Work Text:
Satoru.
It was getting harder to ignore him, lately.
Gojo dug his hands into the soil. It was cool and soft, a welcome respite from the spring heat. Clouds were gathering overhead, heavy and gray with the promise of rain. His garden certainly needed it after the sweltering heat wave that rolled in several days earlier—and maybe it’d quiet the cicadas for a short while.
A few plastic pots bursting with young plants sat beside him, waiting for their turn to be planted. Four pepper plants, two varieties, to plant here next to the tomatoes. Four strawberry plants to take over the empty raised bed. Two snow pea plants, to plant next to the peppers.
Satoru…
He grabbed one of the pepper plants and carefully shimmied it out of the plastic pot, then gently dug his fingers into the roots to shake off the excess dirt and loosen them up. Gojo put it into the hole he’d dug, then scooped dirt over it and packed it down around the stem. The small, young leaves of the plant trembled in the wind gusting in with the storm.
The figure sitting on the ground near Gojo was almost real enough to believe he was truly there.
Long hair pulled back in a bun. Undercut in desperate need of a trim. Gauges in his ears, snake bites spreading apart with his wide smirk, and tattoos bursting out of his t-shirt in deep, inky black.
He was wearing the outfit he wore when he died.
It was a t-shirt and those baggy pants he liked to wear. Around his neck he wore a simple chain with a featureless silver ring hanging from it.
Gojo refused to look at him. Acknowledging him was dangerous. He’d done it before. It nearly ruined him. Now he just averted his eyes. Sealed his ears to that voice. Pretended he wasn’t there, because he wasn’t.
He wasn’t really there.
Satoru.
The rest of the plants only took a few moments to plant. He finished planting the peppers and snow peas, then stacked up the empty plastic pots and carried them with the strawberries over to the raised bed.
Geto Suguru died ten years ago.
He liked strawberries. Not fresh—he didn’t like the texture. But he liked strawberry jam, and strawberry syrup on ice cream, and strawberry pastries. They went to a farmer’s market once, and all Geto bought was a jar of strawberry preserves from a sweet old lady. He kept that jar for a while, even after it was empty. Gojo doesn’t remember why.
The strawberry plants would take over the garden bed quickly. This was the first time Gojo was planting them, because…because he knew they’d take up a whole garden bed.
Among other reasons.
Satoru.
They had their first kiss at that farmer’s market.
Sweet as strawberry syrup.
Gojo picked up the empty plastic pots and carried them across the garden and tossed them into the recycling bin on his way to the shed to get the hose.
Of course, Geto followed him. Following in his footsteps like a loyal dog that refused to stray even ten feet away from his owner. Hands in his pockets, a laid back expression, just the same as the day he died.
It’d been ten years. Gojo had spent so long with his grief that the piercing needle of it through his heart was practically part of him, now. And yet…
Satoru.
That’s all he ever said.
The hose spurted out a weak shower of water when he turned it on, before jumping into gear and blasting out a spray of water so hot it was practically boiling from the black hose lying in the sun all day. Gojo sighed and pointed it away from him as he gathered up some of the hose and carried it to the garden.
Once the hot water had all run out of the hose, Gojo watered the new plants in his garden, just enough to wet the soil around them and get it to harden up in the heat a bit. The rain would give them a proper drink.
Satoru.
Sometimes he used a different inflection, making it sound like a question. Or an exclamation. Sometimes he said it with as much raw adoration as a loving husband.
Satoru.
But it’s all he said.
Just Gojo’s given name.
Satoru.
Gojo dragged the hose back up to the shed and coiled it back up beneath the faucet, then turned off the faucet and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.
He sighed heavily, and spared a glance at his ghost.
Geto smiled at him. Soft and sweet. The way he only was with Gojo.
Satoru.
The needle in his heart twisted.
Gojo looked away.