sympathy of the honoured | s. gojo × reader

iv. those tender days are to be treasured

Thick ropes of smoke arise from the burning extremity of a cigarette held leisurely by two long, slender digits, deprived of their shield of leather. It fills the air, sticking to her slender frame as a lover would - do not be mistaken. She is certainly not to indulge in the agony of growing attached to humans with lives so terribly ephemeral. Yet, there she is, seated at a table of five outside a small little café in a surprisingly quiet district of Tokyo, and laughter brighten what a burden carried alone for so very long had left of her poor, aching heart.

There they all are, those honoured enough to be under Satoru Gojo's benevolent wing, a trinity of souls amongst the purest she had ever gotten to witness. Names flash in the unfathomable depths of her mind, and her heart clenches in absolute agony - why would she have to greet them in the end? It's not fair it's not fair it's not fair it's not-

(it never was)

Kugisaki Nobara splutters in indignation, heat rising to porcelain cheeks. How could someone prefer lemon sorbet to strawberry? Hair kissed by the sun of the colour of burning leaves (soon to wither, soon to fall, a pretty little rose in a garden of thorns) flutter in the cool wind of this autumn afternoon.

Yuji Itadori protests, trying to fend off the ruthless attacks of his friend from the tip of his spoon. Still the bittersweet taste of his desert lingers on his tongue and he smiles, bright as the warmest star as he protests. Sweet, sweet words roll off his tongue, truly, she should have a taste. (Icarus too smiled as he fell. Yet he did fly, didn't he?)

Fushiguro Megumi lets out a fatigued sigh, head tilted to the side, chin cradled by a pale hand (so very pale you might just mistake it for bare, brittle bones). Yet, there is softness in light green eyes as his gaze fell over them, fresh water of a lake in a spring pouring down a tired frame. He too smiles.

And of course, of course, Satoru Gojo watches intently, infinity barely even shielded by a piece of fabric before his eyes, so very thin, so very unsuited for such a herculean task. His gaze lingers on her. Sighing, she lets out a soft chuckle, reaching out for the ashtray at the middle of this round table.

"Alright, I'll light it off."

"Say, (Y/N)-san!" Intrigued, she turns towards Itadori, detailing the curiosity etched upon his (so very young) features. "I've never seen you around at Jujutsu-high. Are you a shaman too?"

Now, the attention is focused on her, quadruple gaze set upon the one clad in black, as though perpetually mourning the death of a stranger. Oh, the adorable, adorable boy. Amusement burns deep in her core and she resists the temptation to laugh, she must. Skin prickles on her fingertips at the mere memory of twists and turns of stitched flesh.

Was it a thing for this era's youth to think she belonged in the ranks of her secular enemies?

A small gasp.