Chapter Text
Contrary to popular belief - Satoru Gojo was, in fact, human.
There were many who would dispute this, claiming it impossible for such raw power to be contained in such a fragile vessel, but it remained true all the same. Gojo himself preferred to keep that reality tucked safely on the back burner. After all, being solely responsible for the global balance of power required a certain level of hubris.
It wasn’t often that the universe sought to remind him of his own mortality - it seemed a lost cause, a waste of cosmic energy. But on the rare occasion that it did, it never held back.
Now, drenched in sweat and clutching the toilet in the small hours of the morning, he could say he felt sufficiently humbled.
Oh daifuku, why have you betrayed me?
It had begun with dull twist behind his belly button, increasing in potency as the night dragged on. It'll be fine, he’d told himself. Things nearly always were. Admittedly he hadn't been expecting to be making a mad dash for the bathroom shortly after, all manner of obstacle in his path be damned.
That had been hours ago and things hadn’t improved much since. In fact, he was convinced that this was simply his new norm. That he was condemned to spend the rest of his days sprawled out on the linoleum.
It he'd had a say in his own cause of death, he'd have chosen something a bit more dignified.
It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in a position like this. He knew the risks of his indulgent dietary choices and was prepared to die along with them if it came to it. This affliction was of another nature. One that was proving thoroughly unresponsive to his RCT. Injury was one thing, but illness in a general sense had always presented itself as fleeting, negligible enough that he'd never bothered perfecting any significant techniques against it. That was what Shoko was for, after all.
Now he could only confess that he regretted his own flippancy. Wouldn’t she have loved to hear him admit that?
A moan rumbled low in his throat as he pressed his forehead into the seat, comforted by its coolness on his heated skin. While he wasn’t exactly an expert regarding the workings of his own anatomy, he expected there should have been some sense of alleviation by now. But no matter how much he writhed or paced or chugged putrid pink medication, with each passing hour he became more convinced that this was where he was going to die: curled in a pitiful ball beside the toilet.
Eventually, through sheer force of will, he managed to maneuver himself back into bed. From here, if he could just give his body a chance to recharge the good old-fashioned way, he was certain he could knock this thing out of his system in a few hours.
Except somehow - between his exodus from the bathroom and arrival here - the sun had risen.
Made sense with the way his luck was going.
He pressed his face miserably into the mattress, hiding from the golden tendrils of dawn that had begun streaming through the window. Luckily it was Sunday, which meant meant there were no classes. If the Jujutsu bureaucrats and the more malignant curses could manage to keep their ugly mugs shut for the day, he could spend it dead to the world and no one would be any the wiser. When he woke up tomorrow, he’d be back to his regular old picture-of-perfection self. He was sure of it.
Oh.
Except… It was Sunday.
That meant…
”Fuuuuuuuck.”
Being the fantastic and selfless teacher that he was, he’d promised his first-years to a morning sparring session to help prepare them for the rapidly approaching Kyoto Goodwill Event. It certainly wouldn't kill them if he canceled, so long as the Kyoto kids played by the rules. Unfortunately he didn’t have much faith in that, and it would be their last chance to sharpen their hand-to-hand before team battles began. Even Megumi, apathetic on his best days, seemed to be looking forward to it in his own way. As their sensei, it would be irresponsible to discourage his students in their pursuit of knowledge.
There may have also been a secret bet with Utahime involved. One that he certainly did not intend on losing.
A shower. That’s what people usually did to help themselves feel better, right? At least to get the layer of sweat and sick off his body.
The floorboards shifted beneath him as he stumbled his way back to the bathroom, using the wall for support far more than he’d care to admit. As the water came to temperature, he sat himself atop the closed toilet seat and rested his head in his hands. With a long exhale, he allowed his eyes to slide shut. If he could just make it through the morning, he’d be fine. Just a few measly hours and he could disappear for the rest of the day without arousing any suspicion. Besides, the pain was beginning to finally ebb away, or perhaps he had simply gotten used to it. Either way - he was the Strongest, he could handle it…
When he opened his eyes again, a nearly impenetrable cloud of steam had filled the bathroom.
Had he really fallen asleep that fast?
With a frustrated groan, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, splashes of color dancing across the his vision. It was a foreign feeling, to be so bogged down and betrayed by his own body. He hated it, hated how weak and fragile it made him feel. Neither were words that should ever be used to describe Satoru Gojo and yet here he was, bracing himself against the wall to enter the shower like a frail old man. He might as well have invested in an assistance bar for the elderly at this point. What the hell had been in that daifuku, anyway? Poison?
Nah, his Infinity would have sensed it.
Probably.
With a lethargic swipe at the fog in the mirror, he nearly shrieked at the image that stared back at him - profoundly pale with sunken eyes that rivaled that of an actual skeleton. The least he could spare his innocent students some mental scarring by hiding himself behind his blindfold, however sweaty and gross it would be back there. In an act of kindness to himself, he also settled on a more comfortable set of sweats in lieu of his usual school attire - moving slowly in fear of aggravating the delicate truce he seemed to have reached with his insides.
It would all be fine. Sure, he felt like a heaping bag of dog shit doused in gasoline and lit ablaze, but it would be fine.
Things nearly always were.
The fresh air seemed to be having a positive effect as he made his way toward the training room, though he did stop once to toss up a veil and gag briefly into a trash can. Normally when he found himself under the weather, his preferred recovery method consisted primarily of gratuitous amounts of whining - if he didn’t receive at least seven eye-rolls per hour, he wasn’t trying hard enough. Today, however, was different. Today he just needed to will this damned thing out of existence.
Even so, it was certainly an improvement from last night.
Even from across campus he could easily make out his students’ voices, primarily Yuuji and Nobara. Their endless bickering had never perturbed him before, in fact he found a great deal of entertainment in it. As he entered the training room however, the shrill teenage tenors seemed to drill directly into his skull, bouncing around like a tolling bell. If there existed a Teacher of the Millennia award, he strongly felt that he should be considered for it after this.
“And how are my fresh young minds today?” he greeted them with a wooden smile. “Ready to be molded?”
Three heads whipped around to face him and while it was early still, Kugisaki already had murder in her eyes.
“I’ll be ready once you tell Itadori to knock off his idiot comments!” she seethed. “You’d think coming back from the dead would have matured him a little, but nooooo.”
“You started it!”
“Only because I’m tired of being assaulted by your teenage boy B.O. Is it really so hard to wash your clothes?”
“Oh, I'm sorry I don't have a thousand different outfits to choose from every day."
"At least I'm not wearing the same pair of basketball shorts that I've had since I was ten." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Ugh, imagine the microbiome in those things. I bet you wake up to find mushrooms growing out of the pockets."
"It's called being frugal!"
"It's pronounced fungal!"
“Alright, alright,” their sensei intervened, though he couldn't deny his entertainment in the exchange. “Let’s just focus on your training, we have a lot of work to do. Like, a lot.”
The duo shared a petulant glare but seemed to forget their bitterness quickly, or at least managed to channel it into their sparring. As the lesson progressed, Gojo found himself profoundly grateful that he’d decided against cancelling. Measurable progress was already plain to see in just a few hours of coaching them on the finer points of their techniques.
Now, if he could spar with them himself. That would give them the boost they needed.
Gojo tilted his head in thought. All things considered, he could probably manage it. After all, his gut didn’t feel like so much of a live grenade anymore, general queasiness aside. It seemed plausible that he could take a more hands-on approach without fear of inadvertently spewing all over them…
“What’s with the face?” Fushiguro muttered, interrupting his thoughts. “What are you plotting?”
Gojo shrugged innocently, rising to his feet with a hefty exhale. “Well, I can honestly guys have made some really good progress today, but I think it's time we up the ante, don’t you think?"
Three pairs of fear-laden eyes shot up to him as he cracked his knuckles in a quick series of pops, grinning devilishly.
No way would be losing that bet.