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And a crack.
The shadow of a woman hovered over Gojo. Her breathing shallow and heavy, fanning over his face. The aroma of sweet vanilla ice cream and strawberries mixing with the tangy smell of red and debris. Her well cut fringes hiding the scrunch of her nose and the grit of her teeth. Arms, painted with scars and bruises, clinging on the broken hilt of the sword.
“You...Idiot.” She whispered, her lashes fluttering close. And the weapon hits the ground with a loud clang. Her knees hitting the ground with a soft thud. Her arms going limp. Utahime stares through him. He stares back, noticing her eyebags and the traces of mascara. The Umber color of her eyes reminding him of autumn.
But the feeling and color of autumn didn’t catch him. But rather the streams of emotions in them.
The hard glint of confidence, pride and will in what she just did.
Her eyes reflected him. And they softened.
She opened her lips, her final words tumbling, a tint of scolding and fondness present. Fading into the winds, carried by the mocking echo of the metal. “I...love...y”
And silence.
The taste of bile scratches his throat. And something burned in his stomach, gnawing him like a beast.
“Yo.” He shook her. Gripping her shoulders tight. “Yo Utahime.”
He expected her -he wanted her - to scream at him, to smack his head and to scold him for being impolite.
But nothing.
“You were finally being honest.” He continues, the smile of his cracking. “You were about to confess your undying love for me.” Has breathing ever been this hard? “Oy, say it again, I have to record it. I’ll add it to my collection of you being cute.”
“What! Delete that this instance!”
“Plus I need more blackmail material.”
“You’re so insufferable!”
“Utahime.” He would’ve frowned at his voice cracking. A weakness. He would’ve thought. “Senpai.”
“What’s this? Another trick huh?” She would say. Annoyance, curiosity and suspicion leaking from her. Yet he will still hear it, the underlying excitement.
Gojo can hear his students screaming at the distance. Louder and clearer than before. But he couldn’t be anymore deaf to it.
He leaned against her, burying his face on the curve of her shoulders. He whispered “Utahime-senpai.”
He waits for her to push him off. To call him a creep.
Nothing.
The cursed energy of his - their - students draw near. They were fine. Bruised and beaten up but they’ll live.
“You idiot! Don’t encourage it!” She sighs. “I’m worried about your students’ future seriously. Their teacher being so reckless!”
He can feel them stop, a meter away from him. He imagines his delirious state - his laughable, vulnerable, weakened state. He carves in his head the lines on Itadori’s face, frowning and scowling, with tears in his eyes. Nobara looking away, as she bites her teeth to keep herself composed. Megumi’s downcasted eyes, his lips forming a thinned line, shaking with hopelessness and regret. He carves all of this, while he plays with Utahime’s hair.
Gojo’s raises his hand, pulling her hair tie. It’s the one he gifted to her during their first time celebrating her birthday. A cheap, customed made, white velvet hairtie with small sky blue gemstones attached to its end.
“Here Utahime! My gift!”
“It’s senpai goddamnit!”
“Well?”
“It’s pretty.”
“I modeled it after myself afterall!”
“You!”
He remembers the glisten in her eyes when she first saw it. Not even throwing it at him when he annoyed her. She handled it with the care and fragility similar to that of a flower. He remembers seeing it even after they splitted apart, the accessory still had its glow.
Compared to its state right now; broken, dirtied, and crimson. You won’t even recognize it.
He ties it back to her hair.
Humming, he traces the curves of her hands.
“What’s that tune you’re always singing?”
“You were listening!?”
“Teach it to me!”
“No!”
Recalling the time he forced her to teach him piano despite already mastering it. He remembers the way her fingers would elegantly dance across it. There was something about it that he loved, reminding him of home. Continuously, he tried to recreate it but it came out empty with every piece he played.
He carefully flips them. Feeling her callous hands, leaving a memory of the hundred times she spared with him and Shoko. Of the thousand times she probably injured herself. Of the million things she did. Gojo brings them up his cheeks. They were the same hands that would smack him, flick him, or slap him. The same ones that would pat his head and wave goodbye.
He brought their foreheads together, his hands holding hers.
“Iori.”
“You fucking idiot! Don’t call me that!”
And for the second time in his life, Gojo cried.