Work Text:
CONCERNING THE CURSE USER GETO SUGURU AND THE MATTER OF HIS EXECUTION
THE NEW JUJUTSU ALLIANCE,
Considering:
a.) Sorcerer Kenjaku orchestrated the Shibuya Incident and Culling Games by transplanting their brain into Geto Suguru’s body and utilizing its inherent Cursed Technique;
b.) Geto Suguru was vital in ending the Culling Games and stopping the Merger;
c.) Geto Suguru has lost his Cursed Technique as a result of extracting Sorcerer Kenjaku’s brain from his body;
d.) Geto Suguru’s body utilized its remaining Cursed Energy to construct a new brain with an accelerated rate of neurogenesis;
e.) Geto Suguru has lost most of his memories, including memories of his education in Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School and the crimes he has committed as a curse user (2007-2017);
In accordance to:
1.) Article 9 of the Jujutsu Regulations on Execution;
2.) Article 5 of the Memorandum of Duty of Jujutsu Sorcerers on Punishment;
3.) Article 8 of the Memorandum of Duty of Jujutsu Sorcerers on Secrecy;
4.) Decree of the New Jujutsu Alliance on the Amendment to the Memorandum of Duty of Jujutsu Sorcerers.
DECIDES:
Geto Suguru is acquitted from execution and shall live the rest of his life as a non-sorcerer.
Mercy is what makes him. To be the pinnacle of existence is to be born with the duty of divine mercy, a god and his birthright. To listen to the last words of someone’s dying breath is a responsibility, not a choice. Mercy seasons justice—Gojo thinks Geto wouldn’t have agreed.
It’s been half a year since the Jujutsu society started to reconstruct its system. It was never going to be an easy process; perhaps the impending doom of what came before served as an ultimatum of its own, uniting sorcerers in a neverending marathon, more of a relay race now. Gojo was always an optimistic man, but to see his vision manifest right in front of him was something he never imagined happening in his lifetime. To share the burden of honor with his allies has always been his goal, something he strived for, and now he bears the fruits of his labor. Missions are less tiring these days and he has more free time than he did before. Despite that, he doesn’t let himself sleep.
He’s just come back from a mission abroad, bags of souvenirs in hand. It’s a habit that he nurtures, to bring little mementos to share with everyone, to have them in mind even when they're far away. It's a silent appreciation, a token of his gratitude. Thank you for staying. He keeps a bag of sweets to himself, hides it behind his back sheepishly before he goes to his apartment for a change of clothes. He heads out right after. He doesn't bother resting.
The neighborhood he teleports to is a cozy one, nestled in the outskirts of Tokyo. He spots his destination and walks towards a two-story apartment complex, climbs the outdoor staircase and stops in front of door 203. He stands there for a while, contemplating the risks of his actions, then he places the bag of sweets on the door mat. He doesn’t wait for the door to open, doesn’t knock to let them know. Geto usually comes out of his apartment at around 6:30 a.m., anyway.
Geto Suguru is a free man.
After successfully regaining consciousness and seizing his body back, Geto became instrumental in stopping the Culling Games and unlocking the Prison Realm. The extraction of the brain was supposed to kill him, to take back what wasn’t supposed to be there, but he lived. He isn’t the same as before, but he’s alive. Gojo doesn’t know if he’s grateful.
Geto isn’t considered a hero, not with what he’s done with his life, but without the memories that made him who he was, it didn’t make sense to execute him. It didn’t make sense to execute a non-sorcerer who has no recollection of Jujutsu, a person who can’t even see curses. Gojo thinks mercy is a funny thing. He remembers how relieved Geto looked in that alleyway the last time he saw him. If it was up to him, he’d let Geto die peacefully, let him leave the world that abandoned him. His mercy would be different.
Then he’d catch a glimpse of Yuuji, of Maki and Yuuta, smiling and laughing with their peers after another mission well done. He wonders when he’s gotten so hypocritical.
Geto is essentially a new man, not even a shadow of who he once was. After much collective deliberation, he’s been released as a civilian of Tokyo, stranded in a town he barely knows. Gojo was the one who helped set everything up for him, a decision he made on his own. He made sure Geto had a place to stay, made sure the place he chose would be kind enough to ignore someone on shaky fawn legs. He leaves sweets on his doorstep, a habit he’s nurtured for a different man, someone of the past. This Geto has never seen him.
This Geto has shorter hair now, barely shoulder length and he doesn’t tie it back. His bangs are also shorter, but they’re still there, occasionally pushed behind an ear. He has a right arm, something the thing that inhabited him created, functional with barely a scar to show. He wonders if Geto stares at the faded marks on the seam of his shoulder, wonders if he pays attention to the faint line across his forehead. His earrings are a constant; perhaps it would be a hassle to take them off.
This Geto works as a nursery school teacher. Without a high school diploma or a college degree, finding a job proved difficult for someone who dedicated their whole life to something entirely different. His natural parental instincts and charming disposition landed him a contract in teaching kids. Gojo thinks it’s ironic. Whenever he passes by the school Geto works at, he’s reminded of two little girls. He wonders if Geto feels lonely sometimes.
This past half year, Gojo’s been looking out for him, making sure he’s getting by alright. Geto doesn’t need it; he’s always been good with people, even with no recollection of how he ended up in a kitschy apartment on the outskirts of Tokyo. His neighbors love him. His co-workers love him. His students love him. He’ll be alright. Gojo wants to believe that, but he still makes it a point to pass by him to see for himself.
This Geto reminds him of his Geto back in high school. He knows it isn’t fair to compare them, it isn’t fair to compare the dead to the living person they are now because they’re practically two different people.
But it’s still Geto Suguru.
It’s still the body he once knew, the one he still knows by heart. It’s still his voice, the same raucous laughter that ended up with wheezing, the one he poked fun at when they were first years. It's still his smile, that same one he showed during his last moments. You should at least curse me at the end.
It’s still Geto. He just doesn’t remember.
It’s a pipe dream, a fantasy he holds onto that maybe this Geto remembers a little bit about him, that maybe muscle memory can lead them back together somehow. Maybe they can rekindle their friendship under different circumstances this time.
It’s been half a year since Geto came back. It takes half a year for Gojo to finally meet him again.
On Saturdays, Geto usually strolls through Tokyo and does some light grocery shopping through the marketplace, occasionally buying miscellaneous trinkets here and there. He also stops by a familiar crepe stand.
Gojo calms his nerves before approaching him. Distantly, he realizes this is the first time he’s felt nervous to see Geto. It's a strange feeling, one he doesn't recognize when it comes to him. He straightens his back and finds the right moment to line up for crepes.
Geto is behind him. Gojo purposefully stops in his tracks, pretending to check his phone. Geto bumps into him—a perfect plan.
“I’m sorry,” Geto apologizes, though Gojo knows through his tone alone that he’s just as annoyed as he is apologetic. His politeness is inherent, too. Bone-deep.
“No, I’m sorry,” he answers back, genuinely embarrassed. “I should’ve kept moving forward.”
He tries to make conversation, clears his throat of the cobwebs first. “You hear about the promo they’re having? Two for the price of one.”
“Really?” Geto asks half-interestedly.
“Yeah! Oh, my name is Gojo Satoru, by the way.” He hides the hurt behind his teeth, his grin wide and friendly. He thought he’d only have to introduce himself once to someone he called his best friend. It’s strange to repeat words from more than a decade ago to the same person. “You can call me Satoru.” He hopes he calls him Satoru.
“I’m Geto,” he says back. You were Suguru to me, Gojo thinks. “Nice to meet you, Satoru.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” He leans against the wall beside him, tries to look nonchalant as he does. “So, you come here often?”
“To buy crepes?” Geto chuckles. “Yeah. These are my favorite.”
I know, Gojo thinks. They were my favorite first.
“Mine, too,” he answers. “I guess we have a lot in common.”
“What, just crepes?” Geto’s laugh is the same as before.
“We’re both pretty tall,” he says. “Our names, too?”
“Our names?” Geto asks, incredulous. “You don’t even know my given name.”
“Took a wild guess.” He puffs his chest in false confidence. “And the crepes, of course.”
“Then I guess we are kinda similar.” Geto smiles, and it’s just a breath away from the smile he used to give him, the one where his eyebrows scrunch up and his eyes turn into crescent moons. Gojo wants him to smile like that at least one more time in his life, something just for him. “My full name is Geto Suguru.”
“Okay, Geto Suguru,” he says. “Can I get your number?” He flashes his best smile.
Geto gives him his number, not without a little hesitance at first. Gojo tells him he moved from Okinawa, sprouts something about a job opportunity in Tokyo. He’s new here and he’s looking for friends. He tells him Geto has a kind face, that’s why he asked for his number.
Geto tells him that he’s also somewhat new here. He could show Gojo around, if he’d like. Gojo wonders if Geto would offer to do the same for anybody else. He smiles, tells him he’d love that.
Gojo sleeps for the first time in a while tonight. Reverse Cursed Technique was something he resorted to daily to keep himself away from mortality. It’s a bad habit of his to keep it activated even when he doesn’t need to. He sleeps tonight, less high strung now that he’s finally started a conversation. He dreams.
We have so much more in common than that, Satoru.
Gojo dreams of Geto. This Geto remembers him and he laughs at Gojo’s attempt at flirting with the Geto at the crepe stand.
You almost gave it away with the name there. “Took a wild guess?” the Geto in his dreams asks rhetorically. Careful, you might out yourself as a stalker.
This wouldn’t have happened if you just didn’t lose your memories, Gojo answers petulantly. Dream Geto laughs. Don’t laugh at me. I’m trying here.
I can see that, Dream Geto says. That’s real nice of you.
He sits next to Gojo on a bench that materializes from nowhere. It’s dark here, but Gojo can see the man beside him clearly.
You can leave me, you know.
You know I can’t, he answers back. He doesn’t want to forget, even if he has to remember alone.
You can try. Dream Geto puts his hand on Gojo’s. His palm is warm and it feels so real, the weight of it exactly how he remembers. Gojo can't even be angry at his subconscious, this cruel trick it dangles like a carrot to a starving animal. He grabs Geto's hand, didn't know he needed it as much as he does now.
I don’t want to try. He laces their fingers together, a prayer by two. I don’t want to let go.
Gojo wakes up by blinking. He doesn’t scream, he isn’t confused, he isn’t jolted awake. The sun peeks through his blackout curtains. The last thing he saw was a smile.
Texting is easy, Gojo thinks.
It’s been a month since they’ve officially met again, a month since Gojo successfully asked for Geto’s number. It isn’t as easy to memorize as his old one, but he tries anyway, randomly reciting the string of numbers during missions and bouts of paperwork. It’s like a mantra, a good luck charm he relies on too heavily these days.
Geto is easy to text and he’s almost fooled into thinking that things have never changed between them, that it’s still the summer of 2005 and that he’s just visiting home over their short break. He realizes his mistake when Geto questions an inside joke they used to have.
Skullgreymon?
yeah!
it’s a digimon
That sounds cool
Sorry, I’ve never played Digimon
that’s fine
haven’t played in a long time anyway
Reality is a harsh slap to a man with dreams. He’s happy Geto is at least receptive, polite as he agrees with him on things they used to share. He doesn’t know it, but his kindness is cruel. It gives Gojo a shard of hope to cling to, sharp as it cuts into his palm—his soul.
We can play it if you want
And he holds onto that shard as tight as he can, lets it embed itself into him.
ok!
can we play at your place though?
i got boxes everywhere here
Sure
Bring your gaming console
Geto sends him an address and he doesn’t even need to look at it to know where to go.
“Mind the mess,” Geto says to him as they walk inside his place after a Saturday of exploring Tokyo. Today they walked through the streets of Shibuya. Gojo told him he needed to buy some outfits for his job interviews. They didn’t end up buying anything, but they did have lunch at a gyoza restaurant later in the afternoon. Saturdays with Geto are comfortable, just like old times. Gojo hasn’t slept since his mission two days ago.
“You should see my place,” he jokes. Geto’s apartment is tidy; Gojo doesn’t expect less from him.
“I’ve only got water and soda, so you’ll have to pick between the two.” Gojo hears a refrigerator opening as he sits in Geto's small living room.
“Soda!” he yells. “Thank you!”
He sets up the console he carried around the whole day, connects it to Geto’s secondhand TV. The game they’re about to play is something they’ve played before, Digimon Rumble Arena. Today, he’ll have to reteach Geto.
“What games did you play as a kid?” he asks, gauging to see where they have to catch up to.
“I didn’t play any games,” he hears behind him. Geto hands him a can of coke and sits beside him. “I think.”
“You think?”
“I have amnesia,” Geto says, and to hear it from his mouth is so surreal. “Retrograde amnesia, that’s what the doctors called it. It's why I told you I’m kinda new to the area, too.” Geto pulls the tab off of his own coke. “For all I know, I could’ve lived here my entire life.”
“Wow,” Gojo says lamely. “That must’ve been hard.”
“It wasn’t that bad. People were pretty understanding.” Gojo opens his own can of soda, sipping to hide his expression. “None of my neighbors knew me, though. I’m guessing I was pretty reclusive before.”
You weren’t, Gojo thinks. People loved you. They still do.
“A total 180 from you now, huh,” Gojo whistles.
“Sorry for laying it all on you like that,” Geto chuckles. “Thanks for not making it into this big thing.”
“No problem.” Gojo turns the game on, moves on from the conversation. “You’ve never played, right? Watch and learn, Geto.”
They play until dawn peeks through Geto’s window. Gojo thinks he’s successfully taught Geto the ways of Digimon, the man finally understanding the joke Gojo texted him a week ago. Geto laughs like he’s just had an epiphany.
“I get it now!” he cries, eyes wide in awe. “Skullgreymon resets back to Koromon!”
“See, now you’re speaking my language!”
“It’s still a dumb joke, though.” Gojo can’t help but laugh with him.
He thinks of the last words Geto confided in him. It feels so long ago.
It's just that, in this world, I couldn't laugh from the bottom of my heart.
He eyes the man from the corner of his eyes, cheeks tinted pink as he boisterously laughs at a simple joke he just realized the punchline to. His eyebrows are furrowed up, his eyes clenching shut as he grabs his stomach—it's almost comical. This Geto’s grin is the widest he’s ever seen. The image is tattooed into Gojo’s mind as he lays on his bed.
Maybe Geto doesn’t need to remember anything. Maybe forgetting was the biggest blessing he could ever ask for. He doesn’t know if he wants Geto to recall anything about him now, even if it’s instinctual, a body moving to a tune the mind no longer knows. He lets himself sleep tonight. He dreams.
You used to make the dumbest analogies with Digimon, Dream Geto chuckles. I ended up playing the game because you talked about it so much.
Yeah? Gojo is on a bench in a familiar train station. He recognizes it as the place he first met Geto when he arrived in Tokyo. It looks the same here. Why’d you do that? He asks but he knows the answer.
Because I liked you, Dream Geto confesses. It sounds just like it did back then. You were annoying, but I liked you somehow.
That’s a backhanded compliment, he giggles.
I can’t just lie to you, Dream Geto laughs. And Gojo thinks maybe that would’ve been better than never talking to him again. You weren’t the nicest kid when we first met.
Am I nice now, then? he asks.
The kindest person I’ve ever met, Dream Geto answers.
Gojo doesn’t drink his coffee, content with keeping his hands around the mug for warmth only. It’s almost December and the weather is getting colder. He wishes he wore something warmer. Shoko makes her way to the seat across from him with her own cup.
“Maybe keeping him here would’ve been better,” Shoko says. “Then I could pick at his new brain.”
Geto’s case is a miracle even in Jujutsu history. Textbook wise, Reverse Cursed Technique is able to heal human bodies. There have been cases of limb regeneration and resuscitation before, but a complete formation of a new brain is unheard of. The brain houses the soul; how does a body reconstruct its own soul?
“How is he?” The question takes Gojo aback. “I know you keep an eye on him.”
“What?” Gojo tenses. Shoko’s known him long enough to memorize his tells.
“You can’t just release a guy like him into the wild and not expect stragglers to hunt him down.” She takes a long sip of her coffee, a habit that’s replaced smoking. “Didn’t that Kenjaku person use his face to talk to world leaders or something? I’m surprised someone hasn’t sniped him yet.”
“They wouldn’t risk an international scandal,” Gojo says. “It would only complicate politics. I don’t think they’d want us as enemies, anyway.”
“To think that this is all happening and he doesn’t even have a clue,” she chuckles.
“He doesn’t need to know,” he tells her. “He’s a non-sorcerer now.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
Gojo thinks of what to answer. They’ve just finished another full council meeting, the second one this month. With the new system in place, all sorcerers have a say on curse-related problems plaguing the country. Gojo learns that they are more empathic than they’re credited. He wonders what Geto would’ve thought of this new world.
“Well?”
“He’s doing fine,” he answers simply.
“As expected. You’d have to get closer to know more, I guess.”
It takes Gojo a little too long to reply.
“Yeah.”
Shoko raises a brow.
“You have been keeping your distance,” she looks at where his eyes are under the blindfold, “right?”
“Of course,” he lies.
Shoko doesn’t push.
“Okay.”
He sips his coffee. He wishes he added more sugar.
It’s a slip of the tongue—he tells Geto it’s his birthday this Saturday. Geto sounds excited for him on the phone. He asks Gojo if he has any plans for the special day.
“Special?” he repeats teasingly on the phone.
“Yeah,” Geto says. “It’s your birthday.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s a special day.” Gojo blows a puff of air from his nose, Geto’s steadfast enthusiasm endearing even now.
“Of course it does,” Geto says. “Another year alive. That’s pretty special.”
“That’s a nice way of thinking about it,” Gojo decides. Perhaps losing all his memories gave him something to look forward to.
“How old are you turning?”
“Thirty one,” Gojo says. He remembers being sixteen.
“I guess you’re two months older than I am.”
I know, Gojo thinks. You always held it over my head.
“Really?” he asks, feigning curiosity. “I thought you were older than me.”
“Why? Do I seem mature?” Geto laughs.
“Nah, you just act like an old man.”
Geto asks his first question again. Gojo says he doesn’t have any plans. Geto tells him to meet him at their usual gyoza place at 5 p.m. Gojo lays on his bed and stares at his ceiling, fifteen minutes to 5 p.m.
Dinner is nice, their usual banter comfortable as they trade stories of how their week went, Gojo’s anecdotes a fabrication that only slightly resembles his actual day to day. Geto tells him of the kids he teaches, how he adores their childlike wonder. He asks Gojo how his job interviews are going.
“They’re okay,” he lies.
“You'll get'em next time,” Geto says empathetically. “Getting a job was hard for me, too. It really is a stroke of luck.”
“I don’t know, you seem like a pro,” Gojo half-jokes.
“At teaching kids?”
“Yeah. Very fatherly face. It’s why I thought you were older.” He baits.
Geto bursts into laughter, straight from the belly, his chopsticks clattering into the bowl of sauce, soy splashing onto the table. Gojo tries to remember the last time Geto laughed this hard in high school.
“Geez,” he says. “‘Fatherly’ is a first.” He grabs a napkin to wipe the mess in front of him. “But I guess I do want to be one.” There’s a tender smile on his face and for a second Gojo thinks he’ll remember the people he called his family.
“You wanna be a dad?” he asks.
“Yeah. Maybe one day,” Geto answers. Gojo feels sick.
They finish their food and Geto pays the bill, says it’s his treat since it’s Gojo’s birthday. He tells Gojo he wants to take him somewhere after dinner. Gojo notices a little bag in his hand, wonders where Geto hid it during dinner. They stop by a convenience store and Geto buys a couple six packs of Asahi beer. Gojo asks what for. Geto tells him it’s to celebrate his birthday.
“I’m not good at drinking,” Gojo tells him.
“A can of beer isn’t gonna knock you out,” Geto laughs. Then his face turns serious. “Right?”
“A can is fine.” It’s Gojo’s turn to laugh.
Geto takes him to a cliff he’s never been before. From this vantage point, they can see how Tokyo lights up at night, replacing the stars above them. Gojo wonders when Geto found this place. Was he busy that day?
The alcohol is bitter on his tongue, but Geto looks like he’s enjoying himself so he keeps sipping. He’s still on his first can when Geto cracks open his fourth. He’s tipsy already and it seems like Geto is, too.
“You don’t mind, right?” Geto nods to the can in his hand.
“Knock yourself out, I’m good.” Geto used to have the highest alcohol tolerance out of the three of them, barely beating Shoko. It seems like the beer is affecting him faster today. Maybe he was already tired before dinner.
“Sometimes I just feel like there’s more to life,” Geto says as he stares at the starless sky. “Like I’m missing something.”
Missing me? Gojo asks internally.
“Missing what?” he asks out loud.
“Another part of me.” Geto turns his head to look at Gojo. “Do you believe in past lives? It kinda feels like that.”
Gojo wants to cry. It’s not a past life, he thinks, but maybe it would be better if it was.
“I mean, you do have amnesia,” he replies casually.
“So blunt,” Geto chuckles. “But I guess you’re right.”
Then Geto sits up like he just remembered something, grabbing the paper bag he brought with him.
“I almost forgot,” he says. “Happy birthday, Satoru.”
Gojo gratefully takes the bag from him and reaches inside to pull out a bakery box. It’s a slice of cake and a small plastic spoon.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got you chocolate,” Geto says beside him. “I got it right after I finished some business at school.”
“No, I love chocolate,” he says, open-mouthed. Geto is still inherently thoughtful, too.
“I didn’t have time to get candles, so here.” He pushes a lit lighter in front of Gojo’s face. “Make a wish first, old man.”
Gojo laughs at that, closes his eyes and hopes for the impossible as he blows the flame out.
It feels like hours have passed as they talk about nothing at all, enjoying each other’s company as they count artificial stars embedded into the cityscape. Gojo stops drinking after one can, opting to finish his cake instead. Geto is on his seventh beer. Gojo isn’t worried; if he remembers correctly, Geto is still somewhat lucid even after ten cans, narrowly winning over Shoko’s nine. He always remembers correctly when it comes to Geto.
He turns to Geto, about to tell him something he noticed at the restaurant before, only to be greeted by the sight of the man nodding himself to sleep. This Geto’s alcohol tolerance is lower than he expected.
“You were always sentimental during birthdays,” Gojo says quietly, silently thanking him for a day well spent.
“Hm?” Gojo realizes he’s miscalculated.
“Nothing,” he says.
“Sentimental?”
“You heard wrong,” and even Gojo can hear the panic in his own voice.
“Always?”
If Gojo was faster, a little more sober, he would’ve been able to dodge Geto, but he was too busy figuring out how to cover for his earlier mistake. Geto has his wrists above his head, a knee between his legs. Gojo doesn’t know when his back hit the grass.
He should’ve expected this; even drunk and clueless, Geto is almost as strong as he used to be. He holds Gojo’s arms down, his face so close he can smell warm alcohol, dizzying this close up. His gaze is accusatory.
“Whadd'ya mean by that?”
Gojo doesn’t know what to say.
“Who’re you really?”
“I’m Gojo?”
“S’not what I mean.”
Geto squints at him like he’s trying to pinpoint where he’s seen him before they met.
“Did I know you?” he mumbles quietly and his face is moving closer towards Gojo, the heat of his body warmer now. Gojo doesn’t move, doesn’t know how to move, can’t bear to move away. The grip on his wrists is familiar and there’s a desperation that wells in his heart, a gnawing hunger of more than ten years.
What if he just let it happen?
What if?
What if?
What if?
Their noses are touching now. Would it be catastrophic if he just lets their lips touch? He closes his eyes, his breathing shaky as his lips part open. His fingers relax and he doesn’t push back, welcoming the oncoming weight. He waits to see what happens.
Geto collapses onto him.
He’s passed out.
Gojo freezes from the shock.
Gojo teleports them back to Geto’s apartment. His knees are weak as he carries Geto to his bed and he knows it’s not a strength issue. He leaves a glass of water by his bed and an aspirin tablet, lays a blanket over his body and makes sure he sleeps on his side. There are no missions for Gojo today; his phone was silent all throughout his birthday, so he teleports home and sleeps the edge off. He dreams again.
I’ve never gotten black out drunk before, Dream Geto muses. You were always the lightweight between the two of us.
Well, you’re different now, Gojo replies. They’re on a bench just outside the school now, the one they’d sit on in between climbing stairs.
Am I really? Dream Geto gives him a sly smile and Gojo feels his face heat up.
Mostly different. Gojo looks up at the orange sky, smattered with the promise of summer, the air coiled with a tepid heat. It’s usually around this time they sit here, waiting for the moon to come up before finally trekking their way to their dorms, orange to red to purple. You’re still mean, though.
Dream Geto laughs and Gojo’s heart skips a beat. It feels just like it did years ago.
Not my fault you still get flustered easily, he says. Did you want to kiss me?
Would you blame me if I said yes? Gojo says, avoiding his gaze.
No. Dream Geto lays his head on his shoulder, a steady weight that’ll disappear in the morning. I wanted to kiss you, too.
When Gojo isn’t on a mission or making sure Geto is alright, he’s in Shoko’s office, watching her work, clinical and in her element. He doesn’t teach anymore—not yet, at least. There are fewer corpses in the morgue. Shoko’s purple under eyes have become brighter.
“I know you meet up with him,” she says offhandedly as she sifts through her papers. “So, how is he really doing?” Shoko always catches on fast.
“We celebrated my birthday last week,” he tells her. The shock of what could have happened that night lingered a little too long for his liking. He needs to tell somebody or he might go crazy.
“That takes me back,” Shoko says amusedly. “He used to always remember people’s birthdays. Did you tell him yours before?”
“Yeah,” Gojo says. “I wish I didn’t, though.”
“Why?”
Gojo doesn’t answer her. He fidgets with the paperclip in his hand, shapes it into something new. He hears a sigh.
“I knew it’d turn out like this.” Shoko rolls her desk chair to sit beside him. “There’s a reason why we all agreed to not interfere with his life.”
“Because we can’t risk letting him know about Jujutsu and curses, I know.” He twists a second loop into the pliant piece of metal.
“For everybody else, yeah.” She leans back in her chair, her hands picking on the fraying arm rests. “For you though? It’s more because of your attachment.”
“I’m not attached,” he denies.
“Gojo,” she starts as she looks at him. She waits until he turns his head towards her. “Do you think he’s the same Geto?”
He’s silent for a moment, thinking of how he should answer the question. He realizes that he’s been contemplating more often these days.
This Geto is vastly different from the person he once knew; he’s calmer, happier. He doesn’t jab as hard as he used to when they joke around now. There is no longer a permanent divot in between his brows, his face relaxed and his expression genuine. There is no deflecting mask, only the face of a wholehearted man. Sincere.
He’s not the same Geto. He’s not the same man Gojo once knew, but it’s his eyes that look at him in fondness, it’s his hands that have always been gentle with him, no matter how firmly they reprimanded him. It’s the same smile he saves for Gojo—how could he deny what’s in front of him?
“No,” he decides to say. “He’s not the same.”
Shoko looks doubtful.
“I hope you believe that,” she says. “He’s got a second chance in life. Let him live it this time.”
Shoko is about to roll her chair back to its place behind her desk before he stops her.
“I dream about him,” he confesses. “The real him.”
“The him before,” she corrects softly. “The Geto now is just as real, Gojo.”
He purses his lips, admonishes himself for making the new Geto an afterthought. After all, he's still a person, too.
“It just feels like he’s gone, but not really, you know?” His voice cracks. “I feel like I’m grieving someone who’s still alive, and he’s not even a bad guy. I don’t know why I just can’t let go.” The tears catch onto his blindfold.
There’s an arm around him now, a half hug as he slouches in his chair. It's been a while since he's dropped Infinity for a hug.
“And it’s fucked up because the Suguru in my dreams speaks like he’s a ghost, like he’s looking over me, but how can that even happen? I was just with him an entire day. He gave me a fucking cake for my birthday. He even told me to make a wish, but he’s right there. That’s all I ever wanted, but it’s not enough." A harrowing breath, rattling his bones. "It’s not the same. ”
He sobs, the tremors wracking his body and it’s colder than usual in Shoko’s office. Shoko pats his shoulders.
“I feel like my brain is torturing me with the worst coping mechanism,” he laughs wetly.
Shoko stands up to grab the tissue box off her desk and hands it to him.
“For your snot,” she explains. “Because your tears—you know.” She points to his blindfold.
He blows his nose as he laughs again.
“I can’t help you with medication, if that’s what you’re asking.” Shoko leans on her desk, crossing her arms. “But I think the best way to feel at least a little better is to stop meeting him. Pretend he’s really dead.”
“He’s such a nice guy, though, I can’t just suddenly stop talking to him." He crumples the used tissue in his hand, throwing it to the trash in the corner of the room. "We’re good friends now, too.”
“Pull away slowly, then.” And it really is that simple when you put it into words. “It’ll be better for the both of you.”
He follows Shoko’s advice, tells Geto he’s finally got a job. Geto is happy for him; he always is. Gojo tells him they’re working him to the bone and Geto is understanding, gives Gojo his space. Gojo spends more time doing paperwork and sitting in Shoko's office.
The mission he had today was easy: to exorcize a sea-creature looking Grade 1 curse. Perhaps it was because the curse closely resembled a manta ray he was familiar with, or maybe it had something to do with how close the area was to Shinjuku, but he breaks his resolve and calls Geto to let him know he's coming over.
He teleports to his place after changing out of his work clothes, knocking on door number 203 as he tries to appear relaxed. Geto doesn’t remember what happened the night of his birthday. Gojo woke up to a text thanking him for bringing him home safely. The door opens.
“Sorry about the mess.” It’s true this time; his place is objectively messier than usual. Gojo wonders why. “I had someone over last night.”
Gojo’s heart stops.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Huh?” Geto asks, his eyes flitting to glance at him. He gives a shy smile, turns back and makes his way to his kitchen. “No, we aren’t dating.” But the way he talks about this person is exactly the way he talked about Gojo back then. She must be important, at least.
“Your face is red,” he teases. He hides his trembling hands in his pockets.
“Come on, man,” Geto laughs. “It’s nothing like that.”
But it would only be a matter of time, he thinks. He remembers how wistful Geto looked when he told him he wanted to be a father. He grins, tries to be happy that Geto can finally laugh from the bottom of his heart now. It’s what he deserved in the first place. Gojo is glad he has his glasses on.
“Whatever you say, Geto,” he chuckles. “Invite me to the wedding,” he jokes.
Geto just laughs. Gojo reminds himself this is for the best.
He doesn’t teleport back to his house this time. He goes to a nearby park, walks around as he thinks over what Geto said earlier. The woman he’s seeing is someone from work, a first grade teacher. They’ve known each other since Geto started working there and she’s always been a very nice lady, always offering to help him out once she learned of his amnesia. Geto doesn’t think it’s serious yet. He wants it to be, though. Gojo’s hands still have crescent-shaped marks from when he squeezed his fists earlier, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms. He hasn’t healed them yet.
When he finally comes home, he falls into bed, not bothering to change his clothes or take off his shades. He’ll regret it in the morning when the arms of his glasses are bent out of shape, but tonight he dreams.
I can’t help it if I fall in love again, Dream Geto says to him.
I know, Gojo answers. But it still hurts. You’ve never even told me you loved me before.
I love you, Dream Geto says.
It doesn’t count, Gojo cries. It’s not real.
I’m not real? Dream Geto sounds mournful.
You are, Gojo tells him. Just not anymore.
They sit on a familiar bench. Gojo feels sentimental—the scenery today is exactly like how he remembers it more than a decade ago, bright Okinawan seas glittering in the evening sun. The air is balmy with salt. He remembers laughing about sea cucumbers.
It’s not fair, he whispers. You get to move on and forget about me and I’m stuck nursing feelings you’ll never reciprocate.
But I did love you, Dream Geto says softly.
You never said anything.
Gojo looks at him, the slope of his nose, the way his bangs move with the beach breeze. He looks exactly like the Suguru he keeps in his memories. Gojo knows Geto loved him. It was something that always existed between them, but he knows saying it out loud would’ve changed everything. He doesn’t know if it would have changed for better or for worse.
I’m sorry, Dream Geto apologizes.
It’s fine, Gojo says. It’s better that way.
There’s no use in imagining things that can never happen now.
Gojo is outside his door again weeks after their last meeting. It’s been a while since he’s slept—he doesn’t want the man in his dreams to tell him things he already knows. Those words coming from his mouth would only chip away at his sanity, so he keeps Reverse Cursed Technique on. He plans on telling Geto he’s moving back to Okinawa today. Then, he’ll keep his distance like he should’ve been doing all along. He’ll stop contacting Geto, slowly pulling away. Things will go back to how they should’ve been.
They’re in front of Geto’s TV after a couple rounds of video games and Gojo finds the words difficult to say, his mouth struggling to chew through the syllables needed to end this. Geto speaks before him, his soda fizzing in his hand.
“Someone’s been leaving food outside my door at night,” Geto confesses.
“Food?” Gojo asks. He knows.
“Sweets,” Geto says with amusement.
“That’s kinda creepy,” Gojo says. Please agree, he thinks. Please show me that I can let go now.
“Nah,” Geto waves off. “It’s nice. It’s like I’m traveling the world at my own house, they’re all candy from different places.”
“Oh?” Gojo doesn’t know what else to say to that.
“Yeah. Maybe I forgot I signed up for a subscription box or something,” Geto laughs.
You forgot a lot, Gojo thinks. He doesn’t say what he came here to say.
They end up playing more rounds, Geto getting closer to beating Gojo every time. They’re laying on the floor now and they don’t talk, the music from the pause screen filling the silence. It’s about 2 a.m. when Geto speaks again.
“I stopped seeing Fuyuko.” Gojo can’t pick out the emotion in his voice.
“What happened?” he asks and it’s difficult to keep his pulse from quickening.
“We decided it was for the best.” Geto sits up with a grunt. “I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship, either. Not yet, at least.”
“She wanted a relationship?” Gojo stays on the floor.
“Yeah. I don’t blame her, though.” Geto finishes his soda, flat now with how long he's left it out. “I understand. She wanted something more and I couldn’t give her that.”
Gojo hums. It’s so strange to hear that from Geto. He remembers watching his back as he walked away.
“What about you, Satoru? Are you seeing anybody?” Geto looks over to his face and Gojo closes his eyes behind his new glasses.
“Nah,” he answers. “I don’t think I’m ready, either.”
I don’t need them anymore, you know.
Gojo blinks his eyes open. He isn’t sitting on a bench this time, rather a bed. Geto’s old bed back in the dorms. After he left, they ransacked his room for clues and evidence, trying to find a reason why one of their very best would just betray them like that. Gojo painstakingly put everything he could salvage back together, modeling the room just how Geto left it, something close to the original. He hasn’t entered the room ever since.
I don’t swallow curses anymore, so I don’t need sweets to wash it down, Dream Geto says to him.
You loved sweets, Gojo says as he stares at the clean floors. Geto was always the tidier one between the two of them. I always saved mine for you.
I did love them, Dream Geto agrees. But I don’t need them anymore. Not in the way I used to. Gojo leans his head on his shoulder. Immersing himself is dangerous, but he yearns for a familiar body against his. He’ll settle for this, something for the night. You don’t need to worry for me anymore.
It takes him a full month to finally gather the courage to tell Geto. He busies himself with missions, drowns himself in dull paperwork, and even Shoko asks him why he’s hanging out around her office more often. He brings her coffee this time; black with an extra shot of espresso.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she exclaims after drinking a sip.
“You hate sugar,” he reasons.
“That doesn’t mean I like drinking charred beans.” She takes another sip anyway. “How long has it been since you last slept?”
“Huh?”
“Reverse Cursed Technique can heal the damage from lack of sleep, but I can still tell, you know.” She takes another sip of her drink. “You zone out easier.”
“I do?” He’s never noticed before. “Is it the coffee?”
“No, you just don’t seem like you’re completely there.” She gives him a questioning look. “Is it the dreams?”
“No,” he lies. “Yes,” he admits, “but I’m about to fix it today. I’m telling him I’m moving.”
“That’s good,” Shoko says carefully. “Have you thought about what to say?”
He has. He’s practiced it in front of his mirror and he’s rehearsed the words out loud. He won’t cry, he won’t be sad—he’ll be happy. He finds it rather amusing that this feels so much like a break up. Perhaps it is a break up, something like a closure to their separation more than ten years ago. This time, there is no animosity between them. He might even ask for a hug.
It’s their usual Saturday when he teleports to Geto’s place. His hands shake with anticipation, so he readies himself before knocking on the door and saying goodbye to the face of the man he once knew. Geto opens the door and Gojo almost gets the wind knocked out of him.
He asks for water this time; he doesn’t trust the soda bubbles, knows they’ll only make him more antsy. They sit down in front of Geto’s TV and he has half the mind to turn on the gaming console he’s kept at Geto’s place for almost a year now. He steels himself.
“I’m moving out of Tokyo,” he lies.
“Really?” Geto’s face falls. Gojo looks away.
“Yeah. I’m moving back to Okinawa,” he says. “Just isn’t my luck here, I guess.”
“I see. I hope everything goes well for you there,” Geto smiles. “Send me postcards, yeah?”
“Of course.” Gojo chokes up, his lashes clumping with unshed tears. “I’m moving on Monday.”
“That fast?” Geto’s eyebrows shoot up. Gojo thinks it would’ve been funny in any other situation. “I’m gonna miss you, man.”
“Me, too.” He means it and he thinks he’ll be this way his whole entire life.
“Don’t cry, Satoru.” Geto rubs his back soothingly. He wants a hug, but he doesn’t ask for one.
“I’m not crying,” he lies again.
“You’re such a liar,” Geto laughs. “I’ll keep in touch, don’t worry.”
He doesn’t answer him right away, uses the quiet to buy himself some time to calm the hiccuping sobs. Geto hugs him without him ever having to ask. He fists the back of his shirt and cries harder.
“Can we take a picture for memories sake?” he asks when he cools down, the tears on his face drying. “We’re never taken a picture together before.”
“Sure,” Geto says warmly.
The faint shutter of his phone camera sounds like a punctuation mark; a period at the end of a sentence. An end and a beginning. His eyes are a puffy red and Geto's smile, the one just for him, is captured in a digital forever. He sends the photo to Geto, bids him goodbye with one last hug. He hopes the grief isn't obvious.
When Gojo walks out of his apartment, he stops behind a tree nearby to compose himself. He thinks about deleting the picture, deleting his number, not wanting to cling to anything of the past, but decides against it. This Geto may not be the Geto he grew up with, the Geto he loved before, but he’s still someone he’s gotten to know and grew to love in a different way. It may not be a picture he’ll visit daily, but it’s become his memory. If he can’t have anything, he’ll at least have his memories. Memory is a second chance by itself.
He takes one last look at the two-story complex. He teleports himself home.
I’m proud of you, Dream Geto says.
They aren’t on a bench or a bed this time. It’s bright, but it doesn’t hurt Gojo’s eyes. It reminds him of the first time he met this Geto, but instead of darkness it’s pure light, almost like the white of a fluorescent bulb. It scares him, but it feels right.
You’ve grown into such a good man, Dream Geto tells him. But you should rely on others more. They’re your allies for a reason.
Gojo feels tears drip down his face. He wonders if they’ll fall onto the ground, wonders if this place even has a ground.
You should sleep more, too, Dream Geto says.
Will I see you again that way? Gojo asks.
I’ll always be here. Gojo laughs because Dream Geto points to his heart and the gesture reminds him of religious iconography or those dumb TV shows that keep reusing the same old tropes.
That’s so cheesy, he says. He laughs as he sobs.
I’m glad I can make you laugh, Satoru. Dream Geto smiles that same smile he did in the alleyway where Gojo last saw him.
Take care of yourself for me, he says. They sound like parting words.
It’s okay to remember alone. His hands are squeezed by calloused palms, and he feels his tears being wiped away by a gentle thumb. I’ll hold your hand when you get lonely.
I’m happy I knew you.
Gojo wakes up. He doesn’t scream, he isn’t confused, he isn’t jolted awake. He thinks of a man as bright as the sun.