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#after all they’re grown now and three bright years of youth would’ve passed anyhow and anyway and now it’s over foreal
kakashisthickthighs · 9 months
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i am thinking about if getou and gojo really did continue talking afterwards and like the tiny intricate details and logistics of their lives.
they part in 2007. they had flip phones.
getou dies in 2016. they had iphones, instagram, snapchat, and dog filters.
when getou first goes rogue, shoko and gojo probably still have his number and are blowing his shit up. he probably has his phone off for the first days of it and turns it back on after. there’s no need to trash it out of a want to stay hidden—he won’t die unless they send an army or gojo himself.
when he turns his cell back on, he’s half-tempted to delete all his photos of jujutsu tech, with shoko, with gojo, and he gets as far as deleting maybe 15 of them in a heavy-breathed rage before convincing himself that maybe he doesn’t need to delete these. these are mementos of the said pinnacle of jujutsu, and they’ll come in handy when there are no non-sorcerers left.
he’s about to put the cellphone away before it rings. it’s satoru. he sighs. he calls once every day. it’s relentless, six or seven calls at minute intervals. getou almost laughs at it—the world’s strongest, desperate.
a month after his disappearance, he calls every night at ten. sometimes the pixels on his cell read 10:04, 10:21, the latest was 10:42. it becomes a ritual, agonizing every night wanting to finally beat gojo at something, to make him lose. but suguru finds himself holding his breath as 10pm wanders by every day, breathing easy only when his phone stops buzzing.
maybe one night he’s yet again alone in his shoebox apartment, assorted belongings littered about, convincing himself this was the best path for him. not jujutsu tech, the horrible missions, the loneliness, the taste. it feels better here, where no one else is happy.
he’s lost in a daze when his phone rings. it’s been three months and satoru won’t let up. every night. he scoffs and flips his cell open just to sneer and make a point, to feel powerful in his own mind, but once the line connects, he’s silent, mouth agape and eyes wide that he actually picked up.
he hears static from the other side, a shift of fabric, a shaky inhale. “suguru, you fucking idiot,” gojo sneers, loud on the other end, “what’d ya pick up by accident?”
getou can’t help but laugh from the bottom of his heart. his abs are burning and tears are falling by the time he contains himself, and memories flood back. selfies, dumb finds, food pics, phone bills crazy all from hours on the phone together. there’s satoru’s voice, and then there’s lofi samsung static-lined satoru’s voice. both sound like home.
“suguru—“
“satoru,” he breathes, and this is what it feels like to talk again. he’s lived in this apartment in silence for the past three months, voices only coming from his saved videos.
“come home, suguru.” they both know it’s impossible.
getou chuckles again into the speaker. he can almost see it, satoru’s spindly form, one leg propped up on a chair, elbow resting on it as he holds the phone in distaste. or maybe he’s completely prone, jolted awake by a voice he hadn’t expected to hear.
“satoru, you’ll be fine,” he chimes, hanging up. he squeezes his eyes shut and swallows a sigh, and just like that, he’s left home again.
three years later the calls have stopped. the iphone 4 comes out, and the world is awash in touch screens, app stores, and missing charging cables. it’s time for an upgrade, and getou powers off his flip phone—his youth—one last time and tucks it gingerly into a shoebox. he starts completely anew with no data to transfer.
gojo meticulously transfers every contact and double checks only one number. it’s the first call he makes on his new phone.
the number you have dialed is not in service—
he hangs up and slows his breathing. he doesn’t delete the number. suguru, the contact reads.
you’ll be fine.
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