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Satoru didn’t dream, it was the strangest thing, but he never had. Not in all the years Suguru had known him, anyway.
“Maybe,” Satoru had said one day, his mouth half-full of chips, “It’s because I’m the strongest.”
Suguru exhaled. More amused than anything, “What does that have to do with you dreaming?”
“I dunno,” Satoru shrugged, eyes glinting, “Maybe my psyche is just so expansive. It doesn’t have any space for dreams.”
He made waving, swirling gestures around his head. Suguru laughed, reveling in the over-proud smile Satoru was giving him, “You’re an idiot, Satoru.”
“Ah-ah,” He tutted, taking two chips in between his fingers, “I’m a genius.”
“Well, you look like a chipmunk right now.”
Satoru didn’t like to sleep anymore, not because of nightmares. But, because he was afraid sleep would make him forget.
Because, most nights, he thought of Suguru. Or studied the memory of him, rather.
The gentle curl of his smile, the smoothness of his voice, the steadiness of his hands. Even the way he’d smelt.
Like those bars of white soap, or like fabric that’d been hung outside to dry. Mostly, like freshly washed ceramics.
He remembered the way Suguru’s eyes looked like embers, burning gently. Emblazoned against a chilly, grey sky.
Satoru had always loved his eyes, but it was hard to think of them.
Because the memories of them always melded from the lively boy he’d known, to the isolated young man.
It reminded Satoru that he’d failed, that he should’ve done more.
That Suguru was gone, even if he had not died.
Every night, Satoru mourned. And every night, he reminded himself he had no right to grief.
Satoru didn’t want sleep to eat at the memories, not anymore than his sadness and exhaustion already had.
Some part of him needed to study his memories of Suguru because he no longer had the form in front of him. Nor the mind, or the hurting, heavy heart. Some selfish part of him remembered to believe that they were still his.
Satoru wondered if any of those things had ever been his to begin with. But it didn’t matter, Satoru’s own form, his mind, and his lonely heart were wholly, horribly, Suguru’s.
“That’s a stupid rule,” Satoru muttered, kicking at the ground, “Made by the stupid teachers.”
“It’s a practical rule, Satoru,” Suguru rolled his eyes. Stretching and cracking his knuckles, “You’re just a knucklehead.”
“You’re a practical rule,” Satoru jabbed a finger in his direction, “And I am not a knucklehead.”
“If I’m a practical rule,” Suguru grinned, “Does that make me stupid as well?”
“Maybe!” Satoru said, exasperated, throwing his hands up in the air.
“I don’t understand you,” Satoru flicked the box, sticking out his tongue, “Cigarettes are disgusting.”
Shoko hummed, clicking her lighter open, “Maybe you’re just a wimp, Satoru. Besides, they help me unwind.”
“I am not a wimp,” Satoru scoffed, pushing the box to the center of the table, “Maybe you need to find better ways to unwind.”
Shoko didn’t say anything, bringing a cigarette to her lips, she turned her body towards the skyline. The sun was setting over the city, and emblazoned against the mosaic of pinkish-orange, she looked almost golden.
Satoru might’ve complimented her, one of his usual flippant remarks. But, Shoko drew the cigarette from her lips, turning to Satoru in a haze of smoke and something unreadable.
Her voice was quiet, but ungentle, “Do you remember how he used to carry a lighter around for me?”
Satoru’s throat tightened, “Yeah.”
“Mhm,” Shoko’s eyes were sad, angry, and absent, all in one. Some new emotion, caught somewhere between the memories, “He gave me this one. Before he left.”
“That was awfully kind of him,” Satoru felt suddenly bitter, “Useful parting gift.”
Shoko only laughed, breathy and shallow. It didn’t reach her eyes.
Satoru joined her on the balcony, looking down on the liveliness of the city, it was crested in the golden glow.
And for a moment, when Shoko leaned up against him, the smell of cigarette smoke was replaced with the smell of springtime.
These days, Suguru couldn’t stand how people looked at him. It wasn’t just he pitiful gazing or the fleeting discomfort.
No, it was the polite indifference.
The differential treatment, the silent (one-sided) agreement to ignore Suguru’s appearance, to turn a cheek to his words. His plans.
Silently, they seemed to ask him to forget. To forget the world and it’s dysfunction, to forget his ideas. For Suguru to quietly forget himself.
Or maybe, they were also discomforted by his state.
. He was meant to be strong and level. He was the weight meant to pull Satoru back down to Earth.
Now, Suguru was pulling him down, but not in the ways they wanted. Not in the ways Satoru needed.
Oh, beloved Satoru, somebody so strong would obviously have a place in Suguru’s new world.
And always, a place in the center Suguru’s of heart.
“It’s just,” Megumi’s voice trailed off, “I’m afraid Itadori's losing himself.”
Satoru’s world suddenly shrunk, reduced to a single, scalding pinpoint.
A lovely pair of ember eyes. The indifferent rush of the city. A candle waning then burning brighter.
“It’s like he’s attached to this…string,” Megumi paced, eyes darting around the room, “And it’s just pulling him along. And he has such an annoying sense of justice. Have you seen it?”
Satoru had seen it, in soft tendrils of dark hair, in the warmth of a familiar laugh, the slow-burning misery of a beautiful face.
“…and he just won’t quit,” Megumi’s voice wavered, “No matter what I do. Or try to do.”
“Listen to me Megumi,” Satoru could hardly say the words. His mind a tapestry, woven from the lovely but displaying Satoru’s greatest failure.
Do what I couldn’t.
“You need to drag him back down,” Satoru’s mouth was stale, “You care for him, right?”
“Of course I care for him,” Megumi bit, “What kind of question is that?”
“An important one,” Satoru inhaled heavily, “And he cares for you. Tell him that, remind Itadori that he’s more than whatever purpose he’s given himself.”
Say what I didn’t.
Be who I couldn’t.
“Why?”
The question almost caught Suguru off-guard, Satoru’s tone was gentle. Serious, but vulnerable, “Why what?”
“Why all of this, Suguru?” Satoru clenched his jaw, shoulders rigid, “Who are you?”
“Don’t be childish,” Suguru sighed, “Really, Satoru. You know why.”
“Do I?” Satoru took a step forward, his voice angry but his eyes desperate. Searching, “Do you?”
“Of course I do. I have my purpose, Satoru.” Suguru met his gaze. Something in him flickering. As if the farthest reaches of his mind were whirring to life, spurred by some forgotten memory. He swallowed, dampening the thought, “I’m the same as I’ve always been.”
“Suguru.” Satoru said flatly, some of the light in his eyes extinguishing.
“Satoru.” Suguru replied, turning his back on Gojo Satoru, and letting the flicker be stamped out. As he melted into the crowd, Suguru imagined capturing all of desperate light in his Satoru’s eyes.
He imagined walking away with it, a token of who they’d each been.
Shoko smiled fondly, looking out the window. Absently shifting through her paperwork, “Your first years are so lively today.”
Outside, Kugasaki, Megumi, and Itadori were supposed to be training outside. Somehow, it’d devolved into Itadori and Kugasaki throwing a ball at each other while Megumi grumbled from the sidelines/
“Excuse you,” Satoru scoffed, “I’ll have you know they’re lively everyday.”
“Fair enough,” Shoko hummed, her voice lilting “Regardless, it’s nice to see, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Satoru’s smile widened, eyes softening, “It is.”
“They remind me of us back then,” Shoko tilted her head. Still inspecting the first years, “What a horrible thought, though.”
“It’s awful,” Satoru agreed, “But fun. In a sad way, y’know?”