A Glimmer of Blue
Gojo always survived—until he didn't.
Megumi is quiet, sitting on the steps, but Yuta can feel his stare. Yuta steps closer.
"Are you alright?" Yuta asks.
"Will you listen?" Megumi replies instead of answering, his eyes fixed on the ground beneath his feet. "I know I'm no good at talking, but..."
He pauses, as if gathering his thoughts, before continuing. "I know I was a difficult kid." He swallows hard, his voice thick. "Hell, Gojo was just a kid himself when he took me and Tsumiki in."
The words dangle in the air between them. It's clear these thoughts have been festering for a while, and now they're finally spilling out. Yuta can hear the desperation in Megumi's voice, a distress that makes his own throat tighten with unease. He knows what Megumi is asking—what he's searching for.
"Gojo cared," Yuta says, his tone earnest. "He cared so much about you and your sister."
"I blamed him for Tsumiki," Megumi confesses, voice terse. "That day, I was so furious. Not really at him, but he was there, an easy target. Yet he still held me and made sure I ate."
"Gojo understood. He knew that," Yuta replies, memories flooding back. He remembers Megumi in tears, the harsh flung around, and Gojo's hands gently wrapping around Megumi's wrists—calm and steady despite his own turmoil.
"But I also know you care just as much," Yuta replies. Megumi dips his head, black strands falling into his eyes. "You did, and you do," Yuta urges, his gaze lifting to the sky, watching the clouds float by—white against blue.
000
Ever since Gojo returned from the Night Parade battle on December 24, he has been different—struggling to maintain his usual, infuriatingly annoying self. But even Gojo can't keep up the perfect mask; whatever this is, it's bad.
It's bad, and Megumi can't stand it anymore—watching Gojo try to hold the jagged pieces of his heart together with his bleeding fingers.
It's late, somewhere around 1 a.m. Gojo has crashed in the living room of the Fushiguro apartment, splayed across the couch. That in itself isn't unusual; Gojo often drops by—to check on Megumi, especially after Tsumiki had fallen victim to the curse, to bring sweets, or to bug him about homework. But this time is different—Gojo is exhausted, his clothes rumpled, his blindfold nowhere to be seen.
Megumi lingers in the doorway, unsure what to do, which is ridiculous—it's his damn living room. He clears his throat and licks his dry lips. "Gojo."
Gojo flinches slightly and opens his eyes, as if only just now sensing Megumi's presence—which is absurd, considering Gojo could detect even the tiniest trace of cursed energy across the neighborhood.
A grin and a wave. "Heya, Megumi."
Megumi frowns. "What are you doing here? Did you forget you have an actual bed?"
"Nah," Gojo waves again, dismissively this time, and sits up, wincing like his body aches. "Just wasn't tired enough to sleep."
"It's 1 a.m.," Megumi deadpans. "And you look dead on your feet. Did you even eat?"
Gojo chuckles—a sad, hollow sound, lacking the usual annoying glee that accompanies his persona everywhere he goes. He plants his feet on the floor, his wrists hanging limply between his knees. He raises an eyebrow. "What's with all the questions, Megs?"
Silence follows, heavy and charged. Megumi doesn't know where it will go. Then: "Sounds like you almost care." Gojo's tone edges into something that's almost mocking.
"Of course I do." The words slip out sharply before Megumi can stop them. He can't—he can't keep watching this train wreck any longer.
"I'm fine."
Megumi lets out a breath that isn't quite a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. "Tell that to the bags under your eyes."
Gojo blinks at him, shoulders sagging under an invisible weight—a weight that, Megumi thinks, might be grief—a gaping hole in the shape of Getou Suguru. Megumi isn't stupid; he's known Gojo for almost a decade now and notices more than Gojo thinks he does.
He wants to call Gojo out for it, to tell him he's stupid and dumb. But he can't—Megumi's chest aches at the sight before him. After all, they are too similar, and he hates it.
Then Megumi is moving, his feet carrying him forward, and before he knows it, his fingers are curled around Gojo's shoulders. He hauls the man forward, pressing him against his chest, heart thundering against his ribs.
Gojo goes rigid beneath Megumi's hands, palms splayed across his back. "What are you doing?"
"I'm hugging you, you asshole."
"Oh."
Silence envelops the space between them, a void unoccupied by Infinity.
Then Gojo sags a little into the embrace as the tension slowly slips away, sniffling softly. Megumi closes his eyes and holds on, ignoring the faint tremble beneath his fingers that comes and goes.
It takes a while, but finally, Gojo untangles himself from the embrace, rubbing harshly at his cheeks, though his face is suspiciously dry. He avoids Megumi's gaze. "Sorry," he murmurs, his voice gravelly.
"Don't apologize," Megumi replies, sharper than he intended as he studies the man before him, trying to catch his eye but failing. He suppresses the urge to fidget, swallowing down his unease. "Just sit still and don't move. I'll be back." His knees protest as he gets up; a glass of water is the first thing he needs.
That night, Megumi makes pancakes, leaving Gojo on the couch with a warm blanket and a hot mug of his favorite tea. It's 2 a.m., but there's a haunted look in Gojo's eyes, and maybe Megumi isn't the best cook; still, even he can manage a decent stack of pancakes.
Megumi stares at the steam rising from the pan, the soft sizzle of pancake mix filling his ears, blinking back memories of white hospital walls and the sharp sting of despair.
Gojo would have done the same—has done so—coming to Megumi's aid, even when he protested, even when he lashed out in anger and hurt; Gojo was always there.
Megumi flips a pancake: golden brown and fluffy. It's the least he can do.
000
The walls of the hospital are too white, almost blinding to the eye, and the scent of antiseptics hangs heavy in the air—it almost makes Megumi's eyes water. It's the hospital air that makes his eyes burn, not whatever is trying to claw its way out of his chest—no way.
He doesn't know when the sliding door behind him opens; time seems to elude him, leaving him with only the pale face shrouded in ink-black hair to focus on.
Gojo comes to a halt next to him. "Megumi," he says, softly, as if that will do anything to help this situation—as if that will help Tsumiki wake up.
"You're late," Megumi replies, his voice dull, even though he knows it's not true. Gojo came as fast as he could. It's Megumi who is late—too late to do anything, too late to protect the one who depended on him the most, the one who was always there for him. Again.
"I know. I'm sorry." Gojo never apologizes—not like this, not so plainly. And for some inexplicable reason, it only makes Megumi's anger burn hotter.
"You should be," Megumi says, voicing the anger that screams inside his skull, even though he knows it's not true. It's his own fault, after all.
He turns to look up at Gojo through a blur of tears and fury. "You weren't there. The one time I actually needed you, you weren't there. And now you tell me there's nothing you can do? You, with all the fucking strength in the world?" A harsh laugh escapes him, the sound bursting forth and hurting as it does.
"Megumi…" Hurt flashes across Gojo's face before it's quickly masked by his perpetual facade. He reaches for Megumi's shoulder, but Megumi moves away.
"Stop it," he says, voice sharp. "Stop pretending you care. If you really cared, Tsumiki would be awake right now—telling me all about that art kit she's been saving for."
The words are cruel, and Megumi knows it. But so is the world, he thinks hazily. The words burn like acid on his tongue, jagged edges cutting his throat as he speaks. He wipes his mouth, almost expecting blood on his fingers when he pulls them away.
He bites down hard on his bottom lip, iron filling his mouth at last.
Then he stands up, chair screeching across the floor, the sound too loud in the quiet, and before he knows it, his hands have knotted themselves into Gojo's shirt. Tears burn as his lungs constrict with the need for air. "Why?" he grinds out. "Why are you the one fucking apologizing when I—" He stops abruptly when arms encircle him and pull him close. And in that moment, he breaks, sobbing uncontrollably because the person who is his whole world is currently gone from his grasp, lost in the depths of unnatural sleep.
"It's okay. It's not your fault, Megs," Gojo murmurs into his ear. Even as Megumi shakes his head wildly, rejecting the words, a garbled "sorry" slips out. Gojo's fingers carefully thread through his hair, so gentle and warm it almost hurts. "It's alright. I know."
"I'm sorry too."
000
Yuta sighs, letting the air slowly leave his lungs. The sky is clear high above him, and his heart aches with a pain that isn't his own—hurt he should never have known this intimately, and yet he does. It's a small price to pay, he supposes, far too small for the sin of taking on his sensei's body, becoming the monster to fight the one threatening their world.
Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, blue stares back at him, but when he blinks, it's gone—like a glitch, a fracture in reality that leaves him feeling off-center. Some nights, he wakes in a cold sweat, fingers clawing at his chest and throat, wrestling with the phantom sensations of blood, torn flesh, and shattered bones that are no longer there. It's a past long gone, after all. Sometimes his body knows things that Yuta doesn't—not really. Scents and sounds make his step falter, cravings that turn his stomach, foreign bursts of power making his fingers tingle with the image of Hollow Purple, and an echo of his sensei's name spoken by the one Gojo couldn't save, so sweet it almost hurts. The memories—his sensei's memories—are Yuta's now, too. They're a precious burden he carries with care, demanding respect and honor.
That's why he tries to help those around him through these memories—to ease their burdens and guilt a little. It's what Gojo-sensei lived by, after all—fighting for the ones close to him, lending them a bit of the strength that earned him the title of the strongest—being a weapon.
But even if the world saw Gojo Satoru as a tool—something to be used at will—Yuta knows the humanity behind that facade, the person beneath that infinite strength. It's what the world refused to see that Yuta sees so plainly, burned into his mind in ways that no one can understand—a knowledge wrapped around his beating heart and buried under his skin. Now, it's Yuta's turn to carry that burden forward; it's a small price to pay, after all, for wielding limbs that were not his own, for hearing a voice that rang in his ears too low, and for seeing colors he had never imagined through his sensei's eyes.
Yuta's soft footsteps carry him through the hallways and to his room, sunlight flitting through the windows and painting shadows on the walls.
His door slides shut behind him, and tiredness—more than just physical fatigue—pulls him to his bed. He lets himself flop onto the covers and closes aching his eyes.
A flicker of blue greets him, memories that feel foreign yet all too familiar dancing on his closed eyelids. And Yuta knows he will dream tonight once more—dreams tinged with recollections from a life that isn't his own.
Yuta breathes in deeply, holding his breath until his lungs start protesting, fingers tingling, before he finally lets the air rush out.
Even if Gojo Satoru is no longer in this world, he will never cease to be a part of it—not as long as Yuta remains.