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It starts as a faint pressure behind his eyes—the all-too-familiar sign of an oncoming migraine. He used to get them frequently when he was younger, but ever since mastering his technique fully all those years ago, those instances have dwindled to near nonexistence.
Yet, as he warps away from yet another mission the higher-ups won't stop nagging him about—this time a cave, little more than a dark hole in the ground, cold and wet, with cursed energy clinging to him like a second skin—Satoru knows he's running himself ragged. The queasy feeling in his stomach is a big sign.
The chaos left behind by the Night Parade has kept everyone busy, the old men behind their little screens more demanding than ever, pushing Satoru to run from one mission to the next. Normally, it wouldn't be that big of a problem—just a bit of RCT, and he'd be as good as new. But now, it wasn't working as well. The reason why—the heaviness in his chest and the bitterness on his tongue, tasting far too much like grief—Satoru didn't want to think about. He pushed it away, down, ignoring the gaping emptiness that made it hard to breathe, a void where his heart had once been. Now, Satoru was barren.
"Gojo-sensei!" Satoru turns back, maybe a tad too quickly, because dizziness suddenly overcomes him. He blinks.
Yuta comes into view, smiling, but then his expression falters, morphing into concern. "Are you alright?" Yuta comes to a halt next to him.
"Yes, of course." A smile he doesn't feel plasters itself across Satoru's face, the pain behind his eyes ramping up a notch. "Just tired."
"Oh. Well, you should take some rest." Yuta gives him a small smile that tightens something inside Satoru's chest. "You've been working hard these past weeks. We've hardly seen you around campus."
Satoru grins down at his new student, ruffling Yuta's dark hair, which earns him a squawk. "You worry too much. The higher-ups are just a bit more demanding than usual. They don't like it when things go beyond their control—old age and all that. I'll be fine."
000
The nausea didn't go away; in fact, it only got worse.
It all comes to a head when Satoru stumbles into the communal kitchen late at night, the air muggy with the lingering scent of dinner, surprising Megumi, who is hunched over a mug of now-cold tea.
Megumi startles at Satoru's sudden appearance.
"What the—why are you stumbling like that? Are you drunk?"
Satoru almost laughs at the absurdity of it, was it not for the bile sharp at the back of his throat, his fingers clinging to the doorframe with knuckles going white. Instead, he manages a strained, "No. I—" I'm fine—but instead what comes out is: "I feel sick," even as his brain yells at him for even admitting it. Shut up, shut up, shut up. But he can't—he—Satoru clasps a hand over his mouth, cold sweat collecting at the base of his neck.
And Megumi's eyes widen. It would've been funny any other time, but he's about to puke in this stupid kitchen at an ungodly hour because it won't stop swaying—vertigo taking him with it.
Before he knows it, he's bent over the toilet, his stomach heaving as the world spins in a sickening motion. A hand—Megumi, he remembers blearily—feels warm on his back, rubbing circles into his skin. He retches, feeling as if his stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. It hurts, nearly drowning out the ache radiating from the void in his chest—the sadness festering there like an infected wound. It's his own fault, but he can't face it; facing it means acknowledging that Suguru is really gone. And Satoru did that—with his own hands. He retches again, bile coating his mouth bitterly.
He suddenly remembers, as if a switch has flipped: an old memory of Suguru holding back his hair after he ate too much ice cream, his cool fingers resting gently on Satoru's forehead while his stomach screamed at him. It's all too similar to now—except now… The next wave of heaves is so severe that it brings tears to his eyes. He blinks against the burning sensation.
"I'm calling Shoko," Megumi says, breaking through the fog in Satoru's brain. He doesn't have the strength to refuse or protest, to crack a joke and wave it off like he has so many times before. Instead, he groans, burying his face in the palm of his hand and squeezing his eyes shut tightly.
Satoru knows this is more than just sickness, but he can't acknowledge it—because doing so would open a slippery slope, leading him into a whole other mess he isn't prepared to face. Coward, a mocking voice whispers, clawing at him as his stomach heaves again.
000
"You idiot," Shoko sighs, putting a glass and a pill next to Satoru on the bed. He's propped up against a mountain of pillows. "It's vestibular neuritis."
Satoru winces and swallows a whine, putting a hand to his forehead. "In normal terms, Shoko, my head is killing me."
"It's an infection that affects the nerve controlling your balance. No wonder you've been feeling so dizzy. Add a migraine to that, and with your Six Eyes, you must be feeling pretty awful."
"I thought I could handle it; RCT should take care of it." Satoru feels oddly small and unbalanced—in more ways than one. Shit. He closes his eyes, but that does nothing to stop the world from spinning around him. He hates himself. This sucks.
"Well," Shoko shuffles some papers on her desk, the crinkling sound sharp in the silence. Satoru doesn't open his eyes, wishing for another layer to add to the already obscuring blindfold, knowing it won't help anyway. "Clearly, not this time. You've been running around for weeks, cleaning up whatever mess those old farts demand of you. Even I can't do much right now; you really need to rest." She pauses. "Plus, you…" Her words trail off, the rest hanging unspoken in the air between them. After a moment, she asks, "Have you even been eating properly?"
Satoru just shrugs, clutching the bedding between his fingers to ground himself against the unsteady world around him and the turmoil inside. Shoko lets out another sigh, her voice tinged with fatigue. "I know you've been running, and I don't mean that just literally. I know you've been trying to avoid it, but pushing down grief isn't going to help you."
"I know that." Satoru's throat feels tight, a sensation that has nothing to do with the rolling nausea in his gut. He swallows, but it doesn't help. "I know, Shoko, I just..." He trails off into silence. When it really counts—when he doesn't have to fill the gaps and crevices with his jokes and nonsense—words fail him. He's never been good at expressing his inner thoughts and feelings. If he were, then maybe the person who caused the gaping void in his chest would still be here. He pushes that thought away abruptly.
A hand rests on his shoulder, and even through Infinity, the touch feels warm and light. Satoru shivers. "I'm just saying, you shouldn't bottle it all up so much." Her smile is wry for a moment when Satoru glances at her. "We've tried that before. Didn't work out so well, did it?"
Satoru huffs out a breath. "Talking from experience?"
Shoko shrugs. "Maybe."
The silence stretches, then dwindles into something else, fading into something close to resignation.
Satoru sighs, his shoulders slumping under the weight of fatigue. He's so damn tired, and his head hurts. "I will try, Shoko."
Her hand leaves his shoulder, taking its warmth with it. "Now take that pill; it will help reduce the nausea. Then sleep."
000
Satoru sleeps for ten hours straight, drifting into the early afternoon.
Yuta is the first to see him when he wakes up. The boy radiates nervous energy mixed with obvious concern—which is something Satoru doesn't handle well. Gojo Satoru does not fare well under concern. But Shoko had given him one of her looks when he tried to get up, so he ruffles the boy's hair and smiles ruefully.
Megumi is the next to visit, bringing a bag of minty candies—the same kind Satoru had given him years ago when he was down with the flu. He drops the bag into Satoru's lap and steps back, observing the man before him.
"You look better," Megumi states.
"Rude. I always look good, even on my rare off days."
Megumi's brow shoots up. "You looked like you were one step away from fainting last night, and then you were puking your guts out."
"Well…" Satoru shrugs. "As I mentioned, it was my off day yesterday."
Megumi clearly doesn't share that sentiment. He crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. "It wasn't just yesterday…" he trails off.
Satoru looks away for a moment, the air tensing. "Sorry," he says then. "I didn't mean for—" he waves his hand in an encompassing gesture, "for that to happen. You shouldn't have had to drag me to Shoko at 1 a.m."
Megumi stares at him, then sighs, his shoulders dropping an inch. "It's okay, just—just don't let it happen again." The unspoken "take better care of yourself" hangs in the air between them.
Satoru grins at him. "Don't dream of it."
000
Shoko looks down at the sleeping form curled on the bed. Gojo looks oddly small like this—defenseless, almost. It's strange because Gojo Satoru is never defenseless; the low hum of Infinity across his skin attests to that. And yet, his hair falls messily into his face, and his complexion is pale, save for the feverish blush on his cheeks.
Her fingers twitch restlessly. Ever since she received the news, she's been on edge: Getou Suguru is dead, and Gojo Satoru killed him. Restlessness gnaws at her, the old craving for the taste of cigarettes clawing at her thoughts.
Her eyes linger on the still form. It's not fair, she wants to say—yell—scream. It's not fair at all. Instead, she gently brushes a few strands of hair from Gojo's forehead. She can only do this because he's asleep; they don't do this—this gentleness. It's too much. Gojo feels unnaturally hot to the touch, yet he doesn't stir—completely worn out, burdened by grief and overwork. Shoko has to swallow a few times, the bitterness of rage lingering on her tongue.
She sits back in her chair behind her desk, eyes on the white ceiling. It's hard, isn't it, she wants to ask, but she can't, because she already knows the answer to this stupid question—because—
Because they dance around it—have done so for years—the screaming void shaped like Getou Suguru looms large in their lives. That unspoken truth lingers heavily, seeping into the cracks and crevices that stretch between them, a constant reminder of the pain they both carry. It's a habit forged by the currents of their existence. Suguru's defection had already cast a long shadow over them, but his death—at Gojo's own hands—has plunged them into new depths of grief. Yet here, in the dimmed light of the infirmary—because Shoko knows the harsh overhead lights would only irritate Gojo, even on a good day—there's a quiet comfort.
Shoko closes her eyes, taking a deep breath to rid herself of the tension in her shoulders, surrendering for a moment to the heaviness of her own pain, with the lull of Gojo's soft breathing in the background.
They are bound by the same grief, after all.