Chapter Text
The mission had been brutal. Not in the way that left blood on your hands or scars on your skin, but in the way that drained every ounce of energy from your body until you were nothing but a hollow shell shuffling through the motions of being alive.
Megumi Fushiguro had been up since four in the morning. He had exorcised three curses before breakfast, filed six reports before lunch, and spent the entire afternoon in a meeting with the higher-ups that had lasted four hours longer than it should have. His head was pounding. His eyes were burning. His entire body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion that made every step feel like wading through wet cement.
All he wanted was to go back to his room, eat something, take a shower, and sleep for the next twelve hours. Maybe fourteen. Maybe forever.
He pushed open the door to his dorm room and stopped dead in his tracks.
Satoru Gojo was sprawled across his bed like he owned the place, long legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded behind his head, blindfold pushed up into his messy white hair. He was grinning. That specific, insufferable, shit-eating grin that Megumi had learned to dread over the past eight years.
"Welcome home, sunshine!" Gojo sang, waving his fingers in a little ta-da gesture. "How was your day? Did you miss me? I missed you. I missed you so much. I was sitting here for like, three whole hours waiting for you. Three hours, Megumi. Do you know how bored I was? I counted the ceiling tiles. There are forty-seven. I named them. My favorite is Steve."
Megumi stared at him. His brain, already operating at approximately twelve percent capacity, struggled to process the situation.
"What are you doing here?" he asked flatly.
"I live here," Gojo said, as if that explained anything. "Well, not here specifically. I live in the general vicinity. But tonight, I have decided to grace you with my presence. You're welcome."
"Gojo. It's eleven at night."
"Eleven-oh-three, actually. I've been counting the minutes too. Time moves slower when you're waiting for someone you love."
Megumi closed his eyes. He counted to ten. He opened his eyes again. Gojo was still there, still grinning, still sprawled across his bed like an overgrown cat.
"I'm going to eat," Megumi said, deciding to ignore him entirely. "Then I'm going to shower. Then I'm going to sleep. You are going to leave."
"Bold of you to assume I'll listen," Gojo said cheerfully.
Megumi ignored him. He walked to his small desk, where a takeout container of cold rice and vegetables was waiting for him. He had picked it up on the way back, too tired to cook, too tired to care about the taste. He sat down, opened the container, and began to eat.
Gojo was beside him in an instant.
"Ooh, what are you eating? Is that rice? That looks sad. That looks really sad, Megumi. Did you get that from the convenience store? That's not food. That's sadness in a plastic container. Here, let me order you something real..."
"I'm fine."
"You're eating sad rice. You're not fine. Nobody who eats sad rice is fine. I'm going to order you a pizza. No, wait, I'm going to order you five pizzas. We're going to have a pizza party. It's going to be great."
"No."
"Too late! I'm calling right now!"
"Gojo, it's almost midnight. No one is delivering pizza at midnight."
"You underestimate the power of my credit card," Gojo said, pulling out his phone and waving it dramatically. "Watch and learn, my young apprentice."
Megumi shoved a mouthful of cold rice into his mouth and chewed aggressively. He didn't have the energy to argue. He didn't have the energy for anything.
Gojo, apparently sensing that he wasn't going to get a reaction, flopped onto the floor beside Megumi's chair and began narrating everything Megumi did.
"Oh, he's taking another bite. Look at that. Such concentration. Such dedication. He's chewing like his life depends on it. Amazing. Truly inspiring. And now he's reaching for his water bottle. What's he going to do? Is he going to drink? Yes! He's drinking! Incredible! The crowd goes wild!"
Megumi choked on his water.
Gojo cackled.
"I hate you," Megumi croaked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You love me," Gojo corrected. "You just don't know how to express it. It's okay. I understand. You're emotionally constipated. It's part of your charm."
Megumi finished his rice in silence, pointedly ignoring the running commentary Gojo was providing about his eating technique. When he was done, he stood up, threw the container in the trash, and walked toward the bathroom.
"Ooh, bathroom time!" Gojo said, scrambling to his feet and following him. "Are you going to shower? Can I watch? Not in a weird way, just in a supportive way. I'll be your shower coach. I'll cheer you on. Go, Megumi, go! Lather that shampoo! Rinse that conditioner! You're doing amazing!"
Megumi slammed the bathroom door in his face.
"You can't slam doors in my heart, Megumi!" Gojo called through the wood. "My love for you transcends physical barriers!"
Megumi leaned against the door for a moment, letting out a long, shaky breath. The bathroom was small and quiet, the only light coming from the flickering fluorescent bulb above the sink. He could still hear Gojo humming outside, some ridiculous pop song that he had probably heard on the radio and decided to annoy Megumi with.
He peeled off his uniform slowly, deliberately. The dark jacket. The high-collared shirt. The pants. Each layer felt heavier than the last, like he was shedding armor rather than clothes. His body ached. His muscles were sore. There were bruises blooming across his ribs and hips from the mission, dark purple and blue against his pale skin. He prodded one experimentally and winced.
Then he looked at his arms.
His forearms were a graveyard.
The oldest scars were faded white lines, barely visible under the fluorescent light. They crisscrossed his skin like a map of everything he had been trying to forget, thin and precise, deliberate in a way that spoke of quiet desperation rather than reckless impulse. Some were deeper than others. A few had healed badly, leaving raised, textured marks that would never fully fade. Pale, slightly puckered lines that caught the light differently than the rest. He remembered each one. He remembered the night he had made them, the way his hands had trembled, the way the pain had been the only thing that felt real in a world that had stopped making sense.
The newer ones were still healing. Pink and raised, scattered among the old ones like fresh wounds on top of old grief. Some of them were still scabbed over, the edges slightly red and inflamed. Some were in the process of healing, the skin tight and shiny, itching as it knit itself back together. A few were fresh enough that they still stung when he moved his arms too quickly.
He traced the newest one with his finger. Still tender, still healing, the skin slightly raised and warm to the touch. He pressed down on it, just enough to feel a faint spark of pain, and he felt nothing. No shame. No regret. Just a hollow, empty acceptance.
This was what he had become.
This was what he deserved.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. He looked like a corpse that had forgotten how to die. He looked like someone who had given up a long time ago but was still going through the motions because he didn't know how to stop.
He turned on the shower and stepped under the hot water. The steam filled the small room, fogging up the mirror, creating a warm, hazy cocoon that felt almost safe. Almost. He stood there for fifteen minutes, letting the heat soak into his aching muscles, letting the water wash over him. He washed his hair. He washed his body. He scrubbed at his skin until it was red and raw, as if he could wash away the scars, as if he could wash away the guilt, as if he could wash away everything he had done and everything he had failed to do.
It didn't work.
It never worked.
When he finally emerged, wrapped in a towel with his hair dripping wet, he felt no cleaner than he had before. He dried himself off slowly, carefully, avoiding his arms. He pulled on his pajamas, a soft t-shirt and loose sweatpants. He brushed his teeth. He rinsed his mouth. He dried his face.
And then he opened the bathroom door.
Gojo was sitting on the floor right next to the bathroom, his back against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was waiting for Megumi, just like he always did, just like he had done a hundred times before.
"That was a long shower," Gojo observed. "Were you crying? You can tell me if you were crying. I'm a great shoulder to cry on. I have very broad shoulders. Very comforting."
"I wasn't crying."
"That's exactly what someone who was crying would say."
Megumi walked past him, ignoring the way Gojo scrambled to his feet and followed him like a particularly annoying duckling. He walked back into his room and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.
Gojo appeared in front of him, crouching down so they were eye level. He was still grinning, but there was something softer in his expression now. Something almost gentle.
"Hey," Gojo said quietly. "You know I'm just teasing, right? You don't have to tell me anything. I'm just... I'm here. If you need me."
Megumi didn't answer.
Gojo tilted his head. "Megumi?"
"I'm tired," Megumi said. His voice was flat. Hollow. Empty.
"I know," Gojo said. "You should sleep. You look like you haven't slept in weeks."
Megumi didn't respond. He just pulled back the covers and climbed into bed.
Gojo was on top of him in an instant.
"Ooh, bedtime!" he said, flopping down directly on top of Megumi, his entire weight pressing him into the mattress. "I love bedtime! It's my favorite time of day! Second only to snack time. And nap time. And play time. And..."
"Get off me," Megumi wheezed, trying to shove him away. "You're crushing me. You weigh a thousand pounds. Gojo. Gojo, I'm serious. Get off."
"Never," Gojo said, wrapping his arms around Megumi and squeezing. "You're my pillow now. I've claimed you. You belong to me."
"I will kill you."
"You'll try."
Megumi opened his mouth to scream, actually scream, at the top of his lungs, because he was too tired for this, too tired for everything, when his door creaked open.
Yuji's head poked into the room.
"Hey, Megumi!" he said cheerfully, completely oblivious to the chaos he was walking into. "How was your mission? I heard it was pretty rough. You okay?"
Megumi froze. Gojo, on top of him, also froze.
"Uh," Megumi said, his voice strangled. "It was... fine."
"That's good! That's good." Yuji leaned against the doorframe, scratching the back of his neck. "Hey, so, Nobara and I were thinking about getting breakfast tomorrow. You want to come? There's this new place near the station that does really good pancakes."
"Sure," Megumi said. His voice was strained. Gojo was still on top of him. Gojo was still very much on top of him, and Yuji was standing right there, and why was Yuji not reacting to the six-foot-three man currently sprawled across Megumi's bed like he owned it?
"Cool, cool." Yuji nodded, still scratching his neck. "Oh, uh, one more thing, Fushiguro. Who were you talking to? I heard you talking to someone when I was walking down the hall. Sounded like you were having a whole conversation."
Megumi's blood ran cold.
He turned his head slowly, deliberately, toward the space beside him.
Gojo was gone.
The bed was empty. The room was empty. There was no one there. There had never been anyone there.
Megumi stared at the empty space where Gojo had been lying just seconds before. The blanket was smooth. The pillow was undisturbed. There was no indent in the mattress, no warmth lingering on the sheets, no evidence that anyone had ever been there at all.
Because no one had been there.
Because Gojo was dead.
Because Megumi had killed him.
Because Satoru Gojo had been gone for months, and Megumi had been hallucinating him, seeing him, hearing him, feeling him like a ghost that refused to leave, like a haunting that he couldn't escape, like his own broken mind refusing to accept the truth.
"Fushiguro?" Yuji's voice was concerned now, his brow furrowed. "You okay? You look kind of pale."
Megumi turned back to Yuji. His hand moved automatically, running through his damp hair, a gesture that was supposed to be casual but felt like a desperate attempt to ground himself in reality.
"No one," he said. His voice was steady. Hollow. Empty. "I wasn't talking to anyone."
Yuji didn't look convinced. He looked like he wanted to push, like he wanted to ask more questions, like he wanted to help. But he didn't. He just nodded slowly, his expression softening into something that looked almost like pity.
"Okay," Yuji said. "Sure. Well, take care, yeah? Get some sleep. You look like you need it."
Megumi hummed in response. It was the only sound he could manage.
Yuji hesitated for a moment longer, then pulled his head back and closed the door.
Megumi sat there in the silence for a long time. The room was dark. The room was empty. The room was cold.
He stood up. He walked to the door. He locked it.
Then he walked back to his bed and lay down, pulling the covers up to his chin, staring at the ceiling.
The ceiling tiles.
There were forty-seven of them.
He had counted them himself, months ago, on a night just like this one. A night when he had been too tired to sleep, too broken to cry, too empty to feel anything at all.
Gojo had counted them with him that night. Gojo had named them. Gojo had made him laugh, just a little, just enough to remind him that he was still alive.
But Gojo wasn't here anymore.
Gojo would never be here again.
Megumi closed his eyes.
And in the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw Gojo's face. Grinning. Teasing. Warm.
He saw it every night.
And every night, it hurt just as much as the first time.
He lay there, alone in the dark, and waited for morning.