mira. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱

husband!higuruma x reader, girl dad higuruma, fluff | wc 1.3k

the living room is a mess. realistically, to call it a mess is an understatement in itself — it's complete disarray, with toys strewn across the floor, cushions from the sofa laying limp from being stepped on and a pile of scattered building blocks discarded at the far side of the room.

in the midst of the chaos sits your daughter, innocently blinking up at the tv screen, engrossed in the film she’s watching and seemingly indifferent to the clutter surrounding her. every few minutes, she absent-mindedly waves the toy hammer held tight in her grasp, eyes still fixed on the large screen in front of her as flickers of light dance across her features.

you smile to yourself, noting the fact that the hammer is still practically stuck to her hand as always.

-

it was a few months ago when she had rediscovered it amongst her mini tools, quickly pulling the mini hammer out of her wooden toolbox and sending a toy screwdriver flying out of it in the process.

she'd inspected it for a second, tongue stuck out in concentration, before looking up at her father, as though trying to gauge something. after a few more seconds of careful deliberation, the girl seemed to be pleased with her decision, a smile forming across her features.

"look papa, i'm a...judge!" she'd giggled at her own words, looking pleased with herself as you huffed out a surprised laugh. hiromi, on the other hand, said nothing, his expression unreadable except for the way his gaze softened the slightest bit, brows raised a fraction.

"where did you learn that from?" you had murmured, smiling softly and gently ruffling her hair as she'd pretended to bang the hammer against the carpeted floor, like some makeshift gavel.

she raises a small finger to point at hiromi, a huge beam across her face.

"we played.." she paused, as though trying to remember the word. "...court…papa taught me. he said that's what he does at work!"

you'd thrown your husband a teasing look of mock-exasperation at that — seriously, just how often did he think about work?

since that day, though, your daughter had been absolutely set on bringing the hammer everywhere, cheerfully explaining how she was "working" just like her father. you didn't really have the heart to tell her that a wooden hammer from a toy construction set wasn’t exactly the same as a judge’s gavel, so instead you simply opted for watching her show hiromi her impression of a judge excitedly as he softly smiled at her, gaze surprisingly gentle despite the exhaustion written all over his face.

-

you eye your daughter now sat on the living room floor among the disarray of scattered toys and plushies.

“hey sweetie, let’s tidy up. you can watch tv after, okay?”

your four year old doesn't reply, simply remaining fixated on the tv screen, not bothering to spare you even a glance in your direction — probably because she hasn’t even noticed your words to begin with, too engrossed in whatever she’s watching.

you try again, slightly firmer.

"hey…time to tidy up," you crouch down and start collecting some nearby blocks, hoping to set a good example and encourage her into joining you. she remains resolutely uninterested in your words, however — every time you glance up at her, hoping to see progress, you find that she's paying you absolutely no mind whatsoever.

you finally stand up once more, pressing a hand to your hips.

"come on, we need to tidy up or else i'll have to turn off the tv."

that gets her attention. she slowly looks up, eyes meeting yours, before quietly speaking under her breath, so quietly that you almost miss it.

".….nuh uh…objection."

you pause, momentarily stunned by her words and trying to fight off a tiny smile so as not to encourage her. despite your best efforts to maintain a neutral face, though, she immediately catches the way your expression falters. that only spurs her on to repeat it, eyes bright as she speaks with more confidence this time.

"objection!"

before you can think of an adequate response — if there even is an adequate response for your four year old treating tidy-up time like a debatable matter in court — you hear the jangle of keys followed by the front door clicking open. a tiny gasp escapes your daughter's mouth before she's pulled herself off the floor, running towards the source of the sound where your husband is stood, taking off his work shoes.

you follow her, watching fondly as she runs up to higuruma with an excited squeal. he flashes a tiny, barely perceptible smile as he places down his briefcase before squatting down to her level, letting her run into his arms. the second he’s holding her, she leans her body into his embrace, her face hidden behind his head as she peers up at you, as though trying to figure out whether you’ve forgotten about tidy-up time yet or not.

much to her dismay, you haven’t.

huffing out a laugh at the situation, you cross your arms, addressing your next words towards your husband who’s busy stroking your daughter’s hair gently.

“you’ll never guess what. she’s objecting to tidying up, hiro,” you murmur, throwing an accusatory glance his way, though your tone carries no real malice. “just how many pretend court cases have you done with her?”

“not that many, my love..”

big wide eyes glance between you and higuruma curiously, your daughter’s hands tightening a little on her father’s suit as she tries to gauge the upcoming verdict of your playful mock-feud.

“hiromi, no normal four year old child knows how to use the word “objection” in a sentence.”

he doesn’t respond to your words. it’s funny, really: the fact that he’s a lawyer and yet somehow you manage to render him speechless within a single sentence or two.

in actuality, he supposes he probably could reason his way out of these situations — the circumstances aren’t as clear-cut as you paint them out to be, after all — but what good would come of it? he’s perfectly content in avoiding the conflict of it all, enjoying the occasional moments of simplicity that seem to be integrated so sparingly into his busy schedule.

for that reason, he simply nods in silent agreement and removes his blazer before gently guiding your daughter to the living room to see the mess for himself.

you note now that everything about him looks…tired. from the slight slump of his shoulders to the taught line of his mouth to the dark marks under his eyes, he clearly looks worn down. and yet despite it all, he still seems to be able to reserve a soft kind of tenderness for your daughter as she stands by his side, chewing on her lip as she inspects the mess that she’ll inevitably have to tidy.

she slowly reaches out an arm and grabs onto his hand, causing him to immediately soften, letting her grasp tighten around his fingers before leading him to the heart of the mess. he doesn’t complain, simply allowing her to guide him as she pleases before he kneels down next to her to help as she begins reluctantly collecting toys to put away.

a small smile plays on his lips, and whilst there’s still an unspoken kind of deep weariness rooted beneath it, higuruma seems to be somewhat enjoying the change of pace.

higuruma continues to help your daughter collect toys to put back into their respective baskets, but not without overhearing her grumbling under her breath when she thinks nobody can hear.

“…i’m…within my rights…to not tidy up..”

well, maybe he’d have to hold back a little on the pretend court trials with her after all.

author’s notes: first time writing about higuruma i think yayayayayayy!! taglist (thank you!!!): @mayegasm @nonchalantfiend @mochiakun @rielovesphel @yujismissingfingers @megumigooner @vanillaascented @megumisrighttoe @catgvrl @dreamydaredevil @stqrgumi @mariisagb @renrenrenren17 @bowiesprettieststar2 @733164 @palanggaaa @megssleepygirl @rengoatku @hangenism @yujisdreamgirl @nonamedreams @auryyymarix @ivankinnieclatter @sugerfilled @silverstar111 @dreamyreadinglover + join!

you’re stood in the kitchen in sukuna’s hoodie, his worn black one that you stole borrowed as you finish off plating up dinner. you’re talking animatedly about your day as sukuna’s arms rest around your body, his chin resting on your shoulder and strands of spiky pink hair rubbing against your cheek as you speak.

“and in the second season they totally ruined the original plot — can you even believe that?”

he nods imperceptibly in silent confirmation, deep red eyes fixed on your soft hands, on each movement you make as you turn off the stove and pick up one of the plates. despite that, he stays fixed where he is, hands still clasped over the oversized hoodie you’re wearing, the fabric bunched up under his fingers.

you playfully nudged his cheek with your hand.

“ryo, i need to take this to the table.”

“mhmm.”

slowly, reluctantly, sukuna lets go, his hands leaving their spot on your stomach before he makes his way to the kitchen table. you slip into the seat across from him, placing the plates down in front of you and continuing your ramble.

“but anyway, since we’re starting with season one it’ll probably be fine! it’s my favourite series but also i never ended up watching the latest season so—”

you’re cut off by a piece of food held up to your mouth. you glance up to see red eyes boring into yours, features smooth, sukuna’s expression almost bordering stern if you really squint.

you pull your face back just slightly, meeting his almost bored-looking gaze, your lips parted and brows raised.

“…um…ryomen…?”

“eat. it’s getting cold.”

“oh…thank you! but..i can eat by myself too?”

he rolls his eyes, nudging the potato against your lip more insistently before you finally part your lips to accept it.

“..thanks, ryo.”

he mutters something under his breath about how you “can’t remember to take care of yourself on your own” before then gruffly prompting you to continue what you had been saying, occasionally reminding you to eat by putting a forkful of food to your mouth once more.

-

it’s also become a common habit for him to let you pick the movie you both watch each evening. you’re curled up on the sofa as usual, head propped against his shoulder, feet tucked under the blanket as you occasionally lean your head further into the fabric of his hoodie with a teasing grin, as though trying to test how much more you can intrude into his personal space (or by this point his lack thereof) before he finally snaps.

he lets out a tiny grunt, a sound you’d almost mistake for annoyance if it weren’t for the fact that he then leans imperceptibly towards you, lowering his shoulder a little to make it easier for you to rest your head on it without straining your neck.

you smile to yourself at that, sneaking a glance up at your husband’s face, observing the way his jaw is set tight and his eyes are fixed firmly forward in an attempt to avoid your teasing grin. he simply stays staring at the tv ahead, focus fixed on nothing in particular as he waits for you to avert your intent gaze.

after a few moments, he finally gives in to your constant staring, turning to face you before speaking, voice rough with fake-irritation: despite his gruff tone, his words are undeniably laced with the slightest undertone of fondness — almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless.

“are you gonna choose the movie already or not?” he mutters under his breath, voice harsh. despite that, its slight coarseness is undeniably softened a fraction when aimed towards you, making your heart twist a little in fondness.

“yep!” you flick through your options quickly before settling on your favourite cheesy 2000s movie as always.

he lets out a low scoff, unsurprised by the repetitiveness by now but amused regardless, lip curling into a small smirk as he studies the way you’re looking up at him, a bright smile on your face.

“….again? don’t you ever get sick of the same movie all the time?”

when you shake your head insistently, he simply inspects your features — eyes bright and eager, sweetly waiting for him to react — and then sighs, rolling his eyes before propping his arm around your shoulder, quietly accepting defeat. by now, he could probably quote each line word-for-word from rewatching this same movie every single week, but he sighs and fixes his attention on the opening scene nonetheless.

-

and on days when you’re unwell, he’s practically stuck to your side, though he absolutely denies it.

he spends the day basically hovering over you, trying to frame his obvious simmering concern as simple frustration towards your self-neglect.

“drink.” he taps the teacup before bringing it to your lips, eyes narrowing as you cough weakly once more.

“…tastes weird. and it’s too hot.” you stick out your tongue, wincing at the burning sensation. clearly, your husband didn’t think to let the tea cool down before serving you it, too busy and concerned — though he’d absolutely deny that fact if you asked him about it — to wait even a second for it to cool down.

he groans at your words, running a hand through his hair in frustration, spiky strands left messy and unkempt. his shoulders are slumped and his brows are furrowed just slightly, the usual sharp edges of his face blurred into something just a little bit softer. the sight of your usually composed husband — made up of his usual sharp features and his unforgiving scowl — now softened so drastically leaves you stifling a weak half-laugh.

he blows the tea quickly, actions rough and hasty.

“so picky. here, now drink.” once more the teacup meets your lips, him eyeing you wearily as you finally take a small sip.

he also decides not to mention the fact that he specifically looked up specific herbs to help soothe you.

-

20 minutes later, and you’ve practically glued yourself to him. you’re clinging to his arm, leaning into his warmth entirely.

“ryooo,” you whine, the side of your face smushed against his body and your eyes pressed shut. “i’m so cold!”

“…two seconds ago you said you were hot.”

he sits up, trying to escape your tight grasp on his arm to go retrieve the sweater and blanket he only just helped you take off, but instead you shake your head, your grip tightening impossibly more on his arm.

“no wait…don’t go.”

“so what do you want me to do?”

“…um…” you unweave your arms from his, pulling back and blinking with hazy eyes to try to make out his face through the blur of thick exhaustion. with much effort, you pry open his crossed arms, outstretching them for him before allowing yourself to slip into his grasp.

he pauses, momentarily stunned before letting a tiny, barely-visible smirk form on his face, his head lowering to press a quick kiss to the top of your hair whilst your face is pressed against his chest. it’s quick, barely there, as though he’s half-hoping it won’t be noticeable, hidden by the hazy state you’re in from your sickness and the dim lighting of the room around him. now, his actions are quieter, rawer in a way you don’t normally see from sukuna. his hand remains firmly fixed on the back of your head, keeping your face buried against his chest as though to prevent you from pulling back and seeing him in such a sappy state. what he doesn’t realise is that you’re already smiling into the fabric of his hoodie at his failed attempt at hiding his affection.

he stays like that for a few moments, as though contemplating what to say or do. his free hand, the one that isn’t currently burying your face into his hoodie, has absentmindedly stilled on your back, and he studies the way you’re curled up in his arms for a second before murmuring fondly.

“…brat. always getting what you want.”

when you finally weave your way out of his grasp just slightly and glance up at his face once more, you find that his gaze is averted once more, lips pressed tight and brows furrowed into a stoic, unimpressed expression.

you decide not to push for an answer, but you smile to yourself imperceptibly as you feel his grasp on you tighten just a fraction more.

author’s notes: thank you to the anon who requested a sukuna fic here, this is for you!! i chose to write about modern-day sukuna for the req i’m not sure if that’s what you wanted though!! btw i hope this isn’t too ooc and i’m sorry if it is!! taglist (thank you!!!): @nonchalantfiend @mayegasm @mochiakun @rielovesphel @yujismissingfingers @megumigooner @vanillaascented @megumisrighttoe @catgvrl @dreamydaredevil @mariisagb @renrenrenren17 @bowiesprettieststar2 @733164 @palanggaaa @megssleepygirl @rengoatku @yujisdreamgirl @hangenism @nonamedreams @auryyymarix + join!

you’re in bed, propped up on your side and reading a book as the dim lamplight washes over your skin in hazy flickers. the house is uncharacteristically silent, with megumi in bed and toji away on a mission, and you sigh in relief.

it isn’t like megumi’s a particularly difficult kid — rather, he’s almost concerningly quiet for a four year old, his penetrating gaze unsettlingly perceptive at times — but he’s a kid nonetheless, and what with toji away on mission after mission to support your little family, you tell yourself that the least you can do is try. to fill in the gaps that are left, to show up, to be there for your son.

so you make it your life’s mission to give megumi your absolute undivided attention. to take him out to feed the ducks, to watch pokémon with him, to doodle with him.

sure, the overall family dynamic may be a little rocky and unfamiliar at times, but it’s yours nonetheless. after all, with toji insisting on taking up more and more missions to provide for you and megumi, it at least meant that you could spend more time with your son.

you smile to yourself a little when you hear the door from the hallway.

click!

you look up from your book just in time to see those familiar deep green eyes, the light of your lamp falling across the lick of pale flesh that curled its way across his lips to form a handsome scar. you prop yourself up on your elbows, smiling at your husband.

he looks worn down — exhausted — and yet he’s still wearing that familiar lazy smile he always seems to brandish only for you. he walks slowly to the bed, and you can’t help but note a tiny limp in his step, but you say nothing, instead watching as he sits down beside you, feeling the mattress sink with the added weight.

sitting up properly now, you inspect his face, your eyes raking across those tired, sincere features. you blink slightly at the sight of newly grown stubble. he’d only been gone a week, and yet within that time the gentlest lick of dark fuzz had appeared across his face.

“you’re back.” you breathe out, leaning forward to brush his hair back a little, thumbing through the straight inky strands. “gumi’s asleep…just put him to bed twenty minutes ago. i didn’t know you’d be back so soon, otherwise i’d have—”

you feel a big hand come to meet the crown of your head as he gently ruffles your hair with a smile, a silent attempt at calming your rambling. you lean into his touch almost instinctively, the gentleness of his touch entirely contradicting his sharp, jagged demeanour.

“nah, it’s okay. i missed you guys.” his voice is hoarse, rough around the edges but unmistakably laced with a kind of reserved tenderness.

you smile, and it’s not long before you’re both in bed, him now fully showered, a lazy arm resting around your waist. he exhales against your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, practically breathing in the warm air around you both, the soothing motion of his thumb against your waist lulling you into a state of drowsiness until eventually you’re both asleep.

but that doesn’t last long. the blissful sleep, the gentle bubble of contented relief, is broken by the slivers of morning light across your face and the tug of a small hand on your sleeve. you blink drearily, lashes fluttering back shut slightly in a weak attempt to block out the intense morning light. you feel you vision begin to piece together eventually only to be met by your expectant 4 year old’s face staring up at you, expression serious.

“mommy. who’s that…?” he points at toji’s sleeping body with a tone of slight disgust, as though he’s just seen a pile of dirt in the place of his father.

you smile sleepily, rubbing your eyes as you slowly pull away from toji’s grasp. you gently kick your legs over the bed to fully face megumi now. “your dad, honey. two sec…let’s go get you breakfast. then you can say hi to daddy when he wakes up, ‘kay?”

he doesn’t see to have any resignation as he follows you quietly, dark brows slightly furrowed and chewing his little lip as though he’s deep in thought. he follows you, wolf plushie tucked under his arm, his soft green pjs a bit too big for him, dragging along the floor. he pulls himself up to sit on a chair, watching as you quickly prepare his breakfast.

you slide a bowl of banana porridge across the table and sit across from him, a cup of coffee in your hand, watching with a smile as he eats, that thoughtful frown still plastered onto his young features.

”morning.”

you turn to see toji stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes sleepily, his messy flat hair slightly ruffled. clearly somebody slept well, at least.

he yawns and walks over to the table, kneeling next to megumi’s chair and wrapping an arm around his body towards him to pull him into a sleepy hug. the boy, however, grimaces a little, small hands pressed against tojis head as he tries to push him away with a look of utter distaste.

toji’s relentless though, smirking a little as he tries to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead before lifting him into his arms. megumi turns to face you seriously, small hands pressed firmly against toji’s right eye and cheek in a feeble attempt to get him off. “mommy. mommy, who is he?”

you pause, trying and failing to hold back a small laugh as toji’s face seems to drop, any lingering signs of sleepiness immediately leaving his face. he blinks harshly, looking as though he’s been stung, momentarily stunned, before eventually recovering from the blow and readopting his confident tone again.

“who else, kid? your dad.” he presses his forehead to megumi’s, his flat messy tufts of midnight black meeting your son’s own sea of dark spikes.

you watch megumi’s eyes narrow a little, soft lashes batting slightly as he stares intently at toji’s face, the cogs seeming to turn one by one in his mind as he tries to verify the words through that penetrating gaze.

no doubt, the kid’s perceptive for his age. scarily perceptive, you note.

he seems to somewhat accept the response however as he seems to relax a little in your husband’s arms, a single hand coming up to brush over the gentle stubble forming on his chin. he inspects it wordlessly, brows furrowed.

toji smiles briefly before leaning his chin forward to playfully tickle megumi with the scratchiness, his chin meeting the soft skin of the boy’s rosy cheek and causing him to gasp and lean backwards. he lets out a tiny unimpressed, almost exasperated gasp at the immaturity of the man stood before him, before eventually reacting to the relentless tickles, laughing slightly and playfully pushing his face away.

“take it off!” he squeals, his hand once again coming to meet the fuzz of dark hair on toji’s chin, exploring the unfamiliar texture against the soft skin of his own fingers. “…i don’t like you being a hedgehog anymore!”

“..a hedgehog..?” toji echoes the word with a slight tone of distaste. it was, truthfully, ironic: you had to stifle a laugh upon hearing the nickname come from the very boy with the spikiest, most hedgehog-like hair you’d probably ever seen a 4 year old have.

“yeah, go shave, hedgehog.” you mimic, grinning at toji as he sighs, rolling his eyes light-heartedly and placing megumi down to head to the bathroom.

he grumbles quietly as he leaves the room

“whatever. betrayed by my own son.”

author’s notes: this is a reupload of a fic i posted back in december ahh i hope you guys like it😓i edited and fixed up some parts because i didn’t like all of it dad!toji and baby megumi are so dear to me i love them and hope to write about them more in future!!

“toruuu, delete that!”

you lean over the restaurant table, frantically trying to snatch the camera from his grasp, brows furrowed and fingers grazing the tips of his own as he waves it just slightly further out of reach.

he chuckles, pretty blue eyes crinkling in that way you’d always loved, soft white lashes grazing his skin in gentle flicks as he blinks at you. it’s your fourth anniversary, and he’s sat looking as good as ever in his shirt, sleeves rolled up and an expensive watch on his wrist.

he’s unbelievably handsome, even more so than usual (if that’s even possible) and something about it leaves you breathless, as though you’ve fallen in love all over again. it’s a youthful, fleeting sensation, bright and warm and unbearably sweet, like gentle summer days and evenings spent walking along the shore. it’s almost like staring into those soft pools of blue all over again, just like you were years ago at your wedding ceremony.

you’d always known your husband was good-looking, the kind of person that naturally radiated an unspoken warmth, face bright and eyes gentle and smile so handsome that it hurt. it was to the point where you almost couldn’t help but be jealous sometimes, as much as you despised yourself for it.

it wasn’t like you tried to be: rather, you tried so hard not to blame him, not to let your own insecurities creep back up on you all these years later. they’d been small trivial things, the kind that caught on the wind in your early teenage days and never seemed to quite leave you, still remaining as soft echoes and whispers that would float on the silent evening breeze and haunt your every thought. especially on the nights when you’d lay in bed by satoru’s side, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling blankly as you lie awake dissecting everything about yourself until you can’t bear to keep your eyes open any longer.

you thought you’d gotten over your insecurities. but when stood side by side with your breathtaking husband, you couldn’t help but feel completely exposed to the world, stripped bare of the pretty façade of bells and whistles that you seem to hide behind with relative ease.

you felt vulnerable, seen, left to be yourself in a world where your greatest defence was to be anybody but.

some days, you couldn’t bear to look in the mirror. and some days, you couldn’t bear not to look in the mirror, inspecting every single imperfection until your face felt like nothing but a blur in the reflective surface, way too flawed to be worth making out your features as anything but another criticism. your reflection merely remained a distant fog, with fuzzy paint strokes in the place of a face and distorted smudges of colour instead of your body.

you’d spend evenings stood in the bathroom, enveloped in absolute darkness, too afraid to face the image taunting you in each reflective surface. your eyes would glance through the doorway, passing over satoru’s sleeping figure in the bedroom, him laid on his side, eyes pressed shut and long white lashes fluttering peacefully.

he was even pretty when he slept.

you hated how you envied him sometimes, a kind of sinking feeling of disgust rooted deep in your stomach, heavy and unmoving.

you stare at him from across the restaurant table, eyes falling over that sweet teasing smile you loved so much, and then at the camera in his grasp.

“please baby, can you delete it?” you try to play it off casually, like a simple photo gone wrong, but of course satoru notices it. he always does.

he recognises all your tells by now. he can practically see the cogs turning bit by bit in your mind, can recognise when you’re yet again over-dissecting each and every moment that passes, can tell when the anxious feeling starts gnawing at your stomach once again in that way that always makes you feel sick.

you hate yourself for this, for letting your insecurities plague such a normal moment yet again, for ruining your anniversary dinner over a stupid photograph.

satoru’s playful expression has already faded upon seeing your face, a look of concern painting his features instead of the playful grin prior.

“hey, come on baby. it’s okay, i’ll delete it, see?” he turns the camera to you as though to prove it, a hand reaching over to thumb at your cheek, touch feather-light. the cool metal of his wedding ring smooths over the soft skin of your cheek in gentle strokes, the feeling grounding. he smiles gently at you.

“we don’t have to take any photos now, we can just…y’know, live in the moment, right?”

you offer a tiny, weak smile at that, nodding.

“thanks, toru..”

-

your fifth anniversary. satoru falls backwards against the sofa cushions, long legs thrown over the edge and his head in his hands. the sofa feels empty now, the pillows propped up too perfectly, each one left entirely untouched on the far right side — on your side.

he can still trace the outlines of each stain on the fabric, allowing his finger to run over a particularly memorable one from when you’d spilt your juice during the first week after you’d gotten married. you’d both been so awkward, the concept of being newlyweds so terrifyingly foreign to you.

upon spilling your drink, you’d looked absolutely horrified, apologising repeatedly with your eyes blown wide. he’d smiled, inwardly noting how cute you were before accidentally following suit and spilling his own juice shortly after you did.

even now, the faint sound of your laughter lingered in his ears — just more hollow, emptier, like a record stuck playing on repeat, void of any real emotion.

he was so sure you’d both worked tirelessly to scrub them off years ago, and he’d never really noticed any remaining stains until now, so why were they still there, as though tormenting him? maybe it was simply a trick of the light, a haunting illusion under the cover of darkness.

or maybe it was grief’s way of toying with him.

it was almost ironic how such an unpredictable, cruel thing as grief and death became almost grounding to him, remaining an absolute, unchanging truth. a looming constant. after all, life promised a cruel demise to all, and delivered it fairly in due time. in that sense, death was about as predictable as it could get, satoru reasoned.

grief plagued his mind, invaded his space, haunted him. he’d lost weight — a lot of it — and spent most evenings laying on the floor, not quite asleep nor awake, simply existing, trying to fill the space as best as he could. simply trying to make it to the next day.

on particularly empty evenings he’d find that he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even bear to breathe at times. most nights were restless, with him jolting upright and gasping, tugged back to reality from his nightmares, grappling with the mess of bedsheets around him. he’d be drenched in sweat, clinging to the covers and breathing heavily, suffocating in the terrifying heaviness of the air around him.

maybe, just maybe, that was the scariest bit: waking up from the nightmares, being forced to come back to terms with that fact that you weren’t coming back for the hundredth time that week.

or maybe the scariest bit was being forced to wake up without your familiar scent clouding his senses, without your body next to his, without your soft breathing sounding through the slow morning hours.

satoru gojo was a ghost of the man he was. everything about him was paler, colder, emptier: skin sunken around his eyes, the bright glow of his irises dulled. he was a shadow, a shell of who he used to be.

it was as though you’d taken a part of him with you, the part you’d envied, the one you had loved so deeply. the eyes you’d compliment each night now remained permanently dulled, worn down with exhaustion and something quieter simmering beneath it all.

sometimes, he’d brave the expanse of the spare bedroom. it’d be eerily silent, your walk-in wardrobe wide open like you’d never quite left, the outfit you’d planned to wear still layed out on the spare bed like some cruel, twisted picture, frozen in time forever.

with a shaky breathe, satoru would allow himself to sink onto the edge of the bed, avoiding touching the clothes, hands trembling slightly against the blanket, his chest tight.

the dust would flicker in ghostly swirls, taking yet another one of your possessions hostage, another reminder that you were no longer there. it made satoru feel sick, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to clear the dust off of belongings: it felt like acceptance, like acknowledging that you were truly gone.

he’d sit there in silence, eventually allowing himself to breathe, to take in the scent of you that still seemed to linger on the plushies you’d collected over the years, stacked neatly at the corner of your bed. satoru refused to move them, instead leaving them untouched — after all, you’d always been very specific about the way your plushies were arranged. he couldn’t bring himself to touch them, lest you come back and scold him playfully again like you used to.

because you would come back, right? you couldn’t really be gone?

back then, he’d playfully mock you for your organisational habit, grinning and calling you a perfectionist. now, he’s sure he’d give anything to hear you explain it to him one last time in that sweet mock-irritated voice of yours, eyes bright with a kind of determination that only you seemed to possess.

on some particularly painful nights, whilst shrouded in the room that you once seemed to fill so easily, sat there with nothing but the flurry of hazy memories of your face and your sweet voice distorted in satoru’s mind, lay the agonising truth in front of him: so cold, so huge and so terrifyingly real.

he couldn’t remember your face.

those soft pretty features, the ones he’d promised to himself that he’d watch grow old, the ones he’d been so sure he’d engraved into his mind on the day of his wedding ceremony, were gone, the curve of your lashes against your cheek or your playful smile left as cloudy, broken recollections in his mind. each tiny detail felt just out of reach, tantalisingly close, brushing against his fingertips and yet never quite close enough to be taken into his grasp.

some days, flickers of your face and whispers of your gentle breath would ghost their way up his spine. nowadays the bed felt oddly empty, unnaturally cold, and he’d simply sit there, his eyes dull and back slouched, expression blank as he faces the wall, flickers of his shadows dancing across the pale surface. occasionally the lamplight would play tricks on him, the lights burning images of your smile into the backs of his eyes when he stared too long, each recollection different from the last, each smile not quite yours.

perhaps it was the burden of the six eyes technique, a cruel life sentence unfairly handed to him at birth. the inability to ignore each tiny detail, the trouble of being hyperaware of everything, and consequentially the inability to remember your face amongst the mess of details clouding his mind constantly.

he was hyperaware of everything, too conscious of each tiny part of passers-by, noticing each line, each freckle, each hair without fail. it was cruelly monotonous, each day blending into the next, each headache stronger than the last, each stranger’s face a blur amongst the millions of dizzying bits and pieces constantly hazing through his mind.

until eventually, he had forgotten your face too, left buried under countless strangers’ visages, blurred by the sickening rush of each and every particle around him.

running a palm down his face, satoru stares at the paper in his hand — a single, worn photograph. it’s scuffed around the corners, worn down from the countless times he’s taken it out and held it close to his chest, running his thumb absentmindedly over its edges before tucking it back into his wallet again, hidden behind his card. he stares at the picture, soft ivory lashes heavy with tears that won’t yet come.

most days he can’t bear to look at it. it haunts him. so instead, it stays hidden, slotted behind the mess of cards and cash in his wallet in an attempt to shut out the memories.

above all, however, there lay a thick cloud of guilt low over him, a mind-numbing, gut-wrenching sense of remorse that seemed to grasp at his mind until he couldn’t bear to think anymore.

he felt guilty that a single photo was all he had left of you. guilty that somehow he’d lost the softness of your skin in exchange for the rough coldness of the paper against his fingertips. guilty that he’d exchanged your sweet laugh for simple fleeting memories of your voice catching on the breeze.

on particularly difficult evenings, your voice would leave as soon as it came, swirling loosely past his ears, distorted under the cover of car engines or the city bustling to life. at moments like those, he’d give anything to turn off his surroundings, just for a second. just to hear your voice again.

he sighs, staring at the photo between his fingers. a memory from that same restaurant — one single, blurry photograph of the back of your head. he’d discovered it by accident, flicking through the digital camera once a few months ago, stilling at the sight of your figure, your face turned away almost tauntingly, just in his reach and yet so far away.

he remembered that day so clearly, each detail clear except for your face, your features distorted into a blur once more, just like in each and every one of his troubled dreams. the photo became the sole image that seemed engraved into his mind for months on end, too big and painful and heavy to bear and yet too much to hide away either.

it was the same photo he’d taken just minutes before you’d begged him to delete them all, and yet somehow it had been left untouched, forgotten in his camera roll. he couldn’t help but feel a tiny spark of relief that at least one photo had been spared, and yet it felt almost bittersweet to him at the same time. if anything, sometimes the fact that he was so close to your face hurt more, like a pitiful lick of relief, too weak to satiate him and yet too tantalising to resist. he would spend night after night laying in the mess of your bedsheets — a soft floral set you’d chosen — with his thumb brushing over the photo. he’d let it run over the edges, over each frayed edge and background item in the picture before finally letting his thumb tenderly glide over where your averted head is, smiling weakly at the way your face is tantalisingly close and yet never quite close enough.

a tiny, sickening part of him blames you for it. he hates himself for the bitterness that seems to lodge itself in his throat, too heavy and dry and resolute.

if only you’d let him take one single picture.

he knows that’s not true. if anything, he blames himself more. he blames himself so heavily that he can’t breathe at times, the soul-crushing guilt weighing heavy against his chest, inescapably and resolutely stuck there. he blames himself for not trying to take more photos, for not making more memories. he blames himself for not convincing you that you truly were the most beautiful girl he’d ever laid eyes on, that he wanted nothing more than to photograph you — not the restaurants, not the landscape views, but your shy smile. nothing else mattered.

you’d constantly teased him about being stubborn, about his childish insistence when it came to anything and everything.

“‘toru, it dosnt matter what brand of mochi we buy! they all taste the same!”

he’d huffed at that, a stupid grin plastered onto his face alongside his handsome features.

“there’s a difference! trust me, i’d know.”

“yeah right. you’re just stubborn!”

the word rings through his head, again and again and again until he feels sick to his stomach.

stubborn.

if anything, he wasn’t stubborn enough to you. if he’d just tried harder, just pushed for one simple photo together, maybe he’d be able to mourn a real face, to grieve a human in place of a blank canvas.

so much for “living in the moment”, he thinks to himself, trying to choke back a tiny sob, the sound barely catching at the edge of his throat.

he’s a fool, he’s decided, and he’ll forever regret not holding on just a little tighter when he still had the chance.

he’ll forever regret forgetting your face.

author’s notes: i really hope this isn’t too cringey and that you guys enjoy ittt!! thank you @lvrs4nxna for motivating me to try writing angst this was so fun to do i quite enjoyed it🥹 taglist (thank you!!): @mayegasm @nonchalantfiend @kissthesword @mochiakun @rielovesphel @yujismissingfingers @megumigooner @vanillaascented

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