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Satoru Gojo is, undeniably, an asshole.
Suguru knows this for certain.
He's selfish and annoying and loud and he always acts like he's the most important person in any given room. He talks over people, and half the time he's making fun of someone, he doesn't even seem to realize he's doing it.
He's a Clan nepo baby who's never had to do anything hard in his life, so Suguru really isn't sure why he feels so bad for the guy right now.
Gojo is often late to class. Not every day, but often enough that Suguru lost count of the amount of times Yaga has cuffed him upside the head.
Today, though, was the first time in over a month that he didn't show up at eight o'clock. Ieiri and he were seated and waiting, and after five silent Gojo-less minutes had passed, Yaga turned his head and looked straight at Suguru.
Suguru sat up. "Why me?" he complained.
"Just go," Yaga said, and pointed at the door. "Check the dorms first."
Suguru sighed and got up and ignored the smug grin Ieiri tossed him on his way out.
He grit his teeth the whole way to the boys' dorms. Why should it even matter if he comes to class? Not like he'll have to face any consequences for missing stuff.
Gojo's room is directly across from Suguru's. The door was shut when he got there and Suguru pressed his ear up against it for a moment before he pulled back and knocked. He didn't get a response, but he opened the door anyway, and now he's here.
In Gojo's room, which looks a lot like a hurricane just went through. With a very, very sick Gojo.
His entire body is cocooned within his covers, the fitted sheet pulled off from one corner and bunching up over the mattress. Suguru can only just make out the top of his head, tangled white hair standing out against the dark blue pillowcase.
"Uh," he says.
Gojo whines, muffled under the blanket. "Not coming."
"Okay," Suguru says. He can't imagine Yaga will have a problem with that, now that they know he's sick and not just sleeping in or skipping for fun. And, now, Suguru can technically leave. He'd been sent to find Gojo, which he did, so he's free to go back to class and get on with his day. But… He really hasn't ever seen his classmate this outwardly miserable. Certainly never this still or this quiet.
"Do you…" he's saying, before he can stop himself. "Do you want some water? Or tea?" Whenever he had a cold as a kid, his parents would set up a humidifier in his room and brew him countless cups of ginger tea. Gojo obviously hasn't gotten out of bed today, so he probably hasn't had anything to drink.
From under his blanket cocoon, Gojo moans quietly. "I want," he sniffs, "to feel better."
Suguru huffs. He glances over his shoulder to the empty waiting hallway, then steps inside and closes the door. He navigates around all the piles of dirty laundry until he's standing next to Gojo's bed. "Sorry, I can't really do that," he says. "Does tea sound good? Does your throat hurt?"
A moment passes with no response. Suguru wonders whether Gojo can even hear him with all the layers of blankets pulled up over his head. Then he shifts and rolls onto his back, pushing the covers down.
His eyes are red-rimmed, pale lashes stuck together like he's been crying. Blotchy color flushes high on his cheeks. He sniffs again.
"I'm not supposed to get sick," he says at the ceiling.
Suguru rolls his eyes. "What, you've never been sick before?"
"No!" Gojo pouts. With his fingertips he wipes away the wetness still clinging to his lashes. "This isn't fair."
"Pretty sure it's the definition of fair," Suguru scoffs. "The rest of us normal people all get colds."
The only response Gojo has to this is a drawn-out groan. Then he coughs. It sounds pretty bad— painfully dry and deep in his throat. He shuts his eyes, brows pinched together tight.
Suguru's hand reaches out of its own accord and brushes the hair away from Gojo's forehead so he can lay his palm there. A shudder runs through his body. He's absolutely radiating heat.
"Woah," he says. Maybe it's not just a cold after all. "You actually have a fever."
Gojo's lip wobbles. "Am I gonna die?"
He sounds so incredibly sincere, so incredibly terrified. Suguru tries not to, he really does, but he bursts out laughing anyway.
He claps a hand over his mouth. "Sorry, sorry," Suguru rushes. "No, you're not dying. I swear, okay?"
Gojo doesn't respond. He pulls the blanket back up over his face, disappearing everything except the white crown of his head.
Suguru sighs and taps his foot against the floor lightly. "Want some tea now?" he tries again. "I'll put so much honey in it, you won't even taste the tea." He's noticed Gojo has a sweet tooth. He's regularly munching on hard candies and mochi in class and Suguru has never once seen him touch coffee, only soda.
From under the blanket, barely audible: "'Kay."
Suguru turns, kicking a path through the clothes scattered all over the floor on his way to the door. Right as his hand touches the doorknob, Gojo speaks again.
"Don't tell anyone."
The huddled lump of blankets hiding him suddenly looks so small. Suguru wonders why he cares so much. "I won't," he says, and opens the door.
On his way to the kitchen, he wonders some more. Suguru wasn't born anywhere close to the sphere of Jujutsu society. Both his parents are normal people and he was raised how normal kids are raised. The things he now knows were cursed spirits had been imaginary friends and ghosts and vivid daydreams all through his childhood. And despite his extreme reluctance to learn much about either of his fellow first-years, he does know that the Gojo Clan is a colossus of power and influence, and that's mostly because of its sixteen-year-old heir. Its little god on Earth.
Suguru walks into the kitchen and sets about microwaving a mug of water and picking out a tea sachet— chamomile. He pours in several spoonfuls of honey, stirring until it stops pooling thick at the bottom.
He guesses being sick is a normal thing, and Gojo just wasn't raised with normality in mind.
He hasn't moved an inch by the time Suguru gets back. Maybe he's curled a little tighter into himself, the folds and creases in the covers creating an impression of his miserable fetal position. "Alright," Suguru says, coming to stand at the bedside again. "Sit up so you can drink it."
Miraculously, he does. He doesn't reach out for the mug though, instead digging the heels of both palms into his eyes. "'S too bright," he whines. "My head hurts."
Morning light is diffusing softly through the half-drawn blinds, not particularly intrusive. Suguru had flipped the overhead lights on when he came in, so he backtracks to turn them off again. Gojo's hands don't move.
"Will you bring me a t-shirt," he says quietly. Setting the tea down on his desk, Suguru glances at the worn and wrinkled clothes spread over the floor, then goes to dig one out from his closet. The first one he sees is a salmon pink color, soft and faded, with a hole worn into the collar.
"Here," he says, passing it over.
Eyes still squeezed shut, Gojo folds the shirt up until it's only a thin rectangle, and then proceeds to tie it around his head like a blindfold. Suguru snorts.
"You look ridiculous."
Gojo frowns. "I want my tea now," he says and Suguru fetches it from the desk and presses it into his waiting hands. Their fingers interlace briefly. Gojo's skin is soft, fever-warm. Suguru thinks this is the first time they've ever touched and something about it feels unexpectedly pleasant. He swallows.
Gojo angles his head down at the mug, like he can still see it through the t-shirt. Maybe he can. Strands of sweaty, tangled hair droop over his makeshift blindfold. "You're so nice," he says, sounding suddenly on the verge of tears, and oh no— Suguru has absolutely no idea how to handle a crying Gojo. Absolutely none at all.
"Um," he says, glancing over his shoulder to the door, his escape route. "I— Do you want me to go see if Yaga has some cough syrup or something?"
"No!" Before Suguru's even taken a step, Gojo snatches the edge of his sleeve. Tea sloshes over the rim of the mug, dripping down onto the pile of blankets burying Gojo's legs. "Don't want him to know," he mumbles. "I'm not s'pposed to…" he trails off. "Just. Tell me I'm never gonna die."
Suguru balks at the sudden topic jump and then blows a rough breath out of his nose. At least he's not crying. "You're never going to die, Gojo. Now let go of me."
A quiet moment passes, and he does, hand returning to cradle the ceramic mug in his lap. "You can call me Satoru," he says, his voice very small. He almost sounds hopeful.
Suguru blinks. He tries to remind himself that he doesn't actually like the boy in front of him, wrapped up in blankets and so sick and scared, that the arrogance and the ego have done nothing but get on his nerves since he came to Jujutsu High. Right now, he can't quite summon those same feelings. "Okay," he says, offering a half-smile. "You have to call me Suguru, then."
Satoru returns a weak, wobbly version of his smile.
"Drink your tea," Suguru tells him. "I'll go look for some cold medicine— and I won't tell Yaga you're sick. Pinky promise."
Satoru thrusts his pinky finger out. Suguru hooks it with his, again marvelling at how much he seems to enjoy the simple contact.
The corners of his mouth curl up as he walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Suguru sighs. Maybe he's not so terrible after all.