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It was cold.
Deep in his nerves as if the hot water had suddenly run out, it was cold.
The thing is, when you hold your hand over an open flame, it hurts, right? You know it’ll hurt, because that’s what you’re told from day one. ‘Don’t touch fire, you’ll burn yourself, yada yada.’ You know to expect that burning sensation, anticipate the bubble of your skin as it blisters, wait for the flames to rip through all layers of your skin until it touches all the little nerves hiding away between muscle and bone. But the cold is so unsuspecting.
Satoru Gojo was born during the first snowfall, so he knew the ache of the frost as it settled into your bloodstream. He was familiar with the tightening of his joints, the sting of his muscles as he tried to warm them back up. Satoru knows, and yet, he’s never felt quite as cold as he does right now.
The white-haired man stared blankly up at the sky, vaguely acknowledging the streams of blood coming from all available orifices. The pain was so intense, frigid and unrelenting as if he’d been dunked in liquid nitrogen. For all that he was familiar with the sting of winter, this chill was a stranger he’d rather not be acquainted with. It was odd - despite the pain being unbearable and the fact that Satoru was only still alive due to the leftover cursed energy weakly flowing through the remainder of his body, the man felt at peace. Perhaps it was the silhouette kneeling beside him that wasn’t quite there 4 seconds ago, or maybe it was just his time. If Satoru thought himself to be a lucky man, he’d allow himself to believe it was a combination of the two.
Out of the corner of his blurry eye, the silhouette looked frighteningly similar to a bright spring day, all half moon eyes and wide smiles. If he focused, which was difficult to do when you were paralyzed completely and also very much almost dead, the figure had shiny black hair with an endearing flop of hair hanging out the front. He sat with his legs crossed beside Satoru, smiling despite the gruesome scene in front of him. Somewhere in the back of his shadowy mind, Satoru wondered if he looked silly - then wondered if that was an appropriate thought to have before you die. Probably not - however, he never was one to do things entirely by the book. Was there a book on how to die properly? Would be a shame if there was. He’d never get to read it. Not that he would, anyway, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Are you real?” Satoru finds himself thinking, trying to move his jaw along with the words. The figure seemed to be able to hear his thoughts, however, and only chuckled lightly. “What do you think, Satoru?”
The man in question felt the corners of his mouth lift weakly, relief overpowering the ice cold burn of his severed nerves. “Come to save me then?” Satoru whispered, feeling his cursed energy slow even more. It was comforting. If he believed in protective deities, Satoru would guess that belief felt a little like how he did right now. No wonder so many non-sorcerer’s are so at peace.
“I can’t save you, Satoru.” The man beside him replied simply, resting his chin on his palm and staring down at the dying man. “I’m not really here. I haven’t been for a long time. You know that.”
Satoru sighed shakily. “Am I there, then? With you?”
“... Yes and no. Mostly yes.” The silhouette slowly became more opaque as the background got fainter. “Do you want to be?”
The white-haired man didn’t reply, then. There was something wet hitting his face like little butterfly kisses, sitting atop his cooling skin weightlessly. Satoru could vaguely make out the small white puffs falling from the sky, feeling as though he should laugh at the sight. He couldn’t, of course, considering he had no diaphragm or strength to assist in the act. It was funny, truly. He’s really come full circle - with the whole ‘being born and dying as it snowed’ thing. Satoru glanced at the man on his right, shallow breaths puffing up into tiny clouds, studying the youthful face that haunted his dreams, his every waking moment. Haunting him as he died as well, apparently.
“Yeah. Yeah, I want to be,” Satoru mumbled, desperate to reach out towards the black-haired man. “Suguru, I want - I… Can I?”
The silhouette - Suguru - only smiled, like he always did, moving to hold his hand out. Satoru stared dumbly at the hand, wondering how exactly he was meant to grab it when he didn’t have any of his own, before noticing the chill in his blood was no longer there.
In fact, he felt nothing. Well, there was a warmth in his chest that hadn’t been there for quite some time, but besides that - there was nothing. No Infinity, no Six Eyes, nothing at all. In that hazy moment, it was simply Satoru Gojo and his best friend, his one and only.
And he was warm.