wrynn

>18 everything is crossposted from ao3 @undying_undine

[undying-undine]

breakdown of "one day i am gonna grow wings"

fic is linked here

I’m actually writing this explanation a year after i wrote this dumbass oneshot and i’ve forgotten everything about alhaitham’s various philosophies. i lowkey felt like i was analyzing someone else’s writing but i tried my best. anyway i’m sorry if i’m wrong about my own writing because there’s genuinely a nonzero chance of that happening :(

wc is 1.09k and you do not need to read this in order to read the og oneshot

What this oneshot is really about is jealousy and understanding. Alhaitham cannot save the MC because she is cripplingly jealous of Alhaitham’s genius and turns him away at every point. Her jealousy leads her to think of Alhaitham as a creature who can never understand her, and to some extent this is true: Alhaitham spends the entirety of the oneshot figuring MC out. Ironically his method of understanding her is extremely academic (evidence-gathering, hypotheses), which MC would probably hate. Instead of putting effort into explaining the themes in more depth I will now focus on a few important lines to sound smart:

“He’s not particularly faithful himself, but he was never angry like you. Perhaps he’ll learn.”

The big mystery of the MC that Alhaitham unravels is why the MC feels no self worth. In Teyvat, a god’s blessing in the form of a vision is a rather objective measurement of worth, but the MC doesn’t care for it at all because what she really needs is recognition from herself. A Dendro Vision is a slap in the face because it seems to be an unearned reward and therefore a sign that MC is not understood by the world. She doesn’t normally  care for the opinions of the divine and neither does Alhaitham, but only MC is angry because Alhaitham feels no need to be understood. In the face of the Akademiya’s indifference and lack of effort in understanding MC while he’s busting his ass trying to make sense of why MC died, perhaps he will become angry.

“When you are this sick, Alhaitham is not a doctor in any way that matters.”

this line is kinda stupid tbh but i thought i cooked when i wrote it

Anyway, Alhaitham is useless at comforting MC because MC would never accept such support from someone better than her. It would always be interpreted as pity. He’s a phd doctor whose defining characteristic in MC’s eyes is his academic achievements, not a “I can help you get better” doctor. Hence, “it would have been better to be an ignorant man, or anything that wouldn’t have been powerless at the sight of you hurtling through life…he knows there is nothing to say if he is not a fool.”

“He knows very well that it is impossible to save everyone, but the idea that not everyone can be saved—well, he can almost hear someone saying he should’ve tried harder.”

The “someone” is Kaveh, lol. I don’t think pure pragmatism is always a useful philosophy. Maybe MC would have lived if Alhaitham thought more like Kaveh. Maybe not. He’ll never know now. 

“The more logical part of him laments that it wouldn’t have mattered. Not if you looked at him that night and said, I’m not you, and this is simple aetiology.”

Aetiology, the study of cause and effect, is the focus of the Vahumana darshan to which MC belongs. Even at death MC is ruled by academia. The disparity between MC’s lack of self-worth and everyone else’s perception of her as a genius leaves a hole that can either be filled by actually being a genius or by not caring about not being understood. In other words, the solution is becoming Alhaitham. Because this cannot happen, MC can only remove the hole entirely. 

“You’re a victim of this, yet Alhaitham cannot fault you for cowardice, not if you had disregarded praise for a legacy you called an “obligation”. It would be nothing short of nonsensical to deny you the title of genius. That makes you shortsighted”

i’m ngl i fucked this part of the character study up a little but i’ll try to save it

To my understanding Alhaitham’s character story 3 is about independence of thought. Those “who remain blinded by perspectives advocated by the great majority…have not yet found their true selves” and are labeled as cowards. In contrast to such people, MC has a perfect grasp on who she is without any input from outsiders. She is not convinced by an externally given label of “genius” and does not care for it at all as she strives to earn that label from herself. But in Alhaitham’s eyes, MC already is a genius, and her not realizing that makes her shortsighted. 

“But alas, there is no cure for a fallacy born of yearning. It’ll spread and take down every parallel soul of yours wandering the midnight oil with absent eyes. Alhaitham understands, it’s what you would’ve wanted. All you’ve ever wanted was to stave off this horrible loneliness, and you made sure he had nothing to do with that lofty dream.”

Academic pressure is not really just some glorious, tragic descent into sadness and unfulfilled expectations. It is marked by jealousy that separates you from all your peers; you cannot love your friends and you cannot love yourself, and at that point who can even begin to help you? Help is no longer what you want. You want to become a good story that finally gives use to your endless depression and loneliness, a good story that burns itself into everyone who learns it, a good story that will haunt everyone who is better than you until finally they fail just like you did. In other words, a beautiful tragedy. This is the MC’s “fallacy born of yearning” that she hopes will spread to everyone like her, burning the midnight oil as they work dead-eyed on proving themself to themself,  and drag them down. Alhaitham, who is a true genius, would be untouched by such a story and thus cannot play a part in the MC’s plan.

“You’ve poured the glass empty to draw a picture in the stain without enjoying the drink.”

In order to make art out of her life and death, MC misses everything in her life worth enjoying. Maybe her life really is all that she thinks it is. And maybe it’s not. Well, what’s the point of tossing and turning over what label to give it, and what’s the point of packing it into a story to tell? It’s your one and only life to enjoy. 

Bonus: scroll of streaming song

I wanted to use an actual Vahumana text for the book that MC puts her note in and for some reason this was the only one I can find. It worked out very nicely because it turns out Haravatat scholars were also involved in the translation of this book. 

That’s enough larping my own writing. Thank you for reading now go enjoy your life instead of reading angst

[undying-undine]

one day i am gonna grow wings

pairing: alhaitham x reader

content: suicidal themes, heavily implied reader suicide, angst, reader is an akademiya scholar, alhaitham character study, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, no beta we die like a character's happiness when i write them

summary: When you pass, Alhaitham wanders through your legacy. He's born and bred a scholar, so he does what he does best: figuring things out. It's all he can do now that your place in his home is empty.

wc: 1.32k

notes at the end

The morn has come, bringing mourning bells tolling in the sky. Alhaitham is more of a ghost than you in this horrible dawn. If he were any worse at figuring you out, he’d bet you wouldn’t have expected that. There’s another gamble for comfort he knows won’t end well in his mailbox:

Alhaitham,

Your request for leave has been approved. We at the Akademiya know how hard it is to lose a distinguished scholar and loved one, especially when it seems too early. The Haravatat and your colleagues send condolences for your loss.

Sincerely,

Azar, Grand Sage of the Akademiya

The letter follows him inside, carrying all the fleas and sickness a stray dog would. A stranger’s shoes lay on the floor and wait to be worn. Alhaitham rips his gaze past it. He carries on through the foyer to set out on his familiar little journey for misery. Today, the smell of it is everywhere; today, he cannot find what he is looking for.

An armchair comes to bear the weight of the coat he sheds. The impression of wasted hours on the couch turns him away. He looks to the dining table, where a cup of coffee has not yet been put away, even as dust has begun to gather in a thin film over it. Alhaitham remembers asking you early on, half empty or half full? You had laughed out an answer, then spun away to wash the cup and yourself away.

But what does he know? For sure, it wasn’t without regrets. He thinks of the night you received your vision. You had been working on your first paper when it settled on the stormed-through desk, a suggestion of spring, before you had grasped it and hurled the thing across the room. The edges weren’t dull. As Alhaitham cleaned up your hand afterward, he chewed himself up over the fling of your fingers and your long, rattling sigh when you returned to your work. He’s not particularly faithful himself, but he was never angry like you. Perhaps he’ll learn.

A few days later, your darshan had begun singing your praises. You’d smiled. It was hard to mistake and harder to return, but no matter the difficulty of treasuring, some things are still worth keeping.

Alhaitham goes to the bookshelf. He runs his fingers over the rows of annotated and dogeared tomes, where this sickness is not named but ever-present. It’s all Vahumana material, and he remembers discussing the intersection between your and his studies many times—in other words, this should not be trash to him.

He begins unshelving and piling on the coffee table, where book after book he looks through the marks you left and decides there is nothing of value in this one, or that one, or any one of these useless things until he stops looking altogether. All he sees is history, yes, someone like you is a history he’s seen repeat endlessly. Transient and brilliant. He always thought you’d die young.

Like a pillar tumbling down, Alhaitham collapses on an armchair. He steeples his fingers, then presses them together, dragging the cold fingertips across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. He can’t help but wonder why him. When you are this sick, Alhaitham is not a doctor in any way that matters. He knows very well that it is impossible to save everyone, but the idea that not everyone can be saved—well, he can almost hear someone saying he should’ve tried harder. The more logical part of him laments that it wouldn’t have mattered. Not if you looked at him that night and said, I’m not you, and this is simple aetiology.

Alhaitham has a tendency of only exerting an exact amount of effort for any task at hand. In knowing you, this philosophy has come to bear a flaw, for to love is to never be enough. Perhaps it would have been better to be an ignorant man, or anything that wouldn’t have been powerless at the sight of you hurtling through life. Alhaitham knows you wouldn’t have listened, not to him; he knows there is nothing to say if he is not a fool.

Another one of his beliefs has come to fruition in validity: the recognition of talent is a heavyhanded burden when only adopted through the eyes of others, rather than realized through self-actualization. You’re a victim of this, yet Alhaitham cannot fault you for cowardice, not if you had disregarded praise for a legacy you called an “obligation”. It would be nothing short of nonsensical to deny you the title of genius. That makes you shortsighted, and thus, Alhaitham has arrived at an answer regarding your madness.

He rises, fingers looping around the neck of an empty, knocked over glass on the table. The residue of wine glistens on lacquered wood in the half light of the blinded window. It had accompanied the dinner from the night before you died, the leftovers of which are still wrapped up somewhere. It’ll mold, and he’ll let it.

Before he can think of cleaning up and moving on, Alhaitham sees a stray paper sticking out of one of the books. You take care of your materials, so he’s sure it isn’t a ripped page. He sets the glass down, then picks the book up—Scroll of Streaming Song. Out falls a letter.

Dear Alhaitham,

You’re not the type to rifle through my things, so if you find this, it’s probably because you need to figure out what to do with what I left behind. I’ll keep it short because I know you’re a concise man.

The closer I grow to you, the more I am sure we are not in the same realm of talent. Indeed, our worlds are entirely divorced and I wish it were otherwise because for you, I want to see. But you must understand that this has become my life’s work. I am nothing if not a shame, the forever stunted prodigy who has fallen into irrelevance. So be it. I’ll make it into art that even you will cry for.

With all the love I have, goodbye.

The paper crumples as Alhaitham leans his head on his clenched hands. He has to wonder, did you know that even your competition in the Vahumana called you the darshans future? And because that might not move you, he wonders what you knew of Alhaitham’s version of that truth. A wave of nausea rises over him, washing those dreams away.

There is another explanation, but it is more like an addendum. Many times have you broached the topic of a beautiful tragedy with him. Maybe you resonated with the idea more closely than Alhaitham thought. Like a fool, you swallowed yourself whole with open eyes, all while writing down every detail in fervent desperation. It was like religion. It was like academia: a fruitless martyrdom.

Life imitates art and forgets that consequences will be made real. But alas, there is no cure for a fallacy born of yearning. It’ll spread and take down every parallel soul of yours wandering the midnight oil with absent eyes. Alhaitham understands, it’s what you would’ve wanted. All you’ve ever wanted was to stave off this horrible loneliness, and you made sure he had nothing to do with that lofty dream. You’ve poured the glass empty to draw a picture in the stain without enjoying the drink.

Well. If you insist on sacrificing yourself in the temple of academia, then Alhaitham will help you in the only way he can now. There’s a sting gathering in his eyes as he carries your murderer piece by piece. As the fireplace takes his revenge, he cries for you.

On the second day, another letter from the Akademiya arrives to request that your research material be turned over to your darshan immediately. Alhaithams response is just as short as their first message: “I burned it all.”

academia does not define you. you have value simply by existing, and this value cannot be changed by a system and upbringing centered around it that promotes relentless, cutthroat competition and borderline hatred for yourself and your peers. the point of the glass is that there is something in it for you to enjoy

fic breakdown is here

[undying-undine]

two bodies, one soul

pairing: gojo x reader x geto

content: hurt/comfort, late night conversations, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, no beta we die like junpei

summary: It’s past midnight in the middle of your small apartment kitchen, and the untouchable Gojo Satoru comes in so vulnerable you could mistake him for yourself.

wc: 1.13k

It’s past midnight when you hear the door unlocking and being opened. The darkness makes you hyper-aware of how the footsteps afterwards are purposefully light against your kitchen floor. Nighttime always does this to you, igniting paranoia at everything unfamiliar, bringing you back to the times when you were a little kid waking up after a nightmare. In cold sweat, you get out of your bed, the heavy sheets sticking to you before noisily sliding off. There’s only two people aside from you with keys to your apartment—one you used to trust with your life, and the other you still do.

You take a deep breath, one that’s too loud for your liking. There’s nothing to be afraid of, not in your own apartment. Not even if you left the jujutsu world a long time ago. Not even if you don’t have it in you to kill anything ever again. Another deep breath cycles through your lungs like dead autumn leaves.

“Satoru?” you call out. It sounds pathetic in the stifling emptiness of your room. You can barely hear yourself over the roaring of your heart in your ears.

“It’s me,” a distant voice answers you. It is not the sound of the man who left you. A huge weight lifts off your chest. That’s right. It couldn’t have been the other one. Not when he hasn’t so much as called you in eight years.

You slump, suddenly feeling foolish for being afraid. Now that you know it’s just Satoru, sleep starts to tug at you again—your bed is so comfortable, after all, and you’ve been having trouble sleeping lately. But, you have a guest waiting for you. The wooden floor sends a cold shock through your skin as you open the door to your bedroom.

“Why are you here?” you ask. Satoru didn’t turn on the lights, you note with annoyance. In the dim moonlight, you can barely make out the edges of his body. He’s sitting by your kitchen table on his chair, the one that’s been too small for him for a long time. You refuse to replace it, and Satoru has never asked, never complained. So on that little chair, just barely enough so that the light wavers, his shoulders tremble. And then you realize it’s almost September, and you feel like a fool again for forgetting. The floor is suddenly not the only cold thing you feel.

“I’m sorry. I’ll go,” he says softly. His shoulders are not the only things that are shaking.

“Stay,” you respond quickly. Satoru tries to stop moving, but you can tell he’s on the edge of his seat.

Still slightly groggy with sleep, you ease into the seat next to him, leaving the third chair untouched as always. His face is a little clearer now—or, it would be, if it weren’t covered by his hands. You dare not test whether or not his infinity is on. You used to be close, close enough for him to let you through if you asked. But not since Toji Fushiguro. Now, there’s always that barrier between Satoru and the world; likewise, there’s that distance you put between yourself and the curse known as ‘jujutsu’.

After a slight moment of hesitation, you put your hand on the table. An invitation. A sign that you are here, if he so chooses to accept it. Better than total inaction from you, you reason—you’ve learned your lesson. You’re not sure that he even sees it, given that he’s so tightly closing his eyes. And yet, your hand is there.

“Water?” The word hurts as it comes out of your dry mouth. You could do with some hydration yourself.

“No,” he sniffles with a slight shake of his head. Tilting your head, you watch his tears catch the light of the moon. You get up and pour two glasses despite his half-hearted protests, and he gulps one down like a man stranded in a desert for days. It’s such a Satoru thing to do.

“How do you do it?” he asks after a pause. His nails scrape against the empty cup, back and forth, back and forth.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m still trying to believe that it’ll be okay,” you shrug. “I’m not the one who met with him that day. I don’t really know how hopeless it is.”

He doesn’t make excuses, doesn’t fill the yawning gap with empty words; all he says is “I was a fool” in the bitterest voice you have ever heard from him. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t need to, because he can feel your raw anguish whether you like it or not. Deep down, past the withering flesh and delusional heart all the way to where your souls beat in tandem, you both understand that salvation is no longer an option.

“We all were,” you respond simply. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was mine.” He looks at you through his interlocked fingers. Nighttime darkness only does so much to shield him from your gaze. The moonlight brings Satoru alive to you, even when he is closest to the death of his humanity. Perhaps he was never human at all, always the boy-god they said he was, and this is the one time you will feel again that you are not leagues apart.

“Don’t say that,” he sighs, letting his hands fall and allowing himself to breathe. “It was his choice. He–he chose it over me. Over us.”

“Yeah. I guess so,” you murmur. “And we still can’t hate him for it, huh?” Even as you block and unblock the number you’re not quite sure is still his. Even as you tell yourself that your midnight hope is fear. It’s immutable, just as his doom is.

“Never,” he answers, and you fall into silence, watching his lashes close over his eyes.

Infinity a blessing and curse, Satoru is given everything, yet damned by everyone. And you: fooled into thinking the noose on your neck was a red string on your finger. There is an immeasurable gap between you and Satoru, bridged only by memories of an emotion you both thought you could keep forever, even though you learned a long time ago that this world only takes. And yet, he dares to cry in front of you. You’ve become more and more estranged since that fateful September of 2007, but here he is, another misguided soul, come to you like destiny itself.

The darkness engulfs the room as the two of you ache with your whole bodies for something never to return. And then you reach out, past that painfully wide distance between your linked hearts. When your hand slips through, you simply accept it as another fact of your life: you and Satoru only have each other in this lonely world.

[undying-undine]

the dead call (will you leave her behind?)

pairing: gojo x reader

content: jjk manga spoilers, angst, reader death, mild suicidal themes, set after 236, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, no beta we die like a jjk fan's happiness

summary: This time, you do not ask. The world has never given anything to you, so you must take.

wc: 1.54k

notes: part 2 to blue eyes, white lies

‘I have no regrets.’

You could see it on his face when he died. The pixelated screen could not hide his relief; the distance could not keep him from you.

He did the best he could for himself. His last hours were for him only, cupped in his lonely fading breaths and drank greedily back in. Only the blue of the sky was reflected in his eyes. And then he died as Satoru and not the strongest—he died selfish. Satoru Gojo, who died with no regrets, thought nothing of the people he left behind.

That's okay. As the strong, and as the selfless, it is a luxury that people like you and him should be able to enjoy, even if just once.

You breathe in and out. The rooftop air rushes through you as if you are already a ghost. Even surrounded by your warm blood, a chill hums under your skin, igniting upon contact with the railing as you crane your head to see the city below.

Snow—or ash—drifts down to hush the sharp remains of a city that no doubt raised so many people. Whole swathes of buildings had been reduced to dust in less than a day. The magnitude of the utter annihilation takes your breath away; it’s stunning in a strange, dystopian way. It’s certainly not a bad view before you go.

Footsteps penetrate the ringing sound permeating your mind. You try to lift your hand at the ready, only to remember that your arms are gone. It had been painful, dragging yourself away and up here—the custodian will have a hard time cleaning all of the stairs. 

A blurry figure slowly focuses in front of you. You take on Shoko Ieri’s tightly drawn face and heavy footsteps. She wastes no time in spitting her words at you between her pants for air. "You threw the fight," she accuses. Her hurt is palpable in her hands—ash dribbles in pulses off her cigarette before she flicks it onto the ground below. Some long summers ago, you might have berated her for that. You wonder how she’s still able to hold a scalpel.

What must be done, must be done, you reason. You look back to the city.

From the edges of your periphery, Shoko’s lightless eyes burn into your face, then turn to look at her dusty fingers when you don’t react. She raises them before you, fingers curved gently in a way that exposes her smooth palms. Shoko has never hurt others the way you do, but that demanding look on her face cuts deeper than any cursed technique.

Your sigh is nearly lost in the breeze; for a brief moment, you feel sorry for your friend of over a decade. "Shoko, you should take a break from the morgue," you say. A hint of insistence bleeds out. You don’t hide it quickly enough.

Shoko’s downcast gaze wheels sharply to meet yours. Under the dully monochromatic light of the sky, you can see her deep dark circles more clearly than you’d like. Her mouth opens and closes; you can smell the familiar scent of nicotine in her breath.

"Please don't do this to me. I can't take any more," she croaks. Her soft hands remain frozen in the air like doves in flight.

You shoot them down. "I am sorry," is all you manage to force out.

Her grief instantly solidifies. "People like you never are. Satoru smiled as he died, and I heard Suguru did as well," she scoffs. A deep breath cycles in and out of her lungs—it takes her voice with it. Shoko does not meet your eyes as she says her next words, "Think of the living and not the dead for once." But neither her anger nor her sorrow reach you.

"You ask me to be selfless even now," you laugh. She nods in shame. "Oh, Shoko. We have been weak all along. We cannot uphold our ideals, and then we abandon them in moments of crisis.” Quietly, but not lost to the ashes, “What are we even dying for?"

She has no answer. Even after at least 10 long, grueling years in the morgue, burying friends and students, she has no answer for death. This is the way of jujutsu society: you are taught to do and not to think.

“You should quit smoking,” you say. She doesn’t reply, so you ask, “Will you tell Megumi in our stead?” Your hypocrisy almost makes you laugh. “If you can.”

“Satoru already asked me to,” she responds in a small voice. “Now, I know why.”

“Ah. I see,” you murmur. “Then, please tell him to live for himself. He worries me, you know?”

Shoko nods stiffly. Her fingers twitch when you press your stump of a right shoulder to the metal railing and find that you don’t feel the pain anymore. She shoves her hands into her pockets.

You keep talking, trying to fill up the gray air, trying to get all of your neglected words and feelings out before you finally give up. “Tell Megumi that we loved him, despite his lineage. Tsumiki wasn’t his fault. Itadori, he brought joy to us, Yuuta-”

“I know. I know,” she interrupts. “I’ve always seen it in your face. I’m sure they know, too.”

A long exhale leaves your lungs. “Good, that’s good.” And you speak no more.

Shoko falls silent; she turns away, unable to bear the weight of the world for any longer. You look to the sky, scanning for a patch of blue amidst the torn clouds.

Megumi had once asked, “What are you two?”

You’d blinked, arm frozen around him as he kept crunching on a bag of chips. “...Satoru and me?” He nodded at your hesitant words.

“You’re always super close, but I never see you kissing or calling each other weird names,” he added.

You’d shrugged. Megumi was getting older and maturing; it was only natural that he’d start asking questions. In a way, you had appreciated watching him grow up slowly. It was something his father had taken from so many people–funny that in leaving his children, he had left their childhoods intact. It’s the one thing you can thank him for.

“We’re not typical lovers, but we’re also not just friends.” The explanation made perfect sense in your head, but Megumi only looked at you in confusion. “I think what we have is a step beyond that. We don’t need to clarify it; we know each other too well for that.”

“I don’t get it,” Megumi complained. “Is it like Tsumiki and me?”

You’d laughed, but you stopped when you saw his pout. “No, not like that. Satoru, me, Shoko, and Suguru-” You cut yourself short. It was the first time either you or Satoru mentioned him by name in front of the kids. “And Suguru,” you continued, “We are like four mirrors in a room, but I guess you could say Satoru and I are each other’s halves now. Oh, but, you and Tsumiki have a unique bond, too. Try not to fight as often, okay?”

He nodded, already having lost interest in your lengthy and vague explanation. You breathe a small sigh of relief when he doesn’t ask who Suguru is. “Then tell her to stop eating my snacks.”

The memory leaves a vague sense of sorrow behind. You lick your dry lips, coughing on the ash that gets in. Shoko stands as straight as an arrow; she stiffens at the sound, but all she does is clasp her hands tighter. Jujutsu sorcerers cannot hold on to anything but themselves.

The seconds that tick by make you even more aware of time. Suguru had died on this day precisely a year ago, and Satoru had died just about an hour prior. Now, you lay with your blood staining a silent concrete roof. You think back to what Principal Yaga had said so many years ago—"you three can never be apart"—and you realize how true the a statement was.

Then your mind drifts to the ever-patient Shoko, who has always been a little out of sync, how the years had whisked her to the morgue instead of the battlefield. She's a healer, but the world has still found a way to draw her into the fate of a jujutsu sorcerer's intimacy with death.

Still, unlike Satoru and you and Suguru, Shoko gives life rather than taking it. You think of karma and the machinations of the thing people call 'destiny.' You think of Shoko's differences, and you become selfish for a moment in a way that you do not need to be, because Shoko will live on her own accord. What’s best for you is not best for her, so you can rest without worries.

The feeling of the wind fades as the cold soaks into your body. You miss the dead. You miss your childhood.

Your friend speaks shakily. “I can still…” Her voice dies when she sees your soft smile, still standing despite the harsh destruction around you.

Regret feels like a foreign word in your mouth, and then it disappears altogether. Satoru deserved this. You deserve this.

The clouds part—you have never seen a bluer sky.

[undying-undine]

blue eyes, white lies

pairing: gojo x reader

content: jjk manga spoilers, angst, hurt/comfort, implied character death, set between chapters 222 and 223, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, no beta we die like geto

summary: The distance between you closes only hours before death—you should be grateful, but the world has always left much to be desired. You just don’t have the right to ask for it.

wc: 1.17k

notes: part 1 to the dead call (will you leave her behind?)

Christmas Eve comes sharp and cold to you, frosting your lungs with ice and freezing your fingers. Your spine feels iced upright as you sit closely by Satoru like an honor guard–if you could name one day that he needs protection, it would be today.

“You haven’t left my side since I came back,” Satoru teases. A wan smile lights up his face. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile on days like this. The shape of his nose comes to view; you don’t dare hold his gaze today.

You incline your head in a stiff motion. “I won’t leave you until your fight starts.”

“Not going to join?” he asks. You shake your head woodenly, gaze fixated on a miniscule graze on his cheek in distant worry.

“You ask that like you’ll let me. I’ll act as your contingency plan instead,” you say.

“What, you don’t trust the students?” he asks, faking offense. He dodged your jab at him, you note with a frown. And he didn’t deny the possibility of his death. You let your eyes drop to the ground.

“No,” you answer flatly.

He hums for a moment in an attempt to fill the space between you. He could just shut off his Infinity, you think. Just for a moment. Neither of you have ever been good with words, and he’s aware that language cannot bridge you. So if he could just-

“You should visit Suguru’s grave,” he suggests. Suguru’s ‘grave.’ It’s pitiful, really, just an unmarked headstone in an isolated corner of Jujutsu High. You couldn’t write anything on there, both out of fear that it would be taken down for having Suguru’s name, and because you simply could not find the words. For hours, you had stared at the smooth surface and found it incapable of expression. Still, it is the culmination of your and Satoru’s and Shoko’s unspoken thoughts. Still, you have visited it every week as a silent shadow, converging with Satoru and Shoko who are also unable to move on.

Satoru looks at you, searching you for something, asking you for something. You think of the dead and how their cold reflections always linger, and then you think of the living and how fleeting they are as you behold the sense of Satoru’s familiar cursed energy.

“Satoru, you don’t plan on coming back.” It was not a question, nor an accusation. You have always been like this with him; you never ask, and you never point fingers. He likes that about you.

“You know me too well,” he says with a playful smile. The smile, again. Something leaves you.

“It is more like you have always underestimated me.” A light scoff follows your words. His is a willful sort of ignorance. The years should have brought you together, and yet you have long grown used to the hum of Infinity.

He nods almost imperceptibly then, accepting that there is no use lying to you. Not if this is the last time he sees you. He owes you this. Indeed, Satoru owes you a debt, but you never get what you want.

A long sigh draws out of you, and in its remains you feel like the world is ending. “If you would let me be there-” 

He cuts you off like a knife slicing a thread. “No. You know why,” he sighs.

In truth, you don’t. You know Gojo Satoru inside out, and not just the way a historian knows an ancient god, but the way one part of a broken vase knows another and the way water tells water apart from oil. Despite the distance, you know him like you know yourself. Perhaps that is precisely why there is a distance. He always defends others before himself.

“My tongue is less sharp than Shoko’s,” you start dryly, fumbling for a response, “...but I'm sure you’re aware of what I think of that.”

Satoru cards his fingers through his hair, then runs his hands over each other. “…This is just the way the strong must be. You understand.” 

“I wish I didn’t.” The words are out before you can repress them. But they are true. You find no purpose in keeping anything from him now–you never have, but you hope that this time, his response will not be to hide.

He laughs mirthlessly. “What would we be, then?”

You slump, almost into his side before you catch yourself. He’s so close that you feel his radiating body heat–you can almost ignore his active cursed technique. “We could be normal people,” you sigh in longing. “That would be nice.”

A slow nod of agreement comes from him. Satoru closes his burning blue eyes and drops his hands to his lap. You can see his vision of drying linens and homemade food and clean, warm blankets. Megumi and Tsumiki playfully bicker in the background, and you berate Satoru for teaching Megumi calculus misinformation…

“‘As the strong, it is our duty to be selfless,’” you recite. Each word falls to the ground in monotonous thumps. The saying has long lost its meaning to you. “But, if we were not strong, we could just do things for our own sakes.”

“The world is cruel,” he reminds you. His gaze flickers open again, like a dying flame reigniting. The hard set in his eyebrows returns to his face; the press of his lips tightens the corners of his mouth–you can tell even without looking at him. Without words or sight, you would know him simply by feel and intuition. Satoru is so much of you that the difference between him and everything else is as easy as telling one arm from the other. Even if you forgot your own face, you would remember his.

“And so are you,” you say in a bitter, brittle voice. “Why on the day Suguru died? Do Shoko and I mean nothing to you at all?”

“It’s not that,” he breathes. A puff of warmth dissipates into the snowy air. “The world is bigger than us all.”

You finally look at him then, staring long and hard into his eyes as if all that grandeur and delusion will melt away and leave Satoru in just his human flesh and bones. Just Satoru, no Gojo and no Six Eyes and no Infinity.

Your hand lifts to his warm cheek. He lets you in, for the first and last time. Pain tightens your features, but you don’t let go.

As you see him against the bright sky above, you realize just how similar they are. Bluer than blue, like Satoru, and vast and unfettered, like Gojo. He has always been with you. You have always been parts of each other.

“Satoru,” you say, and you have never felt smaller. “You have always been the world to me.”

And as the end of Infinity frightens you, so does the end of eternity.

If I could be selfish just once, I would wish against all fate for your return tonight, Satoru.

[undying-undine]

steeping tea

pairing: scaramouche x reader x childe

content: angst, unrequited love, established relationship, reader is a fatui harbinger, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, no beta we die like signora

summary: Sugar leaves a bitter aftertaste when not prepared properly. He should’ve done it right.

(In other words, Scaramouche watches you marry Childe.)

wc: 1.24k

“Scaramouche, I am to be married in the summer of the following year,” you say, watching his eyes carefully. He usually wears his heart on his sleeve, no matter how much he protests he doesn’t. Flicking down in thought momentarily, his eyes seem lost in an indigo haze until they snap back up to you piercingly.

The news wasn’t a surprise to Scaramouche. It really wasn’t. He’d noticed your flashing sapphire ring days ago. The metal itself was simple, no doubt at your behest, but he could tell that Tartaglia had wasted no expense in procuring the finest gem he could lay his hands on.

“So you were serious about each other? You know he’s a playboy, right?” he sighs harshly. With a soft splash, he drops a powdery, gritty sugar cube into his tea. It disassembles into a dull cloud.

Your ring winks at him as you reach up to wipe a stray hair away from your forehead. It’s so obvious on your finger, just like your fiancé’s attention-demanding gaze. You both draw the crowd; it’s only natural that all the eyes are on you. In that sense, Scaramouche acknowledges that you are suited to the Eleventh Harbinger.

“You exaggerate,” you laugh. “The rumors about him are baseless. You know how wild the imaginations of the footsoldiers become when they have nothing better to do.” He does. And he also knows he’s using it as an excuse for his bitterness.

“When is the wedding?” Scaramouche inquires; it would be rude of him not to attend. You pass him a light blue envelope. Of course it’s blue. Among the colder colors, he’s always favored purple, but clearly the same doesn’t go for you…or your fiancé. The Harbinger opens it carelessly with a loud tear, only to see that the paper inside is blue, too.

The seventh of August—the height of summer—the date reads. It’s a beach wedding in your country of origin, Inazuma. Scaramouche’s, too. He used to gaze out beyond the horizon on its shores, before he was the Balladeer, before he was Kunikuzushi, even. Certainly before he left for Snezhnaya.

Amakane Beach. He spells it out on his tongue. A-ma-ka-ne.

“Can you make it?” you ask. He nods mutely, slipping the paper away.

“Is that the beach where we met?” Scaramouche asks. The name feels vaguely familiar in his mouth, but he can’t quite place it. He presses his lips together when you shake your head.

“That was Nazuchi. We wouldn’t get married in such a morbid place,” you laugh. Right. He remembers the broken gray hulls now, rotting away in a swirl of crows under a bloody raspberry sky. He could hear the sweet droning of cicadas, even though they had long fled.

There were some Nobushi when you’d met, too, though most were slumped and bleeding into salt and brine. A terror, the remaining ones had screamed about you as they fled. He’d agreed. He’d always thought you to be terribly beautiful.

But, he doesn’t say any of that. Scaramouche buried his heart a long, long time ago. As long as what could be considered long in mortal eyes. After all, you’ve forgotten.

“I see,” he murmurs. “I think it would suit his tastes, though. It’s oozing with blood and death, what wouldn’t he like about it?”

“Really now? Ever the sharp tongue,” you smile, playing along. “It sounds like it isn’t your favorite.” You pause, and he tries to say that you’re wrong, but then you continue. “Where would you get married, then?”

You realize your error as soon as your mouth closes. Scaramouche flinches, almost imperceptibly, as you silently rub the handle of your cup. You are to be married, and what you and the Sixth Harbinger had is long gone, so why do you fear that he-

“Nazuchi,” he murmurs breathlessly. It sounds like a plea and a wish and a sob all at once. “Because it isn’t the beach that I hate.”

A deathly silence rings in your ears, like the humming of insects in the evening. The beat of your heart feels alien to your body, and your thumb stops abruptly to grip your teacup. Shakily, you bring it to your mouth to mask your sudden movement.

The taste of the tea is evenly fragrant, the honey properly dispersed throughout. There are no jarring layers of bitterness and sickly sweetness. Main flavor and undercurrent mix together and complement each other, like the silver and blue of your ring.

So, the beating of your heart slows a little, like it never sped up in the first place. Your porcelain cup is set down with a heavy clack, and the sound somehow dashes Scaramouche’s heart against the ground.

“Then say it right. Your words were misleading,” you retort. Your tone is a little harsh, but he never minded. He always thought it was okay. “You have a tendency for error, Sixth Harbinger.”

Before he can say something, anything, three sharp raps sound on the door. Your fiancé has arrived. You perk up noticeably.

But he doesn’t want you to leave just yet. Perhaps it’s true that he never told you earlier, but he thinks you’re the whole world and even beyond that.

So, don’t go.

“You’re all liars,” Scaramouche mumbles quickly. “Like attracts like.”

“Care to elaborate?” you smile. Stiffly, you grasp the doorknob.

“You-” he starts. An involuntary shiver cuts him off. He remembers your body warmth in the frostbitten halls of Zapolyarny Palace. The fleeting brushes of the soft skin on the pads of your fingers; the pain of knocking together knuckles before you march into the field.

“You’re a nobody,” he hisses. A nobody who became everybody. A nobody from Amakane—Nazuchi Beach where the cicadas hum and the people sing your praises. He can barely hear Tartaglia enter the room.

“Then, shouldn’t nobodies flock to nobodies?” you comment mockingly. Tartaglia’s hand encloses yours, and he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. Scaramouche remembers how he used to take you by the arm, too. Like a gentleman, you had said every time. “It was exactly this—this arrogance of yours that undid us. Among your other faults. You have no shortage of them.”

The cloying thickness in the room eddies like a muddy river. Scaramouche clenches the fabric of his shirt under the table, frowns at your blank stare in a silent plea for you to say something.

Tartaglia intervenes quickly. Ever quick to jump to your defense. He places a hand on his fiancée’s waist, pulling you a little closer. “You had your chance. Back off.” Short and curt. Is that how you like your men? Rudely blunt? Scaramouche is more than that.

Numbly, the Sixth Harbinger sighs. He hears a quiet scuffling, then the door slams loudly. Accusingly. You and your fiancé don’t waste a second more in his presence.

He’s left alone in an unforgivingly chilly room, facing an empty chair. Your cup had been carefully placed with the handle facing away from him before you left. The room blurs, then refocuses.

Scaramouche takes a deep gulp of his unstirred tea. It’s already cold. The undissolved sugar grains feel like they burn a rash into his throat, the taste disharmonious and unsatisfactory. Scaramouche should’ve stirred it properly before it had cooled down. It would have been sweeter. It should have been sweeter.

And then, he finally starts to understand a little.