Chapter Text
╔════════ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ════════╗
Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.
Richard Siken
╚════════ ˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ════════╝
Broken mating bonds are an agonizing experience. Apparently.
Satoru spent a lot of nights in bed reading about it after he presented, whenever he felt especially cold; because unfortunately two teenagers in their honeymoon phase couldn’t spend every night in each other's beds while still under their parents roofs. Suguru only had so much leeway with coming home after days away, and Satoru found himself alone in that big empty house far more often than he’d like to. At the time, it seemed easier to focus on compared to some of the other stuff. In the early hours of the morning, he’d lay with his phone set as low as the brightness could go. It was always still too bright for his eyes. They felt so heavy, but wouldn’t let themselves close for more than a couple hours at a time whenever that familiar warmth was missing from his side. Even unconscious, it was like every atom of his being sought out Suguru. It always had, even before they officially got together. Nights curled in each other's beds without even bothering to lay down a futon, shoulder bumps reciprocated almost thoughtlessly, movie nights sharing the same blanket.
So on those rare but still-too-common nights alone, he laid awake and read. It was easier to breathe when he had something tangible to focus his anxiety on, instead of letting his thoughts whip around the inside of his skull like debris in a hurricane. And the concept of bonding in and of itself was a perfect locus of control. He feels so much, so intensely, all the time. The thought of someone else having such direct access to his emotions, basically his thoughts… To this day it makes him cringe a little.
Okay, maybe he has some commitment issues. Sue him.
But he’s fine. Commitment is overrated anyways. Obviously the universe had it out for him specifically when it created this whole stupid secondary-sex system, where the ultimate declaration of care and adoration requires him to crack open his own ribcage and offer his beating heart on a platter. To say explicitly: Here. This is yours. Destroy this, destroy me, if you’d like to. You’re the only one who can. And then just have to… sit back and wait? See if they decided to show him mercy or not?
Right, right, sure. Sounds great.
Satoru kept up the habit over the years, to the point where he can practically recite the information from memory. Maybe because he likes to torture himself.
According to personal accounts, the after-effects are primarily psychological.
The creation of the bond itself is an unusual feeling, so is having a pseudo-psychic emotional link to your partner. But once it clicks, it’s like it’s always been a piece of you. The integration of a bond into your life becomes as natural as breathing.
Satoru never quite believed that part.
The process of breaking a bond is long and painful. Obviously there's separation sickness, basically an inevitability thanks to the nature of the process itself. Satoru doesn’t quite know if he ever got to the diagnostic criteria for that one, but according to Shoko he was ‘way too close for comfort’. If those two weeks he spent in bed writhing in pain with cramps and a fever unrelated to his heat cycle was ‘too close for comfort’, he doesn’t have any interest in experiencing the real thing. Apparently it’s even worse than newly mated pairs, when the first instances of separation after bonding take the highest physical toll on the body. There are some theories about cognition’s effects, about the act of intentional separation being enough to send the body into a tailspin because it knows exactly what it’s doing and instincts want to avoid the stress. Satoru doesn’t care to come to his own conclusions. That’s too much thinking about it.
Eventually, the bond begins to degrade. The speed is case by case; it depends on the continued proximity of the pair and can become more difficult if there’s any emotional attachments lingering. Then one day it’s just… gone. A piece of you, arguably, something your brain had to adjust to and make room for. Now an empty space. Like chopping off a finger.
Not enough to kill you. But enough to notice every time you have to reach for something.
Case Study participants described the feeling like a hollowness in the essence of your being. Your soul, even. A bone-deep ache that doesn’t go away, sometimes for years. Three elderly subjects were still experiencing symptoms from their youth, the longest being a seventy-two year period between the bond breaking and the recorded testimony. One of the participants killed themselves a third of the way through the study.
How hilarious, for Gojo Satoru to be so familiar with this feeling when he and Suguru never bonded to begin with.
Maybe it didn’t even make a difference anyway. Maybe he was so fundamentally screwed up that his body managed to placebo itself into the emotional bullshit of bond-breaking, all because he was so terrified of the real thing. A punchline steeped in dramatic irony, served to him on a silver platter by the universe itself. You don’t want to play along? Okay, it said, have this instead.
After all, what sort of omega is the one putting off on bonding? The one saying they need to wait? The one who doesn’t even try to sink his canines into his boyfriend’s scent glands, not even when he’s in heat, because his own hesitations are strong enough to break through the fog of instinct? The one who insists they spend any cycles that happen to line up apart, because he’s scared to come out of the fog more vulnerable than he went in?
One who’s fucked up on a biological level, probably. After all, omegas are supposed to be the clingy ones. The needy ones.
Clingy and needy certainly describe Gojo Satoru pretty well. But so do emotionally constipated and terrified of commitment. He used to think he had the best of both worlds with Suguru. Someone who simply understood his fears, his insecurities, and loved him through them. In spite of them.
So much for that. Maybe it just didn’t exist. Maybe that sort of thing is the shit concocted by screenwriters and authors to lure in viewership, and the real world is never that forgiving of our flaws. Yeah, that sounds more accurate.
His alarm goes off again, forcing him into consciousness. He feels colder than usual. Maybe falling back into his old doomscrolling habits really wasn’t the best way to goad himself into sleeping, no matter how comfortable the familiar ache was. Satoru lets out an annoyed groan, snoozes it a second time, and bundles himself into the warmth of his duvet. He curls into his ungodly amount of pillows and lets out a chirp, the sound muffled by soft fabric.
He gets halfway back to sleep when someone is pounding on his bedroom door. He lets out an even louder groan this time, dramatic and childish. He hears a scoff from the other side of the door.
“Get up, or we’re gonna be late! Unless you want me behind the wheel of your car so Tsumiki and I can—“
Gojo throws open his bedroom door, face twisted into a sleepy frown as he glares down at Megumi half-heartedly. His pajamas are rumpled and his hair is messy and cinnamoroll is waving happily from the front of his t-shirt, but he still tries to give off the air of a responsible authority figure. The twelve-year-old is unmoved. The almost imperceptibly light scent of salt and wet sand tickles Satoru’s nostrils, carrying a hint of smug amusement at his guardian’s grumpy and sleep-disheveled state. He only smells it because he spent so much time when he first took them in desperately trying to find the emotional cues in Megumi’s faint, unpresented scent; the ones that he could never seem to decipher from his face. He’s gotten better at reading the grumpy tween’s micro expressions over the past six years, but he still can’t help but pick up on the changes in his scent, no matter how small. Makes him feel like some kind of helicopter parent, though something soothes him about knowing that he’ll notice if either one of them seems to be about to present. There had been no one around him those days before he presented who recognized the symptoms of preheat enough to warn him, not with his scent patch constantly masking the slow change. Maybe if he’d been a bit more prepared back then, he could’ve saved himself a lot of trouble.
“I’m awake.”
“I’m hungry.” Megumi retorts, “Get up and make breakfast.”
“Good morning to you too, Megumi.” He says pointedly. Megumi just turns around and starts walking down the hallway, “A please would be nice!” Gojo calls after him, watching in fond exasperation as he jogs down the stairs and back towards the kitchen. Satoru does not get a please. He does hear Tsumiki scold Megumi from the kitchen, though.
“I told you I’d go wake him up! You’re too mean when you do it.” Tsumiki hisses in a stage-whisper, not quiet enough to go entirely unheard.
“He wakes up faster when I do it. You’re too nice.” He hears Megumi retort, making no attempt to whisper. Tsumiki shushes him loudly.
Satoru snorts, shaking his head and leaving the twins to bicker. He squints as he adjusts to the morning sun, leaving the light off in his ensuite as he lazily brushes his teeth to rid his mouth of the taste of sleep. Not that he got much last night.
Oh well. He’s never been a great sleeper. Nowadays it just means he has more time at night to get things done, more time to himself after the kids “go to bed”. AKA while Miki falls asleep reading and Megs stays up for another four hours talking to Yuji.
That kid is lucky is sister sleeps like a rock, or Satoru may have been forced to burst his bubble. The walls of their little house have great soundproofing, but if Satoru can hear him from the hallway he has no doubt the sound carries through the wall between their rooms. It would suck to have to ruin Megumi’s fun and reveal that he’s not nearly as quiet with his midnight gaming as he thinks he is.
A few splashes of cool water gets the last of the sleep out of his system and his eyes. He runs his fingers through his hair to rid it of frizz and heads for the stairs.
“Alright, executive decision! We’re having pancakes.” He claps his hands together as he hits the bottom step. Megumi is sitting at the table with his head buried in his phone. He barely glances up at Satoru’s declaration. Tsumiki is sitting cross-legged on the couch with a cup of tea. The dogs are both curled up by Megumi’s feet, snoring away. From the slobber residue on their bowls and the clattering he heard while he was brushing his teeth, Satoru safely assumes Tsumiki fed them already.
“Pancakes sound great!” Tsumiki chimes in as she flicks through channels, “I put the coffee pot on a minute ago, it should be done—“
ding.
“Right now, apparently!” Satoru finishes for her, smiling, “Thank you, my lovely Miki, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Or Megs.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Megumi grumbles, letting out a noise of protest as Satoru suddenly wraps an arm around his shoulders and squeezes him in a half-hug, “Get off! Brush your teeth, your breath stinks.”
“Now you’re just being mean, Gumi!” Satoru whines dramatically, resting his cheek on the tween’s head as the grumpy boy half-heartedly tries to bat off the affection, “You’re saying that because you can smell the mint on my breath, and that hurts me.”
“Go make breakfast!”
Satoru finally lets himself be shoved off with a dramatic sigh, headed for the cupboards.
“The disrespect of the youth these days!” He tuts, shaking his head. He hears Tsumiki muffle a snicker, and swears she turns down the TV volume a little.
“Oh my god.” Megumi mutters, and Satoru hears what must be the dull thud of his head dropping onto the dining table while he pours himself a cup of coffee. Well, 1/4 cup of coffee with a fuck ton of creamer and six sugar cubes.
“Absolutely no respect for their elders!” Satoru continues his gentle harassment, “Who taught you to be so rude to single teenage fathers, hm?” He bemoans, stirring his drink.
“You’re not a teenager?” Megumi responds incredulously.
“I was, once! But when presented with the chance, I threw my youth away because you two—“
“You were twenty-two when we met you!” Megumi’s voice cracks a little. Tsumiki’s muffled laughter gets louder. Satoru is grinning as he digs through the cupboards, keeping his back turned to Megumi so he can’t see the amusement on his face.
“Practically a teenaged mother!” Satoru retorts.
“I think I would’ve respected you even less if you were a teenager… though I don’t actually know if that’s possible.” Megumi grumbles, earning an offended gasp from the not-teenager in question.
“Wait, so are you a mother or a father?” Tsumiki butts in, reaching for her cup.
“I’m whatever is funniest and/or most fitting in a given moment.” Satoru declares as he pulls out the mixing bowl, taking a small sip of his coffee and humming a bit at the taste. It’s not quite hot enough to burn his tongue, but it still makes his nose scrunch.
“Yeah that’s about the answer I should have expected.” Tsumiki muses, sipping her tea. Gojo just grins around the rim of his mug, shooting her an exaggerated wink.
Breakfast is as uneventful as breakfasts in their home ever are. He makes two tiny pancakes for the dogs and throws them on opposite ends of the living room, and settles himself at the foot of the table between Megumi and Tsumiki.
“Thank you for the food!” Tsumiki actually says it, Megumi half-mumbles it, and they fight over the first pancake. Megumi lets Tsumiki have it when she almost stabs his hand with a fork.
“You should stop giving her western utensils.” Megumi’s comments, grabbing two pancakes for himself when his sister has finally left the stack alone. Gojo loads up his plate with a grin while Tsumiki sticks her tongue out at her brother.
“Violence builds character!” He responds cheerily, loading his pancakes with fruit, powdered sugar, and whipped cream. Megumi is visibly offput by his father-figure’s choice of dessert-for-breakfast, while said father-figure is unmoved. He’s too distracted by the strawberries that keep falling off his plate.
Satoru finishes his food first, clearing the counter and shoving the last of the dirty utensils into the dishwasher.
Clean as you go, ‘toru, it’s less of a task at the end when you do. A familiar voice teases him in his imagination. A familiar smile, soft eyes, twinkling with affection—
He locks that memory somewhere deep in his brain. Not today.
Yeah, that late night reading was not a habit he could afford to really fall back into anytime soon. It seems every thought he’s so carefully locked away in the hidden corners of his mind is taking the chance to slither to the surface, and it’s got him on edge already. The day hasn’t even started yet for fucks sake!
“Okay! We’re headed out in half an hour!” He claps his hands together, downs the last of his coffee in the hopes that the caffeine will right his head a little, and walks towards the stairs, “Make sure you take the dogs out before we go!”
Megumi and Tsumiki call their affirmations after him. They’ve moved to the living room in the time it took Gojo to do the dishes, curled up on the couch. They’re mostly ready to go anyways; Tsumiki is already in her new uniform, freshly ironed from the night before. Megumi’s is still sitting folded on his bed when Gojo glances in his room on his way past. He grins at the familiar suit jacket and striped tie.
Call him sappy, call him paternal, whatever. As much as he doesn’t love the reminder of how fast time is passing, Satoru is excited for the kids to be in junior high. If it also means that he gets to bug them every day in class and make sure the other kids are being nice to them, well… that’s just a bonus!
After all, they’re getting older. It feels like no more than a week has passed since they were a pair of 6-year-olds tiptoeing around his apartment like prey animals, as if worried a single wrong move would make the floor beneath them give way. But in the blink of an eye the twins Satoru took in on a whim were almost teenagers, they’ve grown into people of their own with likes and dislikes and plenty of opinions that contradicted his, and it makes his chest ache with a pride he never thought himself capable of feeling. Every time he hears Megumi slam a door without fear when he comes home grumpy, every time Tsumiki accidentally laughs so hard that milk comes out of her nose and she just laughs harder instead of panicking about the mess. He did an okay enough job that these two traumatized children felt safe enough to call this cozy little house on the outskirts of Tokyo home, to decorate their rooms with their interests and spend afternoons lounging on the living room couch instead of locking themselves behind closed doors.
It’s bittersweet, in a way.
They’re growing, and it fills Satoru’s heart with equal parts joy and grief. The realization always comes in quiet moments, always leaves him reflecting over the ways he’s seen these children change. The fight over the front seat now instead of needing to be buckled in. They don’t need to be carried in from the car when they fall asleep anymore. Neither one of them needs to climb up on the counters to reach the cupboards; Megumi doesn’t even need a stool anymore for the top shelf, even if he does have to stand on his tiptoes.
Their junior high entrance ceremony is just the latest milestone Satoru’s sappy brain has to reckon with.
It’s weird too. Mostly because Gojo Satoru never thought he wanted to be a parent. He can’t even count on his fingers the number of times he sprawled on a bed that wasn’t his own in his early high school years casually lamenting about the stress and responsibility that must come with being a parent in the midst of conversations about the future. He never thought he’d be good at it, so he never dwelled on it much beyond looking at the cons. It just wasn’t something he was interested in, and the train of thought ended there, because if it didn’t then it would go somewhere Satoru didn’t want to let his brain go; somewhere dark and quiet and lonely, like the halls of his childhood home.
Then came his presentation. His parents always used to talk about the way he’d take over the board one day, after he finally presented. How he’d be so successful one day, after he finally presented. He thought maybe it would fix their relationship, after he finally presented.
If anything, it destroyed any hope he had of building one in the first place.
It made things worse. It made him worse, arguably. He tries so hard not to, but there’s a deep piece of him that can’t help but resent it all. He could’ve been an alpha, and life would’ve been fine. He could’ve even been a beta, and maybe life would’ve been okay. But Gojo Satoru isn’t an alpha or a beta. Gojo Satoru is an omega, and to a family like the Gojo clan with money as old and as their traditions and as filthy as their morals?
An omega is a pretty piece of arm candy. An omega is someone who speaks when spoken to, sits with their head bowed, and certainly doesn’t snap back with retorts as sharp as daggers when they’re degraded. They take it. They’re seen and not heard; scolded like an adult and spoken to like a child. To the Gojo clan, an omega is no more than a trophy in a case, who will one day be melted down into parts for a baby-making machine.
It makes him feel nauseous just thinking about it.
And then there was the thought of pregnancy. To this day it manages to be one of the few things in the world that genuinely makes him feel fear.
Pregnancy is always painted as this beautiful, perfect thing. Satoru is sure that it is, to some people at least. And he loves that for them. As for himself, he never paid it much mind, it was never a topic of conversation; he assumed he was going to present as an alpha and so did his family. And then he presented.
The whole thing already seemed like nothing short of body horror to him, and that was before he considered himself an active participant. The thought of something literally living inside you, sapping your strength and nutrients to sustain its existence…
Nope. No thank you. That sounds like something from Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979). Satoru feels safe in saying that the concept of pregnancy is terrifying to him, always has been, probably always will be, and he doesn’t even think he’s a little bit wrong about that opinion.
Besides the body horror of it all, Satoru just… didn’t think he knew how to raise a child. His own childishness is a running joke in his limited friend group to this day. He generally knows what not to do, his parents gave him a pretty good blueprint there; but back then he was so certain that parenting couldn’t possibly be as simple as two roads diverging in a wood. There were a million paths, a million choices, and all of them seemed to be wrong when he looked at them too closely. Too cold or too overbearing, too casual or too formal. No matter what, always the same outcome; failure. So the easier option was to not do it at all, obviously. Make no choices, and you can’t make the wrong ones.
The universe clearly had other plans for him. Arguably, they were plans he actively set in motion and facilitated, but that’s a moot point.
He still worries about it sometimes, when he’s having trouble sleeping or when he’s grading papers. Gojo Satoru has always been good at everything he tried, with a single exception; being a person. Maybe add being an omega as an extension of that, though that feeling came much later in life. The former has been an innate part of his being since he opened his eyes, it seems. Sometimes it felt like everyone else got sent home from the hospital with a little manual telling them how to be a proper human being, and Gojo’s parents happened to leave his on the side table in their NICU room. He spent a lot of his childhood trying to figure out these unspoken rules, but when he tried to follow them, people seemed to like him even less. Like they could tell it was fake from the moment he said his name, like it was written on his forehead; Wrong. Like the only way he could think to do things was always wrong.
He learned to accept it. He has his little group of friends who tolerate his presence when he decides to actually tag along. Which isn’t often nowadays, but Gojo Satoru is a busy man. He has kids to care for, lessons to forget to plan, and digimon episodes to watch. His schedule is packed.
But that acceptance becomes so much harder when there’s someone else involved. When he looks at these children and knows that they’re relying on him to show them how the world works when he barely understands it himself. The feeling settles in his chest on those nights when Megumi seems especially on edge, when the bags under his eyes start to look like insomnia and not late-night conversations with Yuji. When his usually neutral scent of seawater turns sour and heavy and hangs over him like a stormcloud. When he comes back home from school with bruises that Gojo didn’t see that morning, and slams his door with emotions more complicated than just rage, and ignores Satoru when he knocks softly on his door.
Then sometimes he thinks maybe he isn’t doing so bad a job, like when Megumi shuffles out of his room in the dim hours of the evening and curls up on the armchair in silence, watching whatever movie Satoru has put on as background noise for his grading. Sometimes he talks. Most of the time he doesn’t. But the longer they sit there, the less the living room smells like a storm cloud rolling over the beach on a humid summer day. He thinks about that time he and Megumi sat on the couch beneath the same blanket, a messy head of black hair leaning against his shoulder, and the 8-year-old suddenly seemed just as small as he was that day when Satoru met him. Small, and vulnerable, and exhausted. Tired of holding his walls up, but with no idea how to lower them. As he finally whispered about how he can’t understand why the universe doesn’t seem to hold the concept of fairness in as high a regard as he does. How it frustrated him, all the time. Satoru whispered back about knowing exactly what he’s talking about. He ached knowing the boy curled against his side has only experienced a fraction of the injustice of the world, that with each step he takes into his future Satoru becomes less and less capable of shielding him from them.
“The universe isn’t always fair, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be. Maybe that can be the thing you wake up every day trying to do,” Satoru murmured into the silence of the night, as he gently stroked the top of Megumi’s head. Brushing his hair back from his forehead, letting him nose at his shoulder in search of the soft scent of vanilla. Like a kid burying their face in a stuffed animal for comfort, except it struck him in that moment that this angry child was searching for that comfort in him. Satoru doesn’t say anything about it, but he noted at the time that it was the first instance Megumi had gone seeking his scent, he remembers the way he had to blink a few times so his eyes didn’t get too watery. The thought that his presence was a comfort to the kid hit him a bit harder than he’d like. He still does it some days, trying to be a lot more discreet because he’s a grumpy tween who thinks it’s embarrassing to seek comfort from the man who raised him for over half a decade.
“And if I can’t?” His voice was small. For the first time in the year since they’d met, Megumi Fushiguro had truly let himself sound like the child he was.
“Then that’s okay. What matters is you tried. You cared. You have a reason to get to tomorrow, even when today sucks.” He turned his head to press his lips to the crown of Megumi’s head, remembering the comfort the same gesture used to bring him, in a different life, “But I think you can. I think you do it already, because that’s the type of person you are.”
Satoru always thought he was bad with feelings, with comforting people. But he remembers the way Megumi climbed into bed with him that night and slept without nightmares for the first time in months, and thinks that maybe he doesn’t always have to know exactly what’s right. Maybe they’re getting older, and their emotions are getting more complicated, and he’s not always going to be able to understand them the way he has before. Maybe he can just do his best and be honest with them, and that’s okay. As long as they know that he’s there for them.
After all, that’s about how he got into this in the first place. And if there’s a single thing in his life that Gojo Satoru has never once regretted, it was the decision to glance into that hospital room six years ago.
The sound of Megumi stomping up the stairs pulls Satoru out of his memories. He blinks a couple times, making eye contact with himself in the mirror. He uses some product to get the last of the frizz out of his hair, force the strands to sit in a way that leans a bit more towards ‘artfully messy’rather than ‘just rolled out of bed’. He hums a tune that he’s pretty sure is the theme song for some show the kids started watching last month as he clips on his watch.
Messenger bag in hand, he heads back downstairs. Tsumiki’s just coming back inside with the dogs, and both of them come bounding at Gojo when she unclasps their leashes. He leans down to scratch behind their ears as they rub against his legs, no doubt getting his pants covered in fur. Thankfully Megumi’s arrival takes their attention away. They’ve always liked him more than anyone else in the house. Maybe they could sense it was his endless begging that got them here in the first place.
“Okay, we’ll go in a minute, I just need—” Suddenly the lint-roller is being waved in front of his face. Tsumiki smiles, holding it out to him. Her familiar scent of green tea leaves and moss is faint, a hint of satisfaction at her ability to help, “That. Thank you, Miki darling.” He presses a quick kiss to the crown of her head and snatches the roller, immediately getting to work on his pants. After about five minutes and three new roller sheets, his pants are fur-free. He fusses over the kids in the same dramatic way he always has, scenting them, making sure they’ve got what they need. Which really isn’t much considering it’s just an entrance ceremony, but he’s a responsible authority figure who double checks. When Megumi starts grumbling about traffic he finally lets up. With one last goodbye to the dogs, they’re headed to the garage.
The drive is as calm as it ever is. It’s a rare occasion where Megumi gets to the front seat first, and Tsumiki pouts about it as she climbs into the back. It means he gets to play his English pop punk songs on the radio, the ones that Tsumiki calls emo music. Some of them are so old Satoru recognizes them. He silently mouths the familiar words and tries not to think of nights spent screaming them with poor pronunciation, too many people stuffed in a booth a little too small at the karaoke place three blocks away from the ToDai campus.
Satoru insists on stopping at a cafe and both kids come in with him, even though Megumi grumbles about timeliness.
“We’ll get there with plenty of time for you to find Yuji, quit worrying so much!” Satoru ruffles his hair with a grin as they head for the doors. Megumi swats his hand away.
“Shut up.” The 12-year-old somehow looks even grumpier, and Satoru decides not to embarrass him by pointing out the flush colouring his pale cheeks. His lips just pull up into a fond smile, something like nostalgia curling in his chest and throbbing like an open wound. He orders himself a coffee that’s far too sweet. He doesn’t have his own junior-high infatuation by his side anymore to comment on it.
But he’s got Megumi’s disgusted face scrunch, which is fine too. It fills him with a different kind of warmth, but a warmth all the same.
˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖
During the ceremony he stands along the walls of the gymnasium with the rest of the staff. He leans against the brick and lazily glances over the crowd like he’s looking for something he knows he isn’t gonna find. Gakuganji’s commencement speech is droning in his ears. Parents line the back wall. Most of the faces are unfamiliar, though he catches sight of Yuji’s uncle.
He knows a lot more about Yuji’s late grandfather and parents than he knows about Sukuna. He hears about him secondhand from Yuji, but it’s mostly the excited babble of a tween who idolizes their guardian. None of it gives him any hint as to what’s behind Sukuna’s constant scowl, the one he’s still got on now even as he leans against the wall with his arms crossed and watches the ceremony. Not that he particularily cares, he’s actually perfectly fine with their vaguely cordial relationship as the respective guardians of two best friends. But he always thought that was how you made friends as an adult. Your kids become friends, and then you reluctantly hangout for the social interaction of being around another adult. But Sukuna doesn’t bother with any of that, which actually makes Satoru a little bit more relaxed around him. A little less anxious at the idea of dropping Megumi off for a playdate when he knows he won’t be expected to stay for coffee and awkwardly excuse himself when they’ve run out of small talk. They share greetings that sound more like insults and occasionally nod when they see each other in the grocery store. Gojo Satoru never thought he’d be so pathetic, to hold such a simple acquaintanceship with such weight. Maybe it was the lack of expectations that made him feel at ease. Maybe he’s getting emotional in his old age or whatever. Maybe he’s just lonely and doesn’t know how to acknowledge it without it hurting too much.
As Gakuganji continues his yapping, Satoru scans over the crowd and catches sight of the three heads he’s looking for. A dark brown ponytail, a prickly head of black spikes, and a brown undercut with fluffy hair that leans more strawberry than blonde. Megumi and Yuji are whispering to each other, so close to the middle of the crowd none of the other teachers are gonna notice or scold them. Well, Yuji is whispering, waving his hands and almost hitting the people around him. Megumi is listening. As far as he can see, Tsumiki is trying to actually pay attention to Gakuganji like the sweetheart she is. She even claps when he finishes his stupid rambling.
Gojo spends most of the ceremony zoned out, clapping when he needs to clap, trying not to think of his own school days. The fact that the auditorium still looks almost the same as it did all those years ago. The fact that if he tilts his head up and squints, it wouldn’t take him any time find the kanji for his and Suguru’s names side-by-side on one of the championship banners among other co-captains of times past. Fourth banner from the left wall, second column, six names down. He can’t forget which one it is no matter how hard he tries. So he tries not to think at all, and that just makes him think of Suguru sitting in their old apartment meditating, and he has to force himself to actually listen to Yaga talk. Eventually the stimuli all drones into a stream of information that his brain simply refuses to process, the words like water off a ducks back as they wash over him. By the time the ceremony concludes, the clapping and sudden burst of chatter around him is the only thing that brings him back to himself. He immediately glances around, and sees that Megumi and Tsumiki have formed a little circle with Yuji to talk amongst themselves.
He told them he’d meet them by the front doors when the ceremony was over, so that’s where he heads, letting the kids relish in their milestone. It belongs to them. If he has to sit on his phone and play sudoku for half an hour until they’ve got their fill of making friends, so be it.
His steps are a bit slower than usual as he walks the familiar halls. It feels odd. He doesn’t feel like a student or a teacher, and he doesn’t feel like a parent here for an entrance ceremony either. He doesn’t see the ghost of himself standing at his old shoe cubby and laughing with a lollipop in his mouth, and he doesn’t see mirages of his current students giggling about manga while they tie their sneakers. He sees the empty hallway, the fully stocked vending-machines ready for the start of classes next week. He sees the trophy cases and knows if he searches the photos in the background, he might just find his own teenaged grin staring back if it hasn’t been so long that they’ve had to replace it with a more recent one. He sees the shine of a freshly mopped floor and the sterility of an institution, stripped bare of its purpose and left a shell. With everything it needs to function and none of the people that make it run.
He can still hear the faint chatter from the auditorium, behind him he knows that the building is bustling with students and teachers and parents alike. But his footsteps seem to echo in the empty hallway, the silence is palpable, it’s stifling, it’s settling in his lungs and being pumped through his bloodstream. Eventually, right as the oxygen in his lungs starts to feel like it’s not absorbing properly, he reaches the front doors. With an inaudible sigh, Gojo adjusts his sunglasses and steps out into the spring air.
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Some things are more precious because they do not last long.
Oscar Wilde
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