What's this? Plot development!?
Suguru
Suguru entered the great hall, endless chatter already surrounding him, his sigh only reaching Satoru's ear. He found it painful- the noise. It thrummed in his ears like a million hummingbirds, making his head pound and eyes involuntary twitch. (How dare they? This is his body.)
His fingers quivered slightly from his lack of sleep as he reached for the pancakes, the syrup and then the blueberries, as if he was a programmed algorithm, doing things step-by-step in a repetitive motion, and he had only been here for a week. His limbs moved like they were weighted with lead; his eyes ached—he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept properly, every night was burdened by nightmares and restlessness.
Exorcise, consume, exorcise, consume
Suguru was tired. Bone-deep, mind-numbingly tired. Exhaustion clung to him like a shadow being scolded by the light of day, refusing to let go of his throbbing limbs, whispering for him to stop—to just close his eyes, let the light of day and darkness of night to take him, his body begging him to sleep (and to preferably never wake up, but he wasn’t picky)
He had a job to do, a mission, a blah blah whatever. It was a job and he wasn’t getting paid for it so not only was he broke and a minor, but he was also a student in a magic school in fucking england where the sun shined like twice the year and everyone was miserable. Including him now but he was always miserable so that’s okay (it’s really not. Someone save him, please.)
Exorcise, consume, exorcise, consume. Over and over and over-
“I’m so tired~ Suguru~ “ A grating noise interrupted his thoughts, spilling awareness into Sugurus figure. Satoru's voice was high pitched and whiny, hurting his eardrums and making him internally bleed because, please Satoru, shut up. No offence, of course, best regards and all that; but having to deal with that tone of voice this early in the morning will help absolutely no one's mood, his most of all because he was overly sensitive and all that. And hearing such a childish and unnecessary tonality with the background noise of his now fellow students was not pleasant in the slightest. Suguru could almost guess what Satoru was going to say next. Probably complain about Suguru not heeding his every whim and not clinging onto Satoru’s every word, but it’ll probably come out in a brash manner, so he’d probably say-
“Oi Suguru, pay attention to me!”
Called it. You see Suguru would consider himself pretty smart in day-today stuff, but he’s a fucking genius when it comes to deciphering the language of Gojo Satoru.
“What.” He (politely) barked, Satoru pouted in whatever grievance he now decided to bestow upon himself, his rosy lips pursing (and Suguru was not jealous). His bottom lip was plump and full, slightly bitten from his constant gnawing. Suguru isn’t even sure if Gojo’s aware of it, that whenever he was worried or concerned he would take his rotund bottom lip between his pearly white teeth and simply work it back and forth. Suguru is certain that if Satoru was conscious of this habit it would disappear in a flash and Suguru would never see the sight again. Not that he’d want to see it again, because he definitely wasn’t a desperate pining peasant with too much time on his hands because some dickheads in Japan decided to send him to this backwards shithole. But then again he was very good at lying. (he has no idea what he’s talking about anymore)
Suguru wished he could go back to his unstable monologuing.
“Pay attention to me, you dumb pig! I’m tryin’ to tell you something important here!” Satoru huffs in annoyance, waving his arms in front of Sugurus face, distracting him from his not-pining. Damn. It hadn't even been that long. Just 10 seconds of Suguru not talking back and the other teen had gone full desperate-brat mode.
And anyway, Suguru seriously doubted that it was important ,important things don’t come from Satoru’s mouth, everything that might’ve been important was no longer needed, simply because Satoru either ‘forgot’ to tell them or simply refused for whatever reason. It was a fun game for him.
The problem with Satoru is that he didn’t like to come across as intelligent, he liked to come across as childish and abrasive, he was quick to flee if emotions or, let alone, a proper conversation was to come into play. (Suguru totally doesn't do the same thing daily)
It was then that Suguru realised that he had been silent for too long, he could feel Satoru’s gaze on him. The azure stare had creeped him out when he had just started to get to know Satoru, Suguru had thought that he’d be used to it by now. But the feeling returned to him full force as if Gojo was slowly breaking him apart, only to put him back together again. He felt see-through, as if Gojo could see his every sin, his every thought, his every wrong-doing.
It unsettled him, to say the least.
Like his best friend knew everything that was going on in sugurus head.
Satoru’s stare quickly morphed into a look of worry. Suguru hated that look, it didn’t look right on Satoru’s face, his ever-smiling lips slowly turning down into a frown, (turn that frown upside down! Or however it went) his eyebrows closing in on each other, his nose wrinkling slightly.
Nah.
Suguru quickly shut down his ‘His totally rational and well-organized thinking™’
Gojo wasn’t capable of emotions like ‘worry’, well Suguru hoped he wasn’t. That would make his life harder, so he simply wished upon a star that the arrogant little twat was just mimicking people again. It happened often(ish)—Satoru, spying on the normals, studying their faces as if they held the secret to life itself. Suguru had caught him before, watching them with that empty, unsettling curiosity, his own expression shifting like clay, mimicking whatever he saw.
Like he was still learning how to be human, It had made Suguru feel overwhelmingly sad for him. A little godling attempting to be human.
And now? Suguru hoped that Satoru was simply copying that expression from some random monkey, because Satoru feeling worried over him was too much. Satoru copying that frown from some monkey was bearable though, Satoru didn’t deserve negative emotions, no he deserved only the best.
(That’s why Suguru wasn’t enough)
It was only then after Suguru successfully managed to shut down his monologue that Geto opened his mouth to speak, and speak he did, using his tongue and his mouth and words carved into his brain from when he was a child. And he said:
“What, dickhead. Like what you see?” Because Suguru was too much of a coward to accept, let alone admit, his feelings for Satoru. So out of all the words he could have used, and the sentences he could have built, he decided to flirt, which meant that Gojo was one step closer to seeing who Geto really was. And that scared Geto, because what if Satoru didn’t want his love?
And so, Geto panics. Gojo grinnes.
“Not as much as i like my reflection” Gojo retorts smugly. Arrogantly.
So Geto sighs and accepts his defeat as he watches his attempt to flirt flush down a hypothetical drain and crumple underneath Satoru’s raging God-complex yet again (it has basis. if Suguru’s being honest, but he's never honest, especially about Satoru. Ghetto locks it up and throws away the key.)
Geto huffs. “Dumbass."
He turns his head to look at Gojo, the movement makes his neck feel all uncomfortable and twisted over his bones, as if his skin had decided to grace itself with two extra layers, both too tight for his meager, human skeleton.
“Hey!” Satoru shouts, slamming his hands down onto the table in front of him, unaware of the looks he gets for it. “I’m not dumb! Well, I'm not that dumb. I do have a nice ass, though—wait... My ass isn’t dumb either! It's better than y-” Satoru cuts himself off. Which is wrong in itself, Gojo never cuts himself off mid-sentence, mid-breathe, mid-rant.
His back goes ramrod straight, eyes widening as his heavily tinted sunglasses slip down the delicate curve of his nose. That ever-changing cerulean blue peeking out behind the flat, black surface, showing themselves to the unworthy mortals. (him and the monkeys surrounding them. He has the sudden urge to wrap Gojo up and hide him from the world.)
Geto feels it seconds after.
There was a shift, a rumble of pure something, something so similar to Gojos curse technique, full of infinite, untouchable, forbowing power. Butsomethingwas wrong.
It wasn’t alike. Not at all.
No, this was wrong. So dreadfully wrong. (You know it’s bad when he has to say it two times)
It was off, empty in a way that made Suguru’s stomach churn
Gojo’s technique was calmer, more controlled, full of beauty and light. Yet also empty and painful, cold and lonely, but beautiful. (And screw you, he knows you can’t feel beauty. Stop judging him, he’s just trying to describe it, nosy fucks) No, this was ugly. Not the lonely cold of Satoru’s- this was chilling and empty, in a way Satoru’s power never has been.
This was lifeless. It felt familiar. Like no cursed energy and power and black hair and a scar on the top lip.
The presence one couldn’t even describe as presence was so familiar-
(wrong. It was so wrong.) (3rd and still counting)
Then—gone. Like a breath sucked from the air. The Great Hall remained unchanged,the students laughed, ate, talked but Suguru still felt it, still echoing under his skin, a static crawling over him. He didn’t realise he was standing up until he felt his legs tremble beneath him–weak, he was so weak.
He feels Dumb-doors eyes on them already, judging their abrupt position. (he can’t remember his name okay? It was to long and- goddammit, he was to tired for this shit! ) The stare unnerved him, so he sat down, trying to regain a stance, a mask of normalcy. He could still feel the ghosts of the power humming underneath his skin.
And Satoru still stood rigid, staring at nothing.
Lamppost. He looked like a fucking lamppost, Geto thought hysterically, as Gojo’s blue eyes glowed with their millions of galaxies, fighting to overthrow each other, thousands of shades of blue threatened to spill over and doom them all. All-seeing, all-knowing gaze turned to a space no one but Satoru could reach, A type of otherworldliness that Gojo had with him, attached like a second skin.
Like he had said. Lamppost.
Geto tugs on Gojo’s sleeve, mumbling, “We’re literally in a magic school. Weird shit was bound to happen. Just glad it wasn’t your fault this time.” Because he needs to get words out even if he sounds like a moron. Look! He even has an excuse! You see his brain’s short-circuiting and all that seemed to come out now were the grumbling of an idiot with 1 brain cell. And Geto had two (normally, he had none when Gojo was involved, his lunacy rubbed off on him) but his other brain cell had been burnt (frozen?) to a crisp and was no longer working properly. There. That’s his excuse. (Gojo doesn’t make fun of him. Geto doesn’t retort. Something was very wrong) (4th).
Gojo rotates, and Geto feels his blood grow cold,colder then the immense power he had just felt, because Gojo… Gojo-
Gojo turns to him, he has this empty, wide-eyed and slightly crazed gaze that comes with the godhood,and Suguru hates it, but he thinks he hates the copied emotion of others that returns to Gojo’s face even more. His lip is caught between his teeth, worrying it slightly with their pearly whiteness.
Geto turns away.
Gojo sit’s down beside him,(and Geto feels relife so immense that it robs the breath from his lungs)and even though that wide, empty gaze still lingers—just a shade too vacant, a little too not human, it’s alright, Suguru hopes, and his lungs will return to him soon. And that godhood that clung to Satoru like a second skin slipped for just a moment, revealing something raw beneath, something that didn’t quite fit on his face. And in a flash it’s gone, and Geto can only turn to the Heavens with hope that it was there, that maybe Gojo is still a little human and not the bloodied corpse on the grey stone of the jujutsu tech courtyard.
Gojo then huffed, which somehow felt like the loudest noise in the room. But what follows seems 1,000 decibels quieter, too quiet for his Satoru. -blood from a bullet wound, a leering, smiling face-
“but we’re in a magic school for wizards and witches, not sorcerers. There shouldn’t be any cursed energy. Except, y’know, from the students.” Satoru said logically.
“That was very logical, Gojo.” came a female voice from behind them, dry and unimpressed.
They both turned to see none other than their lord and savior (Ha! Take that Gojo’s God-complex!) Shoko. (Suguru’s losing his mind)
“You felt it too?” said Gojo in a remarkably calm tone- like he wasn’t about to vibrate out of his seat. Shoko raises her hand and karate-chops Gojo on the head in a way only Yaga and Shoko are allowed to do.It makes him cover his head with his hands and yowl pathetically.
“ ‘Course i felt it too, bigger idiot. Imma sorcerer too,or did ya forget that already ya doofus?” Her tone was casual, but there was an edge to it, something almost too steady. -a gun and Gojo’s unsmiling, bloody face and empty eyes-
Suguru swallows.
God, I'm so tired. Suguru remembers helpfully, the thought settling over him restlessly, heavy and unshakable.
And indeed he was tired, now that the remains of the cursed energy had disappeared , no longer dirtying his skin(that’s not very good, usually some cursed energy remained) all those little jarring sensations came back:
the way the wooden bench seemed to dig into his thighs
The way the wooden bench dug into his thighs.
The stifling mix of too many scents in too small a space.
The weight of the body beside him, too warm, too close.
The pancake he’d eaten, sitting heavy and unmovable in his stomach.
The heat creeped up the back of his neck, trickling under the stiff collar of his too-tight uniform, making it hard to breathe.
He felt suffocated by everything, it all became too clear, too sensitive. Everything was mixing together creating one big mass of feeling and he hated it. –Gun, gun, the mans words ringing in his head, Gojo Satoru is dead. No he’s not he’s here right next to me, I-
I-
No.
He suffered through the feeling of cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck, slipping down his shirt.
Exorcise, consume, exorcise, consume
The words pulsed in his skull like a heartbeat.
Oh god. Why couldn’t he be less him? Why was he the only one to feel like this? Why was everyone else so okay? Why was he so weak-
Breathing was getting hard.
Maybe i’m the weird one for freaking out, everyone else is fine, why can’t I be. Iwanttobeokay. Pleaseletmebeokay. I want to be the strongest with Satoru.
I killed him.
His lungs were empty.
There was no more air.
Exorcise, consume, exorcise, consume
Exorcise consume exorcise consume
Exorciseconsumeexorciseconsume
Please stop. Pleasepleasepleaseplea-
“-guru?” A voice shattered through his silence. “Suguru? You okay? KInda zoned out there”
fucksticks. |
Shoko.
Oh god. That’s kinda damn cringe. Who the hell just freaks out in the middle of breakfast? (him apparently). He tries to regulate his breathing, tries to bring it back to normal before someone other than his friends realise something is wrong.
Satoru was giving him that look again, worried and something nearing confused as if he didn’t understand what was going on, like he was waiting for an explanation that Suguru didn’t have. (I don't know either, buddy).
Why can’t you understand? Wait that’s kinda hypocritical
They repeated the same questions:
‘Are you okay?’
No, obviously. ‘Yeah’ He answered
‘You sure?’
No. ‘Pretty damn sure, I mean I'm the one in my body, right?’ (minus the curses)
Suguru locks up all of his little monologues and hides them far away, he tries to focus on the way Gojo is moving his arms, the way Shoko hums as an answer, and he tries to ignore all the stare’s they get, everywhere.
A deep, heavy sigh comes from Shoko that sounded like it belonged better to a middle-aged salaryman rather than a teeanger with a nicotine addiction.
Geto doesn't bother looking at Gojo. After a moment of silence they continued discussing the strange bout of cursed energy. Geto didn’t have the energy to take part so he just sits there and (doesn't) listen.
Eventually they got to a conclusion:
it was nothing.
Satoru didn’t sound convinced.
Dumbledore
He tries his hardest to get the attention of the exchange students, he well and truly does, he promises it to the stars. Swears on his illustrious name. Maybe If he stares at them hard enough, if he wills it into existence, he’ll get them to sit their rebellious little asses down.
Apparently the stars and his own name don’t particularly like him that much. Because they do not.
They were supposed to help protect the school, but they were supposed to help protect the school secretly and standing up and pushing the entire enchanted bench hundreds of students are sitting on out the way so they can stand and gawk at god-knows what is not, sadly, secret.
But channelling every once of headmasterly authority into his best laser-eyes and staring at them does not work. And they continue standing there for a second and- oh double- triple shit the girl is also standing up! Stop standing up! Stop! He thinks calmly.
The dark haired boy sits down first, and Dumbledore breathes an internal sigh of relief. Finally, some common sense. (Although the hair is starting to get on Albus’s nerves. Cut it. He tries to telepathically tell bun-boy)
The girl, however, is moving. She gets out of her seat and begins to make her way over, weaving between the tables to her friends(?) Colleagues? Co-conspirators? Dumbledore didn’t give a shit. The white haired boy remains standing, his arms loose at his sides, staring at a wall as if he could see something no one else could see.
(Maybe though’s glasses have X-Ray vision and some extra hot girl was- no. Then why did the others stand up? )
Dumbledore begins ‘Albus’s conspiracy time! :)’
Here's what he knows:
1) Exchange students aren’t acting like normal exchange students.
2)They see something.
3) Dumbledore doesn't know what they see.
4)Dumbledore does not like this.
New question: Whats for dinner? He hopes it’s not chinese again.
New answer: shitty fucking damn it.
Because now, bun-boy looks like he’s about to fall off the chair.
You see, Dumbledore is a lot of things. A wise old wizard. A mentor. Aman of great patience.
But what he wasn’t right now is in the mood to rush over to save the boy from having his brains splattered across the stone floor (no, he wasn’t overreacting!) But that's besides the point! The point was the simple and heart wrenching fact that he simply didn’t want to save the boy from his near certain doom, so he yearned for someone else that would.
And there! Whatever devil was looking out for Albus had heard his wish!
Addiction-girl had saved her friend, and also Dumbledore having to get off his seat (throne)!
He will now forever be indebted to cigarette girl.
The dark- haired boy sat there and continued sitting there, and to Albus’s luck, no longer looked as if he was about to fall off his seat and created more complications. Unlike a special problem child Dumbledore thinks, glancing to the table across the room where a boy with messy dark hair and a lightning scar sat; suspicion lacing his expression as he stared at the “exchange students”. A stare he usually reserves for that Malfoy boy.
Oh infinite shit. He’s already suspicious!Dammit Harry! All you do is bodge up all my very careful, meticulous, safe planning!
If Harry already suspected something, it was only a matter of time before his meddling companions grew weary too!
Dumbledore then watches the next steps rollout in this exact order, helpless to stop it:
- Harry turns to his friends. Say’s something.
- Orange haired Weasley guy gets whipped cream in his face.
- Harry stands up and probably shouts something about being suspicious.
- Smart muggle girl shouts louder back to him.
- Bell rings.
It has been a total of 189.6592 seconds. And this happens in exactly 189.6592 seconds. Dumbledors would preferably smash his head on the table, black out, and never wake up again.
But, alas. He’s headmaster.
Which means he has a little thing called responsibility, and gods, Dumbledore hates responsibility.
The bell continues ringing, piercing through Albus’s brain like a needle, only now that needle is in a haystack of his problems and if he wants to end his life he’ll have to actively
look for said needle which will be a long and treacherous route full of taking his dreaded responsibility and having to do something half decent with it.
As the last robe swishes out of the door, the hall is finally- mercifully- silent.
And the Headmaster is finally alone on his throne in peace and quiet that a loud bang can be heard, and on closer inspection one will find that the great Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore has indeed slammed his big and knowledgeable head on the table.
Harry, 10 minutes beforehand
Harry was suspicious.
It wasn’t the same suspicion he held over Draco mother-fucking Malfoy, no. It was another type of suspicion.
“I’m suspicious,” Harry says, putting his hand on his chin so he can start stroking his imaginary beard.
“Hm,” says Hermoine. “I can see.”
“Hm” says Ron. “I can'tsee.”
“What?” all three of them say at once.
It is immediately apparent that Ron could not in fact see, as he had whipped cream smeared across his whole face. How it got there, however, remains a mystery. But if Harry had to guess he would blame the can of whipped cream Ron currently held the wrong way round, the nozzle pointed at his face rather than the stack of pancakes in front of him.
"Oh, Ron," Hermione sighs, and Harry swears she nearly empties the entire room of oxygen with how deeply she intakes her breath. “Anyway, Harry, what were you suspicious about again?” She says it with such a bored tone of voice as if she’s heard ‘i’m suspicious’ more times than she can count. Which offends Harry, because even he can count how many times he’s said those two dreaded words that will undoubtedly end in chaos and possible death. (it’s the 34th time he said it so far this term!)
(Term started a week ago.)
“I'm suspicious,” he starts, pointing to the victims of his accusation “of them.”
“The exchange students?”
“Yes.”
“They only just got here!”
“Doesn't matter. My suspicion-meter has gone off! I can sense it! It’s ingrained in my bones!”
“Harry, you're suspicious of everyone you meet!”
“So! I’m always correct, ‘Mione!”
“What!? You are not always correct, Harry! Remember 1st year? Snape? Yep! Wrong there! Also, remember that time in-” Hermione is suddenly cut off by a loud ‘tra-la-la i’m not listening’ coming from Harry, who has his hands over his ears.
“You can hear me! I’m not dumb Harry, luckily for you!”
“No I can't!” The chosen one replies, hands still covering his ears.
“Fine. You can’t hear me. I’m taking your pancakes by the way.”
“NO!” Harry gasp’s shock and betrayal crashing over his face, raw and unmistakable.
“Tra la la. I can’t hear you.” Hermione monotones, both boys gaping at their friends' evil transformation.
“Hermoine’s kinda evil now,” whispers Ron as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world, the topic of the sentence sighs (again) at her slightly stupid friends, glancing over to the targets of Harry’s wariness.
“They aren't that suspicious…” The girl declares as if the three Japanese students hadn’t just stood up at almost the exact same time and looked in the exact same direction with the exact same shocked expression on each of their faces.
Malfoy’s not here…. Harry realises suddenly
“....Malfoy’s plotting something!” Harry screeches, standing up with the exact same abrupt movement the exchange students had used just 10 minutes ago.
“HARRY!” Hermoine shouts, also standing up “FOR MERLIN'S SAKE! LITERALLY JUST EAT BREAKFAST AND STOP BEING SUSPICIOUS!” Harry and Hermoine register the stare’s that everyone in the Great Hall are giving them at the exact same time, except Harry sits down, face red, as Hermoine, face redder, grabs her bag in a dramatic flourish and storm’s out the hall through the great double doors.
The two remaining boys look after her, the dumber one, with his mouth full of pancake speaks first:
“Huh. What’s up with her? I mean I bet two pancakes that that Malfoy fuck-wit is plotting something.” He glances over at Harry, eyes wide “w-wait you don’t think that Malfoy and her have something going on, do you?”
“I dunno Ron,” the barely smarter one starts, “that's your theory. My theories are better. Obviously.”
“O-oi, no there not! But imagine! God I'll kill Malfoy if he touches Hermoine, I swear!” Ron finally swallows his food. Harry sighs. He silently agrees, even though he’d never admit to Ron because he was meant to be the (barely) smarter one.
Suddenly a loud bell signalling the end of breakfast vibrates throughout the Hall, mutters and groans following it almost directly afterwards, the symphony of bags being pulled up and footsteps echoing in the emptying space slowly trail out and away, stepping towards the hellish lessons that await them.
Harry waves over to the exchange student, who are still sitting together in a dense pack, looking a bit like sardines. They notice him eventually, and he’s glad for it. His arms started to hurt.
“Where's bushy hair?” questions the albino, Gojo.
“Dunno mate. Look for her if you wanna know.” Ron answers for him, and then Gojo looks around the empty Hall and points upwards in the general direction of one of their classrooms.
“Found her!” He giggles, tugging on his grumpy friends arms and dragging them towards the place Hermione supposedly is.
“Hey- wait a minute Gojo- I have to go to another classroom!” The girl says, completely oblivious to the way Ron and him stare after Gojo, shock apparent in their features, because, um, they're still in the Great Hall, nowhere near a classroom, and even after living here for almost 6 years Harry still wouldn’t be able to point to the whereabouts of their classroom from the Great Hall. Or he could but he’s have to shove a great deal of his fantastic location-finding skills into it.
“Maybe he just has a great sense of direction?” Ron concludes.
Harry nods once, staring after the trio. Hmmm…..
Very suspicious.