Chapter Text
Memories shape one's life, people say. That's what Satoru always heard growing up in the Gojo clan. Particularly, from his childhood caretaker, Himari. Himari was more of a mother than his birth mother would ever be; a warm smile always lit up her face, and crinkly, homely wrinkles adorned it.
She taught Gojo kindness and warmth. She taught him love and order. In Satoru’s rebellious teens, he let go of those lessons; he never really kept any of those lessons in his motto anyway. When Satoru met Suguru, he felt a warmth he had never experienced before—a different type of love than what he felt for Himari.
Suguru lived up to Himari’s lessons more than anyone. He cared for his belongings, always kept tidy, and, to put it simply, was perfect. But, his perfection—it was almost scary. No, terrifying in fact.
As Satoru grew old, he realized, though, that Getou wasn’t perfect. Behind his endless brown eyes lay an untouched, ugly chaos wrapped in Satoru’s love.
Satoru can only face the Suguru that remains in his memories, before that chaos that bubbled throughout Suguru’s veins was unleashed. The neatly kept Suguru, who made his heart flutter with his perfectly made bun. Not one strand was unkempt; every silky black hair was kept tame.
It would be a hundred times easier if we were young again.
With your perfect bun,
with our heart-felt smiles,
with your endless eyes.
So, that statement is true. Memories do shape one's life, and this is especially true for Satoru Gojo.
April 16th, 2016. The first semester of the Tokyo Jujutsu High School year. Around 8 months before Yuta Okkotsu joined Jujustu High as a first year.
Satoru’s eyes scanned old photos of film; three enormous photo albums lay before him. Each one has faced the test of time, every one was at least a decade old, engulfed with fingerprints and filled to the brim with memories—memories he shared with Shoko, or with him.
He felt like a stranger, as if Suguru were long dead, like Haibara. He felt like he knew everything and nothing about him at the same time, how is that even fucking possible, godammit?? The last time he saw him wasn't really that long ago, either. It was at his estate, it reeked of iron, that being from the blood of Suguru’s countless victims. Suguru would call them ignorant, and Satoru felt pity for them.
This new Suguru was so elusive compared to the Suguru he knew.
His face scrunched up, the scowl plastered on his face was even visible behind the white bandages that wrapped his eyes. He was disgusted by what Suguru had become, and he just couldn’t put it into words. He was so fucking.. I don't know— angry, disappointed, and he didn't even know who or what. Not Suguru, maybe—himself?
He could see the outline of every photo that lay in that book. Each outline of every memory. . . Every memory that haunted him. The outline of his brown irises, his eyes that had no end to them, it was almost like a vast forest he could walk through forever.
I'll soon forget the color of your eyes, and you’ll forget mine.
Each photo was covered in fingerprints, the ink that had each date was muddied, and sometimes rubbed off completely. Whether that be from tears, or just wear and tear. Occasionally, through each page of countless memories, he found photos that reeked of alcohol or had clumps of hair. Some of that hair was a platinum silver-white (his own) or a brown auburn that shone a tad orange under the sun, which he assumed was Shoko’s.
As he flipped through each volume, he felt a mixture of emotions; whatever it was, it lingered in his stomach, a pit of everything really. Somber, melancholy, nostalgia, anger, regret, sadness, grievance, and—the last one he couldn't name. It brought him butterflies; it countered the festering pit of vile emotions in his stomach. Brought a fluttering feeling to his heart, every time he was around Suguru, really.
His time of reminiscence was interrupted by a creak of the door, and sunken brown eyes peered through. Gojo hurried to hide the albums, but it was too late. Shoko gave a sigh, peeling open her cracked lips.
“Gojo, what in the world are you doing?”
He was visibly fidgeting with his hands, or really anything for that matter. He puffed out his cheeks, giving a pout and mumbling back in response.
“Just— “ he gave a sudden pause. “— reminiscing.” He replied, his sulking was imminent.
“Oh wow, the mighty special grade sorcerer Gojo’s feeling nostalgic? This is quite a grim sight.”
“Says you, after this you’re gonna go take your smoke break, right? You should really quit that, you know.”
He scoffed, planting his face into his office desk, amongst all the photos. A picture of Haibara cheekily smiling with Nanami smushed against his cheeks.
“I'm working on it.” Shoko pinched the space between her eyes, rubbing the skin of
her nose-bridge, closing her sullen eyes, and letting out a long sigh.
“And since when did you try to use your fifty-cent words?” Gojo remarked, his voice muffled from having it implanted into his precious photo albums.
“Gojo. . .” Shoko paused in bafflement at Gojo's idiocy. “In what world is grim a fifty-cent word?”, “Anyway, you know one of the volumes is missing, right?” She steered the conversation to a more important issue.
“Right…” He glanced at the volumes, or hypothetically glancing anyway beneath his bandages. He jerked up and began listing each one: 2005, 2007, 2006; 2006 is nowhere to be seen. He raises an eyebrow.
Shoko does the same.
He gets up, hurriedly. Shoko instinctively parts ways to make space for him. “I have an idea of where it might be.” He shut his office door behind him, the unkempt space disappearing from Shoko’s view, but not his.
Gojo could keep tabs on every little thing within at least a 100-foot radius of him. Every breeze that ran through each blade of grass, every cherry blossom petal that pirouetted through the air, and every person's warm, heavy breath. It got quite overwhelming, at least without his bandages.
Gojo’s and Shoko’s footsteps echoed throughout the halls, for a while being the only sound until they neared Gojo’s classroom. It was after school hours, but the room was filled with laughter. Sunshine beamed through the windows, lighting up the mostly empty classroom, stripping away what little eeriness it had with all the vacant chairs. If you looked closely at the beams, little particles of dust flew about the room. Shoko and Gojo walked in, and the laughter briefly stopped. It almost felt like they were walking in on something. But then, the giggles and glances only continued hysterically.
At the front of the classroom, 3 students were cooped up with 4 desks scooted awfully close to each other; Panda took up two.
Inumaki eagerly stood, greeting Gojo and Shoko.
“Kelp!” Inumaki tried to keep in his giggles, but few escaped; everyone else’s constant cackles muffled the few that did.
“Just what's so funny, you three?” Gojo questioned. Inumaki, Panda, and Maki went silent. All 3 of them exchanged glances: Panda vigorously smiling, Maki rolling her eyes in response, but then cracking a cheesy smile. A rare sight, actually. And Inumaki hurriedly glanced back, breaking his eye contact with Ieiri and Gojo. Inumaki gave a nod, and Panda pushed forward the missing volume: laughter spontaneously burst out again.
It took a few seconds to realize what was sitting right in front of him, but once he understood—or seemed to understand- he confidently responded with his utterly ridiculous hypothesis.
“My goodness, you guys are just in awe of how handsome and youthful your teacher was!” There he was again, putting up that confident front. That mask would chip and peel soon.
“Gojo-sensei—not really.” Maki scoffed. Pushing her glasses up to her nose bridge, Gojo's confused reflection briefly stares right back at him through his own student's eyes, or well—glasses.
Gojo peered at the photo album; he knew every single photo that lay in that book by heart. And he knew what page 15 of volume 2006 had in store for them. Only his most embarrassing and vulnerable moments of his second year at Jujutsu High.
“Gojo-sensei, you sure looked like a brat.” Panda cooed, pointing to a photo of him and Shoko quarreling.
“Is that any way to treat your teacher?” Gojo's face was nearly red by now.
“Who took all the photos?” Panda asked.
“That would be Shoko.” He answered. Obnoxiously pointing toward Shoko like she was a trophy. “Or well, mostly Shoko. It's her camera, but I took some.”
“And just who is this dude with the man bun. Is he that curs—“ Maki was abruptly cut off by Gojo.
“Just- give me that back!” He retorted, looming over the 3. “Look, I'll take you guys out for dinner this Friday. Pick anyplace you please, it’s all on me. Just give me the book back, please.” He shot a grin at the three of them.
Panda glanced at Inumkai and Maki, the three of them exchanging looks. Inumaki promptly gave a nod, and Panda put Inumaki’s gesture into words. “Sure, why not?”
“Alright then, pick a restaurant by Wednesday.” Gojo briefly responded.
Gojo hastily took the book back: a book that basically summed up his teen years. 2006 was the year the incident happened. Where Suguru's life stopped, but mine didn't; it haunts me to this day. Shoko was waiting by the classroom door; it seemed like she had been intently listening the whole time, but didn't want to engage in their tomfoolery. As Gojo approached Shoko, Ierei’s face didn't show a hint of amusement. Gojo walked past her, clutching the book tightly. Shoko followed behind, closing the door behind her
Shoko tilted her head, “You handled that surprisingly well.”
“Why, thank you.” He gave a dramatic bow, “You can applaud now.” He chuckled.
“I mean, I'm surprised you didn't come out of that room crying.” She shot back in disgust at Gojo's theatrical efforts.
“Hey!” He roared in defeat.
The two of them remained silent for a bit as their footsteps sounded throughout the barren halls. Shoko peered out the windows they passed. In the peaceful April evening, it was the height of cherry blossom season, giving a beautiful, blissful environment.
Gojo interrupted the peaceful silence, “Shoko, I'm quite surprised at why you didn't interfere. That was your privacy being invaded, too.” He nagged. Shoko looked at him intently; her eye contact couldn't be shaken. An eerie thing, Gojo picked up on even with the bandages.
“I just don't really care all that much, Gojo. Anyway, you and Getou were the ones taking all the embarrassing photos anyway.” Shoko responded mellowly, seeming so nonchalant about the whole thing. “Maybe you just have too many regrets. Gojo, look: you are never gonna get him back. He's made his decision, honestly, I should’ve done the same, but I don't have that many regrets, Gojo. Sure, there are people I’ve lost, but I moved on. Maybe you should do the same.”
Gojo raised his brows, amused or shocked. At least— he was trying to put up an amused front. Truthfully, Gojo dreaded this conversation. Shoko’s words hit like a gut punch. But, he couldn’t say that. He knew everything she said was true, but there was so much more, and that was the worst part: that Shoko was right. Although it felt tense, Gojo gave a gleeful, “Thanks, Shoko.”
Don't give me that bullshit, Gojo. Shoko’s monologue ran through her head like a rushing river: she had known him for 11 years, and he wasn't getting away with that front.
Or, well, that mask, his hypothetical mask anyway, not the bandages that cover his eyes. That mask was nearly impeccable, except for its few chips here and there. Shoko had tried her best to break it or try to take it off, but all her attempts seemed to fail. She’s noticed its weaknesses, though: like its main reason or cause, Suguru Getou does an excellent job of peeling off that mask, and alcohol seems to do the same. That was a no-brainer, everyone is aloof with alcohol. . .
But Gojo never really seemed to drink, and this situation was different. Gojo seemed like a shell of his old self, like he's wearing his old skin. If Shoko was going to fix this problem, she would need to fix it at its root cause. That root cause being the curse user Suguru Getou. But, she could only steer him in that direction.
It took a bit for Shoko to respond to Gojo’s fake gratitude. Overall, her thinking, she forgot that Gojo even said a thing. It took a moment of awkward silence for her to actually respond.
“Anytime, Gojo. If you ever need honesty, I'm here.” She smiled.
Gojo nodded; so much was going through his head. Now and then, memories danced right in front of him in these halls. In these same empty halls, Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko eagerly and not to mention loudly bounced down these halls. Gojo saw it play through his head each time. He wanted it all back.
And he knew, deep, deep, down.
He wanted him back, more than ever.
April 23rd, 2006, 32 days before Riko Anamai was assassinated. Jujutsu high.
A memory of Gojo Satoru.
Shoko, Satoru, and Suguru were all cooped up in Shoko’s dorm. It was a Saturday evening, and it was pouring. Rain pelted down on Tokyo, a common occurrence for April showers. The three of them were huddled together, wrapped in Shoko’s cream colored, fluffy blanket. Shoko’s window was creaked open with about an inch to let the smoke of their cigarettes escape the room. Suguru looked in awe at the raindrops. As he relit his cigarette, he made an observation.
“All those raindrops that fall down your window have different paces, but in the end, they all fall into the same big puddle. Am I right, Shoko?” Getou uttered.
“Why are you asking me, Getou?” Shoko groaned, grabbing another cigarette: the pack lived right next to her camera, on her nightstand. Getou shrugged.
“What a poet you are, Suguru.” Gojo shot back with a chuckle at Suguru’s original statement. Ruffling Getou’s long, let down hair. Shortly after, he stuck out his tongue before puffing smoke out of his cigarette.
Getou gave him a nasty glare, fixing his hair, then straight out ignoring his passive-aggressive antics. Now, deciding to respond to Shoko's previous comment.
“It's your window.” He shrugged,he then handed Shoko the lighter, not batting Satoru an eye ( just to piss him off even more)
“Well, can't that happen for just about any window?”
“Yeah, it happens in my limo's windows all the time.” Gojo chimed in. “Wait, hello?” Gojo responded, annoyed. “Are you guys ignoring me?” Getou looked back at him with an irritated expression, then looked back at Shoko and back at him.
“Yes,” Getou responded in a flat, monotone voice.
“Are we just gonna skip over the part where you have a limo?” Shoko asked in bafflement.
“Shoko, Gojo is a nepo baby. He comes from one of the richest clans in Jujustu society. Are you really that surprised?" Getou questioned.
“I'm just surprised he's not sharing with us if he has one,” Shoko said.
“I actually asked once, but they wouldn’t let me,” Gojo said, defeated.
“You are Satoru Gojo. Since when did you ask people for anything? You just do it, or take it, at least that's what you’ve shown me.” Getou responded.
“You’re right. I’ll just take it next time, I do have my driver's license now.”
As the storm continued, the number of fresh cigarettes left in Shoko’s pack slowly dwindled. As it did, so did Shoko’s lighter fluid. Rain pelted onto the Tokyo Jujutsu high trees, bouncing back onto Shoko's window, and onto the roof; all of it falling into shallow puddles outside on the ground.
Gojo approached the slightly ajar window, blithely staring at his reflection while doing so, cracking a flirty smile at himself. Getou watched, amused. Shoko couldn’t care less. Gojo grinned, pushing open the window fully. He stuck his head out gleefully, soaking his white head of hair. His glasses fogged up, and he occasionally stuck his arm out to wipe them. Getou beamed, Shoko grimaced.
“Gojo, what in the world are you doing? What the fuck, my floors!” Shoko wailed.
“Profanity won’t help your case, Shoko.” Getou chimed in.
Rain poured in, not only over Gojo, but all over Shoko’s wooden floors. Getou sighed, getting up and putting a hand on Gojo’s soggy back. Gojo hastily looked back, bumping his head on the window in the process.
“OUWWCHHHHHHHHHH!” Gojo screeched dramatically.
Getou started laughing, hysterically. Gojo moved over, and Getou peered his head through the window alongside him. Little giggles escaped, gradually building into a soft cackle, then into a clamorous laughter. Shoko did not join their manic antics.
Shoko snapped a photo. A brief white flash lit the room,
The whole moment felt so freeing and fleeting. Satoru could feel his heart beating out of his chest; his heart was racing. The wind and rain pushed against their faces, but besides the cold droplets—Satoru's face felt red. Suguru reached up to grab the rim of the window, and Satoru instinctively did as well. Their hands overlapped. Satoru didn't seem to mind, but Suguru hastily glanced over, looking at his own chipped black nail polish over Satoru’s callused hands. Satoru finally noticed, and their gazes met. Hiding behind Gojo’s glasses were his eyes. Getou couldn’t grasp how something so beautiful could be used as a weapon.
“If you guys don't stop, I'll smoke the last cigarette! And remember, Gojo’s in charge of buying the next pack.” Shoko warned.
The two of them perked up, but Getou countered that statement.
“We never follow that rotation anyway; mostly, you just lend us yours.”
“Well, this time I’ll actually enforce it.” Shoko retorted.
Gojo ignored their squabbles and pounced right toward the cigarette. Getou followed after him, but tripped over the puddle they made right near Shoko’s window. Gojo shoved the nearly empty cigarette box in his back pocket and jolted out of Shoko’s now soggy dorm. He bolted down the halls. Shoko ran after him.
“I didn’t actually mean that—you jerk! Give that back, Gojo!” Shoko said in between breaths while chasing after him.
Getou remained in Shoko’s room, not wanting to bother with the chaos. He took a deep sigh, leaning against Shoko’s bed. He put his head over his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs, taking a second to recoup. The grainy fabric of his pants rubbed against his forehead. His arm stretched toward his ear, fiddling with his left gauge. His head perked up, and he let his knees unbuckle. As he took in his surroundings, he thought about what he said earlier about the raindrops. He watched every single droplet fall on Shoko’s window. One droplet in particular was strange. It avoided conjoining or assimilating with any other droplet. It reminded him of something: Satoru’s infinity.
Satoru’s infinity was something Getou understood, but actually experiencing it baffled him. It really did remind him how gifted, or rather isolated, Gojo was. He didn’t see him as a weapon, but it always intimidated him. Or at least the thought of it, he hadn’t experienced Satoru’s infinity since his first year. Still, though, it was a spine-chilling experience. Time seemed to stop when you came into contact with it. It was bone-rattling. Come to think of it, when Getou had touched Satoru earlier, he did not have his infinity on.
It was quite comforting to think about. The entire moment was fleeting in general. It was quite nice.
Getou stopped his pondering and arose; it was finally time to face the chaos Gojo had created outside Shoko’s dorm.
Getou peered at the seemingly empty halls behind the safety of Shoko’s door. It seemed that everywhere Gojo went, he left a trail of rainwater behind him. Getou took a step into the halls, and as soon as he did, his ears were immediately rattled. Principal Yaga towered over the defeated Shoko and Satoru. They were about a good twenty feet away, but at a glance, you could tell both of their foreheads had large red bumps; probably from Yaga.
“Here comes Yaga’s dreadful diatribe.” Getou alliterated.
“What in the world are you two doing running down my halls? Not only that, Satoru, you are soaking wet. Just what were you two thinking? Not to mention you guys reek of smoke. Did I forget to write down the no-smoking policy in the student handbook you were required to read?” Yaga went on.
“I didn't read that,” Gojo admitted.
“Of course you didn't," Shoko murmured.
In a fit of passion, Gojo slung Shoko over his shoulders, getting up and bolting. Yaga's shouts echoed through the halls as Gojo dashed toward Getou. Getou popped into Shoko’s room, grabbing her lighter and Camera. As Gojo approached, Getou snapped a picture of the two. Yaga’s infuriated face was captured beautifully in the back. Shoko reached toward Gojo's pocket, snagging the cigarette. Getou tossed her the lighter, taking Gojo’s free hand and scurrying down the halls with the two of them. The whole moment was sure, ephemeral, and rebellious, but it brought a smile to Getou’s face, a highlight of his second year.
A calm before the storm, before May 25th, 2006.
April 16th, 2016. The first semester of the Tokyo Jujutsu High School year. Around 8 months before Yuta Okkotsu joined Jujustu High as a first-year student.
These were the same halls Gojo bolted down, the same halls Getou took his hand. The same halls Gojo loved enjoyed him in. The halls that Shoko and Gojo were scouring right now. The rest of their walk to Gojo’s unkempt office was silent. When Gojo arrived at his office door, Shoko seemed to hesitate for a bit before speaking as Gojo stepped into his office. Before he shut the door, Shoko made an invitation.
“Gojo, me, Utahime, and Nanami are going out to a karaoke bar tonight. I thought I'd invite you. Are you free?”
“Nanami??? I didn't know you were in touch with him after he quit? Of course! I need to pester him a bit.” Gojo grinned; he truly did miss Nanami.
“Nice, Ijichi’s driving. Make sure to pick your song beforehand. I'm tired of you taking up a ridiculous amount of time choosing a song.” Shoko criticized.
“Got it,” Gojo said in an utterly annoyed tone.
“Also, Gojo. . .” She paused. “Relax a bit, let loose. Drinks are on me.”
Gojo nodded. It was nice to know Shoko cared.
“Anyway, we’ll pick you up at 6:00 PM. I have some patients to tend to, and I'm sure you have some work to do as well. Pick up your office, Gojo, it's a mess. Also, wear something nice. Don't be late.”
“Okayyy.” He remarked, rolling his eyes and letting out a pout.”
“Bye, check in on Megumi. Tell him you're gonna be gone.” Shoko remarked.
Shoko briefly waved goodbye, shutting Gojo's office door, heading her way toward the infirmary. Gojo glanced around his office, putting the photo album on the table, taking each volume, and putting them on a nearby shelf. Gojo’s office was a wreck. Papers covered the floors, mostly documentation of curse attacks or murders. A sushi box from noon or rather lunch, lay atop his desk, half-eaten.
Gojo picked it up, tossing it in the trash. He stumbled toward his office desk, collapsing onto it. Gojo peeled the bandages off his eyes, bundling them up into a ball on his desk. The world felt vibrant, like he was on a trip. It felt like he was being pulled by some strange force, the back of his eyes—what did Shoko call it? The optic nerve, or something like that hurts like hell.
His vision started to blur, and a vigorous migraine kicked in. Gojo scavenged his messy drawers looking for some Tylenol. He tossed out important documents, pens, pencils, and more photos until he reached the end of the drawer. Gojo found what he was looking for: Tylenol.
He wasn't sure if it totally worked on the drawbacks of his six eyes, but he had used it in the past, and it seemed to work just fine. Unless it was just a placebo effect. Which he was fine with as well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d have lied to himself.
Gojo grabbed his phone from his back pocket, opening Megumi’s contact.
************
5 missed messages
From: My hypothetical son
April 16th, at 3:07 PM
Can you help with my homework? Tsumiki has some after school clubs.
3:10
Wrong number.
3:22
What's for dinner?
3:23
Its not like ur cooking anyway wtvv
4:00
Hey, Tsumiki's backpack broke. Can you buy her a new one?
From: Gojo Sensei
April 16th, at 4:45 PM
Sorry gumi, I was busy. :(((
Order takeout tonight, im busy wont be home till rlly late im w shoko. You are 13 you
know what a credit card is right? There's one in my room, u can use it.
4:50
Send me the backpack she wants
4:55
Also don't you want me to help you with your homework? >:((
From: My hypothetical son
April 16th, at 4:56 PM
Because it's probably too hard to wrap your brain around Gojo, you aren't that smart.
Tsumiki will send you the link for the backpack she wants.
4:58
Also, stop using those weird emojis.
From: Gojo Sensei
April 16th, at 4:59 PM
I'm gonna pop home quickly to get dressed for karaoke.
Read
************
Gojo aggressively shoved his phone into his pockets, pondering if he should get ready for the party: he could use teleportation to do so. Sure, it was a silly idea, but when has Gojo ever not been impractical?
Here's how Gojo’s teleportation works: teleportation is another utilization of his limitless technique via blue. In summary, Gojo bends space to compress the space between two points, effortlessly getting him to his destination. Although there is a major setback. Gojo must have a clear, unobstructed path to do so. Also, he must put his hands together in a simple clasping formation.
To get around that setback, though, Gojo uses his floating ability, also a result of limitless, allowing him to manipulate space.
April 16th, 2016. 6:28 PM
Gojo is fashionably late, to say the least. The sun has nearly set, and the sky is in a state of twilight. The sun is kissing the horizon by now, leaving reddish-pink clouds scattered across the near-dark sky. By now, the street lights have flickered on, and Ijichi's car’s engine has been running for a long twenty-eight minutes. Shoko rolled down her window, eagerly greeting Gojo.
Utahime was fuming. Shoko had no room in her heart to scold Gojo; she had been used to this by now. By the looks of it, despite Utahime's mad demeanor, she was awfully tender towards Shoko. Actually, Utahime was all over Shoko, in fact. Shoko didn't seem to mind and appeared to quite enjoy it.
Gojo strutted toward the car, radiating cockiness. He was wearing square-rimmed glasses that complemented his face shape well, a deep gray, slightly sheer Henley with the sleeves rolled up past his forearms sitting right at his elbows, a moderately fit belt, and some loosely fitting, skinny black pants. It was probably all designer brands. Actually, it was definitely all designer.
Gojo peered through the window. Shoko and Utahime were in the back three seats, Ijichi was in the driver's seat, and Nanami was—completely absent.
“Where's Nanami?”
“He took a taxi.” Shoko acknowledged. “He’s probably waiting for us there.”
“Yeah, since you’re so late, Gojo!” Utahime whined.
“Yeah, yeah. Shush.” Gojo brashly replied.
Gojo opened the door, eyeing Utahime and Shoko in the back seat. Gojo sat in the passenger seat near Ijichi, not bothering to buckle his seat belt. Gojo propped his feet up onto the dashboard, acting like Ijichi's car was his own personal lounge. He would’ve sat in the back with Shoko and Utahime, just to pester them, but he didn’t wanna deal with whatever touchy behavior they were feeling that day. There was nothing wrong with it; he was a rather touchy person himself—he just didn't understand it.
Once he got in, he made sure to silence his phone. He wanted to rid himself of concerns; this wasn't a night for remembering the past. It was for living. Living in the present.
Ijichi stepped on the gas, the exhaust letting out a raspy “vroom” before taking off. It wasn’t long till they were in the heart of Tokyo, tall buildings towered over them with bright neon lights. Most of them blurred together for Gojo. He would hear Ijichi occasionally mutter curses at nearby traffic, which—he couldn’t blame him: the Tokyo traffic was terrible.
“I cannot wait!! I'm going to order a nice, cold, refreshing beer. Yes, that would be great!” Utahime exclaimed to Shoko.
Gojo's ears occasionally perked up at the sudden, spontaneous giggles in the back from Shoko and Utahime, but they didn't seize his attention much. There were intervals of time where he would eavesdrop on their conversations, like Utahime’s episodic “Why did you invite him?” Or "I'm so excited!” Other than that, Gojo didn't think he wanted to eavesdrop on them: they were dripping with homoretic tension. It was probably some weird girl thing anyway; they are usually more touchy with their friends.
Come to think of it, it wasn't all that strange. He and Suguru were that touchy with each other. At least before he left. It died down after the incident. Now, it felt like there was this unbreakable rift whenever they met: secretly, of course. Gojo’s brain hurt. It couldn’t be love. He wasn’t—weird. He hadn’t liked a guy. It's normal to get flustered when you are around your best friend. This was hurting Gojo’s brain. By the time his last thought was wrapped up, they had arrived. It had come across Gojo, Utahime, and Shoko that the place had been booming. Its neon sign flickered from time to time, casting a blue light on the three of them.
They all waved Ijichi goodbye, wearing heartfelt smirks on their faces. Nanami stood outside the front door. He wore a nasty scowl and seemed beyond annoyed. He kept looking at his watch. Gojo ran up to him enthusiastically, oblivious to his anger. Nanami repulsed back in disgust, taking a good 3 steps away from Gojo, nearly backing himself into the neon flickering sign that read “KARAOKE DRINKING”.
“Nanamiii-Sannnnn!!!” Gojo exclaimed, loud enough to turn heads. Gojo came running toward Nanami with his arms wide open, insinuating a hug. Nanami finally lost his cool, pushing him back. Gojo didn’t activate infinity; he let himself take that humiliation. “Somebody's excited to see me. . .” Gojo remarked sarcastically and defeated.
“You’re the same as ever, Gojo. And, the reason why Utahime and Shoko are terribly late.” Nanami retorted.
“You could say that.” Guilty as charged.
“Lighten up a bit, let’s actually use our reservation,” Shoko exclaimed, tired of their bickering.
“Did you get a private room?” Gojo squealed.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Shoko smirked.
The four of them eagerly walked into the place one by one. Shoko held Utahime's hand as they did. Their gazes met for a moment before letting go. Gojo didn't notice; he eagerly bounced up and down the place, impatiently, of course.
The four of them walked into the room they rented out: it had a lush white couch that wrapped around 3 walls, on the fourth wall was a TV mounted to the wall, and in the space between the U-shaped couch was a squeaky clean glass table. Gojo could almost see his own reflection staring back at him through the glass. On the table lay a basket with two red wine bottles, probably costing hundreds. Along the rims of the ceiling, LED lights ran across it, creating a perfect party atmosphere. That was the only light source that dimly lit the room.
Gojo was ecstatic.
Although what he was looking forward to most was the drinking. He hadn’t drunk since his teen years because it interfered with his six eyes. He didn’t know what it did, but it fucked it all up. But today, Gojo didn’t care; this was for himself a time to kick back and relax. He really needed it.
Nanami agreed to sing first, a glass of red wine in his left hand and a microphone in the right. He set the wine glass down, the red liquid swishing around as the glass hit the table with a sharp clink. He grabbed the remote, scrolling across the vast catalog of songs. The song Nanami chose was called “YURA YURA TEIKOKU DE KANGAECHU” by YURA YURA TEIKOKU. Gojo had never heard of the song before, but it opened with a fierce, funky guitar and some shouting. Nanami enthusiastically sang, nearly tripping over his words. The microphone probably reeked of alcohol.
The lyrics flashed up on the screen one by one, and Nanami sang. Over the loud stereo, Utahime and Shoko’s glasses clunked, cheering on Nanami periodically as he sang his heart out; this was probably the only chance he got to get his feelings out, being a salaryman and all.
Shoko flashed an alluring smile at Utahime, and Utahime let out a giggle. Shoko grabbed a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She tossed one to Utahime, and Utahime lit it. Shoko balanced a fresh cigarette between her lips, and Utahime lifted the lighter to it, lighting it. Gojo watched it unfold. They seemed awfully flustered. It almost felt wrong. Shoko slung her arms around Utahime's shoulders. Nanami continued. The song was almost over. Shoko leaned over, and their cigarettes' bright orange tips touched; sparks flew out, burning out before they hit the ground.
Gojo looked away, his nose scrunched up due to the smoke. Everything was so overwhelming. The drink he clutched in his hand looked so refreshing. He took a sip, and he felt euphoric. The buzz was addicting to say the least. Everything felt so null. That was the thrilling part of it. It was fleeting, but not the type of fleeting he felt whenever he was laughing with Shoko, the type of fleeting that felt artificial. Fuck it. This was the time for Gojo to get absolutely wasted, and nobody can say a thing about it.
It was shot after shot, all on Shoko's tab.
Gojo tilted up his head, downing that sweet orange colored liquid from a glass that was about the length of half of his pinky.
The liquid burned his throat, and as he swallowed it, a large “gulp” sound came from his throat.
He had about 6 shots lined up in front of him, right next to Nanami’s wine glass.
One. He gulped down.
Two.
Three.
He paused.
Shoko and Utahime drew their attention toward him.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Every single small glass was emptied.
He rubbed the sweat off his forehead and exclaimed over Nanami’s singing, “Fuck, I feel great.”
“You’re sure on a roll, Gojo.” Shoko pointed out.
Little did he know, his mask was chipping; the cracks came gradually. As Nanami’s song wrapped up, Gojo snatched the microphone, patting Nanami on the back.
“Greatt job!!” Gojo's speech was slurred, but his intentions were genuine.
“Thanks.” Nanami sank back into the white couch, taking a sip of his wine. Gojo brashly stood, stumbling over to the remote, gripping the microphone.
Gojo left a few things out.
Firstly, besides messing with his six eyes, alcohol fucked him up.
Why: Gojo is a light drinker.
or
Gojo’s alcohol tolerance is terrible.
And
And all of this wasn't for him.
Whatever illusion Gojo puts up to say this is to calm himself down is wrong.
This night was for Suguru Getou, in an attempt to either get him back or forget him.
Shoko Ierei had every intention for this, for the betterment of her friend.
Gojo scrolled through the catalogue, looking through the songs. He knew exactly what song he wanted. And he had managed to choose the most saucy, petty, tense song ever. This was directed toward the one and only Suguru Getou. And Gojo knew that. He knew that even though Getou would never hear this, he would make sure at least the universe heard his cries.
The song Gojo chose was called “Shame on Me” by Avicii.
The stereos blasted, and Gojo pulled the microphone toward his face; it did reek of alcohol.
As Gojo sang, he couldn’t derive what he was feeling. His head was spinning, and his infinity was off. His surroundings seemed dull. He couldn't see the breeze that ran through each blade of grass, every cherry blossom petal that pirouetted through the air, and every person's warm, heavy breath. His skin started to crawl; it was unsettling.
Whatever sense of control he had over the situation was stripped away from him.
Every single lyric was directed toward him. Gojo was mad to say the least; every memory he loathed came back. That day, why didn't he do it? He was right there; everyone was there. Everyone, he could’ve saved so many. Getou wasn't evil. Gojo couldn’t put it into words; this song did for him, though, perfectly.
He had to; he just felt so fucking mad.
So confused.
So hurt.
Suguru had to see that, see what he never saw,
After he left anyway.
Gojo continued on, his speech slurred, his voice cracking here and there. The rage pumped through his heart, and his arms felt light.
Gojo's mask had cracked, chipped, and fallen off.
He didn't realize, but everyone else did.
After the song ended, Gojo’s breath was heavy, and sweat ran down his face. Everything was wrong; it felt like everything on his face was glued and pasted onto him. He felt like a big craft of emotions, faultily glued together. Left to fall apart.
He couldn’t bear to look at anyone. Nanami, Shoko, and Utahime stared at him like he was an alien. He couldn’t take it; he couldn’t get their eyes off.
Shoko's brown bulbs were glued to him. A worried expression came across her face; it was almost like she was concerned for him. Almost.
Utahime’s chestnut irises were locked to him, brows raised, unreadable. She had a mixed expression of looking at him like he was trash, and actually feeling pity for him.
He couldn’t bear to look at Nanami’s expression; his chiseled cheeks and stern look were unbearable.
Gojo concluded,
He had to run.
Gojo’s chest rose and fell; his breathing was audible. His grip on anything he held ceased, the microphone dropped, and a loud, ear-piercing feedback filled the room. His teeth began to grit, his jaw rigorously moving back and forth.
Gojo bolted; that's all he has done. Run. He felt like a fucking pussy. And that same voice was telling him he was a good for nothing—homo—creep. He has always run from everything, from Getou, from Yaga, from his clan.
He shut the door behind him with a slam, hastily running to the restroom, trying not to arouse anyone's attention.
Near the private rooms was a public bar with a public karaoke option. Speakers blared into Gojo’s ears as he pushed past crowds of people. Their faces were a big blur, and his ears rang over the constant, confused shouting and singing. He kept pushing past civilians, slabs of breath escaping his mouth: this time, he could only feel his own, rather than the comforting ability of his six eyes; his breath alone he could feel. Maybe this is how a normal human feels on a day-to-day basis. His chest visibly heaved up and fell, and he followed that routine of pushing and breathing until he reached the restroom. The restroom wasn’t necessarily a haven: if not a haven, it was as hellish. It was white, obnoxiously white, and the blinding fluorescent lights subtly flickered here and there. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet and watching the veins of people singing, dancing, drinking, and talking disappear from his vision.
The bathroom was empty. Thank goodness. But remnants of humanity remained. The speakers were muffled, still audible, but muffled, and conversations were still booming from outside the bathroom. The bathroom smelled of hand sanitizer, soap, and puke.
Speaking of puke, Gojo had to barf. Bad. It hadn't risen from his throat yet, but the long dreaded nauseous sensation was on his tail.
Above the sinks was a long, continuous mirror, which he slowly stumbled toward.
As he looked at his reflection, a strong sense of looming vertigo hit him like an oncoming bus. Followed by an overwhelming amount of saliva building up in his mouth.
Gojo was going to puke.
Gojo hurried into the bathroom stall, breathing still as heavy as an elephant: he hovered over the toilet, hands glued to the seat. His stomach churned, and he could feel the bile coating his throat—rising like a volcano about to erupt. A stream of alcohol regurgitated from his throat, the taste of it was bitter and disgusting on the tip of his tongue, and the worst part was, it didn't stop.
Once it did, Gojo felt disgusted. Dirty, like a cover of grease and filth coated his skin. And every single moment he tried to forget, he tried to drown in alcohol, which was coming right back to him at this moment.
“Fuck.” Gojo exclaimed, cursing to himself.
Suguru’s damn face, his fucking pretty face, stupid, brown sugary eyes, flashed before him. In a series of events, Gojo couldn’t control any of them. Unlike he usually did, Gojo could control anything with his six eyes, or infinity. He could see anything, stop everything, stop anyone. And now that comfort and control were ripped from him.
Gojo was panicking. And it didn't stop, the panic came in a constant continuous stream until he collapsed next to the toilet next to the toilet in the awfully cramped stall. Cold, wet tears began to stream down his face. He rolled down his sleeves, trying to wipe them off his face, but they kept coming. It frustrated him beyond imagination. The Gojo clan never expected him to cry; the only person he had cried in front of was him and Himari. A few times, when he was a child, and the night of May 25th, 2006. He couldn't be here, with everyone, with Shoko, with—his dignity.
This was all his fault.
Gojo stood, infuriated. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, aggressively typing in the passcode.
He opened Suguru’s contact, the previous texts blurred by wet tears. Small droplets dropped onto the screen, wetting his phone.
************
0 missed messages
From: My Satoru
April 16th, at 9:45 PM
FUCK YOU
its all ypur fucking falut suguru
I miss you so fucking bad
You haven’t replied to not one of my texts in the last nine years y r u such a dickhead
have youever drunk before
It sucks
I havent drunk since that day u left
its kinda thrilling, i frgot how it felt after so long
9:46
and im so mad you werent there to hold my hair back when i threw it all up, like that one time we partied to hard at mei mei’s
suguru i miss you so much it hurts me
I just wanna come back to ur place and talk sbout everything
Im so sorry you felt that way but why did you have to leave EVERYONE
Nanami did the same but hes here with us tn
You left me for dead suguru
9:47
I love you
not in a gay way i think
Ok bht its still ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT.
9:50
Please i can come over in secret, i just need to see you again, i love you so fucking much.
Delivered
************
Gojo put his phone down for a moment on the grimy bathroom floor, taking a moment to puke up the final remnants of all the alcohol he drank, not to mention the sushi he had for lunch. It came out in pink and orange clumps, varying in size. Gojo’s vision was too blurry to decipher that fact.
Gojo picked up his phone again, every time he had texted Suguru in the past it was the fated “delivered” but this time—was different.
************
From: My Satoru
April 16th, at 9:50 PM
Please i can come over in secret, i just need to see you again, i love you so fucking much.
Read
…..
“Suguru, my one and only” is typing…
************