Archive of Our Own

In the years following secondary education, Gojo had found himself tiring of literature from his home country. He had picked up a habit of spending the idle time in missions to try and expand a self-structured liberal arts understanding. Curating a methodology to dictate his approach in life-death circumstances rose in importance as he kept taking on more consequential asks. Japan had nurtured some avant-garde talent, yes, but as a whole had become stilted and seemed to aim to induce feelings of malaise rather than enrichment.

As a result, evaluating historical works of Western European authors, most notably, became a paradigm of his schedule through work. He had tried out the Russians, the Dostoevskys and Tolstoys, but felt wilted once more in the face of immovable misery. But the French and English Sometimes they brought on new principles, new philosophies to guide his approach to justice, mercy, rationality, restraint.

But for all they were worth, and strangely enough, no piece had ever caused him to feel more vicariously than Victor Hugo’s magnum opus. The trials and tribulations of Les Misérables.

The constant and overflowing tales of despotism were no more sickening than what had been read before, but this time he had grown somewhat fond of the former convict and his ward. The effect of their misfortunes seemed to nearly gloss right off the pages.

Nevertheless, he had long finished the individually-contained thesis of this venture into the other side of the globe. No thoughts of the French novelist or his themes came across the sorceror's thoughts in many years.

Yet now, he was here following his return, sitting across a meeting room table, listening to Shoko and Ijichi and the others recount what had transpired - more specifically, the events in regards to Itadori Yūji from Shibuya up until now. Hearing all the different ways his newest student had been subjected to suffering was worsening his psyche like an collapsing avalanche.

Dragging a hand down his face harshly, Gojo became more and more reminded with each word spoken of what he had felt when following Hugo’s novel, but on a cellular level this time.

Tuning back to the present, he also became to notice the frigid, nearly clinical manner in which they referred to Yūji. No rhyme. No reason. Just a day like this, scattered among the rest. Hot rage struck him and Gojo stood up violently, knocking his chair scattering to the floor.

“Stop speaking. I get the situation.” Gojo suddenly felt an overwhelming need to leave and see Yūji for himself. His shoulders slumped imperceptibly, and fatigue seeped into his bones. “I’ve wasted enough time here.”

Unfazed, Shoko began to pick up her notes. “I’ll call if we need you again.” Then, taking a closer look at Gojo’s face, saying “You may be able to find him in the central building near the training grounds. Or on it."

The cause for incense began to shift into self-loathing. Gritting his teeth, he nodded his thanks, and made his way out of the room.

It is November 20th, and the night is young.

_____________________________________

Cast by the streetlights, sparse because of the now faulty power infrastructure, thin glimmers of light lit up the concrete ground. They flashed for Yūji’s path forward as he walked towards the location now set up as the Tokyo Technical College’s headquarters.

Silence permeated the streets near him. And also in his mind, for a change. Sukuna’s absence from his body, though unsanctioned, allowed relief from the curse’s tirades of urban bloodbath. For the first time in a while, Yūji felt some peace in the nighttime.
He let his thoughts run for a bit, day(evening)dreaming of plans for possible vacations, things he hadn’t allowed himself to think of until they had gotten Gojo-sensei unsealed.

More than a day now has passed that Gojo-sensei had returned. The two of them hadn’t yet spoken alone, with disparate responsibilities placing them in opposite directions. Yūji’s had to force his body from drifting towards him a couple times.

But now, taking advantage of the quiet, he heads toward the roof of a building with a flatter-inclined roof. Downhill views of the still intact landscape situated snugly.

The grounds of this new place are mostly empty at night, the long winding corridors and square training rooms absent of movement. As expected of sorcerers who treasure opportunities to rest; save for the occasional creature scampering by, or student wandering through—
— or perhaps a lone Gojo Satoru, making his rounds for the night.

“Yūji.” Gojo calls, looking up at him from his position standing on the ground.

“Hi, Sensei.” Yūji beckons to him, and is reminded of a similar situation months ago. When he was still publically stated to be dead, and the two had often made their way up Gojo’s roof. A way for Yūji to get some air, he had said.

“And so, I’ve found you back here, then.”

“So you have.” Yūji’s eyes follow him as he comes up over the rails to join him on the siding.

Old habits are hard to break.

It’s a rather warm night for the month of November, a comfortable temperature even in sleepwear. Small birds flitter by in the distance, casting tiny shadows over the ground. Still, the winter wind breezes past, rustling their clothing, brushing Yūji’s soft hair across his forehead. Gojo’s glad he changed into his thicker hoodie for the night.

Yūji’s wearing a soft grey long-sleeve shirt, worn with use, and black joggers. More similar now to Gojo’s own style of dark neutrals. But Gojo misses seeing the splash of red in his wardrobe.

In the midst of his return, he had also gotten the chance to meet the self-proclaimed sibling of Itadori. “I spoke to Choso, you know.”

Although, it was more of Choso speaking at him, rather than a two-way conversation. He certainly had his own unobstructed thoughts about Gojo.

“Yeah? What do you think?” Yūji looks happy to hear it. He takes Gojo’s hand, lacing their fingers together, as easy as could be.

“I guess people can change.” Gojo sighed, shrugging. “He’s alright for a curse. He loves you, that’s clear.”

It’s a full moon tonight, and the brightness cast falls upon the two softly. The darkened colors around almost look watercolor-painted in the moment.

Yūji studied the sorcerer, who left both his glasses and blindfold behind tonight, leaving his hair down. It fell in a charming swept manner, reaching just past his ears. His mouth, curved into a small smile directed towards him.

But there are remnants of anger in the presence of the man. “Are you worried about something?” Yūji asks, tilting his head upwards to look at him.

You, Gojo wants to say. But what good would that do, now that they are already here.

Gojo remains silent for a few moments, corners of his mouth turning down just the slightest.

When he speaks up finally, Yūji's lost in thought, his gaze a little wild, roaming over the darkened horizon.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. With you.”

Yūji's demeanor shifts and he blinks at him, as if coming back to reality.

"I know you are, Sensei." he smiles, taut to almost a grimace, as if he's trained himself to whenever it comes to Shibuya. And it hurts to watch.

"No, I mean," Gojo shakes his head, frustrated because he was never good with the words that were important when it actually mattered with the right people. “It wasn’t your fault, Yūji. It was only mine.”

His eyebrows draw together, mouth already starting to open to deny. Gojo hates it, hates anything he feels that he has to do to martyr himself. So he forces himself to find the right syllables for everything he draws out from his heart. This is important.

Working his jaw, Gojo tries again. "You say you know what you’re responsible for since the day I bound you to sorcery, but you actually don't. It's something you've asked yourself to be, something you keep telling yourself endlessly.”

A flash of defiance jumps across Yūji’s face but he won't give him the time to escalate and keeps going.

"And I wish to the heavens that I could go and take that curse back, instead of taking your life.”

Aborted anger turns into muted uneasiness. “But I know what I have to say may be useless in the end, because we've made this burden yours.”

“Sensei, I-” He starts, still wanting to claim otherwise.

"But I want you to understand,” Gojo interrupts. "That you are far from being weak, I mean. What you do, what you are capable of doing, is something that we can’t ever lose.” Something that I couldn’t lose.

He presses his lips to the inside of Yūji's wrist that he’s holding. I want you to want to keep living. And I will protect you with everything that I have.

"You say I'm the strongest?" he doesn't blink as he says it, the whistles of the wind strumming quietly in the air around them. "What would that make of you if I said that you are the best of what I believe in?”

Yūji's eyes widen, bewilderment and pain charging up their warm color. You've been turning my world upside down since the first moment I met you. Let me change yours too.

Yūji is silent for several moments, gaze returning out towards the evening dusk.

“You know, Sensei,” He runs his fingers through his cropped hair, cut shorter than before.

“Even though I have some sort of renegerative power against damage,” he pauses. Gojo is acutely aware of the scars that cover his body.

Yūji says quietly, “I still feel the pain like a normal person would.” as if it was taboo, as if it was forbidden for him to exist as he should have the right to.

He sighs, seeming more tired than Gojo’s ever seen him before. “A lot of it, actually. When it happened, and after, it’s hard to still feel strong."

Gojo thinks he is feeling a terrible ache in his chest right now, but pushes it down. He wants to kill anything that could ever hurt him again.

Reluctantly, Gojo separates his fingers from Yūji’s and reaches towards his breast pocket. He pulls out three beautiful Japanese camellias: one red, one yellow, one white.

“I somehow found these in the outskirts of this barren wasteland we may still call a city.” He smiles gently at the boy, placing the yellow behind his ear, pairing nicely with the color of his hair - which had somehow grown duller since Gojo had last seen him. “When I was doing recon earlier today.”

Yūji’s eyes widen, a pretty pink settling on the tops of his cheeks. He averts his eyes to look at the shrubbery beneath them. “You haven’t changed too much, I guess.”

Gojo laughs and kisses him. From the night sky’s point of view, the moon seems to be smiling down upon the pair— with its light guarding their pathway from the shadows clambering about. As much as Gojo likes spending his free time during evenings on his own, he is undoubtedly fonder of being in the presence of this vessel this person who has become his reason for fighting.

“Yūji.” Gojo places his hand back over his smaller one. He’s warm despite the occasional chill, even more than Yūji’s, despite the fact he ran warmer than most.

“I love you.”

Yūji has waited 19 days to hear the sound of his voice again, 19 days to feel the press of his skin against his own. 456 hours, 27,360 minutes, 1,641,600 seconds.

And he loves him too, of course. So much so, that sometimes, before Gojo had returned, he couldn’t breathe properly if he let himself think of him for too long.

But for Yūji, who previously was not one to subscribe to the fears of superstition, is no longer as confident in the results of physical laws of nature. The last time he had told someone the same, the next day she was killed in an egregiously meaningless death two feet away.

Gojo’s thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of his hand, patient.

And so Yūji smiles softly, eyes creasing, and says, “I know, Gojo-sensei.” He takes in a short breath. “When it’s time, come back to me. Promise?”

Gojo turns towards him, features as soft as always.

“Of course I will.”

Before, a month ago, he may have accepted this from him, may have taken it as the truth. But now, after all that’s happened, and all that he has lost — he cannot. They are together here for this moment on this quiet night. There is no longer a guarantee for such in the days that lie scattered in the future ahead. “No, Gojo-sensei, come back. To me, promise me, please.”

Gojo’s face falls ever so slightly. His lips tighten along with his hands. “I will, Yūji. I promise. There is nothing in this world that could stop me from finding you again.”

These words carve themselves into his heart as a prayer, etch themselves through his actions as a North Star.

But eventually, all stars will run out of hydrogen fuel, lose mass. All prayers have an end.

_____________________________________

It is December 24th, nearing the cusp of the next day, and night has fallen once more.

Yūji sits alone on the same rooftop, where the sky is pitch black this time. The moon is nowhere to be seen.

And a lone red camellia rests to his side, with nothing more to say.