Archive of Our Own

A series of explosions, one after another, boom through the space, flash-bangs so violent and bright that they make Nanami's eyes and head pulse with searing pain. He covers his face with his arm, shielding his vision from the blinding glare. 

We're safe, he reminds himself. 

Cocooned by Gojo's infinity as they are, the force of the blasts still quake the earth beneath them, topple walls to crumbling dust and blow doorways to splinters. 

After a long ten or so seconds, the light fades slightly, enough for Nanami to come out from behind his elbow. He manages to squint open his eyes amidst the blaze, though he can barely see beyond a few metres ahead of them. The explosions have become a firestorm, raging around them. 

The flames can't touch them in the sphere of protection that surrounds Gojo. It's hot, but not burning. The fire flickers and roars against the barrier, licking up the surface that's like invisible glass, forked tongues of red and white searching for a way inside. They won't find any. Gojo stands with his back to them, looking out over the increasing wreckage, assessing the creature that's causing it all. 

The curse is a Grade One. The students and Nanami fought it alone at first, taking a few hits each when its form was solid and rock-like, before its stony flesh bubbled and hissed and spat and became like magma, embers and flames seeping from the cracks, stopping them from approaching any further. That’s when Nanami had made them begin their retreat, trapped on the upper floor of the old factory as they were, unable to get close enough to the curse in order to land any blows on it. But an assistant manager waiting outside must have entered the veil, seen the fire spreading, and called for reinforcements — because before Nanami could get them to the periphery of the building where any exits would be, Gojo had suddenly been there. His bandaged gaze had alighted on the three huddled figures, a casual smile overlaying the quick flare of protective anger that had been on his face once he noticed their somewhat battered bodies. 

There was old work equipment around the building — piles of god knows what, waiting to be discovered through fire. It was only a matter of time before something exploded — and only seconds between Gojo arriving and the first of them going off. 

It's one thing to know that Gojo can create this barrier for himself, another entirely to experience it when the destruction outside is so catastrophic. 

Nanami and the students would have been incinerated in seconds. 

He stares at the flames arching over them. It's a view that's utterly unique, utterly thrilling, utterly terrifying. To be the eye of the storm; the calm amongst the chaos; the ice-cold matter at the centre of a falling star — this is what it is to be Gojo Satoru, to be impervious to the elements, invulnerable to harm. This is what it is to see from within. To bear witness to what no human should survive. 

Nanami's heart races instinctually, knowing that the furnace the building has become is mere centimetres away. 

He stays curled over Maki and Inumaki as much as he's able, just in case. Not that Gojo’s Limitless has ever failed since he was a teenager, but—just in case. If he needs to drop it quickly once the firestorm is over, Nanami will be protecting the children. 

The explosions draw to an end, but the curse and its monstrous flames go on, wooden slats hissing and spitting around them as they burn, debris and ash raining down. The floor in front of them has collapsed underneath the curse's feet, its angry struggling continuing on the lower floor beneath them, amongst the rubble and rebar that it's surely quickly turning to molten rock and metal. They're mere metres away from the edge of the crumbling concrete. Nanami looks up, squinting through the white lick of fire. The roof is alight. This isn’t going to be over anytime soon, nor will this factory building become habitable for them in order for them to rejoin the fight. Nanami knows what they need to do — as does Gojo, evidently. 

He turns to look at Nanami, a more serious expression on his face than he had when he arrived, eyes surely glowing behind the white bandages covering them. His left hand is raised and outstretched, temporarily restraining the curse. He looks around them, glancing across the ceiling and walls and shattered windows, formulating plans faster than Nanami is capable of thinking. 

Then he opens his right palm towards the closest wall and fires off a blast of Red, obliterating brickwork and more of the floor, and gouging a path through the ground. An escape route. They won't be able to pass it alone — Gojo will have to come with them, at least to the edge of the building. He meets Nanami’s eyes and shouts to him over the din of chaos surrounding them. 

“Take the kids out. Now!” 

This isn't a Gojo who can be communicated with; this is a Gojo who has a plan, and needs everyone else to do as he says to put it into action. 

Nanami trusts his judgement, always. He nods and helps the two students to their shaky feet, encouraging them to walk first so he can guard their backs. They clamber down onto the rubble on the lower floor then stumble over the uneven ground, concrete and soil churned to make the path. He thought that Gojo would follow closely behind them to maintain Limitless, but when he glances back and up, the man hasn't moved. The barrier is undoubtedly still here, protecting them from the worst of the heat and the falling debris, but Gojo is still there, at least fifty metres away now. He's extending it, Nanami realises — something he's not seen Gojo do before. Not to this extreme distance. But the curse can only be contained with his attention, he cannot stray far in order to keep it pinned using Blue. 

Nanami keeps moving, trusting his partner to protect them as they walk. It's so bright from the fires that it's a struggle to see where they're going, but the furrows in the ground beneath them help to guide him along the right route. The students manage to keep up despite their injuries, and it isn't long before they're crossing the threshold of the building, out into what should be darkness from the veil that's up, but is instead lit in blinding white and orange light from the blaze behind them. 

Once they pass another fifteen or so metres, the heat rushes at their backs — just far enough away not to burn them. 

Nanami looks back and sees that the corridor of safety through which they passed has been engulfed in flames, oxygen sucking into the hole in the wall and feeding the fire. 

Gojo is still in there. 

He's fine. 

Nanami spends the next minutes helping the two teenagers get outside of the veil, to the waiting assistant managers who quickly rush in to help, supporting them back to one of the cars. Their injuries aren't severe, but they're enough for Nanami to insist they be taken back to Ieiri right away. There's no reason to wait. He says goodbye, waves them off, then turns back to the dark dome looming above him and the remaining manager. 

“Phone for the fire department, please,” he says to the woman, then takes a deep breath and re-enters the warzone. 

The fire has engulfed the entire building. Every surface is ablaze or blackened with soot, smoke billowing up into the sky past the half-collapsed roof. Several loud crashes echo from inside — and the unmistakable sounds of Gojo Satoru sowing destruction. 

Nanami waits on the border of the veil, the heat fierce against his skin, knowing there is nothing else he can do. 

He will be here, witness to the heat-death of the curse. He will be here, waiting for Satoru to emerge victorious. Here, squinting in the light, in the flare of Blue and Red, black ash in the creases at the corners of his eyes. 

A scant minute later, a great pulse of cursed energy bursts and ripples out from within the building, followed by the rest of the roof caving in with a cacophonous boom, some of the debris and dust crushing and smothering the fires beneath. It's not enough to make it approachable, but it's enough to make it possible to see through it. 

Nanami can see Gojo, then, floating amongst the highest of the flames, untouched by anything. He's surveying what lies beneath. Nanami senses the curse disappear, exorcised by Gojo's hand. 

It's done. 

Only, Gojo doesn't come down. 

Nanami watches him and waits. There must be something still there — something he needs to observe — or perhaps he's just doing a final scan of the structure. Nanami can't tell from down here on the ground. 

Gojo doesn't move. The fire and smoke still swirls around him, a ghostly figure amongst it all, an apparition drifting in and out of sight. 

They need to leave this place. The veil needs to be brought down so that the fire service can work on extinguishing the flames before they spread any further. 

And no matter how shielded Gojo may be, Nanami still doesn't want to see his husband caught in the maelstrom for any longer than necessary. He still worries about burns, about smoke inhalation, despite his conviction in Gojo's ability to protect himself. It's only natural, he thinks, to worry just enough for it not to overthrow his trust. 

“Gojo,” he calls, voice raised to reach over the din of the burning building. 

The other man still doesn't move. His white hair billows softly around his head, lifted by his own gravity-pull. The soles of his boots aren't parallel to the ground as though he's standing on an invisible platform, but are instead slanted down, legs hanging beneath him. His fists are clenched at his sides. 

Nanami cups his hands around his mouth. 

“Gojo!” he shouts, sure that his voice carries far enough to be heard this time. 

Something is… off. 

Nanami's gut tightens in concern. 

He looks to the factory again — uses his honed vision to seek out residuals, to try to see what Gojo might be so fixated on, an unnoticed threat, or… 

He can't see anything. Only the residuals of that curse, and of Gojo's immense, earth-quaking power. And the flames. 

He looks back up to his partner. High, high above. 

“Satoru,” he calls: calmer, firmer, quieter. It isn't volume that's determining whether Gojo is hearing him, it's something else. 

“Satoru, look at me, please.” 

Gojo finally turns — slowly, measured. His eyes are glowing so vividly that Nanami can see them from the ground, icy cool blue amongst the neon orange heat. 

He feels them scrutinising him. 

Why did he take his blindfold off? 

There's something cold and calculating about being on the end of that gaze, tonight. He wonders what Gojo is seeing. 

“Come down,” Nanami calls, not breaking their stare. 

Gojo doesn't move for a long few seconds again, as though the request is processing. He glances back to the flames, down into the heart of it, to the place where the curse dissipated amongst the ash. Then he looks back to Nanami, and starts to float down — a controlled descent at a steady speed, something automatic about it. 

Nanami frowns as he comes into clearer view. 

Those blue eyes are still just a fraction too wide. Unblinking. Inhuman. Unnerving. 

He's fucking scary when he wants to be — and sometimes when he doesn't. Gojo Satoru is… otherworldly. His being swells with power. It's unmistakable to anyone who can sense cursed energy. Something creepy lurking in the deep dark; something all-powerful in the heavenly bath of sunlight; something that threatens calamity while fire blazes behind him. 

Nanami swallows and breathes in, the smoke in the air coarse on his throat. 

Gojo lands in front of him, feet an inch off the ground still. He's untouched, unharmed, his clothes in pristine condition, and Nanami exhales his relief. 

His face, though — his expression is too… blank. There's a tightness at the edges of his eyes that Nanami has found, over the years, that few others notice but him. Shoko and Yaga and the youngest Fushiguro are the only ones he's known to be able to spot it. He tilts his head slightly, making an enquiring face that he hopes Gojo will respond to, eager to reassure Nanami as he usually is. 

He doesn't seem to see it. 

“Gojo?” Nanami asks, then, still waiting. 

“Nanami,” Gojo says, even-toned. 

“The curse?” Nanami asks, as if he hadn't witnessed the thing's final moments. 

“Gone,” Gojo confirms. 

“No other anomalies?” 

“None.” 

Nanami nods. 

Gojo is untouched and pristine, except he still hasn't blinked. And his pupils are pin-prick small. And there's a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. 

Nanami has seen this before — only a few times, but a few times is enough to imprint it on his mind forever. 

He takes a deep breath again, lets his concern simmer low in his gut, just below the place where it would hurt to hold it. 

“Are you alright?” Nanami asks, because it's the first step towards establishing where they are. 

“Yes, I'm fine,” Gojo answers. “And you?” 

That's good — that he is thinking about more than whatever's going on in his brain. Or it's concerning — that he's not aware of the strange altered consciousness he's slipped into, worried more for others than himself, stuck in saving people mode. 

“I'm alright,” Nanami replies, knowing that he doesn't look it. “We should—” 

Before he can finish the sentence, another chunk of the factory roof detaches and crashes to the ground with a snap and a boom, sending a wave of heat out through the blown-out windows, the force of it cresting over Nanami's skin. Smoke coaxes irritated tears from his eyes as he blinks away the particles suffocating the air around them. 

Gojo's hair and clothes don't move. He finally blinks, though—once, a rapid flutter. 

Nanami takes a step closer. 

“Satoru,” he says, calmly, making his tone soft. “You can release it now.” 

Anyone else would think that Gojo hadn’t heard him — his face doesn’t change at all, and he doesn’t move his head in a nod or a shake, nor does he say anything. But Nanami knows better. He can see it in Gojo’s eyes that he’s aware. 

The problem is probably that he’s too aware. Every tiny thing around them could be a threat to him, if the Six Eyes are interpreting them that way. When the world exists as trillions of tiny component parts making up the whole, but you have the ability to perceive and analyse every one of those trillion component parts individually, the whole gets lost. 

There are also things about Gojo’s techniques that are more affected by emotions than he likes to let on. Two of his first-year students were just hurt and in imminent danger — as was Nanami, his husband. It isn’t easy to let your defenses down in those circumstances. 

But he has to try. 

“Satoru,” Nanami coaxes again, stepping closer again, reaching his hand out and feeling it brush up against that unfeeling, infinite space. “It’s over. We’re safe. Let it down, so I can touch you.” 

Gojo's pupils dilate a fraction, as though attempting to focus. The emergence of a black hole amongst crystal clear skies, expanding and contracting. He stares at Nanami with that electric, threatening, unnatural intensity; a predator honing in on its prey. By all rights, Nanami should be scared of this alien creature in front of him. His heartbeat is telling him to be. 

Before anything, though, Satoru is a human being. Nanami loves him in all his forms, sees his humanity in all his forms, sees him. He's learnt to breathe past the threat of Gojo's unnerving Six Eyes, learnt what it means to see blue in his eyes, not always the sky or water or the cosmos and black holes, but just blue. 

Gojo's lips part. He exhales. 

“Can't.” 

Nanami’s hand still presses up against the invisible cocoon. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

Gojo's pupils oscillate wildly. He remains just an inch or so too tall. 

“Yes.” 

Nanami sighs but nods, dropping his hand. 

“Then we should go home.” 

Gojo shifts uncomfortably at that, blinking again. 

“We need to report back,” he states, as if that has ever been his priority after a mission and not ice cream or treating his students or finding somewhere private where he can kiss Nanami for a minute or two. This wasn't even his mission. 

“I will sort that out,” Nanami offers. “We can leave now.” 

Gojo nods and — as much as he doesn't want to — Nanami turns his back on him, stepping slowly towards the veil that's only five or so metres away. He can feel Gojo following him, thankfully — as he intended by turning away. They pass through the liquid darkness, away from the glare of the burning warehouse, and Nanami is struck again by the difference in light levels. It's night-time and there are few streetlamps here. Most of the illumination on the surrounding buildings comes from fire-engine lights, red strobes flashing everywhere. He can barely see for a good few seconds, squinting in the dark after his eyes had become so accustomed to the white blaze, the ghost of flames dancing on his retinas. 

The veil dissolves behind them, and the light of the fire floods the entire block, smoke and embers drifting in the wind over their shoulders. 

People start moving around them, suddenly, men in reflective uniforms, some police officers. Voices rise to shouts. 

Nanami thinks of the flash-bangs of repeated explosions, of Gojo staring directly into the firestorm the entire time, never flinching, never shielding himself from the light, only from the heat and the physical threat of the curse. 

Never shielding himself from the light. 

He pivots back to the other man, immediately focused on his unprotected eyes, bandages nowhere to be seen. 

Gojo tries to look around, then, searching for something, gaze not quite fixing on anything. 

“The kids?” he asks, more frantic now. “Where are—” 

“I sent them back to the school, in one of the cars,” Nanami explains. “They weren't hurt badly. They’re alright.” 

Gojo blinks repeatedly, then raises his hand to rub at the corner of one of his eyes. 

“We're going home,” Nanami says, simple and to the point. He's not having an argument about this. 

Gojo doesn't fight him. 

Nanami leads him to the remaining car, knowing that his vision can probably more easily focus on Nanami's faint residuals than on his actual physical form. Amidst the sounds of the factory burning down to its skeleton, and the emergency services starting to fight the blaze, and the flashes of fierce firelight, Nanami guides Gojo into the backseat. He directs the driver to their home. He calls Yaga on the way, informing him they won't be coming back to the school for a debrief, and they'll write their reports tomorrow. The man understands the implicit meaning of what Nanami is saying without him having to spell it out. He reassures them that Maki and Inumaki are both fine, and resting now that Ieiri has seen to them. Nanami feels a fraction of the tension in his body releasing at that news, and he passes it on to Gojo, who nods. 

Nanami tries not to spend too much time observing him during the journey, but it's difficult not to glance across every now and then, especially in such an unusual silence. He feels antsy, eager to get Satoru home. This… glitch in his innate ability only strikes when he's fatigued. He must need rest. 

Getting out of the car and into their apartment happens on the same kind of autopilot. Nanami walks ahead, Gojo behind in a placid sort of trance. 

The front door closes after them with a click. Gojo stands in the genkan, silently pushing off his shoes in the dark. Nanami puts his key in the lock and turns it, flicking the latch lock too, then looks up at Gojo. 

“It's locked,” he states. 

Gojo looks up at him in return, pupils still shifting in size. 

Nanami reaches out — finds infinity against his fingers. 

“I'm fine,” Gojo insists, voice still neutral. 

Nanami resists the urge to raise an eyebrow and instead gestures at his chest. “Your jacket.” 

Gojo takes it off, slowly, hanging it on his peg as Nanami does the same. It's only for the sake of normality — Nanami’s is burnt and soot-stained, destined to be discarded, but shrugging it off, hanging it up; it's the routine Gojo needs. 

There's one small table lamp turned on in the living room, the one they sometimes leave on when they go out. It's enough to see by, but not so much as to be too painful for Gojo's unprotected eyes. 

Nanami steps into the main space, breathing in the familiar scent of their shared apartment, hoping that it might seep through the barrier around his husband. He turns to see. 

Gojo is standing just inside the living room, staring into space. 

Nanami gets near to him, raising his hands to Gojo's upper arms, letting them sink softly onto the unwielding surface of his infinity. He rubs his thumbs back and forth just as he would if he was really making contact. 

“Satoru.” 

Blue eyes slide to him, still too wide. His eyelids twitch on an almost-microscopic scale; Nanami can only see it up close. 

“Kento,” Satoru says, weighted down with something. 

They're home. It's safe here. He should be able to relax. 

Kento longs to take his hand, to feel the touch of his skin, his warmth. 

There's an effort needed, somewhere. An untangling that Satoru must perform himself. Kento can only do so much, only guide him towards it, be some tranquil glow of light in the distance. 

“You know where we are?” 

Satoru nods, the quirk of a smile on the corner of his lips. “Home, of course.” 

Kento smiles delicately at him, still moving his thumbs back and forth. 

“Yes, home. The door is locked. The kids are all fine. I am, too. There's nothing more to do.” He sighs. “Release your technique, love.” 

Satoru's skin is pale, even in the warmth of their living room. 

He looks like he's trying. 

…Sometimes letting go is more painful than holding on. 

Kento slips one hand to the back of Satoru's head, no soft hair brushing against his fingers, and gently pulls towards himself. He knows Satoru can feel the pressure, that Satoru knows what he's telling him to do. He folds into Kento's arms, face against his shoulder, arms rising to circle his back. There's still no heat against Kento's skin. It's like hugging something that isn't really there, just a heavy presence. A moon orbiting its planet. 

Kento takes an audibly deep breath and releases it gradually. 

“Try again.” 

He takes another, releases it. 

Satoru matches him, but he tenses up instead of relaxing on the exhale. 

Kento holds his head more firmly against himself. 

Satoru rotates his neck, pressing the infinity-shape of what should be his nose into the junction of Kento's shoulder and neck. 

“Easy, my love. Take your time.” 

A small shiver passes through Satoru's body, and then there’s a faint ripple in his Limitless, too. 

Another deep breath into Kento's heavy lungs. Another release. 

Again. Again. Again. 

“Sorry,” Satoru murmurs, some unknown stretch of time later. 

Kento cards his fingers in the space just above white hair, the exact pattern he usually does to ease headaches. 

“Shouldn't… be like this,” Satoru goes on, seeming to have to force the words out. “Need to get a grip. Sorry.” He breathes shakily, tone turning harsher but still too unfeeling. “I can push through it, keep going until it drops.” 

Not if Kento has anything to say about it. He can sense Satoru’s focus, his attempts to push the barrier away, but it doesn't work like that. 

“Just be with me,” he murmurs, softening where Satoru is turning to granite; wax in sunlight where Satoru is ice at night. “That's all you need to do.” 

Even if it hurts. 

He continues the deep breaths, waiting for Satoru to loosen again. 

Fingers threading through imaginary hair. The hum of their fridge-freezer. Satoru's palms scant millimetres above Kento's spine. 

“You smell of smoke,” Satoru says, quietly. 

An understatement. Kento absolutely stinks. It's cloying and choking, acrid from the unnatural sources of fuel; things that shouldn't be burned. He makes a mental note to get himself checked by Shoko tomorrow, especially his lungs. 

“Quite the stench, I know,” Kento says, feeling another chip fall away from the marble block of concern lodged in his chest. 

Something is reaching through. 

Smell is good. 

He feels the barrier ripple again. 

“Good, Satoru,” he encourages, making his voice as soothing as it can be. “That's it.” 

His fingers dip a fraction inward towards Satoru's scalp, then rise once more. 

Satoru breathes deeply with him, exhaling on another tremble. 

“Just be with you,” he says, like it's registering in his brain now, his weight falling a little heavier on Kento's shoulder. 

“Yes. Just be with me.” 

Kento closes his eyes and lets himself do the same. Just him and Satoru. Just being. 

Another ripple, an extended quiver in the infinite space, the matchstick spark of cursed energy slowly snuffing out. 

Satoru breathes in. 

And then, finally, with a sighing exhale, Limitless is gone. 

Satoru's body sinks into Kento's arms, the exhausted, human weight of him, and Kento can feel him again — the textures in his clothes, the warmth in his soft skin, the feathery tufts on his head, his cold nose pushing into Kento's neck, his long arms circling Kento's back, his damp breath on Kento’s throat. 

Kento's fingers finally slide into his hair, finally run through the strands, finally massage gently into his scalp, holding his head in place. 

Satoru makes a quiet, keening noise — of relief or pain, Kento doesn't know. Perhaps both. 

He's trembling, very faintly. 

“It's alright,” Kento soothes, kissing the side of his head — whatever's closest. “You did it. I've got you.” 

He wants to rock him from side to side, to sway in a comforting way, but he thinks Satoru probably needs stillness. He rests his chin on Satoru's head, keeping him tucked into his neck. Secure in his arms. 

They stay like that for a while, in the silence. 

Satoru moves first. He shifts very slightly away, drawing in evenly-timed breaths. Kento loosens his grip. 

“Kento?” Satoru mutters, lips brushing over Kento's collar and the skin above it. 

“Mmm?” 

“Love you.” 

Kento smiles. “Love you too.” 

Then he pulls back, putting enough distance between them that he can look at Satoru's face again while still keeping hold of him. 

Satoru's blue eyes are more tired, now — almost half-closed, pupils dilated too wide. Taking in too much. He's still not all there. 

Kento sweeps a hand over his forehead and cheek, combing his hair out of his eyes in the process. 

“What do you need?” 

Satoru swallows. “Don't know.” 

That's okay. Kento can work with don't know. 

“Headache?” he asks. 

Satoru dips his head in a shallow nod. 

“Eyes?” 

The same. 

Kento nods back. 

The Six Eyes are innate. He can never switch them off. 

Kento slips his hand down into Satoru's, and starts to walk — across the room, into the hall, towards the bathroom, their socked feet padding quietly over the tatami and wood floors. Satoru follows on autopilot, still moving in a way that belies how warped his vision must be. 

Kento is never more grateful for the small fortune they spent on their bathroom than in moments like this. Their walk-in shower is huge, with space for them both, and the walls are all inset with small lights that illuminate the room enough to see by, but at a level and temperature that is least irritating to Satoru's eyes. They worked it out together — the perfect balance. While Satoru had tried to brush aside his needs, Kento insisted they get it right. 

He switches those little natural-toned lights on now, leaving the overhead one off. There's a short bench by the sink which he leads Satoru to, subtly pushing and pulling the hand he's holding to guide Satoru into sitting. 

The older man stays there, motionless, while Kento closes the door and opens the cabinet that has some medicines in it. He finds painkillers, knowing their effect will only be minimal, but they're better than nothing. Satoru is pliant enough to take them without a fuss, drinking half the glass of water he's handed, too. 

After that, Kento starts to undress himself. The pattern continues: what he does, Satoru follows. 

He moves gingerly, undoing his shirt buttons with economical precision but hesitating as he goes to slide the fabric off his shoulders. His limbs look leaden, fingers trembling, his expression pinched in discomfort as the cloth shifts over his skin. He gets one arm out of its sleeve, then pauses. 

Abandoning his own shirt while it's half-unbuttoned, Kento reaches for Satoru's other arm, cupping his palm around the elbow. He unfastens the button on the sleeve cuff, then pulls slowly, until the shirt comes free and pools on the floor. He undoes Satoru's belt next, then his fly, letting him hold onto his arms to raise himself up off the bench enough for Kento to shimmy his trousers and underwear down his hips. He lifts his legs one at a time, so Kento can pull them all the way off. Then he's left sitting in only his socks, which would be an amusing image under normal circumstances. Kento kneels on the cool lino floor, and peels the socks off just as carefully, trying not to let the material drag on his skin more than necessary. He stands up and takes Satoru's shaky hand again, leading him behind the glass panel of the shower and sitting him down on the wooden stool they keep in here. 

Kento quickly strips off too, noting the twinge in his middle and across his left leg where he'd taken a couple of hits from the curse. He gives them a fleeting check in the mirror, relieved to find they're no more than deep bruises, as he thought. 

He joins Satoru in the shower stall, turning on the water and testing the temperature against his hand first. When it's at the right point between warm and scalding, he pivots to Satoru. 

“Are you ready?” 

Satoru watches the spray hit the ground beneath them, noticing the tiny splashes against his ankles, and nods. 

Kento turns the knob that switches from the handheld showerhead to the huge overhead one. The water hits his head and the back of his neck, cool for a couple of seconds before the hot stream comes through. It's good — a gentle cascade over his skin, the right temperature to start to relax his taut body. 

Satoru shivers, once, under the flow, but otherwise doesn't move. His hair flattens against his head. 

Kento stands facing him, letting the water roll over himself until he's thoroughly soaked. 

He remembers the first time this happened. Satoru had resisted him the entire way; deflecting concern, his smile plastered on too thick to be convincing, before he'd simply warped away. The second time was the same, except Kento had anticipated his going and asked him not to leave. Anger and stubbornness followed after, when Kento had persisted with trying to help, Satoru’s words cutting and acidic, spat from the mouth of a defensive, cornered animal. 

Don't patronise me. 

Kento remembers it so clearly because of how it hurt. One thing he hopes he has never done and will never do when the man he loves is in pain is patronise him. 

But it hurt more when Satoru started babbling about himself — words that disparaged himself, undermined his discomfort, made a mockery of his suffering. Words that revealed years’ worth of managing overstimulation alone, a lifetime of denying his pain, of working through it. Some of those words sounded like they came from other voices, the syntax not Satoru's own — ghosts from the early years of his life, haunting him still, their influence ultimately perpetuated only by himself. Kento loves him so deeply that hearing it all had made his ribcage ache, his heart begging to force comfort on his then-boyfriend if need be, his mind racing for quick solutions. But there was never going to be a quick solution to the tangle of expectations and past experiences and pain that shaped the way Satoru perceived himself in his moments of weakness. Nor to his rarely-spoken belief that he didn't deserve the kindness Kento offered him. 

It took hard work for them to get here — Satoru letting Kento do this, letting himself be vulnerable. It took Kento opening up, too. For so long, they dealt with their struggles differently — but always alone. 

Kento isn't ignorant of the significance of where they are today. 

He knows exactly how much it means to have Satoru sat before him, quiet and pliant and naked, allowing himself to be cared for. 

He reaches for the shampoo first, squirting some out into his hand and roughly scrubbing it into his own soot-stained hair, letting Satoru just sit under the shower and adjust to the feeling. Kento quickly washes his own body, too, so he's ready to focus on his husband — who appears to be watching the bubbles swirl down the drain, but Kento isn't so sure what he's seeing is quite so straightforward. 

Then it's Satoru's turn. Kento turns off the shower, a little chill creeping in from the air. He’s slow with his movements as he pushes the shampoo into Satoru's hair, sweeping across his head with the curved flat of his palm a few times first before he starts running his fingers through it, gently rubbing back and forth so the soap lathers up. Satoru doesn't hum in pleasure or chatter like he usually does when they do this just for fun, or just for the intimacy of it. His hands rest loose in his lap. 

Kento's knees press up against Satoru's bent ones. Another point of contact. 

Another shiver runs through Satoru's body as Kento massages his head, even with the minimal pressure he's using. He's not sure if that's a good or a bad thing, so he doesn't spend too much longer doing it. He puts the hand-held shower on again and carefully tilts Satoru's head back, his still too-blank blue eyes staring up at the point where the wall meets the ceiling, not at Kento's face. 

It's alright. 

Kento has learnt that it's alright. Satoru's brain is just processing. 

Only get concerned if he’s completely unresponsive, Shoko had said. Or if there's other alarming symptoms, like his nose or eyes leaking blood or whatever. Probably call me then. 

Satoru had rolled his eyes up, then to the windows of whatever room they were in for that conversation, gazing out and pretending they weren't there. It was as close to agreement as they were going to get. 

Kento moves to stand behind him, putting the edge of one hand along his hairline to stop any soap getting in his eyes as he rinses the shampoo out. It's a satisfying task, at least, watching the thin jets of water shift Satoru's hair around until there are no more suds. The white strands tend to look almost translucent when they're wet, the pink of his scalp showing through. Kento finds his conditioner, quickly working that in too, rubbing his palm in small circles on the back of Satoru's head, some of the weight of it in Kento's hand. Soft tissue and bone and brain in his palm; a brain that does too much for its own good, sometimes. The world's most powerful brain, probably, the firing of those synapses and neurons enough to level civilisations if he chose to, an astounding complexity of techniques and innate abilities and intelligence housed in that skull. 

In Kento's hand, it's just warm and heavy. 

He knows Satoru usually leaves conditioner in for a few minutes, but he'd like to get the overhead shower back on soon before they get too chilled, so he rinses it out with the same methodical care as before. He sets the flow over them to little more than a drizzle as he rubs an unscented bar soap between his palms until it gets foamy, then bends forward to smooth it over Satoru's back. There are washcloths and sponges and a scrubbing brush in easy reach, but Kento saw how sensitive Satoru was when he was taking off his shirt. 

It's another thing they'd managed to talk about, eventually. 

“I'd prefer your hands on me,” Satoru had said with a wiggle in his eyebrows, a lewd joke to cover what was an exposing truth. 

The smooth surface of Kento’s hands is much kinder on his skin. 

He rubs the soap in in soothing circles, over the broad and defined stretch of muscles across Satoru's shoulders, down his back to the shallow dimples either side of his lower spine. The water trickling down on them washes some of it away as he goes. He steps around in front of Satoru again, carefully lowering himself to one knee to rub the soap into his long legs, lightly kneading his calf muscles and thighs. Arms next, one at a time, from shoulder to elbow to forearm, a good scrub at the hair under his armpits — which would normally make Satoru giggle, ticklish as he is, but this time he just flinches, slightly. Kento retreats quickly, as soon as he's done. Then he holds Satoru's left arm, easily bending his elbow joint into a relaxed position, and starts to smooth over his inner elbow and wrist in slow lines — nothing necessary, just movements aimed at soothing and grounding him. He strokes Satoru’s elegant hand and between each finger, turning his gold wedding ring so the water gets underneath it, skin slippery in his grip, rubbing his thumb in circles across the back of his hand, then turning it over to do the same on the meat of his palms. 

“It's nice,” Satoru murmurs. 

Kento looks down at him as he's gently massaging a knuckle, glad to see his head turned towards him. 

“Good,” Kento replies tenderly, moving to his right arm to repeat the process. 

Then there's just his chest to go. It usually feels intimate in a way the other parts don't — the front of him, face to face, the closest place to his heart. Kento moves his soapy hand across Satoru's toned abdominals, the ridges of them and the creases in his belly from being sat down rolling under his touch. He cleans the dips of Satoru's waist, the edges of his chest, his collarbones, the hollow of his throat. That's the one Satoru tenses up at. 

He’s put infinity up more than once in the past, when Kento touched the faded scar on his neck. 

He doesn't this time. 

Kento’s hand travels lower, not making any sudden moves, to wash his chest, brushing over his pecs and nipples before settling in the centre, over his sternum. Over his heart. It's good to feel it beating against him, steady and strong. A bit fast, but that's to be expected. 

He wishes he could send a message to it through this touch — say it's alright, say you aren't alone, say rest, a signal from the blood in his own palm to the arteries in Satoru's chest and the ventricles of his heart, the two of them creating their own circulatory system, joined together deeper than the flesh. He wishes he could take some of the strain into his own body. Or, more simply, just make it disappear entirely. 

He hopes Satoru feels his love, anyway. It's in every action he does. 

He withdraws his hand after a minute, letting the water trickle down over Satoru's flushed chest. Then he guides the soap into Satoru's hand, trusting him to hand it back if he wants Kento to do it — but he doesn't, lathering up enough to wash between his legs. 

Then it's only a matter of turning up the shower lever again to rinse away the suds. 

Kento stands in front of him, directing little streams of water off himself towards the soapier areas, Satoru lifting his arms and rotating to get at all the crevices. He settles back into his seated position when they're done, a bit more of a slump to his posture now. 

Kento raises his hand to Satoru's head, stroking his hair back out of his eyes, revealing a blurry blue gaze that's in line with Kento's abdomen. 

Satoru sees the purpling skin, then, even in the dimness of the room. Kento can see him noticing it and watches as his hand rises to touch it, feather-light. 

“You're hurt,” he says, slowly, eyebrows furrowing. 

“I'm fine,” Kento replies, letting him stare and ghost his fingertips over it. 

“I wish I could heal you,” Satoru says after a long moment. 

Kento looks at him and the intensity of his gaze, zeroed in on the mottled patch of blue-purple. 

“It's just a bruise, Satoru.” 

The older man pauses for a while, still staring, then slowly turns his head and presses his ear to the bruise. It feels a little tender under the pressure, but doesn't hurt — not that Kento would mind anyway. He's suffered for worse reasons. He shuffles as close as he can get, one leg between Satoru's seated ones and one outside them, and covers Satoru's other ear with his hand, cradling him to himself. 

The water sprays down over them like heavy rain, running from Kento's chest into Satoru's hair, trickling down Satoru's forehead and closed eyes and cheeks. 

The white noise of the shower is good — loud enough to mask the sounds beyond the walls of the bathroom, but not so loud it irritates Satoru's senses. It's a predictable sound, too, consistent in its faint overlapping rhythms of each tiny, hissing jet and the heavier noise of fat droplets falling off their bodies and hitting the floor below. 

Kento's heartbeat must be good, too. His breaths. Satoru is listening, Kento knows. 

The water is also the kind of soft physical stimulation Satoru needs, a constant patter against his skin. The heat eases the aches of Kento's muscles, too. He wants it to wash them of the day, clean them of expectations and duty, cleanse Satoru of pain. Maybe it could be this simple. 

Naked skin pressed to naked skin. 

He feels Satoru's shoulders rising and falling with his breathing, feels the puffs of air against his wet stomach. He strokes his thumb slowly over the space behind Satoru's ear, soaked hair shifting under his touch. 

Kento doesn't know what Satoru is thinking or seeing or hearing or feeling when he's like this. Satoru tried to describe it once, but the details were scant and Kento understood that it was something he likely couldn't put into words — something that he and he alone, of every living being on this planet, has ever experienced. It isn't comprehensible to Kento, and that's okay. He doesn't need to know what it's like; he only needs to know how to help. 

The whole bathroom is steamy now, condensation fogging up the glass of the shower screen and the mirror on the wall above the sink. The air is thick with the humidity. 

Kento closes his eyes and lets the water running from his head down the back of his neck, his spine, his legs, and chest, lull him into a quiet state of mind, still holding Satoru's head against himself. He loses track of time for a little while. 

He thinks of the fire this evening, the burning heat and the smoke, the white blaze in his eyes, flash-bangs bursting in his vision over and over again. Invulnerable Gojo: the eye of the storm, the Six Eyes in the glare of the explosions, the cool blue of his irises in the red, molten building surrounding him. A landscape painted in two colours. 

Fire and water. 

The steam and the peaceful patter of droplets in the shower, the extinguishing of the flames in Satoru's head. The loving cradle of Nanami's arms, Satoru within them. The semi-darkness. Their breathing. Their heartbeats synchronising. The quiet. The warmth. Two humans, made of flesh and blood and bone. 

The places where their bodies touch; no barrier in their home, no infinity needed in this small, safe room. 

Satoru's hands find their place around Kento's lower back, hugging him in return. 

Kento's eyes crack open, his vision blurred. He takes his hand off Satoru's ear and lets him sit back a fraction — just enough to look up at Kento even with his arms still around his back. 

His eyes have gone dark and heavy, face tired but fond. 

Kento strokes his hand over his slick white hair. His fingertips are wrinkled like prunes. 

Water droplets cling to Satoru's eyelashes then fall down his cheeks as he blinks, staring up at Kento, indulging in the motions of his hand like a docile cat. 

Kento cups his cheek. 

“Are you with me?” 

Satoru gives him a weak nod. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet under the sound of the shower running. “Sorry.” 

Kento brings his other hand to Satoru's face, too, and runs his thumbs along the height of his cheeks, keeping his head tilted up towards him. “No apologies. You know that.” 

Satoru's expression does something complicated. 

“I love you, Satoru,” he reminds him. “So it's no work. It never will be.” 

His blue eyes glisten, twitching slightly at the small splashes of water that get in them, the whites gone bloodshot. 

Kento smiles softly, his own hair dripping into his eyes, too. 

Satoru leans forward and presses his lips to Kento's stomach, just to the side of his navel, as gentle as the kiss of the trickling water. Kento feels a familiar flutter of bright, grateful affection in his chest. 

Then Satoru's arms fall away from Kento's body, and he withdraws. 

Kento rotates to the shower controls, turning the lever off. The stream of water falters and stops, the last dregs falling on the back of Kento's neck with a harsh splat. He takes Satoru's hands and guides him up again, even if he maybe doesn't need to now. They step out from behind the glass and Kento grabs their towels, passing Satoru his own. 

Satoru dries himself lethargically, still being cautious with his sensitive skin, leaning one hand on the counter to keep his balance when he runs the towel over his legs. Once he's upright again and finished rubbing at his hair, Kento pats the spots on his chest he missed, then dabs lightly at his face. 

Satoru's brow tightens when the fabric gets near his eyes. 

“Do you want to cover them now?” Kento asks. 

Satoru nods, so Kento nips off to their bedroom to grab well-worn lounge shirts and shorts for them both, and a roll of soft bandages from Satoru's store of them. It's cool out in the hallway compared to the steamy bathroom, but not cold. He returns to find Satoru gingerly brushing his teeth over the sink, with just water and no toothpaste. It's better than nothing. Kento knows Satoru won't eat anything until the morning at the earliest, but he'll grab himself something small once he's got Satoru settled, so he doesn't brush his own teeth yet. 

Putting on their comfy clothes doesn't take long. When Satoru's arms and damp head pop out through the appropriate holes in the t-shirt, Kento takes his hands again, giving them a small squeeze. He brings one up to his face and lays a gentle kiss on the inside of Satoru’s wrist, the skin warm where his blood is close to the surface. Then he kisses the heel of Satoru's palm, then the height, then his fingers. 

These little kisses, light as they are, seem to be helping Satoru this evening. Maybe they're the right kind of stimulation, too. 

When they separate, Kento picks up the bandages and opens the packaging, unrolling a short stretch. 

Satoru pushes his hair up and stands facing him, waiting. 

Kento passes him the end of it. 

Part of Kento's soul aches at the thought of not being able to see his husband's eyes, when they're such a clear window into how he's feeling. Satoru has never been able to hide his pain from his eyes like he can with the rest of his face and body. But it's alright. Kento has learnt this, too. How to interpret the subtler signals. And Satoru has learnt how to tell him — what he feels, needs, and wants. 

Satoru holds the end of the bandage against the back of his head, anchoring its origin point, while Kento holds the roll. He looks at Kento and everything is there in his expression, all the love he carries, all the pain, all the tenderness, tiredness, and troubles. He looks at Kento with something close to awe, in moments like this, and Kento isn't quite sure what to do with it, where to put it, but he knows it goes somewhere within him. It burrows in and makes itself a home. 

Satoru never had someone do these things for him until Kento, and Kento never had someone trust him so completely until Satoru. Devotion flows from him into Satoru as it flows from Satoru into him, both in equal measure. 

He closes the distance between them again, kissing Satoru's soft lips, all warm and alive, clean and sweet, eyes fluttering shut. 

When they open again as he pulls back, Satoru's are still watching him like before, seeming not to have closed at all. Kento doesn't mind — it's not like Satoru can't see through his eyelids most of the time anyway. He steps back and unwinds the bandages a bit more. 

Satoru stares, hand still on the back of his head, blue eyes focused and clear, if tired. 

A last look — for now. 

Kento holds the bandage up, pulling it taut against the side of Satoru's head, in line with his temple. His heart gives its little ache as the blue irises he loves disappear behind pale eyelids and white eyelashes, then behind the first layer of cloth. It's best to cover one eye at a time initially, slanting the bandage so it goes from slightly under the eye and over the space between his eyebrows, then across the lowest part of his forehead, rather than pressing down on the bridge of his nose, before winding it around the back of his head. Satoru slides his fingers out from underneath once the end piece is held in place. Kento wraps in this formation a couple of times on either side, then does every other layer straight across, still being careful not to make it too tight over his nose, or too loose that it'll fall off while he sleeps. 

Satoru's breaths deepen and slow. 

Kento finishes a bit before the end of the roll, not wanting to make it too bulky. He keeps a couple of fingers on it to stop it from slipping as he reaches for the scissors he left by the sink, raising the blades up to his face, barely centimetres from his eyes — a threat, coming from almost anyone else. Satoru doesn't even flinch. Kento makes sure none of his hair is in the way, then cuts through the cloth. Then it's just a matter of tucking the end in somewhere that will stay secure. He runs his fingers up through Satoru's hair a few times to pull out any strands that snagged in the layers. 

“Perfect,” Satoru says quietly, without prompting, head tilted very slightly down, hidden gaze directly aligned with Kento's. 

Kento smiles, and lightly scratches Satoru's undercut at the back, fingertips brushing the edge of the bandage. 

He guides Satoru to the door again, then down the hall to their room, pulling back the covers on their bed. Satoru climbs in carefully, movements still stiff. Kento follows after, glad to find that the sheets aren't too cold. They'd warm the bed soon enough, but he'd rather Satoru didn't have to suffer even those few short minutes of being chilled, especially after a hot shower. 

Satoru reaches for him, rolling onto his right side so his head is tilted towards Kento's, his left arm coming to rest on Kento's chest. Kento brings his own right arm up to hold Satoru's hand, keeping it pressed to his heart. Satoru's legs tuck up against Kento's under the covers. His skin is hot and smooth and clean. All remnants of smoke and soot are gone, nothing but the mild scent of soap in Kento's nose. 

“Thank you.” 

Kento turns his head and looks at the dips in the bandages where Satoru's eyes are, feeling that ever-present stare on him in the darkness. 

Satoru's breaths puff gentle heat against his shoulder — which Satoru kisses, next, through the fabric of Kento's t-shirt. 

“I'm so glad,” Satoru continues, a tired murmur as he settles. 

“Glad about what?” Kento asks. 

Satoru breathes in, and out. 

“That I have you.” 

Kento looks at him, at his now-relaxed face, and leans over to kiss his cheek, letting his lips linger against his warm skin. 

He doesn't know if Satoru will be able to sleep. Sometimes his brain is able to switch off quickly, longing for rest; other times it's wired and impossible to silence, even in their normal day-to-day life. An incident like tonight's makes it unpredictable. 

But that's alright, too. 

Kento has learnt this, like all the other things he's come to understand about Satoru: nothing matters to him so much as Kento just being with him. Just staying. 

Gojo Satoru can stand the weight of the world, can push through pain and discomfort to do the job he has to, the job he loves. But he doesn't have to do it alone. Kento would find him through scorching flames, through anything his more vulnerable body could withstand, to stand beside him. Kento can hold infinity in his hands and know it will shrink to nothing, surrendering Satoru's body into his arms, human and bendable. Kento will find him, again and again, amongst the smouldering rubble, in the flash of explosions, in the carnage of this life, and kiss his palms, call him my love, bring him to water.  

Soon, he'll turn onto his side and Satoru will seek out the heat and solidity of him, curling himself into Kento's body, finding the places where their circulatory systems join, where the lifeblood can flow from one of them to the other and back again. 

You're safe, Kento will remind him, wordlessly; wrapping Satoru in his arms, enclosing him in the invulnerable cocoon of his hold, their bed, their home. 

Just be with me. 

I'm glad I have you.