Chapter Text
It's a strange day when Shoko sits you down for a “chat”.
In the cool stale air of the morgue, her face seems paler, tinged blue that darkens under the bags of her eyes, sharpened under the harsh LED light above.
It does her no favours, turning her from a young aspiring healer to a jaded, shaded and aged mortician.
Her chair creaks as she leans forward with a tilt of her head. You watch her brown hair cascade off the shell of her ear, every strand slowing down in the haze of your consciousness.
Yet your grip on sanity is still strong, so you sit there, counting the split ends tumbling like you're at the cinemas watching a rather dull movie, and Shoko is the actress.
Close but untouchable, concerned- but not really.
“You're not fit to work anymore”, she says clinically.
“I'll have that added to your report.”
You nod.
It feels right for all the wrong reasons.
But you wonder if the higher ups would even give a damn about her opinions.
The thought vanishes when you see Shoko toss away her lollipop stick with a flick of the wrist.
"I mean it.”
You know she does.
Yet all you manage is: “Oh.”
She raises an eyebrow at your response. It’s the first sound you've made since your partner was found folded against a wall.
Shoko doesn't make any comments, rather pulls out a pen from her coat pocket and scribbles a rough message on her note pad.
“Take this to the admin office. Should get you some time off.”
A strip of torn paper between her dainty fingertips flits up and down as she shakes it almost impatiently at you.
“Honestly, we should have taken you off duty earlier.”
That gets your attention.
"No, I can handle it.”
“You can't. Before it was dubious. Now we know for sure.”
The paper flits around again.
It makes sense for her to say that. All the times you've ended up in this room or the infirmary above, Shoko was there as well.
She's seen your performance collapse slowly over time, the countless accidents turned injuries now turned casualties realising before her very eyes.
“And the proof is right here.” She says, her voice the essence of detached methodical logic.
Your partner's body, the silent reminder of your inability, your hesitancy, your inaction, lies dutifully beside you.
“I…” words fade in your mouth as you fall speechless.
It drags you into a trance.
You're in the cinemas again, watching your hand rise from your side, and shift across to the crisp white sheet.
Fingertips drift across the surface, a faint resistance sketching outlines where a once strong sorcerer lies beneath.
But the further your fingertips creep, so does your anxiety.
You know that at some point the resistance will fail, there is a cliff at the end of this route.
Where your partner should be, he is not.
Or at least, the left side of him is not.
A shuddering breath escapes you.
Wild feral teeth plunging into soft skin, panicked arms flying, the distinct feeling of your partner's cursed energy dissolving into oblivion returns full force.
Your sanity jumps to the rescue, taking hold of your consciousness again and driving you from the audience's seat back to reality.
Shoko's brows are knitting ever so slightly, and her pen is on her clipboard again, jotting quick strokes in efficient strikes.
You can't bear to imagine what it now reads. You don't dare to ask her either.
Your last dregs of consciousness can't take another blow, nor can you afford to waste Shoko's time any longer.
Worst of all, what's left of your partner deserves better than to hear the failures and flaws of the prize his life cost to keep.
You take her proffered slip of note and drag your feet all the way up the stairs and out.
---------------
Days pass uneventfully.
Ijichi has figured out the paperwork while you attended your partner's funeral.
He's really grasped the mundane nature of paperwork like a duck takes to water and it's helpful because without him, your scattered brain wouldn't have even registered such an event was taking place.
Though “attending” was a loose term.
You just stood behind a tree and watched from afar as his family, his wife and children said their goodbyes as his coffin was lowered.
What they said, whether they cried or not, you'll never find out. Because at best you were just present. Existing. Like a storm-grey smog drifting between the trunks of tall trees fencing around the cemetery.
Out of sight and, with luck, out of mind.
As soon as the top of the coffin sinks from view, your legs are stealthily making way, making sure no one could have a chance to share their grief with you; possibly sympathise and empathise and god forbid console you.
There was a chance they would do anything but yell and scream bloody murder at you, and if hope was still a feature within you, you'd whimsically take the plunge.
But they may not.
Your partner wouldn't have wanted it, they might say. He would do it all over again, they'd believe.
They could smother you in a searing warmth you have no tolerance for and no resistance to and that's a risk you simply cannot take.
So you slink back into your temporary room in the dorms like a wounded beast, though there are no real injuries on you.
Years of preparing for the worst, mentally imagining, vividly dreaming, and patiently waiting for it to finally happen: where you lose your partner, your Player Two, your B2 to your B1, friend of the past decade, and you're still floundering in a swamp of muggy guilt, regret, and dare you call it, confusion.
If it's any consolation, your partner wouldn't feel this way.
He can't feel anymore, that's for the living. The breathing, those whose heart still sits between their ribs.
He is none of the above.
----------------
There's someone banging at your door. You can tell exactly who it is.
Gojo never knocks.
He doesn't believe in the act.
Even more so, he doesn't believe one needs it when they are grieving.
Though you aren't sure if this is grieving, because you haven't yet shed a single tear and all your life you have seen people cry and wail and collapse under the weight of their sadness.
So you enable Gojo’s logic and turn your head a fraction to greet him.
His cheerful face is grim today, coupled with a rather nasty scrunch of his nose.
“Guess I won't need to ask how you are.” He says, slouching into your chair.
His legs stretch out to land outlandishly on the edge of your bed, shoes and all, breaking the flat balance of the mattress under its weight.
You shift to the opposite side. It's unintentional but it doesn't go unnoticed.
His feet stay where they are, discreetly pressing harder down on the mattress.
Gojo is a silver beacon of brightness, outshining the toxic gloom oozing from you.
Not that he cares.
What he does care about is the deadly silence now in the room.
He doesn't like silence.
In the last few years you've crossed paths a handful of times, joining in group exercises or missions occasionally. Somewhere along the way, you must've made an impression.
One that has drawn his extroversion, alternatively, invasiveness to the highest degree with you.
Since then, there have been the occasional chats, and you’ve never shied away.
Today, you might have to.
“So you're retiring.” He states conversationally, and you think how odd his choice topic was to address your inadequacies as an ice breaker.
On the same hand, it seems fitting.
The Strongest is not someone likely to lose anyone.
Unlike you, an ordinary, mediocre, vulnerable, brittle-
The Strongest has more rights to thinner skin than you.
“I've been told to.” You simply reply, and you're tempted to roll over and face the wall.
Civility holds you back.
You don’t have the energy or the drive to explain the nitty gritty conversations that were held with and without your presence for the fate of your career.
Technically, you haven’t retired.
This was simply a break, as suggested by the resident healer, backed by the board.
It just had no end date.
“First Nanami, now you. We're losing people everywhere.”
There's a pout, of course, and a mournful expression in there somewhere.
The benevolent Strongest.
“Losing people.” You mutter, chewing on his words.
Gojo realises what you're doing and smacks his leg against the mattress in warning.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t overthink things. It sucks, I know. What we do is dangerous, and we know this when going in and while we are heading home. Remember that you're not the cause nor the fault of any of this.”
His words float over you, but never quite land.
It's a bit rich, coming from the Strongest.
He wouldn't ever lose his B2.
You offer a small twitch of a smile, but your own reflection in his fully tinted glasses paints a different picture than the one you intended.
His little sigh is the signal for a change of pace, and his words are far from kinder than his first.
“You are, however, fully responsible for this smell. What are you rotting in this room?”
"Nothing.”
This is true.
Though to be wholly true, it's technically you.
You haven't left your room before the funeral, and you have no intentions of leaving after it.
“Crack a window or something, the walls are going to start melting any second now.”
“Mmhm.”
Your non-committal response is not what he wanted, but it was what he was expecting.
Without missing a beat at your lack of enthusiasm for lost interior decorations, he taps his foot against your shin.
“Go take a shower.”
“Okay.”
You wont, but you say that anyway. Because Gojo must always be placated before he leaves.
You both know he doesn't believe you for a second, but pretends and finally ditches you and your fumes.
Though it's not before waving goodbye.
His smile is sad while he does it though, and you think back to his short visit as you smooth out the dip in your mattress with your foot.
Suppose it was meant to cheer you up.
Tell you things to help you back on your feet, normalise you, and ground you.
But they're just words, and they hold no power over you.
Still, you appreciate the effort to take a slice out of his extraordinarily busy day to spend it on you.
You lay there staring at the ceiling, watching the orange of the sunset turn to the orange of a sunrise again.