Chapter Text
“The veil, Satoru.” Suguru stops Satoru from charging into the area of the duo’s newest mission, raising a hand as fingers pass through Limitless effortlessly, gripping onto a bony shoulder.
Yaga had summoned the two special grade sorcerers to their classroom in the early hours of the morning, the sun still partially hidden by the mountains lining the horizon. “Satoru, Suguru. Sightings of a Special Grade curse were discovered in northern Nagano. Tsukumo is travelling overseas right now, and there are no equipped Grade One sorcerers in the area.”
“Or, no Nagano sorcerer wants to risk their ass fighting a Special Grade curse.” Satoru rolled his eyes and grimaced, “so we’re picking up their messes instead.”
“Satoru,” Suguru turned to his best friend, “it’s okay. We’ll take up the duty of those below us, we’re the strongest after all.”
Satoru laughed, “whatever. We are the strongest. So what are we doing?”
“All relevant information is included in this file.” Yaga passed a manila folder to Suguru, who took it and started flipping through the pages immediately. “An assistant will be driving you to Nagano, the car ride will take approximately three hours. You are expected to set off in less than two hours from now, so you will be arriving at Nagano around noon—”
“Suguru and I can teleport there. We’ll exorcise that curse and be back before noon.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“You haven’t mastered teleporting yet. I don’t want any of my students coming back in more than one piece.”
“I won’t lose one of my or Suguru’s arms or legs,” Satoru protested, “won’t I, Suguru?”
“I’m not entirely sure about that,” Suguru closed his eyes, laughing softly at Satoru’s indignant reaction. “I like my arms and legs the way they are.”
“Suguru!”
“Just kidding.” he smiled, unable to keep on the farce for more than thirty seconds. Satoru was indeed strong, so strong; perhaps too strong for his own good. Suguru would trust him completely if they were to teleport there, but he didn’t trust that Yaga would be entirely pleased if they did. He’d much rather not piss off his only teacher, thanks. “You’re more than capable of keeping both of us in one piece. We should still take the car though. Yaga-sensei’s orders. We can review the folder together in the car, just in case.”
“Listen to Suguru, Satoru.” Yaga groaned, more to himself than to anyone else. “Just take the car.”
They did end up taking the car, but Satoru was barely paying attention as Suguru rattled off the information neatly typed in their reference documents. His eyes mirrored the colour of the sky, clouds spiriting away in the boundless atmosphere. A dragonfly idly batted its wings in the air, woven gold joining at the seams. It fluttered higher, and higher, until its silhouette was one with the sun — then, as quickly as it had come, it was one with nature once more.
Suguru did notice Satoru watching the dragonfly, but was too busy rereading the documents to pay close attention. His best friend was finally quiet enough, for once, for him to read without any disturbances. The car cruised through long, winding highways; the assistant in the driver’s seat watching the duo with bated breath, the hands on the steering wheel trembling slightly.
And now they are stuck arguing about a veil out of all things. Two special grade sorcerers, practically demigods with the raw power they possess, bickering over a veil.
“Why am I the one casting the veil when you can do it just fine yourself?” Satoru retorts, words sharp as a blade, probably piercing through the poor assistant’s eardrums.
Suguru sighs, “because you always forget to cast the veil. And every time you forget, Yaga yells at all of us.”
“We’re a duo, Suguru,” Satoru brushes away the remark, “we’re the strongest, together. Who cares who casts the veil?”
“Well, I thought that helping you ingrain the habit into your muscle memory would be helpful, for you if not for all of us. Come on, Satoru.”
Satoru groans. “Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.” he chants, his hand curled into the familiar incantation as his black veil slowly descends from the sky, a soothing presence that shrouds the group. He turns to Suguru, “Happy now?”
“Very.” Suguru nods courteously at the assistant a few steps away, who is practically shaking in their boots as they eye the two special grades apprehensively. “Thank you for your service.”
“Uh, if there’s…if there’s no more issues, I’ll wait here for the two of you in…three hours?” they stammer, hesitant. Satoru smirks, “Make it one.”
“Satoru!”
“What?” He protests, “you actually think we need more than that?”
“You should really be more careful. At least read through the folder again before we go.”
“Scrap one hour. I’m going to exorcise that stupid curse in thirty minutes.”
“This isn’t a competition,” Suguru laughs, “but don’t kill the curse. Leave it to me once you’re done with it. I wouldn’t mind adding a Special Grade to my collection.”
“Bet.” Satoru’s eyes glint with battle-fuelled bloodlust, something Suguru has gotten used to as Satoru’s frequent mission partner over the months they’ve been together. Satoru does look much prettier when he’s excited, though Suguru would never admit that. Over his dead body. The jujutsu world does not need their god wreaking havoc across the country just because his best friend called him pretty.
Satoru would look very, very pretty if that did happen, though.
Suguru returns to reality as Satoru shakes him by the shoulder impatiently. “See you soon!” Raising a hand, he bids temporary farewell to the assistant out of habit, nodding once more with a small smile when they wave back.
“I’ll be waiting here!” they call to the two fading figures in the distance.
Suguru waits until the assistant is out of earshot. “Would it kill you to be a little nicer to the poor assistants? You should at least say goodbye.”
“Nah, I have you to do all that for me.” Satoru laughs, tinkling bells swaying in the endless blue.
And that you do.
Satoru whistles a merry tune all the way to the location of the curse. Suguru follows, trailing behind his best friend. Satoru truly does have a pretty laugh.
『••✎••』
So, Satoru has come to realise he vastly underestimated the power of this special grade.
He did listen to Suguru in the car, somewhat, the information flitting in and out of earshot as he focused on the view instead of his best friend. Satoru had been training Infinity recently, unbeknownst to Suguru or Shoko or Yaga, or any of his senpais or kouhais. Many, many nights blending into one another as he strained every ounce of his power to hold onto Infinity as he gazed into the big night sky. Sleepless nights spent stargazing or dragonfly-watching; the cold air haunting him with every rustle of his jacket, hanging too loosely upon his lithe frame.
Satoru knew, if Infinity could run forever, he’d truly become a god.
Some ascended by being saintly, but he could not be further from the definition of that word. Others wield belief as their blades, gathering adoration and worship from mortal devotees. Others suffer; their bodies torn into fleshy ribbons to reach the brink of death, only to be brought back stronger than ever. And the elite, the most elite; they are owed divinity, destined for greatness since the beginning of time. The world’s song echoes their name, engraved into stone and etched into existence. Satoru had thought that perhaps he was blessed, by the way the foundations of the jujutsu world shuddered and shifted upon his birth.
But as the Six Eyes told him things, whispering blades into his ears, he realised that perhaps the fascinating case of Satoru Gojo would be much better suited to the third instance.
A god bleeds ichor.
Divinity is earned.
A god bleeds ichor.
Divinity is earned.
A god bleeds ichor.
Divinity is earned.
He adds one more phrase to the lines he engraves upon his soul.
Satoru will walk through lava, clamber over the summits of this world and descend back down into boiling water, he will walk to the ends of the earth and back again if it meant he would taste ambrosia. If he died, too bad. If he survived, though, that would be an entirely different story to tell. Strip away mortal flesh, condense existence into fragrance, spray nectar all over what remains from an intricate perfume bottle. Convoluted preparation aside, he’d be wined and dined out of a ladle brought by the purest doves, fed by Ganymede himself.
According to Greek mythology, ichor is the golden fluid that flows through the veins of gods and immortals. It is said to be toxic to mortals, killing them instantly upon contact.
According to Satoru, if he didn’t bleed ichor he’d be as good as dead.
So he has begun to hold Infinity for hours, his brain sputtering and overloading with sparks every moment he uses too much of his cursed energy, but too much is never enough for him and this godforsaken body. Infinity still falls whenever his eyes droop too far down, so he feels like a kid trapped in a too-itchy kimono when he uses his fingertips to force his eyelids wide open. He feels like a kid a little too much these days, clinging to every lingering touch whenever Suguru breaches Infinity to place a gentle hand upon his shoulder, or to poke at his face in retaliation of some silly prank he started; or just because he can, and would be the only one to be capable of reducing this impenetrable shield to atoms, because Satoru’s body responds every damn time.
Stupid, stupid. Gods don’t fall this way.
(Though there are many tales that prove they do; like the many occasions Zeus fell for mortal men and women alike, or the times Eos abducted mortal men because of a curse bestowed upon her. Or the story of Eros and Psyche, or Aphrodite herself falling for Anchises. Gods certainly fell, more often than not; but perhaps Satoru just chooses to ignore the existence of these tales.)
Satoru will claw through the earth itself to earn his deserved divinity, so no mortal weakness would stand in his way as his eyes burn like twin comets. He’s tired, he’s so tired; he can barely focus anymore, his mind dispersed all across nature like the ashes he once helped scatter. He’s acting out just because he can, anger the first shield he raises when anything and everything seems to be challenging his status on this earth. He’s living and dying all at once, the neurons of his brain fireworks exploding within the shell of his skull.
He definitely feels death grazing past his shoulder as he launches a condensed ball of Blue and misses entirely, falling back and tumbling down as colours explode in his vision. The sky is all he can focus on, still ever so blue despite the greying smoke emanating from the battlefield. The curse cackles, somewhere distant he cannot reach, and he seems to fall faster than ever before.
Satoru, someone calls for him in the distance. His name is spoken so loudly, so desperately it feels like sacrilege. Satoru. Satoru, are you okay, please answer me. Satoru!
Just like the simple fact that the sky is always blue, Suguru Geto would always be there to catch Satoru Gojo if he ever fell — the ‘if’ now reduced to a ‘when’. His manta ray swoops in just in time, on Suguru’s orders, sweeping Satoru up and away from the battlefield as he falls inches away from the ground. You could have died, Satoru. Why didn’t you catch yourself?
“Keep him safe,” Suguru commands his manta ray as it speeds away. He sighs, brushing dust off his uniform as he turns back to the special grade, who has been jumping around triumphantly for moments too long. Its grotesque features twist and morph into a piss-poor imitation of Satoru’s battle-co*cky smirk, its mouth stretching a little too wide, its eyes bulging a little too much.
“Was it fun?” Suguru raises an arm to summon Rainbow Dragon, narrowing his eyes in search of the curse’s weak point. “Was it fun, hurting my best friend?” Distinctly, he feels the band holding all his hair together snap cleanly, his bun undoing itself with a twirl as his hair becomes his greatest hindrance in the midst of battle. Focus, he reminds himself, shoving away all his white-hot rage into a little box. He will open that later on, after he checks on Satoru and sees that he’s alright with his own eyes. “Because I sure didn’t find it fun.”
The curse babbles, “yes, yes, yes!” Clapping its many hands together over and over, bouncing from one foot to its two others, bobbing on the spot; Suguru silently commands Rainbow Dragon to cover him, refusing to take his eyes off the curse. Rainbow Dragon charges, its scales catching the meagre sunlight and reflecting it back at the sky ten times brighter. It hurries past, twirling in circles and creating a wind current with the force of its movements. The curse yells something that Suguru cannot hear properly, its voice washed away by the makeshift tornado.
Suguru summons another curse, a massive pelican that opens its beak for him to clamber into and hide. The pelican spreads its wings, catching the breeze that blows in every direction as it flies higher and higher, bursting through the thick layers of smoke and hovering near the top of the veil. The special grade is preoccupied, batting at Rainbow Dragon with far too many hands, but Suguru’s curse does not falter under his command, the tornado maintaining its strength. He leans out the pelican’s beak, peering down. The current is dizzying, colours swirling into one another and blending into piercing white light, but Suguru notices an opening.
He jumps.
Amidst the chaos, the curse does not notice the sudden change of atmosphere as Suguru lands behind it, Rainbow Dragon quickening its pace with a newfound burst of energy to better cover its wielder. He throws a sharp right hook, knocking the curse right off balance before following on with a roundhouse kick. He grits his teeth as he focuses all his cursed energy into his limbs, allowing him to hit much harder than normal as a series of well-aimed punches and kicks rain down with his wake. The blinding light fades into a blinding blur, but still Suguru fights to keep his eyes on the curse as it shrieks and screeches, deep purple blood spurting out of fresh wounds in stuttering sputters. Time is relative, and nothing matters more than the raw, painful instinct that claws at his heart, screaming Satoru is hurt, Satoru is hurt over and over again. He throws the curse down onto the concrete, stomping on its hideous face with all his strength. Blood splatters all across his features, but he is too distracted to wipe away the revolting substance. He only relents when the curse is practically a pulp, the pelican shuffling closer to poke at the limp body with its beak. Rainbow Dragon curls around him protectively as he gasps for air, a bloodstained hand clinging to one of its scales.
Rainbow Dragon lowers its head for Suguru to hop on once his heart stops pounding as erratically, when air feels like air to his lungs. He tangles his fingers into the tuft of hair, patting softly. “To Satoru,” he says to Rainbow Dragon as it takes flight once more, spiriting into the sky, the dust and smoke from the earlier fight clearing into a thin haze. Suguru raises his other hand in the general direction of the special grade, the thrum of his technique static in the air. It coils into a ball atop his palm, the all-too-familiar weight and texture rolling all across his skin. He shoves the curse into his mouth, swallowing down the curse and the nausea with a gulp.
It feels the slightest bit better if he doesn’t think about the motion, repetitive in nature yet increasingly repulsive every time he adds another curse to his arsenal. This one should take him hours to digest, a whole day the worst case scenario. Suguru tastes sin itself, the desecration of his own body a bitter tang that washes over his palate. It’s dirty, it’s disgusting, it’s tainting his insides with dredges of black; every life the curse has taken a new weight upon his shoulders. The way its victims bled, the way it bled when he kicked its face in; blood, so much blood—
The special grade’s mockery of Satoru floods his mouth in a fresh wave of nausea.
Suguru throws up, his breakfast dripping over Rainbow Dragon’s now red-tinged side.
『••✎••』
Satoru smells nausea, an infectious little thing that clogs his throat when he tries to speak.
The cool, soothing back of Suguru’s manta ray clings to his own. He breathes out slowly, slowly as to maintain the tranquillity of the air around him. He sighs, a stilted shudder that wracks his lungs and curls around his throat like a vice. High above, the sun burns every shade of orange and gold. Beyond reach, someone stares back, their eyes red and pained and downcast with disappointment. They shake their head, refusing to look him in the eye. When they turn away, the silken waterfall of long white hair mirrors Satoru’s bangs, stray strands fluttering in the breeze.
Satoru reaches for her.
“Mother, wait—”
But she is gone like the wind, gone like the gossamer wings torn from a dragonfly who has flown too high, too close to the raging sun. Blood and guts and gore plummet down, down, down; scattered by the breeze and splattering all around him, staining the back of the manta ray. He tastes iron on his lips, dripping into his mouth and tainting his insides. Satoru knows that neither ambrosia nor nectar should taste this metallic, but he waits for a honeyed aftertaste nonetheless.
He laughs, the sound a feeble thing that flutters in the air and slaps him right across the face. A mockery of who he exists to be, for laughter only befits victory and nothing else.
“Those who laugh after a losing battle only do so to soothe their damaged ego.” Satoru listened intently, leaning all his weight on his little hands as he chased after his mother’s rare words, a stream that hovers and floats despite all its burden it carries. “Satoru-sama, you understand?”
He lost, hadn’t he?
He actually lost.
Satoru can only hope Yaga doesn’t hear of this. May he be spared of the lectures, of the yelling, of the stares, of the murmured words of disappointment.
This isn’t like you. Do better, Satoru-sama.
The voice is his mother’s, his father’s, his own all at once. A chorus that remains perfectly synchronised as the cursed energy flickering below him cries out loud. An amalgamation of mankind’s despair, calling for divine salvation to topple what is known and make it all better. But the despondency of humanity is not something that can be resolved with a kiss and a bandaid to the wound, nor with the birth of strength unseen in four hundred years condensed into one beautiful baby. So they scream, they shout, they writhe and flail and beg and plead for someone, for Satoru Gojo to please save them all and take them away from this godforsaken world—
“Satoru!” a voice like breaking dawn bursts through the haze the Six Eyes see. “Satoru, what happened just now? Why didn’t you use Infinity?” Satoru smells the rolling nausea before he sees it, half of the stench dripping down Rainbow Dragon and the other half having fallen from the sky, probably all over some poor person, who unfortunately does not have Infinity to protect them from mid-air vomit missiles.
“Hey, Suguru,” he greets his best friend with a wave of his hand, casual like the countless times they stand at each other’s door to play Digimon, or watch some trashy television program no one pays any attention to ten minutes in, “sorry I didn’t get you that curse.”
“Look at yourself,” Suguru jumps off Rainbow Dragon and crouches down at his side, the touch of cautious fingers far too gentle. “You could have died and you’re apologising. If half of your blood isn’t all over my manta ray right now, I’d be thinking you’re high off something.”
“I could be.” Satoru laughs, bringing his hand to his mouth, wiping off the blood and saliva that has gathered at the crevices of his features, “but yeah. I suppose I almost died.”
“You think?” Suguru’s hands poke and prod at his wrist, feeling for the rate of his pulse. Still so soft, still so gentle, like Satoru would shatter into pieces if he pressed a little too hard.
“Suguru, can I name your manta?”
“Where’s that coming from?”
“You haven’t named it yet, have you.”
Suguru laughs, a little too lightly, “You can name it once I get you back safely, and Shoko gets a good look at you and heals you with whatever sorcery she’s got up her sleeve. And once you rest well in the infirmary, and she gives you the all-clear when you’ve recovered, you can name it whatever you want. That sound good to you?”
“Deal.” Satoru nods as much as possible while lying down. Beneath him, the manta ray starts to move, and he realises that Rainbow Dragon has disappeared back into Suguru. The clouds above him have not looked more edible, and he wonders if Suguru can get his manta to fly high enough so he can get a taste. Logically speaking, they’d probably taste like water, but who cares.
“You forgot your promise,” he continues after a pause, the wind tangling itself into his and Suguru’s hair. It floods his vision like a wispy black curtain, tickling his eyes and his nose.
Suguru sighs as he takes a hairband from where a few rest on his left wrist, snapping it around the other wrist as he wrestles with his hair, gathering everything up into his usual bun. “What promise?” he asks, slipping the ends snugly into his messy updo.
“So, is my blood gold or not?” Satoru says, a free hand absentmindedly combing through his white hair, matted with his blood he hasn’t really looked at yet. “You said you’d tell me.”
“Red. What else could it be?”
“Oh, I know,” Satoru laughs bitterly, closing his eyes, “it’s always been red.”
Suguru fails to hide his surprise. “Then why did you ask me, if you knew all along?”
“Because I can.”
“Satoru, that doesn’t explain anything.”
“You want an explanation?” Suguru nods. “Fine, but only because I actually feel a bit high. Maybe that’s why Shoko yammers on and on about blood loss every other day.”
Suguru can’t help but laugh. That’s a pretty accurate description. He’s sure Shoko would find many more reasons to lecture them for, once they find her in the morgue.
“Anyways,” Satoru continues, “you know I’m part of the Gojo Clan, and I’m their precious heir. That’s, like, common jujutsu knowledge at this point, so I’ll skip the boring parts.”
Satoru and Shoko had looked at Suguru with the most incredulous expressions he had ever seen, when Suguru had told them he had no idea what’s the big deal with the Gojo, Zenin, and Kamo Clans back in the start of first year. Since then, Suguru has paid utmost attention to any and every conversation that so much as mentioned any of the Big Three.
“Yeah.” Suguru agrees, “Gojo, Zenin, Kamo, great influence, prized techniques, pieces of sh*t, conservative bastards, power-hungry and egocentric. Got it.”
“You got the idea.” Satoru opens one eye to watch Suguru, “so since I was born and the balance of the jujutsu world was toppled entirely, my family has always told me I’m a god.”
Oh. That explains a lot.
Satoru laughs, “you look funny.”
“Do I?” asks Suguru, his eyebrows furrowing with worry.
“Yes, you do,” Satoru smiles blearily, “I wrote lines and all that sh*t. Pages and pages of the same phrase, until it was all I remembered at some point.”
A god bleeds ichor. “But hearing the same thing said over and over all my life does not equal solid proof of actually being a god. See what I’m getting at?”
Suguru swallows, clearing his throat before he says, “Yes.” If he didn’t force back the dread pooling in his gut and slithering into his veins, freezing his fingers cold and solid, he’d probably throw up again. Worse, all over Satoru this time.
Satoru’s eyes are glassy, shimmering depths dulling into a misty blue. He lets himself sink, down and down, until he’s one with the water, submerged below the surface. Voices hammer at the barriers caging him, but if he didn’t listen to their words he’d be able to push through like nothing’s wrong at all. Make it fast, and make it hurt.“Stole a dagger from the Gojo weaponry. Cut my arm open for the sake of it. What fun. I didn’t look, but Six Eyes told me my blood was red. I then thought, maybe ichor is something earned, and not something blessed.”
“And I’ll do anything to prove myself worthy of these eyes,” he laughs, tapping a finger to the side of his right eye. “I’ll fight through anything life throws at me, so long as my blood runs gold at the end of the line.”
“You’re not a god, Satoru,” Suguru says out of instinct more than anything else, “You don’t have to be one, not when it means you’re bleeding out all over my manta ray because you have something to prove.” Suguru holds his hand so tenderly, cold fingers curling over colder ones, “Red or gold, it’s still blood, and you’re hurting all the same.”
“Divinity is earned,” repeats Satoru, “A god bleeds ichor.”
“So bleed red and be human with me.”
Satoru laughs, clinging onto Suguru’s hand with both of his own, reaching further and further until there’s nothing more to take. He’s sitting up now, leaning his head against Suguru’s shoulder, listening to the steady pulse of his mortal heart. It’s a constant, an unspoken promise as Suguru lets him touch . Suguru holds him throughout, brushing his hair behind his ear.
“Maybe I’m still a little high right now,” Satoru squeezes Suguru’s hand a little tighter, “but that sounds amazing.”
Suguru leans closer, bringing their joined hands to Satoru’s heart.
“See?” he says, “your heart beats just like mine.”
And it does. More than a thousand words spoken in six, more than a thousand promises weaved into one. Their hearts beat in sync, as if fate itself tied them together with red strings.
“Yep, I’m definitely high.” Satoru giggles, slumping forward and allowing Suguru to suffer under all his body weight. “I kind of like it though.”
“Of course you do.”
“Of course I do.”
『••✎••』
True to Suguru’s prediction, Shoko spends the entire afternoon lecturing the duo. “—what were you thinking? And why didn’t you retreat to check on Satoru before squashing that curse? Absolute idiots, the two of you! You’d both be dead if you weren’t Special Grades.” “To be fair, Shoko, I thought Infinity was up—” “Well, it definitely wasn’t, that’s for sure!”
Only after Satoru’s wounds are all healed with reversed cursed technique, of course.
After Shoko’s lecture, Yaga storms into the room, eyebrows furrowed with worry but masked with a shield of anger. He begins on a tangent about politeness, respect; about not leaving their assistants behind to helplessly wait by a car for hours.
“Oops,” Suguru shrugs, “guess we forgot.”
“You certainly did. Both of you, apologise first thing tomorrow.”
Satoru pouts, “it’s not our fault the curse was stronger than expected and I almost died.”
“I’d say it’s mostly your fault, Satoru.”
A god bleeds ichor.Suguru squeezes Satoru’s hand under the covers.
So bleed red and be human with me.
