He had earned Satoru Gojo’s ire, a heartless act to dispose of their friendship as if it had been the last, fetid strand tethering him back to his origins. It was the inception of his new truth, the revelations that their world could no longer continue on this linear path. So long as curses existed, as sorcerers existed, there would be anguish & adversity in equal amounts. He doesn’t expect Satoru to understand him, yet there is a small fragment of his withering heart that wishes it to be so. If Satoru had witnessed him relentlessly slaughter, bothered more by the sanguine sullying his robes than the lives he snuffed out, would he be repulsed ? If he had seen his parent’s bodies disfigured & heaving their last, pitiful breaths, would he have recoiled from him ? They are questions that do not require an answer, he accepted that their friendship too would perish by his hand. It did not mean that each subsequent moment was not pervaded by the exquisite agony of knowing their world was irrevocably changed.
He texts him. It’s such a casual thing. Back before everything had descended into darkness had they not passed messages back & forth as if each mundane part of their lives were woven together. He recalls waking to a selfie of Satoru, immaculate groomed as if he rose from bed utterly perfect, going to sleep to a slew of emojis & a sweet, seldom seen sincerity embodied in a single sentence. Goodnight. There is nothing but the dregs of that unshakeable bond within him now, the traces of recognition in their colliding gazes as the door opens & Satoru, using his ability, shoulders his way inside.
❝ should I have cut contact entirely, never spoken to you again ? ❞ there’s no kindness within his query, his dark eyes distant & cold, carved obsidian reflecting those penetrating blues. He does not wear the benevolence he adorns for the sake of those lesser beings, the cruelty he has armed himself with lingers within his expression, even if it so very badly wants to revert to familiar fondness. They would never be entirely free of one another, they were inextricably connected. He could be loathed by every person he had ever come in contact with, his friends, his allies, Satoru himself, but they would never be emancipated from this hollow sense of absence. ❝ Come now Satoru, I’m not so cruel as to never again utter your name. ❞ how they circle one another, those brazen fingers unbothered by the danger they precariously grace, dark, silken hair easing between them.
❝ You would have blocked my number, had you truly wanted that outcome. ❞ it’s unfair, isn’t it, the way Suguru can nonchalantly call out his faults, reveal to him the reality that flows alongside his hasty steps, fraught with many, tumultuous emotions. Within the cavernous depths of his gaze, swallowing every shift of his expression, there’s an echo of longing, as if he had eagerly awaited the day this barren hall might serve as a backdrop to his advent. ❝ So the question is, why. Why Satoru ? ❞ it’s a challenge, dark hair spilling over his shoulder like cascading water. ❝ Why did you choose to come ? ❞ he smiles, knowingly. ❝ We both already know that answer.❞
