Suguru wakes up in agony.

For a moment, he thinks it was all a dream: he is still in the college, still in his own time, and his technique is rebelling against him. But the nausea that his technique brings is an entirely psychological one, and this unbearable, blotting pain from his stomach is very very real. It takes him a moment to find his limbs and crack his eyes open. He's in the room that they ate dinner in. There's a pillow tucked under his head and his lower half is spread under the kotatsu.

He turns his head.

Satoru is curled up next to him, glasses off and eyelids gently shut. His knees are drawn halfway to his chest, hands curling in on themselves, body slumped over itself in the way it lies on its side. Fondness runs warmly down Suguru's arm and into his fingertips, and almost without meaning to, he reaches out.

It doesn't touch.

The disorientation of the situation 'of the fact that he's

trying to touch Satoru

and

not being let through

, hits him harder than it has in a while, and he snaps back his hand, digging nails into it. This is exactly what he was afraid of earlier. Suguru's stomach lurches, and he sits up, swallowing a groan. He has to '

He slips out of the kotatsu in an awkward movement and rises to his feet unsteadily. This is deep in the college's winding complex of doors and halls and adjacent buildings, but Suguru has lived here for three years. While the label

home

no longer quite sticks 'too worn by bitterness and

look at what you're doing to us '

he still knows this place well enough to easily find the nearest bathroom.

It's a small, clean thing, with a sparkling white sink and too-bright florescent lighting and a toilet that Suguru just barely manages to flip the lid on before keeling over and expelling a ridiculous amount of barely-digested food.

Fuck

. It catches on his loose hair, and when his shaking fingers try to tuck it out of the way, he heaves again.

By the third time, though, most of the content is gone, and while there's still

more

, it's small enough that he swallows it on reflex whenever it comes up. Awful. It was a bad idea to down more than a full bowl of food after not having really eaten in long. All because '

"Fucking monkeys," he hears himself mutter, voice low and wrecked. He spits a mouthful of vomit into the toilet, dry heaves, flushes, half-collapses to the tile floor, and slumps against the wall.

Monkeys

echoes loops in his skull, and the sound of it grates. Time hazes while he's like that, licking acid off his teeth, wallowing in his aches, and feeling disgusting, just disgusting.

Eventually, the door creeks open.

Suguru goes stiff. Then, when the other comes into proper view, relaxes, but not completely.

Florescent light washes Gojo in a thin sheen of silver. There's a thick black hairtie around his wrist and a clear glass jar held in his hand, fingertips pressing white against the rim. He sets the jar down on the sink with a clack, water inside prisming light.

"Yo," he says lightly, and Suguru realizes with a start that this is the first time Gojo has actually

talked

to him directly.

Suguru opens his mouth to speak 'tell him to leave, or maybe to stay 'but snaps it shut the moment acid jumps to his tongue. He pulls to his feet and heaves another mouthful out, suppressing the reflex to swallow that taste.

Nothing gets in his hair this time. Something 'Gojo's hand takes his hair with startling gentleness, lifting it out of his face and to the backside of his neck. He heaves, once, twice. Glances at the mirror. Gojo's hand holds his hair in a makeshift ponytail.

Suguru presses his eyes shut for a moment, two, and says: "Sorry."

His hoarse voice is harsh against the late night quiet.

Gojo's hand drops from his hair. "'S fine. Water?"

Suguru heaves again, eyes opening and lemon tears dripping from his lashes. The burning in his stomach is finally abating. One, two, pull back up.

"...Sure." He twists and tries to pick the jar up. It slips in his trembling, sweat slicked fingers. Gojo catches it and presses it more stably into his palm. "Fuck," Suguru mutters, "sorry."

Gojo leans back on his heels. The large bathroom and too-bright lights make him look oddly out of place: simultaneously too stark and too watercolor. "'Guess I should've stopped you from eating that much earlier, huh?"

"No." The jar feels cold and slippery in his hands. He imagines, for a moment, dropping it and watching the clear glass shatter into jagged pieces on the floor. "I would've hated it if there was an even larger scene made, anyway."

"Oh," Gojo says. "Yeah, 'guess that makes sense."

It's 'odd, to see this version of Satoru. He's odd. Hard to read, though not impossible. The blindfold is part of it, but the larger part is just... he's so '

Gojo tilts his head. "'Something wrong?"

"What?"

"You're staring."

"Ah." Suguru tugs his gaze away. Looks at the mirror instead. "Nothing. You're just 'you're different from what I'm used to, that's all."

"I know, I'm so much cooler now!" Gojo grins, and it's not genuine. Ah, there's the obnoxiously timed bad attempt at humor. "I have the 'dark and mysterious cool sensei' vibe." He sighs airily. "The magic of growing up."

"...Right," Suguru says, after a moment.

An awkward beat.

Gojo shifts on his feet, leaning somewhat against the wall. "So," he says, "When's the last time you properly digested food?"

"I '" Suguru searches his memories. Peaches from a grocery store on his last mission. Soba. That was... "Forty 'fifty something hours ago?"

"Shit," Gojo says. In the mirror, Suguru sees his fingers twitch.

"It's fine," Suguru says, finally bringing the jar to his lips. The cold rush of water soothes his throat and washes out the acid taste of vomit, or at least, the worst of it. He sighs, quiet and with relief. "It's not usually like this. Extenuating circumstances."

Gojo shifts on his heels. His fingers are twisting into each other. Middle over index. Back. Pinky with thumb. Back. Thumb over middle. Back. The hand shoves into Gojo's pocket. "Shoko's still awake," he eventually says.

Suguru squints. "What time is it?"

That gets a vague handwave. "Four in the morning. Or so."

Suguru snorts. "Shoko hasn't fixed her sleep schedule, huh."

"I think she gave up a few years ago."

"Oh," Suguru downs the rest of the water. Clumsily pushes the jar back into place. He feels raw, laid open and exposed. Satoru always makes him feel a little like that, but in this case, it's because no one 'he's not supposed to show this. It's such a break in face. What does he even say? "Sucks."

"Mm."

"She'll be okay with us coming at this hour?"

"It's you," Gojo says, like an explanation. Suguru raises a brow. Gojo's shoulders slump, just a little, movement so small that Suguru almost doesn't notice. "She will be."

"Okay," he says, reaching up to fiddle with his piercing and grimacing when his fingers brush a sticky section of hair.

Gojo is silent for a moment, then: "I can wash that out."

"It's fine," Suguru says on reflex.

"You hate your hair out of order."

"Well '" he starts, then stops. There's a determined set to Gojo's jaw. A familiar one. Suguru exhales and weakly asks: "in the

sink?

"

"Yep," Gojo says, popping the 'p.'

One beat, two. This deep in the school's underground, and at this hour, it's very silent. Suguru listens to the steady in-out of Gojo's breath, and exhales.

"Fine."

Gojo gives half a grin. Suguru turns away, runs the water till it's lukewarm, and places his head halfway under the stream The angle is awkward, but the water is warm against his scalp. Gojo's hands are careful (cautious?) where they wash out his hair. Tangles coming apart.

The minutes stretch. A finger brushes Suguru's cheek. He doesn't feel it. Nothing actually touches. Gojo's infinity is on, thin and almost imperceptible, but present. The thornbed of Suguru's chest coils tightly.

The water shuts off. Suguru straightens, and Gojo silently slips the black hairtie from his wrist down his fingers and around Suguru's hair, setting it in place as a low ponytail. His hands linger just a moment before drawing back. Gojo's mouth is set in a line, blindfolded eyes turned towards Suguru, and his skin pricks with scrutiny. The faucet drips loudly. One, two, three.

"Thanks," Suguru finally says, words awkward on his tongue.

He half expects Gojo to grin, wide and exaggerated:

yes, praise me more! I'm the best, aren't I?

But he only shrugs, head turning towards the door, shoes squeaking against the tiles. "Don't worry about it."

Pause.

Gojo waits by the door, cocks his head. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Suguru breathes, rolling his shoulders, absently brushing at the new ponytail. "Coming."

Their walk to the morgue is quiet. One staircase, another. Gojo pushes open a door to the grounds. Suguru follows him, a step behind. Moonlight bathes the whole courtyard in silver and reflects pale on Suguru's hands. Gojo's hard-bottom shoes are soundless where they don't-touch the stone. They walk through the halls like a pair of ghosts, and Suguru feels lost, just lost.

When Gojo pushes open the morgue's door, Shoko is smoking a cigarette over stacks of paperwork. She looks 'different, Suguru thinks. Her hair is long, and she no longer wears uniform. When she turns around to face them, the bags under her eyes look like bruises. Her cigarette drops. She catches it halfway.

"Seriously?" Her voice is flat. Surprise, but no confusion; she must've been told of Suguru and Satoru's arrival. Her eyes linger on Suguru before flicking to Gojo. "It's four thirty in the morning."

"And you're still awake," Gojo answers in turn, face split with a smile.

"Go away."

"Aw c'mon," Gojo's voice tints with a mockery of pleading; he knows Shoko will agree. "You won't spare time for an old friend?"

Shoko pinches her brows, drops her cigarette on the morgue floor, and crushes it. No ashtray? Suguru scans the whole desk but 'no ashtray. Shoko always has an ashtray. "What do you need?"

"

You're

supposed to be the doctor," says Gojo, then: "He just threw up and hasn't eaten in a while."

Shoko sighs deeply. "You two are so bothersome." Small pause. "You especially, Geto."

They end up going to another kitchen. Shoko and Gojo fall into easy step with each other. Their banter is sparse but natural. There's no room for a third person; there's no

expectation

of a third person. Suguru watches them make miso broth, quiet, and feels out of orbit.

Over this past year, all three of them have fallen out of orbit, an intangible, starless void spreading between them. The distance stretches, and stretches, and Suguru has grown used to the ache of it, but not like this. That void is supposed to be mutual, equal. But Gojo and this Shoko know each other with a silent understanding, a time-worn familiarity, and she still calls Suguru as

Geto

. There's something missing here;

he's

missing something here.

The clank of kitchenware. Shoko comes over, carrying a large bowl in hand and placing it with a dull thud on the kitchen table.

"Here."

No utensils are provided. The broth is a mild brown color. Little flakes of things that Suguru can't quite identify float around on the surface.

"...Thanks," he says, drawing the bowl close to him. It's warm under his fingertips, almost burning, but not quite. Like heated stones in the dentist office.

"Whatever," Shoko sighs. Dim stovelight illuminates her edges, hitting warmly on the dark, rust-brown pools of her eyes. Tonight, she looks undead, like something risen half-rotting from the earth. Across the room, Gojo hovers by the fridge, shaded in whites and silvers. He is something of the sky, of fog and mist and lazily storming clouds. What, Suguru wonders absently, would that make him?

Suguru averts his eyes and looks back to the bowl. It has no strong scent. He lifts it to his lips, and tilts his head back.

Warm

. Mild. It tastes like the waning days of spring. Miso. A hint of lemon. There's nothing he has to chew or shove down his throat, it all slips down easily.

"It's good," he says.

Gojo leans against the counter. "There's more in the pot."

"Alright."

"It's light food," Shoko says, "so eating it all shouldn't cause any problems, but stop if you feel sick."

"I know."

Shoko's fingers tap on the table's edge. "Just making sure."

Suguru doesn't know how to respond, so he takes another long sip, letting himself melt into the warmth of it pooling comfortably in his stomach. He's feeling calmer now, he supposes. Or maybe just detached. The bathroom floor feels like something of a fever dream. Everything feels a little like a fever dream.

"You should take a lozenge when you're done," Shoko tells him.

The tin in his pocket is empty. "I'm out."

"Oh," she says, then rubs tiredly on her eyes, "fuck. I don't wanna go on a supply run at this hour at night."

A supply run?

"There aren't any in the infirmary?" Suguru asks, almost without meaning to.

Shoko isn't looking at him. "There aren't."

Unease curls in Suguru's stomach, and cursed energy coils in spiraling loops between his ribs. There's always lozenges in the infirmary. They've been an ever-present addition ever since Suguru made it known that he needed them.

"Oh," he finally says. Almost asks why, but doesn't.

Do you really want to know?

the spirals in his chest tease.

"I can make the trip," Gojo offers. "Because I'm very helpful and nice and considerate."

Shoko perks. "I actually have a list of things I need," she says, lifting her weight from the table's edge and gesturing Gojo to the kitchen's. "Follow me for a sec." Then, to Suguru: "I'll be back in a minute."

Like he can't be left alone.

He waves her off. She and Gojo disappear around the corner. He drinks more broth, but its warmth fails to fully wash out the coiling unease. Around him, silence is a thick, droning thing, broken only by a soft murmur of voices from around the corner. Suguru has always had exceptionally good hearing; did they forget that?

Shoko's voice lists drug store items. Gojo complains about small handwriting. There's a silent lull, and Suguru thinks for a moment that they have moved further away, but then '

"

Did you find out what date they're from?

" Shoko's voice asks, so quiet that Suguru almost can't piece the sounds together.

"

September first

," Gojo answers.

Pause. "

Isn't that right before...?

"

"

Yeah

."

"

...

Damn

."

Before

what?

Suguru wants to ask, but he's not supposed to be hearing this in the first place. Silence stretches. The dredges of broth in Suguru's bowl are going lukewarm. And, finally:

"

Fuck

." Gojo's voice is achingly quiet. "

I just forgot he was so young.

"

Something ice-cold runs down Suguru's spine. The broth feels tasteless on his tongue. He speaks like...

"

I know

."

"

I have students older than him

."

"

I know

."

Like Suguru is dead. Like Suguru died. Slowly, things slot into place, silently clicking. The realization is cold. Maybe some part of him already knew. The infirmary no longer carries lozenges and the students didn't recognize him and Gojo keeps watching him.

Okay

, thinks Suguru,

so I would have died soon

.

How? Suicide? No. A curse? Possible.

And that...

It's not that it doesn't bother him, not that it isn't terrible, not that he wants it to happen, but the realization of it feels familiar when it sinks in his stomach. Some part of him already knew that curses would kill him from the moment he entered the college. Jujutsu exists to protect the weak: Jujutsu shamans exist to protect nonshamans: shamans exist as shields for nonshamans: shamans will die as shields for nonshamans. Suguru is a shaman. It's a logical deduction.

(This logical progression is followed by: nonshamans exist to make shamans die.)

Even if it wasn't a curse directly 'if it was a simple collapse from exhaustion, the root cause is the same.

Monkeys.

Suguru closes his eyes, and leans back in the hardwood chair.

Nonshamans

, he reminds that ugly part of him that insists on seeping oil through his thoughts and tar to his tongue. Nonshamans, nonshamans, nonshamans. The panic-lined acidic hatred that assaulted him on the bathroom floor has been washed away by miso. The spiraling exhaustion and confusion and

this is too much

that possessed him during dinner has slid away.

In its place, there's a numb sort of relaxation.

Shoko walks back into the kitchen. Suguru hears her footsteps, and slips open his eyes.

She looks at his empty bowl. "Want seconds?"

"Sure," he says, slipping his eyes back closed. "Though I can't promise I'll finish it."

"That's fine."

It's not clarity that he's feeling right now, it's nothing

close

to clarity, but it is enough so that the subject of nonshamans doesn't immediately overwhelm him with a boiling mess of vitriolic disgust. These are the quieter moments, the ones where his head is not a war between two choirs trying to sing over one another. The ones where his skull is not echoing a litany of

fucking monkeysjust die alreadyyou remember them cheeringthey're killing usignorantweak

and

shut upignorance is not a sinthey're innocentwhy are you like this

you're disgusting

SHUT UP

. Cultists cheering in his ears. Head split between revulsion, and revulsion of that revulsion.

Shoko sets the newly filled bowl on the table in front of him. "Thinking about something?"

He looks at her through thin slits. "Mhmm."

"Ooo," her smile is small and almost sardonic, like she knows something he doesn't, "dangerous."

"You really think so?"

She shrugs noncommittally. Suguru takes the bowl, warm, and lets more broth slide down his throat. It goes down so much easier than curses.

T

hey're still alive when I eat them

, Suguru thinks of saying,

I think that they dwell in my head, sometimes. That they gnaw at the lining of my stomach. That they slip between my ribs and eat my heart whole. I think, sometimes, that I am not the one doing the consuming

.

But then again, maybe not. Perhaps it's all him, these ugly feelings. He wishes achingly that he could be clean like Tsukumo, that when he said:

we should just kill all nonshamans

, it had been a purely rational preposition, born only of analytical deduction. (

That's the easiest way to do it

, Tsukumo said, and then:

But unfortunately, I'm not that crazy

.

Do you hate nonshamans, Geto?

)

I don't know

.

The fact remains that they are ignorant, and they are weak, and they are the root of the weed. This loop of protecting them has grown colorless in its futility. Like a corpse with all the blood drained out. Like Haibara's body.

He places down the bowl. It's almost empty. "I'm done for now."

"Okay," Shoko says, "'night."

He pauses by the door, and hesitates.

"Goodnight."