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For the longest time there is nothing, and then there is everything.
The static void of the prison realm is replaced with vibrant life. As quick and simple as the flick of a light switch his senses are overloaded. Light—which cannot penetrate his blindfold—burns straight through the fabric, through his eyelids, to his eyes. The multichromatic spectacle of cursed energy assaults him even faster, and tells him everything he needs to know, but he doesn’t register it.
There is pressure on his knees and hands, but there is no floor. There is no air. No sound travels through his clogged ears. His brain works in small, repetitive circles that start nowhere and end nowhere.
More pressure, then, at his shoulders and back—and the second he recognizes it as hands he forces them away.
The only company here is a mountain of skeletons.
There are no skeletons.
There’s—
“Gojou-sensei?”
Whose voice is that?
He doesn’t know that voice.
Actually, it sounds a little like—
Does it, though?
A whirlpool of vertigo that may originate from within him but perhaps not, leaves his stomach lurching into his throat. For the first time since he was a teenager he vomits. Nothing. Acid. Too much of it. It hurts. His insides are disintegrating.
The atmosphere itself has set his body alight; they aren’t compatible. Now or then or ever.
He passes out.
Satoru is nearly 29. Maybe he is 29, depending on how the time is counted.
It was October 31st then, and it’s May 15th now. Twenty years and six months between the two, give or take some days. Two decades. Nearly two thirds of Satoru’s life. An entire generation has formed its identity in his absence.
Might as well round his age up, that’s what Satoru thinks. A month and a week to his birthday versus seven months. That month and a week have already passed, by the way, so does that mean he’s a spring baby now?
Also, the floating time of the prison realm doesn’t factor in. How could it? Not like Satoru can give an estimate to how much time it felt like. It was simultaneously seconds and centuries. Fixed while also in constant movement.
Time isn’t real. He’s however old he wants to be, so long as the number is over 28.
No one is keen to agree with his take, though. Megumi rolled his eyes at the suggestion. Shouko raised an eyebrow, no accompanying comment. Utahime scoffed.
If they’re going to call him 29, might as well call him 49, and they’re not about to do that either. For some hazy, unstated reason. It’s not as if insisting he’s 28 will make the twisted disparity of their ages less weird.
Everything is weird, and Satoru suddenly being the youngest among the sorcerers he knows is just the tip of it.
There’s a naturally occurring ebb and flow to the world. A distribution of power that endlessly shifts from one side to the other, always one or the other. There may be some semblance of balance for a handful of centuries, until something upsets the scales, that is.
That’s how it was until his birth, apparently. A false approximation of peace. They loved telling him that, how he upset the natural, ideal order of things and ushered in a wave of heightened destructive force simply by being born.
Naturally, his absence resulted in the same thing, except amplified by a thousand. The scales tipped too far in the other direction. The scale broke. The axis of the world itself shattered, and what they built in its place is an inferior imitation.
And now…
This imbalance is something entirely different from what it ever was before.
Too few people wander Tokyo. Doesn’t matter where he goes, day or night, day of the week, the streets are barren compared to what they once were. There are pockets of people, never throngs. Train stations aren’t packed, never mind the trains themselves. It’s as though people are too conscious of what would happen if they confine themselves in a space with no exit.
Blood is soaked into every crevice of the city, more than it ever was in the past, and in spite of the extensive reconstruction. Construction that’s still in progress, at that. Some buildings, landmarks in particular, have been rebuilt to near exact replication. Others have been revitalized with a new, more modern look. In either case, though, the mismatched cursed energy gives them all away.
Cursed spirits ooze from the finest cracks of this city like mold.
The people know. All of them. There are caution signs hung up everywhere, and the messages grow more dire as they approach graveyards, schools, hospitals, the usuals. They don’t understand the nuances, but all the same they know.
It’s a sorry state of things, and Satoru isn’t sure where it fits in the futures he’s imagined.
All the higher-ups but one is dead. That one that’s alive is retired, and that on its own is a mystery not worth solving. None of them have been replaced.
Most of the sorcery world as it was is in shambles, to the point it’s a question whether a form of it really exists in the modern landscape. The clans—those that are left—are still in disarray twenty years on.
The sorcery world and normal world have merged, and not in a way anyone would have theorized back then. One has consumed the other to mend itself, but the result is lesser than the sum of its parts.
He can’t envision the future he’s heading towards, or what future he wants from here.
That’s why he’s come out every night since being unsealed. He intended to see more of Japan after learning of what’s transpired, but every night Tokyo enraptures him. The bright but subdued nightlife, the conscious vigilance that burns bright just under the surface, the curious intermingling of human and curse; the layers are never ending and interwoven so closely they can’t be peeled apart.
That’s the routine. Research online during the day, juggle Megumi and Shouko if needed, and at night, roam, soak in this city that’s become a shadow of itself. Then, come home and repeat the whole process.
Except, tonight when he arrives home just before dawn breaks, he finds Megumi lounging in his living room.
Satoru enters, and as he walks into the apartment, Megumi stands up from Satoru’s one good chair. He adjusts his belt before crossing his arms. It must be his best impression of a disappointed teacher.
“Uh. I’m back?”
“Welcome back,” Megumi replies, perfunctory. “Where were you?”
“Nowhere in particular. Out. Is there some curfew no one told me about?”
“Yes, actually, and yes, I did tell you about it.”
Satoru tilts his head. “Yeah? Might wanna think about letting the rest of the population know.”
“You need paperwork, which you don’t have.”
“Eh. Not like I’m actually on the ground all that much. Gonna have a hard time ticketing me. Besides, sounds like one of those rules no one actually follows.”
Megumi sighs. “That’s not the point, Gojou-sensei.”
“Of course. Which makes the point…?”
Megumi falls silent, faltering. His shoulders droop into a sulk; it sits funny on his too wide, adult frame. In addition to his broad shoulders, he’s grown tall. His arms bulk with muscle, and while not overly so, it’s all the more apparent with his arms crossed.
“The point is,” Megumi says, “if you want to explore the city, why can’t you do it during the day?”
“Aw, are you worried about little ol’ me? Megumi, that’s sweet.”
Megumi’s shoulders hike up at this, and out of his mouth comes “No!” almost on reflex. He shifts as he regains his posture. “I mean, I know you can take care of yourself. I’m not worried about you, Sensei.”
Satoru purses his lips, miming thought. “Everyone else, then?”
“No. Just. Why not do that during the day?”
“I do. I have a lot of catching up to do, y’know. There’s not a moment to spare.” After a brief pause Megumi fails to fill, he adds, “How’d you get in here anyway?”
“...Doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Satoru fakes a gasp. “Grown into such a lawbreaker, haven’t you, Megumi. Well, except for when it's about curfews, I guess. Kinda weird.”
“If you’re barely going to spend time here, wouldn’t it be better to take me up on my offer?”
“Which offer is that?”
“Staying at the Zenin estate. The grounds are huge, hardly anyone lives there, it’s private, and you won’t be wasting money on an apartment you don’t live in and won’t furnish.”
“Hey, I live here. I’m also getting around to furnishing it. Just the other day I bought a winter coat.”
“That’s not…” Megumi sighs. “It’s spring.”
“It won’t be forever, and speaking of which, I am expecting a birthday party that makes up for twenty years’ worth of missed parties.”
“I thought you said it didn’t feel like twenty years for you.”
“It didn’t, but the energy should be there all the same. Because you guys missed me soooo much. I’m thinking, at least four cakes—not tiny ones, and each a different flavor. Not basic, boring flavors either. You don’t have to make them yourself, but it would add some pizazz, some heart. The secret ingredient is love, y’know, Megumi?”
Megumi stares at him. “Uh huh. We can talk about that when it’s not spring. Anyway.” He pulls out his fingers to count on them. “You haven’t set up your internet, there’s nothing in your fridge, you don’t have a TV. You don’t have a TV, or your DVD collection. It’s been two months. If you’re having trouble adjusting, you should say so. We want to ease the transition as much as possible.”
“I have a phone,” Satoru says, and holds it up as proof. That arguably solves all of those complaints. If nothing else, the future is impressive in its technology and apps.
“That’s… not the phone I gave you.”
“The phone you gave me sucks.”
Megumi grits his teeth. “How?”
“For starters, this phone has 9G while—”
“On second thought, I don’t care. You still have the phone I gave you, right?”
“Of course. I use it for music while I play games on this one. The latency and framerate on this phone really makes it seem like you—”
“Anyway,” Megumi says loudly, and then pauses, his annoyed expression melting away. He clears his throat. “I, uh. I heard you haven’t been by the Gojou estate since you’ve been back.”
“Eh?” Satoru slips his phone back into his pocket and leaves his hand stuffed inside beside it. “They roped you into being their lapdog? That’s surprising.”
“I’m not their lapdog. It just came up, and… I don’t know. I don’t know what I was expecting when we finally got you out after all this time. I’m not trying to make you do anything, but don’t you feel any sort of obligation?”
Megumi must, considering all the time, effort, and money he’s put into maintaining the Zenin estate. After what happened there, much of it has been rebuilt or altered, but all with the Zenin aesthetic in mind, like he owes them something and there’s something worth preserving for the future there.
Satoru wouldn’t be doing that if he were in his position. He wouldn’t even be living on their grounds.
“It’s your fault, anyway,” Megumi adds. “That I’m in this position. You should take some responsibility for that, if nothing else.”
“I’ll think about it. They’ve been fine all this time, after all. Haven’t they? There’s no rush.”
“That’s beside the point, I think. They want to see you, the old and the new.”
Satoru sighs. “Yeah, I’m sure they do.” Then, before Megumi can respond, he says, “Like I said, I’ll think about it. That, and your offer too.”
Megumi perks up. His hair lifts with the motion while his shoulders level. Though, his arms remain crossed, with his fingers digging in and making creases in his shirt. “You will?”
“Yeah. You make some decent points. Any nagging, though, and I’m out.”
Megumi exhales, releasing his tension with a soft chuckle. “Sure, Gojou-sensei. Until then, try to get some sleep, okay?”
Satoru blinks. “Right.” Sleep is the last thing he needs, actually.
Walking past him and heading towards the door, Megumi tells him, “Be sure to call me if you need anything, and even if you don’t, too. Utahime-san says you’ve been driving them crazy.”
Satoru stares after him, bewildered. If anything, that’s the other way around. Shouko’s been calling him once, sometimes even twice, a week ever since he moved into this place. He’s been to their place like four times since he’s been back, all at their invitation. If anyone is needy here, it’s them no question about it.
After all, if there’s one thing Satoru’s capable of, it’s taking grievous change in stride.
It’s two months, one week, and three days into his release that it happens.
Satoru is on his way back home after picking up various sweets from cafes and bakeries that were some of his favorites twenty years ago. Several of them no longer exist. Most of the others have new names or a new aesthetic, ownership being handed over in his absence.
In this new world, he came to the decision that evaluating their present quality was of the utmost importance.
So, he collects a feast of sugar to indulge in while he catches up on manga and anime he missed, maybe a few movies too. Only, he can’t find it in himself to wait until he’s back home. He has them, and they’re fresh and for him alone, so why not have a quick taste test?
Opening the box, the gentle, decadent scent of sweets wafts toward him. He enjoys it for mere seconds before something unmistakable and pungent pierces through his senses.
Suguru.
His heart doubles, quadruples, and he thinks not again as his body freezes of its own accord.
However, while it is Suguru, the scent is also more intense than he’d expect. It reminds him of when they were first years, when Suguru was learning what residuals were, and that they were something he had a measure of control over. That puts him at ease for a second that ends as it starts, because ease is exactly what he doesn’t need.
No one calls his name, though.
No one is behind him.
No one is looking at him—not more pointedly than usual, at any rate.
He wants to dismiss the whole thing as his mind playing a trick, but… The scent remains. His heart slows back down and it is still there. It remains tangible. It doesn’t disappear after the first sniff, the second, or the seventh.
And when Satoru follows his traitorous instinct, letting it swivel his head to the right, there he is. Unmistakable. Suguru. Sitting at a table outside a building across the street.
Yet, when Satoru tugs his blindfold up to see, it’s curiously… not Suguru? Half a Suguru, or maybe three-fourths.
Aside from the fact that Suguru—Kenjaku who had stolen his body—is dead, and has been dead for almost as long as Satoru was sealed, this Suguru doesn’t look right. He doesn’t look old enough to be twenty and then some, let alone pushing fifty.
This Suguru’s hair is long, though shorter than when Satoru last saw it. Something, though he can’t identify quite what, about the way it’s pulled back feels less about practicality and more about showing off the numerous piercings adorning his ears. There’s a tattoo crawling up his neck and twisting towards his nape. His billowing cargo pants are tucked into chunky, aged boots, and he’s wearing a button up shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled to his elbows and hanging off one shoulder. Underneath the shirt is a baggy plain tee with an esoteric graphic Satoru has no hope of identifying; the collar of it is so big it puts his collarbones on display. There’s a braided bracelet hugging his left wrist. A few silver bands are on the fingers of his right hand, and they catch the light as he gestures, telling some story; Satoru is too far away to hear it.
He’s so… Suguru but not. Funhouse mirror Suguru.
The yearning that fills Satoru’s heart is so potent, but it’s for something he doesn’t even know how to name. That’s something he, and more importantly they, never had, never could have had, and he doesn’t know why this not-actually-Suguru Suguru stirs it into existence.
Not actually Suguru, but combined with this residual there’s no denying it’s cursed spirit manipulation. Just looking at him, Satoru can see it. Plain as day, the water color mix of his energy.
Suguru.
He’s seated at a table with two other people who seem to be around his age. A girl wearing sunglasses and a sly grin. A boy with fluffy hair bleached platinum. Their styles are distinct from Suguru’s, yet complement it. The two of them sit together on the opposite side of the table. They’re a trio.
Satoru’s jaw aches from how tight he’s clenching it.
Unbidden, he wonders, if he were to approach, what would he say?
No matter what his heart and mind and soul insist, this isn’t Suguru. That’s obvious. Though, not obvious enough, apparently.
Satoru should turn his head away, walk forward, and forget he ever saw this lookalike boy. Obvious.
Satoru tugs his blindfold back over his eyes and turns away, so the radiance of Suguru’s energy remains at the periphery of his senses. He closes the box that led to this mess, and takes one step, then another, another. He tries to clear his mind of all thoughts, all feelings, all impulses, because all roads lead straight back to Suguru.
Except, he’s focused on them still. The trio of youths. Idly, like they’re a lure in an otherwise vacant sea. The only point of stimulation in the otherwise unnaturally still street and Satoru cannot resist.
While they’re within range he hears, “Suguru-kun, are you even listening?”
It freezes Satoru right in his tracks.
Not just the looks, the cursed technique, the smell, but the name too.
“Sorry sorry. I just… got distracted. It’s nothing.”
The girl sighs, dramatic and aggrieved. “It’s always one thing or another distracting you these days, I swear. What is it this time?” There’s a considerable pause, and then there’s a suggestive sounding, “Oh?”
Suguru laughs—a sound Satoru knows as well as the scent of his residuals and the softness of his hair. It saps the strength right out of him. Satoru can even hear the embarrassed undercurrent to it.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Suguru says. “I was just reminded of something I saw in a dream.”
“Oh?” More intrigue than before. “Tell us more. What kind of dream, Suguru-kun?”
“Yeah, Suguru-kun, tell us. Tell us all about it.”
Suguru.
Suguru.
Somehow, that settles the matter.
It shouldn’t. Even if this is Suguru—somehow—a Suguru—this isn’t his Suguru. He can’t be.
Over two weeks of dedicated observation this is what Satoru has found out about New Suguru.
He’s a full time university student studying literature. Between classes he chats with his two friends, sketches, is on his phone, or reads. Every other day there’s a different book between his hands, sometimes a textbook, a light novel, most times a novel. On Mondays and Thursdays he tutors English. On Tuesdays he attends some kind of art culture appreciation club. On Wednesdays and Saturdays he works at a used bookstore-cafe hybrid. On Sundays he studies in the school library.
He lives at a nearby dorm that he seems to treat similar to the way Satoru treats his apartment. That is, as a space to sleep no more no less. It’s sparse and grey and simple, with limited personality compared to the abundance that oozes from his social media. An ever changing stack of books is kept in the corner. His coursework is spread across his desk and half-empty shelves. At the foot of his bed is a duffel bag that seems to hold necessities, chargers, a tablet, a few sketchbooks, art supplies and a pin thin laptop.
He makes extra cash through art commissions and from people giving him money through social media—for being cool and stylish, Satoru guesses. He does these lives, usually from his phone, where he’s just chatting about the day to day, and people donate money to have the honor of him reading and responding to what they have to say.
Satoru donated once. A week into his investigation. He referenced something only the two of them would know, and watched as hesitant recognition flickered in Suguru’s eyes before he laughed it off as a niche meme he wasn’t privy to.
Satoru found and followed all his public accounts. He found his locked accounts too, but Suguru hasn’t given access to Satoru’s freshly made accounts.
On his social media he casually posts selfies and photos of his daily life to tens of thousands of people. Nothing is particularly revealing of him or his history, but at the same time the depth is more than an illusion. There’s sincerity in his enthusiasm for life and his friends. He gets excited about media he’s consuming. He smiles freely.
On occasion, he posts art, and that’s where the real truth lies. Not in all of it, but some. Enough. There’s shades of their life together, the world they knew and grew up in, the traumas they shared and the traumas Suguru kept locked inside himself. Satoru can’t decipher everything, and some of what he recognizes is too stylized to make sense of, but he recognizes cursed spirits they faced, the buildings of Jujutsu Tech, a certain beach in Okinawa 2006.
There’s no explanation or rationalization Satoru can find for why this kid has all this knowledge buried inside him. Inherited memories? Genetic memories? Is that a real thing? A cursed technique?
Acquiring his birth certificate didn’t take much work, and that didn’t have a father listed. Born February 14, 2019 in Saitama.
One explanation—perhaps the most obvious one—is that he’s a distant relative in the Getou family tree. That would make the combination of his looks and cursed technique plausible, if not likely, because the resemblance is overwhelming. The texture of his hair, the flip to it; his perfectly violet eyes, the sharp line of his jaw. It’s all so Suguru that he has to be a Getou, even if that’s not his last name.
There is another possibility, though, that’s been stuck in Satoru’s mind. One Satoru doesn’t want to take into consideration but has to, the circumstances being what they were.
If this Suguru was born in February, that means his conception lines up with when Kenjaku was hijacking his Suguru’s body. In that disturbing scenario, what’s the end game? This kid and his body—the potential of a cursed technique—was a back up plan in case things went south? Megumi told him what a boon it was for his plans, that Suguru’s technique was cursed spirit manipulation. Taking measures to preserve the bloodline for his own benefit doesn’t feel farfetched.
The more Satoru mulls it over, the sicker he feels.
Attempts to look further into Suguru’s are put to a swift end when Satoru learns this Suguru’s mother died in 2022. From there, he was put under the guardianship of his grandmother, who’s also passed on. As for other family and family friends, there aren’t any alive who’d be able to answer the sorts of questions Satoru has.
The only viable source of information is Suguru, who never talks about his family online and hasn’t mentioned them to his friends either. At least, he hasn’t in the two weeks Satoru’s been following him. Then, there’s his dorm room, which doesn’t have any family photos or mementos on display. If they exist, they’re on Suguru’s person or locked away in his electronics.
The question remains, is this—could this be—his Suguru?
Is it possible? Could it be a trap?
Somehow, he can’t find it in himself to care if it is a trap. The smallest chance is enough for him. After all this time and all this loss, isn’t it time? Isn’t he overdue? For something? For this?
Suguru. Against all odds. Returned to him.
It’s not something Satoru can let slip through his fingers.
Satoru decides the upcoming Saturday is the best opportunity to approach Suguru. So, in the handful of days leading up to it, he develops a plan and prepares.
On Wednesday night he stops by the Zenin estate—evading Megumi at the same time—where a decent chunk of his possessions have been in storage for the last twenty years. Most of the clothes there feel, look, and smell their age, but he takes some lounge clothes and collects several of his sunglasses. He picks up a few other, Suguru-centric things he suspects may come in handy.
Thursday he goes shopping for an updated wardrobe with a little too much success.
Friday he watches, stresses, and bides his time.
The day of, he exchanges his blindfold for the sunglasses that have held up the best over all these years. He goes for a pair of black slacks and a dress shirt. Then, after catching sight of himself in the mirror, decides it’s not casual enough and throws a thin hoodie on too.
The bookstore is a retro, sort of folksy looking place on the outside, with just enough exaggerated style to look gimmicky rather than authentic. The store name has been carved out of wood and sits over the doors like a neon sign would. Speaking of the doors, they’ve been kept open on account of the mild weather, and to pique curiosity through the quaint set up inside. In the window there’s a cutesy sign advertising specials at the cafe, and that sign is surrounded by smaller signs advertising new releases and the book deal of the week.
Inside is just as folksy. The tones are mostly neutral with bright accents, and the overall style is subdued, in contrast to what the outside promises. There are aisles and aisles of books, with newer releases and magazines at the front of the store. At the counter are a few gacha machines, and charms that claim to ward against cursed spirits and evil energies. A diffused smell of incense and spice hangs in the air.
The cafe is to the immediate right upon entering, and is a complete inversion of everything else in the store. It’s cutesy and modern, with a pastel palette and a cute anime girl mascot set up next to the register. From the entryway Satoru can smell the sugary goodness it promises. The line from the counter stretches across half the floor space and all the tables are taken. Meanwhile, the bookstore portion of the building is more or less barren.
There’s also a balcony lining the walls of the book portion of the store, and that’s where Satoru’s objective waits. Satoru can see him sitting with his back against the railing.
Satoru waits in line for fifteen minutes to get some pastries and two drinks. Then, it’s up to the balcony, where not another soul besides the two of them loiters.
Suguru doesn’t notice him. His attention is entirely concentrated on the tablet in his lap as he makes smooth flourishes with the stylus in his hand.
Suguru continues to not notice when Satoru approaches down the walkway.
More strands than usual frame Suguru’s face today, and the bun in the back is looser and messier, like a quick head shake is all it’d take to dislodge it completely. An entire lock of hair hangs beside his cheek instead of just his bangs.
On the tablet screen in his lap is a design of some sort. Maybe a tattoo? Whatever it is, it sure looks like a twisted inversion of the Jujutsu Tech emblem.
“Hey, you’re Suguru, right?”
Startled, Suguru hugs his tablet to his chest and grips his stylus tight. He stares blankly at Satoru before looking past him, like there must be anyone else up here who’d be seeking him out. Upon finding no one, he meets Satoru with a crooked but polite smile. “Yeah, I am. Did you need help finding something?”
“Nah. Already found it.” Satoru drops into a crouch in front of him. He pushes his sunglasses up to rest on the crown of his head. There should be as few barriers between them as possible for this. He sets the second drink down in front of Suguru.
Suguru stares at it and its magnificent whipped topping with a frown.
“For you. No need to thank me.”
“Thanks,” Suguru is already saying, and trailing off. “Oh. Umm. This is actually an employee only area, by the way. No one’s supposed to be up here.”
“I got lost.”
Suguru gives him a dubious look, but is quick to drop his gaze, where it lands back on the drink. He visibly overthinks the merits of accepting a latte from a stranger. Then, he goes ahead and takes it. The way his eyes light up when he realizes it’s exactly to his taste—as Satoru anticipated—brings a grin to Satoru’s face.
Suguru fiddles with the drink’s straw. “Got lost, huh. Up a ladder? While also carrying two cups and a box of baked goods. That's impressive.”
Satoru puts up his hands. “You got me. Wasn’t lost. Not even a little. Truth is, I was looking for you.” He nods at the drink for emphasis.
“Me?” The word comes out breathless for some reason. His droop as though all the strength has been sapped from them, and his cup returns to the ground. He doesn’t look anywhere near Satoru when he asks, “Why would you be looking for me?”
“I’m Gojou Satoru.”—The smallest twitch from Suguru—”Do you recognize that name?”
“Ah, yeah. Gojou is the name of that big shot sorcerer clan, right?”
“Yup. Sure is. Descended from sugawara no michizane, six eyes, limitless, blah blah blah. All common knowledge these days, isn’t it?”
Satoru himself isn’t, though. The Before Days aren’t really of concern or interest to most people, especially non-sorcerers. As for the common knowledge details, broad strokes. In Satoru’s case, apparently when you get sealed right before the apocalypse hits you end up a footnote to the majority of the population’s recollection.
Suguru shrugs. “I guess.”
Their eyes connect for the briefest, most electric second—in that instant Satoru knows, automatic, completely absent of doubt—and Suguru breaks away. He looks down to watch his fingers while they smooth over and press weak indents into the dome of his drink.
Satoru swallows. “Something on your mind?” It’s a struggle to keep his voice steady and light at the same time.
This is it.
Suguru’s nail catches on the lip of the lid. He gives a kind of jerky shrug before chuckling quietly and shaking his head. “It’s going to sound kind of crazy.”
“Yeah? In this world, what’s crazy anymore.”
“Also kind of dumb.”
“Dumb and crazy? Even better.”
“It’s uh…” His voice wavers, and then out comes another laugh, this one sounding self-conscious. “I don’t mean it as a line, I swear, Gojou-san, but—”
“Call me Satoru. Just Satoru.”
The blush that lights up Suguru’s face is a sight to behold. “Um. Satoru, then.” He utters the name with so much uncertainty, but in the next thing he says there’s none to be found. “Your eyes.”
Even if what he has to say does end up being nothing more than a line, that is perfectly okay with Satoru. “What about them?”
“It’s like… the sky reminds me of them. Instead of the other way around. And it always has but I didn't know it until this moment.”
Suguru finally lifts his head, and looks past Satoru instead of at him, to a skylight that stretches down the center of the ceiling. The sun isn’t shining directly at them from this angle, and the blue of the sky is so clear it almost looks like a coat of paint.
In unison, their eyes return to each other, and again, Suguru is quick to drop his gaze. There’s something guilty about it, almost. If guilt made any sense here.
“Suguru.”
“I saw you before. A couple weeks ago. I didn’t think you were real.”
Satoru takes a moment to digest that, and then asks, “Why not?”
“Because… you’re straight out of a dream. Although, in the dreams you aren’t wearing a blindfold.”
“A dream, huh… My oh my, Suguru.”
Suguru’s head jolts up. “Not like that! I don’t mean it like that. I—” He cuts himself off with a glare when he notices the smug look on Satoru’s face.
Satoru laughs. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” He lets a beat pass, and then asks, “What kind of dreams?”
Reaching for the bag resting against the bookshelf, Suguru says, “They’re hard to put into words, but…” From the bag he retrieves a sketchbook with a cover that’s been covered with so many stickers it’s impossible to tell what most of them are. He hands it to Satoru.
Satoru flips through the pages first, finding that only a handful at the back are completely blank. Flipping through it again, he catches sight of rougher or fuller versions of some of the pieces he’s seen on Suguru’s social media. Not all of them Satoru recognizes, but plenty of them he does. Their classroom at Jujutsu Tech, Suguru’s dorm room, the stairs leading to campus, the morgue among other things, all recreated in painstaking detail.
“Traditional art suits it, I think,” Suguru is saying as Satoru flips through. “It feels like any mistakes I make are meant to be there, or the evidence of those mistakes left behind, at least. Though, most of those are done when I’m still half asleep, so maybe I’m just coming up with excuses.” He laughs.
Then, Satoru catches sight of himself, and his breath catches in his throat. He opens the sketchbook all the way to get a better look. Almost every page is done with black ink, graphite, or charcoal and nothing else, but this one… It’s Satoru from the waist up, wearing his school uniform, though he doesn’t look that young, closer to 20 than 15. Similar to other works, it’s done in charcoal. Except for the eyes, which have been colored vibrantly with ink and given a coat of something that makes them gleam and sparkle with iridescence as the light hits them.
“That’s what the sky looks like to you, huh.”
Suguru flushes. “Artistic liberties,” he mutters. He tries to steal the sketchbook back from Satoru, only for Satoru to lift it out of his reach.
Flipping through the rest of the sketchbook more slowly now, Satoru realizes there are more. Not just Satoru, but Shouko, Nanami, Haibara, the family he made for himself after he left, and so, so many of those girls who sobbed open and loud when Satoru brought them Suguru’s body. Where are they now, he wonders. They should be around Megumi’s age, but Satoru doesn’t even know their names.
“These all come from dreams, right? How long have you been having them?”
“They’ve always been there. Vague at first, but evolving and growing as I got older. When I was little, I wouldn’t be able to tell when I was awake and when I was asleep. Sometimes I didn’t know if I had a mom and a dad, or a mom and a grandma. I’d get lost on my way home, because I wasn’t supposed to be living in Saitama, but… I was living in Saitama, actually, so…” Suguru glances at him, reconsidering, and then adds, “Not that any of that happens anymore. Drawing it out helps, I think.”
“What do you make of it all?” Satoru closes the sketchbook and hands it back to Suguru.
Suguru shrugs. “Mental illness? Or… Maybe not. You know, before now I’ve never seen anyone or anything from those dreams. It was easy to write them off as something wrong with me, or just my imagination.”
“Is that so. Never seen a single thing from them?”
“Nope. At least, I don’t think so, and if I have maybe I didn’t notice? It definitely wasn’t anything so… this.”
“This?”
“Yeah. You. You’re real. You’re here. I can feel you, and ever since I first saw—no, sensed, I think that’s the right word. The moment I sensed you, it was like… like…”
The words are there. Satoru can see them in his eyes.
“Like what?”
Suguru swallows and looks directly at him. “Like my soul was aching, like it was cracking in two, but I didn’t know why, and I didn’t want it to stop.”
“And now?”
“It still aches, but it feels like it’s mending at the same time.”
Satoru can’t speak to what he assumed or hoped the outcome of his meeting with Suguru would be. This situation is a debatably convoluted and definitively unclear mess. Every prediction and possibility carries the risk of being twisted into something unforeseen, because Suguru is an infinite variable. His reaction can be accounted for in any measure, because even if he is Satoru’s Suguru in part, what does that really mean?
This, though. This right here. This is unambiguously pretty good. Maybe arguably the best outcome.
Suguru—not Satoru, but Suguru—contacted him the very next day to make lunch plans. Dinner plans? Meal plans. Date plans, basically, if you think about it.
They meet at Suguru’s university on Tuesday after his classes are finished. Suguru suggests a sushi place, and then Satoru suggests a more upscale sushi restaurant instead. At least, it was upscale twenty years ago. Guess they’ll find out together if that still holds true.
After they’ve ordered some appetizers Suguru says, “I realized that while I feel like I know you, I don’t actually know much of anything about you.” True to those words, he says them like they’ve already developed a rapport. He rests his chin in his palm as he leans forward and says, “Tell me about you, Satoru.”
It’s kind of a loaded question, and one Satoru would have seen coming if he hadn’t been so caught up in the excitement of seeing Suguru again so soon.
He doesn’t have any sort of prepared response.
Should he start with the fact he was sealed inside a cursed object for twenty years or is that too much? It feels like a prerequisite for anything else he might say. He grew up in a completely different world. Satoru’s frame of reference is outdated and he’s made almost zero effort to catch up on pop culture these past few months. Plus, on top of the generation gap, there’s the whole fledgling apocalypse partially averted rendering most of his history and occupation obsolete.
Megumi made exterminating cursed spirits sound like a more rogue pursuit these days, despite government agencies having been put in place to handle the issue. The paperwork is more tedious and excessive than it was before. There’s no agreed upon hierarchy, limited structure, and most of the actual work gets done through coordinated online effort. Modern sorcerers are more like a web of bounty hunters and mercenaries.
Maybe exorcizing curses is what Satoru should be doing. The needling of the higher-ups and expectations of his family weren’t what pushed him to commit to that work, after all. It’s not as though he’s lost his drive for it.
He’s thought about it multiple times over the last few months, and has even taken out a few stray curses that posed an active risk.
But there’s a hollow space inside him, and he can find neither the motivation nor the discipline to return to that work. Not right now.
Megumi and Shouko haven’t been pushing for it either. They’re of the mind that he needs “space,” but not too much space.
“I’m in what you might call a transitional period of my life,” Satoru eventually says.
“Oh? How vague. That means what, exactly? Between jobs?”
“In a manner of speaking. I lost track of where I should be, and then I found you, just as I started looking for my footing.”
“That’s what I’ve been meaning to ask you, too. Since I forgot the other day. Are you, y’know. Like me? Whatever that even means.”
Satoru blinks, caught off guard for a few seconds before the bits connect. Seemingly divined his identity out of nowhere, inexplicably drawn to him when they’re virtual strangers, of an approximate age with him; if that’s Suguru’s situation, why wouldn’t it be Satoru’s too? To Suguru, are there other plausible explanations?
It’s tempting to go along with. It would simplify things in the short term.
Impossible to keep up forever, though.
And… Satoru doesn’t want to.
“I’m not.” Satoru smiles a little. “It’s going to sound kind of crazy, though.”
Suguru perks right up. “Crazier than mine?”
Satoru shrugs. “Could be.” He glances around the restaurant conspiratorially before leaning in to tell him. “I was sealed away inside a cursed object for the last twenty years. Meaning, I was trapped in another dimension, so that’s why I’m still young and hot.”
“For real?”
“For real. Told you it was crazy.”
“How’d that happen? How’d you get out?”
Satoru gives him a quick run through of the last year of his life like it’s the entirety of his life. No mention of growing up the heir of the Gojou family, though. Not a hint of his school years, either. Instead, he focuses on his work as a sorcerer and a teacher. He tells him about being at ground zero Shibuya, but leaves the details vague, just in case.
Since Suguru can’t know better—probably—Satoru tells him he was simply caught off guard, and that led to his being sealed away by the villain who initiated their semi-apocalypse.
The story is little more than an unfinished framework littered with holes, but it ensnares Suguru’s attention.
As he finishes his story, and the garbled chatter from the surrounding tables floods in, Suguru frowns. “Wait. How do I factor in? The Shibuya Incident was in 2018. I wasn’t even born yet, and if you’ve been sealed all this time…”
“That might be the craziest part of all.” From his wallet Satoru pulls out an aged photo that’s been folded in half. He slides it across the table.
Suguru looks at him before taking it, opening it, and taking a small, sharp breath.
“Getou Suguru,” Satoru says. “My best friend. My… only friend.”
There was always some pride in that admission. In this instance it’s more akin to grief or regret. But why now? When Suguru’s in his reach.
“He…”
“He’s dead. He died in 2017. I killed him.”
Suguru’s head shoots up. There’s palpable, instinctive fear in his eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you. That’s the last thing I want.”
“You think I’m him.” The disappointment laden in his voice prevents it from sounding like an accusation, but that’s what it is all the same.
“Eh.” Satoru shrugs one shoulder and gestures with his hand. “You’re you, first and foremost. You have your own life, a very different life from his. But… you also have sketchbooks full of his life. You think I’m in your dreams because I’m just that dreamy?”
Suguru is quiet for a long time, seemingly at a loss for words. Then, of all the directions he could take this, he says, “Will you tell me about him? Your Suguru. What was he like?”
It’s Satoru’s turn to be at a loss for words, then.
What was Suguru like? The closest anyone’s ever come to asking him that was the higher-ups’ inquisition about why Satoru didn’t see his defection coming. If they were such good friends, if they insisted on parading it around so much, there must have been signs. There must have been something. Satoru must have known and been hiding something. Because that’s how it is between friends, and that’s what it means to be friends.
“Satoru?”
Satoru shakes himself out of it. “Yeah. Sorry. My Suguru, huh… For starters, he was always on my case for making us late to class, when it was him who couldn’t get up in the morning.”
Over the course of the following month, Satoru comes to the conclusion that while this Suguru is not the exact same as his Suguru, the differences aren’t significant enough to give Satoru pause. If anything, the differences beckon him closer. They dare him to evaluate all he thinks he knows, because from certain angles this Suguru and his Suguru are the exact same.
Over the course of the following month the two of them slide into a comfortable rhythm. They message sporadically throughout the day, as much as Suguru’s schedule permits. Suguru sends him selfies and lets him know when something interesting happens. He sends anime and movie suggestions as they occur to him. Satoru, in return, keeps him updated in real time of his opinions on whatever series he’s currently catching up on.
They video call most evenings. Usually after Suguru’s live if he does one, but on more than one occasion he canceled just to spend more time with Satoru. Every night they video call Suguru lies in bed while Satoru browses the internet, and they chat about nothing in particular well into the night. Suguru stays on with him even when he can’t keep his eyes open and exhaustion has left his words slurred and half-nonsensical. He falls asleep while they talk every time, and Satoru gets to watch as dreams play out across his face.
Over the course of the following month Megumi remains a dedicated mother hen, though the frequency of his texts has slowed compared to the first few months. He also follows up on Satoru potentially moving to the Zenin estate grounds, and he asks more than once if he’s been by the Gojou estate yet. Satoru’s excuses for these haven’t changed, but somehow they feel more evasive than they did before.
Shouko keeps up her routine of checking in with him once a week too, and every time she does, Satoru’s reminded that Suguru was her friend too, that maybe he should tell her about him.
He means to tell her.
Somehow, the words never want to tumble out.
He even goes out to a bar with her and Utahime with the hope that the buoyant atmosphere will create an opportunity, but one doesn’t seem keen to arise.
What the surface level conversation does end up swerving to, however, is: “Looks like you’re finally starting to settle back in.”
“What do you mean ‘starting to.’ I was settled in the minute that seal was broken.”
“Passing out in a puddle of your own stomach acid would disagree,” Utahime says and takes a drink of her third beer so far tonight.
Shouko inclines her head in agreement. “And look at you now. All bright eyed, well rested, dressed in actual clothes, and inviting yourself along to the bar. Like a normal person. So much progress.”
“Hey, I came out with you guys before now.”
“Our house may be ‘out’ to you, but it’s not for us.”
“Excuse me if bars aren’t my first choice for a fun night.”
Shouko takes a drink from her beer as well. “That’s because you’re boring.”
That may be the most offensive thing Shouko’s ever said to him.
Shouko blinks at him slowly, continuing to drink from her glass, daring him to challenge her verdict.
Satoru opens his mouth and takes a breath that never seems to end.
“Not like it has to be a bar, but movie marathons get boring quick. You all sit around, discussing what to watch and why not to watch this or that. Then, once you end up watching something—assuming you do at all, you just forget it by the next month. This,” she says, gesturing vaguely at the establishment, “is just where actual excitement starts.”
“With darts? Darts is boring, Shouko.”
“Not that. There.” She nods toward the window, where various colored lights reflect and attempt to break through the glass. “Anything and everything you could wanna do is on this street. Karaoke, pachinko, shops, arcades, all accessible and affordable and fun.”
Fun, she says. More like a never ending onslaught of overstimulation.
Satoru makes a noncommittal noise. “I have a lot of movies to catch up on.”
“And what do you know, there’s a cinema nearby, too.” She grins at him, knowing. “How’s catching up on pop culture going for you, Gojou?”
“Good,” he answers with a little too much emphasis.
“Need any recommendations?”
“With your tastes? I’ll pass, thanks.”
The conversation continues, and before long Shouko excuses herself for a smoke.
Seeing the opportunity for what it is, Satoru follows after her.
“You smoke now?” Shouko asks, offering him her lit cigarette.
“Nope.”
Shouko shrugs, his loss, and waits for him expectantly.
This is it, but Satoru doesn’t know how to tell her. Should he say it outright? It’s Suguru but not really, isn’t that cool? Would she like to meet him?
While Satoru continues turning over what to say and how to say it in his head over and over, Shouko finishes her cigarette. Stubbing it out she asks, “How are you doing? As your doctor,” she adds, quirking her lip. “Not as your friend.”
The breath Satoru was gathering for his answer slips right out. Whatever stock phrase his mind had ready vanishes from his mind. “Answer’s the same either way. Nothing wrong with me.”
“That’s always been debatable.” She gives him a sidelong look. “I wasn’t able to find any reliable or consistent record of side effects that may occur after being released from the prison realm, so it’s up to you to know yourself and your body. I know it’s already been four months, but…” She shrugs.
“So sweet of you to worry, but I’m fine, Shouko. Really.”
“It’s Fushiguro you should be giving that empty reassurance to.”
“Megumi? I already told him I’m fine. Like… I don’t know, a few times now.”
Shouko just looks at him.
Satoru sighs. “What am I supposed to do? Live at the Zenin estate until he stops thinking I’m gonna snap and go on a rampage?”
“Would be a good start. Would also be doing me a favor. Kid calls me up every week asking if I’ve found anything new about the prison realm, if you’ve spoken to me because you won’t speak to him, if I think you’re acting odd. I don’t know what he expects me to say at this point.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. If I haven’t gone on some killing spree by now I’m probably not going to.”
“Probably,” she echoes, blowing out a ring of smoke. “Assuming that’s what he’s even worried about.”
“What else would it be?”
Shouko hums, pretending to think. “The way you were spit back into this dimension was a bit startling, for him especially. To see you in a state like that. Then… Twenty years is a long time to hold on to hope. A long time to postpone grieving. It’s an even longer time to live up to whatever distorted memory nostalgia’s left behind. He looks at you, and he can’t tell if you’re the man he knew or not.”
“What about you?”
The contemplative expression on her face becomes more genuine. She pulls out another cigarette and lights it up. “I know who you are. I also grieved you a long time ago. Whether you’re here to stay or not makes no difference either way to me. But him? He didn’t give up once in all that time, and he wouldn’t let anyone else give up either. Maybe try not to let that be for nothing. Maybe throw him a bone here and there.”
“How do you suggest I do that?”
“Stay at the Zenin estate for a few weeks or month?” She says, flicking ash away. “Hell if I know. Maybe ignore his texts a little less.”
“His texts aren’t conversation starters, Shouko. They’re like, ‘I hope you got some sleep in the last week’ and ‘Okkotsu asked about you,’ what am I supposed to do with that?”
“Guess that means the initiative falls to you. Invite him over for one of those movie marathons you wanna have so bad.” She pauses. “He’s not a teenager anymore. You don’t have to treat him like one.”
“It’s not like that’s what I’m trying to do. It’s just… weird. Everything’s so weird now. Megumi didn’t message me this much before and it’s like… he thinks there’s some role reversal going on here but there’s not. I don’t need him to be my minder.”
“Uh huh. And what did he say to that?”
Satoru blinks at her.
“Right. Maybe you two need to start with getting lunch first, figure out those boundaries.” Shouko puts out her cigarette. “You about ready to head back?”
She’s already walking away.
“Wait. I was wondering, do you ever think about Suguru?”
Shouko slows her step and turns back to face him. Though her face is relatively blank, it takes her longer to answer than he would’ve thought. “Sometimes. Not sure when I last did, though. Why?”
“No reason. I was just curious.”
“Honestly, I knew him for barely any time at all. I’m turning fifty in a few months. It was a flash in my life.” She pauses. “I didn’t know him like you did.” It almost sounds like an apology when she says it, but Satoru doesn’t know what it’d be for.
“You don’t miss him?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that. We had some good times. We did. I have fond memories. It’s just… It's high school. It’s nostalgia. That’s all. For you, it’s only been a year, hasn’t it? Since then. I’ve had more than enough time to find my peace with it. All of it.”
“Like with me?”
She gives him a peculiar look at that. “Yes. Like with you.”
Then, she turns and makes her way back to the bar. Satoru means to tell her as she’s walking away, fling the words at her like an arm around her elbow, but they melt on his tongue and leave it burned.
Next time. He’ll tell her next time.
Suguru kisses him first. That shouldn’t come as a surprise to Satoru, because that’s exactly what happened the first time around.
This, however, is not the first time around in any measure. In fact, it’s the opposite of the first time around, because now their roles are reversed. This time, it’s Satoru with more experience. It’s Satoru who can predict with uncanny accuracy how Suguru’s body will respond to him. It’s Satoru with every upper hand conceivable.
That, however, does not mean an absence of any of those in Suguru, and Satoru forgets that.
He takes notice of Suguru inching closer bit by bit over the course of the movie they’re watching, of course.
He’s hyper aware of it when the fabric of their clothing wants to touch, and allows the contact because how can he not?
Then, the credits are rolling and Suguru is in his lap and a sappy sounding song he’s never heard before is playing but it suits the moment just right—and Suguru is kissing him. Suguru is kissing him, and it’s the most perfect kiss he’s had in ten years. Hesitant, but just a little, a coy pretense because Suguru’s tongue is only too eager to delve into his mouth.
Suguru’s hands curl into the front of his shirt. In response, Satoru’s hands drop to Suguru’s waist, where they hover before closing in to hold him properly. This Suguru is a little thinner, a bit less bulky. It’s obvious from looking at him, but having him in his lap, with his hands on him, it’s even more so. He’s soft under Satoru’s palms. He’s slouching, but Satoru’s head is still too far above him.
When they part, Satoru says, “What was that for?”
“Just wanted to. Can I tell you a secret?”
“Anything.”
“I’ve wanted to since I saw you.”
There’s absolutely no reason for that to make Satoru blush as much as it does.
Suguru blinks. “Since I saw you in person, I mean.”
“You mean, in your dreams we weren’t getting it on? I dunno if I can believe that one, Suguru…”
“Shut up.” Suguru shoves at his shoulder. Though, the energy is quick to evaporate. He fidgets with the strings of Satoru’s hoodie, twists one around his finger and slips free of it. It’s cute. He’s very cute. “That was fine, right? To do?”
Satoru slips his arms around Suguru’s back and tugs him closer. “Yes. Every time, yes. Better than fine.”
Satoru initiates the next kiss. He infuses it with all the familiarity he hasn’t earned but can’t resist, and allows it to deepen the kiss for all it’s worth.
He’s missed this. He’s missed this so much.
“Me too,” Suguru mumbles against Satoru’s mouth, which makes zero sense, but Satoru barely notices.
Satoru moves his arms to hug Suguru’s ass and finds a comfortable grip to cradle it. He lifts him just enough to drop him to his back on the couch.
Looking down at him, Satoru licks his lips and says, “Let me show you just how much I’ve missed you.”
Satoru kisses the center of Suguru’s chest, and then he lifts Suguru’s shirt to kiss just below his chest. He trails kisses and licks down the center of Suguru’s body, idling at the piercing in his bellybutton, and tugging at the wisps of hair trailing even lower, ultimately arriving at the belt that’s allowed Suguru’s pants to slip past his hips.
Satoru pushes Suguru’s legs further open to give himself more space.
Suguru’s chest heaves from how hard he’s breathing. Anticipation already has him in its clutches. He reaches his hands down to entwine them, trembling, in Satoru’s hair. “Satoru.”
Satoru meets his gaze.
Suguru nods eagerly, and pushes Satoru’s head straight down.
Suguru sort of moves in.
Calling it “moving in” is maybe not the most accurate word for what happens. It was just, Suguru kept coming over day after day, and he’d always stay so late it only made sense for him to sleep over. First, it was his textbooks making it over one by one. Then, sketchbooks and art supplies. Finally, he brought over that duffel bag of his.
At first, Suguru’s things were all contained to Satoru’s spare room, but with each passing day their influence spreads. Coursework left across the coffee table, random books tucked in the strangest places, pens everywhere, textbooks on the kitchen counter, ready to go.
They don’t discuss it. There’s no reason to.
It’s a bit reminiscent of when they were living at the Jujutsu Tech dorms together, but better. The bed is bigger, for one. There’s no “authority figure” “just checking in” at the most inopportune times.
The tiny issue is that Satoru neglected to take Megumi into account.
Megumi, who hasn’t made a habit of dropping by unannounced, but who certainly has dropped by unannounced before.
They’re in the kitchen baking cookies from scratch when the consequences of Satoru’s carelessness arrives.
Suguru is kneading dough, and Satoru is so entranced by the movement of his hands and tendons that he fails to notice. It’s only after there’s a knock at the door that his senses allow anything other than Suguru to register.
“Are you expecting someone?” Suguru is already pulling his hands away.
Satoru squeezes his hips. “No no, I got it. You, uh, keep kneading that dough."
“Okay?” Suguru says. “Satoru?”
But Satoru is already slinking away.
Satoru opens the door, takes a step into the hallway, and at the same time, Megumi takes a step right past him into the apartment entranceway.
After trading places, Satoru blinks at him.
Oblivious to his own bad manners, Megumi says, “Afternoon, Sensei. What’s with you?”
“What’s with me? My apartment is being broken into right before my eyes is what’s with me.”
“Is that so? Broken into. You think so?”
Satoru gestures between the two of them with his arms, because yes, obviously.
Megumi glances at him. He looks into the apartment. Whatever catches his eye—and it could be many things—he steps further in, and Satoru rushes to intercept him and block his sight and path.
“Sooo, what brings you over uninvited and unannounced, then? No emergencies, I take it?”
“I did let you know I was on my way. Maybe if you ever looked at your phone.” Megumi squints at him, gives him a once over, and frowns suddenly. “Is that… flour?”
“Flour?”
“Yeah. On your face. And clothes?”
Megumi’s clearly trying to reconcile that when things get worse.
Barely any time has passed, but for some reason Suguru has taken it upon himself to check on things. He rounds the corner saying, “Satoru, is everything okay?”
Suguru stops short when he sees Megumi so close, inside the apartment. He tugs self-consciously at the bracelet on his wrist.
The sight of Suguru is so much of a shock for Megumi that he fails to control the entirety of his reaction. His shoulders and neck tense, but only for a few seconds before he relaxes them. His fingers twitch, the shadows beneath his feet twitch, his cursed energy flares before falling to a simmer. Every part of him is evaluating Suguru’s threat level, and struggling to settle on an estimation.
Suguru is so far from being a threat. He’s wearing an apron with a cat on it.
Suguru, who is wearing a cat apron covered with flour and who did nothing to create this mess, takes it upon himself to break the tension.
With a forced grin, Suguru says, “Hi, I’m Suguru. You must be a friend of Satoru’s?”
Megumi looks back and forth between the two of them. Every time he rounds back to Satoru the irritation on his face intensifies, his scowl deepens. The best he can manage is a grimace as he practically bulls past Satoru.
“Something like that. Fushiguro Megumi. Nice to meet you. Then, you’re…”
“Um.” Now, it’s Suguru’s turn to look between them. “Also Satoru’s friend. Nice to meet you.”
“Satoru. Right.” He looks over at Satoru.
It’s not really a signal to break in, but that’s what Satoru decides to take it as. “Anyway,” he says, raising his voice an unnecessary amount. He walks over to stand between them. “Megumi was in the neighborhood and just wanted to check in. Isn’t that so nice of him?”
“...What?” Suguru doesn’t buy it.
“Yup,” Megumi chimes in. “Just in the neighborhood. Wanted to check in. And, what do you know, I just remembered something else I need to discuss with him. If you don’t mind,” he says to Satoru through gritted teeth, tilting his head in the direction he wants Satoru to head. “Again, very nice to meet you.”
While Suguru reluctantly returns to the kitchen, Satoru and Megumi move to the living room. Satoru drops into the couch, whereas Megumi favors standing in front of him in a poor attempt to loom. His crossed arms are back. It’s starting to feel more defensive than intimidating.
“So…” Satoru offers.
“So.”
Not like Megumi has any motivation to rush things along here.
Unlike Satoru, who’d like him out as soon as possible.
“I bought a kotatsu since you last dropped by,” is the next offering Satoru gives.
Megumi finds it equally unimpressive. “You bought a kotatsu just in time for autumn. Amazing.”
“Thanks. I think it really has the potential to tie the room together.”
Megumi scans the room. His jaw tightens more and more as he notices the touches Suguru’s presence has introduced. There are candles and plants set up around the room, and a range of art that’s outside of Satoru’s tastes. The smell of incense lingers in the air from where it followed after Suguru.
Finally, Megumi says, “Suguru seems nice.”
“Yeah. Good first impressions are definitely in his skillset.”
“Care to explain anything?” His voice is stern, but his countenance wavers before crumbling in an instant. He lowers his voice. “Sensei. Please. For once. Just be straight with me. Who… Did you… Did you do something?”
“Do something? Like what?”
Megumi grips his arms tight. His shoulders hunch. “I don’t know,” he hisses. “But hiding your dead best friend in your apartment is more than a little suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Hey. I’m not hiding him.”
Megumi lifts his eyebrows.
“I’m not trying to hide him,” Satoru amends. “Except just now when you broke into my apartment. Megumi. Introductions take time. They need planning. It’s delicate. There are things to take into account.”
Megumi lifts a hand up to massage his forehead. “At least tell me, is this something we need to worry about?”
“No.” That word on its own gets Megumi to loosen up and drop into a seat. “I don’t have any reason to think so, but I’m keeping an eye on things.”
With his head leaned back Megumi looks at him. There’s something melancholic to his tone when he says, “But that’s not why you’re keeping him close.” He already knows, but then decides to add, rhetorically, “Is it?”
“No. That’s not why I’m keeping him close.”
Megumi nods, and allows his gaze to wander to the ceiling. “He looks different. And I don’t mean the clothes. He looks… young.”
“He’s not him. He’s a different person.”
Megumi didn’t know Suguru. He didn’t even know the Kenjaku impression of him. All he knows are whatever stories Maki, Yuuta, and the others decided to share with him, in addition to his already existing reputation as a curse user. To him, whether this is a Kenjaku connection or Suguru connection is likely equally worrisome.
“A different person. With the same name?”
Satoru shrugs. “Different last name, though. Different history. Different… lots of stuff. It’d take all day to go through.”
“But he’s similar?”
“It’s like echoes. They reverberate from him, and I answer back when I can.”
Megumi moves his head so he can look towards the kitchen. An assortment of emotion passes over his face, but they’re too tangled and too many for Satoru to decipher.
Then, Megumi sighs. “How long?”
“A couple months.”
“I can’t believe this is what you’ve been hiding all this time.”
“I already said I wasn’t hiding him. I’ve been ignoring you the exact same amount.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Megumi says with a wince. “Really lightens the blow, Sensei.”
Throw him a bone.
“I’ve been pretty busy, but we should get lunch sometime soon, Megumi. Catch up more casually. Properly, you know? Without feeling like it’s a report or something.”
It’s moments after he’s finished saying that when Suguru bounds into the room from out of nowhere—from behind the wall where he was eavesdropping. He stands just behind Satoru, and puts his hands to Satoru’s shoulder blades. “Fushiguro-san, would you like to join us for dinner?”
“Uh.”
“We still have to order dinner, though. And decide what to get. What kind of pizza do you like? We’re also baking,” Suguru says.
Satoru leans his head back against Suguru’s stomach in the process of looking up at him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m being welcoming to your friend. And student? You’ve met my friends. I want to know your friends too. Well, Fushiguro-san?”
After a minute Megumi says, “Next time. I did kind of interrupt, and I only meant to stop by.”
“Next time,” Suguru repeats. “Do you promise?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“You don’t have to fret over it this much, y’know. It’s only Megumi. We probably should just order in.”
“I want to make a good impression.”
What impression is left to make when the two of them exchanged numbers when Satoru wasn’t looking? Somehow. Satoru isn’t sure when exactly that happened, but they’ve been talking an unclear amount over the last few weeks. Consequently, Satoru was completely circumvented in the planning of these dinner plans. It just appeared on the calendar, and Suguru pled ignorance despite it being the calendar he hung up and his handwriting.
“You already made a good impression,” Satoru says. “This is just showing off.”
The kitchen counters look straight out of some cooking show. There are appliances and utensils laid out that Satoru didn’t know they had, and doesn’t know the names of or what they do. A variety of vegetables have been set aside, waiting their turn to be chopped. There’s a whole line up of spices that Satoru can’t imagine will all be used. Sugaru cuts a piece of meat into smaller chunks while an instructional video plays on his propped up tablet.
Suguru stands up straight and waves the knife right at Satoru. “It’s not showing off if I haven’t made this before.”
“Is that why you’re cooking for Megumi but you won’t cook for me? Megumi is practice, a guinea pig for if it turns out disgusting. Though, I’ll be a casualty too in that case, so it’s not the best plan, honestly.”
The knife moves closer to Satoru’s face. “Don’t jinx it, Satoru. Or else I won’t let you have any of the tart I’m going to make.” He returns to chopping.
“That’s unrealistic. How’re you gonna stop me?’
“I’ll give it to Fushiguro-san to take home with him. All you’ll get is a single, appropriately portioned slice.”
Satoru hums and takes one of the peaches that’s been designated for use in the aforementioned tart. “That’s a waste. Megumi won’t appreciate it properly.”
“Unlike you?”
“Exactly. I’m a confection connoisseur. Megumi is a casual at best.” Satoru slices a piece of the peach off and brings it to Suguru’s mouth.
Suguru accepts the slice, and after swallowing says, “And I’m a casual baker, so it’s a perfect match, actually.”
“Rejected.”
“Rejected? What are you rejecting?”
“That it’s a perfect match. That you’re a casual baker. Maybe I haven’t seen you cook, but I have seen you bake. Meaning, you’re caught, Suguru. You can’t fool me.”
Suguru laughs. “I used to bake with my grandma a lot. Apparently my mom liked baking too. With school I haven’t had much time, so maybe I am taking advantage of the opportunity a little.”
“That’s fine, but going to all this effort for a guy you don’t even know. I’m getting jealous.” Satoru fans himself with a spatula.
“Save it for later, Satoru. Focus.”
Satoru sighs. “You’re no fun.”
“Fun later. Focus now. If you don’t want to be helpful here, you can at least set the table and clean up some more.”
There’s nothing to clean up. Suguru already went through and arranged the apartment how he wanted it. He bought decorations just for the occasion. He spent twenty minutes deciding on a candle to light. He changed the tilt of the pillows on the couch because they looked sloppy the way they were, apparently. Then, he went and made the kitchen into a total disaster area.
What is there for Satoru to do besides mess around on his phone?
Await further instructions from Suguru and greedily soak in the scraps of attention he gives, is the answer to that.
Megumi arrives while Suguru is setting dishes one by one on the table. Before a fuss can be made, Satoru goes to receive him, only to find the unplanned addition of Shouko at his side.
Before Satoru can question it, Megumi says, “I invited her.”
“Don’t worry,” Shouko adds as she walks in. There’s a glint in her eye as she looks towards but not at him. “I’ve been informed of the details.”
“What details are those?”
“The relevant ones. Don’t worry. I won’t unbalance him much.”
Suguru freezes when he sees her. Nothing on his face gives away whether he recognizes her or not. Whatever he might say, Shouko cuts him off, asking, “What’s there to drink?”
“We have soda, lemonade, water, I can prepare some tea… or coffee,” he adds at Shouko’s continued staring.
“The real stuff, kid. Alcohol. Beer will do, but for this I’m gonna need something harder.”
“Um.” Suguru looks to Satoru for assistance.
Satoru grabs Suguru, who’s already making for the kitchen, and pulls him to the table. “Seriously, Shouko? You know I don’t have anything like that here.”
“Just checking,” Shouko says, still looking at Suguru. “And not an issue. I brought my own. You drink?” From her bag she pulls out a bottle of whiskey.
“I don’t not drink?”
Suguru sends another look Satoru’s way, but the best he can offer is a shrug.
“Good.”
Shouko wastes no time in pouring a drink for herself and Suguru. She offers a drink to Megumi, who turns it down, and also offers a drink to Satoru just to hear him decline.
Satoru and Suguru take seats on one side of the table, while Megumi and Shouko sit across from them.
Dinner starts off peacefully enough. At first.
The reins start off in Suguru’s hands, taking the role of host to heart and acting as though the whole dinner thing was his idea. He favors asking questions like how the two of them met Satoru, and if they have any good stories from before the world turned to shit. How Suguru might work into any of those tales is conspicuously avoided.
He asks about being a sorcerer in the past compared to what they do now, because this is the first time he’s ever met an actual sorcerer. People claim to be sorcerers and claim to hunt curses, but few are the real thing.
Megumi and Shouko both indulge his questions, though Megumi moreso.
Shouko nurses her whiskey more than her meal, blinks so slowly it’s like she’s trying to avoid blinking, and doesn’t keep her eyes off Suguru for long. What she’s looking for isn’t apparent, but Satoru did want her to take a look at Suguru. He was curious if she’d see something he couldn’t in Suguru’s cursed energy. Maybe she has.
It’s also Shouko who disrupts the easygoing peace by asking outright, “So, you’re from the past, right? Clearly you remember Gojou. Or did he just convince you that you do.”
Okay, maybe that’s the most offensive thing Shouko’s ever said about him.
“No. I didn’t convince him. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m joking,” Shouko says. “Joking. I don’t have that much faith in Gojou’s charm. Even if it is you. Mostly. It’s not like you remember me, after all. Do you, Getou-kun?”
Suguru fidgets with his hands under the table. “No. You are familiar, but no. Sorry.”
Shouko waves it off. “It’s fine. I’m not offended. I don’t really care if you remember me or not. What do you remember? Know who this guy is?” She asks, indicating Megumi.
“How about we have a nice dinner and not interrogate Suguru?” Satoru says.
“I’m not interrogating him. Just asking a few curious questions. Same as you did when you met, right? If I ask the right thing, will it trigger a memory?” Shouko slides her gaze back to Suguru.
“No. That hasn’t happened. Not yet, anyway. It’s mostly dreams. And a lot of déjà vu.”
“Suguru, you don’t have to answer anything.”
Shouko purses her lips at Satoru. “Is that what you said when you dropped in and plucked him out of whatever life he was already living?”
“That’s not even what happened.”
“Yeah? I wonder… Sounding pretty defensive there, Gojou.”
“I’ll answer whatever you want,” Suguru says, pulling Shouko’s attention back to him. “And Satoru didn’t pluck me out of anything. I wanted to. It was my idea.”
Shouko blinks. The corner of her lip quivers into a half-smile that she hides by finishing off her whiskey. “No need for you to jump to the rescue either, kid. I’m just messing with him. We can drop it. Save the conversation for a time that isn’t the dinner table. If you’re so open to talking about it.”
Satoru’s about to deflect to anything else, but Suguru’s already decided to meet this challenge head on.
“I’m fine with it. We can talk about it all you want.”
Shouko’s smile gets a bit bigger. “Tomorrow?”
Suguru’s about to agree, but then he says, “I can’t. I have class all day. I can’t the day after that either. And the day after… I’m going to have to look at my schedule and get back to you, but it will happen.”
“Will it?”
“Yes.”
Shouko chuckles and leans back in her chair. She fills her glass back up. “Fine. It’s a deal. So. A student, then. What do you study, Getou-kun?”
The conversation swerves back to safer, more mundane topics. Namely, Suguru’s life as a student, what he was up to before Satoru’s intrusion into it, and his aspirations for the future.
That carries them through to the end of the night, and Satoru is only too happy to see them out.
As soon as they’re out the door Suguru latches on to Satoru’s arm and drags him to the couch so he can collapse against him.
“Mission accomplished. I’m so tired.”
“This was your idea.”
“That doesn’t make it any less exhausting. …I still need to clean everything up.”
Satoru shifts and pulls Suguru back to lay across his lap. He pushes his hands into Suguru’s hair and massages his scalp. “Leave it. I’ll clean it up.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You went to all that work cooking and baking everything… Not to mention the dinner itself. So, yeah. I’ll clean. You rest.”
Suguru rolls into him. “You’re the best.” After a beat he says, “Your friends are nice. I don’t think they like me much.”
“What? They love you. I’m gonna have to lock you away in a room so they don’t get any funny ideas.”
“Even Shouko?”
“Especially Shouko. She was prepared to eat you right there at the table. I thought I was going to have to throw her out to protect your virtue.”
“She knew that Suguru. Do you think she’s mad? That I’m here. And this way.”
“Nah. That’s not Shouko’s way. She was just… drinking. And giving you a hard time. Probably because I didn’t tell her I found you. Don’t worry about it.”
Suguru sighs. “Kind of hard not to.”
“You don’t have to meet up with her and talk about all that if you don’t want. She’s not going to hold it against you.”
“I said I would, so I will.”
“I can come with you, if you want.”
“I can do it myself.
Satoru slips a hand over Suguru’s eyes. The other pets through his hair. “You can think it over. There’s no rush. That’s what we decided on.”
Suguru hums noncommittally in his lap.
At night, Suguru sleeps with a warm chest at his back. Heartbeat to fabric, which makes him rethink wearing a shirt to bed each night. An arm around his waist that’s deceptive in its lax hold. Measured, slow breaths at his ear that are almost hypnotic in their consistency, because Satoru doesn’t sleep if Suguru’s not asleep.
In the morning, Suguru wakes with his head tucked under a secure chin. The heartbeat that was at his back is now at his ear—warm skin to warm skin—and it thumps with the same steady assurance. The one lax arm has become two fixed ones that simultaneously trap and cherish him. The breaths are just as hypnotic, lulling, because Satoru doesn’t sleep if Suguru’s awake in his arms.
Both of these experiences are things Suguru is unaccustomed to. They’re things that, in only a few months’ time, he’s come to savor. Every night he sinks into them like they’ll have disappeared by morning. Part of him can’t imagine ever being without this comfort and warmth. In tandem, a corresponding part from deeper within reminds him that he already knows, with terrifying intimacy, the intricacies that absence entails.
It’s a little scary, just how much he fears becoming acquainted with it—merging with it, because that’s the only option allowed once they meet.
It makes him want to stay in bed with Satoru forever, but he can’t. Suguru has to get up. Suguru has class. This isn’t a few years ago. Suguru is more than capable of getting out of bed, getting dressed, stepping outside, and walking to class. Breakfast… maybe lunch instead.
Suguru can do all that. Easily.
Satoru says, “You can sleep a little longer. You have time.”
Suguru does not have time.
He only has time because Satoru cheats and can teleport him to class.
Suguru groans and stretches out to rest his head on the pillow, so he can look at Satoru. He blinks at him slowly, eyelids weighed down with sleep still.
Satoru grins back before kissing his forehead.
“Your Suguru,” he says, trailing off into a yawn.
The thought hasn’t fully formed in his head, but he knows one’s there. That’s often the case in mornings where fractured dreams are left spliced into his recollection. Too many mornings these days his sense of self is a blur that’s slow to reform. That’s how it’s been since Satoru, and Suguru isn’t naive as to why that is, but…
“You’re my Suguru.”
Warmth. Warmth that makes him wonder if he’s ever truly known warmth before Satoru.
He feels like a hollow silhouette of a person.
Suguru is Suguru is Suguru ad infinitum, whatever it means, and Satoru is the constant—the guiding star for good or ill.
“Your Suguru,” he repeats, and even on his tongue it’s too sweet. Like he is that Suguru. “The before me. Do you think he’d be happy?”
Satoru’s arms twitch against him. “Happy? Happy with what?”
“I dunno. Just… happy. In general. Whatever it means.”
“Are you happy?”
Suguru blinks. Is he happy? He rolls it around in his mind, the last few years and the present. He thinks of how he feels waking up in Satoru’s arms every morning. “I think so. I’m happy when I’m with you.”
“Then, yeah. I think he would be, too.”