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Satoru wonders if it’s Nanami calling the ocean towards him.
The moon is pale and bright, light reminiscent of his hair and the tie that he uses. Satoru had once laughed at it when Nanami met up with him after his first day of office work. The waves crash into each other softly, like smoothing out creases on sheets of a duvet. The sun slowly moves down beyond the horizon, making way for the moon to hang on the sky. Satoru hates that this ritual of self-sacrification is a natural cycle— shamans and curses having to die while vying for control.
Good versus evil. The good using more evil to fight evil. Evil ultimately defeating the good. How long more of this hell will the future generations have to fight against?
He stares at his students— Nobara taking pictures, Yuuji playing with Megumi’s hounds, Megumi strolling along the shoreline.
Satoru didn’t really understand what Geto meant when he asked if he was the strongest because he’s Gojo Satoru, or if he’s Gojo Satoru because he’s the strongest, but he thinks he does now. In the entirety of his life where he has known that he is the chosen one — the first one in a century to wield both the six eyes and limitless techniques — suddenly life feels meaningless, having had his identity built on the idea of power and strength, and that outside of the gifts that have been bestowed unto him he actually surmounts to nothing.
Riko Amanai. Misato Kuroi. Yu Haibara. Suguru Geto. Kento Nanami. The thousands that have died through his whole life as a shaman.
Apathy is for the best, his emotions always tucked away in the deepest parts of him— but it doesn’t mean that they don’t exist, and they’re bound to come up and set him falling down a landslide. There’s no denying that guilt weighs upon him like an avalanche, entrenching him in a dirty darkness.
The dead are always silent; what they leave behind can only become a curse that works for the good or for the worse, and so the ones who are left to pick up the pieces must not scream either.
He remembers the box of cigarettes that Shoko had tucked into his pocket with a wink and he takes it out, sighing. Another crash of ocean waves, and he wonders bitterly about what Nanami would say to him if he sees this plight of his. He snickers at the thought of a deadpanned Nanami, and shakes his head as he slots a stick in between his lips.
“Oi.”
He turns around, and it’s Megumi raising a brow at him, fingers snatching the cigarette away and throwing it aside. A breeze blows against his face gently, caressing his skin, as if telling him you’ve done well, you’ve done your best, you’ve always given your all . If there truly is a place where Satoru can call home in the midst of this cruelty, it’s in the next generation of shamans he is trying to raise up to be the promise of a better future. And if there is a place where Satoru can be unravelled in his moments of vulnerability and to find rest in, it’s in a certain Megumi Fushiguro.
“All right, all right. Geez,” Satoru sighs, raising his hands up in defeat; Megumi is just like that, always knowing his way around Satoru, or rather, Satoru has a too soft spot for him and he tries his best to listen. He makes sure that Nobara and Yuuji are occupied with whatever they’re doing, and he pulls Megumi down by the hand, inviting the boy to sit beside him. Their fingers find each other, intertwining as they hold hands, hiding them from view behind their crossed legs. Satoru smiles, heart fluttering, chest warm— sought comfort.
“You know that I’m always here, right?”
And Satoru turns, only to find himself looking into a lucid gaze belonging to its owner: Megumi, who is swathed in moonlight and gentleness. Satoru’s rebuttal dissolves on his tongue when he sees his own image in the gleam of Megumi’s eyes, remembering that he bears his light, and him, his. It’s in the rare moments like this where he comes undone, letting himself feel so violently and yet so tenderly. The crashing of waves finally evens out into a gentle sloshing as the sun completely goes to rest. And as the silence sinks in, Satoru watches the way Megumi’s lashes flutter softly against his lower eyelids with each blink, warmth seeping into tired bones as exhaustion is replaced by fondness.
He squeezes Megumi’s hand in reply, and the way his hand is warm against Satoru’s coldness leaves him wondering— what has he done to deserve this sweetness, this sanctuary? And Megumi answers, knowing his thoughts, his brokenness. “You saved me. You saved Itadori. You saved as many lives as you could. You didn’t have to, but you did.”
Megumi looks around, and when he sees that Nobara and Yuuji aren’t looking in their direction, he pecks Satoru on the cheek, “And even if you think I may have no reason to embrace you, the fact is I still do.”
“Sensei! Megumi! Come here already! I want to take a group photo,” Nobara yells from where she’s at, and Yuuji is waving frantically at them, his face radiant with a smile. Satoru is reminded that Yuuji said he doesn’t want to regret the way he lives— and even after Shibuya, he still smiles, he still exorcises, he still carries on the weight of the world with a hope for the future by constantly defining the purpose of being a shaman.
His lips curl into a faint smile. And then he looks at Megumi, still relishing the wetness on his cheek from cherry lips. Maybe he isn’t a curse to those in his life after all.
“Let’s go, Satoru. Home is calling out for us.”