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Gojo's eyes closed first.
Geto's, Geto's never did. It was up to Gojo to reach out, touch his hand to Geto's brow, and push his eyelids down.
The warmth of Suguru's skin made him wince as he did it. Suguru had always rung out, burnt like a sun. But Gojo still had to, forcing himself to break contact with the flat stare. Out of respect, out of fear, out of compartmentalization. Out of a dull, abrasive ache. He didn't know which one it was. All of them, he would think, on the days he felt like being honest. After Geto's eyes had been firmly shut, Gojo found his palm lingering on Geto's face. Head bowed, he kneeled there, attempting to soak up the last bits of life, a warmth he had only ever known from Suguru Geto.
No. Can't. Go back to the kids.
Satoru Gojo's thoughts were jumbled. Starting at the memory of his students, he quickly recoiled from the cooling corpse. He would have to check on Okkotsu, make sure he hadn't let himself be eaten alive by his own regret. Gojo doubted that, though. Given the state that Suguru was in, he had a young, competent student that needed words of encouragement. Although, despite what good Yuta had done, Satoru couldn't help the sick resent that coiled in his gut.
Stop it, Satoru. He'd make fun of you, for this, you know.
He breathed deeply. Nice to know even his inner monologue thought he was being a bitch. Still, as Gojo pocketed the ID Geto had handed him, he gave it a good squeeze, thoroughly crinkling a corner.
….
He learned to live with it. Yuta was forgiven quickly, after logic and rationale was able to disperse whatever antagonisms he briefly felt toward the boy. An exemplary student. And Megumi. Megumi took a lot of his time. Most of his time. It was good, being busy. Gojo couldn't imagine what would've happened if he had been allowed the aimlessness of grief.
Spring came. Sometimes Satoru would find himself at his window, sunlight pooling on his silver hair, catching the affected shadows of leaves between his fingers. Sometimes he would, in the silent moments, let himself still. Let the sunlight pool on his hand, and remember the warmth of a corpse he had sworn to forget. He would remember, the fleeting heat of his youth, that one summer of firsts and lasts. The year of him and Suguru Geto.
….
Years passed. Not so many that he could forget, but almost enough. Then of course, came an upset. Yuuji Itadori. Itadori was interesting. He had that brashness of ignorance and naivety, and the bravery of trust and belief. Yuuji was good for them, especially Megumi. Fushiguro had always been one to act apathetic, a belligerent child. While Itadori definitely did not change that, Satoru began to notice the way Megumi sped up when he walked toward Itadori. Gojo saw the way Megumi was doing everything in his power to sink into Itadori's presence. He ignored the ache that seeing Yuuji and Megumi brought. Sometimes Gojo would catch Megumi smiling at Itadori's back. A soft tilt of his mouth, a slight furrow of his brow. A transparent, sad little look, something that Megumi was most likely unaware his face was wearing.
Satoru knew he wore something similar, on those soft, glowing, March, April days.
….
Gojo saw the wreck Megumi became when Yuuji died. Megumi sank into himself, deeper than ever before, and he didn't pull himself out. Despite Nobara's best attempts, his phrases were quick and stilted. A stiffness to his movements. Gojo found Megumi, one day, standing outside of Yuuji's dorm room. They didn't say anything to each other. Gojo let him be. The guilt was heavy on his shoulders, knowing that a very much alive Yuuji was trapped in a basement, watching movies and being slapped around by a plush bear.
When Yuuji came back, Gojo saw the way Megumi's eyes widened and then returned to his signature, typical "cool and unaffected: Fushiguro, super strong" face. But he saw the concavity of a bitten cheek, and the shake of Megumi's hand. Megumi's secret smiles increased, his brow more furrowed, his pace quicker. And yet, he was more reserved. Even Yuuji couldn't fully drag Megumi back out. Gojo figured it was on purpose. Megumi wasn't the type to want to be left high and dry, all alone. Not like Gojo. His student had probably fully realized the eventuality of a life without Itadori Yuuji.
In some ways, Gojo was jealous. He was jealous of Megumi for getting to know the value of every moment. He wishes he could have soaked up those years the same way Megumi clings onto every little bit of Itadori's presence. On those days when he's not composed enough to build his little house of lies, he knows any opinion of Megumi and Yuuji is mostly composed of regret. It's gotten better over the years. But parallels are parallels, and Satoru chokes on them.
The kids help him a lot. Busy, busy, busy, he forgets. As Yuuji's presence becomes a constant in his life, he focuses on refining the kid. Itadori is resilient, and willing to put in work. Sometimes Gojo's eyes stray to the moons on Yuuji's cheekbone, and feel the guilt in his stomach stir up. He drags his eyes away. Satoru Gojo is doing better. These few months with Yuuji have given him a tough, large project to focus on. Especially since he doesn't want Megumi to spend his life the same way Gojo has. Lingering at windows, catching sun rays, trying to grasp every last bit of life he could remember. Trying to fill his empty stomach with sunlight.
Satoru Gojo was doing better. So much better. He was making progress with Yuuji, and progress with Megumi. Megumi's smiles became less reserved, and sometimes when Yuuji looked back, an echo of expression would remain on the usually solemn face of Megumi Fushigoro. So yeah. He was doing better. Everything was in order, going well. Until that day in Shibuya, when Satoru felt himself melt and wither away, every little bit of warm sunlight he had managed to collect was forced out of him, all at once. Until-
"Yo, Satoru."