Chapter Text
The world blurred, collapsing in on itself in a maelstrom of violence that lasted no more than fifteen agonizing minutes. Toji Fushiguro, a phantom of efficiency, systematically dismantled the seemingly invincible Satoru Gojo. It began not with a clash, but with a betrayal of the senses—a searing stab wound to his chest from behind. The katana, a cruel extension of Toji’s will, tore through muscle, ligament, cartilage, and vital organs with the effortless ease of a blade through warm clay.
The immediate gush of blood was colossal, a crimson tide that heralded the onset of massive hemorrhaging and internal bleeding. Satoru’s unparalleled senses, usually a fortress against all threats, began to falter, dulled by the relentless drain of his life force. Toji knew, with a predator’s cunning, that the key to overcoming Satoru was to force him to lower his Limitless.
In a sudden, overwhelming swarm of grotesque flyhead curses, Toji masterfully orchestrated a diversion. He fed Satoru the calculated lie that he had pursued Suguru and Riko, drawing his focus away from the immediate, tangible threats. In that fleeting, fatal split second when Satoru’s attention fractured, Toji struck. His weapon, a glinting arc of death, sliced through Satoru’s neck with brutal precision.
A profound, paralyzing shock seized Satoru’s body, stiffening him, rendering him utterly incapable of reaction. Toji, a whirlwind of motion, ripped the blade downwards, carving a grotesque path along Satoru’s front until it finally tore free near his pelvis. Without a pause, Toji plunged the blade into his right leg multiple times, a flurry of desperate, weakening wounds, before swiftly kicking Satoru’s feet out from under him.
Satoru crashed to the unforgiving ground with a sharp, involuntary gasp. The air rushed from his lungs, replaced by the metallic tang of copper-laced saliva. He lay there, utterly vulnerable, stripped of all power, his body refusing to obey. The last image seared into his rapidly fading vision was Toji’s blade, arcing downwards, aimed directly for his forehead. Then, silence. Black. No pain. Only an endless, all-consuming nothingness.
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It was later, long after the cacophony of battle had faded, that they found him. Satoru Gojo, the unyielding pillar of strength, lay sprawled and lifeless, reduced to a horrifying tableau of pale, unmoving limbs. The ground beneath him, and his once pristine clothing, were soaked with more blood than what could remain within his ravaged body.
Shoko Ieiri, her usual composure shattered, knelt beside him, Principal Yaga a grim shadow at her side. She quickly tried to take stock of Satoru’s horrific wounds, but the sheer number and brutal severity of them stole her breath. A strangled whisper escaped her lips, "I- where do I...?" Her voice, usually so steady, stammered with a raw, uncharacteristic fear.
Yaga, a man of action even in the face of despair, immediately clamped one hand onto Satoru’s mangled neck and the other across his chest, desperately trying to staunch the flow. He even pressed his knee against Satoru’s leg, attempting to stem the tide of crimson that slowly, inexorably, pooled around him, spreading outward like a macabre, crimson sea. "Head, neck, chest, leg!" Yaga roared, his voice raw with urgency, imploring Shoko to quickly initiate the Reverse Cursed Technique and cling to the desperate hope of saving Satoru’s life.
"Right-okay- okay, okay," Shoko managed, her voice regaining a fragile firmness. She positioned her hands just above Satoru’s forehead, and a warm, ethereal light pulsed from her palms, slowly, agonizingly, knitting his head wound closed from the inside out. As she focused on the laceration, her gaze drifted over the rest of Satoru’s battered form. His skin was a chilling, ashen white, tinged with a grayish hue—the ghastly pallor of the recently deceased. His lips, a horrifying shade of blue, sent a fresh wave of panic through her. Blue lips, catastrophic blood loss, a faint, almost imperceptible pulse... how could he still be alive?
Finally, she managed to seal the gaping wound on his head before swiftly moving to his neck. In all, it took a grueling thirty minutes to close all of Satoru’s horrific injuries. Yet, he was far from healed. "He needs a blood transfusion, maybe supplemental oxygen too," Shoko murmured, her voice laced with a deep, unsettling worry. As Yaga helped her transport Satoru to the infirmary, Shoko's mind raced, piecing together the grim diagnoses that awaited Satoru. She wouldn't be surprised if brain damage was among them. His relentless use of Infinity while protecting the Star Plasma Vessel, coupled with his desperate, flawed attempts at Reverse Cursed Technique—evidenced by the poorly healed wounds and messily repaired blood vessels she’d observed—were deeply concerning. Much of her work had been repairing not only Toji's devastating blows, but also Satoru’s crude, desperate attempts to save himself.
She quickly connected multiple IV drips to Satoru’s arm, painkillers, fluids, and the blood transfusion, and then carefully placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Then, she sank into a chair, her mind consumed by the profound, potentially life-altering changes Satoru might now face.
"You're quiet," Principal Yaga observed, his voice an unsteady attempt at support, yet laced with the undeniable tension of worry. He was consumed by the uncertain future of one of their most promising sorcerers—but more importantly, his student, a mere seventeen-year-old boy, was gravely wounded with the terrifying possibility of permanent injury.
"I'm worried about him," Shoko finally confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. Yaga remained silent, allowing her to verbally process the shock and fear gripping her. "I'm worried that he's suffered brain damage. With the amount of blood he lost and the visible signs of low blood oxygen levels...."
A heavy, unsettling silence settled between Yaga and Shoko, thick with the unspoken weight of Shoko’s chilling prognosis: brain damage. The two of them, seasoned by the brutal realities of the jujutsu world, now wrestled with a fear that transcended curses and combat—the fear of a mind irrevocably altered.
Shoko, ever the pragmatist, immediately busied herself with the familiar rhythm of medical care, a desperate anchor in the storm of uncertainty. Her deft fingers moved across Satoru, checking his blood pressure, his body temperature, and the sluggish flickers of his automatic reflexes. She gently lifted his eyelids, one by one, shining a small penlight into his cerulean eyes. His pupils, usually so quick to react, responded sluggishly to the light, dilating and constricting with an unnerving delay. Leaning closer, she listened to his breathing, noting its shallow depth and elevated, erratic pace- far too fast for someone in his state. From his vigil at Satoru’s bedside, Yaga watched her, the raw care and concern etched plainly on her face. He knew his fears were likely just as transparent, but he maintained a stoic facade for his student, admiring her unwavering resolve as she tirelessly worked to save her classmate and friend.
The strained quiet was violently shattered by the sudden slam of the infirmary door. Shoko whipped around; both she and Yaga jolted by the abrupt interruption. Their shock deepened at the sight of Nanami Kento, dragging a half-conscious Suguru Geto into the room. "Shoko!" Nanami's usually steady voice called out, betraying the smallest, almost imperceptible tint of fear in its depth.
"What the hell happened?!" Yaga demanded, rising from his chair to help Nanami carefully guide Suguru onto an unoccupied bed beside Satoru. "Riko Amanai was killed..." Suguru whispered, his voice thin and semi-lucid. He looked as bad as he sounded, blood weeping sluggishly from fresh chest wounds, a blossoming bruise on his temple that Shoko immediately suspected was the cause of his delayed, sluggish responses.
Yaga’s face tightened into a deep frown at the devastating news. With a curt nod, he excused himself from the infirmary, his mind already racing to assess the damage done to Jujutsu High’s defenses, to understand how such a dangerous individual had breached their sanctuary and inflicted such tragic events.
Shoko, meanwhile, turned her attention to Suguru, her hands hovering gently over his chest. A warm, familiar glow enveloped his wounds as she began the Reverse Cursed Technique. Suguru grimaced, a sharp intake of breath, as he felt the agonizing sensation of his flesh being knitted back together. It was akin to coarse sandpaper being dragged across a raw sunburn, a deep, pervasive discomfort. Yet, despite the pain, Suguru gritted his teeth, bearing it in stoic silence.
It was Nanami who first noticed the figure on the adjacent bed. His eyes widened, a barely perceptible waver in his voice as he asked, "Is that…Satoru?" At the mention of his friend's name, Suguru instantly whipped his head around, prompting Shoko to grumble and firmly grasp his shoulders, turning him back. "Stay still or you'll reopen your wounds before I have the chance to heal them," she chided. Suguru sighed but nodded in resigned compliance.
"Has he woken up at all?" Suguru asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, his hand weakly gesturing toward Satoru. Shoko didn't pause in her healing, her hands continuing their delicate, precise work.
"No, he hasn't woken up. I—" she began, then hesitated. A brief internal debate flickered across her face before she made her decision. Suguru and Nanami were Satoru’s closest friends; they deserved to know. "When Yaga and I found him, he was nearly dead. A few minutes longer and he would have..."
A jolt, sharp and unwelcome, ran through Suguru. His body stiffened, a visceral reaction to the terrifying combination of "Satoru" and "dead" uttered in the same breath. It wasn't possible. Satoru was the strongest sorcerer of modern times. He was invincible, wasn't he? A force of nature, a living legend in the making. He laughed in the face of danger, walked through impossible odds as if they were nothing more than a Tuesday afternoon. How could he, Satoru Gojo, be brought to this? To the brink of non-existence, a mere breath away from being a memory? The thought alone was a violation, a blasphemy against everything Suguru believed about his best friend. Surely, he couldn't have sustained such horrific injuries, injuries that could render him almost deceased. "Shoko...?" Suguru whispered, his voice thin, laced with a burgeoning, undeniable panic that warred with the dull throb in his head. The words felt distant, filtered through a growing fog.
"Hmm?" she hummed in reply, her focus unwavering as she healed the last of Suguru’s wounds.
"Why hasn't Satoru woken up? He will wake up... right?" Suguru pressed, his voice thin and childishly hopeful. He heard the naive, almost foolish quality of his questions, particularly given the gruesome state of his dear friend, yet he desperately needed verbal confirmation. He needed to know, even if the words struggled to fully penetrate the haze of his pain.
"I believe that Satoru has suffered brain damage—" Shoko was cut off by Suguru’s sudden, guttural cry. "Brain damage?! What do you mean?!" The words exploded from him, raw and desperate. His senses were momentarily overwhelmed, not just by a surge of pure fear and desperate concern for Satoru, but by a dizzying rush that made the room swim.
"Suguru, please, I'm explaining, take a breath," Shoko urged, her voice as calm as she could muster, trying to defuse the emotional time bomb that was Suguru. She watched as he nodded tensely, forcing himself to inhale deeply, the effort visible. The fog in his mind was still there, but he tried to push through it.
"I'm sorry. Please continue," Suguru managed, a surprising sincerity in his tone, though his eyes still held a distant, slightly unfocused quality. "Okay, as I was saying, I fear that Satoru hasn't woken up due to blood loss, possibly leading to brain damage, a concussion at the very least," Shoko explained, a tired sigh escaping her lips. "His outcomes and potential impairments, if any, can only be determined once he wakes up." She then moved back to Satoru, meticulously checking his vitals once again, leaving Suguru to slowly, painfully, process the weight of her words.
As Suguru gazed at Satoru, a profound sense of bizarre unreality washed over him. It was an almost out-of-body phenomenon. Satoru, the most powerful and capable sorcerer outside of himself that Suguru knew, now lay so utterly vulnerable. Sure, the older teen was often obnoxious and headstrong, but he was undeniably aware of his immense power, of how few could ever truly match him. But now, Satoru lay still in an infirmary bed, his skin pale and bandaged. His snowy hair, usually so vibrant, was still stained copper from dried blood. His eyes were closed, his body unnervingly still, yet his face lacked any semblance of peace. Satoru, whom Suguru had almost viewed as untouchable, like a god in his own right, now looked ordinary, small, even, and unequivocally human.
If Suguru didn't know Satoru personally, he would never believe that the boy in the infirmary bed before him held more power than perhaps all the sorcerers within Jujutsu High combined. He probably wouldn't even believe that the kid had a chance of survival, simply based on the severity of his injuries and his frail appearance. And it was these chilling thoughts that sent a fresh wave of terror through Suguru’s soul—the horrifying, undeniable possibility of losing Satoru.
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For five agonizing days, Satoru remained submerged in unconsciousness, his body a fragile vessel weakened by the brutal toll of critical injuries. Suguru never left his side, a silent vigil kept in the sterile confines of the infirmary. Each shallow breath Satoru took was a fresh stab of fear in Suguru's chest, a stark reminder of how close they'd come to losing him entirely.
He found himself replaying the events leading up to the fight, every agonizing second of it, searching for a moment, a decision, a cursed spirit he could have left with Satoru, or used a cursed spirit to take Riko to Tengen. Perhaps, that might have prevented this. The 'strongest' duo, a title they wore with such easy arrogance, felt like a cruel joke now. If Satoru, with his boundless power, could be brought to this state, what did that say about Suguru? About his own strength, his own ability to protect? A cold, insidious self-doubt began to fester, whispering that he hadn't been enough, that he was fundamentally inadequate. He looked at Satoru's still, pale face, the vibrant spark of his personality dimmed, and a terrifying question echoed in the silence of the room: If Satoru woke up, would he still be Satoru? Would the easy banter, the shared understanding, the unspoken language of their friendship, still be there? Or would he be looking at a stranger, a ghost of the person he loved most? The thought was a deeper wound than any Toji had inflicted, a fear that transcended physical pain, threatening to unravel the very core of his existence.
In the end, no one tried to make him leave Satoru’s bedside; they knew it would be futile, that he would simply ignore their pleas anyway. On the third day, the air in the room felt heavy, oppressive with unspoken hope and fear. Suguru sat at Satoru's bedside, holding his partner's hand, lost in the pages of a book, an attempt at a temporary escape from the crushing reality. Suddenly, a subtle tremor, a faint twitch in Satoru's hand, jolted him back to the stark present.
Suguru's book clattered softly as he immediately set it aside, his grip on Satoru's hand tightening in a reciprocal squeeze. "Satoru? Satoru, can you hear me?" he urged, his voice laced with desperate pleading. "Wake up, please... show me you're still in there..." As his words hung in the air, Satoru let out a low groan, his head making a minute, almost imperceptible movement, vaguely tracking towards the sound of his friend's voice. A fleeting grimace flickered across Satoru's ashen face, still disturbingly pale despite the passage of time. Faint, reddish-brown bloodstains stubbornly clung to his hair, a stark reminder of the trauma, no matter how many times Suguru had tried to wash him clean.
"Shoko!" Suguru called out, his voice sharp with urgency. "I think he's waking up!" At the sound of her name, Shoko hurried over to Satoru's bedside. Her hands moved swiftly, competently, as she began to take his vitals, her focus absolute on assessing his alertness and cognitive state. After meticulously recording his blood pressure, pulse, and temperature, she began to evaluate his motor responses and eye movement. She gently lifted his eyelids, observing the slow, sluggish pupillary response and attempts at opening of his eyes, then she tried to elicit a verbal response to discomfort. Satoru responded with another groan, a weak, uncoordinated attempt to remove her hands from his chest as she rubbed her knuckles firmly along his sternum to gauge his pain reaction.
Suguru found himself clenching his jaw; the sight of Shoko causing Satoru more discomfort than he already endured, grating on his nerves. "Shoko, is that really necessary?" he asked hesitantly, his voice tight with suppressed protectiveness. Shoko didn't miss a beat, her gaze unwavering as she continued her assessment. "Suguru, this is a standard assessment used to determine Satoru’s degree of consciousness." When Satoru whimpered again, a soft, pained sound at Shoko's relentless poking and prodding, Suguru had to bite his tongue until it almost bled to keep from demanding she stop.
Eventually, Shoko seemed satisfied with the data she had collected from Satoru. She stepped back, a faint sigh escaping her lips. Her mind, however, was far from settled. The sluggish pupillary responses, the shallow, elevated breathing, the poor gross motor response to pain—all pointed to neurological compromise. She knew that even if he woke, Satoru may not be the same. She desperately hoped for merely physical weakness, for a temporary haze that would lift, but the cold, hard data screamed of deeper issues. The thought of Satoru, the brilliant, sharp-witted Satoru, struggling with basic recall or focus was a chillingly bitter pill. She pushed down the surge of despair, reminding herself that hope wasn't a luxury she could afford right now, only pragmatism. Her job was to save him, then to fix what she could. But the question of what could be fixed, and what would be permanently lost, gnawed at her.
"Okay, Suguru, he's all yours. I think he'll benefit from familiar faces right now." She offered a small, reassuring smile that she prayed masked her worry. "Don't stress him, keep the conversation light."
Suguru could only offer a silent nod, his focus irrevocably tethered between Shoko's hushed instructions and the raw, vulnerable sight of Satoru. His friend's skin remained an unnerving ashen white, and despite Suguru's diligent efforts, faint, stubborn traces of old blood still clung to his pallid skin and threaded through his once brilliant white hair. He smoothed a damp strand from Satoru's forehead, his touch feather-light, as if the slightest pressure might shatter the fragile peace of his unconsciousness. Every few minutes, his gaze would drift from the book he pretended to read, sweeping over Satoru's face, searching for any flicker, any sign of returning life beyond the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He adjusted the oxygen mask, ensured the IV drip was flowing steadily, and even, when he thought no one was watching, pressed his ear gently against Satoru's chest, just to feel the faint, reassuring thrum of his heart. It was a silent, desperate prayer, a constant reaffirmation of his presence, a promise whispered without words: I'm here. I'm not leaving. Don't go. His meticulous attention to Satoru's comfort, the way his breathing seemed to mirror Satoru's shallow rhythm, spoke volumes of a devotion that ran deeper than any casual friendship. With exquisite tenderness, Suguru reached out, his fingers delicately stroking Satoru's damp hair back from his forehead.
Suguru remained at Satoru’s bedside, his gaze reverent and longing, his thoughts caught in a relentless loop—a quiet, desperate mantra he repeated like a prayer. Come on… just wake up… please, prove me wrong. You’re always doing that. Do it one last time. Wake up, Satoru. Five days had passed. Suguru had grown restless, anxiety burrowing deep into his bones. He had become acutely attuned to every flicker of Shoko’s expression, every subtle shift in her body language when she came to check on Satoru. She wore a poker face, but not one Suguru couldn’t see through. And with each visit, each unreadable glance, the stone of fear in his chest grew larger, heavier, more crushing.
Then, just as the weight felt unbearable, Satoru groans and his face creases in pain. Suguru immediately shifts closer to his friend. His grip on Satoru’s hand is firm as he speaks, "Hey, hey…are you with me? You’re safe, take your time waking up," Suguru murmured, his voice a gentle current, painstakingly kept soft and comforting. He watches as Satoru slowly squints his eyes open. Confusion clouds his once-vibrant cerulean gaze, the brilliant light in them dimmed and distant. They were hazed—not just by the lingering fog of medication and injury.
Satoru’s eyes slowly, sluggishly tracked across the room, seeing but failing to truly register his surroundings. There was a disconcerting disconnect in the deliberate, unexpressive way his eyes moved, reflecting only the profound exhaustion born of profound injury. Suguru granted Satoru the precious gift of time, allowing him to slowly adjust to consciousness. He resisted the urge to bombard his friend with questions, despite the agonizing distress it caused him to witness Satoru's struggle to reconnect with awareness.
Finally, Satoru's gaze, though still hazy, settled upon Suguru. He registered the solid warmth of his hand, firmly cradled between both of Suguru's. His awareness, initially purely visual, began to stretch, encompassing the tactile. He finally felt the gentle pressure on his fingers, the radiating warmth of the other's hands, the rough, familiar calluses threaded between his own. Slowly, painfully, his senses began to stir. He became aware of the thin sheets against his skin, scratchy and worn from countless washes. A deep, pervasive ache throbbed through his body, from the base of his neck down to his leg—a warmth that pounded in rhythm with each beat of his heart. That’s weird… I don’t remember injuring myself… Satoru thought, a fragmented whisper in his mind.
Suguru’s breath hitched, barely daring to believe what he was seeing. “Satoru?” he murmured, voice trembling. The flicker of recognition in those clouded eyes was faint, but real. Panic and hope crashed through him all at once. Without releasing Satoru’s hand, he turned his head sharply and called out, louder—urgent now. “Shoko! He’s awake—Shoko, come here!” His voice cracked on the last word.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond, fast and purposeful. Suguru turned back to Satoru, his grip tightening just slightly, grounding them both. “Hang on,” he whispered, “help’s coming.”
Satoru shifts his body tentatively in the bed, testing his range of motion, and that's when it hits him. A splitting pain, like a corkscrew twisting deep within his head, caused his eyes to instantly screw shut. He gasped, all movement ceasing abruptly. Faintly, he heard a voice speaking to him. He felt gentle, undeniably familiar hands on his face, threading through his hair. 'What the hell…' Satoru thought, the thought itself a struggle.
Suguru flinched the very instant he saw Satoru shift, then immediately winced in agony. His hands flew to the other's face, tenderly attempting to soothe his pain and calm his reeling senses. He observed how Satoru's body was taut with pain, likely compounded by a surge of confusion. Suguru knew Satoru’s body language with the intimacy of a native tongue; he recognized the smallest discrepancies, could discern the subtle shifts in his breathing patterns, the nuanced changes in his tone. He would even go so far as to claim, with a high degree of certainty, that he knew Satoru's thoughts. So when Satoru winced, Suguru was by his side in an instant, whispering calming words, encouraging slow, even breaths, and providing grounding tactile stimuli.
The door opened with a soft clatter as Shoko entered, breath slightly short from rushing. Her eyes swept over the room in an instant, locking onto the tremble in Satoru’s limbs, the unmistakable flickers of awareness in his expression. “How long has he been awake?” she asked, already striding forward, pulling on gloves as she approached. Suguru didn’t look away from Satoru—his hand still cupped gently along his jaw—but his voice was steady. “Just a few minutes. He’s in pain. Disoriented.” Shoko nodded, professional but not cold, her eyes briefly softening as she knelt beside the bed. “Okay. Let’s take this one breath at a time.”
The agonizing corkscrew of pain slowly began to dissipate in Satoru’s head. He slowly risks opening his eyes again. He started to feel a familiar touch, to hear soothing and encouraging words. When the pain receded to a manageable hum, he risked opening his eyes again; upon opening them, he was met with the most familiar face. Dark black hair cascaded over broad shoulders. Deep, amethyst eyes, squinted with concern, and—was that fear? Sharp facial features pulled taut with anxiety. And then, that voice. That deep, rich voice, like the warmth of the sun in the heart of winter. The pitch, soft and almost intimate, wrapped around Satoru’s consciousness, gently pulling him closer to awareness. The sound of his voice wound its way through the static in Satoru’s mind, not as memory, but as something older—something written into the rhythm of his heartbeat. And when the haze lifted just enough for recognition to break through, Satoru smiled, soft and full of wonder. Because no matter how far his mind drifted, his heart would always remember Suguru.
Notes:
This is my first story, so if the editing is off, know that I'm trying! Let me know what you think. I just had the story in my mind and wanted to read it, so here we are. :)
Chapter 2: The Subtle Shift
Chapter Text
Satoru spent the next week in the infirmary, his physical strength returning with a speed that defied the severity of his injuries; having a friend who has mastered reverse curse technique has its benefits. He chafed under the confinement, his boundless energy struggling against the enforced stillness. He’d pace the small room, practice rudimentary cursed energy control, and pepper Shoko with endless questions about his discharge. Yet, amidst this rapid physical recovery, the first truly unsettling shifts began to surface.
"Hey, Suguru, where'd I put my sunglasses?" Satoru would ask, moments after setting them on the bedside table. Or, "Did I already tell you about that weird dream I had?" even if he'd recounted it twice that morning. They were small things, easily dismissed as post-trauma fogginess, or Gojo just being his usual scattered self. Suguru, ever watchful, caught the tiny hesitation, the flicker of confusion in Satoru’s eyes before the question formed. A faint, cold tendril of unease would coil in his gut, quickly rationalized away. He's been through hell. It's normal. He'll shake it off.
The day continues, and Shoko watches Satoru pacing. He’s rubbing at his temple as if a headache is forming. She observes as Satoru begins lifting up objects and pulling the sheets on his bed back. It’s obvious he’s looking for something. He accidentally knocks his pillow off the bed and grumbles to himself. Shoko frowns when she sees a brief flash of pain on Satoru’s face as he bends down to get the pillow. He isn’t able to bend far before his headache makes itself known; he groans pitifully and dramatically. Ah, there’s the Satoru I know. All dramatics and whining. Shoko thinks to herself. She chuckles a little and walks over and retrieves the pillow for Satoru.
When he sees that Shoko has taken charge and picked up his pillow, he feels immediate annoyance. “I was going to get it myself, Shoko,” He says in a mumble.
“Satoru.” She says, standing in front of him, “Look at me.” She waits for his eyes to come up to hers- she knows his pride has been shattered. “It’s ok to admit that you need help, because you do. I don’t think you understand how severe your injuries were.”
“Of course I know how bad they were!” Satoru snaps back with sudden, unexpected anger. He pauses, shocked at his sudden shift and uncontrolled emotional regulation. “..I- Shoko, I’m sorry…I- I don’t know why I shouted…” He says with a frown taking residence on his face, a common feature he’s worn since he woke up 5 days prior.
Shoko can see the confusion and apologetic shift in Satoru’s demeanor. “Emotional dysregulation is a common side effect of brain injury.” She says gently, providing Satoru with the vocabulary and medical knowledge that he lacked, a temporary peace offering in which she basically said, ‘It’s ok that you’re being an ass, your brain is kind of fucked.’
After a moment of silence, Satoru inhales sharply. Shoko sees a familiar glint in his eyes. His trauma response is to compartmentalize, to hide behind his smile, behind his sunglasses, hide trauma by making jokes and appearing the most ok, appearing like the leader he was literally born and trained to be.
“It’ll be fine. The guy is dead, right? Even injured, I did a damn good job, huh?” He says lightly, the familiar smile and jokes appearing, seeded in fear and blooming with deep hurt. Many call him cocky and arrogant. Shoko would be lying if she said she didn’t think the same before they became friends, but now she can see behind his near-perfect mask. One look at his eyes- Satoru’s perfectly icy eyes that mesmerize most and assist him in compelling his tales.
Shoko decides to give him a win. He needs it. He really does, so she responds in her usual fashion, “Yeah, you did. Just don’t be a dumbass and fight until you’re basically a pile of ground meat. That wasn’t a pleasant find. Learn to accept help.” She adds a smile and a chuckle to her sharp comment, using familiar banter to ease Satoru’s mind, even if just for a little bit.
Her comment has the desired effect, and Satoru scoffs and rolls his eyes dramatically, “’ Ask for help, ’ as if I need that.” Satoru jokes in mock offense. “That’s bullshit and you know it, Shoko. I’m just so incredible that I even learned reverse curse technique right as I was dying!” He says with such an obnoxious and arrogant tone that even he can’t resist laughing.
With a smile, she gives a sarcastically encouraging reply, “That’s good, I’m glad you think that.” She quickly follows with, “Just know, though, we’re here to help you, too, ok? If you ever need it.” She adds the last question as a bridge to the possibility of lingering maladies, but she wants Satoru to make the connection on his own. Allow him to explore and come to realize that he needs help and reach out without shame.
She’s experienced many individuals in stages of grief. Working as a healer, and in the morgue, it’s an unescapable happening. If you tell someone who is in the process of loss that they need help, they almost never react well. They rage, push friends and family away. They become less social, less expressive. Shame for lashing out, coupled with their ever-lingering grief, drives them deeper into isolation. And in isolation, depression and distorted thoughts grow louder. Disillusion becomes fact, outside voices- once familiar and uplifting- transform into strangers barking deceit and malice.
Shoko stands up fully and pats Satoru on the knee in a familiar comforting gesture between close friends. “You are ok to leave the infirmary. But no intensive training or missions for another week.” She adds firmly, knowing that Satoru is one to push himself to prove his worth as if his existence weren’t already enough. “Shoko…uhhhg…” Satoru groans with annoyance, “I’m a Grade 1 sorcerer! Not some sniffling Grade 4 first year struggling to tie my shoes. I’m totally fine! See?” Satoru stands up, wobbles a bit, and ends up placing a hand on the wall, and pretends to intend for that to happen by leaning against it casually.
“Mhm. Totally fine. One week, no intensive training or missions.” Shoko repeats again in her deadpan tone as she turns her back to him to complete paperwork, not needing to see his face to know that Satoru can identify that she sees through his false bravado. Shoko releases Satoru from the infirmary and smiles as he grumbles as he walks past her. She catches the end of his mumbling, “…one week my ass…”
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Suguru moved briskly through the quiet halls of Jujutsu High, his footsteps sharp and rhythmic against the worn stone floor. Each tap of his shoes echoed a little too loudly in the stillness, matching the anxious tempo of his thoughts. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to his clothes, despite the quick shower Shoko had all but dragged him into. She had finally convinced him to leave Satoru’s side, just long enough to eat and clean up, calling him—without ceremony—“a rotten stain in my sterile workspace.” It was Shoko’s way of showing concern, biting but familiar, and oddly grounding.
As he reached the infirmary doors—those old, heavy panels of wood he had opened and closed too many times to count in the past few days—he paused. His hand gripped the cool metal handle, thumb brushing the shallow groove worn smooth from decades of use. The hinges creaked as the doors swung inward, their protest sharp in the silence. That sound had carved itself into his memory, just like the subtle resistance of the door’s weight. It was almost ritualistic now.
The room beyond smelled like clean linens and alcohol swabs, clinical and quiet. But beneath that—beneath the sterility and quiet hum of machines—there was something else. Something heavier. A truth that settled like frost in his chest.
Satoru was still in that bed. Still broken. Still healing.
But he was alive.
And for now, that was enough.
He made his way toward the bed Satoru had inhabited for the past week—each step measured, but tense. The space had become something paradoxical: a quiet corner of the world where he could anchor himself to Satoru’s breathing, yet it unnerved him all the same. The smell of antiseptic, the quiet hum of machines, the faint rustle of fabric—all of it had become synonymous with waiting. With fear.
As he reached the familiar curtain, his pulse quickened. His fingers brushed the fabric—coarse, institutional, the kind that never truly blocked anything out. He pulled it aside.
And stopped breathing.
The bed was stripped bare.
No sheets.
No pillows.
No IV lines or monitors.
No Satoru.
Just the sterile outline of absence.
A cold jolt shot through Suguru’s body like he’d been plunged into ice water. His stomach dropped violently, a rush of nausea clawing up his throat. His hands went numb, trembling before he could even process it. The sharp intake of breath lodged in his chest, caught somewhere between a scream and a plea. His heart thundered, frantic, painful—his mind racing through worst-case scenarios faster than he could silence them.
'Did an emergency happen? Was he moved? Why didn’t anyone call? Why didn’t they-?'
Just before the spiral overtook him, a familiar voice cut through the rising static in his mind.
“Oh. You’re back.”
Shoko. She passed by with a clipboard in hand, casual, unsurprised—clearly unaware he’d even entered.
Suguru’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide, the panic still raw behind them. But for the first time in nearly a minute, he remembered how to breathe.
With a frown, she approaches Suguru. She notices the visual signs of panic- shallow breathing, distant gaze, pale skin, trembling hands. She firmly places her hands on Suguru’s shoulders. “Satoru is fine. He is alive. I released him from the infirmary.” She speaks slowly, giving Suguru time to absorb her words, to process, and gradually come back to her. His eyes flick to her, and she feels his body beginning to relax. “That’s good. Listen to me.” Shoko says again in the same firm but comforting voice, “Satoru is alive. He is just not in the infirmary anymore.” She sees the moment that Suguru’s receptive language reconnects with his conscious thoughts, the words ‘alive’ and ‘Satoru’ piercing through the wall of panic that was once so high.
“Okay. Okay. I’m alright, I’m fine.” Suguru says his voice was strained at first, but slowly regaining his typical speech pattern and tone. “Satoru is alive.” He whispers more to himself than to Shoko. He takes a deep breath and nods his head. “I’m sorry, thank you, Shoko,” He says, regaining his polite and calm disposition.
“You don’t have to apologize. I was going to text you. I just got swamped with paperwork and lost track of time. I sent Satoru out, maybe 25 minutes ago.” Shoko says as she glances up at the clock on the wall. “He said something about going back to his dorm. I don’t really know. He was grumbling and back to his usual pompous self.” She says with a light, frustrated huff and a shake of her head.
Suguru nods in understanding. “Okay, I’ll head that way. Thank you, again. I’ll go track him down.” He says, but as he turns to leave, Shoko stops him by grabbing onto his sleeve. “Suguru, listen, you’re with Satoru more than most. You know him, in all of his grandiosity. Watch out for him.” She says with a hint of warning in her tone. Suguru frowns, instinctively nods- because why would he not? Satoru is the most important person in his life. Satoru is the vibrant center of Suguru’s chaos, occupying every corner of his thoughts and mind without abandon. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan to let him out of my sight for the next few weeks.” Suguru chuckles as he walks away, calling over his shoulder to Shoko, “See you in class!” He leaves the medical wing and begins his walk back toward the dorms.
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Satoru stepped into his dorm room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft thud. The air inside was warm and a little stale, the familiar clutter right where he left it—half-zipped jacket on the back of his chair, a half-empty water bottle rolling under the desk, notebooks in a loose pile on the floor. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes scanning the room with mild annoyance.
“Okay… where did I put it?” he muttered under his breath.
He checked the nightstand first. Nothing. Then the desk, shoving aside a pair of earbuds and a crumpled receipt. Still no sign of his phone. He crouched next to the bed and peeked underneath—just dust and a lone slipper.
“Seriously?” He stood back up with a sigh, hands resting on his hips as he looked around again, and more impatient now. His stomach gave a low, insistent growl.
“Great. I’m starving, can’t remember where I left my phone, and now I’m arguing with furniture.” He pulled back the comforter just in case it had slipped between the sheets—nope. Just tangled blankets and more disappointment. He flopped back onto the bed with a groan.
“Next time I’m just taping it to my face,” he grumbled, already planning what vending machine snack would be the fastest once he found the damn thing.
A knock at his door has Satoru calling out, “Come in!” His eyes light up when he sees his cellphone held in Suguru’s extended hand.
“Suguru! How’d you know that’s what I was looking for?” Satoru says brightly, his mood instantly lifted with the presence of his best and closest friend. “I went to the infirmary and found it there,” Suguru says, happily omitting the part where he almost had a panic attack because he couldn’t find his friend.
“You’re just always in the right place at the right time, you know that?” Satoru says his intonation happy and light. He slides the phone into his pocket, and it’s almost visible how much he relaxes in Suguru’s presence- well, to Suguru anyway.
“Shoko said you were going back to the dorms,” Suguru begins. “I came looking for you here, but obviously you were taking a detour, as you weren’t back.” Satoru chuckles and grins mischievously, “Well, can you blame me? That sunrise was amazing, Suguru, magical, huh?” he says sarcastically.
“So you’re a fan of sunrises now? A bit geriatric, don’t you think?” Suguru banters back, calling Satoru’s bluff between thoughtfully chosen words. “Hmm, and interesting new hobby for someone, who always complains about his sensitive eyes and has migraines at least twice a month.” Suguru chuckles, “To each their own.” Satoru mocks Suguru back in a childish tone, stubbornly wanting to get the last word.
“Come on, I’m tired of sitting in here with the heat,” Suguru says, moving to open Satoru’s window to let some fresh air in. “We can pick up some breakfast on the way,” Suguru says, creating a comfortable and natural environment as they walk. They walk in pleasant silence side-by-side, shoulders occasionally bumping one another, hands casually grazing the others with every few steps. The familiar bond between them is strong; everything is almost second nature for both of them at this point. They know each other deeply, and trust is a sacred pledge they both took without words.
As they walk, Satoru chatters, as he always does, his mind seemingly on a different spectral wavelength, almost moving faster than Suguru can manage. The older teen starts and stops topics at the drop of a hat. His interests are vast and far-reaching. And Suguru listens, as he always does when Satoru is like this. Speaking his way through his anxieties, talking about anything and everything, other than the object of his fear. Even still, Suguru listens. He knows his friend; he knows this is how he copes, how he processes the last few weeks’ events. So he allows him this time of familiarity, of unconditional connection and understanding. The walk isn’t long, no more than 10 minutes, and once Satoru smells the food, he loses his train of thought completely.
"…and then we could go to Kyoto, they have all these cool snacks and- OH Suguru, do you smell that?! I think they made dorayaki. We’ve got to get in line before they’re all gone.” As Satoru pulls Suguru along, Suguru watches him, thinking, ‘He’s pretty spacey these last few days, must be stress.’ As they inch forward in the line he watches as Satoru stacks his plate with a questionable number of dorayaki. Suguru takes one of the pancake sandwiches, but primarily opts for a more traditional breakfast of rice, fish, and some soup. Once they are seated at the cafeteria table, Suguru makes a face at Satoru’s odd choice of breakfast.
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Suguru says as he watches Satoru dig into his mountain of pancakes with sweet red bean paste. “As if my body is a fine-tuned machine.” Satoru counters. Suguru makes a face of disgust but rolls his eyes and returns to his meal.
Once they are finished eating, Satoru stands still and looks up at the clock on the wall.” It’s almost 9 o’clock. Do we have training or a lecture today?” He asks. Suguru is taken aback, and his face scrunches up in confusion, a laugh comes out as he answers, “You’re really an airhead today. I’m willing to bet your diet of candy and sugar is rotting you from the inside out.” Satoru gasps dramatically, “I’m the picture of health, Suguru!” He says laughing now, too. “But, really, do we have training?” He asks as he clears the table.
Suguru gently turns to look at his friend. Satoru is standing tall, just a few inches more than he is. His sunglasses are dipping down his nose, and his vibrant blue eyes are locked on Suguru. There’s nothing behind Satoru’s gaze or demeanor other than joy and excitement. In his mind, they just had a delicious breakfast and are now going off to another activity together. The humid breeze and thick summer heat have cast a red flush across Satoru’s cheeks. He smiles somewhat impatiently, waiting for Suguru’s response. “No, just the dorms. Today is Saturday. Your head is totally in the clouds today, Satoru.” He says softly, and gives his friend a pat on the back. As he walks, he tries to convince himself that Satoru’s forgetfulness was just a simple slipup.
When Suguru turns around and continues to walk, Satoru doesn’t see the creeping worry in his friend’s eyes. He doesn’t see the anxiety beginning to wrap its dirty hands around Suguru’s throat like a curse that they can’t exorcise. He doesn’t see the chill that runs down the dark-haired teen’s spine as if they are in the middle of winter. Suguru hides these emotions, steels his expression, and forces a neutral and calm expression on his face. ‘Satoru doesn’t need this right now.’ When Satoru catches up, Suguru smiles and says, “Don't worry about a thing, Satoru. I've got us covered. Just like always." This makes Satoru laugh, and banter back, talking about anything and everything, but Suguru isn’t really listening; he’s retreated into his mind until the only thing he can think of is, ‘He’s told me this story twice…’
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Later in the week, Satoru begrudgingly returns to the infirmary at Shoko’s request for a check-up to clear him for training and missions. "Shoko, I’m fine. Stop babying me. I can walk, and talk, and do everything myself," Satoru huffed one afternoon, his irritation clear. Shoko’s eyes came up to meet his as she paused her exam of his healing wounds. "Okay, so tell me, what day is it?" Satoru grumbled under his breath, "Oh come on! That’s not important and you know it…" he replied, clenching his fists. "Hmm…What time is it? Have you eaten dinner?" She retorted quickly. Satoru paused for a millisecond. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know the answer to her questions, but he so badly wants to prove her wrong. With a glance at the window, he sees dim daylight. ‘Okay…let’s say it’s evening…,’ he says internally, ‘God, I hope I’m right, please let me be right.’ Satoru looks Shoko dead in the eye and with the utmost confidence responds, "It’s 7 in the evening, so of course I’ve had dinner." Without missing a beat, Shoko clicks her tongue. "Wrong. It’s not even 8 in the morning, and you have not had dinner since yesterday." She looks up when Satoru doesn’t respond. She sees how his eyes have averted her gaze and how his shoulders and features are tensed with frustration.
Satoru is quiet for a moment before he speaks again, softer, more unsure and hesitant, as if he isn’t sure that he wants an answer. “Will it get better? My brain, I mean. I know I’m obnoxious, flamboyant, some might call me arrogant- though I disagree with that- But, really, Shoko, I can’t- well, will my memory get better?” Satoru finally asks through his stuttered and unsure mess of mixed trains of thought.
Shoko takes a deep breath, one that sets Satoru on edge. He knows it won’t be good. When doctors are quiet, when they pause to search for words- it’s rarely a good sign. The avoidance of eye contact, pauses between words just a fraction of a second too long, hands folded in their lap, micro expressions flashing across their faces as they try to deliver bad news, it’s always bad news, gently, compassionately, as if it would make reality any easier or the diagnosis less of a burden to bear.
“I don’t know.” She finally says. “Satoru, you nearly bled out by the time Principal Yaga and I found you. Your pulse was almost nonexistent. Your brain had gone for god only knows how long without oxygen-rich blood, slowly shutting down and destroying your neural networks…Rehabilitation is always possible, but because I’m missing critical information such as time frames, I can’t give you a certain and optimistic answer- regardless of how much I want to.”
Shoko takes a breath and then continues, her voice compassionate but tactful as she states the fact of the complex situation they are dealing with. “The fact of the matter is, anyone who could have information about your encounter is either dead or was unconscious. Riko Amanai was murdered, and Suguru was knocked unconscious and found by Nanami. You were found by Yaga and I, and the man who caused the damage- dead. You at least were able to finish him- though I don’t know how, and if I’m being honest, that extreme use of cursed energy probably enhanced your brain injury…” Shoko finishes her statement and waits as Satoru remains silent, staring at the ground, shoulders slumped. She’s seen defeat before. Many Jujutsu Sorcerers have been brought to the infirmary for her to heal.
Physical wounds are simple; reverse curse technique is second nature to her now. Focus, mend, and heal. It’s a mantra, a certainty; she knows she can heal most physical wounds. But psychological, neurological injury- that is where her skills end. Neurological injuries almost always come with a form of lingering psychological impact. Satoru’s injury is no different. Despite being the strongest, at the end of the day, he is another Jujutsu Sorcerer, another human, who is just as breakable as the others.
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That evening, when Satoru is alone in his room, he stares up at the ceiling. Everything is quiet, the only sounds being the chirp of a cricket or the sound of hot summer wind blowing through the trees. He lies on his back with his arms folded behind his head. He is uncharacteristically solemn, deep in thought. He’s thinking, or rather trying to think. Trying to remember. ‘What the hell did I eat with Suguru today? It was good, but what…What did we talk about? I felt happy. I remember he made me feel safe and comfortable. But when does he not…?’ “Fuck.” Satoru says in frustration, pressing his hands into his forehead as if that would help him. “Why can’t I think?” He says in a grumbled moan as he feels a headache coming on. He turns over in bed and kicks his covers away. It’s far too warm for them tonight anyway.
Chapter 3: Fading Blueprint
Chapter Text
A few weeks had passed since the incident with Toji. Life at Jujutsu High, for all its inherent chaos, continued its relentless pace. Yet, for Satoru, the rhythm was subtly, unsettlingly off. He'd always been a force of nature, seemingly immune to the need for rest, but lately, a new weariness had settled in.
During Principal Yaga's droning history lesson on ancient cursed tools, Satoru's head suddenly dipped. He caught himself with a jolt, blinking rapidly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. Suguru, seated beside him, pretended to be engrossed in his notes, but a quiet glance confirmed Satoru was struggling. This wasn't the usual playful disinterest; it was a genuine, heavy-lidded fatigue. Satoru cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses, a quick, almost imperceptible scan of the room to see if anyone noticed.
Later that day, Suguru found Satoru sprawled on a bench in the courtyard, fast asleep, his arm flung over his eyes to block the afternoon sun. He looked younger, more vulnerable without his usual bravado. Suguru hesitated, then gently nudged his friend's shoulder.
Satoru startled awake, eyes wide, before his expression smoothed into a familiar, exaggerated yawn. “Oh, hey, Suguru. Just... contemplating the existential dread of Mondays, you know? It's exhausting being this profound.” He stretched, but the movement felt forced; his usual boundless energy replaced by something more sluggish.
“Right,” Suguru said, a dry note in his voice. “Just remember to go indoors sometimes, before you get a heat stroke.” He kept his tone light, but the sight of Satoru so completely out of it, even for a moment, added another quiet weight to his growing list of concerns. Satoru, who never napped, who ran on pure adrenaline and sugar, was now collapsing wherever he stood. It was a stark reminder that even the strongest had limits, even if Satoru refused to acknowledge them.
Things had seemed to level out, or so Satoru claimed, but Suguru still noticed Satoru’s moments of confusion or forgetfulness, quickly covered in humor. It was the increasing fatigue that bothered him the most, a stark addition to the list of oddities Suguru had been keeping in his mind. Satoru would joke when someone pointed out how tired he was, “Give me a break, you try being the backbone of this entire school!” His tone was light and his affect joyous, but Suguru saw through him. Satoru was a master of masking after all.
Today, the students are paired up on the training field for sparring. It’s hot, uncomfortably so. Sweat is already dripping down Satoru’s back just from being outside. There’s no breeze today, only muggy weather, and a tell-tale scent of rain to come in the evening. Satoru’s attention is pulled back to Yaga as he stands in front of the students, lecturing about the techniques and fighting style they will learn today. It’s boring, hardly something Satoru wants to be listening to, so his mind wanders. ‘I’ve learned this stuff when I was like 10 anyway…,’ he thinks to himself.
Satoru is pulled back into the present by Suguru nudging his shoulder. “Pay attention, Satoru. This is important,” Suguru says with a slight frown. Satoru rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses and tries to pay attention, or at least look like he is. After about fifteen more minutes of lecturing, the students are split into pairs, and it’s no surprise that Suguru is his partner. Satoru smirks, “Ready to get your ass kicked?”
Suguru scoffs, “You know, Satoru, you’re awfully cocky. That might not benefit you one day.” Satoru groans in annoyance, “Suguruuuu, you’re starting to sound a lot like Nanami, with a stick shoved deep in your-,” Satoru is cut off by the sound of a whistle signaling the students to begin sparring.
The oppressive humidity hung thick in the air, a fitting blanket for the simmering tension between Satoru and Suguru. Sweat beaded on their brows, though neither had yet truly moved. Satoru, ever the picture of bored nonchalance, leaned back on his heels, sunglasses glinting in the harsh midday sun. Suguru, by contrast, had a focused intensity in his eyes, hands poised.
"Ready to get serious, Satoru?" Suguru asked, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
"As I'll ever be with you, Suguru," Satoru drawled, his voice carrying an unearned languor. "Just try not to make it too boring, alright?"
With a sharp intake of breath, Suguru clapped his hands together, and the ground trembled. Three swirling masses of cursed energy erupted, coalescing into grotesque forms. A hulking, four-armed cursed spirit with jagged teeth lunged directly at Satoru, its roar tearing through the humid air. Flanking it were two smaller, but no less menacing, flying curses, their multiple eyes fixed on their target.
Satoru, without a flicker of panic, simply shifted his weight. The four-armed curse, moving with surprising speed, found its monstrous fist halted an inch from his face, caught in the invisible wall of Infinity. The air around Satoru shimmered as the smaller curses dove in, only to be similarly rebuffed, their attempts to bypass his defenses futile.
"Trying to overwhelm me with numbers, Suguru? A bit cliché, even for you," Satoru taunted, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards.
Suguru ignored the jab. His strategy wasn't to breach Infinity directly, but to create openings. While the three curses thrashed against Satoru’s defense, he moved, a blur of motion. He launched himself forward, closing the distance in a series of powerful leaps, his own cursed energy coalescing into a cursed tool – a long, wickedly sharp spear – in his hand.
The moment Suguru was within striking distance, Satoru seemed to snap out of his casual stance. He allowed the four-armed curse to push against his Infinity just enough to create a slight ripple, then, with a barely perceptible shift, he sidestepped. The curse, thrown off balance, stumbled past him. In that same instant, Satoru unleashed a precise burst of Cursed Technique: Blue. The air around one of the flying curses compressed violently, and with a sickening pop, it was crushed out of existence.
Suguru’s spear, meanwhile, plunged towards the space Satoru had just occupied. Seeing his initial strike thwarted, Suguru twisted, bringing the spear around in a wide arc aimed at Satoru’s midsection. Satoru met the blow with his palm, the spear's tip stopping dead against his Infinity with a low thrum.
"Nice try," Satoru says with a grin, "but you'll need more than pointy sticks to get through me."
He pressed forward, forcing Suguru to disengage and create distance. The remaining flying curse shrieked and dove at Satoru, hoping to catch him off guard while he was focused on Suguru. But Satoru merely flicked his wrist, and another precise application of Blue disintegrated the last of Suguru’s aerial distractions.
Now it was just the two of them, and the single remaining four-armed curse, which, despite its earlier momentum, was still struggling against the unyielding barrier of Infinity. Suguru, realizing the futility of his current approach, recalled the curse, letting it dissolve back into his collection. The training ground fell silent, save for their heavy breathing.
"Alright, Satoru," Suguru said, a more serious edge to his voice, "Let’s see what you've got when I'm not holding back."
He extended his hand, and from the ground, tendrils of shadowy, cursed energy erupted, converging into a new, more potent curse – a serpentine creature, its scales shimmering with dark energy, its fangs dripping with a corrosive aura. This was no mere distraction; this was a weapon. Satoru finally dropped his bored facade. A predatory glint entered his eyes. "Finally, something interesting." He took a step forward, his own cursed energy flaring, the air around him crackling with power. The serene expression on his face belied the immense force he was about to unleash. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of ozone and the students' exertion. Minutes bled into each other, a whirlwind of precise strikes and calculated defenses. Satoru and Suguru moved with practiced fluidity, their movements a testament to their inherent talent and rigorous training. Suguru’s serpentine curse, a swift and relentless attacker, wove around Satoru, its movements coordinated with Suguru’s own strikes. Satoru, meanwhile, continued to utilize Infinity, forcing Suguru to constantly adapt and seek out the almost imperceptible flaws in his defense. He countered Suguru’s physical attacks with precise, non-lethal applications of Blue, forcing his friend to constantly shift and parry.
Despite their innate power, the relentless heat and the high-level engagement began to take their toll. Sweat plastered their hair to their foreheads, and their breathing became more ragged. Suguru’s brow was furrowed in concentration, while Satoru’s usual relaxed expression had tightened with effort.
In a moment of shared fatigue, as both pushed their limits, Satoru's guard flickered. It was barely a breath, a fraction of a second, where his Infinity wavered, almost imperceptibly. But Suguru, ever observant, saw it. With a guttural cry, he thrust his arm forward, directing his serpentine curse. The creature, sensing the opening, lunged with surprising speed. It wasn't a direct attack to injure, but a precise, calculated strike with its tail, aiming not at Satoru himself, but at his face.
There was a sharp crack, and Satoru’s signature sunglasses went flying, tumbling end over end before landing with a soft thud in the dusty training ground.
Suddenly, the world was a blinding white. The midday sun, previously filtered and muted, now assaulted Satoru’s eyes with an agonizing intensity. A sharp ache bloomed behind his retinas, exploding pain through his head, and forcing him to instinctively squint and turn his head away. His six eyes, usually a precise tool, were overwhelmed, scrambling his perception.
His strategy, usually so fluid and adaptable, was thrown into disarray by the piercing light. As he stumbled, rubbing at his aching eyes, Suguru’s serpentine curse coiled around his legs, attempting to sweep him off his feet. Satoru knew he needed to activate his cursed technique – to deploy Blue, or perhaps even the devastating Red – to regain control. The knowledge was there, buzzing at the edge of his consciousness, but the searing pain behind his eyes and the sudden disorientation had him raise his hand in defeat to Suguru. “I yield, asshole!” Satoru shouts as he pants and leans over with his hands resting on his thighs.
"Satoru?" Suguru’s voice was low, tinged with a confusion that quickly morphed into understanding. He lowered his own guard, the serpentine curse dissolving back into his shadows. He saw not a strategic move, but genuine distress. Satoru wasn't playing. He was truly, utterly vulnerable. The tragic irony was blatant. Satoru, the pinnacle of God-like power, reduced to something small, something fragile in the face of danger. And all from some sunlight?
He feels a bit remorseful for having caused him pain, but it was a learning moment for both of them. “Here you go,” He says, handing Satoru the sunglasses. As he gets closer, he sees that Satoru appears a bit pale and he’s rubbing at his temples. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Suguru asks with a frown.
“No way, just the sun. It turned my headache into what’s probably going to be a migraine from hell.” Satoru says, waving off the worried tone Suguru had brought into the space. “That was a dirty trick by the way,” Satoru says with a snicker, which eases Suguru’s worries, but doesn’t stop him from analyzing the situation further. Ok, still joking, he’s alright- but that headache…he said he had one before we started?
Training lasts about two more hours. By the end, both boys are tired, muscles aching, and drenched in sweat. “I feel so gross,” Satoru whines as he leans down to grab his duffle bag. A wave of dizziness hits him, and he sees black spots in his vision. He plays it off, shaking his head and taking a deep breath, before going to walk back to the locker room. He’s stopped by a voice, “What was that?” Satoru turns around to see both Suguru and Shoko looking at him. “What was what?” he retorts.
“You literally spaced out and looked like you were going to fall over,” Shoko says, wasting no time to walk around the issue. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and Satoru knows she’s not in the mood for games. “I was just dizzy for a second. I’m hot, probably dehydrated.”
“Suguru said your head is hurting.” She says again, stating facts and trying to solve the elusive problem that is Satoru’s headache.
“Ugggh, come on, I was being dramatic. Yeah, I have a headache, but only because it’s so damn sunny, and not to mention hot. I feel like we’re being steamed in this humidity.” Satoru says, beginning to walk towards the locker rooms again, “I’m tired anyway, let’s just go.”
"Satoru, come on. Let's go cool off," Suguru says, sensing a tension rising in his friend. He takes a small step closer, "We're both exhausted, you look dehydrated, and I'm beginning to burn." He gestured vaguely at the oppressive sky, desperately trying to anchor Satoru back to the mundane, to the physical discomforts that could be easily remedied, pulling him away from the realization that he is also human. Satoru never did like attention when he was sick or hurt. People have always expected him to be strong, and that’s exactly what he is.
Shoko squints her eyes and jogs up to Satoru. “Fine,” she says relenting, “but let me know if it gets worse, the headache, ok?”
"Sure. But it'll be fine. Really. Just tell Suguru that his tactics are dirty!" Satoru called out, his voice shedding its earlier vulnerability like a discarded skin. The sharp, playful challenge in his tone was a masterstroke of misdirection, a brilliant flash of his usual, irrepressible self. It cut through the heavy atmosphere like a clean blade, immediately dispelling the last lingering tendrils of concern. Shoko's lips curved into a wry smile, and a deep, rumbling laugh escaped Suguru, the sound of it echoing their collective release. The mood, once taut and anxious, swiftly lightened, settling into the familiar, comfortable rhythm of their easy camaraderie.
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Later in the evening, after Suguru has returned to his dorm for the night, he’s working on completing his homework assignment- a study of curses and domains. He’s almost about to put the assignment away for the night when his phone pings. He reaches across his desk to grab his phone. He sees a text message from Shoko.
Shoko: Hey, have you noticed that Satoru is more tired lately, or is that just me?
Suguru reads the message and instantly feels unease creeping into his mind, thoughts that he had rationalized or pushed away come crawling back. He takes a deep breath before responding.
Suguru: Yes, I’ve noticed that. Why do you ask?
Suguru is aware of what Shoko is talking about; he knows that she has been watching Satoru ever since he was injured in the battle. She was able to confidently tell them both that Satoru’s body healed well, but the one thing she never had a clear or definitive answer for was his mind. She had spoken to Suguru in private once, before Satoru was out of the infirmary. He can hear her concerns from then just as if she were in the room with him. But even still, he wasn’t quite ready to consider such avenues, not yet, not ever really.
He feels his heart beat accelerate as he waits for a response from Shoko. For a moment, he thinks that she won’t respond, and she was just asking for validation in her observation, but no. Satoru was involved, so this discussion was surely not over, not simple, and certainly not pleasant.
Shoko: I feel like he’s tired because his brain is still trying to heal. He’s an idiot, thinking he can hide that from us.
Suguru holds his phone, trying to think of a response. He feels so deeply conflicted, almost as if he admits something is wrong, that he is damning Satoru. So he begins to type:
Suguru: I just… I don’t want to believe it.
His thumb hovers over the send button, but he changes his mind the second before. “Lying to yourself is not going to do anything but make for temporary comfort,” Suguru mutters in a frustrated tone. He sighs deeply and rests his head on his desk to think for a moment, before erasing the message and starting anew:
Suguru: I know.
He hits send, and then almost immediately sends a second text, his need to have an answer, some form of a plan. Something that he can do, now, right now, to help his friend. Worry is gnawing at his heart again. He feels that familiar pain in his stomach that he’s begun to associate with Satoru. His anxiety manifests in a physical sense.
Suguru: So what are we going to do?
He hates the way it sounds coming out of his mouth—like he’s a child asking for something no one can give. He hates the helplessness coiling in his chest, foreign and suffocating. He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this powerless before. It feels like he’s shouting into a void, begging for something—anything to shift. To show that his friend is still in there. Because Satoru has always been like the sun—brilliant, untouchable, constant. And what is the sun, really, if it forgets how to shine?
Chapter 4: Cracks in the World
Chapter Text
Since he was a little boy, Satoru had never been one for naps—or long stretches of sleep in general. He had always possessed a kind of boundless energy, tireless and buzzing just under the surface. Many used to joke it was the sweets he lived on, and Satoru, never one to waste a chance to play into the image, would proudly agree.
But lately, he couldn’t deny something was wrong. Not just off—but absent. His energy was gone. Hollowed out.
He had barely made it through training earlier that day. He would never admit it aloud, but when Suguru finally gained the upper hand and forced him to yield, Satoru had never felt so relieved. If it had gone on even a minute longer, he might’ve had to ask for a break—and that thought alone unsettled him more than any sparring injury could.
Now, sprawled across his bed, he rolled from his back to his stomach, arms wrapping under his pillow. His head was still throbbing. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he told Suguru that knocking his sunglasses off mid-fight was a dirty move. That brief flash of light—sharp and unfiltered—had set something off. The migraine had started then, and by now, it was a relentless, pulsing ache pressing behind his eyes.
It was almost ten in the evening. A Friday night. Normally, he’d be in Suguru’s room playing video games or arguing over music, assuming they weren’t on a mission. But tonight? He couldn’t even imagine standing upright. The idea alone made him feel heavier.
I must be growing or something… he thought groggily. Principal Yaga had said that once, hadn’t he? Something about teenagers needing more rest because of growth spurts. Maybe this was that. Maybe this was normal.
He tried to roll onto his side, hoping to ease the pounding in his head, but the moment he shifted, the migraine flared violently. The dark behind his eyes exploded into a kaleidoscope of colors and fractured light, stabbing across his vision. The dull throb turned into a deep, unforgiving pressure along his temples and behind his eyes.
“Why the hell does it feel like I got hit…?” he mumbled, pressing his fingers to his forehead.
And then he felt it. The faint, rigid dip in his skull. The scar. The place where Toji’s blade had pierced through him, clean, brutal, unforgettable.
His stomach lurched.
His hand dropped away as nausea surged. The room suddenly felt too hot, the air too thick. Summer clung to the walls with no breeze to ease it. Every breath felt like inhaling through wet cotton.
He swallowed hard, willing himself to stay still—but his body had other plans. With barely a second to spare, he rolled off the bed and stumbled to the trash bin beside his nightstand, retching up what little dinner he had managed to eat hours earlier.
When it was over, he stayed there, on the floor, palms against his forehead, trying to remember how to breathe properly. He felt dazed. Exhausted. Confused.
This isn’t normal… he thought, panic beginning to creep in. I don’t think this is… I shouldn’t be this sick over… Over what? His mind struggled to grab hold of the thread. The thought drifted away before he could finish it.
Frustration rose fast, hot and biting, like a fire climbing up his spine. He wasn’t used to this. Not this bone-deep weariness. Not this kind of vulnerability. The weight of it made even the idea of speaking feel like too much effort.
Still, he tried to stand. His legs wobbled beneath him, shaky and weak. Pride told him to get up anyway, but something older—something instinctual—kept him grounded. So he sat back down.
And that’s when he felt it.
A small, unfamiliar knot of fear. Not panic. Not danger. But something deeper. A kind of confusion that lived in the marrow of his bones. A dissonance he couldn’t quite name.
He sucked in a slow breath, dragged himself upright, and climbed back into bed. He needed something. Someone. Phone. Where is it? He thought hazily. I need to talk to someone. I think… I need help.
The admission hit hard, like stepping through a door he didn’t know he’d kept locked. But the moment he said it—even silently—it came with clarity. Only one person came to mind. One person he trusted enough to see him like this.
Suguru.
He patted around his bed in the dark, searching through the thin sheets, frustration bubbling again when the phone wasn’t where it should be. He pulled the sheet back, and something fell with a distinct thud onto the floor.
A small, smug grin ghosted across his face. Got you.
Dragging himself to the edge of the bed, he scanned the floor. His vision was blurred slightly from the migraine, but he eventually spotted it, half tucked beneath the bed frame. It took longer than he liked, his hands slow and clumsy, but he finally grabbed it.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the device, relief bloomed in his chest like a slow, warm wave. Small victories.
He plugged the phone in to charge, and the screen lit up—bright and harsh against the darkness.
“Shit!” he hissed, slamming his eyes shut as another bolt of pain lanced through his skull. The light seared across his vision, reigniting the migraine like a match to dry tinder.
“God, just forget it,” he muttered, tossing the phone beside his pillow and curling back into himself.
He lay there for a moment, still, the buzzing in his ears finally quieting. But the unease never left. It clung to him, persistent and vague.
He couldn’t quite remember why.
“Tomorrow’s problem,” he mumbled into the dark.
And then, slowly, slipped into a restless, fevered sleep.
--------------------------
“–o? Gojo!”
Satoru jolted upright in his chair, blinking rapidly as he shook his head, trying to shake off the thick fog of exhaustion clinging to his brain like wet wool. He looked up sheepishly, only to be met with Principal Yaga’s sharp glare—the kind that said this is the third time today, and I am very close to assigning physical punishment.
“Gojo,” Yaga said sternly, arms crossed over his broad chest, “maybe if you actually slept at night, you wouldn’t be dozing off in the middle of a forty-five-minute lesson.”
Satoru winced, caught red-handed. Again. A flush of embarrassment crept up his neck, but true to form, he deflected with his usual brand of humor.
“Maybe,” he said, straightening up and flashing a cheeky grin, “you could spice up the lecture a little? Add a bit more flair? It might help poor, innocent students like myself stay engaged.” He gestured to either side of him, to Shoko and Suguru. “I mean—ask them. They totally agree with me.”
Shoko hid her smirk behind her hand. Suguru coughed into his elbow, clearly trying not to laugh. Yaga, unsurprisingly, was not amused.
“You’ve just earned yourself extra laps during training this afternoon,” he said flatly. “Maybe that’ll help you fall asleep in your bed tonight instead of in my classroom.”
Satoru groaned dramatically, arms crossing over his chest as he slumped back into his chair. “Cruel and unusual,” he muttered.
The truth was, he was trying. He really was. But no matter how early he went to bed, he woke up feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts slow. And that dull, persistent headache still clung to the edges of his skull. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been last night—but it was there, pulsing faintly beneath the surface.
He closed his eyes briefly and let out a slow breath.
Just another thing to ignore. Another thing to push through.
Just a little tired. That’s all.
Right?
While Yaga lectured from the front of the classroom, Suguru’s attention drifted—not to the lesson, but to Satoru.
He watched him quietly, brows knitting with subtle concern. To anyone else, Satoru might’ve looked like his usual self, just bored and fidgety. But Suguru knew better.
The dark circles beneath Satoru’s eyes were more than just shadows from a bad night’s sleep—they looked painted on, heavy and permanent. His hair, normally impossibly bright and soft, hung in dull, uneven tufts like it hadn’t been touched by a brush in days. And his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, the jittery motion relentless—like he needed it to keep himself tethered.
When Yaga turned to write something on the board, Suguru leaned over and tapped Satoru’s shoulder. “Hey,” he whispered. “You okay?”
Satoru rolled his eyes in exaggerated protest. “Yeah, why?”
Suguru narrowed his gaze, unimpressed. “You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured, then leaned back into his seat, letting the conversation drop for now.
A moment later, Shoko nudged Suguru’s foot under the desk. He looked over to see her raising her eyebrows, glancing briefly at Satoru with a look that said, You see it too, right?
He gave the smallest nod. Yeah. He saw it.
The rest of the class passed without incident—Satoru managed to stay awake, but only just. When the bell rang, the three of them gathered their things and walked toward the training field, silence hanging loosely between them like a question waiting to be asked.
“Hey, Satoru?” Shoko said, breaking the quiet.
“Yeah? What’s up, Shoko?” he replied with his usual playful lilt. The brightness in his voice felt a little too forced to Suguru’s ears.
“I’ve seen you doze off before, sure,” she began, keeping her tone casual but focused, “but not like that. You’re not just distracted—you’re exhausted. Are you feeling okay?”
Suguru stayed quiet, falling in step beside them. He knew better than to pile on. If they both came at him, Satoru would shut down, fold in on himself like he always did when he felt cornered. So instead, he stayed close. Present. A silent show of support.
Satoru gave a quick shrug, his voice clipped. “I’m just tired. What else is there to say?”
Shoko didn’t let it go. “Try again,” she said, tilting her head. “The Satoru Gojo I know practically refuses to sleep. I remember you once said, ‘If I sleep too much, who’s gonna keep life interesting?’”
Satoru didn’t respond right away. His expression faltered for a split second—so quick you might miss it if you didn’t know him.
Shoko took the pause as an opening. “Something’s off. Let us help. You’ve been different since—”
She stopped. The moment the words started to form, she saw it—Satoru’s entire body tensed like a string pulled taut.
“Since what?” he asked, voice sharp, defenses snapping into place.
Shoko hesitated.
“Since the fight with Toji,” Suguru said quietly, stepping in, his voice calm and low, hoping to soften the blow.
“Okay… and?” Satoru snapped, turning quickly toward him. His tone was harsher now, defensive and rising with frustration. “So what? I’m different? You think something’s wrong with me?”
Suguru opened his mouth to respond, gently, carefully. “We’re worried about you. Something could be wro—”
“NOTHING is wrong with me!” Satoru’s voice cracked like a whip, raw and venomous. “So what if I’m tired?! Maybe you would be too if you were the only one carrying the weight of this entire team!”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Suguru froze, blinking once. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came out.
The sting wasn’t just in the words themselves—it was in the place they hit. The part of him that had stayed close, always close, without question. Suguru had expected the deflection, the stubbornness. He hadn’t expected the cruelty.
Even Shoko seemed momentarily stunned, her eyes wide and searching.
Satoru stood there, breathing hard, the echo of his outburst still hanging in the summer air. And for just a moment, Suguru saw something flicker behind his eyes.
Fear.
Not of them. But of something inside himself.
And maybe that was the most terrifying thing of all.
The group falls into a heavy silence, the tension thick and unmoving. No one dares to speak at first, the sting of Satoru’s words still echoing between them. Suguru exhales slowly, shaking his head. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt—because it did. The words were sharp and clearly meant for him.
He and Satoru were always a team, stronger side by side, built on trust and unspoken understanding. To hear that trust so easily shattered, even in anger, left a hollow ache in Suguru’s chest.
“You shouldn’t say things like that, Satoru,” he says quietly, but there’s a firm edge to his voice.
Satoru snaps into defense with practiced ease, his posture suddenly rigid, like armor being drawn around him. “I can say whatever the hell I want,” he bites back. “All you and Shoko ever do is coddle me. You think I’ve changed? Of course I have. But neither of you would get it—you’ve never had this much weight on your shoulders. I’m exhausted because I’m carrying both of you.”
“Satoru. That’s enough.” Shoko’s voice cuts in sharply, grounding the moment. She understands what’s happening—knows Satoru isn’t entirely in control of the storm he’s caught in. But that doesn’t make the words hurt any less. Some things, once said, leave marks that don’t fade easily.
Satoru freezes, glaring at both of them. Their silence feels louder than anything. The frustration, the hurt—it’s all there, plain on their faces.
With a bitter scoff and a roll of his eyes, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving the weight of his words behind.
--------------------------
By the end of training, the students are dragging, tired, sore, their clothes clinging to them, soaked through with sweat that never had a chance to dry under the unrelenting afternoon sun. As Yaga finally dismisses them, Satoru turns to leave, already imagining the sweet relief of cold water and shade—
“Ah,” Yaga calls out. “Don’t forget, you owe me four laps for falling asleep in class.”
Satoru freezes, jaw tightening. He had forgotten. And after all the drills Yaga put them through, the last thing he wants is more punishment.
“Seriously?” he groans, turning back around. “Don’t you think four’s a little excessive? This feels borderline abusive.”
“Hardly,” Yaga replies dryly. “Get started.”
Grumbling, Satoru trudges back to the track, every step feeling heavier than it should. He honestly can’t tell if he’s being dramatic or if he’s just that exhausted.
Whatever. Four laps. Just get it over with.
The sun reflects off the track, amplifying the heat, making the run miserable. With each stride, his body works overtime—heart racing, lungs straining. Every footfall seems to echo inside his skull, reigniting a dull pounding headache that’s been brewing all day. He’s not sure if the pain is real or just his body giving physical form to his irritation.
By the final lap, he’s fantasizing about stopping altogether. His body pleads with him, screaming for a break. Each breath is dry, his throat raw, tongue rough like sandpaper. His legs feel like they’re stiff and jelly at the same time.
When he finally crosses the line, he doubles over, bracing himself on his thighs. Black spots dance at the edges of his vision. That’s… weird, he thinks.
Then there’s a hand on his shoulder. He looks up to find Yaga crouched beside him, lips moving—but Satoru hears nothing. Strangely, it doesn’t worry him. In fact, he feels weirdly calm.
After a few more breaths, the world starts returning. Sound rushes back in, the heat prickles at his skin again, and the sharp scent of grass and sweat floods his nose. He shrugs Yaga’s hand off and looks up.
“Go sit down and drink water,” Yaga says, tense but even.
Satoru rolls his eyes. “God, enough with the orders…” he grumbles, but he obeys anyway. It’s what he was going to do regardless.
His entire body buzzes like static—skin tingling, nerves frayed. But his head… that headache’s still there. Dull, heavy, and pounding in sync with his heartbeat.
As he settles down and gulps down water, he lets out a long breath.
This damn headache is getting old.
After some time sitting in silence, Satoru starts to feel a little more like himself, though perhaps a drained, hollowed-out version. Yaga had remained nearby, refusing to leave his side. It didn’t matter how many times Satoru waved him off with a half-smile or muttered, “I’m fine, just tired from training”—Yaga stayed.
Concern was etched deep in the older man’s expression, a quiet weight that settled into the lines of his forehead. He knew teenage stubbornness well, but Satoru Gojo was in a league of his own. Yaga understood the pressure that clung to the boy’s shoulders like lead, the heavy-handed expectations from a clan that treated power like currency. He saw it in how Satoru carried himself—with practiced nonchalance, a performance perfected to hide how guarded he really was underneath.
So, Yaga didn’t believe his reassurances. Not for a second.
Only when some color returned to Satoru’s face and his breathing had steadied did Yaga rise from the bench.
“Take it easy, Gojo. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
With that, he walked back toward the main building and disappeared behind the doors.
Satoru waited a few more minutes, then finally pushed himself to stand. He was ready for that cold shower he’d been dreaming of since his limbs had stopped shaking. As he got to his feet, a sudden throb hit behind his eyes. The world tilted slightly. He winced. Dehydration. Heat. I hate summer, he reasoned quickly.
The boys' locker room was humid and dim, the scent of sweat and metal lingering. He kicked off his shoes and made his way to his cubby to grab his clean clothes and shower gear.
Just as he turned, Suguru stepped into the locker area. Satoru raised a hand in a casual greeting.
“Yaga’s lost it, huh? Pretty sure he just tried to kill me out there. Think we can report him?” he joked with a grin.
But Suguru didn’t return it. He gave Satoru a look—confused, careful, distant.
“You earned the punishment, Satoru.”
Satoru blinked. “Ah, don’t side with him now! Come on, Suguru, you’re supposed to be my number one. What happened to that?” His voice was light, teasing. He thought they could laugh about this, that things could snap back into place.
But Suguru didn’t smile. His voice was steady, heavy with restrained hurt.
“Oh, I didn’t realize. I thought I wasn’t your equal. You made that clear when you said I wasn’t pulling my weight.”
The words landed like a slap. Satoru stared, caught mid-step, chest tightening.
It all came rushing back.
His voice.
His anger.
The venom he’d spit in a moment of thoughtless frustration.
And now Suguru was standing in front of him, looking not angry, but tired. Tired in a way that made something crack behind Satoru’s ribs.
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—it was suffocating.
Every creak of a pipe, every footstep outside the locker room, was deafening.
Why did I say that?
Why would I ever say that to him?
Suguru’s my best friend. I need him. I… I don’t understand what’s wrong with me.
Satoru opened his mouth, but no sound came. Nothing felt like enough.
Nothing felt right.
Suguru shook his head, gently, and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder.
“Satoru… I know you’re powerful. But at the end of the day, you’re still human.”
There was no bitterness in his voice. No accusation. Just quiet concern.
Then he turned and walked out, leaving Satoru alone in the fluorescent-lit silence.
Alone is good, Satoru told himself. Alone is safe.
When he was alone, there was no need to wear a mask, no risk of hurting someone.
This is fine. It’s okay.
But even as he repeated it, something inside him recoiled.
No. I don’t want to be alone. I want people. My people.
I want Suguru.
Why did I say those things to him?
Maybe… I deserve to be alone.
Chapter Text
Suguru walked faster than usual, his steps sharp with the sting of frustration and the ache of words that still echoed in his mind. He knew Satoru hadn’t meant it—not truly—but that didn’t erase the fact that he’d said it. That somewhere, even unconsciously, Satoru believed himself to be above the rest of them. And maybe… maybe he was. Suguru had seen him fight. He’d watched him brush against death and claw his way back through sheer force of will, unlocking techniques that most could only dream of. It was miraculous. Terrifying. Beautiful.
Satoru was exceptional in every way—a prodigy whose strength seemed to bend the very fabric of possibility. No one, not even Suguru, could deny it.
Still, admiration didn’t dull the pain of being spoken to like a burden.
The setting sun cast long, weary shadows across the path, its usual evening quiet now sharp and intrusive, amplifying the crunch of gravel under his shoes. His fingers flexed slightly, curling as though trying to snatch at something solid in a void, to catch what was falling through his grasp. His thoughts came too fast to slow them down, urgency buzzing just beneath his skin.
Suguru: This is getting out of hand. He needs help. He’s going to end up hurting himself.
Her reply came quickly—unsurprisingly. Shoko didn’t waste time when it came to either of them. Her words always carried the quiet weight of someone who understood more than she let on.
Shoko: I think he knows something’s wrong. He’s just too prideful to admit it. You know how he is about looking weak... He can be such an idiot.
Suguru read the message just as he stepped into his dorm room. The door clicked shut behind him, and he dropped his duffle bag with a careless thud. He didn’t even make it to the edge of the bed before he felt the breath leave him in a sigh, heavy and tired. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it in.
“God, Satoru...” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face, “Even when you’re not here, you take up so much space.”
The silence that followed was familiar. Comforting, in a way. He let it stretch a beat longer before picking up his phone again.
Suguru: I think I’m going to try to talk to him again tonight.
Shoko: You think he’ll be up for that?
Suguru: He will be. I’ll make sure of it.
He tossed the phone beside him and leaned back onto the bed, folding one arm behind his head. The ceiling above was blank, pale, but his eyes saw past it, into some hazy, uncertain future that felt like it was slipping further from reach.
His fingers flexed slightly, as though they could catch what was falling. Satoru needs help, he thought again, this time quieter, steadier. And if he’s not okay… how could I ever be?
--------------------------
Satoru lay sprawled across his bed, a damp cloth draped over his forehead to dull the throbbing headache pulsing behind his eyes. His arms crossed over his face, blocking out the light, but the pain refused to fade. His muscles still ached from training—his legs throbbed with a dull pulse, as if they had grown their own heartbeat.
A soft knock on the door pulled his attention outward.
"Yeah?" he called, not moving an inch.
Then came a voice—his voice. Suguru.
Satoru’s heartbeat stuttered. The sound of Suguru’s voice, even muffled through a door, sent a strange sense of calm rippling through him. The same friend he'd lashed out at—pushed away with a venom born of pride and emotional cowardice. And yet here he was.
“Can I come in?” Suguru’s voice was cautious, hovering on the edge of hope.
“Yeah, it’s open,” Satoru replied, not lifting the cloth or even his head. Suguru knew about the migraines. No need for pride now.
The door creaked open, then clicked shut. Suguru stepped in quietly. His eyes landed on Satoru's curled frame, and his brow furrowed.
"You look like hell," he muttered before taking a breath. “We need to talk.”
Satoru peeled the towel from his forehead, peeking at Suguru from under his arm. “About what?” he asked, already bracing.
Suguru stepped closer, his voice softer. “You know you matter to me, right?”
Satoru squinted. “Uh... yeah?” He smirked, attempting levity. “Don’t tell me this is a love confession, Suguru. I don’t kiss on the first date.”
Suguru flushed immediately, arms crossing in an instinctive attempt at control. “Satoru, I’m serious. Please don’t joke right now.”
Satoru chuckled again but sat up with a wince, the motion sending a fresh wave of pain crashing through his skull. His wince sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through his skull, blinding him to the way Suguru instinctively took a step forward, concern flickering across his face. “You know why I’m worried, right?” Suguru asked gently. His voice carried warmth, the kind that wrapped around Satoru like a memory.
But Satoru didn’t answer. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the mattress, fingers curled tight like he was holding himself together. He felt cornered.
Suguru edged closer. “Please, just listen. That’s all I’m asking.”
Satoru's voice snapped out, defensive. “Listen to what? Why are you so convinced something’s wrong with me?”
“Because I care about you. And I’m scared,” Suguru said, his voice rising despite himself. “You’ve been getting headaches all the time. You’re always exhausted after training, even just in class. You’ve been forgetting things. Little things. Consistently.”
Satoru’s voice cut like a blade. “Is it so hard to believe I’m just tired? You sound like you read one WebMD article and now you’re diagnosing me with a terminal illness.”
Suguru’s frown deepened. But he didn’t stop. “I don’t think you’re dying,” he said quietly. “You almost did. Do you get that? For five days, I waited. I begged the universe to bring you back. And now that you are back, do you really expect me to sit still while you fall apart in slow motion?”
That hit too close. Satoru looked away. If he met Suguru’s eyes, he’d break. He couldn’t give that fear a name—couldn’t give it power.
“I’ve told you, I’m fine,” he growled.
“And I’ll believe that—when you prove it,” Suguru stated, with no hesitation.
The words struck like a slap. Satoru’s walls began to rise, fast and high. Retreat. Defend. Do not let him in.
He stood abruptly, letting out a sharp exhale as if to dispel the tension. He crossed the room with purposeful strides, closing the space between them until he stood eye to eye with Suguru.
“I. Am. Fine,” he said, low and commanding.
Then he turned and walked out, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Suguru didn’t move. He stood there in the silence that followed, heart racing. The fear that had crept in now coiled tight in his chest. His mind raced with a thousand what-ifs, each more terrifying than the last. And beneath them all, a single truth settled like a stone in his gut:
Something was very wrong.
And Satoru was too scared to admit it.
--------------------------
The silence Satoru left in his wake wasn’t just absence—it was presence. It pressed in on Suguru from all sides, heavy and suffocating. He stood there for a long moment, the scent of the room clinging to the air: a mix of stale antiseptic, old energy, and something faintly sweet—maybe sugar water or dried flowers. His own words—“I know you're powerful, but you're still human”—rang hollow now, echoing back at him like a mockery. They had done nothing to cut through the fear in Satoru’s eyes. The familiar knot in Suguru’s gut tightened, cold and heavy.
But beneath the ache, something else stirred—a harder edge, a sharpening of resolve. Satoru wouldn’t help himself. That much was brutally clear. Suguru scrubbed a hand over his face, inhaling sharply, then turned to the bed and sat on its edge.
He buried his face in his hands. He needed to think. To understand how this all went so wrong. And then it came—an emotion that had been festering quietly, lingering at the edge of his consciousness. Hatred.
It caught him off guard, sudden and raw. But the more he sat with it, the more he recognized it. He’d felt it brewing since the start of summer. Not toward Satoru—never him. But toward everything else. The system they lived under. The world that demanded so much from them, while giving so little in return.
He had seen himself in Satoru when they first met—another prodigy, bright and burning, someone the jujutsu world would twist into something unrecognizable. That’s what they did, wasn’t it? They found the brightest flames and smothered them until only the weapon remained. Suguru never asked about Satoru’s childhood, but the loud laughter, the childish mischief, the desperate need to be seen—it said everything. That boy had been fighting to keep something alive.
None of this would’ve happened if you were stronger, a dark voice whispered. Faster. Smarter. You let your guard down and almost lost him. You almost let him die.
Suguru shuddered. That thought had haunted him since that day. He’d replayed it again and again, searching for a different outcome. One where Satoru didn’t end up in this bed. One where he didn’t have to wonder if he would wake up. But every version ended the same.
It wasn’t my fault, Suguru growled, his voice low and bitter. But the doubt didn’t leave.
After a long while, he rose, forcing himself to leave the room. As he stepped into the hallway, something shifted. The voice returned—this time colder, more insidious. It’s their fault. Civilians. Powerless, weak people who birth curses and rely on us to clean up their mess. If they didn’t exist, neither would curses. Neither would this pain.
Suguru froze. His eyes widened. The thought settled in his mind like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Horrifyingly logical.
He imagined a world without curses. A world where Satoru didn’t have to fight. Where he didn’t have to consume filth. Where they were just boys, not warriors, not weapons. Free.
You know what you need to do, the voice said.
A shiver raked through Suguru’s body, goosebumps rising. He recoiled from the thought, disgusted. “What the fuck…” he whispered, horror curling around his spine. He quickened his pace down the hall, retreating to the safety of his room.
Once inside, he slammed the door shut and collapsed onto his bed, burying himself in the blankets like they might protect him from what was growing inside him. But they didn’t. Life wasn’t that kind. And Suguru lay there, trembling, with a new weight pressing down on him—because some small, shameful part of him knew…
The voice wasn’t entirely wrong.
--------------------------
Satoru stormed out of the main student dorm building, his steps heavy with anger. He doesn’t think—he refuses to. He just moves, letting muscle memory take over as he follows the well-worn path he's traveled countless times. The trees, the gravel, the sounds of nature—they blur into the background. He’s too consumed by the heat of frustration licking up his spine.
Why are they all acting like something’s wrong with me? He thinks bitterly. I healed myself. I’m walking, I’m talking. Sure, I get headaches—who doesn’t? That’s just stress. Fatigue. Nothing I can’t handle.
The gravel crunches underfoot, a familiar sound that grounds him just slightly. He kicks a pebble and watches it skip off the path, disappearing into the dust. The air was thick, humid, clinging to his skin like wet cloth—the kind that settled damp on windows and steamed off the ground under the sun's heat. Satoru grimaces as the dull ache behind his eyes pulses again, sharp and sudden.
“Goddamn it…” he mutters, pressing his fingers to his temples.
He keeps walking, needing to burn the anger out of his body, needing motion to distract from the way everything feels off. It’s only when the pounding in his head escalates into something sharper—hot and piercing—that he considers turning back. He stops and lifts his gaze.
Something’s… wrong.
He knows this part of the campus. He should know it. The trees, the sky, the shimmer of the red torii gates... but it feels unfamiliar… Like he’s looking at it all through a pane of glass, warped and distant. A strange dissociation pulls at his chest. For a split second, he doesn’t feel like himself. Or rather, he’s watching through himself, as if borrowing someone else’s eyes—his limbs tingling faintly, a creeping numbness wrapping around his arms and shoulders like a cold compress, anxiety slowly dulling everything to static. And then he feels wetness on his cheeks. Satoru reaches up, fingertips brushing tears he hadn’t even noticed were falling. No sobbing. No buildup. Just silent tears, betraying him.
Why am I crying?
Stop. Stop. Please, just stop.
A deeper panic takes root. He doesn’t remember turning down this path. And suddenly, he’s not sure which direction leads back. He whirls around, heart racing, eyes scanning the landscape for something—anything—that might orient him. But nothing looks familiar. His breath stutters.
“Wait… which way did I come from?” he whispers. His voice sounds strange in his own ears—fragile, unfamiliar, trembling with a kind of fear he doesn't want to name.
His legs go cold. He turns again, then again, as if spinning might undo this. His chest tightens. He looks down, searching for a scuff in the dirt, a broken twig, anything to anchor himself. But the world spins just slightly off its axis, like a dream curdling into a nightmare.
Then comes the pull of it—that choking, icy hand of dread crawling over his spine. His body locks. He knows this. He knows this too well. A panic attack is coming.
He can't breathe. The heat presses in on him, suffocating. His lungs forget how to fill. Black specks dance at the edges of his vision. His hands tremble violently now, and all at once his body turns foreign and untrustworthy. He tries to move, to scream, to call for help—but the panic holds him hostage.
This isn’t right. I need help. I—
A single thought claws its way through the static: Phone. Call. Help.
With what little control he has left, Satoru forces a hand into his pocket. His fingers close around his phone, slippery with sweat. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t have to. His thumb finds a contact—automatic, instinctual, like breathing used to be.
The phone rings. Once. Twice.
Then a voice. Warm. Solid. Safe.
“Satoru?”
It’s like the world steadies just slightly.
That voice. Familiar. Anchoring. He clutches the phone tightly, eyes burning.
“Suguru…?” he whispers, and it’s the first time he’s felt like he might not be alone in hours.
Notes:
I hope you're all enjoying! Please let me know what you think :)
Chapter 6: Severing Truth
Chapter Text
From the moment his phone rang and Satoru’s name lit up the screen, Suguru’s stomach dropped. His heart hasn’t stopped racing since—thudding wildly in his chest like it’s trying to break free. A deep, primal worry clawed its way up the moment he heard Satoru’s voice—fractured, hoarse, small.
Satoru should never sound like that.
There’s something fundamentally wrong about it—like hearing a lion whimper. That voice, usually full of careless confidence and sarcasm, was barely holding itself together. Shaky. Scared.
“Satoru, listen to me,” Suguru said firmly, holding the phone tighter to his ear. “Tell me what you see.”
If Satoru could describe where he was, Suguru would find him. They’d grown into fearsome Jujutsu Sorcerers in these halls. Knew the school’s layout like the back of his hand. Satoru, especially, had memorized every shortcut and hideaway. He’d practically mapped escape routes for all the chaos he likes to cause.
On the other end, there was only ragged breathing—wet, stuttering gasps that made Suguru's pulse hammer even harder. It felt like hours passed in silence, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Finally, the static of Satoru’s panic ebbed just enough for words to slip through.
“I... I s-see... trees,” Satoru stammered, voice barely above a whisper. Suguru exhaled, tension momentarily loosening in his chest. “Good. That’s good, Satoru. Keep going. Look around—what else? What’s the path like? Is it paved? Stone? Gravel?”
He was already moving, heading down the hallway of the student dorms and out the front entrance, eyes scanning the horizon.
“Rocks... gravel, I think,” Satoru answered, then suddenly gasped—sharp, breathless, like something had stabbed into him. Suguru froze. “What is it? Satoru? What’s wrong?” His voice went taut with urgency as he picked up the pace, feet pounding the pavement.
“My head hurts,” came the quiet reply.
Suguru’s breath caught. It was barely a sentence, but it sent alarm bells ringing in his chest. Satoru never admitted to pain. Never let his guard down like that—not even with him. If he was confessing it now, then it had to be serious.
“Okay, hey...it’s alright,” Suguru said, trying to keep his voice calm, even as fear threatened to choke him. “Tell me what else you see. Anything besides trees? Any buildings? Stairs?”
There was a pause. A crackling silence.
“Red…” Satoru murmured. “Those red— You know what I mean, right?”
Suguru’s mind spun. “Red what, Satoru?”
“The tall ones! I... I can’t think! I don’t know!” Satoru’s voice cracked into a shout, raw panic spilling out of him.
Suguru’s heart clenched. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. I think I know where you are. Just stay put. I’m coming.”
He broke into a full run now, sprinting across the courtyard, past the training fields and the scattered dorms, heading toward the wooded path lined with crimson torii gates. He was almost certain that’s what Satoru had been trying to describe.
The next five minutes felt like a lifetime.
And then—there he was.
Satoru stood in the middle of the gravel path beneath the red gates, silhouetted by dappled sunlight and shadow. His whole body was trembling—shoulders hunched, arms limp at his sides, his eyes wide and wet, with tears on his cheeks. His skin looked pale and waxy, his lips parted like he was barely holding himself together.
“Satoru!” Suguru called out, breathless.
Satoru turned at the sound of his voice, eyes locking onto him with something like recognition, then desperation. He broke into a run, closing the distance in seconds before colliding into Suguru, arms flinging around him in a tight, clinging hug.
Suguru nearly stumbled from the force of it.
It wasn’t just a hug—it was a lifeline.
The kind of grip someone has when they’re drowning and you’re the only solid thing they can find. Suguru didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around him tightly, grounding him, holding him together. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
And for a long moment, neither of them moved.
Only the soft, uneven sound of Satoru’s breathing against Suguru’s shoulder broke the stillness—shallow, ragged inhales like he was relearning how to breathe. The wind stirred gently through the trees around them, rustling the leaves in a hushed whisper, as if nature itself bore silent witness to the way the strongest person Suguru had ever known had quietly come undone.
The walk back to the dorms was slow and wordless.
The sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving behind a deepening indigo sky streaked with fading gold light that bled away like something lost. The warmth of day still lingered faintly, but it did nothing to ease the growing chill in Suguru’s chest. Satoru held onto his arm the entire way, fingers curled loosely around his sleeve as though needing some tether to reality. He didn’t speak. Not a single word. And for Satoru, that silence was louder than any scream.
Suguru knew how much Satoru liked to fill space with sound—his voice, his wit, his confidence. He talked as if silence were a weakness he could never afford. But tonight, there was nothing. No teasing. No bravado. Just the occasional sniff, the drag of their footsteps along the stone path, and the soft chorus of crickets rising around them.
Suguru kept his pace even, patient. He led them through the quiet campus, past shuttered windows and darkened lamps, until the dormitories came into view. He glanced sideways.
“Do you want to go to your room?” he asked gently, his voice barely above a whisper.
Satoru’s reaction was immediate. A sharp shake of the head, and then—his face contorted, eyes squeezing shut against a flash of pain. Suguru inhaled through his nose, sharp and worried. He could see it—how pale Satoru had gone, how the energy seemed to have drained right out of him. There was something eerie about it, seeing that spark extinguished, the light behind those brilliant eyes dimmed. It scared him more than he wanted to admit.
“Do you want to come to mine?” he asked instead, softer now, all the weight of concern sitting just beneath the warmth in his tone.
Satoru nodded, barely audible. “Yeah.”
Suguru didn’t hesitate. He adjusted his hold, keeping close as he guided them through the winding halls. The echo of their footsteps bounced gently off the walls.
What unsettled Suguru most was how pliant Satoru had become—how he let himself be led, wordlessly, without resistance. This wasn’t the storm of a boy he knew—the one who challenged everything, who lived loudly and brightly, always two steps ahead of everyone else. Now he was quiet, subdued… like he was holding together the pieces of something shattered.
And still, Satoru’s fingers stayed loosely curled around Suguru’s sleeve, as if even in silence, his body refused to let go—like touch was the only thing tethering him to the moment. Suguru said nothing, only guided them both to his dorm room with steady steps, unlocking the door and nudging it open with the soft click of familiarity.
The room welcomed them with the faint scent of old books and the lingering warmth of shared memories—late-night gaming marathons, quiet study sessions, and hours passed just existing together. Suguru flipped on a single lamp, its low amber glow spilling gently across the room. He kept the overhead lights off, knowing without needing to ask that harsh brightness would only make things worse.
He guided Satoru to the bed and gently coaxed him to sit. The taller boy moved like he was wading through molasses, limbs heavy and slow, eyes half-lidded beneath the weight of pain and exhaustion. His shoulders were hunched inward, protective, but his face—his face was eerily blank, save for a slight grimace that flickered across his brow like a fading signal.
Suguru crouched beside him, watching him carefully, studying every line of tension in his posture. “How’s your headache?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
There was a long pause. Long enough for Suguru to wonder if Satoru had retreated again into that hollow, unreachable place he’d been slipping into more and more lately.
Then Satoru exhaled, ragged and trembling, like the words were scraping their way out of his chest. “It hurts,” he choked out, barely holding it together. “It hurts to think… to move… to see…” His voice broke, cracking like glass under pressure. “What’s wrong with me?”
The question wasn’t really a question. Suguru knew that. Knew Satoru wasn’t looking for answers yet—just space to fall apart. Suguru’s heart clenched at the helplessness in his friend’s voice. He sat beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close without forcing it. Satoru leaned into the touch like a drowning man to driftwood. Suguru gently rubbed his hand along his arm in slow, grounding motions, the kind that said I’m here. I’m real. You’re not alone.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. You’re not in this alone. I won’t let anything happen to you. Neither will Shoko. We’re with you, every step of the way. I’ll always be here.”
Satoru didn’t say anything for a long time, just breathed. Shallow, uneven breaths that hitched every now and then, like he was fighting back tears.
Then, in a voice so quiet it almost didn’t register, he asked, “Does Shoko know?”
Suguru hesitated, just a beat—but long enough. He weighed the truth like a fragile object in his hands and decided that honesty, even now, was still the better choice. “Yeah,” he said finally. “She knows. She’s been watching over you, too, worried just like me. We both are.”
His voice cracked slightly at the end, rough with the effort of keeping it together. He didn’t try to hide it.
Because this wasn’t the time for walls.
Not anymore.
“I don’t know what to do.” Satoru’s voice cracks on the first word. “I should be able to heal. I learned how—I knew how to—” He breaks off, a tremor running through him. “But now it’s like I can’t find it. Like it’s buried under everything else. My thoughts... they keep slipping. Everything’s getting jumbled.”
He glances up at Suguru, eyes wide with a quiet kind of fear that rarely ever touches him. “You get what I’m saying, right? I’m not just rambling, am I? I’m making sense?”
The desperation in his voice climbs with each word, and Suguru hears it—feels it like a hand clenching around his chest. It’s the first time Satoru’s put the truth into words, and hearing it aloud only cements how deeply it’s shaking him. His confusion, his pain—it’s escalating, feeding into itself like a spiral he can’t escape.
“Suguru, I don’t—” he chokes out, breath stuttering. “I knew it. I did. I knew Reverse Cursed Technique. I remembered it. So, where, where did those memories go? They were real. They were mine. Right?”
His voice cracks again, and Suguru watches as tears begin to gather in the corners of Satoru’s eyes, clinging there like they’re trying not to fall. Without hesitation, Suguru steps forward, his voice gentle but steady. “Yes,” he says firmly, grounding Satoru with the certainty he so desperately needs. “You’re right. You did know it. You do.”
Satoru shakes his head, a small, hopeless gesture. “I don’t feel like me right now,” he whispers.
The words are barely audible, but they pierce clean through. And Suguru—so rarely shaken—feels ice crawl up his spine at the sheer hollowness in Satoru’s tone. Like his soul is echoing inside his own body.
Suguru moves closer, crouching in front of him until they’re eye level. “Hey,” he says, more insistently now, voice low and full of warmth. “Don’t go there. You are you, Satoru. Look at me.”
He waits until blue eyes meet his, barely holding focus.
“You’re Satoru Gojo. Grade 1 sorcerer. Smartass. Irritatingly loud. The only person I know who could pull off wearing sunglasses indoors. You drive me insane half the time—and I wouldn’t trade you for anyone.”
He places a hand gently on Satoru’s knee, grounding him.
“You are maddening, brilliant, and real. And you don’t have to prove that to me. You’re here. Right now. With me. And I won’t let you disappear.”
Chapter 7: The Aftermath
Chapter Text
Morning comes gently, like a whispered promise. Satoru stirs beneath soft sheets, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes—familiar, but less sharp than usual. For once, he feels…okay. Rested. It’s the kind of sleep he hasn’t tasted in weeks, heavy and uninterrupted. He stretches lazily, limbs sprawling across the mattress, only half-aware of the light filtering through the curtains—a pale, golden sliver of dawn announcing the arrival of another sun-drenched summer day.
Then he turns.
And freezes.
This isn’t his room.
The realization hits slowly, delayed by the fading haze of sleep. He blinks at the faint scent of sandalwood, at the scattered books on the desk, the worn hoodie slung over the back of a chair. Suguru’s room. His heart stutters, confused. Did I crash here? He wonders, rubbing at his eyes with a groggy hand. Must’ve been exhausted or something...
But then the floodgates crack.
Not memories—no, nothing so clear. Just a rush of feeling, like water slipping through clenched fingers. Fear. Grief. An inexplicable heaviness coils in his chest. Something inside him knows, even if his mind refuses to catch up. Emotions rise unbidden, swelling like a tide: a whisper of anger, a flicker of panic, a sharp pang of loss.
Satoru exhales, dragging a hand through his messy hair. The sigh is slow, like letting steam bleed from a pressure valve. His lungs deflate, and with them, the illusion of peace. His body remembers. It always does. The tension lives beneath his skin—coiled in his shoulders, in the subtle twitch of his fingers. He frowns, his brow creasing, a shadow of frustration beginning to take form.
It’s like I’m living someone else’s story, he thinks, or writing it blindfolded. I’m the author, but I never get to read the final draft.
He sits up, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. The weight of missing time presses down on him, ghost-quiet and suffocating. His mind is a locked door, and on the other side, something is screaming.
Why can’t I just remember?
He doesn't notice Suguru stirring until the other boy shifts under the covers, a quiet exhale slipping from his lips as he slowly turns, still caught in sleep's soft grip. The room is quiet but full, heavy with the unspoken.
Satoru watches his friend sleep, the rise and fall of Suguru’s chest steady in the soft morning quiet. His dark hair is still pulled halfway up, but several loose strands have fallen into his face. At first glance, he looks peaceful, serene, and even. But the longer Satoru stares, the more details begin to emerge: the faint shadows beneath Suguru’s eyes, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw is set even in sleep.
Guilt coils low in Satoru’s stomach. It’s my fault… I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be the reason Suguru’s losing sleep. He huffs quietly in frustration, more at himself than anything else, and rolls over to check his phone. 7:00 a.m.
He sighs. Going back to sleep feels impossible now. There’s too much static in his head, too much pressure simmering in his chest. Something is unraveling inside him, and no matter how tightly he clings to it, it keeps slipping further out of reach.
Grasping at straws, he opens his messages—maybe something will jog my memory. The inbox is full, but mostly with messages from Suguru:
Are you okay?
Where are you?
Can we talk?
Satoru’s throat tightens. He hadn’t responded to any of them.
Why? Why would I ignore him?
He keeps scrolling. There are messages from Shoko, from Nanami—brief exchanges, or worse, one-word replies. Some are left completely unanswered. It's like looking at a version of himself he doesn’t recognize, one he doesn’t want to admit was ever real.
Still scrolling, searching for a thread to follow, his phone buzzes with a new message.
Shoko: Hey, when you have a minute, come by the infirmary, ok?
The breath catches in his chest. Shoko knows. She always knows. And she wants to see him. He hesitates, then slowly types out a reply, each word deliberate, like he’s walking a tightrope.
Satoru: Yeah, I’ll come. Why though?
He reads the message back. It sounds casual enough. Normal, even. If I can just act like myself… maybe everything will fall back into place. It’s a foolish hope, and he knows it, but it’s the only thing he has left to cling to. The truth is harder to accept: he no longer knows what his “normal” even looks like.
That realization stings. It’s like pressing down on a bruise that never healed. He knows what acceptance looks like—he’s seen it in others. In Nanami, in Suguru, in the aftermath of Haibara’s death. He’s seen how grief changes people. How it reshapes them. And he’s not ready to change. He’s still trying to outrun it.
No. I’ll be fine. Shoko will help me figure this out. She always does.
The phone buzzes again, dragging him out of his spiraling thoughts. His heart kicks up against his ribs, his breath catching like he’s bracing for impact. With slightly trembling fingers, he unlocks his phone and reads the message.
Shoko: Since it’s been a few months since your brain injury, and you’re still having headaches, I want to make sure everything is okay. I’d like to see if I can help.
Satoru stares at the screen for a long moment. A heavy silence settles over him, and then, with a quiet sigh, he types back:
Satoru: Ok.
--------------------------
The soft rasp of pages turning slices through the hush of the infirmary like a blade drawn too slowly. In the sterile stillness, it’s deafening, punctuating the silence with a brittle, uneasy rhythm. The air is heavy with the sting of antiseptic, layered over by the weight of unspoken dread. It clings to the three of them like a second skin.
Satoru sits on the edge of the exam table, legs swinging slightly, posture casual in a way that's just a little too deliberate. To the unfamiliar eye, he could pass for a visitor—aloof, almost bored, waiting for someone else to receive bad news. But Suguru, standing close enough to feel the tremble hiding under all that stillness, knows better.
Satoru’s hands won’t stop moving—nails bitten raw, fingers twitching, brushing over the frayed hem of his uniform, and then stilling in his lap before starting again. His breaths are slow and measured, too measured. Suguru recognizes the signs. Satoru is unraveling, thread by thread, beneath a practiced calm.
And worst of all, he’s quiet. Satoru Gojo and silence don’t belong in the same breath. That quiet is louder than any scream.
Then:
“All the tests are finished,” Shoko says, her voice cutting through the stillness like a scalpel.
Satoru’s gaze snaps to her, sharp and immediate. “And?”
His sunglasses are tangled in his hair, forgotten, pushed up and out of the way. Suguru clocks the detail—how he hasn’t complained once about the overhead fluorescents, the ones he used to call “government-issued eye torture.” He remembers Satoru whining about them in class once, how Yaga flipped the switch too fast and Gojo stumbled back with a dramatic gasp. Suguru had laughed—he always laughed at moments like that. But today, the memory falls flat. That version of Satoru feels like someone else. Someone they may have already lost.
Shoko pauses.
Too long.
She draws in a breath, and Suguru already knows. The silence between words crushes him more than the words themselves. He wants to scream, to argue, to tear something apart, but he doesn’t. He clenches his fists and stays still. This moment doesn’t belong to his grief—not yet.
“When you were attacked,” she begins carefully, “you used RCT to stay alive. You stabilized yourself, slowed the blood loss, healed your minor wounds… you did what you had to do. But the part of your brain that was damaged—that’s not something RCT can fix. And in forcing it, in keeping yourself alive the way you did…”
She hesitates, just long enough for Suguru to feel it all coming undone.
“…you caused permanent damage.”
The words fall like iron dropped in water—silent at first, then reverberating outward in suffocating rings.
The silence returns, but now it’s different—thicker, charged with something electric and cruel. Permanent damage. The phrase slithers between them, a curse in its own right, coiling tightly around hope and squeezing until it bleeds.
Suguru doesn’t move. Satoru doesn’t blink.
And all three of them are left to sit in the stillness, each haunted in their own way by the version of Satoru that may never return.
“You’re a master of Reversed Cursed Technique, Shoko. You have to be able to fix it,” Satoru blurts out, his voice ragged and breaking beneath the weight of desperation. His whole body is tense, rigid with fear—as if staying perfectly still could somehow stop the damage from spreading, like a broken dam held together by force of will alone. “Maybe you can undo what I screwed up. I know I did it wrong—I got sloppy, let my guard down. I didn’t mean to make it permanent.”
The dam breaks. He’s unraveling now, crumbling in real time. There’s no bravado, no flippant jokes to soften the blow. Just Satoru—raw, cracked open, and bleeding, pain he can’t take back.
Shoko walks toward him slowly, deliberately, and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her touch is warm, grounding, and it makes him lean into it instinctively—just a little. But her eyes betray her. There’s no comfort in them, only sorrow dulled by exhaustion and the unbearable weight of knowing too much. She waits a beat longer, as if giving the universe one last chance to change its mind, and then speaks.
“This is one thing I can’t fix.”
Her voice, usually dry and unshakable, is thick with restrained grief.
“If I could’ve undone it, Satoru, I would’ve. Without hesitation.”
And that’s it. She doesn’t say more. With grief—true grief—less is more. Words become sand, slipping uselessly through fingers. And besides, she couldn’t speak if she tried. Her throat is tight, constricted by the agony of being the one to deliver this sentence to someone she once thought invincible.
She looks up and sees his face, drained of all color, lips parted slightly in stunned silence, and those blue eyes, glassy and faraway. Shoko has seen pain in her work. But this—this is devastation. This is the cost of survival when the price is too high.
Pain from injury is something any sorcerer comes to expect. But an injury that you inflicted, unknowingly, trying to save yourself—one that will continue to take from you, day after day—that’s something darker. Something cruel.
If I could change this, she thinks, I would’ve done it before he even walked through that door.
“That can’t be right.” Satoru's voice stumbles forward, a threadbare whisper fraying at the ends. “You—you must’ve missed something. A detail. You have to look again. It’s going to heal. You’ll see.”
His words come in panicked bursts, as though he can outrun the truth with sheer volume. He watches her face for a flicker of reassurance, a smile, a shift in her expression that tells him he’s right.
But it never comes.
Her eyes remain dark—darker than usual. Not with coldness, but with guilt. The kind that gnaws at you, the kind that says this should not be happening, but it is, and I can’t stop it.
He turns to Suguru, needing him to break the silence. To laugh. To crack a joke. To agree with him. But when his eyes land on his best friend, he feels something twist inside him.
Suguru looks like a ghost.
Pale. Haunted. His eyes were wide, but not with sorrow—no, something else. Something deeper, more terrifying. His jaw is tight. His fists are clenched so hard his knuckles have gone white, blood threatening to break the surface of his palms. And he says nothing.
He doesn't move.
Satoru turns back to face Shoko again, like a man walking back into the storm. His shoulders fall. His hands rest limply in his lap. His head hangs low, like it’s become too heavy to hold up.
When he speaks again, his voice is small—almost swallowed by the silence.
“…What’s going to happen to me?” The question tastes bitter on his tongue, like spoiled milk and regret. And still, he doesn’t look up. He just sits in it—this moment of reckoning. Of terrifying, reluctant surrender.
Shoko swallows hard. “Every brain injury is different—” she begins carefully, cautiously, as if tiptoeing over broken glass.
“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Satoru snaps, his voice suddenly sharp and laced with rage. He lifts his head now, and the fury in his eyes burns like ice. “You know. I know you know. So tell me.”
Shoko takes a breath, and for a moment, the room feels like it's tilting.
“You’ve been experiencing memory loss and migraines since the incident,” she says, steady but soft. “That won’t change. It may—no, it will get worse. Memory degradation. Mental fatigue. Some days may feel normal… but others won’t. You’ll struggle to remember things. Even things from before the injury.”
She forces the next words out like poison from a wound. It almost feels like she is signing a death certificate while he is still living:
“There’s a chance you could lose pieces of who you were. Entire memories. Names, faces… relationships.”
Satoru blinks.
And then he says, hollow and broken:
“So that’s it. I just sit here and… what? Fade?”
He stops mid-sentence. Shakes his head. His breath shudders.
“…What the fuck. I did this to myself.”
No one responds.
Because none of them can.
Because the silence that follows is filled with the awful truth they all now carry—this isn’t a battle Satoru can fight his way out of.
And he knows it.
Chapter Text
In the following days after the visit to Shoko’s infirmary, the world had begun to taste like ash on Suguru’s tongue—a slow, bitter residue that clung no matter how much sweetness he poured over it, no matter how many good deeds he tried to stack like sandbags against a flood. He could still recall when the road ahead had felt bright, straight, and sure, lit by purpose and the effortless, ringing laughter of his best friend. But that laughter was a ghost now—thin, haunting—echoing only in the spaces where Satoru’s eyes slipped out of the present and into some unreachable distance. He caught himself watching the others differently these days—the bright-eyed students, the hopeful mentors, the oblivious, stumbling civilians—and felt the quiet press of separation growing like frost between them. Not sharp, not yet—but insidious. Like rust blooming across a blade, a quiet betrayal of strength.
There was a time he’d made a vow—to protect this world, to stand as its shield. But lately, the cracks in that vow were spreading. He was starting to question whether the world he had sworn to defend was worthy of the cost it demanded… especially when that cost looked like Satoru, unraveling before him in silence.
Lately, Suguru found himself retreating more and more into solitude, lingering in his room, drowning in the silence, thoughts circling like vultures over the carcass of what he used to believe. There was a time, not so long ago, when he’d wanted nothing more than to protect the weak, to carve out a world where people could live without fear of the things that lurk in the dark. That conviction had once burned bright in him. But now, doubt had begun to sculpt him, carving its insidious shape into his very core, like river water slowly eroding stone.
He was tired. Not the kind of tired that a few hours of sleep could fix—this was something deeper, marrow-deep, where both body and spirit felt splintered and frayed. The summer had been relentless. Mission after mission, often alone. He barely had time to wash the blood from his uniform before two more assignments would land in his hands. And still, he said nothing. He pushed through each one, silently, efficiently—because part of him dreaded the day the higher-ups would decide Satoru was fit to return to the field.
Shoko had reported the truth of Satoru’s injury to Yaga and fought hard to keep him grounded. Satoru, of course, had been livid, shutting them out in his anger, refusing to speak to either of them for a full week. Suguru bore the cold shoulder in silence.
One evening, after a particularly grueling mission, Suguru stumbled into his room, stripped off the sweat- and blood-stained layers, and collapsed into bed. Every muscle ached. His eyes burned. Sleep should have come easily. But it didn’t.
It hadn’t in weeks.
He lay in the dark, wide-eyed, his mind flooded with voices—soft, persuasive, insidious. They crept in during the quiet moments, always the same arguments, always the same poison.
It’s your fault Satoru was hurt. You weren’t smart enough. Not strong enough. But you know how to fix it. You know how to build the world you want.
Most nights, he could argue back. Most nights, he held the line.
But tonight, he couldn’t find the strength. Tonight, their logic made too much sense.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, blank-eyed. The thought slipped in, clean and cold as a knife:
In a world without curses… no more deaths. No more injuries. No more grief.
No more watching Satoru bleed.
With these thoughts heavy in his heart, Suguru falls asleep just as the sun peaks over the horizon.
--------------------------
The next day, sometime past noon, a sharp knock rouses Suguru from a shallow, unrestful sleep. Light bleeds through the edges of his curtains, casting long slivers across the wooden floor. Another round of knocking follows—this time accompanied by a familiar voice, half-exasperated and entirely himself:
“Suguruuuu, let me innn! I swear I’ll break this door down if you keep me waiting!”
A tired but reflexive smile touches Suguru’s lips. That voice—boisterous and impossible to ignore—rings with a kind of life Suguru had begun to forget existed.
With a groan, he peels himself from the bed, his muscles aching in protest. He shuffles to the door and pulls it open.
Satoru doesn’t wait for an invitation. He breezes in like he owns the place and flops dramatically onto the bed, arms spread wide. His sunglasses are perched crookedly on his nose, and there’s a carefree grin tugging at his mouth.
“Dude, are you okay?” Satoru’s tone shifts as his eyes roam over Suguru. Pale skin, bruises in various stages of healing, hair unwashed and sticking out at odd angles, and shadows like bruises under his eyes—he looks nothing like the unwavering figure Satoru’s always known. “You look... rough. Have you lost weight?”
Suguru closes the door softly and settles beside him on the bed with a sigh. “I’m fine. Just tired. Been swamped with missions lately.”
Satoru snorts. “Yeah, that’s bullshit. Try again.” He nudges Suguru with an elbow, lighthearted but not unkind. It’s so painfully normal—so much like how things used to be—that Suguru can’t help but smile.
“I mean it,” he says, voice quieter. “There’s just... more curses. Not enough sorcerers. You know how it is. I’m managing, really.”
Satoru doesn’t look convinced, but lets it slide with a huff. “Fine. I still think you’re full of crap, but whatever. I came to see if you wanted to play video games. You up for it?”
Suguru nods, surprised by how much he’s missed this—just being teenagers, unburdened for a moment by the weight of the world. They settle onto the floor, backs resting against the bedframe. Suguru powers on the console and hands over a controller.
“Mario Kart or Zelda?” he asks.
Satoru grins, eyes lighting up. “Mario Kart, obviously. I’m not trying to solve puzzles, I’m trying to win.”
Suguru chuckles. “Of course.”
The neon chaos of Rainbow Road soon fills the screen, the familiar music weaving a cocoon of comfort around them. For a while, it's just laughter and trash talk, playful shoves and curses when shells fly. No curses, no death, no higher callings—just two boys trying to outrun each other like nothing else mattered.
Hours pass in the easy rhythm of shared joy, until Suguru lets out a yawn and stretches his arms overhead. Across from him, Satoru has sprawled out on his stomach, phone in hand, chuckling at some ridiculous video.
“Satoru?” Suguru’s voice is quiet, hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” Satoru shoots back automatically. But he hears the weight behind the words, catches the subtle shift in Suguru’s tone. He props himself up on his elbows and turns to look at him. “What’s on your mind?”
Suguru crosses his arms, more for protection than posture. He draws in a breath, lets it out slowly. “Do you ever feel like... none of this really matters? That we’re just spinning our wheels? Fighting every day, clinging to some idea of purpose—but in the end, it doesn’t actually change anything?”
The question lands heavy, cracking open the quiet like a thunderclap.
Satoru stills. He watches Suguru carefully—Suguru, who’d always been their moral compass, the one with unwavering ideals and clarity of conviction. For him to ask this...
Satoru opens his mouth to answer—but both their phones start ringing, harsh and abrupt. The caller ID flashes: Old Dipshits. Satoru’s own nickname for the higher-ups.
They answer in tandem. A mission is outlined in a flat, mechanical voice. Names. Location. Curse classification. Timetable.
Then silence. The call ends. The room is still.
Satoru’s heart kicks up with adrenaline. Finally. A real mission. He hasn’t been cleared in months—benched by Shoko, watched like a hawk by Yaga. But now they’re letting him out again. With Suguru.
He grins. “Did you hear that? I get to go with you this time. It’s been forever, but now? We’re back. Just like old times.”
His excitement falters when he looks at Suguru.
The other boy hasn’t moved. He stares down at his phone like it’s turned to lead in his hands.
“Suguru?” Satoru leans in, pokes his arm. “Hey—come on. You heard them. You and me? No curse in the world stands a chance.”
Suguru looks up, slowly. His voice is tight, firmer than he means it to be. “Do you even remember what they just said about the mission?”
Satoru blinks. “I mean... mostly?” He scratches his head. “Dude, how can you expect me to focus when that guy sounds like a robot built to kill moods?”
“If you can’t recall the details,” Suguru says, sharper now, “then you shouldn’t be going. This is dangerous. I don’t know what the higher-ups were thinking—”
“You’re kidding me.” Satoru sits up straighter, eyes narrowing. “That’s low, Suguru. You know damn well I’m ready. I don’t need to memorize bullet points—I fight on instinct, you know that. Have some faith in me, man. I thought we were a team. Stronger together.”
Suguru flinches like the words hit something raw. He lowers his gaze.
“I do have faith in you, Satoru. I always have,” he says, voice thick with something he usually keeps buried. “But I’m afraid. Because last time, I couldn’t protect you. You ended up broken, and I couldn’t fix it. You were lying there and I—” He cuts himself off, breath shuddering.
“I nearly lost everything the day you got hurt. You. This... purpose we believe in. All of it. I don’t want to go through that again. I can’t—” His voice breaks, finally.
“I don’t want to live in a world where you don’t exist.”
A heavy silence settles between them, dense and unspoken, pressing down on the space where words used to come easily. Satoru stares at Suguru, brows furrowed—not in anger, but something closer to disbelief. When had Suguru’s faith in him faltered this much? When did that certainty in them, in him, start to erode?
Satoru’s usual sharp wit fades, the smirk replaced by something softer, raw, and sincere. Slowly, he shifts closer, wrapping an arm around Suguru’s shoulder with an ease that doesn’t quite match the gravity in his eyes.
“You’re not going to have to live in a world without me,” Satoru says, voice low, steady despite the storm churning behind his eyes. “Because there isn’t a single universe, not one, where I’d ever leave your side. Not willingly. Suguru—you're my best friend. The one person who really sees me, even when I’m being an idiot. And I meant it when I said we’re stronger together.” He lets the words hang there for a moment, making sure Suguru hears the truth in them before he continues.
“Yeah, the higher-ups are a bunch of paranoid fossils playing god with everyone’s lives. But even they know talent when they see it—and we’re it. We’ve always been.”
Suguru doesn’t respond immediately, but something in him loosens. The rigid lines of his shoulders begin to relax, and his fingers—clenched tight in his sleeves moments ago—unfurl slightly. He breathes in, deeper this time, and lets it out slowly.
“Okay,” Suguru finally murmurs, nodding. “Let’s get ready then.”
He pauses before glancing at Satoru, the concern still there, even if the edge has dulled.
“I’ll remind you of the mission details in the car,” he adds, gentler now. “And Satoru... if something feels off out there—anything at all—you have to tell me. Don’t try to push through just to prove a point. Your pride isn’t worth the cost of your life. Not to me.”
Satoru smiles at that, a flicker of his old confidence returning, but there’s something else in it too—something quieter, more real.
“I hear you,” he says, the weight of those three words settling between them like a promise. “I promise.”
Notes:
I hope you're all still enjoying! Here we have the boys being their angsty selves! Thank you for reading, I really appreciate any feedback <3
Chapter Text
"Okay, listen to me again," said Suguru, trying not to sigh. "The curse is a Grade 1—possibly stronger—and it’s holed up in an abandoned school on the outskirts of East Tokyo." He’d repeated the briefing so many times, he could recite it in his sleep.
"Yeah, yeah. Grade... something, East Tokyo. Got it," Satoru muttered, clearly not listening. He rubbed his temples with a wince. "Dude, can you stop making me repeat stuff? You're giving me a headache."
Suguru turned to look at him, eyes narrowing as he studied Satoru’s expression. There was no deceit—Satoru wasn’t faking it—but the mention of a headache made Suguru uneasy.
"You sure you're up for this mission?" he asked, voice quieter now, a thread of concern running through it. "I can request backup, or finish it myself if you’re not feeling—"
"I’m fine," Satoru cut in with exaggerated exasperation. "God, don’t be so uptight. You’re acting like I stubbed my toe and now I’m out of commission. So dramatic. You’re such a mother hen, Suguru. Who knew?"
He laughed, that light, teasing tone ringing through the air—but it didn’t sit right with Suguru. It felt like deflection, armor.
Suguru blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Satoru’s demeanor. He was laughing again, joking like nothing had changed, but Suguru couldn’t shake the memory of a very different Satoru—silent, withdrawn, sitting alone in his darkened room after Shoko had delivered the final prognosis. That had been the first time Suguru saw him truly lost. Smaller somehow, as if the weight of the world had finally become too much, even for him.
Now, Satoru wore his usual smile like a mask, throwing up sarcasm and bravado like barricades. Suguru knew it too well. This wasn’t strength—it was survival.
And Suguru wasn’t sure anymore where the mask ended and the real Satoru began.
“I just want to make sure you’re safe. I can’t do my job if my mind is worried about you.”
Satoru groans in response, “Suguruuu, stop being so sappy. It doesn’t suit you. Might work with chicks, but not for me.”
Suguru finally concedes, letting the conversation die as he turns his gaze to the window. The city glides past in a blur, Tokyo’s lights bleeding into one another like wet paint on glass—bright, shapeless, hypnotic. It’s been a long day, and if he’s honest with himself, sleep sounds like the best thing he could offer his body right now. He lets his head rest against the cool glass, the hum of the car lulling him into stillness. His eyes drift shut, and within minutes, he’s fast asleep.
Once Suguru's breathing evens out, Satoru lets out a deep, quiet sigh. The kind you only release when no one’s watching. Suguru sees through him too easily. Always has. It’s starting to wear him down, the way Suguru can so effortlessly read the fractures in his carefully constructed facade. Pretending everything is fine takes more effort than anything else these days.
If Satoru were honest with himself, he’d admit that most of his day is spent chasing memories—grasping at them like they're fireflies slipping through his fingers. In the beginning, he could recall fragments: a joke someone told, a training match that went well, the way the light hit the temple stairs at sunset. But the rest of the day—the tasks, the conversations, the routines—was just... gone. His injury didn’t discriminate. It took what it wanted.
Now, he writes things down. Scraps of memory, scribbled on anything within reach—Post-it notes, notebook margins, candy wrappers tucked into his binder or crumpled in the bottom of his backpack. Little pieces of his life, catalogued in hopes of tethering him to something real. It’s not ideal, but it’s what he has. It’s working, for now.
Still, his declining short-term memory terrifies him. There’s a cruel trick in the way his mind lets him participate in the world—he can follow conversations, complete training drills, even crack jokes like he used to—only for it all to vanish later like a dream he can’t quite recall. It’s like waking up with a phantom sensation: he knows he felt something, but the details are lost. Every day is a looping déjà vu, the emotion of memory without the image. It’s maddening. Like having a word on the tip of your tongue for hours, knowing it’s there, just out of reach.
He hasn’t told anyone the full extent of it. Partly because he wants to believe it’ll get better—that this is just the low point before healing begins. That this is the worst it’ll get. That he won’t lose more. And partly… because he sees what it’s already done to the people who love him.
Shoko barely looks at him now. She’s constantly buried in research, hands ink-stained and eyes red from nights spent poring over surgical texts and new reverse-cursed techniques, desperate for something—anything—that might fix him. Suguru, though… Suguru is still there. Always hovering nearby. But different. Quieter. Distant in a way that Satoru doesn’t quite know how to name.
He tells himself it’s just fatigue—because of course it is. Suguru is run ragged, pulled from one mission and thrown into another. It’s no wonder he fell asleep the moment the car started moving. But Satoru knows better. He knows what it's like to carry someone else's pain on your back until it wears you down to nothing.
He doesn’t want to be that burden anymore.
Satoru glances sideways at Suguru, who sleeps soundly beside him, completely unaware of the storm raging in the seat next to him. He clenches his jaw.
He’ll get stronger. He has to. He’ll prove that he can still fight. That he’s still useful. That Suguru doesn't have to carry them both.
They’re two halves of the same whole, after all. And Satoru is determined not to be the broken half forever.
Satoru sits in silence for the rest of the ride, the interior of the car dimming with the golden fade of dusk. Outside, the city gradually melts into quieter suburbs, where the skyline flattens and the buzz of neon gives way to the steady rhythm of power lines and empty sidewalks. He watches the shadows grow longer, stretching across the landscape like fingers reaching for something just out of sight.
He tries to focus. Okay, curse—Grade 1, maybe stronger. Location… Was it a hospital? No—a school. Or maybe both? The facts slip through his mind like water through a sieve. His head begins to pound, each throb echoing like a cruel reminder: You’re injured. You’re broken. Stop pretending you’re not.
Satoru winces, pressing his fingers to his temples. He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. When he opens them again, the world is dimmer, and Suguru is still asleep beside him, chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. Satoru exhales slowly.
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Suguru knows the details. I’ll follow his lead, and when it’s time to fight, I’ll show that I still can. I’ll prove I’m not dead weight.
The car rolls to a stop in front of an old school, tires crunching over gravel. The building looms in the dark, its silhouette jagged and strange against the dim blue of twilight. Satoru leans over and gently shakes Suguru’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “We’re here.”
Suguru jerks awake with a sharp inhale, blinking rapidly as he shakes off the last clinging threads of sleep. He rubs his eyes, then unbuckles and climbs out of the car without a word, his posture already alert; his switch to mission mode is instant.
Satoru lowered a veil behind them, telling the driver to wait, then jogged after Suguru, who was already disappearing through the school’s front doors. As Satoru steps inside, he’s immediately hit by the thick scent of damp mildew and rot.
“Ugh. Gross,” he mutters, nose wrinkling. “This place smells like it’s been rotting since the Edo period.”
“They probably don’t have funding for upkeep,” Suguru replies flatly, not even glancing back. “It’s not uncommon in rural properties like this.”
“You’d think someone could’ve cracked a window. It’s like breathing through a sponge.”
Their voices fall away as they move deeper into the building, the air growing colder, heavier. Their footsteps echo faintly, warped by the silence and age of the place. Both boys stay alert, senses stretched thin for any sign of cursed energy.
“Come onnn,” Satoru calls out in a mockingly whiny tone. “Just show yourself and let’s get this over with. We’ll try to make it painless," he adds, kicking an abandoned pencil across the floor. “This building’s huge. I’ll go upstairs, you stay on this floor,” he adds, already veering toward the stairwell.
“No,” Suguru snaps instantly. “We stay together.”
Satoru groans. “Dude, come on. It’s probably weak. Either of us could handle this solo—”
“No,” Suguru repeats, more sharply this time. “They sent both of us for a reason. Don’t assume it’s weak just because it hasn’t shown itself.”
Satoru rolls his eyes. “This is going to take forever.”
Suguru doesn’t respond. He continues forward, focused and methodical. Satoru follows half-heartedly, scanning lazily, unbothered. He’s Satoru Gojo. And with Suguru at his side, he’s invincible. There’s hardly anything in the world that could truly threaten them.
Then something shifts.
A shadow flits across the hallway—barely visible, a flicker of motion in the dark. Satoru breaks off, curiosity piqued. He follows it down a narrow side corridor, assuming Suguru heard him veer off.
The hallway is colder here. Quieter. The silence feels…unnatural. The air feels heavy, pressing in on him, and the faint scent of mildew is now tinged with something sickly sweet, like rotting flowers. But Satoru keeps walking, unconcerned—until he turns to retrace his steps and stops short.
The hallway behind him is unfamiliar.
He frowns. Glances back the way he came. Still no recognition. His stomach twists slightly with unease.
What the hell…?
He walks forward again, slower now, hoping something—anything—will ground him, point him back toward Suguru. But the deeper he goes, the more distorted the building becomes. Doors look the same. Hallways curve where they shouldn’t. The air feels thicker.
Is this the curse’s technique? Or is it…me?
A shiver runs down his spine. He doesn’t know which possibility is worse. Normally, he’d spot an illusion like this from a mile away, but now? With his memory slipping, his perception faulty, he isn’t sure if this disorientation is external—or a symptom of something inside him unraveling.
He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms.
“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “I was facing this way before—so I must’ve come from the opposite direction.”
But the deeper he goes, the more the air changes. That nagging unease begins to bloom into something more visceral: tightness in his chest, tension crawling up his spine. His pulse accelerates.
“Suguru?” he calls, keeping his voice steady. Calm. Controlled.
No answer.
His throat tightens. He moves faster now, eyes darting over doorframes and corners, searching for anything familiar, anything that might lead him back.
“Suguru!” Still nothing. The silence around him shifts. It feels alive. Like something is crawling just beneath the surface of reality, following his movements, waiting.
“Suguru!” he yells again, and this time, he hears the fear bleeding into his voice, no matter how hard he tries to mask it.
He stops moving. The silence stretches. And suddenly, Gojo Satoru—strongest of his generation—feels like a kid again, lost in the dark with no map and no anchor, calling for the only person who might know how to lead him home.
--------------------------
Suguru moves through the school’s damp, echoing corridors, each step measured, his mind focused on the mission- Locate. Exorcise. Absorb. That’s the routine—it always is. Just finish the job and go home. He tells himself he can sleep afterward, that this is just another assignment. He and Satoru have done this a hundred times before.
In theory, splitting up had made sense. It wasn't a reckless idea, and under different circumstances, Suguru would’ve agreed without hesitation. But not tonight. Not here. Not after what happened.
This curse… It’s different. He can feel it in the air, a sharp, crawling presence that suggests a level of intelligence most curses don’t possess, which is why—rationally—he had wanted them to stick together. He and Satoru are strongest as a unit. They balance each other, compensate for each other's blind spots.
Satoru.
He stops cold.
The space behind him is empty. No sound of footsteps, no flicker of cursed energy. Just still air and the faint scent of mildew, the corridor bathed in dim moonlight through dirty windows. Dust drifts like ash through the light, slow and silent; his skin prickles.
How long has it been since Satoru said anything? When did he fall behind?
His thoughts crackle with irritation—I told him to stay close. But beneath that is something heavier, something beginning to churn in his chest.
“Satoru?” Suguru calls out, his voice sharp and firm.
Nothing answers.
Only silence. Thick and ringing. The sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Suguru’s stomach tightens, jaw clenching. The curse is still out there—but now it’s no longer the primary threat in his mind.
Where the hell is Satoru?
Suguru’s breath grows shallow as his senses sharpen, every flicker of cursed energy in the air analyzed and dismissed. None of it feels like Satoru. None of it feels familiar.
“Dammit,” he mutters under his breath, scanning the corridor again as if Satoru might simply materialize from the shadows. Why would he wander off?
Suguru turns back the way he came, footsteps faster now, boots echoing on the tile floors. The back of his neck prickles, instincts screaming that something is wrong. The curse hasn’t revealed itself, but he can feel it—watching, waiting.
He swears softly, clenching his fists, ready to summon one of his curses if need be. The curse isn’t just lurking—it’s strategizing. That’s what unsettles him most. Most curses don’t play games. They lunge, they destroy. But this one has patience. Intelligence.
And Satoru, stubborn as ever, had insisted he was fine. That he was ready. Suguru had seen the faint tremble in his fingers when he thought no one was looking, the way his smile faltered for just a second too long. But what could he do? Satoru Gojo doesn’t sit out. He fights. He leads.
“You’re not invincible,” Suguru had said a few days prior, trying to get him to see reason.
“Yeah, but I’m close.” Satoru had grinned. Typical.
Suguru’s jaw tightens as he reaches a hallway intersection. Still no trace of him. His cursed energy doesn’t flare, doesn’t even flicker—just absence. Suguru stops, closes his eyes, and casts his senses wide, searching for the specific, searing signature of Satoru’s presence.
Still nothing.
That’s when a distant sound breaks the quiet—metal scraping against tile. Sharp. Deliberate.
Suguru’s eyes snap open, body already moving toward it, instincts on fire. The sound came from down the west wing—a part of the school marked off with yellowing hazard tape and cracked walls- the kind of place a cursed spirit would choose to nest in.
He doesn’t hesitate. He turns and runs.
The hall stretches ahead, dark and endless. His footsteps pound like a war drum. The building seems to press in closer with every step—walls narrowing, air thickening, a haze clings to the corners, distorting the edges of everything.
And then he sees it.
Something sprawled on the ground at the hallway’s end. A flash of white fabric. A blue sleeve.
Suguru’s heart lurches.
“Satoru!”
He sprints the final stretch, cursing every second it takes to close the distance.
Satoru is slumped against the wall, head bowed, a hand pressed to his temple. Blood trickles down from his temple, staining his hair and painting his skin deep red.
Suguru drops to his knees beside him. “Hey—hey, look at me,” he says quickly, voice sharp with panic.
Satoru tilts his head up slowly, lips parting as if to speak—but the words don’t come.
His sunglasses are broken, lying cracked on the ground next to him. His cursed energy is flickering, barely stable.
Suguru’s hands hover before they land—one on Satoru’s shoulder, the other checking for any deeper wounds. His voice lowers, trembling now. “I told you to stay with me.”
“Why would I need you?” The words land like a slap. Sharp. Precise. Designed to hurt. Suguru’s brow furrows. He opens his mouth, confused, but Satoru is already shrugging off his hand with a rough shove. “You’re so convinced I need you,” Satoru continues, his voice cold and detached, almost mocking, “That we’re stronger together. Maybe you are. But me?” His lip curls, disdainful. “I never needed anyone to be strong. I was born that way. I’m not like you.”
Suguru’s breath catches. For a moment, it feels like the air has been sucked from the room. He takes a half-step back, disbelief flickering in his eyes. The words felt like a betrayal, but the intonation was what truly didn’t sit right. It was too flat, too perfect, like a line rehearsed rather than spoken.
“What...?” But Satoru doesn’t let him speak. His next words come like a blade driven between Suguru’s ribs. “You heard me. I’m not weak. I’ve always been stronger than you. So quit dragging me down. Stop pretending your presence matters. You’re just dead weight.” Then, as if to punctuate the cruelty, Satoru spits at the floor near Suguru’s feet.
Silence.
Suguru doesn’t move. His limbs lock. His thoughts stumble over themselves like broken glass rattling in a jar. This—this isn’t the Satoru he knows. Can’t be. The coldness in his eyes, the way his lips pulled into a sneer—they were just a little off. An uncanny valley of emotion. The venom in his voice, the malice in his tone—Satoru’s never spoken to him like this, never hinted at resentment, never made him feel...small. His stomach churns. A heavy chill crawls up his spine.
Then—he sees it. There's a glint in Satoru’s eyes that shimmers like oil on water, and a faint twitch of a grin that doesn’t belong to his friend. The frigid aura pressed into his skin, tightening around his lungs. The illusion had been crafted from his own deepest fears, twisting his concern into a weakness and mocking the very foundation of their bond; something in the air shifts.
No.
This isn’t Satoru.
And the realization hits him all at once, like ice water in his veins. Suguru’s fingers twitch toward the edge of his sleeve as he summons his curses. “You’re not him,” he murmurs, voice low, cold now too—but not from fear, but from fury. He squares his shoulders, meeting the imposter’s gaze dead-on. “Whatever you are, I’m going to rip you apart.”
A long silence stretches between them, broken at last—not by Satoru’s voice, but something else. Something wrong.
"Hmm, aren’t you clever?" The voice that slithers from Satoru’s throat is not his own. It’s warped—too deep, too hollow—like wind howling through the throat of a corpse. Suguru’s stomach drops as he watches the illusion fracture. The image of Satoru—his friend, his partner—is peeling away like paint stripped from a wall in fire.
With a sickening crack and squelch, the false visage liquefies, collapsing in glistening ribbons to the floor. What remains is the curse's true form: a grotesque amalgamation of knotted limbs that twitch and jerk as though remembering how to move, loose skin hanging from warped bones, and eyes—too many, all blinking in different rhythms. The stench of rot and decay saturates the air, acrid and suffocating.
Its cursed energy saturates the hall like a pressure wave, distorting the air and pressing hard into Suguru’s chest. He steadies his breath. I can’t find Satoru if I’m dead.
Without hesitation, Suguru flicks his wrist, summoning his curses forward like arrows loosed from a bow. They fly with practiced precision toward the abomination. His eyes stay locked on it—not just its form, but its movements. How it shifts, how it counters, how it thinks.
Then the curse snarls, raising a lattice of limbs before releasing a brutal surge of cursed energy. It hits like a shockwave. Suguru and his summoned curses are flung backward, slamming into the decaying walls. Dust explodes around him as the creature lets out a low, rumbling laugh that fractures into dozens of overlapping voices—male and female, elderly and infantile, weeping and screaming. Each voice plays at a different pitch, twisting like serpents through the air.
"Aren’t you wondering where your friend is?" it hisses, grinning with a mouth too wide and teeth too many. "The white-haired one…"
The mention of Satoru alone hits like a blade to the gut. Suguru clenches his jaw. The dissonant chorus that follows turns his blood to ice. It’s more than unsettling—it’s wrong, like something defiling the essence of humanity itself. Each borrowed voice drips mockery, each syllable a desecration of the living and the dead.
But above the fear, disgust, and revulsion—there’s rage. Hot and sudden. Blinding.
“Don’t talk about him.” Suguru’s voice is low, dangerous. Controlled only by the slimmest thread of restraint.
And then, without waiting for a response, he launches himself forward—eyes fixed, curses ignited, fury unleashed.
Suguru darts low beneath a reaching claw, the curse’s limb crashing into the floor where he stood a second ago, shattering stone like splintered glass. Dust mushrooms into the air, but Suguru doesn’t slow. He slips through the haze, his movements precise, lethal, born of years spent toeing the line between control and destruction.
With a sharp gesture, he releases a cluster of mid-level curses—each uniquely twisted and deadly, honed for situations just like this. One explodes in a burst of acidic mist, another lunges with serrated limbs. A third wraps itself around the creature’s torso, embedding barbed tendrils deep into its rancid flesh.
The curse screeches, a sound like metal screaming against bone. The floor ripples from the force of its cursed energy pushing back in a pulse of dark pressure, the barbed curse evaporating with a pop. Its malformed head swivels at an unnatural angle, and it lunges again—faster this time, learning.
Suguru’s breath quickens. He knows he has to be smarter, not just stronger.
The creature lunges again, but this time he sidesteps, rotating into a counterstrike. A flick of his fingers sends a curse slicing clean through the beast’s elbow joint—or what resembles one—severing a long, spindly arm that hits the ground with a wet thud. The curse releases a shriek of rage.
“Where is he?” Suguru demands, voice cutting through the chaos. “Tell me where Satoru is!”
But the curse only grins—mouth stretching wider than bone should allow, teeth jagged and twitching. “Wouldn’t it be better if you found him?” It croons in that jarring tapestry of voices—old, young, his voice, Satoru’s voice—
No.
Suguru snarls and slams his palm to the ground, summoning a larger curse, a lumbering beast with glowing glyphs carved into its flanks. It bursts upward with a guttural roar and barrels into the enemy, catching it in the chest and driving it into the wall with a force that shakes the entire corridor.
The grotesque curse howls, but the force pins it for a breath—and that’s all Suguru needs. He surges forward again, weaving hand signs with deadly speed, channeling a binding technique. Black tendrils of cursed energy snake from the ground, coiling around the creature’s limbs, tightening, locking.
“I said—” he breathes heavily, holding the technique through sheer will, “where is he?”
The creature’s limbs spasm violently against the bind. Its voice falters for a moment, then reemerges in a single whisper, whispered in Satoru’s cadence, soft and broken:
“Gone.”
The word slices deeper than any wound.
Suguru’s eyes widen—something ancient and primal shatters inside him. But he doesn’t let go. He can’t. Not yet.
“Liar,” he breathes, stepping closer. “He’s not gone. He wouldn’t leave.”
The creature convulses, and the bindings strain—fracture. With a final pulse of energy, it explodes outward, sending the summoned beast crashing backward, disintegrating in a spray of corrupted light.
The cursed being, wounded but not finished, stands again—grinning wider.
“He’s waiting,” it says, voice distorting like a skipping record. “In the dark. Alone. Dying.”
Suguru sees red. And he charges.
His fury is a weapon, a single-minded force that propels him forward. He unleashes curses in a storm of teeth and claws, each one an extension of his rage. The creature, a grotesque mockery of life, is quick and cunning, twisting its malformed body to evade and counter. Suguru dodges a swipe of a razor-sharp limb, his boots scuffing against the grime-covered floor, and sends a swarm of low-grade spirits to distract the beast. It's a furious, desperate dance—a whirlwind of motion and intent.
But with every passing second, the curse's laughter rings in his ears, a chaotic chorus of borrowed voices. It calls out his name, then Satoru's, mimicking the tones from when they entered the building. It mocks his efforts, whispering of weakness and failure, twisting his doubts into poisoned barbs. Suguru’s rage fuels him, but it also blinds him to the curse's true cunning. It's not just fighting; it's wearing him down, mentally and physically, absorbing his fallen curses to grow stronger with each blow he lands.
Suguru is on his knees. The curse towers over him, breathing ragged, its black-veined body pulsing with corrupted energy. Its grotesque form shudders as it absorbs the fragments of Suguru’s fallen summons, growing stronger with each one consumed. The corridor around them is torn apart—walls split, earth scorched, the air thick with curse rot and iron-sweet blood. His chest heaves with exhaustion. His arms tremble as he tries to raise them again for one more summoning—but the energy slips from his fingers like water through a sieve. He’s used too much. Too many curses cast. Too many wounds ignored. Too many taunts endured.
“You’re unraveling,” the creature purrs, voice slick with cruel delight. Suguru bares his teeth and rises to defend himself. The curse laughs, lurching forward—its limbs splinter into jagged spears midair, aiming straight for Suguru’s chest—
Then—the air around them splinters. A quake in the cursed energy around them charges electrically in blurs of white and blue, slamming down between them with enough force to crater the ground. “Touch him,” Satoru growls, “and I’ll erase you.”
Suguru exhales like he’s been underwater for hours. Satoru’s white hair whipped in the wind of cursed energy. His sunglasses were discarded, revealing his glowing blue eyes, sharp and shaken, a blade of clarity in a storm of fractured memory. Satoru doesn’t remember how he got here- Just the sound of Suguru’s voice, echoing in some aching part of his chest.
The curse rears back, screeching. “Another insect,” it hisses. “A broken one.”
Satoru’s body moves before his thoughts catch up. Instinct alone guides his hand as he raises it in a half-formed stance. He’s slower than usual, off-rhythm, misaligned—but he blocks the curse’s attack with a burst of raw force that ripples the floor beneath him.
Suguru, bleeding and barely upright, watches with wide, disbelieving eyes. The imposter had been cruel, cold, and cutting—but this Satoru was raw fury and desperation. This was the real Satoru.
Satoru glances back at Suguru only for a second—but it’s enough. The curse plunges toward them again, all limbs and hatred, baring down in a final murderous lunge. Satoru turns back—eyes flaring. His hands move, muscle memory kicking in.
“Cursed Technique Revers—” His voice falters. The rest of the phrase is gone; the pattern, the spin, the balance of his Limitless—missing. The technique shudders out of rhythm. Something warps in the air, too much power trying to collapse into an unfinished shape. He knows what’s supposed to come next—but he can’t remember how.
The curse is right there. He reacts. He releases it—raw and unfinished, a messy detonation. Space distorts violently, and the hallway explodes. Screaming stone and cursed energy collide in a blinding flash of red.
When the light clears, the curse is gone. Ash. Rendered to nothing. But so is the floor beneath them. The backlash forcefully throws Satoru and Suguru into debris and rebar. Blood splatters against the cracked tiles as silence settles, sudden and awful. Smoke curls from Satoru’s fingers. His chest heaves, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. His body screams with pain, his ribs cracked from the recoil, one arm hanging useless at his side. He hears Suguru’s cough before anything else. And it shatters him.
“Suguru—” he croaks, dragging himself across the broken floor. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—”
Suguru is sprawled against a crumbled column, blood pooling beneath him. One eye half-lidded, the other locked on Satoru. “…Idiot,” he rasps.
Satoru huffs a shattered laugh through his grief. Then the realization of what happened begins to settle on his chest.
“I forgot,” he whispers.
Suguru’s breath stutters in his chest, but he reaches out—shaky fingers brushing Satoru’s. Their hands find each other in the wreckage—fingers tangled, blood-warm and trembling. And for now, that’s enough.
Notes:
Hi again! I had planned to upload this chapter sooner, but work got in the way -.- Anyway, the story is coming to an end, I hope you're all enjoying. As always, let me know what you think :D
Chapter 10: Fading Light
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The aftermath is a haze—fragments of light, voices in the distance muffled like they’re underwater. Satoru can’t remember who found them, who called for help, who screamed first. All he remembers is Suguru’s hand in his.
There was so much blood.
Too much.
It spilled from Suguru like a wound torn into the world itself—thick, dark, unstoppable. Satoru remembered crawling toward him, dragging himself across broken concrete and splintered glass. Every movement sent knives through his ribs, but none of it mattered. His world had narrowed to the sight of Suguru’s pale face and the growing red stain beneath him.
“Suguru—hey—hey, come on,” he had choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of panic. “Don’t fucking do this, stay with me.”
Suguru's fingers had gripped his at first—shaky, trembling, and alive, then the tension gave way, becoming slack. Satoru held on tighter, desperation burning in his chest. He felt helpless, completely and utterly powerless, and it tore him open.
He tried to activate Reverse Cursed Technique, but his hands trembled so violently he couldn't form the sign. His fingers, slick with blood, refused to cooperate, slipping over each other. Every time he tried, a searing pain lanced through his skull, like his brain was shattering from the inside.
“FUCK!” he’d screamed, the word ripping out of him with feral despair. He didn’t care how loud he was. Didn’t care who heard him. He was supposed to protect him. He was supposed to know what to do.
He pressed his hand against Suguru’s wounds, but there were too many, too deep. Their blood mingled between his fingers—his own and Suguru’s—until he couldn’t tell whose pain was whose, where one body ended and the other began.
“Wake up,” he begged. His good hand moved on autopilot, grinding his knuckles hard into Suguru’s sternum—he remembered Shoko saying it could wake someone up, that it would hurt enough to force a reaction. But Suguru didn’t flinch. Didn’t groan. Didn’t blink. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest offered any proof he was still here.
Satoru’s thoughts began to spiral—frantic, looping, and irrational. What now? What do I do? I need help—who can help? Someone help me. Someone, please…
His vision tilted sideways. The pain behind his eyes was unbearable now, as though his own cursed energy was rejecting him, turning inward. The arm holding him upright gave way, and he collapsed beside Suguru, too drained to scream anymore.
Blackness began to swallow the edges of his vision.
He didn’t know if he was alive or dead, conscious or slipping away. But just before the world finally faded, he felt Suguru’s hand again—cool and still—but in his own. And between their fingers, blood still ran warm.
--------------------------
When Satoru awoke again, it was to a silence so foreign it unsettled him more than noise ever could. He was in a bed that wasn’t his—too stiff, too sterile. His senses reawakened one at a time, sluggish and uncertain, like limbs thawing from frostbite.
First came the sound: a low buzz of urgent whispers, the words like broken pieces of glass scraping against his eardrums. He couldn’t make out the phrases, just fragments of concern floating around him like mist. Then came the smell: the sharp, biting sting of antiseptic, cold and clinical, stinging his nose and making his stomach lurch. That scent alone dragged him closer to awareness, closer to pain.
Touch followed. His body ached, a low, persistent throb that felt like a deep, gnawing pain. Then came sharper spikes of it when he tried to move. His skin prickled with cold sweat, sheets sticking uncomfortably to limbs that felt heavy and unresponsive, like they belonged to someone else. Panic rose swiftly, animalistic. Something wasn’t right.
The light overhead was a harsh, relentless glare that seared behind his eyelids, forcing a gasp from his lungs. The air felt too thin, too light. Satoru immediately shut his eyes again, the motion sending a brutal pulse of pressure through his skull. Nausea surged. His mouth filled with thick, cloying saliva, and he gagged.
Hands were on him then. Gentle, but foreign. He flinched, recoiling instinctively, trying to bat them away with arms that barely responded. His whole body screamed at him—wrong, wrong, this isn’t right—until the touch finally retreated. He was left in the quiet again, his breath ragged, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Then—a voice.
Familiar. Low. Steady. Not loud, but purposeful enough to break through the haze.
It said his name.
Not shouted. Not questioned. Just spoken, soft and careful, as if it held weight. It pulled at something deep in him, somewhere older than pain, older than memory. Something he trusted.
The tension in his limbs eased, involuntarily. He didn’t want to—but he did. The voice felt safe.
Around him, other words floated in and out—worry, concern, fragments of meaning like pieces of a broken mirror. He couldn’t hold onto them, but they scraped against him as they passed.
The nausea ebbed, just slightly. The corkscrew of pain behind his eyes loosened enough to allow one clear breath. Carefully, he risked peeling his eyes open again.
The room was a blinding white, lacking any shadow or depth. Too much. Too soon.
Everything was wrong: the light too bright, the voices too muffled, the world too sharp and too soft all at once. But amid the chaos, there was one point of stillness.
A touch. Familiar now. Warm. A hand resting gently near his shoulder, steady and unshaken. A lifeline in the maelstrom. Then, the voice again—threading through the noise like a steady beat through discord.
Satoru froze. He knew that voice. Not from his ears, but from somewhere much deeper. You know him, something inside him insisted. You know who that is—
A flicker of memory surfaced like a bubble breaking the water’s skin—an echo of laughter, of someone who never wavered beside him.
His name is…
But the thought fragmented. Neurons sparked, misfired, fell short. The answer slipped through the cracks of his mind like sand through fingers.
Frustration welled up. Rage. Fear. Fine, he thought bitterly, a spark of his old self surfacing. I’ll figure it out myself.
With a grit of his teeth and a surge of effort, he forced his eyes open again.
This time, he didn’t look at the lights. He looked for him.
When Satoru opens his eyes again, the world greets him gently this time. The harsh, blinding light has dimmed to a soft glow, casting the room in warm tones rather than sharp edges. His vision remains foggy—shapes bleed at the margins, and the ceiling seems to sway as if he were adrift on open water. But the pain no longer slices; it's dulled, manageable. Bearable.
There’s pressure on his hand. Steady. Warm.
He blinks slowly and lets his gaze drift downward. His fingers are curled around another’s—no, being curled, held with such deliberate care it startles him. The touch is tender, familiar in a way that his mind struggles to name.
Then he hears a voice. A name. Maybe his own?
The sound is distant, slightly warped, as if spoken through water, but it draws him closer to the present. He follows the source—follows the hand back to the wrist, the arm, the figure seated beside him.
A silhouette comes into focus: messy black hair tied into a loose bun, strands falling free to frame a face drawn with fatigue but lit with unmistakable concern. Dark violet eyes search his, heavy with emotion, and when they meet his gaze, the hand in his gives a gentle squeeze.
Satoru blinks again, harder this time, as if trying to shake dust off an old photograph in his head. That voice… I know that voice…
“Satoru,” the figure says again, quieter now. Rich and low, the syllables land like an incantation. His name feels like it fits—it clicks into place like a puzzle piece finally aligned.
Yeah, he thinks, dazed. That’s me. I’m Satoru.
Still dazed, he studies the face beside him, trying to read the expressions flitting across it. The lips are moving, but he only catches fragments—half-sentences, floating like feathers in a breeze. Still, that voice… it calms the turbulence in his chest.
He shifts his fingers, just enough to squeeze back.
The reaction is immediate. The man smiles, weary but real—soft in a way that makes something inside Satoru ache with recognition.
I did that, Satoru thinks, a flicker of satisfaction surfacing through the fog. I like that smile. I want to see it again.
Satoru watches the corners of that familiar mouth move again—still half-deaf to the meaning, but craving the sound all the same. He narrows his eyes, trying to anchor himself in this moment, and catches one clear word this time:
“Hey.”
It’s soft. Simple. Not a demand, not a panic. Just… hey. The way Suguru used to say it when they were sprawled out under the stars or leaning against vending machines after missions.
“You with me now?” Suguru says, voice coaxing but calm, and the hand in Satoru’s tightens, thumb brushing across the back of his knuckles.
Satoru doesn’t answer right away. His mouth is dry and his thoughts feel slow, but the voice makes him feel safe—moored to something solid in a sea of fog.
“You’ve been out for a while,” Suguru adds gently, eyes scanning his face for signs of confusion or pain. “The curse nearly got us... but we’re okay. We made it.”
Satoru swallows, still silent, but he doesn’t let go.
Suguru exhales a breath of relief, and there’s a smile tugging at his lips again—worn down at the edges, but real. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Don’t do that again.”
Satoru wants to say I’ll try not to, or I don’t remember, like it means everything. But the words won’t come yet. So instead, he holds that hand a little tighter.
And Suguru stays right there, before beginning to speak again, his voice wavers, but he pushes forward, coaxing the silence between them.
“You’ve been out for days,” he says softly, brushing his thumb over Satoru’s knuckles. “We’re at Jujutsu Tech. You're safe.”
Satoru’s brow furrows, lips parting slightly like he wants to respond—but nothing comes. His gaze flickers to the ceiling, then back to Suguru, searching. Not quite recognition.
Suguru leans in, just a little. “Do you remember what happened?”
Satoru blinks slowly. His fingers twitch again. There’s something brewing in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or fear. “I... I was...” he starts, voice hoarse. “I...”
He trails off, blinking again like maybe the words will snap into place if he just concentrates hard enough. But his breathing starts to hitch instead.
Suguru watches the effort carve into his features—his strongest, brightest friend reduced to fragments and blanks. He smiles to soften the blow, even as his chest pulls painfully tight. “It’s okay,” he says quickly. “You don’t have to push it. Just rest, alright?”
But Satoru doesn’t rest.
He turns his head slowly, eyes moving around the room like a stranger in his own skin. He sees the flowers on the windowsill—anemones, white with purple centers. His gaze lingers, puzzled.
“Did I put those there?”
“No,” Suguru says quietly. “I did. You always liked them.”
Satoru stares at the petals for a moment longer. “...I don’t remember.”
Suguru doesn’t answer. He just presses his lips together, trying not to show the crack in his composure. Satoru’s forgetfulness isn’t new. He’s had trouble for some time now. But this—this—is deeper. Like someone cut the thread between past and present and left him floating.
“Who... else is here?” Satoru asks, voice trembling now. “Who else got hurt?”
Suguru’s throat tightens. “Just us.”
There’s a beat.
“Who are you?”
Suguru looks at him sharply, heart plummeting—but Satoru’s gaze isn’t teasing. It’s wide-eyed. Terrified. Not complete amnesia—no, something more sinister. Flickering memory. Like people and facts appear for a moment, then vanish like smoke.
Suguru swallows. “It’s me,” he says, forcing the words out. “Suguru.”
Satoru just stares at him, uncertain. “Suguru?”
“I’m—your best friend,” Suguru adds, voice nearly breaking.
Silence.
Then, Satoru whispers, “I don’t... remember that either.”
The statement lodged in Suguru's throat like a splinter. He felt the words crack against the back of his teeth, a lie he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His heart, already so fragile, seemed to plummet. He looked down, blinking rapidly to force back the blur in his vision, and his mouth flattened into a thin, trembling line.
“It’s okay,” he lies.
His shoulders began to shake. Not from cold.
“You don’t have to remember,” he whispers. “I’ll remember for both of us. That’s... that’s fine.”
But it isn’t fine. And the weight of pretending it is makes Suguru feel like he’s unraveling by the second.
“I’ll keep telling you,” he says, almost to himself. “Over and over. Every time. Until you know it again. Until your stupid, brilliant brain catches up.”
Satoru blinks at him, eyes misting like he feels the pain behind the words even if he doesn’t understand it.
Suguru tries to smile.
It trembles. Then shatters.
He leans forward slowly, forehead coming to rest against Satoru’s, their noses nearly brushing. His voice is a whisper of grief and devotion.
“You’re Satoru Gojo,” he says. “And I l-…” Suguru pauses to breathe in sharply, “Don’t forget that.”
Satoru doesn't speak. He just leans into the warmth, eyes fluttering shut.
And for a second, he almost believes he remembers.
--------------------------
That night, Satoru slept fitfully. The calm that had come from Suguru’s presence was thin—cracked like old glass beneath the surface.
In his dreams, reality warped into a cruel echo of the past. The hallway was endless. Doors splintered open into pitch-black voids, and walls twisted into unfamiliar angles like a curse-born labyrinth. He was frantically running, barefoot and breathless, his feet slapping against the cold stone as if they belonged to someone else. The school was ever-changing, a place he no longer recognized. His own heartbeat echoed unnaturally loud, distorted like it belonged to someone else.
“Suguru?” his voice rasped. He turned corner after corner, the corridor stretching, curving—always empty.
Then he found him.
Suguru was standing alone in the courtyard, backlit by a burning sky. His shoulders rose and fell with exertion. His cursed spirits hovered around him like fading shadows. The curse—that curse—towered before him, grotesque and grinning, pulsating with malignant energy.
Satoru tried to shout, to move, but his limbs were heavy with dread. No technique came to mind. No formula. No instinct. Just a blank space where his mind used to race.
“Suguru! I’m here—just hold on!” he called, voice cracking.
Suguru turned to look at him. Relief flickered in his expression. “Finally,” he breathed. “You’re late, but—I knew you’d come.”
The curse lunged.
Satoru screamed. Reflexes kicked in—hand rising, fingers twitching—but the technique, the words, the will—
Gone.
Nothing came. Not Infinity. Not Reversal. Not even his basic barrier. Just dead silence in his brain, like a broken radio channel.
“No, no—wait, I know this—I know how to—” he choked, reaching out blindly.
The curse struck. Blood bloomed across Suguru’s chest. His body folded in on itself, mouth parting in a soundless gasp. His knees hit the ground first.
Satoru stood frozen. His hands trembled, useless. His breath hitched as Suguru collapsed completely, body falling forward into his arms. He caught him—barely—and stared in horror at his lifeless expression.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I forgot. I couldn’t—”
Suguru’s lips moved, almost like a smile, before his form turned to ash in Satoru’s arms. The air around him thins, and tunnel vision sets in as he claws at the empty space where Suguru's form turned to ash. His hands are trembling, not from cold, but from a grief so profound it manifested like a physical ache.
The world bled white as a guttural scream leaves his lips.
--------------------------
Satoru woke with a violent jolt, choking on air as he screamed. His eyes were wide, wild, and unseeing at first. His hands clenched the sheets, then scrambled for something—someone.
Suguru was there in an instant, gripping his wrists. “Satoru—Satoru, breathe. Look at me,” he said, his voice trembling despite his attempt at calm.
“I forgot,” Satoru gasped. “I forgot, I forgot, I forgot!” He clutched at Suguru’s shirt like an anchor, his entire body shaking. “You died because I didn’t remember.”
Suguru’s heart shattered. “It was a dream,” he said gently, cupping the back of Satoru’s head and holding him close. “I’m right here. You didn’t lose me.”
“But I did, I am,” Satoru whispered against him. “I just…I know you! I know you, Suguru, but I am losing you.”
Suguru pressed his lips together, eyes burning.
He couldn’t cry—not now, not where Satoru could see it. But each day, each reminder of how fragmented the man he loved had become, carved deeper into him. He held Satoru tighter and silently begged the universe to give him the strength to hold both of them together.
Satoru’s tears fall soundlessly, soaking the shoulder of Suguru’s shirt. “You’re hurt too. You’re hurt because I forgot. I should’ve been able to stop that curse.
Suguru reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before settling lightly on Satoru's shoulder. The gesture carried everything he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud—I’m here. You’re not alone. Let me help you. But in Satoru’s frayed, vulnerable state, even comfort felt like an intrusion.
Satoru flinched hard, yanking his shoulder away as though the touch burned. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he rasped, his voice guttural with frustration, but beneath the anger was something far more dangerous—fear. It cracked through the edges of his words, raw and unguarded. That sound—so unfamiliar coming from the man who had always met the world with boundless certainty—hit Suguru like a cold blade.
He pulled his hand back instantly, the absence of touch doing nothing to relieve the ache forming in his chest.
Then came Satoru’s voice again, softer this time. A strangled whisper. “I forgot, Suguru.”
Suguru closed his eyes. He wanted to lie—Tell him no, tell him he’s exaggerating, reassure him like Shoko said to do. But lying would only hollow Satoru out further.
“I know,” Suguru said quietly, and hated himself for the truth in it.
“I forgot my technique,” Satoru continued, each word a brick cracking from the foundation of who he was. “I’m forgetting everything. I forgot you. I forgot your name. How could I do that?”
The question was a cold stone that dropped into his chest. There was no answer. Not one that would make any of this okay.
Shoko had warned them—his long-term memory might begin to deteriorate. They had expected small things at first. Forgetting dates, where he left things, blanking on names of old classmates, or obscure techniques. Suguru had braced himself for that. He’d even joked about it, told himself it was just a slow fade.
But after the second injury—after Satoru had burned himself out trying to use RCT on Suguru—the decline had accelerated. Forgetting battle tactics was one thing. Forgetting people? Forgetting them?
That wasn’t a fade. It was a freefall.
And Satoru, who once held infinity in the palm of his hand, was slipping—piece by piece, memory by memory—beyond the reach of even his own technique.
But it had started after that last mission. After the curse had been exorcised. After Suguru had gone down.
And just like that, Suguru’s mind flared white. That night—that moment—he hadn't told anyone how close he'd come to losing Satoru, not to the curse, but to his own inability to stop giving. The memory of it cracked something open in him now, sitting beside a Satoru who looked just as lost, just as frantic. He remembered the feeling of it all, the pain of seeing Satoru sacrifice himself for him.
Blood. So much blood. His own. Sticky and hot beneath him.
Satoru’s hands were shaking. Not from fear—but from desperate, seizing strain. His lips were pale, bitten through from the effort, the veins in his neck standing out as he tried to force RCT through his fingers.
“Stop—Satoru, stop, you’re making it worse—!”
“I have to fix it— I can fix it—”
His technique faltered with every pulse of his heart, his cursed energy actively breaking him, not healing him.
“Your eyes are bleeding—stop!”
“Don’t leave me—”
Suguru’s hand had tried to grab his wrist, but it was slick with blood—he couldn’t hold on. Not to Satoru’s arm, and not to Satoru himself. He had passed out from blood loss not long after.
He blinked back to the present with the force of a slap, throat burning, and stomach rolling. The memory of it slammed back into Suguru's mind with the force of a physical blow, leaving him with a burning throat and a churning stomach. He swallowed hard, looking at Satoru—not past him, not through him, but directly at the haunted, confused look in his eyes. The pain of that night, of Satoru actively breaking himself to save him, felt raw and new. This time, there was no curse, no blast of force, just the quiet, terrifying decay of a mind he loved.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, looking at Satoru—not past him, not through him, but at him. “Your brain’s trying to protect you. Even if it means wiping away what matters most.”
Satoru stared at him, searching, but didn’t speak.
And Suguru, broken open from the inside, finally added, softer: “I’d rather remind you a thousand times who I am… than lose you once.”
--------------------------
Later that evening, Suguru returned to his dorm in silence. The hallway lights flickered overhead as he walked—head low, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he could bury his shaking fingers and the truths they carried. Every step sent a pulse of pain through his bruised ribs, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache carved into his chest.
Satoru had forgotten his name today.
The memory replays without mercy, sharp and vivid—the blank look in Satoru’s eyes, the searching pause before his mouth opened and closed, unsure. The sound of his own name, missing from the lips of the person he held most dear, stabbed deep, twisting slowly. It wasn’t just forgetfulness. It was decay. Loss. The unraveling of something sacred.
Suguru shuts the door behind him and leans against it, head resting against the wood. The silence in his dorm is thick, suffocating. He doesn’t bother with the lights. Instead, he crosses to his bed and collapses on top of it, curling beneath his blankets like the fabric can shield him from the unbearable weight of everything.
His body aches with fatigue, yes—but the real exhaustion seeps from his soul. He presses his face into the pillow, trying to hold in the scream echoing in his chest. His grief isn't a loud wail; it's a suffocating, silent thing, a cold presence settling in his gut, heavy and consuming.
Again, Satoru had been made to risk himself. Again, the world demanded that Satoru Gojo be its shield, its sword, its perfect solution. No one else could have exorcised that curse. No one else even tried.
And now… he was forgetting. Suguru. His technique. His name.
The same bitter, familiar voice creeps in through the cracks in his thoughts. A cruel whisper slithered in the logic of despair coiled around his thoughts:
How much longer are you going to wait?
Every second, another curse is born. Every second, Satoru loses more.
Suguru clenches the blanket tighter, burying deeper into it as though that will smother the voice. He desperately whispers, "Stop. Please stop. Just for tonight…"
But the voice doesn’t stop.
Are you really going to abandon him? Leave him to die piece by piece, forgotten by the world, by his own mind? He saved you. He always saves you. And what have you done for him?
Suguru's hands clench, his knuckles turning white as he claws at the blanket beneath him, as if the fabric could tear the cruel words from his mind. He feels a sharp, raw, twisting pain in his chest.
The voice, cold and sharp, cut through his defenses.
Why haven’t you done anything? You're weak, Geto. Pathetic. Even now, when he’s unraveling, Satoru Gojo is still stronger than you. If your places were reversed, he would’ve fixed everything already.
Suguru pulls the blankets over his head, curling tighter, his knuckles white where they clench the edges of his pillow. The covers are warm, but they offer no comfort—only the illusion of safety.
He feels small. Trapped and cornered by inevitability.
‘He’s slipping through my fingers.’
There’s no healing this, he realizes. Not with rest, not with time, not even with love. The sickness is too deep. The world is too cruel. The system is too broken.
Only action will suffice.
Suguru exhales once—long and low, his breath trembling.
Then, in the pitch black of his room, he whispers to the silence:
“…Okay. I’m ready.”
There's no ceremony to it, just a quiet certainty settling over him. He rises from bed with slow, deliberate movements, the decision solidifying his resolve. He slips on his coat and, without looking back, leaves. The door shuts behind him. The sound of finality echoes in the dark hallway. He disappears into the night like a shadow swallowed by fog.
Notes:
This was a heavy one. Let me know what you think!
Chapter 11: Scarred Memory
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
MISSION REPORT
Date: September 2007
Summary:
- A string of spirit kidnappings and abnormal deaths has been reported. Initial reconnaissance indicated the presence of a high-grade curse.
- The individual assigned to the mission, Jujutsu High Third-Year Student Suguru Geto, confirmed the exorcism of the curse on-site.
- Five days following the mission, 112 former residents of the village were discovered deceased under unnatural conditions.
- Curse residue was initially assumed to be residual from the exorcised spirit; however, further analysis identified traces unmistakably belonging to Suguru Geto’s curse manipulation technique.
- Upon confrontation, Geto fled. According to Article 9 of Jujutsu Regulations, he is now to be classified as a curse user and executed on sight.
The paper trembles in Satoru's hands, its stark black ink a brutal, unfeeling accusation. The number clings to him like frost: 112. Not just villagers. Not strangers. People. Lives.
"This is a lie." His voice frays at the edges. "Suguru wouldn't do something like that."
A single life taken by a Jujutsu sorcerer is an unthinkable violation of law, of morality. But this—Satoru can’t find a word that fits. Massacre? Betrayal? No—this isn't possible. Suguru wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
Satoru backs away a step, eyes still locked on the report as if it might change with distance. “He’s here,” he says, more to himself than anyone. “He was just here... in the infirmary. He—he visited me, I remember that. I remember him there; he held my hand. He stayed with me.”
His voice cracks, no longer certain.
Suguru is his constant. The one who steadies him. The one who never strays. His compass when everything else spins. Suguru is kind, logical, grounded—he grounds him.
But then, why does his memory feel threadbare?
“I just need to talk to him,” Satoru continues, a tremor deepening in his spine. “He’ll explain. He’ll laugh at this. Say it’s a mistake. I’ll just go—go to his dorm, I’ll—”
“Satoru,” Yaga interrupts, voice low but firm, “he’s gone.”
Satoru halts mid-step. He turns toward Yaga like a machine glitching mid-function. His lips move soundlessly before any words emerge. “What?”
“He hasn’t been on campus for days. We’ve told you this already…” Yaga’s tone softens slightly. “You’ve been in recovery. I know this is hard to accept.”
But none of this is real. It can’t be.
Satoru’s mind scrambles backward through fractured memory, seeking any confirmation that his last moments with Suguru were more than a dream. He felt his presence. He heard his voice. He remembered—
“I’ll prove it,” Satoru mutters, more desperately now. “Just—he’ll be in his room, I know he will. It’s just... I just—”
Yaga’s hand lands gently on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Satoru.”
And then he’s gone—off to join the others deliberating Suguru’s fate, while Satoru remains rooted in the hallway like a monument to disbelief.
The air feels too thin. His thoughts ring inside his skull like glass on concrete.
He lowers his gaze—drawn by a sharp sting blooming in his palm. His fist is clenched so tightly that crescent moons of his nails have torn through skin. Blood seeps between his fingers, dark and vivid—and caught in it, a single golden button.
Suguru’s button.
Still warm from being held in his sleep. From the dream, or memory, or delusion. His breath catches, and for the first time in days, he no longer knows what is real.
Is he really gone?
--------------------------
Satoru doesn’t remember how his legs carried him through the halls of the campus—only that one moment he was frozen in front of Yaga, and the next he was pushing open doors with too much force, breath shallow, and his pulse thundering in his ears.
“He’s here. He has to be.”
The dormitory corridor is quiet, drenched in the late afternoon sun slanting through the high windows. Dust particles hang in the golden light like tiny spirits, dancing weightlessly. Satoru ignores the burn in his palm where blood continues to seep from the small cut—he doesn’t care. His feet stop in front of a door he’s opened a thousand times before.
Suguru Geto.
Satoru’s breath catches in his throat. His fingers tremble as they brush the handle. He pushes the door open and steps inside, the air in the room suddenly soft, familiar. “Suguru…?”
He sees him. Sitting on the edge of the futon, a book open on his lap. His hair is down, falling around his shoulders, and his sleeves are rolled. The faint, sweet scent of Suguru’s preferred incense – sandalwood and something sharper, like mountain air – drifts to Satoru, calming the frantic beat of his heart. Suguru's posture is relaxed, almost serene, as if nothing had happened. A soft expression graces his face, a gentle curve of his lips as if he's been waiting for Satoru all along.
Satoru exhales shakily, the truth solidifying in his chest. “I knew it… I knew they were lying.”
Suguru looks up, his dark eyes warm, and offers that rare, faint smile Satoru loves. “Satoru,” he breathes, his voice a low, steady hum that settles every nerve.
Satoru moves closer, the weight of the mission report momentarily forgotten. “They said—you—killed people—a whole village. But you’re right here. You came to see me. You—why would they say that?”
Suguru doesn’t answer. His eyes remain kind, but quiet, the faintest hint of sorrow in their depths. He just watches Satoru, patient and unwavering.
“I don’t care,” Satoru whispers, his own voice cracking with relief and lingering fear. “We’ll fix it. I’ll explain it to them, we’ll talk to—”
The room shivers.
Suguru’s smile flickers, like a faulty bulb.
Suddenly, Satoru is blinking, and Suguru is gone. The futon is empty, no book, no impression on the cushion. The air smells musty with disuse, the lingering scent of sandalwood replaced by the cold, stale air of a forgotten room. The desk is dusty, untouched. The curtains don’t sway—they’re nailed shut, letting in no light, showing no movement.
“No. No, no, no—” Satoru stumbles forward, hand reaching, groping at nothing but empty air, the last tendrils of the hallucination dissolving around him like smoke. “Suguru!”
He turns, spinning around the room, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Suguru, come back—where are you—please, I need to—”
Another flicker.
Blood. Smoke. High-pitched ringing.
His head snaps to the right. He sees it—blinding light, crumbling earth, the broken shape of Suguru sprawled on the ground.
He’s broken. Bleeding. Satoru’s hands are over him, glowing, trembling—“Reverse. I can reverse it. I can—I just need more time—damn it, stay still—Suguru!”
Suguru’s voice, weak: “You’re hurting yourself…”
Satoru’s nose bleeds. His arms shake from overuse. He's collapsing.
“It’s not working, it’s not working—” he sobs. “Why isn’t it working?”
“I’m already gone.”
“NO!”
The room snaps back into the dim dorm. Satoru collapses to his knees, gasping for breath. Cold sweat drenches his shirt, and his throat burns from crying out.
A hand grips his shoulder. “Gojo—Satoru—hey, you’re okay. You’re safe.”
He jerks away, wild-eyed.
Shoko kneels beside him, her tone steady but soft. “It’s me. It’s Shoko.”
Satoru stares at her like he doesn’t know her, and then everything crumbles—his shoulders drop, his jaw trembles, and he crumples forward, sobs ripping through his chest.
“I saw him,” he chokes. “I tried—I tried to fix him—I couldn’t—I couldn’t remember how—he died, he died because I forgot how—”
Shoko catches him before he falls, her arms wrapping around him as tightly as he’ll let her. “You didn’t kill him,” she says, voice low against his hair. “You didn’t. You tried to save him.”
“I wasn’t enough,” Satoru weeps. “I lost him. I lost everything.”
She holds him until the shaking stills, until the dorm is silent again.
And in the silence, only one thought remains:
Is he really gone?
--------------------------
In the weeks that followed, Shoko watched Satoru lose Suguru over and over again. Every day, the realization struck him anew—confusion, denial, fear, grief—all cycling through like a cruel, endless loop. And each time, it broke something deeper inside him. His memory was unraveling, slipping through his fingers faster than she could catch it.
He started arriving late. Missed training. Blank stares during class. The sharp wit and sass that once defined him were gone, replaced by a dull silence and an inability to process even the simplest emotional cues. Shoko noticed how often he flinched at loud sounds or blanked out during conversation, his mind clearly elsewhere. It wasn’t just memory loss—it was a fading of who he was.
The higher-ups noticed too. They scrutinized him mercilessly, demanding results he couldn’t deliver anymore. Missions he should’ve aced now left him injured or confused—so disoriented, even Shoko struggled to bring him back. And the worst part? He didn’t understand why.
He kept trying, kept pretending he was fine—because he knew he should be able to handle it. But more often than not, she found him sitting alone, dazed and distant, eyes searching some invisible point in the distance. The spark that made him Satoru—the loud, arrogant brilliance—had dimmed. It was as if Suguru had taken it with him when he left.
Sometimes, he’d still wander campus, mumbling that he was looking for something. “Something’s not right, Shoko,” he told her one day, voice cracking with helpless frustration. “I can’t find it. I don’t know what’s wrong. Do you know what happened? God, I feel so stupid.”
At night, sleep became a stranger to him. Insomnia had sunk its claws in deep. If he wasn’t lying awake in his room, he was wandering. One evening, Nanami quietly approached her. He’d found Satoru the night before, standing outside Suguru’s old dorm room, knocking softly, over and over again.
Shoko didn’t know what to say. What to do. The truth was unbearable. Any time she tried to remind him—whether gently or directly—it was a gamble. Sometimes he cried. Other times, he screamed. Most often, it was both.
And each time, she felt like she was watching him die in slow motion.
---------------------------
For Satoru, nothing made sense anymore.
His days had become a haze of broken thoughts—disjointed fragments he chased like leaves on the wind, only to watch them vanish the moment he reached out. There was something wrong. That much, he knew. But the what, the why, the when—all of it slipped through the holes in his memory like water through a sieve. And still, the feeling persisted. The sinking, aching dread that something inside him was being eaten alive.
It wasn’t physical. It wasn’t even visible. But it was there. A creeping, malevolent darkness that curled its fingers around the edges of his mind and pulled, slowly, steadily, irreversibly.
And the worst part? He was aware. Fully, painfully aware.
Each day, Satoru could feel himself fading—memories slipping away like dreams upon waking, leaving only unease and echoing loss in their place. It was a waking nightmare, being trapped in his own deteriorating mind. He could do nothing but watch as his past, his identity, his world, was erased piece by piece. Until all that remained would be an empty shell in a black uniform, walking the grounds of Jujutsu High like a ghost who hadn’t realized he was dead.
That afternoon, something cracked.
A sob tore from his throat unbidden. Raw. Wounded. Too full to be contained.
It’s not fair.
Why is this happening?
He cried until his body gave out—until exhaustion overtook grief. His limbs felt heavy, leaden, and limp, as if grief had hollowed out his bones. His cheeks were blotchy, streaked with salt. His hands trembled as he wiped at his face, disgusted by his own weakness. He hated this version of himself—this fragile, unmoored version that didn’t know things he should, that was constantly searching for something he could no longer name.
Slumping onto the stone steps at the far edge of campus, he curled in on himself. Eyes squeezed shut. Head bowed. Behind closed lids, he met the familiar blackness again. And he shuddered.
His thoughts wouldn’t stay still. They leapt from one half-formed idea to another—neurons firing chaotically, only to find dead ends where answers should be. Beginnings fizzled before they could become memories. He could feel it happening, but he was too tired to fight.
“What’s happening to me?” he whispered into his hands.
The ache in his chest grew unbearable. His throat constricted. More tears threatened, pricking hot behind his eyes. He tried to take a breath, to ground himself, but his body had already remembered what his mind couldn’t. Pain. Trauma. Loss. The body never forgets. It keeps the score, even when the mind betrays it.
Then—a touch.
A hand on his shoulder.
Satoru flinched, startled—but didn’t look up. He didn’t want to be seen in this state. Not now. Not when he was crumbling.
The presence beside him sat down gently, and a voice followed—smooth, warm, like amber poured over his skin.
“What’s wrong?”
Satoru froze.
The voice. There was something about it—something too familiar, like a half-remembered song from a childhood dream. Like the echo of a heartbeat, he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
“I don’t know.” His voice cracked as he spoke. He didn’t lift his head. He couldn’t. “I’m looking for something, but… nothing feels right.”
“You don’t need to be looking,” the voice said softly. “It’s okay. One day, you’ll wake up and everything will be in place. There won’t be a need for this pain anymore. You trust me, don’t you?”
Satoru’s breath hitched.
That voice—it held him. Cradled his splintered mind like something sacred. He rubbed the tears from his eyes with his palms and dared to lift his gaze.
There—sitting beside him—was a man with dark, unkempt hair half-pulled into a lazy bun. Stray strands framed his face in unruly elegance. His eyes were deep—an impossible shade of violet—haunted and warm all at once.
Satoru stared, barely breathing. He looked young, around his age. But his eyes held centuries. And his voice—his voice was home.
You know him… You know this man… His mind strained against the fog, neurons grasping for a name, a connection—anything.
And then, suddenly, violently— Suguru.
The name slammed into him like a tidal wave.
Suguru. His best friend. His constant. The one who had always stood beside him, even before memory was a battle. The center of Satoru’s chaotic universe, a gravitational pull he never tried to escape.
“Suguru?” he breathed, disbelieving, hope and fear clawing at his throat. He reached out, half-expecting to feel empty air. A hallucination. A cruel trick of the mind. But his hand met solid warmth. Muscle. Skin. Presence.
He’s here.
The moment his brain confirmed what his heart already knew, Satoru broke. Emotion surged through him like a dam had ruptured. Tears returned. Confusion. A flash of anger. And through it all—an overwhelming, suffocating love.
He launched forward and wrapped his arms around Suguru, clutching him tightly as if he might disappear at any moment. “Where did you go?” he choked. “Why did you leave me?”
Suguru let out a sigh so heavy it seemed to carry the weight of the world. “Because I couldn’t wear a smile in a world that was destroying who we were supposed to become. But no matter what anyone says, I never hated Jujutsu High. You were always my family, Satoru.”
Their reunion was brief—shorter than Satoru was ready for.
When Suguru rose to leave, Satoru tried to follow. He clung to his sleeve, desperate. “Don’t go. Please. Don’t leave me alone again. I can’t—I can’t keep doing this.”
His voice cracked beneath the weight of sorrow. Suguru offered no answer—just a long look, full of unspoken pain and love, before turning away.
Satoru sat there—alone once more—with only the ghost of a touch and tears cooling on his cheeks. He watched Suguru’s silhouette grow smaller in the fading light until it disappeared entirely.
And then, hoarse and raw, Satoru whispered a single prayer into the silence:
“Please don’t let me forget him.”
Notes:
Thanks to all who are reading! I hope you've all enjoyed the story; it's just about over. I'll probably have the last chapter done by the end of the week. :)
Erin (Guest) on Chapter 1 Thu 24 Jul 2025 01:57PM UTC
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