Chapter Text
Suguru limps his way through the darkened alley, and knows that his time is up.
The brick wall is sturdy against his back. As he slides down it and collapses on the ground, the feeling is dulled, like a whisper in the back of his mind. He realizes he can’t feel the agonizing pain from his shoulder anymore, or the blood trickling down his face. He can’t feel much of anything really.
That’s fine though. He’d rather it be painless. Maybe he doesn’t deserve that—a painless, peaceful death—but it sure would be nice. Just him and the open, early morning sky. And this alley he’s currently bleeding out in.
The quiet is soothing. He can no longer hear the ear splitting screams of his own curses, the cries of sorcerers across the battlefield. Suguru has no clue where Okkotsu and Rika are anymore, nor does he care. They probably don’t care either—their job is done. Suguru has failed, and while Okkotsu might not have killed him completely, it won’t be long now.
Suguru tilts his head back and sighs, only to tense up again a moment later.
So much for dying alone.
He senses him before he sees him. The tidal wave of cursed energy is a dead giveaway, but Suguru knows him from scent, from shadow, from the barely there glow of his eyes illuminating the darkness. His eyes. How Suguru will miss those eyes.
He’s grateful that it’s him here, in the end. Of all the people out for his blood, he’s glad it’s his best friend who will finish the job. His one and only.
Satoru appears before him, speaks in a low tone, quiet and reserved. Suguru does his best to listen, to respond. This moment is important. It’s the last time Suguru will ever hear his voice, will ever speak to him. He wants to be present for every fleeting second of it.
Satoru tells him his girls are safe, and for that at least, Suguru can be relieved. They’ll get along just fine, because they are survivors, unlike him. They’ll be left alone, because Satoru tells him they will be, and Suguru knows that Satoru will respect a dead man’s wishes. At this point, to Satoru, every word Suguru says becomes law. Every wish granted.
Suguru knows this, and it is for that reason why so many more of those words are left unsaid. He has so many questions, so many thoughts that sit on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps his mouth shut. He has so much left to tell him, and absolutely no time at all.
It’s better this way. Let him die with his secrets, and let Satoru live on in ignorance. Some day—hopefully a long time from now—they will meet again, and Suguru will tell him everything.
For now, he can finally rest. He can rest knowing he tried his best fighting for what he believed in. It wasn’t enough, it was never going to be enough, but at least he tried. And that’s enough for him.
Satoru crouches in front of him, and Suguru allows himself one last look. Even through the haziness, he is beautiful. Ethereal. A god amongst men. What a perfect final view of this far from perfect world.
Suguru manages a smile, saves the image in his mind, and closes his eyes.
“At least curse me a little at the end.”
The blood loss finally reaches his brain, and as his consciousness slips away, Suguru holds onto that last memory, and waits for the end.
It doesn’t come.
“No.”
That’s… not right.
Suguru peels his eyes open again, slightly irritated, because the last time he closed them was supposed to be the last time.
Satoru is standing again, only now much closer. His jaw is set in that stubborn way that means he’s made up his mind about something. His eyes, though still alight with a blue glow, have hardened. His hands are balled to fists at his sides.
And, for the first time in Suguru’s nearly finished life, he looks at Satoru and feels fear.
He’s going to make it painful after all. He could drag it out, make it hurt. Who is Suguru kidding? Satoru wants this. He’ll probably enjoy it, and Suguru will most definitely deserve it. He’s done horrible, unspeakable things, and he thought he was past feeling pain at this point, but the way his dying heart picks up in a panic tells him he’s about to feel everything Satoru is about to do–
He tries to shift backward, and only succeeds in sliding further down the brick onto cold hard concrete. Fire licks up his shoulder, and he groans brokenly, grasping at the nub where his arm used to be.
“Satoru–”
“Stop.”
Satoru takes another step and then he’s right there, hands outstretched and reaching. Suguru chokes on a gasp and tastes blood in his mouth.
The image must be beyond pathetic, scrambling away with the little strength he has left in him. He can’t fight, can’t move, can barely breathe.
This is it.
“P-please… just–”
“Suguru.”
Hands claw at his shoulder, his waist. Another wave of agony erupts in his body, and then everything goes black.
…
When he wakes again, Satoru is gone.
It’s obnoxiously bright in here—wherever here may be—thanks to the fluorescent lights beaming down on him from every direction. The electricity hums quietly, filling the silence and slowly becoming more annoying. His shoulder screams at him, even if it’s much less than before.
So where the hell is he?
The pain means he isn’t dead (he thinks) which raises a multitude of questions. But thinking is making his head hurt, so he tries for sitting up instead.
“Ngh,”
He grits his teeth, grabbing for his shoulder, and finds that it’s wrapped. Blood has seeped through, making his fingers wet and sticky. It still hurts like hell but…
He scans over the rest of his body. Cuts and gashes have been stitched up or cleaned. His hair is still a mess, but the blood has been wiped off his face, the wound on his head tended to. Most surprisingly, his robes are gone. Replaced with sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt.
The smell on the clothes tells him exactly who they belong to.
God damn it Satoru, he curses. What have you done?
Click.
The hatch on a door unlocks, and Suguru turns just in time to see Shoko walk in.
She looks as beautiful as ever, tall and professional-like in her doctor’s coat. It suits her much better than the Jujutsu uniform, he thinks. But like so many of them, this life has still taken its toll on her, apparent in the dark circles under her eyes.
She looks up, sees him awake, and freezes. Her hunched frame straightens. Her dark eyes grow a fraction larger. Suguru wouldn’t have noticed her thinly veiled surprise if he didn’t know her like the back of his hand, but he does. And he notices.
Even though Shoko didn’t escape the horrors of the Jujutsu world completely, she doesn’t fight on the front lines anymore. She wasn’t fighting alongside Satoru and the others exorcising his curses in Tokyo and Kyoto. Which means it’s been eleven long years since they’ve spoken. Since they’ve been this close.
Suguru swallows. His voice sounds scratchy and foreign to his own ears.
“Hi.”
Shoko lifts a brow, then walks to a desk against one wall of the room, keeping her back to him.
“You’re alive,” she says simply.
Not by choice.
“...I guess,” he clears his throat. “Do I have you to thank for that?”
Shoko shoots him a look over her shoulder with a deadpanned expression, and Suguru already has his answer.
“No.”
She fiddles with some papers some more, and Suguru sits quietly. He scans the room again, and realizes with a start that there is a little too much metal in here. The door hatches lining one wall, the sterile smell in the air, the cool metal table beneath him.
Ah.
“Are we…”
Shoko scribbles something down with a ballpoint pen. “The morgue.”
It looks different than when he saw it last, but he supposes a decade is long enough for a few renovations.
More space for more dead sorcerers.
“I love what you’ve done with the place.”
Shoko digs something out of a drawer, and then comes over with a handful of wrapping.
“Yeah,” she says, setting it down on the table by Suguru’s hip. “Didn’t think I’d be fixing you when we met again here.”
Suguru huffs a laugh. It’s ironic—Shoko should be cutting him up right now, not piecing him back together.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“You two never let me have any fun.”
Suguru’s smile fades. Shoko unwraps his shoulder, and he lifts it obediently, careful not to look too closely at the wound.
“Why.”
Shoko pauses.
“Hm?”
“I’m supposed to be dead, Shoko.” The only slightly tense atmosphere between them evaporates, turning dark and cold. A hint of desperation bleeds into Suguru’s voice. “Why am I not?”
She gives him a long look, and Suguru can’t tell if it’s pity or disgust or regret for going along with the decision that allowed him to live in the first place.
Finally, she shrugs. “I told you, it wasn’t my call,” she grabs the new wraps and gets to work on his shoulder again. “I’m not the one you should be asking.”
Okay, well, speaking of.
“Where is he?”
“Off doing damage control. The higher ups wanted the story of what happened, and he needs to cover for you, since no one’s gonna be finding your body any time soon.”
Why on earth does he need to cover for him? Why does he bother?
It would have been easier for everyone if Satoru had just killed him. He must realize the risk of helping Suguru. He’s a murderer, a curse user, a threat to Jujutsu society. A traitor at best and an abomination at worst. Just helping him could get Satoru executed.
But then again, is there anyone who can kill Satoru Gojo?
“So what happens to me?” he asks, then winces as Shoko pulls the wrap tight, securing a knot at the center.
“You’ll stay cooped up in here for a few days. Satoru will come get you soon enough.”
“And take me where?”
Shoko shrugs again. “He didn’t say. Whatever happens though, just—please listen to him. He knows what he’s doing.”
Given the circumstances, Suguru finds that hard to believe.
“He’s going to hide me then? Keep the fact that I’m alive from the rest of the world?”
“Yep. You’re officially his dirty little secret.”
“Lovely.”
Shoko looks him over one last time. When everything appears to be in its place, she nods approvingly, and digs out a cigarette from her coat pocket. Suguru raises his brows.
“Still haven’t quit?”
She rolls her eyes as she lights it and brings it to her lips. The smell of tobacco on her exhale mixed with her perfume brings memories to the surface so violently it feels like a physical blow.
“I don’t plan to,” she says.
“It’s not good for you.”
“You don’t get to talk to me about coping mechanisms. Ever.”
Suguru sighs. “Fair enough.”
Shoko nods, and just for a moment, the corner of her mouth tilts up. Blink and you miss it. Maybe he’s hallucinating. “Try not to go around killing people for a while.”
She gives him a pat on the knee, a gesture so friendly and casual that Suguru almost jolts, forgetting to answer for a second.
“Ah, I’ll try to resist.”
He spends another two days in the morgue, sitting and sleeping and staring at the wall until the boredom nearly drives him insane.
Maybe this is his punishment. Maybe Satoru will never return and Suguru spends the rest of his miserable days in a big metal box surrounded by corpses. He’s escaped death just to end up here, living in a graveyard, and he wonders if death was the better option.
Shoko visits him twice in that time, which is probably the only reason he hasn’t lost all hope of getting out. She brings him food, treats his wounds, rewraps his shoulder, and does not bother trying to make conversation.
Suguru doesn’t mind. They have loads to talk about, but he sees every topic like a patch of green grass across a minefield. He doesn’t know what could set her off. She’s been good to him, even if she shouldn’t be, and the last thing he wants to do is upset her.
Also, given that she is still actively keeping him alive, it’d be wise to stay on her good side.
It’s more of a comfortable silence than an awkward one, anyway. Which is weird, because it should be beyond awkward, but it just… isn’t. Rather, it reminds Suguru of their high school days—late nights after a rough mission, out on the balcony after Yaga went to bed, sharing a cigarette between them. Sometimes it was just him and Shoko, sometimes Satoru was there too.
Satoru didn’t smoke, but not for lack of trying. He tried many times, but just didn’t seem to have the lungs for it. One drag caused him to nearly hack up a lung every time, which always got Suguru and Shoko laughing. Still, he came out with them anyway, one arm draped around Suguru or his chin on Shoko’s head, all the while whining about how the smoke stung his eyes and the smell stuck to his clothes. For all his complaints, it never stopped him from joining them on those nights, keeping them company.
There’s a reason behind every one of Satoru’s actions. It makes Suguru wonder what sensible reason there may be for saving his life. What he could possibly hope to gain.
Suguru comes up empty.
On the wall placed just above the door is an analog clock, and Suguru zones out on it as time crawls by. The hands make their way around and around, his headaches come and go, his shoulder still throbs with any movement, and he has no choice but to sit and wait.
It’s late, around eleven, when the door opens.
Suguru eases up from his makeshift bed—blankets piled on his little operating table—and rubs at his bloodshot eyes.
His wrappings were just changed recently. He really isn’t sure why a late night check-up is necessary, so he says as much. “I’m fine Shoko, really–”
Except, it’s Satoru who is standing in the doorway.
He stands tall and confident, demanding attention. His presence is as loud and impossible to ignore as ever. His hair is so white it nearly glows. Whether it’s the contrast of his deep purple Jujutsu uniform or the morgue’s ghostly lighting, Suguru doesn’t know, but he swears he’s never seen it so bright. Like the halo on an angel.
The white bandages covering his eyes makes Suguru’s heart sink. He’s overcome with the urge to tear away the wrappings until he sees his eyes again. How he misses them.
It’s suddenly become very hard to breathe. He’s been worrying about how this conversation would go ever since Shoko said Satoru would come for him, but now he can’t find the words. Of course Satoru had to show up when he was least expecting it and catch him completely off guard. Damn it.
Suguru gathers up all the courage within him, all the experience in speaking in front of crowds and cults, and opens his mouth to speak.
“Satoru–”
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay, but it’s time to go.”
Suguru blinks.
“Right… where am I going?”
“I’ll explain when we get there.”
That doesn’t give him very much hope.
He remembers Shoko’s words. He trusts Satoru knows what he’s doing, sort of, but more importantly, Suguru trusts him. Even if Satoru doesn’t trust him anymore, Suguru will listen. Anywhere is better than this place, and it seems there may be no choice in the matter anyway.
He swings his feet over the edge of the table, slides to the ground, and almost collapses under his own weight.
His hand darts out and grabs the lip of the table in the nick of time. Suguru exhales sharply, gritting his teeth against the pain that flares at his shoulder.
His body feels weak and foreign to him. Is it from lack of use? Come to think of it, he’s barely left the bed for days now. Or is it his injuries? That must be it. Probably his injuries.
He approaches Satoru on shaky legs. Though he can’t see his eyes, Satoru’s head tilts downward in assessment. A single brow raises above the blindfold.
“I thought you said you were fine,” he says, his tone more of a challenge than an inquiry.
Just almost blacked out for a second there, nothing crazy. “I am fine.”
“Uh huh. Ready then?”
Suguru hesitates, staring at his feet. He’d rather avoid having to be carried to their destination when his legs decide to give out. Or maybe Satoru will scoff at how pathetic he is and just leave him. That would at least spare him some of the embarrassment.
“How far is the um… the trip?” Any farther than the edge of campus might send him back to Shoko on a stretcher.
“Oh don’t worry. We’re not walking.” Satoru holds out a hand.
Suguru swallows. He’s never been good with teleporting. That was Satoru’s area of expertise, and Suguru never felt the need to master it anyway. His curses always took care of that for him.
But he doesn’t really have a choice, does he?
Suguru places his hand in Satoru’s hesitantly, feeling the other man’s warmth seep into his skin. Satoru squeezes in warning, and Suguru holds on tight.
In the next moment, the world blinks away.
Suguru finds himself standing on the sidewalk.
Dim streetlights cast shadows across an empty road. Dark grey clouds linger above in a starless sky. A breeze whips through, sending loose strands of his hair flying and goosebumps up his arms under his thin cotton shirt. It smells like it’s going to rain soon.
In the distance, Suguru recognizes the raised lands that the campus occupies. He can feel the energy, can almost pick out the school buildings through the darkness. Suguru guesses they’re only a few miles down the mountain. They hardly traveled at all.
Satoru is standing next to him, jaw clenched and back to the road. Suguru follows his gaze to the house they have teleported to. Their destination.
Calling it a house is an outrageous understatement. While only two stories, the place is enormous and beautifully built, presumably new based on the modern architecture. It’s pushed far back from the sidewalk, and Suguru then realizes how few other houses occupy this stretch of road. It’s private. Secluded.
Quite luxurious compared to the morgue, as far as prisons go.
“It’s mine,” says Satoru from beside him. Suguru nods slowly, unable to conceal his awe. He knew Satoru comes from old money, but he never was fond of talking about it. He never would’ve guessed he had this much.
Without another word, Satoru retrieves a key from his pocket and starts down toward the estate. Not even a glance behind to ensure Suguru is following. It’s so unlike him, cold and quiet and distant. The silent treatment pains him in all the worst ways.
Suguru fists his hand in his too-long-sleeve and limps after him.
The interior is just as gorgeous as the outside. Satoru flicks on the lights, revealing a stunning chandelier and a winding staircase leading up to the second floor. Expensive looking furniture is neatly placed in each room, and Suguru spies a large kitchen around the corner. Judging by the size of the place, there must be a dozen more rooms he can’t see.
To a stranger, the estate appears to be simple and minimalist, aiming for clean and well kept over more of a homey feel. To Suguru, something feels off. It’s suspiciously empty.
He remembers Satoru’s dorm at Jujutsu High as clearly as his own. Posters and figurines and polaroid pictures took up every square inch of wall space, piles of unfolded clothes were draped over chairs and all across his bed, and video games cluttered the floor in front of his TV. It was a mess, but it was wholly and undeniably Satoru’s mess. Suguru crosses the threshold, and doesn’t see so much as a pair of shoes at the front door.
He doesn’t live here, Suguru realizes.
He lives at the school probably, where he works and trains and teaches his students. It makes the most sense. Satoru may own this place, but it is not his home.
“Your room is upstairs on the right. Should have everything you need.”
Suguru whirls around so fast black splotches appear at the edges of his vision. When he can see properly again, he stutters out a shocked, “Sorry, what?”
Satoru continues like he hadn’t heard him. “Help yourself to the kitchen. The fridge stays stocked, but let me know if you want anything specific. Ijichi loves running my errands for me.”
“My room?”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Satoru motions upstairs with a vague wave of his hand. “There’s a phone up there for you. Mine and Shoko’s numbers are in there. In case of emergencies.”
Suguru’s head is spinning. Satoru can’t possibly mean what he thinks he means. Not killing him was one thing, but this? This is insane.
“I don’t–”
“I’ll drop by every so often, make sure you’re not plotting the next apocalypse or anything. I’m a busy guy these days, so make my job easy will you?”
He speaks so casually he may as well be talking about the weather. Suguru finally snaps and darts out his hand, snagging Satoru’s wrist. It’s even more baffling when his fingers actually close around warm, smooth skin instead of the infinite space provided by Satoru’s technique, but there’s too many thoughts racing in Suguru’s head to register that right now.
“Satoru. What are you saying?”
He watches as Satoru turns, his mouth straightening in a tight, serious line. “You live here now,” he says slowly. “Under my protection. As long as you stay here, you’ll be safe.”
Suguru doesn’t miss the warning in those words. Though it’s not a prison cell or the morgue, there doesn’t seem to be a choice here, whether Suguru wishes to stay or not. I could leave, he supposes, but I probably wouldn’t get very far.
Yes, the past week or so has flown by without his notice, the world moving on around him. Suguru has no clue what has happened, really, but it’s clear that his whereabouts are unknown to anyone aside from Shoko and Satoru. They must have put in a great deal of effort to keep something this big a secret. The only question is why.
“Why are you doing this?”
Why would Satoru protect him?
Why am I alive?
Satoru stares at him for a long time. Suguru waits with bated breath, seconds from either begging on his knees for an answer or screaming and shaking one out of him. Does he know what’s at stake? Does he not understand what Suguru has done?
Say something.
Finally, Satoru bristles, visibly bristles, as if offended. Suguru feels him tense in his grip right before he rips his arm away.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Suguru frowns and opens his mouth to argue, but the buzz of Satoru’s phone cuts him off. He pulls it out to check it, then sighs.
“I have to get back to the school. Will you…”
Satoru falters, unsure. Suguru notices the hesitance in his unspoken question, the way he opens his mouth and closes it again. Suguru knows what he is too afraid to ask, and responds before he thinks better of it.
“I’ll stay.” He sounds so certain of himself, it’s almost laughable in comparison to how he feels on the inside.
It’s not as if he has any other choice but to agree—Suguru has nowhere to go. His family is gone, either dead or alive and (hopefully) far away. On the off chance that Satoru actually lets him go, turns a blind eye if Suguru tries to make an escape, Suguru has had eleven years to make enemies all over the country. If not Satoru, someone else will surely kill him.
Except Satoru didn’t kill him. He refused then, and it doesn’t seem like he will now, not after going through all this trouble. For whatever reason, he’s decided to spare him.
So Suguru will stay. That is the truth, for now, even if it won’t be later.
Satoru stares for a beat longer, then nods. There’s no goodbye, no further explanation or question of Suguru’s quick compliance. The cursed energy in the room simply spikes, Satoru’s teleportation at work, and then he’s gone, and Suguru is alone.
For a long moment, he stares a hole in the floor where Satoru had stood. He knows what it’s like to be numb to his emotions, but this feels different. Here, he is feeling so much—anger, confusion, grief—so many emotions that he can’t even begin to process them all. Instead of TV static, it’s like every channel is on, every thought broadcasted and blaring in his mind all at once.
Spurred on by a stab of curiosity, Suguru reaches for the knob on the front door. A wall of reinforced cursed energy answers, practically mocking him. Suguru clicks his tongue. He was right about one thing: Satoru doesn’t trust him.
He turns and heads for the stairs.
It takes Suguru an embarrassing amount of time to reach the second floor. His strength has been depleted to nearly nothing, and maybe he’s imagining it, but the number of stairs on this abnormally large staircase seems never ending. Suguru almost sighs in relief when he reaches the solid ground.
The bedroom is as lavish as the rest of the estate, and he observes the space while he catches his breath. A queen sized bed sits against one wall, a TV stand against the other. A large window overlooks the street and the pitch black view of the mountains and city beyond. There’s a reading chair, an empty bookshelf, and a grand dresser with a mirror bolted on the wall above it. Suguru avoids his own reflection on principle.
The drawers are filled with clothes a little too tight and a little too long, so he knows they are more of Satoru’s. Suguru’s stomach twists with something ugly at the thought, but given that he has no belongings and nothing to his name, he swallows his pride, grabs the loosest pair of pajamas he can find, and slips them on.
He needs a shower, badly, but he tells himself that can wait until morning. He’s just too tired tonight. Any sleep he got in the morgue was restless and quickly interrupted by his hellish injuries. He’s been running on fumes and pure adrenaline, and after tonight, he is emotionally and physically and all other ways exhausted.
The clock on the nightstand reads a little after midnight. He collapses into bed with a sigh, relieved to finally be off his feet. What a fucking day.
He peeks an eye open, and spies the phone Satoru promised him sitting on the nightstand.
It’s the latest model, from the looks of it. Satoru must have paid good money for it. He tentatively reaches over and turns it around in his hand.
As expected, there are only two contacts logged into the database. The names are short and simple: Shoko Ieiri and Satoru, devoid of any characters or emojis. It’s odd how something as meaningless as a contact name makes Suguru’s heart sink. In high school, Satoru insisted on changing his name in Suguru’s phone all the time, to any goofy, stupid thing he could think of. He’d change it in secret, then laugh his ass off when Suguru discovered it each time. It was a fun little game they shared, like everything else.
They called each other all the time back then. When they were out on missions, or when one went out shopping in case the other wanted them to bring something back. Even in the dead of night when one of them couldn’t sleep, they’d call or come knocking and crawl into bed together, sharing each other’s comfort.
Now, Satoru has a new number Suguru doesn’t have memorized and is strictly for emergencies. It’s meaningless and shouldn’t matter at all, but it squeezes Suguru’s chest all the same.
If he called right now, would Satoru pick up? Would he come running back?
He turns out the light, crawls under the covers, and falls asleep with the phone cradled in his hand.
For the first full week at the estate, Suguru is entirely left alone.
Satoru doesn’t come by. Suguru is pretty sure of it anyway. He doesn’t see him or anyone else, but given the only other people who know are Shoko and possibly Ijichi, he isn’t surprised. The solitude leaves him equal parts relieved and worried. Relieved in having time to adjust, and worried for the day he’ll have to face any of them again.
The house is unnervingly quiet from sun up to sundown. He doesn’t stray far from his room, only leaving to grab something from the kitchen once or twice a day. His initial curiosity over the rest of the estate has dimmed. He feels like a trespasser here already, and the thought of encroaching on any private spaces fills him with dread. Satoru must have a bedroom somewhere—even if he never uses it—but Suguru refuses to go looking. For all he knows, it could be warded off too.
So he stays mostly to his room, and the days creep by slowly until they begin to blend together. He feels a lot like a ghost, trapped inside the walls of a haunted house and tied to the land of the living thanks to all his messy, unfinished business.
One night, he sits by the window listening to the rain pattering against the glass and wonders if this is what curses feel like. Manifested in whatever shithole that was chosen for them, tied down by the horrid human emotions that gave them a physical form. Lingering in the shadows with no other purpose but to consume and keep moving.
It’s a silly thought, because curses don’t have feelings, but even in school, he always challenged that ideology. Special grades certainly possess some level of complex thought. He was so sure some of the curses he absorbed were aware, maybe not alive per se, but capable of expressing emotion.
Maybe given enough time, Suguru will turn into a cursed spirit and find out for himself. In that case though, he hopes he is wrong. He’d rather not feel anything then.
His indefinite deal of house arrest is comfortable anyway, and he has no complaints about his new living situation. It’s not the morgue, and it’s definitely no prison. If he is a prisoner here, he’s the luckiest inmate alive. Fresh food, a comfortable bed, and the freedom to do as he pleases as long as he stays within these walls. It’s an extremely generous offer, given the crimes he’s committed.
He may actually be able to enjoy it, if his body ever stopped fucking hurting.
His wounds in the fight with Okkotsu were treated by Shoko and have long since healed. His shoulder is a whole other issue—the phantom pain is incessant and annoying, making daily tasks immensely difficult. He hasn’t adjusted to having only one arm, and it’ll be a long while yet before he does.
But that’s not his biggest problem.
Physically, he should be recovering. But he just isn’t.
Any extended period of time on his feet becomes exhausting. A trip downstairs leaves him breathless, and going back up leaves him with barely enough energy to crawl back into bed. He was weak when he first left the morgue with Satoru, but he figured he would regain his strength after a couple days of rest. A week has passed, and he still hasn’t gotten any better.
He thinks maybe it’s a lack of nutrients that’s making him so weak. One day he gets up early and musters up the energy to make an easy meal for himself. He sits down at the kitchen table, struggling to hold chopsticks with his one and only nondominant hand.
On the very first bite, his gag reflex hits him so hard he almost spits it back out onto the polished wood.
He looks down at the eggs and rice in his bowl, eyes wide. It’s normal food, but it tastes like the most vile, disgusting curse he’s ever consumed.
Suguru pushes away from the table and limps to the bathroom, emptying it all into the toilet.
It has to be some absurd form of PTSD. Or maybe he’s really gone off the rails. Either way, he eventually pulls himself up off the ground. His untouched meal goes straight into the trash.
Climbing up and down the stairs eventually becomes too much of a task. He lacks the strength to cook a proper meal and the appetite to eat it, so he gives up on going to the kitchen.
Maybe I’ll just starve to death and go quietly in my sleep, he supposes. A coward’s way out, surely. But he is a coward, hiding away in this house on borrowed time. There are countless people who would enjoy seeing him die a painful, gruesome death. That was how he was supposed to go. He hates to take that from them, but whether he dies by Okkotsu’s sword and Satoru’s hand, or in the near future by his own weaknesses, it won’t matter. He’ll be gone either way.
Sorry Satoru, he thinks. Your attempt at saving me will be for nothing after all.
It’s early in the morning when Ijichi comes to visit.
Suguru sees the car pull into the drive from the bedroom window, followed by the sound of the front door. He listens to the distant noises of Ijichi moving through the house. Suguru hopes he’ll just leave whatever he brought and be gone, but luck is not on his side. There’s the rustle of grocery bags, a long stifling silence, and then the telltale creak of the stairs.
The door to Suguru’s room is cracked, and Ijichi pokes his head in.
“Geto-san,” he greets, clearing his throat. “How are you doing?”
Despite himself, Suguru manages a smile, grateful to see a familiar face. He always liked Ijichi. He was always kind to him, even with all the trouble he and Satoru got into. When the two of them started taking on separate missions, Ijichi escorted Satoru while Suguru was stuck with taking the train. He began missing those drives with him then, and he still misses him now.
The hesitance in his approach is clear. He’s nervous to talk to him, probably even being in the same room as him, that much is obvious. There’s a wall of caution he’s built up with Suguru, just like everyone else has.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Suguru replies. He internally cringes at the scratchiness of his voice. He hasn’t used it in over a week. “It’s good to see you.”
Ijichi steps fully into the room, assuming his perfect posture and pushing his glasses farther up his nose. Suguru finds himself sitting up straighter in his place by the window on instinct.
“Likewise,” Ijichi says, and Suguru knows it’s a lie. “I brought some groceries to restock the kitchen.”
“Yes, Satoru mentioned you’d be by.”
He bites his tongue before asking where exactly Satoru is. He’s probably avoiding the estate like the plague, and Suguru would rather not know anyway.
“Right,” Ijichi lifts a hand to fiddle with his glasses again—one of his nervous ticks—but catches himself and pauses halfway to his face. He lowers it and laces his fingers together.
“Geto-san,” he starts carefully, “have you been eating?”
Suguru blinks, surprised. Truthfully, he’s barely eaten in two days. He drinks tap water from the sink in the connected bathroom and only ventures downstairs on his best days, which are few and far between. Just rising from the bed to this reading chair this morning sapped him of most of his energy.
Suguru hoped he’d get used to it, but the constant gnawing is painfully insistent on reminding him of his empty stomach. He needs food, but the thought of it tasting like curses keeps him away, and the hunger only makes his body weaker. It’s a vicious cycle that can’t be helped.
At his silence, Ijichi splutters. “It’s just that–! Well, you’ve been here almost two weeks and the abundance of food left doesn’t seem to account for that. Gojo-san gave me a list but I… is everything to your liking?”
Suguru’s jaw clenches. Kind, observant Ijichi. He’s wasted his time and Satoru’s money coming here. Satoru’s wallet will be just fine, but Suguru still feels terrible. For Ijichi to notice such a minuscule detail and then come to check up on him to ensure he’s okay… does he really care?
Don’t be stupid.
He’s only subjected to this because he respects Satoru, and doesn’t mind doing him favors. He puts up a front as the polite caretaker, but that is a facade. He may fear Suguru, or pity him, or hate his guts like the rest of Satoru’s friends, but he does not care.
Suguru tries for an easy smile. “Please Ijichi-san, don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly comfortable here. Maybe come back in three weeks, so nothing goes to waste?”
And when it does go to waste, he’ll be sure to hide it better.
That seems to get Ijichi to relax. “Alright then, I’ll let Gojo-san know.”
He starts for the door, then pauses, turning around. “Look after yourself, Geto-san.”
Suguru dips his head. His eyelids feel heavy. “Thank you Ijichi-san.”
Suguru watches him go, and waits for the sound of the front door and the car engine fading off in the distance. He tips his head back against the chair and sighs. A headache has begun throbbing at his temples. Maybe a real meal would do him some good.
He ends up nodding off instead.
When he can’t even find peace in his sleep, things take a turn for the worst.
The first night it happens, Suguru wakes in a cold sweat, clutching his chest. Images of his dead friends’ faces burn behind his eyelids. He used to have nightmares like these, but it’s been a long time since they were so vivid and real, like he was right back in the moment, watching a bullet go through Amanai’s head or blood seep through the soaked sheet covering Haibara’s body.
The nightmares—memories, more accurately, because that’s what they are—morph into horrific curses that he’s consumed, in all their shapes, forms, and grades. Jaws wide open and full of gnarly teeth, limbs swinging around in a frenzy, ear splitting screams rattling in his brain. Some struggled and screeched as he absorbed them, as if they knew it was their end. He dreams of swallowing them down and then wakes up running to the bathroom, emptying the few contents of his stomach into the toilet in an attempt to rid the foul taste from his mouth.
Then he sees the heaping pile of corpses he has created—sorcerers and non-sorcerers alike who have fallen by his hand. He never thought he’d die (or live) with regrets, but the faces of the people he’s killed haunt him night after night, over and over, until he gives up on sleeping at all.
He trudges into the bathroom and inspects the heavy bags under his eyes. It’s like looking through time at his younger self. He’s been here before. Satoru has tried pulling him away from this version of himself by sparing his life, just for him to end up back here all the same. He was a fool to think he could get better. For a fleeting moment he believed it, and look where that got him.
Satoru’s clothes are more loose-fitting now. He had already stopped eating, and now his dreams are expelling anything and everything he manages to keep down. He’s lost weight, his hair is greasy and unkept. He runs a shower, and the steam soothes his lungs. He washes himself with one hand as best as he can, then sits on the shower stool when he can no longer stand. He cuts off the water before he passes out.
This is pathetic. There’s nothing physically wrong with him, yet it feels like he’s on a slow march to death. He checks the nub at his shoulder for infection, but it comes up clean. Something is trying its damndest to kill him, and Suguru just wishes it would finish the job already.
He’s never once blamed Satoru for why he turned out the way he was. Is. On the flip side, it’s become clear that Satoru isn’t going to be the one to save him either. Satoru can’t save him from himself.
Perhaps it was inevitable. Sorcerer, curse user, whoever or whatever he is now. It doesn’t matter. The chemicals in Suguru’s brain are engineered differently. The darkness inside of him takes a physical toll on him now, but it’s always been there.
It’s why being a Jujutsu sorcerer drove him to the lengths that it did. Why he did such unspeakable things and felt nothing. He feels them now, sees them in his dreams and his waking moments behind every blink, but it’s far too late for remorse, isn’t it? He could never be like Satoru. He never will be.
The only solace he gets is sitting in the reading chair by the window, listening to the rain. It’s a cold wet winter this year, and Suguru hopes it’ll snow. He loved how it looked draped over the mountains, like a soft, glistening blanket of white. When it first falls, undisturbed and silent on the ground, there is beauty in that stillness. Before his body fails him, he hopes to see it one last time.
…
Suguru wakes in the dead of night to a chill running up his spine.
Tonight’s dream had placed him back in the morgue, standing across an operating table from Shoko. Her sunken, solemn gaze was fixed on the body laid out in front of them, hidden from view by a white sheet stained in spots with red. Shoko lifted the sheet, and Suguru stared down at himself, eyes closed and dried blood crusted at his lips. He watched as Shoko took a knife to his chest and cut a long line down. There was no blood, or organs or bone. Inside, there was just darkness, a pitch black void, and then the dream had ended.
He scrubs at his eyes with a shaky hand, trying to breathe normally again. Not real. Just another dream. He’s–
Suguru shoots straight up in bed.
There’s no mistaking it, but the paranoia he’s developed being a criminal for over a decade has him pinching his skin anyway, ensuring this isn’t another dream. No, he’s awake. He’s fucking wide awake. He’s at Satoru’s estate, and the time on his phone reads half past one.
So why is there a cursed energy signature inside the house?
The hairs raise on his forearm, visible where his sleeve has been pushed up to his elbow. The signature is foreign and weak, but slowly getting stronger. Not in power, but in distance. It’s close, and it’s getting closer.
Suguru squeezes the blanket bunched around his waist. His gaze is locked on the door, and the small crack that allows dim light in from the hallway. He can’t believe he forgot to close it earlier. But then again, no one besides Ijichi has stepped foot in the estate in nearly a month. He thought it was safe.
Nowhere is safe, his brain supplies unhelpfully.
By the movement of energy, Suguru guesses the newcomer is making their way up the stairs, slow and sluggish. As quiet as he can, he climbs off the bed and puts his back to the farthest wall, his one hand fisted at his side.
That’s when he hears it—low, unintelligible mumbling. Choked, as if trying to speak while you’re gurgling water. Most importantly, inhuman.
A curse then. He doesn’t bother with trivial questions like how it got in and what it’s doing here. Funny enough, Suguru is actually relieved at the realization. A sorcerer would raise more alarms, especially one whose cursed energy he doesn’t recognize. If they were hostile, he’d be doomed. He’s in no condition to fight hand-to-hand and there’s nowhere to run. With a curse—though he loathes even considering it—he can use his technique. He at least stands a chance.
At that moment, a shadow passes under the door, followed by a thud. The door swings open and knocks against the wall. Suguru shoves down a flinch and holds his breath.
A grey, sludgy heap of a monster inches its way into the room. It’s huge, barely managing to squeeze through the doorway and blinking up at him with a dozen eyes. Centipede legs dangle uselessly a foot off the ground, wiggling while the curse slides across the floor like a worm or a slug. It reminds Suguru grossly of Toji’s worm, only this one must be five times its size.
It has no mouth but the mumbling gets louder, all eyes staring as it changes courses and heads straight for him. It’s slow, and not that strong, and can’t be higher than Grade Two. Still, Suguru remains frozen in place.
He could exorcise it easily. He hasn’t used his cursed technique since his battle with Okkotsu, but even in his weakened state, he thinks he can do it.
But something makes him pause.
For a long, dreadful second, Suguru lets the curse come. He feels the way his legs shake and his shoulder throbs. His weak body drained of strength and his weaker mind filled with nothing but sorrow. He thinks of the trail of corpses that follows him and this house he haunts and Satoru’s cold, distant gaze.
I could just let it kill me.
Would it be painful? Would it tear him to pieces? Would it swallow him whole? Would it be any more excruciating than everything else he’s felt and been feeling?
By no means is it a painless, peaceful death—but at least it’s not by Satoru’s hand.
If he just—closed his eyes, waited, it could all be over.
I deserve this.
This is how it’s supposed to be.
Suguru inhales shakily. The curse is only a few feet away. Suddenly, a mouth splits open from the skin, bones snapping and flesh tearing. Sharp, jagged teeth and a wicked tongue gleam in the moonlight. The curse unhinges its jaw and releases a blood curdling, ear-splitting roar.
No.
He can’t–
His heart thuds once loudly in his chest. Suguru chokes on a gasp and throws out his hand.
“Stop–”
Not like this–
The curse screams again, this time in agony, and a bright glow illuminates the room. Suguru watches with wide eyes as the curse reshapes, shrinks, and lands in his hand.
The room goes deadly silent.
Fuck. Fuck he’s stupid. Now he has no choice but to–
Suguru feels nauseous.
Just do it damn it, come on–
He takes a deep breath and shoves the orb down his throat.
“Eugh–”
Oh god.
Suguru races to the bathroom with renewed speed and crumbles to his knees in front of the toilet. He retches, stomach rolling sickeningly. Over and over his body spasms, but he knows the curse won’t come up. It can’t, but his shoulders hunch, his chest constricts, and all he gets out is bile, acidic and burning all the way up his throat. It’s painful. It’s repulsive. He needs to let the curse out before it overtakes him, the negative energy already swirling inside and mingling with his own. He needs to wash his mouth before his teeth rot. He needs to breathe.
Finally, the spasms slow, and the air floods into his lungs. Suguru rests his elbow on the seat and pushes the hair out of his face. His whole body shakes with tremors, feeling thoroughly wrung out and exhausted. He drops his forehead to his arm and breathes a long sigh.
Bang.
The door to the bathroom slams open so loud it rattles Suguru’s skull. He jolts and whips around to find Satoru in the doorway.
“What did you do!”
Suguru recoils, never having seen him more panicked, or more pissed. He scrubs a hand across his mouth, swallows, and immediately grimaces at the taste.
“Wha– ack–!”
Satoru grabs him up by the collar of his shirt and shakes him. Suguru’s vision swims.
“You used your technique! Why!”
“I–”
“Were you trying to escape? Where’s the curse you released?”
“Escape?”
“How do you still have curses? I thought you released them all!”
“I did!” Suguru knocks his hands away weakly, feeling another wave of nausea coming on. Being shaken around like a puppet probably didn’t help his not yet settled stomach. He leans over again and dry heaves into the toilet.
Satoru takes a step back. Suguru feels the heavy weight of his gaze behind him, and he burns with embarrassment. Satoru says nothing as he convulses violently, coughing and spitting up more acid. He takes a moment to catch his breath before flushing the toilet and slamming the lid.
Satoru isn’t actively on the attack anymore, so Suguru slowly turns to face him, slumping into a sorry heap on the cold tile. Satoru rears back in shock, finally taking in the state of him. Suguru stares back tiredly, ignoring how his ears redden from the attention. He must look like a mess.
“It wasn’t mine,” he croaks. “The curse. I woke up to its presence in the house. I exorcised it, and I…”
Satoru purses his lips. He crouches in front of him, his voice much calmer when he speaks.
“You absorbed it.”
Suguru gives a short nod.
The abrupt switch in the other’s demeanor is maddening. He watches with rapt attention as the gears turn in Satoru’s head, like if he peers close enough, he could look past the bandages and into his deep blue eyes. He used to be able to read Satoru like a book, like his own mind. His eyes are a window into his soul, and the blindfold is a curtain. Satoru may be able to see with it no problem, but Suguru can’t see him.
After a minute of tense silence, Satoru responds, cold and stern once again.
“You have to release it.”
“W-what?”
“Release it please. I need to exorcise it.”
Suguru hesitates for a beat too long, and Satoru raises an unimpressed brow.
“What, you think I can’t handle it?”
“No, it’s just…” Suguru bites his lip. He’s a threat with so much as one curse in his arsenal, but his strength is so far gone.
“...I don’t know if I can.”
“Try.”
Suguru stares helplessly, then looks down at his one remaining hand. He lifts it up, watching his fingers shake, and calls the curse forward.
It’s excruciatingly slow, but Suguru grits his teeth and focuses his power until the curse finally begins to retake form. It grows and grows, taking up more space in the bathroom than there is room for, too small for its entire body, let alone the three of them. Satoru doesn’t look once. His eyes stay locked on Suguru as he flicks a hand, and destroys the curse effortlessly. A mix of purple and red blood splatters across the wall next to them. Suguru tears his gaze away.
Satoru is still studying him. “Can you stand?”
Suguru swallows. Probably not. He shifts his weight and tries to get his feet under him, his jaw clenched with effort. He almost falls back on his ass if not for Satoru darting out to grab his elbow.
He exhales harshly as Satoru yanks him up and slings his arm over his shoulders. He gets a distinct feeling of deja vu as he lets him take the brunt of his weight. Together, they shuffle out of the bathroom, leaving the mess of the curse’s remains behind.
Satoru sets him down on the edge of the bed and crosses his arms.
“Explain,” he says.
“I don’t know how the curse got in.”
“I’m not talking about the curse, I’m talking about you. Look at yourself.”
Suguru obeys dumbly. His (Satoru’s) clothes are wrinkled and too big. His hand is still shaking, so he grips his pant leg in a tight fist to make it stop. His eyes sting, his throat hurts, and his mouth tastes like shit. His breaths come out in wheezes, utterly drained from using his technique and the treacherous walk from the bathroom.
“I’m just tired,” he tries.
“That’s a load of bullshit.”
Satoru’s never spoken so sternly to him. They bicker, they roughhouse, they get angry on each other’s behalf. When it all went down, Suguru was empty and numb, while Satoru was confused and hurt. Even staring at him from the other side of a battle, Satoru was stoic and emotionless. Suguru has seen him upset, but he’s never seen him so angry and know that he was the sole cause of it.
Suguru says nothing. A minute passes of Satoru’s quiet seething, then he scoffs and fishes out his phone.
“I’m calling Shoko.”
Suguru immediately shifts to stand. “Satoru–”
“No. I’m not talking about this with you. We’re not doing this again.” Satoru pinches the bridge of his nose. Alarms blare in Suguru’s mind at the pain lacing his words. Again.
Satoru finishes typing out Shoko’s number and shoots him a glare. “Stay here.”
He turns and heads out the door. Suguru looks down at his lap and sighs.
I’m sorry.