabs a random number of bills before handing them to the driver. “For you, good sir.”

The driver accepts—a little hesitantly. “T-thank you.”

Of course, the bus was not meant for a group so large, and there aren’t enough seats for everyone. They solve the problem easily enough, Shoko climbing on top of Utahime’s lap—the older woman’s eyes wide and her cheeks covered in a bright blush. And Satoru’s just about to make fun of her for it when someone pushes him into a seat—on top of a seat, really, one that’s already occupied by Sukuna himself. Sukuna catches him easily, raises a brow at Satoru’s clumsy arrival, and Satoru just grins. “Sorry for dropping in.”

“I should have let you fall,” Sukuna replies, though he makes no move to dump Satoru onto the floor now, and Satoru’s not about to voice that observation aloud, would rather not get the grime from the floor all over his designer jeans.

Satoru shifts a little in his seat, turns his head just enough to see who pushed him. His gaze meets Mei’s, a sharp smirk on her face when she offers him a wink—whatever that means. He doesn’t think much on it, just settles onto Sukuna’s lap a bit more comfortably, Sukuna’s arms coming to wrap around his middle and it’s…nice. It’s really nice. Satoru can’t help but sink even farther into the embrace—for surely that’s what it is. “This okay?”

“It’s fine,” Sukuna replies, jostling Satoru slightly when he shrugs.

And maybe it’s just Satoru’s hazy mind playing tricks on him, but he thinks Sukuna’s arms tighten around him, thinks he feels a hand trace a lazy pattern across his back. Sukuna’s warm beneath him, a steady anchor to combat the floaty feeling that settles in Satoru’s limbs, like he’d drift right up to the ceiling if Sukuna were to let go. So Satoru curls against him, rests his head against the crook of his neck and closes his eyes. He thinks Sukuna says something then, can feel the rumble of his words in his chest, but he can’t hear them past the slight ringing in his ears, can concentrate on nothing but the strange sense of motion his body is in, the mental roller coaster he’s taken on despite the true stillness in his body.

A finger pokes his cheek, rousing him, and Satoru cracks open his eyes to glare at his assailant. Sukuna just rolls his eyes. “Don’t pass out, now.”

Satoru huffs. “I’m not g’na—”

But even as he slurs the words, he feels his eyes slipping shut, too heavy to keep open. He’s not passing out, he’s just tired, needs a quick nap and then he’ll be raring to go for the next bar. He’s not going to ruin Shoko’s party by being a lightweight, no way.

“Satoru,” Sukuna warns, breath tickling his ear.

Satoru hums, but keeps his eyes shut, melts a little into the hand that gently cards through his hair. He’s not quite asleep, but not quite awake, can still hear the voices talking around him, the pulse of music that plays through the speakers. You should hold me like this more often, he thinks, though he must think it aloud, for there’s a laugh that rumbles in Sukuna’s chest.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Sukuna says, but he’s definitely holding Satoru a little closer now, there’s no way he’s imagining it.

Across from them, an annoying whine rings out. “Shoko, why’d you invite them? It’s nauseating to watch.”

Shoko laughs. “I figured it’d be bad, but not this bad.”

Sukuna scoffs at their words. “He’s only like this because he’s drunk.”

“Right,” Shoko drawls. “And what’s your excuse?”

“I have no reason to excuse my actions,” Sukuna claims, and for some reason, the words send a strange flutter through Satoru’s stomach—or maybe that’s just the alcohol, or the motion of the bus as it takes off down the road, or—or—

Honestly, Satoru doesn’t care to think about it, is much too tired to bother. He just wants to sleep, get himself ready for the next bar.

“Hey, is your friend okay?” someone asks, a voice Satoru doesn’t recognize.

“He’ll be fine. He’s just a total lightweight,” Shoko dismisses. “We should probably get some food in him soon, help sober him up a bit.”

“Maybe we can stop somewhere before we hit the next bar?” someone else suggests. “There’s gotta be a fast-food place around here, somewhere.”

And Satoru must fall asleep at some point, for the next thing he knows, he’s being jostled awake, blinks his eyes open just in time to see his fellow passengers making their way off the bus. “We make it to the bar?” he asks, glancing around to try and determine their location.

“We’re grabbing food, first,” Sukuna replies. “You clearly need it.”

Satoru hums. “Yeah, I could eat.”

He flops off of Sukuna and into the empty seat next to him, but makes no further move to leave. Sukuna sighs, then hauls Satoru up to his feet, half-drags him off the bus and over to the burger joint. The scent of greasy food makes his stomach roll slightly, but he can’t deny the hunger that mixes strangely with the nausea. Satoru locates Shoko amidst the group, stumbles over to her as he fishes his card from his pocket. “Grab me my usual?”

“Seriously?” Shoko asks, raising her brow. “We’re not in high school anymore.”

Satoru hands her the card. “I can handle it. Besides, I’m starving.”

“If you say so,” Shoko relents with a shrug. “You better not throw up.”

“I won’t!” At least, he probably won’t. It’s too soon to tell. But he doesn’t voice that little fact aloud, quickly changing the subject. “I’ll go grab us a table.”

A little more awake now, Satoru’s able to make his way to a table without tripping over his feet. He waits patiently for his meal, hums a random tune as he sways in his seat. Honestly, he feels pretty good after his nap—almost sober, even. After he gets a little food in his stomach, he’ll definitely be ready to hit the next dance floor!

Sukuna joins him at the table after a moment, a tray of drinks in hand. He gives one to Satoru—water, from the taste of it, pretty boring, but just what he needs. As Sukuna settles into the seat next to him, sipping away at his own drink—also water, Satoru had been sure to check—Satoru asks, “You having fun?”

“This is not my idea of fun, but…” Sukuna sighs, takes another drink before admitting, “I suppose this hasn’t been the worst night.”

Satoru smiles at that. “Good. I’m glad.” And he can’t help but lean against Sukuna’s side, rest his head atop his shoulder when he adds, “I’m really glad you came, tonight. I like spending time with you.”

Sukuna’s body goes rigid next to him—not a reassuring action by any means. Even so, Satoru doesn’t try to take the words back, doesn’t try to cover them with a shitty joke or clever deflection. For it’s the truth: Satoru enjoys being with Sukuna. There’s no harm in admitting it, no shame in acknowledging exactly what those words entail. Satoru likes Sukuna, and he’s…okay with that. More than okay, maybe.

Even if Sukuna doesn’t feel the same.

After a moment, Sukuna’s shoulders slump, a sigh passing from his chest. “You really must be drunk,” he observes. “You are far too honest.”

“Nah, I’m fine. Seriously.” And Sukuna probably doesn’t believe him, judging by the eyeroll he sends Satoru’s way, but that’s fine. Besides— “And isn’t honesty a good thing?”

Before Sukuna can reply, Shoko arrives at the table, sets a nearly-overflowing tray in front of one of the open seats. She slides into the seat then, takes a few items from the tray before pushing the rest towards Satoru, the pyramid of neatly-wrapped burgers nearly toppling over as she does.

Satoru just grins, plucking a burger from the top. “Thank you!”

Sukuna eyes the tray warily. “You intend to eat all of that?”

“He’s done it before,” Shoko points out before Satoru has a chance to reply. “It’s ridiculous the amount of crap he can put away.”

Sukuna huffs. “Trust me, I’m aware.”

Satoru doesn’t comment, is too busy downing his burger to care about their opinions on his diet. He’s survived this long on sugar and grease, and he still looks and feels fantastic. Surely that will never change.

Once his first burger is gone, he crumples the wrapper, sets it aside so he can grab another from the stack. As he unwraps the second burger, a few others join them at the table, and it’s only when everyone from their group has been seated nearby that he realizes Sukuna never ordered anything for himself—and that simply won’t do.

“Here, you should eat too,” Satoru says, grabbing another burger from his stack and handing it to Sukuna. “You’ve had more to drink tonight than me, y’know.”

Sukuna frowns at the offer. “I can also handle my alcohol far better than you,” he’s quick to point out, but accepts the burger nonetheless. He unwraps it slowly, frown never easing as he examines the item—skeptical, disgusted, maybe both. And Satoru supposes Sukuna never did favour these sorts of burger joints, always avoided them when they ordered take out. Even so, Sukuna takes a bite, nose wrinkling at the flavour as he chews. Oh well—more for Satoru.

After Satoru downs his stack of burgers—much to the dismay of those around him—he feels far too sober. And the others must feel the same, for once they finish their meals, they waste no time heading to the bus, resuming their journey to the cocktail bar. Clearly this bar is a popular place, the inside crowded and no tables left empty for their group to sit, but it’s an easy fix; as soon as Sukuna begins making his way in the vague direction of a nearby table, the occupants of said table are quick to vacate, grabbing up their drinks in a rush and all but fleeing the scene.

“Hell yeah!” Shoko cheers, quickly claiming the table in their wake. “I knew I was smart to invite you along.”

“I haven’t even done anything,” Sukuna points out, but no one is listening, too busy settling themselves into the seats around Shoko.

Satoru pats him on the shoulder. “Just take the win.”

“This hardly counts as a win,” Sukuna grumbles, and Satoru just laughs at the slight pout on his face. Of course Sukuna would be dissatisfied over something as petty as that. But that pout quickly turns into a sharp glare when Satoru tugs him into the seat next to him.

Despite how busy the bar is, it doesn’t take long for someone to come by and take their orders. Everyone places their orders, rattling off the ridiculous drink names the place had bestowed upon their supposedly artisanal cocktails, but as soon as Satoru opens his mouth to do the same, Sukuna beats him to it. “Just a water for him.”

“No,” Satoru whines, turning so he can smack Sukuna’s shoulder. “I want a fancy cocktail!”

“You’ve had more than your fair share of liquor tonight,” Sukuna decides, smacking Satoru’s hand away.

“I’m with Sukuna on this one. I think you’re cut off,” Shoko chimes in, like a traitor. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your credit card.” She waves said card for emphasis, and it’s only then that Satoru realizes he never did take his card back from her at the burger joint. It’s probably for the best if she continued to keep an eye on it for the remainder of the night.

The waitress leaves then to retrieve their order, and Satoru slumps in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You guys are no fun.”

No one offers him any sympathy—rude considering he’s paying for their entire night. And it’s for that reason that Satoru continues to sulk, casting long looks towards their colourful drinks as he’s forced to consume boring old water—the lemon slice doing nothing to make the drink more enjoyable.

When it’s clear his pouting is doing nothing to garner favour with the others, Satoru decides to switch tactics. He leans against Sukuna’s shoulders, flutters his long lashes at him. “Sukuna—”

“One sip,” Sukuna interrupts before Satoru even has a chance to lay on the charm. “That’s it.”

And hey, he’ll take what he can get. Satoru grins triumphantly and slides Sukuna’s drink towards himself, taking a long sip that continues until Sukuna finally drags it away again. The drink is sweet—sweeter than anything Sukuna typically preferred, though not nearly enough to sate Satoru’s sweet tooth. But it’s good, and Satoru wishes again that he could have a fancy drink of his own.

“Not a chance,” Sukuna says, as though he could read Satoru’s mind.

Satoru huffs. “Spoil sport.” Then he slides out his chair, offers the group a quick wave. “I’m going to the bathroom. Be right back.”

And Satoru had every intention of going to the bathroom—honest. But as he passes by the bar, he notices a woman sitting there nursing a drink that’s a near neon pink, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles, and hey, it’s not Satoru’s fault that he’s easily distracted.

Bathroom trip forgotten, Satoru slides into the stool next to the woman, offers her a charming smile. “That looks good. Whatcha drinking?”

He woman’s eyes widen when they fall upon Satoru, a blush painting her cheeks nearly the colour of her drink. “It’s called a Pink Goddess.”

Satoru hums. “Sounds absolutely divine.” And maybe the woman is about to reply, but Satoru pays her no mind, already turning away so he can flag down a bartender. “Hey, bartender! I’ll have what she’s having.”

The bartender nods and proceeds to mix the drink, while Satoru fishes out his wallet from his pocket. Shoko may still hold his credit card, but Satoru has plenty of cash on hand. And really, one more drink isn’t going to hurt him, no matter what his downer friends might think.

As Satoru waits for his drink, the woman next to him clears her throat. “So, you here alone?”

“Nah. It’s my friend’s birthday, so we’re out with a group.” Satoru waves his hand in the vague direction of their table. As he does, the bartender returns with his drink, and Satoru’s eyes light up at the sight of that whipped-cream mountain on top. He takes a long sip, eyes sliding shut as the sugary confection meets his tongue. “Damn, that’s good.”

He takes another sip, tries not to moan at the taste. The woman watches him with unconcealed amusement, and for some reason, Satoru feels the need to explain, “I had to sneak away to get a drink. My friends think I’ve had too much, but I’m fine! Just look at me! Totally okay!”

And so focused on his drink, Satoru’s only vaguely aware when the woman has leans in a little closer, barely feels the way her hand settles just above his knee. “You sure seem like you can handle it, strong man like yourself.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Satoru agrees, using his straw to scoop some of the whipped cream into his mouth. “I can’t be too upset, though. I am a bit of a lightweight, and I know they mean well.”

The woman chuckles lightly. “Still, if you feel like ditching them for a while…” Her hand slides higher up his thigh as she trails off, eyes hooded and intentions clear.

And Satoru should probably take his leave now, finish his drink elsewhere before returning to his friends. But in the end, he doesn’t have to, not when the woman abruptly freezes, body going rigid before she quickly jerks her hand away, mutters a swift excuse me before she grabs her own drink and rushes away.

And the reason becomes clear soon enough; a heavy arm settles around Satoru’s shoulders, a manicured hand with too-sharp nails gripping his chin and turning his head away from where he had been watching the woman’s retreating form.

Satoru frowns. “What—”

But before Satoru can voice the question, Sukuna cuts him off, seals his lips with his own. And Satoru’s mind comes to an abrupt halt, body moving only on instinct—on desire—when his eyes flutter shut, Sukuna’s hands on him the only thing keeping him upright as their mouths slide against one another, as a tongue comes out to lick at Satoru’s lips. And the sound that escapes Satoru should be embarrassing, but he’s too caught up in the moment to feel any shame, one of his hands coming up to tangle in Sukuna’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer, holding him in place so that Satoru can slip his tongue past Sukuna’s lips, the taste of the other’s drink still lingering therein—not nearly as sweet as the Pink Goddess, but still far more pleasurable than any shitty cocktail could ever hope to be. Sukuna’s breath hitches, and the sound sets Satoru’s heart a flutter, a small giggle escaping his lips.

He pulls back, grins teasingly at the other. “Jealous much?”

For surely that’s the reason behind the display, the strange possessiveness in which he continues to hold Satoru even though the woman is long gone.

“As if,” Sukuna replies with a huff, still close enough that his breath tickles against Satoru’s skin. “You had that disgusting whipped topping all over your lips. It looked ridiculous. I was simply trying to keep what little dignity you have intact.”

And there’s a plan already forming in Satoru’s mind now, a smirk settling upon his lips. “Is that so? Well then…” Without breaking eye contact, Satoru feels for his drink, scoops up a dollop of whipped topping in his finger before smearing it across Sukuna’s lips. “It looks like it’s your dignity that’s at risk now. I suppose it’s my turn to help you out.”

Satoru leans in, teasingly licks the whipped cream from Sukuna’s lips but takes it no further, smirk ever plastered to his face. But Sukuna doesn’t let him get away with it, chases his mouth and captures his lips in a biting kiss, teeth clumsily knocking together until they find a better rhythm, until their mouths slot together just right. There’s a hand gripping the back of Satoru’s head now, the fingers tangled tightly in his hair almost painful, but there’s something in the possessiveness of it that has Satoru wanting more, has his own hands nearly clawing at Sukuna’s shoulders, at his throat, pulling the other closer against him, giving him no chance of escape.

Not that Sukuna seems willing to try, has Satoru’s back pressed against the edge of the bar, is practically climbing into his lap with how much he leans into him—or maybe it’s Satoru who’s trying to climb Sukuna, their limbs so intertwined it’s hard to tell which parts even belong to him, which belong to the other. Sukuna’s other hand slides to his hip, sneaks under the smooth fabric of his shirt and squeezes, grip tight enough to bruise. At least, Satoru hopes it does, needs something as physical proof that this is really happening, that it’s not just some strange alcohol-induced dream.

His chest burns—the welling of affection, the lack of oxygen. Even so, Satoru can’t bear to break the kiss, would rather suffocate than part for a moment. But he’s not given a choice, not when someone pointedly clears their throat just behind him, startling both him and Sukuna enough for them to quickly snap apart, whirling on the newcomer.

The bartender shoots them a dirty look. “Take that shit outside.”

Satoru just laughs. “Sorry, sorry!”

He’s not sorry, can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about such a public display of affection—whether the courage granted from alcohol or the thrill of having Sukuna in such a way, it’s impossible to tell. But he’ll relent for now, if only so that they don’t get kicked out of another bar. And Sukuna must be of the same mind, for although he fixes the bartender with a fierce glare, he doesn’t challenge the man. Still, he doesn’t part from Satoru either, continues to crowd his space with no intention of moving.

But the position is getting a little uncomfortable, the bar behind him creating an unpleasant ache in his spine. So, Satoru keeps one hand braced around Sukuna’s neck—a collar, he can’t help but think, though he’s certain Sukuna would kill him if he voiced that sentiment aloud—keeps him in place on the off chance the other decides to be a little less merciful about the interruption, while his other hand reaches for his glass, quickly downing the rest of the super sweet cocktail.

Then he slides from his stool, slips out from Sukuna’s grasp. “C’mon, let’s hit the dance floor,” he says, reaching out to take Sukuna by the hand, intertwining their fingers so he can drag Sukuna along behind him. But when he feels resistance, Satoru can’t help but…sweeten the deal, glances over his shoulder with a mischievous smirk, winking when he adds, “We can pick this up later.”

Sukuna’s quick to follow after that.

Satoru leads him to the dance floor, though he’s not certain it had been intended as such, seems as though tables and chairs had been pushed to the sides to create the space. As such, the floor is packed with dancers, and when he and Sukuna reach its edge, Sukuna plants his feet, Satoru nearly stumbling when his momentum abruptly cuts.

Satoru turns back to Sukuna, finds the other glaring fiercely at the packed dance floor. Satoru pouts, tugging on their joined hands, but Sukuna remains unmoving, merely rolls his eyes. “It is far too crowded,” he protests, trying to pull Satoru away from the dance floor.

Satoru allows it, if only so that he and Sukuna can be closer, so that his voice reaches Sukuna’s ears when he murmurs, “Please?” He lifts their joined hands, places a delicate kiss upon Sukuna’s knuckles for good measure.

Sukuna sighs. “Fine. But only for a moment.”

And it’s good enough for Satoru. With a wide grin, Satoru pulls Sukuna out into the crowd, tugs him along as he searches for a suitable spot to dance. Thankfully, the rest of their group had already made its way to the dance floor, and when Shoko notices them, she calls them over, a knowing smirk gracing her lips. At her side, Utahime looks far paler than usual, has a hand covering her mouth as though she may throw up—strange, considering she hasn’t even had a drop of alcohol tonight. But that’s none of Satoru’s business.

Satoru stops at Shoko’s side, and Shoko yanks him down by the collar of his shirt so she can shout into his ear, “You coming to dance, or to tell me you’re ditching to go find some cheap love hotel?”

“As if I’d settle for a cheap anything,” Satoru fires back, ignoring the insinuation in her words. “But no, we’re coming to dance! Right, Sukuna?”

He directs this last part at his companion, who just scoffs. “I don’t dance.”

“I say you can!”

“Not a chance.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Satoru turns so he can face Sukuna, takes his other hand as well. “Here, just follow my lead. Move your body just like this.”

Satoru demonstrates a simple dance, nothing more than a rhythmic sway to the flow of the music. But Sukuna doesn’t copy his actions, just rolls his eyes at Satoru’s urging. Satoru pouts. “Sukuna,” he whines, tugging on his arms more insistently. “Come on! Dance with me.”

But when Sukuna refuses to do so, Satoru decides to switch tactics. He releases Sukuna’s hands so he can grab him by the hips, forces the other to move along with him. And though Sukuna again rolls his eyes, he complies with Satoru’s direction—a lot more cooperative than Satoru had expected, honestly. And Satoru can’t help but grin, can’t help but pull Sukuna a little bit closer, slides his hands up his torso so he can loop his arms around his neck. He leans in so he can speak into Sukuna’s ear. “See? It’s not so bad, right?”

A little hesitantly, Sukuna’s hands settle on his hips, thumbs tracing gentle circles above the jut of bone there, and even through the smooth fabric of his shirt, the touch practically burns Satoru’s skin. “I suppose it’s not the…worst thing,” Sukuna admits after a moment.

Satoru grins. “I knew you’d love it!”

“I never said that,” Sukuna says quickly, shooting Satoru a glare.

Satoru hums. “Didn’t you, though?”

They sway along, perhaps a little slower now than what the music demands, but it’s a comfortable pace, an easy rhythm, something that Satoru’s finding increasingly more difficult to maintain. He’s feeling a little dizzy now, head much too heavy and feet barely leaving the floor for fear of stumbling. Maybe that last cocktail had been a mistake. Maybe he had downed it too quickly.

But Sukuna is steady still, hands holding Satoru upright, keeping him tethered even as his mind floats. It’s…kind of a nice feeling, not being so utterly aware of everything, so in control, a feeling Satoru isn’t used to, isn’t allowed to indulge in. But he indulges now, closes his eyes as he rests his head on Sukuna’s shoulder, savours the weightlessness it brings.

Sukuna’s arms wrap tightly around Satoru, breath tickling through Satoru’s hair when he murmurs, “Are you alright?”

Satoru nods against his shoulder. “I’m good. Really, really good. Promise.” He nuzzles his nose against Sukuna’s neck, hums a little at the scent that greets him—something a little woody, a little floral, but definitely familiar. “You smell nice. Is that my cologne?”

“It is,” Sukuna confirms easily, doesn’t bother denying it. “You nearly doused the entire bathroom in it while getting ready for the evening. I had little choice but to get caught in the fallout.”

Satoru laughs a little at this. “Good move on my part, then.” He inhales deeply, lets the scent wash over him again. “You should wear it more often.”

“You wish me to smell like you all the time?” Sukuna questions with a laugh of his own, one that rumbles through his chest. “Possessive little thing, aren’t you?”

Satoru scoffs. “Like you’re one to talk.”

Despite the blare of the music, a sharp whine cuts through the noise, nearly ruins Satoru’s good mood. “Shoko, I can’t take it anymore! Can we please ditch these two?”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna need another drink,” Satoru hears Shoko reply, feels a tap on his shoulder soon after. He lifts his head just enough to glance at Shoko, who offers him a quick wave. “Try to behave while we’re gone!”

Utahime tugs Shoko away before Satoru has a chance to respond—not that he cares. With them gone, Satoru can finally get back to enjoying his night. Satoru lets his head drop back to Sukuna’s shoulder, eyes sliding shut once more so he can focus only on feeling of the body against his, on the way the bass pounds deep within his chest. And he’s not sure how long they dance for, how many songs have passed before there’s a hand that slides through his hair, that cups his jaw and lifts his face away from its resting place.

Satoru blinks his eyes open slightly, offers Sukuna a lazy grin. “Hey.”

Sukuna huffs. “Hey yourself. I refuse to lug your deadweight around any longer.” He releases his hold on Satoru, but only for a moment, only long enough that he can tangle their fingers together instead. “Come. You need more water.”

Satoru pouts. “I told you, I’m fine.”

But he still allows Sukuna to guide him away from the dancefloor, only stumbles a few times as they make their way back to the bar. Shoko’s still there, Utahime thankfully nowhere in sight—though she must have left recently, the stool next to Shoko empty despite how crowded the place is. Satoru plops down onto the stool, leans heavily against Shoko to help maintain his balance.

Thankfully, Shoko doesn’t comment on the embarrassing display, is too busy watching as the bartenders mix drinks. “Satoru, check it out!” she says, nodding towards one of the barmen. “Apparently, there’s a cocktail that has flecks of real gold in it. Obviously, I had to get one.”

“Real gold?” Satoru echoes, frowning. “Sound gross. And expensive.”

“Thankfully, I’m not the one buying,” she points out, offering him a grin. “Ooh, here it comes!”

Sure enough, her drink arrives just then—a little underwhelming for something that’s supposed to contain real gold, in Satoru’s opinion. It’s vaguely champagne coloured, but sure enough, there are shimmering flecks that dance in the liquid—though Satoru doubts they’re truly gold.

Shoko doesn’t think anything of it, excitedly takes her first sip. There’s a strange look that passes across her face. “That’s—” she starts, cuts off with a slight cough. “That’s not as good as I hoped.”

Satoru eyes the glass curiously. “Can I try? Just a sip, promise!”

Shoko shrugs, sliding the glass towards him, and Satoru doesn’t give her a chance to change her mind. He quickly takes a sip for himself, winces at the sharp, bitter flavour, at the flecks of gold that stick to his throat. He coughs on it, some of the flecks coming out onto his hand. He hums, lifting his hand so he can examine the supposed gold. “I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s craft glitter.”

“Not even the edible stuff?” Shoko asks. Satoru shrugs, and Shoko huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Lame.”

Sukuna returns then with a glass of water—honestly, Satoru hadn’t even noticed he’d left at all, had been too busy trying to keep his vision focused. So maybe it’s for the best when Sukuna passes him the glass; sure, it’s far less desirable than the sweet cocktails Satoru had been vying for, but at least it’s refreshing, helps him regain some of his bearings as he quickly downs it. Plus, it washes away the horrid taste of that faux-gold abomination he’d just consumed, rinses the remaining glitter from his throat.

And with the newfound mental clarity, Satoru gets a brilliant idea. “Hey, Sukuna!” he says, craning his head back so he can grin at the other. “You’ve gotta try this drink Shoko ordered. It’s super good, and look! Real gold!” He lifts the drink towards Sukuna, shakes it a little to send the glitter fluttering. “Fit for a king, wouldn’t ya say?”

Sukuna barely spares the drink a glance. “It’s craft glitter. What?” he adds when Satoru’s eyes widen in surprise. “Did you really think I’d fall for such an asinine trick? I’m well aware of what real gold looks like.”

Satoru huffs, retuning the drink to the counter. “You’re no fun.”

Shoko’s already ordered a new drink by now—one without glitter, this time. She drinks it down a bit, then slides off her stool. “I’m gonna join the others on the dance floor for a bit. You coming?”

“Totally!” But that plan is derailed almost immediately, Satoru nearly stumbling over his feet the moment he leaves his stool. So he laughs it off, eases himself back onto the stool as he waves a hand at Shoko. “Actually, maybe in a bit. I might need a little more water.”

Shoko laughs, patting him on the shoulder. “Good call.”

She heads out, and Sukuna is quick to claim her seat, doesn’t even grumble when Satoru decides to lean against his shoulder, to use him to maintain his balance. As Satoru happily sips away at his water, Sukuna orders himself another drink, makes Satoru pay for it with the cash he has on hand, yet when the drink arrives, he refuses to let Satoru sample it—which, rude.

“You’ve had more than enough,” Sukuna decides before Satoru has a chance to argue his case.

Satoru groans, lightly punching Sukuna’s shoulder. “Party pooper.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “You’ll change your tune once you’re passed out in some decrepit old—”

There’s a flash of white in the corner of his eye, drawing Satoru’s attention. He turns toward it just in time to see the bride-to-be leaving the club—alone, her entourage still out on the dance floor. And that…that’s not very safe, is it? Really, it’s none of Satoru’s business; he’d much rather spend his night here with Sukuna than chasing after runaway brides, anyway. But for some reason, he feels the pull to follow, to make sure everything is alright—he’s just too good of a guy, he supposes.

“Yeah, yeah, hold that thought,” Satoru interrupts whatever Sukuna had been going on about, waving a dismissive hand as he slides from his stool—more successfully this time, only swaying a little on his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

Sukuna frowns, body poised to follow. “What? Where are you going?”

“I just want to check on someone. I’ll be fine—just stay and enjoy your drink.” Satoru pats his cheek comfortingly, can’t resist the urge to brush away a few stray hairs that had fallen across his brow. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Sukuna hums, seems like he might argue. But then he sighs, shrugs a shoulder as he returns his attention to his drink. “Okay.”

Satoru grins, plants a quick kiss to Sukuna’s cheek before he heads off in the direction the bride had gone. The ground tilts slightly beneath his feet, but Satoru remains steady, is able to walk in a mostly straight line out of the bar. He finds the bride seated on a bench a little way down the sidewalk, her smiling face lit up by the glow of her phone screen, and Satoru slides into the spot next to her. “Hey, you alright?”

“Huh?” The bride’s head whips up at the sound of his voice, likely hadn’t noticed his arrival. But upon recognizing Satoru, she just smiles, nods to him. “Oh. Yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to cool off a bit. It’s hot in there.”

Satoru hums. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

He’d been a little…preoccupied, after all.

The bride-to-be huffs a laugh. “Lucky. I think I run hot.” She tucks her phone away, leans back against the building behind them as she gazes off into the streetlights overhead, a small smile painting her lips. “My fiancé always complains about how much I run the fans in our apartment. Says he’s always cold, always walks around bundled up in blankets. That’s why, for his birthday last year, I got him a blanket with a collage of our pictures on it, and he uses it all the time. It’s super cute—except at night or when it’s dark. Kind of freaky seeing a shadowy figure with a bunch of faces emerge from the darkness. Oh! This one time, while I was away on a business trip, he actually wrapped the blanket around a pillow so that my face was on the front, and then he sent me pictures of him going about his day and like setting up the pillow like a replacement for me! Which, now that I’m saying it out loud to a complete stranger sounds super weird, but I thought it was kind of endearing at the time. A little pathetic, but cute.” Her eyes widen then, and a blush rises to her cheeks when she turns to look at Satoru now. “Sorry, I’m just rambling.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Satoru replies, waving a hand. “Sounds like you really like the guy.”

“I wouldn’t be marrying him if I didn’t,” she points out, and while Satoru could argue that statement, he chooses not to, doesn’t want to sour her picture-perfect relationship with tales of romantic misfortune.

So he nearly chokes on his next breath when the woman nudges him slightly with an elbow, stating, “You and your partner are pretty cute.”

“Ah, we’re not—we’re not together together,” Satoru explains quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s…kind of complicated.”

She frowns. “Complicated how?”

And it’d be too difficult to explain the intricacies of the situation to a non-sorcerer—hell, it’s difficult to explain to anyone—so Satoru doesn’t even try, keeps his answer purposefully vague. “I…seriously screwed up, a while ago. Had a messy situation with someone who’s sort of an ex.” And though the woman raises a brow at that, Satoru doesn’t elaborate the point further, doesn’t risk reopening that particular wound tonight. “In any case,” he continues, shrugging a shoulder, “I hurt a lot of people I care about, who care about me. It…took a long time for things to go back to somewhat normal, for Sukuna to even be civil with me again. Still, I don’t think he’s really forgiven me, or that he could really ever see me as a viable partner. Honestly, I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to date me either after all that.”

“Is that right?” The bride hums, tapping her chin. “Well, I’m no expert, but I’d say the interactions between you tonight have been a little more than civil.”

“Yeah, well.” Satoru shrugs a shoulder again. “We’re drunk. It’s different.”

“Isn’t alcohol supposed to make you honest?” she asks, and when Satoru doesn’t have an answer for her, she continues, “If he were really upset with you still, I think he’d make it more obvious—a lot more fists, a lot less tongue.”

Satoru wrinkles his nose. “Gross.”

The bride-to-be raises her hands in defense, a grin on her face. “I’m just saying!” She lets her hands fall then, her smile softening. “The way you’ve been acting tonight, you both seem interested.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Satoru sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Even if he were interested, I just…I don’t know if I’m ready. I’m still all messed up inside, y’know? It wouldn’t be fair to make Sukuna suffer along with me. I don’t want to drag him down anymore than I already have.”

“Can I be honest with you?” the bride asks, and when Satoru nods his assent, she continues, “Obviously I don’t know the full situation, but I think you’re being stupid about this whole thing.”

“Excuse me?”

She ignores his outburst, carrying on unperturbed. “You’re still hurting after what happened with your ex, feel like you can’t move on until that hurt is all gone, like you have to be perfect before you can try dating again. But if you keep thinking like that—if you keep waiting on perfection—you’ll be alone forever.” She takes a breath, fiddles with the edge of her sash before continuing, “It’s easy for people to stick around while you’re at your best, but it’s the people who stay when you’re feeling at your worst that are the most valuable. For better or worse doesn’t apply only to marriage, y’know. Of course, there are always exceptions—” she adds quickly, tilting her head thoughtfully, “and people have to take care of themselves first, but…” She shrugs, shifts her gaze to Satoru once more. “I don’t know. If he’s stuck around through all of that, and if the two of you really do like each other, then what’s the harm in trying? Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t. At least you won’t be stuck wondering what if?”

“I…” Satoru sighs. He leans forward, elbows digging into his knees. “I don’t know.”

“Do you love him?” she asks, cuts right to the chase.

And though the question is simple, Satoru isn’t sure how to answer. “Honestly? I don’t even know what love is supposed to feel like anymore.”

She hums. “Okay, do you like him at least?”

The answer to that one comes much easier, not even a moment of hesitation when Satoru decides, “Yeah, I…I really do.”

“And do you want to date him?” she prompts.

“Maybe, once I’m—”

But the bride cuts him off, wagging a finger in his face. “Nuh uh, it’s a yes or no question.” Satoru frowns at the finger in his face, and she takes the hint, quickly withdrawing her hand. Still, she presses on. “There’s never going to be a perfect time for this sort of thing. You just have to start, for better or worse—there’s always space to grow. So, do you want to date him?”

“I—” Satoru finds himself about to dodge the question again, but a stern look from the bride-to-be changes his mind. He swallows, finally works up the courage to admit— “Yeah. I think I do.”

She smiles, satisfied with his answer. “Then the next step’s easy. Get together. Grow together. You’ll always come up short if you don’t let yourself try. But then again,” she adds with a slight laugh, “you’re probably better off talking to an actual professional on these things, not just some drunk girl at a bar.”

Satoru laughs too. “Don’t discount yourself. You’ve…actually made some interesting points.”

The bride reaches out, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m glad.” Then she rises from the bench, gives her back a bit of a stretch. “I’m gonna head back inside now. You coming?”

“Later,” Satoru decides, waving a hand. “I…want to think for a bit.”

And as the bride disappears back inside the bar, Satoru mulls over her words. Is he really being stupid? It’s been almost two years since the Suguru ordeal, more than enough time for Satoru to get over it. And yet… he’s not over it, not really. There’s still an ache in his heart, a wound that no longer bleeds but has yet to heal, a hole that hasn’t grown over. But when he’s with Sukuna, the ache is easier to ignore, forgotten until those moments he’s alone, moments where a strange nostalgia gets its claws in him, threatens to tear him open once more. And maybe he’ll never fully heal from it, maybe there will always be a scar. But he’s doing himself no good by picking at the scabs, by holding on to something that only hurts him in the end.

Maybe it’s time he tried letting go—actually letting go. He and Suguru had not walked the same path in a long time; he’d been left behind, likely could never catch up. But that’s not the only way, the only road to take. He could forge his own path, find his own direction—

But it’s terrifying. For so long, he’d known where the road would take him, had thought Suguru would be with him all the way. But he doesn’t know the way now, doesn’t know if he could carve a path on his own—

Though, that isn’t right, is it? For he’s not alone, not really. No matter how many times he’s stumbled trying to catch up with Suguru, there’s always been someone around to pick him up—Wasuke, Shoko, Yaga, Sukuna—

Sukuna.

Things really had changed since their initial battle, the fight that had completely changed the trajectory of both their lives. For if Satoru had not had Yuuji to think about—had Sukuna to think about—would things with Suguru have turned out the way they did? Would Satoru have condemned Suguru’s actions, let his friend walk away all those years ago? Or would he have joined him, continued to walk that twisted path at his side? It’s…hard to say, honestly. But of one thing, Satoru is certain:

He and Sukuna have been carving a new and unknown path for a long time now, long before things fell apart with Suguru. He and Suguru had diverged from the same road even before Suguru betrayed him, Satoru just hadn’t realized it, had been too caught up in looking back—

And maybe it’s time Satoru turned around, actually looked ahead to where he plants his feet. Maybe it’s time to truly move forward. And it all starts with a simple step—though it feels more like a leap of faith:

I like you. Do you like me?

Two simple phrases, seven simple words. He just has to do it, take the leap, trust that Sukuna won’t let him fall flat on his face—or, even if he does, that he’ll at least stick around and help him back up again. I like you. Do you like me? Satoru can do this—he will do this—

“Hey did you hear the news?”

There’s a group huddled outside chatting, the breath from their lungs as they speak drifting into the cool air much like the smoke from the cigarettes held between their fingers. And it piques Satoru’s curiosity, momentarily distracts him from his thoughts as he strains his ears to listen.

“They’ve got some of the train lines locked down,” the stranger continues, unaware of Satoru’s eavesdropping. “Lots of police are there investigating—something about a bomb on a train?”

And that can’t be right: why would Obama be on a train over here in Japan? It certainly doesn’t sound very safe for such a prominent political figure to be travelling in such a way—especially this late at night. Maybe Satoru should check it out—just in case.

He fires off a quick text to Sukuna letting him know the situation, that he’d return as soon as he ensured everything was okay. That done, Satoru pushes himself up from the bench, staggers a step before finding his balance. Sure, he’s a little drunk still, but he’s still the strongest for a reason. Even in his inebriated state, he’ll be more than capable of handling this little conundrum.

And so, with a self-assured grin on his face, Satoru sets off towards the nearest train station. It’s time to investigate.

Chapter Text

Satoru ducks into a nearby alley, ensures he’s out of sight from the general population before warping himself to the closest train station. The platforms are relatively empty considering the late hour, definitely devoid of the rumoured police presence. Clearly, this station was not the station Obama would be utilizing, the one those strangers had been gossiping about. And maybe Satoru should have questioned the group before setting out, but it’s too late for that now; Satoru would just have to check each station one by one until he finds the correct location for the foreign politician’s imminent arrival. And sure, Tokyo has hundreds of stations to check, but…surely, it’ll be fine, right?

And so, after consulting a nearby map at the platform, Satoru warps away to the next station, then the next, follows the routes one by one until finally, finally, he reaches what must be the right destination. The stairways leading down to this particular station have been blocked off with sturdy metal barricades, several officers positioned at these access points and directing citizens away from the scene. But it’ll take a lot more than that to stop the esteemed Satoru Gojo, and while the officers are distracted, Satoru quickly warps past the barricades, down to the platforms below.

It's far more congested down here, many uniformed officers racing about as they attempt to evacuate any remaining citizens—need to keep the way clear for Obama’s arrival, no doubt. The yellow police tape that covers the train stopped at the platform is a strange touch, however; why would there be a crime scene here on the train Obama would be travelling upon?

Humming thoughtfully, Satoru approaches the tape to investigate, frowning as he assesses the scene. But before he can really begin his investigation, there’s an arm that stretches before him, blocking his way. “Hold on there, sir,” the officer warns, motioning for Satoru to back up. “All civilians must stay behind the yellow tape.”

“This tape?” Satoru asks, pointing at the flimsy barrier. He lets out a laugh. “No thanks, I’m kind of busy.”

“Sir, wait—”

But Satoru does not wait, simply warps past the barrier and directly into the train—makes a miraculous and sudden appearance that startles the officers already stationed within. “What? Where did—”

“Huh.” Satoru ignores the officers, tapping his chin as he assesses the train’s interior. Save for the police presence, the train is vacant. “They must’ve lied. Obama isn’t here.”

“Wait, you know about the bomb?”

Again, Satoru ignores the officers, something new catching his interest. There’s a curse huddled up beneath one of the seats, nothing more than a Grade Four. It’s a dark glob against the pale train interior, a strange ticking noise emanating from its body like a bastardized clock. It’s not really causing any harm, not right now, but still…

“Better take care of this little fella, huh?” Satoru decides, already gathering his cursed energy. “Wouldn’t want a curse on the train with Obama.”

It barely takes any effort for Satoru to exorcise the curse, a simple swipe of his fingers, a little cursed energy. The curse disappears with a warbled cry, and Satoru claps his hands together. “Right, that takes care of that.”

“Sir, you really need to leave,” one of the officers warns, “otherwise we’ll have no choice but to—”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry,” Satoru interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “The train is perfectly safe now.” And while Satoru would love to stick around long enough to catch a glimpse of Obama, he figures he’s been gone long enough now, could really use a fancy cocktail to celebrate a job well done. So he flashes the officers a grin, offers them a quick salute. “Tell the president I said hi!”

“What—”

Satoru warps away before he can hear the rest of the officer’s question, mind already set on returning to his friends—to the party. He pauses for a moment on the sidewalk above the station, orients himself for the next warp—

But—wait. Where was the bar, again?

Satoru huffs, tries to make sense of the street signs around him—not that they help. He hadn’t really been paying much attention when the bus driver had transported them to the cocktail bar, had been far too…distracted, so to speak. Maybe he should just retrace his steps, go back to the stations he had checked on before. Maybe then he’d be able to find his way back without disrupting his friends’ night.

Yeah, that sounds like a good plan.

Satoru warps to the previous station—at least, he’s pretty sure it’s the previous station. But…was that sign always that colour? Were the stairs always on his left? He…can’t really recall, the stations all blurring together in his hazy mind. Maybe…maybe he should call somebody, at least get himself pointed in the right direction—

There’s a flash of black across his vision, a flutter of blue. And Satoru…he’s seen that attire before, those deep navy robes. But—no, there’s no way. Could it actually—

The man boards the train, the doors sliding shut behind him before Satoru has a chance to move, to confirm his suspicions. The train takes off, and Satoru takes off after it, runs along the edge of the platform until there’s no more space to move, until the train disappears from sight. Shit, shit—

He could probably beat it to the next station, see if the man disembarks there. He examines a nearby map, tries to make sense of the different lines that blur in his vision, melding into absolute nonsense. It’s useless trying to make sense of it in his state, would be far too risky to try and warp to an unsure destination. So, he’ll have to go on foot, try to orient himself with the street signs, hope he’s fast enough to reach the proper station first.

With determined strides, Satoru takes off again, makes his way to the street and dashes down the sidewalk, fighting through the crowds of pedestrians that still linger despite the late hour. But his progress is slow—far too slow, he’ll never make it—

There’s a commotion on the street, loud music and raucous cheers ringing through the night air. Satoru turns, finds a strange contraption making its way down the road. It looks like a moving food stall, counters with stools atop a long bicycle, several men seated there and pedalling along while singing and laughing and downing pints of booze. It makes steady progress down the street, far faster than Satoru had been going—

Satoru moves before the plan has fully formed in his mind, arm raised as he calls out, “Hey! Wait up a sec!”

Surprisingly, at his call, the men stop pedalling, look at him with glassy eyes and wobbly smiles as he rushes towards them. “Hey, hey, hey!” one of the men greets him, words slurring together slightly. “What’s up?”

“Mind if I hitch a ride?” Satoru asks, tries to mask his desperation with an easy grin.

The man barely thinks about it, slaps a hand down upon a vacant seat. “Come on up! The more, the merrier!”

Satoru clamours up onto the offered seat, the others on the bike cheering as he settles in. Once Satoru’s situated, the pedalling resumes—though it takes a few tries for Satoru to locate his own set of pedals, another moment for him to actually get pedalling in the right direction. But then they’re off at a decent pace, the wind whistling under the covered top a refreshing feeling.

“Here,” the man to his right says to him, sliding a glass along the counter—the booze within sloshing up over the sides and staining the wood below, “have a drink!”

Satoru hums. “Actually, I am a little thirsty. Thanks!” He had been warping all across the city, after all. He definitely earned a drink!

As he accepts the offered glass, the man raises his own into the air. “To the end of another soul-crushing work week!”

“Cheers!”

Satoru takes a big gulp, the beer far too bitter for Satoru’s tastes. But it still does the trick, wets his parched throat and brings a smile to his face—maybe a wince, but hey, close enough.

As Satoru schools his expression back to joy, the man next to him asks, “So, what industry are you in?”

“I’m a student, actually,” Satoru replies, hazarding another sip of his drink. “Gonna be a teacher.”

“A teacher?” someone else echoes. “In that case, you’re gonna need a few more of these!” He raises his glass as he says this, doesn’t seem bothered by the beer that spills over the rim, wetting his fingers. The other men laugh, raising their glasses as well.

Satoru laughs along with them. “You’re salarymen, I take it,” he observes, gaze scanning over their wrinkled-button ups, their loosened ties, the near-dead look in their eyes.

“Easy to tell, hey?” the man at his side asks, grinning. He reaches out, clamping a hand over Satoru’s shoulder—nearly sends both of them toppling from their seats to the pavement below. But the man doesn’t seem to notice the precarious situation, continuing on unperturbed. “Take it from me, kid: run while you still have the chance.”

“Boss is constantly on our asses about every little thing,” someone else adds. “Meanwhile he’s sitting up in his big ol’ office twiddling his fucking thumbs, planning out his next trip to who even cares where.”

“Sheesh, sounds rough,” Satoru replies—relatable, too. But he keeps that to himself, can’t really explain his situation to a bunch of civilians.

“You don’t know the half of it,” the man decides, then raises his glass again. “But at least we have booze!”

“Cheers!”

They ride through the streets in much the same manner, singing along to the music that plays from mounted speakers as they indulge in the seemingly never-ending flow of booze. And for a moment, Satoru forgets why he even got on this ride in the first place, where he was in such a rush to go.

But surely fate is at work tonight, constantly pulling on strings, playing Satoru like a puppet. For when the cart takes a turn, passes by a touristy-shrine, Satoru catches that glimpse again, that familiar yet strange clash of black and blue.

“Hey,” the man at his side prompts, “whatcha staring at?”

Satoru doesn’t answer the question, just downs the rest of his drink before smiling at his newfound companions. “Sorry, fellas. This is my stop.”

The men voice their dissent, but they cease pedalling all the same, the strange cart coming to a stop in the middle of the street—much to the displeasure of the traffic around them. As a chorus of car horns and death threats rings out around them, Satoru slides from his stool, clumsily tries to gain his footing as he fishes his wallet from his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills. He hands them up to the man. “Here, for your hospitality.”

“Holy shit.” The man gazes at the bills in his hands with wide eyes. Then he grins down at Satoru, hastily tucking the bills away into his pocket. “Hey, feel free to join us anytime!”

The salarymen take off again, and after waving a quick goodbye, Satoru takes off toward the shrine, towards the ghost of his best friend—

The world spins dangerously around him now, his stomach twisting with nausea— he really should’ve turned down those drinks, should’ve been smarter about this. But there’s nothing to do about it now, and Satoru fights past the dizziness, staggers past the gates in pursuit, calling out, “Hey, wait—”

There’s a worrying jolt beneath his feat, the scenery blurring as he plummets toward the pavement below. But he never reaches it, falls against something solid and warm, strong arms keeping him steadily in place. He notices the robes first, follows the lines of navy fabric until he can look up into the face of his saviour—

It’s not Suguru. Of course it’s not Suguru, Satoru is a fool for thinking it would be. The stranger helps Satoru to his feet, a worried wrinkle in his weathered brow. “Are you alright?”

No, he isn’t. There’s a horrible churning in his core, something he can’t blame on the alcohol alone. But he doesn’t mention it, brushes off this stranger’s—this monk’s—concern. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He manages to get his feet underneath him again, forces himself to stand on trembling legs. “Sorry, I—I thought you were someone else.”

“There’s no need to be sorry,” the monk replies, smiling kindly at Satoru. “Here, why don’t you come have a seat.”

“That’s—” Satoru’s about to decline, but when he tries to step away from the man’s steadying hold, his knees nearly buckle beneath him. “Yeah. Yeah, I should probably sit down.”

The monk helps Satoru over to a nearby bench, and Satoru nearly falls upon it, sinks down onto the stone with a groan. The man hovers at his shoulder, arms still outstretched, ready to catch him should Satoru teeter towards the ground. When he’s certain Satoru is balanced well enough, he withdraws, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “Wait here a moment. I’ll go find you some water.”

Yeah, water—he needs water, then he’ll be fine. Totally fine. “Thanks.”

The monk leaves then, and Satoru slumps towards his knees, cradles his face in his hands and tries to stop the world from spinning around him. “Fuck,” he mutters, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

But there’s no answer, nothing but the hum of traffic, the general noise of the city, a strange vibration at his side—

Oh. His phone is ringing. At least he hadn’t lost it.

Satoru fishes his phone from his pocket just as the call goes to voicemail. He frowns at his phone, the screen completely covered by notifications—unanswered texts, missed calls. Most are from Shoko and Sukuna, though even Mei and Utahime have reached out a few times. But… that shouldn’t be right. He hasn’t been gone that long, has he?

His phone lights up with another call—Shoko, again. This time, Satoru answers it. “Yeah?”

“Satoru! Where the hell are you?” Shoko’s angry voice comes through the speaker, and Satoru winces at the volume, the throbbing in his head that worsens as she berates him. “You can’t just run off and not tell anyone!”

“What?” Satoru frowns. He didn’t just run off, he’s certain he’d made his absence known. “I texted Sukuna—”

“You texted him nonsense!” Shoko interrupts. “Just a bunch of emojis and random letters! And that was over an hour ago, and then you didn’t respond to any of us—”

Satoru pulls his phone away from his ear, waits for a break in Shoko’s yelling before he brings it back. “Sorry, sorry. I’m fine though. No need to worry.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Shoko says, and thankfully her voice has returned to a more-manageable volume now. There’s a slight shuffling on the other end of the line before Shoko continues, “We’re leaving the bar now. Where are you?”

“I’m…” Satoru trails off a moment, glances around at his surroundings. Honestly, he’s not really sure where he is. “At a shrine,” he finishes eventually.

Shoko huffs. “Which one?”

“The, uh…” He trails off again, tries to pin-point any distinguishing features of the shrine before him. But his eyesight is far too blurry to read any of the signs, and the only thing he’s able to discern about the shrine is that it’s— “The red one?”

“Jesus christ.” There’s more shuffling on the other end of the line, the muted sounds of voices that Satoru can’t make sense of. Finally, Shoko returns, demands him, “Send me your location pin. We’ll come get you. Do not move.”

Satoru grins. It stretches his face painfully. “Roger that.”

He hangs up the call then, and after fumbling with his phone for a moment, he manages to send his location to Shoko. She replies with a thumbs up, then another message telling him not to go anywhere—as if he even could in this state.

The monk returns then, hands Satoru a bottle of water. “Here, this should help a little.” Satoru accepts the bottle gratefully, unscrews the cap and takes a long drink. As he does, the monk continues, “Is there someone I can call for you?”

Satoru shakes his head, swallowing down his water. “It’s fine. My friends are coming.”

“That’s good.” The monk glances towards the shrine, then back to Satoru. “I must be retuning inside now. However, if there is anything you should need, please don’t hesitate to come find me.”

Satoru nods. “Thanks.”

The monk offers him a small bow, then retreats into the shrine once more. Satoru re-caps the bottle, his stomach still far too unsettled to handle much more than what he’d already consumed. And he knows the uneasy feeling is only caused in part by the alcohol, the guilt and shame coiling within making it that much worse.

For there’s no denying what Satoru has just done—chased after someone who only held the barest resemblance to Suguru, no consideration for his actions, no thought that he could be wrong. He hadn’t even bothered to check for Suguru’s cursed energy, had set off on nothing more than a gut feeling, a stupid glimpse of hope—

For what, though? A hope that he could still sway Suguru’s mind, a hope that he could bring his friend back? Or was it the hope that Satoru would finally have the courage to put a stop to his actions, to finally carry out the execution order and forever lay that quarrel to rest? It’s difficult to say, honestly; Satoru hadn’t even had a plan for what he would do if that figure did turn out to be Suguru. But of one thing, Satoru is certain:

He fucked up. Again.

All those thoughts of letting go and moving on were nothing more than whimsical fantasies, dreams that had crumbled at the first sight of ebony hair. He had made up his mind to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to look towards the future and truly commit to this new path he’d been carving. But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? For Satoru had once again turned and fled headlong into the past, into a place where his feet had no ground to tread. And if faced with the chance to do it all again…

Satoru would like to say he’d make a different choice, would leave the past be. But there’s a part of him that knows—a part of him that still bears that hollow wound—that he would do the same. Maybe he always would.

Cursed. Satoru must be cursed.

The sound of footsteps stirs Satoru from his thoughts, the titter of laughter filling the air. There’s a young couple approaching the shrine now, holding hands as they walk, faces alight with bright smiles and sparkling eyes. They take a selfie before the shrine, wrap their arms around each other, so caught up in their little love-struck world that they’re oblivious to everything around them, to the sharp glare Satoru has fixed on them despite his efforts to leave it be.

For in this moment, Satoru isn’t too prideful to admit it: he’s envious of them, envious of this easy sort of love they share, wishes he could have it for himself. And there was a time in his life he thought he could have something like that with Suguru, those rose-tinted school days filled with laughter and joy, no consideration for the horrors that would inevitably befall them. But that bridge had been burned to cinders, nothing left to rebuild no matter how many times Satoru returns to it, sifts through the ash for anything that may have survived.

And maybe Satoru could’ve built something like that with Sukuna, given enough time and effort. But surely that’s an impossibility now, Satoru doomed to keep making the same mistakes over and over again. For Sukuna is far smarter than Satoru, will likely be able to devise the reason behind Satoru’s sudden departure. And there’s no way Sukuna will forgive Satoru for this transgression, not when the wounds left by the last are still so deep, continuously ripped open by Satoru’s stupidity, never given a true chance to heal.

But even on the slim chance that Sukuna does stick around, Satoru isn’t sure he should, doesn’t think it’s fair that he keeps putting Sukuna through these avoidable problems. It’s not a matter of seeking perfection, of waiting for the right moment for their relationship to work. For Satoru has hurt Sukuna, keeps hurting him despite his best intentions to stop. And maybe there’ll come a day when Satoru will finally figure his shit out, will be in a place where his very presence no longer brings harm to Sukuna, but how long will that take? Will their volatile relationship be able to withstand the storms until then? The margin of error is far too slight to risk it.

But there’s a part of Satoru that doesn’t want to let Sukuna leave, wants to cling to him and drag him down too, if only so that Satoru doesn’t have to be alone. Because he doesn’t want to be alone, hates being alone. He’s pathetic maybe, selfish definitely. But would he be capable of it? Even if he doesn’t love Sukuna, he still cares deeply for him; could he really risk making Sukuna’s life worse after everything he’s already done to ruin it?

“Satoru!”

He's drawn from his thoughts by the call of his name, a car pulling up at the curb before the shrine. Shoko has her head hanging out the window, eyes wide with concern. The car has barely rolled to a stop before she’s sliding out the door, Sukuna close on her heels. “There you are!” Shoko shouts as she approaches. “You better have a damn good explanation for running off like that. I mean, seriously Satoru, I oughta—” But she cuts off abruptly, anger dissipating all at once. “Wait, what’s wrong? Satoru, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Satoru lies, grinning. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You—” She falters, seems to be considering her words carefully. But she must give up, has no finesse when she points out, “You’re crying.”

“Huh?” Satoru frowns, raises his free hand to his face to check. Sure enough, there’s wetness painting the skin below his eyes, though when it had gotten there—why it hasn’t stopped yet—he has no idea. “Huh. I—I just—”

He can’t get the words out, the excuses all dying on his tongue, swallowed by the sudden sob that rips from his throat. And there are too many sets of eyes on him now—Shoko, Sukuna, Utahime, Mei—all staring at him with the same wide-eyed expression, that same look of unbridled shock and disbelief. And Satoru—he can’t stand it, those eyes staring at him like he’s some sort of freak, like he’s just as fucked up as he feels. He lets the water bottle drop to the pavement at his feet as he hides his face in his hands, curls in on himself as though it could help, as though he could physically pull the shattered pieces of himself back together again.

“Satoru, uh…” Shoko’s voice is strained, uncomfortable—and Satoru can’t blame her. It’s not like she’s really seen him like this before, not many have. “Do you—”

“Leave us,” Sukuna interrupts then. “I’ll handle this.”

And though his tone is firm, Shoko still asks, “Are…you sure?”

“Return to the car,” Sukuna all but commands, his tone leaving no room for argument—not that anyone likely would. Who wants to deal with a weak, pathetic, crying Satoru, after all. “We will join you momentarily.”

For a moment, no one speaks, no one moves. But then Satoru hears the sound of several retreating footsteps, the muted slam of the car doors. Even so, he doesn’t risk lifting his head, stays curled up on himself as he fights against the sobs, chest heaving as he struggles to breathe.

Steps scrape along the pavement, approaching. He can sense Sukuna before him, isn’t sure he wants him close. He should send him away, send them all away, deal with his mess himself instead of dragging them all in. He’s supposed to be the strongest, dammit. He shouldn’t need to rely on anyone but himself—

A hand forces its way past his pathetic barrier, gentle yet unwavering when it slides beneath his chin, when it tips his head up. And when Satoru’s tear-stricken gaze lands on Sukuna, finds the other crouched on the pavement before him, he spies no emotion in those red eyes, a carefully blank visage upon his face. “Satoru. What’s wrong?”

“I—” He sucks in a harsh breath, mind racing to come up with an excuse, a way to hide the truth behind his sorry state. But his mind comes up empty, his lips only able to stutter out a chorus of, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry—”

“Why?” Sukuna interrupts, tone still neutral, still careful, like Satoru is something delicate, would completely shatter at the slightest provocation.

Satoru sniffles, drops his gaze. “I—I just—”

But he can’t say it, can’t let Sukuna to know the truth. If he knows, then he’ll leave, and Satoru doesn’t want him to leave, knows he should but doesn’t want to let him. He bites his lip against another sob, manages to let another strangled, “I’m sorry.”

Sukuna sighs. “Satoru—”

“Excuse my interruption,” a new voice cuts in, and when Satoru lifts his head, he finds the monk has returned, gazing down at them with a deep furrow in his brow. “I just wanted to check in again and make sure everything is okay.” His gaze slides from Satoru to Sukuna, the tension in his posture evident as he takes in the other’s appearance. “I assume you’re his friend,” the monk observes as he takes in their positions, though there’s a slight hesitance in the way he utters the word friend.

Sukuna ignores the implied question directed his way, dismisses the monk with a curt, “We are fine here. Move along.”

“Right,” the monk concedes easily, bowing to them—the movement too stiff. “I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

With that, the monk withdraws once more. After he disappears within the shrine, Sukuna takes a deep breath, eyes sliding closed for a moment. “So, that’s what this is about.”

He knows—Satoru had been certain he’d figure it out, had hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Enough, Satoru,” Sukuna interrupts his ramblings, annoyance lacing his tone now, and Satoru’s mouth snaps shut in response. For this is it, isn’t it? The moment Sukuna gives up on him, the moment he leaves. Satoru braces for it, knows there’s no other way this will go—

“Can you walk?”

“I—” The question is unexpected. Surely, Satoru must have heard him wrong. “What?”

“Can you walk?” Sukuna repeats, more forceful as he carefully enunciates every word. “I can drag you to the car if I must, but I’d prefer you simply walked there.”

And Sukuna’s patience is clearly on a short fuse, his brows pinched and jaw tense as he awaits an answer. But Satoru doesn’t give him one, is too caught up in trying to wrap his head around this unexpected outcome, around the fact that— “You…you’re not leaving?”

“I’d like to leave,” Sukuna states with a huff, “but I cannot do so until you get into the car as well.”

And—foolishly, perhaps—Satoru allows the warmth of hope to settle within his chest, though he doesn’t cling to it, isn’t willing to be caught off guard when Sukuna decides to leave. For it will happen, Satoru just knows it. But for now, he pushes those anxieties aside, frowns as he assesses his condition, works to come up with an actual answer to Sukuna’s initial question. “I…don’t know,” he admits after a moment. “The world’s all, like—” He gestures vaguely with his hand, hopes it’s enough to convey the topsy-turvy sensation still plaguing his senses.

If Sukuna understands, he doesn’t show it, his expression schooled to neutral. He takes a deep breath, jaw tense on the inhale but relaxing on the exhale, a deep sigh. “Alright,” he mutters after a moment, rising to stand once more.

And maybe this is it, the moment he leaves, that he decides Satoru isn’t worth the trouble. He’s right, of course: Satoru isn’t worth it, hasn’t been worthy of that kindness for a long time, has broken Sukuna’s trust far too often for his transgressions to go unpunished. Sukuna should go—Satoru knows he should—but it doesn’t change the fact that Satoru wants him to stay, that he wants him. So Satoru reaches for him, arm outstretched in a feeble attempt at holding on, at digging his claws into Sukuna so that the other can’t leave, will never leave, will be tethered to Satoru forever—

But in the end, it doesn’t matter. Sukuna’s mind is already made up.

Sukuna ducks under Satoru’s arm, allows it to drape across his shoulders as he leans down to loop his own around Satoru, hefting him up from the bench and against his solid chest. The world spins and blurs around Satoru as he is suddenly displaced, Sukuna the only steady thing amidst the treacherous sea that rages before his eyes, the chaos all around him. And for a moment, everything burns—a line of fire racing up along every point of contact, his limbs, his chest, his eyes. But Satoru embraces the flames, clings tightly to Sukuna—his anchor, his rock—closing his eyes and pressing his face against the other’s neck, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, that all-too familiar cologne greeting him and soothing the anxieties that had arrested his soul. He breathes it in again, is certain Sukuna will notice the way his lungs rattle in his chest, his breath more of a sob, something desperate and weak.

But Sukuna doesn’t comment on it, simply adjusts Satoru into a more comfortable position as he chooses instead to threaten, “If you vomit on me, I will drop you and leave you here.”

“I won’t,” Satoru murmurs, pressing his face further into Sukuna’s neck. “Promise.”

Eyes closed, Satoru doesn’t see where they go, can only judge their relative positions based on the slight sway in Sukuna’s steps, the click of the opening car door. Sukuna shifts Satoru in his hold again but never lets go, not even as he maneuvers them into the car, the action a little awkward, a little rough, Satoru’s weight not exactly a negligible thing. Even so, Sukuna makes it work, and soon they’ve settled into their seat, Satoru still curled against Sukuna, practically in his lap. And maybe later, he’ll have the sense of mind to be embarrassed by the position, by the uncharacteristic vulnerability he’s displaying in front of his fellow sorcerers. But right now, he’s far too drunk to care, far too tired to do anything but cling to Sukuna, head too heavy for his shoulders finding rest against the other’s chest, eyelids too leaden to open.

There’s movement in the front seat, a shifting of fabric before Shoko’s hesitant voice breaches the relative silence within the car. “Is he…okay?”

Sukuna’s arms tighten around Satoru. “Just drive.”

And Satoru must drift off at some point, sinks into a dreamless slumber—passes out, more likely—for he doesn’t recall the trip home after that point, isn’t aware of anything until he stirs awake just as he’s being gently lowered into bed—the king-sized bed, the one in the master bedroom, the one Sukuna had claimed for himself. Satoru blinks away the blurriness still clinging to his vision, finds Sukuna peering down at him with an expression so soft, surely Satoru must still be asleep, must have finally found his dreams. For there’s no way Sukuna would ever look at him like this in reality, especially not after what Satoru’s done.

The expression disappears when Satoru blinks again—a figment of his imagination, then, nothing more. And he’s…disappointed, though he has no reason to be, no grounds to expect such a gaze to be directed towards him. With Satoru safely deposited on the bed, Sukuna withdraws, and Satoru pushes himself up into a seated position, watches as he crosses over to the closet, wants to say something, though he doesn’t know what.

He tries anyway, hopes the right words will come out somehow. “Hey, Sukuna—”

He’s interrupted when a set of clothes collides with his face. “Change,” Sukuna commands, turning back towards the closet. “I’m sure you’re capable of dressing yourself.”

Satoru obeys, fingers a little clumsy when he unbuttons his shirt—partly from the drunkenness, partly from the distraction of Sukuna doing the same, the bared expanse of his back far more interesting than anything else in the room. Still, Satoru does manage to redress into the provided lounge clothes, pulls his gaze away from Sukuna long enough to slide his legs into the holes of his pants, long enough to allow Sukuna to do the same without the blatant ogling. He leaves his discarded outfit in a crumpled heap on the floor, knows the delicate fabric of his expensive shirt will be creased to hell by morning but is far too tired to bother hanging it properly. He settles himself into bed once more, pulls the covers up to his chin but forces his eyes to stay open, wants to stay awake until Sukuna’s settled in next to him, doesn’t know if he can even sleep alone anymore.

But Sukuna doesn’t join him, just tosses his clothes in the hamper before making his way towards the bedroom door.

Satoru sits up, alarmed. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll return soon,” is all Sukuna says, slipping through the doorway.

And he isn’t gone long, though every second that passes in his absence feels like an eternity, Satoru’s heart racing with every moment left alone. It only settles when Sukuna appears in the doorway once more, a glass of water in hand. He downs half of it as he crosses towards the bed, passes the rest to Satoru.

“Thanks,” Satoru says, accepting the glass. He takes a small sip, doesn’t risk much more than that. “And sorry, for making you take care of me tonight.”

Sukuna scoffs, rolling his eyes. “As if you could make me do anything.”

Satoru grins a little at that, but the expression falls when Sukuna turns away again, puts more distance between himself and Satoru. “You’re not coming to bed?”

Sukuna pauses, glancing over his shoulder at Satoru. “You’re a needy drunk, aren’t you?” he accuses, though there’s no heat to his words. Still, Satoru tenses, feels his heart rate pick up again, tries his best to quell the rising panic. And it must show on his face, for Sukuna sighs. “Relax, Satoru. I’ll join you soon.”

Sukuna heads to the ensuite then, and though Satoru settles into bed once more, he keeps his gaze fixed on the door, as though there would be a possibility Sukuna wouldn’t stick to his word, would sooner fall asleep in the bathtub than at Satoru’s side. But then Sukuna returns, switches off the bedroom light before crawling into bed, stealing much of the blankets for himself.

For a moment, all is silent, nothing to be heard but the pattern of their breaths, the hum of electricity coursing through the house. Satoru turns towards Sukuna, watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, traces the dark lines that paint his skin. Sukuna’s eyes are closed, clearly no conversation desired as he chases sleep, but Satoru…

He wants to talk about it, needs to know what’s going through Sukuna’s head, if his actions tonight could be trusted, if they were nothing more than the calm before the storm. He needs to say something, to clear the air between them, prepare himself for what comes next. But the words that escape him are not the ones he expects.

“I don’t think I’m in love with you.”

Sukuna’s breathing falters, eyes cracking open slightly as he turns his head to look at Satoru. His mouth opens, but Satoru doesn’t give him a chance to respond, words spilling out before he even has a chance to think them. “I don’t think I’m in love with you, but I could be, someday. I—” He pauses, takes a deep breath, braces for the plunge. “I really like you. Like, a lot. You—you’re really important to me, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. And I know I don’t deserve your kindness, your affections, but… I want them. I want you. Maybe it’s greedy of me, but… I don’t care. I want you to stay with me. I want to wake up next to you every morning, raise Yuuji with you, watch those awful reality shows with you. I want to be with you. And I want you to want the same.”

For a moment, his words hang in the air, their echo all that remains in the silence of their home, as though even the house itself were holding its breath, waiting, waiting. The seconds tick by, each tracked by the surprisingly steady thrum of Satoru’s heart until finally, finally— “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“I forget how old you are,” Satoru says, a laugh bubbling up inside his chest despite the seriousness of the situation. “I’m saying—well, what I mean is—” Just do it, Satoru. Spit it out. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to speak before he has a chance to back out. “I want to date you. I want to put a label on this…thing we’ve got going on. I know I’m asking a lot of you, all things considered, and I know there’s a good chance I’ll mess this up, but…” Another deep breath, another leap of faith. “Sukuna, will you date me?”

Sukuna eyes him a moment, expression unreadable. But then his eyes slip shut, shoulders moving against the pillow in something of a shrug. “Alright.”

And Satoru—he can only blink at him, once, twice— “Alright?” he echoes, a little incredulous, a little uncertain. “Are…you sure? You don’t want to, like, think about it? Or yell at me or anything?”

Sukuna hums. “Is that what you want me to do?”

“I think you should,” Satoru replies, propping himself up on an elbow so that he can better peer down upon Sukuna, better study his expression. “I mean, I’m still pretty messed up, y’know.”

Sukuna huffs. “Believe me, I know.”

“I’m still not over Suguru. I might never be.”

“I know.”

“I’ll probably hurt you in the end.”

“As if I’d give you the chance.”

Satoru frowns, searches Sukuna’s features for any trace of deception, of uncertainty. But there’s nothing to be found there, nothing but quiet contentment. “You… you’re serious about this. You…actually want this?”

Sukuna huffs again, cracking his eyes open just enough to fix Satoru with a pointed glare. “You’re the one who seems like you don’t.”

“No, I do—I really, really do,” Satoru’s quick to correct. “I just—”

But Sukuna cuts him off. “Enough. Either commit, or don’t.” He holds Satoru’s gaze steadily, fiery-red practically melting icy-blue, challenging and determined as he declares, “My mind is made up.”

And if Satoru were a better man, he’d pump the brakes then and there, backtrack enough to allow Sukuna the space to think, to really consider the matter carefully before they both get in too deep to back out. But Satoru’s not a better man, is far too selfish to deny himself something that he craves. So he digs his teeth in, doesn’t back down from the challenge as he decides, “I want this. I meant every word I said.” And then he adds, just to be certain, “So, does that mean we’re dating now?”

“If you wish to use such a juvenile term for it,” Sukuna replies, rolling his eyes.

Satoru grins, reaching out to teasingly poke Sukuna’s cheek. “What, would you rather court me instead?”

“I’d rather you cease speaking,” Sukuna says, slapping Satoru’s hand away, “and let me sleep.”

Satoru laughs at the pout settling over Sukuna’s features. And while they really should be getting to sleep—should make the most of what little rest they’ll be able to get before Yuuji’s return makes such a feat impossible—Satoru’s not ready to call it a night, not yet. “Sure, sure. Just, one more thing.”

Sukuna groans. “What now—”

Satoru silences his complaints, sealing Sukuna’s lips with his own. Most of his weight settles against Sukuna’s chest, pinning him in place as a hand comes up to tangle in rosy locks, no chance to escape. But Sukuna doesn’t even try, returns the kiss with the same fervor, hands coming up to grip Satoru’s sides, pulling him in even closer, anchoring him amongst the torrent of emotion that wells within, that ignites him to his very soul. And though there’s hunger in the kiss, something instinctual, a shared greediness, the motions are undeniably soft—nothing like the ones they’d shared before, but every bit as consuming, as overwhelming—

And Satoru wouldn’t want it any other way.

Eventually, the kisses grow slower, barely a brush of lips before they’re forced to part, breaths mingling in the slight space between them. As he catches his breath, Satoru slowly lets his eyes slide open, finds Sukuna’s gaze already fixed on him, crimson burning with adoration, as though Satoru truly were something magnificent, as though he were worthy of the devotion he so desperately desires.

And for a moment, Satoru almost loses his nerve. He isn’t worthy of being treated as such, knows he’s destined to prove it so. For Satoru had been telling the truth: he would hurt Sukuna in the end—not on purpose, of course, but an unavoidable pain all the same. And maybe he could lessen the hurt, somehow, could put a pause on this new development, wait until he’s more deserving—

But Sukuna’s smiling at him now—a real smile, nothing sadistic, nothing mocking, just genuine joy, like he’s finally satisfied, like he’s won. And Satoru won’t ruin it for him, will do whatever it takes to keep that smile there, to truly earn his affections.

If Satoru is destined to hurt and be hurt, he’ll face that fate head-on, will challenge the gods themselves and bend them to his will. With Sukuna at his side, anything is possible—he’s sure of it.

So he leans in, presses a last chaste kiss to Sukuna’s lips, murmurs against them a gentle, “Goodnight.”

Then he settles in against Sukuna’s chest, feels the other wrap his arms around him, eyes drifting shut when a gentle hand cards through his hair. “Goodnight,” Sukuna whispers back.

And it isn’t long before the steady thrum of Sukuna’s heartbeat lulls Satoru to sleep.

The first thing Satoru registers upon waking is the warm body beneath him, the puff of breath that tickles his hair. But he can’t enjoy the sensation, not for long, at least. For the second thing Satoru registers is the fact that he’s going to cover that body in vomit if he doesn’t move in the next five seconds.

Satoru scrambles off the bed, nearly trips over the sheets that tangle between his legs as he races for the ensuite. He reaches it just in time, ignores the stab of pain that shoots through his knees when he drops unceremoniously to the floor before the toilet, quickly rips up the lid so he can empty the contents of his stomach into the bowl.

And he’s not certain how long he spends there, back aching from the award position, throat raw from heaving, from the acrid bile that had come up alongside everything else. His body feels weak, minute trembles shaking his muscles, and even when the heaving stops, he doesn’t pull away, rests his head against cool porcelain and simply breathes, tries to collect himself. And it’s gross, leaning against the toilet like this, but Satoru can’t bring himself to care right now, not when his head pounds with the worst headache he’s ever experienced, not when his stomach still churns uneasily. At least Sukuna keeps the bathroom pristine; honestly, it could be a lot worse.

A light chuckle comes from the doorway, mocking. “How pitiful,” Sukuna chides, voice laced with amusement. “The supposed strongest sorcerer of his generation, defeated by something as simple and mundane as alcohol.”

Satoru pushes himself away from the toilet, slumps against the side of the tub instead. He drags a hand across his sweaty brow, offering Sukuna a weak glare. “Fuck off.”

Leaning against the doorframe, Sukuna’s grin widens. “Why would I? This is far too entertaining.”

Satoru is about to reply, but then his stomach gives a worrying jolt. He quickly scrambles over the toilet once more, surrenders himself to the next bout of heaving, mentally curses his very existence all the while.

He’s said it before, but he really means it this time: Satoru Gojo is never drinking again.

A warm hand settles upon his back, rubs soothing patterns across his shaking shoulders. But despite the gentleness in his touch, Sukuna’s words are still mocking. “Utterly pathetic. Surely your students would think twice about entrusting their education to you if they saw you in this sorry state.”

“Still beat you,” Satoru points out as soon as he’s able to breathe again. He turns his head just enough to fix Sukuna with a wobbly grin. “Must make you even more pathetic.”

Sukuna’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “Do not speak in my direction. Your breath is atrocious.”

Satoru makes a point to blow air at Sukuna, and Sukuna glares at him, quickly withdrawing. He heads into the bedroom, and Satoru figures it’ll be the last he sees of Sukuna until he’s able to drag himself out of the bathroom, so it’s a surprise when Sukuna returns soon after, an empty glass in hand. He fills it with water from the tap, handing it to Satoru.

Satoru accepts it gratefully, taking a mouthful to swish around before spitting it out into the toilet, repeating the action a few times until his mouth feels a bit cleaner. Then he takes a long sip, lets the cool liquid slide down his throat and soothe the ache therein. “Thanks.”

“Better?” Sukuna asks, arms crossed as he leans against the counter.

Satoru hums. “For now, at least.”

“Good.” Sukuna turns away again, not sparing Satoru another glance as he commands him, “Clean yourself up. I’ll return shortly.”

Satoru obeys, though not without a little confusion. Sukuna is being…strangely helpful, if he’s being honest. His rude remarks are expected, but the accompanying care leaves Satoru at a loss. He’s missing something here, isn’t he? Something must have happened, something major, something that would make Sukuna willing to assist Satoru in his pathetic state. But for the life of him, Satoru can’t remember what.

After washing the sweat from his face and swishing around a bit of mouthwash for good measure, Satoru manages to make it back to the bedroom, flopping onto the bed with a groan. Though he no longer feels nauseous, there’s an ache in his stomach, a throbbing in his temples that’s impossible to ignore. He needs painkillers, likely needs a lot more sleep, too. The latter is far easier to achieve, so that’s what he starts with, curls up in the blankets and lets his eyes slide shut once more.

But he doesn’t make it to sleep, not yet. He feels the bed dip next to him, a hand gently rousing him from the edges of slumber. “What?” Satoru groans, lifting his head just enough to shoot a weak glare towards Sukuna.

Sukuna holds his hand out, two white pills cradled in his palm. “Take these. Then sleep.” Satoru groans, burying his face in his pillow once more, and Sukuna huffs. “Do not grumble at me. This is for your own good.”

He’s right, of course—Satoru will only feel worse if he doesn’t deal with the pain now. Still, he pouts as he pushes himself upright, reaching out to take the painkillers from Sukuna. He downs them quickly with the aid of the fresh glass of water Sukuna had brought as well, barely manages to place the now-empty glass upon the nightstand before he’s being tugged down into bed, an arm wrapped firmly around his waist. “Sleep,” Sukuna commands, pulling Satoru flush against his chest. “Or at least allow me the courtesy.”

And Satoru doesn’t even have the chance to consider the oddity of Sukuna’s actions this time, exhaustion pulling him under almost immediately. But when he wakes sometime later, he’s alone, feeling a little better than before, though not by much. His mouth is horribly dry, though there’s a trail of drool that clings to his chin, that dampens the pillow below his cheek. He scrubs it away quickly, debates whether or not he wants to leave the warm comfort of the blankets or venture out into the kitchen to find more water. He should probably get up soon; Wasuke would be dropping Yuuji off in…actually, Satoru’s not certain, has no idea what time it even is.

He finds his phone on the nightstand—plugged into the charger, though Satoru doesn’t recall leaving it there. Honestly, he doesn’t even recall getting home last night, his memories of the outing spotty at best. But he made it home safely, so…surely nothing too terrible had happened, right?

He checks his phone for the time, finds it’s mid-afternoon. Wasuke would probably drop Yuuji off anytime now, would give Satoru hell if he still looked hungover when that time arrived. So, Satoru should really get up, try to make himself feel a little more alive, a little more ready to handle his son’s endless energy. There are a few texts from Shoko that appear on his lockscreen, too—sent at different points throughout the morning. Curiously, Satoru swipes them open.

The first is a simple check-in: you feel as hungover as I do?

Followed up by a quick: who am I kidding, you definitely feel WORSE.

The next message is sent almost an hour later, nothing more than a lone question mark. It’s followed up about half an hour later with: Are you sleeping or did you die?

Satoru snorts at that, keeps reading the next message: oh shit, did Sukuna kill you? Can’t say I blame him.

And that…that one gives Satoru a little pause. Why would Sukuna want to kill him this time? Sure, Satoru’s given him plenty of reason to in the past, but… surely a night of drinking wouldn’t be the final straw? Not when compared to every other reason Sukuna would have, at least. So, what changed this time? What could have possibly happened?

Satoru pushes aside the thought for now, reads the final message that had been sent that morning: if Sukuna killed you, I call dibs on your family fortune. If you don’t reply I’ll take that as a sign of your consent, and this message becomes a legally binding contract.

And Satoru’s pretty sure that’s not how contracts work, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he types a simple reply: I lived bitch. He follows it up with another message: and for the record, if I died all my money would go to Yuuji, just saying.

The reply comes moments later: damn. Can’t blame a girl for trying.

Satoru sends her a heart emoji back, is just about to exit the text thread when he notices the column of messages that had gone unanswered last night, the increasingly frantic inquiries into his whereabouts. But…Satoru had been with her all night, hadn’t he? At least, he can’t remember leaving the party at any point. He can’t remember much at all.

Curiously, he checks some of his other messages—many unanswered, all similar in their content. So, clearly something had happened, something major enough that even Utahime had checked on him, and yet…

Satoru doesn’t have the foggiest idea what.

Maybe he should ask Sukuna about it. The other clearly must be in better shape than Satoru currently is considering he actually made it out of bed this morning—well, afternoon. Maybe he’d be able to shed some light on this mystery.

But halfway down the hallway, Satoru decides against it, a new revelation striking the thought from his mind. For whatever had happened last night must have been something Sukuna would be willing to kill Satoru over, if Shoko’s words were to be trusted. But despite that, Sukuna has been…rather nice to Satoru this morning, nicer than Satoru can ever recall him being. So, there’s a chance that Sukuna doesn’t remember it, either, doesn’t know there’s a reason for him to be angry with Satoru again, and Satoru…

He'd rather not risk reminding Sukuna of that, no matter how selfish that desire may be.

“Are you going to stand there like an idiot all day?” Sukuna’s voice cuts into his thoughts, drawing his attention towards the kitchen where Sukuna leans against the island. “If you throw up in the middle of the hall, I refuse to clean it up.”

Satoru forces a laugh, crossing the rest of the distance toward the kitchen. “I’m fine. Everything’s totally fine. I mean, why wouldn’t it be fine?”

Sukuna frowns at him. “The more you spout nonsense, the more certain I am that something is not fine.”

And Satoru probably should have expected that; Sukuna has always had that uncanny ability to read him like a book. Still, Satoru doesn’t acknowledge the other’s words, just reaches out to poke at the furrow between the other’s brows. “Don’t frown so much. You’ll get wrinkles.” Sukuna bats Satoru’s hand away, scowl only worsening. Then he turns away, busies himself with the steaming kettle on the stove—preparing tea, though Satoru would rather have something a little stronger. “Did you make me a coffee?”

“I would have, had you woken hours ago.” Sukuna pours the boiling water into his mug, reaches into the cupboard to grab another. “You can have tea. It’ll be far easier on your stomach, anyway.”

Satoru pouts, but doesn’t argue. “Fine. Just as long as it’s sweet.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I will not ruin the delicate flavours of this fine brew with that poison.”

“You’re no fun,” Satoru grumbles, rounding the island so he can slide into one of the stools there, waiting for his tea. “And you were so nice to me this morning, too.”

“Clearly you were mistaken,” Sukuna replies easily, turning towards the island and sliding a steaming mug Satoru’s way. “Here. If you think you can handle anything else in your stomach, I can prepare you a meal.”

And it wouldn’t be the first time Sukuna ever cooked for him, not by a long shot, but it’s still different. For Sukuna doesn’t usually cook for the sole purpose of providing Satoru a meal, only allows Satoru to dine with him when he’s prepared too much for him and Yuuji alone. But Satoru doesn’t point this out, decides to take Sukuna up on the offer while it still stands—at least, he’d like to take Sukuna up on the offer, but he’s not sure how much his stomach can handle at this point. “This is fine for now, thanks,” he decides, taking a sip of his tea—unsweet, but bright and flavourful enough to make up for it. He sighs contentedly, taking another sip before continuing. “All jokes aside, I appreciate you helping me out this morning. Last night too—at least, I’m assuming you’re the reason I ended up in bed and not face down in a ditch somewhere.”

Sampling his own tea, Sukuna raises a brow. “You assume?”

“What, am I wrong?” Satoru asks, something like nerves fluttering in his core. For if Sukuna hadn’t been the one to take Satoru home last night, it supports his suspicions that something bad had happened, something he really isn’t sure he wants to remind Sukuna of.

“You—” Sukuna begins, but he’s interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing through the air. He sighs, setting his mug on the counter as he makes his way towards the front door. “That must be the old man and the brat.”

And with the return of their son, their conversation ends there, is never resumed even later that day. They have far more important things to worry about anyway, Yuuji’s boisterous greeting and laughter when he launches himself at Sukuna bringing a soft smile to Satoru’s face, ridding him of all concerns about the night prior. And though Satoru may never know what truly transpired the night of Shoko Ieiri’s Bad Bitches Birthday Bash, of one thing he’s certain:

He likes this gentler version of Sukuna—the one who gets him home safe, who rubs his back when he’s sick, holds him close when he sleeps, who plays along with their son’s childish antics.

And he’ll do whatever it takes to keep him.