Chapter Text
1:07 am
Fuck.
The subway stopped running at 12:30 am.
He'll have to run.
He's not wearing the right clothes. His slacks are bound to be uncomfortable, and he'll likely ruin his shoes.
But he has to run.
He's only been in this country for a week, but he knows the roads, knows exactly which turns to take, which signs to look for, who he needs to see.
His heart knows where it needs to be because his body remembers. Remembers everything.
Run.
*****
"We have a mission for you in Tokyo," his superior told him.
"Tokyo?"
Why he was being sent to an overseas mission so soon after graduation was beyond him. He graduated university just over three years ago and was perfectly content handling skirmishes within national borders. His assignments allowed him to return home at reasonable hours, have decent vacation days, sleep in the comfort of his own bed.
"Yes, Tokyo," his boss pulled out an envelope from his desk drawer. "The assignment details and your passport are all here. Your flight is scheduled for next week, so you have some downtime. I know you just returned from a difficult mission, and I wouldn't want you to overwork yourself."
He pushed up his glasses. "You know I'd never do that."
Laughing, his boss leaned back in his chair. "Of course. I should've known better."
The younger man flipped the envelope around, not yet opening its contents.
"Why Tokyo?"
“Someone in the office there requested you for your curse ability. Said it’d be useful for this specific mission. Plus you already speak Japanese, so there’s no need for a translator.”
“Hm,” the younger man furrowed his eyebrows. It’s strange. He can’t imagine that Japan didn’t have their fair share of able swordsmen. Why they specifically requested him seemed... bizarre. It’s not that he wasn’t a skilled sorcerer. In fact, he was one of the youngest sorcerers to be promoted to special grade in Denmark. He just figured that Japanese sorcerers would be better suited to handle Japanese curses.
“Think of it like… a vacation!” His boss exclaimed, interrupting his train of thought.
“A vacation,” he said with no amusement in his voice. “In which I work.”
“You’re an efficient sorcerer. I’m sure you’ll make time to try out some of the local cuisines while you’re there.”
“That’d be nice,” he tucked the envelope away in his jacket. “Before I go, can I ask who requested me?”
“Yes, of course. You may have already heard of him. He’s supposed to be the strongest sorcerer in Japan if not the world! The man with six eyes, they call him. His name is..”
The younger man already knew the name his boss was about to utter. It’s a name that followed him everywhere - school, work, conversations between other sorcerers. He never thought much of it. The Japanese shaman was famous, his name etched in nearly every major event in Japan’s sorcerer history. He’s so well known that his name became commonplace amongst European sorcerers. Still, he was never quite about to shake off the feeling that there was more to the name than he could grasp at.
He finished his boss’s sentence.
“Gojo Satoru.”
*****
Check the school first.
He makes a left turn.
Gojo has always been a workaholic. People often think he spends less time with his job because he’s more powerful and finishes missions faster. That wasn’t the case. Always taking on extra missions, filling in for his colleagues, putting in extra time for his students - no one did more than Gojo Satoru. The school, and more specifically his office, was his second home.
It’s late, Satoru. Come home, you can finish your work tomorrow. He’d always tell him, circling his arms around Gojo’s hunched shoulders as he worked at his desk, nuzzling his face into his neck.
Love , he’d respond with the utmost patience. Maybe even reaching a hand up to caress his cheek, rub fingertips along sharp cheekbones. You know you don’t have to stay here with me right?
I know. He’d sigh. But if I didn’t stay, then who’d remind you to sleep at night?
It’s unlikely that two decades would change age-old habits - the number of times he had to half-carry Gojo out of his study was honestly ridiculous. Now, he didn’t know if he wanted to find Gojo in his study or not. His heart longs to see Gojo musing over papers under a dim lamplight, and his chest twists at the thought of him being so close again. Though the image of Gojo curled up in bed, tranquil and on the verge of sleep, would be ideal, he’s not sure his legs could handle the additional distance. Fuck , he forgot how unkind the terrain at the edges of Tokyo could be, all steep inclines and sharp turns.
In the distance, he sees familiar characters on a well-preserved sign, marking a threshold that he has crossed countless times.
Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School.
He pushes down the ache in his legs. Ignores the way his shoes dig into his heels.
Keep running towards the entrance.
God, I hope he’s there.
Keep running.
*****
It’s so… spacious , he thought as he crossed the archway to Tokyo Jujutsu High School.
The campus was much larger and greener than what he was used to back home. Having gone to both sorcerer high school and university in Denmark, he was accustomed to training on flat terrains and open grassy spaces. It didn't do much to prepare him for the mountainous terrain of the outskirts of Tokyo. Then again, he never anticipated having to travel to Japan much less outside of Europe.
Adjusting his grip on his duffle bag, he walked towards the only figure in the vast courtyard - a white-haired man sitting on the steps of a large building.
"Hi, are you-"
The man stood up, towering over him. The sun illuminating his hair - a halo against the backdrop of autumn trees and traditional architecture.
"Gojo Satoru," he said.
Seeing him in person nearly snapped the other man out of his jet lag. Gojo was dressed in simple slacks and a black long sleeve that draped off his figure in a way that demanded curiosity from on-lookers. His eyes were hidden by dark rectangular wireframes sunglasses, and a thin silver chain looped through a ring hung around his neck.
"And you must be the sorcerer from Denmark," he continued.
He quickly darted his eyes away from Gojo’s figure and made a futile attempt to recalibrate eye contact. “Yes,” he responded and gave Gojo his name.
“It’s nice to meet you-” and his name sat differently on his tongue, shaped with a different accent. But Gojo holds it in the air with such care and relishes in the process of saying it so much so that the foreign man can’t help but become a little breathless.
“You must be tired. Let me show you to your room, so you can at least rest for a few hours.”
“I’d appreciate that very much, Gojo-san.”
“Gojo-san, huh?” He chuckled, laughter lines peeking from behind his glasses, making the younger man’s chest freeze unexpectedly. “Please, just Gojo is fine. I haven’t heard anyone call me ‘Gojo-san’ in years.” Gojo turned around, and the younger man was grateful to not have to confront his image head-on for the time being.
Get it together! You didn’t come to eye their superiors, scolding himself as he followed Gojo into one of the buildings. No matter how much he bickered with himself, he couldn’t stop his eyes from tracing the contours of Gojo’s back, lingering on the chain around his neck. Gojo was built like a statue, and the younger man wanted to stare as if he were a visitor in a museum, gazing at priceless art, hoping something would reveal itself if he mused long enough. But the sight of the white-haired man was too much, made his heart rattled in his chest in a way that didn’t make any sense to him.
A crush? No, he didn’t develop crushes this quickly much less on people more than twice his age. So why did he feel like this?
Gojo noticed someone approaching them from the other end of the hallway. The younger man wouldn’t have the time to question his heart. Perhaps it was for the best. There was no room for such a matter during a business trip anyways.
“Yuuji-kun!” Gojo pulled his arm out of his pocket, enthusiastically waving at the other person.
“Gojo, why do you insist on calling me ‘Yuuji-kun’ after all these years?” The man with pink hair stopped in front of them. His eyes widened as his gaze shifted from Gojo to the foreign man. He lifted a finger at the foreign man, “Is this N-”
Gojo elbows the pink-hair man. “Yuuji, don’t be rude going around pointing at people.” Strange . “This is our guest sorcerer from Denmark. I was just about to show him his room.”
“Oh, right,” Yuuji said, his expression still unsettled. “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Yuuji Itadori, one of the sorcerers and teachers here. You can call me Y- ah, Itadori. You can call me Itadori. And your name?”
“Nice to meet you Itadori,” he said with a slight bow of his head and gave the man his name.
“Ah nice to meet you too. I know you’re here for work, but I hope you enjoy your time here. Maybe Gojo will even be able to show you around some of the sights in Tokyo!”
“I’d like that very much,” he responded. In his peripherals, he senses a raised eyebrow from Gojo but never looks to confirm the motion, still hesitant to look at him. He was certain that he was being… observed. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was as if Gojo was anticipating something from him. What the older sorcerer was anticipating, he had no clue.
Gojo finally turned his attention back towards Yuuji. “Where are you headed to Yuuji-kun?”
“I’m on my way to train the first years with Yuuta. We thought they needed to learn some healing techniques before going on missions.” The pink-haired man glanced at his phone. “Damn it, I’m going to be late. I’ll catch you both later!” He said as he passed them.
Gojo sighed. “Like teacher, like student.” They continued walking.
“This should be the one,” Gojo pulled a key out of his pocket to unlock the door to the room. “Apologies for the hold-up before,” Gojo turned to directly face him for the first time since they met, and the younger man felt his heart seize again.
“It’s alright.” He really was built like a statue. The blue of the sky reached through the windows, drawing out cool hues in Gojo’s skin and hair that made him look like he was carved out of marble. It truly was a sight to behold.
“Please take all the time you need to rest,” Gojo said as he handed over the room key, their hands grazing around the cool metal. “I believe you already have my phone number, so just call or text me when you’re rested.” Gojo patted his shoulder.
The weather has been perfect since he arrived in Tokyo, not a single cloud above his head. Just never-ending expanses of blue. But as Gojo passed by him, he swore he saw a flash of something more infinite.
He fell asleep dreaming of drowning in the sky.
*****
The crash of a door.
He stumbles into Gojo’s office, quickly shutting the early autumn air behind him.
His eyes race around the room like a madman. Desk. Lamp, left on. Book shelves. Framed photos. Empty chairs. More photos.
He’s not here.
Fuck.
Exhausted, he collapses onto the couch. Heaves as he runs a hand through sweat-slicked hair, then cradles his head in his palms to hold himself together. As if he was trying to keep himself from crumbling and losing everything all over again. Legs both numb and sore from overuse, he laughs at himself. All this shaman training and he could just barely handle the hills of the Tokyo suburbs.
How pathetic.
Dispelling all the air from his lungs, he tilts his head up just enough to be able to look around the office.
Classy as always , he thinks as he spots a Tiffany lamp. His chest vibrates with a strained attempt at laughter - the familiarity both painful and comforting. He can’t bear the sight of his ghosts and buries his face back in his hands.
How pathetic.
Running after a past that was no longer his, one that he no longer fit into. Letting himself get dragged around by time like a fool. What was he thinking? Time passes, people change. Gojo changed, he changed.
Even Itadori - bright, radiant, resilient Itadori-kun - changed. The kid grew up.
He starts to cry.
Thank god he grew up.
And he’s kind. Of course he’s kind. He’s Itadori Yuuji. As one of Itadori’s past mentors, he knew that no matter how much cruelty the jujutsu world pummeled Itadori’s way, the boy wouldn’t be anything but kind.
And Satoru. His Satoru. Age treated him kindly, gifted him wrinkles and soft contours that were never there in their younger years. He wants to see him one more time. Didn’t care if it becomes his last or first of many. Because this entire week, he saw Gojo. Now, he wants to see Satoru.
Leaning back on the couch, he emits a breath so labored, he wonders if he inherited his old set of lungs too. No, that wouldn’t make sense because- Right. Those don’t exist anymore.
He checks his watch.
1:46 am
The room smells like comfort. Like old books, rich wood, and slightest whiff of something ambrosial that he always associated with Gojo. He inhales deeply, letting the familiar scents fill his body. Calm his blood, ease the dissonance in his head.
Two knocks on the door.
He jolts up.
Shoko lets herself in, briefly glancing at the man on the couch. “It’s you.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude,” he makes movements to leave, but Shoko waves for him to stay.
“Don’t worry about it. Gojo’s office is always open to old friends.”
Oh.
He turns her words around in his mind.
“You know,” he whispers.
It’s not a request for a confirmation. Just a quiet passing acknowledgment that he isn’t alone. Yet, no relief floods over him.
Shoko nods, leisurely walking towards Gojo’s desk. “Of course I knew.”
“How?”
She shrugs. “I just knew,” she says and continues to sift around the papers on Gojo’s desk as if this conversation were the most ordinary thing in the world.
“You’re taking this… much better than I did.”
Shoko chuckles, her laughter warm in the dimly lit office. “I had about a week to process you being back. Plus the help of these,” she flashes a pack of cigarettes from her lab coat.
“I see quitting didn’t work out for you.” The familiarity is, again, both painful and comforting.
“Can’t seem to quit much of anything in this job. Ah!” She pulls out a folder from a stack of papers. “Gojo you bastard. He was supposed to give this back to me two days ago.”
“In his defense, he was busy.”
“Hm,” Shoko stills, takes a moment to look him in the eyes and assess his answer. He looks back. There’s so much tenderness in her gaze. He missed this dearly.
“You were always quick to defend him. Still are,” she makes her way towards the exit. “If you’re looking for him, he’s most definitely in his apartment, but you already knew that didn’t you?”
He grins. “Of course.”
Just before Shoko could leave the room, he stops her. “Wait, Shoko.”
She halts in the doorway, turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Seriously. How did you know it was me?”
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but,” she waves her hand in his direction. “You look exactly the same. Maybe a little less Japanese, but by god you’re like a walking shadow.”
The hands that were once resting in his lap were now running along the lines of his face, trying to delineate his present and his past. It’s been so long since he has seen his old face, he wonders if he’d still recognize himself.
“But,” Shoko continues. “The moment I knew with complete confidence that it was you was when you said-"
*****
“Work is shit,” he swung his daggers, splattering black liquid onto the pavement.
Stretching his arms, Gojo chuckled.
He eyed the taller man with a raised eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s nothing,” Gojo responded. “Just… reminded me of an old friend that’s all.”
He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, handing it to the other man. Blood still coursing from the fight, he stared at the piece of white cloth gently fluttering against a grim background of concrete and carnage, then mused over the hand offering it. The idea of taking the hand instead of the cloth briefly crossed his mind.
“It’s for your daggers,” Gojo’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
Right.
“Thank you,” he took the cloth, and began wiping down his blades. Not many people carried handkerchiefs around these days. He was lucky that Gojo had one on hand because he detested carrying around tainted weapons.
“Let’s walk back to the school. It’s my driver’s day off, and the evening weather is quite nice.”
“Alright,” he responded, following Gojo as they walked side-by-side back to campus.
“Tell me more about your curse technique,” Gojo asked, somehow still chipper despite just fighting a grade one curse. “All I heard from your superior was that you can slice through anything at a set ratio. I thought I’d hear you talk about it during the mission, but you didn’t.”
Usually, he’d reveal his technique before a fight to gain the upper hand, but the curse they fought today was so damn stubborn that he never got the chance to speak much less utter anything about his technique.
He handed the handkerchief back to Gojo, and sheathed his daggers away in the scabbards strapped on his back in the shape of an X.
“My technique is called 3:7-”
Gojo snickered.
“Did I say something funny?” He turned to ask the other man.
“No no,” Gojo cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Something must’ve gotten caught in my throat. Dust from the fight perhaps.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” he responded, suddenly feeling as though he could’ve been more sincere.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Please continue. I apologize for interrupting.”
He turned his gaze away from Gojo. “My technique allows me to cut through anything at a ratio of 3:7. One of my daggers cuts through objects, cursed spirits, flesh, anything with a more or less corporeal form. The other one cuts through curse energy. I usually don’t dual-wield because the prior completes most jobs easily. I suppose today was an exception.”
“Ah, that explains why you were able to free me from the curse’s bind.”
“Yes, the spirit’s ability allowed it to manifest curse energy detached from its body and create pseudo-physical forms out of that energy. That’s why you couldn’t see or escape the shackles it materialized onto your hands and feet. The bindings didn’t extend from the curse’s body, so no one can see its attacks. With its power, it was able to solidify them around you without having to touch you.”
“And by the time anyone notices the shackles, it’s too late. How annoying.” Gojo rubbed his wrists. “That’s an amazing technique you have there. The Danish sorcerers are lucky to have you.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re really too humble. You’re the first person I met who broke out of a domain. With a single slice of your dagger too! I was prepared to break you out when the curse caught you.”
Without averting his gaze from the path in front of them, he knew that Gojo was looking at him and had likely been looking at him this entire conversation. Even with his glasses on, Gojo’s gaze was potent, drilling holes into his soul, searching for something neither of them could put a finger on. He didn’t dare look at the taller man and continued to train his eyes on the ever-approaching entrance of Tokyo High School.
“A domain is, at its core, curse energy, so it makes sense that I should be able to cut through one. Besides, I’m sure you would’ve been able to break out of the domain if you were in my situation.”
“But I didn’t,” Gojo said simply. “I didn’t break out of the domain, and this time you saved yourself.”
They reached the campus.
“‘This time’?”
*****
You do this every time, Gojo .
The beginnings of their last conversation rise to the surface of his consciousness as he walks through the courtyard. Not much had changed here since he passed. The same sturdy trees stood strong against the grain of time, waving at him as he walks by.
Old memories trickle into his new body like slow summer showers, gradually becoming more clear with each languid step he takes on the stone pavement.
“Come ooon, indulge me. Just answer the question, love,” Gojo wrapped his arms around his waist, spinning the shorter man to face him.
The question was a simple one. Something Gojo would always ask him before their more arduous missions.
Promise me you’ll come back alive?
“And if I don’t?” He teased with a raised eyebrow.
“I may have a different incentive for you.”
“Oh?” He brought his lips near Gojo’s, not quite touching, but close enough that he was sure the other man could feel his breath graze over his skin.
But Gojo didn’t dive into his beguilement the way he usually did. Leaning away and leaving the other man lingering, he reached one hand into his pocket and procured a small velvet box.
“What’s this?” He stared at the container, a little out of breath, completely out of coherent thoughts.
Gojo smiled. “I think you know what this is.”
He did. He knew exactly what was in the box, knew what he’d see if he were to lift the velvet lid. So he doesn’t open it. Instead, held his hand over Gojo’s obscuring the box from both of their views.
“Why now?”
“Like I said, I had an incentive for you. Think of it as an incentive to survive tomorrow’s mission.”
His gaze never left their hands. The box was still there. He felt it’s fabric under his hand, but that didn’t make it any more real. Opening the box would mean seeing a ring, one that he’d wear on his left hand. Such a small object, such a slight motion, so much weight. The thought of it made him dizzy.
“Do I not have enough incentive to stay alive?” He caressed Gojo’s waist with his other hand, grounding himself to reality.
“I figured a wedding would make an enticing offer,” he jested.
He stills his steps to properly indulge in the memory. Even the night before Shibuya, Gojo had a lithe enough heart to pull such theatrics, the imagination to picture them at their own wedding, the courage and recklessness to want a future for them.
His smile falters at the thought of his response.
“Propose to me after tomorrow. That can be your incentive to stay alive.”
“And yours?”
Finally removing his hand from the box, he reached up to caress his face, and Gojo let himself melt into the shape of the other man’s palms. Looking up into blue eyes saturated by starlight, he drowns himself to the depths of everything the universe had to offer.
“I have you, don’t I?”
He stares up at the night sky. The stars are always brighter in the countryside, but the light he sees - no matter how dazzling - is a mere shadow. How he longs to hold starlight again.
Gravity flips, and he’s being pulled off the ground. His heart tugging, yearning for the sky. He - Gojo Satoru - has always been there, just out of reach, out of mind, out of consciousness.
But now he remembers. Remembers how his universe was the sky above his head and the man in his arms and the silly little nothings they whispered into each other’s ears. Had he known that anamnesis would bring him such blissful torment, he would suffer through the agony all over again just to fall back in love with Gojo.
Commanding his legs to move, he runs towards the exit. His route mapped by the stars.
“Of course,” Gojo whispered into his lips.
“You'll always have me.”
*****
The woods surrounding Tokyo High stood stark black against the night sky, swaying gently upon their arrival back at the school. Dried leaves fell onto the ground like tumbleweeds, no one around to trample them to dust. The stark trees encompassed the campus, branches reaching towards the sky, protective. As they stepped onto school grounds, he breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that he wouldn’t have to deal with any more curses for the night. And it was in that moment of relief that he understood why so many people called this place home.
“I’m sure you’re exhausted,” Gojo turned towards him, placing them quite near the spot where they had first met. “But if you have time, I recommend you visit this location.” Gojo handed him a slip of paper. “I can’t come with you because I have some paperwork to finish for this mission, but this is one of my favorite places in Tokyo.”
“Thank you,” He eyed the carefully folded note, gingerly holding it between two fingers. “I wasn’t expecting to get any sightseeing done with how troublesome this mission turned out to be.”
“It’s your last night here, so might as well do something interesting. And it’s definitely not a tourist trap, I can guarantee that.” Gojo stared at him through his dark glasses, still, unmoving. As if he had more to say and was waiting for something to be said. Even the forest held its breath in wait.
“Well,” Gojo said, breaking the tension. He fidgeted with the ring around his neck. “It’s getting late, so I’ll let you go your own way. It was nice working with you, N-”
It was the wrong start to his name.
Gojo quickly corrected himself, but the slip didn’t go unnoticed. The other man brushed it off as nothing more than weariness from their work.
“It was nice working with you too, Gojo,” he said as he watched him walk towards his office.
Once Gojo was out of sight, he unfolded the slip of paper, noticing the intentionality behind the gesture. Noticed the quality of the stationary, the carefulness of each fold, the slightly less-than-fresh ink.
A handwritten note - one that was penned well before their outing today.
The address seemed so peculiar that he had no idea where it could lead him, and he didn’t have the energy to speculate.
He entered the address into his GPS and followed the route until he found himself in a cemetery in front of a modest tombstone.
It was well-kept. No signs of wear so it must be relatively new. Clean, belongs to someone well-loved. A bouquet of bright white chrysanthemums rested on the stone platform.
Someone not forgotten.
He crouched down to read the name, making way for the moonlight to shine onto the tombstone.
In loving memory of
Nanami Kento
3 July 1990 - 31 October 2018
28 years old.
Poor guy . Not much older than himself, but the number didn’t surprise him on account of the nature of his profession.
A slender shadow casted over the tombstone. When his mind came to, he realized that his hand was hovering over the characters - his urge to meet them inexplicable and magnetic. How his hand even got to where it was, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t remember raising it, didn’t remember extending his pointer finger, didn’t remember bringing his hand towards the engraving.
But he couldn’t pull away.
His index met the center of the character 七.
His breath hitched.
It was as if lightning struck his body, burying itself deep in the marrow of his bones until every fiber of his being felt as if it had been set on fire and left raw.
His head. Fuck. He could feel the cells beneath his skull stabbing at the other, raging hell in his mind, trying to make sense of the flashes of images racking around inside.
A tall man in a suit wielding a wrapped weapon.
Slender hands on his hips, pulling.
Forehead kisses accompanied by sunrises and sunsets.
Blue eyes.
Green glasses.
Fire.
A hand through his chest.
Nothingness.
Nanami screamed as his mind connected back to his body. His hand clutched his chest. The fabric of his shirt strained, keeping his nails from drawing blood from his palms. The surrounding trees shivered at the sight of the man curled into himself propped up by nothing more than a hand against a slab of stone, wailing for no one to hear.
If time passed, he was not aware of it. His own tombstone became the only thing in his sight, the only thing keeping him from collapsing over. If he clenched his hand hard enough, he could break the stone, but there was no energy left in him.
27 years’ worth of memories weighed on his being stronger than gravity, pinning him to the ground. He was Nanami Kento. At this moment, he was kneeling in front of a tombstone - his tombstone - and buried meters beneath it too. He was a mentor at Tokyo High and a student there years prior. He was a sorcerer in Japan and now a Danish sorcerer in Japan.
He loved food. He loved people and hated them too. Loved sharing food with people. Loved late weekend breakfasts with Gojo - both of them too stubborn to call it brunch.
He loved Gojo Satoru.
Sometimes the summer rain sneaks its way into the beginnings of autumn, pours when one least expects it. For Nanami, the summer rain arrived with the recollection of sky-blue eyes and one then two gentle tears down his reddened cheeks.
But the summer rain is temperamental, and he felt his body rise from the ground as more memories of Gojo flooded his mind, flooded his body and lungs until tears spilled down his face. This body isn’t used to drowning even though he lost himself to Gojo countless times in his past life. He struggled to stay afloat against the weight of the sky above his head and the water beneath his feet. Both pushing and pulling his mind, body, and soul as he teetered on the periphery of past, present, and future.
He wiped the tears from his eyes.
It didn’t matter if he knew how to swim, this body will have to learn how to run on water.
He checked his watch.
1:07 am
Fuck.
The subway stopped running at 12:30 am.
He'll have to run.
He wasn’t wearing the right clothes. His slacks are bound to be uncomfortable, and he'll likely ruin his shoes.
But he has to run.
He's only been in this country for a week, but he knows the roads. knows exactly which turns to take, which signs to look for, who he needs to see.
His heart knows where it needs to be because now, his body remembers. Remembers everything.
Run.
Keep running.
He keeps running even though the muscles in his legs scream as he tortures them through the streets of Tokyo.
So close.
Tomorrow, his flight departs from Tokyo International Airport, and he’d be back in Denmark. He’d sleep in a bed that was his but not Nanami’s, speak a language that Nanami did not know.
And he’d leave Gojo behind.
He feels like a fool. This whole week, he stood in front of the man, worked alongside him, but never once did he see him. Tonight is his last chance to say- To say what? To say “hello” and “goodbye” all at once? To say “I love you” and “I’ve missed you” over and over again until those become the only words he knows how to speak?
He sees Gojo’s apartment complex.
First floor, apartment number 103, near the staircase.
The door is right in front of him. His distorted reflection stares back at him on the metal plating with the number 103 etched into it. To his right, a small mailbox with the name “Gojo Satoru”.
Thank god he still lives here.
He knocks thrice.
From behind the door comes the creak of a chair and soft padded footsteps growing louder, closer.
Gojo opens the door to his home.
They freeze at the sight of each other.
Nanami’s eyes widen, briefly flickering to the ring at the center of Gojo’s chest before settling on azure eyes.
His mouth opens with years of unsaid words, and nothing comes out. His body moved before his mind knew what to say. And there is so much he wants to say,
His mouth hangs slightly ajar. He doesn’t move, and he’s not sure he needs to because Gojo is here , and Nanami remembers. He remembers all the things Gojo was to him before he died. Remembers the way Gojo wrapped his arms around his waist while he cooked, how their limbs would become entangled with their comforter when they slept, how Gojo liked to rest his cheek in Nanami’s palms, how they were supposed to spend a lifetime together. How they were supposed to spend that lifetime together.
Throat still constricted with the weight of a thousand words, Nanami knows what he wants to say, but Gojo takes the first leap. He always did. Always caught Nanami with ready arms when he wasn’t steady enough to hold himself up.
“Kento,” and it’s an affirmation and a wish and the start to a prayer only they knew.
“Satoru.” Their names, holy words only to be said by each other, and Nanami begins to cry at the sound of his name spilling from Satoru’s lips.
It’s been so long.
An eternity.
A lifetime.
“It’s you .” Satoru’s eyes crinkle at the corners.
Kento smiles through silver tears.
“It’s me.”