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Cold air passes through the kitchen just as he steps inside. The window is open in hopes of letting in the warm September breeze, but the air conditioning’s already compensating, set to an uncomfortably low temperature by someone who isn’t even here to defend such a ridiculous preference.
His gaze settles on the refrigerator, but the coffee maker and toaster glimmer dangerously in his peripheral vision. It wasn’t long ago that he rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out as hot mud water was politely offered to him, while he spread three kinds of jam over the burnt corners of his white bread. He brushed off the scolding when he got crumbs all over the counter too, still fully believing he’d be forgiven for whatever stupidity he conjured up day to day, if it truly was someone that cared for him so deeply.
The kick of adrenaline and regret rises in his gut before he even hears the crash of ceramic on tile. He hadn’t realized he was reaching for a mug, nor dropping it, but his instincts aren’t inhibited as he leaps away from the mess, bare feet already protected by infinity.
There’s a soft, confused inhale beside him, and the blond, uniformed figure minding his own typical business at the table registers.
“Are you okay?” He hears Nanami ask, chair scraping against the floor as he stands.
Gojo doesn’t answer, staring at the shards like an idiot.
In a dream, things fix either themselves or vanish into nothingness, replaced by a new fantastical or horrifying event that will be just as meaningless when morning arrives. You can smash dishware until your fingers bleed, and some brief, imperceptible time later, you’ll be riding a dragon through the orange skies and stealing glances at people you haven’t seen since you were six.
But the broken mug is still in front of him, and Nanami’s still approaching, and he will have to deal with the fact that he just broke Yaga’s “World’s Best Teacher” mug he let them keep in the common kitchen so they could feel good about getting it together enough to get him a gift when they were fifteen.
“Gojo?” Nanami says.
He doesn’t reply, breath catching in the back of his mouth as he tries. A wheeze escapes his nostrils, sharp and stifled by emotional snot building in the depths of his sinuses.
“Gojo?” Nanami repeats.
He hardly manages to gulp against the pressure in his sore throat. He opens his mouth to tell him he thinks he might be getting sick, but nothing comes out. His eyes are fixed, and his hands are twitching at his sides, which doesn’t help.
“Are you okay?” Nanami asks again.
And he really means to say “yeah, I’m fine.” He really, really does… But instead what comes out of his mouth is: “get out.”
“What–”
“Go away,” he chokes out. “Just– Just, get out–”
“I–”
“I said ‘get out–’” He snaps, scrubbing his palm over his face; a pitiful attempt to cover the bursting capillaries forcibly blushing his cheeks. If only he weren’t so disgustingly pale, he might get away with a little redness. Sun-exposed rose was always beautiful across tan skin, complementing the attentiveness sparkling in purple irises, as dark, wispy bangs stuck to his sweat-slick forehead–
“Okay,” Nanami acquiesces, footsteps already backing away. “I’m sorry.”
Gojo doesn’t look up to see if he’s left, but the clack of the cheaply built sliding door suggests he has some privacy now; not that it changes much. He’s especially unexposed when everyone left around here doesn’t know shit about him.
The tendons behind his knees are lax like someone’s taken a nail file to their root and shredded them down to a thread of a tether, barely holding on for dear life. Dizziness is concentrating in the edges of his vision too; whether because he hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning, or the lack of oxygen as he hyperventilates, he doesn’t know.
He drops to a crouch, still covering his eyes, while his other hand grips the edge of the pristine counter so hard his knuckles are white, cutting off the blood flow so he can’t feel the tips of his fingers, but he knows they’re cold, and that he’ll have to invest in a heating pad now that there's no one to warm them up.
A hand lands on his shoulder blade, small, thin, and boney. The yellow stains between her fingers become visible to his omnidirectional, subatomic perception at the same time the faint scent of smoke hits his nose, both permeating the flimsy barrier of his humiliated palm pressed tight against his face.
“Breathe,” Shoko commands hoarsely, her voice thinned not by the raspy huskiness of too many cigarettes, but rather the morning-after damage of too many lonely tears wailed into a pillow.
“Go get Yaga,” she says over her shoulder, presumably to Nanami, whose organized presence hangs heavily in the atmosphere once again.
He opens his mouth to tell her he’s fine, but nothing besides faltering gasps amplify. He doesn’t know why he thought it’d work out this time, when he couldn’t pull himself together before his own fallibility knocked him on his ass.
Shoko rubs up and down his spine uselessly. She lacks the comforting touch of someone going into a field built on care and compassion; the polar inverse of the one and only that would wipe away his troubles if he burst in like a dream state figure to wipe away the hazy construction of this bizarre scene.
But the steal-toed footsteps that avoid crunching the mess in front of him as they materialize do not belong anyone he wants getting in his face right now.
Muscle memory expects a disappointed “Satoru…” accompanied by a growl and pointed directions to clean this up, but the logical part of his mind knows to anticipate well-intentioned sympathy that will only make things worse.
“Let’s go sit down.” Yaga pats him on the back. “Come on.”
He obediently stands without uncovering his face, letting passive awareness guide him over to a chair, shoulder to upper arm with the muscle-brain that should be chastising him.
He hiccups as soon as he sits, an excess of saliva running over his lower lip. Aerosolized droplets spray into his lap as his diaphragm contracts, forcing out something between a sputter and a cough.
He wraps his free hand around the edge of the seat tight as Yaga tugs on his other wrist. It’s then that it occurs to him that he could fight back. He could reinforce his infinity, literally pushing them all away, but he doesn’t. There’s nothing more to it; it’s just too late, and he’s already letting him pull away his makeshift blindfold.
Yaga tilts his head a fraction of a degree to the left. It’s a subtle expression of startle no one with normal sight would notice, signaling he wasn’t all that sure in the first place, but something about his appearance is unexpected.
And Gojo himself is mildly surprised at the dry tightness around his eyes as he blinks at the unclouded, foreign view of the common kitchen he’s set foot in nearly every day for the past three years.
There’s no snot bubbling over his philtrum, nor wet streaks running down his cheeks for the AC rushing past him to chill.
He wipes his lips on the side of his thumb, which does little to silence the rapid succession of loud inhales.
“Breathe,” Yaga instructs, planting one hand on his chest and the other on his back. “Take a slow, deep breath.”
“I’m–” He swallows. “I’m trying–”
“I know,” he soothes. “It’s alright.”
“I know–” Gojo echoes back to him, far more breathless than he’d like to be.
Nausea rises in his gut, but it doesn’t go far. It’s different from the illness in their first year that had him waking up his next-dorm neighbor at two in the morning because he didn’t have round-the-clock maids to care for him anymore. And it’s different from that night when they found out he was a lightweight, a gentle hand holding his hair back and urging him to drink as he dizzily curled around the toilet. It’s even different from the sick anxiety that bloomed deep within him when he stood there dumbly as his peer gave him a perplexed look, then explained how to use the laundry machine.
Shoko’s standing next to Nanami, her short shorts and oversized t-shirt a stark contrast to his ironed gakuran, but perfectly in line with Gojo’s flannel pants and stolen sweatshirt. Yaga’s dressed though, so there’s no clear standard, nor outlier.
Ijichi, having overslept like usual, will come out half-clothed, rushing to button himself up and get in order before class starts, so he won’t be a deciding factor either way.
Days ago, the battle of Pajamas vs Pleasantries in the morning was secure, ever since a certain someone started putting off his morning routine when Gojo got him digimon-patterned slippers just to confuse him. In hindsight though, there may have been another reason he stopped getting ready at all the past few weeks.
Haibara was always on their side too. Who would’ve thought numbers could dwindle so quickly?
Yaga pulls his hand off his chest, leaving only the one on his back as he takes the seat next to him, rubbing in kind circles.
Satoru bends forward, covering his mouth loosely with the base of his wrist as he leans, elbow precariously balanced on his thigh.
“I’m sorry I broke your mug,” he mumbles, gaze fixed on the floor.
“That was a duplicate,” Yaga replies. “The real one’s in my office. I know I can’t trust you delinquents."
“You’re lying,” he says around a shuddering breath. “But whatever.”
“Do you want some water?” He asks.
“No, I’m fine,” Gojo decides, standing suddenly with one final wipe of his dry, cracking lips on the back of his hand. Static surges across his vision from the lack of oxygen, and he stumbles half a step out of line, but he catches his footing, so no harm, no foul.
“Sorry, everybody,” he announces, primarily to Nanami and Shoko, who are still gawking at him with concern like he’s a dying zoo animal in a cage. “I don’t know what that was, but I’m all good now.”
He crosses the room in a couple of long strides before anyone can say anything in protest, then flashes them a quick thumbs up through the doorway behind him as he disappears back into the hall, saved only by the fact that they can’t see through walls.