#gofushi reincarnation for @NA🌱 ! "You should go into art school," Suguru says, looming over Satoru's hunched form on his desk. The white haired man stops in his doodling and gives his best friend an unamused look.

"I'm serious! You're always drawing and you're really good at it. I think you should show off you skills a bit," Suguru defends, raising an eyebrow at the half finished drawing. "Who is he anyways? You're always drawing the same person."

Satoru sighs, flipping his pencil around and erasing a few stray lines. "I have no idea," he confesses solemly. He looks down at his paper, wild black hair and a pretty face stares back as him. The face is familiar, achingly so, but he can't recall why for the life of him.

Ever since he was a child, he's been drawing this boy. Scribbling with black crayons for the hair, and a forest green for the eyes. He's gotten better at art now, offhandedly doodling his surroundings for years. The flowers that grow at the park nearby,

strangers on the subway or across the room at a cafe, the shoreline off Tokyo; he even asked Suguru and Shoko if he could use them as pose references a few times. And yet, he always goes back to the boy. This stranger that flits through his mind like a whisper in the wind

Satoru always draws him the exact same way. The long eyelashes, the slight curve of his nose, the angle of his jaw, the bow of his lips, the wild splay of his hair. It's like he can't change any features about the boy, it would seem wrong to.

"Is he like an original character or something? I hear that's pretty popular nowadays," Shoko adds. But he isn't. He's. Something. Satoru can't put it into words. He usually never sticks to drawing the same thing twice, getting bored of repetition

But he's kept every single image he's drawn of this person, ever since he was a child. Hundreds of pictures that are stuffed in folders and drawers tucked neatly away in Satoru's closet. He can't help it, whenever his mind wanders, his hands moce automatically.

Years go by and Satoru enrolls in art school like Suguru suggested. He learns color theory, how to use the perfect tones to set the right mood for a piece. He learns how to paint, with oil, with watercolor, with acrylics and pastels. He becomes a bit of a favorite, for his

skill that he's harnessed over the years of doodling as something to give his hands to do. He's a third year now in his last semester and the final project is an acrylic portrait on a 30x40 canvas that will be shown in the art festival at the end of the year

It's supposed to be meaningful and tell a story, that's the prompt for the project. It has to be personal and sincere to artist. And Satoru thinks for a long time, doubting his instincts on what he should create. Many students do their family, their significant other,

or themselves. All valid ideas, but not for Satoru. He doesn't care about his family, nor does he have a lover. No on in his life is that special to him. Except that boy. A boy who only lives on the corners of Satoru's notebooks and the backs of his homework papers.

A boy who has been with Satoru since the beginning. A boy who doesn't have a name or an address. A boy who doesn't exist. And yet, Satoru can't help but feel like he is the only true option for this project.

So he sets to work. He spends his free time in the art room, sketching out this person who he can draw with his eyes closed. He ignores his friends texts and calls in favor of getting the right line, the right angle, the right tone of his piece.

It has to be perfect, his best work ever, and he can't be distracted by anything else. So he finalizes the sketch after weeks of alterations and picks up the paintbrush.

With a cool tone palette, he brings color to the boy's skin, a milky pale with a tint of blue, choosing to focus on a more moody piece. He paints in the black hair next, every swish and sway the strands curl away from his face. He surrounds the boy in shadows

that edge and frame him as the centerpiece. The head of a dog with bared fangs roars above the boy's head. Satoru doesn't know why he drew it, it just fits somehow. He works tirelessly with many sleepless nights, just to get the right colors in just the right places

The eyes are painted last, the spark of green that stands out amongst the more monochromatic color palette. With the finishing eye highlight, Satoru sits back to stare at his project. The boy from his drawing now fleshed out in full color

peering right back at him as if he were alive. Breathing. Satoru sighs as he sets down the paintbrush, wiping excess paint off on his pants. His project is complete.

Finals come, and he has to turn in his project along with an essay about his piece. He struggled a bit with the writing. How is he supposed to explain how much this image of a boy he doesn't know mean so much to him? So he writes about emotions. He writes about this longing

feeling of melancholy any time he sees spiky black hair, or jade eyes. He writes about mystery and strength, about how this boy is the epitome of everlasting. With the shdows and dog representing the power that one can wield behind just a delicate angelic face.

The teacher praises his work and the girls swoon over how pretty the boy is. How soft his face looks despite the grungey background, the contrast between the angles of the shadows and the warmth in those green eyes.

"Can we put your artwork on display at the art museum downtown?" His teacher asks with hope in her voice. Satoru shrugs. "Why not?" He doesn't create art to become famous, but Suguru was right and maybe he should be a little egotistical.

A week after the art fair, his painting is put on display for the public's eye. It gains quite a lot of attention. Various art blogs reviewing the piece and praising how such talent can come from someone so young, right here in Tokyo.

Busy with finals and then graduation, Satoru doesn't get the chance to see it in person until a month later when he goes to pick it up. The crowds have died down considerably, the art museum nearing closing hours as the attendees begin to filter out.

Gojo slips right in, shades still on as he roams the hallways, navigating to where they put his picture up. The only sound of his footsteps echoing off the architecture and ringing through the halls. He busies himself on his phone as he walks,

replying to all the messages he ignored throughout the day. He rounds the corner and looks up, only to see a lone figure standing in front of his artwork. A lone figure with spiky black hair and jade green eyes.

Satoru is frozen on the spot. He rubs his eyes just to make sure he isn't hallucinating, when he clears his throat. The boy starts, shaken out of his stupor and looks at Satoru. "You're..." Satoru breathes, unable to find the right words, eyes darting from him to the painting

The boy shakes his head frantically, both arms up in surrender. "I didn't make this," he exclaims in a rushed flurry. "I just, I've heard a lot about it and. I don't know.... The artist is named 'Gojo Satoru', but I don't know who that is. It's just...."

The boy pauses, his eyes gazing back over the painting. "It looks..." "Like you," Satoru finishes. His mind finally catching up to him. The boy gives him a weak smile and a half shrug. "I don't know how or why. I've never met Gojo-san before. People have told me

about this painting and I had to see it for myself." "What's your name?" "Fushiguro. Fushiguro Megumi. Who are you?" And then it clicks. Megumi. Fushiguro Megumi. Yes, that's right. This is Fushiguro Megumi. It's as if all the pieces of the puzzle finally come together.

A flash of an image flickers in Gojo's mind. Fushiguro Megumi, age six, looking up at him with a scowl. Fushiguro Megumi, age fourteen, a bruise on his cheek and a frown on his face. Fushiguro Megumi, age fifteen, in a dark blue uniform and his divine dogs by his side.

Fushiguro Megumi, age twenty four, nestled under blankets, body covered in bite marks and hickies, smiling right back at him. A ring on his finger. Fushiguro Megumi, age thirty two, cold and lifeless in his arms. Blood flowding how half his face. Fushiguro Megumi.

"Um, hello?" Megumi asks, waving a hand in front of Satoru's stunned face. He blinks away the images (memories?), from his mind and smiles down at the boy in front of him.

"I an Gojo Satoru. I am the artist of this piece and I would like to sit down and have a talk with you, Fushiguro Megumi."