Archive of Our Own ^beta

Suguru doesn’t know where he is, which is alarming, but he’s pretty damn comfortable. 

There’s a weighted blanket draped over his chest. Stuffed animals are arranged like a halo above his head, and he lays as lifeless as a snow angel on a dead winter’s night. The pillow tucked under his head is soft; the texture is almost identical to the designer satin pillowcases Satoru had exclusively ordered back in the day – because apparently the school-issued ones “made his teeth itch,” which to this day, Suguru cannot understand. 

But whatever. It was comfortable. This pillow is comfortable. His limbs are sprawled out in the warmth of the bed, feeling much heavier than they’re supposed to, but not unbearably so. His eyelids are heavy too, but he isn’t sure if they’re opened or closed. He guesses it doesn’t matter all that much, since he’s comfortable and the room is quiet and smells like jasmine with a hint of sandalwood.

Suguru’s comfy, so the chances of him getting up are about as slim as his waist in high school, back when his diet consisted of strictly lemonade, curses, and an ungodly amount of cigarettes.

Shoko called it an eating disorder. Suguru called it the unfortunate but necessary life of the strongest.

One of the two strongest, that is. Because back then there were two. Gojo and Geto. Sun and shade. The ocean and the sand, soaking each other up, obsessed with each other, overlapping and obnoxiously salty– and never shutting up, ever. 

Gojo and Geto. Satoru and Suguru. Six Eyes and his slightly less obnoxious best friend(?) who had a strange talent for swallowing bad-tasting balls–

Pause. Pause. Not like that. Get your mind out of the gutter, weirdo.  

Suguru shakes his head, laughing at his own ridiculous train of thought. He should probably focus on where the hell he is. The warm, squishy surface beneath him is new and, while it is cozy, it’s very unsettling. 

Mainly because just a few minutes ago, he was getting his ass kicked by a high schooler who somehow seduced a special grade curse. 

And after that, his ex-best friend confessed his undying love (a decade late, what a bastard) before killing him in a nasty ass alleyway. 

Suguru remembers a bit too vividly the feeling of the strongest’s power rippling through him, forcing his already shaking breaths to an abrupt stop. He felt like lava was being poured over his wounds, melting his flesh and mixing with the new gooey substance, singing his blood and forcing it to erupt in a plume of smoke. He was electrified in slow motion, hyperaware of each of his individual atoms, vibrating with overstimulation. Taking their very last gasps of breath. 

He felt everything – the sun, the sky, the moon, the stars, the ocean, the sand, the rocks, the bones nestled deep under breathing, searing flesh– everything, all at once. 

And then it was quiet. Cold. Empty. As quickly as it came, it left. He was stripped of all his senses, shoved into the snow. As his vision blurred and melted into uselessness, what felt like an Antarctic breeze whistled over his exposed body, goosebumps spreading like oil over water on his blood-stained skin. He was plunged into a void of nothing but cold and dark and alone and– 

And then he was here. He was warm, snuggled under a blanket, clean and tired and unbothered. Comfortable. Like waking up on a Saturday morning with Satoru’s long and lanky body draped over his chest in the comfort of Suguru’s dorm room all those years ago.

But instead of Satoru on his chest, it was a milky blue weighted blanket. And instead of his cement-like twin-sized mattress from his room at Jujutsu Tech, it was a spongy, heated, king-sized bed with an ungodly amount of blankets and pillows and assorted stuffed animals. The huge kind that Satoru had always stared at, the ones with silly beaded eyes in the display window at the toy store right beside their favorite candy shop.      

And ah, that’s right. Now we’re up to speed: Suguru is dead! Thinking over his life, reminiscing his best moments, blah blah blah, the whole bittersweet being dead shebang. 

It’s pretty hilarious, in a way, that his most precious moments were from that time. With Satoru. The person he abandoned in favor of “fixing the world” and whatnot. Now Suguru understands the depth of that stupid insult, “peaked in high school.” It doesn’t only apply to blonde cheerleaders sucking cock behind the bleachers at a football game.

No, it’s an insult for Suguru, too.

He was dragged out of the darkness and placed up on a pedestal to be admired and worshiped; he locked arms with the magnificent Six Eyes and took a bow at his equal; he worked his ass off and felt good about his accomplishments and the strength of his newfound friendships. He cherished his time at Jujutsu Tech. It was, for lack of better words, his peak. 

Exorcise, absorb, exorcise, absorb–

No, no. That was better than being insane, wasn’t it? It was better to struggle and starve with Satoru than to be constantly drenched in monkey blood. Such dirty work he’s doing now, this whole mass murderer, terrorist, cult leader thing, and ah… you know the story, right? Suguru’s too tired to finish the whole “life flashing before his eyes” thing right now. He just wants to know why Satan isn’t greeting him at the gates to hell with a pitchfork and a toothy grin. 

Because he is dead, right? Satoru, his precious Satoru, had killed him. As highly as Suguru thinks of himself, nobody could survive a hit from Satoru Gojo. 

Maybe Suguru’s in the lobby or something. Does hell have a lobby? Considering all the monkeys on the planet, there’s got to be a line waiting to be checked in. He’ll have to apologize to the underworld secretary for clogging up the place with all that extermination. Hopefully they’ll understand. 

With a half-assed smile at his own joke, Suguru peels his eyes open and stares at the ceiling. (Ah, so they were closed.) 

The sudden sensation of his senses returning to him after getting his shit rocked by that Yuuta kid and his curse-wife (is that considered beastiality?) is too much. It’s like a baby being baptized with ice water; he wants to scream and cry and flail his arms around like an infant, not worrying about how others will view the fat tears rolling down his cheeks or the snot bubbling in his nose. The sensation of everything coming back to him after Satoru’s perfect blow ( pause, not like that–) is too much. Unexpected, unwelcomed. 

He wants to go back to being numb again. Being ignorant. Being stupid and being reckless and being a kid. Being with Satoru.  

So far, Suguru has come to realize, dying sucks. He’s bored and he can’t get his body to move. All he can do is think about the last face he saw. Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. And even if Satoru’s face hadn’t been the last he saw, Suguru’s mind would still be flooded by those gorgeous glassy Six Eyes, mirroring every detail of a bright summer sky. Rustled white hair like feathers blowing in the wind. Plump, glossy lips– because Satoru likes the taste of flavored lip moisturizer– 

Ah, maybe he should’ve kissed him before it ended, just once. He can imagine the softness, the warmth of his one and only’s mouth pressed against his own. Would Satoru be considerate of Suguru’s dying state and kiss him softly, shyly? Or would his devastation make him needy, hungry to devour all that Suguru was? Would his anger seep into the kiss? Would those magnificent blue eyes shed a tear, grieving all that they could’ve had, all that had ended? 

Maybe it shouldn’t have ended at all. Maybe Suguru should’ve gone down a different career path and held Satoru a little closer to his heart. 

Ah, who am I kidding? Suguru chuckles to himself within the confines of his own mind. Think about all the good you did! If you didn’t kill the monkeys, who would have? You may not be the strongest anymore, but you do have the biggest heart! Very considerate of you, Suguru!

Just as Suguru’s other, more maniacal internal voice goes to thank himself for the heartfelt compliments, the man starts to realize (and not for the first time) that he’s absolutely batshit insane.

A tap on his shoulder ruins the fun. Internally, Suguru flinches, but externally, he’s so comfortable that his body has confused it for hibernation– and hibernation with paralysis, apparently. 

“Papa, it’s time to get up,” whispers a soft, shaky little voice. He feels another touch, a small hand pushing the skin on his cheek, smacking him lightly before pushing some more. 

Suguru cracks an eye open, (when did he close them again?) confused. He watches, baffled, as a much younger, smaller version of the Mimiko he knows frowns at him, her dark eyebrows scrunched together with slight irritation. Her even darker hair is tousled, and her ugly ass stuffed animal is tucked under her arm, smelling surprisingly good despite its ragged condition. Must’ve been recently washed.

She pinches Suguru’s cheek and pulls. “Papa,” she whines. “C’mon, you gotta get up now. Your fiancé’s kid is missing and we still gotta pack lunches for school.”

Fiancé? Fiancé’s kid? Suguru mentally echoes. But I’m gay? And dead? Oh please don’t tell me my punishment is to be trapped in a loveless, heterosexual marriage. What happened to the classic “burn-for-all-eternity” thing?! 

Suddenly the metal band on his left ring finger is distrubingly apparent, heavier than it was just a second ago. Suguru makes a mental note to file a complaint at hell’s customer service department. He was promised physical punishment– not psychological torture and yucky straight sex. 

With another pinch of his face, Suguru gently waves away Mimiko’s hand and sits up. The weighted blanket falls off his bare chest, and his hair cascades down his shoulders like a jet-black waterfall. He feels like absolute shit (probably because he just died) but the annoyed, scrunched-up face on his daughter makes him utter a soft laugh, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He wills himself to stand, ignoring the ache in his muscles that’s dangerously similar to a hangover, and scoops Mimiko into his arms. Almost immediately, she drops the pouty act and snuggles into his side. The clock reads 7:23 a.m.

“Is your sister up?” Suguru asks, smoothing out Mimiko’s hair as he leaves the master bedroom. He reminds himself to look around it later, maybe figure out what the fuck is happening. 

Mimiko nods. “She and Tsumiki are packing lunches, but there’s only one Rice Crispy Treat left and we can’t decide who gets it.”

“Ah,” Suguru says with a lopsided smile. “That’s what you really woke me for, huh? To decide who gets the last treat? Sneaky and clever, my darling.”

Mimiko giggles, guilty, pressing her stuffed animal close to her chest. 

Suguru makes his way down the stairs, still with Mimiko on his hip. He isn’t sure what to expect– he has no idea who Tsumiki is, though the name is vaguely familiar. Perhaps it’s his fiancé in this everlasting hell, the one Mimiko mentioned earlier.

Emerging into the kitchen, Mimiko wriggles out of his grasp and bounces toward her twin sister and who Suguru assumes is Tsumiki. She’s taller than Nanako, who stands pouting beside her, but only by a few inches. Long dark hair, unsettlingly similar to Suguru’s though a bit lighter and more brown, is styled in a sleek high ponytail on the back of her head. Two thick strands hang down, framing her face– a face that looks strangely familiar. 

Before he can start deducing who this young girl is and how she got into his(?) house, the sound of high-pitched screaming fills the room. In marches– what? What the fuck? What the actual fuck– Satoru Gojo, face red and hair a touseled mess. He’s stomping like a child, frowning like a child, and child-like tears are pushing at his waterlines, threatening to spill over his flushed cheeks. He’s wearing oversized pajama shorts and a matching shirt, and a cat-themed sleeping mask is pushed up on his forehead, forcing his feather-like bangs backward, sticking up in odd places probably due to static.

All Suguru can do is stand and stare. 

“I can’t find him!” Satoru cries, dramatically slumping over the counter. “I’m too young to endure this kind of stress! Girls, please, what should I do?! My only son has been kidnapped–”

“It’s more likely he ran away,” Nanako quips with a teasing smirk. 

“From embarrassment,” Mimiko giggles. 

“Guys, don’t be mean,” Tsumiki says, but she can’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “I’m sure Megumi is fine, Dad. He’s probably outside with those two stray dogs again. Why don’t you and Suguru go check up on him? I’ll help the twins with packing their lunches.”

“Ah, you’re way too responsible for a nine-year-old,” Satoru sighs. Still, he listens, dragging himself through the kitchen to slump on Suguru’s chest. “Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?” Satoru teases. He presses a kiss to Suguru’s lips, then trails down his jaw, diving into the skin on his neck, pecking kisses on the space below his ear. 

Just as Suguru imagined it would feel: soft and warm and absolutely perfect.

“Ew, Satoru! Stop it!” Nanako squeaks. “Leave my papa alone, that’s nasty!” 

Satoru laughs, pulling away to ruffle the girl’s light-colored hair. “Listen to Miki, okay? Your papa and I are gonna go look for Megs outside. We’ll be back to take you to school.”

Nanako huffs but nods, tugging on the hem of Satoru’s shirt. “Be quick,” she mutters. “And while you’re out, get some more treats at the corner store. Me and Mimiko have to have the best snacks at school, ‘kay?”

“Roger that,” Satoru quips. He grabs Suguru’s hand, snapping him out of his daze, and drags him toward the front door. “You’re in charge, Tsumiki!” he calls, and then they’re outside, smacked by the frigid winter air.

It’s warmer than late January should be. The sun peaks out from behind the suburban houses and distant treeline, stretching her golden rays as she wakes from her nightly sleep. Still, Satoru’s kid is probably freezing.   

But as much as he wants to worry about his supposed fiance’s kid, Suguru can’t do anything but stare. His mouth is dry, eyes blown wide as he watches Satoru skip down the steps with an electric grin. No dark glasses, no blindfold, nothing to shield those magnificent eyes from beaming at him like a spotlight. Every place Satoru looks at him, Suguru feels he’s on fire. If this is what death is like, Suguru should’ve ended it ages ago. 

“What’s that look for?” Satoru laughs, pulling Suguru along. He has no idea where this man is taking him, but he’d be okay with walking off the edge of the Earth if it meant those blue eyes would look at him longer. “I know what you’re gonna say: ‘Satoru, you should pay more attention to your kids! Satoru, today is too busy and important for you to be goofing off! Satoru, how did you manage to lose your son before 8 a.m.?’ And to that I say… uhh, well… it wasn’t my fault!”

Satoru blushes, probably noticing the way Suguru is staring at him. Enamored by his face, his voice, his mannerisms, his theatrics. By him. Suguru can’t recall what glorious thing he did to be blessed with the gift of Satoru in the afterlife, but good lord… he’s drinking it in like an alcoholic. 

Satoru turns away, his face getting redder and redder. “It’s those fricken dogs,” he sputters out. “Megs and I found these two stray dogs at the park when we were walking back from that stupid parent-teacher-student meeting last week. Did I tell you already? I dunno, whatever, you’re gonna hear the story again anyways ‘cause I wanna tell it. Megs tossed a stick to the black one, and the white one sniffed him once, and ever since then, he’s been bullying me into taking him to the park in hopes of seeing them again. Damn kid!” Satoru huffs, leaning his head on Suguru’s shoulder. “Good thing the park isn’t far… but still! Scared the shit outta me when I couldn’t find him this morning, y’know?”

Suguru is aware that Satoru wants his rambling to be acknowledged, but the whole situation is so weird that Suguru has no idea what to say. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the kisses from earlier– was Satoru his supposed fiancé? That would make the most sense in this context, but how did that even come to be? What about the murders, the cult, the war on non-sorcerers? What about “Are you Satoru Gojo because you’re the strongest, or are you the strongest because you’re Satoru Gojo?” 

–It took Suguru, like, a month to come up with that line! No way is he going to erase all that hard work for nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing. Definitely not nothing. There’s something just right in the way Satoru looks at him, worships him with those beautiful eyes. He looks at Suguru as if he’s god, as if he carved the Earth’s mountains, filled the deep seas, and handed that planet over as an anniversary gift.

It’s as if Suguru had done no wrong. They– Satoru and the kids, they all seem so happy. 

It’s too bad none of it is real.

“–guru? Hey, Suguruuuu!” Satoru whines, bumping his shoulder against Suguru’s more harshly than necessary.

Suguru blinks away his thoughts, offering up the best smile he can muster. As pretty as Satoru is… it’s hard to enjoy something he knows is fake– something he knows he doesn’t deserve. 

But Satoru doesn’t need to know that. Satoru doesn’t need to know anything besides the fact that he’s smart and pretty and strong, and that Suguru would go to any lengths to protect him. Hell, Satoru is 85% of the reason Suguru started his monkey-terminating charity business in the first place! To give them time to relax, space to breathe, and guaranteed safety where they weren’t forced to work like dogs for pathetic wastes of semen and eggs that do nothing but bitch and whine and take up space. 

Another major reason was the girls, Nanako and Mimiko. And every other innocent sorcerer silenced by monkeys and treated like less than human. 

A third was Haibara.

Suguru readjusts his smile to hide the sick, twisted thoughts seeping through his pores. Satoru shouldn’t have to be plagued by violent thoughts like Suguru is. Satoru shouldn’t have to suffer under this burden. He’s already holding up the sky. 

They make it to the park, and to no one’s surprise, Megumi is tucked under the playground, fast asleep on two unusually large huskies. The small boy’s hair blended into the dark fur of the black dog’s belly, the one he was using as a pillow, while his pale arm draped over the white dog, snuggled against his chest like a stuffed animal. 

Satoru squeals, fumbling to pull out his phone and snap a million and one pictures. Laughing softly, Suguru helped pry the sleepy boy from the stray dogs and adjusted him in Satoru’s arms. “He’s such an ugly pain in the ass,” Satoru mumbles, but his smile is brighter than the sun, and he’s looking down at Megumi like he’s the center of the universe. 

“Right,” Suguru chuckles. “A total brat.”

Satoru takes the kids to the corner store to buy snacks, then takes them to school by himself after Suguru drops one subtle comment about his head hurting. Satoru’s adorable like that, always making room for Suguru’s inconveniences. If Suguru was sick, Satoru nursed him back to health. If Suguru was pissed off, Satoru led the march. If Suguru was sad– which, he tried his very hardest not to be, especially around Satoru– Satoru would practically glue himself to Suguru’s side and ward off any other evils. 

Suguru didn’t deserve him, not one bit, and with each passing day, the guilt spread like cancer through his body. But he also sure as fuck was not gonna give Satoru up. Of course he didn’t deserve Satoru– nobody did!– but at least Suguru saw him as human and loved him unconditionally. At least Suguru cared enough to put Satoru first and throw away his future in order to keep him safe. 

No one else was willing to do what Suguru did: the necessary evils. No one else was batshit crazy enough. He’d have to thank Toji Fushiguro for lighting the match once he’s formally let into hell. 

It’s at this point that Suguru realizes the weight of his situation: he’s dead. He’s dead. And Satoru’s not. Mimiko and Nanako are not. He failed, he abandoned his daughters, and he left Satoru with enough pain to flood the world–

Does it matter? Satoru never loved you back anyways. 

Ah, ah, ah, Suguru thinks. Satoru confessed right before killing him! 

Wow, you’re pathetic. You’re that happy over a confession ten years late? And on your deathbed, of all places? 

Suguru rolls his eyes at himself. “It’s the little things in life,” he murmurs, “isn’t it?”

Hey, remember that weird worm that called you “mommy”? The one that belonged to the monkey that killed Riko? Wasn’t that super gross?

Suguru lifts his head up off the counter he was resting it on and heads to the stairs. That’s enough brain time for today.

The master bedroom he woke up in looks like it was decorated by teenagers. Thin, wall-mounted shelves take up the space where the framed photos, fabric tapestry, and subculture-related posters aren’t spread out on the walls. On those shelves are rows of action figures and Funko Pops that Satoru started collecting in high school, along with a few plushies that didn’t make the cut for the king-sized bed. Fake vines curve around lofty loaded bookshelves, hang from the high ceiling, and wrap around the tall perimeter of the room next to strips of LED lights. A massive flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall across from the bed, and sitting on the black office desk below it is the newest Xbox and two controllers. 

Suguru scoffs. He likes Playstation better, always has, but as soon as Satoru found out about video games, he declared that his Xbox controller would have to be pried from his cold, dead hands. 

After glancing around a little while longer, Suguru decides to take a closer look at the pictures, hoping for some sort of backstory for the whirlwind he found himself in. Did the afterlife bother with packing lore into their ridiculous setups? Suguru is about to find out. 

The photos are small, no bigger than a polaroid (most of the older ones are polaroids, though the newer ones are higher quality) and strung up on beige twine with close pins and fairy lights. He has to tilt his head back a bit to look up at them. On the back of them are dates and captions scribbled out, most of them in Suguru’s handwriting. They seem to be in chronological order, which Suguru can admit is something he would do. 

He recognizes a lot of the pictures, though they aren’t exactly as he remembers them. Most of them are from high school: Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko goofing off with smiles as bright as the sun. Riding bikes, eating ice cream, climbing trees, dancing in the rain. The stupid teenage things they managed to squeeze in between killing curses and watching people die. 

Excorsize, absorb, exorcize, absorb–

Suguru rubs the oncoming headache out of his temples. He doesn’t have the energy for a mental breakdown right now. Maybe later. 

In the pictures, Shoko’s hair is short, just like he remembers, and her brown eyes are still warm and comforting. There’s a cigarette between her lips, but in most of them, it isn’t lit. Beside her, Satoru’s mouth hangs open, more often than not revealing a butterscotch candy settled on his tongue. He wears the sunglasses that Suguru remembers, and he looks just as adorable as he always did, clinging to Suguru’s shoulder. 

Suguru doesn’t look at himself. 

He finds pictures of Nanami and Haibara, too, most of them of Haibara trying to make Nanami smile. There’s a couple of the two of them on a Ferris wheel, and one of them asleep on the couch together. 

As he continues looking, the picture versions of his friends start to age. Shoko’s hair gets longer and her cigarettes are lit more often than not. Satoru stops wearing his glasses, though in the pictures, they aren’t replaced by the familiar blindfolds. Utahime starts wearing her hair differently, partially tied back with a ribbon. Nanami, too, fixes that monstrosity of a hairstyle. The quality of the images gets clearer as they inch further and further away from 2006.

And then the pictures introduce people Suguru doesn’t recognize. Kids, mostly, all around the same age. Nanami with two young pink-haired boys, one of them scowling like Satan incarnate and the other smiling so hard Suguru is shocked the boy’s face didn’t crack in half. There’s Shoko with what looks to be a smaller version of herself: short orange-brown hair and fiery, kind eyes. There’s Satoru and his kids whom Suguru met briefly: the old-soul kind-hearted Tsumiki and her disinterested and kinda sassy little brother, Megumi. Okkotsu stands close to Satoru, tucked halfway behind his leg, and Satoru’s hand ruffles his hair, but Suguru has yet to see the boy at all in the house.     

And of course, there’s Suguru and his daughters, Mimiko and Nanako. They’re just as he remembers them, a bit spoiled and feisty and overly protective of their papa. They cling to him in almost every picture, and part of Suguru feels bad that he, a monster and a killer, is the best thing they have. But still, he’s happy with them. Those girls are his and he would do anything to protect them. 

He notices Haibara stopped showing up in the pictures. For a while, Nanami stops smiling in them, too.  

Suguru decides to go look for clues somewhere else.  

Back in the kitchen, Suguru eyes the half-eaten marble cake on the counter. He isn’t hungry, but the sight makes him feel warm inside. The sweets lying around are simply more proof that Satoru Gojo lives here. With him. They live together. They’re together. 

What kind of gift is this? Is he being blessed by Satan for killing some damn monkeys?

Well, being Satan’s favorite isn’t the worst thing in the world, Suguru thinks. Still, he sighs, trudging toward the living room with his mind muddled. 

And it’s then, in the silence and solitude of this strange family home that supposedly belongs to him, that Suguru realizes something– He was so busy trying to understand this wonderful, foreign (after)life that he failed to recognize the absurd lack of cursed energy. 

The endless strawberry-like smell of Satoru’s cursed energy didn’t permeate his home like it had back in the dorms at Jujutsu Tech; Suguru’s twin daughters didn’t scamper around radiating cursed energy smelling like fire, ash, and smoke. Suguru can’t even taste the usual remnants of the dozen, hundreds, thousands of repulsive curses from his technique on his tongue. 

There’s none, not even a droplet of it.

The laughter that follows echoes throughout the whole house. 

That’s his punishment! To live his happily ever after as a useless fucking monkey!     

“God fucking damn it,” he mutters, running a hand over his tired eyes. “What a clever bastard.”

“Who’s a clever bastard?” interrupts a snappy, feisty voice. Suguru snaps his attention up to see… 

Riko.

It’s Riko, he thinks surreally, in the kitchen, unpacking groceries from a brown paper bag. Dark gray-blue eyes sparkle at nothing and everything as she sorts through the assorted foods, sorting the sugary junk from the fruits and vegetables. Her hair is braided just as Suguru remembers it, though notably longer. In place of the basic white headband is a red bandana, folded and tied with a little bow over her bangs. 

She smiles like nothing’s wrong. Like Toji Fushiguro didn’t ruin her chances at growing up. Like she’s happy.  

“If you’re talking about Satoru,” Riko rambles on, “I know exactly what you mean. That dofus tricked me into grocery shopping for him! He swears it’s ‘cause he’s busy with setting up Utahime’s daughters’ birthday party, but I know it’s actually ‘cause I told him I had a coffee date this morning. He’s so overprotective! You should really get on him about that, Sugu! I told you guys a million times I’m old enough to…”

She keeps talking. Suguru does not hear her. 

There is Riko. Rambling. Breathing. No blood in her long dark hair, no bullet in her pretty little head, no threat to her overwhelmingly precious smile. There is Riko Amanai, alive. 

The devil is cruel, Suguru thinks. It’s his first thought after the utter shock, hearing Riko’s voice after so long. She shouldn’t be here, he thinks. Riko should be nowhere near the devil. He is a cruel, cruel being.        

And by that logic, Riko should be nowhere near Suguru, either.

And yet she stays, chatting and unloading groceries. She complains about Satoru who is apparently more strict than Kuroi despite being only three years older than her. She tells Suguru about the boy she’s been talking to online and how they finally met up at a coffee shop downtown– and how Satoru had been insisting on tagging along. 

“I mean, I’m eighteen years old! Well, I will be in a couple months, anyway. You guys should trust me enough to handle a first date by myself. Even Kuroi-obasan said I’d be fine, and look! I didn’t get kidnapped, killed, or anything like that. Satoru’s just a big drama queen,” she pouts. Tilting her head with puppy-like curiosity, Riko shoots a glance at the man in the living room whose shoulders are way too tense to be considered relaxed. Instinctively, she pouts some more before ditching the groceries and sitting with Suguru on the couch. 

Suguru feels sick. He looks at Riko, happy Riko, living Riko, almost-all-grown-up Riko, and all he can see is a middle schooler’s corpse covered in a white sheet carried by his equally as dead best friend down a corridor of clapping sociopaths. There’s a sick, twisted part of him that blames Riko for all he’s become, and a sicker part of him blames her for all the pain Satoru has been force-fed over the past ten years. 

It’s not fair of him. Riko is not to blame. But right now– right now, and for the past ten years, it’s all he has. 

And then the little girl, who isn’t as little as Suguru remembers, furrows her eyebrows and twists her face into a grimace, similarly to the way she had on the Okinawa beach when Satoru bumped into her and made her ice cream cone fall into the sand. 

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?” Riko asks, resting her chin in her hands, her elbows on her knees. She’s attentive, leaning forward and swiveling her eyes to pry Suguru’s mind open with her striking, childish gaze. “Are you and ‘Toru fighting again?”

Suguru forces himself to shake his head. “Nah,” he says as casually as he can muster. “I just…” The words ‘I’m fine’ come so easily to him, it’s disturbing. Is this really who he is? A pathetically depressed lunatic who talks to himself, kills innocents, and lies to kids? He takes another breath, holding it for as long as humanly comfortable before letting the air seep out of his mouth like cigarette smoke. He lets his shoulders deflate, the tension melting away from his muscles. Some of it, at least. “It’s alright, Riko-chan,” he hums. “You don’t need to worry about me. How about you tell me about your coffee date? Did your online boyfriend meet your standards in real life?”

Riko huffs, flopping dramatically back against the couch. “I knew you’d say something dumb like that,” she grumbles. “You and Nanamin are way too similar, insisting you’re fine and prompting me to talk about myself. Just ‘cause you guys are legally adults now doesn’t mean you need to stop talking about your feelings and be totally fine all the time! Didn’t you hear Yaga-sensei’s spiel when you guys adopted a bunch of kids in your senior year?!” 

Suguru grins. As terrible as he feels, there’s something so comforting in listening to Riko go on and on about something, nothing, and everything. She really is like Satoru’s long-lost little sister, never shutting up and ridiculously sassy. There’s something just right about Riko being included in the happily ever after, no matter how fake it may be. 

It has Suguru wondering just what he did to enjoy this kind of paradise.

Or, more realistically, how it’s going to come crashing down. 

Satoru returns home an hour later, shouting apologies as he stumbles through the front door. Shoko is behind him, suppressing a wild smile, and behind her are Nanami and Utahime, both respectively pissed off at the white-haired hooligan leading the pack. Shopping bags cover their forearms, (Nanami has the most, hanging off his tailored suit like ornaments on a Christmas tree) and they reek of the mall– sweaty teenagers and overpriced perfume. 

It reminds Suguru of weekends at Jujutsu Tech. Though, despite the teenage versions of themselves in the pictures upstairs wearing the same uniform he recalls, and Riko mentioning Yaga-sensei, he isn’t sure what the school looks like in this world without cursed energy. 

He shouldn’t call this place a “world”. Suguru is dead, and this is nothing but his personal hell. Details like that don’t matter here. 

Riko is still in the house, though she went upstairs to take a shower and get ready, presumably for Utahime’s daughters’ party. She had spent a good amount of time lecturing Suguru on being honest with the people who care about him and reaching out when he needs help, and while he appreciated the sentiment, Suguru knew better than to give in to that sort of thing. He was happy listening to Riko and seeing her alive and well. He doesn’t want to ruin it by sharing whatever the fuck is going on in his mind. 

How would the happy-go-lucky, top-of-the-world, sunshine-firecracker Riko Amanai feel if she learned her unofficial big brother had slaughtered hundreds of innocent people?

His mind proposes the argument that they weren’t innocent, nor were they people. They were disgusting, pathetic, dirty little monkeys.             

Suguru shoves that thought back into Tartarus where it spawned from. He has come to terms with his psychotic ideals over the years, but he’d be damned if he ever let Riko hear that, not even this fabricated version of her in his own hell prison.

Instead, he focuses on the odd combination of people hobbling into his living space. Satoru sighs with so much relief Suguru would’ve thought he prevented another world war, plopping his shopping bags on the kitchen table and dragging himself to the living room. With as much grace as an apple plummeting down from its tree and into the muddy grass below, Satoru flops onto Suguru’s lap and sprawls out like a dead starfish.

His dark, circle sunglasses rest low enough on the bridge of his nose for Suguru to see the way his white eyelashes flutter. Blue eyes peer up at him, freezing him, and Suguru watches as a sly smile creeps onto his fiancé's face. 

“Ya missed me?” Satoru teases. 

Suguru flicks his forehead, smirking at the small squeak Satoru let out. Satoru then proceeds to lament about Suguru’s cruelty before Nanami steps in with a stern look on his face. “Gojo, as happy as I am for your engagement, you need to get your ass up and help with the decorations before I strangle you.”

Grinning like a lunatic, Satoru bolts upward and out of Suguru’s lap. “Nuh-uh,” Satoru sings, wiggling his index finger. “Only people who can strangle me are Suguru and Shoko!”

“What?” Utahime blurts out, hands planted on her hips. “Why Shoko?!”

Satoru shrugs, pushing up his glasses. “I mean, what am I supposed to do? Tell her no?”

Shoko snorts a laugh. “You guys are funny,” she says dryly. “Satoru, I’d never strangle you simply because I don’t want to dirty my hands and/or piss off your dumb boyfriend–”

“Fiancé!” Satoru yells over her. “He proposed!”

“–and Utahime,” Shoko goes on, ignoring the bumbling idiot, “I do whatever I want. It’s too much work to entertain the stupid concept of limits.”

Utahime grimaces. “I’m shocked you’ve never been arrested.”

“Never say never,” Suguru chimes in. It’s odd, really, seeing everyone together like this. Not everyone, his mind reminds him. Suguru pushes the thought away. During his ten-year cult-leading thing, he’d forgotten how much he cherished his fellow sorcerers. He missed them, of course– missed Satoru the most, and Shoko easily took second place– but it was a whole different experience being here: in a house they called their own complete with framed photos and childish decor and their kids’ drawings hanging on the fridge.

It hurts to remember that this isn’t real.

The sound of scampering down the stairs snaps Suguru out of his thoughts. Riko’s smile is as bright as the sun as she hurries into the living room where the adults are; immediately she races up to Shoko and engulfs her in a hug.

“Shoko!” Riko exclaims, snuggling into the soft cashmere sweater, the scent of hospital cleaning supplies and cigarette smoke radiating off the fabric. “I missed you so much! Sugu is soooo boring, and ‘Toru is super annoying!”

“I’m not annoying!” Satoru squeals. “And Suguru is far from boring! You should see what kind of freaky shit he does in–”

“See?!” Riko cries. “He’s old and gross and ugh I’m going to vomit!” 

Shoko laughs, patting the younger girl on the back while Satoru fusses about only being 22 years old. He’s promptly cut off by Nanami who’s practically wrestling him into helping put up the painted banner while Suguru tunes out the chaos, spreading a green and purple tablecloth over the kitchen table. 

Eventually, the adults (and 17-year-old Riko) work together to bring the first floor of the house together. When the streamers are up, the banner hung, and the presents wrapped and piled onto the massive kitchen table, Suguru hums a small sound of approval. Beside him, Satoru leans on his shoulder, grinning ear to ear. 

“The twins are gonna love this,” Utahime says, and next to her sitting on a kitchen stool, Shoko nods in agreement. 

“So,” Riko says, hands planted on her hips. “Which one of you guys is gonna go pick up the kids? ‘Cause I wanna go, too.”

“Miss Kuroi needs to have your brain checked out,” Satoru laughs, snuggling his face into the crook of Suguru’s neck. “What kinda sixteen year old wants to step foot in a fricken elementary school?”

“I’m seventeen, you butthead!” 

“Ey, don’t call me a butthead, you butthead!” 

Suguru snickers at the way Nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose to hold back his oncoming migraine. Satoru’s childishness was an everpresent flame– living carefree in Nanami’s easily flammable mind.

“Satoru, you and Suguru go pick up the brats,” Shoko interrupts, chuckling softly. “Now that you’re a parent, your fear of elementary kids has gotta go. Your dumb mom van is the only car big enough to fit all the kids, anyway. Worst-case scenario, they establish a militia and take you down to later feast on your corpse. Anyways, c’mon, Riko. We’re gonna go pick up Kuroi. Any pitstops you wanna make?” 

Riko immediately quits her banter and skips to the doctor’s side. “Let’s stop for ice cream, too. I tried the mocha moo-latte at the place down the street and oh my gosh, it’s fricken delicious, you gotta get one.”

Shoko ruffles Riko’s bangs playfully. “Sounds good, kid.”

Riko absolutely beams . She blabs on about something else, happily following Shoko like a baby duckling as she leads her to the door, listening with a subtle, amused smile. Shoko pulls the front door open and Riko heads out first, still talking, while Shoko lights a cigarette. As the door closes, the sound of Riko’s voice is cut off– but with Nanami complaining about Satoru to Utahime, and Satoru whining like a toddler all while still clinging to Suguru, the house is far from quiet.

It’s far from empty, far from lonely. Suguru hasn’t been far from lonely in a long, long time.    

“C’mon, drama queen,” Suguru says, cutting off Satoru’s cries of protest. “Let’s go get the kids before we’re late.”

Begrudgingly, Satoru drags himself after Suguru and to their car. As soon as he gets behind the wheel and shuffles his Spotify playlist, he flips back to his usual silly goofy mood, one hand on the wheel and the other holding Suguru’s.  

Again, it hurts him to remember that this isn’t real. 

“Gojo-san! Gojo-san!” an eight-year-old with bright pink hair exclaims, bolting forward to tackle Satoru in a hug. His Iron Man backpack flaps around as he sprints, and Suguru can see the sparkle of determination in his wide brown eyes as he weaves around the other children. The boy’s arms are small but much stronger than the average third grader’s, wrapping firmly around Satoru’s knees, his head resting on his bony hip. “I missed you, Gojo-san! How come you haven’t visited me?!” 

Satoru ruffles the boy’s semi-neon hair, offering up a goofy smile similar to the one Megumi and Tsumiki get. “You’re a weird kid, Yuji,” he laughs. “We just saw you last weekend! Don’t you remember?” Before getting out of the car, he had popped a butterscotch candy into his mouth, making his voice a little garbled as he speaks.

“Whoops, I forgot, haha! I still missed you, though!” Yuji grins as he unlatches himself, turning to give Suguru the same cuddly treatment. 

Despite living with Nanami for the past year and a half, (Suguru inferred from the photos hanging in his house,) Yuji has turned out to be a very clingy child. His small frame runs warmer than most which Satoru and his body’s poor circulation seem to appreciate. Suguru, on the other hand, whose body also runs a bit warm, finds Yuji’s tiny hug a bit suffocating– but then again, he finds most touches suffocating. 

(Not Satoru’s. Never, ever Satoru’s.)

“I missed you, too, Geto-san!” Yuji sings. “When are you gonna make rice bowls with me again? They were super yummy last time! Aw man, now I want rice bowls! Let’s make ‘em tonight!”

Before Suguru can make up an answer for this bubbly, puppy-like child he’s never met, an identical version of the boy sprints over, ripping Yuji backward by his hoodie and throwing him to the hard asphalt ground. Immediately, they begin wrestling, rolling around and pulling at each other’s faces, backpacks flying and colors blurring. Kids hop out of their way, most of them preoccupied with finding their own parents in the open parking lot, and in a matter of seconds, Suguru lost track of which boy was which. 

Eventually, Satoru breaks them up, laughing more than a respectable adult should. He lifts them each by the hooks on the top of their backpacks and waits a bit for them to calm down before speaking. 

Yuji– or, who Suguru thinks is Yuji– is pouting, arms wrapped around his own midsection. There’s a scrape on his cheek and unshed tears in his doe eyes, plus a bit of snot below his nose. He’s quick to wipe it with the back of his hand, smearing dirt on his face in the process.

The other boy who looks just like the first glares at him with the fury of a thousand suns. He has the expression of a mass murderer plastered on his face (yes, Suguru is speaking from experience) which is disturbingly impressive. The second boy is in no better shape than Yuji: a few small beads of blood bubble up from a scratch on his forehead, and a bruise forming around his split bottom lip takes on a reddish-purple undershade. And yet, instead of curling in on himself, he’s wriggling around in a pathetic attempt to escape Satoru’s hold. 

“Let go of me, you stupid stinky old man!” screams the angry pink-haired boy. Along with their obviously different demeanors, Suguru tells the boys apart by hairstyles: the angrier one has his hair pushed back, revealing his scraped forehead, while Yuji has his hair out and untamed. 

Satoru clicks his tongue, shaking his head with disapproval. “Now now,” he scolds. “That’s no way to address your dazzling uncle, Ryomen.”

Suguru almost choked on the air around him. Ryomen? As in, Ryomen Sukuna? The King of Curses? There’s no fucking way this whiney, snot-nosed brat was the King of Curses–

“PAPA! Papa, help! Please, help me!”

The sound of his daughter’s frantic voice drowns out any other thought brewing in Suguru’s mind. He plows forward, panic spilling like a gas leak over his mind, toward the sound of Mimiko’s cries. There is no care for the elementary students who are laughing and teasing as they head to their buses and families’ cars; there’s no careful consideration for their tiny feet or frail bodies, not when Suguru’s daughter is screaming and begging for help.

Is Nanako with her? Are they being attacked by a curse? Or worse, one of those dirty fucking monkeys? How long will it take me to get to them? Should I summon Tamamo-no-Mae? Or just burn the whole place down? Would it even save them in time?

Suguru forces himself to take a deep breath, slowing his mind but not his movements. He has to remind himself that there are no curses in this hell prison. No cursed energy at all. If the girls are hurt, it’s because of something civil, a stupidly simple monkey problem, something that can be easily alleviated compared to what they’re used to dealing with. Suguru has this under control.

Unless losing his girls is part of the punishment. If that’s the case, Suguru is more than willing to slaughter everyone in the vicinity, mindless children included.

He pushes past a teacher standing at the front door, his icy panic melting into a blaze of determination. Satoru (and the pink-haired twin boys) should be somewhere behind him, and the thought reassures Suguru that he doesn’t need to worry about anything else. Satoru has his back, covering his weaknesses, so Suguru can do what he needs to.

The initial panic is completely gone, replaced by stern almost violent willpower, as he follows the sound of screaming and crying through the colorful elementary school hallway. He finds Mimiko first, clutching onto her backpack with fat tears streaming down her face. 

Suguru calls out to her, picking up his speed-walk to a jog, and Mimiko drops her bag before bolting forward into her papa’s arms. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Suguru says, kneeling down to hold Mimiko against his chest, smoothing out her dark hair. He hopes the violent force of his heartbeat doesn’t upset her any further.  “Papa’s here, papa’s right here. You’re safe. Let’s take a deep breath.” Mimiko shudders, forcing her body to comply. Suguru waits until her breath is smooth before continuing. “Can you tell me where your sister is?”  

Mimiko sniffles, rubbing her runny nose into Suguru’s shoulder. “In Ugetsu-sensei’s classroom,” she whimpers.

Suguru nods, scooping Mimiko up into his arms the same way he had this morning. He supports his daughter with one arm, letting her tear-streaked face snuggle into his collarbone, and steps over her fallen backpack. 

The teacher he brushed past on his way into the building jogs behind him, following sloppily behind Satoru and the pink twin boys. Suguru doesn’t bother looking back.

“Where is my daughter?” he erupts as he enters the classroom. He pinpoints Nanako, being held back by another girl her age with a pointed glare, shoulder-length orange-brown hair, and a bright orange romper. Suguru’s first instinct is to fire a cursed spirit at her, but revving up enough cursed energy in a world without it is pretty difficult. 

“That bastard ruined Mimiko’s doll!” Nanako screams, writhing around in the other girl’s strong grasp. 

The ‘bastard’ his daughter is scowling at turns out to be the teacher, Ugetsu-sensei, who’s seconds away from being punched in the face by yet another feisty child. Suguru immediately recognizes her as Satoru’s monkey student, aka the Zen’in reject, and she’s standing up on the teacher’s desk with her fist raised threateningly.

“Geto-san! Help us beat this douchebag up!” says Monkey Girl’s sister who stands behind the teacher, holding his arms behind his back to keep him in place. (Suguru hadn’t ever met Monkey Girl’s sister, but they look too similar to not be closely related. Shit, did that make three pairs of twins? Counting his own. Which ones were the birthday set?? He totally forgot.) 

“Girls! Drop the weapons!” Satoru exclaims, bursting unceremoniously into the classroom, huffing and puffing like he ran a marathon. Yuji is behind him with Mimiko’s fallen backpack, breathing just as dramatically, and the child-sized King of Curses is slung over Satoru’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, writhing around and complaining to deaf ears. 

“We don’t have weapons, you idiot,” Maki shoots back. Her glasses are pushed up on her forehead, pushing her bangs out of the way to reveal the stressed crease between her eyebrows. 

“Okay, well!” Satoru stammers. “I’m pretty sure you can’t punch your teachers so! Stop it!”

Maki rolls her eyes. “Why the heck not? He totally deserves it.”

“Yeah!” the ginger girl holding Nanako chimes in. “He threw Mimiko’s doll in the trash–”

“I did not!” the teacher shrieks. “It was becoming a distraction to the learning environment, so I confiscated it!” 

“–and Utahime-san told us bullies are bad and we should always beat ‘em up!” the ginger girl finishes.

“Yeah, Nobara’s got a point,” Yuji adds. 

“Plus, it’s me and Mai’s birthday,” Maki goes on. “Shoko-san said we can do whatever we want today, and I wanna beat up this ugly cactus.”

“Cactus?” Nanako echoes, confused. “Wait, wha–”

“It’s ‘cause he’s a prick!” Ryomen (the King of Curses?? Suguru seriously cannot get over that.) cackles demonically, twisting on Satoru’s shoulder. 

“That’s enough!” Ugetsu-sensei cries out, trying and failing to pry nine-year-old Maki’s tiny fist off the front of his shirt. His screeching outburst silences all three sets of twins along with Satoru– though the white-haired man is pathetically unserious and failing to hold back a teasing cackle. “If these barbaric children aren’t removed from the premises immediately,” the teacher goes on, finally pushing Maki away, “I will be contacting the police, and you will all be expelled!” 

“Expelled from primary school?” Satoru chuckles. “That’s kind of impressive actually.” 

The teacher looks about ready to take a shot of bleach.

Suguru takes this as his opportunity to mediate. De-escalating shitshows and faking politeness has always been his specialty, and Satoru seems to understand this as Suguru steps forth with his friendly, respectful porcelain mask. He sidesteps past small student desks and nudges chairs out of the way until he reaches Nanako across the room where she’s still being held back by the equally as feisty Nobara. 

Nobara is quick to let go of Nanako, gently scooting her towards her papa. Nanako pouts, upset that she wasn’t the one threatening her teacher on her sister’s behalf, but she doesn’t protest to being scooped up by Suguru, resting on his right arm while Mimiko sits on his left, both snuggling into his collarbone.

“I apologize for the chaos, Ugetsu-sensei,” Suguru says, his voice sickly sweet as he heads back to the classroom door. Satoru stands, admiring his diplomatic fiancé while adjusting the still-squirming Ryomen (???) in his long and lanky arms. “I can assure you our family isn’t nearly this out of control when unprovoked.” He shoots the teacher a knowing glare. “Isn’t that right, girls?”

Suguru is only addressing his twin daughters, but Maki, Mai, and Nobara nod along with Mimiko and Nanako. They follow Suguru to the door, too, with Mai clinging onto the baggy fabric of his pantleg and Maki shooting daggers at the teacher, holding hands with Nobara. 

(Under Satoru’s quiet instruction, Yuji scampers over to the box of confiscated items under Ugetsu-sensei’s desk, stuffing Mimiko’s ugly doll under his hoodie. Suguru notices and continues talking, pulling the teacher’s attention away from the not-so-sneaky eight-year-old with bright pink hair.) 

“I hope this won’t cause a rift in our professional parent-teacher relationship,” Suguru goes on. He eyes the teacher expectantly, purposefully adding a hint of intimidation to his sugary-sweet tone, daring the pathetic monkey man to look away. 

“Of course not,” the teacher stammers. “Have a, um, wonderful day. And, uh, h-happy birthday, girls.”

“Thanks,” Maki deadpans, adjusting her glasses, “cactus.”

Piling into the ‘SatoSugu’ car is a struggle. The vehicle is a sleek sliver minivan that smells like stick fries, maple syrup, and cigarettes, and counting the driver’s and passenger’s seats, there are only 8 spots. As one can imagine, fitting two adults and nine children inside would be a pain in the ass.

And to no one’s surprise, it is.  

“Hey! I wanna sit next to Maki!” exclaims the ginger girl, tugging off her backpack. Suguru plucks it from her tiny hands and situates it in the trunk with the others. Her outburst is quickly sedated by Nanako (they seem to get along pretty well, Suguru thinks) as the twin suggests they start practicing cheerleading songs while they wait to pile into the car.  

Meanwhile, Satoru is on the other side of the car trying not to kill calmly speaking with Ryomen, trying to get the little fucker to understand that– “No, you can’t sit behind me when I’m driving because if you kick my seat, I will swerve off a fucking cliff!” 

“Language, Dad,” Tsumiki scolds.

Satoru removes his sunglasses to rub out the headache forming between his bright blue eyes. “Sorry, whatever,” he says more flippantly than he should to a group of antsy third graders. “Look, Ryo, I’m gonna say this one more time: you’re sitting in the way-back with Maki and Mai. Now get in the car before–”

“You can’t make me, you stinky old man!” Ryomen screams. 

Satoru grits his teeth, giving up. He lifts Ryomen up by the underarms, glaring at him eye-to-eye. “I have no idea how the heck Nanamin deals with you,” he whisper-yells, “but if you don’t behave, I’m gonna tell him about that time you crawled into the neighbor's backyard through a hole in the fence and played with the dog shit laying around out there.”

Ryomen hisses at him, eyes wild with rage. “Keep your voice down, stinky, or I’ll really kill you.”  

Satoru smirks with sadistic pride at tormenting the equally as, if not more, sadistic child. “What?” the white-haired man teases. “You embarrassed, Shit-kuna?”

“Fine! Whatever!” Ryomen screams, kicking his legs to throw off Satoru’s sturdy grasp. “I’ll sit in the back with the stupid girls and their stupid cooties! Just put me down already and. Shut. Up. Stinky!”

“Lovely,” Satoru sighs, placing the pink-haired boy back on his feet. “Glad we’re on the same page, kid. Birthday girls, you have permission to smack Ryo if he starts acting up.”

Maki and Mai’s smiles are their own level of sadism; Suguru notices the unsettling theme as he listens to his daughters sing songs with Yuji and Nobara while they wait to enter the minivan. Absent-mindedly, Suguru’s calloused hands smooth out his daughters’ rumbled, frizzy hair, a gentle reminder that they’re safe, happy, and healthy.

Even though it isn’t real.  

“Tsumiki,” Satoru continues as Maki and Mai pile into the back beside a pouting Ryomen, “is it cool if you squeeze in back there with them? As weird as Ryomen is–”

“I can hear you, stinky!” 

“–Nanamin will totally end me if I let Utahime’s girls actually kill him,” Satoru finishes. 

Tsumiki nods, smiling softly. “No problem.”

“Geto-san, can I sit with Megumi?” Yuji asks, eyes sparkling, as Satoru destresses himself in the driver’s seat. Suguru realizes that Satoru expects him to take care of the rest of the kids, which might be normal for him, but Suguru is absolutely lost. Still, he pushes forward, thinking about all the beaming smile Satoru would send his way if he situated everyone perfectly.  

So Suguru smiles at the small pink-haired boy, who might actually be vibrating with urgency and pats his head. “Of course, Yuji. Let’s just make sure there’s enough room. Uh, wait, lemme do this math… so there’s nine of you and eight seats… take away the two front seats where me and Satoru are sitting… okay, six seats to split up between nine kids–”

“Excuse me, Suguru,” Tsumiki chirps from the back-backseat. “There’s four of us in the back-backseat, so that means you have to divide the three seats in the normal-backseat among five kids. That would leave about 0.6 seat space for each kid.”

Ryomen lets out an annoyed groan, rolling his eyes so hard Suguru is sure they’ll fall out of his grubby little face. “You’re such a nerd, Tsumiki! Shut up, nobody wants to hear about dumb math!”

Tsumiki pouts, crossing her arms around her midsection. “You shut up, Ryomen. You can’t even do math.”

“That’s ‘cause I don’t wanna! If I wanted, I could be the bestest ever at math!”

Maki and Mai snort a laugh, snickering under their breath. “Yeah, sure, King of Car Seats,” Mai teases. 

“Curses!” Ryomen squeals, his face bright red. “It’s the King of Curses, not car seats!”

“Are you sure?” Maki laughs. “There’s an extra booster seat in the trunk if you need it.”

“Gahhh! Shut up!” Ryomen cries. “Stinky, the girls are torturing me!”

“Hey, don’t yell in the car!” Yuji snaps. “Your words are hitting me in the ear!”

Ryomen flings his hand forward to smack his twin on the back of the head. “Shut up, brat! That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“Does too!” Yuji screams, scrambling to hit back. 

“Okay, okay, enough!” Satoru exclaims from the driver’s seat. Suguru can’t help but laugh at his exasperation. “Nanami’s pink twins, stop fighting! Utahime’s birthday twins, stop teasing Ryomen! Suguru’s spoiled twins, hurry up and get in the car before we’re late!”

“We’re not spoiled, you motherfucker!” Nanako blurts.

“Yeah!” Mimiko echoes. 

“Actually, if you’re going for accuracy, ‘father-fucker’ is more appropriate, especially considering your current motherless state—”

“Satoru, enough,” Suguru scolds, sighing softly with amusement. He turns back to his daughters who seem to already be plotting Satoru’s downfall. “Girls,” he interjects, “let’s hurry up and get in the car. Megumi and Yuji, would you two mind sharing a seat to make room? Mimiko and Nanako can share one as well.”

Megumi blushes as Yuji happily presses against him, still yapping about the new variation of dodgeball he learned in gym class. Nobara climbs in next, sad about not sitting next to Maki, but when Mimiko and Nanako enter, her attention is whisked away in a matter of seconds. Satisfied with the arrangement, Suguru closes the door and makes his way to the passenger seat beside Satoru. 

The white-haired man is resting his forehead on the steering wheel, eyes closed, seemingly trying to fight back a headache. Suguru follows his high school habit of resting a comforting hand on Satoru’s back, rubbing soothing circles on the fabric. “I can drive if you’re not feeling up to it,” Suguru offers. 

Satoru smiles, turning his head to face his fiancè. “You’re such husband material,” he chuckles, cheek pressed against the steering wheel. “As nice as a break would be, you’re shit at driving and your road rage will send Megs straight into a panic attack.” He leans back, sitting up straight, and presses a kiss to the corner of Suguru’s mouth. “Thanks, though.”

Suguru sputters for a bit, the car jerks into motion, the kids start yapping, and the next thing he knows, they’re back at the house.

“SURPRISE!” screams the welcoming party, though most of the noise comes from Riko and Utahime. Maki and Mai, the birthday girls, fight back their giggles as Utahime engulfs them in a hug, kissing their foreheads and laughing softly. The other kids throw their coats and backpacks to the side, kick off their shoes, and sprint into the living room where Riko is. Suguru has come to learn she’s like the fun older sister, favored by most of the kids. 

As the party kickstarts, music and food and bickering and laughing, Suguru finds himself absolutely drained. He’s thankful that Utahime, Riko, and Nanami are keeping the kids entertained with party games because all he wants to do is find that weighted blanket and collapse on his bed. 

How is it that domestic life is more difficult than exorcising curses, laundering money, killing hundreds of innocents, and leading a cult? It’s only been a day. One day. And Suguru is already done. 

Maybe the real insanity was the headaches we made along the way, his brain offers.  

Suguru reminds himself that he’s batshit crazy with or without the headaches. 

But it’s funny, right? Anyway, what if we just killed everyone in here? 

For the second time today, Suguru shuts off his brain. He’s too tired to get into all this shit right now. 

He waits a few more moments for the perfect time to escape. Yaga-sensei arrives (Suguru hears a few of the kids refer to him as grandpa or ojiisan) and Suguru uses the new commotion to slip upstairs. He traces the path he took this morning and finds the master bedroom he woke up in. A bit of shuffling later, and he’s lying back down, eyes admiring the ceiling, weighted blanket resting comfortably over his chest.

He tells himself it’s Satoru, snuggling against him. He tells himself that he’s not afraid. He tells himself that it’s all gonna be okay, that when he wakes up, he’ll really be in his dorm room eleven years ago. Satoru will smell like strawberries and pixie sticks, and Shoko’s cigarette stench will invade around noon, smiling slyly as she makes herself comfortable at Suguru’s desk. It’ll be Saturday, and they’ll have nothing to do but exist.

Suguru’s pretty damn comfortable, so he isn’t sure why he feels the urge to move bubbling in his veins.

He blinks the haziness out of his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying down, but the sound of the birthday party has died down. The master bedroom’s jasmine and sandalwood scent has faded into something more coppery, something gross. He’s sitting up now– when did he do that? He can’t remember– and there’s a cold brick wall behind him supporting his weight. He’s confused, he wants to move his hands and rub the dripping dizziness out of his eyes, but he can’t. His right hand is glued to his left shoulder, where his left arm should be. Where his left arm is not. 

He’s not panicking as much as he should be. Maybe because the weighted blanket is still in his lap, which means he’s still in his comforting hell prison, which means he isn’t dead yet.

He isn’t dead yet. 

He blinks, really blinks, and he can see the fuzzy outline of his one and only kneeling before him. There is no weighted blanket in his lap. Just blood. So much blood. And Satoru is speaking. He’s speaking, isn’t he? Is he talking about the party? Did Nanami’s twins get into another fight? No, no Satoru looks too upset to be joking about the pink-haired boys wrestling again. It must be Riko’s online boyfriend showing up unannounced, pissing everyone off. Or maybe he’s mad that Suguru went upstairs without telling anyone. 

You left without telling anyone. If you weren’t feeling well, you should’ve told me. I could’ve helped you, Suguru. I could’ve been there for you.

Suguru isn’t sure that’s what he’s saying. He isn’t sure of anything. He thinks this has already happened. The betrayal, the confession, the tears, the killing. He thinks he knows what Satoru is going to say next, but he doesn’t understand because just a second ago he was in the master bedroom with the weighted blanket and the kids are downstairs and he should really go make sure everything is okay– 

“–– —— –—,” Satoru says. 

Quiet. Soft. Like a kiss on his forehead, a gentle squeeze of his hand. He parts Suguru’s terrible mind like the Red Sea, reaches forth and calms the storm in one swift motion. And oh, Suguru loves him. Suguru loves him more than he’s ever loved anything else in this godforsaken world. So Suguru smiles. And even though he’s scared– he’s confused, he’s scared, and he wants to scream and cry and jump into Satoru’s arms and go home– he knows that what Satoru says is true, always, always true. He knows that Satoru wouldn’t lie to him about something like that at a time like this. 

“At least curse me a little at the very end.”        

His words come out broken. Ragged. Like trying to glue broken pottery back together with bloody fingers. Did he say curse? He meant to say kiss. God fucking damn it.