See, when Shen Yuan pictured being transmigrated, he thought it would be straight-forward: inhabit the body of some poor schmuck, get an understanding of where and who he now was, and happily fuck off. Preferably the world was on the more peaceful side of the scale; somewhere he could easily access literature, for Shen Yuan would likely implode without any stories to fixate on.
So when he died, he didn't panic upon realizing he was in a place that most definitely was not his crusty, food-covered desk. In fact, this new place was rather comfy, with soft materials on all sides of him and a lovely warmth. This is a safe place, he's sure- one of the worlds that would allow him a nice, easy existence.
And so of course he nearly falls out of the tree when he opens his eyes and sees that he's in a nest. The ones birds live in.
Only after he passes out again when an entire fucking crane starts jabbing at his feathers(?) does he realize that the path to getting his easy life wouldn't be as linear as he thought.
So, Shen Yuan was a bird now. A full on nine-kilogram red-crowned crane who apparently is vibing with his brother (even though he thought cranes didn't stick with family past maturity?), and is very much, no doubt, without a second thought, demonic.
The revelation came in between transmigrating and his brother realizing that Shen Yuan had forgotten how to function, and around the same time that Shen Yuan saw his brother fully unhinge his jaw like a snake and pierce through a carp about three times his size with a sword-like tongue. That may or may not have been the cause of another full-on panic attack, but Shen Yuan would prefer to keep his silence.
Though life as an entire different species wasn't exactly Shen Yuan's brand of fun, he would be lying if he said it wasn't fascinating. He was able to answer age-old questions such as if animals talk to each other (they do, but he's only been able to make a-Jiu do it once), if pets love their owners (debatable- Shen Yuan isn't sure if the raccoon dog downstairs in their willow misses her human family or free meals, but she's certainly heartbroken about one of them), and if animals can feel emotions (his multiple breakdowns can speak to that). It was honestly insanely fun to learn how to fly, even if it caused a great deal of concern to a-Jiu that his yearling sibling had the air-sense of a hatchling, and being in a body that isn't actively decomposing was a sweet change.
Wintertime is beyond anything he's seen or read about, especially with the magical intrigue. The moon illuminates packs snowy dove-winged foxes as they dive through the snow, blue-tinted owls turn the sky into their own personal stage, and the fish. They come in every single color and size and shape, with schools of jewel-toned minnows and actual goldfish sharing the same stream as massive, shark-like salmon. Shen Yuan and a-Jiu's shared nest is perched perfectly over the crystalline rapids, and provide the perfect training ground for him to learn how to hunt. (Though, with every new species he comes across, the more they seem familiar.)
But then spring comes, and the snow melts, flooding the marshland. A tree bigger than some skyscrapers Shen Yuan's seen is knocked loose by a mudslide and comes down over their river. No fish can swim past, and Shen Yuan and a-Jiu are forced to leave.
There are a few possible locations that they could move to in the area, but Shen Yuan drags his brother to the one near a human village despite excessive complaints from his counterpart. Though his reservations about his current body have been more or less dispelled, Shen Yuan still has the mind of a human, and he hadn't read a book in four months. Even if it's just a shitty magazine, or hell, even a flyer for a grocery store, he'll consume it like it's the delicious wolf-eared sturgeon that a-Jiu once took down.
But it's not a zine he finds. Not a flyer, nor a license plate, nor a t-shirt logo, nor a tattoo, nor even a spoken word.
It's a sign for some crappy equipment store, and yet it seems to be the highest-quality building in the entire village, save for some randomly gaudy, old-fashioned mansion.
...It's written in traditional script.
Now that Shen Yuan takes a look around the shabby village again, some things click into place, and each one feels like a blow to his head. The vendors he thought were in touristy peasant get-up seem to be genuinely wearing work-appropriate clothing. The architecture isn't just some tourist trap, the homes and stores were too lived-in to be fake. And the mansion he had taken to be a refurbished hotel, or a museum? Bona-fide servants shuffled in and out, each with their head bowed. And to top it off, there was some dude in pastel robes actually stomping on someone into the frost-covered mud.
That last bit is what really snapped Shen Yuan- so what if he might be in an entire different era? His impending panic could wait- whenever this was, even if keeping people as slaves was still seen as acceptable, he would not stand to see people abuse their power! So, despite a-Jiu's alarmed squawks, Shen Yuan dives for the pastel jerk beak-first. After he suitably harasses the dipshit with his freaky tongue (which he only now really appreciates) and drives the asshole back into his sparkling walls does he look upon the rando he just helped.
Said rando has an actual halo around him. His bouncy, almost-black curls frame his doll-like, glassy eyes, his skin is nearly white from how pale he is, and his red, bitten (but not injured) lips quiver with what appears to be fear. He's clearly a young child, maybe seven or eight years of age, and even though the kid looks like he's been pulled by his hair across asphalt, he still remains impossibly cute. Like a little bun.
The child blinks up at him with a tentative curiosity, and asks shakily, "Why did the Great Youkai save me?"
Holy shit, thinks Shen Yuan. I just saved Luo-fucking-Binghe.
And then, with no small amount of hissing and cursing that shitty author's name, Shen Yuan takes off into the early-spring sunrise, unbeknownst to his wide-eyed admirer.
nothing here, just zolu sharing a laugh while an absolutely pissed giant stone man is after them with the bonus of a surgeon who's so done with their shit
warnings: angst, you won't find any comfort here my friends
There's only one place Satoru usually stops by in Shibuya and although he's prayed he would so many times, he certainly doesn't expect to find you in it
Sweat runs down Satoru’s back as he takes one hand out of his pocket to push up dark sunglasses, annoyance taking shape in the creases between his furrowed brows. He should’ve went for the cashmere jumper instead of the wool sweater but then again, he can’t quite remember the last time he had made a good decision. Not that he would ever allow anyone to know.
People are buzzing around Shibuya as usual and he has to offer more than one gentle smile to strangers profusely apologizing for bumping into him on their way to god knows what, god knows where. As he finally makes it out of Takeshita street the mob decreases in density at last, giving him the chance to take a deep breath: sometimes the drainage smell can rise to the surface and make the simple experience of taking a walk excruciating, but today Shibuya smells just right. Smoke coming from yakitori restaurants mixes interestengly well with the strong smell of fermented soybeans scattered in colorful stands and the sweet, fruity scent coming from the magnolia trees blossoming among shops and sidewalks.
Satoru comes to a halt right in front of it, old habits die hard after all. As usual, the Aoyama flower market teahouse comes with a consistent queue outside its pretty building. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and under normal circumstances he’d have to wait around 50 minutes to get inside but he’s, well, him, and he’s known for two things: dashing charm and generous tips. Sunglasses are graciously pushed over his forehead, lazy half-smile a blinding crescent moon as the lady in charge of the queue, name list in her hand, bows and motions him towards the entrance right away. There was a time when you would’ve rolled your eyes, with a sarcastic huff and a barely muttered you are shameless. When he was with you, Satoru had only been allowed to work his magic once: every other time, you had always forced him to respect the queue. Sure enough, each time, he complied. And that was the magic you worked.
He’s not bothered by the smell anymore, way too sweet for his taste. But every blossom, branch and flower still has your laugh embedded in it, so it’s alright, really. He wonders if this is still your favorite place to hide away in, where you’d catch up with your friends on rainy days, sit all alone with a book whenever you needed a break from reality, snap selfies of you two nestled between hues of an impossible amount of pretty flowers. Red, pink, green, orange, white, their scent lingering on you for him to savor it for hours on end, the way you’d jokingly push him away when he’d try to nuzzle his face in the crook of your neck for the millionth time. Satoru gets a kick out of the way ill stitched wounds tear apart and resume their bleeding whenever he steps foot in this place, pain crashing over him in waves, the emptiness of his chest taking the shape of your absence all over again through a carving so painful not even the strongest sorcerer feels powerful enough to bear. But it’s only right. He doesn’t deserve smooth edges and being the strongest unfortunately means he survives the process every single time.
“Toru?” a timid whisper, one he’d recognize everywhere regardless of having been left without that voice for over two years now.
And sure enough you’re there, actually there, sitting at your own glass table with plants sprouting from underneath it, a giant plate of your usual order in front of you, mocking him, because apparently nothing has changed besides your absence in his life. He’s hated french toast ever since.
Satoru approaches your table, patiently ignoring the way his stomach has flipped at the familiarity of your voice paired with the nickname.
“Hey” he hasn’t seen you in so long, and this is all he can come up with. But it must mean something, finding you here at last after endless wanderings and cups of tea he doesn’t even like and flower parfaits and rose jellies. It must mean something, the fact that you invite him to sit, smile every bit as warm as he remembered.
“How have you been?” you ask right after he places his order, a hot mojito even in the middle of the afternoon, because he can’t hold his liquor and definitely can’t do this while sober.
“Good, busy. You know how it is” he grins with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
“I know how it is” your lips curl in a soft smile as you drag a forkful of french toast through syrup.
“You look great, by the way. Shorter hair suits you”
The way you shift nervously in your seat as you let out a uh, thanks signals your discomfort so he leans back ever so slightly, gives you space, hopes to be smart enough to reassess a lead he doesn’t actually have. With each sputter, his heart seems to be articulating all the words he’s been aching to say out loud for the past two years. I miss you. Come back. I’ll do better. Please. Please. Please.
And you know him well enough to sense that, whatever it is, it’s coming. So you brace yourself the best you can, with a deep breath and tense muscles, ankles crossed underneath the table pressing painfully to each other, toes curled in your sneakers.
“Let’s get dinner tonight” his slender fingers are closed tightly around the glass, in sharp contrast with the casualness of his pitch. The deep sigh you let out is a flag red enough but, frankly, he refuses to go down without a fight. What should he fear at this point? Humiliation? He’s been without you long enough to figure there’s nothing worse. He’ll handle humiliation.
“Satoru” the name rolls off your tongue as a warning but you can’t ignore the way your heart squeezes a little at the sound of it. You haven’t said that name out loud in forever and it still tastes every bit as sweet and dangerous as it did back then.
“What?” he challenges, impatient “it’s just dinner”
“I have to be home for dinner”
“Why?”
He’s not a dumb man, he knows what you’re about to say. Regardless, he needs to hear it before the glass shatters in his very hand.
“Don’t do this” you let out a shaky breath as you put your fork down, suddenly unable to stomach a single other bite.
“There’s someone” Satoru does his best not to make it sound like an accusation because it really isn’t. It couldn’t be, he wouldn’t dare.
Your gaze meets his and it’s hard to remind yourself that you’re a different person now that you’ve been away from his magnetic field long enough. Leaving came with the terrifying, inevitable need to learn how to be, who to be, on your own. You had been with him for so long it had been excruciating to find out, during those first months, you couldn’t remember how to be whole without the stupid amount of his cologne stinking up the small bathroom of your studio apartment, his chin resting on your shoulder, his fingers gently massaging shampoo in your scalp, his good mornings. His his his. Everything was a reminder of how much you had given and the unbearable, sweet time each piece was taking to travel back to you and try to fit in its original spot.
But they did, in the end. Most of them, anyway. Little by little, each part crawled back and you had to patiently pick them up and find a place to gently push them in. They didn’t fit with each other as well as they did in the beginning, he had made a miserable, imperfect puzzle out of you: one with pieces fitting with the wrong ones well enough not to make the subtle cracks noticeable to everyone else. You’d been left with a version of yourself you had to get to know from the start and the process had been so painful, so exhausting, you’d sworn you’d never risk any of that ever again.
Still, it doesn’t mean you don’t miss it. What you had was a kind of love that, to this day, you deem unrepeatable. Being with Satoru felt like knowing exactly where you were meant to be in the world: it was powerful and overwhelming, all consuming, a feeling strong enough to match the strongest there was. The beauty of it was that it was a balanced exchange coming from both sides, constantly created between you two in equal measure.
You’ve made peace with the thought that it won’t be possible to feel that way with someone that isn’t him, no even now that you’re in love and fairly happy, not even now that you’re free. Satoru is still there, all over you. But as much as you’re certain he’d still move heaven and hell and every other world or dimension available to make you happy, to keep you safe, it’s too late. It will always be too late.
“Yes” your reply is as dry as your throat.
Satoru remains silent, eyes focused on the glass of ice water in front of you, condensation dripping down onto the tabletop and forming a small puddle underneath it. The place is so fancy and yet cold drinks don’t come with coasters, it’s ridiculous.
“Does it compare?” the question comes out light, void of anger or bitterness. He wonders if you’ll still be fooled, even after so much time apart. Because no matter the way his whole being ached and burned and radiated with the disarming love he had for you, there was always a small, almost imperceptible part of Gojo Satoru he had always kept to himself. The same one that ruined everything, in the end.
“It doesn’t” you speak truthfully “but I’m happy”
He hums, pensive.
“I sure wonder what that feels like”
You shut your eyes for a second. It didn’t end with smoke and gunpowder, explosive fights, cheating or lying: you were too in love with each other to let any of that get in the way. It ended simply because he never thought it could end.
“It feels right” you push the knife a little deeper, not enough to tear him apart entirely but surely enough to make him feel it. And oh, does he feel it.
“Right”, Satoru repeats the word mockingly “I guess that means he’s the one. Better marry him fast”
The derision in his tone is just too much for you to bear. He’s still so good at pushing all your buttons until you snap, until you’re angry enough to forget the childish desire to safeguard his feelings. Why would he deserve such grace after everything he’d put you through?
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Satoru. He’s already asked and I already said yes”
For a moment, he thinks there must be a curse concealed somewhere around the crowded teashop, somewhere between leaves and branches and colorful flowers. Because why else would everything be still alive, breathing, moving? How are people chatting mindlessly around him, how is the sudden, light rain still falling outside? Why isn’t everything motionless or at least slowly crumbling in on itself?
The strongest always needs a fragment to hold onto, something only his that can be worn like armor. Memories nag mercilessly at the back of his mind: the day he’d met you, a few seconds of playful banter enough to make him grin and drop a nonchalant well, this is going way too smoothly to not let it be a date. How he’d always make sure to get up at dawn whenever you spent the night wrapped in silk sheets, rushing to make breakfast and brew coffee because he simply couldn’t risk you collecting your clothes and vanishing from his apartment while he was asleep. The way you’d convinced him to try out a skincare routine, giggling as you carefully massaged clay masks and serums and your favorite moisturizer into his skin. All the times you’d waited for him to come home, movies watched on his couch, late night hushed conversations about the future, how you’d rolled your eyes with a coy smile at his m’gonna marry you.
He meant every word, could’ve sworn he would’ve stopped breathing if left without your lips on his for too long. He meant it, Satoru just thought he had all the time in the world. Because you were his and he was yours, what on earth could’ve changed that?
So he’d stopped notifying you when missions would take too long, leaving you waiting for his return for days, sometimes weeks, not a call nor a reply to your texts. He became increasingly annoyed at the idea of having to hang out with your friends, because he was tired and just didn’t feel like leaving the house and maybe you should’ve stayed too: you hadn’t spent some time alone in a while after all. He’d started throwing around words and phrases you both hated: overreacting, attention-seeking, blowing this out of proportion, don’t ya think you’re being too sensitive?
He forgot birthdays, anniversaries, claimed he couldn’t refuse to go on that mission right on Christmas day, your gift left to collect dust, unopened on his bed. And when you started drifting away, he didn’t notice. Not until your suitcase was packed and your warmth was taken away from his suddenly too large, dull, dark apartment.
So right now he needs it, that fragment. Hadn’t you called him heartless, once? It’s best you keep believing that. You may even be right: there’s not enough left of his heart anyway. He sure hopes you’ll be treated right this time, he wants to wish for your happiness and he does. But the desire for whatever joy expects you to never surpass the one you felt when you were with him is stronger. He will always hold onto that selfishness because it will be all he’s left with while you’re out in the world without him, forever.
“You never even replied when I asked” his smile is bitter, incredulous.
“You never meant it”
Fragment or not, that’s a lie he wouldn’t dare speak out loud. He could never agree with what you just said because, in his life, Satoru never meant anything as much as he did when he rambled endlessly about making you his wife, perfect wedding venue, guest list and witnesses already on his mind. Ring sitting in his secret drawer, still there, to this day.
He gets up and your gaze softens as you watch him put his sunglasses on again, some cash tucked under his empty glass. Of course you still care for him, you always will. And it’s not like it doesn’t hurt, the way this encounter went.
“I hope you find it, too” you mutter with a strange taste in your mouth, one not even all the tea in the world could wash away.
“I will” he flashes you a smile “try to stick around with this one, hm?” doesn’t even give you the time to let the petty words sink in as he gives the two-finger salute and turns around to exit the shop. Eye for an eye.
Whilst wandering through a wet and still overwhelmingly bustling Shibuya, Gojo Satoru chuckles to himself until a broken, boisterous laugh crawls all the way up from his throat. Pedestrians turn their heads in his direction but that only makes him laugh harder. Because how could they get the irony? He’s only had two people in his life that he’s called best friends at some point, only two people he’s loved with every fiber of his being, and he has lost both.
That’s probably the one curse he’ll never be able to exorcise.
