Chapter Text
The first time Geto Suguru held a cigarette to his lips he inhaled far too quickly. Smoke scorched his tongue, his throat, his chest–it felt like he was on fire, and for a split second it was enlightening before his lungs forcefully pushed it back out in a staggering cough. He gasped for air, and Shoko laughed across from him, stealing back her treasure. He took a shaky breath and it stung, but he instantly craved the warmth again.
Geto reached forward to take the cigarette back from where Shoko sat across the table, but the girl nursed it with practiced ferocity. He looked to Gojo instead, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the group’s lunch.
Gojo was hunched forward with his head tucked into his arms as he rested on the table. He had taken off his sunglasses, setting them by a few empty cans of pop from earlier. Geto would have thought he was sleeping if it wasn’t for the rapid bounce of his leg under the table, though he had no idea what Gojo could have been worried about. Perhaps he was bored.
“Satoru,” Geto called, and the boy looked up at him from where his head lay on the wood, eyes gleaming. “You wanna try, too?”
Gojo frowned. “That stuff’s gross,” he said, “your lungs are gonna get all fucked up.”
Every time he smokes afterward, he feels the sting of the acrid air filling his chest and finds it fitting that he is killing himself from the inside out. Recently, the consumption of each new curse sits heavier in his stomach, the rot metastasizing two-fold, then ten-fold, until he is sitting against his bedroom door with his head in his hands, heaving, certain that he is the one being consumed.
Food becomes less appetizing for a couple of reasons, the first being that eating requires swallowing and Geto has grown to hate the sensation; the second being that actually making the food requires more energy than he has for anything outside of Jujutsu. If he was honest with himself, he might admit that Jujutsu was starting to feel like a chore too. It was tireless training for marginal improvement, and no matter how much stronger he got, he would always know he couldn’t save the people he had already failed. He feels Riko Amanai’s blood on his hands, sees her smile in his nightmares, hears the raucous applause of that cult echoing in his head. It couldn’t be a chore, though. Geto was a sorcerer whether he liked it or not, and he had a duty to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. He couldn’t let his life’s purpose become a begrudging task–what else did he have left?
His friends were practically strangers. Gone were the late nights unbothered by the world and its horrors, just him and Satoru on the floor, making faces at each other in the moonlight. The annoying text tone that used to have him scrambling for his phone is one he hasn’t heard in weeks. There was a time when Geto had watched Satoru skip down the sidewalk kicking fallen leaves and wondered what it was like to hold his hand. Now he wonders what it’s like to be near him at all. Geto feels the space between them like a fissure in his chest; the memories remind him that he used to be loved.
Now he watches, feet unmoving, as Gojo soars ahead, and he is resigned to the same aching loneliness he knew before, only now it’s worse. Now he knows the emptiness can be filled; before Gojo, joy was intrinsically unattainable, forever out of his reach. He’s felt hollow since the beginning, but Satoru loved him as if he were whole. He almost believed it.
They still exchange pleasantries and congratulate each other on missions, and fuck, doesn’t that hurt more than silence would? He always knew Gojo was destined to be a lonely god, he just didn’t realize how easy it was going to be. A selfish part of him wished that Gojo needed him too, but the realization that he never did was devastating. Geto understands it now, or tries to. The truth is bitter, but he learns to swallow worse. He feigns indifference in public, then retires to his bedroom to smoke out of the window, wishing desperately that he was strong enough to matter or worth enough to miss.
However, it’s hard to be indifferent when Gojo, insisting he watch one day, snatches the shining orb of cursed energy coiled in Geto’s hand and promptly shoves it in his mouth. Gojo’s face contorts as he chokes it down, his crystalline eyes watering at the taste. It is only when he heaves and a tear finally slips down his cheek that Geto recovers from the initial shock.
“Satoru, what the fuck?” he gasps as he reaches forward, and Gojo is stumbling into his arms. He runs a hand through the mess of white hair splayed against his chest and pulls it backward to look at his friend’s face. He’s pale, paler than usual, and Geto forces his other hand to Gojo’s jaw. His mouth falls open, empty.
“You swallowed it,” Geto forces out. He can sense it now, the trail of cursed energy plunging into the back of Gojo’s throat. Tears spill freely from Gojo's eyes and he begins to shake. His lip trembles, and his mouth is still half-open as he tries forming words, but no sound comes out. Geto’s heart feels like it’s about to stop beating. “Satoru?” he whispers.
A broken cry is all he gets in response. Gojo tucks his head into Geto’s shoulder, letting the other man hold him. What did you do, Satoru?
Geto decides to bring him to his room. He has sweets and some soju he had been saving for the day after exams, but now is as good a time as any. He’s not really sure what to do. Wrapping him in a blanket and settling Gojo onto the bed, Geto tries (and fails) to broach the topic again. Swaddled like a baby, Gojo’s eyes are wide and puffy from crying, and his shoulders are curled inward. Geto runs a hand down his face and sighs.
“What was that?” he asks, and it comes out harsher than he intended.
“I-” Gojo croaks, and he winces as his voice catches in his throat. He coughs, then tries again. “I needed to know.”
“Needed to know what?” Geto asks again, and his head starts to spin. It hadn’t been a very strong curse, but even Gojo should know it would be incredibly stupid for anyone but Geto to fucking eat it. Was this some sort of joke? Did he think he was stronger than Geto? Would it kill him?
No, he decides. It shouldn’t kill him; he had already defeated the curse, so it wouldn’t be able to do much damage. Yet, his brain adds helpfully.
“I needed to know what it felt like,” Gojo says, and his face twists as his eyes screw shut. He flops backward on the bed, groaning and raising his hands to his head. “I didn’t know,” he starts, but his voice breaks and his body is wracked with a sob. “Suguru,” he gets out, and Geto is floored.
Comforting Gojo comes as easily as it always did. At least, he hopes it does. Geto walks over to his closet, rummaging through bags of shounen manga and clothes he grew out of last summer. He finds the Pocky he’s had stashed there for months and throws it onto the bed. When Gojo doesn’t immediately move for them, Geto sighs again and grabs the bottle of soju hidden in the corner next to his cigarettes. He grabs those, too.
His nightly habit is so routine that he almost goes to the window instead of Gojo, but he redirects and climbs on the bed next to him. Geto stares at his friend’s back. Months ago, he wouldn’t be afraid to peel back the blanket and curl up with Satoru, but now he’s not sure he’d even be allowed. He settles for a hand on his shoulder, and isn’t it cruel that it feels so foreign?
“C’mon, eat something," he says. “It’ll get the taste out of your mouth.” Gojo lets out a shaky breath and turns slowly to face him, and Geto is suddenly aware of just how different Gojo looks. His cheeks aren’t as round as they used to be, and his jaw is more defined; he’s stronger, but he’s older, too. Geto knows what time does to the body.
He’s reminded briefly of the First Grade he’d exorcised at the shopping mall in Odaiba, a slimy thing that had begun to swallow women and girls in the makeup aisles of the drugstore. The overwhelming fear of the inevitable and the putrid self-hatred that gripped him for the rest of the day was unlike anything he’d ever known. Looking down at him, he can’t help but notice Satoru wears maturity like it’s fine jewellery, an accessory to his pre-existing beauty.
Geto nearly forgets that he had been saying something. He had been too busy mentally tracing every line of Gojo’s face to realize the man hadn’t given him an answer. He picks up the soju, screws off the top, then takes a hefty swig before reaching for the Pocky. He opens the box, then the bag, grabbing the end of one between his fingers.
“Strawberry,” Gojo says quietly, and he suddenly looks so sad that Geto is sure he’s done something wrong.
“It’s the only kind I have,” he starts to say, but Gojo’s breath hitches and he grabs Geto’s wrist.
“It’s perfect,” he says, and a tear leaks from the corner of his eye. Geto pretends not to notice. He also pretends that it’s Gojo’s arm that guides the Pocky to his mouth, but he knows there’s no use. When Satoru’s lips part and he takes the Pocky between his teeth and bites, Geto lets the other end fall into the sheets between them. He seriously can’t do this.
“Does it hurt?” Geto asks, nodding toward Gojo’s stomach and praying his face doesn’t look as warm as it feels.
Gojo shakes his head while he chews, white hair falling to his face. He raises his hand and places it over his chest. “It’s here,” he tells Geto, and his voice is steadier now.
“What do you mean it’s there?”
“I don’t- I don’t know, it feels like there’s this weight, and I can’t breathe, and-” Oh.
For some reason, Geto had assumed the curse wouldn’t affect Gojo mentally. At least, not like it affects him. He thought Gojo’s body would reject it, not try to metabolize it, but Gojo starts breathing faster and Geto moves to set the alcohol and snack aside. Gojo must've thought he was getting up because he reaches for Geto again, fingers curling into the dark fabric of his t-shirt. “Please don’t leave,” he says, desperate. Then, so quietly Geto barely hears it, “I miss you so much.”
“I won’t leave you,” Geto says after a moment. He’s not sure he wants to have this conversation–no, he’s very sure that he doesn’t, actually. It doesn’t matter though, because Gojo is sitting up and flinging himself at him in seconds. He knocks Geto onto his back in a bone-crushing hug, and it’s so achingly familiar in a wretched and ruined way that Geto wants to cry. They don’t say sorry, they don’t embrace like love is pouring out from their fingertips with nowhere else to go; they hold on not knowing if they’ll be able to again.
Geto silently thanks whoever is watching over him when the sniffling subsides and Gojo falls asleep. He rolls the other man off of him and does his best to tuck him in despite being on top of half the blanket. Gojo looks so at peace, save for the slight furrowing of his brows.
He grabs his cigs and goes to sit by the window, sighing for what feels like the millionth time that night. The smoke is a comforting weight in his lungs. He’ll try to fix this tomorrow, he decides. For now, he lets the night air dry any tears on his face and wishes this is all just some ruthless dream.