------｡✧【AUTHOR: VALLEYKEY】✧｡-------

➤Source: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36776911/chapters/96082906#workskin

*Literally this is one of my fav stsg fics ever!!!! If u guys enjoy the story, plz visit the original link above to give her kudos and support her <3333 thankyouuu*

Summary:

"Yeah yeah," Shōko says, and he hears her steps leaving. "Ah, Satoru'll probably come soon, by the way. If you're waiting on him."

-----

When he regains consciousness properly, the infirmary is empty, and Suguru is alone. There's still a hint of sluggishness to his limbs, but the problem has been mostly dealt with by his cursed energy. He deals with his hygiene. Takes a shower. Changes clothes. Wonders where Satoru is, and what he's doing. Wonders if Satoru's avoiding him.

He finds Yaga in the kitchen, back slumped, hands around a plain white mug. Coffee, Suguru knows, from its smell permeating thick through the air.

They stare, for a moment. He's grown his hair out, a little. Wears shades now, too. Suguru doesn't need to see Yaga's eyes to observe how obviously uncomfortable his presence makes the other, though. And Suguru just doesn't—

doesn't wanna deal with this shit.

"I'll...use another kitchen," Suguru says, after moment, voice awkwardly loud. He turns heel, wet hair cold against his skin, and—

"Wait!"

Suguru pauses, twists half around. Raises a brow. "What?"

"I think—" Yaga visibly collects himself, fingers going white around his coffee mug, "I think we should talk."

Suguru turns all the way around. Attempts a smile, but can't quite muster it, even a mocking one. Whatever. He doesn't need a smile right now, anyway.

"Oh, so you're done avoiding me?"

Yaga grimaces. "Sorry."

That takes him aback. The Yaga he knows is more—prideful? Maybe. "Really?"

"Yeah."

Suguru doesn't really know what to say, so instead he scoffs. Makes his way to the counter without directly looking at the other. Pours himself a cup of coffee. Hesitates a moment, thinks of Satoru, and takes an orange, too. "So, what. 'Got something to say to me?"

"...Probably not anything Gojō and Shōko haven't already told you," Yaga finally admits.

Suguru digs a nail into the peel of his orange. Its oil burns ever-so-slight under his nails. "I think you're overestimating our ability to handle things ourselves. You did that back then, too."

Another grimace. Yaga always frowns when he's bothered, lips setting deep and thin on his face, brows furrowing. It's not quite a scowl, though—closer to a 'perplexed' expression than anything. Apparently, that hasn't changed.

"I'm sorry about that, too," Yaga eventually says.

An awkward beat. Suguru sips from his coffee to avoid speaking, and burns his tongue.

"Look," he says, bitterness coating his whole mouth, "there's clearly something you wanna ask me. If you're not gonna say it then I'm just gonna leave."

"You're speaking like you're angry."

"You wanna know if I'm angry at you?" And then, when Yaga doesn't verbally reply, Suguru presses his fingers into the hot surface of his mug. Licks the burnt tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I think you're a spineless coward," Suguru answers, and anger sparks, just a little, all gross and worn. "I hate you sometimes, I think, but—not completely. Not really. I can't ever hate any of you from the college."

"Ah."

There's a pool of resentment in Suguru's stomach, there is, but he's just so—tired. It feels far away. Exhausted The spark of anger burns out just so quick as it came.

"You should talk to my counterpart, not me."

"Yeah," Yaga agrees, after a moment. He sounds almost so tired as Suguru feels. "I probably should."

They don't talk after that. Suguru downs his bitter coffee, eats his orange, and leaves first.

-

It's odd, that's all. It's odd. Everything is empty and hollow and Suguru wanders the quiet campus without direction. Lost. And it shouldn't feel unfamiliar, this untethered sensation, but it does. Because maybe he's been lost for a year but there was always a distant goal in the horizon, a crossroads. A signpost, if only he'd take its directions. To keep with his ideals, to take this set of new ones. To continue exorcising and ingesting, or to turn against nonshamans.

But—but now it's just—

And Satoru still hasn't searched him out.

So the sun stretches in the sky, and Suguru heads back to the infirmary. Down long, cold corridors lit too dim. The door is cracked open. Bright florescent light spills out through the gap, white on the gray stone, and Suguru pauses abruptly. Through the doorway, on one of those neat white beds, is Getō, and in his arms...

Ah.

Mimiko and Nanako are pressed into him. Muffled sobs. Soothing words. I love you, I love you, I love you. Other soft things that Suguru opts not to decipher. He averts his eyes, swallows around the odd lump in his throat, and turns around.

It's not something for him to intrude on.

(He should talk to his parents when he gets back, maybe.)

-

Behind the college, there's a cemetery. It's tucked into a small, empty wildflower meadow across a creek, and it doesn't look like a cemetery at all. At least, not at first.

The moment Suguru passes the stream and steps his bare foot onto its far side, the world folds in on itself. In front of him stretches an expanse of tiled paths and stone monuments, clean-cut rectangles etched with names. It's late afternoon and toasted sunlight encases every polished stone in amber hues that reflect the very nature of this place.

It's old sealwork, Suguru knows. This curtain is from the Golden Age of Jujutsu. The effect is akin to capturing an incomplete domain in the physical world. Nothing like the modern understanding of curtain capabilities. Shamans have been attempting to dissect the exact mechanisms of this ever-expanding cemetery for centuries.

Suguru walks twenty minutes, footsteps slow as he traverses the winding landscape, before finally reaching the monument that holds Haibara's name etched into its side. There are flowers at his, wilted and faded but present nonetheless. Unlike almost ever other grave here.

Suguru sits. The stone beneath him is lukewarm, and there's no breeze, but Suguru draws a knee to his chest and rests his jaw on it.

HAIBARA is written plainly across the front in large characters. Some clans—mostly only the important or large ones—have their own cemeteries, but the Haibara clan has always been small and, in the scheme of things, unimportant. New, too. Their family grave sits here, only three generations of names inscribed in its surface. Haibara is still the newest addition.

Haibara Yū. 灰原雄.

An entire person flattened into two names. Into thin lines in gray stone. As if that could ever encapsulate his existence.

Suguru's eyes wander the pristine, flowerless monuments around him. The rows and rows and rows of them, embedded into the landscape, far as he can see. There are so many names, so many faceless ghosts, and Suguru feels nothing beyond a vague acknowledgment that someone with that name once existed; someday, this is how Haibara will be remembered.

It's late afternoon and everything is pleasantly lukewarm. There's no reason for Suguru to feel so—so cold.

Everything is too-quiet and too-still. No birds, no bugs. Empty. Lonely. Satoru still hasn't searched him out.

Suguru breathes out, and lets a small curse slip out of his ability and dance in the air around his fingers for a moment. Nudge against his cheek. The creature's body is long and scaled, resembling a koi fish. A small ache pangs through Suguru's chest, and suddenly, he misses the rainbow dragon.

Haibara Yū. This fucking cemetery of flattened shaman names. Yesterday, Suguru had a direction he could point to and say if I do this, I can stop this from happening again. Now—

Another curse slips out, larger this time. And another. Then another. Another. More.

Their cocooning bodies are all cold. Satoru still hasn't come.

God.

Suguru just wants to shut away from the whole world. Wants to fall into a void and never come up. Wishes, idly, that his counterpart hadn't pulled him out from the pond last night. That he had drowned there, because at least then he wouldn't be here. In this—this—

A curse shifts against his hair. In his lungs, the air feels so thick and putrid with cursed energy that he could choke on it, but he doesn't. Outside this mass of curses, he's sure the shadows are elongating, sun moving across the sky. He can't see it. Everything is blocked out.

He stays like that a while, right up until something disturbs the edge of his curses.

"Getō," the voice is muffled through his walls, but recognizable. Quietly, he opens a path, curses pushes aside to make way for her. He doesn't look, but hears her footsteps against he stone nonetheless. "What are you doing here?"

Instead of answering: "How'd you know I was here?"

"Your counterpart thought you might be," Shōko answers.

"He did?" Suguru finally looks at her. Luminescent curses cast her in silvers and blues. Tired exhaustion plagues her shoulders. Getō definitely knew that if Suguru was here, he wouldn't wanna be disturbed. "What an ass."

"Mm," Shōko says. Doesn't sit down beside him, but bends over, just a little. "'Wanna come out of this mess?"

No.

"No," Suguru answers, curses brushing his skin. "'Got a problem with that?"

"Nah," Shōko says. "It's fine."

Small pause. His skin pricks. A beetle-like curse crawls along his fingers, body glowing dimly. "You think I'm being childish."

A noncommittal hum. "Maybe in some ways."

He sours, curses shifting around them. Clicking and clacking, agitated with his mood. "Go away."

"It's okay if you're being childish," Shōko says, tone all dull and unreadable. Not negative. Not positive, either. Flat and factual, the same way she reads out autopsy reports. "You're a child."

A beat. Suguru looks away. He doesn't feel like one.

"...Go away," he says again.

"Yeah yeah," Shōko says, and he hears her steps leaving. "Ah, Satoru'll probably come soon, by the way. If you're waiting on him."

Suguru's chest tangles anxiously, and he doesn't answer, even as her steps fade completely.

-

He comes not much later, all loud and crude, shamelessly forcing his own way through Suguru's writhing dome of curses, rather than waiting for a path to open.

"Oh woah," he's saying as the opening closes behind him, filled with new curse bodies, and something in Suguru releases with relief at the sound of his voice, "this is so weird! It's so dark! Kinda cool actually. Fucking bitch on the eyes though, like, in terms of cursed energy—ugh. Ah! Don't get rid of them though, I mean, if you don't want to. That's fine. It's like one of those caves, y'know the ones? Like with the glow-worms n' stuff. Kinda like Loy Krathong. Or like, rivers at the end of Obon? But this is blue-colors and I dunno if you're mourning or just freaking out. Hey, we're even in a cemetery! I missed Tōrō Nagashi this year. Do you think—"

"You're babbling," Suguru says.

Satoru makes an offended noise and sits on the hard ground beside Suguru, legs crossed, leaning back on his palms. Their knees bump. "Wha'cha are you doing here anyway?"

Suguru shrugs. Satoru is silver and blue and soft under the dim light of luminescent curses. There's starlight in his hair. Suguru catches a glance of his eyes over those opaque glasses. "This is the first time I've been to Haibara's family grave since before he died."

"It's the first time I've been at all."

"Ah." A beat of silence. Suguru's throat, chest, cursed energy, feels tight. Sick with anticipation. Dread. "Hey Satoru, were you avoiding me today?"

"I guess," Satoru answers, "I mean, not exactly. I was just—hm, figuring some things out?"

"It's fine," says Suguru, even though it doesn't feel fine, it doesn't feel fine at all, "So I guess—" he looks away, looking to the writhing dome of curses that curtain them from the rest of the world. No light slips through. "I guess you know what happened, huh? With me in this timeline."

Satoru clears his throat. "Yeah. Figured it out."

Suguru tries to smile. Fails. When will the shoe drop? "'Took you long enough. I basically had it all figured out by noon yesterday, y'know?"

"'Wouldn't have taken me so long if you told me what you thought," Satoru grumbles, "jerk."

And Suguru—what does he even do? Suguru doesn't know how to fix this. He draws the knee back from his chest and matches Satoru's cross legged position. Breathes in, and out. "Asshole."

"Bitch," Satoru responds, easily.

Suguru almost smiles, this time. "Obnoxious playboy."

"Manipulative control freak."

Ouch. Suguru resists the urge to reach a hand up and fiddle with one of his piercings. "Oblivious."

Satoru's shoulders straighten. "Liar."

"God complex." Even though Suguru is a liar and Satoru just is the strongest. No complex.

Satoru sticks his tongue out. "Savior complex!"

"Not a savior complex if you literally have a moral obligation to do it," Suguru says, and his voice has less heat than he wants it to. It just sounds so tired. So openly exhausted. Because he really does have an obligation, huh? No escaping it.

"Not a god complex if you're a god."

"But you're not." And Satoru knows that, too. He doesn't have a god complex, not really. He might have—does have—one about being forced into the role, though. And Suguru no longer has a plan for how to help that.

Satoru takes off his glasses. They clack quietly against the stone. His eyes are so, so blue. All of the ocean all at once. The sharp edge of shattered glass. Bright, human-weapon eyes. "God-like, then."

"No," Suguru says, thinks of Satoru sleeping in his bed, Satoru laughing, Satoru getting upset over stupid video games, Satoru human, Satoru Satoru Satoru, "not that, either."

(I love you I love you I love you I love you)

Satoru makes a face. "Then who is?"

"Hmmm," Suguru tilts his head, mock contemplation, maybe. "Shōko?"

"Whaatt?" Satoru's face scrunches. "How come she gets the god-like label!"

"For putting up with our shit all the time," Suguru answers.

Satoru opens his mouth to reply—and snaps it shut. His brows furrow cutely, and there's a half beat before he laughs, loud and honest and it soothes something in Suguru's soul. His heart. It must, because after a moment, he's laughing too, eyes crinkling up.

It's Satoru that recovers breath first, and he flops down on his back, laying sprawled on the stone. Blue-silver light shines on his hair, his lashes, his uniform. Like this, they could be pressed between between the night and the stars. And he's still smiling when he says: "You know, I've always had homicidal thoughts."

Suguru stills. Presses a palm against he ground. Runs his tongue along his teeth, hard enough to hurt. "You do?"

"Mhmm," Satoru's bright eyes wander the dark mass of curses before settling on Suguru, and their intensity almost burns. Satoru's still smiling. "Like 'killing Sensei would get me out of detention' or 'damn it'd be so easy to squash Shōko like a bug right now' or 'man I should just kill all the elders'. I told my mental health councilor—which I was required to have by Jujutsu law since Six Eyes plus Limitless blah blah—about them when I was like, ten and he got so scared. And then I thought 'I could just kill him', too, cause he was being loud and annoying, and I could, but I didn't."

Suguru stares. His throat feels tight. Putrid cursed energy rolls over his tongue. His chest clenches uncomfortably. Irrationally, he wants to hold Satoru's hand. Irrationally, too, he's afraid that Satoru wouldn't let him. "...Yeah?"

Small pause, and, "Yeah! After the Star Plasma mission was the worst, though. In the cultist building, holding Riko's body. I really would have killed them all, you know?"

"'Cause you hated them?"

"Nah," Satoru says, "I didn't like, want to kill them, exactly. I didn't hate them. I wasn't even angry. It was more like, I just wanted all the noise gone. It was too loud. I wouldn't have felt anything at all if I did—like killing a bug without reason! Crushing one just because. You know you shouldn't, but you don't actually feel anything when you do. But you stopped me. But—" Satoru pauses, takes a breath. "But if it were you in my place holding Riko's body and I was in the doorway and you were telling me 'Satoru, I want to kill them', I don't think I'd know how to stop you. Even though you stopped me. That's not fair, right? It doesn't feel fair."

Suguru doesn't know what to say, doesn't really want to say anything, so he doesn't. Because Satoru—Satoru is being so honest with him and he doesn't deserve it at all. He can't match that.

A frown tugs at Satoru's face. "You were the first person to ever make me pause and think, 'could I'? You were annoying but you were strong, the only one who'd ever rivaled me before, and I don't think I could have killed you easily, in first year. And honestly, I don't think I could now, either. For different reasons, though. I guess. You know?"

Satoru's honesty hangs in the air between them, and Suguru chokes on it. It was always something he—admired, maybe, about Satoru. His honesty. His bright, blaring, unapologetic nature. There's a sincerity to his existence. And Suguru...

I love you I love you I love you I love you

Satoru deserves Suguru to be honest, right? Remember? Satoru deserves Suguru's honesty. And maybe—maybe Suguru wants to be sincere. At least a little.

But it's so scary, it's so, so scary. Because what if Suguru takes off his face, peels back his skin, and Satoru recoils at the festering rot underneath? It's so, so grotesque. But—but.

"I don't think mine are like that," Suguru says, words bitter and raw on his tongue, "I haven't—they haven't always been there, and they're not so flippant. I really want—wanted to kill them. Sometimes it's a passing desire but it's always a real want. Sometimes I thought it'd swallow me whole. I guess it would've, eventually, given," he makes a vague motion in the air. "You know."

"Oh," says Satoru, then: "thanks for telling me."

There's still so much I haven't told you, Suguru thinks, and feels disgusting. Then: there's still so much I think I want to tell you.

The best years of Suguru's life was first and second year at Jujutsu Tech. These were also the most honest years of his life—the ones where he wasn't pretending not to see monsters in the dark, and wasn't pretending to believe in some stupid ideal, and wasn't trying to conceal his growing hatred of nonshamans.

But now Satoru knows, and Satoru's still here, right? With Suguru. And Suguru's still with Satoru. And there's so much Satoru knows but it's still not everything and it's still not enough and it's still not what Suguru is feeling right now.

I want to be sincere for you, Suguru thinks, looking at Satoru's bright eyes and starlight hair and sprawled body, I want to be sincere with you.

I want to be sincere.

"I don't know what to do," Suguru confesses, voice quiet, and wants to cry. He reaches a hand up to his ear and fiddles with his piercing. "I mean—"

and he lets all the curses dissipate, pulls them back into his technique all at once. The world brightens. Around them, the shaman cemetery stretches and stretches and stretches, washed rosy-pink with sunset.

Satoru blinks once. Sits back up. "Do about what?"

"This," Suguru says, gesturing to the millennium-old shaman graveyard around them, "everything. I had a plan before, you know? Or at least the idea of one. But it was irrational and immoral and now I'm right back where I started, except worse. I just—just..."

"Oh," Satoru says, human-weapon eyes glittering, "well—maybe—what if all the nonshamans became like Maki? Like, all got those glasses things so the shaman world won't have to be so short on people to complete exorcisms all the time?"

"The higher ups wouldn't ever allow that."

"So we'll change the whole Jujutsu world, who cares?"

"Even if we did, cursed objects aren't able to be manufactured reliably. It'd be expensive and costly."

"But it wouldn't cost millions of lives," says Satoru.

A beat. Suguru's chest clenches.

"Yeah, it wouldn't," how to explain, how to explain, "but—it's still not—Satoru I'm not wrong. I'm not. That feels like—it's another bandaid solution. Curses—they need to be gone completely, I think. My counterpart's actions had purpose but not meaning, and my previous self's actions," he's speaking too fast—"when I believed this cycle of exorcising was optimum—those actions had meaning but no purpose. And I think I need both, there has to be purpose just like there has to be meaning but I can't fucking find them together and—"

"Calm down," says Satoru, and his palm is cold but it feels burning against Suguru's shoulder.

Something racks his frame, not a sob, but a shudder, maybe. It's awful. Haibara's name stares at him like an accusation. Hotness pricks at his eyes and there's a lump in his throat.

"I don't want to be a bad person," he confesses, pathetic and small. That's the heart of it, right? I don't want to be a bad person.

And Satoru—

"You're not," he says with absurd confidence, as if Suguru hadn't come within a hairbreadth of mass murder, as if his counterpart weren't killed by Satoru's counterpart because of his atrocities, as if—"you won't be."

I love you I love you I love you I love you

"You can't just say that," Suguru says, voice cracking embarrassingly down the middle.

"Yeah?" A note of challenge. "I'll say it again: you're a good person and you'll continue to be. You won't be a bad person." Then: "We're together. We'll figure it out, okay? We're together."

I love you I love you I love you I love you

"Okay," Suguru says around that awful lump in his throat, "okay. We will." Smiles in a way that hurts his face. "We're together."

Satoru makes this light, pleased noise. His hand reaches from Suguru's shoulder to his jaw to his cheeks to his eyes. Belatedly, he realizes that he's crying. Satoru's finger glistens with his tears. And Suguru wants, achingly, to slot their bodies together, to link their legs and intertwine their hands and press his lips against Satoru's and breathe his air until they're two halves of a whole and their hearts beat in tandem.

I love you.

"Since we're being honest," Suguru says, voice all thick and terrible, "can I tell you something?"

"Sure," Satoru answers easily, fingers still brushing Suguru's skin, body close, and Suguru feels hyper aware of every point of contact. "Anything."

I—

"I love you," Suguru says, sounds rattling up his chest, choking in his throat, falling thick from his tongue. "Satoru I love you."

Satoru blinks. "I love you too?" Tone a little bemused. Like an idiot. Dumbass. Suguru wants to rip his hair out.

"No," Suguru says. "No, I mean—" I would burn this world for you. My soul would know you blind. I want to be with you when I die; I want to be with you while I live. Loving you is part of the meaning of my existence. I love you so much I could die. I love you so much I feel like I'm dying. And even still, it's worth it, because—"I love you like a blessing."

Satoru's brows furrow. "Ummm?"

"Oh my god," Suguru mutters, and this is so fucking awful because it's not even rejection, it's just Satoru not getting it, "you're so stupid."

"Hey!" Satoru's face contorts with offense, and maybe it's Suguru's fault after all; this isn't the first time he's said I love you, but it's the first time he's meant it like this. "Sugur—"

Suguru presses a finger to Satoru's lips. Breathes in, and out. Air warm in his lungs. Moves his hand, brushing across Satoru's cheek, ears, hair, and presses ever-so-light against the back of his head.

Suguru leans up, and presses his lips against Satoru's. They're soft, and when Suguru pulls away—quick and hesitant—a light, breathy noise slips out of them.

"Like that," Suguru says, heart in his throat, Satoru's cursed energy lingering on his lips alongside the sweet taste of strawberry lipbalm, "I love you like that too."

"Oh," says Satoru. His ears are red, and Suguru wants to kiss him again, but doesn't. "I—oh."

Suguru is going to die. "Please say something more than that."

"Right," Satoru says, "I—" a low noise of frustration, and suddenly Satoru is so close, too close, not close enough, just close enough. And his lips are against Suguru's. And his strawberry lipbalm is so sweet. "I love you like that too," Satoru says into the corner of Suguru's lips, and Suguru is going to cry again. "I love you too."

Suguru makes some low, undignified sound, and presses all of himself into Satoru. Finds his hands and entangles them, locks their legs, slips his head into the crook of Satoru's neck; slots their bodies together.

All around them, the whole cemetery is dusted rose-quartz in the sunset. Pink like valentine hearts. Like the blush of Satoru's skin.

"Hey," he says, after a moment or minute, "you said you missed Tōrō Nagashi this year, right?"

"Yeah," says Satoru.

Suguru pulls back, and he's not sure the expression on his face, but he doesn't really care, either. "I missed Tōrō Nagashi this year too." He clutches Satoru's hand tightly. "Next August," he says, voice too breathy and raw, "next August—let's go together. Let's take all of Obon off together. We can wear pretty yukata and eat too much shaved ice and take stupid pictures and dance together on the second day and kiss under the fireworks."

"...You'll be okay with taking three days off in the middle of busy season?" And Satoru sounds so hopeful.

"I think—I think I'm going to see if I can contact Tsukumo Yuki and work with her, instead of...going back to full time exorcising," Suguru says, "but I can pitch in during busy season. We can both take extra missions beforehand."

"Okay," Satoru says, and smiles like the winter sun, "let's do it."

"And—" Suguru's breath catches in his throat, and he holds Satoru's hand so tight it must hurt. All around him, the cemetery watches. "We'll make Haibara a lantern and set it down the river. And—and Amanai and Kuroi, too."

"Okay," Satoru agrees, just like that. He doesn't ask: isn't that a bit late? Because they both know that Suguru hasn't been mourning well. Maybe Satoru hasn't, either.

"We'll mourn all year," Suguru says, "and we'll do it properly, and when Tōrō Nagashi comes around we'll be happy and it'll be remembrance but it won't be grief. It'll be—" and he can't quite find the words.

"Recovery," Satoru fills in, stupid smile, "it'll be recovery."

It's the festival of recovery, after all.

"Yeah," Suguru agrees, fitting his head back into Satoru's shoulder, "it'll be recovery."

-

He didn't expect to see Getō in the library, but there he is. He's lounging in a plush chair, book between his fingers, expression—bored, maybe. The blackness of his robes makes him meld into the library's darkness, and Suguru can't quite tell where he ends and his shadows begins. Light from the onibi lanterns cast Getō in eerie blues, glints on his gold eyes.

Suguru feels oddly stuck in his place, book growing heavy in his hand.

A beat. He sucks in a breath, air tasting like old paper, thinks of Gojō, and decides to ignore his counterpart. Turns heel—

"You're still upset, hm."

Pauses. Twists back around, not bothering to smile. "At you?"

"Sure," Getō hums, snapping his book closed and tucking it away into the fabric of his clothing.

"I heard you talking to your Satoru yesterday morning," Suguru says, "in the infirmary."

"Ah."

"No excuses?"

"I don't need any," Getō hums, resting a palm against the side of his face, long sleeves falling away from his pale, bloodless skin. "I stand by everything I said."

Cold, dry air slips through Suguru's clothing. Brushes down his cheek, neck, fingertips. "You made it sound like you hardly care for him at all."

A small pause. "So that's it." Getō's lips quirk from their lax downturn. "You really hate seeing Satoru and I like we are."

"You already know I hate seeing you two like that," Suguru mutters, and it'd be okay, if Getō actually had a good reason for ruining it all, but he didn't, "you hate being like that." He looks away, looks back. Frowns. "It's not that I can't face it."

A hum. Getō doesn't respond immediately. His eyes are thin and studying, and his scrutiny pricks on Suguru's skin. The moment drags. And, finally: "Do you think the statements 'I would burn Satoru for the world' and 'I'd burn the world for Satoru' are contradictory?"

Suguru huffs. Brings a hand up to his ear and fiddles with the piercing. "Aren't they?"

"No," says Getō, "it depends entirely on what you mean by 'the world'. 'I would burn this world for Satoru'; 'I would burn Satoru for my ideal world'—these aren't contradictory."

And they're not.

Suguru looks away. Feels sick. Swallows around an odd lump in his throat and breathes through the awful tangle in his chest. Looks back. There's no judgment in Getō's expression, not unless Suguru projects it there. Because Getō is him and he is Getō and of course they both stand by each statement. The difference is that for Suguru, these are new concerns, and for Getō—he's long since made peace with this, Suguru realizes. If only this.

"I know," Suguru says, "I know that. I know we can't say all the things he deserves to hear: you are the sun of my orbit, you are my greatest meaning, I will never leave you, et cetera, et cetera. But that doesn't mean he's nothing, and it doesn't mean that we shouldn't be honest. I was sincere with my Satoru, yesterday. We can give him our honesty."

A long pause. Around them, the library is completely quiet. Total stillness.

A sigh.

"I know," Getō acquiesces, and he looks tired, "I'll talk to my Satoru."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

Okay, Suguru thinks, alright.

A beat, two. His skin is prickling, and it's too cold, and the air is too thick, and his chest is too tight. He's not saying anything, and Getō is raising a brow at him.

"I'm not gonna stay stagnant," Suguru blurts, and wants to look away, but doesn't. He chews the words in his mouth. "Just so you know. I'm not okay with this cursed world and I won't let it keep going on like this. I won't."

"Good," Getō says, after a moment, eyes slipping shut. "I wouldn't forgive you if you did."

"I don't care about your approval," Suguru not-quite-lies, because he doesn't, but he does care for his own.

Getō just hums, eyes cracking open just a sliver. Doesn't speak. And Suguru has nothing left to say.

Suguru hates Getō for what he is and what he represents; Getō hates Suguru for what he represents. It's not quite acceptance of one another, of what could have been, but it's close enough.

-

There are a lot of things that need to be sorted out. Mimiko and Nanako are still classified as curse users, but Gojō has brought up a case to conditionally revoke that status against the higher ups. Shōko and Getō are helping with the details of that, apparently. The sisters will never enroll in Jujutsu Tech, but they'll have an easier support system and place within the shaman world if they're no longer criminals.

Satoru and Suguru, meanwhile, work with assistant managers and Yaga to collect and compile files of every major incident within the last decade. Curse misclassifications, shaman deaths, badly assigned missions, curse manifestation locations, so on, so on. They condense what they can into simple lists that can be brought back to their own timeline, and stay long into the night memorizing what they can't.

It's nearing two in the morning when Satoru slaps a stack of three thick folders onto Suguru's temporary desk and announces: "Suguru! I got you a present!"

Suguru eyes the folders doubtfully. They're completely unlabeled, and almost bursting. Satoru is wearing a wide, proud grin.

"...What are they?"

"A compilation of all Special Grade Shaman Tsukumo Yuki's research in the last decade!" Satoru is practically vibrating with excitement, rocking on the balls of his feet like an overgrown puppy. His glasses are halfway down the bridge of his nose and his eyes shine bright and wide. It's so endearing that for a moment all Suguru can think is I want to kiss you—

then Satoru's words hit.

Breath catches in Suguru's throat and before he knows it, he's standing up all abrupt and sudden chair clattering behind him. "On—on curses and nonshamans?"

"Yeah! It was hell to get my hand on, you know! Like seriously! Hell! The higher-ups really have something against her work. But I did it just for you! I'm expecting a thank you!"

He knows, because he's already been trying to track it down with no luck. And Satoru—

Suguru's whole chest feels bursting with affection. It's too much to put into words, so he doesn't. Instead, Suguru leans across the desk, and presses his lips into Satoru's grinning ones, and laughs into the kiss.

-

"Do you drink nanten tea?"

Itadori blinks at him, confused. There's a can of peach soda in his hand from the nearby vending machine. "No?"

"You should try it," Suguru says, "There should be a large stock of it in storage somewhere around the college. If not, you can ask Shōko to order it. There's a specific blend—lotus petal, nanten, and cherry blossom. It can help wash out the taste of cursed energy."

"Oh," Itadori says, and smiles like sunflowers, "I'll make sure to check it out! Thank you, Getō!"

-

He finds Maki in a training ground, eyes closed, laying on her back in the short-cut grass. Cold breeze brushes Suguru's hair, but the sun is so pleasantly warm. Dappled light falls through a nearby canopy and lines of warmth and shadow shift on the back of Suguru's neck when he stands over her.

"Hey."

Maki opens her eyes, looking bored. "What?"

"I want to thank you," he says.

He expression pinches, half confusion, half distaste. Her spear is laying within arm reach, but she doesn't reach for it. "For what?"

Suguru shrugs, shifting weight between his bare feet. Beneath him, the grass is warm. "It's nothing you did intentionally, but it felt wrong to say nothing."

"...Uhhuh," Maki says. Rubs at her eyes, displacing her glasses. Suguru stares at the object maybe a beat too long before looking away. Letting his gaze wander the sky, the mountains, the distant entrance to campus. Not far off is the heart of Tokyo. A place where curses fester like mold beneath an old carpet.

Nonshamans, shamans, curses—

"I think," and it feels thick on his tongue, "I think this world hates everyone."

"...Right."

"Sorry, I'm being a little miscellaneous, huh?"

"It's fine," Maki says, after a moment, "I'll just kick you if you're too annoying."

"Mhmm." A smile crinkles at his eyes. "You know," he leans back on his palms, "There was another Zen'in a bit like you, years ago. I doubt you've heard of him. They don't like talking about him."

"Okay," Maki says, when he doesn't continue, "so?"

"You just—remind me of him," Suguru says, "a little. In some ways." But not the ones that matter.

"Oh yeah?" There's some interest in her face, now, and she tilts her head to see him better. Strands of hair shift across her skin, looking almost green in the sunlight. Like this, her brown eyes look almost brass-gold. A little like his. Her lips curl, somewhat challenging. "How do I compare?"

"Weaker," Suguru answers, "but also—" and the ghost of a laugh catches at the back of his throat, "less of a piece of shit."

"Weaker?" Is what Maki focuses on.

"Mm," Suguru says, "he could totally wipe the floor with me."

A small pause. Dissatisfaction flicks across Maki's face. Her hand reaches out and grasps her spear. "Let's go again."

The challenge clear. It's friendlier than last time, he thinks.

"Sure," he accepts, and stretches out a hand.

Maki stares for a moment, and takes it. There's real strength behind her pull when she uses him to hoist herself up. Her grip is sturdy, firm muscle under tough, calloused skin. It's the hand of a fighter, and not too dissimilar from his own.

-

He sees them from a distance, bodies pressed together in the canopy, half concealed by leaves and flowering vines. Getō's long robes dangle from the branches and sunlight dapples over Gojō's hair, catches brightly on Getō's piercings. Gojō's head is tucked in the crook of Getō's neck, grip around his back, and Getō's hands are softly carding through Gojō's hair. Light breeze shifts their framing.

Even from this distance, it's an unmistakable intimacy. Plain and honest. Sincere.

Suguru tears his eyes away, chest achingly tight, and turns around to take a different path. A budding red spider lily tickles his ankle.

-

It's a clear day, and bright autumn sunlight bathes everything when Satoru and Suguru finally stand in place atop the staircase to go back to their own timeline. With one arm, Suguru cradles large boxes filled with paper documenting everything they couldn't remember, and with the other, he holds Satoru's hand. The sweet taste of matcha cookies lingers on his teeth—Kugisaki insisted on making them her test subjects for another cooking project before they finally take their leave.

The ensemble's here, or at least—some of it. Getō didn't come. Mimiko and Nanako stopped by earlier. Gojō is rocking on his feet, hands in his pockets. Shōko looks tremendously bored. There's a cigarette between her fingers. Yaga has a complicated expression that Suguru opts not to read.

Itadori looks a bit like a kicked puppy. "It was really nice meeting you, Getō! And mini-Sensei!"

Suguru smiles. "It was nice spending time with you, too."

Maki is picking at her nails. "Aren't you two leaving? It's been five minutes already."

Satoru sticks out his tongue petulantly. "Yeah yeah! We know! Jeez, you're so cold! Aren't you and Suguru friends or something?"

"No," Maki answers, instantly. Suguru shrugs and ignores her sour look.

"One last thing," he says, briefly squeezing Satoru's hand. He straightens his shoulders, calms his voice, and smiles. Because this is important. "Keep your Satoru company, alright? He gets lonely easily, even if he won't admit it."

Satoru makes an indignant noise. Gojō's posture stiffens, straightens, then goes lax. A pout forms on his face. "Do not."

Suguru ignores him.

Itadori grins. "Don't worry, we will!"

Maki huffs. "We'd do it anyway, you don't have to tell us."

"Thank you," Suguru says, "just—thanks." He twists his head to look at Satoru, and even now, breath catches in his throat. It's still so surreal that Satoru is his, now. "Satoru, we can go now."

Satoru huffs, but his grip on Suguru's hand tightens, and Suguru can feel the cursed energy gather. The way it wraps around him like a blanket. "Bye, losers!"

Someone starts to say something, but it gets lost in the warping void between one dimension and the next. The world tilts on its axis, blinks from sensation, and comes back all at once, dizzying. Suguru stumbles a step, head spinning with vertigo, and Satoru's hand steadies him.

Breathe in, and out. The taste of early autumn. Fresh air. Clear skies. Different people.

Shōko stares at them, cigarette dropping, eyes wide. This Shōko has short hair and wears student uniform. This Shōko is their Shōko.

"Hey," Suguru offers, gently dropping the boxes of papers down to the ground.

She looks so done. "The whole shaman world has been looking for you two."

"Hah!" Satoru laughs, "that's hilarious! Dude, you won't fucking believe where me and my boyfriend—I'm talking about Suguru, by the way, because he's my boyfriend—have been!"

Shōko's expression changes from done to dead, and Suguru snickers.

"Uhhuh."

"Don't worry," Suguru says, "we'll explain properly in a bit. It's good to be back."

And it really is, he thinks. It really is. The future stretches out before him, bright and warm and full with possibility. Soon, he and Satoru will explain their trip to that would-have-been future, settle back in, will laugh and mourn and figure out how to fix this world. Next August, they will talk each other by the hand and spend all three days of Obon festivities together, wearing pretty yukata and eating too-sweet vendor food and kissing under fireworks. They'll set three lanterns down the river, and they'll be happy.

That's the future, though.

For now, Suguru clutches Satoru's hand tight, and takes his first step home.

--------

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