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The spring breeze was gentle and forgiving. It was afternoon and you had just remembered to tend to the crops planted outside your small cottage house. With half-lidded eyes and fingers still pulsing with cursed energy, you quickly hover the watering pot over the herbs and growing vegetables. The spray of water nimble enough to not drown but lingering just enough to quench their thirst. An exercise done with the care and patience of someone who'd been doing the same thing for a year.

You look back at the cottage as you water, hoping the man inside would be as forgiving as the breeze. You knew fully well of his intentions when he went into the fight, of his consent for his body to be used as a weapon, and of his longstanding wish to be with his best friend, his one and only. The fact that you didn't object to any of it at the time he declared them made this present situation all the worse.

Once you could tell they were watered enough, you set aside the watering can and look over the setting sun. The orange streaks on the sky a direct contrast to Satoru's ocean eyes, irises you have not seen since shinjuku. The blinding sun is akin to what once was his bright snowy hair, which was now a shade of silver, a shadow of what it used to be. All of which made you wonder if you were doing the right thing, bringing him here and healing a body no one had bothered giving a burial.

He had already died when you found his body. The tears of his students on his shirt long dried. Sukuna had been exorcised by Yuji. The site was simply a cemetery for the lives lost in the war against curses. The sight left a bad taste on your mouth and a jab to your stomach.

After healing the last of your share of patients, everyone but those on clean up duty had left, only then did you get to see tragedy of his uncollected body.

It was cold and rigid, his torso stuck to his legs held together by rushed, sloppy surgical threads and cursed relics wrapped around his waist. It felt like a punch in the gut to behold him in this sight. An expression of freight so foreign on his face as it was left by Yuta. And a damning stitch right accross his forehead, a job done with no regard for how it would look recovered. The more your eyes analyzed the reckless abandon of neglect and abuse on his body, the more your chest clenched around itself.

The final shot was one to the heart when he had passed his last exhale, a post-mortem wheezing as you cradled his body, signaling that his lungs were empty. It felt like a cry, a call for care and for help. A wheeze a sick child makes to beg his mother to cradle him. And it broke you.

You fell to your knees and held his corpse. That was when you had the irrational impulse to take his body, under the excuse of post-war trauma and turning over a new leaf— you ran away.

It's been around a year since then. You're well versed and even better in the art of using reversed curse energy techniques than you were in the war. Which was how your garden of undying crops came to be. You had the power to spring a field of flowers from unfertilized soil with a flick of the wrist, potent enough to also bring a dead man back to life.

Although Satoru's body has been recovering since, he hasn't woken up yet. While a big part of you is anxious that you fucked his body up even more by defying the laws of nature, a small part of you is relieved because you're not exactly sure what to say to him.

"Hey, I know you lowkey wanted to die on December 24 because that's Suguru's death anniversary and you wanted to share it with him, but I highkey went insane and brought you back to life hehe haha" ?? Fuck ?

"Tsk tsk" The sound of crickets knock you out of your thoughts. It's nighttime. Which means its time to bathe his body again. You went over to his room. His body laying in the last position you left him. Walking over, you reminisce to your high school years together. He really doesn't look different at night, when his scars are barely made visible by the moonlight and his hair isn't illuminated enough for its dullness to show. He just looks like the same teenage boy who would ask you to wake him up in the mornings because he couldn't wake up on time for missions by himself.

You hold him in a princess carry and walk over to his own small bathroom. It's the same style of carrying he used to ask for as a teen when you would finish a mission or training session together, claiming he was too tired to walk by himself. A younger version of him who still had hopes and dreams for a future in which he lives. Maybe he'd let you carry him again when he wakes up, and you'd do it if it meant making up for disrespecting his last wishes.

Finally, you set him down. Slowly and reverently stripping his clothes, you check for any bruised spots that might need more care in handling. You learned by experience that his comatose body bruises easily when he's left laying in one position for too long.

While filling up the tub, you talk to him. "Please don't hate me. " It's a soft mutter pressed against his hair.

"The kids have been all right. I visited them yesterday to check up on them. Nobara misses steak and sushi with you. Yuji still makes ramen the way you like it. Megumi is secretly filling a recipe notebook with Yuji's recipes. " You fondly recollect. You hesitate to tell him it reminds you of his high school years together with Shoko and Suguru, opting to keep your mouth shut instead.

"They know you're here. I told them I gave you a proper burial." You stop again. Cold icy shame creeps from your chest and squeezes your throat. So you keep him alive just to tell him the world and his loved ones think he's gone?

The tub is full and you turn off the faucet. "I'm sorry." You whisper, pursing your lips. It's hard not to feel like your decision to revive him was incredibly selfish when you're face-to-face with a body that can't rest peacefully or live without constant care.

But it's not like you can just undo your decision and kill him. That would be worsening the disrespect you've committed against his sacrifice.

So you collect your self. You start by shampooing his hair, extra careful to not tug on his scalp—especially near the stitches where his head was once split open. It makes your hands quake, wracks tremors that have you holding a breath in an attempt to focus. Then, you prop him up by the edge of the tub and lather a body scrub with a cool, fragrant soap— the expensive kind— the kind that stays and makes other people whip their heads to catch the smell again. It's the same scent that greeted and clung to you when he used to come in for check ups and medical attention after missions.

You proceed to his neck and cradle his face, tilting it to make sure you get every nook around his ears. It's a routine, he gets bathed every night, often with a gentle soap, on Mondays like today he gets scrubbed to exfoliate the dead skin.

But each time you hold his face and cradle it in one hand, the other hand on his neck, the world goes quiet. With a head full of shampoo bubbles, eyes closed, and his lips slightly apart—it just doesn't feel like he's in comatose. He looks peaceful and well-rested, and it's a damning sight to behold; like he's simply closing his eyes and savoring the feeling of being cared for. A complete contrast to how he looks before when he was constantly on guard with a literal automated wall of infinity around him.

You take your time a little longer and scrub a little slower to savor this moment. Your palm kisses the soft expanse of his cheek, a pinky lightly supporting his jaw, a thumb ghosts over his cheekbone, and the rest of your fingers carry the weight of his head. When—or if— he wakes up, he'll probably be on his guard again, if not angrier.

Thinking of his autonomy you violated and his probable reaction, you resume to a normal, faster pace again. His bath goes without a hitch and you dry him off before putting him in warm pajamas suited for the night.

“why would you think that?” you ask gently.

“i don’t know,” he says, almost too casually. but it doesn’t land casual at all. “most people look at them with pity.”

you shift closer without thinking, your hand still resting against his waist.

“each one of them is like a little achievement,” you say quietly. “proof you never gave up.”

for a moment, he doesn’t respond.

then, finally, he lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh— but it breaks halfway.

“god,” he mutters. “that’s unfair.”

“what is?”

“you.” another pause, like he’s trying to steady himself. “saying things like that so easily.”

your hand drifts again, but slower now, more careful. over his ribs, his side, and finally over his heart.

“i don’t think it’s easy,” you admit, your hand moving to feel his heartbeat.

“you know what’s funny?” he says after a moment, voice quieter now. “i thought i’d come back and everything would feel the same.”

you wait, but he doesn’t finish right away. like the words are heavier than he expected.

“it doesn’t?” you ask softly.

his hand finds yours.

“not really,” he admits. “i used to be untouchable, but now i am littered with all these scars.”

your thumb brushes over his knuckles.

“i still think you’re as handsome as ever,” you say. “you‘ve done so much, toru.”

he shifts a little closer, like your voice is something grounding him back into the present. his forehead almost touches yours now.

“as long as my lovely wife thinks so..” he hums, “it’s just.. i kept thinking i‘d get to feel normal again.”

you glance up at him. “hmm, you were never really normal to begin with.”

that gets a small, real chuckle from him.

“rude,” he says.

“but that‘s not a bad thing,” you smile.

his arm slides around you then, slowly pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

“you’re staring again,” he whispers.

“i’m allowed,” you say.

“wife privileges?”

“mhm.”

he hums, settling deeper into the bed, into you, into the quiet.

his hand rests at your back now, steadying you.

“i like this,” he admits after a moment.

“yeah?”

“yeah,” he says, softer. “quiet mornings. just you and me.”

your fingers trace his scar one more time.

“me too,” you whisper, placing a delicate kiss on his lips.