#melo

As a child, you were fussy, prone to fright. The sensory stimulation was overwhelming—confusing. You couldn’t see your mother, only a looming purple outline of a head and a torso. A voice, ‘sweetheart, sweetheart’ was a lullaby from the stark, faceless purple head. You would cry, babbling at the sky, or the absence of it. Reached out with your pudgy hands and tried wrestling just what a ‘morning light’ looks like.

It was only sparks that you could touch. Sparks that you could see. Silly shapes and lights, that you could digest, dancing across your vision. When, even if your mama had tucked you to her chest, it wasn’t enough to bridge the dissonance you felt. For, when people close their eyes in an embrace, they feel warmth. As though they were wrapped tenfold in a blanket. But when you close yours, it offered nothing. They were the same as when they were opened.

You were always a hundred steps behind.

Now, that you were better accustomed to your vision, you hold out your hand, sure he would take it. Even if you felt the warmth of his palm in yours, felt the solid security of his fingers curling in an embrace over your knuckles, all you see is color. Neon bright color.

Facial features were nought. You can feel texture but not see the grains. Feel your feet on the dewy, slithering grass but not discern its individuality. Watch movies and a myriad of solid block colors slid across the screen, the edges fizzled, sparks popping about.

Gojo was a light blue.

When his hand emerged from the dark, the first you registered was the index, slowly, inching closer and closer until it was a hand. Then it was a forearm, an elbow, an arm, and soon, he laid his palm over yours.

“How’s my color today?” You only heard his voice, and you would look up, seeing nothing but a blank, blue neon outline of his head, unmoving.

“It’s bright.” You replied.

“It always is.”

The first time he was aware of the issues you faced, in an attempt to put two and two, four and five together—he tried to move, and be expressive as possible with his gestures. It was admittedly endearing but it was also nauseous and entirely unhelpful. As the saying went ‘less is more’, when applied to a painting, the same could be said for your vision.

The constant, quick movements blurred the shapes indistinguishable. His voice would be lost in it. In the visual structures, your mind assured you which was what, becoming muddled. When it was overwhelming, a pressure on your chest, your shoulders heaved, and you needed more air, needed to silence the thoughts. The desire to run became rampant and tears would slowly curl down your cheeks.

He didn’t do that anymore.

That was during high school. Now, that you were a teacher, you’ve grown to pick out emotions from their stance, behavior and stride. The easiest, and your favorite, was analyzing his voice. It was the closest thing to a hug. Gojo always spoke gently, neither above a whisper you couldn’t hear or a loud yell that would startle you. It was soothing. It soothed you. Calm. Calmed you.

“Hey, you missed my mouth.” The blue outline said.

You stilled, a hand hovering, “Did I?”

“Mhm,” His head was on your lap as he nodded, “The strawberry didn’t go in. When you released it, it bounced off my cheek you know, tumbled somewhere.”

Gojo was partial to a particular spot in the park. Either because park-goers weren’t aware of such a spot or Gojo was insistently clear in his preferences to the rangers, you don’t know, but it was the shade under the blossom tree that you both frequented every picnic. There was a lake nearby, he said that was nice where the gentle laps of the waves could be heard.

“Oh, forgive me…” You patted the picnic mat—or, the darkness—around for the berry, “Where did it go…?”

A snap, strike of a thumb against the third finger, sounded and then a reddish neon outline of a berry sparkled in the corner of your vision. He did that often so you could see. Imbue objects with cursed energy for better grasp of your surroundings. The tree blossom above you was a neon pink, solid color with bean outlines.

Sometimes he also doesn’t. Especially, at the school. You didn’t see walls, doors or trees, you simply saw, at a distance, or sometimes closer, the blue outline of his figure wherever it went.

“You should stop playing around,” You remarked as you plucked the berry up and dusted it, bringing it up to your eye level, “I haven’t informed Shoko the reason you’ve been tired lately.”

“Imbuing the entire school isn’t that easy,” He said, then quietly, “If helps to see better, I won’t mind losing a few sleep.”

Your lips slowly graced into a smile, “I’m already used to everything, Satoru.

“I know.” He said, “That’s why you’re stronger than me.”

“You can’t mean that,” You frowned, tilting your head.

“I do.”

“You’re the reason why the city is safe,” You ran your fingers through his hair, finger trailing down his forehead and over the bridge of his nose, “You shelter the burden of being the strongest and therefore maintain the balance of society,” You added softly, “How is that not strong?”

You felt his head shifted on your lap, he was quiet for moment, you can tell. Thinking. Piecing the proses in his head together for clarity. He was always careful with his words, as he was careful with his tone.

“If you don’t mind me being cliche…” He began, “Our hearts are the most strongest organ. It beats blood to every parts of our body,” He raised his hand. The pad of his thumb pressed against the spot between your eyebrows, “It gives us life. Our function. Our existence. And yet…” He tilted his hand until his thumb was against your throat, fingers cradling your cheek. “it is the most vulnerable, because a single pierce can mean its death.”

“It can heal.” You say.

“So, it does.”

“I am not the heart.”

“But you are my blood.”

“Satoru…” Your protest was small, flimsy, a little embarrassed.

“You keep me beating.”

You wondered, in sullen moments, if the blue sparks would ever fizzle away. Keeping track of the many colors in your life proved difficult. Sometimes you saw them: Itadori, pink and bright; Megumi, a dark navy blue; Nobara, a ferocious orange.

Sometimes you don’t. Just like your mother. When you held her hand last, the purple head turned grey, and then, like everything else, black. You felt her hand. You were holding it. But you were holding cold, solid darkness. Not her warmth.

“I’m not the strongest.” You say again, quietly this time.”

“You are.”

“Why?”

“Because,” He went on, “I’m the strongest, that I find it difficult to let you go. Because I’m the strongest that you don’t make me weak. And, because I’m the strongest the opposite is always true.”

You smiled, ruefully, “You’re the strongest because I make you feel so?”

“Does the heart beat without its blood?”

“No,” You thought for a moment, “I suppose it does not.”

“Because without the blood, it is white. A flimsy tissue just like any other.” He said, “Without you, who am I to stand against hostility? You are strong because you exist, and because you exist, I am strong. ”

“Semantics, Satoru,” You laughed, a soft sweet sound. He felt your shoulders shaking. Your cheeks growing warm with affection. He wanted to see it more.

“Semantics,” You could imagine the smile behind the words as he said it, “Yes, it is true.”

“I know.” You whisper, leaning down and you pressed a kiss to his forehead, “It is rarely otherwise.”

The blue color fizzled a little brighter.