'You are my one and only.'
The words echoed, dissonant and cruel, in the hollow silence of the barren alley. His arms fell limply at his sides, trembling as though they bore the weight of the world—or the reality of what he had just done. Satoru drew in a shaky breath, fingers twitching, struggling to quell the tremor of his body and the unrelenting drumbeat of his heart. The image before him seared itself into his memory, etched by the six eyes that missed nothing. The sound of the cursed energy hitting the flesh played faintly in his ears, a recall hounding him even as he stood in a trance.
His fist clenched tightly, nails biting so deeply that blood began to trickle between his fingers before healing once again. He released a hollow, broken chuckle—so sharp it almost cut through the stillness around him. Was he laughing at the grim irony of life? Or was he on the verge of breaking completely, unable to hold back the tears that threatened to spill? He did not know. Maybe it was both. All he knew was that the strongest and most honored one had killed his best friend.
Satoru had prepared for this day—or so he thought. Time after time, he told himself it might come to this. But despite knowing, despite every precaution, there had always been that small flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—it would not come to this. That one day his students, the ones he trained and shielded, might be the people to bear the burden, a flicker of optimism that had now been extinguished. The reality, cold and merciless, had stepped in. His duty, his convictions, and his sense of responsibility all pointed towards the inevitable truth: he had to face his former friend to protect the innocent and uphold justice.
Another bitter laugh fell from his dry lips, but it sounded more like a quiet sob. He had lied to himself, hadn't he? Suguru Geto had become a threat, a danger too great to ignore. That truth hung heavy in his mind, with the incidents occurring left and right, cutting deeper than any blade ever could. But knowing didn't make it any easier. Satoru's heart ruptured beneath the full weight of it, fragments shattering and splintering under his feet.
Here, alone in the presence of his best friend's cooling body, no one could see the cracks. The grief that stained his soul. The love—he refused to say it—had made everything worse. Love, he knew, was the cruelest curse of it all.
On trembling legs, Satoru moved closer, stepping into the sticky puddle of blood that soaked the sand beneath his boots. He bit his lip, teeth grinding down the soft flesh as his breath hitched. Swallowing the bile threatening to rise, he crouched down, flicking away the strands of long hair from his friend's pale, lifeless face. Cold. His skin was cold now. A slight tremor in his hand betrayed the effort it took to suppress the anguish as he caressed Suguru's cheek, allowing himself to remember the once-familiar shape of the face. His scent lingered faintly, something subtle reminiscent of incense, even as the stench of iron and death filled the air. Satoru closed his eyes, just for a second, his senses casting outward—grasping for any distraction, anything that wasn't this. His students. The battlefield. The injured. He had to move and take care of responsibilities. Yet, he lingered. Just for a moment more.
Finally, with no choice but to move forward, he scooped Suguru's body into his arms. Blood seeped into his uniform, sticking like a testimony of sin that had taken place, as he straightened. His knees felt weak, but he would not let them give out. With a steadying breath, Satoru jumped straight to the morgue.
The acrid scent of disinfectant and chemicals assaulted him, the stark brightness of fluorescent light drawing tears to his sensitive eyes. Blinking, he scanned the room. Shoko sat hunched in a swivel chair by the cluttered desk, cigarette smoke curling up from her hand. The desk was a chaotic mix of coffee cups, overfilled ashtrays, and forms stacked in uneven piles. She looked irritated, scribbling furiously—until she glanced up and saw him.
The pen stilled mid-motion.
'Satoru…' her voice caught, eyes widening before they fell shut. Sorrow carved itself into the lines of her face. 'So… that's how it is.' She exhaled shakily, pressing the cigarette to her lips. 'Put him down.' The authority in her tone could not hide the nervous motion of her hands as she gestured to the autopsy table. Shoko's poker face was good, but he could see the cracks; he always did. Satoru moved forward and gently laid Suguru's body on the cold metal surface. His movements were slow and methodical, as if trying to restore some semblance of dignity to the battered corpse. He smoothed out the fabric of Suguru's robes, disguising the chaos of blood and torn flesh.
'Did you?' Her voice was soft, but the question lashed at him like a whip. It was not a question—it was an accusation, filled with heartbreak. He did not respond immediately. He couldn't. A nod was all he could muster. His muscles felt like they'd seized up, locking him in place. His vision blurred and his eyes burned. His head swam with dizziness, though his body betrayed none of it.
'I'm sorry…' Shoko whispered after a long pause, her voice cracking slightly with the drag of the nicotine. She stood and approached him, her warmth radiating in waves to his chilled frame. Her hand brushed against his, a fleeting gesture of comfort, but Satoru flinched, recoiling as if her touch was fire.
Shoko stepped back quickly, her face shutting down, slipping into the impassive, professional expression she always wore for times like these. It was a mask he was all too familiar with.
'I'll take care of it,' she said briskly, snubbing out the flame and slipping into her white coat.
'Don't.' His voice broke, low and raw, as if the words scraped his throat on their way out. 'Don't desecrate him more than he already was.' His request was tethered on the edge of a plea, but the tone left no room for negotiation. 'Shoko. Please.' She was the only one left to ever see him like this.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
'I don't have time,' he added finally, his voice hardening as urgency reasserted itself. Satoru turned abruptly, moving to the sink, scrubbing at his hands until the blood washed away, leaving only raw, red skin behind that quickly restored to its former soft glory. 'Wait for me.' His tone softened again, looking at her, even though his face was haunted and fractured. 'He was your friend too.'
The air shifted violently as he appeared amidst the shattered remains of what had once been their school training facilities. Dust swirled in the twilight, catching faint streaks of purple and orange in the sky, painting a scene too serene for the chaos it belied. Gojo Satoru stood in the center of the wreckage, his keen eyes scanning the rubble. His eyes worked methodically, calculating damages and tallying losses. The faint hum of his students' auras flared in the distance. Relief mingled with exhaustion as he exhaled, forcing his shoulders to relax. They were alive. They had survived. For now, that was enough.
He adjusted the fabric of his uniform, instinctively brushing at the drying blood staining the fabric. It stuck to his skin, crusted and cold, but the dark colors of his attire concealed the worst of the mess. No one would notice. No one could notice. There was no room for vulnerability—not now.
He approached the cluster of students with a familiar grin stretching across his face. It was the smile they all knew, bright and carefree, one that said nothing bad had ever happened and nothing could—so long as he was their teacher. His hands clapped loudly, the sound startling in the hushed devastation surrounding them.
'Looks like you're all still in one piece!' he announced, his voice tinged with exaggerated cheer as though this were just another ordinary day.
They turned at his arrival, battered but alive. Yuta stood slightly apart, the weight of what he had done etched into his expression. His trembling hands cradled Rika's delicate form as her monstrous curse melted away, revealing something ethereal and beautiful—a tiny girl.
Gojo's heart clenched at the sight, the ache burying itself deeper inside him. Soon, the brilliant glow of Rika's soul ascended and shimmered in the sky, casting radiant hues across the horizon. Like beads of light, her essence scattered and rose, heading higher with each passing moment.
'Beautiful, isn't it?' Gojo mused aloud, his gaze fixed upward. His students turned their heads to follow his line of sight, expressions shifting from sorrow to wonder. He smiled as they marveled at the spectacle, but his mind betrayed him. Suguru never got this. The thought crashed into his heart like a wave, dragging him beneath its weight. Suguru's soul hadn't risen. There had been no release—only cold, bleeding finality.
The grin on Gojo's face flickered for the briefest moment, a crack in the carefully maintained mask. He caught it just in time, stretching the smile wider to hide the fracture.
'Well,' he said, his voice light and teasing, 'seems like you're finally free of that pesky curse, huh, Yuta?'
The boy blinked at him, hesitant, then gave a small, unsure nod. Gojo's fingers twitched behind his back, fighting the urge to hug his shy student but knowing it would not be appreciated.
'Alright, everyone,' he continued, his tone taking on a note of faux command, 'let's get you all to Yaga. I'm sure he'll give you a proper lecture about useful cleanup techniques or something boring like that.' They managed weak chuckles, the tension easing slightly. With a flick of his wrist and a pulse of cursed energy, Gojo gathered the group and transferred them to the secured before-mission hotel hall.
The stern man was already waiting, his face weary but expectant. Satoru lingered just long enough to ensure his students were in capable hands before making his exit.
When he returned to Shoko, the sterile light of the morgue was almost blinding after the muddy colors of the battlefield. She stood where he had left her, her white coat stark against the dull metallic tones of the room. When his tired friend saw him again, she looked up, her sharp eyes flicking briefly over his stained clothes before resting on his face.
'You're back,' she said simply, her voice flat but steady. Satoru nodded, his steps almost robotic as he approached the still form. The lifeless body was still, untouched. The blood that stained Suguru's clothes mirrored his own, a haunting reflection.
'I made it quick,' he murmured, almost to himself. His hands tightened at his sides as he stood over the table. 'For him.'
Shoko didn't say anything, only watched as his usual bravado dissolved into something raw and broken. The strongest, now just a man—carrying the burden of a love that would forever remain unresolved. Finally, she broke the sterile silence of the morgue.
'You know the procedure.' Her voice was monotonous; nonetheless, he caught the faintest ripple beneath the surface. 'I have to perform the autopsy and collect all usable data from the body. Then it gets purified and cremated.' She avoided his gaze, instead focusing on adjusting her gloves. 'The higher-ups have already been notified through the proper channels. We have until tomorrow to get it done.'
'Fuck it!' The words exploded from Gojo's lips, sharp and angry. His fist struck the metal table, and his six eyes never left Suguru's face. 'Shoko, don't act like you want to do this. Don't lie to me!' He walked toward her, shaking his head, his mind racing. 'No. I won't let it happen. Screw the higher-ups—they can all rot for all I care. I'll burn the whole council down before I let them use Suguru as a tool again. Not again.' His voice broke on the last two words, anger bleeding into grief. Satoru paced in tight circles, his cursed energy simmering like a storm threatening to break.
'Whatever was done, no matter why he left,' Gojo continued, his agitation growing with every syllable, 'he deserves better than this—better than them. Even in death.'
Shoko's lips parted, her composure faltering. 'Satoru... I have to—' Her voice wavered, quieter now, hesitant. 'You're asking me to fake the death certificate, aren't you?'
He stopped, turning to face her fully, his towering form vibrating with emotion. 'Yes.' His gaze locked with hers, unshakable. 'Yes. You and I both know you don't want this, Shoko.' His tone softened, and in it, there was a tinge of desperation. 'You want to dissect him? Hand over his body and let those bastards study him like he was nothing but an experiment gone wrong? You know he deserves more than that.'
'I can't just—' Shoko's words faltered, her expression conflicted.
'They'll never know.' He cut in sharply, moving closer. His voice grew more measured, the sheer determination bleeding into every word. 'If we get rid of the body first, they'll never have anything to examine. I'll take all the blame.' He tapped his chest insistently. 'They can't touch you, a valuable asset to the community. What can they do to me? Reprimand me? Remove me from missions?' His laugh was bitter, a sharp bark of defiance. 'Let them try.'
Shoko hesitated, glancing at Suguru's body on the table. 'This isn't just about me. You know what you're risking. What if they figure it out?'
'They won't.' His voice was firmer now, cutting through the haze of her doubt. 'You have all the old records from before he defected, right? Use those—fill in whatever gaps you need. Everything else can be forged. You've done harder things for less.'
Her face twisted into something torn between frustration, pain, and exasperation. 'You… idiot.'
'Shoko.' Satoru stepped closer, his voice dropping to an almost pleading whisper. 'I can't let them use him again. Help me do this.'
She let out a slow, trembling sigh, her resolve buckling under his raw emotion. Her gaze was somber, but her shoulders remained tense. Finally, she nodded, albeit reluctantly. 'Fine. Fine. But if this goes sideways, you're really taking the fall.'
'Deal.' He exhaled sharply, lips pulling into a small, victorious grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Through the rest of the night, the two worked side by side in grim silence. Shoko doctored the reports with swift efficiency, her usual precision evident even in this act of rebellion. Gojo stayed close, handling anything physical that needed to be dealt with as she prepared Suguru's body for the funeral, cleaning up the blood, suturing the wounds, and finally enwrapping him in the burial shroud.
The first rays of sunlight seeped through the small basement windows as they finished, exhaustion evident on both of their faces. Satoru gathered Suguru's body in his arms, cradling him gently as though he might still wake.
'Do you want to come with me?' he asked quietly, not looking up.
Shoko hesitated, her eyes lingering on the white shroud. After a moment, she shook her head and took a step back. Her hand reached out briefly, brushing against the body before falling to her side.
'No, you know I have to stay,' she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. 'Goodbye, Geto.' Her composure unraveled, and the tears finally shimmered in her eyes, though they didn't fall. 'He deserves... to be sent away as a friend... by you.'
Satoru nodded, saying nothing as her words settled over him like a heavy blanket. He closed his eyes and teleported again.
This time, the strain hit him hard. His legs nearly gave out as he reappeared, staggering to his knees, Suguru still in his arms. The weight of heartbreak, exhaustion, and the sin he had carried bore down on him in full force. For once, there was no mask, no feigned cheerfulness. Only the emptiness of knowing what he had done—and what he hadn't been able to stop.
The horizon burned with shades of red and gold as the light of dawn stretched across the land. The shrine stood quiet and imposing, nestled within the Gojo clan's burial grounds. It was a place thick with history and tradition, a sanctuary meant for only the most honored members of his extended family. But to Gojo Satoru, it was the last place anyone would think to look for the body of a man branded a criminal.
Carrying Suguru in his arms, Satoru made his way through the cold morning air to a particular grave—a plot marked with no name, reserved for him. A twisted smirk tugged at his lips, bitter and tired.
'Guess I'm stealing my own spot, huh?' He murmured to the still form. His voice wavered, the mocking edge doing little to mask his grief.
It was selfish. He knew that. Burying Suguru here, in a place where no one could desecrate him, no higher-up could probe him, and no curious soul could find him—this was his way of holding on to something, of refusing to let go. Satoru knelt and gently laid Suguru on the ground. For a moment, he hesitated, his hands resting on the body.
'Maybe it's self-centered,' he said softly. 'But you were my friend. My... best friend... And I can't let anyone else take that from you—or from me.' With a deep breath, he pressed his hands against the heavy stone slab covering the empty grave. His muscles tightened, the hardened strength of his cursed energy lifting it, setting it aside with deliberate care. The empty grave stared up at him, ready to hold its new occupant.
A flicker of his finger disintegrated the earth below into manageable soil, creating a smooth and undisturbed hollow. Slowly, reverently, Satoru lowered Suguru's body into the hole and stepped back, staring down at the stillness below him.
'You'll rest here, Suguru,' he whispered, his voice breaking with the weight of it all pressed down on his chest. 'Even if the whole world forgets you... I won't.'
Satoru reached out with his cursed energy, compacting the soil until it looked pristine, untouched. The stone slab was lowered into place, and despite all the effort, it appeared as if nothing had ever been disturbed.
He stepped aside and glanced around, finding a patch of wildflowers growing near the edge of the shrine. Satoru plucked a handful and returned to place them atop the nameless gravestone.
For a moment, he stood there, silent and still. His hand rested on the cold stone as the wind tousled his white hair, carrying with it the scent of earth and the faint tang of iron.
'I'll come back,' Satoru promised, his voice barely audible. 'When it's safe. When everything's over. I'll say goodbye properly then.'
He straightened, forcing himself to move despite the pull to stay, to linger, to give in to grief. Placing a soft kiss on his fingertips, Satoru pressed his hand against the marble.
'I miss you, Suguru,' he said quietly, the words fragile as glass.
Before he could lose himself to the ache, he blinked away, his surroundings replaced by the familiar quiet of his apartment. The silence there was heavier, oppressive. For the first time, his body felt like it might give out under the exhaustion, the grief. He sank to the cold floor, his back against the wall, staring at nothing. The emptiness pressed against him, suffocating and deafening, until finally, the dam cracked.
His chest tightened as a raw sob clawed its way out, startling even him. He covered his mouth with a trembling hand, as though he could stifle the sound, but it was useless. The sorrow poured out of him like a flood, shaking his entire body. His hands clenched into his hair, pulling at the roots, leaning forward and curling in on himself.
'I'm sorry,' he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking. 'God, Suguru... I'm so sorry.'
Tears streamed down his face, hot and relentless, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. His breaths came in short, shallow gasps, chest heaving as if he couldn't get enough air. Satoru clawed at his arms, digging his nails into his skin, desperate to feel something other than the hollow, gaping void inside of him.
'You should've been here if I was better,' he choked out. 'We should've been standing together... not like this. Not like this.'
He slammed his fist against the floor, the impact jarring up his arm, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish that consumed him. His heart felt as though it had been ripped from his chest, split into pieces he didn't know how to pick up.
The room spun as his sobs intensified, his body shaking so hard he could barely keep upright. He couldn't breathe—couldn't think past the raw agony tearing through him. For once, Satoru Gojo wasn't "the strongest." He was just a man broken by the weight of loss, love, and regret.
Minutes—or perhaps hours—passed. Time became a meaningless blur as his cries gradually subsided, leaving behind an empty silence. His heart still hurt, his throat raw from the cries that had wracked his body. Satoru sat there, empty and exhausted, staring at the streaks of dried blood still faintly visible on his hands.
But then he straightened, his back pressing against the wall. Slowly, deliberately, he wiped his face with his sleeve, erasing the evidence of fallen tears. His fingers brushed over the bandage, resting where he had tossed it onto the ground.
'Enough,' he murmured to himself, stifled but resolute. 'The world doesn't stop. And neither can I.'
Piece by piece, he rebuilt himself. He stood on stiff legs and walked to the bathroom, stripping off his bloodstained clothes and stepping into the scalding shower. The water hit his skin, washing away the physical remnants of the loss, but doing little to ease the fatigue within.
When he stepped out, a reflection in the mirror caught his eye—a man with sky-blue, red-rimmed eyes, pale skin, and white hair clinging damply to his forehead. He reached for a towel and dried himself mechanically, avoiding his own gaze.
His movements grew steadier while he dressed, donning a fresh set of his usual dark uniform. The eye bindings sat in his hand for a lengthy moment before he brought it to his face. The soft material wrapped over his eyes, hiding them from the world, and with it, every trace of his earlier breakdown. The usual overwhelming sensory overload faded away, replaced by a sense of muted control. It did not help with the headache budding behind his temples, but at least it allowed him to function.
With the blindfold securely in place, Satoru exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back. He forced a grin to tug at his lips—a smile that didn't reach his eyes but would be enough to fool the world. Who cared anyway, since all they could see was what he showed them? He stretched his neck, feeling the tension recede ever so slightly.
'It's fine,' he said to the empty room, light and casual but hollow beneath the surface. 'It's fine. I'm still Gojo Satoru. I'm still the strongest.'
The world needed him. His students needed him. The duty he had borne for so long didn't allow the luxury of mourning.
Pushing every emotion to the farthest corner of his mind, Satoru teleported back to Jujutsu High. The sun was bright now, a cruel contrast to the storm raging silently within him. He walked forward, shoulders square, smile in place, the mask of the most powerful back where it belonged.
It didn't matter that his body screamed for rest, that exhaustion weighed on him like lead. He hadn't slept a wink, hadn't eaten since yesterday, and yet there was no time for the reprieve. The old coots would not wait—they never did. Responsibility piled onto his shoulders without pause, and there wasn't anyone else to step in and handle what needed to be done. Not anymore… not for a long time.
His hand hesitated on the temple doors for just a moment, a shallow breath escaping his lips. Then he pushed forward, the creak of wood echoing into the still air as he stepped inside the sanctified hall. The smell of perfumed candles hit him first, mingled with the faint aroma of dust and polished wood. This place was oppressive, with its stifling traditions and ancient weight of obligation. But it was his obligation to report back to them—a duty of the heir of the Gojo clan.
The stillness inside was unsettling as he approached the main room. His footsteps didn't falter, but there was an edge to his movements, a subtle tension that betrayed how close to his limits he truly was. In this venerated place, he was not the strongest sorcerer, nor the savior his students looked to—here, he was nothing more than a tool, a figurehead of the Jujutsu world.
Satoru knelt before the altar, his hands resting on his thighs, every movement measured and precise. The flicker of resentment he felt, so deeply buried under years of duty, burned faintly in the back of his mind. He thought of Suguru—not for the first time, not for the last. If anyone understood what this burden felt like, it had been Suguru. And he was dead.
Closing his eyes, Satoru exhaled, letting the temple's quiet envelope him. He forced his mind to focus on the task ahead, on what had to be done, pushing past his exhaustion, his hunger, and the fractured pieces of his soul that cried out for reprieve.
'Let's do this,' he murmured to himself, barely a whisper in the oppressive room. Regardless of how much he gave or how much it cost, it was all worthwhile in the end. Isn't it? The strongest was breaking, piece by piece, but he couldn't let it show, because the world did not care. Satoru shut away his heart, his pain, and any emotions, unwrapped the all-seeing eyes, and smiled, and this time it was feral.
'You were my special…'
Jjk shattered me completely...(Cries)
Satoru is crazy, and while watching the JJK 0 movie, it just struck me that little missing link in between the scenes and his expressions...
Also, this fic is inspired by the Shibuya Incident Arc OST 'You are my specialz.' I listened to it non-stop because it is stuck in my head like an earworm. After everything, I finally understood why the boys are always shipped together. It ruined me...
"Get lost in me... Just how long are you going to tell lies meant to protect yourself..." A quote from the song.