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He was born into a world that expected the very best from him. The moment the Gojo Clan realised he was special, a cut above the rest, he was isolated from anyone below him. Put upon a high pedestal and brought up to be the closest thing to a God. There was no time for love and comfort. The adults in his life eyed him with jealousy, or they eyed him with tremendous expectations. There was no in-between. The building pressure to be strong, be stronger, be the strongest. It was mounted on his shoulders as soon as he could walk. Heavy and suffocating. A constant reminder of what was expected of him for the rest of his life. How it was his job to do the correct thing, follow in the footsteps of the past jujutsu sorcerers. Destined for a role that he had no choice in.
There was no time for a childhood. His parents were taken away- or perhaps he was the one taken away from them, he was never really sure. His life became a constant cycle. It was all about learning and practicing and trying and learning and practicing and being better, being stronger, being the best.
When his six eye first manifested, when they flickered into life, no one was there to offer comfort. No one held out a hand for him to hold. The adults in his life turning away and ignoring him. Unimpressed at the idea of a mere child not being able to handle something by himself. They forced him to experience it alone. Experiencing his whole entire world being torn apart and rebuilt again in a matter of seconds. Information beyond what he had imagined was possible being crammed into his naïve brain, everything unfolding in the blink of an eye.
They left him, curled in on himself, stuffed inside a quiet room. Stifling sobs escaping past his lips that sounded out like drums. They left him, even when he squeezed his eyes shut and found out that he could still see everything. Could feel the mass of the air around him, usually weightless but now thick and penetrative. Every molecule grating across his skin. The twitch of a curse far off in the distance felt like crashing waves. Footsteps down the outside walkway thundered through the ground, reverberated within his skull.
It was all too much.
He was just a child.
He didn’t want to deal with this.
He was just a child.
It wasn’t until three days later, when his body was weak enough to succumb to exhaustion, that he finally relapsed into a blissful darkness. And when he awoke again- the world just as blinding, just as deafening as before- when he awoke, no one was there to give him the comfort that he so desperately craved.
--
Moving forward from that fiasco, he knew that he was always going to be on his own. For him to be the strongest, he simply wasn’t allowed the luxury of having someone else to rely on. To be the strongest meant he had to take on all the problems. Standing at the very top of the lonesome mountain, untouchable and unreachable. That was his role. Suffering was not permitted because showing weakness was forbidden; you hide any flaws in a locked box that no one else can open. Problems were prohibited. Pain was only there to spur you on until you forced yourself past the threshold and the agony could no longer reach you.
But Gojo Satoru wasn’t past that threshold yet. He still feels as useless as he had felt when he was a young child. He wonders if he still had his connections with the Clan, if they would belittle him once more for being like this. If they’d mock his inability to get up and move forward if they saw him incapacitated once again. If they would laugh in the face of his weaknesses and tell him stand you insolent brat, someone like you doesn’t have time to be wallowing in self-pity like this. Stop being such a coward and just get up.
He tries not to focus on the curdled memories. But when he takes in his current reality, it doesn’t make him feel much better.
Storms. He didn’t like storms. Especially when they bring along the roaring sounds and flashing lights, electrifying veins running through the dark sky. Each spark white-hot, as if a current is sent through the atoms, as if it jolts through each individual one until it reaches his body. Six eyes are good- he is the strongest for a reason- but even he feels ashamed of what they become when faced with storms. Noise and light hit him all at once and his eyes can’t pinpoint a solid moment in all the chaos. Can’t focus in on something specific so they keep searching and searching and searching. An ache running deep, a sting worming it’s way through him. The air claggy, closing in- closing in-
It’s useless. Pathetic. He’s at a school to learn yet he can’t even get a grasp on his own abilities. The ones that are meant to make him different, make him stand out. There were others who could only dream of having even a fraction of what he has and yet he’s now rendered motionless, cowering in the corner of his room. Blinds shut and his body wrapped in a blanket. His glasses lost somewhere in the mess of trying to find a safe haven to hide away in. His breathing frayed, coming out in short gasps as another bout of lightning seems to crack through the curtains and dig into his very core.
Gojo Satoru was the strongest. To be so helpless, to be so useless, was quite frankly laughable. The strongest currently didn’t feel like a fitting title.
Not when life seemed to get too much for him. More often than most- which was the worst part. Shoko doesn’t find herself being sensitive to the lights in the infirmary, yet they gnaw at his pupils uncomfortably. Suguru doesn’t think that the curses they face are too loud, that their growls are deafening and their snarls pound into his brain like solid fists. He knew he was different, had been told so since they day he was born. But to stand out like this- when others seemed so unaffected by the things that seemed to affect him. That seemed to hinder him. Well, it dug deeper into his heart than any knife could.
It’s why he could never verbalise this- this- this problem. (The word ‘problem’ wasn’t one that he found himself using very much. It was clunky and he saw no suitable use for it more often than not.) To say out loud that something was wrong- not wrong, he doesn’t like that word- to say that something was off, would be admitting defeat. Caving in and showing his hand and that would just end up painting yet another target on his back.
There’s thunder, rolling slowly yet steadily towards the school. He sighs but halfway it breaks into a sob and he has to clamp his mouth shut in fear of being caught. To think that he, the promised one of the Gojo Clan, was fearful of being seen like this was pitiful.
Then there’s a knock at his door.
It’s just as loud as the raging weather outside. Each knock breaks his mind a little more and he bites his lip to stop a whimper from forcing its way through.
“Satoru? You in there?”
Not here. Not now. He can’t face Suguru like this, he can’t even explain to himself what’s going on so how could he ever begin to explain to someone else the predicament he’s currently in.
A lightning strike. Too much.
“Fuck-” he mutters. He tries to keep it quiet but apparently the swear was loud enough to be heard because he notices a surprised sound from the other side of his door. The door which is now slowly being cracked open. The shadows cascade in from the hallway, the familiar figure painted across the floor. A hand gingerly reaches out to the wall and flicks on the light switch. He hisses at the sudden bombardment of brightness, even with his head bowed down between his legs, knees up to his chest.
“Turn off the fucking lights.”
A click. Once more he’s bathed in darkness and now has time to cringe at the harshness of his own words. He hadn’t meant to snap but the rain was getting too much, the lightning was already far too much, the thunder just as bad. All of it. All of it was too fucking much.
He hated it. Whatever this feeling was. He. Hated. It. Wanted to dispose of it and never have to face anything like this ever again.
“Satoru, what happened-” the door is shut softly, and he doesn’t need to look up to know Suguru is stood staring at him. He can feel his overwhelming cursed energy, coming off of him in waves. It’s not Suguru’s fault, but it’s still a lot. It still has his eyes scrambling, searching for an enemy that isn’t even there. Straining to find something- even something miniscule- within the tremendous confusion.
The presence slides down the wall next to him. Their shoulders almost brushing but not quite, his infinity is a small barrier around him. Holding him together weakly, like low quality glue used in an attempt to piece back together a porcelain bowl that had broken into fragmented shards.
Another crackle of lightning, closer than before, rips through the sky and illuminates the world just past the blinds.
Sucking in a breath, he pulls himself closer. Tries to ignore the eyes watching him but he can feel the gaze. Can feel the concern being thrown his way. Can feel Suguru lift up a hand awkwardly to try and rest it on his shoulder before retreating, realising infinity is up.
“Are you- are you scared of storms?” Suguru asks carefully, hesitantly. As if the idea of Gojo being afraid of something was foreign. It felt so unlikely. Something that was never going to ever happen.
“No, no,” he gasps out between each breath. “I just- I don’t know, I don’t know. It’s all too much.”
Suguru is quiet for a moment, as if he’s putting all the puzzle pieces together in his mind. As if he’s slowly figuring out what’s going on. The lights are too bright. A flinch when the thunder roars. Infinity has formed a barrier, fading and flickering but trying to keep everything out all at the same time.
“Ah, okay, I think I get it.” He says softly. There's a little bit of movement next to him and then, “Satoru, I’m going to put your blindfold on for you, okay? You need to take down Infinity.”
Honestly, he had forgotten that he had those stupid blindfolds. They’re only for dire situations- his glasses usually do the trick just fine. The nod he gives is jerky, it makes the room spin despite his eyes being tightly shut. Infinity finally fizzles out and he holds a bated breath, feels scared for once in his life. The feeling is not familiar and sits awkwardly in the pit at the bottom of his stomach. Suguru is unbelievably gentle as he wraps the fabric around his eyes, the cloth comforting as it rubs against his skin. Whilst it is in no means a perfect fix, it relieves everything somewhat. Just slightly.
Lightning explodes once again. He huddles more into himself. There is a soft, tender sigh next to him, and he’s puled sideways into an embrace. Fingers begin to rhythmically run through his hair, each strand that is pulled tugs him back down to reality little by little. Suguru’s mumbles are incomprehensible but at some point, they start overpowering the thunder. They are louder than the rain beating down onto the windows. Melodic and calming in a welcoming way.
They sit for a while. Until the rain becomes a passing thought. Until the thunder and lightning have passed overhead and instead echo out in the far distance. Suguru’s presence beside him, steady and refusing to waver. His cursed energy not overwhelming, as if his friend has reeled it in, making sure it stays unruffled and composed.
Gojo lets out a sigh. It sounds weak and pitiful coming out of his mouth. He hates it.
“Suguru I-” he starts but isn’t sure how to continue. He wets his lips, but the words wont form properly on his tongue.
“You don’t need to say anything right now,” Suguru speaks tenderly. His tone a cupping hand that runs a thumb across his cheek. “Next time it gets this bad, come to me, alright? You don’t need to do this alone.”
He wants to argue. Wants to rebuttal, claim that he cannot be the strongest if he needs to be aided like this. How he’s a pathetic loser who desperately yearns for human touch- if only to comfort him for a second. Though, he doesn’t say any of those things. Instead, he nods slowly because if this is Suguru asking, he supposes he can agree to ask for some help from time to time.
--
The Star Plasma Vessel is dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
She’s gone, even after they had discussed the end plan. That she should be able to live the life she wanted to. If only he had been faster, or stronger. If he hadn’t been left in a bleeding pile on the floor, body burning and senses going haywire.
She’s dead. Gone.
Suguru is-
Dead? Dead? Not quite. Not in that way. Not in that way, no. His eyes hurt thinking about it, his chest heaves when he tries to utter a word. The world is spinning, spinning, spinning.
Lights. Noise. Spinning. God it won’t fucking stop.
Suguru isn’t dead. But he might as well be. No- he shouldn’t say stuff that he doesn’t want to believe. He shouldn’t think like that. It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to live.
Oh God, oh God- what he would do to have Suguru here with him right now. Running his fingers through his hair or whispering comforts into his ear. But Suguru is gone. Not dead, he needs to keep reminding himself. Not dead. But in a way, he kind of is. He is dead to the community, shunned out for the heinous crimes he committed. Dead to his family because there isn’t a family left. He killed them all. Now he’s dead to the world, with a bounty on his head that only says one thing: execution.
He’s dead to Gojo.
(No he’s not. No he’s not.)
There is no presence to comfort him. To hold him close and guide him into self awareness again. To bring back his full consciousness instead of flickering through this hazy pain. No one to tell him that it’ll be alright because it won’t be. It will never be alright.
He is the strongest. The strongest. Strongest.
What good is he if he couldn’t stop this? Even his fucking six eyes couldn’t foresee this terrible, heart wrenching future for them all. His infinity is wavering. On and off. Suffocating and then alleviating, rapidly switching between the two drastically different options. He gets a moment to breathe. Then it is harshly suffocating him again. Then it gives him room. Then it’s crushing him, closing in, closing in.
Closing in.
A wheeze, short and ragged, rips it’s way out his throat so forcefully that he swears he feels the blood. Tastes bitter and metallic on his tongue. Or perhaps the flavour hadn't left his mouth ever since he had died- or ever since Riko had died- or ever since Suguru died.
Stop it- Suguru isn’t dead. Gojo isn’t dead. Riko is. The world still moves on forward, regardless of who gets left behind.
Half sob and half gargle, a noise escapes his lips, and he curls up within himself.
Dead. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Oh God- be strong. Be stronger. Be the strongest.
Suguru. Isn’t. Dead. (He hopes, he pleads, he begs- even if it isn’t fitting for the “strongest” he doesn’t care. He just wants him back. He just needs him back. Please- oh God, why, oh God.)
The world is too much.
Then the world is passing by him swiftly as he comes crashing down and dragged into unconsciousness.
--
As you get older, you learn how to deal with things. Well, that’s what he was told as a child and he just has to hope that it’s true. Pretend that his eyes still don’t fail him, pretend that he doesn’t feel the weakness settle within his bones, pretend that if he smiles and makes enough jokes then no one will give him a second glance and just take him at face value.
Pretending was so tiring though.
But Gojo Satoru had overcome the troubles that he had faced growing up. He was a fully-fledged adult now, faced with responsibilities and the honour of protecting others. He was going to help train the newer generations, teach the next wave of Jujutsu Sorcerers. Then there were his own kids too. Well, not quiet his own kids- but still, he spent enough time putting in the effort. Megumi and Tsumiki were young and naïve and in a way, so was Gojo. He wasn’t built for this. Parenthood seemed like such a farfetched responsibility for a guy like him. This wasn’t what he was made for, he was made for being the strongest and powering through even the toughest of battles.
If he falters at all, it could be world ending. So, adulthood for him was made up of flashy grins and an arrogant personality. Not much difference from how he acted whilst growing up but at least now he could differentiate between the real cockiness he exuded and the fake smiles that he would throw up defensively. Use them to his advantage and hope that whoever he was talking to just found him annoying and didn’t look too deeply into it.
Pretending was so tiring though.
He should be over it by now. He should be done with these stupid, childish outbursts. Overstimulation showed weakness. Weakness could only lead to death. Whenever he gets like this, everything too much and the blindfold not doing enough, he opts to retreat to a secluded room. Ride it out until it passes. Wait until he can just about stand on his legs again without them trembling.
“Idiot, get inside my office,” Shoko calls out to him, and her voice hits him hard enough to shove him out his trancelike state.
“I-”
“Don’t you dare play dumb with me Satoru,” she says and suddenly he’s now being pushed inside of her office. He hadn’t even meant to wander the halls and end up here. He had been looking for someplace to stay and clam down, but his body was a warzone where his senses were losing the battle. His thoughts were completely absent from the fight, too jumbled to make sense of it all.
He’s gently lowered to the ground and he sits against the cool tiles, they're smooth under his fingertips. He runs them along the grout, feels the indents between each square.
Headphones are thrown his way.
He glances up at Shoko, who had closed the curtains, her hands now resting on her hips. He’d raise a brow if he could, but he doubts she would be able to see that considering he was still wearing his blindfold. His silence shows his confusion easily though. She huffs, “they’re for you, put them on idiot.”
And he sure does feel like an idiot. His heart rumbling in his chest. He knows Shoko is insulting him out of love. Chastising him for not properly taking care of himself. But he can’t help but feel stupid as he slips the headphones on over his ears and shuts his eyes behind the blindfolds.
They work annoyingly well.
He doesn’t ask how Shoko knew. Or if she had known all along about what was going on underneath his skin and muscle. In return Shoko doesn’t ask any questions either. Eventually he pushes back one side of the headphones slightly, just to allow a slither of sound in, and is careful not to suddenly feel overwhelmed again. He listens to her nails clack against the computer keyboard and the heel of her shoe tap against the floor. They sync up with the beat of his heart. He leans his head back as he realises that maybe there are a few more people than he thought who weren’t willing to let him suffer alone.
Later, he finds the headphones in his bag when he was sure he had returned them to the desk in Shoko’s office.
--
Blood clouds his vision.
Sticky, murky blood that coats his hands and climbs up his throat and is heavy on his entire soul.
Too much blood. Too much. Heavy, heavy, heavy.
He refuses to move his hands an inch, scared that if he does, the twitching alone will shatter his body. It’ll jostle the blood that stains it, burning scratches as it rubs his palms raw.
Suguru Geto is dead.
He’s dead. He really is dead this time. Gojo knows it to be true because he can’t stop staring at the corpse even though his eyes hurt, his face hurts, his chest hurts, his hands hurt, each individual finger hurts.
Dead. Not breathing. Gojo had stolen his very last breath.
The blood on his hands is drying. Cracking his skin into uneven pieces. Painfully jagged edges that cut deeply into his open flesh like tiny pointed stars. Blood. So much blood. The scent thick in the air. Copper and iron and stomach-churning and horrid.
Blood, blood, blood.
That’s all he can think about. Is the blood seeping into the dirt below. As it pulses out of the unmoving body, sluggish and taunting. Suguru’s face (he looks peaceful. Why does he look peaceful?) is speckled with crimson. Lips a faded smile and Satoru thinks that life is inhumanly unfair to make him look at those lips. He had loved those lips. Now if he closes his eyes, he sees them choking on blood. Hears the gargling sounds ringing in his ears as the dying breath is spluttered out.
Memories are precious. His are stained with sin and tainted beyond repair. Droplets of ruby contaminating them all, it tints them an angry red that sets his heart on fire. The flames frustrated, agitated and warm. Sending uncomfortable heat through him so he’s sweating uncontrollably. His sweat mingles with the blood still caking his unmoving hands, held out far away from the rest of his body.
The blink he attempts is slow. Too slow. He sees red when his eyelids close and the corrupted colour follows him out into the real world once they open too.
Blood. Blood. So much blood.
Not his. Not his. But Suguru’s.
It burns. His palms are ignited. He wants to scrub them raw and let boiling water melt away today’s endeavours. Blistering skin would feel more comforting than what he’s wearing right now.
When the daze finally lifts and he can hear his heartbeat in his eardrums again- that is when he finally pulls his arms closer towards him. The joints of his elbows crack as he bends them, they groan at having to move after being held up straight for so long.
Glancing down, he’s just met with the blood. Not his own blood. Not his own.
He bites his lip to stop himself from screaming- from crying- from throwing up, he doesn’t know which urge he is fighting. He just bites down hard and it stings, not enough to bring him back but enough to force him to blink his glossy eyes rapidly. He bites his lip, continues to do so, until it splits. A thin cut into the skin and he tastes his blood as it forms into small scarlet beads.
Blood.
It’s all he’ll be dreaming of for the next several weeks.
--
Nanami doesn’t judge. Well, actually, he definitely does judge sometimes. Especially when it comes to Gojo. But in cases like this, he doesn’t seem to judge him. Gojo doesn’t know whether he wants the pity or not, or whether he would prefer the jokes and being made fun of.
When he’s a mess, crouching down, head hung low- he isn’t sure if a joke thrown his way would make or break him. His fingers roughly tugging at his hair as he tries to come down from the high of a fight. His eyes too slow to catch up, infinity abandoned and that could mean someone could get me. I could die right now. There is no protection.
Nothing attacks him. Instead, his own digits are pried away from wrestling with his hair and he finds that his fingers are now digging into a different set of hands. Hands that don’t flinch away at the intrusion of his nails. Not even when they indent the skin. They don’t move even when the nails are pushing down so hard that they could draw blood.
He should be embarrassed. Should feel hot shame for acting like this. Especially with another sorcerer by his side.
But Nanami doesn’t make fun of him. Or judge him. Not for this. Not for this.
The blond sorcerer isn’t usually a talker. Never has been. But right now words seem to tumble out of his mouth. He chats about anything and everything. Complains about a brand of smoothie that he had really liked and how it was now being discontinued. Mentioned how he had tried an iced coffee for the very first time last week and wasn’t as opposed to the idea of cold coffee as he thought he was going to be. Talks about the fact that he’s broken three pairs of glasses this week alone. Says that he keeps a stock of them at home in a kitchen drawer and buys them in bulk because being a sorcerer is annoying, so of course you need spares of literally everything.
Nanami doesn’t usually talk like this but Gojo realises why he’s suddenly so inclined to speak this much. His words don’t change in intonation, a steady monotone thrum that allows him to focus on that alone. Until the vertigo subsides and his eyes don’t feel like they’re going to fall out each time he opens them.
Eventually he’ll let go of Nanami’s hands. Shocked that he was allowed to hold onto them for so long. Shocked that Nanami doesn't point out how that made him pathetic. Because he needs someone to point out his flaws and tell him that he’s stupid. He needs someone to correct him, to tell him that he can’t be the strongest if he acts like this.
Nothing like that is mentioned to him though. Nanami doesn’t refer to his episode at all. Just acts like it never happened. Gojo didn’t realise he would feel so grateful for that.
--
When he has precious students that he needs to look after, there is no time to fall into the deep void of weakness and self-loathing. They are his kids. He’ll protect them and he’ll impress them all at the same time, show off his prowess and flaunt his talents.
Feeling the strains of his eyes meant that he was not good enough. Being bombarded by the cursed energy that his students would bring with every step meant that he was not good enough. The headaches hidden behind his skull. The pain in his bones. The urge to slip on the headphones from Shoko that he still had (but never mentioned that he held onto them, even after all these years). Let them muffle his surroundings and forget about life for a moment. It all simply meant that he was not good enough.
Weak. Weak.
“You look like shit.”
He lifts his head up from where it was resting on his crossed arms. He had been slumped over his desk, anticipation worming its way through each muscle. His body wasn’t being too much of a bitch currently, but it was the thought that something worse was yet to come. Like he was prey waiting just out of reach from the predatory jaws.
Megumi stands in front of him, looking unimpressed as he always does.
“How would you know that I looked like shit, my dear Megumi,” Gojo hits back, the strain in his voice hopefully masked by his jovial tone. “I had my head on my desk.”
“Exactly. You only do that when you’re feeling off. And when you feel off you look like shit.” He pointed out.
“I didn’t know Gojo could get sick,” another familiar voice calls out. Yuji is off to the side, his face a mixture of concern and confusion. Gojo has only just realised that he’s currently got a three person audience. It isn’t surprising that his first years are being nosy, barging into his personal space when he would rather deal with this all by himself and not have to let his students down by showing them his weak side.
Curse Megumi. He had already seen glimpses of his struggles, had seen them in the past before. Of course he had- he practically helped raise the kid. Of course he knows when something is off. Gojo honestly wouldn’t have expected anything less from him.
“Dumbass, anyone can get sick,” Nobara throws the insult at Yuji. “Even the strongest. No one is immune.”
And that- that certainly does sink in in a way that Gojo does not appreciate. Nobara hadn’t even been talking to him but her words settle immediately. Like a parasite to flesh. No one is immune. Well, she’s right in that regard and yet he can’t help but feel useless sat here struggling to beat the migraine forcing its presence to be known.
The other two seem to have gotten into an argument. Light-hearted like always and Gojo pays no mind to them. He’s used to it by now. Instead he focuses on Megumi, who asks, “are you doing good?”
“Yeah,” he grits out and goes to adjust his blindfold.
“You said you were going to meet us for a mission. That was meant to happen two hours ago.”
Oh. “Oh.”
Megumi sighs and walks around the desk so he can close the blinds behind them. Yuji and Nobara stop their conversation- or argument- or whatever they were having- and watch, intrigued. Nobara clicks her fingers as her face lights up with understanding. “Oh, he’s got a migraine! That makes sense.”
Yuji also seems to have this revelation at the same time and he’s running out of the door before anyone can say anything to stop him. Gojo tries to wave a hand nonchalantly in front of the two students still left watching him. He goes to stand, “nonsense, I apologise for making my precious students wait-”
“The mission was completed.” Megumi cuts in and Gojo slumps back down into the chair.
“Completed?”
“Mhm. Yep.”
Just at that moment Yuji comes barrelling through the door again, stopping at the desk and placing down a cup of water. “Hydration is key when it comes to things like this and I saw that you had no water on your desk, so I brought you some.”
“Woah,” Nobara exclaims dramatically. “I didn’t know you could make smart decisions.”
Yuji sticks out his tongue in retaliation. “I make smart decisions all the time.”
“Says the guy who I watched jump out of the seventh floor of a building today without any hesitation.”
“Wait, what?” Gojo pipes up. Megumi gives him a look that immediately says we will tell you later. You should get some sleep. Gojo shoots a look back that says fine, but you better tell me the full story. Megumi nods.
“Right, that nonverbal thing you did was weird. Whatever the hell happened between the two of you just now is honestly creepy,” Nobara says, glancing between Gojo and Megumi as she pushes Yuji out the door. “I didn’t know the two of you had telepathic powers.”
“We don’t.” Megumi deadpans.
“You keep telling yourself that.”
Before he’s fully out the room, Yuji yells “take care of yourself Gojo” and Nobara throws a thumbs up his way to show that she agrees with the sentiment. Megumi switches off the lights as he goes, and the door is shut unusually softly.
The headache is still chewing at the back of his head. But the strain on his eyes had lessened at least. The water is cool on his lips, and he hadn’t realised how much he had probably needed a drink.
Sighing, he lays his head back down onto his arms. Its weird, having people actually care about you. Having people not look at you and see a title but instead see a human. A human who will have flaws and weakness but that doesn’t take away from the strength that he’s already got.
People care about him, for some reason. He thinks that maybe he can get used to that.