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Nanami survives Shibuya. Barely, but it’s more than any of the rest of them can say. Gojo and Sukuna leave the city in ruins — nowadays Gojo dreams about it. He dreams of Megumi, sweet Yuuji who only ever wanted his friends to be okay, Nobara in Ieiri’s infirmary, and- Nanami. Nanami .
He’s alive. As expected. “It takes more than a silly curse to take my Nanamin out,” Gojo boasts to a quietly sleeping Nanami, shivering in the cool air of the infirmary. He needs to fill the silence, needs to do something to keep his hands busy — his left hand, threaded in Nanami’s, fiddling with the hem of the latter’s hospital gown. “You’re doing great.” He leans in to press a gentle kiss to Nanami’s forehead, minding the burns. He moves down to press another kiss to Nanami’s hollow cheek.
Everyone, in the end, is okay. As “okay” as they can be, at least. Two of them are missing eyes. Inumaki is missing an entire arm — Todo from Kyoto, missing a hand and unable to use his technique, demoted to Grade 3. What haven’t they lost? Megumi is comatose like his sister. Gojo’s son . Holy shit, that’s his son . His son is comatose, lying almost-asleep in a bed somewhere. Gojo hasn’t visited him. It’s selfish, but he can’t bear to see Megumi in such a way.
Nanami, in one of his more lucid moments, forces him to go anyway.
And then he visits. Every day, until Megumi wakes, weak from the aftereffects of Sukuna’s possession and his several-month coma. He doesn’t just visit Megumi. He checks in on Nobara, who’s quite literally missing half her face (but she swears she’s fine, it’ll take more than that to take her down), brings Nanami different kinds of flowers every day, and dotes on Yuuji, indulging him in Smash competitions and running around the campus playing Pokemon Go with him. It’s normalcy that he needs, Gojo thinks. It’s what they all need, right now.
“I’m not done being a sorcerer,” Nanami tells him one day, to his surprise. He sits up in bed, staring down at his burned hands. “I believe there’s more to be done. Whether I can do that or not…”
“You’ll do what you can,” Gojo finishes, and Nanami nods. “Okay.” Gojo doesn’t have more to say than that. Nanami’s an adult. Grown. But Gojo- fuck , he just doesn’t want to lose anyone else. Not when he’s nearly just lost everything. Everyone. But he just leans in close and lets his lips brush Nanami’s brow.
Rebuild. Or something. That’s what they’re supposed to do, right? So Gojo rebuilds his home from the bottom up — tends to the people he loves like they’re flowers in his decimated garden. It’s only fair that he fixes things now, since he ruined it all. Or something.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Nanami tells him seriously. “Without you-”
“Save it, Nanamiiin,” Gojo hums, tapping Nanami’s lips with a cold finger. “You rest up.” Deflecting, as he always does, but Nanami doesn’t argue this time, only closes his eyes — eye — with a long sigh.
Weeks pass. Megumi gets a little stronger. He toys around with Ten Shadows, only with Yuuji’s help. He hasn’t left his bed just yet, and Ieiri still keeps a watchful eye on him, but he can summon his rabbits and he’s lucid enough to constantly antagonize Gojo during his weekly visits.
He visits less nowadays, but it doesn’t mean he cares any less. It knocks the breath right from his chest whenever he enters that little room and sees Megumi either asleep in the bed or sitting up, lip curled in disgust. It’s a familiar sight, and that warms his heart just a little.
Nanami takes to pacing the halls, once he’s found his footing. It’s not uncommon to see him drifting around near the infirmary like a ghost, hand white-knuckled around a cane. “It’s temporary ,” he tells Gojo many a time, always mildly annoyed. “Don’t you have things to do, Satoru?”
Just the sound of Nanami saying his name has butterflies committing the third world war in Gojo’s chest. He plasters a grin on his face and leans on the wall, making kissy faces at Nanami and pouting when his advances are rejected. “Not now,” he says cheekily. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m getting my exercise,” Nanami says blankly. “Go play with your students.”
Gojo pouts harder. “You’re annoying ,” he whines, but prances off, not before throwing a “See you, Nanamin!” over his shoulder. He looks completely carefree, but Nanami knows better. It’s all he can do in the wake of his own destruction. And sure, maybe Sukuna contributed a good bit, but all Gojo can think about is the people who died . The entire city they leveled out. The people who could’ve been of more use than Gojo as he is now.
It’s late at night that Gojo likes to go up to the roof and think about the stars, alone. He watches them in the ruin of his own making. Talks to them, even. Who knows, one might be Haibara. Geto, even. Gojo can only hope he’s resting somewhere. All Kenjaku did was puppeteer his body around. Gojo’s sure even Kenjaku couldn’t take Geto’s stubborn, willful mind. It was a thing even Gojo himself could not change, not when it mattered most.
That, and the matter that he hadn’t really tried in the first place.
What’s gone is gone. Or something.
There are lots of sayings Gojo can apply to his current situation. Proverbs, phrases, silly things like that. It’s something Nanami might appreciate. In fact, Nanami’s said some of them to him. They don’t mean anything, not when Nanami’s never even said I love you .
Gojo understands, in his own way. Nanami doesn’t say I love you with words — and he ponders this, carefully, watching the stars. Nanami says things like I’m sorry and I love you and thank you with his little gestures, it’s in the way that he moves his hands and touches Gojo’s back and asks him to spend the night after a long day.
A few weeks later, Nanami’s moved back into his apartment, and Gojo follows him. He finds himself perched atop the bed, on his knees behind Nanami’s shirtless back, fumbling with the tin of cream in his hands. “Tell me if it hurts,” he says, creamy fingers hovering just over the burned skin on Nanami’s left side. “Okay?”
“It always hurts,” Nanami says bluntly, and it’s not a complaint. Nanami states everything like a fact. And that’s what it is, it’s just a fact to him. The pain has become secondary. “Go on.”
Gojo massages the cream into Nanami’s shoulder, runs his fingers up and down the latter’s ribs, curves around him and dots light, peppery kisses down his jaw and across his collarbone. “You’re so pretty. My pretty Nanamin.” He murmurs little nothings as he rubs the cream in with tender, light fingers. Gojo has always known how to be sensitive and light, he just hasn’t chosen to show it — he hasn’t needed to show it. And yet now, somehow, he has a whole group of people he cares for. He loves .
Nanami rolls his shoulder, frowning. He’s quiet as Gojo works — he doesn’t turn away from the onslaught of kisses, merely tolerates them, wincing from time to time. He doesn’t say a word, until — “You don’t have to lie.”
Gojo stops, taken aback. It’s unlike Nanami to be this blunt, but — oh well, he should’ve expected this talk was coming. Not to worry, Nanamin, I’m well-prepared in my love for you , he thinks gleefully. “Lie about what, my dear Nanamin?”
Nanami turns to face him, frowning. “I’m not exactly the most desirable, now. The first-years still have trouble looking at me.”
“That’s a lie,” Gojo says, affronted. “Itadori would be screaming if he heard you say such a thing. I think my Nanamin’s just so cute~” He leans in again, but Nanami puts a hand up, blocking him.
“Be honest, Satoru,” he frowns. “Spare me your flattery-”
“It’s not flattery,” Gojo’s voice softens. He’s never seen Nanami look at him — or anyone like this, not since… Haibara. His single eye is pained, not yet watery but desperate . His body language is anything but. “Do you think I’d still be here if I didn’t find you attractive? I don’t date just anyone, you know! I keep ugly people away from me at all times. Why else would I be here, silly Nanamin? Kento, look at me.” He cups Nanami’s jaw, and for a moment, he sees the lanky, floppy-haired first-year from so long ago.
The unburnt side of Nanami’s face goes ever-so-slightly pink. “What.”
“I love you.” It’s not the first time he’s said it. But he hardly ever chooses to say it in the first place. Those are special words, at least the way Gojo sees it. It’s not a phrase you can throw around so lightly — in the jujutsu world, I love you means death. It reeks of promises and commitment and other things Gojo hates. It sounds like throwing your pride away. But he’ll do it, he’s done it once and he’ll do it again, for the man in front of him.
Nanami mumbles something in response, now significantly more pink.
The strangest thing is how people react when Gojo tells them things like I love you. He starts with Megumi, on one of his worse days, when he’s clenching his blanket with his fists, after he snaps at Yuuji to get out and initially closes the door in Gojo’s face. The words make him flush, much like Nanami, but he mutters them back after, allowing Gojo to ruffle his hair and give him a quick one-armed squeeze.
Words, it seems, have an effect on people.
Gojo learns this, somewhat slowly. Obviously, he wouldn’t want to turn out like Suguru. He’s suffered, and he’s learned. Is it pleasant? No. Not at all. Does he want to try? More than anything.
He thinks of Toji, going a lifetime alone and exhausted, everything forsaken for the sake of his son. He wonders if it could have turned out differently, had Megumi's mother lived. He wonders if there are better ways to love. Ways that don’t involve years and years of suffering. Or days of destruction.
His life is a little different, now. His schedule changes. He’s not really the strongest, not anymore — not since he sacrificed his cursed techniques to take out Sukuna. He finds he doesn’t mind much. His days consist of nothing more than rebuilding, everything from the campus to his relationships to the hierarchy. The higher-ups are dead. He applauds Toge and Yuuta.
“You’ve been quiet,” Nanami tells him over dinner, frowning, eye narrowed. “What for?”
“I’ve been thinking,” Gojo says with a bright grin, and this time, it’s real. “Not something you do a lot, huh Nanamin?”
Nanami’s frown only deepens, and Gojo’s laugh fills the kitchen.
It feels better, not holding on to the past. He’s learned to let go of what he can.
Or something.