Chapter Text
“Satoru… you need to eat.”
A full bowl of soup sits untouched on the table before him, hands resting unoccupied in his lap as you circle around to stand by his side. That piercing blue gaze is ridden with innocence as it remains trained upon you, lips parted like those of a quizzical child, but they turn upwards into a pleased grin when you take a seat in the chair next to him.
You’d prepared a rather simple dish; something you figured might be easy for him to digest in such a peculiar state, but it was apparent that Satoru had yet to pay it any mind. He instead sat obediently in his chair just as you had suggested several minutes ago, unable to initiate the task of feeding himself, for he was much more interested in your every move from afar as you tidied up the kitchen. It was as though he couldn’t find the means to function unless you were within an overwhelmingly short distance of him, prompting nearly every task.
Satoru’s heart thumps now that you’re close, a burst of satisfaction rushing through his brain. Dopey yet stimulating chemicals. You are Pavlov’s ringing bell.
He is reminiscent of a child reuniting with a parent after a day spent apart, overcome with joy and unable to properly contain it, though his affections couldn't be any less familial. He leans forward and presses his lips to your neck as though it is the appropriate response to his elation, crossed wires in his brain signalling to him that this sort of affection will surely please you as much as it does him.
His condition is difficult to understand, and you wouldn’t call yourself properly equipped to deal with it, but there is simply no other option but to try; Gojo won’t let anyone else try, the horrible rattling in his skull consuming him when deprived of your presence for too long. Yuuta had described the look in his eyes as “frenzied and lost.” You were told that the infirmary still needed repairs.
Once he returned to this world, your initial thought was that Satoru had been stripped down to his essence, reduced to something seemingly quite simple yet difficult for the average person to understand—a bare-bones creature of instinct. But it was more complicated than that, and you had to understand, or at the very least try to.
This was the new weight placed upon your shoulders; it was either cater to this new version of Satoru Gojo for the sake of everyone involved, or find a way to send him back into the icy arms of death. You were often caught between which option sounded worse.
However, when met with the sweetest and most earnest of his smiles, your bones were frosted with guilt, and you regretted ever entertaining the idea of letting him go again.
You stumble over getting him to perform necessary tasks and be further than a few meters away from you at any given moment, because it seems that, upon his revival, Satoru equates you and only you with the very spark necessary to keep his fire burning. It’s more than a little unnerving given the fact that you’d never so much as even kissed prior to the loss of him, and now his neurons only fire off every happy memory he’s ever had of you, every positive thing he’s ever felt, no matter how stifled. It's like you're the center of his world now, and he can’t even verbalize it, but as each day passes following his awakening, you’re starting to gather that much on your own.
You can’t be frustrated for long, however, because his cheerfulness is contagious, his enthusiasm making you feel loved even if it is somewhat smothering.
Is this selfish of you?
The man's lips travel slowly across your skin, pacified by your presence, your taste, and ignoring the grumble in his stomach. How does one differentiate the types of hunger? You don’t attempt to fight him off, but rather exhale a defeated sigh in response. It hasn’t been long that you've been tasked with this responsibility, but it feels as though you’re frequently fighting a losing battle and failing him all the same. It’s so peculiar, so very unnatural… but still, you have to try.
“Satoru, please…” you beg, voice delicate in his ear and a hand settling at his nape. His nerve endings come alive every time his name leaves your lips. The bell. “Just one bite? Can you try for me?”
That seems to do the trick, as you’ve gathered. Satoru pulls himself back, hyper-aware of the tone in your voice and suddenly willing to comply. He’s more than eager to accept the spoon into his mouth when you offer it, placing your fingers beneath his chin and carefully bringing the soup up to his lips. He swallows it with ease, the task literally more palatable now that you’ve reminded him of how badly both you and his body would like him to complete it.
“There,” you say, satisfied and offering a faint, exhausted smile. He grins widely in response and hums, no longer capable of words of his own, but his simple noise expresses his glee with efficacy. Satoru decides to punctuate it by pressing the tip of his nose to yours for good measure.
It feels wrong to enjoy these subtle moments of intimacy with someone who doesn’t appear to be in his right mind, but who are you to say whether he is or not? There’s obviously still an agency he possesses, a heart full of emotions, and a mind surely teeming with thoughts that you wish you could be privy to.
He might be different now, but part of you wants to say with certainty that the old Satoru is still here with you somehow—you can sense it. He chuckles at certain images that flash across the TV, and still gets a kick out of teasing you to some degree, so to diminish that seems like a disservice to him.
You’re unable to deprive him of the happiness your closeness provides nevertheless; in fact, it’s obviously rather dangerous for you to even try and do so. Satoru’s conscious recollections are filled primarily with you, but his body is still more or less the same as it always was—the vessel of his clan’s power, the strongest sorcerer on earth. Or so it used to be. You’re not sure to what extent he truly has access to these abilities, but part of you doesn’t wish to find out. For now, you care for him, placate him, re-learn him. Nothing is certain about the situation other than the fact that he apparently needs you now more than ever.
Your eyes soften at the warmth he exudes, and you wonder if he really remembers who you even are—or were—to him. It’s not worth pondering over for now, however. He needs to eat.
“Another?” you ask, testing to see how willing he is to fulfill your wishes. Satoru often easily complies once you’ve initiated the task and expressed satisfaction in him taking part, but all of this is still so new and experimental; you never know when he might decide to switch gears.
However, still smiling, he nods, and you bring another spoonful of soup up to his lips for him to swallow. It pleases you to see him finally getting something into his stomach, and he can sense it, taking it upon himself to further your agenda and simultaneously realizing just how gratifying it is to fill his belly.
“Good,” you say, and he feels rewarded. He is crowned by your praise. Exalted. You take him to the greatest heights with the simplest of words.
You place the spoon back in the bowl and Satoru takes it in his grasp, feeding himself without quarrel while you observe. Most of his motor skills appear to be intact as far as you’ve seen despite the cognitive and behavioral changes, and if someone were to look upon him from afar, you’re fairly certain they would never know the difference. But you’re still trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together little by little, deciphering each bit of information and also determining just how deep his attachment to you really goes.
Why did it end up being you? Why do you suddenly seem to be the only thing that makes sense to him in this entire universe?
You can’t answer that, he can’t answer that, it’s just the way it is. Satoru doesn’t need to know why you nearly consume his every thought, he just knows that you make him happy, and that’s truly all that counts in his version of the world. He’ll chase it on instinct until death decides to take him again; he won't tolerate anything that stands in the way, for those bloody, incessant days of endless sacrifice are now finally over. He doesn't intend on wasting his second chance on them again.
Leaning an elbow on the table, you turn the possibilities over in your mind as you silently watch him eat. A life has been restored, but yours has been turned upside down, and you have to figure out just exactly what you’re going to do about it. You suppose that taking baby steps ought to be the best way to make progress, but how do you make space for someone like this out of the blue? You’ll have to give it your best shot.
Satoru finishes drinking down the remaining broth of his soup, and you pose a question.
“Would you like to go for a walk with me today?”
He sets the bowl down and looks over at you, eyes assessing your features and mind processing what you’ve asked. He hasn’t been out much in the days following his return, but you don’t see any reason to keep him cooped up inside if he happens to respond well to a casual outing. Taking him for a stroll outdoors seems like an appropriate way to test the waters.
Satoru smiles and nods, recalling memories of how your skin would look when touched by the sun. He’d be glad to accompany you outside if it meant he would get to see you glow once more, radiant and warm. The center of his universe.
“I think it’ll be nice,” you remark with a grin, an ounce or two of weight being lifted from your shoulders at the positive shift. Baby steps.
Reaching out to take your hand, Satoru squeezes it in his own to convey his agreement. It’s as if he’s trying to say, “everything is nice when I’m with you.”