Work Text:
i. summer
When Gojo thinks of summer, he thinks of three very specific things: melon flavored ice cream, cheap mint cigarettes, and a small serving of cold soba. They all pop up in his head one way or another as sweat trickles down his back. It’s a constant reminder of the small, inconsequential things he took for granted when he was still, arguably, freer. When he still had nothing to fear yet had so much to lose.
He stands inside the konbini , blue eyes glued to the ice cream freezer. It’s a familiar act, reaching into the freezing depths and grabbing a single, sweet treat, before hopping over to the cash register, rattling off a brand of cigarettes that’s not meant for him. It’s so familiar that right after buying those two things, he walks out of the konbini and goes a few feet down the street before stopping in front of an old, dingy, and suspicious soba restaurant.
Going inside is even more familiar, the plastic bag hitting the side of his thigh as he scoots inside a booth, hands already reaching for the menu a part-timer gives him. He glances at the menu for a few seconds before saying a single order— zaru soba —and waits.
A warm cup of tea is placed in front of him, and he utters his thanks. His hands automatically reach for the plastic bag, taking out the ice cream he bought moments before. He goes through the motions, the rhythm tattooed into his body, and rips the flimsy wrapper apart. He’s met with a green popsicle with tiny ice crystals latched on its sides—inviting and cool. He takes a huge bite of it, the icy, sweet flavor immediately translating to a prickling pain in his mouth. He swallows.
The part-timer comes back again, just when Gojo has already eaten half of his ice cream, and places the zaru soba on top of a bamboo tray in front of him. He faintly hears someone telling him to enjoy his food but all Gojo can focus on is the small portion of soba in front of him, supposedly tantalizing, but hardly anything amazing. Gojo reaches for the plastic bag again and takes out the pack of cigarettes, placing it across his seat.
He knows it’s odd—the sight of a grown man having lunch with a tiny box of cigarettes and a completely demolished ice cream popsicle keeping him company. He removes the blindfold around his eyes and folds it neatly next to him, blue eyes glittering under the warm light. He doesn’t notice the stares from the few patrons inside the restaurant, instead keeping all his focus on the meal in front of him.
Itadakimasu .
Fine chopsticks meet his hand as he lifts the buckwheat noodles and shoves them inside his mouth. Uncouth, disgraceful, a complete opposite of his supposed image but Gojo finds it calming somewhat, to break something that’s expected of him. Immediately, the stares decrease.
The noodles taste bland to him, lacking the sweet flavor he usually craves, but he continues eating anyway, reminiscing, sighing. It takes him about ten minutes until he’s finished every last bite, stomach full and mouth satiated. Gojo stares.
It’s summer but he’s the only one here.
He folds his hands together in prayer, eyes fluttering shut, and whispers his thanks.
When he’s finished, he gets up, pays for the meal, and leaves the restaurant without another look back.
On the table, the pack of cigarettes, the empty bowl of soba, and the torn ice cream wrapper remains.
--
What took you so long, Satoru?
Oh, just here and there.
You can’t keep disappearing on us. Ichiji’s having so much trouble because of you.
It’s summer, Shoko. Don’t you think I deserve a break?
Did you go back?
What do you think?
Summer’s ending, Satoru.
I know.
ii. fall
Blood pools around his feet but the only thing running on Gojo’s mind is that it’s a good thing that blood isn’t his.
A handful of corpses—curses—lie by his feet and he gracefully avoids them, whistling a soft tune under his breath. Ichiji congratulates him for a job well done, for exorcising over fifty grade one curses and one special grade curse with minimal casualties.
His hands are pristine, his outfit just much as well, but the glaring red sticks to his eyes, unchanging, unmoving. This too, is familiar, the torn bodies, the spilling blood—except this time his arms are free, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers as he hops from one tile to another, a carefree smile on his face. He tells Ichiji he’ll drop by a local confectionery to ease his growing hunger and the incessant itch at the back of his throat. The man complains, followed by a plea, but Gojo’s already long gone, teleporting right in front of the shop.
When he enters the store, he’s immediately greeted by a harmony of scents. His nose picks up on caramel, chocolate, milk, butter, and ah—he licks his lips, smiling. Gojo approaches the glass display of treats, mouth still curved into a grin when he spots a whole row of the blinding colors.
He sees more of the red—ribbons, roses, red velvet cakes—and Gojo closes his eyes. He breathes in deeply through his nose, swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth, and turns his head to look at another row. This one is a muted shade of brown, full of chocolate sweets that’s sure to melt in his mouth. Comfort surges within him and he immediately buys three, asks them wrapped in those cute tiny boxes with a blue ribbon on top— to match my eyes, you see and the cashier blushes the same horrid red—and leaves the shop with a brown paper bag around his wrist like a chain he can never get rid of.
When he walks out, a crowd breaks out, a rush of human limbs and human heads, wandering the many streets around him, leaving Gojo with a bitter taste in his mouth. He sees the entrance of a train station not too far from where he stands, its mouth open wide swallowing seas of bodies, and Gojo, a parting divide.
Well, he can if he wishes.
He can cut through that sea, his own eyes a vortex brewing up a storm, fingers poised in what can only be a threat, a death wish. It’s easy, familiar, a habit sewn into his loins. He blinks but the target he wants to meet, wants to hold on to, catch, seize, pull, is nowhere to be seen. He lowers his hand, the one that isn’t holding on to the three boxes of chocolate cakes, and lets it hang limply beside him.
At the corner of Gojo’s eyes, a stranger laughs with his friend, mouth stretched to the limits, the sound echoing, bellowing, in Gojo’s ears. One of them glances at the confectionery, points to a tart on display, then trips on his two left feet. There’s a crack on the otherwise safe and solid sidewalk and the other person laughs it off, already catching their friend before they can fall.
Gojo stares at their easy smiles, unaffected by the possibility of breaking a bone, of losing a crutch, of being alone in a messed-up world with no one to stay by your side.
Gojo watches them disappear into the crowd and he takes this as his cue to return.
When he gets back to where Ichiji’s stationed, the man almost whimpers, fear going through him because in the end, Gojo still has another mission to do and they’re running late by about fifteen minutes. A tragedy, really.
Gojo only laughs, waving a hand before going inside the car without another word. Ichiji scrambles to get inside, reminding the strongest not to take his time because there are still people waiting to be saved. Gojo huffs.
Outside his window, a leaf falls from a branch, its color a mixture of red and orange, of rust and blood. Gojo closes his eyes and lets the shadows cage him in.
--
Gojo-san please don’t disappear like that. The higher-ups will get mad.
Oh, let them get mad. All they can do is bark with no bite.
If you want sweets, we can arrange someone else to buy for you.
But sweets are best bought in person! See!
How many did you buy, Gojo-san?
Hm, just three.
Three?
Three slices of cakes!
Ah, for who?
Just for me.
iii. winter
Gojo Satoru doesn’t get any breaks. Instead, he gets brief respites. A cube of sugar in his otherwise wrongly ordered black coffee. A surprise almond in a small dumpling. A fifteen-minute nap in the back of a black car.
When he gets home it’s half-past midnight. Quite lucky if he thinks about it, especially when it’s Christmas Eve. The missions assigned to him were all done in a jiffy which was basically his way of saying stop giving me work during the holidays, especially during a day of death.
At the entrance of his home, another pair of shoes greet him, and this shouldn’t be a surprise but sometimes he forgets. It’s familiar but it’s strange, especially when he feels as if the ice is swallowing him whole, like the snow outside his window decided to grow inside his organs and make his body a living home.
The lights are off and Gojo should be stumbling, should be out of his wits what with his freezing hands and shivering back but he’s still standing straight, still in control, still the strongest standing in his not-empty apartment.
Not-empty because there are two pairs of shoes in the genkan , one his size and the other smaller, belonging to a boy. Not-empty because there are two steaming mugs on the coffee table—one cocoa and the other coffee, judging from the smell alone. Not-empty because he sees a small body curled on the couch, slender arms wrapped around a plush toy that strongly resembles a wolf.
Gojo releases a breath, a puff of warm air, white and weightless, appearing inches from his mouth. He shrugs out of his jacket, heavy and stifling, and approaches the sleeping body. He’s light as a feather, or he thinks he is, because the boy stirs, eyelids fluttering, head turning. When the boy’s eyes open Gojo learns to stay still, learns to keep the cold inside his body. He doesn’t want a blizzard in his own house, after all.
There’s a question lingering in the air amidst a sleepy gaze, but Gojo makes no move, says not a word, and instead watches as the boy unwinds, arms stretching over his head. He blinks and furrows his brows and all Gojo wants to do is step back, leave his apartment, and look the other way.
But he can’t. Rather, he won’t.
The boy sits up, eyes misty, crusted with sand, and tilts his head to the side. He watches Gojo carefully, as if he’s fragile, as if he’s vulnerable, as if he’s just a man close to crumbling. It’s familiar, it’s natural, it’s automatic–the way he approaches the boy and falls to his knees. His invisible crutch has been snatched after all, torn away from him and taken as a joke meant for him to simply get over it. He buries his head in the boy’s arms and snuggles in deep, trying to get as much of the warmth into his system and kill that frigid source inside of him.
He's vaguely aware of the tremors, the shivers, the sniffles racking through his body. He even catches a few sobs here and there but he never dwells long enough to figure out the source. He only burrows deeper, almost suffocating himself in the soft fabric, the warm touch, until he feels a pair of cool hands drag his body upwards.
He follows like a doll, bending his legs, straightening his back, while the boy looks at him with a twisted scowl on his face. Slender fingers slip through his blindfold, removing them with ease. Gojo closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of sweet yuzu , and shudders. The hands stop moving, a moment’s hesitation, but they resume, this time slower, more careful. Gojo feels himself fall.
There are words and there are actions, but in this dead of the night, nothing is spoken. Gojo allows himself to be held, to be touched, to be tugged unmoored across a darkened sea with nothing but himself as the load, a heavy package dropped on the ship’s lonely back. There’s a breathless sigh and click of a tongue but at this point, Gojo’s too tired, maybe even scared, to open his eyes.
He hears his name, soft and delicate on someone’s tongue, warm and scared in his ears. He tries not to melt because it’s familiar, but all things strange.
Gojo always finds himself restless during these nights, during this particular night, but when there’s a pair of arms around his shoulders, pulling him close, he discovers that this too, is a brief respite.
He opens his eyes, raging blues meeting calming greens, and he falls, not into a freezing sea, but a warm forest taking root in his lungs.
--
Do you want to talk about it?
About what, Megumi?
That.
That?
A simple no would suffice, Gojo-san.
Gojo-san?
Now you’re just copying me.
Megumi.
What is it this time?
It’s cold.
I’m holding you, aren’t I?
Hold me some more.
iv. spring
Gojo feels out of place in the shop but at the same time, not really. A plethora of scents assault his senses but he keeps his face impassive, calm, unaffected, as he sweeps the whole store with a piercing gaze. A variety of colors meet his eyes—red, yellow, pink, blue, violet—before they land on the purest of colors. He doesn’t ask for the name, simply asks for the flowers to be wrapped in the most inconspicuous wrapper there is. When the florist finishes, Gojo gazes at the black bow tied at the base holding every little stem together. He has the urge to dig in, inhale that intoxicating scent, but he stops himself midway, shaking his head.
He makes it quick, the payment, the interaction, but then he sees a familiar shade of blue and suddenly, he asks for a bouquet of that as well. It’s small and tiny but Gojo likes the way it feels in his hands. The cashier mentions how the blues are actually violets, and that its meaning is something very sweet and that whoever it’s for, is a very lucky one. Gojo agrees too.
When he leaves the shop, he feels as if a weight has been lifted. He’s light, he’s walking on air, he’s on his way to the konbini at the end of the corner of the street.
It’s funny how the cashier immediately looks at him with huge eyes, glancing at the two bouquets in his arms. Gojo doesn’t comment or give an explanation and instead asks for a pack of cigarettes— the strongest, yeah, the one in black . They ring it and mention the price. Gojo fumbles to get his wallet to pay but he almost drops it to the floor. A laugh escapes his mouth, amused at the whole situation, before getting his bearings. He pays for the cigarettes without a hitch, ignoring the cashier’s slightly apprehensive look. When he leaves, he has two bouquets in his arms, and a packet of cigarettes in his pocket.
He walks further down the street, a slight hop to his step, when he passes by the familiar restaurant. There are patrons inside, eating their own meals, slurping their noodles, and Gojo almost goes inside, the routine engraved into his soul. However, he pulls back, pauses, drops his gaze to the flowers in his arms. The white and blue mixes in his vision until it’s a jumble of colors. Where it ends and where it begins, he doesn’t know.
When he glances at the restaurant again, he realizes he isn’t that hungry. He realizes it’s just a force of habit.
Gojo forgoes the whole walk and teleports inside the school, just a few steps away from the clinic. There’s a crooked smile on his face as he knocks on the door before sliding it open, uncaring of the person inside. When he announces his presence, his friend scowls from behind a white desk, mouth free of any candy or any stick that’ll only ruin her health.
Before Shoko can even complain, Gojo reaches into his pocket and drops the box of cigarettes on the table. Shoko shuts up immediately, eyeing the dark package with mild surprise. In her eyes is a question, one that he always sees but always ignores. This time, he shrugs, lips curving into a sad smile.
You finally got it right .
Gojo snorts but makes not comment. Shoko has long outgrown the taste of fresh mint on her tongue. She’s traded the bite of soothing menthol for a harder hit, one that will make her cough out blood if it means feeling alive. Gojo can’t blame her though, for wanting something different, something unfamiliar because he gets it. Familiar can also mean too much.
Her eyes land on the flowers and an eyebrow is immediately raised. Gojo smirks this time and immediately rejects Shoko’s words, even if they haven’t been spoken yet. No, they’re not for you, his eyes say. Shoko scoffs at his face but waves him off, already thankful for the cigarettes on the table. Gojo smiles, a hint of an apology hidden within them. They don’t talk about it, they never did, but Shoko sees it anyway and nods her head, understanding written in her eyes.
It’s not much but it’s a start.
He leaves Shoko’s room and this time; he teleports to the southernmost part of the school. It’s a makeshift graveyard, a huge plot of land with small stone slabs stamped with a name on it. There are no bodies underneath because even in death, the school, the society, the curses, can never own a sorcerer’s body. Should never own their body.
Gojo walks around and spots the small, stone slab he erected himself. However, there is no name, simply a smooth, grey surface. He fears the name would also act as a curse, a chain to his self who’s already years into the future but still stuck in the past. Gojo crouches, one knee on the ground, and lays the white flowers—lilies, he’s come to remember—and folds his hands together in prayer. He isn’t religious but he thinks his friend deserves this much, this little. It is spring after all.
When he stands up, he stares at the unwritten name across the stone and shakes his head. Things will change and seasons will pass but if there’s one thing Gojo knows, everything is a cycle. The wind plays with the tendrils of his hair and for a moment, he thinks an answer is being whispered to him. However, the meaning is lost. It’s always been lost to him.
Gojo chokes out a laugh and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he realizes he’s back in school, particularly the dorms. He stands before a familiar door, one he’s walked into numerous times before to bother one specific person. He can already see the scowl on the boy’s face, matched with that curious yet petulant gaze. Gojo rocks on his heels then stares at the flowers in his arms.
He doesn’t want to regret anymore.
He knocks, a poor excuse for normalcy, but the door opens right away. When Gojo sees green he sees vines entangled around his limbs, a new type of chain, but one that’s warmly welcomed. It’s brimming with life and the good thing about it–or the bad thing, he hasn’t made up his mind about it yet–is that he can easily cut it off and be free. Easily burn it to a crisp and kick away the ashes whenever he deems so.
When he sees green, he sees leaves on branches, flowers on a stem, promises on a skyline that whispers hope and comfort and all things in between. When Gojo sees green he sees a blessing because after a cold, heartless winter, a blossoming, warm spring always follows.
The boy eyes him warily then lowers his gaze at the small bouquet in Gojo’s hands. The boy stares.
Gojo doesn’t say a word, simply offers the flowers and shoots him an unreadable smile. He’s not expecting anything, it’s only an adult’s whim after all, but he’s still surprised that the boy takes it with careful and gentle hands. There’s a hint of awe in the child’s face and Gojo learns to look, to watch, to stare at this new vision.
He hears a muffled thanks, followed by a trademark grunt, but the faint blush on ivory skin gives Gojo pause, a shot of adrenaline running through his veins. Summer has long passed, and so has fall. Winter has given way to spring and who’s Gojo to fight it at all?
Gojo opens his mouth.
--
We should go out.
What’s gotten into you? First the flowers now this?
It’s spring, Megumi. You can’t be cooped up in your room during this season!
No, what’s really gotten into you? Are you sick?
I’m not! I’m feeling better than ever, actually.
I find that hard to believe.
I’ll make it worth your time.
Let me go get my jacket, then.
Ah, I knew you’d agree, Megumi.
Will I regret this?
Well, I won’t.
Huh? Why’s that?
Because it’s you, Megumi.
(This time, I’ll choose you.)