eeeeh, but can you really blame me for thinking about how satoru and suguru completely crumble the moment they see you cry?
it’s not even that noticeable, you swear. and it’s not because of them, either.
it’s the little things that linger too long, too close. gnawing at the spaces between your ribs and clawing their way to your heart, just so you could have something to feel. something to clasp your fists around, even if the thorns pierce through your knuckles and bleed exhaustion all over you.
you break softly. quietly. like a burnt out forest fire scorched by its own flames. like a tide-kissed grain of sand that longs to swallow the moon whole so it could never leave again. like a wound that itches too loudly under your skin, yet snarls in agony when you touch.
(luckily for you, they’re here to pick the pieces back up.)
“baby,” you hear satoru say. not softly, no. never softly. satoru’s always a bit cracked around the edges, isn’t he? and cracked things cannot be soft. but he tries, tries to melt the edges that threaten to consume you whole.
a hand on your shoulder blade. not gentle, but tender. that must be suguru. he’s always like that, too. all too knowing, even when he shouldn’t be. you hate how he knows not to look at you with those all-too-knowing eyes of his. how he knows, to not know.
“i’m. . i’m alright,” you hear yourself say. the crack in your voice shatters something in them, too. not that you notice, when you’re too busy shaking off the blood in your hands. “i—”
“you aren’t,” and before you can utter a word, warmth like no other engulfs your lost soul whole, covering your bones like a cool blanket and kissing the forest fire asleep.
“but you will be,” satoru’s pale eyes flutter shut, nose brushing into yours.
“and we’ll hold you till then,” hums suguru, pressing his lips against your nape, “and forever.”
the op of jjk season 2 is rife with symbolism. there's one particular motif, however, that foreshadows the trajectory (and tragedy) of gojo and geto's love story.
almost immediately, we see geto running through the rain. the stylistic choice to portray him holding his bag over his head is deliberate, because it emphasizes what he conspicuously doesn’t have but so clearly needs: an umbrella.
gojo, on the other hand, is not operating with the same sense of urgency, seen through him taking his time looking at a cat. gojo has what geto needs, but he's not rushing. their behaviour is incongruous; geto is hurrying to get out of the rain, and gojo remains still, because he’s absolutely not hurrying at all.
the sense of urgency is compounding, seen through geto bouncing his leg. he’s waiting impatiently in the rain, and he's not using his bag to cover up his head anymore. geto knows gojo is coming; that's why he's impatient— because he's waiting for someone who has what he needs that hasn’t shown up yet.
geto needs him, yet gojo doesn’t pick up the pace. this is despite the fact that he needs to because it’s raining and geto doesn’t have an umbrella. we, as the audience, feel geto's impatience and we're urging gojo on, yet he still doesn't go any faster.
sharing an umbrella is an established trope in japan. it’s widely recognized and practiced enough to have its own designated terminology.
gojo is bringing an umbrella for them to share. that's why it’s repeatedly reinforced to the audience that geto doesn't have one. that’s also why the shots cut between them; it highlights what gojo has that geto doesn’t, and in doing so, ties the narrative together through the umbrella.
by the time gojo finally shows up, the sun has come out. gojo lowers the umbrella and smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. contrarily, geto almost seems resigned, like he’s accepted the fact that gojo took too long. they can’t share the umbrella anymore because they missed their chance to use it.
we can see that geto is saying something to gojo when he finally shows up with the umbrella. you know what i would bet actual money it probably was?
Summary: When a mission forces Suguru to go full drag—black silk dress, red lips, the works—Satoru thinks he can handle it. He’s wrong. One night of watching his best friend become something achingly beautiful cracks the walls Satoru’s spent years building. 3.1k words
Warnings: heavy angst, intense internalized homophobia, deep emotional hurt with no comfort, unresolved pining and regret, failure to communicate leading to permanent loss, self-hatred and denial, and a deliberately heartbreaking no-happy-ending conclusion. It explores painful themes of repression, fear of vulnerability, and the devastating cost of silence.
A/N: this is my first attempt at something like this. and yes i didnt have 'andrew in drag' on repeat for the making of this fanfic.
art: @/juichee on twitter!
The afternoon light slanted through the windows in lazy gold bars, catching on the edge of Yaga-sensei's clipboard like it was trying to set the paper on fire.
Satoru was slouched in his chair, legs kicked up on the desk as always, sunglasses perched low enough that he could pretend he wasn't staring. Across the room, Suguru sat straight-backed, pen tapping once against his notebook before going still. Always so composed. Always so annoyingly perfect.
Yaga cleared his throat. "Undercover assignment. High-end club in Shibuya. Curse user only surfaces during their monthly 'themed' nights. This one's uhh... genderfuck night. One of you needs to blend in properly." he spoke, quickly glancing down at his notes.
Satoru snorted before he could stop himself. "Genderfuck? Sounds like my kind of party."
Yaga shot him a look that could curdle milk. "One of you dresses up. In drag. Fully. The target only approaches people who look... convincing."
Silence dropped like a veil.
Suguru's pen stopped tapping.
Satoru felt something cold slide down his spine. He laughed again—too loud, too sharp. "Y'serious? Me in a dress? I'd look like a clown with six eyes."
Yaga didn't smile. "Which is why Geto is volunteering."
Suguru blinked once. Then shrugged, like it was nothing. "I'm better at makeup. And I can pull off long hair without looking like I lost a bet."
Satoru’s mouth went dry.
He stared at Suguru’s profile. the clean line of his jaw, the way his bangs fell just over one eye, the calm set of his shoulders. Imagined it framed by a wig. Imagined lipstick on that mouth. Imagined the dress clinging to-
Stop.
The thought hit like a slap. Satoru jerked his gaze away, focused on the ceiling cracks instead. His heart was doing something stupid, too fast, too loud. It's just a mission. It's just clothes. He's still Geto. Still a guy. Still your best friend. Don't make it weird.
But his brain wouldn't listen. It kept flashing: red lips curved in that half-smile Suguru saved for him. Silk sliding over skin Satoru had seen a hundred times in the locker room but never looked at. Not like this.
He hated how his stomach twisted. Hated the heat crawling up his neck. Hated that part of him—the weak, disgusting part—was curious. Wanted to see it. Wanted to keep seeing it.
Real men don't think like that.
The Gojo clan drilled it into him young: strength above everything. No attachments. No weaknesses. No deviations. The strongest didn't bend. Didn't want things he couldn't control. Especially not this.
Suguru glanced over. Caught him staring. Raised one eyebrow, soft. "You okay?"
Satoru forced a grin, wide and fake. "Yeah, just picturing you in heels. Gonna break an ankle, pretty boy?"
Suguru huffed a laugh—low, warm, the sound that always settled something restless in Satoru's chest. "I'll manage. You just focus on not blowing our cover by being... you."
"Excuse you, I'm a master of subtlety."
"Right." Suguru's eyes lingered a second too long. Something flickered there. amusement? Fondness? Something heavier? then it was gone. He turned back to Yaga. "When's the night?"
"Two weeks. Gives you time to prepare. We'll get the outfit sorted. Wig, makeup, the works."
Satoru kicked his legs down, chair scraping loud. "Great. Drag queen Geto. Can't wait."
He said it like a joke. It didn't land like one.
Suguru didn't respond. Just closed his notebook with a quiet snap.
Class ended. Students filtered out. Satoru hung back, pretending to fiddle with his bag. Suguru stayed too—packing slow, deliberate.
"You really okay with this?" Satoru asked, voice lower than he meant.
Suguru shrugged again. "It's a mission. Clothes don't mean anything."
They might mean something to me, Satoru thought, and immediately wanted to claw the words out of his skull.
He laughed instead. "Yeah. Just don't expect me to call you 'miss' or some shit."
Suguru's mouth curved, just a little. "Wouldn't dream of it, Satoru."
The way he said his name. Soft. Familiar. Like it belonged to him.
Satoru's fingers tightened on his bag strap until the leather creaked.
They walked out together, shoulders almost brushing. The hallway was quiet except for their footsteps.
Suguru spoke first. "You seem... off."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
Satoru stopped. Turned. Suguru stopped too. Close enough that Satoru could smell his shampoo. something clean, herbal, stupidly comforting.
For one heartbeat, Satoru almost said it. I'm freaking out because the idea of you in a dress is doing things to me I don't understand and I hate it and I hate me and what if this ruins everything-
Instead he smirked. "Jus' worried you'll look better than me. Can't have that."
Suguru studied him. Eyes dark, searching. Then he smiled. small, sad around the edges. "You'll always look better, Satoru."
He walked away first.
Satoru stood there, frozen, chest tight like someone had wrapped cursed energy around his ribs and squeezed.
He's wrong.
He didn't look better. He looked terrified.
And two weeks from now, everything was going to get so much worse.
-
The club was buried two floors below street level in Shibuya, the kind of place that advertised nothing and everything at once. A discreet black door with no sign, a bouncer who checked cursed energy signatures like IDs, then a narrow staircase that opened into pulsing darkness.
Neon bled across every surface. hot pink, electric blue, violet strobes cutting through smoke thick with perfume, sweat, and low-grade cursed residue. The bass thumped like a second heartbeat. Bodies moved on the dance floor in glittering fragments: sequins, leather, lace, bare skin, gender bending in ways that made the air feel electric and dangerous.
Satoru sat at the far end of the bar, back to the wall, Infinity dialed low enough to feel the crowd but high enough to keep strangers from brushing him. He nursed a untouched drink—something clear and expensive that tasted like nothing. His sunglasses were on, but the lenses were clear tonight; no point hiding when he needed to see everything.
Especially him.
Suguru had gone to the bathroom twenty minutes ago to finish getting ready. “Last touches,” he’d said with that calm shrug, disappearing down the dim hallway. Satoru had nodded like it was no big deal. Like his pulse wasn’t already a war drum.
Now the minutes stretched and stretched. Until the crowd parted just enough, and Suguru stepped out.
Satoru’s breath caught like glass in his throat.
The black silk dress clung like liquid shadow, sleeveless, dipping low enough to show the sharp line of collarbones Satoru had traced with his eyes a thousand times in locker rooms but never allowed himself to linger on. his hair was long, glossy black, falling in soft waves past his shoulders. Makeup flawless: smoky eyes that made the his dark irises look endless, cheekbones contoured sharp, and that lipstick. deeper than practice, bolder, like blood on porcelain.
He moved through the crowd with quiet confidence. Not flashy. Not performative. Just... Suguru, but amplified. Graceful hips, steady stride in low heels that clicked faintly under the music. Heads turned. Whispers followed. A few people smiled, appreciative; others stared openly, hungry.
Suguru didn’t acknowledge any of them.
His eyes scanned the room. methodical, mission-focused. until they landed on Satoru.
And he smiled.
Small. Private. The same half-smile he’d given a hundred times over convenience store mochi or late-night training. But tonight it hit different. Tonight it was framed by red lips and shadowed eyes, and it felt like a secret aimed straight at Satoru’s chest.
Suguru crossed the floor. The crowd shifted around him like water. He slid onto the stool next to Satoru, close enough that their knees almost brushed under the bar.
“Hey,” Suguru said, voice low to cut through the music. Still his voice—deep, familiar, a little rough around the edges—but still somehow softer at the edges, like he was testing how it sounded in this skin.
Satoru stared. Couldn’t look away. His mouth was dry. His hands clenched on the bar edge.
“You... look-”
He couldn’t finish. The words jammed.
Suguru tilted his head, wig shifting slightly. “Convincing?”
Too much. Not enough. Everything.
“Yeah,” Satoru managed. His voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat, forced the grin. “You’re gonna make the target jealous. Or propose. One or the other.”
Suguru laughed. quiet, warm, the sound that always unravelled something in Satoru’s ribs. “Good. Means the disguise is working.”
He leaned in a fraction, elbows on the bar, chin resting on one hand. The movement made the dress slip just a little lower on one shoulder. Exposed skin. Smooth. Warm under the neon.
satoru’s gaze dropped before he could stop it. snapped back up. too late.
Suguru noticed. Of course he did.
“You okay?” Suguru asked, softer now. Concern flickering under the makeup.
“Fine.” Lie. “Just... scanning for the curse signature. Y'know. Mission mode 'n shit.”
Suguru hummed. Didn’t push. Instead he flagged the bartender. he ordered something fruity and bright pink, playing the part. When the drink came, he stirred it lazily with the straw, red lips closing around it for a sip.
Satoru’s brain flatlined.
He watched the motion. lips, tongue, the faint gloss shine. and felt heat crawl up his neck, violent and unwanted. His stomach twisted. Shame followed like a shadow.
Stop. This is Geto. Your best friend. Not some fantasy. You’re not like that. You can’t be. The strongest doesn’t-
He dug his nails into his palm under the bar. Hard. The pain grounded him. Barely.
Suguru set the drink down. Turned fully toward him. “Satoru.”
The name was quiet. Intimate. Wrapped in that voice that knew him too well.
“If this is too much, say it, yeah? We can abort. Fake a curse flare or something.”
Satoru laughed. sharp. hollow. “And waste all your hard work? Nah. You look... you look perfect for the job.”
The word perfect slipped out again. Like it had a mind of its own.
Suguru’s eyes searched his face. Through the sunglasses. Through the bullshit.
“Then why do you look like you’re about to bolt?”
Because I want to drag you out of here. Because I want to kiss that lipstick off. Because I want things I’m not allowed to want, and if I stay here one more second I might break and admit it.
“Because the target’s probably watching,” Satoru said instead. “We should... mingle. Or whatever.”
Suguru nodded slowly. Didn’t look convinced.
He slid off the stool. Paused. Leaned in close, close enough that Satoru could smell the faint vanilla of whatever perfume they’d dusted on him, mixed with Suguru’s natural scent underneath.
“Stay close,” Suguru murmured against his ear. Breath warm. “I’ve got you.”
Then he turned, dress swaying, and melted back into the crowd. Toward the dance floor. Toward the mission.
Satoru stayed rooted to the stool. Heart hammering. Hands shaking.
He watched Suguru move—graceful, untouchable, beautiful in a way that felt like punishment.
And inside, the crack widened.
This isn’t real. It’s a costume. It’ll come off.
But what if I don’t want it to?
What if I want him like this forever?
What if I’m already broken?
The music pulsed louder. The lights strobed harder.
And Satoru sat there, alone at the bar, drowning in neon and denial, knowing the night was only just beginning. and that he might not survive it intact.
-
The curse user went down fast. too fast, almost anticlimactic. A flicker of cursed energy in the VIP section, Suguru’s quiet signal from the dance floor, Satoru’s Domain flickering open for half a second like a camera flash. No one in the club even noticed. Just another strobe. Just another body hitting the floor, then vanishing into ash.
They slipped out the back exit into the cold Shibuya alley. Rain had started again—thin, relentless, turning the neon reflections into smeared watercolor on the pavement. Suguru’s heels clicked unevenly now; one ankle twisted slightly during the takedown. Satoru offered an arm without thinking. Suguru took it. Neither spoke.
The walk back to Jujutsu High was silent except for the rain and the distant city hum. Suguru still in the dress, wig damp and clinging to his neck, makeup running in dark streaks down his cheeks like tears he hadn’t shed. Satoru kept his sunglasses on even though the night was black. Kept his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t reach out again.
They reached the dorms just before dawn. The common room was empty, same desk lamp still on from two weeks ago like nothing had changed.
Suguru stopped in the bathroom doorway. Didn’t turn the light on. Just stood there, back to Satoru, shoulders tense under silk.
“I’m gonna clean up,” he said quietly.
Satoru nodded. Didn’t move.
Suguru unclipped his hair piece first. Let it drop to the tile with a soft thud. Black hair spilled out, wet and messy, the real him underneath. He reached for the makeup wipes, started scrubbing—slow, methodical, like he was erasing evidence.
Satoru leaned in the doorway. Watched every stroke. Watched the red fade from those lips. Watched the liner smudge into gray shadows under his eyes. Watched the dress slip lower as Suguru shrugged one shoulder free to reach his neck.
Every inch revealed felt like a loss.
When the last of the lipstick was gone. mouth pale again, familiar again. Suguru finally looked at him in the mirror.
“You can come in,” he said. Soft. Tired.
Satoru didn’t.
Suguru turned. Dress half-unzipped now, hanging loose. He looked smaller without the armor of makeup and silk. More himself. More breakable.
“Satoru,” he said. “Talk to me.”
Satoru’s throat worked. Nothing came out at first.
Then, hoarse: “You looked… good out there.”
Suguru’s laugh was small. Broken. “That’s all you’ve got?”
Satoru looked at the floor. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.” Suguru stepped closer. Barefoot now. Heels kicked aside. “For once. Just the truth.”
Satoru’s hands clenched at his sides. Infinity hummed faintly, instinctive, protective. Useless.
“I can’t stop seeing it,” he whispered. “You in that dress. The way you moved. The way people looked at you. The way I looked at you.” His voice cracked. “And I hate it. I hate that I liked it. That I wanted- fuck, I wanted to touch you. Keep you like that. Keep looking. And it’s wrong. It’s weak. I’m not supposed to feel this shit. Not for you. Not for anyone. The strongest doesn’t get to- to want like this. To want you like this.”
Tears burned behind his eyes. He refused to let them fall.
Suguru stood still. Listening. Face unreadable.
“I wore it for the mission,” Suguru said quietly. “But I also wore it for you. Because I’ve known for years what I feel. And I thought… maybe tonight you’d finally see it too. See me. Not the strongest’s best friend. Just me.”
Satoru’s chest heaved. “I saw. I saw everything.”
“Then why are you still standing there like I’m a just a stranger?”
“Because if I cross this line-” Satoru’s voice broke completely. “If I admit I want you, then I’m not the strongest anymore. I’m just… some fucked-up kid who can’t control himself. And you’ll leave. Or I’ll ruin you. Or both.”
Suguru’s eyes glistened. He took one step forward.
Satoru took one step back.
“Don’t,” Satoru choked. “Don’t make this harder.”
Suguru stopped. Voice barely above a whisper. “It’s already hard, Satoru. It’s been hard for a long time.”
Silence. Rain against the window like fingers tapping for entry.
Suguru exhaled shakily. “I’m not going to beg you to love me. I’m not going to wait forever while you hate the part of yourself that could.”
He reached behind himself. Zipped the dress the rest of the way down. Let it pool at his feet. Stepped out of it in just boxers and an undershirt—ordinary. Human. Still devastatingly beautiful.
“I’m going to bed,” he said. “If you figure out how to stop punishing yourself for feeling something real… my door’s open. For one more night.”
He walked past Satoru. Close enough that their arms brushed.
Satoru didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Suguru paused in the hallway. Didn’t turn around.
“I love you, Satoru. I always have. Dress or no dress. Strongest or not.”
Then he was gone. Door clicking shut softly.
Satoru stood there until his legs gave out. Slid down the wall. Buried his face in his knees.
A pity she does not exist… The only boy I ever loved was Suguru in drag.
He laughed once. ugly, wet.
Then the tears came. Silent at first. Then shaking sobs that hurt his ribs, that tore something loose inside him he’d never get back.
He didn’t go to Suguru’s room that night.
He didn’t go the next night either.
Or the night after.
And when the defection came months later—when the reports arrived, when the village burned, when Suguru walked away for good—Satoru would remember this moment clearest of all:
The bathroom light flickering overhead. The discarded dress on the tile like shed skin. The quiet click of a door closing. And himself, still sitting on the floor, too afraid to stand up and follow.
