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Gojo lights a candle and places it on the apartment windowsill, the one that faces the fire escape and neighbors two threadbare armchairs. The orange flame dances cold in his eyes, and he stands, watching the divot of wax sink deeper into itself until time blurs into the perimeters of the fire.
The armchairs remain untouched.
He's the keeper of a shoddy lighthouse, a hundred feet above the sea of Tokyo, destined to teeter between hazy skies and concrete oceans. He's the melancholic village man shrouded in hues of blues and greys whose plaster smile slips into downturns quicker than he intends.
He's the wretched fool who's too dejected to even notice that his candle is nothing more than a candle — wax, wick, smoke, and the smell of “Reflection & Serenity” (whatever that means). A lighthouse is nothing more than a relic amidst a sea of sonars and navigation systems. His candle is nothing more than a candle, flickering, struggling against the beating waves of city lights.
Yet, neither he nor the fire fight against the city.
Gojo holds his breath.
Waiting.
He's always waiting.
Such is the nature of lighthouse keepers. They isolate themselves to greet disasters and travelers and disastrous travelers with a single beam of light. Gojo has stared out into the horizon for so long, his eyes have become a reflection of the lull before the storm, chaos masked by tranquility, black skies painted blue.
The Jujutsu High students see him as an unshakeable pillar. They see incomparable strength. They see blue. As they get older, they start to see the cracks, the facade, the chipped paint, and the uneven staircases. They learn to see in the cruelest of ways — blood-soaked roads, names and dates engraved into stone, warm tears on cold pillows.
When they return home, they look for the lighthouse, watch in awe as the humble candle continues to burn no matter what odd hours they return.
They learn, in the cruelest of ways, the manner in which lighthouses are built.
Gojo watches the world move around the lone flame. His fingers trail along the seams of his uniform until they find a loose thread. He tests the seams of his clothes and picks at his veneer as his eyes scan the streets beyond the window, beyond the fire escape. Sometimes searching for danger but always searching for-
He considers the similarities between the thread twirled around his knuckles and the blonde hair he used to run his fingers through. There are no similarities, but he maps the juxtapositions just so he can engrave old memories into fresh ones on the surface of all his senses.
It’s thinner, and his hair is blonde, not purple. His hair is softer, slots more easily between my fingers. Smells different, not like "Reflection & Serenity". Shorter. His hair is shorter. He’s shorter. I should cut this thread before I pull a hole in my shirt. He isn’t here to mend my clothes anymore. He isn’t here anymore… I need a haircut. I wonder if he’s gotten a haircut recently? Will I still recognize him?
They’re shadows of his original memories. On good days, they’re poor imitations, and on bad days, they’re dangerous delusions of the man he hopes to spot outside his window, climbing up the fire escape, following the trail of smoke all the way back to roaring flames and calamities. All the way back to Gojo.
He’ll grasp onto shadows if that’s all he can touch of Nanami.
So he pulls. Pulls at loose strings and delusions. He is the lighthouse that pulls sailors away from jagged rocks and turbulent waters.
Will he be enough to guide Nanami home?
He is a lighthouse — immovable, permanent. Nanami is a sailor who happened upon this desolate shore one particle of light at a time, helm slicing through infinite drops of water until his feet found purchase on rocky shores.
Nanami arrived in Tokyo, all sea legs, and the solid ground came unsteadily to him. Gojo approached him pieces at a time — white hair, gaudy glasses, lanky legs, effervescent laughter that struck like typhoon winds and warmed like a cottage hearth.
Gojo taught him how to wield a sword, gentle weather-worn hands overlapping on the hilt of a cool blade as the first autumn winds brushed their cheeks. When Nanami’s legs swayed at the unexpected stillness of land, Gojo was always there to catch him with strong arms, soft grass, and softer words on the precipice of his lips ready to be whispered into Nanami’s aching heart and kissed onto open wounds.
Gojo is a lighthouse — immovable, permanent; he’s a keeper whose eyes are trained to detect danger. Nanami is the sailor who happened to stay a while.
Together, they existed in the in-betweens — the moments that cushioned missions and heartache, long workdays and movie nights. Like the moment between waking up from a dream and realizing that reality - their reality - was fast asleep in flannel pajamas, drooling onto a pillowcase that will need to be washed the next morning.
And in these in-betweens, they'd whisper half-sentences. Ones they've said many times over, ones that will slip into timelessness. Tender words like:
Love you.
Breakfast?
Sleeping in.
Coffee or tea?
Hmm, don't move yet.
Ridiculous.
No, you.
The lighthouse doesn't exist solely to point a light at disaster. Sometimes it paves pathways on ocean waves, orange lines beckoning sailors to a place they might call home.
Might. Another in-between. An answer between yes and no that tugs either way depending on the day, and Gojo is a lighthouse, a keeper, a flame, a pillar destined to remain rooted on the cliff of a seaside town.
The village lighthouse keeper knows of a boy with blonde hair who is bound to the sea, whose destiny is to defy destinies, who breathes the ocean Gojo can only see but never touch.
Nanami is a sailor, more salt water than blood, and Gojo knows nothing can anchor a man with something to run from.
Gojo isn’t sure he can give Nanami something to run towards.
The lighthouse cannot chart the path of seafarers. Its light can guide ships around catastrophe and end days, but the ships’ paths are planned. No matter how dangerous the waters, how turbulent the storms, ships will persevere.
Maybe the in-betweens — the sweet words, the grey mornings, the autumn air on young boys’ cheeks — are meant to be forgotten. Maybe the lighthouse is also just an in-between. Maybe a lighthouse is just a lighthouse. Maybe it is something far simpler.
Gojo is bound to land, unmoving, watching the world move around his fire. He is a dynasty, a myth, a herculean tale. He lived a thousand lives in less than 30 years yet he had nothing to give when Nanami asked for something other than this — something other than crimson-soaked shirts, blade strapped to his back, and uneasiness when half the bed is left cold for too long.
Gojo didn’t try to change him. Never tried to.
A lighthouse is a rest stop for everyone but the keeper.
When Nanami masted his ship, Gojo was left with his heart in his throat and a blade between his ribs as he watched Nanami sail against waters he’ll never be able to feel. He watched until he could no longer see Nanami’s ship, until Nanami could no longer look back and see their home.
Is this still home?
Won’t you come home?
Gojo held these questions in his chest and held his breath to avoid breathing in the sea air that he used to taste from the corners of Nanami’s lips. Because Nanami is more ocean water than blood, and salt burns open wounds. He is an ocean to drown in, and Gojo always chose to linger in Nanami’s abyss so he could look up at the chatoyant waters cut from moonlight, resurfacing just to remember how lovely it felt to breathe life into his lungs.
The beam of a lighthouse signals the final stretch of a long journey. Nanami is the captain of a ship, and his only anchor lies in his heart.
So Gojo lights a flame just in case the wayward sailor with a heart bigger than this land can hold decides to return to shore. Should he decide to lower his anchor once more and walk close enough to see the face of the man behind the candlelight, Gojo will be there to steady his sea legs.
He leaves what's left of the candle on the windowsill to burn through the night. The armchairs will remain untouched. He will hold his breath until there’s nothing left. Tomorrow he will dispose of the wax and wick. Tomorrow he will light another candle.
He will leave it on the windowsill to burn through the night.
He will leave the armchairs untouched.
He will hold his breath.
Until there’s nothing.
Left.