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He makes killing look like an art. There’s a splattering of blood on the floor like confetti, and he gazes upon his handiwork with a particular fondness, eyes wide with wonder like a child. He’d never admit to it; he says he kills out of duty, but killing is child's play to him. He dispatches curses with ease, not a single pearl of sweat forming on his brow. His blindfold is off, and he adds more colour to the world as he rips open the curse's belly, pulling out it’s flesh coloured entrails and bearing them to the world, revealing its sin. Do curses feel pain?
She’s curled up into a ball, gripping her stomach as the pain rolls through her. The bottom of her turtleneck is darkened with her blood; her head feels hot and sticky. She trembles, and her limbs feel heavy; her limbs ache, craving rest. She loves this euphoric feeling, right on the brink of death, when her head feels so light. Right as her body and soul begin to split, she lets out a gasp of pain and begins to heal herself. The rush of energy makes her feel giddy inside. She imagines that she’s wearing his skin, that it’s her ripping the curse limb from limb, and her chest swells and expands like someone has inflated a balloon in her chest cavity. She sits up, wrings the blood from her turtleneck like a wet cloth, and the euphoria flees from her like an evil spirit.
He turns slowly, and she eyes the hard lines of his back. He doesn’t tire; he barely sleeps. He’s a fine-tuned machine, an instrument of violence. She knows what makes his gears spin, what makes him tick.
“That’s enough, Satoru,” She says softly. “It’s dead,”
He straightens, entranced by her voice. She stands, stumbling. Her heels are speckled with blood, a mixture of her own and the curses. He steps back, wipes his hands on his trousers, and she fishes a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to him. He takes it unceremoniously and cleans himself off; of course, none of his blood has been spilt.
She searches for her broom. The curses remains are scattered all over her apartment floor. Her living room is dishevelled. The couch is overturned, and her medical journals are scattered all over the place. There’s broken glass all over the floor; the curse had burst in through her balcony door right as she’d slipped into her heels. She could handle disorder; her apartment wasn’t particularly clean anyway– not dirty, but messy. Half-read reports everywhere, photographs, piles of clean, washed clothes that she’d folded and forgotten to put away. She runs a finger over her bottom lip; there’s a small cut that she’s missed. She wipes it, and it fades away.
“It’s one of his,” Satoru says. Hands in his pockets. She doesn’t respond; she gets to work, sweeping the glass into a pile in the middle of the floor. She’ll let him deal with the curse.
When she finishes, she kneels, opening her cleaning cupboard, and she knits her brow. She’s never good at keeping on top of things, especially not replacing cleaning supplies. She’s all out of floor cleaner– maybe she’ll ask Satoru to teleport to the convenience store and pick some up.
“I don’t have anything to clean the blood,” She says flatly, her heart rate subsides. He’s standing behind her; she can feel his imposing presence, his shadow oppresses her.
“Didn’t you hear me?” He says, his voice cutting through her. “That curse was one of Suguru’s.”
“I heard you,” She says calmly.
He’s quiet. He taps his foot impatiently. He’s frowning, his jaw is taut.
“That’s it?” He says. “That’s all you have to say–”
She grits her teeth.
“There’s nothing worth saying,”
“You can’t stay here,” He says. “It isn’t safe anymore,”
She shuts the cabinet and stands. Who is he to tell her what she can do? She’s only been in this place for a couple of years, but it feels as good as home. She sighs, and a wave of exhaustion overcomes her.
“Help me clean up,” She says.
“He’s trying to provoke me–”
“Maybe he misses you,”
“That curse could have killed you.”
“I know,”
“And that’s it,” Satoru says. “You just don’t care?”
She reaches up, pulls a glass from one of the cabinets and fills it at the sink. She hands it to him, and he eyes it like it’s poison. She won’t dishonour him by suggesting that he’s overreacting; in truth, she’s as scared as he is. Years without a single word from Suguru, and yet, he’s out there somewhere, watching. It’s unnerving.
Even so, the curse had ample opportunity to kill her, but had refrained. It had inflicted minimal violence, striking her stomach and hitting her face. The wounds stung, but strangely, at no point did she feel any fear. In fact, she welcomed the pain. It had been years since she’d seen a live curse up close; she was used to dead things. Corpses, hollowed out carcasses delivered to her to be vivisected. When the curse had burst through her door, she hadn’t run, nor had she cried out, but she’d looked it directly in its glassy amber coloured eye– as if she was challenging it to snuff out the life in her. For a moment, it felt like she was looking at him, as if she were testing his will. If you want to kill me, you can do it yourself.
It was pathetic that even after all of these years, even with his betrayal, she still considered him a friend. She still thought that he’d have the courtesy to show his face. It wasn’t cowardice, but rather indifference, which made it all worse.
“You’re shaking,” She says, his shoulders tremble beneath the dark fabric of his uniform jacket.
“You could have died,”
“How did you know something was wrong?” She hums. He’d teleported onto her balcony a few minutes after the curse had ripped his blindfold off and got to work.
“You’re never late when we go out drinking,” Satoru says. “Especially not when Utahime’s in town,”
She smiles. She likes that she’s so predictable. She has her routines, and he has his. He kills, she heals– they balanced each other out.
“Is everyone still there?” She asks.
He nods.
“Alright, I’ll cut you a deal,” She says. “I won't stay here tonight if we can just go out and forget about this.”
He looks wary, but he knows as well as she does that he can’t deny her. He runs a hand across his sharp jaw; his face is marred by a mixture of exasperation and exhaustion.
“Fine,”
There’s nothing that a drink can’t fix. The bar is like a hospital, healing all of the things she can’t. She feels camaraderie with every drunk in the world. The chorus of lonely people who stumble from bar to bar, numbing themselves, swilling their drinks. Golden poison. Ambrosia. The bubbles rise to the top of her glass– Utahime is in town, Suguru has sent her a reminder of his existence– a gift. She makes Satoru buy a bottle of champagne, the good stuff; there’s much to celebrate, and the sound of a champagne cork popping always infuses the air with joy.
Nanami stews in the corner, Utahime grips her glass, and there’s a baseball match being displayed on the TV. She roars when her favourite player hits a home run. Mei Mei is on her phone, and Ichiji is quiet as per usual. Kusakabe taps the bottom of a cigarette carton against the table. It’s lively here, she’d rather be here than sitting in her destroyed apartment, wondering about where Suguru was, and whatever horrible things he was planning.
She downs her glass of champagne and fills up another glass. Normally, she likes the harder stuff, but it makes her tongue feel too loose in her mouth. When she drinks liquor, all of her secrets spill out– she thinks about the way the fleshy pink guts of the curse spilt from its stomach cavity– if you could even call it that. She feels loose and free. She’s wearing a skirt, and the music makes her feel like she wants to dance, but her feet are heavy. Her heart is heavy.
Satoru’s hand is on his knee; he’s clutching the dark fabric of his pants. His whole body is a livewire. He laughs along, but his body betrays him. He teases Utahime, as per usual, but a shard of ice has crystallised in his throat. His laughter sounds like broken glass, ricocheting through his cavernous chest. Shoko smiles at him dumbly, like a mule.
Let's forget about it. She pleads with her eyes. Let's just have a good night.
The night had already soured before she’d gotten here, when Suguru had sent a curse to lay her down on the sacrifice stone and rip her heart out.
“Are you just going to scroll through Twitter all night?” Satoru says, turning to Mei Mei.
“I’m chasing up invoices.” Mei Mei doesn’t look up from her phone.
Shoko envies Mei Mei. Mei Mei’s world is a simple one. If Mei Mei has a heart, Shoko has seen no evidence of it. Her only connection to the world is material. Wherever money goes, Mei Mei follows. She isn’t entangled by the affairs of the heart– friendships, relationships. Even her familial ties are transactional. If it had been Mei Mei who had met that curse tonight, she would have defeated it with the flick of her wrist and sent Suguru an invoice for the dry cleaning bill. She wouldn’t be sitting in the bar, desperately trying to push her feelings away. She wouldn’t scamper around looking for cleaning supplies or think anything of it.
“Speaking of which, you owe me,” Mei Mei says, flashing her phone. Satoru pouts.
“Do you accept payment in champagne?” He says.
“You know the deal, cash or bank transfer. I don’t barter.”
“I have to give it to you,” Satoru sighs. “You know what you’re about. I exorcise curses out of the good of my own heart–”
“You exorcise curses because you have an insatiable god complex,” Nanami interrupts dryly.
Shoko lets out an uncharacteristic giggle, which earns her a few surprised stares. It’s at that moment that she realises that she’s piss drunk.
Her hands feel cold. Her heart rate increases, she scrunches her nose and focuses, in a futile attempt to lower it. Everything crashes onto her– Satoru is right, she nearly died tonight. If he hadn’t arrived in time, she’d be the one torn to pieces on her apartment floor in the curses' stead.
She leans to the side, sips on some more champagne. The only way out was through. She feels the familiar warmth of Satoru’s body; she knows it well. She lets him lean into her, his grip on his knees loosens, and slowly, he moves his hand onto her knee, lightly, just hovering above. The heat from his hand and the secrecy of it all, happening beneath the table, make it feel illicit. Her cheeks are already red, so no one notices the deepening flush.
“Long day,” He says, he hesitates for a moment, before his hand settles on her knee, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Think it’s time I get this little lady home,”
Little lady, she snorts. Rolling her eyes. Five years of medical school, of hard graft, and he says it so suavely that she can hardly be mad, because she’s been made to feel small tonight. She’s been attacked in her own apartment, she feels light and vulnerable, and his large hand against her knee– those hands which can level cities and rip curses from limb to limb, touch her so gently that she just wants to relent, to lose herself completely. She’s a thimble, a penny, a grain of rice. She’s so small that she’s imperceptible. She’s light as a feather. She’s an atom waiting to be split.
“You still owe me,” Mei Mei says.
But he isn’t listening, and neither is she. They all file out and say their goodbyes. She stumbles into him, and he grips her shoulders firmly. They wave everyone off, and then he asks her if she’s okay, and they go through the motions, but she doesn’t want to be out here; she doesn’t want to be around anyone, in the street with the drunks anymore; she wants to be taken care of. She wants to relinquish control over her own body.
She only realises how much resentment she holds when she’s drunk, her shoulders are always tense, her jaw always tight, but when she’s drunk, when his hand grips her knee and when he grips her shoulders so tightly, as if he’s afraid she’ll slip away from him, she feels free.
He rents a room from the school, which is far from modest, nothing like the dorms. She thought it would be nostalgic, but it’s far from that. She’d always joked about him still living like a schoolboy, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. His room was clean and well-ordered. Clothes folded and packed away, not by his own efforts, there would be someone who came to clean his room and fold his clothes– he didn’t cook. The school wanted to make it as easy for him as possible; his sole job was to ensure that the world remained balanced. He had bigger things to worry about than dusting and hoovering, and she feels flattered that such an important man carves out some of what little time he has for her.
He never denies her when she asks him to come to the bar. She doesn’t deny him either, which is why the fight she put up in her apartment was futile. She’ll move, pack her whole life into boxes and find somewhere else to live. Maybe crash here for a couple of days. She knew that if she asked him, he could snap his fingers and put her in some apartment his family owned. She doesn’t want to ask him to do that; she’s self-sufficient. She may not be able to level cities or use her hands to kill, but she likes to cling to whatever sense of normalcy and humanity she can. She’s special, but she isn’t as special as him. It’s a gap she’ll never bridge, and she’s at peace with that.
She’s woozy; booze and teleportation don’t mix. She’d tried to get him to use public transport, but Satoru avoided public transport whenever possible. He’d grown up with a chauffeur. Ichiji had offered to take them back, but Shoko had thought it cruel. She wasn’t blind; she knew that Ichiji harboured a little crush on her. She couldn’t ask him to take them home, knowing that she’d stumble off to Satoru’s room. Of course, she could have asked to stay somewhere else, but they both knew that she was in no state to be left alone.
“Whoa there,” He says. She lands on his bed, leaning back. He opens his wardrobe, depositing a fresh T-shirt and a pair of pyjama pants on the bed next to her. “Someone’s had too much to drink,”
She rolls her eyes.
“Do you remember my last mission?” She says she doesn’t know why she brings it up. Maybe dredging up the past makes her feel closer to him. They had a past after all. She couldn’t speak to the future. They were in a terrible line of work; the future wasn’t guaranteed.
“How could I forget?” He says. “You nearly died,”
It had been their third or fourth mission. The school was still figuring out what to do with her, assessing her non-existent combat abilities. Suguru had been hurt, and as she was healing him, a curse had run her through. She’d healed herself, but had spent the rest of the missions on the sidelines, watching as both of them exacted revenge on her behalf. She’d hated what happened after, the silent car ride. When they’d returned to the school, Satoru and Suguru had gone off with Yaga, given him an earful, and told him never to send Shoko on a mission again. That was the end of her career on the field. She was a hindrance then, and she still felt like a thorn in his side. She’d get too drunk, and he’d have to walk her home. She’d make him sit with her through long, uncomfortable silences– she’d pushed him out, when he so desperately wanted to be let in.
There was some strength in being impregnable. She fortified her emotional walls; if something upset her, she didn’t let it show. She couldn’t be strong like him, but she could be strong in her own way. She wouldn’t be moved, she would stare hell in the face with a blank expression. She didn’t cry when dead kids turned up in the morgue, or when her comrades died, she just mourned in her own way, sparked up a cigarette, whispered a quiet prayer and went on with her day.
It took a toll, but not one that she wasn’t willing to pay.
“I’m always causing trouble for you, aren’t I?” She says. “More trouble than I’m worth,”
She’s unable to mask the spite in her voice. She hates it, this false strength. She remembers the day she went to meet Suguru; it took everything to remain calm, but her fingers shook when she called Satoru. She delivered Suguru’s betrayal flatly over the phone, as if she were reading yesterday's news. Sometimes she wishes that Suguru had snapped her neck there; it would have been better than this– clambering on, trying to find a new way to live. Drinking and smoking, unable to wash off the distinct scent of death which clung to her like French perfume.
“Don’t say that,” Satoru chides. “Don’t be morbid, Shoko.”
“I’m sorry,” She says.
“About?” He asks, he looks at her, his eyes look pale in the low light.
Where to begin? She’s sorry that she’s like this; she’s sorry about Suguru. She’s sorry that the whole world sees him as a weapon, as an unfeeling killing machine. A tool to be dispatched at someone else's will. She doesn’t apologise for any of those things, struck down for her own cowardice once again.
“I got too drunk,” She says. “I always drink too much,”
“You almost died,” Satoru says. “You can drink as much as you’d like; it’s far better than the alternative.”
He lies beside her. She bites her lip, holding back tears. She hates it when she gets like this, nostalgic and morose. Champagne does it to her; once the high passes, the sugar melts her brain.
“Do you want to shower?” He asks.
“Yeah,” Her voice is shrill, she sounds like a little girl. She turns to face him. “Can you wash my hair?”
He blinks.
“Uh–”
“Don’t make it weird,”
“You want me….to….with you,” He says, sounding confused. “I can get you a shirt to wear in the shower–”
“I’m a doctor,” She says. “I’ve seen hundreds of naked bodies.”
“Oh…um,” He says. He rarely gets flustered. She likes catching him off guard, which makes her feel powerful. “Alright– I’ll get in first,”
He scurries into the bathroom like a mouse. Shoko can’t help but smile. The shower switches on, and she takes that as her cue. She rises slowly, peels off her heels, and throws them into the corner. They’re the only thing out of place in this room, and the chaos gives it some character, makes it feel lived in. She briefly wonders if he’s ever brought another woman back to this room, not that it’s any of her business. The thought of it annoys her for some reason.
She makes her way into the bathroom, and he’s in the shower, back turned. His hair is wet. She stares at his back, rakes her eyes across him. She’s still human, even though she pretends she isn’t. He stands straight as an arrow, his back sculpted like a marble statue. The counter is a mess, covered in bottles of shaving cream and moisturiser– La Roche Posay, skincare products. Of course, she sniggers. She always forgets how vain he is. She didn’t know what she expected; there was no way Satoru would use 3 in 1. He has more skincare products than she does. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him with a blemish on his face; maybe she should note some of these products down. Having a routine would do her some good; she just washes her face with a bar of soap and hopes for the best. She’s ruthlessly practical.
She strips down, tossing her things into his laundry basket. She steps into the shower and places a hand in the centre of his back; his entire body stiffens.
“Stop hogging the water,” She says. “I’m cold,”
“S-sorry,” He says, stepping back.
She lets the water wash the booze off of her, grips the soap and lathers it in her hands, and she rubs herself down, scrubbing every inch of her body. He has an even more impressive selection of products in his shower, a fancy shower gel which probably costs an arm and a leg. She grips the bottle, squeezing a generous amount in her hand and rubs it all over her body. She works slowly.
When she finishes, she turns, and he’s looking at the ceiling. She smiles. At least he’s a gentleman, though an arrogant one. Both of them know that he can see everything with those special eyes of his.
“See anything interesting up there?” She laughs.
He looks down, averts his eyes, stares at his feet.
“It’s fine, I know you’re not a creep.”
“Yeah– but I’m still a man,” He says. His face is red, his white bangs are plastered to his forehead. “Promise me you won’t look down,”
It's her turn to be flustered. She bites her lip.
“Promise,”
“Cool,” He says.
“Do you want to wash yourself now?” She says.
He nods. They switch places. She stands behind him, shivering. She feels like a drowned rat. The steam is making her head feel light. She leans against the porcelain tiles.
He finishes, and he turns to her. She keeps her eyes fixed on his collarbones. Don’t look down, she repeats. She’s tempted, she blames the fact that she’s drunk, but it isn’t that. Her heart is pounding, and she’s in over her head. I’m a doctor. What nonsense.
“Do you want me to wash your hair now?” He says gently.
She nods. They switch places once again. He reaches over her shoulder and grabs a bottle of shampoo. He squeezes it directly on top of her head.
“I don’t want to get any in your eyes,” He says. She nods. She lifts her hands, forming a bridge with them just above her brow.
She shuts her eyes as he works away at her hair. His hands are gentle. He massages the shampoo into her scalp; it smells like honey. She sways on her feet, lets her body go. The distance between them closes, and she presses her back against his chest, careful not to get too close. He makes a slightly choked sound, which she ignores.
“Feels good,” She murmurs. A breathy moan escapes her lips as his fingertips brush the top of her scalp.
“Don’t make noises like that,” He says. “Makes me feel like I’m taking advantage of a drunk woman,”
“Maybe I’m taking advantage of you,” She quips. “You’d pay good money for this at a salon, if you ever need a side hustle–”
“Shampoo’s all out,” He interrupts. He grabs another bottle, conditioner. He squeezes it directly onto her hair.
He works it through, and she lets out a sigh. He finishes, switches the tap off. She turns, knitting her brow.
“Don’t you want me to wash yours?” She asks.
“I…” He starts. “I think the steam’s got to my head,”
He’s red all over, completely flushed. He steps out of the shower, wrapping a white towel around his waist. She peers down, and her suspicions are confirmed. She blushes.
“Here,” He coughs. Handing her a towel. She wraps herself in it, stepping out of the shower.
He’s out of the shower before she can question him further. She looks at herself in the mirror; her under-eye bags are awful. She looks like she’s crawled out of a bog. Maybe, just maybe, the attack has been more taxing on her than she’d care to admit.
She exits, dressing herself quickly. He’s already underneath the covers, in a pair of button-up flannel pyjamas. She places her towel over the back of his desk chair. There’s barely anything on his desk, save for his laptop and a stack of reports.
She slides into bed next to him. His mattress is as soft as butter, and his sheets are cotton. The bed is warm. She turns onto her side, examining him. The soft contours of his face are clear when she’s this close. She wants to reach out, to trace her fingers along his jaw. Rub her thumbs along his mouth, which is shaped into a childlike pout. She wants to grip his cheeks, refashion his lips into a smile. She wants to kiss them until they're red and raw. She wants him to taste the champagne which lingers on her tongue.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” He says. “Let's go to sleep,”
“You’re upset,”
He sits up abruptly. Very seldom is he angry, much less angry with her. The tips of his ears are red. She blinks, attempting to hold her face in place.
“You almost died tonight–”
“Water under the bridge,”
“You almost died tonight, and you can’t even….you won’t even…” He stammers. “We go to the bar, you drink until you’re half dead. You come back, and you make me wash your hair, and I don’t mind doing that, but….”
“I’m sorry,” She says.
“I’m not mad,” He says. “I just…”
He pauses.
“I’ve known you for almost ten years now, but sometimes it feels like I don’t know you at all,” He says. “I don’t understand you– I don’t understand how you can just carry on like nothing’s happened,”
She sits up, facing him. She reaches forward, her hand hovers over his chest. You know me, she thinks. You know me….
He sighs.
“It’s nothing,” He says. “Forget it. I’m fine. You aren’t dead– you aren’t dead…that’s all that matters,”
She tries to form the words, but they don’t come. She presses her lips into a firm line.
“Do you know how I would feel if you died?” He says. The words carry weight. With those words, he’s tied a millstone around her neck.
You’d get over it. She thinks. A lie. She’s quiet because if he died, she doesn’t know what she’d do. In truth, she trusts him more than anyone else in the world. She doesn’t quite know what it’s like to be him, but she’s always trusted that he knows her. That she feels helpless. That she sits around while her comrades die, unable to do anything– she saves who she can, he saves who he wants to.
“I’m not like you,” She says, slowly. “The world doesn’t bend at my feet. I can’t fight. I can’t defend myself. I control what I can,”
He bites his lip.
“You’re more powerful than you think, Shoko,” He says. “You could destroy me with a single word,”
His face is millimetres from hers, their nose nearly touch. His breath is hot against her lips. How simple it would be to close that distance, to relent, to give in. She shuts her eyes, she syncs her breathing to his, her chest shudders, and the enormity of his desire becomes apparent to her. A boulder, hanging above her head, ready to crush her.
“We would destroy each other,” She murmurs.
They both know it. It’s why she works so hard to keep him out. He’s an open flame, and she’s a can of kerosene. He’s a river, and she’s a dam. How long can she ignore the cracks? How long until it all spills over and washes them both away?
“Goodnight, Gojo,” She whispers. She flicks the light off and extinguishes the flame.