Chapter Text
He was standing on a mound of bodies; the fabric of his dark blue coat felt damp, and he felt blood dripping from his fingertips. It wasn't his. He looked down and saw a young woman's face, her eyes wide open, staring up at him, silent accusations pouring from her vacant gaze.
A thousand voices rose in a chaotic, desperate chorus, but one phrase cut through the noise, clear as a bell:
"He doesn't care! The strongest doesn't care!"
Their hands couldn't reach him, but he was drenched in their blood. He tried to move, teleport, and stop the carnage, but his feet were stuck in the mire of blood and sorrow.
From the shadows, the spectral forms of the Jujutsu High elders and the heads of the Gojo clan appeared, their faces twisted in approval. Their voices were dry, surrounding him like a winding sheet.
"This is the result of your careless behavior."
"We warned you; Itadori Yuji should have been executed."
"Jujutsu society has fallen because of you; if only you listened—
He saw a familiar, dark cursed spirit in the shadows; the voices faded, and then Megumi—slouched and utterly defeated—standing over a mountain of dead sorcerers. Megumi's body was wracked by foreign laughter, his features morphing into a hateful, familiar sneer. It wasn't Megumi anymore; it was the wicked shell of a king.
He tried to reach for Megumi, but his body wouldn't obey. Then the shadows faded and the scene shifted. He was alone in a field of white and purple flowers, but the air was suffocating.
He turned, and there he was, standing in the distance, dressed in the dark robes of a man who had chosen a different path. "Suguru!" he cried out, his voice hoarse. His expression, which was devoid of warmth, suddenly turned into a smile as he looked at me, his real smile.
"You are late, Satoru."
The flower field was gone, and he was standing in a geometric swamp. The black cubes enveloped him, and then he was drowning, not in water but in skulls of his ancestors.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
He woke up with no sound, just an absolute realization of terror. His eyes snapped open, wide and burning, instantly adjusting to the moonlit darkness of Suguru's room. Right, Suguru, this was 2006.
The images from the nightmare were seared onto the inside of his eyelids. He lay perfectly still, every muscle in his body vibrating with residual panic. A thick, suffocating knot formed in his throat, preventing any sound from escaping. He didn't dare wake Suguru. He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that had been welling in the corners of his eyes.
His six eyes were running on overdrive, analyzing the room, cataloging the dust motes in the air, and confirming the benign reality of the present. But the frantic mental activity only amplified the restlessness.
Away.
He needed to go somewhere away. His bare feet hit the cold stone floor, and suddenly he was on top of the Tokyo Tower. He stood there for a moment, letting the darkness swallow him, the silence of the space a sharp contrast to the chaotic sound of the dream.
He could feel the cold sweat on his forehead. He ran a weary hand over his face and looked around. He used to come here when everything became too much. The top of the tower was always isolated, but the streets were always filled with chaos no matter the hour; it brought him a little calm. Later on, his midnight spot changed to the Sky Tree, which he couldn't visit because it wasn't even built yet.
Yet. There were so many things that hadn't happened yet.
Ok, why was he sounding like those old farts stuck in nostalgia waiting to die? Oh no, no, no, he was fine with being sliced in half, but being put in the same category as the old man Zenin, he refused to do so. This was terrible for the brand.
He decided it is time to work out some stuff. He warped to the Gojo clan's forgotten basement. The air in the abandoned archival basement was so thick with dust and forgotten history that it felt chewy. (Note to self—hire a cleaner.)
He was sprawled on the cold stone floor, using an ancient, brittle scroll as his personal whiteboard. He cracked his neck, the sound sharp in the silence. "Right, let’s get this garbage fire of a timeline fixed. Honestly, future me was such a moron..."
He picked up the charcoal stick, treating the entire timeline of human catastrophe like a poorly designed blueprint he was being forced to revise.
THE GOJO IMPERATIVE: Required reading for the weak
Satoru began charting the major events, labeling them with a dismissive, yet lethal, clarity. His Six Eyes processed every thread of cursed energy residue, every fatal decision, with chilling precision.
He drew a massive circle labeled [KENJAKU].
If there was a main player in this game, it was Kenjaku. The main instigator of conflict, using his brain-transplantation technique to possess different hosts. He possessed Suguru. But there had to be someone he was possessing before Suguru; if only he knew who, all this would've been way simpler. It didn't help that the man was a master evader. For all Satoru knew, he could be on an entirely different continent.
From the interaction he had with the ancient sorcerer, he knew that he was dealing with a mad scientist who created death paintings, thrived on chaos, and was a master manipulator. After going through all possibilities of potential encounters or information about his whereabouts, Satoru decided it had to be Shibuya. If he tried digging too much, it would alert Kenjaku; if he tried to create a different opportunity for Kenjaku to enter, it would lead to a whole new territory of uncounted variables.
Somehow he has to make 2018 look like a trainwreck without it actually being a trainwreck. This has to look like a disaster. Kenjaku needs his little 'chaos fuel.' The objective here isn't to prevent the fight; it's to prevent the sealing. So, how do we make the stage look weak without it actually being weak? Easy. We let the higher-ups look like utter morons—which isn't even a change, bless their conservative little hearts.
He made a big question mark around Host, because if he prevented Suguru's fate, then Kenjaku might try something new. He would have to think about it more.
He then drew a line connecting his previous self's death/resurrection. [TOJI] the name filling his mind with harrowing memories. He stops his train of thought and reminds himself that he needs to look at things objectively, not with a personal grudge.
As much as Toji was a pain in his perfectly sculpted backside, he was also the best training montage Satoru ever had. Now, though he didn't need the montage, he did lose his physique from 2018 but not his understanding of his techniques. Now the petty him just wants to put a full stop here and purple the guy, but his sensei side sees potential.
Toji was a lovely murder weapon; he could be useful in the fights that were about to come. Speaking of upcoming fights, the first one would be The Star Plasma Mission.
Suddenly the charcoal stick in his hand feels heavy. "Breathe," he reminds himself. He drops the stick, and everything feels too quiet, too suffocating. He has the sudden urge to cry. The last time he cried was just last night, with Suguru. It was so easy, then why does it feel like if he breaks down now he won't be able to pick himself back up?
So he breathes, gazes at the ceiling till his eyes are a little dry, if a tear or two falls off, he wipes it quickly and everything is back in. Somewhere he knows this is not healthy, but this is how his life has been, how he was raised. There are always going to be things, and he was not the priority. Not when so many lives were on the line. This was the true weight of the world.
He sighs out and rubs his forehead; back to the mission, this was non-negotiable chaos for Suguru. It has to be averted, but quietly, and he needs to save Amanai Riko but without anyone getting suspicious about why their perfect little sacrificial lamb suddenly got to retire.
He knows now that Tengen would be just fine, but he had to make it convincing. He feels his shoulders slumping, the weight and the importance of this specific mission sinking in him. He also had to think about the ripple effects that would follow. He had to save Haibara, prevent Suguru's defection, and meet his kid, and that path would unfortunately start with Toji.
A part of him just wants to throw money at the man's face. Make a Toji Contract Buyout—$5M? $10M? Fine, $20M. Just get him a boat and tell him to get a hobby. No fighting, just a clean transaction. But the man had to be a multifaceted character.
Oh, this was giving him a headache.He dropped the charcoal stick, which clattered on the stone. The flickering kerosene lamp was pale and weak against the grey light filtering through the basement’s single ventilation grate.
"Oh. It's morning," he noted, stretching a spine that was far too stiff for a sixteen-year-old.He quickly rolled up the scroll, tucking it securely behind a rotting stack of 18th-century exorcism receipts. He swept the floor clean of charcoal dust, removing all trace of his all-night planning session in the "Vault of Terrible Decisions." Of course he named the basement. He smirked lightly, a tired, boyish simper replacing the terrifying focus.
He thought about Suguru, Shoko, Haibara, and Nanami. They're actually going to look for me, he realized, a warm, foreign feeling settling over the trauma. They're going to search for Satoru, the guy who buys stupid things, not the Six Eyes guy. Gross. But useful.
He focused a burst of cursed energy, propelling himself toward the surface of the school grounds with impossible speed.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Suguru woke slowly, reaching out instinctively for the solid warmth that had been beside him all night. His hand met only the cool, rumpled fabric of the sheets.
His eyes snapped open. He sat up immediately, his heart sinking with a chilling familiarity. The residual fear from past silent nights flooded his senses. He scanned the room; the absence of Satoru was a heavy, unnatural silence. The bed wasn't just empty; it was cold.
He’s not here. Did he leave? Did he go somewhere alone? Suguru threw the blanket off, rushing to the door and checking the corridor, then the small ensuite bathroom. Nothing. He returned to the bed, his brow furrowed with palpable anxiety. The promise he had made—always—felt inadequate against Satoru’s terrifying unpredictability. If Satoru had felt a return of the 'cursed energy stroke' feeling, he would have hidden it.
"Satoru!" he called out, his voice sharp with mounting worry.
Just then, the familiar distortion of Blue accelerating massive amounts of matter filled the room, and Satoru appeared in the center of the floor in a near-instantaneous flash, his uniform pristine, a ridiculously wide, cheerful grin plastered on his face.
"Morning, sleepyhead!" Satoru chirped, sounding entirely too bright for someone who should have been exhausted.
"Did you miss me already? I was just on a quick run. Got to be ready for any surprise attacks, you know!"
Suguru felt the intense surge of adrenaline immediately dissipate, replaced by overwhelming relief and irritation. He glared at Satoru.
"A 'run' that required you to move faster than sound and disappear for hours. I woke up alone, and you were gone—"
Satoru sauntered over and draped himself over Suguru, leaning his head on his shoulder. "Relax, I’m fine! I told you, I'm perfect. My internal clock is just set to 'global dominance' now. Gotta plan ahead!"
Suguru gently pushed him off, standing up. "Fine. But you owe me breakfast. Now hurry up; we have to get ready for our check-up"
The morning routine was a silent comfort. Suguru watched as Satoru expertly smoothed out the wrinkles in his uniform, his movements precise despite his outward flippancy.
"Seriously, where were you?" Suguru asked, adjusting the collar of his own shirt. "You weren't out buying another six pairs of sunglasses, were you?"
"Worse," Satoru admitted, zipping up his jacket. "I was running calculations on the price of global market fluctuations in rare cursed materials. Very boring, Suguru. You wouldn't like it. Anyway, look at us! Two incredibly powerful, stylish teenagers ready to face the mundane reality of the infirmary."
"Since when do u study boring stuff?"
Satoru gives him an offended look " Mean, Sugu-chan. As a future clan-head I do sometimes study boring stuff." He looks at his watch and gives him a scandalous stare " You know everyone blames me for being late, when in reality its always you. Now c'mon, we have to hurry before the doc finishes her coffee and decides to use it as a murder weapon."
Suguru rolled his eyes at Satoru's antics and decided to keep his questions for later because Shoko would really kill them both if they were late.
The infirmary was predictably sterile. Shoko, already nursing a cup of coffee that looked dangerous, eyed the pair with thinly veiled exhaustion."So, the genius is up and ready for his close-up," Shoko drawled, not looking up from her charts. "I assume you haven't spontaneously combusted since you learned how to heal yourself?"
Satoru draped himself dramatically over the examination table. "Shoko, darling, I'm already perfect! This is just a formality so you can tell the higher-ups my impeccable health guarantees them twenty more years of free labor."
"No one knows about your intranuclear reaction; only our group does, and Yaga is still on his trip." Shoko sighed, reluctantly scanning him with her Reverse Cursed Technique.
Her eyebrows rose momentarily in professional surprise. "Disappointingly healthy," she announced, pushing the scanner away.
"Brain function is optimal. Cursed energy pathways are crystal clear. You're completely fit."
Suguru breathes a sigh of relief. "That's good. Also, what about food? We are about to go for breakfast next; is there anything he needs to avoid?"
She tapped her clipboard. "He can eat anything he wants. He should be putting on weight after the trauma his body went through."
Satoru’s grin widened. "Hear that, Suguru? Permission granted! Double the sugar!"
Shoko pinched the bridge of her nose. "About the sugar... Satoru, you're eating more high-fructose garbage than a kindergartner at a candy convention. It's ridiculous."
Satoru struck an offended pose. "It’s called maintaining my caloric density, Shoko! My brain needs fuel!" Suguru, standing near the table, just smiled.
Shoko pointed her pen directly at Suguru. "And you. Don't encourage him. He only buys those ridiculous neon-colored candies because you pretend to share them. It’s affecting his focus, which, frankly, is already questionable."
Suguru shrugged innocently. "It's a bonding activity, Shoko. He performs better when he's happy, and sugar makes him happy. Besides, if he didn't eat it, he'd be even crankier."
Satoru zoomed over and threw an arm around Suguru's shoulders. "See? My best friend gets it! Shoko's just jealous she can't eat refined sugar anymore because of her advanced age. Also, did you just call me cranky?"
Suguru gives him a shrug as Shoko flips him off with one hand while holding her coffee with the other. "Get out. You're both polluting my air with teenage levels of idiocy and sucrose."
"Rude!" Satoru declared, dragging Suguru out the door. "We're going to get parfaits to celebrate my perfect health! Want to come? We can try to teach Haibara and Nanami how to skip rocks later!"
Shoko didn't even look up from shuffling her charts. "I’m good. Unlike you two, I have to actually study to pass my classes, since I haven't been in the library for days, treating the walking disaster that is Satoru Gojo. You should be paying me for this free labor."
"Please," Satoru scoffed, throwing his arm around Suguru's neck. "You're going to cheat anyway. You always do. You just need to print out better notes."
"It's called 'efficient information retrieval,' not cheating," Shoko corrected dryly.
Suguru chuckled, nudging Satoru's ribs. "She does have a point, Satoru. You are very expensive. Maybe next time, try to get stabbed by a low-grade curse so she doesn't have to work so hard."
"See? My best friend is a capitalist!" Satoru declared proudly, ignoring Shoko’s exhausted sigh. "Fine, we’ll leave the old lady to her textbooks. Let's go, Suguru. Parfaits await!"
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
They settled into a booth at a brightly lit dessert shop near the school, two teenagers surrounded by towering glass creations topped with fruit and whipped cream. The sugar was immediately stabilizing, melting away some of the morning's edge.
Suguru watched Satoru devour his parfait—a reckless combination of chocolate and neon syrups—before broaching the subject.
"You look... better," Suguru started, pushing a cherry around his glass. "Truly. Shoko said you were perfect. But seriously, Satoru, where did you disappear to this morning? Your 'run' didn't even leave energy residue on the track."
Satoru didn't miss a beat, his smile wide and blinding. "Oh, that? Just planning out the next seven steps of my life. Gotta maximize my free time, you know? Got some big ideas for the summer! Don't worry about it."
Suguru noted the deflection. Satoru's eyes, even without glasses, were giving away nothing, but the casual speed of his denial was the biggest hint. But before he could press the issue, Satoru reached across the table and squeezed his hand, his tone turning surprisingly earnest, though still laced with humor.
"But seriously," Satoru said, his blue eyes softening. "Thanks. For everything. Covering my missions, making sure Shoko didn't give me arsenic, not leaving me alone last night... you're the best, you know." He then leaned closer, his voice dropping to a loud whisper.
"Which is why I'm going to make sure you get some serious beauty sleep. Those dark circles are getting out of control, Suguru. You’re starting to look like a stylish panda."
Suguru snorted, shaking his head. "I look like I've been doing the actual work while you were having a miraculous recovery."
"Exactly! And now my recovery is complete, your job is to rest. Tonight, you're sleeping for twelve hours straight. No excuses."
"And what are you going to be doing while I'm sleeping for twelve hours, Satoru?"
Satoru winked. "Oh, you know. Planning. But quietly. I’m making sure your beauty rest is completely uninterrupted. Gotta protect the face of Jujutsu High's moral compass, after all."
Suguru smiled, finally satisfied with the change in subject, though he mentally filed away Satoru's avoidance as another piece of a very worrying puzzle. "Fine. But I'm sleeping with a curse user's barrier up if you even try to poke me awake."
"As u wish." Satoru relented, a small, genuine smile forming.
"Just... next time you need to 'plan,' let me know so I don't assume you've been abducted by curse users who decided you were too annoying to keep."
"Never!" Satoru promised, leaning back dramatically. "I'd never let anything that lame happen."
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
They found Nanami and Haibara near the riverbank on the edge of the school grounds, ostensibly doing fieldwork but mostly just arguing about the best way to clean up the recent curses.
Haibara immediately beamed, radiating pure, golden- retriever sunshine. "Gojo-senpai! Geto-senpai! You're out! Are you feeling better, Gojo-senpai?"
Satoru gave him a dazzling, high-wattage smile. "Never been better, Haibara! We're celebrating my perfect health! We're going to skip rocks!"
Nanami's face set in a look of profound annoyance. "Please refrain from including us in your juvenile celebratory activities. We have actual work to do. And I highly doubt Gojo-san is capable of skipping anything other than remedial coursework."
Satoru zoomed over and ruffled Nanami’s neatly parted hair, eliciting a silent snarl of fury. "Relax, Nanami! Mandatory team bonding! It’ll be fun!"
Suguru watched the exchange, a quiet happiness blooming in his chest. Things were getting back to normal.
But Satoru's laughter, though loud and infectious, was a tight mask.
Satoru watched Haibara enthusiastically bending over the water, searching for the perfect stone. He watched Nanami, shoulders tense, grudgingly picking one up. They were so vibrant, so real, so present.
He thought: They're alive. They're here. Haibara is laughing, and Nanami is annoyed, exactly as it should be.
The simple joy was immense, overwhelming, but just as quickly, the image of Haibara’s bright smile warped into the image of a body bag, and Nanami’s youthful annoyance dissolved into the haunted look of the man who had abandoned everything.
A cold shiver traced down Satoru's spine. He could hear Shoko's tired, resigned voice from the past timeline, a cruel whisper of memory: "The dead don't speak, Satoru. We just bag them."
He froze for a fraction of a second, the light draining from his eyes as the raw trauma of that remembered past slammed into him. He quickly forced his focus back to the present, throwing his stone—six, seven, eight skips across the water, the ultimate show of control.
"Beat that, Nanami!" Satoru challenged.
Nanami sighed, but he bent down and picked up a stone. Haibara was already enthusiastically bouncing his on the water, shrieking with delight every time it touched the surface.
Suguru smiled, tossing his own rock, which skipped three times. He moved closer to Satoru, simply placing a hand on his friend's arm. It was a subtle, silent gesture, saying: I see you. But we're safe now. We're together.
For a fleeting moment, Satoru leaned into the touch, letting the warmth of Suguru’s hand ground him, anchoring him firmly back in his beautiful, fragile present.