Fragments of the Past
"Can we not do this tonight?"
Megumi knows he's being a hypocrite. He's the best at deflecting worry, after all. But he can't handle this right now - not when Gojo looks like that. Everyone was fine, the fight was over. Gojo's cryptic messages had assured him of that. Yet here stands Gojo stiffly in the shadowed hallway, pale kitchen light ghosting over his features, casting sharp shadows. Cursed energy ripples across his skin, barely concealing emotions too big to contain - barely holding on.
Something is going to break, Megumi thinks, and he takes a cautious step forward, recalling all those months ago - despair, the sting of tears, hot anger - when careful hands pulled him into an embrace, even as he protested harshly. He remembers Tsumiki's face, peaceful in sleep, while his own heart shattered and poured out.
The careless "what" dies on Satoru's tongue as Megumi's words dangle between them, an unsaid "please" not unheard. Megumi's expression is tight, as if he sees right through Satoru's meticulous wall of denial. Infinity buzzes across his skin like a swarm of angry bees. His face feels stiff. The smile won't come tonight, won't pull his features into something reasonable and nice - something believable.
Satoru fidgets, balancing on the balls of his feet. There's an itch under his skin, seeping into his veins, filling his lungs, clinging to his teeth. He wants to rip it out, turn himself inside out, and scrub himself clean. He never can. His next breath is heavy and loud in the silence shrouding them.
"Alright." The word slips out, stilted, like a bleeding confession of shame and blame. It somehow hurts to give in.
"Are you the strongest because you're Satoru Gojo? Or are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest?"
And Satoru is choking.
Megumi inhales deeply, taking in the breath Satoru's lungs seem to fail to grasp. The tension seeps out of Megumi's stiff form as his reply pulls Satoru away from the imagined blood staining his fingers. "Sit down then and don't move. I'll make you tea."
And so, Satoru finds himself in the kitchen at 1 AM, accompanied by the gentle sound of boiling water, the too-loud tick of the clock, and the voices in his brain screaming at him. Images he wants to forget loop themselves in a sickening loop.
He tugs at the bandages, and fishes out his sunglasses - the former too stifling against his skin.
Megumi sits down, pushes a mug in Satoru's direction, and sighs. He closes his fingers around his own mug. Satoru keeps his hands on his lap, out of sight. The tremble there doesn't want to cease yet.
Megumi clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation. They don't do this often - talking about feelings and shit. But the memory of Gojo standing in the half-lit hallway, as though haunting it, sends shivers down his spine. "You probably don't want to, but if you need to talk, I'm here." He shifts awkwardly. "Or if you just want to sit in silence, that's okay too."
Satoru is still - unsettlingly so. He's always moving, always pulling attention to himself, filling every room he enters. Megumi waits, fingers tingling from the heat of his mug.
Finally, Satoru moves, wrapping his hands around the tea mug. "I can't talk about it," he says, voice strained. "Maybe later - but now-" He breaks off, swallowing harshly against the thing clawing at him since he laid eyes on Suguru. Satoru's gaze drifts over to Megumi, trying to shape his expression into something reassuring. "It's nothing you should worry about, anyway."
His skin still itches, raw from the scalding water and too-sweet-scented soap, the nondescript small bathroom's harsh light casting his reflection into a sickly, pallid hue. Satoru wants to throw up, the nausea twisting his insides, but he forces himself to focus on the boy sitting across from him.
Megumi's expression shifts, his eyes narrowing slightly as if considering whether to push further. Then he pauses, the tension lingering before he sighs, his shoulders relaxing. "Okay," he says. "Alright." Even if unconvinced, he doesn't argue. And Satoru is immensely grateful for that.
They continue to sit in silence. Megumi drinks his tea while Satoru lets his grow cold. Eventually, Megumi gently ushers him to bed, his palm warm against the small of Satoru's back. Satoru allows it, too drained to resist, as memories of a despairing smile and the scent of blood follow him into his room and the depths of restless sleep.
000
Satoru can barely stand being in his own skin. He's turned the water up to near boiling, but he feels nothing as he drags his nails across his palms. He scrubs and scrubs, yet the red stains refuse to vanish, the water tainted an ugly pink. The soap's scent is overpowering, too sweet, too fucking gentle. Satoru chokes, slamming his hands down in a flare of raw anger, the bile rising at the back of his throat. It burns, so he can pretend the tears pulsating hotly at the back of his eyes are from the sour taste on his tongue, and not because of-
"At least curse me a little at the very end."
The tears finally overflow, trailing down and dripping off his chin onto the dirty tiles. He bends under their weight, his forehead coming to rest against the sink as he breathes in the stale air through clenched teeth.
His best friend. His one and only. And now, just a memory.
Since the manga is approaching its end, I've been drowning in JJK feels lately. Here's my first fic for this fandom, filled with angst, of course.