Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Satoru's waltzing, day-drunk, in a pair of tight denim shorts that he stole from the women's section and a ripped jersey that hangs off his skinny shoulders. The boots on his feet are stolen, too - he robbed them from an old dealer and they kind of scratch his ankles. He doesn't know what he's doing - he's just doing what he feels like he needs to. He can feel Suguru spitting on him from the hell where he's burning, and Gojo feels purer at the thought of it.

The dealer doesn't even look at Satoru, the white-haired man has to tap him on the shoulder just to get his attention. Immediately, the man's hand reaches for his back pocket, and Satoru's adrenaline spikes, seeing the glint of shiny black metal and the veins on the hand that grip it. Satoru puts his hands up just in time to prevent himself from getting shot and killed in hooker clothes. A thought passes in his head - he'd be really pretty in the autopsy pics if he died here and now.

The dealer's dressed like he usually is - baggy clothes, looking normal as ever. Satoru's never seen his face properly, but he can kind of make out the shaggy black hair, ugly dark scar on his lip. Satoru doesn't want to seem desperate, but it's been nearly a week since he's had a hit or any sort of harder drug. Weed and alcohol don't even cut it anymore, he's resorting to stealing boxes and boxes of Xanax and Adderall. Today, he was assigned a mission to hunt down some random curse user who was causing mayhem about a month ago. The dealer glares at him, calling Satoru names his old self would vomit at.

"You again? I thought you said my shit was laced, slut." The dealer mumbles, chuckling to himself like shit is funny. Satoru huffs, folding his arms, but he can't hide the way his hands twitch impatiently. "You reek, by the way. Like cum and piss."

"Don't gotta be rude," Satoru mumbles. "I dressed up just for you." Satoru remembers what he looks and smells like, as soon as the other man mentions it - he's skinny, throws up almost everything he eats nowadays. Satoru's got last night's stink of cheap booze on his breath and hickeys from a man he doesn't know on his neck, and he hasn't taken a shower since...he can't remember. Saturday? Last week? 

Satoru doesn't even care anymore, he's staring at the hand of the dealer that reaches into his pocket, then at the little white baggy he pulls out. Satoru lunges for it, pupils blown wide and his heartbeat quickening, but the dealer demands cash. Bony hands decorated with cigarette burns fumble at his pockets, taking out an expensive wallet only to use the money for drugs.

It's a ritual - Gojo gives however much money the dealer asks, not caring about figures or numbers or money - he never has. His silver spoon has fed him well, and now he's using it to get high before the day even starts. He's walking with a limp, and the sun is too bright, his vision is nearly all bright. He's so cute in this shirt, he tells himself, pretending not to care about the woman and her child across the street who look like they've just seen a demon. 

Satoru guesses they have.

He walks about three or so blocks away from the dealer, into his usual haunt - a shitty, damp and dirty alleyway that looks even worse during the day. Stray cats hiss when they see him, and Satoru feels disgusted as he glares at himself in a puddle of something. His eyes are red and his teeth are yellow. 

Fishing out the syringe from his shorts, the baggie of an off-white powder that calls his name out like a prayer, a burnt spoon and a lighter, he begins his ritual of cleansing. Pour the powder in the spoon, watch it bubble and melt. It’s gorgeous. Satoru feels himself drooling, and he gets even happier when he feels that pain of a needle in his vein, cleaning his insides. He’s flying, he’s fading, and he can’t feel his hands. He stands up, wandering around aimlessly, savoring his high until his consciousness fades in, out, in, out.

Satoru can't feel his face. Doesn't know where he is - the brightness of the sun is fucking suffocating . Throwing himself against a wall, he can feel a distant pain in his shoulder, but his whole body feels numb. His blindfold is lost, and there's a slow dribble of drool from the corner of his mouth onto his shirt. A sickly smell attacks his nostrils, suddenly - it smells like piss and vomit. He can't tell whether he's smelling himself, the alley around him, or both.

Glancing down, he can vaguely see that he threw himself against something sharp and stinging, like a nail, and it pierced through his shirt and into the skin on his shoulder. It feels kind of nice - the cold metal in his fever-hot flesh. It cools him down, grounds him, lets him know he's still here, and he's liking it more and more. The pain reminds him he's not all that invincible, and Satoru hears Suguru's rude voice tell him he should take the small knife in his pocket and slit his wrists, but Satoru never does. He pulls off the nail, and sinks down to the floor, bending over on his knees like he's bowing to god above, silently begging for forgiveness.

Satoru fumbles in his deliriousness, reaching for his sacred tools again. He needs to get higher. Needs to stop feeling entirely. Glancing around the area, Satoru searches for anybody who looks like they'd kill him - nobody. Just him, the smell of rats, and his dope. This is his favorite place, he thinks, watching the powder turn to a dark brown liquid.He loves it here. He really does . He's happy, so happy. Happier than he's ever been - he's fucking flying . In his ears, Suguru's voice rings out, something along the lines of calling him gross and pathetic, and it's got Satoru even happier. It's bliss, it's heaven, he's with Suguru, and they're on the beach. He kicks his feet behind him, and shoots his arm with another dose of the purest form of heaven he can get his hands on.

And then it's all warmth, it's all white light behind his eyes and buzzing in his teeth, a kind of hum that sounds like a lullaby or maybe a curse or maybe Suguru whispering that he's stinky and dead and isn't that nice, isn't that just perfect , because if he's already dead then he can’t be hurt any more, right? Right? He kicks his feet like a child, like he’s swimming, like he’s flying, like he’s six again or sixteen or maybe sixty, and Suguru is next to him on the sand with a cigarette that never burns out and a face that’s all shadows and he’s talking, soothing, calling Satoru the worst things, and t he ocean's talking , it’s screaming, but not loud, not loud, never loud enough to hear what it’s saying, only that it wants him, it wants him back, it wants to take him home, and Satoru wants that too, he r eally does, he really —

Then he passed out, lying face down on the damp alleyway street. He’s late for work, again.

Chapter Text

Hours later, Satoru wakes up in pieces. Not all at once - he comes back to his body like wading through sewage.

His lips are trembling and cracking, and there’s something crusted and flaking on his thigh that might be blood, or worse. His shorts are gone - not even ripped, just gone. His shirt's torn like someone peeled it off with a steak knife and no patience. A sharp pain stings his joints when he accidentally shuffles a bit as he sits - it comes from his ass and between his legs. A skinny, trembling hand moves up to feel his heartbeat, just to make sure he's still alive - the heart beneath his skin isn’t beating quite right. Satoru forces himself to care, trying to piece together what happened; he passed out, and the last thing he remembers before being truly knocked out was a huge man with an ugly scar on his lip. Satoru wonders if he's even that pretty, because if he was, that man would've taken him and kept him.

Both sharp stings of pain and a broken groan come from Satoru as he forces himself to get up, holding onto the wall until he feels his skin pierced again. He glances - a rusty nail. His shoulder screams at him, his hand is yelling, but Satoru doesn't pull off the nail. He drags it in his flesh, making a line from the palm of his hand to his middle finger. The pain is red, familiar. A good kind of bad. The kind that tells him he’s still somewhere inside this meat shell. He wonders if Suguru ever hurt like this. Wonders if he’d be proud of how well Satoru bleeds now. Only then does he pull off, and something in his head is telling him to open the wound and see if he's still human, see if maybe Suguru's in there, but he never does. He finds his jersey still somewhat intact, if not for the torso of it to be drizzled in something sticky, smudges of dirt (or blood) on the sleeves. He wraps it around his waist, so that he doesn't get arrested for public nudity. There’s a sour taste crawling up his throat. If he vomits now, he’ll have nothing left inside—not even his guts. He squints. East, maybe? Wherever the skyline looks less fucked.

Satoru vaguely remembers having something to do today - he can’t remember what. If he can’t remember, it must've not been that important anyway.

He staggers, limping and still not entirely sober when he walks down the streets, in what he guesses is the direction of his penthouse. He pats himself down like a drunk looking for cigarettes, and nearly cries when he realizes he's been robbed, too. He doesn't have his phone, wallet, keys to his penthouse, watch or his tools. Worst of all, he doesn't have the dope he just bought. That was good shit, and now it's gone. Satoru curses himself, but he doesn't exactly know what he did wrong.

People stare at him in the streets as he limps down them. Probably because he's half-naked and covered in everything he shouldn't be. A grandfather with a little boy pulls him away, staring at Satoru like he hates him. Satoru notices, and thinks that he probably does. Satoru looks up at the sky, to hopefully see Suguru's gorgeous face and maybe find out what time of day it is. The sun has risen high in the sky, so it's probably somewhere around noon, or maybe afternoon, he doesn't know. Today, there's a different pretty girl on the corner wearing shit that would put her mother to shame, and she's smoking a cigarette. Satoru briefly wonders how she got in that line of work, and wonders if he’ll end up like that too. She’s dyed her hair blonde, put in blue contacts, and she's trying her hardest to look white even though her flat nose and monolids don't let her. Satoru doesn't know her when she gives him a nasty glare, turning her back on him and puffing out smoke.

He passes by a convenience store on his way back home, one hand on the glass wall on the outside of it to hold on for stability. Satoru can feel something sick bubbling up his throat, and before he wakes up again he’s inside the store, limping around like he broke his leg. The cashier sighs, a tired man with deep, dark bags under his eyes. Satoru briefly recognizes him as someone he used to know, with blonde hair and problems, but the thought fades as quickly as it arrived. The cashier raises his voice a bit, calling out to Satoru. “Sir, can I help you?” He asks, his voice dead but not rotting like Satoru’s is. He turns his head, knees shaking a bit.

When Satoru turns his head towards the cashier, the man’s face visibly darkens and drops, like he’s just been told someone close to him died. In a way, he had been told that. He glances down to his palms, as if to check if this is a dream or reality, then looks back up at Satoru. Satoru gets a better look at his face: Short, blonde hair that he clearly doesn’t care that much about, but ends up being clean and neat anyway. Exhausted, thin and small brown eyes, that widen considerably. Gaunt cheekbones, but with a physique to rival Adonis. Satoru knows this man, but can’t put a name on him until he speaks up.

“Satoru, is that you?” And for a moment, Satoru doesn’t know how to answer that question, because he doesn’t know if it’s really him or not either. He nods his head anyway, coming closer to the till on shaky legs. He doesn’t even remember why he’s in the store anymore. “Satoru, I-…It’s been a long time since I last saw you. Eleven years…” That was right. Nanami had always been so much better with time and mathematics than Satoru had been. Satoru smiles, and his mouth yells at him for doing so, because his lips are cracked and they bleed as he keeps the smile on his face. “Nanami,” Satoru says the man’s name like he’s going to help him, like he’s the man Satoru will be saved by.

Nanami was always quiet, back in high school. Whenever he spoke, it was because he had to, not because he wanted to. Haibara used to hang around him a lot, until Haibara shot himself four times, then Nanami was all alone. Satoru always called him a loser, said he ‘should’ve died instead of Haibara’ and things along those lines.

Now, Nanami seemed like the one who wanted to talk more than Satoru did. “Are you real?” Satoru reaches out for Nanami, touches his shoulders then begins to grip them, trying to stabilize himself before his world turns black and white, flashing, flashing, flashing like cameras and the strobe lights of a nightclub. Black and white like the colors of an old movie, like the colors of a zebra. Satoru briefly imagines himself as a zebra, except he’s got no black spots and is all white, and then he imagines himself as an all-white stray dog with teeth that can’t cut, rip, or tear anything.

Then he wakes up in a different room, this time surrounded by cleaner surroundings and a face that seems to actually like him. The clock was running too slow, the dark, bland filing cabinets around him were shaking and Nanami sounded like Suguru as he talked. Talked, talked, then talked some more, and Satoru forgot how to spell. Each word looked like soup. Eventually, Nanami stopped talking, and a white light flashed in his eyes. He was standing now, in a bathroom, with shards of broken glass stuck in his palms and in the sink and on the floor around him. What was left of a mirror was broken, and Satoru could feel a sharp, scalding pain in his right hand, still clutched in a fist. Satoru sighed, his vision settling for the first time in a while. He let himself fall on the tiles of the bathroom, wallowing in the utter lack of thoughts he was having, until he heard the bathroom door swing open and bang against the wall.

“You broke the fuckin’ mirror. Great. First you punch me, then you break a window, now the mirror? I oughta kick you the hell out.” Satoru could hear Nanami saying, but he forgot how to talk. He just stared up at Nanami with an expression so blank you could call it the color white, but he just looked down at his surroundings soon after.

The bathroom he was in was nice. Much nicer than Satoru’s, back home. He wasn’t home, this wasn’t his house. Where was he? Is he going to die here? Were all thoughts that swam around in Satoru’s min d, not even looking at Nanami as he ran a hand through his short crop of hair. Satoru was still in his filthy clothes from earlier, the jersey that was wrapped around his waist now discarded somewhere where Satoru couldn’t see it. He felt damp, like he was walking through mist that smelled like candy.

It probably smelled cleaner in here before Satoru entered. Satoru made the room stink of the sweet scent of his own body’s rot. The bathtub was filled to the brim, water spilling over the sides, wetting the floor. Satoru glanced back over to Nanami, eyes heavy and tears he didn’t know he could still produce falling down his cheeks. “Please,” he found himself saying, something he’d gotten more and more used to saying. He vaguely remembered his teenage self, how he used to refuse bowing his head or saying ‘please’ to anyone but Suguru, and now he found himself saying it daily to even strangers. His dealer, the random strangers that mugged him, the men who harassed him in clubs, his coworkers at Jujutsu High, and now Nanami. He smiled at the thought.

“I can’t feel my hands, Nanami. They hurt so bad.” He said, a wave of pain rushing over him and leaving him cloaked in it’s scary darkness. Screaming in pain, hands shaking and dropping the glass shards that had cut crosses into his skin. Satoru felt like his insides were being burnt, like the bones in his hand were whispering to each other, mocking him and rejecting him. Every single movement had a sickening crunch of glass buried deep in his skin - the glass shards had broken in his hands. Nanami didn’t want to touch Satoru - god knows where he’d been, but for this, Nanami would feel guilty if he didn’t help.

Walking over and bending down, Nanami let Satoru wallow in his pain and self-pity for a few moments longer as he took some gauze from the medicine cabinet beneath the sink, hearing cries for help and squelches of bone, flesh and glass. He takes out a pair of tweezers as well, turning back around to face Satoru. Satoru’s eyes are red, and his cheeks and most of his body is streaked red. He’s in the midst of trying to rub the blood that keeps spilling from his wounds in his hands onto himself, trying to get the blood anywhere but on his hands. Nanami sighs, one hand reaching out to grab Satoru’s wrist firmly, holding his arm in place so he can use the tweezer on it.

Nanami worked methodically. The tweezers clicked once in his grip as he brought them down toward Satoru’s hand, which trembled like it didn’t belong to a human anymore. Satoru flinched when the first shard was touched—just a twitch, barely noticeable, but Nanami felt the jolt run through the wrist he was holding. The glass was embedded deep, slick with blood and something blackish that didn’t look quite right. Nanami angled the tweezer, tugged slowly. The shard came out with a soft, wet sound, and Satoru made a noise in his throat like a dying animal. More blood came, and Satoru’s other hand flailed, swiping at his chest, smearing red in half-moons across his shirt as if trying to push the pain somewhere else. Nanami didn’t say anything. He pulled out the next shard, smaller but more stubborn, and Satoru started laughing—high, breathless, the kind of laughter that meant he was either going to pass out or bite his tongue off. Nanami paused only once, glancing up at him with a tight expression that wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite pity. “Stop moving,” he said quietly. “You’ll make it worse.”

Satoru took a deep, heaving breath, his laughter pausing for a few moments before it started up again as a giggle. Nanami said nothing, as he usually did, and for a brief moment Satoru could hear Suguru’s voice, hollow like a grave, speaking in his ear. He couldn’t tell what the voice was saying, just static screams like a broken baby monitor. He could hear bells, church bells, swinging and clashing and banging in the air around him, reeking like copper and iron, and Satoru felt like he was in the Vatican, preaching to the pope who had Suguru’s face on his head, and then the pope spoke up, voice cold and flat like the buzz of an amplifier when the guitarist isn’t playing. Everything else sounded like the screech, scrape and death of a guitar when the guitarist smashes it. “It’s done, Satoru. Don’t touch your hand.” Satoru woke up, and his hand was wrapped in gauze stained red with his own blood. The trickle of the broken tap sounded less like a scream, and more like water in the basin. Nanami had been speaking - not the pope, not Suguru, and Nanami had his own face on. Satoru blinked, like he had something in his eyes he had to get out. Nanami just sighed, standing up with his bones giving a creak and walking out of the bathroom, leaving Satoru’s dimension.

He sat there on the cold bathroom tiles long after Nanami left, still blinking. The world buzzed like a busted amp, feedback screaming somewhere far behind his eyes, but quieter now, muffled like it was coming from underwater. Blood had stopped dripping. His hand felt numb. Maybe it was the gauze, or maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was the part of him that used to feel things finally shutting down for maintenance. He looked up at the flickering ceiling light, watching the bulb stutter like it was trying to blink away tears. Somewhere in the building, water was running—someone else's problem. He thought about getting up. He didn’t. He thought about Suguru. He did. He thought about dying. He thought about the first time he killed something and smiled about it. Then he thought about Yu Haibara's laugh, and he stopped smiling. His mouth moved like it was going to pray, but all that came out was a long exhale and the taste of old blood. Tomorrow, he'd go back to work, and the world would keep spinning, with or without him.

Chapter Text

The house is silent. It's not peaceful - it's sterile, like after a crime scene's been cleared, but it's quickly broken by another round of Satoru mumbling wet and pathetic somethings in his sleep. Nanami doesn’t look. He sits up, bones creaking like a faulty door hinge, and doesn't bother putting his glasses on. He doesn't need them.

His hands still smell faintly of blood and smoke. Satoru’s wounds, mostly. He should wash them. He won’t. It makes him feel disgusting, before he reminds himself he's not as bad as the other man is. Standing up and walking, he searches his closet, before he finds an old cardboard box, with '06-08' written in black Sharpie on the top, and tears the peeling tape that covers it off.

It feels like he's a vulture, scavenging a dead animal's carcass when he pulls out his old uniform. This should fit Satoru; he's skinny like a teenager and dysfunctional like one too.

He lays the uniform out on the bed, and gets himself dressed in his usual uniform; a pair of grey slacks and a grey suit jacket to match, a blue button-up shirt and a tie. He combs his hair, fixes it with gel, and goes back over to the bed. The alarm clock reads 07:40, in bright, red letters, unforgiving. He sets an alarm for 08:00, and without looking back at Satoru, leaves the room.

Kento's house is spotless - kitchen is orderly and neat, living room never has a stray pillow on the floor or any sign of life, and the bedroom is always kept tidy. He's meticulous about it, it's an old habit of his. He used to feel guilty, for doing things he know would damn him, so he used to keep his house clean at the very least just to make himself feel a little bit like he's still somewhat sane. Even though he doesn't feel that guilt anymore, he still keeps his house clean.

The downward spiral started right after Haibara died. Then, when Suguru left, the spiral got worse. He kept falling down, down, until he hit rock bottom. Admittedly, his rock bottom wasn't as low as Satoru's was, but it was still low. He turned to gambling his money away, alcohol that tastes like drywall and women with no faces or names, until he snapped and finally left the jujutsu world. Ever since he left, life has been feeling like he's just been staring at paint drying, waiting for something interesting to happen.

In the kitchen, Nanami measures silence by the sound of the kettle heating.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t ever rush.

The coffee tin sits in the same place it’s always been, upper-left cabinet, beside the unused wine glasses. He opens it carefully, scoops out the exact amount—level, not heaping—and taps the edge of the spoon against the filter like he’s knocking on wood. These are the motions that tether him. The same steps, the same tools. The glass carafe, scrubbed clean of residue. The old kettle, stainless steel and scratched down the handle. His fingers move without thought, but not without intention.

The water hits boiling.

He turns off the flame before it screams. He hates that sound—always has. Something about the pitch of it makes his molars ache. He pours slow, in circles, watching the bloom rise like bruised earth under the surface. The smell is sharp, bitter. Acidic. He doesn’t flinch.

He sets the mug down on the counter with care. White ceramic, clean, no logos. He doesn’t like branding on his dishware—it feels too intimate, like he’s letting strangers into his kitchen. The mug’s weight is familiar. Reassuring, in the way that a loaded gun can be.

He drinks it black. No sugar. No cream. No softness. The first sip burns a little. He lets it. The second goes down easier, because he’s already numb to it.

Across the apartment, Gojo breathes like a man dying slowly. Nanami doesn’t look. He focuses on the coffee. On the ceramic edge against his lip. On the way the bitterness sits at the back of his throat, heavy as regret.

The coffee is finished quickly. Not because he enjoyed it—Nanami doesn’t enjoy much these days—but because that’s how long it takes to drink it. Three minutes. Maybe four, if he stalls. He stares at the sediment left behind, that ring of undissolved powder at the bottom of the mug, black and bitter and clinging to the porcelain like regret.
For a moment, he lets himself wonder if there’s meaning in it. Some message in the grains. A reason to go back. There isn’t.

He rinses the mug, sets it upside down on the drying rack, and turns off the kitchen light. He doesn’t need it. The sun's already spilling through the blinds in neat, narrow lines like prison bars.

He walks to the genkan. His dress shoes are already aligned by the door, toes pointing out. They always are. He slips them on without looking and kneels to tie the laces—not because he needs to, but because doing it standing feels… wrong. His fingers work fast, automatic. Loop, pull, tighten. The bows sit flat. No room for slack.

He reaches for his watch—silver, understated, expensive—and clicks it into place. The weight of it settles coldly on his wrist. He doesn’t remember where it came from. A gift? A bonus? Blood money? It doesn’t matter. It tells the correct time.

Nanami straightens his tie in the hallway mirror. The knot is sharp, perfectly centered. His reflection is not. The face staring back looks tired, pale, vaguely disinterested. Not in the world—he stopped caring about that a long time ago—but in himself. He buttons his jacket. There’s a brief pause—habit, hesitation, or maybe the ghost of something emotional trying to surface. He shuts the door before it has the chance.

The elevator ride is silent. Floor numbers blink by in order: 14, 13, 12. The descent is smooth, mechanical. Nanami adjusts his cuffs. Thinks about nothing. Not about Gojo, not about Jujutsu High.

Nothing.

The parking garage smells like oil and damp concrete. His car waits where it always is—black, polished, soulless. He unlocks it, slides in, closes the door with a gentle, satisfying thud.

He doesn't smoke - at least that's what he tells people - but he lights a cigarette as he sits in his sleek, black car. He doesn't leave the parking lot immediately, waits for about fifteen minutes as he smokes in his expensive car, letting ash fall onto the genuine leather seats. He briefly thinks about the last time he cleaned the car, until he realizes there would be nothing to clean. It's spotless, as everything Nanami owns usually is.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Satoru approaching the car. The man’s form is bony, still weak from whatever fucking hellhole he’s been dragged through, but at least now he's wearing the uniform Nanami laid out for him.

For a fleeting second, Kento wonders if it even fits, or if it's just a sad mockery of who they used to be, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just temporary. Everything is. The door creaks open. Satoru slides in, a little too eagerly, like he belongs here. A pause. Nanami doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t need to.

Kento starts the engine, the low hum of the car filling the space between them. He keeps his eyes on the road, on the sleek, polished surface of the wheel beneath his fingers, trying to keep himself steady. Trying not to think about the weight of Satoru’s presence.

Satoru opens his mouth, breaking the silence. "You’ve got a nice big car, Kennie. And a nice big house, too. Are you rich?”

That fucking nickname. It twists something deep in Nanami’s gut, like a knife that’s been left in too long. Satoru never forgets it. Never.

"Don't talk to me like we're friends, Gojo," Nanami responds, voice tight, his grip on the steering wheel too firm, too controlled. His knuckles go white.

Satoru stares at him, all wide-eyed and pathetic, that damn smile of his still plastered across his face, even though it’s clear that everything about him is a mess. The breath that hisses from between Satoru’s teeth stinks. It’s rank. Nanami rolls the window down without thinking, just a little—just enough to get some air in, because he can’t take it.

Not right now.

The silence drags out, but it’s not peaceful. It’s thick, full of everything unsaid. The smell of stale sweat, cheap perfume, and coffee. Satoru sniffles beside him. The sniffles get louder. But still, Nanami doesn’t look. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road, his mind nothing but static, a hollow buzz of noise, like he’s been tuned to the wrong frequency.

He's not as bad as Satoru is. Always the better man.

Chapter Text

Satoru stares at the window. Doesn’t look through it at what lies beyond it. Just stares at the glass like it’ll show him what he’s missing. He doesn’t see it, even with his eyes. He feels like he can’t see anything anymore.

The silence in the car has limbs. It’s clawing at Satoru and ripping him apart, alive. He can’t breathe, like his lungs are rotting with each breath.

Nanami says nothing, lips tightly sealed like a ziplock bag with guts in it. He stares ahead at the road, like any good driver should. Gojo wishes Nanami was the type to make small talk, because he can’t function without it.

Satoru sniffles. Then he sniffles again. Then his eyes get wet and big and his chest goes tight like a cramp and loose like a cunt. Satoru doesn’t know. All he knows is the way his head swirls like glitter and there’s pig teeth in his lungs and all he can hear is the sound human flesh makes when you pour acid on it. Bubbling, boiling with a small little pop.

Satoru doesn’t know why he’s still smiling. Until he’s not. Then he’s back. He’s normal. His lungs feel like they have air and not meat in them. His head is fine. His skin is still on. Nanami is still fine. He’s adjusting his glasses.

Suguru always drove Satoru around in high school. Called Satoru “useless” a few couple times before he started driving. Satoru’s still useless to this day.   

He didn’t take anything this morning. No pills, nothing. He’s gonna get sober. And when that happens, he’s gonna use his money to buy himself an apartment he actually owns, not some fake little penthouse, so he doesn’t have to beg his dealer to let him crash anymore.

But his dealer—man in his 40s named Fushiguro—is a nice man. He doesn’t like talking to Satoru, and he calls Satoru a “stupid bitch” but that’s fine, because Satoru thinks Fushiguro is a nice man. He had a baby, but the baby was taken by the Zen’in clan. Gojo knows the baby. The Zen’in keep him tucked away like a princess in a tower. Fushiguro says that baby is grown up now, probably fifteen. Fushiguro says he doesn’t care about the child, but Satoru knows that when he’s sipping the whiskey like a baby bottle he’s thinking of him.

Fushiguro fucks Satoru sometimes. He never looks at him while he does it, but he puts all his effort into it and Satoru never lasts long. Satoru smiles like a schizophrenic in psychosis at the memory of Fushiguro on top of Satoru, calling him some girl’s name. Satoru wonders what that girl was like, if Satoru’s cunt is anything like hers. She must’ve been a sweet little whore if Fushiguro remembers her so well. Fushiguro never remembers anything, because he’s almost always drunk or too sober to care.

Satoru loves Fushiguro. He needs to, otherwise he has nothing to love. He wishes the baby was around sometimes, so Satoru could be the pretty housewife and Fushiguro could be the working husband who beats him. The baby would call him ‘mommy’ and Fushiguro would call him ‘slut’ when he fucks him after dinner. Satoru smiles at that thought.

He probably stinks. Smells like Nanami’s black coffee, the dust in the armpits of the old uniform he’s wearing and yellow discharge. He didn’t shower today. Or yesterday. Or maybe since he was last yelled at. No matter. His cunt still smells good. Men love his smell. Or they don’t, and find him repulsive.

Nanami’s hand touches Satoru’s when he goes for the gear stick. He doesn’t even look at him, but Satoru looks. And he looks. He starts staring. Nanami would be a good man to settle down with. Stable job, stable income, good manners, wealthy family, handsome, built. Doesn’t have a record. Doesn’t beg for a high. Doesn’t pay for a time-limited delusion. 

Nanami would be Satoru’s perfect husband. He’d fuck him out of his drug highs. Out of everything he does. Out of his sadness and out of his happiness. He could make Satoru normal. An emotionless trophy.

“Do you want a wife, Kennie?”

Satoru asks. He doesn’t think when he speaks; it just comes out. Like vomit.

The car comes to a stop.

Nanami finally turns his head. He’s expressionless like a plastic bag. His hair is perfect. Blond and short and neat. He’s probably tired. He probably wants to die. He says nothing, then turns away. He looks away in the same way a passerby would look away from a crackhead on the street begging for change.

Ignoring him.

He’s ignoring Satoru.

Nanami is ignoring him.

Satoru stumbles over his words, feeling his palms get clammy and gross and wet and his eyes are filling and he hates the way his gut shakes and his panties ride up his ass like they want the least to do with him.

“I’d be a good wife for you. I can cook and clean and fuck. That’s what you want, right? You and a million other men. You want my body?” Satoru tries sounding sexy. He ends up sounding like a diseased dolphin on ketamine. Leans in and his breath stinks. “My round little ass? Want my intestines, too?” He’s just saying things to make Nanami look at him again. “You could wear ‘em around your neck like one of those Hawaiian necklaces, my intestines.”

Just not ignore him anymore.

Nanami restricts himself from pulling a face at the stench that greets his nostrils when the man next to him opens his mouth. Satoru’s breath smells like cat piss and ugliness. Like he’s something that was meant to die but forgot how to.

He keeps his eyes on the road. Doesn’t want to look in any other direction. Especially Satoru’s. Satoru feels like gum under his shoe. Gojo likes feeling like gum, normally. Satoru likes feeling like gum when he’s being chewed until he’s tasteless and spat out in a bin. He doesn’t like feeling like gum when he’s being ignored and not eaten.

Nanami is ignoring him.

“Hey, Kennie…?” Satoru mumbles, eyes filling with salty tears, leaning back in his seat. The seatbelt makes a whizzing noise when he pulls back and it snaps into place like a whip. He hates being whipped. The gnats in the car keep flying around him but he doesn’t try swatting them. They deserve to eat, too.

“I lied, back there. I can’t cook or clean like a normal wife should. I just know how to fuck. Like a fucking pig. I’m a piggy, Kennie. Right? Oink oink!” Satoru holds his nose, giggling like a hysterical donkey. He’s crying ugly.

“Oink oink, oink oink!” Satoru snorts like a pig, trying to smile but his tears keep trickling down into his mouth—they taste like salt and the juice that makes your eyes stay wet.

Silence. Dead silence that puts tape over the mouths of the screaming in Gojo’s head, like a morgue with the living shoved in the lockers.

“I can be your breakfast next to your eggs and toast. Don’t you wanna eat me whole?” Satoru heaves, tears sliding down his neck like slime. “Eat me, Kennie. I want you to eat me, don’t leave me—” A sob. A laugh, perhaps? His brain is mush.

Kento says nothing. Satoru is dust. Kento  wipes him off his floors every Sunday afternoon. He can wipe him off again.

Satoru goes quiet. He’s realized he’s not wanted or needed anymore. The tears don’t make his eyes look sparkly or lively. They make his eyes look bleak. Dead, in the same way a murder witness’s eyes are.

When Satoru shuts his mouth, it feels like peace for two seconds in Nanami’s head. Until he starts crying again. Satoru’s crying from his lungs. Heaving in air just to spit it back out again, gross and pathetic like a dog that got it’s legs broken. Nanami barely notices. He couldn’t care less, honestly. He’s already decided to kick Satoru out of his house tonight and dump him in some alleyway. He can find his way around from there.

“Na—Kennie—” Satoru’s voice trembles and shakes. It’s pathetic.

Finally, Nanami says something, but not because he wants to. The sound of Satoru’s crying grates on his ears like the screams of dead girls.

“Be quiet, Satoru. We’re here. Put your blindfold on and get out.” Nanami doesn’t look at Satoru. He speaks like he’s a disenchanted high schooler reading a script about something they don’t believe in. Nanami never believes in anything anymore.

Satoru feels like he’s been saved. Kento spoke to him; shame he was telling him to shut up.

He does what he’s told. He always does. Over the years, Satoru has learnt that it’s better to just do what others tell you to, because then, you won’t be kicked and punished. He never said please or sorry or thank you when he was in his teens.

He didn’t know who he’d be back then, anyway.

He parks the car and opens the door. Satoru likes Kento’s car—it’s all sleek, clean, polished and functional, like Kento is. The doors don’t creak. The engine doesn’t squeal. He doesn’t have to get out and push it to get it started. He wonders how Kento paid for it. Probably all in cash.

When Satoru shakily follows Kento out of the car, there’s a mix of sweat from between his legs on the seat and the smell of cigarettes and salt in the air.

The second years are in the courtyard, but they’re all sitting by the building in the shade. Toge is staring at the sun. Maki is desperately trying to light a cigarette with a lighter that probably hasn’t been working right since 1964. Panda is nowhere to be seen.

Nanami gets a solemn look on his face, like a funeral guest who doesn’t know the corpse personally. Toge keeps scratching as his arms, until the crimson seeps through dark blue uniform sleeves and runs down his wrist and hands. It smells like summer sweat and fruit flies in the front courtyard of Jujutsu High.

Satoru reminisces on his teenage years spent in this same courtyard. Smoking with Shoko. Vandalizing the walls with Suguru. Making out with him under the big oak tree until Yaga caught them. It almost makes him cry, before he remembers Nanami’s words. “Be quiet, Satoru.”

Satoru smiles, and he immediately regrets it, because his lips crack and bleed a bit. His smile is fake and plastered on his face. Like a muzzle to keep him from falling apart. The kids don’t smile back. Nanami casts a venomous glare Satoru’s way, like he’s just interrupted a church sermon.

His hands get clammy and sticky. Sweat leaks through his pores like toffee. Panda’s not here.

Maki automatically sees her sensei’s guilt. She’d gotten so used to Satoru being guilty—he usually is—she knows how to deal with him now. Tell him the worst part of it all and he can figure out the rest.

“Panda got taken apart by Yaga. He was struck by a curse and it was so bad, all his cores died. Yaga is trying to rebuild him, but it’s so hopeless, it’s funny.” Toge keeps scratching at his body. The itch of the fabric when he scratches it makes a whizzing noise—high-pitched and annoying.

Toge claws at his chest, like he’s trying to rip his heart out. Satoru feels the same.

“You can go see him in Yaga’s office—or at least whatever’s left of him…” Maki trails off, casting a glance at Toge.

Her tone is colder than the deepest ice and flat like an operating table. Satoru can’t bring himself to feel guilty or worried; he knew this was going to happen. The only thing he’s good at is ruining the lives of others and nothing else.

“Don’t blame yourself. He was never gonna make it.” Maki gets her cigarette lit, finally, and she seems pleased with herself. Satoru can feel his brain splitting in his head. It leaks through his eyes in the form of tears.

Thank god he’s wearing the blindfold. He doesn’t want the kids to see him cry—even though they’ve seen him do worse.

Satoru feels sick. He feels like the world is there, but not here. He’s somewhere else. 

Be quiet, Satoru.

That loops over and over in his head as he paces away from the courtyard, leaving that world to enter another. A different world, one that smells like crushed teenage dreams, cheap deodorant and the sticky smell of lust and disgust mixing in one big cauldron.

The classroom.

Gojo sometimes feels like the hallways in Jujutsu High go on forever. Like a never ending hallway loop, like if he just keeps walking he’ll walk forever. The second he enters the classroom, that never ending feeling is gone, replaced by a claustrophobic one. The walls close in on him, and a bead of sweat forms on his brow. The kid’s voices drown out, forming screams and shrieks that warp and waver in his head like a broken recording.

Two new kids and a broken boy with ballerina feet and a figurative noose around his neck. The lioness—Kugisaki—has a brown short mane and chewed-on claws that could kill a person in one swipe. Her face color doesn’t match her neck’s, and her lips are glossy to the extreme, lashes too long to be real. Then, her male counterpart—Itadori—with a short pink mane and a red hood on his uniform. He’s growling, baring his teeth, claws ready. He’s all muscle, all ego, but Gojo can tell he doesn’t have the heart to hurt someone.

They bicker about something, Gojo doesn’t know. A small antelope sits in the corner of the class, headphones on, world turned off. He’s prey. He’s next. Gojo wonders how he hasn’t died yet. Or killed himself. He’s their next meal. Gojo is bubblegum again—ignored, left alone. Not chewed, tasted. Used and spat out. He’s alone.

Alone.

“Kids?” Gojo asks, weakly. They're not Savannah animals. They’re high schoolers.

Even so, they’ll eat him alive.