WhIP

by footfungus

nederlands verhalen over mijn otp

151. Chapter 151

milk & black spiders

elfsbe

Summary:

there's no shame in liking a girl, right?

or; an examination of Gojo's feelings for the ever-oblivious Utahime Iori over the years.

'cause i've been around two times and found that you're the only thing i need.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: probably our last conversation

Summary:

"let's talk soon
i'll see you 'round"

we'll never talk again
me and you
you and me
will never talk again

- Grabbitz

Chapter Text

"Hey, Utahime." His mouth wrapped around her name softly as if it would shatter when spoken any other way. "I need to…can I tell you something?"

She refused to look at him, her eyes narrowing on the horizon. "Don't."

"Listen, I—"

"No, Gojo," she said firmly, the slight tremor in her voice giving away her true feelings. "You can tell me when you come back—because you're going to come back." Her arms were tucked into the sleeves of her white kosode, the fabric ruffling as she rubbed her own forearms for comfort.

There was an orange glow illuminating her face, holding his devout gaze. A swell of uncertainty seized hold of his conviction and it wasn't the frosty air that dried his tremulous lips which he swiped at with his tongue. "If I come back…"

"When you come back," she corrected, her expression sharpening.

"…will you have something to tell me too?" The sun was setting on December 23rd, 2018—they were running out of time, each minute even more precious than the last. Even still, she allowed the moments to pass by, honeyed eyes aglow in the dying light. Look at me, he begged. Please, look at me.

As if she'd heard his thoughts, Utahime turned towards him, her body trembling as their eyes met. "Yes," she murmured. "Satoru." A single emotion, born from the very depths of their souls, connected them by a thread in that moment, entangling them—intertwined, they remained, regardless of any outcome they might face.

And Satoru smiled.

He could still recall the very first time he'd laid his eyes on her.

It wasn't exactly a meeting between the two where names and words were exchanged. In fact, he was sure she had no recollection of that moment in time herself. It made the memory more personal to him—something so intimate that he could only indulge in its reminiscence privately, fiddling with the hem of his blindfold to temper his emotions.

In the Summer of 2004, Satoru Gojo was fourteen years old, wandering the campus of Tokyo Jujutsu High. Perhaps he should've been paying closer attention to the conversation occurring between his handlers—representatives of his clan who spoke on behalf of the regent head—and the principal but he really couldn't be bothered. He already had a good idea of what the topic concerned and, while he loved being the center of any conversation, he wasn't currently in the mood.

He'd been told that they would stop for a meal before coming to tour the campus after their long journey from their estate in Kyoto to Tokyo but, due to delays, that never ended up happening. In response to his very vocal protests, his handlers waved him off in favor of pointless drivel. So, here he was, aggravated fists in his pockets as he kicked rocks. Seriously, can we get the fuck outta here already?

Satoru wandered further away from his handlers in pursuit of a large, jagged pebble he sent skittering across the stone courtyard. To keep himself entertained, he would intermittently activate his Infinity to push the pebble farther until the stone courtyard turned into a dirt pathway. He would've kept going had he not heard a sweet sound contrast the buzz of the cicadas.

Someone's singing? A girl, to be more precise.

It was an unintelligible melody but, somehow, Satoru felt it sounded familiar. Had he heard this song somewhere before? He couldn't quite grasp the memory despite the way it danced on the tip of his tongue. No, wait—the taste on his tongue was cursed energy. Sweet and warm; like drinking a glass of milk and honey. Satoru's legs moved on their own at a tentative pace, curiosity seizing him.

The cursed energy was far from threatening; faint and weak when compared to his own. He knew he could crush whoever it belonged to without breaking a sweat so his sudden need to find the source had nothing to do with power. Typically, he'd be entirely disinterested with anything so inconsequential but Satoru couldn't seem to help himself. His legs kept moving, Six Eyes in fervent pursuit of the source and, luckily, he didn't have to walk too far before he found it.

Before he found her.

Golden energy flowed through her body, flooding her limbs and pooling into the base of her humming throat. She was crouched in front of a bed of flowers—bundles of hydrangeas in full bloom. Her ink-black hair was fashioned into two loose braids, secured with white ribbons as they hung forward over her delicate shoulders. She was dressed in a Jujutsu High uniform, identifying her as a student of the school.

She was thoughtful and kind. He could tell by those fragile fingers grasping the handle of the watering can; honey brown eyes focused on each careful pour while her soft lips moved in time with her song. The way the flowers seemed to reach for her, a summer breeze blowing through the bundles to carry a scent just as sweet—if Satoru didn't know any better, he would've said they had been dancing for her.

He wasn't moved by much in the way of girls despite being at the age he should begin to notice them. Really, his only concern had been strength—why should he give a shit about romance and sex? He was Satoru Gojo, inheritor of the Six Eyes and Limitless; the head of the Gojo Clan. His very existence shifted the universe in a way nothing else could, destined to be the strongest sorcerer in the world. He had heard plenty of sweet voices and seen even prettier faces, never sparing a second glance if he somehow awarded them a first.

But this girl certainly had his attention.

This girl in her Jujutsu High uniform, watering flowers while wielding the most gentle cursed energy he'd ever experienced, created a firm opposition to everything Satoru Gojo ever learned while growing up in jujutsu society. A girl like her shouldn't have been alive and smiling the way she was in their world. It bothered him as much as she fascinated him—he wanted to stomp on all her pretty flowers to give her a taste of the real world but then, he also wanted to put her in a little cage to keep her safe from it.

Those feelings were far too big and complex for his teenaged brain to comprehend so he clicked his tongue with disapproval and walked away. She'll be dead by the next school year.

It's her.

Her silky braids were tied off with red ribbons this time around—a surprising choice despite not knowing her even a little bit. Her appearance indicated she'd taken extra time getting dressed that day, carefully crafting herself into the image of perfection with the hope of something that he couldn't quite grasp. She had a certain reservation about her, highlighted by the modesty of her neatly pressed uniform.

Perhaps it was that very same modesty drawing Satoru's eyes down to her pleated skirt, black pliable fabric contrasting with her pale thighs. It was only when their plushness stirred something within him did he tear his gaze further downward. She had on a pair of black socks hugging the circumference of her calves, brown loafers firmly planted on the ground to support her impeccable posture.

At first, he thought she was too flawless—then, he saw that moon-shaped scar on her left knee. It was too small to be significant but Satoru fixated on it. How did she get that? The question tattooed itself somewhere inside of him, blooming into an ineffable curiosity. To him, that tiny scar represented her weakness and fragility; an explanation for the demure nature she wore like armor.

And Satoru yearned to slip underneath it all.

"Hi, you're Satoru Gojo-kun, right?" She held out her hand—uncertain, delicate fingers attached to a dainty wrist. "I'm third year student, Utahime Iori! I was sent to make sure you got around okay." Utahime had a pretty smile. "Did you have any—?"

"Nope." Satoru averted his eyes, expressionless. How else was he going to stop his heart from fluttering the way it was?

Utahime's outstretched hand faltered, her smile weakening as she appeared a little embarrassed. "Oh, sorry, are you not Satoru Gojo?"

Damn. His name sounded so pleasant in her mouth—safe—and that really pissed him off. "Weak and dense?" Satoru mocked, a cruel chuckle bubbling in his chest. "Pick a struggle, will ya?"

Her honey brown eyes flickered with bemusement. "…huh?"

God, she had such pretty eyes. Damnit.

"Of course, I'm Satoru Gojo," he told her with a cocky tone. "I was saying 'no' to your other question." Satoru rolled his eyes. "Geez—and you're a third year?" From the way Utahime presented herself, Satoru thought that she would continue on politely or, at the very least, walk away without saying anything more. Most people in the jujutsu world behaved cautiously around him, acutely aware of how powerful he was—everyone knew his name.

In any case, it would be best for her to get as far away from him as possible.

"Yes, I am, actually," Utahime snapped, face screwing with irritation. "I'm not sure what your problem is but it's actually customary for underclassmen to show a little respect to their upperclassmen around here so, maybe, watch your tone!"

Oh. That was different.

Her dark brows were knitted together, pouty lips pulled into a snarl. Utahime's nervous fingers had tightened up into fists, enclosing the hem of her skirt as if the garment were the only thing holding her back from the object of her ire—him. There was depth to the flush warming her cheeks, ignited by more than just offense. Embarrassment, perhaps?

A chuckle bubbled up into Satoru's throat, genuinely amused. "Watch my tone? That's hilarious!" Her face was only getting redder—he really liked that. "Do you know who I am?"

"I don't care who you are!" Utahime released her skirt to point an accusatory finger at him. "You're disrespectful and rude. Someone ought to teach you a lesson and it seems it has to be me!"

Satoru cocked a brow, unable to hold back the wry smile formed from his laughter. "Oh?" The way Utahime snarled, squaring her shoulders as she narrowed those sweet eyes of hers—it was so deeply entertaining to him. He could feel the enjoyment take root inside of him, lodging itself between his ribs and sprouting within the hollow of his chest. "Okay, princess, whatever you say," he ribbed with a dismissive wave. "I'm headin' to my dorm room now."

"Huh?!" She gaped at him as he walked past, agitation pulling at the nerves in her face. "We're not done here!"

"Only the strong dictate conclusions, Utahime." Satoru hadn't intended to say her name. It just slipped out of him, tapping along his tongue with an unrivaled ease. U-ta-hi-me—he wanted to taste its sweet melody again but resisted the urge.

Her voice wavered as she warned, "that's Iori-senpai to you!" Was she afraid?

No, that's not it.

"Or what?" Satoru chuckled. "What are you gonna do about it, Utahime?" A pretty name for a pretty girl—it was so irritating. Weakling. "You're about as threatening as a butterfly!" Just under the sound of his jeering, soft grunts and shuffling could be heard from behind. Satoru didn't process what was happening until he felt a disturbance in the air, pushing him to activate his Infinity.

"YOU'RE A JERK, SATORU GOJO!" When Satoru turned around, he found a single brown loafer floating behind him, lodged within his Infinity. Utahime was balancing on one foot, seething as she glared at him. Hopping to adjust her balance, she gave the appearance of an irritable rabbit which made her even less threatening and only enhanced his growing fascination with her.

What an interesting girl you are, Utahime Iori. Satoru plucked her shoe out of the air, examining it for a moment as he held back a grin. The shoe spun around his index finger, his gaze fixing itself intently on her form which was still heaving with unexpressed anger. "So, uh, is this your technique?" Satoru teased. "Cursed Shoe Manipulation?"

She began to deflate, allowing her socked foot to touch the dirt pathway as she seemed to give up on maintaining her balance. With the trembling exhale of her breath, Utahime shook her head and turned away from him. Much to Satoru's disappointment, she didn't respond to his quip, wobbling off with her remaining shoe as if she'd determined getting back her other one wouldn't be possible as long as he held onto it.

And she was correct.

Satoru held her discarded shoe in his hand, gazing upon it like a prize won from a carnival. He bounced it in his palm with a wild grin. For once in his life, he wasn't bored to tears. This moment had set a precedent for him, giving Satoru the idea that life at Tokyo Jujutsu High might be more eventful than he originally anticipated.

Satoru discovered very quickly into his first year that there was no second year class at Tokyo Jujutsu High. They had all died in their first year while Utahime had been a second year. Soon after that, the rest of Utahime's classmates would die as well, leaving her the only student to move into third year. All of her friends, she had watched them die but, somehow, she was still alive herself—she was the only one alive.

"They must've been weak as hell." Satoru leaned back in his chair, a forearm hanging over his fatigued eyes. "No way Utahime of all people was strong enough to be the last survivor."

"That's pretty insensitive, Satoru. How do you think Utahime-senpai would feel if she heard you say that?" Suguru Geto, while aloof and objective, had a significant amount of emotional sophistication that Satoru himself lacked.

Satoru scoffed. "Don't know. Don't care."

There was an airy laugh on his other side. "You really are heartless, aren't you, Gojo?" He had moved his arm to peek over at his other classmate, hoping to figure out her feelings on the matter. Shoko Ieiri was difficult to read as she didn't seem to take anything too seriously while maintaining an air of indifference. There was always this passive smile on her face, even when expressing displeasure or dissent. Shoko held strong judgments but didn't seem to allow those judgments to affect any of her actions. It was incredibly interesting but, quite frankly, unsettling for Satoru.

"I'm not heartless," Satoru countered with a dismissive grin. "I'm being realistic." He hopped up onto his feet, stretching out his limbs. "Do we know how it happened?"

Shoko shrugged, rotating the toothpick in her mouth with her tongue. "Nah, the conversation didn't get that far."

"Aw, why not?" Satoru whined. "That's, like, the most important part! You suck at gossip, Shoko!"

As unflappable as ever, Shoko spared no reaction. "If you'd seen her face," she said, pulling out her cellphone and flipping it open. "I would hope you wouldn't ask either."

His fingers twitched in time with the stuttering of his heart as an image of Utahime's face flashed through his mind. Does it make her sad…? Satoru shoved his hands into his pockets, fixing a smile onto his face. "Nah, I'd probably just make fun of her for crying again." He moved towards the door of the classroom. "Now, are you guys comin' or what? I'm starving!"

Satoru would gather the details of what happened to Utahime's class soon after that, reading through reports and files he had no excusable reason to be looking at aside from gross curiosity. It was how he discovered that Utahime was in the year below what was appropriate for her age due to the nature of her cursed technique and her late enrollment into the school. Utahime should have been in the same year as Mei Mei and Atsuya Kusakabe, explaining why they referred to each other in such a familiar manner despite Utahime's nigh obsessive concern with hierarchy.

According to the reports, as was his only way of getting any information at all, Utahime had opted to join Mei on a Grade 1 excursion just before a mission for her class arose. It was supposed to be simple—a Grade 2 curse for two Grade 3 sorcerers to exorcise. The mission was likely chosen with Utahime in mind seeing as it was in her scope but, without her around, her classmates were relegated to taking the mission on their own. With how limited sorcerers were, there was no option to decline or wait around for Utahime to return.

It should have been simple but that Grade 2 cursed spirit soon developed into a Grade 1. As Satoru read the report, he couldn't help but grit his teeth with frustration. Anyone with a brain could predict that a curse born in a hospice facility would rapidly evolve. They should've handed the mission off to someone else, even if Utahime had been available to join. Satoru knew—gripping the file with shaking hands, he knew—if she hadn't gone off with Mei, Utahime would've died too.

She has no reason to be here, he had convinced himself. She should go back home to the sticks where she belongs. And there were times he thought she agreed with him. It was in those moments his body decided it couldn't stay away from her, impulsively tugging on her braids and pulling at her clothes; ruffling her hair and flicking her cheeks as he reminded her how weak she was. "And how are you gonna stop me, Utahime?" Satoru would goad, laughing off her pointed glowering. "Sing me to death?"

Uncertainty would flicker across her face, her knitted brows easing with realization for a split second. But Utahime was stubborn and driven; compassionate and fragile—so, she hardened herself again, her determination flaring with an even greater resolve. She had this terrifying combination of personality traits along with a non-combative innate technique that made her unfit to be a jujutsu sorcerer and he knew it would lead her to an early grave. To survive, you had to be selfish and ruthless with combative skills to boot but Satoru trying to make her come to terms with that seemed to only push her further into ambition.

There were times he thought she might listen if it were to come from someone else but no one else was around—at least, no one willing to try.

Whenever Satoru saw Utahime around campus, she was typically by herself and, when she wasn't by herself, she was with Mei, Kusakabe, or a member of faculty. She seemed to have a way with authority that gave him the impression she might become one of the higher-ups herself or, at the very least, make it a goal of hers someday. Utahime was smart, obedient, and easy on the eyes with a more traditional cursed technique which those conservative fucks loved, giving her more value than others would have in similar circumstances. Strength didn't matter as long as you made yourself useful so, in that regard, Utahime's continued attendance of Jujutsu High made sense.

And for some inexplicable reason, that incensed Satoru.

He justified his cruel comments and incessant teasing with constant reminders that Utahime didn't belong at Jujutsu High—that she was just some Grade 2 bootlicker who should've stuck to her destiny as some virginal shrine maiden. Then, she would be safe and Satoru would no longer catch himself staring at her from a distance. His hands would no longer ache in her presence, his lungs constricting when her pretty mouth wrapped around threats of retaliation. There would no longer be this urge to place her in a gilded cage like a lovely little songbird when her absence made it difficult for him to eat and sleep; to breathe, even.

Satoru had known this first year would be his only chance for frequent contact—to really work whatever these tumultuous feelings were out of his system. So, he picked on her as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted, and however he wanted. Undoing her braids by stealing her ribbons, tugging at her clothes while making fun of them, throwing her into a headlock to ruin her hair, taking her belongings and holding them hostage, throwing things at her—hell, there was even a time he snuck into her room and stole all her socks.

Her comebacks were always the same. "Respect your elders!" He had succeeded in making his presence nearly unbearable to her but, somehow, she always found it in herself to give him some grace now and then. There were many times he'd tricked her into believing he genuinely needed her help—albeit, only after much convincing—which led her into whatever elaborate prank he'd crafted specially for her.

"Gullible is written on the ceiling, Utahime!" And, though he knew she didn't believe him, she would still look up.

He was still too young and naive to understand why he had this incessant need for her ire. It was entertaining to pick on the weak, sure, and Utahime seemed the weakest of the bunch. But the level of which he enjoyed Utahime's reactions and how it pushed him to want more, there was no explanation that didn't involve feelings he wanted no part of. He was Satoru Gojo, after all. The only thing he cared about was becoming the strongest.

So, he just kept telling himself it was for entertainment since he couldn't seem to get a rise out of either of his classmates—that he might as well get as much enjoyment out of her as he could if she insisted on attending Jujutsu High.

If it weren't for Suguru and Shoko discouraging him, Satoru might've taken things even further. A part of him wanted to make her hate him so much that she'd remove herself from his life and do what he wanted her to do—go back home where it was safe. There was this compulsive thought whenever he busied his hands while she was close and fought to stare at the golden aura draped over her shoulders, wrapping his tongue around lollipops to drown the subtle taste of milk and honey. It screamed in his ears and thrummed within his chest, a flood of blood to the heart.

She'll be dead by her next mission.

Her next mission would come and go, Satoru waiting for the news—but the news never came. She would walk around with cuts and bruises, still flashing her polite smiles. He could tell, however, that she was growing weary. Perhaps she felt like a failure in some way whenever she came back with injuries and having to report that, once again, all she could do was support her partners.

And Satoru—relieved in his heart of hearts, though he'd never admit it—would make fun of her for it. "Useless Utahime," he would sing as the intrusive thought that had been pestering him in her absence faded away. She'll be dead and only her corpse will come back, had become but a faint whisper before it would inevitably crescendo once again. While he hadn't acknowledged it himself, Satoru's concern for Utahime became obvious to everyone else around him.

"Utahime-senpai's on a mission, isn't she?" Shoko had pointed out once, sitting beside him in the courtyard. He'd skipped out on lunch with them, opting to go for a walk to clear his head which had been full of persistent and incoherent thoughts. Satoru often referred to them as black spiders, the thoughts seeming to crawl around the inside of his skull indiscriminately.

And there were many when Utahime wasn't around.

It was the end of the school year and spring break was just around the corner, meaning Utahime would be entering her fourth year at Jujutsu High which guaranteed constant assignments on the field. It would be her last year before graduation into a full-time jujutsu sorcerer, acting as a trial run for the rest of her career, so Satoru couldn't understand why they'd send her out on a mission instead of just letting her enjoy her final weeks of freedom.

Yes, he wanted to respond. And they sent her out on her own. However, he kept that to himself as he shrugged. "What makes you think I would know?"

"You're not eating."

"I'm not hungry," he protested, patting his stomach. "Big breakfast—no correlation."

Shoko cocked a brow at him, lighting up a cigarette. She'd picked up the nasty habit halfway through the year to 'take the edge off' and satisfy her oral fixation. As she took a long drag, she said, "you're never hungry when she's on a mission." The jet stream of smoke from Shoko's mouth billowed out at the end, lingering in the air.

Satoru rolled his eyes. "Maybe you should stop smoking so much," he deflected. "That nicotine addiction is frying your brain cells."

In typical fashion, Shoko had shrugged and carried on, knowing there was no point in pressing the matter. To him, none of this was an indicator of care or affection. He knew he cared for Shoko and Suguru but he never lost sleep nor his appetite over them. Then again, Shoko was always safe because she wasn't assigned any missions—her Reverse Cursed Technique was far too valuable to Jujutsu HQ. And Suguru was a Special Grade sorcerer just like him so there was never any need to worry because of his strength.

Of course, these weren't things he mulled over at his young age, always deflecting wherever he could to avoid the truth.

But the truth would catch up to him eventually.

Satoru's second year had just begun, putting Utahime in her long-awaited transitory fourth year. To indicate this new chapter in her life, she decided an outfit change was in order as she was no longer required to wear her Jujutsu High uniform. So, Utahime pranced around that first day in a miko outfit as she went about her business, 'honoring her roots' as she claimed.

Everyone who approached her had received the same explanation for her new attire, Utahime tripping over the long length of her hakama. She would look down with a pout, lifting the fabric to reveal a pair of sensible ballet flats which could pass for the customary asagutsu shrine maidens wore. It seemed she'd decided on these for comfort but, evidently, she hadn't taken the appropriate measurements for her attire into account.

Hands buried in his pockets, clenching and releasing as she smiled brightly, Satoru watched. "How annoying," he groaned, rolling his eyes. "is she not tired of repeating herself?" He and Suguru had taken to sitting in the garden, eating lunch as they usually did. They'd been relegated to watching her as she kept stopping her habitual watering of the hydrangeas to show off her outfit to whoever walked by.

Suguru chuckled. "You're just upset that she's receiving so much attention. Say, have you been counting how many men have walked up to her?"

Satoru scoffed, scowling. "Why would I?" Just as he'd responded, another male faculty member had approached Utahime, distracting her from her task again so he could compliment her attire. "What a creep," he commented. "shrine maidens can't even have boyfriends so what's the point?" He slumped back on the bench, fiddling with his sunglasses until his eyes were peeking over the top. Creep Number Five…

"Pretty sure that's an outdated stereotype," Suguru said nonchalantly. "Anyway, that's the fifth one."

Satoru cocked a brow, a knot forming in his chest. "Why are you keeping count?" He pushed the sunglasses back up his nose. "You like her or somethin', Suguru?"

Another chuckle. "And what if I do?"

"She's not your type," Satoru stated firmly. "She's too weak and emotional for your tastes. Besides, you're into younger girls! Not old ladies like Utahime."

"You make me sound like some predator, Satoru—I date my age. Besides, how would you know what I'm into?" Despite the wriggle of his nose, Suguru was thoroughly amused. "Seems like you're trying to dissuade me from forming an interest. I wonder why."

There were times Satoru hated the way Suguru could see right through him—he hated that he called things as he saw them—and he absolutely hated knowing that, somewhere deep down, his best friend having a thing for Utahime Iori would bother the fuck out of him. "Nah, I really don't care," he lied. "Go for it, I guess."

Once again, Utahime tripped over herself, pretty lips pouting. The man steadied her with a charming smile, holding onto her arm tenderly. Satoru saw red, impulsively hopping up onto his feet and charging ahead without a second thought. He fixed a shit-eating grin onto his face, hands still buried in his pockets. "Utahime," he sang, watching as her face fell into a scowl.

"What do you want?" Utahime had long abandoned trying to correct his habit of calling her by her first name as if they were familiar—her name was a song on his tongue that he'd never stop singing.

Satoru's presence was enough to have the man backing away from her, seemingly intimidated by his cursed energy. Go away, he wanted to order but he refrained. "I wanted to make a friendly suggestion." Satoru towered over her, placing his hand on top of her head. "You may wanna grow a few inches or else you'll trip face first into a curse."

Utahime smacked his hand away. "How about you go trip into a curse and bring us some peace?"

"Oh, ouch," he hissed sarcastically. "so much hostility—is that anyway to talk to your junior?" Before she could say anything, Satoru impulsively stomped on the hem of her hakama, making it impossible for her to back away without tripping. He couldn't say what exactly had come over him as this was the very definition of taking things too far, something he'd avoided up until this point.

"Hey!" Utahime exclaimed frantically. "Get off, Gojo! You'll ruin it!"

Satoru cackled. "Ask me nicely." He was so certain she would relent, submitting to his request. Submission—why did he want that from her so badly? Why did the idea of her listening to his every request and doing everything he asked of her excite him so much?

Satoru wanted to hear her speak to him softly, especially when she was riled up and frustrated. Everyone tired of him eventually, dismissing him with cold indifference when they'd finally had enough of his attention-seeking antics. But Utahime—despite how long this targeted teasing of his had gone on for, she still got mad. She still felt something towards him and wore it on her sleeve so openly. Even if the emotions were negative, it was something and that mattered to Satoru.

But, sometimes, he wanted the soft side she showed everyone else. Her warm smiles; the care and affection spoken through the lingering touches and thoughtful gestures she afforded her friends. His touch-starved, love-starved body craved it in a way he hesitated to admit. Satoru knew Utahime was capable of giving him what he needed but she withheld it from him—and it was his own damn fault.

It was these complex feelings that brought them to this moment. Come on, Utahime. He held firm. Submit.

But she didn't—she would never submit to him.

Instead, she pulled on the fabric in an attempt to force release. Utahime had tears of frustration in her eyes as she tugged, demanding he let go repeatedly under her breath. Satoru knew the hakama would rip if this continued and felt a pang of regret, causing him to loosen his hold on it. It was an involuntary action so the consequence hadn't occurred to him at all until it happened.

Utahime fell back into the flowerbeds, wet soil splattering and spoiling her outfit. Muddy splotches decorated her white kosode and it should've been hilarious but, for once, Satoru wasn't laughing. Her tears of frustration finally spilled over her red cheeks, her bottom lip quivering—still, Satoru couldn't find it in himself to laugh as he usually would.

"Why do you hate me so much?" Her voice was small and broken. "What did I do to you? You spoil everything, Gojo!" She wiped her tears away with her dirty sleeve, getting a spot of mud on her cheek. "I really hate you…"

He zeroed in on the brown smudge on her red, tear-stained face. Nope, still no laughter—not even the bubble of a chuckle. For once, Satoru didn't find her feelings funny; he couldn't find the joke in her frustration. So, Satoru stood there quietly, his blood cold as his heart hammered away with anxiety. She hates me. He wanted to say something—anything to remedy the situation.

But he couldn't even think straight.

Suguru passed him with a disapproving look, immediately offering assistance to Utahime who was now sobbing. She shrugged off his hand almost immediately afterward before running off. "Nice one, Satoru," Suguru scolded before he walked away himself.

The man had long since disappeared, leaving Satoru there to stand in silence. A swell of emotions rose in his chest, unsure of where to focus his thoughts. Had he finally taken it too far? Would she no longer speak to him? Did it matter if she did or not?

Satoru took a moment to mull it over. "Damnit…" He realized in that moment that he didn't want Utahime to hate him but wouldn't allow his thoughts to travel far enough as to arrive to a reason why. What do I do?

A few days later, Satoru would be approached by Utahime, about two inches taller than normal. She had a stern look on her face, brows furrowed with her arms folded over her chest. "Gojo."

"Utahime." He adjusted the glasses on his nose, his fingers shaking which forced him to bury them into his pockets.

She released her defensive stance, digging around her own pockets before pulling out a check. "This is way too much for a dry cleaning bill," she stated. "Take it back."

Satoru looked at her over his glasses, trying his best to maintain eye contact despite how badly he wanted to look down at her frowning lips. She's wearing lip gloss. His heart stuttered but, as usual, he ignored it before closing his eyes. "Nah, keep it."

Utahime grumbled. "This, plus the shoes, is excessive. Take it back."

"No." Satoru began to walk past her, clenching his fists in his pockets. He had no intention of saying anything more, ready to ignore the protest he could hear forming in her throat but, then, he faltered. "Do you like the shoes?"

He wanted to turn around and look at her face but his heart was racing. He settled for listening to her thoughtful silence, a sharp intake of breath as if preparing to do something she didn't want to do. "Yes." She began stuttering, making Satoru curious as to whether she was blushing or not. "But t-they're way too expensive—I don't need luxury brands!"

The sensation of satisfaction warmed his limbs, an involuntary smile creeping onto his face. "All the reviews were from working women," he divulged. "saying they're the most comfortable shoes they'd ever worn—worth the price point when you don't have to sacrifice fashion."

"O-Oh," Utahime stuttered, clearing her throat. "I didn't know you put so much research into it." There was a pause. "T-Thank you."

Oh. His heart thrummed. Gratitude? Satoru released a shaky breath, hoping Utahime couldn't hear it. "You shouldn't show gratitude towards an apology." He forced himself to move away from her despite how badly he wanted to face her. Satoru's hands were shaking—he wanted to grasp at something…someone.

"Wait," Utahime called out. "how did you know my size?"

Satoru recalled the brown loafer that had been sitting in his dorm room for over a year at that point. "I guessed," he lied with a shrug. "I have pretty good eyes, y'know?" He continued down the hall. "See ya later, old lady!"

"GOJO!"

Chapter 2: bluebird

Summary:

i know i've made this journey before
and still it's not what i hoped for

i wait in the stone, way after dark
'cause you left your keys in the lock of my heart

the closer we get, the further apart

then, what's left of me is left with you
you pull me around, sweet leash i'm on

with your milk in my veins, sand in my shoes
and i know now, i would be there for you

- Foals

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING / sexual assault, extreme violence, body horror

Chapter Text

"It's been two days since we last heard from Mei-san and Utahime-san."

Satoru tapped his foot impatiently against the floor, arms folded over his chest. He was exhausted—he had about two hours of sleep over the course of two days and it hadn't been restful. "Get to the point," he complained, disguising his anxiety with annoyance. "You want us to go find them, right?"

"Precisely, but—"

"Let's go then!" Satoru jumped up onto his feet. "I'm bored."

"Gojo, wait," Yaga warned. "you need to be debriefed."

"Nah," he drawled. "give us the location and I'll take care of it." Satoru did well to hide his feelings behind his cocky facade but, really, there was a tightness in his chest that refused to dissipate. I have to know…

Yaga looked like he would protest but, then, Suguru stood up as well. "We shouldn't waste anymore time," he reasoned. "our comrades could be in trouble. The sooner we get to them, the better." Suguru flashed a knowing look towards Satoru which made the latter scowl.

Don't give me that look. Satoru focused his gaze on Shoko. "You should come with us this time," he suggested.

Suguru nodded. "If they're hurt, they'll need you."

"Don't have to ask me twice." Shoko got onto her feet with a reserved smile. "I need to pop into a konbini anyway." Despite Yaga's hard glare, indicating he knew exactly what she wanted to purchase, she maintained an innocent expression.

Yaga sighed. "Alright, go on then."

It wasn't long before the three were ushered into a car, driven by the same auxiliary manager that had escorted Utahime and Mei two days prior. Satoru fiddled with his phone, desperately needing a distraction from the anxiety rattling within his rib cage. Utahime. Her name played in his head on repeat and he couldn't stop it.

"Worried?" Suguru asked suddenly.

Satoru scoffed. "Why would I be?"

"You haven't slept," he pointed out.

Shoko looked over her shoulder from the front seat. "And your appetite is gone."

"It's my time of the month," Satoru deflected, maintaining an air of nonchalance. "Enough with the false correlations." He fixed his gaze outside the window, hoping his classmates would drop it.

"You know, there's no shame in liking a girl, Satoru," Suguru said.

"Yeah, especially someone as cute as Utahime-senpai." Shoko was facing forward again. "You wouldn't be the only one."

Irritation pricked at his fingertips. Satoru was acutely aware of how popular Utahime was with men, forced to watch her interact with them. She was totally oblivious, of course, never reciprocating—though, he was sure they all mistook her friendliness for flirtation.

"Why would you remind him of that?" Suguru leaned back in his seat. "Now he's sulking."

"Oops."

"I'm not sulking," Satoru protested. "Seriously, give it a rest."

With that, they continued the rest of their journey in silence. The car hadn't even reached a full stop at their destination before Satoru ripped the door open and hopped out. He scanned the area, his Six Eyes picking up on the cursed spirit hiding within the bowels of the abandoned mansion. Two other fonts of cursed energy were moving achingly slow through what appeared to be a barrier. A golden aura filled his vision, milk and honey on the tip of his tongue. Found you.

Satoru didn't wait, launching himself up into the air. He had to draw the cursed spirit out which would effectively disrupt the barrier holding Utahime and Mei hostage. Stretching his hand out toward the abandoned building, Satoru focused Limitless into his middle finger and waved it haplessly above the roof. "Blue," he breathed, cursed energy erupting outward.

Suddenly, the building broke apart, the debris caught within a vortex as it spiraled upwards. Satoru watched Utahime's golden aura move faster through the building before an amusing cry echoed through the air, escaping the collapsed building. She fell into the crater left behind, the remains of the mansion cushioning her fall. He saw her ink-black hair poke out from underneath some shattered dry wall, grumbling and groaning. Surely, she was bruised and sore but…

She's alive. Satoru couldn't stop the smile from forming on his lips as he lowered himself onto the edge of the crater, watching as she crawled out of the rubble. "I'm here to save you," he called out, trying to get her attention. "Utahime."

Utahime lifted her head to look up at him, slightly dazed and trying to recover from the shock of the destruction that had just transpired. There was a misty look in her eye, likely from the pain of being buried under debris. Maybe I should've broken her fall. Satoru fixed a grin onto his face, leaning forward to get a closer look at her and hoping to distract her from the pain. "You cryin'?"

Her pained expression turned into one of rage, glaring daggers at Satoru. "No, I'm not crying! Be more polite—I just had a building dropped on me!"

Before he could respond, Mei's sultry voice appeared beside them. "If I was crying, would you console me?" The silver-haired sorceress approached him slowly from around the edge of the crater. "If you did, I'd definitely like that." It was interesting to him how Mei only seemed to flirt with him when Utahime was around—any other instance and she'd mind the business that paid her.

Satoru brushed her off while still keeping the mirth in his tone. "But you wouldn't cry, Mei," he told her. "You're strong."

Utahime's ire grew to a fever pitch, inspiring her to launch out of the rubble and throw an accusatory finger in his direction. "Listen here, Gojo! I don't need your help—!" She was interrupted by a rumble beneath her feet, her alarm further amusing him. Satoru had seen it moments before it appeared but felt no need to do anything.

Suguru was already on it.

She's alive. It was the only thought running through his mind. You're still alive, Utahime. All that mattered to him was her safety; that he still had a chance to make her cheeks red with frustration and tease her until she shouted at him, her honey brown eyes glaring at him and never wavering. Focus on me—only on me, Utahime.

"So, what about the veil?" Mei asked suddenly, shattering his euphoria.

"Huh?" Satoru froze alongside Suguru and Shoko, blinking through his bemusement. Well, shit.

Summer of 2007—nothing was the same after losing Riko Amanai. Satoru poured all of his energy into perfecting his technique, prioritizing his strength over all else. The overwhelming feeling of loss was embittering. He needed a distraction.

Satoru began taking missions on his own, hoping to push himself to his limits and gain some kind of clarity. Despite having dreaded Utahime's graduation, he found himself relieved now instead that he was seeing less of her. He'd come to terms with the fact that she made him weak and careless but couldn't admit to himself the reason why—it would make it all too real.

He had to remain detached; selfish. He couldn't waste his energy on caring about someone so fragile. It pained him but, at the very least, he still had Suguru—his best friend's presence alleviated the loneliness and regret. So, thoughts of Utahime would be buried under the weight of his failures and shortcomings.

And all he could do was dig in solitude.

But then, Utahime had been recommended for a Grade 1 promotion. The concern came rushing back as he thought about her being sent to exercise a Grade 1 curse all on her own without a technique suited for the frontlines. She had popped up around campus once again, training for a week before her evaluation was due. Satoru avoided her despite the longing lodged in his throat that could only be removed by her presence.

He couldn't avoid her for long, however, as he was asked to accompany her on the mission which would determine the results of her exam. Utahime wasn't happy about it as evident by her scowl and sharp glare.

And Satoru—pathetic, conflicted Satoru—fell right back into his old antics.

"Utahime," he sang, flashing her the shit-eating grin that pissed her off so much. "I'm so honored you requested me to tag along."

"I didn't ask for you, idiot!" She gritted her teeth, fingernails forming into claws as she gripped tightly onto her own arms.

Satoru tutted. "Is that anyway to speak to your junior?" Utahime turned her head away from him. "C'mon—you missed me, didn't you?"

"Can we just get going already?"

Satoru and Utahime were escorted to an apartment building. It had been evacuated by law enforcement under the guise of a gas leak. During their debriefing, they'd been told that female residents had been experiencing constant blackouts, losing hours at a time and waking up feeling as if they'd been touched in the night. Raped, he recalled from the document they'd gone over.

As they stood on the steps, Utahime summoned a veil. "This could get messy."

"I doubt you'll attract too much attention," he teased. "You're not exactly impressive."

Utahime glared at him. "At least I'm not reckless and arrogant like you!"

Satoru chuckled, peering at her over his glasses. His fingers trembled in his pockets, wanting to reach over and tug on her hair. Focus. It was hard to when she was around. Her voice, her scent, her eyes—it was all so enticing.

"I'm going in now." Utahime began to stomp up the steps.

"Want me to join you?"

"NO!" She made her way further up the steps before stopping suddenly. "And don't interfere."

Satoru watched her disappear into the building, his smile dropping as concern gripped his throat. He scanned the building, hoping to find the curse before Utahime could and make sure it was safe for her to approach. Where is it? Satoru could feel it but hadn't been able to locate it—odd.

While the cursed spirit was mysteriously gone, there was something else aside from Utahime in that building. As he narrowed his focus in on the figure, Satoru noticed it appeared to be a non-sorcerer. So, they neglected to clear the building, huh? He scoffed, disappointed but not surprised as far as law enforcement went.

Upon further examination, Satoru realized that something felt off. There was a certain quality to the cursed energy non-sorcerers expressed. Diverse and dynamic colors with unique textures, none of which this individual exuded. Instead, their cursed energy was petulant and oozing like an infected wound; it felt lecherous—disgusting.

And Utahime was headed straight toward it.

Despite the desire to investigate himself, Satoru held back. I have to give her a chance. Admittedly, he wanted Utahime to fail, relegated to Semi-Grade 1 permanently. Ideally, she'd move back down to Grade 2 but, thanks to whoever recommended her, she would remain where she was until she passed the evaluation required for promotion. He knew she wasn't strong enough—he knew that, if she were Grade 1, her chances of dying would greatly increase. His instinct was to rush to her rescue, forcing her to fail—but he fought those desires. Give her a chance.

As Utahime's golden silhouette approached the non-sorcerer, Satoru noted a sudden elevation in the petulant energy. Shit. The alleged Grade 1 cursed spirit had finally made its appearance, erupting from the non-sorcerer as it threatened to consume Utahime. Only…that's not Grade 1!

Satoru's body moved on its own, punching a hole through the concrete wall with his cursed energy. This would be the quickest path to Utahime who he could now hear screaming. Her name escaped his frantic lips but it sounded distant and hollow, drowned out by the fear replacing the blood in his veins. He could see the way the cursed spirit had latched onto her, piercing screams reverberating.

He broke down the door keeping himself from Utahime, exposed to the horrific scene before him. The cursed spirit had merged with the non-sorcerer that had surely conjured it into existence. It held Utahime in its grasp, dozens of hands groping at her body and inappropriately wandering. There was a gaping wound on the right side of her face, blood pouring out onto the floor as she seemed to be losing consciousness. "If you won't give it to me," the cursed spirit growled. "I'll take it from you!"

A red hue blurred the edges of Satoru's vision as he saw those disgusting hands sprout tongues as tendrils, beginning to slip around Utahime's body as it tried to rip her clothes off. However, he wouldn't give it a chance to get that far, launching himself at the cursed spirit and prying Utahime out of its grip by snapping several of those arms in half. The creature cried in agony as Satoru retreated momentarily to put Utahime in a safe place. "I WILL TAKE WHAT I WANT FROM HER! I DESERVE IT!"

"You deserve death for touching what's not yours," he snarled, a blood-thirsty grin on his face as he approached. "I'm gonna make this slow and painful."

And he did.

Satoru ripped the cursed spirit limb from limb—and there were quite a few limbs to get through. He relished in its screams, purple blood splattering against the barrier of his Infinity. There were manic cries of glee which took him out of the moment periodically, only for him to realize that he was listening to the sound of his own laughter. Using his bare hands, he exorcised the damned curse, leaving behind only the sniveling non-sorcerer that conjured it up.

The pathetic low-life was crying fat tears of fear, his bloody arms twisted and broken. Satoru couldn't help but think it was a shame his legs and other appendages hadn't suffered the same fate, tempted to make it a reality. "Well, hey there, big boy," he ridiculed, his voice menacingly low.

"P-Please don't hurt me…a-anymore…" The non-sorcerer hiccuped, choking on a mixture of snot and blood. "It…h-hurts…!"

Satoru hummed. "Yeah, I guess it does." Without the slightest bit of remorse, a chill in his racing heart, he pressed his foot down on one of the cretin's shattered arms. Of course, his whimpering had turned into anguished cries. "Oh, that smarts, doesn't it?" Satoru crouched down in front of him, watching the blood pool around the non-sorcerer's body. I should kill him now.

"Hey," Satoru said, poking the man's shoulder. "Hey—I gotta ask you a question." He only received another whimper in response, provoking even further irritation. "Any reason you got a weird hate boner for women?"

The man managed to lift his head despite the pain, Satoru glaring down upon him as he waited for his response. "None that s-someone like you would understand," he pushed out through gritted teeth. "You're handsome—I bet you get to fuck girls all the time! Those whores always g-go for jerks like you! Stupid b-bitches!" His gaze flickered towards something behind Satoru, hatred and spite flashing in his bloodshot eyes.

Rage ripped through Satoru once more, enabling him to grab the non-sorcerer by his collar and lift him up in the air. He watched him writhe in pain, his body twisting as he tightened his grip on him. "Uh-uh," he warned with a smile. "watch your tongue. Otherwise, I'll rip it from your fucking mouth—and wouldn't that be funny?!"

Kill him…kill him…kill him…!

But, as the urge gripped him, an image flashed in his mind which gave pause to the bloodlust.

A white room, ablaze with the applause of a hundred people. A limp body hanging in his arms, dangling feet bumping against his hip. He couldn't look at her face—all he could see was the devastation in Suguru's eyes as they stood amongst the crowd. Satoru didn't feel anything at that moment but, somehow, the look on his face…it hurt, leaving a gaping wound in its place.

Now, the scar ran so deep, he didn't think he would ever recover.

"Suguru," he had said, his voice a distant echo. "should we kill these guys?"

As Satoru stood there, the pathetic cretin begging in his lethal palms, Suguru's voice echoed in his head. "No, there's no point." When Satoru had questioned whether there really needed to be a point at all, Suguru had reasoned with him yet again, pulling him back from heaven to earth. "It's very important that there is."

There was a squeal of pain behind him, feminine whimpers that tickled Satoru's ears. Utahime…! Without any further hesitation, Satoru dropped the man back onto the ground, his pained screams echoing around the room yet again. She's the priority right now.

Satoru sat in the hallway outside of the infirmary, tapping his foot against the tiled floors. Thankfully, they'd made it back to the school, alerting the doctor on campus as well as Shoko just in time. She wasn't out of the woods quite yet though, an operation to treat the wound on her face occurring behind those doors he had been staring at. He could smell her blood on his clothes, his hands shaking with every breath he took.

It made him sick.

"Satoru." Approaching him was Suguru, concern highlighting his features. It wasn't lost on Satoru how much weight he'd lost or how dark the bags under his eyes were, indicating that he hadn't been sleeping well—but, ridiculously, he had chocked it up to the amount of missions they were both being saddled with. "What happened?"

Blue eyes, devoid of any warmth at that moment, glanced over to him. "Special Grade," he explained simply. "these cocksuckers don't do enough research."

Suguru nodded, pushing his hands into his pockets as he leaned against the wall next to the door. "And Utahime-senpai…?"

"Alive." Satoru took in a raggedy breath, clenching his shaking hands into fists. He could tell Suguru was waiting for more—maybe talking would help ease his anxiety. "They, uh, didn't clear the building properly. Some fuck-ass loser was hiding out in one of the apartments—probably a hikikomori, I dunno. Had some chip on his shoulder about being a virgin or whatever."

There was a pregnant pause. "A non-sorcerer?"

"Yep."

"He managed to spawn a Special Grade curse all on his own?" Suguru's brows furrowed with some unreadable expression.

"Seems like it."

Another very long, very pensive pause. Then, Suguru uttered something Satoru would replay in his mind for years to come—when it was much too late to do anything about it. "And you killed him, right?" If Satoru had just paid more attention; if he hadn't been so anxious and emotionally exhausted in that moment, maybe he would've picked up on it.

There was malice in Suguru's voice.

Satoru closed his eyes, trying to push out the memory of the cretin wriggling in his grasp. He could've done it—he could've obliterated him with minimal effort as he deserved. "No, of course not."

"Of course…?" Suguru posed it as a question.

"There wouldn't be a point, right?" Satoru said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Besides, he's crippled for life, no doubt—I beat him within an inch of his life, after all."

"And if he spawns another cursed spirit," Suguru questioned. "what then?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." With a shrug and a sigh, Satoru pushed himself up on his feet, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Hey, you mind staying here for awhile? I wanna go clean myself up but…" He averted his eyes, swallowing back the emotion in his throat. "I also wanna know when they're done with Utahime."

"Yeah, of course."

"Thanks, Suguru." Satoru approached him, placing a hand on his frail shoulder. "I'll bring you back a burger or somethin'—those cursed spirits you're consuming aren't exactly rich in fats and nutrients, y'know?"

Suguru gave him a weak smile. "I suppose not."

With that, Satoru left his best friend behind, wholly unaware that this incident would be another crack in Suguru's resolve.

Utahime was scarred for life.

The wound had marred her pretty face, leaving behind a stark reminder of her failure as she was relegated into Semi-Grade 1 just as Satoru had wanted. But he felt no sense of victory—only pure, unbridled resentment. It was maddening to Satoru, the way the higher-ups had cast Utahime aside so easily after the incident. Not only had she failed their evaluation—despite it being their fault—but now she no longer had the one thing required of all women in their society…

"Is it really that bad?" Satoru asked Shoko, arms folded over his chest as he kept his voice level.

Shoko nodded, rolling the unlit cigarette in her mouth as she looked through her pockets for a lighter. The bags under her eyes were pronounced, indicating her exhaustion after tending to Utahime all night. "It tore through the muscles on her face," she explained. "down to the bone—the maxilla was entirely exposed once we mopped up all the blood. We spent most of our time working on regrowing her muscles. Everything else now is up to her own body which means it's going to be one gnarly scar." There was a small gasp as she secured her lighter. "Not only that, there were wounds across her torso too."

"Like around her…?" Satoru trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence. He recalled vividly where the cursed spirit had been touching her which explained those wounds in particular.

Shoko's voice was muffled as she took a puff, "that's right."

Satoru nodded, swallowing back his anger. "How's she doing?"

"She hasn't seen the extent of the damage yet," Shoko admitted. "but she knows something's wrong. She'll wake up and immediately go back to sleep—probably trying to avoid the inevitable." There was a melancholic look in Shoko's eye. "I don't blame her though."

"Well, jujutsu isn't exactly conducive to vanity," he commented half-heartedly before sighing and pushing himself off of the wall. "I'll pop in and see how she's doing."

"Fine," she said. "do try to be sensitive to her feelings though, regardless of how you see her."

Satoru cocked a brow, easing a purposeful smile onto his face. "Not sure what that's supposed to mean but no worries!" He gave her a non-committal wave. "Don't you know I'm a bleeding heart?"

He dropped his smile the moment he was out of Shoko's line of sight, strolling down the hall towards the room Utahime was in. As he reached for the door handle, he could hear the sounds of sniffling coming from inside. She must be awake. There was a pang of regret in Satoru's chest that he quickly buried beneath his bravado, slapping a smile onto his face as he threw the door open. "Oh, Utahime!" Satoru sang. "Your savior has arrived—did ya miss me?"

She was laying down, her back facing the door. Her entire form was shaking underneath her blanket, her hand putting something face down on the side table in front of her. "Go away, Gojo," she spat, her quivering voice slightly muffled by the pillow under her head. "I'm tired and I want to sleep."

So, she finally saw it, huh? Satoru chewed on the bitterness he felt but refused to drop his smile. "Aw, come on, don't be like that!" He took a seat on the chair beside her, kicking off his shoes before throwing his feet up on the bed and pushing his toes into her calves for good measure. "Heard you got a wicked battle scar now, huh? I'm so jealous," he crowed. "I heard chicks love scars—can't seem to get one myself though. Bummer!"

"Can you not do this right now?" Utahime snapped, resolute in keeping her back towards him. "I don't want you here, Gojo—especially if you're just going to be an asshole." Then, her body began to shake again, an uncontrollable bubble of sniffles erupting from her.

Satoru didn't really know what to do. He wanted to comfort her; he wanted to be soft and gentle but he had no idea how. "Whoa, are you actually crying?" Satoru blurted. "Come on, Utahime, it's not that big of a deal—who cares if you're not cute anymore or whatever?"

Suddenly, she spun around, shoving his feet off the bed and revealing her face to him. The skin over her right cheek and nose was haphazardly pulled together with black stitches, angry and puckered with irritation. Her face—screwed with unadulterated rage—was swollen and puffy from crying, misty eyes glaring at him. "That's easy for you to say!" Utahime shouted. "Go on, Gojo, and gloat like you always do about how you're so fucking perfect! Go on! Tell me how weak I am—how you would've never fucked up like I did! Go on, I know you want to! Call me a failure! Call me stupid and ugly! Get it out of your fucking system! Maybe then, you'll finally leave me alone!"

Satoru could only stare at her, blinking through his bemusement. She'd come at him like a bat out of hell—mussed black hair, lips swollen from all the gnawing she'd been doing, and dressed in the most unflattering hospital gown. But, somehow, he still thought she was pretty. "I think you look cool," he told her. "and being cool is way better than being pretty."

"W-What?"

"Don't get me wrong," he added. "You're not not pretty—at least, I still think you are." Satoru had lost control of his mouth. What the fuck am I saying?

Utahime's eyes widened, a blush warming her nose. "You…?" Her chattering teeth bit down on her lip, uncertainty crossing her features. "Are you making fun of me, Gojo?"

"Do you want me to?" He really liked that look on her face, satisfaction rooting itself in his core and filling his body with an intense heat. Satoru's hands ached, his heart pumping blood into his ears. He was tempted to compliment her again, licking his lips as he tried to exercise restraint.

She looked away from him, her lips parted with bewilderment. "No, um…" Utahime pulled the blanket up to her chest as she tried to find her words. "Well, y-you can think so," she sputtered. "d-doesn't mean other boys will!"

Satoru grinned. "You afraid you won't be able to find a boyfriend now, Utahime?"

Utahime snapped her head towards him, frustration flaring up in her features again. "No—I couldn't care less!"

He leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet up again. "Don't worry," he teased. "if nobody else comes along, I'll be your boyfriend."

"As if!" Utahime spat, her lip curling with disgust. "I'm too old for you, anyway!"

"And what if I like older women?" Satoru chuckled.

"Oh, enough—respect your elders!" Despite her protests, Satoru could see the amusement pulling at her expression, a smile ready to tilt the corners of her mouth. Her honeyed eyes were glittering with warmth, gazing upon him with just a glimmer of affection.

I could get used to this.

Chapter 3: another form of "goodbye"

Summary:

using my words like it's weaponry
now it's like two of you against one me
i fight my way out 'til the end comes
then i feel guilty and then some
keeping my heart on the outside beat
killing myself with a chest bump
none of our math coming out right
it's only one number we messed up

you took my love and you threw it away
i took your love and i treat it the same
this is another reason we're strange
i get choked up when i think of your name

you like the sun when it's red in the sky
i like the brightest a yellow could find
this is another form of "goodbye"

- Grabbitz

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The world had stopped making sense to Satoru Gojo after September 23rd, 2007.

Ever the shrewd man he was, Masamichi Yaga stood before Satoru, unable to disguise the quiet devastation on his face. His brows were knitted, mouth moving but Satoru couldn't seem to process the words slipping past his lips. They stood in the hall, sunlight gleaming through the windows and casting shadows on the wall. A newscaster had reported it would be a beautiful day that very same morning—the same morning his world fell apart.

"Huh?" Satoru uttered, his teeth grinding together in Yaga's silence. Blood was rushing in his ears, a cold dread creeping through his veins. He had to remind himself to breathe as grief began to grasp at his lungs.

Yaga closed his eyes. "Don't make me repeat myself," he pleaded. "Suguru killed everyone in the village and—"

A hot streak of rage rushed through him, bubbling into his throat as he snapped, "I heard what you said the first time!" Satoru gripped onto the button Yaga had given him. "That's why I said 'huh' to what you said."

"Suguru's old home was already an empty husk as well," Yaga continued, his eyes staring down at the ground. "Though from the bloodstains and residuals, he most likely killed his parents…"

"LIKE HELL HE DID!" The cry from his lips didn't feel like it belonged to him but it was his mouth wrapped around the protest; his rage spilling out of him like acid splash.

Yaga's face screwed up with pain. "Satoru, calm down." A large hand grasped at his own forehead as if trying to quell whatever thoughts were occupying his mind, provoking tumultuous emotions he refrained from expressing. Perhaps Yaga had a few black spiders of his own. "I don't understand what's going on either," he murmured in a broken voice.

Satoru couldn't take it. Suguru. He wanted to scream and demolish the world around him—spontaneously combust and take it all down with him. How could you…? There was a keen pain in his left hand, the rush of red liquid spilling over his white knuckles. The button of a school uniform left behind at the scene of the crime—his button—had a razor sharp edge that sliced through the flesh of his palm.

And the wound was deep enough to scar.

The newscaster had been wrong.

Satoru sat on the bench in the garden, gray clouds crowding the air above him. The flowers wouldn't have to be watered today so it wasn't likely he'd be disturbed any time soon. All he wanted was to be alone—revel in his solitude. It would be an arduous process for him, trying to understand Suguru's actions; trying to cope with the fact that the one person he thought would never leave him had, in fact, abandoned him.

A slow roll of thunder rumbled overhead, echoing the tempest within him, but Satoru could hear only the sound of his own breathing. His heart—aching and wounded—thumped uncomfortably in his chest. It felt too big for his rib cage and he wanted it to be smaller. He needed his heart to shrink and disappear so the hurt would go along with it. So lost in his suffering, he didn't even notice the first few droplets in his hair.

If only he could talk to him, maybe he could he gain the clarity he needed.

The rain spilled over him but Satoru didn't care. He couldn't care. Instead of using Infinity to keep himself dry, he allowed the rainwater to soak through his clothes and dampen his hair until it stuck against against his forehead. Droplets bounced off of the surface of his blacked-out sunglasses, spraying into his eyes. He blinked through the sting, motionless and weary. Somehow, he hoped the rain would baptize him, washing away all that made him human so he could ascend to heaven once again.

Pathetically, he only shivered, the rain chilling his bones.

That was until the droplets no longer hit his skin and, instead, drummed against what sounded like a sheet of plastic overhead. The sound was deafening but Satoru wouldn't look up, opting to stare at the pair of white sneakers standing in the wet dirt below him. "You're going to catch a cold."

"And you're getting your shoes dirty," he retorted half-heartedly. "Utahime."

Satoru looked up at her briefly, expression neutral as she held a yellow umbrella above him. A few droplets slid down her exposed arms as she was now only halfway under her handheld shelter. "That's fine," she said with a shrug. "I don't like it when they look too new."

Utahime had dressed down that day, her light blue jeans cuffed and white t-shirt neatly tucked while droplets her umbrella had not successfully deflected darkened spots into the fabric. Satoru couldn't remember the last time she'd been dressed so casually. She was almost always in her professional attire, seemingly allergic to downtime and days off.

"You're getting wet."

Once again, she shrugged. "It's the angle." Her eyes flickered toward the empty space beside him before she unceremoniously sat on the bench slick with rainwater, a brief grimace crossing her features. "Here, now it'll cover us both." Utahime moved in close, holding the umbrella between them.

She smelled powdery and clean—a fresh floral scent filling his nose, exacerbated by the rain. He could feel her body heat as she pressed up beside him innocently, honeyed gaze fixed straight ahead. It seemed the obtrusive stitches had finally been removed from her face, leaving only the mending scar behind.

Satoru gripped his eager hands into fists, the wound in his left palm smarting. An urge to touch her cheek tenderly thrummed against his flesh, nauseating him. "You on vacation or somethin'?"

It wasn't lost on Satoru how frequently he'd seen her around campus since her injury, tending to the flowers and reading in the library as usual. Without any word of assignments through the grapevine, there'd been a series of days here or there where she seemed to make herself scarce so, Satoru figured she had been trying to steer clear of him. Though, perhaps that was his ego talking due to his desperate desire of being such a presence in Utahime's life that she'd make even the smallest decisions in consideration of him.

"Or something," she told him. "The higher-ups insisted I take a few more weeks off after recovery—told me I need space to reevaluate things." Utahime sounded a bit bitter, chewing on her words with a grimace.

"Your career path?"

The glance she spared in his direction was so brief, he almost thought he imagined it. "Yeah," she said, a sliver of defeat betraying her resolve. "I won't be able to attempt evaluation again for another six months and, if I fail, I'll fall back to Grade 2."

Satoru furrowed his brows, puzzled. "That's not how it works."

Utahime made a face, shaking her head. "Well, that's how it works now," she sighed. "Yaga-sensei told me himself when I was discharged from the infirmary. They made alterations to the process—I'd have to get 'satisfactory' results on my evaluation to maintain Semi-Grade 1 if I don't pass for promotion altogether."

Satoru scoffed. "It's so they can dock your new pay, isn't it?" Despite Semi-Grade 1 not being considered a full promotion, there was still a significant increase in salary that came along with it. "Cocksuckers."

"Language," Utahime warned with a betrayal of warmth. "They'd been wanting to make these changes for awhile now, I've heard. I guess I thought I'd get grandfathered in but…" She trailed off, her pensive silence conveying exactly what she'd wanted to say.

"Yeah," he grunted. "you're not their perfect little princess anymore."

Satoru expected Utahime to protest but, to his surprise, her free hand tightened into a fist as she said, "It sucks, you know? I've worked so hard for so long just to be reduced to my appearance. It's so shitty."

He slid his knuckles down the length of his thighs in an attempt to soothe his discomfort, finally noticing the unpleasant sensation of moisture seeped through the fabric of his trousers. We should get out of this rain soon, he noted but proceeded to neglect any efforts of doing so. It was clear Utahime desired commiseration but Satoru was wholly unaware of how to provide it to her. Their experiences were vastly different from each other's, making it hard for him to truly empathize—something he already struggled with.

Suguru was the empathetic one. Suguru would know what to say; what to do to make Utahime feel better. Suguru was his heart—the anchor of which kept him from ravaging the earth in his young godhood. Suguru with all his moral arguments, uplifting the weak and chastising the mighty…

Had his fall from grace really been so inevitable?

"So, what now?" Satoru struggled to keep his voice level, choking on the grief threatening to spill over into his soggy lap. He would rather die than shed sorrowful tears, especially in front of Utahime. If he had better self-control, Satoru would have walked away by now or, at the very least, piss Utahime off enough to make her want to leave. "What comes next?"

Utahime hummed thoughtfully, the vibration passing through him via their sustained physical contact. Although chaste and genuine, the feeling of her body against his sent a wave of white hot reverence through his very being, roiling in his core. Being in her personal space this way and with an invitation, no less—it was making him light-headed. After the sundering of his heart by the hand of someone so near and dear, a smarter man would have wedged a galaxy between them.

But Satoru was still seventeen for another month.

Despite the absolute way in which he carried himself, he still hadn't fully grown into his own body just yet, awkward limbs sprawled about with uncertainty as he moved through an even more uncertain world. It was his strength he had to latch onto for a sense of reason—the only constant in his life as proven by recent events. His status as the strongest, promised to him at birth, had become a reality while everything around him remained embroiled in chaos.

There was so much responsibility thrusted upon his young shoulders and, most days, he was okay with that. Again, it gave him purpose and direction; reason and certainty. But expectations turned molehills into mountains and, sometimes, he just wanted to be a boy in the prime of his youth capable of holding a pretty girl's hand without fear of her slipping through his fingers like water. Sometimes, he wanted more for his future than godhood, the desire for love, companionship, and legacy bearing down upon him in the unreachable distance.

So, for just this moment, in wake of losing something precious to him, he would allow himself the forbidden fruit of intimacy—of connection with someone as tenuous as Utahime Iori.

"I'm not sure," she answered. "I don't have a lot of options." The gnawing of her lower lip did not go unnoticed by Satoru. She used her free hand to count off her options, starting with her pinky which, as benign as it should've been, struck him as charming—she'd always been a little quirky in his eyes. "It's mostly just try again, become an auxiliary, or go back home to my family's shrine."

"You're missing one." Satoru began to pick at the bandage on his left palm, giving her a wry smile. "Ever heard the phrase 'those who can't do, teach'?"

Her gaze narrowed critically at the slight dig but her uncharacteristically agreeable demeanor at that moment remained intact. "You think I should become a teacher?"

Satoru cocked a brow at the disbelief in her voice. "Why do you sound so surprised? You'd definitely be a good teacher. I mean, just think of all the times us juniors came to you—our most favored senpai—for help, right?"

Utahime deadpanned. "Gojo, you never came to me for help—and I'm your only senpai."

"Well, whatever," he dismissed. "the point still stands for everyone else—Shoko, Ijichi, Nanami, Haibara…" Satoru trailed off, swallowing his regret as he watched a solemn look creep onto Utahime's face.

"Some good my advice did," she muttered. "I've lost so many juniors." Utahime swallowed thickly. "Haibara-kun—I thought that was the worst of it but then…"

A sniff accompanied the rapid blinking of her eyes, likely trying to discourage the formation of tears. He knew what she wanted to say—of course she would know what had happened. Isn't that why she was showing him so much grace at that very moment?

"I…Gojo, it's my fault," she murmured, her voice quivering. "I knew something was wrong and I—well, I tried to talk to him but I failed. How could I possibly be a teacher if all I do is let those in my care down?" Her hands tightened, fingernails biting into her left palm. Her knuckles were white wrapped around that umbrella. "I'm so sorry."

Satoru was silent. She blames herself?

After a pregnant pause, he finally found the will to speak. "I think that's exactly why you should do it," he told her. "Utahime, we aren't in your care—at least, not formally. You took that mantle upon yourself because you give a shit about other people, for whatever reason."

"Why say it like that if you're calling it a good thing?"

He ignored her retort. "You can't teach if you don't care. So what if you fail here or there with somebody? Are you just gonna stop trying to help people because they might fall off their path? Isn't that when they need someone like you the most?"

Now it was her turn to be silent. "Why are you being so…nice?" Utahime's lips wrapped around the question tentatively, still refusing to look at him directly.

"Huh, what do you mean? I'm a nice guy!" He held back a grin, relishing in the scowl on her face. "You're the one always in a foul mood. Men aren't into hysterical women, y'know? As your friend, I think you should work on that." Admittedly, Satoru was pushing her buttons on purpose, wanting her to finally look at him.

Of course, he'd succeeded. Utahime snapped her head towards him, snarling, "Like I give a shit about that! And what do you mean 'friends'?! You're disrespectful and rude!"

Satoru felt a twinge of delight prickle his fingertips. Please, don't ever take this away from me. He didn't care if he never had another moment of tenderness with her again—as long as she stuck around, he would take it all. "Ah, c'mon! You know that's just how we are, Utahime."

"Insufferable!"

It had been about a week since Suguru Geto's defection and Satoru, despite all his best efforts, had failed to locate him. After his conversation with Utahime, he'd decided he needed answers and he would stop at nothing to get them. A part of him had hoped Suguru would seek him out instead—surely he would show at least that much decency?

But he hadn't.

Instead, Satoru received a call from Shoko announcing Suguru's sudden appearance in Shinjuku, her voice so casual he thought she'd been calling for some light-hearted chitchat. With red blurring the edges of his vision, he demanded, "Restrain him—I'm on my way!"

"No way, I don't wanna get killed," she'd responded in that overly blithe fashion of hers.

When he finally arrived, Shoko had been alone, lips wrapped around her dying cigarette. "Where is he?!"

"Geez, relax," she said, dropping the butt onto the ground and stamping out its last embers. "He only just left a few minutes ago."

"And?" Satoru's words came out in a burst, his breathing ragged. "What did he say, Shoko?!"

She leaned against the metal railing fencing off the smoking area, arms crossed. While her demeanor was as nonchalant as ever, a haunted expression gave her true feelings away. "He tried to recruit me into his new cult," she explained with a slight grimace. "Told me about this 'revelation' of his or whatever—said he wants to rid the world of curses by killing all non-sorcerers."

"What?"

Shoko nodded. "Crazy, I know—told him as much but you know Geto."

Stubborn as a mule, especially with his ideals. Satoru gripped his hands into fists, trying to contain his frustration at the confusion warping his train of thought. Suguru would never kill the weak without good reason. He shook his head. "There's no way it's like that…it can't be like that!"

Shoko didn't say anything. There was nothing she could say that would make any of this better. This whole situation—the absurdity of it all—was maddening. With every minute that passed, Satoru felt vital chunks of himself falling away. Who was he without Suguru?

They were the strongest.

"Where'd he go?"

Shoko pointed in a general direction and, without hesitation, Satoru ran towards it. He would not let Suguru get away, especially without explaining himself. It didn't occur to him that he probably looked like a bat out of hell amongst the crowd of non-sorcerers, not that it would've mattered. In this moment, they were all ants to him that he could crush underfoot without a thought, echoing Suguru's alleged revelation. He didn't bother to redirect his thoughts, however—his only concern was Suguru.

His heart was racing, blood flooding into his ears as he sought Suguru's aura through the crowd. It wasn't long before he'd located him—that achingly familiar blue essence, spotted with a sickly purple in representation of the cursed spirits residing within him, simmering in the dying light of the day. He was walking so casually, hands buried in the pockets of his joggers as if it were any other day.

"Suguru!" Satoru called out, watching his form slow to a halt. "Explain yourself!"

Suguru didn't turn around, tilting his head to reply over his shoulder. "You already heard it from Shoko. That's all there is to it, Satoru." Hearing the chill in his voice as he said his name—the gap he'd wedged between them was only growing wider.

Satoru's heart wrenched within his chest, the rage born from hurt flooding his nervous system. "So, you're just going to kill every non-sorcerer?" His mind flashed back to the report of the incident which described the blood stains found in his childhood home. "And your parents?"

"I can't allow my parents to be an exception," he stated coldly. "Besides, I don't consider those people my family anymore."

Satoru was in disbelief—this couldn't be his Suguru. "That's not what I was asking you," he snapped. "I thought we weren't allowed to kill when there's no point to it!" There wasn't a day that went by where Satoru didn't return to that white room bathed in a round of applause, cacophonous and disorienting. If Suguru hadn't been there, he would've fallen further into his godhood and he would've never come back down from the high.

He'd rejected the gates of heaven for him—for his one and only best friend.

"There is a point and a cause," he insisted coolly. "and significance too."

"No, there's not! You're really going to kill all non-jujutsu sorcerers now?! You know that's impossible—there's no point in chipping away at something you can't possibly achieve!" Satoru needed him to see reason; to come back from this treacherous path he'd fallen onto. People had begun to flash the pair odd glances, the attention they attracted elevating further as distress clouded his tone.

Suguru still hadn't turned to face him. Look at me, he wanted to scream. Just fucking look at me!

"You're so arrogant."

Annoyance ripped through him. "HUH?!"

"You could do it yourself, Satoru, couldn't you?" Venom dripped from his tongue, chewing on those bitter words—his name felt like a curse now. "That you would try to convince someone else that it's impossible to do something which is possible for you…" He trailed off, holding back to scoff he clearly wanted to issue. Finally, he turned to face him. Satoru felt his heart stop as he gazed upon him. His expression was neutral—infallible, even—but his eyes…

How could someone grind out such cruel words with such a soft gaze?

The next words out of his mouth would play on repeat in Satoru's head for years to come. "Do you think you're the strongest because you're Satoru Gojo—or are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest?"

Suddenly, the world was quiet—Shinjuku, through all its bustling, stilled at the sound of Suguru Geto's voice.

Or, perhaps, it was Satoru who stilled instead. "Just what are you trying to say?"

"If I were able to become you for a moment," he explained. "this foolish idea would become a lot more grounded and real, don't you think?" Silence fell between them as Satoru gritted his teeth. "I made my decision—now, it's just a matter of doing the best I can to achieve it."

It was only then that Satoru realized he couldn't stop this. Suguru had made up his mind and there was no changing it. No amount of love and respect between them could convince Suguru to listen to reason; to listen to Satoru's desperate pleas. It was all too much to bear, the epiphany that, to uphold the ideals Suguru had passed onto him, he would have to kill his best friend. To honor the memory of who Satoru believed him to be, he would have to eliminate this imposter before they left a permanent stain on his legacy. I…have to do it…!

Satoru lifted his shaking hands, the people around them crawling about. They were no longer ants—instead, they'd become black spiders. He had every intention to evoke Hollow Purple and eliminate the disillusioned husk that had become Suguru Geto. Satoru knew it would kill everyone but, to save the many, he'd have to sacrifice the few…right?

Maybe it was the realization that doing so would bite a chunk out of Shinjuku as well as its innocents, actualizing the new ideals Suguru had just preached to him, that had Satoru hesitating. But the honest truth was that he couldn't find it in himself to kill him—he didn't have the guts nor the heart to kill someone he loved so purely, wholly, and irrevocably.

"If you want to kill me, then kill me," Suguru offered, disappearing into the crowd as if goading Satoru to go through with mass murder. "There would be a point to that."

As Satoru clenched his threatening hand into a defeated fist, he realized, quite innocuously, that the sun was setting on the world. The sky was a blend of orange and red hues in the direction that Suguru had disappeared, giving rise to a sublime melancholy.

Suguru loved sunsets.

In this moment, it looked as if God had grasped the sun within His palm, squeezing it like a tangerine until the juices dyed the world in warm hues—just the way Suguru liked it. When the world fell apart, Satoru had finally received his punishment for ascending from earth to heaven; from man to god.

The image of a yellow umbrella occupied his thoughts, clinging onto the memory of Utahime sitting with him in a world tinted blue by the rain. While she wasn't a goddess of the heavens which could summon the sun back into the early afternoon to shine upon him, she was an angel on earth who could create a sun where it was absent. Her warmth had infected him, turning that blue hue into the cool white he preferred. It comforted him—encouraged him to hold onto his ideals.

His heart longed for her, fostering an unfathomable ache within the empty space carved out specially for her. This unassailable loneliness, he knew, could only be dissolved by her now. Satoru wanted to tuck Utahime into himself, love her just as he loved Suguru—trust her just as he trusted Suguru.

But he couldn't.

The space Suguru had occupied and then so callously evicted left too much devastation in its wake and, if something happened to her, there would be nothing left of himself. Perhaps he could find a way to fit into her heart instead—to nurse his wounds and regrow the now tattered pieces of his soul. Though, he believed there was a fat chance Utahime would ever allow him such real estate.

Regardless, how cruel would it be to seek shelter within someone simply because he had nowhere else to go?

And with how bad Satoru felt then, in the wake of Suguru's departure, he couldn't say for certain he wasn't clinging onto Utahime out of convenience; for the very purpose of coping. Even worse, a part of him genuinely hoped this was the case—that way, these bottomless feelings couldn't materialize into yet another weakness that would tear him apart from life and limb.