Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Nanami registers is the smell of antiseptic, sharp and nauseating. The next is the burn of fluorescents against his eyelids. Groaning, his eyes flutter, only to squeeze shut against the glare.

“Ah, you’re finally awake.” There’s a pressure on his arm, Shoko’s gloved hand pressing gingerly against his bicep. “Are you lucid?”

“Mmm,” he manages through the sticky dryness of his throat. Sensation is beginning to flood in, and there’s a dull ache in his side that’s growing sharper by the minute. Around it, he feels an uncomfortable, numbing kind of tingle, the telltale signature of RCT use. He’s never quite gotten used to it. “Water,” he croaks, and he feels the pressure on his arm lift, hears the hiss of the tap.

The first trickle is heaven against the tackiness of his tongue, and he can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed when some spills over the sides of his mouth and drips down his throat. He tries to sit up a little to improve the angle, but a sharp pain sends him falling back onto the thin mattress with a painful hiss. “Shit.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t move too much if I were you.” His vision has cleared enough to make out Shoko leaning against his bed, arms folded across her chest. The shadows under her eyes look more pronounced than usual, but other than that she’s as unreadable as ever, face placid and ambivalent. “Do you remember what happened?”

He tries. It comes back in pieces, and a bit fuzzy around the edges: a second-grade that was actually two first-grades, the spine-chilling sound of metal creaking and bending, frigid pain before the relief of unconsciousness. “Some of it.”

“I’m sure Yaga will give you the full rundown, but you were impaled.”

“Ah.”

“Thrown around quite a bit too. Didn’t make it easy for me.”

“Apologies.”

“Shut up. Give me your hand.” She presses a small pill into his open palm. “Take one of these a day, two if the pain is really bad. Stop once you run out, or once the pain subsides.”

“Thank you.” Nanami swallows it, chasing with the dregs of his cup. “Do you know if I’ll be expected at work tomorrow?”

“No. As a matter of fact, you have the rest of the week off.”

Nanami starts, sending another shooting pain up his side. “The whole week? How is that possible?”

Shoko snorts. “I’m sure they found it wasn’t worth the fight.”

Something about the wry curl of Shoko’s smile sets off alarm bells in Nanami’s head. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Shoko turns towards her clipboard, flipping through pages of her loopy handwriting. “Well, in my professional opinion, you’re good to leave the infirmary. I sent for Ijichi when you started waking up, so he should be waiting outside to take you home.” She shoots another smile his way, this one more genuine. “I’m thankful you’re not one of the patients that I have to remind not to overwork yourself. I don’t want to see you back here any time soon; I have enough shit to do.”

“Thank you, Ieri-san.”

“Just Ieri is fine, Nanami, we’ve been over this.” She waves a hand, dismissive, and he gets the hint, rising unsteadily to his feet. He takes a few experimental steps. Painful, but doable, at least to the front of the school.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he turns towards the door, only to be stopped by the warm weight of a hand on his shoulder. Shoko’s face is serious when he turns back to face her. “I know you don’t make a habit of ending up here, but try a little harder to stay intact from now on would you? Yours is not a corpse I feel particularly interested in dissecting.”

He nods, and he knows she’ll understand the deep gratitude he can’t voice. “I don’t like making promises I can’t keep. But I’ll do my best.”

To Nanami’s simultaneous relief and dismay, Ijichi is not the only one waiting for him out front. When he slides unsteadily into the backseat, Gojo is sitting with his back pressed against the opposite door, twisted around to face him with a smile so wide it’s cracking at the edges.

“Nanami, what a coincidence! Ijichi was just dropping me off from finishing off your job!”

Ijichi’s face is pallid in the rearview mirror, eyes contrite. “I asked him to get out several minutes ago! I’m so sorry Nanami-san.”

Gojo continues as if no one has spoken. “Since we’re all here, why don’t we just go straight to my place instead! I’m sure Nanami-san doesn’t plan on recovering all on his own.”

“That won’t be necessary. You can take me home. Gojo-san was just leaving.”

Gojo leans over the front seat, chin propped over Ijichi’s shoulder, his smile a sickle. “Ijichi, who’s scarier? Me or Nanami?”

Ijichi looks seconds from passing out, paling so much he nearly looks translucent. Nanami decides to have mercy on him. “Please relax, Ijichi-kun. You can take us to Gojo-san’s place.”

“But how will you get home?”

The real answer to that question might send Ijichi into cardiac arrest, so Nanami settles for a simple “Don’t worry about it.” One near death experience per day is more than sufficient.

The drive to Gojo’s house is short; it’s conveniently located near the school, though Gojo doesn’t use it often. The nights he doesn’t spend at Nanami’s find him crashing at his on-campus accommodations, a necessary addition with his new and more time-consuming job position.

Despite the extra stress of classes on top of his own missions, Gojo has seemed happier since he started teaching. It shows the most when he gets to talking about his students, his energy expanding into a kind of exuberance that makes his normal cheeriness pale in comparison.

That real, genuine glee is missing from his face now. As Ijichi pulls into the driveway, his smile is leached of its usual brightness. Nanami feels disquieted, but entertaining any personal conversation in front of Ijichi seems out of the question; Gojo always seems to be more open when they’re alone.

Unfortunately, the universe seems to be against Nanami as of late, because the openness he hoped for doesn’t come when Ijichi leaves. Gojo is quiet as he helps Nanami out of the car, through the walk up to the front steps, and even as he deposits him gently on the bed, propping him up with some pillows. His movements are gentle, but there is an unmistakable heaviness to the silence that surrounds them, and Nanami can feel himself approaching his limit.

His side is starting to ache, there’s a headache starting to drum steadily against his temple, and his stomach is balanced on the knife’s edge between hunger and nausea. He wants to lie down, preferably with Gojo’s arms around him or vice versa, and sleep for a minimum of ten hours. Gojo, however, does not seem to be attuned to his plans, flitting around the room doing nothing in particular while refusing to make eye contact. “You’re quiet,” Nanami says, tired of the unspoken tension.

Gojo pauses, hands hovering over the dresser whose drawers he’d been aimlessly opening and closing. “Am I?”

“You haven’t even pretended to be annoyed at the extra workload due to my failure.”

“Your failure? You mean getting the shit beat out of you by two grade ones at once because you were too stubborn to call for backup?”

The reminder stings a bit, and Nanami sets his jaw. “Yes.” He lets it sit. “So this is about my injury?"

“Injury?” Gojo laughs, and it sounds strained, like it scrapes his throat on the way out. “That’s an understatement don’t you think? I thought I was the flippant one in this relationship.”

“Near-death-experience is a bit wordy.”

Gojo just huffs.

“Enough; out with it. I’m too tired to dance around whatever is upsetting you right now.”

“Did you do it on purpose?”

Nanami pauses, thrown. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes right now, Satoru. I’m a little preoccupied with the healing of my internal organs.”

“It would have been an easy way out. Guilt-free, in a blaze of glory.”

“Are you being serious right now?” The question is rhetorical, more an expression of irritation than anything else, but the silence afterwards makes him double down in disbelief. “You’re being serious?”

“I don’t know, should I be?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Nanami spits. “How stupid and selfish do you think I am?”

“You never know,” he says in a voice leaning too far towards sheepish to pass as flippant.

Nanami can feel his nostrils flaring, and the telltale pulse of his forehead vein. He takes a deep breath, letting himself sink into the resulting ache in his side to ground himself. “I was not trying to kill myself. I am not trying to kill myself. I’m trying hard not to kill you right now.”

Gojo, to his credit, seems chastened, face a blotchy pink. “Just checking!” he says weakly, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

A flurry of harsh words and reactions bubble to the surface of Nanami’s mind, but he can’t seem to get them to leave his mouth, eyes caught on the sheepish slouch of Gojo’s shoulder, and the strangeness of his smile. He takes a deep breath, exhaustion from the day hitting him all at once. “Can you just come here,” he finally sighs, opening his arms a little in a tentative welcome.

Gojo nearly trips over himself on his way to the bed, slowing down when he gets close, careful not to jostle any sensitive areas. When he finally slides under the covers, he presses his face into Nanami’s neck, close enough that Nanami can feel the drag of his lips when he whispers “I’m sorry.”

The proximity softens the sharp edges his emotions had begun to take, and he pulls Gojo as close as his injuries can comfortably allow. “I forgive you,” he says, voice soft, eyelids already drooping from the warmth of the embrace. “We can talk about this later, but right now I’m very tired. I just want to hold you and go to sleep. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Gojo sounds breathless, hands sneaking up the back of Nanami’s shirt to rest gingerly over the mottled skin of his left side. “Yes, that’s more than okay.”

Pain rouses Nanami in intervals through the night, his sleep restless and light. As a result, he doesn’t fully wake up until late in the morning, feeling less than fully rested. Gojo isn’t there, but it doesn’t sting the way it used to, just the ever-present annoyance at their line of work. Now that a grade one is out of commission for the week, Gojo will undoubtedly be swamped.

The room is beautiful, just like the rest of Gojo’s home, a wide open space with large windows and curtains that let in just the right amount of light. He pulls them open on his way out of the bedroom, letting in the morning light, enjoying for a moment the sight of the garden. Slow moments like these give him a taste of the life he gave up all those months ago: late mornings, beautiful views, someone he loves on their way home.

He’s only been to Gojo’s house once or twice, so it takes him a moment to get his bearings and make his way to the kitchen. It’s similarly clean and open, with traces of the smell of breakfast. Settled on the counter in front of him is a bowl of grilled fish, rice, and vegetables with a small post-it note with a sloppily drawn heart stuck to the rim. Despite the heaviness of the night before, Nanami’s chest feels light at the sight.

He goes through the rest of his morning routine with much difficulty, a combination of his torso pain and the tension that always comes when he leaves an argument with Gojo unresolved. The irritation of yesterday has already begun to subside, and it’s replaced with worry.

Aside from heatless bickering, he and Gojo rarely argue, and when they do Gojo isn’t usually so quick with low blows or tactless barbs. Nanami can’t decide if it’s a sign that he was really angry, or if there’s something deeper at play, but he’s leaning towards the latter. A conversation is imminent regardless, and he hopes he can enjoy the peace of his day off before dealing with it.

As if on cue, his phone buzzes with a new notification. The initial dread he feels dissipates when he sees that it’s Gojo, but reappears when he reads the message: megumi in a fight & got suspended, tsumiki is still in class, cld u watch him for a few hrs? u better not be busy since ur hurt >:( luv u <3

Nanami’s fingers shake as he sends back a tentative thumbs up emoticon.

His encounters with Fushiguro have been extremely brief, nothing more than a few nods exchanged between them, but Gojo’s stories paint the picture of a quiet child who can be a handful when he gets angry. Nanami is not a childcare worker, nor has he ever thought of himself to have an affinity for children. That aside, Fushiguro clearly has nowhere else to go, so the least he could do is start a meal for him, put something on TV, and pray that the rest comes together.

After a cursory search through Gojo’s kitchen, Nanami settles for oyakodon; it’s simple enough to make and even Gojo, picky eater that he is, enjoys it. As he sets the rice to cook, his mind wanders, steering narrowly away from panic every few seconds. How old is the child again? Eleven? Twelve? What does a twelve year old do? His own childhood memories involve eyeliner and music with heavy guitar and painful vocals, so he’s not the best frame of reference. Would he want to play? Would he be upset? Nanami channels his nerves through the chopping of the onions and the chicken, fingers sure and steady while his mind runs in chaotic circles.

It isn’t until he’s pouring the eggs into the pan that he gets to the root of his dread. He has interactions with the children of Jujutsu Tech briefly for work-related issues, where he can compartmentalize and move on. To interact with a child whose life has been so thoroughly scarred by the same forces that have marred his own is a little more emotionally complicated. That Gojo does this every day, looks them in the eyes and sends them off to fight—it makes something in Nanami’s chest pang painfully, deeper than his injury.

He finishes the dish and plates it in solemn silence, setting them at the table to cool. As inconvenient as this impromptu babysitting might be, Megumi is Gojo’s responsibility, and someone he clearly cares for. It’s important that Nanami makes him as comfortable as possible, and that the visit goes well. He sits at the table in tense silence, waiting, trying not to succumb to the pressure. Relief and terror wash over him in equal measure when he finally hears knock at the door.

When he opens it, Ijichi stands at the doorstep, Fushiguro at his side. Ijichi’s eyes widen behind his rectangular frames. “Nanami-san?”

“I am babysitting,” Nanami states, and he ensures that his tone does not invite further questions.

Ijichi, a natural surrenderer, looks down in deference. “Of course. Fushiguro-kun, please be good. Gojo-san will come and get you in a few hours.”

Fushiguro steps inside, and Ijichi quickly closes the door behind him. The house is quiet. Fushiguro looks sullen and serious for his age, spiky black hair highlighting the complete unapproachability that he radiates. “I’m not a baby,” he says finally.

“Of course not,” Nanami replies simply.

“Are you going to ask about the fight?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No.” Fushiguro’s mouth curves downward in defiance.

“I wasn’t planning to. It’s not really my business, so I don’t really care to know the details.”

Fushiguro considers him. “I’m hungry.”

“I’ve made food.”

They move to the kitchen. Okay, Nanami thinks to himself, This could be going worse. Fushiguro eyes the oyakodon for a tense moment before taking his spoon and digging in. Nanami seats himself across from him and joins him, trying his best to dispel the tension rising in between his shoulder blades.

Nanami likes to pride himself in being somewhat self aware; he knows that his flat affect and no-nonsense personality often lead children to be nervous around him, or even in some cases to dislike him. Normally, that wouldn’t bother him—the opinions of children on his personality aren’t really his concern—but this is a special case. He feels an internal pressure to do…something.

“It’s good?” he tries, motioning towards the bowl.

Fushiguro blinks back at him, then nods, a short perfunctory gesture, before returning to eating. It reminds Nanami, in an odd way, of himself: straight to the point.

The silence that stretches out after is far more comfortable as the two finish their food. Fushiguro doesn’t even complain when Nanami assigns him dish drying duty, just quietly takes the rag and wipes the dishes with a carefulness Nanami didn’t expect. He ignores the part of his mind that reminds him what kind of experiences lead to such a familiar sullen self-sufficiency in a young child; it won’t do him well to dwell on the past—his own or Fushigruo’s.

The rest of the afternoon passes just as smoothly. When they finish eating, Nanami offers the remote for Gojo’s enormous plasma TV, and Fushiguro, to Nanami’s pleasant surprise, puts on a nature documentary. It’s not the kind of thing that Nanami would naturally seek out on his own, but it’s enjoyable. Calming. Fushiguro pays rapt attention, eyes glued to the screen. His attentiveness is contagious, and Nanami finds himself fascinated by the life cycle of sea urchins.

When the credits finally roll, Fushiguro clicks the television off, reaches into his bag, and pulls out a large book. He glances to the side, as if waiting for Nanami to comment, but Nanami reaches into his coffee table drawer and pulls out a book of his own in an act of silent solidarity. Fushiguro doesn’t smile, but he loosens, settling back into the couch to read.

That’s how Gojo finds them a few hours later, reading side by side in comfortable silence.

“No one cheer too loudly! I know you missed me terribly.” His smile is back to it’s natural glow, hands resting on his hips. Nanami and Fushiguro blink back at him, twin faces of dryness. “Oh wow,” Gojo clutches his chest, “tough crowd. I should have known better than to put you two together.”

Fushiguro ignores Gojo, slipping his book back into his bag, and Gojo steps forward, ruffling his hair. Even though Fushiguro pushes him away, there is a fondness clear in the relaxed set of his shoulders. Trust. “Did you have fun?”

Fushiguro’s eyes dart to Nanami for a moment before he turns back and nods once. Nanami finds himself holding back a small smile. A small one.

“Good!” Gojo says, shooting Nanami a fond look. “Ijichi is waiting for you in the car. Tsumiki is there too.”

Fushiguro pales.

“Yeah, good luck. She was maaaaad when I told her what you did.”

Fushiguro’s walk to the door takes on the tone of a funeral march, shoulders tight and pulled back like a soldier off to war. It reminds Nanami of Gojo’s smile from the day before, stretched so thin it looked painful. The memory sours the glow of the successful afternoon.

Gojo exchanges pleasantries—or mild bullying depending on who you ask—with Ijichi at the door before closing it behind him and turning to face Nanami where he’s seated on the couch.

“I have a confession,” he admits, settling down close enough that their legs touch. Nanami knows he’s not angry anymore because he wishes he’d come closer. “I could have hired a babysitter for Fushiguro, but I didn’t want to leave you alone here all day.”

Distance isn’t so bad actually; Nanami can feel his nostrils flaring in mild irritation. “So you sent a child to keep me company.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy yourself! I saw you smiling.”

“I was not smiling.”

“The Kento version of a smile is much more subtle,” Gojo coos, leaning forward to brush his finger over Nanami’s lips “but I’m a highly trained expert.”

Nanami lets out a sigh and tries not to seem charmed. Judging from Gojo’s grin, he fails miserably.

“How are you feeling?” Gojo asks.

“Fine,” Nanami says. Something in him is buzzing, an impatience to put their upcoming conversation behind him so that he can fully enjoy Gojo’s company. “Shall we talk?”

Gojo shakes his head quickly, waving his hands as if to chase off the thought. “We can talk later! Now, let me take care of you.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Maybe so, but I didn’t do a very good job at it yesterday, and I’d like another chance.” And what can Nanami say to that?

True to his word, Gojo spends the afternoon treating Nanami with a gentle consideration that those not close to him might doubt he’s capable of. His medication is hand fed to him along with a delicious and elaborate dinner, his sleep clothes freshly washed and folded, his favorite movie playing as Gojo cleans the kitchen in the background.

He dozes off, full and comfortable, to the soft sounds of hissing water and clinking plates. When he wakes again to Gojo shaking his shoulder gently, the room is dimly lit and the credits are rolling.

“Let’s go to bed,” Gojo whispers, “and then we can talk.”

Nanami can only nod, quickly cut off by a grunt of surprise as Gojo lifts him, bridal style, off the couch.

“Unnecessary,” he manages as Gojo walks him—rather smoothly to be fair—down the hallway and into the bedroom.

Gojo only laughs, placing him down on the bed, careful for his injured side. He crawls in next to him once the covers are arranged and props himself up on the bed post until they’re sitting eye to eye.

“Are you ready to talk?” Nanami asks.

“Yes.”

“You can start.” Nanami curls an arm around his back, a silent show of support.

“Okay,” Gojo licks his lips, a nervous habit. “I’m sorry I stressed you out when you were already hurt, and I’m sorry I kind of made it about me.”

The ‘kind of’ is generous, but Nanami lets him have it. “I forgive you. You’ve more than made up for it.”

“Thank you.”

“I accepted the risk of death when I came back to this profession. It’s not something you have to handle with care when it comes to me.”

“I care about you! Of course I want to handle it with care.” Gojo pauses, sinking back down so that Nanami can’t see his face. “When you got hurt,” he says, “I didn’t like it.”

“Well, I would hope not.”

“Oi, let me finish! I’m serious. I’ve thought a lot about this, ever since you started working again. I thought I was ready.” He lets out a short breath, irritated. “They didn’t even call to tell me you were hurt! They just called to say that a mission needed to be picked up, and asked me how quickly I could get there. I had to text Shoko for the details! And when I got there, the blood…” His fingers tighten where they had been playing with the hem of Nanami’s sleep shirt.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Nanami says quietly, hand weaving a soothing pattern up and down Gojo’s back.

“It’s okay,” Gojo says. “I’m sorry for being so weird about it.”

“Yes, asking me if I intended to kill myself was a bit much.” Gojo groans at the memory, burying his face back in Nanami’s side. “Where did that idea even come from?”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Gojo pauses, fidgets a little under the weight of Nanami’s arm. “I think I was scared of messing up again. Like with someone I care about. I was scared of missing something important.” He pauses for a moment, and Nanami pretends not to feel the way his body starts to tremor against him.

“With Suguru—” he starts, then presses his lips together, hesitant.

“Go on,” Nanami says, hand stilling at the back of his neck in a show of silent support.

“I should have seen it coming. He was my best friend, my first real friend. And then suddenly, he was just…gone. I was too wrapped up in fixing my technique, eliminating any weakness, that I didn’t notice. I never would have thought he’d do—that.”

“You six-eyes can’t show you everything, Satoru. People are complicated.”

“I know. I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He runs his fingers lightly over Nanami’s injured side, almost reverently. “Please, baby. Please tell me if something is ever up with you. I don’t know what I’d do if something—if you—”

“I will,” Nanami cuts him off, the burn of his chest getting too much to bear, “I promise. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Okay,” Gojo agrees “okay.” They’re silent, and for a moment Nanami thinks it’s over. Then, suddenly, “I couldn’t kill Suguru.” Nanami blinks back his surprise.

Gojo continues, eyes fixed on the blanket, though his arms stay wrapped firmly around Nanami, gentle over the tender skin on his injured side. “I met with him once, after he defected. I wanted to understand why he left, why he did any of that.”

“And did you?”

“Understand? No. I mean, I understood what he said, but in some ways I think I’ll never really understand why.” He leans his head on Nanami’s shoulder, chin digging into muscle. “He was my first real friend. That’s all I could think about when he was leaving. And I just couldn’t do it.”

“It’s understandable, Satoru. You’re human.”

“Yes,” Gojo laughs, an empty sounding huff “Painfully so. Selfishly so.” He moves closer still, their legs tangling under the sheets.

Nanami looks down at the silvery top of his head and feels nothing but painful fondness. “You’ve let those elders get to your head. A little selfishness isn’t so bad.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew how I felt.”

“You won’t know that unless you tell me.”

Gojo pauses, worrying the inside of his cheek. “I felt like,” he pauses again, and Nanami waits, patient. “I felt like I wish you’d never come back. Like maybe it would be better if you were safe. If I could just keep you here, or in your apartment, where none of that could touch you.”

“If you’re selfish then so am I.” Nanami admits. Gojo looks at him curiously, pushing himself up so he can see Nanami’s face. “When Yaga wanted to prevent you from your promotion, I agreed with him. I didn’t want you to get hurt again, so I thought he was right in holding you back from a job that suits you well and clearly has made you very happy.”

“But you’re the one who told him he should promote me. That doesn’t count!”

“It does, because it proves my point exactly. You can feel however you feel, but it’s your actions that show the kind of man you are. I’ve been living in your home all weekend while you’ve taken care of me. The child you take care of clearly cares for you, because you take good care of him, even after what happened with his father. You spend almost all your time working for people you have no respect for, just because you know it’s the right thing to do. As selfish as you may sometimes be, you’re a good man Satoru.”

He's not usually the type for wordy speeches, but he feels looser after he's spoken, eyes catching on the poorly-concealed tremor of Gojo's lower lip.

“Thank you,” Gojo says quietly. He tucks himself back down into Nanami’s side. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He’s just on the verge of sleep, consciousness fuzzy on the edges, when the idea comes to him. “Do you ever think if we were like this earlier what it’d be like?”

“Sometimes,” Gojo replies, voice muddy with sleep. “Do you?”

Nanami laughs, a half-hearted puff of a breath. “It wouldn’t have worked. We wouldn’t have understood.” He runs a finger over the back of Gojo’s neck, where his scar from Toji still shows faintly. “Sometimes it feels like life was shaping me for you, and you for me.”

Gojo is quiet, but Nanami can feel in the way he holds him that he’s choked up, because he can tell those things now. Because he knows this person now, so absolutely, in a way he never thought he would.

He reaches down to pull Gojo into a kiss, lips sliding sweetly together, slow in their sleepiness. When he pulls away, he finds that his own eyes are damp. He holds Gojo’s face steady, looks him straight in the eyes.

“I’m not going to leave you. And when the time comes for you to face this, I will be there to remind you that it wasn’t your fault.”

Gojo doesn’t answer, just pulls him close again. No more words are needed. They hold each other tightly until they fall asleep.

Chapter Text

“At least curse me a little at the very end.”

The light that fills the alley is blinding, and the silence afterwards is so heavy that Gojo can’t stand up, can’t do anything but fall from a squat to his knees. The concrete digging into his skin through his pants is the only thing grounding him.

Suguru is still. He looks older, blood splattered over lined eyes. Gojo never saw him grow up—still can’t fully grasp who he became—but it’s a face he’ll always recognize.

How fitting, for his to be the hands that kill his best friend. How fitting, when the blame lies partially on his shoulders. His failure, his disregard.

Emotions churn inside him, too turbulent to name, so Gojo breathes, takes one last look, and turns away. His fingers shake when he pulls out his phone to make the call, but he dials the numbers on the first try.

“It’s done.” He’s surprised at the clarity of his own voice. “Don’t burn the body. Not yet.”

The streets of Shinjuku and Kyoto are littered with rubble, bodies peeking out from beneath debris, blood staining the concrete black. Nanami is home now, stained suit jacket hanging haphazardly from the chair, but he can still see it clear as day when he closes his eyes. It comes to him in flashes: the screams, the carnage. The anger is the worst part, a slow burn that starts in his chest. Instead of breaking something, he pours himself a glass of wine, pauses, and pours a glass of cider beside it. The apartment’s second resident will be home soon.

He’s two glasses in when he hears the key turn in the lock, and he doesn’t even manage to turn around before Gojo starts talking.

“Did you hear the news?”

“Yes, Satoru. I’m sor—”

“The Okkotsu kid is my cousin! Can you believe it? Long lost family!”

“Satoru.”

Gojo throws himself down on the couch all too casually, hand reaching for the cider without even looking. “The higher ups still aren’t happy with him and he lost his special grade title, but with genes like these I’m sure he’ll be back in shape in no time!”

“Satoru.”

“They’re sending him abroad for now, what a shame. Bunch of old fun-haters. Can’t even let us enjoy the reunion!”

“Satoru, enough.” Nanami places his hand on his shoulder, firm and decisive. “It’s me.” There’s a tense moment where Nanami thinks he may not have gotten to him, that maybe he won’t get to him tonight at all. Then comes the telltale slump of the shoulders, the pressure of Gojo’s shoulder leaning into his hand.

“That damn cursed technique of yours,” Gojo mutters, and his voice sounds so raw Nanami almost wishes he’d let him linger in avoidance.

Then come the tears.

Nanami pulls him to his chest instantly, pressing Gojo’s face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, Satoru. I’m sorry.” Gojo is quiet, the only giveaway the shuddering of his shoulders and the wet patch steadily growing on the fabric of Nanami’s sleep shirt.

“You want to know what’s really sick?” Gojo’s voice is muffled, vibrating against the delicate skin of Nanami’s neck. “Part of me felt almost relieved that it was over. That it’s actually over.” He hiccups, shoulders shaking in another violent shudder. “He was my best friend, and I killed him. I killed him.”

Nanami doesn’t reply, just drags his hand up and down Gojo’s back, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Privately he remembers the stale light of the morgue, the feeling of seeing Yu motionless and gray. He imagines if he had been the one to deal the killing blow and squeezes Gojo tighter.

The rage ignites further, hot and painful. It feels like he could take all the higher ups on and win, burn everything they have to ashes so they can feel even a sliver of the pain they inflict, so they can experience even a taste of the violence they weaned him on from childhood. But he is not that man, and that is not what either of them need right now, so he focuses on calming himself, on finding the right words to say

When he finally finds them, Gojo is all cried out, silent and still, tucked into Nanami’s side. The puffs of Gojo’s breaths against his skin are grounding, and when Nanami speaks he feels sure.

“I wish I could shield you from this somehow, but I know I can’t. All I can do is tell you that it isn’t your fault, and that sometimes the right thing to do can be the most painful.” He slides his hand up Gojo’s back to the back of his neck, cupping it gently beneath his palm. “Not many could do what you did. It takes a strength beyond being the strongest. It’s heavy to bear but you don’t have to carry it alone.”

They’re quiet for a moment, just holding each other. Nanami focuses on their breathing, on the steady in-and-out, on the rise and fall of Gojo’s chest against his own. They are here after all. They are alive.

“I’m sorry,” Gojo whispers eventually. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Nanami says, and there’s a fierceness in every syllable. “Not about this. Not to me. Remember what we said?” He hopes that is enough, because his emotions clog up his throat before he can say any more.

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to elaborate; judging from the way Gojo pulls him closer still, all is understood.

“Thank you,” Gojo says quietly “for keeping your promise.”

“Of course,” Nanami whispers back, “I always will.”

For hours, neither move, curled up on the couch that has held them through the chaos, a sanctuary of their own making. Tomorrow may bring more brutality, more harsh reality, but tonight two jagged pieces fit together in quiet harmony.