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The roof is always the first place he checks.
It’s instinct— there is something about this place that draws Satoru in, he knows. Gojo Satoru is the most powerful sorcerer alive, maybe to ever live, and so he knows better than anyone how to erase any traces of his cursed energy— but Kento is maybe the most patient man alive, or at the very least somewhere up there, and he has learned that even despite that fact, the roof will always have echoes of Satoru, even long after he’s gone. Maybe if you come to a place enough times you end up leaving an imprint of yourself behind. Regardless, Kento’s feet take him there first.
Satoru does not like to be found. It is always an ugly ordeal— some days worse than others. Sometimes upon seeing Kento he simply flees, and Kento must begin his search all over again. Sometimes he fights— verbally. Physically. Those are the times Kento is best at handling. On the worst days he does not look at Kento at all. Today is one of those days.
“You’re covered in blood,” is the first thing Kento says, when he finds Satoru standing near the edge of the roof, looking down. The building is one of Jujutsu Tech’s old safehouses, tall enough that finding a man painted crimson and leaning over the edge would be worrying, if the man weren’t Gojo Satoru. If the person who found him wasn’t Kento, who could easily catch him regardless.
A long moment passes where Satoru doesn’t move, simply stares over the horizon, wind howling about him. Then he turns, slowly to face him, blinking up at Kento before blinking down at himself. It’s like he’s just noticed the blood all over his clothes, his hands, splashed over his neck. He must’ve been standing here for hours, at least. “It’s not mine,” Satoru says, sounding distant. Kento had expected as much.
At the very least Satoru is responsive, which is a good sign. Kento hums, taking a few steps forward. When Satoru does not bristle nor flinch, Kento deems it safe enough to step closer. “You should get cleaned up regardless,” he says, tentatively waiting to see how he responds.
Satoru frowns, though he doesn’t necessarily protest. He seems reluctant to even consider leaving the roof, however. “How did you find me?” he asks instead, deflecting.
Kento pauses, studying him. What can he say? That he has learned to read the miniscule traces of Satoru's cursed energy by now, so worried does he get when Satoru disappears like this after a mission? That he has memorised every nook and cranny of Satoru's favourite hideouts, his go-to routes for when he de-stresses, the places Satoru frequents in order to forget himself? Kento fell in love with a man who knows better than anyone how to isolate himself. He is learning to love him in a way that ensures he is never alone.
“You're not as unpredictable as you think,” Kento says instead, reaching forward to tug Satoru's hand. It seems to catch Satoru off guard, but he doesn’t fight it, lets Kento’s skin press against his skin without Infinity to keep Kento away. This is a good thing. Maybe today will not be as bad as the other days.
Kento leads him to sit down, and when Satoru makes no move to run away or do anything equally stupid he heads to the nearest bathroom, where he wets the handkerchief he always carries in his pocket. When he returns, Satoru is still sitting there, rigid as he watches the horizon. Not for the first time Kento finds himself wondering what exactly Satoru is seeing. If he’s even seeing anything at all.
Kento kneels in front of Satoru, eyes trained on the way his hair blows wildly across his face, the strong winds harsh against his cheeks. Satoru has traded his blindfold for his opaque sunglasses, and how Kento wishes he could take them off, gently caress the dark circles beneath his eyes and have that gaze fixed on him. But he knows how it drains Satoru to see the world without a filter, and he knows how drained Satoru is already, his usual lofty smile nowhere to be seen. So instead Kento relents, eyes dropping to the blood all over Satoru’s front.
He never asks about the missions. Like any jujutsu sorcerer Kento knows there is no point in talking about things that only mean to haunt you, weigh you down. For Satoru the burden of his job is tenfold that of anyone else’s. Asking is the kind of thing students at Jujutsu Tech do. None of the adults that have survived have ever benefited from sharing their weight.
So he doesn’t ask about the missions, or even about the rooftop. He knows there is a reason Satoru comes here. He has no intention of prying, and he is even less interested in getting Satoru to talk, when Satoru can barely say a coherent sentence most days Kento finds him here. It’s fine, like this. Kento does not need answers to justify being here.
So he doesn’t expect it when Satoru opens his mouth to speak, voice low in the air between them. “I can take care of myself,” he says, almost lost in the roaring wind. Kento looks up briefly to see a sad, quiet smile on Satoru’s lips. “I’ve done it all my life.”
His hands curl into loose fists in his lap. Kento blinks, watching the movement. He doesn’t look up at Satoru. Just stares at his pale fingers, tainted red, and thinks of the truth of his words and the lack of truth, too. Satoru has had to fend for himself for much of his life, Kento knows. It is an occupational hazard to being the strongest, ever since birth. But killing monsters is hardly self-care. Kento has been there for enough of Satoru’s post-mission hazes to know that protecting the world and protecting himself are two things that hardly ever align.
But he is not here to debate Satoru’s way of living. Instead he just sighs, the long-suffering kind, and takes Satoru’s bloodied hands.
“I know,” Kento says, dragging Satoru’s fingers against the rough of his large palm. He takes the wet handkerchief in his other hand, starts to wipe the blood off Satoru’s nails. “Let me take care of you anyway.”
There is a long silence that follows his words, but Kento does not look up to see Satoru’s expression. The two of them share an aversion to sentimentality, and he knows it is hard for Satoru, to face such an unrelenting truth: that he could perhaps rest, too, and surrender himself to the hands of another. So Kento does not burden him with the weight of his own gaze. Instead he only holds his fingers gently, rubbing at the skin until they’re clean.
When he is done with his hands Kento moves to clean his neck next, but before he can reach out Satoru shifts, knocking his forehead against the broad of Kento’s shoulder. Kento pauses, surprised, but relaxes easily beneath him. Satoru’s warm breath tickles his collarbone.
“Satoru—”
“Let me stay like this for a little while,” Satoru says, a quiet murmur into his skin. Kento turns his head, nose bumping into the curve of Satoru’s neck. “Just for a bit. I promise I’ll leave you alone after.”
It’s almost a plea, child-like and gentle, like there’s even a possibility that Kento could say no. Kento’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, the handkerchief left forgotten in his lap.
“You don’t have to,” he answers softly, hand reaching up to card through Satoru’s hair. The shaky breath Satoru lets out at the touch makes Kento ache. “We can stay like this for as long as you need.”
It’s an unrelenting truth, sentimental and quiet: these are the hands that Kento has. They will always reach out, for Satoru.
Pylades: I’ll take care of you.
Orestes: It’s rotten work.
Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you.
— Anne Carson, Euripides