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He was wet. Wet, and muddy, and bloody, and really, quite possibly, internally bleeding. Well- probably not, but the possibility wasn't completely ruled out. He has been, as well as Fushiguro and Kugisaki, deemed well enough to sit in the large school-sent car for a few hours, licking at his wounds until they make it back to the school- and more importantly, to Shoko.
The car is the kind where the mysterious - and in Yuuji's opinion - sort of ominous driver, sits separated by a slide-cover. The kind where six people could fit, three seats facing the other three, like in a sort of sideways-limousine, or a carriage. Yuuji much prefered Ijichi-san's car, really, or Gojo's. This sort made him feel strange, like he was being arrested, perhaps, or taken somewhere particularly fancy, but five sorcerers needed to fit today.
The mission was far away, and brutal, and it really wasn't supposed to get this messy. In fact, their two teachers started off treating it as more of an excursion– a calm, well crafted opportunity to teach them in real time. Geto and Gojo both were really only supposed to be observing.
And they did observe– for maybe five, ten more minutes then Yuuji thought it was reasonable. Quickly, the one special grade teaching opportunity had evolved into a complicated, multiple special grades job. An ugly, gray thing of a curse, spawning off copies of itself into the top floor of an abandoned apartment building, four hours away from jujutsu high, absorbing all of their hits and overwhelming the three students in record time.
Their teachers, while usually well-intentioned, were, in general, neither considered very sane, or particularly responsible. For far too long, they left them to deal with it. The clones spawning from one disfigured mother curse were hard enough to exorcise, and the whole curse itself wasn't reacting to any of their attempts either. And, God, the clones just kept coming. One after another after another, Yuuji swears Gojo was on the verge of finding himself popcorn to munch on as he watched them slowly drain their energy.
It stopped being so funny, maybe, when Gojo finally stepped in, and didn't seem to have any better ideas than they did. Of course, he took far less punches - none, so to say - but by the time the students dug themselves out of a fight with three larger clones, and by the time Geto had found a way to dismantle the mother curse, Gojo had been at it for far too long, sending the other hundreds of ugly, gray, bug-like things flying away from him, slamming into walls and turning into dust under the pressure of Blue.
The area was too populated for Gojo to use the full extent of his technique, and while the curse gave them trouble, everyone was standing their ground: there was no need for extreme measures. There was only a need for Gojo, and his Infinity, for an amount of time so prolonged Yuuji saw his knees buckle when he dropped his technique: something he didn't think ever happened to the man.
Currently: he doesn't know for how long he's been dozing off, in between Kugisaki and Fushiguro, compiled into a tired pile of sorcerer, beat. He doesn't know what time it is, just that it's very late at night, and that it's still raining, like it had been when the roof crumbled and their fight got even more unpleasant. So many parts of his body are aching, numb and cold, that he hardly registers it anymore, even as the adrenaline wears off and pain sets in. Kugisaki and Fushiguro both have their heads, in some capacity, leaning on his shoulders, his own cheek smushed against a head of black hair, strands much softer than they look.
What slowly pulled him from his sleep was a soft call: "Satoru."
Which was stupid. That wasn't his name, and no one should be dragging his mind away from sleep in times such as these, smooth slide of tires on the highway pavement and soft patter of rain against the car.
He peaks one eye open to find, truly, no one had been addressing him. It was just Geto, hair a little damp and eyes a little tired, but in much better shape than any of his students, wearing an expression Yuuji's one, tired eye doesn't recognise, hasn't ever seen before. It prompts him to, without moving any other muscle, open both of his eyes, take in the scene in front of them.
Gojo was leaning on his hand, head against the window, dry and unscratched. His expression was mostly unreadable, covered by the blindfold, but his shoulders were low and his neck seemed to hardly be holding up his head.
He rose his head up at Geto's call, though, turning his clad eyes towards him. Geto's large, lean hand extended over the middle seat between the two of them, reached for Gojo's blindfold.
Yuuji, so used to it, half expects his hand to just bounce off a faintly blue wall of Infinity. He doesn't think he's ever seen someone touch his sensei, to the extent that he's completely accepted he's untouchable, this fact becoming just a small part of Yuuji's perception of Satoru Gojo.
Except Geto's fingers, long and knuckle-y and terribly clean for what they've all just done, hook themselves to the blindfold, sliding it down Gojo's face until it falls limp around his neck, and the cursed energy in the car doesn't even shift, like Yuuji imagines it would if Gojo adjusted his technique. No, it seems letting Suguru Geto through was something that's by now wired into the way Infinity works.
Gojo doesn't flinch, or react at all, except for a slow blink at his oldest friend, as the other grazes a thumb under his eyelid in the gentlest motion Yuuji's ever seen either of them commit to. His eyes are droopy, and there's a distinct tiredness in them Yuuji didn't think Gojo capable of. He looks- exhausted, perhaps, though even that word feels a little light for the expression his teacher is wearing.
Geto's palm spreads over Gojo's cheek, and the latter seems to melt into it, a little bit. Neither of them seem to be aware of Yuuji's tired eyes, half peaking open, imposing their moment, not even Gojo's six eyes- man, he must really be dead on his feet.
Realistically, he knew his teachers had a special relationship. He knew the lengths they'd go to for each other, and was maybe even beginning to understand the pair was more then friends, more than lovers– soulmates, maybe, in some sense too-warm for the curse ridden world they live in. He figured, in the back of his mind, they must be different to each other, when alone. He never tried imagining it, though- really, it was none of his business.
Watching the strongest sorcerer alive lean into an open palm like this, facade crumbling and eyes fluttering closed with a sigh, Yuuji thinks he couldn't have imagined it before anyway.
"We have hours before we're home. You should rest." Geto says. He's whispering, so that's, probably, why Yuuji's never heard him speak so gently in all the time he's known him.
Gojo blinks, shakes his head. "I'm alright."
Geto's frowns, and Yuuji feels it in his bones that this is something he shouldn't be seeing.
He feels like he's a fly on the wall of their living room, or something, imposing in on a moment between two people that are undeniably family to each other. Yuuji's always known his sensei must, under all of that bravado, be a human man, be able to speak calmly, easily, must be able to look someone in the eye and not be deathly serious, like he can get in a fight, or lightheartedly obnoxious, like he is with his students. He's always known there must be some- some middle ground, some version of him that's genuine. He's felt it before — not in Gojo's words, always fluttery and ridiculous when he's speaking to them, not in his expression, because he, really, rarely sees his eyes — but in his actions.
He knows he's been taking care of Megumi and his sisters for almost as long as any of them remember. He knows he would die for each and every one of his students individually. He knows he would topple the whole island for the man always at his side, his coworker best friend who he shares a master bedroom with in the house Megumi grew up in. Yuuji's maybe immature, at times, naive, but even he can tell, everything Gojo does, he does for a better youth and better future of his students- and for Geto. Just- just for Geto, in general.
So he knows. He knows, in theory, there is a man, behind Limitless. But god, he didn't think he'd get to see him so vividly like this, after a difficult but ultimately insignificant mission, in a car on an unsuspecting Wednesday night.
He can't go back to sleep now, too curious, eyelids frozen in their half-open position: too tired to open, too intrigued to close, keeping him staring, like at a car crash.
"You used up a lot of energy." Geto mutters, fingers smoothing back a snow-white fringe.
Gojo yawns. "What, that old thing? I could have done that in my sleep."
Geto's smile seems a little sad, to Yuuji. "I know, baby, but you've tired yourself. C'mon, you can lay down like you used to."
Yuuji also knew, sort of, that the way his teachers usually behaved around them had to be, to some extent, an act. They were never very vulnerable around their students, and this, to Yuuji, made sense. They were those kinds of people, the kind others relied on to be strong for them. He thought he knew, well enough, that they were humans too, that had human interactions and relationships: that they loved, dreamt. That they got tired, that they got gentle.
But watching them now, endearments of long-term lovers slipping from their lips so seamlessly Yuuji almost misses it– it's all put into perspective rather abruptly for him. Just how much Gojo works– just how much Geto cares.
Gojo chuckles, low and hushed. "Like in highschool? After missions?"
Geto looks– younger, maybe, than he does usually, tired and damp, smile spreading into something so fond Yuuji's teeth hurt.
"Yeah." He says, almost in a breath.
Gojo, two meters of man, shifts in his seat to lie across the middle one, slowly lowering his head into Geto's lap. His absurdly long legs fold themselves a little bit, feet remaining on the floor of the car, and Geto, in practiced fashion, adjusts to accommodate him. "Okay," Gojo mumbles as he lays his head down. "Only if you play with my hair like you used to, too." He whispers.
Geto clicks his tongue, though still quietly, as to not wake the two truly slumbering students and the one fraud. "You say that like I never do it anymore."
And Gojo- Gojo smiles. Doesn't grin, or laugh, or smirk, or do any of those familiar things. He smiles gently and genuinely, looking up at Geto as the other's hand climbs into his hair. "You could stand to do it more."
Geto's lips quirk, and he complies, scratching the god-amongst-men behind the ear like he's a house cat. His smile drops slowly, studying white hair between his fingertips, eyebrows drawing up slowly in thought.
"What is it?" Gojo asks, just when Yuuji was about to drift off to sleep again; forget he saw any of this, imagine he dreamt it.
"I hate it when it has to be you doing all the heavy lifting." Geto confesses smoothly, all though with a sorrow in his voice deceiving this is far from their first conversation about this.
Gojo's hand, longer and slimmer than Geto's, folds itself over the one on the side of his head, thumb rubbing slowly into the back of it. "No one else could do it."
"I know." Geto whispers, defeated. "I just wish it didn't always have to be you."
Gojo's eyes have been hidden away from Yuuji by Geto's hand: when he starts to move it away, Yuuji has just enough time to slip his eyes closed in faux sleep before he feels the prickle of Gojo's eyes on him. "If we do our jobs right, it won't just be me anymore." He whispers.
He doesn't know what he sees in the three beat up teenagers sleeping across from them: but if he truly sees a future where they stand beside him in strength, then- God, just the thought of it makes determination boil stronger within him, a desire to bring balance into this skewed world he had been dropped into.
Eyes now closed, Yuuji doesn't know what expressions Geto's making, but he hears him snort quietly. "If we do our jobs right, they'll be taking over, and I'm retiring before I'm thirty-five."