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wrenabbadon · 2 months ago

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First Love

Gojo Satoru fell in love with his childhood friend...what could go wrong?

TW: ANGST, hurt no comfort, death (no happy ending for anyone), terminal illness, blood, childhood gojo is an arrogant ass, slight bullying behaviors? slight yan!gojo? Inspired by Clannad (a warning in itself imo)

WC: 6.6k (yeesh)

a/n: I rewatched Clannad, you're welcome for this <3

There’s something about childhood friends.

They slip into your thoughts when you least expect it—like shadows from a distant time, memories of faces that fade with age. As you grow older, you wonder where they’ve gone, how they’ve changed. Do they ever think of you the way you think of them?

There’s something about your first love.

It’s raw, a love so powerful in its simplicity. It feels infinite, a love that burns bright with every stolen glance and unspoken word, yet is fragile—always on the verge of slipping through your fingers. It’s a love that stains your soul, lingers like a ghost, never truly leaving you.

Satoru remembers the first time he met you. One of the servant's children—standing alone in the garden, dressed in a hand-me-down yukata that swallowed you whole. The fabric hung awkwardly off your shoulders, too big, the colors too vivid, an almost painful clash against your skin. The patterns were loud, mismatched with the still serenity of the garden’s neatly trimmed greenery. Even your obi was a mess, barely tied, loose strands flapping with the breeze.

Ridiculous. The thought came unbidden, irritation pricking at him. Did the Gojo clan not pay their servants enough to clothe their children properly? You lived on their estate, surrounded by wealth and power, yet you walked around looking like… like this. Where’s your dignity?

And yet, even as he scoffed internally, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. His sharp blue gaze, usually cold and detached, followed you as you stepped closer, offering a small, hesitant wave. Something about you was different. Maybe it was how you carried yourself—like you didn’t belong here like you were almost… apologizing for existing. He expected the usual look—fear, deference, how people looked at him because of who he was. But your eyes didn’t hold any of that. There was no awe, no fear. Just a soft, innocent curiosity.

“Do you like Cinnamoroll?” you asked, your voice gentle like you were afraid of breaking the quiet around you. A pink flush bloomed on your cheeks, deepening the awkward contrast of your outfit. You looked like a fevered mess, your clothes amplifying the nervousness that hung around you.

Satoru stared at you, unimpressed, his usual sense of superiority bubbling up. Cinnamoroll? What was this supposed to be? Some clumsy attempt at conversation? At befriending him? He was the Honored One, the strongest. He didn’t have time for trivial things like this.

“The stupid bunny?” he replied, head tilting with mild disdain. He could feel his patience thinning, ready to turn his back on you. Why am I even entertaining this? He had training soon—martial arts, a regimen built to hone his innate, unmatched strength. Important things. Things that mattered.

“Um… he’s actually a dog…” you stammered, your voice faltering under the weight of his indifference. “You, um… you look like him…” You fumbled with something in your sleeve, the color on your cheeks deepening as you pulled out a small sticker. “I have a sticker… if you want it?”

His eyes flicked down to the sticker in your hand—a tiny piece of glossy paper with a cartoon dog, cheeks puffed out in a ridiculous expression. What kind of nonsense is this? He thought, ready to reject the offer entirely. But something stopped him. The way your fingers trembled ever so slightly as you held it out, the way your gaze fell to the ground, bracing yourself for his rejection. You already expected him to say no.

For reasons he didn’t understand, Satoru paused. Maybe it was the innocence in your gesture, the sincerity of it—something unfamiliar to him, something oddly… pure. His whole life, people had tried to use him, fear him, kill him or worship him. But this? This was different. You weren’t asking for anything. You just… wanted to give him something. Something small. Something that, to you, seemed precious.

Without a word, Satoru took the sticker from your hand. It felt absurd, standing there, holding such a childish thing, so trivial in comparison to everything else that demanded his attention. But still, he didn’t tear it up. He didn’t throw it away. Instead, he slipped it into his sleeve with a flick of his wrist, almost as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to discard it.

“You shouldn’t be in these gardens,” he said, his voice cold, the edge of authority biting at his words. “They’re reserved for the Gojo family and select servants.” He paused, glancing at you with disdain, the tiniest frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “At least dress the part if you’re going to sneak into private areas. Don’t be such a burden.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you standing there, no doubt feeling small under the weight of his dismissal.

But when he thinks back on that day, those words claw at him. A bitter regret lingers in his chest—he should have said something else. Something softer. He should have said “thank you.”

From that moment on, though, you intrigued him in a way that was unfamiliar, irritating even. You lingered in his thoughts, an odd presence he couldn’t shake. He found himself scanning the grounds, searching for a glimpse of you, that awkward figure in a hand-me-down yukata, wandering around where you didn’t belong. He caught sight of you occasionally, in fleeting moments—too slow, too weak, your footsteps quiet and unremarkable. He was always moving, always busy with his training, always surrounded by people who understood his status, his destiny. You were just... there.

By the time he reached middle school, he began seeing you more frequently. But nothing about you had changed—you still wore the same ill-fitting clothes, still moved like you were trying to blend into the background. Pathetic, really. Yet, he found himself gravitating toward you, the curiosity from that first encounter now a subtle pull he couldn’t fully explain.

One day, he spotted you sitting alone on a bench, your shoulders slumped, fingers idly picking at the hem of yet another hand-me-down yukata. It looked faded, worn from too many washes, the fabric almost threadbare in places. Was this a joke? He didn’t bother hiding the look of disgust on his face as he made his way over to you.

“Do we not pay you enough?” Satoru drawled, plopping himself beside you on the bench with an air of casual superiority. He stretched his long legs out, arms draping lazily across the back of the bench, completely uninvited. His eyes flicked toward you, sharp and critical. “Your mother works in the kitchens, right? They make decent wages. So why do you still wear… this?” His hand waved dismissively toward your clothing, his expression twisted in distaste.

You didn’t answer right away, and maybe that silence—the lack of fear or immediate compliance—irked him. A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned in, fingers reaching out to twirl a strand of your hair between them, his touch casual but invasive. “You’d be a lot prettier, you know?” he murmured, almost to himself. The statement was more of an observation than a compliment, as if you were an unfinished canvas he was appraising, something that had the potential to be molded, but only with the right hand.

For a brief moment, he lingered there, watching your reaction, the way you stiffened under his touch. His fingers lazily twisted your hair, the strand slipping between them like it was something he owned. He didn’t say it aloud, but he liked that—this quiet power he had over you, the unspoken game of push and pull. He was the sun, and you were something orbiting too close to his gravity, too weak to escape.

Yet, something about you continued to unsettle him. You weren’t like the others—those who fawned over him or cowered in fear. You didn’t look at him like he was some untouchable god, and that left him off-balance, intrigued in a way he couldn’t fully understand. He wasn’t used to this pull, this strange need to be near someone who wasn’t vying for his attention.

Why you?

You weren’t impressive. You weren’t strong or remarkable in any way. And still… there was something about the way you existed in his world, quietly enduring his presence, that made him want to keep you close. He’d never admit it—not even to himself—but being near you felt different. Almost like a puzzle that wasn’t finished, a puzzle that he alone could solve.

He twirled the last strand of your hair before letting it fall from his fingers, his gaze shifting to the autumn trees swaying in the breeze. The silence hung between you, but he broke it with a sharp, almost bored question. “Don’t you talk? Or did I break you already?” His tone was teasing, though laced with that familiar arrogance. Then, as if noticing something off, his eyes flicked back to your clothes. “And shouldn’t you be wearing a school uniform? Most of the servants’ kids go to that middle school down the road.”

Finally, he let go of your hair, but his attention remained fixed on you, like a cat watching its prey—waiting to see how you’d respond, if you’d try to run, or if you’d stay in his orbit.

You shifted, clearly uncomfortable, and your voice came out soft, slightly wavering. “I do my school work at home… I don’t mean to wear hand-me-downs, yes, Master Gojo, you pay us well enough.”

Satoru almost rolled his eyes. What a crybaby. Even your words were apologetic, your body language shrinking under his gaze like you were trying not to make yourself a target. He leaned back, the superiority dripping from his tone, his interest barely masked by the casual cruelty of his words.

“What? Did you not pass the exams to get in? Are you stupid or something?” he lulled, his voice almost sing-song as he mocked you. His eyes didn’t even bother to meet yours, as if he’d already decided your worth. You were beneath him, after all. Just another servant’s child, too weak to even look him in the eye.

You didn’t respond. Just kept fiddling with the hem of your worn-out yukata, your fingers tracing the fraying threads. Silence stretched between you, heavy and awkward, but you made no attempt to defend yourself. No sharp retort, no glare. Nothing.

And yet, the next day, a brand-new yukata appeared on the doorstep of your house. Crisp white and blue, adorned with delicate peach blossoms. It was too nice to be a coincidence, too perfect to have been anything but deliberate. Satoru didn’t say anything about it, didn’t even acknowledge it the next time he saw you. But you knew.

After that, he kept coming around. Casual, unannounced visits that felt more like a demand than a choice. Who were you to refuse the next head of the Gojo clan? Each time, he’d linger just a little longer, his presence as undeniable as the shifting gravity between you. He didn’t need to explain himself—he was Gojo Satoru. He got whatever he wanted.

And for some reason, that included being near you.

Autumn was slowly slipping away, its crisp air replaced with the growing chill of winter. The wind outside howled as leaves scattered along the grounds, but inside, the warmth of the living room enveloped you both. Satoru sat sprawled on the floor, his long legs stretched out, watching Digimon on TV with a casualness that felt at odds with his usual demeanor. You were beside him, your hands deftly cutting apples into small rabbit shapes, a delicate task that seemed to hold your entire focus.

“I’m going to Jujutsu Tech next year,” Satoru said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. He glanced at you, his gaze sharp as he watched you work, the knife moving smoothly through the fruit. For some reason, the careful way you cut those apples reminded him of the sticker you’d given him years ago—the one that now sat framed on his bedroom shelf. He would never admit that, though.

“You should go too,” he added, the statement less of an invitation and more of an expectation. His eyes flicked back to the TV, but his focus remained on you, on the way your brow furrowed slightly as you sliced the apples, like you were crafting something far more important than a snack.

“I mean, your curse technique is probably weak—” the words came out easily, a habitual dig at your perceived inferiority. But what he really wanted to say—what nearly slipped from his mouth—was but I don’t want to be away from you. The thought startled him, a silent confession buried beneath his arrogance. He couldn’t understand why, but the idea of being apart from you bothered him more than it should. More than anything else had before.

He waited for your response, hoping for some sign that you’d agree, that you’d at least consider it. But instead, you simply looked up at him, tilting your head as if the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind.

“No,” you said softly, your tone calm, unbothered. “I do my schoolwork at home.”

Satoru’s brow furrowed, irritation bubbling beneath his skin. Why the hell is that? Why the hell do you never leave? You were too smart to be hiding away like this. Over the past few weeks, he had learned that much. You were ahead of him in mathematics, in reading, quietly excelling in ways that most people wouldn’t notice. But he did. He always noticed.

So stop being so weak! The words screamed in his mind, a sharp contrast to the frustration that had taken root. You could be so much more. Why were you wasting it here? Why weren’t you reaching for more, for strength, for something?

He didn’t say any of that, though. Instead, he watched you return to your quiet task, the rabbits forming neatly from the slices of apple. And he stayed, longer than he had planned to, unsure of what it was that kept pulling him back to you.

Sometimes, Satoru wished he was more observant of things beyond curse energy. He could read the flow of power in a person instantly, see their strength—or lack thereof—but when it came to ordinary things, like emotions or people’s struggles, he was blind in that way.

The next day, he stopped by again, but it wasn’t you who answered the door—it was your mother. The resemblance between the two of you was uncanny, though she looked more worn, her face marked with exhaustion and the weight of years in servitude. Her clothes, like yours, were frayed at the hems. He’d make sure to send a new set tomorrow, he thought. Along with a new yukata for you. Something soft and light, a color that would stand out when the snow fell. He liked the idea of being able to find you easily.

“I’m sorry, Master Gojo,” your mother spoke, her voice soft and apologetic, echoing the quiet way you often spoke. “Y/N is sick today, running a high fever.”

For a moment, something flickered in Satoru’s chest. Sick? His mind raced, his arrogance pushed aside by a rare sliver of concern. He hadn’t even noticed you seemed unwell the day before. Why hadn’t he noticed?

“Alright,” he replied, his voice more even than usual as he glanced away, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his leg. “I’ll come back tomorrow. The Arashiyama festival is happening, and I was going to ask if she wanted to come.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a statement, a decision he’d already made. The idea of not seeing you—even for a day—sat strangely with him. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like how your absence left an odd, empty space where something—or someone—was supposed to be.

Without waiting for her response, he turned and left, already planning how he’d make sure you would feel better by the next day. After all, you couldn’t miss the festival. Not when he had already decided you’d go. Not when he needed you there, right where he could see you.

Yet, day after day, your mother turned him away. Satoru, unaccustomed to being refused, kept sending gifts. He sent the finest teas, new yukatas, thick quilts, and even a brand-new kotatsu to ensure your comfort. He thought, with each delivery, he was taking care of the problem, that he could make things better just by giving you what you needed. But each time he came by, the answer remained the same.

He had seen you once, through a barely opened door—your cheeks flushed with fever, your breaths shallow and labored. The sight of you so pale and fragile gnawed at something inside him, something he wasn’t used to feeling. Weak.You looked so weak. And for someone like Satoru, who thrived on strength, it unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

Then, one day, your mother finally gave him the truth he had been avoiding.

“Y/N is sick,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “An incurable illness—she’s had it since she was a child. The cold tends to spike her symptoms, Master Gojo. She probably won’t be able to go to the festival with you.”

Satoru stood there, her words hanging in the air, as if they didn’t quite make sense. Incurable? That word shouldn’t exist in his world. He was the strongest, the untouchable—there was no such thing as "incurable" when it came to him or anyone in his life. He could handle anything, fix anything.

“No,” he said sharply, a denial slipping from his lips before he could think. “She’s going.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a statement of fact, the kind of declaration he was used to making without resistance. He had decided you were going to the festival, and that was that. The idea of you being too sick, of something being out of his control, didn’t sit well with him.

Your mother’s expression softened with a sadness that made him even more irritated. He wasn’t used to being pitied, wasn’t used to people looking at him like he didn’t understand something. But he refused to accept it. How could you be sick—truly sick—when he was standing right here, the strongest sorcerer in the world?

“She’s going to the festival,” he repeated, quieter this time, as if by saying it again, he could will it into reality. There was no room in his mind for any other outcome. You will get better. You had to.

Because the thought of you slipping away, of you no longer being there, orbiting around him like you always had, was something he couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept.

The two of you walked together on the warmest night of winter, a rare reprieve from the biting cold. You were wearing a kimono he had personally commissioned, something crafted specifically for you, designed to match his own. Yours was a soft white with a delicate crane embroidered on the back, while his was a deep blue with white bunnies dancing along the bottom. Despite the warmth of the night, your cheeks were still flushed, and that lingering reminder of your illness gnawed at him. He didn’t like that.

Satoru kept his steps deliberately slow as you both walked through the Arashiyama Lantern Festival, the bamboo forest surrounding you bathed in the soft, warm glow of countless lanterns. It was quieter here, almost peaceful, but his mind wasn’t fully at ease. His hand twitched by his side, fingers brushing against the fabric of his kimono before he reached for yours. His touch was casual, but his grip firm, as if the gesture was purely practical.

“So I don’t lose you,” he muttered, glancing ahead. It wasn’t like he cared, not in the way people might assume. It wasn’t like that. He just… wanted you near him, where he could see you, where he could make sure you were okay. His eyes briefly flicked to your scarf, and with a quick movement, he double-checked that it was still wrapped snugly around your neck, shielding you from the cold. His thumb idly rubbed over your white mittens, a gesture that felt more natural than he wanted to admit.

You looked up at him, offering a soft smile. “Thank you for taking me,” you said quietly, your voice carrying the same gentle gratitude it always did. There was something about the way the lantern lights flickered in your eyes, casting a soft glow over your features. For a brief moment, you looked almost... angelic.

Satoru’s chest tightened at the sight. Angel? No, you weren’t that. You were fragile, too weak, and he had to keep pulling you back to him so you wouldn’t slip away. But still, standing beside you in the lantern-lit forest, with your hand in his, you seemed like something beyond reach.

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbled, eyes flicking away from your gaze, the barest hint of warmth in his voice betraying him.

There was a moment of silence between you, just the soft rustle of your steps on the lantern-lit path. But something tugged at him, an uncomfortable weight that wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t stop himself, the questions spilling out before he could even consider the consequences.

“Is that why you wear hand-me-downs?” he asked softly, his voice barely audible amidst the hushed murmur of the festival. He kept his gaze ahead, but his eyes flicked toward you, trying to read your expression without meeting your eyes directly. “You’re sick? Is the medication… a lot?”

He didn’t know if he truly wanted the answer. The thought of you struggling with something he couldn’t fix—it frustrated him. He was supposed to be able to solve anything, to protect you from anything, but this was something he couldn’t simply fight away. His grip on your hand tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if afraid of what your response might mean.

“That’s why you don’t go to school either?” he added, his voice harsher than he intended, more out of frustration with the situation than with you. He took a breath, pushing down that feeling, his tone softening again, almost like a plea. “You’re coming to Jujutsu Tech. You don’t have to fight or anything—you could train to be an assistant, come with me on missions.”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, searching for some reaction, a sign that you’d agree. He wasn’t ready to let you slip away. The idea of you just being left behind, in this quiet, ordinary life—it felt wrong. You belonged near him, in his orbit, where he could keep an eye on you. Where he could protect you, even if he couldn’t admit how much that truly mattered to him.

“Take care of me on missions or something,” he added, the words almost muttered, an awkward attempt to make his insistence seem less desperate. But the truth was there, raw and unspoken. He didn’t want to be away from you, not now, not ever. And he wasn’t sure how to deal with that.

You simply shook your head, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “I can’t, Satoru. I wouldn’t pass the physical exam. I get sick way too easily to be an assistant. I’d just be… a burden.”

A burden. The word hit him like a punch to the gut, sharp and unforgiving. He had said those exact words to you once, long ago—“Don’t be such a burden”—and now they came back, biting him in a way he hadn’t expected. He could still hear his younger, more arrogant self, dismissive and cold. But now, standing here with you, those words felt like a cruel joke. You weren’t a burden, not to him. Not anymore.

He hesitated, caught in the pull of the moment. The smell of grilled food wafted through the air from the stalls up ahead, mingling with the sounds of the festival—the distant chatter, the hum of excitement, the crackling anticipation of fireworks. His mind spun, caught between the reality of your words and something deeper he couldn’t quite name.

And then, without thinking, without planning, the words burst from him.

“Then marry me.”

The first firework lit off as soon as he spoke, a loud boom exploding across the sky in brilliant colors, drowning out the weight of his confession. He didn’t care. The moment the words left his lips, there was no taking them back.

“Marry me when we both turn eighteen,” he continued, his voice steadier now, as if the initial shock of his own statement had faded into something more certain. He turned to face you, blue eyes serious and unwavering. For once, there was no teasing, no arrogance. Just him, standing there, asking for something he couldn’t explain but knew he wanted.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he had said it—maybe it was the fear of losing you, of not being able to keep you close. Maybe it was the realization that, in his own way, he was falling for you, more deeply than he wanted to admit. All he knew was that the idea of a future without you in it felt unbearably wrong.

“Just say yes,” he added softly, the fireworks crackling overhead, illuminating the sky—and his heart—whether he liked it or not.

“I’m sick, Satoru,” you said softly, your voice almost drowned out by the distant crackle of fireworks. “A mere servant child, and you’re the soon-to-be head of the Gojo clan.” You smiled gently, the colors of the fireworks casting a soft glow across your face. “I wouldn’t make a good wife. I wouldn’t be able to give you an heir.”

Satoru’s jaw clenched, frustration flickering in his eyes. His chest tightened at your words, at the way you reduced yourself to something so insignificant. He wasn’t used to feeling powerless, but that’s what this was—powerless against your illness, powerless against your self-doubt. He hated it.

“Bullshit,” he spat, his voice sharp and biting, cutting through the air between you. “I didn’t ask whether you’d make a good wife or give me an heir. That’s not what I’m talking about.” His eyes were fierce, locked on yours, refusing to let you look away. “I said to marry me because I want to take care of you. I have the means to take care of you.”

His grip on your hand tightened, his frustration palpable. “If you won’t come to Jujutsu Tech with me, then this is the least you could do,” he continued, his voice softening, though the intensity remained. There was no teasing now, no games—just him, laying bare what he couldn’t fully express. He didn’t want you to fade away into the background of his life, a memory he couldn’t grasp. He wanted you by his side, where he could make sure you were okay, where you belonged.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, the fireworks bursting above, reflecting in his eyes like something fierce and unyielding. He didn’t care about the rules, about the clan, about whatever expectations loomed over him. All that mattered in this moment was you—fragile, flawed, and somehow, the one thing that grounded him in ways nothing else ever had.

“Just… let me.”

You simply nodded, a few tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Satoru felt something stir in his chest at the sight, something that made him tighten his grip on your hand just a little more, as if to hold you in place, to keep you grounded in his world. And from that moment on, every day since then, Satoru found himself wishing he had been kinder to you—softer, more patient. Maybe if he had been, you wouldn’t have left him so soon.

When he left for Jujutsu Tech, it was like a piece of him stayed behind with you. He made sure to call, to fill you in on the people in his life, on the friendships that began to shape him. He told you about Suguru, his calm, steady presence, and Shoko, her dry wit and easygoing nature. But over time, something in him shifted. The more he talked to you, the more he found himself softening, becoming kinder in ways he hadn’t been before. He grew more clingy, though he would never admit it aloud.

During breaks, he would take you out—whether it was to a café or somewhere quiet, his arm always wrapped protectively around your shoulders. His thumb would trace absent patterns over the engagement ring already sitting on your finger. It was a quiet reminder, to you and to himself, that you were his. Always his.

When you felt well enough, he took you to all the places he visited with friends, places that made him feel alive. He wanted that for you, too. He wanted you to experience life—not just exist in the shadow of your illness. But as time passed, something began to change. You stopped sharing certain things with him, small details about your health, things he noticed but never had the courage to ask about. Maybe he lacked the emotional intelligence to handle it, or maybe he was too afraid of the answers.

But deep down, a gnawing fear began to settle in. You were slipping away from him, slowly, quietly, and it terrified him in ways he wasn’t ready to confront. And no matter how tightly he held onto you, it felt like you were already drifting beyond his reach. Like he was behind a few steps.

By his third year, you both made it a point to attend the same winter festival together. It had become a tradition, something to hold onto amid all the changes that life threw at you both. But this time, something felt different. Your steps were slower, your smile not quite reaching your eyes the way it used to.

Satoru tried to fill the space between the silence, his usual chatter turning toward his concerns. “Suguru’s been acting strange lately,” he said, his tone almost casual as if trying to convince himself more than you. “He’s on a mission tonight, but he’s strong, so I know he’ll be alright.” There was a flicker of something in his eyes—worry, perhaps. Ever since his last mission, Suguru seemed different, exhaustion more evident in the lines of his face. Satoru had been talking about him more, and you could see the worry he tried to hide behind his confident words. You were happy for him, though. He had a friend—a friend who would take care of him.

“Ah, the fireworks are starting!” Satoru’s eyes brightened as he grabbed your hand, tugging you forward through the crowd. His grip was firm, almost excited as he pulled you along to get a better view. But just as the first boom echoed across the night sky, you stumbled, a cough wracking your body.

Blood splattered onto your white mittens, staining them a deep red. It smeared against the delicate fabric of your kimono, the crimson spreading across the soft white. Your eyes widened, the shock evident as another cough tore through you at the second boom.

Satoru glanced back at you, his laughter from a moment ago dying on his lips as he took in the sight before him. The dark red staining your kimono, your shoulders trembling as you tried to steady yourself. His heart stopped, his bright blue eyes widening in alarm.

“Y/N?” The word slipped from his lips, almost a whisper, but the fear in his voice was unmistakable. He was used to blood—he’d seen more of it than he cared to remember. He was used to seeing horrific things, but this... This was different. This was you, your body collapsing under the weight of something he couldn’t fight, something he couldn’t protect you from.

His stomach twisted into painful knots as he rushed forward, his arms wrapping around you before you hit the ground. Panic clawed at his chest, raw and unyielding, as he pulled you close, your weight heavy in his arms. He looked down at you, the blood on your lips, the way your eyes struggled to focus on him.

“Y/N, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice breaking, the booming of the fireworks above seeming like cruel echoes to his panic. Satoru Gojo—the strongest—was powerless for the first time in his life. He had always been able to protect the people he cared about, always stood between them and the dangers that threatened them. But now, as he cradled you in his arms, he felt more helpless than he ever thought possible.

Within moments, Satoru had you wrapped tightly against his chest, his long strides pushing through the crowd. The world around him blurred—the once vibrant colors of the festival, the joyous sounds, the fireworks lighting up the sky—everything faded, drowned by the sound of his pounding heartbeat. The one thing that mattered was slipping away in his arms. He couldn’t lose you. Not you.

“A taxi would be too slow…” he muttered under his breath, his voice a frantic tremor, uneven and shaky as he sprinted through the dark streets of Kyoto. His arms gripped you tighter, as if holding you this close could stop the life from draining out of you.

You tilted your head back slightly, your vision blurry and fading, but even now, you could see the snowflakes gently falling from the sky. They caught in your hair, delicate and soft, and for a moment you felt at peace. Snow always made the world seem quieter, calmer. But your body was growing weaker. You could feel it. The edges of your vision darkened, and even as you lay against Satoru’s chest, your heart ached—not just from the pain, but because you knew he wouldn’t be able to fix this. You could feel the fear radiating from him, fear you’d never seen in him before.

And yet, all you could do was smile, nuzzling your cheek against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body seep into you as the cold of winter wrapped around you both.

Satoru kept talking, his voice frantic, as if somehow his words could pull you back. “We’ll get you to the family physician,” he rambled, his breath coming in short bursts. His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by a desperate panic. “If he can’t do anything, I’ll call Shoko. She’s studying to be a doctor—she’ll fix this, she’ll know what to do.” His voice trembled, each word more uncertain than the last. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to not having control, not having a solution.

When he glanced down at you, his breath caught. You were smiling up at him, your lips stained with blood but still curved in that soft, familiar way. His heart clenched painfully, a wave of helplessness crashing over him. He could see the blood soaking through your white kimono, staining it crimson, and still you smiled. His lips wobbled into a broken smile in return, as if trying to mirror your calm, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Tears blurred his vision, and he couldn’t tell if they were his or if it was just the snow falling into his eyes.

Then you spoke, your voice gentle, steady, though each word was a dagger to his chest. “I hope in another life, I’ll get to meet you in a world without curses. Without this stupid illness,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but somehow clear in the silence that enveloped you both. “Maybe we’ll be bumblebees… or those whale sharks you told me about.” You paused, and then your eyes softened even more. “But I think I’d marry you in every lifetime, if you’d let me. You’re kind, Satoru.”

Kind. The word echoed painfully in his mind. You thought he was kind, but right now, he couldn’t feel anything but helplessness, guilt, and fear. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t let this be the last thing you said to him. He couldn’t let go. Not like this.

“No, don’t say that,” he choked out, his throat tight with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “We’re going to see those sunflowers, remember? The field by the ocean—it’s going to be warm, and I’ll buy you that sundress. We’ll match. You’ll love it.” His voice cracked, but he forced himself to keep going, desperation filling every word. “Then we’ll go to that aquarium in Okinawa, the one with the whale sharks. You’ll like the nurse sharks—they just cuddle at the bottom of the tank. That’s us, remember? Just stay with me, okay?”

He was trying to keep you grounded, trying to keep you here, with him, but even he could hear the hopelessness in his voice. His grip on you tightened, as if he could physically hold you to this world, but he knew. Deep down, he knew.

“We’ll get married in a year. We’ll have kids. We’ll grow old together, alright? You’re not leaving me. We have a future. So please…”

But the words he truly wanted to say—the ones lodged in his throat, choking him—stayed trapped. I love you. He wanted to scream it, but the grief swallowed it whole. Saying it out loud would make it real, would make the possibility of losing you more tangible. And he wasn’t ready for that.

As he ran toward the clan’s estate, your body growing heavier in his arms, the weight of your fading life pressed down on him. His vision blurred with tears. I love you. The words echoed over and over in his mind, like a desperate prayer.

Then, your voice, so soft, pulled him from the spiral of his thoughts. “I love you, Satoru,” you whispered, your hand gently cupping his tear-streaked face. Your touch was so light, so fleeting, and yet it shattered him completely. “I hope we see each other in the next life.”

Satoru felt his entire world crumble as he looked down at you. His heart shattered into pieces too small to ever be whole again, and all he could do was hold you tighter as your life slipped away. He had saved so many people, but he couldn’t save you. His strength, his power, meant nothing now.

That night, he lost you within the hour. If only he had been faster, if only he had acted sooner, would you still be here? The question haunted him, eating away at him with every passing moment.

The next day, when he learned that Suguru had slaughtered a village and turned rogue, he felt his soul fracture even further. The strongest sorcerer. How could he be the strongest when he couldn’t even protect the people he loved?

Regret was a constant shadow, haunting him as the years passed. The weight of his failures pressed down on him, the ache of loss never dulling, never fading.

Nearly a decade later, Satoru stood in the midst of another battle, blood staining the snow around him. He found himself alone once again, lying in the cold, staring up at the sky. The same snowflakes drifted down, just like they had that night when he lost you.

Had he won? It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the memory of you—and Suguru. Maybe this time he would see you both again.

A sad smile traced his lips as the taste of blood filled his mouth, his body heavy with exhaustion and the crushing weight of everything he had lost.

“I can’t wait to see you again,” he whispered to the falling snow, to the sky, to the world where you might be waiting for him.

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