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When he comes home, he’s in a wheelchair.
To be honest, you couldn’t care less about that.
You’re just glad that he’s home. He promised you he would always come back to you, and he did. While Gojo always seems to be an individual who would talk big game, he can actually back himself up. He talks the talk and walks the walk.
As you bury your face in his lap, your kimono dirtied from kneeling in the dirt, Shoko tells you he may never walk again.
In fact, later in the day, she tells you that his inability to walk would be the least of your concerns. She explains that he would likely never truly recover from this since he had given his all to help defeat Sukuna.
Shoko tells you that his brain had been so damaged that it was a freak accident and not a miracle that he survived it. You scowled at her words, simply turning your attention to your husband and kissing his warm, unmoving hands. It pissed you off, implying that having him come back to you like this isn’t a blessing.
You don’t care that she warned you that he would need much assistance. You would be his caregiver until your very last breath. It didn’t matter either that he didn’t recognize you or speak or move.
Even when he is wheelchair-bound and unable to even use the toilet without assistance, he is your husband.
You remember when he joked that he’d likely outlive you and he would take care of you in your old age. He said that he’d love you and take care of you even if you shit yourself.
How very ironic that the tables have turned.
Shoko stays the first week and a half at the Gojo estate.
Her presence is helpful, as she helps coordinate with the servants in the household. She assists you by giving your husband medicine and checking his vitals. There isn’t much for her to do, as his vitals and responses stay pretty much the same.
Regardless, it is nice to have her around, even though her initial explanation of his condition had irked you.
You never leave your husband’s side, opting to sleep next to him on the futon.
When you had married Gojo and moved into his household, you had initially balked at the traditional bedroom layout. You were so used to sleeping on a proper bed, save for the few times you would stay at a friend’s and crash on the couch. After all, Gojo was rich – he could have purchased a fancy bed. Alas, you had to acclimate to his surprisingly traditional ways.
But now, you’re grateful that the bed is on the floor. In the unlikely case that he somehow gets a seizure, you don’t want him to be at risk of falling. Shoko had also agreed with you on that, as Gojo would also struggle to heal from breaking anything else, given that his brain is already barely keeping him alive.
And as always, the helpful household servant or two always helps you get him into his wheelchair.
So, the days move on on square wheels.
Your new routine is to take him to the gardens after breakfast.
It’s a little chilly, but you wrap a scarf around his head and neck.
He looks pretty cute and pink-cheeked, and his face is framed by your handmade scarf. You know that he would have refused to wear a scarf in such an unfashionable way, but it’s not like he has a choice right now.
When you manage to wheel him out, you end up feeling bad. Even though he has no real say in what you do to him, you want him to be comfortable and happy. So you adjust the scarf off his head instead of loosely pooling it around his neck.
“So handsome,” you tell him, leaning down to kiss the top of his snowy head.
As always, he doesn’t reply. He simply stares straight ahead and blinks at least five times per minute.
He is still very handsome.
That much hasn’t changed.
And to be fair, not much has changed about him physically, save for his current medical state.
It’s just that now, he doesn’t have to wear his tinted glasses anymore. Shoko had told you that much.
Gojo had lost his ability to use the Six Eyes and Infinity in his attempt to help bring down Sukuna. He had paid for extra strength by sacrificing his abilities in a last-ditch effort, only for his brain to receive practically irreparable damage. So, at this point, there’s no need for him to wear glasses or his blindfold anymore.
You are so proud and grateful for him.
Humming some commercial ditty to yourself, you sit on a bench beside your husband. It’s nice out, with the sun watery in its haze overhead. One of the servants had come out to bring you some tea, which you set on the seat next to you.
“The winter peonies are lovely today,” you tell him, “They’re a very vibrant pink color.”
The ikaru , Japanese finches, are perched on one of the trees, chirping noisily.
You describe all the sights and sounds to Gojo as if he wasn’t there. Shoko told you that talking to them and keeping them engaged is important , as it helps stimulate and heal the brain. You just wish it was spring or summer for the garden to be even greener, as you’ve heard that that color is good for the eyes and helps to soothe the brain.
Taking a sip from your tea, you set the cup back down.
“I’ll pick us some of the peonies. I think they’ll look nice in the master bedroom. We can put them in the little vase I got from eBay!” You tell him, grinning. “That’s the one that you told me not to get.”
You chuckle at that, getting up and walking over to the growing pink flowers. They’re adorable and still relatively small. While you know the gardener would be annoyed that you plucked them quite early, you can’t bring yourself to care that much. It would be nice to add to the vase, and you’d tuck a flower behind Gojo’s ear.
(“Do I look pretty?” He asks, grinning at you as he tucks a foam plumeria by the side of his blindfold.
“You look silly,” you had snorted, reaching out for the flower.
Instead, his fingers curl around your wrist, yanking you to him.
With the shock and the momentum, you’re crashing right into his chest, his arm wrapping securely around your waist. Although you whine into the kiss, smacking his side with your palm, you melt into him as you always do.
He later fucked you missionary, hands pinning yours down so you had no choice but to look at him with the flower in his blindfold.)
You know he would look pretty with it.
When you’ve gathered a small bunch of the peonies, you get up with a little grunt. Sure, you’re not old, but you feel that your joints just seem to click and ache for fun ever since you had passed your mid-twenties. It’s likely also because it’s slowly getting colder, with the incoming November chill creeping into everyone’s bones.
Your heart sinks to your stomach, flowers falling to the ground silently.
His wheelchair is empty.