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Nanami is here for one reason: to see Shoko and heal his wounds. He has no intent of lingering on Jujutsu High property, not to check in with Yaga or scour out the extent of damage done by his former peer. He’s tired, it’s late, and he has worked well enough for today—he’s merely here to piece himself back together.
His legs move routinely, down long, narrow pathways, and he keeps his gaze unblinking, trained before him the whole time. He is here for one reason. The rest of tonight is behind him.
Ieiri is alone when he finds her, arms crossed, face empty. She beckons him in with a nod of her head.
“Ieiri-san.” He says. “My apologies. It must be well past your hours.”
“Nonsense.” She waves him off, snapping a blue pair of gloves into place. “Sit down and let me see.”
Nanami’s wounds do not run deep. It’s the multitude of them, rather, scattered over his torso from hours of tedious fighting, that leave him bothered. Geto Suguru came beyond prepared; he hasn’t fought numbers like this in years, and it shows now, scars littered bare before Ieiri, leaving him feeling somewhat shameful.
Ieiri is silent as she works, however, and she shows no interest in who Nanami fought tonight, how he came to be so battered. He’s comforted by this—the silence. To indulge in conversation is to indulge in lingering longer.
Still, as he sits, curiosity inevitably begins to itch at him, burrowing further and further down until he can no longer ignore it. He finds himself looking all over the room, which is deadly silent, poorly lit, and vacant around them. His eyes do not slow, nor stutter over anything—the empty tables, medicinal equipment, and dirtied uniforms—until they see it: a small lump, tucked away in the furthest corner, covered safely by a thin white cloth.
Nanami is here for one reason.
And yet he finds himself asking, on instinct.
“What is that?”
Because he remembers when it was Yuu under there, torn from him, when his heart first stopped beating. He remembers so vividly that his chest twists and lurches, constricting with grief all over again, and even as he looks away his eyes still burn with the image.
Ieiri’s movements pause, then pick up again.
“Geto.”
Geto. Of course.
Nanami blinks, bites his tongue, watches Ieiri work with a nervous intensity. He wants to know how it happened—why he’s here, of all places, body still intact—but the words won’t build right in his throat. They break open and shatter every time they’ve formed.
“All done.” Ieiri steps back from him, pulls her gloves off, and turns away entirely, going to rid herself of them.
“How.”
She stills, sighs, like she knew that was coming, like she knew he would press.
But Nanami is here for one reason—just one—and it’s been fulfilled now. He does not need to sit and wait for an answer, to strike up conversation; he can get up and leave, go back home, sleep the night away and pretend this never happened, that he never took part in it.
“Gojo.” She says, very quietly, as if the name itself needs comfort and cradling. “Gojo killed him and brought him to me.”
Nanami stares, disbelieving. Geto is dead, yes, and he knew that was coming. But at the hands of Gojo, of his once best friend—how cruel.
Nanami recalls his school years, watching and listening and resenting the two of them together day by day; recalls how as that all fell apart, as he mourned and raged and shattered over his dead friend, all he could do was blame Gojo. Because Gojo was strong. Gojo could have stopped it. Gojo wasn’t human like them.
He wonders now, hunched on a cold, metal table, if Gojo blamed himself, too—if he still does today.
“Gojo killed Geto.” He repeats, in case he heard wrong. “Gojo did?”
Ieiri says nothing further. There is nothing to say, he knows, and his chest twists so tight it burns, thick, ugly pain seeping deep into him, and he wishes in vain Ieiri could heal that, too.
“Where is he?”
Nanami is here for one reason—
“I don’t know.” Ieiri says, leaning her head against the wall. “He won’t see you, though. He won’t see anyone.”
But he has to find Gojo.
Nanami thanks Ieiri for healing his wounds, then sets out in hopes he can heal some of Gojo’s.
They’ve spent years hardly speaking and it’s foolish and selfish to seek him out now, while he’s freshly mourning, while he wants to be alone. But he’s always alone—or he has been since Geto went rogue—and he shouldn’t be, not now. Even if Nanami is the last person he wants to see. Even if Nanami himself would like nothing more than to go home and sleep. He deserves company.
He treks up and down campus, blocks out old memories—shrill, hearty laughter from Gojo, tucking himself into Geto’s side, sprawling out across his lap—and searches every classroom, every vacant dorm.
Nothing.
Panic sets in once he’s cleared every building. He doesn’t know where to look now—doesn’t know who to ask. Rationally, he thinks he should give up, acknowledge he tried, that he simply couldn’t find Gojo, but he can’t accept that, no matter how much he wants to.
He remembers himself—a kid—and how lonely Yuu’s death was, how it took a chunk of his lifespan off, too. He remembers how bitter and angry he was, how he’d cursed and spit and raged at Gojo and embraced the fall in his face, the hurt in his eyes, because nobody’s hurt compared to his own at the time. Nobody came close.
Yet in the midst of it all, while he pushed through the agony, it was Gojo who came peering into his dorm, night after night, despite the fact he was tackling their most difficult missions. Gojo was there—a constant presence—and now, Nanami has to be, too. It may be pride, guilt, or gratitude eating away at him, but above that—empathy.
He understands. He needs Gojo to know that.
With a heavy, defeated sigh, Nanami reaches for his phone and plugs in the contact he generally avoids at all costs. It rings, and rings, and rings, and by the time it goes to voicemail, Nanami has long accepted he won’t get an answer, but he waits anyway, patiently, until the line starts recording.
“Gojo.” He realizes now that, even with this grief they share, there are still no words he can muster to soothe it. So he skips the lecture, the I’m sorry and the you’ll be okay , and says, “Come stay the night with me.”
He pauses, watches the steady tick of seconds passing on his screen.
“I’ll be waiting.”
And wait he does.
He’s unsure whether Gojo even got the message to begin with, whether he would listen if he did, and whether he would take the offer up or shun it, ignore it, push it away and deal with this himself.
Still, the first thing he does when he gets home is pull out a couple blankets tucked neatly in his closet and smooth them out over his couch. If Gojo comes, he has a one bedroom, so he’ll have to sacrifice his bed for the night. He prepares an assortment of other small comforts—pain medicine, water, and a spare change of clothes—and then sits in his living room and opens a book.
An hour passes.
Then two.
Nanami is almost halfway through his book and beginning to give up hope when he hears a single frail knock at the door. He blinks, mouth drying, heart picking up speed, as a multitude of thoughts overcome him. He needs to keep composed, to be patient and gentle, to not press too much and not too little, either—to just be here in presence and make it known that he will be here to stay.
He stands and makes his way over, affirming these thoughts over and over, preparing himself to bring aid. But as he opens the door, as he catches his first glimpse outside, his breath stutters and he realizes nothing could have adequately prepped him for what’s waiting.
Gojo is there, yes, all in one piece. But he’s—wrong. He’s missing his bandages, his bright, blue eyes on display, and they stare at Nanami with ferocity, twitching like they hurt. Small, steady tremors dance over his skin and he shakes all over from them, biting hard on his lip like he’s holding in noises. His hands are clenched at his side, tight, but from where Nanami stands he can still see they’re bloodied. They’re coated in it.
Nanami blinks, swallows. His throat feels tight around constricted air. He’s never seen Gojo so much as whimper—now here he stands, stubborn tears falling down his pale face.
And he’s in Nanami’s hands.
“Gojo.” He says, speaking in tones he’s reserved for nobody. Nanami is gentle and patient with everyone and everything, but his voice has never once reflected that—always flat, always monotone. He hardly recognizes it like this, soft and mellow, cocooning the shaking figure before him in a warm embrace. “Come inside.”
It seems his tone—or the words themselves—are enough to push Gojo over the edge (though that likely would have happened, anyways). More tears bubble over and he sputters, staying in place, bringing his hands to his eyes and scratching at them like he wants them gone.
“I’m sorry.” He gasps. It’s strangled, struggling the same as Nanami to inhale right. “I couldn’t go home. Megumi is there. I couldn’t—”
“Gojo.” Nanami steps aside and pulls the door open further. “Come in. It’s cold.”
Gojo listens this time, fumbling with his shoes despite Nanami’s insistence of it’s fine, it’s alright , then stands in the hallway, heaving, trying—and failing—to hold in more tears.
“Would you like to sit down?”
Gojo nods and rubs at his eyes some more.
“Actually—can I use your bath?”
Nanami feels a stab of worry at that, which is silly, he knows, but there nonetheless. Gojo looks so frail, so broken, like he too is on the verge of death here, and the idea of leaving him alone feels wrong.
He agrees nonetheless.
“Take your time. I have clothes out in the bedroom.”
Gojo musters up a transparent smile and thanks him, then he’s off down the hall, gone to wash himself—to clean the blood off his hands. Nanami sighs at the image blinking steadily in his mind and rubs at his temples, cursing Geto Suguru all the while because damn him for this, for breaking the invincible.
He heads for the kitchen and, while waiting on Gojo, prepares some hot tea and a hot cloth for his eyes. No matter how deep he buries himself in the mundane tasks, however, the picture of Gojo perched in his doorway won’t leave him. It, like Yuu, will stay with him for years. Only this time, he has something to work with—something to mend.
Gojo is not a lost cause. He’s mourning.
Gojo returns in his clothes, which fit a bit awkwardly, but still work well enough. He looks better—there’s more color to him, soft tints of pink in his cheeks, and his tremors have lessened. Nanami greets him with a cup of tea and hesitantly, offers up the damp cloth, too, unsure if Gojo will accept it.
He does, however, and as he sits on the couch and presses it to his eyes, a visible amount of tension leaves his body.
“Thank you, Nanami.” He says with more sincerity than Nanami has ever heard come from him. “You didn’t have to reach out, but I’m glad you did.”
Nanami shifts, unsure of how to accept the comment. He’s a bit sheepish from it, but surprised, too, and frustrated. Reaching out is nothing—he and Gojo aren’t friends, but still it’s a minimum, and he knows Gojo would have done the same.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Gojo is quiet for a moment, still beyond the occasional twitch, and he sighs, deflating entirely, like whatever effort he put into keeping up a facade has abandoned him.
“I’m tired.” He admits. “I wish—”
The words die on his tongue.
I wish things could have been different. I wish I could have stopped him.
“I’m tired, Nanami.” And he’s facing him now, eyes covered but still bearing the same weight. “Suguru was good. So good. And then he—cracked. He just snapped in two. I never tried hard enough to put him back together.”
Nanami can hear his breath catching, still fighting tears, and he reaches out—slowly, so Gojo can stop him if need be—and cups a hand by his cheek.
“He was not yours to fix, Gojo. Not everything is.”
Gojo sobs brokenly at that, curling into his hand, shaking his head back and forth until his cloth has fallen off, cold to the touch now.
“I’m strong.” He spits, like it debunks Nanami’s claim. He’s shaking hard again—from the loss of the cloth, maybe—and Nanami’s hand shifts from his cheek to press over his eyes. He keeps it there, a firm, grounding touch, and Gojo reaches up, grasps at it blindly, pulls it impossibly closer to him.
“I know.” Nanami’s throat twists and twitches at the sound of Gojo’s wet, heavy sobbing, aching for him. “But you are still not responsible for the actions of others.”
You are not responsible for what happened to Yuu.
“He made his choice. There was nothing further you could do.”
I’m so sorry for blaming you all this time.
Gojo’s fingers grip harder at him, holding him still while he cries. His hand is warm and wet from tears and contact and his arm is cramping, but he stays in place, coaxing Gojo through it, repeating what he hopes one day will be engraved in his brain: it isn’t your fault .
Gojo tires himself out eventually. His sobs turn to small gasps, then hiccups, and finally dim back down to steady breathing. He does not release Nanami’s hand, nor does he loosen his hold on it, and Nanami strokes his thumb along his flushed forehead in smooth, steady motions.
“I’m here.”
Gojo flinches at his words, then holds tighter.
“Don’t go.”
Nanami’s heart, soul, and being ache for him now. Someone so overworked, overlooked, mistreated and abandoned his entire life, begging for his presence, begging him to stay.
“I will not.”
Come hell or high water, he will keep this promise. Because Nanami is here, now, thumb brushing along Gojo’s temple as he drifts off beneath him, for one reason: to ensure he heals.