Work Text:
They morning following the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons, Gojo Satoru disappeared.
When the adrenaline of the fight wore off, he sent his students away to have their injuries treated, congratulated them for their hard work and pretended to leave in the opposite direction.
He stayed.
The remnants of the cursed energy Rika had emanated were all over the place, so the footprints of the fight that had befallen were easy to follow physically, but not chronologically.
He wanted to know a bit more. Just a bit more. Before the rest of the sorcerers returned and tore everything apart in their usual, uncaring way.
They would spoil everything. The scattered weapons, the moribund curses that lingered around the corners, the footprints outlined in dust that traced the choreography of a long and assorted battle. The last remnants of Geto’s cursed energy.
The last ones ever.
The huge explosion at the centre of the false temple easily signalled where everything had ended. An invisible fog lingered around it, so heavy that it almost made it hard to breathe.
Had he had fun, at least? Had he smiled and danced like when they used to spar together or team up against the enemy?
Had he felt strong, one last time?
The blast had been visible from afar, but the smoke had dissipated already. This was something different.
Something that probably wasn’t even there.
Gojo had to remember to inhale when he saw the torn, burnt cloth from a robe laying between the scattered remains.
He picked it up with gentle hands, cradling it as if it were precious.
It was. It was.
He dusted off the debris and gravel that clung to it, and held it up to the dawn light.
None of his students had suffered any burns. This wasn’t theirs.
It was his now, a selfish, teenage part of him proclaimed.
When the rest of Jujutsu sorcerers returned to their school along with the sunrise, Gojo Satoru was nowhere to be found.
He wouldn’t be needed, either. All that was left to do was write some reports, restore the regular flow of the city life and address and mourn all the corpses and casualties that remained unregistered.
All the ones the could find, that is.
He was unfit to help with any of those tasks.
So, he hid.
In an empty room at an empty building, far, far away from Jujutsu High’s core. He’d intended to curl into himself to lick his wounds like a wounded wolf and sob until his vocal cords snapped.
But the fallout was… different than that of ten years ago.
It was logical, a part of his brain suggested. Then, he’d been furious upon the unexplainable, blind from rage and regret and the overwhelming fear of loneliness. He’d returned to his room and torn everything to shreds, then huddled into a bed that wasn’t his and sobbed until Shoko had dragged him out by the ankles a couple of days later.
From then on, the anger simmered away quickly. He poured all his focus on severing Megumi’s fate from the Zen’in clan and took on every mission that came his way. He exhausted himself to the bone to prevent the grief from catching up to him, while keeping alive the weak flicker of hope that told him he and Suguru would meet again. Maybe, maybe, when they both became as strong as their wishes demanded.
Gojo breathed out the ghost of a chuckle.
He’d been right.
Geto’s return had taken him by surprise. So much so that he’d needed a few seconds to get over the paralyzing shock that took over him and rush to his encounter after seeing him again, even from afar. He’d felt so clumsy as he greeted him so casually, moved so elegantly and declared war so confidently while Gojo got lost in his gaze, the ripples of his hair and the swirl of the very same robe he was holding a piece of.
He’d seen him as he excused himself to listen to the two young girls he’d brought with him, apologizing like an embarrassed father and attending their wishes above their impromptu quarrel.
And for an instant, their lives apart hadn’t seemed so different.
His girls were impulsive, loud and demanding. Megumi was quiet and private, and Tsukimi was kind and generous. The subconscious, involuntary vision of what their future together could have looked like tore open a wound that had long since started to scar.
He’d had Suguru in mind every time Megumi had come to him with a question, during training or outside of it. The time and care he’d relentlessly poured into the kids, his kids emanated from his desire to raise them in a different way, a better way. So that they could avoid living with the same arrogance that had coated his entire youth and instead adopted Suguru’s sense of justice, his principles, his vision of life through the crystal lenses of their duty as sorcerers, that had clashed so hard against Gojo’s own when they met at Jujutsu High.
It was the first time he’d been reprimanded over his impoliteness and told to be humble, the first time someone had criticized him without any superiority laced behind it.
It had also been the first time someone outside the Gojo clan had defined family to him in the simplest and purest form and had seamlessly made Satoru feel like he belonged in one, a bloodless bond made between them, Shoko and their two underclassmen. Despite their disagreements, their differences and their imperfections.
An equal, for the first time in his life.
Not only that, but also a best friend. Someone to rely on. The trust Suguru had so easily thought Satoru would have let go of had coated his entire being and reached well into his innermost principles and far beyond himself.
It stirred a bleary, dormant memory.
Despite his dazedness, it still scared him how lightly he’d suggested killing all those people cheering on Amanai’s death. If Geto was a monster, he would have done it on his command in a heartbeat.
One of his heartbeats, that is. Suguru’s heart stopped way earlier than on the 24th. Years earlier.
A pang of pain echoed across his skull. He’d scratched the back of his neck until the white of his nails dyed red.
Old habits died hard, he supposed.
Promptly, he made a decision. It would be hypocritical, after having scolded Okkotsu on his choice to isolate, to ignore his own advice.
Within two seconds and a flick of his fingers, he left the couch and returned with everything he needed: junk food and a distraction.
Blindly, he opened the top disk case, tossed it aside and loaded the first film.
And then the second.
And the third.
The actress on screen did an excellent job pretending to be in love with her co-star. She held him closely and kissed him passionately, even if Gojo could see that their actions weren’t heartfelt. They whispered nonsense in the space between their mouths and promised each other an empty future that would shatter as soon as the director yelled “Cut!”
He scrunched an empty can and tossed it to the side.
Lucky her.
He'd had no direction. No script. No role to fill when he was with Suguru, before his duties piled on his shoulders.
He'd been careless, being himself; covered Suguru’s sadness with empty jokes and puns in the hopes that they’d work as well as they’d used to, blind before his pain.
So much for having six eyes.
He’d thought of him during his solo missions. Sent him pictures whenever he missed him until he filled his phone’s memory, bought him tasty souvenirs and fought his teachers every time they rejected his request of having Suguru alongside him.
Fourth film. Or, perhaps it was the fifth already?
Reverently, he pulled out the torn cloth from Geto’s robe and studied it in the low light, feeling it run across his fingers.
It had taken him a while, after Suguru’s departure, to understand why the sting was different from other losses.
He wasn’t to blame; it hadn’t felt like what the books and blogs said.
He’d gotten so used to having someone guarding his back, understanding his weak points and seeing him so openly, he kind of forgot about the longing that often caught him off guard, curling around his throat.
It snuck in the crevices of his ribs in the vulnerable moments, the quiet conversations about two different childhoods that became less lonely the more they were shared. It was about the selfishness of shared jokes, the vulnerability of texts and secrets, the exclusivity certain places in Tokyo carried, only because they’d laughed there a bit harder, or leant into each other more heavily. It cracked him open like a plastic capsule when Suguru gifted him silly gacha toys mindlessly and shared his snacks with him thoughtfully, because he preferred the sweeter ones, and it caressed his throat with the help of a few, “Are you alright, Satoru?” and, “My mistake. It won’t happen again,” along with the, “Nonsense, you did nothing wrong,” the, “Can I rest here for a second,” with the “You don’t even need to ask,” going all the way back to, “Just Suguru is fine, Gojo,” and, “Satoru, as well. Please.”
He got so comfortable with the shape of their friendship; he didn’t realize it was far different from the others.
Because sometimes they played video games and losing wasn’t important, and then they shared a bike and falling wasn’t a problem, and then they sparred together and he lost and it didn’t matter; and the adrenaline rushing through his veins and pooling at the base of his stomach told him that maybe, just maybe, blessings existed alongside curses.
For the first time in his life, it was no longer about mindlessly impressing strangers or basking in the lukewarm awe of teenage girls, but about searching to be noticed by a single set of attentive eyes.
He risked glances at him from time to time, when he let his hair down or quickly changed in-between missions, and the sight often left him overwhelmed, like there was too much information for him to process and he physically couldn’t handle the input, so he just covered his embarrassment with humour and sarcasm. Even a little shove, when he hadn’t been listening to anything but the softness of Suguru’s voice and was caught inattentive. Maybe sometimes he dared to linger with his touches, to test the waters to see if he was unwelcome, waiting for a push back that never came unless he was clearly joking; as if Suguru didn’t mind his hands, his presence. As if Suguru welcomed his greediness.
And at night, alone in his room, he recalled with euphoria how Suguru did the same.
Never had his Infinity felt more useless than when he thought about keeping him close to his side. To his heart. A wanting so powerful, it felt like his chest was home to a red giant star, carrying the same gravitational pull and putting his Blue technique to shame.
He’d felt the very same force urging him to hurry to Suguru as soon as he knew where he would be during the parade, begging him to be quick and selfish and punctual. The thrumming across his diaphragm a familiar feeling, like catching up with an old friend, like riding a bike again after not doing so for ten years.
There was no grand revelation like it was shown on the screen. No cathartic run across empty streets and no arms to jump into, no passionate kiss under the rain as the music drowned everything else, everything unimportant.
He didn’t like the rain, either way. And he didn’t even know how to kiss.
He touched his lips, now dry and cracked, to the burnt, torn cloth from his robe.
But for Suguru, he would have tried. Would even have supressed his Infinity for a few seconds to do it right, like in the movie.
The thought rebelled against him instantly, piercing through his chest like a blade.
He’d been cursed without knowing. Condemned to watch the couple on screen kissing under the pouring rain without ever knowing how it would feel like. Condemned to be a part of the world they were ignoring, too busy lost in each other.
The only time when he’d felt like the rest of the world didn’t matter was when he’d been left behind in the middle of a street, cracked and broken and angry. The apathy with which people carried on around such cosmic tragedy felt delirious.
Was it better? Not having known what would have happened if he’d been just a little bit braver, only for everything to collapse on its very foundation; or would he have had a better chance to stop him?
He let the cloth fall from his grasp, too weak to hold its weight. It’s descent across his skin revealed the crescent scars he’d dug into the palm of his hands when he received the news of Geto’s death sentence by his teacher.
Time had made them heal and mix with his palm lines, but they never vanished. They were the proof that he’d cared beyond words, logic and reason, carved between his head and heart lines.
No monster would have gotten him to do that.
He thought of Geto’s last words. How they’d seen through each other’s plans so clearly it made him feel as if he hadn’t grown a single day since they parted ways. How he’d finally given him the answers his teenage self had relentlessly searched for and yet had hidden his wounded arm away from him, still covering his weaknesses. How Satoru had been given one last chance to be brave, and had been gifted with the very smile Suguru thought he’d be unable to give, blushing so prettily.
Suddenly, ‘forever’ had belonged to them all along.
He’d spent the last decade growing, improving, strengthening himself in order to catch up to him, believing so fervently in a second chance for them to meet again he could have created a new religion. Always certain that if he ever heard that voice calling for him, no matter how far or how low, he would instantly turn to it.
Just like Orpheus had done.
Only this time, he’d been strong enough to save him, despite the tremor in his hands, the fawn-like unsteadiness of his legs, the teenage pull of his heart to soothe and hold and cradle.
And Geto Suguru had died smiling wholeheartedly.
Gojo rubbed at the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand and tossed an empty chips bag to the floor.
Take that, Orpheus.
The click of the door behind him halted his thoughts.
“Pardon the intrusion.”
Gojo jumped out of the couch, prepared his guard and watched Nanami casually stroll into the room.
“How did you find me?”
“That’s not my main concern right now, Gojo-san.”
“It is mine.” Gojo sneered. “How did you know I was here?”
“I came alone.”
They held each other’s gaze. He hadn’t answered Gojo’s question, but by the way Nanami continued to approach him, Gojo knew the man had at least seen the way his posture had slumped a little.
Whatever.
“I’m not taking any missions. If they want me to, tell them to rest assured I’ll just level the entire neighbourhood they send me to and call it a day,” Gojo threatened. He kicked an empty can and resettled on his spot on the couch.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Nanami continued his approach until he was in front of the scattered mess he’d created. His surprise was visible enough that Gojo felt just a little ashamed.
“I’ll be back shortly.”
When Gojo lifted his gaze, the man was nowhere to be seen. The door had been left open, and he minutely considered making a run for it and disappear elsewhere, just in case Nanami returned with backup.
But he said he’d come alone. And he was so tired…
The door shut behind him. Nanami had returned, broom in hand and followed by the rustle of plastic trash bags.
“What a mess…” he mumbled, matter-of-factly, and bent down to retrieve an empty disk case.
Gojo’s cheeks blazed with embarrassment. “You don’t need to do all that. ’s not your job.”
“I’m aware,” Nanami stated. With that, he knelt beside the table and started sorting between disks and their cases, matching them and returning the delicate DVDs to their boxes.
After the credits rolled away, the last case was closed and set on top of a neat pile beside the couch.
Nanami then picked up a trash bag and started with the empty cans. “I’ve checked the reports regarding the parade,” he began; a gentle enough way to fill in the silence without the cruelty of tearing his thoughts away from where his heart lingered. “The balance is satisfactory for the most part, though a few casualties have been inevitable. Most of them in Kyoto.” He scrunched the can he was holding tightly in his fist, then tossed it into the bag. “Some students that shouldn’t have been in the battlefield in the first place. Although the fact that there were more high-level curses than we anticipated should also need to be taken into consideration. On that matter, Jujutsu High should be proud of their efforts.”
He stopped in front of the table, discarding every empty packet. Gojo watched him frown, turn his neck and bend over to pick up something from the floor.
A torn, burnt cloth from a robe.
“Don’t touch that!” He bolted out of the couch and grabbed Nanami’s arm with a bruising grip, yanking the cloth away from his lax hand. He used enough cruelty for the man not to speak to him ever again for the rest of his life.
He felt frantic.
He probably looked dangerous.
He hated it.
But Nanami only looked into his eyes, retracted his hands, then slowly bowed his head.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
Gojo tried not to feel sick at the almost surgical way in which Nanami delivered his condolences. The sudden surge of adrenaline rattled his body as it faded, leaving him trembling and falling heavily back into the cushions.
“You’re the only one, then,” he sneered, emptying the last of his remaining can as quickly as his shaking pulse allowed him. He scrunched it until it shrunk, and then continued to squeeze it until he felt his technique meet some resistance.
He wanted to keep going, until the metal collapsed in on itself, until he reached a singularity and created a black hole in the palm of his hand that would swallow him whole and take him to a different reality in which Suguru was still with him.
He let the metal sphere fall.
It would be fruitless. The can wasn’t big enough.
“That’s untrue,” Nanami responded. “Ieiri-san hasn’t been sleeping, despite her exhaustion from her immense workload. She hasn’t directed a word to anyone in days. The principal keeps revisiting decade-old files and has cleared his schedule until the weekend. Even the students have been uncannily respectful towards their higher-ups. Wordlessly, an official mourning has been set.”
Gojo slumped back against the couch, all of his limbs heavy. “Who in the right mind would mourn an enemy?”
He’d been lax with his words. Both of them knew Geto’s name had harboured more than mere enmity amongst Jujutsu sorcerers.
A threat.
A curse.
A monster.
If he was an enemy, they were his accomplices. When his death sentence was announced, everyone deleted his contact information and claimed not to know anything about his whereabouts, even when the rumours about a kind young man who was able to magically heal any unexplainable pains or aches began to reach them. Gojo pretended to not know the phone number he’d learned by heart and ignored the way his lungs collapsed in on themselves whenever he saw any long, dark-haired man on the street.
And if he was a monster, then Gojo was no better. Where Geto wanted to eliminate non-sorcerers, Gojo fantasized about lashing against the higher-ups who exposed untrained students against uncontrolled danger, who resorted to killing the unknown as their first choice and who looked down on their youth, as if unaware of their mortality.
If he was a monster, Gojo wouldn’t have hesitated.
He was—
“He was your friend.”
He flinched under Nanami’s gaze. His lip trembled.
“He was my friend,” he tried to repeat, numbly.
It was sickening, wrong to speak of Suguru in the past tense. As if saying the words finally made them real, inescapable.
“Did you get there in time?”
Gojo grimaced. Nanami wouldn’t ask anything the reports hadn’t told him. He wasn’t concerned about Gojo’s relocation from Shinjuku to Jujutsu High.
“I was ten years late,” was all he could answer. “I saw him, but he was beyond salvation.”
He’d been in pain, cold, disoriented. Abandoned and alone. Unable to accept mercy and yet so, so deserving of it.
Nanami’s expression softened too much for him to manage. It made Satoru feel seen, studied without malice and understood. His breath caught in his throat.
It made his feelings return with a vengeance.
“His last wish was to be cursed by me. I—”
Nanami’s face trembled and blurred until it became unrecognizable. For the next few seconds before any tear fell, his expression wouldn’t matter, regardless of what Gojo said. Any confession would be inconsequential, a secret kept between two of Geto’s abettors.
“I loved him.”
The words wrestled themselves out of his chest violently. They cracked his ribcage and crawled heavy up his throat until they could pour from his mouth as elegantly as vomit, leaving him panting.
He squeezed the fabric of his jacket above his chest, felt the cloth of Suguru’s robe on his inner pocket and whimpered like a wounded dog.
It physically hurt.
The crack in the dam broke and the truth flowed rampant into existence. “I loved him so much, Nanami,” he sobbed to the floor. “I truly did. I still do, I still do.” He repeated the words as much as he could before they choked him.
He was now able to see the tears wetting the wood below him, falling from his eyes without touching his skin. A set of feet approached his own.
Nanami rested a hand between his heaving shoulder blades. “Then you cursed the both of you.”
Gojo wailed under the weight of Nanami’s hand until his breaths came out in coughs. He retched, but forced himself to swallow heavily and push Nanami away, along with the bag he was holding. The man wordlessly complied.
Facing the black mirror on the TV, Gojo studied the mask of moisture and friction burns around his eyes, the spit around his lips that he’d slovenly wiped off. His exhaustion didn’t allow him any more outbursts, but it surely couldn’t prevent him from shedding more tears.
Suguru deserved a world where he could be free to be himself. Untied, unbound, alive and happy. Gojo had already borrowed plenty from him to shape himself as the years had gone by. His logic, his compassion and his ideals. He’d wanted to be strong alongside him, not because of him, not to condemn him to a life of servitude as a punishment for his disobedience.
He shut his eyes away from his reflection. He couldn’t bear to be seen like this, not even by himself. He tilted his head towards the ceiling, the constant stream of tears now falling down his temples and disappearing into his hair.
He thought of Okkotsu, of Rika and their fate. Curses, twisted as they were, could overcome death.
He couldn’t.
Both his reflection on the TV screen and the teenage version of him mourning within his chest would never force Suguru to stay by his side, even at the cost of their loneliness. That was his punishment.
So, he hadn’t followed him. He’d let him go.
Twice.
“He took my youth away with him. I forgive him for that, but now—”
“He didn’t.”
The world shifted back into focus.
“Huh?”
“He didn’t,” Nanami repeated. “He gifted it to you. All those days waiting for the train to come and pick us up after class, the evenings at the arcade and eating trash food after training were not stealing.” He walked to the back of the couch and met Gojo’s upside-down gaze. “He shared his youth with you. Nobody knows what happened afterwards, but don’t disrespect him smearing your memories like that.”
Gojo looked at Nanami’s blue shirt and thought of their moments in Okinawa. The long talks that tasted much sweeter than the soda he’d been drinking for the last days, even if the flavour was the same. The moments after bidding goodbye to their underclassmen, walking home through empty streets and chatting as if the world was theirs and theirs alone. The certainty that if he reached out, he’d have a hand to take. The nights in-between missions when he wondered what would happen if, after grasping his hand, he’d pulled him closer, just a little bit. How Suguru would have complied. How giddy those thoughts made him.
In the end, Suguru had gifted him their youth, and time hadn’t let him pay back with love, cradled so carefully.
“But where do I put this?” he asked, looking at the empty space his hands were holding. “I had so much to give him, Nanami. I—”
There was no structure in his brain; a shapeless disaster of grief and regret with no pattern from which to sketch a solid figure, no linear path to be segmented in a 3 to 7 ratio.
And yet, Nanami still delivered a lethal blow when he stated, “Back where it came from.”
The words were final. Sharper than a razor and more grounding than an anchor.
Beyond stupor, they made Gojo wonder.
“Into your students. Into your dreams and the next generation of sorcerers. Into Fushiguro-kun.” He punctuated each sentence by tying a knot on the trash bags he’d filled, before dropping them down and walking towards him with the stick of the broom raised. “And into yourself,” he finished, poking at his chest with it. “Lift up the veil in this room.”
Nanami was a wise man, Gojo concluded. Rational enough to sort through his pain and human enough to do so tenderly.
There was strength in that, too. He was glad he could borrow some from him.
He obeyed.
“I’m glad you came back.”
Nanami didn’t answer, just nodded and picked up the trash he’d gathered. “I’ll throw this away and retrieve a futon so you can rest more comfortably. I won’t stay longer, should I raise unwanted suspicions about your location.”
Upon his lack of a response, however, the man did turn around to study Gojo’s expression.
“What is it?”
Gojo let his head loll around the back of the couch until he was looking at his friend. “Have you ever been in love, Nanami?”
Nanami held his breath, mouth slightly open as he probably thought of an adequate dismissal. But his eyes only wavered a little bit as he answered. “I was, once.”
Gojo felt himself smile childishly, until it reached his eyes. “I know. I saw.”
And just like that, the mask was back on. “I’ll get the futon now; it won’t take long.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s nothing to thank, Gojo-san.”
His exhaustion overtook the man, however. Gojo didn’t remember him returning.
When he woke up, he was still sprawled on the couch, though not uncomfortably. He had a blanket thrown on top of him and a pillow on the back of his head.
Rubbing the sleep off of his eyes, Gojo sat up. He could have sworn that the room he’d spent the last days on had been a different one, if not for the futon that sat prepared before him, untouched.
The place was spotless.
The smell of food reached him quickly, just before taking in the covered pot sitting at the centre of the table. Uncovering it revealed a simple broth with rice, fish and some vegetables, still with condensation on the back of the lid.
Nanami had also left a note beside it, telling him he’d take his first-graders on a surveillance mission with him for the day. He wouldn’t tell the higher-ups about his whereabouts, so he requested him to please eat and take care of his health and to destroy the note as soon as he deemed adequate.
The wording felt like a corporate e-mail. Gojo was grateful for the familiarity.
So, he finished the soup and ate as much rice and fish as his fragile stomach could manage. Washing his face in the adjacent bathroom and rubbing away the remaining specks of tears around the corners of his eyes made them feel lighter, despite the lingering redness around them.
Before Gojo could retrieve the last days’ events from his pupils, a strong knock rattled the door.
“Oi, are you there?!”
Megumi’s voice travelled easily through the wood, accompanied by more knocking. Immediately, Gojo rushed to answer him.
“I’m coming in!” his kid warned, with a hint of urgency in his voice.
Both of them opened the door at the same time.
He was greeted with a wide-eyed stare and an appalled, “You look like shit.”
He didn’t miss the way Megumi’s shoulders dropped from his ears.
Gojo grinned, flooded by the familiarity. His world might have been tilted on its axis, but at least it kept on spinning. “I bet I do. What brought you here, kiddo?” he asked, raising his hand to pat the top of a head that grew higher and higher every day.
“You haven’t answered the phone in days and I didn’t find you in Ieiri-san’s infirmary,” Megumi offered in lieu of an explanation. Gojo knew he wouldn’t get anything else from him, even if he pushed, but the message was equally understood.
He’d been worried.
A cool, damp nose nudged the palm of his hand. Megumi’s black dog looked up at him, licking his fingers in the form of a greeting. The white one was close behind, beside Megumi’s legs.
He loved them. All three of them. The dogs and his kid and how easily he could see their concern.
Maybe he still had time to teach them to be better. Maybe he already had.
Because… They were weapons, the dogs. Shadow figures meant to hunt and attack and exorcise, Gojo thought as he ran his hands across dark hair. Yet Megumi let their presence linger even if they were no longer needed, let them explore their surroundings and play and meet new people. It was no surprise that the kid didn’t complain when Gojo crouched down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.
“You needed these two guys to search for me?” he couldn’t help but tease, as the dog nuzzled further into him.
Megumi shrugged in discomfort. “There are dozens of rooms in here. How the hell was I supposed to know where to look?”
“Of course,” Gojo conceded.
Megumi grumbled his annoyance, but didn’t protest. He followed him as he left the room and wandered into the hallways.
“You free today?”
A hum.
“Then let’s go out!”
Megumi frowned. “It’s pretty sunny outside, with the snow and all,” he commented, eyeing him pointedly.
Gojo halted, looking at the brightness behind the thin paper walls that separated them from the rest of the world.
That was… Probably not going to do his tender eyes any good.
“Oh, right. Just give me one sec—”
He reached for the inner pocket of his jacket, searching for his glasses, but met a soft cloth instead.
Oh. Right.
Gojo pulled the damaged fabric out, eyeing it clearly for the first time. It was darker than it looked like, and softer than he had imagined.
Just like he was.
He didn’t think as he folded it in on itself and curled it around his head. He adjusted it over his eyes and around the planes of his nose until it fit snuggly.
It would need to be trimmed and sewn later, but it’d do for now.
A familiar smell took over his memory. Wood, sea salt, rain. Laughter. Love. He hoped it wouldn’t fade away quickly.
“I like it. The white ones made you look like a runaway hospital patient.”
And for the first time in what felt like months, Gojo was able to laugh with his full belly.
“Thank you, kiddo.”
Wordlessly, Megumi slid open the door. Sunshine came flooding in.
“We’re taking the day off!” Gojo proclaimed, throwing an arm around the kid’s shoulders. “Where do you wanna go eat?”
“Nanami-san is still with your students. He will be displeased.”
“Nah, I’ll be sure to make it up for him. He enjoys teaching more than he lets on.”
Under his arm, Megumi shrugged. “I’m fine with whatever, then.”
Megumi’s dogs, black and white and walking closely side by side, remained present under the sun. Visible under the cloth.