Chapter Text
Satoru had lost. A slash struck his body, splitting it into two parts. His last thought—a regret—was, "Yuuji. I never told you that I love you." An image of their failed relationship, broken by war and death, flashed before his eyes: watching strange movies in the basement, walks around Tokyo with ice cream, joint training sessions, touches—so many touches—and then the sealing and defeat. How could things have been if they were born in another universe without cursed spirits, elders, and Sukuna? What if he had mustered the courage to finally confess his feelings? He had no answers to these questions.
His eyelids closed, and he fell into a heavy void, like a tunnel pulling him somewhere deep, taking his fears, sadness, and regrets along with it. Darkness engulfed his consciousness along with the memories he had so carefully cherished, even in the darkest moments of his life. He floated somewhere far away, letting go of everything and following unknown voices toward a warm light. Snippets of speech or perhaps arguments reached him, but Satoru couldn't grasp their essence. He was a grain of sand in this endless black ocean of emptiness, crumbling and useless. Something or someone seemed to catch him in this whirlpool, pulling him through the dark abyss. It pushed him forward, whispering something he couldn't make out.
His lungs suddenly and painfully filled with oxygen; Satoru felt something hot filling him from within, spreading through his veins and vessels. His brain seemed to switch on at full power, sharpening all his senses. He breathed, inhaling air with a groan, like a newborn taking its first breath.
Satoru opened his eyes. The clock read 2:04.
A huge unfamiliar bedroom was plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the streetlights outside the window. He was definitely dead, so what was happening to him? Where was he? Someone's domain? Heaven? A parallel universe? Satoru realized instantly that his Six Eyes no longer existed, nor did the cursed energy at all. He immediately dismissed the first option—this wasn't a domain. Then what was it? How did he get here? The moment of his own death flashed before his eyes, so this was definitely not a dream. And what was happening now was clearly beyond human understanding.
His attention was drawn to the quiet breathing from the other side of the bed. Next to him slept a pink-haired person wrapped in a blanket. Satoru couldn't make out the face but knew exactly who it was. He touched the head of the person lying next to him, running his hand through soft, warm hair, playing with it. If this was a damn dream, he intended to enjoy it to the fullest. Someone—no, Yuuji—turned and looked at him with sleep-clouded eyes. Yuuji was here. His face lacked the scars from Sukuna's cuts, only a pillow mark on his cheek.
Without removing his hand, Satoru looked directly into the sleepy eyes. "Sorry I woke you, dear."
The guy looked at him in confusion. "Gojo, did you hit your head or something? Get your hands off me." Satoru withdrew his hand and froze in bewilderment. "I don't know what kind of crap you dreamed up, but drop it. Our marriage can't be saved; we already settled everything."
Yuuji irritably adjusted the blanket, turned away from the shocked Satoru, and said into the darkness:
"Sleep, idiot. The Christmas party is tomorrow."
For another moment, Satoru continued to stare at the spot where his husband's face had been. Oh, God... He had to immediately discard the sweet-dream theory; this was more like a nightmare. How can you lie in bed with the person you're crazy about, and he openly despises you? Damn. He rubbed his eyes and noticed the silver band of a ring on his left hand—small yellow stones were set along both edges. Damn it. They were really married. They even had rings. Damn.
With a loud sigh, Satoru fell onto the pillow, trying to analyze what had happened and sorting through the bits of information he had. First, in this world or space, there was no cursed energy, so there were no sorcerers or cursed techniques here. Second, he was still Gojo Satoru, and judging by the outlines of the room he was in, still wealthy. Third, he was married to the person he loved, but their marriage, judging by the other half's reaction, was a complete mess. This fact complicated everything significantly. He hadn't just woken up in bed with Yuuji but with his own husband, with whom he clearly had a complicated relationship. What led to this? And why were they still sleeping together?
And perhaps most importantly—how did he end up here and for what purpose? He was definitely dying; there was no doubt about that, just as there was no doubt that what was happening now was more than real. The beating of his heart, the pulse fluctuations, the sound of Yuuji's breathing nearby, and the soft upholstery of the bed's headboard felt as if Gojo had always been here. As if there had been no battle with Sukuna, no sealing, no world of sorcerers. And realizing this, even Satoru—a man who had seen a lot—felt the blood freeze in his veins. He ran a warm palm over the silk sheets he was lying on. There could be no mistake. Everything was real. If the theory was correct, and he was in another dimension, then why did he remember everything?
After running through a dozen more questions in his head, Satoru didn't notice how he fell asleep, restless and uneasy.
The second time he opened his eyes to the annoying sound of an alarm clock showing 6 a.m. To his right, Yuuji was still softly snoring, only slightly stirring under the warm blanket. Satoru had never been a fan of early mornings, preferring to postpone all affairs to the second half of the day, but today he tore himself from the bed in an instant and instinctively headed to one of the two doors leading out of the room. As he expected, behind it was a bathroom, confirming that this Gojo was also a lover of luxury. He was met by a long corridor, along which stretched a black stone countertop with two sinks and a huge mirror. In the reflection, Gojo Satoru looked back at him—the same white hair, slightly leaner, and without the long scar slicing across his chest. He touched his own face in the mirror with the fingertips of the hand that wore the wedding ring, once again feeling the reality of what was happening. It was eerie and abnormal. How was this even possible?
Satoru clenched his hands into fists, trying to focus on deep breathing. Inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale... "You'll figure this out soon, calm down..." Inhale-exhale... inhale... exhale... "You're the strongest, damn it..." Inhale... exhale... inhale... exhale... His chest rose and fell unnaturally fast; each breath burst from him with such tension that it seemed he was dying. His ears rang as if the world were slowly receding, and his body could no longer hold this tension. In the depths of the shadows, his face was distorted with agony; his eyes reflected madness mixed with fear and panic.
Satoru seemed to be standing on the edge of an abyss; his heart pounded wildly, as if ready to burst out. He felt cold sweat bead on his forehead and temples. His mind tried to find an explanation, but there were no answers. The world floated before his eyes, and Satoru realized he was losing control. Everything that had previously seemed constant and unshakable had shattered, leaving him alone in this frightening new world. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, desperately grasping at reality as it slipped into darkness.
He closed his eyes and focused on each inhale and exhale, trying to return his breathing to a normal rhythm. Gradually, heavy breaths were replaced by slow, even movements of his chest. His breathing was still rapid and shallow, but he began counting to himself: one, two, three... and by ten, he felt his chest begin to expand slowly, filling with air. The ringing in his ears began to subside, and his heart returned to its normal rhythm. With each moment, Satoru came to his senses, regaining control over his body and mind. He stood up slowly, opened the faucet with trembling hands, and stuck his head under it, washing his face with quick motions. The sense of reality returned, and in the mirror, the same man still looked back at him. Damn.
Satoru moved forward, trying not to look at his reflection, uncertain how his mind would react next time. Near the panoramic window stood a huge bathtub built directly into the floor on a low platform. The walls and floor were lined with matte black stone, and behind a glass partition was a tropical shower with lighting. On shelves built into the wall stood bottles of various shower products and fluffy, neatly folded towels. He stepped behind the partition and adjusted the switch to cold water, allowing it to wash away all the creepy thoughts and feelings that had gotten under his skin.
He was Gojo Satoru, damn it; he wouldn't break that easily. Icy droplets ran down his pale, almost porcelain skin, sobering him up. Satoru ran his hands over his face, rubbing water into his skin, as if trying to wash away the face that both belonged to him and didn't. He ran his hands over the lines of his muscles, studying, scanning, searching for similarities and differences. This body was leaner and more sinewy, quite toned and well-groomed, with obvious signs of gym training. Moles were located in the same places, as far as he could remember; his nails were the same shape—everything that, until now, he had considered exclusively his turned out to belong to someone else as well.
Satoru whispered into the emptiness of the bathroom, "Damn," running a trembling hand through his hair, brushing it back.
The rational part of his brain began to engage, and he ran through possible ways out of the situation in his head. First, he needed to understand how the world or space he found himself in worked. Second, he definitely needed to find out who Gojo Satoru was and why Yuuji hated him. Third, perhaps the most difficult—to find out the purpose of his being here. He had definitely been dying; there was no doubt about that, nor about the reality of what was happening now. And he had no ideas on how to figure this out.
He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, drying himself with a soft towel. Droplets from his wet hair ran down his chest and back, and Satoru froze for a moment, as if trying to fully experience this moment. He was alive. And he had Yuuji. Nothing else mattered; Satoru could lay the whole world at his husband's feet to fix everything. All that was important now was the air entering his lungs, the blood being pumped by his heart, and Yuuji peacefully sleeping in their bed. Satoru would figure this out. He always did.
He left the bathroom and entered the empty bedroom; apparently, his husband was already awake. Finally, Satoru could examine it more closely, noticing more details. Dark gray shades of walls and furniture absorbed the warm morning light from the panoramic window. It offered a stunning view of Tokyo, and nearby stood a velvet armchair with a high back. Next to it—a small marble-topped coffee table, on which lay a tablet and several mobile phones.
In the center, against the wall, stood a large bed with a soft headboard, and on both sides—nightstands and built-in dark wood closets. On one of the nightstands was a table lamp with a black shade; its light fell on a book opened to the last page. He picked it up to examine the cover, from which his best friend looked back at him. Suguru Getou's "The Political Games of Modernity," the title read. With a trembling hand, Satoru put the book back. He noticed the second nightstand, on which stood a black metal frame.
Satoru stepped closer to examine it and look for clues. In the photograph were three friends at their high school graduation ceremony, smiling and happy. In the middle—Yiuji, with the same bronze skin and sakura-colored hair, holding a diploma and hugging the girl on the right. Nobara, with a bouquet of dahlias and her signature smirk. And on the left—Megumi, slightly less sullen and almost as pleased as his friends. Touching someone else's memories, Gojo felt warmth in his chest. They deserved this. Deserved to be happy and young, without wars and curses. Satoru nervously placed the frame back.
Feeling the coolness of his own body, he suddenly realized he was still wearing only a towel wrapped around his hips. Not finding a single closet in the bedroom, he left it, hoping to quickly get his bearings. Outside the bedroom, to the right, was another dark door. He turned the handle, clicked the light switch on the wall, and discovered a walk-in closet styled like the previous room. It was spacious and organized with impeccable pedantry. Built-in lights illuminated rows of hanging suits, each item seemingly matched by color and style. Satoru passed by a mirror on a massive stand, avoiding looking into it after the incident in the bathroom. In the closet, besides clothes, he noticed numerous accessories. Shelves were filled with expensive shoes, polished to a shine. In a pull-out drawer lay watches, neatly arranged on soft velvet. On one of the shelves, Satoru found a large collection of ties, folded into perfect rows. There was no doubt that this Gojo Satoru was a rich man with disgustingly pretentious taste—a show-off and a pedant.
In another closet, he found neatly folded stacks of bright hoodies and sweatpants, as well as an astonishingly huge collection of colorful socks. Yuuji. Even here, he's a bright star, unlike Satoru, who obviously preferred classics. In the corner of the closet stood a chair with a leather seat, and next to it, on a small coffee table—a round mirror on a thin metal stand, reflecting the luxury of every detail in the closet.
Satoru pulled out simple blue jeans tapered at the bottom and a plain black T-shirt without any print, and from one of the drawers, he found a pair of boxers from a well-known fashion house. He dressed fairly quickly, still trying to ignore his own reflection, and left the closet.
Satoru moved forward, noticing he was on the second floor of the apartment, confirming his guess—they lived in a penthouse. Turning, he saw a spacious living room below. He slowly descended the glass staircase steps and walked across the plush carpet straight to the sofa, gently touching its surface, feeling the expensive pile under his fingers. He stopped at the minibar built into one of the walls. Shelves were filled with expensive whiskey and wine; next to it stood a dining table made of black wood with matching chairs. On the wall opposite the sofa hung a huge TV that reflected the morning light from the window.
Satoru turned his head to the left and saw a spacious kitchen. A large black island with a matte surface stood in the center; he approached it, touching the cool stone with his fingers. Satoru examined built-in cabinets of the same dark color and a whole array of kitchen appliances—from the stove, over which hung a massive hood, to the porcelain dinner set arranged on the table. He noticed a shiny coffee machine and felt his mouth water at the anticipation of a sweet latte, which he seemed not to have had in an eternity. Taking a small mug from the kitchen cabinet, he started the program with two buttons and looked out the window while waiting for his drink. He flinched at an unexpected noise behind him, turned sharply, and saw his husband with a towel wrapped around his hips. Tiny droplets ran down the muscles of his toned abdomen and arms, and under his eyes were blue patches. Yuuji silently took a drinking yogurt from the fridge built into the kitchen, completely ignoring the presence of the other person, as if he didn't exist, and left.
Satoru fought the urge to run up, embrace him, and kiss him senseless, but understanding that at best he'd get a punch in the face, and at worst be sent to a psychiatric clinic, he restrained himself. So Satoru could think of nothing better than to take his cup of prepared coffee and, sitting right at the kitchen island, try to gather his thoughts after waking up and the morning stress. How could he fix everything? And was there any chance at all? In the apartment, he found no traces of their relationship—no photos, no cute notes, no matching items. As if two strangers with different tastes in clothes decided to live together under one roof. Then how did they decide to get married at all? He nervously twisted the wedding ring on his finger, staring into the distance, and didn't notice Yuuji's heavy footsteps.
"You can go ahead and take that crap off your finger, Gojo," he looked at him like a stranger, making Satoru feel even more like a jerk without even knowing the reason. "Your damn phone is blowing up; answer Ichiji, or he'll show up here as usual." Yuuji placed the smartphone in front of him, showing five missed calls on the screen.
"Thank you," Satoru replied, causing his husband to freeze in momentary amazement, but quickly recover and leave without looking back.
There it was—the answer to all his questions. Inside this small black box lay the entire life of this Gojo Satoru, and he would get those answers no matter what it took. The camera scanned his face, and he easily unlocked access to the smartphone. The wallpaper was a gray background—no pictures or animations, too childish for such a jerk. And today's date is December 25, 2023. Exactly five years since his death. How could that have even happened? He brushed the question aside, deciding to start small. Entering the messenger, Satoru saw a chat with a name that made his heart skip a beat:
Suguru.
Swallowing a lump in his throat, he opened the chat and began to read.