Under a Sagittarian sun —————ONE SHOT
On December 7, 1989, in Kyoto, the maximum temperature was 15 degrees Celsius. The moon was in a waxing gibbous phase, and the skies were overcast. The atmosphere felt charged with electricity, lamps flickered mischievously, and cats restlessly roamed the windows of the Gojo clan’s quarters. Two midwives and an experienced doctor exchanged concerned glances during the grueling nine hours they had spent attending to the distinguished woman in labor.
On that same day, Kito Nanaru hesitated before entering the place. Something about the kitsune statues at the entrance, the cedar trees in the courtyard, and the creaking wooden floors unsettled her. She had never felt comfortable in this grand house, much less in its temple. Yet, she had to be there. That day, the odds of a miracle were high, and as a priestess, it was her duty—or rather, her destiny—to verify it.
She declined every offering of tea and bowls of miso, remaining in fasting to enhance her connection with the spiritual realm for the impending birth.
“Miss Nanaru, do you think these…” one of the maids began to ask but fell silent after a few seconds.
Nanaru sighed, already knowing the question.
“Will they be born alive?” She clicked her tongue. “At least one of them should.”
The maid nodded and left, leaving Nanaru alone. Weary, the priestess sat cross-legged on the floor. She might as well meditate. Her instincts told her that this third attempt by the Gojo clan would be even more challenging than the previous ones.
Closing her eyes, her mind emptied for about nine minutes. She focused on her breath, counted the beads of her japa mala, and discerned the faint purple aura in her inner vision. That was good; it meant she could find calm and grounding, even in such a strange place.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
Suddenly, a dog’s howl jolted her heart. Alarmed, she instinctively moved toward the room where the woman was laboring. As if orchestrated, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the space the moment she entered. Amid a thunderclap’s deafening roar, she saw two newborns, identical to each other. One lay still, his blue eyes wide open—too open. The other kicked and gasped, unable to open his eyes.
Nanaru approached the second baby.
“Is…is he alright?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes. It’s the other one who…well…may the gods watch over him,” the doctor sighed in sorrow.
Nanaru glanced toward the first baby, but a midwife had already draped a cloth over him.
Another flash of lightning lit the room, followed by the piercing cry of the surviving baby.
“Did he survive?!” the mother exclaimed, attempting to sit up in bed. One midwife moved to steady her, but she shoved the woman aside with surprising strength. “Nanaru! Do your damn job and examine him!”
The priestess closed her eyes, summoning all her willpower to stay calm. She knew she wasn’t supposed to feel this way, but she despised the Gojo clan. The eternal promise of their bloodline and their techniques had turned them into a cold and calculating lineage.
With a sigh, she took the crying baby in her arms. She pitied him; minutes into life, he was already being treated as an object, a vessel valued only for what he carried.
And they didn’t yet know if he carried it.
“What will become of you if you don’t…” she murmured, troubled.
A third lightning bolt illuminated the room, and the baby’s eyes opened.
Nanaru stifled a gasp. Those weren’t the eyes of a baby, nor of a human. Those eyes didn’t even seem to belong to this plane. Those eyes, those anguished eyes, were the eyes of a god.
A fearsome god.
Certain he had been born with them, the priestess pressed her forehead to the child’s, closed her eyes, and entered a trance.
She saw a field of flowers, hands clasping, waves crashing on the shore, vivid violet eyes, a river of blood, a red explosion, a torrent of curses, a brilliant purple flash, a bouquet of blue calla lilies, and a tender smile. Abruptly, her heart raced as she felt a darkness as black as despair. Alarmed, she pulled away from the baby when she found herself surrounded by skulls and glimpsed that four-armed monster.
Him. The King of Curses.
An acute pain shot through her abdomen, and she immediately knew the tragic fate the gods had written for the being in her arms.
“How…how can this be possible?” she whispered, holding the baby tightly again.
“Nanaru,” the boy’s mother called from across the room, her voice weak. “Tell me, damn witch…is he…or isn’t he?”
The priestess sighed, stroking the baby’s head.
“Yes. Congratulations, Satomi,” she replied bitterly. “Your son has been born with the Six Eyes and will master your clan’s technique. By the time he’s sixteen, he’ll be the strongest sorcerer. He’ll have no rival.”
“Except for the Double-Faced one,” Nanaru thought.
The mother smiled in satisfaction.
“Then he is worthy of being called Satoru,” she declared before collapsing from exhaustion.
The doctor and midwives rushed to her aid, leaving the infant Satoru wailing in the priestess’s arms. Nanaru was overwhelmed with a profound sadness.
“You’re the first of your siblings to survive,” she whispered to the grieving child. “Please, be happy. Even if only for a moment, be happy, little Satoru.”
A moment later, a midwife gently took the baby from her.
“I’m sorry. I had instructions to…”
“It’s alright,” Nanaru interrupted. “My work here is done.”
Before leaving, the priestess cast one last glance at the child and sighed. Something about this newborn—the bearer of the Six Eyes and the heir to the Infinity technique, whose birth had just rebalanced the world, whose destiny was marked by loneliness and tragedy—made her reflect on how melancholy the color blue could be.
On December 7, 1989, in Kyoto, under a sagittarian sun, amid the scent of blood and incense, under the sound of wind chimes stirred by a roaring winter storm, and burdened by a dreadful and secret prophecy, Gojo Satoru entered the world.
***
The Gojo clan estate, secluded among perfectly manicured gardens and impenetrable walls, always maintained a sort of solemn silence. Within those walls, young Satoru lived surrounded by luxuries he couldn’t appreciate and a loneliness he couldn’t understand. From the moment he could form coherent thoughts, he knew only one thing—a single, absolute truth his mother repeated to him constantly: he could not be like the others. Ever.
By the age of three, his life was already ruled by a rigid schedule. His routine began before dawn, when the faint winter light barely reached the windows of his room. Each day unfolded into a grueling array of physical and mental tasks designed to push him to his limits: training sessions that tested his body, studies that challenged his mind, and lessons crafted to remind him that he was the bearer of the Six Eyes, the pride of the clan, the strongest. Every failure, no matter how small, was met with disapproving glances and subtle critiques.
“You have a duty, Satoru. Weakness doesn’t suit the Six Eyes.”
His mother, Satomi, never consoled him nor directly praised him. Yet the rare words of approval she let slip were more valuable to him than any toy or sweetness.
“You are special, Satoru. The most special of all,” she would say in a detached tone, as if his achievements weren’t a source of pride but merely expected. These words, combined with constant flattery from the clan’s servants and members, built in him a shell of confidence that was, in truth, sheer arrogance.
As he grew older, he grew accustomed to reverent bows, extravagant gifts, and admiring looks. At clan gatherings, heads bowed as he walked past. “What an extraordinary child,” they murmured, while six-year-old Satoru smiled with an air of superiority that mirrored the adults perfectly.
But behind that smile was a child who spent hours playing alone, his shadow his only companion.
One particularly cold night, when physical and mental exhaustion overwhelmed him, Satoru allowed himself a brief moment of vulnerability. He curled up in the corner of his vast room, the lights turned off, and let his mind wander to questions he never dared to ask.
“Why can’t I play like them? Why do I have to be the strongest? Why can’t someone else be?”
Questions that would remain forever unanswered because his mother had taught him that doubt was equivalent to failure.
And the Gojo did not fail.
With his small fist, he struck the wall, trying to vent the immense frustration he felt—too much for someone so young to bear.
On December 7, 1999, in Kyoto, under a Sagittarian sun, amidst discipline and privilege, challenges and adulation, Gojo Satoru celebrated, in silence and complete darkness, ten blue years of the most melancholic solitude.
***
Geto Suguru had a hard time reconciling himself with the fact that no one had ever celebrated Satoru’s birthday. When Shoko Ieiri casually told him that Satoru’s mother believed celebrating another year of life was something for peasants, unworthy of the strongest, anger bubbled in Suguru’s stomach and surged to his throat with the same intensity he reserved for certain curses. However, wise as he was at his tender age of fifteen, he decided not to act on those negative feelings. Instead, he channeled what Shoko had told him into an act of pure love.
Surprising someone with Gojo Satoru’s heightened senses wasn’t easy. Suguru had to wait until Satoru was absolutely and deeply asleep before preparing everything with the care and precision that marked everything he did.
At dawn, he sat on the bed and watched him sleep for a while. The way his white hair fell across his forehead, the way he scrunched his little nose when he snored, the rhythmic sound of his breathing, and the way his strong hands rested on his chest—everything about him amazed Suguru. Everything about him brought him joy. Everything about him made Suguru fall more in love.
How could he not celebrate that such a magnificent being as Gojo Satoru was born into this world?
When Satoru woke, the first thing he saw was sixteen blue and yellow balloons at the foot of his bed. Still groggy, he turned to his left, where the window framed a rainy day with a garland featuring his favorite Pokémon. As realization dawned, he turned to his right. Sitting beside him, with loose hair, slightly dark circles under his eyes, and a cake in his hands, was Suguru, smiling the most beautiful smile Satoru had ever seen.
“Happy birthday, little one,” Suguru whispered, using a gentle curse to light the blue candle atop the small cake.
Satoru didn’t respond immediately. His heart had sped up at the sight of Suguru’s devotion. He had never experienced a celebration like this—not just because it marked his birthday, but because the love Suguru had poured into every detail enveloped him like a warm blanket on a cold night.
“Are you…celebrating my birthday?” Satoru asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid the words might shatter the magic of the moment.
Suguru nodded.
“Yeah. I find it insulting that no one has celebrated it all this time.”
Satoru widened his eyes and looked at the cake in front of him.
“I’m supposed to blow it out, right?” he asked softly, a novel wave of shyness washing over him.
Suguru smiled and kissed his cheek.
“Yes, and you also have to—”
But Satoru had already blown out the candle loudly, cutting him off.
“—make a wish,” Suguru finished, laughing.
Satoru burst out laughing as well, a sound that came from deep within. The act stirred something inside him. Not only did he begin to grasp the symbolism of celebrating another year of life, but extinguishing that small flame also brought with it a pure optimism that made him feel euphoric. He felt it in the goosebumps on his skin, the adrenaline in his stomach, and the joy in his soul—something new was happening: he wasn’t alone anymore.
“I don’t need to wish for anything, Suguru,” he said, stuffing half the cake into his mouth.
Suguru watched him, amused.
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Money McMillionaire,” Suguru teased, winking at him.
Satoru swallowed the cake and leaned closer.
“It’s not that, idiot,” he said, hugging Suguru tightly. “It’s because all I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms.”
“Did you just quote a ’90s song, Satoru?”
“…Maybe.”
Suguru laughed heartily as he ran his fingers through Satoru’s white hair. Satoru blushed.
“Not all of us can be Mr. Literature like you, Suguru!” Satoru exclaimed, crossing his arms. “Some of us need help expressing ourselves!”
Still laughing, Suguru cupped Satoru’s face in his hands.
“You don’t have to say anything, little one,” Suguru whispered, kissing the tip of his nose and then both his cheeks. “It’s your birthday. You can quote all the songs you want. You deserve it.”
Satoru sighed. “Why?”
“Because you’re special, Satoru. The most special of all.”
Gently, Suguru kissed him. As their lips met, a warmth bloomed in Satoru’s chest and spread through his entire body.
“Suguru…”
“Hmm?”
“Since it’s my birthday, can I do whatever I want?”
“Yep.”
“Can I do whatever I want to you?”
Suguru arched an eyebrow, blushing despite himself. “Well…”
“Tickles!” Satoru exclaimed, lunging at his boyfriend and attacking him with his fingers.
Laughter filled the room as Suguru tried to evade his playful assault, both of them sharing a moment of pure happiness. In that instant, the outside world faded away. The pressures of being the strongest, the bearer of the Six Eyes, the wielder of Infinity—all of it shrank into insignificance thanks to the magic of this birthday.
Thanks to the love of someone who saw beyond his strength.
On December 7, 2005, in Tokyo, under a Sagittarian sun, amidst the smell of cake and cologne, with the sound of his lover’s laughter, Gojo Satoru felt, for the first time in his life, truly loved.
