m.

His gaze lingers on you, studying, not your gown, not the silk, but you. “You’re already adored by an entire kingdom,” he continues, stepping closer. “And yet you choose to want… one person?”

A soft exhale escapes him, something between a sigh and a quiet laugh. “How greedy.” His hand lifts, not quite touching you at first, hovering, as if asking permission without words, before gently taking yours. “Very well,” he murmurs. “I suppose I can spare a day… though I should warn you.” His fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours.

Standing in front of his students, his lips stretched in lazy and careless smile as he watches them tilt their head to the side in confusion. Eh, sick leave?

Gesticulating expressively, his hands cutting the air with dramatic movements, Satoru explains how even strongests need break — from reports, teaching and super hard missions only he can participate in.

Three of first years exchange glances, unsure of what to say.

Confused, yet excited for his teacher, Yuuji. Confused, yet upset Nobara. And Megumi, who had seen it coming.

“Eh, sounds fair to me! Gojo sensei deserves break, too!”, Yuuji breaks the silence, trying to cut through the silence that bounced off the walls in the classroom. Glancing at other two with encouraging yet awkward smile, he silently expects them to follow him up — to cheer their teacher, one and only.

Nobara tilts her head to the side, her lips pressed in a confused pout.

“But who will teach us? Principal Yaga?!”, her voice raised at the guess she voiced, full of concern — please, not him. Nobara’s brows furrowed, hands on her hips as she watches Satoru, hoping to hear clear ‘no’. As good as it could be without such loud teacher like Gojo, it could be way worse with teacher like Yaga. Color drained from her face at the image of her getting punished for her recklessness on mission or bad grade during the theory test.

Loud laughter fills the room as Satoru shakes his head along with his hands, bringing inner peace to the girl.

“Nope! I will leave you to… durum, durum, durum…”, he takes a pause, his fingers hitting the air like a drumsticks to raise the dramatism of the reveal, “to Utahime sensei!”

His voice ringed with loud excitement, as he laughs once again, clapping his hands together once.

“Isn’t it exciting?! You will be studying in Kyoto school with students who you have seen before! Woot, woot!”, his hand raised in the air three times, making three of them either join to his ‘woot-ing’, groan, or sigh quietly.

Among the chaos around him: loudness, cheering, small complaints, or quiet huffs; Satoru have never felt this seen. The scene around him melted into colors and warmed up his chest, watching three of them argue over convenient thing. His lips tugged into a soft smile.

Perhaps, if there were no blindfold on his eyes, they could see the dreamy and aching spark in his eyes — spark, if he had any left.

His lips twitched, as his heart whined slightly at the slow tug on the heartstrings he had felt. He would want to remember this scene, leave it in his mind for as long as he can to.

Before he could enjoy this moment slightly longer to encapsulate it in some part of his brain, store it and save it as a memento, he was pulled off his deepest thoughts by three pair of eyes looking at him.

“Hu-uh?”, he asked, as his soft, genuine and slightly noticeable grin now turned into a bright, “loud” and wide smile. He cocks his head to the side with that cocky attitude.

“Gojo sensei, what have you been thinking about?”, Yuuji tilted his head to the side, tugging a dry laugh from Satoru. The latter shook his head, his arms now crossed in front of his chest.

“Na-ah, just thinking of pile of reports I need to fill in. Can’t rest even on the first day of my mini vacation”, he huffs, his hands bracing behind his head now. Satoru’s gaze fell on Megumi, who didn’t say anything at all ever since he had started this meeting. It was obvious he watching him. Observing without uttering a word. Trying to see past the smile, to make the blindfold transparent.

Megumi didn’t even need to try — he already had suspense what was happening. Hence not a single word left his mouth.

If those two could’ve been fooled so easily, Megumi wasn’t one of them. He was a smart kid, who grew up with Satoru. After all, he knows him way better than anyone could. With exception of his highschool friends, of course.

…

Meeting with his observant gaze, Satoru snickers, shaking his head before snapping back into his well-known “teacher” mode. His hand rises to ruffle Yuuji’s hair, making him retort with a laugh and small light hearted comment about his perfect hairstyle being ruined. Blue eyes, hidden under the blindfold, follow boy’s gaze, as soft smile tugs on his lips for a mere moment, before he glances at the girl in front of him.

His hand stretched towards her, waiting for her to bump his fist with hers. She huffs a laugh, raising her fist and bumping his with more enthusiasm than he let her to hit it with.

“Good punch, Kugisaki!”, Gojo laughs up, patting her head, earning a proud giggle from her.

Now his gaze follows the last student of his — Megumi. Soft exhale leaves his mouth as he walks up to him, straightening his back and smiling wildly at him.

“You, Megumi Fushiguro-o! I am leaving you as the responsible one here!”

Upon hearing this ridiculously loud voice, the boy scoffs, rolling his eyes. Knowing the soul of real Gojo Satoru, such pretense only annoyed — yet what he could do? It was the most important person to him in his life, and he has nothing to do but accept this “annoying” yet bright attitude of his. Even if it was as sugarcoated as those disgustingly sweet pastries Gojo adores.

Somewhere on the background two other teens were booing the decision, criticizing it openly. But it was nothing more than a noise somewhere, as Gojo’s eyes met Megumi’s. Silently exchanging concerns and gratitude, Satoru’s lips lifted for a mere moment at realization of how far his boy had went. His, now, shaky hand reaches his head, ruffling those dark colored locks with so much love encapsulated in playfulness anyone else would find annoying.

Walking past the students, Gojo waved his hand. This would’ve seem to be a careless way to leave them for a while, yet it was the greatest thing he had done in a while — choosing himself for the first time.

And, of course, the decision wasn’t done on his behalf at all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Me? Therapy? What am I, some emo boy?”, he huffed a laugh, throwing his head back lazily, while Shoko was patching him up. Gloved hands were running along his bare torso, gliding gently as she bandaged up some deep cuts that weren’t treatable with RCT.

In the cold room full of sterile tools that smelled like ethanol, his jokes were bouncing off the walls, hitting Shoko right into her chest — word after word. Each stabbing her deeper than previous one, and he didn’t even care, too busy to hide away. Feeling fed up, she stood up abruptly, tugging her mask down to look at him with irritation and disapproval. The word died on his tongue, as he looked how disheveled she looked right now. Mask of indifference fell off — her brows furrowed, her eyes full of confusion and empathy mixed up with irritation.

“You know that you nearly fucking died?”

“Who? Me?”, his finger innocently raised to point at himself, earning venomous huff from Shoko.

“Yes, you, Satoru”, she hissed, throwing coated in his blood gloves into the trash bin. He tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling, almost like trying to form a decent thought, yet all that left his mouth was stupid excuse that strongest can’t die.

“Why the fuck you didn’t use your RCT? And why didn’t you dodge?”

“Maybe I wanted to meet you, Sho. So you could heal me”

“No, it’s because you find pleasure in hurting yourself and putting yourself in dangerous situations”, Ieiri rolled her eyes, now sitting down at the stool in front of him with a deep sigh. She hated it more than he could ever do. Because she understood. Understood the toll everything had on him — the pain, suffering, responsibilities and loneliness.

Two people looked at each other — one to bury her sorrows with mask of indifference, other to bury his pain with mask of cheerful person. Yet his cheerfulness always felt too artificial, too loud, too bright to be sincere one.

And now, in this dimly lightened space, these two people were looking at each other. The masks fell off on their own, leaving them completely vulnerable.

Gojo’s Adam apple bobbed, as he gulped with a dry chuckle. Tugging down the blindfold, his hand fell in defeat.

The eyes, everyone assumed shined burned with excitement and enthusiasm, were empty. Too empty. Exhausted. Almost like someone sucked out the life out of them.

Now what?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Walking out of the classroom, Satoru stops in his tracks, noticing one woman smoking at the terrace. His lips stretch in weak smile, as he walks up to her with quiet snort.

“Will you be in your apartment?”

He hums, leaning against the railing, glancing up at the clear sky. Usually the sunny days would excite him, but now they didn’t. Not today, not yesterday. Maybe, they never excited him and he was brave enough to accept it only now. Heavy sigh escaped his lips, as he lowered his head, dipping it so his forehead rested against the forearms on the railing.

“Maybe. I don’t feel like traveling right now. Nuh-uh”, dry huff leaves his mouth as he shakes his head slightly. Gojo’s teeth gently nibble on his lower lip, tugging on it with bigger pressure as each second passes. He hates it all. Hates feeling like a crybaby. Hates being a burden. Hates being object of worry.

Yet everyone, well, Shoko, convinced him his behavior is not okay.

His head snaps to her, looking at her with quiet admiration and curiosity. Upon feeling those two radiant blue eyes piercing her with his attention, she looks at him back, locking gazes. Weak smile tugs on her lips as she nods at him with her chin.

“What is it?”

“What did you say I have? Suicide-something?”

“Well, uh, not psychiatrist, so maybe you shouldn’t take me seriously. But, uh… passive suicidal ideation and depression?”

Shoko’s hand with the cigarette lowered to rest against the railing, dipping down weakly in pondering. Satoru huffs a laugh again, nodding slowly in defeat, almost like digesting the words, tasting them on his tongue.

“Yeah, that”

“Uh-huh, that”, she retorts with quiet snort, shaking her head in endearment.

“…So go and rest. I got you a sick leave so, please, do your best to… recover or something”

“Is it possible to do RCT on the brain?”, he smiled lazily, yet there was no fake curiosity, only slow and genuine desire to fix up things. In some way. His eyes met hers again, as his cheek brushed against the railing.

“I ain’t answering that”, Ieiri murmured, toring her gaze from him and looking away. Somewhere far away, where these words didn’t land too harshly. Somewhere far away, where Satoru didn’t feel flawed for something that was out of his control.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Days went by and with each Satoru understood how hard it is to leave the bed. False pretense of happiness now sagged, dragging him down for all the times he had neglected his pain and emptiness.

Clock ticking on the wall. Tic. Tic. Tic.

Cars passing by outside. Vrr. Vrr. Vrr.

Water dripping from the bathroom. Drop. Drop. Drop.

It all felt too distant, almost like the sounds were somewhere far away and he? He was in his own bubble, that wasn’t going to burst any time soon.

Watching at the world, at himself from the side. Watching himself wither away. Almost like he hadn’t ever bloomed anyway, colors only leaving his life with each passing day with no revert button. He was watching something getting ruined with no option to save it. Not even strongest could.

Maybe, the sick leave was a good choice for his half-dead brain. Maybe, it was worst choice ever.

No way to release his anger or sadness in adrenaline rushing battles. No way to drown his sorrow in teasing students. Nothing. He had nothing now. Nothing, but his own pathetic company and prints on the wall he examined thousands of times now — nowhere else to avert his gaze.

Sprawled on his bed, Satoru sighs quietly, looking around. His blue irises meet the clocks on the wall. 4PM. How long did he sleep? Hell, he doesn’t remember. At all.

Does it even matter anyway?

It felt like his life source had been fading away, like some invisible force was sucking the blood out of his body, leaving him less than one liter to function — obviously not enough. His body felt too heavy to try and stand up. He had tried before, but found himself trapped in those annoying sheets, unable to do anything but toss around in exhaustion.

Warmed up bed, no windows opened. They’re too far from his reach anyway. He felt like he had been sealed here since forever, time ticking so tortuously slow that nothing even made sense.

Satoru’s cheek nuzzled against the warm pillow. Too warm for his liking, yet it is only naturally — he didn’t leave the bed in the long time. Doesn’t even remember when he did. Nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. Everything bored him, bored him enough to drag him to death.

His hand slowly stretched in front of him; empty gaze watching it clench and unclench. Fingers meeting the flesh of his palm. Slightly tickling the skin. Fingers would straighten weakly, trembling a tiny bit for a reason that he couldn’t name.

After watching the wall for hours this was his new entertainment. More likely, other way to kill at least some time. Yet, he didn’t know what he was counting down for. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. For release? Perhaps. It didn’t matter if it would get him in finding his destiny and passion, or getting killed in his sleep.

He felt like an empty shell with nothing inside, and that was killing him. More than guilt, more than pressure. He was afraid the label of strongest was pulling him down and killing Satoru inside of him. If there was any Satoru to begin with… Now? Now he felt like nothing more but a shadow, a black mark in Jujutsu high, in his friendships and other relations.

Clench. Unclench.

“I always was normal. Why am I like this now, then?”, Satoru thought, yet no words left his dry lips. Too energy consuming.

Nanami said it’s because he had worked himself past the point of work he could accept. Shoko said it’s normal after pent up tension and emotions he had bottled up.

Yet it didn’t make sense. He always was normal person.

And he would give anything to return back to that normalcy. He would work twice as hard, joke twice as stupider — just to pull himself from this never ending swirl of thoughts, labyrinth of emotions he had no idea how to deal with.

Lately he sees Suguru. Toji. His family before he had became a souvenir for them.

Where did it all went wrong? When did he fuck up?

The voice of stabbing blame raised again in his head, making Satoru groan weakly. His hand finds the blanket to pull it over his head — everything to just shut it down.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

His phone would buzz with messages. Mostly, from Yuuji, as the boy went explaining how his training were going. Gojo’s thumb would brush across the screen, looking at the picture of that bright little guy. His mouth would twitch in a weak smile, before he would muster up some energy to leave some inspiring message: “Keep it up, Yuuji!” or “Good job, proud of your work!”

Setting the phone down with a loud sigh, Satoru would melt back in bed, watching the screen light up in the dimly lit room.

He could see some messages, yet he had no energy for childish pretense.

Nanami<3: “I have ordered delivery to your house. Please, eat, Satoru.”

Sho :P: “You doing good there? I can come over, yk?”

Soft snort left his mouth. He didn’t feel like answering at all. Craddling the blanket, he turned to the other side, his back now facing the nightstand with annoyingly buzzing phone there.

…

Megumi’s knuckle brushed against the door as he sighed quietly. Lowering his head in contemplation, he found the strength to knock on the door. His other hand was holding a bag of some hot take-out from his favourite restaurant — the one Satoru had been bringing them to, ever since adopting them.

Knock.

Satoru hummed weakly, blinking indifferently to the outer noise.

Knock-knock.

Megumi’s voice now filled the hallway, calling out for him: “Gojo?”.

Lord, please not him. Not now.

“Satoru?”, the boy tries again. No response.

Megumi frowns, sighing quietly. His hand pulls out the spare keys as he inserted it and twisted a few times to get inside.

“Dad, I’m coming in”, he warns, gently closing the door behind to not startle Satoru. Fushiguro’s gaze glides across the apartment: the closed windows, shut down curtains and the man, sprawled on the bed, blanket hiding his whole frame. The boy would lie if he said the view didn’t hurt him. Even strongest had weaknesses. Perhaps, his was that sensitive heart of his. Hidden under layers of jokes, teasing, stupid smiles and indifference. Hidden so hard, that exposed to the daylight it made Satoru vulnerable as ever.

Bare from his walls that he meticulously built up, there was no way to hide himself. So he tugged the blanket higher, watching little guy through the space between the blanket and the pillow.

Megumi sighed softly, yet it wasn’t sigh that left his lips in annoyance. It was full of worry and affection.

Gently setting down the bag on the nightstand, he knelt in front of the bed, watching his father figure closely.

“I brought you everything you like. Sweets, ramen from that restaurant, some other food and salads. Can you try to eat, please?”

Pale green eyes watched him patiently, waiting for some response — just like Gojo did when stubborn Megs didn’t feel like eating his vegetables. Roles reversed and, now, it was his time to take care of someone vulnerable.

Satoru glanced at the grown boy, biting down on his cheek from the inside. He didn’t feel like pretending, yet he didn’t feel like worrying him either. Poor kid deserved better.

So he stayed silent.

Taking it as response, Fushiguro curtly nods, standing up. He walks up to the kitchen taking something — Satoru could hear dangling of something, cups, perhaps.

Returning back with bottle of water with a straw, boy set it down on the bedside gently. Setting down next to the bed, his spine hit the side of the bed. Leaning against it, Megumi glanced back at Gojo, quickly averting gaze to not make Satoru feel ashamed.

“You could try eating these. Whenever you want. I’ll bring some more tomorrow, too”, his deep voice cuts the tension of unsaid words, settling warmly in Satoru’s chest.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, the boy looks away. His gaze settled on the window. He could bet it felt nice to not wear blindfold right now — the apartment completely lacked any light.

His mouth opens, hung like that for a mere moment, before he sighed softly. Words weren’t cooperating with him. What could he say to cheer up? Is there anything to say at all?

Megumi raised his head, looking up at the ceiling. Soft sigh escaped his lips.

…

“Utahime sensei praised me. Said my technique was good”, he murmurs softly. Whatever he can think of, only to keep Gojo occupied. Even if he didn’t reply, he hoped Satoru was listening.

“Yuuji is getting better as well. So is Nobara”

There he goes talking about some funny and silly events, how those two pranked him, how he nearly called Mahoraga on another mission. Just some sweet talking to stop both of them from sinking deeper in worry, or sorrow.

“We uh… miss you. Kinda”, the boy adds the last word too quickly, too afraid to look too naive and attached. But, maybe, Satoru needed that honesty from not-so-talkative Megumi.

The boy stood up, glancing at the figure under the blanket, slowly walking up to the door. But the hoarse voice stops him in his tracks, making him look back.

“Thanks, kiddo”, Satoru murmured softly, his lips stretching in unfortunate yet warm smile. Perhaps, the one Megumi had never seen after Geto died. Gulping quietly, green eyes meet dim blue ones, as he nods slowly.

“Take care”, he whispers back. His hand on the handle, as quiet “dad” left his lips.

Talking about your emotions is hard. It feels like committing to something serious, signing off deathly trial for yourself. Either it’s accepting you’re not okay or thanking someone who had been with you your whole life. Either way it’s hard.

Honesty takes courage. And it doesn’t go easy once you decide to take that path.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Looking down at the bottle Shoko placed into his palm, Satoru’s brows furrowed as he looks up at her. Quiet huff escaped his lips, what a ridiculous situation.

“What for?”, he asks dryly, gulping.

Shoko hums softly, setting down on the bed next to him. Her hand gently covered his.

“Those are antidepressants. I got them from psychiatrist I know. She said to try this scheme”

Satoru looks at her in disbelief. His brows were trembling, forehead creased in confusion. His mouth opened only to be closed again.

“I.. what? I’m not that sick”

“Let’s do the fact check if you want. You had been sleeping for days, you eat only once in a few days and the food in your fridge is already covered in mold”, Shoko retorts defensively, almost too sharp, yet too pleading.

Satoru feels like he had been slapped. Huffing again, he looks away, blinking quickly to contaminate the irritation mixed up with desire to storm off.

The woman and the other man in glasses watch him closely, letting the anger settle in.

“I don’t need those”, he raises the hand with the bottle, shaking it with disgust, “I could easily heal myself if I knew how to use RCT on my brains”

It was ridiculous situation. Situation, that brought frustration he had been burrying inside of himself for decades. And now it had settled in his chest, leaving acid burns after itself, dissolving his lungs, ribs and heart.

Shoko sighed, looking at the nightstand with untouched food on it. And she wished healing worked this way. But unlike physical, mental healing meant bringing more pain. The pain that had been inflicted to him for ages, that would burst out of him any second now.

All the stabbing words, twisting actions, bone breaking traumas — it all would be out.

The only way to heal is to hurt for past versions of yourself that didn’t.

Satoru laughs again in disbelief. His teeth nibble his lower lip at inner frustration coiling up inside of him. His gaze pierced the bottle of pills, as if it was some sort of April fools, like it wasn’t happening to him. Another scoff leaves his lips, as he raises his gaze to look at Nanami. Almost like needing him to back him up at this, but the only sight that meets him is apologetically looking Kento.

“You can’t be for real…”, Gojo whispered to himself. His gaze darting between Shoko and Nanami, hoping at least someone will back down and agree with him. Yet none of them did — they just watched him, silently. Pleadingly, even.

Rising up from the bed, powered by irritation and disbelief, he looks now into their eyes. Standing eye to eye. He believed he would look more presentable that way, more convincing, yet he didn’t know how he looked — in his pajama he didn’t change for weeks, disheveled hair, dry and chapped lips, eyebags dark enough to contrast with his milky skin and those eyes. Those fucking empty eyes, with nothing behind them.

He’s not sick. He believed that.

Yet why do they think he is?

“Don’t tell me you guys don’t have such stuff going on. You—”, he points to Nanami, “overwork yourself to death to not deal with it, and you—”

His gaze now was on woman, whose face was contorted with worry and grief he had never seen her experience.

“You, Shoko, smoke as much as I can remember myself. You two look at me like I’m some sort of maniac, but I am not, okay? Everyone has it rough after Suguru’s…”

Lowering his head for a mere moment, almost like saying that name burned his tongue. Shaky sigh escaped his lips, nails digging into the skin of his palms.

“If this is about me not working enough, I will call off the sick leave. I’ll work harder. I will dodge every attack, I will heal myself so don’t you worry, Sho. If it’s about food, I will eat. Thrice a day, I will do that. Yeah, I will. I was just burnout. Nothing too scary, everyone felt that, for Christ’s sake”

Negotiation. Refusal. Anger.

This is what he felt. Because admitting was scary. It was unbelievable.

Two friends exchange concerned gazes, unsure how to proceed. Shoko sighs softly, glaring into his eyes with pleading to listen to her, to understand her.

“You nearly killed yourself on your latest mission, Satoru”

“No, I did not”, he retorted immediately, not skipping a beat. Long sigh escaped his lips, as he brushed his messy locks back, “look, I’m sorry, okay?”

“Why are you apologizing for?”

”I don’t know! Hell, sorry that you needed to patch my bloody body up?!”, he snaps. His chest was heavy with ragged breathing, each one hurting him like it was burning his intestines — lungs and all.

Shoko furrowed her brows, feeling utterly devastated, yet irritated nonetheless. He is not the only one with bad temper.

“Why are you feeling sorry for something I’m paid to do?”

“I don’t know, maybe you are angry at me because I got more of trouble on you, fuck, hell I know!”

“I am not, Satoru”

“Then why do you keep pressing me then?!”

“My best friend nearly died, Satoru. He nearly killed himself and didn’t use RCT despite mastering one”

Satoru froze. He could only hear his heartbeat and this annoying ringing in his ears. Exhaling softly, his breathing returned to normal, slow one, as he glanced at Shoko with disbelief. Couldn’t be.

“I— I just… Those weren’t that serious, adrenaline and all, and— I knew you could fix me so I just—”, his voice dropped volume. His shaky whisper now filling up the room full of tension. His hands unclenched, as his gaze dropped down.

He didn’t know what to say. The look on Shoko’s face was the one he didn’t know how to handle. The pain, sorrow, pleading, worry. It was unbelievable she was looking like that at him, and not at Yuuji or Yuta, for example. Like she had a reason to look at him like that. And it hurt.

Silence stretched in the room for longer than it was supposed to. Satoru couldn’t utter another word. Shoko was too shaken. So it stretched, stretched, stretched. Until…

Slowly closing the distance between them, Nanami placed his hand on Satoru’s shoulder. Quickly raising his gaze to look at the man, Satoru furrowed his brows.

It didn’t make sense. He was alright. He always was alright. Yet this sense of dread came out of nowhere. Hell, he didn’t even remember the mission Shoko was talking about. But it couldn’t be that he really did that, could he?.. He never lost. Never will, he thought.

Yet he lost to the fight he didn’t know he had going on.

“Let’s see a therapist, Satoru”.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sitting in that office, full of flowers, tissues and water bottles, he hummed, leaning back in his couch. His lazy gaze followed the lady in front of him — his therapist, the one Nanami chose for him. Someone from non-sorcerer world. So no one needed to know that Strongest has weakness.

Satoru hums once more, looking at the ceiling. It felt choking. To be here, to tell truth.

“Weather’s nice today”, he noted with confident smile, making the woman grin politely. Glancing down at her paper, she looked back at him.

“It is sunny today indeed”, therapist gently murmured, supporting the dialogue.

“Yeah”

…

“You have mentioned earlier you take some antidepressants. Am I correct?”

He nods, sighing softly at the intrusive question.

“Yes, correct. My friend, uh… well, they just think I’m unwell”, Satoru snorts in amusement, shaking his head. It was funny. The fact they made him to go and the fact he actually was here now. The woman leans closer, noting something in her blank (for now) list. He wondered what she had written down, yet he didn’t feel like using sorcery for it.

“Unwell how, mr. Satoru?”, she raised her gaze, patiently waiting for his answer.

He huffs some more, but not at her. Rather, at the ridiculous reasons that got him here.

“Well, they say I don’t eat enough. That I, well… I’m just burnt out, you know? Yet they worry like… Like I’m some sort of maniac”, he throws his hands in the air, gesticulating in hopes she will not look too deeply into his eyes. It felt uncomfortable — to be here and be analyzed by someone. And pay for it, too.

She tilted her head to the side with that polite smile on her face. Her brows were slightly furrowed — he knew she will ask another question that will irritate him for some reason. Are all therapists like that?

“Then, what do those ‘maniacs’, like you said, look like for you?”, she asked gently, watching him close. She watched his expression falter for a second — his cocky smile disappeared, his brows furrowed, his body stiffened.

Wow. Got him, he thought.

Sucking the air through his teeth, he leans forward — hands interlocked, elbows resting on his thighs. What do they look like? Well, in movies… or any media, they are just…

Satoru didn’t answer, thinking of it.

Those protagonists are usually pessimistic. They get fired for under performing. They take some pills that have been added in the movie for dramaticism. They let themselves go loose. They cry without a reason. Don’t clean their space, make everyone worry.

In peripheral vision he could see her watching him, already noticing the realization that dawned upon him now.

Not rushing. Not pressuring. Just kind reassurance — ready to assist and help him talk.

That was the patience that made him feel seen. Still scrutinized, but now he could see the glimpse of compassion and empathy in those eyes.

It all didn’t make sense before, until it did. Along with movie character trope, his own memories were mixed up in his mind: all of his actions, his decisions, his thoughts and some feelings that he (somehow) let himself to feel sometimes. Megumi visiting him. Shoko and Nanami talking him into therapy. Absence of appetite, of motivation, of love for life.

…

Holy shit. He was that ‘maniac’.

And that exactly what got him here.

…

Bitter chuckle left his mouth, teeth grazing lower lip with coiled up frustration he never let himself to feel. His back now hit the soft pillows behind him, slumped in defeat.

Oh fuck me, he thought.

Surely, he’s not like that. Never was.

Rubbing his hands across his face with flooding irritation, he sighed heavily. His confident gaze now faltered, his eyes swirling the floor in pained realization.

Perhaps, he needed help.

He needed it more than he let it on. More, than he ever realized.

And now sitting here, in this silly room with endless amount of tissues and bottles of water, Satoru thought that one day he might need it.

Note: hope you did enjoy, pls let me know if u did ^^ My masterlist. My AO3.

Standing in front of his students, his lips stretched in lazy and careless smile as he watches them tilt their head to the side in confusion. Eh, sick leave?

Gesticulating expressively, his hands cutting the air with dramatic movements, Satoru explains how even strongests need break — from reports, teaching and super hard missions only he can participate in.

Three of first years exchange glances, unsure of what to say.

Confused, yet excited for his teacher, Yuuji. Confused, yet upset Nobara. And Megumi, who had seen it coming.

“Eh, sounds fair to me! Gojo sensei deserves break, too!”, Yuuji breaks the silence, trying to cut through the silence that bounced off the walls in the classroom. Glancing at other two with encouraging yet awkward smile, he silently expects them to follow him up — to cheer their teacher, one and only.

Nobara tilts her head to the side, her lips pressed in a confused pout.

“But who will teach us? Principal Yaga?!”, her voice raised at the guess she voiced, full of concern — please, not him. Nobara’s brows furrowed, hands on her hips as she watches Satoru, hoping to hear clear ‘no’. As good as it could be without such loud teacher like Gojo, it could be way worse with teacher like Yaga. Color drained from her face at the image of her getting punished for her recklessness on mission or bad grade during the theory test.

Loud laughter fills the room as Satoru shakes his head along with his hands, bringing inner peace to the girl.

“Nope! I will leave you to… durum, durum, durum…”, he takes a pause, his fingers hitting the air like a drumsticks to raise the dramatism of the reveal, “to Utahime sensei!”

His voice ringed with loud excitement, as he laughs once again, clapping his hands together once.

“Isn’t it exciting?! You will be studying in Kyoto school with students who you have seen before! Woot, woot!”, his hand raised in the air three times, making three of them either join to his ‘woot-ing’, groan, or sigh quietly.

Among the chaos around him: loudness, cheering, small complaints, or quiet huffs; Satoru have never felt this seen. The scene around him melted into colors and warmed up his chest, watching three of them argue over convenient thing. His lips tugged into a soft smile.

Perhaps, if there were no blindfold on his eyes, they could see the dreamy and aching spark in his eyes — spark, if he had any left.

His lips twitched, as his heart whined slightly at the slow tug on the heartstrings he had felt. He would want to remember this scene, leave it in his mind for as long as he can to.

Before he could enjoy this moment slightly longer to encapsulate it in some part of his brain, store it and save it as a memento, he was pulled off his deepest thoughts by three pair of eyes looking at him.

“Hu-uh?”, he asked, as his soft, genuine and slightly noticeable grin now turned into a bright, “loud” and wide smile. He cocks his head to the side with that cocky attitude.

“Gojo sensei, what have you been thinking about?”, Yuuji tilted his head to the side, tugging a dry laugh from Satoru. The latter shook his head, his arms now crossed in front of his chest.

“Na-ah, just thinking of pile of reports I need to fill in. Can’t rest even on the first day of my mini vacation”, he huffs, his hands bracing behind his head now. Satoru’s gaze fell on Megumi, who didn’t say anything at all ever since he had started this meeting. It was obvious he watching him. Observing without uttering a word. Trying to see past the smile, to make the blindfold transparent.

Megumi didn’t even need to try — he already had suspense what was happening. Hence not a single word left his mouth.

If those two could’ve been fooled so easily, Megumi wasn’t one of them. He was a smart kid, who grew up with Satoru. After all, he knows him way better than anyone could. With exception of his highschool friends, of course.

…

Meeting with his observant gaze, Satoru snickers, shaking his head before snapping back into his well-known “teacher” mode. His hand rises to ruffle Yuuji’s hair, making him retort with a laugh and small light hearted comment about his perfect hairstyle being ruined. Blue eyes, hidden under the blindfold, follow boy’s gaze, as soft smile tugs on his lips for a mere moment, before he glances at the girl in front of him.

His hand stretched towards her, waiting for her to bump his fist with hers. She huffs a laugh, raising her fist and bumping his with more enthusiasm than he let her to hit it with.

“Good punch, Kugisaki!”, Gojo laughs up, patting her head, earning a proud giggle from her.

Now his gaze follows the last student of his — Megumi. Soft exhale leaves his mouth as he walks up to him, straightening his back and smiling wildly at him.

“You, Megumi Fushiguro-o! I am leaving you as the responsible one here!”

Upon hearing this ridiculously loud voice, the boy scoffs, rolling his eyes. Knowing the soul of real Gojo Satoru, such pretense only annoyed — yet what he could do? It was the most important person to him in his life, and he has nothing to do but accept this “annoying” yet bright attitude of his. Even if it was as sugarcoated as those disgustingly sweet pastries Gojo adores.

Somewhere on the background two other teens were booing the decision, criticizing it openly. But it was nothing more than a noise somewhere, as Gojo’s eyes met Megumi’s. Silently exchanging concerns and gratitude, Satoru’s lips lifted for a mere moment at realization of how far his boy had went. His, now, shaky hand reaches his head, ruffling those dark colored locks with so much love encapsulated in playfulness anyone else would find annoying.

Walking past the students, Gojo waved his hand. This would’ve seem to be a careless way to leave them for a while, yet it was the greatest thing he had done in a while — choosing himself for the first time.

And, of course, the decision wasn’t done on his behalf at all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Me? Therapy? What am I, some emo boy?”, he huffed a laugh, throwing his head back lazily, while Shoko was patching him up. Gloved hands were running along his bare torso, gliding gently as she bandaged up some deep cuts that weren’t treatable with RCT.

In the cold room full of sterile tools that smelled like ethanol, his jokes were bouncing off the walls, hitting Shoko right into her chest — word after word. Each stabbing her deeper than previous one, and he didn’t even care, too busy to hide away. Feeling fed up, she stood up abruptly, tugging her mask down to look at him with irritation and disapproval. The word died on his tongue, as he looked how disheveled she looked right now. Mask of indifference fell off — her brows furrowed, her eyes full of confusion and empathy mixed up with irritation.

“You know that you nearly fucking died?”

“Who? Me?”, his finger innocently raised to point at himself, earning venomous huff from Shoko.

“Yes, you, Satoru”, she hissed, throwing coated in his blood gloves into the trash bin. He tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling, almost like trying to form a decent thought, yet all that left his mouth was stupid excuse that strongest can’t die.

“Why the fuck you didn’t use your RCT? And why didn’t you dodge?”

“Maybe I wanted to meet you, Sho. So you could heal me”

“No, it’s because you find pleasure in hurting yourself and putting yourself in dangerous situations”, Ieiri rolled her eyes, now sitting down at the stool in front of him with a deep sigh. She hated it more than he could ever do. Because she understood. Understood the toll everything had on him — the pain, suffering, responsibilities and loneliness.

Two people looked at each other — one to bury her sorrows with mask of indifference, other to bury his pain with mask of cheerful person. Yet his cheerfulness always felt too artificial, too loud, too bright to be sincere one.

And now, in this dimly lightened space, these two people were looking at each other. The masks fell off on their own, leaving them completely vulnerable.

Gojo’s Adam apple bobbed, as he gulped with a dry chuckle. Tugging down the blindfold, his hand fell in defeat.

The eyes, everyone assumed shined burned with excitement and enthusiasm, were empty. Too empty. Exhausted. Almost like someone sucked out the life out of them.

Now what?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Walking out of the classroom, Satoru stops in his tracks, noticing one woman smoking at the terrace. His lips stretch in weak smile, as he walks up to her with quiet snort.

“Will you be in your apartment?”

He hums, leaning against the railing, glancing up at the clear sky. Usually the sunny days would excite him, but now they didn’t. Not today, not yesterday. Maybe, they never excited him and he was brave enough to accept it only now. Heavy sigh escaped his lips, as he lowered his head, dipping it so his forehead rested against the forearms on the railing.

“Maybe. I don’t feel like traveling right now. Nuh-uh”, dry huff leaves his mouth as he shakes his head slightly. Gojo’s teeth gently nibble on his lower lip, tugging on it with bigger pressure as each second passes. He hates it all. Hates feeling like a crybaby. Hates being a burden. Hates being object of worry.

Yet everyone, well, Shoko, convinced him his behavior is not okay.

His head snaps to her, looking at her with quiet admiration and curiosity. Upon feeling those two radiant blue eyes piercing her with his attention, she looks at him back, locking gazes. Weak smile tugs on her lips as she nods at him with her chin.

“What is it?”

“What did you say I have? Suicide-something?”

“Well, uh, not psychiatrist, so maybe you shouldn’t take me seriously. But, uh… passive suicidal ideation and depression?”

Shoko’s hand with the cigarette lowered to rest against the railing, dipping down weakly in pondering. Satoru huffs a laugh again, nodding slowly in defeat, almost like digesting the words, tasting them on his tongue.

“Yeah, that”

“Uh-huh, that”, she retorts with quiet snort, shaking her head in endearment.

“…So go and rest. I got you a sick leave so, please, do your best to… recover or something”

“Is it possible to do RCT on the brain?”, he smiled lazily, yet there was no fake curiosity, only slow and genuine desire to fix up things. In some way. His eyes met hers again, as his cheek brushed against the railing.

“I ain’t answering that”, Ieiri murmured, toring her gaze from him and looking away. Somewhere far away, where these words didn’t land too harshly. Somewhere far away, where Satoru didn’t feel flawed for something that was out of his control.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Days went by and with each Satoru understood how hard it is to leave the bed. False pretense of happiness now sagged, dragging him down for all the times he had neglected his pain and emptiness.

Clock ticking on the wall. Tic. Tic. Tic.

Cars passing by outside. Vrr. Vrr. Vrr.

Water dripping from the bathroom. Drop. Drop. Drop.

It all felt too distant, almost like the sounds were somewhere far away and he? He was in his own bubble, that wasn’t going to burst any time soon.

Watching at the world, at himself from the side. Watching himself wither away. Almost like he hadn’t ever bloomed anyway, colors only leaving his life with each passing day with no revert button. He was watching something getting ruined with no option to save it. Not even strongest could.

Maybe, the sick leave was a good choice for his half-dead brain. Maybe, it was worst choice ever.

No way to release his anger or sadness in adrenaline rushing battles. No way to drown his sorrow in teasing students. Nothing. He had nothing now. Nothing, but his own pathetic company and prints on the wall he examined thousands of times now — nowhere else to avert his gaze.

Sprawled on his bed, Satoru sighs quietly, looking around. His blue irises meet the clocks on the wall. 4PM. How long did he sleep? Hell, he doesn’t remember. At all.

Does it even matter anyway?

It felt like his life source had been fading away, like some invisible force was sucking the blood out of his body, leaving him less than one liter to function — obviously not enough. His body felt too heavy to try and stand up. He had tried before, but found himself trapped in those annoying sheets, unable to do anything but toss around in exhaustion.

Warmed up bed, no windows opened. They’re too far from his reach anyway. He felt like he had been sealed here since forever, time ticking so tortuously slow that nothing even made sense.

Satoru’s cheek nuzzled against the warm pillow. Too warm for his liking, yet it is only naturally — he didn’t leave the bed in the long time. Doesn’t even remember when he did. Nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. Everything bored him, bored him enough to drag him to death.

His hand slowly stretched in front of him; empty gaze watching it clench and unclench. Fingers meeting the flesh of his palm. Slightly tickling the skin. Fingers would straighten weakly, trembling a tiny bit for a reason that he couldn’t name.

After watching the wall for hours this was his new entertainment. More likely, other way to kill at least some time. Yet, he didn’t know what he was counting down for. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. For release? Perhaps. It didn’t matter if it would get him in finding his destiny and passion, or getting killed in his sleep.

He felt like an empty shell with nothing inside, and that was killing him. More than guilt, more than pressure. He was afraid the label of strongest was pulling him down and killing Satoru inside of him. If there was any Satoru to begin with… Now? Now he felt like nothing more but a shadow, a black mark in Jujutsu high, in his friendships and other relations.

Clench. Unclench.

“I always was normal. Why am I like this now, then?”, Satoru thought, yet no words left his dry lips. Too energy consuming.

Nanami said it’s because he had worked himself past the point of work he could accept. Shoko said it’s normal after pent up tension and emotions he had bottled up.

Yet it didn’t make sense. He always was normal person.

And he would give anything to return back to that normalcy. He would work twice as hard, joke twice as stupider — just to pull himself from this never ending swirl of thoughts, labyrinth of emotions he had no idea how to deal with.

Lately he sees Suguru. Toji. His family before he had became a souvenir for them.

Where did it all went wrong? When did he fuck up?

The voice of stabbing blame raised again in his head, making Satoru groan weakly. His hand finds the blanket to pull it over his head — everything to just shut it down.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

His phone would buzz with messages. Mostly, from Yuuji, as the boy went explaining how his training were going. Gojo’s thumb would brush across the screen, looking at the picture of that bright little guy. His mouth would twitch in a weak smile, before he would muster up some energy to leave some inspiring message: “Keep it up, Yuuji!” or “Good job, proud of your work!”

Setting the phone down with a loud sigh, Satoru would melt back in bed, watching the screen light up in the dimly lit room.

He could see some messages, yet he had no energy for childish pretense.

Nanami<3: “I have ordered delivery to your house. Please, eat, Satoru.”

Sho :P: “You doing good there? I can come over, yk?”

Soft snort left his mouth. He didn’t feel like answering at all. Craddling the blanket, he turned to the other side, his back now facing the nightstand with annoyingly buzzing phone there.

…

Megumi’s knuckle brushed against the door as he sighed quietly. Lowering his head in contemplation, he found the strength to knock on the door. His other hand was holding a bag of some hot take-out from his favourite restaurant — the one Satoru had been bringing them to, ever since adopting them.

Knock.

Satoru hummed weakly, blinking indifferently to the outer noise.

Knock-knock.

Megumi’s voice now filled the hallway, calling out for him: “Gojo?”.

Lord, please not him. Not now.

“Satoru?”, the boy tries again. No response.

Megumi frowns, sighing quietly. His hand pulls out the spare keys as he inserted it and twisted a few times to get inside.

“Dad, I’m coming in”, he warns, gently closing the door behind to not startle Satoru. Fushiguro’s gaze glides across the apartment: the closed windows, shut down curtains and the man, sprawled on the bed, blanket hiding his whole frame. The boy would lie if he said the view didn’t hurt him. Even strongest had weaknesses. Perhaps, his was that sensitive heart of his. Hidden under layers of jokes, teasing, stupid smiles and indifference. Hidden so hard, that exposed to the daylight it made Satoru vulnerable as ever.

Bare from his walls that he meticulously built up, there was no way to hide himself. So he tugged the blanket higher, watching little guy through the space between the blanket and the pillow.

Megumi sighed softly, yet it wasn’t sigh that left his lips in annoyance. It was full of worry and affection.

Gently setting down the bag on the nightstand, he knelt in front of the bed, watching his father figure closely.

“I brought you everything you like. Sweets, ramen from that restaurant, some other food and salads. Can you try to eat, please?”

Pale green eyes watched him patiently, waiting for some response — just like Gojo did when stubborn Megs didn’t feel like eating his vegetables. Roles reversed and, now, it was his time to take care of someone vulnerable.

Satoru glanced at the grown boy, biting down on his cheek from the inside. He didn’t feel like pretending, yet he didn’t feel like worrying him either. Poor kid deserved better.

So he stayed silent.

Taking it as response, Fushiguro curtly nods, standing up. He walks up to the kitchen taking something — Satoru could hear dangling of something, cups, perhaps.

Returning back with bottle of water with a straw, boy set it down on the bedside gently. Setting down next to the bed, his spine hit the side of the bed. Leaning against it, Megumi glanced back at Gojo, quickly averting gaze to not make Satoru feel ashamed.

“You could try eating these. Whenever you want. I’ll bring some more tomorrow, too”, his deep voice cuts the tension of unsaid words, settling warmly in Satoru’s chest.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, the boy looks away. His gaze settled on the window. He could bet it felt nice to not wear blindfold right now — the apartment completely lacked any light.

His mouth opens, hung like that for a mere moment, before he sighed softly. Words weren’t cooperating with him. What could he say to cheer up? Is there anything to say at all?

Megumi raised his head, looking up at the ceiling. Soft sigh escaped his lips.

…

“Utahime sensei praised me. Said my technique was good”, he murmurs softly. Whatever he can think of, only to keep Gojo occupied. Even if he didn’t reply, he hoped Satoru was listening.

“Yuuji is getting better as well. So is Nobara”

There he goes talking about some funny and silly events, how those two pranked him, how he nearly called Mahoraga on another mission. Just some sweet talking to stop both of them from sinking deeper in worry, or sorrow.

“We uh… miss you. Kinda”, the boy adds the last word too quickly, too afraid to look too naive and attached. But, maybe, Satoru needed that honesty from not-so-talkative Megumi.

The boy stood up, glancing at the figure under the blanket, slowly walking up to the door. But the hoarse voice stops him in his tracks, making him look back.

“Thanks, kiddo”, Satoru murmured softly, his lips stretching in unfortunate yet warm smile. Perhaps, the one Megumi had never seen after Geto died. Gulping quietly, green eyes meet dim blue ones, as he nods slowly.

“Take care”, he whispers back. His hand on the handle, as quiet “dad” left his lips.

Talking about your emotions is hard. It feels like committing to something serious, signing off deathly trial for yourself. Either it’s accepting you’re not okay or thanking someone who had been with you your whole life. Either way it’s hard.

Honesty takes courage. And it doesn’t go easy once you decide to take that path.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Looking down at the bottle Shoko placed into his palm, Satoru’s brows furrowed as he looks up at her. Quiet huff escaped his lips, what a ridiculous situation.

“What for?”, he asks dryly, gulping.

Shoko hums softly, setting down on the bed next to him. Her hand gently covered his.

“Those are antidepressants. I got them from psychiatrist I know. She said to try this scheme”

Satoru looks at her in disbelief. His brows were trembling, forehead creased in confusion. His mouth opened only to be closed again.

“I.. what? I’m not that sick”

“Let’s do the fact check if you want. You had been sleeping for days, you eat only once in a few days and the food in your fridge is already covered in mold”, Shoko retorts defensively, almost too sharp, yet too pleading.

Satoru feels like he had been slapped. Huffing again, he looks away, blinking quickly to contaminate the irritation mixed up with desire to storm off.

The woman and the other man in glasses watch him closely, letting the anger settle in.

“I don’t need those”, he raises the hand with the bottle, shaking it with disgust, “I could easily heal myself if I knew how to use RCT on my brains”

It was ridiculous situation. Situation, that brought frustration he had been burrying inside of himself for decades. And now it had settled in his chest, leaving acid burns after itself, dissolving his lungs, ribs and heart.

Shoko sighed, looking at the nightstand with untouched food on it. And she wished healing worked this way. But unlike physical, mental healing meant bringing more pain. The pain that had been inflicted to him for ages, that would burst out of him any second now.

All the stabbing words, twisting actions, bone breaking traumas — it all would be out.

The only way to heal is to hurt for past versions of yourself that didn’t.

Satoru laughs again in disbelief. His teeth nibble his lower lip at inner frustration coiling up inside of him. His gaze pierced the bottle of pills, as if it was some sort of April fools, like it wasn’t happening to him. Another scoff leaves his lips, as he raises his gaze to look at Nanami. Almost like needing him to back him up at this, but the only sight that meets him is apologetically looking Kento.

“You can’t be for real…”, Gojo whispered to himself. His gaze darting between Shoko and Nanami, hoping at least someone will back down and agree with him. Yet none of them did — they just watched him, silently. Pleadingly, even.

Rising up from the bed, powered by irritation and disbelief, he looks now into their eyes. Standing eye to eye. He believed he would look more presentable that way, more convincing, yet he didn’t know how he looked — in his pajama he didn’t change for weeks, disheveled hair, dry and chapped lips, eyebags dark enough to contrast with his milky skin and those eyes. Those fucking empty eyes, with nothing behind them.

He’s not sick. He believed that.

Yet why do they think he is?

“Don’t tell me you guys don’t have such stuff going on. You—”, he points to Nanami, “overwork yourself to death to not deal with it, and you—”

His gaze now was on woman, whose face was contorted with worry and grief he had never seen her experience.

“You, Shoko, smoke as much as I can remember myself. You two look at me like I’m some sort of maniac, but I am not, okay? Everyone has it rough after Suguru’s…”

Lowering his head for a mere moment, almost like saying that name burned his tongue. Shaky sigh escaped his lips, nails digging into the skin of his palms.

“If this is about me not working enough, I will call off the sick leave. I’ll work harder. I will dodge every attack, I will heal myself so don’t you worry, Sho. If it’s about food, I will eat. Thrice a day, I will do that. Yeah, I will. I was just burnout. Nothing too scary, everyone felt that, for Christ’s sake”

Negotiation. Refusal. Anger.

This is what he felt. Because admitting was scary. It was unbelievable.

Two friends exchange concerned gazes, unsure how to proceed. Shoko sighs softly, glaring into his eyes with pleading to listen to her, to understand her.

“You nearly killed yourself on your latest mission, Satoru”

“No, I did not”, he retorted immediately, not skipping a beat. Long sigh escaped his lips, as he brushed his messy locks back, “look, I’m sorry, okay?”

“Why are you apologizing for?”

”I don’t know! Hell, sorry that you needed to patch my bloody body up?!”, he snaps. His chest was heavy with ragged breathing, each one hurting him like it was burning his intestines — lungs and all.

Shoko furrowed her brows, feeling utterly devastated, yet irritated nonetheless. He is not the only one with bad temper.

“Why are you feeling sorry for something I’m paid to do?”

“I don’t know, maybe you are angry at me because I got more of trouble on you, fuck, hell I know!”

“I am not, Satoru”

“Then why do you keep pressing me then?!”

“My best friend nearly died, Satoru. He nearly killed himself and didn’t use RCT despite mastering one”

Satoru froze. He could only hear his heartbeat and this annoying ringing in his ears. Exhaling softly, his breathing returned to normal, slow one, as he glanced at Shoko with disbelief. Couldn’t be.

“I— I just… Those weren’t that serious, adrenaline and all, and— I knew you could fix me so I just—”, his voice dropped volume. His shaky whisper now filling up the room full of tension. His hands unclenched, as his gaze dropped down.

He didn’t know what to say. The look on Shoko’s face was the one he didn’t know how to handle. The pain, sorrow, pleading, worry. It was unbelievable she was looking like that at him, and not at Yuuji or Yuta, for example. Like she had a reason to look at him like that. And it hurt.

Silence stretched in the room for longer than it was supposed to. Satoru couldn’t utter another word. Shoko was too shaken. So it stretched, stretched, stretched. Until…

Slowly closing the distance between them, Nanami placed his hand on Satoru’s shoulder. Quickly raising his gaze to look at the man, Satoru furrowed his brows.

It didn’t make sense. He was alright. He always was alright. Yet this sense of dread came out of nowhere. Hell, he didn’t even remember the mission Shoko was talking about. But it couldn’t be that he really did that, could he?.. He never lost. Never will, he thought.

Yet he lost to the fight he didn’t know he had going on.

“Let’s see a therapist, Satoru”.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sitting in that office, full of flowers, tissues and water bottles, he hummed, leaning back in his couch. His lazy gaze followed the lady in front of him — his therapist, the one Nanami chose for him. Someone from non-sorcerer world. So no one needed to know that Strongest has weakness.

Satoru hums once more, looking at the ceiling. It felt choking. To be here, to tell truth.

“Weather’s nice today”, he noted with confident smile, making the woman grin politely. Glancing down at her paper, she looked back at him.

“It is sunny today indeed”, therapist gently murmured, supporting the dialogue.

“Yeah”

…

“You have mentioned earlier you take some antidepressants. Am I correct?”

He nods, sighing softly at the intrusive question.

“Yes, correct. My friend, uh… well, they just think I’m unwell”, Satoru snorts in amusement, shaking his head. It was funny. The fact they made him to go and the fact he actually was here now. The woman leans closer, noting something in her blank (for now) list. He wondered what she had written down, yet he didn’t feel like using sorcery for it.

“Unwell how, mr. Satoru?”, she raised her gaze, patiently waiting for his answer.

He huffs some more, but not at her. Rather, at the ridiculous reasons that got him here.

“Well, they say I don’t eat enough. That I, well… I’m just burnt out, you know? Yet they worry like… Like I’m some sort of maniac”, he throws his hands in the air, gesticulating in hopes she will not look too deeply into his eyes. It felt uncomfortable — to be here and be analyzed by someone. And pay for it, too.

She tilted her head to the side with that polite smile on her face. Her brows were slightly furrowed — he knew she will ask another question that will irritate him for some reason. Are all therapists like that?

“Then, what do those ‘maniacs’, like you said, look like for you?”, she asked gently, watching him close. She watched his expression falter for a second — his cocky smile disappeared, his brows furrowed, his body stiffened.

Wow. Got him, he thought.

Sucking the air through his teeth, he leans forward — hands interlocked, elbows resting on his thighs. What do they look like? Well, in movies… or any media, they are just…

Satoru didn’t answer, thinking of it.

Those protagonists are usually pessimistic. They get fired for under performing. They take some pills that have been added in the movie for dramaticism. They let themselves go loose. They cry without a reason. Don’t clean their space, make everyone worry.

In peripheral vision he could see her watching him, already noticing the realization that dawned upon him now.

Not rushing. Not pressuring. Just kind reassurance — ready to assist and help him talk.

That was the patience that made him feel seen. Still scrutinized, but now he could see the glimpse of compassion and empathy in those eyes.

It all didn’t make sense before, until it did. Along with movie character trope, his own memories were mixed up in his mind: all of his actions, his decisions, his thoughts and some feelings that he (somehow) let himself to feel sometimes. Megumi visiting him. Shoko and Nanami talking him into therapy. Absence of appetite, of motivation, of love for life.

…

Holy shit. He was that ‘maniac’.

And that exactly what got him here.

…

Bitter chuckle left his mouth, teeth grazing lower lip with coiled up frustration he never let himself to feel. His back now hit the soft pillows behind him, slumped in defeat.

Oh fuck me, he thought.

Surely, he’s not like that. Never was.

Rubbing his hands across his face with flooding irritation, he sighed heavily. His confident gaze now faltered, his eyes swirling the floor in pained realization.

Perhaps, he needed help.

He needed it more than he let it on. More, than he ever realized.

And now sitting here, in this silly room with endless amount of tissues and bottles of water, Satoru thought that one day he might need it.

Note: hope you did enjoy, pls let me know if u did ^^ My masterlist. My AO3.