Work Text:
Gojo was not sick. He was… inconvenienced by his own immune system.
It had all started with the decision to turn off Infinity.
But Utahime had been standing there scowling at the sky, clearly calculating her odds of making it back to campus without getting soaked in the rain.
So, Gojo had sidled her an umbrella, switched Infinity off and he’d walked all the way back to the school, matching her pace perfectly. Totally worth it, he’d thought, picturing a scene of romantic gratitude.
Now, here he was. Geto and Shoko were gone off together, which was unfair. Gojo had been saving at least five witty comments about how close they always stood and how Shoko totally laughed softer around Geto. ‘Carnival night,’ they’d said.
And Gojo was alone and feverish.
“Ugh,” he announced to the uncaring walls. “This is the worst.”
A scratchy cough followed, scraping his throat raw.
“Stupid rain,” he muttered. “Stupid umbrella - ”
The door slid open with a soft whoosh.
Utahime stepped inside, a small frown already pulling at her brows.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re awake.”
Gojo stared.
Why does she look like that? Who gave her the right to look so pretty when she’s concerned, that should be illegal. This is a violation of the Geneva Conventions or something.
“Utahime,” he croaked, letting his voice pitch up into a wounded warble. “You came… to see me in my final moments.”
Her eye twitched. A beautiful sign he was getting on her nerves.
“Shoko told me you weren’t feeling well,” she said, walking closer. “And since she and Geto are out, she asked me to stop by and make sure you hadn’t done anything idiotic.”
Gojo tried to muster one of his dazzling grins. It came out lopsided and wobbly, like a deflating party balloon. “Wow,” he croaked. “You walked all the way here, just to insult me? I’m flattered. That’s top-tier dedication.”
Without a word, Utahime reached out and pressed the cool back of her hand against his forehead.
The effect was immediate for his mental functions.
This feels incredible.
Don’t you dare react. Don’t you dare -
A soft sigh escaped him, all the tension momentarily draining from his shoulders.
Utahime pulled her hand back as if she’d been shocked. “You are warm,” she stated tightly. “See? This is exactly why you’re staying put in this bed.”
He turned his head slowly on the pillow, fixing her with a half-lidded stare. “You say that like you actually care about my well-being, senpai.”
“I say that because you’re famously irresponsible.” Her tone was dry, but she didn’t step back.
“Ouch,” he whispered. “Kicking a man while he’s down. That’s cold, Utahime.”
“You are not ‘down.’ You have a cold. There’s a difference.”
He launched into another cough then, a hacky performance meant to underscore his point.
She crossed her arms. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he asked innocently, batting his pale lashes.
“That,” she said, gesturing vaguely at his entire form. “The whole… performance.”
Gojo made a show of trying to sit up, deliberately letting his movements seem wobbly and weak. He swayed once he was upright, a masterclass in feigned dizziness.
“Whoa,” he murmured, bringing a hand to his own forehead. “Everything’s… spinning. Guess I’m way sicker than I thought.”
On instinct, Utahime stepped forward and caught his shoulder to steady him.
He leaned into the touch shamelessly, letting his full weight sag against her hand for a blissful moment.
“Gojo,” she warned.
“I think I might actually faint,” he announced. “If I do, promise you’ll remember me as brave. And handsome. Maybe build a little statue.”
She planted both hands on his shoulders and pushed him firmly back down onto the mattress. “Stay. Still.”
He couldn’t help it; a real laugh bubbled out of him, which instantly mutated into a grating cough. That one, unfortunately, wasn’t fake at all.
Utahime watched him hack for a moment, then reached for a chair by the wall, dragged it over, and sat down heavily beside the bed. “You are impossible.”
“But you’re still here,” he pointed out, his voice raspy but dripping with smug victory.
She glanced away, focusing very intently on a random spot on the wall. “…Someone has to make sure you don’t try to sneak out and challenge a curse to a fight while delirious.”
Phase one complete, he thought, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the fever.
Next step was to become the sickest, most helpless, most nurse-requiring patient in the history of this infirmary.
He mentally thanked all those nurse-and-patient roleplays he’d definitely never, ever secretly watched online. Finally, his time to put that ‘research’ to good use had arrived.
When Utahime brought the medicine, Gojo barely let it touch his tongue before his entire face crumpled in offense. He gagged and pushed the cup away with the weakness of a fallen warrior.
"Oh my god," he gasped, clutching his throat. "You're secretly enjoying this, aren't you? This is your revenge for all my charm."
Utahime just stared at him. "Drink it."
"That's not a denial! I see the truth in your eyes. A glint of sinister joy."
"Gojo."
He eyed the offending liquid like it was a cursed object. A cunning smile spread across his face. "Okay. New deal. If I drink this... this poison... you owe me."
Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Owe you what?"
He leaned in. His breath brushed against her ear. "You. Staying. Right here. Until I fall asleep."
There was the briefest falter in her composure. A victorious pause where she didn't immediately refuse.
"...Unbelievable," she muttered, but the word lacked its usual heat. "Fine. Drink."
Gojo picked up the cup again, gave it a suspicious sniff, and recoiled. "I don't trust it. What's in this? Shoko's leftover experiments?"
"It's medicine. For your cold."
"Exactly! Suspicious!"
"Just swallow it. Like a normal person."
“You just told me to open my mouth and swallow without warning. I’m your innocent kouhai, you know.”
Her face flushed. “Do not say it like that.”
He looked from her stern face to the cup of dark liquid. A masterstroke of an idea struck him. He let his body go limp, sinking back into the pillows with a flutter of his lashes.
"...I don't think I can," he whispered.
"You just said you would if I - "
"My hands," he interrupted, letting the cup tremble pathetically in his grip. "They've gone all weak. It's the fever. A tragic fate for such a powerful man."
"Give me that," she snapped, snatching the cup from his loose fingers before he could stage an 'accidental' spill all over the sheets.
Gojo's eyes lit up like he'd just won the lottery. This is even better than planned.
She held the cup up to his lips, her other hand braced on the bed near his shoulder. "Open."
“You’re really enjoying this power dynamic, huh?” he said cheerfully.
His eyes widened.
“No no no,” he said quickly, suddenly very cooperative. “I’m swallowing. See? Swallowing. Doing great.”
"Open. Your. Mouth."
He obeyed, opening his mouth in an exaggerated 'ahhh' shape. She tipped the cup, and the dreadful syrup hit his tongue.
He gagged for real this time, his whole face scrunching up as he forced it down. "Ugh - blegh - why does it taste like that?!" he whined, shuddering. "Utahime, I've figured it out! This medicine tastes just like your personality - all bitter and mean - "
She turned her head to look at him. "...This medicine is cherry flavored. It's sweet."
Gojo stared at her, his brain slowly catching up to the hole he'd just dug for himself.
"Ah," he said, intelligently. A bead of sweat traced down his temple that had nothing to do with his temperature. "...I meant - sweet and - "
She reached out and slapped his forehead with her fingers. It wasn't hard, but it stung his pride perfectly.
"Don't be weird," she scolded, but the corner of her mouth was fighting a losing battle.
He barked out a laugh, which triggered a harsh coughing fit that rattled his chest.
Without a word, Utahime's hand moved from his forehead to his shoulder, pressing down to steady him as he coughed.
"Idiot," she muttered, but the word had lost its edge. She didn't pull her hand away until the coughing subsided, leaving a warm spot on his shoulder that felt better than any medicine.
He looked up at her, his cheeks flushed with a color that wasn't entirely the fault of the fever.
Utahime cleared her throat and reached for the digital thermometer on the bedside table, her movements just a fraction too brisk. “I need to check your temperature again."
Gojo made a rumbling noise that was half a hum and half a whine, shifting his weight against the stiff pillows as if they were filled with rocks. "They're trying to suffocate me. These pillows."
"Stop moving," she instructed, her focus on the little device.
"I can't," he replied, his voice dripping with woe. "My entire existence is a monument to discomfort."
She leaned in closer, one hand coming up to brush his hair back from his forehead. Her fingers were cool. He nearly sighed again. She angled the thermometer, trying to find a good spot -
- and Gojo, in a split-second decision that completely ignored every survival instinct, every rule of social conduct… just let go.
He didn't fall so much as he gracefully tipped sideways like a felled tree. His head landed directly in her lap.
Utahime made a choked sound. "G-Gojo - !"
But the deed was done.
He let out a sigh that suggested he had just solved all the mysteries of the universe and found the answer was surprisingly comfortable. "Mmh," he murmured, his eyes fluttering contentedly half-shut. "Much better."
Utahime’s lap was at a perfect temperature. The fabric of her miko skirt and uniform was soft against his cheek. The curve of her knees made a surprisingly ideal headrest. And then - a miracle.
She hesitantly lifted a hand and brushed it through his hair.
Her fingers moved in uncertain strokes, as if she was testing the texture of something unfamiliar and potentially volatile. They threaded gently through his white strands, her nails scratching lightly against his scalp.
So that’s what that long-haired bastard meant.
Geto lazing around with his stupid hair splayed out, and Shoko, with her stupid fingers running through it like it was the most normal thing in the world. Gojo had seen the look on Geto's face back then - that serene expression of absolute satisfaction.
Now, he understood it down to his bones.
Utahime glanced down at him, her expression a battlefield of exasperation and something softer. “…You really are calmer,” she admitted, the words sounding pulled out of her against her will.
He smiled. “Told you. Patient Gojo’s diagnosis: prescribed cuddles.”
“Don’t push it,” she warned, but the threat had no heat.
“M’not pushing,” he mumbled. “Just… fully appreciating the quality of the service. Five stars.”
Utahime snorted, but her fingers continued their gentle path.
Rain was good, actually. He should turn off Infinity more often, maybe always. It was stupid that it took a virus to figure this out.
He shifted slightly, turning his head just a fraction. Without any conscious command from his brain, he nuzzled closer into the soft fabric of her skirt, the motion instinctive and embarrassingly cat-like.
Utahime jolted as if shocked. “H-Hey - don’t just move like that!”
“Sorry,” he sighed, not moving an inch away. “But you’re really good at this.”
“…At what?” she asked, her voice quieter.
“At taking care of me,” he said, the words slipping out in his drowsy state.
That earned him a light flick right between his eyebrows.
Her fingers moved with a new rhythm now. She wasn't thinking about it anymore. She was just… doing it. And that somehow made the whole thing a thousand times better.
In the silence, Gojo tried to remember if anyone had ever done something like this for him before.
Not Shoko, because she patched you up like a mechanic fixing a leaking engine.
Not Geto, because he would laugh himself sick at the mere suggestion, then probably take a commemorative photo for blackmail.
Anyone else? A teacher? A… parent?
Nothing. A blank space.
That was… weird.
Gojo Satoru. The strongest. The center of every room, the source of every nuisance. He could not recall a single moment like this with no ulterior motive or lesson to be taught, strength to be proven.
Utahime shifted slightly, perhaps to glance at the clock or ease a stiff muscle.
When I’m better, he thought, I should take her to a fireworks show.
A warm summer night with the dense press of a crowd, all looking up. Her face, illuminated in brilliant flashes of color - because he knew she loved them. She’d mentioned it once; an offhand comment tossed into a conversation she was sure no one was really listening to.
But Gojo had been listening. He filed away little things like that, storing them for later, though he’d never admitted it to himself until now.
He pictured standing so close their shoulders would brush with every shift of the crowd. Maybe sharing a paper cone of candied fruit. Maybe the thunderous boom-crackle of the explosions would be loud enough to swallow all his idiotic chatter, letting him just… be there. Beside her.
He liked that version of the future a lot. He mentally bookmarked it with a sense of decisive satisfaction.
Her fingers, which had been tracing soothing patterns through his hair, slowly stopped.
“Gojo,” she said, her voice softer than before. “I have to head back to Kyoto.”
His eyes, which had been peacefully shut, opened.
“Oh,” he said. The single syllable came out flatter than he intended. He tried to layer his usual breezy tone over it. “Big plans?”
“I’m assisting with teaching for a bit,” she continued, and he could hear the faint hint of an apology in her voice, like she was explaining herself to him.
He hated that. He didn’t want her to feel like she needed to.
“That’s cool,” he said, the lightness in his voice feeling forced even to his own ears. “You like talking about your students. It’s your thing.”
She blinked down at him, surprised. “I do?”
“Yeah,” he said, nudging her knee lightly with his temple. “You get all… serious and proud. Your voice changes. It’s kind of annoying, honestly.”
Utahime genuinely lit up when she talked about teaching. About shaping young sorcerers into something better than the mess their world usually produced.
He, on the other hand? He’d be a catastrophic teacher.
Probably.
He was too impatient, flippant, and likely to tell a struggling student to “just expand your domain, it’s not that hard” and then accidentally give them a lifelong complex.
…Probably.
But then another sly thought crept into the haze of his mind.
If I were a teacher…
He’d see her more.
There’d be staff meetings and coordinated missions. End-of-term ceremonies and boring school events. They’d have annoying paperwork to complain about together. He wouldn’t just be her kouhai anymore, that brash junior she tolerated. He wouldn’t be “that annoying Gojo.”
He’d be her colleague.
Maybe they’d sit next to each other during tedious meetings. Maybe they’d exchange a long-suffering look when a higher-up said something particularly idiotic. Maybe.
“Gojo?”
He hummed, pulled from the burgeoning fantasy.
“You’re thinking too hard,” she said, her thumb brushing briefly against his temple.
He grinned up at her. “You don’t know that. My brain is a fortress of secrets and genius.”
“I can tell,” she replied. Her fingers gave his hair one last, gentle scratch before she carefully began to extract herself. “The fortress is overheating. Rest. I’ll… I’ll check on you again before my train leaves.”
She stood up.
The warmth of her lap vanished, replaced by the sudden emptiness of the infirmary mattress. He missed the weight of her hand, the comfort of her presence, with a startling intensity.
Utahime leaned over, her focus entirely on the blanket he’d been haphazardly wrapped in. With a gentle tug, she pulled it up around his shoulders, then smoothed it down.
“No more talking,” she instructed. A command, not a suggestion. “Your quota for nonsense has been exceeded.”
Gojo watched her fingers work, utterly captivated by the domestic care of it - the way she tucked the edge securely under his arm as if he were a fragile parcel that might come undone.
I like it when you take care of me.
The vulnerability of the thought startled him so badly that his mouth went into defensive overdrive.
“You know,” he said, his voice grave, “if I perish in this bed, you’re going to miss me. A lot. It’ll hit you months later, and you’ll think, ‘Wow, it’s so quiet without him.’ It’ll be devastating.”
Utahime didn’t even blink.
“You’re not dying,” she stated, as if correcting a fact on a worksheet.
He gasped. “So cold. Here I am, literally bedridden, at death’s door, and my nurse is emotionally unavailable.”
“Gojo.”
“But what if this is it?” he pressed, fully committing to the bit. “My untimely end. Struck down not by a special grade curse, but by… cherry syrup. People will tell stories. ‘He was loud and infuriating,’ they’ll say, a single tear tracing their cheek. ‘But he was ours.’”
The corner of her mouth twitched upward despite her best efforts. “Go to sleep.”
Still, she made sure his shoulders were properly covered, then gave it a final tug right up under his chin, as if she genuinely didn’t trust him not to succumb to a chill the moment she turned her back.
Gojo noticed every fussing motion. He was now filing this entire experience away under a new mental folder: ‘Reasons To Positively Get Sick Again (Strategic Illness, Tier 1).’