Chapter Text
“Holy shit holy shit holy shit Agumon this thing is talking, fucking spewing out real words” Satoru says a bit breathlessly into the speaker of the chip he coded to detect the mysterious ‘cursed’ energy of the things apparently only he could see, perks of being bit by some radioactive spider, maybe. He kind of has bigger things to worry about though, given that he’s currently swinging from building to building trying to get away from said cursed energy, spirit, monster, whatever.”
Last night, 10:11 PM
The night started calmly, Satoru went out for dinner with Suguru and Shoko after their midterm exams. They were at some bar that Shoko and Utahime had found in Kyoto, it was nice, the music was just the right volume and the strobe lights weren’t violently pulsating but actually changing with the beat of the music. It was nice, actually, the food was surprisingly high-scale for a bar, Satoru wouldn’t know anything about the drink menu though, he will not be hungover for his lecture tomorrow thank you very much. He leaves the drinking on a Sunday to the rest of them while he sips on his neon blue mocktail, complete with sugar around the rim and a cute yellow umbrella.
“Gojo that shit looks radioactive what the hell are you drinking” Shoko chided
“You’re literally drinking beer, not even like wine or something”
“C’mon Shoko y’know princess over here can’t handle his alc” Utahime, not so helpfully added
“You’re all going to be so jealous of me when I don’t wake up with a raging hangover and ugly bedhead” sliding his gaze over to Utahime, who responds with a scowl, feud exacerbated through drunken stupor.
“Hmm some of us actually have a tolerance” Gojo feels a hand slung over his shoulder as Suguru slips into the seat next to him, drink in hand, it’s wine, something dark, red maybe Satoru thinks.
“You’re all alcoholics” he says grumbling, leaning into Suguru’s side regardless.
The four of them had known each other since junior high, when Satoru was fresh from homeschooling and kind of an emotionally unaware jerk, and he’s grateful they decided to stick with him for so long. It’s corny when people say ‘they wouldn’t trade the world for this’ but it’s true, Satoru truly would do anything to keep his friends, the ones who showed him kindness and acceptance when he’d never even known what it was like to talk to someone his age. Friendship was never easy for Satoru, hell, not even for people around him to even try to be friends with him, but they tried, and to Satoru, that's what it means. Friendship means to try, and to keep trying, it means making him hot tea and soup the first time he got hungover, it means borrowed hoodies and matching pajamas, it means love entwined in tangible things. It means reading one another with a glance and all the talks, pep-talks, heartfelt talks, and knock-some-sense-into-you talks. Maybe it’s like secondhand drunkenness or something, but he’s feeling emotional tonight, sue him.
It’s almost past midnight, time slipping by them like sand through fingers before bending to the will of the wind. Deciding not to overdo it before classes, Satoru had driven Shoko and Utahime back to their apartment while Utahime draped herself over Shoko complaining about their early morning cardiothoracic rotation. Satoru was obviously the designated driver, because he couldn’t drink even if he wanted to, unless he wanted to be loose limbed and hazy for the entire night It all spirals from there, really, so maybe it was all Utahime’s fault. Kidding, of course, maybe.
Satoru had developed a small chip software, coined Agumon, yes the one from Digimon, he’s iconic, to place on his glasses to let him see the exact location, concentration, and approximate accumulation of cursed energy around them. Cursed energy stemmed from peoples emotions, usually negative, like anger, sadness, and jealousy. They formed these big ugly curses, that apparently no one else could see because Satoru was the lucky guy who’d waltzed into his parent's company and gotten bit by some radioactive spider in one of the hidden labs, so maybe it’s his parents fault. Not kidding, it definitely is. He never said anything to his parents of course, to anyone really, before he could investigate further because what the actual hell. Long story short, he now has superpowers where he can see these curses, blast them with something he likes to call limitless, is super strong, and for some reason no curse can touch him, which makes it kind of easy to take them down.
He was still in the car with Suguru, albeit half knocked out, when Agumon started filtering information into his glasses, flaring red cautions and error signs filled his sight. Satoru blinked rapidly before pulling over into the shoulder and reading the errors and cautions, fiddling with small clasp on the side of the lens to request coordinates, his suit and mask were on under his clothes all the time now, but he still had to get Suguru home. He’s so thankful Suguru could sleep through a literal earthquake right now. Now rushing to his apartment underneath the night sky of Tokyo, the glow emitting from tall buildings and the hum of cars on the bridge alongside them. He dares to glance at Suguru, eyes fluttering as he struggles with the inability to stay awake and asleep. The moon filtered light in through the window, pale light dancing across his face, his hair, his clothes catching the matching silver ring on his pinkie. Yeah, Satoru would do anything for his friends.
Pulling into the garage of his apartment, he all but drags Suguru out of the car, letting the weight of his friend onto his side. They hobble through the front door of their complex until they reach the elevator, the ding causes Suguru to stir against him, but he’s otherwise vaguely conscious. Always been a sleepy drunk, even in highschool, he’d hold his own well enough but after a couple hours he was out like a light. Satoru never had any qualms getting him to sleep again. It’s easy, for him, at least, but maybe that’s because they’ve always been in tune with the other, coordination even when inebriated, seeking out the warmth of the other. Friendly things, of course.
. . • ☆ . ° .• °: *₊ ° . ☆**
The Next Morning 9:15 AM
When Suguru and Satoru were in junior high they would spend night after night watching detective movies, any they could find, really, whether it be Japanese, English, or even the occasional French. They’d watch them in black and white, because it builds the tension so much better, Satoru would say, and because Suguru would always give into those bright blue eyes, he’d agree. Satoru would get paranoid and then demand they watch a space documentary, then he’d fall asleep first after telling Suguru the entire premise of the documentary. Their parents would find them fast asleep while leaning into each other on the pull-out couch, as if there was subconscious need to be near each other even as they slept. Even in a state of unconsciousness, of varying levels of awareness, they could sense one another through the sound heartbeats and the scent of their laundry detergent, like dolphins using echolocation.
That’s why it unlocks a pain in Satoru’s chest that he has to hide this from Suguru, he just simply couldn’t. Telling him would mean putting him at risk, for all the negativity in the world to swarm around the one person Satoru found solace in. It could mean another gash down their abdomen, or another scar on their chest. Satoru would never tell Suguru because he would never let him relive the utter devastation, pain, and trauma that they’d seen when they were only 18, barely adults. Their lives had been steady, easy, and lovely, even. Until that day, until that day that knocked them out of their regular orbit, crashed their lives, altering their timeline as fast as a string snapping in the middle of a symphony, like the bridge popping off and the sounds of the strings were never the same again.
Satoru wouldn’t describe himself as selfless by keeping this secret, by any means. He’s really, truly, incredibly selfish. He’s greedy, really, and guilty. Greed and guilt. Greedy, guilty, and Gojo. When he was freshly in his 20s, practically beaming to be out of the estate in Kyoto, he didn’t realize that he failed to grasp the breadth of influence of his parents company. It came back to bite him in the ass, or stab him in the chest. Whichever saying you prefer. He met death and he survived, he met death while Suguru’s cousin, who was like his little sister, died. The weight of that would weigh on him heavier than any blade could. He started vigilantism because he’s selfish. He started vigilantism because he was failed, Suguru was failed, and Riko was failed.
They’d been at the beach before, Okinawa, underneath the big, bright, blue sky witnessing the vast, expansive, glittering ocean before them. The memory is bittersweet now, it was the last time they’d all been together like that, happy. The last memory unmarred by blood. When he got bit by that spider it was like a curse and a blessing all wrapped up around two sharp fangs of an arachnid, piercing into him and watching which one took to his bloodstream first. It was the curse, because something about Satoru attracted it like a magnet, when he went after Riko, she’d been with Suguru, he picked her up from school. Normal. Regular. Safe. But Curses have a way of manifesting when you least expect it, and the rest would be engraved in him for the rest of his life, right on his chest, above his heart, and diagonally down through his abdomen. Because Gojo Satoru survived, because he was blessed by a spider bite. He was not there to protect either one of them, and what good would a blessing do if he left the ones he loved alone, cursed.
Since then, his routine had been going about his regular activities: wake up, school, library, get lunch with Suguru, and maybe go out on the weekend, drive everyone home, and in the depths of the night he’d go out and do what he could. Curses, humans, whatever. There’s really no distinction between the two if you really think about it. One amalgamating because of human emotions, one because you simply are a human. There are some people who just live with evilness coursing through them.
Therefore, it’s not surprising as the two wake up once again, intertwined underneath a weighted blanket, Satoru can feel his heart rattling against his ribs. The gentleness of Suguru’s face as he’s sleeping, he knows the gravity of what he’s hiding, but he would never, ever, come in the way of Suguru’s happiness. If it’s not the sound of the thumping in his chest that gets him up, it would be the sound of Gojo’s blaring alarm goes off from his nightstand, and no it wasn’t a regular one, it was one of those freakishly loud and off-putting buzzing ones— the one Suguru got him because he was tired of waking him up for class when they shared a dorm back in their freshman year of college. It was pretty safe to say that Satoru hated it then, and he’s not surprised to find he still does because now he’s frantically reaching over to his nightstand and flailing his arms about to turn the damn thing off. Maybe he overdid it last night, but he usually recovers by the time he gets home, weird. Slowly blinking into consciousness after the vexatious sound began to settle, Satoru manages to catch a glimpse of the time, 9:15. Well shit, he thinks, already 15 minutes late to his gravitational-wave physics lecture. If he doesn’t start booking it right now, his professor, Yaga, is most definitely going to chew his ass out and give him like 30 papers to grade.
All the tiredness suddenly cleared out of his eyes at the thought of getting a scolding, like a rebellious teenager at the big age of 21. It’s not technically his fault, he was busy kind of saving the world from cursed spirits, but he still finds himself jumping off the bed and almost tripping on the thick weighted blanket that was pooling around his feet, he snatches his toothbrush from the bathroom: rinsing, adding toothpaste, rinsing again, and then brushing. He probably looks absolutely, positively insane pacing around his room with toothpaste slowly frothing at the corners of his mouth, gathering his materials for lecture, and manically searching for something at least half decent to wear—also, where the hell is his phone?
The universe chooses to bestow grace upon Satoru, and the vibration of a call, probably from his underclassman Haibara asking where he is, carried through the pillows. The sound is muffled from underneath the heap of pillows that adorn his bed, but it carries through the pillows and wakes up the one and only Suguru Geto, currently patting his hand around the couch to find the culprit, not without complaining apparently. It’s right underneath the almost life-sized Greymon plush that, again, Suguru had bought, won, but he’d never admit it, for him at the arcade for his birthday when they were third years in high school. Yes of course he kept it, he’s not a monster who throws out sincere birthday gifts, it has nothing to do with the fact that his best friend was the one who won it for him, nothing of the sort
“What the hell is fuckin buzzing at this hour” he says with a groan, “Satoru?” he adds, reaching straight out where Satoru had just gotten up from, feeling for a heartbeat, echolocation, like a dolphin.
“Yeah, yeah sleepyhead it’s me, I’m a little late for class, you can sleep, it’s only 9:00,” he drawls out while craning his head to look at the terrible, terrible alarm clock, “20, shit, I gotta go, bye Suguru, see you after class”
“Bye ‘toru, text me, and fucking eat,” which comes out a little muffled, more like Bye ‘oru, tes me, ‘n fucn eaf
It’s a casual intimacy they have between them, the way they say their names, the way they look after each other. It’s the kind that comes from a near decade of friendship, like a system reaching equilibrium, the perfect amount of give and take.
“Will do” he salutes and starts beelining it to the kitchen to make breakfast, he re-heats the leftover natto and rice from last night, he saves most of it for Suguru because he likes to have the protein before he goes to kickboxing before his first class. He leaves a note on the microwave before he gets one last look at the clock, which now reads 9:30, Gojo is now contemplating every decision he made to get to this point, because his professor is going actually going to clobber him, like he’s going to find someway to shrink Satoru into an atom and put him in a quantum time machine and send him to who knows when and then win the Physics Nobel Prize for it.
Successfully making it outside of his apartment at a somewhat acceptable time, he was surprised to not be met with the the usual swarm of people rushing to their destinations whether it be school or office, or the regular cacophony of voices creating sound waves whipping and coiling through the air and caused him to hear the jumble of words from snippets of various conversations going on around him. Instead, in this moment, although he is now what one would say very late to class, the walk is peaceful, tranquil even. A stark contrast to the usual noise of construction on the street and the building in front of his and the faint sound of a PA slipping through the sliver of space from his open window in his room, and the awful honking of cars that made him close said windows immediately. He’s never really gotten the chance to casually stroll outside, given the fact that he is constantly hunched over a problem set, working out complex equations on his whiteboard, or writing a paper that has him wringing out strings of words to try and sound somewhat coherent and meaningful.
Now, he takes the time to enjoy the view he pays for, watching the tree lightly sway against a bright blue sky filled with fluffy cumulus clouds has him taking a much-needed deep breath, slowly inhaling and exhaling in time with the wind whistling around him. Light refracting off of the shallow pond in the park similar to diamonds glistening along with the sound of kids running, the light patter of shoes hitting cement sidewalks, and the light symphony of parents laughter has a warm feeling spreading through his chest. He never exactly had that as a kid, growing up sheltered and homeschooled, a trip to the park meant a trip with a nanny and never a parent, and he never actually got to play, only sit and watch or listen to a boring lesson about botany from a tutor he bet couldn’t even tell you his given name. Unfortunately, that was the life of being a Gojo, as in heir of Gojo Biotechnical Inc, where lifechanging innovations were being created like one of those restaurants that sell sushi on conveyor belts. Not a life for him, not a life at all really. Never mind that, the science building was getting closer in sight, passing the bright Gingko trees that had taken up vibrant yellow, orange, and red shades of Autumn while passing through the stone archways of the university, the familiarity of it all creeps into his bones, up his legs and wisping over each vertebrae in his spine knowing that after he graduates his parents will whisk him from Tokyo and deposit him into some cubicle in Kyoto to work for his family company; and as any responsible 21 year old would do, he plans to delay this graduation and entrance into the real world by racking up degrees like empty plates in the kitchen sink, convincing his parents that the world would not take lightly to some fresh physics and astronautics undergraduate student suddenly being in line for a position as CEO for a biotechnical company. But even he himself knows it’s only so much longer until his inevitable demise comes, if he could stay in a vacuum of this very time, he would. That said, he walks a bit slower to class.
The hallways of the building are quite literally empty, like not a soul in sight, no energy detected. If he were to drop a pin the sound would probably ripple through the entire building and cause a shock, well if he wasn’t nervous before he definitely is now, did they have some test that he forgot about? DId Yaga give out a pop quiz that was worth 30% of their grade, the man hates grading, but does he hate the students too? Calm down Gojo, it’s probably because Yaga finished lecture early or maybe lecture is still going on, hell, all of these classes have at least 2 and a half hour lecture going on right now, it’s not like a carnival fair is going to make it’s way through campus. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.
Making his way down the hallway, he reluctantly opens the door to Yaga-sensei’s room (yes, now he has to conform to speaking politely in case Yaga can now read minds). The breeze from the air-conditioner hits him like salvation, the sun was baring down on him, pale skin not doing him any favors. As expected Yaga-sensei gives him the most barren straight-faced stare he could muster, it’s almost a bit menacing, as if he’s boring into the depths of Satoru’s soul, he holds his breath to stop his thoughts from racing— you know, just in case he can read minds.
“Good morning Sens—” the white haired man starts before being abruptly cut off
“Care to explain why you are almost an hour late to my class, Gojo”
“So sorry Sensei, my alarm didn’t go off and I woke up a tad late”
His alarm indeed went off, he almost had a stroke hearing the violent buzzing, but he figures a white lie in this situation is fine
“Well, if everyone else can be on time for this class, then I fail to understand why you cannot”
“I—” well, he would usually have a snarky remark on his tongue, but for that one he doesn’t exactly have an answer, so he takes that one. Yaga Gojo, 1-0. “I’m sorry, won’t happen again Sensei”
“See to it that it does not, I’ll remind you only once that absences are not taken lightly in my class Gojo. I’ll accept you apology when I see it, if I do not then your grade will reflect it” Yaga begins, Satoru weirdly less nervous than before, guess it really is just like ripping off a bandaid, at least he thinks so until Yaga begins once more: “Now, before Gojo so rudely interrupted the lesson, why don’t we pick up where we left off on theories and calculations of energy in gravitational waves, the Hulse-Taylor binary deriving from the Hulse-Taylor system.” The bandaid leaves a little bit of a sting.
Satoru makes his way through the room, he can definitely feel a couple eyes on him and can very clearly hear faint giggles from the sight of being scolded by the teacher like he’s in junior high again. He doesn’t necessarily mind, after all him and Yaga Sensei do in fact go way back into his days in junior high, he was his first physics teacher, like real physics teacher after he gave his parents a full presentation complete with statistics and bibliography on why he should be able to go to a public school. Even if they had only agreed because they were wary of their kid had zero social skills and could not make proper media appearances, that’s where he met his best friends, the type of friends that you think of when you see elderly people in the park sitting together and imagine living your youth and old-age with, sandbox friends, in theory, because Satoru never actually got to play in a sandbox by himself, and never with another kids. It’s where he met Suguru, who almost rocked his shit when they first met, Satoru was not exactly the most well-mannered, sue him! He never interacted with anyone but people paid to do so; and Shoko, who he met completely by accident while she was skipping class, of course he offered to cover for her. He smiles fondly at the memory while he pulls his laptop, leather bound notebook, and his cinnamonroll pencil case out of his bag.
Some people look pale, like they’re about to hurl when Yaga passes out the syllabus and the expected assignments for the week. Glancing out the window like they want to physically jump out, he gets it, usually people take it because of another major, Satoru’s probably the only freak who enjoys it. What can he say. His notebook is already filled to the brim, papers sticking out, the small sticky note dividers crumpled on the ends. If nowhere else, Satoru will pay attention in the classroom, this one at least, you can miss him with English or Philosophy, that was more Suguru’s forte anyway. He listens to Yaga, writes down his notes, annotates the syllabus, writes down a few notes to himself about design so he can update Agumon. No one has to know about that, even if he’s heard chirping about some masked “hero” going around.
. . • ☆ . ° .• °: ₊ ° . ☆*
Yaga ends lecture with a few fun facts, real world applications, things of that sort: how scientists are detecting gravitational waves using cutting edge programs— which caught the attention of a certain white-haired nerd, no shame about it, and he will definitely be writing it down and going down the rabbit-hold of various physics forums and podcasts later. Unfortunately, his celestial mechanics homework is certainly not going to do itself no matter how much he wants for it to. If he wants to keep some semblance of his sanity, he should definitely start poring over material now unless he wants to utterly flunk this test. (“Flunk” here does not mean what you think, Gojo has never once not been the class topper— even if he only spends one night powered by Redbull and a dream. Maybe he’s even a little bit pretentious about it, but who wouldn’t be?)
He pushes his chair in, about to beeline it to the library so he can at least get a couple hours of productivity in before heading to the bakery with Suguru. Packing up as quickly as he can without sparking fury in Yaga, sliding his sleek computer into the laptop case and neatly setting his books inside as well. Thankfully the science building had it’s own library on the 3rd floor, the designated science library has definitely seen many sides of Satoru: from dozing off between lecture to furiously scribbling in his notebooks to study for some abstruse test, and distracting every other student by arguing with Suguru and Shoko over some abstract concept.
Walking into the library was as habitual as it was nostalgic, the scent of books; sounds of typing, writing, and conversations enveloped him completely— warping him into a new world. In this new world there is absolutely no way he’s going to get anything done, hearing other people’s conversations and the incessant tap tap tap of someone's pen on the desk would drive him clinically insane. Connecting his headphones into his laptop, Spotify automatically loaded up a shared playlist between him and a certain black haired man, which wasn’t weird because friends made playlists together all the time, and him and Suguru were best friends who also happened to find themselves on car rides and going to the gym together. A playlist was normal, needed even. So what if Gojo felt a little giddy whenever Suguru sent him a song that he said reminded of him of Satoru, that’s a very friendly thing to do and anyone would be happy! He was not pining for his best friend. Now at the thought of his best friend, his behavioral psychology class was ending soon, Satoru was pulling out his phone before the thought asking Suguru if he wants to come the library began forming. He’s definitely pining for his best friend, but admitting it would mean confessing his feelings. A confession. Confessing to his best friend, not even that, to his other half. That was a line he was unsure of how to cross, he could solve any equation and figure out any system, but he doesn’t think he would ever know how to overcome the obstacle that is Geto Suguru, the boy he’s known for over a decade, the only one to understand him to his core. Even thinking about losing their friendship makes him viciously ill, even if he knew Suguru liked guys, had even went out with a few— he doesn’t like to think about that part, none of them lasted more than a few weeks anyways, so he scraps that thought anyway— and he knew that they were always toeing the edge of something. Gojo was not blind, but he was also not always the most emotionally intelligent, so for all he knew Suguru was just a really friendly guy. And he really had to start working, this spiral can wait, the sound of a notification going off in his pocket.
Suguru
yo ur lecture js ended right
To: Suguru
just ended
bro i literally almost shit my pants
Suguru
byeee cause ik yaga’s had ur ass trembling
anyways wanna go to the library?
i have a neuro paper n i’m also bored
To: Suguru
bro how do u do that i’m walking there rn
physics on my ass rn plssss save me
Suguru:
ur in a dual degree program that might be ur own fault boss
Also you’ve gone to the library at this time after astronautics got moved
To: Suguru
shhhhh also u remembered thats so sweetttt i might even think u like me
Suguru
Course i like u toru but make sure ur parents pay me this month
To: Suguru
Im so hurt suguruu.. And here i was getting coffee for who i thought was my dear best friend
Kay they just called me see u in a bit walk safe
Suguru:
Joking joking of course, i’ll b there soon toru
. . • ☆ . ° .• °: ₊ ° . ☆*
Crisp night air hits him square in the face as he walks outside, switching his route from the science library to the metropolitan library just off campus. Satoru had often run cold, cheeks and nose staining red whenever the temperature dropped below 20 degrees celcius. Shoko told him he has to start bundling up if not for the fact that he caught a violent influenza strain that year, but that he looked like Rudolph the red nose reindeer. He remembers trying to muster up the blankest look he could while flushed, sweaty, and nasally; he also remembers Shoko sighing for so long it was like a drag of a cigarette while turning up the AC while Satoru had complained. Suguru bundled him up in one of his hoodies and a scarf to have him “sweat it out” or whatever that meant, it meant misery by the way. At least he had Suguru beside him, massaging a head of dandelion hair; and Shoko checking up on him to make sure he’d take his medicine and drink fluids. He misses hanging out with both of them, the last time he saw Shoko was before the semester, being busy balancing her degree and commute from Tokyo to Kyoto, he sends a quick text saying they should all meet for drinks in the city sometime soon.
Upon that memory he pulls a scarf around his shoulders, he’s practically aching for some coffee right now to distract him from the frigid autumn weather; entering his own personal hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, his own personal motto becoming to never judge a book by its cover as he discovered the most beautiful hidden jazz cafe like opening a scrappy paperback book and uncovering lifes mysteries. A group of what looks like highschool kids are playing a few jazz standards, Satoru supposes they’re newcomers, although he’s definitely seen the one with spikey black hair somewhere, a coincidence maybe. Stepping up the counter to order, Satoru spots the black spikey haired boy settling down at a sleek black grand piano, the barista greets him and asks him what he would like to order and he then hears the intro to Autumn Leaves, a jazz standard. He orders two coffees: an iced mocha with extra chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and cold foam; and a double espresso for Suguru, he notes to get a packet of honey before he leaves. Satoru had learned that Suguru can’t stand more than a little honey or one measly cube of sugar in his drinks because of the way he audibly gagged after drinking Satoru’s own order, the man could always give a polite introduction but could never control his expressions.
The black haired pianist transition into My Romance, he transitions using a turnaround for a couple bars, a glance at the pink haired saxophone player and the short hair brunette— who admittedly looks very similar to Shoko when they were her age— he reharmonizes to make it sound a bit more heavy and crunchy, the other two come in tow as the pianist creates a progression to transform into a new song. Satoru had always held a special place in his heart for the piano, he’d been forced to learn it as a child but as he grew up he began to become attached to the instrument, the drumming of the hammers, the tension of the strings, the amplification of sound; if you asked Satoru candidly what got him into physics, it was music. It was goofing around in highschool practice rooms with Suguru, skipping class for an impromptu karaoke session, it was doodling on an acoustic guitar in his dorm with Shoko and Suguru, it was Suguru’s laugh, soundwaves rippling through space and time and somehow made time stop and the universe expand; it was love, unfiltered, unbounded that he wanted to study, love that he saw in the sky when him and Suguru went stargazing for the first time, wanting to send them both into the vast sky and watch the beauty of it unfold before them. It was infinite. To ask him what Suguru was like asking someone to count all the stars in the sky, how do you explain the feeling of falling into a black hole and feeling no fear at all? How could you explain the heat of coming too close to the sun and being embraced by its warmth instead of burning? It was simple, it was love. It was Suguru.
For it was Suguru who had visited him in the hospital after he’d been almost assassinated by him. The name he refuses to speak. The name that haunts him. He never dared to mention it after he woke up, not after he talked to the police. Satoru wasn’t really scared of anything, but demons have a way of finding you when you’re at your most vulnerable.
Yellow-golden Gingko trees adorned the sidewalks, it started to drizzle lightly in the evening glow making the color that much more vibrant and the leaves ever so soft, as if the rain dripping down would drip colors of gold, red, and orange swirled together. The smell of coffee swirled through the air around him, mingling with the petrichor around him, it was the pinnacle of the season- the grace of academia that surrounded the school. The brisk breeze on his face is marginally better due to the warmth emitting from the coffee, still biting at his cheeks and the slope of his nose which was now slightly red. Still he kept walking, it was nice given that Satoru always ran a bit colder anyways, the cold tended to not bother him too much, or perhaps it was something more inescapable that kept him walking, like the gravitational force of the moon pulling in the tides, even if the coot wetness of the sand was foreign and the tides leaving to only for the waves to come back colder sent shockwaves through his limbs, he kept walking. Walking towards the sun, towards Suguru.
Suguru
js got here, im upstairs near the window w the shades
To: Suguru
Toru liked a message
Satoru opened the double glass doors into the library, the vast expanse of books neatly lined up across shelves, the smell of old wood and ink permeating throughout the air. Making his way up the spiral staircase, he plays back in his head a list of assignments to get through today: his physics problem set, aerospace design assignment, and his reading for business ethics- chosen by his fathe to have some background before he joins their company- much to his disliking. As much as he’d like to avoid being forcibly shoved into some penthouse suite office just to spend days slouched over a computer going through the monotony of stocks and emails, it’s his family legacy, he’s always known what being the only son to the Gojo family entailed. Pursuing his PhD is only an illusion of freedom, right after he graduates he’s probably going to be shipped to Kyoto and forced to sit meetings with stuffy businessmen. Too many assignments and too little time in a day, Satoru decides to put off his existential dread for now and just focus on the present while he can. Except he doesn’t exactly know how he’s supposed to focus once he spots Suguru at the table- near the window, with the shade, because he remembered that Satoru gets raging headaches from his laptop alone and the glare from the window made it significantly worse— with his hair down, waterfalls of thick black waves cascading down his shoulders onto his muscled arms, hair connecting with free lines of ink twisting and curving up his arm and creeping onto his neck, eyebrows slightly furrowed while instinctively twirling his apple pen through his hand. It is absolutely devastating how effortlessly good he looks, and Satoru should be given a medal for his composure. He doesn’t realize he’s been staring until Geto looks up to see bright blue eyes, infitesmily widened, and mouth slightly agape, nothing you would catch unless you were attuned to your best friends expressions; like he was.
“Hey Toru, everything okay?” Suguru says ever so softly, expression morphing into what could only be the sweetest recognition, yet startling the white haired man out of his thoughts.
“Of course! I come bearing gifts” he says holding up the tray of coffee orders, a little bit cooled from the air outside, but he supposes they’re warm enough.
“I see your sugar bomb order hasn’t changed, I can’t believe your heart hasn’t stopped from how many of those you’ve drinken” a soft chuckle followed, Satoru wanted to preserve the sound like flower petals in resin casing.
“Says you, i just ordered a full caff double espresso, if anyone’s heart is gonna stop its yours!” Gojo teased, with nothing spiteful in his tone. “I brought a packet of honey by the way cause you’re weird for not wanting sugar like the rest of us” he adds.
“What can I say? I’m a master of balance” Geto slyly retorts, smirk evident on his face and mirth glittering in his eyes, “anyways, are you going to sit down or stand up and stare the entire time like a weirdo? I know your ass has homework to do” he adds while gesturing to the seat in front of him.
Gojo sits down, placing down the coffee and taking a sip, it’s still warm and call it placebo but it gives him the boost of energy he needs to start powering through his work. Pulling out his ipad, notebook, and pencil case; he notices Suguru’s eyes narrowed at his laptop screen, now biting the end of his stencil- a nervous habit he picked up after he started painting his nails to stop biting them- Satoru can see straight through violet eyes and a calm demeanor, he’s anxious about something, he can see cogs turning a mile a minute in his head while the soft clamber of typing, tapping, and scribbling melting into one as the evening blends into the afternoon. The skyline lit up, buildings glowing as cars zoom down the busy streets, the sky is a dark blue and orange, hues circling eachother and casting a serene glow across the cityscape. The view required a certain appreciation, a silence, the sound of two souls dancing around eachother- a push and pull.
A phone ring breached the silence, cutting into the moment like a bullet, Satoru turned over his phone to find that his father called him. Suguru shot him an inquisitive look, just barely hiding the undertone of worry, after all it was Suguru had seen the boy break down over being puppeteered in his own life. Satoru waved his hand feigning indifference,
“It’s probably nothing I haven’t heard before” he says a bit too casually, the feeling of being puppeteered was nothing new.
“You don’t have to answer Satoru, you know he’s just gonna berate you about company bullshit, just leave it be” Suguru responds, concern emanating from his face. Satoru feels bad for the anger that rises in him, he never enjoyed pity, worry, whatever you wanted to call it.
“And then what? Live my whole life looking over my shoulder for company body gaurds on my tail waiting for my old man to drag me back, that’s not starting over it’s running.” The hurt is evident on Suguru’s face, if only for a blink of an eye. He knows all too well of Satoru’s grief, grieving a childhood, grieving paths untaken, grieving a life he never got to have. Suguru understands, but it doesn’t hurt less when his best friend, the carefree boy he grew up with, regresses into a shell of himself when his father talks to him. As if the Satoru could peer into his thoughts, he continues after a long, yet not uncomfortable, silence, “I’m sorry Suguru, I didn’t mean to snap, I’ve just accepted that I can’t change it, but I can change the company or whatever when I start working, I can do it for the next generation. It just has to be me who does it now.” The phone has long stopped ringing, he knows Suguru just wants to help, Satoru was never one to want any, always representing the Gojo name, but more because how much more could he burden those around him. So, it had to be him. He answered the phone, Suguru looked away. Shoes brushing together, white asics grazing sambas, I’m sorry; the glint of amber eyes catching blue ones, I know, I understand.
“Hi dad, why’d you call?”
Satoru, where are you, why did you not pick up the first time?
No small talk, as always. “I’m at the library with Suguru, catching up on some homework, is something important happening?”
You need to come to Kyoto, Satoru. We’ve entertained your every whim for long enough; it’s time for you to come back and learn the ropes of the business. You’re the future head, take responsibility.
Responsibility for what, being born? Why doesn’t his father take responsibility for seeing that his son his happy in his life, instead of forcing some corporate life down his throat, it’s selfish, and he loathes it; it’s selfish, yet Satoru stays silent. It has to be me, I’ll fix it, it won’t be like this in the future, I’ll grow old and be proud of what I’ve transformed instead of desperate to keep what I’ve built. I’ll nurture youth, not detest it. The silence speaks for him, and Suguru still looks away.
“Kyoto, right now? Even by the bullet train, that’s 2 and a half hours, did it ever occur to you that I have plans, a life?” he says instead.
I have had enough of your petulance, your subordination is unwelcome and you are well aware of it. You’re so called life in Tokyo can end at a moments notice, a single call to the dean. You will give me the respect I deserve. Go to Marunouchi by 5. Gojo scowls at the sudden rise in tone, yet paradoxically smug as his father conceded to a closer location. Nevertheless, feeling like a kid locked up in the estate that felt more like a prison again. Suguru turns, concern washing into aggravation at the sudden uptake in volume, everything alright he mouths silently, don't worry about it Satoru responds as earnestly as he can.
“Fine, I’ll be there, don’t expect anything much from me. I have midterms soon. Goodbye” he states, hanging up promptly, not caring for a goodbye. An exasperated sigh leaves his body, shoulders slouching and hands reaching up into his hair slightly tugging at it. Suguru reaches out for his arm, pulling it away from his hair, taking off his glasses so he can rub at his eyes. The touch lingering, nerves static-y as he whispers a sorry.
“It’s okay, I have a shift in a couple hour anyways, call me if you need to escape or anything, or just let me know when you get back home”
"I'm sorry Sugu, I'll call you, I promise," and Satoru has never broken a promise.
. . • ☆ . ° .• °: ₊ ° . ☆*
Suguru had just finished his shift at the hospital, he’d been doing his rounds in orthopedics while Shoko was in the trauma unit, she’s always worked better under pressure. It’s been about a month since he’s been in ortho, and it’s almost ironic how he goes home on his motorcycle every night, maybe a quarter of his patients have broken bones due to motorcycle accidents. Yet, tonight is no different, kicking up the stand and racing, responsibly, of course, down the roads of Tokyo underneath the streetlights and the stars, breeze hitting his face. His apartment was actually pretty far from the hospital, sue him for wanting cheap rent. Looking up briefly at the expanse of high-rise buildings and vast offices, he wondered if he was out as well. The vigilante, Six Eyes, who had been giving the hospital a steady stream of criminals with injuries, ranging from cuts and scrapes to broken bones and possible concussions. Six Eyes had been quite the celebrity lately, with his fitting white suit leaving very little to the imagination and his spider-like abilities, he’s been all over the news and social media alike receiving a spectrum of likeness. Some praise him for what he’s doing, while others condemn him and want to leave it up to the authorities.
Now, Suguru doesn’t like having to stay late and debrief every single injury and circumstance to the authorities after Six Eyes drops them in with a note with some silly doodle of a spiderweb and infuriatingly good calligraphy with some stupid pun like ‘sorry, just a bit of a sticky situation’ while the man is covered in webs. The lab has done copious testing on the webs, each time for it to come back as synthetic, a hybrid derived from the chemical structure of an actual spider, but with slight twists in the DNA pattern that leave much up to interpretation. It’s interesting, really. Suguru applauds the cause, truly, the authorities have failed him once too many before. Once, when his cousin Riko was killed in front of his eyes, by some vile man who apologized because he ‘got the wrong target.’ Twice, when the man went after Satoru, stabbed him right through the chest, missing an artery by a hair.
Suguru shut down completely, in a grief that swallowed him whole, he felt useless. Satoru had survived, after grueling surgery. Riko had been declared dead on arrival. It left him shattered and spiraling, he would go to school and the library and the hospital blind, come back and lock himself in his room for the weekend. Shoko, Nanami, and Haibara would show up and try to cheer him up, but he couldn’t bring himself to get up, he’d felt like he deserved to rot in the depths of whatever hell he was in. He couldn’t save Riko and he couldn’t save Satoru, he could love them but it would never be enough. It would never be enough to go back and give Riko the rest of her life or prevent Satoru from crippling pain and trauma. It had been 10 years since that day, and for 10 years Suguru has lived with the shame, the revulsion running through his marrow and making its way through his veins and corrupting him. He’d never be able to pick up Riko from school, or go to the aquarium with her and Satoru, never listen to her talk about how she wanted to be a marine biologist, but above all just to be happy. She deserved it all, everything that Suguru never deserved, and she’d never get it.
He remembers the sight of them both bleeding in front of his eyes and recoils, a wave of nausea coursing over him. He has to pull over. Taking deep breaths and reminding himself that it was not his fault, but that heinous, wretched man, Toji Fushiguro’s, who was found guilty on all counts and in prison for the rest of his natural born life. He was not making it out of prison, he was reminded that Riko had once told him that he didn’t have to take the burden of everything, ‘you’re not a weigh scale, Geto-san, you can’t let other things pull on you’ she’d say. He remembered that he had Satoru waiting for him at home; Satoru, his best friend, his light in the dark, with white hair and bright blue eyes that made his heart race in his chest, Satoru might as well reach into his chest and pump his heart himself. Those caring eyes would make sure he ate, drank, and took his medicine. He’d make sure he saw Shoko, Utahime, Nanami, and Haibara at least sometimes, or at least just Shoko.
Truthfully, it probably passed the boundary of simple best friends a long time ago, they were something deeper, more meaningful. Something that was more complex than the entire concept of time and the ardent debate between classical and quantum physics that Satoru’s professors droned on and on about or more puzzling than any medical file that Suguru had to analyze that had him spending nights at the library securitizing every little detail in his textbooks down to the section and article number. They were like each other’s moons, bound to be in each others orbit by some innate magnetic force carved into their very beings, something like gravity.
Whatever that meant in words definitely went over both of their heads, actions spoke louder than words anyways. Who else would know that Gojo needed the blinds drawn and pressure in-between his eyebrows and put pressure on the base of his skull when his migraines got particularly bad, and who knew that Suguru liked the quiet presence of someone next to him when he went through a depressive episode. Who else would have that silent communication if not like galaxies in an infinite expanse, drawn together by an inevitable force. Satoru had made Suguru watch a documentary on the planets one day, and while Satoru proceeded to give away the entire premise of the documentary and then fall asleep curled up next to him, Suguru had watched the entire thing. How could he not when he saw cosmic, celestial eyes in every picture, when he saw the beauty of space sleeping next to him.
He became aware of certain facts: the Milky Way and the Andromeda Galaxy will collide someday as they move toward the Great Attractor, Gravity pulls them together: Satoru and Suguru’s timelines were met to cross to hell with whatever theory of time persisted because they would cross in any lifetime. Something similar gravity pulls them together, unable to figure out the word for this unnamed force, trying to put a name to it is like trying to grab water with your bare hands, losing energy like the period of orbit of two neutron stars in the Hulse-Taylor system. The gravitational waves radiation causing the stars to lose energy, it was as if each time he got too close to the source of it the word would grow weaker on his tongue, like gravitational waves pulling the mechanical energy out of the Hulse-Taylor binary. Love had never been a large enough word to describe what he felt for Satoru, too small of a word for something as limitless and expansive as the sky itself.
With that, he finds his breathing becoming steadier, he counts the stars in the sky like how he’d count each of Satoru’s eyelashes before he falls asleep. He kicks up the bike stand again and listens to nothing but the lull of the road and the faint music in his headphones.
. . • ☆ . ° .• °: ₊ ° . ☆*
Walking up to the apartment is hellish, the ac went out, and the elevator shut down, he and Satoru really need to move complexes. Unfortunately, this place is cheap, and he’s damn well not going to leech off of Satoru’s bank account, so he’s probably not going to move.
Satoru is sprawled out on the couch, rolled over on his stomach with his head resting on his elbows and his legs hanging over the end of the couch. His ruby red guitar sits next to him along with his headphones, sheet music, and his computer wide open. He was probably working on a composition and computational physics homework at the same time, the idiot really had no sense of relaxation. Phone clock reading 2:03 AM in light blue letters against the deep blue background of a lake and canoe and three pairs of shoes and peace signs being caught in frame. Black sambas, White Asics, brown heeled boots. White Asics obviously stepping on black sambas while brown heels kicked him in the shin. The three of them had laughed so hard that night after doing the cliche spill-your-guts bonfire circle, stomachs hurting and minds clearer than they’d been in a while. That night Satoru realized he’d found home for the first time, a home that was definitely not inside the four walls of his estate.
He keeps is steps as light as he can while walking to the star boy who’s now snoring on the couch, he goes to doggy-ear his notebook page and then stack them in two’s, organized not by size but by color, the way Satoru prefers it. Brown eyes catch onto the pages, already halfway through most of them, he knows Satoru has a habit of reviewing for the semester in summer holidays, engrained by his many tutors in his youth. The notebook already filled with theories, postulates, equations, and a few doodles along the margins— some from Suguru and Shoko when they would meet up to study, a middle finger from Utahime when he went to the bathroom and left his notebook open, kikufuku from when he was absolutely starving during class, the stars, and a white betta fish.
Coincidentally it was the one that Suguru had on his left shoulder blade, curling along the top of it. Purely a coincidence, of course. Honestly, not much can even be said about it given that Satoru had a black one swimming along the bottom of his right shoulder blade, body curving slightly around it. If they stood side by side it almost looked like they were swimming in the path of an infinity, which made perfect sense because that’s what their friendship was. He feels a weird sort of possessiveness take over him as he watches Satoru sleep so peacefully, glasses askew and hair a mess, Suguru finds himself wanting to touch it. So, he reaches out.
Satoru’s eyes flutter at the touch, a low sound coming from him, something like “S’gru?”
“It’s me ‘toru, you can sleep”
“M’kay, you too, but eat dinner, you need to eat before you take your meds, don’t stay up too late,” and Suguru can barely believe how even halfway unconscious Satoru can be the most caring person he’s ever met. How he has kindness etched into his bones, dripping out of him and into Suguru like an IV bag.
Humming in response, Suguru crouches in front of Satoru and runs a hand through mused white hair. He’s being indulgent, it’s been a long day, alright. The first thing he notices is how cold he is, it’s reaching peak fall months and the pale boy always ran colder than Suguru, always opting to link his elbow in Suguru’s, wear one of his old concert hoodies, or koala him while their watching a movie. Always magnetizing himself towards Suguru, like he needs to feel that warmth spread through him. Suguru is happy for that, don’t get him wrong, he relishes in the fact that Satoru doesn’t get close to anyone else like that.
Grabbing the weighted, fluffy blanket from their closet, the pillow with the silk pillowcase, and a glass of water, he practically tucks Satoru into the couch. Running his fingers through the buzzed hair of his undercut, his palm rests at his neck for a moment. Two strange puncture marks, red, like the skin is inflamed, and purple, like its bruising are visible. What the fuck is the first, very eloquent, thought that comes to Suguru’s mind. Pressing the pad of his pointer finger around the coloring of his best friends otherwise unblemished, porcelain skin, he has to tug down his hoodie to see most of it. He’s kind of grateful that Satoru could sleep through a literal earthquake, that is, until he lets out a pained yelp in his sleep, automatically flinching away from the light press of Suguru’s finger. He rustles through his bag for q-tips and antiseptic ointment, first rubbing a dollop of hand sanitizer onto his hands before squeezing the pigment onto the Q-Tip, lightly rubbing it around the wound. God, it looked terrible against Satoru’s skin, it was really nothing but light bruising, but on Satoru's pale skin it looked almost violent, because yes, they do spar at the kickboxing gym sometimes, but Suguru would never jab him in the neck, and he'd sure as hell never let anyone else jab him in the neck. And the punctures, Suguru had no idea what the punctures were from, and the very thought terrified him. The fact that the white-haired boy was trying to hide it with the damn hoodie, and that he had them in the first place. He was starting to get a little sick, but continued working the ointment into Satoru’s skin regardless, he knew better than to pry while he was sleeping, or at all. Yelling and arguing had little effect on Satoru, he’d shut him out altogether, and he knew Satoru, he knew of the silent treatment very well, and he knew better than to play with that loaded gun.
So, yeah, Suguru would finish rubbing the ointment into Satoru’s skin, set an alarm for an hour, then place a cooling towel on his neck, wait 15 minutes, then replace it with a warm towel. He’d pray the coloring went down in the morning and ask what the fuck was on his neck.
He checks his phone for the time before brushing his teeth, washing his face, and doing his hair for the night.
4 Unseen Message From ‘Toru
heyy sugu js got home there’s leftovers in the fridge and I brought some stuff from a goody bag?
anyways literally insane trip i swear they were gonna like chain me to the chair and make me sign a 10 year contract
I’ll tell u when u get home
Be safe on that damn bike