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This isn’t real.
When he wakes up this will all be over. It’s been years since you were alive. Yet, you are standing in the kitchen of your house.
He knows exactly how this dream will play out; he’s had it before. It’s gotten to the point where waking up without having this dream or, god forbid, no dream at all causes lingering anxiety.
On the table, there are two empty glasses of de-alcoholized wine and a ceramic plate sandwiched between them. Two forks and chocolate cake crumbs are on the plate. You grab the dirty dishes and look up at him, staring almost in disbelief.
At what? His face?
Satoru attempts to catch his breath; something feels different this time.
Usually, you ignore him and go about cleaning the kitchen. Satoru would call out to you, offering to help, but there was no response. Instead, you moved around the blue-tinted kitchen, putting things away.
Two glasses turn into one, the same as the forks, until you wash only one set.
Dinnerware clinking, cabinets closing, you humming. He would feebly try calling out to you. Then he’d tease you in that familiar manner until he begs you to notice.
“Look at me please.”
You rinse off your hands and towel them dry.
“Please look at me.”
Then, you would walk around him, switching off the lights and heading upstairs. The kitchen swallowed up in darkness. Satoru would turn on his heels, following you up the stairs. At this point, the dream becomes sunless.
His feet thump up the stairs that never seem to end. Catching a glimpse of you in any capacity is enough, even if it’s fleeting.
Then fatigue wakes him up.
That’s usually how this dream ends. However, this time, the kitchen exists in a morning glow, and you’ve noticed him.
“Hm? What’s wrong, Satoru?” You ask, in an all too casual tone.
“Oh. Nothing,” He says a little too quickly. You cock your head and resume grabbing the dirty dishes.
He feels a little crazy counting the dishes. But as a pleasant surprise, there are still two of everything, except for the plate, of course.
Making your way to the steel sink, you turn on the faucet, methodically cleaning the plate first, then the glasses.
“Nothing?” You coo and he can hear the smile on your face. The sounds of running water fill the gap between you.
His eyes well up, and he moves closer to you and weaves his arms around your waist, “No, no- just feeling sentimental, that’s all.” He lets his cheek rest atop your head, his breathing a little erratic before, now subsided.
“Sentimental? About what?” Your shoulders relax.
“You. This. Right now. It’s just like a dream.”
“A good dream, I hope,” you say, letting out an airy laugh.
That laugh! Oh, how he missed that laugh!
“It’s a good dream,” he hums and buries his face in your head, “I want to sleep in this dream so I can dream about it.”
That elicits another laugh.
Towelling your hands dry, you turn around, letting your arms wrap around Satoru’s torso to reciprocate his embrace and giving him a tight squeeze.
He’s so warm.
The sunlight bathes his skin, creating a brilliant shimmer in his eyes. Satoru’s eyes flutter down to yours, and he scans your face, looking for something. You give him a relaxed smile and place a hand on his rosy cheek, thumbing it absentmindedly.
The dust dances in the air, illuminated by a streak of sunlight. Slightly tinted yellow from the ginkgo tree outside.
“You look so tired,” you sigh, examining his entirety to an almost atomic level, “I think it’s time to rest.”
Satoru grabs your wrist, halting what came as second nature to you—gently and intentionally loving him. He pulls your wrist close to his lips, ghosting his mouth against your warm body before lightly kissing your wrist.
You’re so close.
You’re so warm.
Suddenly, he realizes that he should be fighting Sukuna right now. Instead of guilt washing over him like usual whenever he spends time on something other than himself, Satoru indulges.
Like the sweetest, most expensive cake in the bakery, in a borderline hedonistic manner, he relaxes.
“I did good, though, right?” He says so faintly it almost comes out as a whisper.
He’s so tired.
Incredibly tired.
Awfully exhausted.
“You did more than that. It’s enough.” You say, intertwining your fingers with his. “Come on. We have a flight to catch.”
He finally and rightfully allows himself to be happy.
Satoru Gojo is at ease. He can stay in this dream forever, in the morning glow, in the promise of his youth, away from the fragility and cruelty of time.