Chapter Text
“Euughhh!”
It had only been a slight miscalculation. That was bound to happen every now and then, even with the Six Eyes. Sure, thanks to his possession of such an exceptional trait, it’s only expected Satoru’s eyes will, in any situation, be able to ascertain all relevant data at a glance and instantly utilize it to its fullest, but that doesn't mean they are utterly infallible.
It doesn’t mean he is infallible. For all that he’d like to believe otherwise.
Whatever. This hardly counts as a mistake, anyway. Sometimes a measly grade two cursed spirit can turn out to be an even greater disappointment than anticipated, for other than the long, thin spines sprouting from each joint, the rest of its elongated body is clearly frail, brittle, and defenseless. Sometimes the curse’s movements are so sluggish there seems to be no need to keep his distance or stay behind Infinity. Sometimes it appears like the easiest means of taking it out so he can finally go home is to cleanly—and perhaps a touch aggressively—rip the curse in half barehanded, which just so happens to lead to an inordinate and disproportionate amount of slimy blood spewing out directly into his face as well as onto what feels like every remaining square inch of himself. Sometimes that's just how it goes.
Look, in this particular moment Satoru may have been what some—maybe most of the people he knows—would call rather careless, and he certainly would have preferred not to be at the epicenter of that explosion of ooze. But his chosen method of exorcism still got the job done and no one was hurt. So it's still a win in his book.
Satoru stands there for a few seconds, vainly attempting to wipe the worst of the viscera off his face with his equally grimy hands, all the while wrinkling his nose at the fetid, astringent stench rising off the blood like steam in the muggy August air. He has nothing on him with which to clear off his sunglasses, so he shoves them in a pocket and begins to trudge back towards the veil’s perimeter, where the auxiliary manager accompanying him on this assigned, week-long tour of the southwestern coastal region of Shizuoka waits by the car. Each step he takes squelches unpleasantly against the grass. The undersides of his shoes were one of the few places spared in the blast radius, meaning the muck's already beginning to collect inside them. Just like sand, but so, so much worse, the looser parts of the curse’s innards are seeking out every nook, crease, and cranny on him. It doesn't help that the heat is aiding and abetting the melting process, as now fluorescent purple blood is dripping off his hair into his eyes and what's that on–
Oh, yuck. Satoru hunches over, hands on knees, caught between gagging and spluttering furiously to remove the fluid coating his tongue. How did it even get in there? Why must his taste buds, notoriously known along with his other senses for being overly sensitive, choose this crucial moment to up and abandon him before returning with a vengeance?
This sucks.
When he reaches the street and the curtain falls, he can't even muster a sliver of amusement at how fast the manager's expression slips from a bland placidity to aghast and thoroughly spooked at the sight of him.
"Everything's fine, Akeda," Satoru says, heaving a sigh. "Let's just go. Rest assured, I'll foot the bill for any expenses related to getting the car cleaned."
"Are–"
"Don't worry about it. If we leave now, we might make it back before sundown. Grab the door for me, would you?"
Akeda gives him another sidelong look, but ultimately complies, pulling the backseat door open and letting Satoru sidle his way inside. However, once that maneuver is accomplished with minimal contact between himself and the car's exterior or interior surfaces, he collapses bonelessly against the seat, head lolling over the top. It's close to a four hour ride back to Jujutsu Tech and he's sure to be sticky and uncomfortable the entire journey there, but he'll do whatever he can to garner some shred of respite, no matter how meager the return on his efforts. Up front, Akeda flips on the air conditioning and cracks open the windows. The action is incongruous with the auxiliary manager's typical stinginess, but under the circumstances, he can't blame him. Satoru is well aware the odor presently wafting off him is far from pleasant.
Not yet desperate enough to sacrifice the current gunk-free state of any of his available entertainment options in order to better pass the time—he casts a longing look towards the bag containing both his DS and iPod—Satoru resigns himself to dozing. It’s probably a lost cause from the start; he's always had trouble getting his brain to quiet down well before reverse cursed technique relegated sleep to all but obsolete. But for once he finds he’d rather let his mind wander than exert the effort of striking up a conversation with the personified brick wall that is Akeda Renji.
Satoru tilts his head further back, watching scattered splotches of clouds roll across the rear window. Another mission down. Although given how many separate locations there had been on the trip’s itinerary, calling it one mission is more than a bit of a stretch.
Japan’s population of cursed spirits has been surging this summer across the board, so much so practically all the higher-ups need to do is throw darts at a map of the country and send sorcerers where the points land. As a special grade sorcerer, Satoru’s assignments would normally be selected based on the strength of the curse, but with everyone’s workloads swamped, the council had opted to have him go where the curses were currently most dense. They'd hoped to make better headway overall by eliminating as many curses as possible in one fell swoop instead of targeting individual incidents of higher grade. Going by those standards, the job has been a wild success; Satoru's attained a new record at sixty-three cursed spirits exorcized on a single mission, including this most recent, ill-fated one. He expects this record won’t stand for long though with there being no sign yet of plateau in this season’s rate of curse emergence. Well, as long as they give him something more challenging every now and then to spice things up, Satoru sees no problem with that.
Still, he can’t deny he’s looking forward to having a free day tomorrow. That will help break up the monotony, too.
If only he had a way of ending the monotony of this drive while he is at it. Satoru wishes more than ever that he'd already got the hang of long-distance teleportation.
The steady flow of fresh air through the car has dried most of the thinner splashes of blood now, forging him into an uneven patchwork of tacky globs and crusted-over smears. In spite of the wind, he begins to feel as though he’s baking beneath the late afternoon sun and the warmth radiating off his skin causes it to start to itch. Satoru squeezes his eyes shut against the glare of the sunlight’s reflection on the distant ocean, the passing cars, the blurring pavement. But closing his eyes can only do so much to impede his vision. The road under them twists and curves, and the resultant swaying and jostling of the vehicle has his stomach churning uneasily.
This is weird. He has never felt carsick in his life.
It’s hot. He’s dizzy. Fabric and blood and sweat itches. The rush of air and roar of engine motors fills his ears. Rotten copper withers his tongue and stings his nose. His head hurts.
A slack weight carried in his arms.
No. His hands are empty. The mission is over and Satoru is just resting his eyes. It’s no wonder they’re a little overstimulated with everything happening around him on top of the unusual sensation of his blood-soaked clothing pressing against him. It’ll all be alright once they get back to the school and he can get cleaned up. He’s okay.
Satoru stays as stationary as he can while the world swirls and pitches about him. If he remains still, he can get through this. Time passes at a crawl, but it passes. The nausea doesn’t go away, but it doesn’t grow any worse either. He is going to be okay.
Somehow, he manages at last to drift into a state where everything is a little more bearable. It’s nothing like a doze or even simply spacing out; he is still all too cognizant of every ounce of the sensory deluge cascading over him. But by letting it flow through him unhindered, experiencing it all while refraining from reflection on or evaluation of any specific facet of the information, Satoru is able to obtain a semblance of, if not peace, disconnect from the constantly ongoing process. In one ear and out the other, as Suguru is so fond of saying on the subject of Satoru and paying attention. Eventually, the sun dips below the horizon and the darkening landscape allows the Six Eyes to whir down to a dull roar.
The tension bunched in his muscles slowly begins to trickle away. Satoru doesn’t try to hasten it along. He had been too preoccupied by the perception overload to be aware of how taut and stiff he’d been holding himself for a majority of the ride. As usual, none of the cursed spirits he encountered today had come close to providing him with a workout, but it will certainly feel like he went through the wringer in the morning. He’ll be shocked if there isn’t a migraine to accompany the soreness in store for him tomorrow. Yeah, a really relaxing day off he has brewing, huh? And he had had grand plans for it too, if anyone else happened to be around.
Satoru absently notes the slope of the streets trending uphill. They’ve nearly made it back. He makes no move to rouse himself from the slumped position he's in or to gather his belongings together. He’ll have to at some point, but he can’t bring himself to expend the energy until it is absolutely imperative. Now that his senses have finally piped down, Satoru actually feels himself beginning to nod off in these last few minutes, and before he knows it, his door is opening and Akeda’s hand hesitantly shakes him on the shoulder.
Satoru jolts forward and then suppresses a wince at his body's protests against any sudden movements.
How is Akeda touching him?
Oh, that’s right. He’d kept Infinity off to better ensure the viscera's stink didn’t incite a headache through accumulating in the space around him during the drive. Well, so much for that.
“Gojo-san, should–”
“Thanks. I'm good, though. But how about we wait ʼtil tomorrow to finish up the reports, hm?”
Without pausing to listen for a response, Satoru snags his backpack and duffle and heaves himself to his feet. He skirts around the man, willing his steps not to falter as he throws a parting wave behind him.
Home stretch.
When he arrives at the dorms they're quiet and dark. However quiet and dark doesn't always translate to vacant when it comes to the buildings’ current residents, although it likely rules out Haibara. If Shoko isn’t here, she could just as easily be over in the infirmary or morgue. Odds of her being away are slim. Nanami and Ijichi often opt to spend their downtime by themselves—a choice Satoru finds infinitely strange—so they may already be tucked up in their rooms for the night. And these days even Suguru could be found more often than not holed up alone when he was on campus, probably because of that heat fatigue he’d mentioned recently. Maybe it has been taking a greater toll on him than Satoru realized at the time.
Previously, he'd been hoping his friends would be at home and up and about when he returned, but in his current condition it isn't too much of a disappointment to discover everyone's apparent absence or seclusion. Satoru could've given them a good scare, although admittedly his heart wouldn't have been truly in it. He really just wants to crawl into bed himself, but not before he gets cleaned up.
The outsides of his shoes are filthy but something approaching dry, so Satoru is quick to tug them off in the genkan. He’s not sure they can be salvaged, but that’s a problem for another time. His bags are dropped off inside his dorm and then he retraces his steps to the common area to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. Back to his room and it’s all he can do not to flop face first onto his bed for good. Satoru isn’t big on delayed gratification, but even he knows the less he has to deal with tomorrow when this has all caught up to him, the better. He grabs a change of clothes and shuffles off towards the bathroom.
Halfway through peeling off the congealed layers of his uniform and thankfully prior to the haphazard tossing of his trousers in the direction of the pile of clothes discarded in a corner, Satoru remembers his glasses. He fishes them out and carefully pries the lenses free from where they've adhered themselves to the pocket’s lining. Another wave of muted gratitude sweeps through him when the grime washes off with little difficulty in the sink. Once those are set safely off to one side of the counter, it's his turn to duck beneath the shower's spray.
For a few minutes he lets himself stand listlessly as water sluices over the top of him, forehead resting against cool tile, idly watching rivulets of murky purple swirl down the drain. Dreading the lengthy endeavor ahead, he dredges up one last burst of fortitude and reaches for his shampoo. Satoru lathers his hair twice and has just enough body wash left on hand to scour away the encrusted sludge. Begrudgingly, replenishing necessities is mentally added to his schedule for tomorrow. After shutting off the shower and returning to the sink, he spends three times as long as it normally would take brushing his teeth as he strives to eradicate every trace of that awful taste. Regret collects at the back of his tongue, bitter but fleeting. With a rueful wag of his head, Satoru rolls his eyes at himself and moves to get dressed. Really, rinsing out his mouth should've been first on his list. How did he miss that?
There's a brief moment of satisfaction and relief as he pulls on soft, fresh clothing, only to be immediately followed up in the next by the exhaustion seeping back in, overcoming all else. Regardless, Satoru's feeling much better, all things considered. The majority of his discomfort was temporary, limited to the period he was trapped in that car, just as he'd thought. Perhaps, he muses on the way back to his room, scrubbing a towel through his hair and afterward dragging it down his face, if he sleeps in a little longer than originally planned, he can avoid the worst of the fallout from his eyes’ overexertion. Maybe his off day won't be a waste after all.
Satoru sinks down onto his bed wearily, fingers massaging gentle circles into his temples and the corners of his eyes. One thing is for sure, he's glad today is finally over.
It takes less than two seconds upon waking the next morning for all of Satoru's hopes to be dashed to smithereens.
The first thing he's conscious of is the brisk yet insistent rapping coming from the other side of his door. His eyes blink open and then the soft morning sunshine impales him from all sides.
Instantly, Satoru knows today is going to be harrowing, whether he stays huddled under his blankets for the duration or not. Might as well see what they want and get it over with as quickly as possible. Not that acknowledging the reality makes it any easier to extricate himself from the cozy confines of his sheets, or lessens the compounding torment brought on by standing up. He sways slightly, the continued knocking bouncing off the insides of his skull to a disorienting degree. As his senses start to gain their bearings, he frowns at how stifling the room feels despite the early hour. His sinuses are on fire. It's painful trying to swallow around the congestion in his throat. The general impression is of the onset of a head cold.
Great. That's just what he needs.
As if to accentuate his thoughts, another piercing stab of pain plunges into the space behind his eyes. Having already retreated behind the meager protection of his eyelids, Satoru fumbles around for his glasses and slides them into place. He braces himself, but then deliberately wilts on the spot, settling on having the shades serve as decoration for the time being. Putting off the inevitable by eschewing traditional sight is far more enticing at the moment. Anyway, he’s not yet alert enough to care if whoever is at his door thinks he looks stupid walking around with his eyes closed.
Guided by the quietly thrumming glow of cursed energy, Satoru meanders across the room on stiff and aching legs. Once his destination is in reach, he twists the doorknob and as soon as it swings open, leans his weight against the adjacent wall.
“...ʼM here.” Satoru mumbles.
“Yes, but you shouldn’t be,” comes the impassive tones of Nanami Kento.
It takes a moment for the response to fully register. “Huh?”
“We ought to have already left, Gojo-senpai. They’re waiting on us.”
Satoru turns the words over in his head a few times, but still comes up empty-handed. He dares to crack his eyes open in a confused squint. “What…?”
A hint of exasperation creeps into Nanami’s voice. “The mission exercise we were assigned in preparation for the Goodwill Exchange next month. It’s been scheduled for this morning. Didn’t Yaga-sensei inform you of it yesterday afternoon? He said he intended to do so once training concluded.”
Satoru blearily swivels his gaze over his shoulder to his bedside table, where his phone would ordinarily be. Belatedly, he remembers he hadn’t even thought to unpack it last night. If there are texts on it from yesterday, he definitely hadn’t seen them.
“Uhhh…”
“Are you okay?”
Satoru turns back to Nanami, who is wearing a searching expression, one he's willing to bet is substantially more lucid than his own.
“Oh, yeah. Of course. I just didn’t sleep very well, I suppose. You know, too hopped up from the mission and all that.”
Pushing off from the door frame, Satoru reflexively straightens his spine and manages to plaster on a wide grin. It feels like his entire body is pulsing in pain. The smile wobbles.
Nanami raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but it is quickly drawn down again to bracket with its counterpart the deepening furrow concern is etching into the space above the bridge of his nose. After a second, he looks almost taken aback by his own reaction, as though it has never occurred to him that worry is an emotion one could direct at Gojo Satoru. When this realization doesn't lead Nanami to course correct, Satoru is caught by surprise in turn.
“If you’re ill, I’m sure this can be postpo–”
“No, no! I’m fine! Ah, right, I remember now. The exchange event exercise. To help build teamwork for yours and Haibara’s first Goodwill! Is he doing one with Suguru today, too?”
“Yes, if Geto-senpai arrives back in time.” Nanami replies. “If you’re feeling up to it… can we leave, then? We’re egregiously late.”
“Oh, um, sure! Let me just…” Satoru gestures towards his closet.
Nanami nods. “Please hurry, Senpai.”
Satoru flashes him a thumbs-up before hastily closing the door. In spite of his implicit agreement, he can’t resist tipping his head forward, laying his forehead against the wooden surface of the door for several seconds. He desperately struggles to steady himself.
Oh, this is not good, he thinks.
He quashes the thought quickly, but he can’t quite shake the disquiet that takes up residence in his stomach as he hobbles over to the closet, hugging the wall as he goes.
Undoubtedly, everything will be fine. It’ll only take a couple hours at most, and it’s not like this is something that is going to require much of him. It certainly hadn’t when Satoru was given a similar exercise last year. The task is designed to be just enough beyond the capabilities of the second year in question that to succeed, they'll need the assistance of their senior classmate, providing the opportunity for the students to familiarize themselves with each other’s combat styles if needed and work out how best to coordinate together. Usually, it’s something manufactured by the teachers that can take place near the school grounds, but if it falls during a particularly busy period, like now, they select an appropriately graded mission set somewhere close by to serve as a substitute. It is just his misfortune Yaga-sensei chose to try to squeeze it in this weekend.
In Satoru’s case, the pursuit had been rather pointless—a formality in all but name. By that juncture, virtually nothing was beyond his ability, least of all a practice exercise. Today’s assignment will be just as easy, but this time he can actually fulfill his role in the way it was intended. He’ll be Nanami’s backup, finish off the curse in whatever manner his kohai decides upon, and probably they’ll make it back before noon. Then, he can snooze the rest of the day away if need be. That’d be a bit of a let down to be sure, but not the end of the world. Based on the immediate meltdown his body conducted solely for his having the audacity to wake up this morning, apparently scrounging up any sort of fun just isn’t in the cards for today.
It is with these lowered expectations he drags himself through a heavily abbreviated version of his morning routine. Even cutting corners, Satoru finds it far more taxing than it has any right to be. When he tries to chase away his lingering drowsiness by splashing water over his face, a thousand icy needles scrape across his skin instead, sending shivers down his spine. The chill still remains by the time he locates a spare pair of shoes which show their age in the pinching of his toes.
As he straightens from tying the laces and automatically readjusts the layer of Limitless surrounding him, a ripple runs through the edges of its field. Infinity flickers, then settles back into place. Satoru freezes, utterly stunned.
Nothing like that has ever happened before.
Except when–
He discards the nascent comparison with a shake of his head. Completely different situations. He must be really out of it.
With this stupid cold, and a pounding, unrelenting headache, and the burning ache in his eyes–
Okay, so maybe it is possible to fry your brain just a little dealing with all of that, notwithstanding the constant flow of reverse cursed technique. His brain could use a break, that's all there was to the hiccup a moment ago. It'll get one soon enough.
Oops. Nanami is looking askance at him again.
Satoru spreads his arms to either side, making a big show of his readiness and injects all the over-the-top flair he possesses into ushering him out the door, where the bright sunshine only makes his efforts to conceal his ailing health and mood ten times more strenuous.
Luckily, Nanami’s anxiety over their tardiness spurs his classmate to speed ahead and overlook the way Satoru trails behind. That's good. He's supposed to let Nanami take the lead on this outing, after all.
“Good morning, you two,” Yaga greets them, standing beside an auxiliary manager whose name escapes Satoru. “Suguru has been delayed another day, so this is all of us. I hope you didn't get in too late last night, Satoru. I apologize that I wasn't able to go over this with you in advance.”
Caught smothering a yawn behind a hand, he attempts to brush it off. “Nah, it's fine. Just didn't hear my alarm.”
Because he hadn’t set one.
“Well, do try to be punctual next time.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The way Nanami is chewing at his lower lip seems to indicate he wants to say something aside from a hello—perhaps he already did so when Satoru was out of earshot?—but the right words are hovering beyond his grasp, and their teacher has already turned towards the car, so they are left behind for an errant breeze to snatch away.
As soon as they’ve pulled away from the curb, Yaga-sensei launches into a review of the details of the case. It’s information Satoru really does need to catch up on, unfortunately his ability to focus is rapidly slipping through his fingers now that there's no activity with which to physically occupy himself. Everything is vying for his attention simultaneously. Again. At some point, Nanami has acquired a travel mug of coffee and its distinctive bitter aroma assails his nose. The scent is as unbearable as always, yet stimulating enough to make him realize all at once it’s been nearly a full twenty-four hours since he last ate. His stomach grumbles its displeasure, but the mere thought of food leaves him feeling queasy. In addition, the sun continues to insist on kicking him when he’s down. Its rays filter through the trees lining the road leading away from Jujutsu Tech, casting alternating swatches of light and shade across the periphery of his vision in quick succession. Short of burying his face in his arms, he can’t find a position to evade the strobe effect. Bending over so conspicuously isn’t an option. The best he can do is discreetly nudge his sunglasses as close to his face as they can get. If only he’d chosen a different seat. The urge to curl into a ball, wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to block out most, if not all, outside sensory input, and thus leaving just the suffering generated from within to deal with, is growing stronger by the minute.
Satoru is in trouble, and that it’s on account of his failure to shake off yesterday’s lapse is particularly vexing. He should be able to handle this. It shouldn't even be an issue. But here he is, falling apart at the seams all because he'd been bored and lazy and let the least threatening cursed spirit Satoru's ever laid eyes on one up him. It hadn’t even hurt him, only gotten him dirty! Honestly, he deserves to feel embarrassed. He’s supposed to be better than this.
And he will be. He has to. If Satoru can pull himself together for an hour or two, there’ll be no need for anyone to know the strongest was almost brought down by a puny cold and his own senses rebelling against him, they won't haul him in front of Shoko for treatment, who would invariably wheedle out of him the truth of how badly he had messed up on the very first batch of assignments after he'd just got done showing off to her and Suguru the mastery of his technique. Simply imagining that worst case scenario nearly evokes a shudder. Please, never let Shoko find out. She already possesses plenty of ammunition with which to ridicule him, and very little hesitation when it comes to dishing it out.
So, Satoru is not going to let that happen. He made it through yesterday, and that spontaneous test of endurance had lasted for twice as long as today’s trip is likely to span. He can do this.
For the next three minutes, Satoru narrows down his world to the flow of air filling him up and then releasing in a slow, steady stream. It’s not completely comfortable or effortless; each inhale stings the raw, irritated interior of his nose, and a majority of his breaths snag and tear at his throat on their way out. But he's only aiming for tolerable, only needs a few moments for the uncomplicated rhythm to soothe his frayed composure. It's merely a stopgap measure, but that's all Satoru requires right now.
Tuning back into his surroundings and recognizing the telltale timbre of Yaga's wrapping-up voice, Satoru leans forward and extends a hand in the direction of the file in his teacher's lap. “Sensei, can I see that to double check a couple of things?”
He hands it over easily enough, although not without adding, “Remember, Satoru, the aim of this is collaboration. There's no benefit to be gained for either of you by treating it as another opportunity to flaunt your own prowess. Every sorcerer has a unique skillset, and there will more than likely come a day where you'll be glad you can rely–”
Satoru hums his assent distractedly, too caught up in appearing to casually peruse the mission brief instead of his true goal of cramming in as many details as he can lay eyes on in under twenty seconds. Yaga droning on in the background aids him in his cause.
It seems the curse they're after is estimated to be a semi-grade one. That tracks with what Satoru would guess is Nanami's current ceiling for facing a cursed spirit on his own. They're heading to a secluded resort whose main attraction is its hot springs. The place has been closed for the better part of a year after the property sustained heavy damage in the wake of a landslide. Reconstruction has been plagued by a series of uncommonly fatal accidents. Hence, why their help has been requested.
His headache comes roaring back into view around then, refusing to be pushed aside for any longer, but the few precious seconds’ reprieve he’d cobbled together were enough to get the gist. It’s just as well; the car has started to slow down, signaling the imminent approach of their destination.
As the car rolls to a stop, Yaga-sensei gives them his final piece of guidance. “Stay on your toes and don’t forget what I said about the discrepancies in eyewitness accounts’ description of the curse. And above all else, communicate. You boys have been too quiet for my liking this morning.”
Lifting his head from where he’d ostensibly been in deep contemplation while fiddling with the wrapping around his blunt blade, Nanami dutifully agrees, as though a silent reticence was not his default state of being. The comment was obviously meant for Satoru. If it wouldn’t lead to an excruciating amount of pain and be largely worthless from behind the opaque lenses, he would roll his eyes. In compensation, he contents himself with a derisive snort and a reply of, “You worry too much, Sensei. We’ve got this.”
Once he has stepped out of the car and is briefly turned away from probing eyes, however, doubt sinks back in. He’s the insurance policy here. He does require the full extent of his senses to cover both himself and Nanami, and to do that while keeping his wits about him is proving to be nigh on impossible at the moment. He needs to be alert, but alertness hurts, unlike almost anything else he’s ever experienced. He has to let the world in, he can’t shut it out right now. He has to be aware of everything. See everything. Take care of things. Be strong.
He doesn’t know how to do this.
Satoru does not feel strong. To his shame, it’s taking everything he has just to stay on his feet. Walking around to the other side of the car and falling into step with his classmate goes okay, except that said classmate is now only a vague Nanami-shaped blob in every version of his vision. The sunlight is inescapable; the surrounding area appears densely forested, but because of the sudden halt to construction, every structure in view is somewhere in the midst of its rebuilding process, and there is no appreciable shade to be found on the grounds. It’s so bright he has to deliberately will his eyelids to remain open, the sheer strain of not blinking continuously shoots tremors through the muscles encircling his eyes. The searing glare makes everything in his sight go fuzzy around the edges. Inside the edges, too, for that matter.
“So, how do you want to tackle this?” Satoru is unsure he will be able to hear Nanami’s answer over the shrill buzzing of the cicadas, but just getting the words out is a small victory in and of itself, so he’ll just have to make do.
Mercifully, Nanami’s voice is comprehensible amid the tumult of existence, though barely. The words muddle together like he’s hearing them from underwater. “I don’t believe this calls for anything fancy. The only hitch may come in pinpointing the curse’s position. Tracking the residuals shouldn’t be too arduous, but given that this cursed spirit has displayed aggressive tendencies in the past, I would appreciate it if you’d keep an eye out in case any unexpected cursed energy signatures crop up, since you're better equipped for it than I am. As soon as we flush it out, I ordinarily favor a simple head-on approach from there. Is that acceptable, Senpai?”
“Yeah, sounds good.” So long as it can be finished quickly, at least.
Satoru follows along behind Nanami, warily picking his way around the blurry forms of rubble and construction equipment and doing his best to appear engaged and supportive as opposed to letting the younger sorcerer handle the brunt of the work. All the while the pressure in his skull continues to build.
It all comes to a head as Nanami crouches down a few paces away to inspect the freshest residuals they’ve encountered so far. A pulse akin to a miniature Blue shredding through his brain surges inside his head. An audible gasp escapes between his teeth but that slip-up hardly matters considering there is no space for thought of pretense when he is helpless to act in any capacity other than seeking relief from the pain. The universe is collapsing in on itself within the confines of his skull and all he can do is cradle his head between his palms, completely blind and deaf to anything else.
In the next second, the ground falls out from under him and a jagged, solid mass slams into his side.
The impact sends him flying. Satoru collides forcefully against a partially erect wall with an ensuing crunch from several spots spanning the length of his torso. He lands in a heap at the base of the structure, reeling, cognizant only of the blooming agony now encompassing the entirety of his being.
Beneath the hurt, a numbness has taken hold. That can't have actually happened. It ought to have been impossible. The sequence of events doesn't even make sense—Infinity had been in place.
Hadn’t it?
Satoru is certain it was, before his migraine had deemed it necessary to wreak hitherto unknown havoc upon his beleaguered nerves. Still, it’s hard to believe even that magnitude of distress would be enough to interfere with a technique set to automatic. He doesn't have to consciously sustain it for Infinity to continue running, that's the whole point. The only way he wouldn’t have noticed Infinity dropping is if it had determined the object closing in on him was harmless. Which, clearly, wasn’t the case.
Reaching out to belatedly re-engage it, Satoru finds nothing but a void. Limitless is not completely gone, it flutters just out of orbit, but regardless of how far he stretches, Satoru is unable to make contact with his technique. The cursed energy that would fuel it seems to dissipate under his touch. And then another realization dawns on him.
Reverse cursed technique is not rushing in to knit together the breaks in his bones or mend the ruptures in veins. Positive energy does not fill him with vitality and light until he is whole once more. When the curse struck him, he hadn’t had the presence of mind to reinforce himself with cursed energy, there hadn’t been anything to mitigate the resulting damage, so now he is severely injured and he's not healing.
Okay. Okay, it’s probably not that bad. The pain is making it difficult to shift around or push himself upright; his left arm hangs uselessly at his side thanks to what he thinks must be a dislocated shoulder, and both his collarbone and ribcage scream out from the barest of movements. Breathing is just about all his chest can bear at this point. Supposing Satoru could get his feet under him, his range of motion would be significantly inhibited and his ability to fight utilizing cursed energy dubious at best. None of that is very auspicious, true, but at least he isn't full of stab wounds and bleeding out everywhere. He’s not dying. He can still fix this.
Suddenly, the cursed spirit—looking like some bizarre amalgamation of Muk and Graveler, Satoru muzzily observes—blots out his view of endless blue sky. A cloud of scalding steam billows over him before a massive appendage smashes down on his chest, pinning his arms against his sides. Satoru can't hold back the strangled cry that tears from his throat. Horrified detachment shatters under an onslaught of pure panic. Instinctively, he attempts to summon Red to create some separation between himself and the curse's bulk, his mind trapped in a frantic litany of get off! move! let go! get away! gotta get away, but like countless other times in what Satoru had been sure until this moment was the distant past, nothing happens.
Or rather, he alone is unable to accomplish anything. The curse loosens its grip on him as a vibration runs through it with enough momentum behind the blow to knock it partially off of him. Nanami presses forward into the gap, successfully inserting himself in between Satoru and the cursed spirit while continuing to rain down strike after strike on his opponent. The creature is more than willing to accept a change in target, however, and quickly recovers to match Nanami swing for swing.
Without warning or precipitating event, Infinity sputters back to life. Hope soars within him before he can temper his expectations, and sure enough, the flow of reverse cursed energy remains inaccessible upon further inspection. His efforts to shore up the wavering shroud of Infinity likewise produces lackluster results. Still, it’s better than nothing.
Nanami is holding his own currently, but the advantage in size and reach will soon teeter in favor of the gigantic curse. Nanami needs help, and he only has Satoru to provide him with it. He can’t fail Nanami any more than he already has this morning. He refuses to let harm befall one of his charges ever again.
His command of his cursed energy continues to be tenuous, so he’ll likely only have one shot at this.
Gritting his teeth, Satoru rolls onto his good elbow and shoves himself into a sitting position. He is forced to waste several precious seconds waiting for marginal improvements to the swimming of his vision and the clawing pain in his chest. When he’s next able to set his sights on the clash a few meters in front of him, he spots Nanami locked mid-parry with his arms overhead, the curse’s blocky appendage bearing down on the younger sorcerer with relentless ferocity.
Satoru lifts his right hand, painstakingly taking aim over Nanami’s shoulder, his entire body trembling under the immense strain that uncomplicated action single-handedly generates at present. His cursed energy shrivels beneath his touch, but he latches onto it uncompromisingly and funnels it through his technique with a level of meticulous intention he hasn't required in years. The sensation of his brain twisting in on itself and then subsequently being wrung out like a soggy sponge that had consumed him before the curse’s opening attack, and which had been slowly receding in the interim, now ramps up again. It doesn’t matter. Satoru is not about to let whatever is messing with Limitless delay him any longer in doing what needs to be done.
“Nanami, get down!” If all goes well, the warning shout will be superfluous. That it is warranted at all is not just appalling, it’s downright pathetic.
He can’t think about that right now. He has to concentrate. Imbue the energy. Align the vectors with the target. Offset the point of convergence to just slightly above the center mark so Nanami is safely out the line of fire–
Blue.
Negative space tugs violently inward from a crevice in the upper third of the cursed spirit’s form, rapidly widening until spiraling fissures expand in concert to completely disintegrate the curse in a bursting spray of dust, ash, and tiny bits of gravel.
And just like that, it's over.
A warm trickle runs down over his lips as a new wave of vertigo crests over Satoru. His nose is bleeding. Shaking fingers raise to wipe it away but only serve to smear the dripping red across his cheeks and chin. Pulling his hand away, staring down at the blood now staining his palm, Satoru’s low groan melds together with the surrounding cicadas’ hum and an unidentifiable whine sticking in his ears. Balance flees him and he topples backward onto the uneven ground.
Ah. Infinity must’ve turned off again. That really hurt.
Maybe it’s time he gives himself over to the demands of his injuries. He did his job. Satoru is tired.
“Gojo!” A voice calls. Nanami plunges to one knee beside him, a fine coating of soot covering his clothing and settled atop disheveled blond hair. His face is fairly free of dirt, though. That’s good; it likely means he was able to shield himself from Satoru’s blast in time.
Oh, wait. There is something else Satoru forgot to take into account prior to exorcizing the curse. His mouth stretches into a sloppy smile. “Sorry. I know I was supposed to–to give you a chance to get a… few more good licks in, huh?”
Nanami doesn’t respond immediately. He looks a bit displeased, but that's not so unusual. For some reason, Nanami has always had a shorter fuse around Satoru. He finds the oddest things irksome and can be awfully prickly about procedural matters. Then again, satisfaction is not an emotion that alights on Nanami’s face very often anyway, so perhaps, unlike Yaga-sensei, this isn’t something he cares about one way or the other.
The apology’s disjointed delivery has brought another issue to Satoru’s attention, however, and he shelves his kohai’s potential feelings of offense for a later date. Breathing is becoming quite a laborious task. Stringing more than three or four words together leaves him lightheaded—although admittedly he had already been on the cusp of that—and short of breath. His nosebleed has stopped, but the trails of blood have left a sludgy film of the fluid that clings to the lining of his nose and groove in his tongue, giving the impression of the partial obstruction of his airways.
Nanami’s hands move restlessly in the air above his torso, anxious to help but leery of inadvertently exacerbating Satoru’s plight. Finding his voice at last, he rasps out, “How–what happened?”
It’s a fair question. Satoru understands precisely why Nanami needs him to explain himself. Unfortunately he doesn't have an equally acceptable justification. Instead, Satoru opts to relay more pressing matters.
“Not healing. Can’t, ʼs weird. Having trouble… catching my breath.”
There’s a sharpening stitch in his chest apparently disinclined to ease no matter how much oxygen he sucks down. Why has the air gone so thin all of a sudden? The tightness spreads from the inside out until it is pulling at the edges of his scars. Even the one above his eyebrow; Satoru can feel the beating press of his blood behind the ridge of tissue. It’s a wonder they haven’t split open yet, expelling the ruined mess of his insides.
But that won’t happen, right? They’re old wounds, irrelevant to his current predicament. Moreover, in the months since the acquisition of those scars, he has worked on acclimating himself to such injuries. Granted, his primary objective had been honing the efficiency of his RCT and it is only now he realizes he’s neglected to practice prolonged pain tolerance, but he’ll just add that to the list after they get this situation sorted out. And meanwhile, he reminds himself again, he is still in one piece. So long as he gets his lungs to cooperate with the rest of him, everything will be fine.
Satoru really doesn’t like this.
It only takes a moment for Nanami to snap out of his self-imposed daze and process Satoru’s response. Biting off a curse, he says, “Right. I don’t know what I was thinking. We need to get you to Ieiri-senpai. Can you walk?”
“ʼCourse.” Probably. “Pull me up?”
Satoru goes to extend his right hand, but balls it up at the last second. “Uh, do it in… one motion, okay?”
Nanami blinks, then nods. He shifts into a crouch, clasping his own right hand around Satoru’s while positioning his other palm under the same side’s shoulder.
“Ready?”
Satoru swallows around a steeling grimace. “Yes.”
His underclassman is remarkably gentle, careful to push in lieu of tugging to hoist him to his feet with minimal roughness. And yet, it’s too much even so. Something wrenches behind his ribs on the way up and the difference in altitude and posture triggers a flaring bolt of white to streak through his synapses. Satoru's link to consciousness fizzles out as the pounding inside his head clamps down like Shoko stubbing out a spent cigarette.
He comes to shortly thereafter with his face pressed into the dusty material of Nanami's uniform jacket, suffocating amid wheezing gulps of breath. It must be uncomfortable having Satoru's taller frame draped across his shoulders, but Nanami's hand is wrapped securely around his waist and he seems to have found a serviceable equilibrium beneath his sagging weight.
“Focus on keeping your feet moving,” Nanami murmurs next to his ear. “That's all you need to do.”
Satoru can hardly feel his legs, let alone his feet, although it's possible Nanami meant the encouragement for himself. Oh, maybe he should contribute a few complimentary words, too. It would be in the spirit of the exercise.
“Good lea-leading. Now, an’... be-before…”
Oh yes, very inspiring, Satoru expects Nanami to quip. But he receives no reply. He thinks he imagines a slight tightening of the hold surrounding him.
He feels bad for slowing down the other sorcerer as much as he is; Nanami is practically carrying him as he drags them along. It's just so bright, even with his eyes screwed shut and buried in dark fabric. There is a raging typhoon in his head and an inflating balloon behind his sternum is somehow hogging all the oxygen that's supposed to go to his burning lungs. His bones grind against each other at every step.
None of this should have happened. Satoru is almost convinced he's trapped in a nightmare. How else could things have gone so wrong? It's too similar to how it felt the first time.
When Nanami begins yelling, soon followed by more shouting and another two sets of hands being placed on him, something else lurches in his chest.
Satoru tries to shrink away from the touch, their grips aggravating his injuries. I'm sorry. I'll do better. I'll get it running again. Please, it's too loud.
No one seems to hear.
He is passed between hands until he's laid out on a long bench seat, his shoulder blades resting on someone's lap so his torso is at an incline. A shadow falls over his face. The shade is a welcome change from having the sun blazing down on him directly. That it marks another deviation between the past and the present is even moreso. He's not alone, sliced open on the pavement, staring up into harsh, unforgiving sunlight. Nanami is here. The scratching prickles on his cheeks are not from dozens of flyheads scuttling over his cooling skin; it’s merely sweat irritating the inflammation left behind by the curse's steam-laced breath. Blood curdles in the back of his throat, but it isn't there from coughing it up this time.
The looming specter of death is different as well. A year ago, he'd been so immersed in his pursuit of uncovering the secret to reversing cursed energy, there had been no time to waste on useless things like fear or regret. And he definitely hadn't seen any reason to dwell on it afterwards. Well, not over his near miss at any rate. Not everyone had been so fortunate. He couldn't let it get to him when it was his mistakes that cost the lives of two people he'd been tasked to protect, and which had ultimately bestowed him with the means to guarantee he wouldn't ever have to undergo a reprise of the ordeal. Or so he'd thought.
Cut off from his cursed energy, no avenue left open to help himself, Satoru senses death closing in, its presence palpable. The pain he's awash in is acute, but familiar, now. Death is cold and dark and empty. Its oppressive clutches far surpass the choking pressure binding his chest and throat. He can feel his consciousness start to fade, an inexorable pull dragging him toward the encroaching abyss. Heart racing, Satoru scrabbles for a mooring with which to anchor himself, straining against the draw of gravity.
He can't find anything. There is only a crushing nothingness. He is alone.
Then, warm skin makes contact with his own. Two hands enfold Satoru’s shaking fingers in a stabilizing embrace.
“Hold on,” a distant voice implores. “We're almost there.”
He's fighting a losing battle, but Satoru has always hated to lose.
Satoru hangs on until he no longer can.