seeing the almighty gojo satoru distressed and curled up in bed is not a first—but always a devastating sight.

the common thought that is concurrent with the six eyes’ bearer would be that he was born immune—the splintering of shoulder blades pillaring the weight of the world a look on the world’s savior simply unfit.

suguru clambers onto the bed, veiling satoru. he stares down at him, pupils swollen, and leans in. noses are the first to bump—alas, foreheads.

an angel whose aim was not earth lies mangled in suguru’s arms.

and unfamiliar with sewing tattered wings anew, suguru can only gaze down at his one and only, trouble blooming quiet upon his face.