M0k0k0

When you first met Gojo Satoru a small pip of melancholy buried itself into your chest, took root and grew with every encounter. Back then it felt as if there was no one version of him. You saw his demeanour wane and adjust to those around him, shapeshifting into whatever it was they wanted to see in him. The cajoling and arrogance was the only consistent thread he interwove between those masks, and you realised eventually that that very thread had been the thing keeping his seams together. 

Satoru needed to be strong. In the face of his opponents, his allies, his students and his admirers. To stoke kindling of mutiny, to admonish any small spark of disbelief, that strength must be upheld wherever eyes could see. 

You were under no illusions. From the start, you knew that your ability to see through his façades had been the very quality that magnetised him. And you let it happen, because with every true smile he gave you—fond and small, faint crows feet at the corners of his eyes—the ache in your chest lessened, and he began to look more like a man. Less deific. 

The relationship was almost symbiotic, medicinal. It was also something neither of you ever put a name to. In the unpredictable world you lived in, it was much easier that way. During the months that had passed you saw him in fits of laughter, inconsolable and regretful, scarfing down a hot meal made in your kitchen, frustrated, braced over you and shrouded in want. 

You hadn’t seen him sick, not until today. Part of you once wondered if Satoru could even get sick. 

“Be nicer to me. I’m dying,” he bemoans, nose nuzzling into your crown. You lock your knees as they threaten to buckle. Draping himself over you like a second skin, uncomfortably hot to the touch and slightly breathless between words, Satoru seemed to be both suffering and enjoying his sudden sickness. 

“I wish you would do it quietly then,” you huff, struggling in your short walk to the tub. It is already prepared and full of warm water—halfway, just to be safe. Once the levels expectedly rise around his too-big body, you didn’t fancy having to mop up your bathroom floor. 

“I don’t know how to be quiet… you would know,” he mumbles, voice stretched into a tired drawl despite the effort to sound suggestive. As the sentence ends, you have already bent to settle him on the edge of the bath. 

You stand between his thighs, smoothing both hands along his bare shoulders to steady him. The film of sweat sticks to your palms but you say nothing of it. Thankfully he’s already undressed and only left in his boxers, having shed his clothes hours before amidst the worst of the fever. He’s slouched like a puppet with no strings, and he continues to bend until his face is pressed against your chest. 

“Hey,” your brow creases with worry, any previous frustration quickly dissipating at the sight of him struggling. You bring your fingers to cradle his jaw, and his chin tilts until your eyes meet. “You with me, baby?”

Satoru blinks heavily, Elysian eyes clouded. His skin is flushed pink. Flat, white strands of hair cling to the damp on his forehead. Slow, a blissed out grin spreads across his cheeks at the affectionate pet name. “As long as… you want me,” he replies. 

If this illness isn’t contagious then his boyish grin and poor attempt at flirting certainly is. You smile, resisting the urge to kiss him as you push the hair away from his face, “If you cooperate and help me get you into the bath, then I promise to peel your oranges for you even when we’re old”. 

This promise holds a lot of weight. Satoru hates having sticky fingers. A pleased hum rumbles in his throat, and he leans into your touch. “Don’t know if that’s romantic or manipulative”.

“You’re both of those things,” you snort, pushing the flesh together until his lips jut into an unattractive pout, “all the time”. 

“Touché”.

“Come on, Satoru. Off,” you forgo spoiling him further and reach to tug at the waistband of his briefs, “and in!” 

He’s boneless as he moves, shifting his hips left and then right as he shoves the material down his thighs. You crouch to squeeze beneath his knee in encouragement and slip the underwear over his ankles, feeling entirely at home with him despite the nudity. You half expect him to make a joke about where your eyeline falls, but he only watches you with a quiet reverence that warms you inside and out. 

You had checked the temperature while you’d drawn it. Tepid, around thirty one degrees to be careful, probably cooler now that some time has passed. Satoru turns on axis and lowers himself into the tub with a hand on your arm, the surface rising as it is displaced. 

Any and all rigidity immediately bleeds from his body, breathing a long suffering sigh. The bath is hardly long enough for his legs, but they bend willingly as his mouth disappears beneath the water. You’re quick to support him the further he slips, so taken by the relief that he doesn’t catch himself. 

Water ripples in rings as he exhales through his nose. You are submerged up to your elbows and grateful you’d opted for wearing a vest top, fingers interlocked at his back for support. “That feel better, baby?” you murmur. 

He hums a lazy affirmative and it vibrates through the water. Satoru’s lashes are pearly white like the halo of hair settling around his shoulders, his gaze doleful when he peers up at you. With the tension gone, it’s startling how sickly he looks. 

“This bug has really done a number on you, huh?” internally, you debate when and how you’ll free your hands. Louder than anything was the urge to gently scratch at his scalp, the way you knew he liked. “I don’t like seeing you suffer much”. 

His movements echo around the room as he finally finds strength, settling both feet flat to the end of the tub and pushing himself up the other.  “Steady,” you smile, releasing your grip to thumb at the pink line that now cuts across the lower half of his face. 

“Bet I look real ugly,” he rasps in quiet theatrics, head rolling slightly into your palm, “don’t look at me”. His lips purse against the skin there in a brief kiss as you continue to stroke his cheek. 

A laugh bubbles in your chest, but you keep it held. Intuitively, you heard the underlying insecurities. “I like you ugly,” you tell him honestly.  “Sometimes you’re so perfect it’s like looking into the uncanny valley. Now you look like a drenched kitten”.

“Rude,” you feel when the pout spreads into a smile, and he nips lightly at the heel of your hand before kissing the spot again. “You shouldn’t bully a sick person”. 

“Then how about I run a cloth over you instead?” 

The drenched kitten absentmindedly nuzzles his nose along your inner wrist, barely holding himself upright. “…‘Kay,” he murmurs. 

Your arm remains around his back as the other leaves his cheek and reaches for a wash cloth. The water distorts around his body as you dip it beside his hip, pale skin almost comparable to a moonlight's reflection beneath the surface. Your fingertips ghost through the soft hair at his navel, feeling the muscles flinch. 

“Gonna start up top, alright?” you explain, voice low as not to disturb the atmosphere. Stowed away in your narrow bathroom like this, it’s as if the two of you are the only people to exist. 

Satoru’s smile deepens, “Must be nice… getting to feel me up…”

“Mhm. Lucky I don’t usually need to get you sick to be able to feel you up,” you tease back, the fabric saturated and dripping over his chest as you stretch to run it along his collarbones. 

“No,” he breathes happily, chin tipping back to rest his head against the edge of the bath, throat bared. “You don’t”. 

You continue to wipe away at his skin in an effort to soothe him and further allay the fever. Gentle, purposeful motions over the lines and curves of his body. Your tender cadence continues as you instruct him to lift his arms, one by one kneading the flesh into smooth dough, accounting for every finger as you bring them to your lips. For each kiss his face further slacks, mouth parted to exhale soft breath, cheeks flush with more than sickness. 

The sight of him flowers love in your chest. It aches, not because it’s empty, but because it is full. “Think if I tell you something while you’re slightly delirious, you’ll forget I said it?” 

The cloth is pleasant on his skin as you wait for his response. It’s your own, one you know he favours and steals when he uses your shower, but adamantly denies doing so. Your caress has lowered over his pink chest to his abdomen, drawing circles into his hip. 

You can see his body naturally reacting to the touch, blood gathering between his legs, but he makes no indication of wanting more. Had he asked, you would have denied him tonight anyway. 

“Maybe,” he mumbles, watching you behind half lidded eyes. He looks benevolent. If you had to choose your favourite version of Satoru, you would pick Contented. 

He’s saying ‘I can’t promise anything’, just without as many words. You laugh warmly, and slide the cloth along his thighs with some finality. Chances are, your doting of him would be material to poke fun at you for the rest of the month. 

Your silence stretches out but he doesn’t press you. Instead you soak the cloth once more and squeeze before patting it across his forehead, wiping the damp hair back before you lean forward to kiss between his brows. The feeling coaxes his eyes shut, and when they do, you dip to kiss each closed lid. A sharp inhale ricochets throughout the room. 

There, the six eyes protected only by a thin layer of skin, you speak. It isn’t a confession of love, but it is as good as any. 

“You’re my favourite person”. 

Moving back just a hair's breadth, they don’t open again. They seem to visibly tighten, a crease forming across the bridge of his nose, like he was trying not to cry. He sighs deeply, smile trembling.

When he replies it is, as expected, masked behind arrogance, despite the words catching in his throat. You don’t mind the feigned nonchalance, or his need to shield himself with egotism. Because just as it has been from the start, you can see right through him, as he can through you. 

“‘Course I am,” he says. “I’m Gojo Satoru”.