Chapter Text
Suguru stands behind him, arms braced on each side of his body. “Does it feel good ?”
He sounds detached, like he’s reading lines from a script.
Satoru groans. His muscles are impossibly hot and strained, stretched inside like a framed butterfly. He convulses with each thrust. His body keeps expecting a stab wound, keeps expecting pain.
“You can’t feel pain, though,” Suguru answers his thoughts, “we don’t have time for that.”
He doesn’t need the reminder. He just gave Tengen a victim to merge with, just so that Megumi wouldn’t have to. Everything he does is damage control, and he feels like a sponge in the ocean, desperately trying to suck in the salted water to save as many people as he can.
“The downing god, with watery eyes that he doesn't know how to swim in,” Suguru deadpans.
Satoru tries to reach for the strong arms or push back into the other's chest, but he finds that he can't move. He cries out in frustration.
“Such a broken little deity,” His voice is so close to his ear, but he's unreachable, still.
“Yes, yes I am.” Satoru agrees, desperate to please.
After a few more thrusts, the man comes inside him.
Simultaneously, a blade goes through his throat.
It feels the same as when Toji did it, hot blood rushing into his mouth, a wave of sideration and the inability to scream.
“If you can't even be useful, what's the point of being a god ?” Suguru finally holds him as drops to the floor, warm and comforting where his body curls around his own, a flesh coffin. Satoru bleeds and bleeds in his arms, his hair, his bones and his eyes liquifying, until he can finally become the water, gliding between the man's fingers, until he is finally worthy of the six eyes.
He opens his eyes slowly, feeling deeply tired and heavy with the knowledge that he is still, in fact, solid. Lying on his couch with a cursed spirit that he definitely shouldn’t keep so close.
The snake’s head is cold in the crook of his elbow, a reminder that Suguru is back in his life, albeit in an unexpected manner. He's not just a ghost that haunts his nightmare anymore, at least.
He checks his phone. He didn't even get a full hour of sleep.
The higher-ups are irritating, but the strategy department of sorcerers probably inspired the concept of hell when it was created.
They keep vomiting facts. Statistics, provisional losses and gains and charts on the rise in cursed energy since the Shibuya incident. Five main points to remember and three important factors and ten most likely scenarios.
Words, words said randomly without a care as to how they will be received or when they are spoken. Words to distract from the reality of flesh wounds and broken bones. Words uttered with too much certainty but never any reassurances.
Like priests without faiths, doctors without a body or judges without laws. Their own thoughts resonate in the room like it's an echo chamber. Meaningless, overbearing and useless.
“Okay !” Gojo spreads his arm, letting his smile dig into his cheeks, “I think we're done for today.”
“We haven't discussed the plan of action considering those two S-grade curses that..” One of them starts.
“What's there to discuss ? I will take care of it. As per usual,” he interrupts.
“So you still refuse to get your students involved, depriving them of necessary training will..”
“Like I said,” he interrupts, again, “many, many times before, no S-grades for the kids. Every time you bring back the subject, I am tempted to stop sending them on missions altogether.”
“That is not your decision to make !”
Like hell it’s not.
He's already made Megumi and Inumaki take a break. The others only take on low grade curses for now. “They’re tired and grieving.”
They all complain and whine, dogs in a kennel.
They don’t care about how any of these kids could become the new Suguru Geto if pushed too far. They are too dumb from abstract numbers and their willingness to suck up to the government and its most corrupt branches.
To his left, Yaga stands up, “Gojo has been cooperating with most of your demands, I would like to remind you that the number of casualties is astonishingly low considering the recent circ*mstances.”
“But public anxiety is at an all-time high !”
Satoru watches Yaga argue in his favor and he wonders why it makes him feel so sick. It's the word cooperating. How long has he been trying to do that, without any improvement made in favor of the students' safety ? As soon as he was sealed, they sent all his first years, knowing the risks, hoping that Yuji would die, uncaring of what would happen to the rest of them.
The worst part is, he's so resigned about it all. If he kills them now, there won't be anyone to replace them with a different mindset. That is how rigid their stance is on this matter, even Yaga thinks there is no other way to make the job safer except having stronger sorcerers.
There are a few, -slow to implement- solutions that could make a huge difference long-term. But no one cares to hear about that, he might as well gouge his six eyes out, the blood would be more appealing to them.
He sprawls out his hands on his kitchen counter, and tries not to bash his head against it.
“43% increase of cursed spirits which might result in…”
“..The diplomatic missions will guarantee mutual aid in case of..”
“..A three week deadline, which is generous considering.. ”
He needs to focus on the next task, the next mission. Trying to see the big picture of this nightmare of a to-do list won’t help. As Yaga often warned, hands behind his back as the three of them pretended to understand how serious this was, this is a marathon.
If marathons were held in forest fires, that is.
He needs to sleep, needs something to separate the days beside showers. But his skin is crawling with a strange, otherworldly sensation that he is certain is a marker of time. Time is creeping on him like ants and it's probably some malfunction from the six eyes but it's driving him absolutely insane.
It's past ten. He wonders if Suguru is still awake.
He wants to hear his voice. The silence in his apartment, coupled with the sensation (it's past ten, can't time chill down a little ?) is going to push him over the edge.
He calls him, and jumps when his phone rings to signal it's connecting the call.
“Satoru ?”
That's his name, sometimes he misses it. “That’s me.” He confirms, maybe to the man, maybe to himself.
A huff, “are you drunk again ?” Suguru asks, seemingly unbothered by the call.
Satoru exhales a laugh or a sigh of relief, he doesn't know. “I wasn't drunk that time, I was barely tipsy, come on.” He runs his nails over the grainy surface of the counter. “Are you busy ?”
“I'm not." There is a shuffling noise, maybe blankets. “You sound - on edge.”
“Can't sleep” he admits. “I mean it's fine, with the RCT I don't even need to, but I think the six eyes are going haywire because I experience time as like, a physical sensation now. So, that sucks.”
He scratches the back of his head, awkwardly.
“You - you experience time.." He sighs, "How long since you've slept more than an hour ?”
“Oh, not that long actually.. At your place, I slept the whole night, right ?” Satoru answers.
“More like, six hours at best,” Suguru chastises. Satoru can easily envision him sitting in his bed, pinching the space between his eyebrows. “And that was more than two weeks ago. I'm not in Japan right now.”
Satoru gets momentarily confused before he realizes that Suguru is telling him that they can't meet. “It's fine.”
He would be embarrassed if he still had the energy. As it is, he hopes Suguru will keep talking.
“Is it a sharp or dull sensation ? The time thing," the man asks.
“Uh,” He didn't expect that, “what the hell does that mean ? Does it matter ?” It reminds him of when Shoko would make him try to describe what cursed energy looks like to him. His body is still as mysterious to himself as it is to others. She would love dissecting him, her and probably most of his clan.
“Is it more like a bruise or an open wound ?” Suguru insists.
He chuckles, for some reason, “It's not that bad, it's more like needles on my skin. It's tingly, kinda.”
“Okay. Needles.” Suguru repeats, “You should close your eyes, do you have your blindfold on ?”
“I'm not even in bed,” he admits.
“Well, you should start with that. What are you wearing ?”
He walks to his bedroom on autopilot “oh, I did shower so just a t-shirt and boxers. I got my blindfold.” He lies on his bed, slipping the blindfold over his face. “Wait.” He smirks, “Suguru, is it that kind of phone call ?”
He can hear the sly smile in the answer. “I don't know Satoru, is it ? You're the one who called me.”
He inhales sharply. “But I'm not that easily convinced, y'know, my time is expensive.”
Suguru laughs, light and airy. “Always so arrogant when you need me,” he comments, and that sends a shiver down Satoru's spine. “Do you want to tell me where you ‘feel time ?’”
He wonders if Suguru's always been so patient with him, so amused at behaviors that would make anyone hang up on him in an instant.
He puts his phone on speaker and places it on his nightstand.
“Uh, I’m not sure.” He tries to locate it, the stinging and zz-hgg of it, “my thighs and my chest. Usually. But I feel it the most in my chest right now.”
“Then what if I were to put my hands over it, would that help ?”
The idea invokes sensations that are indistinguishable from reality. Suguru's palms, warm and dangerous.. He hums his approval, lower than he meant it to be.
“Where would that be exactly ? Put your hands there,” Suguru orders.
It's weird, to slip them under his shirt and find the right spots. His chest feels foreign to him, there are some muscles he doesn't remember noticing before, “On my ribs on my right side, and on my left side below my collarbone.”
“Okay, press gently, a few times.”
He does, and surprisingly his brain stops providing him inaccurate information. Maybe he just needs to give something to his nerves other than fabric and infinity. “It's getting better, I think-”
“Now run your fingertips over the skin, slowly," Suguru interrupts.
It's like removing the plastic from a fruit, the way the artificiality of his body breaks under his own touch. He sighs shakily.
“Good, you’re doing great ‘Toru.” Suguru congratulates, “tell me, how does it feel ?”
The words send warmth throughout his whole body, “feels good, feels like when you touch me..” He catches himself, “don't make me say sh*t like that,” he complains.
Suguru chuckles, “I'm not making you say anything.”
“You do, you asked me..” He presses his head back into the pillow, trying to gather his thoughts. “I want to talk, I need - words.”
Maybe he's is no state to be on the phone with Suguru.
“By all means talk, I'm not stopping you.”
He says it like they've ever managed to communicate with each other, like Satoru’s brain isn’t filled with intricate perceptions that he can’t express to others and Suguru doesn’t overthink and manipulate the meaning of things until they're twisted beyond recognition.
Satoru bites his lips, feeling lightheaded. “Can I ask,” he hesitates, but what’s the point of this if he can’t have him whole ?
“If there were no curses, don’t you think they would simply find another use for us ? We would still be different from normal sorcerers, we would still be freaks to be bred like cattle. Or used in wars, I guess.”
Silence stretches as Satoru wonders if the other will simply hang up.
Despair creeps into his voice, “I’m not trying to - I just want to..”
“I know.” Suguru interrupts. “I’m thinking. Go down to your thighs, to where you still ‘feel time’ there.” Suguru continues, “can you do that ?”
Satoru closes his eyes in relief. “Yes," he sighs.
“Do the same thing that you did on your chest.”
He does, palming and rubbing the sensation out, panting faintly.
“You’re right,” Suguru’s voice is still calm over his own breathing and racing heartbeat, “but only if you assume that society would remain exploitative, as it is now. Fear doesn’t just create cursed energy, you know, it also teaches us lessons. It changes the way we think about certain issues, about people.”
“So,” Satoru swallows audibly, this is exactly what he needs, words that have an intent and a purpose and a meaning, cutting into his soul with surgical precision. “You want to be the radicality that will further some kind of,” his hands still as he thinks, “new conception of human’s worth ? But then, why do you need to kill all of them ?”
“I don’t, but I want them to think I will. Optics are more important than meaning, and nothing rallies support and spurs collective action better than the promise of blood.” A pause, “how do you feel ?”
Satoru feels like his brain has been dipped in hot syrup, in the best way possible. “Better, but keep talking I..” He's straining against his underwear, hot underneath his blanket. “Can I touch..” He interrupts himself, realizing how stupid it is to ask when Suguru can’t even see him.
“You wanna touch yourself ?” Suguru picks up on his hesitation, “are you hard from debating with me ?” He chuckles, “I’m not surprised, actually. Yeah, go ahead.”
“I don’t need your permission,” Satoru snaps.
He bites his cheek as the other laughs, and fine, maybe he's full of sh*t with that one.
“Touch yourself, Satoru,” he teases. “Or don't, since you won't obey me.”
Suguru and his mind games, Suguru and his impossible strings of thoughts and philosophical arguments. Satoru groans and gets his hands on his co*ck. “Aaah, f*ck.” He's so sensitive already, he forgot how good his body can feel when it's given some attention.
“That bad, uh ?” Suguru asks, amused. “Go ahead, do it like it's my hands on you. You want to. Bet it won't be the first time you picture it.”
“f*ck off,” he takes the edge off with a few hard strokes then circles his thumb around the tip, “okay, about optics, guess that’s true. But if you make them scared of sorcerers, isn’t that the best way to create more hatred against us ? Isn’t that what happened with Sukuna ?”
Suguru hums. “They hate us Satoru, they hate us when we die to protect them, and when the statute of secrecy breaks they will hate us as soon as they realize we’re different. The only question is whether they will be scared enough to let us live.”
“They’ll be the most at risk if they don’t, they can’t even see curses without us,” he retorts.
“I know that, but do you think they do ? Look at how disposable we are to them.”
Satoru licks his molars, he likes it, the anger in Suguru’s voice, the moral outrage wraps around him as tight as his own hand. “That’s just traditions, -ah, traditions can change.” His voice breaks on a moan, he wonders how Suguru can keep his tone even.
What Satoru is doing is so f*cked up and wrong, but f*ck does it feel good. He’s confounding himself, trying to think and feel at the same time. It creates a kind of buzzing silence, a silence from too much noise, the only kind he can get with the way his mind works. He’s coming undone with it, unraveling.
“Yes, but this specific status quo is kept in place through indiscriminate violence. I’m not inclined to argue with people who don’t consider me as human.”
Satoru gets into a fast rhythm that borders on painful. He wants to see it, Suguru terrorizing the higher-ups with his cold, uncaring voice and threats that actually have weight to them. Wants to watch as they realize that Satoru can’t stop him, won’t stop him.
“Slow down,” Suguru dictates. He whines but does as he's told. “You sound like you're trying to rip skin, take your time.”
“Suguru,” Satoru’s voice goes low with pent up frustration, with the weight of raw desire, “I need this.”
“I know you do, but be patient,” the other drawls, mocking. “you’re losing this argument, don’t you want to win ?”
Satoru honestly doesn’t care, everything he tried has already gone to hell anyway. He only craves violence, pleasure, and meaning, and anything that isn’t contaminated by his failures. “Are you gonna kill the higher-ups, Suguru ?” The question is laced with lust, f*ck, he’s lost it, he’s truly lost it. It feels like he’s in one of those manic fighting mindset, six eyes sending his hormones haywire, except this time he’s only wrestling for the thrill and Suguru is the one doing this to him. “They’ll be replaced. If you think you’re the first sorcerer to rebel, you’re delusional.”
“And you’re brainwashed, believing that they would keep dying just to oppose me. You’re one of the only fools ready to put his life on the line to maintain ‘peace’, and not because you’re strong. You self-sacrificing little martyr.”
Satoru tries to answer but a high-pitched moan falls from his lips instead, he’s drooling with it, curling on himself as the tension nears its paroxysm.
He hears Suguru draw in a deep, rattled breath, “f*ck, that’s what you want, isn’t it ? To be used.” He groans, “I won’t use you for violence though, I have better plans for you.”
Their strength was never the only thing they shared, not even close. They are pathetic in the same way, with the need to be useful but the hidden yearning to be more than that. The wish to find purpose for their existence. The inability to reach out, because what is comforting to them is unfathomable to everyone else. Strength was just one of the cause of their shared insanity, the soil to their forest.
Satoru comes, sealing his eyes shut so hard he sees static. His fingers twitch with the need to hold someone. He makes a distressed little sound with it, like a dog begging to be pet.
His skin feels moist, pillowcase clinging to his face when he drops, he wipes his hand on his sheet, too tired to care.
The wave of exhaustion follows instantly, like his brain has been unplugged and replugged and his internal wires have reconnected with his physical cues.
He listens to the regular but rapid breathing from his phone.
“Suguru,” he whispers, “I'm tired," he complains, and he's not just talking about the need to sleep.
“Yeah, I know,” the reply is gentle, “relax, it's okay.”
He finally rests.
