… or, Shoko and Gojo talk about it one year on (post JJK0)
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Shoko receives a text the moment Gojo’s world ends. He texts her with shaking hands and a creeping numbness because hearing her voice would be too much.
“It’s done.” The text says. “It’s done.”
She sees that message now, from a year ago, standing amidst the sparse work conversation here, a holiday greeting there. Shoko heaves a sigh, rooted in her aching bones before sinking down on the bench.
She’s places a cigarette against trembling lips. Her thirsting system waiting with bated breath for that rush of nicotine. She scoops the pocket of her scrubs, left, right, then left. Great. She’d forgotten her lighter again. Of all times.
“I thought you quit smoking?” He says, holding the light in front of her. Shoko takes a second to adjust to the voice. She’s surprised it’s Gojo, relieved, almost, that it’s Gojo. That he’s here. She leans into him and lights her cigarette.
She breathes easy again after the first inhale. Then exhaling is easy.
“I did… I only smoke on special occasions…”
Gojo nods. He understands. Humans live on ritual. Jujutsu sorcerers are worse. You’d think magic cures you of superstition, but, people will do what they can to live a little longer.
They go back to Shoko’s room to fulfil the promise of cheap whisky only because she had offered. She’s surprised when he actually says yes. And Shoko feels young again, gesturing for Gojo to make himself comfortable anywhere. He adjusts himself on her carpet, back against her bed frame, feeling dangerously young again. She pours him a drink from her secret stash and hands him the nicest guest mug she has, for when Utahime drops by.
The last time he’d been in Shoko’s room it was her birthday. Geto was there too. They had gotten her a cake slathered in pink icing and hearts, only to discover that very night Gojo has an allergy to that one particular food colouring. The last time they’d been in Shoko’s room it had been a crowd.
“Are you okay?” He says, watching her down her pour. Like asking about the weather. Like asking about her day. And yet, the question forms a lump in her throat.
“Are you okay?” She replies.
Gojo doesn’t quite know how to answer that question. He thinks. So instead he says, “I’m glad you’re here.” Because it’s the only truth he can afford to give right now.
Shoko looks at him for a moment, examines his face. In the years they’ve drifted apart Gojo has become a man, still sickeningly handsome so they say. Shoko never quite got it, no matter how much Geto tried to convince her. Now maybe she thinks she might understand. Thinks she might see it in the vulnerability of his eyes.
Shoko aches.
She wonders if she’ll ever stop feeling like shit when she looks at Gojo. And she’s sure he feels the same. She turns to rummage through her bedside drawer. When she finds it, she braces herself for the recognition in Gojo’s eyes.
And so it comes, shock seeping into every muscle in his face because- “that- that’s Suguru’s… I thought he took it with him when he-“
“No.” Shoko replies, “I took it from his room the day he left. It should’ve been yours.
She holds out one side of the earphones to Gojo, waiting, watching as he takes it. She scrolls through his endless playlists, settling on the one that reads “Spring‘07”. It’s the one she’s most familiar with. She puts it on shuffle, head tucked to her knees, thinking the warmth beside her reads almost like Geto. Almost.
She can almost hear the steadiness of his breathing. Her heart would still in this silence, she would wait till the end of the song to tell him whether she liked it. And of course she would. Of course she does. Of course half his playlist consist of the songs she recommends. And of course hers is exactly the same.
In these moments Geto belonged to her. The only part of him that belonged to her. And she’d been selfish to steal it away for herself. But she needed something to remember him by. To remember that he was real, and that he loved her too.
“You know… I used to be so jealous of you…” Gojo says, leaning into her side. He smiles at her and she thinks to herself, maybe she can see why Geto had been so in love.
“What for?”
“You were so cool… And you and him- you got along.”
Shoko laughs. She remembers Gojo at the beginning- rude, childish, endlessly annoying. And she remembers telling Geto that their classmate with the glow sticks for eyes might just have a stupid crush on him. And she’d been appalled to learn Geto felt the same. The rest is history.
“You had all of him, Gojo…” Shoko rests her head on his shoulder. She can’t remember the last time they’ve touched. But this feels nice. She thinks. This is the only thing she’s ever needed since-
Well.
She feels the tension leave her bones, “he thought the world of you.”
In the silence, Gojo finds the words to say. He opens his mouth, shuts it, then tries again.
“I never understood his songs… I never understood his books… Maybe I never really understood him at all.”
Shoko squeezes her eyes shut and hums a reply. Lately she’s been thinking they have it all wrong. Time heals all wounds, they say. Scars will fade with time- they say. But time has been tormenting her lately. Lately she’s been remembering too much, too vividly. Lately she’s been retracing her steps, wondering when the rot had seeped beyond repair. Wondering when he had gotten so sad. Wondering if perhaps, she never understood him either.
Nostalgia is a bitch, bitter, acrid on her tongue, but its core reveals a sweetness so divine she could die. Time has taken her anger from her and left only the good. She remembers Geto and his gentleness these days. Because for the first time in her life, she belonged. She had felt safe. Between them- between the sun and the moon. Her first mistake was thinking they were invincible.
“We talked about you a lot… When we made this playlist he was thinking about you. How disgusting is that…” Shoko laughs, tilting her head to look up at him, and Gojo is smiling back at her like the sun.
He grins and she can tell he’s pleased with himself. “That’s pretty fucking disgusting…”
“I’m sorry I took this away from you.” She says. She’s rehearsed this moment for a while. In her imagination, Gojo had been angrier. He’d been vindictive and angry and she would’ve deserved it. But here she is, on her third pour of whisky, the growing weight of Gojo’s body against hers. She stifles a smile. Gojo Satoru has always been a lightweight.
“I’m sorry I never asked… if you were okay…”
“You’re here now…”
When the next song plays, it sends a rush through their veins, suddenly every nerve is on fire. The sweetness grows stronger, too much, too good to bear.
“Fuck.” Shoko says.
“Fuck.” Gojo echoes. He thinks maybe there’s little point in hiding the fact that he’s crying, because Shoko looks like she’s about to cry too.
Geto’s song.
Endlessly on loop the entire winter bleeding into spring. They had listened to this song, kicking up the fallen leaves along the pavement to the convenience store. They had learned the lyrics and sang it at the top of their lungs in a karaoke in Shinjuku. They had sneaked into the assembly hall at midnight to play it through the speakers, and they had danced to it until Yaga had come to turn the lights on.
“I still love him… Despite it all… Isn’t that disgusting?”
“Fucking disgusting…” Shoko chuckles, a beat, a count- “same…”
Gojo groans, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. It’s the alcohol, he tells himself, he’s losing his mind because of the alcohol.
“Fuck it. Fuck Suguru.” He says suddenly, pulling Shoko to her feet. She relents, wide-eyed, waiting for something to happen. “This is our song now!” He holds her hands in his and they’re dancing, really badly at first, their bodies getting used to old designs. And then Shoko is laughing, unguarded, and Gojo sees her at seventeen, hair cropped short, world at her feet, dragging them into photobooths in Harajuku. Gojo sees her at seventeen. When Geto had texted to tell them his mission was taking longer than expected, that they should go ahead without him. It didn’t make sense to them because Geto was the only one who had wanted to watch the movie.
“Well, this fucking sucks…” Shoko had said mid-way through the second character death. And Gojo had turned to her in surprise, watching the colours of the funeral through her irises. He hadn’t been able to control the laugh that burst through his chest.
When the song ends, Gojo sees her at seventeen when she realises he's selfish in his grief, that she cannot share her hurt with him. Sees her at the exact moment that that very realisation bled her out on the floor.
Gojo aches.
“He loved you too you know…” he says as he places the earphones back in her hands, and it runs like a torrent through her.
She nods.
Gojo smiles, and she blames Geto for taking the brightness in his eyes with him.
“Keep it. It’s yours. He would’ve- yeah…”
In the warm glow of her room, Shoko sees Gojo at seventeen, coming to his own, the strongest sorcerer this generation will ever know. Shoko sees Gojo at seventeen, shooting the dirtiest looks at the people who would stare at her as she lit her cigarette. Shoko sees Gojo at seventeen, laughing at her irreverence in the cinema- she laughs with him until someone comes to kick them out. Shoko sees Gojo at seventeen, an impish look shared between them when they lie to Geto about enjoying the movie. Shoko sees Gojo at seventeen, with Geto, always with Geto. And she thinks maybe some people are just meant to be insufferable and beautiful and in love.
“I’m glad you’re here,” She says. Because it’s the only truth she can afford to give right now.
Despite it all, I still love you, she wants to say so desperately, isn’t that disgusting?
But she sees him now, he’s here, he’s here, and she thinks that maybe, maybe he feels the same way too
this is an excerpt- full version on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/53129953
...
“I want to talk about something else.” Satoru says.
"Okay..." And Suguru hums thoughtfully, tapping his cigarette against a mug of abandoned tea. “Have you been seeing anyone?”
“Yeah,” Satoru lies. He’d never be able to pull this off before, but now lying to Suguru comes easily, and he knows this means something.
“That’s nice…” smoke slips past his lips as he speaks. Satoru thinks maybe at this age he can admit to himself that he has a thing for bad boys. That’s probably why this is so attractive to him he could die. “Are they… nice?”
“Yeah… Drop dead gorgeous… Wants to settle down in a melon farm in Tomita… You’d like him…”
“Yeah?” Suguru chuckles, “you love melon…” And Satoru no longer cares to know if Suguru can tell he’s lying. Surely, surely the only man who has ever known his heart would be able to tell in a heartbeat.
Surely.
“Yeah… Not sure if that’s what I want now… I don’t think I’m ready to retire my life to melons…”
Suguru laughs, genuine, unguarded. He looks young again, like he’s listening to Satoru go on and on at the vending machines and he’s thinking that, theoretically, now might be a good time to shut him up with a kiss. (Then again, when isn't it a good time to kiss Satoru). But Suguru has always preferred listening. In fact, he’s been told he’s the only person in the world to pay attention to anything Satoru has to say- to laugh at anything Satoru has to say.
“Why not?” Suguru leans into him and knocks the side of their heads together. “I think you’d make a fine melon prince…”
Satoru grumbles a weak protest something about shutting him up, about showing him what melon prince can do, but he knows his face is red.
There’s virtually no space between them now, and even so the next part is so quiet Satoru almost misses it, “maybe Tomita’s not such a good idea…”
“Why? Don’t have any chapters in Tomita?” Satoru retorts rather sourly, and he has the absolute pleasure of watching Suguru’s eyes widen momentarily before his face explodes into sheer amusement and laughter. Satoru can’t help but grin at him, like the lovesick idiot he had been in high school, who had lived to make his best friend laugh. Lucky for him laughter comes easily to Suguru when he’s with him.
“And you? Any suitors?”
“Been busy…” Suguru shrugs, “besides I don’t think the girls would take well to me seeing someone…”
“Ah…” Satoru replies, eyes drawn into the way Suguru lifts the cigarette to his lips and draws a deep breath in, out.
“Nanako especially… She’s a stubborn one…”
“Like you…” Satoru smiles.
Suguru smiles back, and Satoru will stay up thinking about that smile and why it’s such a sad one. “And Mimiko always gives in…” then a much quieter “like you…”
Satoru’s heart races faster than he can contain, faster than he can manage a reply. So he doesn’t. Doesn't want to get into a debate with Suguru. Doesn’t want to go into the details of their relationship. Of how Gojo Satoru is endlessly stubborn and insistent and relentless, and how Geto Suguru has always, always given in. How Shoko had spent years telling him that he’ll pay a heavy price for indulging Satoru the way he did, for spoiling Satoru the way he did.
Instead he says “I would’ve loved to meet them… They would like me…” he’s confident because it’s true. He thinks. He’s the expert on children now. Teenager him would never believe this is what the future holds. And Suguru can’t bear to tell him that well, they know of you. They always ask Suguru where he’s been after the nights he spends with Satoru. The girls notice the shift in the air around him after they meet. They don’t quite know the reason behind the sadness in his eyes, but that doesn’t stop them from noticing. And that “yeah whatever, of course they would like you. Who wouldn’t…”
“Megumi got into the school team by the way… We shopped for new sneakers yesterday to celebrate… He’s really good when he puts his mind to it…”
“Can he bat?”
“The best!” Satoru beams with pride. “He has a game coming up this weekend… He told me not to embarrass him…”
“So you made a sign?”
Satoru winks for good measure, “the most obnoxious one yet…”
Suguru throws his head back and laughs, and Satoru thinks nothing has changed. There’s a look on his face, conspiratorial almost, the one he’d given Satoru so many times before- that’s my Satoru for you…The smell of the salt breeze is sweet against his skin.
“Poor boy…” Suguru chuckles, like he’s imagining the scene- Satoru and his large sign painted in bright fucking neon, and the boy’s mortified expression. Oh he would’ve given money to see it.
“Megumi is lucky…” the way Megumi’s name sounds so familiar when Suguru says it makes Satoru dream of forever. They have not met but he knows Megumi would have taken to Suguru easily, a little too easily, perhaps. In a way that would make him jealous, maybe. “Would’ve loved to be there…”
And Satoru hums a reply. He doesn’t get angry. Not anymore. Not when Suguru talks about the way he wishes things were. He remembers a distant past where he would get mad, where he would yell and blame and yell again. How could it not be evidently clear that they’re drowning in the choices that Suguru has made. That he had been the only one who had any choice in the matter. But that time has passed. Now he holds onto these moments. Speaks of them as if none of them had a choice. As if Suguru had been doomed from the start. As if everything had been written by the fates and all they can do is live by the roles they’ve been assigned. And this part of the play is a happy one. There’s no room for sadness, for that is past.
The only way is forward.
So Satoru will play his part.
He closes his eyes and he sees Megumi’s frame stage centre. The spotlights are harsh on him, he’s shrouded in their hot glow. From his grip on the bat Satoru can tell that every fibre of his being is trained on the ball in the pitcher’s hand. It’s moments like these that he thinks- that he knows Megumi can accomplish everything he sets his mind to. The pitcher launches the ball, Megumi bats, and the ball flies.
Since when has his boy gotten so strong?
Satoru waits in bated breath as he watches Megumi go.
Since when has his boy gotten so fast?
He doesn’t realise his fists are clenched until he feels a warmth snaking around his hand, urging him to open his palm to gentle fingers. He looks to their hands, clasped together hard in sure prayer, then at the man beside him.
“That’s a homerun for sure, Satoru… It has to be!”
Suguru’s eyes are on Megumi. He’s on the edge of his seat, lips parting in awe. Suguru had played baseball in middle school too. And he’d been good. What can Suguru not do. So Satoru believes him.
Sure enough the crowd cheers when Megumi hits a homerun. Satoru jumps out of his seat and he whoops and whistles and he watches as Megumi grimaces when he sees him. But there’s a hint of smile on the boy’s face. And he hears Suguru cheering and laughing beside him. “Go Megumi!”
The curtain falls.
Satoru opens his eyes and Suguru is beside him, cigarette extinguished, gaze gentle, a look that is only ever meant for Satoru. Hands reach for his face, and his cheek is enveloped in the warmth of Suguru’s palms. His thumb brushes across Satoru’s brows, across the corners of his eyes.
“Let me know if you change your mind about the melons and I might consider a chapter in Tomita…”
“Why? You’ll miss me that much?” Satoru blurts, already drifting off to sleep. His mind struggles to paint an accurate picture of reality. There are fragments of memories interlaced with the present, and Satoru feels like he’s dreaming in Suguru’s room again, underneath band posters, beside the ivies he keeps by his window. He’s safe here, and nothing bad has happened to them yet.
Suguru presses a kiss to his forehead, gentle, sure as the sun. “Always, Satoru” he whispers, “all the time…”
And Satoru hides away in the crook of Suguru’s neck. Because if he sees his face now he might die.
Since when has his boy needed him so?
Perhaps this is the way it’s always been with Suguru. The boy who had been so sure of himself rendered vulnerable because Satoru managed to wriggle his way into his soul, leaving a hole so will spend the rest of his days longing. Loving Satoru comes so easily to him, like skin over bones, imprinted in muscle. So he will love his boy even in death.
Satoru wants to return the favour, tell Suguru the ins and outs of his desires. Call his name like the seas crashing against safe shores. But surely, surely the only man who has ever known his heart would be able to tell in a heartbeat.
“Yeah, yeah it’s a deal then,” Satoru murmurs, delirious. And in that moment, he’s Satoru at seventeen, coming back from an exhausting mission and laying in Suguru’s lap, in Suguru’s room, having Suguru thread gentle fingers through his hair like a pet cat. Later he will jerk awake from his slumber momentarily to re-announce their plans the coming weekend just in case Suguru has the audacity to forget. Oh my god! Saturday! The digimon pop-up, remember? The digimon pop-up. Fucking need it- need to go. Now, home in the sheets of a soggy love hotel, he says in similar fashion, “we’ll grow old together on a melon farm or whatever…”
And with that, Satoru is lulled to sleep by the thunder in Suguru’s chest, and the rumble of his fading laughter. I want to go to sleep and never wake up again, he thinks. Sleep past the third act, the fourth, the curtain call, the encore, the applause.
