Chapter Text
For most of what he could remember, there was nothing.
Except.
No.
That wasn’t exactly true.
Was it?
It was near impossible to tell, the difference between nothing and something, the fake reality of ghosts that surrounded him but also wasn’t, when he actually looked. It felt real, though. Every endless, waking second. Sleep was a far-off memory—like people; like food; like freedom. He was a ghost himself, removed from existence. Sometimes he wondered if he actually still existed, but that wasn’t a thought that lingered long because if there was one thing he’d learned in the eternity he’d been here it was this:
Existence was pain, and pain was endless.
Faces weaved in and out of nothing in front of him, words he’d long stopped listening to a drone in his mind. Not there. They weren’t…there, they were both in front of his vision and an empty swathe of space overlaid on top of it, a figment of torment quite adept at its job.
Suguru, his mind whispered as fingers swept (didn’t) over his cheek (he didn’t want to be touched didn’t like being touched there was no way to turn it off here because there was no way to turn it off if it wasn’t really happening) except—the open wound that was his skull was the fake (wasn’t either, there was nothing here) droning on and on and on and—
Nothing was real. But this…this was the precursor, always, to—he hadn’t screamed at the start, however long or short ago that was, and then he had, and then he’d stopped again. Useless either way – no one around to see or talk to or witness his breakdown, but it was impossible to tell what was real and what wasn’t (nothing was real), or it might’ve been for anyone else, anyone with just two eyes and not six screaming at him that there was nothing and no one and he was alone with himself and regrets and this endless, all consuming, ever-growing agony.
Sometimes, they pulled them out, his eyes. He’d drag fingers down his face to remind himself they were still there, that the dark, empty black void (ironic) was reality. Not the hands pinning him down, not his body being pulled apart bit by bit, not familiar (unfamiliar) lips skimming over his skin, not the knife in his throat (no, that was real—or had been real, but the way it replayed itself out in his body until the back of his tongue didn’t know anything but the taste of blood was real enough that it didn’t matter it didn’t matter when would it end)
He'd screamed and laughed and laughed and laughed and broken, somewhere along the way, but it didn’t really matter because this was all there was now (nothing, still, just more of it constantly) and there was no way out or free and it was impossible to tell when he’d accepted no one was ever letting him out from this goddamn nothing torment when time was stretched out and all at once, but never (never) ending. It was like the pain that way: immediate and distant and everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, and it might’ve driven him crazy (had definitely, he was, this was a personal hell built on his suffering) if he hadn’t already lost it a long time ago.
You did this to yourself, the nonexistent (fake) Suguru had said to him once upon a time – probably still said, if he could make out any particular words at all. They were loud in his head, constant, too much to hear, but it was true, wasn’t it? Or else someone (anyone at all) would’ve let him out.
Maybe acceptance made it easier (it didn’t he couldn’t lie to himself), or maybe it was nothing more than a delusion (like everything, like the fever dream of his life he only half remembered living).
But he knew the only way out (had known from the start, confirmed by the long-gone skeletons – real or not or real or—that had greeted him on arrival), which meant there was no way out because (he was too goddamn strong) if the only way out was death, he’d beaten that when he was sixteen (and there was still a knife in his throat, carving him open from top to bottom, over and over and over and over and—)
Endless nothing was almost comforting when he could barely remember what it felt like to experience something (real) and pain was a constant reminder etched into him that he still (barely) existed. Suguru (fake fake fake fucking imposter) smiled as he kissed him (nowhere to move to, no way to move, he still didn’t want it to touch him but nothing was), didn’t because no one was there, the empty black nothing always superimposed on top of the ever-present phantoms (and Toji, always Toji, keeping him sixteen and dying and terrified, even despite that he’d killed him, because had he really if it kept fucking happening) digging fingers through his guts to tear him apart and keep him together and punish him for being stupid enough to get trapped, but he hadn’t been stupid had he, hadn’t even known this was a possibility that he could be…that there was something worse than death that could get through him, and—all at once, the empty black abyss shattered around him as nothing jerked into the sudden bright pain of everything (too too too much, his eyes wanted to bleed with it, a desperate noise he thought he was long past mixing with the taste of blood in the back of his throat—)
And Suguru, of course (always Suguru), touching him still, and talking, but always never really there.
+++
The sharp buzz of vibrating phone against metal cut through the stillness of the morgue. Shoko cracked a bleary eye open. It took effort to move the rest of the way: to pull away from the wall she leaned against half asleep. More effort than it was likely worth. The faint traces of her headache disappeared, tugged away by her reversed cursed energy, but the shriek of her chair sliding over concrete nearly brought it back.
Utahime, the caller ID read.
The disappointment in her throat was so thick it choked her. Five years hadn’t made it easier to swallow. Hadn’t eased the anger knowing that Utahime had sided with Gakuganji of all people, even knowing what he’d done to Yaga. The administration had killed the school right along with him, too, moved all the students to the Kyoto campus to consolidate. Convenience, they’d said. Not enough teachers to keep two schools going, especially with the influx of new students. Control, anyone with more than a single braincell knew. If they’d cared that deeply, they wouldn’t have killed Yaga or fucked over Gojo—
Shoko took a deep breath and cut off that train of thought before it could spiral into something bitter. She’d been burying her feelings since she was fifteen; it shouldn’t have taken much more effort to do that now.
It did, though.
Maybe it was silly of her, but she’d thought if anyone in Kyoto would have seen reason, it would have been Utahime. Even despite hating Gojo. Her finger hovered over the answer button for one second, two, three until she finally hit reject and sent it to voicemail. This was the third call she’d rejected over the past five days, but the betrayal still felt too real for her to easily brush off anymore. Right now, she needed a cigarette.
“Ugh,” she muttered as she peeled out of her seat to head to the door. “You’re supposed to be quitting, Ieiri. This is not quitting.”
There was no one left to chide her, though. Neither of the two losers that had been Gojo and Geto ever would’ve to begin with, though Gojo would gripe about the smoke whenever she was inside. Nanami had frequently, if only because he hated the smell, too, when they were drinking. And Yaga, of course. Ijichi was still around, but he could barely manage to call her Shoko like she’d insisted without stuttering, and he still blushed every time he saw her. He wouldn’t dare.
“Not the day for melancholy,” she chided herself instead as she stepped outside. The weather was beautiful: a perfect April day for hanami. Shoko had never been one for picnicking, but she’d also never been someone to turn down a drink, cherry blossoms or no. It was unfortunate she’d finished her last bottle last night. She’d need to ask Ijichi to make a trip to the grocery store to fetch her some more shochu if she ran into him today.
The weather meant the grounds were unfortunately busy, though, which meant he was probably running around trying to keep everyone happy. The school had been shuttered, but the campus couldn’t be closed. They needed it still as a base. That had been the other half of the excuse, hadn’t it? Tokyo a half destroyed blot on the landscape, and they needed more full time sorcerers nearby, not half-trained children. It was too dangerous now for kids, they’d said. Laughable. As if they’d ever cared. As if a solid third of the people running around on any given day weren’t students on a field trip from Kyoto.
There wasn’t any way to argue with them, though. The curses were a problem now, even more than they’d ever been before. Worse because of everything that had been unleashed, and completely unchained without Gojo there as a deterrent. Her morgue saw more use than the clinic these days: nothing but a constant flow of bodies she always made sure to burn. Shoko leaned back against the side of the building and lit up her cigarette. People flitted back and forth across the grounds: sorcerers she didn’t care about or didn’t know, some enjoying the sun, some on their way out for another round in the never-ending game that was their lives. A game of never-ending despair that could drive a good man insane.
Her phone started vibrating again, annoying in her pocket. Shoko swore under her breath. The screen read Utahime again, not even half an hour since the last call. Annoying as hell. Ah, but Gojo would’ve had just the worst, most perfect thing to say if he were still around, she thought fondly as she finally gave in and accepted.
“Yeah?”
“Oh. You answered this time.” Utahime’s surprise was genuine. “I thought you’d ignore me again.” Maybe, if there had been even the slightest hint of apology in her voice, Shoko would’ve found it in herself to soften up. Instead, the only thing she got was chided.
“Have I been ignoring anyone? It’s been a busy few years over here, you know. Lots of curses. No one strong enough to keep them under control.” Blandly inoffensive in a way she knew would land badly.
“You know better than to say things like that,” Utahime was quick to scold. “It’s dangerous, especially for you.”
“Oh? For me? Why, is someone ready to pin fake terrorism charges on me, too? The elders are tired of me constantly healing everyone who gets hurt, then? Because they don’t like my friends?”
They’d been close, was the thing that always got to Shoko about talking to Utahime. The distance between them had only widened since Shibuya: a microcosm of the fractures spread throughout their entire world. Tokyo and Kyoto. The Zen'ins and their perpetual civil war. The unending squabbling between the Kamo and Gojo clans. Even every minor clan had been vying for some tiny scrap of power every chance they got in recent years. It was exhausting, even for Shoko who had never cared or bothered to pay attention to politics as a doctor, but she knew theirs wasn’t the only relationship that had suffered.
Predictably, Utahime huffed, a sharp exhale of breath loud even through the phone speaker. Gojo would’ve mocked her relentlessly to hear it. “Look,” she said, “I know you’re still upset with me, but I wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t important. Gaku—the principal asked me to call you. The elders want you in Kyoto; we’ve got a few people in bad shape here that need immediate medical attention.”
Well, at least it was business. She twirled her unlit cigarette between her fingers. “How bad of shape?”
“I couldn’t tell you exactly. That’s all I know. It’s none of the students, at least.” That wasn’t much relief, really. “But there’s…things here, Shoko, there’s something going on.”
“At the school?”
“Behind the scenes.”
With the administration, then. Shoko frowned. There’d been a vibe in the air even here lately, and Ijichi looked more frazzled than usual which meant he was being more stressed out than usual. He’d barely been to see her, too, which made sense if his workload keeping the campus running smoothly had grown.
“They’ve been upset for days. Something’s definitely happened, but they’re hiding it. Whatever it is, just know that things are…tense. And now sorcerers have shown up in condition like we haven’t seen in…I’d say about three years. Whatever it is you’re walking into, I don’t know, but it’s not good. Just be careful. Please.”
That did not sound promising. Even less promising was the surety that this was about to be the rest of her week: Kyoto trips were never short, and always full of constant talk of relocating her permanently. Only the ever-present special grade curses scattered around the remnants of Tokyo and the people still there kept them from it. Too many people would die without her. Honestly, though, Shoko didn’t think any of the Elders actually cared beyond appearances.
If they cared, Gojo would still be here.
“You know I don’t get involved in politics,” she finally responded. It felt pathetic even as she said it. “I can be in Kyoto tonight, but I won’t make it in until tomorrow. Tell that asshole when to expect me.”
Another sigh. “I’ll tell Principal Gakuganji,” Utahime agreed. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah,” Shoko muttered.
“I’m glad. I do miss you—”
Shoko hung up the phone. A flick of her lighter, and she pulled her first, relieving drag from the cigarette between her lips. Smoke curled up above her, dissipating into the perfect blue sky. “This is going to be a pain in my ass; I just know it.”
+++
By the time the shinkansen pulled into Kyoto Station, the night was long since black. The station still stood intact and gleaming: a pinnacle of modern innovation. It was kind of funny, the things that survived an apocalyptic event. Even the chaos of the past few years and the partial, near-total destruction of the capital city – not to mention a brush with complete government collapse – could not stop the trains from running to schedule on a consistent basis. Everything here felt perfectly preserved. A time capsule of all the things that made her heart ache.
Sometimes, when Shoko came to Kyoto, she could even pretend that things weren’t fucked beyond all belief.
And just like that, she needed another drink. Gojo probably would have a smart comment about her alcoholism if he were around, the annoying teetotaler.
(Shoko hated how much she missed him.)
The izakaya steps from the hotel she’d booked – always a hotel, never the Kyoto campus – was small, cozy, and perfect for filling the overwhelming space that sat in her brain before she had to deal with all this shit again tomorrow. There were only a few people about, though the divides between tables made it hard to see them all. Shoko made it easy for herself and sat at the bar.
The bartender was young and friendly enough, taking her order with the kind of polite conversation and awkward smile that reminded her of Ijichi. She didn’t pay him much mind as she pulled out her phone to pass the time. Utahime had messaged asking if she’d arrived. Shoko didn’t even open it to read it. The news was both more interesting and more depressing: there was talk of curse users banding together into a new organization that didn’t bode well for anyone. She switched it off.
“Rough day?” the bartender asked, placing her drink in front of her. It wasn’t a shot, but Shoko downed it like one and gestured for more.
“Rough year, more like,” she muttered. Rough life, to be most accurate. He nodded his understanding. She downed her second drink almost as fast. Usually, she’d be good and drunk by now, and she planned to waste no time catching up to her usual level of buzzed.
Shoko was five drinks in when the izakaya door slid open, but she didn’t care to pay attention to the large man plodding in. Something familiar niggled underneath the thin haze of alcohol, but a sip of her drink melted it away. It wasn’t until he sat next to her at the bar that she cared to notice him. A cap shadowed his face underneath a hoodie, but the cut of his jaw was so familiar she opened her mouth to make a joke about it when:
“Shoko.” A murmur, soft and familiar that wrapped immediate ice around her heart. She froze, faltering as her hand grasped the glass in front of her, but she managed to swallow that down, too, hiding the sudden pulse of fear with a scoff.
“Guess everyone in fucking Kyoto wants something from me today,” she said, letting go of the glass to pull out a cigarette. The lighter held out for her might’ve been appreciated anywhere else (from anyone else). From him? Not so much.
She took the light anyway.
Geto smiled blithely at her, or—no. Not Geto. He was dead. Whoever or whatever the thing was that was wearing his body. She’d heard about him, of course, but it was different seeing him here in the flesh. “You look surprisingly alive. For a dead man.”
His face tightened, smile traded for half a grimace. “I get that sometimes.”
“What do you want?”
“Your help.”
That was more honest than she’d expected from a monster. What could he possibly need her help with? Shoko cut her eyes at him, calculating the chance she had to get out of here without it becoming an issue. Times like this, she regretted never having committed to much combat training beyond the bare essentials.
“Hmm. So does everyone. What makes you think I have time for you?”
His laugh was so painfully familiar, the amused expression on his face more than just a ghost. “You always have time for old friends,” he said.
“I think friends is the key word there, Geto.”
His smile didn’t falter, but his hand was suddenly on the back of her neck, nonthreatening but still a threat. Something crawled up his hand – a curse, she had a split second to realise, one small enough that it wouldn’t take a lot of her positive energy to destroy, but before she had time to try, there was a sudden—something, and she was fading, falling into his arms with black crawling along her vision as he muttered, “You’ll forgive me for this later.”
Inconvenient, was Shoko’s first thought upon waking. Really fucking annoying, was her second. Cool wind over her face brought her back to consciousness fast, mind already racing like she’d never passed out. There was a level of panic bubbling just under the surface, tempered only by the possibility that had all been one bizarrely fucked up dream. She opened her eyes to Geto next to her – cap gone, hair pulled up like when they were teens, in a hoodie and joggers looking entirely too normal – and that panic bubbled just under her calm surface.
“Oh, great,” he said. “You’re awake.”
“You—what?”
“I know this isn’t your favourite way to travel, but it’s not like we have a lot of options.”
They were in the sky. Travel by curse: the worst way to travel. Even Gojo’s annoying warping was less nausea-inducing. It took a concentrated effort not to look over the sides. Knowing exactly how high up they were would only make it worse, and knowing Geto, they were extremely high (this wasn’t Geto, she reminded herself).
She looked him up and down instead, taking him in properly for the first time since she’d last seen his corpse on her table, before Gojo – silent and unnaturally solemn, too upset for words and doing a bad job of hiding it from her, even if no one else noticed – had stopped her from dismantling that body beyond any hope of repair. A mistake, in hindsight. She’d say he looked exactly the same as she’d last seen him, but he looked better. Two arms, no holes in him. There was nothing to indicate this was a different person, or even that anything had ever happened to him. She’d heard tell from Itadori, before Okkotsu had killed him for the Elders, of a scar across Geto’s forehead, but time must have removed it because even his skin there was untouched.
“You kidnapped me,” she said dryly.
“I borrowed you,” he corrected.
“Also known as kidnapping in every legal jurisdiction, but then, I suppose you wouldn’t know or care about anything as mundane as legality.”
Geto cracked what could possibly be a smile. “Guilty as charged.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” she muttered. “Now what? You must realise I’m not inclined to help you with anything.”
The look Geto gave her was distant, almost fond – nostalgic, even, and it reminded her entirely too much of that day in Shinjuku, after he’d left the school and killed his parents. Before Gojo had made the choice not to kill him for the first time because everything was already spiralling out of control. But then his face twisted up into a much more disgusted grimace, and the moment was gone.
“I know you don’t have reason to believe me, but I’m not…him. Kenjaku.” That wasn’t a name she’d ever heard before, but she filed it away for later. “I’m me again.”
He seemed so sincere, Shoko was almost inclined to believe him. Her expression didn’t shift, though. “And?” Geto wasn’t a much better option, all things considered. He was just the evil she knew. “I know you’ve always been an idiot, but you must realise that’s not at all a convincing argument for me to help you. Do you need a murder buddy to commit some genocide with?”
The flat look he threw her screamed Geto Suguru in every single way she knew, and she saw the concession before he gave it to her. “It’s not me that needs help,” he said, catching her off guard. And then: “It’s Satoru.”
If she’d had a cigarette, it would’ve tumbled out of her hands and into the empty expanse of sky below.