INKBLOTS, gojou satoru

02. the makings of man

     A ping from your phone rattles your bedside cabinet. The vibration travels through the wood and into the floor, then crawls up the feet of your bed frame until you can feel the subtle buzz against your pillow. It's still dark out, sunrise isn't for another hour. You drag a hand from beneath the covers to flip open your phone, checking your text messages. Of course, you already know whose name is going to be displayed—there is no other person that would message you, much less with the audacity to do so in the early hours of dawn.

Gojou Satoru's name sits there, in three kanji. Let's meet. 207, is all the text says. His messages are typically of curt fashion, so you don't question it. You merely haul yourself out of bed to go take a shower.

You meet him in a different room today, though from the interior one would never know. Each room is arranged the same, the only difference being the digits which identify them. Gojou Satoru is sitting in the armchair in the corner, blindfold flush against his face. He appears to be dozing off, from the way his head dangles from his body and the slow rise and fall of his chest. The fluctuation of his cursed energy, though, tells you otherwise.

"Get up, Gojou-san. You know I'm not fooled by that," you say, the door clicking shut behind you.

A smile creeps its way onto his face as he hooks a finger under his blindfold to unveil an eye. "The only one as always, (y/n)," he chuckles. "I'm surprised you came."

"Don't push your luck."

"I'm not complaining, don't get me wrong. I'm just touched you hold me in such regard that you'd meet me so early." He pulls the piece of cloth away, and his blue eyes glint mischievously.

You close your eyes to keep from rolling them. "What do you want, Gojou-san?" you ask as you approach him, kneeling before him between his legs. His eyebrows raise at your actions, and you peer up at him.

"You're usually not so willing," he says, bringing a hand to shield the lower half of his face from view. You can hear a smile in his voice. "Guess I was worried for nothing."

You don't know what to make of his words, and you don't bother asking for an explanation. Explanations from Gojou Satoru, you've realized over the years, are worthless and never thorough. Oftentimes you think you'd be better off asking a fish the meaning of life. So rather than dwell on it, you take the lead this time. You can't stand this back-and-forth stalling, especially not with your health the way it is. You'd vomited just an hour before you came to meet him.

You go through the motions of what you're sure Gojou summoned you for. And you do it without pleasure, ashamed that you've let yourself be at his beck and call. Yes, it might be a holy privilege to be favored in some way by The Strongest, but it is shameful nonetheless. It is only because you are weaker than him, weaker than the world you live in, that you find yourself unable to defy his wishes. Your weakness is your shame, so you will never be without it.

When it's all over, Gojou Satoru doesn't seem to be his bright and cheery self, either. In the bathroom, you rinse your mouth and splash water on your face, trying to calm the nausea and churning of your stomach.

The atmosphere has grown in density these past few days, and it weighs on you. Your Heavenly Restriction granted you hypersensitivity to cursed energy in exchange for combative abilities, and so when a few days ago a wave of pure horror and evil washed over you with the force of a tsunami, you had collapsed on the floor of your kitchen. Catastrophe was coming, you knew then, because the last time you'd been faced with such a drastic shift in the levels of cursed energy that permeated the air was when you'd entered Master Tengen's barrier for the first time.

"(y/n)." Gojou says your name solemnly from the doorway, and you meet his gaze in the mirror. "Are you alright?"

Gojou Satoru doesn't like being righteous. You know that. Back in high school, he had thought protecting the weak to be a pain. You don't think he's changed. People like him, who stand so far above those around them, don't feel for those whose heads they can't even see. Someone like you, from whom he is separated by a galaxy's width, is not someone he'd concern himself with for anything other than the superficial reasons that make a man. That's why all you give him in response is a weary frown and a somber look. Gods cannot understand mortals, and the clueless innocence on his face and in his question make this all too clear.

"I'm fine," you say, and now it is his turn to frown. "It's nothing you need to worry about."

When you step foot out onto the street, you can feel the eyes of the receptionist bare into your back—he's a new face that you've never seen before. You're sure he's wondering how someone as plain as you attracted the attention of one as visually pleasing as Gojou Satoru. It was like that at the start, too. Weird looks when you walked into any institution with you at his side; being silently judged, watched, critiqued in strangers' eyes—you can't stand being seen with Gojou Satoru in public anymore.

The sun is barely rising over the skyscrapers of the city. You duck into an alleyway as you feel the sudden urge of puke, heaving over a dumpster. Passersby assume you're a drunkard suffering the repercussions of partying until dawn. Humiliating, it all is. And though you've felt this humiliation all your life, you don't think you'll ever get used to it.

     LATER that day you see Gojou Satoru again, though this time by chance, on the campus of Jujutsu Tech. Still frowning, which is strange, you think, because Gojou Satoru doesn't frown. He has his moments, but he rarely ever shows it on his face. He's a scheming man behind that childish exterior, and he hardly puts it down.

He is sitting by himself on the steps leading up to the principal's chambers, and you've no choice but to ascend those very stairs to confer with Principal Yaga. You give him a sidelong glance as you walk past him.

"Itadori Yuuji," he says, halting you. Looking over your shoulder, you see him gazing off into the mountains, his back as broad as you know it to be. He brings a hand to his nape. "Sukuna's vessel. That's why you've been sick, isn't it?"

His voice is grim. You don't know why.

"It doesn't matter," you say. The revival of Sukuna has been classified a secret, at least for now. Incidentally, your meeting with Yaga is scheduled to discuss the very topic. "What's going to happen to him?"

"The higher-ups want to kill him now, but he's agreed to be Sukuna's vessel for the time being. I managed to convince them to delay the execution until Yuuji's eaten all twenty of his fingers. That way, we can kill Sukuna for good," he says.

"So then why are you worried?" you ask, feeling the uncertainty seeping into his cursed energy.

"He's young," Gojou says. "Fifteen."

"It's better that way," you tell him, awful though it may sound. "Makes it easier to get used to."

That much you believe wholeheartedly. The earlier you are indoctrinated, the easier the horrors are to accept. There are certain fates one cannot avoid, and when it comes to Ryomen Sukuna, you are afraid that that of the Itadori Yuuji Gojou speaks of is one such fate.

Gojou shakes his head. "No. It's worse."

"You think so?"

"I know it, (y/n)."

"I guess you're right."

Gojou doesn't say anything else.

"You'd win, wouldn't you?" you ask him then, turning your face skyward and continuing up the stairs. "Against Sukuna."

A small scoff of laughter escapes from behind you. "You know I would."

With your head still tilted towards the heavens, your pupils find the corners of your eyes, gaze bound to the concrete steps. "Yes," you say to yourself, "I suppose I do."

. . .

5/5/24

a/n: pretty substantial changes in this revision, though i think it fits better and is more coherent with reader's abilities. also the old version just felt very out of place and inconsistent with the tone of the piece. hope you don't mind that i'm toning down the sex xddd