Chapter Text
Satoru doesn't know what to do with himself anymore. His body doesn't feel like his own; his fingers move without his command, his feet have resorted to muscle memory of one in front of the other, the other, now the other, keep going. When he talks, he's faraway, a distant smudge in the background that's only ever in a person's peripherals. He feels weak, hiding away in the back of his mind where no one can bother him. No one is worth the effort it takes to breach the surface of this fog he's found himself in, not that he knows how to. It's an endless cycle, really — there isn't much for him to wake up to so he doesn't.
He wonders briefly if it’s unhealthy before he remembers he doesn’t actually care.
The missions are one after the other, worse than before, but they make it easier to not think, to push everything down, down, down, until it's hardly even there. He knows, on some conscious level, that it isn't healthy. He doesn't have time to be vulnerable, what with the school still reeling from losing one of its strongest sorcerers and leaving him to pick up the slack. He's the strongest, he never had room to be weak before, he has even less now.
We're the strongest.
Satoru has the day off. It's almost a full 24 hours of free time that he wants nothing to do with. He's always loved the thrill of a fight, the freedom and the feeling of being on the go, constant movement. He still enjoyed his free-time, wandering the school yard under the sun or, when it's rainy and muggy or sometimes nothing at all, making his way to Suguru's room —
Skip!
He doesn't like to think about it.
He wonders who decided he finally needed a day off. What are the ethics of letting the strongest have a break and leave it to the weak, they wonder. Satoru Gojo is a machine, meticulously sculpted and picked at to be the perfect fighter. No he can handle it.
Maybe Yaga convinced them.
But Satoru doesn't enjoy his days off anymore. Shoko is busy, not that he thinks he could stomach seeing her. He wonders if she feels the same. She was never the emotional type, keeping her feelings to herself and pushing through it. He now understands they were all the same in that regard. None of them were very good at confiding in each other it seems, not until it was too late.
Maybe he should see Shoko soon, in that case.
Hey Shoko~ It hasn't been that long, no! Nah, we should go shopping, I could finally get you a deck of cards and show you Digimon! You wound me, I even would've gone easy on you.
Smells like someone died in here, I have some Febreze if you need. Nah, no excuses even for a morgue. It's been a minute, you lose your phone? Of course, you missed me, no need to be coy.
How are you doing, Shoko? You can talk to me, he was your friend too. I have a shoulder and we can learn to cry together.
That just makes him sad. Satoru Gojo doesn't cry. Maybe Shoko needs a good cry, though. He'll ask her later.
His feet are doing that thing where they move on their own because suddenly he's in front of the infirmary and he's a lot more present than he likes to be. Look! A ghost gained its physical form! How long can he keep it, stay tuned to find out!
There isn't any noise to be heard from outside the door, utterly silent, and Satoru wonders if she's even in there to begin with. Her residuals trail inside but they always do; the infirmary is her most frequented place besides her smoke spot. Satoru thinks she might've given up on a single spot, though, instead choosing to go for a free for all approach. She's their best healer, after all, what will they do? They can't afford to lose another sorcerer over the smell of nicotine and smoke.
Satoru’s no snitch, even if he thinks it’s gross — not that Shoko gives a fuck. Good for her.
Satoru doesn't want to go inside. Shoko hasn't looked at him in a while, he wonders if she'll notice his sleeping habits have only gotten worse. She wonders if she'll know he constantly has a migraine these days. She used to be able to tell when his eyes were too much, her and —
Skip!
Satoru was never the type of person to knock. He still isn't, actually. Instead he steps back, too present for a ghost, and turns around. She doesn't want to see him. He doesn't want to see her. She won't mind in the end, he's sure.
He doesn’t float outside of himself as he walks away. He’s too aware; he sees too much, hears too much, feels too much. Are his Six Eyes activated? No, it’s just a normal headache. But the sun feels scorching, even through the window, and there's a distant conversation somewhere nearby.
Satoru brings his hands up to his face, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands. They're dry. He forgot to put on lotion today. He forgot yesterday too, and the day before that. Actually, Satoru can't remember the last time he put on lotion. When did he shower last?
Two days ago, he remembers the heat. He didn't feel like turning the dial to the perfect temperature. It didn't matter if he burned a little. If his skin was red, so what?
Satoru should probably shower. He got back from a mission yesterday and had immediately fallen into his bed. He wasn't tired per se. His shoulders hung low, sure, and his head hurt then too, but he wouldn't be able to sleep. He couldn't garner the energy to stay standing, though.
He should shower. Shoko would tell him he stinks.
All he wants to do is slide down the wall and scratch at his eyes until he no longer feels that sharp throbbing in his temples. He's not weak so he doesn't do that. He pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes really hard, though, and takes a deep breath. Satoru noticed he does that a lot now, deep breathing to get the ache out of his chest. It's not a permanent solution but it keeps the feeling that his ribs will collapse suddenly at bay.
Suguru would know how to help.
Skip. Whoops.
He'll train for a few hours. What else would he do on his day off? He'll shower after he tires himself out.
He goes until the sky is black and his limbs ache just a little. His head feels even worse but he ignores it. He takes his shower and then sits on his bed for another few hours.
The next day isn't a free day. He goes on another mission by himself and he wins by himself too. He's the strongest, after all.
A tedious thing to be, unfortunately.
"Gojo." Yaga says in a slightly exasperated tone. He's probably repeating himself but Satoru doesn't really care.
He sits slouched in the chair, his long legs extended out and his head hanging off the back. Yaga's ceiling is just as boring as any other ceiling.
"Gojo, pay attention."
"I am," Satoru snaps without meaning to. He doesn't know why he snaps, he isn't paying attention.
Yaga just sighs and when Satoru looks, his hand is rubbing the bridge of his nose while the other holds a manila folder that Satoru assumes is for him. It's probably the details of his next mission he's currently attempting to explain.
"How are you doing?" Yaga asks suddenly. The only reason Satoru doesn't tense up like a street cat is because of his impeccable control. Yaga drops his hand from his face and sets the folder on his desk in front of him neatly. There's nothing out of place except for the bags under his eyes. Satoru hasn't looked in any mirrors recently but they probably match his.
Good thing Satoru wears glasses.
"Peachy keen."
Yaga doesn't look like he believes Satoru, shaking his head. Gently, almost caringly, he says, "I know things have been hard for you since Getou—"
Stop! Skip.
Satoru straightens in the chair, suddenly 10 times more uncomfortable than he was before he walked in. He feels like he's been slapped, like his soul is a rubber band and someone got bored of pulling it and let it snap back into his body.
"You don't know anything!" Satoru hisses almost viscously. He doesn't want to talk about this; he doesn't want to think about this. "You don't know!" Yaga is silent after Satoru's outburst, his eyes widened slightly. Satoru takes in a few deep breaths, collecting himself quickly. Weak. "I don't want to talk about it." He says, finally.
"Are you talking to anyone? Shoko, at least?" Yaga asks.
"Are you deaf? I just said I don't want to talk about it." Satoru repeats firmly, forcing himself to relax and slouching slightly.
Neither of them say anything for a long moment. They stare at each other, one waiting for the other. Satoru doesn't plan to spill — there's nothing to spill. He doesn't want to talk about it.
Yaga sighs and picks up the folder again. He eyes Satoru for a moment. Said boy raises an eyebrow and lets his glasses slide down his nose a bit so the other man can see the unimpressed face he sends his way.
"Pay attention." Yaga repeats.
Satoru only shrugs. "Not my problem you're boring, oldie."
Yaga just shakes his head and starts from the beginning.
Why is he awake? It's dark out and if Satoru were anyone else he wouldn't be able to see his bedroom ceiling, counting the popcorn bumps absently.
Oh, right, a stupid nightmare. That's so lame.
If he lets himself, he can still taste the blood, feel it well up in the back of his throat, and color his teeth. He chokes on it, useless gurgling noises that garner no attention from the silence around him. It's a horrible way to go, a weak loser. He's supposed to be better than this.
Satoru can feel that stupid knife dig deep into his throat, the slight resistance it faces against his body as it successfully curves down and out his side. The resistance only made it hurt more. The exit wound letting his blood freely pool around him.
The feeling of his body slowly stitching itself back together, though, was the worst part. He was alone the entire time. It probably could've been prophesized, it was expected. A soldier, a monster, a god, there's no reason to expect someone to hold his hand as he dies and survives.
Funny enough, during the last few years, he thought he would die with Suguru by his side.
Skip.
Good thing Gojo doesn't like to focus on that, even if he can feel an uncomfortable tingly feeling in his chest — it feels like anticipation. He's restless and yet he can't get up. He's good at not focusing on the bad stuff, pretending it never happened in the first place and soldiering on. Genius of the century, Satoru is. Seriously, he is.
Shoko likes to disagree but he's positive that's just on principle. She's a hater at heart; she probably reads Haters For Dummies! and keeps it at her bedside in case she needs a refresher.
She also says his humor is shit but Satoru disagrees because it's just not true. Also, he's a hater at heart and he reads Haters For Dummies! too. Her humor is shit as well, all deadpan and dry sarcasm.
He should stop making up stupid books. He should get out of this room before he goes insane.
It takes a moment for Satoru to gather the energy, but once he does, he slowly pushes himself up. He sits there for a few minutes, staring out his window. His sheets are tangled around his feet, probably kicked off at some point during his nightmare. The sky is pitch black, the stars and moon blocked out by dark clouds. It rains a little, more of a sprinkle if anything. The small droplets barely make a sound against the glass.
Satoru doesn't stand up so much as he slides to his feet— at least, that's what it feels like. His limbs don't work like they used to. He's a stuffed puppet attached to strings, controlled by someone who's gotten bored of this game. Satoru's bored, too.
The building holds its breath as he leaves his room, waiting for the morning where dew wets the grass and fog covers the ground. The hallway is dark and dead silent, unwelcoming to the night owls of society. Satoru has always had terrible sleeping habits but it didn't use to feel this suffocating. He didn't use to feel this alone.
He shouldn't keep thinking about it — he can't succumb to any weakness, loss, or grief — not that Suguru is dead. It feels like it, though. He has a duty to Jujutsu Tech to be the strongest, he can't afford to get lost in his thoughts and anger. Satoru inhales sharply, frustrated with himself and everyone around him. They've moved on too quickly, he hasn't moved on quick enough.
He exhales and he's outside. The sky continues to sprinkle, blocking out the moon and leaving little wet droplets to hit infinity. It's a little cold and Satoru shivers a little, running his hand through his hair. He closes his eyes and forces his thoughts to clear, standing in silent and tentative peace.
Don't think; breathe.
Don't think.
Satoru opens his eyes when the rain starts to come down a little harder, a little more punishing. Slowly, almost painfully, he vanishes infinity, letting the rain his his skin. It feels like quick little pin pricks, gentle yet unforgiving in their own right.
The school buildings surround him, and he recognizes exactly where he is, present in his solitude. Everything's been rebuilt, not a single detail different from before the destruction he caused with Toji Fushiguro. His body aches just at the sight.
He doesn't know if he should count himself lucky that even his body bears no scars of this day, like the yard. When he had stitched them back together it had been so painful, but once it had been done he felt on top of the world. He was a god in his own right and not even a man like Toji Fushiguro could kill him.
Heaven rejected Satoru Gojo and devils should fear him.
"Any last words."
Now, in the aftermath, it doesn't even feel real and not a single reminder of that day remained except for him. The blood had been washed from the concrete, the bodies disposed of — or, Satoru assumes they were. He didn't care what happened to the corpses of Toji Fushiguro and Riko Amanai. He was busy and had more important things to do — getting stronger, being better.
That, of course, had it's own consequences.
Satoru crouches where he laid back then, his wounds sewing themselves back up, his gaze stuck on the blue sky as time passed with no sign of victory or failure. He hadn't cared either way, at the time. He was alive, RCT fixing his body to something new. He'd never felt more alive, more powerful.
He's still on top of the world, standing among the fallen soldiers that came before and after him, the lone survivor left to become stronger.
Satoru lets his hand ghost over the concrete but he doesn't feel much for the memory anymore besides the ache and the knowledge that he's better for it.
His hair and clothes are soaked through, sticking to his skin uncomfortably. Satoru squints at the sky, waiting for something. He doesn't really know what. He's wide awake and he's restless — maybe a spontaneous attack will satisfy this feeling. He should probably put infinity up again but the feeling of being vulnerable hasn't quite hit him yet.
It's like he's the last person on Earth. Who could hurt them then besides himself?
Not Toji Fushiguro, that's for sure — even if Satoru didn't kill him that day. Even Suguru hadn't gotten mad at him for that. Although, he does briefly remember the face Suguru wore when he saw him next. It was horrified, if Satoru remembers correctly. He doesn't like to think about that face directed him. He doesn't like to think about anything pertaining to that day, but it seems his mind is not on his side this early in the morning.
"Two or three years from now, my kid will be sold off to the Zen'in Clan. Do what you will with that."
Satoru can't imagine a person like that having a child. It must be some kind of child abuse — no way a man like Toji Fushiguro could be a good father. Well, Satoru doesn't have to assume much, the man sold the damn kid to his clan.
What the hell did he expect Satoru to do with that? Those were his final words? How pathetic.
It's been nearly a year since then; has the kid been sold, yet? Is the kid still waiting for it's father to come home, or has it given up since then?
It's not Satoru's problem. At all. He hasn't even thought about this since that day — why now?
Satoru stands from his crouch with a sigh, raising his hands to rub at his temples. His head hurts, of fucking course it does; he kicks at the concrete petulantly.
He's not even good with kids, they're annoying and sticky. He's never even interacted with a kid before, assuming the kid is little. The youngest was Amanai and look where she is now.
The beach was fun, though. Maybe little kids like Okinawa, too?
Nope. He's decided kids don't like the beach. He doesn't want to go to Okinawa and that's the only beach he's ever been to. No beaches for Fushiguro's kid.
Not that he plans to take the kid to the beach. Maybe it was secretly trained to be a serial killer and to pounce on anything that breathes; it starts when they're young. Satoru certainly breathes.
What's the point of even thinking about this? He's soaked down to the bone, it's nearly 5 in the morning, and he's thinking of a dead mans last words. So lame. Sure, in some abstract, way Satoru knows that last words are important but this is Toji Fushiguro's last words. Why did Satoru even ask?
Suguru would've asked. That's probably why.
What would be Satoru's last words if someone actually managed to kill him? Would anyone even be there to hear it or would his only audience be the enemy?
Should he do something about the kid? He doesn't really want to. He kind of just wants to close his eyes and sleep forever. That is, if he could sleep uninterrupted.
Satoru makes his way back to his room, trudging water through the halls that will hopefully be dry by the time everyone is awake. Most likely not. Oh well, he's not a janitor; it's not his problem.
Satoru flops onto his bed and his head bounces off the mattress once or twice before he settles. He doesn't bother tucking himself in, he won't be sleeping anyway. He stares at the ceiling instead and this time he doesn't see the dead mans face. He doesn't know what to do.
Maybe Shoko would know. Probably not.
He misses Suguru, he would know.
“Are you the strongest because you’re Satoru Gojo, or-”
What the hell would Suguru know, Suguru left? Satoru can figure it out just fine on his own.
Satoru, of course, was right. When is he not? He figured it out perfectly fine on his own — give the man a golden star! He'll stick it right there on the bridge of his glasses so everyone gets to know he's totally awesome.
The kids name is Megumi Fushiguro and he apparently lives on some grotty little street that Satoru would otherwise never step foot on. He briefly wonders if the kid has fleas, tempted to just turn around and let someone else handle it. Could Satoru get fleas?
No, that's a cat thing — and a dog thing, but Satoru has neither of those. Too bad, he thinks a pet could be nice.
So the kid probably doesn't have fleas. Big whoop.
It's a little late in the day with the sun beginning to make it's descent, but Satoru doesn't care. He has nothing better to do and the curiosity had been eating away at him. Technically speaking, he was supposed to go on a mission but for once he was partnered with someone. They can handle it just fine, and if they can't then it's simply not his problem they're weak.
Well, he guesses it is, actually. He should be helping, that's his job.
"The strong protect the weak."
Satoru is positive they'll be fine, the mission wasn't anything serious anyway. Besides, a slap on the wrist, they can't actually do anything to him for it. So instead he stands besides a rusty little street lamp that he highly doubts even works anymore. He briefly wonders how many stupid brats have licked this thing. Actually, how many got stuck when licking it? Just the thought nearly makes him laugh.
There he is. At least, Satoru assumes that's Megumi Fushiguro. There's no one else waltzing around on a street like this. The place looks a little abandoned. Is this kid homeless?
Satoru straightens up, staring at the kids back for a moment. He's got a backpack flopping behind him, almost comically large on his back. He must be walking home from school — that's not dangerous at all.
The kids got an odd mop of hair on his head. He looks a little like a sea urchin from behind. He's smaller than Satoru expected — like, stupid small.
Satoru sighs and catches up quickly with his long legs, his shadow coming up to engulf the kid in darkness. "You're Megumi Fushiguro, right?"
The kid is still for a moment before he turns around. "What's it to you?" That is not a fucking sea urchin. He's an exact copy of his father. Satoru, unwillingly, feels chills race up his space, his throat aches and his chest constricts. His face must do something as well because the kid then says, "What's with that weird looking face, you freak?"
Christ. Never expected anyone to say that to him of all people — he's fucking gorgeous and he knows it. The kid is a brat, though. Satoru called it before day one even existed. Would this be day one?
"You just look like him, is all." Satoru mumbles, adjusting his glasses to stave off the off kilter feeling he has. The kid just looks at him weird and so Satoru waves him off. "My own issue."
Satoru already wants to leave.
"So listen. About your dad…" Satoru starts, and honestly, he's not sure the kid retains anything he says. He stares up at Satoru like he's some creep, which is not true at all and he resents that. "He's from this big shot jujutsu sorcerer family called the Zen'in," Satoru briefly wonders if the kid even knows what jujutsu sorcery is. Should he explain that?
Nah.
"But they're such scumbags they make even me sick," That's saying something, for a monster like him. Does that come across clearly to someone like Megumi? "And that's why your dad left the family and had you."
Satoru tries to make the explanation interested. He's light-hearted, he poses, and he gets down on the kids level. Kids like that stuff, right? Big dramatics and silly stuff. Not this kid apparently — only Shoko looks at Satoru with a face as unamused as that.
And so his mouth runs. And he probably shouldn't tell a 3 year old what he's about to tell him. "So, about that dad of yours. I ki—"
"I don't care." The kid says with total indifference. Lucky him because now that Satoru thinks about it, he probably shouldn't tell a kid he killed his dad. Suguru would've slapped him by now if he knew. But Suguru isn't here and Satoru is alone once again. His heart aches a little. "I have no interest in where he is or what he's doing."
What a brat.
"I haven't even seen him in years, so I don't remember what he looks like."
Nevermind. At least Satoru knows the kid definitely isn't a serial killer.
"Though I get the general idea from what you just said."
"Tsumiki's mother hasn't come home for a while now, either," The kid says, and Satoru only has a second to wonder who the hell Tsumiki is before a window opens from above them and a little girl hangs over the metal bars.
"Megumi, you're home!" Satoru assumes that's Tsumiki who yells down to them.
The kid just barrels on, though. "That means they're finished with us, and they're off enjoying themselves elsewhere, right?" The kid looks up at Tsumiki, kicking a rock while he does so.
Satoru has no idea what he's supposed to say to that. He's quickly realizing he definitely should not be the adult in this situation. The kids father is dead, his mother fucked off, and there's not just one — but two kids. What is Satoru supposed to do with that? Does he bring them back to Jujutsu Tech? Is Tsumiki a sorcerer, too? No, he highly doubts it.
On top of all of that, this kid talks like an old man.
"Are you… really a first grader?" Satoru mutters but the kid doesn't answer. "Well, whatever. If you ever want to know about your father, you can ask me. Now, on to the main point. What do you want to do? Do you want to go to the Zen'in Clan?
"What will happen to Tsumiki? If I go there, will Tsumiki be able to fine happiness?" This kid, he's unlike any kid Satoru has ever interacted with before. That's not really saying much but Satoru doesn't think kids are normally this mature. "It all depends on that."
"No. A hundred percent no." Satoru says without much thought. The Gojo clan was a terrible place for a kid, the Zen'in clan is worse. Especially if they made someone like Toji Fushiguro. "I can say that with certainty."
The conversation didn't last long after that. Satoru left the kid to go to his sister and he returned to the school. The kids are on his mind for a while before he decides he wants to at least make sure their youth is a little less stress ridden.
He pays their utilities and drops off some groceries while they're at school a few days later. He doesn't plan to get more involved than that.