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Gojo Satoru is used to many, many things.
Having lived through countless unnecessarily dramatic events, Gojo Satoru is used to waking with aching shoulders and a back tense with an unrelenting stiffness.
Holding the weight of the jujutsu world on his shoulders could only be considered sustainable for as long as he is able to keep pursuing the goals of others, disregarding the bigger truths of his own self-actualizations. And, with his looming stature and all, it is only a matter of time before his spine bends and curves like a river and his bones slide against each other like nature-made hockey pucks: discs of melting ice upon the frosted lid of a frozen lake.
Having faced countless challenges head on on account of the selfish desires of a certain nameless and faceless few, Gojo Satoru is used to battling through the senseless whims of the elders and all others who would disregard him and his once-in-many-millenia existence as a whole.
Wild goose-chases are never few and far between even when their ire rises; jaunts of useless searching and endless wandering with goals less attainable even than the pinky promise of an early death each and every sorcerer binds themself to when they embark upon the world of jujutsu become more frequent than his usual missions of arrive-exorcise-depart.
It is within reason to assume it is the little things, however, which stand out among the great ones.
Given the stark contrast between life-changing events such as dying and un-dying to complete a mission that would conclude in a resounding state of endless misery and waking up with a dull throbbing behind his brow, it is of no surprise that the more inconsequential the experience, the more present it remains within his core.
Rain splatters against a wall of glass windows; dances like penguin flippers upon the wooden rafters and scitter-scattering crab legs atop tin shingles. Glory bells hark the End Times with blinding, flashing, striking impacts of bullet-fast lightning against the distant country scenery. Golden horns of widespread impact strike true against his eardrums in a battering of snare-drum-lightning and the screaming of an impatient crowd.
No lights remain on in the vicinity of Gojo Satoru. True as is his title of “strongest sorcerer of the era”, is that fluorescent rays hurt. When the switch is not down, the cord is pulled loose, mice scatter from his chest to his head and squeak in his ears and thump their hairless tails against his tight-closed eyes.
It is times such as these which cause the Gojo great disparity in the form of faded ink stains of times gone by and a longing for the peace and quiet of a gentle hand so deep the lonesome feeling settles like stones in his stomach and root him in place. His inability to stand without a sense of weakness much unbecoming of such a common strength means little from the quicksand-confines of the common room lounge.
What need is there to adjourn elsewhere within the weather-soaked campus of the technical college? Truly, is there any reason why the man cannot stay content enough to lie in wait and do nothing else, not even shift a muscle? Because even the slightest of movements comes with some remorseful tax of shaking limbs or squinting eyes against the brightness of every little blooming thing around him despite his vision-obscuring measures, there must be exceptions made in consideration to those who attempt to steal his precious time.
No one shall enter, unless to face the immediate consequences of their brainless actions.
Lightning strikes somewhere far past the measly threshold of the window. Thunder rumbles overhead, a timely purring of mammoth-sized cats and their pine tree length claws that scratch across the roof.
Gojo groans in response to the sudden influx of stimuli before wincing at the guttural intensity caused by his own reaction. Knees bend and legs curl close to his center, but the tensing of his muscles shoots vials of T.V. static through his veins like a hospital bag of purebred discomfort. A blanket displaced upon his midsection from its usual station on the back of the lounge tumbles further in result of his shifting movements, crumpling to the floor in a heap of creme-colored coziness now rendered unattainable save for the incredible task of sitting upright amidst the man’s state of utter misery.
With the security of the blanket’s weight no longer upon him, a sensation of aimless floating overtakes his lower extremities. An airy feeling overtakes the man’s legs until painful movements of twisting and turning are the only response he has the will left to pursue.
He sighs and sits up to his full height in one swift motion. The world spins and shifts around him, and Gojo can suddenly feel the earth turning on its axis, as it always has, just beneath his feet. Bending at the waist is nearly a useless endeavor with the way the motion causes acid to shoot up his throat and his vision to blur in accord with his general state of suffering.
Vertigo grips him as he reels back onto the cushions, blanket in a white-knuckle grip and stomach rolling unprecedentedly. Not one morsel of drink nor food has come in contact with himself today; the mere thought of ingesting anything at all is just about enough to bring about a painful fit of dry heaving. Slowly and steadily, Gojo rolls the blanket down his legs, pulls it up towards his chin, and presses the back of his head into the seat of one end of the lounge as if the light pressure (enhanced significantly by the round swarm of jackhammers against the front and sides of his cerebral cortex) could whisk all of his troubles away.
If it were that easy, he would never have such tedious days such as these, no matter their nature of few-and-far-between.
At the very least, the blanket keeps him warm. It doesn’t weigh his legs down like he wishes it would have—the floating feeling in his legs never seems to back down very easily when he becomes consciously aware of it—but it really ups the “comfort factor” of his stay-in-place-or-risk-feeling-like-you’re-dying condition, so it’s not the most useless presentation of wool and a rectangle pattern that he’s ever encountered. Another benefit is the fact that it’s much easier for him to fall asleep somewhat swaddled, or beneath the soft embrace of a blanket, and disconnected from the overwhelming presence of every little minute detail within the impressive reach of his Six Eyes. This cursed gift of his, while incredible in its own right, must be given the right to be inconveniencing annoying at any given moment just like all things are.
Imagine watching a rainstorm from behind the safety of your family room windows. Your grandmother chides you for staring out the glass when you can go blind from making eye-contact with a boot lightning touching ground near the house. When the white and indigo brightness does indeed rain down beneath the overarching swarm of gray cotton full of rainwater and of smoke and of dirt and of dust and other products of a very impractical human existence, the flash penetrates your retinas through a dim light expanded pupil and your eyesight is gone.
How close was the static to the home which you sit in, silent except for the tears? How far? would be a better question.
Imagine a ceiling light beaming across the landscape of your bedroom, otherwise encompassed by the cool-toned darkness of an early dawn. A moment of stillness, of buzzing, and the sudden instant of confusion which follows.
This is how the Six Eyes perceives the world at all times. For all the good that it provides him, Gojo is reasonable in declaring his own priceless ability a curse among blessings. When the sun’s rays pierce every pore of your skin; burns the scalp from your head; decreases the melanin production of your hair follicles; squeezes your pupils into pinpricks even from beneath the wholesome shade of a small-leafed tree that sends shockwaves of light green applause through your ear like the rumble of a stampede; only then will you begin to understand the true curse of the Six Eyes.
Even thinking hurts too much. Gojo pushes his glasses onto his forehead, presses the heels of his palms like rocks against his eyelids, and stretches his legs in an act of silent rage.
Amidst the influx of incessant pain and a quiet call for broken glass and a scalpel to save himself from his suffering does Gojo find rest.
It is good while it lasts. In the silence, a state of compacted healing encompasses his figure. The Reversed Curse Technique fights against the tantrum of the Six Eyes with a tidal wave of serene and of lullabies and snoring dogs.
And then, the door opens. Light slithers into the cave-like darkness of the common room, converting his little slice of limited-sensory bliss into a less-limited-sensory bliss.
Enter, Suguru Getou, the Consumer of Curses, the Harborer of Hair-Ties, the Bringer of Benign Benefits, the Depriver of Darkness, and the Ruiner of Restfulness.
“Gojo?” he addresses upon entering the common room. Quick to notice the utter lack of light within the vicinity, Getou pulls the door shut behind him and walks on his toes as he approaches the lounge which the other boy awakes messily from, limbs flailing in a silent, painful protest against the sudden arrival of brightness and the scuttle of quiet feet.
The door lock echoes like a bullet ricocheting around in Gojo’s skull. He quits his flailing before whining in the back of his throat. The sound scratches up the back of his trachea and causes his brain to pound in kind.
Getou approaches his friend as silently as he can manage, but each step he takes sends a ripple of disturbed pond water to cusp against Gojo’s skin, murky and notwithstanding his incessant need for utter silence and stillness; for a calm nothing to embrace him and his woes in kind.
“Would you like a washcloth?” The Curse Manipulation User inquires from above him. A silent offer penetrates through his question, and silent offer is indeed still an offer.
Gojo, no longer with the strength to nod his head without risking vomiting right there on the rug, taps his index finger on the blanket on his chest.
Once for “yes”, he remembers hearing countless migraines ago. Twice for “no”.
Getou leaves in search of the requested item with little fanfare.
Gojo must doze off for a moment, for by the time he once again awakes, his shoulders ache and his back tenses with an unrelenting stiffness; but the relentless unkindness within his skill has subsided enough for him to stand up and move around with little effort. The washcloth Getou brought him the night before falls to the ground beside one end of his draping blanket in a sad, soggy heap.
He leans down and lifts the small towel from the floor. Content enough to do a friend a favor, Gojo tosses it in the towel bin on his way to the washroom. Getou will surely appreciate his considerate action.
Gojo brushes the grime of the past two days off of his teeth with fervour and spits the suds into the sink. A quick splash from the faucet sends them spiraling down the drain.
For the rest of the day, the boy admires the familiar scenery ‘round the technical college with the yearning hopefulness of a man once gone blind.
Getou observes him during morning training with more awareness than a hawk circling hay fields in the springtime. His scrutiny is unnerving in only the way a closest friend’s worry can be.
Gojo decides that he can probably handle the laundry responsibilities for the day. Just this once.