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There was a tutor, once.
Or maybe she was his designated nanny – he’d only been three, at the time, and what three-year-old truly needs a tutor, even a three-year-old destined for greatness as Gojo Satoru had been – but regardless of what she was to him, she had been kind.
Satoru doesn’t even remember her face, anymore, not really. But he does remember her touches – a soft hand ruffling his hair, strong arms lifting him up and holding him close, a playful tap of the tip of a finger against his nose. Such little, casual interactions in the grand scheme of things, but Satoru had always looked forward to it, craved her kind smiles and kinder touches without even fully understanding why.
While he might not remember her face clearly, or even her name, Satoru remembers this; he’d been crying. They’d pushed him too far, his limbs trembling with residual effort from training his technique, and he was just so tired, his body feeling disconnected, like he was a doll with all its stuffing removed. He’d looked to his mother, standing behind that day’s trainer, but she’d just averted her eyes, face unmoved, as she spoke sharply to the trainer.
“Get up, child,” the trainer had said, and his eyes were soft but not soft enough to offer Satoru a hand, to crumble under the pleading look on the boy’s face. Satoru remembers craving it so badly, a touch, a hand in his, arms encircling him to lift him high, so badly that tears slipped from his eyes and cut paths down his cheeks.
Satoru couldn’t get up, his arms too weak and his legs not responding. He doesn’t remember what happened next; he thinks they left, the trainer and his mother, but the next thing he knows, his wish has been granted as he’s lifted from the floor, feeling life flood back through him as his head is gently guided to rest upon a shoulder, a hand stroking his back soothingly.
He thinks he makes a sound, because there is a soothing noise, hair tickling the back of his neck as his tutor hums gently, hands slowly bringing feeling back to his body.
He’d stayed like that, limp as a kitten, while she had hummed and soothed and gently rocked him, lulling him to sleep.
When he’d woken up, the nanny was gone.
“She had more important things to do,” was the only explanation Satoru had received when he’d worked up the nerve to ask about it. “You’re too old to be coddled, anyways. It will just make you soft.”
Was that what that was, when she’d held him when he couldn’t move? Coddling? His father makes it sound like a bad thing, but Satoru’s not so sure.
Regardless, it’s a long time until someone touches him like that again.
---
Satoru is the Strongest.
This is made abundantly clear to him on the days where his skin crawls and his insides burn like there’s a supernova lighting up within him, where nothing and everything feels wrong and he wants to pull himself out of his skin and simultaneously bury himself in layers and layers of blankets if just to feel the slightest pressure on his skin, just to know that he is here, he is tangible, he is worthy of being touched.
Because he needs it. Touch. It’s something he doesn’t understand – can’t understand, because nobody bothers explaining it to him, but still, at moments like this, he knows that nothing will help except for the touch of another, just like he knows that breathing will keep his heart beating, that blinking will keep his eyes from drying. His father stands a few feet from him, a look of cold indifference on his face, and Satoru can’t help the wobbly step he takes towards him, arm reaching out before he can truly stop himself, because his training was harsh today and he hurts and right now the only thing that he can think of that would help is his father’s hands, to wipe away the pain and exhaustion and sense of discomfort thrumming beneath him.
And when his father looks at him sharply, raising a hand to come settle on his head, Satoru can’t help but still, frozen in anticipation and longing and hope.
But the hand doesn’t come to rest gently on his head, doesn’t slide down to cup his face. Instead, it scrapes back, fisting in his hair, tight. Swallowing a gasp, his head tilts back with the pressure, exposing the long plane of his throat. He holds himself still, barely breathing, eyes fluttering closed as a palm comes to rest gently on his cheek, because this is what he wanted, so he can take the little bit of discomfort that comes with it.
And he can’t help it, the instant warmth that blooms from the contact, like he’s just had a sip of warm tea. It soothes an ache, a longing somewhere deep in him, and despite the hand in his hair holding him still, he presses into it.
Immediately, the warmth is gone, replaced with a sharp blow. He’s immobile, unable move with the hand in his hair, holding him in place, to absorb some of the impact, and he can’t help but cry out.
The hand in his hair jerks slightly, forcing his head back even farther, and he quiets, blinking rapidly, because they don’t like when he makes unnecessary noise, he knows this.
“This language of yours,” his father says, and Satoru settles his gaze somewhere over his shoulder, letting his father’s face remain fuzzy in the periphery, because anything is better than seeing the look of disappointment. He’s heard this before, but he still needs reminding. “It’s a weakness. You don’t need it. You will never be the strongest if you rely on others.”
Satoru doesn’t say anything. He never knows what to say when this comes up. The entire right side of his face feels hot, stinging, but beneath it, the warmth from his father’s touch remains.
He doesn’t understand– why does he need it? Why does it make him feel this way, like he’s in pieces and just the slightest touch can make him whole?
Why was he born this way, given impossible power, but made reliant on someone else’s touch?
The grip on his hair tightens, and Satoru inhales sharply. “Do you hear me?” His father’s voice is sharp, deep, resonating.
Powerful.
Satoru blinks. “Yes,” he says, his voice soft, trembling slightly.
Weak.
“Look at me.”
Satoru looks at him. People always say he takes after his father, and he’s not sure how he feels about that; does his mouth look like that, like a slash through his face, always turned down at the edges? Are his eyes that sharp, that cutting with their gaze? Does he have that crease between his brows, constantly furrowed in displeasure?
He hopes not.
“You are to be the strongest, Satoru,” his father says, voice carefully controlled. “This –” and again, there is a hand on his cheek, soothing the ache from his earlier strike, and Satoru knows better now than to react, but his eyes still flutter with contentment that he can’t control, and he can’t help but whimper when the hand pulls away – “this makes you weak. You can’t rely on anyone but yourself.”
Satoru meets his father’s gaze again. His scalp is aching from the grip in his hair, neck cramping from the stress position. He feels cold.
“Do you understand me?” His father demands. Satoru tries to nod but moving is out of the question. “Say you understand.”
“I understand,” Satoru parrots back, pausing for a moment before tacking on, “I’m the strongest.”
His father nods, looking satisfied. There’s a wild gleam in his eye. “You will be,” he says. “It’s what you were made for, Satoru. You don’t need anyone. You’re only the strongest when you’re alone.”
Satoru isn’t sure what to say. He’s not sure what any of this means, just that touching someone can soothe the ache inside him, the ache that neither ice nor herbal tea can reach, but it’s something that is Not Allowed. A weakness.
Abruptly, his father releases his grip, and Satoru stumbles, hand coming up to rub at the tenderness. Something in him mourns the lack of contact, even though it had hurt. He presses hard, but it’s not the same.
“You don’t need anyone, Satoru,” his father says, final. “Don’t forget it.”
----
Satoru doesn’t need anyone.
Yet there’s an emptiness inside him. It feels almost like hunger, a yawning hollowness just beneath his sternum. His body is heavy with exhaustion, to the point where he’s not sure he can properly lift his fork to his mouth.
His gaze travels to his mother, seated next to him. Her sleeve has fallen away, revealing her fine wrist, so much like his, and he can’t look away, because he wants. He wants the touch that he sees other kids receive so carelessly, so thoughtlessly, running and bumping into one another and receiving soft caresses and hair ruffles and everything that Satoru wants but cannot have.
He wants to reach out, wrap his fingers around his mother’s wrist, or twine his fingers through hers (so long and delicate, his mother’s fingers, so similar to his) like he’s seen people do on the street, on the television, anywhere but in his own home. He wants to touch her, because maybe then she’ll look and see him, Gojo Satoru, not the prodigal Six Eyes, the sorcerer granted with unthinkable power and zero (one) limitations. Maybe she’ll turn to him and take his hand and hold it delicately between hers, because she’s his mother and right now he just wants to be her son.
But she just keeps eating, taking delicate bites and speaking calmly with his tutor, who stands respectfully by the door. They’re discussing his most recent academic advancements, even though Satoru knows they’re more interested in his strength and progress with Infinity.
And he knows he’s expected to stay silent, to eat his dinner and speak when spoken to, but he’s tired and confused and just needs something to ease the emptiness inside.
So, he reaches out. He just wants to touch her, to feel her arm, warm and solid beneath his fingers. But he’s stopped before he can close the distance – her hand has darted out, delicate fingers turned deadly, gripping his wrist tightly. His bones creak with the pressure, but he can’t help but enjoy it, something within him singing with the contact.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She asks, voice hard and cold. Like marble. Satoru blinks, because he’s forgotten himself again; this house is like a museum, full of things to see but not touch.
He opens his mouth – to apologize or to beg for more, he’s not sure – but it’s too late. The grip on his wrist is bruising but it satisfies something deep in him, and he thinks this might not be so bad, suffering a bit of pain in exchange for the fulfillment that comes with the skin-on-skin touch.
He meets his mother’s eyes, notes how something in them shifts, softening. His heart leaps, because maybe this means she’ll forgive him, she’ll run her hand through his hair and whisper never do that again, but the next thing he knows he’s back in his room, door locked behind him, dinner forgotten.
He is Gojo Satoru. He is the Strongest sorcerer, or he will be, once he can figure out a way to get around this.
But he is also eight years old, and the void within him is growing, threatening to consume him. His wrist is throbbing, and he wraps his fingers around it in an imitation in his mother’s grip, pressing down on the bruising.
It almost helps, if he casts his mind above himself, lets himself think it’s someone else’s hand on him. But it’s not enough to combat the lethargy clinging to his limbs, doesn’t satisfy the hunger for human contact.
Somehow, he makes it to his bed, legs trembling like a newborn deer. He buries himself beneath the heaviest quilts he owns, wrapping his skinny arms around himself in the imitation of a hug.
It’s a moment of weakness. He knows he doesn’t need touch; he shouldn’t need it. He’s the Strongest, something that’s been drilled into him so many times that it feels more familiar than his own name. The Strongest doesn’t need anyone.
But he’s so tired, and he forgot himself. And while the Strongest might need no one, Gojo Satoru does.
His eyes fall closed, body heavy beneath the blankets. He knows that this isn’t something that should affect him, something as silly and archaic as language needs.
But he craves it. And like this, blankets weighing him down and arms wrapped around himself, he can pretend.
----
Satoru is Untouchable.
This is what he tells himself, and it is only solidified once he masters Infinity, keeping the void wrapped around himself like a blanket at all times. He tells himself it is enough, it should be enough, because Infinity is everything and nothing all at once, which should mean that he is constantly being touched, his language constantly being fulfilled by his own cursed technique.
That’s what the clan elders say, at least.
And because Satoru is the Strongest, he’s able to convince himself that it’s true, that Infinity is a good enough substitution for what his body demands that he doesn’t need anything else.
That he doesn’t need touch.
Enter Getou Suguru.
The school is equal parts familiar and entirely new; familiar because he is still under the scrutiny, the watchful eyes of the higher-ups, his progress and performance followed closely with analyzing eyes, whispers behind his back, talking of power and strength and abomination, and Satoru lets the words and the watching eyes slide off the smooth layer of Infinity.
Yet this is where it is entirely new; he now has shoulders bumping against his and hands slapping his back and feet kicking beneath the table and it’s all because of that first day, when Satoru is splayed out at the desk closest to the window, when the boy with dark hair and soft eyes enters the room and immediately sits next to him.
When the boy reaches out his hand like it’s the easiest thing in the world, smiling with the words, “I’m Getou. You a first year, too?”
Satoru stares at the proffered hand for a beat too long, ignoring the ache deep in his core (which is ridiculous because he doesn’t need this, he hasn’t needed it in so long so why does he feel this way) before scoffing with all the practiced nonchalance as he falls into the role of the Strongest.
“Do you really not know who I am?” He asks, partly affronted, partly curious. Is there a sector, some small portion of the jujutsu world where his name is not known? It’s an exhilarating thought.
Suguru pauses, eyes narrowing as he sizes Satoru up, mouth drawing to the side in a manner that Satoru finds he cannot ignore, the power of the Six Eyes drawn to the small furrow between this boy’s brow, the way his lips twist in exaggerated concentration. Eventually, Suguru finishes his examination and responds with, “Does it matter?”
And Satoru decides that yeah, this could be worthy of his interest.
There’s another first year, too, a girl named Shoko Ieiri, who looks at the both of them with the flattest expression possible and wears the smell of cigarettes like its perfume.
They’re forced to disclose their Languages, both as a school policy and a matter of safety. “In case of emergencies,” Yaga explains, scowling when Satoru had laughed out loud. “You need to be able to trust each other, and in our line of work, there’s nothing more dangerous than neglecting your needs.”
Satoru thinks he can list a plethora of things more dangerous than this stupid, over-blown weakness, and he raises his hand to explain just that, but Yaga completely ignores him and nods to Shoko instead.
“Words of affirmation,” she throws out carelessly.
“Acts of service,” Getou offers.
Yaga looks at Satoru expectantly, as do Getou and Shoko. The girl twirls a pen between her fingers, looking bored, but Satoru knows she’s listening.
And he just – can’t. Say it. Admitting to the weakness that he’s been taught to deny since he was young enough to understand what Languages are, in front of people he doesn’t even know – he can’t.
So he crosses his arms, glaring at Yaga through the tinted lenses of this month’s pair of glasses. He knows he looks defensive, and forces himself to relax, fingers slowly unclenching from their grip on the opposite elbow.
“It doesn’t matter,” Satoru says easily, with only a touch of an edge to his tone, but he knows the others pick up on it from the way Getou straightens slightly, the way the pen stills between Shoko’s fingers. “It’s not going to be an issue.”
Yaga just sighs and shakes his head, but they leave it at that.
It’s not until later their first year, when they’ve fought together and teased on another and grown comfortable enough to let their guards down that it gets brought up again.
They’d been showering Ieiri with praise, reveling in how she lights up despite the roll of her eyes and the ‘it doesn’t really mean much, coming from you guys’. Satoru is splayed on the couch, legs draped over Suguru’s lap, who is lazily sharing a cigarette with Ieiri, who is curled up in the love seat adjacent to their couch. Satoru’s just concocted an outlandishly extravagant compliment when the girl finally has enough of their antics and turns to face him full on, cigarette smoldering in her fingers.
“Something I still don’t understand,” she says in that blunt, factual way that Satoru has come to appreciate, “is what you meant back on that first day.”
Satoru doesn’t move from his position, half hanging off the couch with his arm covering his eyes. He hasn’t said anything, because it’s not important, but in truth opening his eyes when he’s like this, tired and overworked and completely spent from a few back-to-back missions, makes it feel like he’s being stabbed straight through the optic nerve. “You’re going to need to be a little more specific there, dear,” he says languidly.
“You never disclosed your language,” she reminds him. “I mean, it’s obviously physical touch, but –”
At that, Satoru sits up, arm falling from his face. He squints against the light, forcing himself to relax. His glasses are tossed carelessly onto the table next to him, and he gropes for them, taking slight comfort in the dark layer of protection that they provide. “What do you mean, obviously?”
Ieiri looks to Suguru, who shrugs. “Well, we just kind of assumed? You’re always, like, touching us in one way or another.”
Satoru swings his legs off Surugu’s lap, face blank. He senses more than sees his two friends exchange a glance, but he’s more focused on the you’re always touching us part of the conversation.
Is it true? He casts his mind back, cataloguing every interaction in the past week he’s had with these two. It’s true that he no longer freezes under their touch or dances out of the way, but he’s still got Infinity running constantly. Even when they do touch, they’re not really touching.
He hasn’t told them that yet, though. He’s not sure why, but he’s just not ready to share the extent of his abilities.
And, maybe, because he doesn’t want to hear what they might have to say about it.
Distantly, he realizes that Suguru is talking, and the sound of his even, unbothered voice does something in Satoru, something calming and grounding and it’s enough to catch his attention from the hundreds of other details that the Six Eyes could potentially focus on right now.
“—not like it’s a problem, you know, we’re always here to help out.”
“But languages aren’t issues, Gojo,” Ieiri picks up, taking another drag. Smoke billows from her mouth. “They’re what make us human.” Because yes, curses do not have love languages, Satoru is aware of that, thank you very much.
“You know what is a problem?” Satoru says, keeping his voice light as he shakes a finger at her. “You’re smoking. Driving yourself to an early grave, dear Shoko!”
Ieiri rolls her eyes. “One way or another, we’re all going to die,” she says bluntly. “But you want to know the dumbest way to die? Language deprivation because you were too stubborn to tell your only friends about it.”
“You guys aren’t my only friends,” Satoru pouts, even though they truly are his only friends. “Besides, like you guys already said, you are helping!” He leans over, dramatically swooning against Suguru, who shifts minutely to accommodate him. Satoru takes a millisecond to process this, to wonder when they’ve become so attuned that Suguru knows how to position himself so that they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.
“My mom has the same language,” Suguru says, and Satoru forces himself not to tense as Suguru drapes an arm over his shoulder, pulling him closer. “And she needed more than just the passing touches to get by.”
Satoru worms out of Suguru’s hold, thankful for the constant hum of Infinity across his skin, because otherwise he doesn’t think he’d be strong enough to pull away. “Well, I’m not your mother,” he says, and from the way Suguru and Ieiri exchange another look, they’ve picked up on the hard edge of his tone.
“You’re right,” Suguru agrees easily. “You’re a hell of a lot uglier.”
Satoru gasps dramatically, a splayed hand pressed to his chest. “My word, Suguru! Your mother must be a goddess among women, I’m flattered to even be compared to her! Too bad she didn’t pass on any of her stunning looks to you.”
Ieiri snorts, and Suguru rolls his eyes, and the tension is broken as Satoru rolls off the couch, tossing a controller to Suguru and another to Ieiri as he powers on the game cube. Hopefully, beating the hell out of each other’s avatars will distract from the current topic of conversation.
Ieiri and Suguru seem to let it go easily enough, but Satoru isn’t fooled. He’s going to have to be a lot more careful from now on. He’s made it this far on his own just fine, and yes, there are some nights where he has to work his reverse technique to its absolute limit in order to combat the literal years of touch deprivation, nights where he feels like his body is made of wet cement and he is struggling, trapped inside, desperate for a hand to grab onto his and yank him out of it.
So yes, there are those nights, but he’s still able to get up the next morning and exorcise curses and joke with Ieiri and flirt with Suguru, because at the end of the day the language is a weakness, and like any weakness, he must overcome it.
And, like his father said all those years ago, you will never be the strongest if you have to rely on others.
----
Satoru does not rely on others. But what’s new is having others rely on him.
The little Zenin boy is almost a carbon copy of his father, but pint sized and minus the sadistic smirk and murderous tendencies. At least, he is right now. Satoru can’t say with confidence what the boy will be like in five, ten, twenty years.
But right now, he’s roughly the size of a small bush, all bony limbs and spiky hair and unamused expressions. Satoru’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do with this kid, but he supposes he’s his responsibility now. Because, you know, Satoru killed his father, and all that.
But the kid – Megumi – apparently does not give a flying fuck about all of that, if the blankness on his face is anything to go by when Satoru tries to tell him. In fact, he stares at Satoru like he’s some sort of major inconvenience, which Satoru is not going to take lightly.
“So like, how old are you?” He asks, after introductions are complete. The boy seems to be taking things remarkably well. “Three? Five? Eleven?” He genuinely has no idea. Kids are just so small until their suddenly not, and Satoru has no experience whatsoever to take a guess at Megumi’s age.
“I’m seven,” the boy responds flatly, small hand tightening on the strap of his backpack. Satoru hums in response before straightening. Megumi’s eyes track his every movement, and it’s so cute that Satoru can’t help but lift a hand and drop it on Megumi’s head, ruffling the boy’s hair. Megumi stiffens, and flashes of head drawn back, grip tightening, scalp singing in pain bombard Satoru. He drops his hand back to his side, not missing the way Megumi’s eyes widen, then narrow, following the movement of his hand.
“Seven, eh?” Satoru finally says. “That’s not possible. You’re much too small.” He’s teasing, of course, and delights in the way that Megumi scowls at his words.
“You’re annoying,” the boy says, and Satoru laughs before dropping a hand on the boy’s shoulder, not missing how Megumi tenses again, eyes darting from the hand to Satoru’s face.
“Maybe so,” Satoru says, steering Megumi forwards. “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. It’ll be alright.”
If Megumi has any reservations about that, he doesn’t voice them. Instead, he glares at Satoru’s hand on his shoulder like it personally offends him.
But he doesn’t say anything about it, either, just lets Satoru lead him home.
The Fushiguro’s are remarkably self-sufficient for children, Satoru notes. Tsumiki is charming and sweet in every way that Megumi is not, but perhaps a little too quick to trust, which is both refreshing and disheartening in its own way. She’s quick to tell Satoru that her language is quality time, and this somehow turns into Satoru coming over whenever he can make the time to do so, just to, for lack of a better phrasing, ‘hang out’. Tsumiki definitely uses her language to her advantage, demanding that Satoru join them for dinner or a movie night. She’s even able to get Megumi to join, the manner in which she does so giving Satoru frightening déjà vu that he’d rather not think about – don’t deprive me of this, Megumi –
It’s definitely not a parental relationship that they have, but something about it is familial, more so than the Gojo clan ever had been. Eventually, their little apartment becomes less of a stop along the road of life and more of a homey environment, to the point where Satoru has his own pair of slippers waiting for him at the door when he arrives.
While Tsumiki is overly expressive with her language, she never asks Satoru what his is, and never acknowledges Megumi’s verbally, at least not in front of Satoru. The boy has slowly started to warm up over time, likely through a mixture of forced proximity and coaxing from his sister and Satoru’s general tendency to be overbearing to the two of them. And Satoru never asks for his language, because he knows that at that age, he’d never give an answer to it, either.
But one night, when Tsumiki is out, Megumi settles next to him on the couch, little face serious. Megumi doesn’t make it a habit, being in Satoru’s direct proximity, but his seems determined as he picks up Satoru’s hand and holds it between his own.
Satoru’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, but Megumi doesn’t say anything, brow furrowed as he looks at Satoru’s hand between his own. Satoru follows his gaze, wondering what the hell could be going through the stoic boy’s mind, when Megumi speaks.
“Your touch,” he says, then cuts off, sounding frustrated. He moves Satoru’s hand so that it’s pressed against his chest, right over his heart, and Satoru lets him, curious where this is going and simultaneously touched by how gentle Megumi is being.
Satoru lifts a brow, regarding Megumi as the boy seems to struggle with what he wants to say.
“Your touch,” Megumi starts again, lifting his gaze to stare resolutely at Satoru. “I can’t feel it.”
And oh. Satoru feels his mouth go dry, because of course the boy has to be exactly like him, down to the same love language. Of course.
For the first time in a while, Satoru finds that he doesn’t have a response, doesn’t know how to respond, because Megumi is glaring at him almost accusingly, and Satoru has never been in a situation like this, with another person with a physical touch language. Where someone needs his touch.
Satoru does not rely on others. But now, for the first time in a while, he has others relying on him.
“Are you even human?” Megumi asks. He’s still holding onto Satoru’s arm, Satoru’s palm still cradled to his chest. He can practically feel the force of Megumi’s heartbeat even though Infinity, and wonders what it would feel like to drop it, to feel the warmth of Megumi seep into him. “I’ve never met someone who’s touch I couldn’t feel.”
Satoru pauses. Are you even human? What a question, and for a moment, Satoru isn’t even sure of the answer. Is he human? The strongest sorcerer, who has come back from death and beat language deprivation through sheer will alone. Who hides his one weakness so thoroughly it’s nearly imperceptible.
Languages aren’t issues, a not-so-distant memory pops up. Satoru can almost smell the smoke that always accompanies Ieiri’s words. They’re what make us human.
Satoru realizes it’s been too long, Megumi starting to tense up as he takes Satoru’s silence for assent, as yes, I am not human, you are not safe with me. Quickly, he says, “Don’t be silly, Megumi-chan! Of course I am.”
“Then why doesn’t your touch help?” He asks, voice firm but words unsure. Satoru ponders this – what can he say? How can he explain that languages are a weakness, something to be ignored and avoided and overcome, that as sorcerers, they need to be stronger that this limitation?
Megumi’s eyes are dark and distrustful, and Satoru realizes something. He could say all of that, and create in Megumi the void that exists in him at all times, force Megumi to rely on his shadows and cursed technique to fulfill his needs.
But he thinks about what he’d longed for at Megumi’s age. The arms of his tutor, the wide palm of his father, the slender wrist of his mother. The press of Ieiri and Suguru against him, bodies flush with one another.
So, Satoru sighs softly. “It’s because I’ve always got my magic cloak on,” he says wryly, and Megumi narrows his eyes at the analogy but it’s easier than explaining the intricacies of Infinity to a grade-schooler. “It’s so comfortable that sometimes I forget to take it off.”
Megumi opens his mouth, probably to call Satoru out on his bullshit, when Satoru takes a deep breath, and drops Infinity.
It’s been a long time since he’s done so; since Megumi’s father, actually, and the sword through his chest and every dreadful thing that followed, so both he and Megumi inhale sharply at the sudden contact. And Satoru was right; Megumi’s heart is fluttering like a bird, betraying how nervous the boy had been during the entire confrontation. Satoru thinks back to the question are you even human, realizing Megumi had probably been preparing himself to act quickly if Satoru had revealed himself to be a curse.
Megumi’s grip shifts, and now it’s like he’s hugging Satoru’s arm as the sensation that he’s deprived himself of for so long floods through him, the feeling of another person fulfilling in a way that Infinity never truly is. It’s like someone pouring liquid sunlight deep into his chest, filling him up until he’s almost choking on it.
He doesn’t realize that there are tears cutting down his cheeks until Megumi reaches forwards to touch them, almost mesmerized. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and Satoru has to do a double take because is that concern he hears?
He says as much, body still buzzing in contentment at the touch, and Megumi immediately scowls, but he doesn’t pull away.
“It’s just – a lot, sometimes,” he explains.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be if you didn’t wear your cloak the whole time,” Megumi says flatly, like Satoru is the dumbest thing in the world.
Satoru hums. “Maybe you’re right,” he says easily, but if his best friend and his one and only weren’t enough to get him to drop Infinity regularly, this little rug rat certainly won’t be, either.
But, as Megumi pushes forwards so that he’s laying across Satoru’s chest, head tucked into his shoulder and hair tickling his neck, Satoru realizes that this is different. Because while Ieiri and Suguru wanted to help, they didn’t need Satoru’s touch like Megumi does.
So, Satoru shifts so that he’s sprawled more comfortably on the couch, arms coming tentatively to circle Megumi, his hold loose but secure.
When the boy makes a soft noise, one that Satoru’s never heard from him before, he knows he’s done the right thing.
And when Tsumiki gets home later that night to find them still like that on the couch, she doesn’t hesitate to throw herself down with them as well. Her bony elbow jabs Satoru’s sternum and Megumi growls when she shoves into him a bit, but her smile and joy is so infectious that Satoru can’t help but laugh, easily welcoming her into their cuddle pile.
“Aw, you two are so cute~!” Satoru sings, feeling lighter than he has in a long time. “My cute little itty bitty kiddos –”
“Shut up,” Megumi demands, while Tsumiki laughs.
“It’s too late, you’ve made me drop my magic cloak and now nothing can stop me –” he’s cut off by a particularly brutal jab to the throat. “Ouch, okay, cloak going back on now –”
“No!” Megumi protests instantly, burrowing his head harder against Satoru’s collarbone. Satoru knows the boy is probably red in the face, but he’s too cute not to tease –
“You don’t need to wear it here, Gojo-san,” Tsumiki says, lifting her head to meet his eyes, and Satoru is surprised for a moment at how perceptive she is, because she hadn’t been here when he’d explained to Megumi. “We’ll help you, just like you help us.”
And again, Satoru is hit with such déjà vu that all he can do is smile softly as the girl lowers her head again to rest on his shoulder.
“As long as you buy me ice cream,” he says, so softly he’s not even sure if the kids can hear him.
But the words aren’t for them, not really. They’re meant for a different time, for different people ready and willing to smash down his barriers. And Satoru finds himself blinking back tears in their wake.