#pmpp.exe

SERIES TAG ･ AO3 LINK

CHAPTER 1 — HUNGER (1.8k words)

CHAPTER 2 — HANDS (3.3k words)

CHAPTER 3 — BREATH (5.3k words)

TO BE CONTINUED...

NOTES ･ this is a repost from my old blog since i started the series before moving here, but i've also decided to use this as an opportunity to revisit + revamp a few things! it's been a very slow process getting things together, but despite how long it's taken me to actually continue with this story, it's always had a very special place in my heart. i have never once truly wanted to abandon it.

i cannot promise swift updates nor can i promise that things will make the most sense as this is literally the only multi-chaptered thing i've ever written, but i do promise that i'm trying my best. my original idea going into this was actually quite different from what the story ended up becoming, so i never exactly had very much structure from the get-go. but now that it has started taking this kind of shape, i want to try and make it something meaningful that hopefully some of my fellow gojo lovers out there can enjoy. and thank you so much to those who have actually been waiting around for me to figure out what the hell i'm doing this whole time lmfao

When your eyes finally crack open to investigate, they affirm what part of you already knows to be true:

He is there, tousled white locks strewn about in front of you with a cheek pressed to the edge of expensive upholstery as though it were a pillow in his bed. It's the undeniable evidence of why your back has a near constant kink in it these days—because he's intent on getting as close to you as he can every night.

Satoru’s head rests mere inches from your belly, his rhythmic breaths floating softly into the air as he lies there in peaceful slumber. You fear for the state of his neck given the angle in which it's bent, but despite the remainder of his body slumping somewhat awkwardly to accommodate the strange position, he looks rather content.

You recall successfully putting him to bed the previous night and sitting with him until he finally drifted off to sleep in his own room, but it’s clear that, at some point afterwards, Satoru felt the nagging urge to seek you out once again. Ever since you brought him back home, he has yet to fail in doing so.

Guilt infests your thoughts when you are forced to think about the way you continue to refuse the obvious solution. But sleeping in his bed with him… that seems like a step too far in your opinion. That would only reinforce his attachment to you, making it exceedingly more difficult when it came time for you to eventually part…

But would you ever part?

That was the question that lingered in the shadows, the question that frightened you with its possible answers more than you’d care to admit. You were taking it one day at a time right now, but still filtering things through your mind as though the outcome was fixed: Satoru stabilizing enough to allow you to walk away, to return to your life as it had been before.

But the thing is, nothing about life is remotely the same as it was before. How do you return to something that no longer exists?

And as for Satoru… he has even less. Aside from the money sitting in his bank account, he has no way to make use of it on his own. He has no voice. No cohesive memories. No way to truly look after himself, at least not yet—maybe ever.

You suppose someone could be paid to fill in the gaps for him, but what sort of life would that amount to in the end? How would one even find a person with not only the ability to understand how Satoru came to be this way, but to understand Satoru himself? How do you go about placing the world's (former) strongest sorcerer in the palms of an unsuspecting person’s hands?

Once again, you’ve found yourself swimming in a sea of maddening possibilities, and you’re hardly even awake enough to make sense of them yet. It’s best to subdue your thoughts, put on a pair of blinders, and look only at the day ahead. Baby steps.

You shift your focus to the strands of hair that adorn the fabric, running your fingers through them with a gentleness that is reserved for not much else in this world.

There’s a peacefulness that blankets his features when he sleeps soundly like this, pacified by your proximity, soul drawn to yours like an ectotherm to the sun. You are a warmth that turns winter into spring, defrosting the remnants of ice in his veins, melting snow that’s as white as the sweep of his eyelashes.

You admire Satoru in silence for a few final moments before tugging him from sleep.

“Satoru,” you beckon as lightly as possible, winding your fingers more deeply into his hair for a gentle awakening. “It’s time to get up.”

He stirs under the stroke of your hand, eyes fluttering open until he can peer up at you and smile with recognition. The stiffness in his neck and numb sensation in his arm are only secondary to the joy he feels when seeing your face.

Satoru’s cheek is red and plastered with the pattern of the sofa’s fabric, leaving him with an endearingly disheveled appearance. You would feel a greater sense of frustration were it not for the sweet nature of his mid-morning rising, sleepy blue eyes filled with warm adoration as they look at you, head leaning into the softness of your touch. He is far too satisfied with your generosity for you to be discouraged by his inability to spend the night in his own bed.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling back at him and removing your hand from his head. The inclination to pout at the lack of your touch simmers just beneath the surface, but Satoru mitigates it by reaching out a hand and touching your hair in return. It’s a way of saying ‘good morning’ back to you.

Gazes locked, the intimate moment floats in the air, suspended until you cast it down by stretching your body and sitting upright with a groan.

Satoru’s eyes follow you as if awaiting a prompt or command of some sort, volition rather limited as usual and placing the decisions for two upon your shoulders. His old self could never have dreamed of such a reliance, though it probably would have done him well to indulge. It seems he’ll be making up for it now.

You continue to sit in place for another handful of moments, the gears of your mind still turning as they processes what the day has in store for you.

The most pressing thing on the agenda is an expected visit from Shoko sometime this afternoon, her expertise hopefully offering some insight on the current situation you’ve found yourselves in. Now that Satoru has had more time to recover, you hope that more can be unveiled in regards to his condition.

The potential outcomes leave you with an anxious feeling deep in your gut, but you can’t allow it to consume you. All you can do is hope for the best and keep moving forward just as you always have.

Teeth and hair are brushed shortly after you muster the energy to rise from the couch, cracking your spine on your way to the bathroom before having Satoru mirror your basic oral hygiene to the best of his ability. Reaching up to pull a comb through his hair is quick and methodical, his appearance not much of a concern given your homebodied state as of late. 

However, it occurs to you that he might be due for a haircut soon. How on earth are you meant to achieve something like that at this point?

Never mind, you think—it’s something you can mull over in the near future when perhaps you have a few more answers. Satoru himself doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it anyway.

You fear getting your hopes up too high in regards to what the future might entail, though you can’t help but feel impatient to hear what Shoko has to say. As confusing as the situation has been up to this point, she’s at least been a source of information and comfort so that you weren’t shooting completely in the dark. Well… more than you already were.

Shoko had been instrumental in keeping Satoru from fully crossing over into the beyond. She had always been far more familiar with the intricacies of flesh and bone than most other people you knew, but not even she initially had all the answers to what it was that gave Satoru a second chance, or why it seemed that he returned with the same body but not the same mind. The visceral wounds had mostly mended, but the same could not necessarily be said for neural pathways; at least, that’s what Shoko’s original assessment had been.

You wonder if there had been more you could’ve done to aid in the process for a better outcome. Ieiri, Okkotsu, and Iori had all made tangible contributions; it wasn’t clear if your own involvement had even made much of a difference at all. The others certainly seemed to think so, but it hadn’t been so obvious to you at the time. Part of you wonders if your lack of clarity had been the ultimate downfall, but you couldn’t know for sure—it was a different usage of your power than what you were accustomed to, so there wasn’t exactly a precedent to measure against.

You remember it all in stark detail.

“I can’t see him,” you say, your eyes squeezed shut and peering into a void of darkness. Heart racing, your fingers would be trembling were they not planted on the chest of a body that has already begun to grow cold. “I don’t think he’s crossed over yet.”

Silence encompasses you as you continue your search, cursed energy pulsing out like radio waves between worlds, but you receive none in return. It’s akin to sending messages out into the stars and hoping for an alien lifeform to respond.

Venturing into other spiritual planes isn’t part of your typical repertoire; it’s hardly ever necessary. Souls come to you—you don’t usually go to them. But it seems there is always an exception to the rule.

“Is there anything at all?” Yuuta asks, channeling his own energy as best as he can. Your technique is being lifted to heights you'd previously never thought possible with he and Utahime working to amplify your cursed energy levels in tandem.

You hone in with your sharpened senses, catching the whispers of a conversation. Muffled; broken.

“I hear voices. I hear people talking.”

“What are they saying?” Yuuta questions anxiously, flickering with curiosity and hope.

“I don’t know. I can barely understand them,” you reply, voice laden with frustration and urgency. Sweat lines your forehead, tears prominent upon your lashes. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Just keep trying,” Shoko encourages coolly, working quickly to mend the broken body before you. It's difficult to mirror her composure when it feels like you're in the middle of an emergency room, the smell of blood filling your nostrils.

You move closer to the sound. Closer, closer. Tuning a radio until you’ve found the right frequency. 

There is clarity.

Familiar voices land upon your ears; a conversation. Your heart bursts. You gasp.

“I hear him! I can hear—SATORU! Satoru, can you hear me?!”

Shoko pauses and Yuuta jumps, trembling with the remainder of hope. He shuts his eyes and puts everything he has into increasing your power.

Your voice is a broken cry, your desperation seeping out into the room. Every heart beats as one, the suspense infecting you all, pulling tears from every pair of eyes. None of you are immune to the raw emotion that springs forth from trying to save a life that wasn’t ready to be lost.

You rest your forehead against his still chest; a final plea.

“Please, Satoru, you can come back now. You have to come back.”

A voice crackles over the intercom in an airport. A few moments later, he takes the first breath of his new life.

You are jarred from your memory by a chin resting upon your shoulder, Satoru’s breath tickling your neck as he peers down at your hands preoccupied with making his breakfast. His eyes capture every motion and every detail, each crevice, knuckle, and fingerprint like an old friend to him. He doesn’t understand why they feel like home, but your hands are the flame to his moth, drawing him in as if they could contain his very heartbeat. If he stares long enough, he can almost feel them pouring life into his chest.

Enamored, Satoru places his large palms over the backs of your hands, stilling their movements as you register the closeness of his body.

"I'm a little busy here, y'know," you say with a quirked brow and a smirk he can hear, though you're hardly as offended by the gesture as perhaps you should be.

He exhales against your flesh again, warm and alive in every way, his breath a laugh only you can know. You can feel his smile like he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat somehow; the familiar drumming soothes parts of his soul with which he isn't even acquainted.

Satoru doesn't talk, yet he speaks. Slender fingers slot into the spaces between yours with a tenderness that says more than a thousand words ever could.

He does it with a natural grace that contradicts the aura of his being: that of a child who has never expressed such a thing before, one who was born to love and be loved and who possesses an affinity for the instinct, but who has never quite had the luxury of refining it.

Your mind swims in thoughts suggesting that Satoru touches you in ways he has never touched anyone before; he looks at you with eyes that are more inviting than they ever could've been with the entire world in their peripheral. But that vision has narrowed as of late… or rather, his world has.

The moment is severed by an artificial ding—your phone, vibrating against the counter with a text message that promptly forces your attention away.

"It's Shoko," you state after slipping your hand from beneath his to check the interruption. "She'll be here soon. Better hurry up and eat a little something."

You're grateful for the sudden distraction, the slice through thickened air that still lingers even after Satoru apprehensively pulls away. Moments like these had been few and far between with someone like him who once actively dismantled them, presumably afraid of the seriousness that would ensue, so now you find yourself trudging through uncharted territory with a certain precarious thumping in your heart. Perhaps a script has been flipped.

Getting breakfast into Satoru's stomach proves easier this time with your encouragement, and you wonder why it's already started to feel comfortable like a routine. Rhythmic.

Maybe because you're letting it, just for a moment. And that frightens you; same as it did when he brushed his teeth and let you tidy his hair, or how catching a glimpse of him in his pajamas out of the corner of your eye while you washed the dishes brought you an odd sense of comfort. Maybe you should've had him get dressed for Shoko's visit, but you doubt someone like her would fuss over something so trivial. After all, she was closer to the situation than most.

As if on cue, there's a light rapping at the door that has you quickly drying your hands and making your way over to answer it, but like a dog on alert, Satoru has stood from his spot in the living room and trailed behind you, watching intently from a distance as you greet your guest.

You feel both relieved and nervous upon seeing Shoko's face.

"Hey, sorry, I was cleaning up after a late breakfast. Come in," you apologize and usher the woman inside, and Satoru notes your friendly demeanor towards one another. He processes it with a nervous intensity until he realizes he's seen this face before, especially when she turns her attention to his pointed gaze.

"You don't miss a beat, do you?" Shoko teases, deadpan, as she shrugs out of her coat and looks him over. "Though it's good to see you on your feet."

This voice, this cadence… it rings with familiarity in the chambers of his heart, and as his old friend moves closer, reaching out with her cursed energy, Satoru's defenses lower a fraction.

There's warmth in Shoko's smile when she peers up at him. "Let's take a look at our Humpty Dumpty."

Millennia seem to pass as you stand in silence with a furrowed brow and watch Shoko give Satoru his checkup, a great deal of it happening through waves of cursed energy you can't fully comprehend. It leaves your mind buzzing with myriad questions, but you dare not open your mouth should it interrupt her concentration, especially after you had finally convinced Satoru to let her in close enough to do it.

"It's just Shoko," you say as bright blue eyes peer at you with worried hesitancy. "She helped you before, remember?"

Even after she finishes, you find it difficult to ask for answers that might be difficult to hear.

She offers them anyway after meeting your anxious and expectant gaze, and it's exactly as you feared.

"I'm not seeing much of a difference from when I last looked him over," Shoko states as her hands fall away from either side of Satoru's head, the glow of cursed energy softly dissipating from around them. "Structurally, he's more or less the same. There are no more physical abnormalities left for me to fix."

While that should feel like more of a relief for you to hear, it's still capable of sending a painful surge of realization straight to your gut. Because it means that whatever has happened to Satoru is more complex than what a round of reverse cursed energy therapy could hope to fix, and that you don't really have any more answers for what to do about it than you did yesterday. Shoko can, and has, mended even some of the worst physical injuries, but ultimately can't turn back the clock on altered neurons and synapses. You suppose there really are only so many laws of nature you can get away with breaking.

After the reality of it all settles in the pit of your stomach, you look to where Satoru sits so seemingly patient in his kitchen chair, eyes casually flitting between you, Shoko, and everything else that catches his attention in the room.

You wonder what he thinks about, wonder if this is all as mundane and inconsequential to him as the look on his face would lead you to believe. Maybe you're the only one bothered by this situation in the slightest. Maybe you're the one whose neurochemistry needs a tweak.

Satoru breathes easiest out of everyone in the room.

You envy the sort of bold manner in which he's always existed; even now after all that has happened, he takes up space so unapologetically, daring to move forward with the life he was given a second chance at living. If there's any apprehension about it in his heart, it isn't apparent to you in this moment.

Shoko walks over to the window above the kitchen sink, cracks it, and rummages through her pockets while asking, "Can I smoke in here?"

You glance at Satoru who, as you suspected, has nothing to say on the matter, then offer Shoko a quiet nod for an answer.

A flame flickers and ignites the end of a cigarette while you escort Satoru back to the living room, sparing his lungs of the smoke and ears from the conversation you'd like to have with an old friend. He seems displeased as you rejoin Shoko in the kitchen, but rather quickly diverts some of his attention back to the television once realizing you're still well within his field of view.

"You want something to drink?" you ask, preemptively reaching for a mug from the cabinet.

Shoko leans back against the counter and blows a puff of smoke out the window before replying, "Got anything with a kick?"

Your brows shoot up a fraction despite your lack of genuine surprise, and there's a hint of a tired chuckle beneath your voice when you say, "Uhhh, sorry. I don't think so."

Shoko flicks a few ashes into the sink and keeps her eyes trained on the man of the hour, melancholy as ever with her pensive stare. "Figures. Wonderboy never really did care for it much."

A glass pot still sits full of freshly brewed coffee from not long before Shoko arrived, still steaming when you lift it to the rim of the mug you're holding. You hope it will do in lieu of a stronger beverage, as you don't have any of her usual poisons of preference.

"Is coffee good?" you ask before pouring, just to be sure.

Shoko replies with a nod. "Yeah, coffee's good."

She eyes the hot liquid as it fills the cup and then takes another gander at your face, making a subtle assessment with tired yet keen eyes.

"How about you?" she asks to break the silence. "Are you good?"

You don't even look up until the coffee pot is back on the countertop and you've had a moment to think about what your answer to that question really is. Because you aren't entirely sure.

"Well…" you start, sliding Shoko's mug over to her, "about as good as I can be, I guess,"

You take the notion to pour a cup for yourself then, all while more ashes flutter into the sink and a frigid breeze blows in from outside.

"It might not be like this forever, y'know," Shoko says. "Sometimes things like this change; they can get better with time."

You peer down into the dark pool of your drink and struggle to cling to a silver lining.

"Yeah. I guess so," you reply, memories pulsing through your mind like they've made a habit of doing recently. As if reliving them could really have any chance of making you feel less lost in the present.

There's a spacey distance in your gaze as you reflect, remember. "I just think about how he was dead. And how I couldn't feel his heart beating anymore." The words nearly have you choking and stumbling over them, the stillness of his chest beneath your palms and fingertips a sensation you won't soon forget—colder than the coffee in your hands. Though relaying it to someone like Shoko would be like preaching to the choir, you think.

"But I could hear his voice, and… I wanted to stop it from getting too far away." You had never loved the sound of a voice more than in that moment—never wished you could grab onto a sound with your bare fists as much as you wanted to then. "But… what if we weren't supposed to do what we did?"

Shoko appears unshaken and unconvinced by your rhetoric. "Sometimes patients flatline but a doctor will keep going on the slim chance they might get another heartbeat," she says.

You cock a brow in her direction, wishing it were that simple. "I don't think most doctors have cursed techniques, though."

"No," Shoko takes another drag, a breath of smoke. "But I think you were just trying to save someone's life." Exhale.

Of course you were. Everyone has gotten tired of attending funerals.

"And it worked," Shoko adds, putting her cigarette out in the sink. "Because he's sitting right there—the real deal." She takes a sip from her mug and gestures towards Satoru in the other room, sitting pretty in all his revived glory. "And if you ask me, I think he's pretty grateful for it."

You aren't sure what to think about that, because you certainly weren't expecting it. Of course, Satoru clearly had plenty of affection to offer you these days, but you hadn't necessarily thought of it as gratitude up until now; if anything, you'd chalked it up to a lack of memory and cognitive function—maybe even overcompensation—because for all you knew, he could've been convinced you were someone else half the time. But to think of him not only being completely aware of, but also grateful for the actions you took to help him back then… it was almost more frightening than believing he barely even knew who you were at all.

You turn to look at Shoko with a curious, furrowed brow and inquisitive eyes. "What do you mean? How can you tell?"

She pauses for a moment, gaze trained on her friend in the distance. "It's just a feeling."

She was hardly ever the type to prioritize a gut feeling over an immutable fact, but she did happen to know Satoru better than just about any other living soul on the planet—probably even you. He always kept most people at a gangly arm's length, and you're sure you had never really been the exception. At least for the most part.

So it only makes you further beg the question of why. Why you? Why was the responsibility primarily on your shoulders for a man whom you used to, at times, not even be entirely sure would care very much whether you lived or died?

You would often indulge in the fantasy that perhaps he did. That perhaps the occasional lingering gaze or bright, dimpled smile he bore was due to the fact he happened to harbor an inkling of fondness for you.

There was a chattering bird of sincerity singing faintly within the cage of Satoru Gojo's chest, and as you'd dare to get close enough to press an ear to his ribs for a listen, the song would fade away until you were met with deafening silence. The canary in his coal mine. Or so you had managed to convince yourself in all your wishful thinking, anyway. That was back then.

It would be easy to pretend now. At least for a little while. But there are already more than enough servings of guilt left sitting on your plate.

"I don't… really know what to do." You lean your elbows forward onto the counter and shield your face with a pair of defeated hands. "I'm supposed to be a sorcerer, not some sort of caregiver. But I can't just… leave him."

Shoko tosses her cigarette butt out the window and closes it with a firm push. "Yeah, well it's unfortunate that he seems to have taken to becoming your shadow," she says, wracking her brain for a way to convey the empathy she feels. It's never exactly been her strong suit, but she's not quite as removed from the situation as she wishes she could be.

It takes her a moment of watching you wring the exasperation out of your face like a masseuse for her to continue.

"Nobody really meant to put all this responsibility on you," she says, her tone an ounce more delicate than usual. "It's just… I don't think any of us knew exactly what to do either."

You release a sigh of resignation, turning your head to look over in her direction. "Yeah… I know."

You don't blame anyone but perhaps yourself for the current state of things, and for having these lapses in gratitude after getting exactly what you had asked for: Satoru. Alive. And hopefully less encumbered by the burdens of his existence than he was before.

But you're still left to stumble through the aftermath, taking shot after shot in the dark with the hope you don't end up failing him more than you might already have. A divine answer from the heavens would be invaluable right about now, but you're not really in the position to be asking for any more miracles.

"But you're doing alright, y'know?" Shoko adds before finishing the contents of her mug. "He's safe, he's eating, he's sleeping—probably even better than he was before, honestly."

You can't tell if she's being sincere or just trying to make you feel better, but you suppose there wasn't too much of a reason for her to pacify you. She had never really been the type.

"Hell, he even has that big, stupid smile on his face again," she adds, cracking a hint of one herself. And she's right—he grins at the TV with the same dazzling smile as he used to, his propensity for joy not lost even after all that has happened.

"And you're note alone in this. He might be your new personal little duckling, but nobody expects you to deal with this entirely on your own." Shoko places her empty mug in the sink and stands up a little straighter, stretching out her spine. "That sort of thing is what got us into this whole mess in the first place."

There's a glimmer of hope attempting to flicker within your bones, because maybe she's right; maybe, at the very least, Satoru isn't as bad off as you thought he might have been under your care. And maybe it's not as isolating of a situation as it had seemed at first.

Nobody has to be alone anymore.

"Don't forget to give Ijichi a buzz if there's something you need," Shoko says as she moves to collect her coat, "and if anything changes with his condition, you know where to find me."

You trail behind her as she prepares to leave, clinging to the last few moments of company and support.

"I feel kinda bad making Ijichi run around like that."

"Don't," she insists. "I'm pretty sure he's just happy to be of some help."

Whether it'd been food, clothing, or something as simple as a bar of soap, Ijichi had shown up at your doorstep every time without fail, but you've tried your hardest to keep the requests to a bare minimum. It might be worth it to have him bring a few more of your personal items over, though. Maybe even a futon or a cot.

"Thanks, Shoko," you say, finally putting your appreciation into words. She offers a subtle smile in return; nothing exuberant, but something sincere enough to let you know she's in your corner. Shoko might be as jaded as they come and about as hard to get close to as the likes of Gojo or Nanami, but she's never been in a total deficit of kindness.

"Just keep an eye on Humpty," she replies before opening the door to the cold, and Satoru is alerted by the sound from the other room.

"Don't worry," she notices and calls out to him, "I'm not gonna steal your girlfriend."

Those words are like a thousand little butterflies soaring from your ears down to your stomach.

"I'll see you later," Shoko says more quietly to you, then turns back to the ever-vigilant Gojo. "Be good, Satoru. Try not to cause any more problems."

And with that, Ieiri steps outside while you close the door behind her, making the space belong to you and Satoru alone once more. You take a few moments of silence to yourself as he gradually settles down in the distance, fully reassured by how you weren't the one to leave.

But as Shoko's words ring through his ears and echo in his skull over the next several minutes, Satoru finds himself dealing with his own kaleidoscope of butterflies.

And a boyish, satisfied smile starts spreading across his rose-colored face.

He is reminiscent of a child reuniting with a parent after a day spent apart, overcome with joy and unable to properly contain it, though his affections couldn't be any less familial. He leans forward and presses his lips to your neck as though it is the appropriate response to his elation, crossed wires in his brain signalling to him that this sort of affection will surely please you as much as it does him.

His condition is difficult to understand, and you wouldn’t call yourself properly equipped to deal with it, but there is simply no other option but to try; Gojo won’t let anyone else try, the horrible rattling in his skull consuming him when deprived of your presence for too long. Yuuta had described the look in his eyes as “frenzied and lost.” You were told that the infirmary still needed repairs.

Once he returned to this world, your initial thought was that Satoru had been stripped down to his essence, reduced to something seemingly quite simple yet difficult for the average person to understand—a bare-bones creature of instinct. But it was more complicated than that, and you had to understand, or at the very least try to.

This was the new weight placed upon your shoulders; it was either cater to this new version of Satoru Gojo for the sake of everyone involved, or find a way to send him back into the icy arms of death. You were often caught between which option sounded worse.

However, when met with the sweetest and most earnest of his smiles, your bones were frosted with guilt, and you regretted ever entertaining the idea of letting him go again.

You stumble over getting him to perform necessary tasks and be further than a few meters away from you at any given moment, because it seems that, upon his revival, Satoru equates you and only you with the very spark necessary to keep his fire burning. It’s more than a little unnerving given the fact that you’d never so much as even kissed prior to the loss of him, and now his neurons only fire off every happy memory he’s ever had of you, every positive thing he’s ever felt, no matter how stifled. It's like you're the center of his world now, and he can’t even verbalize it, but as each day passes following his awakening, you’re starting to gather that much on your own.

You can’t be frustrated for long, however, because his cheerfulness is contagious, his enthusiasm making you feel loved even if it is somewhat smothering.

Is this selfish of you? 

The man's lips travel slowly across your skin, pacified by your presence, your taste, and ignoring the grumble in his stomach. How does one differentiate the types of hunger? You don’t attempt to fight him off, but rather exhale a defeated sigh in response. It hasn’t been long that you've been tasked with this responsibility, but it feels as though you’re frequently fighting a losing battle and failing him all the same. It’s so peculiar, so very unnatural… but still, you have to try.

“Satoru, please…” you beg, voice delicate in his ear and a hand settling at his nape. His nerve endings come alive every time his name leaves your lips. The bell. “Just one bite? Can you try for me?”

That seems to do the trick, as you’ve gathered. Satoru pulls himself back, hyper-aware of the tone in your voice and suddenly willing to comply. He’s more than eager to accept the spoon into his mouth when you offer it, placing your fingers beneath his chin and carefully bringing the soup up to his lips. He swallows it with ease, the task literally more palatable now that you’ve reminded him of how badly both you and his body would like him to complete it.

“There,” you say, satisfied and offering a faint, exhausted smile. He grins widely in response and hums, no longer capable of words of his own, but his simple noise expresses his glee with efficacy. Satoru decides to punctuate it by pressing the tip of his nose to yours for good measure.

It feels wrong to enjoy these subtle moments of intimacy with someone who doesn’t appear to be in his right mind, but who are you to say whether he is or not? There’s obviously still an agency he possesses, a heart full of emotions, and a mind surely teeming with thoughts that you wish you could be privy to.

He might be different now, but part of you wants to say with certainty that the old Satoru is still here with you somehow—you can sense it. He chuckles at certain images that flash across the TV, and still gets a kick out of teasing you to some degree, so to diminish that seems like a disservice to him.

You’re unable to deprive him of the happiness your closeness provides nevertheless; in fact, it’s obviously rather dangerous for you to even try and do so. Satoru’s conscious recollections are filled primarily with you, but his body is still more or less the same as it always was—the vessel of his clan’s power, the strongest sorcerer on earth. Or so it used to be. You’re not sure to what extent he truly has access to these abilities, but part of you doesn’t wish to find out. For now, you care for him, placate him, re-learn him. Nothing is certain about the situation other than the fact that he apparently needs you now more than ever.

Your eyes soften at the warmth he exudes, and you wonder if he really remembers who you even are—or were—to him. It’s not worth pondering over for now, however. He needs to eat.

“Another?” you ask, testing to see how willing he is to fulfill your wishes. Satoru often easily complies once you’ve initiated the task and expressed satisfaction in him taking part, but all of this is still so new and experimental; you never know when he might decide to switch gears.

However, still smiling, he nods, and you bring another spoonful of soup up to his lips for him to swallow. It pleases you to see him finally getting something into his stomach, and he can sense it, taking it upon himself to further your agenda and simultaneously realizing just how gratifying it is to fill his belly.

“Good,” you say, and he feels rewarded. He is crowned by your praise. Exalted. You take him to the greatest heights with the simplest of words.

You place the spoon back in the bowl and Satoru takes it in his grasp, feeding himself without quarrel while you observe. Most of his motor skills appear to be intact as far as you’ve seen despite the cognitive and behavioral changes, and if someone were to look upon him from afar, you’re fairly certain they would never know the difference. But you’re still trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together little by little, deciphering each bit of information and also determining just how deep his attachment to you really goes.

Why did it end up being you? Why do you suddenly seem to be the only thing that makes sense to him in this entire universe?

You can’t answer that, he can’t answer that, it’s just the way it is. Satoru doesn’t need to know why you nearly consume his every thought, he just knows that you make him happy, and that’s truly all that counts in his version of the world. He’ll chase it on instinct until death decides to take him again; he won't tolerate anything that stands in the way, for those bloody, incessant days of endless sacrifice are now finally over. He doesn't intend on wasting his second chance on them again.

Leaning an elbow on the table, you turn the possibilities over in your mind as you silently watch him eat. A life has been restored, but yours has been turned upside down, and you have to figure out just exactly what you’re going to do about it. You suppose that taking baby steps ought to be the best way to make progress, but how do you make space for someone like this out of the blue? You’ll have to give it your best shot.

Satoru finishes drinking down the remaining broth of his soup, and you pose a question.

“Would you like to go for a walk with me today?”

He sets the bowl down and looks over at you, eyes assessing your features and mind processing what you’ve asked. He hasn’t been out much in the days following his return, but you don’t see any reason to keep him cooped up inside if he happens to respond well to a casual outing. Taking him for a stroll outdoors seems like an appropriate way to test the waters.

Satoru smiles and nods, recalling memories of how your skin would look when touched by the sun. He’d be glad to accompany you outside if it meant he would get to see you glow once more, radiant and warm. The center of his universe.

“I think it’ll be nice,” you remark with a grin, an ounce or two of weight being lifted from your shoulders at the positive shift. Baby steps.

Reaching out to take your hand, Satoru squeezes it in his own to convey his agreement. It’s as if he’s trying to say, “everything is nice when I’m with you.”

“Oh, that’s right,” you say with a small shake of your head, bearing a defeated smile and feeling rather silly for your oversight. 

It's been a challenge becoming acquainted with someone else’s home amidst everything else, responsibilities stacking upon responsibilities. However, Satoru continues to prove that he can recall more than you initially thought; that he can, at times, act almost as your guiding light. A little ironic, you think. A little pathetic, too? No, you are human, after all. Just as he is.

He smiles in return. You swear there's even a hint of a familiar teasing glimmer in his eye, unless you're starting to see things.

(You aren’t.)

For once, you are grateful for the rather serene nature of the school’s grounds as you stroll across them side-by-side with him, much like in days from a not-so-distant past. The remaining fallen leaves from the trees dressing the mountains rustle with the wind, colored by the touch of death but still beautiful all the same, just like something else you know.

“We can always go back if it gets too cold,” you remind him, his campus home easy to circle back to should you take the notion. You fear he might've chosen to freeze himself into another early grave if that was what you wished, and you can’t fathom the idea of making him suffer simply because he thinks it pleases you to do so. Your happiness is somehow his, and although this is a new quality you have yet to decipher, there’s still something about it that strikes you as indulgent and rather characteristic of a gluttonous Satoru Gojo.

He doesn’t respond, gaze flitting across his surroundings as he walks, nerve endings and six eyes absorbing a litany of information. A silent Satoru used to be a rare occurrence but is now the default, the air somehow punctured by the lack of his voice riding along it. However, his presence is still stark, his being brimming with energy as if to make up for the words he can no longer speak. 

Unbeknownst to you, he communicates with you not only with his physical body, but with his feelings, too—waves of energy that he projects outward on instinct, hoping you’ll have the means to grasp what he is trying to say even if he isn’t always sure what it is. It has been rather unsynchronized and haphazard thus far, but with each day that passes, your ability to hear him grows.

You can hear him now even with the only sounds being the breeze rushing in your ears and leaves crunching beneath the soles of shoes. There is something somber about him, more than usual, mixed with that same sense of being lost in a world that feels brand new. 

All of it is familiar to Satoru on a physical level—the paths, the buildings, the foliage—but what prickles his mind is attempting to piece together the myriad strange feelings that arise as he is faced with more and more reminders of a past that he can’t fully recall. 

It’s as though the memories are trying to surface but can’t quite fuse into something tangible, something concrete, like when you feel a word forming just at the tip of your tongue but it never arrives. He can sense them deeply in his body, almost experience a brief image flashing like lightning through his mind before it disappears. Satoru’s frustration is palpable, and he reaches for your hand.

Icy-cold fingers nipped by winter intertwine with yours, tethering him in place as his fractured mind aches with the burden of obscurity. His physical affection is new to you, but you allow it—welcome it, even. As much as the sincerity contrasts with his past avoidance, it is yet another thing you can’t bear to turn down, not after everything that’s happened. 

You hope it isn’t simply guilt of all things compelling you to accommodate him, but wouldn’t it be equally as bad to do it for selfish reasons? Could one misconstrue it as taking advantage, of feeding off his need to satisfy some part of you that had always wanted him?

The various implications make your head swim with conflict, so you force yourself to leave them be for now. Satoru is only holding your hand, nothing more, at least for the moment.

There had of course been instances of his lips pecking against your own, wandering down to your neck, his palm settling on your waist as if to draw you closer… but you’d always managed to divert his attention in one way or another, severing the connection before either of you could become too engrossed in it. He never seemed overly perturbed to shift direction, but you couldn’t help but wonder just how long his patience might last, and if you’d be able to figure out what you even were to him before then.

Needless to say, nothing could have ever prepared you for something like this. What drives you forward more than anything is your contentment with the fact that he’s here walking the earth with you, as whole as he can be after having been stolen from the arms of death. And despite the abundance of challenges, part of you can’t help but feel special for being chosen to face them.

When your feet bring you near the school’s entrance, gates opening way for a path down the mountain, Satoru stops dead in his tracks, alert like an animal that’s suddenly caught a scent. His grip on your hand tightens, heart plummeting into his stomach as something takes hold of him, something he likely couldn’t put into words even if he had the ability to speak.

You turn to check him over with your gaze, concern etched upon your features at the sudden change in pace.

“Satoru…?” you call softly, yearning for the chance to be able to peek into his mind. All you can do is feel the chill of his demeanor.

His name dripping from your voice earns a split second of his attention, but he is, for once, captivated by something else.

Pierced gut. Blocked throat. Summer sun and the sounds of putrid buzzing. Violated.

It’s a memory that lives in his body but not his conscious mind, an instinct telling him to heed the surroundings for a threat that once was. He relives it with a rapid heartbeat, knows it bears importance, but he can only recall shreds of information that don’t merge together to form a full picture. He simmers in mounting frustration.

Black hair. Sharp eyes. Boiling blood—the brink of death.

Satoru turns on a dime and faces a figure in the distance, on guard and brimming with a sort of defensiveness you’d never quite seen before, at least not coming from him. Muscles rigid, he squeezes your upper arm as if to warn you, to keep you close, his extraordinary senses absorbing information quicker than you can even pivot to see what it is he’s looking at.

From around the corner of a building emerges Megumi, clad in warm clothes and a mellow disposition. His distinctly unruly hair makes it easy to identify him even from where he appears down the path, hands in his pockets as he strolls towards you upon recognition. 

Satoru’s mind runs through calculations as the young student approaches, attempting to distinguish and fill gaps and create something he can take hold of as a semblance of fact.

Black hair. Sharp eyes. Something… different? 

Megumi’s cursed energy burns in a recognizable way, striking Satoru as peculiar as he instinctively studies it with his six eyes. But it makes sense to him—it’s familiar, even if he struggles to trust it in full. This is someone he hasn’t met since his awakening, but someone his eyes have certainly seen before.

You can sense the fear radiating off Satoru’s being and into yours, the presence of someone other than you agitating his already troubled state. You must act.

“Look, it’s Megumi,” you say softly with an encouraging smile, encasing his hand with your palm and hoping that your positive reaction helps to take the edge off.

Satoru is reluctant to avert his gaze but does so anyway, blue darting in your direction to witness the pleasantness of your features. You appear to trust this person, and he trusts you, so despite the pounding in his chest, the sorcerer relaxes his grip.

You guide Satoru to take a few steps forward with you to meet Megumi as he draws nearer, a tired but welcoming smile turning your lips upward to greet him. It’s nice to see the boy alive and well in the aftermath of his own debacle—or at least as well as someone could possibly be. You wish there had been something more you could’ve done to help him recover, but it was known to many that you happened to have your hands full at the moment. Hopefully he will understand.

“Hey,” Megumi utters quietly, eyes scanning over your face and then his teacher’s, trying briefly to assess your respective states.

“Hi, Megumi,” you respond, appraising him yourself. He seems to be all in one piece, which you had been informed of but yet to see with your own eyes. It’s nice to have visual confirmation. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he replies quickly, flatly, minimizing himself as usual. His voice is more sincere when inquiring about your well being. “And you?”

You grin, searching for a way to sum up your experience without overwhelming him. “Hanging in there,” you muse with a breathy chuckle.

There’s no use in worrying him with all the details of Gojo’s current condition and how it has subsequently flipped your world upside down, but Megumi is shrewd, and you’re sure he can come to some sort of conclusion, especially when briefed by the others who have better eyes on the situation.

Megumi awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck, skirting around vulnerability and concern as his next question arises. “Gojo-sensei… how are you doing?”

Satoru has been silent all the while, of course, but sorting through every detail while you and his former student exchange pleasantries. Neurons fire, rewiring frazzled connections, giving him a glimpse at how this boy is not the same as the one he bears a resemblance to.

Megumi isn’t sure what sort of response to expect; in fact, he feels silly for expecting one at all, posing a question that he’s fairly certain can’t be answered directly. But how else was he meant to conduct himself in such an interaction, to show that he cares? To speak as if Gojo weren’t even there would feel like even more of an insult.

You’re caught in the middle, watching Satoru’s face and seeing the gears turning in his head.

“I think we’re all just… learning how to adjust to things, y’know?” you reply with a rather vacant smile, turning back to Megumi who picks up on your subtext with ease. Rather than speak for Satoru, you’ve made a blanket statement to provide just the slightest bit of feedback, and Megumi is well aware.

He nods his head with a short hum of acknowledgment, doing his best to see his mentor in this new light—one he never thought would be possible, not when it came to someone who had always claimed to be so strong. But at least there is a light at all.

The wind tosses leaves around between the three of you, filling the silence with its quiet whispers. You wish there was more to be said. You wish you had a solid grasp of how well Satoru truly is doing.

“I think Ieiri said she wanted to see you soon,” Megumi states, acting as a courier, trying to fill the space with words.

You nod. “Yeah, we’ve been in touch. We’re actually meant to meet up with her tomorrow.” It can't come any sooner, you think. You're absolutely itching for some answers.

“That’s good,” Megumi replies with a sparkle of hope in his tone, then reluctantly adds, “and, uh… just let me know if I can do anything to help, okay?”

You respond to his gesture with a warm smile and say, “Thank you, Megumi. That’s very kind.” You don’t have immediate plans for taking the young man up on his offer, but you appreciate the sentiment regardless. He deserves to rest and seek peace, not fight any more battles for the sake of others.

A twinge of pink colors the apples of Megumi’s cheeks, and he recedes into the scarf wrapped around his neck, unused to accepting grace from others without feeling inclined to quarrel about it. He is at a loss for words, somewhat eager to make his escape before the vulnerability has the chance to further consume his dignity. You take that as something of a cue.

“Well, we—” you start, preparing to make a closing statement and depart, before being interrupted by a sudden movement to your left—Satoru, breaking free from his fixed state to perform a familiar gesture.

As if finally making a connection, he grins and mimics the Ten Shadows hand configuration for summoning the Divine Dogs, clapping his palms together and examining his student's reaction with ardor.

Megumi is startled out of his prior embarrassment, somewhat baffled by the sudden communication attempt and the implication that his mentor perhaps actually remembers who he is. It’s a pleasant surprise to you both, and a moment or two is required for it to sink in.

Your face lights up with glee, heart warmed by the simple action in a way that’s difficult to express. Megumi appears to be in a similar boat—taken aback, but ultimately stricken with joy.

A modest smile creeps upon Megumi’s lips as he softly mirrors the motion with his own hands, acknowledging Gojo’s revelation. “Yeah…” he says, voice faint yet pleased, “Divine Dogs.”

Every brief glimpse into Satoru’s thoughts feels like a blessing, and this is certainly no exception. It’s refreshing to watch him have a moment of sincere connection with someone other than yourself, and it leaves you glowing with hope for the future as you bid Megumi farewell and make your way back home.

“Head back, Satoru,” you command.

Water splashes into the bathtub as he cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling as per your gentle request, a cup full of liquid streaming through his hair and rinsing out the shampoo suds along with it.

After returning home from your walk, you’d prepared something for dinner and eventually gotten Satoru into the tub for a bath before bed; yet another activity that seemed to get a little easier every time you did it.

Figuring out how to get him to bathe had initially been quite the challenge, but you'd managed to devise a method that'd been getting the job done rather well thus far. He might’ve looked somewhat awkward sitting cramped in the shallow bath with a pair of swimming trunks on while you rinsed him with an old plastic cup you’d excavated from the cabinet, but it was the most effective way to get him clean and preserve both your dignities whilst doing it. Though you were the only one who seemed to be concerned with such things.

Satoru blinks when a few soapy droplets backslide into one of his eyes, causing him to squint, scrunch, and rub it with his fingers until the uncomfortable sensation eases. He looks at you, almost as if to say, “Hey! That burns!”

You chuckle and shake your head with a playful roll of your eyes. “That’s why you’re supposed to close your eyes, goober.”

He wants to submerge in a pout, but your playfulness rids him of the inclination. Satoru instead shifts his focus to the beauty of your frame perched upon the edge of the tub, a beacon of divinity as you cleanse him with care and devotion. He takes the notion to express an inkling of gratitude by leaning forward and placing a kiss against your lips, lukewarm water rippling around him as it gradually cools.

You’re somewhat stiff and unresponsive, the sudden gesture catching you by surprise as it usually does, but you don’t chastise him for it; in fact, it takes a certain level of concentration for you to avoid letting your thoughts linger on his current state: hair slicked back; flesh exposed and glistening with droplets of water; lips warm, wet, and eager for reciprocation…

Your mouth receives his but does not encourage him for more than a split second, pulling back gently from his advance until you can see Satoru shiver as the water chills his body. His eyes are glued to your face, waiting for a reaction as you prepare to make one more pass over his hair with the cup to see that he is fully rinsed, this time using your hand to shield his eyes from any back-flow (and from your expression, which is surely indicative of your now rapid heartbeat).

The action is enough to distract him for the moment, but Satoru is still on edge, teeming with infatuation and need. He is unsatisfied with your response—or lack thereof—and is frustrated with his inability to express it, but your hands carefully wiping drops of water from his face act as a temporary pacifier.

“Alright, let’s get dried off and ready for bed,” you say, standing to fetch his towel from the rack and bring it back to him before reaching down to trigger the tub to drain. “We’re going to talk to Shoko tomorrow.”

Satoru is less concerned with the meaning of your words than he is with how lovely you sound while saying them. He is once again caught in your spell, entranced by the need to be closer but settling for the scraps that you give him—for now.

You aren’t convinced of his comprehension of what you say, but nevertheless, you use the saccharine tone to deflect from the overwhelm of watching him stand and observe your every move as you help to dry his chiseled body.

Satoru is tall and looming, morbidly scarred in the midriff, but compliant with your ministrations. However, his easygoing nature doesn’t keep your hands from wanting to shake against the towel that slides across his skin. You wish you could torch every thought in your mind, switch your brain off to preserve the strength and sanity that remains. 

You aren’t sure how long you’ll be able to remain steadfast and maintain this cycle of “temporaries” until something eventually changes. And what if it never does?

You suppose the only thing you can do for now is try your best and wait to see what the future holds. It certainly can’t be any worse than what you’ve already been through, especially now that Satoru is by your side once more. That is something you’ve realized you wouldn’t trade for anything.