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Yuta pulls his knees up to his chest. He tries not to shiver. Gojo’s office isn’t particularly chilly, but he’s been forced to replace his uniform with an oversized t-shirt and pajama pants with the drawstring removed. It doesn’t insulate very well.
“Cold?” Gojo looks up from the paperwork he’s probably slacking off on. Of course he notices. He’s frustratingly all-seeing.
Yuta shakes his head slowly. He’s not sure why he lies. He supposes he’d just reject whatever warmth and comfort Gojo offers anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. Gojo’s expression moves beneath the blindfold in a way that can only be displaying concern, but he goes back to what he’s doing.
Yuta was too powerful for them to let the psych unit take him. Part of him is grateful. It sounds miserable. But, he also wishes they’d just lock him up like he deserves…
Gojo drove him back to campus a little over an hour ago, against Yaga’s recommendation that they have an assistant director or someone escort them back. Yuta spent a couple days getting patched up at the hospital by an overly cautious, sterile medical team, and Shoko, who smells like cigarettes and intimidation. She’s kind though, kinder than she should be to him.
Yuta’s throat still tastes like activated charcoal when he swallows. There’s a raw patch on his face from the taped tube they stuck down his nose to remedy the overdose. He really should’ve done more research before he tried anything. Apparently an entire bottle of melatonin isn’t particularly lethal, just sickening…
Returning only to sit under watch in Gojo’s office, unencumbered by psychologists and prying nurses, feels as disobedient as a prison break. He should be getting institutionalized right now, and he’s not sure if this is more or less humiliating.
Yuta sniffs. The urge to cry is prickling under his eyes again. He grits his teeth. He’s done more than enough of that. He probably could’ve filled a decent-sized lake over the past few years…
“Hungry?” Gojo asks suddenly.
Yuta turns to him as he takes a shaky breath. “Not really…” He hasn’t had an appetite in a while. The hospital was pretty concerned, having some therapist come in to do an eating disorder questionnaire. Gojo waved her out when it was clear Yuta wasn’t in the mood though… He’s not trying to starve himself, but it wouldn’t be a problem if he did. Just the thought of nourishing himself in any way with all the strife he’s caused makes him sick.
“You haven’t had anything today,” Or yesterday, or the day before that, if you don’t count IV fluids. “Do you want something to drink at least?”
Yuta shakes his head. He stares at the floor so he doesn’t have to see Gojo’s reaction. The comment about how visible his ribs are getting earlier was painful enough. It’s nauseating how worried he’s made everyone. He’s a cruel person at heart.
“Hm,” The wheels of Gojo’s chair slide against the hardwood floor as he gets to his feet. He’s at the couch Yuta’s curled up on in two long strides. “Stomach hurt or anything?” He crouches in front of him. Yuta tries not to make eye contact.
“No,” He whispers. Before they let him leave, they told Gojo to watch out for adverse reactions to the activated charcoal, and any symptoms that could indicate he’s tried again to take his life. Yuta’s just feeling sick because of his anxiety and self-hatred, but Gojo doesn’t need to hear about that.
“Good,” Gojo squeezes his shoulder and stands back up. “You can use my laptop if you wanna watch a movie or anything,” He offers as he walks over to the minifridge in the corner of the room. “I made Yaga share his Netflix account with me.”
“That’s okay,” Yuta murmurs. He’s never been one for TV. He’s bland, boring, and interestless. All he does is drain.
“Sure you don’t want a book at least? I don’t know how you’re not bored,” Gojo pulls out some kind of sugary drink he usually keeps for himself. It’s bright red. Probably berry or food coloring flavored. “We can take a little field trip to the library,” He pours it into a novelty glass from some anime he likes. Yuta doesn’t recognize it, but the cup looks too expensive for its theme.
“No… I’m…” He exhales slowly. “I’m tired…”
Gojo sets the drink down on the coffee table in front of him. He drops a bendy straw in it. He takes a seat in the chair opposite Yuta. “You can take a nap once you finish-” He considers, “half of that.”
“I don’t…” Yuta swallows thickly. He’s nauseous, and allowing himself the basic necessities to live feels like too much of a luxury. “I’m not thirsty.”
“Your lips are cracked and I don’t share chapstick, so you gotta drink,” Gojo replies calmly. “You’ll feel better.”
There’s nothing that’ll make him feel better. Yuta looks away as if Gojo is the physical embodiment of the urge to sob. It doesn’t help.
“I… Okay…” He acquiesces pitifully. His fingers tremble as he slowly reaches for the cup. He feels painfully awkward as Gojo watches him pick it up.
And even more so when he drops it before it makes it to his lips. He flinches at the glass shattering before he realizes the shins of his pants are soaked and frigid. His curled position spares the white shirt at least.
“I’m so sorry-” He chokes out as liquid and glimmering shards splatter all over the floor in every direction. His voice cracks just as dramatically.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Gojo’s on his feet in a split second. “My fault,” Instead of rushing to clean up, he rounds the side of the coffee table not surrounded by a sugary minefield. He cups Yuta’s cheek and places a hand on his shoulder, directing his attention away from his mess. “You alright?”
Yuta bites back the increasing heaviness in his chest. “I… I’m so sorry…” He rasps.
“It’s not a big deal,” Gojo assures him. “I wouldn’t have given you a glass I cared too much about,” He smiles. He always keeps some level of humor. “Are you okay though? Only spilled on you a little bit?”
“I… Yeah…” Yuta doesn’t have the energy to explain how awful he feels, and he honestly doesn’t want to try.
“You’re freezing, kid,” Gojo rubs up and down his bicep, squeezing him gently, like he’s trying to warm him up on a cold winter day. The AC is icy on the wet fabric. “You okay to wait here for a minute while I get you a towel and clean up?”
Yuta nods. Gojo pats him on the back before carefully avoiding the disaster as he steps out of the office.
Yuta glances at what he’s done. Guilty illness rises in his chest and for a moment he thinks he’s going to vomit.
An impulse overcomes him instead though. He throws himself off the couch and onto the ground on all fours, palms soaking in sticky Red 40. He freezes with wide eyes for a minute, microscopic glass splinters pricking his knees under the force of his weight. He can’t slow his breath.
Yuta shakily picks up a particularly jagged shard as he sits back on his heels, leaning against the base of the couch. More fluid soaks into the fabric of his pants.
He brings the makeshift blade up to his neck. Rika’s not here to stop him anymore. If she tried somehow… He can control her now. If he cuts deeply and quickly enough, he’d bleed out before Gojo returns. It’s now or never.
Yuta slashes the back of his hand instead. It’s one long, slow, quivering motion of burning safety. He doesn’t know why he chickens out. He’s always been cowardly.
It occurs to him a moment too late what he’s done. He’s definitely not going to die and get out of facing any consequences. His shirt may have been spared initially, save a few unnoticeable drops, but this red liquid is much darker, thicker, and already overflowing past the edges of the wound. He’s made the situation so much worse.
He flinches as the door knob clicks. Gojo’s not going to be happy, but he’s a gentle person. It’s worse than if he yelled. At least then Yuta could feel sorry for himself instead of sickeningly culpable.
“Woah, hey, what’s going on?” Gojo’s crouching at Yuta’s side before he hears the footsteps. “Ouch,” He takes Yuta’s arm and uses one of the towels meant for cleaning to apply pressure to the cut.
Yuta can’t stop himself any longer. He drops the piece of glass as he sobs hard, bringing his unharmed hand up to cover his eyes as he buries his face in his shoulder.
“You’re okay,” Gojo says softly as he shakes out another towel with one hand and uses it to cover up as many sharps as the surface area will allow. “Accident?”
Yuta shakes his head. It’s pathetic.
“Didn’t think so,” Gojo sighs. “You’ve got me doing a hell of a lot of overtime, kid,” He lets out a humorless breath of laughter as he scoops Yuta up and replaces him on the couch. He sits next to him and presses harder to stop the bleeding.
“I’m sorry,” Yuta bawls. There’s snot all over his face already. Hot tears burn his face as they pour out. “This isn’t… You shouldn’t have to… You can leave…” He prattles helplessly.
“Nah, I’m not going anywhere,” Gojo’s unfazed. “Kinda in my job description to keep you alive, you know.”
“They still… want you to execute me…” Yuta mumbles. “Don’t they…?”
“Eh,” Gojo shrugs. “They can’t tell me what to do.”
“Okay…” Yuta gulps against rising discomfort. “I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be-”
“You shouldn’t have to-” He babbles. “You’re just supposed to be my teacher-”
“It’s different at a school like this,” Gojo checks the wound, quickly removing pressure to look before deciding he’s not satisfied and putting the towel back down. “You jujutsu kids don’t seem to have parents very often… And it’s not like we have an abundance of staff to help out either… Only makes sense that the guy you’re stuck with all day has to do a little more than your average public school educator, you know?”
“Oh… yeah.”
“Especially with you,” Gojo smiles. “You scare everyone below a Grade 1 off.”
“I… Sorry…” Yuta coughs weakly.
“Nah, not your fault,” Gojo comforts. “I’ve got plenty of experience with kids anyway. What’s one more-”
“You have kids?” Yuta can’t contain an absolutely baffled expression. He looks so young…?
“Kinda,” Gojo replies. That doesn’t explain anything.
Yuta stares at him blankly. He chuckles.
“Long story,” Gojo checks on the cut again. “I can tell you about it while I get you bandaged up, okay?”
“Okay,” Yuta agrees. At least that’s something else to think about.