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Gojo had been 29 and 18 when he died.
29 when he felt the rubble of demolished buildings pierce into his skin. 29 when he saw the face of the boy he raised -with eyes too many and too sharp for his face- standing over him. His boy. His blessing. Megumi.
18 when he saw the eyes of his one and only turn away from his. 18 when he realised that being the strongest didn't mean that he didn't have someone to catch up to, didn't mean that he couldn't be left behind, abandoned.
He’d paid his dues since then, tried to carry out Suguru’s will in his stead. The warm crimson that coated his skin after he massacred the higher ups made him feel as if he’d redeemed himself (at least in Suguru’s eyes, he’d hoped).
He’d felt the metallic sting in his mouth long before he felt his lower half give up on him, long before what remained of his brain could process the glacial cold that enveloped his body as it hit the ground.
He wondered if Suguru had felt the same way a year ago as he did right now, he wondered if he’d died angry, resentful.
Resenting Satoru.
Resenting him for not killing him sooner, for not disposing of his corpse, for letting that Parasite parade around wearing his skin. His Suguru’s skin. What should've been an almost instant death felt much longer than it should've. The pain, a penance for his sins. For the way he’d deluded his student into thinking he had a shot at winning, for letting them carry the burden of being the monster he had become in his final moments.
Maybe his final moments would've been more peaceful if he’d tried to live a more content life, if he’d tied up all his loose ends before it came to this.
He’d wanted to mourn Suguru's body,
He’d wanted him to pat him on the back before he stepped into the battlefield from which he knew he would'nt return.
Instead he’d lie there in the debris, his blood seeping out of his middle soaking the gray concrete in sanguineous reds. The biting December air brushing past the insides vital organs as his vitality ebbed away, surrendering to the cold
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He’d heard that the brain remains functional for up to 7 minutes after you finally kick the bucket. Naturally, he'd never fall for that but if it were to be true he’d imagine his seven minutes to be of his first blue spring, the one who burned too quickly and too brightly only to leave him shrouded in darkness.
He’d wasted his life reminiscing a past he no longer held, aching for a future where they could be together, and then he'd blame suguru for taking that from both of them to save himself the pain of his introspection proving him wrong.
He thought that death would be the same cheesy fade to black that the movies made it out to be. An eternity of isolation,
“when its your time, you die alone.”
is what he’d told his student. And the way he was looking at it, he hadn't been wrong.
it’d been purgatory for him
To repent.
To acknowledge.
To grieve for forgiveness he’d never be granted.
To pray for reprieve.
.
..
…
……
And reprieve would come with the smell of wool
Of polyester
And of sandalwood and jasmine.
With the feeling of soft, blunt nails scratching at his scalp.
Parting the locks, carding though his hair.
He’d feel the texture of the cloth his cheek was pressed up against, the weight of his head feeling like lead on his body.
He’d feel warm familiar hands move over his body as if they hadn't already committed it to heart, soft fingertips rubbing under his eye, insisting.
Open.
“Sa-to-ru~”
If all this was in fact an illusion, a figment of his imagination, a cruel ruse his brain conjured up to toy with him some more in this limbo between life and what lies after, it was cruel.
Too phantasmic for him to believe in a life beyond death.
Too realistic for him to give up how his heart yearns to feel the warmth of his youth again.
Somewhere along the way, one of those thoughts had triumphed over the other, the one that made his soft lashes flutter with hesitation and his heart with anticipation.
“There you are~….”
The darkness that'd been surrounding him lifted, replaced by soft locks falling around him like curtains.
A rush of air escaped him when his ceruleans met deeper orchids.
“Suguru…”
It had come out staccato, as if the sound had been punched out of him and he was out of breath, as if the sight of Suguru alone had voided the air out of his lungs. Which was true.
He let his head sink further into the warmth of Suguru's lap, his mind plagued with questions that could wait.
“Satoru….
His name rolled off of Suguru's tongue with practiced ease and characteristic softness, like it had belonged there.
he leaned in further, close enough for their foreheads to touch and close enough to hear Satoru’s breath catch in his throat at the sudden proximity.
…You're late again”
He felt the pink dusting his cheeks, eyes blown wide, cobalt blues darting between Suguru’s eyes and lips when he leaned in. In a brash- albeit panicked- motion, he pushed himself upright, missing the warmth of Suguru's lap not even a second later.
“Ugh! No fucking way… could things really get any worse”
Even without the playful shove to Suguru’s shoulder, it would’ve been clear as day that
Satoru’s words lacked any bite.
“How rude! do I really mean so little to you~?”
The former clutched his heart in mock hurt when Satoru turned his face away, but the grin on his face betrayed nothing of the sort, eyes smoothed into crescent moons as his hair fell across his face. A sight Satoru could get used to. A sight he wished he saw more while they were still alive.
“Pouting even now~? not satisfied even after fighting the king of curses, hm~?”
“Man, he was crazy fucking strong …but he still didn't give it his all”
He slung his arm over the back of Suguru's seat, the younger man taking it to be an invitation to lean closer to him. Evidently, even in death it’d been easy for them to fall back into their routine, to find comfort in each other.
“Still not satisfied then, huh? A shame~”
“Maybe if you'd been there…”
It came out low, hesitant, uncharacteristic of him, as if he’d still been on the fence about whether he wanted Suguru to hear them when the words slipped out.
So Suguru would pretend that he hadn't heard,
and Satoru would pretend that he hadn't noticed the moisture gathering at the corners of Suguru’s eyes.
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