Chapter Text
It all started like this:
Gojo was careless.
Which is something he can afford 99,99% of the time. Nobody can touch him, nobody can hurt him, nobody can overpower him.
He is the strongest. Unshakable. Unstoppable.
It all began like this.
The cracks in his armor are showing.
He spends last three weeks not sleeping, running entirely on reverse cursed technique, chasing curse after curse. Not resting, not stopping, teleporting from place to place, letting his Six Eyes guide him to every strong curse he can see, only pausing to eat something quickly every other day. It was mindless, grueling work that left no room for Gojo’s wondering thoughts to catch up with him. Just show up, find a curse, exterminate it with extreme prejudice (sue him, all the pent-up rage he had always kept back had to go somewhere), leave. And repeat. Over and over, until he couldn’t breathe, until his eyes felt like they would leak out of his eye sockets, until his skull felt like it was cracked and his brain was torn to pieces. Until all was left was a tool and not a person, empty of every feeling, every emotion. He throwed all his frustrations, all his pain, all his rage and fear and doubt at the curses, left nothing but destruction in his wake. Not having to think about consequences, plans, responsibilities and expectations. He allowed himself the satisfaction of becoming nothing more than simply a weapon to be pointed by his Six Eyes at his enemies.
It became something of an annual event. Every year, for entire three weeks, ever since Suguru... well, since Suguru’s everything, he went for three full weeks of curse murder spree.
It started like this.
Satoru was grieving.
The anniversary of Star Plasma Mission fiasco came around and he was on a mission. Alone. No Suguru to talk to (never again to talk to, only to kill, to end), no Shouko to bother, no Yaga to scold him.
So he did what he always done when his emotions got too much and old wounds started hurting, making him clutch at his throat, where all this time ago, a dagger struck him down, leaving him to choke on his own blood. When his paranoia got so high that even the notion of sleep, of not being constantly alert and ready, left him trembling and terrified out of his mind. He buried it in the deepest corner of his mind and focused on something else completely until he was too tired to think about it or even feel anything anymore. Which is his case always meant using his jujutsu until he physically couldn’t go on anymore.
For three weeks, he dropped from the face of the earth for everyone else, not showing his face or contacting anyone. Thinking of nothing but the indiscriminate murder of curses.
First time he did it, everyone panicked. Nobody could track him down or find him. First time he did it, he didn’t even think about hiding himself. He just accidentally made sure of that, with him changing his location constantly, never staying somewhere longer than thirty minutes. He was frantic, on a verge of either mental breakdown or insanity. He had to do something. He had to do anything, to keep everything from being too much.
When he reemerged from his murder bender, empty of all feelings except comfy void, the sharp relief covered him wholly and it was like nothing he ever felt before. It felt like as if he fully breathed for the first time in a very long time. He was back to being the little shit everyone around him knew. He could bear it all again, the weight of the world. Smile, laugh and tease, be annoying to everyone around him.
(It was important, for him to be annoying. To make everyone around him be able to snap at him, to yell and not fear retaliation. Sometimes Satoru thought it was the only thing that kept him human anymore. To see others look at him not with fear, not with reverence or distant respect, but plain old human irritation. It was so rare those days, for anyone to notice Satoru the human and not Gojo the weapon. He cherished every moment of it.)
He never explained where he went, no matter how many times others asked him. He just said he took vacation. And after some time, they stopped asking.
It happened year after year. First three times he did it, others protested, cursed or yelled. He ignored it every time, answering in a sing-song voice that he had right to take vacation once in a while. It kept happening and at some point, it was a whim of his that everyone got used to, no matter how mad it made them. It became some sort of yearly tradition. The one time everyone in the higher places knew that Gojo Satoru would be completely gone from the face of the earth, no matter what happened. It was one thing he would never budge on, no matter how much higher ups complained about it.
After some time, for Satoru it became a ritual. Something he did to get himself back into order, push back all the repressed feelings and steady himself. A prayer for keeping it together for another year. A point in time where he could decompress. Not be happy and pleasant and non-threatening for once. Act how he wanted, all pretenses and masks let down, only raw feelings left.
(It was exhausting, to keep himself both smaller and larger than he was for others. To keep himself limited to what others thought he was capable of. To pack everything he was in a box that was digestible to others. Not too serious, because it makes others afraid. Not too annoying, because it made them doubt. Always careful not to show too much, to balance who he was with what he could show. Not the rage, which kept him awake at night, thinking on just giving up and murdering all the meddling geezers. Not the guilt, every time a mission went wrong and something bad happened to the people he cared about. Not the indifference, the lack of true care about people as a whole, if it wasn't for those precious to him steering him right. It was chaffing, claustrophobic. Sometimes he felt as if every breath he took was too shallow, never giving him enough air to be comfortable.)
So.
It all starts like this:
It’s been three weeks. Gojo is tired, running on empty, blank and careless for it, not paying attention. His mind blissfully empty of everything, he is at the edge of abyss that grands him another year of functionality. Every emotion already expelled, all his rage, grief, pain and fear exorcised by action, his thoughts blurring and tripping over themselves. He is a void, going through the motions, more from long practiced muscle memory than true intention.
It’s been 21 days.
Gojo is exhausted, at the brink of collapse.
There is a curse.
And it all goes to shit.