just stsg (and other) stuff

Under a Sagittarian sun —————ONE SHOT

On December 7, 1989, in Kyoto, the maximum temperature was 15 degrees Celsius. The moon was in a waxing gibbous phase, and the skies were overcast. The atmosphere felt charged with electricity, lamps flickered mischievously, and cats restlessly roamed the windows of the Gojo clan’s quarters. Two midwives and an experienced doctor exchanged concerned glances during the grueling nine hours they had spent attending to the distinguished woman in labor.

On that same day, Kito Nanaru hesitated before entering the place. Something about the kitsune statues at the entrance, the cedar trees in the courtyard, and the creaking wooden floors unsettled her. She had never felt comfortable in this grand house, much less in its temple. Yet, she had to be there. That day, the odds of a miracle were high, and as a priestess, it was her duty—or rather, her destiny—to verify it.

She declined every offering of tea and bowls of miso, remaining in fasting to enhance her connection with the spiritual realm for the impending birth.

“Miss Nanaru, do you think these…” one of the maids began to ask but fell silent after a few seconds.

Nanaru sighed, already knowing the question.

“Will they be born alive?” She clicked her tongue. “At least one of them should.”

The maid nodded and left, leaving Nanaru alone. Weary, the priestess sat cross-legged on the floor. She might as well meditate. Her instincts told her that this third attempt by the Gojo clan would be even more challenging than the previous ones.

Closing her eyes, her mind emptied for about nine minutes. She focused on her breath, counted the beads of her japa mala, and discerned the faint purple aura in her inner vision. That was good; it meant she could find calm and grounding, even in such a strange place.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.

Suddenly, a dog’s howl jolted her heart. Alarmed, she instinctively moved toward the room where the woman was laboring. As if orchestrated, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the space the moment she entered. Amid a thunderclap’s deafening roar, she saw two newborns, identical to each other. One lay still, his blue eyes wide open—too open. The other kicked and gasped, unable to open his eyes.

Nanaru approached the second baby.

“Is…is he alright?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes. It’s the other one who…well…may the gods watch over him,” the doctor sighed in sorrow.

Nanaru glanced toward the first baby, but a midwife had already draped a cloth over him.

Another flash of lightning lit the room, followed by the piercing cry of the surviving baby.

“Did he survive?!” the mother exclaimed, attempting to sit up in bed. One midwife moved to steady her, but she shoved the woman aside with surprising strength. “Nanaru! Do your damn job and examine him!”

The priestess closed her eyes, summoning all her willpower to stay calm. She knew she wasn’t supposed to feel this way, but she despised the Gojo clan. The eternal promise of their bloodline and their techniques had turned them into a cold and calculating lineage.

With a sigh, she took the crying baby in her arms. She pitied him; minutes into life, he was already being treated as an object, a vessel valued only for what he carried.

And they didn’t yet know if he carried it.

“What will become of you if you don’t…” she murmured, troubled.

A third lightning bolt illuminated the room, and the baby’s eyes opened.

Nanaru stifled a gasp. Those weren’t the eyes of a baby, nor of a human. Those eyes didn’t even seem to belong to this plane. Those eyes, those anguished eyes, were the eyes of a god.

A fearsome god.

Certain he had been born with them, the priestess pressed her forehead to the child’s, closed her eyes, and entered a trance.

She saw a field of flowers, hands clasping, waves crashing on the shore, vivid violet eyes, a river of blood, a red explosion, a torrent of curses, a brilliant purple flash, a bouquet of blue calla lilies, and a tender smile. Abruptly, her heart raced as she felt a darkness as black as despair. Alarmed, she pulled away from the baby when she found herself surrounded by skulls and glimpsed that four-armed monster.

Him. The King of Curses.

An acute pain shot through her abdomen, and she immediately knew the tragic fate the gods had written for the being in her arms.

“How…how can this be possible?” she whispered, holding the baby tightly again.

“Nanaru,” the boy’s mother called from across the room, her voice weak. “Tell me, damn witch…is he…or isn’t he?”

The priestess sighed, stroking the baby’s head.

“Yes. Congratulations, Satomi,” she replied bitterly. “Your son has been born with the Six Eyes and will master your clan’s technique. By the time he’s sixteen, he’ll be the strongest sorcerer. He’ll have no rival.”

“Except for the Double-Faced one,” Nanaru thought.

The mother smiled in satisfaction.

“Then he is worthy of being called Satoru,” she declared before collapsing from exhaustion.

The doctor and midwives rushed to her aid, leaving the infant Satoru wailing in the priestess’s arms. Nanaru was overwhelmed with a profound sadness.

“You’re the first of your siblings to survive,” she whispered to the grieving child. “Please, be happy. Even if only for a moment, be happy, little Satoru.”

A moment later, a midwife gently took the baby from her.

“I’m sorry. I had instructions to…”

“It’s alright,” Nanaru interrupted. “My work here is done.”

Before leaving, the priestess cast one last glance at the child and sighed. Something about this newborn—the bearer of the Six Eyes and the heir to the Infinity technique, whose birth had just rebalanced the world, whose destiny was marked by loneliness and tragedy—made her reflect on how melancholy the color blue could be.

On December 7, 1989, in Kyoto, under a sagittarian sun, amid the scent of blood and incense, under the sound of wind chimes stirred by a roaring winter storm, and burdened by a dreadful and secret prophecy, Gojo Satoru entered the world.

***

The Gojo clan estate, secluded among perfectly manicured gardens and impenetrable walls, always maintained a sort of solemn silence. Within those walls, young Satoru lived surrounded by luxuries he couldn’t appreciate and a loneliness he couldn’t understand. From the moment he could form coherent thoughts, he knew only one thing—a single, absolute truth his mother repeated to him constantly: he could not be like the others. Ever.

By the age of three, his life was already ruled by a rigid schedule. His routine began before dawn, when the faint winter light barely reached the windows of his room. Each day unfolded into a grueling array of physical and mental tasks designed to push him to his limits: training sessions that tested his body, studies that challenged his mind, and lessons crafted to remind him that he was the bearer of the Six Eyes, the pride of the clan, the strongest. Every failure, no matter how small, was met with disapproving glances and subtle critiques.

“You have a duty, Satoru. Weakness doesn’t suit the Six Eyes.”

His mother, Satomi, never consoled him nor directly praised him. Yet the rare words of approval she let slip were more valuable to him than any toy or sweetness.

“You are special, Satoru. The most special of all,” she would say in a detached tone, as if his achievements weren’t a source of pride but merely expected. These words, combined with constant flattery from the clan’s servants and members, built in him a shell of confidence that was, in truth, sheer arrogance.

As he grew older, he grew accustomed to reverent bows, extravagant gifts, and admiring looks. At clan gatherings, heads bowed as he walked past. “What an extraordinary child,” they murmured, while six-year-old Satoru smiled with an air of superiority that mirrored the adults perfectly.

But behind that smile was a child who spent hours playing alone, his shadow his only companion.

One particularly cold night, when physical and mental exhaustion overwhelmed him, Satoru allowed himself a brief moment of vulnerability. He curled up in the corner of his vast room, the lights turned off, and let his mind wander to questions he never dared to ask.

“Why can’t I play like them? Why do I have to be the strongest? Why can’t someone else be?”

Questions that would remain forever unanswered because his mother had taught him that doubt was equivalent to failure.

And the Gojo did not fail.

With his small fist, he struck the wall, trying to vent the immense frustration he felt—too much for someone so young to bear.

On December 7, 1999, in Kyoto, under a Sagittarian sun, amidst discipline and privilege, challenges and adulation, Gojo Satoru celebrated, in silence and complete darkness, ten blue years of the most melancholic solitude.

***

Geto Suguru had a hard time reconciling himself with the fact that no one had ever celebrated Satoru’s birthday. When Shoko Ieiri casually told him that Satoru’s mother believed celebrating another year of life was something for peasants, unworthy of the strongest, anger bubbled in Suguru’s stomach and surged to his throat with the same intensity he reserved for certain curses. However, wise as he was at his tender age of fifteen, he decided not to act on those negative feelings. Instead, he channeled what Shoko had told him into an act of pure love.

Surprising someone with Gojo Satoru’s heightened senses wasn’t easy. Suguru had to wait until Satoru was absolutely and deeply asleep before preparing everything with the care and precision that marked everything he did.

At dawn, he sat on the bed and watched him sleep for a while. The way his white hair fell across his forehead, the way he scrunched his little nose when he snored, the rhythmic sound of his breathing, and the way his strong hands rested on his chest—everything about him amazed Suguru. Everything about him brought him joy. Everything about him made Suguru fall more in love.

How could he not celebrate that such a magnificent being as Gojo Satoru was born into this world?

When Satoru woke, the first thing he saw was sixteen blue and yellow balloons at the foot of his bed. Still groggy, he turned to his left, where the window framed a rainy day with a garland featuring his favorite Pokémon. As realization dawned, he turned to his right. Sitting beside him, with loose hair, slightly dark circles under his eyes, and a cake in his hands, was Suguru, smiling the most beautiful smile Satoru had ever seen.

“Happy birthday, little one,” Suguru whispered, using a gentle curse to light the blue candle atop the small cake.

Satoru didn’t respond immediately. His heart had sped up at the sight of Suguru’s devotion. He had never experienced a celebration like this—not just because it marked his birthday, but because the love Suguru had poured into every detail enveloped him like a warm blanket on a cold night.

“Are you…celebrating my birthday?” Satoru asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid the words might shatter the magic of the moment.

Suguru nodded.

“Yeah. I find it insulting that no one has celebrated it all this time.”

Satoru widened his eyes and looked at the cake in front of him.

“I’m supposed to blow it out, right?” he asked softly, a novel wave of shyness washing over him.

Suguru smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Yes, and you also have to—”

But Satoru had already blown out the candle loudly, cutting him off.

“—make a wish,” Suguru finished, laughing.

Satoru burst out laughing as well, a sound that came from deep within. The act stirred something inside him. Not only did he begin to grasp the symbolism of celebrating another year of life, but extinguishing that small flame also brought with it a pure optimism that made him feel euphoric. He felt it in the goosebumps on his skin, the adrenaline in his stomach, and the joy in his soul—something new was happening: he wasn’t alone anymore.

“I don’t need to wish for anything, Suguru,” he said, stuffing half the cake into his mouth.

Suguru watched him, amused.

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Money McMillionaire,” Suguru teased, winking at him.

Satoru swallowed the cake and leaned closer.

“It’s not that, idiot,” he said, hugging Suguru tightly. “It’s because all I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms.”

“Did you just quote a ’90s song, Satoru?”

“…Maybe.”

Suguru laughed heartily as he ran his fingers through Satoru’s white hair. Satoru blushed.

“Not all of us can be Mr. Literature like you, Suguru!” Satoru exclaimed, crossing his arms. “Some of us need help expressing ourselves!”

Still laughing, Suguru cupped Satoru’s face in his hands.

“You don’t have to say anything, little one,” Suguru whispered, kissing the tip of his nose and then both his cheeks. “It’s your birthday. You can quote all the songs you want. You deserve it.”

Satoru sighed. “Why?”

“Because you’re special, Satoru. The most special of all.”

Gently, Suguru kissed him. As their lips met, a warmth bloomed in Satoru’s chest and spread through his entire body.

“Suguru…”

“Hmm?”

“Since it’s my birthday, can I do whatever I want?”

“Yep.”

“Can I do whatever I want to you?”

Suguru arched an eyebrow, blushing despite himself. “Well…”

“Tickles!” Satoru exclaimed, lunging at his boyfriend and attacking him with his fingers.

Laughter filled the room as Suguru tried to evade his playful assault, both of them sharing a moment of pure happiness. In that instant, the outside world faded away. The pressures of being the strongest, the bearer of the Six Eyes, the wielder of Infinity—all of it shrank into insignificance thanks to the magic of this birthday.

Thanks to the love of someone who saw beyond his strength.

On December 7, 2005, in Tokyo, under a Sagittarian sun, amidst the smell of cake and cologne, with the sound of his lover’s laughter, Gojo Satoru felt, for the first time in his life, truly loved.

A terrible idea (or just things without context) — ONE SHOT

Satoru had a long, exhausting day. Boring meetings with the higher-ups, endless administrative work, and Panda, Maki, and Toge somehow more unbearable than usual. So when he got back to his apartment, he didn’t bother picking up a book or turning on any of his consoles. He just dropped himself onto one of his expensive sofas and, without even taking off his blindfold, closed his eyes.

His hair fell in shining waves, his skin smooth and pale like fine porcelain, his cheeks flushed, his sleepy cat-like eyes, and his slightly parted lips—all coming together in that same exquisite way Suguru always did. To top it off, with one finger resting on his lips and lying on his side on the bed, his eyes sparkled with that same look he used to give Satoru years ago, full of unspoken desires.

“Why don’t you lie down next to me, Satoru?”

Satoru knocked himself on the head a couple of times. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you. You’ve taken so long. Weeks, months, years. I think it’s finally time, Satoru.”

Satoru looked out the window. None of this made any sense. He searched for something out of place, some sign of where he was, but his room looked exactly the same as always. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember how he’d ended up here.

“Time for what?”

Suguru sat up in bed, motioning for Satoru to come closer. Naturally, he did. Suguru cupped his face, kissed him softly on the lips, and, very slowly, whispered:

“To kill me.”

Suddenly, the room filled with a black haze, surrounding them both. Suguru began to laugh and rubbed his right arm as if it hurt.

“This is a dream,” Satoru murmured.

“Took you long enough to figure it out. Well…” Suguru started combing his hair with his fingers, and Satoru noticed them beginning to stain with blood. “…that’s my point. You’re always late.”

Satoru grunted. He knew what was coming, but, as always, he wanted to try probing his subconscious just a little further.

“Suguru, do you…do you want me to kill you?” he asked softly, in the gentlest way he could, given the nature of the question.

Suguru stopped laughing.

“I’m already dead, Satoru.”

Satoru shot up, his heart pounding intensely as the memory of the nightmare still lingered. His breathing was rapid, almost gasping, and he felt a few cold drops of sweat trickle down his forehead. For a few moments, he stared at the ceiling, as if that could somehow erase Suguru’s words from his mind. He could feel the weight of the anguish in his chest, the emptiness that vision left behind, but little by little, his breathing steadied. With a deep sigh, he got up from the sofa and walked to the kitchen. As he calmed down, he opened the fridge, grabbed a tub of ice cream and a can of Coke, then sat down again and started eating in silence.

Suddenly, an idea struck him like lightning. He picked up his phone and opened Instagram.

“Every time I dream about you, it’s because…” he murmured to himself, typing Suguru’s username. “…aha.”

A genuine smile spread across his face when he saw that, once again, Suguru had unblocked him.

What a terrible idea.

A moment earlier

Suguru was rubbing lotion onto his hands, taking his time, reflecting on his day.

Three exorcisms, two meetings with investors, and one interview. A pretty busy day, but they were all like that. The life of a leader wasn't easy-there were countless things that needed his attention, which kept him running around constantly. He didn't complain, but he was tired. Really tired.

Miguel and Larue noticed how his busy life was taking a toll on him, so they offered to take the twins on a weekend trip. At first, Suguru refused, saying he wasn't tired, that they were imagining things, that it wasn't necessary. But after the sorcerers listed some things he could do in peace-like taking a bubble bath, having a few glasses of wine, or watching a movie-he decided to go along with it.

Maybe it was exactly what he needed.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, smiled, and began combing his hair. It felt strange to have time for himself; he'd forgotten how much he enjoyed it.

"What can I do now?" he wondered aloud, inspecting his eyes up close. He grunted slightly, noticing his skin looked a bit dry.

"Right. Good idea, Suguru."

He went to the bathroom, applied a face mask, and set a twenty-minute timer on his phone. Then, he lay down on his bed.

"Just while it sets," he murmured, yawning loudly before closing his eyes.

Suddenly, he found himself in a store he hadn't visited in years-since his teenage days, to be exact. He felt thirsty, craving one of those sodas he used to get there all the time. He started looking for it in the coolers, but they weren't there. Instead, he found four doors, each in a different color: yellow, red, and blue. He clicked his tongue. He didn't want to go through any of them. He turned around to leave the store, but the place had turned into an ethereal force field.

"I hate these dreams!" he exclaimed as he turned back to face the doors. He examined them and, after a minute, figured out the obvious. He let out a deep sigh.

"It's not fair that you get two colors," he muttered, opening the blue door.

"It's not my fault," said Satoru, appearing through it. "You know that."

"What are you doing here?"

Satoru shrugged.

"It's your subconscious, bangs."

Suguru looked at him for a moment. The Satoru in his dream looked exactly as he had almost ten years ago. Slightly longer, fluffier hair, the school uniform, and his ever-present glasses. He laughed. He'd been thinking about his teenage years a lot lately, so this made sense.

"Why do you look like a kid?"

"'Like a kid?!"

Suguru burst out laughing.

"You know what I mean."

Satoru pulled a piece of candy from his pocket and began chewing it.

"I think it's because of the door color."

Suguru glanced at the doors again, then raised an eyebrow.

"Who's behind the yellow one?"

"You, if you hadn't killed all those people. Wanna see?"

Suguru scoffed, then shook his head.

"Not interested."

"You scared, bangs?"

Geto moved away from Satoru and stood beside the red door. He put his hand on the doorknob and smiled flirtatiously.

"I assume behind this one is you in that annoying mummy getup."

Satoru laughed and offered him another candy.

"You love it. Admit it."

"Uh-huh."

Gojo got close, their noses almost touching. Suguru swallowed. He knew this was a dream, but even so, he couldn't shake the guilt he felt getting aroused by a fifteen-year-old kid.

"You love all my versions," Satoru whispered, bringing his hand down toward Suguru's crotch.

"Okay, okay, if this is gonna be one of those dreams, I'll take the mummy!" Suguru blurted, moving away and cracking open the red door.

"Too late to change your mind," Satoru replied, looking over his glasses.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean if you open it, you get neither. Know why?"

Suguru sighed. He already knew the answer.

"Because blue and red make purple."

"Bingo! And what's behind the purple door?"

As soon as he said this, a fourth door appeared. Suguru's heart began to pound, a nearly paralyzing fear creeping over him.

"I don't know..."

"Nah, you know, Suguru."

Geto didn't answer. He backed away from Satoru, desperately searching for an escape.

"I want to wake up."

Satoru walked over, grabbed him by the neck, and pulled him toward the door.

"Open it first," he ordered.

"Let go of me, jerk!"

Gojo tightened his grip, and Suguru started to feel short of breath.

"We're in this fucking mess because of you, Suguru, so open it!"

Suguru shook his head, repeating over and over that he wanted to wake up. Satoru released him, only to grab him by the hair.

"WANT TO WAKE UP? OPEN IT!" He threw him against the door, and Suguru had no choice.

As he opened it, Satoru walked through, and the teenage version vanished.

Suguru, catching his breath, looked at this version of the albino with curiosity. It was the same Satoru he'd seen less than six months ago, but instead of his blindfold, he wore a black headband over his eyes.

"Suguru! Are you alright?" Gojo knelt down and hugged him, thin tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Suguru. Please, forgive me. I had no choice. You...you didn't leave me a choice."

Suguru didn't reply. He just clung to him, fear freezing him in place. He hated being there, hated how real it felt, and hated finding comfort in this Satoru-his executioner. Gojo stroked his hair, continuing to beg for forgiveness.

Fed up with being trapped in his own mind, Suguru broke free from Satoru's arms. He looked at him closely and saw, even under the thick headband, that Satoru's eyes were full of pleading.

"How... how can I ever escape you, Satoru?" he asked, his voice breaking.

Satoru slid the headband down to his neck, his tear-filled eyes locked on Suguru's.

"You can't."

Suguru woke up suddenly to the sound of his alarm, his heart pounding like he’d run a marathon. Quickly, he rushed to the bathroom, ripped off his mask, and his body doubled over, tense, as he vomited. Panting, he sat beside the toilet, waiting for his breathing to steady. His mind was blank, and all he knew was that he wanted to feel better and forget what he had dreamed. At that moment, he wasn’t asking life for anything more.

Suddenly, without knowing why, he reached for his phone. He opened Instagram, went to Satoru’s profile, and unblocked him.

“If I can’t beat you, then…” he murmured, pulling out another mask.

What a terrible idea.

A moment later

Satoru didn't wait even a second to message Suguru. He knew Suguru had unblocked him so he'd see his photos and stories, but more than anything, so he'd talk to him. This game was a familiar one for both of them.

You unblocked me, Geto-sama.

Suguru noticed his phone light up six minutes after unblocking him. Seeing Satoru's name and photo, the weight of that dream lifted, if only for a moment. He opened the chat and set a nine-minute timer. It seemed like a reasonable amount of time to leave him on read.

When Satoru saw his message had been read, he scoffed but felt his heart speed up. Even though he knew Suguru was doing it on purpose, a part of him feared he'd get blocked again before he even got a reply.

Once the timer went off, Suguru grinned.

Mischievously, he began typing nonsense in the message kithout sending it, just so Satoru would see the "typing" bubble for a few minutes. Occasionally, he'd stop, letting the bubble disappear, then start again-an orchestrated symphony to get on the albino's nerves.

Satoru, on the other end, had an unprecedented urge to wring his neck.

Suguru finally stopped typing. He waited a minute, sighed, and then picked up the phone again.

I suppose I did, Gojo Satoru.

—————-continues in https://archiveofourown.org/works/60470752

When the night stripped him of his leader’s attire, when the day began to sleep, and when stillness reigned around him, Suguru always returned to the same photographs. Like every hipster teenager of the 2000s, the curse manipulator had his analog camera. A Zenit E, to be precise. Always by his side, it was his faithful companion through countless journeys around the world that his strange and curious profession took him on. Well, the camera and…him.

“A photographer is nothing without his muse,” Satoru would say flirtatiously, posing casually, his head resting on his hands, his long legs stretching nearly the full length of the bench, and his lashes, violet curtains shielding the depth of that gaze from any unworthy mortal.

Suguru lit a cigarette and studied that photograph intently. Summer or…spring? His mind blurred the intensity of the sunlight that reflected, scorching and fierce, in those eyes.

He sighed. It couldn’t be any other way, because Suguru firmly believed that Satoru’s eyes were the most captivating and bewildering thing about him. With a blue so intense it seemed to defy the laws of nature, they had an almost supernatural glow, as if they held a fragment of the sky itself or of some impossible ocean. When he looked at them up close, Suguru felt he could get lost in them—no, he could drown in them, as if those two blue abysses could pull him into another world, one where time stopped, and only they existed, sharing a truth that only their gazes could express.

“Come on, Suguru. Is it that hard to click?” Satoru would say, feigning annoyance, while he watched with satisfaction the lovestruck look his best friend wore behind the lens.

“The hard part is something else,” Suguru would mutter, trying to focus on that small pair of galaxies.

Inhale. Exhale. The smoke drifting toward those impossible eyes that stared back from the worn-out paper.

He held the photo up to the light as he lay back. There was something deeply seductive in the way Satoru looked at him, with that blend of curiosity and certainty, as if he didn’t need to say a word to make Suguru feel understood and, at the same time, completely exposed. It was a disarming gaze, light and playful on the surface, but with a latent intensity only Suguru could recognize. In those moments, when their eyes met and Satoru gave him one of those glances, part teasing, part serious, Suguru felt he could see him as he truly was, beneath all his jokes and arrogance: vulnerable, filled with secrets and shared dreams.

Someone only he could truly know.

“Come on, what could be so difficult?” Satoru would ask, opening one of his countless candies. “Do you need my help?” He would chuckle, moving closer to Suguru’s lens.

Suguru swallowed. Satoru knew exactly what he was doing. Satoru, just as he had the first time Suguru saw him, was mesmerizing him with the colors of his irises.

Clicking his tongue, Suguru set the photograph aside. It no longer made sense to think about it. He was there, and he was here. There was a reason, a purpose. No, it was best not to look at it again.

But his eyes couldn’t resist their blue call. He was always astonished by the stubbornness of those eyes, which seemed to shift hues with every emotion. Windows to an unknown universe, they could be mysterious and vibrant, yet also warm when his pupils dilated slightly, reflecting an immense affection. He knew most people felt intimidated by the intensity of that gaze, but to him, it was his refuge, his safe place.

“The hard part is capturing them,” he murmured, as his finger clicked to capture the moment.

“Why, Suguru?” Gojo whispered, pressing his unforgiving face even closer.

Suguru of that time hadn’t answered him. He couldn’t find the words. But ten years later, a longing leader caressed what remained of an image as fleeting as that spring.

“Because, beneath all your energy,” he murmured, recalling those two daring teenagers, “you looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.”

And in those moments, Suguru understood why those eyes, beyond their beauty, were the most captivating thing about him.

🧿🧿🧿-🧿🧿🧿

“The Last Supper” ——— drabble

November, 2017

Satoru sat at the far end of a small ramen stall, the collar of his uniform covering most of his face. He didn’t have to wait long for his bowl; the robust man already knew the albino and his order. He smiled weakly, watching the steam rise and form a dense mist that, for a moment—a precious moment—seemed to blur him along with the melancholy of his current life.

Suddenly, his six eyes sharpened, as they always did when that presence drew near, warning him to be cautious. His heart, like the bowl in front of him, had small cracks along the edge.

Suguru, hesitant as always when coming to that place, arrived a few minutes late. The hectic life of a leader sometimes worked against him, preventing him from honoring his impeccable punctuality. He cursed time and the impossibility of recovering it; losing even two minutes with him simply didn’t feel right. Silently, he took a seat, saying nothing. The air, thick with familiar spice scents, spoke for them of a past once filled with laughter, and a present where tension cut as deeply as the Arctic wind.

“Do you still get it so spicy?” Satoru remarked, trying with all his strength to smile. There was a blend of nostalgia and sadness in the sky of his eyes; he knew that these small details—the sneeze, the sweat on Suguru’s brow, the burn on his lips—were among the few pieces he still had of him.

Or rather, that Suguru still allowed him to see.

“And you still like it without flavor?” Suguru replied with a half-smile that quickly faded. What was the point in pretending everything was normal, as if he wasn’t at the edge of dying by his best friend’s hand?

“Best friend.” Who the hell believed that anymore? He wasn’t his best friend. He was his companion. His confidant. His lover. His reflection. The one whose absence would strip the blue from his life. And who can live without a primary color? He, at least, couldn’t.

He sighed and, letting himself be wrapped by the man’s familiar lavender scent and the warmth of the rising steam, split his chopsticks.

“To your health, Satoru,” he murmured, pouring himself a glass of sake.

“To yours, Suguru,” Satoru replied, a knot already forming in his throat.

They ate in silence, each submerged in their own thoughts.

Thoughts of what they had been, of a painfully distant past where, sitting in that same place, wrapped in the biting winter wind, they laughed at everything, no matter how absurd it was.

Thoughts of what they were, of a present where seeing each other was slowly becoming an impossibility, against which it was pointless to fight. Just as it makes no sense to think about living without air, it also made no sense to assume they could bear the weight of life without the other’s touch.

And thoughts of what they would be, of a future where words they’d said countless times would never be enough.

Caught in their throats? No, not yet. “Suguru, I love you.”

“At least curse me a little before the end.”

But no. Not yet.

Though there was physical distance between them, their hands found each other under the counter, a reflection of that connection that neither time nor their opposing paths could erase.

“This is… pathetic, isn’t it?” Suguru whispered, his voice barely audible amidst the sound of noodles and the distant bustle of the street.

Satoru didn’t respond; he simply focused on the bowl in front of him. He felt a weight, something that choked him but that he couldn’t—didn’t want to—let out. He held his hand tightly, very tightly, even at the risk of hurting him. He’d leave, just like he had in other contexts, his mark on him. Something told him he wouldn’t have another chance to bruise that youthful skin into a violet, but beautiful, bruise. Suguru felt the pain but said nothing. He knew that once those eyes were covered, he wouldn’t have another chance to get lost in them. His plan was already in motion, and he knew he’d be gone.

“I only want to feel pain if it comes from you, Satoru,” he whispered, voice barely audible and breaking.

Satoru sighed and tightened his grip.

“This is sick,” he said, seeking the curse-user’s gaze but not releasing his hand.

“Then let me go.”

Satoru didn’t answer, but he softened his hold. Slowly, gently, he caressed the bruised hand of the one true love of his life.

“I told you I…” Suguru began.

“What for, if you know what I’ll have to do?”

Suguru sighed. He was right. Gojo Satoru’s duty was just around the corner. Perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to let himself get carried away by his touch. Ten years ago, it was the only thing that kept him alive.

Or almost.

With stubborn and timid tears in his eyes, he returned the touch of Satoru’s long fingers. Ironically, a gesture that would hurt more than any pain he’d caused him.

Finishing his ramen, Suguru let out a long sigh, stood up, and left a few bills on the table without even looking at Satoru. Before leaving, he murmured something, almost inaudible, as if he didn’t really want the albino to hear.

“Satoru… I wish we’d never gotten here.”

“Suguru, wait…”

“I’ll see you in December.”

He walked away, and silence enveloped Satoru once more. He sat there, staring at the empty seat, wishing that space didn’t feel so eternal.

And so painfully real.

Name: All roads lead to Nanami

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Geto Suguru

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

Prompt: “Left! Other left!”

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