Chapter Text
Suguru Geto always knew what curses tasted like.
A dirty rag, drenched in shit and vomit, all bundled into one barely consumable orb of fear and anger. There was no stopping the taste, the aftertaste in his throat that would linger for days no matter what he ate or how many times he scrubbed his mouth clean.
He’d gotten to the point that it was almost easy. Second hand nature, to choke down his gag reflex — because someone had to. And he knew it was only sorcerers capable of doing it.
But still — nonsorcerers, to an extent, know of curses. Some can see them, most can’t. But they know it’s a plague on them all, yet, everytime Geto looks at them, how they smile, joke, how they flit about in markets on sunny days not knowing another sorcerer had died the day before because of their lack of ability. He’s becoming sick lately for more reasons than just his cursed technique.
He’s… tired.
Yet, he continues. He finds his feet dragging to the one source of stability he knows is left.
The month has been a dark and dreadful thing both in act and in weather. It was still that not, toward the end of their bloodsoaked cycle of the moon’s faces. Still, the cycle refused to give up the King of Curses in any certainty. Not from them, not from the distant kingdoms. Nothing had changed and curses were still calling his name in reverence, no matter how many infants they slaughtered. It wasn’t doing a damn thing…
He finds who he’s searching for in the empty dining hall. It’s near midnight, with heavy rain clamouring outside, trying to wash the blood of humans and curse alike staining the streets.
He closes the door behind him gently, asking, “Did you just get in..?”
Suguru doesn’t look well for himself. His hair is askew and shoved in a ponytail to chase strands from his face. His armour is battered and scratched and bloodstained, the result of his ushering out their miserable, must be obeyed law.
Gojo is similar in his own armour, his forehead laid flat against the table as he shakes his head mutely. They’re both exhausted — for days they haven’t stopped moving, patrolling, exorcising curses that have been popping up in clusters throughout the city each night. Whether it’s a distraction for the King of Curses to be born or it’s because he has already been born, no one can say yet for certain.
But it’s not just them. It’s happening everywhere, or so the reports are saying. Curses are exploding in numbers, in mass, size, not only the amount but their physical sizes as well are increasing. Half their job is hunting the King of Curses, and the other half is literally ripping citizens out of death’s jaws. They know of sorcery, most citizens can see curses and those who can’t still know the monsters exist, and depend on Sorcerers more than ever now.
Citizens sometimes called them monsters, or demons. Not that it mattered what they were called. They knew the ugly truth of what miserable war they’d waged.
And the King of Curses, even as an infant, possibly not yet even born, is answering in kind.
Satoru exhales quietly through his teeth as Suguru makes his way across to him. The dark haired sorcerer looks as tired as he feels. His eyes are emptied out and there are dark circles collecting under his eyelids, heavy and weighted from the days never ending, thankless task.
Sometimes, if he stops to think, Satoru wonders why they’re bothering. Why they’re even trying to —
Suguru gives him a reason. “I think we should visit Nanami.”
Satoru is only half-listening. There’s a numb, tingling sensation under his skin, as if his blood was boiling. He’s staring at his hands.. feeling it.
“Satoru.” Suguru says, a little sharper.
“Mm?” Satoru hums.
“We should go see him. Bring him food, booze, something.” Suguru says, tapping the table with his finger. Satoru lifts his head with a shy, quick smile, seeing Suguru practically crane to see his face.
“He’s a grown man,” he mutters tiredly, “he doesn’t need us babysitting him.” If he’s honest, he doesn’t want to see Nanami. He doesn’t want to see the usually composed man in pieces. He doesn’t want to shatter the image in his head of what Nanami is supposed to be like compared to what he imagines he is now.
“His best friend just died.” Suguru says. “He’ll need help.”
There hadn’t been much of a funeral for the Haibara or the other fallen sorcerers. Most were cremated after death, if there was anything left to cremate. Haibara had been done the same way after his autopsy. Shoko had done it herself, they had ensured it. She had requested it. But they haven’t seen her much since, holed up, tucked away in the safety of the fort. One of the few sorcerers who can use reversed curse technique on someone else was a rare and priceless commodity.
Satoru pushes a thin sigh out past his teeth. “..okay.”
Suguru nods. “Okay.”
… “Satoru?”
“Mmhm?” He barely lifts his head from the table.
“Are you sure you’re—”
“M’finneee!” Satoru waves him off easily, rising to his feet in a long swing of his arm. “Stop worrying already, let’s go.”
Suguru watches the endless limitless, the constant infinity between his friend and the rest of the world flow off of him. He hasn’t turned it off in days, been untouchable for days. And he hasn’t slept. But he won’t accept help, and he brushes him off each time, insisting his wellbeing is nothing to be fretting over, that there are more important matters at hand.
But still. Seeing him like this is making Suguru’s stomach churn.
The silence is dragging in the castle, and not just over Suguru and Satoru. It’s a heavy thing, clinging to each sorcerer that’s passing through the walls. The fort itself has become an attraction for curses now too, sorcerers forced to refortify it, do longer shifts, and train earlier and sleep later.
The whole country is in disarray.
Suguru tries not to think about it, if he’s honest. He can only concern himself with so much — his friends are dying, sorcerers are being slaughtered like animals and there’s no thanks nor reprieve from civilians. The civilians are terrified, drenching the city streets with pools of dark and cold cursed energy. Curses are pooling from them, low-level ones en-mass, higher level ones coming out of the woodwork. Any alley turned into now almost always holds a grade three or four curse.
Suguru can’t help but find them. He turns each time, sometimes to the sound of flesh being chewed and bones being picked at. To the sight of gore of citizens, of more children, and worse, sorcerers. And he swallows their monsters each time regardless — but.
It’s becoming too much to stomach.