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There’s a spot of blood on his cheek when he comes home, smudged across the corner of his lip.
It doesn’t come as a shock. Nothing about Satoru Gojo comes as a shock anymore - not when he comes home reeking of blood and sweat, the grime of cursed spirit residue clinging to his uniform.
His blindfold is crinkled, stuck to his forehead, and he looks a mess; always a mess, when he comes to you.
No one ever sees the aftermath of Gojo’s missions. When he comes home and his smile falls off like glass to the floor, and he takes off his blindfold only to blink away the glassiness in his blue eyes, the sweat and ugliness on his skin.
Because gods are perfect, and they are pristine and flawless, with nothing but their goods to their name.
In the aftermath of his missions, he doesn’t look the role he plays. The untouchable god becomes human.
Now, you know the routine. You wait patiently on the couch, stirring from underneath the blanket, your gaze darting towards the alarm clock. It’s 4:05 AM; not the closest he comes home late without sleep in his eyes.
“‘Gojo,” you prompt gently. “Welcome home.”
He keeps his blindfold on this time, quietly making a bee line to where you sit and wait.
There’s a weary smile playing on his lips. “Hi,” he says quietly, like this is your first time meeting.
You reach out with an open hand and let your fingers move to his jaw. You hold his face, and he lowers his head, pressing his cheek against the warmth of your palm.
“Rough day?”
“Not really.” He whispers, still pushing his cheek against your hand. “Never a rough day for me.”
You know otherwise. You can see the sadness that betrays his tired smile. You see the way his shoulders hunch, drooping with exhaustion. The way he seems to bend his spine like he’s carrying the weight of the entire world.
In a way, he does carry the weight of the entire world. And you can only wish to tell him that he can share the burden, too, and let other people share his pain and his worries and his sadness.
You want to tell him that you would like to share his pain and his sadness and his worries, and that’s it’s alright if he wants to break rather than bend. You want to tell him that he is funny, that he is smart, that he is such a good man, that he’s beautiful for wanting to help the world. That he is human even if other people pretend like he isn’t.
You nod your head slowly. “Okay,” you say instead. “Let’s get you washed up, okay? Then you can tell me all about it while I make you some snacks. What do you want today?”
He pulls away from you before sitting on the couch.
“Anything sweet,” he says, like he usually does. His head turns toward you, but his eyes are still hidden away. There’s a beat of silence before he murmurs, “Can you take off my blindfold?”
You smile at the request, at the way his raspy voice seems to grow unsteady, like he was embarrassed to even ask. “Of course.”
He swallows suddenly. “No, nevermind. I can do it myself.”
“Nonsense. You asked, I’ll deliver.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, and his face colors in as you untangle the knot and let the fabric slip off him, placing it to the side. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For asking-” His blue eyes are bright and shine in the dimly lit space. The flush on his face - embarrassment - is a pale, fawn hue. In spite of his beauty, his expression seems to border something unreadable, something horrified. “Shit.”
“Stop, Gojo.” You interrupt, shaking your head. “I’d love to be of help to you. It’s alright.”
“No, it’s…”
“It’s normal.” Your hands are on his shoulders. His body feels tense, like the muscles are alarmed and strung, hard. “It’s normal to ask. It’s okay; you know it’s okay.”
He clenches his jaw and looks away. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Listen to me,” you say, gently tapping his shoulder until he finally meets your eyes. The normally piercing blue of his stare is dulled down. Your voice is steady, firm. Reassuring. “It’s fine. Do you understand? It’s okay not to rely on yourself every time.”
“...Alright.” He relents, and you squeeze his shoulders softly, reassuringly, hoping that in the simple action, you’re able to convey all the love that you have for him.
All the affection that he desires is completely valid, completely okay, and you are more than willing to give him it. You are willing to love him enough for the both of you, for the entirety of the planet on his back.
“We’ll bathe the grime off you, too.” You say. “Do you want to before you eat?”
“After,” Gojo replies. “Sorry for stinking up the apartment.” He adds, scratching at his neck as he laughs.
You lean down just as a giggle escapes you, and he suddenly hauls himself forward to press his forehead against yours, gently nudging you as he does so. Your giggling quiets and your eyes grow soft.
“It’s fine!”
You pull away and move towards the kitchenette.
“I bought brownies earlier,” you tell him over the counter cheerfully. “New bakery. They’re still cold. I put them in the fridge.”
As you rummage through the fridge, you hear his call, “Did you use my card?”
“No, I used mine.” You answer, still in that kind, positive tone. “It’s a gift for you. Also, I bought milk powder and orange juice.”
“You should’ve used my card.” His voice cracks. “I have a lot of leftovers, anyway. You don’t have to spend your money on me.”
“It’s just a little treat,” you turn to him, closing the fridge as you take out the bag of chocolate desserts. “For you. Sure, I don’t have to. But I wanted to.”
He closes his eyes and lets his head fall against the couch. He doesn’t answer.
You bustle around the kitchenette until you have a kettle on the stove and a mug of powder. Taking out the desserts from their wrapping, you take out a plate and place four there.
You let the kettle heat for several minutes, until the shrill whistle greets you. From there, you prepare the hot milk and tell him that it should be ready in a bit.
Still, he does not answer, even when you approach him. You wonder if he’s fallen asleep because his eyes are closed, but suddenly he reopens them and he gives you a strange look.
“I…” He chokes on whatever else he wants to say. “Nevermind.”
You gaze at him in worry. “Is there something wrong?” You ask, but he shakes his head.
“No. It’s just… You’re so nice. I like it, a lot.” He says. “I like it a lot, for sure.”
Your face ripples first into shock, and then a wide, beaming, affectionate smile. “Well, I love you.” You declare, voice confident and unabashed.
You think you might have heard his breath catch in his throat, like he couldn’t breathe.
“Don’t do that,” he says harshly, but his blue eyes are trained on yours, so intense in their hold that it’s hard to look away and break from them - not that you wanted to. “Don’t say that, damn it.”
You tilt your head. “But why? You are loved Gojo. By so many people, by me.”
“They love me because I’m the strongest.” He corrects in a sharp, tense voice. “That’s all I am to them.”
You think your heart might have lurched from your chest at the confidence with which he says it; like he truly believes it’s true. That he is nothing but his title.
“Do you believe that I love you because of that, too?”
His eyes widen, just a fraction, but then his lips purse and he tears his eyes from your face, to focus on something in the background. “I don’t know.”
“You’re wrong.”
You turn away before he can open his mouth again and prepare the hot milk, and the brownies, before going back to him. You place them on the table before plopping yourself down next to him on the couch.
By then his gaze is heavy on you, like he expects you to leave him for accusing you of being shallow. “Yeah right.”
“But you are wrong.” You say, and without warning, you throw your arms around him.
He freezes in your embrace, his body growing taut and stiff. His fingers twitch as they carefully wrap around your waist to return the embrace.
“I love you. So does Nanami-san. So does Yuji-kun. And Megumi-kun. Yaga-sensei. Ieiri. Amanai. Geto-” You close your eyes, feeling wetness behind the lids. “Geto did, too. I’m sure he loves you even now. I love you even now.”
Gojo is silent. You look up, and your eyes are filling with tears.
He startles, taken aback by the sheer emotion in your voice and now your face. “What are you crying for?”
“I love you,” you say again, and your voice breaks a bit. Your heart does too. You swear you can hear the cracking sound of it in your ears. “I love Gojo so, so much. I love the strongest, the teacher in Tokyo Jujutsu High. I love the Gojo clan head. I love the human boy with white hair and the bluest eyes. I love you so much.”
You don’t expect him to say it back. Gojo is like that - never saying, only doing. He doesn’t speak of his pains, of his sadness.
But he whispers your name like a prayer.
“Damn it,” he hisses. His lashes are a frame when he looks down on you under the shadow of them. “Alright, you’ve convinced me.”
He arches his brow, lips pulled into a grin.
“Anything else you want to tell Gojo?”
You smile through the haze of your tears. “I love you…?”
“Okay, okay,” Gojo laughs. “I’ll eat first and-” He smiles, undoing your arms around his middle, giving your hands a loving squeeze. “You can bathe me. You, too, since you hugged me. Don’t want the apartment to smell like death.”
So it goes - you watch him as he downs the drink (once it cooled) and then the dessert, before the both of you head to the bathroom, hand-in-hand, like it’s impossible to let go.
You fill the tub with water, letting it warm as it goes. Gojo comes out and then in with the towels. You rearrange the soaps and the shampoos, then the both of you undress.
Neither of you care that you’re both naked. That’s okay, too - there is only trust, after all. And neither of you see each other in that light.
Gojo bathes first, you standing to the side as you squeeze a fair amount of shampoo into your palm before lathering the mass of his hair, letting your nails scratch at his scalp as he leans back and sighs in contentment.
You let your hands glide over his sore muscles, damp with soap bubbles, gently squeezing and pressing the portions still coiled in tension until he eventually relaxes. You scrub at the dried blood still on his face and a few suds turn pinkish.
“How did you get blood on your face?” You ask worriedly when you finish. He smiles.
“It’s not my own.”
“...Oh,” you say, and his smile turns into laughter.
His laughter is contagious. You laugh too.
After he is done, the water is drained; you insist on a shower, fussing over the water bill, but Gojo merely waves his hand and starts refilling the tub with water anyway.
“It’s a treat from me,” he says, his voice high, like he’s trying to copy your voice. You flush but enter it anyway after he won’t leave you alone.
Now he’s the one lightly washing you down, but he has to squat down since he’s a bit too tall. It’s a humorous sight.
You close your eyes as he starts to crack jokes and mess with the soap, but a smile is on your lips and soon enough, the bathroom echoes with even more nonsensical laughter.
But it doesn’t have to make sense, you think, to love it so dearly.
Later, as you both lay in bed, his head across your chest as he listens to your heartbeat and the steady, rhythmic breathing near his ears, he asks, “Still awake?”
“Yes.”
“Nice. Can you call me Satoru from now on?”
“You are loved, Satoru.” You say, hugging him even more. “I love you, Satoru.”
He sighs. “That’s okay.”