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What did they say about moral compasses? Satoru has forgotten what the word even means. Without Suguru, he’s wandering aimlessly in this world, tethered to life by nothing but his own strength. He’s here to be of service, after all. He’s here to help, to serve, to be used down to the marrow until none of him is left. Satoru’s gotten used to the redundancy of everyday missions, and he fights and exorcises Special Grades with ease now. Still, why isn’t he satisfied? He’s become the pinnacle of the jujutsu society as he’s expected to be. He’s a self-fulfilling prophecy with a tendency to exceed expectations, but as he wanders through the hallways of Jujutsu High, it’s like he’s watching a movie of his own life play out. The credits roll on the side of the screen, and Satoru sees his name repeated in every column.
He’s the director, the scriptwriter, the lead and supporting actors. He’s a one-man show carrying the weight of the world of his shoulders, and soon days bleed into weeks of mundaneness. The sky looks the same every morning and every evening, and soon these weeks further bleed into months. Satoru looks different now. His cheeks are sunken, but since he’s always been skinnier than average, no one notices. When he gazes into his own reflection in the mirror, he’s faced with a stranger wearing his own skin. The unfamiliar face with features he’s never even seen before — white hair dulled with a sheen of grey, dark circles framing his eyes under the bandages he tends to wear, cracked and dry lips with skin peeling away at the corners.
What does he even live for? Those halcyon days are long gone now — and Satoru’s left to curl his fingers around memories that flutter into the wind, a soft, broken breeze singing an echoing tune that he has once known and loved. He remembers shitty theme songs from shittier TV shows he and Suguru used to watch, curled up on Suguru’s bed with their thighs pressed against each other, a blanket pulled over their bodies. Suguru would lecture Satoru about eating on his bed, but he’d relent and let him bring over snacks every time. Where have these days gone? Satoru has already forgotten the plots they’ve watched, and he’s losing the plot of his own life.
“No, Suguru,” Satoru murmurs, fingers raking through his hair, dragging a few strands off his scalp. The resounding sting reminds him that despite being the strongest sorcerer, he’s still as human as he can possibly be. Infinity is lowered when there’s no one to guard himself from, though he knows he’s staring into his worst enemy’s eyes in the mirror. “You’re wrong,” he recites from a script, composed by someone greater than this world itself. Perhaps he has always been a victim of fate, and in every universe he’s doomed to experience love and loss in tandem. Are you the strongest because you’re Satoru Gojo? Or are you Satoru Gojo because you’re the strongest? “You’ve always been wrong. I’m not strong at all.”
A sardonic laugh. The perfect coping mechanism. Satoru loves laughing away all his sorrows, because that makes his pain somewhat entertaining to himself and others. It’s easier to laugh than to cry, because laughing in uncomfortable situations is natural human behaviour. And he’s human, after all. “We’re just different, and we shouldn’t be.” He murmurs, dragging his fingernails down his face, breaking skin as blood trickles down like tears. “It’s not fair. And in a society where nothing is fair, we should desire fairness. That’s why you left, right?”
If Satoru focused, he could hear the soft response of a
yes
drifting through the silent air. Both he and Suguru seek fairness on opposite sides of the spectrum. “So,” he continues, watching as blood beads on his face and taints soft skin, “all sorcerers must die to make all humans equal. You’re wrong, Suguru.
We
are the anomaly. We have to go so they stand a chance. It doesn’t matter if it hurts. It doesn’t matter if we’re going against this script.”
The stranger in the mirror nods along, his lips twisting into a sorrowful smile. “And if I’m the strongest, the one contributing to this inequality—” anyone can do the math, Satoru knows. He has to be the first to go. Without him, the jujutsu society will collapse, and unfairness will be brought down with it. It’s time for him to go. He can only hope he’ll burn in death as beautifully as his birth, as ethereal and ephemeral as a passing firework, a full bloom across the skyline. But he’s alone in his bathroom as blood seeps through the cracks between marble tiles, painting scarlet crosses over the snow-white canvas. Even his surroundings crave judgement. Satoru will never be free, in life and in death and whatever exists beyond that.
“Don’t miss me too much, okay?” He laughs, digging his nails into his forearms, drawing lines all across his left arms, seemingly random patterns blooming into the prettiest flowers. There’s so much blood, so much so that it’s painting the countertop red, splattering all across the mirror and blurring the reflection of the stranger. There is no one but Satoru Gojo himself, standing in the throes of chaos, his heartbeat flooding every vein, hammering against his ribcage in desperate thrums. And even when he knows when he’s going to go, Satoru’s mind still drifts through his bathroom and right back into his dorm. Suguru’s scent clings onto every crevice, haunting every corner, lingering on every surface, witnessing Satoru’s natural undoing. “Of course you expected this, of course you did,” Satoru rambles along, tearing through muscle. It
hurts
like any mortal wound, blood spilling from his arm and gushing out of his body, a new waterfall carved into nature itself. “This better now? Are we finally on an equal playing ground?”
Surely, there’ll be no more excuses for Suguru to avoid him anymore — in life and in death. Satoru has been fighting for fair play all this time, so surely no one will miss him as he loses himself to the world. When his chest bursts open in a flash of purple, his blood paints every wall red as he feels himself crumbling to the floor, pieces of himself scattered all over the marble tiles.
A fitting ending for a complacent actor,
he thinks, he hopes this is repentance enough to earn the world’s forgiveness.
『••✎••』
Suguru feels the shift in cursed energy in the air when the explosion happens. He practically teleports to Shoko’s morgue, grabbing her by the wrist and speeding towards the source of impact, giving her no time to protest. They land in Satoru’s dorm room, and when the bitter tang of blood is the first thing they smell, Shoko rushes towards the bathroom with Suguru in tow.
“Shit,” she swears, seeing Satoru collapsed on the bathroom floor. A huge chunk of flesh is blown away from his body. “Call Yaga,” she barks at Suguru, who rushes out of the room as quickly as humanly possible. Shoko falls to her knees, fingers glowing with her technique, weaving segments of Satoru back together with every swift motion of her hands. Her hands fly over his body, piecing his body together fragment by fragment, leaving behind a series of intertwined scars. Once he is whole again, Shoko leans over him and begins chest compressions, counting to a wordless mantra whispered in her heart. Don’t you dare die on me now, Gojo, or I’ll kill you myself.
Suguru rushes back to Satoru’s dorm with Yaga in tow, carrying Satoru onto his bed as Yaga stares at the scene — blood all over the tiles, blood all over the walls. “How have I not noticed,” he murmurs, swiping a trail of scarlet with his finger.
“He hasn’t been fine for a while.” Shoko sighs, feeling the exhaustion in her bones. She has never had to use such a large amount of her cursed energy before — her hand is connected to Satoru’s, as colour flows back into his skin with the amount of blood she’s pumping into him through her. “We’re lucky Suguru got us here instantly.”
“Or else—” Suguru doesn’t dare finish his sentence. He’s still donning his godforsaken gojo-kesa. He knows he should have realised — realised that there is no possible way that Satoru would be fine after losing his one and only like this. Maybe it’s his lack of self-worth that caused him to underestimate Satoru’s love for him. These robes scratch at the back of his neck, and he yanks off the top layer, watching fabric shred and drop to the floor. “Fuck it,” he grits his teeth, “there has to be another way. A way that’s not—not like this.”
“So you’re returning to jujutsu society?” Yaga crosses his arms.
“I can’t undo what I’ve done, but we can find a way to fix things going forward.”
Yaga relents. “True,” he nods. “We’ll figure something out later. A bargain of sorts.”
Shoko squeezes Satoru’s hand. “Take me with you. I was there too, wasn’t I?”
“What the,” Satoru blinks, his hand — how does he still have a band — coming to rub at his bleary eyes. “Is this a dream?” He asks as soon as he sees Suguru leaning over him, eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Hey, Suguru,” he laughs softly, bitterly. “Never thought I’d see you again. I must be in heaven, right?”
“You’re alive,” Suguru collapses onto Satoru, careful not to jostle him and his still-fragile body. “You’re alive. Don’t—don’t you
dare
pull anything like that ever again.”
“Suguru…” Satoru murmurs, disbelieving. “Why are you here?”
“You’re such an idiot,” Suguru laughs, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Of course no ideal would be greater than our love. I—I’m sorry I only realised that now. I’m here now, Satoru. I’m here to fix things with you. Let’s try again, Satoru. Please forgive me.”
“You scared me,” Shoko cards her fingers through Satoru’s hair. “Don’t you dare do this ever again.”
Yaga sighs. “What am I to do with you, Satoru,” he massages his temple, “my office has always been open for you, and it always will be.”
“Sorry,” Satoru bursts into laughter, his chest heaving with the strain. “You’re really real, aren’t you? I can feel all of you.”
“We’re real,” Suguru repeats, his hand clasping Satoru’s, “we’ve always been.”
Satoru pulls Suguru in, kissing him lightly on the forehead. “Don’t you ever leave me again,” he murmurs, “please.”
He never begs, but he doesn’t mind doing so just to keep this reality for a little longer. Maybe fate can be marginally kind to him, after all — he knows his script has been rewritten, and perhaps this time he doesn’t have to be the strongest, alone.
We’re the strongest, right?
He remembers those words with the fondest smile. It’s always been him and Suguru against the world despite all odds, and maybe this is just another obstacle in the long run. Whatever this may be, Satoru’s just happy that Suguru’s here, bare and vulnerable and ready to start over.
“I won’t, I swear.” Suguru smiles at Satoru's touch. “My name is Suguru Geto. It’s a pleasure to meet you. What’s your name?”
“Satoru Gojo,” Satoru smiles with the weight of the world rid from his shoulders, lighter than air itself. “But you can call me Satoru if I can call you Suguru.”