Chapter Text
“Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage,
You and I shall laugh together with the storm,
And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,
And we shall stand in the sun with a will,
And we shall be dangerous.”
– Kahlil Gibrah, Defeat
It’s warmer today than it’s been for the past week, golden flinders of sun streaming through roller blinds, spalling on wooden floor and Suguru’s olive skin where he’s stationed behind the counter. Topless, harem pants hanging low on his hips, a jar of carrot jam held in one hand and a spoon in another to smear the confiture on toast.
Gorgeous, Satoru thinks fondly, stifling a yawn, diving into his boxers to adjust himself before snagging one piece of bread, much to the black-haired man’s discontent.
“Don’t scratch your balls before touching my sandwiches, that’s gross and unsanitary, they’re supposed to go into my mouth,” the clean freak grouses, swatting at Satoru’s fingers, a useless hoax in their scolding when he’s already sliding an additional slice in front of the sorcerer, the mother hen jumping out with the need to coddle.
“That so?” Satoru hums around a mouthful, a wily smile curving the apples of his cheeks. “But you ate my ass and-”
This time Suguru is less delicate, twisting the innovative sword in his grasp, taking advantage of Satoru’s equally bare chest and shoving the tip of the handle between his ribs, poke powerful enough to leave him doubling-over and wheezing.
“Not every single thought that enters your head has to be voiced out loud,” his best friend stammers through his teeth, Byzantium purple eyes narrowed and Persian red efflorescing on his countenance, that usual note of sentimentality exhaled along with his exasperated sigh as Satoru fleetingly massages the area of the assault, bursting into laughter.
Wades nearer when it dies down, pressing himself against Suguru, pulling him even closer by the waist, bodies convolving. Makes concessions to the semi he’s been sporting since waking up, letting it snuggle against Suguru’s bubble butt, hands strolling down to his front, up again.
Gloating over how Suguru verbalizes his consent, a low moan followed by a hiss when Satoru bucks his hips into him, the previous night a lingering memory between them, two more rounds they went at being the cause of soreness, leaving Suguru sensitive to the lightest of touches.
“I thought you liked them mouthy,” Satoru murmurs, tongue lapping at the edge of Suguru’s jaw, hopped-up by a hint of stubble he detects under his lips, along with the stutter of breaths below his palm.
Mini gratifying plips. A stable metronome.
Nepenthe needless.
Lost Lenore returned.
“Hey.” He gets bolder, licking the shell of an ear. “There’s still an hour left, we have time for a quickie. I’ll teleport us later. Let me fuck your thighs and I’ll go down on you.”
Slim nose burying in obsidian hair to inhale his scent, Satoru sways them gaily, the pads of his fingers tracing hodge-podges on cords of muscles of Suguru’s exposed torso, trussted up in his hold.
“You’re insatiable,” Suguru burbles, failing at masking the tremble waggling his figure.
“Pardon, I have years of unresolved sexual tension to work on.”
“It wasn’t enough when I let you tie me up with your blindfold and have you go at it for two hours, you resilient freak?”
“Mm, that was excellent, we have to repeat that. But no, it wasn’t. I can’t get enough of you.”
Rooting around, he twiddles with Suguru’s hair, twining strands of raven ropes between his thumb and index finger.
It’s when he’s descending to dunk past the waistband that Suguru jacks in.
He wriggles out of Satoru’s clutches to meet him eye-to-eye, a frown of faux-frustration crumpling his features, eyebrows scrunching, body kept at bay but betraying exact intent with how he leans forward to nuzzle against Satoru’s neck.
Tucking his face there, hot breath ghosting over the spot below his ear.
Voyaging down, to his collarbone, nibbling at the marks he left, where he sealed a claim with his teeth.
Geto’s most disarming technique. Gojo’s defeat.
“I can’t do that. I’m even worse than you, ’Toru,” Suguru mumbles, the deep resonance of his voice causing a microseism to Satoru’s foundations, sending shivers down his spine. “If I start, I won't be able to stop so soon. Now that I have you, I can’t control myself. It scares me, sometimes.”
The words do little to extinguish the fire, only fanning the flames hotter.
Suguru is a true meanie; knows how to kill Satoru softly, pulling at his strings gracefully. A masterful tempting decoy, refusing despite kindling the blaze within.
Human diesel fuel. A propellant.
Satoru would gladly burn.
“You don’t have to combat it. There’s nothing blocking you, certainly not me, so why are you afraid of taking?” he asks, caressing Suguru’s waist, obsessed with how tiny it is, not fettered to squeeze it. Tell me what you want. I’d give you everything. “Is this the day when your head is acting up and making you question whether I love you? Because I’m ready to tell it a thing or two.”
The black-haired man supplies him with a tiny albeit firm shake of his head, mouth crimping, cracking with a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.
So sweet. No one’s sweeter than him.
“I know you love me, Satoru. I know that now. I do,” he assures. “It's more about doubting if I'm not too greedy. It's annoyed me so much how everyone has always tried to hegemonize you, taking away your right to belong to yourself. Yet here I am, with this intrusive voice that can't stop chanting ‘mine, mine, mine’.”
At that, Satoru halts, bewildered.
How can Suguru call himself pleonectic and selfish when he constantly throws himself at the throne of Satoru’s feet?
How can he fear botching up when the only one he vies for winning in sport of best treatment of Satoru Gojo is himself, proved by every deed done since coming back?
“There are sections of me where I can’t quite rule the roost. That’s true,” Satoru admits, both hands cupping Suguru’s midriff tighter. “My heritage is for the bounty hunters, my name for the world. But in the case of others, I dictate what I use them for. My will is my own. My strength goes to the youth. And my soul? My soul is yours.”
It’s effective in piping Suguru’s protests down, at least for now. Satoru knows it’s not the last affirmation he’s going to have to make, but he’s prepared for providing as many as Suguru needs.
“You really are such a sap,” Suguru chuckles, staving off the trembling of his fingers as they tug on his stretched lobe in embarrassment, trying to tramper the growth of a diffident smile.
Thrilled, Satoru trods a finger from his middle to his shoulder, up to the spot where his jaw connects with the ear, brushing one black gauge.
“Only for you. Have I ever told you how nice you look with those?” he muses, entranced by light cascading in waterfalls over dark plug sat inside skin, stretching around the stone, soft against his touch. “I wonder if they would suit me.”
Leaning into him, Suguru blinks up surprised eyes. “You want tunnels?”
“Earrings,” Satoru corrects. “I actually bought a pair a few years ago.”
Neck craning and lips parting, the thin lines of the black-haired man’s brows leap up. “You still have them?” Once Satoru nods, he brightens, visage gleaming with sudden excitement. “We can make an appointment with a piercer. I know a guy from Setagaya.”
Regarding him from under his lashes, Satoru comes with a better, in his mind, proposition. “Can’t you do it?”
Violet irises flit over his face, widening. “I’m not a licensed professional though.”
The sorcerer shrugs, dwelling on the subject, not seeing the problem. “Ok, but can you?”
Locked in place by his expectant gaze, Suguru smacks his lips shut. Loses himself in thought for a second, scratching at his nape.
“Technically, I guess? I know the procedure. I wouldn't attempt a conch or an industrial, but a single puncture in cartilage is essentially not difficult to do. It all depends on where you want them.”
Answering his question, Satoru raises his hands, pinkies marking two single points, symmetrically on both ears, right on their upper edges.
Suguru lets out a low hum, hand curling into a fist and supporting his chin while he ponders deeply, estimating.
“Helixes then. Yeah, I can manage. I would need a hollow needle, gauze pads, disposable gloves and disinfectant,” he calculates.
“Uwaa, Suguru, you’re my favourite schmoopy,” Satoru trills, hands curling into triumphant fists and legs giving a little dance of joy like a kid promised a trip to Disneyland. “Got all of them where the first aid kit is. Can you grab them? I’ll be back in a minute.”
Not waiting for an answer or rather ignoring Suguru’s solemn ‘I’ll murder you’ at the nickname, Satoru’s already halfway down the corridor to the little cupboard hanging on the wall near the front door where he stocks all the baubles.
Reaching inside, he retrieves a small string bag with two miniature studs.
Tromping back to the kitchen, he sees Suguru setting up all the necessary instruments, nitrile donned, holding a pen and pointing to an offset chair at the counter. He’s so sexy, like a hot nurse or something, giving him ideas, making his blood run hotter, breath coming faster.
Be professional, Satoru scolds himself, shaking his head. It’s hard to focus when it comes to Suguru. He wants to be cool, to deliver, to impress, even if he doesn’t have to because it’s his best friend who knows him inside out, including those lame and less pleasant parts.
Suguru got to know him when he’s been a spoiled hellion, a pompous ass, a lonely child, unused to Ps and Qs, to being touched, to showing care. He met him at his worst and despite that decided to get closer and mold him into something better. So yeah, it is a little difficult to concentrate when Suguru holds the entire meaning while being hot as fuck on top of that.
“Sit down and keep your head straight so I can mark the piercing spots at an even level,” the black-haired man instructs, taking position between his legs as Satoru shuffles into the designated seat, stirred up. “And not a word to your students, especially the redhead after my lecture on the importance of sterility.”
Satoru salutes with a brief “Yes sir,” then complies with the command and freezes into motionlessness as Suguru sets to work.
With exceptional concentration, the black-haired man sprays sanitary cotton, then slowly, carefully wipes the skin where the puncture is to occur, drawing two dots where the new ornaments will appear.
After extracting the earrings from the foil, he cleans them too, unscrewing the balls from the shafts, putting them to the side and reaching for the needle.
“It may hurt a bit,” he warns, gloved hand brushing Satoru’s hair.
Tugging white tufts back so that they won’t obscure the view, he brings the sharp tip close to the delicate tissue. Ghosts fingers over skin breaking into goosebumps, lingers on his jaw, changing angle for better access.
Satoru barely feels the first sting as the tip slides smoothly into the flesh like a knife into butter, one small stab of fluid penetration before Suguru efficiently installs the first of the piercings.
The situation repeats itself without complications on the other side.
No shedding of even a single drop of blood with the action of RCT and instant healing.
No trace as Suguru twists the tip of the second earring on and wipes the wounds with an ear stick just to be sure, still pristine after the procedure.
“Done,” Suguru announces, with no small amount of pride, handing him the mirror.
The earrings are nothing flashy.
Just two simple silver surgical steel barbells shining from underneath snowy wisps, non-invasive and subtle jewelry, scarcely discernible under longer chalky tassels, nevertheless adding character.
Still, Satoru marvels at his reflection, eyes growing bigger, round and shiny like Puss from Shrek 2, filled with admiration for Suguru’s service.
They’re flawless.
Blue twinkling, Satoru sweeps his beloved off his feet, flinging himself at him with all the impetus.
Suguru lets out a short squeak at getting enveloped in an embrace, being tossed out a string of ‘thank-yous’, each accentuated by a kiss laid wherever it happens to fall, belly shaking under Satoru’s hands with a fit of giggles, such a charming sound.
I’m so in love, Satoru surmises, catastrophically infatuated, disgustingly whipped, woozy with it and surges for a proper kiss.
——
In the end, they manage to groom themselves and leave the apartment on time despite the extended make-out session which Satoru saw as an appropriate form of showing appreciation and, well, Suguru finds it hard to disagree.
They’re bundled up nicely, the black-haired man in a coat seized from his best friend’s closet and the white-haired sorcerer in his standard teacher uniform, concomitant with Suguru’s scarf he’s been wearing everywhere since he got it. It’s a garish decoration when combined with the rest of his outfit, all black and stylish, the sudden singular splash of colour apart from his hair out of order, but he carries it with pride.
Today, they have a different kind of mission. Nothing related to fighting or cleaning up evidence, but to the ongoing research.
Yuki Tsukumo received scans of the mysterious volume found in Leshan, promising to look into it as soon as possible and, if she sees anything particularly interesting, to contact them before her return to Japan.
She seems to have gotten a clue since they were awakened earlier in the day by the incessant calling of Shoko, who immediately upon picking up the receiver told them that a letter addressed to the two of them, another sealed so that it could only be opened by their cursed energy, had arrived at the school.
So currently they find themselves on their way to Jujutsu High, on impatient legs taking quick steps toward the stairs, with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation buzzing through their veins, intending to take just a brief visit to the neighborhood grocery store to pick up sachets of pocari for Satoru and then immediately head toward the educational institution.
Before they can set foot on the first step, however, they're stopped by an audible ding! resounding on the second floor, triggered by an oncoming elevator.
The person who rolls out the sliding door with some difficulty, albeit gallantly, is a woman pushing a child's stroller.
It's hard to judge her age; she's definitely a senior citizen, although she's probably closer to sixty than seventy. Her wrinkle-strewn face rejuvenates with a distinctly red lipstick plus a radiant smile that widens even more when her gaze lands on the white-haired man.
“Satoru-kun, I finally got you! What do you think you're doing, not visiting me for so long! It's been ages!”
Trotting toward them, she positions the baby buggy sideways, removing one hand from the handle and stabbing Satoru in the center of his chest, threatening despite being half their size, puffing out her reddened cheeks reproachfully.
Suguru struggles to hold back laughter at the scene unfolding before him, recalling the way his own grandmother used to scold him for stealing candy from the cupboard, even if she later smuggled him a handful under the table.
His other half adopts a somewhat contrite attitude, returning the favor with an equally cheerful smile, but keeping both raised hands in front of him to placate the old woman, defending himself from the jabs.
“Sachiko!” He greets, aquamarine flashing behind the black of his glasses. “Sorry, sorry! Life has been crazy these past two months, I've been quite busy.”
“Excuses, excuses.” The older woman rolls her eyes, mumbling in a mocking manner, though the smile doesn’t fade from her face, only dwindling to something softer. “Let this be the last time. Isamu misses you as well. You must come over for dinner.”
That’s when her gaze shifts to Suguru, drilling him with her own set of blue, slightly paler than Satoru’s. “And who’s that handsome friend of yours?”
Feeling the flush bloom despite his best effort, Suguru squirms. “Uh…,” he begins, very eloquently.
Putting him out of trouble, Satoru not only takes the initiative in answering the question, but also his hand as he reaches to enclose it in his own.
“That’s my Suguru,” he states simply.
Instead of waning, Suguru’s blush only spreads, acknowledging it’s the first time they’ve introduced themselves to some as an official couple, even if in an indirect way.
Eyes sparkling as in recognition, Sachiko hums, nodding. “So that’s the Suguru you told me about.”
Wait. What?
Suguru’s head whips to Satoru, features painted with a pigment of shock. “You did?”
“Ohoho, plenty. Nice to finally meet you,” the woman confirms, the line of her mouth warping into something mischievous as she extends her hand.
It takes a second of hesitation before Suguru lifts his.
Her skin is paper-thin under his fingers, but her grasp sure, the squeeze of digits firm, the intention pure. He doesn’t wince.
Trading candy with Tsumiki, extended to braiding her hair after Satoru’s birthday, helps him gradually become accustomed to non-sorcerers, her being the only non-shaman he has approached so closely and without it ending in bloodshed, but he considers it a victory.
Small lulus. One day at a time.
“Likewise,” he responds, feeling Satoru’s thumb brush softly over the jebels of his knuckles.
Sachiko chuckles warmly, arctic irises disappearing as her eyes become crescents, crow’s feet deepening with the act.
“You’re even lovelier than he described you,” she says, stare darting to the other man.
The words serve as a catalyst to dig up the leftovers of Satoru’s more modest side.
“Don’t expose me like that!” he whines, admonitory, the redness already dusting his cheeks, making both Suguru and Sachiko snicker.
“Not my fault you’re talkative and enamored,” she humphs, refuting his accusations and clicking her tongue. Then, her shoulders relax on a sigh, the easy smile from before returning to her visage as she regards them both. “You two must come and have a meal with us. I’m making pork cutlets and inarizushi, Satoru-kun here loves those.” Grabbing the handle of the stroller, she aims at the door located at the other end of the corridor. “Tomorrow, six o’clock. No ifs or buts. See you, boys.”
“Yes, granny,” Satoru assents, grinning as he turns his body towards the stairs, meaning to tug Suguru for the exit when unexpectedly, he halts. Tilting his head, he points his chin at the perambulator. “Wait, you’re baby-sitting today?”
Something on her changes, then.
The smile slips off, marginally, bending under a hulking tonnage, replaced by a tiny frown scrumpling her countenance, fingers tightening on the pram.
“Ah, no.” The denial is a quiet thing, tinted with sadness. “Not quite.”
Satoru and Suguru exchange fleeting, confused glances, directing them back at the woman.
Wanting to smooth things over, sensing that this is a rather sensitive and difficult topic, Suguru opens his mouth to apologize for interfering in her business, thank her for the invitation and promise to show up, but gets preempted by their neighbor, speaking up again.
“You know I don't have children,” Sachiko explains, facing the white-haired sorcerer with a voice steeped in melancholy. “I did, however, have a sister.”
Leaning over the carriage, Sachiko goes on. “Wakana always wanted a large family, something that was prevented by health complications, but she lived long enough to have a child and watch her grow. She had a daughter. Umeko’s boyfriend left when he found out she was pregnant. Packed his bags and just fled. Despite everything, she decided to give birth. Everything was going well, until the very end.”
At this point she shakily gulps, inhaling slowly. “The doctors didn't detect the infection on time, and when they did, it was too late. Sepsis had set in. They couldn't save my niece.” As she finishes the sentence, a shadow of affection creeps back onto her face as she raises her hand and beckons them with a gesture. “But she left behind a legacy. Something very, very valuable. Come. Come, see.”
Tentatively, Satoru and Suguru advance.
Cautiously, without sudden movements, they, too, peek inside the little cart to explore its contents, sharpening their vision when Sachiko lifts the hem of the blanket.
The sight catches their breath.
They are not welcomed by the rosy face of a single child.
Inside, from under the covering, clad in matching pink jackets, glimpsing at them, they find two pairs of brown, exceptionally resolute eyes.
Twins. Girls, it seems.
Almost identical at first glance, though they already differ in hair color, one with caramel fluff on the top of her small head, like peach fuzz, the other a bit darker.
Suguru has a sense of the world skewing a few degrees, convulsing in suspension, ready to tumble.
It's all about the shape of their eyes, the spacing of them. The contours of their mouths. The lengths and slants of their noses.
He’d been observing them for so long that he would be able to recall them from memory, on cue, awakened from deep sleep in the middle of the night, roused from death.
He raised them, after all.
No, it can't be happening. It can't be true.
But...
He feels his respiratory rate accelerate, along with his heart, starting to rattle in his chest, the rumble of it bruising his ribs.
His gaze wanders to the baby positioned on his right side, to its ear, and at once finds himself bogged down by alveoli caving on themselves, air sacs busting.
There is a tiny, light brown mole, the same that Mimiko had around her tragus. They jokingly called it a natural earring.
With increasing desperation or hope, it's hard to tell which, he zeroes in on the chubby hand of the child lying on the left, sticking out from under the blanket.
It nearly shatters him.
Just above the joint, he notices a miniature, thin scar made from two criss-crossing lines.
Nanako had one like this, since birth, resembling a boat if you looked closely. My little mermaid , he used to call her.
Is this a joke?
Some kind of pernicious stunt? He should be inured to that.
A trick, then? A mockery? A hallucination?
A test?
A longing, perhaps, materializing here and now, deceiving, giving delusional expectations?
Maybe a mere coincidence?
Or one more error creeping in? Some non sequitur in Kenjaku's inference, in his deductive monologue?
Devastated, dazed, expectant, Suguru makes a swift calculation. Realizing how much time has actually passed since the fateful incident at the Shibuya station.
According to Tibetan Buddhist beliefs reincarnation occurs at least 49 days after death, when a soul held in the bardo state releases to revive in a new form.
The babies in the stroller can't be much older.
"When were they born?" asks Suguru, trying to control the tremor in his tone of voice without betraying his emotions, seeing Satoru's brows drawing together as his brain begins to connect the threads, making his own computations.
The woman's reply comes like a kick to the gizzard, a nuclear bomb exploding in his gut.
“Exactly a week ago. They're pretty, aren't they? Sometimes I see newborn babies and think of potatoes while my girls are princesses from the beginning. Not to boast, but it must be the genes. On their mother’s side, of course.”
For a moment, there’s no sound except for the turbulence created by his heart valves snapping shut fast, howling wildly in his ears.
The organ so very weighty, winding itself into a knot.
Hands clammy, skin too compacted, stretched too tight over the bones.
“They’re so young, whereas I’m not,” Sachiko murmurs, eyes diverting between them, a timid noise Suguru can hardly hear now, barely noticing the way Satoru’s arm slings around him. “I don't lack energy, but I'm starting to run out of years. I am old. So is my husband. Who knows how long we’ll live and we’re their only relatives. That's why it's important to secure their future while we still can.” Her stare lingers, anticipatory. “We want to start looking for adoptive parents.”
The fleshy device currently beating furiously in his body is such a delicate contrivance, the tick tick tick of it fragile like a lily, but it can seize oh so painfully.
Running like a hare, dropping to roil in his stomach, leaking out to the floor and staining the entire building with all the love it still contains.
Satoru’s the one who asks the next, final, defining question, ripping a rug from beneath his feet.
“What are their names?”
Air. Suguru can’t get enough of it.
It’s been snatched from his lungs.
“You’re familiar with a novel titled ‘The Old Capital’? It has a movie adaptation, ‘Twin Sisters of Kyoto’, about separated siblings reuniting. The names of two main characters are-”
The same.
(It’s a mistake.)
His knees wobble, head blank, mind flogging itself, thrashing, throat scalding, eyes watering.
(It’s a mistake. It must be.
It’s a mistake. He’s seen their demise, he buried them, he mourned them, he saw them dying.
It’s a mistake. They’re dead.)
The exact same, posthumous ones he’s picked for them for Tengoku, to grant during the parting ceremony, given to use in another life.
A second chance at a softer epilogue.
(We’re not gone.)
He can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t-
Choking in a haze, he only half-understands the shift of his body moving on stiff cottony limbs as Satoru guides him out.
Limping, registering through the mist the white-haired man saying his goodbyes to the woman and his own lips working on a mumble that’s supposed to resemble signaling a departure, a weak “Bye” thrown her way.
Outside, bathed in the auric light of the sun and with oodles of oxygen to benefit from, he tries to gulp in in waves, larynx rived from the words draining out.
“You heard that, you did, right?” He twaddles, repeating the same sentences like a mantra. “You heard, I haven’t misheard, you heard too, you were there, oh god, oh god, what if it’s them, it can’t be, it can’t, but it fits, Satoru, it fits, you heard, it’s them-”
He chants hysterically, like a man mad, a man sick, soul emaciated, hands itching to hold what has been lost and witnessing it taking shape again.
Two strong arms box him inside their safe cradle, cutting off the inundation of thoughts.
They stem the ravenous flood, constructing a dam spun of calm understanding as they taciturnly snuggle Suguru closer, slowing down his racing brain.
“Miki told me about wanting a younger sister, once. I think Gumi would love one as well, having someone to take care of the same way she did to him. We could always double the fun,” his dearest one whispers, pacific and stable, the timbre of his voice a warm drone against Suguru’s temple, Satoru trailing soothing tracks on the black-haired man’s back. “Before you, I didn't even know it could be something I would want. And now that I have you back, I think we can create something like this. Something good, for more than just us. So how about a house with a garden, Suguru? I’m sure Sachiko would appreciate the space for the girls.”
It’s those eyes, that achingly stunning blue and that stupidly wonderful smile that make him cave.
Suguru doesn't speak, letting out only a shuddering sob and huddling further into Satoru's hug, enabling him to support his faltering figure, mustering up a nod.
Home, he envisions, with ferns and juniper and primula, quirky drawings on the fridge, children's laughter bouncing off the walls.
Home, he pictures, a place of peace, something he could have.
Family, he thinks of, and the image seems real.
——
“We don't even know if they’re going to consider us as foster parents, but… did you mean it?”
Suguru’s amusing when he’s all twitchy and fretting, attenuated eyebrows knitting in a frown and nose scrunched adorably, face half-sour, half-hopeful after their encounter with their neighbor.
Pushing his glasses down to level him with a pointed stare, Satoru waves his hand to dispose of his friend's worries, baseless in this regard in his opinion, believing that a decision on the matter has already been made.
“Of course! And she practically suggested it herself by the way she looked at me. She also knows that I'm the legal guardian for the Fushiguros, so that's another advantage because she surely would much rather entrust the girls’ custody to someone credible. Besides, she adores me. And once she gets to know you better, you’ll win her over. It’s impossible not to love Suguru.”
The statement has the desired effect, Suguru’s cheeks gaining that fetching scarlet hue, trying to conceal it with a cough.
Suguru looks constipated, which would be otherwise funny if he also didn’t seem close to collapsing.
“There’s nothing I want more than a family with you,” the black-haired man says carefully. “I’m just not sure I’m in the right headspace to take care of children.”
He’s so wonderfully stupid.
Oh, how Satoru loves him.
“It doesn’t have to be today, not even tomorrow.” The sorcerer soothes. “We’ll try with therapy, see how it goes. In the meantime we can simply visit, Sachiko will be thrilled. You’ll spend more time with them, then you can make a decision. We’ll do it at your convenience. Besides,” he gives a whirl to the proposition he’s been planning to make for a while now, “you can re-familiarize yourself with the kids by helping me train the students. On a part-time basis, dealing with hand-to-hand combat. I'm sure you would be both a great father and teacher.”
Suguru halts dead in his tracks, splutters, gapes at him, and then-
Bingo.
“Whatever you say,” he grumbles, hiding behind his collar despite the inception of a smile selling him out at Satoru’s satisfied smirk.
The white-haired man chuckles lightly, securing a grip around his waist to steer them towards Shoko’s office when he catches an interesting movement down the hill.
Six Eyes keep a constant recording of changes in the cursed energy in the area, but unless there are significant fluctuations, the presence of other people fades, blending with the background.
He realized Yuji and Megumi were on campus, sensing them several dozen meters away at the foot of the mountain where he landed with Suguru, two fires burning in tandem. Knew they were spending time together, enjoying each other’s company, as indicated by the fluid, bright flows in their bodies staying close.
A fraction of a second ago, those seamless streams were agitated, but not by anger or fear, which Satoru knows how to identify through violent, wobbly vibrations.
Megumi’s cursed energy rises like water in a river, quickly and in great quantity, except it doesn’t churn like it does with negative emotions. It has a more subdued colour, smoother contours, its size immense but not oppressive. The same as during those rare moments that Satoru has only noticed a few times over the years, when he is truly at ease.
When he’s happy.
Curiosity piqued, he tugs at Suguru’s sleeve, marching through the school garden to get closer to the source of the imbalance, glittering snow and stems crunching beneath their feet and once he spots the teenagers in question, he stops in his tracks, mouth hanging open.
Surrounded by trees, sheltered by their lengthy branches and stray weeds, two blots of color stand out against brown and white, one black, the other pink, heads adjacent, hands joined, migrating to cup faces.
Ruddy cheeks, heaving chests, fluttering lashes.
Lips locked.
No wonder Megumi’s all giddy and zappy inside if Yuji kisses him like that.
Akin to a thrilled parent witnessing their child taking first steps or saying first words, Satoru’s fingers dive into his pocket, ferreting around to fish out his phone.
“Yahoo, kisses, they’re kissing,” he states with fervor, camera turned on, “Suguru quick, let’s come closer, I have to snap a photo and-”
“No the fuck you don’t.”
Satoru’s stage-whisper transforms into a graceless squawk when the black-haired man promptly grabs him by the scruff of collar and starts dragging him away, arms flailing before folding them across his chest, heels gouging grooves in the ground.
“Wow, you too, Brutus,” the white-haired man says sullenly, sniffing and pouting pettishly once Suguru releases him, nearing the infirmary entrance.
“Give them some privacy, you deviant,” his companion chastises, chuckling briefly and flicking his forehead. “How would you feel if someone filmed your intimate moment?”
Oof. Now they’re talking. With a sly smile cutting his countenance, Satoru lifts a finger to slip it under Suguru’s belt, yanking, bottom lip catching between teeth. “Actually, I always wanted us to make a sex tape-”
Eyes widening, seeming horrified for a second and going crimson, Suguru schools his features quickly, a stern look in his eyes. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Wah, so harsh. Just consider it.”
“No.”
“Please? I’m asking so nicely, Suguru. Please, please, please. I’ll even let you spank me.”
Suguru inhales slowly with all the devastation and resignation of anyone who’s ever had to deal with Satoru Gojo, giving in to the inevitable.
“...Fuck, okay, I’ll think about it,” he concedes eventually, a long-suffering sigh for an exhale as he shoves a cackling Satoru through the door.
Shoko’s office got warmer during their last few visits; not only because of the heater and new furniture, but also a couple of smaller additions provided by different people, such as two sizeable yuccas she let them set by the windows, colorful pillows and Yaga’s crocheted mascots stacked on the couch, Himalayan salt lamp bought by Nanami adding an elegant touch to the decor and photographs on the wall tacked on by Utahime with teddy bear stickers, the accumulation of all these components making a locale that previously resembled a stripped-down hospital room much cozier.
When they enter, Suguru shrugging off his coat to drape it over a chair, Satoru folding his scarf on top and unzipping the collar of his uniform, they find the trio at the back of the lodging, Nanami deep in what the black-haired man recognizes as one of Kenjaku’s notebooks, Ieiri scribbling something in her organizer and Iori snuggled into her side, busy with filling out a rapport.
All three pairs of eyes land on them, alerted by the sound of their arrival, Kento lazily wiggling two fingers in a greeting, Shoko’s chin jerking in their direction and mouth opening to offer some dry salute only partly concealing the endearment underneath before abruptly stopping.
Her attention focuses entirely on Satoru, head cocking and eyes narrowing in analysis, the white-haired man pinned in place by her stare settling on his neck.
Shoko looks between the two of them for a solid minute, scrutinizing, like she’s studying a particularly difficult test subject before she throws her hands in the air and exclaims, “Fucking finally!”
Satoru refrains from keeping schtum and acting like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, not when he can feel the evidence of a crime, but he can’t help being a little shit.
“What gave us away?” he asks, smile stretching as he notices Suguru’s lips pressing into a thin line to hold in laughter.
“You have that after-sex, got-my-brains-fucked-out glow,” Shoko says, expression alternating between amused and slightly disgusted. “Besides, the enormous bite mark you’re sporting. Who is it that you’re dating, Dracula?”
Nanami makes a stifled sound at the back of his throat at that, eyes bulging at the gulp of tea ending up in the wrong pipe while he deliberately tries not to stare, Utahime’s nauseated expression even more entertaining so Satoru has to provoke some more because he has no impulse control.
“Why thank you,” he chimes, swinging himself towards his startled best friend who staggers a bit when Satoru throws himself at him, strapping to his back and arms around his torso like a clingy koala looping an eucalyptus, a wicked grin as he follows with another sentence, “Suguru is great at sucking”, because it’s hilarious to watch Nanami’s scowl and Utahime’s outright gagging, nary an ounce of shame and chortling uproariously at two scandalized faces, Suguru’s somewhere between appalled and smug as he smacks the back of his head while Shoko’s hazel eyes send them a flat glare.
“I changed my mind, get back in the closet,” she chunters, but there’s an undertone of cheer in it, a swell to one cheek that tells how truly happy she is for them. “Who confessed first?”
Cocking a hip and imitating a hair flip, Satoru grins. “Me, obviously.”
Shoko’s irises gleam at that.
The curl of her mouth becomes wicked, her own brand of little tyke as she shifts to address first Kento, then Utahime, extending both hands at them. “I win.”
They watch Nanami and Iori battle some inner demons for a couple of seconds, the younger man taking off glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, tongue clicking with a wince while the Kyoto teacher starts complaining in protest, reaching for her pouch.
There’s not a clue what they might be mourning and doing until Nanami puts down the sigils he’s been studying for the past two days and digs out his wallet, Utahime already opening up a purse.
As they both count out five thousand yen and with ill-concealed distaste deposit the sum in the doctor's hands, the blond man turns toward them, smacking his lips in an unusual exhibit of his frustration.
“You disappointed us, Suguru. We expected better,” Nanami drones, lecturing the black-haired man, discontent magnified by Utahime’s accusatory glare, speaking louder than any words.
Agape and speechless, Suguru and Satoru throw each other dumbfounded stares, boosted with Shoko disregarding them completely to focus on the banknotes, her glee almost rivaling the one Mei Mei gets at merely a mention of money.
Then, it sinks in what exactly those two are supposed to pony up for.
“You had a betting pool?!”
Ganged up on by the whole crew. Wow.
“Yeah, yeah, a stupid idea,” Utahime is the one to comment on their outburst, grousing and further fuming, bitter at having lost even at something so silly. “Me and Nanami actually thought that Mr. I-came-to-declare-war would be more willing to make another statement this loud, but apparently you need to have an upper hand at everything.”
Shoko snickers at that, folding hands on her lap once she stores the cash away and nudging Utahime’s calf with her socked foot. “Come on, Hime, we’ll share, I’ll buy you that dress you wanted,” she wheedles.
Trying to propitiate and to Satoru’s veritable, thorough shock, plants a big fat kiss right on the older woman’s Cupid’s bow, side-eyeing the white-haired sorcerer with another mischievous smirk. “Fushiguro and Itadori both voted for Geto, too. Just so you know.”
He’s too distracted by the open display of affection to catch the information that they dragged his students into the wager regarding his love life, stewing in thoughts, recalling all the recent instances where Shoko and Utahime seemed more intimate, sitting a bit too close, gazing a bit too long, their steps lighter, laughter more frequent and suddenly it all makes so much sense.
“So you two are…” He blinks as he joins the dots, astonished like he reinvented the wheel with triumph at his own realization growing, a flash of understanding maxing out with a finger pointing at Utahime as he yells, “Oooh, so her hysterics aren’t meant for men!”
If stares this heavy could squash and hammer someone into the ground, he would now be somewhere around the Earth's core.
“I wish you were this observant when Geto was making doe eyes at you during training,” Utahime deadpans, judging him sternly. “You’re gayer than a picnic basket but denser than iridium.”
“Excuse me, how would you know that I swing that way?”
Utahime blinks. “...Your only weakness is a man.”
The white-haired man only shrugs, an embarrassed smile gracing his features.
She got him there.
It makes two cats out of the bag and despite it never being a secret or any of them planning to keep it as such, it’s a nice thing to be able to openly lean into Suguru twining his waist and crane his neck nearly on auto-reflex to get more of his long digits sneaking into his hair, raking back and forth through white locks, making his heart go doki doki.
Eyes sliding up to cross them with the doctor, he can feel the heat spread during a silent agreement exchanged with his other friends as he takes in the scenery surrounding them; Nanami enjoying a serving of walnut cake, Utahime’s sneer non-existent due to Shoko’s fingers tickling across her stomach, Suguru’s weight heavy and solid against his own frame and thinks, It’s good.
It’s dicey as well, associating with a group of people that important because it means he can lose it along a threat of having it used against him, a second time.
“You said you have something for us,” he changes the topic, bubbly inside still, navigating the conversation to the matter at hand, the reason they came here in the first place.
Sobering up at that, Shoko nods, body tipping forward to seize a beige envelope from under the table, tossing it straight into Suguru’s hands.
“Happy reading, boys. Update me later,” she says, winking at them. “Also, we're still spending New Year's Eve together, right?”
It’s risky, Satoru’s aware, but it’s also what keeps him vaguely compos mentis, tetters him when he’s bouncing too far, when he becomes too much of a monster, which is okay, sometimes, to be one, to go crazy in order to stay sane, but he likes being human more and to be human is to love and to love is to stake.
“Sure thing. Who’s buying champagne?”
Ita fiat, esto.
Let’s gamble for the best shot.
——
Suguru bravely guards Satoru not only from developing an insulin resistance but also amblyopia by snatching Yuki’s letter out of his grasp after he’s been squinting his left eye at it for half an hour, trying to decipher what the hell she scribbled there.
The best pharmacist would have a difficult task with decoding that; the letters skew-whiff, interpunction nearly absent, her cacographic handwriting translating her hurry and vim even if they have trouble translating the actual message, but after a couple more minutes of brainstorming they manage to decrypt most of it.
‘Dear boys.
I've done a little digging in my archives and combined with the reading you've provided I've come to some interesting conclusions that I'd like to share with you as soon as possible.
You have mentioned Kenjaku's connection to the Inumaki clan, the faction of The Voiceless and the symbolism of the ouroboros which turns out to be not the only serpentine element. In an effort to figure out who Tara really is I checked several different sources. The character features in twenty-one incarnations, both peaceful and wrathful forms, but in addition to Tibetan Buddhism she also appears in Indian and Polynesian mythology in the former of which she is considered the goddess of hunger.
Her image is shown among - you guessed it correctly - coiled snakes.
Rifling through old iconography I became curious about how she is also often depicted holding a beheaded head and found an answer to that in Hindu texts.
Svarabhānu is a demon who’s said to have overshadowed a sun. Based on legend, he was supposed to be brave enough to claim a portion of the immortality-giving Amrita. It was originally intended to be distributed only to Devas, Asuras excluded, but his ability to read minds caused him to learn about it. Before his punishment inflicted by decapitation, he deceitfully quaffed and managed to taste the divine drink, his head rumored to be the only part of his body to be kept alive because of it.
There is another detail that caught my eye.
The demon, found under the name of navagraha (Nine Planets in Vedic astrology), is also listed as the king of meteorites, existing alongside the other being. With an orbital cycle of 18 years, always 180 centimeters apart, they are called the north and south of the lunar node.
Rahu and Ketu.
The first name used to refer to the head and the second to the rest of the body of Svarabhānu after the execution.
This directed my attention to the second name mentioned in the letter.
At first I suspected that it might be someone of little significance. An ordinary curse user with a slightly more serviceable technique but when I started leafing through the following pages my perspective changed.
I have too few details to say with certainty that this is true but my thesis is that Sukuna is not one person and that during his lifetime as a human being he was not an only child. Not quite.
My guess is that what he is currently operating with is one of the bodies, which, however, without the original head, is unable to gain its full power, leading me to suspect that the 20 consumed fingers are only the tip of the iceberg and that what Sukuna is actually looking for, what will give him an advantage that no one will be able to take away from him again if he gets his hands on it, is the brain.
Placed in the tomb where Sukuna's original remains reside along with the most precious element.
I also think he may have had a brother. Possibly a twin. A so-called "duplicitas," united with him while still in the womb - conjoined in place of the head.
I'm letting my imagination run wild now, but meeting Kenjaku may have helped to disentangle himself from an uncomfortable companion. The surgical skills and extensive capabilities regarding the mad doctor's technique capable of brain manipulation may have allowed the brain to be safely separated while retaining its functionality. Giving full control to Sukuna, the simultaneous effect of which was to kill his brother, but providing him with a plan B in the form of a second body that he could take over if his initial one was damaged, which would explain the double number of limbs.
The options are endless. I began to ponder more about the nature of the cursed energy and how particular parts of the human body are connected to it - while it must flow through the entire structure to be utilized as efficiently as possible, the stomach and specifically the head are singled out as extremely important. With these facts at our disposal, it is increasingly daring to suspect that there is actually a lot of truth in the fact that above all RCT is closely associated with the region of the neck and lower brain, so studying these areas could bring us more answers. While it's not known what happened to the rest of Sukuna's body, we now know that the brain is an exceptionally crucial organ not only among non-shamans, but also sorcerers.
I think its location may be a secret that Tara knows.
I think she may not only be the mother of liberation, but his mother, too.
There is a reason why my conjecture went in this direction, but this I would like to discuss already in person, in some secluded place.
P.S. You don’t know this from me, but Larue is bringing you a gift, Geto. The gift being Miguel. Act surprised when you see us. I’m telling you in advance so you can stop Gojo from starting shit.
P.P.S. I could use an additional assistant. It has reached me that a certain Choso has joined your ranks. I'm not saying he's my type, but I'm not saying he's not either. It would be good if I could meet him. Please do something about it. (人´∀｀)’
Processing the letter is a lot.
Satoru’s mathematical mind is fast to act, organizing supplied information, classifying and quantifying within the context, searching for clues he might have previously omitted and hunting for more hints that would confirm Yuki’s speculations, but he can’t focus once he returns to the last paragraph, shaking his head in disbelief.
“The world could be ending,” he tuts, followed by a snort, pointing at the pleading kaomoji, “and all she’s thinking about is dick.”
He hears Suguru featuring with a chuckle of his own, but he doesn’t expect the hand grabbing his chin.
The black-haired man turns Satoru’s head gently but firmly, a smug expression on his face.
“You have so much in common, then,” comes his sleek repartee, assisted by a mischievous glint. “You’ll make great study partners.”
The sorcerer makes a scandalized noise at that, the callout stinging with the truth. Suguru’s never going to let him forget how he got himself trapped and he’s never going to live it down.
“You’re such a bully,” he complains with a pout, doing absolutely nothing to disprove the claim or move out of his cherished one’s hold.
“Mm, so I’ve been told,” Suguru hums, one last flick to his temple before his expression morphs into something more somber, eyes darting to the letter. “What do we think about it?”
Once Suguru’s fingers release him, Satoru tilts his head, scrutinizing the mail, rocking back and forth on his heels, philosophizing.
“Could be legit. She defo discovered something big that would lead her to such a conclusion. We’ll have to wait to confirm if it’s convincing. What I consider essential is to visit the Ainu population and look for leads there. Something tells me that more answers lie hidden in Lake Akan,” he totals, straightening up and clapping his hands. “But first things first. We need to buy balloons and fireworks.”
After he finishes, he watches Suguru’s purple irises swirl with conflicting emotions. There’s coup d'état brimming, full to the gunwales; a compulsory call for a riot. He doesn’t wish to wait, would rather act, immediately.
Natheless, he retracts. Satoru sees the tension in his shoulders receding, the fulmination’s summon canceled for now.
(Rome wasn’t overthrown alone or during one night, but Suguru doesn’t need to know that Satoru has already reserved seats for Tohoku Shinkansen.)
“Fine,” Suguru sighs with a moue, that petulant coil to his lips only making the white-haired man want to kiss it stupid, knowing he’d start packing the moment Satoru told him they’re leaving for the village. “Let’s buy some satsumaimo, I want to make kuri kinton. And bellflower, to make toso for Shoko.”
The sorcerer grins wide, appeased, meaning to agree when he catches two flickers rounding the corner, making their way to where he and Suguru stand.
A1 timing, as in clockwork.
“Sure, sure, just one more thing before we leave,” he says, snapping fingers and jerking his chin to point at the figures appearing behind the black-haired man’s back.
Two effigies march toward them, their stride measured, almost sluggish, their swords slung across their backs, but looking decidedly less threatening than usual in their puffer jackets.
The sophomores, though both refined, with strengthened bodies and newly acquired fighting skills, currently resemble regular teenagers. The corners of Yuta's eyes still bear the sediment of sleep, confirmed by his yawn, while a part of Maki's face is hidden behind a thick woolen scarf, her cheeks adorned with exquisite blush. Today, they can be kids.
Their weapons are not the only weight they carry.
There's an oblong, slender package in the hands of a boy, a case made of white oak.
“We had hoped to catch you while you were still in Ieiri-san's office, but we had a time slip, sorry,” Okkotsu announces with an apologetic expression as he comes within earshot, Maki nodding beside him. “It's ready.”
A look of amazement mixed with bewilderment paints Suguru's features as the young sorcerer extends his hands in his direction, handing him the box.
“What is it?” Suguru inquires, running his hand over the smooth surface of the package, tracing the kanji engraved at the top with his fingertips.
Maki's face remains passive while a gentle smile slinks onto Yuta's lips as Satoru merely leans against the tree trunk behind him and crosses his arms over his chest, nudging the black-haired man’s foot with the tip of his shoe.
“Open and find out,” he urges mysteriously, eagerly awaiting his best friend’s reaction.
When Suguru creases his eyebrows and obeys the command, unlocking the latches on the side and uncovering the lid, he freezes at the sight of the contents.
Inside, it holds a gift.
A completely intact, brand-new, three-section staff.
Polished to a shine sansetsukon, the same model as Playful Cloud, bamboo staves covered in purple lacquer and connected by metal rings, thrumming with the cursed energy sealed within.
“This is...,” Suguru begins, but doesn't stretch his thoughts any further, mesmerized by the cursed tool in his hands, his words escaping into naughtness, voice freezing in mid-sentence.
“Palden Lhamo. Your Christmas present,” Satoru finishes for him, smiling broadly as the black-haired man's head lifts in express, eyes as wide as daisies. “You have always been a master at using the coiling dragon. The previous one was destroyed in Shibuya, but we managed to produce a second one in record time. I say plural because it is partially attributable to Yuta. My resources of cursed energy combined with his allowed us to imbue it in a week, where normally it would have taken months.”
In stupor, Suguru shifts his gaze to the aforementioned boy. “Why?” he asks, something thin about it, no doubt wondering what reason he has for participating.
Okkotsu's countenance remains benign, with only a small crinkle wrinkling his forehead as he contemplates for a moment, then simply shrugs.
“I admit I was reluctant to talk when you came back, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of a doubt. Back in the cave, I didn’t attack for two reasons,” he explains, full focus on Suguru. “First, because I have faith in my teacher. And second, because both of us know what it means to have to let go of someone you love.”
Suguru seems stunned by his confession, but before he can respond, the hitherto silent and merely attentive Maki straightens up, speaking up.
“This isn’t a truce. You will need to work for it,” she says, a statement like a threat except she keeps calm. “But having a Special Grade curse manipulator on our side would be beneficial. We want that cesspit of a system destroyed too.” Then, she points at the whip. “And I want to get back at you. After you’re done with your little trip, you’re sparring me. Next time I’m beating your ass.”
She doesn't bother waiting for his answer, instead deftly dodging the two of them with a final bow and in a few brisk steps disappearing behind bushes growing nearby. Yuta sends them one last salute, then hastily moves after her, also venturing away after a second.
Suguru stares after them, not even stirring, in a standstill.
Satoru allows him to collect his thoughts as he puts the weapon back into the container and calls up one of the curses to store The Glorious Goddess in a safe place inside its mouth, one snap of his fingers causing it to gollop the whole thing down in a trice.
Dismissing it once it completed the task and inhaling slowly, Suguru closes his eyes.
There’s a specific sort of mien he’s making that Satoru has trouble interpreting; it’s neither worried nor woeful. Closer to cogitative.
“There's one more destination I'd like to visit before we head to the city center,” he says quietly, tone even.
The white-haired sorcerer frowns, eyeing him with interest.
“Which one specifically?”
Fetching violet flashes open.
When he speaks, Satoru doesn't quite expect what he hears.
“Take me to my grave.”
——
It’s a moderate breeze that welcomes them in Shimoda, thinner branches budging under its blows and smaller waves licking the shore of sand sprinkling a bay of clear water, sparkling under the sun.
“I thought you might have liked it here. By the sea.”
Satoru buried Suguru in Shizuoka, on Shirahama Beach.
Their shared youth, a memory instead of a body, stowed not in the ground but on Ihai.
He did get a tombstone, after all.
On a reef. Among the bushes, under the tree. Easy to omit if you don’t know about its position.
A mortuary tablet glimpses out from beneath roots and now the rust of fallen leaves, parallel to the Shrine, a single torii gate atop a second rock, saves crashing around it.
No bigger in size than a grown man’s hand but crafted diligently. Neat, with a luxurious finish and the finest coating. Wooden boards.
Carving in red.
Sculptures of two koi fish. One white, one black.
Underneath, two letters.
S & G, the same as those on envelopes.
They have the same initials.
This could mark the grave of either of them.
Or a shared one.
Suguru's throat tightens. His chest constricts. His eyes sting.
That's not all.
There are flowers, too.
A big bouquet, already somewhat withered but still beautiful, laid right in front of it, tied with a golden ribbon.
The ones Satoru mentioned just before falling to pieces in his arms, just before they started putting each other back together.
(“I brought them. Every month. White mistflowers and calla lilies.” )
These are not the only species.
There’s another kind.
Blue roses.
His heart beats like a blacksmith’s hammer, thundering hooves of a thousand wild stallions trying to escape his chest, a relentless rhythm of a stampede knocking against his ribcage.
His soul beams.
He knows what he has to do.
“They’re for lost causes, right? Something that will never happen?” Suguru turns to Satoru, a determined expression on his face. “But do you know their other meaning? Apart from love that perished?”
The bond between them was stretched to the limit by Suguru himself when he decided to leave, pulled so taut and thin it could have been snapped off by the gentlest gust of wind and yet it survived.
It withstood the destructive force of Hollow Purple and death itself, unraveled and defiled when Kenjaku sewed it into Suguru’s skin and desecrated its purity, using it for his foul schemes.
This love has been put to practically every possible test, it has endured every imaginable separation, every attempt to debauch it, rising like a phoenix from the ashes and burning even brighter.
It’s not dead.
The cursed energy materializing in Suguru’s palm swirls in black tendrils, swirling around his wrists and digits, coiling into a churning sphere, in readiness to launch a bullet.
It doesn't take much force to do so.
First the firing pin striking the primer, leading to explosion, the spark igniting the gunpowder. Gas converting rapidly, expanding in the cartridge, forcing it out and down the barrel.
One shot and it's enough, it's over, leaving behind a dark hole in the ground and a wisp of smoke.
He hears the white-haired man gasp in surprise, sees his pupils dilate, but he's not finished.
Suguru’s heading in Satoru’s direction now, his steps firm, his stare unfaltering.
“Love that is true,” he adds. “Love that lasts and doesn’t give up, no matter how impossible it may seem.”
This love is unshakeable and unmeasured.
It definitely doesn't fit into one vacant pit, buried in the ground when it deserves to be in plain sight.
“That memorial served its purpose, but it’s useless now. If you want to bring me flowers, you can give them to me and I’ll put them in a vase in our home. This grave is empty. I’m not. I’m not six feet under, Satoru, I’m here. And I want to be with you,” he says, coming close to Satoru and caressing his face, seeing azure waves crashing in his irises.
His name is Suguru Geto.
He prefers drawing with charcoal. In his peak form, he managed to bench press 180 kilos. Among exercises, he enjoys Romanian deadlift and inverted row the most. His favourite food is zaru soba and he cries while watching ‘Tokyo Twilight’.
He’s alive.
He was 27 years old when he died, but he will get older.
Whatever he’s going to become next, Satoru’s there to accompany him.
There is one sea Suguru is in love with and he’s staring straight into it.
He hooks his arms around Satoru’s neck and leans forward to join their lips, earnestly and unhurried, out in the open.
“Show-off. People will see,” Satoru warns half-heartedly, unconcerned as he settles his hands on Suguru’s hips and draws him closer, his mouth twisting in a big smile. Suguru can feel it pressing into his.
“Let them,” the black-haired man responds and kisses him again, as slow and doting as before. “Let me treat you to dinner. Take you on a proper date, in public. Let me love you loud,” he adds after pulling away, their noses touching. “Let me love you right this time.”
Satoru grins wider. “Yeah? What about CHIUnE? Gonna wine and dine me? Give me a ride as well?” He wiggles his eyebrows, receiving a sticked-out tongue in return.
“Actually, yeah,” Suguru snarks back. “I don’t have my manta ray anymore, but there’s another exclusive limousine awaiting you.” At Satoru’s surprised stare, he clarifies, “I wasn’t completely out of curses back then. I still have the one we caught during our first mission together. The Scarlet Skimmer.”
The ruddy insect’s wings shimmer in the sun when he summons it, silvery with a blue tint, just like Satoru’s eyes.
The atmosphere changes, a skerrick of slip on Satoru’s visage into something more serious, on the edge of valiant. Incendiary incandescence in his irises, the one Suguru fell for.
The white-haired man extends his hand, his fingers bent, except for the smallest one.
“There will be war,” he says and there’s a whole list of things his words could include.
Curses. Other clans. The higher-ups. Sukuna.
It’s going to be a tough battle, but Suguru doesn’t have to do this on his own. They’re going to face it together.
Their experiences shaped them, changing the trajectory of their lives.
They’re not the same people they used to be. Their scars are numerous, still taking their toll, but every single one is a brick.
They can build an empire.
It’s not a brand new start, but it feels like a new beginning – next chapter of a story that still has a chance to go on.
“Let’s give them hell,” he responds and links their fingers, touching his thumb to the white-haired man’s as well.
Satoru is the light; dazzling luminosity so intense it’s like watching the sky collapsing on you, blinding sometimes. He’s the ischýs; one strike could wallop an entire battalion of the most vile enemies.
He doesn’t need protection. That won’t stop Suguru from trying to be his sword and his shield.
If Satoru is the saving grace, then Suguru will be reflecting his soft sheen until he finds it within himself, until his own radiance comes back to the surface and they can fully shine again together. He knows Satoru will be there to guide him through it.
The king and the lionheart. They’re both here to stay.
Their pinkies locking make for a silent oath.
It’s not a Binding Vow, but it’s a promise nonetheless.