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It takes a glance, an instant, for Satoru to realize the oddities around him.
It started with his father agreeing far too easily to him not wearing the formal cloth, a kimono, to the Clans’ annual party. The party in which the Zenin, Kamo and Gojo gathered for social networking, and, frankly, to insult each other in pleasantries no one truly meant. Satoru stared at the aging man with a shocked face, suspecting a greater scheme brewing behind his back and one that would finally snap his last semblance of patience toward everything around him.
Satoru had been patient, indulging to an extent, but not for them. Never for anyone except a specific person he had been desperately waiting for. Someone who, no matter how early or late, would always come and make himself known.
It is why when Satoru arrives at the party, he immediately knows.
The revelry isn’t a magical thing like many would like to believe. Instead, it’s a slow descent into the rawest form of humanity. The good kind — not about survival and madness, but love and charm. Satoru knows much about charm, not because of his own experiences being a young and wanted handsome bachelor, but because of the one who taught him about the beauty in decay. The delights of plights. The roses in the rot.
Satoru learned about charm because he had been charmed, enthralled, and utterly taken, and yet he never quite learned how to stop.
The receptionist takes his invitation and throws it in the trash — another oddity, aside from the wide, informal smile she greeted him with. She presses a bouquet of flowers into his hands before he could leave. Beautiful poisons, Satoru notes in fascination at the marvelous, enchanting colors of flowers he had yet to see in this life. There’s no card attached to it. Of course, the man chuckles under his breath, of course, he’s that kind of person after all.
Mystical, Satoru means to say, enchanting, enamouring, a playful beloved and a selfless menace. Someone adored by the world and forgiven for his sins. For revelries he leaves people in once he honors them with his presence but never with his attention.
Satoru smiles, blue eyes shimmering with a mirthful, anticipating spark as he steps into the ballroom. It is immediately clear to him, by the way others ignored the call of his name instead of the usual fear, that his beloved, Itadori Yuuji has finally found him in this life. He doesn’t see him but the crowd of people who circle the grand piano. There wasn’t supposed to be a performance, Satoru knows as much, nor were the stuck-up people in the Three Great Clans the type to have such big smiles donning their faces with childish excitement around him.
But satoru knows, as well, that wherever Yuuji went, a crowd would always follow.
The man steps to the front, his blues fixed on the scene that slowly unravel before him. A boy sitting on the white instrument — Yuuji has had many faces, identities, and names, just like Satoru did. Whether the god had the appearance of a criminal or the most delicate of bodies, his soul, which is forever connected to Satoru’s, always sang the same flutter in their first meeting.
That flutter, Satoru remarks with an amused smile, was always accompanied with a cheeky grin.
The melodies played by the boy’s masterful strokes are beautiful, something new to this century but Satoru remembers playing it himself lifetimes ago. This, too, is another lovely part of his beloved — a part that shamelessly asks Satoru to help him make food while refusing to let go of the man. A part where the boy selectively ignores Satoru’s huffs and puffs about lazing about in the mortal world. A part that only Satoru sees fully and embraces while ignoring the world’s envy and fury for stealing the deity’s heart.
Once the song ends, Yuuji flutters his eyes open, crowds falling into roars of claps and cheers around them. His eyes search through the mass with agonizing slowness, scanning three people at a time while a focused frown appears on his face. Satoru moves to step forward, to let his presence be known, but his lover beats him to it.
With a blink, Satoru faces the grinning boy, who held sunshine in his eyes, in a closeness he would never allow anyone else.
“Satoru,” Yuuji purrs, golden eyes bleeding into a rotten brown, “Would you allow me the pleasure?”
To court you, goes unsaid. not that either of them needed to hear it in order to understand. Because where Yuuji is a loved deity, Satoru is a monstrous immortal. They are equal halves and a part of a whole. Words fail between them because all they need is a gaze.
He extends his hand to Satoru, expression oh so gentle that it drowns the other in a melting fuzz. Satoru mirrors Yuuji’s grin, eyes glinting knowingly while ignoring the envious glares aimed at him. He takes the other’s hand, not one to back down from making the other feel just as loved, and yanks his body closer. Gojo wraps a hand around the boy’s waist, allowing the bouquet to fall to the ground, and leans his face close. Relishing the slight blush on the deity’s cheek, he answers, “Of course, beloved.”
Satoru stares, immensely amused, at Yuuji struggling to understand the insulting piece of cloth that is a normal t-shirt. He considers giving him advice, guiding him just a little, but ultimately decides not to when the deity throws the t-shirt to the ground with a frustrated huff. “I would have expected you to study and adjust to the culture of this time before coming to find me.” Satoru hums thoughtfully from his comfortable seat on the sofa.
“I did!” Yuuji lets out another huff before narrowing his eyes and pointing an accusing finger, "You gave me a difficult one on purpose.”
Satoru gasps, scandalized, and puts his hands on his chest as a show of hurt, “Are you accusing me of trying to mess with you!?”
“I’m not accusing; I know you are.”
Tsk. The immortal pouts, his eyes darting between the custom made t-shirt he asked for just for this occasion, and the boy matching his pout along with a cross of his arms. “I’m not.” Satoru says, miffed at being caught so easily. It isn't anything new, to be honest — he is used to messing with Yuuji occasionally to see his reactions. It's a small, intimate victory he relishes in every time.
“Well,” Yuuji purses his lips. His eyes lower to stare at the hem of his red kimono. The one he had been wearing since yesterday's party. “I'll be going now.”
No. The words pierce through his skin, bones and straight into his very soul. The ache isn't a forgiving kind — not gentle even when it's wrapped by the warmth only Yuuji can make him feel. His heart stutters into a halt, just as the bitterness in his mouth surfaces, then a loud pound. The deity's voice had been casual and devoid of any sign of irritation or annoyance. It grated on his ears nonetheless as it played with his heart like a toy.
We just met again. Satoru thinks while casting his beloved a carefully curious look, Why are you already going?
His façade doesn't deceive Yuuji in the slightest — or maybe it does and the boy wants to reassure him anyway. “I'm going to court you, Satoru.” His attention is focused on Satoru alone, and the man savors every bit of it greedily. “I can't do it when I'm living with you.”
“Does it matter?” You already have me.
I already have you.
Does all of this truly matter?
Satoru knows it does. It's his lover's way of adoring him through the lifetimes spent together. A claim that repeats every cycle because they both love claiming each other over and over again. Yuuji is a deity — an ancient being so adored and loved, so full of life and youth that he chooses to direct it solely on Satoru. It's a precious thing the immortal appreciates and hates at the same time.
Sometimes, in some lives when Yuuji takes too long to find him, he wishes his lover forgoes the formality to save their time and relearn each other all over again. Yuuji refuses every time, a smug grin on his face and Satoru’s heart in his hands.
“Eh.” Yuuji grins, “You're a very spoiled man, and I like pampering you.”
Satoru huffs helplessly and stands up to see him off. His entire being buzzes with sourness at having to tell the boy goodbye, and anticipation for the days to come.
“Who was that?” Megumi stops him that night from rewatching the Hunger Games trilogy. His arms are crossed and he’s glaring at Satoru for some forsaken reason. The older man raises an eyebrow, motioning the other to sit in the living room and proceeds to ask casually, “who was who?”
His ward huffs at him, “the boy from yesterday.”
Hm. Satoru thinks about his options. He has absolutely no intention of telling Megumi the truth no matter how much he adores him—Yuuji comes first. He always does. And, honestly, Megumi would call him crazy and call an asylum in the worst case scenario. Instead, the option of lying is much more reasonable, tempting, and most importantly, amusing. “I don’t know.” Satoru cocks his head to the side in false innocence, “He did say he wants to court me, though.”
Satoru laughs at Megumi’s confused face. Confused, because Satoru is the womanizer — he made a reputation for himself thanks to his harmless flirting that never escalated to anything else, but he understands Megumi’s point—If there were to be any courting involving Satoru then the whole world of Sorcery would expect him to be the initiator. It’s thanks to his many titles as the strongest, The Honored One. but those titles mean utterly nothing to Yuuji, to Satoru as well, but everything to the rest.
“He looks young.” Megumi points out with a furrow of his brows. Ah. right. Yuuji does look young in this life. Much younger than Satoru and closer to Megumi’s age. It says nothing about his true form and age—which apparently Yuuji stopped counting after wailing to him about reaching hundred thousand years. Satoru studies his ward’s expression a moment longer, a lopsided grin stretches on his face—it hides the sharpness he feels once he notices the small spark of envy hidden perfectly.
“So?” Satoru shrugs, his false morals be damned. “He likes who he likes. I’m not going to stop him.”
Megumi purses his lips and nods, dropping the subject. Satoru decides in that moment that he will change his apartment’s passcode---to shut his ward out until his infatuation with Yuuji passes. Two days later Satoru sees Yuuji again at the torii leading to Jujutsu Tech. his beloved is wearing a modern outfit much to his surprise; a sleeveless black turtleneck, black ripped jeans and white converse. It suits him quite well, which means that Nobara must have helped with it.
Satoru grins at the thought, abandons a confused Panda and a stoic Nanami, then tackles the boy from behind. Yuuji, to his credit, doesn’t fall or lose his balance; he lets out a muffled oof drowned by Satoru’s whines. “Yuuji! Where have you been!?”
“Hmm?” Yuuji peers at him, “home?”
Satoru huffs, “Meanie. You left your husband all alone!” he actively ignores the other two who gape at him. He is slightly miffed though, they know how childish he can be. Though, he amends, they don’t know how childish he can be with Yuuji.
“I did.” the deity agrees with a grin that makes Satoru want to both smack and kiss him.
Yuuji starts walking ahead, waving goodbye to the two strangers who were with Satoru. His steps are light despite the man child attached to him like glue. It feels warm—everything about Satoru always does. He missed this feeling dearly, he realizes again, so much so that he’s still missing it despite Satoru’s clinginess. He wants, wants, wants, everything that Satoru can and will give him, and then some.
Satoru doesn’t ask him where they will be going, and Yuuji appreciates it—because, despite all his wisdom as a deity, Yuuji is a dumbass when it comes to planning dates and courting. One might think he got the hang of it after so many lifetimes, and his lover would burst out laughing at the assumption and never let it go. His plan this time is loosely based on the idea of going to a teahouse in a park; he had spent days searching for the perfect one with Nobara’s not so kind directions.
“How have you been?” Yuuji asks curiously.
“Fine.” Satoru waves his hand dismissively, “I have a ward this time.”
Yuuji turns to him in slight surprise—he knows Satoru doesn’t particularly like having wards mainly because he doesn’t like having anyone too close to him. Knowing that he would need to leave the mortal world at some point in his life, having people who would miss him and who he would miss in turn, would hurt. The deity purses his lips for a second then smiles, “really? And how are they?”
“He,” Satoru stresses with a frown, “is charmed by you.”
Yuuji raises an eyebrow in amusement as they finally enter the park, “he was at that party?” he asks rhetorically while studying his lover’s frown. Possessiveness is such a beloved look on the immortal, but the deity doesn’t want to be a cause of conflict between the two, so he amends, “I’m sure it’ll pass after a while. It always does.”
Of course, the revelry always passes. But, it leaves the destruction of hearts, souls, morals and everything behind it. It had always made Yuuji wonder why the universe—the positive forces that created him—allow him to exist. Whenever he does, Sukuna, his twin, likes to remind him that there’s an ugliness to everything pretty, something to cry for when smiling.
Satoru hums, agreeing while entering the teahouse’s door that Yuuji opened for him. The place is small–utterly beautiful and reminds him of a teahouse he opened in a lifetime where Satoru became a fugitive for stealing a prince’s sweets.
They sit down on the cushioned floor and talk. Yuuji learns about Satoru again—what his life has been like so far as the strongest who everyone relies on; Yuuji notices the undertone of everyone seeing his beloved as a tool more than a person and it angers, bitters him all the same. His relationship with his students; ‘defective’ teenagers who Satoru fostered to strengthen the world after he leaves it with Yuuji. His colleagues; the stoic man who left the Sorcery world only to return to it later, the other teachers who he amuses himself by annoying. His friends; the doctor and former classmate, the defected one who Satoru liked quite a lot and even considered asking Yuuji to bring him with them before Satoru had to kill him with his own hands.
When he’s done, Yuuji speaks this time—tells him all about the ‘torment’ Nobara puts him through when they gossip about the other deities. Complains about Sukuna who destroyed their house once again when he learned that Yuuji was he one who stole his enchanted flowers three hundred years back. He tells him all what he missed and changed too; the flowers had grown and became sentient, their pet fox spirit is missing Satoru dearly that it resulted in a mating ritual and now it has a partner.
Satoru laughs hardest when he learns that Yuuji, Sukuna, and Nobara managed to start a rebellion—said rebellion is merely a gathering of other gods and immortals complaining about stuck-up superiors or council members, but it was enough to be deemed scandalous by some of the older deities.
“—and then Nobara ran away.” Yuuji finishes with a wide grin, watching his lover who has been laughing for ten minutes. He hopes, wants, knows, that he will spend another lifetime listening to the musical sound, and he can’t wait for it.