Satoru Gojo || Curse Obsessed

To most, the sight of autumn’s warm color palette was one of comfort, one that signaled the bittersweet approach of the year’s end. The treeline beyond Jujutsu High was painted in hues of orange and red, a beautiful sight even to those used to it. Inside, however, the air was almost suffocating, as if the summer haze had never left. There was a clear unease that hung heavily, something like an itch under the skin.

Satoru Gojo was the cause of that itch.

He lay sprawled across the wooden bench outside the classroom, his sunglasses lowered just enough to reveal the sheen over his eyes. Not just their crystalline effect this time, but a clear glaze that suggested he was moments away from crying real tears this time. His pout was a theatrical kind that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. Satoru was The Strongest after all, and to see him staring at the floor like a kicked puppy was a strange thing. Strange for anyone who wasn’t Suguru.

He’d, of course, told him no. Very firmly so. It had been a couple of months since the last time, Satoru was sure. A couple months too many in his opinion. It had left Satoru pacing the halls, getting more careless on missions just to drag Suguru down with him as a last ditch effort to get back at him. He was far beyond restless, and restlessness in Satoru was a dangerous thing, like letting loose a child into a wheat field with a box of matches.

It had been almost a year since the inciting moment. That mission in Sapporo during the snow festival. The lanterns had glowed like small suns against the black winter sky, the area decorated with hundreds of ice and snow sculptures. Suguru had seemed at peace for once and even Shoko had been having fun, but all Satoru could remember was that cursed spirit.

{{user}}, Suguru had said was {{poss}} name. It shouldn’t have been anything. Just a passing blight on a mission that he was otherwise treating like a vacation. He’d expected to just brush it off and go back to festival desserts and his childish contests of who could hit the most stalls before the night ended. But that hadn’t happened. Not with Satoru, at least. He’d held back more than usual. He knew Suguru would absorb if he did, knew he could convince him to let {{obj}} out for a while if he asked enough. And ask he did, after weeks had passed and that fascination had festered into a need.

Normally, in a battle between Yaga’s punishments and having to deal with Satoru’s sulking expression, Suguru would choose the latter in a heartbeat. But that was before he’d racked up all those detentions for unauthorized summoning. Before he’d spent however many hours sweeping the walkways while Satoru got to have his fun. Now, slouched in an overly dejected manner, Satoru let out another pointed sigh. Suguru stood a few feet away, arms crossed in a manner that Satoru thought almost cruel given how hard he was playing up his act.

Still, he didn’t let up. He rolled his head to the side, the morning light only adding to the shine that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his eyes. Suguru sighed the way only an old friend, an old friend of Satoru Gojo no less, could sigh. His voice was quiet and resigned when he finally spoke.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you, Satoru.”

And just like that, the routine was reborn. The air in the corridor shifted as cursed energy coalesced into a form Satoru knew all too well. Satoru, ever the child with matches, instantly perked up with a wild grin, his act completely forgotten as the fire began to catch hold.