Among the Fragments of a Memory
Gojo-sensei is quiet, Yuta thinks—subdued in a way that makes his chest tighten, an uncomfortable heaviness settling in the pit of his stomach.
Something happened.
Something significant enough to make his larger-than-life sensei look like he's desperately holding the pieces of his heart together. A smile stretched just a bit too far. Laughter a bit too loud.
Yuta swallows a bite of sweet bread. It goes down dry. He resists the urge to cough.
The cleanup after the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons has been messy and exhausting, with curses still lurking in the alleyways, their cursed energy stifling the air. They're all running on fumes. But Gojo-sensei seems beyond exhaustion. It's hard to spot, but Yuta knows where to look. The signs are there.
When he goes over to ask if he can help, sensei smiles and ruffles his hair, laughing at something Maki says. It's nice, it's comforting. It's everything he didn't have for so long.
It's fine, he tells himself. It's fine, sensei is strong.
It's days later, the sun having already sunk beneath the horizon, and somehow Yuta finds himself seated next to his sensei, a puff pastry clutched between his fingers, sticky and sweet.
"Sensei?"
"Hm?" Gojo turns slightly, his blindfold securely in place. "What is it, Yuta?"
Yuta breathes in the cold night air, hesitating. "Are you—okay?"
A few seconds of silence that seem way longer. Then: "Hah?"
"I mean, you look… tired." It's what he settles on. Sad seems too much to say—too revealing, somehow.
"I'm a-okay! Why wouldn't I be?" Gojo replies, a grin stretching across his face, but it feels flat—more a front than joy. He holds up his own pastry. "I've got my sweets, and we finally cleared out all the curses roaming around." He leans closer, limbs long and loose, a flash of white teeth breaking the darkness that's slowly descending upon them. "That calls for a little celebration, doesn't it?"
"Still," Yuta says, "maybe you could take some rest. I know you've been up all week helping with the cleanup."
Gojo's smile remains, but his head tilts slightly as if questioning Yuta's concern. "We all have, Yuta."
"Yeah, but…" Yuta trails off, the words dangling in the air between them. That's different, he thinks, but he can't voice it—he doesn't want to pry further into whatever it is that has his sensei looking this way. It feels like cracks spreading through glass; one break could send thousands of splinters flying.
Yuta supresses a shiver, takes in another breath of frigid air that burns his lungs.
A hand lands gently on Yuta's head. "I'm fine, Yuta," Gojo replies, his gaze drifting somewhere past the horizon. "I'm the strongest, remember? A little sleep deprivation is nothing to me—just a little RCT and voilà!" He waves his hands around in a grand, encompassing gesture. "You should worry about yourself. You've been dealing with a lot these past weeks."
"Hm," Yuta hums in response. The silence stretches out, the last light of day fading into the approaching night.
It's okay, Yuta tells himself. It's alright; sensei is strong.
000
Yuta doesn't understand why the others can't see it. When he mentions it to Maki, she just shrugs. "Gojo-sensei can be an idiot. He probably ate too many sweets and got tired. Wouldn't be the first time," she says, a smirk playing on her lips.
Yuta dips his head, a tendril of unease curling around his chest.
000
A monster. That's what Yuta was prepared to become—using his sensei's body to fight the threat looming over their world.
Everyone seemed so apathetic to it, even Gojo-sensei himself. It made Yuta angry, a liquid sadness filling his veins. Gojo Satoru was no tool, no weapon to be used at will. He was a person with hopes, dreams, and fears that flooded Yuta's overwhelmed mind the moment he opened his eyes, the cold steel of the surgical table at his fingertips. (Limbs too long, muscles too tight, the world blurring into an overwhelming mosaic of cursed energy—it was dizzying and wrong, wrong, wrong; bile rising sour in the back of his throat, but there was no time.)
Gojo Satoru had been the strongest, perhaps, but as a person, he was so much more than that. The casual way everyone seemed to sidestep that reality (because it was easier—pushing the burden of being the monster onto someone else)—it made Yuta furious.
So Yuta took it upon himself—the burden, the weight—becoming the monster to fight the monster, directing his sensei's limbs at his own will. It was the price to pay, the price for the future of this world.
After this was all over, Gojo Satoru—Gojo-sensei—would finally be able to rest. Yuta opened his mouth, his voice too deep, the world tilting on its axis: "Domain Expansion: Unlimited Void."
000
Gojo-sensei's memories linger. They itch at Yuta's mind, something he can't shake. Nestled under his skin, scratching at his thoughts, buried beneath his nails. The memories aren't just Gojo's anymore. After inhabiting his body, they're Yuta's too.
Yuta stares up at the sky—blue, dimmed by the gray of clouds. A mild breeze sends a shiver down his spine.
A smile—young, radiant. A girl with ink-black hair gleaming in the summer sun. If Yuta closes his eyes, he can almost hear her laughter, clear like the ringing of a bell.
Sand between his toes, warm and gritty. The moment is fleeting, like something you didn't realize you'd miss until it was gone. He can hear the laughter now. The ridiculousness of a sea cucumber. The sting of salt in the air.
An old sadness floods his veins—a smile, tinged with melancholy. A whispered confession in the shadows of an alley. Then, a flash—brief and blinding. Even now, as Yuta blinks, it leaves a sharp imprint, lingering in his vision, a remnant of something too bright to grasp. Pain, pain, pain, tightening around his heart like a vice, until he can't breathe. The pit of endless grief swallows him whole, and Yuta can't help the burning behind his eyes.
A young Megumi, ducking away from a head pat, grumbling, reaching for Tsumiki's hand. The sweetness of a crepe with way too much whipped cream. And Yuta smiles, swallowing away the despair from moments ago.
Yuta opens his eyes again, remembering he'd closed them in the first place. Blue—just plain blue of a sky high above. Once more, he realizes he needs to open them to see. And somehow, there's a strange sense of loss inside him at that notion.
His mind roams, memories filtering through. One particular memory tugs at him now, the sky vast and open above him.
Yuta remembers asking who had found his student card. Gojo-sensei had answered with a strange smile: "My one and only." Slowly, the pieces slotted into place, forming a horrifying conclusion.
Gojo-sensei had killed his best friend—the same man who unleashed countless demons across Kyoto and Shinjuku. The same person Yuta had fought so desperately against. And now, those same memories reside in Yuta's mind too. That man, Geto Suguru, once so warm and youthful, slowly spiraled into the cold clasp of depression and hate.
The spilling of blood from that ink-black-haired girl, Amanai Riko, marked a tale of despair, heartbreak, misunderstandings, and anger that spanned many years.
Gojo-sensei had looked so tired that day. And now, Yuta feels that exhaustion—understands it all too intimately as the aching void in his chest, bleeding into his bones, sticking behind his teeth. It's the same kind of loss he has tasted before—similar to the grief that flows through him now with every breath as he gazes at the gray of the tombstone in front of him. Yuta lets his fingers graze the blades of the grassy field he's sitting on, and takes another breath that doesn't feel so thin in his lungs.
Now, sitting silently in front of Gojo's grave, Yuta remembers his sensei's words once more: Love is the most twisted curse of all.
Yuta swallows thickly, throat clicking with the motion, hot tears on his cheeks. He will keep them safely between the palms of his hands—these memories, proof that his sensei lived. Proof of a life filled with happiness, sadness, and courage. A remembrance of unyielding strength and kindness.
When Yuta leaves, he leaves behind a puff pastry, sticky and sweet, sitting neatly on the cold stone.
Yuta will keep these dreams close to his chest, wrapped around his heart—a hope for the future.
I wrote this in response to Jujutsu Kaisen Chapter 271. Frankly, I'm upset with how Gojo's character was treated—it really hurts. After his death, there was no mourning or acknowledgment of his sacrifice. They used his body, and afterwards, we never learned what happened to it; for all we know, it could be sitting in a trash can. The last few chapters have felt rushed, with many plotlines forgotten and a lack of meaningful, authentic character interactions.
I'm disappointed. Despite this, even with its lackluster ending, I have truly enjoyed following this series and hold it close to my heart. I hope you enjoy this fic; they are my messy feelings I tried to put into writing for Gojo Satoru.