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On Jujutsu High’s Tokyo campus, there is a tall, tall building that towers over everything around it.
It’s a training facility dedicated to the students of the school. Each floor is a private dojo, and every grade has three dedicated floors. Including the lobby on the ground level and the locker rooms on the second and third floors, the whole building houses a total of eleven floors that are each no less than four meters tall.
At the very top of the building, there is a balcony. It’s a nice balcony – spacious, clean, and with a beautiful view that overlooks the entire campus along with the dense forests and rolling hills that lie beyond it. The wind blows at an ideal strength, not too strong but just strong enough to be felt, and the air is crisp and fresh.
Gojo stands on the railing of the balcony and stares down at the ground dozens and dozens of meters below him. He balances on the precipice between life and death, thinking about the hills and the wind and the air, and clenches his hands into fists within the confines of his pockets so tightly it stings. He feels his nails dig into his palms, and a moment later, something warm and sticky blooms over his skin. Blood.
Whatever. Gojo just squeezes harder.
It’s a miserable day today. The sky is overcast and gray, the humid air carrying with it the promise of a downpour. There’s a bit of a breeze this high up that blows Gojo’s hair to the side as he raises his head to look forward, his Six Eyes scanning the horizon almost instinctively for trouble, causing a mild headache to erupt with the rapid influx of stimuli.
A curse here, a curse there…he was bred to be a weapon, to act like a machine. Violence and pain and death come naturally to him. It’s all he’s ever known, since the moment he opened his eyes and changed the balance of the universe.
It’s a lot for one man to deal with. It’s so much for a single heart to bear.
Gojo closes his eyes. If he concentrates, he can hear the sound of the leaves rustling on the distant trees, can feel the energy of the world shift around him. It all blends together into one harmonious mess. Behind the darkness of his eyelids, memories whiz by like pictures in an old movie.
A glimpse of dark, black hair.
A flash of deep, purple eyes.
A ghost of a touch so familiar and gentle, it briefly paralyzes Gojo; almost takes him out faster than any curse could ever hope to.
And then a voice is whispering to him from just beyond the railing, beckoning.
You know you want to, it teases. You miserable brat.
Gojo squeezes his eyes shut even tighter like that could protect him from this – from his own thoughts manifesting, from his worst mistakes reaching out to him from beyond the grave to claw at what remains of his worn, shattered soul. He is so fucking vulnerable, despite the infinity that prevents him from ever being touched, despite the Six Eyes that warn him of anything that could ever bring him harm. His mind is wide-open to attack, is a gaping wound that never stops bleeding.
“Shut up,” he mutters. “Go away. Please leave me alone.”
No, I don’t think so, the voice laughs. It resonates in Gojo’s skull, vibrates with a deep timbre. Gojo realizes, with a horrible sense of dread, that he recognizes it from years and years and years ago, before everything good stopped making sense. It pairs with the black hair and purple eyes he saw just moments prior, and altogether these pieces come together to form a finished puzzle that makes Gojo want to tear his eyes out even though they’re already closed. Come, his one and only says, reaching a ghostly hand out. You are so tired. You are so, so tired.
He is. Gojo grits his teeth, and feels tears start to roll down his cheeks. It’s true: He is so tired. Tired of the Higher Ups being selfish, tired of the system not doing its job, tired of being on the front lines of every conflict like he’s the last jujutsu sorcerer on earth.
He is so, so tired. And so sick of feeling it in his bones.
“I want to make a better world though,” he whispers, sounding broken even to himself.
This is true, all things considered – he does want to make a better world. He wants the youth to be happy, to be strong. He wants the next generation to have it better than he did, to be kind and determined and free. He wants them never to watch each other die, to run themselves ragged for missions that were doomed from the start. He wants to make a change.
He just wishes he didn’t have to be so lonely doing it.
But you could rest, the voice tries, just for a moment. Put all this away and feel none of the strife, allow yourself to be weightless, to let go of your unending concerns. You know this is all pointless, anyway.
The ‘useless bastard’ at the end of the provocation goes unsaid.
Gojo reaches out. He doesn’t mean to do it; his hand just moves. It stretches out, extends towards the rustling trees, reaches for the distant horizon. The wind brushes against his skin, and as he lets himself go, allows himself to melt into the feeling of…whatever this is, he’s sure he feels the ghost of his old friend’s touch twine between his fingers, as if to hold them, to pull him forward into –
“Gojo-sensei?”
Gojo stops. Opens his eyes.
A purple gaze bores into his before it clears away, disappearing like smoke into the air.
“Gojo-sensei,” the person behind him repeats, and Gojo sighs soundlessly, refusing to turn around.
“What is it, Megumi?”
The boy in question doesn’t respond. There’s silence between them for a moment, filled with the whistling wind and the distant sound of a bustling Tokyo. With a sharp jolt, Gojo realizes there’s a windchime on the balcony that’s been clinking around the whole time, creating an ominous atmosphere.
God. He really is distracted today, it seems.
“I was exploring the dojos,” Megumi says finally, after what feels like eons have passed. “I noticed the door to the balcony was open, and…I decided to step out for some air. What the hell are you doing?”
Gojo snorts. It is devoid of amusement. “Just hanging about, Megumi-chan,” he says casually. “Thinking about some…stuff.”
The sound of footsteps. Megumi is getting closer. “What kind of stuff?” He asks.
Jumping, Gojo doesn’t say. Inevitability. Failure. Death.
He stays quiet.
Megumi lets out a little breath behind him, and it trembles, oddly enough. Gojo has never seen, much less heard Megumi tremble, despite the dozens of times he likely should have. “You need to answer me, Gojo-sensei.”
There are a billion things that Gojo would rather be doing right now than answering Megumi’s questions. He resorts to shrugging passively and closing his eyes again.
He knows he’s being weird – really weird, given that this is Megumi: His precious student, his turning point. The kid he always greets with a smile and a jab, who is never short on insults to throw at him for being loud and obnoxious and too, as he puts it, “in his face”. Megumi will have easily caught on by now that something is wrong with him – with his notoriously untouchable teacher.
That his untouchable teacher may actually be, believe it or not, touchable in some ways.
Gojo makes it a point to put up a mask when it comes to this kind of stuff. He doesn’t want his students to know that he’s weak on the inside, that if you poke and prod in the right way, he can break more easily than glass.
But again; he is so, so tired. And he doesn’t have enough energy to pretend anymore.
“Are you going to say anything?” Megumi asks, sounding a little desperate. “You know, people have been looking for you all morning. You can’t disappear for hours and ignore everyone’s calls.”
“Whatever,” Gojo mutters.
Yes, whatever, the voice leers, back again, echoing in his head. Gojo bites his lip.
Behind him, he hears Megumi shuffle his feet. Then: “You never say whatever. Not about anything.”
“I just did.”
“Yeah,” Megumi agrees, and he sounds sad, all of a sudden. “You just did.”
Gojo doesn’t know how to reply. He can only keep staring into space, a mere shell of a human being as his student loiters behind him. His surroundings start to melt together into a nonsensical mess as he sinks deeper and deeper into this feeling, this all-encompassing misery that’s grabbed a hold of his soul and refuses to let go.
You know what this means, the voice whispers again meanly, and Gojo feels that presence once more, calling to him from just beyond the balcony. It’ll never end. It’ll be with you forever, an invisible scar.
Gojo sways a little. Forward, then backward, like a rocking boat. The voice snickers, cold and cruel, and the sound of its laughter swirls through the air like smoke from a blown-out match. Are you strong enough? It asks. Are you strong enough to survive this for the rest of your life?
Gojo just runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes once more.
He wishes he could push it away – fighting is what he’s good at, after all. It’s what he knows better than anything else, what never fails to bring him victory. But alas; one cannot physically fend off their own inner demons, no matter how much Gojo wishes he could. It’s what makes the mental battles that much harder, what makes the pressure of being the strongest so incredibly heavy.
You are alone, the voice taunts suddenly, so much crueler than before, and Gojo winces at the words, feels the same stabbing pain of betrayal he felt the day he confronted the voice on the street and watched him turn away. Deep down, you always knew it. That to be the strongest is to be isolated; to be at the top is to bear every burden by yourself. You are destined to suffer in silence, to want for care and affection that will never come. Remember your place, chosen one, before you get somebody killed.
The world stops as the words register in Gojo’s brain, right before the voice morphs into him – into Suguru – and delivers the killing blow: You dared to love me, he hisses, and Gojo feels the words against his lips, swears he can see Suguru’s face hovering in the air right in front of him. And look how that turned out?
God.
He is just. So tired.
It never gets easier, being reminded of this inhuman expectation he is meant to uphold. An untouchable anomaly, who feels nothing and cares for nothing and thinks of nothing except strength and power and decimation, who relies on nobody but himself. Gojo has always known this is what the world wants from him – it was drilled into his skull when he was a child, beaten into the marrow of his bones. He knows nothing if not how lonely he is meant to be, how utterly solitary and sad.
But…
“I don’t want to be alone,” he whispers falteringly, and the wind carries the words away on a phantom breeze, like he never spoke them at all.
He doesn’t want to feel like this.
He doesn’t want to be like this.
He doesn’t want to die a martyr, a pawn, a cog.
He just doesn’t. And he isn’t really sure what to do about that.
Gojo sighs shakily. This is too fucking much for one evening, dammit. He blinks away the tears that were building in the corners of his eyes, and is just about to jump down from the railing onto the safety of the balcony when a voice speaks up from just behind him, halting him in his tracks.
“You are not alone.”
Gojo’s entire body tightens. His brain goes offline, then reboots, then comes back online, and he still doesn’t know what to do with himself. How to act.
He kind of forgot Megumi was even there. He sure as hell remembers now.
There’s silence for a few moments. Silence for all the world, as Gojo registers Megumi’s words, lets them wrap around his body like a blanket. The vision of Suguru that had been floating in the air before him smiles, soft and wonderful and as beautiful as the day they parted, before fading away, lost to memories.
Gojo clenches his jaw. He feels so exposed; he doesn’t know what to think.
It’s so odd.
“You have me,” Megumi continues softly, when the silence stretches on a little too long. “And you have the other students. You have your books and your desserts and the other teachers at Jujutsu High. You have plenty. You’re not alone.” He inhales briefly, then repeats, for the third time now, “you are not alone.”
But you are, the voice insists, you are. You are selfish, you are horrible. You seek power and acclaim, because you are nothing but the strongest, and nothing but a tool.
That presence is back again. Pulling, tugging, sucking him in, forward forward forward, beyond the balcony, beyond solid ground. Gojo shakes his head, tries to pull himself back. “I am not a tool,” he growls, narrowing his eyes. “I am more than my abilities.”
“You are more than your abilities,” Megumi parrots, sounding small and afraid, but firm nevertheless. “You’ve always been more. You have the loudest personality I know.”
The voice disagrees – it comes back stronger, sharper. You’re a shallow man, it spits, striking like a viper. You do it all for fame, for ego – or maybe for your one and only, who broke you and cursed you and killed you inside, who never cared for you as much as you cared for him.
“I wanted to trust somebody,” Gojo mutters back, defensive now. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”
“You don’t hurt people,” Megumi says emphatically, and he sounds closer now, close enough to reach. “Who told you that you do?”
The higher ups, Gojo wants to say. The clan. Curses. The whole world it feels like, every time he fails, every time he doesn’t obey. Tools don’t talk back, after all. Weapons are meant for a single purpose, and that is to take and destroy. It’s all very grim and cyclical.
It drives Gojo mad just thinking about it, sometimes. The thought is dizzying, the concept of being caught in a loop he can never escape from. Not if he doesn’t want to get people hurt – not if he doesn’t want the people he cares about to get caught in the cross-fire.
Jump, the voice growls, and Gojo jolts at the bluntness of the demand. Just jump, you dense motherfucker. Your life means nothing, and you will never be more than something for others to use. You have always known this, so why run from it now?
“But I could be more,” Gojo replies through gritted teeth. “I could be so much more. I could matter to people. I could mean something.” He feels a hand touch his arm then, grounding, reassuring, and says it again for the hills and the wind and the world to hear: “I could mean something.”
“You already do,” Megumi says from right behind him. His hand tightens around Gojo’s arm, just fractionally. “You know that, and I know that you know. You already mean something to the people that matter.”
It’s strange, to hear those words from Megumi. The same kid who tells him to get lost on a good day, the same kid who pushes him away whenever he gets close. Gojo has never begrudged him this – the kid has boundaries, and it’s his responsibility to respect them. But maybe that’s why it’s so effective to be comforted and encouraged by him; Gojo knows he means it.
He has been lied to and fooled and taken advantage of since the day he was born. How wonderful it is, just to be cared for.
Beyond the balcony, the voice tries again. I am you, it hisses, malicious and desperate. I am what you have always thought, what you have always known. You seek my council – and my council is this: Be done with what ails you, what troubles you, what hurts you. End it all right now. Protect whatever measly peace you have left and jump.
Gojo shakes his head. Takes a deep breath, then lets it out.
I’m talking to you, the voice says. It’s quieter now, weaker.
Gojo leans back.
I said I’m talking to you, the voice repeats. Even softer, even quieter.
Gojo hops off the railing, and lands on the balcony.
I said I’m talking to you, oh strongest of them all. The voice, now barely a whisper, blends into the sound of the whistling wind, fading off into the distance.
Gojo turns around.
Megumi is standing there, a hand still on his arm, his eyes wide and full of…something. Sadness? Fear? Relief? Gojo isn’t sure. He doesn’t really want to ask.
No matter. Megumi will tell him if it’s important.
Instead, Gojo places a hand on his shoulder, then takes one step forward, two, three, until he’s walking, albeit slowly and with difficulty, towards the door leading inside. Megumi follows along beside him, a heartening presence.
Finally, after several sets of stairs and a couple wrong turns, Gojo sighs as he steps back outside, this time onto solid ground where he can’t fall, where he can’t be reckless. Megumi is still right next to him, hovering. Gojo appreciates it. He hopes to be able to tell him this someday, when he knows his words won’t fail him.
For now, he chooses to go easy on himself, and wipes his sweaty hands against his shirt. Then, he turns to Megumi with a grin.
“What do you want for dinner?” He asks cheerfully.
Megumi just snorts.