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There is a sort of numbness that settles in after every misfortune a sorcerer must endure.
This numbness is a little different. It’s a weird different, too, because there isn’t usually this much despair mixed in with it. Sorcerers have to learn how to compartmentalise and cope. How to let it rest, just as the bodies do in the morgue. Just as they do beneath their headstones. You don’t often dwell on these things, because it’s all a bit too much.
It’s funny how all of this works. One doesn’t often realise how little one has until the loss is too much. By then, it’s too late, but only by a hair, and that’s the kicker. Too little, too much, too late. Will there ever be a balance?
He was always late. You and Ieiri Shoko have agreed upon the fact that tardiness is pretty much an intrinsic element to his being. Late to meetings. Late to classes. Late to missions. Late to a whole lot of things.
Too late to realise what went wrong with his best friend. Too late to accept that he is just going to have to kill him. Too late in killing him. Too late in realising what was wrong with himself. At least, not entirely. But he was too late, and that lateness cost him.
It was August 2006 when you all first lost Geto Suguru. Not even you realised, so it isn’t as if everyone can just pin the blame on that white-haired idiot. It was August 2007 when he slipped from your grasps for good. Then, it was December 24, 2017 when matters were put to rest, in the worst possible way, when Gojo Satoru finally did what was a decade overdue. You couldn’t have done it. None of you probably could’ve. All except for Gojo, but it took him a good long while to, and that was more than fair enough.
Neither you nor Shoko have entered the New Year of 2019 in high spirits. Tokyo is in complete ruins, and it really doesn’t look like it’s going to be cleaned up any time soon. The entirety of Japan, in fact, is reeling and recovering—if that. Hokkaido’s the only prefecture left untouched and unruffled. The purists there, still stuck in their centuries-old ways and mindsets and stagnation in remaining sacrosanct, are obstinate and inhospitable—to the non-sorcerers, that is, with the likes of you and Shoko and the students as barely an exception.
Shoko stamps out her cigarette on the ground, crushing it beneath her shoe. She’s pulling out another one, flicking open the lighter, letting the end of the cancer stick hiss and flare as she takes a deep breath in. You sit at her side with a packet of sweets. If he were here now, he’d be pawing at you for one.
“This year’s gonna be shit,” says Shoko, finally breaking the silence. The silence wasn’t awkward or tense or anything unideal. It’s just a quietude, amassed by the comfort of friendship and understanding, where you can both just sit in each other’s company for hours, hardly saying three words to one another. Maybe a question here, a randomly voiced thought there—either way, it’s nice, and it’s been this way since high school, and you’re soothed by the knowledge it’ll stay like it.
But, these days, things have been a bit too quiet. Your offices are too empty. There are less knocks on the door. Fewer echoes of strong steps making their way down the corridor, an undeniable spring in them, accompanied by the rustle of a plastic bag and the pop of an opened soda can. There’d be an obnoxious slurp all exaggerated solely for the purpose of annoying you, and then an empty packet of mochi held out in jested offering just for shits and giggles. And then a real packet, still sealed, your favourite candy. No more of that. Just silence.
Once, the two of you may have commented on how nice the peace and quiet was once he’d flounced his way out again. Now, the two of you comment on how the silence gives you both headaches; the hankering for a cig, and the craving for a lollipop.
She smokes like she’s never before now. It worries you; if she’s diagnosed with lung cancer when she hits forty, that cuts your time with her short, too. What will you do if you’re left alone? Once you’re alone? What could you do?
You already feel lonely, something she shares, and that makes it a little easier. But it’s no less cold. Like you’re itching to draw your coat around you closer, only to find you left it behind. Or that you never had it at all. Or that you misplaced it, lost it, and now it’s gone for good.
Maybe then, you’d understand his isolation. You don’t know. You’re starting to think, now, that you’d really rather go without it. And so would Shoko. So would everyone recovering from all this.
“What makes you think that?” you reply, scrunching up your now-empty packet of confectionery. You have a dentist appointment tomorrow. You wonder how he dealt with toothaches and cavities, especially after such excessive and constant consumption of sweets. Then you remember how he never would’ve needed to see a dentist. The perks of RCT.
“I dunno,” is her answer, taking another drag of her cig. It’s already half-gone. “Just do.”
“I heard somewhere that if you speak negatively, things really will go downhill.”
“What’s new?” Shoko’s now tapping the ash from the end of her smoke. “Doesn’t matter if you talk about it or not. All goes to shit anyway.”
That’s true. Especially for your lot. Especially when you’re the strongest.
You don’t know why you’re trying to be positive or whatever. It’ll take a long, long time until you’re able to find sincere optimism within yourself again. If you ever do.
This is what loss does to someone. This is the cost of it. This is what makes a jujutsu sorcerer a jujutsu sorcerer. Compartmentalisation. Coping mechanisms. None of it’s really working too well anymore.
“What do you reckon the twenty-twenties’ll be like?”
She takes a moment. Has a drag. Puffs out the smoke. Taps the cig. The ash hits the ground. “They’ll probably be shit too.”
You hum in agreement. It sounds partially so, noncommittal, but it’s not. You look from the sunset you’re both blankly staring out at and to Shoko. She needs a haircut.
But you look at her and find intense gratitude. You think back to how you used to look at Geto and his long hair and how it never even crossed your mind that it was all so short-lived. How you looked at Gojo, when he was a teen too, how he’d kept his own hair short and messy before he got an undercut, and even after that, its ivory unruliness never changed. When he was an adult, pushing thirty, still larger-than-life, but just a bit dimmer. More mature. Filled with affection for the students in place of the disdain he had as a naive adolescent roped into babysitting another. The zeal to nurture them into fine fighters; the ambition to reform this society into something where they don’t have to be fighters. Where he isn’t needed anymore. Where there is no longer a pinnacle, and no more alienation.
You’ve thought long and hard about this, and you’ve come to a conclusion. Even if the students say they don’t, even if Shoko says she doesn’t, even if you pretend you don’t, the fact is, he is still needed. Now, more than ever, but it’s always when things are at that more-than-ever point, the need in question is never, or no longer, available.
So you look at Shoko and you find consolation. At least she’s still here. And you’re pretty sure she feels the same about you.
Your sister—not in blood, but in spirit. In shared experiences. In mirroring lives. In how you’re all the other has left.
“I can’t sleep,” she suddenly comments. You reach for the box of beers you’d both brought out with you and select one, cracking it open. She’s already got three empty cans beside her. You faintly ruminate on how unhealthy smoking and drinking back-to-back is, before it’s washed away with the sting of booze down your throat. Condensation pearls on your thumb as you hold the can in a loose grasp against your knee. Shoko finally finishes her smoke. She’ll probably reach for another. Fourth packet. “Pills don’t work. Drinking barely does. Could I ask you to knock me out with a punch? That should keep me cosy for a few extra hours.”
“I can try,” you answer, having another swig. “You’ll wake up with a killer bruise, though.”
“I’ll just heal it.” She hasn’t really needed to do any of that lately. “It’ll be as purple as the bags under my eyes.”
You snort, shoe scraping the concrete at your feet as you slouch a bit more against this park bench. “You’ll look like a plum.”
“A reinvigorated one.” As expected, she pulls out another cig. It’s the last one in the packet. “Y’know, ’cause I’ll finally have caught up on some sleep—ah, dammit. I got none left. I need more.”
“Keep smoking like that, Shoko, and you’ll become a raisin.” Half your can of beer’s gone. “Your lungs probably already look like them.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” she mumbles in reply, absentminded, busy with her lighter. Looks like she needs a new one of those, too. “Ugh, c’mon, you piece of shit. Fucking work. Hey, you got a lighter? Spare one?”
“I don’t smoke.” But you do drink and stuff yourself with kikufuku. No wonder two of your molars hurt. “It’s not as if passing up on one will do you any harm, Shoko.”
“Shut up.” She gives up on it and tosses the lighter and cig into her purse, slumping back with an exhale, opting for another beer. “Gonna croak eventually, anyway.”
“Don’t say that.” Don’t remind me. You finish off your own can in one swig. “Already had enough death for a lifetime.”
“Tell me about it.” She guzzles about half her beer in one gulp. “Ah, there we go. Hits the spot. Y’know, for such cheap booze, it’s not half-bad.”
You shrug. “Had better.”
“Buy that expensive shit yourself next time, then.” Her coarse language hardly ever carries a bite. A small grin twists at your mouth as she grumbles to herself. “Need to stop spending my money on you…”
“That was 1800 yen, silly,” you snicker, reaching up to swipe at your nose. The cold air makes it runny. “Hardly an arm and a leg.”
“You sound like that bastard,” she says, and you know who she means. “Never gave a shit about money.”
“Why give a shit about anything?” The beer has an awful aftertaste, though—acidic, tart, bitter. “Like you said. We’ll kick the bucket eventually.”
“I ain’t kicking any buckets until I’m fifty.” Shoko leans forward, elbows on her knees, rubbing her free hand over her face. “After that, I want out. I’m not going through menopause.”
“Oi. Don’t bite the dust before me.”
“It’ll happen when it happens. No promises.”
“Fine. But just don’t do it voluntarily.”
“I won’t.” She turns and looks at you from over her shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
“Really?” You mirror her stance, and meet her eyes. “You promise?”
“What, wanna link pinkies?” Snorting, Shoko has another sip from her can. “We’re almost thirty. That’s the sort of shit Gojo’d make us do.”
“In loving memory, then?”
“Get the fuck out. I already spent 3000 yen on that idiot today. More than enough.”
“3000 yen on what? Cigs in his honour?”
“Would’ve been a better use of my money. No, I put fresh flowers on his grave.”
That has you still for a moment, before you turn away, gaze refocusing on the sunset; it’s too far below the horizon to sting your eyes anymore, but the prick of tears is there, anyway. Your vision goes blurry. Alcohol’s getting to me. “I see.”
“Your turn next week. I work with corpses all the time, but cemeteries are too depressing even for me.” There’s a small break to her voice, too, barely there, just an inflection, but it adds to the sting of your lashline. In your periphery, she finishes off her can. “Can’t stand the sight of it, actually.”
You lower your head to stare at the ground. You’d placed your own empty can at your side, but the breeze picks up a little, and knocks it over. It clangs to the ground. Neither of you move at the noise. It hurts to swallow. “…Need me to put any on Geto’s? Nanami’s?”
“Nah. Already did.” A sniffle sounds—from you or her, can’t say. “And Itadori saw to Nanami’s. So, I lied. It was actually 6000 yen.”
“Those bastards owe us one fat cheque.”
“You can say that again. I need to get the hell out of this country.” Shoko, usually the more reticent of you both, takes up your free hand, and squeezes. Then it slackens, but stays. “Go somewhere tropical. Like the Bahamas.”
“As if Ijichi would let us.”
“Don’t give a shit. I need to breathe.”
A humourless smile twists at your mouth. “Won’t be doing much of that for any longer if you keep up the smoking, Shoko.”
She lets your hand go to smack you upside the head. It doesn’t hurt; there’s no real force behind it. Shoko had always saved that for the two other morons—the blindfolded one in particular. “Hey. I’m older than you. Talk to me with respect.”
“I will when you give up the habit.” Your smile broadens; there’s some mirth in it now. “You said you would.”
“Like I’ll ever commit to that. Even if Gojo had put it in his will, I wouldn’t’ve.”
“Then maybe do it for the kids? You’re a bad influence.”
“Whatever. You’re the teacher here, not me, so what do I care? They’ll be grown soon, anyway. Far past the age of deciding what they’ll let influence them and what they won’t.”
She makes a good point. “Mm. S’pose Gojo wasn’t much better in that regard, either.”
“So that just leaves you. Are you a good role model?”
“Dunno. Do you think I am?”
“Gojo thought you were. That counts for something, right?”
The pricking returns to your eyes. It hurts to swallow again. “…I don’t know. Maybe.”
There’s a sigh from the woman beside you. Another pause. And then, “Alright. Let’s stop dancing around it. Here’s how it is: I miss the idiot.”
Her bluntness helps stave off the waterworks a little. “…Yeah. So do I.”
“The jackass had one job. Just had to let his fucking ego get the best of him at the worst possible moment.”
“Shithead’s probably laughing at us right now.”
“Same with Geto.” Shoko leans back, face turned to the sky, streaked with clouds, but clear enough for the stars. “And, yeah. They probably are.”
It’s getting harder to hold the faucet shut; one tear breaks free, and down your cheek it goes. “I miss Haibara, too, you know. And Yaga. And Nanami. And Riko. And…and…”
No RCT can help here. With this. Severed limbs are easier to deal with, less painful, than this. It even dulls the ache in your molars. A horrible sort of anaesthesia. Not even that.
“It must be nice,” Shoko says, voice soft, “to be a non-sorcerer.”
“Do you hear that?” You make a show of jokingly cupping your ear to the sky, despite fighting tears. “Pretty sure that’s the sound of Geto gagging.”
She shoves you, but you get a smile out of her, however small and half-hearted it may be, however unfunny that quip of yours really was. None of this is a joke. All you know how to do is make it into one, though, just so it’s a little less hard to bear.
It’s not working. But you’ll make do.
Laughter is always quick to die when you both talk about this. She’s got her head lowered now, also. Shoko was never a crier, always had a tight hold on her own emotions, but you know it’s been unendurably hard for her too. She’s struggling just as much as you are.
“I miss them as well.” Your closest, last friend left leans into your side, temple on your shoulder. “It’s too quiet.”
Too little. Too much. Too late. But at least you have Ieiri Shoko. At least Ieiri Shoko has you. You can mourn together. It makes it easier, however agonising this is.
“Now that everything’s died down,” you begin after a long moment, where you both just sat in silence, and you let the tears slip quietly down your face, “there shouldn’t be any big chance either of us will snuff it soon.”
“Yeah.” Her head remains on your shoulder. The sun finally evanesces fully below the curve of the earth. The moon has yet to show itself, if it will. “But we should head off to the Bahamas while we still can.”
“So what higher-ups are left won’t try and help us to prematurely meet our maker?”
“Mm. Also because I need to get away.”
“You said that already. I agree. Should get our nails done first.”
“Mm. Oh, yeah, that reminds me. My brows are due a shaping, too.”
“Your brows are fine. You hardly even need to do anything to them. Mine are like caterpillars.”
“Idiot. I could say the same as that about your nails. It’s not necessary.”
“So? It’s fun having acrylics.”
“Just like how it’s fun having freshly-done brows. So shut up and go to the salon with me tomorrow.”
“Can’t. Got a dentist appointment.”
“Eh? Why didn’t you just ask me to give you a check-up? I can easily mend whatever cavity you’ve got in there.”
“Didn’t want to. I’m going to try out being normal.”
There’s a pause, and Shoko snorts, straightening from her spot on your shoulder, fixing you with a half-incredulous, half-amused look. Her eyes are red. Yours probably are, too. “Being normal? Are you serious?”
“Deadly. It’s also why I want to get my nails done. Are you joining me or not?”
She purses her lips, cracks open the last can of beer, and then shrugs. “Sure, why not. What do you have in mind?”
“Like colours?”
“Yeah.”
You consider it for a moment, before two come to you. They’re in your head, and you hold up a hand, fanning out your fingers, inspecting the unevenness of your nails. Envisioning it. “Hm. I don’t know. I was thinking…white and blue.”
Her eyes are on you, you can feel them, as she remains quiet for a beat. Letting the words hang. Then she lifts her drink to her mouth. “…Funny. I’d thought of something along those lines, too.”
“Oh?” You turned to her again. “Like what?”
And she smiles, eyes now shifting to the sky, wistful. It, assuredly, mirrors your own expression. “Black and purple.”