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The digital clock on the bedside table read 2:14 AM.
Satoru Gojo lay flat on his back, staring up at the shadowy expanse of his ceiling. He wasn't wearing his blindfold, nor his usual black-rimmed glasses. Without the fabric obscuring his vision, his ice-blue eyes glowed faintly in the pitch-black room, catching the pale, ghostly sliver of moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. He didn't need Infinity up right now. The room was quiet. Suffocatingly, agonizingly quiet.
A soft rustle of fabric came from the armchair in the corner of the room.
Satoru didn't turn his head right away. He just let out a loud, theatrical sigh, dramatic enough to rattle the floorboards. "You know, Captain Strict, curfew was hours ago. What are you doing lurking in my room in the middle of the night? Don't tell me you missed me *that* much."
From the shadows of the armchair, Megumi sat stiffly, his dark hair messy, his arms crossed over his chest. His voice came out flat, dry, and entirely unimpressed.
"Why aren't you asleep?" Megumi countered softly.
Satoru let out a bright, boisterous laugh, throwing an arm over his forehead as if he'd just been hit with the funniest joke in the world. "Oho? Look who's feeling cocky tonight! Answering a question with a question? That's fifty laps around the track tomorrow morning, kiddo. Don't think I'll go easy on you just because it's dark outside."
Megumi didn't move. He just stared at Satoru, his dark eyes shadowed, his posture static. "You're dodging."
"I am not dodging!" Satoru squawked, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed and sitting up, though he kept his back resting against the headboard. "I'm a growing boy, Megumi. I need my rest so I can stay six-foot-three and infinitely gorgeous. What's your excuse? If you don't sleep, you're going to stay short forever. Look at Yuji, he's going to pass you by next spring if you keep pulling all-nighters."
"I don't care about my height," Megumi replied smoothly, his tone as dry as bone. "And Yuji isn't going to pass me."
"Oh, the confidence!" Satoru cackled, clapping his hands together. The sound echoed off the bare walls of the private quarters. "I love it! That's the Zen'in pride talking right there. Though if Maki hears you say that, she'll probably throw you through a wall again. Speaking of Maki, did you see her face during sparring yesterday? She almost took Nobara's ear off with that wooden sword! I had to step in and save the day, as usual. Where would you guys be without me, huh? You'd all be hopeless!"
"You didn't save anyone," Megumi said quietly, his voice dropping into that familiar, exasperated cadence. "You just knocked over the water cooler and made Yuuji clean it up."
"Details, details!" Satoru waved a dismissive, breezy hand in the air, leaning his chin on his palm.
For the next forty-five minutes, Satoru kept talking.
He talked about everything and nothing. He launched into a sprawling, nonsensical monologue about a new crepe shop opening near Harajuku, rambling on about extra whipped cream and strawberry toppings and how the owner had given him a free sample because he was, quote, "too beautiful to charge."
Megumi's response was a flat, "You're going to get diabetes."
"I'm the strongest sorcerer alive. Diabetes doesn't stand a chance against me."
"That's not how diabetes works."
"It's how my diabetes works."
"You don't have diabetes."
"Not yet. But when I do, I'll defeat it. With style."
He laughed at his own jokes, loud and clear, the bright, obnoxious sound filling every corner of the dim room. He gossiped about the higher-ups, mocking their ancient, dusty faces, doing impressions of each elder that were so absurdly accurate that even Megumi's lips twitched, just once, before he forced them back into a flat line.
"And then Elder Watanabe says to me," Satoru continued, pitching his voice into a croaky, pompous drawl, "'Gojo-san, your methods are unorthodox and your attitude is unbecoming of a sorcerer of your rank.' And I said, 'Elder Watanabe, your face is unbecoming of a human being.'"
"That was rude," Megumi said.
"It was accurate."
"It was still rude."
"He deserved it."
"He's a hundred years old."
"Then he should have used those hundred years to learn how to be less annoying."
Megumi didn't respond.
Satoru grinned, taking that as a victory.
He gave a theatrical, ten-minute play-by-play breakdown of a minor curse sweep he'd handled three days ago, complete with sound effects and dramatic reenactments that involved him jumping off the bed and miming the entire battle. He described the curse as a "big ugly blob with too many teeth" and himself as "magnificent, flawless, devastatingly handsome."
"You're describing yourself like you're a painting," Megumi muttered.
"I'm describing myself accurately."
"You're describing yourself like an idiot."
"That too."
It was their rhythm. The comfortable, familiar banter they had shared for years. Satoru performed, and Megumi anchored him. Satoru laughed, and Megumi rolled his eyes.
"And then Nobara literally kicked the trash can into the river!" Satoru wheezed, clutching his stomach as he let out another burst of loud, booming laughter that filled the silence. "Can you believe that? Right into the river! I had to use Blue just to fish the evidence back out before the auxiliary managers had a collective heart attack!"
Satoru grinned, his chest heaving as the laughter slowly tapered off. He turned his head toward the armchair, his bright, bare blue eyes searching the dark to catch the reluctant, tiny smirk he knew Megumi always tried to hide when Satoru was being absurd.
"Right, Megumi?" Satoru smiled, his voice softening. "You remember how mad Ichiji got?"
At some point, Satoru had migrated from the bed to the floor, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room with his elbows resting on his knees. He was animated, gesturing wildly, his hands moving through the air like he was conducting an orchestra only he could see.
Satoru's voice started to slow.
Not much. Just a fraction. A tiny, barely noticeable slip in the relentless tempo of his chatter. He was still talking, still laughing, still performing, but there was something different now. Something quieter.
"I talked to Shoko today," he said. "She said I should take a break. Said I've been working too hard. Said I look tired."
"You do look tired."
"I always look tired."
"No. You look really tired."
"Rude."
At some point
Satoru's hands started to shake.
He didn't notice at first. He was still talking, still rambling, still filling the silence with his endless, relentless chatter. But his fingers were trembling, his palms were sweating, and his breath was coming in short, shallow gasps.
"You know what I realized today?" he asked.
"What?"
"I realized that I've been happy. For the first time in a long time. I've been actually, genuinely happy."
"That's good."
"It is. It's really good. I didn't think I would be. After... after everything. I didn't think I deserved it."
"You do."
"Do I?"
"Yes."
Satoru smiled. It was a strange smile. A little crooked. A little sad.
"I don't know about that. But I'm trying. I'm trying to be better. To be the kind of person who deserves this. Deserves you."
"You don't have to try."
"I do. I always have to try. You don't understand what it's like, being me. Being the strongest. Being... this."
"I understand."
"You don't. But that's okay. I don't want you to."
Megumi didn't answer. He sat in the armchair, his dark eyes fixed on Satoru, his face completely expressionless.
Satoru's smile faltered, dropping a fraction of an inch.
He blinked, leaning forward slightly. For the first time all night, Satoru really, truly looked at him..
And the composure shattered.
It didn't crack slowly. It crumbled into complete ash. The bright, bulletproof mask he had worn for twenty-eight years dissolved in a single, devastating second. The blinding blue of his eyes dimmed, losing every trace of light, as his features contorted into a look of raw, unspeakable horror.
A choked, strangled gasp tore out of Satoru's throat.
Then came the tears.
They didn't just spill over. They poured. Huge, heavy tears streamed down his face, tracking hot lines down his cheeks and dripping off his jaw, soaking his collar. Satoru squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body shuddering violently as he doubled over, burying his face in his hands.
He began to cry. Not a quiet, dignified weep, but an ugly, desperate, agonizing sob that stripped away his godhood and left behind only a broken, bleeding man. He sobbed until his chest heaved for oxygen, the sounds tearing out of his lungs like jagged shards of glass.
His hands came up to his face, pressing against his eyes, trying to stop the flood. But the tears kept coming. They slipped through his fingers, dripped down his wrists, soaked into the sleeves of his shirt. He rubbed his palms against his cheeks, desperate, frantic, trying to wipe them away, but they wouldn't stop.
"No," he choked out, his voice breaking. "No, no, no."
He shook his head, his whole body trembling, his shoulders heaving with the force of his sobs.
"Don't cry," Megumi whispered. His voice was soft, unnervingly gentle, echoing through the cold room like a breeze through autumn leaves. "It's alright now."
"No..." Satoru wept, his voice a ruined, shattered rasp as he clutched at his own hair, rocking back and forth. "No, no, no... it's not. It's not alright!"
He raised his head, his face wet, his bloodshot blue eyes staring wildly at the dark armchair, seeing straight through the shadow.
"I don't have the right..." Satoru choked out, his throat tightening so hard he could barely force the words out. "I don't have the right to live! I don't have the right to smile, or laugh, or sit here talking about crepes when you... when you....."
Satoru pressed a trembling, ice-cold hand over his mouth, trying and failing to stifle another ragged sob that shook his broad shoulders.
"I don't have the right to be happy," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't have the right to feel anything. Not when you're gone. Not when I killed you."
He doubled over again, his forehead pressing against his knees, his whole body wracking with sobs. His hands clawed at his own arms, his own chest, like he was trying to tear something out of himself, like he was trying to punish himself for still being alive.
He lifted his head, his eyes red and swollen, his face streaked with tears and snot and grief. He looked at the armchair, at the empty space where Megumi should have been, and his face crumpled all over again.
"You were supposed to be safe," he whispered. "You were supposed to be okay. I promised you. I promised you I would protect you. I promised you I would never let anything hurt you."
His voice cracked.
"And then I killed you."
Megumi Fushiguro wasn't sitting in the armchair. The chair was empty. The room was empty.
Megumi Fushiguro was dead.
He had died in the ruins of Shinjuku. Satoru had fought with everything he had. He had torn through the sky, he had burned his own brain out, he had finally killed Sukuna and dragged the King of Curses into the dirt.
But Sukuna hadn't died alone.
In killing the curse, Satoru had killed the boy. He couldn't separate them. He couldn't save him. The hand that had raised Megumi, the hand that had bought him hot chocolate and taught him how to weave shadows, was the same hand that had ended his life. He had killed his own son.
"I killed you," he sobbed into the dark, empty room. "I killed you, I killed you, I killed you."
He repeated the words over and over, a broken mantra, a confession, a punishment. His voice cracked and splintered and dissolved into something raw and animal and utterly destroyed.
"I couldn't save you," he wept, his voice breaking into a hollow, pathetic wail that no one was left to hear. "I couldn't save you... Megumi, I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry... I would do ANYTHING to switch our places, Megumi. Please come back...i am begging you... don't... don't leave me ..ple...please come back. I miss you so much....."
"I killed you," Satoru sobbed into the dark, empty room, his voice breaking into a hollow, pathetic wail that no one was left to hear. "I couldn't save you... Megumi, I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry..."
There was no dry response. No rolling of the eyes. No quiet exasperation.
There was only Satoru Gojo, sitting alone in the dark at 3:00 AM, crying into the void of a room that would never be full again.