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The cool wind chills the damp patches of blood on Gojo’s uniform. His stained shirt sickeningly sticking to his skin and peeling off as a gust of wind ruffles the fabric with an audible squelch. At this point, he isn’t even sure whose blood it is but he tries not to think about it. He tries not to think about how the sheet in his arms covers a real dead body. A real person. An actual child who had woken up a few days in his arms and slapped him across the face. The 14 year old girl that he failed to save, now dead. Unmoving. Gone.
The two students sit on a bench under the flickering light of a streetlamp. Their eyes are unfocused, ears muffled with clapping replaying over and over, their minds elsewhere. Their brains have been separated from their body. It’s as if they aren’t really there.
Gojo slowly turns his gaze towards the sound of liquid splattering against a hard surface. His eyes are half lidded and dull, looking blankly through his best friend. Geto has his head in his hands, staring at the pavement redecorated with his breakfast. His shoulders shaking.
Gojo blinks and he’s moving. The soft hum of an engine and vibrations of the vehicle radiating through the leather seat below him manage to somewhat anchor him within his surroundings. There’s a weight in his lap. He looks down at the white sheet tainted with dark red. Amanai’s pale hand hangs out, her fingertips faintly turning blue. Her body lays across the back seats of the car, her veiled head resting in his lap. Limp. It’s as if she is merely asleep. She’s just sleeping. That’s right. It’s the only way he can manage to think about it right now. His thoughts echo over each other, leaking out of his brain and bouncing off the boundaries defined by his skull.
He can’t tear his eyes away from her discoloured fingertips, his insides feeling hollow. Cautiously, as if trying not to wake her, he covers her hand with his own. The cold radiating from her skin seeping into his as he stares blankly out the window. His fingers lightly curl around her palm as if assuring her that she will be ok. They’ll be back at jujutsu high soon and they can help her there. Maybe Shoko can do something. Right?
Geto is sitting in the passenger seat, thankful that the driver hasn’t struck up a conversation. Maybe she had at some point. He isn’t entirely sure. His mind is racing, periodically pausing to a complete and unnerving silence as pieces of the day project over his vision, unable to escape it.
The car jostles over the bumpy roads and he winces, his chest burning despite his healed wound on his chest from earlier. Each speedbump and pothole shoots searing pains through his ribs and across the ‘X’ that now marks his chest. A discarded treasure trove now looted and empty. Nothing to take. Nothing to give.
The car comes to a stop but neither of them move. The cold air of the evening floods the car as the door opens.
“Just leave the vessel in the car.”
That’s what Geto manages to piece together from the figure beside him. He mumbles a thank you to the driver as he steps out of the car, his movements jagged. Gojo remains inside, unmoving. He opens the back door and unbuckles Gojo’s seatbelt then hesitantly reaches out, forcing himself to make contact with the body. He gently lifts up her head and Gojo stumbles past him, out of the vehicle. The car drives off and she’s gone.
Gojo catches himself against a tree and braces himself, his fingers digging into the bark. It’s pattern imprinting against his fingertips. He remains silent, staring at the grass, his breathing steady and slow. The leaves above him rustle in the wind, some falling or swept away. His face pales and he closes his eyes, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. Slowly, he pushes himself away from the tree and walks with Geto to the entrance of Jujutsu High.
The two boys are met with the face of their teacher, Yaga. His arms are crossed and his expression is the same as usual – a general look of disapproval. The sinking anticipatory feeling of being scolded continues to build. At least some things remain the same. They stand with their heads hanging low, staring at the ground, barely able to process the words coming from Yaga’s mouth. The words are less harsh than usual. More spaced out and broken up by uncertainty and hesitation. In all honesty, Gojo would have preferred to just be yelled at and told outright that he had failed and maybe even hit over the head in Yaga’s typical disciplinary style.
Yaga raises his hand and Gojo braces for a good knock to the head, his shoulders tensing and eyes squeezing shut. However, instead of a fist, an awkward open palm rests on his shoulder. His eyes open, his gaze still angled down towards his bloodstained shoes tainting the concrete. The blood seeping into it and spreading its tendrils towards Yaga’s shoes from the slight slant of the floor. His eyes flicker to Geto, seeing that Yaga has a hand on each of their shoulders. Geto is gritting his teeth, his eyes locked on the ground but Gojo can tell he’s fighting to keep it together. The tears lining Geto’s eyes give it away. Yaga says something else as he walks away. It’s probably important but Gojo doesn’t quite catch it.
That wretched silence slithers around them. The wind sinks its fangs into their battered flesh. It’s suffocating.
“I need to shower.” Gojo manages to murmur, his voice sounding foreign to himself. He doesn’t have the energy to shower, let alone move. However, he needs to get out of these clothes, soiled with blood and death. There’s blood crusted into his hair and splattered across his face and caked under his fingernails and it’s sticking his clothes to his skin. It’s nauseating.
Geto can’t bring himself to speak. He merely follows as Gojo starts walking, his vision feeling like it is set a little higher than it usually is. Everything feeling a little further away than it should. He is snapped out of his daze as Gojo stumbles and instinctively puts his hand on Gojo’s chest to stabilise him. Whilst thankful for not falling onto his face, Gojo is now far too aware of how his bloody shirt squelches against his skin. Geto’s eyes widen as he feels his palm coated in a thin layer of blood, coagulated with globs of viscera. He swallows thickly and carefully pulls his hand away, the fabric of Gojo’s shirt clinging to his hand as it moves. He forces himself to look away from his hand, taking a deep breath and gently tugs Gojo’s sleeve, leading him back to the dorms.