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It’s that time of year again – the anniversary of that day.
Gojo slumps against the couch where he’s been sitting, pondering, for the better part of the past two hours, drooping until only half his body remains on the cushions, and stares blankly at the ceiling. It’s begun to grow dark by now, the sun already set behind the horizon, casting everything in a dark blue hue. His eyes ache from a day full of work, throbbing within the confines of his skull. He tries to massage the pain away – it doesn’t work. It never does, but less so today, when the pain is not only behind his eyes but everywhere, torturously, in his shoulders and his neck and his chest, beating in tandem with his heart.
No matter what he does, that pain remains. He wishes he could tear into his body and rip it out; exorcise it like he would a curse, and throw it someplace far, far away, where it can no longer hurt him, or haunt him like a ghost.
Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru, or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest? A voice, the voice, as familiar to him now as it was the day it left him, rings in his ears once again.
Gojo shakes his head. Tries to dispel it from his brain.
Again – it doesn’t work.
Go away, he thinks bitterly, blinking rapidly. The ceiling blurs, then clears, then blurs again, evidence of his failure to stave away his tears. You turned your back on us – the least you could do is leave me for real.
I left long ago, Suguru whispers back, voice honeyed and sweet, an echo so deeply engrained into his being he can feel its vibrations in his soul. You’re the one who has yet to let me go.
Gojo grits his teeth, lifting a hand to his face and swiping furiously at his eyes. Unbelievable, that Suguru Geto. How dare he? How dare he?
How dare he carve a place for himself in Gojo’s life so perfectly tailored to him that non other could ever hope to replace it, then turn tail just as suddenly, leaving nothing more than an echo of his warmth and a bloody uniform button in his wake? How dare he leave Gojo in shambles, with a flaming pile of all the memories they built together burning right before his eyes, a darkened match pinched between his fingertips? How dare he make Gojo love him, then disappear without a trace? How dare he?
He knew about Gojo’s childhood. He knew about his difficulties, being an important sorcerer at the young age of seventeen. He knew he was already halfway to breaking, carrying the burdens of jujutsu society on his shoulders.
He knew him. Better than most; better than anybody.
So how. Dare. He.
The tears flow freely now, cascading in a river down his cheeks, wetting the collar of his shirt. His eyes throb again, begging for cover, but Gojo is so weak and so tired and so, so sad, he can’t bring himself to reach over to the living room table before him for his blindfold. It lies there, abandoned, limp against the light wood of the surface beneath it.
Gojo almost sobs. It feels violent, the cry building up in his throat, like if he were to let it out, it would wake the entire city. But before he can, there’s a small whimper. Then another.
He lifts his head, alert, and looks immediately towards the source of the noise.
It’s Megumi. Little baby Megumi, rousing from his nap. He’d been fussy after dinner, so Gojo put out the soft, thick baby mattress Megumi seems to adore more than anything else in the world and let him rest, hoping it would quell some of his grumpiness. Unsurprisingly, he was out like a light in no more than five minutes, slumbering away peacefully while Gojo sunk deeper into his well of despair.
“What’s up, kid?” He asks softly, voice raspy. Megumi whimpers again, rolling over to face him, blinking one eye at a time like a particularly lazy frog. “You okay?”
Megumi gurgles. Pushes himself up with much effort, at the pace of a dying snail.
Then he stands up.
Gojo freezes in his tracks. Megumi is a few months under two years old, now. He’s only ever successfully done three things on his own: Falling asleep, crying, and rolling over. He’s never, ever stood up – not even by pushing on another object.
This is huge.
There’s a breath caught in Gojo’s throat now, to replace the cry that had been building up earlier. He straightens, watching as Megumi toddles where he stands, wobbly and unsure.
“C’mon kid,” he murmurs, slipping off the couch and rounding the living room table to bend down on his knees, holding his arms out. “Come over here.”
Megumi tilts his head to the side, gurgling again. He looks sleepy and already very over what he’s found himself doing, but Gojo refuses to let this go. “Come on,” he repeats, beckoning him over with his hands. “Come here, Megs. You’ve got it.”
Megumi stares at him. He wobbles a little more. For a moment, Gojo thinks he might fall over.
But then he takes a step. And he doesn’t trip.
Gojo watches, speechless, as Megumi totters his way over with little clumsy movements, arms outstretched for balance, and croaks a wet cheer when he reaches him, eyes teary again for an entirely different reason than before. Megumi burbles a delighted sound, smacking Gojo’s forearms gently.
“You did it, kiddo,” Gojo whispers, hoarse. “You did great. I’m so proud of you.”
Megumi squeals. His face is scrunched with happiness, so full of joy, and Gojo hugs him close, the room still darkening around them. Gojo doesn’t even notice – as far as he’s concerned, it’s as bright as if it were day.
“I’m so proud of you, I’m so proud,” he repeats, again and again and again, until he doesn’t even understand what he’s saying. All the while Megumi watches him, eyes alight, bouncing up and down in that strange dance all toddlers universally do. Then he lifts one of his hands – reaching for something behind Gojo’s back.
A quick glance over his shoulder reveals why.
“Did you want this?” He asks, grabbing the blindfold that had been lying there, holding it in front of Megumi’s face. “It’s just a strip of fabric, Megumi. Nothing exciting.”
But Megumi just gurgles and pushes at his hand. Not away, he doesn’t push away…more like toward. He pushes the blindfold toward Gojo, until he’s holding it to his own chest.
“Me?” He asks softly. Megumi makes a cheerful sound, and pushes at his hand again, bumping Gojo’s fist against his sternum. “You wanted this…for me?”
Megumi makes that same cheerful sound, still doing his little toddler dance.
“Oh,” Gojo whispers. “Oh. You silly kid.” He laughs a little, and it sounds melancholic, a touch heavier than it used to be.
But the pain – that pain that was ever-present, that he knows will probably always be present, at least a little – is softer now. Kinder. He feels it less, isn’t weighed down by it the way he has been all day, thinking and rethinking of that day exactly one year ago, when the most important person in his life up and left like it was nothing.
Megumi squeals once more, his voice high pitched and happy, and Gojo places the blindfold on the ground beside them, knowing he won’t need it for the rest of the night.
***
The next day, when he asks Shoko about it, she only shrugs.
“Who knows,” she says gently. “Maybe he just saw something he wanted.”