Archive of Our Own

Something is wrong. 

It’s a creeping sensation. cold fingers crafted by the overwhelming sense of wrongness dragging its nails across his spine. Tracing every ridge, every crevice, just barely the ghost of a touch— so subtle that he should ignore it— but Suguru feels it. It bothers the hell out of him. Like remembering that you’ve forgotten something, and now you’re stuck ruminating on it tirelessly. 

Or, Suguru supposes, he could tuck the feeling away— compartmentalize it neatly into his brain’s storage boxes. He tries, yet it noisily rattles against his skull every few seconds. 

The frigid fingers of unfamiliarity first find Suguru just as he wakes up this morning. His alarm— his phone alarm, not the broken clock that hasn’t moved an inch from his bedside table— begins to ring, and he looks up at the band posters he haphazardly taped to his bedroom ceiling instead of— 

There it is.

Instead of what? Suguru pinches his brows with a frustrated noise, searching through his memories, because how did he plan to finish that sentence? What was he looking for? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and it bothers him so much. 

Something wet trickles from the corner of his eyes, and with a startled gasp, Suguru allows the pads of his fingers to ghost his cheeks.

Tears. Tears just won’t stop falling, and the hiccuping sob that shakes his chest escapes him with no permission.

“Why?” he whispers to himself, rising from his pillows. The end of his shirt comes back damp when he wipes his face, wet with tears and a slow dribble of snot. A dream, maybe, that he doesn’t quite remember the details of. All he can do is chase after its remaining tendrils, only to be reminded of this… staggering grief, and he doesn’t even know from what. 

When he walks down the old staircase that creaks beneath his weight, dressed in a uniform that he’s surely always worn (and yet, doesn’t feel right), Suguru finds his mother standing in the kitchen. She’s just finished plating breakfast, and while looking up at him, her fingers tuck loose strands of inky locks behind her ear. 

 “Morning, Suguru,” his mother smiles, and then—

There it is. Something is wrong. 

His mother is pulling off her apron, where the only stains adorning it are from soy sauce instead of— 

Suguru clenches his fists so tight that he digs crescents into his skin. The overwhelming urge to hold his mother is impossible to ignore, so he doesn’t. Two long strides forward and he’s pulling her into his arms. She’s warm and breathing and alive and he doesn’t know why that fact is so startling to him. 

“You still have to go to school, you know,” his mother teases after her initial shock passes, yet she holds him close, face resting against his chest where he can feel her lips curl into a smile. Pulling away, she gives his shoulders a firm squeeze. “Are you alright? Is school giving you a hard time?” 

“Nah, I just… felt like hugging you, I guess.” Suguru shrugs, taking a seat at the table where miso soup and grilled salmon tickle his nose. There are three meals prepared, and beside the rice cooker is a pair of reading glasses— he knows, logically, that it belongs to his father. 

“Dad’s glasses aren’t broken,” murmurs Suguru. 

His mother tilts her head. “When did he ever break them?” 

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He remembers walking over heaps of something, and the sound of his father’s glasses breaking beneath his feet, and a nauseating smell infiltrating his nostrils. It’s wrong. Something is wrong. 

“I guess I was wrong,” is what Suguru settles on.

The wrongness looms over him as he leaves the house.

He takes the same crowded train and gets off at the Aoyama-Itchome station. He walks the familiar path towards his high school, surrounded by others wearing the same uniform as him. The remnants of cherry blossoms littering the ground signal they’re still early into the first semester, and in the conversations surrounding him, he hears students complaining about being separated into different homerooms, or how terribly boring the opening ceremony was. 

And yet— 

Suguru feels terribly off-center, like each step he takes is not quite right. These should all be familiar sights. This summer uniform has always belonged to him. But it doesn’t, and those fingers are still scratching at him. 

An elbow nudges his side, and Suguru turns to find a lazy pair of brown irises looking up at him. He lets out a startled breath of relief, because amidst the sea of wrongness, the sight next to him feels… right. 

“Shoko,” Suguru offers a smile. “Good morning.”

Shoko rolls her eyes, shoving her school bag into Suguru’s chest with far too much force. “Bastard. I was waiting for you at the station so we could walk together.” 

That makes Suguru furrow his brows, though he obliges in holding Shoko’s bag because it comes naturally to him. “Do we usually walk together?” 

Something unfamiliar flickers in Shoko’s gaze. “Are you an idiot? What kind of question is that?” 

An honest one, but he digresses. “Sorry. I’ve been off all day today, honestly— ah.” He cuts himself off as something catches his attention, and Shoko turns to follow his gaze. 

There’s a vending machine. 

Suguru doesn’t know why that’s important, but he gives a soft hum of consideration, movement coming to a standstill. 

“Soda at eight in the morning? Seriously?” Shoko snickers. “You’re gonna have a sugar rush before homeroom starts.” 

Suguru rolls his eyes, yet he’s already fumbling inside his pockets for loose change because he’s got his eye on the cherry cola. Odd, since Sprite has always been his favorite.

“It’s not for me, dumbass, it’s for—” 

Wrong. 

Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. 

The bags in his hand noisily drop to the ground, and yet alongside Shoko’s annoyed bark, it sounds so terribly far away. The thin fingers are scratching at him raw, glass nails carving his skin incessantly. There’s this nausea twisting his insides, and he hates it so much. 

Something is wrong. 

Something is— 

“Shoko,” Suguru’s voice is small. He’s unable to hide the quiver behind his words, and spit pools inside his mouth. “Where’s Satoru?” 

Despite himself, he slowly turns his head so that he’s gazing down at Shoko, and the sight of her blank, unimpressed expression causes dread so severe to churn his insides that he feels dizzy. 

Her mouth opens. 

“Who?” 

Wrong.

The onslaught of memories rush over him in waves so powerful it knocks him askew.

Curses. Jujutsu Technical High School. Sorcerers. 

It’s terrible, he’s quickly losing his balance, and suddenly all the weight in his limbs give out as he collapses to the ground like a discarded sack. 

“Suguru? Suguru!” 

Riko Amanai. Misato Kuroi. 

Toji Fushiguro. 

He's being crushed beneath the force of so, so many memories. 

September 23, 2007. 

112.

His mother and father. A bloodstained apron. Broken glasses. 

Something is clawing up his throat, digging into his esophagus as it desperately pries his mouth open to escape. He clasps a hand over it, a futile attempt to quell the vomit that’s pooling in his mouth. A regurgitation of the breakfast his mother made, the woman he killed, he knows because her blood was so hard to wash from beneath his finger nails. He scrubbed for so long. Till his hands were pink and raw.

Six eyes. Infinity.

Gojo Satoru. 

Satoru. 

Satoru—! 

Suguru throws up over himself and proceeds to collapse in the middle of the sidewalk. 

Yet all he can think is— where’s Satoru? 

… 

Suguru comes to the conclusion that this world is what’s wrong. The gnawing sense of wrongness is in quite literally everything around him. From the erasure of cursed energy to the very uniform he wears, from the room he woke up in this morning to the breakfast he ate, from the train to a school he’s never attended to the disappearance of Gojo Satoru— this world is incredibly wrong. 

It’s so wrong that as he sits in the nurse’s office, he’s still clawing through all his memories, how violently they clash with what he knows. Looking down at his palm, in spite of his concentration, no curses come to his beck and call. There isn’t even a whisper of cursed energy to be found, its existence gone. 

A world without curses. Suguru contemplates the weight of it, being placed in the world he’s dreamt of, he’d taken lives for. 

After he lost consciousness, Shoko had called for help, where he was promptly taken to the nurse’s office. Once he woke up, he was told he could go home or resume classes since nothing was wrong with him. But how can he function after such a revelation? 

He decides to start with what he knows. 

The last he remembers, it was the 31st of September, 2007, a few days after he slaughtered everyone in that village, and then soon after, his parents. He shared a cigarette with Shoko and faced Satoru in the middle of Shinjuku, where swarms of crowds walked around him. How could he forget such a distinct expression, the unabashed anguish etched into every crevice of Satoru’s pinched face? 

And yet he did. Suguru feels a little sick. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon with Nanako and Mimiko, and after they fell asleep, he stayed up for a few hours locating the Time Vessel association so he could crush them beneath the heel of his foot. Then he went to bed. 

Now here he is. There is no Time Vessel, no cults, no Nanako or Mimiko, and no Satoru. 

But Shoko is here and they even attend the same high school. What else in this world has changed? And what was the criteria? Was it simply for cursed energy not to exist? How would that affect the existence of Gojo Satoru? Was this the result of a curse? A cursed technique?

Is there a chance that Satoru is out there somewhere? Will they be able to see each other again? 

There is so much Suguru doesn’t know, and he can’t help but hunch his frame forward, forehead resting against his crossed hands. 

Two knocks and suddenly the door is being slid open. “Excuse me~?” a lazy voice drawls in a poor attempt at being polite, and even from behind the curtain divider, he knows it belongs to Shoko. 

“Over here,” says Suguru. “The nurse left.” 

The curtains are immediately pulled, and Shoko heaves a relieved sigh. “Thank God, I had no excuse being here,” she snickers, a hand propped on her hip. “Just said I needed to use the toilet and went the other way.” 

Suguru can’t help but laugh. “Here to check on me, or am I just an excuse to leave class?” 

Shoko grins. “Don’t sweat the details, bud.” Expertly dodging class seems to simply be in her nature, regardless of the circumstances. She drops onto the cot beside him with a long stretch, and Suguru takes this moment to inspect how much this Shoko, a cynical high school girl, differs from his Shoko, a cynical Jujutsu sorcerer. 

Not much, he finds. She still wears her hair short, and a chewed lollipop stick dangles loosely from her lips. There’s still that bored expression on her face, as though she’s chronically over everything. 

However, she no longer sports the dark blue of Jujutsu High’s uniform. Instead, she wears a dark blue seifuku, tugging mindlessly at her tie as she hums to herself. Her pencil skirt has been replaced with a pleated skirt that stops at her knees, and most importantly, she emits no cursed energy. 

“So?” she begins, startling Suguru out of his thoughts. He perks up to find her  staring at him with an unreadable expression. 

“What?” Suguru replies stupidly. 

“Are we not gonna talk about your complete freak-out this morning?” she says, rolling her eyes. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting weird.” 

Suguru considers her for a moment. Just like the Shoko he knows, genuine concern seeps through the cracks of her nonchalance. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. It’s dumb.” 

“Well, to be honest, I don’t doubt that,” Shoko leans back on the palms of her hands, looking up at the ceiling. “But I can still help, can’t I?” 

This is true. What Suguru needs more than anything is information. “Have you never heard of the name Gojo Satoru?” 

Shoko ponders for a moment. “Gojo Satoru… Nope. Never heard of him.” 

“How about… Hrm. Nanami Kento?” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Haibara Yu?” 

“Nope.” 

“You’re fucking useless. I can still help my ass.” Suguru deadpans. 

Shoko bursts into laughter, throwing her head back. “Guess so. You know I don’t talk to most of the students here. But I can ask Utahime-senpai—”

“Eh?” 

Suguru freezes, head perking up at the mention of another familiar name. 

“Just now, did you just say Utahime-senpai? As in Utahime Iori?” 

“Well, yeah. Who else?” Shoko squints her eyes in irritation. “You really are acting weird. All three of us just hung out together yesterday, you know.” 

Completely disregarding Shoko’s growing concern for his sanity, Suguru has gained yet another vital piece of information: Iori Utahime does exist in this world. Therefore, there could be other people he knows, too.

There could be Satoru.

A pressure that Suguru hadn’t even realized was there alleviates its heavy weight from his chest, and he lets out a relieved, slightly deranged wheeze. “Let’s go see her,” he says after a moment, looking up at Shoko with a newfound determination. 

She is not impressed. “We obviously can’t go now. It’s barely the middle of the day.” Then she sees how he visibly deflates, and an annoyed groan escapes her. “Lunchtime, okay? We’ll go to her classroom during lunch.” 

Lunch. He just has to be patient until then. That is what Suguru tells himself when he and Shoko go to class together. They pull open the sliding doors and immediately he feels far too many eyes on him, and that’s another aspect of this world he hasn’t adjusted to.

He’s used to aged classrooms and being one of the only three students in his year, surrounded by rows upon rows of empty desks. Made it fun to fuck around after class, ‘cause Satoru would jump from one desk to another like a stupid leap frog, and then choke on his own spit when he missed a step, proceeding to crash onto the ground in a spectacular stumble. Shoko and Suguru would laugh at him. 

Suguru knows. He knows he left that life behind the moment he unleashed his curses onto that village. He knew that for all the wonderful memories he’s collected, he would never truly be happy if he continued living as a sorcerer. 

This feels different, though. Bowing politely to the teacher for causing a disturbance and trying to make as little noise as possible when he takes a seat just feels so different. 

Searching amongst all these unfamiliar faces and failing to spot a pair of blue irises— it’s so, so different. 

Calculus drags on and for once, Suguru is genuinely so fucking bored. 

Like, class is so much more fun when he’s forcing himself to stay focused because Satoru is throwing paper airplanes onto his desk. 

A world without curses, huh.

As he glances up at the white strips of cloud decorating the sky, blue and neverending, he wonders if Satoru is sharing the same view. 

… 

The speed in which Utahime’s bright smile falls at the sight of Suguru following behind Shoko is hilarious, he can’t lie. He offers a wave as they step further inside the third year classroom. “Utahime, it’s been a while.” 

“Been a while?” Utahime scrunches her face in disgust. “I had the displeasure of seeing you just yesterday.”

Ah. In another world, Suguru is currently a wanted criminal, and he never had a chance to say his final goodbyes to any of the Kyoto sorcerers, including Utahime and Mei-Mei. But it’s different here. He’s allowed to pull up a chair from another desk and sit between her and Shoko, even if she isn’t very happy about it. 

There’s a strange sense of relief at that. Like the blood staining his hands has finally been rinsed. He just doesn’t know how long it will last, if he’ll wake up and suddenly it’ll be there again. And if it did, would that be something he wants? 

“Don’t mind him, he’s been off his noggin all day,” Shoko waves dismissively, chin resting atop intertwined hands. “What’s for lunch today, senpai?”

Utahime beams. “I made sure to pack onigiri for you, of course. Try the karaage, too.” Unveiling her elaborately packed bento, she hands a pair of chopsticks across the desk to Shoko, who gleefully takes it with a pleased little smile. 

This weird envy bubbles inside Suguru at the sight of it. How lucky they are to have found each other even in this world, where they could be high school girls that eat lunch together or go to karaoke after school

Is such a reality impossible for him and Satoru, even now? It’s a devastating thought.

“Utahime—” Suguru begins, and it earns him a sharp glare from Utahime. 

“Show some respect. I’m your goddamn senior.”

“Anyways. Utahime,” he breezily ignores her comment, earning him a kick to his shin. “How familiar are you with the students in this school?” 

“Eh?” Utahime pauses in lifting a karaage to her lips. “Well, more or less. Why?” 

“Does the name Gojo Satoru ring any bells?” 

He waits in bated for a response, watching for any signs of familiarity to appear on Utahime’s face as she hums in thought. 

“I don’t think I know who that is,” Utahime shrugs, but then she looks up and her eyes widen at the sight of whatever expression Suguru has. “Geez, I’m sorry. You don’t have to look all…” She vaguely gestures to his face. 

Although Suguru doesn’t know what expression he wears right now, the sinking feeling in his chest gives him a few ideas. Don’t give up, he begs to himself. Because if I give up— if I give up on ever seeing you again, Satoru… I— 

“How about Haibara Yu? Or Nanami Kento?” 

For once, the names Suguru recites doesn’t evoke immediate confusion. Instead, Utahime’s brows lift in surprise. “Well, of course I know Nanami. We’re both part of the student council.” 

Another person that he knows. Suguru is so happy, he could damn near cry. 

“Ohh,” Shoko suddenly snaps her fingers in recognition, perking her head up. “Is he the blonde kid that always looks like he’s several seconds from killing himself and everyone around him?” 

“Yup. And the brown haired guy that’s always next to him is Haibara.” Utahime nods, but then glances in Suguru’s direction with a tilted head. “Why’d you wanna know about a couple of first years? You need something from them?” 

Although Suguru is happy to hear that Nanami and Haibara exist, he can’t help but feel as though he’s stumbled upon another dead end. The sinking realization that Satoru so rarely associated with others beside Suguru is becoming apparent. 

Satoru, who spent the first years of his life within the confines of the Gojo clan. Satoru, who made his first friend in Suguru on the first day of classes. Satoru, who became the strongest by himself. 

Satoru, who was destined to shoulder the universe by himself.

Doesn’t that mean… this world is a blessing? For Satoru to finally be freed from the burden of his strength with the disappearance of cursed energy? Suguru is startled by the traitorous thought that soon crosses his mind: If Satoru doesn’t exist, does that mean freedom? 

Because if that’s the case, desperately seeking him out in what should be a perfect world is nothing more than Suguru’s selfish, nonsensical desires. 

His mind recalls Satoru’s clenched teeth, bared like a cornered animal, in the middle of Shinjuku; the tremor in his movements that Suguru turned his back on. Does Suguru even have a right to miss Satoru, after he made the decision to complete his goal without him?

There’s suddenly an overwhelming pressure forming at the center of his head, the telltale sign of a migraine rearing its ugly head, and Suguru pinches his eyebrows in a futile attempt to alleviate its pain.

“Geto?” 

Utahime and Shoko are looking at him with matching expressions of concern, and it seems as though they’d been calling out to him for a while. 

“You should go back to the nurse if you aren’t feeling well,” says Shoko, resting her chopsticks. “That’s better than collapsing again.” 

“I’m fine,” Suguru shakes his head before rising to his feet, chair noisily squeaking as it’s pushed back. “I just realized I forgot to buy any lunch.”

Utahime’s frown deepens. “You could have some of mine. You know I’m always happy to share.”

It feels so wonderful to be cared for. How could he ever give this up— the way Utahime is already searching for another pair of chopsticks, or Shoko inching her knee closer so that it brushes against his… How could he give up such earnest displays of love in favor of returning to a world drowning in a sea of its own cursed energy?

“I’d rather not have your burnt karaage,” teases Suguru, though it lacks any bite. “Appreciate the offer, though.”

Utahime is so damn easy to goad, her face immediately twisting with annoyance. “You—! That’s the last time I’ll ever be nice to you! Damn you!” Utahime barks. 

Shoko isn’t easily convinced, though. He can feel her lingering gaze even as he leaves the classroom, because she’s always been far too perceptive for her own good. 

Suguru is only walking for a few moments before he’s bumping into someone, though, effectively startling him out of his thoughts. Papers scatter across the ground, and immediately Suguru is kneeling to the ground and collecting them into his hands. 

“My fault,” sighs Suguru. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No, I should be the one apologizing.” 

Suguru pauses in his movement, hand hovering over a sheet of paper. That monotonous, exasperated voice… His head snaps up, and just as he expected, standing before him is Nanami Kento. He still wears that delightfully pinched expression, and those fuck-ass bangs of his shift as he leans to join Suguru on the ground. He never knew bangs could make someone nostalgic, but well, here we are. 

“What are you doing by the third year classrooms?” Suguru offers his most polite smile, handing the gathered papers to Nanami, who huffs a tired sigh. 

“A teacher asked me to give these to Utahime-senpai for our meeting this afternoon. Since I won’t be present, I figured I’d do it now,” 

They both rise, and Suguru can’t help but chuckle in amusement. “I’m sure it was Haibara that gave you the suggestion,” 

“Of course. I’d rather spend my lunch eating, but it can’t be helped,” shrugs Nanami, scratching sheepishly behind his neck. 

Even Haibara and Nanami… Suguru decides not to finish the thought, lest another piece of his heart crack. The smile on his face is a practiced, methodical facade— the kind that Satoru would call gross. “I won’t keep you, then.” 

Nanami bows in farewell, and they begin to part ways. 

If this is the life Suguru has wished for, he doesn’t have a right to ask for more. This is what it means to be a normal high school student. Perhaps he’ll even join a club, or pick up a part-time job to help support his parents. The kind of things he’d see normies doing on his way back from a mission, with the weight of a curse coursing through his intestines. That isn’t so bad— 

“I’d rather not have to deal with Gojo-senpai this afternoon, but it can’t be helped—”

Eh?

Nanami’s offhanded mutter forces Suguru’s movements to a halt. 

Just now— Did he just say…? 

Suguru nearly stumbles on his own two feet as he spins around on a heel, and all he can think is Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. He doesn’t care about the manic expression he wears as he latches a hand onto Nanami’s wrist, pulling him back with far too much force. 

The papers scatter to the ground for a second time, and in the face of Nanami’s disgruntled face, Suguru can’t help but shout— 

“Where is he?!” 

His cry rings around them, and perhaps he should be more mindful of the eyes on them. But he honestly could care less. For the first time since he woke up in this fucked-up world, someone has uttered Satoru’s name, and he refuses to let this go. Nanami isn’t fucking answering fast enough, though, spurring Suguru to growl, a sudden molten hot anger burning him inside out. 

“I asked you a fucking question. Where is he?” he demands, giving Nanami’s shoulder a violent shake. 

Nanami seems to finally find himself. “Who the hell are you talking about—”

“Satoru! Gojo fucking Satoru! Who the hell else?!” 

Because quite literally, who else does he care more about at this moment? Who else has carved out a piece of his heart, burrowing themself in there like they own space? Of course, only Satoru would be capable of such a feat. There is a Satoru shaped hole in his heart that he desperately wishes to fill. Suguru is so desperate he feels fucking insane. 

“You’re hurting me, Jesus Christ!”

“Then answer faster!”

Nanami groans. “He’s a student at Musashi High School.” 

Musashi High School? That expensive private school? That’s where Satoru is?

“The hell is he doing at some uptight prep school?!” 

“I can’t imagine a better place for someone such as Gojo. We go to the same cram school in the afternoons, so—” With a shove, Nanami finally manages to dislodge Suguru’s bruising grasp. He stumbles backward, the buttons of his uniform popped open, and is staring at Suguru as though he’s lost his mind. 

And honestly, that’s not too far off. But not now, not in this moment— this is the clearest headspace Suguru has been in since this morning, because fuck, Satoru really does exist. This isn’t some fucked-up prank that the universe is pulling on him, by giving him his dream reality at the cost of losing Satoru. Satoru is— 

Suguru has to see him. 

The commotion has ushered both Utahime and Shoko out of the classroom, and they take one glance at the current situation before calling out to Suguru. “The hell’s going on? Geto?!”

“Not now!” Suguru spins on a heel, shoving past the crowd of students that gathered to watch. “I’ll tell you later!” 

And so, Suguru runs. 

He runs as fast as his legs can take him, out of the school that was once Jujutsu Tech, out of a life that doesn’t quite belong to him. There’s a burning ache licking the insides of his legs as he sprints. He knows Musashi High School from his own reality and can’t possibly begin to fathom why Satoru would willingly attend such a stuffy place. Is this where Satoru, the one without six eyes or infinity, decided to go? Or was it his family? Were they fated to never cross paths, attending completely different schools?

Fuck that. Fuck. That. Suguru will bend and twist fate with his bare hands if it means meeting Gojo Satoru again in this life. ‘Cause that’s his best friend, and maybe that’s silly, but just the thought of seeing Satoru again makes his heart stupidly skip over itself, a rhythmic pulsation against his rib cage. 

He runs because in every lifetime, he needs to see Satoru. 

… 

Suguru hadn’t thought this far ahead, though. 

He’s heaving in an attempt to catch his breath, body slumped against a nearby tree a few feet away from Musashi’s school gates. There’s still a few hours until class lets out, and that means he’s gonna be stuck waiting here for a while. But honestly, he’d prefer that to pretending he’s a normal high school normie. 

So as the hours drag on, he tucks himself a safe distance so that the guard doesn’t catch him, until the first few students are finally being released. Slowly, more and more are flooding the streets as they walk past the opened gates. Instead of the sailor uniforms that their school wears, the Musashi students wear prim and proper blazers. 

Suguru puts himself on alert, keeping his eyes peeled for any sight of white hair. Surely, he will find Satoru here. Considering Nanami mentioned attending cram school together, Satoru is bound to be leaving around this time. 

And yet as more students leave and minutes drag on for what feels like hours, Suguru is unable to quell the anxiety gnawing at him. 

A flurry of white catches his attention from the corner of his eyes, and Suguru feels his breath catch. 

There. 

Students part, just barely, but enough for Suguru to spot him— the gentle bounce to such unruly strands of wintry white hair, the school bag sliding haphazardly from his shoulder, the downcast gaze that slides those ridiculous black shades down the bridge of his nose. 

There he is— Gojo Satoru. 

He’s here. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here. 

Like spotting a God walking amongst mortals, graciously revealing his presence, Satoru is here. 

Suguru is moving before he can think better of it, spurred only by the pure, primal desire to hold Satoru. To touch him, feel him beneath his fingertips so he knows that he’s real. 

“Satoru!” 

Perking to attention at the sudden outcry, Satoru wears a startled expression on his face when he meets Suguru’s gaze. It’s only then that Suguru realizes how uncontrollably he’s shaking, the tremor in his limbs leaving him slightly lightheaded. It feels like it’s been so long since he’s been the focus of those blue irises, despite it only being yesterday. 

Satoru’s lips pull into a deep scowl, yet all Suguru can think is how fucking familiar the sight is. 

“How do you know my name?” demands Satoru, uncaring as ever. “Do I know you?” 

Suguru knew that this Satoru wouldn’t recognize him, yet his heart aches, regardless. He truly hadn’t thought this far ahead, his mouth opening and closing at least several times before Satoru, ever impatient, grows tired of waiting. 

“That uniform. You go to the same school as Nanami,” Satoru glances down, eyes tracing the logo of Suguru’s uniform with a huff. “We’re on opposite sides of Tokyo. The hell are you doing here?” With each question uttered, Suguru watches the suspicion grow evermore present in Satoru, who is quickly becoming guarded. 

“My name is Geto Suguru, and I really, really need to talk to you,” says Suguru, instinctively taking a step forward when Satoru takes one back. It’s been so long since he’s seen this version of Satoru— guarded and detached because he doesn’t consider himself like the others. “Come with me, please. Satoru—” 

Of course, Suguru’s earnest request is met with equally earnest disgust. “Why the hell are you using my first name?” Satoru bristles with a glare.

Because it’s all I’ve ever known. You have always been Satoru, his heart mourns. 

Satoru cannot hear his mourning, however, and he begins to walk past Suguru, sucking his teeth. “Weirdo.” 

Suguru spins around, finding himself faced with Satoru’s retreating back. It’s not a pleasant view, he won’t lie. Being left behind once again as Satoru continues living. 

No. He can’t let Satoru leave. 

Suguru grasps Satoru’s wrist, tugging him back. “Just wait a sec—!”

Satoru stumbles backward, whipping his head around. His gaze flickers down to the hand holding his, and his face immediately contorts with unabashed anger. “Who the hell do you think you are?” The exclamation immediately attracts the attention of everyone in the vicinity, the eyes of multiple students following Suguru’s every move.

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, but he can’t help but shout, “I’m your best fucking friend!” 

Satoru blinks, then blinks again.

“Haa?!” He scoffs, brows lifting in exaggerated disbelief. “I’ve never even met you before!” 

Suguru knew it would hurt being treated as a stranger, but this… A dull ache thrums beneath his rib cage. There is no one, in this world or the next, that knows Gojo Satoru better than him. 

So he takes a leap of faith, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he hears the security guard’s jingling keys approaching them because he’s made far too great of a scene. 

“Your back!” Suguru shouts. “You have scars on your back! From your clan!” 

It’s a secret, something that only he and Shoko know about. Suguru remembers discovering it in the quiet of their dorms late at night, when Satoru shrugged his uniform off to reveal the healed scars from his battle with Toji. That was nauseating enough, but then he shifted in Suguru’s bed, hunched to reveal the strips of raised skin littering his back. 

The sharp gasp that escaped Suguru caused Satoru to look back at him, head tilted in momentary confusion before his expression morphed into muted understanding.

“For discipline,” Satoru had said, flashing a toothy grin. The melancholy behind his eyes was quiet like the nighttime enveloping them. 

Of course, there’s a chance those scars don’t exist in this world— that the Gojo clan would never hurt their son as a normal boy with amazing talents. 

But then Satoru’s eyes widen, a startled gasp escaping him as his movements freeze. “How…” His voice trembles, just barely above a whisper. “How do— how do you know that? Who… Who the hell are you?” 

The shout is no longer oozing with only rage; rather, it’s a complex combination of both shock and confusion, his gaze rapidly flickering across Suguru’s face as though searching for something. 

“Please, I need to talk to you,” pleads Suguru repeatsonce more, tightening his grip on Satoru’s wrist. 

The security guard finally reaches them, placing a hand on Suguru’s shoulder with a firm squeeze. “Excuse me, sir, you’re causing a commotion—”

Satoru glances behind Suguru before shaking his head. “Let’s go.” 

“Huh? Woah!” 

Satoru breaks out into a sprint, bobbing and weaving through the crowds of students surrounding them, and Suguru has no choice but to follow. It’s irritating since Satoru moved without any accord, and Suguru has no choice but to repeat apologies to all the people they bump into. 

But as he watches Satoru’s hair dance against the wind, relishes in the feeling of thin fingers intertwining themselves with his— Suguru can’t help but think this is the happiest he’s been. Happier than finding out curses don’t exist, or that his parents are alive. 

Of course, it is Satoru that is capable of evoking such an emotion. 

… 

Their first encounter three years ago wasn’t the greatest. They were so fundamentally different from each other; Suguru plucked from a non-sorcerer household at fourteen years and promptly dropped into Jujutsu society, and Satoru, who was the embodiment of said society. Like he was crafted in the womb with cursed energy instead of a heart or lungs. Are such things important to the bearer of Six Eyes and Infinity? Suguru wouldn’t know. 

Even then, Satoru had no sense of boundaries. He closed the distance between them in an instant, and suddenly Suguru found himself facing the neverending ocean that were his eyes. He remembers how bizarre it felt to be under such scrutiny, and how ridiculous it was that all he could focus on was how irrevocably beautiful he was. 

Fingers flipped his bangs, and a wide grin appeared on Satoru’s face. “Dumbass bangs.” 

Suguru feels like he needs to remind everyone that was their first interaction. Not even a “hi” or “hello”— just an insult to his bangs. 

Obviously, they didn’t start very strong. 

But now, as Suguru sits across from Satoru at the diner they escaped to, he can’t help the amused smile that curls to his lips as Satoru reaches toward him— a familiar sight. 

Just like back then, Suguru allows Satoru to twirl his bangs between his fingers. “Stupid ass bangs,” Satoru snickers. 

Fond. Suguru is incredibly fond. 

“Yeah, yeah. Come up with something else,” Suguru lightly bats his hand away. 

Satoru’s long legs are stretched beneath the table, shoes occasionally brushing against Suguru’s as he shifts every so often. After taking a long sip of his melon float, he huffs. “So. Start talking. How do you know about me?” 

Ever since they sat down, Suguru has been pondering how best to approach the situation. He ultimately chooses vague honesty, explaining to Satoru that in another world they were best friends, and for whatever reason, that reality has changed. He tries not to talk too much about cursed energy, because even that is a little too outlandish for someone to believe, but he can’t exactly hide it either— so the existence of curses and whatnot are dubbed as ‘special abilities that don’t exist here’. 

But, to be honest, Satoru is taking it… surprisingly well? Like, he just nods along, receiving every new piece of information with an unreadable expression. After hearing everything that needed to be said, he just taps his chin in contemplation before giving one last nod, mostly to himself. 

“Got it. That makes sense.” 

Suguru blinks. “It does?”

“Well. Yeah. Why wouldn’t it?” Satoru has the audacity to look at Suguru like he’s the crazy one. Well, in the context of this situation, he kind of is. 

“Uhh. Maybe because what I just said sounds like a sci-fi novel?” 

Satoru laughs at that, throwing his head back. “Yeah, that’s true. Hmm… I’ll put it like this,” He begins searching through his school bag, charms jingling from its handles— Pokemon charms at that. Not Digimon. This world is so damn weird. 

Suguru is brought back to attention when Satoru slams a notebook down, flipping through pages upon pages of… what exactly, Suguru can’t tell right away. But then he takes a closer look and he realizes they’re all related to… 

“Physics…” Suguru whispers softly to himself. 

“Yup. If your Satoru had a knack for these special abilities you mentioned, then I,” He points to himself with a pen, wearing a smirk that just oozes with pride. “I have a particular interest in Physics. That’s what I want to major in.”  

Suguru is unable to control the soft smile that appears on his face. “Yeah. That sounds like you.”

Satoru seems thoroughly disgusted by his evident fondness. “Don’t act like you know me. Blergh,” he sticks his tongue out mockingly. “Make sure you’re paying attention.” 

“Yes sir,” hums Suguru, leaning forward to watch Satoru tap the notebook with his pen. This weird, familiar banter comes so naturally to them, and Suguru can’t help but feel a little pleased. 

“There are plenty of theories about our reality. How delicate it is, how it can be manipulated. But what I’m curious about is you.” Satoru draws a crude stick figure and two lines. “One option is that you were plucked from your reality and brought to ours. Like taking a puzzle piece from one box and putting it in another.” He draws an arrow from stick-figure Suguru to the bottom line, representing their reality. 

“And the other option?” Suguru asks. 

Yet another stick figure Suguru is drawn, but this time, he’s in the middle of the line. “This is your reality. It’s just that everything else has changed, and for some reason, you’re the sole exception.” He draws circles around the line with a pleased little hum. “Like if all the puzzle pieces inside the box suddenly changed, and you’re the only one that retained the previous design.” 

“I don’t know which is better, to be honest…” Suguru leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “The idea of me being missing in my world doesn’t feel good.” 

“But either way, all of this kinda reminds me of decoherence. Heard of it?”

Suguru offers him a marvelously blank expression as an answer. 

“You’re helpless,” Satoru huffs, like everyone should just be familiar with quantum physics already. “Listen closely. Everything starts in a state of possibility— like endless paths. But what if it interacts with the environment, something greater than them? It will collapse into one version. Following?” 

“Somewhat,” Suguru answers earnestly. It’s bizarre watching someone talk about such complex topics like it’s the daily news, but Satoru has always been a bizarre person. It regrettably adds to his charm. “Give me an example or something.” 

“An example…” Satoru scrunches his face together in thought, finger tapping his chin, before a soft ‘oh!’ escapes him. “It’s like a coin spinning! It will eventually land on heads or tails. Does that help?” 

Satoru is surprisingly diligent about all this. It’s a bit endearing, and Suguru hates that’s what his brain is deciding to focus on even now. “Yeah. But what’s that mean for me?” 

“I’m getting there! Be patient,” scolds Satoru, though his chest is puffed a little— as though pleased with his thorough explanation. Cute. “What if something— something so great, so powerful— forced the universe to decohere into this world? A world without powers. Everyone’s minds readjusted to the change. And you,” He points at Suguru with his cherry stem. “Just happened to slip through.” 

Suguru hums, pondering over the theory. “So in other words— something powerful caused reality to change?” 

Like a curse, his mind helpfully supplies. 

“Bingo! You really were listening. Good job!” Satoru claps excitedly, though his voice oozes with sarcasm. “Would you like to hear about quantum entanglement next?”

“Hell no. Satoru, stay focused,” says Suguru. “Why would I be different?” 

“Dunno. Maybe you caused all of this and you don’t remember,”

It’s said in casual passing, but immediately Suguru feels a pit form in his stomach at such a possibility; that he somehow chose to run away from the burdens of his sins, using this world as an escape. Refuge. 

It makes him sick. 

The disgust must be evident in his face, because Satoru suddenly straightens up, making this frustrated, disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “But that’s not likely. Why would you remember everything then? Would have been easier to just… make you forget. I don’t know, just—” He groans and squishes his cheeks together in annoyance. “Don’t look so damn depressed. These are all theories.” 

Oh. Satoru is fretting over him. 

The realization sends a pleased tingle down Suguru’s spine, because Satoru is so visibly uncomfortable with Suguru’s distress that he’s just rambling a weird combination of reassurance and insults.

The way Suguru’s heart twists into itself in overwhelming fondness causes a smile to appear on his face. “Thank you, Satoru. I didn’t mean to make you worry.” 

Immediately, a bright blush blooms across Satoru’s cheeks. “Huh—?! I wasn’t worried. What are you talking about? We just met! I wouldn’t worry about a stranger.” He barks with all the threat value of a hissing cat. “You’re way too full of yourself. Seriously!” 

“Pot, kettle, black, so on and so forth.” Suguru dismisses with a lazy wave. It earns him a wad of tissue thrown at him, which he easily catches. “Wow. How scary.” 

“Bastard,” Satoru grumbles before spinning around in his seat, eagerly searching for the waitress. “Excuse me! I’d like to order again!” 

As Suguru watches Satoru flip through the menu with an intense focus— more intense than discussing quantum physics, he finds himself considering the information given to him. Although Satoru said it was only a possibility, it seems impossible to deny that something powerful changed reality as they know it. For now, they’re at a standstill, and Suguru will simply have to find out more information, more consistencies besides his friends. The best way to accomplish that is through observation, he decided— participating in this new life as a means to an end. 

It’s a pain, honestly, not having any immediate answers. And there’s a simmering anxiety in the back of his mind that’s never quite gone away since the morning started. 

But as Suguru watches Satoru eagerly point to several options on the dessert menu with a big grin on his face, tilting his head up so he can meet the waitress’s gaze just to make sure she’s really jotting all this down— Suguru can’t help but smile in spite of himself. A slow, syrupy sweetness threatens to flood his insides, so powerful that the anxiety is reduced to a footnote. Satoru always had a special skill for making Suguru smile, and he’s capable of doing so even now. 

Pause. On a side note… 

Suguru squints his eyes in suspicion. “You’re ordering a lot of things. How do you plan on paying for this?” 

Satoru blinks rather cluelessly. “Who said I’m paying? You’re covering the bill.”

Suguru’s jaw drops. Including everything Satoru just ordered, their bill is surely over five thousand yen. “Now when the hell did we reach that agreement?!” 

“It's an equivalent exchange, duh. I give you information, you pay for my meal.” Satoru says, tapping the side of his head.

“I wouldn’t mind that if you didn’t just order the entire fucking dessert menu! Satoru!” 

Like the dickhead he is, Satoru just laughs. It’s loud and unabashed, just like he is, and the noise echoes around the diner. Suguru hates that he’s missed the sound. 

It’s as they’re pushing past the diner doors to leave with a chime of its bells that Satoru shares a rather sudden declaration. He pauses in swinging his takeout bags with both his strawberry shortcake and matcha cake he decided to show some restraint and save, to face Suguru with a wide smile. The kind of determined smile Satoru would wear before running off to fight a curse by himself. 

Naturally, Suguru is immediately on edge at the sight of such a familiar, foreboding smile. “What is it?” 

“I’ve decided—”

“That’s not good.”

“Shut it. Don’t interrupt me,” hisses Satoru. “As I was saying, I’ve decided to stick around with you a little longer, Getou Suguru.” 

Suguru blinks, head tilted. “Stick around…?” 

“With my knowledge and your special abilities—”

“You mean the abilities I don’t have? And you have no proof of me ever having?”

“Interrupt me again and I’ll scream. Loudly.” 

Suguru, knowing that Satoru is dead serious, purses his lips rather obediently. He does consider risking it when Satoru snorts. 

“With our brains combined, I’m sure we’ll figure out what happened to your— or maybe even our reality,” Satoru nods eagerly, proud of his own impeccable intelligence. “I’d like to meet this Satoru of yours. Or well, we might be the same, so that might not be possible…” He lifts a hand to his chin, muttering in thought as he seriously contemplates the possibility of two Satorus being in the same room together. 

It’s so… unbelievably endearing, and Suguru kind of feels like he wants to cry. Because for a majority of this day, he had been fucking spiraling, and all of a sudden, Satoru waltzes into his life with that same domineering attitude and ridiculously nerdy tendencies, and everything just feels so much better. Easier. Like he can’t help but believe in Satoru’s words, that there is a solution to be found here. 

So Suguru huffs a little breathless chuckle. “Alright. So, are we still strangers then?” He teases. 

“Pah! Of course not. You’re honored to be Gojo Satoru’s newest friend. Rejoice!” 

“Wow, lucky me.” 

“Now, hand me your phone so I can put in my number.” 

Although it would be extremely funny to decline, Suguru is incredibly weak. “Sir, yes, sir.” He lifts his hand in a mock salute. 

With incredible speed, Satoru dials his number in Suguru’s phone before handing it over to him. “There. Remember to text me, got it? I won’t forgive you if you don't. I know where you go to school,” He warns sharply. 

It’s obvious that Satoru is stalling so they don’t immediately part ways. Suguru wonders what life he lives here— if he’s still the lonely, unsocialized brat that he remembers from their first year. He wonders, perhaps selfishly, if he’s Satoru’s first friend in this reality, too. 

“Satoru,” Suguru flashes a small, amused smile. “I’ll walk you to your station. How’s that sound? I’ll even let you infodump about… quantum entanglement, or whatever. 

Slowly, like the sun rearing its head at dawn, its light stretching across the horizon, Satoru’s lips curl into a wide smile. “Really?”

Fond. Suguru is so fond. 

“Mhm. I don’t mind.” 

Satoru latches onto Suguru’s wrist with a tug, and suddenly they’re speed walking ahead. “Then come on. You’ve got a lot to learn.” 

Of course, Suguru once again allows himself to be pulled into Satoru’s orbit.

… 

“I almost forgot!” 

The sun has finally set, and Tokyo’s city lights glimmer within Satoru’s irises as he turns around. They’re standing before the train station, just about to part ways, when Satoru shoves a bag into Suguru’s grasp with more aggression than necessary. 

“Uhh,” Suguru blinks as he looks down, finding the matcha cake looking back at him. Its white frosting has smeared in a few places, but surely, not enough for Satoru to give it up so easily. “You don’t want it?” 

Satoru lets out a long, exasperated groan. “I’m giving it to you. Duh.” 

Oh. 

Traitorously, that is when his mind recalls a memory from their second year— of Satoru doing the exact same thing, because of course, he noticed that Suguru enjoyed matcha just a bit more than the other sweets Satoru would bring back during their missions. 

Suguru wasn’t a fan of sugar, not in the same way as Satoru. But he didn’t mind matcha cake so much—its subtle bitterness made it rather enjoyable compared to Satoru and his confections. 

Suguru knows this, but Satoru shouldn’t. 

Yet here he is, cheeks dusted pink with embarrassment, gaze flickering between the bag and Suguru as though waiting for his reaction.

“Satoru,” Suguru begins, utters the name with the weight of all his love— love that Satoru couldn’t possibly comprehend since he doesn’t remember any of it. “Thank you. Really.” 

Satoru flashes a pleased smile. “Welcome. You better enjoy it!” He spins around on a heel, scampering into the train station without looking back. Out of embarrassment, Suguru guesses. 

Yet Suguru is still rooted in place, and the matcha cake is strangely heavy in his hands. He tugs it a bit closer to his chest, hoping perhaps he could tuck Satoru away, too. 

… 

Of course, Suguru earns himself a long lecture from three different groups. First, it was his parents since the school contacted them about playing hooky. He could have gone without having to face his father’s rage, thanks. 

Then, the next day just as he stepped into the homeroom, he was promptly called to the teacher’s office where they proceeded to lecture him, too. All he could do was repeatedly nod apologies and show his sincerest regrets. Not that he has any. He finds it hard to regret much when he has the taste of matcha cake lingering on his tongue and Satoru’s number on his phone. 

Finally, the last —and most severe, in his opinion— lecture came from Shoko. She now stands before his desk with crossed arms, a pinched expression on his face as she glowers. 

“You dumbass. What were you thinking, making a scene like that? Skipping class? Ignoring my calls for hours?” She barks, listing his offenses like a judge about to announce the final sentence. “I should really beat the shit out of you.” 

Mind you, her booming voice is once again attracting the attention of those around them. So, technically, she’s being a hypocrite. Suguru does not say this aloud, as he does value his life to an extent. 

“Sorry, Shoko. I really got caught up in other stuff,” He earnestly apologizes— his most genuine one so far. “There was someone I was looking for, and I finally found him.”

Shoko squints in suspicion. “The Satoru person you’ve been talking about?”

“Yes! Yes. Exactly. I even have his number now, see?” He reaches into his back pocket for his phone, flipping it open so that Satoru’s contact looks back at Shoko.

She scrutinizes it very carefully. “You went on a rampage just because you had a crush on someone?” 

“Yes— I mean, what?!” Suguru processes her words too late, shaking his head as fast as he can. “It’s not like that. Be normal about this.”

“You have some nerve.” 

A brilliant idea pops in his head, though it 100% has a chance to backfire on him. High risk, high reward. 

“Why don’t you meet him, then?” 

Instantly, the irritation in Shoko’s expression morphs into confusion. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, to be honest… I have a feeling Satoru doesn’t have many friends,” explains Suguru. It’s an educated guess, and he could be completely wrong— there’s a chance Satoru has an entire community surrounding him, and Suguru is simply a background character. 

But, well… As Satoru walked past his school gates yesterday, navigating past swarms of students as though they don’t exist, there was something behind his lowered gaze; a familiar sight from their first year, when Satoru was a sheltered fourteen year old holding the weight of the world in his hands. A melancholic, yet methodical nature to his movements that Suguru couldn’t quite identify in their first encounter. But he now has the gift of hindsight, and Suguru can easily recognize such behavior in Satoru now. 

Plus, maybe their meeting can stir Shoko and Satoru’s memories of each other. That’d be nice. He misses her sliding lollipops into Satoru’s pocket during class, or his dramatic scowl when she would unsheathe a pack of Marlboro. 

He misses them. 

He knows, logically, that they’re here; Shoko is standing before him with a scowl he is very acquainted with, and the way Satoru ordered three melon floats consecutively is achingly familiar.

But it’s not the same, and there’s a possibility it never will be. It was easier, Suguru supposes, when the decision to part ways was by his own hands; a decision that he spent months mourning over, so that by the time he enacted it, the pain wouldn’t hurt as badly. 

This reality was not crafted on his terms, however. He just woke up and suddenly the world tilted on its axis, and all he can do is scramble to find his balance. All he can do is make the best out of a bizarre situation, and if that means reintroducing his best friends to each other, then so be it. 

Shoko leans against the windows, arms crossed. “Not many friends, you say… Well, sure. Let’s invite Utahime and the first years, then.” She shrugs. “What should we do? Karaoke, maybe… Arcade?” 

“I don’t have a strong preference either way, so,” 

“How helpful,” She rolls her eyes. “We can talk about it during lunch. Utahime will know a good spot. Make sure to tell Gojo, okay?” 

And so, Suguru does. Initially, he can’t quite tell how Satoru feels about it through text messages, whose response is surprisingly short besides their back and forth about where to meet up. Suguru carries a slight worry throughout the day because of it, a fear that perhaps he’s overstepped in a way he’s no longer able to because this isn’t the Satoru he knows. 

But then, at the end of the school day, Suguru steps outside with the others and finds that Satoru has already arrived. He’s leaning against a nearby cherry blossom tree, gaze pointed at his shoes as they kick at stray petals, completely ignorant of the fact there’s one sitting atop his white hair. 

“Satoru,” Suguru calls out, and Satoru perks his head up to attention. He watches as blue irises carefully glance toward the people behind him, as though analyzing them for just a moment. “You came here faster than I thought.”

“Well,” Satoru pushes himself off the tree with a lazy shrug, hands shoved inside his pockets. The rambunctious confidence from yesterday afternoon has taken a backseat in favor of something else— something guarded, or hesitant. “Classes ended early, so I figured I’d make my way over here.” 

It would be a lot more believable to the unsuspecting eye, but Suguru is trained in analyzing all things Satoru; like the red flush at the base of his neck from exertion, or how he’s unbuttoned his first few buttons, or the beads of sweat on his forehead. Almost like he— 

“Did you run here?” Suguru blinks. 

The reaction is instantaneous. A burning red blush crawls up Satoru’s cheeks as he immediately flares, jaw gaping. “What! No I didn’t! I just— didn’t want to be late, what’s wrong with being punctual, bastard?” 

Satoru rushed here after classes simply out of excitement. Seriously, he’s really… 

Suguru heaves a pained groan, the weight of his affection threatening to crush him as he reaches his hand out.

Satoru carefully follows the movement with a scrunched face, and immediately something melts in his expression when Suguru rests a palm atop his head. “Whu? What’re you doing? Surely you don’t think I’m some cat.”

Well, yes, Suguru does. But that’s besides the point. 

“Oh, he’s cute,” Shoko’s voice startles both of them, and Suguru turns around to find that the embarrassed, self-conscious flush at being caught indulging Satoru is terribly familiar, as Utahime and Shoko have been watching this scene play out with varying levels of amusement and confusion. 

“Satoru, this is Shoko. And that’s Utahime,” Suguru points to each lady after clearing his throat. 

Satoru blinks curiously. “Your bangs are fucked.” He gasps, like that isn’t an insane fucking thing to say during your first introduction with someone. “Kill your hairdresser immediately.” 

To watch Utahime’s confusion morph into unfiltered rage shouldn’t be so nostalgic, but it is. As Utahime is physically held back from sinking her manicured fingers into Satoru, who squeaks while shuffling behind Suguru, there’s a twist in his stomach that makes him so happy, he could cry. 

It’s so ridiculous, isn’t it? Suguru was so willing to let go of such experiences if it meant fulfilling his goal, but the attachment lingers. The warmth against his back from Satoru’s body pressed against him lingers. It lingers, and he aches. 

For him to give up such a wonderful blessing for the sake of sorcerers everywhere, his final act of kindness to a corrupt society… Is he allowed to be selfish, instead? 

…

Once Nanami and Haibara arrive, a spectacularly large group of high schoolers find themselves traversing their city’s streets. It’s Suguru that guides them towards an arcade in the center of Akihabara, a spot that he had visited with this exact same group during another time. Satoru, because he’s a brat, takes charge and declares a competition with the loser buying dinner afterward. 

It’s ridiculous because Satoru barely knows these people, yet he has the audacity to act so boisterous, so bossy. But every so often, he spares this glance in Suguru’s direction, as though confirming he’s there. Searching for reassurance, to keep him afloat. 

Due to the fact that Satoru is a tryhard who hates losing, a fact he would rather die than admit, Suguru loses in spectacular fashion. That is how he finds himself huddled in the farthest corner of a fast food joint with his friends, a significant dent made in his wallet because of course Satoru splurges when he knows Suguru is the one paying. Someone of his stature has no business eating five hamburgers, is that not deranged behavior? 

As loath as Suguru is to admit it, though, there’s a warm fuzziness encircling his thrumming heart. He’s sitting at the far end of their two tables, pushed together so that it could fit all of them, observing the small interactions that for just a moment, he thought he lost. Not just when he woke up in this unfamiliar world, but when he walked away from the life he knew.

As he stood in that cursed village, watching curses sink their rotting, sharpened teeth into limbs that still twitches for life, the scent of burnt human flesh infiltrating his nose, he knew that he would be forgoing the simplest parts of his life— like Shoko sticking her tongue out at Nanami and Haibara as they give her a half-assed shoulder massage, or Utahime huddling close to her while snickering at Gojo, who impressively stuffs a handful of fries in his mouth like a damn Kirby. This is the life he was prepared to turn his back on if it meant giving them a chance at happiness— at fixing a society that is inherently wired against them, their misfortune ingrained to its very structure, their blood the nourishment for a rotting tree. 

But now he’s been thrown here without warning, and he has the audacity to hesitate. It makes him a little sick how happy he is, how terribly relieved he feels to wake up without a pressure on his chest, a constant stress that comes with being a wanted fugitive in Jujutsu society. 

Suguru sighs, lifting a hand to pinch his eyebrows. Yet his movements come to a halt as his eyes catch on a droplet of red against the tray’s parchment paper, patterned with the fast food’s logo, dangerously close to their wrapped burgers. Red that looks startlingly similar to… Blood?

As he looks up, his breath catches in his throat at the slow, steady trickle of crimson that oozes from Satoru’s nose. It slips between his pink lips that are mindlessly parted, as though shellshock, and it’s bizarre. It’s an extremely strange sight to witness those blue irises flicker and meet his gaze without actually being present, like he’s looking within the depths of Suguru and seeing something that no one else has borne witness to.

“Satoru, you— your nose,” Suguru finds his voice, fumbling for a napkin on the table. “You’re bleeding.” 

Satoru, as though yanked from somewhere far beyond, startles with a jolt. He lifts a hand to his nose, carelessly smearing red as it touches his fingertips. His face scrunches at the sight of his own blood. “What the…” 

“Woah, what the hell?” Shoko catches onto what’s going on, scooting closer so she can inspect the freely flowing blood. “Did you get too excited or something? What a pain. Make sure you keep leaning forward.” Only she is capable of insulting and providing assistance to someone in the same sentence. 

Suguru lifts a hand to Satoru’s nose, blood catching on his fingers, but Shoko slaps his hand away. 

“What was that for?” He scowls. 

“You can’t just touch someone else’s blood. Duh.” 

Well. That makes sense. And yeah, Satoru finally seems to gather himself enough to plug his nose and wear his usual, playful scowl when the others begin teasing him for randomly popping a nosebleed at a fast food restaurant.

But something feels off, and it’s different from before. He carefully watches Satoru’s movements before flickering his gaze toward the blood on his fingers, how it stains the napkin a bright red as he wipes it away. There is something gripping his chest, begging him to figure out where this wrongness stems from. 

“I think I should walk Satoru to the station,” Suguru begins after a pause. “It’s pretty far from here, and I want to make sure he’s alright.” 

Satoru rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, you’re freaking out over nothing.” 

“Maybe you are. But it’s getting late, anyway.” 

“So? Who cares? You’re not my dad, you know.”

Fists clenched a little tighter, Suguru scowls. “Can you stop being a brat for once and let’s fucking go?” 

Suguru only realizes the harshness behind his words when Satoru makes a startled noise, eyes widening with a glint of hurt before directing his gaze downward. Nauseating guilt claws at Suguru, and he hates that it’s a sensation he’s familiar with. He hates that even in a world as perfect as this, he is seemingly destined to hurt Satoru. 

The silence drags on, and Shoko makes her presence known by heaving a long, tired sigh. “You should get going, Gojo. Popping a nosebleed out of nowhere is kinda weird. Plus,” She nudges into his side, tilting her head so she can peer at Satoru past his fallen bangs. “You’re pretty good at those crane games, and I plan on taking full advantage of that. So don’t think this is the last time you’ll see us,” 

Her tone is teasing, but Suguru can hear the sincerity behind them, and so can Satoru, because he looks up with a mystified expression— as though surprised to find that someone wants to spend time with him. Suguru wonders what kind of life Satoru led before this to evoke such a reaction. How did he start his mornings? Where are his parents? When he sits in a classroom, are there those who approach him? Or is he destined to always be aware of the distance between him and others? 

Suguru doesn’t know. And perhaps he should ask— not just because it may help in understanding this world, but because he doesn’t know if anyone has ever asked Satoru these questions before. 

Even after leaving the fast food restaurant, they find themselves walking beside each other in silence, accompanied by the late evening city bustle. Every so often, Satoru twitches his nose, likely itchy due to the dried blood inside it, but he doesn’t utter a word. 

“I’m sorry, Satoru,” Suguru begins, pushing the words out in spite of his guilt. “I’ve been seriously freaking out over everything, and I took it out on you.” 

Satoru spares a glance in his direction, wordless. 

Suguru rushes to continue, though. “I guess it’s just… I don’t know. In my world, a lot of fucked up shit happens, you know? And you were always so careless about things. So I guess I got worried?” 

“Suguru.” 

“And we don’t fully understand what’s going on. To you, this world seems normal. But I know it isn’t. I know what it’s supposed to be like, and so I can’t afford to be careless.”

“Suguru.” 

“I can’t— I can’t take any chances— Because there’s a bad ending to this, and I don’t want it to happen. I don’t want to lose anyone. I don’t want you to suffer—” 

Satoru is suddenly standing before him, and before Suguru can question the sudden movement— 

“Ouch!”

A pair of hands are slapped against his cheeks, the stinging pain immediately brings his ramble to a staggering halt. “What the hell, Satoru?” Suguru barks, even though it’s a little funny, if not fucked up, that his stomach flutters because Satoru has not pulled away. His hands are cupping Suguru’s face, long fingers a gentle yet firm pressure against his gauges, just beneath his chin, below his eyes. 

Blue irises are peering into Suguru, who is stunned into silence. They’re just standing there, and the city’s pedestrians walk past them mindlessly, their chattering noise fading into the background because for just this moment, it feels as though the world is reshaping itself once more— where it’s just them. Satoru and Suguru. 

“I think you’re the only person that uses my first name,” Satoru’s voice is low, a quiet utterance only meant for Suguru’s ears. “It’s always Gojo. At school, at home. Never Satoru,” He’s wearing a soft, enraptured smile that Suguru can’t stop tracing the shape of with his eyes. 

After a moment, Satoru continues. “To tell the truth, I don’t think I’ve ever had someone worry about me before. Or get so mad on my behalf. I was kind of weirded out, honestly,” He snickers. “‘Cause I mean, who cares that much? I couldn’t really get it.”

Suguru studies Satoru's lowered gaze, contemplative. He carefully hangs onto every word, because it’s not often that Satoru bares his heart out so earnestly. There’s a quiet, secretive part of him that is elated he’s witnessing such an occurrence— that even in a world where they are strangers, there is something inexplicable, something so great between them that allows Suguru the honor of being privy to Satoru’s thoughts.

Satoru meets his gaze once more. “But you do. Even though to me, we’re practically strangers, you care. And I like that you call me Satoru. You’re really… You’re a good person, Suguru.” 

Oh. Suguru is at a loss, and it must be obvious, because Satoru throws his head back with a noisy laugh. “Damn. Not used to compliments from me? You should see your face right now!” He says in between giggles. 

Images of another reality flash in his mind. Blue flames submerging a village in its heat, the corpses of his parents swallowed by a curse one at a time, a lighter passed to Shoko— the weight of six eyes following him as he walks away. 

“I’m not a good person, Satoru,” Suguru admits past the lump in his throat, the ache in his chest. “I’m not.” 

Satoru considers him for a moment, making a soft noise. “When I had my nosebleed, I had this weird feeling… Like deja vu?” 

Immediately, Suguru is perking himself to attention. “Deja vu?”

“Mhm. Like hanging out with you guys was stuff that happened before.”

Because it did. Suguru’s mind rushes to answer, heart stuck in his chest. Could it be—? Satoru recalling memories from the world that only Suguru knows? 

“And I thought to myself… If it’s true that in your world, I get to experience things like going out with friends to an arcade, or a fast food restaurant… It must be nice.” There’s a twinge of something fragile behind his words. Melancholic. “For you to be part of a memory like that, my brain has decided that you’re a good person. Simple. Don’t argue with me, either.” 

So demanding. Suguru finally allows himself to lean into Satoru’s palm, warm and soft against his cheeks in a way that makes his stomach flip-flop. Even now, Satoru finds the good in Suguru.

“You’re such a dork,” Suguru says, but it’s oozing with fondness that he hardly bothers controlling. “A serious dork.” 

And when Satoru flashes a toothy grin in response, Suguru’s heart soars. 

… 

Here’s what Suguru has established. 

One. Seemingly overnight, the world he knew has disappeared, and he can’t tell whether this new world is a completely separate entity or not.

Two. Initially, he appears to be the only person that remembers the existence of his world. But Satoru claims he felt a sense of “deja vu” triggered by scenes that have happened before. Suguru doesn’t know why it’s only him.

Three. There is no clear explanation for any of this, but there are theories. 

Four, and most importantly: Curses do not exist. 

However, as Suguru flips through a book of Japanese folklore, he finds that malevolent spirits in mythology that truly exist in his world— Kuchisake-onna, Tamamo-No-Mae or Shuten-dōji. He considers the implication behind this, that perhaps cursed energy simply ceased to exist and therefore, the world altered itself to fit that alteration. 

In other words, no cursed energy constantly leaking from non sorcerers means no cursed spirits. It’s a simple consensus, yet the implications of it leave Suguru massaging his pinched brows with a thumb, because what was so strong that it could rewrite the very foundations of reality? What happened that was so powerful, it undid an essential facet of their world, bending it to follow its will? To alter the very physics of his world? 

A cursed user? A cursed spirit? Something else entirely—? 

“Suuguruu…”

A long, drawn out whine pulls Suguru out of his thoughts. Directing his gaze from the traditional painting of Susanoo-no-Mikoto to the blues of Satoru’s eyes, Suguru levels him with an unimpressed glance. 

“You asked to come with me to the library,” He reminds. “You aren’t allowed to complain.” 

Satoru is currently draped across the table, head resting sideways against his lazily outstretched arm. “I didn’t even say anything yet!” He barks, earning him a sharp jab to his side because they’re in a library and Suguru would rather not be kicked out. 

“You just have that look in your eye,” says Suguru. It’s the same expression Satoru would wear during their off-days from missions, when he stumbles into Suguru’s room with a bag of chips in one hand and a console in the other. Or when they’re in the middle of a lesson and Suguru is trying to copy notes, but Satoru is so attention-deprived that he’d rather land them both in detention than just suck it up for another hour of class time. 

Satoru grumbles, face pinched together. “This is so weird.” 

“What is?” Suguru inquires with a raised brow. 

“Having someone I just met know me so well. Like, I don’t even have to say anything and you already know what I’m thinking,” Satoru lifts himself up, stretching his arms into the air with a groan. “It just kinda shows that you really may not just be some crazy guy. That in another world, you’re really my best friend.” 

Ah. Suguru often forgets that to Satoru, up until recently they were just strangers. He forgets that this isn’t the Satoru who falls asleep on his shoulder on the train ride back home, nor is he the strongest sorcerer in their lifetime.

He’s just… a lonely high schooler with unresolved trauma and undiagnosed autism, probably. And to an extent, that isn’t so different from the Satoru he knows. But for this Satoru here, it’s an unfamiliar situation.

Suguru doesn’t know how to feel about it. He purses his lips together in thought, gaze flickering down once more to Susanoo-no-Mikoto, how his rage contorts the waves around him, a lance plunging into the sea serpent beneath his feet. 

“Yeah. My one and only,” Suguru’s lips curl into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as his finger traces the seas. “But then we got into a fight, before everything happened.” 

If Suguru had turned around that day, would things be different? If he reached out to Satoru, who is so much greater than he is, would there be salvation for someone as bloodied as him? 

If I kept you by my side, Suguru selfishly thinks, would I have been happy?

There’s a gentle nudge against his calf, and he looks up to find that Satoru has inched closer. There’s a gentle scrunch between his eyebrows, lips pursed as though internally struggling. It’s an endearing sight, because Suguru recognizes it for what it is: worry. 

Suguru’s smile deepens, and this time, it feels a bit more authentic. He ruffles Satoru’s hair, much to his chagrin. 

“What’s that smug look for?” Satoru hisses. 

“I don’t mean to worry you, Satoru. Sorry,” Suguru reassures, applying a firm yet gentle pressure to Satoru’s hairline, a spot that he often massages due to frequent migraines. Immediately, Satoru melts to the touch, and there’s a startled noise behind his throat, as though he’s just discovering the existence of such a spot himself. “We’ll leave in the next ten minutes.” 

Satoru stares for a moment longer before finally relenting. “Fiine,” He resumes his lounging position against his arm, white lashes fluttering shut, and at this distance, Suguru can’t help but think it resembles fresh snow. 

For a while, they sit in silence as Suguru scribbles in his journal important mentions of cursed spirits in this world, just so he can research further when he’s at home. It’s useless, though, because after reaching a dead end, he decides it’s best that he live his life as usual while searching for irregularities, like Satoru’s nosebleed. 

The moment Suguru closes his book, Satoru is immediately perked to attention, rising from his seat with far too much gusto. “Finally, let’s go!” He cheers. “I wanna visit the crepe store by my house.” 

“Brat. Don’t be impatient, I have to put these books away, first.” Suguru reminds, causing Satoru to scrunch his face in clear annoyance. 

“Fine. I’ll be waiting by the door.”

When Suguru arrives from returning the books, however, he finds that Satoru is wearing a peculiar expression, his eyes pointedly fixated on whatever he sees past the entrance. It doesn’t take long for Suguru to piece together the cause, because as he stands beside Satoru, they observe the state of outside:

It’s raining. Hard, too— the kind of rain that leaves the streets slippery with how much water pools in its crevices, turning the sky a gloomy grey. Any sign of the spring sun from a mere few hours ago has disappeared, tucked behind storm clouds as though shunned. Neither of them have umbrellas. 

“What a drag…” Satoru groans, hand propped on his hip. “You wouldn’t happen to have an umbrella, would you?”

“Of course not,” huffs Suguru. “The forecast was completely clear.” 

He supposes that maybe he should have seen it coming, with the approaching rainy season that often accompanies summer. But he hadn’t thought much of it due it still being April. 

“Well, can’t be helped.” Suguru shrugs. “We’ll have to wait it out. It won’t last long, probably.”

Satoru doesn’t immediately reply; instead, he makes a soft noise, as though pondering over something. Finally, he looks up with a nod. “Nah.” 

Suguru tilts his head. “‘Nah’? Fuck does that mean?” 

Satoru then begins to stretch; touching his toes, arching his back. “My house is about ten minutes from here,” He says. “So if we run, it’ll only be five. Logically, right?” Then he starts twisting his waist like he’s playing with a hula-hoop, and it’s so cute that Suguru almost forgets to process what he just said. Almost.

“Wait,” Suguru scrunches his face. “What?” 

“You should be stretching, too. Don’t be so cocky, I used to be on the track team in my first year. Too bad everyone was boring as balls,” sighs Satoru, happily disregarding Suguru’s distress. 

“Satoru. Wait a sec.” 

“See you at the finish line!” 

Before Suguru can protest, Satoru is practically slamming his body past the library doors and skipping down its wet steps. Suguru would be impressed at how he doesn’t fall if his brain wasn’t struggling to keep up with how ridiculous the whole thing is. Almost immediately, dark spots begin dotting his clothing, courtesy of the rain, but he doesn’t seem to mind— just throws this childish, beaming grin back at Suguru, and despite the storm’s rumbles, Satoru’s tumbling, careless laugh is the only noise he fixates on. 

“Gonna keep standing there like an idiot?” 

Contrary to common belief, Suguru is only capable of withstanding Satoru’s antics for so long. He, too, is easily charmed by big blues looking up at him in earnest, and despite the fact that this is supposed to be a race, Satoru is still waiting for him. He isn’t immune to such a beautiful expression on Satoru’s face, the wide smile of a seventeen year old that wants to play in the rain with his friend. It’s such a stark contrast to that same seventeen year old carrying the body of a child, limbs drooping from his grasp as he stares at something past Suguru.

The Satoru in his world has seemingly abandoned his humanity for the sake of reaching Godhood because to him, that is what the burden of his abilities entail. Each day, he resembles a carved out shape of what he used to be, a pomegranate messily gutted of its insides, leaving everything messy and sticky and red, red, red. There was no other end to his— their— story. Their love was not enough. 

But this Satoru, here, standing in the middle of a rainstorm is just happy that he can turn around and find that there’s someone waiting for him. He is not yet out of Suguru’s reach, and that… It stirs something within him, a quiet realization that leaves him breathless.

Suguru missed his best friend so, so much. 

“Fine,” smirks Suguru, ignoring the strange urge to cry that’s begun welling up. “Don’t complain when I win.” 

One step, then two, and immediately cold rain is seeping past his clothes. He joins Satoru on the pavement, and for a moment they share this knowing look— like a couple of mischievous brats that are certainly going to feel the consequences of their own actions. But it’s so fucking fun that they don’t really care, not even Suguru can bring himself to. 

“Three…” Suguru begins. 

“Two—Gah!” 

Just to be a dickhead, Suguru breaks into a sprint. Faintly behind him, he can hear Satoru’s loud protest at his ‘nasty cheating’, followed by footsteps hurrying behind him. They certainly look ridiculous; a pair of high schoolers running in the rain, jumping over steep puddles and nearly sliding onto their asses. 

At some point, Satoru latches onto Suguru’s shirt, stretching it and he knows it will be ruined after this— because of course, the hypocrite will resort to nasty cheating himself— but Suguru haphazardly wacks it away while laughing so hard his stomach hurts. 

“Let go, you dickhead!” 

“Hell no!” 

It’s so stupid. It’s so incredibly stupid, and if the wetness dripping down Suguru’s face tastes salty on his tongue— well, that’s nobody’s business but his own. 

… 

The door to Satoru’s home falls shut behind them with a quiet click, and the pair are submerged in a grey darkness. Only the sound of their heavy breathing and clambering bodies stumbling out of their wet shoes is heard, as though they’re sneaking into an abandoned building that’s been left unattended for a long, long time. 

To tell the truth, Suguru had never visited Satoru before. Like, the closest he’d been to Satoru’s space was his dorm bedroom, and that could only reveal so much about what it means to be part of the Gojo clan. Anytime Satoru would speak of his estate, it was with rolled eyes and a petulant tone— yet beneath all of that annoyance, like a time capsule burrowed deep, deep, deep into the earth, was a solemn sadness. An inexplicable loneliness that haunts Satoru’s every breath, every step, every movement. It’s easy for others to miss, because Satoru has tucked that melancholy far away from others to see.

But Suguru sees it. He sees it now, as their laughter slowly subsides and all that’s left is an empty house; the smile on Satoru’s face does not quite reach his eyes, as he looks ahead at the startling lack of anything before him. He doesn’t seem surprised by it, though. Just sad. Like he’s become familiar with such a sight, yet can’t help but mourn all the same.  

A tiny, selfish part of Satoru— the one that takes the shape of a child dressed in kimono garbs and casts his eyes over the kneeling adults before him— simply misses his mom and dad. That is another thing consistent with the world Suguru knows, and he hates that it’s the case. 

“You can use the shower first,” Satoru declares after a stretch of silence. “Even though I won.” 

Disregarding the fact that is not true whatsoever, Suguru furrows his brows. “Won’t your parents get mad?” He asks, despite the fact that they are both drenched from head-to-toe and he would, in fact, enjoy a hot shower. 

At that, Satoru snorts. “I’d pay to see that happen,” He notices that Suguru’s concern is not alleviated, however, and sighs. “It’s fine. They spend less time here and more at the estate. I just don’t tag along and say it’s ‘cause of school. Though…” He looks back, wearing a sardonic smirk. “You can probably guess the real reason, if your Satoru is anything like me.” 

Yes, Suguru can. 

“Pardon the intrusion,” He mutters, anyway, jogging to Satoru who walks ahead. 

It’s a big house, with a long staircase that creaks in tandem with their footsteps. The walls are lined with photos of people Suguru does not recognize, most likely family members. Yet none of them contain Satoru. It’s bizarre. It’s so incredibly unnerving, and Suguru struggles to pinpoint why. Perhaps because the only occupant of this home is nowhere to be seen on its walls, like he wasn’t once factored in while decorating it. Suguru hates that. 

Finally, they reach Satoru’s bedroom, and for the first time since he’s been here, Suguru feels like he can breathe. It’s an amusingly predictable sight: anime and video game posters, an overflowing laundry basket, collectibles and trinkets taking up every corner and a ridiculously large bed with an even bigger blanket. Satoru doesn’t fuck around when it comes to a good blanket. 

A pair of sweats are thrown at him, followed by a shirt, and then finally a towel. 

“Bathroom is out the door to the left,” Satoru says, pulling out a change of clothes for himself. “I’m gonna use the one in my parents room.” 

Because, of course, his house would have more than one bathroom. He just says shit like “Suguru can go first” to be annoying, and clearly he knows that, ‘cause he looks at Suguru’s disgruntled expression and flashes a shit-eating grin. 

“Thank you very much,” Suguru says without a lick of gratitude heard in his voice. It earns him a kick in his direction which he narrowly dodges. 

Stripped to the bone with hot water running down his back, it is only then that Suguru processes Satoru’s words about showering in his parents room— which is to say, the bathroom he stands in now belongs to Satoru. The vanilla-honey soap lathered over his body, leaving him wet and slippery, belongs to Satoru. He leaves the shower so he can dry himself with Satoru’s towels, and then steps into clothes Satoru has worn. 

It’s quite nice. Well, it isn’t nice having sweatpants ride up his ankles because they fit too small, or an obnoxious orange shirt that has Charizard on it. But those are small details. 

Suguru, expectedly, finished his shower first. So he takes it upon himself to dry their clothes. Satoru’s wet clothes are in a pile outside his parents bedroom, where behind its doors he hears a running shower and terrible humming. It sounds a bit like the theme song to an anime. Very Satoru. 

As Suguru gathers Satoru’s things, he tries his very best not to linger on his boxers. Stay focused, Suguru. Be strong. All that jazz. 

Satoru reappears just as Suguru is sliding his uniform shirt on a hanger, setting it up to dry with the others. Footsteps approach him, followed by a long sigh. 

“It pisses me off every time I remember they have a bigger bathroom than mine and don’t even use it,” Satoru petulantly grumbles behind him. 

“Careful, now. Your privilege is showing,” drawls Suguru. He turns on a heel to face Satoru, a teasing grin playing on his lips— 

Only for it to immediately fall at the sight of the long scar adorning Satoru’s bare chest. 

“Eh? Oh, this…” Satoru tilts his head before glancing down, fingers tracing over the raised, ridged skin that starts from his sternum to his throat, its color dark compared to the paleness surrounding it. “Don’t get the wrong idea. This wasn’t from the clan or anything. It’s a birthmark. I’ve always had it.” 

No, no… That isn’t true. The shape of those scars… It is the result of reversed cursed technique, the efforts of Toji Fushiguro, the only person who managed to penetrate infinity. 

“Do you remember that?” 

“Huh?” 

“Do you remember having that as a kid?” 

“Well…” Satoru pauses to consider, lifting a hand to his chin. “I guess not. But that doesn’t mean anything,” He shrugs. “I don’t remember a lot as a kid.”

Why? Why does Satoru, even in this world, have the same wounds as before? The dawning realization creeps behind Suguru, and he feels his breath catch. 

“Satoru,” He begins. “I’ve figured it out. This… This really is my world,” 

Satoru’s expression becomes serious, face pinched together. “Did you realize something? Does it have to do with my scar?”

Suguru closes the distance between them in a few steps. “In my world, this wound was from a battle you almost died from. No, you really did die, but…” Suguru lifts a hand to Satoru’s chest, feeling the scar beneath his palm— warm, just like the first time he touched it. “You healed yourself.” 

“With the special abilities you mentioned?” 

“Mm. So why do you have it here?” 

Despite the stress rolling off Suguru in waves, an excited, almost unhinged grin stretches across Satoru’s face. “If this were an alternate reality, I wouldn’t have this scar. But I do. Suguru, you’re right…!” He grasps onto Suguru’s shoulders, and in his enthusiasm, shortens the distance between them even further, so that their eyes are locked onto each other. “This really is your world. Something fundamentally changed it, and people’s memories might be warped. But it can’t get rid of things that have already happened. It can’t make this—” He slaps his scar far too eagerly. “— this  scar go away.” 

Like if all the puzzle pieces inside the box suddenly changed, Suguru recalls Satoru’s words from their conversation at the diner. And you’re the only one that retained the previous design.

The revelation leaves Suguru lost. 

On one hand, it is a major breakthrough. It is the most solid, tangible proof he’s received that no, he isn’t crazy. There is a chance to reverse this, returning to the life that he’s grown accustomed to. 

It’s just… Should he? 

The nauseating taste of curses has always tasted rancid on his tongue, a permanent branding that he’s memorized every inch of— how it often gets stuck behind his throat, the slithering slide as it hits his stomach, settling with all the grace of a violent storm. 

He doesn’t want to return to a world of curses. But to leave behind the crimes he’s committed, the blood on his hands… Is that okay? 

To leave behind the Satoru he’s always known… Is that okay? If the day where he needs to make a decision were to come, which would he choose?

Suguru doesn’t know, and that deeply unsettles him. The discomfort must be visible across his face, because Satoru gives his shoulders a firm squeeze. 

“Sugu?” He calls out. “Isn’t this a good thing? Why do you seem so upset?” 

Looking up, Suguru peers into Satoru’s searching gaze. “Aren’t you scared?” 

“Haa? Scared of what?” 

“Returning to my world means you would lose everything you know. Don’t you get it? The you that you know now…” He presses his palm just a bit harder against Satoru. “Would no longer exist.” 

Satoru considers that for a moment, but clearly not long enough since he just shrugs like a dumbass. “I guess. But can I be honest with you?” 

“Hm?” 

“There’s not much to look forward to in this world, anyway. Not many people to miss, or to come home to.” It’s quietly admitted, and it leaves a painful ache in Suguru’s chest, his heart uncomfortably closing in on itself. “If I could become someone as important and powerful as you say I am, with you by my side… That sounds a lot more interesting, don’t you think?” 

Huh. Even in another reality, Satoru chooses the life of a jujutsu sorcerer. Suguru doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. 

“It’s not as fun as you think it is,” says Suguru. 

“Maybe. But I dunno, when I look at you,” Satoru lifts a hand to Suguru’s face, poking a finger just beneath Suguru’s eyes. “It kinda feels like a part of you misses it? Maybe that’s just me.”

Oh. 

Does he? 

A beat passes, then two. Suguru gently pushes Satoru away, and heaves a long, tired sigh. There is no point ruminating on such thoughts now. After all, there’s still a high possibility that he may be stuck in this reality, so long as he can’t figure out what caused it to begin with. That is what Suguru decides to tell himself; it’s easier than processing the weight of Satoru’s observation that leaves him peeled raw and open, a festering wound exposed to the world. Satoru has always had a knack for prodding at such wounds. 

“Put on a shirt,” is Suguru’s response, sliding his hands into pockets that don’t quite fit. “You’re gonna get a cold.” 

Satoru stares at him for an extra second before shaking his head like a dog, causing his wet hair to flop around in a way that’s admittedly endearing. “I’ve never gotten sick a day in my life,” He boasts. 

Suguru smiles, amused. “You said the exact same thing to me before, then proceeded to get the worst cold of your life.” 

“Eh!?” Satoru gasps, absolutely stricken by such information. “What a weakling. Who can’t even handle a couple sniffles?” 

“You, apparently,” snickers Suguru. A sick Satoru is exactly what one would expect— grumpy, moody, and entirely too demanding. His body moved slow like molasses, using his last bits of energy in dragging himself to Suguru’s room. Suguru is only capable of laughing about it in hindsight, but in the moment, pulling open the door to a disheveled Satoru crumbling into his arms like fine dust was anything but funny. 

It felt nice, though, taking care of Satoru; pulling thick comforters up to his chin, tracing the corners of his flushed face with a cold rag. Satoru would moan and whine about how terrible he felt, so Suguru should stay close. He didn’t need to do all that, to be honest. Suguru would have stayed near him, regardless. As close as their bodies would let them. If he could seep in Satoru’s skin and fuse himself with the blood that runs through his body, he would. 

Satoru makes a noise, pulling Suguru out of his thoughts. He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, now dressed in a baggy sweatshirt that seems to be the other half of the sweatpants Suguru currently wears, and he pats the space beside him. 

“I wanna hear about it,” Satoru says. “This world you remember. Tell me more?” 

It’s an honest request that Suguru can’t help but indulge. So he joins Satoru, sitting so close that their body heat intermingles, and begins to talk. 

He doesn’t explain everything, of course. Discussing jujutsu sorcery and cursed energy is simply far too tedious of a process. Plus, that’s not what Satoru is asking for, is it?  He’s peering at Suguru with open curiosity because he seeks to learn about a reality that once existed— where he was the main character in an epic, the center of the universe, Suguru’s best friend. 

With each hour that passes, Suguru cannot find it in himself to stop talking. He and Satoru change positions several times, until eventually they’re laying on their sides, across from each other. The room is submerged in darkness, yet even so, Suguru recognizes the shape of Satoru beside him. 

He tells Satoru about the missions they would go on. The dessert shops they visited on their way back, the long lectures he received from Yaga that would leave him pouting for a whopping five minutes before leaping onto Suguru’s back. How Satoru would name each of his curses after Digimon (“Digimon?! Seriously?!”) and sometimes bring back treats for his kouhai if he were in a good mood. 

Satoru has fallen silent, and Suguru chuckles. “Don’t tell me you fell asleep. Were my stories so boring?” 

There’s still no response. His head tilts in confusion, inching closer so he can better see Satoru in the darkness. But just as he does so, Satoru is moving a hand between them, haphazardly wiping at his face— 

His face?

Suguru lifts himself up to turn on the lamp, and just as he expected, blood is smeared across the top of Satoru’s lips, red dots staining the pillow he had been laying on. 

But Satoru doesn’t seem surprised by the information. He’s slow to react, lazily blinking at the blood on his hands. 

“What did you remember, Satoru?” Suguru questions, latching onto his wrist. He’s suddenly alert and at attention, frantic to hear any new information that he could find. 

“I don’t know,” admits Satoru, quietly. 

“Satoru.”

“Really! I don’t know,” Satoru barks, before casting his gaze downward, quickly wiping away at his face once more. “It was just… this feeling.” 

“What did it feel like?” 

And then Satoru looks at him, wordless. There’s a hundred different emotions flickering in his eyes as they peer into Suguru, pursing his lips. It was such an unfamiliar view— not just the sight of Satoru sitting cross legged in his childhood bed, a place Suguru never got the chance to visit, but to struggle in pinpointing the thoughts running its course through his mind. 

What are you thinking, Satoru? What thoughts are you having that make your face twist in such a way? 

What are you seeing, in this moment, as you look at me with such sadness in your eyes? 

Of course, these questions are unanswered. Instead, Satoru simply shrugs, tugging his knees close to his chest.

“I couldn’t begin to guess.” 

And that’s that. 

… 

“Eh? A festival?” 

The obnoxiously loud crunch of a lollipop is heard as Satoru bites down, head tilted in curiosity. They’re sitting at the center of the shopping plaza, crowded with a sudden influx of students leaving classes for the day. Satoru had just come back after perusing the video game store, apparently searching for a new game sold out in every store they’ve been to before this. Suguru gave up following him after the third store. 

Suguru slides over the elaborately designed flyer across the table, where Satoru gently places his bag so he can lean forward, humming in curiosity. It explains how a festival is happening this weekend with a fireworks show at the end, celebrating the official start to summer. 

“Yup. You interested?” Suguru flashes an amused smile, chin resting in the palm of his hands. “I could invite the others too. Shoko is down for anything so long as I offer to share a cigarette,” He snickers, but then hums in consideration. “Don’t know if I can convince Nanami, though. Even I can’t help with that one,”

Satoru is staring down at the poster, a thin finger tracing the printed specks of bright fireworks. “Nah, it’s cool. You don’t have to.” He says after a moment, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

Inexplicably, Suguru deflates, just slightly. He assumed Satoru would look forward to a festival; after all, it’s most likely something he hasn’t experienced before, considering his sheltered lifestyle. “You’re not interested?” He asks with a frown. 

Blinking curiously, Satoru tilts his head before giggling. It’s a loud, nasally noise that he makes no effort to contain. “You’re such a dork. I’ve never seen you make a face like that!” 

Suguru doesn’t know what’s so funny, but his cheeks are tingling with embarrassment, anyway. “If you don’t wanna go, just say so.” 

“I was gonna say you don’t have to convince either of them,” Satoru leans forward, and suddenly thin fingers are interlacing with him— soft and uncalloused from a lack of doing any proper work, “Because I just wanna go with you.” 

Oh. 

A tingle crawls up Suguru’s neck, the telltale signs of a vibrant flushing him an even deeper shade of red, yet for a different reason. He slides a hand across his face, a poor attempt at hiding whatever expression Satoru sees— because it’s making him grin like a shit-eating cheshire cat, all amused and teasing. It’s a terribly attractive look on him. 

“So, can we?” Satoru squeezes Suguru’s fingers. It feels a bit too close to what Suguru remembers, the casual touch they would often share before it was torn away from them. 

Suguru heaves a sigh, unable to fight the smile that curls to his lips. “You sure? It’d be a lot more fun with a group, wouldn’t it?” 

“Meh. I dunno, sometimes too many people make me feel…” Satoru’s face scrunches together in frustration, hands making these vague, Satoru-like shapes as he struggles to find the correct words. It’s terribly endearing. 

Suguru smiles, fond. “Overwhelming, huh?” His fondness only multiplies at the sight of Satoru nodding eagerly. 

“Exactly!” Satoru exclaims. “Hey, how’d you know?” 

“Didn’t I already tell you? You were my best friend.” He answers, and for a moment, the expression that flashes across Satoru’s expression is unrecognizable, which… It’s a bit startling, is all. Suguru prides himself on knowing Satoru the best, even after their split. So being unable to read the thoughts running through his head is rather bizarre. He isn’t even permitted the chance to study it further, because it disappears soon after. 

“You’re corny.” Satoru sticks out his tongue.  

“Yeah, yeah. Do you wanna go or not?” 

“Duh. Wait, does this mean I should wear a yukata?”

“If you want,” shrugs Suguru with feigned indifference, knowing damn well he’d love to see Satoru in a yukata. “It would look good on you.” 

Satoru bats his eyelashes, lips forming an ‘o’, as though pleasantly surprised. “You think so?” 

“The next words I’m going to say are not meant to fuel your ego, but,” Suguru stresses that disclaimer with a pointed stare in Satoru’s direction. “You’re gorgeous, Satoru. Sometimes you forget it, or maybe you don’t take it seriously. But you are, so of course I think you would look good.” 

Suguru was fully prepared for a shit-eating grin and pompous pride. So when he instead sees a pretty pink flushing Satoru’s cheeks like peaches, his heart stupidly catches in his chest. 

“Tch. Whatever,” Satoru mutters while pointedly keeping his gaze on the flyer. “Guess I’ll wear it, then.” 

He’s embarrassed, a voice distantly pieces together in Suguru’s brain. Cute, cute, cute.  

Suguru is unable to resist. He leans forward to pinch Satoru’s cheeks, who immediately squeals so loud, passerbys jolt to attention. “Satoru, don’t tell me you get embarrassed over a little compliment?” 

“Eat shit and die!” 

… 

Suguru is currently very displeased. 

“Come on, Suguru. How long are you gonna be mad for?” 

The passing comment only furthers his irritation, and he turns around to throw his meanest glare in Satoru’s direction. It’s currently seven, the summer festival will commence shortly, and outside the setting sun bathes the sky in a multitude of oranges and pinks. None of these details are important to Suguru, however, who sits at the edge of Satoru’s bed with his arms crossed, skin sticky with sweat after he fucking sprinted here. 

“It’s kind of not my fault you jumped to conclusions, though,” Satoru murmurs offhandedly, which is absolutely fucking ridiculous. 

Suguru shoves his phone at Satoru, where he can be faced with the text messages that brought Suguru here in the first place. 

Can u come

Pls

Need help 

“And then, when I said this,” Suguru scrolls through the rest of their text messages. 

??? 

Are you okay?

OMW

“You didn’t respond!” Suguru throws his arms in the air in frustration. 

Satoru scratches his neck, sheepish. “I was in a Mario Kart game…” 

Suguru is going to kill him. He counts backward from a hundred, leans forward so that his elbows are propped on his knees, allowing him to massage circles into his forehead. He tries to control his anger so that it doesn’t explode, because Satoru isn’t completely in the wrong, he knows that— He knows that he is simply accustomed to the constant survival mode that jujutsu society has instilled, that at any moment the people he cares most about will be taken from him, or that he can lose his life.

So Satoru sending a couple of strange messages and forgetting to reply isn’t the worst thing, Suguru understands. In spite of that, he is unable to quell the racing of his own heart, how his leg refuses to stop jittering. 

A hand rests atop his head, and Suguru pauses. 

Satoru scoots closer with a tiny hum, and is smoothing back Suguru’s hair with his palm. Though, he still refuses to meet Suguru’s gaze. “Sorry. I didn’t… mean to make you worry, ‘n stuff.” It’s rather awkward and Suguru can tell that Satoru isn’t used to actually apologizing. “It’s just— I’m not really used to people worrying about me, or whatever. So I didn’t think much of it.” 

Suguru studies the gentle purse of Satoru’s lips, how he fidgets with the hem of his pajama shorts. “I worry all the time,” he admits quietly. “Almost too much. In my world, things can go wrong. They have gone wrong.” 

Satoru slides his hands so that it cups the nape of Suguru’s neck, and it’s instinctive the way he melts into the touch. “Sounds rough. But, I dunno, I think  your Gojo Satoru was in good hands,” 

Suguru looks up with a slow blink. “Huh?”

“Well, I mean… I just have this feeling that so long as you’re around, things will work out? Does that make sense?”

Painfully so. 

Suguru’s heart feels like it will crush beneath the weight of his ache. We are the strongest, Satoru would cheerfully declare, wearing that stupid, overconfident grin on his face. Pulling Suguru into his orbit so easily, because the world is so much brighter, so much easier when they traverse it together. 

Then— 

“So you’re just going to kill everyone who isn’t a sorcerer?”

“You could do it, couldn’t you, Satoru?” 

“Hey, you good?” 

The voice that Suguru has memorized every piece, every intonation of, pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts, just like it always does. 

“Sorry,” Suguru slides a hand across his face. “I’m good.”

Satoru’s eyes squint in suspicion. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Can you please tell me what you need help with now?” Suguru implores, pinching Satoru’s nose with a tug. “Why aren’t you dressed yet?”

“That’s what I needed help with!” Satoru squeaks, voice nasally due to his plugged nose. He bats away Suguru’s hand to scurry across the bed, bending over as though looking for something on the ground. “I found this old yukata in my parents’ bedroom, so I was like, this could be perfect!” 

Bless Satoru’s heart, Suguru is sure he’s saying something very important. But his shorts are hitched up due to his position, revealing the curve of his rear just as it meets his thighs. It’s a devastating sight, and Suguru decides to focus literally anywhere else for the sake of his mental wellbeing. 

“So can you?”

Suguru perks up, turning back around to find a beautiful yukata in Satoru’s hands, messily sprawled across the bed. Shades of blue painted across white linen in the form of blooming peony flowers, and Satoru doesn’t even have to wear it for Suguru to know it will look beautiful on his form. 

“‘Can I’ what?” Suguru asks, and Satoru peaks his head from behind the kimono with a frown. 

“You weren’t listening. Rude.” 

“Eh. You’ll live,” His passing nonchalance earns him a kick to his side, and he can’t stifle his snicker. “So? What were you saying?”

“Help me put on my yukata!” beams Satoru. 

Good God. 

…

A naked Satoru is a sight that Suguru is rarely privy to. 

Even in the dorms, Satoru was rather careful in not using the communal showers at the same time as others. Even Satoru himself wasn’t aware of the habit, but then he paused to consider. 

“Well, it makes sense,” Satoru had said while shaking his wet hair, sending droplets of water flying. “Up until recently, I was mostly by myself. Why would I want to shower with other people?” 

A valid statement that Suguru hadn’t considered, but it makes sense. Satoru, at his core, is a sheltered boy who only had himself for company. To be naked— both figuratively and literally— and bared open in front of another is a demonstration of trust, the most honest one would ever see Satoru. 

So whenever Satoru did take showers with Suguru (and only ever Suguru, a very pleased part of his mind supplies), Suguru was careful in not allowing his eyes to linger for too long. He would sooner die than make Satoru uncomfortable. 

Perhaps that’s why Suguru is a bit shellshock at the moment, faced with Satoru in nothing but his boxers. It’s not like before where he was wearing sweatpants, or in the past where shower steam obscured most of his vision— this is the closest to naked Suguru has seen Satoru in a long time, and he is kind of malfunctioning. 

“Mkay, I’m ready,” says Satoru, turning on a heel so that he’s facing his Pokemon poster. 

That’s amazing, because Suguru sure as hell isn’t. He can’t help but drag his eyes carefully over the expanse of Satoru’s back, the strips of raised, discolored skin that resemble the stripes of a tiger. There are so many details that Suguru never had the opportunity to notice— how a mole sits just beside his armpit, or how freckles are dotted across his upper back, shifting as Satoru rolls his shoulders impatiently, and Suguru marvels at how they disappear beneath the ends of his overgrown hair.

Where do they stop? Does he have freckles elsewhere? Any other hidden marks or moles? It’s driving Suguru insane. 

“Lift your arms for me,” says Suguru, tapping a finger against Satoru’s arm.

He flinches at the unexpected touch, but for once in his life, follows the direction. Suguru begins sliding those long, slender arms through the yukata sleeves, his fingers grazing against Satoru’s skin as he does so. Suguru watches a shiver scurry down his spine in response, and tries not to study the satisfaction he feels because of it. 

“Have you ever put on a yukata by yourself before?” asks Suguru as he turns Satoru around, who blinks at the sudden movement. 

“Nope. The maids would do it for me. It’s the obi I struggle with the most,” Satoru explains, bending his neck so that he can watch Suguru as he tucks one side over the other.  

“Spoiled brat,” Suguru teases, and before Satoru can offer a rebuttal, he guides his hands so that it holds the yukata in place. “Keep it there.” From the bed, he pulls the thin white koshihimo towards him. 

“You can be pretty bossy when you wanna be,” Satoru grumbles. 

Suguru snorts. “When it comes to you, I kinda have to be,” He ties the cord around Satoru’s waist with a squeeze, and it’s a bit ridiculous how tiny it is. If he tried, could Suguru squeeze it tight, see if his thumbs meet in the middle? A devastating thought, indeed. 

“It’s kinda nice though. You aren’t afraid to be mean. I fuck with it,” 

Suguru can’t control the smile that curls to his lips, and he pointedly fixes his gaze on the koshihimo, adjusting it so that it fits snug— if he looks up, he knows even Satoru would be able to see the unbridled fondness written across his face. “To me, you aren’t some big hotshot sorcerer. Even now. Never have been, to be honest. You’re just… Satoru, I guess.” 

A pregnant pause passes, and as Suguru reaches for the obi, he glances up at Satoru. 

And oh, the expression Satoru is wearing right now… There’s this look of wonder glinting in his eyes, pink lips parted in a silent gasp, hair falling forward as he peers down at Suguru as though he’s something more complex than quantum mechanics or electromagnetism. 

“Just Satoru, huh?” He whispers quietly, as though trying to familiarize himself with such a concept. 

It’s then that Suguru realizes that he may be the only person in Satoru’s life— this life, he means— to utter such a sentence. In this reality where all he’s known is the company of himself and the discipline laid upon him, the Gojo clan heir, Satoru is remarkably lonely. It causes an ache in Suguru’s chest. In every life, every reality and every world, Suguru wishes to stand beside Satoru; to ease him of such burdens, to help him put on a yukata or spoil him at a local diner. He may have failed before, but in this reality… 

In this reality, I could keep you, Satoru.

The realization knocks the wind out of Suguru, and he feels his hands squeeze a bit tighter where it rests against Suguru’s waist.

Satoru jolts under the touch. “What are you thinking?” He asks, poking Suguru’s forehead. “Your eyebrows are all wrinkled.” 

Suguru smiles. “Just remembering how to tie an obi into a bow,” He lies, and it’s obvious that he does so. 

Despite that, Satoru glows. “A bow? You can do that?” 

“Mhm. Turn around again—” 

Satoru obliges, and methodically, Suguru sinks to his knees and folds the thick fabric in careful layers, tucking one end over the other so that it forms the start of a grandiose bow. “My mother taught me how to do this,” He remarks, using one hand to hold the bow in place. 

“Really?” Satoru looks back with a blink. 

“Mhm. I liked going to festivals as a kid, and she eventually got tired of doing it for me. She said I’ve gotta learn for myself,” Suguru chuckles as he recalls the first time he attempted tying an obi. It was lopsided and fell flat after he wiggled around a bit too hard, but he didn’t mind; his mother would carefully guide him through it for a second time, because that’s just the kind of woman she is. 

“Your mom sounds nice,” says Satoru, wistful. “I should meet your parents one day.” 

Ah. 

Suguru pauses just as he adjusts the grand white bow adorning Satoru’s back. “You said that to me before,” He whispers. 

“Yeah, that sounds like me,” Satoru sniggers. “Did I get to meet them?” 

Suguru thinks of bloodstained kitchen tiles and the revolting stench of a curse clinging to the walls of his childhood home. 

“No.” is all he can muster. “Never got the chance.” 

“Oh.” Satoru fidgets in place, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “Then maybe… I could meet them now? Like not— now now. But I mean—”

It’s almost ridiculous how fond Suguru is, his heart threatens to explode beneath the weight of it. Because Satoru is right, he does have the chance to introduce him to his family. His mother would adore him. His father would, too, after getting past that childish exterior of his. There’s this convoluted whirl of emotions stirring inside him that leaves him lightheaded, and a shuddering sigh escapes his lips. 

Suguru rests his forehead against Satoru’s back, who squawks in response. 

“Suguru? What are you doing?” He tries wiggling his butt in an attempt to dislodge the weight resting against him, but Suguru can’t help it— he wraps his arms around Satoru’s middle with a squeeze, allowing his forehead to press even further into the yukata’s linen. 

“Sorry,” His muffled voice murmurs. “Give me a moment.” Perhaps it’s pathetic to Satoru, for a boy he’s only known for a few weeks  to be on his knees, hugging him like he’s his only tether to this world. 

But then a warmth rests atop Suguru’s hands in the front. “Okay,” says Satoru, stroking his thumb across Suguru’s knuckles. “Just a little longer.” 

… 

The spare yukata that Satoru offers is a white canvas painted with black camellias, and as Suguru stands before the mirror securing the orange obi, there’s a creeping embarrassment at wearing such attire for the first time in years. Even though there’s nothing to be embarrassed of, he just hadn’t fully processed that he would have his own yukata. He should have known better, considering Satoru is currently buzzing around him like he’s a painting to be observed in a museum.  

“Do you like it or not?” Suguru raises a brow, sliding a hand into his kimono so he can mindlessly scratch at his chest.

Satoru seems rather enraptured by the movement, but then shakes his head, dismissing whatever he was thinking. “It’s alright I guess.” 

Suguru offers him an unimpressed stare. “If it doesn’t look good, I can just change out of it.” 

“No!” Satoru shrieks so loud, you would think he threatened to kill his whole family— or worse. He catches himself, clearing his throat inconspicuously. “I mean. You shouldn’t. It looks fine.” 

“Come on, won’t you give me a proper compliment, Toru?” Suguru drawls, knocking their hips together so that Satoru nearly tumbles. 

Pink dusts Satoru’s cheeks as he scowls, arms crossed. “You look good, okay? You know you do!” 

“Yeah, but I wanted to hear you say it,” Suguru sticks out his tongue, and just barely dodges the kick to his calf, courtesy of Satoru. He doesn’t admit that every compliment, every embarrassed huff from Satoru sends a pleased buzz down his spine. 

Even as they begin their journey toward the festival, Suguru can feel Satoru’s lingering gaze on the side of his face. He adores the feeling of Satoru watching him, and even without Six Eyes, there is so much weight behind those irises. 

“Did we ever kiss?” 

It’s so abrupt that Suguru nearly falls flat on his face, and Satoru flashes a bright, cheeky grin. 

“Where did that come from?” says Suguru, incredulous. He can feel the telltale tingle of a blush on his cheeks, and he haphazardly slides a hand across his face in an attempt to wipe it away. 

“So, that’s a yes?” 

Suguru pointedly purses his lips. “I will neither deny nor confirm such information.” 

“Your face is so fucking red,” Satoru snickers, poking Suguru’s cheeks, who swats it away with a scowl. “We totally did. Are you sure we were just best friends?” 

“We didn’t,” Suguru slides his hands into the sleeves of his yukata. “Happy now?” 

Satoru carefully considers him for a moment, head tilted. Perhaps he could pinpoint the underlying hurt in Suguru’s tone, the ache for someone that he couldn’t have— a distance formed that continued to grow so much that Suguru is left winded by the emptiness it leaves behind. He wishes they did kiss. 

“How boring,” is what Satoru settles on, hands crossed behind his back. He slowly pulls his gaze away from Suguru, instead looking ahead at the approaching festival. 

Instead of focusing on the ache in his chest, Suguru takes in the growing crowd of people. The smell of fried street foods tickles his nose, and the taiko drums' steady rhythm is heard alongside chattering and children’s laughter. It’s beautiful, albeit overwhelming. He struggles to take in the long line of vendors, where to begin. 

A gentle tug on his sleeve pulls Suguru out of his thoughts, and he turns to find that Satoru has inched close to him— so close that his warmth is felt past the thin linen of his yukata. 

“You good?” asks Suguru, leaning close so that he can speak in a quiet voice. His lips graze Satoru’s ears, who jolts at the sensation. 

“Mhm.” Satoru nods. “Just— a lot. Like, a lot.” 

Suguru hums. It’s always been easy for Satoru to become overstimulated, especially in environments such as these where there are so many things happening at once that the threat of him shutting down is very tangible. 

Luckily for this Satoru, however, Suguru has become rather trained in navigating situations like these before. He’d consider himself a bit of an expert in all things Satoru, actually. 

“I figured. That’s why I came prepared,” Suguru searches in his pockets to reveal the pack of ear plugs, and Satoru’s eyes widen. 

“You just brought these with you?”

“Mhm. Well, I kinda figured you might get, you know, about all this. So,” With every word, Suguru realizes just how painfully sappy the sentiment is, and he feels a blush creeping up his neck. Like, yeah, I carry around ear plugs because I know you get overwhelmed easily and I want to better take care of you. “Just put them on.” 

The embarrassment is worth the big smile that stretches across Satoru’s face. 

The festival is beautiful. Suguru allows himself to be pulled in every direction, swept up within the raging current that is an excited Satoru. He stops at nearly every food stall, and it’s a little impressive, if not gross, how he managed to shove all five yakitori balls in his mouth. He turned to Suguru with his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, a muffled “Whu?” at his expression. It’s terribly endearing. 

They both are obnoxiously competitive, and the shooting game stall felt more akin to a training session at Jujutsu High rather than a spring festival. 

“Here,” Satoru shoved their prize, a fat teddy bear that looked up with a kind smile, in Suguru’s chest. “For you.” 

“The oh-so amazing Gojo Satoru is bestowing upon me a gift? How joyous.” Suguru teased, even though his heart felt warm and fuzzy as he held the teddy bear a bit tighter. 

They stop by a stall that sells masks typically meant for children, but Satoru is so enchanted by the Kamen Rider mask that Suguru hands over the hundred yen with little complaint. He thinks it looks kinda creepy with its big bug eyes, but seeing Satoru excitedly pull off his glasses to wear it is too damn cute. Perhaps Suguru is too simple-minded: Satoru is happy, so he’s happy. Whatever he can do to make Satoru happy, he will do it.  

Eventually, though, Satoru is tugging on Suguru’s sleeve, pink lips pursed into a pout. He knows then that Satoru reached his capacity in regards to big crowds and loud noise, even the foam ear plugs. 

Suguru glances at the night sky. That’s fine, it’s nearly time for the fireworks festival to start, anyway. It’ll take a bit of walking to find a good spot that’s a safe distance from the crowd, anyway. 

“Got it,” Suguru whispers against Satoru’s ears. “I’ll get us out of here.” 

“What about the fireworks?” Satoru frowns, brows furrowed. 

“We’re still gonna see it. Just away from the crowd. Don’t worry about it, Toru,” He smooths out the strands of mussed hair from the mask sitting beside Satoru’s face, who leans into the touch like how a flower accepts the sun. 

Settling a firm hand on Satoru’s waist, Suguru proceeds to guide them through the crowds of people. In this distance, the faint smell of Satoru’s laundry detergent intermingles with greasy street food, and when he glances down, he spots a remnant of soy sauce at the corner of Satoru’s lips. He kind of wants to kiss it away. 

The spot that they arrive at is a few steps alongside the nearby riverbank, a few minutes away from the festival. Satoru immediately falls back against the bench with a long. exhausted sigh. 

“My feet hurt,” He bemoans, kicking off his sandals so that he can wiggle his toes. “I’m pooped.” 

Suguru sits beside him, their thighs pressed close. “Good work tonight, Satoru,” He praises with a gentle nudge of his shoulder. 

The slightest blush dusts Satoru’s cheeks, and he lets out a short huff. “It was a lot easier with you around. So. Thanks, or whatever.” 

“You’re showing me honest gratitude? This really is an alternate world.” teases Suguru, and snickers when Satoru jabs his foot into his calf. “Don’t touch me with your sweaty feet, gross.” 

“Fuck you, my feet are awesome.” 

“Yeah, and sweaty.”

“And sweaty. Whatever.” 

Beneath the gentle murmur of the night where cicadas chirp and the taiko drums rhythmic beat is faintly heard in the distance, their laughter rings loud around them. Satoru has a nice laugh, the kind that’s unapologetically noisy and a bit shrill, but if you ask Suguru, it warms his heart in all the right ways. Perhaps because he knows what it’s like to go without Satoru’s laughter, after Riko, he appreciates it just a bit more. Maybe a lot more. 

A quiet settles between them, and after a few moments, Satoru breaks the silence. 

“Suguru,”

“Mm?”

“Are you happy in this world?” 

The sudden question startles Suguru, and he turns to face Satoru, whose eyes are still fixated on the night sky above them. “Where did that come from?”

Satoru shrugs. “Just curious. I mean, how this world compares to ours. It’s all I’ve ever known, y’know?” 

Suguru hums, stretching his arms so that it rests alongside the bench. “I’m not sure,” He answers truthfully. 

Because every so often, he will wake up with this gnawing ache as memories wash over him in waves so powerful, he struggles to stay afloat. He remembers the bloodcurdling fear of death as he faced Fushiguro, the nausea of navigating life as a sorcerer without Satoru. He remembers the Okinawa sun warm on his skin and sand between his toes, the saltiness of the sea on his tongue. He remembers the white cotton of Riko’s summer dress, the chestnut brown of Kuroi’s hair. He remembers and aches. 

To be happy in a world where no such memories exist… Is that okay? To leave behind such guilt? He doesn’t know. Satoru is sitting beside him and yet something still feels amiss. 

Satoru makes a contemplative noise. “I have another question, then.” 

“Shoot it.” 

“Do you miss that Satoru? The Satoru from that other world?” 

Suguru can’t help but chuckle at the question. So much of life became so much more enjoyable with Satoru. Who else would pat his back as he dry heaved in the bathroom toilets, or remember to stuff his pockets with peppermint to get rid of the foul taste on his tongue? Satoru laying beside him on the training ground floors covered in sweat with matching bruises, or Satoru crawling into their tiny dormitory beds because he never wants to sleep alone. Satoru, Satoru, Satoru.

 “Yeah, I do. He was…” He pauses to consider. “My one and only best friend.” 

“Ah.” says Satoru, and for just a moment, something flickers in his gaze. 

Suguru waits expectantly for whatever Satoru will say next, but nothing comes. His lips remain pursed together, his gaze fixed ahead as though staring at something that only he can see. It’s an expression that Suguru is unfamiliar with. 

Satoru’s lips pull into a soft smile. “I’m jealous.”

“Eh? Satoru—” 

The first burst of fireworks pulls Suguru’s attention away, and he looks up to find a multitude of colors exploding into sparks, dotting the night in shades of red and orange before scattering. One by one, they shoot into the sky before cascading down like a waterfall, and Suguru allows himself to be enamored by the sight of it. Until he has the overwhelming urge to see what such pretty colors look like against Satoru’s face, and he turns around— 

Only for his words to get stuck in his throat, because Satoru’s nose is bleeding again.

Except this time, it’s accompanied by tears. Thin wet streaks fall down his rosy cheeks, and his eyes are pointedly fixed ahead of him. He makes no move to wipe his face where the fireworks paint his face a soft orange, no urge to stop the blood dribbling from his nose and over his lips. It’s as though he’s been pulled so deeply into a trance, not even the deafening boom of a firework can pull him out. 

“Satoru? Satoru!”  Suguru jolts to attention, though he can barely hear his own voice from the noise. “What did you remember?” 

Satoru blinks slowly, lifting his kimono sleeves to stained face. “Nothing, nothing— It’s fine, I’m fine, really,” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Suguru frowns. He fumbles inside his pocket for a piece of tissue before holding it to Satoru’s nose. “You’re crying. Was it something bad?” 

“It was— It was a lot. Just a lot. Look, Suguru,” Satoru dislodges the hands on his face, rising to his feet with a stumble. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Satoru, seriously,” Suguru latches onto his wrist, pulling him back with a tug. “What’s going on?” 

Satoru spins around on a heel, and he looks plenty ridiculous— smudged blood and wet face, but he still flashes a smile. He cups Suguru’s cheeks with a squeeze, peering into his eyes. “I’m fine, really. I just need to do something, and it’s important,” 

Their foreheads knock against each other, and Suguru is not immune to that expression; the soft, gentle expression that Satoru wears when it’s just them, or when he thinks no one is looking. 

“You trust me?” whispers Satoru. 

“You know I do.” 

“I wanna hear you say it!” 

“Brat.” Suguru snickers. “I trust you. Always.” 

They pull away, and Satoru flashes another smile before turning around. The noisy slap of his sandals fade in the distance, and he looks back for a final time to wave with far too much theatrics. 

Suguru is terribly fond. He’s a bit sad he couldn’t walk Satoru home, but it can’t be helped. The walk alongside the riverbank is a lot quieter, though. Lonelier. 

As the fireworks slow to steady stop, he watches its final sparks from its reflection against the river. A cold breeze passes by, and he shivers, suddenly missing Satoru’s warmth— 

Except… As Suguru recalls the sensation of Satoru’s palms against his cheeks, his hands weren’t warm at all. It’s a small detail that he only pays attention to in quiet moments; the silence of a train ride back home as Satoru rests against his shoulder, the dead of night when their legs are intertwined with another. He’s careful to pay attention to how Satoru feels against him, like when he’s being a dick and slides his cold feet underneath the blankets, or when his hands are warm as they hold each other. 

Suguru lifts his fingers to his cheek. This time, he doesn’t quite remember what Satoru’s hands felt like. As though there was— 

His movement comes to a sudden halt. 

As though there was a space between them. 

As though Infinity had been activated. 

 But that shouldn’t be possible. In this world, Satoru has no cursed energy, doesn’t even have any memories of what that was like to utilize said cursed energy.

Unless he remembered— 

The image of Satoru’s bleeding nose flashes in his mind. Suguru fumbles inside his pockets, frantically searching for the discarded tissue he had used earlier. When he begins unfolding it, he finds that his hands are shaking, because he’s terrified. There’s a sinking pit in his stomach, that creeping sensation of wrongness that started ever since he and Satoru parted ways. A wrongness that claws at him, leaves him on edge, breath coming out in short pants. 

Please, he begs. Let me be wrong. I’m overthinking things. Satoru is fine. Satoru is safe. Satoru— 

The tissue is perfectly unused. Not a drop of blood had touched it, pristine and clean like its fresh out of the package. 

Suguru runs. 

… 

Satoru’s front door is unlocked when Suguru arrives. It does nothing to quell his anxiety. 

He sprints up the stairs so fast that he nearly trips on his own feet, rushed gasps of Satoru, Satoru, Satoru slipping past his mouth. Just as he reaches Satoru’s bedroom front door, he senses it— 

Cursed energy. Despite the time that’s passed in a world where such a phenomenon shouldn’t exist, Suguru finds that he immediately pinpoints the swirl of it past the door. It’s condensed into a shape, vaguely resembling that of a blade. 

A blade? 

Suguru swings the door open, and his heart catches in his throat. 

Satoru perks up, blue irises wide at the sight of Suguru; as though surprised he’s standing here, and not somewhere far, far away. His curtains are pulled back, allowing the moon’s white gaze to peer down on Satoru’s hunched frame, body curled into itself in an attempt to brace for the pain of the blade just about to pierce his abdomen. 

“Satoru?” Suguru wheezes, his voice just barely above a whisper. “You… What are you—” No matter how he tries, he's unable to piece the proper words together, to identify this icy fear that’s left him frozen in place. 

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Satoru admits past his clenched teeth. His grip on the blade tightens so much, his knuckles turn white. 

“What does that mean?” says Suguru. “Why? Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”  

“No, I mean, you don’t understand. You shouldn’t have come here. In this reality. I—I should— I messed up.” He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, eyes flickering to the ground, and there’s shame reflected within them. It’s such an unfamiliar expression that Suguru is visibly startled— because if there’s one thing Satoru doesn’t have, it’s shame. Yet right now, that’s the only thing that Suguru can see within his flittering gaze. Unabashed, guilt-ridden shame. 

The death-grip that Satoru has around his blade pulls Suguru to attention, realizing that he has to consider his words carefully. 

“Satoru,” Suguru breathes, holding out his hands as though placating a wounded, cornered animal. “I’m not— I’m not mad, okay? Look at me, hey—” 

Satoru’s gaze flickers from somewhere far to Suguru, pulled to attention. “I did it because I wanted you to be happy. I wanted this… I wanted this to be a world you could truly smile in. So why?” 

Blood is free falling from his nose now, gathering beneath his quivering lip so that it drips like an old, rusted drain. It momentarily distracts Suguru from the words being said, until it hits him— the weight of them, the implication being presented. 

“You… wanted? Satoru, you…” 

“—Why is it that you’re still hurting? That you’re still in pain?” 

No, Satoru doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand that only Suguru is responsible for the weight of this pain, his hurt. The consequences of his own actions, and then suddenly having them be erased… An escape from such overwhelming guilt— how is he supposed to feel? 

But more than that… What hurt Suguru the most is… 

“Satoru,” Suguru lifts his head, taking another hesitant step toward Satoru. “Put the knife down, please.” 

“But I can still fix this, Suguru.” Satoru rushes to finish his sentence. “I know how to. I promise.” He grips the knife a little tighter, a little closer. 

“Wait—”

Satoru’s bloodied lips pull back into a smile. “Only I can do this. So I will.” 

In the next moment, with Satoru just about to leave his lips, Suguru is forced to watch the blade plunge into Satoru’s abdomen.

He isn’t even allowed to process the icy-hot panic that surges through him, a violent gasp stuck in his throat as everything morphs. 

The world crumbles and caves into itself; the way a sinkhole swallows collapsed Earth.

Ah. 

Dark.

A static-black blankets his vision. His body flashes hot, cold, then hot again. There’s this pit in his stomach, like he’s falling, falling, falling— Until white dots, specs of scattered light, swarms on a plane of darkness, his sight. Piece by piece, reality attempts to reassemble itself back into position.

Then it stops. And hanging above him now is the sky; big and blue and endless as it stretches over beyond. Sand shifts beneath him as he lifts himself up, fingers into its grainy texture as though it would ground him to reality.

It doesn’t. He is looking around, finding that perhaps he isn’t quite in reality— not as he knows it. Because there’s just sand. Blue skies and yellow sand as far as the eye can see. He’s in the middle of a desert, yet the first thought that crosses his mind is where’s Satoru? 

Rising to his feet, Suguru decides that he will find him. He will find Satoru, no matter how many times reality shapeshifts into something else. 

As his legs move, feet sinking into the sand beneath him, it’s then that he realizes inexplicably, Suguru is drawn to the shape of Satoru’s soul. He doesn't know where he’s walking, not quite, and only God knows how long he walks for— long enough to where there’s a burning ache in his knees and a tremble to his steps from exhaustion. 

But then he sees it: in the distance, resembling a blotted dot of ink on blank paper, is a body crouched low to the ground. He knows, instinctively, it is Satoru.

A few steps, and the distance between them closes. Suguru stands before Satoru’s huddled form. His knees are tucked close to his chest, gaze fixed low. He makes no move to acknowledge Suguru’s presence, unmoving like the great Buddha statues he sees in temples. 

“Where are we?” Suguru asks. His voice feels impossibly loud in the silence between them. 

Satoru doesn’t move. “Nowhere. Right now, nothing exists.” 

Suguru looks around at the miles of sand. They are truly standing at the center of nothingness.

The silent standstill stretches onward for another few moments before it is finally broken. “I didn’t mean to do it,” Satoru begins, but then he snorts. “That’s what I want to say. But I’d be lying, to be honest.”

Suguru studies Satoru carefully. “Do what?”

“This,” Satoru stretches his arms, gesturing wildly to the desert. “All of this. Everything that happened. It just… did.” 

The admittance doesn’t startle Suguru as it should. Instead, he sits so that he’s across from Satoru. “The world changing, everyone’s memories getting all— fucked up. You did this?”

“I remembered everything. Everything,” says Satoru. His glassy eyes glance up at Suguru. “That day in Shinjuku, watching you leave… I realized that this strength means nothing,” He holds out his palm, clenching it tight. “That apparently, it’s not enough to be strong. Because if I couldn’t save you, what’s the point?” 

“Satoru…” 

“I thought— if there weren’t any curses, that summer wouldn’t have happened.” He continues, and it’s then that Suguru recognizes the sharp blue glow painting Satoru’s irises. Six eyes. “So I did. I erased it.” 

Suguru is mystified. For Satoru to have felt so much grief, so much pain over his defect, that he forced the world to obey his deepest, most selfish wishes? 

“To rewrite the fabric of reality with an abundance of cursed energy only possible through the strongest sorcerer… That’s what this is. A cursed event.” explains Satoru, and the weight of it rests heavy on Suguru as he connects the final pieces together. “I wanted a world where you could live happily. And I wouldn’t have to remember.” 

“How did I remember then?” 

“I fucked up. I didn’t— I didn’t want to let you go completely, I think. Subconsciously, maybe I just wanted you to miss me.” 

It’s a lot of information at once. A moment passes. Then two. 

And then Suguru proceeds to laugh so fucking hard his stomach cramps. 

It’s obnoxiously loud in the silence of wherever they are, but he can’t help himself. He clutches his chest, head thrown back as he proceeds to laugh his heart away. And he’s just about to calm down, wiping a stray tear of mirth, but then he sees Satoru’s dumbstruck expression that looks so ridiculously stupid that he doubles over laughing again. 

“What the hell?” Satoru snarls, pointing a threatening finger. “What’s funny about this? I’m being serious, you dickhead! Lock the fuck in!” 

“I know, I know— It’s just—” Suguru says in between wheezes. “You’re really something else, Satoru. Seriously.” 

“What’s that mean?”

Honestly, Suguru doesn’t know. He feels a little insane, dizzy, and there’s so much swirling inside him that he can’t possibly put them into words. All he can do is kneel forward and pull Satoru into his arms. 

The sudden movement startles this soft, surprised gasp from Satoru, and yet he melts into the touch instinctively, settling his chin so that it rests against Suguru’s shoulder. He’s so warm, Suguru wants to drown in it. 

“I went crazy looking for you, you know? I spent, like, two hours in a world where for a moment, I thought you didn’t exist— and proceeded to faint. No joke.”

Satoru’s breath of laughter tickles his skin. “Loser.” 

“Shut up.” drawls Suguru. “And then I found you. Still an annoying brat. Still spoiled rotten—”

“Hey!”

“— But God, Satoru, I missed you so fucking much.” Suguru rushes to continue, feeling his heart peel back and bare itself; raw, open and pulsating. “Then I wondered, is this okay? If this isn’t the Satoru I remember, the world I’ve always known… Could I still be happy?” 

Satoru flinches in his grasp, because there is the crux of the issue. Suguru can only imagine the guilt that Satoru carries after regaining his memories; forcing Suguru into a new world, where even then, happiness may not be completely attainable for him. A guilt so overwhelming, Satoru decided that he will right the cursed event with his own hands— by taking out the cause, himself.

But Satoru has to understand. 

Suguru holds him tight, fingers tangling itself with white locks. “But then it just hit me. Satoru, I love you.” 

“Eh?” Satoru replies, dumb. Cute.

He pulls away, shoulders planted on Satoru’s shoulders with a firm squeeze. “I love you. No matter how the world changes, I still end up in love with you. Living in this weird, different reality is okay because I love you. I love you, I love you, I—”

“Stop!” Satoru screeches, a bright, stunning red staining his cheeks. “I get it, I get it! Stop saying it!” 

“I want to be in this world with you. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t… I didn’t want to feel like I was leaving you behind…” Suguru says, recalling the regrets that plagued him; the realization that no, he doesn’t want to walk away from Satoru for a second time in a reality where they could be happy. “So, Satoru—” 

Perked to attention, Satoru is latching onto every word that Suguru utters, wearing a sort of wild, wide-eyed expression as he processes everything being told. In the distance, he can hear the sound of something cracking, like chipped glass.  

“Take us back.” 

Satoru’s breathing hitches. “Even if we won’t have any cursed energy?” 

“Yeah.” Another crack. The sky behind Satoru fractures.

“Even if it means leaving behind our old world for good?”

“Forever.” More cracks. Vibrant blue crumbles away into nothing; the color of Satoru’s eyes. 

“Because I don’t think I can pull this off again. It’s— It’s all or nothing, Suguru. You understand, right?”

“I do.” Tearing away is the very fabric of reality, shredded piece of clothes with the blade that is Satoru’s feelings, his overflowing cursed energy. 

“And I— I don’t know what this will do to our memories. What it will do to us. If it’ll even work for a second time!”

There’s a slight tremor in his words, a furrow in his brows, and Suguru decides that he wants to wipe away such an expression, to quell his anxiety once and for all. 

So Suguru kisses him. 

Satoru makes this surprised gasp against his lips, body rigid as though it’s malfunctioning— struggling to keep up with Suguru. He stops, restarts, and there are fingers now tangling themselves with black inky locks, thin nails scraping his scalp. 

A breathy, light laugh separates them for a moment, and Satoru is beaming so stupidly bright. “You’re a fucking loser,” He says, foreheads knocking against each other. “But I love you, Suguru. I do.”

The world caves into itself, sky finally shattering into a million pieces— and Suguru feels his heart soar past. For reality to reshape itself, interwoven with their feelings… The happiness is so overwhelming, he feels like he’s gonna float away, and his only tether is Satoru’s arms wrapped around him. 

Selfish. It’s ridiculously selfish to change the very foundation of their universe so that they can be together. But Suguru finds that he doesn’t mind being a little selfish if it means having Satoru look at him with such a wonderful expression. 

Let it happen. Let it happen. Remember me, remember me. 

Wakefulness comes in slow, steady increments. 

Suguru peels his eyelids back to find the beginnings of morning light creeping through his blinds. His gaze passes through his bedroom, slowly absorbing bits and pieces of his surroundings; from the band posters thumbtacked to his ceilings, to the broken alarm clock that he hasn’t replaced the batteries for in years.

Sluggish. There’s a heavy drowsiness weighing him to the bed, a film over his eyes that persists even as he slides a hand across his face— as though he had been dreaming for a terribly long time, and only just woke up. 

Wrong.

Something is— 

Then all at once, memories come rushing into him, unforgiving and overwhelming like the tides of Okinawa during typhoon season. A ragged breath catches in his throat, hand clutching at his chest because he swears, his heart threatens to jump out because he remembers a desert with no one, sand dunes stretching beyond the horizon, warm lips pressed against his, and— 

Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. He remembers Satoru. He remembers the marvelous swirl of emotions in his blue eyes, staring at Suguru with so much wonder, as if he’s something so great, so wonderful.

It’s embarrassing the speed in which Suguru scrambles out of bed, feet carelessly tangling themselves with his bedsheets. He falls flat with a deafening thump, but the pain is merely an afterthought compared to how fast he moves. 

Down, down, down the creaky staircase he goes, footsteps thundering. His thoughts are racing, he can’t track how fast they move. How much time has passed? What was altered through their selfishness, their final attempt at building a world together? What if Satoru forgot him? 

He’s moving so fast that he runs past the homemade breakfast that’d been patiently waiting for him— and only when his mother calls out to him does he realize. 

“Suguru?” His mother tilts her head, a bowl of steaming white race in her grasp. “I heard a noise upstairs. Is everything alright?” Thin inky locks slip from her bun, resting beside her cheek. 

“It’s— Fine. Everything’s fine, I just—” He rambles, unable to keep up with the speed in which he speaks. 

Her confused hum interrupts him. “Look at you! You’re still in your pajamas. Where’s your uniform?” She asks, considering his appearance with quirked brows, confusion evident. “Where are you going?”

The answer comes easy to him, like breathing. “I’m going to find Satoru!” He declares, his grin a bit manic, too excited. 

“Satoru?” His mother parrots. Ah, Suguru remembers, in their reality— their original reality— Satoru never had a chance to meet her. 

Suguru’s expression softens. “I’m gonna invite him for breakfast. You’ll meet him soon.” 

She blinks once, then twice, before giggling. “I look forward to it, then.” 

And so, Suguru runs. His heel digs into the back of his sneakers because he didn’t put it on properly, and he’s sure he looks ridiculous running around in his pajamas.

But then none of it matters— because there, in the far distance, a tiny white blip down the street that’s rapidly approaching him— 

“Satoru!” Suguru shouts. 

It’s Satoru. Hair lopsided from sleep, cheeks flushed pink from exertion, and his shirt on back to front, as if he left the house so quickly he didn’t spare another glance at his own appearance, yet he looks so, so pretty. His expression shifts from open awe to unbridled happiness. “Suguru!” He cheers in the distance, and suddenly the overwhelming urge to hold him overwhelms Suguru so much, he’s running even faster. 

Their collision is a spectacular fucking mess, the impact of their bodies harsh enough to leave Suguru’s bones tingling. But it’s instinctive the way he wraps his arms around Satoru’s frame, nails dragging itself down his spine and relishing the breathy giggle that tickles his neck. 

Satoru cups Suguru’s cheeks, forcing their gazes to meet, just so he can smother obnoxiously wet kisses over his face. 

“Gross! Satoru!” Suguru wheezes, teasingly tilting his neck to avoid the targeted assault. It’s so stupid. It’s all so silly— standing in the middle of the sidewalk in their pajamas and crust in their eyes. Satoru laughs and he still has morning breath, but it’s perfect. 

A beat of silence passes as their foreheads press against each other. 

“It worked,” says Satoru. 

“Yeah. It did.”

Another pause. “Do you… regret it? Is this… a world you can truly smile in?” 

“Satoru,” drawls Suguru. “You’ve never been one to sound so doubtful.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Satoru barks with a snarl. “God forbid I ask questions—ack!” 

Suguru pinches Satoru’s side, earning him a sharp jab. “No regrets. If rewriting the entire universe means choosing you— I’d do it again.” His gaze flickers down for a moment. “I already made that mistake once, didn’t I?”

Satoru stares at him with barely disguised wonder, before breaking into a wide smile. “Yeah, you fuck up. I gave you a cheat code so that you’re not a criminal anymore!” 

“How kind of you,” Suguru snickers, and just because he can, he pecks at Satoru's lips with his own. The bright pink plush on his cheeks when Suguru pulls back is very, very satisfying. 

“Dick.” Satoru pouts. 

“You have a terribly foul mouth. And here I was, about to invite you for breakfast.” 

Immediately, Satoru lights up. “Breakfast?! I get to meet Mama Geto!? Why are we still waiting here?” 

Thin fingers intertwine themselves with his own, and Suguru allows himself to be pulled in whatever direction Satoru desires. Inevitably, Suguru will have to take over because Satoru simply doesn’t know where his house is.

But that’s neither here nor there— there’s a tomorrow to look forward to, a world where he can truly smile, and Satoru looks back at him with love in his eyes. 

Yeah. This feels right.