Work Text:
“You look awful.”
“Aww, say more nice things,” Gojo crooned. When Kento did nothing but continue to stand there, brows furrowed, grumpy as ever, he upped the ante by batting his eyelashes and cupping his cheeks in his hands.
“When was the last time you ate?” Kento asked, utterly unphased. Gojo pouted and let his arms flop back onto the couch.
“Hmmm,” he hummed, hanging his head backwards over the arm rest. It took a minute to fully process the question. His brain felt like it was full of packing peanuts. “Oh!” Gojo snapped as memory struck him. He shoved his hand in one of his pockets, rifling around in his gakuran until, finally, his fingers closed around crumpled plastic. He withdrew the wrapper and brandished it triumphantly in the air under Kento’s nose. “Kikifuku mochi!” he announced with all the reverence those delicious, delicious seeets deserved. “Today. Between missions. It’s so goo-ooood, Nanamin, you have to try it!”
His partner was less than impressed.
“Real food,” Kento’s pressed, that divot between his brows digging itself deeper. Gojo wilted, opened his mouth— “A full meal. Something with substance, not sweets you gobbled down in five minutes between missions.”
See, this was the thing about dating Nanami Kento: when he was set on something, there was absolutely no getting around him. Whether his goal was exorcising a spirit, mastering a challenging recipe, or getting an honest answer from Gojo, the guy was laser-focused. Usually Gojo found Kento’s stubborn determination and eye for detail very, very sexy—particularly because of the way his concentrated face accentuated the determined cut of his jaw and the definition of his brows—but when it was being directed at him he usually found himself regretting whatever choices lead up to that point.
Not because Kento was invasive or pushy at all with his questioning—that was Gojo’s domain—not at all. It was just that it made it really hard to default to his tried and true methods of deflection when Kento noticed something was wrong. Like right now.
“…Few days ago,” Gojo relented. He avoided Kento’s eyes, not wanting to see that frown deepen in concern. Not pity, never pity. He knew that, but it didn’t make it feel any less like a mark of his weakness. His failure. “I have RCT. It’s fine, I don’t have any missions until tomorrow morning.”
“It’s almost ten o’clock,” Kento said, and Gojo’s chest twisted at the note of genuine upset audible in his voice. “You haven’t had dinner yet?”
“Tired,” Gojo sighed, pressing the back of his hand to his eyes over his blindfold. He didn’t normally wear it at home, but five days of back-to-back missions left his eyes feeling worse than usual, sensitive and overstimulated. His head was pounding too much for his sunglasses to suffice. Honestly, even the blindfold wasn’t doing much at this point. He’d just been debating whether he wanted to go grab an ice pack or stay on the couch to wallow in misery when Kento knocked. Gojo had forgotten he even invited him over for the night.
“When’s the last time you had a full night’s sleep?” Kento asked, and his voice sounded softer now, though it could have just been the pull of sleep fuzzing the edges of Gojo’s brain. It took him even longer this time to think back, and by the time he did he felt the couch sinking next to him as Kento sat down.
“Before all this shit,” Gojo grumbled, and even the sound of his own voice stabbed into his skull. He dug his thumb and forefingers into his temples in an attempt to relieve the sharp ache, but warm, callused hands knocked the bruising pressure free to instead rub gentle circles into his hairline. Fuck, that felt nice. Gojo almost felt like he could purr as he sank into the couch cushions and let Kento soothe the looming migraine drilling its way through his brain. “Napped a bit... Tuesday? Wednesday? Day or two ago. Nothing else. No time.”
His voice trailed off into a mumble. Above him, he heard Kento sigh through his nose, a quick, frustrated puff of air, and a lamb of guilt ran him through.
“You need to rest,” Kento murmured, still massaging Gojo’s temples in that way that made him feel like melting into a puddle at the younger man’s feet. “They shouldn’t be putting you on so many missions. You’re human, too.”
“Am I?” Gojo mused, and he was mostly joking, but the hands at his temples stilled anyway. When he opened his eyes, Kento was looking at him with visible pain in his eyes, concern tugging down at the corners of his mouth. Just as Gojo was opening his mouth to tag on a reassurance, he spoke.
“Yes,” Kento said gently, so gently it made Gojo’s eyes sting sharply. He stared up at his partner, mouth open, feeling his stomach churn in that unfamiliar, almost warm way it did whenever Kento got so genuine like this. It was weird, having someone see straight through Gojo’s bullshit all the time. It was weird having someone care this much even when he was just making a joke. Kento could tell when Gojo was being just a bit too honest, he always could. Being seen like this was still new. It teetered on the verge of being too much, but every time it happened a little bit more of the carefully constructed layer of Infinity Gojo had built around his soul ebbed away. Kento made him feel naked, vulnerable. He made him feel human.
Gojo still wasn’t sure he liked feeling human. Humans were so weak. They bruised and they bled and they died, and Gojo had experienced enough death in his life. But humans also got to love. They got to experience being close to someone. They got to give care and receive it in return, they got to see and be seen in a way even the Six Eyes weren’t capable of doing, and God was Gojo tired of being alone.
Was being close to someone worth letting oneself be vulnerable enough to get hurt? Historically, Gojo doubted it. But that night he let Kento make them dinner even though he’d just got back from drinking with Shoko, and bathe him even though he was fully capable, and text Yaga to let him know he’d be joining Gojo on tomorrow’s mission even though it was one Gojo should be able to do himself. When Kento asked him to come to bed he came, and even after nearly a week of being a weapon for fighting and killing and exorcising again, and again, and again, Gojo found it in himself to soften his edges enough to try and be human.